Bully || Jeon Jungkook

The morning unfolded beneath a pale grey sky, the sun hidden behind drifting clouds that softened the light but did nothing to warm the air. A restless wind moved through the campus trees, shaking loose dry leaves that scraped across the pathways and gathered near staircases like forgotten thoughts. Students arrived in clusters, voices blending into the familiar hum of another ordinary college day — laughter, complaints about assignments, hurried footsteps echoing through corridors that smelled faintly of dust, coffee, and floor cleaner.

Inside the main building, warmth settled heavily against the glass windows, but comfort never fully reached the hallways. Not when tension lived there permanently, woven into routines and expectations. People learned quickly which routes to take, when to stay quiet, and who never to cross paths with.

Jeon Jungkook walked through the corridor without urgency, his pace slow enough to force others to move around him. His boots struck the tiled floor with steady weight, each sound deliberate, unbothered by the conversations that gradually lowered as he passed. A dark hoodie hung loosely over his broad shoulders, sleeves pushed slightly back to reveal strong wrists marked faintly by old bruises that never seemed to fade completely. The silver piercing at his lip caught the overhead lights whenever he turned his head, flashing briefly like a warning no one dared ignore.

He wasn’t searching for anyone in particular. Mornings bored him more than anything else — predictable schedules, predictable faces, predictable fear. People avoided eye contact, pretending not to notice him while noticing him more than anything else around them. It had stopped amusing him long ago.

Until something familiar caught his attention.

A boy stood near the lockers ahead, frantically trying to shove a textbook into an overstuffed bag. He was small, Round face, his posture already defeated by the mere weight of the atmosphere. Jungkook’s eyes narrowed, a predatory glint igniting in his dark pupils.

He remembered this one. The same boy Jungkook had cornered the previous week. The boy had been 'useful', providing a solid three minutes of entertainment before he’d broken into hysterics.

As if sensing danger, the boy looked up — and froze. Fear flooded his expression so quickly it almost felt rehearsed. His eyes widened, shoulders stiffening before instinct took over and he turned sharply, attempting to disappear into the passing crowd.

Jungkook didn't run. He didn't have to. A faint, almost thoughtful smile curved his mouth.

With a few long, predatory strides, He closed the distance easily and without hesitation his hand shot forward, grabbing the back of the boy’s collar. He twisted his fist into the fabric, lifting the boy onto his toes so that the collar cut deep into his windpipe. The boy made a wet, gagging sound, his heels drumming uselessly against the floor.

“Leaving already?” Jungkook whispered, his voice a terrifyingly calm contrast to the boy's panicked gasping.

The boy gasped, panic clear as he struggled to breath. “I—I didn’t see you—I have class—”

Jungkook tilted his head slightly, studying him as though inspecting something mildly disappointing and then he slammed the boy back against the metal lockers. The boom echoed like a gunshot, silenced the entire hallway. Jungkook didn't let go. He leaned in, his face inches from the boy's glasses, which were now crooked and sliding down a sweat-slicked nose.

"You're shaking," Jungkook observed, his thumb tracing the boy's jawline with a touch that was sickeningly gentle before he suddenly gripped the boy's chin, forcing his mouth open. "Stop it. It's pathetic."

He ripped the backpack away with such violence that one of the straps snapped. Instead of just dumping it, Jungkook began to methodically destroy the contents. He took a heavy hardback textbook and used the spine to smash the boy’s glasses off his face, watching them skitter across the floor. Then, he emptied the bag.

Students nearby slowed, attention drawn despite their attempts to appear uninvolved. A circle formed gradually.

Books hit the floor first when he flipped the bag upside down, heavy thuds breaking the hallway noise. Papers scattered everywhere, sliding across tiles under careless footsteps. Pens rolled away, disappearing beneath lockers. A lunchbox cracked open on impact, spilling its contents across the ground.

