tee.

tina • 27 • 🏳️‍🌈 • 18+ mdni • virgo • 🇭🇹

[bobbyseyesmile]

P A R T VI - does not contain smut

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➻ pairing: badboy!jungkook x fem!reader

➻ authors note: this is NOT a romantic, cute story. please read the warning tags & if you're not into this, don't read it. every person in this story is an adult and into this. ➻ this chapter is shorter than the last ones, i apologise. i’m cooking up something special for part 7 tho heh 🖤

➻ warnings: angst, blackmail, stalking, degradation & humiliation kink, manipulation, cheating, toxic situationship, toxic behavior - MINORS DNI

The next days you’re surviving on three hours of sleep a night- your hands shake badly enough that you nearly spill coffee down the front of your shirt twice before noon. In the morning you find yourself standing outside a classroom you’ve walked into a hundred times before while your brain completely refuses to remember why you’re there in the first place.

“You lost?”

The voice cuts through the thick fog inside your head just enough to make you blink.

Jungkook is standing a few feet away, one hand hooked around the strap of his backpack while he studies you with a faint frown.

“What?” The word leaves you automatically, genuinely confused.

Jungkook’s eyebrows pull together slightly. For a second he just looks at you, then his gaze shifts toward the classroom door.

“We’ve got English.”

Your brain struggles to catch up. English. Right.

You just stare at him and Jungkook stares back. Then something almost resigned crosses his face and he lets out a quiet sigh through his nose.

“Sit next to me,” he says. “I’ll take notes for both of us.” Another sigh leaves him before he closes the distance between you, gently taking hold of your wrist.

“C’mon, princess.” There’s no teasing in his words, no flirtation. Just… patience. The realization feels strangely unsettling.

You let him guide you into the classroom without protest, still feeling vaguely disconnected from your own body while Jungkook leads you toward the back row and drops into a chair. A second later he tugs lightly on your wrist again until you finally sit beside him.

The lecture starts and you remember almost none of it. The only thing you do remember is looking down halfway through class and realizing Jungkook’s notebook is twice as full as everyone else’s.

Because he’d actually been taking notes for both of you.

The botanical gardens are nearly empty by the time you arrive.

Evening has begun settling over the winding paths, painting everything in shades of amber and gold as sunlight filters through the trees in fractured ribbons of light, the kind of scenery people usually describe as peaceful. Couples wander lazily through the distant walkways. A few students occupy benches scattered throughout the gardens. Somewhere nearby, water trickles softly from a stone fountain.

It should feel calming, instead, every step makes your stomach twist tighter. Then you spot Levi.

He looks completely at ease sitting on one of the benches near the center path, one arm draped across the backrest as though he’s simply enjoying the evening rather than waiting for the person he’s been tormenting for weeks. The moment his eyes find yours, a smile spreads slowly across his face.

The kind of smile that makes something instinctive inside you recoil.

“There you are...” The words are spoken lightly, almost affectionately, and somehow that makes them worse.

You stop several feet away because you simply don’t want to sit next to him, not even be in his direct vicinity…

He simply leans back against the bench and looks at you the way someone might admire a painting they already own- the mere thought makes you nauseous.

For a few seconds neither of you speaks, so the silence stretches. Levi seems content to let it, he likes this; he simply likes making you stand there, likes watching you squirm and knowing exactly why you’re here. The realization settles unpleasantly in your stomach.

“Well?” he asks eventually. “Aren’t you going to sit down?”

“No.”

His smile widens. “Still got some fight left in you. That’s cute.”

Your jaw tightens. “I thought we could… talk.”

A laugh escapes him, low, amused. As though you’ve just said something truly entertaining. “Talk,” he repeats, stretching the word, „Sure.“

You hate him. You hate the way he manages to make every ordinary word sound filthy. Hate the way he looks at you and the fact that he knows you came anyway.

“Please, Levi…” you say before pride can stop you.

The change in his expression is immediate. “Oooh, there it is.” Your stomach drops. Levi slowly sits forward, resting his elbows on his knees while studying your face with unsettling concentration.

“I was wondering how long you’d hold out.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.” The amusement dancing in his eyes makes your skin crawl. “You’re finally desperate enough to say please.”

Heat floods your face- not ofembarrassment but because he’s enjoying this. Every second of it. Every ounce of your discomfort seems to delight him.

“I came because I want this to stop.”

Levi shoves his lower lip into a fake pout. “As if you’re the victim here.”

The words hit so hard that for a second you genuinely can’t respond. A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. There.

That reaction. That was what he wanted.

“You know,” he continues casually, glancing toward the trees, “Marc used to talk about you all the time.”

The mention of Marc feels like someone driving a knife between your ribs. Levi notices immediately; predators always notice where the wound is.

“There-” his voice softens, almost fond. “You make the saddest face whenever I mention him.”

“Levi.”

“No, keep making that face. It’s adorable.”

Your hands curl into fists. “Delete it.”

For the first time, his smile fades. Not because you’ve upset him. Worse. Because he’s bored now. As though you’ve interrupted a conversation he was enjoying.

“You still think that’s what this is about.” The shift in his tone sends a chill down your spine. Levi rises from the bench with unhurried ease, and suddenly the distance between you feels far smaller than it did a moment ago.

Instinctively, you take a step backward and his eyes immediately drop to the movement before he smiles again; slowly, hungrily- and somehow that smile feels far worse than any anger could have.

“You know what I find interesting?” he asks. “All semester you’ve been pretending to be this sweet little thing. The innocent one. The good girl.” He takes a single step forward. “And now look at you.”

Disgust crawls beneath your skin. “You blackmailed me.”

“That’s one way to phrase it.”

“That’s exactly what you’re doing.”

Levi laughs softly. “You make it sound so ugly.”

“It is ugly!”

His gaze drifts over you with slow, deliberate consideration. The look alone makes you feel filthy. “You know,” he says thoughtfully, “at first I thought I’d get bored.”

Your stomach tightens when he steps even closer. “But every time I think you’re finally going to break, you surprise me.” His smile returns.

“I just wanted a quick fuck at first but now? Now I think I‘m gonna keep you a bit longer, tugging on that invisible leash a bit more.“

Something cold settles in your chest because suddenly you understand: This isn’t about getting something from you. It never really was. The footage is just a leash. The real prize is watching you panic whenever he pulls it.

Watching you bargain. Watching you beg. Watching you stand in front of him knowing he has power over you.

Levi likes fear, he likes being the reason for it and the realization is somehow more terrifying than the blackmail itself.

“Please.” You hate how small your voice sounds, you hate even more that you’re saying it again.

Levi’s expression changes. Like he’s finally hearing exactly what he wanted. For several long seconds he simply stares at you. Then his smile widens.

“I knew you’d look pretty begging.” And just like that, he turns and walks away.

No deal. No answers. No compromise.

Leaving you standing alone beneath the fading sunlight while nausea churns violently in your stomach and humiliation burns hot behind your ribs.

You remain frozen long after he’s disappeared from view, staring at the path where he’d been standing as evening shadows stretch across the gardens and darkness slowly begins swallowing the last traces of gold.

Several paths away, concealed behind a dense wall of hedges and shrubs, Jungkook watches the space Levi just vacated. At first he’d only followed because something about the situation felt wrong.

First the text message you’d received during class: the way your expression had changed afterward. The fact that you’d spent the rest of the afternoon distracted and anxious before disappearing across campus without telling anyone where you were going.

Individually, none of it meant much. Together, it had been enough to catch his attention.

Now, standing partially hidden among the trees, he finds himself staring at the bench with a growing sense of unease. Because whatever he just witnessed wasn’t an argument between friends- the entire interaction had felt wrong from the beginning.

The way you’d approached this guy and the way you’d kept your distance… Your shoulders had remained tense the entire time. Most of all, it had been the look on your face.

Jungkook has seen people angry, embarrassed, heartbroken, jealous… What he’d seen on your face had been none of those things. It had looked frighteningly close to fear. Fuck.

His gaze drifts toward the path that fucker disappeared down. He hadn’t looked nervous once. Hadn’t looked uncertain. If anything, he’d looked fucking entertained.

And that detail bothers Jungkook more than anything else, because people don’t smile like that unless they think they’ve already won.

The thought follows him into the next morning and into the afternoon. Then into the day after that. By Wednesday he’s asking questions.

Not enough to attract attention, never enough to reveal why he’s interested. Just casual conversations scattered throughout campus, observations disguised as curiosity, names dropped into discussions whenever opportunities present themselves.

The answers begin accumulating slowly: A hesitation here, an uncomfortable laugh there. Expressions shifting the moment Levi’s name enters the conversation. Nobody seems surprised that Jungkook knows who Levi is. What surprises them is that he’d willingly bring him up.

By Thursday the pattern has become impossible to ignore: people don’t merely dislike Levi. They fucking avoid him.

The distinction matters- dislike is simple. Dislike is normal. But this? This feels different.

Every conversation leaves Jungkook with the same impression, as though everyone knows something but nobody wants to be the person who says it out loud. Cowards. Maybe.

Then rumors surface. Stories that don’t quite qualify as accusations. Warnings disguised as fucking jokes. Just enough fragments to suggest a much uglier picture hiding underneath.

And with every new piece, his thoughts return to the botanical gardens; to the way you’d looked standing across from Levi. The desperation in your posture. The expression on your face after he’d walked away.

By the end of the week, Jungkook stops asking whether Levi is a problem. The only question left is how dangerous that fucking problem actually is.

Because that little wanker is hiding something. Jungkook would bet money on it. And judging by the fear he’d seen in your eyes that evening, whatever Levi is hiding somehow leads directly back to you.

He doesn’t know how yet, doesn’t know why, but for the first time since this started, he has a direction.

And somewhere across campus, completely unaware of the attention quietly settling on him, Levi continues moving through life with the confidence of a man convinced he’s untouchable. Idiot.

Jungkook has met plenty of people like that.

None of them enjoyed what happened after he decided to shift his focus on them.

By friday afternoon, Jungkook tells himself he’s only still watching Levi because of you- the lie sounds reasonable enough in his head.

At first, the plan had been simple: figure out why you’d looked terrified in the botanical gardens, why you’d spent the last days moving through life like somebody was holding a knife to your future. And why you’d rather slowly tear yourself apart from the inside than ask for help.

Unfortunately, the more Jungkook learns about Levi, the uglier the picture becomes… On the surface, the guy is exactly what Jungkook expected: a spoiled little prick with too much confidence and not nearly enough substance. He sleeps through half his lectures, spends money he probably doesn’t have, drinks like his liver personally offended him, lies as naturally as breathing, and flirts with anything possessing a pulse and a functioning nervous system. Every interaction feels rehearsed, every smile manufactured, every apology delivered with the polished ease of somebody who has never once meant a fucking word coming out of his mouth.

The problem isn’t who Levi pretends to be- the problem is what keeps slipping through the cracks.

At the end of the week, Jungkook has memorized most of his routine without even meaning to. He knows which coffee shop Levi visits every morning, which campus buildings he cuts through between classes, which parking lot he disappears into whenever he thinks nobody is paying attention, and which groups of people he gravitates toward when he’s looking for an audience.

More importantly, Jungkook has started noticing the people Levi leaves behind: the girls.

There are always girls. Different faces and different conversations but always the same expressions in the end. At first, Jungkook thinks he’s imagining it, but it keeps happening- a flash of discomfort, forced smiles, nervous laughter. Their shoulders tense whenever Levi gets closer while their eyes dart toward exits. Entire conversations that somehow manage to look wrong from fifty feet away.

After a few days coincidences stop being a believable explanation and a cold feeling has settled permanently beneath his ribs.

At a little after four o’clock, he’s parked across from the humanities building with his motorcycle resting beneath him and his helmet balanced beside his leg while students stream through the glass doors in endless waves. His phone vibrates and the contact name immediately softens something inside his chest.

Princess: where are you? weren’t we studying today?

For a moment, Jungkook almost starts the bike. Almost.

The guilt hits instantly because he knows exactly what that message means. You don’t ask where he is because you’re impatient. You ask because you’ve spent the last week looking over your shoulder every five fucking seconds and somewhere along the way you’ve started checking for him without even realizing it. He fucking loves that you want him close and need him, even if you never admit it out loud, but he fucking hates that someone scared you so bad for it to happen.

Then movement near the entrance catches his attention. Levi.

The asshole exits the building while staring at his phone, smiling at something on the screen. He’s not alone.

A girl follows several steps behind him and Jungkook notices the distance immediately- not because it’s dramatic but because it’s deliberate. She’s clutching her bag tightly against her chest like it’s armor. Her shoulders are tense. Her gaze keeps flicking around the parking lot as though she’s searching for witnesses without wanting to admit she needs them. Every instinct Jungkook possesses starts screaming.

Another message appears.

Princess: you’re late.

His jaw tightens.

running late. sorry. be there soon.

The lie sends before he can reconsider it. Then he slips the phone back into his pocket and focuses on the scene unfolding below because something has changed.

The girl says something, something Jungkook can’t hear. Levi can. The smile vanishes from Levi’s face so quickly it almost looks unnatural. Interesting.

Levi takes two slow steps forward and she takes one back, her fingers burying even tighter into her backpack. Jungkook straightens slightly while his own fingers tighten around the edge of the seat.

The girl’s posture grows smaller while Levi’s grows larger. Not physically. Psychologically. Like a fucking predator sensing weakness. Like somebody who knows exactly how much space he occupies in another person’s head.

Levi says something- sharp enough that even from a distance Jungkook sees the reaction: She visibly flinches and Levi laughs. The sound carries across the parking lot. What a fucking annoying sound.

Jungkook’s jaw locks in pure anger. God, he wants to hit him. No warnings, no light punch… Hit him hard enough that he’d spend the next month drinking soup through a straw.

The girl finally shakes her head and Levi shrugs. Then his next words drift clearly across the open space. “You want me to leak it?” The girl visibly freezes.

Jungkook goes completely still, trying to gather even more from the conversation. Levi keeps talking. He‘s still calm and relaxed- like they’re discussing weather forecasts instead of whatever the fuck this is.

“Then get the money.” The girl’s eyes immediately fill with tears. “You have until tomorrow.” Levi checks his watch. “Last warning.”

The realization lands with a sickening certainty- not because Jungkook is slow. But part of him still wanted to be wrong. Blackmail. The little fucking psychopath is blackmailing her.

Not you.

Her. An entirely different girl. Which means this isn’t personal. It’s probably a habit. A routine even…

The girl starts crying and Levi instantly looks annoyed. Actually annoyed. As if her tears are inconveniencing him, as if she’s somehow making his day harder.

“Please,” she says, the word barely carrying across the distance. He rolls his eyes then reaches forward and hooks two fingers beneath her chin. The gesture is small- gentle, even. Which somehow makes it worse because nothing about it feels impulsive or emotional.

It feels practiced, like he’s done this before. Over and over again... The same conversation, the same fear, the same outcome. A hundred fucking times. Something ugly shifts deep inside Jungkook’s chest.

“Tomorrow.” Levi tells her once more. “Or don’t.” Another shrug, another filthy smile.

Another reminder that he genuinely doesn’t give a shit what happens to her afterward. Then he turns around and walks away. Just like he did with you in the botanical garden… Leaving her standing there.

She’s still crying long after he‘s gone. Jungkook can practically feel the fear and desperation radiating off her… after a while, she wipes at her face, turns and walks in the opposite direction where Levi walked off.

For a long moment, Jungkook doesn’t move. Students pass. Cars pull out. Conversations continue. Life keeps moving.

Meanwhile, something cold and deliberate begins assembling itself inside his head. Because now he understands the part that has been bothering him: Levi isn’t just a problem. Because problems have always been simple for Jungkook- problems have solutions.

Levi is a pattern. A system. A parasite that’s figured out exactly how much fear it takes to keep people quiet. And if he’s doing this to random girls on campus, then what the fuck has he been doing to you?

The thought hits hard enough to make Jungkook’s stomach twist. Suddenly all those late-night messages make sense. The panic in your eyes, the exhaustion during the day and at night during tutoring. The way you’d looked like a trapped animal every time Levi’s name came up.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You’d been drowning right in front of him and he’d spent weeks calling you stubborn instead of realizing somebody was holding your head underwater.

His phone vibrates again. Another message from you appears on the screen.

Princess: you better have a damn good excuse.

For a brief second, despite everything, a smile threatens to appear but then it’s gone again. Somewhere across campus, Levi is still walking around like he’s untouchable. Like nobody is paying attention or putting the pieces together.

Fucking idiot.

Jungkook slides his helmet over his head and starts the motorcycle. The engine growls beneath him, low and vicious, while his eyes remain fixed on the corner where Levi disappeared. Whatever secret the bastard is hiding, Jungkook is going to find it.

And if Levi is stupid enough to keep threatening people while believing nobody is watching, then he’s about to discover exactly how dangerous that assumption can be.

By the time Jungkook finally arrives at the sorority house, he’s nearly forty minutes late, which is exactly why the front door swings open before he even has a chance to knock and finds you already standing there with your arms crossed and a look on your face that promises violence.

“You’re late.”

Jungkook glances lazily at his watch before lifting his eyes back to yours. “Observation skills. Nice.”

Your expression immediately darkens. “Actually, I think you should leave.”

A slow grin begins pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Before he can step inside, you plant your palm directly against his forehead and begin pushing with all the determination of someone who has already committed to the bit and refuses to back down now.

Unfortunately, Jeon Jungkook is built like a concrete wall. He doesn’t move. Not even a little.

You keep trying anyway. “I waited.”

The pressure against his forehead increases dramatically, which might have been intimidating if he weren’t actively fighting a laugh.

“Did you?”

“Forty minutes.”

“Sounds… unbearable. Did ya miss me that bad, baby?”

“You’re the worst.”

Jungkook finally catches your wrist before you can shove him again, the movement so effortless it only makes the situation more irritating. One second you’re aggressively attempting to evict him from the premises and the next your finger is trapped between his while he bends slightly at the waist until his face is level with yours.

“Careful, princess.” His voice drops lower, playful amusement curling around every word. “You need me.”

Heat flashes across your face so quickly it feels unfair. “The ego on this man.”

“I’m the tutor.”

“The self-delusion on this man.”

His grin only widens, entirely too pleased with himself. “I seem to remember somebody failing quizzes.”

The offended gasp that leaves you could probably be heard from three rooms away. Jungkook looks delighted.

“You wound me.”

“You wound yourself.”

“I’ll have you know I got a solid seventy-three last week.”

“Congratulations.” The sarcasm practically drips from him. “That’s almost a real grade.”

You make the most angry face you can manage before sticking your tongue out at him like a child. Jungkook blinks. Then blinks again. And suddenly a laugh escapes him. Not the quiet chuckle he usually hides behind a smirk, but a real laugh that lights up his entire face and catches you completely off guard. For a moment, all you can do is stare.

“Cute.”

Your stomach immediately decides to become a problem. “Shut up.”

“No.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

“You suck.”

“Like, on that sweet pussy? If you insist.” He gives you a shameless wink and you feel your cheeks heat up. He just keeps smiling.

The worst part is that lately you’ve started noticing every version of that smile: the smug ones, the teasing ones, the rare genuine ones that appear when he forgets himself for a second. Most importantly, you’ve started noticing when they’re directed at you.

Jungkook, unfortunately, notices things too- especially when those things involve you. His eyes narrow slightly. Then the grin returns with renewed strength.

“Aw.”

You immediately know where this is going. “No.”

“She’s blushing.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“Jungkook.”

“Princess.”

A loud groan leaves you before you finally spin around and stomp toward the living room, abandoning the argument before he can make it worse. Behind you, Jungkook follows, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

Asshole.

The studying begins surprisingly well- for approximately seven minutes…

Then Jungkook glances down at something you’ve written. Then back at you, back at the paper, then back at you again.

Your eye twitches. “What.” He just remains quiet and it annoys you even more.

“What?” you repeat, more aggressively this time.

Jungkook slowly lowers the page. “This sentence is shit.”

You stare at him, he stares back, neither of you blinks for a few seconds. Finally, you place a hand against your chest.

“Wow.”

“Constructive criticism.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m correct.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It literally is.”

You snatch the paper from his hand but he just grabs it back. You try to get a hold of it again but the page bends alarmingly between you.

“Stop fighting me.”

“Stop being wrong.”

“I’m not wrong.”

A long sigh leaves him, accompanied by the expression of a man attempting to explain basic survival instincts to someone determined to lick a power outlet.

“Princess,” he begins patiently, “you wrote four paragraphs and somehow managed to say absolutely nothing.”

Your jaw drops. “That’s rude.”

“It’s impressive.”

“You are so annoying.”

“You submitted this.”

You immediately launch a highlighter at his head. Without even looking, Jungkook catches it out of the air. Show-off.

“You know,” he says while opening your notebook again, “most students actually try to pass.”

“I am trying.”

“No, you’re improvising.”

“That’s basically the same thing.”

“It absolutely isn’t.”

The next thirty minutes disappear beneath arguments about thesis statements, grammar choices, sentence structure, citation formats, and whether Jungkook is intentionally making things difficult for his own entertainment.

The answer is almost certainly yes.

At some point, Minji wanders through the living room carrying a drink, pauses when she notices the two of you arguing over a textbook like a couple celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversary through mutual irritation, then silently turns around and leaves without saying a word. Neither of you notices.

The strange thing is that nothing has actually changed. Levi still exists, the fear still exists. The pressure sitting permanently inside your chest hasn’t magically disappeared.

None of the real problems have gone anywhere.

And yet, somehow, the weight feels lighter- easy enough that you can breathe without feeling like your lungs are collapsing. Enough that laughter occasionally slips through the cracks.

Easy enough that when Jungkook eventually declares you a menace to higher education and you threaten to hit him with the nearest textbook, the familiar rhythm that always existed between the two of you settles naturally back into place.

The bickering. The teasing. The endless competition to have the final word. The comfort hidden beneath every insult and eye roll.

For the first time in days, everything feels familiar again, and for a little while, neither of you says a single thing about the subjects that actually matter.

By the end of the first hour, Jungkook is irritated. By the end of the second, he’s offended.

Somewhere during the third, while kneeling on Levi’s bedroom floor surrounded by enough junk to qualify as a biohazard, he seriously considers setting the entire mattress on fire out of principle.

Because there should be something.

There has to be.

The room isn’t spotless by any means. Levi still lives like a feral raccoon that somehow acquired a student loan and access to online shopping, but all the obvious places have already been checked. Every drawer has been emptied. Every shelf has been searched. Jungkook has flipped through textbooks, dug through storage bins shoved beneath the bed, checked jacket pockets, old backpacks, gym bags, and stacks of loose papers that looked important until they turned out to be useless.

Nothing.

No notebooks. No folders. No hidden collection of blackmail material waiting to be discovered. No convenient smoking gun. Just garbage.

Which is exactly why Jungkook keeps looking- because innocent people don’t spend their afternoons threatening girls for money. And Levi definitely isn’t innocent.

A floorboard creaks beneath his boot. The sound is subtle enough that most people wouldn’t even register it, but Jungkook freezes immediately, every instinct sharpening at once as his gaze drops toward the floor.

For several seconds he remains perfectly still. Then he slowly shifts his weight- the board creaks again. Interesting.

Nothing about it looks unusual. The wood isn’t damaged. There aren’t any visible pry marks. No scratches. No signs that anyone has been lifting it. Still, when Jungkook crouches and presses down near the edge, he feels something move. Just slightly.

A slow smile appears. “There you are.”

Two minutes later, the board comes loose and suddenly everything makes sense…

A second laptop sits hidden beneath the floor alongside several USB drives and an external hard drive, each item carefully wrapped in plastic as though Levi knows exactly how much trouble he’d be in if anyone ever found them.

For a moment Jungkook simply stares… then training takes over; his phone appears in his hand. A photograph. Another. The laptop, the serial numbers, the USB & hard drive. The compartment itself.

Every angle. Every detail. Every piece of evidence exactly where he found it.

When he’s finished, everything goes back beneath the floorboards. Taking it now would be stupid- Levi would notice and panic. And panicked people become reckless and even more dangerous

No. Jungkook needs him comfortable. Confident. Completely unaware that someone has already broken into the walls of his life and started pulling bricks loose.

Which is how he finds himself sitting inside Yoongi’s apartment an hour later.

The place looks exactly the same as always; coffee cups occupy every available surface. Multiple monitors cast pale light across the dark room. Half-finished projects litter the desk, and Yoongi himself appears to be functioning exclusively through caffeine, nicotine, and sheer stubbornness.

Jungkook drops into a chair and slides his phone across the desk. Yoongi scrolls through the photographs. Once. Twice.

Then reaches for his coffee. “Interesting.”

“Can you get into it?”

For the first time, Yoongi looks up. The expression on his face suggests he has been personally insulted.

“That’s what you’re asking?”

“Yes.”

A long pause follows before the older one gestures vaguely toward the screen.

“Jungkook.” Another pause. “That’s not even a challenge.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes.

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “I need thirty seconds.”

“Show-off.”

“Correct. And that’s also why you came here.”

The plan comes together quickly after that because predictable people are easy to manipulate.

And Levi is painfully predictable- another night and the idiot disappears into another party.

Jungkook knows he won’t return for the rest of the night. He drinks way too much for someone who can’t handle his liquor well.

Around 2am the idiot is unconscious behind a row of fraternity bushes, covered in dirt, soaked in stale alcohol, missing one shoe, and sleeping dangerously close to his own vomit.

Jungkook stares while Yoongi stands next to him. Neither looks impressed.

“You know,” Yoongi says eventually, “I expected better.” Jungkook just shakes his head. Levi snores. The disappointment somehow deepens.

Twenty minutes later they’re back inside his room. This time they have time and the tools. Yoongi settles into the desk chair, powers on the hidden laptop, and waits for the password screen to appear.

Jungkook watches while Yoongi doesn’t look remotely concerned. A small device disappears into one of the ports, then code begins scrolling across the screen. Twenty-three seconds later the desktop appears.

Jungkook blinks, Yoongi takes a sip of coffee. “Told you.”

Then he starts opening folders and very quickly the room changes because they stopped looking for evidence… now they stare right at it.

Folder after folder appears across the screen:

Names. Dozens of them.

Each one labeled carefully, belonging to different persons. Videos. Photographs. Screenshots. Private conversations. Class schedules. Social media accounts. Secrets. Mistakes. Embarrassing moments. Painful ones.

Every insecurity, every vulnerability, every weakness meticulously catalogued and stored. Not memories or keepsakes. Weapons.

For several seconds, neither man speaks. The laptop fan hums softly beneath years of accumulated files.

Yoongi scrolls and scrolls before he slowly leans back. “Jesus Christ.” The words come out quieter than usual.

Jungkook just keeps staring; another folder, another victim. Another life Levi decided he had the right to own.

“What a fucking loser.”

Yoongi’s expression darkens. “Nah.” His eyes remain fixed on the screen. “This is worse than loser.”

The silence stretches, then he exhales. “This is psychotic.”

Jungkook barely hears him- he’s already noticed something else. One specific folder. It’s recent. His hand moves before he consciously decides to.

The folder opens and a quiet curse leaves his lips. There are dozens of photographs of… you.

You leaving lectures, carrying coffee across campus, laughing beside Soomin, walking toward the sorority house, sitting outside academic buildings, glancing over your shoulder.

You were completely unaware someone was following you.

Jungkook’s stomach drops, not because he’s surprised, but suddenly every missing piece clicks into place: Every exhausted expression. Every nervous glance. Every time you’d looked like you were carrying something too heavy to say out loud.

He scrolls through the folder until a video appears. The thumbnail is only in black and white, not very sharp and kind of grainy but he recognises it immediately. The library.

The way you were kneeling for him, looking up while he stroked your hair.

Levi had seen it too… and used it against you.

Beside him, Yoongi leans forward. “Holy shit.” His gaze moves between the screen and Jungkook’s face. “Is that little asshole blackmailing you?”

Jungkook’s jaw tightens hard enough to hurt, then he slowly shakes his head. “No.”

The answer is quiet. Understanding settles across Yoongi’s face almost immediately.

“Oh.” A long pause follows. “Oh, he’s blackmailing her.”

Jungkook doesn’t answer, doesn’t even move nor blink. His eyes remain fixed on the screen. On the thumbnail of the video.

“My girl.” The words leave him without thought. Not even possessive, not performative just certain. Like a fact.

Yoongi closes his eyes briefly before rubbing a hand down his face. “Idiot.”

Jungkook finally glances over.

“Not you.” the older one quickly adds. “Him.” Yoongi points toward the screen.

Neither of them speaks for a long time, both just stare at the screen, trying to process what kind of fucked up rabbit hole they dug up.

Yoongi glances toward his friend, and the look on the younger man’s face should scare him. In fact, it probably would scare anyone else… but Min Yoongi knew one thing: Jeon Jungkook rarely got loud or angry, and even more rarely got physical unless he had a damn good reason…

Finally, Yoongi leans back. “Just make sure you leave no evidence.” The room falls silent.

Jungkook’s hand stops on the touchpad. Slowly, he turns his head.

Yoongi shrugs and gestures toward the screen.“I’ve known you long enough.”

His gaze drifts back to your folder, back to the photographs. Back to the proof of what Levi has been doing.

“I know exactly what you’re thinking.”

Jungkook remains silent but a tiny twitch under his right eye tells Yoongi everything he needs to know.

Yoongi snorts. “Don’t give me that look.” The silence lingers for a few more seconds before his voice softens.

“Honestly…” He exhales slowly. “I get it.”

The words aren’t approval or encouragement. Not really. But they’re understanding. Because some people spend years building the walls of their own downfall. And Levi has spent years laying every single brick himself.

Yoongi finally looks back at him. “Just be careful.”A tiny humorless laugh escapes him. “You’re smart, so make sure you stay smart.”

Jungkook nods then carefully, almost deliberately, closes the laptop. “Good.”

Yoongi frowns. “Good?”

Jungkook slides the laptop back into the bag and into its hiding place under the floorboard. “Now I know.”

“Know what?”

For the first time all evening, something changes in his expression- and it’s colder than anything Yoongi has ever seen before on his friend’s face.

Something final.

The look of a man who has stopped asking questions and started making decisions.

“What kind of person he is.”

The answer sends a chill down Yoongi’s spine because it doesn’t sound like a discovery. It sounds like a verdict.

The day starts badly and somehow finds increasingly creative ways to make itself worse.

The first problem arrives shortly after lunch when one of the freshmen Levi has been leaning on for the better part of a month suddenly decides she doesn’t have the money. Not next week. Not tomorrow. Not after payday. Apparently she spent the entire amount on tuition and now breaks down crying every time he calls.

Pathetic.

Levi hangs up halfway through her latest sobbing apology and blocks the number without a second thought. If she’s stupid enough to force his hand, that’s her problem.

The second problem arrives during class when he realizes he’s probably going to fail another exam. The third when his professor asks him to stay behind afterward. And the fourth when he checks his bank account.

By the time evening rolls around, Levi is in a genuinely foul mood, which usually means somebody else is about to have a much worse night than he is.

The thought improves his mood considerably.

As he walks back toward the fraternity house, gym bag slung over one shoulder, his mind begins drifting through possibilities. A photograph would probably be enough. Maybe a video if he’s feeling generous. Nothing catastrophic. Nothing that couldn’t be explained away later.

Just enough. Enough humiliation, just enough fear. Just enough pressure to remind people what happens when they stop cooperating.

The familiar feeling settles warmly inside his chest. Control. Consequences. Fear.

People always respond best to fear.

Whistling softly beneath his breath, he climbs the stairs toward his room, fishes his keys from his pocket, unlocks the door, and steps inside.

Then he freezes- a weird sensation hits him... not because anything is obviously wrong. Nothing has been overturned or appears to be damaged.

The furniture remains exactly where he left it. The room looks normal. And yet something deep inside him immediately recoils. Wrong.

The realization crawls slowly up his spine.

For several long seconds he remains standing just inside the doorway while his eyes move across the room. Everything looks exactly the same, which somehow makes it worse.

A strange pressure begins building beneath his ribs and his pulse picks up slightly, the same way animals know they’re being watched before they understand why.

Levi tells himself he’s being ridiculous and walks across the room. His movements feel strangely careful now. Like somebody entering a house that may or may not contain a stranger.

When he finally kneels beside the floorboard, the unease inside his stomach sharpens. The board comes loose easily. Too easily.

The compartment beneath it is empty.

For a moment, his brain simply refuses to process what he’s looking at…

The laptop should be there… the hard drive... the USB drives... They’ve always been there!

The empty space seems impossible. Unreal.

Like his eyes are showing him the wrong image. Slowly, he reaches inside- his fingers scrape against bare wood. Nothing.

His stomach drops. “No.”

His hands move faster now, searching corners, feeling beneath edges, as though the devices might somehow reappear if he looks hard enough. Nothing.

The compartment remains empty. Completely, utterly, terrifyingly empty.

A cold rush shoots down his spine as the room feels different: violated. Someone was here and found it. Found the one place nobody was ever supposed to find.

“No, no, no…”

His breathing starts quickening. The floorboard slips from trembling fingers and crashes against the floor with a sharp crack that echoes through the room.

Because another realization is already crashing into him: Photographs, videos, folders, entire conversations and files… Every secret and threat. Every victim. Everything.

Gone…

Levi stumbles backward so quickly he nearly loses his footing. His pulse pounds violently inside his ears. Someone has it- has all of it.

And suddenly every person he’s ever threatened begins flashing through his mind. Every girl. Every guy.

Every desperate plea. Every ruined life. Every enemy he’d created. The list is much longer than he’d like it to be.

A strained sound escapes him, part laugh, part panic. Because this isn’t happening. It can’t be.

Then he sees the note.

A single folded piece of paper resting neatly at the bottom of the compartment. The sight sends a fresh wave of nausea rolling through him- suddenly the missing files aren’t the most frightening part.

The note is.

Whoever took everything wanted him to know, wanted him to come home. To look. Wanted him to understand.

His fingers shake as he unfolds the paper:

OLD SWIMMING POOL, MIDNIGHT

For several seconds he simply stares. The room around him seems to disappear, silence feels suffocating. Something awful begins crawling slowly up his spine: whoever did this could have vanished… They could have gone to the police, could have exposed him and leaked everything.

Instead, they left an invitation. Or maybe it isn’t an invitation. Maybe it’s a summons.

A cold sweat breaks across the back of his neck because now he isn’t imagining administrators or police officers. Not even angry victims demanding justice.

He’s imagining something much worse.

Someone patient, methodical. Someone who already has every card in their hand.

Someone confident enough to tell him where to be and fully expect him to show up.

The realization lands like a punch directly to the chest. This isn’t a warning… warnings happen before consequences but this? This feels like the consequence itself.

Slowly, Levi lifts his gaze and looks around the room. For the first time since moving into the fraternity house, a thought occurs to him that nearly makes him sick. What if someone has been standing in this room while he slept?

The possibility lodges itself inside his head and immediately begins growing teeth. If they found the floorboard, what else do they know? What else have they seen? How many times have they been here? How long have they been watching? A shiver runs through him.

The room no longer feels familiar, doesn’t even feel like his. Every corner suddenly seems capable of hiding eyes. Every shadow feels occupied.

Outside, darkness slowly settles over campus. Midnight remains hours away. Far too many hours. Hours he will spend imagining every possible outcome, wondering who found him.

Hours he will spend realizing that for the first time in years, he has absolutely no control over what happens next.

Yet despite the fear clawing through his chest, he already knows one thing with complete certainty: He’s going.

Because the person who left that note now owns every secret he ever buried.

And somehow, as he stares down at those simple words, the thing waiting for him at the old swimming pool feels infinitely more dangerous than prison ever could.

➻ taglist for stupid little girl

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➻ You'll only find my work posted here, Wattpad and on my AO3 blog. I don't give consent for my work to be re-posted (in any language) onto any other platform, even if it is with credit. Thank you.

[bobbyseyesmile]

P A R T V - does not contain smut

↳ Previous Part

➻ pairing: badboy!jungkook x fem!reader

➻ authors note: this is NOT a romantic, cute story. please read the warning tags & if you're not into this, don't read it. every person in this story is an adult and into this.

➻ warnings: angst, blackmail, stalking, degradation & humiliation kink, manipulation, cheating, toxic situationship, toxic behavior - MINORS DNI

The first thing that goes is her sleep.

Jungkook notices on Monday when the light in her bedroom stays on until 3:47 in the morning, a dull yellow glow bleeding through the curtains while he sits on the hood of his car across the street smoking cigarettes he doesn’t really want. At first he assumes she’s studying. By 2:30 he’s pretty sure she’s procrastinating. By 3:15 she’s pacing. By 3:40 she’s staring blankly out the window like she’s waiting for divine intervention to descend from the heavens and fix her life for her. It doesn’t.

Tuesday is worse. Wednesday too.

By Thursday she’s fallen asleep at her desk twice. The second time she wakes with a start, forehead pressed against an open textbook, strawberry gummies scattered across the pages like evidence. He watches her stare at the same paragraph for almost twenty minutes without turning the page once and feels something darkly satisfied settle beneath his ribs because, despite all her dramatic speeches about staying away from him, she’s clearly having about as much success with that as he is.

The first thing that goes is her sleep. The second thing is her concentration. After that everything starts unraveling surprisingly fast.

A missed assignment. A failed quiz. Three coffees before noon. Half a sandwich abandoned in a trash can outside campus. A conversation with her boyfriend that lasts exactly four minutes and twelve seconds before she hangs up and immediately looks miserable afterward. Jungkook notices all of it.

Not because he’s looking for reasons to watch her. That would imply he’s making an effort. He’s already watching her. The difference matters to him. At least enough that he keeps repeating it.

She told him not to call, so he doesn’t. Told him not to text, so he doesn’t. Told him not to touch her, which is admittedly more annoying, but a promise is a promise. Technically.

The irony almost makes him laugh because she never said anything about looking, and Jungkook has always been exceptionally good at following rules exactly as they’re written.

By Friday he’s bored of pretending this arrangement is working. She’s exhausted, he’s irritated, and nobody’s winning. Especially not him. The final straw arrives during statistics when she completely bombs a question she could’ve answered half asleep two weeks ago. He watches embarrassment flash across her face before she sinks lower in her seat and spends the next forty minutes pretending she’s paying attention while her pen never actually moves.

Something cold settles beneath his ribs. By the end of the lecture he’s already made his decision. The exam is next week, she’s spiraling, and clearly intervention is required. The fact that he misses hearing her yell at him is completely unrelated. Probably.

The sorority house looks exactly the same when he arrives that evening. Warm lights glow through the windows, laughter drifts from somewhere upstairs, and music hums faintly through the walls.

Soomin answers after the second knock and immediately narrows her eyes. “Jungkook?”

He lifts his laptop slightly. “Tutoring.”

The look she gives him suggests she’d believe almost anything except that. Smart girl. Unfortunately for her, she’s still polite enough to let him inside. “She’s in the kitchen.”

“Thanks.”

He finds her exactly where he expected. Messy hair. Oversized hoodie. Coffee. Dark circles beneath her eyes. The sight of her hits harder than it should. Not because she looks good. She does. But she also looks wrecked.

His fault. Well. Partially.

The realization lasts less than a second before she notices him and immediately looks like she’d rather throw herself into traffic. Much better- he likes the fire in her eyes.

The next hour passes surprisingly well. Minji is funny. Soomin is quick-witted. Neither of them seems remotely concerned about how much information they hand over once they’re comfortable, and Jungkook has never been the kind of person to interrupt somebody while they’re making a mistake.

By the time she’s disappeared into the kitchen to grab something, Minji is halfway through a story about freshman year while Soomin is laughing hard enough to spill her drink. Jungkook waits. Patiently. Then casually asks, “She’s okay, right?”

Both girls glance toward him. “What do you mean?” Soomin asks.

He shrugs and looks back down at his laptop. “Just seems distracted lately.”

Neither answers immediately. Interesting. So he lets the silence do the work before adding, “Everything okay with her boyfriend?”

The reaction is instant; A glance between them- tiny and fast but shared. There it is.

Minji sighs first. “Honestly?” Jungkook nods. “Honestly.”

And then the floodgates open. Not because they’re traitors- because they’re worried. Because they care about her. Because neither of them realizes they’re handing ammunition to the worst possible person. Jungkook listens quietly, stores every word away, and keeps his expression perfectly neutral while they talk.

Then suddenly the room changes- the shift happens before he even sees her. Footsteps. A drink placed onto the coffee table. Silence. And then:

“Wow.”

Jungkook looks up immediately. She heard. Every single word. Good. For the first time all week she looks awake. Angry. Sharp. Alive.

Usually he’d love it but the problem is that look: the one she gets right before she does something reckless. Jungkook knows it better than anyone. The second he sees it, he understands two things.

First, she’s hurt. And second, somebody’s about to suffer for it.

Unfortunately, that somebody turns out to be him… The first sentence lands harder than expected. The second is even worse.

By the time she says, “that man can fuck,” something inside him goes completely still. The dangerous kind- the kind that comes before anger. She keeps talking. Keeps smiling. Keeps looking directly at him while she does it. Every sentence feels deliberate. Targeted. Designed.

‘He spent hours consoling me.’ ‘I stayed overnight.’ ‘We fucked-‘ ‘Again.’ ‘And again…’ ‘…and again.’

Jungkook doesn’t move. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t even blink. Across the room Soomin looks horrified. Minji looks seconds away from cardiac arrest. Meanwhile all Jungkook can think about is the fact that she’s watching him more than she’s watching them.

Every sentence is aimed directly at him. Every word like another knife- another stab. Another twist.

By the time she finishes with, “Shall we continue studying?” he already knows two things:

The first is that she’s trying to hurt him. And the second is that it worked.

After your little explosive rant you feel good. Well, for approximately thirty seconds but then the silence of the room sits heavy beneath all of you. Nobody answers immediately.

A beat passes, then another, until Minji finally clears her throat awkwardly: “I’m suddenly realizing I actually have homework upstairs.”

“Oh my god, don’t leave me alone here,” Soomin hisses immediately. “You started this!” “I did not-”

Jungkook closes his laptop, the soft click instantly shuts both of them up. Your pulse stutters. Then he looks at you, and somehow that’s worse. If he were angry, if he looked even remotely affected by what you just said, maybe you’d feel better. Instead he just sits there calm and composed, watching you with the kind of patience that makes your stomach turn.

“Five minute break,” he says quietly.

The tone isn’t threatening, but both your friends are already standing before he’s even finished speaking. Traitors.

“Oh wow,” Minji says too quickly. “Suddenly craving ramen.” Soomin nods aggressively. “Me too. Crazy.”

You stare at them in disbelief while they practically sprint toward the kitchen. The second they disappear around the corner, silence settles over the room, stretching tight between you and Jungkook.

He keeps looking at you for another second before leaning forward, forearms resting against his thighs as his gaze drags slowly over your face. “You done?”

Your stomach flips violently. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

A quiet hum leaves him. “You know,” he murmurs, “that almost sounded believable for a second.”

Heat flashes across your face and you cross your arms. “Maybe because it’s true.”

One side of his jaw tightens. Finally: A reaction. The small victory burns hot and ugly through your chest.

“You know what’s interesting?” he asks.

“What.”

“The details.” His fingers tap once against the closed laptop. “The way you kept looking at me instead of your friends while talking.” His head tilts slightly. “Almost like you wanted me to react.”

You hate how quickly he dismantles you. “I wasn’t-”

“You were.” The interruption is calm, almost casual, which somehow makes it worse. Jungkook leans back again, studying your face like he’s piecing something together.

“You wanna know the really fucked up part?” Your heartbeat stumbles. “I can’t tell if you were trying to hurt me…” His eyes stay locked on yours. “…or convince yourself.”

The sentence lands straight in your chest because, unfortunately, it was both. You look away first. Coward.

A slow breath leaves him before silence settles between you again. Then:

“Did he actually touch you?”

Your head snaps back toward him. The question catches you completely off guard because suddenly the atmosphere changes. Not dramatically. Not visibly. Just enough to make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Because the answer matters, way too much. You can see it in his eyes.

“Why do you care?”

Jungkook doesn’t blink. “That’s not an answer.”

The silence stretches. Slowly, something ugly and bratty wakes up inside you.

Fine. If he wants honesty so badly, he can choke on it. A small smile pulls at your mouth.

“Yes.”

Jungkook stills. “…yes what?” The roughness creeping into his voice sends a thrill through your stomach.

You lean back against the couch cushions, pretending calm. “He did.”

His jaw flexes. “He…” His eyes drag slowly across your face. “…touched you?”

The way he says the word almost makes you laugh, like the concept itself offends him.

“That sounds sweet when you say it like that.” His stare hardens while you keep poking the bear. “First time he wasn’t sweet with me that night,” you continue lightly, stirring your drink while holding eye contact. “But yeah.”

A tiny shrug. “I guess he touched me.”

The room feels suffocatingly warm. Jungkook doesn’t move, doesn’t interrupt, just keeps staring at you while something vicious curls tighter inside your chest.

So you twist the knife one more time while smiling: “Everywhere.”

This time the reaction is impossible to miss. Jungkook suddenly leans forward, elbows braced against his knees while one tattooed hand drags slowly across his mouth. He looks like he’s actively trying to contain himself, and for the first time since you met him, the effortless composure slips.

The realization hits like a drug: Jeon Jungkook is jealous.

A shaky thrill runs through your stomach. Unfortunately, he notices that too.

A quiet laugh leaves him. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Your eyebrows lift innocently. “What? Talking about my boyfriend?”

The word boyfriend visibly irritates him. “You’re trying real hard to piss me off tonight, princess.”

“And you’re trying real hard to act like you have any claim over me.”

The shift is immediate- his eyes darken, his expression sharpening into something that makes your pulse skip entirely. You should stop, you know you should… Instead, you want more. You want him affected the way he’s affected you.

“You know what else I did with him that night?” The question hangs heavily between the two of you while rain taps softly against the windows.

Jungkook’s expression barely changes, except for the tiny twitch near his eye. You notice it and victory flashes through your chest.

“What?” you ask sweetly, lifting your drink. “You don’t wanna know?”

His jaw tightens even more and for one dangerous second you genuinely think he might snap. Instead, his fingers drum once against his knee before going still.

“Careful.”

The warning slides low and hot through your stomach but instead of stopping, you lean slightly closer toward Jungkook and press your tongue a few times against the inside of your cheek.

A tiny, filthy movement. And completely intentional.

Your eyes never leave his. Jungkook immediately stills. A sharp breath leaves him through his nose and suddenly the victory burning inside your chest twists into something hotter. More reckless. Then, softly enough you mutter:

“You taught me well with the gag reflex.”

The effect is immediate- his entire body tenses beneath the black hoodie. You continue anyway, because apparently every self-preservation instinct inside you died somewhere around the library.

“So thank you,” you whisper sweetly, then smile. “He loved it.”

Silence.

Jungkook stares at you for one long second and suddenly you realize two things at once:

- you won. - and you may have made a terrible fucking mistake.

Because whatever amusement had been left on his face is now completely fucking gone. His tongue drags slowly across the inside of his lip piercing while he keeps staring at you like he’s deciding between several very bad ideas. The rush of heat that crashes through your body at the sight of it is deeply concerning.

A dark laugh leaves him. Then he leans back against the couch cushions again, fingers flexing once against his thigh. “Yeah?” He frowns. “That what we’re doing now?”

“Well… You don’t own me.”

The words leave your mouth sharp enough to cut and for a second Jungkook just stares at you from across the couch, dark eyes unreadable beneath the dim living room light while rain taps softly against the windows and muffled laughter drifts faintly from upstairs where Soomin and Minji disappeared way too conveniently some time ago.

Meanwhile Jungkook still hasn’t looked away from you once and the room suddenly feels too warm, too quiet, too full of everything neither of you knows how to say without turning it ugly.

Something inside you still twists painfully from overhearing that conversation earlier, from hearing your own best friends casually dissect your relationship like they already knew you were unhappy before you even admitted it to yourself. The hurt still sits beneath your skin alongside the humiliation and every awful thing Jungkook keeps dragging out of you whenever he looks at you for too long, and before common sense has a chance to intervene, your brat lashes out one last time.

Slowly, you pull your phone from beside you on the couch and unlock it with exaggerated calmness. Jungkook’s eyes immediately flick downward before returning to your face. You smile sweetly.

“But my sweet boyfriend owns this pussy,” you murmur lightly while your thumbs move lazily across the screen. “And guess who’s getting a taste of it tonight.”

Jungkook doesn’t move. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t react, doesn’t give you anything at all, and honestly that should scare you a lot more than it does. Instead, the rush of finally affecting him after weeks of emotional torture burns too hot through your chest for common sense to survive.

A dark laugh leaves him beneath his breath while his jaw flexes once, fingers drumming briefly against his knee before stopping completely, like he physically caught himself. “You really wanna do this?”

The warning slides low through your stomach, but the second you saw that flicker of jealousy earlier, something inside you snapped too, now you can’t seem to stop. You lean back further into the couch cushions, crossing your legs, dangerously close to brush his knee.

“What?” you ask innocently, tilting your head. “You jealous?”

The shift happens so fast it steals the breath from your lungs- One second Jungkook is sitting across from you, and the next he’s above you, your back hitting the couch cushions with a startled gasp as one arm braces beside your head while the other catches your wrist before you can do something stupid.

“Jungkook…”

“Fucking brat-” The words come low and sharp, not loud, which somehow makes it worse. “You wanna make me jealous?” he asks quietly, dark eyes locked onto yours. “Is that what we’re doing now?”

Heat flashes through your chest, and the worst part is that he notices immediately. Of course he does.

A dark smile starts tugging at the corner of his mouth as he leans in slightly, having you pinned beneath him but there’s a devilish glint in your eyes as a small, evil giggle escapes you.

“What…” he begins.

“MINJIIIIIIII!” The scream echoes through the house and instantly shatters whatever was happening between you.

Jungkook freezes before his head snaps toward the stairs. “The fuck…” he mutters.

Voices drift from upstairs, followed by hurried footsteps, and your grin widens immediately. His eyes widen too.

“SOO-” His hand clamps over your mouth before you can finish.

“Don’t.” The word comes through gritted teeth, making you laugh against his palm.

“Mmph.”

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

The footsteps grow closer, a floorboard creaking somewhere above, and Jungkook squeezes his eyes shut for a brief second like he’s questioning every decision that led him to this exact moment. Then he lets go and practically launches himself back across the couch.

By the time Soomin appears at the top of the stairs, Jungkook is already sitting with his laptop open, shoulders relaxed, expression blank, looking every bit like a hardworking student who definitely hasn’t spent the last thirty seconds threatening your sanity. You nearly choke from holding your laughter back.

“Everything okay?” Soomin calls.

Your eyes immediately find Jungkook’s. His jaw tightens. The warning in his stare couldn’t be clearer: Don’t.

You smile sweetly. “Oh, actually, yes.”

Jungkook’s expression instantly turns suspicious, which only makes this better.

“I think Jungkook and I are done studying.”

Soomin blinks. “What?”

“Done.” You shut your notebook with a cheerful snap. “I’m suddenly in the mood for good vibes.”

Jungkook narrows his eyes but you keep smiling. “Wasn’t there some frat party Minji wanted to go to tonight?”

The room falls silent for exactly two seconds before Minji appears behind Soomin. “Wait. You’re serious?”

“Very.” “You’ve been half-dead for a week.” “Not anymore.”

Your gaze drifts back to Jungkook and you give him a slow wink. His jaw visibly flexes.

“Let’s go.”

The girls stare at you, then at each other, and then back at you. “…Who are you?” Minji asks, “…and what did you do to our best friend?” Soomin finishes the question carefully and you snort in return.

“New personality,” you reply. “Thought I’d try it out.”

“You hate frat parties.”

“Yeah… but thanks to Jungkook I don’t have to worry so much about the exam anymore, he really took my mind off a lot of things. Helped with the stress.” A snort comes from the couch but you ignore it.

“I want loud music,” you announce. “I want drinks. I want cute boys.”

That one lands exactly the way you intended- you don’t even need to look at Jungkook to know it. You can practically feel the temperature in the room drop a few degrees.

Minji looks delighted, Soomin looks concerned and Jungkook looks like he’s mentally calculating prison sentences. Perfect.

It remains perfect right up until a single realization sneaks into your head: If you go to that party, Jungkook is absolutely going to show up. And judging by the look currently lurking behind his eyes, that realization should probably scare you a lot more than it does.

The party is already packed by the time you arrive. Music rattles through the walls hard enough to vibrate beneath your ribs while bodies drift through every room in a blur of flashing lights, cheap alcohol, and bad decisions waiting to happen. Exactly what you wanted. Or at least that’s what you keep telling yourself.

Minji disappears almost immediately after walking through the front door, swallowed whole by the crowd, and Soomin lasts maybe seven minutes before someone from one of her classes spots her and drags her toward the kitchen. Somehow, despite arriving together, you end up alone again.

You take a sip from your drink and scan the room. No Jungkook. Good. The strange flicker of disappointment that follows is annoying enough that you immediately ignore it.

The next hour passes surprisingly well. You dance when someone pulls you into a circle near the speakers, laugh at jokes that probably aren’t that funny, and let people talk to you without searching for an excuse to escape. A guy tries flirting with you near the drinks table and manages to hold your attention for almost three whole minutes before you get bored. Yeah, everything feels normal. Perfectly normal.

So why does it feel like you’re waiting for something? The realization irritates you enough to get another drink.

You’re only halfway through it when Minji suddenly appears at your side. One look at her face tells you she’s at least slightly drunk, and judging by the smile stretching across her features, that combination is dangerous.

“There you are.”

You narrow your eyes at her. “What did you break?”

She gasps dramatically, placing a hand over her chest. “Nothing.” The pause that follows immediately answers the question. “Yet.”

A sigh escapes you. “Yeah. That’s about what I expected.”

Minji grins and leans against the counter beside you, stealing a sip from your drink before you can stop her. For a moment she simply watches the crowd, then glances sideways.

“Hey.”

“What?”

“You and Jungkook aren’t a thing, right?”

You nearly choke. The reaction is so immediate and violent that it catches even you off guard. “What?!”

Minji blinks. “You heard me.”

“No!” The answer comes too quickly and far too loudly.

The grin spreading across her face is instant. “Oh my god.”

“Minji, no.”

“You totally-”

“I don’t.”

She laughs. “You didn’t even let me finish.”

Heat immediately creeps up your neck. “I knew exactly what you were going to say.”

Minji looks entirely too entertained by this “So you’re not into him.”

“No.”

“Not even a little.”

“No.”

She hums thoughtfully before taking another sip of her drink. “Okay, but he’s insanely hot.”

The jealousy that shoots through your chest is so immediate it almost makes you angry. At yourself. At her. At him. At everyone.

You force out a laugh. “Then go talk to him.”

Minji snorts. “Please.”

“What?”

“He’d eat me alive.”

You roll your eyes. “Good survival instinct.”

“I’m serious.” She points her drink at you, “That man looks at people like he’s deciding whether they’re worth the paperwork.”

Despite yourself, a laugh slips out- the image is painfully accurate. Minji laughs too before nudging your shoulder. “Still hot, though.”

You hate how much that bothers you. “Stay away from him.”

One of her eyebrows lifts immediately. “Oh?”

“He’s insufferable.”

“That sounded personal.”

“It isn’t.” The lie comes easier than it should.

Thankfully someone calls her name from across the room before she can push any further. Minji turns, waves, and disappears back into the crowd, leaving you alone with the uncomfortable conversation and the even more uncomfortable feelings it stirred up.

You exhale slowly and decide to find Soomin. Mostly because everyone in this stupid house seems determined to vanish the second you look away.

You spot him in one of the side lounges, and for a brief moment relief washes through you before your brain fully registers what you’re seeing. Then it vanishes.

A girl is sitting in Jungkook’s lap.

Not close enough to be misunderstood, not flirting in a way that leaves room for interpretation. She is quite literally sitting in his lap, one hand tangled in the dark hair at the back of his neck while his arm rests loosely around her waist with the kind of casual familiarity that suggests she’s been there for a while.

Your feet stop moving. The room suddenly feels hotter than before, the music louder, the crowd pressing in from all sides until the space around you seems impossibly small.

The girl says something you can’t make out beneath the music and Jungkook laughs, a real laugh that reaches his eyes. A second later she hooks her fingers into the front of his hoodie, pulls him down toward her, and kisses him without hesitation. Like she’s done it before, like she knows exactly what his response will be.

And she does because Jungkook kisses her back after a second. The drop in your stomach is so violent it almost hurts.

Around you the party continues uninterrupted. Music keeps pounding through the speakers, conversations blend together into meaningless noise, people move from room to room carrying drinks and bad decisions, completely oblivious to the way your entire world seems to tilt sideways.

Jungkook isn’t pushing her away. He isn’t stopping her. If anything, his hand tightens briefly against her waist while she smiles against his mouth, and suddenly all you can think about is how natural he looks there. How comfortable. How easy. How familiar.

Something ugly twists low in your chest.

The girl laughs breathlessly when they finally pull apart and leans in to whisper something into his ear. Jungkook lowers his head slightly to hear her over the music and for a second you think that’s it, that you’ve seen enough.

Then his eyes lift and find yours across the crowded room.

Everything freezes. Well, aleast for you.

The girl is still sitting in his lap, one hand resting against his chest, still smiling as she talks to him, but Jungkook’s attention is fixed entirely on you.

He doesn’t seem surprised. Doesn’t seem guilty. Why would he? He just watches. The same way he always watches. For some reason, that hurts even more. Because he saw you, he knows exactly what you just witnessed and now he isn’t looking away.

Your stomach twists while humiliation crashes into you a second later, sharp and immediate, because the ache spreading through your chest shouldn’t exist.

You don’t want Jungkook. Right? You don’t care! At least that’s what you’ve spent the last week desperately trying to convince yourself.

So why does it feel like somebody reached inside your ribs and started twisting?

The girl says something else, but Jungkook doesn’t respond. His gaze never leaves yours, and that finally becomes too much.

You turn away so quickly you nearly collide with someone standing behind you before pushing through the crowd without so much as an apology. The stairs blur beneath your feet. The hallway stretches endlessly ahead of you before you open a door and peek inside.

The bedroom is empty.

At least that’s what you think when you slip inside and quietly shut the door behind you. The music downstairs immediately dulls into a distant vibration through the walls, leaving only darkness and the uneven sound of your own breathing.

Your hands are shaking. God, this is ridiculous. You press the heels of your palms against your eyes and squeeze them shut.

Jungkook can kiss whoever he wants, sit with whoever he wants, touch whoever he wants. None of it should matter. None of it should make your chest feel like somebody shoved broken glass between your ribs and left it there.

Another tear escapes before you can stop it.“Fuck.”

The word comes out weak and unsteady, making humiliation burn even hotter beneath your skin. You wipe angrily at your face, then again, and again, but the harder you try to stop crying, the worse it gets.

You hate this. You hate him. You hate yourself even more.

A floorboard creaks somewhere behind you and your entire body goes rigid. Then a voice drifts from the darkness. “Well, well, well.”

You spin around to find a guy sitting in the desk chair beside the window, one ankle resting lazily across his opposite knee as though he’s been there the entire time. Dark hair falls into his eyes, a crooked grin tugs at his mouth, and a red plastic cup dangles from his fingers.

The amusement on his face deepens when he sees your expression. “Damn,” he says with a soft laugh. “You look more disappointed than surprised.”

You immediately wipe beneath your eyes. “Sorry. I didn’t know someone was in here.”

“Clearly.”

His gaze drifts over your face. Not in a way that feels creepy, but in a way that makes you feel studied, like he’s fitting together pieces of a puzzle only he can see.

Then he lifts his cup slightly. “I almost gave up looking for you tonight, and suddenly the universe sends you right into my bedroom.”

You blink and when he turns his head you recognise him as your boyfriend’s best friend. “Levi?” you ask shakily.

His grin widens. He pushes away from the desk and tosses the red cup over his shoulder without looking. It sails across the room and lands perfectly inside the trash can.

“It’s me, alright.”

You quickly wipe at your cheeks. “Didn’t know this was your room. Sorry, I’ll go.”

You turn toward the door but hand closes around your wrist, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to stop you.

“No,” Levi says calmly. “I don’t think so.”

Your stomach tightens. Slowly, you look down at his hand before lifting your eyes back to his face- something has changed. The easy amusement is gone.

“What do you want?”

Levi ignores the question. Instead, he tilts his head slightly. “Where’s Marc?”

The question catches you off guard. “What?”

“Marc. Your boyfriend.”

Ex-boyfriend. The correction flashes through your head automatically but you don’t say it out loud. You never liked nor trusted Levi and you have no idea if Marc told him about your breakup…

You force a smile anyway. “Uhm… He’s sick.”

“Yeah?”

“A headache.”

Levi clicks his tongue. “Interesting.”

Your pulse skips. “Why?”

“Because when I talked to him earlier, he was driving to his parents’ house.” Levi watches your face carefully. “Said he needed some time at home.” Your stomach drops.

“Try again.” His voice remains light, almost pleasant. “And this time don’t fucking lie to me.”

You stare at him without answering and the smile slowly disappears from his face.

“See, that’s the thing I like about Marc.” He finally releases your wrist. “He’s a terrible liar.”

You rub the spot automatically.

“He called me last week.” A pause. “Told me you broke up with him.” Levi shrugs.

“He was nice about it, too.” The disgust in his voice is immediate. “Said you were stressed. Said exams were getting to you. Said you needed space.”

A humorless laugh slips from him. “Sweet, gullible guy.” You don’t like where this is going. Not even a little.

Levi’s eyes travel slowly across your face. “But we both know that’s not why you dumped him.”

“Excuse me?”

His smile returns, colder this time. “Come on.” You stare, Levi stares right back, then he snorts. “It’s because you’re a whore.”

The room goes silent. For a second your brain refuses to process what you just heard. “Excuse me?!”

“Thought I was pretty clear.”

Your chest rises sharply. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“A lot, probably.” He doesn’t even blink. “But that’s not really the important part right now.”

Every instinct in your body starts screaming:

Run.

Leave.

Get out.

Levi reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone before casually placing it on the desk between you.

“Do you know what I do for work?” You don’t answer. “Campus security.”

He chuckles at the confused look on your face. “We monitor cameras. Mostly because half the student population apparently can’t smoke weed without wandering into places they aren’t supposed to be.”

He shrugs. “The library’s a popular one.”

The blood drains from your face and Levi notices immediately. His smile widens. “There she is.”

No. No, no, no.

“Levi…”

“You like the library too.” His voice remains calm. “Just not for weed.” Your pulse begins pounding so hard it hurts.

“No,” he continues. “You had other priorities.” You take a step backward.

Levi doesn’t move. “Tell me.” His eyes never leave yours. “How long have you been sneaking around behind Marc’s back?”

Your throat closes. “It’s not…”

“Don’t.” The single word slices straight through your sentence. “Don’t insult me.” You freeze.

Levi leans the phone onto the desk.

“Because trust me, sweetheart, I’ve seen enough.” Then he taps on the display and it plays a video of you on your knees for Jungkook.

The room suddenly feels suffocating. Far too small.

Your pulse thunders in your ears. “What do you want?”

Finally. The question you’ve been trying not to ask and the question he’s been waiting for. Levi’s expression brightens instantly.

“Ah yes- there it is.” He takes a slow step closer. Then another. Nothing about it feels threatening, somehow that makes it worse. He’s comfortable, completely relaxed. Like he’s already won.

“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “it’s funny.”

Your jaw clenches. “Levi…”

“No, seriously.” He reaches toward you. A loose strand of hair slips through his fingers before you jerk away in disgust. His smile never falters. “One video can ruin a life now.” Your stomach drops.

“One upload.” A shrug. “One anonymous account.” Your breathing turns uneven. “Maybe it gets passed around campus. Maybe it doesn’t stop there.”

Another shrug. “Maybe somebody uploads it on Pornhub...”

You feel sick. “Stop it-”

“Maybe future employers find it.”

Your hands curl into fists. “Stop!”

“Maybe your family sees it.”

“Levi-”

“Maybe everybody gets to see exactly what kind of girl Marc was wasting his time on.”

The silence that follows feels deafening. Then, quietly, he continuous:

“Or…” The word hangs between you while Levi studies your face. “I could delete it…”

Your stomach twists- There it is. The real reason. “What do you want?” This time the question comes out sharper. Angrier.

Levi seems pleased. “Use your brain.”

You just stare at him while his smile slowly returns. Predatory. Fucking disgusting…

“I’m a reasonable guy.” The lie is so obvious it’s almost laughable. “You have until Sunday night.”

“To do what?”

“To make me a very attractive offer.”

Your pulse stumbles as Levi’s gaze flicks briefly over your face, then lower, before returning to your eyes. Understanding crashes into you immediately.

Disgust follows right behind it. “You’re fucking disgusting.”

“Yeah.” He sounds completely unbothered. “But unlike you, honey, I’m honest about it.”

You want to hit him. Really hit him. Instead, you just stand there shaking. Levi walks to the door and pulls it open. Music immediately floods back into the room, loud and overwhelming after the suffocating silence.

“You’ve got my number.” His smile widens one last time. “Now get the fuck out of my house.”

You don’t remember leaving the room.

One second Levi is standing in front of you with that disgusting smile on his face, his voice dripping with casual cruelty as he dangles your entire life between his fingers, and the next you’re forcing your way through the crowded house, shoulders colliding with strangers as music pounds through the walls hard enough to make your skull ache.

Your lungs refuse to pull in enough air- very breath feels too shallow. Too small.

You need to think. You need to get outside. You need to get as far away from that room as possible before the panic clawing its way up your throat finally wins.

Someone laughs somewhere nearby while another person bumps into your shoulder hard enough to nearly knock you off balance. The sharp scent of alcohol hangs thick in the air, mixed with sweat and perfume and overheated bodies, and suddenly the entire house feels suffocating.

Then you walk straight into someone.

A solid chest stops your momentum instantly, and strong hands close around your shoulders before you can stumble backward.

“Woah, woah, hold on, princess.” Jungkook. Of course it’s Jungkook.

For a second you simply stare at him. His face blurs around the edges, not because you’re drunk but because your pulse is pounding so violently that it drowns out everything else.

Jungkook’s expression shifts almost immediately. The irritation he wore earlier vanishes.

“Hey.” His grip loosens slightly, one hand sliding higher along your arm. “What happened?”

You try to answer but nothing comes out. The words die somewhere between your chest and your throat because suddenly Levi’s voice is back inside your head.

‘Maybe future employers find it.’

Maybe your family sees it.’

‘Maybe everybody gets to see exactly what kind of girl Marc was wasting his time on.’

Your stomach twists so violently it hurts. Jungkook says something else but you don’t hear a single word. All you can hear is the blood rushing through your ears.

You pull away from him before he can stop you and push through the crowd again, moving so quickly that you nearly lose your footing.

“Princess?” His voice follows you. You ignore it.

The downstairs bathroom appears at the end of the hallway and you barely manage to reach it before shoving the door open. The second you’re inside, your knees hit the floor.

Then you’re throwing up.

The alcohol. The panic. The disgust. Everything comes up at once.

Your hands grip the toilet seat so tightly your knuckles ache while your stomach heaves again, painfully emptying itself as tears burn behind your eyes.

The party continues beyond the walls. You can still hear the bass vibrating through the floorboards, hear muffled laughter and distant conversations, but closer than that is another sound. Someone’s watching. Waiting.

Jungkook. Of course he followed.

Another wave of nausea rolls through you and you squeeze your eyes shut. Humiliation settles over you almost immediately. Perfect.

Absolutely fucking perfect.

First blackmail. Then a panic attack. Now you’re kneeling on a stranger’s bathroom floor throwing up while your worst possible witness stands somewhere behind you. What a fantastic night.

A faucet turns on, the sound barely registers. A few seconds later something cold appears within your field of vision. You blink- a wet towel.

Jungkook is crouched beside you, not touching you, not crowding either. He’s simply there. His expression is impossible to read, which somehow unsettles you more than if he were making fun of you.

Because he should be smirking, he should be making some sarcastic comment. Should be asking whether seeing him with another girl finally short-circuited your brain. Instead he’s quiet. Observing. Thinking.

That familiar sharpness settles behind his eyes, the one you’ve always hated because it notices things nobody else does.

“You didn’t drink enough for this.” Your stomach drops- of course that’s the first thing he notices.

You turn your head. “Go away.”

Jungkook ignores the order without hesitation. His gaze drifts slowly across your face, taking in every detail: The smeared mascara. The tears you haven’t managed to wipe away. The tremor in your hands. The way you refuse to meet his eyes.

For several seconds he says nothing. Then, quietly enough that it almost gets lost beneath the distant music, he says, “This isn’t because of me.”

The words hit you so unexpectedly that your head snaps toward him. He’s already watching you, really watching.

And suddenly something changes. Not in you. In him. Because up until now he’d been annoyed. Jealous. Maybe even a little pleased. The kind of cruel satisfaction that comes from finally seeing you affected by him after weeks of pretending neither of you cared.

But that’s gone now and and something colder settles into its place. Something far sharper.

His eyes move over your face one more time, and for the first time all night you can practically see the moment the realization lands. You aren’t angry, or jealous. Also not heartbroken.

You’re scared.

And whatever put that look in your eyes…happened upstairs.

The pieces are shifting into place, one after another, and realization settles over him with frightening speed. Until now, he thought you ran because of the girl, because of the couch, because of him. Now he knows better.

His gaze drifts briefly toward the bathroom door, then toward the hallway beyond it, and finally toward the stairs leading upstairs to the exact place you disappeared to before coming back down looking like your entire world had collapsed.

Your stomach drops. No. Absolutely not.

Jungkook slowly rises to his feet. “The fuck happened up there?” You don’t answer.

Your pulse immediately spikes because if he goes upstairs, if he talks to Levi, if he finds out what happened, everything will fall apart. Panic crashes through you so violently that your vision blurs.

Jungkook takes another step toward the door, already investigating, already searching, already looking for something to blame.

“Who was up there?”

The question comes out low and controlled, which somehow makes it worse. You can practically feel the violence simmering beneath the surface, carefully leashed but very much alive.

“Jungkook…”

“Who.”

Your chest tightens until it hurts. The room suddenly feels too small, too hot, too suffocating.

You picture the footage. The cameras. The library. Levi’s smile. The possibility of everyone seeing it.

Your stomach lurches again as Jungkook reaches for the door and something inside you finally snaps.

“Please.” The word leaves your mouth before you can stop it.

Jungkook freezes instantly.

You barely realize you’ve moved until you feel the sleeve of his hoodie clenched tightly in your fist. Your hand is shaking so badly that the fabric trembles between your fingers, and when you glance down, you realize your entire body is trembling just as hard.

Slowly, Jungkook looks down at your hand before lifting his gaze back to your face. Your eyes immediately sting, humiliation burns through your chest, you don’t want him to see you like this.

You don’t want anyone to see you like this.

But the thought of being left alone right now feels so unbearable that it nearly hurts.

“Please don’t leave me alone.” The words come out small and broken, barely more than a whisper.

Silence fills the bathroom. The music outside suddenly feels miles away.

Jungkook doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. For a brief second you wonder if maybe you shouldn’t have said it, if maybe you should’ve just let him go and dealt with this alone like you always do.

He nods and crouches back down in front of you, his expression softening in a way that almost makes your throat ache. “Okay, yeah. I’m here.”

Something inside you finally cracks, enough to break you apart. A shaky breath leaves your lungs, and you hate the way tears immediately gather in your eyes again. You hate that he sees them. More than anything, you hate the overwhelming relief flooding through your chest.

Jungkook doesn’t ask another question, he doesn’t push for answers. He doesn’t demand explanations. He doesn’t even try to pry your fingers from his sleeve.

Instead, he simply settles down beside you on the bathroom floor, close enough to feel real, solid enough to feel safe. His arm slides around your shoulders.

Your eyes squeeze shut, the warmth nearly undoes you.

“Breathe.” His voice is low and steady. You try and fail. Then try again.

Jungkook’s hand moves slowly through your hair, repeating the motion over and over with endless patience. There is nothing possessive about it, nothing demanding. Every gentle pass is simply a silent reminder that he’s still here, that he hasn’t left, and that he isn’t going anywhere.

Eventually your breathing starts to even out. The shaking eases. The nausea settles enough that you stop feeling like you’re about to be sick.

Only then does Jungkook speak again. “I’m not leaving your side tonight.”

Under normal circumstances you would’ve argued immediately. You would’ve told him to mind his own business and go fuck himself. Tonight you don’t have the energy.

The realization seems to hit him too because his jaw tightens faintly before he pushes himself to his feet and holds out a hand.

“C’mon.”

You stare at it for a moment before finally taking it. Jungkook doesn’t let go until you’re standing.

The drive back to his apartment passes in complete silence. For once neither of you says anything.

The city lights blur beyond the windows while exhaustion settles deeper and deeper into your bones, and by the time you reach his building, you feel completely hollowed out.

Drained. Empty. Done.

Jungkook notices. He notices everything. At some point a hoodie appears in your hands. Then a glass of water. Then a blanket. You don’t even remember when he gave them to you.

The apartment feels strangely quiet compared to the chaos of the party. Safe. The realization should probably concern you. Instead it only makes your eyes burn.

You curl up at one end of the couch while Jungkook settles beside you, close enough that his knee occasionally brushes yours but far enough away that you don’t feel trapped.

For several minutes neither of you speaks, then your body betrays you. The next tremor hits without warning. Your hands start shaking again. A sharp breath catches in your throat.

And suddenly you’re right back in Levi’s bedroom.

Jungkook notices immediately. A quiet curse slips from him before one strong arm hooks around your waist and the other pulls the blanket higher around your shoulders. Before you can even think about protesting, he’s guiding you against his chest until your head settles beneath his chin.

His arms wrap around you completely. Warm. Solid. Unmovable.

You should pull away. You don’t.

His hand slides into your hair again, moving with the same slow patience as before, and eventually that steady rhythm begins to drown everything else out. The panic. The fear. The humiliation. Even Levi’s voice starts to fade into the background.

For the first time all week, your thoughts finally go quiet. Sleep creeps in gradually, wrapping around you like something warm and unavoidable, and the last thing you feel before drifting off is Jungkook’s fingers moving gently through your hair.

The last thing you hear is the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear.

And somewhere above you, long after you’ve fallen asleep, Jungkook lies awake staring at the dark ceiling of his apartment with his arms locked tightly around you.

Because somebody made you cry, made you panic. Scared you badly enough to beg him not to leave.

And he still doesn’t know who. Yet.

The first thing you notice is the silence.

Not the kind that makes your chest tighten or sends your thoughts spiraling into places you’d rather avoid, but something softer, gentler. The apartment is quiet in a way that feels warm instead of lonely, safe instead of suffocating, and for several sleepy seconds you remain curled beneath the blanket, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling while your brain slowly catches up with reality.

Then everything clicks into place:

Jungkook’s apartment. His bed. His hoodie. Embarrassment immediately crashes into you.

Your eyes squeeze shut as memories from last night resurface one after another, each one somehow worse than the last. You had a complete emotional breakdown in front of him. There had been tears, panic, shaking, and if that wasn’t humiliating enough, a vivid memory of grabbing onto him and begging him not to leave flashes through your mind, making you drag the blanket over your face with a muffled groan.

Fantastic.

Maybe spontaneous combustion is a real thing after all. You reluctantly peek toward the bedside clock and immediately regret it- 10:17 a.m.

Your brows knit together as you stare at the numbers, then stare again. The realization settles slowly enough that it almost doesn’t feel real.

You slept.

Not a few restless hours filled with tossing and turning. Not drifting in and out of consciousness while staring at the ceiling until sunrise. Not waking every twenty minutes with your heart racing. You actually slept an entire night.

No nightmares. No panic attacks. No waking up trembling and drenched in sweat.

The thought catches you off guard. Something uncomfortable tightens behind your ribs and suddenly your eyes sting for reasons you absolutely refuse to examine- that is enough emotional vulnerability for one morning.

Before your brain can betray you by getting sentimental, you force yourself upright and swing your legs over the edge of the bed.

The apartment remains quiet as you make your way toward the bedroom door, cautiously peeking around the corner.

The sight waiting for you almost sends you retreating straight back inside: Jungkook is standing in the kitchen. Cooking.

Your brain genuinely requires a moment to process the image. Grey sweatpants hang low on his hips, a black t-shirt stretches across his shoulders, and his dark hair still looks slightly disheveled from sleep while one tattooed hand casually flips something in a frying pan.

The entire scene feels deeply unnatural- like spotting a tiger filing taxes.

As if sensing your presence immediately, Jungkook glances up and catches you spying from the hallway. The corner of his mouth twitches.

“Good morning.”

You seriously consider backing away and pretending this never happened. Unfortunately, Jungkook notices that too.

“Don’t.”

You freeze and his expression turns knowingly suspicious. “I can literally see you thinking about it.”

Heat instantly creeps into your face. “I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

“I wasn’t!”

“You absolutely were.”

Narrowing your eyes, you lean farther around the doorway, only for Jungkook to point the spatula at you like a weapon.

“Come sit down before I take that hoodie back.”

Your hands immediately clutch the oversized sleeves tighter. The asshole laughs. Warm enough to be annoying.

“You look funny.”

“You gave it to me.”

“Yeah.” His gaze drifts over you briefly before a grin tugs at his mouth. “It’s cute.”

You hate the tiny smile threatening to appear on your own face. Hate it.

Several minutes later you’re seated at the kitchen island while Jungkook places a plate in front of you.

Eggs. Toast. Fresh fruits & vegetables. Coffee. You stare at the food, then at him, then back at the food again.

He raises an eyebrows. “What?”

“You cook?”

Jungkook looks personally offended. “The fuck does that mean?”

“You just don’t seem like the type.”

“The type to eat?”

“The type to own vegetables.”

His head tilts. “Wow.”

“I’m just saying.” you shrug and a tiny smile spreads on your face.

He lets out a snort. “You little shit-”

The corner of your mouth twitches despite yourself. Something soft flickers briefly across his face before disappearing almost as quickly as it arrived. The memory of last night settles quietly between the two of you. Neither of you mentions it. Neither of you seems entirely sure how.

The silence that follows isn’t awkward so much as careful, like both of you are circling around something fragile and important without quite knowing how to touch it without breaking it.

You focus on your coffee. Jungkook focuses on pretending he isn’t watching you.

For a little while everything almost feels normal. Almost.

Then your phone buzzes. The sound slices through the apartment with surgical precision. Your hand reaches for the phone before you can stop yourself.

The message makes you freeze. Levi.

It’s a photo- just one frame of blurry security footage. The library.

Your blood instantly turns to ice. Beneath the image sits a single text:

Good morning, love. Hope you slept well. Clock’s ticking.

The room seems to shrink around you- suddenly the sunlight suddenly feels too bright. The air feels too warm. Too thin. Too difficult to breathe.

You don’t even realize your breathing has changed until a familiar voice cuts through the panic.

“Princess.” You flinch. Jungkook is already watching you. Every trace of amusement from earlier has vanished. His eyes narrow immediately.

“What.”

You lock the phone. Far too fast, far too obviously. Jungkook notices.

“Nothing.” A beat passes, then another. Neither of you moves.

Slowly, Jungkook sets his coffee down. “That’s a lie.”

Your pulse spikes. “It’s not…”

“It is.”

Looking away is a mistake- the second you do it, something shifts in his expression. Now he knows. Maybe not what, but definitely enough.

The silence stretches between you, heavy and deliberate, the kind Jungkook weaponizes when he’s waiting for someone to talk themselves into a corner.

You stare stubbornly at the countertop. He stares stubbornly at you. Eventually a quiet sigh leaves him before his chair scrapes softly against the floor.

You refuse to look up. At least until a large hand reaches over and gently lifts the phone from beside your plate. Your head snaps upward immediately.

“Jungkook-” The words die before they fully leave your mouth.

He doesn’t seem angry… he seems concerned. And somehow that feels infinitely worse. His gaze moves from the locked screen to your face, then down to your trembling hands before returning to the phone again, studying everything with the same careful focus he brings to problems he intends to solve.

For several long seconds he says nothing at all. Then he leans back against the counter and folds his arms across his chest. His eyes never leave yours.

“Okay.” Your stomach twists at the low, dangerous sound of his voice. The silent threat underneath it. “Enough, princess.”

The softness doesn’t disappear completely, it just shifts. Hardens slightly, enough to reveal the steel underneath. Enough to remind you exactly who Jungkook is when somebody he cares about gets hurt.

Tilting his head, he studies you for another moment before asking the question so casually it almost sounds ridiculous.

“Who do I have to kill?”

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[bobbyseyesmile]

P A R T IV - contains smut

↳ Previous Part

➻ pairing: badboy!jungkook x fem!reader

➻ authors note: this is NOT a romantic, cute story. please read the warning tags & if you're not into this, don't read it. every person in this story is an adult and into this.

➻ warnings: contains SMUT as in public fingering [f receiving], oral [m receiving] /deepthroat-facefucking, stalking, degradation & humiliation kink, manipulation, cheating, toxic situationship, toxic behavior - MINORS DNI

Morning comes slowly.

Not all at once, not with alarms or loud voices or anything sharp enough to break apart the heavy warmth still tangled around your body, but quietly instead, pale sunlight slipping through the curtains in thin golden stripes while rainwater still clings faintly to the outside of the windows from last night.

For a while you don’t fully wake up.

