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Title: It Feels Like I'll Die Without You Summary: You know this is wrong. You've known it for two years. You tell yourself this is the last time you will meet Jiyong. Pairing: G-Dragon x f!Reader Word Count: 9,714 Warnings: 🚩🚩🚩PLEASE READ 🚩🚩🚩 18+ Explicit sexual content. Rough sex. Toxic relationship between Jiyong and reader. Infidelity (reader has a bf). There is also a brief physical altercation between Jiyong and reader (she slaps/scratches him, he shoves her). Note: Please heed the warnings! This was inspired by GD's Bonamana. I tried my best to portray a toxic relationship between two people that should have let go a long time ago and didn't and now they're hurting each other. Do they still love each other? Was it even love? I think so. BUT PLEASE BE AWARE OF THE WARNINGS, especially the last one. It's brief, but it's there. Thanks for reading!

The kitchen smells like garlic and sesame oil. There’s music playing, some random playlist you’d put on with the kind of soft music that exists mostly to serve as background noise. You’re cooking japchae, one of Minjun’s favorite dishes, while he sits at the kitchen island, laptop open.

Every now and then he looks up and says, come here, look at this one, and you go and he shows you an apartment or a house. You notice, the third time he calls you, that the house you liked is already pinned. You hadn’t even told him to consider it, you had just spent more time looking at it, at the big garden that you’d imagined yourself spending time in. With a big garden like that, I could grow tomatoes. Maybe some cucumbers. Perilla leaves, since you eat so many of them. You’d said it laughing a little, just throwing it out there. Just saying it. He’d pinned the listing anyway. Because he saw you imagining a life there.

“You sure you don’t want any help?” Minjun asks when you return to the stove.

“Nope. I’m good,” you say. “If you help, you’ll just end up distracting me.”

He laughs. “Maybe that’s what I want.”

You point a carrot at him. “Don’t get any ideas.”

He smiles and returns his attention back to the screen. You go back to blanching the spinach, then move to cooking the carrots. You know the best way to cook this dish is to prepare each element separately. That way everything is cooked perfectly and each ingredient keeps its color.

It is, in every way you can think of, a perfectly ordinary evening. You have come to appreciate the ordinary. The peace that comes from quiet evenings that follow a certain routine.

You are reaching for the wooden spoon when your phone lights up on the counter with a new notification. You see the name before the phone goes dark again. Grabbing the spoon, you stir the contents in the pan. You stop yourself from picking up the phone.

It’s nothing, you think. It must be one of his usual texts: a link to something he’s been listening to, a meme, a picture of something with no explanation. You see these messages for what they really are. A way to still be a presence in your life, of keeping a door open between you. You’ve gotten good at not responding to these messages. At keeping that door halfway closed.

Minjun calls you over again and you go. He shows you another house with a bigger garden, and you know he’s watching you, you know he’s waiting for you to get excited about it, to list all the things you could grow there. But your mind is somewhere else already and you can only smile and say It’s good. Do you like it?

He talks as you go back to the stove. He’s telling you this one isn’t as close to his work as the last one, but that it’s close to cultural spots, that it’d be perfect for you and your work. You know he’s thinking of you, of your comfort, of making sure this change is a happy one for you. You smile at him and you think to yourself: See? This is what you have.

Then the phone lights up again.

This time you pick it up. You know how it goes sometimes when you don’t answer his texts. Sometimes he calls. And you don’t want him to call right now. You look up at Minjun, he’s focused on the screen.

You look down and read the two messages he’s sent.

Hey.

I need you.

Not How are you? Are you busy? Not even I need to see you. Just this: I need you. Which is worse somehow because you know what he wants. What he’s asking for.

“Is everything okay?” Minjun asks.

“Yes,” you say. “It’s a work thing.”

You turn away slightly, not enough to be suspicious, and you read the two messages again. You think about all the reasonable things you could do. You could ignore it. You could turn off your phone. You could simply silence it and go back to making dinner so that you can sit across from Minjun to eat, have a bottle of wine, and then watch a movie. Go to bed. Make love.

You could block the number, which is something you had told yourself you were going to do the last time this happened.

You type back: I can’t tonight.

You mean to leave the phone on the counter, to go back to the stove, but his response comes just a few seconds later.

Please.

Just one word. That’s all it takes.

You feel your pussy clench, like some pavlovian response to his texts, because your body knows where they lead to. It’s humiliating, to realize your body is used to it. It makes you think about the last time, which you had told yourself was the last time, and the time before that. You think about the way you’d driven home afterward and promised yourself, out loud in the car where no one could hear you, that you were done. No more, you’d said. You were going to let whatever this was finally finish dying the way it had been trying to die for two years.

Dinner is almost ready when you tell Minjun that something has come up.

The words are out before you can stop them. You hear yourself explaining, the lies coming out so easily it is actually concerning. There’s something at work, a thing you need to look over, you are sorry. You tell him that if he wants, you will call and say you can’t make it. You hear yourself say this knowing full well he won’t ask this of you because Minjun has always been an understanding person. It is one of the things you loved first about him. It is also one of the things that makes this moment so difficult.

“At this hour?” he asks.

“I know,” you say. You know he’s not asking that because he doesn’t believe you. He’s asking out of concern for you, at the fact you’re being asked to work so late. You reach for your jacket that’s hanging on the back of the chair. “I shouldn’t be long, but you should eat. Don’t wait for me.”

