He closes the distance between you, and oh. Oh, your feet. The flies in your toes have awakened with a furious, frantic buzzing that would send you careening straight to the floor were it not for the swatter-quick speed that he catches your punch-drunk form. He strokes the too-thin skin of your throat, brushes past a bruise to map the ridges of your trachea.
“Funny how these ‘accidents’ seem to happen around the same time each month,” he says in that same tone your mama used when she talked about something that wasn’t funny at all.
Mama. If you’d brought him home, would she have taken to this white man like she did your father? Or would she have caught on to his wiles and warned you to stay far, far away—that it wasn’t worth trading your dignity for a child with hair smoother than your own? As though you had a choice.
“The full moon, you been acting up during it. You wouldn’t happen to be trying to—oh, I don’ know—provoke a reaction from me, would you, Lil Roux? Am I not giving you enough attention?”
He tilts your chin up, and when you try to tear away, you’re confronted by the benevolent shackle of his will.
“You give me plenty of attention.” Sure, you hiss and spit, but you’re no cottonmouth. Never have been, and the way your body nuzzles into his furs neutralizes the acid in your tone. Drawn by some unseen force that wants to test how far that restraint of his can stretch.
No, you’re something else. Pretty, sharp, and a little wild. This close, your bright eyes watch the lines of his throat with curious wonder, where the muscles have gone taught as the strings of a tuned fiddle. Struck by the urge to run your tongue along them to wallow in his sinful notes. Or perhaps you should use your teeth. Grab hold of one and shake.
What sound would he make? Would he scream or—in all his unpredictable madness—croon for you?
With every successful bluff, you seem to forget that Carmine is always two steps ahead of you.
w/c: 4.3k
warnings: dub-con, strangulation, reproductive control. reader is an opportunist
Strobing red lights flickered around you, in tune to the thumping sound of the electronic music that blasted from the DJ’s booth. On a Friday night the Iceberg Lounge was packed like sardines; sweaty bodies raving up and down to whatever song helped them forget they were living in a place like Gotham.
You weren’t naive; you knew the Lounge (and its other club) was the hotspot of the criminal underworld, frequented by all the big-shots — but it certainly wasn’t going to stop you from enjoying a night out with your friend, Mari. Hair and makeup inexplicably unmoved, it was somewhere into the early hours of the morning where you decided to call it a night…just as soon as the aforementioned girl got back from the bathroom. It’d been a while, so she was either doing Drops or hooking up with someone.
Swirling your straw in the now liquid blocks of ice, you were pulled from your thoughts by a deep, throaty voice from behind you.
“A girl in a dress like that should be on the dance floor,” the man began, and as you spun around in your seat you were met with a dark haired, moustached man with shades over his eyes; dressed in a fine suit.
Beside him seemed to be an entourage, one man being noticeably shorter and greyer than him. There was no kidding yourself as to who this was; Carmine Falcone, the Don of the top crime family. You’d never seen a glimpse of him until now but had heard some of your clients address a ‘Mr Falcone’ on the phone.
“Where’s your company, sweetheart?” he finished, specks of a crooked smile on his face as he leaned one elbow against the countertop.
You gave him a soft smile in response.
“She went to the bathroom.”
“Hm…” he mused, chest rumbling as he spoke. It needn’t see his eyes to know that he – and his associates – were focused on the way the hem of your dress sat around your thighs, exposing the length of your legs. It didn’t bother you all that much.
“How about my men and I here wait for your little friend to get back, and treat you to the rest of the club,” Carmine insisted with a nod of his head. “On the house – I happen to own the place.”
Shifting in your seat, you twisted your lips into a small pout.
“Thank you for the offer, but we’re heading out,” you replied, a subtle cock of your head as you spoke. The men behind him didn’t overreact, but their faces spoke a silent outrage on his behalf. “Maybe another time.”
Carmine merely drew in a breath at your rejection, leaning into you further.
“Never seen you around here before,” he continued, giving you a once over. “What’s your name, hun?”
You needn’t reply, simply slipping your hand into your bag and sliding him a card with your name on it, flourished with a small smirk.
You weren’t an escort like the other girls your age but worked as an art dealer for a gallery on the nicer side of town. It wasn’t as if you’d been born into money, instead you considered yourself a chameleon (not a full con-woman, but a budding one at least) — being able to look and feel the part of a socialite, or at least a woman with class. Not one who had an absent father and a mother who slept around.
It turned out that all most men wanted was a young woman with a pretty face who needed something – company, money, status – or a combination of the three, and you gave off that impression.
“Business card, hm?” Carmine hummed, pinching the object between his fingers. “You trying to sell me something?”
“—Weren’t you?”
Your reply is fiery, knowing; embellished with a subtle cock of your brow that’s enough to arouse a smirk from Falcone and a shared exchange of looks from the men around him. His gaze burns through their shields as his eyes stay on your face, all the while ticking the square into his jacket pocket. His men hardly flinch as Mari comes to join you – albeit a bit dazed and confused - to which you slink off the bar chair, adjusting the bottom of your dress in the process.
“Be careful out there,” Carmine bids you, though it’s likely the words are a warning. The men around him seem to be cornering you like a pack of dogs, and his hand grips around your arm – not enough to hurt you but enough to send a message.
“Don’t be a stranger.”
You hadn’t returned to the Iceberg Lounge since, but it was clear that you hadn’t needed to. A couple of weeks or so after meeting Carmine, you were alerted to the ringing of the bell atop the front door of the gallery; paired with slow, clicking footsteps on the wooden floors. Sure, enough it was the mob boss himself, his gravelly voice undercutting your silence.
“Glad I made it in time,” he began with a slow nod of his head. “I hope you don’t mind giving me a tour.”
