❤︎ IN LOVE WITH A NARCISSIST ❤︎ ———— ★ NARCISSISM ★ ————
Narcissistic situationship/bf idfk Hyunjin x Fem! Reader
warnings:emotional manipulation,coercive control,toxic relationship dynamics, unhealthy power imbalances,intimidation, psychological distress, and themes of fear and conditioning.
synopsis:you thought it would be simple,just someone from an app, one night, nothing that mattered until you met Hyunjin, who didn’t pretend to care and somehow became the person you kept returning to anyway. Little by little, you started adjusting yourself without noticing, while he calmly predicted every move you made. The frightening part isn’t that Hyunjin ever lied to you, it’s that he told you exactly what he was, and you still stayed.
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You downloaded the app because it didn’t lie.
It didn’t pretend to be about compatibility or love or destiny. No bios, no prompts asking about childhood trauma or favorite movies. Just a grid of faces and a blunt disclaimer before you even finished signing up: This platform is for casual encounters only. Do not expect emotional availability.
That honesty felt comforting. You weren’t looking to be known. You were looking to be distracted.
The interface was cold by design. Photos auto expired after thirty days. Messages deleted after twenty-four hours if you didn’t exchange contact info. The app wasn’t built for memory. It was built for use.
You told yourself you’d scroll for five minutes and delete it.
Hyunjin’s profile didn’t try to sell anything. No filters. No smirk. No attempt to seem inviting. Just a single mirror selfie,his longish black hair semi covering his face,eyes unfocused like the camera hadn’t earned his attention. He didn’t look bored. He looked unbothered. Like desire was something that came to him whether he wanted it or not.
No bio. No preferences listed. Just the default tag the app assigned when someone skipped everything
You hovered over his profile longer than the app encouraged. A warning popped up
Don’t overthink.This isn’t that kind of place.
You almost laughed. Then you swiped right.
The match notification hit instantly. No delay. No suspense.
Your phone buzzed again almost immediately.
Hyunjin:
took you long enough.
Your first reaction was irritation. Your second was heat. He hadn’t even asked a question. He spoke like the match had been inevitable, like you’d kept him waiting instead of the other way around.
You typed something sarcastic back, expecting banter. He didn’t mirror it.
You frowned at the screen.
Hyunjin:
Not like you did.
That should’ve felt invasive. Instead, it felt unsettlingly accurate. You asked how he knew.
Hyunjin:
People tell on themselves if you pay attention.
The conversation didn’t warm up it narrowed. He didn’t ask what you liked. He asked what you avoided. He didn’t flirt so much as dissect. When you deflected with humor, he didn’t laugh,he commented on it.
Hyunjin:
You joke when you’re uncomfortable. It’s efficient.
You told him he sounded arrogant.
Hyunjin:
I’m observant. People confuse the two when it makes them insecure.
You should’ve unmatched him then. The app made it easy. One tap and he would disappear, along with the faint pressure building in your chest. But something about the way he spoke made you want to prove him wrong. Made you want to stay.
When you reminded him the app was just for hookups, he didn’t push back.
Hyunjin:
Exactly. No confusion, no expectations.
That line disarmed you. He wasn’t pretending to want more. He wasn’t offering safety or softness. He was agreeing to the terms out loud, and somehow that made him feel trustworthy.
He sent his location without asking. A high rise downtown. When you hesitated again, he noticed.
Hyunjin:
If you’re looking for reassurance, I’m not your guy.
You told him you weren’t.
Hyunjin:
Good. Then come over.
There was no “if you want.” No “no pressure.” Just an assumption that you’d comply or that you wouldn’t matter if you didn’t.
Later, you’d realize that the app had done exactly what it was built to do remove context, remove protection, remove the illusion of mutual care. It had put you in contact with someone who thrived in spaces without accountability.
At the time, all you knew was that meeting him felt less like making a choice and more like stepping into something that had already decided how it would unfold.