He’s looking at you in a way that 's simply attentive. He’s trying to read whether you are stressed, whether you need something from him. You recognize the look because he’s always been open, with his thoughts, with his feelings, never guarding anything. Not like—

“Want me to drive you?” Minjun asks.

“No, no, it’s fine. You worked all day today. Just rest.” You walk around the kitchen island to stand in front of him. “I’m sorry about dinner.”

“Don’t worry about dinner,” he says. You know he means it. There is no anger, no annoyance, no disappointment. He kisses you and you let him. “Drive safe.”

“I will,” you say.

You pick up your keys and your purse and you walk out of your own apartment thinking: this is the last time.

You hold on to that thought as you drive. You let the anger inside you fester, you let it go in every direction.

First: Jiyong. You let yourself feel anger because he texted you when you had told him the last time, standing in his penthouse, getting dressed, and not looking at him, that you were not going to come if he texted you again. That you were done with this. So now you’re angry because he’s done it anyway. You’re angry because once again he’s shown an inability to leave you alone. You’re angry because he said please knowing what it would do to you.

Then: yourself. The anger you feel toward yourself has always been stronger, more corrosive, because you know you could have put a stop to this a long time ago. You hadn’t blocked his number two years ago when it all had ended. Not when he texted you more than half a year later. Not the month after that. Or at any other time you told yourself you would. You have allowed this to happen. This is not an easy thing to acknowledge. This is the last time, you think. And then you think about how you’ve said that before. You have said it and believed it, each time. This is, perhaps, the part that unsettles you most. The fact that each time you resolve to stop, you fully meant it. And yet, it takes one text each time for you to go back.

And then: Minjun. You are not proud of the anger you feel at him. You know how unfair it is, but you feel it anyway. He hadn’t pushed. At this hour? and then nothing, just Drive safe, and you’re angry at him for this, knowing it’s completely irrational. He is too understanding, you think suddenly, one of the things you first loved about him turning into an inconvenience. He believes you too easily. He’d let you walk out, didn’t think to stop you, didn’t ask you to cancel this work thing, and now you’re on the highway driving towards Jiyong’s penthouse.

But you know nothing about this is his fault. It’s yours. His only mistake is that he trusts you completely, in a way you don’t deserve.

This is the last time. You’ve said it before and you meant it each time, but now you truly believe it. There’s something you need to tell Jiyong, something that will make this final.

You let the anger settle into something cold, something you try to wear as armor as you pull into the private garage of his building. The doorman greets you with a respectful nod and doesn’t ask for identification. You have arrived at all kinds of odd hours enough times that your face is simply expected now. This is a fact you try to ignore, just like the shame you feel every time he watches you leave this building.

The elevator requires a code for the penthouse floor. You look at the keypad for a moment. You wonder, the way you wondered last time and the time before that, whether he’s changed it. You press the numbers.

03120420

The keypad accepts them. The doors close and the elevator begins to rise. You try not to think about the code. You’ve wondered before if he keeps those numbers so you remember. So that it causes you pain.

He’d been kissing the side of your face, down your jaw. You felt warm. Loved. Happy.

“You smell like me,” he’d said.

You were wearing his shirt under your jacket. You hadn’t been able to find your blouse, not even after ten minutes of the two of you laughing while you searched his place, genuinely baffled as to where it had ended up.

You’d tried to hide your face against his neck.

“Shy? Now?” He was smiling. “Because an hour ago—”

“Jiyong!”

He’d laughed softly and held you closer.

It was in the lobby that the security staff had approached. They’d explained, professionally, that the floor codes were rotated every few months as standard procedure, but that residents could request to keep their current one. Jiyong had said he wanted to change it. So you’d stood beside him, his shoulder warm against yours, and watched him type in the new code.

03120420

After the staff left, you’d turn to him. “You don’t want to write it down? You’ll forget.”

He smiled and shook his head. “Never.”

You’d open your mouth to ask what the numbers meant, but then you stopped. They were dates, you’d realized. March 12th. And today, April 20th. The day he’d asked you to be his girlfriend. And today, the first time you’d—

“Jiyong!” Your voice came out high, embarrassed. “Oh my god. Change it! Are you insane?”

He’d already been laughing, had started laughing the moment he saw the realization cross your face. You felt yourself blushing.

“You’re cute,” he’d said.

“Change it right now or—!”

“No.” He’d pulled you close again. “I need numbers I’ll always remember.”

And ever since that evening, every few months when security staff came with their politely worded reminder, he had chosen to keep it. For more than three years, he had kept it.

The elevator opens to the private foyer and the door to the penthouse is already open. He must have heard the elevator, or seen it on the security panel mounted near the entrance. Or perhaps, you think, and the thought stings, because he knew you’d come. You always do.

You take off your shoes in the entry way and slide on a pair of guest slippers before walking inside. Jiyong is standing in the main room. White t-shirt, dark jeans, bare feet. His hair is damp, recently showered. The penthouse is dim, most of the light coming from the city through the floor-to-ceiling windows that make up the far wall, Seoul spread out beyond the glass in all its late night brightness, the Han Riven threading through it like a dark ribbon.

You remember standing by that window once, his arms around you from behind, his lips near your ear as he whispered—

“Are you just going to stand there?” he asks, now in the present, cutting through the memory.

You don’t move from your spot. You still have your jacket on, your purse still hanging from your shoulder. "What was so urgent?"

“I just needed to see you,” he says.