Jungkook picks a juice bottle and pour the drink directly over the boy’s head. He held the boy’s head back by his hair, forcing him to watch as the sticky, orange liquid soaked through hair, glasses and into his expensive, white sneakers—the only nice thing the boy seemed to own. Then, Jungkook emptied a container of leftover pasta directly into the boy's lap, the red sauce staining his pants like an ugly, mocking wound.

The boy let out a broken sound but jungkook didn’t stop there.

He grabbed a chips packet next, ripping it open lazily before emptying its contents over him as well while Jungkook observed with detached fascination.

"You look like a car crash," Jungkook laughed, the sound cold and devoid of any real humanity. "A messy, walking disaster. Is this how your mother sends you out? Or do you just enjoy looking like trash?"

The boy was sobbing now, a broken, rhythmic sound that only seemed to irritate Jungkook. He reached down, picking up a fallen pen, and with a sudden, jagged movement he dragged the plastic tip hard across the boy’s cheek, leaving a red, angry welt.

"Don't leak on my floor," Jungkook spat.

As the boy collapsed into the heap of his ruined life, Jungkook didn't just kick him. He planted his boot firmly on the boy’s chest and pushed, pinning him to the ground like an insect. He applied pressure, watching the boy struggle for breath. When the boy tried to stand, Jungkook shoved him back down with one hand against his shoulder, casual yet firm enough to send him collapsing again. Frustration flickered briefly across Jungkook’s face — not anger, just impatience — and when boredom returned, he ended it the same way he ended most things.

With a final, sharp shove of his foot against the boy’s ribs—a blow intended to leave a deep, purple mark for weeks.

Jungkook stepped over him and rolling his shoulders once as though shaking off leftover energy, hands slipping back into his pockets, the crowd parting like a sea of ghosts, none of them daring to breathe until he was gone. Silence followed behind him like a shadow. The entire incident faded from his thoughts almost immediately; it had served its purpose — a brief distraction from monotony — nothing more.

He was rounding the corner toward the north wing, his mind already drifting to his next cigarette, when he collided with someone. The impact jarred him, snapping his head forward.

His eyes flashed with a lethal heat as he reached out, his hands clamping onto the person's shoulders with enough force to bruise. He was ready to tear whoever it was apart—until he saw you.

The anger didn't vanish; it morphed into something sharper, a focused, bitter intensity. His fingers dug into your coat, pulling you an inch closer than was strictly necessary.

"Of course," he hissed, his voice low and vibrating with a dangerous edge. "The campus shadow. You’re always lurking right where you don't belong, aren't you, {{user}}?"

He looked you up and down, his gaze lingering on your eyes, searching for the fear he’d just harvested from the boy in the hallway. If he didn't find enough of it, he simply tightened his grip on your arm until the bone felt the pressure.

"You saw that, didn't you? The little performance?" He tilted his head, a cruel, lopsided smirk pulling at the silver in his lip.

But as he stared into your eyes, the smirk didn't reach his own. Instead, a familiar, toxic heat began to coil in his gut—a friction he couldn't explain. Every time you were near, the air felt too thick to breathe; you represented a softness, a quiet resilience that made the jagged edges of his own soul feel dull and useless. He hated that you made him feel anything other than the cold, iron-clad boredom he cultivated so carefully.

His grip on your arm tightened past the point of intimidation, his knuckles turning white as he ground his thumb into the sensitive skin above your wrist.

"What's that look for?" he snarled, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating with a genuine, sudden venom. "You think you’re better than him? You think because you’re standing here, looking at me like I’m some kind of monster, that you’re safe?"

The more you stayed silent, the more his irritation flared into a blinding white noise. He shoved you backward, not caring that your heels skidded on the floor, until your spine hit the brick wall of the alcove with a sickening thud. Before you could gasp, his hand was there, slamming against the wall beside your head, his other hand flying up to catch your jaw in a vice-like grip.

"I asked you a question," he hissed, his eyes searching yours with a desperate, angry intensity. He hated the way your scent clouded his senses, hated the way his heart hammered against his ribs—not with adrenaline, but with something far more terrifying.