You just exist somewhere soft and warm and half asleep, drifting beneath the weight pressed against you until eventually your brain catches up enough to realize that the warmth isn’t your blanket.

It’s him.

Jungkook is practically wrapped around you from behind, one arm locked tightly around your waist while his face stays buried against the back of your neck, breathing slow and steady against your skin. One of his legs is hooked lazily over yours, trapping you beneath his weight so completely it almost feels impossible to move at all.

And horrifyingly enough… he looks comfortable.

Not tense. Not restless. Not sharp around the edges the way he always is. Just asleep.

Your stomach tightens immediately. Because somehow that feels far more intimate than everything that happened last night.

The realization settles unpleasantly beneath your ribs while your eyes drift slowly across the room, taking in the scattered clothes on the floor, the cigarette pack beside the bed, his hoodie hanging halfway off your desk chair like he belongs here already.

Like this is normal.

Your pulse starts climbing instantly. No.

No, no, no. This can’t become normal.

You swallow hard before carefully trying to shift beneath him, but the second you move even slightly, Jungkook’s grip tightens automatically around your waist.

A low irritated sound leaves him against your neck. “Mmph.” You freeze immediately.

Still half asleep, Jungkook drags you back against his chest without even opening his eyes properly, pulling you deeper into the warmth of him while his face presses harder into your pillow.

“I have classes,” you whisper weakly, mostly because you suddenly feel like you need to say something normal before the panic fully settles in.

Jungkook barely reacts. “Who cares,” he mumbles tiredly against the pillow. “Stay.”

The words come out rough with sleep, voice deeper than usual, and something about how natural it sounds makes your stomach twist even harder. Because he says it like there’s no question about it. Like of course you’d stay. Of course you’d still be here.

Your chest tightens painfully.

Slowly, carefully, you pry his arm from around your waist despite the annoyed sound he makes in response before slipping out of bed entirely. Cold air hits your skin immediately and suddenly the reality of everything crashes over you all at once.

The marks on your throat. The soreness between your thighs. The memory of his mouth against yours. His voice in your ear. His hands everywhere.

Oh my god.

A wave of guilt hits so hard it almost makes you dizzy. Your boyfriend.

The thought alone sends panic rushing through your chest while you quickly grab the nearest clothes from the floor, avoiding looking directly at the bed behind you.

This was a mistake. Wasn’t it?

Your breathing turns uneven while your thoughts spiral faster and faster because none of this makes sense, not the way your body reacted to him, not the way you completely melted beneath him, not the terrifying comfort curling through your chest this morning before reality caught up.

You’re not supposed to want someone like Jungkook. Jungkook is chaos. Reckless. Possessive. Obsessive.

He crawls through second-story windows and smokes in your bedroom and looks at you like he already owns every ugly little piece of you.

Meanwhile your boyfriend is good. Soft. Patient. Safe.

He loves you carefully while Jungkook grabs you with both hands and drags you into the fire smiling- The realization alone makes your stomach churn.

“I’m gonna shower,” you say quickly, voice slightly too tight while pulling clothes against your chest.

Behind you, the mattress shifts softly, silence follows for a second too long. Then:

“Princess.”

Your pulse jumps instantly. You turn slightly toward the bed and immediately regret it because Jungkook is awake now, dark hair messy against the pillows while sleepy eyes follow you carefully across the room. One tattooed arm rests behind his head while the other stays stretched lazily over the space where you were laying seconds ago.

And even half asleep… he notices. You can literally see it happen.

The slight narrowing of his eyes. The way his gaze drags slowly across your face. The quiet shift in his expression once he realizes something changed.

“You okay?” he asks finally, voice rough from sleep. The concern isn’t dramatic. Doesn’t even sound soft really. That somehow makes it worse.

“Fine,” you answer too quickly. Jungkook stays quiet.

You hate that silence immediately because it feels like he’s watching straight through your skin, reading every panicked thought flickering across your face while you stand there pretending to look for clothes you already found thirty seconds ago.

“Right,” he murmurs eventually. The single word lands heavy.

You don’t answer again after that. You just disappear into the bathroom before he can say anything else, shutting the door behind you while your pulse pounds violently against your ribs.

The shower doesn’t help- If anything it makes things worse.

Because now there’s nothing distracting you from your own thoughts while hot water pours over your skin and every memory from last night keeps replaying itself against your will. His voice. His hands. The way he held you afterward. And somehow the worst part still isn’t the sex. It’s waking up in his arms. The terrifying comfort of it.

By the time you finally leave the bathroom almost twenty minutes later, your stomach still feels tight with anxiety.

Your room smells faintly like smoke again.

Jungkook sits by the open window wearing nothing except his jeans, cigarette balanced between his fingers while pale morning light spills across the tattoos stretched over his arms and chest. One knee is pulled loosely upward against the chair while he watches the street below like he’s been sitting there thinking for a while already.

Then he looks at you and your pulse stumbles. You avoid his eyes quickly and move toward your desk instead, stuffing notebooks into your backpack with slightly too much force while trying very hard to act normal.

You can feel him watching you the entire time. Silent. Patient.

“I have class in twenty minutes,” you mutter while zipping your bag shut. “I’m already late and you should probably leave before somebody sees you and-”

“Don’t bullshit me.” The words cut cleanly through the room. Your hands stop moving instantly and slowly, you look toward him again.

Jungkook takes another drag from the cigarette before exhaling smoke lazily through the open window, dark eyes fixed on you with that same terrifying calmness he always has whenever he already knows the answer to something.

“You’ve barely looked at me since you woke up,” he says quietly. “You’re folding shirts that are already folded.” His gaze flicks toward your backpack briefly. “And you’ve zipped and unzipped that bag three fucking times.”

Heat crawls up your neck immediately because you didn’t even realize you were doing that. His eyes narrow slightly while he studies your face for another long second. Then quietly:

“You regret it?”

The question wraps around your throat instantly because the horrifying part is that you don’t. Not really.

You regret cheating. You regret losing control. You regret how badly you already want him again. But last night itself? No.

And somehow that makes everything even worse.

Jungkook takes another slow drag from the cigarette before exhaling smoke through the open window, dark eyes fixed on you with that same unbearable calmness while you continue shoving things into your backpack with far more force than necessary.

“You’ve barely looked at me since you woke up,” he says quietly. “You folded the same shirt twice.” His gaze drifts toward your bag briefly. “And you’ve zipped that thing three fucking times.”

Heat crawls instantly up your neck. You hate that he notices things like that. Hate how impossible it feels to hide around him sometimes.

“I’m stressed because I’m late,” you reply flatly without looking at him. “Not everything is about you.”

A low hum leaves him at that. Not convinced, you can feel it. The silence stretches another few seconds before the soft creak of the chair suddenly pulls your attention toward him again.

Jungkook stands slowly from the window and your pulse immediately stumbles. He doesn’t say anything else at first, just walks toward you with that same steady confidence that always makes your stomach tighten, cigarette still balanced lazily between his fingers while your body instinctively stiffens the closer he gets.

You quickly sidestep him but Jungkook catches your wrist before you make it two steps. Not rough or angry, just firm enough to stop you.“

Hey,” he says quietly.

Your heartbeat starts climbing again while you avoid his eyes immediately, trying to pull your hand free without making it obvious. “I said I’m late.”

“And I said stop bullshitting me.” The words land sharper this time.

Jungkook steps closer while still holding your wrist, slowly backing you toward the edge of your desk until your hip bumps lightly against it. Your breath catches immediately because suddenly he’s everywhere again, all warmth and smoke and black ink crowding into your space until there’s nowhere comfortable left to look except at him.

Which is obviously the problem. So instead you focus stubbornly on the cigarette between his fingers.

“You know smoking kills, right?” you mutter. That finally earns the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“Cute distraction.” “I’m serious.” “No you’re not.”

Your jaw tightens instantly. Jungkook studies your face for another second before the cigarette disappears outside your window and suddenly both of his hands are free. Dangerous.

One settles beside your hip against the desk while the other catches your chin before you can turn away again. Not rough enough to hurt but enough to stop you escaping. Your pulse absolutely loses its mind.

“Look at me,” he says quietly. You glare at the wall beside him instead.

Jungkook’s thumb presses slightly harder beneath your jaw. “Princess.”

Heat flashes violently through your stomach. Slowly, reluctantly, your eyes lift toward his. Big mistake.

Because he’s already watching you too closely again, dark eyes dragging slowly across your face like he’s piecing together every tiny crack in your composure one by one.

“You regret it?” he asks softly. The question doesn’t sound insecure. Doesn’t sound wounded. It sounds territorial. Like he’s trying to figure out whether last night belongs to both of you now or only to him.

Your chest tightens painfully. “Why?” you ask quickly, forcing your voice steadier than you feel. “Scared I’ll suddenly develop standards?”

Jungkook’s eyes narrow slightly.

There she is: The brat.

You see the exact second he realizes what you’re doing and somehow that makes you push harder because panic is crawling higher and higher inside your chest now, ugly and overwhelming and impossible to control.

So instead you reach for the one thing you can control: his patience.

“You climb through windows like a nicotine addicted raccoon,” you continue before he can answer. “You threaten people for turning their phones off. You literally smoke like somebody from a 2007 Tumblr post and honestly? You’re kind of psychotic.”

A dangerous little smile slowly spreads across Jungkook’s face but he’s not amused, more like interested.

“You done?”

“No actually,” you snap quickly. “You’re annoying, controlling, invasive and half the time you act like a criminal with good grades-”

Jungkook suddenly steps closer again until your breath catches mid-sentence.

“Okay, brat,” he murmurs softly. Your stomach flips because he sounds pleased. Like this version of you is his favorite.

His hand slides from your chin toward your throat, not squeezing, just resting there while his eyes stay locked onto yours with terrifying focus.

“You get mouthy when you’re scared,” he says quietly. “I’m not scared.” “Liar.”

Heat burns across your face instantly and you shove weakly at his chest, more frustrated than genuinely trying to move him.

“You don’t get to psychoanalyze me just because you read three books and own a motorcycle.”

That actually pulls a low laugh from him. “You think that’s why I understand you?” His head tilts slightly. “Princess, I understand you because I pay attention.”

The words hit way harder than they should.

Your stomach twists again and Jungkook notices immediately, thumb brushing slowly along the side of your throat while his expression darkens just slightly.

“There it is,” he murmurs.

You hate how calm he stays through all of this while your own thoughts feel like they’re actively eating each other alive.

Because the horrifying part is that he’s right. You are scared- Not of him. But of this:

Of the fact that somewhere between fighting him and kissing him and waking up in his arms this morning, something shifted in a way you don’t fully understand yet.

And Jungkook can already see it happening- which means he also sees the exact moment your attitude finally cracks just slightly beneath the weight of his stare. His eyes soften almost imperceptibly.

Then quietly: “You still didn’t answer me.”

Your throat tightens immediately beneath his hand while the room suddenly feels far too small again, cigarette smoke still lingering faintly in the air between you while Jungkook keeps looking at you with that same unbearable patience.

The words settle heavily in your chest and maybe if he sounded angry, this would be easier.

Maybe if he yelled. Maybe if he acted cruel. Maybe if he gave you something solid to fight against instead of standing here half dressed in your bedroom looking at you like he already sees every ugly little thing happening inside your head.

Your panic spikes again so naturally your personality gets worse. A slow fake smile spreads across your face.

“Oh my god,” you sigh dramatically while rolling your eyes upward. “Are we having emotions now? Should I light a candle for this conversation?”

Jungkook stares at you for one long second then he laughs quietly beneath his breath. Not because you’re funny but because he sees exactly what you’re doing.

“You’re unbelievable,” he murmurs.

“No,” you shoot back immediately. “You’re unbelievable. You break into my room, corrupt my morals, ruin my sleep schedule and now you’re interrogating me before eight in the morning like somebody’s toxic ex-wife.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Corrupt your morals?”

“Yes.” “You climbed into my lap willingly.”

Heat flashes across your face instantly. “That’s not the point.”

“That seems exactly like the point.”

You glare at him hard enough to start a small electrical fire but Jungkook just watches you calmly, which somehow makes everything worse.

“God,” you mutter while trying to duck around him again. “You’re so irritating.”

His hand catches your waist before you get more than half a step. Immediately dragging you back.

Your breath catches sharply when your back bumps against his chest and Jungkook lowers his head slightly beside yours, one arm settling across your stomach to keep you there.

“You know what’s interesting?” he murmurs quietly near your ear. “You’ve been talking nonstop for the last five minutes…” His grip tightens faintly against your waist. “…and somehow you still haven’t answered the question.”

Heat curls low and dangerous through your stomach. You hate how easily he does this.

Hate how quickly he turns your thoughts into static just by touching you.

“I don’t owe you answers,” you mutter stubbornly.

A low hum leaves him. “No,” he agrees calmly. “But you’re gonna give me one anyway.” The confidence in his voice makes irritation flare immediately through your panic.

You twist around in his arms enough to glare up at him properly. “You’re seriously so full of yourself.”

“And you’re avoiding me again.” “I’m not avoiding you.”

“Princess.” His eyebrows lift slightly. “You’re practically vibrating.”

Your jaw drops. “I am not vibrating.”

Jungkook looks genuinely amused now. “Wanna bet?” You shove hard at his chest this time and he finally lets you create a tiny bit of distance, though not much. Never much.

“You know what your problem is?” you snap while grabbing your backpack aggressively from the desk. “Nobody tells you no.”

“That your answer?” “No, my answer is that you’re insane.” “Hm.” “And arrogant.” “Mhm.” “And emotionally constipated.”

That earns a soft snort from him. “You done?”

“No actually,” you continue before he can interrupt again, fully committing to the spiral now because if you stop talking for even two seconds you might accidentally admit something terrifying. “You act like some emotionally unavailable motorcycle criminal from a wattpad story but then you turn around and cuddle people like an oversized fucking koala.”

Jungkook goes very still. Too still. Your stomach drops slightly but it’s already too late now.

“So that’s what bothered you?” he asks quietly.

“No.” “You hated waking up with me?” “I didn’t say that.” “You implied it.” “You implied it.”

A dangerous smile slowly spreads across his face. “You’re spiraling.”

“I’m literally not.” “You called me emotionally constipated.” “Because you are.” “You compared me to a wattpad criminal.” “Because you climbed through my second-story window!”

Jungkook laughs again, lower this time, eyes darkening while he watches you completely unravel in real time. And the worst part? He looks like he loves it. Like your attitude is something he wants to sink his teeth into.

“You get so bratty when you panic,” he murmurs softly. “I am not panicking.” “You reorganized your pencils.”

Your mouth immediately snaps shut.

Jungkook’s grin widens. “Oh my god,” he laughs quietly. “You didn’t even notice you did it.”

Heat floods your entire face because somewhere beside your bag there are now three perfectly aligned pens sitting on the desk where you apparently arranged them without realizing.

Traitorous fucking pencils. “You’re actually evil,” you mutter.

“And you still didn’t answer me.” There it is again.

That question sitting between the two of you like a loaded weapon. You regret it?

And suddenly the room feels quieter. Heavier. Because beneath all the bickering and bratty comments and irritation, you know exactly what he’s really asking.

Not just about sex. About him. About this.

Your fingers tighten around the strap of your backpack while Jungkook watches your expression carefully, every trace of amusement slowly fading from his face the longer you stay quiet.

Then finally, softer this time:

“Look me in the eyes and tell me you regret it.”

“I regret letting you smoke in here,” you mutter finally, focusing very hard on adjusting the strap of your backpack instead of looking at him. “My room smells like poor decisions and nicotine.”

Silence.

You can physically feel Jungkook staring at you. That wasn’t an answer.

You know it. He knows it. Which means this conversation is not over.

“Princess,” he murmurs quietly. Heat crawls instantly up your neck. You keep your eyes fixed stubbornly on the zipper of your backpack instead.

Big mistake.

Because the second you avoid his gaze again, Jungkook’s hand catches your jaw immediately, thumb pressing lightly against your cheek while he turns your face toward him with slow deliberate pressure.

“Try again.”

Your stomach drops.

He’s close enough now that you can feel warmth radiating from his skin, close enough to smell the faint trace of your own shampoo still clinging to him from last night.

And god, that realization almost kills you.

You swallow hard while Jungkook watches every tiny shift in your expression with unbearable focus.

“Why do you care so much?” you ask quietly, trying for irritation and failing halfway through it.

Something flickers behind his eyes immediately.“Because I do.”

The answer comes too fast. Too honest. Your chest tightens painfully. So naturally your defense mechanism kicks in again.

“You’re exhausting,” you mutter weakly.

A low hum leaves him. “And yet you still climbed into my lap.”

Heat flashes across your face instantly. “Can you stop bringing that up?”

“No.” “You’re literally obsessed with that.” “I’m literally obsessed with you.”

The words hit like a car crash. Everything inside your head goes completely silent for one horrible second while Jungkook just keeps looking at you calmly, like he didn’t just casually drop the most terrifying sentence imaginable before breakfast.

Your pulse goes feral. “You can’t just say shit like that,” you whisper in disbelief.

“Why not?” His eyebrows lift slightly. “It’s true.”

“Jungkook-”

“What?” He tilts his head slightly. “You think I climbed through your fucking window for fun?”

“Yes,” you snap immediately. “Actually yes. You genuinely seem mentally ill enough for that.”

That finally earns a real laugh from him. Deep. Warm. Dangerously amused.

Your fingers tighten uselessly around your backpack strap. “You’re insane,” you whisper again, though the words sound weaker now.

“Hm.” His mouth brushes faintly near yours, not quite kissing you. “And you still let me stay.”

Jungkook’s hand slides slowly from your jaw toward the back of your neck, fingers threading lightly into your hair while he crowds impossibly closer, close enough now that every slow breath from him brushes warm against your lips.

Then quietly, against your mouth:

“I told you already…” his knee presses slightly higher between your thighs and your pulse completely stutters, “…you’re fucking mine.”

The words hit somewhere deep and dangerous inside your chest. Not romantic. Not soft. Certain. Like he genuinely believes it.

A shaky breath leaves you before you can stop it and Jungkook immediately notices, eyes darkening the exact second your body reacts to him again.

“There,” he murmurs softly, almost satisfied now. “That look.”

You hate how weak your knees suddenly feel.

“Hate you,” you mutter automatically, though even you can hear the lack of conviction in it now.

A faint smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth while his thumb brushes slowly beneath your jaw again.

“No,” he says quietly. “You’re just scared because you like belonging to me more than you should.”

“You can’t just claim me like that,” you whisper finally, though the words already sound weaker than they should. “That’s not how this works-”

A low chuckle rumbles softly through Jungkook’s chest. His hand slides fully around your throat then, warm fingers resting firmly against your skin while his forehead almost brushes yours. The possessiveness of it sends heat crashing violently through your stomach and Jungkook notices immediately, eyes darkening the exact second your breath catches.

“Baby,” he murmurs quietly against your lips. “I already did.”

Your pulse stutters hard. Jungkook tilts his head slightly before kissing you once. Slow. Deliberate.

“I claimed that dirty little mouth…” Another kiss.

Messier this time, his tongue dragging briefly against yours before he pulls back just enough to keep talking while your brain actively melts.

“I claimed your sweet pussy…”

Heat flashes through your entire body at the words and Jungkook hums softly like he can physically feel the reaction beneath his hand.

Then another kiss. This one deeper. Possessive enough that your fingers instinctively clutch weakly at his chest.

“And I claimed that dumb little brain.”

Your stomach flips so violently it almost hurts. Because he says it like a fact. Like your thoughts already belong to him too.

Jungkook watches your expression unravel in real time, breathing slower than yours while his thumb brushes lazily against the side of your throat.

“And the worst part?” he murmurs softly against your mouth. Another kiss.

But this time his teeth catch your lower lip sharply enough to pull a startled sound from your throat before he soothes over the sting with his tongue immediately after.

“You fucking love it.”

The words slam straight through you.

Your knees almost give out right there against the desk because the horrifying thing is that somewhere deep down, buried beneath all the panic and guilt and bratty attitude… he’s right.

Jungkook sees it happen- the exact second the realization hits you again. A dark, satisfied look settles behind his eyes while his grip tightens faintly against your throat, not enough to hurt, just enough to keep your attention completely locked onto him.

“And you will,” he says quietly, lips brushing slowly against yours once more, “beg me for more.”

Your breath leaves you in one shaky rush because he doesn’t sound arrogant. He sounds absolutely sure of himself.

And somehow that’s the part that truly ruins you.

The room stays painfully quiet afterward except for your uneven breathing while Jungkook keeps looking at you like he already knows exactly what’s happening inside your head right now, exactly how hard you’re trying to fight this and exactly how badly you’re losing.

Then slowly, almost lazily, his hand slips away from your throat.

The loss of warmth feels immediate. You hate that too. Jungkook’s thumb brushes once across your lower lip before he finally steps backward, dark eyes dragging slowly over your face one last time like he’s memorizing the expression sitting there now.

Completely wrecked.

“Fix your shirt,” he murmurs casually.

Your stomach drops instantly. You look down and realize one side of your sweater slipped halfway off your shoulder during the argument, exposing the darkening marks scattered along your skin.

Heat floods violently through your body while you yank the fabric back into place immediately.

Jungkook watches the reaction with obvious satisfaction before reaching for the cigarette pack beside the window again.

“You’re an asshole,” you mutter weakly.

“Hm.” A lighter flicks softly. “Still your asshole.” Your jaw drops.

Jungkook grins around the cigarette before stepping backward toward the open window again like this conversation didn’t just permanently alter your brain chemistry.

Cold morning air drifts through the room while he climbs easily onto the ledge, completely balanced despite the fact you live on the second fucking floor.

Panic flashes instantly through your chest.“Jungkook-”

He glances back over his shoulder and god, he looks unfair like this: Messy dark hair, lip piercing catching faint morning light. Smoke curling lazily past tattooed skin while one hand rests against the edge of the window frame.

Entirely too calm for someone actively standing on a roof before nine in the morning.

Then the corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “See you in class, princess.” And before you can answer, the asshole jumps.

Your heart physically stops. You rush toward the window so fast you almost trip over your own feet, panic exploding through your chest while you lean over the ledge just in time to see Jungkook land smoothly on the lower roof beneath your window before dropping down onto the grass below like he’s done this a hundred times before.

Which honestly? He probably has.

He straightens calmly afterward, cigarette still balanced between his lips like gravity itself mildly inconvenienced him at best.

Then he looks back up toward your window and smirks. That fucking smirk.

A second later he’s already walking away across campus, black hoodie thrown over one shoulder while smoke trails behind him in the cold morning air until eventually he disappears completely around the corner of the building.

Leaving you standing there in your bedroom. Completely silent. Completely confused. And completely, utterly fucked.

something shifted inside you in a way that suddenly feels impossible to undo.

Your boyfriend tells you he loves you… Jungkook looks at you like he already carved his name somewhere beneath your ribs.

And the worst part? Your body’s starting to treat those two things very differently.

The walk across campus feels genuinely unbearable.

Every single person suddenly seems too loud, too close, too observant while your own thoughts spiral endlessly beneath the forced calm expression stretched across your face. You keep replaying the morning against your will, Jungkook standing on your windowsill half dressed with smoke curling around him while casually destroying your psychological stability before eight a.m.

Your boyfriend texts you halfway across campus:

good luck on your presentation today baby ❣️

Guilt hits so violently you almost stop walking. Because of course he does. Of course he’s sweet, he remembers your presentation. Of course he uses little hearts.

Your chest tightens painfully while you shove the phone into your pocket before you can think too hard about it. This is exactly why you need to get your shit together immediately.

No more spiraling. No more Jungkook. No more windows or cigarettes or whatever the hell happened to your personality last night.

You can fix this! Probably. Hopefully…

By the time you spot Minji and Soomin outside the lecture hall, you’ve almost convinced yourself you look normal again.

Then Minji’s eyes narrow immediately. “…why are you dressed like a divorced art teacher?”

Your stomach drops. “What?”

“The turtleneck,” Soomin says slowly while staring at you suspiciously. “You literally said they make you feel ‘claustrophobic and ugly.’”

Heat crawls instantly up your neck. You forgot. Fuck.

“It’s cold,” you answer quickly. Minji blinks once. “It’s literally sunny.”

“Okay well my throat hurts.” Soomin squints harder. “Your throat.” “Yes.”

Silence. Then both girls slowly look at each other.

“Oh my god,” Minji whispers dramatically.

Your pulse immediately spikes. “Don’t oh my god me.”

“You had sex.”

You nearly choke on oxygen itself. “No I did not.”

“That was not a denial,” Soomin says instantly. “Yes it was!”

“It was panicked,” Minji corrects. “Which is completely different.”

Heat burns violently across your face while you clutch your coffee cup harder like it personally betrayed you. “Nobody had sex.”

“Mhm.” Soomin’s eyes drag slowly over your face. “Then why do you look like you got railed through a wall?”

“Oh my god?!”

Minji gasps suddenly. “WAIT. Was it your boyfriend?”

Your stomach twists immediately because somehow that question feels even worse. “Obviously,” you lie way too fast.

Both girls stare at you. “…that was suspiciously aggressive,” Soomin says slowly.

“No it wasn’t.” “It really was,” Minji agrees.

You immediately start walking toward the lecture hall before either of them can continue interrogating you. “Okay. Anyway! Class!”

“Oh she is HIDING something,” Minji whisper-hisses behind you.

“She looks emotionally compromised,” Soomin whispers back dramatically.

“I CAN HEAR YOU.”

The second you step inside the lecture hall, your phone vibrates.

Jungkook: sit here.

You glance up automatically and immediately regret it because Jungkook is already staring directly at you from near the back row, one arm stretched lazily across the chair beside him while he slowly pulls the empty seat out farther with his foot.

Like he already expects you to walk over there.

Absolutely not.

Your heart starts pounding instantly but you force yourself to look away before your friends notice anything weird.

Then you ignore the text completely and walk toward the opposite side of the lecture hall instead, choosing a seat near the front row as far away from him as physically possible.

Minji raises an eyebrow immediately. “Wow,” she mutters while sitting beside you. “Avoiding Jeon Jungkook voluntarily? Character development.”

You laugh weakly. “I just want peace today.”

Across the room, Jungkook watches you the entire time. You can physically feel it.

The professor walks in only a minute later, immediately launching into today’s lecture while students slowly settle around the room. You finally start breathing again.

See? Fine. Everything’s fine.

Then suddenly the empty chair beside you moves. Your stomach drops.

Jungkook sits down next to you without a single word, black hoodie sleeves pushed up his forearms while irritation radiates off him so heavily it almost feels physical.

Minji goes completely silent beside you. Soomin physically freezes.

The professor keeps talking completely obliviously while your pulse immediately starts spiraling.

Jungkook doesn’t even look at you at first. He just pulls his notebook onto the desk before leaning slightly closer, voice low enough that only you can hear it.

“Ignore me one more time…” Calm. Quiet. Terrifying. “…and I’ll throw you over my shoulder and drag you out of here myself.”

OH. He’s furious. Not loud furious. Worse. Controlled furious.

Heat flashes instantly through your stomach while you force yourself not to visibly react in front of your friends. So naturally your brat side immediately wakes up.

You scoff softly before crossing your arms. “Hmm,” you murmur lazily. “Yeah, sure.”

Beside you, Jungkook goes very still. And then, slowly, he turns his head toward you. The look in his eyes almost kills you on the spot. Not anger but a challenge. Like your attitude just activated something deeply dangerous in him instead of discouraging him.

A slow smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth afterward. “Oh,” he murmurs quietly. “You’re feeling brave today.”

Heat flashes instantly through your stomach but instead of backing down, you just lean back slightly in your chair and cross your legs beneath the desk like he isn’t currently staring at you with the kind of focus that should honestly qualify as dangerous.

“Maybe I’m just tired of your dramatics.”

The look Jungkook gives you afterward almost makes your pulse stutter. Not angry. Interested.

Like he’s enjoying this far too much already.

Before he can answer, the professor clears his throat near the front of the lecture hall.

“Alright,” he says while glancing toward Minji and Soomin. “You two can begin.”

Oh thank god.

The girls immediately stand near the projector while you let out one slow breath, finally grateful for the distraction as the presentation slides flicker onto the screen.

You need to focus. Actually focus. No more spiraling.

Unfortunately Jeon Jungkook apparently has different plans.

The second Minji starts talking at the front of the room, Jungkook leans back casually in his chair beside you while one tattooed arm drapes lazily across the backrest behind you. Too close. Always too close.

You stubbornly keep your eyes fixed on the presentation instead.

“…and if we analyze the protagonist’s internal conflict-”

Warm fingers settle slowly against your thigh beneath the desk. Your entire body stiffens instantly.

Jungkook notices immediately. His hand stays perfectly still for a second afterward, heavy against your bare skin where your skirt rode slightly upward while crossing your legs earlier. From the outside, nobody would notice anything. Inside your body? Complete fucking chaos.

You force yourself to keep staring toward the front of the room while your pulse starts climbing harder and harder beneath your ribs.

Don’t react. Do not react.

Beside you, Jungkook shifts slightly in his seat before his fingers drag slowly higher along your thigh over your skin, unhurried enough that heat immediately floods through your stomach.

You nearly lose track of whatever Soomin is saying mid sentence. Asshole.

Your hand immediately shoots downward beneath the desk to stop him but Jungkook catches your wrist effortlessly before you can push him away, fingers wrapping loosely around it while his thumb strokes once against your pulse point.

Calm. Possessive. Like he’s soothing you while actively ruining your ability to think.

“You’re distracting me,” you whisper sharply without looking at him.

A quiet hum leaves him beside you. “That’s kinda the point.” Heat flashes across your face instantly.

At the front of the room, Minji clicks to the next slide completely unaware that your soul is currently trying to evacuate your body.

Jungkook’s hand slides higher again- still over your clothes. Still technically innocent. But close enough now that your breathing changes immediately anyway. You hate how quickly he notices.

His fingers pause briefly near the inside of your thigh before squeezing once, almost lazily, while he continues staring ahead at the presentation like none of this affects him at all. Psychopath.

“You’re insane,” you mutter under your breath.

“And you wore a skirt after telling me to leave this morning.” His voice stays low and calm beside you. “Interesting choice.”

Your stomach flips violently. “I didn’t wear it for you.”

“Hmm, yeah. Sure.” he repeats your own words from before in a mocking tone. His fingers drift higher again and your entire body tenses.

“Oh my god,” you whisper sharply while trying to shove his hand away again. “Stop.” This time Jungkook actually glances at you. Darkly entertained.

“You can’t mouth off all morning and expect me to behave,” he murmurs quietly. Your pulse absolutely spirals.

At the front of the lecture hall, Soomin starts explaining some literary theory while you sit there fighting for your life beside a nicotine addicted menace who currently looks way too calm for someone actively causing your psychological collapse during a university presentation.

Then suddenly his fingers brush dangerously close to the hem of your panties through the thin fabric of your skirt. Your breath catches sharply.

A slow smile spreads across his face while he finally turns his head fully toward you now, eyes dragging across your expression with terrifying satisfaction once he sees the panic flicker there.

“There she is,” he murmurs softly.

You glare at him instantly despite the heat burning through your entire body. “You’re actually the worst person alive.”

“Yeah?” His thumb strokes lightly over your inner thigh again. “Still can’t stop thinking about me though.” He says it so casually.

His fingers slip beneath your panties and a soft gasp catches in your throat. “Shhh…” he chuckles lowly. “…don’t want others noticing you falling apart on my fucking fingers, huh, dummy?”

You suck in a sharp breath and Minji turns her head in your direction. You quickly save face by giving her a small thumbs up and she smiles brightly before turning back toward Soomin and the presentation.

“You’re getting better at this…” Jungkook chuckles, his fingers now beneath the thin fabric, lazily circling your clit.

“Soaked…” he hums in approval and you bite your tongue to hide a moan.

This is wrong. So, so wrong.

And yet you’re sitting here in the middle of class while Jeon Jungkook has his fingers inside your panties, making you fall apart for him with the tiniest flicks of his digits.

“Spread your legs,” he whispers. Quiet. Calm. Still somehow sounding like an order your body obeys before your brain catches up.

Your legs open wider beneath the desk and for the first time during your entire college life, you’re actually thankful these weird desks are closed in the front. You and Soomin constantly complained about how uncomfortable they were, how you couldn’t even stretch your legs properly under them, but today…

while Jungkook slips two fingers inside your soaking entrance and slowly pumps them at an excruciating pace…

today you’re thankful for those desks.

“Good girl,” he hums, dragging his fingers against your tight, warm walls while your lips part slightly, eyes hooded and your hand grips the pen so tightly it threatens to snap.

Jungkook leans a little closer as if he’s simply adjusting in his seat, completely oblivious to everyone around you. Or maybe they choose to ignore it because it involves Jeon Jungkook.

“Are you gonna be a good little slut and cum on my fingers?” he whispers, still completely calm. “In front of all those fucking people?”

As if this is just another random Wednesday for him. It probably is.

His eyes briefly flick toward you, glancing over your face before he curses softly beneath his breath.

“Fuck… princess, you should see yourself. You look so fucking adorable right now.”

Your eyes flutter shut as his fingers suddenly quicken, dragging you over the edge so fast it almost hurts, your orgasm spreading hot beneath your skin.

You unconsciously grind against his fingers to fully ride it out and he hums softly as your sticky release coats his hand.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “That’s my girl.”

You bite your lip to suppress the moan threatening to rip through you and hear Jungkook chuckle beside you, clearly enjoying your struggle. Bastard.

Your entire body feels overheated afterward. Like your nervous system completely short-circuited somewhere halfway through the presentation and never properly recovered.

The lecture hall blurs slightly around the edges while you sit frozen in your chair beside Jungkook, breathing carefully through your nose as you try not to completely lose your mind in front of thirty other students.

Oh my god. Oh my god.

Your thighs press together instinctively beneath the desk and the movement alone nearly makes your face burn alive because you can still feel everything. Heat. Sensitivity. The humiliating dampness between your legs beneath your skirt while your heartbeat pounds violently against your ribs.

Beside you, Jungkook looks infuriatingly composed- like he didn’t just completely ruin your ability to function academically.

You’re still trying to steady your breathing when Jungkook finally slips his hand out from beneath the desk. The loss makes your thighs twitch slightly and heat floods your face immediately at your own reaction.

Meanwhile he stays completely calm beside you. Of course he does. As if he didn’t just make you fall apart in the middle of a lecture hall.

Jungkook casually grabs his pen again, spinning it once between his fingers before bringing the end of it toward his mouth, teeth catching lightly against the cap while his attention stays fixed on the presentation at the front of the room.

Then slowly… his eyes flick toward you. And without breaking eye contact, he brings those same fingers to his mouth instead. You swallow thickly. Oh my god.

Jungkook’s tongue drags lazily across his fingers, sucking them clean with the same calm expression he’d wear while discussing homework and the sight sends a violent shiver straight down your spine.

Your body actually trembles.

A slow smirk spreads across his face before he winks at you once, subtle enough that nobody else would catch it.

Heat rushes violently across your cheeks while you quickly look away, swallowing hard. “You’re disgusting…” you whisper breathlessly.

A low chuckle leaves him. “I prefer filthy,” he hums softly in return. Then his eyes drag over your flushed expression once more. “…and you love it.”

His eyes drag slowly across your face, lingering briefly on your lips where your teeth bit hard enough to leave the faint metallic taste of blood behind.

Jungkook leans slightly closer in his chair, voice low enough that only you can hear it.

“You’re shaking.” “I hate you,” you whisper weakly.

A quiet chuckle leaves him. “No.”

Your eyes sting embarrassingly hard while you fight to regulate your breathing because this cannot be happening right now. Not here. Not during your friends’ presentation.

Not while your entire body still feels like it belongs more to Jungkook than yourself.

You try swallowing normally but your throat feels tight, breathing uneven enough now that Minji finally notices something’s wrong from the front of the room.

Her words falter slightly mid sentence. “…and the symbolism throughout the second act represents…” Her eyes flick towards you.

Oh no.

Soomin notices too a second later.

Panic flashes through your chest instantly while you sit up straighter, trying desperately to look normal despite the fact you’re pretty sure your soul just left your body ten minutes ago.

Beside you, Jungkook suddenly sighs softly through his nose. Then the asshole raises his hand. Your head snaps toward him in horror.

No. Absolutely not.

The professor pauses mid note. “Yes, Mr. Jeon?”

Jungkook glances toward you with perfectly controlled concern painted across his face and honestly? Academy award winning performance.

“I think she’s having a panic attack.”

Your jaw physically drops while the entire lecture hall turns toward you instantly. OH MY GOD.

“She’s been shaking for like five minutes,” Jungkook continues calmly while you stare at him in complete disbelief. “Think I should take her to the nurse.”

The professor immediately looks concerned.

Soomin’s entire presentation energy evaporates instantly. “Wait, what happened?!”

“Nothing!” you blurt out way too fast, voice embarrassingly strained. Which unfortunately only makes you sound more unstable.

Jungkook’s hand settles against your back slowly, rubbing once in fake comfort while the corner of his mouth twitches almost invisibly.

Absolute fucking demon.

“It’s okay, princess,” he murmurs softly enough to sound comforting to everyone except you. “Just breathe.”

You want to kill him.

The professor nods immediately. “Yes, maybe fresh air would help.”

“Oh my god,” Minji says while climbing down from the front of the room already. “Are you okay?!”

“Yes,” you whisper harshly through clenched teeth. “I’m literally fi-”

And then Jungkook suddenly slides one arm beneath your knees and the other around your waist before lifting you clean off the chair.

A shocked sound leaves you instantly while the entire lecture hall audibly reacts around you. “Jungkook?!”

Too late.

He already has you against his chest bridal style while your backpack slips halfway off your shoulder and your entire soul exits your body permanently.

“You’re bleeding,” he says calmly, thumb brushing once across your lower lip where you bit it too hard earlier. Which somehow makes this look even worse.

“Oh my god,” Soomin gasps. “She is having a panic attack!” YOU ARE NOT.

Jungkook adjusts you slightly higher against his chest while you stare at him in absolute betrayal.

And the worst part? He looks completely composed. Completely comfortable carrying you in front of an entire lecture hall like this.

“Thanks, professor,” he says casually before turning toward the exit.

Then he walks straight out of the room carrying you against him while every single person stares openly. You can physically feel the humiliation burning through your body.

Your soaked panties. Your racing pulse. The marks hidden beneath your turtleneck. Jungkook’s hand spread possessively against your thigh while he carries you down the hallway like you belong there.

And somewhere behind you inside the lecture hall, Minji quietly mumbles: “Huh…”

One minute you’re being carried bridal style through a crowded lecture hall with Jungkook’s arm hooked firmly beneath your thighs while half the class stares in open confusion and the next you’re out in the hallway realizing several catastrophic things all at once:

Your friends definitely suspect something now, the professor fully believes you just had a panic attack, your panties are soaked, and Jungkook looks way too fucking pleased with himself.

Honestly? Homicide suddenly feels understandable.

The second he finally sets you down, you shove hard against his chest.

“What the fuck is WRONG with you?!”

Your voice comes out harsh and breathless at the same time which only makes the corner of Jungkook’s mouth twitch slightly. Not apologetic- Actually worse. Calm.

“You looked overwhelmed.” “I WAS overwhelmed!” “Hm.” Completely unfazed. “Wonder why.” “Oh my GOD-”

You smack his arm this time and Jungkook catches your wrist immediately before you can storm off properly, dragging you back toward him with enough force to make your pulse jump all over again.

“Jungkook!” you whisper-yell furiously while struggling against his grip. “Everybody was STARING-”

“Yeah.” His eyes drag slowly over your flushed face. “You looked pretty.”

Your entire brain immediately malfunctions. Because he says it so simply, so casually, like public humiliation and possessiveness are interchangeable concepts to him.

“You are INSANE.” “And you’re loud.” “I hate you!” “No you don’t.” “I absolutely do!”

Jungkook just watches you spiral for another second while one hand stays loosely wrapped around your wrist, the other sliding lazily into the pocket of his hoodie like this is the most normal interaction imaginable.

Meanwhile you’re standing there looking freshly corrupted in a turtleneck with swollen lips, watery eyes and shaky legs while trying not to combust in the middle of the hallway.

Then Jungkook tilts his head slightly. “You know what your problem is, dumb girl?”

“Oh my god, don’t psychoanalyze me right now-”

“You keep pretending I embarrassed you alone.”

You blink at him. Because unfortunately… he’s right. He sees it happen in real time.

The exact second your expression shifts, the exact moment you realize part of the reason you’re so shaken right now isn’t just humiliation.

It’s the fact you liked it: liked him carrying you, liked him taking control, liked him exposing your reactions in front of everyone while acting completely calm about it.

Jungkook catches the realization immediately and a slow smile spreads across his face afterward.

Dangerously soft.

“Thought so.”

Then he steps closer until you’re forced lightly backward against the hallway wall, students passing farther down the corridor completely oblivious while Jungkook crowds into your space like he owns it.

“You got off on it a little,” he murmurs quietly. “I did NOT.” “You’re still shaking.” “That’s because you’re psychotic!”

A low chuckle leaves him. “And you’re my perfect little slut.”

Heat crashes violently through your entire body. “Jungkook-”

“No?” His eyebrows lift slightly. “You wanna tell me normal girls let somebody finger them under a desk during their friends’ presentation?”

“You are SUCH an asshole!”

“And you were squeezing my wrist hard enough to leave marks.” His mouth brushes faintly near your ear now. “Didn’t seem like you wanted me to stop.”

That completely destroys your remaining ability to think straight. Which unfortunately Jungkook notices too.

His hand slides slowly beneath your chin before forcing your eyes back toward his and suddenly his expression changes, every trace of amusement disappearing beneath something darker while students continue walking somewhere farther down the hallway completely oblivious to the tension turning vicious between the two of you.

Because you kept fighting him. Kept mouthing off. Kept pretending this didn’t affect you. And Jungkook’s patience with that is starting to snap.

“Listen carefully, dummy,” he says quietly, fingers tightening slightly against your jaw. “You keep fucking acting like this thing between us is some accident…”

His voice stays low. Controlled. Which somehow makes the anger beneath it feel worse.

Then suddenly his other hand catches the collar of your turtleneck and yanks it downward just enough to expose the dark marks scattered across your skin.

Your breath catches sharply. “Jungkook-”

“These?” His thumb presses lightly against one of the bruises while his eyes stay locked onto yours. “They belong to me.”

The words slam straight through you.

Students pass somewhere nearby and panic flashes instantly through your body while you try pulling the fabric back up, but Jungkook catches your wrist before you can.

“No.” His gaze darkens further. “You wanted to act brave in there? Fine.” Your heart pounds violently now. “You’re mine,” he says quietly. “Get it through that dumb little brain already or did I literally fuck you stupid last night?”

Heat crashes through your entire body so violently it almost hurts. “Fuck you,” you whisper automatically, though the insult sounds weak now. Breathless.

Jungkook’s mouth twitches slightly. “That mouth…” he murmurs darkly. “Always fucking running.”

Then he steps even closer until your back presses fully against the wall behind you, one hand still gripping your chin while the other slowly fixes the collar of your turtleneck again. The softness of the movement compared to his words almost makes it worse.

“If you keep acting like this,” he says quietly, eyes dragging slowly over your face, “I’m gonna claim you in front of the whole fucking campus.”

Your pulse stutters violently. Jungkook leans down slightly then, close enough that his lips almost brush yours when he continues:

“I’ll do it in front of your cute little boyfriend too.”

The sentence lands like a gunshot. And the horrifying thing? Part of you believes him completely.

The next few days pass in a blur of exhaustion, denial and increasingly questionable life choices.

You stop wearing low necklines entirely.

Not because anyone directly comments on the marks after the hallway incident, but because every single time you catch your reflection in a mirror and see one faint bruise peeking above your collar, your stomach immediately twists itself into knots.

So now you own three turtlenecks apparently. A fact Minji refuses to let go of: “You look like you write poetry about tuberculosis,” she informs you flatly one afternoon while watching you aggressively fix the collar again.

You glare at her over your coffee. “You’re a bad friend.”

“No,” she says immediately. “I’m an observant friend. There’s a difference.”

Soomin narrows her eyes from across the table. “Also why do you jump every time Jeon Jungkook walks into a room now?”

Your heartbeat instantly betrays you. “Nobody jumps.”

“You literally inhaled your straw yesterday.” “That was ONE time.”

The girls exchange a look and you immediately stand up. “Anyway! I have class.”

“Coward!” Minji yells after you.

Maybe. Probably.

The worst part is that avoiding Jungkook turns out to be almost impossible once he decides he wants access to you. Because somehow he’s suddenly everywhere.

Leaning against the vending machines outside class. Stealing your coffee without asking. Dropping into the seat beside you like it belongs to him. Texting you things like:

you forgot your umbrella, dumb girl. five minutes before it starts raining.

And every single time you try creating distance, Jungkook reacts like it personally offends him.

It’s not really dramatic or clingy, he’s just… present. Relentlessly. Like gravity. Which honestly might be worse.

Meanwhile your boyfriend stays painfully sweet through all of this. That’s what truly destroys you. He kisses your forehead before classes. Walks you home whenever he can. Remembers tiny things you mention casually. Looks at you like you’re something precious- fragile even.

And guilt starts living permanently beneath your ribs because every time he smiles at you now, another face flashes automatically through your head afterward.

Dark eyes. Lip piercing. Smoke curling through dim light. Jungkook. It’s disgusting. You hate it. Unfortunately hating it changes absolutely nothing.

By Friday evening your brain feels genuinely fried, so you end up hiding in the university library while rain taps steadily against the windows outside.

Almost nobody’s here, already running off into the weekend, filled with parties, alcohol and sex they’ll surely regret the next morning. You could be president of that club.

A few students scattered between shelves. Soft keyboard clicks. Muted fluorescent lighting humming overhead. It’s peaceful… Finally.

You exhale quietly before focusing back on your notes, highlighter dragging slowly across the page while you desperately try forcing your thoughts back toward academic survival instead of the nicotine addicted demon currently ruining your life.

Forty minutes pass, then suddenly the chair across from you moves. Your stomach drops instantly before your eyes even lift from the page.

Of course.

Jungkook drops lazily into the seat opposite yours, black hoodie slightly damp from rain while a motorcycle helmet hangs loosely from one tattooed arm. No dramatic entrance or his usual annoying smirk. Just those dark eyes settling onto you the second he sits down.

And horrifyingly enough? Relief hits before panic does, your body relaxes automatically. The realization scares the absolute shit out of you.

Jungkook notices immediately too because of course he fucking does- he notices everything that involves you… A slow blink. A slight tilt of his head. Then quietly: “You stopped looking tense the second you saw me.”

Oh my god.

You immediately glare down at your textbook again. “You’re hallucinating.”

“Hm.”

He leans back slightly in the chair afterward, stretching one arm lazily across the table while he watches you pretend to study for another few seconds. “You’ve highlighted the same sentence two times.”

Heat flashes across your face instantly. “You’re distracting.”

“You came to the library wearing that skirt again.” His eyes drag slowly down your body once before returning upward. “Seems like a shared responsibility.”

Your pulse stumbles violently. Asshole.

Rain taps steadily against the windows while silence stretches between the two of you afterward, strangely calm compared to your usual chaos. And somehow that feels more dangerous than fighting.

Because Jungkook isn’t pushing right now. Isn’t cornering you. Isn’t humiliating you. He’s just… here. Watching you. Like he enjoys sitting across from you in silence almost as much as ruining your sanity and hate how much that affects you.

Then suddenly he reaches into the pocket of his hoodie before sliding something across the table toward you.

Your eyebrows pull together slightly: A small pack of strawberry gummy candies. You blink once in confusion. “…what?”

Jungkook shrugs casually. “You said those are your favorite.”

Your chest tightens painfully- you barely remember mentioning that. It happened days ago during tutoring, while you were searching your backpack thinking you still had some of those candies stuffed in there. But he remembered anyway.

The fluorescent lights hum softly overhead, the entire building wrapped in that quiet late-evening stillness where every small sound somehow feels louder.

You should be studying and technically, you are studying: Your laptop is open. Your notes are spread across the table. Your highlighter rests between your fingers.

Unfortunately Jeon Jungkook exists directly across from you, which makes concentration physically impossible.

He sits lazily slouched in the chair opposite yours, black hoodie pushed up his forearms while one boot hooks casually beneath the edge of the table. A helmet rests beside him on the floor and the faint smell of rain and cigarettes still clings to his clothes.

And worst of all? He’s calm tonight. No public humiliation. No threatening whispers. No hands sliding beneath tables.

Just those dark eyes constantly drifting back toward you every few seconds like he can’t help himself. It’s somehow worse.

“You’re staring again,” you mutter eventually without looking up from your textbook.

A low hum leaves him. “You’ve reread that paragraph at least three times.”

Heat flashes instantly across your face. “Stop.”

“What is it? Can’t concentrate?” Your stomach flips violently. Fucking bastard.

Before you can answer, movement suddenly appears behind you, then warm hands settle gently onto your shoulders.

Your body relaxes automatically before your brain even catches up.

“Hey, sweetheart.” Your boyfriend leans down enough to press a soft kiss beneath your ear while setting a warm paper cup beside your laptop.

Tea. Exactly the kind you like.

The guilt hits so hard it almost makes you nauseous. “Oh,” you breathe softly, immediately looking up at him. “You didn’t have to do that.”

A small smile spreads across his face while his thumb brushes gently across your cheek. “You disappeared after class,” he murmurs. “Figured you were stress studying somewhere.”

Your chest tightens painfully because he notices things too. Just… differently. Softer. Kinder.

He bends slightly to kiss you again, slow and sweet enough to make something ugly twist beneath your ribs while your fingers instinctively curl around the warm tea cup he brought you.

Across the table, Jungkook goes completely still. You feel the absence of movement. Which somehow feels worse.

Your boyfriend finally glances toward the other side of the table and blinks in surprise once he notices Jungkook sitting there.

“Oh,” he says warmly. “Sorry, didn’t realize you weren’t alone.”

Your stomach drops immediately because Jungkook is smiling. And god, it’s terrifying. Not his usual dark little smirk, not even mocking or dangerous.

It looks polite. Controlled. Like he can put on normality whenever he wants to.

Jungkook stands smoothly from his chair before extending his hand across the table.

“I’m Jungkook,” he says calmly. “Her tutor.”

Your eyes narrow instantly. Tutor???

Boyfriend smiles immediately and shakes his hand without hesitation. “Ah, that explains a lot.”

Does it???

“She mentioned you were helping her,” he continues casually. The liar across from you doesn’t even blink.

“You must be her boyfriend,” Jungkook says pleasantly. Your pulse starts climbing again when his eyes flick toward you for the briefest second while he says it, like the words taste strange in his mouth.

Boyfriend nods easily. “Yeah.”

A small smile touches Jungkook’s mouth again. “Good to finally meet you.” Calm. Friendly. “She talks about you a lot.”

Your soul physically leaves your body- you glare at him so hard your ancestors probably feel it. Jungkook ignores you completely.

Meanwhile your boyfriend laughs softly. “That’s surprising honestly. She usually complains about everyone.”

A quiet chuckle leaves Jungkook. “I can imagine.”

Your pulse stutters violently because the look he gives you afterward is so brief nobody else would notice it. But you do. God, you do.

It’s Sharp and knowing. Mean. Like he’s actively enjoying this. Your boyfriend glances down toward the tea again. “You should drink it before it gets cold.”

You nod quickly. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Then he leans down one more time, kissing your forehead softly while his hand squeezes your shoulder with quiet affection.

“You okay now?” he asks gently. “You seemed stressed earlier.”

The memory of Jungkook carrying you out of class immediately flashes through your brain.

Heat burns across your face. “I’m okay,” you mumble quickly.

Across the table, Jungkook watches everything: Every tiny reaction of you, every small shift, and every flicker of guilt moving across your face. And somehow he still looks calm. That’s the true horrifying part.

Your boyfriend smiles one last time before straightening again. “Don’t stay too long, alright?”

“Okay.” “Text me when you get home.”

Your stomach twists because suddenly another voice echoes automatically through your head: ‘i told you to fucking text me when you got home.’

Oh god.

“Nice meeting you, man,” your boyfriend says warmly toward Jungkook again.

“You too,” Jungkook replies smoothly.

And then he leaves. You watch him disappear slowly between the library shelves until finally he’s completely out of sight.

Silence settles instantly afterward and it’s heavy. Thick. Almost unbearable. You don’t look up immediately. You can’t. Because you already know Jungkook’s staring at you again.

The polite smile disappeared instantly from his face the second your boyfriend turned around.

By the time your eyes finally lift toward him across the table, he’s already watching you with something dark and possessive settling slowly behind his expression. No warmth now. No friendliness. Just Jungkook again.

Your pulse stumbles. And then, quietly:

“Kissed him so innocently after having my fingers inside you.” The sentence hits like a slap.

Your breath catches instantly while heat crashes violently through your body all over again, humiliation curling hot and sharp beneath your ribs because oh my god.

Oh my god.

Jungkook just watches your reaction calmly from across the table, one tattooed hand resting lazily beside his notebook while rain taps softly against the library windows behind him.

“You’re unbelievable,” you whisper finally.

A low hum leaves him. “No,” he says quietly. “You are.” Your stomach twists harder.

“You sat there letting him touch you,” Jungkook continues calmly, eyes dragging slowly across your face, “after I made you cum on my finger in fucking public.”

“Stop.” The word comes out weaker than intended.

He leans back slightly in his chair afterward, gaze never leaving yours while your fingers tighten harder around the warm tea cup your boyfriend brought you only minutes ago.

The contrast alone makes you feel sick: Sweet tea. Soft kisses. Gentle hands.

Meanwhile Jungkook’s voice still echoes inside your head like a bruise: you’re mine.

“I hate when you do that,” you mutter quietly.

“Hm?” His eyebrows lift slightly.

“You act all normal around him.” Your pulse spikes harder. “It’s… creepy.”

A slow smile spreads across his face. “You wanted me to be rude?” “No.” “You wanted me jealous?”

Your silence answers for you- Jungkook notices and now his smile disappears.

“Cute,” he murmurs softly. “You wanted a reaction.” “I did not.” “You keep wanting proof.”

Your stomach drops- somehow he always drags the truth out of things you didn’t even realize about yourself yet.

“I don’t need proof of anything,” you snap quietly.

Jungkook studies your face for another long second. Then slowly:

“You looked disappointed when I shook his hand.”

Your throat tightens instantly. “No… I looked uncomfortable.”

“No,” he says calmly. “You looked annoyed.”

Heat flashes across your face because unfortunately he’s right again and both of you know it. You hate that.

Jungkook leans slightly forward now, forearms resting against the table while his gaze drags slowly over your expression like he’s peeling layers back one by one.

“You know what I think?” he murmurs quietly.

You already know you’re going to regret asking. “What.”

“I think your perfect boyfriend’s starting to piss you off.”

Your chest tightens painfully. “That’s not true.”

“Hm.” “He’s nice to me.” “I know.” “He cares about me.” “I know.” “He actually respects me.”

Something flickers behind Jungkook’s eyes at that one- It’s small, sharp and barely there. Then it’s gone. A quiet laugh leaves him afterward, though it doesn’t sound very amused anymore.

“And yet,” he murmurs softly, “you still looked at me first when he walked away.”

Your breath catches. Oh god. You did.

The realization settles heavily between the two of you while Jungkook watches it hit in real time, dark eyes locked onto yours with terrifying focus. And somehow that look feels almost more intimate than touching.

“You keep doing that,” he says quietly.

Your voice comes out smaller now. “Doing what?”

“Trying to convince yourself he’s the one you should want…” His eyes drag slowly across your face. “…while your body keeps choosing me anyway.”

The words settle deep. Too deep. You look away first. Coward. A low hum leaves Jungkook while he slowly leans back in his chair again, eyes never leaving you as he reaches for the tea your boyfriend brought over earlier.

Then the asshole takes a sip from it. Your head snaps upward instantly. “That’s mine.”

“I know.” “You’re unbelievable.”

Jungkook hums thoughtfully after another sip. “Too sweet.”

“Then stop drinking it.”

Instead of answering, he slides the cup slowly back across the table toward you. His fingers brush yours briefly but intentional and your pulse immediately betrays you again. Jungkook notices.

Then quietly, almost to himself: “Poor dumb girl.” His eyes settle heavily onto yours once more. “You’re getting attached now.”

Your stomach twists immediately. “Don’t,” you mutter quietly.

Jungkook’s eyebrows lift slightly. “Don’t what?”

“Do that weird psychoanalysis thing.”

A low hum leaves him while he leans back further in the chair, one tattooed hand resting lazily against the armrest while rain continues tapping softly against the library windows around you.

“You mean noticing obvious shit?”

Heat flashes across your face. “You think you know everything.”

“No,” he says calmly. “Just you.”

The sentence lands way too hard. Your grip tightens around the paper tea cup instantly while Jungkook watches every tiny reaction flicker across your face like he’s collecting them. And maybe he is.

That thought alone makes your pulse jump. “You’re so arrogant,” you whisper weakly.

“And you stopped denying it.”

Your eyes narrow immediately. “Denying what?”

“That you’re attached.” “I am not attached to you.” “Hm.”

The sound alone pisses you off. Because he says it like he already knows arguing is pointless. Like he’s simply waiting for you to catch up.

You glare at him across the table. “You’re actually insufferable.”

“And you kissed your boyfriend while thinking about me.” The air leaves your lungs. Your face burns violently while Jungkook just watches the reaction settle in with frightening calmness.

“Fuck you,” you whisper instantly.

A slow smile spreads across his face afterward. “There’s my brat.”

The words hit embarrassingly hard. Your stomach flips while irritation flashes straight through you again because the worst part is how comfortable he sounds saying things like that now.

Like he already categorized you in his head. Filed you away somewhere under: mine.

You hate it. You hate how much you don’t actually hate it. Jungkook studies your expression quietly for another second before glancing toward the untouched gummies still sitting beside your notebook.

“You didn’t eat those.” “I’m not hungry.” “Liar.” “I’m stressed.” “That too.”

Heat creeps slowly back up your neck while silence stretches between the two of you again- And god, this silence feels dangerous now. Not awkward but intimate and that’s the problem. You can handle awkward but you can’t handle intimate with him…

The library lights reflect faintly off Jungkook’s lip piercing while he watches you over folded arms, dark hair still slightly damp from rain, eyes heavy with the kind of attention that makes you feel overexposed even fully dressed.

Then quietly: “You know he looked at you like you were glass.”

Your brows pull together slightly. “What?”

“Your boyfriend.” Jungkook’s gaze drifts lazily toward the rain outside for half a second before returning to you. “Like you’d break if he held you too hard.”

Your chest tightens unexpectedly. “And you think that’s bad?”

“No.” The answer comes immediately. Jungkook tilts his head slightly afterward, eyes dragging slowly across your face. “I just think you like when I don’t.”

The sentence settles low and heavy inside your stomach because unfortunately… unfortunately… he’s right again. You hate how often that happens.

A shaky breath leaves you while you finally look back down at your notes again just to escape his stare for one second. Big mistake.

Because Jungkook immediately notices. “You get quiet every time I say something true.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, exhausted now. “Do you ever stop talking like a fucking supervillain?”

A low laugh leaves him, actually real and warm this time. And somehow that affects you more than the filthy whispers or the threats ever did. Because for one terrifying second, sitting here across from him while rain taps softly outside and your tea cools untouched between your hands… this almost feels normal.

Jungkook notices that realization hit too. His expression shifts slightly afterward. Softer around the edges now. Then quietly: “You’re thinking too hard again, dumb girl.”

Your chest tightens painfully because maybe you are. Maybe that’s the problem. You’ve spent your entire life trying to choose the right thing. The safe thing.

And then Jungkook crashed into your life like chaos in black clothing and suddenly your body started making choices before your brain could approve them first.

You don’t know what to do with that. Worse: You don’t know what to do with him.

And sitting across from you now, calm and observant and terrifyingly patient…Jungkook already knows it.

His dark eyes stay fixed on your face like he’s still collecting information even in silence, and you hate how aware you’ve become of him lately. The cigarette smell clinging faintly to his clothes, the silver glint of his lip piercing every time he shifts his jaw, the absent way one tattooed hand spins his pen while he watches you pretend to study.

Pretend being the important word, because your brain stopped functioning properly approximately twenty minutes ago.

“You’re staring again,” you mutter eventually without looking up from your textbook.

A low hum leaves him. “You’re nervous again.” “I’m literally reading.” “You’ve highlighted the same sentence again.”

Heat flashes instantly across your face. Asshole.

You finally glance up just to glare at him properly and instantly regret it because Jungkook’s already watching you with that dark, heavy focus that always makes your pulse start malfunctioning.

Then suddenly he stands. No explanation. No warning.

You look up. “…where are you going?”

Jungkook grabs his helmet from beside the chair before lazily jerking his head toward the back shelves. “Come here.”

Your eyebrows pull together immediately. “No.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “No?” “I’m studying.” “No you’re not.” “I literally am.” “You’ve been rereading the same paragraph for ten minutes, dummy.”

Heat burns through your face again because unfortunately he’s right, and you hate how often that happens.

Jungkook watches your expression for another second before turning and walking deeper into the library anyway, completely certain you’ll follow him, which is honestly the most irritating part.

You stare after him in disbelief for approximately three seconds before realizing your body’s already moving.

Oh my god. You hate yourself.

The deeper sections of the library are almost empty now, tall shelves blocking most of the outside noise while soft fluorescent light spills dimly across endless rows of books. Jungkook stops near the back corner between two shelves before finally turning toward you, and the second your eyes meet, your pulse stumbles hard because now there’s nowhere else to look. No distractions. No classmates. No boyfriend. No notes. Just him.

Jungkook leans casually against the shelf behind him while his gaze drags slowly over you, taking in the skirt, the turtleneck, the nervous way your fingers tighten around your notebook.

“You followed me.”

Your stomach flips violently. “You told me to.”

A slow smile spreads across his face. “Yeah.” His eyes darken slightly. “And you listened.”

Heat flashes immediately through your chest and you cross your arms defensively. “Don’t start.”

“Start what?” “This weird controlling thing you do.”

A low chuckle leaves him. “Weird controlling thing?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

Jungkook pushes away from the shelf then, taking one slow step closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough to make your breathing change.

“You mean the thing where I tell you to do something…” His head tilts slightly. “…and you do it anyway?”

Your pulse jumps. “I do not.”

“Princess.” His eyes flick downward briefly before returning to yours again. “You’re standing back here with me right now.” Oh- You hate that.

Jungkook sees the realization hit instantly and something darkly entertained flickers across his expression before he steps even closer. Now you can smell rain and smoke and him, and your back instinctively brushes against the bookshelf behind you.

Trapped.

Jungkook notices immediately, of course he does, a slow breath leaving him while one tattooed hand settles beside your head against the shelf, caging you in without fully touching you. The atmosphere shifts almost instantly after that, turning sharper, heavier, more dangerous.

“You know what really pisses me off?” he murmurs quietly.

Your throat tightens. “What.”

“The way you looked at him earlier.”

Heat crashes through your stomach instantly. “He’s my boyfriend.”

“I know.” The calmness in his voice somehow makes everything worse. Jungkook’s gaze drags slowly across your face before lowering briefly toward your mouth. “But you always look me first.”

Your breath catches because you do. The realization settles ugly and heavy between the two of you while Jungkook watches every flicker across your face like he’s peeling you apart layer by layer.

“You keep trying so hard to be good,” he murmurs softly. “It’s honestly getting a little pathetic.”

Your eyes flash immediately. “Fuck you.”

His thumb brushes once against the bookshelf beside your head while he leans slightly closer, close enough now that your pulse starts climbing harder and harder beneath your ribs.

“You know what I think?” he asks quietly.

You already know you’re going to regret this. “What.”

“I think your perfect little boyfriend makes you feel safe.” His eyes darken slightly. “But I make you feel alive.”

The sentence hits hard. And judging by the way Jungkook watches your expression afterward… he knows it did. Jungkook’s hand settles beside your head against the bookshelf while his gaze drags slowly over your face, dark and heavy enough to make your pulse start stumbling all over again.

The library feels too quiet now. Too warm. You can hear pages turning somewhere far away. Footsteps in another aisle. Rain tapping softly against the windows outside. And somehow all of it just makes this worse. Because anybody could walk by.

“You keep looking at me like you want me to ruin your life.”

Your breath catches instantly. “You’re insane,” you whisper weakly.

A low hum leaves him while his eyes drop briefly toward your mouth. “No,” he murmurs softly. “If I was insane, I would’ve bent you over one of these tables already for looking at your boyfriend like that in front of me.”

Heat crashes through your body so violently it almost hurts. “Jungkook-”

“What?” His head tilts slightly. “You think I don’t think about it?” His voice lowers further. “Everybody in this library walking past while you sit there trying not to make noises for me again?”

Your thighs press together instinctively and he looks down. A dark smile slowly spreads across his face afterward while his hand finally slides from the shelf to your waist instead, fingers gripping lightly through the fabric of your skirt.

“Yeah… knew that’d get you.”

Your pulse goes feral. Because the worst part? He says it so calmly, like he already knows every filthy thought currently short-circuiting your brain.

Jungkook leans even closer then, lips barely brushing beneath your ear while his fingers tighten faintly at your waist.

“You know what really drives me crazy?” he murmurs softly. “Watching you pretend to be such a perfect little thing during the day…” His mouth ghosts slowly along your jaw. “…when I know how filthy you get for me afterward.”

A weak breath leaves you immediately, his grip tightens slightly.

“Look at you now,” he whispers. “Standing in a fucking library getting wet from me talking in your ear.” His tongue brushes briefly against his lip piercing. “Poor dumb girl doesn’t even realize how gone she already is.” Your breath turns uneven.

Jungkook watches it happen in real time, dark eyes dragging slowly across your face while his hand stays firm against your waist, fingers flexing lightly through the fabric of your skirt like he’s actively restraining himself. And somehow that thought makes everything worse.

“You hate when I say shit like that,” he murmurs softly. “But your body never disagrees with me.”

Heat flashes violently through your stomach. “Stop talking.”

A low chuckle leaves him. “Why?” His lips ghost faintly near your ear again. “Because every time I open my mouth you start shaking?”

Your pulse spirals harder. God, you hate how observant he is. You try turning your head away slightly just to escape the intensity of his stare for one second, but Jungkook immediately catches your jaw between his fingers and forces you to look back at him.

“Keep looking at me.” The command lands deep.

A gasp leaves you embarrassingly fast while Jungkook studies your expression like he’s actively taking you apart piece by piece.

“You know what your problem is, princess?” he murmurs softly. You already know this is about to psychologically damage you so you remain silent, he will answer his own question anyway.

“You still think this guilt means you’re a good person.”

The sentence hits like a knife. Your eyebrows pull together instantly. “Fuck you.”

A slow smile spreads across his face. “My little brat. How I love her…”

His thumb drags slowly across your lower lip afterward, eyes darkening slightly when your breathing stumbles again.

“You feel guilty because your sweet little boyfriend loves you,” he says quietly. “But you still come looking for me anyway.”

“I did not come looking for you.”

Jungkook actually laughs softly at that but it’s humourless. “Dummy.” His hand tightens briefly against your jaw. “You followed me into the back of the library.” You did.

The worst part? You didn’t even hesitate that much. Jungkook sees the realization settle into your face immediately and something possessive flickers behind his expression again.

“Exactly.”

He steps closer now until your body presses fully against the bookshelf behind you, one thigh pushing slowly between yours while his eyes stay locked onto your face with terrifying focus.

“You keep trying to act like I’m forcing you into this,” he murmurs softly. “Meanwhile you’re over here following me around campus in tiny little skirts and getting wet when I say your name.”

“I hate you,” you whisper weakly.

“No,” he says calmly. “You hate that I know exactly what you are.”

Heat crashes through you so hard it almost hurts. Your fingers clutch instinctively against the edge of the bookshelf beside you while Jungkook watches every tiny reaction like he’s memorizing them.

He is.

His lips hover dangerously close to yours now. “Your perfect boyfriend makes you feel loved…” His thumb drags lightly across your throat. “…but I make you feel wanted.”

Your pulse goes absolutely feral now. Because that’s it- that’s the difference. And Jungkook knows it.

The realization settles ugly and heavy inside your chest while his gaze slowly drags downward toward your mouth again.

“You wanna know the really fucked up part?” he asks softly. A dark smile spreads slowly across Jungkook’s face. “I think if I told you to get on your knees right now…” His fingers tighten faintly against your waist. “…you’d do it.”

Your eyes widen instantly. Shock flashes visibly across your face while your pulse completely stumbles beneath your ribs because oh my god.

Oh my fucking god.

You don’t answer. Not a single sarcastic comment. Not one bratty comeback. Nothing.

Something dangerous settles deeper behind his eyes the second he realizes you went quiet instead of fighting him and suddenly the atmosphere between the shelves shifts completely.

He won.

A low hum leaves him while his hand slides slowly upward from your waist toward your throat, large fingers wrapping around it with terrifying ease. Not squeezing, not yet.

Your breathing turns uneven once again.

Jungkook leans down slowly afterward until his lips brush faintly against your ear, warm enough to make a violent shiver run through your entire body.

Then quietly:

“Kneel for me, slut.”

The words slam straight through you. Your stomach twists violently while heat crashes low between your thighs so fast it almost makes you dizzy. Jungkook feels every reaction in real time beneath his hand, thumb brushing slowly against the side of your throat while he waits.

Calm. Patient.

He already knows exactly how badly those words affected you. And god, you hate that he does.

You should tell him to fuck off. Should shove him away, should storm back to your table and pretend none of this ever happened. Instead your body stays frozen against the bookshelf while your pulse pounds violently beneath his fingers. Jungkook’s hand stays wrapped around your throat while silence settles heavily between the bookshelves.

There’s no teasing now, no smug little comments and no flirting. It’s all gone. He’s just waiting…

The quiet somehow feels more intense than anything he said before because suddenly the decision sits entirely in your hands. Or at least it should.

Your pulse pounds violently beneath his fingers while your brain screams at you to stop this right now, to shove him away, to remember who you are supposed to be:

Good. Controlled. Proper. Not this.

Not the girl standing in the back of a library trembling because a toxic man told her to kneel for him. And yet…

Jungkook just keeps watching you. Dark eyes fixed on yours with terrifying patience while his thumb strokes once against the side of your throat.

That tiny movement almost destroys you. A shaky breath leaves your lips. Then another.

And slowly… your knees give out.

The movement feels unreal somehow, your body sinking downward inch by inch while your eyes stay locked onto his the entire time.

Jungkook doesn’t move. Doesn’t help you. Doesn’t stop you. He just watches.

And god, the look on his face when you finally kneel in front of him between the empty shelves nearly burns straight through you.

There’s no shock but also no triumph. Something darker. Possessive satisfaction settling slowly into every sharp line of his expression while his hand finally slips from your throat upward into your hair instead, fingers curling loosely at the back of your head.

Your breathing turns embarrassingly uneven immediately- the position alone feels filthy. Humiliating.

Your skirt rides higher against your thighs from kneeling on the carpeted floor while Jungkook towers over you in black clothes and tattoos and smoke scent, looking down at you like he genuinely cannot believe you actually did it.

And somehow that makes it worse because now he looks affected too…

His jaw tightens faintly while his eyes drag slowly over your face, watching every shaky breath, every flicker of panic and heat tangled together behind your expression.

Then finally his head tilts slightly. A quiet exhale leaves him through his nose. Almost like restraint. His fingers tighten once in your hair before he finally speaks, his voice comes out lower than before. Rougher.

“Fuck,” he murmurs softly. “Look at you.”

Jungkook’s fingers stay tangled loosely in your hair while he looks down at you between the shelves, dark eyes heavy with the kind of attention that makes your entire body feel overheated.

The silence stretches- like he’s waiting to see whether you’ll start fighting him again. You don’t.

That alone seems to affect him. A slow breath leaves his nose while his gaze drags downward briefly before returning to your face.

“Open it.” The command lands deep in your stomach instantly.

Your hands hesitate for the tiniest second before moving anyway, shaky fingers brushing against dark fabric while your pulse pounds violently in your ears.

Jungkook watches every second of it. Completely still. And god, the eye contact somehow makes everything worse.

“Jungkook…” you whisper weakly, panic and heat twisting together inside your chest. “Someone could walk by.” His expression barely changes.

Then suddenly his fingers catch your jaw again, squishing your cheeks lightly until your lips part beneath his grip while he leans down closer.

“The only time you’re opening your mouth is to suck my dick,” he murmurs quietly, eyes locked onto yours, “otherwise you shut up.” His thumb drags slowly across your lower lip. “Do you understand, slut?”

Your breath catches instantly and horrifyingly enough, you nod immediately. No sarcasm. No bratty comment.

The second Jungkook realizes that, something dark and satisfied settles across his face. “Good girl.”

The praise melts straight through you. Actually melts you.

Your eyes flutter briefly while Jungkook watches the reaction happen in real time, fingers tightening faintly in your hair as a quiet chuckle leaves him.

“Fuck,” he murmurs softly. “You like that one way too much.”

Heat burns across your face instantly and you hate how right he is. Humiliation twists through your stomach every single time he calls you filthy names, but praise? Praise absolutely destroys you.

And judging by the way Jungkook’s eyes darken while watching your breathing stumble again… he knows it now too.

“Pretty little thing,” he murmurs quietly, almost to himself while his thumb brushes your cheek once. “Acting so bratty all week just to fold the second I’m nice to you.”

Your pulse goes feral. Jungkook tilts his head slightly afterward, studying your face with dangerous focus while the quiet library hums softly around you.

Then lower: “Hands behind your back.”

The command sends another violent shiver through your body before your brain can even process it. And the horrifying part? Your body already wants to listen.

Jungkook watches you for another long second afterward, dark eyes fixed on your face while your hands stay clasped behind your back exactly where he told you to keep them.

The position alone feels humiliating. Controlled.

Your pulse pounds violently in your ears while the quiet library hums softly around you, shelves towering on either side like walls trapping the two of you inside your own private disaster.

Then Jungkook’s gaze drifts slowly downward over you once before returning to your eyes again.

Then calmly:  “Safe word?”

Your breath stutters. Oh. Oh shit.

Because suddenly your stomach drops for an entirely different reason; Jungkook never asked before. Not once. Not during your first time together. Not during the punishment. Not when he bent you apart with nothing but filthy praise and rough hands and terrifying patience. Never.

Which means this time? This time he already knows he’s going to push you harder.

Your pulse immediately spirals. Jungkook notices the exact second realization hits you too, sees it flicker visibly across your face while you kneel in front of him trying not to completely fall apart beneath the weight of his attention.

A quiet hum leaves him. “It’s better if you have one, this time.”

Heat flashes through your body but it’s not fear. Not really. Something far worse.

Anticipation.

The realization alone makes humiliation twist low in your stomach because oh my god, what the hell is wrong with you?

Jungkook’s fingers slide slowly into your hair again before tightening just enough to keep your eyes locked onto his.

“Use your words, pretty girl.”

Your throat feels tight suddenly. “…yellow,” you whisper finally.

Jungkook studies your face for another second. “For?”

“Too much…”

He hums.  “Then what’s red?” 

You swallow thickly. “Means stop- instantly.” 

“Good.”

A slow exhale leaves him while his thumb brushes once across your cheekbone, eyes still dark and unreadable beneath the dim library lighting.

Then quietly: “Smart girl.” Your entire body reacts instantly.

A low chuckle leaves him. “Jesus Christ,” he murmurs softly. “You’d let me do almost anything to you if I praise you first.”

You want to protest, but both of you know it would be a lie… so you just remain quiet while his fingers rake through your hair almost gently, his eyes still dark and intense.

He angles your head the way he likes it and you let him until you’re fully trapped between him and the bookshelf behind you, your arms pinned behind your back, leaving no room for movement.

“Open up, princess.”

His thumb ghosts over your lower lip. You swallow before slowly parting your lips and his thumb slips inside, pressing firmly onto your tongue. Without thinking, your lips close around him. He hums approvingly, tongue pressed against his cheek for a brief moment as he watches you suck his finger.

Then he retracts his thumb before reaching down to free himself from his jeans. Heat floods low in your stomach at the sight of him and your thighs clench in a desperate attempt for even the slightest bit of friction. It’s embarrassing how your body reacts to him. How much it craves him.

Your mouth is still open when he guides his tip against your lips, where you taste the salty precum, licking the sensitive head a few times before his hand gathers a fistful of your hair.

“Look at me,” he orders, and your eyes snap up to him before your brain even fully processes the command. That’s how much Jeon Jungkook has gotten under your skin in such a short amount of time.

You expect him to be rough from the very start, to just slam himself down your throat, but surprisingly it’s slow, almost like he’s letting you adjust to his full length first. The moment his tip hits the back of your throat, you start gagging around him and he stills.

“Nose,” he mutters quietly, and you remember, quickly taking a deep breath through your nose, eyes squeezed shut while you try to relax. “Flatten your tongue.”

His voice is calm, as if he’s giving you the weather forecast for the weekend, but his fingers are firmly tugging on your hair, giving away that he’s not completely unaffected.

Jungkook watches you attentively and when your shoulders start to relax and your eyes slowly flutter open, he retracts himself slowly from between your lips…

…just to slam his full length back in.

“Hng!” A startled noise leaves you as his free hand grabs your chin, angling your head the way he wants it.

It’s a brutal, relentless pace as his hips snap forward and his cock buries itself down your throat over and over again. A burning, stinging sensation builds while your eyes start watering from the cough trapped deep in your chest as he continues to use your face for his own satisfaction.

“That’s it…” he hums between thrusts. “…my good little slut. Doing so well for me.”

You try to hum around him, but it only comes out as a wrecked, hoarse sound, and he loves it. His movements become more erratic, almost brutal, while spit bubbles at the corners of your mouth, dribbling down your chin and onto your bare thighs where your skirt has ridden further up.

“You’re mine,” he suddenly says, and your eyes snap open. His pupils are blown wide, making his eyes almost black as he yanks on your hair, angling your head further back until you choke around him.

“I hate the way he looks at you. Hate the way he touches what’s mine.” He grits the words through his teeth, anger and possession audible in his voice, and it shoots straight to your core even though it should scare the shit out of you.

You almost, almost, use your safe word as your sore throat tightens further, making it nearly unbearable to keep up, but then you swallow around him.

The grip in your hair suddenly tightens. Your scalp burns, tears prick your eyes before finally spilling over your heated cheeks as Jungkook releases down your throat.

The bitter taste coats your tongue and you swallow shakily as he finally pulls free from between your swollen, spit-slick lips.

For a few long seconds, neither of you moves. The quiet hum of the library settles back around you slowly, distant pages turning somewhere beyond the shelves while your breathing struggles to steady itself properly.

Jungkook watches you the entire time. Dark eyes fixed on your face while one hand still remains tangled loosely in your hair, his own chest rising slightly heavier than before beneath the black hoodie stretched across his shoulders.

Then finally he lets go. The sudden absence of his hand almost makes you sway. Your knees feel weak when you try to stand and Jungkook notices immediately, of course he does, one hand catching your waist before you can lose balance completely.

A low hum leaves him. “Easy, princess.”

Heat flashes weakly through your chest despite everything. You hate that the nickname still affects you this much.

Jungkook helps you to your feet slowly, surprisingly patient now while your shaky hands smooth down your skirt instinctively. The movement only makes the reality of the situation hit harder and embarrassment twists low in your stomach immediately afterward.

“Oh my god…” you whisper hoarsely.

A faint smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah.”

“Don’t.” “What?” he murmurs innocently.

You glare at him weakly. “That.”

The amusement in his expression softens slightly then, darkening into something quieter while his eyes drag slowly across your face. “C’mere.”

Before you can question him, Jungkook reaches up and brushes his thumb carefully beneath your eye. You freeze. Because somehow this feels more intimate than everything else.

His expression stays focused while he wipes away the mascara smeared across your tear-stained cheeks, movements unexpectedly gentle for someone who spent the last several minutes absolutely ruining your ability to think straight.

“There,” he murmurs quietly. Your throat tightens.

Jungkook studies your face for another second afterward before his fingers slide slowly into your hair again, pushing it carefully back from your flushed cheeks. The touch turns softer now, absentminded almost, fingertips dragging lightly through the strands while his gaze stays locked onto yours with an intensity that makes your stomach twist all over again.

“You okay?” he asks finally. The question catches you completely off guard because he sounds genuine. Your pulse stumbles awkwardly while you stare at him in confusion for a second too long and Jungkook notices immediately.

A quiet chuckle leaves him. “What?” he murmurs. “You think I don’t care if you’re okay?” You honestly don’t know what to think anymore. And judging by the dark amusement flickering briefly across his face…he knows that too.

Jungkook’s hand slides slowly from your hair to your jaw afterward, thumb brushing lightly across your lower lip while his eyes flick downward toward your mouth.

The atmosphere shifts instantly. Jungkook steps closer until your back brushes lightly against the bookshelf again and then he kisses you. Hard. Not rushed. Intense enough that it almost steals the air from your lungs immediately.

A startled sound catches in your throat while his hand tightens against your jaw, tilting your head exactly where he wants it as his mouth moves against yours with devastating precision. It feels possessive. Hungry. Claiming. Like he’s trying to leave himself everywhere.

Your fingers clutch instinctively at the front of his hoodie because your knees genuinely threaten to give out beneath you and Jungkook notices immediately, a rough sound leaving him against your mouth before one arm wraps around your waist to hold you upright.