There was still half an hour until closing time, but when a man like Falcone showed up it meant that the store was closed already, and you were expected to do nothing but lend him your undivided attention. With a peek through the doors outside, you noticed he was here alone. Slowly, you walked past him – skin burning as you felt his eyes tracking your body with every step – reaching out as you gently flipped over the ‘Open’ sign.
“Of course,” you nodded. “Right this way.”
In the fifteen minutes or so that you were together, you showed him pre- and post-Renaissance landscapes, portraits, abstract paintings, photographs; each price tag increasing with every shuffle to the next room – though you knew that was the last thing on his mind as it was ultimately nothing but chump change to him.
Your words were rehearsed, but delivered with a genuine interest, yet all got lost in the intense way Carmine stared between your figure and the images behind you. You couldn’t see his eyes under the dim lights (some of the artwork required special preservation), but it would’ve been obvious to anyone that Carmine saw you as nothing more than another painting in the gallery – his disinterest in buying made particularly clear when you’d made it back to the foyer.
“You didn’t come here to buy anything, did you?” You questioned with a cock of your brow, running your fingers atop the counter leisurely. “A man like you probably has all the art he needs.”
He paused; the edges of his lips curling into a chuckle.
“A man like me isn’t so used to hearing the word no,” he instead mused. “I don’t sit by the phone either...I haven’t seen you around the club.”
It was phrased as a statement, but you knew it was a question. Instead, you shrugged.
“I haven’t had anything nice to wear.”
Carmine cocked his head, tension thick as he contemplated for a moment before moving on.
“You know, I have portraits passed down from generations,” he replied, taking a few small steps around the counter and slowly closing you in. “Authentic ones, from Italy. Guidoriccio da Fogliano sits right in my dining room. You’ve heard of him, haven’t you?”
“The Seige of Montemassi,” you nodded. “The real artist was never discovered.”
“Of course you know,” Carmine smirked, his body now inches away from yours, lips parted as he drank you in. “You’re a smart one, doll.”
“Maybe I could see it someday.” You whispered, though you hoped Carmine wouldn’t detect your small sense of hesitancy in your voice. It was second nature – in fact you’d made it your life - camouflaging, coaxing men, letting them feel strong and important regardless of how they really were.
But this was different, dangerous; Carmine Falcone was a man who seized and wielded power in a way that seemed to be effortless but was in fact dastardly - and had come with the bloodshed of many. And it was here at your feet, wanting the same things you did. All girls in the hustle knew they’d have to grab their fifteen minutes of opportunity; and yours was practically glimmering, like a moth to a flame.
“Tonight,” he insisted, lowering his head as he angled your chin between his index and thumb, the sudden intimate movement making you flinch. “Plenty of wine to go around. Don’t make me drink alone.”
That meant, don’t deny me a second time, and in truth you had no plans to - though you wondered if a low cut fitted blouse was appropriate attire for a rendezvous with a man like Falcone. Yet, you probably weren’t keeping it on that long to begin with.
Your suspicions turned out to be right. It was somewhere between your second or third glass of wine when Carmine’s lips were on your neck, your fingertips digging into the skin of his back as he fucked you into his bed the very same night. The evening had essentially marked the beginning of the rest of your life — much to your surprise Carmine hadn’t sent you home until the morning, sending you away with a warmish smile and a hand on your cheek.
“Let me take you to dinner. We’ll do it properly this time.”
You’d shown up to work with a receipt for a $12,000 purchase – there was no need to guess from who – using the money to buy yourself a new dress and shoes for dinner, just as he wanted. He’d been nonchalant about the whole thing; instead asking questions about your life, answers of which you moulded and even dodged where appropriate in a way, that, unknowingly to you, told Carmine everything.
And yet, he didn’t leave you or even punish you for being dishonest – but gave you more. His money. His attention.
What came next was a blur. Dinners became frequent. His cash, or card, was funnelled to you like it was second nature. He was even happy to tote you off his arm at family gatherings, watching you from afar as you engaged in idle conversation with family and associates as if you’d known them for years.
In the spare moments that Carmine had to himself he gave to you; at his home, at a restaurant, or even on a boat. Though in the back of your mind loomed the threat of being disposable, things felt different – dare you say romantic – with Carmine; something in the firm yet gentle way he spoke to you and the surprising softness of his touch, handling you with care. He was a dangerous man, yes, but you were special enough to be privy to a more accommodating side to him.
It wasn’t in your place to question how you’d ended up being so lucky, and yet you couldn’t help the words escaping your lips as you lay wrapped in his linens, watching him get ready. He’d merely chuckled.
“You’re intelligent. Feisty. Beautiful. Someone like you deserves more, don’t you think?”
You’d never expected ‘more’ to be enclosed in a plush velvet box and gifted as a solid rock on your ring finger.
The moment he’d put an engagement ring on your finger was the moment he’d asked you to quit your job.
“You can’t be out there on the streets anymore,” he’d said, taking a seat. “They know you’re mine and that makes you a target. I can’t risk something happening to you.”
It was a fair compromise, and it’d be completely silly offer to turn down. Throughout your relationship Carmine had made it clear that he would take care of you – why would he switch up now he’d made your place in his life official? Besides, you were no stranger to these games and had saved a fair amount of emergency cash in case things ever went south.
Without a second thought, you’d slid the manager your letter of resignation, the diamond twinkling in the sunlight providing him with enough explanation. There’d been some frowns, but mostly glee when you’d told your friends, Mari included, that they couldn’t just walk in during times they were in between clients (some of them were escorts), practically salivating at the visage of living a life of simple luxury.
You spent most of your hours shopping, reordering the house, occasionally going to lunch with one of the many members of the Family’s third wives (of which were particularly painful), and chauffeured trips into Gotham to see your mother; who still lived in the dingy flat that was your childhood home. Days dragged on; and nights where Carmine wouldn’t come home until the early hours of the morning – if ever – were even longer, monotonous; and you found yourself fading into a cold bed in an even colder house.