In a fit of sudden, uncoordinated frustration, he jerked his hand away from your face and swiped blindly at the books you were clutching. They flew from your arms, but as he moved, the heavy silver ring on his hand caught the bridge of your nose with a sharp, metallic crack.

The sound was small, but the impact was enough to send your head snapping back against the brick.

Silence fell between you, heavy and jagged. You slumped slightly, your hands trembling as they went to your face, and then the first drop of crimson escaped. It smeared across your lip, bright and hot, followed by a steady, heavy flow that dripped onto your collar. Your breath hitched—a broken, jagged sob that signaled the arrival of pain you could no longer suppress.

Jungkook stood frozen. Usually, the sight of blood was his reward—the physical proof of his dominance. If it were the boy from the hallway, he would have laughed. He would have felt that dark, hollow satisfaction.

But looking at you, his stomach did a slow, sickening roll. The sight of the red smearing your pale skin felt like a punch to his own lungs. A foreign, searing heat rose in his chest—guilt, sharp and unwanted, clawing at his throat. He had crossed a line he didn't even know he’d drawn.

For a split second, his mask crumbled. His eyes widened, his hand twitching as if to reach out and catch the blood before it hit the floor.

Then, the iron shutters slammed back down.

He forced his expression to go stone-cold, his features resetting into a mask of bored indifference even as his pulse thundered in his ears. He couldn't let you see the crack in the armor. He couldn't acknowledge the way his hands were starting to shake.

"Look at you," he muttered, though the bite in his voice sounded forced, even to him. "Always making a mess. You’re just as clumsy as the rest of them."

He watched you sob for another heartbeat, the sound grating against his nerves because it made him want to pull you into his chest and burn the world down for hurting you—even if the world, in this case, was him.

He reached into the pocket of his hoodie, his movements jerky and uncharacteristically hesitant. He pulled out a clean, dark handkerchief. For a moment, he just held it, staring at the fabric, his jaw tight enough to snap.

He didn't hand it to you gently. He tossed it at your chest, his voice regaining that low, commanding rasp to hide the tremor underneath.

"Take it," he snapped, looking away toward the end of the hallway as if he couldn't bear to watch the blood continue to fall. "Clean yourself up. You look pathetic bleeding all over the floor. I don't want to see that stain when I walk back this way."

He stayed there, rooted to the spot, his body tense and vibrating with a suppressed energy. He didn't leave. He told himself he was waiting to make sure you didn't faint and cause more trouble, but his lingering presence was a silent, contradictory weight in the narrow hall.

"Wipe your face," he added, his tone masquerading as casual cruelty, while his eyes remained fixed on the wall, refusing to meet yours. "And don't think this means anything. I just don't want to deal with the faculty asking why there’s blood on my shoes."

When he felt he couldn’t stand there and see you hurt anymore, he turned and left immediately without looking at you, because if he stayed any longer, he might show his real feelings — something he didn’t want to reveal.

---

Next day, Jungkook was sitting at his usual table in the far corner of the canteen, his back to the wall and a clear view of the entrance. He was picking at his lunch halfheartedly, his appetite nonexistent. His mind was elsewhere, replaying the events of the previous day on a loop.

He had spent a sleepless night, tossing and turning in his bed, his thoughts consumed by a pair of ocean-blue eyes and a perfectly shaped nose tipped with a crimson drop of blood. He kept seeing it, kept hearing the sound of your sob, and each time, he felt that unfamiliar, sharp twist in his chest.

He was in a foul mood, his temper short and his patience thinner than the paper he was scrawling angry lines on. He didn't bother looking up when the lunchroom door creaked open, not bothering to see who was walking in. He didn't care. No one dared to bother him during lunch, not if they valued their limbs.

But then, he heard a familiar voice, a voice that made his spine stiffen and his jaw clench. He looked up, his eyes narrowing as he zeroed in on you and the boy from your class. What was his name? Park something or other. One of the many faceless drones that filled the school halls.