“What for?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer. You hold his gaze for a moment, then you look away. You look around and find an empty glass on the console table, another on the coffee table behind him, something amber, mostly finished. A couple of small food containers beside it, half-eaten. The television is off, but there’s music playing from somewhere, something slow. His jacket is thrown over the back of the couch. There’s enough disarray that you know he’s been restless for hours and has tried to manage it alone, which is something you recognize because you’ve seen it before.

“How long have you been drinking?” you ask.

“I’m not drunk.”

“I didn’t ask if you were drunk,” you say.

The corner of his mouth lifts slightly, like he’s amused. “A few hours,” he says. “I’m fine.”

You look at him and you think: no, you’re not. You think it with the sort of knowledge that comes from knowing him, how he gets during these destructive episodes of his. He’s strung out in a way that has nothing to do with the drinks he’s obviously had. There’s a tension in him that he’s wearing through the casualness of his posture, visible if you know where to look. Around his eyes. The way he’s holding his shoulders. He looks exhausted in a way that sleep won’t fix.

You know his schedule. You shouldn’t, not anymore, and sometimes it’s not like you go looking for it, but it’s hard to escape it when his face is plastered all over billboards and every bit of news mentions his name or the band in some way or another. You know they have a few days in Seoul before Japan. The MADE tour’s shadow is still behind them, and now they’re doing this 10th year anniversary tour that carries its own expectations and pressure to perform on stage and in front of cameras. You know Seunghyun’s military service is coming. You know Jiyong has his solo tour next, then the last stretch with the other three before his own enlistment. That is a particular clock ticking in the background that you’ve tried hard not to think about.

You know all this and he has never once, not tonight or in any of the nights that came before this, asked you a single thing about your life.

Not about your work, not about where you’ve been, not about who you’ve become in the two years since the relationship ended. He only reaches out to you when he needs you. You have thought about this before. You are thinking about it now, still standing in his entryway with your jacket and purse still on.

“I was cooking dinner,” you say. “I had dinner plans with Minjun.”

“There’s food here,” he gestures toward the containers on the coffee table. “Or we can order something.”

He does this too. He hears Minjun’s name and just steps around it, like he never heard the word. He has never asked about him, who he is, what he does. The only reason Jiyong knows he exists at all is because you told him last year. I have a boyfriend now, I can’t keep doing this. He’d only looked at you for a long moment and then said: are you staying? You had stayed.

“I had plans and you texted,” you say. “Why?”

“I already told you. I needed to see you,” he says. And then, “The plans couldn’t have been that important. You’re here.”

Minjun is not important, because look. You’re here.

You hear it clearly. You turn back toward the door, ready to leave.

“Wait, wait, fuck. Sorry,” he says. The apology stops you because it’s a first, and because it sounds like he means it. You turn to look at him. “Can you just—Let’s have a drink. It can be coffee or whatever. Just….”

You’ve tried this before, in the beginning. When he first texted, you had come with the idea you could be civil, that you could recover something from the wreckage. A friendship, at least, because you two had been good friends once. You knew it wouldn’t be easy, but you’d tried. You’d sat with him, a drink in hand, and you’d tried. You know where it leads now. You want to tell him you can’t just sit with him. You can’t be any of the things he seems to need. Not a friend. Not a lover.

“You look terrible,” you say instead.

He laughs softly. “Well, thank you.”

“I mean it,” you say. “When did you last sleep properly?”

“Define properly.”

“Jiyong.”

“I sleep,” he says. “On the plane. Between rehearsals. During car rides.” The way he says this tells you he doesn’t register it as a problem. “Are you sure you don’t want a drink?”

“No.”

He watches you for a moment. “You’re not staying?”

You don’t answer, which is a problem, because the answer should have been an immediate no, and he of course knows it.

He crosses the room and stops in front you, close enough that you can smell him. Something warm and familiar, his perfume underneath the faint trace of alcohol. He doesn’t reach for you yet, he just stands there and looks at you and you look back. You think about your apartment, your kitchen, the man you left looking up houses for the two of you to move into together.

Say it, you think. Tell him what you came here to say and then leave.

“I’ve missed you,” he says, quietly. Honestly.

You’ve heard him say things for effect, have watched him be sweet and magnetic and deliberately, skillfully charming. You know what that looks like on him. This isn’t that. This is just him, at the end of a long day telling you something real. You hate him for it.

“Jiyong—”

“I know what you’re going to say. I know, okay?” He reaches up then, his hand finding the strap of your purse on your shoulder. He doesn’t take it, he just leaves his hand there. “I wasn’t going to text you. I sat here, thinking about it for three hours before I did.”

“Then you know—”

“Stay,” he says. “Just—Stay for a while.”

The city glitters behind him through all that glass. You think about the drive over, the decision that this time would be different. You then think about how many times you’ve stood here, different versions of the same moment, and how it has always, without exception, gone the same way. You don’t move.

“Stay,” he says again, softer this time.

His hand on your shoulder is warm through your jacket. You think about stepping back. You see it in your mind: one step to create distance, then you say what you came here to say, you make him understand why this is the last time. You know that’s what needs to be done. The gap between knowing and doing it has been the problem all along.

“You look tired,” you say, because it’s true and because it’s easier to say than other things. Up close like this, the exhaustion is more obvious than when he was across the room. It’s his schedule, all the pressure. You know what the version of Jiyong that the world gets costs the version standing in front of you now.

“I am tired.”

“Then sleep, Jiyong.”

“I can’t sleep,” he says. “I haven’t been able to since—There’s too much noise in my head. That’s why I needed to see you. You always know when something’s wrong. I don’t have to explain anything to you. You just—You help quiet my mind.”

