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Just a gentle reminder that the works in this corner may contain smut, yandere themes, and dark content—all intended for readers who are 18+ only. Each piece will come with its own content warnings, so if something ever feels a bit too much or uncomfortable, it's totally okay to click away. Your comfort always comes first! ♡ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ౨ৎ ‧₊ .ᐟ
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all banners and dividers were made by me! Please don’t take without asking!
"All credit goes to the original creators. I do not claim ownership of these video edits."
Masterlist unlocked!
Just a gentle reminder that the works in this corner may contain smut, yandere themes, and dark content all intended for readers who are 18+ only. Each piece will come with its own content warnings, so if something ever feels a bit too much or uncomfortable, it's totally okay to click away. Your comfort always comes first!
WEAK HERO CLASS : ONE
A quiet but deadly student takes on ruthless bullies with brains and brutal fists in a high school where survival means fighting back.
YEON SIEUN ──★
Twisted : Walking home used to be routine. Easy. Safe. Now? Every step feels like a mistake. There's this feeling that's clinging to me like a second skin that I'm not alone. That someone... is always just out of sight. (completed)
The Bystander Effect : He stepped closer again, and this time your back hit the edge of a desk. His voice came out low, slow, like a knife dragged across glass. “You stood there.” You shook your head. “No—I—” “You watched. You didn’t stop it.” (completed)
AHN SUHO ──★
The Package Deal : "Fuck,” Suho groaned, head falling forward against your chest as he bottomed out. “So fucking tight…” You cried out, the sound raw and shattering, but Sieun caught it, swallowed it with his mouth against your cheek. “Breathe,” he whispered, voice like silk. “Let him in.” (completed)
featuring : Yeon Sieun ☆
OH BEOMSEOK ──★
Word for Word : “You ever meet someone who just feels off?” you ask, stabbing your straw into a watery iced americano. Suho and Sieun trade a glance—Suho half-hidden in his hoodie, Sieun boredly tearing at his sandwich. “That Beom-seok guy?” Sieun says. (completed)
WEAK HERO CLASS : TWO
A quiet but lethal student battles ruthless bullies using sharp intellect and ruthless fists in a high school where loyalty is rare and survival demands strength.
SERIES 𝜗𝜚⋆
The Art of Breaking People - (completed)
Pretty Mouth : “You’re not leaving,” he says, voice low and dangerous, “not until we fix that mouth of yours.” (completed)
featuring : Geum Seong Je ☆
Bring A Friend : “You look so fucking pretty like this,” Seongje said, voice low . Baekjin didn’t speak at first, he just reached out brushing your hair from your face with a tenderness that made your breath catch. (completed)
featuring : Geum Seong Je ☆ Na Baekjin
Want me to tell Him? : “Want me to tell him?,” Seongje said, rising from the leather couch like a serpent uncoiling, “I mean, I think he should see what kind of girl you really are.” (completed)
featuring : Geum Seong Je ☆ Na Baekjin ☆ Park Humin
GEUM SEONG JE ──★
Pretty Little Thing : His smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. The kind that said he wasn’t seeing a person. Just… something he could get his hands on. “Well, well,” he said, voice smooth like oil over something sharp. “Didn’t know you came with accessories, Hyun-Tak.” (completed)
You made it hurt : "See?" he whispered, his voice husky but perfectly clear, devoid of real passion. "This is better. Isn't it? When you stop fighting it. It doesn't have to hurt this much. You make it hurt." You did this. Your struggle caused this pain. (completed)
NA BAEKJIN ──★
Sing for Me : “Babe,” he said, breathless, eyes wide, already rewriting the moment in his head. “I’m so sorry.” He reached for you. “Don’t fucking touch me.” Your voice didn’t sound like it belonged to you. (completed)
TRIGGER
A quiet but deadly student becomes entangled in an underground world of illegal firearms and merciless violence to survive brutal enemies in a high school where power belongs to whoever pulls the trigger first.
KANG SEONGJOON ──★
This is all you're good for : Across the room, Seongjoon stares at you with a promise in his eyes. You smile back. You did promise your dad you’d stay out of trouble. You just never promised you wouldn’t enjoy it when it found you.(completed)
featuring : Park Gyujin ☆
STUDY GROUP
a school where fists speak louder than books, a quiet student joins a brutal fight club to protect his friends and prove brains can brawl too.
MINHWAN MA ──★
Hide & Seek : Just as the metallic click of Min-Hwan’s modified gun froze her veins, a whisper “I see you” came from behind, and when she turned, he was already there. (completed)
PI HANWOOL ──★
Casualty : You didn’t know how long the lock would last. But you did know something: They were going to get in and when they did, they won’t hold back. (completed)
featuring : Minhwan Ma ☆
VIGILANTE
A model student by day and ruthless vigilante by night, he hunts down criminals the law lets slip through, delivering justice in a society where the system is broken.
KIM JIYONG ──★
You See, Baby….. : “That’s better.” Jiyong’s voice softened, but his smile stayed sharp as he twirled the knife like a toy, stepping slowly toward the bed. “You were always mine, baby. You just didn’t know it yet.” (completed)
BLOODHOUNDS S1
Two fearless young boxers team up to take down a ruthless loan shark empire, using loyalty, brutal strength, and relentless determination to protect the innocent in a world where debt destroys lives and mercy is rare.
BLOODHOUNDS S2
Two battle-hardened boxers are thrown into an even deadlier fight when a brutal underground international boxing league begins targeting them and the people they love.
YUN TAE GEOM ──★
Camera Shy : "Oh, matching." Tae-geom's voice came from somewhere above the blade. ""This for someone? Gun-woo or Woo-jin?" His hand landed on your chest. (completed)
LEE DOO YOUNG ──★
No, sweetie. None of that : "No, no, sweetie. None of that." His voice dropped to a croon, soft and implacable as a closing coffin lid. "You are gonna take this. And you're gonna swallow. Every. Last. Drop." (completed)
TOMORROW
A struggling young man’s life changes forever after a near-fatal accident leaves him caught between life and death, forcing him to work with a team of grim reapers.
PARK JOONG GIL ──★
Desperate for approval : "And here I thought hell-spawn were supposed to be difficult." Another stroke down your spine. "Turns out you're just like all the others. Desperate for approval. Desperate to be good at something." His lips brush your temple. "Even if that something is this." (completed)
ONE: HIGH SCHOOL HEROES
A group of undercover student heroes fight evil in disguise, protecting their school from dark forces in a world where courage means standing tall behind a mask.
TAXI DRIVER
A mysterious but relentless driver delivers justice with calculated moves and brutal force in a world where the law fails and revenge is the only road to redemption.
PARK SEUNGTAE ──★
Failure Has Consequences : “Ah,” he murmured, voice dark with satisfaction. “You look so good like this.” His free hand curled possessively around my hip. “So when I ask you to do something,” he whispered, his tone now hushed and dangerous. “I expect it done. Got it?" (completed)
OH HAJOON ──★
Kindness Will Get You Nowhere : “Eyes on me, love,” he whispered. You resisted. Just for a second. Then your gaze met his. Dark eyes. Unblinking. Hungry not with lust, but with power. Like he was savoring this moment, holding it between his teeth. (completed)
SWEET HOME
When a reclusive teenager moves into a crumbling apartment complex after losing his family, his lonely world descends into unimaginable horror as humans begin transforming into grotesque monsters driven by their deepest desires.
SERIES 𝜗𝜚⋆
The Anatomy of Ego - (ongoing)
Alter Ego : You learned that the worst monsters do not lurk in the dark, no they stand right in front of you. They call you pretty. They tell you to take it. And you do, because what else is there? (completed)
featuring : Cha Hyun-Su ☆ with a hint of Lee Eun-Hyuk
Fragile Ego : Danger was a pulse in the walls. Dread was the air you breathed. And Eun-hyuk, he was the god of this small, terrible universe, and you were on your knees before him, exactly where he wanted you. (completed)
featuring : Lee Eun-Hyuk ☆ with a hint of Cha Hyun-Su
I, THE EXECUTIONER
A relentless veteran detective and an ambitious rookie are pulled into a brutal manhunt when a mysterious vigilante begins executing criminals who escaped justice, turning public outrage into dangerous admiration.
PARK SUNWOO ──★
Picture Perfect : You should be happy that your friend is happy. You really should be. But there's something is off with your friend's new boyfriend. (completed)
THE WITCH: PART 1. THE SUBVERSION
follows a seemingly ordinary teenage girl whose quiet life begins to fracture when fragments of a violent past resurface, drawing dangerous forces back into her world.
THE NOBELMAN ──★
Did I? : He tilts his head, that predator's gesture, his eyes drinking in your terror like it's fine wine. "Did I?" he asks, his voice dripping with faux concern. "That sucks." He whistles. (completed)
BRAVE CITIZEN
a once-fiery boxer turned teacher fights back against injustice in her school, proving you don’t need a ring to stand up for what's right.
HAN SUGANG ──★
You Poor Thing : Being a foreign exchange student in a Korean high school isn’t just hard — it feels like a cruel social experiment. But none of that compares to Han Su-Gang. (completed)
MIDNIGHT
A sadistic serial killer stalks the city streets at night, toying with his victims in silence as he hunts a deaf woman who could expose him, turning cruelty into a deadly game of control.
DO-SIK ──★
Run, Rabbit : “If you’d just kept quiet,” he said with a smile, “this poor girl wouldn’t have to die tonight.” He looked at you then. “Run, little rabbit. I’ll give you a head start.” (completed)
"Oh, matching." Tae-geom's voice came from somewhere above the blade. ""This for someone? Gun-woo or Woo-jin?" His hand landed on your chest.
content warning - This story includes graphic violence, and themes of overstimulation. It contains explicit sexual content, including non-consensual situations, oral (f!receiving), creampie, fingering, and clit slapping. Blood is mentioned, and there are scenes involving the use of a knife (in ways it shouldn't be used), reader discretion is strongly advised.
word count : 2.1k
The bike’s engine was a chainsaw snarl between your legs, wind whipping your hair into a Medusa’s nest because the helmet was dangling off the handlebar like an afterthought. Tae-geom’s taillights bled red through the dust cloud boiling up from the desert road. You glanced back for Woo-jin and saw nothing but empty asphalt shimmering in the heat. Gone. Vanished.
Probably took a wrong turn, probably wrestling a feral cat in an alley somewhere, probably already in deeper shit than you. Which was saying something.
“Screw it,” you muttered, and twisted the throttle.
The warehouse rose out of the heat haze like a concrete tumor. You killed the engine and coasted in, your boots crunching on gravel that had never seen a landscaping crew. Tae-geom was already out of the car, unfolding himself from the driver’s seat with that slow, deliberate menace guys practice in mirrors. Built like a refrigerator that had gone to anger management and flunked out. Allen stayed in the backseat, a pale smear behind the window, probably Googling “how to dispose of a body” or whatever the hell his job was.
You parked the bike, swung your leg off. “How’s it being Baek-jung’s bitch?” you said. “Pay good? Benefits package include knee pads?” Tae-geom’s face went through a fascinating color spectrum. Red to purple to that special shade of crimson a guy gets right before he does something his lawyer will later call “a momentary lapse.”
He came at you..
You snap-kicked him in the stomach with a roundhouse that folded him like a bad hand of poker, then followed up with a right cross that turned his nose into a faucet. Blood sprayed across the dust in a Jackson Pollock pattern. You wound up for another kick, the kind that ends conversations, but your balance was a quarter-second too slow and he snagged your thigh with hands like cinder blocks.
The world spun. Sky, gravel, sky, gravel. You hit the ground hard enough to taste your own spine.
He loomed over you, boot rising for a skull-crushing stomp, the kind of move that turns memories into closed-casket funerals. You barrel-rolled left and his heel cratered the dirt where your face had been. Gravel peppered your cheek. You kipped up, cat-quick, dusting off your jacket like he’d spilled a drink on you at a bar.
“Oh, baby,” you said, wagging a finger. “You gotta move a bit quicker than that. My grandma is faster than that, and she’s been dead six years.” His nostrils flared. A bubble of blood popped. “Does your mouth do anything else but talk shit?”
He threw a punch, a big looping hay maker meant to take your head off. You read it easy. Too easy. Because it wasn’t the punch. The punch was the distraction, the magic trick, the look-over-here. His real payload was the kick that slammed into your ribs like a steel girder with a grudge.
Pain detonated up your side. You felt it in your molars. You didn’t give him time to admire his work. You closed the distance and detonated a fist into his already-ruined nose. Cartilage crunched like celery. He staggered back and you buried another one in his gut, folding him forward, setting up the grand finale like a choreographer from hell.
“Night-night, sweet prince.”
Your foot connected with his groin with the kind of precision that would make a neurosurgeon weep. The sound he made wasn’t human. It was a squeaky-toy frequency, a dog-whistle of pure existential regret. He went down sideways, curling into a fetal comma, hands clamped protectively over the family jewels like he was praying to a god that had clearly abandoned him.
You stood over him, fist cocked for the knockout stamp on the envelope, feeling like a golden god in a leather jacket. Then your whole left side lit up like someone had plugged you into the national grid.
Fifty thousand volts went joyriding through your nervous system. Muscles you didn’t know you had seized up and screamed. You jerked around, the movement all wrong and puppet-like, and there was Allen, holding a taser against your ribs with the casual disinterest of a man checking his phone. “Fuck,” you managed, your tongue thick and useless. “I forgot about you.” Then the lights went out.
Your face snapped to the side like a whip crack, and the bright explosion of pain jerked you back into the world. "Ah, fuck," you croaked, tongue thick as a sock. Your eyes swam into focus. Allen's face was right there. Inches away. Nose to nose. You recoiled, chains rattling overhead. "Ew. Why you up in my face? Back the hell up."
He didn't move. His eyes were jittery little marbles, darting between you and something behind him. Nervous. But not for himself. For you. Which was worse somehow. Much worse. Your arms were hoisted above your head, wrists bound tight to a pipe running across the ceiling, and you were balanced on your tippy toes like a ballerina from a snuff film. The strain in your shoulders was a low, constant scream.
Tae-geom materialized from the shadows, stepping into the weak pool of industrial light. His nose was still a crime scene, crusted black with dried blood, swollen sideways like a failed renovation. You couldn't help yourself. "Ah shit, you should ice that. Maybe see a specialist. That's gonna heal ugly."
He smiled. It was a slow, deliberate thing. Then he backhanded you hard enough to make the chains sing. "Damn," you said, spitting a thick rope of blood onto the concrete. It landed with a splat that sounded too loud in the empty space. "And here I was being nice. Genuine medical advice. Wasted."
Tae-geom pulled up a chair, the metal legs screeching against the floor like something alive and wounded. He sat down in front of you, close enough that his knees brushed yours. His hands found your hips, fingers pressing into the bone like he was testing fruit for ripeness. "Allen," he said, not looking away from your face, "set the camera up."
The words landed in your gut like a swallowed stone. You followed his gaze to the corner of the room where Allen was fumbling with a tripod, adjusting a lens that glinted like a dead eye in the dim light. "What the fuck are you doing?" Tae-geom's thumbs traced slow circles on your hip bones. The gesture of a man who already had a plan for you. "Just gonna give Gun-woo and Woo-jin a show."
Something cold and primal dropped through you. You kicked out hard and your boot connected with his face with a wet crunch, snapping his head back. Fresh blood erupted from the wreckage of his nose. "Fuck! Allen, hold her!" Allen scrambled over, his hands clamping onto your hips from behind, fingers digging into the bruises already blooming there. You thrashed, chains shrieking, but physics was physics and leverage was a bitch.
Tae-geom rose from the chair, blood streaming down his chin and dripping onto his shirt in bright red coins. He moved with a new kind of stillness now, a deliberate calm that was infinitely more terrifying than rage. From his belt he pulled a knife.
He pressed the flat of the blade against the side of your neck, the steel cold as a confession. His eyes locked onto yours and there was nothing in them. Nothing at all. No anger. No sadism. Just a vast, empty patience. "Give me a fucking reason not to slice this pretty neck open."
His voice was soft. Almost gentle. The blade kissed your skin. A single bead of blood welled up and traced a hot line down your throat, and you felt it go all the way down, and the room had gotten very quiet, and Allen's hands on your hips were trembling, and the camera's red light blinked in the corner like a pulse.
The knife whispered through your shirt. Then your jeans, the denim splitting open, peeling away from your legs like a skin that wasn't yours anymore. You were down to your bra and underwear. The air hit your bare stomach and it felt like something breathing on you.
"Oh, matching." Tae-geom's voice came from somewhere above the blade. "This for someone? Gun-woo or Woo-jin?" His hand landed on your chest. Heavy. The knife trailed down. Down. The tip kissed the top of your underwear and rested there, patient as a lover.