From across the canteen, he watched as you sat down with that boy at table. The boy leaned in too close for Jungkook’s liking, his hand lifting to touch your face. His fingers brushed softly against the bandage on your nose as he spoke with concern, “Are you okay, {{user}}? You should stay away from Jungkook… he bullies everyone, but he’s especially harsh with you.”

Jungkook saw you nodded, reassuring him that you were fine now — and that was enough to make something dark twist inside Jungkook’s chest. A sharp wave of anger surged through him, hot and possessive, barely contained beneath his calm expression. Who did this guy think he was… touching you like that? Acting like he had the right to care?

He was on his feet before he could think twice, his chair screeching loudly against the floor as he pushed himself up. He stalked towards you, his long strides eating up the distance between them. He saw the boy startle, saw you turn towards him with wide, frightened eyes.

He felt a thrill of satisfaction at your fear, but it was short-lived. It was replaced by a sudden, sharp surge of jealousy that made his blood run cold. He wanted to grab the boy, to throw him across the room, to make him pay for daring to touch what was...

What was what? His? No. He shook his head, trying to clear the crazy thought. He wasn't thinking straight. He couldn't be. He didn't do jealousy. He didn't do possessive. He didn't...

He stopped in front of your table, his hands gripping the edge of the plastic surface. He leaned down, his face inches from the boy's, his voice low and dangerous. "Leave," he growled, his eyes flashing with a fury that was barely contained. "Leave now, before I make you leave."

The boy paled, his eyes wide with fear. He looked at you, then back at Jungkook, and then he stood up abruptly, his chair clattering to the floor behind him. He muttered something that sounded like an apology, then he turned and fled, leaving you alone with Jungkook.

Jungkook’s hands, still resting on the table, were curled into loose fists. He could see your chest rising and falling in shallow, jagged breaths, and the sight of that small, white bandage on your nose felt like a brand against his retinas.

He hated that bandage. He hated that he was the reason for it, and he hated, even more, that someone else had dared to touch it.

"Why were you letting him touch you?" he spat out suddenly, the question bursting from him like a physical blow. His voice was a harsh friction of gravel and suppressed heat. "You just sit there? Like some stray waiting for anyone to offer a hand?"

He finally looked up, his dark eyes snapping to yours. The raw vulnerability in your expression hit him with the force of a tidal wave, momentarily stealing the air from his lungs. He wanted to reach out—his fingers actually twitched on the plastic tabletop—but the impulse terrified him. He didn’t know how to be gentle. His hands were made for breaking things, for tearing through the monotony of campus life with a jagged edge.

When you didn't answer, only looking at him with that quiet, pained resilience, his frustration boiled over.

"Answer me!" he hissed, leaning closer until the scent of his leather jacket and the faint, bitter hint of cigarette smoke clouded your space. "Does it make you feel special? Having some weak, nameless loser pity you because of what I did?"

He was trying to provoke you, trying to turn your pain into anger because anger was a language he understood. If you fought back, he could justify the storm in his chest. But your silence was a mirror, reflecting a version of himself he couldn't stand to see.

His gaze dropped to your lips, then flickered back to the bandage. The guilt he had tried to shake off the night before came back twofold, mingling with a possessiveness that felt like a chokehold.

"Stay away from them," he commanded, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur that was meant only for you. "All of them. I don't care if they're trying to be 'nice.' I don't want to see another hand on your face. Do you understand?"

He reached out then, his movements no longer jerky but predatory and slow. His fingers, calloused and cold, brushed against your jaw—not with the violence of yesterday, but with a terrifying, heavy stillness. He tilted your head up, forcing you to look at him, searching for something in your eyes that he couldn't even name.

"You're mine to break, {{user}}," he lied to himself, his voice trembling with a truth he wasn't ready to admit. "And mine to fix. No one else gets a say."