Then you’d do it again the following day.
Your saving grace were your friends from the neighbourhood – the escorts, the strippers, the waitresses – all who knew each other and had grown to protect each other fiercely wherever they could. Before Carmine, and even in the earlier stages of your relationship, you saw them often; for drinks, for dancing, or even just to hang out on their couch.
But there’d been a day where Carmine had been home early, unknowingly to you watching in the shadows as you curled up on a chair and nattered over the phone about making plans from brunch.
“Who was that?” He asked cooly, walking over to you from behind.
“A friend from back in the city.” you shrugged.
Carmine merely hummed in response, drawing in a breath before he squeezed your shoulder. He’d fucked you relentlessly the night before, and the morning of; his thrusts harder and grip on your skin noticeably tougher than previous, leaving a weak body and utter exhaustion…causing you to miss the date with your friends entirely.
“You shouldn’t be around those girls. They’re just hookers. You’re smart, proper…you’re better than them, honey.”
And like that, your social life was gone, leaving the only lifeline to be your mother. You had to be escorted everywhere – by a portly, somewhat unassuming man named Oz, with any unfamiliar places being questioned. Your life had been confirmed to the inside of the mansion; and God forbid if you even dared to step into the conservatory.
Yet, throughout it all Carmine still treated you like a queen. Dresses showed up at the house unannounced. Food was kept on the table. He’d even taken you to Italy, which had been so lush and gorgeous that you’d almost forgotten that your life back home had become so dull and regimented.
Quiet control, that’s what it was. Where you initially saw your mother twice a month turned into once, or even twice every week, sunrise and sunset rising and falling with the car parked outside and Oz nearby.
The fading old couch with sinking pillows that somehow still smelled of cigarettes was comforting, much more the feeling of your mothers’ gentle hands running her fingertips along your hairline as she silently listened to you ramble about your current state, powerless to do anything about it.
You’d had your fair share of ups and downs – there was a time in your teens where you particularly despised her – but fondness trumped hate as she made you the woman you were today, both for better and for worse. If there was one thing, spending your days in one extreme to another was a wake-up call; one that was desperate to gain back any semblance of control in your life.
There was one thing Carmine had never mentioned, something that was natural to any newlywed – children. You’d seen the painting; Carmine had two of his own, both of who he either never talked about, or gave vague answers entirely. Perhaps they were a sore spot. He controlled everything else in your life, but the one thing you still had was your autonomy.
Trips to the pharmacy looked suspicious – if you were sick Carmine was expected to know about it – but no one in the neighbourhood questioned why a middle aged woman would be a regular buyer of birth control.
The grey blur of houses whipped past you as you shoved contraceptive strips into your purse, the soft hum of the car’s engine tuning out your thoughts. You’d only been there for an hour today, yet Oz always checked up on you both, watching you from the above mirror.
“How’s your Ma?” he said, accent as thick as ever. Your pursed your lips.
“She’s fine, but lonely.”
“Really? I drive you out here every week?”
“She’s very intuitive, I guess,” you replied, hoping he’d pick up your disdain. “Besides, I think she’d like company of another kind.”
Oz sighed.
“My Ma did it on her own too. It’s rough, but she made it work,” he chuckled distantly, your eyes meeting through the mirror again. “But she’s good, though, right? Neighbourhoods like these are always close knit.”
You didn’t feel that strong of a kinship to Oz, but you were similar than you’d like to admit. You both grew up in neighbourhoods like this, starting from nothing and seemingly weaselling a way into the world of crime, albeit in different positions. Yes, he probably understood you more than Carmine ever could, but there was something about the last phrase that made you feel like it was rehearsed, even if there was a degree of truth.
Leaning your head against the window, you glanced down at your hands – pretty and manicured as you liked them. Absentmindedly, you fidgeted with your ring and chuckled.
“You think that can make up for hardly being able to see your own daughter?”
You’d been on edge all day.
Anxiety and despair was usually saved for the three days before you period, not after - yet you’d woken up with the expectation of washing the tiny pill down with breakfast, only to find the strip missing.
It wasn’t in the compartment of your jewellery box. Or your purse. Or with your other sanitary items. Missing, inexplicably, even after you’d turned the mansion upside down to find it. To make matters worse, it was a day where Carmine would be home early; announcing that he was taking you to dinner.
Upon getting home you’d made a subtle beeline for the bathroom, the dim lighting of the bedroom visible through the open door. He’d followed close behind, stalking you to the doorway, eyes tracing the outline of your body through the mirror as you began removing your earrings.
“Got you something,” he spoke slowly, a small nod of his head gesturing to the bed. “Put it on for me, sweetheart.”
You nodded silently, peeling off your dress and discarding it on the bathroom floor, leaving you in a lacy black slip, feet padding across the floor to the foot of the bed. Carmine was sat loosening his tie, watching you from the corner of his eyes as your gaze found the rich brown of sable fur, laid neatly against the dark sheets.
For a moment you were giddy – who wouldn’t be – hands shaking as you held the coat up to the light, admiring its formation before you slid it on, warm and weighty against your flimsy silk and your bare arms and legs. It swallowed you, yet as you glanced in the mirror across the room, you couldn’t help but feel like it belonged. In your wardrobe. On your skin. In your life.
“Gorgeous,” Carmine drawled, leaning on his arms as the mattress dipped under his weight. His smirk grew as you sashayed over to him, the meshing of fabrics causing your dress to slide mindlessly along your skin, exposing your collarbones and sliding dangerously up your thigh. “My sweet girl…”
His fingertips pushed the fur off your shoulders as he pressed a hand against the base of your neck, pulling you into a wanting kiss. The taste of whisky lingered on his tongue as his lips danced against yours, all whilst your hands dawdled against the fabric of his shirt, tracing the outline of his chest but cautious as to not undo the buttons. With the fur now around your waist, Carmine’s lips found the crook of your neck, hairs of his moustache tickling you as he cupped your breast – friction of your pebbled nipple against his hands enough to make you pull away.