“Fuck,” he breathes softly between kisses. “Look at you.”

Heat crashes violently through your chest while his lips drag along yours again, slower this time but somehow even worse, deep enough that your lungs completely forget how to function properly.

You actually have to cling to him now. And god, Jungkook loves it.

The realization settles heavily between the two of you when he finally pulls back just enough for air, forehead resting briefly against yours while your breathing comes embarrassingly uneven. His thumb brushes once across your cheek again.

Then quietly: “There’s my girl."

The kiss leaves both of you breathing unevenly, your fingers still clutching weakly at the front of Jungkook’s hoodie while his hand remains tangled tightly in your hair, forehead resting briefly against yours as the quiet library slowly comes back into focus around you. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, rain taps softly against the windows outside, and somewhere far away somebody turns a page, the tiny sound somehow making reality settle back over your skin in the worst possible way.

Your chest rises shakily while Jungkook studies your face from much too close, dark eyes dragging slowly over every tiny reaction like he’s trying to memorize this version of you too, and god, the look on his face right now is dangerous. Not just possessive anymore. Not just lust. Something heavier settled there somewhere between you kneeling for him and melting into his kiss afterward, something that makes panic start creeping slowly back up your spine the longer he looks at you like this.

Jungkook notices the shift immediately, of course he does. His thumb brushes once against your jaw while his gaze sharpens slightly before he asks quietly:

“Do you love him?”

The question hits like a gunshot. Your stomach drops so violently it almost hurts and your brain immediately starts scrambling for distance because no. No no no. Not this. Anything except this.

But Jungkook just keeps watching you with terrifying patience, waiting through every second of silence stretching between the shelves, and the horrible thing is that you hesitate.

You fucking hesitate. He sees it instantly. Something dark flickers behind his eyes. “There it is,” he murmurs softly.

Your pulse goes feral. “Stop.”

But your voice already sounds panicked and that only makes everything worse because Jungkook notices that too. He steps closer immediately, eyes never leaving yours.

“You just realized it.” “Jungkook-”

“You’re not freaking out because you fucked me.” Every word lands deeper beneath your ribs. “You’re freaking out because you’re starting to feel something for me.”

Heat and panic crash violently together inside your chest. “That’s not true.” The denial sounds weak. Desperate.

Jungkook’s jaw tightens faintly. “And that scares the shit out of you, doesn’t it?”

Your breathing turns uneven because yes. Yes it does. And the horrifying part is that he knows. He knows exactly where the fear is coming from now and instead of backing off, instead of letting you recover, this absolute psychopath keeps pushing directly into the wound.

“You know what I think?” he murmurs softly. Your stomach twists violently. “I think you’re starting to look at me the way you used to look at him.”

The sentence tears straight through you. Something inside your chest cracks open so sharply it almost physically hurts because oh my god.

Oh my god... He’s right.

And Jungkook watches the realization hit you in real time. That’s the worst part. He sees everything. Every flicker of guilt. Every ounce of panic. Every horrible little feeling you’ve been trying not to name.

A slow breath leaves him while his hand starts reaching toward your face again. And suddenly you snap.

“Don’t touch me.”

The words come out sharper than intended while both hands shove hard against his chest. Jungkook actually stumbles back half a step from the force of it, more surprised than hurt, dark eyes narrowing immediately as he watches you breathing unevenly against the bookshelf.

Panic flashes visibly across your face now. Real panic. Because this stopped being about sex five minutes ago. Now it’s emotional. Now it’s dangerous.

“Princess-” “No.” Your voice shakes. “No, don’t fucking do that.”

Jungkook goes still. You push away from the bookshelf immediately, backpack nearly slipping from your shoulder while your pulse pounds violently in your ears.

“This is exactly why you’re insane,” you whisper breathlessly. “You just… you get inside people’s heads and-”

“And what?” His voice stays frustratingly calm. “You make everything complicated!”

A quiet laugh leaves him, not amused or kind, but knowing. “It already was complicated.”

“I have a boyfriend.” “I know.” “You don’t care!”

“No,” Jungkook says calmly. “I care a lot.” His eyes drag slowly over your face. “That’s the fucking problem.” Your breath catches again because for the first time since this whole thing started, he sounds honest.

And suddenly you realize the horrifying part isn’t that you’re starting to look at Jungkook the way you used to look at your boyfriend. It’s that you never looked at anyone the way you look at him. Not your exes. Not the sweet boys before. Not even your boyfriend now.

None of them ever got under your skin like this. None of them ever had the power to make your pulse stutter from a single look or reduce you to shaking breaths and panic and heat just from saying your name in the wrong tone.

And god. None of them ever made you feel this seen.

The realization crashes into you so violently it almost makes you dizzy because suddenly memories start rearranging themselves inside your head: the boys you dated before, the comfortable affection, the soft routines, the safe relationships that looked perfect from the outside. You cared about them. Maybe you even thought it was love.

But this? This feels completely different. Too sharp. Too consuming. Too terrifying. Like your entire nervous system rewired itself around one nicotine-stained asshole in black hoodies who climbed through your window and looked at you like he already knew every ugly little thing hiding inside you.

And the worst part? He does. Jungkook watches your expression slowly unravel beneath the weight of the realization and something dark flickers behind his eyes the second he understands exactly where your thoughts just went.

Your stomach drops instantly because he figured it out before you did. Of course he did.

A shaky breath leaves you while your chest tightens painfully around the truth settling deeper and deeper beneath your ribs. Maybe you were never really in love before. Maybe this is the first time. And that thought scares the absolute shit out of you.

Because if this is love, then it’s ugly. Obsessive. Possessive. Chaotic. It feels like losing control of your own body every time he looks at you. It feels like panic and hunger and standing too close to the edge of something dangerous while realizing part of you wants to jump.

Your eyes sting faintly while Jungkook keeps staring at you with terrifying focus, watching the realization destroy you piece by piece.

Then quietly: “Oh…”

The sound barely leaves him, but it’s enough. Enough to tell you he sees it now too. Your pulse spikes harder.

“Don’t,” you whisper weakly.

Jungkook steps closer again, not touching yet, which somehow feels worse. Watching.

“You never felt this before.”

The sentence lands like a knife. Your breathing completely loses rhythm while he keeps looking directly through you, peeling every layer back with brutal precision, and suddenly you understand why he scares you so much.

Not because he’s rough, not because he’s possessive, not even because he says filthy things in dark corners and looks at you like prey.

He scares you because he sees you too clearly.

“I think you’re realizing it’s me…” His eyes drag slowly across your face. “…and you hate that you’d choose me anyway.”

Your chest rises unevenly while Jungkook keeps staring at you between the shelves with terrifying calmness, and god, that’s the problem. He’s too calm, like he already knows exactly what’s happening inside your head while you’re still struggling to breathe through it yourself.

The realization still burns beneath your ribs: this isn’t just lust anymore. It isn’t just obsession. It isn’t just sex. It’s him.

And that thought terrifies you more than anything else he’s done so far. You take a shaky step backward. Then another.

Jungkook’s gaze follows immediately. “Princess-”

“Leave me alone.” The words come out weaker than intended, panic bleeding visibly through them while your fingers tighten painfully around the strap of your backpack.

Jungkook goes still again, but not with relaxed stillness this time. Something sharper.

You swallow hard and keep backing away anyway because if he touches you right now, if he looks at you too long, if he says one more thing in that quiet voice… you’ll break. And he knows it.

“Don’t call me,” you whisper quickly. His jaw tightens faintly. “Don’t text me.”

Silence stretches heavily between the shelves while rain continues tapping softly against the windows somewhere far away and fluorescent lights hum overhead.

“Don’t even look at me on campus.” A quiet breath leaves him through his nose. Still nothing. And somehow that’s worse because he isn’t arguing. Isn’t chasing.

He’s just waiting- he already knows this won’t work. Your pulse spirals harder.

“And don’t you ever touch me again.”

That one lands. You actually see it this time, a small sharp flicker across his face before something cold settles behind his eyes for one horrible second.

Then he slowly tilts his head, gaze dragging over your face like he’s memorizing this version of you too. “You done?”

The calmness snaps something inside you immediately. “I’m serious, Jungkook!” Your voice echoes louder than intended between the shelves and panic flashes harder across your face right afterward while Jungkook watches every second of it.

Then his eyes drift briefly downward to your shaking hands before returning to your face. “Yeah,” he murmurs softly. “That’s why you’re trembling.” The sentence tears straight through you because he’s right- You’re not shaking because you hate him. You’re shaking because part of you already misses him and he hasn’t even left yet. Your eyes sting faintly while Jungkook finally takes one slow step toward you again, not enough to touch but enough to corner you emotionally all over again.

“You wanna run?” he asks quietly. Your throat tightens. “Fine.” The answer catches you completely off guard.

Jungkook’s gaze stays locked onto yours while something dark and unreadable settles deeper into his expression.

“Run for a while, princess.”

Heat and heartbreak twist violently together inside your chest.

“But don’t stand there pretending this is about me.” His voice lowers slightly. “You’re scared because you know exactly what happens if you stop fighting this.”

Your breathing completely loses rhythm again. And the horrifying part? He still sounds calm. Like he already knows how this ends.

“You think avoiding me’s gonna fix it?” A faint almost-smile touches his mouth, but there’s nothing amused about it now. “Cute.”

“Stop acting like you know me.”

Jungkook’s eyes darken immediately. “I know you better than you know yourself.”

The sentence lands deep enough to hurt. Silence crashes between the two of you again while your pulse pounds violently in your ears and Jungkook keeps looking at you like he’s trying to hold himself back from crossing the distance completely.

Then finally he exhales softly through his nose... And steps back. Actually steps back.

The movement hurts worse than it should.

“You know what your problem is?” he murmurs quietly. Your chest tightens painfully. “You spent your whole life choosing the right thing.” His gaze drags slowly across your face one last time. “Then you met me.”

Tears sting properly now because yes. That’s exactly the problem.

Jungkook notices them immediately, jaw tightening faintly for one dangerous second before his expression smooths back into something unreadable. “I’ll leave you alone,” he says quietly.

Relief crashes into your chest so suddenly it almost hurts. Until:

“For now.”

Your stomach drops. Jungkook studies your face one final time afterward, eyes lingering like he’s trying to brand the image into memory before his voice lowers again, soft and deadly calm.

“But you should know something first, princess.” Your pulse stumbles. “You can pretend this isn’t happening. You can avoid me, ignore my texts, act scared every time you look at me.”

The corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “But eventually?” His eyes lock onto yours again. “You’re gonna miss me enough to break your own rules.”

And the worst part, the absolute worst part, is that deep down beneath all the panic and guilt and heartbreak clawing through your chest… you already know he’s right.

The week after the library feels like slow psychological warfare. You stop sleeping properly first. Then eating. Then thinking straight. Coffee becomes an actual food group at this point, bitter enough to make your stomach hurt while those stupid strawberry gummies slowly disappear one by one during lectures, study sessions and restless three a.m. spirals where you stare at your ceiling replaying every single thing Jungkook ever said to you.

Especially the last part: you’re scared because you’d choose me anyway.

The sentence follows you everywhere. Through lectures. Through campus. Through shallow conversations with your boyfriend while guilt rots quietly beneath your ribs.

And the worst part? Jungkook listens. At least technically. He doesn’t text. Doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t approach you once. But somehow he’s still there constantly. You catch glimpses of him everywhere now like some nicotine stained hallucination haunting your peripheral vision:

leaning against buildings between classes, sitting on his bike outside campus with a cigarette between his fingers, walking across the courtyard in all black while people instinctively move out of his path without even realizing they’re doing it.

And every single time his eyes find yours immediately. Like instinct. He never comes closer. Never speaks. Just watches. It’s honestly worse this way.

By friday your grades start slipping badly enough that even your professors notice. You bomb a quiz. Forget an assignment deadline entirely. Turn in homework so embarrassingly rushed that your professor actually writes: “everything alright?” across the top in red ink.

No. Everything is absolutely not alright.

Which is exactly why you’re standing in the sorority kitchen at eight in the evening aggressively stirring iced coffee like it personally offended you while Soomin scrolls through TikTok nearby. Your hair’s messy. You’re wearing one of your boyfriend’s hoodies. You feel half-dead.

Then suddenly the doorbell rings. Soomin groans dramatically from the couch. “If that’s another frat guy trying to flirt with Minji I’m legally allowed to commit manslaughter.”

You barely even look up from your drink. “Godspeed.”

A few seconds pass. Then footsteps. Then: “Oh.”

Something in Soomin’s tone makes your stomach tighten instantly. You turn slightly just as Jungkook steps into the kitchen behind her carrying a black backpack and his laptop beneath one arm like this is the most normal thing in the world.

Your soul nearly leaves your body. “What are you doing here?”

Jungkook’s gaze settles on you immediately. God. Even after a week avoiding him, that look still hits like a car crash. Calm. Dark. Too attentive.

“Tutoring,” he says simply.

Your eyebrows pull together instantly. “No.”

“The exam’s next week.” “We’re done.” “You want to fail your class?”

The worst part? He says it calmly. Logically. Like this is purely academic and not the emotional equivalent of setting gasoline on your entire life.

You hate that he’s right. Your recent assignments have been horrific. Your concentration is gone. And if you fail this exam your GPA actually suffers.

Jungkook watches the realization happen across your face in real time before slowly adjusting the strap of his backpack higher onto his shoulder. “I brought your notes,” he adds calmly. “You left them in class.”

Oh my god. Of course he did. You glare at him for another long second before finally exhaling sharply through your nose. “Fine.”

Soomin’s eyes flick nervously between the two of you. “But we’re studying here,” you continue immediately. “In the living room.” Your gaze narrows slightly at Jungkook. “And they stay.”

Minji appears from the hallway just in time to hear the last part. “Uhm… okay?” “We don’t wanna interrupt your study session though,” Soomin says awkwardly.

“Please do,” you answer instantly.

Jungkook just shrugs. “Fine by me.” Of course it is.

The asshole walks straight into the living room afterward like he belongs there already and honestly? That realization makes your stomach twist because technically… he does. Not officially. Not publicly. But he’s climbed through your window enough times now to know exactly where the creaky stairs are.

You hate yourself. “I’ll get my stuff,” you mutter quickly before practically fleeing upstairs. The second your bedroom door closes behind you, you press both hands against your face. Bad idea. Bad fucking idea. And yet somehow five minutes later you’re still walking back downstairs carrying your notebook and laptop while mentally preparing for psychological torture.

Except the second you step into the living room? Betrayal. Absolute betrayal. Your best friends are laughing. Laughing. Jungkook sits relaxed on the sofa between them, black hoodie pushed up his tattooed forearms while Minji nearly chokes laughing at something he just said. What the fuck.

Soomin notices you first. “Oh thank god,” she snorts. “Do you know your tutor’s actually funny?”

Your eye twitches slightly. “No,” you answer flatly. “This is new information.”

Jungkook glances up at you over the top of his laptop and for one brief second something dark flickers behind his eyes before his expression smooths immediately back into polite calm. “Ready?”

You slam your notebook onto the coffee table harder than necessary. “Sure.”

Minji blinks between the two of you slowly. The tension in the room could genuinely qualify as a natural disaster. Still, somehow, studying actually starts. Sort of.

Jungkook sits beside you on the couch going through practice questions while Soomin and Minji stay nearby pretending not to watch the two of you like it’s a reality show. And honestly? Jungkook’s terrifyingly good at tutoring. Patient. Focused. Sharp enough to make your brain hurt.

You hate how naturally the two of you fall back into rhythm after a while, arguing over answers, correcting each other, him occasionally muttering “dummy” beneath his breath whenever you overcomplicate something. At one point your knee accidentally brushes his. Both of you freeze for half a second. Then continue like nothing happened.

Around an hour later you head toward the kitchen for another coffee mostly because your nervous system requires chemical support at this point.

You’re halfway back when voices drift toward you from the living room.

“…he’s so cute and nice,” Soomin sighs. You pause automatically. “But not her type at all,” she continues while stirring her iced coffee absentmindedly. “Honestly we don’t even know why she’s with him. She seems bored out of her mind whenever he’s around.” Your stomach twists instantly.

Minji snorts too loudly. “And whenever he calls her sweetheart she literally frowns. Who does that?”

A quiet laugh leaves Jungkook. Your pulse immediately spikes. “Yeah?” he hums calmly. “That weird, huh?”

“So weird,” Minji agrees immediately.

Then Jungkook asks it casually. Too casually. “Isn’t she in love with him?” Silence follows. You stop breathing. Soomin sighs softly afterward.

“We don’t know.” The words hit harder than expected. “I think she likes the image maybe?” she continues carefully. “The good girl with perfect grades and the sweet boyfriend who plays tennis on weekends.”

Minji nods immediately. “Literally.” Then quieter: “Haven’t even slept together yet.”

Jungkook fake coughs dramatically into his fist. “No way. Seriously?”

Traitors. Absolute fucking traitors. Something sharp twists violently through your chest while Jungkook stays completely silent afterward and suddenly all you can think about is the library. His mouth. His hands. His voice asking: do you love him?

The humiliation burns hot enough that by the time you walk back into the living room your pulse is already racing. Three heads immediately turn toward you.

“Wow.” The single word cuts straight through the room.

Soomin visibly pales. “Oh god.”

“No no,” you interrupt calmly while setting your drink onto the coffee table. “Please continue.” A brittle little smile pulls slowly at your mouth. “Apparently my relationship’s a group project now.”

“Babe, we weren’t-”

“You got some details wrong though.” Silence. Jungkook slowly leans back against the couch cushions while his eyes lock onto your face with frightening intensity. You ignore him completely. “He may play tennis,” you continue lightly while stirring your coffee slowly, “and he may be sickeningly sweet…” Your smile sharpens slightly. “…and yes, the sweetheart thing is genuinely diabetes inducing.”

Minji looks like she wants the earth to swallow her whole. “But,” you continue softly, finally turning your head toward Jungkook, “that man can fuck.”

The room goes dead silent. Jungkook goes completely still. Not visibly. Most people wouldn’t notice. You do. “Oh,” you hum softly while holding his gaze. “Yeah.”

The darkness settling behind his eyes almost sends heat crawling down your spine immediately but you keep smiling anyway because fuck him. You want him angry. You want him affected. You want him hurting too.

“I had a really bad study session last week,” you continue sweetly. “So I went over afterward and my poor boyfriend spent hours consoling me.” Jungkook’s jaw tightens faintly. Victory flashes hot and ugly through your chest. “And when I tell you,” you murmur lightly while still staring directly at him, “that man knows how to eat pussy…”

Soomin chokes violently on her drink. Minji looks one second away from cardiac arrest. Meanwhile Jungkook? Silent. Terrifyingly silent. You keep going anyway.

“Honestly?” you shrug softly. “He fucked every single self-doubt right out of me.” Jungkook’s eyes darken so sharply it almost physically hurts to look at him now. Good. You finally turn back toward your friends.

“I stayed overnight,” you continue calmly. “Then we fucked again.” Stirring your drink slowly. “And again.” Another sip. “And again.”

The silence afterward feels catastrophic. Soomin stares down at her coffee. Minji’s mouth opens and closes repeatedly without producing words. Because now they hear it. The sarcasm. The hurt. The anger underneath every sentence.

And across from you on the couch, Jungkook keeps staring at you with the kind of expression that should honestly come with a public safety warning. Not jealousy exactly. Worse. Possession mixed with fury.

The room suddenly feels way too warm. You take another slow sip from your drink before finally smiling tightly. “So,” you murmur politely, “now that everyone’s fully updated on my sex life…” Your eyes flick briefly toward Jungkook again. “…shall we continue studying?”

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[bobbyseyesmile]

P A R T III - contains smut

↳ Previous Part

➻ pairing: badboy!jungkook x fem!reader

➻ authors note: this is NOT a romantic, cute story. please read the warning tags & if you're not into this, don't read it. every person in this story is an adult and into this.

➻ warnings: contains SMUT as in unprotected sex [don‘t!], oral [f receiving], pussy spanking, fingering, overstimulation, primal play, stalking, degradation & humiliation kink, manipulation, cheating, toxic situationship, toxic behavior – MINORS DNI

The lecture hall is already half full by the time you arrive, conversations blending together beneath the low hum of fluorescent lights while students shuffle through notes and half-finished coffees like exhausted zombies. Normally you’d sit somewhere near the middle with your friends and mentally prepare yourself for two hours of academic torture.

Unfortunately, Jungkook is already there. Of course he is.

He’s sitting near the back row with one leg stretched lazily beneath the desk, black hoodie sleeves pushed up his forearms while he scrolls through his phone like he owns the entire fucking room. A few people glance toward him when they walk in, some nodding cautiously, others immediately avoiding eye contact altogether.

Jeon Jungkook has that effect on people.

Your stomach tightens slightly when his eyes briefly flick toward you before returning right back to his phone again like he couldn’t care less.

Asshole.

You immediately sit with your friends several rows away from him. The professor starts discussing narrative structure and eventually opens the floor for interpretation. After a brief silence, you answer confidently, explaining your theory while gesturing lightly with your pen.

“I think the protagonist’s unreliability is intentional,” you explain. “The contradictions in her narration aren’t flaws in the writing. They’re there to show how distorted her perspective became over time.”

Several students nod along thoughtfully. The professor looks pleased. “Exactly. Good observation.”

Then:

“That theory’s garbage.”

The room immediately goes quiet.

Your head snaps toward the back row where Jungkook sits slouched in his chair, spinning a pen lazily between tattooed fingers while staring at you with complete disinterest.

The professor sighs already. “Mr. Jeon…”

“No seriously,” Jungkook interrupts casually. “That makes absolutely no fucking sense.”

Heat flashes through your body instantly. “Maybe because you weren’t listening,” you shoot back.

A few students visibly tense. Nobody likes when people fight with Jungkook publicly because it almost always turns ugly.

Unfortunately for everyone involved… you genuinely don’t care anymore.

Jungkook leans back slightly in his chair, eyes dragging slowly over your face before one corner of his mouth lifts.

“No, princess,” he says calmly. “I was listening. That’s exactly the fucking problem.”

The nickname lands like a grenade in the middle of the classroom. Several heads immediately turn toward the two of you.

Your face burns instantly but you force yourself to ignore it.

“If you actually understood the material,” you reply sharply, “you’d realize unreliable narration doesn’t require logical consistency. That’s literally the point.”

Jungkook snorts quietly through his nose.

“Yeah? And if you actually understood character writing, you’d realize there’s a difference between unreliable and badly constructed.”

A few quiet “oh shit” reactions spread through the room.

You cross your arms immediately. “It’s called layered characterization.”

“No,” Jungkook says flatly. “It’s called lazy writing disguised as depth because people like you overanalyze every fucking thing to sound intellectual.”

The room erupts into nervous laughter.

“Oh my god,” you scoff incredulously. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you sound pretentious as hell.”

“At least I can form an argument without swearing every second sentence.”

That earns a low amused laugh from him.

“Cute,” he drawls lazily. “You think sounding polite automatically makes your argument smarter.”

Your jaw tightens instantly. “It’s called basic academic professionalism.”

“It’s called kissing professors’ asses.”

More laughter breaks out across the lecture hall while the professor looks moments away from developing a migraine.

You glare at Jungkook across the room. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you sound stupid,” he replies flatly before tilting his head slightly. “Actually scratch that. Your whole argument sounds like something written at three in the morning during a mental breakdown.”

Several people choke on laughter immediately.

“Oh fuck you.”

Jungkook just grins. “Nah, you’re getting emotional now, princess.”

The nickname hits even harder this time because he says it so casually, like he genuinely doesn’t care that thirty people are listening to this conversation right now.

Your face burns hotter.

“You don’t even have an actual counterargument,” you snap. “You’re just insulting me because your ego can’t handle someone disagreeing with you publicly.”

That finally gets a reaction out of him. It’s not anger, it’s something worse…

Jungkook’s eyes narrow slightly while he slowly lowers the pen onto the desk beside him. The entire room seems to notice the shift immediately.

“You think this is about ego?” he asks quietly.

“Well it’s definitely not about intelligence.”

A few students audibly gasp. The professor looks ready to physically intervene.

Jungkook stares at you for a long second before leaning back again, completely relaxed despite the dangerous look settling into his expression.

Then his gaze drifts slowly over you once. Deliberately.

“Is there actually something behind those pretty eyes,” he asks calmly, “or are you just a nice pair of tits?”

The room goes dead silent for a mere second then: Audible gasps. Nervous laughter. A horrified “what the fuck?” somewhere near the front row.

A few people look genuinely offended while others stare at you wide-eyed waiting for your reaction, but nobody openly tells Jungkook off. Nobody wants to get on Jeon Jungkook’s bad side.

Heat crashes through your body so violently you nearly stand up. “You absolute fucking asshole-”

Jungkook immediately smirks then clicks his tongue softly. “Careful.”

The single word slides beneath your skin like a warning and the slight narrowing of his eyes makes your pulse stutter because suddenly you remember exactly who you’re talking to.

Exactly what happened in his apartment and how dangerous that calm look on his face actually is.

“Okay,” the professor interrupts quickly before things escalate any further. “Please keep the discussion respectful and civilized.”

Jungkook doesn’t even look remotely sorry.

Meanwhile you’re still staring at him across the lecture hall, chest heaving slightly while he lazily picks his pen back up like publicly humiliating you was just a casual little hobby to him.

And somehow the worst part? When your eyes accidentally lock again for half a second, the asshole smirks.

By lunchtime, apparently the entire campus has already heard about what happened.

You sit at one of the outside tables with your friends while they aggressively attempt to comfort you.

“He’s just an asshole,” one of them says immediately. “Ignore him.”

“Seriously,” another agrees. “He just wants to get under your skin.”

“Well congratulations,” you mutter while stabbing aggressively at your food. “Mission accomplished.”

Your friends laugh softly, trying to lighten the mood, but before anyone can continue the conversation, a shadow suddenly falls across the table.

Then Jungkook casually drops into the empty seat beside you. The entire table freezes- one of your friends nearly chokes on her drink. Jungkook completely ignores all of them.

“What do you want?” you ask flatly, not even looking up from your food.

“We have to study at your place tonight,” he replies calmly like he didn’t just publicly degrade you in front of an entire lecture hall two hours ago.

Your eyebrows pull together instantly. “…why?”

“Because.”

You open your mouth to argue again but then suddenly his hand lands against your thigh beneath the table.

You nearly jerk but nobody else seems to notice. From the outside, Jungkook looks completely relaxed, one arm stretched lazily across the back of his chair while he stares ahead like nothing’s happening.

Meanwhile beneath the table, his fingers squeeze slowly into the soft flesh of your thigh hard enough to make your pulse jump.

Possessive. Deliberate. Like he’s marking you with his fingertips.

Your breathing turns uneven immediately and Jungkook notices from the tiny glance he gives you before the corner of his mouth lifts slightly.

Then the asshole stands up again completely casually. “See ya later, princess.”

And just like that, he walks away.

The entire table stares after him in complete silence before all eyes slowly turn toward you instead.

“…what the fuck?” one of your friends finally blurts out.

You just stare down at your tray for a second before letting out a long exhausted sigh.

“Yeah,” you mutter weakly. “I don’t even know anymore.”

Late afternoon sunlight spills gold across campus, warm enough to make the concrete shimmer while groups of students drift between buildings in loud exhausted clusters.

Somewhere nearby music crackles softly from someone’s speaker and the whole courtyard carries that lazy end-of-day atmosphere where nobody’s really paying attention anymore.

Nobody except Jungkook.

He’s sitting outside one of the main buildings with a cigarette balanced between his fingers, one arm stretched lazily across the back of the bench while his friends talk around him about assignments and weekend plans he couldn’t care less about. Every now and then he hums absently like he’s listening, but his attention is somewhere else entirely the second you walk into view.

It locks onto you instantly- like instinct.

You’re crossing the courtyard alone, bag hanging loosely from one shoulder, sunlight catches against your face and for a second Jungkook simply watches you move through the crowd, calm and unreadable while smoke curls slowly from his lips.

Then your boyfriend appears behind you and Jungkook goes completely still.

He watches the guy wrap both arms around your waist from behind, pulling you back lightly against his chest, and your entire face softens immediately. The laugh that leaves you is quiet but real, warm enough to make something dark settle low inside Jungkook’s chest while he stares from across the courtyard with frightening stillness.

Your boyfriend turns you around inside his arms and kisses you like he’s done it a thousand times before, casual and affectionate and completely unaware that someone else is watching every second of it with predatory focus.

Technically, there’s nothing wrong with this. That’s your boyfriend.

Those are his hands on your waist. His lips against yours. His soft smile making you laugh again when he whispers something near your ear.

And yet the moment you turn your head and accidentally meet Jungkook’s eyes across the courtyard, your entire body reacts like you just got caught cheating.

The smile disappears from your face instantly. Not even slowly, it’s just gone. Like your body recognizes danger before your brain catches up.

Jungkook notices it immediately.

From this distance, he can practically see the panic bloom beneath your skin while your boyfriend keeps talking softly beside you, oblivious to the way your pulse suddenly starts racing. Jungkook takes another slow drag from his cigarette without looking away once, his gaze heavy enough to make your chest tighten painfully even from across the courtyard.

He doesn’t wave. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t move at all. That’s what makes it worse.

Because he looks completely calm sitting there with smoke curling lazily around him while something sharp and possessive settles behind his eyes the longer he watches your boyfriend touch you.

Your boyfriend’s hand brushes your waist again and suddenly it feels wrong. Not because it is.

But because Jungkook is watching.

That horrifying realization crashes through you all at once and heat floods your body so fast it almost makes you dizzy. Guilt coils tightly beneath your ribs even though you technically did nothing wrong, but the problem is that somewhere along the way Jungkook already buried himself so deeply beneath your skin that your body reacts to him before logic even gets the chance.

Across the courtyard, the corner of his mouth slowly pulls upward.

It’s not a smile. Not really… Something worse. Something knowing…

Your stomach drops so hard it almost hurts. Because he sees it. He sees the guilt. The panic.

The way your body stiffens inside another man’s arms while staring directly at him like a deer frozen beneath a predator’s gaze.

And then, without breaking eye contact once, Jungkook slowly drags his tongue across his lower lip.

The gesture is small. Lazy.

But it sends a violent rush of heat through your entire body anyway. You swallow hard.

Jungkook notices that too. Of course he fucking does.

Your boyfriend finally pauses mid-sentence, brows pulling together slightly while brushing your arm.

“Hey,” he says softly. “You okay?” The words barely even register.

Because all you can focus on is Jungkook sitting across the courtyard looking at you like he already knows exactly what’s happening inside your head, exactly how guilty you feel right now, exactly how badly your pulse spikes every time his eyes drag over you.

And the most terrifying part? He looks pleased. Not jealous. Not angry. Possessive.

Like he’s watching someone else touch something that already belongs to him.

The sorority house feels unusually warm compared to the cold evening outside. Soft yellow lights filling the living room while some random reality show plays quietly in the background. You’re curled up on the couch between Minji and Soomin with your legs tucked beneath a blanket, phone resting against your stomach while your entire body still feels tight from everything that happened today.

Honestly, ‘tight’ might be an understatement. Your nervous system has been held hostage by Jeon Jungkook since approximately nine in the morning.

The classroom argument keeps replaying in your head against your will, followed immediately by the memory of him watching you across the courtyard afterward, cigarette between his fingers while your boyfriend kissed you completely unaware.

Just thinking about that goddamn smirk again makes heat crawl uncomfortably up your neck.

“You look traumatized,” Minji says finally, glancing over from the other side of the couch.

“I might actually be,” you mumble dramatically before dragging both hands down your face. “I genuinely don’t know if i’ll survive Jeon Jungkook today.”

That immediately earns a snort from Soomin. “Well then reschedule,” she says simply. “Tell him you have a headache or something.”

You roll your eyes instantly. “Yeah, because he’s definitely gonna believe that.” Still… Your gaze slowly drifts toward your phone.

Minji notices immediately. “Oh my god. You’re considering it.”

“No I’m not.”

“You literally are.”

You stare at the screen for another few seconds before finally sighing dramatically and unlocking your phone anyway.

“Fine,” you mutter. “But when this fails horribly, I want both of you to remember this moment.”

Soomin grins. “Yasss. Lie to that man.”

You quickly type out the message before you can overthink it.

you: migraine. can’t study tonight.

The reply comes so fast it almost feels aggressive.

jungkook: cute excuse. door better be unlocked when i get there.

Your jaw drops. “Oh my god,” you whisper in disbelief. “What the fuck is actually wrong with him?”

Minji immediately grabs for the phone. “LET ME SEE.”

You hold it away dramatically while glaring at the screen. “He’s such an asshole.”

Then, fueled entirely by irritation and poor decision making, you type back:

you: fuck off. i got a migraine fr and going to bed early. we’re rescheduling.

And before he can answer? You turn your phone off completely.

The girls immediately erupt beside you.

“AS YOU SHOULD!"

“Stand your ground, queen.”

A laugh escapes you despite yourself and for the first time all day, you actually feel slightly victorious. Maybe Jungkook finally pushed too far, maybe you’re finally growing a backbone.

Or maybe you’re just delusional.

Either way, you ride the confidence upstairs when you go to your room later, changing into comfortable pajamas before climbing into bed with your laptop balanced against your legs. Rain taps softly against the windows outside while Netflix loads quietly across the screen and slowly, little by little, your shoulders finally start relaxing.

See? Nothing happened.

Jungkook’s not here. The world didn’t end.

Everything’s fi-

tap.

You freeze. The sound is soft enough that you almost convince yourself you imagined it.

Then another tap comes a few seconds later. You pause your show while your heartbeat suddenly starts climbing.

Slowly, confused, your eyes drift toward the window andyour soul nearly leaves your body.

Jungkook crouches outside your second-story window with a cigarette between his lips, dark hoodie pulled over his head while rain dampens the edges of his hair. One hand rests casually inside his pocket and the second your eyes meet through the glass, he tilts his head slightly.

Like this is completely normal behavior.

Every single thought inside your brain evaporates instantly. There’s a terrifying mix of fear and heat rushing through your body so violently it almost makes you dizzy because what the actual fuck is he doing here?

Jungkook taps the glass once more before speaking through the window, voice low and calm enough to make it worse somehow.

“Open the window.”

You don’t move. You’re still sitting frozen in bed staring at him like prey spotting a predator too late.

Jungkook watches your expression carefully before taking a slow drag from his cigarette.

Then, just as calm: “Open the fucking window or I’m gonna break it.”

No anger nor a raised voice. Which somehow makes the threat feel completely real. Your pulse goes feral.

Slowly, almost mechanically, you push yourself out of bed and walk toward the window while Jungkook watches your every movement through the glass. The second you unlock it and slide it open, cold air rushes into the room together with cigarette smoke and rain.

And then he climbs inside. Like he belongs there.

Instinctively, you back away the moment his shoes hit the floor while your heart pounds violently against your ribs, but Jungkook only straightens calmly before pulling the cigarette from his lips and looking at you with that same terrifying composure he always has. He takes another drag before flicking the cigarette through the window.

“You turned your phone off,” he says simply.

Like that explains everything. He keeps looking at you like he already knows exactly what you’re thinking.

That’s the worst part.

Not the fact he climbed through your window. Not the rain still dripping faintly from the edges of his hoodie onto your bedroom floor. Not even the cigarette smoke slowly filling the room while your pulse spirals further and further out of control.

It’s the way he watches you: Calm. Patient. Completely aware.

Like he can see every panicked thought flickering behind your eyes before you even act on it.

“You know what’s funny?” he murmurs quietly while taking another slow step toward you. “You spent all day testing my fucking patience and now you look surprised I showed up.”

Your breathing turns uneven immediately.

“I didn’t test anything,” you argue weakly while instinctively backing away from him again.

Jungkook just hums beneath his breath.

“No?” Another step forward. “Calling me an asshole in front of an entire lecture hall wasn’t testing me?”

Heat flashes across your face. You keep moving backward slowly while he advances just as steadily, his gaze locked onto you with terrifying focus.

“Lying just to avoid me? Then telling me to fuck off over text?” he continues calmly. “Turning your phone off after I told you I was coming?”

Your legs hit the edge of the bed suddenly and you nearly stumble backward onto the mattress before catching yourself at the last second. Jungkook notices immediately, eyes flicking downward briefly before a smirk slowly pulls at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, now it’s sinking in…,” he murmurs softly. “Starting to realize this might’ve been a bad idea.”

Instead of staying cornered against the bed, you quickly move around it, keeping distance between the two of you while your heart pounds harder and harder inside your chest. Jungkook watches the movement with obvious amusement.

“You’re dramatic,” you mutter, trying desperately to sound unaffected.

“Yeah?” His head tilts slightly. “Then why do you keep running from me?”

Because every instinct inside your body is screaming at you to. The realization alone makes panic and heat mix together so violently it leaves you dizzy.

Slowly, carefully, you start backing toward the bedroom door instead and Jungkook notices instantly. A quiet laugh leaves him while he watches your eyes flick nervously between him and the exit.

“Seriously?” he chuckles softly. “You really think you’re faster than me?”

Your breath hitches and for one tiny second you hesitate before you run for the door anyway.

Your fingers barely brush the handle before Jungkook is suddenly there, large hand slamming flat against the wood above it hard enough to make you gasp. The door rattles sharply beneath the impact and before you can even process how fast he moved, his other hand calmly reaches down and twists the lock into place.

Click.

The sound echoes through the room like a gunshot.

Your pulse goes feral. “Jungkook-”

You try slipping past him immediately, panic hitting hard enough now that all you can think is 'window window window’, but the second you turn, his hand catches your wrist effortlessly.

Then suddenly your back slams against his chest. A startled yelp escapes you before his large hand immediately covers your mouth, pulling you tighter against him while your heart nearly explodes out of your ribs.

“Shhh…” he murmurs softly against your ear. The sound sends a violent shiver down your spine.

Everything about him feels overwhelming like this. The warmth of his body pressed firmly against yours, the smell of rain and smoke clinging to his hoodie, the way his chest rises slowly behind you while yours heaves uncontrollably.

And somehow the calmness in him only makes your panic worse.

“You’re gonna wake the whole fucking house,” he murmurs, lips brushing lightly against your ear now.

Your fingers instinctively grip his wrist while your breathing turns shallow beneath his hand. Jungkook notices every second of it.

A low chuckle vibrates against the side of your neck before his teeth graze your earlobe softly enough to make your knees nearly give out beneath you.

“Are you scared of me?” he asks quietly.

The question wraps around your throat instantly because the answer is complicated- you are scared. Not of him hurting you. Not truly. But scared of what happens to you around him.

Scared of how quickly your body folds every single time he corners you like this. Scared of the heat flooding through you right now despite the adrenaline making your pulse shake violently. Scared of the fact that even now, pinned against him with his hand over your mouth and the bedroom door locked behind you… you still don’t want him to stop.

A small sound escapes you before you can help it. Half whine, half something else entirely. Jungkook goes very still behind you for half a second, then he laughs quietly.

It’s not loud, not even cruel. But satisfied.

“Good,” he murmurs softly against your ear while his grip tightens just slightly around your wrist. “You fucking should be.”

A sudden knock against the bedroom door cuts through the tension so sharply that your entire body jolts.

“Hey, babe?” Soomin’s voice comes through the wood a second later, slightly muffled. “Are you okay? We heard a really loud noise.”

Pure panic flashes through you instantly. Jungkook feels it.

A quiet chuckle vibrates against the side of your neck while his hand still covers your mouth, your back pressed tightly against his chest as rain taps softly outside the open window behind you.

Then his lips brush your ear again.

“Tell her you’re fine,” he murmurs softly. “Tell her you’re just a stupid, clumsy thing and something fell down.”

Heat crashes through your body at the words, humiliation and arousal twisting together so violently it leaves your head spinning. Before you can even react, his hand slowly slides away from your mouth and down your throat instead, fingers wrapping firmly around it.

Not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you he’s still controlling this. You swallow hard beneath his grip while your pulse pounds wildly.

“I’m okay, Soomin,” you call out finally, praying your voice sounds normal. “Just… clumsy. My laptop fell from the bed.”

Silence follows for a second. Then:

“Okay…” Soomin says slowly. “Well, it sounded really loud.”

Jungkook’s fingers tighten slightly against your throat. “Lie better,” he whispers calmly into your ear. A shiver runs violently through you.

Then suddenly he starts guiding you toward the door, one hand still wrapped around your throat while the other settles briefly against your waist.

“Open it.”

Your stomach twists.

Slowly, nervously, you unlock the door and pull it open just enough to peek outside while Jungkook slips silently behind it, completely hidden from view.

Soomin immediately raises her eyebrows the second she sees your face.

“Oh my god,” she says slowly. “You look… I don’t know.” Her eyes narrow slightly. “Your face is completely flushed.”

You let out one slow breath while your heartbeat threatens to explode.

“Caught me,” you mumble awkwardly. “I was actually, uhm…” You vaguely point toward the bed behind you.

Soomin’s eyes widen instantly. “Oh my god,” she gasps. “You were having special alone time and I interrupted?” Heat floods your face for real this time.

“God, I’m so sorry!” She quickly holds her hands up.

“Yeah…” you laugh weakly, cheeks burning. “I, uh… fell from the bed.”

“So that’s why it sounded like someone died,” Soomin snorts before grinning suddenly. “Damn. That intense, huh? You need to tell me your secrets next time.”

Behind the door, you can feel Jungkook shifting and you swallow nervously. Soomin completely misses it.

“Well,” she continues with a wink, “have fun, babe. I’ll tell the others it was the washing machine or something.”

“Thanks.”

“Love you!”

“Bye.”

You slowly close the door again, pulse still racing violently, and the second the latch clicks shut, Jungkook’s hand immediately comes into view beside you.

Click.

He locks the door again.

The sound echoes through the room while you remain frozen against the wood, breathing unevenly as Jungkook steps back into view.

A slow smirk spreads across his face.

“Some special alone time, huh?” he murmurs, amusement dripping from every word. “That’s the best you could come up with?”

Heat burns across your face instantly.

Jungkook’s eyes drag slowly over your expression before he steps closer again, one hand settling beside your head against the door while the other remains loosely around your throat.

“You really are a little slut.”

The word hits exactly where he wants it to.

Your eyes flash immediately and Jungkook catches the reaction in real time, sees the anger flare behind your expression, sees the way your body tenses like you want to shove him away or curse him out again.

And then the asshole smirks.

“Do it,” he murmurs softly, lips dangerously close to yours now. “I dare you.”

The second the word leaves his mouth, Jungkook sees it hit you. Not the anger first or the embarrassment.

No… something way worse.

Your breath catches sharply while your entire body goes tense beneath his hand and for half a second you look genuinely offended, lips parting immediately like you’re about to snap back at him again.

But then nothing comes out and Jungkook notices that too. A slow smile spreads across his face while his thumb drags lightly against the side of your throat, eyes locked onto yours with terrifying focus.

“There it is,” he murmurs softly. “That little look again.”

Heat burns straight through you. “Shut up.”

The words come out weak, almost breathless. Jungkook’s expression darkens instantly at that.

“Oh,” he says quietly, almost amused now. “That word got to you, huh?”

Your stomach twists violently. “No it didn’t.”

“Liar.”

He steps even closer until your back presses fully against the locked door behind you, one hand planted beside your head while the other stays loosely around your throat. His eyes drag slowly across your face before dropping briefly to your mouth.

Then lower.

Watching the way your thighs instinctively press together again. A rough chuckle leaves him immediately.

“Fuck,” he mutters softly. “You really do like this shit.”

Humiliation crashes through you all over again. “You’re delusional.”

“And you’re standing here letting me call you dirty names while you melt over it.” His head tilts slightly. “Interesting little situation you got yourself into, princess.”

Your pulse pounds harder and harder while he keeps looking at you like he’s slowly peeling every layer off you one by one.

Then suddenly his expression shifts into something mocking.

“What did your sweet boyfriend say to you earlier that made you laugh like that, huh?”

The question catches you completely off guard. A fake pout tugs at his lips while he leans down closer, eyes never leaving yours.

“Was he all sweet with you?” he asks softly, voice dripping with fake sympathy. “Telling you cute little things while you smiled up at him?”

Heat floods your face because yes- He was.Your boyfriend was sweet. Gentle. Affectionate.

And somehow standing here now with Jungkook pressed against you, cigarette smell clinging to his clothes while his hand grips your throat possessively, that memory only makes your stomach twist harder.

Jungkook sees the realization happen in real time. The smirk on his face sharpens immediately.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Thought so.”

His thumb presses slightly higher beneath your jaw while his eyes darken.

“What do you think he’d say if he knew I was in your room right now?” he asks quietly.

Your breathing turns uneven instantly. Jungkook leans down until his lips brush barely against yours.

“What would he say,” he murmurs softly, “if he knew I’m standing here calling you my little whore…” Your breath catches sharply.

Jungkook’s tongue drags slowly across your lower lip. Then he pulls back just enough to whisper:

“…about to fuck you dumb?”

The words nearly destroy you.

Heat crashes through your body so violently your knees almost give out and Jungkook notices every second of it, sees the exact moment your resolve completely starts crumbling beneath him.

Because the worst part? You’ve thought about it too. Late at night. Alone in bed.

Replaying every filthy thing he’s whispered to you so far while imagining exactly what it would feel like if he finally stopped teasing and actually touched you the way he keeps promising he will.

And judging by the dark look settling deeper into Jungkook’s eyes… he knows.

“Fuck,” he mutters quietly while staring at your face. “You’ve imagined it already, haven’t you?” You hate that your silence gives you away.

Jungkook laughs softly beneath his breath before leaning down once more, mouth brushing teasingly against yours again like he’s about to kiss you properly this time.

But instead he just licks slowly across your lips once more…

…and pulls away.

The loss of contact feels almost painful. You stare at him in disbelief while he casually steps backward toward your bed, eyes never leaving yours for even a second. Completely calm. Completely confident.

Like he already knows exactly what you’re going to do next.

Jungkook drops onto the edge of the mattress slowly before spreading his legs slightly, tattooed hand resting lazily against his thigh while he looks up at you with smoke-dark eyes.

Then he pats his lap once. “Sit on your throne, princess.”

Your stomach flips. Because somehow that’s the part that affects you most: Not the degrading words or the threats. Not even him climbing through your goddamn window.

It’s this- The terrifying ease of the command. The way he says it like your place is already there. Already decided.

And horrifyingly enough… your body moves before your brain can catch up.

Jungkook watches you cross the room toward him with something dark and satisfied settling behind his expression, eyes dragging slowly over your body while you finally stop between his legs.

Then, without a single word of protest, you sink down into his lap again.

Exactly where he wanted you.

Jungkook’s hands settle against your waist the second you sit in his lap, fingers spreading slowly like he’s memorizing the shape of you there. The room feels unbearably warm now, rain still tapping softly against the windows while your pulse pounds harder with every second he keeps looking at you without moving.

And god, the way he’s looking at you… Like he already won.

Your eyes drift toward his lips almost automatically, still slightly swollen from the cigarette pressed between them earlier, and for one dangerous second you think he’s finally going to kiss you properly.

But he doesn’t. He just sits there watching you. Waiting.

The intensity of it makes your stomach twist violently because suddenly you realize exactly what he’s doing. Jungkook wants you to choose this. Wants you to cross the line yourself so there’s no pretending afterward, no acting like he forced you into something you didn’t secretly crave from the start.

A slow smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth when he sees the realization hit. Then quietly, voice rough enough to send heat rushing straight through you:

“If you want something…” His hands tighten slightly against your waist. “…take it yourself.”

You blink at him for a second, breath uneven, brain struggling to catch up while his eyes stay locked onto yours with terrifying patience. Then you understand.

And suddenly you’re nervous again.

Which is ridiculous considering everything that already happened between the two of you, but somehow this feels different. More dangerous somehow. Because now he’s waiting for you to do it first.

To prove him right.

Slowly, almost shyly, you lean forward.

Your fingers curl against his shoulders first before sliding higher toward his neck, brushing through the damp strands of his hair while your lips finally meet his.

Soft. Careful. Tentative enough that it almost feels sweet. And Jungkook lets you.

He doesn’t take control immediately. Doesn’t grab your face or pull you closer. He just sits there beneath you while you kiss him first, hands still firm against your waist as if he’s letting you figure this out on your own.

The realization alone nearly melts you. So you kiss him again, longer this time. Your fingers tighten in his hair while confidence slowly starts replacing the hesitation and Jungkook finally reacts, a low groan vibrating against your mouth the second your lips part slightly for him.

The sound destroys whatever self-control you had left. Heat crashes through your body while you kiss him harder now, your hands sliding fully into his hair as his grip on your waist suddenly tightens enough to pull a gasp from you.

That’s all it takes.

One second the kiss feels slow and teasing and the next it turns messy almost instantly, Jungkook finally kissing you back with all the intensity he’d been holding back until now.

More tongue. More teeth. More heat.

His hand slides up your spine before gripping the back of your neck, holding you exactly where he wants you while your mouths move together desperately enough that neither of you can breathe properly anymore. The wet sounds of kissing fill the room together with uneven breathing and quiet curses slipping from Jungkook every time you tug at his hair.

“Fuck…” he groans against your lips when your hips shift instinctively against him. The sound goes straight through you.

Jungkook kisses like he does everything else, controlled right until the moment he suddenly isn’t. One second he’s calm and composed and the next his teeth catch your lower lip hard enough to make you gasp into his mouth while his fingers dig possessively into your waist. And somehow that only makes you kiss him harder.

Saliva glistens between your mouths every time he pulls back barely an inch before crashing back into you again, messy and hungry now while your fingers stay tangled tightly in his hair. Jungkook moans quietly when you tug harder and the sound nearly drives you insane because it’s the first time he’s sounded genuinely affected tonight.

Not smug or teasing just genuinely gone.

His forehead presses briefly against yours while both of you struggle for air, but even then he doesn’t let you get far. His mouth keeps brushing against yours between breaths, tongue dragging slowly along your lower lip again before he mutters lowly:

“There’s my princess…” And this time the words don’t sound mocking at all. They sound possessive. Jungkook kisses you like he’s trying to drag every reaction out of your body at once.

Your fingers stay tangled tightly in his damp hair while his hands grip your waist hard enough to keep you completely pinned against him, every messy slide of his mouth against yours making your head spin worse and worse.

The room feels overheated now, thick with smoke and tension and the quiet wet sounds of kissing while your breathing turns more uneven every second he keeps pulling those desperate little noises from you.

A low groan leaves him when your hips shift instinctively in his lap again.

“Fuck…” he murmurs against your mouth before dragging his lips slowly along yours once more. “I’m gonna make you feel so fucking good, baby…”

The words hit straight through you. A soft moan escapes before you can stop it and Jungkook immediately swallows the sound with another rough kiss, tongue brushing against yours while his hand slides higher up your back possessively.

Then suddenly… he pulls back slightly. Just enough that his lips still ghost against yours while both of you struggle for air.

And then, sweetly enough to make it worse, he whispers:

“But first…” His thumb brushes slowly along your waist. “…I’m gonna punish the shit out of you for today.”

Your eyes snap open instantly. The blood in your veins practically freezes. Jungkook sees the exact second the realization hits and the corner of his mouth twitches upward immediately.

Because he means it. Oh god. He actually means it.

Before you can even process what the hell that’s supposed to mean, Jungkook kisses you again hard enough to steal the breath from your lungs while one arm suddenly hooks around your waist.

Then the world flips.

A startled gasp tears from you when he throws you backward onto the mattress, your body bouncing slightly against the bed hard enough to knock the air straight out of your chest.

Jungkook climbs over you immediately. Terrifyingly composed despite the fact he was just kissing you like he’d lost his mind thirty seconds ago.

“Jungkook, I-”

“What?” he interrupts instantly, amusement dripping from every word while he settles between your legs. “You thought all’s good now?” A low chuckle leaves him. “Thought I’d just overlook everything?”

Heat flashes through you while your pulse starts climbing all over again.

“Cute.” The mocking tone nearly kills you.

Instinctively you try scooting backward across the mattress, some survival instinct finally kicking back in now that he’s towering over you like this, but Jungkook just grabs both your ankles effortlessly before dragging you right back toward him again.

The movement pulls a shocked sound from your throat. Jungkook’s eyes darken immediately.

“No more running,” he murmurs calmly while his hands slide slowly up your legs. “But keep fighting me.” A dangerous smirk spreads across his face. “Turns me the fuck on.”

Jungkook keeps you pinned beneath him for several long seconds after dragging you back across the mattress, one hand wrapped loosely around your ankle while the other braces beside your head. His breathing is slightly uneven from the kissing, dark hair falling messily across his forehead now, but somehow he still looks maddeningly composed.

Meanwhile your entire brain feels like it’s actively melting.

The room stays quiet except for rain tapping softly outside and both of your breathing slowly filling the space between you. Jungkook studies your face carefully, eyes dragging over every tiny reaction like he’s piecing something together.

Then finally he sighs softly through his nose.

“You really know how to piss me off,” he murmurs almost fondly.

Your stomach flips nervously. “Jungkook-”

“No.” His thumb brushes once against your ankle. “You don’t get to interrupt right now.”

Heat flashes through you immediately. A low hum leaves him while his gaze drifts slowly downward over your body before returning to your face again.

“You fought with me in class.” Calm. Casual. “Called me an asshole in front of everyone.” Another slight tilt of his head. “Ignored my texts. Turned your phone off. Tried to hide from me.”

Every word settles heavier and heavier inside your chest because he’s listing them like offenses being read aloud before sentencing.

And horrifyingly enough… part of you likes it.

Jungkook sees the realization flicker across your face instantly and the corner of his mouth twitches upward.

“Yeah,” he murmurs quietly. “That’s what I thought.”

Your thighs press together instinctively and his eyes flick downward immediately.

A rough chuckle leaves him. “Holy fuck.”

Heat burns through your entire body while Jungkook slowly sits back on his heels between your legs, one hand sliding lazily along your thigh.

Then, completely calm, like he’s asking what you want for dinner:

“You can choose.”

You blink at him. “…what?”

Jungkook’s expression barely changes.

“I’m either gonna spank your bare ass twenty times with my hand…” His fingers tap lightly against your thigh once. “…five with the belt…”

Your breathing catches sharply at that one. Jungkook sees it immediately and a slow grin spreads across his face.

“Oh?” he murmurs mockingly. “That scared you a little?”

“You’re insane.”

“Hm.” Completely unconcerned.

Then his thumb presses slightly harder against your thigh while his voice drops lower.

“…or ten against your bare cunt.”

Your entire body goes still. Jungkook watches it happen in real time and actually laughs quietly beneath his breath.

Not loud. Worse.

Genuinely amused.

“There it is,” he murmurs softly. “That’s the one.”

Your stomach flips violently. “No it’s not.”

“Princess.” His head tilts slightly while his eyes drag slowly over your flushed face. “Your thighs literally just closed.”

Humiliation burns straight through you because the worst part is that he sounds almost pleased by it.

Like he enjoys exposing you.

“You should see your face right now,” he says quietly, lips twitching again. “Cute little brain trying so hard not to imagine it.”

Your breath turns uneven immediately.

A rough exhale leaves him while his fingers slowly slide higher up your thigh until you physically tense beneath him.

“Fuck,” he mutters softly. “You really don’t know how obvious you are yet, huh?”

You glare up at him instantly. “Shut up.” But it comes out weak again. Breathless.

And Jungkook absolutely loves it. A dark grin spreads slowly across his face while he leans down closer, close enough now that his lips brush faintly against yours when he speaks.

“I can practically hear you thinking,” he murmurs quietly. “Trying to decide which one would hurt the most.” His thumb presses lightly between your thighs over your pajamas. “Meanwhile your body’s over here getting wetter every second.”

A soft sound escapes you before you can stop it and Jungkook’s eyes darken immediately.

“There she is,” he whispers.

Heat crashes through you so violently it almost hurts.

“You know what I think?” he asks softly while watching your expression unravel further. “I think part of you wants me to choose.” A low chuckle leaves him. “Because then you can keep pretending none of this is your fault.”

You glare at him instantly. “You’re an asshole.”

“Yeah.” Completely calm. “Still waiting for an answer.”

Then finally, when you still don’t answer, a slow grin spreads across his face.

“Okay then…”

Your stomach twists sharply because the second those words leave his mouth, you already know he’s choosing for you.

Jungkook watches the realization settle into your face with obvious satisfaction before slowly leaning down over you again, one hand spreading beside your head while the other drifts lazily along your thigh.

“Look at you,” he murmurs softly. “Completely gone already and I haven’t even started.”

Heat burns through your entire body while his fingers slide slowly upward beneath the hem of your pajama shorts, teasing without really touching where you want him most. Every movement feels deliberate now, like he’s dragging the anticipation out on purpose just to watch you squirm beneath him.

And the worst part? He looks like he’s enjoying this far too much.

His mouth brushes slowly against your jaw before trailing lower toward your throat while his fingers hook lazily into the buttons of your pajama top, undoing them one by one with agonizing patience.

Then quietly:

“Also…” His lips ghost softly beneath your ear. “…there’s something else that made me fucking mad, princess.”

Your stomach thightens at his words.

A low hum leaves him while another button slips free beneath his fingers, exposing more skin inch by inch while his eyes stay fixed on your face.

“Can you guess what it was?”

You blink up at him, still dazed from the kissing, from him dragging you across the bed earlier, from the way he keeps touching you like he already owns every inch of your body.

“I…” Your voice catches slightly. “I don’t know.”

Jungkook clicks his tongue softly. “Use that brain, dummy,” he murmurs against your skin.

His hand slips beneath the fabric of your pajama top then, fingertips dragging slowly across your stomach and your breath hitches hard enough to interrupt your thoughts completely.

Jungkook notices that too and a quiet chuckle vibrates against your throat. “See?” he murmurs mockingly. “Can’t even think properly anymore.”

You hate how weak your body feels beneath him. Hate how your brain keeps turning to static every time his hands move over you.

His lips trail lower along your neck before suddenly his teeth catch your skin hard enough to pull a sharp whine from your throat.

“There it is…” he mutters softly.

Then he sucks slowly against the sensitive spot beneath your jaw while his hand spreads possessively over your stomach, holding you still against the mattress while you squirm beneath him.

Your fingers clutch weakly at his shirt. “Jungkook…”

A low hum leaves him before he finally pulls back just enough to look down at you again. And somehow that calm expression is worse than if he looked angry.

Because he looks completely composed. Completely certain.

His thumb brushes slowly across your waist beneath your pajama shirt while his voice drops quieter now.

Too quiet.

“I told you yesterday,” he murmurs softly, “to fucking text me when you got home.”

Your eyes snap open instantly. Oh. Oh no.

“I…” Your stomach drops violently. “I forgot-”

Jungkook clicks his tongue immediately. “Stupid.”

Heat crashes through you all at once. Another soft kiss presses against your throat.

“Stupid little girl,” he murmurs almost affectionately before biting lightly at your skin again hard enough to make you gasp.

“I really forgot,” you whisper quickly, trying to explain while your pulse spirals harder and harder beneath him. “I didn’t mean to-”

“But you still forgot.” Calm. Casual. “After I told you to do one simple fucking thing.”

Humiliation curls hot in your stomach while Jungkook watches your face carefully, fingers slowly gliding higher beneath your pajama top.

“You know what I think?” he asks softly.

You barely manage a shaky breath. “What…?”

“I think you stopped taking me seriously for a second.” His thumb drags lightly across your skin. “Thought maybe I’d let things slide because i kissed you a little.”

Your stomach sinks because that’s almost exactly what happened.

Jungkook sees the realization spread across your face instantly and the corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s what I thought.”

His hand suddenly grips your waist firmly before he leans down close enough that his lips brush faintly against yours again.

“You’re learning though,” he whispers softly. “Slowly.”

Then another kiss against your mouth. Gentle this time, almost sweet.

The sudden softness catches you completely off guard after everything else tonight and before you can stop yourself, your body relaxes slightly beneath him. Your fingers loosen against his shirt while you melt into the kiss for one dangerous second, lips moving slowly against his while the hand beneath your pajama top drifts lazily across your skin.

And Jungkook notices immediately. A low hum vibrates against your mouth the exact moment you soften for him.

Then suddenly-

Pain flashes sharply through your chest when his fingers pinch your nipple hard enough to rip a loud whine straight from your throat.

Jungkook swallows the sound instantly with his mouth.

The kiss changes immediately after that, less gentle now, more possessive.

His hand tightens around your waist while his mouth moves hungrily against yours, tongue brushing forcefully against yours as another softer whimper escapes into the kiss. Jungkook groans quietly at the sound before pinching again just enough to make your back arch beneath him.

Heat crashes through your body violently while he keeps kissing you harder now, every movement deliberate, possessive, like he’s actively reminding you who’s in control again after letting you relax for those few stupid seconds.

Your fingers tighten in his shirt instinctively. A dark chuckle leaves him before his teeth catch your lower lip briefly.

“See what happens?” he murmurs softly. “The second you get comfortable, you stop thinking.”

Your breathing turns uneven again immediately, eyes glistening faintly once the sharp sting finally eases..

Jungkook’s mouth drags over your neck downwards to your chest until he softly takes the sensitive nub between his lips, gently sucking and kissing it.

“Good girl.” he mutters against your heated skin and you automatically arch your back against his mouth.

Jungkook finally releases your nipple with a quiet hum before sitting back slightly above you and for one horrible second you think maybe he’s done teasing now.

But then his hands move toward his belt. Your stomach drops instantly.

The metallic sound of the buckle sliding free cuts through the room while your pulse suddenly pounds harder beneath your ribs. You watch him slowly pull the belt from the loops of his jeans inch by inch and the moment leather slips fully free, your body instinctively squirms beneath him.

A low chuckle leaves him while he glances up at your face, dark eyes dragging slowly across your expression.

“Relax, dummy…” he murmurs softly.

Heat floods your face anyway because absolutely nothing about this feels relaxing right now.

The belt hangs loosely from his hand while he shifts closer again and before you can even ask what he’s doing, his fingers close around your wrists. Your breath catches sharply.

Jungkook calmly guides your hands above your head before threading the belt around them and securing it loosely against the headboard behind you. Not painful. Not tight enough to hurt. Just enough to stop you from pulling away.

“There,” he mutters quietly once he’s finished, eyes flicking over your restrained wrists with obvious satisfaction. “That’s better.”

Your pulse jumps violently when you test the movement slightly and realize you genuinely can’t move your hands now.

Jungkook notices that too and the corner of his mouth lifts faintly. “Cute,” he murmurs while settling back between your legs again.

The mattress dips beneath his weight while his hands slowly drag down your body- fingertips brushing over your stomach before hooking into the waistband of your pajama pants.

Your breathing turns uneven immediately.

Jungkook keeps his eyes on your face the entire time while he slowly pulls the fabric down your legs, watching every tiny reaction like he’s studying you.

Like he enjoys seeing you nervous. And honestly? He probably does.

The second the fabric disappears completely, his gaze drags slowly over your body before a quiet exhale leaves him beneath his breath.

“Fuck…” he mutters softly.

Heat burns across your face while you instinctively try to close your legs a little but Jungkook’s hand immediately settles against your thigh, stopping you.

“None of that.”

Your stomach twists harder.

Then his fingers tighten slightly against your thigh while his expression turns calm again. Focused.

Terrifyingly composed.

“You’re gonna count for me,” he says quietly. “And if you miss one…” His eyes lift slowly back toward yours. “…I’m starting all over again.”

Your breath catches sharply. For a second you just stare at him in shock, brain struggling to fully process what the hell is happening right now.

Jungkook waits patiently. Eventually you manage the tiniest nod and a slow smirk spreads across his face.

“Good girl.” The praise melts through you embarrassingly fast.

Then Jungkook’s hands slide firmly against the inside of your thighs before gently pushing them apart.

“Spread your legs.” And suddenly you realize exactly which punishment he chose.

The first slap catches you off guard- his hand lands exactly in the middle of your exposed pussy and a sharp sting spreads instantly through your body. You let out a strong gasp and instinctively try to close your legs but Jungkook holds them open with ease.

“Count.” he orders in the same calm tone as if none of this affects him at all. You swallow thickly before muttering a small “One” and he hums in return.

“Good girl.”

His fingers run through your wet folds a few times, pulling another shudder from you and a quiet moan slips beneath your lips just as his hand lands on the sensitive flesh once again.

“Fuck!” you yelp, eyes clenched shut but when you slowly open them again you see his raised eyebrows and quickly add, “Two…” He nods approvingly.

Jungkook hums softly in approval, fingers smoothing briefly along your thigh afterward almost absentmindedly before another slap follows only seconds later.

This one feels worse- not because it hurts more, but because now you’re expecting it.

Your entire body tenses in anticipation and Jungkook notices immediately, eyes flicking slowly across your face while another quiet sound escapes you.

“Three,” you whisper.

“Louder.”

Heat burns through your cheeks. “Three,” you repeat properly this time and a faint grin spreads across his face.

“That’s better.”

The room slowly fills with the sound of your uneven breathing mixed with the occasional sharp sting that keeps pulling broken reactions from your throat. Somewhere around four your legs start trembling slightly beneath his grip and Jungkook notices that too, thumb pressing lazily into your skin while he watches you try to hold yourself together.

“You’re sensitive already?” he murmurs almost mockingly. “Poor thing.”

You glare at him instantly despite the tears beginning to sting faintly at the corners of your eyes.

“Shut up.”

A low chuckle leaves him. Then another slap lands before you’re fully prepared for it and your back arches sharply against the mattress while a louder sound slips from your mouth before you can stop it.

“Fuck-”

Jungkook’s eyebrows lift. Your eyes squeeze shut in embarrassment before you quickly force out:

“Five.”

“There you go.” The praise feels humiliatingly good.

That’s the worst part. Not the punishment itself. Not even the sting.

It’s the way your body reacts every time he tells you you’re doing well, every soft “good girl” melting straight through your pride while Jungkook watches the effect it has on you with growing amusement.

By the time he reaches seven your breathing is completely uneven now, thighs twitching helplessly beneath his hands while your wrists pull instinctively against the belt every time another sting spreads through your body.

And somehow Jungkook still looks perfectly composed. Relaxed even.

Like he could do this all night.

“You keeping up okay, princess?” he asks softly after another sharp slap makes your head fall back briefly against the pillows.

You nod weakly. “Mhm.”

His hand grips your jaw lightly immediately, forcing your eyes back toward him.

“Use your words.”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Then another slap lands suddenly and your entire body jerks beneath him hard enough that the next number completely slips from your brain.

Silence.

Oh no.

Your eyes widen instantly while Jungkook just watches you calmly.

“…what comes after seven?” he asks softly. Panic flashes through you immediately.

“Wait- give me a second please…”

“Too dumb to count properly?”

“Jungkook please-”

His head tilts slightly, expression almost thoughtful now while his fingers drag lazily over your wet folds again. “Think carefully, dummy.”

You try to breathe properly, cheeks burning with humiliation while your thoughts scramble uselessly around in your head.

“…eight,” you whisper finally.

Jungkook studies your face for another second before humming softly. “Correct.”

Relief crashes through you embarrassingly fast.

His thumb presses against your clit, drawing slow circles around the sensitive nub, pulling a deep moan from you. He increases the speed of his thumb, making you squirm beneath him while a slow smirk spreads across his face. Your eyes almost flutter shut as your thighs start to tremble, your orgasm building embarrassingly fast.

Just as your release is about to crash over you, he removes his thumb, delivering the last two slaps harshly against your pussy and bringing you over the edge. The final sting sends tears slipping fully down your cheeks despite how hard you try to hold them back.

“Oh my god-“ a strangled sob escapes you as pain and pleasure mix together and wash over you in intense waves. Jungkook lets out a satisfied hum as he watches your body writhe beneath him while he softly grips your waist.

Your body goes limp and you let yourself sink further into the mattress. You feel Jungkook’s weight shift on top of you and suddenly his lips are against your ear, softly whispering:

“Forgetting something, princess?”

You open your eyes in exhaustion. He’s already looking at you, waiting for your answer and you swallow thickly.

“Nine… ten…” your voice weak and small.

Jungkook studies your face for another second after the weak answer leaves your lips before a quiet satisfied hum finally escapes him.

“There you go,” he murmurs softly. “Knew you could do it.”

Your chest rises and falls unevenly while he reaches upward to loosen the belt around your wrists, fingers rubbing gently over the faint red marks left behind. The sudden softness after everything else tonight feels almost disorienting and your eyes flutter shut briefly when he brings one of your wrists toward his mouth, pressing a slow kiss against the sensitive skin there.

“So pretty like this,” he mutters quietly.

Heat spreads weakly through your exhausted body while Jungkook’s hands slide slowly down your arms afterward before one of them hooks beneath the hem of his hoodie. Your breath catches the second he pulls it over his head, revealing warm skin, dark tattoos and lean muscle beneath the dim light of your room.

And embarrassingly enough… you stare.

Jungkook notices it and slow smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth while he tosses the hoodie somewhere onto the floor, dark eyes flicking briefly toward your face when he catches the way your gaze drags helplessly across his chest. But he doesn’t tease you for it.

Instead he just leans back over you again slowly, one hand settling beside your head while the other glides lazily across your waist beneath your already open pajama top.

“You look exhausted,” he murmurs softly, lips brushing faintly against yours.

“You’re horrible,” you whisper weakly. A quiet chuckle leaves him.

“Yeah,” he hums against your mouth. “Still did so good for me though.” The praise melts straight through you again.

Jungkook kisses you slowly after that, deep enough to leave your thoughts hazy while his hand drifts lower over your stomach, fingers tracing absentminded patterns against your skin. Every touch feels unhurried now, almost lazy, like he has all the time in the world while he takes you apart piece by piece.

His mouth leaves yours eventually only to drag lower instead. Over your jaw. Your throat.

A soft shiver rolls through your body the second his lips press against one of the marks he left there earlier and Jungkook hums quietly at the reaction before kissing lower again.

“You get sensitive so fast,” he murmurs softly against your skin, sounding almost amused by it.

Heat curls low in your stomach while his hands slowly push the fabric of your pajama top further open again, exposing your chest completely beneath him while his mouth keeps wandering lower.

Every kiss feels deliberate. Possessive. Like he’s memorizing you now.

Your breathing turns uneven again the moment his lips brush over your chest, lingering there just long enough to make your pulse stutter while his hands tighten faintly against your waist.

“Jungkook…” you breathe softly.

A low hum vibrates against your skin in response before he kisses lower again, dragging his mouth slowly over your stomach while his fingers spread gently against your hips to keep you still beneath him.

And when his lips finally brush against the inside of your thigh? Your entire body jerks slightly.

Jungkook chuckles quietly at that, eyes lifting briefly toward your face while his thumb strokes lazily against your skin.

“So fucking reactive,” he murmurs softly. “Can barely touch you without you falling apart for me.”

You feel his hot breath right between your legs before his tongue drags lazily over your folds, settling at your clit where he starts sucking almost softly.

“Oh…” you breathe out, your back arching as everything is still sensitive and overstimulated. Jungkook just hums, giving your clit a lazy swirl with his tongue as he carefully pushes two fingers inside of you.

“So fucking tight…” he mumbles while curling his long fingers against your sweet spot over and over again. “You taste so sweet, baby.” He hums, then his mouth is on you again, this time more intense, latching onto you like he’s possessed and turning you into a writhing mess.

“C-close…” you gasp, one hand finding his hair as you give it a strong tug and he hums in response.

Your eyes flutter shut as he mercilessly sucks on your clit while his fingers continue to fuck you open with scissoring motions, and moments later your orgasm crashes over you so intensely that you grab the nearest pillow to muffle your screams.

Jungkook continues to help you ride it out until you try to close your legs and shove him away. He just chuckles and slowly lets go of your throbbing pussy before sitting back up. You’re still hiding beneath the pillow, your chest rising and falling as your breathing slowly returns to normal when he pulls it away, looking down at you with a smirk.

“Cute.”

His arm reaches out to brush the strands of hair clinging to your sweaty forehead out of your face. You look up at him, slowly blinking, and once again, almost instinctively, lean into his touch. You can see the way his jaw clenches at that, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Jungkook strokes your cheek one last time before slowly retracting his hand and settling it at his pants. Your eyes follow his movements as he opens them, hooking his fingers beneath the waistband of his pants and boxers before stepping out of them entirely, leaving him completely naked before you.

You swallow as you take in his whole form and something in your chest shifts slightly, but you quickly push it away as you sit up and peel off your pajama top, leaving both of you entirely bare. He hums, the corner of his mouth lifting as he slowly climbs above you.

“Are you on the pill?”

You blink. “What?”

“Can I fuck you raw?” He tilts his head and the way he licks his lips makes your heart stutter for a second.

“Y-yes…” you finally manage to say, and he smirks. “Yes, what?”

“Yes, please…” you whisper against his lips, your sense of shame already gone. All you want is Jeon Jungkook inside of you. Right now.

“Hm…” he hums, his tongue ghosting over your bottom lip. “I think you can do better than that, princess.”

“Jungkook…” you whine in frustration, which makes him chuckle, clearly enjoying it. “Please fuck me. There, happy?” You roll your eyes and he lets out a snort.

“Did you just fucking roll your eyes?”

You open your mouth to protest, but he already pushes you back into the mattress. “Shut up. Turn around, hands on the bed, ass up…”

“Wait, wha…” you don’t even finish the sentence before he grabs your waist and flips you onto your stomach, a surprised yelp escaping you.

Jungkook looks down at your figure lying beneath him as he wraps his hand around his cock, giving it a few pumps before lining himself up within your soaking entrance. His chest presses against your back, one hand wrapped around your throat as you finally feel him push inside.

He’s not fast with it. It’s slow, almost excruciating. And still, the stretch is so intense your walls try to refuse him at first.

“Jungkook…” you gasp. “…too much… I can’t…”

He lets out a low chuckle against your ear.

“You can and you will, princess. Listen to the cute noises your cunt makes every time my dick slides back in…”

To make a point, he pulls back only to thrust in again, the wet smacking sound echoing through the room.

You shake your head while clutching at the bedsheets. “Too big… you’re too big…”

“Aw.” He tuts with fake concern, his hand landing sharply against your ass. “Poor little baby can’t handle my dick. Where’d all the attitude go, huh?” His hips snap against yours as he sets a faster, rougher pace, making you whine into the sheets.

“Your mouth’s writing checks your ass can’t cash, dumb little brat,” he growls, grabbing a fistful of your hair and pulling a sinful moan from you that would usually belong in a porn.

The degradation should irritate you, should offend you, but instead you can feel yourself getting wetter by the second, and so can Jungkook.

“Fuck, you’re soaking. It’s literally running down your fucking legs…” His voice is hoarse, fingertips pressing into your skin as if he’s trying to brand you. And maybe he truly is.

His hand runs over the curve of your ass, kneading the soft flesh and spreading your cheeks when you feel his thumb against your back entrance. You freeze for a second and he notices immediately.

“Ever tried it before?” he asks calmly, and you let out a shy, “No,” earning a soft hum in response. His thumb circles the tight hole over and over before he finally says, “Relax. Not tonight.”

Before you can properly process his words, you feel his breath fanning against your cheek.

“But soon I’m gonna fuck that cute ass.”

Jungkook flips you around onto your back and increases the pace of his thrusts. His cock keeps hitting that special spot inside you while he reaches down to circle your clit.

“I’m gonna…” you bite your lip, desperately trying not to be too loud as you stare up at him. Sweat clings to his forehead, his hair messy, and suddenly all you want to do is bite that lip piercing of his. You grab him by the neck and pull him down, kissing him fiercely, which earns you a satisfied grunt from him.

“Fuck, baby…” he mumbles against your lips as his thrusts turn harsher, almost painful in the most delicious way. Your legs lock behind his back as your orgasm crashes through you, making you uncontrollably tremble beneath him. Jungkook follows seconds later, burying himself as deep as possible while his cum floods your swollen walls, slowly dripping out of you afterward.

“Holy fuck…” he breathes against your neck and you manage a weak nod. Your hand wanders absentmindedly through his hair and down his back, drawing lazy patterns against his skin.

For a long moment neither of you says anything.

The room feels heavy in the aftermath, warm and ruined and far too quiet now compared to everything that happened only minutes ago. Your body still buzzes pleasantly from the intensity of it all while Jungkook stays stretched out on top of you, one arm lazily wrapped around your waist as both of you slowly catch your breath again.

It should feel wrong. You should want distance after everything that happened tonight. Instead you feel… comfortable. Safe.

The realization settles unpleasantly in your chest. Dangerous.

Jungkook notices the shift immediately but instead of commenting on it his head tilts slightly toward the hoodie tossed somewhere beside the bed.

“Mind if I smoke?”

Usually you would. Usually you’d complain about the smell, roll your eyes dramatically, tell him he’s disgusting or slowly killing himself. But right now your brain still feels hazy and unfocused, caught somewhere between exhaustion and the terrifying realization slowly creeping up your spine.

“Huh?” you blink before quietly shaking your head. “Yeah… no. Go ahead.”

Jungkook goes still for the briefest moment beneath you. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But you do.

His eyes flick briefly toward your face like he’s trying to figure out what exactly is happening inside your head right now. Then, surprisingly, he doesn’t push.

Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t pry.

He just hums softly before reaching for the hoodie beside the bed and pulling a slightly crushed cigarette pack from the pocket.

Then suddenly his hands settle on your waist. Before you can even react properly, Jungkook flips the two of you over effortlessly until he’s lying beneath you instead, one arm tucked behind his head while the other brings the cigarette toward his lips.

You let out a startled sound immediately. “The fuck-”

A low chuckle rumbles beneath you. “Relax, princess.”

The lighter flicks softly in the dim room before smoke slowly curls upward between the two of you. You stay sprawled half on top of him afterward, your cheek resting against his chest while you continue tracing his tattoos absentmindedly.

It’s quiet.

Not awkward quiet. Just… still. The kind of silence that feels strangely intimate.

Jungkook smokes lazily above you while your fingers drift over the ink on his ribs and chest, your thoughts growing heavier and heavier the longer this silence stretches.

Because this doesn’t feel like hooking up anymore. It feels dangerously close to something else. And that realization honestly scares the shit out of you.

After a while your eyes drift upward toward the cigarette between his fingers.

“Can I try it?”

Jungkook immediately looks down at you with raised eyebrows. “Smoking kills.”

You stare at him flatly. “Are you serious right now?”

A grin slowly spreads across his face before he finally brings the cigarette toward your lips anyway.

“Go on then.”

You carefully lean upward and inhale way too much immediately.

The second smoke hits your lungs, violent coughing tears out of you while you jerk back against his chest in horror.

“Oh my god-” you choke out between coughs. “That is disgusting!”

Jungkook starts laughing instantly. Not the quiet amused chuckles from earlier. Actually laughing.

Deep enough that you can feel it rumbling through his chest beneath your cheek while he steadies the cigarette away from you.

“You looked confident for a second there too,” he grins.

“Shut up,” you cough weakly, smacking his chest which only makes him laugh harder.

Asshole.

Eventually the room settles again afterward, smoke curling lazily through the dim light while your fingers wander back toward the tattoos stretched across his chest.

You trace one slowly. Then another.

Jungkook watches you quietly this time, dark eyes half-lidded while the cigarette rests between his fingers near his lips.

Then softly: “Something going on in that head of yours?”

Your stomach tightens immediately. Because yes. Way too much. But there’s absolutely no fucking way you’re saying any of that out loud.

So instead you just shrug slightly against him. “Tired.”

Jungkook studies your face for another second like he knows you’re full of shit but decides to let it slide for now.

The silence stretches again after that until eventually the question slips from your mouth before you can stop it.

“…are you staying?”

Jungkook’s gaze flicks back down toward you immediately. “Do you want me to?”

The answer should be no. It absolutely should. Instead you hesitate and think about it.

Then slowly nod.

And something unreadable flickers briefly across Jungkook’s face before he leans back further into the pillows again.

“I would’ve stayed anyway.”

You immediately smack his chest again. “You’re so annoying.”

A low chuckle leaves him while his hand slides lazily up your back once more, fingers brushing through your hair.

“Yeah,” he murmurs softly. “Still not leaving though.”

And horrifyingly enough… you realize you’re glad.

➻ taglist for stupid little girl

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➻ You'll only find my work posted here, Wattpad and on my AO3 blog. I don't give consent for my work to be re-posted (in any language) onto any other platform, even if it is with credit. Thank you.

[bobbyseyesmile]

P A R T II - contains SMUT

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➻ pairing: badboy!jungkook x fem!reader

➻ authors note: this is NOT a romantic, cute little story. please read the warning tags & if you're not into this, don't read it. just to be on the safe side i'd label this as kinda dub-con but every person in this story is an adult and into this.

➻ warnings: kinda dub-con - contains SMUT as in oral [m receiving]/ deepthroat, dry humping over clothes, degradation & humiliation kink, manipulation, cheating, toxic situationship, toxic behavior

Monday evening feels different somehow.

Not because anything around you changed, but because you did. Or maybe because something inside you shifted the moment you actually sat down and wrote twenty thousand words about Jeon Jungkook instead of sleeping like a normal person.

Either way, by the time you stand in front of his apartment again, exhaustion sits heavy underneath your eyes while irritation buzzes beneath your skin like static. You barely slept, barely ate, and somehow your entire weekend got consumed by him. The realization alone makes you angrier.