He never lied about what he was there for.
He just let you believe that knowing the rules meant you couldn’t get hurt.
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You don’t remember deciding to step fully inside his apartment.
One moment you’re standing in the doorway, city noise still clinging to you, and the next the door is closing behind you with a soft, final sound that lands heavier than a slam ever could. Hyunjin doesn’t rush. He doesn’t crowd you. He lets the silence stretch, watching you take in the space like he already knows what you’re thinking.
“You’re already recalculating,” he says.
“Exit routes. Regret. Whether this was a mistake.” He turns slightly, just enough to face you. “It’s cute. Unnecessary, but cute.”
Your pulse jumps. “You don’t know that.”
He smiles,small, and controlled. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want to be.”
That sentence settles over you like a verdict. Not comforting. Not reassuring.
He doesn’t touch you right away. That’s what makes it worse. He takes your jacket and sets it aside like you’re staying, like leaving isn’t even a concept worth entertaining. When you shift your weight, suddenly aware of your body, he notices.
“Stand still,” he says not loud, not sharp. Casual.
You freeze before you mean to.
His eyes flicker with something like satisfaction, quick and gone. He steps closer, close enough that you can feel the heat of him without contact. He tilts your chin up with one finger, not gently, not roughly precise.
“You keep waiting for me to ask permission,” he murmurs. “I won’t.”
Your breath catches. “Then why—”
“Because you’re still here,” he says. “And because if you wanted me to stop, you’d say it.”
The way he frames it makes your silence feel like consent you can’t take back.
When he finally touches you, it’s deliberate. Slow. Like he’s testing how much pressure you’ll accept before resisting. When you tense, he notices.
“Relax,” he says. “I don’t like when people fight what they want.”
Something about that crawls under your skin. You try to laugh it off, but it comes out thin.
“I don’t fight,” you say.
“I know,” he replies. “That’s why this works.”
After, you sit on the edge of his bed, wrapped in a borrowed sheet that smells like him, trying to ground yourself. He moves around the room like nothing significant just happened. Like this was routine. Like you were routine.
You ask if he does this often.
He considers the question, then shrugs. “Often enough.”
“That’s it?” you press. “No… connection?”
He looks at you then, really looks at you, and something cold passes through his eyes.
“Connection is just a story people tell themselves so they don’t feel replaceable,” he says. “I prefer honesty.”
You swallow. “And honesty is…?”
“That you’re here because I wanted you,” he says calmly. “And you’ll leave when I’m done wanting you.”
Your chest tightens. “You say that like it’s nothing.”
“It is nothing,” he replies. “To me.”
There’s a pause. You should leave. You know that. Instead, you ask the question that gives him exactly what he wants.
His smile is slow. Dangerous.
“You’re asking,” he says. “So no.”
The words hit harder than cruelty would have. He reaches out, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear with almost unsettling tenderness.
“But you could be,” he adds. “If you stop trying to be special and just let yourself be useful.”
When you finally stand to leave, he doesn’t stop you. He watches you get dressed, eyes unreadable. At the door, you hesitate, waiting hoping for something. A thank you. A text me when you get home. Anything human.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says softly. “I didn’t promise you warmth.”
You nod, embarrassed, and step into the hallway.
The door closes behind you.
Your phone buzzes before you reach the elevator.
Hyunjin:
"You’ll come back. You’re not done yet."
Your fingers hover over the screen.
You tell yourself he’s wrong.
And somewhere deep down, something in him already knows he’s right.
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You tell yourself you won’t go back.
You delete the app. You silence his chat. You replay the night until it loses its edge. For a few days, you almost believe you’re done. Then a message slips through anyway he must’ve saved your number while you were distracted.
"You forgot something here."
You stare at the screen longer than you should. You ask what it is.
Your composure, he replies.
"But you can come get it if you want."