“Not tonight,” you murmured, fiddling with the sheet underneath you. “I have a headache...”
At first the man didn’t listen, and as you opened your mouth to repeat yourself his grip dropped to your bicep.
“You didn’t say anything in the car.”
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
He inhaled sharply, eyes scanning you up and down.
“Take some Aspirin, you’ll be fine after thirty minutes.”
“— I’ve been drinking.”
Carmine’s grip tightened on your arm, indenting your skin.
“Why have you always got an answer for something?” he scoffed, voice raising slightly. “You know better than to be difficult. I treat you to a nice dinner, buy you a beautiful coat and you refuse do this one thing for me? When did you become so ungrateful?”
Your stomach churned, but your immediate reaction was to argue.
“I’m not —“
“I give you a life of luxury, yet you’re so unhappy you run off to your mother every other weekend? Why?”
Eyes wide and mouth agape, you were certain Carmine could feel you shaking in his arms, heart feeling as if it were going to burst through cartilage and out of your chest entirely. His gaze was unwavering, and you were almost certain he didn’t blink, not once whilst waiting for your answer. Gnawing on the inside of your cheek, it took a while for you to find your voice.
“I never get to see anyone anymore…”
“It’s lonely at the top,” he replied flatly, whilst pulling you down onto the bed. “We’re not in the business of making friends.”
The location of the fur was now irrelevant as Carmine pushed his hands up your thigh, your body trapped between his weight and the plush bed, of which you could feel yourself sinking into with every second.
“You’re smarter than that. You knew what this life came with.”
You couldn’t help but wonder if he was referencing your isolation, or the fact that he was currently taking what he wanted from you. A whimper escaped your lips as you laid back and let him fondle your clit through your panties, making yourself susceptible to his ministrations. Soon enough, your lace panties were on the floor, with Carmine adjusting himself between your thighs.
His expression as he entered you was unreadable; though it was one of the rare moments where he wasn’t shielded behind his specs. His gaze seemed to burn with desire, control, suppressed anger, so much so that your skin peppered with chills and walls clenched as he thrust into you. Carmine’s breaths were long and ragged, releasing a grunt every time he felt you quiver around him – only for his hands to sink deeper into the flesh of your thighs, keeping them apart.
There were odd times where Carmine got rough with you during sex, usually if there was a lot on his plate, but this time you were certain his actions were forceful enough to leave marks; if not bruises.
Arching your back, you pawed at the sheets; fabric balling up in your hands as Carmine bottomed out in you, thighs clapping against your own as he pounded your aching cunt. He kissed you once more; making his way back down to your neck where he sank his teeth into your flesh like a man with a grudge – his aggression so bad yet good it was almost enough to forget the reason you’d resisted him in the first place.
Usually the man murmured on about how you were perfect, that he’d give you everything…but today it was oddly silent outside, solely focused on bringing him to release.
“Oz tells me you’re bored…” he finally spoke through laboured breaths. Even in your haze you were alerted to the mention of your driver. “I figured at the end of the day it was right to give you something to do…”
Sitting back on his knees, his weight was lifted off you only to place his might in his hands firmly around your neck, squeezing at your windpipe as he fucked you. With wide eyes, you worriedly snaked your hands on top of his, as if to pry him off you.
“Carmine —“
Adjusting his hips, he ignored your plea, instead pressing tighter around your airway – flesh coloured tips of his thumb slowly beginning to turn white under the pressure.
“I know the place is a bit of an empty nest, but that can change…”
Choking, suffocating — saliva began to pool in your mouth and dribble off your tongue like a rabid animal – an ugly image that was nigh important to Carmine; the act only making exaggerating the pout and parting of your lips…covered by his own in another kiss. Your head felt fuzzy and dots peppered into your eyesight, but you could still feel your heart sink into your stomach and seemingly rupture completely.
“I —“
“Once the baby comes you won’t be so lonely anymore,” he hummed, voice gruff and full of lust, seemingly projecting the image of you with swollen breasts and a youthful glow onto you already. “Would that be good enough for you, hm?”
There it was, the reason you’d been on edge all day. The rug you’d pulled over his eyes for so long finally lifted.
And so, as much as you wanted to shake your head and scream no, the twinge in your heart told you to concede; leaving for your words to speak a yes.
Warnings: NONCON, stalking, violence, misogyny, unprotected sex, p in v, forced pregnancy, obsession, reader get kicked out of house.
Summary: You fought back your older brother's bully—and paid a price you could never escape.
Tag list: @mirwors
(A/n: I enjoyed writing it. I made gyeong tae total obsessive psycho. I'm warning you guys!! He's totally crazy!! It's really dark too!! Like and reblog🤍)
wc: 7.0k
The sight had become a ritual of shame: your older brother, Byeong-tae, slumped at the kitchen table, wincing as you dabbed antiseptic on a fresh, ugly bruise blooming across his cheekbone. He was gentle, soft-hearted—a poet in a town that only respected fists. And because of that, he was a target. Especially for him.
Gyeong-tae. The so-called "Asan White Tiger." A nickname earned for beating hardened gangsters, yet his favorite pastime seemed to be terrorizing the one boy in school who couldn't fight back.
You were not your brother. Where he was meek, you were fire. Where he yielded, you swung first. The frustration coiled in your stomach like a live wire, and tonight, it snapped.
You threw on one of his old jackets, pulled a cap low over your brow, and slipped out into the night.