"Let's see what we have here."
The blade bit. Your underwear fell away. Then your bra. Cold air on your breasts. Cold air everywhere. And the scream that tore out of you wasn't a word, wasn't a no, wasn't anything human. "Stop. Stop. Stop." Screaming. Shouting it into his face. The words bounced off him like stones off water.
He grabbed your chin. Fingers sinking into your cheeks, mashing them together, making your lips purse out like a fish. He pulled your face close to his. So close you could smell the iron in the blood still crusted around his nostrils. So close the world was nothing but his eyes.
"I don't want to."
Said it soft. Soft as a lullaby. Then he shoved you backward into Allen. His hands found your breasts immediately. Kneading. Fingers spreading, squeezing, thumbs circling. You bucked, thrashed, tried to throw him off, but the chains held you and your toes barely scraped the concrete and there was no leverage, no angle, no way to make it stop.
Then fingers pushing inside you. Then a tongue. Wet and hot and searching. Your breath hitched. Seized. Became something you had to fight for. Allen's other hand wrapped around your throat, holding your head still, holding you there, making sure your face was pointed at the blinking red light in the corner.
Tae-geom pulled his fingers out slowly. Then something else replaced them. Cooler. Harder. The handle of the knife. He pushed it in and your body betrayed you by accepting it.
He started to fuck you with it, slow at first, then faster, his eyes never leaving yours. Never blinking. The handle going in and out with a wet sound that filled the warehouse like music. "Still got so much fight in those eyes."
You looked at him. Through him. Into the nothing place he came from. "Fuck you." And you spit in his face. He wiped it off with the back of his hand. Didn't even flinch. But your body was doing something now. Something you couldn't control. Something building low and hot and monstrous.
"Oh." His voice went sing-song. Mocking. "Are you gonna cum? From me fucking you with a knife?" He laughed, a bark of genuine delight. "Shit, I didn't take you for such a slut."
And you came. Came around the handle of a knife while a stranger held your throat and a camera recorded every second. Your body arched. Shuddered. Became something that wasn't yours. When it was over he pulled the knife out.
"Allen. Move."
Allen released you. You sagged forward, chains groaning. Tae-geom stepped behind you, grabbed your hips, bent you over. Your arms stretched above you, twisted now, shoulders screaming in their sockets. Facing the camera. Facing the red light. Facing them.
You heard his belt unbuckle. The zipper. The rustle of fabric.
"Don't you fucking dare. I'll fucking kill you. I'll kill—"
He pushed into you. The scream that came out wasn't yours. It belonged to someone else. "Allen. Bring the camera close." Allen's footsteps. The lens moving in. A glass eye that never blinked, never looked away. "Make sure you get her pretty face."
Tae-geom laughed. His grip on your hips was a vice. Bone grinding on bone. You'd have bruises for weeks. You'd have bruises for the rest of your life. "Such a tight cunt." A grunt. A thrust. "We should let Baek-jung have a go." Laughter. His and Allen's.
"Gonna fuck my cum into you and you're gonna fucking take it. Right, babe?" You felt him empty into you. Hot. Foreign. A poison taking root in your cells. Your legs would have given out if not for the chains. You'd have been a puddle. A stain. A thing that used to be a person.
He pulled out. The sound of him fixing his pants was the worst sound in the world because it meant this was over for him. This had been a task. A chore. Something to check off a list. "Allen. Send that video to Gun-woo."
"No. No, don't. Please. Please don't."
The word please tasted like vomit. Like surrender. Like the last thing you had. "Why not?"
Allen nodded. Task complete. Message sent. Somewhere, right now, a phone was buzzing. Somewhere, right now, Gun-woo was about to see what the inside of his friend looked like.
Tae-geom unchained you. Your arms dropped. Useless meat. You collapsed onto the cold concrete, naked and shaking and full of someone else. "Come on." His voice was casual now. Almost friendly.
"No One is Coming" - Lee Chan-young (이찬영) x f!reader
“You just had to mind your fucking business.” His voice is eerily calm. Conversational, almost. He walks toward you slowly, like he has all night. “But no,” he whispers, thumb pressing into your bruised cheek. “You had to tattletale to my dad.”
content warning – This story contains a strong power imbalance and graphic descriptions of violence, including injury (such as a broken nose) and mentions of blood. It depicts non-consensual situations, breaking and entering, and instances of school violence, bullying, and injustice. The narrative explores coercive, harmful behavior within a tense and unsettling atmosphere.
word count : 5.3k
You tell yourself this is a beginning, not the end.
The train pulls away from the city with a soft, almost apologetic sigh, and you sit by the window watching your old life smear into streaks of grey and glass. It feels lighter out here already. Cleaner. You press your forehead to the cool pane and imagine the version of you that exists on the other side of this journey, someone unburdened. This new job had sounded like a gift when it found you. Better pay. Housing included. Fresh air, quiet, distance. Distance most of all. You said yes before you could talk yourself out of it.
By the time you arrive, the sky has softened into a pale gold, the kind that makes everything feel possible again. The countryside stretches wide and empty, fields rolling like open palms, the air smelling faintly of damp earth and something sweet you can’t quite name. It feels safe in a way that almost startles you.
The man who meets you at the station introduces himself as Mr. Lee. He smiles too much, but you tell yourself it’s just friendliness, the kind you forgot existed. His handshake lingers, but only for a second too long. You notice it but dismissed it.
The drive to the house is longer than you expected. Roads narrow into winding veins through dense woods, the trees pressing close, as if they’re leaning in to listen. You try to follow the turns, but soon it becomes impossible. Everything looks the same, green and shadow and silence.
“It’s easy to get lost out here,” he says lightly, glancing at you. “But don’t worry. You’ll get used to it.” You smile, because that’s what you do.
The house is smaller than you imagined but neat. The windows are spotless, the curtains freshly pressed. Someone has left flowers on the table white, tightly arranged, scent faint but persistent. There’s something about the stillness inside, the way the air feels untouched, like it’s been waiting.
“It’s all yours,” Mr. Lee says, watching you as you step inside. Not looking at the house. Looking at you. You thank him. Again. Too many times.
That night, you unpack slowly, trying to fill the quiet with movement. Every sound feels amplified by the creak of floorboards, the soft click of drawers, your own breathing. You tell yourself it’s just because you’re not used to the silence yet.
You tell yourself this is the start of something good.
A better school. Better funding. Polished hallways and bright futures. You stand outside Yoonseul High and let yourself feel it for a moment, the clean lines of the building, the quiet prestige humming beneath its glass and steel. This is the kind of place people envy. The kind of place that fixes things.
You smooth down your sleeves before stepping inside, rehearsing the version of yourself you want them to see composed, capable, unshakeable. Hopeful.
By 7:00 a.m., the corridors are empty. Your footsteps echo faintly as you find your classroom. It smells untouched, like fresh paint and expensive polish. Everything is pristine. Controlled. Perfect. You like that.
You step inside and place your bag down, exhaling slowly as you turn to the board. Your name looks strange written out so large, so permanent. You say it under your breath, testing your introduction, shaping your tone. Friendly, but firm. Warm, but not soft.
You don’t hear the door open. You don’t hear the footsteps. Just the voice.
“That was so cute.”
It slips into the room like something that’s always been there. You flinch. The chalk snaps between your fingers. When you turn, he’s already inside leaning slightly, as if he belongs in every space he enters.
You glance at your watch instinctively. 7:15. The bell doesn’t ring until 8. Your stomach tightens, but you force a polite smile. “Oh hi. I didn’t think..” He steps closer before you can finish. “Hi,” he says, extending his hand. “I’m the class president. Lee Chanyoung. But you can call me Anton.”
His voice is smooth. You hesitate for half a second too long, then place your hand in his. “I’m your new homeroom teacher,’ you say with a smile. His grip closes around yours. Firm. Too firm. You try to ignore it. Try to match his smile, but something about the way he’s looking at you feels… wrong. Not inappropriate. Not obvious. Just wrong in a way you can’t name yet.
You start to pull your hand back. He doesn’t let go. There’s a beat a small, suspended moment where your brain tries to catch up with what your body already knows. You laugh, light and nervous, tugging a little more. “Okay..” Still nothing.
His thumb shifts slightly against your skin. Not enough to be called anything. Just enough to make your skin crawls. You look at him then and he’s smiling, it unsettles you.
“I see you’ve already met my son.” The voice cuts clean through the moment. Your hand is released instantly. You step back without meaning to, your fingers tingling as if something has been left behind in them. Mr. Lee stands in the doorway, composed, immaculate. His presence fills the room in a way that feels heavier than it should.
“He’s a good kid,” he adds, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You nod quickly. “Yes, he…he seems very… polite.” Anton says nothing. You can feel him still looking at you, even as you turn toward his father. Mr. Lee gestures for you to follow him.
“The school can be a bit confusing at first,” he says. “I’ll show you around.” You’re grateful for the movement, for the excuse to leave the room, but as you step into the hallway, you feel it. That subtle awareness. Like something is watching you.
The tour is thorough.
Teachers’ room. Bathrooms. Offices. Doors that require key cards. Doors that don’t. Mr. Lee speaks with quiet authority, explaining things you’ll forget immediately, his tone calm, controlled. Reassuring.
When the tour ends, you thank him, your voice steady enough to pass. “Of course,” he says. “We take care of our staff here.” The words linger longer than they should. As you walk back toward your classroom, the halls remain quiet, but it no longer feels peaceful.
By 7:55 a.m., the school is alive in a way that feels almost reassuring. Voices echo down the hall, lockers click shut, shoes tap in hurried rhythms. It’s busy enough to quiet the unease still clinging to you from earlier. Busy enough to make you feel safe.
Students begin to filter into your classroom, filling the space with movement and noise. You greet them, steady now, your smile practiced but convincing. You write your name again on the board, clearer this time, stronger. You introduce yourself, your voice finding a rhythm that feels like control.
You move through the seats, learning names, repeating them, attaching them to faces. Some meet your gaze. Some don’t. Some look at you a little too long.
Anton doesn’t need to introduce himself again. He stares. That same stillness about him, that same quiet certainty. You avoid lingering. You don’t give him anything to hold onto.
The hours pass fast. By the time the final bell rings, the day has folded itself neatly into something manageable, something almost ordinary. You let yourself believe it the morning was just nerves, just adjustment. The classroom empties. Chairs scrape, laughter fades, footsteps dissolve into the distance until it’s just you again. You exhale, shoulders dropping, the silence settling in.
You begin packing up, methodical, focused on leaving. Papers stacked, pens gathered, your bag pulled closer. Then it slips. The bag falls from your desk, hitting the floor with a dull, abrupt sound that feels too loud in the empty room. You mutter under your breath and bend down to pick it up.
And that’s when it happens. A shift in the air behind you. Before your mind can catch up, your body reacts your muscles tightening, your breath stalling. There’s a presence there, unmistakable now, pressing into your space like it belongs.
Something brushes against you from behind, slow enough to register, deliberate enough to freeze you where you are. It lingers just a second too long, just enough to make your stomach drop, just enough to make your skin crawl as if something invasive has slipped beneath it. You’ve never stood up so fast in your life. The world tilts for a second as you turn and there he is. Anton. Standing directly behind you. Like he’d always been there.
His expression doesn’t change. No apology. No embarrassment. Just that same calm, unreadable gaze, fixed on you like you’re something he’s trying to understand… or something he already does. Your throat tightens.
“What are you doing?” you manage, your voice sharper than before, but not as strong as you want it to be. “Waiting for you,” he says simply. Like that explains everything. You glance at the door. Closed. You didn’t hear it. Didn’t hear him. Didn’t hear anything at all.
A cold realization creeps in, slow and suffocating…he never left the room. You take a step back, creating space, but it doesn’t feel like enough. It doesn’t feel like it matters. “You need to leave,” you say, more firmly now, clinging to the words like it can protect you. Then, that faint, almost amused smile. “No I don’t.”
Your heart stutters. The silence stretches between you, thick, pressing, wrong. You reach for your bag again, your movements tighter now, controlled, every instinct screaming at you to leave, to get out, to put distance between you and whatever this is.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” you say, already moving, already turning toward the door. “Of course,” he replies. Your hand grips the handle, colder than it should be. You pull the door open and step into the hallway, the noise distant now, muted.
You don’t look back and as you walk away, something settles deep in your chest.
A couple of weeks pass before you begin to understand how this place really works, and when it finally comes, it isn’t quiet. It isn’t subtle. It announces itself in sound. Something hard striking something softer. Again. And again. A dull, sick rhythm that crawls down the corridor and finds you and by the time you see it, it’s already happening.
Anton stands over a boy on the ground. He curls inward, absorbing it, like he knows resistance only makes it last longer. For a second, you freeze. Because this isn’t a misunderstanding. This isn’t roughhousing or just plain stupidity.
This is something else. You move before you can think better of it. “Hey stop!” Your voice cuts through the hallway. You reach him, grabbing his arm, pulling him back. He lets you. Too easily. That’s what unsettles you.
“What are you doing?” you demand, breath tight, pulse already racing. The boy on the floor doesn’t look at you. Not once. Anton does. And he laughs. Not loud. Not wild. Just… amused. Like you’ve said something funny.
“What are you going to do?” he asks, stepping closer. You don’t step back. Every instinct tells you to, but something stubborn, something still clinging to the idea of authority, keeps you in place. You hold his gaze, even as something cold coils low in your stomach.
“Stop it. Now.”
Your voice is steadier than you feel. For a moment, it looks like he might say more. His expression shifts, just slightly like he’s considering you in a new way, recalibrating. The bell rings. The moment gone. He exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Saved by the fucking bell.”
And just like that, it’s over. He turns, walking away like nothing happened, a few others falling into steps behind him without hesitation. Without question.
You’re left standing there, the echo of it still vibrating in your chest. You bend down quickly, reaching for the boy. “Are you okay? Let me—” He jerks away from you. Hard. “Don’t touch me.” The words hit sharper than you expect. You pull your hand back instinctively, staring at him.
“What?” His eyes flick up to yours then, and there’s something in them, something almost furious. “You just made it a hundred times worse for me.” The words land heavy. Before you can respond, he’s already pushing himself up, ignoring you completely as he walks away, shoulders stiff, movements strained but determined. You stay where you are. Kneeling. Useless. The hallway is empty now, like nothing ever happened. But it did.
You try to report it. Of course you do. You find Mrs. Baek in the staff room later, your hands colder than they should be, your words already forming before you reach her. “It’s about Anton—” She cuts you off instantly. Just a quiet, sharp “No.”
It stops you mid-breath. She glances around, checking the room like someone might be listening even when no one’s there. Then she leans closer, her voice dropping. “Unless you want to get fired,” she says, each word measured, “don’t even try to report him.”
Your stomach tightens. “What do you mean?” you ask, but it comes out smaller than you intend. Her expression doesn’t soften. “Others have,” she says. “They don’t work here anymore.” There’s something final in the way she says it. Not a warning. Not advice. A fact. She straightens, stepping away from you like the conversation never happened. Like you never spoke at all.
By the end of the week, everything looks the same. That’s what unsettles you most. Your coworkers still smile. They still greet you warmly, still ask how you’re settling in. The students still laugh, still answer questions, still play their parts perfectly.
Everything is normal. Except now you can see it. The gaps. The silences. The way conversations stop just a second too early when certain names come up. The way no one ever says Anton’s name unless they have to. The way he moves through the halls untouchable.
And the worse is the way he looks at you now. Not the same as before. Not just curious. Something deeper. Something that lingers. Like he’s waiting. Like he knows something you don’t. Or maybe like he knows exactly how this ends for you.
You’ve just pulled into your parking spot, the engine ticking as it cools, one foot already on the ground when it cuts through everything. A yelp. Not the usual low hum of a school morning, no chatter spilling across the lot, no easy laughter.
Then a crack follows.
You hear it before you see anything, before you even have time to turn, and something in you tightens, goes cold, because your body already knows this isn’t something you can ignore, or explain away, or walk past like it didn’t happen.
You follow it. Of course you do. Around the side of the building, where the cameras don’t quite reach, where the walls feel closer, the air thinner you find them. Anton’s fist connects with another student’s face. Once. Twice.
A third time that lands with a sickening finality, and the boy’s nose gives way under it. Blood spills instantly, bright and fast, too much, too sudden. It runs over his lips, his chin, dripping onto the concrete like something being poured out. For a second, you stop.
Not because you want to. Because something inside you hesitates, some instinct whispering that stepping in doesn’t end this. It changes it. Then you run towards them anyway.
“Stop!”