You don’t answer right away. He doesn’t follow up. That’s what gets you. Anyone else would’ve pushed, would’ve clarified, would’ve tried to convince you. Hyunjin doesn’t chase. He lets the silence do the work, lets curiosity rot into obligation.
The second time feels different the moment you step inside. The door closes behind you and he locks it without looking at you, the sound deliberate, unnecessary. He notices the way your shoulders tense.
“You’re jumpy,” he says. “Did you talk yourself into being afraid?”
“I’m not afraid,” you answer too quickly.
He hums, amused. “We’ll see.”
He doesn’t offer you a drink this time. He doesn’t ask how you’ve been. He moves around you like you’re already positioned where he wants you, like the room has rearranged itself to fit him. When you mention a friend casually, carelessly his attention sharpens.
“You told them about me?” he asks.
“Good,” he interrupts. Not angry. Certain. “This isn’t something you outsource opinions on.”
Something about the phrasing makes your stomach drop.
He starts pointing things out more openly now. The way you hesitate before speaking. The way you look at his face for cues. The way you soften your tone when he goes quiet.
“You adjust fast,” he says. “That’s rare.”
You don’t know whether that’s praise.
Later, when you check your phone out of habit, he takes it from your hand without asking. He scrolls, expression unreadable. You wait for the spike of anger that never comes.
“Who’s this?” he asks, tapping a name.
“Do they text you often?”
He hands the phone back. “You should stop answering so quickly. It makes you look available.”
You laugh nervously. “You sound jealous.”
He looks at you then, and something cold settles behind his eyes.
“Don’t confuse interest with insecurity,” he says. “I don’t get jealous. I get selective.”
From then on, the world outside him starts shrinking without you agreeing to it. He doesn’t forbid you from seeing friends. He just reacts when you do. Detached. Slightly bored. He asks questions that make you second guess your answers.
“Did you have fun, or did you just want attention?”
“Do they actually care about you, or do they just like feeling needed?”
“Be honest are you happier there, or are you just avoiding being alone?”
You stop mentioning other people because it’s easier than defending them.
He starts framing himself as the only honest thing in your life.
“Everyone else is polite,” he says. “I’m accurate.”
When you try to pull back take longer to respond, cancel plans he doesn’t protest. He just goes distant. Not cold. Empty. Like you’ve slipped out of focus. When you finally ask what’s wrong, he exhales slowly.
“I don’t chase,” he says. “If you’re unsure, that’s your issue to work through.”
You apologize again. You don’t remember deciding to.
The intimidation doesn’t come as anger. It comes as certainty. As him predicting your reactions before you have them. As him telling you what you’re about to feel and being right often enough that you stop arguing.
“You’re going to cry,” he says once, calmly, when you push back. “Not because I’m wrong. Because you hate feeling seen when you don’t control the narrative.”
You cry. Quietly. He watches like he’s proven a hypothesis.
The night you realize you’re scared of him isn’t dramatic.
You’re standing in his kitchen, reaching for a glass, when he speaks behind you.
The fear hits you after, sharp and humiliating. You laugh it off, but your hands are shaking. He notices. He always notices.
“That reaction,” he says softly. “That’s instinct. Don’t insult it by pretending it’s nothing.”
Your heart is pounding. “You didn’t have to say it like that.”
“Like I didn’t have a choice.”
He steps closer, close enough that you feel cornered without being touched.
“You always have a choice,” he says. “You’re just bad at making them when you want approval.”
The realization settles slowly, like something locking into place.
And he likes it not because it makes him feel powerful, but because it makes him feel right. In control. Untouchable.
When you leave that night, your body feels lighter and heavier at the same time. Relief tangled with dread. Your phone buzzes before you reach the street.
You don’t need to be scared, he texts. You just need to stop resisting what you already respond to.
And for the first time since you met him, you understand something clearly this isn’t desire. This isn’t attraction. This is conditioning.
And the scariest part isn’t that he could hurt you.
It’s that he already has and he’s done it so quietly you almost convinced yourself it was love.