You found them in a dimly lit alley. The scene was a familiar horror show: Gyeong-tae shoving your brother against a wall. Byeong-tae's arms were raised in a pathetic attempt to shield himself.
Rage erased all caution.
"Get away from him," you commanded, your voice lowered, disguised by anger and the night.
Gyeong-tae turned, a bored smirk on his face. He saw another boy in a cap—another nobody to swat away. "Get lost. This doesn't concern you."
"It does now."
He laughed and took a step toward you. "You want some of this, too?"
He never saw it coming. You pivoted and threw your entire weight into a right cross that connected with his nose with a sickening, wet crunch.
He staggered back, a hand flying to his face. Shock, then volcanic rage. Blood streamed through his fingers. "You... you little rat!"
He lunged. You were ready. You dropped under his wild swing and drove your elbow into his solar plexus. The air left his lungs in a pained whoosh. You were faster, smarter. You landed another punch to his ribs.
But a tiger is most dangerous when wounded. His next move was calculated. He caught your jacket, yanking you off balance. A fist like a brick caught you on the jaw.
Light exploded behind your eyes. The world tilted. You stumbled, and your cap was knocked loose, tumbling to the ground. Your hair, no longer confined, fell around your shoulders in a clear, unmistakable cascade.
Gyeong-tae froze, his fist still raised for another blow. His eyes, narrowed in pain and rage, widened. They tracked from your hair, down to your face—now clearly, undeniably feminine without the cap's shadow—and back again.
The alley went dead silent.
The blood draining from his nose seemed forgotten. The pure, unadulterated shock on his face was more potent than any anger.
"A... a girl?" he breathed, the word a disbelieving whisper. It was the greatest insult imaginable. He, the Asan White Tiger, had been bested. And not just by anyone—by a girl.
The shock lasted only a second before it morphed into something far more dangerous. The rage returned, but it was colder, sharper, laced with a humiliated, predatory intensity. He hadn't just been challenged; he had been defiled.
Through the ringing in your ears, you saw your brother, frozen in terror. "Byeong-tae, RUN!" you screamed.
You didn't wait to see if he listened. You turned and ran. Your lungs burned. You didn't look back. You didn't need to. You could feel his gaze on your back—a promise of a new, far more personal kind of war.
You had hurt the Tiger. But now he knew who you were. And the hunt would now be all about you.
The slam of your front door echoed through the small house like a gunshot. You fumbled with the lock, your hands shaking so violently you could barely turn the bolt. Finally, it clicked shut.
Silence. Heavy, breathing silence.
You and your brother stood there, backs pressed against the door, gulping down air like you’d just surfaced from drowning. The only sound was your ragged panting and the frantic hammering of your own heart.
You turned to look at Byeong-tae. His face was pale, his eyes wide with a terror that went beyond the usual aftermath of a beating. He was staring at you—at your hair, at the blood on your lip, at the red, blossoming mark on your jaw.
“Y-your… your hair…” he stammered, his voice barely a whisper.
Before you could answer, his expression crumpled. It wasn’t just fear anymore. It was a devastating, gut-wrenching shame. His knees seemed to buckle, and he slid down the length of the door to sit on the floor, burying his face in his hands.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out, his shoulders shaking. “I’m so sorry. This is my fault. This is all my fault.”
He wasn’t crying from pain. He was crying from humiliation. His little sister had done what he could not. She had fought his battle, and in doing so, had stepped into a world of danger he couldn’t even comprehend.
“It’s not your fault,” you said, your voice hoarse. “He’s a monster.”
“You don’t understand!” he cried, looking up at you, his eyes desperate. “You don’t know what he’s like! This… what you did… it’s different now. He won’t forget this. He can’t.”
He was right. The rules had changed.
Byeong-tae was right. Gyeong-tae wasn't going to sit back after being injured by a girl. A girl. The humiliation was a poison in his veins, far more potent than the ache in his healing nose.
The next day at the all-boys' school, he was welcomed by shocked gasps and sidelong glances. The bandage on his face was a glaring advertisement of his failure. All the other boys wondered how on earth the Asan White Tiger had been bested. Gyeong-tae's jaw clenched, his fists tightening at his sides until his knuckles turned white.
He didn't even look at Byeong-tae anymore. The weakling just reminded him of that dreadful night, of the girl who had appeared from the shadows.
He’ll get to you,he vowed silently, the promise a dark mantra in his mind. He’ll get revenge on you, you little sneaky bitch.
How could he have been beaten by a girl? If it had been a guy, it would have been a fair fight. But a girl? It was an insult that pissed him off more than anything. It demanded a different kind of revenge. Not a brawl. A campaign.
He decided to stalk you.
He already knew you went to the all-girls' school. The next afternoon, he was hiding against a wall across the street when the gates opened. His heart swelled with a dark, possessive pride upon seeing your face was still swollen from where he’d landed his punch. He watched you walk with your friends, saying goodbye to them one by one until you were finally, perfectly alone.
He decided to follow you.
His eyes followed the bare skin of your legs as you walked ahead of him, completely unaware. You felt a pinprick on the back of your neck, that primal sense of being watched. You looked back.
And you saw him. Gyeong-tae. With that bandage on his nose, staring right at you.
You didn’t say a word. You just fastened your footsteps, your heart leaping into your throat. It made him smirk. He slowed his steps, enjoying the game.
You're scared.Of course you were. You were just a scared little girl at the end of the day.
"Run all you want," his deep voice carried down the street to you, calm and sure. "But I'll get to you soon."
The words sent shivers down your spine. You broke into a run, not stopping until you were safely inside your home.
[♡]
Without even fully realizing it, stalking you became his hobby. He loved the thrill of it. He’d lean on his motorbike, watching you pedal to the market to buy groceries for your mother, noting the determined set of your jaw.