Which is exactly why you slam the thick stack of papers directly against his chest the second he opens the door.

“There,” you snap. “Your stupid fucking essay.”

Jungkook blinks once before looking down at the massive stack now pressed against him. Then slowly, one eyebrow lifting:

“…what the fuck?”

“You said twenty thousand words.”

“And?” he asks flatly, already stepping aside to let you in. “Better be exactly 20k then.”

Your mouth falls open immediately. “Oh my god, you are such an asshole.”

A low laugh leaves him as he shuts the door behind you, cigarette tucked between his lips while he lazily flips through the pages. The apartment smells faintly like smoke and coffee again, the exact same way it always does, and somehow even that annoys you now because your entire body relaxes the second you walk inside.

Pathetic.

Jungkook keeps flipping through the essay while walking toward the desk and then suddenly stops.

Silence settles across the room. A dangerous kind of silence. Slowly, his eyes drag back up toward you.

an analysis on why jeon jungkook is the biggest asshole on campus

The corner of his mouth twitches once.

You immediately cross your arms defensively. “What?” you ask. “Academic honesty matters.”

Jungkook lets out a quiet scoff through his nose before looking back down at the title again like he genuinely cannot believe you. “You’re fucking unbelievable.”

“No,” you shoot back instantly. “You’re unbelievable. You made me write twenty thousand words overnight like some psychotic dictator.”

“And yet,” he says calmly while lifting the essay slightly, “you still fucking did it.”

Your stomach twists painfully- You hate that point. Hate that he’s right.

Jungkook drops into the desk chair afterward, lazily flipping through the pages while you linger nearby pretending not to care. Unfortunately your entire nervous system cares deeply.

At first, you expect him to laugh. Or mock you. Or tear the whole thing apart just to piss you off further. But the longer the silence stretches, the more his expression changes. Not softer. Worse.

Focused. Interested.

Every now and then he stops to reread a paragraph, eyes moving slower across the page while one tattooed hand taps lightly against the desk. The room stays completely quiet except for shifting paper and the occasional drag of his cigarette, and every passing second starts making your irritation twist together with nervousness.

Then finally: “…huh.”

Your eyes narrow immediately. “What the hell does that mean?”

Jungkook ignores the question completely and flips another page instead. Then another. Then another.

Your annoyance spikes instantly. “Well? Say something.”

Jungkook leans back slightly in the chair before finally looking up at you. “This is really fucking good.”

Your brain immediately stalls. “…what?”

“The flow’s better,” he says casually while tapping one of the pages. “You stopped trying so fucking hard to sound smart every second.”

Your chest tightens embarrassingly fast.

“It actually sounds natural now,” he continues. “Like a real person wrote it instead of some desperate little overachiever trying to impress professors.”

The praise hits you so hard it’s almost humiliating. Your entire body softens before you can stop it and Jungkook notices immediately. Of course he fucking notices.

A slow grin spreads across his face while he watches your expression change in real time. “Oh my god,” he murmurs, sounding genuinely entertained now.

Heat floods your face instantly. “What?”

“You’re so much worse with praise than I thought.”

“I am not.”

“Hm.” Completely unconvinced. Jungkook flips another page before snorting quietly under his breath again.

“What now?” you ask suspiciously.

He lifts the paper slightly. “You called me manipulative twelve times.”

“Because you are.”

“Arrogant nineteen.”

“Still true.”

“Insufferable thirty-four.” He looks up slowly. “Damn. You were passionate about this shit too.”

You try not to laugh and fail a little. Jungkook catches it immediately.

“Ah,” he murmurs while leaning back further in the chair. “So now you think this is funny.”

“I think you deserved it.”

The grin on his face sharpens slightly.

“And you got real fucking cocky all of a sudden.”

Honestly? You do feel cocky. He praised you. Praised your writing. Told you it was good. So now your ego is floating somewhere near the ceiling while your exhaustion slowly turns into dangerous confidence.

Without thinking too hard about it, you hop up onto the edge of his desk, swinging one leg lazily while crossing your arms again.

“Maybe your praise just proved i’m smarter than you thought,” you say smugly.

Jungkook goes quiet. Not annoyed or angry. Just watching you now. His head tilts slightly while his eyes drag slowly over you sitting there on his desk looking entirely too pleased with yourself.

And suddenly he looks almost amused, like you’re adorable for this.

Adorably fucking stupid.

“Actually,” you continue, still riding the high of his praise, “i think this proves i’m academically gifted.”

Jungkook hums softly beneath his breath.“Academically gifted,” he repeats slowly.

“Exactly.”

Another hum. Then finally:

“Stand up.”

Your stomach flips immediately. Still, you roll your eyes dramatically before sliding off the desk anyway.

“There,” you mutter while standing in front of him. “Happy?”

Jungkook leans back slightly in the chair, one arm resting lazily against the armrest while the other still loosely holds your essay.

Then:

“Come here.”

You hesitate briefly, assuming he wants to show you another paragraph or point out another mistake, so you start walking toward him.

But before you can take more than two steps, Jungkook slowly shakes his head.

“Not like that.” You stop immediately.

His gaze stays locked onto yours while he lowers the essay onto the desk beside him, fingers tapping once against the cover page before he finally looks back up at you.

Then, low and deliberate:

“Get on your knees.”

Your entire brain blanks. “…what?”

Jungkook leans forward slightly now, forearms resting against his thighs while his dark eyes stay fixed on your face.

“Don’t make me repeat myself.” Heat crashes violently through your body.

For a second you just stand there frozen, trying to decide whether this is still teasing, still banter, still part of the game you thought the two of you were playing, but Jungkook’s expression never changes. It stays calm. Too calm. And somehow that makes everything worse.

You hesitate again and one of his eyebrows immediately lifts slightly.

“Don’t make me get up,” he says quietly. “I’m already losing patience with your bratty bullshit tonight.”

The words hit like a switch.

Your stomach tightens instantly and before your pride can stop you, you slowly sink down onto your knees in front of him. Jungkook watches the entire thing silently, completely focused, and the realization alone nearly burns you alive.

You swallow hard while trying to ignore how violently your heart suddenly pounds because this is insane. Actually insane. And yet you still stay there. Still obey.

Jungkook’s tongue briefly presses against the inside of his cheek before he finally makes a small motion with two fingers, a silent command.

“Crawl to me,” he says quietly before adding, lower this time, “now.”

Your breath catches sharply but you still move, slowly crawling across the small distance until you end up between his legs while your pulse pounds violently in your ears. Jungkook looks down at you for several long seconds before finally murmuring:

“There she is.”

The praise hits embarrassingly hard. Your stomach twists immediately and you hate how much your body reacts to three stupid fucking words, but Jungkook notices too. He always notices.

A slow smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth before his hand suddenly lifts toward your face. You tense automatically, but instead of grabbing you roughly, his thumb brushes lightly beneath your eye almost mockingly.

“Look at you,” he murmurs softly. “Got all cocky because i praised your little essay once.”

Heat floods your face instantly. “I wasn’t cocky.”

“Hm,” he hums, completely unconvinced. His fingers slide briefly along your jaw before he leans back slightly again, gaze dragging slowly over you while you kneel there between his legs.

“You know what your problem is?” he asks calmly. You glare up at him immediately.

“You think i’m fucking joking.” Your stomach drops. “That attitude of yours keeps making you forget something,” he continues quietly. “Every single time I warned you about something so far…”

He tilts his head slightly.

“…I followed through.”

And horrifyingly enough, he’s right. Jungkook watches the realization hit you in real time and a low chuckle leaves him.

“There it is,” he murmurs. “Finally using that pretty little brain.”

You hate how warm the praise makes you feel and hate it even more when his hand settles briefly against the top of your head, fingers sliding slowly through your hair once. The gesture isn’t soft or affectionate.

It feels possessive. Rewarding.

“Good girl,” he says quietly. Your breath stutters immediately.

His fingers continue moving through your hair before curling a loose strand around them absentmindedly. The motion should feel gentle, but instead it feels possessive, and your pulse stutters again when he gives the strand a small tug. Not enough to hurt, just enough to force your attention fully back onto him.

A quiet breath escapes you before you can stop it. Jungkook notices instantly- of course he fucking does. A slow smirk spreads across his face while his eyes stay locked onto yours.

“I could do whatever the fuck i want right now,” he murmurs quietly.

Your stomach tightens violently while the room suddenly feels too warm, too small. Jungkook tilts his head slightly while lazily wrapping the strand of hair tighter around his finger.

“And you wouldn’t stop me, would you?”

Your breath catches sharply because the terrifying part is that he doesn’t sound arrogant. He sounds certain, like he already knows the answer.

You should say yes. Should push his hand away. Should stand up and leave before this spirals even further out of control. Should remember your boyfriend smiling at you across the cafeteria earlier that morning, kissing your forehead before class and telling you good luck with tutoring like he actually trusted you.

Instead you stay exactly where you are, still kneeling, still looking up at him.

Jungkook watches the realization hit you in real time and the smirk on his face slowly deepens.

“There it is,” he says softly.

Humiliation burns straight through you. “I hate you,” you whisper immediately.

Jungkook chuckles lowly while giving your hair one final tug before letting the strand slip slowly through his fingers again.

“No,” he says calmly. “You just hate that I’m right.”

Your stomach twists violently because he is right and somehow that’s the worst part of all this.

The room falls quiet for several long seconds afterward, tension hanging thick in the air while Jungkook keeps looking down at you with that same terrifying calmness that’s been unraveling you piece by piece since the moment you met him.

Then finally: “Look at me.”

You already are, but your eyes immediately lift fully back to his face like your body reacts to his voice before your brain can even catch up. Jungkook notices that too and a quiet hum leaves him while his thumb brushes slowly along your jaw again.

“So obedient all of a sudden,” he murmurs. “Where’d all that attitude go?”

“It’s still there,” you mutter weakly.

That earns you another small tug on your hair.“Cute.”

Your pulse jumps instantly. God. You hate how easily he affects you now.

Jungkook leans back slightly in the chair again, eyes still fixed on your face while one hand lazily rests against the armrest beside him.

“You know what’s funny?” he asks softly. You don’t answer. “You keep acting like I’m forcing you into this.” His head tilts slightly. “But every single time so far, you could’ve walked away.”

Your chest tightens.

“You could’ve ignored my texts,” he continues, another slow look dragging over you. “Could’ve left when I told you to get on your knees.”

Heat creeps painfully up your neck.

“But you didn’t.” His voice stays maddeningly calm. “Do you know why?”

You swallow hard because unfortunately… you do know why. Jungkook watches your silence for a second before a slow grin spreads across his face again.

“Yeah,” he murmurs softly. “Thought so.”

Then, almost casually:

“What would your boyfriend think if he saw you right now?”

Your entire body locks up instantly. Jungkook sees it happen and looks downright fascinated by the reaction.

“There she is,” he says quietly. “Finally remembered him again.”

“Don’t,” you whisper immediately.

“Don’t what?”

“Talk about him.”

“Why?” Jungkook asks calmly. “Feeling guilty all of a sudden?” Your jaw tightens.

He studies your face for another second before leaning slightly closer, his expression unreadable now.

“The thing is,” he says softly, “I don’t think you actually feel guilty because of me.” Your stomach twists harder.

“I think you feel guilty,” he continues quietly, “because you’re realizing you like this.”

The words hit like a punch. You immediately look away from him and Jungkook just chuckles quietly under his breath before hooking two fingers beneath your chin and turning your face back toward him again.

“No,” he murmurs. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.” Your breath catches sharply.

And horrifyingly enough… you do.

Jungkook’s eyes darken immediately at the obedience.

“There you go,” he murmurs softly, thumb still hooked beneath your chin while forcing you to keep looking at him. “Knew you could listen when you really wanted to.”

Heat floods through your body so intensely it almost hurts.

You hate this. Hate him. Hate the way your stomach twists every single time he praises you like you’re something he’s training instead of a person with functioning self-respect.

And somehow the worst part? He knows.

Jungkook studies your face for another moment before letting out a quiet laugh under his breath.

“Fuck,” he mutters, sounding almost amused. “You really get off on this, huh?”

Your cheeks burn instantly. “I do not.”

“Liar.”

His grip on your chin tightens slightly, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who’s controlling the conversation now.

“You’re sitting on the floor between my legs while I talk down to you,” he says calmly. “And you’re still here.” You swallow hard.

Jungkook notices immediately. “Yeah,” he murmurs softly. “Thought so.”

The room suddenly feels unbearably warm. You should move. Should stand up. Should leave before this gets even worse.

Instead you stay frozen beneath his gaze while Jungkook slowly leans forward in the chair until your faces are dangerously close again.

“You know what I think?” he asks quietly. You don’t answer.

“I think your sweet little boyfriend never once told you what to do.” A low chuckle leaves him. “Never pushed hard enough to see what happens when you stop pretending to be a good girl.”

Your stomach twists violently. “Jungkook-”

“No,” he interrupts immediately, voice sharper now. “You don’t get to act offended after crawling to me like that.”

Heat flashes through your entire body. His eyes drag slowly over your face before briefly dropping lower, watching the way your thighs instinctively press together.

And then he smirks. “Jesus fucking christ,” he laughs quietly. “You’re so getting off on this...”

Humiliation crashes into you instantly. “Shut up.”

“What?” he asks mockingly. “You want me to pretend I don’t see it?”

Your glare only makes him grin wider.

“You know what your problem is, princess?” he asks softly. “You spent your whole life being treated gently.”

The hand in your hair tightens slightly again.

“And now some asshole finally tells you no and suddenly you’re losing your fucking mind over it.”

Your breathing turns uneven immediately because again… he’s right.

And Jungkook can see that he’s right. The realization lights something ugly and pleased inside his expression.

“There she is,” he murmurs again. “That look right there.”

You hate how weak your voice sounds when you answer. “What look?”

“The one where you realize I know exactly what to do with you.” Your stomach flips violently.

Jungkook leans back slightly again, still holding your gaze hostage while his fingers continue lazily moving through your hair.

“You wanna know the fucked up part?” he asks quietly. You stay silent. “I don’t even think you care about your boyfriend right now.”

Your chest tightens sharply.

“I think,” he continues slowly, “you’re sitting here wondering how far I’d actually go.”

Your breath stutters. Because unfortunately… he’s right about that too. Jungkook watches the realization spread across your face and lets out another low curse beneath his breath.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice rougher now.

The room feels unbearably hot all of a sudden. Your pulse pounds violently in your ears while he keeps looking down at you like he’s trying to figure something out, something dangerous and fascinating all at once.

Then slowly, his gaze drops. Not to your face. Lower.

Toward the belt sitting loosely around his jeans. Your stomach twists instantly. Jungkook notices.

A slow smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth before he leans back slightly in the chair again, one hand resting lazily against the armrest while the other stays tangled loosely in your hair.

Then quietly:

“Undo it.”

Your entire body stills. For a second you genuinely think you misheard him.

“…what?”

Jungkook’s expression barely changes.

“The belt,” he says calmly. “Undo it.”

Heat crashes through your body so fast it almost makes you dizzy. “You’re insane,” you whisper immediately.

Jungkook hums softly, completely unbothered.“Yeah?” His head tilts slightly while his eyes stay locked onto yours. “Then leave.”

The words hit harder than they should, because he says them so casually. No threats. No force. No anger. Just certainty.

Like he already knows you won’t.

Silence stretches painfully between the two of you while your heart pounds harder and harder inside your chest. You should stand up. Should push away from him and walk straight out of this apartment before things spiral even further out of control.

Instead… you stay exactly where you are. Still kneeling between his legs.

Jungkook watches the realization hit you in real time and something darkly satisfied flickers across his face.

“There she is,” he murmurs softly. Your stomach flips. Slowly, almost hesitantly, your hands lift toward his belt.

Jungkook goes completely still.

The second your fingers brush the metal buckle, you feel him tense slightly beneath your touch and somehow that only makes this worse because for the first time since this whole thing started, he looks affected too.

Not smug. Not teasing.

Focused.

Your fingers fumble slightly against the belt and Jungkook’s eyes immediately flick downward, watching every tiny movement.

“You nervous, princess?” he asks quietly.

You glare up at him instantly. “Shut up.” A low chuckle leaves him but he lets you continue.

The buckle finally loosens beneath your shaky fingers and the sound alone feels way too loud in the quiet apartment. Jungkook’s jaw tightens slightly while you slowly pull the belt free from the loops, inch by inch.

The entire time, his eyes never leave your face. Not your hands. Your face. Watching you.

Watching your reactions. Your hesitation. The way your breathing keeps turning uneven every time he looks at you too long.

By the time the belt finally slips free completely, your pulse feels completely out of control.

You hold it awkwardly in your hands for a second before looking back up at him. Jungkook stares at you silently.

Then softly:

“Fuck.”

The word barely sounds human. Because suddenly he doesn’t look amused anymore. He looks like he just realized something.

His hand leaves your hair only to hook beneath your chin instead, thumb pressing lightly against your jaw while he studies your face with an intensity that makes your chest tighten painfully.

“You really would let me ruin you,” he murmurs quietly. The words send heat crashing through your entire body.

You should deny it, should argue. Should tell him he’s full of himself. Instead you just stay there, still kneeling between his legs while the belt hangs loosely from your fingers and Jungkook keeps looking at you like he’s seeing something dangerous unfold right in front of him.

His thumb slowly brushes along your jaw again. Then higher. Slowly tracing the line of your cheekbone.

And without even realizing it… you lean into his touch. The movement is tiny- instinctive.

But Jungkook notices immediately. Both of you freeze. Your breath catches the exact same moment something shifts in his expression. The amusement disappears completely and in its place comes something darker, rougher, almost stunned for half a second before a dangerous glint slowly settles into his eyes.

“Shit…” he mutters under his breath. His voice sounds lower now. Rough.

Jungkook stares at your face still resting subtly against his hand like he can’t stop looking at it, thumb dragging once more across your cheek while his jaw tightens.

And then quietly, with terrifying certainty:

“You’re fucking mine from now on.” Your stomach drops violently. The words shouldn’t affect you this much.

They absolutely shouldn’t send heat rushing through your entire body hard enough to make your thighs press together instinctively.

But they do. God, they do.

Jungkook notices that too- a low curse leaves him while his hand suddenly tightens slightly against your jaw, not enough to hurt, just enough to keep your full attention locked onto him.

“Look at you,” he murmurs softly, eyes dragging slowly across your face. “Could’ve said no at any point tonight.”

Humiliation burns straight through you. “You’re so full of yourself.”

Jungkook just chuckles quietly. “Am I?”

His thumb presses briefly against your lower lip now and your breath immediately stutters again, the tension in the room turning almost unbearable.

“You crawled to me,” he says softly. “Undid my belt for me.” Another slow look over your face. “And then leaned into my hand like you fucking belong there.”

Heat floods your face so fast it almost hurts.“You’re crazy….”

“Maybe.” Completely calm. “Doesn’t change the fact I’m right.” You should push him away.

Instead you stay exactly where you are while Jungkook keeps holding your face like he already owns it and the realization alone makes your pulse spike even harder.

Something dark and satisfied flickers briefly across his expression while he watches you struggle to look away from him.

Then finally:

“Fuck,” he mutters quietly, almost to himself this time. “You have no idea what i’m gonna do to you.”

And somehow that promise destroys the last bit of self-control you have left inside of you, because this entire time there’s still been that tiny little thought in the back of your head whispering I can always walk out of here.

But right now?

That thin thread snaps completely and you have absolutely no intention of piecing it back together.

His eyes flicker toward his open belt and then back to your face and, like a silent command, your hands move to open the button of his pants before shakily freeing his hardened length from his boxers.

Jungkook goes completely still.

His focus stays entirely on your face, on the flush spreading across your cheeks while you stare at his cock. His hand glides from your jaw back into your hair, gathering it into a loose ponytail and pulling your attention back toward his eyes.

“Last chance,” he murmurs lowly. “You can get up and leave right now. But if you stay…” A small, harsh tug against your hair makes you gasp. “…I’m gonna ruin that throat of yours.”

A shaky breath leaves you, your eyes never leaving his while he searches your face and body for any sign of reluctance.

Instead, he realizes you already made your decision. He smirks.

His grip on your hair loosens slightly before he guides you toward his already leaking cock and your eyes immediately flick downward.

“Have you ever sucked dick before?” he asks, brow raised, and it makes you scoff instantly.

“Ugh, yes, asshole,” you snap back and he hums approvingly.

“Good. No need to go easy on you then.”

“Wha-”

His hips snap upward at the exact same moment he pushes your head down completely onto his cock. It happens so fast your brain barely has time to register what the fuck just happened while he holds your head down firmly and uses your mouth for a few harsh thrusts just as he pleases.

Your eyes snap shut and your hands instinctively try to push him away before he finally pulls you back up again, letting you gasp in a deep breath of air.

“What the fuck-” you cough out, tears already forming in your eyes and rolling down your cheeks.

“You said you sucked dick before.” He tilts his head slightly, voice completely unbothered.

You try to glare at him but before you can even open your mouth to snap back, his second hand grips your jaw while he leans forward until his face is dangerously close to yours.

“You can keep up that attitude of yours,” he murmurs calmly, “but I promise you, it’ll get even worse. Or…” His thumb wipes a thin string of saliva from your lips. “…you’ll be a good fucking girl and maybe I’ll even reward you later.”

His eyes darken slightly. “What’s it gonna be?”

He sees your internal struggle disappear the second your shoulders slowly relax and the frown fades from your face.

“Good choice,” he whispers against your lips before leaning back into the chair again, a dark smirk tugging at his mouth once more.

“Now… hands behind your back.”

You hesitate for only a second before scooting slightly closer and crossing your hands behind your back. His hand still holds your hair in that loose ponytail and this time he only guides your head downward without bucking his hips upward.

You choke softly when his tip hits the back of your throat and he hums lowly in approval.

“Breathe through your nose…”

You do. And somehow it actually gets easier as your jaw slowly adjusts to his size while his hand begins guiding your head up and down at a steady pace. Deep groans fill the room, mixing with the filthy wet sounds of your mouth around him.

“Just like that…” he breathes out.

The grip around your hair tightens slightly, enough to make your scalp sting, and a small pathetic sound escapes you that immediately makes Jungkook chuckle lowly. Every time he makes you choke around his cock, saliva pooling at the corners of your mouth while tears stain your flushed cheeks, he looks downright entertained by it.

Then suddenly, without warning, he pushes you down even further until your nose presses flush against his abdomen while he releases deep down your throat.

Your eyes squeeze shut while you focus entirely on breathing through your nose until he finally finishes.

The second his grip leaves your hair, you fall backward onto the floor, landing hard on your ass while trying to catch your breath and wipe tears from your cheeks.

“Whew…” Jungkook lets out a low whistle while grabbing a cigarette from the table beside him, looking down at you with open amusement.

His cock is still semi-hard, glistening in the dim light from saliva mixed with his release while he shamelessly manspreads in front of you.

“Not bad,” he finally says before taking a deep drag from his cigarette. You scoff immediately.

His eyes slowly drag over your body before finally returning to your face and the glare you send him only makes him laugh harder.

“I was your first, right?” he asks casually. “You never sucked dick before.”

“Yes I did!” you insist immediately, offended that he’d criticize your skills like that.

Jungkook squints slightly at you, amusement still written all over his face before lifting both hands in fake surrender.

“Okay, okay,” he drawls teasingly. “You weren’t half bad, princess.” A slow smirk spreads across his lips again. “Bet I was your first deepthroat though, huh?”

The pink tint spreading across your cheeks tells him everything he needs to know. A satisfied hum leaves him instantly.

Jungkook keeps watching you from the chair, cigarette balanced lazily between his fingers while smoke curls slowly through the dim apartment. The amused look on his face should irritate you more than it already does, especially after everything that just happened, but the warmth spreading through your body every time his eyes drag over you makes it difficult to hold onto your anger for very long.

Then finally, almost casually: “C’mere.”

Your pulse jumps instantly. Jungkook notices, of course, but doesn’t comment on it this time. He simply leans back further into the chair, spreading his legs slightly wider before tilting his head toward his lap.

“Sit.”

The command lands low in your stomach.

You hesitate for maybe half a second before slowly pushing yourself off the floor and moving toward him again. Jungkook watches every step carefully, eyes dark and focused while you climb into his lap awkwardly.

The second your weight settles against him, one of his hands immediately lands on your waist.

Firm. Possessive. Like he expects you there now.

His cigarette glows softly between his fingers while you instinctively wrinkle your nose at the smell.

Unfortunately for you… Jungkook catches that immediately. A slow grin spreads across his face.

“Oh?” he murmurs mockingly. “You got a problem with it, princess?”

You glare at him slightly. “It smells bad.”

“Yeah?” Completely unbothered.

Then the asshole deliberately lifts the cigarette toward his lips, taking a long drag while holding your gaze the entire time before slowly exhaling the smoke directly into your face.

You cough instantly. “Jungkook!” you complain, shoving lightly against his chest while smoke curls around the two of you.

He just laughs. Low. Mean. Completely entertained by your reaction.

You open your mouth to complain again but before a single word can leave your lips, Jungkook suddenly grabs the side of your neck and pulls you forward hard enough to steal the breath from your lungs.

Then he kisses you.

Roughly.

The cigarette smoke still lingers on his tongue when his lips crash against yours and your hands instinctively brace against his chest in surprise. Jungkook exhales softly through the kiss, smoke slipping into your mouth while his grip tightens slightly against your neck.

It should feel awful.

Instead it sends heat rushing straight through your body.

Your fingers curl tightly into the fabric of his shirt almost immediately and Jungkook notices that too, a low hum vibrating against your lips while the kiss deepens further.

More tongue.

More teeth.

Less restraint.

The hand on your waist drags you even closer against him while the one around your throat keeps you exactly where he wants you, your pulse jumping violently beneath his fingers.

And somehow the worst part? You’re kissing him back just as desperately.

Jungkook seems downright pleased by that realization because a rough chuckle leaves him halfway through the kiss before he tilts his head slightly, mouth moving hungrily against yours again.

“Knew you’d stop fighting eventually.” he murmurs softly against your lips.

Heat floods through your entire body. You should argue. Should shove him away.

Instead your fingers tighten harder in his shirt while you kiss him back again and Jungkook’s grin against your mouth turns almost vicious at how quickly you fold for him now.

The cigarette still burns lazily between two of his fingers somewhere beside your face, smoke curling through the dim apartment while his hand around your throat keeps you exactly where he wants you.

And somehow that’s the worst part- The control. The terrifying ease of it.

Because other boys usually lose composure around you first. They trip over themselves trying to touch you, trying to impress you, trying to earn your attention while you decide exactly how much affection they get.

But Jungkook? Jungkook barely seems affected at all. Even now, with your body pressed tightly against him and your breathing uneven into his mouth, he still looks maddeningly calm.

Like he already knows how this ends.

The realization makes heat curl lower in your stomach and Jungkook notices immediately because of course he does.

A low hum leaves him against your lips before his hand slowly slides from your waist down toward your thigh. Your pulse jumps when he grips it firmly and drags your leg slightly higher over his own.

Then he pauses. Your breath catches instantly. Jungkook leans back just enough to look at you properly now, dark eyes dragging slowly across your face while your chest rises and falls unevenly.

And then the asshole smirks. “There she is,” he murmurs softly. “Was wondering when you’d stop pretending.”

Heat floods your face immediately. “Shut up.”

Jungkook chuckles lowly while taking another slow drag from his cigarette. The hand around your throat loosens slightly, fingers brushing lazily along your skin while his thigh shifts upward just enough to press between your legs.

Your breath stutters. The grin on his face sharpens instantly.

“Oh?” he murmurs mockingly. “That got your attention?” You hate him. Mostly because he’s right.

Jungkook watches your entire internal struggle happen in real time before casually leaning back further into the chair, cigarette balanced between his fingers while one eyebrow lifts slightly.

“You’re that desperate to cum?” he asks softly. Humiliation burns through you immediately.

“You’re unbelievable…” you breathe through clenched teeth.

“And you’re needy.” Completely calm. “Interesting combination.”

Your thighs instinctively press together and Jungkook notices that too, gaze flicking downward briefly before a rough chuckle leaves him.

“Jesus fucking christ,” he mutters. “Look at you.”

Heat coils tighter and tighter in your stomach while he just sits there watching you, barely touching you at all.

Then finally:

“Go on.”

Your eyes snap toward his instantly. Jungkook tilts his head slightly, expression almost amused now.

“Take it yourself.”

Your stomach flips violently. For a second you just stare at him, shocked by how casually he says it, but Jungkook only looks back at you expectantly while smoke curls lazily from the cigarette between his fingers.

“Thought you wanted it,” he murmurs softly. “Or was all that attitude just for show?”

The words hit exactly where he knows they will. Because suddenly you need to prove something. Need to prove him wrong.

Slowly, hesitantly, your hips shift once against his thigh. Jungkook’s eyes darken immediately.

Humiliation burns straight through you but the friction sends another dangerous wave of heat through your body and your fingers tighten harder in his shirt before your hips move again.

And again.

Jungkook watches the entire thing silently at first, cigarette resting lazily near his lips while you slowly unravel in his lap. Every tiny movement against his clothed thigh makes your breathing rougher, weaker, until eventually you stop caring how embarrassing this is.

Your forehead drops briefly against his shoulder with a quiet whine and Jungkook lets out the roughest fucking chuckle.

“What happened to all that bratty bullshit, huh?” he murmurs near your ear. “Thought you hated me.”

You do. You absolutely do. And somehow that only makes this worse.

Your movements become more desperate without you even realizing it, grinding harder against his thigh while Jungkook barely does anything except sit there and let you use him.

The power imbalance nearly destroys you. Especially because he knows it.

“Look at you,” he murmurs softly, voice rougher now while his hand tightens slightly against your waist. “Getting this fucked up over my leg.”

Heat crashes through your entire body. You hide your face against his shoulder instantly but Jungkook just laughs again, completely entertained by your embarrassment.

“No no,” he murmurs mockingly. “Don’t get shy now.”

Another slow grind against his thigh pulls a pathetic sound from your throat and Jungkook visibly enjoys that far too much.

“Fuck,” he mutters quietly. “You’re actually soaking this up.”

Your entire body burns. And still you keep moving. At this point your brain barely functions anymore, every drag against his thigh pushing you closer and closer while Jungkook watches you fall apart with that same terrifying calmness he always has.

Then finally the pressure snaps.

Your body jerks sharply against him while you gasp against his shoulder, fingers clutching desperately at his shirt as the orgasm crashes through you hard enough to leave your head spinning.

Jungkook holds you steady through all of it, one hand firm against your waist while the other still loosely holds the cigarette between his fingers.

And the worst part? He looks pleased. Actually pleased.

You’re still trying to catch your breath when Jungkook finally glances downward toward his pants before letting out a low amused hum.

“Tsk tsk tsk…” he murmurs softly. Humiliation immediately crawls back up your spine.

“You made a fucking mess on my pants.”

You want the floor to swallow you whole.

Jungkook just chuckles quietly before brushing his thumb slowly along your jaw again, eyes dragging lazily over your flushed face.

“Good thing I like messy girls.”

Your breathing still hasn’t fully recovered by the time Jungkook finally crushes the cigarette into the ashtray beside him. The room smells like smoke and sweat now, thick tension still lingering in the air while you remain curled halfway against his chest, too embarrassed to properly look at him after what just happened.

Meanwhile Jungkook looks perfectly fine. Completely composed. Like watching you unravel in his lap barely affected him at all, which somehow makes the humiliation worse.

A low chuckle leaves him when he notices you avoiding eye contact and then his hand suddenly reaches up, fingers brushing lightly through your hair. The movement catches you off guard immediately because after everything else tonight, the softness feels almost cruel.

“C’mere,” he murmurs quietly.

Before you can even react properly, he’s already fixing the strands of hair sticking messily to your face, thumb brushing beneath your eye where your mascara smudged slightly. His expression stays calm the entire time, focused in that terrifyingly casual way of his while he puts you back together like he has every right to.

A strange heat curls through your chest when his hand smooths down the side of your skirt next, adjusting the fabric back into place before tugging it lower over your thighs. The gesture feels far too intimate after everything else that happened tonight, possessive in a way that makes your pulse flutter unevenly beneath your skin.

Jungkook notices immediately.

The corner of his mouth lifts slightly while his gaze drags slowly across your face.

“Look at you,” he murmurs softly, almost amused now.

Heat rushes into your cheeks and you hate how weak you feel right now, how boneless, how easily your body keeps responding to him no matter how hard you try to fight it. Somehow the worst part is that Jungkook clearly loves watching it happen.

His hand settles briefly against your waist before he finally leans back in the chair again, eyes still fixed on you while satisfaction lingers quietly beneath his expression.

“We’re done for today,” he says casually before adding, “see you tomorrow in english, princess.”

The nickname lands low in your stomach exactly like always.

You immediately roll your eyes to hide it, pushing yourself awkwardly out of his lap before grabbing your bag from beside the desk. Your legs still feel weak and Jungkook definitely notices from the amused look on his face, but thankfully he doesn’t comment on it this time.

You make it all the way to the door before glancing back at him one last time. He’s already lighting another cigarette, spread lazily in the chair like he owns the entire fucking room.

“Text me when you get home,” he says casually before taking a drag.

You scoff immediately, rolling your eyes dramatically while pulling the door open slightly.

“Or what?”

The words barely leave your mouth before everything happens at once.

The door suddenly slams shut again with a violent bang beside your head and your breath catches sharply as Jungkook’s large hand presses flat against the wood right next to you. One second he was across the room and the next he’s right there, towering over you so fast it makes your chest tighten painfully.

Jungkook grabs your chin harshly before turning you back toward him and the sudden movement forces a startled gasp from your lips. His fingers tighten just enough to keep your full attention on him while his face stays terrifyingly calm.

That’s the worst part- not angry not shouting. Just cold certainty.

His eyes lock onto yours while smoke slowly curls from his lips and then, low enough to send ice straight down your spine, he murmurs:

“I know where you live.”

A sharp chill rushes through your body.

Jungkook’s thumb presses harder against your jaw when your breathing turns uneven.

“Don’t make me come look for you.”

The words sink beneath your skin like poison, sounding equally like a threat and a promise, and horrifyingly enough, you believe him instantly. Because he absolutely would. He’d show up at the sorority house without hesitation, cigarette between his lips and that same bored expression on his face while dragging you outside in front of everyone if you ignored him.

Jungkook watches the realization spread slowly across your face and something darkly pleased flickers through his expression.

“That’s better,” he murmurs softly.

Your breath catches again and after several unbearable seconds, you finally give the tiniest nod imaginable.

Jungkook notices immediately.

The grip on your chin loosens slightly before his thumb brushes once along your jaw in a gesture that feels almost rewarding.

“Good girl.”

The praise melts straight through you.

And then, like he didn’t just threaten to hunt you down himself, Jungkook calmly opens the door for you again.

➻ taglist for stupid little girl

@cherricherryy @sacredscourgeprototype @jeonette @lachimolalajeon @bangtans-momma @muniing @curiousswordarcade @barbie-girl84

[if you want to be added to the taglist, please leave a comment below]

➻ You'll only find my work posted here, Wattpad and on my AO3 blog. I don't give consent for my work to be re-posted (in any language) onto any other platform, even if it is with credit. Thank you.

[bobbyseyesmile]

P A R T I - does not contain smut yet

↳ Next Part

➻ pairing: badboy!jungkook x fem!reader

➻ authors note: i actually got inspired by a follower request and a nsfw audio and then this happened heh this is NOT a romantic, cute little story. please read the warning tags & if you’re not into this, don’t read it. just to be on the safe side i’d label this as kinda dub-con but every person in this story is an adult and into this.

➻ warnings: kinda dub-con - SMUT as in unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), anal play, oral (m receiving), cock worship, spit play, degradation & humiliation kink, spanking, choking, size difference, cheating, toxic situationship, toxic behavior

“…and please remember that the upcoming project next month will count heavily toward your final grade, so make sure to familiarize yourselves with the material early enough. okay, that’s it for today. class dismissed.”

The professor gives the class a small smile before chairs immediately screech across the floor and students begin gathering their things. Conversations slowly fill the lecture hall while bags zip shut and notebooks disappear into backpacks. You shove your notebook into your bag and are just about to leave when you hear your name.

Your head turns toward the professor instantly.“Yes?”

“Do you have a minute?”

You nod quickly, and she waits until the last student leaves the room before taking a paper from the stack beside her and sliding it across the desk toward you. Your essay.

“I reviewed your paper from last week,” she says carefully, pushing her glasses slightly higher up her nose, “and unfortunately… I still don’t see much improvement from your previous work.”

Your stomach sinks immediately. You stare down at the paper while folding your hands in your lap, trying not to cringe at the red markings scattered across the pages.

“I know you’re trying,” she continues gently. “You always take notes, you participate in discussions… honestly, you’re one of the few students who actually listens to everything I say.”

The small compliment barely softens the blow.

“…but this,” she sighs softly, tapping a finger against the paper, “is not enough to pass. and the essay next month is worth even more.”

“I understand,” you mumble quietly. And you do. That’s the worst part.

Every other class comes naturally to you. You’ve never struggled academically before, never needed help, never been anything less than one of the best students in the room.

Except here.

The professor studies you sympathetically for a moment before speaking again. “I may have a solution.”

Your brows lift slightly.

“There’s someone who could tutor you,” she explains. “One of my best students. Honestly, probably the most naturally talented writer I’ve taught in years.”

You nod automatically. “That would actually be really helpful, thank you.”

She gives you a small smile before reaching for another paper on her desk. “I’ll send him your contact information then.”

You grab your bag and finally leave the lecture hall, already mentally preparing yourself to spend the next month studying with some pretentious academic nerd who probably corrects people’s grammar for fun.

Unfortunately for you… that is not who waits in the cafeteria downstairs.

The cafeteria is loud when you walk in, music blasting from someone’s phone in the corner while groups of students crowd around tables laughing over lunch and unfinished assignments. Your friends wave you over immediately from one of the tables near the windows.

“There she is,” Soomin grins. “Took you long enough.”

You drop into the empty seat beside her with a sigh. “Mrs. Higgins held me back.”

“Uh oh.” Minji winces dramatically. “That bad?”

You stab your straw into your iced coffee harder than necessary. “She basically told me my essay sucks.”

“Ouch.”

“She’s assigning me a tutor.”

That gets everyone’s attention immediately.

“A tutor?” Soomin blinks. “You?”

“Exactly.” You slump back in your chair with a groan. “This is humiliating.”

“Maybe he’ll be cute,” Minji offers unhelpfully.

“I don’t need cute. I need someone to stop me from failing.”

“Fair.”

You grab your drink and glance around the cafeteria absentmindedly while your friends continue talking, only for your gaze to suddenly snag on a familiar figure sitting several tables away.

Black hoodie. Tattooed arms. Pierced lip. One boot lazily hooked over the empty chair beside him. Jeon Jungkook.

Unfortunately.

He leans back in his seat while one of his frat friends talks loudly beside him, a cigarette tucked behind his ear despite campus rules he very obviously doesn’t care about.

And somehow, even from across the cafeteria, he looks arrogant. Like the human embodiment of bad decisions.

You’ve never spoken more than three sentences to him before, but honestly, that’s already been more than enough.

Everybody knows Jungkook- The frat boy with perfect grades. The asshole with scholarship-level academic scores. The guy professors adore despite the fact he looks like he should be kicked out of at least three establishments daily.

Your eyes narrow slightly.

“Why are you glaring at Jungkook?” Minji asks immediately.

“I’m not glaring.”

“You are absolutely glaring.”

Before you can answer, your phone buzzes against the table.

Unknown Number: ‘mrs. higgins gave me your contact. jungkook’

Your entire body stills.

No. Absolutely not.

You look up instantly. Across the cafeteria, Jungkook is already staring directly at you like he knew the exact second you’d read the message.

The bastard even smirks.

“Oh my god,” Soomin gasps beside you. “NO WAY.”

“There’s no way what?” Minji immediately asks.

Soomin points dramatically across the cafeteria.“THAT’S her tutor.”

Your friends collectively lose their minds while you stare at Jungkook in horror.

“No.”

“Yes,” Soomin wheezes. “Oh, you are SO fucked.”

You ignore her immediately and push yourself up from the table before your irritation can cool off, because absolutely not. There is no universe where you let Jeon Jungkook think he has any sort of power in this situation.

His friends notice you approaching first. One of them lets out a low, entertained: “Ooooooh.”

Another outright laughs.

Jungkook doesn’t move though. He just watches you approach slowly, expression unreadable while lazily spinning his phone across the table. The closer you get, the more annoying he becomes.

Too pretty. Too calm. Too aware of himself.

You stop directly beside his table. “You’re going to tutor me for the essay Mrs. Higgins mentioned.”

No hello. No politeness. Jungkook’s eyebrow lifts slightly.

“So let’s just get this over with,” you continue smoothly. “My place tomorrow night. Six o’clock. Be on time or-”

A hand suddenly covers your mouth- your entire brain short-circuits.

The cafeteria goes dead quiet around you.

Jungkook doesn’t even look remotely bothered. One tattooed hand rests lazily over your mouth while he leans back in his chair, eyes half-lidded with boredom.

“Be quiet,” he says calmly. Your eyes widen immediately. Nobody moves, nobody speaks.

Apparently nobody in this cafeteria is insane enough to interrupt Jeon Jungkook once he decides something.

Slowly, his gaze drags over your face before he tilts his head slightly. “Has no one ever taught you manners?”

Heat floods your face instantly, humiliation and anger twisting together with something much worse. You shove his hand away immediately.

“Excuse me?” you snap. “Who the hell do you think you-”

“Yeah, no,” Jungkook interrupts casually. “I’m sacrificing my free time for you, princess.”

Princess.

The nickname lands somewhere dangerous in your stomach.

“My place,” he continues smoothly. “Tomorrow. Six o’clock.” Then finally:

“Be late and we’re done.”

For a second you just stand there, completely stunned while your brain struggles to catch up with what just happened. The feeling of his hand against your mouth still burns into your skin while a few of his friends exchange amused looks, one of them outright snorting into his drink.

Jungkook ignores all of them. He already looks done with the conversation, like dismissing you publicly was the most natural thing in the world. Which somehow makes it even worse.

Heat crawls furiously up your neck as you glare at him one last time before turning sharply on your heel and stomping back toward your table. The second you sit down, your friends practically launch themselves at you.

“Oh my god,” Minji whisper-yells immediately. “What the fuck just happened?!”

“Did he seriously put his hand over your mouth?!” Soomin gasps.

“He did NOT just call you princess.”

Your face burns hotter. “Who the hell does he think he is?” you hiss furiously while throwing your bag down beside you. “The fucking audacity of that asshole-”

Across the cafeteria, Jungkook glances toward you again. Just once. And the smirk tugging briefly at the corner of his mouth is enough to make your stomach twist violently because he knows.

The bastard actually knows; knows you’re angry, knows you’re humiliated. And somehow knows exactly what that did to you too. Then he looks away again, attention shifting back toward his friends like you’re no longer important enough to focus on.

Which should not irritate you this much. It absolutely should not make heat pool low in your stomach either. But unfortunately, your body seems deeply committed to betraying you today.

You shift slightly in your seat, thighs pressing together instinctively while trying to focus on literally anything else.

God.

You hate him already. You hate the way he talks, the way he looks at you, the way he somehow managed to shut you up in front of an entire cafeteria without even raising his voice.

And worst of all? A tiny, deeply embarrassing part of you is already replaying:

be quiet.

over and over and over again…

Thursday somehow passes even slower than usual, mostly because you spend the entire day irritated. At Jungkook. At Mrs. Higgins. At yourself for thinking about him way more than necessary.

Unfortunately, none of that stops you from showing up at your sorority house later that evening while helping your friends prepare decorations for tomorrow’s party. Music plays loudly from someone’s speaker while streamers and fairy lights are scattered all over the living room floor.

Minji sits cross-legged on the couch blowing up balloons with visible regret. “This is how I die,” she mutters dramatically before tying one off.

“You’re so brave,” you deadpan while taping another decoration to the wall.

Your phone buzzes in your back pocket.

Boyfriend 💙: good luck with tutoring tonight :) call me later?

A tiny smile pulls at your lips automatically.

You quickly type back:

i will 💕 miss me while i’m suffering pls

Minji notices immediately. “Ooooooh.”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up.”

“How is he?” Soomin asks from the floor. “Is he coming tomorrow?”

“Yeah, probably.”

Minji grins immediately. “And?” she asks. “Will you finally do it?”

You blink. “Do what?”

“Oh please.” She throws a balled-up ribbon at you. “You’ve been dating for what now? Three months?”

You raise one eyebrow slowly. “So?”

“So,” Minji repeats dramatically, “normal people would’ve slept together by now.”

A laugh escapes you.

“Please,” you scoff while reaching for another strand of lights. “Just because we’re dating doesn’t mean i’m gonna throw myself at him.”

“So cruel,” Soomin gasps.

You shrug casually. “Maybe i want him desperate enough to get on his knees for me first.”

The room erupts immediately:

“DAMN.”

“OH MY GOD.”

“You little menace.”

You grin proudly while your friends whistle and holler dramatically around you. “Yeah yeah,” you laugh. “You all love me for it. Now help me with the decorations.”

Minji suddenly pauses. “…wait.”

Your stomach sinks instinctively.

“You have tutoring with Jungkook in like thirty minutes, don’t you?”

Immediately your mood worsens. “Ugh,” you groan loudly. “Don’t remind me.”

“You better not be late,” Soomin warns.

You wave her off dismissively while grabbing another balloon. “Please. I’m sure a few minutes won’t kill that asshole.”

Forty minutes later, you stand outside his apartment with an iced coffee in your hand while waiting for him to open the door. The hallway smells faintly like smoke and you barely have time to adjust your bag before the door swings open.

And there he is- Black shirt. Grey sweats. Piercings glinting underneath the dim hallway light.

Jungkook leans against the doorframe lazily before his eyes immediately flick toward the clock behind you and then back to your face.

“You’re late.”

No hello. Of course.

You shrug casually while taking another sip from your iced coffee. “Had errands to run.”

“Hm.” His eyes drop toward the drink in your hand.“Iced coffee?”

Before you can react, he takes it straight from your fingers and lifts it above his head casually.

Your jaw drops. “Hey!” You immediately reach for it, but Jungkook easily steps back out of range. “Give it back!”

He presses two fingers lightly against your forehead, stopping you from getting closer while looking completely unimpressed.

“You’re late,” he repeats calmly. “And i’m not wasting my time with you today.”

Your eyebrows furrow. “…what?”

“Come back tomorrow when you learn how to read a clock, dumb little girl.”

And then he slams the door directly in your face.

Silence.

You stand there staring at the closed door for a full second, your brain visibly lagging behind reality.

“…what?!”

You knock once. Then harder.

“Jungkook!” Nothing.

“You cannot be serious right now!” Still nothing.

Your irritation spikes violently. “You bastard!” you yell while pounding against the door again. “Open the fucking door!”

A muffled voice finally comes from inside. “Get lost.”

You let out a genuinely high-pitched sound of frustration before glaring at the door like you might commit actual violence. And somehow your stomach twists anyway.

God. You hate him.

You hate how calm he sounded, how easily he dismissed you, how your pulse immediately sped up when he pushed you back with two fingers like you weighed nothing.

Worst of all? The asshole kept your coffee.

By the time you stomp back into the sorority house twenty minutes later, your friends immediately look up in confusion.

“…back already?” Minji asks slowly.

Your face burns instantly. You quickly look away while tossing your bag onto the couch. “Yeah, ugh,” you mumble. “He got sick apparently. We’re meeting tomorrow instead.”

Nobody looks convinced. “Right…” Soomin says suspiciously.

You immediately start walking toward the stairs.“I’m in my room,” you announce dramatically. “Do not disturb me.”

Then you disappear upstairs before anybody can ask more questions. Your bedroom door closes behind you with a sharp click and immediately you throw yourself onto the bed with an irritated groan, burying your face into the pillow before rolling onto your back dramatically.

What an asshole. An actual, genuine asshole.

You stare up at the ceiling while replaying the entire interaction against your will.

‘you’re late’

God. The worst part is how calm he sounded. Not angry, not annoyed, just completely unimpressed by you.

Your phone buzzes against the bed beside you before you can spiral any further.

Boyfriend 💙 calling…

The tension in your shoulders softens automatically. You answer after the second ring.

“Hey,” you mumble quietly.

“There she is,” his warm voice laughs softly through the speaker. “How’d tutoring go?”

Your stomach twists instantly. “…fine.”

Lie. Complete lie.

You roll onto your side while tucking the phone between your ear and shoulder, absentmindedly tracing circles into your blanket with your fingertips.

“Just boring?”

“Mhm.”

Another lie.

Your boyfriend hums softly. “Well, at least you survived your first session.”

Barely.

You close your eyes briefly and unfortunately, instead of focusing on your sweet, patient boyfriend, your brain decides to replay Jungkook leaning against the doorway again.

Black shirt. Pierced lip. Tattooed fingers holding your iced coffee just out of reach.

‘dumb little girl’

Heat curls low in your stomach instantly. Oh god. You squeeze your eyes shut harder.

“What’re you thinking about?” your boyfriend asks softly.

You nearly choke. “Nothing.” A sigh slips out before you can stop it. Not romantic. Frustrated.

Your boyfriend immediately notices. “Sweetheart?” he asks gently. “You okay?”

Your eyes snap open. “Yeah,” you answer quickly. “Fine, sorry. My laptop just froze on me.”

A beat of silence passes before a soft laugh comes through the speaker. “You sound traumatized.” If only he knew.

You force out a weak laugh before sitting up abruptly. “I still have homework to finish,” you mumble quickly. “I should probably go.”

“Alright.” He sounds slightly disappointed but still sweet about it. “Call me tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” you answer immediately. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, pretty girl.”

The call ends.

And the second the room falls quiet again, your brain goes right back to him.

Jungkook.

Annoying. Arrogant. Mean.

The kind of guy you’d normally avoid on instinct.

And yet your thighs press together anyway as you stare blankly at the wall. You should be angry.

Instead you’re still thinking about:

‘be quiet’

Still thinking about the way he pushed you back with two fingers against your forehead like you were something irritating and manageable.

Your stomach twists harder.

“This is so embarrassing,” you mutter to yourself and yet your hand wanders down beneath your pants, fingers dipping between your soaking folds as you bite back a moan. You find your sensitive nub, starting to circle around it while imagining his large hand wrapped around your neck, whispering filthy, degrading things into your ear.

‘dumb little girl…’

His voice loops through your brain like a broken record.

‘i’m not wasting my time with you today…’

Your fingers increase their speed instinctively, bringing you closer and closer to your release as you imagine yourself kneeling before him, letting him use you however he pleases.

“Oh fuck…” you choke out softly, your orgasm approaching rapidly while his face burns itself deeper and deeper into your mind.

‘be quiet ’

‘dumb little girl’

‘get lost’

You shove your face into your pillow as a string of moans and curse words spills from your lips, your orgasm crashing over you in intense waves while humiliation and pleasure twist together painfully inside your stomach. You stare up at the ceiling again, cheeks burning while your pulse slowly settles.

All that… over Jeon Jungkook.

A guy you’ve known for less than two days. An asshole who stole your coffee and slammed a door in your face.

You drag both hands over your face with a miserable groan. “…i hate him.”

Friday evening arrives way too quickly.

You spend far too long standing in front of your closet before finally settling on an outfit that’s technically for the sorority party later tonight.

At least that’s what you tell yourself.

Not the fact that you redo your hair twice. Not the fact that you spend extra time on your makeup. Not the fact that your stomach twists nervously every time you think about seeing him again.

It’s for the party. Obviously.

Five minutes earlier than yesterday, you stand outside Jungkook’s apartment while mentally preparing yourself not to let him get under your skin this time.

Then the door opens and your brain immediately short-circuits: he’s hirtless.

The first thing you notice are the tattoos stretching across his chest and arms before your gaze drops lower toward the grey sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips.

Oh. Oh, fuck me.

For one horrifying second, your mind flashes back to last night- your hand between your legs, his voice in your head: ‘…dumb little girl…’

Heat rushes through your body so fast it’s almost humiliating.

Jungkook catches you staring instantly. Of course he does. A slow smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Want a picture?” he asks lazily. “Lasts longer.”

Your brain snaps back into focus immediately.“Shut up,” you mutter while brushing past him into the apartment.

Behind you, he laughs quietly under his breath.

The apartment looks annoyingly organized; his desk is already set up neatly with papers, books and highlighted notes spread out across the surface like some kind of academic crime scene.

Jungkook gestures toward the chair. “Sit.”

“You know saying please won’t kill you.”

“You know being annoying won’t make you smarter.”

Your jaw tightens instantly. That asshole. You drop into the chair anyway while Jungkook casually grabs a black shirt from the couch and pulls it over his head. Unfortunately, that somehow makes him even more attractive, which feels deeply unfair.

He notices you staring again in the reflection of his dark computer screen. “You always this distracted around hot people?”

“I’m distracted by how unfortunate your personality is.”

“Hm.” Jungkook sits down beside you before glancing at your outfit slowly. “Interesting choice of clothes for tutoring.”

You immediately roll your eyes. “I’m going to a party afterwards.”

“Sure you are.”

Your brows furrow instantly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jungkook leans back lazily in his chair. “It means you spent two hours getting ready to sit at my desk and pretend you hate me.”

Heat creeps up your neck immediately. “I did not spend two hours getting ready.”

“Mm.” Completely unconvinced. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, princess.” You glare at him.

He ignores it effortlessly before pulling your essay toward himself. “Alright,” he sighs. “Let’s see how bad this actually is.”

“I passed.”

“Barely.”

Your eye twitches. Jungkook flips through several pages quietly before suddenly tapping one paragraph with his pen.

“This sentence is awful.”

“Wow,” you deadpan. “What inspiring tutoring.”

“It’s repetitive, overexplained and trying too hard to sound intelligent.” He glances at you briefly. “Kinda like you.”

Your mouth falls open slightly. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet,” he says calmly, “i’m still the one fixing your grade.” God. You hate him.

You hate how good he is at this too. Because unfortunately… the second Jungkook actually starts explaining things properly, you immediately understand why professors love him so much.

He’s annoyingly smart.

Not textbook smart, not memorization smart but naturally smart. The kind that makes difficult concepts sound easy while barely even trying.

And somehow that’s hotter than the tattoos. Which is deeply upsetting.

“You keep doing this thing,” Jungkook says while leaning closer to your laptop screen, “where you write what you think sounds smart instead of what you actually mean.”

His arm brushes against yours lightly and your brain immediately stops working.

“…what?”

“There.” He taps the screen. “You overcomplicate everything because you’re scared simple writing won’t sound impressive enough.”

Your brows slowly pull together because annoyingly enough… he’s right.

Jungkook notices your expression instantly. “Oh wow,” he murmurs mockingly. “Look at that. Tiny little brain finally working.”

“Fuck you.”

“See? That sentence was clear and concise.”

Your glare deepens immediately while Jungkook only smirks faintly before turning back toward the screen. “Alright,” he says casually, spinning a pen between his fingers. “Rewrite this paragraph.”

You scoff softly. “Right now?”

“No,” he deadpans. “Next year.”

The irritation bubbling inside your chest only gets worse as you aggressively pull the laptop closer, fingers immediately flying across the keyboard while Jungkook leans back in his chair beside you.

The silence lasts all of thirty seconds. Then:

“Wrong.”

Your head snaps toward him. “You didn’t even read it yet!”

“I saw enough.”

“Oh my god, you are insufferable.”

“And you’re dramatic. Keep typing.”

You mutter something deeply insulting underneath your breath while deleting half the paragraph again.

Beside you, Jungkook looks entirely too entertained. “What was that?”

“I said you have horrible teaching methods.”

“Hm.” He leans forward slightly, one tattooed arm resting against the desk while his eyes drag slowly over the screen. “And yet you’re listening to everything i say.”

Your fingers pause briefly over the keyboard. Jungkook notices immediately.

“You get all quiet when you’re thinking too hard,” he murmurs lazily.

“I’m trying to work.”

“No,” he says calmly. “You’re trying not to react.”

Heat crawls straight up your neck but you refuse to look at him. “That ego is insane.”

“And i’m right.”

Unfortunately… he is.

The problem is that every single interaction with Jungkook feels like getting backed into a corner slowly.

Not rushed. Not obvious. Just controlled. Intentional.

Like he enjoys watching you lose composure piece by piece.

You force yourself to focus back on the essay instead. Ten whole minutes pass before Jungkook suddenly reaches over you, grabbing your wrist lightly before you can type the next sentence.

“Don’t use that word.”

Your entire body stills instantly. His hand is warm. Firm. Way too distracting.

“…why?”

“Because it sounds stupid.”

You slowly turn toward him. “You know, most tutors don’t insult people this much.”

“Most students aren’t this spoiled.”

The word lands directly in your stomach.

Spoiled.

Not princess this time. Not dumb little girl. Spoiled. Like he’s figured you out already.

Your eyes narrow slightly. “You think you know me after two conversations?”

Jungkook hums softly while finally letting go of your wrist. “I know enough.”

“Oh yeah?” you shoot back immediately. “And what exactly do you know?”

“That you hate hearing no.” His eyes flick toward you calmly. “That nobody tells you what to do.”

Your jaw tightens. “And?”

“And I think you secretly enjoy that I do.”

The room suddenly feels way too warm. You stare at him for a second too long before scoffing and turning back toward the screen.

“You’re delusional.”

“Mm.” That stupid hum again. Like he doesn’t believe a single word coming out of your mouth. It’s infuriating.

And somehow your pulse still jumps when his chair rolls closer beside yours again.

“You missed another mistake,” he says quietly, leaning in just enough that his shoulder brushes yours once more. Your breathing catches slightly.

Not because of the mistake. Because he smells unfairly good. Clean laundry. Smoke. Something warm underneath it.

“You gonna keep staring at the screen,” Jungkook murmurs lazily, “or are you actually gonna fix it?”

Your grip tightens around the pen immediately. “I hate you.”

A quiet laugh leaves him. “No you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Hm.” Jungkook leans back slightly in his chair, eyes dragging slowly over your face before settling on your mouth for one dangerous second too long. “Then focus that dumb little brain of yours.”

And before you can react his hand lands lightly against your thigh.

A quick slap.

Not hard. Barely anything. But your entire body freezes instantly.

Oh.

Jungkook notices too: The way your thighs tense. The tiny hitch in your breathing. The split second where your brain completely shuts off.

A slow smile spreads across his face. Dangerous. Interested.

“Well, well…”

Heat floods your entire body immediately. “Shut up.”

“That did something, huh?”

“No, it didn’t.” The lie sounds weak even to your own ears.

Jungkook leans closer slowly, elbow resting against the desk while his gaze stays fixed directly on your face now. “You’re terrible at hiding things.”

“I’m not hiding anything.”

“You almost stopped breathing.”

Your stomach twists violently. God. This is humiliating.

Jungkook watches you for another second before finally leaning back again, looking deeply entertained now.

And then-

“Oh.”

The sound leaves him softly. Thoughtfully. Like he just solved something.

Your brows furrow instantly. “Oh what?”

His tongue presses slowly against the inside of his cheek before he grins. “You like being talked down to.”

Your face burns immediately. “I absolutely do not.”

“Hm.” Completely unconvinced. “That’s interesting.”

“You’re insane.”

“No,” Jungkook says calmly while spinning the pen between his fingers again. “I just pay attention.”

And unfortunately… he does. Way too much. The atmosphere shifts after that. Subtly. Dangerously. Like Jungkook suddenly starts testing reactions on purpose now:

“You missed another mistake.”

“Jesus, are you even trying?”

“Use your head, princess.”

“There you go. Tiny brain’s finally waking up.”

Every insult sends irritation and heat crashing together violently inside your chest. And the worst part? Jungkook can tell.

Every single time.

Because now there’s amusement lingering underneath every word he says. Like he’s slowly figuring you out piece by piece.

Then finally-

after an hour of him bullying your essay into something readable, you fix a sentence before he can correct it.

Jungkook stills slightly. “Huh.”

You glance toward him suspiciously. “What?”

“That was actually good.” The praise hits you so hard it’s embarrassing. Your entire body softens instantly before you can stop it.

And Jungkook catches it immediately:

The brief widening of your eyes, the way your shoulders relax, the tiny shift in your expression.

Silence.

Then slowly… his grin returns. Oh no.

“Oh my god,” he murmurs softly.

Your stomach drops. “What?”

“You’re even worse with praise.”

Heat explodes across your face instantly. “I hate you so much.”

Jungkook laughs quietly under his breath while leaning back in his chair again, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Cute.”

The atmosphere shifts completely after that. Not playful anymore. Not even teasing. It turns sharp.

Dangerous.

Every little comment from Jungkook feels deliberate now, like he’s carefully pressing against invisible buttons just to watch how you react.

And the worst part? You think he enjoys your reactions more than the tutoring itself.

“There,” he says lazily while pointing at your screen. “That sentence doesn’t sound completely stupid anymore.”

You glare at him immediately. “You are such an asshole.”

“And yet your legs squeeze together every time i insult you.” Your entire body locks up.

Jungkook smirks slowly. “Thought so.”

“Shut up.”

“No.” The answer comes instantly, casually, and somehow that only makes heat crawl higher up your neck.

You turn back toward the laptop quickly before he notices how badly your pulse just jumped again. Unfortunately… he notices everything.

The room falls quiet for a few seconds except for the sound of typing before your phone suddenly vibrates loudly against the desk.

You barely glance toward it before Jungkook grabs it first. “Hey-”

He leans back in his chair while reading the screen casually. Then he huffs out an amused laugh.

“Oh, cute.” His eyes flick toward you lazily. “Your boyfriend’s asking where you’re at.”

“Give me that!” you snap immediately while lunging toward him.

Jungkook catches both your wrists effortlessly before you can grab the phone back and suddenly you’re shoved back down into the chair again.

Your breath catches sharply.

“Unbelievable,” he murmurs while shaking his head slightly. “You got a sweet boyfriend and still came here dressed like a slut.” Heat explodes through your body instantly.

“You really are desperate, huh?”

“Are you insane?!” you snap furiously while trying to pry his hand off your wrists. “As if i’d waste my time with some asshole like you-”

Suddenly Jungkook yanks you forward by your wrists hard enough that you nearly end up in his lap. Your breath stutters instantly.

Way too close- his face hovers right in front of yours now, dark eyes locked onto yours while his grip tightens slightly around your wrists.

“Careful with that attitude, princess,” he says lowly. “I don’t fucking care that you got a boyfriend. Imma put you into place right here, right now.”

Your stomach twists violently.

Jungkook’s tongue drags slowly across his lip piercing while watching your expression unravel in real time. “So,” he murmurs softly, “what’s it gonna be?”

Your pulse pounds harder.

“You gonna apologize for that attitude,” he continues quietly, “or should I actually put you over my knee?”

Your brain completely stalls. “Oh my god…” you whisper breathlessly.

Jungkook only tilts his head slightly. “Well?”

“You wouldn’t da-”

“Don’t even finish that sentence,” he interrupts with a low chuckle. “We both know I absolutely would.”

And somehow? That’s the problem. Because looking at him right now… you believe him.

Completely.

The realization sends another wave of heat straight through your body while embarrassment and arousal twist together so intensely it almost makes you dizzy.

Jungkook watches the entire internal battle happen across your face. And he enjoys every second of it.

You stare at him for several long seconds, trying desperately to think straight again before finally whispering:

“…i’m sorry.”

His eyebrow lifts slightly. “For?”

Your cheeks burn hotter. “The attitude…”

Silence.

Then slowly Jungkook nods once. “Good girl.”

The praise hits infinitely worse than the degradation ever did. Your entire body softens involuntarily before he suddenly lets go of your wrists completely.

You stumble backward into the chair while trying to catch your breath and Jungkook just watches you calmly for a second before standing up from his seat.

“We’re done for today,” he says casually like he didn’t just completely destroy your ability to think.

Your eyes snap toward him. “What?”

“I’m not in town over the weekend.” He grabs his cigarettes and lighter from the kitchen counter. “See you monday. Six o’clock sharp.”

Then finally, while glancing back toward you:“Don’t be late or else.”

Your stomach twists again. The threat shouldn’t sound as attractive as it does.

Jungkook heads toward the balcony before sliding the door open. “I’m sure you’re smart enough to find the door yourself,” he says lazily over his shoulder. “Have fun at the party, princess.”

The smirk he sends you is devastating. Then he steps outside onto the balcony and leaves you sitting there alone in complete silence.

For several seconds, you can’t move. Can barely breathe properly. Your wrists still tingle where he held them while your brain desperately tries to process what the hell just happened in this apartment.

Eventually you gather your things with shaky hands before standing up from the chair.

And even while leaving his apartment… you can still hear his voice looping through your head:

‘good girl’

By the time you arrive at the sorority party, the music is already shaking the walls. The house is crowded, warm and loud, bodies packed together beneath dim lights while alcohol spills freely through the rooms and someone immediately drags you toward the kitchen the second you walk in.

For a while, things actually feel normal again. Your friends surround you instantly, music drowning out your thoughts before they can spiral too far, and soon you’re laughing, dancing, drinking, letting yourself sink into the chaos of the evening instead of thinking about tattooed hands and degrading comments that still linger far too vividly in your head.

Eventually your boyfriend arrives too, and the second he sees you, his entire face softens.

“There’s my girl,” he smiles warmly while pulling you against him.

Your chest aches unexpectedly at the sight of him because he’s sweet. So sweet. The exact opposite of Jungkook.

You spend most of the evening attached to him after that, sitting on his lap while your friends tease the two of you mercilessly. His hands stay respectful and warm against your waist while he kisses your cheek occasionally and smiles every time you laugh. Everything about him feels normal, easy, safe. It should feel perfect.

And yet Jungkook keeps creeping back into your head anyway- every time someone jokingly calls you princess. Every time someone grabs your wrist. Every time your pulse jumps unexpectedly for absolutely no reason at all.

It’s exhausting.

Later in the evening, you end up tucked against your boyfriend again on one of the couches while people dance around you, his hand resting gently against your thigh as he kisses you softly, sweetly, and suddenly your brain flashes back to Jungkook’s hand landing sharply against your leg earlier that evening.

‘That did something, huh?’

Heat rushes through you instantly. Without thinking, you bite down lightly against your boyfriend’s lip during the kiss and he immediately pulls back with a surprised laugh.

“Ow,” he grins. “Sweetheart, i didn’t know you liked that.”

Your stomach twists painfully. “Yeah well…” you murmur, still slightly dazed from the comparison flashing through your head again. “What if i do?”

Your boyfriend’s eyes widen slightly and honestly, the reaction alone tells you enough. Cute. God, he’s so cute. And somehow that only frustrates you more tonight.

Still, he kisses you again eagerly after that and you let yourself sink into it, trying desperately to focus on him instead of dark eyes, tattooed fingers and degrading whispers that keep poisoning your thoughts. The kisses grow messier after a while, needier, and eventually your frustration starts boiling over completely until, before you can think too hard about it, you grab his hand and pull him upstairs toward your bedroom.

Your boyfriend nearly stumbles after you in surprise. “Someone’s impatient tonight,” he laughs breathlessly. If only he knew.

The second your bedroom door closes behind you, he kisses you again immediately, hands fumbling awkwardly against your waist while you melt against him for a moment before frustration creeps back in all over again.

Too soft. Too careful. Your brain keeps comparing and you hate it.

Eventually you pull back slightly, still flushed and restless while your boyfriend looks at you with visible confusion.

“You okay?”

You hesitate for a second before awkwardly mumbling, “Could you maybe be… I don’t know… a bit mean?” Silence.

Your boyfriend blinks at you. “…mean?”

Immediately you feel stupid. “Agh, nevermind-”

“No no,” he says quickly, visibly flustered now. “I can do that.” His cheeks turn pink instantly, which honestly only makes this worse.

You try not to laugh while he awkwardly attempts to look intimidating for maybe the first time in his entire life before finally mumbling after several painfully adorable seconds:

“…you’ve been a bad girl?”

You stare at him. He stares back nervously.

“…like that?” he asks uncertainly. And oh my god. The problem isn’t that he’s doing it wrong. The problem is that all you can hear in your head is:

‘careful with that attitude, princess’

Your boyfriend kisses you again sweetly, clearly trying his best, and guilt suddenly crashes into your stomach so hard it almost makes you sick.

Because none of this is fair to him.

Not the comparison constantly running through your head. Not the fact that every time he touches you gently, your brain cruelly flashes back to rough hands around your wrists and a low voice telling you to behave. And definitely not the way your body keeps betraying you every single time Jungkook slips into your thoughts.

Still, you try. You really do.

You pull your boyfriend down onto the bed with you, kissing him deeper this time while his hands settle carefully against your waist. He lets you guide the pace completely, soft and patient even while your kisses grow hungrier, more desperate. His fingers slide underneath the hem of your shirt slowly, hesitantly, like he’s making sure every touch is okay before allowing himself more.

Sweet. Careful. Respectful.

You hate that it suddenly frustrates you.

Your boyfriend pulls back slightly to catch his breath, eyes warm while he brushes your hair away from your face.

“You’re really worked up tonight,” he laughs softly. If only he knew why.

You kiss him again immediately instead of answering, trying to force yourself back into the moment, trying to focus on him instead of another man’s smirk burned permanently into your brain.

But then your boyfriend’s hands pause again. Hesitate. “Hey,” he murmurs gently, thumbs brushing softly against your hips. “We don’t have to rush anything.”

Your chest tightens instantly. “It’s okay,” you say quickly, almost too quickly. “I want to.”

“I know.” His voice stays soft. “But you seem nervous.”

That word almost makes you laugh. Nervous. No, nervous was showing up at Jungkook’s apartment.

This? This is frustration slowly eating you alive.

Still, your boyfriend only smiles reassuringly before pressing another sweet kiss against your forehead.

“We can just cuddle, sweetheart.”

And god. That should make you melt. It should make your heart ache in the good way.

Instead, disappointment curls ugly and shameful inside your stomach before guilt immediately follows right after it.

Because he deserves someone who looks at him and feels content. Safe. Satisfied.

Not someone lying in bed secretly replaying another man’s voice in her head.

Your boyfriend pulls you against his chest afterward, wrapping an arm loosely around your waist while you curl up beside him beneath the blankets. The room slowly quiets around you except for the distant bass of the party downstairs and his steady breathing beside you.

Eventually your eyes drift shut.

And still, somehow… the last thing you see before falling asleep is Jungkook’s smirk:

‘good girl’

By the time sleep finally pulls you under, frustration still burns hot beneath your skin, tangled together with shame, confusion and the horrible realization that you are already anticipating monday evening far more than you should.

Sunday evening is somehow even worse.

You spend most of the weekend irritated for reasons you absolutely refuse to examine too closely. Your friends notice immediately of course, constantly asking why you seem distracted while you keep brushing them off with weak excuses about stress and assignments, but the truth is far more embarrassing.

You can’t stop thinking about him.

Not just the way he looks at you or the degrading comments that keep replaying in your head at the worst possible moments, but the way he somehow slid underneath your skin in less than a week and made himself comfortable there.

It’s deeply annoying. And deeply concerning.

By sunday night, you’re lying in bed staring blankly at the ceiling while your laptop sits abandoned beside you. You’ve reread the same paragraph at least three times now without processing a single word because your brain keeps wandering right back to friday evening.

‘good girl’

You groan quietly into your pillow before finally grabbing your phone from the nightstand.

This is stupid. Very stupid.

Still, your thumb opens Jungkook’s chat anyway.

You stare at the conversation for a long moment while trying to come up with literally any excuse to text him that doesn’t make you sound insane. Maybe ask about the essay. Maybe pretend you forgot something important. Maybe…

A new message suddenly appears.

Jungkook: write a 5k essay until monday as homework.

Your eyes widen instantly. Then, in pure panic, you immediately close the chat again because oh my god. He saw that you read it instantly.

Meaning you were already in the conversation. Meaning-

Another message appears almost immediately after.

Jungkook: huh. you’re either psychic or a lil crazy stalker. what’s it gonna be?

You stare at the screen in disbelief. Asshole. Absolutely not.

You refuse to answer immediately because that would only prove his point, so instead you throw your phone dramatically onto the bed beside you and force yourself to wait before responding.

Five minutes pass. Then ten. Twenty. By minute thirty, you’re honestly starting to feel proud of your self-control.

Finally, you grab your phone again and type back:

You: please, don’t fool yourself. i accidentally opened the wrong chat. what topic for the essay?

The typing bubble appears instantly. Of course he’s already online.

Jungkook: yea sure lol whatever lets you sleep at night, princess. don’t fucking care. just get it done

Your eye twitches immediately.

You: 🙄

Three dots instantly appear again.

Jungkook: don’t roll your eyes

You snort quietly into your pillow before typing back without thinking too hard about it.

You: or what?

Honestly, what exactly is he gonna do over text?

But then your phone suddenly lights up.

Incoming Video Call:

Jungkook

Your entire body freezes. “What the fuck…”

You just stare at the display while your pulse immediately starts climbing for absolutely no reason at all. Then another notification appears on the screen.

Jungkook: answer the fucking call. now.

Your thumb hovers uncertainly over the green button for several long seconds before you finally press it with a deep inhale, immediately arranging your face into the most unimpressed expression you can manage.

Jungkook appears on the screen almost instantly-Black hoodie. Messy hair. Lip piercing catching faint light from somewhere outside. And annoyingly enough, he somehow still looks unfairly good.

“What?” you ask quickly. “I’m busy-”

Jungkook silently lifts a finger toward his lips and you actually stop talking. Then you realize. Your eyes narrow immediately and you roll them dramatically instead.

A low chuckle leaves him. “Ah,” he murmurs lazily while taking a slow drag from the cigarette between his fingers. “Another eye roll. Well… that’s gonna be a 15k essay by now.”

Your jaw drops instantly. “What?!”

Jungkook just watches you calmly through the smoke curling around his face.

“You’re kidding. Jungkook, it’s sunday evening and I have classes tomorrow-”

“Dooooon’t care,” he interrupts smoothly, dragging the word out mockingly. “Get it done by tomorrow.”

“I can’t!”

“Yes you can.” Another drag. “Use that little brain of yours.”

“You’re such an asshole-”

Jungkook clicks his tongue softly before leaning closer toward the camera and blowing smoke directly at it. When he leans back again, his expression is completely unimpressed.

“20k.”

Your mouth literally falls open. “Oh my god?!”

“Want to add another 5k?” he asks calmly. “Then keep going.”

The smirk from earlier is gone now and somehow that’s worse because suddenly he sounds serious.

“You can either shut the fuck up,” Jungkook continues lowly, “or keep being a brat and make your own life harder. Your choice, princess.”

Your stomach twists violently. The fight inside you doesn’t disappear, but eventually you stay quiet anyway.

Jungkook notices immediately. “Good choice.”

Heat crawls slowly up your neck against your will.

“20k words,” he says lazily. “And it better not be shit.” Then finally, while looking directly into the camera:

“Otherwise I’ll make you kneel for the entire study session tomorrow.” Your breath catches sharply. Jungkook’s eyes flick downward briefly like he noticed. Of course he did.

“See you tomorrow, princess.”

And then the call ends just like that, leaving you staring at your phone in complete disbelief while your heart pounds violently against your ribs.

Because what the actual fuck just happened.

➻ You'll only find my work posted here, Wattpad and on my AO3 blog. I don't give consent for my work to be re-posted (in any language) onto any other platform, even if it is with credit. Thank you.

[blued-inked]

| Nikki - Bang Chan

(•˕ •マ.ᐟ || Based on the song; Nikki by Logic. Just like in the song, Chan is the addict. The reader is the nicotine. He knows it's killing him, he tries to quit, but the withdrawal is unbearable, and the "high" of being with her is the only thing that makes him feel alive. The tragedy is that by the time he realizes she's what he needs, he's already poisoned the well.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

Bang Chan x Reader Main Category: Angst. Sub Category: Smut Warnings: Rough sex, Hate sex / Punishment sex, Breath play / Choking (consensual within the scene), Possessive sex, Sex with emotional manipulation, Unprotected sex Word Count: 14.8k

Link to song!!

taglist: @hanniesbubuwife @sugarcoathan

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

The text comes at 11:47 PM.

I know it's him before I even look. My phone buzzes against the nightstand, once, then again, like he's impatient, even after all these months. Like the silence between us is somehow my fault.

Unknown Number: You up?

I stare at the screen until it goes dark. Three months. It's been three months since the last time. I've almost started to feel like myself again, like a person who doesn't spend her weekends waiting for a man who treats her like a secret, a habit, a drug he's trying to quit.

My thumb hovers over the screen. Don't. I've had this conversation with myself a dozen times. I've even said it out loud to my friends, watching their faces soften with that familiar pity.

He's bad for you.

He only comes around when he needs something.

You deserve better.

I know all of this. I know it the way an addict knows the damage, intellectually, completely, and without any power to stop it.

The phone buzzes again.

Unknown Number: I know you're awake

I hate that he's right. I hate that he knows me well enough to know I'd still be up, reading, pretending I'm not waiting for something I told myself I'd stop waiting for.

My fingers move before my brain can stop them.

Me: What do you want, Chan.

The response is immediate. Like he was holding his breath, waiting for me to prove I'm still weak.

Unknown Number: Can I come over

It's not a question. It never is.

I should say no. I should type out something cutting, something final, something that makes him feel even a fraction of what I've felt every time he's walked out my door without looking back.

Instead, I stare at the message until the screen blurs.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

He's at my door in twenty-three minutes. I know because I counted.

When I open the door, he's leaning against the frame like he owns it, like he owns the air between us. Hood pulled up, mask down around his chin, eyes tired in that way that used to make my chest ache with worry before I learned that his exhaustion was never about me, it was always about everything but me.

"Hey," he says. Voice low. Familiar.

"Hey," I say back. Flat. Guarded.

He looks past me into the apartment, like he's checking if I'm alone. The audacity of it makes something hot curl in my stomach. Like he has any right to care.

"I'm alone," I say, and I hate how defensive it sounds. How much it sounds like I'm reassuring him.

His eyes come back to mine, and there it is, that small, almost-smile that used to undo me completely. "I know."

He does know. That's the worst part. He knows I haven't moved on. He knows I've tried, and I've failed, and that every time he shows up at my door, I let him in.

"Can I-" he starts, but I'm already stepping aside.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

He walks through my apartment like he's done it a hundred times, because he has. He shrugs off his jacket, lets it fall over the back of my couch. Kicks off his shoes without being asked. There's a familiarity to it that makes my throat tight, the way he knows where the bathroom is, where I keep the good glasses, the spot on my couch where the cushion is perfectly worn to his shape.

I close the door and lean against it, arms crossed. Watching.

"You look good," he says, settling onto the couch like he lives here.

"Don't."

He looks up at me, and for a moment, the mask slips. He looks tired. Not idol-tired, not schedule-tired, something deeper. Something that makes me want to cross the room and sit next to him, to ask what's wrong, to fall back into the rhythm of taking care of him even though he never stays long enough to take care of me back.

"Sorry," he says, and he almost sounds like he means it. "That was, sorry."

I wait. I've learned that if I wait long enough, he'll fill the silence. He always does.

"Comeback prep is killing me," he finally says, rubbing a hand over his face. "We've been in the studio for sixteen hours a day. Changbin's about to murder someone. Jisung hasn't slept in three days."

I nod. This is how it always starts, with the stress, the pressure, the weight of being Bang Chan. He comes to me when the walls close in, when the responsibility of leading seven other men and carrying the hopes of a company and the love of millions becomes too heavy. He comes to me because I'm the one place he doesn't have to be Bang Chan.

He comes to me because I let him be Christopher. And then he leaves, and Christopher disappears back inside Bang Chan, and I'm left holding the pieces of someone who only exists in my apartment after midnight.

"And you thought of me," I say. My voice comes out bitterer than I intended.

He looks at me then, really looks. His eyes are dark, unreadable. "I always think of you."

The words land somewhere in my chest and settle there, warm and dangerous.

"That's not fair," I whisper.

"I know."

He doesn't move from the couch. He doesn't come to me. He waits, and maybe that's the cruelest part of all, that he's learned to let me come to him. That he's made me so used to closing the distance that I don't even fight it anymore.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

I cross the room slowly, like walking toward something I know will hurt me. And maybe that's the definition of stupidity, doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.

But when I sit down next to him, close enough to feel the heat of his body, close enough to smell that familiar mix of fabric softener and something that's just him, I stop thinking about consequences.

He turns to face me, and up close, I can see the cracks. The shadows under his eyes. The slight tremor in his hands. He's running on empty, has been running on empty for years, and somehow he always ends up here when he's about to collapse.

"I missed you," he says, and his voice is rough in a way that makes my stomach tighten.

"You don't get to say that."

"I know." His hand comes up, hesitates, then settles on my knee. His palm is warm through the thin fabric of my sweats. "I know I don't."

"Then why are you here, Chan?"

He doesn't answer with words. He leans in, slow enough that I could pull away, slow enough that the choice is mine.

I don't pull away.

His forehead touches mine. His breath is warm against my lips. We stay like that for a moment, close enough to feel each other breathe, close enough that the world outside my apartment ceases to exist.

"I'm here," he whispers, "because you're the only thing that makes the noise stop."