You think about telling him that this isn’t the comfort he thinks it is. Knowing him well has come at a cost, and his words only make you feel pathetic, to know he’s learned that he only has to text and you’ll come. Like some service he only has to order. You don’t say any of it. You suddenly feel very tired.

“I can’t keep doing this,” you say instead. You hear the weakness in your voice and it humiliates you a little. You, who drove here so angry, who had it so clear in the car, who had the words lined up and ready.

His hand finally moves, this time it lifts the strap of your purse off your shoulder. He sets it down on the console table beside you. Then his fingers find the lapel of your jacket and he pauses for a second, like he’s waiting, giving the opportunity to stop him.

You don’t stop him.

He pushes the jacket back off your shoulders and you let him. When it’s gone you feel strangely vulnerable, exposed. The jacket and purse you’d kept on as if to say I’m only here for a moment, I’m not staying is now somewhere on the floor behind you. All that cold resolve from the drive. Gone.

“Stay,” he says for the third time. And then, almost a whisper: “Please.”

His mouth finds your jaw, your temple, the soft spot below your ear that makes you shiver, and you close your eyes.

You think about your car parked downstairs in the private garage, about the doorman who knows your face and barely meets your eyes anymore, who can probably guess what happens between your arriving and your leaving a few hours later. You think about your apartment and the smell of the dinner you didn’t get to eat and the man who told you to drive safe. You think about the excuse you gave him and the ease with which the lie came.

You think about the last time you said this was the last time and the time before that.

And then you think about how his hands feel warm and familiar, and how this part has always felt, underneath everything, underneath the history and the damage, like something true. Despite all the lies told to get here, once you’re here, once his hands are on you, this feels like relief. You’ve realized long before tonight, that this is part of why you keep coming back, and also why it’s a problem. The fact that it’s so addictive has already cost you so much.

Later the relief will turn into shame. Later you’ll go to your apartment and eventually into your new life in another country with a man who has never given you a reason to lie to him. You’ll carry the shame like you’ve carried the guilt.

But right now, you stop thinking.

You stop thinking and you let yourself have this. That is the only honest way to put it: you let yourself. No one is forcing you. You have never been passive in this, not once. The wanting has always been mutual and the choice to come here has always been yours.

His hands know you, which is what undoes the last of your resistance. There’s no fumbling, no uncertainty, not the awkward navigation of someone learning what you like. He just knows and so you let him take you to his bedroom where he finishes undressing you before pushing you back onto the bed.

He makes you come twice with his mouth and his fingers. He doesn’t draw this part out, he does all the things that get you off fast. His mouth over your clit, his fingers inside you, curled and steady as he fucks you with them. When he finally crawls over you, you pull him down to lick his lips, tasting yourself on them, before opening your mouth for a kiss.

Your hands go to his clothes next, quickly pulling off his shirt before going to his belt. Then the button, the zipper, your eyes on him as you pull his jeans and boxers down, letting him help you. Finally undressed you push him back and he goes easily, pulling a pillow under his head so he can watch as you move down his body.

You lick a trail down, your tongue tracing the tattoo on his side and then the two small x’s tattooed around his belly button. He’s breathing hard even before you take his cock in your hand and you look up and hold his gaze. You let your cheek brush against the side of his cock, feeling the heat, the weight of him against your skin. He makes a sound, a choked exhale. You’ve missed this, you realize. His body. His smell, how warm he is.

You turn your head and place your lips against the base, just a soft closed mouthed kiss. Then you trace upwards with your mouth, lips slightly parted along the length, until you get to the head of his cock. Still meeting his eyes, you open your mouth and take him inside. Your tongue flattens against the underside, applying more pleasure at the head of his cock, where he is most sensitive. You let saliva gather, wetting him thoroughly, making the glide easier, and because Jiyong has always liked this to be messy.

You take him deeper, your lips stretching to accommodate his girth, and then you begin to move. You focus on the rhythm, the in and out motion, varying the pressure on each retreat, sucking firmly, then relaxing so that your mouth is just a soft, wet sheath. You keep one hand on his lower belly, the other gripping the base of his cock, your thumb stroking the sensitive skin there.

His breathing becomes ragged, his hips twitch, a tiny involuntary thrust. You take it, you allow him that little bit of control. When you look up at him, his eyes are locked on yours. Still looking at him, you pull back until just the tip of his cock rests in your mouth. You suckle at it, your tongue flicking over the slit. He groans, head falling back for a moment before he forces to keep looking at you.

You dive down again, taking him as far as you can until your nose is pressed into the skin of his lower abdomen. You hold him there, letting the stretch of your jaw, the press of him against the back of your throat, become the only thing you can think about. You retreat, almost completely, before taking him all the way inside your mouth once more. You set a faster pace now, the wet, obscene sounds filling the room. Despite coming twice already, your own pleasure rises. It’s the power of this act, the way you can unravel him with your mouth, the way he tries and fails to keep still.

When he pushes his hips up and holds the back of your head to keep you still, you let him. He pushes hard against the back of your throat and you moan until your eyes water and he finally lets you go. You tighten your lips as you pull back, the suction pulling a ragged cry from his mouth.

You bob your head, keep the head of his cock in your mouth, intent on letting him finish, but with his fingers tangled in your hair he pushes you back. “Stop—fuck.,” he says, his voice rough.

You release home with a soft, wet pop. “You don’t want to come in my mouth?”

He groans, closes his eyes for a second, then opens his eyes. His hand is gentle on your hair. “I want to fuck you.”