You grab him, your hand closing at his collar, your other pushing hard enough to break his rhythm. He stumbles back, off-balance, hitting the ground with more surprise than pain. It takes him a moment to process what’s happened. That you touched him. That you interrupted him.
You don’t wait. You turn to the student, crouching, your voice urgent. “Are you okay? Can you..” But he’s already moving. Not toward you. Away. He scrambles to his feet, blood still pouring, eyes wide but not with relief. With fear. “Wait!” you call after him.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even look back. And that’s when your breath catches. Your hair jerks violently backward. A sharp, blinding pull that snaps your head up, your spine following, your breath catching somewhere between shock and pain. Fingers tangled deep, unrelenting, dragging you into position like something being arranged.
You gasp, your hands instinctively reaching up, but he’s already there. Behind you. Your neck strains as he forces your head back, your line of sight tilting until all you can see is him. Anton. His face inches from yours, his grip tight. His expression has shifted now, no softness, no amusement. Something irritated.
“It was cute,” he says, voice low, almost thoughtful. “But now it’s getting on my fucking nerves.” The words land slowly, each one deliberate. Like you’ve crossed into something that belongs to him. You don’t think. You react.
Your elbow drives back into his chest with everything you have. It connects to something solid enough to make him loosen his grip, just enough for you to tear yourself free. You stumble forward, spinning to face him, your pulse roaring in your ears.
“Don’t touch me,” you snap, your voice shaking despite you forcing it steady. “Put your hands on me or another student again and I’ll report you.”
For a second. Nothing. Then he laughs. Not a nervous one, it was entertained. “I’d like to see you try,” he says. There’s something in the way he says it that sinks deep, heavy, like a weight pressing into your chest.
“Don’t forget,” he continues, stepping closer again “my dad is the fucking dean.” The words feel like a door closing. “I could get your fucking smart ass fired.” You hold your ground. Barely. Because now you understand something you didn’t fully grasp before this isn’t bluff. This isn’t arrogance.
This is a system that bends around him.
He brushes past you, his shoulder knocking into yours hard enough to unbalance you, deliberate enough that you feel it long after he’s gone. You turn, watching him walk away, his pace unhurried, like there’s nothing in this world that can touch him. No consequences. No fear. Just control.
The space he leaves behind feels wrong. Disturbed. Like something’s been taken out of it and something else left in its place. You stand there, your scalp still aching, your breath uneven, your hands trembling despite how hard you try to steady them.
“Fucking asshole,” you mutter under your breath, the words small, thin, disappearing into the empty air around you.
Your hand felt heavy knocking on the dean’s office door “Come in.” His voice had sounded warm from the other side. It doesn’t feel warm now. “Ah,” Mr. Lee says as you step fully inside. “There you are.”
The office smells faintly of polish and something older underneath, something stale that doesn’t belong in a place this pristine.
He smiles like this is expected. Like you were always going to end up here, sitting across from him, the door at your back, the handle just out of your line of sight. “Good evening,” you manage. “Sit,” he says.
You do.
Because that’s what you’ve been doing since you arrived following instructions, trusting structure, believing there’s something solid beneath all of this. The chair feels too low. Or maybe he’s just sitting too high. It’s hard to tell.
You fold your hands together in your lap to stop them from moving. Your mind runs through the words you practiced, the careful phrasing, the professionalism, the facts. But now that you’re here. They don’t come out right.
“I just… wanted to talk about Anton.” There’s a pause. Mr. Lee leans forward slightly, his expression attentive, almost concerned. It’s convincing. “Oh?” he says. “Is something wrong?” For a second, you almost believe he doesn’t know.
“It’s just that I’ve noticed him… bullying some of his classmates.” The word hangs there. Ugly. Heavy. And he laughs. Softly. Briefly. Like you’ve misunderstood something simple.
“Oh, I wouldn’t call that bullying,” he says, leaning back now, relaxed again. “Just a couple of students having a disagreement. Nothing too bad.” Your stomach drops. “No, sir,” you say quickly, the words pushing out before you can stop them. “He was..”
“You’re new here.” It cuts through you cleanly. You stop speaking. Because something in the way he said it tells you that finishing that sentence would be a mistake. “This is normal,” he continues, his tone even, almost bored now. “You should stay out of it. Let them work it out among themselves.” Normal. The word echoes, wrong in your ears, like something distorted. “But sir”
“Listen.”
This time it’s sharper. Not raised, but heavier. It lands with weight. He leans forward again, and now you see it, what was hidden beneath the politeness, beneath the professionalism. “Unless you don’t want to work here again,” he says quietly, “I suggest you stay out of it.”
Your chest tightens. “There are… dynamics at this school you don’t yet understand.” Each word is chosen carefully. “And it would be wise not to involve yourself in matters that don’t concern you.” But it does concern you. That’s what sits, choking, just beneath your tongue.
You open your mouth and close it again. Because suddenly, you understand something you didn’t before. This isn’t a report. This isn’t a conversation. This is a warning. You sit there, staring at him, the silence stretching too long, your thoughts scrambling for something to hold onto.
There’s nothing. No support. No authority. Nothing. Just him. Watching you. “Okay,” you hear yourself say. Your voice doesn’t sound like yours. “Sir.” His smile returns. Like a switch being flipped. “Good,” he says lightly. “Enjoy your weekend.” Weekend.
The word feels absurd now. Meaningless. You stand too quickly, the chair scraping softly behind you. The sound makes you flinch, and you hate that it does. You turn toward the door, your fingers closing around the handle.
The hallway outside feels colder, wider. You walk faster than you mean to, your footsteps uneven, your mind replaying everything, every word, every look. By the time you reach your car, your hands are shaking. You sit inside, staring straight ahead, the engine still off, the silence pressing in around you.
And it hits you. Slow. Heavy. You can’t report him because the person you were supposed to go to, The person who was supposed to stop this is part of it. Your grip tightens on the steering wheel.
You thought this place was structured. Safe but now it feels like something else entirely. And as you sit there, alone in the fading light, one thought settles in, quiet and suffocating, you didn’t just fail to report him. You just told the wrong person everything.
The clock on your nightstand reads 9pm when the smash comes from your living room, like something heavy and alive just shattered against your floorboards. You stop dead.
Your feet hit the cold carpet before your brain catches up. Heart slamming against your ribs. Breath shallow. You creep toward your bedroom door because what else can you do? There’s no back exit from this room, just that thin slab of painted wood between you and whatever is breathing on the other side. You press your ear to the grain. Listening. Nothing.
Then the door explodes inward.
The impact lifts you off your feet. One second you’re standing, the next you’re airborne, then you’re skidding across the floor on your side, your temple cracking against the hardwood with a sound, you feel more than hear. The world tilts. Spins. Warmth trickles down the side of your face, into your hair, pooling in the hollow of your ear. Blood. You know it’s blood because you taste metal at the back of your throat.
A hand closes around your ankle.
You’re being dragged backward like a carcass being pulled from a road. He flips you onto your back with one rough shove, and the ceiling light blooms above you like a white, staring eye.
Anton.
His face swims into focus. That sharp jaw. Those pale, empty eyes that never quite looked at you like you were human. He’s smiling.
“Get off me,” you snarl, and you mean it. Your hand connects with his face a backhand that snaps his head to the side. Then your foot finds his stomach, and you feel something give beneath your heel. He flies backward, hits the bedroom door frame with a grunt, and you’re up. Moving. Jumping over his crumpled body like a hurdle. You make it three steps into the hallway before the kick comes.
His boot connects with your shin; the bone-deep pain is instant, nauseating and your body folds sideways into the wall. Plaster cracks under your shoulder. You try to push off, to run, but his hands are in your hair now, fistfuls of it, and he uses your own skull as a hammer against the wall. Once. Twice. Your vision fractures.
Then he’s dragging you again this time by the hair, your heels scraping uselessly against the floorboards, through the hallway, into the living room. He doesn’t stop. He throws you. You clear the coffee table like a rag doll and land in a heap on the other side, ribs screaming, lungs empty. “Fuck,” you gasp. The word barely makes a sound.
“You just had to mind your fucking business.” His voice is eerily calm. Conversational, almost. He walks toward you slowly, like he has all night. You try to crawl. Your arms are shaking. He grabs a fistful of your hair again not to drag this time, but to lift. He hauls you up until you’re kneeling, then standing on your toes, your scalp screaming, your neck bent at a brutal angle. His other hand cracks across your face. Your lip splits open.
Then his fingers close around your chin. He tilts your face toward his, and his eyes roam over you like he’s reading a menu. There’s nothing behind those eyes. No anger. No hate. Just the flat, curious hunger. “But no,” he whispers, thumb pressing into your bruised cheek. “You had to tattletale to my dad.”
“Please stop.” Your voice comes out tiny. A child’s voice. The voice of a woman who has just realized that no one is coming. “Please.” He tilts his head. His mouth curls. “Please,” he mimics, high and sweet and mocking. Then he laughs, his head thrown back, throat exposed, a raw, jagged sound that bounces off your walls like shattered glass.
When he looks at you again, the smile is gone. “Fucking headache,” he says, like he’s disappointed in you. Like you’ve ruined his evening. And then he kicks you again. This time, you hear your ribs crack before you feel them. The pain comes a second later a white-hot flood that fills your chest, your throat, your mouth. You curl inward, hands clutching at nothing, gasping for air that won’t come.
He crouches beside you. His breath smells like coffee and something rotten. “Don’t worry,” he says softly, and his hand comes down to stroke your hair with grotesque tenderness. “We’re just getting started.”
The clock is still ticking somewhere. You can hear it between the wet sounds, between your own ragged breaths, between the thud of your heart trying to punch its way out of your chest. You feel his finger first. Tracing your side. Light. Almost teasing. The pad of his fingertip drags along your ribs, slow, deliberate, and something inside you snaps.
Your leg draws back. Your foot connects with his face.
There's a crunch and then blood. Not yours this time. His. It gushes from his nose in a dark cascade, flooding down over his lips, his chin, dripping onto the floor in hot, fat splatters. He reels back, hands flying to his face, and for one brief, glorious second, you think you've won. He looks at his palms. Red. Glossy. His own blood. And then his face changes.
It doesn't twist with rage. Doesn't contort with pain. It goes dark like someone snuffed out a light behind his eyes. The shadows in the corners of the room seem to crawl toward him, pooling under his skin, sucking the last traces of humanity from his features. He's not a man anymore. He's something else. He reaches for you.
You're flipped onto your stomach before you can breathe. Your cheek smashes against the floor. Your nightshirt rides up, you feel the cold air on your lower back, then your underwear being yanked down, past your hips, past your thighs, snagging at your knees.
"No," you gasp. "No, no, no!"
But his weight drops onto you. All of it. His chest against your spine, his hips against yours, and then the push, the brutal, invasive, splitting push and you scream. A raw, guttural sound that tears out of your throat like something dying. Because you are dying. Something inside you is tearing. You can feel it, the wrongness, the stretch, the way your body is trying to reject him but can't, can't, can't because he's too heavy and too strong.
"Fuck, you're tight." His lips brush against your ear. His blood drips onto your neck. "Loosen up a bit." Loosen up. As if your body belongs to him. As if your pain is an inconvenience. "Get the fuck off me!" You scream it so loud your throat shreds. You try to buck, to throw him, to do anything but his arm is around your neck now, forearm pressing into your windpipe, and your voice cuts out like a snapped wire.
You can't breathe.
You try to claw at his arm, but your hands are pinned beneath you, trapped by your own weight and his. Your fingers scrabble uselessly against the floor. Your vision spots. Your lungs burn.
"This is what you deserve," he whispers, and you feel his smile against your neck. He's moaning now, low guttural, almost lazy like he's enjoying a cigarette. "To be fucked like a dirty fucking whore." He laughs. The sound vibrates through your back, through your ribs, through the place where he's splitting you open.
And then he rises up. Just slightly. Just enough for his weight to lift off your spine and you lunge. Desperate. Frenzied. You almost make it. But his hands catch yours. Slam them down. Pin them at the small of your back with one palm, and you're immobilized again, face-down, helpless, as he drives into you harder now, faster, chasing something you will never understand.
"I'm gonna cum."
You shake your head. No. No no no no no. The word dies in your throat.
"I don't fucking care, bitch."
He laughs again and then his hips stutter, and you feel it. That hot, flooding realization. The way your body becomes a vessel for something you never consented to. The way every muscle in you goes slack, not in relief but in surrender. In defeat.
The fight leaves you like a ghost abandoning a body. He pulls out. You feel every inch of it, the wreckage he leaves behind. A wet sound. A cold rush. "Fuck," he breathes, almost satisfied. Almost bored now.
You lie there. Your nightshirt still bunched around your ribs. Your underwear around your knees. Your face pressed into the floor where a smear of your own blood has dried. He stands. Zips his jeans. Wipes his nose with the back of his hand.
"Try to report this one," he says, and his voice is light. Pleasant, even. Like he's reminding you of a trivial task. The front door clicks shut. You don't move. The clock ticks. And in the silence, you realize the worst part isn't what he did. The worst part is the tiny, whispering voice in the back of your head that sounds just like him.
No one will believe you.
No one is coming.
You let this happen.
You lie there until the shadows shift, until the blood on your neck dries stiff and cracking, until the only thing left in the room is the smell of him and the sound of your own breathing, shallow, broken, and utterly alone.
"No, sweetie. None of that." - Lee Doo-young x f!reader
"No, no, sweetie. None of that." His voice dropped to a croon, soft and implacable as a closing coffin lid. "You are gonna take this. And you're gonna swallow. Every. Last. Drop."
content warning – This story includes themes of breaking and entering, restraint (blindfolding and being tied to a chair), and the presence of a weapon (knife). It contains depictions of minor violence, threats, and coercive or non-consensual situations. Explicit sexual content is present, including oral (m!receiving). Physical aggression may involve rough handling and hair pulling. The overall tone is tense, invasive, and unsettling.
word count : 3k
At first, you thought it was just darkness. Then you realized it was heavier than that. It pressed down, thick and suffocating, clinging to your vision no matter how hard you tried to blink it away. Your eyes burned with the effort, but nothing changed. No shapes. No light, just a cold, creeping certainty slid into place. Your eyes were open. And yet…you couldn’t see.
Panic surged, fast and violent. Something sealed your mouth shut, rough and tight, the acrid smell of tape filling your lungs with every shallow breath. Heat bounced back against your face, your own air turning stale, used up too quickly. You tried to scream anyway. It came out as nothing, just a strangled push of air, trapped and useless, echoing loudest inside your skull.
Instinct took over. You wrenched your arms forward, and the ties bit back. Your wrists were cinched to the arms of a chair with a finality that traveled up your bones like a death sentence. The chair creaked and the sound was so loud it felt like a scream you hadn't been allowed to make.
"You might hurt yourself if you keep doing that."
The voice came from the void ahead of you, a calm, disembodied thing that sliced through your ragged breathing. It was deep, patient, the kind of voice a parent would use on a kid. And that was infinitely worse than a shout. Your skin prickled with goosebumps that felt like needles.
"What do you want?" you managed. The words were a pathetic, humid puff against the tape, stripped of all the bravado you'd tried to conjure. You sounded like a child, small and lost in a room that had become a predator's den. A low chuckle, more vibration than sound. "Me?" A pause, heavy with the weight of unspoken threats. "Not me. My boss. He's tired of waiting for his money."
And just like that, the floor of your stomach dropped out and it hit you all at once. The loan. The missed calls. The way you let them ring and ring until silence felt safer than answering. You told yourself you had time. You told yourself you’d fix it. That lie turns on you now flooding your chest with something heavy and rancid that won’t go away. The air in the room turned to ice. You were in your sleeping shorts, your bare legs sticking to the cold wood of the chair. You had been asleep. Safe. And now the safety of your own bedroom was just a memory of a place that no longer existed.
"I promise I have it soon," the words tumbled out in a rush, a desperate, wet mumble against the gag. "Please don't hurt me. Please." Your legs were shaking uncontrollably, a tremor that rattled the chair frame, a Morse code of pure, undiluted fear. Then, the touch.
It landed on your bare thigh, a dry palm that was impossibly warm against your ice-cold skin. It wasn't a blow. It was a caress, a slow, deliberate rub meant to soothe. But the intimacy of it, the violation of that simple gesture, sent a revulsion so deep through you that your stomach heaved. You tried to jerk your leg away, a reflex born of every survival instinct screaming at once.
The hand clamped down like a vise. The gentleness evaporated, replaced by a grip that ground tendon against bone. "Don't pull away from me." You froze. The command was soft, but it carried the weight of a slamming door.