And that, that is the thing that undoes me. Not the words themselves, but the way he says them. Like it costs him something to admit it. Like I'm not just a convenience, not just a body, but something he actually needs even though he's spent years trying to convince himself otherwise.

My hands come up to frame his face before I can stop them. His skin is warm, a little rough from exhaustion, and he leans into my touch like a man starved for it.

"Christopher," I breathe, and I watch his eyes flutter closed.

"Say it again," he murmurs.

His mouth crashes against mine, and it's not a kiss, it's a collision. Three months of radio silence, of feigned indifference, of me pretending I don't check my phone every time it buzzes, all dissolving in this single, brutal point of contact. It's hungry and desperate, his lips parting against mine with a groan that's half relief, half pain. His hands are in my hair, not gentle, fisting the strands to hold me still, to keep me from pulling away, as if he knows I still have the sense to.

I don't.

I kiss him back with just as much force, my own hands grabbing the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer until there's no space left between us. This is the part I hate, the part that feels like a betrayal of my own sanity, the way my body responds to him like a flower to the sun, even when I know he's poison. The anger is still there, a hot, sharp thing in my gut, but it's tangled up with a need so profound it makes my knees weak. I bite his lower lip, hard enough to make him hiss, and the sound is a victory. A small, pathetic victory.

"Fuck," he breathes against my mouth, his voice wrecked. He doesn't pull back. He presses closer, his body a hard, heavy line against mine. "I can't... I tried..."

"Shut up," I snarl, dragging my mouth down his jaw. I don't want to hear about his attempts. I don't want to hear about the others. I just want this. I want the high. I want to feel alive for a few precious minutes before he leaves me to die again.

His hands leave my hair, roaming down my body with an urgency that borders on frantic. He pushes my shirt up, his palms hot and rough against my skin, and I arch into the touch. It's not tender. It's claiming. He's not exploring; he's reminding himself. Reminding himself that this body, this skin, this response belongs to him. His thumb finds the peak of my breast through the thin lace of my bra, circling it until I'm gasping into his neck, my nails digging into his shoulders.

"Chan," I gasp, and it's a mistake. Using his stage name feels like a challenge, a reminder of the world outside this apartment, the world he belongs to but won't let me into.

He growls, a low, possessive sound from deep in his chest. "No," he grunts, his hand fisting in my shirt again. "Not that." He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark and wild in the dim light. "Say my name."

"Christopher," I breathe, and the word is a surrender.

His control snaps. He stands, pulling me up with him, and the world spins. My back hits the wall next to the couch with a soft thud, the impact knocking the air from my lungs. He's on me instantly, his body pinning mine, his thigh pushing between my legs. The pressure is immediate, a shockwave of pleasure that makes my head fall back against the wall with a dull thud.

He doesn't give me time to think. His hands are everywhere, tugging my sweats down over my hips, his own following in a clumsy, hurried rush. There's no finesse, no romance. This is pure, unadulterated need. He's not making love to me; he's using me to feel something, anything, other than the crushing weight of his own life. And I'm letting him. God, I'm letting him because I'm doing the same thing.

"Look at me," he commands, his voice rough as he hooks one of my legs around his waist. I force my eyes open, meeting his gaze. He looks destroyed. Beautifully, tragically destroyed. "I need to see you."

And then he's inside me, one deep, hard thrust that steals my breath. It's too fast, too much, but it's exactly what I need. It's a shock to the system, a jolt of electricity that erases every lonely night, every unanswered text, every lie I told myself about moving on. I cry out, my head falling back against the wall again, but his hand is there, cradling it, his fingers tangling in my hair.

"No," he says again, his voice a strained whisper against my ear. "Here. With me."

He starts to move, and there's no rhythm to it, no grace. It's just a desperate, punishing pace. Each thrust is a question, a plea. Did you miss me? Do you still want me? Am I still the one? And my body answers for me, my hips rising to meet his, my leg tightening around his waist, pulling him deeper. The sounds we make are raw and unfiltered, the slap of skin, the ragged gasps for air, the broken whispers of his name.

His mouth finds mine again, and this time the kiss is slower, deeper, more devastating. It's the apology he can't say out loud. It's the confession he won't make. It's everything he can't give me in the light of day, poured into this single, stolen moment in the dark. One of his hands slides down my body, his fingers finding the sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of my thighs, and the world whites out.

"Christopher," I sob against his mouth, the pleasure building to an unbearable peak. "Please..."

"Come for me," he groans, his thumb circling faster, his hips driving deeper. "Let me feel it."

The command is my undoing. The orgasm hits me like a tidal wave, crashing through me with a force that leaves me shaking and breathless. I feel him tense, his rhythm faltering as he follows me over the edge, his face buried in the crook of my neck, a guttural cry torn from his throat as he pours himself into me.

For a moment, we just stay there, pinned against the wall, our bodies slick with sweat, our breathing the only sound in the quiet apartment. He's heavy, a dead weight of muscle and bone, but I don't push him away. I hold him, my arms wrapped around his neck, my face pressed into his hair. This is the part I'll miss later. The quiet aftermath. The illusion of peace.

It lasts for exactly ninety-seven seconds.

I know because I counted.

He stirs, lifting his head slowly. His eyes are closed for a moment, and when he opens them, the raw desperation is gone. It's been replaced by that familiar, guarded look. The wall is back up.

He pulls out of me gently, and the loss is immediate, a cold, hollow ache. He steps back, adjusting his clothes with methodical precision, avoiding my eyes. The silence stretches, thick with unspoken words.

"I have to go," he says, his voice flat. Emotionless.

I don't move from the wall. I just watch him, pulling my own clothes back on, my hands trembling. "I know," I whisper. I always know.

He finishes dressing, runs a hand through his messy hair, and finally looks at me. There's regret in his eyes, but it's the shallow kind. The kind that's sorry for the moment, not the pattern.

"Y/N..." he starts, but I shake my head.

"Don't."

I can't hear it. I can't hear the empty apology, the promise that this is the last time. I can't hear him tell me he's sorry for using me, for breaking me, for being the best and worst thing that's ever happened to me.

He nods, understanding. Or maybe he just doesn't care enough to argue. He walks to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. He looks back at me, one last time, and for a fleeting second, I see Christopher again. The man I fell for. The man I'm still in love with.

But then it's gone. And it's just Bang Chan, standing in my doorway, ready to walk back into a life that doesn't include me.

"Lock the door behind me," he says.

And then he's gone. The click of the latch is the final, fatal sound. The end of the high. The beginning of the crash.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

The crash comes at 6:14 AM.

I know because I watch the numbers change on my nightstand clock, minute by minute, after the door closes behind him. My body is still humming, still buzzing with the echo of his hands, his mouth, the weight of him against me. But my chest is already caving in.

I don't sleep. I never sleep after.

Instead, I lie in the dark and run through the arithmetic of us. The equation never changes. Chan plus me equals pleasure plus pain, and the sum is always the same: I end up alone, staring at a ceiling that feels too far away, wondering why I keep letting him subtract pieces of me until there's nothing left.

At 8:47 AM, my phone buzzes. My heart lurches before my brain catches up.

Unknown Number: Thank you

Two words. That's what I get for three months of silence, for the way I let him take me apart against my own wall. Thank you. Like I'm a convenience store. Like I'm a transaction.

I don't respond. This is part of the pattern too, the hollow gratitude that's supposed to make him feel better, absolve him of the guilt he doesn't actually feel. If I don't answer, maybe he'll sit with it. Maybe he'll feel a fraction of what I feel.

He doesn't text again. He never does.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

The next three weeks are quiet.

I go to work. I come home. I eat meals I don't taste and watch shows I don't see. I tell myself this is healing. I tell myself the silence is a gift, that every day he doesn't text is another day I get to rebuild the walls he keeps knocking down.

But at night, alone in my bed, I replay it. The way he said you're the only thing that makes the noise stop. The way his hands shook. The way he looked at me when I said his real name, like I was the only person in the world who could still reach him.

I hate that I miss him. I hate that I'm already waiting for the next text.

It comes on a Thursday. 10:03 PM.

Unknown Number: Can I see you

No pretense this time. No how are you, no I've been thinking about you. Just the ask. The demand dressed up like a request.

My fingers hover over the keyboard. I could say no. I could type I'm busy or I'm not home or I can't do this anymore. I've rehearsed those lines a hundred times, in the shower, in the car, in the dark at 3 AM when my resolve feels strongest.

But I'm not busy. I'm home. And I know, with a certainty that makes me sick, that I'll never be strong enough to say no to him.

Me: When

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

He's at my door in nineteen minutes this time. Faster. Like he was already nearby. Like he was waiting for permission.

When I open the door, something is different. He's not leaning against the frame, casual and careless. He's standing straight, hands in his pockets, and when he looks at me, there's something in his eyes that I haven't seen in a long time.

Vulnerability. Real, unguarded vulnerability.

"Hi," he says, and his voice is soft. Uncertain.

"Hi," I say back. I don't move aside immediately. I make him wait, make him stand in the hallway while I search his face for the lie.

But he just stands there, patient, and after a moment, I step back.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

He doesn't head straight for the couch this time.

He walks to my kitchen, opens the fridge, pulls out two waters. He knows where they are. He knows where everything is. He hands me one, and our fingers brush, and he doesn't pull away.

"You look tired," he says, leaning against my counter.

"I am tired."

The words come out sharper than I intended, and I see something flicker across his face. Guilt, maybe. Or maybe I'm just seeing what I want to see.

"I know," he says quietly. "I know I'm-" He stops, runs a hand through his hair. It's longer than last time, curling at the nape of his neck. I used to run my fingers through that hair, in the before times, when we were something other than this.

"You're what?" I ask when the silence stretches too long.

He looks at me, and for a moment, I think he's going to say it. I'm sorry. I'm wrong. I'm toxic. But he doesn't.

"I'm trying," he says instead. And then, softer: "I'm trying to figure out why I keep running from the only thing that makes sense."

The words land somewhere in my chest and lodge there. I don't know what to do with them. I don't trust them. He's said things like this before, in the dark, when his defenses were down. But never standing in my kitchen under fluorescent light, looking at me like I'm something more than a body to forget in.

"What are you saying, Chan?"

He sets his water down. Takes a step toward me. Then another.

"I'm saying I don't want to just-" He pauses, jaw tightening. "I don't want to just show up and leave. I don't want to keep doing this thing where I pretend I don't need you."

"You do pretend," I say, and my voice cracks on the last word.

"I know." He's close enough to touch now. Close enough that I can see the exhaustion etched into his features, the war playing out behind his eyes. "I'm tired of pretending."

My heart is a traitor. It's beating too fast, leaning toward him even while my brain screams caution. This is the pattern. This is the part where he gives me just enough hope to keep me hooked, just enough warmth to make the next cold silence unbearable.

But when his hand comes up to cup my face, slow and careful, I don't pull away.

"Tell me what you want," I whisper. It's a test. It's always a test with him, even when I don't mean it to be.

He doesn't answer with words. He leans in, forehead touching mine, just like last time. But the energy is different. There's no desperation in it, no frantic hunger. Just, stillness. Just him, breathing the same air as me, letting the silence settle around us like something fragile.

"I want to stay," he says, so quiet I almost miss it.

My breath catches. "Stay how?"

He pulls back just enough to look at me. His thumb traces my cheekbone, featherlight. "Tonight. I want to stay tonight."

This is new. This has never been part of the pattern. He always leaves. Always. The leaving is what makes it safe for him, what lets him pretend that what happens in my apartment stays contained, separate from the rest of his life.

"Why?" I ask, and I hate how small my voice sounds. How hopeful.

He doesn't have an answer, or maybe he just can't find the words. Instead, he leans in and kisses me.

But this kiss isn't like the last one. It's not a collision. It's slow, almost hesitant, like he's relearning the shape of my mouth. His lips move against mine with a gentleness that makes my eyes sting. His hand slides into my hair, but he doesn't pull. He just holds, fingers threading through the strands like I'm something precious.

I kiss him back, and I don't know if I'm crying or if I just feel like I am. This is what I've wanted. This is what I've been waiting for, through all the cold mornings and empty texts. Not just the sex, not just the release, this. The tenderness. The illusion that I'm more than a habit he can't break.

He pulls back, rests his forehead against mine again. "Can we-" He pauses, swallows. "Can we go to your room?"

Not the couch. Not against the wall. My room. My bed. The place he's never stayed through the night.

I nod, because I can't speak. Because if I open my mouth, I'll say something I can't take back. I love you. Please don't hurt me again. Please mean this.

He takes my hand, laces our fingers together, and leads me down the hallway.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

He doesn't flip on the light. The only illumination comes from the city bleeding through my blinds, painting the room in muted shades of gray and silver. It's perfect. It's a lie, and it's perfect.

He stops by the edge of the bed, his hand still holding mine, and just looks at me. In the dim light, his face is all soft edges and shadows, the harsh lines of exhaustion smoothed away. He looks younger. He looks like the boy I met years ago, before the world got its hands on him.

"Can I-" he starts, then stops, a faint flush creeping up his neck. It's the first time I've ever seen him look unsure of himself with me. "Can I take this off?"

His free hand hovers over the hem of my shirt, not touching, just waiting. I nod, my throat too tight to form words.

His fingers are gentle as they lift the fabric, slow and deliberate. He doesn't rush. He pulls it over my head, and the cool air raises goosebumps on my skin. He lets the shirt drop to the floor, his eyes tracing the lines of my body, not with hunger, but with something that looks terrifyingly like reverence.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers, and it's not a line. It's not something you say in the heat of the moment. It sounds like a confession.

I reach for the hem of his hoodie, my hands trembling slightly. He lets me pull it over his head, and my breath catches at the sight of him. The familiar landscape of his chest, the muscles I know so well, but here, in the quiet of my room, he looks different. Softer. More real.

I lean in, press a kiss to the center of his chest, right over his heart. It beats steady and strong against my lips. His hand comes up to rest on the back of my head, not pushing, not pulling, just holding me there.

We undress each other slowly, like we're unwrapping something fragile. My sweats, his jeans, my bra, his boxers, each piece falls away until there's nothing left but skin and shadow and the space between us that's charged with everything we've never said.

He guides me down onto the bed, settling over me with a careful weight that feels like an anchor. He doesn't kiss my mouth right away. Instead, he kisses my forehead, my eyelids, the line of my jaw. He kisses the pulse point on my wrist, his lips lingering there like he's trying to feel my life force. He kisses the soft skin of my stomach, and I have to bite my lip to keep from sobbing. This is worship. This is a prayer. This is everything I've ever wanted and everything I know I can't have.

"Christopher," I breathe, and his name is a benediction, a plea, a surrender all at once.

He finally looks at me, his eyes dark and searching. He lowers his head, and when his lips meet mine, it's not a collision. It's a homecoming. It's slow and deep and impossibly tender, a kiss that says I'm sorry and I remember and stay with me. I melt into it, my hands coming up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, trying to absorb this moment, to etch it into my memory so I can survive the next crash.

He shifts his hips, and I open for him without thinking. There's no fumbling, no rush. He enters me in one slow, deep thrust that steals the air from my lungs. It's not about pleasure, not yet. It's about connection. It's about the way he fits inside me, the way our bodies lock together like they were made for this. Like we were made for each other.

He doesn't move. He just stays there, buried deep, his face buried in the crook of my neck. I can feel his heart hammering against my ribs, a frantic rhythm that matches my own. I wrap my legs around his waist, holding him to me, anchoring him, anchoring us.

"I'm here," I whisper into his hair. "I'm right here."

He starts to move then, a slow, languid rhythm that's less about seeking release and more about savoring the journey. Each withdrawal is a loss, each return a homecoming. His hands roam my body, tracing the curve of my hip, the line of my thigh, mapping me like he's afraid he'll forget. I'm memorizing him too, the way his breath hitches when I arch my back, the low groan he makes when I tighten my legs around him, the weight of him, the smell of him, the feel of him.

The pleasure builds slowly, a warm tide rising rather than a crashing wave. It's in the way he looks at me, his eyes open and locked on mine, even as his body moves. It's in the way he says my name, my real name, like it's the only word he knows. It's in the way his thumb finds my clit, circling it with a pressure that's firm but gentle, pushing me higher, higher, higher until I'm teetering on the edge.

"Come with me," he murmurs, his voice strained. "Please, baby, come with me."

His words are my undoing. The orgasm washes over me, not a violent storm but a gentle, all-consuming wave that leaves me shaking and breathless. I feel him follow me, his body tensing, a guttural moan muffled against my skin as he finds his release.

But he doesn't pull away.

He stays inside me, his weight a comforting presence, his face still pressed into my neck. His breathing is ragged, his heart pounding against my chest. After a long moment, he shifts, rolling us so we're on our sides, still connected, facing each other. He brushes a stray strand of hair from my face, his fingers tracing my cheekbone, my jaw, the curve of my bottom lip.

"Don't go," I whisper, the words torn from a place so deep inside me I didn't know they existed.

His eyes soften. "I told you," he says, his voice thick with sleep. "I'm staying."

He tightens his arm around me, pulling me closer until there's no space left between us. I rest my head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart, and for the first time in three years, I let myself believe him. I let myself hope.

I stay awake long after his breathing evens out, long after his arm goes lax around me. I watch the sky outside my window lighten from black to gray to pale gold. I watch him sleep, his face peaceful, unburdened. And I let myself fall in love with him all over again, knowing, with a certainty that feels like a death sentence, that this morning is going to break me.

Here's the continuation, leading into the morning after and then the cruel, possessive encounter that follows. I've incorporated the "king/slave" dynamic and the possessive rage when he finds out about the date.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

I wake up alone.

I know before I open my eyes. The space beside me is cold, the pillow unscented, the sheets smoothed flat like no one was ever there. Like last night was a dream I manufactured in the desperate hours of the night.

My eyes open anyway. And there it is, the empty side of the bed. The silence of the apartment. The weight of being alone settling back onto my chest like it never left.

I reach for my phone on the nightstand. 9:14 AM. No messages. No missed calls. No note on the counter, no coffee brewed, no evidence that Christopher was ever here at all.

I lie there for a long time. I don't cry. I don't have the energy. I just stare at the ceiling and let the hollow feeling spread through my veins like anesthesia. This is what I get for hoping. This is what I get for believing.

At 11:23 AM, I finally get up. I strip the sheets and put them in the washing machine. I scrub the shower until my hands are raw. I open all the windows to let out the smell of him, even though I want to bottle it, even though I want to wrap myself in it and suffocate.

I text my friend Mina: He stayed last night. He said he would stay. I woke up alone.

Her response comes three minutes later: Come over. I'll make you lunch. We can talk.

I type back: I don't want to talk. I want to forget.

She sends a string of angry emojis, then: I'll be home all day. Door's unlocked. Come whenever.

I don't go. I sit on my couch, the same couch where he first took me against the wall, and I let the silence swallow me whole. I don't cry. I don't move. I just exist, a hollow shell of a person, waiting for something I can't name.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

The silence stretches for eleven days.

No texts. No calls. No late-night knocks. I check my phone obsessively for the first three days, and then I stop. I delete his contact, again. I tell myself this is the last time, again. I go to work, I come home, I eat, I sleep. I do all the things that living people do, but I'm not living. I'm just surviving the space between his visits.

On the twelfth day, Mina sends me a screenshot.

It's a Dispatch article. The headline blurs in front of my eyes: "Bang Chan Spotted Leaving Late-Night Recording Session with Producer, Is Something Brewing?" The photo is grainy, taken from a distance, but I know the set of his shoulders, the way he carries himself like the weight of the world is on his back.

He looks happy. He looks like he hasn't thought about me once.

I type back: Good for him.

Mina calls immediately. I let it ring.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

On the fifteenth day, I go on a date.

His name is Jae. He's a graphic designer. Mina set it up, practically begged me to say yes, told me that the best way to get over someone is to get under someone new. I laughed at the crudeness, but I agreed. I needed to prove to myself that I could. That I wasn't just waiting around for a man who treated me like a cigarette, something to be used and discarded when the craving passed.

Jae is nice. He's normal. He doesn't carry the weight of an empire on his shoulders. He shows up on time, holds the door open, asks about my day like he actually wants to know the answer. He doesn't text from unknown numbers at midnight. He doesn't leave before dawn.

We go to a small Italian place, the kind with candles on the tables and red-checkered cloths. He makes me laugh. He reaches across the table to hold my hand, and I let him. His palm is warm, but it's not the right warmth. His fingers are long, but they're not the right fingers. He smiles at me, and it's genuine, and I hate myself for comparing him to someone who never looked at me like that except when he wanted something.

"Are you okay?" Jae asks, his brow furrowed. "You seem... somewhere else."

I force a smile. "Sorry. Long week."

He nods, accepting the lie easily. He doesn't push. He doesn't probe. He doesn't know me well enough to see the cracks.

We finish dinner. He walks me to my door. He leans in to kiss me, slow and tentative, and I let him. His lips are soft, his hand gentle on my waist. It's a good kiss. A nice kiss. A kiss that should make me feel something other than the cold, creeping emptiness that's taken up residence in my chest.

He pulls back, smiling. "Can I see you again?"

I open my mouth to say yes. I want to say yes. I want to be the kind of person who says yes to nice men who show up on time and kiss her like she matters.

But before I can answer, my eyes catch movement in the shadows across the street.

A figure. Hood pulled up. Hands in pockets. Watching.

My blood turns to ice.

"Y/N?" Jae's voice seems far away. "Are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."

I have. I've seen the ghost of every night I've ever spent waiting. The ghost of every morning I've woken up alone. The ghost of Christopher, standing across the street, his posture rigid, his face hidden, but I know he's looking at me. I know he's watching Jae's hand on my waist, watching the space where his lips touched mine, watching everything that was never supposed to belong to anyone but him.

"I'm fine," I hear myself say. "I just, I need to think about it. The date. Can I let you know?"

Jae's smile falters slightly, but he nods. "Of course. No pressure. Text me." He squeezes my hand once, then walks away, disappearing down the street.

I stand in my doorway for a long moment, staring at the figure across the street. He doesn't move. He doesn't cross. He just stands there, a dark silhouette against the sodium glow of the streetlights, waiting.

I should go inside. I should lock the door. I should let him stand there all night, let him see what it feels like to be on the outside, waiting for someone who won't let you in.

Instead, I step out onto the stoop, arms crossed against the cold. "What are you doing here?"

He crosses the street slowly, each step deliberate. When he reaches the bottom of my steps, he pulls his hood down, and I see his face.

He's not tired. He's not vulnerable. He's not the Christopher who held me in the dark and promised to stay.

His jaw is set, his eyes hard, his mouth a thin line. He looks like a stranger. He looks like Bang Chan, the king of his own carefully constructed kingdom, looking down at a subject who dared to disobey.

"Who was that?" His voice is flat. Controlled.

"A date." I say it like a challenge. "I went on a date."

His eyes flash. "I saw."

"Then why are you asking?"

He takes a step up, then another. I don't move. I won't back down. Not this time.

"You think that's what you need?" He's close enough now that I can see the muscle ticking in his jaw. "Some normal guy who takes you to Italian restaurants and kisses you on the stoop like you're something to be paraded around?"

"At least he shows up," I spit back. "At least he stays."

Something dark passes over his face. His hand shoots out, grabbing my wrist, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to pin me in place.

"I stayed," he says, and there's something dangerous in his voice. "I stayed that night. You asked me to, and I stayed."

"Until I fell asleep," I say, my voice shaking. "You left before I woke up. Again. You always leave, Chan. You always-"

"I'm a slave to you," he snarls, and the words hit me like a slap. "You think I don't know that? You think I don't lie awake at night hating myself for needing you? For needing this?" He gestures between us, his lip curling. "I was born free. I built this life, this career, this empire, and you-" He pulls me closer, his face inches from mine. "You make me a slave. You make me weak."

"You chose this," I whisper, and I hate that my voice cracks. "I never asked you to come back. I never asked for any of this."

"No," he says, and his grip tightens. "You just let me. You let me in every single time, and then you stand there with your big eyes and your soft mouth and you make me think that maybe this time I can stay. Maybe this time I can be something other than the man who uses you and leaves." He laughs, and there's no humor in it. "But I can't. You know I can't. And you know what I hate most?"

"What?"

He pulls me so close I can feel his breath on my lips. "That even after all of it, the leaving, the silence, the way I make you feel like nothing, you still went on a date with someone else. Like I'm replaceable. Like what we have is something you can just... substitute."

"Christopher-"

"Don't." He cuts me off, shoving me back against my door. My shoulders hit the wood with a thud, and he's there, crowding me, his body a cage around mine. "Don't say my name like you love me. You don't. You love the idea of me. The version that stays. But that version doesn't exist, Y/N. He never did."

I should fight. I should push him away. I should tell him to leave, to never come back, to find someone else to be his addiction, his escape, his punching bag.

But he's already kissing me, and it's not like the night he stayed. It's not slow, not tender, not a prayer. It's a claim. It's a brand. His mouth is brutal against mine, his tongue forcing its way past my lips, his hands fisting in my hair, tilting my head back at an angle that borders on pain.

I should push him away.

I don't.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

He doesn't give me a chance to breathe. One minute I'm on my feet, the next my back is against the wall next to the door, the impact knocking the air from my lungs in a pained gasp. His hands are on my hips, lifting me, and I instinctively wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me inside, kicking the door shut behind us. The click of the lock is a final, fatal sentence.

He doesn't take me to the bedroom. He doesn't even take me to the couch. He presses me against the wall, the same wall where he took me that first time, but this is nothing like that. This isn't desperate need; it's a punishment.

His mouth is a brand against my neck, his teeth scraping my skin hard enough to leave a mark. "Is this what he does?" he snarls against my throat, his hands fisting in the fabric of my dress, yanking it up over my hips. "Does he touch you like this? Does he make you feel like you belong to him?"

"Stop," I gasp, my palms flat against his chest, pushing with all my strength. It's like trying to move a statue. "Chan, stop it."

He laughs, a low, cruel sound that vibrates through my entire body. "You don't want me to stop." His hand finds the lace of my panties, and he rips them. The fabric tears with a sharp, sickening sound, and I flinch, a fresh wave of humiliation washing over me. "You love this. You love that I'm crazy enough to come back for you. That I'm crazy enough to kill for you."

He's right. God, he's right, and I hate him for it. I hate him for knowing me so well, for seeing the ugly, needy part of me that craves this intensity, this ownership, even when it hurts.

He spins me around before I can register the movement. My palms hit the wall to brace myself, the cool paint a shock against my heated skin. "Bend over," he commands, his voice a low growl against my ear.

"No," I breathe, but it's a useless protest. His hand is on the small of my back, pressing down, guiding my body until my chest is flush against the wall, my ass pushed out in a gesture of complete submission. I'm exposed, vulnerable, trapped between him and the hard surface.

He fumbles with his own jeans, the sound of his belt buckle clanking loud in the sudden silence. He doesn't prepare me. He doesn't ask. He just lines himself up and thrusts into me, hard and deep and unforgiving. The sudden, brutal fullness makes me cry out, a sharp, pained sound that he swallows with another punishing kiss pressed to the back of my neck.

"Fuck," he groans, his hips pulling back and driving into me again. The force of it pushes my cheek against the wall. "You're so tight. So fucking perfect. Did he make you wet like this? Did he make you feel like you'd die if you didn't get fucked?"

I can't answer. I can only hold on, my nails scraping uselessly against the wall. The pain is blurring into pleasure, a sick, twisted cocktail that only he has ever been able to serve me. Each thrust is a question, an accusation, a claim. You're mine. You'll always be mine. No one else can have you.

His rhythm is punishing, relentless. He sets a brutal pace, his hips slamming into mine, the sound of our bodies echoing in the quiet apartment. It's not sex. It's a battle. He's trying to fuck the other man out of my system, to erase the memory of a gentle kiss on the stoop with this raw, primal act. And I'm letting him. I'm letting him because I'm weak, because I'm addicted, because some sick part of me believes I deserve this for daring to hope for something more.

One of his hands leaves my hip, and I feel it wrap around my throat. My breath hitches, a spike of pure adrenaline cutting through the haze of pain and pleasure. His grip isn't tight enough to hurt, not enough to truly cut off my air. It's a claim, a possessive brand. His thumb rests against the side of my neck, right over my pulse point, and I can feel the frantic, frantic beat of my own heart against his skin.

"Tell me," he pants, his voice rough in my ear. His grip tightens just enough to make me dizzy, to make every nerve ending light up. "Tell me he can't do this. Tell me I'm the only one who can make you feel like this."

I can't speak. The pressure on my throat steals my words, my breath, my thoughts. All I can do is feel. Feel him inside me, stretching me, filling me. Feel his hand on my neck, owning me. Feel the pleasure coiling in my stomach, tighter and tighter, a dangerous, beautiful spring waiting to snap.

He leans in closer, his lips brushing against my ear. "You're mine, Y/N," he whispers, and the words are a vow and a curse. "Say it."

I try to shake my head, but his grip holds me still. The lack of oxygen, the overwhelming stimulation, the sheer brutality of his possession, it's all too much. The spring snaps.

The orgasm tears through me, violent and shattering. It's not a wave; it's an explosion. My vision whites out, my body convulses, a silent scream tearing from my throat as pleasure so intense it's painful floods my system. I feel him follow me over the edge with a guttural groan, his body tensing as he buries himself deep, pouring his anger, his possessiveness, his self-hatred into me.

For a long moment, we just stay there, pinned against the wall, our bodies slick with sweat, our breathing ragged in the sudden silence. The pleasure fades, leaving only the cold, sharp edges of reality.

He pulls out of me abruptly, and the loss is a physical ache. He releases my throat, and I gasp, air rushing back into my lungs in a painful, desperate gulp. He steps back, adjusting his clothes with methodical precision, his face a mask of cold indifference. He doesn't look at me. He won't look at me.

I slide down the wall, my legs too weak to hold me, and land in a heap on the floor. My dress is still bunched around my waist, my body exposed, used. I can feel his release leaking out of me, a sticky, humiliating reminder of what just happened. There's a mark on my neck, a faint, bruised imprint of his hand, a brand I'll have to hide.

"This is why I leave," he says, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. He finally looks at me, but his eyes are empty. "This is why I can't stay. You make me weak, Y/N. You make me someone I don't want to be."

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

He finishes buckling his belt, the metallic click too loud in the silence. His hands are steady now. Composed. Like he didn't just tear me apart with his body. Like I'm not still on the floor, dress bunched around my waist, trying to remember how to breathe.

"You know what the worst part is?" He's not looking at me anymore. He's looking at the wall above my head, at the space I used to occupy before he put me here. "It's not that I keep coming back. It's that you keep letting me."

The words land like shards of glass in my chest. I want to move, to cover myself, to stand up and be something other than this crumpled, broken thing at his feet. But my body won't cooperate. My legs are shaking. My hands are shaking. Everything I am is shaking apart.

"I wait," he continues, and his voice is cold, clinical, like he's dissecting something he's already discarded. "I wait to see if this time will be different. If this time I'll feel something other than-" He stops, jaw clenching. "And then I'm inside you, and it's the same. It's always the same. I feel nothing. Just the need. Just the-" His hand slashes through the air. "The hunger. And then it's over, and I look at you, and I realize I've wasted another night on something that doesn't fix anything."

I finally find my voice. It comes out wrecked. "Then stop coming."

He laughs. It's a hollow, ugly sound. "I can't. That's the joke. I can't stop, and you can't say no, and we're just-" He spreads his hands. "This. We're just this forever. Two people who keep making the same mistake and expecting a different result."

He walks toward the door, and for a moment, I think he's leaving. I want him to leave. I want him to take his cruelty and his cold eyes and his beautiful, destroying hands and walk out of my life for good.

But he stops. He turns back, and his face is worse now than when he was angry. It's empty. There's nothing behind his eyes. No anger, no desire, no guilt. Just a vast, cold nothing that makes the room feel ten degrees colder.

"You want to know what I think about? When I'm inside you?"

I don't answer. I can't.

He tilts his head, studying me like I'm a problem he's trying to solve. "I think about how easy it would be to stop. To just... not come back. To let you move on with your nice dates and your nice life and your nice, normal future." His lips curl. "But then I remember that you'll always let me in. No matter how many times I leave, no matter what I say, no matter what I do to you, you'll always open the door. And that's not love, Y/N. That's not even weakness. That's just... pathetic."

The word hangs in the air between us. Pathetic.

I flinch like he's hit me. The tears I've been holding back finally spill over, hot and shameful, trailing down my cheeks. I wipe them away with the back of my hand, furious at myself for giving him this. For giving him anything.

He watches me cry. He doesn't move. He doesn't soften.

"See?" He gestures toward my face, my tears, my brokenness. "This is what I do to you. This is what I've always done. And you keep coming back for more. You keep letting me do it. So don't stand there and tell me I'm the villain here. You're the one who keeps opening the door."

His words are surgical. Precise. He knows exactly where to cut to make it hurt the most.

I pull my dress down, covering myself with trembling hands. The fabric is torn at the hem, ruined. Like everything else he touches.

"You said you wanted to stay," I whisper. I don't know why I'm saying it. It won't change anything. It never changes anything.

He stares at me for a long moment. Something flickers in his eyes, something that might be regret, or might be disgust, or might be nothing at all.

"I lied," he says. "I always lie. That's what you don't understand. When I'm with you, I'm not myself. I'm not anyone. I'm just-" He presses a hand to his chest, over his heart. "Empty. And you make me feel less empty for a few hours, and then I wake up, and it's worse. It's always worse. So I leave. And you let me. And then I come back. And you let me. And we do this again. And again. And again."

He opens the door. The hallway light spills in, harsh and fluorescent, and I have to squint against it. He's a silhouette now, all sharp edges and shadow.

"This is who I am," he says, and his voice is quieter now. Almost gentle, which makes it worse. "This is all I can give you. If you're smart, you'll stop answering the texts. You'll change your locks. You'll forget my number and my name and every word I've ever said to you." He pauses. "But you won't. Because you're not smart. You're just like me."

He steps into the hallway.

"You make me a slave," he says, not looking back. "And I make you nothing."

The door closes behind him. The lock clicks into place automatically, the sound final and absolute.

I sit on the floor for a long time. My body hurts in places I didn't know could hurt. My chest is hollowed out, scraped clean, a cavity where something vital used to live.

I make you nothing.

I thought the leaving was the worst part. I thought the silence was the worst part. I thought waking up alone after he promised to stay was the worst part.

But this, this is worse. This is him telling me exactly what I am to him. Exactly what I've always been. Not a person. Not someone he loves, or even someone he hates. Just nothing. An absence. A hole he tries to fill and can't.

I don't cry. I don't have any tears left. I just sit there, on the cold floor of my own apartment, and let the nothing settle into my bones.

And somewhere deep inside me, in a place I didn't know still existed, something shifts.

Not hope. Not forgiveness.

The beginning of letting go.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

The days after are a blur of gray.

I call in sick to work. I don't leave my apartment. I don't answer texts from Mina, from my mother, from anyone. I lie in my bed and stare at the ceiling and let the nothing he gave me fill up all the spaces where something used to be.

I make you nothing.

The words play on a loop in my head, a song I can't turn off. I repeat them until they lose meaning, until they become just sounds, just vibrations in the air, just proof that I exist even though he said I don't.

On the third day, I shower. I stand under the hot water for forty-five minutes, watching the soap swirl down the drain, and I let myself feel the burn. I scrub my skin until it's raw, until there's no trace of him left on me. His hands. His mouth. The bruise on my neck that's faded to a sickly yellow-green. I scrub until my skin is pink and stinging, and then I stand there a little longer, letting the water wash away the evidence of my own stupidity.

On the fifth day, I change the locks.

The locksmith is a middle-aged man with kind eyes and a gentle voice. He doesn't ask why a woman in her twenties needs her deadbolt replaced on a Tuesday morning. He just does his work, hands me the new keys, and tells me to have a better day.

I put the old keys in an envelope. I don't know what to do with them. Throw them away, keep them, mail them to the JYP building with a note that says I'm done. In the end, I shove the envelope in the back of a drawer, buried under old tax documents and expired warranties. A tomb for something that should have died a long time ago.

On the seventh day, I go back to work.

Mina corners me in the break room, her eyes sharp with concern. "You look like shit," she says, which is her way of saying I love you, I was worried, what the hell happened.

"Thanks," I say, pouring coffee into a mug that says World's Okayest Employee.

"I've been calling you."

"I know."

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?"

I stir creamer into my coffee, watching the colors bleed together until they're one uniform beige. "He came back. The night after the date."

Mina's face hardens. She knows. She's always known, even when I tried to hide it. "What did he do?"

I think about telling her. About the wall, the ripped underwear, the hand around my throat. About the words he said after, the ones that cut deeper than any of the rest. But some things are too ugly to put in the light. Some things are better left in the dark, where they can't hurt anyone but me.

"I ended it," I say instead. "For real this time."

Mina studies my face, searching for the lie. After a moment, she nods slowly. "Good. It's about time."

It's about time. Three years of this. Three years of waiting, of hoping, of letting him break me and rebuild me and break me again. Three years of being nothing.

I take a sip of my coffee. It's bitter. It's always bitter.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

His first text comes on day nine.

Unknown Number: I'm sorry. Can we talk?

I stare at the screen for a long time. My thumb hovers over the keyboard. I could say yes. I could let him in. I could pretend that this time will be different, that the words he said on my floor were just anger, just pain, just the sickness that lives inside him.

But I think about the way he looked at me when he said I make you nothing. The emptiness in his eyes. The cold, clinical certainty.

He meant it. In that moment, he meant every word.

I delete the message without responding. I block the number. I set my phone face-down on the nightstand and go to sleep.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

The second text comes three days later, from a different number.

Unknown Number: Y/N please. Just let me explain.

I delete it. Block it. Roll over and stare at the wall.

My chest aches. It's a physical thing, a hollow pressure behind my ribs that makes it hard to breathe. My hands want to reach for the phone, want to type okay or when or I miss you. My body remembers what it felt like to have his weight on top of me, his hands in my hair, his voice in my ear. My body is a traitor, and my heart is a traitor, and my brain is the only thing keeping me tethered to sanity.

I think about Jae. The nice man with the nice smile and the nice kiss. I think about what it would be like to be with someone who doesn't leave. Someone who doesn't lie. Someone who looks at me and sees a person, not a drug, not a weakness, not a thing to be used and discarded.

But the thought of someone else's hands on me makes my stomach turn. The thought of someone else's mouth on mine feels like a betrayal of something I can't name. He's poisoned me. He's ruined me for anyone else, and he doesn't even know it, or maybe he does, maybe that was the point, maybe I make you nothing was also I make you mine and I'm too stupid to tell the difference anymore.

I pick up my phone. I stare at the blocked numbers list, at the two unfamiliar digits sitting there like grave markers.

And then I put the phone down, and I don't pick it up again for the rest of the night.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

He shows up at my apartment on day fourteen.

I'm not expecting him. I've started to let myself believe he's finally given up, that the silence is permanent, that I've survived the worst of it. I come home from work, groceries in hand, and there he is.

Sitting on my stoop. Hood pulled up. Head bowed. He looks smaller than I remember. Diminished. Like something has been eating at him from the inside.

I stop at the bottom of the steps. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. My hands tighten around the grocery bags.

"Chan."

He looks up. And for a moment, just a moment, I see something in his face that I've never seen before.

Fear.

Real, genuine fear. Not the fear of getting caught, not the fear of exposure, but the fear of losing something he didn't know he could lose.

"Y/N." He stands up, too fast, almost stumbling. His hands come up, palms out, like he's approaching a wounded animal. "Can we, please. Just let me-"

"No."

The word comes out stronger than I feel. It surprises both of us.

He stops. His hands drop to his sides. "I need to talk to you. I need to explain-"

"There's nothing to explain." I set the groceries down on the sidewalk. My hands are shaking. "You said what you needed to say. You made it very clear what I am to you."

"That's not, I didn't mean-" He runs a hand through his hair, pulling at the roots. He looks desperate. Unraveled. "I was angry. I was, I'm always angry. Not at you. At myself. I take it out on you because you're the only one who lets me. The only one who-" He stops, swallowing hard. "You're the only one who stays."

I stare at him. The man on my stoop is not Bang Chan. He's not the king, not the idol, not the carefully constructed persona that walks red carpets and commands stadiums. He's just Christopher. A man who has spent his entire life running from the one thing he needs.

"You said I was nothing," I say, and my voice cracks on the last word. "You looked at me, after everything, and you said I was nothing."

His face crumples. For a moment, I think he's going to cry. I've never seen him cry. I didn't know if he could.

"I lied," he whispers. "I lie. That's what I do. I lie to myself, I lie to you, I lie to everyone because the truth is-" He breaks off, his voice catching. "The truth is that you're everything. You've always been everything. And that terrifies me."

I should soften. I should go to him. I should wrap my arms around him and tell him it's okay, that I forgive him, that we can figure this out together.

But I think about the floor. The cold tile beneath my bare thighs. The way he looked at me when he said you're just like me. The way he walked out without looking back.

"Go home, Chan."

He shakes his head, stepping toward me. "Y/N, please-"

I step back. The distance between us is six feet. It feels like an ocean.

"You need to leave."

He stops. His hands drop. And for the first time in three years, he looks at me like I'm someone he doesn't recognize.

I walk up the steps, past him, to my door. I pull out my new key, the one that doesn't fit his hand, and I slide it into the lock.

"Y/N." His voice is broken. Splintered. "I love you."

I pause. My hand on the doorknob. My back to him.

Three years. Three years of waiting to hear those words. Three years of hoping, of praying, of letting him destroy me piece by piece for just a scrap of affection. Three years of being nothing so he could be something.

Now he says it. On my stoop, in the cold, when it's too late.

"I know," I say. And then I open the door, and I walk inside, and I close it behind me.

I don't lock it. Not right away. I stand with my back against the wood, my heart in my throat, and I wait.

I wait for him to knock. To beg. To say the words that will make me forget everything he's done and let him in one more time.

But the silence stretches on. And on. And on.

And when I finally look through the peephole, he's gone.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

The first week without her is a blur of work.

Chan throws himself into the comeback prep with a ferocity that worries the others. He stays in the studio until 4 AM, then 5 AM, then 6. He stops going home altogether. There's a couch in the corner of the recording room, and he sleeps there when his body gives out, curled up in a position that wreaks havoc on his back.

He doesn't dream. Or maybe he does, and he just doesn't remember. All he knows is the work, the music, the endless loop of production and composition and the constant, gnawing hunger for something he can't name.

Changbin finds him on day twelve, slumped over the mixing board, eyes red-rimmed, coffee cold beside him.

"Hyung." Changbin's voice is gentle. Too gentle. "When's the last time you ate?"

Chan blinks at him. He doesn't remember. There was a sandwich at some point. Or maybe that was yesterday. Or the day before.

"I'm fine," he says. His voice sounds strange to his own ears. Hollow.

Changbin doesn't believe him. Chan can see it in his face, the concern, the questions he's not asking. But Changbin is good at silence. He pulls up a chair, sits down beside Chan, and doesn't say anything at all.

They work for three hours. Chan's hands move over the equipment, adjusting levels, layering tracks, doing all the things he's done a thousand times. But his mind is somewhere else.

It's always somewhere else now.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

Week two.

He's at a photoshoot, standing in front of a white screen while the stylist fixes his hair, when he catches a scent that stops his heart.

Vanilla. Something floral underneath. It's not her, it's never her, but for one dizzying second, he's back in her apartment, her body curled against his, her hair splayed across his chest. She used to smell like that. She used to smell like home.

He closes his eyes. Breathes through it. When he opens them again, the stylist is looking at him with concern.

"Are you okay, Chan-ssi?"

"I'm fine," he says. The words are automatic. They mean nothing.

He poses for the camera. He smiles. He does everything he's supposed to do. But underneath the surface, there's a crack spreading through him, a fissure he can't seal, a wound that won't stop bleeding.

Everywhere I go, I always know you're there.

He used to feel her everywhere. In the quiet moments between songs, in the late nights when the world was asleep, in the spaces where he let himself be someone other than Bang Chan. She was there, always, waiting for him to come back.

Now he reaches for her, and there's nothing. Just the echo of her voice, the ghost of her touch, the memory of her face when he said the words he can't take back.

I make you nothing.

He didn't mean it. He's never meant anything less in his life. But he said it anyway, because he's a coward, because he'd rather hurt her than let her see the truth, because the truth is that he's not a king, he's a slave, and she's the only one who ever made him feel free.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

Week three.

He's in the dorm, alone for once, the others out at a schedule he begged off from. He's lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, when he pulls out his phone.

He's texted her fourteen times. Fourteen different numbers. She's blocked every single one.

He scrolls through the messages, reading them like a stranger might, trying to see what she sees.

I'm sorry.

Please talk to me.

I didn't mean what I said.

I need to see you.

I love you.

He said the words. The words he's been running from for three years. And she said I know, and she closed the door, and she didn't look back.

He should have known. He should have realized that there's only so much damage one person can take before they stop bleeding. He should have seen it, the way she was breaking, the way she was already gone long before he said those unforgivable things on her floor.

But he didn't see. He never sees. He's too busy running, too busy fighting, too busy being the king of a kingdom he built with his own hands, a kingdom that means nothing without her in it.

He thinks about the mornings after. The ones he never stayed for. Did she lie awake, listening for his footsteps? Did she count the minutes, the seconds, waiting for him to come back? Did she memorize the way he said her name, the way he held her, the way he pretended, for a few stolen hours, that they could be something real?

He thinks about her laugh. Not the polite one, the one she used when she was trying to hide. The real one. The one that came out when he said something stupid, when he made her forget, for just a moment, that he was poison.

He thinks about the way she supported him. Before the comebacks, before the award shows, before everything that made him Bang Chan. She was there, in the audience, in the crowd, in the messages he never responded to. She was there, and he took it for granted, and now she's not, and the silence is deafening.

A free man born as a king, who died as a slave.

He's been thinking about that line for weeks. He wrote it years ago, before he knew her, before he understood what it meant to be owned by something other than his own ambition. He thought it was about the industry. About the fans. About the weight of expectations that never stops pressing down on his chest.

But it wasn't. It was never about any of that.

He's the king. He built this kingdom. He commands armies of fans, controls his own image, holds the power of life and death over his own career. He is, by any measure, free.

And he's a slave. A slave to his own fear. A slave to the lie that vulnerability is weakness, that needing someone is failure, that love is a trap and not a salvation.

He's been fighting the wrong battle this whole time. He thought she was the addiction, the thing he needed to quit, the weakness he needed to purge. He thought if he could just stay away, just stop needing her, he could be strong again. He could be the king.

But she was never the addiction. She was the cure. And he's spent three years poisoning the well, pushing her away, tearing her down so he could feel tall.

He sits up. His hands are shaking. His chest is tight with something that feels like panic, like grief, like the beginning of something he's been running from his entire life.

He needs to see her. Not to use her, not to fill the hole, not to prove he can have her whenever he wants.

He needs to tell her the truth. All of it. The ugly, broken, terrifying truth that he's been hiding from himself for as long as he can remember.

He needs to tell her that he's not a king. He's never been a king. He's just a man who was so afraid of being nothing that he made her nothing instead.

He picks up his phone. His hands are steady now.

Me: I need to see you. Not to use you. Not to fix this. I need to tell you the truth. The real truth. And then I'll leave. I promise. I'll leave, and I won't come back, and you'll never have to see me again. But please. Just let me say it once. Just let me tell you what I should have told you three years ago.

He stares at the message for a long time. His thumb hovers over send.

And then he presses it.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

She doesn't respond.

He waits an hour. Two hours. Three. He watches the sun set outside his window, watches the sky turn from gold to orange to deep, bruised purple. He watches his phone stay dark.

He should go anyway. He should show up at her door, fall to his knees, beg her to listen. It's what he would have done before. It's what he's always done, take what he wants, regardless of the cost.

But that's the problem. That's always been the problem.

He's spent his whole life taking. Her time, her body, her heart, her hope. He's taken and taken and taken, and he's given her nothing in return but silence and cruelty and the cold comfort of his absence.

If he shows up now, uninvited, unannounced, he's doing the same thing he's always done. He's not giving her a choice. He's taking.

So he waits.

He waits through the night. He waits through the next day. He waits through the texts he doesn't send, the calls he doesn't make, the desperate, clawing need to go to her apartment and fall at her feet and tell her everything that's rotting inside him.

He waits, and he thinks, and he remembers.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

He remembers the first time he met her.

It was at a showcase, years ago, before Stray Kids was Stray Kids, before he was Bang Chan, before he was anything but a trainee with a dream and a desperate, clawing need to be enough. She was in the audience, a friend of a friend, someone's cousin or sister or something. He doesn't remember how she got there. He only remembers seeing her face in the crowd, the way she smiled when he looked at her, the way she didn't look away.

After the show, she found him backstage. She told him he was amazing. She told him he was going to be a star. She told him she believed in him.

He laughed it off. He was good at laughing things off. But something in her voice, something in her eyes, made him want to believe her. Made him want to be the person she saw.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

He remembers the night he first went to her apartment.

They'd been talking for months. Texting, calling, the kind of conversations that started at midnight and ended when the sun came up. She was the only person he could talk to without the mask. The only person who didn't want anything from him but him.

He was terrified. He didn't know how to be someone without the armor. He didn't know how to be vulnerable without feeling weak. So he went to her apartment, and he kissed her, and he took her softly in her bed, and he left before she woke up.

It was easier that way. Safer. If he didn't stay, he couldn't be left. If he didn't give her anything, she couldn't take anything away.

He didn't realize he was taking everything from her.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

He remembers the night he stayed.

He was so tired. Not the usual tired, not the exhaustion that came from schedules and practices and the endless grind of being Bang Chan. He was tired of running. Tired of pretending. Tired of waking up alone in a bed that smelled like nothing, reaching for someone who wasn't there.

He held her, and she felt like home, and for one perfect, terrible night, he let himself believe that he could have this. That he could be the man who stayed.

And then morning came, and the fear came back, and he left before she woke up because staying was terrifying and leaving was easy and he was a coward.

He's always been a coward.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

He remembers the night he made her nothing.

He was standing on her stoop, watching her kiss another man, and something inside him snapped. It wasn't jealousy. It was something uglier. Something deeper. It was the terror of being replaced, of being forgotten, of being the one thing he'd spent his whole life running from: insignificant.

He wanted to hurt her. He wanted to make her feel as small as he felt. He wanted to prove that he was still the one in control, that he could still take whatever he wanted, that he was still the king and she was still his.

So he took her against the wall. He put his hands around her throat. He fucked her like she was something to be conquered, something to be owned, something to be used and discarded.

And then, when she was broken on the floor, he told her she was nothing.

He told her she was nothing because he was terrified she was everything. He told her she was nothing because if she was everything, then he was nothing without her. And he couldn't be nothing. He was Bang Chan. He was the leader. He was the one who held everything together.

Except he wasn't. He was falling apart. He'd been falling apart for years, and she was the only one who ever tried to catch him, and he pushed her away because he didn't know how to be caught.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

His phone buzzes.

He lunges for it, hands shaking, heart in his throat.

Y/N: Tomorrow. 7 PM. My apartment. Don't come earlier. Don't text. Don't call.

His breath leaves him in a rush. He reads the message three times, four times, ten times, memorizing the words, the spaces between them, the small, fragile hope that maybe, maybe, it's not too late.

He types a response. Deletes it. Types another. Deletes that too.

Me: Okay.

It's the only word that matters. The only word he's sure of.

He puts the phone down. He lies back on his bed. The ceiling is the same as it was before, white and unremarkable, but something has shifted. Something has cracked open.

He doesn't know what he's going to say tomorrow. He doesn't know if she'll let him in, if she'll listen, if there's anything left of them to save.

But he knows, for the first time in his life, what he wants.

He wants to stop running. He wants to stop pretending. He wants to be the man she saw that night at the showcase, the one she believed in, the one who was worthy of her faith.

He wants to be Christopher. Not Bang Chan. Not the king. Just a man who loves a woman and isn't afraid to stay.

He closes his eyes. For the first time in weeks, he sleeps.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

He shows up at 6:58 PM.

I know because I've been watching the clock since noon, watching the minutes crawl by, watching the sky outside my window shift from pale winter white to the deep blue of early evening. I've rehearsed what I'm going to say a hundred times. I've changed my mind a hundred more.

When the knock comes, I don't move. I let it hang in the air, let it settle into the quiet of my apartment, let myself feel the weight of it before I answer.

I open the door.

And for a moment, I don't recognize him.

He's not Bang Chan. He's not the polished idol, the king of his kingdom, the man who walks into rooms like he owns them. He's not even Christopher, the version of him that existed only in my apartment after midnight, the one who was soft and vulnerable and always, always temporary.

He's someone I've never seen before.

His hair is unwashed, sticking up at odd angles. There are shadows under his eyes so deep they look like bruises. His clothes are wrinkled, like he's been wearing them for days. His hands are shoved into his pockets, and he's shaking, not from cold, I don't think, but from something else. Something that's been eating at him from the inside.

He doesn't step forward. He doesn't try to kiss me, doesn't reach for me, doesn't try to push his way inside like he owns the place. He stands on my stoop, in the cold, and he waits.

"Can I-" His voice cracks. He clears his throat. "Can I talk to you? I'll stay out here. You don't have to let me in. I just-" He presses a hand to his chest, over his heart, like he's trying to hold himself together. "I need to say this. Please."

I should close the door. I should tell him I've heard enough, that his words are just words, that he's had three years to say whatever he's about to say and he chose cruelty instead.

But I don't. I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, and I wait.

He exhales. It's a shaky sound, unsteady, like he's been holding his breath for three weeks.

"I've been thinking about what I said to you. That night." He swallows. "I've been thinking about it every day. Every hour. Every minute. I close my eyes, and I see your face, and I hear myself saying those things, and I-" He stops. His jaw works. "I've said a lot of cruel things to you. Over the years. But that was the worst. Because I meant it. In that moment, I meant every word."

My chest tightens. I don't let it show.

"I know," I say.

He nods slowly, like he expected that. Like he deserves it. "I've been trying to figure out why. Why I said it. Why I always say the worst thing I can think of when I'm with you. Why I leave. Why I come back. Why I keep doing this thing where I-" His voice breaks. He presses his hand harder against his chest. "Where I destroy the only good thing in my life because I'm too scared to hold onto it."

I don't answer. I don't help him. He needs to say this. He needs to say it without me making it easier.

"I thought I was addicted to you," he says, and his voice is raw, scraped clean. "I thought you were the thing I needed to quit. The weakness. The thing that made me less than what I was supposed to be. I thought if I could just stop needing you, I could be strong again. I could be the leader, the idol, the person everyone expects me to be." He laughs, and it's an ugly sound. "I spent three years trying to quit you. And every time I tried, I fell apart. Because you weren't the addiction, Y/N. You were the only thing keeping me together."

I feel something crack inside me. Something I've been holding together for weeks, for months, for years. I don't let it show. I keep my arms crossed, my face still, my voice steady.

"You have a funny way of showing it."

He flinches. The word hits him like a physical blow. I watch him absorb it, watch it settle into his bones, watch him nod like he's accepting a sentence he knows he deserves.

"I know," he says again. "I know I hurt you. I know I used you. I know I made you feel like you were nothing when you were-" His voice cracks again. "When you were everything. When you've always been everything."

He takes a step back. Not toward me, away. Like he's giving me space. Like he's finally, finally learning that he can't take what he wants without asking.

"I'm not going to ask you to forgive me," he says. "I'm not going to ask you to let me in. I'm not going to ask for anything. I just-" He looks at me, and his eyes are wet. I've never seen him cry. I didn't know if he could. "I needed you to know. That it was real. That you were real. That when I said I loved you, I meant it. I've always meant it. I was just too scared to act like it."

He shoves his hands back into his pockets. His shoulders slump. He looks small. Smaller than I've ever seen him. Smaller than a man who commands stadiums, who leads armies of fans, who carries the weight of an empire on his back.

He looks like a man who has nothing left to lose.

"I'm a slave to you," he says, and the words are different now. They're not angry. They're not cruel. They're just true. "I've been fighting it my whole life. Thinking it made me weak. Thinking it made me less. But it doesn't. It makes me human. And I'm tired of pretending I'm not."

He looks at me one more time. His face is open, unguarded, stripped of every mask he's ever worn.

"I love you," he says. "I love you, and I ruined it. I ruined us. And I'm going to spend the rest of my life regretting it."

He turns. He walks down the steps. He doesn't look back.

And I stand in my doorway, watching him go, and I feel something I've never felt before.

Peace.

[mbbvixen]

STRAY KIDS

All of these are mostly smut.

Please note: 🌈= LGBTQIA ✅= Story is Completed

BANG CHAN

Signed, Sealed, Banged (Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, Epilogue) ✅

[bobbyseyesmile]

eight of them. one of you.

it was never meant to turn into something real. just work. just proximity. just… temporary.

but lines blur fast when you’re the only thing they all start watching.

wanting. needing.

and the worst part? you don’t want it to stop.

✧ navigation ✧

→ part 1

→ part 2

→ part 3 - chan [m] ❤️‍🔥

→ part 4

→ part 5 - lee know [m] ❤️‍🔥

→ part 6

→ part 7 - seungmin [m] ❤️‍🔥

→ part 8

→ part 9

→ part 1O - hyunjin [m] ❤️‍🔥

→ part 11

→ part 12

→ part 13

→ part 14

→ part 15

→ part 16

→ part 17 - jeongin / i.n [m] ❤️‍🔥

→ part 18

→ part 19

→ part 2O - changbin [m] ❤️‍🔥

→ part 21

→ part 22 - coming soon

[mariiee568]

Someone PLEASE write for adult zuko

he looks too good in the movie

[blued-inked]

| Nikki - Bang Chan

(•˕ •マ.ᐟ || Based on the song; Nikki by Logic. Just like in the song, Chan is the addict. The reader is the nicotine. He knows it's killing him, he tries to quit, but the withdrawal is unbearable, and the "high" of being with her is the only thing that makes him feel alive. The tragedy is that by the time he realizes she's what he needs, he's already poisoned the well.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

Bang Chan x Reader Main Category: Angst. Sub Category: Smut Warnings: Rough sex, Hate sex / Punishment sex, Breath play / Choking (consensual within the scene), Possessive sex, Sex with emotional manipulation, Unprotected sex Word Count: 14.8k

Link to song!!

taglist: @hanniesbubuwife @sugarcoathan

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

The text comes at 11:47 PM.

I know it's him before I even look. My phone buzzes against the nightstand, once, then again, like he's impatient, even after all these months. Like the silence between us is somehow my fault.

Unknown Number: You up?

I stare at the screen until it goes dark. Three months. It's been three months since the last time. I've almost started to feel like myself again, like a person who doesn't spend her weekends waiting for a man who treats her like a secret, a habit, a drug he's trying to quit.

My thumb hovers over the screen. Don't. I've had this conversation with myself a dozen times. I've even said it out loud to my friends, watching their faces soften with that familiar pity.

He's bad for you.

He only comes around when he needs something.

You deserve better.

I know all of this. I know it the way an addict knows the damage, intellectually, completely, and without any power to stop it.

The phone buzzes again.

Unknown Number: I know you're awake

I hate that he's right. I hate that he knows me well enough to know I'd still be up, reading, pretending I'm not waiting for something I told myself I'd stop waiting for.

My fingers move before my brain can stop them.

Me: What do you want, Chan.

The response is immediate. Like he was holding his breath, waiting for me to prove I'm still weak.

Unknown Number: Can I come over

It's not a question. It never is.

I should say no. I should type out something cutting, something final, something that makes him feel even a fraction of what I've felt every time he's walked out my door without looking back.

Instead, I stare at the message until the screen blurs.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

He's at my door in twenty-three minutes. I know because I counted.

When I open the door, he's leaning against the frame like he owns it, like he owns the air between us. Hood pulled up, mask down around his chin, eyes tired in that way that used to make my chest ache with worry before I learned that his exhaustion was never about me, it was always about everything but me.

"Hey," he says. Voice low. Familiar.

"Hey," I say back. Flat. Guarded.

He looks past me into the apartment, like he's checking if I'm alone. The audacity of it makes something hot curl in my stomach. Like he has any right to care.

"I'm alone," I say, and I hate how defensive it sounds. How much it sounds like I'm reassuring him.

His eyes come back to mine, and there it is, that small, almost-smile that used to undo me completely. "I know."

He does know. That's the worst part. He knows I haven't moved on. He knows I've tried, and I've failed, and that every time he shows up at my door, I let him in.

"Can I-" he starts, but I'm already stepping aside.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

He walks through my apartment like he's done it a hundred times, because he has. He shrugs off his jacket, lets it fall over the back of my couch. Kicks off his shoes without being asked. There's a familiarity to it that makes my throat tight, the way he knows where the bathroom is, where I keep the good glasses, the spot on my couch where the cushion is perfectly worn to his shape.

I close the door and lean against it, arms crossed. Watching.

"You look good," he says, settling onto the couch like he lives here.

"Don't."

He looks up at me, and for a moment, the mask slips. He looks tired. Not idol-tired, not schedule-tired, something deeper. Something that makes me want to cross the room and sit next to him, to ask what's wrong, to fall back into the rhythm of taking care of him even though he never stays long enough to take care of me back.

"Sorry," he says, and he almost sounds like he means it. "That was, sorry."

I wait. I've learned that if I wait long enough, he'll fill the silence. He always does.

"Comeback prep is killing me," he finally says, rubbing a hand over his face. "We've been in the studio for sixteen hours a day. Changbin's about to murder someone. Jisung hasn't slept in three days."

I nod. This is how it always starts, with the stress, the pressure, the weight of being Bang Chan. He comes to me when the walls close in, when the responsibility of leading seven other men and carrying the hopes of a company and the love of millions becomes too heavy. He comes to me because I'm the one place he doesn't have to be Bang Chan.

He comes to me because I let him be Christopher. And then he leaves, and Christopher disappears back inside Bang Chan, and I'm left holding the pieces of someone who only exists in my apartment after midnight.

"And you thought of me," I say. My voice comes out bitterer than I intended.

He looks at me then, really looks. His eyes are dark, unreadable. "I always think of you."

The words land somewhere in my chest and settle there, warm and dangerous.

"That's not fair," I whisper.

"I know."

He doesn't move from the couch. He doesn't come to me. He waits, and maybe that's the cruelest part of all, that he's learned to let me come to him. That he's made me so used to closing the distance that I don't even fight it anymore.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

I cross the room slowly, like walking toward something I know will hurt me. And maybe that's the definition of stupidity, doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.

But when I sit down next to him, close enough to feel the heat of his body, close enough to smell that familiar mix of fabric softener and something that's just him, I stop thinking about consequences.

He turns to face me, and up close, I can see the cracks. The shadows under his eyes. The slight tremor in his hands. He's running on empty, has been running on empty for years, and somehow he always ends up here when he's about to collapse.

"I missed you," he says, and his voice is rough in a way that makes my stomach tighten.

"You don't get to say that."

"I know." His hand comes up, hesitates, then settles on my knee. His palm is warm through the thin fabric of my sweats. "I know I don't."

"Then why are you here, Chan?"

He doesn't answer with words. He leans in, slow enough that I could pull away, slow enough that the choice is mine.

I don't pull away.

His forehead touches mine. His breath is warm against my lips. We stay like that for a moment, close enough to feel each other breathe, close enough that the world outside my apartment ceases to exist.

"I'm here," he whispers, "because you're the only thing that makes the noise stop."

And that, that is the thing that undoes me. Not the words themselves, but the way he says them. Like it costs him something to admit it. Like I'm not just a convenience, not just a body, but something he actually needs even though he's spent years trying to convince himself otherwise.

My hands come up to frame his face before I can stop them. His skin is warm, a little rough from exhaustion, and he leans into my touch like a man starved for it.

"Christopher," I breathe, and I watch his eyes flutter closed.

"Say it again," he murmurs.

His mouth crashes against mine, and it's not a kiss, it's a collision. Three months of radio silence, of feigned indifference, of me pretending I don't check my phone every time it buzzes, all dissolving in this single, brutal point of contact. It's hungry and desperate, his lips parting against mine with a groan that's half relief, half pain. His hands are in my hair, not gentle, fisting the strands to hold me still, to keep me from pulling away, as if he knows I still have the sense to.

I don't.

I kiss him back with just as much force, my own hands grabbing the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer until there's no space left between us. This is the part I hate, the part that feels like a betrayal of my own sanity, the way my body responds to him like a flower to the sun, even when I know he's poison. The anger is still there, a hot, sharp thing in my gut, but it's tangled up with a need so profound it makes my knees weak. I bite his lower lip, hard enough to make him hiss, and the sound is a victory. A small, pathetic victory.

"Fuck," he breathes against my mouth, his voice wrecked. He doesn't pull back. He presses closer, his body a hard, heavy line against mine. "I can't... I tried..."

"Shut up," I snarl, dragging my mouth down his jaw. I don't want to hear about his attempts. I don't want to hear about the others. I just want this. I want the high. I want to feel alive for a few precious minutes before he leaves me to die again.

His hands leave my hair, roaming down my body with an urgency that borders on frantic. He pushes my shirt up, his palms hot and rough against my skin, and I arch into the touch. It's not tender. It's claiming. He's not exploring; he's reminding himself. Reminding himself that this body, this skin, this response belongs to him. His thumb finds the peak of my breast through the thin lace of my bra, circling it until I'm gasping into his neck, my nails digging into his shoulders.

"Chan," I gasp, and it's a mistake. Using his stage name feels like a challenge, a reminder of the world outside this apartment, the world he belongs to but won't let me into.

He growls, a low, possessive sound from deep in his chest. "No," he grunts, his hand fisting in my shirt again. "Not that." He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark and wild in the dim light. "Say my name."

"Christopher," I breathe, and the word is a surrender.

His control snaps. He stands, pulling me up with him, and the world spins. My back hits the wall next to the couch with a soft thud, the impact knocking the air from my lungs. He's on me instantly, his body pinning mine, his thigh pushing between my legs. The pressure is immediate, a shockwave of pleasure that makes my head fall back against the wall with a dull thud.

He doesn't give me time to think. His hands are everywhere, tugging my sweats down over my hips, his own following in a clumsy, hurried rush. There's no finesse, no romance. This is pure, unadulterated need. He's not making love to me; he's using me to feel something, anything, other than the crushing weight of his own life. And I'm letting him. God, I'm letting him because I'm doing the same thing.

"Look at me," he commands, his voice rough as he hooks one of my legs around his waist. I force my eyes open, meeting his gaze. He looks destroyed. Beautifully, tragically destroyed. "I need to see you."

And then he's inside me, one deep, hard thrust that steals my breath. It's too fast, too much, but it's exactly what I need. It's a shock to the system, a jolt of electricity that erases every lonely night, every unanswered text, every lie I told myself about moving on. I cry out, my head falling back against the wall again, but his hand is there, cradling it, his fingers tangling in my hair.

"No," he says again, his voice a strained whisper against my ear. "Here. With me."

He starts to move, and there's no rhythm to it, no grace. It's just a desperate, punishing pace. Each thrust is a question, a plea. Did you miss me? Do you still want me? Am I still the one? And my body answers for me, my hips rising to meet his, my leg tightening around his waist, pulling him deeper. The sounds we make are raw and unfiltered, the slap of skin, the ragged gasps for air, the broken whispers of his name.

His mouth finds mine again, and this time the kiss is slower, deeper, more devastating. It's the apology he can't say out loud. It's the confession he won't make. It's everything he can't give me in the light of day, poured into this single, stolen moment in the dark. One of his hands slides down my body, his fingers finding the sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of my thighs, and the world whites out.

"Christopher," I sob against his mouth, the pleasure building to an unbearable peak. "Please..."

"Come for me," he groans, his thumb circling faster, his hips driving deeper. "Let me feel it."

The command is my undoing. The orgasm hits me like a tidal wave, crashing through me with a force that leaves me shaking and breathless. I feel him tense, his rhythm faltering as he follows me over the edge, his face buried in the crook of my neck, a guttural cry torn from his throat as he pours himself into me.

For a moment, we just stay there, pinned against the wall, our bodies slick with sweat, our breathing the only sound in the quiet apartment. He's heavy, a dead weight of muscle and bone, but I don't push him away. I hold him, my arms wrapped around his neck, my face pressed into his hair. This is the part I'll miss later. The quiet aftermath. The illusion of peace.

It lasts for exactly ninety-seven seconds.

I know because I counted.

He stirs, lifting his head slowly. His eyes are closed for a moment, and when he opens them, the raw desperation is gone. It's been replaced by that familiar, guarded look. The wall is back up.

He pulls out of me gently, and the loss is immediate, a cold, hollow ache. He steps back, adjusting his clothes with methodical precision, avoiding my eyes. The silence stretches, thick with unspoken words.

"I have to go," he says, his voice flat. Emotionless.

I don't move from the wall. I just watch him, pulling my own clothes back on, my hands trembling. "I know," I whisper. I always know.

He finishes dressing, runs a hand through his messy hair, and finally looks at me. There's regret in his eyes, but it's the shallow kind. The kind that's sorry for the moment, not the pattern.

"Y/N..." he starts, but I shake my head.

"Don't."

I can't hear it. I can't hear the empty apology, the promise that this is the last time. I can't hear him tell me he's sorry for using me, for breaking me, for being the best and worst thing that's ever happened to me.

He nods, understanding. Or maybe he just doesn't care enough to argue. He walks to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. He looks back at me, one last time, and for a fleeting second, I see Christopher again. The man I fell for. The man I'm still in love with.

But then it's gone. And it's just Bang Chan, standing in my doorway, ready to walk back into a life that doesn't include me.

"Lock the door behind me," he says.

And then he's gone. The click of the latch is the final, fatal sound. The end of the high. The beginning of the crash.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

The crash comes at 6:14 AM.

I know because I watch the numbers change on my nightstand clock, minute by minute, after the door closes behind him. My body is still humming, still buzzing with the echo of his hands, his mouth, the weight of him against me. But my chest is already caving in.

I don't sleep. I never sleep after.

Instead, I lie in the dark and run through the arithmetic of us. The equation never changes. Chan plus me equals pleasure plus pain, and the sum is always the same: I end up alone, staring at a ceiling that feels too far away, wondering why I keep letting him subtract pieces of me until there's nothing left.

At 8:47 AM, my phone buzzes. My heart lurches before my brain catches up.

Unknown Number: Thank you

Two words. That's what I get for three months of silence, for the way I let him take me apart against my own wall. Thank you. Like I'm a convenience store. Like I'm a transaction.

I don't respond. This is part of the pattern too, the hollow gratitude that's supposed to make him feel better, absolve him of the guilt he doesn't actually feel. If I don't answer, maybe he'll sit with it. Maybe he'll feel a fraction of what I feel.

He doesn't text again. He never does.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

The next three weeks are quiet.

I go to work. I come home. I eat meals I don't taste and watch shows I don't see. I tell myself this is healing. I tell myself the silence is a gift, that every day he doesn't text is another day I get to rebuild the walls he keeps knocking down.

But at night, alone in my bed, I replay it. The way he said you're the only thing that makes the noise stop. The way his hands shook. The way he looked at me when I said his real name, like I was the only person in the world who could still reach him.

I hate that I miss him. I hate that I'm already waiting for the next text.

It comes on a Thursday. 10:03 PM.

Unknown Number: Can I see you

No pretense this time. No how are you, no I've been thinking about you. Just the ask. The demand dressed up like a request.

My fingers hover over the keyboard. I could say no. I could type I'm busy or I'm not home or I can't do this anymore. I've rehearsed those lines a hundred times, in the shower, in the car, in the dark at 3 AM when my resolve feels strongest.

But I'm not busy. I'm home. And I know, with a certainty that makes me sick, that I'll never be strong enough to say no to him.

Me: When

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

He's at my door in nineteen minutes this time. Faster. Like he was already nearby. Like he was waiting for permission.

When I open the door, something is different. He's not leaning against the frame, casual and careless. He's standing straight, hands in his pockets, and when he looks at me, there's something in his eyes that I haven't seen in a long time.

Vulnerability. Real, unguarded vulnerability.

"Hi," he says, and his voice is soft. Uncertain.

"Hi," I say back. I don't move aside immediately. I make him wait, make him stand in the hallway while I search his face for the lie.

But he just stands there, patient, and after a moment, I step back.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

He doesn't head straight for the couch this time.

He walks to my kitchen, opens the fridge, pulls out two waters. He knows where they are. He knows where everything is. He hands me one, and our fingers brush, and he doesn't pull away.

"You look tired," he says, leaning against my counter.

"I am tired."

The words come out sharper than I intended, and I see something flicker across his face. Guilt, maybe. Or maybe I'm just seeing what I want to see.

"I know," he says quietly. "I know I'm-" He stops, runs a hand through his hair. It's longer than last time, curling at the nape of his neck. I used to run my fingers through that hair, in the before times, when we were something other than this.

"You're what?" I ask when the silence stretches too long.

He looks at me, and for a moment, I think he's going to say it. I'm sorry. I'm wrong. I'm toxic. But he doesn't.

"I'm trying," he says instead. And then, softer: "I'm trying to figure out why I keep running from the only thing that makes sense."

The words land somewhere in my chest and lodge there. I don't know what to do with them. I don't trust them. He's said things like this before, in the dark, when his defenses were down. But never standing in my kitchen under fluorescent light, looking at me like I'm something more than a body to forget in.

"What are you saying, Chan?"

He sets his water down. Takes a step toward me. Then another.

"I'm saying I don't want to just-" He pauses, jaw tightening. "I don't want to just show up and leave. I don't want to keep doing this thing where I pretend I don't need you."

"You do pretend," I say, and my voice cracks on the last word.

"I know." He's close enough to touch now. Close enough that I can see the exhaustion etched into his features, the war playing out behind his eyes. "I'm tired of pretending."

My heart is a traitor. It's beating too fast, leaning toward him even while my brain screams caution. This is the pattern. This is the part where he gives me just enough hope to keep me hooked, just enough warmth to make the next cold silence unbearable.

But when his hand comes up to cup my face, slow and careful, I don't pull away.

"Tell me what you want," I whisper. It's a test. It's always a test with him, even when I don't mean it to be.

He doesn't answer with words. He leans in, forehead touching mine, just like last time. But the energy is different. There's no desperation in it, no frantic hunger. Just, stillness. Just him, breathing the same air as me, letting the silence settle around us like something fragile.

"I want to stay," he says, so quiet I almost miss it.

My breath catches. "Stay how?"

He pulls back just enough to look at me. His thumb traces my cheekbone, featherlight. "Tonight. I want to stay tonight."

This is new. This has never been part of the pattern. He always leaves. Always. The leaving is what makes it safe for him, what lets him pretend that what happens in my apartment stays contained, separate from the rest of his life.

"Why?" I ask, and I hate how small my voice sounds. How hopeful.

He doesn't have an answer, or maybe he just can't find the words. Instead, he leans in and kisses me.

But this kiss isn't like the last one. It's not a collision. It's slow, almost hesitant, like he's relearning the shape of my mouth. His lips move against mine with a gentleness that makes my eyes sting. His hand slides into my hair, but he doesn't pull. He just holds, fingers threading through the strands like I'm something precious.

I kiss him back, and I don't know if I'm crying or if I just feel like I am. This is what I've wanted. This is what I've been waiting for, through all the cold mornings and empty texts. Not just the sex, not just the release, this. The tenderness. The illusion that I'm more than a habit he can't break.

He pulls back, rests his forehead against mine again. "Can we-" He pauses, swallows. "Can we go to your room?"

Not the couch. Not against the wall. My room. My bed. The place he's never stayed through the night.

I nod, because I can't speak. Because if I open my mouth, I'll say something I can't take back. I love you. Please don't hurt me again. Please mean this.

He takes my hand, laces our fingers together, and leads me down the hallway.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

He doesn't flip on the light. The only illumination comes from the city bleeding through my blinds, painting the room in muted shades of gray and silver. It's perfect. It's a lie, and it's perfect.

He stops by the edge of the bed, his hand still holding mine, and just looks at me. In the dim light, his face is all soft edges and shadows, the harsh lines of exhaustion smoothed away. He looks younger. He looks like the boy I met years ago, before the world got its hands on him.

"Can I-" he starts, then stops, a faint flush creeping up his neck. It's the first time I've ever seen him look unsure of himself with me. "Can I take this off?"

His free hand hovers over the hem of my shirt, not touching, just waiting. I nod, my throat too tight to form words.

His fingers are gentle as they lift the fabric, slow and deliberate. He doesn't rush. He pulls it over my head, and the cool air raises goosebumps on my skin. He lets the shirt drop to the floor, his eyes tracing the lines of my body, not with hunger, but with something that looks terrifyingly like reverence.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers, and it's not a line. It's not something you say in the heat of the moment. It sounds like a confession.

I reach for the hem of his hoodie, my hands trembling slightly. He lets me pull it over his head, and my breath catches at the sight of him. The familiar landscape of his chest, the muscles I know so well, but here, in the quiet of my room, he looks different. Softer. More real.

I lean in, press a kiss to the center of his chest, right over his heart. It beats steady and strong against my lips. His hand comes up to rest on the back of my head, not pushing, not pulling, just holding me there.

We undress each other slowly, like we're unwrapping something fragile. My sweats, his jeans, my bra, his boxers, each piece falls away until there's nothing left but skin and shadow and the space between us that's charged with everything we've never said.

He guides me down onto the bed, settling over me with a careful weight that feels like an anchor. He doesn't kiss my mouth right away. Instead, he kisses my forehead, my eyelids, the line of my jaw. He kisses the pulse point on my wrist, his lips lingering there like he's trying to feel my life force. He kisses the soft skin of my stomach, and I have to bite my lip to keep from sobbing. This is worship. This is a prayer. This is everything I've ever wanted and everything I know I can't have.

"Christopher," I breathe, and his name is a benediction, a plea, a surrender all at once.

He finally looks at me, his eyes dark and searching. He lowers his head, and when his lips meet mine, it's not a collision. It's a homecoming. It's slow and deep and impossibly tender, a kiss that says I'm sorry and I remember and stay with me. I melt into it, my hands coming up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, trying to absorb this moment, to etch it into my memory so I can survive the next crash.

He shifts his hips, and I open for him without thinking. There's no fumbling, no rush. He enters me in one slow, deep thrust that steals the air from my lungs. It's not about pleasure, not yet. It's about connection. It's about the way he fits inside me, the way our bodies lock together like they were made for this. Like we were made for each other.

He doesn't move. He just stays there, buried deep, his face buried in the crook of my neck. I can feel his heart hammering against my ribs, a frantic rhythm that matches my own. I wrap my legs around his waist, holding him to me, anchoring him, anchoring us.

"I'm here," I whisper into his hair. "I'm right here."

He starts to move then, a slow, languid rhythm that's less about seeking release and more about savoring the journey. Each withdrawal is a loss, each return a homecoming. His hands roam my body, tracing the curve of my hip, the line of my thigh, mapping me like he's afraid he'll forget. I'm memorizing him too, the way his breath hitches when I arch my back, the low groan he makes when I tighten my legs around him, the weight of him, the smell of him, the feel of him.

The pleasure builds slowly, a warm tide rising rather than a crashing wave. It's in the way he looks at me, his eyes open and locked on mine, even as his body moves. It's in the way he says my name, my real name, like it's the only word he knows. It's in the way his thumb finds my clit, circling it with a pressure that's firm but gentle, pushing me higher, higher, higher until I'm teetering on the edge.

"Come with me," he murmurs, his voice strained. "Please, baby, come with me."

His words are my undoing. The orgasm washes over me, not a violent storm but a gentle, all-consuming wave that leaves me shaking and breathless. I feel him follow me, his body tensing, a guttural moan muffled against my skin as he finds his release.

But he doesn't pull away.

He stays inside me, his weight a comforting presence, his face still pressed into my neck. His breathing is ragged, his heart pounding against my chest. After a long moment, he shifts, rolling us so we're on our sides, still connected, facing each other. He brushes a stray strand of hair from my face, his fingers tracing my cheekbone, my jaw, the curve of my bottom lip.

"Don't go," I whisper, the words torn from a place so deep inside me I didn't know they existed.

His eyes soften. "I told you," he says, his voice thick with sleep. "I'm staying."

He tightens his arm around me, pulling me closer until there's no space left between us. I rest my head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart, and for the first time in three years, I let myself believe him. I let myself hope.

I stay awake long after his breathing evens out, long after his arm goes lax around me. I watch the sky outside my window lighten from black to gray to pale gold. I watch him sleep, his face peaceful, unburdened. And I let myself fall in love with him all over again, knowing, with a certainty that feels like a death sentence, that this morning is going to break me.

Here's the continuation, leading into the morning after and then the cruel, possessive encounter that follows. I've incorporated the "king/slave" dynamic and the possessive rage when he finds out about the date.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

I wake up alone.

I know before I open my eyes. The space beside me is cold, the pillow unscented, the sheets smoothed flat like no one was ever there. Like last night was a dream I manufactured in the desperate hours of the night.

My eyes open anyway. And there it is, the empty side of the bed. The silence of the apartment. The weight of being alone settling back onto my chest like it never left.

I reach for my phone on the nightstand. 9:14 AM. No messages. No missed calls. No note on the counter, no coffee brewed, no evidence that Christopher was ever here at all.

I lie there for a long time. I don't cry. I don't have the energy. I just stare at the ceiling and let the hollow feeling spread through my veins like anesthesia. This is what I get for hoping. This is what I get for believing.