You kiss his thigh, a damp open mouthed kiss, before moving to straddle him. You shift, reaching over to the bedside table to get a condom.

He grabs your hand. “Can we—without?”

You pause and stare at him.

“You’re on the pill, right?” he asks. You nod. “Please. I miss you. I want to feel you.”

You are hopelessly defenseless to Jiyong looking at you like this, saying please, wanting something you crave as well.

You wrap one hand around his length and then you lift yourself enough to guide him. Your pussy is swollen, glistening, still wet that when the broad head of his cock nudges against your entrance, it meets no resistance, only a silken, welcoming heat. You sink down, slowly, inch by inch, as you watch his face. Your lips part on a shaky exhale, your head falling back at the sensation. You can feel your inner walls stretching to accommodate him, your pussy clutching his cock tightly.

His hands move to your breasts, his fingers toying with your nipples, pinching you gently. The pleasure-pain has you clenching around him.

“Jiyong,” you gasp.

And then you begin to move. A shameless, hungry rocking that is all for your own pleasure. Your eyes are squeezed shut, your mouth slightly open, each breathy exhale a testament to the sensation of having him inside you again. He lets you set the pace, his hands roaming your body, first holding the curve of your waist, then resting on your thighs to feel your movements, before grabbing your ass.

Minutes pass in a haze of wet sounds and stifled groans. You can feel yourself getting close again, the pressure beginning to coil low and urgent.

“Let me watch,” he moans.

You know what he wants. You shift your weight back, planting your feet flat on the bed, bracing yourself on your arms behind you. The new angle makes his breathing falter because like this, he can see everything.

Like this, he can see where your bodies are joined. The way your slick folds part around his cock with each slow downward grind. The way your juices have his cock glistening in the low light. Jiyong has always loved how wet you get, the mess that sex can be, messy and loud, and so, so good. The angle drives him deeper. You lose yourself in it, in the slick drag and the way he fills you with his cock with each movement, the way the head of his cock keeps dragging over a spot inside you that has you moaning with every thrust.

Your control breaks when a particular thrust hits that spot with enough precision and just the perfect amount of pressure that you let out a loud cry. “Yeah,” you moan. “Right there. Fuck me—Just like that—”

His hands are on your thighs, his eyes between your legs where he’s fucking you, and you feel your inner muscles begin to flutter, a frantic rhythmic pulsing around his cock. You’re close. “Touch me,” you tell him.

Bringing his thumb to his mouth, he wets it thoroughly, his eyes never leaving where your bodies are joined. Then he brings his thumb to your clit and begins to circle it with firm, insistent pressure.

“Oh, fuck!” Your hips stutter, losing their rhythm, becoming frantic jerking motions as you chase your orgasm.

“That’s it,” he says, watching your face now. “Fuck yourself on my cock.”

Your cries grow louder, uninhibited, as you do exactly that. You know what you must look like, coming apart above him as you work yourself on his cock with mindless abandon. But there is no shame, there are no thoughts about why this is wrong, there is only the mind numbing pleasure he gives you. The way his cock feels as it plunges into your wet, gripping heat.

A powerful, shuddering contraction seizes you, so tight it’s almost painful, and then you’re coming. Your pussy clamps down on him, a series of hard, rhythmic pulses that have him cursing under you, one hand between your legs, the other holding you steady as you keep moving. You shift to your earlier position and you keep moving, riding him through the aftershocks, prolonging your orgasm with every grind of your hips.

He groans your name and then he thrusts up into you, once, twice, and then he buries himself to the hilt as he comes. Heat floods you as his cock pulses, and you open your eyes to watch him. The sensation of him coming inside you makes you moan and you clench your pussy around him, over and over again, knowing what it does to him, wanting to feel every pulse of it.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He has his head thrown back, his eyes closed, completely lost in the pleasure of his orgasm.

You rotate your hips, you clamp down on him on every grind, milking every last drop of cum from him until his whole body shudders beneath you. He says your name and finally stills.

You shift a little, full of cum, utterly content, and you let yourself collapse forward, your sweat slick body plastered against his chest and your head tucked under his chin. For those blissful moments, you simply listen to the frantic hammering of his heart under your ear, a perfect echo of your own.

For a few moments you lie there, his arm around you, and you simply forget.

And then he moves his hand to the back of your head, tilts your face up towards his, and he lowers his mouth towards yours. It’s then the spell breaks. Clean and sudden as a switch. The warmth drains out of the room so fast it makes you shiver.

You move first.

You sit up to find your things. The guilt arrives even before you pick up the first piece of clothing. You think of your boyfriend’s face when he said drive safe, the trust in his eyes as you added another lie to the mountain of lies you’ve told him. The dinner on the stove. The houses on the laptop he was showing you. You think of all that and how you are here, in this room, putting your clothes on, because you’ve been here doing what you said you wouldn’t do.

You finish dressing. You don’t look at Jiyong. You hear the nightstand drawer, then the click of a lighter.

When you do look, he’s exactly as you knew he’d be. He’s sitting up against the headboard, one knee bent, cigarette between his fingers, watching you with an expression you can’t quite decipher. The smoke curls up toward the ceiling and he tracks you with his eyes and says nothing. Something about the way he’s watching you without saying anything unsettles you and you turn away.

“This was the last time,” you say.

He exhales smoke.

“You’ve said that before,” he replies.