And then came the cold. A sliver of it, so sharp it felt hot, tracing a lazy path down the center of your chest. You didn't need to see it to know it was a knife. The sound of the thin cotton of your sleep shirt parting was a soft, terrible whisper in the dark, a hiss of surrender. The fabric fell away, baring your shoulders to the chilly, predatory air. You hunched inward, a futile attempt to hide, to cover the vulnerability of your own skin with nothing but the shadow of yourself.
The blindfold was a shroud woven from the dark matter of your own nightmares. It pressed against your lashes so tightly, these restraints, this terrible, suffocating void. You strained to hear anything beyond the frantic percussion of your own heart. A familiar creak in the floorboard. Something, anything to anchor you to the layout of your own bedroom. But the silence was too complete, a vacuum that swallowed sound and spat back nothing but the wet rasp of your own breath against the gag. You could be anywhere. A basement. A warehouse. A stretch of empty field where no one would ever hear the things that were about to happen.
“You promise you say?”
The voice drifted from the blackness, close enough now that you could feel the displacement of air, the subtle shift in temperature that announced a body leaning in. You nodded frantically, a marionette jerked by invisible strings, your neck aching with the violence of your own desperation. The motion made the chair groan, a sound like old bones settling into a grave.
And then the breath came. Hot and wet, blooming against the shell of your cheek like a poisonous flower. It carried the faint, cloying sweetness of spearmint gum and something primal that made your stomach clench. Before you could recoil, the blade returned. It kissed the other side of your face, a whisper of steel tracing your cheek. The cold was so acute it burned, a thin line of winter drawn down your jaw, and you understood with perfect, crystalline horror that he was showing you what the knife could do without doing it. Not yet. The promise was worse than the act.
"You'll need to do something for me though, can't you sweetie?"
The endearment landed like a slap. It was a word that should belong to grandmothers and lullabies, but in his mouth it turned into something obscene. Fingers traced a path down your chest, following the valley the knife had carved through your ruined shirt. They moved like they had every right to the geography of your body, like they were reading a map only he could see. And then the ghost of lips brushed the side of your neck, not quite a kiss, just the suggestion of one, the damp heat of a mouth hovering over the frantic flutter of your pulse. You could feel the sweat now, a cold rivulet tracing the knobs of your spine, pooling in the hollow of your collarbone. It smelled like salt and terror. It smelled like prey.
You nodded again. Harder this time. Whatever he wanted. The words you couldn't speak screamed inside your skull, a litany of surrender that shamed you even as it poured from some ancient, animal part of your brain that only cared about surviving the next sixty seconds.
You felt it then the curve of a smile pressing into the tender skin of your neck. Teeth, maybe. Just the barest hint of them. And then, with a finality that was somehow more terrifying than the touch itself, he pulled away.
The silence rushed back in, thick as water, filling the space where his warmth had been. The air grew cold and still. You were alone again in the vast, unknowable dark, but you could feel him there, watching. Waiting. The only sound in the entire universe was the thin, reedy whistle of air fighting its way past the gag, and the wet click of your own swallowing. You had just agreed to something. Something you couldn't see, couldn't name, couldn't fight. And now all you could do was sit in the ruins of your own bedroom or wherever the hell you were and wait for the monster to tell you what to do.
Hands found the back of your skull and the makeshift gag tore away with a wet, sucking sound that seemed to echo in the room. It came free trailing a glistening thread of spit, and you felt the warm slide of drool spilling over your chin, dripping slowly and obscene onto the bare skin of your thighs. You gasped, a ragged, desperate haul of air that made your chest heave against the ruins of your shirt. Your jaw ached. Your tongue was sandpaper. You opened your mouth to speak, to beg, to offer anything…
And he filled it.
Not with words. With heat and salt and the blunt, unforgiving pressure of something shoving past your lips, hitting the soft palate at the back of your throat before your mind could even register the invasion. Your gag reflex seized, a violent spasm that sent your spine arching against the chair, and the sound you made was wet and strangled and utterly humiliating. Above you, somewhere in the void where a face should be, a groan, selfish pleasure that made your stomach drop even as your throat constricted around him.
His hand fisted in your hair. You felt individual strands pop free from your scalp, tiny needles of pain that blurred into the larger, drowning sensation of being choked from the inside out. The blindfold grew damp, the fabric soaking through with the hot spill of tears you couldn't stop. They ran down your cheeks, mingling with the drool, and you were a mess, a wet, gagging, sobbing thing tied to a chair, and he liked it. You could hear it in the hitch of his breath, the way his hips rolled forward with a rhythm that said this is mine now.
"Breathe through your nose, sweetie."
The pet name again. That sickly sweet poison wrapped in a command you couldn't obey. You tried. God, you tried. But he was too deep, too relentless, and every thrust punched the air right back out of you in a choked, animal grunt. Your lungs burned. Your throat burned. Everything burned, and the only thing that existed in the whole black world was the stretch of your jaw and the obscene, wet sounds of your own debasement.
Then he pulled back, and you were empty. Hollowed out. Air rushed into your lungs in a ragged, coughing fit that scraped your throat raw. Spit hung from your bottom lip in a silver string, swaying in the darkness you couldn't see. You were shaking. Every part of you was shaking.
"Oh fuck." His voice was thick, reverent, a prayer to a god made of leather and rope and broken girls. "I should steal you away. Keep you locked up so I could use you whenever I want. Huh, sweetie? You would love that, wouldn't you?"
The words crawled under your skin, a promise that made your thighs clench involuntarily. And you hated yourself for it. Hated the way your body betrayed you even as your mind screamed no no no. Before you could gather enough air to respond, his hand found your head again gentler this time, almost tender, which was somehow worse. You felt the blunt, slick head of him tap against your swollen lips. Once. Twice. Smearing wetness across your mouth like he was painting you, marking his territory with your own spit and his own leaking want.
He pushed back in. Harder this time. Deeper. A brutal, claiming stroke that made stars burst behind the soaked blindfold. "You were made for sucking cock, weren't you?" A laugh. Cruel and delighted and so utterly certain of his ownership. "Shit. I'm gonna cum."
The words detonated in your skull. Panic flooded your veins. You shook your head frantically, a desperate, mute plea, and tried to pull back. Your neck strained. The chair groaned. But his hands were already there, both of them, cradling your skull like something precious and holding you exactly where he wanted you.
"No, no, sweetie. None of that." His voice dropped to a croon, soft and implacable as a closing coffin lid. "You are gonna take this. And you're gonna swallow. Every. Last. Drop." His grip tightened. Your jaw ached. Your neck screamed. And "Fuck."
It hit the back of your throat in a hot, pulsing flood, thick and bitter, and you gagged around him, your body revolting even as he held you fast, even as he forced you to feel every twitch and pulse of his release. You felt it slide down your throat, a warmth that spread into your chest like something claiming you from the inside out.
"Swallow every drop, sweetie."
And you did. Because there was nothing else left to do. No other choice in the vast, terrifying dark. You swallowed until your throat was raw and empty, until the taste of him was the only thing you knew.
He pulled out slowly. You sagged forward as far as the restraints would allow, chest heaving, lungs clawing for air that tasted like him and salt and your own humiliation. Drool and tears and worse ran down your chin, pooling in the hollow of your throat, dripping onto your bare thighs.
You were a mess. A ruined, trembling, breathless mess.
The blindfold didn't come off gently. It was ripped away, the fabric scraping across your cheeks like a layer of skin being peeled off, and the world swam back into focus in smeared, nauseating waves. Blink. The streetlight outside your window bled through the cheap curtains, casting the room in a sickly amber glow, the color of old bruises and stale beer. You blink again. Shapes congealed from the haze, the familiar hump of your dresser, the spine of a book left open on the nightstand, the ghost of the life you'd fallen asleep in just hours ago.
And then you saw him.
He was a tear in the fabric of the room, a slash of absolute black against the diluted shadows. Dressed in dark denim and a jacket that swallowed the light, he moved like smoke, like he'd been poured into the corners and had only now decided to take shape. You could hear the soft rustle of him adjusting his belt, the metallic whisper of a zipper, that it made bile rise hot and acidic in the back of your throat. He had been in your house. In your bedroom. And he had made himself comfortable in the aftermath of your terror like it was just another night.
Relief that you were still home curdled instantly into something far worse. This wasn't your sanctuary anymore. "You have one week to pay the loan before I make a visit again."
His voice was the same deep, unhurried rumble, but now it had a face. He stepped into the sliver of streetlight, and you wished he hadn't. The features were sharp, cut from something hard and unforgiving, with a mouth that curved like a fresh scar. Black hair hung over his brow, casting his eyes in permanent shadow, but you could feel them on you, tracing the ruined remains of your shirt, the trembling column of your throat, the tears that had dried tacky on your cheeks.
He pulled a blade from a sheath strapped to his thigh. Smaller than the one that had kissed your chest, but no less lethal. The sight of it made every muscle in your body seize, a full-body flinch that rattled the chair. But he only crouched beside you, close enough that you could smell the leather of his jacket and the ghost of cigarettes clinging to his skin, and sliced through the restraints at your wrists with two efficient flicks. The ties fell away, clattering to the floor like shed snake skin.
Freedom. Your arms were free.
You scrambled, a desperate, graceless lurch to put distance between your body and his. But his hand shot out and caught your wrist, fingers encircling the bone with ease. The grip wasn't cruel. It was worse. Like he knew you weren't going anywhere. Like he knew you'd stop struggling the second his skin touched yours.
"One week," he repeated, and the words were a brand pressed into the soft meat of your mind.
He released you and straightened, reaching into his back pocket. The flick of a lighter, a flare of orange that briefly illuminated his face, the smirk that lived there like a permanent resident, the dark eyes that glittered with something that wasn't quite right. He brought the cigarette to his lips, inhaled deep, and the cherry glowed like a single, malevolent eye in the dim. Smoke curled from his mouth, slow and serpentine, reaching for you across the space between your bodies.
"I might bring a friend."
Your eyes went wide. The pupils dilated so fast it hurt, swallowing the last of the amber light. A friend. Another set of hands. Another voice in the dark. Another blade tracing paths down skin that already felt like it didn't belong to you anymore. The image bloomed behind your eyes, a tangle of shadows and breath and the wet sound of two men laughing at the small noises you would make.
He laughed at the look on your face. A low, genuine sound that was somehow the most terrifying thing he'd done all night. He reached past you, plucking a motorcycle helmet from your desk it had been sitting on and tucked it under his arm. He walked to the door. Paused. Turned.
The cigarette dangled from his lips, smoke framing his face like the edges of a nightmare you couldn't wake from. "Bye, sweetie." The door clicked shut behind him with the soft click.
You sat in the ruins of your bedroom, wrists raw and bleeding from the struggle, shirt hanging in tatters, legs bare and goose bumped in the cold that hadn't been there before he arrived. The smell of his smoke lingered, a ghost that would haunt these walls long after the cancer of his presence had faded. Outside, a motorcycle engine coughed to life, roared once like a beast scenting blood, and then faded into the night.
One week.
Seven days.
A hundred and sixty-eight hours to find money you didn't have, to save a life that already felt forfeit, to learn how to sleep in a room where you were violated. And this time, he wouldn't be alone.
"Fragile Ego." - Lee Eun-Hyuk x f!reader (with a hint of Cha Hyun-Su)
Danger was a pulse in the walls. Dread was the air you breathed. And Eun-hyuk, he was the god of this small, terrible universe, and you were on your knees before him, exactly where he wanted you.
content warning – This story contains graphic violence, coercion, and manipulation, including non-consensual or dubiously consensual situations. It features explicit sexual content. oral (m!receiving) and choking. Depictions of physical aggression include rough handling, hair pulling, injury, bruising, and mentions of blood. The narrative also explores invasive, violating behavior within a tense and unsettling atmosphere.
word count : 9.4k
Eun-hyuk kept his promise.
He never spoke of it. Not a whisper. Not a single syllable of that cold, clinical truth that would have detonated inside Hyun-su like a fragmentation grenade, shredding whatever fragile humanity still clung to his infected soul. Eun-hyuk held that secret close, a blade pressed against the soft underside of your existence, and you knew with the bone-deep certainty that he would use it whenever it suited him. Whenever he wanted something. Whenever he needed to remind you exactly what you were and who owned the narrative of your suffering.
Hyun-su woke up two days after the incident.
His eyes fluttered open with the slow, bewildered confusion of someone surfacing from very deep waters, and for a moment just a fleeting, treacherous moment he looked like the boy you remembered. The boy before the infection. The boy before everything went wrong and kept going wrong in ways that defied comprehension. He blinked at the ceiling, his brow furrowing, and when his gaze found you sitting beside his makeshift bed, a weak smile tugged at the corner of his lips. It should have been reassuring. But all you could see was the monster coiled serpentine behind his pupils, that thing that wore his face like a mask and waited, patient and hungry, for the moment when the mask would finally slip.
"What happened?" His voice was rough with disuse, scratchy like dead leaves scraping concrete. "I can't... I can't remember anything."
You told him the lie. It came out smooth and practiced, wet by desperation and the absolute necessity of his ignorance. You told him about going up to the higher floors to get medicine and supplies, about running into a couple of monsters in the stairwell. You told him how you'd fought them off, how you'd made it back, how you'd found him on the floor, unconscious, his body finally surrendering to exhaustion. The words flowed like poison from a wound, each one a small death of the truth.
"Thank you," he said, and his smile widened, warm and genuine and so terribly wrong because you knew what lurked beneath it. "Thank you for taking care of me."
You couldn't look at him. Your eyes slid away from his face like oil off water, unable to find purchase on those features that had once been a source of comfort and were now a mask for something unknowable. You made an excuse and you fled. Your legs carried you out of that room with the jerky, desperate energy of prey escaping a predator's den, and behind you, you felt his gaze like a physical weight between your shoulder blades.
He watched you leave.
His lips curled. Not into the warm smile he'd shown you moments before, but into something else. Something knowing. His eyes trailed after your retreating form with the slow, patient attention of a collector watching a prized specimen move about its enclosure, noting every detail, putting everything away for later use. You didn't see it. You were already gone.
The bathroom was cold. The tiles were cracked and stained with rust-colored water that had dried in patterns resembling claw marks, and the single fluorescent tube above the mirror flickered with an irregular pulse that made the shadows seem to breathe. You splashed water onto your face. The water tasted of iron and old pipes and the slow decay of a building that had been dying long before the monsters came. The cold shock did nothing to clear your head. The heat remained. The dirt remained. The feeling of being watched remained.
"What happened to you?"
The voice cut through your dizziness like a blade through fog. You looked up, water dripping from your chin, and found Eun-yu leaning against the bathroom stall, her arms crossed, her eyes fixed on your face with that sharp, assessing gaze that missed nothing. She nodded toward your reflection in the cracked mirror at the shadows under your eyes, the pallor of your skin, the haunted vacancy that had taken up residence in your features and showed no sign of leaving.
"It's nothing." The words came out flat, automatic, a door slamming shut. You turned toward the exit, your shoulder brushing the door-frame, already calculating the fastest route to somewhere, anywhere that didn't contain other people and their questions and their terrible, well-meaning concern.
"It doesn't look like nothing!"
Her voice followed you into the hallway, sharp and insistent, carrying the particular frustration of someone who knew they were being lied to but couldn't prove it. You didn't turn back. You couldn't. The weight in your chest was too heavy, the pressure behind your eyes too great, and if you stopped moving if you let yourself stand still for even a moment you were afraid you might simply collapse into the shattered thing you were becoming.
You needed quiet. You needed solitude. You needed a place where you could numb your mind and silence the thoughts that swamped it like black water, rising higher with every passing hour. The thoughts about Hyun-su. About what lurked behind his eyes. About Eun-hyuk and his promises and the price you kept paying, over and over, in a currency of flesh and shame that never seemed to run out. You turned a corner and walked directly into the last person on earth you wanted to see.
Eun-hyuk.
He was just there, as if he'd materialized from the stale air itself, a gaunt figure in the jaundiced light, his spectacles catching the glow and turning his eyes into twin pools of reflected nothing. His expression was flat, unreadable, the face of a man who had long ago stopped bothering to perform emotions he didn't feel.
"Come with me right now."
His hand closed around your arm before you could react. The grip was iron, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your bicep with a pressure that would leave marks purple and black flowers that would bloom under your skin by morning, another secret garden of violence that only you would ever tend. He was already moving, already pulling you in the direction of the office, and your feet stumbled to keep pace.
"Wait!" The word came out strangled, desperate. "Wait!"
You tried to stop him. You planted your feet, threw your weight backward, did everything short of screaming and screaming was not an option, because screaming would draw attention, and attention meant questions, and questions led to answers you couldn't afford to say. He wasn't having it. His grip tightened, grinding tendon against bone, and he pulled you forward with the implacable momentum of something that had never learned to stop.