He was there when you unknowingly walked into his mother’s bakery, your face lighting up as you pointed to your favorite bread. He was cleaning tables, invisible to you, and the irony made him smirk. If you had noticed him, you would have fled instantly.
"Such a sweet girl," his mother murmured as you left.
Gyeong-tae's smirk widened. If only she knew.
He followed you when you went out with your friends, lingering at a distance in the market, his presence a shadow you couldn't quite see but could always feel. The power was intoxicating. Your entire life, your routines, your small joys—they were all becoming his. His new obsession. His favorite pastime.
And you, unaware, were living on borrowed time.
The broken nose had healed. The physical evidence of his humiliation was gone. But the injury to his pride festered, a poison that spread through Gyeong-tae’s veins with every passing day.
The sight of Byeong-tae at school made his fists clench, but he didn’t hit him anymore. The weakling was no longer the target; he was a reminder. A living, breathing monument to the night the Asan White Tiger had been laid low by a girl. The rage needed a new outlet. A specific one.
Little bitch, he’d think, the words a constant, venomous mantra in his head. You think you won? You have no idea.
[♡]
Tonight was different. He’d been loitering near your house, a habit now, when he saw the front door open. You stepped out alone, into the quiet evening, and started walking with no clear destination, lost in your own thoughts.
A slow, cruel smirk spread across Gyeong-tae’s face. This was it. The perfect, unplanned opportunity.
Stupid, he thought, falling into step far behind you, using the shadows of the narrow alleys as his cloak. You’re so stupid. You think you’re safe? You think because I haven’t touched you yet, that I never will?
He watched the careless swing of your arms, the unawareness of your posture, and his smirk widened. You were just a mindless little girl after all. Your moment of victory was a fluke, and tonight, he was going to prove it.
He’d let you walk. Let you get comfortable. Let you feel a false sense of peace.
And then, when you were far enough from home, isolated and vulnerable, he would finally teach you the lesson you deserved. The lesson about what happens to girls who forget their place. The hunt was over. The punishment was about to begin.
The air was cool on your skin, the silence of the night a blanket you'd always found comforting. You used to walk these fields all the time, the tall grass whispering secrets in the dark. The short dress you wore was an old one, comfortable. You thought you were safe. You never should have.
“Been a long time.”
The voice was a deep, chilling blade that cut through the quiet. Your blood turned to ice. No. It can't be him. You froze, every muscle locking in primal fear.
Gaining silver of strength, you slowly turned. And there he was. Gyeong tae. Taller, more imposing in the dim light, the faint shadow of a healed nose still visible on his face. The streetlight above cast long, distorted shadows, making him look like a monster from a nightmare.
“What do you want?” You asked, trying to sound tough, but your voice wavered, betraying the fear that clawed up your throat.
A slow, predatory smile spread across his lips. He enjoyed the tremor in your voice. “Don't you think we should start off where we left off?” he took a step closer. You took a step back, the heel of your shoes sinking into the soft earth.
“No! Now leave me alone!” you turned to run, to put distance between you and the nightmare made flesh.
But he was faster, easily blocking your path, a solid, unmovable wall. “Not so fiery now?” he murmured, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement. He could see the brave facade crumbling, see the raw vulnerability.
“Gyeong tae, get out of my way!” you demanded, your voice louder now, but cracking under the strain.
“Or what?” He whispered, suddenly so close you could feel his breath, warm and smelling faintly of cigarettes, against your ear. “You're gonna call that weakling brother of yours? The one who can't even fight for himself? You think he'd fight for you?”
The words were trigger. Without thinking, your hand flew up the slap cracking through the night air.
His head snapped to the side. For a heartbeat, there was only silence. Then, he slowly turned back to look at you. His eyes were empty. Dead. All the traces of amusement were gone, replaced by something cold and infinitely more dangerous.
His hand shot out, tangling in your hair with a vicious grip. A sharp cry of pain escaped you as he began to drag you, not towards road, but deeper into the dark, isolated field.
“No!! Let go of me! You asshole!” You screamed, clawing at his hands, your nails digging into his skin. You tried to plant your feet to fight immense strength but it was useless. He dragged you as if you weighed nothing.
He shoved you hard onto cold, damp ground, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. Before you could scramble away, he was on you, his weight pinning you down, his knees straddling your waist.
“I can't believe you're that weakling's sister.” He spat, his voice low and venomous. When your hand came up to claw at him again, he easily caught both your wrists in one of his large hands and slammed them into dirt above your head, rendering you utterly helpless.
Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird in a cage. The world narrowed to his face, the empty eyes, the cruel set of his mouth. Panic captured you completely when you saw his free hand go to his belt.
“No! Please, don't do this!” you pleaded, your voice a desperate sob. You kicked your legs, but he just adjusted his weight, crushing you further.
His rough hands pushed up your skirt. You squeezed your eyes shut as he yanked your panties down. “Help! Somebody–!” Your cry for help was cut off as his hand backhanded you across the face. Stars exploded behind your eyelids, pain radiating through your skull. Before you could make another sound, his calloused palm clamped over your mouth, stifling your screams, your cries, your very breath.
Your eyes flew open, wide with terror. You gasped against his hand, the sound muffled and pathetic.
Then came the pain. A brutal, tearing invasion as he shoved himself inside you in one merciless thrust. A silent scream built in your throat, tears streaming down your temples into your hair. It hurt. It hurt so much you could only lie there and cry soundlessly against his smothering hand, your body violated by his ruthless, punishing rhythm.
“You should have known better than to mess with a guy like me, sweetheart.” He grunted, his hips snapping against yours. The wet, awful sound of it filled the air.
You squirmed in dirt, a trapped animal, your free hand clawing at the earth, nails breaking and filling with soil. He spreads your legs wider, sinking deeper, claiming more.