The tone makes you bristle. It’s not cruel, which probably makes it worse. It’s just Jiyong making an observation. You’ve said this so many times that it has lost its capacity to surprise him. To pull any reaction from him. It’s like he has filed your words away under things she says but doesn’t really mean. It makes you feel like you have no real power here, in whatever this thing between you is.

Anger and humiliation move through you. You turn and look at him again. He meets your eyes as he takes another drag of the cigarette.

“I mean it this time,” you say.

He looks at you for a moment. Then he taps ash off the end of the cigarette. “Okay.”

The way he says it like whatever you say only anger you further. You know he’s only acting on what past history has taught him. You’ve stood in this very same bedroom multiple times telling him the same thing and yet you’re here. Just a few minutes ago he was inside you.

“This was the last time, Jiyong,” you say it again. You realize you’re not repeating it to convince him, but because you need to hear yourself say it like you mean it. He only watches you through the smoke, but doesn’t say anything.

You go to the ensuite and you quickly clean yourself as best as you can, all the while avoiding looking in the mirror. You don’t want to see what you look like.

When you come out again, he’s up, having put on his jeans, shirtless, cigarette still in his hand. You don’t say anything as you walk out of the bedroom into the expanse of the penthouse. You start moving toward the door, feeling him follow at a distance. You find your jacket on the floor and you pick it up. You retrieve your phone from one of the pockets and you check it with your back to him.

One message from your boyfriend. Sent thirty minutes ago.

Hope it’s not too bad. Let me know when you’re heading back.

You read it once and you stop yourself from crying. Putting your phone back in the pocket of your jacket, you put it on. You take a breath.

“I want you to stop texting me,” you say. Your back is still to him. “No more calls. No more—” you gesture at the air. “Whatever tonight was. It needs to stop.”

He’s silent for a moment and then: “You always say that too.”

You turn around.

He’s leaning against a doorway, cigarette held loosely between two fingers. You look at him and you think about what you’ve been carrying all evening like a stone in your pocket, something heavy and final, something a part of you didn’t want to say, but that you knew it would be necessary for him to understand this is over.

“He asked me to marry him,” you say.

Jiyong is still. He looks at you like you’ve said something in a language he doesn’t understand.

“When?” he asks.

“Three weeks ago.”

Something moves across his expression at your answer. He takes a drag of the cigarette and then, with the absolute certainty of someone who hasn’t considered the alternative, he says: “And you said no, of course.”

You cannot blame him entirely for the assumption. You’ve come every time he’s texted, every time he’s called. You’ve kept that door open with your own hands. But it also angers you that he sees you as someone who apparently doesn’t get to belong to someone else. You’re just someone he calls when the noise gets too loud, when he wants to fuck. You’re nothing more than some service he needs.

“I said yes,” you say.

The cigarette stops halfway to his mouth.

The expression that crosses his face is not something you’ve seen on him before. You’ve seen Jiyong jealous before, it tends to run hot, and tends to express itself as something close to anger. This isn’t that, or at least it’s more than that. He seems, you think, disoriented, like the ground has shifted beneath his feet. For a moment he just looks at you, then the expression disappears. Like he’s shut some door before he can show more of his feelings.

“Congratulations,” he says, the word coming out fat.

You turn away.

“I mean it.” He doesn’t mean it. He pushes off the doorway, moves into the main room, and stubs the cigarette out in the ashtray on the coffee table. He picks up the glass with liquor in it and he drinks it. He doesn’t look at you while he does this. “Where did he propose? Somewhere nice, I’m sure. Somewhere thoughtful.” Pure disdain drips on the last word. “He seems like someone who does things properly.”

Something about his words don’t sit right with you, but you can’t quite pinpoint what’s wrong until he speaks again.

“His job is very boring, by the way.”

You stare at him.

“Did you—what the fuck, Jiyong. Did you have him investigated?”

He pours another glass. “Yeah.”

“You had my boyfriend—”

“Fiance,” he corrects you.

“—investigated.” You feel yourself go hot with anger. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Don’t worry,” he says. “He’s squeaky clean. No record. Nothing that could embarrass you. Just very boring.” He drinks the whole content from the glass in one go. “So what, like—” he goes to pour another one. “You’re moving in together now? You’re going to be a proper little wife?”

You’re angry and he’s being purposely mean. You almost don’t give an answer. But then you do. “He got a job offer abroad. I’m going with him.”

Something tightens in his jaw. “Ah, I see why you came here tonight.”

“What—”

The smile that appears on his face is one you’ve never liked. “The timeline, I get it now. Three weeks ago he asks you to marry him, you say yes, you agree to move abroad—” He gestures at the air, toward the bedroom. “And tonight you’re here. One last visit. Is he that boring in bed?”

“You need to stop drinking,” you say. “It makes you an asshole.”

He laughs. “I’m not drunk.” And then, looking at you. “Does he smell me on you when you get home? You never go home and spread your legs for him after spreading them for me here? I just find it very hard to believe a man can’t tell when his girlfriend has spent the evening being fucked by someone else.”

The room goes very still. Very quiet.

You look at him and you can see it on his face that he knows what he just said. His expression breaks for a fraction of a second. He almost winces at his own words, but then he holds your gaze and he doesn’t take it back. You know him well enough to know cruelty is a reflex. That he’s been shaken, that he’s upset. You know this, but your anger is greater.

“That’s a disgusting thing to say,” you tell him.

That brief moment of awareness, of knowing he should stop, disappears. “It’s just something I’ve been wondering about.” He sets the glass down on the table, then moves toward you, slowly. “So you leave here, you go back to him, you sleep in the same bed, and he just—”

“Stop talking.”