The office door loomed before you like a mouth opening to swallow you whole. He pushed you through it, and you stumbled, catching yourself on the edge of a chair, your palms slapping against the chair’s arm. The lock engaged behind you with a sound like a bone snapping.
His eyes never left you. They tracked your every movement with the cold, patient attention of a predator that had all the time in the world and knew its prey had nowhere to run. The weight of that gaze was physical, a pressure against your skin, a crawling sensation that made you want to claw your way out of your own body.
"What do you want?"
Your voice came out thin and brittle, a twig snapping underfoot. You took a step back. Then another. Your spine was a rigid column of dread, every nerve screaming for flight even as your rational mind understood that flight was not an option and had never been an option, not since the moment Eun-hyuk had your secret and turned it into a leash.
Your back hit the desk.
You turned, your hands bracing against the surface, and your gaze fell upon the monitors. The screens glowed with their familiar baleful blue light, arranged in a grid that showed every corner of this dying building. But the images displayed were not empty corridors. They were not stairwells filled with shadows or barricaded doors straining against the weight of things that wanted in.
Every screen showed the cell. Every screen showed Hyun-su. And every screen showed you captured in grainy black-and-white, frozen in moments you had believed were private, preserved in digital amber like specimens pinned to a board. Images of you and Hyun-su together in that fucking cell. Images of things you had done.
Your blood turned to ice. The room seemed to tilt on a sickening axis, the walls contracting inward by imperceptible degrees, the ceiling lowering with the slow, patient inevitability of a coffin lid being screwed into place. The monitors flickered in unison, and in their blue glow, your own face stared back at you from a dozen different angles, a face you barely recognized, hollowed out and haunted, the face of someone who had been broken so many times she had forgotten what it felt like to be whole.
Behind you, Eun-hyuk said nothing. He didn't need to. The images spoke for him, a silent testimony to the depth of his surveillance, the completeness of his control. You were not a person to him. You were a collection of moments to be captured, and deployed as weapons whenever he needed to remind you that there was no corner of your existence he did not own.
"Eun-hyuk..." Your voice came out thin, a thread of sound stretched to its breaking point. You turned to face him, and he was already watching you. Of course he was. His eyes had never left you not since you entered this room, not since you first caught his attention however many days or weeks or lifetimes ago. Those flat, clinical eyes behind the sterile gleam of his spectacles studied you the way a coroner studies a body, noting every detail, every vulnerability, every point where pressure might be applied to produce the desired fracturing.
He had been learning you from the moment you met, compiling data, building a profile, reducing you to a system of responses and weaknesses that he could manipulate with the precision of a surgeon wielding a scalpel. "Why do you have these?" He started walking toward you. His footsteps made no sound on the cold floor. The space between you shrank with each silent step, and the air grew thicker, denser, saturated with the smell of him.
"Just a little collection," he said, his voice soft and dry like dead leaves skittering across a headstone. "Something for me to re-watch when I'm bored." He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could see the faint reflection of the monitors swimming in the lenses of his spectacles dozens of tiny yous, trapped in glass, surrounded by the cold blue glow of your own captured shame. "And to remind you where you stand right now."
He took a seat in the creaking office chair, the upholstery sighing like something wounded under his weight. His posture was relaxed, almost casual, but his eyes never wavered from your face. They tracked every micro-expression, every flicker of fear, every twitch of the muscles around your mouth that betrayed the scream building in your chest. He was enjoying this.
"Please." The word tasted like ash and copper on your tongue. You were already shrinking, already making yourself smaller, already performing the ritual of prey trying not to provoke the predator. "Please delete these. You don't need them to show me where I stand." Your voice cracked on the last word, and you hated yourself for that crack, for showing him even that small vulnerability. But you couldn't help it. The images on those screens were a noose around your neck, and he held the other end of the rope. "I know where I stand. I know. Please. Please, Eun-hyuk, just delete them. I'm begging you. Please."
"No."
The word was a door slamming shut. Final. Delivered with the flat certainty of someone who had already considered every angle and found your pleading to be without value. You opened your mouth to beg again, to offer something, anything, to find the combination of words that would make him see you as a person rather than a possession but he raised his hand. A single, casual gesture. And your voice died in your throat like a candle flame pinched between wet fingers.
"Come over here."
He nodded toward the space directly in front of him, a slight tilt of his chin that carried the full weight of command. His voice hadn't risen. It didn't need to. The power in this room flowed in one direction only, and both of you knew it. Your feet carried you forward without your consent, traitors attached to your own body, closing the distance between you and the man who had turned your existence into nothing.
You stepped closer. Close enough to smell the faint chemical scent of the cleaning solution he used on his hands, close enough to see the individual pores on his pale face, close enough to feel the cold that seemed to radiate from him like breath from a freezer. His hand shot out and closed around your wrist. He yanked you forward with a sharp, violent motion, and the world tilted as he shoved you down.
Your knees hit the ground hard.
The impact was a detonation of pain that shot up through your thighs, your hips, your spine, a white-hot lance that made your vision swim and your stomach lurch. The ground was unforgiving, cold and hard and utterly indifferent to your suffering. A scream clawed its way up your throat, a primal sound, animal and desperate but you caught it behind your teeth at the last possible second. Your jaw clenched. Your tongue slid between your molars.
And you bit down, hard, using the sharp bright pain to anchor yourself, to keep the scream locked away where it belonged. The taste of copper flooded your mouth. Your hand flew to your mouth, fingers seeking the damage. But Eun-hyuk's hand intercepted yours before it could reach your lips. His grip closed around your wrist again, firm and absolute, and he pulled your hand away from your face with the casual authority of someone moving a piece of furniture that was in his way.
"Let it."
His voice was soft, almost gentle, and that gentleness was somehow more terrifying than any shout could have been. It was the gentleness of someone who saw you not as a person in pain but as an interesting phenomenon to be observed. "I like how it makes you look."
He released both your hands. They fell to your sides, useless, trembling, stained with the thin smear of blood that had transferred from your fingers. He leaned back in the chair, his elbow resting on the armrest, and he brought his thumb to his mouth, biting absently at the edge of his nail. His eyes traveled over your kneeling form with the slow, deliberate assessment of an appraiser examining damaged goods noting the angle of your shoulders, the tremble in your thighs, the thin line of blood that had escaped the corner of your mouth and was now tracing a warm path down your chin. He watched every detail. Filed everything away. Added it to his collection.
The silence stretched. It filled the room like water filling a sinking ship, rising inch by inch, pressing against your eardrums until the only sound was the frantic hammer of your own heart and the soft, steady rhythm of his breathing. He stared at you for what felt like forever, minutes, hours, an eternity compressed into the space between one heartbeat and the next. The monitors flickered behind you, their blue glow casting his features into a shifting landscape of shadow and cold light, and in that light he looked less like a man and more like something that had learned to wear a man's shape.
Then you felt it.
Pressure. Between your legs. The firm, deliberate pressure of his shoe pressing against your clothed clit. Your gaze dropped, and you saw his foot extended, the toe of his shoe nestled against the most vulnerable part of you, applying a slow, grinding pressure that sent unwanted sparks of sensation shooting through nerves you wished had gone dead. Your hands pressed against the cold floor, your thighs tensed, your body coiling to rise, to escape, to put any distance at all between yourself and this new violation.
His hand slammed down on your shoulder and shoved you back onto your knees. Hard. Harder than before. The impact sent fresh pain screaming through your joints, and this time you couldn't quite catch the sound. A small, wounded noise escaped your throat, a whimper that sounded like it belonged to a kicked animal.
His eyes locked with yours. The pressure of his shoe increased, rubbing against you with a slow, rhythmic motion that was all the more horrible for its patience. He wasn't rushing. "Eun-hyuk, please..." Your voice was barely a whisper now, threadbare and fraying. Tears burned at the corners of your eyes. He laughed.
It was a soft sound, barely more than an exhalation, but it cut through you like a knife. There was no humor in it. His hand shot out and fisted in your hair, yanking your head back, forcing your tear-streaked, blood-smeared face up to meet his gaze. The pain in your scalp was bright and clarifying, a counterpoint to the dull, grinding pressure of his shoe still working between your legs.
"Anything," he repeated, and the word dripped with satisfaction. "You said anything. You said anything I want, I can do." His smile was a thin, curved incision in a pale face, and it was creepy as hell not because it was menacing, but because it was empty. There was nothing behind it. No emotion. No humanity. Just the cold satisfaction of a collector who had finally acquired the piece he'd been hunting. "And I want to do this."
He pushed you back. His hand released your hair, and you fell away from him, catching yourself on your hands, your chest heaving, your thighs trembling, your mind a white static of pain and humiliation and the terrible, creeping awareness that this was only the beginning. The pressure of his shoe was gone, but the ghost of it lingered a phantom sensation that made your skin crawl and your stomach churn. You were still on your knees. Of course you were. Where else would you be?
"Stay there."
You didn’t move. You were already down, already at the edge of the desk, your body folded awkwardly against it. The corner pressed into your side, unforgiving. Your hands clung to the cold metal legs, fingers tightening, as if the desk were the last fixed thing in a room that had begun to tilt, to slide, to give way under you.
Eun-hyuk leaned back in his chair, the old upholstery sighing under his weight like something wounded, and he made himself comfortable. Obscenely comfortable. His legs spread slightly, his posture loosening into the lazy sprawl of a predator who had eaten well and was in no hurry to hunt again. His eyes seized you with the slow, methodical assessment of someone appraising livestock.
They lingered on your face first, tracing the hollows under your eyes, the slight parting of your lips, the way your throat worked as you swallowed against the dryness that had taken up permanent residence in your mouth. Then they dropped to your chest, noting the rapid rise and fall of your breathing, the way the fabric of your shirt clung to your chest. Then lower, to your legs, to the way you sat frozen and trembling, a rabbit caught in the open with nowhere to burrow and no hope of outrunning what was coming.
He hummed. It was the sound of satisfaction. Of anticipation. Of a man who had all the time in the world and intended to savor every second of what was about to happen.
His hand moved to his crotch. He palmed himself through his jeans, his fingers pressing and adjusting, his gaze never wavering from your face. The gesture was obscene in its confidence, a declaration that you were here for his pleasure and his pleasure alone, that your presence in this room had no other purpose than to serve as a catalyst for his satisfaction.
His glasses began to fog, a thin film of condensation creeping up from the bottom of the lenses, and his dark hair fell forward over the frames, casting his features into sharp planes of shadow and pale skin.
You could see him getting hard. The evidence was unmistakable beneath the denim, a growing ridge that his palm traced with lazy familiarity. His eyes never left yours. Even as his hand worked, even as his breathing deepened by the smallest, most controlled degree, his gaze remained locked on your face, drinking in every flicker of fear, every tremor of revulsion, every tiny betrayal of the body that wanted to run even as the mind understood there was nowhere to go.
He unbuckled his belt. He pushed his jeans down, along with his boxers, a single efficient motion that spoke of practice and impatience barely leashed. His cock sprang free and slapped against his stomach with a soft, wet sound that seemed to echo in the cramped silence of the office.
The sight of it pale and flushed and already glistening at the tip sent a bolt of something through your chest. Not desire. Never desire. But a terrible, paralyzing recognition that this was real, this was happening, this was the price of his silence and you would pay it again and again until there was nothing left of you to collect.
He leaned back further, settling into the chair like it was a throne, and wrapped his hand around himself. The first stroke was slow, deliberate, a demonstration of ownership. He adjusted his glasses with his free hand, pushing them up the bridge of his nose, clearing the fog just enough to ensure that nothing obscured his view of you. His eyes focused with predatory intensity, narrowing slightly as he took in every detail, the way your chest rose and fell with shallow, rabbit-fast breaths, the way your hands gripped the desk behind you until your knuckles blanched white.
"Come here."
He nudged his head, a single sharp motion that left no room for interpretation. It was not a request dressed in the language of command. It was a command stripped of any pretense of civility. You were to come to him. Now. The way a summoned thing comes when its master calls.
Your legs moved before your mind could catch up. They buckled the moment you tried to stand, like they knew better than you did. Your legs gave out without a fight, dumping you hard onto your knees against the cold ground. The impact stung, but not enough to matter. You didn’t even try again. You just… stayed there for a second too long, before dragging yourself forward, palms scraping, reduced to crawling without being told.
The floor was hard and unforgiving against your palms and shins, each movement a small abrasion, a tiny payment of flesh against the altar of his control. You crawled to him the way the damned crawl toward their judgment, because there was no other direction to go, because turning away was not an option in a universe where he held all the power.
"Give me your hand."
His voice was softer now, almost gentle, and that gentleness was the most terrifying thing of all. You raised your hand. It trembled a fine, uncontrollable vibration that started in your shoulder and traveled down to your fingertips, broadcasting your fear in a language anyone could read. He took it. His fingers were warm, surprisingly warm, and they wrapped around your wrist with the same casual ownership with which he'd touched himself. He guided your hand down, down, until your fingers brushed against heated skin, until your palm was pressed against the rigid length of him, until there was no space left between your flesh and his desire.
He wrapped your fingers around him. His grip over your hand was iron, directing your movements with the precision of a puppeteer, making your fingers squeeze and release, squeeze and release, in a rhythm he dictated. The heat of him was shocking, alive and insistent and utterly hard against your palm. You could feel the pulse beneath the skin, a second heartbeat that seemed to mock your own racing pulse, steady where yours was frantic, controlled where yours was chaos.
Then he let go.
His hand fell away, returning to the arm of the chair, and he simply watched you. His eyes were half-lidded now, heavy with satisfaction, but no less focused. They bored into you as your hand continued to move because what else could you do? Stop? And face the consequences? Face the alternative? Face Hyun-su learning the truth and shattering into pieces too small to ever reassemble?
"Keep doing that."
The words were a leash tightening around your throat. Your hand kept moving. Up and down. Up and down. The rhythm he had set continued under its own terrible momentum, your fingers learning the shape of him, the heat of him, the way his breath caught just barely, just for a fraction of a second when your thumb brushed over the slick head.
His glasses fogged again. His hair fell across his face. Behind those lenses, his eyes burned with a cold fire that saw everything and revealed nothing. He was a black hole dressed in human skin, and you were already past the event horizon, falling, falling, with no hope of escape and no desire left to try.
The monitors flickered behind you, showing frozen images of other moments, other degradations, other proofs that you belonged to him in ways that transcended the physical. And in the blue glow of those screens, you continued to stroke him, your hand moving with the mechanical precision of the utterly broken, while Eun-hyuk watched and waited and smiled his thin, terrible smile.
"That's good," he murmured, his voice a dark silk ribbon wrapping around your throat. "Fuck that’s so good….you’re doing so fucking good shit"
His hand rose and cupped your chin, tilting your face up so that you had no choice but to meet his eyes. His thumb brushed across your lower lip. "Now look at me while you do it. I want to see those eyes. I want to watch that fight drain out of them one stroke at a time."
You looked. You had no choice and as your hand continued its terrible rhythm, as his breathing deepened and his pupils dilated behind the fogged glass, you felt something inside you some last stubborn ember of defiance, some final root of self begin to gutter and dim. Not extinguished. Not yet. But fading. Fading into the blue glow of the monitors and the heat of his flesh and the sound of his quiet, satisfied humming.
"Please..." The word escaped before you could stop it, thin and broken, a ghost of resistance. You didn't know what you were pleading for. For him to stop? For him to finish? For this to be over? For death to come and take you somewhere beyond the reach of his cold, possessive gaze?
"Please what?" His voice was amused, curious, the tone of a scientist observing an unexpected reaction. His thumb pressed harder against your lip, forcing your mouth open slightly. "Use your words. Tell me what you're begging for."
But you couldn't. The words wouldn't come. They were trapped somewhere deep inside you, buried under layers of shame and fear and the terrible, suffocating weight of his control. All you could do was keep moving your hand, keep meeting his eyes, keep falling deeper into the darkness behind those fogged lenses.
He smiled. It was the most terrifying thing you had ever seen.
"That's alright," he whispered, leaning forward until his lips nearly brushed your ear, his breath hot and alive against your skin. "You don't need words. You just need to keep doing exactly what you're doing. Because you're mine. Every part of you. Every breath. Every heartbeat. Every terrified little thought running through that pretty head. Mine."
His hand slid from your chin to the back of your neck, gripping firmly, possessively, anchoring you in place as your hand continued its work.
"And don't you ever forget it."
"Put your mouth on it."
The smell of him filled your breathing passages immediately. Musk and salt that sterile scent that clung to his skin like a second layer of armor. It invaded your sinuses, coated your tongue, became the entire world in a single inhalation. There was no escape from it. There was no escape from him.
You opened your mouth. You leaned forward. And then his hand was on the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, gripping tight, and he was pushing not guiding, not encouraging, but forcing you down onto his length with the implacable pressure of a man who had never been told no and had no intention of learning what the word meant.