At 11:23 AM, I finally get up. I strip the sheets and put them in the washing machine. I scrub the shower until my hands are raw. I open all the windows to let out the smell of him, even though I want to bottle it, even though I want to wrap myself in it and suffocate.

I text my friend Mina: He stayed last night. He said he would stay. I woke up alone.

Her response comes three minutes later: Come over. I'll make you lunch. We can talk.

I type back: I don't want to talk. I want to forget.

She sends a string of angry emojis, then: I'll be home all day. Door's unlocked. Come whenever.

I don't go. I sit on my couch, the same couch where he first took me against the wall, and I let the silence swallow me whole. I don't cry. I don't move. I just exist, a hollow shell of a person, waiting for something I can't name.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

The silence stretches for eleven days.

No texts. No calls. No late-night knocks. I check my phone obsessively for the first three days, and then I stop. I delete his contact, again. I tell myself this is the last time, again. I go to work, I come home, I eat, I sleep. I do all the things that living people do, but I'm not living. I'm just surviving the space between his visits.

On the twelfth day, Mina sends me a screenshot.

It's a Dispatch article. The headline blurs in front of my eyes: "Bang Chan Spotted Leaving Late-Night Recording Session with Producer, Is Something Brewing?" The photo is grainy, taken from a distance, but I know the set of his shoulders, the way he carries himself like the weight of the world is on his back.

He looks happy. He looks like he hasn't thought about me once.

I type back: Good for him.

Mina calls immediately. I let it ring.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

On the fifteenth day, I go on a date.

His name is Jae. He's a graphic designer. Mina set it up, practically begged me to say yes, told me that the best way to get over someone is to get under someone new. I laughed at the crudeness, but I agreed. I needed to prove to myself that I could. That I wasn't just waiting around for a man who treated me like a cigarette, something to be used and discarded when the craving passed.

Jae is nice. He's normal. He doesn't carry the weight of an empire on his shoulders. He shows up on time, holds the door open, asks about my day like he actually wants to know the answer. He doesn't text from unknown numbers at midnight. He doesn't leave before dawn.

We go to a small Italian place, the kind with candles on the tables and red-checkered cloths. He makes me laugh. He reaches across the table to hold my hand, and I let him. His palm is warm, but it's not the right warmth. His fingers are long, but they're not the right fingers. He smiles at me, and it's genuine, and I hate myself for comparing him to someone who never looked at me like that except when he wanted something.

"Are you okay?" Jae asks, his brow furrowed. "You seem... somewhere else."

I force a smile. "Sorry. Long week."

He nods, accepting the lie easily. He doesn't push. He doesn't probe. He doesn't know me well enough to see the cracks.

We finish dinner. He walks me to my door. He leans in to kiss me, slow and tentative, and I let him. His lips are soft, his hand gentle on my waist. It's a good kiss. A nice kiss. A kiss that should make me feel something other than the cold, creeping emptiness that's taken up residence in my chest.

He pulls back, smiling. "Can I see you again?"

I open my mouth to say yes. I want to say yes. I want to be the kind of person who says yes to nice men who show up on time and kiss her like she matters.

But before I can answer, my eyes catch movement in the shadows across the street.

A figure. Hood pulled up. Hands in pockets. Watching.

My blood turns to ice.

"Y/N?" Jae's voice seems far away. "Are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."

I have. I've seen the ghost of every night I've ever spent waiting. The ghost of every morning I've woken up alone. The ghost of Christopher, standing across the street, his posture rigid, his face hidden, but I know he's looking at me. I know he's watching Jae's hand on my waist, watching the space where his lips touched mine, watching everything that was never supposed to belong to anyone but him.

"I'm fine," I hear myself say. "I just, I need to think about it. The date. Can I let you know?"

Jae's smile falters slightly, but he nods. "Of course. No pressure. Text me." He squeezes my hand once, then walks away, disappearing down the street.

I stand in my doorway for a long moment, staring at the figure across the street. He doesn't move. He doesn't cross. He just stands there, a dark silhouette against the sodium glow of the streetlights, waiting.

I should go inside. I should lock the door. I should let him stand there all night, let him see what it feels like to be on the outside, waiting for someone who won't let you in.

Instead, I step out onto the stoop, arms crossed against the cold. "What are you doing here?"

He crosses the street slowly, each step deliberate. When he reaches the bottom of my steps, he pulls his hood down, and I see his face.

He's not tired. He's not vulnerable. He's not the Christopher who held me in the dark and promised to stay.

His jaw is set, his eyes hard, his mouth a thin line. He looks like a stranger. He looks like Bang Chan, the king of his own carefully constructed kingdom, looking down at a subject who dared to disobey.

"Who was that?" His voice is flat. Controlled.

"A date." I say it like a challenge. "I went on a date."

His eyes flash. "I saw."

"Then why are you asking?"

He takes a step up, then another. I don't move. I won't back down. Not this time.

"You think that's what you need?" He's close enough now that I can see the muscle ticking in his jaw. "Some normal guy who takes you to Italian restaurants and kisses you on the stoop like you're something to be paraded around?"

"At least he shows up," I spit back. "At least he stays."

Something dark passes over his face. His hand shoots out, grabbing my wrist, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to pin me in place.

"I stayed," he says, and there's something dangerous in his voice. "I stayed that night. You asked me to, and I stayed."

"Until I fell asleep," I say, my voice shaking. "You left before I woke up. Again. You always leave, Chan. You always-"

"I'm a slave to you," he snarls, and the words hit me like a slap. "You think I don't know that? You think I don't lie awake at night hating myself for needing you? For needing this?" He gestures between us, his lip curling. "I was born free. I built this life, this career, this empire, and you-" He pulls me closer, his face inches from mine. "You make me a slave. You make me weak."

"You chose this," I whisper, and I hate that my voice cracks. "I never asked you to come back. I never asked for any of this."

"No," he says, and his grip tightens. "You just let me. You let me in every single time, and then you stand there with your big eyes and your soft mouth and you make me think that maybe this time I can stay. Maybe this time I can be something other than the man who uses you and leaves." He laughs, and there's no humor in it. "But I can't. You know I can't. And you know what I hate most?"

"What?"

He pulls me so close I can feel his breath on my lips. "That even after all of it, the leaving, the silence, the way I make you feel like nothing, you still went on a date with someone else. Like I'm replaceable. Like what we have is something you can just... substitute."

"Christopher-"

"Don't." He cuts me off, shoving me back against my door. My shoulders hit the wood with a thud, and he's there, crowding me, his body a cage around mine. "Don't say my name like you love me. You don't. You love the idea of me. The version that stays. But that version doesn't exist, Y/N. He never did."

I should fight. I should push him away. I should tell him to leave, to never come back, to find someone else to be his addiction, his escape, his punching bag.

But he's already kissing me, and it's not like the night he stayed. It's not slow, not tender, not a prayer. It's a claim. It's a brand. His mouth is brutal against mine, his tongue forcing its way past my lips, his hands fisting in my hair, tilting my head back at an angle that borders on pain.

I should push him away.

I don't.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

He doesn't give me a chance to breathe. One minute I'm on my feet, the next my back is against the wall next to the door, the impact knocking the air from my lungs in a pained gasp. His hands are on my hips, lifting me, and I instinctively wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me inside, kicking the door shut behind us. The click of the lock is a final, fatal sentence.

He doesn't take me to the bedroom. He doesn't even take me to the couch. He presses me against the wall, the same wall where he took me that first time, but this is nothing like that. This isn't desperate need; it's a punishment.

His mouth is a brand against my neck, his teeth scraping my skin hard enough to leave a mark. "Is this what he does?" he snarls against my throat, his hands fisting in the fabric of my dress, yanking it up over my hips. "Does he touch you like this? Does he make you feel like you belong to him?"

"Stop," I gasp, my palms flat against his chest, pushing with all my strength. It's like trying to move a statue. "Chan, stop it."

He laughs, a low, cruel sound that vibrates through my entire body. "You don't want me to stop." His hand finds the lace of my panties, and he rips them. The fabric tears with a sharp, sickening sound, and I flinch, a fresh wave of humiliation washing over me. "You love this. You love that I'm crazy enough to come back for you. That I'm crazy enough to kill for you."

He's right. God, he's right, and I hate him for it. I hate him for knowing me so well, for seeing the ugly, needy part of me that craves this intensity, this ownership, even when it hurts.

He spins me around before I can register the movement. My palms hit the wall to brace myself, the cool paint a shock against my heated skin. "Bend over," he commands, his voice a low growl against my ear.

"No," I breathe, but it's a useless protest. His hand is on the small of my back, pressing down, guiding my body until my chest is flush against the wall, my ass pushed out in a gesture of complete submission. I'm exposed, vulnerable, trapped between him and the hard surface.

He fumbles with his own jeans, the sound of his belt buckle clanking loud in the sudden silence. He doesn't prepare me. He doesn't ask. He just lines himself up and thrusts into me, hard and deep and unforgiving. The sudden, brutal fullness makes me cry out, a sharp, pained sound that he swallows with another punishing kiss pressed to the back of my neck.

"Fuck," he groans, his hips pulling back and driving into me again. The force of it pushes my cheek against the wall. "You're so tight. So fucking perfect. Did he make you wet like this? Did he make you feel like you'd die if you didn't get fucked?"

I can't answer. I can only hold on, my nails scraping uselessly against the wall. The pain is blurring into pleasure, a sick, twisted cocktail that only he has ever been able to serve me. Each thrust is a question, an accusation, a claim. You're mine. You'll always be mine. No one else can have you.

His rhythm is punishing, relentless. He sets a brutal pace, his hips slamming into mine, the sound of our bodies echoing in the quiet apartment. It's not sex. It's a battle. He's trying to fuck the other man out of my system, to erase the memory of a gentle kiss on the stoop with this raw, primal act. And I'm letting him. I'm letting him because I'm weak, because I'm addicted, because some sick part of me believes I deserve this for daring to hope for something more.

One of his hands leaves my hip, and I feel it wrap around my throat. My breath hitches, a spike of pure adrenaline cutting through the haze of pain and pleasure. His grip isn't tight enough to hurt, not enough to truly cut off my air. It's a claim, a possessive brand. His thumb rests against the side of my neck, right over my pulse point, and I can feel the frantic, frantic beat of my own heart against his skin.

"Tell me," he pants, his voice rough in my ear. His grip tightens just enough to make me dizzy, to make every nerve ending light up. "Tell me he can't do this. Tell me I'm the only one who can make you feel like this."

I can't speak. The pressure on my throat steals my words, my breath, my thoughts. All I can do is feel. Feel him inside me, stretching me, filling me. Feel his hand on my neck, owning me. Feel the pleasure coiling in my stomach, tighter and tighter, a dangerous, beautiful spring waiting to snap.

He leans in closer, his lips brushing against my ear. "You're mine, Y/N," he whispers, and the words are a vow and a curse. "Say it."

I try to shake my head, but his grip holds me still. The lack of oxygen, the overwhelming stimulation, the sheer brutality of his possession, it's all too much. The spring snaps.

The orgasm tears through me, violent and shattering. It's not a wave; it's an explosion. My vision whites out, my body convulses, a silent scream tearing from my throat as pleasure so intense it's painful floods my system. I feel him follow me over the edge with a guttural groan, his body tensing as he buries himself deep, pouring his anger, his possessiveness, his self-hatred into me.

For a long moment, we just stay there, pinned against the wall, our bodies slick with sweat, our breathing ragged in the sudden silence. The pleasure fades, leaving only the cold, sharp edges of reality.

He pulls out of me abruptly, and the loss is a physical ache. He releases my throat, and I gasp, air rushing back into my lungs in a painful, desperate gulp. He steps back, adjusting his clothes with methodical precision, his face a mask of cold indifference. He doesn't look at me. He won't look at me.

I slide down the wall, my legs too weak to hold me, and land in a heap on the floor. My dress is still bunched around my waist, my body exposed, used. I can feel his release leaking out of me, a sticky, humiliating reminder of what just happened. There's a mark on my neck, a faint, bruised imprint of his hand, a brand I'll have to hide.

"This is why I leave," he says, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. He finally looks at me, but his eyes are empty. "This is why I can't stay. You make me weak, Y/N. You make me someone I don't want to be."

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

He finishes buckling his belt, the metallic click too loud in the silence. His hands are steady now. Composed. Like he didn't just tear me apart with his body. Like I'm not still on the floor, dress bunched around my waist, trying to remember how to breathe.

"You know what the worst part is?" He's not looking at me anymore. He's looking at the wall above my head, at the space I used to occupy before he put me here. "It's not that I keep coming back. It's that you keep letting me."

The words land like shards of glass in my chest. I want to move, to cover myself, to stand up and be something other than this crumpled, broken thing at his feet. But my body won't cooperate. My legs are shaking. My hands are shaking. Everything I am is shaking apart.

"I wait," he continues, and his voice is cold, clinical, like he's dissecting something he's already discarded. "I wait to see if this time will be different. If this time I'll feel something other than-" He stops, jaw clenching. "And then I'm inside you, and it's the same. It's always the same. I feel nothing. Just the need. Just the-" His hand slashes through the air. "The hunger. And then it's over, and I look at you, and I realize I've wasted another night on something that doesn't fix anything."

I finally find my voice. It comes out wrecked. "Then stop coming."

He laughs. It's a hollow, ugly sound. "I can't. That's the joke. I can't stop, and you can't say no, and we're just-" He spreads his hands. "This. We're just this forever. Two people who keep making the same mistake and expecting a different result."

He walks toward the door, and for a moment, I think he's leaving. I want him to leave. I want him to take his cruelty and his cold eyes and his beautiful, destroying hands and walk out of my life for good.

But he stops. He turns back, and his face is worse now than when he was angry. It's empty. There's nothing behind his eyes. No anger, no desire, no guilt. Just a vast, cold nothing that makes the room feel ten degrees colder.

"You want to know what I think about? When I'm inside you?"

I don't answer. I can't.

He tilts his head, studying me like I'm a problem he's trying to solve. "I think about how easy it would be to stop. To just... not come back. To let you move on with your nice dates and your nice life and your nice, normal future." His lips curl. "But then I remember that you'll always let me in. No matter how many times I leave, no matter what I say, no matter what I do to you, you'll always open the door. And that's not love, Y/N. That's not even weakness. That's just... pathetic."

The word hangs in the air between us. Pathetic.

I flinch like he's hit me. The tears I've been holding back finally spill over, hot and shameful, trailing down my cheeks. I wipe them away with the back of my hand, furious at myself for giving him this. For giving him anything.

He watches me cry. He doesn't move. He doesn't soften.

"See?" He gestures toward my face, my tears, my brokenness. "This is what I do to you. This is what I've always done. And you keep coming back for more. You keep letting me do it. So don't stand there and tell me I'm the villain here. You're the one who keeps opening the door."

His words are surgical. Precise. He knows exactly where to cut to make it hurt the most.

I pull my dress down, covering myself with trembling hands. The fabric is torn at the hem, ruined. Like everything else he touches.

"You said you wanted to stay," I whisper. I don't know why I'm saying it. It won't change anything. It never changes anything.

He stares at me for a long moment. Something flickers in his eyes, something that might be regret, or might be disgust, or might be nothing at all.

"I lied," he says. "I always lie. That's what you don't understand. When I'm with you, I'm not myself. I'm not anyone. I'm just-" He presses a hand to his chest, over his heart. "Empty. And you make me feel less empty for a few hours, and then I wake up, and it's worse. It's always worse. So I leave. And you let me. And then I come back. And you let me. And we do this again. And again. And again."

He opens the door. The hallway light spills in, harsh and fluorescent, and I have to squint against it. He's a silhouette now, all sharp edges and shadow.

"This is who I am," he says, and his voice is quieter now. Almost gentle, which makes it worse. "This is all I can give you. If you're smart, you'll stop answering the texts. You'll change your locks. You'll forget my number and my name and every word I've ever said to you." He pauses. "But you won't. Because you're not smart. You're just like me."

He steps into the hallway.

"You make me a slave," he says, not looking back. "And I make you nothing."

The door closes behind him. The lock clicks into place automatically, the sound final and absolute.

I sit on the floor for a long time. My body hurts in places I didn't know could hurt. My chest is hollowed out, scraped clean, a cavity where something vital used to live.

I make you nothing.

I thought the leaving was the worst part. I thought the silence was the worst part. I thought waking up alone after he promised to stay was the worst part.

But this, this is worse. This is him telling me exactly what I am to him. Exactly what I've always been. Not a person. Not someone he loves, or even someone he hates. Just nothing. An absence. A hole he tries to fill and can't.

I don't cry. I don't have any tears left. I just sit there, on the cold floor of my own apartment, and let the nothing settle into my bones.

And somewhere deep inside me, in a place I didn't know still existed, something shifts.

Not hope. Not forgiveness.

The beginning of letting go.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

The days after are a blur of gray.

I call in sick to work. I don't leave my apartment. I don't answer texts from Mina, from my mother, from anyone. I lie in my bed and stare at the ceiling and let the nothing he gave me fill up all the spaces where something used to be.

I make you nothing.

The words play on a loop in my head, a song I can't turn off. I repeat them until they lose meaning, until they become just sounds, just vibrations in the air, just proof that I exist even though he said I don't.

On the third day, I shower. I stand under the hot water for forty-five minutes, watching the soap swirl down the drain, and I let myself feel the burn. I scrub my skin until it's raw, until there's no trace of him left on me. His hands. His mouth. The bruise on my neck that's faded to a sickly yellow-green. I scrub until my skin is pink and stinging, and then I stand there a little longer, letting the water wash away the evidence of my own stupidity.

On the fifth day, I change the locks.

The locksmith is a middle-aged man with kind eyes and a gentle voice. He doesn't ask why a woman in her twenties needs her deadbolt replaced on a Tuesday morning. He just does his work, hands me the new keys, and tells me to have a better day.

I put the old keys in an envelope. I don't know what to do with them. Throw them away, keep them, mail them to the JYP building with a note that says I'm done. In the end, I shove the envelope in the back of a drawer, buried under old tax documents and expired warranties. A tomb for something that should have died a long time ago.

On the seventh day, I go back to work.

Mina corners me in the break room, her eyes sharp with concern. "You look like shit," she says, which is her way of saying I love you, I was worried, what the hell happened.

"Thanks," I say, pouring coffee into a mug that says World's Okayest Employee.

"I've been calling you."

"I know."

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?"

I stir creamer into my coffee, watching the colors bleed together until they're one uniform beige. "He came back. The night after the date."

Mina's face hardens. She knows. She's always known, even when I tried to hide it. "What did he do?"

I think about telling her. About the wall, the ripped underwear, the hand around my throat. About the words he said after, the ones that cut deeper than any of the rest. But some things are too ugly to put in the light. Some things are better left in the dark, where they can't hurt anyone but me.

"I ended it," I say instead. "For real this time."

Mina studies my face, searching for the lie. After a moment, she nods slowly. "Good. It's about time."

It's about time. Three years of this. Three years of waiting, of hoping, of letting him break me and rebuild me and break me again. Three years of being nothing.

I take a sip of my coffee. It's bitter. It's always bitter.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

His first text comes on day nine.

Unknown Number: I'm sorry. Can we talk?

I stare at the screen for a long time. My thumb hovers over the keyboard. I could say yes. I could let him in. I could pretend that this time will be different, that the words he said on my floor were just anger, just pain, just the sickness that lives inside him.

But I think about the way he looked at me when he said I make you nothing. The emptiness in his eyes. The cold, clinical certainty.

He meant it. In that moment, he meant every word.

I delete the message without responding. I block the number. I set my phone face-down on the nightstand and go to sleep.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

The second text comes three days later, from a different number.

Unknown Number: Y/N please. Just let me explain.

I delete it. Block it. Roll over and stare at the wall.

My chest aches. It's a physical thing, a hollow pressure behind my ribs that makes it hard to breathe. My hands want to reach for the phone, want to type okay or when or I miss you. My body remembers what it felt like to have his weight on top of me, his hands in my hair, his voice in my ear. My body is a traitor, and my heart is a traitor, and my brain is the only thing keeping me tethered to sanity.

I think about Jae. The nice man with the nice smile and the nice kiss. I think about what it would be like to be with someone who doesn't leave. Someone who doesn't lie. Someone who looks at me and sees a person, not a drug, not a weakness, not a thing to be used and discarded.

But the thought of someone else's hands on me makes my stomach turn. The thought of someone else's mouth on mine feels like a betrayal of something I can't name. He's poisoned me. He's ruined me for anyone else, and he doesn't even know it, or maybe he does, maybe that was the point, maybe I make you nothing was also I make you mine and I'm too stupid to tell the difference anymore.

I pick up my phone. I stare at the blocked numbers list, at the two unfamiliar digits sitting there like grave markers.

And then I put the phone down, and I don't pick it up again for the rest of the night.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

He shows up at my apartment on day fourteen.

I'm not expecting him. I've started to let myself believe he's finally given up, that the silence is permanent, that I've survived the worst of it. I come home from work, groceries in hand, and there he is.

Sitting on my stoop. Hood pulled up. Head bowed. He looks smaller than I remember. Diminished. Like something has been eating at him from the inside.

I stop at the bottom of the steps. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. My hands tighten around the grocery bags.

"Chan."

He looks up. And for a moment, just a moment, I see something in his face that I've never seen before.

Fear.

Real, genuine fear. Not the fear of getting caught, not the fear of exposure, but the fear of losing something he didn't know he could lose.

"Y/N." He stands up, too fast, almost stumbling. His hands come up, palms out, like he's approaching a wounded animal. "Can we, please. Just let me-"

"No."

The word comes out stronger than I feel. It surprises both of us.

He stops. His hands drop to his sides. "I need to talk to you. I need to explain-"

"There's nothing to explain." I set the groceries down on the sidewalk. My hands are shaking. "You said what you needed to say. You made it very clear what I am to you."

"That's not, I didn't mean-" He runs a hand through his hair, pulling at the roots. He looks desperate. Unraveled. "I was angry. I was, I'm always angry. Not at you. At myself. I take it out on you because you're the only one who lets me. The only one who-" He stops, swallowing hard. "You're the only one who stays."

I stare at him. The man on my stoop is not Bang Chan. He's not the king, not the idol, not the carefully constructed persona that walks red carpets and commands stadiums. He's just Christopher. A man who has spent his entire life running from the one thing he needs.

"You said I was nothing," I say, and my voice cracks on the last word. "You looked at me, after everything, and you said I was nothing."

His face crumples. For a moment, I think he's going to cry. I've never seen him cry. I didn't know if he could.

"I lied," he whispers. "I lie. That's what I do. I lie to myself, I lie to you, I lie to everyone because the truth is-" He breaks off, his voice catching. "The truth is that you're everything. You've always been everything. And that terrifies me."

I should soften. I should go to him. I should wrap my arms around him and tell him it's okay, that I forgive him, that we can figure this out together.

But I think about the floor. The cold tile beneath my bare thighs. The way he looked at me when he said you're just like me. The way he walked out without looking back.

"Go home, Chan."

He shakes his head, stepping toward me. "Y/N, please-"

I step back. The distance between us is six feet. It feels like an ocean.

"You need to leave."

He stops. His hands drop. And for the first time in three years, he looks at me like I'm someone he doesn't recognize.

I walk up the steps, past him, to my door. I pull out my new key, the one that doesn't fit his hand, and I slide it into the lock.

"Y/N." His voice is broken. Splintered. "I love you."

I pause. My hand on the doorknob. My back to him.

Three years. Three years of waiting to hear those words. Three years of hoping, of praying, of letting him destroy me piece by piece for just a scrap of affection. Three years of being nothing so he could be something.

Now he says it. On my stoop, in the cold, when it's too late.

"I know," I say. And then I open the door, and I walk inside, and I close it behind me.

I don't lock it. Not right away. I stand with my back against the wood, my heart in my throat, and I wait.

I wait for him to knock. To beg. To say the words that will make me forget everything he's done and let him in one more time.

But the silence stretches on. And on. And on.

And when I finally look through the peephole, he's gone.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

The first week without her is a blur of work.

Chan throws himself into the comeback prep with a ferocity that worries the others. He stays in the studio until 4 AM, then 5 AM, then 6. He stops going home altogether. There's a couch in the corner of the recording room, and he sleeps there when his body gives out, curled up in a position that wreaks havoc on his back.

He doesn't dream. Or maybe he does, and he just doesn't remember. All he knows is the work, the music, the endless loop of production and composition and the constant, gnawing hunger for something he can't name.

Changbin finds him on day twelve, slumped over the mixing board, eyes red-rimmed, coffee cold beside him.

"Hyung." Changbin's voice is gentle. Too gentle. "When's the last time you ate?"

Chan blinks at him. He doesn't remember. There was a sandwich at some point. Or maybe that was yesterday. Or the day before.

"I'm fine," he says. His voice sounds strange to his own ears. Hollow.

Changbin doesn't believe him. Chan can see it in his face, the concern, the questions he's not asking. But Changbin is good at silence. He pulls up a chair, sits down beside Chan, and doesn't say anything at all.

They work for three hours. Chan's hands move over the equipment, adjusting levels, layering tracks, doing all the things he's done a thousand times. But his mind is somewhere else.

It's always somewhere else now.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

Week two.

He's at a photoshoot, standing in front of a white screen while the stylist fixes his hair, when he catches a scent that stops his heart.

Vanilla. Something floral underneath. It's not her, it's never her, but for one dizzying second, he's back in her apartment, her body curled against his, her hair splayed across his chest. She used to smell like that. She used to smell like home.

He closes his eyes. Breathes through it. When he opens them again, the stylist is looking at him with concern.

"Are you okay, Chan-ssi?"

"I'm fine," he says. The words are automatic. They mean nothing.

He poses for the camera. He smiles. He does everything he's supposed to do. But underneath the surface, there's a crack spreading through him, a fissure he can't seal, a wound that won't stop bleeding.

Everywhere I go, I always know you're there.

He used to feel her everywhere. In the quiet moments between songs, in the late nights when the world was asleep, in the spaces where he let himself be someone other than Bang Chan. She was there, always, waiting for him to come back.

Now he reaches for her, and there's nothing. Just the echo of her voice, the ghost of her touch, the memory of her face when he said the words he can't take back.

I make you nothing.

He didn't mean it. He's never meant anything less in his life. But he said it anyway, because he's a coward, because he'd rather hurt her than let her see the truth, because the truth is that he's not a king, he's a slave, and she's the only one who ever made him feel free.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

Week three.

He's in the dorm, alone for once, the others out at a schedule he begged off from. He's lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, when he pulls out his phone.

He's texted her fourteen times. Fourteen different numbers. She's blocked every single one.

He scrolls through the messages, reading them like a stranger might, trying to see what she sees.

I'm sorry.

Please talk to me.

I didn't mean what I said.

I need to see you.

I love you.

He said the words. The words he's been running from for three years. And she said I know, and she closed the door, and she didn't look back.

He should have known. He should have realized that there's only so much damage one person can take before they stop bleeding. He should have seen it, the way she was breaking, the way she was already gone long before he said those unforgivable things on her floor.

But he didn't see. He never sees. He's too busy running, too busy fighting, too busy being the king of a kingdom he built with his own hands, a kingdom that means nothing without her in it.

He thinks about the mornings after. The ones he never stayed for. Did she lie awake, listening for his footsteps? Did she count the minutes, the seconds, waiting for him to come back? Did she memorize the way he said her name, the way he held her, the way he pretended, for a few stolen hours, that they could be something real?

He thinks about her laugh. Not the polite one, the one she used when she was trying to hide. The real one. The one that came out when he said something stupid, when he made her forget, for just a moment, that he was poison.

He thinks about the way she supported him. Before the comebacks, before the award shows, before everything that made him Bang Chan. She was there, in the audience, in the crowd, in the messages he never responded to. She was there, and he took it for granted, and now she's not, and the silence is deafening.

A free man born as a king, who died as a slave.

He's been thinking about that line for weeks. He wrote it years ago, before he knew her, before he understood what it meant to be owned by something other than his own ambition. He thought it was about the industry. About the fans. About the weight of expectations that never stops pressing down on his chest.

But it wasn't. It was never about any of that.

He's the king. He built this kingdom. He commands armies of fans, controls his own image, holds the power of life and death over his own career. He is, by any measure, free.

And he's a slave. A slave to his own fear. A slave to the lie that vulnerability is weakness, that needing someone is failure, that love is a trap and not a salvation.

He's been fighting the wrong battle this whole time. He thought she was the addiction, the thing he needed to quit, the weakness he needed to purge. He thought if he could just stay away, just stop needing her, he could be strong again. He could be the king.

But she was never the addiction. She was the cure. And he's spent three years poisoning the well, pushing her away, tearing her down so he could feel tall.

He sits up. His hands are shaking. His chest is tight with something that feels like panic, like grief, like the beginning of something he's been running from his entire life.

He needs to see her. Not to use her, not to fill the hole, not to prove he can have her whenever he wants.

He needs to tell her the truth. All of it. The ugly, broken, terrifying truth that he's been hiding from himself for as long as he can remember.

He needs to tell her that he's not a king. He's never been a king. He's just a man who was so afraid of being nothing that he made her nothing instead.

He picks up his phone. His hands are steady now.

Me: I need to see you. Not to use you. Not to fix this. I need to tell you the truth. The real truth. And then I'll leave. I promise. I'll leave, and I won't come back, and you'll never have to see me again. But please. Just let me say it once. Just let me tell you what I should have told you three years ago.

He stares at the message for a long time. His thumb hovers over send.

And then he presses it.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

She doesn't respond.

He waits an hour. Two hours. Three. He watches the sun set outside his window, watches the sky turn from gold to orange to deep, bruised purple. He watches his phone stay dark.

He should go anyway. He should show up at her door, fall to his knees, beg her to listen. It's what he would have done before. It's what he's always done, take what he wants, regardless of the cost.

But that's the problem. That's always been the problem.

He's spent his whole life taking. Her time, her body, her heart, her hope. He's taken and taken and taken, and he's given her nothing in return but silence and cruelty and the cold comfort of his absence.

If he shows up now, uninvited, unannounced, he's doing the same thing he's always done. He's not giving her a choice. He's taking.

So he waits.

He waits through the night. He waits through the next day. He waits through the texts he doesn't send, the calls he doesn't make, the desperate, clawing need to go to her apartment and fall at her feet and tell her everything that's rotting inside him.

He waits, and he thinks, and he remembers.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

He remembers the first time he met her.

It was at a showcase, years ago, before Stray Kids was Stray Kids, before he was Bang Chan, before he was anything but a trainee with a dream and a desperate, clawing need to be enough. She was in the audience, a friend of a friend, someone's cousin or sister or something. He doesn't remember how she got there. He only remembers seeing her face in the crowd, the way she smiled when he looked at her, the way she didn't look away.

After the show, she found him backstage. She told him he was amazing. She told him he was going to be a star. She told him she believed in him.

He laughed it off. He was good at laughing things off. But something in her voice, something in her eyes, made him want to believe her. Made him want to be the person she saw.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

He remembers the night he first went to her apartment.

They'd been talking for months. Texting, calling, the kind of conversations that started at midnight and ended when the sun came up. She was the only person he could talk to without the mask. The only person who didn't want anything from him but him.

He was terrified. He didn't know how to be someone without the armor. He didn't know how to be vulnerable without feeling weak. So he went to her apartment, and he kissed her, and he took her softly in her bed, and he left before she woke up.

It was easier that way. Safer. If he didn't stay, he couldn't be left. If he didn't give her anything, she couldn't take anything away.

He didn't realize he was taking everything from her.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

He remembers the night he stayed.

He was so tired. Not the usual tired, not the exhaustion that came from schedules and practices and the endless grind of being Bang Chan. He was tired of running. Tired of pretending. Tired of waking up alone in a bed that smelled like nothing, reaching for someone who wasn't there.

He held her, and she felt like home, and for one perfect, terrible night, he let himself believe that he could have this. That he could be the man who stayed.

And then morning came, and the fear came back, and he left before she woke up because staying was terrifying and leaving was easy and he was a coward.

He's always been a coward.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

He remembers the night he made her nothing.

He was standing on her stoop, watching her kiss another man, and something inside him snapped. It wasn't jealousy. It was something uglier. Something deeper. It was the terror of being replaced, of being forgotten, of being the one thing he'd spent his whole life running from: insignificant.

He wanted to hurt her. He wanted to make her feel as small as he felt. He wanted to prove that he was still the one in control, that he could still take whatever he wanted, that he was still the king and she was still his.

So he took her against the wall. He put his hands around her throat. He fucked her like she was something to be conquered, something to be owned, something to be used and discarded.

And then, when she was broken on the floor, he told her she was nothing.

He told her she was nothing because he was terrified she was everything. He told her she was nothing because if she was everything, then he was nothing without her. And he couldn't be nothing. He was Bang Chan. He was the leader. He was the one who held everything together.

Except he wasn't. He was falling apart. He'd been falling apart for years, and she was the only one who ever tried to catch him, and he pushed her away because he didn't know how to be caught.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

His phone buzzes.

He lunges for it, hands shaking, heart in his throat.

Y/N: Tomorrow. 7 PM. My apartment. Don't come earlier. Don't text. Don't call.

His breath leaves him in a rush. He reads the message three times, four times, ten times, memorizing the words, the spaces between them, the small, fragile hope that maybe, maybe, it's not too late.

He types a response. Deletes it. Types another. Deletes that too.

Me: Okay.

It's the only word that matters. The only word he's sure of.

He puts the phone down. He lies back on his bed. The ceiling is the same as it was before, white and unremarkable, but something has shifted. Something has cracked open.

He doesn't know what he's going to say tomorrow. He doesn't know if she'll let him in, if she'll listen, if there's anything left of them to save.

But he knows, for the first time in his life, what he wants.

He wants to stop running. He wants to stop pretending. He wants to be the man she saw that night at the showcase, the one she believed in, the one who was worthy of her faith.

He wants to be Christopher. Not Bang Chan. Not the king. Just a man who loves a woman and isn't afraid to stay.

He closes his eyes. For the first time in weeks, he sleeps.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

He shows up at 6:58 PM.

I know because I've been watching the clock since noon, watching the minutes crawl by, watching the sky outside my window shift from pale winter white to the deep blue of early evening. I've rehearsed what I'm going to say a hundred times. I've changed my mind a hundred more.

When the knock comes, I don't move. I let it hang in the air, let it settle into the quiet of my apartment, let myself feel the weight of it before I answer.

I open the door.

And for a moment, I don't recognize him.

He's not Bang Chan. He's not the polished idol, the king of his kingdom, the man who walks into rooms like he owns them. He's not even Christopher, the version of him that existed only in my apartment after midnight, the one who was soft and vulnerable and always, always temporary.

He's someone I've never seen before.

His hair is unwashed, sticking up at odd angles. There are shadows under his eyes so deep they look like bruises. His clothes are wrinkled, like he's been wearing them for days. His hands are shoved into his pockets, and he's shaking, not from cold, I don't think, but from something else. Something that's been eating at him from the inside.

He doesn't step forward. He doesn't try to kiss me, doesn't reach for me, doesn't try to push his way inside like he owns the place. He stands on my stoop, in the cold, and he waits.

"Can I-" His voice cracks. He clears his throat. "Can I talk to you? I'll stay out here. You don't have to let me in. I just-" He presses a hand to his chest, over his heart, like he's trying to hold himself together. "I need to say this. Please."

I should close the door. I should tell him I've heard enough, that his words are just words, that he's had three years to say whatever he's about to say and he chose cruelty instead.

But I don't. I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, and I wait.

He exhales. It's a shaky sound, unsteady, like he's been holding his breath for three weeks.

"I've been thinking about what I said to you. That night." He swallows. "I've been thinking about it every day. Every hour. Every minute. I close my eyes, and I see your face, and I hear myself saying those things, and I-" He stops. His jaw works. "I've said a lot of cruel things to you. Over the years. But that was the worst. Because I meant it. In that moment, I meant every word."

My chest tightens. I don't let it show.

"I know," I say.

He nods slowly, like he expected that. Like he deserves it. "I've been trying to figure out why. Why I said it. Why I always say the worst thing I can think of when I'm with you. Why I leave. Why I come back. Why I keep doing this thing where I-" His voice breaks. He presses his hand harder against his chest. "Where I destroy the only good thing in my life because I'm too scared to hold onto it."

I don't answer. I don't help him. He needs to say this. He needs to say it without me making it easier.

"I thought I was addicted to you," he says, and his voice is raw, scraped clean. "I thought you were the thing I needed to quit. The weakness. The thing that made me less than what I was supposed to be. I thought if I could just stop needing you, I could be strong again. I could be the leader, the idol, the person everyone expects me to be." He laughs, and it's an ugly sound. "I spent three years trying to quit you. And every time I tried, I fell apart. Because you weren't the addiction, Y/N. You were the only thing keeping me together."

I feel something crack inside me. Something I've been holding together for weeks, for months, for years. I don't let it show. I keep my arms crossed, my face still, my voice steady.

"You have a funny way of showing it."

He flinches. The word hits him like a physical blow. I watch him absorb it, watch it settle into his bones, watch him nod like he's accepting a sentence he knows he deserves.

"I know," he says again. "I know I hurt you. I know I used you. I know I made you feel like you were nothing when you were-" His voice cracks again. "When you were everything. When you've always been everything."

He takes a step back. Not toward me, away. Like he's giving me space. Like he's finally, finally learning that he can't take what he wants without asking.

"I'm not going to ask you to forgive me," he says. "I'm not going to ask you to let me in. I'm not going to ask for anything. I just-" He looks at me, and his eyes are wet. I've never seen him cry. I didn't know if he could. "I needed you to know. That it was real. That you were real. That when I said I loved you, I meant it. I've always meant it. I was just too scared to act like it."

He shoves his hands back into his pockets. His shoulders slump. He looks small. Smaller than I've ever seen him. Smaller than a man who commands stadiums, who leads armies of fans, who carries the weight of an empire on his back.

He looks like a man who has nothing left to lose.

"I'm a slave to you," he says, and the words are different now. They're not angry. They're not cruel. They're just true. "I've been fighting it my whole life. Thinking it made me weak. Thinking it made me less. But it doesn't. It makes me human. And I'm tired of pretending I'm not."

He looks at me one more time. His face is open, unguarded, stripped of every mask he's ever worn.

"I love you," he says. "I love you, and I ruined it. I ruined us. And I'm going to spend the rest of my life regretting it."

He turns. He walks down the steps. He doesn't look back.

And I stand in my doorway, watching him go, and I feel something I've never felt before.

Peace.

[playhousedistee]

there’s no way ENHYPEN gonna continue as six 🤯

what a news to wake up to 😭

[quintessencewrites]

Cloaked Riri x Reader

Your eyes rolled as you inhaled, willing the smoke to fill your mouth, then your lungs. Riri stood by, watching your fluid movements like she was drawn to them. You puckered your lips and blew your residual smoke right into her face. She didn’t flinch. Just smiled. That stupid, sweet little smirk that sent shivers down your spine.

Warnings: smutty lil fic, so 18+, dom!Riri, sub!reader, pantysniffing!Riri(she just likes your pheromones), striptease!reader, fingering(reader receiving), oral(reader receiving, she just wanna spoil you this time around)overstimulation, no doesn't mean no, slight mention of Riri impregnanting you, Explicit language, N-word usage, angst (mom and daughter relationships are tough), brief mentions of a sick family member, established secret relationship, ends in heartbreak (I'm sorryyyy), probably some that I forgot Word Count: 6.7k+ Tags: @percsane @zestgodtj @k3nn3dyxo @mlmilani @letitias-fav @doms-fav @sweetalittleselfish-honey @g4yforu @widowmakker @becauseimswagman1 @zayswriting @inmyheadimobsessed @laurensmabel1 @malltake12 @msudaku @faeriah-thv @fetchyourlife @mbakuetshurisprincess @sinsikoxo @honey-teaaaaaaaa @rxcently @pinkcorns @takeyaki @yamsthoughts @thethickerside @0hshoot1tsl4ni @shurisbathwater @shurismainbxtch @luvrzhearts @sadfreakx @shuri-my-love @justariellove @heartsforjojo @blackgirlfariy @tuesdaylovesu @chocoflagcutii @taiiunknown @zhanylai @ziayamikaelson @verachii @taiiunknown @beautybyfire @soearthquakequeen @remwritess @pinkwright @jenlouvre @letitiasleftfoot @6-noir @kya-rose @saintwrld @someshuriposts @jessiap @ilikegecos @iiluvl4n @katymae12344 @shurismainbxtch @crookedsaladlover @motheroffae @saintwrld @marsolgy @ogbells16 @verachii @shuriszn @playgurlxoxoo @ashleighshaw @te-23 @dominquesheart @shuridefenselawyer @iminlovewithdomandtish @limbozqueen @cansah2002-blog

Enjoy <3

“You sold your soul-” Riri’s voice echoed across your mother’s front stoop, cutting through the warm evening air. 

The sun had run its course, dragging through the sky until it was sitting low, casting a muted orange hue across the south Chicago street. Street lamps were flickering on for the night, and kids raced to make it over the threshold of their mama’s houses before the moon claimed the sky. 

“Here you go with the dramatics, Ri,” your older sister, Niq, responded with a shake of her head, her shoulder-length locs jerking subtly with the movement. 

She was going to have to cut those locs tonight, and the realization felt like a punch to the gut. You remembered how excited she was to start them finally; she’d been begging you to twist her hair for weeks. 

“C’mon, y/n, you got somethin’ better to do than your big sister’s hair? I practically raised you-” she’d followed you around the house like a lost puppy.

“You ain’ raise shit, Niq. We’re 15 months apart,” you’d dismissed her, cringing as you heard your mom's sharp “Language!” echo across the house.

“My bad, ma!”

“Please, doll?” she rattled off your childhood nickname. It was what she’d called you until she was five, having thought you were a baby doll that your mother had brought home for her. 

“I got a pile of homework, Niq-” It wasn’t an excuse. Niq might’ve graduated last May, but you had a whole year to go until your high school career ended, and you were trying to graduate with ‘valedictorian’ in front of your name. You were already on the right path. Known as a straight A student and a teacher’s pet, captain of the debate team, and ol’ girl who got a perfect score on her SAT. You heard the way they spoke about you in the halls, thinking you weren’t listening. “That’s Niq’s sister? Niq Davis?” the teachers would whisper when you walked past. “You sure they got the same DNA?” the nosy adults wondered aloud. 

The other students who knew of Niq Davis avoided you altogether, and you were much too smart not to notice why. She threatened anyone who so much as breathed at you wrong, leaning way too hard into the ‘older sister’ bit. There wasn’t enough of an age difference between the two of you for it to matter who was older. 

Still, she knew that with enough persistence, you weren’t going to tell her no. Ever the people pleaser, you’d started her locs that same night, pushing aside the assignments you knew needed to be completed. 

Your mind drifted back to a time before any of this. Before the distance. Before the choices. You remembered the days when it was just you, Niq, and the smell of cocoa butter in the air while you twisted her locs, smoothing them with tender fingers, lost in the rhythm of your shared space. The hours felt like minutes, the moments like treasures.

Niq and Riri didn’t acknowledge your presence, seated in one of your grandmother’s rocking chairs on the porch, face illuminated, but hidden behind your large laptop screen, tabs open and forgotten. You didn’t bother to make yourself known, blending into the background without a care. They knew you were there, allowing you to take up space in their bubble. Ri’s eyes flickered over to you every so often, catching your gaze when you happened to be looking up.

Riri had been around since Niq was in the 8th grade, with you in the 7th. She and her mother had just moved to the neighborhood, but really, it was like she surfaced out of nowhere. One day she wasn’t there, the next day, she was. You don’t remember their first meeting, just that Riri’s been around ever since. 

Niq hardly ever came home without Riri in tow. She was present for Sunday dinners and holidays. Hell, you’d lost count of how many times you’d passed her in the hall first thing in the morning as if she’d never gone home the night before. 

Last night she hadn’t, laid up on the couch with a thick blanket and the plate your mama had handed her, balancing on her lap. She was there when you descended the stairs this morning, giving you a passing grin, accompanied by the tick of her brow when her eyes traveled over your figure, taking in the length of your bare legs beneath a shirt three sizes too big. Her sleep-laced voice muttered out a “Hey, doll,” to which you responded with only a nod.

You hated that nickname, wishing that your mom or grandma had pushed your sister to learn your name instead of cooing over her struggling to say ‘doll’ with no front teeth. 

Riri sat across from your sister, tightly rolling a blunt between her nimble fingers, lifting it to lick the wrapper before sealing it in place. Her hand lazed to the side, offering the piece to Niq, who shook her head, rejecting it idly. “I can’t, Riri.”

“Tell me why you doing this shit again,” Ri’s voice was calm, tucking the blunt into the corner of her lip, turning to blow smoke in the opposite direction.

“I don told you bout thirty times-”

“Tell me again,” she interrupted. She wasn’t really asking; she was pushing.

Niq leaned back on her hands, stretching her legs out until they reached the step below her. You took the moment to study your sister, taking mental images of her face as if you could forget it when she was gone. It was the same face that you bore, the two of you often being mistaken for twins, all because your mom’s genes were strong as hell. 

Niq got your dad’s lighter brown eyes that you’d only ever seen through photographs, while you got your mom’s almost black ones. Other than eye color, the similarities were identical. Same wide nose, same plump lips. You and Niq used to joke that you were supposed to be born as twins, but you ‘needed an extra year to finish baking.’  As you got older, the joke started to make less sense. Niq continued to grow past your shorter frame, straightening out all of her curves and sharpening her features. 

“I gotta get outta Chicago, Ri,” your sister responded. “This ain’ my end-all, be-all.”

“Who said it gotta be?” 

Niq’s head fell back like it was too heavy for her slender shoulders, a humorless laugh escaping between her lips. “If I don’t get out now, imma be stuck. We both know that.”

“Nigga, why you talk like you ain’ never gonna come back?” Riri asked, accidentally blowing smoke in Niq’s direction. 

She fanned it away, annoyed. “Man, watch that shit. I gotta report in the morning, I can’t go in smelling like weed.”

“My bad, my bad,” Riri said solemnly, assisting Niq in dispersing the smoke through the air.

“Imma come back, Ri. My baby sister here, and my momma.”

“Baby my ass,” you grumbled lowly. Riri let a small grin spread across her face like she heard you.

“Why the military, though, Niq? You used to be the life of the party, man. Won’t nobody coming out if you wasn’t there, and now you risking your life? For what?” Ri started, though she had no intentions of actually letting Niq answer. “For a country that wouldn’t risk they life for yours?”

“Ri-” Niq started, trying to interrupt.

“You a stud black woman that dress like a nigga. You a minority if I ever seen one, man,” Riri set the blunt on the cement step next to her, freeing her hands to form a fist to accentuate her words. “You gay, a woman, and black! How bout you pick a struggle before you go off to war to fight for mine-”

Niq flexed her leg, kicking Riri swiftly in the shin. “Will you shut the fuck up?” She asked, turning to look through the open front door to see if your mom or grandmother were lingering. 

The eyeroll you gave came from deep in your soul. Yes, you were the genius of the family, but Niq couldn’t be that fucking dense. Both your mother and grandmother knew of her sexuality; they’d spoken to you about it on many occasions, mistaking Niq and Ri for a couple.

“This girl think I don’t know what go on in my own house?” Your moms scoffed. 

You reached for the pack of grapes she was washing, risking a pop to your hand before popping one into your mouth. With a crunch, you’d responded, “They don’t go together, ma.”

“I’m not stupid, y/n-”

“Never said you was, mama,” you’d cut her off, biting back a smile. “They can’t, though.”

“And why is that?” your grandmama chimed in from the other side of the kitchen. “Back in my day, it was frowned upon, but don’t yall got that ‘pride’ shit now?”

“Language, mama,” your moms chimed in without looking up from her task.

“Girl, I gave birth to you. You not gon correct me on my language, I’ll say whatever the fuck I want-”

You were quick to interject; they could go all day if you didn’t. Reaching for another grape, you spoke up, “They’d kill each other tryna decide which one of them is the man in the relationship,” you joked, quickly turning on your heel and exiting the room before they could ask any more questions. God forbid they get you to slip up about the girl Niq used to sneak into her room when she thought everyone was asleep.

“I’m tryna make life better, Ri. My future gotta be better than my past, and there ain’t no way Imma bank bankroll that without giving something up in return.”

“What was wrong with the way we was doing shit before?”

“I’m too pretty for jail is what was wrong, Riri.”

“Nigga, please-” Ri tucked the blunt back into her mouth, holding a lighter to the charred end and inhaling deeply. “So what now?”

“What you mean?”

“What the fuck am I supposed to do while you gone, Niq? How I’m supposed to get this shit off me?” She gestured to the illegal drug rolled solid and burning between her lips. “What-” her voice cracked in a way that was unlike Riri.

A cough brought it back to life, but you’d noticed the disregarded tear in Riri’s right eye. “What am I gon do without you?”

Niq’s shoulders dropped, weighing heavily from the same emotion Riri was trying to hold at bay. She looked back at you, locking eyes for what felt like a solid minute. “You gon take care of doll for me.”

Her words shocked you, leaning your frame forward until you almost fell out of the chair. “She gon what?” You finally spoke up loudly enough to be heard, causing a second pair of eyes to land on you.

This pair burned a bit, clinging to you as if it didn’t want to let go. “Imma what?” She questioned without looking away.

Niq turned back to Riri. “Look out for doll for me, Ri.”

“What the fuck I need taking care of for Niq?” you broke your gaze off of Riri, feeling a tug in your chest as you did. 

“Language!” your mother yelled from inside the house.

“How you hear me and not them?” you yelled back, sweeping your hand towards the girls seated across from you, still on the steps. 

“You starting college next month, doll. You need to stay on the right path; Riri gon make sure you do.”

“I’m starting college next month, Niq. Meaning I am an adult. Meaning I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Yeah, that’s not exactly what I was volunteering for, Niq-” Riri went unheard as the argument between sisters grew louder.

“I’m not gonna be here to look out for you, y/n-”

“I don’t need you looking out for me! You’re going to basic training, nigga, not war!”

“I don’t know when imma be back!” Niq’s voice rang over yours, shutting you up as what seemed like a street full of nosy neighbors went silent. “I got basic training, then AIT, then who knows where the fuck imma end up.”

Riri’s head dropped, not wanting to imagine the possibilities, while you glared at your sister, not backing down from hers. “I graduated, then dipped, y/n. You graduated top of your class. You got into every college you applied to, and I barely got into the community college.”

Her leg rose as she climbed the steps, reaching you in three quick movements. “You got something going for you,” Niq said, grabbing your hands. “Ain’ nothing wrong with joining the military, but this was my last resort, doll,” she stated with a small smile. “Selling dope couldn’t be it for me. I wanna not live with ma and granny one day.” 

Both your lines of vision dropped to your connected hands, and you squeezed tighter. She was leaving you in the morning. Your older sister, your first friend. 

“This the only way imma make a name for myself,” she said before turning back to Riri. “Promise me you gon look out for her.”

Riri lifted her head slowly, dragging her eyes up to meet yours. Gazes locked, she promised, lips barely parting. 

“Good,” Niq replied, throwing an arm around your shoulder. “My doll better be in one piece when I get back.”

Niq didn’t come back. Not on some morbid shit, she was alive and well, just caught up in the U.S. military’s fucked up sense of humor. South Korea, they said, for the next two and a half years. Over six thousand miles away, with a 14-hour time difference. Which meant, for the past six months, texting had been your lifeline, and even that was spotty. By the time the sun rose in Chicago, she was well into her work day, and when she went to lay her head down at night, you were well into yours. You’d heard your sister’s voice less in these couple of months than you ever had in your entire life.

And of course, shit hit the fan once she left. Grandma got sick, real sick. The type of sick that at-home remedies and late-night prayers couldn’t touch. The nursing home three miles up the road had been the only option left, and she wasn’t exactly willing to go. Dragging her there had damn near broken something in your mom. “When it rains, it pours,” she’d murmured that night, wiping at the tears she wouldn’t allow to fall. 

With you and Mama being the only two at home now, things got tense. You were her sole focus, and arguing had become a daily task, and you were sick of it. She was hyperfixated on you, the way you dressed, how you wore your hair, even how often you were coming home.

 “We spent time and money decorating that dorm room, and you don’t even wanna stay in it!” She said it like a punchline every time you walked in the door. No greeting. Just disappointment dressed in a sigh.

As unbearable as she was making it, home was your escape. It was frozen in a time before everything changed and everyone left. Niq’s room still looked the same—messy, loud, alive. Her dirty laundry littered the floor like she’d just stepped out. Her vinyls still clung to the wall, crooked and fading, collecting dust. Grandma’s room hadn’t changed since you were a kid. Same heavy curtains blocking out the sun, same stack of books in the corner, like she’d be back any minute.

And college? A fucking joke. The workload hit you in relentless waves, and you couldn’t stay afloat. Your grades were in free fall, D’s scattered across your progress report like bruises. You were too tired to even pretend to care anymore.

Your roommate didn’t help. A bubbly blonde from ‘Bama who “didn’t get why you needed all those products” for your hair. She partied constantly, stumbled in loud as hell, and crashed wherever she landed. Once, you found her asleep facedown in your hamper.

You were over it. Done. Ready to tap out

That’s what tonight’s argument was about. “I’ll be damned if you dropout, y/n! That’s not an option!”

You leaned over the kitchen counter, gripping the edge so hard your knuckles ached.

“I can’t do it anymore, ma-”

“Yes, you can, and you will! Take a break. Set a damn schedule," she snapped, waving her hands like she was shooing a demon. "Sleep in that dorm room we paid for so you ain’t commuting back and forth every night!"

“You not hearing me-”

"You’re damn right I’m not!  Your sister made it through basic training; You can survive a few essays!"

And there it was. That sharp little blade she loved to twist—Niq.

 “Niq wasn’t walking out my house with her belly out-”

“Niq didn’t spend hundreds of dollars on some braids-”

Niq didn’t curse, cry, or crumble. You were sick of living in her shadow.

“Whatever, ma,” you mumbled, stomping towards the front door.

“Whachu say, girl?”  she shot back, sharp and fast. She heard you. She just wanted to give you the chance to backpedal.

Instead, you doubled down. “WHATEVER, ma!” you shouted harshly, yanking the door and slamming it behind you. “Fuck!”

The air outside hit your face like a slap—cool, grounding. You closed your eyes, and sucked in a long breath until your lungs felt full enough to float.

“Your sister would beat your ass, she heard you talking to your mama like that,” a voice spoke up from the far corner of the porch, casual, but heavy. Familiar.

“My sister ain’ here,” you retorted, eyes still shut. 

The creak of wood under their skeptical footsteps. Then the warm, familiar scent of lavender and amber rolled over you, soft and cloying. Your curls lifted in the breeze before dropping back down like they were tired too.

“Then maybe I should beat your ass for her.” It sounded like a tease, but you knew of the real threat that hung beneath those words.

You sighed, deep and heavy. Like it was too much effort to drag your eyes open and stare at her like she was the last person you wanted to see and the only one you needed. “What you want, Riri?”

She stood across from you now, just an arm’s length away. Her signature cornrows were gathered into two buns at the nape of her neck, where two chains hung, glittering in the sun. The plain black tee she wore was skin tight, a stark contrast to the baggy pants that hung low on her hips. Your eyes dropped—unapologetically. You took your time dragging them back up to hers. Her gaze was already waiting.

“Checkin’ on you like Niq asked me to,” she said with a sniff and a smirk, dropping her head to hide it.

She’d kept to her promise, you had to give her that. Riri had slipped into your routine like she’d always belonged. Calling, dropping by, showing up unannounced just to make sure you were still breathing.

You heard her voice more than Niq’s now.

Saw her more, too.

Her eyes rose when you moved, watching you reach up to gather your hair into a puff atop your head. “You talk to her today?” you asked.

Riri shook her head, causing the chains to twinkle as they brushed over each other. “You?” she questioned back, noticing you staring at the necklaces. 

“Nope,” you responded, popping the ‘p’. 

“What was that just now?” she asked, nodding in the direction of the house where your mother could still be heard fussing behind the thick wooden door. 

“Nothin’ I wanna talk about.”

She didn’t press. That’s what made it easier. “Ight, ight,” she lulled off. “You going back to the dorm tonight, or you crashing here?”

“I ain’ ‘crashing’ nowhere, Ri. This my house.”

Riri sucked her teeth. You smiled before you could stop yourself. “Girl, answer the damn question,”  Her soft laugh made your stomach tighten.

“Imma let ma calm down some, but I’ll be here.”

Riri nodded, already stepping down from the porch. She fished a blunt from her pocket, lit it, and turned. "I’ll see you later, then?"

You hesitated, then: "Ri—"

She turned fast, eyes scanning you like something might be wrong. "Yeah, doll?"

You jogged down the steps, heart thudding—not from the run.

Her eyes dropped. She saw it. Saw the way your chest moved. Saw everything.

The blunt rested between her teeth, balancing on her pretty brown lips, when you plucked it from her. Placing it in your mouth instead, you mumbled, “Light it.”

She shook her head, but obeyed. “Quit giving your mama a hard time.”

Your eyes rolled as you inhaled, willing the smoke to fill your mouth, then your lungs. Riri stood by, watching your fluid movements like she was drawn to them. You puckered your lips and blew your residual smoke right into her face. She didn’t flinch. Just smiled. That stupid, sweet little smirk that sent shivers down your spine.

Her eyes locked on your mouth for a beat too long before she finally turned away.

No goodbyes. Just silence.

You both went in opposite directions—her swaggering off into the twilight, you back toward the porch with the blunt tucked between your lips, just like she always wore it.

You curled up in one of the rocking chairs on the porch, not daring to go back inside until the scent of marijuana on you was washed away by the wind. The daytime hue crept away as night crawled in. One by one, the streetlights flickered on, and the world softened.

It had been a while since you heard your mother stomping about the house; long enough to assume she’d gone to bed. You rose, stretched, crept to the front door, and silently prayed it wasn’t locked.

It clicked open easily. You whispered a quiet "Thank you" and slipped inside, up the stairs, to the one place that still felt like yours.

You had just shut the door, hand on the lock, when you heard it—a faint tapping on your window.

It slid open slowly.

And then, with the grace of a secret, a familiar figure slipped inside.

Riri didn’t say anything as she landed, just brushed off her pants and locked the window behind her like she’d done a hundred times before.

You didn’t speak either.

You just watched her. In your space, moving like she belonged.

She kicked off her shoes with one lazy push, letting them land wherever. Then she sat at the edge of your bed like it was her own, legs spread, elbows resting on her knees, head tilted as she studied you. That same unreadable look on her face, tension running through her body, leaving her rigid.

You leaned against your desk, arms crossed, heart thudding a little louder than you liked. The room was quiet except for the soft creak of your box fan oscillating in the corner and the hum of the streetlight buzzing through the curtains. Riri sat like she had all the time in the world, like your room was her room and you were the one visiting.

"Why you staring at me like that?" you asked, the words heavier than you meant them to be.

She raised one brow but didn’t answer right away. Just leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand. “Like what?”

You shrugged, eyes dropping to your feet. “Cut the shit, Ri. What’s the problem?”

"Mm," she hummed, leaning back again, letting silence stretch between you. "Maybe I just don't like seeing you fight with your moms like that."

You scoffed, turning toward your desk to fidget with the loose cord of your lamp. "Then don’t come over."

A pause weighed all too heavily between the two of you.

"You want me to stop?"

You didn’t turn around, but your hands stilled.

She let the question hang there, testing the air like smoke.

When you finally turned to face her, Riri was still watching you, eyes soft now. No teasing. No smirk. Just her, open in a way that made your chest ache.

"No," you said quietly.

"Then quit saying dumb shit."

You walked toward her slowly, like you were approaching something delicate. She didn’t move. Just let you come closer until you were standing between her knees again. Her hands came up, settling on your waist like a habit.

“I’m tired,” you murmured, voice cracking on the edges.

“I know,” she said. “Come here.”

You climbed into her lap without hesitation this time, tucking your face into her neck like it was the only safe place in the world. Her arms wrapped around you, firm and sure, and for a second, you let yourself pretend the rest of it didn’t exist—school, your mama, Niq, the weight of trying to hold it all together.

Just her. Just you.

And when she turned to kiss you, it was deep and desperate, like she needed it to hold shit together just as badly as you did.

A sigh escaped from you, and Riri swallowed it without a second thought. These nights, these moments were the only thing that made the tough days worth it. Her hands crept up beneath your shirt, stopping just shy of your bra line. 

She pulled away, much to your demise. You leaned into her, silently begging for her lips back on yours, groaning when she dodged your attempts with a lazy smile. 

“C’mon, baby, this ain’t new to you.” Her hands left your skin, taking their warmth with them. “Tell me what you want,” she spoke lowly, propping her arms behind her to support her weight. Her command was lustful, sharing the feeling like a disease. Your stomach coiled. 

“I want you to touch me, Ri,” you whined, grabbing at her hands in futile attempts.

“Where?” she asked, nipping your chin when you got close enough. 

Annoyance growing, you yanked the hem of your shirt, lifting it over your head and discarding it somewhere on the floor with Riri’s shoes. Your bra was just as easy to slip out of. The dainty pink piece dangled on the tip of your finger in front of Ri’s face before floating to the ground as well.

Your breasts sat pretty and perky, right under Riri’s nose. She was hypnotized by your dark areolas and the way your nipples were already pointing towards her mouth. The scent of you made her mouth water. She sat up, wanting to get closer, and you took the opportunity to contort her hands like a marionette.

You couldn’t help the soft moan that escaped when you placed one of her palms right on your breasts, just like she couldn’t help the way her hips bucked into you involuntarily. You spilled into her hand, filling it up properly, sinfully.

The other hand brushed against your naked abdomen so tenderly as it trailed towards the button of your jeans. She tapped at it absentmindedly, never taking her gaze away from the goosebumps sprouting across your bosom. “Take these off,” her order was whispered, but direct. 

Now it was her turn to whine when your body left hers. Standing and ready to give her a show, Riri gazed up at you with literal hearts in her eyes, mesmerized, watching you spin until your back was to her and your hips were shimmying the pants down past them.

She watched as they pooled at your feet and you stepped out, leaving you in nothing but a pair of panties. “These, too?” you questioned, fingers already tucked into the hem, ready to be rid of them. Riri nodded pathetically, having lost her voice at the sight of you.

Off came those, as well, and she barely gave you a moment to blink before her hands were on your waist. The way she threw you onto the bed was quick and rough, the frame creaking. She ignored your coos and open arms, bending instead to pick your panties up off the floor. Bringing them up to her face, she inhaled deep, filling her lungs with you. The thin lace disappeared into her pocket with a dark smirk. “My trophy.” Her look at you was drool-worthy, and the coil in your stomach wound tighter.

“Nasty girl,” you hummed to her, watching as she stalked to you. Like an animal. Predator to prey. 

“Baby, I’m not nasty,” her hands wrapped around your ankles, tugging you to the edge of the mattress. You were foldedin half as she bent at the waist, stuffing her face in your cunt. Her nose brushed too lightly against your tender clit, holding on tighter as you twitched beneath her. “I’m grown.”

Her tongue lapped you, from slit to clit, flat and wide. Just once, and then her puckered lips were blowing cool air onto your wetness. Your whines were soft and low, much too quiet for Riri’s liking. “You must want me to stop.” She licked you again, slowly, placing a kiss to your clit when she reached it. “I know you can be louder than that, baby.”

She was lapping at you like one would an ice cream cone. “I know your mama’s home-” she conversed with herself, your brain having turned to mush. “I’ll make sure ma don’t hear us.” Her lips closed around your clit, sucking lightly. Your hips lifted from the bed, trying to push your cunt further into her face, needy and begging. Ri held you down like you weighed nothing, hands pressed to the parts of you where pelvis connected with thigh. “I just wanna hear you a lil bit,” she spoke again, lulling her tongue to rub tight circles over your bud.

Moans caught in your throat, not good enough for Ri. Her fingers dragged across your skin, reaching the wetness on your thighs before teasing your puffy lips. Her nails dragged against you, watching you clench around nothing while her tongue still worked. “I can make you scream, y/n.”

Your eyes widened in horror, one that was quickly washed away by pleasure as her fingers toyed with your entrance. “That what you want, doll? Want the whole neighborhood hearing you scream my name?” She thrust into you, two fingers deep. You moaned, deep and guttural, but still too quiet for the prideful girl digging you out. 

Your pussy fluttered around her, squeezing tight and pulling her in. “Louder for me, baby.” Her fingers scissored inside of you, curving to hit that squishy part and pulling away, before thrusting back into it. “How I’m ‘pose to know I’m doing a good job if I can’t hear you?”

She kept one hand thrown across your pelvis, in a lazy attempt to keep you glued to the bed. As strong as she was, the way she was fucking you lifted your body like you were possessed. Riri curved her fingers even further, digging into you. You could feel the pressure building, the way you felt like a too-tight rubber band about to pop.

She could feel you clenching around her fingers, so tight, she could barely move. “Shit, baby, I wish I could feel you like this on my cock.” Her nasty words hit you straight in the cunt, splashing around her further. “I’d be in this shit every fucking night.” Ri was hovering over you now, her movements not slowing. “Pumping you full,” she described, hips thrusting, pushing her digits into you. “You’d walk out this house with a belly full of me.” 

Your head lifted, watching the place where you and Riri were connected. The sight was a filthy one. Her crotch sported a wet spot that could only be explained away by the way you were leaking onto her. A thin sheen of sweat covered her forehead, and she glowed beneath the artificial yellow light coming from the streetlight through your window. 

You were a beautiful, bumbling mess beneath her. Breasts bouncing, stomach wet with sweat and your own juices. You looked downright pornographic. 

“Fuck, Ri,” you gasped. Bottom lip tucked between your rows of teeth, you bit down so hard you were afraid it would bleed. “Fuck, fuck me,” you choked out.

So vocal, so vulgar, but still, too quiet. 

The pumping into your cunt stopped, but only for a moment. Long enough to send a lustful groan from between your lips. Your gummy walls stretched as Riri added a third finger, resuming her staggering movements. “There you go, baby, that was almost loud enough.”

One hand cupping your breast, the other scratching at Riri’s wrist. “Nuh-” you tried, but the words were sloppy, almost as sloppy as your pretty pussy. “Too much, Ri!” You sounded like a habitual drunk, slurred and slack.

“No, it's not.”

You nodded fast. “Is-it is!” You cried, uncaring of how shrill you were becoming. 

“You can take it.” She thrusted harder, deeper, fingertips drumming against your cervix.

“Ri, please-”

 “You can take it because I said so, baby. Take what I give you.” She growled at you. 

“Ri,” you dragged out the last syllable in her name, singing it as your pussy tightened, contracting. Your orgasm came fast and without warning. Riri’s come covered hand was quick to seal your mouth, muffling what remained. 

She saw the way your eyes darkened, ready to lash out at her. You were silenced by her slick fingers forcing their way between your lips. “I know, I know, too loud. My bad.”

You bit down on her hand, earning a small slap to your cheek. “Clean me up,” she shoved her wet fingers back into your mouth, pulling forth a gag from the back of your throat. “Good girl,” she praised, noticing the way your legs clenched together at her words. “Clean yourself off me.”

And you did, hollowing your cheeks to suck yourself from her fingers, licking inbetween each of them with your eyes locked on hers. “Nasty girl,” she whispered, unable to look away.

“Not nasty,” you released her fingers with a pop, planting a kiss on her palm before pulling away. “Just grown.”

Riri's hand traced slow, absent-minded circles against your lower back, the two of you tangled together in the glow of your nightlight. Her heartbeat was steady beneath your cheek, but yours had started to trip.

You spoke without lifting your head. “You ever gonna tell her?”

Her fingers paused for half a second. Just long enough.

“Niq?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah.”

Another pause. Longer this time. You could almost hear her thinking, feel the tension slip into her muscles.

“I don’t know,” she said finally. Soft. Like the words might bruise. This wasn’t the first time you two had tried having this conversation; you’d just hoped the answer had changed this time.

You sat up just enough to see her face. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I mean, I don’t know, baby,” She sighed, dragging a hand down her face. “It’s not like I planned for this to happen. I was supposed to watch out for her little sister, not fuck her little sister! Not fall for her-”

You laughed, bitter and low. “You planned to sneak through my window every night?”

“No,” she snapped, sitting up straighter. “I planned to look out for you. That’s it. Be your big sister’s responsible friend. That was the job.”

“But that’s not what this is.”

Her eyes met yours, jaw tight. “No. It’s not.”

"So, what—this whole thing just stays in the dark forever?" You gestured vaguely between you two. “You get to touch me like this, hold me like this, but I gotta pretend we’re just cool every time Niq calls? Every time I say your name around her, I gotta pretend I don’t feel anything? You fuck me at night, go about your business during the day? I don’t get to take pictures of us, we can’t go on dates-”

“Don’t do that,” she warned, her voice suddenly sharp beneath the darkness. “Don’t act like this is just that easy for me.”

“I’m not,” you snapped back. “I’m saying I’m tired of acting like it's not what it is.”

Silence again.

She leaned back on her palms, eyes flicking to the ceiling like it might hand her an answer. “You know she’d lose her shit if she found out. That we been doing this behind her back, lying to her and shit.”

“And what?” you challenged. “You scared she won’t fuck with you anymore?”

Riri didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

You saw it in her face.

You deflated, more hurt than angry now. “Damn. So that’s what this is.”

“She’s my best friend, y/n. My first friend in a long ass time,” Riri said quietly. “I can’t just throw that away.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. The words caught in your throat like smoke.

Riri sat up, reaching for your hand, but you pulled it away before she could touch you. She flinched, barely, but enough.

“I’m not asking you to throw that away,” you said. “I’m just asking you to stop hiding me. I’m grown, remember? Niq can handle finding out about us.”

The room felt heavier than it should’ve. Your chest ached in that familiar, dull way—like disappointment had taken up permanent residence.

She reached for you again, slower this time. “You know I care about you, right?”

You looked at her, eyes burning. “Then act like it. Love me out loud, Riri,” you challenged.

And for once, she didn’t have a clever answer.

Your gaze bounced around her face, studying it for some type of reaction, as hers did the same to you. Every glance you shared was cloaked in the kind of silence that spoke louder than any confession, a secret only you understood.

The silence had stretched so long, it didn’t even feel like silence anymore. It felt like its own thing—loud, alive, sitting between you like a wall you hadn’t built but somehow helped keep up.

You rolled over, turning your back to her. A coward’s move, sure, but you didn’t want her to see your face break.

Behind you, Riri shifted. The bed creaked, and for a moment, you thought she might leave—slip out the window like she always did, disappearing before either of you had to deal with the mess.

But then she spoke, voice low, wrecked.

“I hate this shit.”

You stilled.

“I hate feeling like I gotta choose between wanting you and keeping my friendship with her.”

You turned just enough to glance over your shoulder. “Who said it has to be a choice?”

“She didn’t,” Riri admitted, laughing bitterly. “But she will. You know Niq. She’s not gonna just roll with this like it’s cool. She’s gonna feel betrayed. We betrayed her, baby.”

You sat up, tugging the blanket around your naked chest. “Then what? We keep sneaking around forever? I’m your dirty little secret until she moves back and this whole thing blows up in our faces?”

Riri stared at the ceiling again, jaw clenched, before reaching your glare and shaking her head. “Nah, baby. You’re so much more than a dirty little secret. You don’t deserve that. Don’t deserve this.”

You blinked. “What?”

“This.” She waved a hand between you. “Being with someone who can’t give you everything you need and more without shit falling apart.”

Your throat burned. “So what—this is it? That’s your answer?”

She didn’t say anything. Just let the weight of it hang between you.

That was the moment it cracked. Not in some dramatic, yelling kind of way—but quiet, and devastating. Heartbreaking

“I’m not gonna beg you to choose me,” you whispered, giving up. Your voice didn’t even sound like yours.

Riri’s eyes finally met yours. And for once, they looked scared.

Not angry. Not stoic.

Just scared.

You slid off the bed, heading to your closet to grab an oversized sleep shirt. Without bothering to look back, you added, “I love you, Ri.”

The words landed like a punch.

You didn’t wait for her to say it back. You didn’t even expect her to. You just needed her to know.

Because if she wasn’t gonna fight for this, then at least one of you had to be brave enough to say what it really was.

You slipped out the door towards your bathroom, leaving her in the darkness with silence, and all the pieces of what you could’ve been.

[quintessencewrites]

Vanish

ShuRiri x Wakandan!fem!reader

“Nisale kakuhle zinkosi zenu (Goodbye, your majesties.)” You bow and exit, leaving the Queens in their despair. 

Warnings: ANGST, explicit language, toxic!Riri, slightly toxic!Shuri...you might cry

Word Count: 2.5k+

Tags: @yvxmpire @zestgodtj @k3nn3dyxo @mlmilani @letitias-fav @doms-fav @sweetalittleselfish-honey @g4yforu @remwritess @widowmakker @becauseimswagman1 @zayswriting @inmyheadimobsessed @laurensmabel1 @malltake12

A/N: Another idea by @k3nn3dyxo, loosely based on the song Vanish by GIVEON. There's so much damn angst in this one, it kind of broke my heart to write. As always though, enjoy <3 Translations are in the text, there are full on sentences in xhosa in this one. Also, just because I never said it before, every character I write for is a black woman. I love us <3 , okay that's all lol

It had been weeks. That wasn’t an over-exaggeration. The x’s tallied across your calendar were proof. 

Weeks. Three weeks since you and your loves last had a meal together. 

Shuri and Riri lay in bed as you dressed, the smaller girl of the two still soundly sleeping, tucked under the other’s arm. Her highness smiled a beautiful smile at you, one filled with pride and all the adoration in the world. “Have a wonderful day, sthandwa (my love). Go do amazing things.” 

A beautiful grin of your own spread through your cheeks as you bent down to kiss the woman you loved. “Thank you. I will see you two for dinner?”

“Kunjalo, sana (Of course, baby). I can not wait to hear all about your day.”

And off you went, thrill racing through your veins as you left the palace in trek of the school you helped Nakia establish in your home country, one which mirrored her own brilliant institution in Haiti. 

Returning home many hours later, exhaustion adorning your features, you were welcomed by loneliness. The room shared between you and the adjacent queens was empty, as were the kitchen and living quarters. 

“Griot,” your voice echoed the large walls, calling out to the AI that had made its way out of Shuri’s lab and into your living space. 

“Yes, My Queen?”

“Where are my wives?” the question lingered from your lips. 

“Queen Shuri and Queen Riri are currently in the lab. Would you like me to page them for you?”

The heart encapsulated in your chest swelled, knowing that both girls have had a hard time returning to their work since Queen Mother’s death. You couldn’t bring yourself to pull them away from that. 

“No, Griot. Thank you anyways.”

That night, you climbed into bed alone, body no longer able to fight the sleep that draped upon it. 

When you awoke the next morning, your queens were snoring next to you. They’d crawled in at some point in the night and the sandman whisked them to dreamland; neither girl stirred when you left the bed to prepare for another day at the school. 

The abnormality of abandonment that marked the previous day for you and your family soon became routine. One night turned into two and two into 21. Twenty one days since you’d gathered around the table to enjoy a meal with your loves. 

Two weeks since they’d stopped making excuses. 

“I’m so sorry, baby. Work has been fucking crazy, man. I got caught up. Can I make it up to you?” Riri hadn’t even had the decency to leave the lab for the moment it would’ve taken her to stand you up in person. Shuri was in America, sovereign duties unable to go ignored any longer. 

Even without her partner in crime, Riri still found ways to make her lab work more important than her time with you. 

“You can’t take a moment? Let’s have lunch, my love.” You were begging, a pathetic sight had Ri been able to pull her eyes from her project long enough to peer at you through the hologram provided via the beads. 

“Nah, ma. I’ll see you tonight, okay?”

Shuri was no better. 

“My Queen, where are you? The children are waiting, anticipating the Black Panther’s arrival.”

“Shit, usana (baby), that was today? Can we reschedule?”

“Can we re - No, Shuri! No, we can’t reschedule. These iingqondo ezincinci (little minds) have been waiting hours, missing lessons, to see their beloved protector. You promised.”

“I’m kind of caught up right now, y/n. Riri and I are about to do a test flight; the Iron Heart suit has to be able to reach speeds greater than Mach 5. We think we’ve got it.”

“Shuri plea-“

“Later, sthandwa (my love). I’ll make it up to you.”

And with that, her beads disconnected, erasing her face full of distracted features and leaving you with an auditorium packed with disappointed young ones. 

14 days ago, they stopped making excuses and empty promises, simply starting to just not showing up, not explaining. 

One week, exactly, since they forgot your birthday. 

It had been a hard year, you were well aware of that, but this day was one that never went by unnoticed by your queens. They spoiled you regularly, but on this day in particular, there was nothing that you couldn’t dream up that they wouldn’t move mountains to get you. 

You begrudgingly spent most of that special day alone this year. ‘They’re planning a surprise.’ you tried to convince yourself. Something so big, they had to spend the day away from you so they wouldn’t spoil it. 

Nakia and all the students at your school had wished you a happy birthday. Okoye granted you a year full of bliss as you aged up. Hell, even Griot spoke up when you arrived home from work, “Happy Birthday, Queen Y/n.” 

The damn AI had blessed your day before your wives had.

7 days later and they still hadn’t. 

You’d been patient; more than really. So when you awoke on the eighth day since your birthday to an empty bed, your thin restraint snapped, kindness fleeing with it.

You were angry, and you had every right to be.

The walk down to the lab was more of a march than a stroll. Rage preceded you, and when the lab doors opened before you, it permeated the space, quickly sucking out the focused atmosphere. 

“Queen Y/n has arrived,” Griot announded, oblivious to the fury preparing to reign down on the other Wakandan rulers. 

“Where are my queens, Griot?” You stood on the entrance platform, eyes scanning the room and coming up short of either girl. 

“Queen Riri is in the lab. Queen Shuri is thirty minutes out from the border, returning as we speak.”

Returning? Shuri had left the country and you weren’t even made aware.

“I’m down here, baby,” Riri’s voice was muffled among the buzz in the room, and you honestly couldn’t take it. 

“Wonke umntu ngaphandle (Everybody out),” your voice boomed. Riri was still struggling to learn the language and Shuri wasn’t here to translate, so you took command of the unfamiliar space. 

All around, the sea of white lab coats stilled, unsure. “Ngoku! (Now!)”

Their hesitations evaporated, and the scientists filed out of every exit in the room, leaving you and a confused Riri. You spotted your girl then, welder’s mask atop her head, slowly placing her tool down as you approached her. 

“Y/n, baby, I don’t have time for lunch today. These modifications have a deadline and-”

“Esihogweni ngomhla wakho wokugqibela (To hell with your deadline).”

Riri took a slight step back at your tone, “You know you’re gonna have to translate baby. I’m not there yet.”

At her retreat, you stepped forward, refusing to let her escape. “To hell with your deadline. My patience had a deadline too, Riri.”

Her guard drops, no longer taking your distraction in her lab as a serious matter. “Y/n, what are you going on about?”

When she raises her hand to drop the mask back onto her face, you scoff. She couldn’t even give you a moment to speak, nor an ounce of respect to hear your words. 

You step in front of her, risking being burned by the tool in her hands and not caring at all. Riri jumps back and switches the device off. “You gonna get yourself hurt, y/n! You know better than that; what the fuck is going on with you?”

“Queen Shuri has arrived,” Griot announces as she steps into the lab, panther suit still on, missing the mask. Her brows raise at the sight of her empty lab as she saunters over to you two.

“Y/n, what are you doing here?” Shuri questions with a kiss to the side of your head. “Where is everyone?” she asks as she repeats the action on Riri. 

If looks could kill, you and Riri would both be six feet under, neither of you removing your glare from the other. “Ask her,” Riri retorts. “She came in spewing some shit I couldn’t understand and risking her life with tools she don’t know how to handle and shit.” Throwing the tool to the ground, Ri steps closer to you. She’s so close she could kiss you, but the fury emitting from her tells you she won’t. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Shuri grabs Riri’s upper arm, stopping the girl from approaching you any further. With furrowed brows, she speaks. “Sthandwa (my love), what’s going on?”

A deep chuckle filled with rage leaves your body. It’s an ugly sound coming from you, brimming with emotions you don’t usually possess. “This is the most attention I’ve gotten from either of you in weeks.”

“Attention?” Riri cries. “This is about you not getting attention?” She turns to Shuri, “Baby, we don’t have time for this!” Swiveling back to face you and shaking her arm free of the Black Panther’s hold, Riri steps forward to you, an angry finger in your face joining her dangerous words. “You’re not a child, y/n! We don’t have to come running every time you beckon and call.”

“Ri, calm down. Y/n, my love, nceda uqonde (understand, please). This work is important to us. You know that.” Shuri is speaking to you gently while Riri paces back and forth, hands clasped and running over her tight braids. 

“Bast, Shuri, we don’t have time for this,” Riri repeats. 

Shuri raises her hand to silence Riri but then lowers it onto the small of her back, pulling her in close. “Y/n, sthandwa (my love), singakwenza oku kamva? (can we do this later?)”

That’s it. That small movement opened your foolish eyes.

They were a team. Shuri and Riri. The Black Panther and Iron Heart.

And right now, they were teamed up against you. 

The action almost caused you doubt, your brain wracking to think of a way you may be in the wrong. 

You came up with nothing.