“—doesn’t notice, or doesn’t want to notice, maybe he just—”

“I said stop.”

“Or maybe you don’t let him touch you on the nights you come to me?” You try not to react to the words, but something must cross your face because you see the change in his expression. He almost looks pleased. “Ah, I see.” He’s close now, enough that you feel the warmth of his body. “You don’t, huh?” And then: “Does he get you off when you do? Does he know how?”

You should leave. You look up at him.“Yes,” you say it to wound him. “He’s good at it.”

“And yet, you’re here,” he says. He lifts one hand to touch your face and you slap it away. He grabs your wrist, keeps you close when you try to step back. “Which tells me he doesn’t know you the way I do. Doesn’t make you feel what I do.” A pause. “Does he know how loud you get when you get your pretty ass fucked?”

You feel anger, but then there’s also heat. It travels straight to your core. You try to step back, put some distance between you, he doesn’t let you. He pulls you against him and you push him back. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t—”

You push against his chest. He doesn't move. You push again, harder, and you struggle and pull and somewhere in the middle of it you’re also gripping his arms, your nails pressing in, holding on instead of pushing away.

Then he turns you around, your back to his chest, movements rough and pins your hands to the wall as he whispers against your ear. “The filth that comes out of your mouth when my cock is inside your ass—”

“Stop.”

“—he’s never heard it, has he? He’s never heard you beg for his cock?”

He’s always pretended not to hear Minjun’s name, has stepped around it like it wasn’t there, as if refusing to acknowledge the name kept the man from being real. Now, he won’t shut up about him. It should anger you, the way he’s talking. And it does anger you, it brings you shame, and yet you feel the way your body is reacting.

“I can’t—Jiyong, we can’t—” you try weakly. You hear how unconvincing you sound.

He lets go of your hands and grabs your hips, pulls you against him. He’s hard underneath the denim and you push back, wanting to feel him.

That’s all it takes.

You don’t know who moves first. You only know that when he works your jeans down you don’t fight back. You’re already bending over, your hands finding the edge of a console table as he pulls your panties to the side. Positioning yourself. Wanting.

You feel him behind you, opening his jeans. Then you feel the head of his cock dragging between your folds, feeling how wet you are. He pushes inside to the hilt and you cry out. Your pussy clamps down on him and he doesn’t give you a moment to breathe.

Before was need. Before was the relief of having something you both had missed. This is not that. This is fast and graceless and there is something almost punishing in it. Not violence, even if it’s rough. It’s anger with nowhere to go. Only hunger stripped of everything soft.

He tangles one hand on your hair, the other stays at your hip to steady you. He fucks you hard enough that you have to put a hand on the wall to keep from slamming your head against it, the other on the console table for balance. Your jeans are halfway down your legs so you can't spread them to give him more room. It keeps your body tight and it amplifies the pleasure of his cock pushing into you.

After a moment with his hand tangled in your hair, he pulls you back. He kisses the side of your face, open mouthed kisses, then finds a spot on your neck and bites. Brief, but painful, and you cry out. He soothes the bite with his tongue, sucks on the red mark, and you try to pull away then. You never allow him to mark you. Never.

He pulls you close again, forces you to turn your face towards him. You bite his lip. Angry. And so fucking turned on you hate yourself for it. He grunts against your mouth and kisses you anyway, hard, and you taste blood, his or yours, you can't tell. His hand slides from your jaw to your throat. He doesn’t squeeze, just holds, just enough pressure to make your thoughts dissolve. Your body clutches around him like a fist and he groans against your neck.

This time, he comes first. You feel it, the shudder that moves through him, the way he presses deep to fill you up. You moan at the feeling, your body already moving to take what it needs while he's still hard. You're close, close enough that another minute would do it, and you brace your hand against the wall and begin to move—

“My wedding gift for Minjun.”

The words land like icy water. Before you can react, he pulls back so suddenly you stumble, one hand catching the wall to keep yourself upright. Your body protests, the sharp frustrated ache of being so close and then nothing, and right alongside it, the humiliation. Hot and nauseating.

You turn and look at him shocked.

He’s already tucking himself back into his pants, away from you. Your hands are trembling as you reach down to pull your underwear and jeans up.

“You’re fucking disgusting,” you say.

“Maybe,” his tone is flat. “I’m not the one with a fiance and another man’s cum running down my leg, though.”

“Fuck you.”

“Just did,” he says.

The juvenile answer only serves to fan your anger. You feel, standing there, fixing your clothes with shaky fingers, like something has been taken from you. Not by him, really. By the version of yourself that promised not to come here and still did when he texted. By this horrible, relentless sickness that pulls you towards him even when you want to move the opposite away.

You feel tears burn behind your eyes. From the corner of your eye, you see him wipe a hand over his face. You hear him say fuck under his breath. You know Jiyong. You know him so well you know he’s regretting what he’s just done, the line he crossed with his words. But his regret comes in after the damage like someone arriving late to a fire. It doesn’t change anything.

“Look—” he starts.

You don’t listen. You are furious. And underneath the fury you are ashamed in a way you’ve never been before, because he’s right. You’re the one with a fiance. You’re the one who has been choosing to come here. Again and again.

He might be speaking again, but you tune it out. You pick up your purse. Without looking at him, you start moving again towards the entrance.

“What—” he is right behind you. “So you’re just going to leave now? Really? You’re going back to him.”

You don’t answer, you keep walking, thinking: just get to the door. Just get to the door and then you’re done.