"Please..." The word escaped you before you could stop it, muffled and desperate, vibrating against his flesh. "Please, Eun-hyuk, I can't…"
"You can." His voice was calm. Certain. The voice of someone correcting a minor error in a calculation. "You will. Open that throat for me like the good little slut you are."
The degradation hit you like a physical blow, a hot flush that spread from your chest up your neck and into your cheeks, a shame-response that was somehow tangled up with something else, something darker and more confusing that you refused to name. Tears were already gathering at the corners of your eyes, blurring the monitors into streaks of blue light, turning the room into an impressionist painting of your own humiliation.
He pushed deeper. Your gag reflex spasmed, your throat convulsing around him, and you heard yourself make a sound wet and strangled and utterly pathetic, the sound of something being used for a purpose it did not want. He bottomed out, the tip of him pressing against the back of your throat, cutting off your airway for a terrifying moment that stretched into an eternity. Your lungs burned. Your eyes streamed. And through the fog of oxygen deprivation, you heard him speak.
"Shit." The word came out rough, almost reverent, the first crack in his clinical facade. "Fuck, this fucking mouth."
His voice was foggy, distant, reaching you through layers of panic and arousal and the strange, floating dissociation that had become your only defense against these moments. Your eyes were full of tears now, spilling over your lower lashes and tracking hot down your cheeks, mixing with the saliva that slicked your chin and dripped onto the cold floor below. You were gagging on him loud, wet, obscene sounds that filled the small office and seemed to bounce off the walls and return to you amplified, inescapable, a soundtrack to your own reduction.
And then you heard him laugh. It wasn't a warm sound, It was like the laugh of someone watching a puppy stumble over its own feet, finding entertainment in the awkward struggle of something weaker than himself. He gathered your hair in his fist, twisting it into a makeshift ponytail, the strands pulling tight against your scalp with a sting that made your eyes water harder. He used that grip like reins, pulling you up until just the tip of him remained between your lips, then pushing you back down until your nose pressed against the coarse hair at his base and your throat sealed around him in a wet, choking embrace.
"That's it." His voice was lower now, rougher, losing some of that clinical edge as something more primal bled through. "That's my good little whore. You were made for this, weren't you? Made to be on your knees with a cock down your throat."
Your hands had found his thighs, fingers digging into the muscle there, not pushing him away but holding on, anchoring yourself against the rhythm he was establishing. Up and down. Up and down. Your throat is working around him, learning his shape, adapting to the invasion the way a body adapts to any repeated trauma by making space for it, by normalizing it, by slowly forgetting what it felt like to be empty.
"Please..." The word came out again, barely recognizable as language. "Please what?" His grip on your hair tightened, yanking your head back until your teary eyes met his. His face was flushed now, a faint pink staining those pale cheeks, and his pupils had swallowed the gray of his irises. He looked almost human. Almost affected. Almost like this meant something to him beyond control. "Please let you breathe? Please fuck your throat harder? Use your words, sweetheart. Tell me what that pretty little mouth wants."
The humiliation. It coated your skin like oil, seeped into your pores, and became part of your cellular structure. Your lips were swollen and slick, your chin wet with saliva and tears, your throat raw and aching in a way that would linger for days a physical reminder of exactly what you were to him. You opened your mouth to answer, but all that came out was a broken, choking sob.
"That's what I thought." His smile was a thin, curved incision satisfaction without warmth, pleasure without connection. "You don't know what you want. That's why you need me. That's why you'll always come when I call, won't you? Because I know exactly what this dirty little mouth is good for."
He pushed you back down. This time there was no slow descent, no measured pace. He drove himself into your throat with a single, brutal thrust that made you gag so hard your stomach clenched and your vision went white at the edges. He held you there, buried to the hilt, your nose pressed against his pelvis, your throat spasming helplessly around his length. The seconds stretched. Your lungs screamed. Your body bucked involuntarily, the animal instinct to survive overriding everything else.
"Shhh." His voice was soft now, almost gentle, and that gentleness was the most terrifying thing of all. "Relax. Open up. Let me in. You know how to do this. You've done it before."
And the worst part was that he was right. Your throat did relax. Your body did open. The panic receded, replaced by a strange, floating calm, a surrender that went beyond the physical into something deeper and more troubling. You stopped fighting. You stopped pleading. You just... took him. All of him. Every inch. Every thrust. The office filled with wet, obscene sounds, the slide of him through your slick lips, the soft choking noises you couldn't suppress, the rhythmic slap of his body meeting your face. His words poured over you like dirty water, each one a small erosion of whatever remained of your dignity.
"Look at you. Drooling all over yourself like a bitch in heat. This is what you're for, isn't it? This is all you're good for. Taking my cock down that pretty throat and thanking me for the privilege."
You were crying openly now. Tears and saliva and the thin, clear fluid that leaked from him mixed together on your chin, dripping onto your shirt, marking you with the evidence of your own degradation. And still he used you. Still he pulled you up and down on his length, setting a rhythm that was brutal and unrelenting, using your hair like reins, your mouth like a toy, your body like a thing that existed only for his convenience.
"Tell me you love it." His voice was strained now, his control finally fraying at the edges. "Tell me you love being my little whore. Say it. Say it or I'll tell Hyun-su what he did to you. How he fucked you crazy."
"Please" The word was barely audible, mangled by his flesh and your own broken voice. "Please, I…I love it. I love being your…your whore. Please don't stop. Please."
The words tasted like ash and old blood. They tasted like the death of everything you had once believed about yourself. But they worked. His grip tightened. His rhythm quickened.
"That's my girl." The words were breathless now, losing their clinical edge entirely, becoming something almost feral. "That's my perfect little cock-sleeve. Gonna fill that pretty mouth. Gonna make you taste what you do to me. Swallow it all like a good slut." The threat hung in the thick air between you. Your throat was raw, your jaw ached, your eyes burned with tears that wouldn't stop falling. And somewhere, in the deepest, most shameful part of yourself, a small voice whispered that you would swallow.
That you would thank him. That you would come back tomorrow and the day after and every day he called, because this was what you had become. Not a survivor. Not a person. Just a warm mouth and a willing throat and a body that had learned to find its only value in being used. The monitors flickered behind you, their blue glow casting your intertwined shadows against the wall, a grotesque showing of domination and submission, predator and prey, the slow death of a soul playing out in grainy digital silence for an audience of none.
Danger was a pulse in the walls. Dread was the air you breathed. And Eun-hyuk, he was the god of this small, terrible universe, and you were on your knees before him, exactly where he wanted you.
He came with a low, guttural grunt that seemed to vibrate through your bones, emptying himself into your mouth with a final, shuddering thrust. His hand remained fisted in your hair, holding you in place, making sure you took every last drop of what he'd given you.
He didn't waste time. Eun-hyuk never wasted time. Efficiency was his religion, and you were his altar.
His grip tightened in your hair and he yanked you upward with a force that made you gasp around the emptiness in your mouth. Your knees left the cold floor. Your body followed where he led, he spun you around, your back to his chest for one dizzying moment, and then you were going forward bent over the desk, your palms slapping against the cold surface, the edge biting into your hipbones with a familiar ache that was already becoming a memory before it had fully registered.
His hands found your skirt. He didn't remove it. He ripped it. The fabric gave way with a sharp, tearing sound that seemed obscenely loud in the cramped space, another layer of protection stripped away with casual brutality. Your underwear followed yanked down with the same impatient efficiency, the elastic snapping against your thighs, leaving you exposed to the cold air and his colder gaze and the relentless blue glow of the monitors that documented everything.
Then he was there. Pressing against your entrance still slick and still hot and he pushed inside you with a single, brutal thrust that drove the air from your lungs in a sharp, involuntary gasp. The stretch was immediate and overwhelming, that familiar fullness that bordered on too much, that walked the knife's edge between pleasure and pain and refused to let you fall to either side. He filled you completely, buried to the hilt, and for a long, terrible moment he simply held himself there, letting you feel every inch of his invasion, letting the reality of your position settle into your bones like lead.
His fingers found your mouth. They pushed past your lips, two of them, tasting of salt and skin. They pressed deep, hitting the back of your throat, making you gag around the intrusion. Your eyes watered. Your throat constricted. A small, choked sound escaped around his fingers, and you felt rather than heard his quiet, satisfied exhale against your hair.
His nose nuzzled into the tangled mess of your hair, his breath hot and damp against your scalp. You could feel his glasses pressing up, the frames digging into the back of your head as he leaned into you, as he claimed you with every point of contact his chest against your back, his hips flush against your ass, his fingers buried in your mouth, his cock buried in your cunt. There was nowhere he wasn't. There was no part of you that didn't belong to him at this moment.
And then he started to move.
"Oh fuck." The words came out of him in a harsh, ragged whisper, filthy and raw, stripped of that clinical detachment he usually wore like armor. "Oh fuck. Shit."
You could hear the filthy words spilling from his mouth a litany of profanity that seemed to surprise even him, as if the act of being inside you had finally cracked that implacable facade and revealed something hungry and desperate beneath. His hips rocked into you with a rhythm that started punishing and only grew more intense, each thrust driving deeper, hitting something inside you that made your vision blur and your knees threaten to buckle. He filled you completely, stretched you to your limit and then pushed past it, finding depths you hadn't known you possessed, claiming territory that had never been offered but was his nonetheless.
"Please." The word escaped around his fingers, muffled and desperate, "Please, Eun-hyuk, please!"
"Shut up." His voice was a growl against your ear, hot and commanding. "You don't get to beg. You don't get to ask for anything. You take what I give you. That's all you're good for. That's all you'll ever be good for."
His hand shifted on your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave marks you'd trace later with trembling fingers, evidence of his possession written in purple and black across your skin. On the other hand the one that had been gagging you, silencing you, owning your mouth pulled free with a wet sound that made your cheeks burn with shame. Your lips felt swollen, violated, empty without his fingers filling them. The hand found its way into your hair instead, fisting tight, using the grip to push your face down against the cold surface of the desk.
"Yeah," he breathed, feeling it, knowing it. "That's right. Your body knows what it is. Even if your mouth still tries to pretend. You were made for this. Made to be bent over and used. Made to take whatever I give you and thank me for it."
His hips slammed into you with renewed force, each thrust driving you forward against the desk, your breasts pressed flat against the cold surface, your nipples pebbling from the friction and the stimulation. The sound of flesh meeting flesh filled the small office and beneath it, the soft, broken sounds you couldn't quite suppress, the whimpers and gasps and half-formed words that spilled from your lips without permission.
"Please... please..."
"Please what?" His voice was a taunt, cruel and amused, his breath hot against the shell of your ear. "Please stop? Please keep going? Please fuck me harder? What are you begging for, you pathetic little thing? Use your words. I know you have them somewhere in that empty head of yours."
You couldn't answer. The words wouldn't come. There was only the feeling of him inside you and the pressure building low in your belly, that coiling tension that promised release but never quite delivered, keeping you suspended in a state of desperate, aching need. He knew exactly what he was doing. He always knew. He played your body like an instrument he'd long since mastered, knowing exactly where to touch, exactly how hard to thrust, exactly when to pull back and leave you gasping on the edge.
"Nothing to say?" His laugh was soft and cruel against your hair. "That's fine. I prefer you quiet anyway. All those stupid thoughts rattling around in there they're worthless. The only thing that matters is this." He thrust deep, holding himself there, making you feel every inch.
His hand tightened in your hair, yanking your head back, forcing your spine to arch, changing the angle of his thrusts so that each one hit something deep and devastating that made stars burst behind your eyes. The other hand gripped your hip with bruising force, fingers digging into the soft flesh, anchoring you in place as he took what he wanted with the single-minded focus of a man who had never been denied anything in his life.
"Look at you." His voice was rough, breathless. "Bent over this desk like a common whore. Taking my cock like you were born for it. This is where you belong. On your knees or on your back or bent over whatever surface I choose. This is your place. This is your purpose. Say it."
You couldn't speak. Your throat was tight with unshed tears and swallowed sounds and the overwhelming sensory input of being so completely, utterly used. But he wasn't asking. His hand tightened in your hair, pulling harder, the pain sharp and clarifying.
"Say it."
"Yours." The word came out broken, barely audible, dragged from somewhere deep inside you that had long since surrendered to his will. "I'm yours. This is... this is my place."
"Good girl." The praise was a knife wrapped in silk, cutting even as it soothed. "That's my good little whore. Now take it. Take all of it. And don't you dare make a sound when you come…I want to feel it, not hear it."
His rhythm increased, hips slamming against your ass with a force that drove you forward against the desk, the edge digging into your sides, the monitors rattling with each impact. His breath came in harsh, ragged gasps against your hair, his glasses pressing into your scalp, his entire body coiled with the tension of approaching release. And inside you, that pressure built and built a wave rising higher and higher, threatening to crash over you and drag you under.
You bit your lip. You pressed your forehead against the cold surface of the desk. You held yourself together through sheer force of will as he used your body for his pleasure, as he chased his own release with the single-minded focus of a predator hunting down prey. And when it finally broke when your body betrayed you one final time and clenched around him in a silent, shuddering climax you didn't make a sound. You simply shattered in silence, exactly as he'd commanded, your vision going white and your mind going blank and everything you were dissolving into the feeling of him moving inside you, claiming you, owning you.
He followed a moment later, emptying himself into you with a low, guttural sound that seemed to come from somewhere primal and unguarded. His hips jerked, stuttered, stilled. His weight pressed against your back, pinning you to the desk, his breath hot and ragged against your hair. For a long moment, neither of you moved. The only sounds were your mingled breathing and the soft electronic whine of the monitors and the distant, muffled groaning of a building that had witnessed far worse than this and would witness far worse still.
The sound of clapping filled the air. Each clap echoed off the close walls of the office, sharp and percussive, cutting through the thick silence like a blade through dead flesh. And then came the laugh. It was warm and familiar, a sound you recognized from better days, from before everything curdled and spoiled, now twisted into something that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand at rigid attention. Your head turned toward the sound with the jerky, instinctive motion of a deer that has heard a branch snap in the forest.
Hyun-su was walking into the office.
He moved with that easy, unhurried grace that had always defined him. His smile was in place, that warm curve of lips that had once made you feel safe, that had once seemed like proof that goodness could survive even in hell. But there was something behind it now. Something that glittered in his eyes like light off broken glass, sharp and hungry and utterly unrecognizable.
"Hyun-su?"
His name escaped your lips as a strangled whisper, a sound caught somewhere between hope and horror. You pushed Eun-hyuk off you with a violence born of pure instinct, your hands scrambling to cover what you could of your shame, the exposed flesh, the evidence of what you had become, the wreckage of your dignity scattered across the floor of this damn office like debris after an explosion. Your fingers clawed at fabric, yanking your skirt up with your ruined underwear.
He wiggled his finger. A slow, almost playful motion. The gesture of an adult correcting a child who had made an adorable but significant error. "No," he said, and the word dripped with amusement, with a dark delight that seemed to feed on your confusion. "I'm not Hyun-su. Want to guess again?"
The smile never left his face. It widened, if anything, stretching his features into something that wore Hyun-su's face like a mask that didn't quite fit the proportions slightly off, the expression too knowing, the eyes too old and too hungry for the gentle boy you remembered. Eun-hyuk moved behind you, bending to retrieve his jeans from the floor, stepping into them with unhurried deliberation. His gaze flicked past the thing wearing Hyun-su's face, scanning the doorway, the hallway beyond, checking for witnesses.
"As entertaining as that was..."
The thing that was not Hyun-su spoke with a voice like honey laced with ground glass. His hand shot out fast, impossibly fast, a blur of motion that your eyes could barely track reaching for Eun-hyuk with fingers that seemed to have grown too long, joints that bent at angles that defied human anatomy. But Eun-hyuk's arm came up, blocking the strike with a speed that matched the attacker's own, and in that moment of impact, you saw his eyes.
They were black.
Not dark brown. Not shadowed. Black. An absence of light so complete, so absolute, that looking into them was like staring into the void between stars, a darkness that had never known illumination, that had existed before light was invented and would exist long after it died. The iris, the pupil all consumed by an obsidian emptiness that seemed to drink in the office's jaundiced glow and give nothing back. Your blood turned to ice water. Your heart stuttered in your chest, a panicked animal throwing itself against the bars of its cage. You knew, in that moment, with a certainty that bypassed rational thought and spoke directly to the primitive terror center of your brain, that you were utterly and completely fucked.
"Oh?"
The thing wearing Hyun-su's face sounded surprised, genuinely surprised, as if Eun-hyuk's eyes had revealed something unexpected, something that changed the calculus of whatever dark game was being played in this cramped office. "That's shocking."