“Ungacinga lomtshato uphakathi kwenu nobabini qha (You would think this marriage was only between the two of you.”

Shuri’s head dips and when she looks back at you, sadness is in her gaze. “Ungathethi loo nto, sthandwa (Don’t say that, my love). You don’t mean that.”

Riri’s head is spinning between you two. “What did she say?”

Shuri is hesitant to answer. “Sh-she said that it seems as though our marriage is only between the two of us.”

While Shuri is making the effort to be gracious with your feelings, Riri just isn’t. She laughs, “Are you serious, yo? You go a few days without any affection and you start tripping?”

“Three weeks.”

“What?” Riri asks.

“Three weeks,” you parrot. “It has been three weeks.”

“Quit being dramatic, y/n-” But Ri’s words are silenced when you throw the calendar upon her work station. Across it are little notes marking the important women in you life’s promises that went broken on those important dates. Big, bold x’s mark out those days. 

“Three weeks ago,” you point at the date. “Was the day I started my duties at the school. You missed the grand opening; couldn’t even be bothered to have dinner with me that evening to celebrate. I went to bed alone that night. Have been ever since.”

Shuri’s eyes are wide and full of hurt, having forgotten the vow she made that you on that day. “We haven’t eaten together in three weeks? Haven’t gone to bed together in that long?”

You ignored her questions. Your voice had finally found you and you refused to let it go. “Two weeks ago, Riri, we were supposed to have lunch together. You’ve been blowing me off ever since. You, ubungangamsha bakho (your majesty), promised to bless the school with your presence. You failed to do so, and I spent six hours consoling some very upset children.”

Next came the date with a bold red circle engulfing it. ‘My Birthday!’ the note read. “One week ago,” your voice cracks. “This one is pretty self-explanatory.”

Tears are falling from Shuri’s face. “How could we-”

Riri is belligerent. “Nah, nah. We wouldn’t miss your birthday. We had it all planned out, today’s only-” Her words fail as she pulls out her phone to check, as if she didn’t believe the calendar you placed in front of her. “Shit.”

“Ikaka ngokwenene(Shit indeed). So tell me again, Shuri, how I didn’t mean the words I said before.”

She doesn’t speak, face full of an apology she can’t vocalize. 

Riri isn’t backing down, anger riling her up again. “Hold up, so you been sitting on this shit for three weeks and you wanna come in and hold it over our heads now?”

“Hold it over your heads? Riri, my love, vuma ukuba awulunganga (admit you’re wrong)! It was you, nina nobabini (both of you), who forgot you had another wife to care for, not I!”

“If you’re so forgotten, y/n, why don’t you just leave?”

Her words knock the wind out of you. “Utheni? (What did you say?)” 

Shuri’s words find her again. “Riri, stop-”

“Nah, baby. She’s the forgotten wife, right?” She’s speaking to Shuri, but her eyes are on you. “We haven’t shown her how much we care over these past few years. How much she meant to us. It wasn’t enough for her.”

Readdressing you, Riri asks venumously “It wasn’t enough, was it, y/n? Huh, baby? We weren’t enough for you. So why don’t you go? Disappear? Vanish?”

A panic is rising in Shuri and she pulls Riri’s tiny body back, but the anger and frustration flowing through the small girl’s being strengthen her. “Cwaka, Riri (Silence, Riri.) Let’s cool off usana (baby), you’re going to say something you’ll regret.”

Riri takes no heed to Shuri's words, tears pouring down both girl’s faces, as well as your own. “Go, y/n. Bounce, baby. Find that woman who gives you more than either of us could, and when you do, wish the bitch luck!”

“Riri!” Shuri hisses, but then her attention is on you. Her eyes follow you as your hand moves to pull off your kimoyo beads. She rushes to you, her hand atop yours. “No, no, sthandwa (my love). She didn’t mean it. Yeka, hlala nam (Stop, stay with me.)”

You take the bracelet off anyways and place it in Shuri’s hand. She looks down at it in horror and tries a different tactic, taking your cheek in her hand to wipe your tears. “Umfazi wam, ndiyaxolisa (My wife, I’m sorry). Ndiyacela, ndiyacela, sukuhamba. (Please, please, don’t go.),” whispers from her lips. 

When you reach to remove the wedding ring from your hand, Shuri drops to her knees, begging. Riri even stops her pacing to peer at you with wide eyes, the weight of her words finally hitting her. 

The ring clinks as it lands on the table, a loud sound in the quiet room. “Ndiyahamba (I’ll leave).”

You pull Shuri’s chin into your hands, bringing her teary eyes to meet yours. With a small, sad smile and a quick glance at Riri, whose taking wavering steps toward you, your mouth opens to speak to the two one last time before you retreat. “Nisale kakuhle zinkosi zenu (Goodbye, your majesties.)” You bow and exit, leaving the Queens in their despair. 

[riotpanther]

durag!riri appreciation post 😮‍💨

[starlightkyeom]

risk another goodbye | l.c

(where the ex-boyfriend who broke your heart shows up as your new coworker after 4 years)

pairing: lawyer!chan x lawyer!fem!reader genre: lovers to exes to coworkers to ?? | angst, fluff, smut rating: explicit, minors DNI wc: 20.1k warnings: aged up chan (he and reader are about 29), this story vaguely uses the american legal system, some flash backs/time jumps (for the lovers to exes part), they were both kinda idiots, poor communication, ambiguous relationships (reader), eating, drinking, soooo much kissing, teasing, fingering, oral sex (f. rec), nipple play, implied/kinda fade-to-black sex, that's it i think

a/n: endless thanks to @haologram for her patience with me because i really don't know why this took me so long. this is part of her amazing don't hate, litigate collab. i love you so much alta! we'll call this a happy birthday month present. thank you to my bby @joshujin for creating this amazing banner (and 6 other options because she's insane).

Your assistant knocks on the frame of your office door and pokes her head in. She’s got a concerning smile on her face that instantly makes you nervous about whatever she’s about to say. You and her had connected the second you hired her and you can read her facial expressions well. Right now, it’s giving news that’s going to make you mad. She, on the other hand, doesn’t look apologetic about the news at all. 

“Why do I feel like I’m about to hate whatever you’re about to say to me?” you ask, leaning back in your chair. 

“Because you’re good at reading me,” she offers without any apology. 

“I swear to god if you tell me that client rescheduled again, I will fling myself from the roof,” you say with a sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. 

Taylor lingers in your doorway without losing her smile. Which is a good indicator that whatever she’s about to say isn’t that. “No, but it might be worse. So, the stairs to the roof are down the hall, second door on the left.” 

“Funny,” you bite. She comes into your office and closes the door behind her. 

“We’ve got a new hire starting on Monday,” she carries on without you asking.

“And that concerns me, why?” you ask, returning to your computer and falsely figuring she got this one wrong. The closed door seems like overkill for a new hire, but what do you know?

“Because he’s going to be in our division. Everyone is whispering about him. About how good he is at closing cases and how attractive he is,” she offers, still keeping at least something to herself.

You fix her with an unimpressed stare. “Don’t tell me you’re already drooling over another attorney that you haven’t even met yet.”

“No, I know we have a no-dating…” she starts and you roll your eyes.

“I could not possibly care any less about that. Date whoever you want,” you say without looking up at her. “But, dating an attorney is exhausting. 0/10, would not recommend.” 

“You know, I’m so interested to learn more about why you feel that way,” she says. This, finally, makes you wonder where she’s going and makes you meet her eyes again.

“It’s been a long week, Taylor, I’m going to need you to start connecting some dots,” you relent. 

“Oh, you know, I was just thinking you always talk about how you’d never date another attorney and I just think it’s so…interesting that we have someone else from your law school starting at the firm on Monday,” she says.

That’s enough to make your eyes go wide and your blood run cold. “What’s the name of the new hire? The partners never mentioned it.” 

“Lee Chan,” she says with a knowingly sympathetic look. For a second, you think you forget how to breathe. And then you’re a million miles away. 

What the actual fuck is Lee Chan doing accepting a position with your firm after all these years? What kind of game is he playing? It seems cruel to be doing this now. Or maybe you’re overthinking it. Maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with you. After all, isn’t it a bit conceited to think that Chan coming to one of the best firms in the country has anything to do with you? What you do realize is that you have a lot of unresolved emotions to get over. There are probably just as many unanswered questions.

Of course, this would all be a lot easier if the person joining your firm wasn’t the same one you still thought about. Your hypothetical one who got away. 

This definitely makes work a lot more complicated. 

Offers are starting to come in for all the 3Ls and everyone is nervous. Everyone wants to know that they’re going to have something lined up for after graduation. Everyone wants to get their top choice. It’s competitive, but so is everything else about law school so it doesn’t really feel surprising. You and Chan manage to navigate it as well as two people in a relationship during a stressful time can. Neither one of you really talks about how you both applied to some of the same places. Or how the two of you are competing for your top option. What you do talk about, though, is how you plan to navigate the potential distance. 

“What happens if we get jobs that put us on opposite sides of the country?” 

The question makes you look up sharply at your boyfriend. You’re lying on the couch with your feet in his lap, reading a book for fun. A welcome change for the law books you’re normally reading. His book sits discarded on the arm of the couch and he’s watching you intently. You mark your own page and sit up so that you can have an actual conversation. 

“I thought we were mostly applying in the same areas,” you begin, dipping that toe into the water.

He frowns for a second. Like somehow this is a test and you don’t have the right answer. “Well, we did. But, we both need to take the best options before us, right?” 

“I’m not asking you to put me above your career, Chan,” you say with exasperation. 

“What does that say about our relationship if you’re not asking that?” 

“That we both understand what’s at stake in the next few years of our lives. That we both know how important our placements are in the first year after finishing law school.” 

“Or that it’s not built to last,” he says under his breath. 

There’s no malice in the statement and you can hear it for what it is. Apprehension. Nerves. He’s worried about your future, both together and individually, as professionals. You’ve watched the way other relationships between law students have played out during your first two years at school. It’s easy to bond over shared experience. But, the reality remains. Everyone in law school is competitive or you wouldn’t be there. Everyone is at least a little bit Type A. In a field that is, theoretically, built on compromise, sometimes compromising in personal relationships is the hardest part. 

It’s not time to get quite that serious, though. Not in your eyes. You slide over on the couch so that you can cross your legs and have them press against Chan’s thigh. With one of his hands in yours, you give him a look full of feeling. 

“I love you, Chan,” you say and watch the way some of the tension melts away. Like he needs to hear that reassurance. Even though the pressure of the program should feel familiar, it’s still nice to remember that you have each other. 

“I love you, too.” 

“I know everything is kind of up in the air right now, but we’ll figure it out.” 

“But, what if that means that there’s a country’s worth of distance between us?” 

The unsaid words are plain as day behind the question. Your law school classes aren’t small, but it’s also not like university. You know everyone. Hear everything. Have too many stories of former classmates in the years ahead of you. The first year after graduating is tough. Important. There’s just over two months between graduation and sitting for the Bar exam. Then, you have to actually figure out how to practice. Depending on your area, that can mean insanely long hours as the lowly first year associate. There’s barely enough time to sleep or eat a balanced meal. Add in long distance and, well, you can see why Chan looks the way he does. 

“Can we cross that bridge if we get to it?”

“Yeah, of course,” he says, but you see some of the tension return. You run your thumb along the back of his hand you’re still holding. 

“Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out,” you assure him, speaking more to his hand because the emotions are hard. “You’re my best friend. I never thought I would feel this way. It’s like you slid into my life so quietly I didn’t realize. We’ll figure this out because we’re us.” 

“I knew you’d fall for me,” he jokes. When you look up, his eyes sparkle in that way you love. In the way that makes the worries slip away, even for just a second. 

“You’re persistent,” you concede with an eye roll. 

“Come here.” 

He pulls you into his body. You settle into his side like you have countless times before. At least for the time being, things feel like they’re going to be okay. Like you really can figure it all out as long as you have each other. The road ahead may be difficult. It may have cost countless relationships before. Maybe it’s naive, but you feel like you’ll be the ones who really can figure it out. 

Some of the initial optimism about you and Chan fades once the offers start to trickle out. Everything about your future depends on where you end up after graduating. At least, that’s how it feels when you’re in the thick of it. When you hear from your top choice and it’s the equivalent of being put on the waitlist for a university, it crushes you. It’s competitive, you know that. Yet, you felt so sure. Your summer positions and letters of recommendation are top notch. It’s also in the exact right area that you and Chan think would be perfect for post graduation. 

Of course, you have other options. You’ve worked your ass off in classes, sacrificed free time. All the while knowing that the end would justify the means. Now, you have to decide if you should wait to see if you end up getting an offer or just accept another choice. It’s everything you want and part of you thinks that it’s worth waiting. But, you also know that if you wait, you risk losing out on a guaranteed position. It’s hard to talk it out with Chan, too, because he says that he hasn’t heard from your top choice at all. You know he applied. Know that he’s an excellent option for them to hire as well. It feels cruel to talk to him about something that he wanted as well. If the positions had been reversed, you try to wonder what you would tell him. Try to wonder if you could be happy for him getting your dream position. You want to think you could. 

Ultimately, you do talk to Chan about it because he’s  your best friend and your biggest confidant. You want to know what options he has heard from and he wants to know the same as you. It makes your heart drop to know that one of the best offers he’s gotten really is across the country from your dream firm. Not that you didn’t know he applied, because you did, but he didn’t seem to think he would get it. Things feel even more real when he encourages you to not make any immediate decisions. He knows you can’t wait too long. Just thinks that it’s worth really thinking things through. Surely, people will be making their own decisions soon and maybe it means that your dream spot opens up. 

It ends up being eerily prophetic. Two days later you get a call offering you the position. You know that you should tell them you need to consider it. Know that you shouldn’t make it obvious this is what you’re waiting for. Know that you should remember you weren’t the first choice.

You don’t. 

Everything goes out the window and you accept the position right then and there. At least the person on the other end of the phone seems friendly. Not overly judgmental at your enthusiasm. It’s probably a good thing, after all. You’ll get your formal offer via email and more information closer to graduation. 

Chan has his computer on his lap when you get back to your shared apartment. It’s still a bit of a weird feeling, sharing a space with him for your last year of school. As soon as he hears the front door shut, he looks up. Sees your face and it’s like he knows. Only smiles and asks if you got it. All you have a chance to do is nod enthusiastically before he jumps up and collects you into his arms. Peppers kisses all over your face and declares that the two of you need to celebrate. Everything feels light and easy again. Like you really can take on the world. 

There’s another bump in the road when the high of getting your top choice wears off. Chan talks to you about which firms he’s gotten offers from and you realize what post graduation is going to look like. You encourage him to accept the position that puts him a plane ride away from you with a smile. With assurances that you’ll be fine, which you’re not sure either of you really believe. One thing is certain, though. Although he has options that put him closer to you and your firm, he can’t take them. Can’t even think about them. Because if he takes one of them, it’ll only be so he can stay close to you. It might seem fine at first. Maybe it seems fine forever. You just can’t take the chance it ends up causing resentment. 

So, you have the conversation you didn’t want to have earlier. Realize just how much better life is with each other than it is separate. It’s going to be tough, but people survive distance in their relationships all the time. There’s FaceTime and you can plan trips. Can even do a lot of work remotely. That’s one thing you can thank the pandemic for. And before you actually start the positions, you can be each other’s support systems while studying. The prep courses all have online options. Who better to watch your mental breakdown over studying than someone else going through the same thing? 

It all feels cautiously optimistic. It’s going to be hard, but you’ve already been together since your second semester of your first year. Going on two years already. And you have until the summer to be together every day. To iron out any of the details. To make plans for after graduation. And, most importantly, just enjoy the time where it’s easy to be by each other’s side. 

You spend your last weekend before Chan becomes unavoidable wondering how to move forward. Although you don’t work with anyone else you graduated with, the legal community is small. Everyone knows where you went to school and what year you graduated. Even your assistant is able to put it together that you know Chan. Admittedly, she does know you better than most at the firm. At times she’s kind of like a diary. Still. Nobody at the firm knows about your history.

Four years ago, at the end of your final year of law school, Lee Chan took away a future for the two of you that seemed all but certain. That’s why you avoid being anywhere that he is at all costs.

Whoever says that time heals all wounds obviously doesn’t know what they’re talking about. Dulls them, sure. Teaches you how to get on with things. Teaches you what to look for in the next relationship. You’re not sure you’re healed, though.

Proving she knows you far better than she should, your assistant guesses correctly. Chan is the reason you don’t date other attorneys. Yes, it’s an ex relationship from law school before becoming attorneys. Still, the rule applies. After all, school isn’t what caused things to fall apart. You can’t help but think about when things were still good. Full of that cautious optimism that you could face whatever comes next together. It’s funny, in hindsight, how typical it all feels now. 

As they say, though, the only way out is through. You try to keep hold of that energy as you prepare for a new week where you’ll get (re) acquainted with a new coworker. Try not to overthink that he’s going to be joining your team. Really, how else could it go? It’s not like the universe could take it easy on you and at least send him to another team. Not like you can fault him for wanting to come to a firm with so much name recognition. A firm, you remind yourself, that he also wanted four years ago.

When you wake up before your alarm, you figure you might as well do something with the nervous energy that won’t leave you alone. You don’t usually put a lot of effort into getting ready on the days you know you’ll just be in the office. It’s also the first Monday of the month, which means that the day starts with a team meeting run by your senior partner. You’ll be seeing Chan first thing in the morning. That’s definitely not the reason you take a little extra time picking out your outfit and doing your makeup, though. And definitely not the reason you woke up early.

Another positive about waking up a little earlier is that you have plenty of time to go to the good coffee shop. It’s not out of the way. It’s just popular. While you’re waiting in line, you fire off a quick text to your assistant telling her that coffee and a treat is on you, but she’ll have to wait to see what it is. You at least bring her coffee frequently, a fact that apparently makes some of the other assistants envious. Unfortunately, there’s not much you can do about the other attorneys beyond encouraging them. Taylor saves your ass on a weekly basis and you would be completely lost without her. Coffee seems like the very least you can do. 

(When you actually get to the office and find her desk, you’re regretting your decision a little. Taylor wouldn’t be the best assistant imaginable if she didn’t know you inside and out. Of course it’s too much to ask that she let you live. No. Instead, she’s roasting you for looking so nice for the monthly meeting before she even thanks you for the coffee and pastry. Doesn’t actually thank you until you’re turning around to go into your office.) 

Once it’s time for the meeting, you head over to the big conference room with Taylor since the first part is for the full staff before just the attorneys meet to catch up on the month ahead. You can feel Chan’s presence when you walk into the conference room before you see him. Or maybe it’s that you can feel a different energy. Others on the team are interested in meeting the new addition, which makes it easier to just quietly grab your seat. Taylor, thankfully, keeps her face impassive. For all the times she clowns you privately, she never does it when others could be involved. It’s part of why you love her so much. 

You can’t stop yourself from glancing over at Chan, though. He looks exactly the same and somehow entirely different. His warm eyes still light up in the same way you remember when he smiles. Older though. Maybe a little bit wiser. But, his eyes still crinkle in the same way when he laughs. He’s still got that smile that makes everyone around him want to smile. His style is still mostly the same, just more expensive. Designer suits replacing something off the rack. Yet, he does it in a subtle way. Something unassuming that makes him seem quietly confident rather than arrogant. His hair isn’t dyed anymore, which makes sense in the situation. You’re just glad to see that he hasn’t cut it too short either. 

It takes a moment to clock that he notices you looking at him. You spare him a small smile. One that would only seem forced to someone that knows you. Then, you cast your eyes down at the agenda on the pretense of finding it interesting. Ignore the way Taylor shifts from her position next to you. You can do this. There isn’t a choice. You’re going to get through this meeting and then continue to get through it all one day at a time. 

The first part of the meeting is the same as always. Nothing remarkable. Nothing worth noting. Well, except for the senior partner praising Taylor for stepping up to help with a few cases. You had already taken her out to say thank you (on the firm’s dime), so this just feels like a way to boost her confidence even more. The next month doesn’t seem to be out of the ordinary, all things considered, so the first portion of the meeting runs quickly. 

The second half is a little more difficult to get through. Once it’s only the attorneys, it’s harder to ignore Chan’s presence. Especially given that a large part of the meeting focuses on him stepping into his new case load. He’s replacing another associate, Henry, that decided to quit the legal field entirely out of the blue. Too burnt out. Not enough work-life balance. Just not his speed. It’s the usual list of reasons. He had, at least, stayed on long enough to tie up loose ends enough for the firm to find a replacement. That’s where Chan gets to come in. If he minds, he doesn’t show it. Only seems eager to prove himself. Your senior partner seems delighted. You wish that you had someone to turn to for support. 

By the time the meeting winds down, you think that you might have managed to get out relatively unscathed. You still have to work with your ex. His office is still going to be right next to yours. But, you don’t have to interact with him beyond the niceties. Then, the senior partner calls your name as everyone gathers their things and your heart sinks.

“Yes?” 

He turns to Chan with almost a fatherly smile. Of course. There’s always a familial smile when another man joins the team. You almost bite the inside of your cheek to help keep a neutral expression. To turn off the subtitles that your face comes with, as Taylor would put it. It’s a perfect mask when your boss turns back to you. 

“I hear you and Chan were in the same class,” he starts and you feel the forced smile slip into place.

“That’s right,” you say in a falsely cheery tone. 

“Why don’t you show our new ace around?” 

“Oh, I…” 

“I wouldn’t want to be a burden,” Chan interjects and throws you an unreadable look. “I’m sure everyone here is busy.” 

“Oh, nonsense. Nobody here knows Henry’s case files better than her. Those two were always putting their heads together. My best duo on the team.” the senior partner says. “His assistant will be able to get you to a point, but it’s good to have another set of eyes. What do you say?”

“Of course,” you answer after a moment. “Anything for the team.”

“Great,” he says and claps Chan on the back. “I’ll just leave the two of you to catch up.”

“So,” Chan says as soon as the door closes. Sticks his hands into his pockets and looks down. Like he’s the one who’s got the right to feel anything here. 

“Henry kept things really organized and his assistant is actually great if you want to keep her,” you say. 

“Oh, yeah. Well, I said I would.” 

“Great. Your new office is this way.” 

You walk past him without a second glance and trust that he’s following you. A moment later, he falls into step and you point out the different areas he might need. Conference rooms, a room with physical law volumes and past case law if he wants hard copies, one of the break rooms that’s closest. He nods along, but doesn’t say much. 

When you reach his office door, you push it open and indicate for him to step in before you. It’s relatively sparse since Henry moved out of it. He left behind the desk, chair, and wooden cabinet that the firm paid for, as well as his own couch and coffee table. 

“I’m sure the partners spoke to you about a budget if you’d like to replace anything,” you say, casting your eyes over the space. It feels empty, cold. Henry kept so many personal touches and reminders of life outside the office that you weren’t surprised when he shared that he was leaving. Your boss also hadn’t been lying. It’s hard to make friends at work, but Henry definitely qualified. 

“They did,” he confirms as he looks around. His eyebrows knit together and he frowns a little. “I like what’s already here, actually. It feels…”

“Functional?”

“Familiar.” 

“Oh.”  

He turns to look at you and it’s the first time you realize you’re not the only person struggling in this situation. You take a deep breath before you can meet his eyes again. 

“I, uh, I helped him pick it out,” you say and Chan raises his eyebrows. “The furniture.”

“Makes sense why it feels familiar.”

Part of him looks uncomfortable at the conversation and it takes you a minute to realize why. You’re speaking before you can even consider why it matters for him to know you were only friends. 

“His partner absolutely vetoed taking it with him when he quit. Said they didn’t need reminders of the office,” you say with a fond laugh. Watching Henry meet his partner and fall in love had been wonderful. 

Chan seems a little lighter, yet still unsure. “Sounds like he found what he was looking for.”

Your final year of law school hasn’t been easy, by any stretch. What they say is true, though. Your first year scares you to death. Second year works you to death. And third year bores you to death. So it hasn’t been easy, exactly. But, you feel like you’re sitting well with a job locked in (as long as nothing crazy happens with final grades), classes that feel more manageable, and a boyfriend that you love more than anything by your side. Every once in a while, you get a nagging feeling in the back of your mind. Like there’s something you should know or something you missed. You chalk it up to nerves about the future. As someone who likes a plan and likes to know what’s coming, it’s a little unnerving at times. Even with as prepared as you are. It’s impossible to plan for everything.

That becomes painfully obvious when you’re meeting with your advisor at the end of the year. She’s been a pillar of support for you over your time as a student. It’s been a different relationship to the ones you’ve had with previous advisors. Probably because she knows that you’re about to be an equal and treats you like one. That’s how all three years of school have been. 

Just as you’re finishing up lunch, she turns the conversation to post graduation plans. Something you’re expecting, but not quite prepared for. 

“Are you getting excited about getting into the legal world?”

“I think so,” you say. “Nervous and I hate that I’m going to be so separated from Chan, but I feel really fortunate to have gotten my top choice firm.” 

“It was incredible that he did that for you,” she says and your brow furrows. Chan has been an incredible help throughout school, but you’re not sure what he has to do with you getting an offer. Your confusion must be plain on your face because your advisor continues. “I heard about him turning them down. He found out if he turned it down, then you’d get the call next.”

“He…what? He turned down the position so I could…”

Your brain is spiraling out of control trying to process the information. A million thoughts fight for dominance at the speed of light. Why would he do something like that without even telling you? Did he think that you couldn’t get a good position without his help? Did he think you would try to talk him out of doing it? He would probably have been right about that, at least. There’s no way you could have let him turn it down if it was something he wanted as well just so that you could have it. Not only because it’s not fair to him, but also because now it feels tainted to you. Undeserved. Like something you almost want to turn down even though you can’t this late in the year. Not now when plans are in place and you don’t have a fall back option. 

Then, there’s the fact that you feel betrayed by the person you love the most in the world. Maybe that’s not fair. It’s still how you feel. He’s kept this from you for months. Told you that he didn’t get the position at all and focused on a position across the country. Didn’t even discuss what would make the most sense for the both of you as a couple. He decided something that impacted both of you. If he hadn’t turned it down, he could have accepted. Sure, part of you would have been envious. The other part of you knows you had another offer waiting that would have kept you both in the same area. It feels like the walls are collapsing in on you.

“I’m so sorry. I thought you knew…” she begins and you just shake your head. Try to blink back the tears of too much information pouring in at once.

“It’s fine. I have to go.” 

The only thought you have is to get back to your apartment to find Chan. He should be home because he’s got the afternoon off from classes and he doesn’t like staying on campus if he doesn’t have to any more than you do. Too much tension. Too much stress. 

He clocks that something’s wrong as soon as you come in the door. At first, he assumes it’s just that you’re sad about the end being so close and saying goodbye to your advisor. When he tries to offer a hug as comfort, you shrug out of it. Hurt flashes across his face and it makes your heart constrict. He’s the last person in the world you ever want to hurt. The last person in the world you ever thought would hurt you. 

He did, though. Whatever his intentions were, he hurt you and has been keeping a secret for nearly the entire school year. It throws all your trust issues right back into the forefront of your brain. One-sided conversations chase each other around. Each worse than the last. Only one thought breaks through, though. And it’s probably the wrong decision. Yet, you’re going to make it anyway.

“I can’t do this,” you say to him without meeting his eye.

“Can’t do what? Graduate? Study for the bar exam?” 

“No, this, Chan. You and me. I can’t do it.” 

It’s obviously the last thing he expects. He steps back from you like he’s been slapped. And there’s the downside of knowing someone as well as you know him. You watch as the gears turn in his brain and he cycles through a million thoughts or feelings. Feel everything along with him. 

“What?” is all he manages to say. 

“I think we’re just fooling ourselves,” you say. A lie. A total and complete lie. You’re a coward. It’s easier for you than the truth, though. Easier than giving him a chance to justify a decision he made for both of you without asking you. 

“I don’t understand…”

“We’re going to be so far apart. This first year after school, it’s so important. We’re going to be killing ourselves to make an impression. There’s no way we’re going to be able to figure out once a month weekends and working remote. I don’t even think we’ll be able to commit to regular FaceTime calls with the time difference.”

“Where is this coming from? We’ve talked about…”

“I know what we’ve talked about,” you cut through. It comes out sharper than you intend and you take a breath to steady yourself. “I know. I just also know how this could go. One of us misses a call from the other. Texts get more staggered. It’s harder to hold space for someone who’s not there while trying to make connections in a new position.”

“I’m not saying it’s going to be easy, but we love each other.”

“Is that enough?” 

It’s the second time he pulls back like he’s been slapped. If only you could tell him that you’re hurting yourself just as badly, maybe worse, than you’re hurting him. 

“I think it’s enough. We’ll never know until we try though.” 

“You took the position across the country.”

“Because you encouraged me to take it!”

“Of course I did!” you shout back, tears spilling over now. Chan goes to wipe them away before pulling his hand back. The tension hangs thick as you gather your thoughts. “I wouldn’t ever ask you to sacrifice your career or mine. I couldn’t.” 

You see it. Just for a second. Know he’s wondering about a double meaning to your words. He shakes his head. Clears the look off his face. 

“I didn’t see anything as sacrificing my career. We knew this was going to be complicated and I just figured we’d work through it together. If I’d have known the distance would be a deal breaker, I never would have accepted that job.” 

“And I never could have lived with myself if you missed that opportunity,” you say softly. It’s an impasse. You’re picking a fight on an issue you know he’ll believe because it’s easier. Cleaner. 

“It would have been my choice,” he says, eyes trying to convince you of the things he can’t say. 

“I don’t want to end up hating you, Chan. I don’t want to end up resenting you because the distance is too hard.” “So you’re going to break up with me instead?” 

The question is a little derisive and the emotion looks all wrong on his face. That’s not the soft, kind, caring face you know. But, you’re the one that put that look on his face. Maybe it’s your punishment for being too scared to have the real fight.

“I know how it sounds. I still have love in my heart for you. I just think this is what’s best for us so that we can…I don’t know, save some of this.” 

“Some of what?” 

“This. Us,” you say and he just shakes his head. 

“I don’t get you,” he admits and that hurts more than anything else. How could he feel that way after all this time? 

“I just think…” 

“I heard you,” he says sharply. And then he looks at you with another face you don’t recognize. One that’s hard and cold. “If you don’t think this is going to work, I know better than to try and change your mind. You’re one of the most stubborn people I’ve ever met…”

“I’m not stubborn.”

He smiles despite himself at that. So on brand for you. “It’s always been one of the things I loved most about you. But, because I love you as much as I do, I can’t pretend to be less than this with you. I can’t go back to some semblance of a friendship when I know what it’s like to love you and be loved by you.”

Your heart stops for a second. Even though you started this, you’re not sure you want to finish it. Can’t imagine a life that doesn’t contain Chan at all, even though you’re so hurt by him. “Are you saying it’s all or nothing?” 

“Yes.” 

The simple answer says far more than you expect. You look down so that he can’t read the conflicting emotions on your face. It doesn’t matter. He still closes the distance, finally, and puts a finger under your chin to lift it up. Wipes the tears away from your face so gently. Presses a kiss to your forehead that only makes you hurt more. For a second, you reconsider everything. 

“I don’t understand, but if this is what you want. What you really want. Then, okay. I just can’t go back to only being your friend. I need to protect my heart, too.” 

There’s nothing left to say. You just wrap your arms around Chan and consider it’ll be the last time you feel his warmth enveloping you. It’s somehow the most dramatic and least dramatic break up that you can imagine. It feels both settled and unsettled. That’s probably what happens when you don’t have the strength to have the real fight. When you pick something that’s still real without being the whole picture. 

It’s a little frustrating to watch Chan charm literally everyone in the office so quickly. Especially because his office is right next to yours and you can see the stream of people that pop in and out. Especially your coworkers who go to him to talk through cases now. Instead of you. Which is extra annoying because you’ve been here longer. Worked your ass off to prove yourself from being a junior associate to now. Whereas Chan benefits from a good reputation right off the bat. Granted, it’s not entirely the same thing. He’s new to the firm, but not the practice of law. So, it tracks that he doesn’t need to go through the same things you did joining straight out of school. The rational part of you knows he probably dealt with that at his original firm. Doesn’t make it any less annoying, though. 

Everyone just instantly likes him. And that’s not really that surprising, either, is it? In so many ways, he’s still exactly the person you knew and loved in law school. The person that could make anyone feel comfortable. The one that liked to be at the center of things. Always happiest surrounded by people. It’s no different now, which makes it hurt that much more. So much of him still feels so familiar to you years later. It makes the memories harder to keep tucked away in a little box. He’s grown, sure, like you know that you have as well. He’s still inescapably Chan, though. The time since school hasn’t hardened him. Hasn’t made him jaded. Wiser, maybe. A little more cautious in things, sure. Still upbeat despite that. When you put aside all the pain it brings back to the front, you can admit that you understand why people accept him so immediately. 

After a day filled with too many meetings and phone calls, you decide to stay late to catch up on some cases. Even though you know you can also work from home, sometimes it just feels easier to stay at the office. You know yourself. Once you settle down on your couch with your laptop and the TV in front of you, you’re far less likely to be productive. Far more likely to scroll or talk to friends or watch something. So, you close your door, put some headphones on, and get to work. 

By the time you look up again, it’s just after 8 o’clock and you’re not sure when it got so late. If not for the grumble of your stomach, you may have just kept working. As it is, you consider if there’s anything in the break room that can hold you over. You’re so close to feeling caught up that it feels like a shame to go home and break the flow. You stretch out your limbs and stand to go on what feels like a pointless mission. There’s so rarely anything worthwhile in the breakroom because it gets snatched up immediately. What you’re not expecting, though, is to open the door to your office and nearly run into a very surprised looking Chan. 

His eyes go wide and he steps back, hand falling to his side. It seems like he was about to knock on your door. The surprise of not being alone in the office turns into surprise at seeing him outside of your office. There’s a bag in his other hand that looks like some kind of takeout. You pull your headphones off your head and the silence of the office washes over you. That same silence stretches awkwardly between you and your ex. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he starts. 

“It’s fine. I didn’t realize anyone else was still here,” you say. Awkward. It’s so awkward and stilted between the two of you now. 

“Ah, yeah, I still feel like I’m trying to get a handle on some of these cases,” he says. He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. It’s a stark contrast to the confident Chan you know and see around the office. “I saw your light on under your door.”

“I was just catching up on some cases. It’s always something,” you say and he chuckles a little in agreement. 

He holds up the bag of food and you finally realize it’s from a place around the corner that you love. “I figured you probably hadn’t eaten either and there’s nothing good in the break room.” 

“That’s where I was headed.”

“I ordered something for you when I was ordering for myself and I was just gonna drop it off so I didn’t bother you…”

You sigh in resignation and step to the side to make room in the doorway. “Come on in. We can eat together.” 

“Really? I don’t want to…”

“It’s fine,” you say and cut it off before he can make it more awkward. Can’t fully resist making a joke. “I know how much you hate to eat alone, anyway.” 

“Which is very reasonable,” he retorts and you roll your eyes. He sits down at the small table you have and you put your headphones on your desk. Then you settle down at the table with him.

“This place is good.” 

That makes him look up from his task of pulling containers out of his bag. Seems to surprise him a little. “You eat here?” 

“Not all the time. It’s just close so I’ll order it sometimes for lunch or if I’m staying late.”

“Huh. I’ve only had it once so far, but figures it’s a place you like,” he says and chuckles. It puts you a little on edge, though.

“What does that mean?” you ask, more bite than you intend. He looks like a deer in headlights for a minute and you remember being 1Ls together. Fight the urge to apologize. 

“Oh, just, nothing,” he says and quickly regains his composure. “I just meant…never mind.” 

“No, sorry,” you say. Let the tension go from your shoulders. “It’s just that this is…”

“Hard?” 

“And a bit weird, yeah,” 

“We work together now and I get it’s weird. I’m not going to bring personal stuff into work, but I also can’t pretend I didn’t know you better than anyone in the world when it’s after hours like this and we’re the last two here,” he says and you look down into your lap. 

“I didn’t realize everyone else had already left,” you say because it’s easier than what’s on your mind. 

“Seems like we’re the only hard workers,” he jokes and you roll your eyes. At least it feels like you can look up again to take in the food.

“What did you order, anyway?” 

In response, Chan pushes some of the food over to you. Of course, it’s one of your go-to orders on the menu. Something you’re not sure you can admit to the ex sitting across from you. Some things really don’t change. 

“If you don’t want that, I also got…”

“No, it’s…exactly what I usually get.” 

You pull the food towards you, realizing that you are kind of starving now that you’re sitting down to eat something. Once again, Chan seems to follow your lead. Lets you set the pace and tone. The two of you eat for several minutes in silence that doesn’t feel that comfortable. Once upon a time, it would have felt as natural as breathing. Now, for all the ways he’s the same, he’s also a stranger to you. When you meet his eye, you wonder if he’s thinking all the same things as you. Wonder if he’s thinking about your relationship and when it all fell apart. Wonder why he came to this firm when he probably could have gone anywhere. Wonder how you’re going to get through all of this. 

“We can’t keep acting like we don’t know each other,” he says softly. So much for the silence. 

“I’m not acting like I don’t know you, Chan,” you say. Tired. This whole thing takes up entirely too much space in your brain. 

“No?” 

“Of course not. Everyone knows we went to the same school. I’m not pretending we didn’t know each other. I’m just pretending we weren’t…”

“In a relationship?” 

Same old Chan, you think. There’s just something about him that always cuts through everything to the point. Which, of course, makes a good lawyer. But, he also manages it in a way that doesn’t sound arrogant. Makes it sound like he just cares about the answer. 

“I guess, yeah,” you admit. “I don’t really need the partners clued into my personal life like that.” 

“Is that the reason?” 

There’s something unreadable on his face. Something you can’t place no matter how hard you try. Maybe it’s a hardness. A sense of the walls going up. It feels foreign when he still looks so much like the person you loved. 

“I don’t really want people to know that the person who broke my heart now has the office next to me. So, yeah, I’d say it’s the reason,” you say and watch the shock take over his face. Maybe it’s too honest. Maybe you shouldn’t…

“The person who broke your heart?” he asks and it stops your spiral short.

“Yes?” 

“I broke your heart?” 

“That’s what I said.” 

“That’s some bullshit revisionist history you’ve got going on there.” 

That brings you up short as well. Revisionist history? For saying he broke your heart? It occurs to you, then, that you didn’t ever give him the real reason. Surely, though, after all this time he must know. Must have worked it all out. He’s always been one of the smartest people you know. 

“I’m not sure how…” you start.

“You broke my heart. That’s how I remember it. And I’m still here trying to follow your lead and bringing dinner because I know you forget to eat when you get too focused,” he says and your eyes widen. 

“I am sorry that I broke it off so suddenly back then. I guess I just figured after all this time that you’d…”

“Be over it?” 

“Have figured out why I really broke up with you.” 

Now it’s his turn to look a little surprised. You hate it though because it makes him look younger. Reminds you of the person you fell in love with. “You could have talked to me about whatever was going on.” 

“Funny, I could say the same of you.”

“We talked about everything.”

“Yeah, I thought so too,” you say and hate that it still comes out sounding bitter.

“What are you talking about?” 

For his part, he does look confused. Does genuinely seem like he’s not sure what you mean. You’re not sure if that makes it better or worse. Probably worse, you think. Maybe he doesn’t dwell on the relationship the way you do. Or maybe he didn’t know you as well as you thought to be able to work out your thought process. Maybe you just should have had the real fight.

Enough. It’s been long enough. One of you needs to bridge this gap and it’s long past time for a candid conversation. Even if nothing else changes, the two of you need to clear the air. “I thought we talked about everything. I thought things were good.”

“They were,” he insists. “It came totally out of the blue when you…”

“Did you think I would never find out?” you ask suddenly, cutting across him. You look around the office and take in all the signs of your hard work over the past four years. Before he can answer, another thought escapes. “I thought this firm was everything I wanted back then.” 

“I know,” he says softly and you look back at him. 

“How could you do that without talking to me? How could you think I wouldn’t find out?” you ask and see the realization hit him. Watch the moment that his whole body slackens. Watch the way his mouth opens and closes. The way he frowns in thought. The way he leans back in his chair like he’s buying time to figure out what to say. There was a time, years ago, that he would just say something right away. This new, more thoughtful version of him is a sign that you’re both older now. 

“What was I supposed to say? You would have tried to talk me out of doing it,” he says as if that’s a valid reason.

“Of course I would have!” 

“See?” 

“How is that a ‘see’ moment?” 

“Because it was your dream position and you wouldn’t have let me make this decision if you had known.”

You frown. Take a beat to collect your thoughts. If you’re having this conversation, it needs to be right. You need to say the things you should have said back then. It takes you a moment to gather your thoughts, during which Chan is, thankfully, silent. 

“I know I wanted it, but you wanted it too. It shouldn’t have been something you decided without me,” you say and hold up your hand when he opens his mouth. He falls silent again. “It was a conversation. If you still decided to give up the offer, then that would be your decision. I still deserved to know, though. I had other options I was nearly as excited about close by. You didn’t.” 

Chan waits for a moment. Probably to see if you’re done speaking. Or possibly to weigh his next words. “Are you telling me that you would have let me give this firm up if I had told you?”

“I don’t know,” you say with a shrug. It’s honest, at least. “I just know you can’t make decisions like that on your own. We were supposed to be a team. Then to just get blindsided with the information at the end of the year…”

“Yeah, how did you find out?” he asks and you give him a withering stare. He throws up his hands. “Sorry, I’m just curious.” 

“My advisor mentioned it in our meeting and that was another whole level of feeling betrayed because there were all these people who apparently knew. Who thought that I knew.” 

“I am sorry for causing you to feel betrayed,” he says after a moment. 

“It was just…a lot,” you admit. “Like, I felt like you didn’t trust me. Then, I felt like you thought I couldn’t get in here without a leg up from you. And I felt like our relationship wasn’t that important because by giving up this offer, you took one that took you clear across the country.”

“I don’t think there was a right answer to that, honestly,” he says and you raise your eyebrows. “Even if I had talked to you, I’m not sure if there was any right answer. If I took the position and you took one of your backups, I would worry you resented me for getting it over you. If I still ended up turning it down, I’d worry you wouldn’t feel like you could enjoy deserving it. Or we would still break up because of the distance.” 

“I guess that’s a fair point,” you concede. 

“I am sorry,” he reiterates. “I didn’t stop to consider how you would feel if you found out. I just wanted you to have everything you deserved.” 

“I appreciate that,” you start. Take a deep breath because you know you have something to say as well. “I’m sorry, too. I was so hurt that I never stopped to consider that I was also hurting you by not talking to you.” 

“We kind of fucked that one up, huh?” he asks and you chuckle.

“We really did,” you agree. 

“So, friends?” he asks, eyes hopeful. You roll your eyes again, though there’s less irritation behind it now.

“Don’t push it.” 

Things mostly feel easier after clearing the air with Chan. Outwardly, nothing really seems that different apart from the two of you working together more. Then again, most of the firm doesn’t know you’re also exes. Taylor notices the shift in interaction, of course, but doesn’t comment on it beyond giving you a look when she clocks that you’re being nicer. It’ll probably be one of those things that she keeps in her back pocket until the right time. A complete demon and yet you know there’s nobody better out there. 

The following weeks pass in kind of a blur. Work carries on. Cases move forward. It’s actually kind of nice to be on speaking terms with Chan again because he’s an incredible sounding board. One that knows how your brain works. One that can point out the flaws in your thought process without you ever voicing them because he’s seen you work through countless case studies before. And one that’s equally willing to reassure you when you’re already on the right track with handling a case. It’s not that you really question it often. Sometimes, one little detail throws the entire plan off and it can be difficult to tell if that detail actually matters or if it’s just something to downplay. 

That’s when other attorneys on the team start to notice what they assume is a growing friendship with you and Chan. Without knowing the history, it looks like the two of you bond quickly. Sure, most reason it away. Assume that you must have at least hung out sometimes going to the same school. A couple wonder if there’s something else going on. Something Taylor assures you that she shuts down quickly. According to her, it comes from a couple of the other assistants and paralegals that find him attractive. Can’t fault them for something that is obvious and, objectively, true. You still have eyes even if you’re trying to navigate a friendship with your ex in very unusual circumstances. 

The man in question pops his head into your office one Friday afternoon. You’re expecting the usual case question. Although, sometimes he does switch it up and say something just entirely off the board. Every few days he seems to just come up with something ridiculous to ask you to catch you off guard. 

“Are you going to the happy hour after work?” he asks. Apparently, today it isn’t either of the usual suspects. It makes you look up from your computer. “Joshua just asked if I wanted to come and he said you’re usually hit or miss.”

“Of course he did,” you say with a shake of your head. Joshua is the team lead for your group and probably on track to be a partner down the line. Despite that, he’s still incredibly easy to be around. The kind of guy you probably wouldn’t realize is an attorney without knowing. He’s also perpetually trying to get everyone out together to unwind outside of work. Thankfully, he also keeps everything within the team and never repeats it to the partners. Too good for a place like this, you think. “No, I’m not going. Not this time.”

“Oh is it…is it lame?” Chan asks after he steps into your office so he can drop his voice. 

“What?” you ask, surprise evident. “No, not at all. I really like Joshua. He just loves to gossip within the team when I don’t show up for the happy hour.” 

“Ah,” Chan says and smiles. He looks behind him and then drops his voice again. “So, it’s safe to go, then?”

“Oh, definitely,” you say softly in return. “Honestly, you can trust going whenever he invites you because he’s intentional about it.” 

“Good to know,” Chan says and straightens back up. “Why aren’t you going then?”

“Oh, uh,” you say. Hesitate. The actual reason is that you’re going on a date. Is that something you share with your ex, though? Probably, if you’re trying to navigate a friendship. It’s not like he’s waiting for you to give him another chance. You’re coworkers and working back to some kind of friendship. It’s the kind of thing you would share with Joshua if he asks. 

“Sorry, I wasn’t trying to pry.”

You shake it off and put on a smile. “No, it’s fine. I just have a date tonight.”

“Ah,” Chan says and it sounds different from the earlier one. That face that was once an open book is unreadable now. Then, a bright smile. “First date?”

“Uh, no, actually. We’ve been out a few times,” you say and Chan nods along. You’re not sure why you carry on. That’s really all he needs to know. “It’s tough with our schedules, though, you know?”

“Yeah, dating is hard. I haven’t been on a date in ages,” he says and then seems to cringe a little. Maybe a little unsure why he’s sharing that with you of all people. 

“Maybe you’ll meet someone at happy hour,” you say awkwardly. Chan looks at you for a moment to process the last comment and you want to kick yourself.

“You never know,” he says with a falsely bright smile and a shrug. “Maybe I’ll see you at it next time.”

“Yeah, for sure,” you agree. 

Just like that, he’s out of your office and you want to crawl under your desk to die. No such luck when Taylor walks in and shuts the door behind her under the guise of talking through the upcoming schedule. It’s not unusual. In fact, it’s something you do multiple times a week. It’s not her reasoning this time, though. This time, she informs you that she heard the entire conversation with Chan (because she was intentionally eavesdropping outside the door). Naturally, she shares her thoughts after hearing you call her a demon for the hundredth time. 

Then, because the universe is fair, Joshua pops his head into your office just after Taylor leaves to mention happy hour. It’s a small comfort that he doesn’t know you have a date because it means that Chan isn’t talking about it. But, you have to share the date news with Joshua as well and deal with all his teasing over it. At least it’s good natured. Joshua seems to accept this excuse for not going without missing a beat. Even wishes you luck and commiserates that dating sucks. It really reinforces why you think he’s such a good guy. 

After that interruption, the rest of the day thankfully passes without any other awkward moments. It feels like a small victory that you wrap up your day without falling through a hole in your office waiting to swallow you (and any ensuing embarrassment). Briefly, you consider popping your head into Chan’s office as you’re locking up your own. Can see his door is still open, meaning he probably hasn’t left for the happy hour yet. But, Joshua comes around the corner with his signature smile and you settle for calling out a generic wish for a good weekend. Once he gets a little closer, you jokingly tell him to behave himself at happy hour and not to get the team too drunk. Because things aren’t entirely fair, Chan appears in his doorway during this and gives you another smile. You tell them to have fun again and make as quick a departure as possible without it being more awkward. 

Once you leave the office, you know you cannot focus on anything going on there. Cannot consider the happy hour or who’s going to be there. It’s hard enough to date as it is and the last thing you need is to let yourself get distracted from a genuinely good person. Parker’s a nurse in pediatrics and he actually cares about kids. Doesn’t get hung up the way some doctors seem to with some kind of God complex. All he wants is to help kids feel healthy and safe. And more than that, he actually cares about people. Wants everyone to have the same access to basic human rights like food, housing, education, safe conditions, opportunities, etc etc etc. He listens when you speak and actively seeks out your opinion. If this is how he approaches you after only a handful of dates, you wonder what he’ll be like down the line? 

Even though Parker’s schedule can be crazy, it feels like he’s intentional when he sees you. Keeps his phone tucked away and gives you his full focus. Only a true work emergency could interrupt your time, something he stresses as a non-negotiable for him. How can you know if it’s something serious if you don’t give it a chance? Each new date shows that he does actually listen and tries to put a little of each of you into the plans. And you love his philosophy of not going out to dinner on the first date because it can force awkward conversations or even worse silences. By the time the second date comes around and he takes you to dinner, it does feel so much easier. Parker seems like he checks off all the boxes on the list you insist doesn’t actually exist. 

There’s only one problem. Well, can you call it a problem if you’re not sure what the problem actually is? 

Parker is perfect both on paper and seemingly in person. A great match for you. Someone who respects you and everything that you want. Someone who makes you laugh and is considerate and kind and smart and insanely attractive. Yet, despite all the reasons you know that he’s perfect, you still feel like something is missing. There’s something that’s just…not there. He’s not the guy you settle for. Nobody who dates him could ever consider it settling. 

So why does that feel like what you’re doing?

By the time you end up back at work on Monday, you’ve mostly put any weirdness from the end of the previous week behind you. It’s amazing what a good therapy session (read: brunch with your closest friends) on a Sunday can do. You’re just feeling a little off having your ex working on the other side of your office wall. It’s to be expected, really. Everything is going to be fine. Your relationship with Parker will keep growing. Seeing Chan will get easier. You repeat it to yourself all the way to work and believe it by the time you get there. You walk into your office and offer smiles on your way. 

This is going to be a good week. 

Or, is it? You consider a lot of things for the upcoming week. Your team lead coming into your office in the first hour of new week doesn’t make the list. Yet, there he is. Looking as put together as always. Eyes alight with some kind of concealed mischief. The kind he only lets those he actually trusts see. That sight actually makes you relax back into your chair. Which is likely the opposite of a normal reaction. But you know it means that he’s here to gossip. Probably, at least. Definitely not to talk about work. 

“You missed a fun happy hour,” he says and you nearly snort. Of course. 

When it’s early in the day (and on a Monday, no less), it’s safe enough to chat. People are so worried about getting the week started that they don’t bother with other people’s conversations. Well, people other than Taylor. But, you trust her and so Joshua does, too.

“You say that every time,” you point out. Because he does.

“This was different.”

He says that every time, too. You don’t need to point it out. Instead, you just play along. It feels like the least you can do for a lead you actually like. “Okay, I’ll bite. Why was it different?”

“Chan, obviously. I cannot believe I haven’t invited him out yet! Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks. Gives you a look of mock betrayal and you actually let out a small snort while trying to cover your laugh. 

“Tell you what, exactly?”

“That he’s a magnet for attention. He’s so attractive that they just couldn’t stay away.”

It makes your heart constrict for a moment to hear that. You don’t give yourself time to think about why. Not in front of Joshua. You like him a lot, but you’re not ready to talk about that. And he will definitely notice something is up. So you do the only thing that you can think of to disarm him. 

“Joshua,” you say, fixing him with a look, “you are an incredibly attractive guy that people can’t stay away from.”

It works. At least enough to cover you for a moment. For all his confidence, he does get shy when you give him compliments. Maybe because he knows you don’t give them out as easily. Or because he knows that you mean it. You’re not prepared for the pout that follows, though you should be.

“Not attractive enough for you to come to happy hour more often, apparently,” he says and you actually roll your eyes. 

“I was on a date,” you remind him and he puts a hand to his heart.

“And not with me. You wound me.”

“This is harassment. I’m going to call HR.”

“And say what? Marjorie loves me.” 

He’s got you there. She does love him. Everyone loves him, honestly. It’s kind of hard not to with that easy air about him. It’s more impressive knowing how cutthroat he can be on a case. 

“You know, Joshua, it kind of sounds like you were just looking for a wingman,” you say and he shrugs, that sparkle back in his eyes.

“Maybe I was,” he admits and leans in. “I don’t think we paid for any drinks after the first one.” 

“Do you mean to tell me that you let those poor women buy you drinks?” you ask incredulously.

“Why not?” 

“Joshua, I know what you make!” 

“Now what kind of a feminist would I be if I told those women how to spend their money?” 

“Unbelievable,” you say through a laugh. He laughs along with you before settling down.

“I did actually try to cover it, but they insisted,” he says and you smile along. You know, even without him telling you. That’s just the kind of person he is. 

“Maybe I will have to come to the next one. See you in your element,” you say, though the idea fills you with mixed emotions. 

“It was nice to get to know Chan, though,” he says after a moment. “I was a little surprised that he didn’t strike up a conversation with anyone. But, I guess we were doing a lot of talking.” 

“It’s good for you to get to know a new member of the team,” you say noncommittally. 

Joshua looks around and you know that look well. It worries you for a moment. When he determines the coast is, evidently, clear, he leans in and drops his voice. “He actually told me he had a serious girlfriend from law school that took him a long time to get over. That they broke up just before graduating. It seems like he regrets whatever happened. Did you know her?” 

At least it’s easy to mask your reaction here because he gives you the perfect out. “Joshua, you are so nosey.” 

It doesn’t determine in the slightest. He’s unabashed. “Come on, do you? You were in the same class. You must know who he meant.”

“Sure, I know who he meant,” you say with as much neutrality as you can manage. “The school wasn’t that big. But, I’m not telling you. That’s his business. And it’s been 4 years since we graduated. I’m sure it was just the alcohol talking.” 

“I don’t know,” Joshua says, more contemplative for a moment. “It seemed like he’d been thinking about her recently.”

You only hum in response and make a show of looking back at your computer when the ding from Teams lets you know that you have a new message. You roll your eyes. “I swear to god.”

“That looks promising,” he says with an amused chuckle before rising to his feet. He turns back to you at the door. “Were you friends?” 

“Hm?” you ask, tearing your eyes away from the screen to look back up at him.

“You and Chan. I know you were in the same graduating class, but were you friends?” 

The answer comes quicker than you expect. And comes out sounding neutral, to your surprise. “I’m not sure if friends is quite the right word.”

It’s not a lie. Not exactly. You and Chan were a lot of things to each other, friends certainly being one such thing. But, to say that you were only friends doesn’t feel honest, either. 

“Ah, well, glad you seem to be working together now. Don’t forget, we’re doing a team lunch tomorrow so make sure you have your order in before you leave tonight.”

“Got it,” you say and he waves before heading back to his own office. 

Another two weeks pass at work. Things don’t feel quite the same as they did with Chan after having that dinner and talking. You’re still getting along well, for the most part. It’s just that he keeps it more professional. Doesn’t act like he knows your mind quite as well. Instead, he gets closer to other members of the team again. It shouldn’t irritate you and yet…

When Joshua tells you that he’s going to kidnap you so you don’t miss the next happy hour, you just agree without issue. 

Which is how you end up sitting at a hightop in the bar area with Joshua, watching how some of the other team members interact. It’s actually kind of nice, being out like this. Something you don’t want to admit to Joshua, though he can likely see it on your face. You follow his gaze and see Chan standing at the bar getting another round of drinks with a gorgeous woman trying to get his attention. Try not to let it twist your stomach. Of course, you know that he dates. He should date. But, it’s very different to see someone actively hitting on him.

“See what I mean?” Joshua asks, unnecessarily calling your attention to Chan. 

“He’s charismatic,” you say, voice surprisingly even.

“I need him as a wingman.”

“You know what probably isn’t helping you?”

Joshua turns back to you and raises an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

“Sitting here with me. People might get the wrong idea,” you say and smile as he barks out a laugh. 

“We both know you’re way out of my league,” he says and you laugh harder. “What? You are?”

“Oh, please,” you say between laughs. “How many times have we gone through this?” 

“One more doesn’t hurt,” he says, that demonic twinkle in his eyes. 

“You wear me out,” you say.

“I could if you’d let me.” 

“Stop!” 

“I know, I know,” he says, throwing up his hands. “I know the rule.”

“Oh, yes, that’s the only reason,” you retort sarcastically, but you’re smiling. 

Nobody else can get away with saying shit like that to you. At least, nobody else that you work with. Joshua gets special privileges, though. Which, unfortunately, he knows all too well. It’s mostly because you know he doesn’t mean it, not really. Maybe, on some level, you would both consider it in another life. Not this one. The two of you work so well as friends and there just isn’t anything more there. No spark. No interest. An appreciation that you’re both attractive. Because, yes, you have eyes and he’s definitely gorgeous. That’s where it ends. 

Chan approaches the table, balancing drinks carefully in his hands, and sets them down before either of you notice. When you do, you give him a smile. 

“What did I just walk into?” he asks cautiously. Joshua turns to him with that winning smile. 

“Oh, just me teasing her,” he says. “I saw you over there getting hit on and had to point out that this one here is way out of my league.”

Your cheeks flush a little. It’s not that you don’t want Chan to realize the way you and Joshua tease each other. It’s just that, well, you don’t want your ex seeing you interact like that with someone else you both work with. It’s awkward. Chan, for his part, seems to feel more awkward about the first comment. Interesting.

“Ah, she wasn’t…” he starts and Joshua cuts him off.

“Man, I saw her. She would have left with you right then and there,” Joshua says. 

Awkward. It’s so awkward. Chan slides back into his seat with the two of you and shrugs. 

“I’m not interested,” Chan says. 

“I know last time you said…” Joshua starts.

“Well, what about you?” Chan cuts across.

“I was just saying that!” you agree. “He’s never going to get any numbers if he’s just sitting here with me.” 

“That’s why I said she was out of my league,” Joshua shares with Chan. 

“She’s right, though,” Chan says with a shrug. 

“Eh, I don’t really come out looking to get numbers, anyway,” he says and you laugh at the surprise on Chan’s face.

“What do you come out for, then?” 

You and Joshua share a look before you both start laughing. You’re the first to regain your composure. “The chaos.” 

“Nice,” Chan says with a snort.

“Consider yourself lucky. He doesn’t let everyone in so quickly,” you tease.

“No, that’s true,” Joshua agrees easily and then his eyes catch on something. “Oh, hang on. I’ll be right back!”

And then he’s gone. Just like that. Just like so many other times. It feels a little awkward, even with the help of some liquid courage. You’re not really used to being around Chan yet. Not sure if you ever will be. 

“Is he always like that with you?” Chan asks after a moment when it becomes clear that Joshua isn’t going to rush back.

“Like what?” 

“I don’t know. Saying things like you’re out of his league.” 

You laugh and then realize Chan is at least partly serious. It makes you pull up a little short. “Yeah, pretty much. He doesn’t mean anything by it, so it doesn’t really bother me.”

“Are you sure he doesn’t mean anything by it?”

You fix your ex with an unimpressed stare that makes him throw up his hands in defense. “Yeah, Chan, I’m sure he doesn’t. We’re just friends, as much as  you can be working together like this.”

“That makes sense,” Chan says and takes a sip of his drink. “He does seem like the kind of person that you’d be friends with.”

From anyone else, that might sound a little passive aggressive. Or like it means something else. You know what he means, though. Joshua is exactly your kind of friend. Serious when he needs to be, chaotic all other times. It just flows easily. Never feels like work. And somehow, Chan making that observation, makes things feel a little less awkward. At least for the time being. 

The night descends further into chaos, in a way that it doesn’t usually when you go out for happy hour. Maybe that’s because happy hour turns into apps. Which turns into more drinks. Which turns into more apps. It even includes a change of scenery from one place to the next when you realize that you all might need to put a little more food into your stomachs. By then, only Joshua, Chan, and you are left. Which actually feels kind of nice. Somehow having Joshua has an unknowing third wheel makes any remaining awkwardness with Chan melt away. Of course, it could also be the alcohol and the light atmosphere. 

Eventually, you do all realize that you need to head home and start the process of paying your bills. When you and Chan both go to pull out your phones to order Ubers, Joshua gives you a quizzical look. One you’re not sure you like. Thankfully, he clarifies immediately.

“Why wouldn’t you both just share one?” he asks and your eyes go cartoon character levels of wide. 

“Uh,” Chan says and gives you a look.

“You live in the same building,” Joshua carries on and that only confuses you more.

“No we don’t,” you contradict like it’s the silliest thing in the world.

“Yes, you do,” he insists. “Chan told me where he lived last week when we went to happy hour. Skyline Grove?”

“Oh,” you both say at the same time like it’s brand new information.

“I haven’t run into you around,” you say and Chan shrugs. “Weird.”

“It’s a nice building,” Chan says.

“And massive. I should’ve mentioned it, but I figured you’d realize,” he says. “Anyway. Why waste money when you’re going to the same place?”

It’s such a simple suggestion and yet it sends your stomach lurching all the same. The two of you look at each other for a moment, but this is a crossroads. It doesn’t make any sense at all to say no. You and Chan are going to the same place. Of course, you could lie and say you’re actually going somewhere else. Except happy hour went way longer than expected and it’s clear you don’t have other plans. You’re just…not really sure you wanna be alone in a car with Chan when you’re a little buzzed.

“This one’s on me, then?” Chan asks, giving you a surprisingly nonchalant look. 

“What a gentleman,” Joshua says and claps Chan on the shoulder. He pulls out his own phone. “That’s usually my title.”

“Because you gave it to yourself,”  you mutter, putting your phone away.

“I heard that.”

“I meant you to.”

Thankfully, the Ubers come quickly. Chan opens the door and lets you slide in before him. Something that Joshua doesn’t seem to notice since he’s getting into his own car. You settle into one side of the car and try not to look over to the side next to you. Don’t realize that Chan is having just as much of an internal struggle as you are. 

“I didn’t realize we lived in the same building,” he says after the silence starts to feel too heavy.

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s one of the nicest places in the area,” you say.

“And there was one of those corner units available. The views are so nice,” he says and you laugh.

“Up on the 18th floor?” you ask and watch the way his brows furrow. 

“Yeah…”

“They offered it to me when the last tenant decided not to renew because I’d mentioned wanting to possibly move to a higher floor. But, I’m all settled now,” you say. Then, like you can’t help yourself, you tell him where you live. “I’m in that same unit but on the 10th floor.” 

“Well, we always did have similar taste in apartments,” he says with an ironic laugh. 

“Guess so,” you say. 

“Thanks,” he says suddenly and you turn to look at him. His face is mostly in shadow with it being so dark outside, but your brain fills in the blanks without even realizing it. 

“For what?”

“Not making it weird to just share a car.”

“Oh, well, we’re going to the same place.” 

“Does he know?” 

“Who?” 

Chan sighs and fully turns his head towards you. You can read the look in his eyes even in the low light. Or maybe it’s just another thing you remember. “Joshua. Does he know about…”

“No,” you say immediately. “No, Chan, nobody at the office does. Well, apart from my assistant, but she guessed. Joshua isn’t so cruel that he would do that if he knew.”

“Yeah, sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“No, I know you didn’t…”

It’s awkward again. Thankfully, you’re nearly at the apartment building now. It’s also nice that the Uber driver doesn’t comment on the situation. He’s probably seen worse in the city on a Friday night, though. Once he pulls over in front of the building, Chan opens the door and slides out. Holds it open for you to do the same so that you don’t have to get out on the side with traffic.

You’re not really sure what to do now. So, you step forward to scan into the building and hold the door for Chan behind you. The two of you make your way to the elevators in silence. It’s a little surprising to find the lobby so quiet on a Friday night. But, people are probably either waiting until it’s a little later to go out or already wherever they plan to be. It’s that weird in between time. That means that it’s just the two of you in the elevator. Chan presses your floor and then his own. When the door opens, you turn to him and try to find the words. He only smiles.

“See you at work on Monday,” he says and you only nod before heading out. Don’t look back to see the way he watches your back down the hallway. 

The whole night just feels a little surreal from the safety of your apartment. You toe off your shoes and set your things down on the table by the door. Only grab your phone and head into the kitchen. Even though you know you should just grab a glass of water, you also pour a small glass of wine. A lot of your buzz has worn off and all you can think about is the car ride. Or the way that Chan looked all night. Or the way that women just seemed to flock to him. Not that the last bit should matter when you’re seeing someone. 

Parker. You need to think about Parker. Maybe even check to see if you have any messages from him. Not that you owe him a play-by-play of your whereabouts. It’s one of the things you like about him. That and the freedom that he agrees to so easily. You both have the same philosophy when it comes to dating in your late 20s. Don’t put pressure or labels on something when you’re only a few dates in. But, also don’t leave things lingering without an actual conversation. You know you’re probably getting close to that point of needing to talk. Which is fine, he’s great.

So, why is your brain still wandering back to the way Chan looked at the bar? The way his shirt looked a little tight in places or the way his pants fit. He’s always had a good fashion sense, but…

No. You cannot do this to yourself or you’ll drive yourself crazy. This is a door that needs to stay firmly shut. You’re considering if you should pour yourself a bigger glass of wine when there’s a knock at the door. It at least serves to pull you out of whatever dangerous path your brain wants to go down.

You get up, set the wine glass down on the table, and walk slowly to the door. Forget to check who it is through the peephole before just opening the door. A mistake, obviously, because there he is. The man you can’t seem to get off your mind. The one you know you can’t revisit the past with. He’s wearing a t-shirt and sweat pants. Like he couldn’t wait to change after getting home.

“Sorry, I just…” he starts and the rational part of your brain shuts down completely.

No thoughts, just desires, as you reach forward and grab him by the shirt. Pull him over the threshold and against your body. Surprise flashes over his face for the briefest moment before he collects you against his chest and kisses you. Hard. Desperate. Like you can’t remember him ever kissing you before. You nip at his lower lip and he responds by squeezing your ass. Distantly, you register that your door is still open. It seems Chan also realizes it because he crowds further into your space and uses his foot to close the door behind him. Doesn’t break the kiss, though. 

It isn’t even really clear which one of the two of you is in control. That, at least, feels normal. Familiar. Even though everything else feels new. He spins the two of you around and backs you up into the door. Claims your mouth as his own over and over. Each kiss more demanding than the last. You slide your hands up under the hem of his shirt and run your hands up his back. Appreciate the way he shivers under your touch. It’s so easy to fall back into this pattern. To remember all the things that drive him crazy. 

Seems like it’s just as easy for him to remember. He uses one hand to anchor your hip against the door behind you while he pulls away from your lips. Trails his mouth along your jaw. Tilts your head back with his free hand to give himself better access to your neck. Presses further into you so that he can reach just the right spots there. The ones that make you moan just from the contact. You seek purchase the only place you can: on his body. Digging the tips of your finger into where you hold onto him. 

“Chan,” you whine out when he moves down to your collarbone and moves your shirt out of the way.

“Mmmm?” he hums into your skin without stopping. 

“This is a terrible idea,” you mumble. Gasp as he reaches for the hem of your shirt.

“Probably,” he agrees, still keeping his lips against your skin. He pulls back to look at you for a moment, pupils dark with desire. His hands are on the hem of your shirt and the question is plain as day in his eyes. “Do you want to stop?”

He’s not asking if you want him to stop. He’s just asking if you want to stop. Because he knows that this is as much on you as on him. Maybe more. You shake your head and move your hands over your head.

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes,” you say softly.

Then, he’s pulling your shirt over your head and unfastening your bra. Casts both to the side without a care. And you know that you should move somewhere else, but you’re not sure you can. Not when Chan dips his head to leave sloppy kisses across your collarbones. Not when he kisses down the valley between your boobs. Not when he swirls his tongue around your nipple. Your entire brain goes a little fuzzy. Some things never change. Chan still seems just as obsessed with your chest now as when you dated in law school. And you’re happy to let him give you all of his attention. He can be so singularly focused. In times like this, you certainly don’t mind. 

It gets to be too much. You need something more. Makes you pull him back and appreciate the confusion on his face for approximately 2 seconds before you pull his shirt over his head. Not everything about him looks exactly the same. He’s always been someone who took pride in staying in shape. This new, more mature Chan is something different. When he tries to step back and pick up where he left off, you hold him at arm’s length with a hand gently splayed over his chest. Want to just drink him in.

“You can look at me later. I want you now,” he says, voice low and full of desire. 

“Should we go further into my apartment, or…?” you start to ask and he shakes his head before you even finish.

“Later,” he says and reaches for your pants. Unbuttons them while he kisses you again. Slower this time. More deliberate. He’s kissing you with purpose. He pulls your pants and panties down in one motion and you step out. Pull his mouth back to yours so that you don’t have to think. 

He pulls back again and you pout at him. Doesn’t he know that you don’t want all this in between time? You give him a look that he doesn’t immediately answer, prompting you to ask. “What?”

“Turn around,” he says. 

It’s a familiar dynamic between the two of you. A constant push and pull about who gets to be in control. You would give in and then he would and it went on. This feels like falling back into that old pattern. Yet, you agree without questioning it. Just turn around against your front fucking door, like some desperate, horny college student. Feel him slot his body against your back. Feel that he’s hardening. Definitely not hard yet, but you can feel the way he pokes into your ass. Chan brushes your hair over one shoulder and kisses behind your ear. Works down to your pulse point and sucks your skin between his teeth. Thankfully, you don’t have to tell him to be careful. He just is. 

And then you see what he’s doing. Get how desperate he is for you. He pushes your legs apart as he continues kissing down your neck. Presses his fingers into your mouth and you suck on them without thinking. Swirl your tongue around his fingers and earn a satisfied hum in response. It vibrates against your skin. Chan winds his hand down your body and between your legs. Presses his spit slick fingers into your entrance. 

“Chan, fuck,” you hiss when he presses his first finger in. 

“So wet for me, sweetheart,” he whispers into your skin. “Did you miss my fingers?” 

“Mmmm, I…” you start, only to moan when he starts pumping into you. Hooks his fingers just the way he remembers you liking it.

“Did you miss this?” he asks, free hand roaming up your body to take one of your boobs into his hand again. Squeezes it a little roughly as he keeps pumping his finger into you.

“You’re a shit,” you manage to hiss out through a moan.

“I’m not sure I heard you,” he says and presses a second finger into you. Alternates between scissoring his fingers inside you and picking up the pace. 

“Fuck,” you moan out. He jerks his hips into your ass and you feel that he’s getting harder. You’re not the only one losing yourself here. “God your fingers!”

“That’s what I thought,” he whispers, right into your ear. Moving his lips from your neck just for a moment. You miss the feel of his lips on your skin. 

“Oh my god,” you whine and then he does the worst thing imaginable. He pulls his fingers out. You whip your head around to look at him over the shoulder. “What the fuck?”

“Easy, sweetheart, turn around again for me,” he says. Soft and sweet. Totally at odds with the fire burning in his eyes.

You comply even though you don’t want to. You were so close to coming all over his fingers and you don’t want to lose that. The disappointment is short-lived. He drops to his knees in front of you. Right in your hallway. With your back pressing into your front door. He hooks one of your legs over his shoulder and looks up at you. Presses his tongue flat against your core and you might actually cum just from that. Nobody should be allowed to look that good. That sinful. It’s too much. And that’s before he actually licks into your cunt for the first time.

It’s enough to have you throw your head back against your door. Not too hard, though. Chan doesn’t waste his time. Doesn’t tease you anymore. Just focuses on fucking his tongue into your waiting pussy like he’s been waiting for this chance for years. Uses a finger to tease your clit and hums appreciatively in response to each moan. There’s so little for you to anchor yourself to in this position. Not that you really care. It’s impossible to stay standing, but it would be unimaginably worse to have him stop. Not right now. Not when you’re this close. When Chan brings a finger back up, you’re gone. 

“Chan, fuck, no, I’m gonna - fuck!” you shout out as you feel that coil about to snap. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. If anything, he picks up the pace. Does everything that he can to push you over the edge. It doesn’t take long before you’re coming all over his face. He laps it all up. Doesn’t waste any of it. Just works you through your high and pushes you just past. 

He’s not completely demonic, though. He does pull back. Gently helps you get your leg off his shoulder and back on the floor. Slowly picks himself up to slot against your body again. Grabs at your hips possessively to pull you into him. Kisses you fiercely and you taste yourself on his tongue. It’s not nearly enough. Not by a long shot. You pull back without creating any space.

“Come on,” you say, finally pushing him a little away from you so that you can step away from the door, “let’s go take this to the bed.” 

And it’s easy to fall back into these patterns, too. Easy to grab his hand and pull him into your apartment. Easy to push him back onto your bed after stripping off his remaining clothes. Easy to wrap your fingers around his cock and look at him just the way he likes. Easy to remember just how much he loves your mouth wrapped around him. Easy to bring him just to the edge before pulling off. Easy to see the desire mixed with adoration when you climb on top of him to ride him. Hard and fast. Too needy for anything else. 

It’s just so easy to carry on until the early hours of the morning, until you’re both spent, in the dark of your apartment. 

Things always feel a little different in the light of day. After a late night, a much later one than anticipated, it’s well into the morning before you wake up. You’re kind of groggy and your body is sore. Tentatively, you start to stretch, only to realize there’s an arm around your stomach. It’s then that you register the feel of a body behind you. Of course Chan is still there. And of course you remember everything from the night before. There’s just a part of you that figured he might have left before you woke up. The steady sounds of his breathing bathe over you. It’s such a familiar sound and it almost feels comforting, just for a moment. At least, until you really stop to think about what all of this might mean. 

Gently, you pick up his hand and slide out of your bed. Somehow manage to not wake Chan up. Tiptoe over to the door and slide out of the bedroom. You take a moment to lean back against your closed bedroom door to collect your thoughts. It’s fine. This is all fine. You can definitely figure it all out. Not if you keep standing against the door, though. So, you quietly head into the kitchen. Put on a pot of coffee and retrieve your phone from the living room. 

You’re in the midst of scrolling, totally lost in your world, when arms wind around your middle. It startles you for a second before you remind yourself it’s just Chan. He presses a kiss to the side of your face when you turn it slightly. Still makes you feel a little tense. Something he doesn’t seem to pick up on given that he doesn’t move his arms.

“Morning,” he says, voice still thick with sleep. 

“Morning,” you repeat. He kisses you again and then untangles himself from you so that he can step around you. 

“So, should we dive right in, or…?” he asks.

“At least let me have some coffee first,” you say, only a little exasperation. 

“Ah, right. I forgot,” he says and then drops his voice with a smirk. “Doesn’t seem like I forgot much else.”

“I will throw you out,” you threaten. 

Chan throws up his hands in surrender, but the look on his face tells you that he’s not sorry. Not really, at least. A moment later, the coffee maker beeps. You reach for a couple of mugs and Chan goes into your refrigerator to get milk and creamer. You pour two mugs and he finishes them off, exactly the way each of you likes. Without another word, you both head into the living room and sit down on the couch. He lets you take a couple of sips before broaching the conversation again.

“So, now that we have coffee,” he starts and you sigh.

“I guess I can’t avoid it,” you agree.

“Avoid it?” he asks, brow furrowing. “Do you regret it?”

“Oh, no, Chan,” you say softly and reach out to him. “No, of course I don’t. It’s just…”

“Just?”

“Complicated.” 

“It doesn’t have to be,” Chan offers and you search his face. For a moment, he’s just the boy you fell in love with in law school. Open and honest and impossibly easy to read. That makes it a little more frightening, though. 

“I think the hardest part for me is that you believe that,” you say carefully. Watch the way his face morphs before returning to something more neutral. 

“I mean, why wouldn’t I believe it?” he asks. 

You’re not even sure how to answer that. There’s so many reasons. You’re exes. You work together. For the most part, nobody you work with knows Chan is your ex. There are still a lot of unresolved feelings, clearly. You’re technically seeing someone, though not exclusively. It is the easiest direction to go in, though.

“I’m still seeing someone,” you point out and his face falls a little.

“Oh, I just kind of thought…”

“I mean don’t get me wrong. It’s casual. We’re not, like, committed. But, still…”

“Well, if it’s not even serious, then I don’t really see the issue.”

“There are a lot of issues, Chan. We’re just…us. I’m only just getting to know you again.”

“I guess I just kinda figured…” he starts and frowns. 

“Figured what?” 

“I figured that…I don’t know. I figured when you pulled me in and kissed me last night it might mean that you want the same thing as I do,” he says. Your eyes go a little wide at the admission.

“And what is it that you want?” you ask. Chan gives you a look that you’re not quite used to anymore. One that says you’re a step or two behind and he’s just waiting for you to catch up. 

“You,” he says simply and then sighs. Runs a hand through his hair. “It’s always been you. It’s always going to be you. It hasn’t worked with anyone else in the last four years because I just can’t get over you. And then this…”

“Chan…”

He shakes his head and stands up. A little sad. Maybe a little defeated. A little resigned. “I’ve said what I need to say. I know you well enough to know that we’re not in the same place. So, I don’t know. I guess figure out where you are and let me know.”

“Chan, please, just give me…” you start and he shakes his head. 

“I’m not an idiot. I know we’ve got a lot of things to talk about if we’re going to try again. But, I can’t sit here and act like I don’t love you or last night didn’t mean something different to me. I can’t,” he says, voice wavering ever so slightly. 

“Last night meant something to me, too, I’m just…”

“I get it. I’ll see you at work on Monday,” he says and heads off towards your front door without another word. All you can manage to do is sit in the awkward silence that settles around you in his absence. Well, fuck.

You have a lot of things to think about. What to do about Chan. What to do about Parker. That should probably be the first thing that you address, honestly. It’s not serious, but you also don’t want to waste his time. If you can fall back into bed with your ex so easily, then you probably don’t see forever with him. Something you probably already knew, on some level. 

It’s all too much and so you do the only thing that any reasonable person can: call your best friend to go out to brunch. At least he can give you so much needed perspective. And from someone whose love life is significantly less messy than yours. 

After lunch, and at least partially hearing out your bestie’s advice, you do go ahead and break things off with Parker. Your friend suggests it because, according to him, at least, you’re not over Chan. You decide to go ahead and do it because it seems clear that you and Parker are on different pages. Like the truly great guy that he is, he just accepts it. Appreciates you letting him know and not continuing on if you don’t feel like you’re on the same page. Honestly, he’s the perfect guy for someone, but definitely not for you. All you feel after the conversation is relief. You don’t feel any clearer about Chan, though. Which you point out to your friend, who only seems to think it’s you avoiding it. Whatever. 

Your biggest issue is that you’re not sure if Chan is serious. Not sure if you can let your walls down to let him in again. It just all seems kind of sudden to you. After near radio silence for four years, he’s not only back in your life, but at your firm as well. He’s quietly slipping into areas where it’s a little hard to ignore him. Your friend points out that leaving a good job to come to the exact firm you work at doesn’t exactly seem sudden. It doesn’t seem like this is just all on some whim. It also doesn’t seem like it’s driven by you having another relationship, especially given how casual it was. And, sure, it’s scary to take a leap like this. Even scarier when it’s someone you used to know so intimately. Doesn’t that make it kind of worth it, too? 

What you don’t admit to your friend, though he can obviously tell, is that you’re scared. Chan is that one person. The one always somewhere in the back of your mind, even when you don’t realize it. Possibly even your one that got away, if you could stop being too stubborn to admit it. In those quiet moments, you also kind of thought of him as your right person at the wrong time. Which is exactly the type of person you should give a second chance to. Things are different now. You’re both older. More established in your careers. Maybe even both able to admit making mistakes. 

It’s scary. Giving Chan a chance means risking breaking your heart all over again. And how do you go about picking up the pieces this time?

“Did you and Chan get home okay?” Joshua asks, plopping into his chosen chair across from you in your office on Monday morning. Your brain short circuits for a minute trying to catch up. Does he know what happened? Could he? Thankfully, he mistakes your confusion for being too deep in case prep. “Did you already put the happy hour behind you? I can’t believe you didn’t know you lived in the same building.” 

“Oh, yeah,” you say and give a light laugh. Turn back to your computer. “Yeah, it’s crazy. We got home fine, though.” 

“Where is he this morning?” he asks and you give him a look.

“How should I know?”

Joshua gives you a kind of knowing look that you definitely do not like. It looks like he’s up to something and you’re not sure you want to know what it is. “You live in the same building. I just figured you’d start carpooling now.” 

You roll your eyes, hoping that’s all he’s going for. “You’re annoying.”

“I just like it when my team all gets along.”

“We’re not going to get along if you don’t leave me the fuck alone.” 

“Is that any time to talk to your boss?”

“You’re not really my boss.” 

“This is a hostile work environment,” he says and stands up, pretending to be serious. He almost pulls it off too.

“This is my office,” you point out. 

“Fine, I’ll go bother someone else,” he says and walks towards the door.

“You could also work on your cases,” you call after him. 

You know that he’s only like this because it’s a quiet day in the office. The partners are all out, either on vacation or at offsite meetings. It’s that time of year when people try to get little breaks in before things pick up again. It’s also one of your favorite times of year because it’s quieter. Maybe Chan is doing the same thing. Against your better judgment, you click over to the shared calendar and see the first half of his day is blocked off. It makes you panic until you notice that it’s an existing meeting. Something on the schedule from before he even started at the firm. 