“Fuck, it feels even better than I imagined.” He groaned. He removed his hand from your mouth only to replace it with his own. The kiss was a violation, a brutal conquest. He forced his tongue into your mouth, swallowing your whimpers, tasting your tears.
“Now you know what happens to little girls who think they can fight against a man.” He breathed against your lips, his thrusts never faltering.
You felt him tense above you, his rhythm becoming more frantic. “fuck! I'm about to cum. Should I cum inside you huh? Knock you up with my bastard? You'll be known as town's whore then.”
A fresh wave of terror washed over you. “No. Please, gyeong tae..please don't–!” you begged, your words breaking into shattered moans and whimpers.
“Take it, whore.” He groaned, his body shuddering as he released himself deep inside you with a final grinding thrust. You felt the hot, sickening spill of him and shuddered, a sob finally breaking free as he collapsed his weight onto you, his breath hot and ragged against your neck.
Your weak fists beat against his shoulder, a useless, pathetic effort. He was lost in his own euphoria, uncaring.
After a moment, he raised his head. His eyes were dark, satisfied. “You're pretty.” He murmured almost to himself. “But you had to be such a bitch.” He smashed his lips sgaisnt yours one last time. This time, you bit down hard. The taste of his own blood filled your mouth.
You braced yourself for another blow, but it never came. He just pulled back, wiping his bleeding lips with the back of his hand, a dark, approving chuckle rumbling in his chest. “Still got fire in you? Even when you're full of my cum?”
He stood up, pulling his pants up with a casualness that was more horrifying than the violence. He looked down at you, lying broken and soiled in the dirt. Your dress ruined, your body aching.
“Now I'm satisfied.” He said, his voice flat and final.
And with that, he turned and disappeared into the night, leaving you alone in the dark field, the chilling proof of his revenge already seeping inside you. He wasn't just ‘Asan White Tiger’ anymore. He was a permanent sacr. A living nightmare you could never escape. And he had left his mark in the most devastating way possible.
The world did not right itself when his footsteps faded. The silence he left behind was heavier, more suffocating than any sound. It was the silence of absolute violation.
You lay there for a long time, curled on your side in the cold, damp dirt. Your body was a foreign thing, a map of pain and filth. The ache between your legs was a deep, throbbing reminder. The smell of him—sweat, cheap cigarettes, and something uniquely, horribly male—clung to your skin, your clothes, the inside of your mouth. You wanted to vomit, but your body was too hollow, too shattered to even heave.
Slowly, mechanically, you pushed yourself up. Every movement was agony. Your dress was torn and stained with earth. You fumbled, pulling your underwear up, the simple act feeling like a grotesque parody of modesty. The fabric was damp.
You had to get home.
The walk was a nightmare. You kept to the deepest shadows, a ghost in your own town. Every rustle of leaves was his return. Every distant sound of a motorbike made your heart clutched. You felt exposed, branded, as if what he had done was written across your face in glowing letters for the entire world to see.
You couldn’t go in the front door. The thought of facing the light, of seeing your brother’s worried face, was unbearable. You slipped around the back, through the small garden, and used the outside latch on the bathroom window, a trick you hadn’t used since you were a child.
The fluorescent light in the bathroom was brutally bright. It illuminated everything. The dirt smudged on your arms and legs. The tear tracks cutting through the grime on your cheeks. The red, hand-shaped mark on your face. The blossoming bruise on your jaw.
You didn’t look in the mirror. You couldn’t.
You turned on the shower, the pipes groaning in the walls. You stepped under the water, still in your ruined dress, and sank to the floor of the tub. You scrubbed. You scrubbed until your skin was raw and burning, but you could still smell him. You scratched at your arms, trying to peel the memory of his touch away. The water ran brown at your feet, swirling with dirt and grass.
It wasn’t enough.
Finally, the water ran cold. You shivered, turning it off. The silence of the house pressed in again. You peeled the wet dress off and hid it at the bottom of the trash bin, covering it with other rubbish like a buried secret.
In your room, you put on your oldest, softest nightclothes. You climbed into bed and pulled the covers over your head, trying to disappear into the darkness.
But there was no escape. Behind your eyelids, you saw his face. You felt the crush of his weight. You heard his voice.
“You're pretty. But you had to be such a bitch.”
“Now I'm satisfied.”
A dry, silent sob shook your body. You cried without making a sound, the tears soaking your pillow. You were no longer the fiery girl who fought back. That girl had been left in the field, broken and defiled. What was left was hollow. A shell.
Down the hall, you heard your brother’s door open. His soft footsteps passed yours on the way to the bathroom. You held your breath, praying he wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t knock, wouldn’t ask if you were okay.
He didn’t. His footsteps faded.
The relief was a new kind of agony. You were alone with this. Completely, utterly alone. In this town, in this time, there were no words for what had happened. There was only the shame, and the silent, screaming certainty that Gyeong-tae had been right.
He had won. He had taken everything. And he had left you with a nightmare you would never, ever wake up from. The Asan White Tiger hadn't just beaten you; he had erased you. And no one would ever know.
[♡]
Time did not heal. It simply made the horror more concrete.
The first missed period was a flutter of anxiety you dismissed as stress. The second brought a cold, lead weight to your stomach. The constant, rolling nausea that followed—so different from the sharp pains you knew—was the final, terrifying confirmation.
You were pregnant.
The word echoed in the silence of your room, a death sentence whispered in the dark. Gyeong-tae’s child was growing inside you. His final, most permanent mark. He hadn’t just violated your body; he had seeded it, forcing you to carry the evidence of his hatred every second of every day.
The world took on a grotesque, tilted quality. You moved through your days like a ghost, your hand instinctively drifting to your still-flat stomach, not in protection, but in a kind of numb, horrified fascination. You were a walking tomb.