Eun-hyuk cracked his neck. The sound was loud in the confined space, a series of small pops like twigs snapping underfoot, and when he spoke, his voice carried the same flat, clinical detachment it always had as if the revelation of his inhumanity was merely another variable to be accounted for, another piece on a board he had been playing long before you ever stumbled into his web.
"What if we share her?"
They were talking about you like you weren't in the room. Like you were a resource to be allocated, a piece of property to be divided between competing claims. Your mouth opened to protest, to scream, to assert some fragment of the person you had once been but the thing wearing Hyun-su's face moved with that terrible speed, his hand closing around your jaw, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your cheeks, yanking you close until his face filled your entire field of vision. His breath washed over you, warm and sweet and wrong, carrying a scent like flowers left too long in stagnant water.
"You love opening your legs for anyone, huh?"
The words were a slap. They landed in your chest and exploded outward, filling your body with a shame so hot and so complete that it felt like burning. Your hands came up, scrabbling at his grip, trying to pry those too-long fingers from your face but the pressure only increased, grinding your teeth together, making your jaw creak with the threat of fracture. Pain lanced through your skull, bright and sharp and clarifying, reducing the world to this single point of agony.
Eun-hyuk's hand closed around Hyun-su's wrist.
"Stop it." His voice was calm. Controlled. The voice of someone who had been managing dangerous things for a very long time. "Don't want to hurt her, do you... Hyun-su?"
The name was a provocation, a deliberate jab at whatever wore that familiar face. Hyun-su's eyes snapped to Eun-hyuk and in that gaze, you saw something ancient and hungry and utterly without mercy. The two of them stood locked in that frozen moment, predator facing predator, while you hung suspended between them like a rabbit caught in the crosshairs of competing wolves.
"Let's just share her."
Hyun-su's hand dropped. The sudden release made you stumble backward, your hip catching the edge of the desk, pain flaring through your side as you collided with the unyielding surface. You gripped the desk for support, your legs trembling, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps that seemed to provide no oxygen at all. The monitors flickered behind you, their blue glow casting your shadow against the far wall, a distorted silhouette of someone who had ceased to be a person and become merely a thing to be divided.
Hyun-su looked at you. His eyes…Hyun-su's eyes, traveled down your body with the slow, assessing gaze of someone evaluating livestock. "Fine."
The word landed like a hammer on glass. You knew, in that moment, with the cold clarity of the utterly doomed, that you were royally fucked. Not figuratively. Not dramatically. Royally. Completely. In ways that your mind couldn't fully comprehend but your body already understood, already preparing for with a trembling that started deep in your marrow and radiated outward until even your fingertips shook. Two of them. Two monsters wearing human faces. And you, caught between them, a toy to be passed back and forth until there was nothing left of you but the hollow shell where a person used to live.
You opened your mouth. To speak. To plead. To bargain with creatures that had no interest in bargains. But before the words could form, the building shook.
It was not a subtle tremor. It was a violent, bone-rattling convulsion that seemed to come from everywhere at once, the floor bucking beneath your feet, the walls groaning like a wounded animal, dust sifting down from the ceiling in pale streams.
The monitors flickered wildly, their images distorting into static snow before stabilizing. And then came the sound. A crash. Massive and close, the unmistakable percussion of something, a door, a barricade, the thin membrane between safety and chaos being violently breached. Voices followed. Men's voices. Shouting. Commanding. The hard, clipped cadence of people who had come with purpose and were not asking permission.
Your head snapped toward the door. The lobby. Something was happening in the lobby. Your body was already moving before your mind caught up, the instinct to know, to see, to understand what new horror was descending upon this dying building overriding every rational thought. You took a step toward the door.
"Hide."
Eun-hyuk's voice cut through the noise. You didn't listen.
Your feet carried you forward, past Eun-hyuk, past the thing wearing Hyun-su's face, through the office door and into the hallway beyond. The sounds from the lobby grew louder, boots on concrete, voices raised in tactical communication, the unmistakable clatter of weapons being readied. You ran toward it, driven by some suicidal impulse you couldn't name, some desperate need to face whatever was coming rather than cower in the shadows while monsters decided your fate.
If you had known what was about to happen if you had possessed even a flicker of the terrible knowledge that awaited you in that lobby. You would have listened.
"Alter Ego." - Cha Hyun-Su x f!reader (with a hint of Lee Eun-Hyuk)
You learned that the worst monsters do not lurk in the dark, no they stand right in front of you. They call you pretty. They tell you to take it. And you do, because what else is there?
content warning – This story contains themes of graphic violence, coercion, and manipulation, including blackmail and non-consensual or dubiously consensual situations. It depicts physical aggression such as rough handling and hair pulling, along with injury, bruising, and mentions of blood. The narrative also includes invasive and violating behavior, presented within a tense and unsettling atmosphere.
word count : 5.9k
It has been two weeks, though time no longer moves in any direction you can trust. It pools, stagnates, seeps into the walls of the Green House Apartments until every hour tastes the same stale, metallic, faintly wrong. They call it a curse, in hushed voices that never quite rise above a murmur, as if speaking too loudly might invite it closer.
They say it drags out the deepest darkest desire of people, something private and festering, and gives it shape. Not all at once. Not cleanly. It happens slowly enough for others to watch. Slowly enough for fear to take root first.
Because you notice things. You notice the way he looks at you when he thinks you don’t see him. It’s not longing, not exactly. It’s study. Like you’re a suspect in a lineup and he’s waiting for you to break.
You have seen what remains after. The blood never dries properly here. It darkens, but it does not leave. And it is not the creatures that trouble you most. It is the way people look at one another now measuring, withholding, already preparing for the moment someone turns into monsters. You feel it too, that quiet suspicion pressing in from all sides, like walls drawing closer without moving.
Hyun-su sits apart from the others, though not by much. The distance is deliberate, carefully maintained, as though proximity itself might provoke something in him. They watch him without pretending otherwise. He does not return their gaze. He rarely returns anything at all.
And yet you stay near him.
You tell yourself it is because you knew him before this. Before the whispers hardened into certainty, before the building learned how to breathe like this. He had been quiet then, yes, but not hollow. Not like now. There is something restrained in him, something held behind his ribs with visible effort, like a door braced shut from the inside. You are not sure what would happen if it opened. You are not sure you want to know. Still you trust him. Or something close enough to trust that you do not step away.
The others notice. They notice everything now.
When Eun-Hyuk speaks, the room stills in that subtle, uneasy way you have come to recognize the kind of silence that is not respect, but necessity. “We need supplies,” he says, his voice even, almost dulled by repetition. His eyes drift, briefly, to Hyun-su, and something unspoken passes through the room like a draft. You understand it immediately. So does everyone else.
You move before you could stop yourself. “No.”
The word leaves you sharper than intended, cutting into the stagnant air. Heads turn not quickly, but all at once. Eun-Hyuk looks at you while adjusting his glasses, as though you have become a variable he had not accounted for. “It’s efficient,” he replies.
Efficient. The word lingers, thin and bloodless.
“It’s cruel,” you answer, your voice lower now, but no less steady. “You don’t get to decide he’s expendable.” There is a pause. It stretches. No one intervenes. No one agrees. You feel their attention shift, subtly, uncomfortably away from Hyun-su, toward you. That same calculation, redirected. “I’ll go,” you add. “With him.” Hyun-su turns his head slightly, just enough for you to feel it.
“You shouldn’t,” he says, quiet, controlled. “You don’t know what’s out there.” You almost laugh, but it dies before it reaches your throat. “Neither do you,” you reply. And that is enough.
The hallway greets you with a silence that feels constructed rather than natural. The lights hum faintly, flickering just enough to distort the edges of things. The air is thick, damp, carrying a scent you try not to identify. Your footsteps feel too loud, no matter how carefully you place them. Every sound seems to linger, as though the building is unwilling to let anything pass unnoticed.
And then it forces itself into your hearing. Not a roar. Not a growl. Something softer. Wet. Searching. It moves somewhere beyond your sight, its presence suggested more by absence than form by the way the air seems to hesitate, the way the silence gathers around it.
You and Hyun-su slip behind a door, pressing into the narrow space as if you might disappear into it. He is close, closer than before. You can feel his breath near your ear, uneven but restrained, as though he is forcing himself into stillness. It sends a faint shiver through you, one you cannot quite suppress.
Neither of you speaks.
The quiet stretches. Your body begins to ache from holding itself so tightly. You shift just slightly. Your foot comes down on something thin. A plastic wrapper. The sound it makes is small. Insignificant. It does not belong in this silence. The response is immediate.
Something lashes through the hallway a sudden, violent intrusion, striking the wall with a sickening force that reverberates through the structure itself. You do not see it clearly. You only understand that it has found where you are. “Run!” Hyun-su yells. You do not hesitate.
The stairwell door slams open under your weight, and you descend too quickly, your footing uncertain, your breath breaking apart in your chest. The darkness below feels thicker, less like absence and more like presence. Then it shifts.
Something waits there.
You do not see all of it only the suggestion of mass, of height, of something assembled incorrectly. It moves toward you with a terrible certainty, its form straining against itself, as though it has not settled into its final shape. It reaches. It bends into something else .
A sharp, wet sound. A sudden stillness.
The thing halts, its body pulled backward, held in place by something unseen but forceful. You do not turn to understand it. You do not need to. You run. Down the last stretch, into the lobby, through the doors that close behind you with a hollow, echoing finality. The lock clicks. The sound feels louder than anything that came before.
You turn. They are all watching. Not relieved. Not welcoming. Watching. Their faces are drawn, their eyes too sharp, too aware. You notice the distance they keep not just from Hyun-su, but from you now as well. Eun-Hyuk steps forward.
“Did you get the medication?” he asks.
His voice is unchanged. As though nothing outside this room holds any weight at all. You stare at him, something hollow opening in your chest. Slowly, you take the bag from Hyun-su and throw it toward him. It lands without ceremony. “Here,” you say. The word feels brittle.
No one asks what happened. No one asks if you are hurt. The silence that follows is heavier than anything spoken. You reach for Hyun-su’s wrist. His skin is cold. Or perhaps yours is. You cannot tell anymore. You pull him with you before the quiet can deepen further, before the room can decide something else about either of you.
The makeshift cell waits where they left it. It’s crude, functional, unmistakable in its purpose. Containment. Not protection. Never protection. You step inside with him. There is a brief pause before Eun-Hyuk approaches, keys in hand. “You want to stay in there?” he asks. You do not look at him. “Fuck off.”
The door closes. The lock follows. The sound settles into the space like something permanent. You lower yourself onto the floor. It is cold, but steady. That is enough. Across from you, Hyun-su sits in the corner, unmoving, his presence quiet but heavy, like something held in suspension. You do not speak to him.
Your eyes close, not from comfort, but from a kind of surrender. Around you, the building breathes slow, uneven, as though it is waiting. And somewhere within that breathing, beneath the distant sounds of something moving where it should not, there is a quieter realization, settling into you with dreadful patience.
You wake not all at once, but in fragments first the awareness of warmth, then the weight of something around you, then the slow, creeping realization that you are not alone in the space you had convinced yourself was contained. An arm is wrapped around you, firm but not forceful, holding you in a way that suggests intention rather than accident. For a moment, you do not move.
The air is thick, close. The faint scent of iron lingers beneath it, threaded into the dampness of the room. Somewhere beyond the walls, something drags itself faintly across a surface, then stops though listening. “What the—”
Your voice comes out smaller than expected. Hyun-su is beside you. He must have moved while you slept. You do not remember hearing him. You do not remember anything between closing your eyes and this quiet rearrangement of distance. His arm loosens almost immediately when you stir, withdrawing with a hesitation that feels practiced.
“Oh—sorry,” he says, his voice low, careful. “You were trembling. I didn’t know what to do… so I just..” He does not finish. You look at him, and for a moment, everything aligns into something almost ordinary. His face is the same tired, restrained, drawn tight at the edges. Human. Contained. “Thanks Hyun-su,” you say.
The words settle between you. Then something else speaks. “Hyun-su is so in love with you.” The voice does not come from where it should. It is his voice but not entirely. There is a weight beneath it, a distortion, as though something deeper has learned the shape of his words but not their restraint. You stop breathing.
Your eyes drop without permission, fixing on the floor as though it might offer something stable, something real. The concrete is stained dark patches, uneven, old and new layered together. You focus on that instead of him. “He’s such a coward,” the voice continues, softer now, almost thoughtful. “Can’t even make a move to make you his.”
Each word lands too cleanly. “So he follows you around like a fucking lost puppy.” The tone shifts as it speaks, dipping lower, rougher, as though the voice is settling into something more comfortable..something less human. You feel it before you see it. That wrongness.
Your gaze lifts slowly, unwillingly, tracing upward first his legs, still folded where he had been sitting, then his torso, unmoving, then finally his face. And you recoil. Your hands catch you as you fall back, the impact jarring enough to send a dull shock through your arms.
His eyes are wrong. Black not empty, but full in a way that makes no sense, swallowing light rather than reflecting it. There is something behind them, something watching through them, something that does not belong to the person you have been sitting beside.
“What?” His head tilts slightly, the motion curious, almost amused. He rises to his feet. The movement is smooth, too smooth, as though the joints have been reconsidered and improved upon by something that does not require the same limitations. “Oh,” he says, a quiet laugh slipping through, dry and misplaced, “do I have something on my face?”
The sound of it lingers, wrong in its cadence. You do not answer. You move. The door is only a few steps away, but the space feels altered, stretched, as though distance itself has turned unreliable. Your body reacts before your mind can catch up you push yourself up, turning toward it, toward anything that is not this and something seizes you.
Your scalp burns with the sudden, violent force as a hand tangles into your hair and yanks you backward. The motion is abrupt, effortless. Your body lifts, then slams against the ground, the breath knocked from you in a hollow gasp. The floor is cold. Unyielding.
For a moment, all you can hear is the sound of your own pulse. Above you, something moves. Not just him. Something more. And in that suspended, fragile second before anything else happens you understand, with a clarity that settles deep and irreversible, whatever is standing over you may wear his shape, but it is no longer something you can name.
You move before thought can fully form, as if instinct itself has been sharpened by too many nights of uncertainty. Your body reacts with a violence that surprises even you your leg drives upward, connecting with something solid, something that yields only slightly before giving way. He stumbles. Not far, but enough. Enough for breath to return to you in a ragged, desperate pull.
Hyun-su or what wears his shape rocks backward under the force of it, head tilting with a delayed sort of confusion, as though the sensation is being translated rather than felt. You do not wait to understand. You rise.
The room feels suddenly too small for both of you, the air thick with the stale, recycled breath of confinement. Every surface seems closer than it should be, pressing inward with quiet insistence, as if the space itself is trying to witness what is happening.
The door. The door is the only thing that matters now. You stagger toward it, hands already lifting, already forming words before they are fully shaped in your throat.
“Eun-Hyuk!”
Your voice cracks against the concrete and metal, echoing back at you in a way that feels almost mocking. But then movement.
He is there. At the gate. For a moment, relief cuts through you so sharply it is almost pain. You see him clearly enough by the familiar posture, the familiar stillness. A figure that should mean safety in a place where nothing else does.
You call out again, louder this time, the word breaking apart with urgency. He approaches. Not quickly. Not urgently. And then he stops. He does not reach for the lock. He does not open anything. Instead, he smiles. It is not a kind expression. It is not even a real one. It sits on his face the way something foreign might settle into an unfamiliar shape, poorly fitted, yet convincingly worn.
“What,” he says lightly, “I thought you wanted to be in there with him?” For a moment, your mind refuses the sentence. Refuses the implication beneath it.
“What?” you breathe, disbelief sharpening into something colder. “Eun-Hyuk, stop fucking playing around and open the gate!”
But he does not move. Not even slightly. His eyes shift not to you, but past you. Beyond you. As though you are no longer the subject of interest, only the frame of something else. A pause follows. Too long to be casual. Then you feel it. Behind you.
A presence that does not announce itself so much as it fills the space it occupies, like a thought you did not realize you had been thinking. You turn just enough to see it. Hyun-su. Closer now.
There is no sound of his approach. No warning. Only the certainty that he has already arrived and has been standing there long enough to decide what comes next.
You open your mouth to yell but his hand is there first. It covers your mouth with controlled precision, not rough, not frantic. Certain. The pressure is firm enough to silence you completely, to trap breath before it can become sound. Your struggle begins immediately.
You twist, shove, strike your movements sharp with panic and disbelief but there is something wrong in the resistance you meet. Not inhuman exactly. As if strength itself has been rewritten in him without changing the surface it wears.