Then, Joshua sends a text to the team’s group chat (the one without the partners), saying that he hopes Chan feels better soon. It’s clear from the message that they talked privately and that Chan is going to be working from home the rest of the day. Something that Joshua suggests since it is quiet in the office. And, really, there isn’t much that you can’t do at home unless you have in-person client meetings or have to go to court. Everyone sends their well wishes and you include your own so that nothing looks suspicious. Your mind wanders, though. Is he really not feeling well? Or is it because of you? It seems kind of conceited to think that you could have that level of impact on him. Still, you worry. Realize that you care more than you thought.

By the time you leave the office, surprisingly on time, you know what you want to do. At least in part. You swing by a pho place that you love and pick up a couple of bowls to go along with some appetizers. All the things that you remember Chan liking from when you were in school. By the time you make it to his door, you’re questioning if this is really a good idea. Maybe he really doesn’t feel well. Maybe he doesn’t want to see you. Or maybe he’s not even home. Before you can send yourself down another mental spiral, you knock on his door. Almost hope that he’s not home. 

Then he opens the door and your heart stutters a little. 

He’s not this adorably confused look on his face when he sees you. A mix of disbelief and something else. He’s got his glasses on and his hair is a little messy. Like maybe he might’ve been laying in bed. It should not be doing something to you the way that it is. For all you know, he might really be sick and you’re making it weird. His eyes travel down to the bag in your hand. Finally, he clears his throat.

“What are you doing here?” 

You hold up the bag like some kind of peace offering. “I brought pho. Thought you might need something to eat if you’re sick.”

He snorts lightly. Rolls his eyes, yet there isn’t much heat behind it. “I’m not sick. I just didn’t want to come in and see you yet.”

“Oh.”

“Come on in,” he says after a moment. Another sigh. Like he can’t really believe what he’s saying. You have the good sense to look a little sheepish as you slip in behind him. Set the food down for a moment to toe off your shoes and then follow him into the kitchen.

The two of you are quiet as you move around each other to get the food ready. Though he doesn’t say anything about you staying to eat with him, he pulls out utensils and gets you something to drink from the fridge. Warms up your bowl first before doing the same to his own. Helps you set his little table so that the two of you can sit down to eat. Can’t totally help the appreciative look on his face when he opens his bowl and the smell hits him. 

“I’m sorry, Chan,” you say when the silence starts to feel like too much.

“That could be about a lot of things,” he says, eyes meeting you hesitantly. 

“That’s fair,” you concede. Set down your spoon and give him your full attention. “I’m sorry for Saturday morning. I could have handled that so much differently.” 

“I could’ve handled it a lot better, too,” he says after a beat. “Or, you know, not thrown it all on you that way.”

“Did you mean it?” you ask, pushing around the remaining contents of your meal to avoid looking up at him. He pauses long enough that you look up. And it’s just…Chan. Soft smile that makes you want to smile back. Gentle eyes. Open face. The person you remember loving more than anything in the world. 

“That it’s always going to be you?” he asks and you nod. “Yes, I did.” 

“I’m not sure what to do with that,” you admit. 

“Why don’t you just start with how it made you feel?” 

“Scared?” you venture and sigh. “Nervous. A little tense. Excited. Homesick.”

That makes him laugh. “Homesick?”

You chew on your bottom lip for a moment. “You always felt like home. And then you said that and it was just…I don’t know. I missed the feeling of you being my home.” 

“I’ve missed it too. Every day for the last four years.”

“Chan,” you say and laugh affectionately. “I know you have not been just pining after me for years.”

“And if I have?” 

“That might be scarier.”

“Why?” 

It takes you a minute to formulate your reasoning. “What if it doesn’t work? What if we’re just risking ending up in the same place again? What if I can’t live up to the version in your head? And now we work together…”

There it is again. Chan. Your Chan. The way he looks at you makes you think you could fly if you tried. “What if it does work? Are you really going to tell me you’re too scared to take the chance and get everything we’ve ever wanted? Where’s the girl I fell in love with in law school? She wasn’t afraid of anything.”

“Of course I was,” you disagree, smiling so fondly. 

“It’s okay. I’ll hold your hand if you get scared this time,” he says. Confident. Sure. ready to take the leap yet again. 

And it’s not the same. Not really. You’ve both had four years to think about everything that happened then and everything that might happen now. To figure out what you want and what you don’t. To figure out how to have the hardest conversations. To take risks because you’re not students anymore. To take a second chance. How often in life do people really get those? Do you really want to turn it down because you’re scared? Do you really want to wonder?

“I just…” you start and he shakes his head. Rises out of his seat and holds his hand out to you. 

“Let’s just try something. Without the happy hour or anything else,” he says and you give him a look. But, you want to trust him too. You nod.

Chan closes the remaining space between you. Runs a finger along your forehead to brush a hair off your face. Meets your eyes and there’s this look of intense vulnerability there. Like he means that he can be brave enough for both of you. At least for now. And then he pulls you into him and kisses you. Sweet. Soft. Searching. The kind of kiss that two friends might share if they’re trying to see if there are deeper feelings there. Or maybe it’s the kind of kiss that tests where each of you is now. 

Whatever the case, you feel it. Almost instantly. You wind your arms around his neck and pull yourself tighter against him. Deepen the kiss and take the lead. Let your tongue tangle with his. Grasp at him to erase any space. He hums into your mouth as he holds you close. You break the kiss long enough to guide the two of you back to his couch. Urge him to sit down and immediately straddle his lap. Chan looks a little smug as you settle and he grabs your hips. A little like he’s getting exactly what he wants. You might be too, though. You lean in to kiss him again and he meets you hungrily. Not just letting you set the pace, but actively chasing it with you. Chan’s hands grip your hips tightly as you roll against him. Feel the way he groans at the friction. 

Honestly, you kind of want to fuck him right here on the couch and don’t even know if you can wait. Would too, if not for the doorbell suddenly ringing through the apartment. You give him a look and find he’s just as confused as you are. Clearly not expecting anyone. 

“Will you…” he starts as you shift to get off him.

“Are you expecting anyone?” you ask and he shakes his head. 

“Just give me a minute. I’m going to go into the bathroom,” he says. 

It’s your turn to nod. You try and smooth down your clothes. Take a couple breaths. As soon as you see him get to the bathroom, you move towards his front door. Mentally prepare to make some excuse to whoever it is. Nothing prepares you for the person on the other side.

“Oh, hi.” 

Your brain immediately short circuits because what the actual fuck is Joshua doing on the other side of the door looking at you like that. Suddenly, you’re wishing that you had checked your appearance in a mirror before answering. 

“Joshua.”

“I was coming by to see Chan,” he says and looks at the door. “I’m pretty sure this is his apartment and not yours.”

“No, yeah, it is. I just stopped by to bring him some food since he was sick,” you say and Joshua looks entirely unconvinced.

“Right,” he says, drawing out the word. 

“He’s just in the bathroom if you want…”

“I was just bringing by some case files that weren’t scanned yet in case he wanted to work from home again tomorrow,” Joshua says and holds out the folders.

“Did you want to come in?” 

“No, why don’t you just give them to him?” Joshua asks. That smug smile makes you want to burrow into the floor and die. 

“Look, Joshua,” you start and take a deep breath. “It’s just…well, I said some things after happy hour that I shouldn’t have and I just wanted…”

Joshua holds up a hand. “You don’t owe me an explanation for why you’re here. There’s no rule against hanging out.”

“Right, but…”

“You might owe me an explanation for why you didn’t tell me that you were, you know…”

“Coming over?”

The look he gives you says that he knows a lot more than you realize. Thankfully, a moment later he puts you out of your misery. “That you were the ex he couldn’t get over.”

Your jaw drops open. You’re usually so much better at maintaining composure. Then again, that’s not really true when you’re close to someone, is it?

“I don’t…” 

He waves you off. “There’s been a million signs for someone that knows you as well as I do. Be careful and for once in your life, don’t worry about the damn rules.”

“Thanks, Joshua,” you say earnestly. He gives you his real smile. That one that’s soft and kind and reserved for people he also cares about.

“Work from home tomorrow. I’ll see you Wednesday,” he says and turns to leave before you can respond. After a moment, you walk back in to find Chan peeking out from the bathroom.

“Who was it?” he asks and steps towards you.

“Well, I guess that cat’s out of the bag,” you say with an uneasy chuckle.

“What do you…?” 

You hold up the files that Joshua brought by. “That was Joshua dropping these off in case you wanted to work from home again tomorrow.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you…upset that he knows?” 

You study Chan’s face for a moment. Realize that he is just letting you set the expectations. Set the tone and the speed and everything else. “No.” 

“So?” 

“If you can forgive me for not responding in the best way the other morning, then I guess we try again?” 

The smile that breaks across his face nearly takes your breath away. So soft. Genuine. Full of affection. Like he’s in his first year of law school again. All bright eyed and full of optimism. A second later, he closes the space between you and pulls you into his body. Peppers kisses all over your face, making you laugh in a way you haven’t in years. 

“Wait,” he says, pulling back. You frown at him. “You did break it off with that guy, right?”

Of all the things to ask right then, you cannot believe this is what he asks. It pulls another genuine laugh out of you. Makes you swat at his arm. “Yes, you idiot.”

“When?”

“What?”

“When did you do it?” 

For some reason, the question makes you hesitate. Do you admit how deep in this you already are? “Saturday.”

That pulls him up short. “Then why…?”

“I was scared, Chan. And I didn’t want to break off whatever it was with him just because of you. If I’m being honest, it’s been a while coming,” you say and sheepishly look away. Take a breath and meet his eyes again. Time to be brave. “I knew it was wrong after that date I went on. The one that I missed happy hour for?”

“So I wasn’t crazy,” he says triumphantly. 

“I mean, you are, but not for that reason,” you say and earn your own swat. “I don’t know, I was just on the date and something wasn’t clicking. It wasn’t…”

“Wasn’t so perfect?” Chan asks, a little smug.

“No, he really is perfect. On paper, at least. But, he’s not you. And you’re all my heart seems to want now that you’re back in my life,” you admit. Brave. Keep being brave.

“You could have had me way earlier,” he says. The barest pout makes an appearance. 

You shake your head. “I’m not sure it would’ve worked then. I needed to grow. To realize what I wanted and what I didn’t. I think we both needed it.”

“Maybe,” he concedes and then looks over at you again. “Can I go back to kissing you?”

“Oh my god,” you exclaim. It’s so like him to break up a heavier moment with something light. Still, you do want to kiss him. 

It’s nothing like a few nights prior. No frenzy, no desperation. The kiss starts straight off being deep and intense. The kind of kiss that makes you wonder why you ever bothered dating anyone else in the world. The kind that claims you, body and soul. The kind that seals promises into your lips. The kind where you could agree to absolutely anything and know it still would be okay. 

Maybe it had to fall apart before so that it could work now. Maybe it’s not so scary to try and figure it all out.

taglist (join here): @tinyelfperson @yummyuma @miriamxsworld @hongrizon @gyuminusone @aaniag @straykidswhoo789 @kimseokgen @beomesbabe @metaphorandmoonlight @vanishingboots @harry-the-pottypus @nuttywastelandmentality @writingbarnes @gyuhao365 @jjin-kun @divinityyyy @dibidibidismynameisleeknow @tinkerbell460 @aidanjoon @kaepjjangiya @lostmembrane @thestraybunny @noona-neomu-yeppeo @alicia12345 @too-tired-or-two-tired @livelaughloveseventeen @sourkimchi @haolistic  @asnaxu @justanarchiveforfics @Sejeonggggg @coupsv @riddlerloveb0t @things-for-brie @klecksstorys @veronrica123 @Madebybec

[starlightkyeom]

as wild and untamable as the sea | l.c

pairing: greek god!chan x reincarnated sea nymph!f!reader genre: angst, romance, smut | reincarnation, fantasy, greek gods!au rating: explicit, minors DNI word count: ~15.8k warnings: mentions of past unhealthy relationships, (possibly inaccurate) greek mythology, lots of POV switches (but i don't think it's confusing) mentions of eating, explicit smut, multiple sex positions, unprotected sex (just don't), slight edging, overstimulation, fingering, oral sex (f. receiving), chan is strong and very in control, i think that's all but let me know if it's not

summary: Chan remembers everything. Every little thing that's happened to him since his days as one of the twelve Olympians. Poseidon to be exact. Even though he tries not to think about it now that he's living in modern times running a sad little aquarium, some memories are more vivid than others. Then, you stumble into his life and he can't explain the draw. You can't seem to figure out how this man is keeping an aquarium like this running when it seems like it's not that busy. Something about him really seems to put you off, despite the fact that he seems drawn to you. None of it makes any sense...until it does.

a/n: this is for the 13 Gods of Olympus collab that @beomcoups & @wooahaeproductions have been tirelessly working on. thank you so much for hosting this! i know this isn't the end for this couple, but i really needed to get this out into the world. if you want to know what happens next with them, let me know.

a/n 2: this is semi-unedited and i'm just throwing it out into the world but i'll come back. if you see anything glaring, no you didn't!

tag list: @illiadiaz, @syluslittlecrows, @yini-yang, @fancypeacepersona, @bitchlessdino, @newjihoonie, @tinyelfperson, @dokyeomkyeom, @miriamxsworld, @hongrizon, @klecksstorys, @gyuminusone, @aaniag, @straykidswhoo789, @kimseokgen, @beomesbabe, @haolistic, @vanishingboots, @harry-the-pottypus, @pyeonghongrie, @nuttywastelandmentality, @writingbarnes, @gyuhao365, @divinityyy, @dibidibidismynameisleeknow, @tusswrites, @cookiearmy

Another day, another dollar. 

Wasn’t that what the humans said about another day spent working at some mindless job? Despite all the years he’s spent blending into their world, Chan still doesn’t really understand the humans. Doesn’t really understand why they put up with so many things they seemingly hate. Doesn’t really understand why they waste their short lives on something that makes them miserable. But, in fairness to the humans, Chan has also never had to worry about the trivial things that come along with working like money, possessions, or a home. When you’re one of the original gods of Olympus and life is seemingly infinite, money isn’t really an issue. 

That’s who Chan was in another lifetime: Poseidon. The God of the Sea, among other things. At least, until Olympus fell. A painful thought that he usually tries to push from his mind.

In the early days after Olympus fell, Chan still went through life acknowledging who he was. He leveraged his powers for favors or for payment. He used his control of the water and everything in it to get him what he needed. But, the years went by and the Olympians became the stuff of myth. Of stories. The kind of characters that you read about in books. Only the most eccentric members of society continue to worship the Olympians as if they’re real. Which they are, Chan reminds himself. Or, they were. As the faith faded, so did the Olympians’ belief in restoring themselves to full power. One by one, they gave up the task of finding a way back until it was only Chan and Zeus left. Two of the brightest minds of Olympus. Even they had to admit their own defeat. 

Which leads to the present day. Chan has taken on a new persona, for the…well, he’s lost track of what number this one is. He’s just thankful for his ability to shapeshift into someone new whenever he needs to. Takes a new name every time, too. At first, he tried to keep in touch with his siblings and the other Olympians. That, too, fades over time. It’s been at least a century since he’s spoken to any of them. Though, occasionally, he’ll catch wind of something through the chattering of local sea creatures. Something that says at least some of them are still out there.

Chan sighs. There’s really no reason for him to be wandering down memory lane in this way. He thinks, not for the first time, that maybe he needs to pick a different cover job. One that will keep his mind a little more occupied. The reality is, though, he’s tried nearly everything he could think of over the centuries. Changing professions is a frequent occurrence when he doesn’t want to let his body show too many signs of age. Not that he minds, it’s just that people start to ask too many questions about how he’s handling things someone “his age” shouldn’t be able to handle. In the end, working with sea life has always been the best. And this set up, where he’s running a smaller aquarium off of some long forgotten boardwalk in an area that doesn’t get much traffic, is also great. It isn’t even that Chan doesn’t like being around people. He finds humans entertaining in most senses. It’s just that nothing in this life is permanent for him. He’s not going to fall in love and grow old with someone. Best to just keep things at arm’s length. 

Most days are more or less the same and Chan works the majority of them. On the rare days off, he’s not far away since his little house is within walking distance of both the aquarium, the boardwalk it’s on, and the water. He trusts the limited staff that he has because he pays them well. Better than any other similar business, but he values loyalty. And they don’t seem to question how he’s able to make things work. That is largely due to the anonymous donors that make monthly contributions to the aquarium. Really, it’s just Chan funneling money that he’s earned over his many years on Earth so that he can keep a business afloat. Nobody seems to have anything to say. Beyond the staff not asking questions, they are all very good at their jobs. It makes life easier for Chan that way because he doesn’t have to micromanage them. Everyone knows what they’re supposed to do and will only ask questions if they hit an actual block. No, the aquarium runs very smoothly. It just doesn’t get a lot of business.

Since every day kind of blends together, Chan almost never realizes as days or weeks or even months pass by. He’s in a sort of autopilot where he also knows what he has to do and just does it without question. It’s just rinse and repeat day in and day out. 

Until it’s not. Until the first day that he notices you in his small, out of the way little aquarium. Until the day that everything starts to change.

You’re not really sure what pulls you in for the first time. You’ve probably passed this sad little aquarium dozens of times without giving it a second thought. Then, one day, you decide that you might as well go in. The cost of admission is incredibly reasonable, but you think that’s probably why you haven’t gone sooner. It might seem counterintuitive. You just wonder how well the animals can be taken care of with such a low cost of admission.  You’re not sure if you can handle seeing animals mistreated. Still, there’s no going back now. Even with the outside seemingly a little poorly cared for, you still find your feet pulling you forward. 

You’ve never been more wrong about anything in your life. 

The dingy outside gives way to a vibrant inside that’s teeming with love and light. The art on the walls is carefully curated to match the different areas of the aquarium. There are workers with genuine smiles going about their days. Even the animals seem to be happy. It’s also deceptively large on the inside. It makes you wonder why it looks so run down from the outside. Surely, someone that cares this much about the animals could care a little more for the outside as well. Maybe that’s the point. Why waste money on an outside nobody really cares about when it can go to the best care possible?

Almost immediately, you feel a sense of peace wash over you. Just this morning, you were ready to explode from all the stress in your life. Now, stress feels like the furthest thing from your mind. In fact, you can’t even remember what you were stressed about. Strange. This is the first time you remember a single place erasing any sort of worry. Just as you’re about to consider that the place holds some kind of magic, you realize that not everyone seems to be as at ease. A mother scolds her child and an elderly couple bicker. It breaks a little bit of the illusion, though you still feel calm. 

Subconsciously, your feet carry you to the area with the sea otters. They have always been some of your favorites, even if they’re not the typical sea resident that people think about. As you watch on, two chase each other around the enclosure. They seem like they must be young with the way they can’t seem to stop playing. It’s incredibly endearing to watch. Another, slightly larger, otter emerges from around a bend and the original two quickly dip under the water to shoot off. It almost seems like a mother scolding her children, but maybe you’re creating too many stories within your own mind. Your imagination, especially around sea life, can be a bit active.

A few minutes later, a worker comes out and starts feeding all the otters. They’re quick to come and get the food, showing just how many there are. You weren’t expecting to see such a large population in this off-the-beaten-path aquarium. The man feeding them looks young, but that’s true of nearly everyone that you’ve seen here. They all look young and entirely too pretty. This man is no different. He’s sporting a very blond, shaggy semi-mullet that doesn’t look like it could possibly be his natural hair color. Yet, it looks remarkably believable on him. When you frown at the amount of food he’s giving to the otters, he walks over to the side of the enclosure and leans on the railing close to you. He tosses a bucket of crab legs out into the water and the otters go crazy for that. It seems an odd choice for animals living in captivity, but what do you know? 

“Did you know,” the man begins, “that sea otters eat 25% of their weight in food every day?” 

Well. That certainly explains it. “I didn’t.” 

“I like to give them the crab legs too because it’s a fun little activity for them,” he carries on with a smile. “It’s also something they’d eat in the wild.” 

“That seems…expensive,” you say carefully. 

The man only smiles bigger. “Oh it is! But our boss has really great donors for the aquarium and we can afford to feed them well.” 

“Well, then the otters are definitely lucky,” you note and turn back to the otters.

“We all are. Chan takes care of us just as well as all the animals that live here,” he says. 

“Chan?” you ask. 

“Oh, our boss,” the man carries on happily. “I’m Soonyoung, by the way.” 

You take his extended hand and give your own name in response. Soonyoung happily carries on with telling you all about the otters they have, including the name of each one. Then he offers to take you on a tour of the aquarium because of your interest. It’s too nice of an offer to turn down. It also further proves that you should not judge a book by its cover. Every inch of the aquarium is so masterfully cared for and every living being seems happy. That is, if a fish can also seem happy. The tanks aren’t overcrowded or dirty. And, you can’t explain it, but you can just tell they’re happy. Each person that they encounter seems to genuinely love their job. You’re not even sure why you’re paying such close attention. Or why you care so much. 

Truthfully, there’s always been something of a call to the ocean. A peace that comes over you when you’re near the water. It was enough to get you to move cities, figuring that would satisfy that need. The pull only got stronger. Plenty of people feel at peace surrounded by water, you reason, and don’t think further on it. You don’t consider that worrying about the conditions in an aquarium may not be normal. Don’t consider that most people don’t start getting moody when they’ve been separated from the ocean too long. Don’t consider that it really is only the ocean. Although sometimes a freshwater lake, when it’s big enough with plenty of fish in it, will fill up your cup, it never lasts as long. It also never works to alleviate your mood when you do something as simple as going into the pool. 

The trip around the aquarium with Soonyoung seems like exactly what you need. Until suddenly, it doesn’t. As he’s taking you through an exhibit area, a young man appears from behind a closed door marked as Staff Only. He’s got a dress shirt on with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His short dark hair highlights striking features. And, you think, he would be beautiful if it weren’t for the frown on his face. He looks entirely too serious for someone so young. He’s also much more dressed up than anyone else at the aquarium.

“Oh, there he is!” Soonyoung exclaims, causing the man to turn towards the two of you. His face softens a bit at seeing Soonyoung before studying you somewhat quizzically. 

“Soon,” he says with the air of someone exasperated at Soonyoung’s antics. 

“This is Chan, our boss,” Soonyoung carries on and your eyebrows fly into your hairline as he introduces you to his boss. 

Truthfully, Chan looks younger than Soonyoung in some ways. But, there’s a wisdom in his face that your new friend lacks. Like he’s lived a hundred lifetimes already. It catches you off guard. But, Chan extends his hand to shake yours and that’s when you feel it. A sudden surge of annoyance that lasts only as long as your hands are connected. If he feels anything, he doesn’t show it. His smile is friendly and it only confuses you further. 

A moment later, Chan excuses himself from the pair of you and Soonyoung leads you away to continue the tour. You can’t really shake the odd feeling you got from the handshake, though. When Soonyoung concludes his tour, you ask about opportunities to volunteer. There’s something about this place that feels like home and you’re not really sure what it is. Soonyoung’s face brightens. 

“Chan doesn’t believe in volunteers. Even if you only come in once a month, he pays you for your time and obviously waives the entrance fee so you can come visit even when you’re not working,” he says with a bright smile.

“Oh, I don’t need a job…” you start before he waves you off. 

“Leave me your contact information and I’ll pass it on. He coordinates everything himself and he can go over it all with you. I’m sure he’d be happy to have another animal lover around here,” Soonyoung says with a smile that you can’t ignore. You just met this man, why are you already incapable of saying no to him? 

“Do you have some paper?” you ask.

Chan spends the rest of the day thinking about you after a simple handshake. Then, when Soonyoung tells him that you’re interested in helping out, his pulse races in a way that’s entirely foreign to him. He can’t remember the last time a human turned his world upside down with something so seemingly trivial. In fact, he was so focused on keeping his face neutral, he didn’t notice the look on your face in response to him. He’s too concerned with seeing you again to consider anything else. Too consumed by the need to unravel whatever mystery there is to you that he can’t seem to place. Honestly, Chan can’t remember the last time he felt anything even approaching this. Nothing makes him really feel in this way. Not anymore, at least. He finds himself counting down until your first shift.

Until it actually gets here, that is. 

You report to Chan’s office, just as he asks. He holds his breath as you cast your eyes around his office area. Wonders what you’re thinking when your gaze lingers on certain things within the office. For a second, Chan considers whether it seems human enough. It’s been nearly a year since anyone new joined the staff and he wonders if he’s gotten sloppy. Nothing in your face seems to give any sort of feeling away. It surprises Chan a bit that he can’t seem to read anything about you. When your eyes rest on him, he sees a flicker of something he can’t place. Something that looks an awful lot like annoyance. 

He confirms it when his hand accidentally grazes yours to hand over your new ID. It says volunteer since you insist on only being there when you have the time, but it’s a full ID anyway. That’s just how Chan does things. When his hand meets yours briefly, he gets the sharpest flash of irritation he’s ever felt. It’s confusing because it is definitely not his own emotion that he’s feeling. And that’s not something that Chan can remember happening before either. Not like this at least. 

Chan has powers, he knows that. He can, sometimes, tune into the emotions of others. It’s easiest when he’s trying to tune into a sea animal or someone at home in water. Back before Olympus fell, he was able to tune into the emotions or even the minds of all the creatures in the sea, like the sirens, sea nymphs, merpeople, and everything else you could imagine. Even then, he usually has to actively try to tap into those emotions. It’s not something that just…happens. Not when all he’s done is let his hand graze someone else’s. Not when he’s not actively trying to feel something. It shouldn’t be something that happens with a mere human, either. 

You, for your part, don’t seem to realize there’s anything out of the ordinary. Your face looks the same. The same annoyance that you’re trying your hardest to mask under a poor attempt at indifference. Trying to shake it off, Chan calls for Soonyoung to come into the office. But, that doesn’t make it any better. It’s worse, really, because your face immediately changes into one of genuine happiness. Soonyoung seems just as happy to see you and happy at the prospect of showing you around. To be fair, Soonyoung always seems happy when there’s someone new around for him to chat with. Still, your face lighting up for him frustrates Chan in a way he can’t explain. 

Your first few times volunteering at the aquarium go really smoothly. Well, once you’re handed off to Soonyoung, it’s smooth. There’s just something about your new boss that you can’t really put your finger on. Seeing him causes annoyance to flare within you. It’s something deep that you can’t really explain and can’t recall feeling before. There’s no reason for you to dislike this man. He’s really just a man, which shouldn’t be enough on its own. Whenever he’s around, he’s perfectly friendly. It’s obvious that he cares deeply for every living thing within the aquarium. This is something he’s incredibly passionate about, which should endear him to you. Yet, it doesn’t. You can’t recall ever disliking a fellow animal lover until now. 

Thankfully, you don’t really have to deal with Chan very often. Soonyoung handles your training when you’re working, but everyone that works there seems kind. And everyone seems young. The place is full of bright-eyed 20-somethings who all genuinely seem to want to be there. It contributes to that little nagging feeling in that back of your mind that something is just…off. Not with anyone that works there apart from Chan, though.

Soonyoung seems delighted to see how quickly the otters warm up to you. Apparently, they can be a bit picky with new people. But, the first time you meet them, they all flock to you instead of their normal handler. Anyone else might be frustrated. Instead, he only thinks it’s cute that they seem to love you. Tells you that he thinks he means you're a good person. Apparently, he often judges people based on how the animals react. You both have that in common. It only seems to reinforce the point when this happens with each new enclosure you go to. None of the animals seem to treat you like a stranger. It’s more like they’re greeting an old friend. You can’t really explain that you feel the same way. Your brain periodically supplies a story for some of your new animal friends, too. It’s not the first time it’s happened and you figure it only makes sense in this setting. Your imagination is active and you love the sea creatures.

Each new visit to the aquarium seems somehow better than the last. Well, in most ways. You often feel Chan’s gaze on you before you even look over at him to check. And each time he is actually looking at you. There’s something that just sets your nerves on edge about it. Even the animals around you seem to react to the sudden surge of anger that courses through you. It’s a strong physical reaction without any clear reason that you can figure out. Yet, it’s the way you feel every time you sense his attention on you.

“You good?” Soonyoung asks, eyes cast down at your hands balled into fists. 

“Yeah, sorry,” you apologize, turning back to him. “What were you saying?” 

“What’s going on with you and Chan?” he asks skeptically. 

“Between Chan and me?” you ask with clear surprise.

“Yeah,” he says. “He spends half the time you’re here watching you and…” 

“He does, doesn’t he?” you ask, a little too loud. “What’s up with that?” 

“What’s up with your hatred for him?” he asks instead.

“I don’t know, I just get a bad feeling,” you say after a moment. “Do you like him?” 

“Do I like the boss that overpays me to hang out with animals all day?” he asks with a laugh. Then, he looks at your face and carries on. “Oh, you’re serious. Yeah, I love Chan. None of us really know him that well because he keeps his distance from the staff outside of work, mostly. But, he’s the best boss I can imagine having. I don’t ever get bad vibes off him.” 

“Huh,” is all you say before turning back to whatever Soonyoung is teaching you.

Your eyes catch on the mysterious aquarium owner once again and that anger flares. But, you realize that it’s something more complicated than anger. It’s far too complex an emotion to put a name too and definitely too complex for someone you barely know. 

It’s just odd you think, not for the first time, that someone seemingly so young is running an aquarium that doesn’t seem to be that busy. How is he affording to take care of the animals and pay his staff so well? How is someone that seems so unlikeable able to convince so many donors to give money when it could be better spent elsewhere?

The nagging voice in the back of your mind reminds you that you seem to be the only person that doesn’t love Chan. Everyone on the staff seems to love him. The few donors his staff have met also seem to only have good things to say. You have to consider the possibility that your feelings about him could be personal or that you’re seeing something that doesn’t impact anyone else. It’s still weird, though. Nothing about this business model should work. Is that a reason to hate someone you don’t actually know? You’re not sure.

Chan speaks with a dolphin that he’s grown to trust. No, not Chan. Poseidon. He’s Poseidon again, in all his glory. And he’s asking the dolphin to find someone for him. He’s explaining where she might be and what to say to her when the dolphin finds her. Stressing how important it is that the dolphin is the one to find her because they’re not the only ones looking. There are others looking as well and Poseidon doesn’t want them to find her. It would be bad, he knows, if anyone but himself or someone working on his behalf were to discover the truth. He’s protecting her as much as he’s protecting himself. At least, that’s what his brain insists. Whether it’s true or not, well…

The scene blurs and shifts. Poseidon is once again by the sea and this time speaking to a giant squid instead of the dolphin. The squid tells him that the woman has been found. That the dolphin succeeded and is currently speaking to her. That brings Poseidon a small sense of relief. Surely, when she understands the situation, she’ll be not only willing to come home but happy to do so. Nothing can keep them separated any longer. They are truly meant to be. 

Again, the scene blurs and shifts. This time, Poseidon sits on his throne, trident in hand, while one of his brother’s messengers kneels before him. When she rises, she delivers the message that Zeus has requested for Poseidon and his bride-to-be to join himself and Hera for an upcoming event. That’s not good, Poseidon thinks, not good at all. Surely his brother isn’t fully aware of the situation and yet he sends his messengers with invitations like this. Just as Poseidon prepares himself to make an excuse, the door to the room opens. Usually, he doesn’t allow interruptions, as his guards well know. But, the sight of his love walking through with her head held high keeps him from scolding the guards. He cannot believe that she’s back and walking in as if nothing happened. As if it hasn’t been weeks since they last saw each other. He got word she was coming back, but had not dared to hope for this.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt, my love, but I heard your brother had sent an invitation,” she begins. The messenger won’t notice the hesitation or the emotions that pour off of her because she doesn’t have that gift. Poseidon feels it, though. It doesn’t put him at ease

“It’s fine. You are always welcome to hear anything shared here with me,” he says quickly. 

She turns to the messenger with her signature soft smile. “I would still apologize for interrupting your message. However, I heard that you were here with an invitation. I fear that my darling may have declined as I was recently suffering an illness.” 

“Yes, that is what I was about to do,” Poseidon agrees.

“There is no need for that as I have told you that I am feeling much better now,” she says with a brief, but calculated, smile at Poseidon. She returns to the messenger. “Please inform Zeus that we would be delighted to join him.” 

“I am thankful to hear you’re feeling better and to…see you with my own eyes,” the messenger says slightly suspiciously. 

“I am also thankful that I will get to see Hera. After all, we have so much to discuss with the upcoming wedding,” his bride-to-be says. 

With pleasant goodbyes, the messenger takes her leave and Poseidon excuses the guards remaining in the chamber. He indicates that his bride should follow him to a much smaller room off to the side so that they can speak. After all, there is so much to discuss after her running away and only to finally return. Yes, she had indicated to the messenger that she intended to go through with the wedding, but Poseidon needs answers. He needs to know why she left and to impress upon her that she could not do something like that again. 

Chan wakes up in the early hours of the morning in a cold sweat from the most vivid dream he’s had in centuries. The fact that a dream lingers at all is strange on its own. He doesn’t dream. Not anymore, at least. When he does, the subject is usually something inane and the remnants of it are gone by the time he’s fully awake. This dream is both vivid and lingering, seared into the back of his eyelids like it may never leave him. Perhaps it is because it’s not just a dream.

There’s a lot to Chan’s past that he wants to forget and for good reason. When he was one of the gods of Olympus, he made a lot of decisions that he wouldn’t make now. Or, he likes to think he wouldn’t make the same decisions now. It’s hard to remember the feeling of the weight of the world so many years later. But, he knows he did a lot of things in the interest of finding the greater good. Something that ruined some of his closest relationships and clearly still haunts him today. 

Which leads him to this dream. A dream of Amphitrite. The legends about the gods of Olympus over the years have gotten a lot of information both right and wrong. Unfortunately, the legend of Poseidon and Amphitrite seems mostly right, at least to Chan. She was the one true love of his life. The only being in the entire universe that he actually wanted to spend an eternity with. And he had not treated her the way he should have. Hadn’t appreciated her and respected her autonomy the way he should have. That’s something he thinks about now, as he continues to mature and evolve to understand all the mistakes he made once upon a time. He knows that the way he tried to hold onto her was wrong and that he worried entirely too much about what the other Olympians would think if he lost her. 

There’s also a part of him that lingers on the way she looked in the dream. He remembers that conversation because it actually happened. But, he’s not sure if he’s actually remembering the way she looked or the way he felt a tightness to his chest. That could just as easily be him looking back on the interaction through a different lens. There are so many things he wishes he could go back and change with her. So many things he wishes he could say. Mostly, even though he loved her more than he even loved himself, he wishes he could go back and give her the chance to walk away. To leave him without any sort of reprisal from the other Olympians. 

After all these years, he regrets how their relationship went. It wasn’t love when someone didn’t have options. He knows that he can’t change the past. He knows that he can’t even ask for forgiveness. It’s part of why he keeps himself from getting too close to anyone now, he thinks. As a sort of penance for forcing the only one he ever loved into a marriage that he can’t say that she wanted. Of course, she told him when she came back it was because she wanted to. Insisted that she was just nervous to be thrust into such a spotlight by his side. Says that she was worried because he had other relationships with other people and she saw how it affected other Olympians, like Hera with Zeus. That wasn’t who she ever wanted to turn into. Chan took her at what she said. It was only after he lost her that he realized it may not have been the truth. Their love may not have been the great story that he created in his head. 

He knows that he won’t be able to fall back to sleep, so he resigns himself to starting his day. After he gets ready, he sits down with a cup of coffee and his schedule for the aquarium. Today is the once per month visit from the local marine veterinarians. Although miraculously, it seems the animals never need much care, the vets still come in every month. They collect samples and run their tests to ensure that everything is going well as a general health study. They have staff that come over more frequently for some of the animals that need more consistent care. It’s also an excellent place to study since Chan allows them such complete access. 

That monthly visit isn’t what really catches his eye. Your name is on the schedule and Soonyoung has you listed as the person who will be working with the vets to make sure they have the help they need. It’s standard, really, and Chan knows Soonyoung will be around as well. That man can never ignore a chance to chat with anyone that comes through regularly. Chan also knows that Soonyoung trusts you. There’s just something about your name that sends his stomach lurching without an explanation. Sure, you haven’t exactly been the warmest in the interactions with Chan, but you’re good at the jobs assigned. It’s like there’s something just on the edge of his consciousness about you. Something just out of reach. A connection that he should be able to make and can’t. At least, not yet. 

Even though he’s going to be very early, he sets off for the aquarium and tries to shake the feeling that there’s something about you he should see. He’s never been very good when he can’t solve a problem. You may present his most complex puzzle yet. 

It’s one of the best days since you first started volunteering at the aquarium. Somehow this is the first time you’ve gotten to see the vets there for a full day and it even makes you extend your own shift. Well, it’s partially influenced by Soonyoung’s offer to buy dinner if you’re still there when he gets finished. Mostly, though, you’re just fascinated watching the vets do their work. It’s interesting to see how willing the animals are to be still for tests and how it seems like they know what to expect. You know that animals are smart and they can learn. There’s something a little different about this, though. Not only do they seem to actually see the veterinarians, but they also actively wait their turns to be seen. 

At the end of the day, you’re a little tired and feeling very accomplished at the same time. Maybe all of Soonyoung’s energy is actually infectious because you find that you’re ready to go get dinner with your friend after work. His presence is somehow calming to you even in all of the chaos. Once you make sure everything is done, you change into the spare clothes you have with you. The last thing you want is to smell like fish and whatever else got on you over the course of the day. Then, you go to find your friend. 

“Hey, are you ready for dinner?” you ask without realizing that he’s standing with Chan.

“You guys have plans?” Chan asks with curiosity, looking from you back to Soonyoung.

Soonyoung looks incredibly apologetic. “I’m so sorry, but I completely forgot that it’s roomies night in and I can’t skip it because I missed the last one.” 

“Oh, that’s fine,” you say quickly and wave it off. 

“You should come! We always have a bunch of appetizers and stuff. I can’t remember what movie it is tonight, but it’ll be fun!” he says, as enthusiastic as ever. “I know I offered to buy dinner tonight…” 

“I appreciate it, Soonie, but I think I’m just going to get dinner and go home,” you say. “I’m going to hold you to your dinner offer, though.” 

“I was actually just about to go get something to eat myself,” Chan interrupts and you narrow your eyes. “I would be happy to get dinner for you as well as a thanks for everything you’ve been doing here.” 

“I don’t want to make…” you start, only to have Soonyoung cut across you.

“That’s so nice of you, Chan,” he says and turns to you. “You should go! He’s got the best taste in restaurants. I still think about the last time he took all the staff out.” 

“It’s really fine, I can just get something on my way home,” you say. 

“I insist,” Chan says with something unreadable on his face. “Please. Let me say thank you for jumping in so completely.” 

“Yeah, what reason could you have to say no?” Soonyoung asks with a smirk. That’s the other thing about your new friend. He can be such a shithead when he wants to be. Of course he’s using this to needle you about your dislike of the boss. It comes up at least once every time you’re at the aquarium (and plenty of times when you’re texting outside of work).

You sigh, knowing that there’s no easy way to get out of this. “Okay, let me just get my things and I’ll meet you at the entrance.” 

The walk from the aquarium to Chan’s favorite restaurant is outwardly quiet. It’s not entirely uncomfortable to walk in silence with you. Or, it wouldn’t be if your emotions weren’t screaming into the silence. The general annoyance that seems to be present any time Chan is in the same space as  you comes through loudest. There’s more now that it’s just the two of you outside of work now, too. He feels a kind of anger and distrust coming off of you along with confusion about why you feel any of these emotions. It takes time to separate that as your own confusion because Chan’s also confused. The two of you barely interact at work and yet your distaste for him rolls off of you in violent waves, like an angry ocean. It’s the only time he’s felt something like this from someone at work. Everyone else seems to like him at the very least. Something about you is very different. 

Thankfully, it’s harder for Chan to sense you once you get into the restaurant. It’s a little busier since it’s a weekend, but you still get seated right away. If you’re impressed with how Chan greets the staff like old friends, you don’t show it. Just sit down in the chair and accept the menu with a smile before disappearing behind it. Suddenly, this doesn’t really seem like the best idea. What does it matter if you don’t like him? 

“You don’t like me,” Chan announces a second later. He never has been able to let a mystery go unsolved. He’s also always prided himself on being able to work out a puzzle. He tries not to ever be as arrogant as his brother, though. 

That makes you peer across the table at him. When he thinks you’re not going to answer, you blurt out: “No, I don’t,” and seem genuinely surprised.

Chan chuckles and looks back at the menu. “At least you admitted it.” 

“I really don’t know why I just said that,” you carry on, setting your menu down. 

“Is it not true?” Chan asks. 

“No,” you say and that makes Chan raise his eyebrows. “I mean, it is true. I don’t really like you. I’m just not sure why…”

“Why you said it? Or why you don’t like me?” he presses.

“Both,” you say with a shrug. 

“Can I ask you something?” he wonders.

“You can,” you say. “I’m not gonna promise to answer if I don’t want to.” 

“That’s fair,” Chan says with a smile. “Why do you volunteer at the aquarium if you don’t like me?” 

“I like to be around the animals,” you say immediately. “I feel at peace.”

“You misunderstood part of what I was asking,” he says. Your eyes are wide. “Why not let me pay you if you don’t like me? You could be making money instead of offering your time for free.” 

That actually makes you laugh. Not a fake polite laugh, one of the real laughs he hears when Soonyoung gets you going. It’s a beautiful sound and it instantly reminds Chan of something. Or someone. He’s not really sure beyond wanting to hear it again. 

“You’re kind of funny. I’ll give you that,” you concede. 

“I’m glad you think so,” he says, eyes still glued to you. 

“I don’t know why it doesn’t feel right to take money for working at the aquarium. It just doesn’t,” you shrug. “It’s the first time in my life that I’ve ever really felt like I was where I’m supposed to be and I probably sound crazy saying it. But, I get to the aquarium and my brain gets quiet and it’s like a weight lifts off my chest.”

“You don’t sound crazy,” is all Chan can say for a second. 

He’s looking at you differently now and he’s not even concerned if you realize it. It’s like something clicks for him. Like he finally pinpoints what it is about you. Of course he didn’t realize at first. It’s so unbelievably uncommon that he never thought to look. But, there’s no denying it. The way you are around the aquarium, the way you seem to slot in like you’ve been there all along, the way he can read your emotions without trying. 

This isn’t your first life. He’s only seen it a handful of times since Olympus fell. The main gods of Olympus, like himself, were able to seek refuge on Earth. Other beings were not so lucky. Many managed one or two reincarnations, but more still just…ceased to exist. It’s something he and some of the others spent a lot of time working through in the beginning. It’s been over two hundred years since Chan came across a reincarnated soul. Yet, here you are. Sitting before him. There’s no mistaking it. Once upon a time, you had been a sea nymph in Olympus. Everything clicks into place when he acknowledges that. He knows the sea nymphs as well as he knows himself. It seems impossible that he wouldn’t recognize all the signs and mannerisms. Then again, he hasn’t come across a reincarnated sea nymph in a very long time. Centuries. 

“Are you okay?” you ask after a few moments. 

“Yeah, sorry,” he says and shakes his head. This isn’t the place to try to process this. “I just haven’t met anyone that could relate to the way I feel in a long time.” 

“You don’t think I’m crazy?” you ask, voice thick with hope. It’s the first time he’s been around you without feeling any negative emotions. 

“Not at all,” he assures you. “I should have known that you understood as well. I felt like you were a kindred spirit, but…”

“I’ve been cold?” you offer with a light laugh. 

“Cautious, I would say,” he disagrees. 

“Maybe we should just start over,” you suggest and that makes Chan smile. 

Dinner actually gets much livelier from there on out. Realizing your past allows Chan to entirely change his approach. Without saying anything before you’re ready, he lets his guard down. In doing so, he hopes that some part of you will realize the connection runs deep. It seems to work, even if it’s only a little. Curiosity becomes the most prominent emotion and he capitalizes on it. 

Chan is able to suggest some of the dishes that he really likes before you ask if you can just get a few things and share them. You’re asking questions about the aquarium and his life that he tries to answer in a way that sounds honest without inviting follow up questions. Instead, he finds himself wanting to know more about you. Despite your initial reluctance to talk too much about yourself, he gets you to open up to his questions. Each answer you give draws him in further. Gives more of a glimpse into you as a person. Nothing feels too small to learn. He wants to map each of your reactions to things you actually love to things that seem difficult to speak about. 

Before either of you realizes it, it’s been over two hours and the restaurant is starting to wind down. Of course, nobody rushes you since Chan knows everyone there by name. But, you still insist it’s probably best to head out. Surprisingly, he’s still only picking up on warmer emotions from you now and maybe that makes him a little bolder. 

“There’s this really great ice cream shop just a little walk that way,” he says as you’re exiting the restaurant. 

The sideways look you give him leaves him wondering if he’s misread the situation. Then, you’re smiling like you know a secret. “I’m shocked you eat dessert.” 

“Are you…are you checking me out?” he splutters. Very little manages to catch him off guard and you have him stumbling over a simple question. 

Without answering, you just laugh and start walking in the direction he indicated. When he doesn’t immediately follow, you look over your shoulder and call out to him. “Well? I thought we were getting ice cream.”

“You can’t just say shit like that and expect…” he starts as he hurries to catch up with you.

“Expect what?” you ask, actually poking out at his side. “I would bet my entire life savings that I’m not the first person to check you out.”

“Oh, so you were checking me out,” he says like he’s just won. 

“I think that’s only fair with how many times I’ve already caught you checking me out,” you fire back, effectively wiping the smug look of Chan’s face. 

It’s been a long time since someone challenged him the way you seem to. Now that you’re talking openly, it feels like he’s known you for years. There’s a comfort that he can’t remember feeling in centuries. It feels like you just implicitly understand a piece of them that he tries to hide in any other situation. 

Something whispers from the back of his mind, like a tickle of familiarity. He ignores it, though, in favor of getting to know the incredibly interesting person before him that doesn’t seem to hate him anymore. 

After having dinner with Chan, you start to look forward to your shifts for an entirely different reason. Yes, you still get the peace that comes along with being around so many beautiful animals and so much water. You also get to feel the pleasant shift of feelings when Chan is around. Instead of feeling like something gnaws at your consciousness, now you feel a warmth coursing through your body. It’s a little strange, too, because it’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before. 

Soonyoung notices the way you and Chan gravitate towards each other now and says nothing despite the knowing smile. You don’t have to ask him to know that he thinks it’s down to him insisting you get dinner together. He doesn’t comment, though, and you’re not going to give him the satisfaction. It’s hard to stop yourself from smiling, even when that makes Soonyoung smile even harder. It’s like he wants all the details of something that you don’t have many details on. At least, not at first. 

Hanging out with Chan outside of the aquarium becomes a regular thing, even on the days that you don’t go in. Each of you shows the other your favorite places in the area and you find yourself looking forward to that time more than anything else. Once or twice, you even consider asking Chan if he’s got a more full time position for you at the aquarium. You don’t quite realize you’re not living fully until something like this happens and so much more of life opens up before you. For now, though, you’ll settle for dragging him to a couple of food trucks that you love. He looks entirely out of place in his slacks and dress shirt, though at least he’s rolled up his sleeves. 

“So when are you going to come work with us full time,” he asks after sitting down with his food in front of him. He doesn’t ask you to work for him. Even his phrasing is considerate.

“Oh, well, I…” you stutter out.

“You don’t have to, of course,” he assures you. “I’ve just never met anyone that’s better at it than you and you’re not even there that often” 

“I have been considering it,” you admit. 

“What’s holding you back?” he asks. 

You take a bite to give yourself a minute to think about the answer to that. What is holding you back? Admittedly, you’ve never felt more at ease anywhere else. It’s increasingly harder to leave every time your shift is over. You look forward to when the next one will be. Have even added extra shifts when you can fit them in. There’s a part of you that also looks forward to seeing Chan. Although, you know that you could see him whenever you wanted. He always seems to make time for you. 

“I don’t know,” you finally say.

“Well, there’s a position waiting for you if you ever want it,” he says with a look on his face that you can’t quite read. 

“Why are you so patient with me?” you ask.

“Because we understand each other,” he answers a little too quickly. 

“It’s more than that,” you press, feeling, for the first time, like he’s keeping something from you. 

Chan sighs and sets his food down. “It is, but this isn’t the place to discuss it.” 

That catches you a little off guard. Thinking that there was more to the story and having him admit it so easily were two different things. “You’re not secretly in love with me or something, are you?”

He laughs at the look on your face and it eases a little of the tension. “I don’t think it’s a secret that I love being around you.” 

“No, I guess that’s true,” you say with your own laugh. 

“You’re going to think I’m crazy, but I’ll tell you when we finish eating and we can leave. This kind of thing…well, it’s best to say to you somewhere that’s not so out in the open.”

That announcement surprises you, but it also excites you a little. It’s difficult not to rush through dinner, a fact that Chan picks up on and laughs about. Makes a joke about wanting to get him alone that has color rising on your cheeks. There’s an air of confidence about him despite whatever he’s going to share with you. It makes it a little easier for you to also be calm because it can’t be that bad. If it were bad, he would not seem so confident. 

After dinner, and a short back and forth, he takes you back to his apartment, which includes walking by the aquarium. Somehow, you’re still much more nervous than he seems to be. It seems like the most natural thing in the world for him to invite you back to see where he lives. He also seems quick to assure you that it’s not that he’s trying to get you alone. It just needs to be a space that is actually private. 

Despite any better judgment you may have, your curiosity is piqued. What is it that he has to say to you that others can’t overhear? Is he about to admit some crazy belief? Or tell you that somehow you were destined to meet? You’re not really sure what sort of comment might come once the two of you are alone, but you’re distracted the second you step into his apartment. It’s amazingly decorated. It feels both cozy and modern at the same time. It also feels so impossibly like him and the ocean combined into one. Maybe that’s saying the same thing. He does give you the impression of the water sometimes. 

Being inside of Chan’s personal space also feels surprisingly natural. He disappears off into the kitchen without a second thought and allows you to look around the space. When he returns, it’s with a drink for you as he encourages you to take a seat on his couch. It’s the most comfortable couch you’ve ever sat down on.

“How much do you know about the Gods of Olympus?” he asks without any preamble. Thankfully, you haven’t taken a drink yet. Otherwise, you might have spit it out.

“Like the stuff from mythology?” you ask. It’s so unexpected.

A little voice whispers in the back of your head asking if it’s really that unexpected. The truth is: you’ve always been incredibly fascinated by the myths. There’s a draw to them almost to the point of getting lost in them. But, are you going to admit that you’ve read all the books you could find and watched all the shows or movies? It’s only fantasy, really, when you think about it. You’ve bared a lot of your soul to Chan without meaning to. You’re not sure you want him to laugh at you about this. That same little voice comes back to ask if he would laugh. You’re not so sure.

“Not exactly,” he says with a knowing laugh. “You consume it though, don’t you? I can see it on your face.” 

“I - well, lots of people do, don’t they?” you ask noncommittally. 

“Not like you, I’d bet,” he answers, unbothered. 

“I guess it’s a bit of a guilty pleasure,” you finally admit. 

“I think it’s more than that,” Chan presses. 

“How can it be? They’re just myths after all,” you say.

“Do you believe that?” he asks and it’s like he’s challenging every one of your long held notions. 

“Chan, what did you want to tell me?” you ask.

“Let me tell you about Olympus as I remember it,” he says. 

“As you…remember it,” you say slowly. “Chan, what…”

“Just hear me out and let me tell you a story. You can decide afterwards if I’m crazy or if it makes everything fall into place,” he says. 

And he does tell you a story. It’s a story about the Gods of Olympus with more information thrown in than you’ve ever read in any story or seen in any movie. It’s at once more fantastical and somehow more believable than anything. There are parts that you recognize. Parts that seem to line up with the stories. And there are parts that feel entirely new. Parts that are deeply emotional and clearly difficult for Chan to say. You delight in the way his face lights up when he talks about the parties or living amongst the sea animals. Completely accept it at face value when he tells you about how his scouts used to be dolphins and how much he misses that. Your heart breaks when he talks about the fights with his siblings and the other Olympians. It all feels like you’re walking along beside him in his stories. 

It’s insane to think that any of this could be real. You keep telling yourself as you listen to the stories. But, it’s hard to remember that when you see the look on Chan’s face. There’s fondness when he talks about some of the sillier memories. Like he can’t believe that anyone was ever that ridiculous. There’s genuine pain as he tries to get through the more complicated parts. When it comes time to tell you about how Olympus fell, he chokes up. 

You believe him. It’s like something shifts and you can tell that he’s not crazy. He’s not delusional. He’s not on some crazy conspiracy theory. He was Poseidon once upon a time. The feelings of calm that you feel every time you walk into the aquarium wash over you. Like this is the only thing that’s ever made sense. That should be a little disorienting to take in all that information. Instead it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

Chan isn’t even done talking when you lean over and press your lips against his. You’re not even sure why you do it or if it’s the right thing to do. When you go to pull away, he puts his hand behind your head and holds you against him. Kisses you breathless like nobody has ever kissed you before. It feels instantly familiar and new all at the same time. Like something you may have done before. But, it also sends sparks flying through your entire body. 

“So, should I carry on with telling you how you fit into all of this?” he asks when the two of you break apart from the kiss. 

“Me?” you ask, still recovering from the impulsive act of kissing him. 

“Yes, you,” he says with a soft smile. 

“I’m just a person lucky enough to meet an actual god, what could I…” you start.

“You’re not just a person,” he contradicts with a frown.

“I’m not trying to diminish myself or anything,” you assure him, but he still shakes his head.

“Can I talk?” he asks without any exasperation, though you may deserve it. You just nod. “You’re not just a person. You’re…well, I’m not sure how it works, really. I’ve come across it so infrequently. You have the reincarnated soul of a sea nymph within you. Possibly even one I encountered in another life.” 

“How can that be?” you ask with wide eyes. “No, I’m just a normal person, I…” 

“If you think about it, it actually makes perfect sense,” he says and carries on.

It sounds so simple when he outlines it for you. He asks you about your connection with the ocean, talks about your instant familiarity with the aquarium and how at peace you feel. Points out that you never feel at peace in a swimming pool, though you’re sure you’ve never said that to him. He talks about your mood shifting when you’re away from the water for too long or the way that everything about the water just seems easier. He even laughs when you admit that once when you were on vacation, a dolphin came right up to you in the ocean and seemed like it wanted your attention. It’s also not the only time something like that happened. 

Everything starts to fall into place. It’s like decoding the last little cypher of your life up until that point and showing you memories in a different light. You wonder if you’ll be able to remember anything from being a sea nymph and Chan looks apologetic when he says he doesn’t think it’ll work like that. But, he admits he’s never gotten close enough to another reincarnated soul like this to fully be able to answer it. The excitement drowns out a small voice in the back of your head that’s urging you to move cautiously. Urging you to consider if all of this really sounds right. 

You can’t really help the way your bodies seem to be drawn to each other. Many more kisses follow now that the invisible barrier seems broken. When he’s not kissing you, Chan runs his hands along whatever part of you that he can reach. 

Eventually, you don’t really want to talk. It seems absentminded, the way that Chan runs his fingers along your arm or squeezes your thigh. It’s driving you insane, though, and you need to know if he’s feeling as bothered as you are. 

“How much are you paying attention to this conversation?” you ask.

“Uh…” he says, eyes widening a bit at the question. It’s the first time he’s looked remotely out of control. 

“You’re driving me crazy,” you whine and look at his hand gripping your thigh. 

That causes his look to change entirely. He’s not out of control anymore. Now he looks a bit smug. “Oh, I’m driving you crazy?”

“Yes,” you admit without a second thought.

“I thought you weren’t even sure if you liked me?” he presses and you huff out a breath.

“I already kissed you, Chan. I think it’s clear I’m not on the fence anymore,” you say.

“Maybe I should show you my bedroom,” he says and stands.

You take his outstretched hand without hesitation. “Finally.” 

The two of you get through the doorway into his bedroom and he doesn’t even bother pretending to give you a tour. He only turns around to face you, crowding your space and forcing you back into the doorframe. He takes your face in his hands and kisses you hard. It’s not desperate, it’s perfectly controlled. Nobody has ever kissed you like this before. At least nobody that you can remember. His body presses tight against yours until you’re gasping for breath. Still, he doesn’t let you relax. He’s proving a point. If you thought he was driving you crazy earlier, it’s nothing to this. 

You gasp into his mouth when he moves a hand to hitch one of your legs around his hip. Gasp again when he does the same to your other leg and he’s balancing you against the doorframe. It seems impossible that he’s this strong. Maybe that’s part of being a god because he also barely seems to lose his breath as he keeps kissing you. You’re not usually so content to let someone else lead, but it’s so easy with him. It helps that nothing is frantic. Even though he’s driving you crazy, you love that it doesn’t feel rushed. Love that he’s really taking his time with you.

It could be minutes that Chan kisses you or it could be hours and you’re not really sure if you would know the difference. When he sets you down, it feels like an immediate loss. At least until he pulls you towards the bed. Only his eyes give away how badly he wants you. They’re dark with lust that you’re sure your own eyes reflect back at him. 

“Is this still okay?” he asks, voice thick with desire. You nod. “I need to hear you say it.”

“Yes, Chan. I want this,” you assure him. 

Thankfully it’s the only reassurance that he needs. He gently pushes you back onto his bed and immediately gets to work pulling your clothing off you. His eyes drink in every mark on your body and for the first time, you’re not self conscious. You don’t feel like there’s something wrong with you and it has nothing to do with the way he looks at you. Though, it doesn’t hurt that his desire only grows as he peels your clothing off. No, there’s just this inexplicable comfort with him. That voice in the back of your head quiets. You’re not sure if it’s because you’re so in the moment or because this is actually right. You’re not really sure it matters. 

When Chan steps back from you, you have the briefest moment of insecurity. It’s gone the next moment when he starts to undo the buttons on his shirt. Actually, your entire mind goes blank. If Chan was beautiful with clothes on, it’s nothing to seeing him removing his shirt. You know that he can change his appearance at will and know that it’s how he’s fit into places this long. So, you know that it might not be entirely him, but you’re not sure you care. Your eyes travel over the scars he still has. Probably remnants of real scars over the years. Somehow the imperfections make him more perfect in your eyes. You’re so caught up in looking at the scars that you miss him removing the rest of his clothing until he’s approaching you.

“Sit back,” he instructs.

You do as he asks without even thinking twice about it. That, at least, makes a voice stir in the back of your mind. Makes you wonder why you’re so content to do as he asks. When he climbs onto the bed and settles between your legs, the voice goes quiet again. He peppers up your leg and down the other with feather light kisses. He doesn’t draw out the build up, though. 

Chan runs a finger carefully through your folds and it makes you shudder. He watches your body carefully as he does it again, like he’s trying to map your reactions to everything. Like he wants to know exactly how to make you come undone. It’s such a simple action that works you up. When he licks into your pussy, you think it’s your new favorite feeling. It makes your entire brain go fuzzy. You don’t even realize that you’re arching your back until one of his hands snakes up your stomach to press you back into place. 

It’s almost too much, the way he works you over. He’s constantly changing the pace and his movements. His mouth moves up to suck on your clit and his finger moves down to pump into your pussy in lazy motions. The contrast of the movements makes you squirm. When you feel like you’re getting close to an orgasm, he switches it up again and pulls you back from the edge. Over and over again. He keeps switching up his attention every time you feel yourself getting close. 

“Chan, oh my fucking god,” you groan. “I’m going to die if you don’t let me come.” 

“Well, you got one thing right,” he says, pulling away from your pussy. “I am a god.”

“I hate you,” you say without any heat.

He pulls himself up your body so that he’s hovering over you, entirely too close. You can see the way your juices cover his lips. He eyes you greedily and it’s the hottest thing in the world. It’s even hotter when he lets you pull him down on top of you and kiss him. You moan into his mouth when he ruts his hard length against your thigh. 

When he pulls back, you know that you lost whatever game you’re playing. “Doesn’t seem like you hate me.” 

“Just please fuck me,” you say, completely breathless. 

“Anything you want,” he says. 

You gasp when he leans forward again to capture your lips in a bruising kiss. Everything about him seems so in control. Yet, you can feel how much he wants you, too. It’s obvious that you’re not alone in wanting this and that he’s just better at controlling the situation. 

Somehow, as he’s kissing you, he manages to spread your legs apart underneath him. It’s embarrassing the way you chase his lips when he pulls back. Or it would be if you didn’t meet his eyes to see all the desire reflecting back at you. He repositions so that he’s between your legs again and lines himself up at your entrance. Chan runs his tip through your folds while he watches for your reaction. It’s all you can do to stop yourself from wiggling to urge him to work faster. Nothing he does is fast, though, and why would this be any different. Slowly, he presses himself into you. Even as you’re begging him for more, he inches into you instead of snapping his hips forward. 

Finally, after what seems like minutes (and is probably only seconds), he’s fully buried and it’s the best feeling in the world. Your fingertips dig into his shoulders as he adjusts his position. Then, he pulls almost all the way about before snapping back in and your mind goes blank again. Like nothing else exists apart from the two of you, the sound of his skin on yours, and the words shared between you. Praise spills from Chan’s lips as you’re just asking for more and more of him. 

This time, he doesn’t bring you right to the edge only to pull you back. He picks up his pace and has you coming so hard that you see stars without warning. You’re so thankful that you don’t immediately realize that he doesn’t pull out of you. He stills himself inside you and peppers gentle kisses all over your face as you work through the orgasm. 

He’s definitely not so gentle once the aftershocks work through your body. 

In one motion, he has you in his arms and in a completely different position. It’s a level of strength and speed you’re not expecting. You’re sitting up now and about to protest that you don’t have the energy to fuck him like this, when he does the work for you. Even though you’re straddling his lap, he plants his feet and thrusts into you. It’s a slightly slower pace than you’re expecting. Just enough that you feel the tension building, but not enough for it to do anything. At least for you. You’re not sure about Chan. 

You can’t help it. All you want to do is kiss him so that he knows how good this feels. Not that he really needs more of an indication. You think he can probably read your body pretty well. The first time with someone new is usually awkward. This has been anything but. He knows exactly what you need and just how far he can push you before it’s too much.

And that really does seem true. You’re just about to go into overstimulated territory when he changes the position again. You get the briefest of breaks for him to settle behind you. It could be as innocent as cuddling until he hikes your leg up and presses his length into you without warning.

“Chan, jesus fuck,” you cry out. 

“You’re being so good for me, baby,” he coos into your ear. “Can you be good for just a little longer?”

“Yes,” you pant. 

“Even if I fuck you hard?” he asks, experimentally picking up his pace.

“Yes, please, just…fuck,” you yell out as he snaps into you harder.

“So perfect,” he murmurs into your skin. 

His thrusts immediately get faster and you can tell he’s ready to stop dragging it out. He’s still doing more than his share of the work and it’s insane to realize how much stamina he seems to have. The new angle allows him to hit you deeper than before. You’re already so worked up that it’s not long before he’s pushing you into your second orgasm. This time, he follows right behind you, erratically thrusting as his breath stutters by your ear. 

He collapses behind you, but still holds you close against his chest. Your breathing matches his without even thinking about it. Neither one of you really needs to say anything to know that it was something completely unexpected. You can’t remember ever having better sex than with him. Leave it to Chan to ruin you for anyone else that could possibly try to come after him.

Eventually, Chan pulls himself out and off the bed. He holds out his hand to help you into the bathroom with him. You make a joke about how you don’t have another round in you and his smile is instant. His features go soft when he says he just wants to help you clean up. 

(That doesn’t hold true for the next morning since he insists you should sleep over. You may be incredibly sore afterwards. You also know that you don’t care. In that moment, you think you would let Chan fuck you senseless for the rest of your life without complaining. Who cares if you’re a little sore? You’ve never felt so connected to someone in your entire life. And he just happens to be one of the gods of Olympus.)

Things seem to fall into place quickly for you and Chan after he shares his past with you. It’s like the last two puzzle pieces in an absurdly complicated puzzle. One of those ones where the pieces aren’t in the standard square shapes. Yet, now that you’re perfectly slotted together, it’s like you’ve been that way your whole lives. The two of you are together more often than you’re not. Late nights exploring or staying up until the early hours of the morning talking. Lazy mornings wrapped up in the covers of the bed (where you actually get Chan to spend more time away from the aquarium than he ever has before). Chan doesn’t even really have time to overthink anything.

His biggest win comes when you finally admit that you’re ready to leave your boring job and come to work at the aquarium full time. That only takes a few weeks after he tells you that you were a sea nymph in a former life. He’s still even a little at the complete lack of pushback on it. You accept it just as easily as you accept that he was Poseidon once upon a time. And you’re not accepting it in the way someone does to pacify a crazy person. That much is clear with how much more time you spend anywhere that Chan is. Somehow, the rest of Chan’s staff doesn’t even seem to comment on how quickly you become inseparable. Soonyoung seems to be smiling even more than usual (a feat Chan didn’t think possible). But, otherwise everyone just accepts the new normal. Everyone seems thrilled to have you around more permanently and that makes Chan’s heart constrict. 

He doesn’t have time to think about any of it. Until he does, very suddenly, think about all the feelings you bring up in him.

Chan is careful with relationships. He’s friendly with his staff, but they’re not really friends (despite Soonyoung’s best efforts). He doesn’t get to know anyone at any of the places he shops or have any hobbies where he interacts with people. It can get lonely if Chan thinks too closely about it, but what is the alternative? People’s lives are finite, measurable. Chan’s is not. At least, it hasn’t been yet. There are no signs he’s slowing down over the many centuries he’s been through. Then there’s you. You who are very much human. Though, it’s been a long time since he’s come across another reincarnated Olympian. There isn’t a rule book for how those lives go and there’s never been one that Chan stuck by long enough to find out. 

The real question, though, is whether he’s willing to stick around this time to see how it works. Is he willing to risk everything only to figure out that you’re merely a mortal? That you’re going to fall victim, if you’re lucky, to the curse all humans succumb to? That’s if you’re lucky enough to live to old age and something else doesn’t happen before then. Human life is so fragile. It’s a lot to process. More so since he’s not really talking to you about how he’s feeling. 

You notice. Of course you notice. Chan starts to get a little more distant as weeks turn into months. He’s still physically present with you and he still tries to act like everything is fine. But, he can feel it in the shift of your moods. Doubt creeps in and he gets snippets of your feelings or even your thoughts. It isn’t fair and he knows that it’s not. He knows he has to talk to you instead of just acting like everything is normal. 

“Are you ready to talk to me yet?” you ask one evening when you’re sitting on his couch with your feet in his lap. 

He stops scrolling through something on his phone and looks over at you. Somehow, you always seem to know when it’s best to apply just a little pressure. Knows his moods and senses when he’s ready to talk about something. There’s no use in acting like he doesn’t know what you mean.

“It’s nothing you’ve done,” he starts and you smile.

“Oh, I know that,” you assure him. That makes him laugh. It’s you all over. 

“It’s just…I don’t usually let myself get close to anyone,” he starts and your eyebrows knit in confusion.

“Bit late for that, isn’t it?” you say with an attempt at a joke, though it doesn’t quite land.

“I think we both know you’re special,” he says quickly to reassure you. “It’s just…well, there’s a reason for that. Human life is so fleeting.”

“Ah, yes,” you say with a wry smile, “because you’re ancient.”

“Enough,” he chastises without any real heat. 

“Sorry,” you say and throw up your arms.

“I am kind of ancient, though. Not in this body since I’m always changing forms, but in mind. I’ve been around a long time and you…” he says and trails off.

“You’re so sure I have an expiration date?” you ask.

“You’re human,” he says simply.

“And also have the soul of a reincarnated sea nymph,” you remind him. As if he could ever forget. 

“I know,” he concedes. “But I don’t know what that means for your…”

“Life expectancy?” you offer. There’s something almost detached and also calming about the way you say it. “You can’t say for sure that I won’t live beyond a normal human life, either.”

“No, I can’t,” he says. “I’ve never wanted to stick around another reincarnated soul the way I can’t seem to let you out of my sight.”

“Doesn’t that mean it’s worth at least considering?” you ask. 

There’s nothing desperate or emotional about the way you approach the conversation. It’s all based in fact and the information in front of you. As much as you and Chan like to go out on dates, you also like to sit with him while he tries to do research. Both of you want to understand what your soul means for the rest of your body. You want to understand why sometimes he can feel your mood or even hear some of your louder thoughts. It’s fun when you can control it and send something disruptive towards Chan. Fun for you, at least. He doesn’t always appreciate the image of what you want to do to him while he’s trying to do something at work. 

So, you go through all the knowns with him again. Go over everything that you’ve learned. Go through the questions you have unanswered and where there might be more information. You talk things through logically in a way that feels familiar to him. Chan finds himself getting lost in his amazement at your brain and the way you process information. It’s also incredible to him to watch you work through a problem. It lulls him into a place that he hasn’t been in since…

And that’s when it clicks. That’s when he realizes. You’re not just a reincarnated sea nymph. No, it’s much deeper than that. He knows your soul more intimately than he knows his own. He can’t believe that he didn’t see it right away. Can’t believe he’s had you in his bed for months now without realizing.

“You’re not listening anymore,” you comment. You don’t seem upset, only curious. It’s like you want to know where his mind goes.

“No, I’m sorry,” he says and you wave it off. “It’s just, well, I figured out who you used to be.” 

“Uh,” you say, clearly missing a piece. “Yeah? A reincarnated sea nymph? We’ve already covered this.” 

“No,” he disagrees. That makes you raise your eyebrows. “Well, you are, but you’re also more than that. Your soul, it’s…”

“What is it, Chan?” you ask, full attention focusing on him. 

“I should have known. You feel so familiar, like I’ve known you for years,” he says and it’s like he’s talking to himself. “It’s not just some ordinary sea nymph’s soul…”

“Yes, because sea nymphs are so ordinary,” you say with a scoff. “Like people every day are just coming across sea n-”

“It’s Amphitrite’s soul,” he finishes and that stops you mid sentence. Your eyes lock onto his, wide and wondering. 

“Amphitrite? As in Goddess of the sea, most prominent of the sea nymphs and wife of…” she says and can’t seem to finish the sentence.

“Poseidon. The one true love of my life, yes,” he says. 

If you think anything of him referring to Amphitrite as the one true love of his life, you don’t say anything. You go into a contemplative silence. Like if you think hard enough, you may be able to remember her or the relationship with Poseidon. Who knows? Maybe you can. Try as he might, Chan can’t seem to think of a single instance where something like this has happened before. Doesn’t remember someone like Hera returning in this way. He also can’t think of any reason why you would return now, after all this time. Unless this is just the first time he’s found you. There are far more questions than answers. 

“This…changes things,” you say.

“Does it?” he asks. 

“Doesn’t it?” you immediately return. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “It’s like it suddenly makes sense in a way I wasn’t expecting. But, it also feels…more complicated.” 

“Complicated, how? I mean, you were in love with Amphitrite and I assume she, or I, was also in love with you,” you say. “Doesn’t that explain this pull we have to each other?” 

“Our relationship was incredibly complicated,” he says softly. “I have…many regrets about how I handled things when it came to her. And I also can’t wrap my brain around her reappearing after so many years or what that means for you.”

“Why don’t we just start at the beginning? Tell me about your relationship,” you prompt.

“There are parts that were ugly,” he says without meeting your eye. 

The couch shifts and dips as you get closer to him. You lift his chin up gently so he’s looking at you. “The fact that you can admit parts were ugly or that you have regrets shows you’ve learned. So, tell me the whole story and then we’ll go from there.” 

So, he starts talking. 

It starts at the beginning. He was at a celebration when he saw Amphitrite dancing among the other Nereids, the daughters of Nereus, who was also known as the Old Man of the Sea. There had been other consorts before her, but he was instantly smitten. She symbolized everything beautiful and kind about the sea. Everything that he could ever want. So, he approached her father before ever approaching her and asked for her hand. Her father was, understandably, thrilled. It seemed like there was no better match than to allow Poseidon himself to marry one of his daughters. In hindsight, that was absolutely the wrong way to go about it. She should have been given a say in her own life rather than treated like property by her father and the man who claimed to love her. 

Chan talks about what he can remember of their courtship as honestly as he can. From his perspective, everything went wonderfully. After all, why shouldn’t she have been thrilled that he wanted to marry her. Once he had nothing but time to think back on what he had done, he realized that she had not seemed all that interested. It was more like she was going through the motions because she had to. He tried to include her in everything that he could so she would see what her life could be like. Maybe that had been the wrong choice. But, she was a natural when it came to hosting or offering opinions in meetings. At the time, it made him happy to see how well she settled in. Now, it just felt like she had been forced into a life she never wanted.

As the wedding itself got closer, she fled to the far reaches of the ocean. It was a dolphin scout of his that finally managed to find her. He never knew what his scout said to her that made her return. He only knew what he told the scout. They never spoke about it once she came back. She simply returned, assured him she had only been nervous about how important he was, and said she wanted to get married still. So, he also acted like nothing happened, which he knows was as wrong as he could have been. He does think that he tried to be a better partner to her after that, though he’s not sure he succeeded. When he had to make decisions between what might be best for her and what might be best for his position, he chose himself. He also chose the sea over her when he had to make those choices. It was never fair to her. 

Somehow, through all of that, he did really grow to love her. He valued her beyond what he showed. He appreciated her for her unfailing kindness and her insistence when she knew she was right. He appreciated her wit and her mind. He appreciated the way that she was never afraid to tell him what she thought or to let him know when he was making the wrong decision. He appreciated that she didn’t just bend over backwards for him or fawn over him. He only realized after she was gone that he never appreciated her the way that she deserved to be appreciated. Once he lost her, he realized that he should have done anything in the world to protect her. He realized he should have given her the entire sea and made her the ruler because she was far smarter than he had realized. 

You only listen intently without interrupting. In the few moments where Chan looks at you, he struggles to figure out what you’re thinking. Not that you won’t tell him. He knows you will. It’s just very daunting to speak that long without you interjecting. When he stops speaking, you’re still quiet for a moment. 

“I think…Chan, I think I’m starting to remember,” you say with wide eyes. 

And that’s the last thing he expects to hear. He figures you may tell him that he’s horrible for putting someone he claims to have loved through that. Or you could say that it sounds far-fetched to think she’s not just a sea nymph, but a specific nymph that he was deeply in love with. He doesn’t expect for you to look at him in wonder and say you’re remembering. That’s another unknown in this entire mess of a situation. 

Before he can consider if this is something that should even be possible, your lips crash into his. There are so many emotions behind that kiss that he can’t begin to process. There’s longing and a long-forgotten love. There’s excitement about returned memories. There’s the sparks that always fly between you two. The mix of the established feelings with ones Chan never expected to feel again is startling. So, he just lets his mind wander. He lets the feeling of kissing you consume him so thoroughly that it pushes any other conversation out the window. All that exists in that moment is the two of you, however you want to define that. 

The excitement of finding out a long forgotten identity wears off far quicker than you expect it to. Not that you have any frame of reference for this sort of thing. But, surely it should last longer than this. Longer than it takes for you to fall into bed with Chan again. Longer than it takes for him to worship your body as he’s done before and for him to bring you to an orgasm so good it has you screaming. Somehow, in the post-sex haze, he doesn’t realize that you’re quieter than usual. Perhaps that’s a blessing. He kisses you so softly, so sweet and tells you that he’s going to do some research. That’s fine, you insist, because you want to get back home to really get a good night’s sleep. It seems unspoken that he wants to let you process.

But…well, you’re not really sure if you’re still okay with the information. It’s like having sex this time triggered a new flood of memories. Some come across as clearly as if it was something you directly experienced. Others come through more as feelings than anything else. And it’s a lot. Overwhelming in a way that nothing else has been. It’s how you expected to react to finding out that all those myths you were so drawn to were actually real. That feels easy to accept, especially now. Remembering is something else entirely. Because remembering Amphitrite’s experiences as your own just feels complicated. 

Maybe it’s wrong to think of her as a separate person if her soul lives within you. That part isn’t hard to accept, not when you can feel it. The hard part is accepting the feelings about Chan. The memory pushes back on you calling him that. Accepting is also the wrong word. The hard part is reconciling the person you’ve gotten to know with the memories that come flooding back. 

Then, almost as if on cue, that whispering voice returns. It reminds you of how you felt when you first met Chan. Of the distaste you had without being able to place it. Which is true, isn’t it? You didn’t like him without any reason beyond just a feeling. The voice presses memories onto you. Things you actually experienced with Chan mixed in with scenes between Poseidon and Amphitrite. The more you see, the more it feels like your own memories. Like something that you took part in directly. 

It’s putting it mildly to say that things are complicated. There is clear affection there for the person that Amphitrite got to know. Although it’s clear she did not love Poseidon from the beginning, she grew into much stronger feelings. Yet, she can’t separate those fully. She can’t say for sure that the feelings would develop on their own. Did she just love him? Or was it because she, at times, had little contact with anyone outside their palace? Though, that was largely her own choice as things went on. There were too many things to do at home to leave. And there was too much unrest.

Yes, it feels complicated. Now your own memories or the past few months mingle with decades of memories from someone else. You can’t decide if you want to push your own memories aside to make room for the returning ones or keep them side by side. Your new memories don’t really seem to fit, though. Which isn’t surprising. The person you know isn’t the same one that Amphitrite knew. He’s grown in ways that she can scarcely understand or imagine. He’s thoughtful and considerate and much more mature. That doesn’t sit perfectly with the memories. Although, you can tell that there’s a part of the lingering voice that appreciates the growth. Maybe even feels a little responsible for it. Wants to believe that she’s part of the reason he made the changes. 

By the time you make it back to your apartment, your head feels like it’s going to split open. You’re no closer to any answers about what you want to do. No closer to reconciling incredibly complex feelings. No closer to the next step. That’s fine, though. All you can really do now is let yourself drift off to sleep and revisit 

The morning, unfortunately, doesn’t bring answers. You’re not sure how to approach Chan other than to ask for time to process your feelings. That seems like as good a place to start as any because it’s a lot to take in. He must know that. Surely he’ll understand. Even though you seemingly accepted the news yesterday, it’s a new day today. And your brain is fighting to catch up. 

You’re trying to figure out how to approach the conversation with Chan when you make your way through the apartment. A piece of paper by your front door catches your eye and you approach it. You pick up the envelope and recognize the writing on the front of it as Chan’s. There’s something so impossibly him about the gesture. Of course he would write a letter instead of…wait. A moment too late, your brain catches up. Why would Chan be writing you a letter? What changed?

Opening the letter feels close to the last thing you want to do. But, you know that you need to just open it to see what’s going on. See if anything changes. 

A lot can change overnight, it seems. Chan fills the letter with apologies for things you can’t even begin to understand. He’s apologizing to you and also to Amphitrite. It seems he got to the conclusion much faster than you, which shouldn’t be surprising. He’s had centuries, apparently, to learn and to spot things others may never notice. That’s especially clear as you read through his letter, now. 

Getting past the general apologies, you find more specific apologies. He’s incredibly sorry, but he’s going to be leaving for a while. He knows that it’s not fair to you, but it’s something that he’s got to do. At least he acknowledges that it should ultimately be your decision on how to proceed with the relationship. He can’t let you do that without more answers to his questions. He needs to know how it’s possible for Amphitrite’s soul to have found its way into your body. He needs to understand what that means for your own mortality. It’s selfish, he admits, so incredibly selfish, but he can’t move forward with you, even if that’s what you want, without knowing more. He can’t watch as you age and he doesn’t. Can’t grow to love you more and more only to know you have an expiration date. It’s cold, he knows, to say it that way. It’s also the way he’s going to approach it. The whole letter is filled with apologies and acknowledgements followed by buts. 

Chan goes on to say that he’s going looking for his brother, Zeus. He’s the only one that might be able to help them understand what’s happening. The problem is that he hasn’t seen his brother in centuries and doesn’t entirely know how to find him, or if he’s even still surviving. He just has to trust that he’s out there somewhere, going through the same motions as Chan and chugging forward in the only way either of them know how. Somehow this tidbit is a lot to process. Accepting the existence of Poseidon was easy. Maybe that’s because of your own past. Accepting Zeus is something else entirely. Some of that stems from your own disbelief. Most seems to come from Amphitrite’s complicated feelings about her brother-in-law.

Just as you’re about to put the letter down in frustration, you see the postscript. Chan asks you to help his staff look after the aquarium until he returns. He knows that it’s not fair to ask. He knows you may even say no. Your heart tightens at the thought of the animals without Chan. Now that you know who he is, you know that they’ll miss him when he’s not around. You don’t have powers the way he does, though. And it’s his choice to just leave on a whim to chase answers for a relationship that may not even be there when he returns. 

Well, two can play this game, you think. It may not be a fully rational thought. It may not even be fair. Before you can overthink it, you send a text to Soonyoung saying that you’ll be out of town for the next few weeks, at least. You just tell him that you have some things to work through and leave it at that. In the meantime, you throw things haphazardly into a suitcase and you’re out the door before even getting a response.

Your letter from Chan stays sitting on your table as you rush out of the apartment without a second thought. All you know is that you’re going to let Amphitrite guide you on a journey of your own to find missing memories before you make any more decisions. 

It seems like both of you have a lot to figure out before you see each other next.