“Don’t walk away from me,” he says.

You stop walking. You don’t turn around just yet, you simply stand in the middle of his living room, and you breathe. You think about the door which is less than twenty feet away. You could cover that in seconds if you walk fast and don’t look back.

But his words have somehow hit an old wound. “I’m not the one that walked away, Jiyong.”

You start walking. He catches you, one hand on your wrist that you push away.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he asks.

“It means,” you start, “that we are in this fucking mess because of you. You walked away first.” He looks at you and you can’t read his expression. “I might have been the one to say we needed to end things back then, but you’re the one who wanted it. You pulled away. You—” Your voice is steady. You’re almost surprised by how steady it is. “I barely saw you at the end. You would disappear. You wouldn’t talk to me. There was always something going on that needed your attention first. And I tried to understand. I knew you were busy with the album. But even when you had time, you wouldn’t see me. You gave me so many excuses until I finally realized what you were doing. You wanted me to end it. Your absurd belief that men shouldn’t end things, they shouldn’t be the ones breaking hearts.” You laugh, you swallow past the lump in your throat. “What did you think you were doing pushing me away?”

He doesn’t say anything, he just looks at you.

“I ended things. I gave you the freedom you wanted. Then, the next day Youngbae called me. He said you were miserable. He said I should talk to you. And I—” you stop, but then you decide to say it. “I missed you so much. Just after one day, I missed you so much that I let it get my hopes up. I thought maybe I'd read it wrong. I thought maybe I'd made a mistake, that maybe you still—"

He knows what comes next. You can see it in his face.

“I came to see you. I wanted to fix things. And I walked in here and you were fucking someone else. One day, Jiyong. You didn’t even wait one whole day.”

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t deny pushing you away. And you wait. You wait the way you’ve been waiting, you realize, for two years, for something that explains it, that reframes it, so that it lessens the hurt. You remember that day. The pain of seeing him with someone. The humiliation.

“You said you were here just to pick up some of your things,” he says, finally.

You laugh, mirthless. “Did you want me to tell you I loved you and wanted to fix things while you pulled your pants up?” You pause, then: “Did you even love me?”

He doesn’t answer. The silence is enough of an answer for you.

You always thought if you ever asked him this, if you ever brought up the hurt he caused you, that you would feel like something was resolved. Instead, it just feels like wasted years of your life. And you feel smaller, somehow, pathetic.

“I’m leaving,” you say. “Don’t contact me again.”

His hand closes around your arm.

Not violently, not with force. Just his hand on your arm, stopping you, the way he’s stopped you many times before when you tried to leave. Every time, that contact did something to you. It made you pause, it gave him the opening to push, to bring down your walls.

Not this time.

You are hurt in a way you think you weren’t even that night you walked in on him here, on the couch, fucking someone else. You are angry and humiliated.

You pull your arm back. He doesn’t let go, so you pull harder.

“Let go of me.”

“Just—”

“Let go.”

“No. You can’t just—”

What happens next is brief and ugly.

You pull your arm free and your hand comes up. It doesn’t feel like a conscious decision. It’s your body reacting, doing something before your mind has caught up. Your palm connects with the side of his face. The sound of it is awful. Your hand stings. He steps back, more from surprise than from the impact. And then he grabs your wrist and you pull away again.

“Just stop. Listen—” he tries to say.

You don’t want to hear it. “Let go. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t—Let go of me.”

You struggle. He speaks, you don’t hear it. Your nails drag down his neck. And then his hands are on your shoulders and he shoves you, not hard but hard enough, and your back hits the wall behind you. Your shoulder catches on the edge of something and it hurts. You almost go down. You catch yourself.

You are both breathing hard. The penthouse is completely silent. Even the music that was playing before has stopped, or you’ve stopped being able to hear it, the hammering of your heart drowning it out. You look at him and he looks at you.

There is a scratch on the side of his neck, a thin dark line. His chest is rising and falling. His eyes are—

It takes a moment to understand what you’re seeing. His eyes are wet. You think is he doing to cry?, but you don’t know, you can’t tell if what’s in them is anger or pain, or both, or something else, and you realize it doesn’t matter.

What matters is the line that's just been crossed and that you cannot take it back.

You stand with your back against the wall and you breathe. Unexpectedly, you think about being happy with Jiyong. You think about the beginning, the months where you were inseparable, when it was good. And it was good. He might not have loved you by the end, maybe he never loved you at all, but he cared. You know this. You cannot be wrong about this. He made you happy. He made you so happy that you understand why you held on to those memories, even after it ended. Why, for two years, you have allowed those memories to pull you back in, time and time again.

Now you understand that those memories happened to two people who no longer exist in the present. You understand what they have cost you. Your ability to be honest. Your ability to look your boyfriend in the eye without shame. A version of yourself that you could respect.

You look at Jiyong.

“I hate you,” you say. Your voice doesn’t shake. The words are quiet and they feel true at this time. “I hate what I’ve become.” You take a breath. “I wish we’d never met.”

The last sentence does something to his face that you weren’t prepared for. Not anger, not the defensive cruelty of earlier. He just looks devastated. Like he finally understands that this time is different from all the other times when you’d say this is the last time and still found yourself here after a while.

You force yourself to look away. You pick up your purse from the floor where it fell. You straighten your jacket. Your shoulder aches, but you don’t touch the tender spot.

You walk toward the door. You put your shoes on.

You don’t look back.

He doesn’t stop you.

In the small mirrored elevator on the way down you look at your own face and you think:

this is the last time.

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