Eun-Hyuk watches. Still smiling. “You came to see the show?” Hyun-su asks, voice almost conversational now. “Better make it worth watching.” You try again to break free. Your limbs strain, your breath muffled under his hand, the sound of your heartbeat filling everything until the room itself feels like it is pulsing with it.
The damp air clung to your skin like a burial shroud, thick with the promise of rot and dread. Hyun-su’s hands were upon you then not with warmth, but with the terrible certainty of something that has already fed and found its hunger unslaked.
His fingers traced the hollow of your waist, the vulnerable curve of you neck, the places where the pulse betrays the helpless hope of escape. “Wow,” he breathed, and his voice slithered into the shell of your ear like a parasite seeking purchase, “you’re so soft.”
Soft. Yes. The softness of prey. The softness of flesh that has forgotten its own fragility.
His mouth found your throat not biting, not yet, just resting there, a wet and possessive intimacy that made your skin crawl with a thousand tiny, sightless things. One hand dropped lower, fumbling at the denim that still dared to shield you, and you felt the dull pressure of his palm rubbing in slow, patient arcs over the fabric.
A mockery of tenderness. A practice for something worse.
Then he knelt behind you a sudden absence of weight, a rustle of movement that felt less like a man and more like a thing unfolding in the darkness. The rasp of your jeans being yanked down was obscenely loud in the silence. His hands ran up and down your bare legs, and you could not tell if the trembling was yours or the world’s or some shared sickness between you.
He rose again, pressing you into the cold iron of the gate until the pattern bit into your cheek. One hand gripped your neck and his fingers tightened with the casual precision of a man testing fruit for ripeness. “Keep your eyes on that little prick,” he whispered, and his breath was a damp feather against my ear, “okay, lovely?” Lovely. The word curdled in the air between you.
You could not speak. Could not push. Could not even summon the animal will to thrash, because somewhere beneath the terror was the deeper, colder knowledge that you had already lost this game before it began.
The hallway stretched before you like a diseased intestine and pulsing with a rhythm that did not belong to any living heart. Eun-hyuk moved closer to the gate and his glasses caught what little light still bothered to exist in this place, those twin lenses gleaming like the dead eyes of something that had learned to watch without blinking.
"Is that fear I see?" His voice dripped with a mockery so casual it felt rehearsed, as though he had practiced this moment in front of a mirror, savoring each syllable. "Never thought I would see the day you would be scared." He laughed, a dry cracking sound like old bones settling in a shallow grave. "I love it."
Love. Such a fragile word for such a rotten thing.
Then came the sound that unmistakable rasp of a zipper descending, a serpent shedding its skin in the dark. Your eyes, traitors to you own will, drifted downward against every instinct that screamed for blindness.
Eun-hyuk had taken himself out, his hand moving in slow, deliberate strokes, and his gaze never left your face. He wanted to see it. The unraveling. The quiet death of whatever dignity you had carried into this hallway like a foolish lantern in a hurricane.
Behind you, a laugh…Hyun-su, his breath warm against the back of your neck, close enough that you could smell something metallic on him, something that reminded you of old bandages and older regrets. "Damn, Eun-hyuk," he said, and the amusement in his voice had a weight to it, a slow suffocation, "didn't know you were such a pervert."
Eun-hyuk did not answer. He simply kept his eyes on you. Those eyes behind the glass were they hungry? Were they curious? Or had they already seen so much horror that this was merely another way to feel something, anything, in a world that had gone cold and silent?
Hyun-su's fingers began their slow pilgrimage down your side, tracing each rib as though counting them for some later ritual. They reached their destination that small, cruel bundle of nerves that was never meant to be touched by hands like these and he started rubbing, up and down, up and down, with a patience that felt infinite and damning. Your breath caught in your throat, a small animal trapped in a wire snare. Your body stilled, not from consent but from that deep, primal knowledge that movement would only make it worse.
His mouth found your ear, and you felt the wet pinch of his teeth on the lobe not enough to draw blood, just enough to remind you that he could. Then his finger slipped inside you, and the world contracted to that single point of violation. He started finger-fucking you harshly, without rhythm, without care, and somewhere in the distance or perhaps just behind your own eyes you heard Eun-hyuk's breathing quicken.
"Look at her," Eun-hyuk whispered, and his voice had lost its mockery now, replaced by something rawer, something that sounded almost like wonder. "Look at how she takes it. Like she was made for this."
The night had a weight to it, a suffocating blanket of silence and shadow that pressed against your skull like the beginning of a migraine you knew would never end.
You stood there no, you were held there caught between the cold iron of the gate and the heat of something far worse. Hyun-su's fingers withdrew from you with a wet, obscene sound that echoed in the hollow chambers of your mind, and you heard the rustle of his clothing, the zip of his pants, the terrible quiet of a man preparing to claim what he believed was already his.
You felt him then the blunt pressure at your entrance, the pause that lasted an eternity, the moment where your body screamed at you to move, to run, to do anything but stand there like a deer frozen in the headlights of an oncoming truck. And then he slammed into you.
The pain was not sharp but deep, a spreading ache that radiated through your pelvis and up your spine like poison seeping through roots. Your voice tried to escape, tried to become a scream, but his hand clamped over your mouth before it could fully form damp palm, fingers pressing into your cheeks, the taste of salt and something metallic on your lips.
"Shut the fuck up and take it," he hissed, and his voice was not loud but quiet, almost gentle, which made it so much worse. The words slithered into your ear like worms into soil. He slammed into you again. The force of it rattled the gate against its hinges, a discordant clang that sang through the darkness like a bell tolling for someone already dead.
His free hand, the one not suffocating your protests, slid down your body, hooked under your knee, and lifted. Your balance crumbled. Your head snapped forward, forehead cracking against the iron bars with a dull thunk that sent stars exploding across your vision.
Blood trickled warm down the bridge of your nose, mixing with the tears you had not even realized you were shedding. "You were so bold before," he murmured, his hips still moving, still driving, still taking. "What happened, huh?" What happened? What happened was that boldness was a luxury for people who did not understand how quickly the world could turn its hungry mouth toward you.
What happened was that courage dissolved the moment flesh met flesh and the weight of another human being reminded you that you were made of breakable things.
Your hands gripped the bars. White-knuckled. Desperate. The only thing keeping you from crumpling face-first onto the cold, damp ground where others had surely fallen before you. Your arms trembled with the effort, tendons standing out like strings on a puppet whose puppeteer had long since grown bored.
And the gate creaked open.
The sound was soft. A whisper of metal, a sigh of hinges. But you felt Hyun-su react before you understood why. His hands grabbed your wrist, pulling you back, forcing your feet back onto the ground, repositioning you so that your hips angled backward, so that he could thrust deeper, so that you became nothing more than a fulcrum for his pleasure.
Eun-hyuk stepped through the gateway, and the way he moved was unhurried, almost casual, as if he had all the time in the world and knew that you did not.
He locked the gate behind him. The click of the padlock was a period at the end of a sentence you had never wanted to write. Eun-hyuk walked toward your face. Not toward you, toward your face. As if your face was the only part of you that still mattered, the only part that could still feel shame.
He stopped inches away, close enough that you could smell the stale sweat of someone who had stopped being afraid a long time ago. His eyes traced the tears running down your cheeks, the blood pooling at your nostril, the way your lips trembled around the silence he had forced upon you.
"This is the prettiest I've ever seen this face," he said, and his voice was soft, almost reverent, like a man admiring a particularly beautiful tombstone. He tapped your cheek. A gesture almost affectionate, almost fond, the way a farmer might pat a cow before the slaughter.
Then he stepped back, his hand moving to his own body, stroking himself with the same absent, practiced rhythm as someone idly turning the pages of a book they had read a hundred times before.
You cannot move. You cannot breathe. You cannot even summon the will to close your eyes, because somewhere beneath the fog of dread and the thick, coppery taste of your own split lip, you have understood that your body is no longer yours. It belongs to them now to the hollow things wearing familiar faces, to the men who smile with all their teeth and call it affection.
“You’re taking me so well,” Hyun-su groans, and his voice is a wet rustle against your ear, like something nesting in the dark. A laugh, a thin, breathless, wrong. “Shit…fuck you were fucking made for this.”
The words should not land as they do. They should be meaningless sounds, the grunts of an animal. But instead they burrow into your skull, laying eggs of shame that will hatch later, in the small hours, when you are alone and trying to scrub yourself clean. Made for this. As if your bones were shaped around his wanting. As if your softness was not your own but a gift you had no right to withhold.
“You know,” he continues, and his hips do not pause, do not falter, “your Hyun-su..the real one he’s begging me to stop….beegging me to let you go.” Your tears fall. They are silent. They are useless. They pool in the hollow of your throat and taste of salt and surrender.
“But how could I?” His grip on your wrists has loosened no, he has let go entirely, because he does not need to hold you anymore. You will not run. You have forgotten how. His hands find your hips instead, fingers digging into the soft flesh there with a kind of reverence. “You feel so fucking good.”
That is the horror. That is the splinter lodged beneath your nail, the whisper that will keep you awake for years. Some small, traitorous part of you responds. Some ruined nerve end flickers with something that is almost want. You hate yourself for it. You will hate yourself for it until the hate becomes a familiar weight, a stone you carry in your chest alongside the others.
You feel the change in him, the stutter of rhythm, the sudden tension coiling in his thighs. You have felt it before, in other bodies, other nights. You know what comes next. “Not inside,” you hear yourself say, and the voice is so small, so fragile, like a moth beating against a window. “Please. Please don’t cum in me.” A pause. His breath hitches. And then he laughs a low, ugly sound that scrapes against your spine.
“Don’t worry,” he says, and you can hear the grin in his voice, the wet curl of it. “I won’t.” Relief, brief and foolish, flickers through you. “I’ll save that for later.” Later. The word hangs in the air like a stain. Like a promise. Like a door slowly swinging open onto a dark you cannot yet see.
He pulls out, and the emptiness is almost worse than the intrusion, a cold rush of air against skin that has grown too warm, too accustomed to violation. Before you can draw a breath, his hand is in your hair, fisting the strands at the root, and he is pushing you down, guiding you, and there is no time to brace, no time to prepare.
His body fills your mouth, and your jaw screams. Tears blur your vision. You gag, and he only pushes deeper, laughing at the sound, at the way your throat convulses around him. This is not intimacy. This is not even cruelty.
This is something darker, something that lived in the darkness before the thin veneer of light that you had once been foolish enough to believe would protect you. The world narrows to the ache in your jaw, the salt and musk flooding your tongue, the wet sound of his thrusts that echoes off the walls like applause.
And then Eun-hyuk is there. He steps closer, and you feel the heat of him, the weight of his gaze on your tear-streaked face. “I’m about to cum,” he says, and his voice is whiny, almost petulant, as if he is complaining about the weather. As if this is a minor inconvenience. As if you are not choking three feet away.
He does. Across your face. Thick and warm, striping your cheek, your lips, the corner of your eye. Some of it splashes onto Hyun-su’s hand, his wrist, and for a moment the two of them are connected by this by you, by the mess they are making of you.
“Watch where you’re aiming, fucker.” Hyun-su’s voice is cold now, the playfulness gone. Eun-hyuk only laughs a dry, rattling sound, like pebbles in a tin. “I’ll do better next time.” Next time. The words land like stones dropped into deep water. Next time. As if there will be a next time. As if there will be a tomorrow, and another after that, and another, and you will still be here, soft and trembling and made for this.
Next time. You try to hold onto the thought, to examine it, to find the crack where hope might enter. But Hyun-su is still moving, still using your throat, and the world is growing gray at the edges, and somewhere behind you, in the dark of the hallway, something that used to be a person drags its knuckles along the wall and listens to the wet sounds with something that might be envy.
You cannot think about next time. You cannot think about anything at all. He cums in your mouth. You swallow. You do not know if you had a choice. Hyun-su, or whatever has taken his shape, adjusts himself and a heavy thud follows, thick in the air.
The silence after the thud was worse than the thud itself. A wet, heavy sound Hyun-su's body folding into itself like a marionette with severed strings, his skull meeting the floor with a dull finality that echoed through the corridor like a death knell in a flooded crypt. You flinched, every nerve ending screaming, but before you could stagger back, hands were on your shoulders. Possessive. Inevitable.
Eun-hyuk.
You had not heard him approach. You never did. He moved like the dread that lives in the peripheral dark always there. His fingers pressed into the hollows above your collarbones, not hard enough to bruise, just hard enough to remind you that bruising was an option. His breath was warm against the back of your neck, and you felt every hair there rise in futile rebellion. "Let's see," he murmured, and his voice was silk stretched over bone, "if he remembers what happened."
No. No, no, no.
The word clawed up your throat but died somewhere behind your teeth. You knew what remembering would do to Hyun-su. You had seen it before the way his eyes would go glassy and distant, the way his hands would shake as the fragments returned, the way something inside him would crack a little more each time. He could not control it.
The thing that lived beneath his skin, the hunger that woke when he slept, the version of himself that smiled while it broke things. Remembering would destroy him. And Eun-hyuk knew this. Eun-hyuk counted on this.
"No," you finally managed, the syllable thin and reedy, a prayer offered to a god who had long since abandoned this place. "You can't tell him, Eun-hyuk."
The silence stretched. Somewhere in the building, a pipe groaned. Somewhere closer, Hyun-su's chest rose and fell in shallow, unconscious rhythm. And Eun-hyuk smiled a slow, terrible unfolding of the lips that never reached his eyes. His eyes were always cold. Always calculating. Always hungry in a way that had nothing to do with the monsters in the walls and everything to do with the people still breathing.
"What would you give me," he said, each word a deliberate drop of poison, "in return for not telling him?"
You already knew. The shape of the answer was written in the tilt of his head, the way his gaze dragged down your spine like fingernails, the casual arrogance of a man who had never been told no and lived to remember it. His face moved closer, and you could see the fine cracks in his composure now the flicker of something ugly beneath the calm, the same something that lived in all of them now. The isolation had done this.
"You'll be at my beck and call," he whispered, and his lips nearly brushed your ear. "If I want you on your knees, you will be. If I want you silent, you will not speak. If I want you to smile while I tell you what you are, you will smile." A pause. His hand slid from your shoulder to the nape of your neck, fingers threading into your hair with a mockery of tenderness. "And you cannot say no."
Cannot. Not will not. Cannot.
Because the alternative was Hyun-su waking up to the truth. Because the alternative was watching another person shatter while you stood there helpless. Because the alternative was admitting that you had no power here, had never had power here, had only ever been a thing to be used by whichever hand reached for you first.
All you could do was nod.
The movement was small, a trembling dip of the chin, a surrender so quiet it barely disturbed the air. But Eun-hyuk felt it. His smile widened, and for a moment, he looked almost kind. That was the worst part. That almost-kindness. That suggestion that this was mercy, that this was the best offer you would ever receive, that you should be grateful he asked at all.
"Good girl," he said, and released you. Behind you, Hyun-su's breathing grew heavier. The gate rattled. Your hands ached. And somewhere in the shadows beyond the pool of dim light, you could have sworn you saw movement, something that watched, something that waited, something that had once been human and had learned that the worst monsters do not lurk in the dark.
They stand right in front of you. They call you pretty. They tell you to take it. And you do. Because what else is there?
Bbg where are uuuu??? Missing uuu smmmm 🥹🥹 we need to be pampered don’t u think so? Love uuuuu
Oh, I’ve just been busy with life, work, and other commitments, but I’ll be back soon. I’ve got a lot going on in my personal life right now, so I haven’t had a chance to sit down at my computer and write.
would you write more fics of han sugang? the one that you posted was PHENOMENAL
Of course!! I love that psycho! 😭 I just have so many people I want to write for, because finding fanfics or smut for them is like trying to find water on Mars (does Mars even have water? idek) but you get what I mean.
If you have a request for Sugang, please send it in and I’ll get to it!
and thank you!! I really really appreciate that <3
hey mod, not sure if you like romantic ones (i'm not a big fan, but i like some), so i will recommend my favs that aren't romantic or the primary focus is not romance (shows and movies): made in korea, bad and crazy, forgotten (movie), study group, move to heaven, d.p, kingdom, pro bono, the 8 show, wall to wall (movie), prison playbook, midnight runners (movie), misaeng, a shop for killers, the first ride (movie), the silent sea
I don’t usually vibe with romance tropes (it’s not really my thing) but I love these recs! I’ve already seen Study Group, Bad and Crazy, and Pro Bono, so I’ll add the ones I haven’t watched yet to my watchlist fs (plus the other two you’ve sent as well)
i mostly download my kdramas from various sites because i can’t deal with the pop-ups and ads when streaming. Plus, when the video lags, it gets really frustrating so i just end up searching all over the internet instead of sticking to just one site to download from :)