He knew, of course. He seemed to sense it before you showed. His stalking shifted. The cruel smirks from across the street were replaced by a cold, possessive scrutiny. His eyes would drop to your midsection, and a look of dark, triumphant pride would flash across his face. He never said a word. He didn’t have to. His message was clear: You are mine now. Forever.
One afternoon, you stumbled into the alley behind your house to vomit, your body wracked by a sickness that was both physical and soul-deep. When you straightened up, wiping your mouth, he was there.
Leaning against the opposite wall, watching you.
“Careful,” he said, his voice a low, casual rumble that made your blood run cold. “You need to take better care of yourself.”
You froze, unable to move, unable to breathe.
He pushed off the wall and took a step closer, his eyes not on your face, but on your stomach. “My son needs a strong mother.”
The claim, the assumption, the sheer ownership in his words—it was more violating than the initial act. You were no longer a person. You were a vessel. His vessel.
“It’s not—” you choked out, but the denial died in your throat.
A slow, dangerous smile spread across his lips. “It is.” He said it with utter finality. “And you will take care of what’s mine. Or you will answer me.”
He didn’t touch you. He didn’t need to. The threat hung in the air, more effective than any hand around your throat. He turned and walked away, leaving you trembling in the alley, the taste of bile and despair sharp on your tongue.
That night, standing in the shower, you scrubbed your skin until it was raw and pink. You looked down at your body, at the subtle, terrifying changes beginning to take hold. You pressed your fingers hard against your lower abdomen, a silent, desperate plea for it all to stop.
But it didn’t. It grew.
The pregnancy became your prison. Your brother, Byeong-tae, watched you with a new kind of helpless terror, the guilt in his eyes now a bottomless well. He knew. He saw the sickness, the despair, the way you flinched when a motorbike backfired. He knew who was responsible, but the knowledge was a weapon he was too broken to wield.
You were alone. Trapped in a nightmare with no waking up. The Asan White Tiger had won. His revenge was no longer a memory; it was a life, growing inside you, a constant, inescapable reminder that you would never be free of him. The hunt was over. He had captured you, body and soul.
[♡]
It was the nausea that gave you away. The constant, rolling sickness that had you retching over the toilet every morning. You tried to hide it, to blame it on bad food, but the pallor of your skin and the hollows under your eyes were a silent confession.
Your mother noticed first. A woman who knew the signs. Her eyes, once soft, became sharp and suspicious. She watched you for a week, her silence more accusing than any words.
The confrontation came at the kitchen sink. You were washing a dish, your hand shaky, when a wave of dizziness hit you. You gripped the counter, swallowing hard.
“When was your last bleeding?” your mother asked, her voice cold and flat from behind you.
The world tilted. You froze, the water running over your motionless hands. “I… I don’t…”
“Don’t lie to me,” she hissed, coming closer. “Your body is lying for you. When?”
Tears welled in your eyes. “Two months,” you whispered, the admission feeling like a death sentence.
The slap was swift and stinging. It wasn’t done in rage, but in pure, unadulterated shame.
“You foolish, wicked girl,” she spat, her face a mask of disgust. “You’ve ruined us. Who was it? Some lowlife boy from the market? Do you even know his name?”
You opened your mouth. You wanted to scream Gyeong-tae. You wanted to tell her about the alley, the violence, the terror. But the words wouldn’t come. The shame was a gag in your throat. And a deeper, more primal fear—fear of him, of what he would do if you spoke his name—locked the truth inside you.
Your silence was all the confirmation she needed. She saw only a slut who had given herself away and was too ashamed to name the boy.
Your father was called in. The news was delivered in a low, furious whisper. His face, usually kind, crumpled into something hard and unforgiving. He didn’t look at you. He looked at the wall behind you, as if you were already gone.
“Get out,” he said, his voice trembling not with sadness, but with a fury aimed at the disgrace you represented. “You will not bring this shame under my roof. You will not destroy your brother’s future with your whoring.”
“Appa, please—” you begged, sinking to your knees.
“Get your things and go,” he repeated, his voice final. “You are no daughter of mine.”
The packing was a blur. A small bag with a few clothes. Your hands moved mechanically, numb with a shock so profound it felt like peace. Your brother, Byeong-tae, stood in the doorway of his room, his face ashen, tears streaming silently down his face. He was too weak to protest, too conditioned to obey. His eyes screamed his apology, but his feet remained rooted to the spot.
You were ushered to the front door. Your mother thrust a small wad of worn bills into your hand—not out of compassion, but to speed your departure and ease her own conscience.
The door opened to the fading evening light. And there, leaning against the gatepost as if summoned by the very scent of your ruin, was Gyeong-tae.
He watched the entire scene with a predator’s calm satisfaction. He saw your red, tear-streaked face, the bag in your hand, your father’s stony back as he turned away inside the house.
A slow, cruel smirk spread across his face. This was the moment he’d been waiting for.
As the door slammed shut behind you, the sound echoing with finality, he pushed off the post and walked toward you.
You’re coming with me,” he stated, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Since you’re carrying my child after all.” He reached for your arm.
You backed away, fresh tears of despair rolling down your cheeks. “Don’t you dare touch me.”
He grabbed your wrist, his grip tightening painfully. “Don’t be dramatic. You have nowhere else to go.” He yanked you forward, snatching your bag. “Now come on.”
“What did I ever do to you?” you sobbed, your resistance feeble. “Why do I have to carry this? I’m going to get rid of it—”
The slap was instantaneous, cracking through the quiet street. Your head snapped to the side.
“Shut your fucking mouth,” he hissed, his face close to yours, all pretense gone. “You’re being ungrateful. I’m providing you a home when your own family threw you out like trash, and you deny me? My child?”
He began dragging you down the road, your will to fight extinguished. You were utterly alone in the world, and the only person who knew your truth was the monster who had created it. He had won. Completely.
The walk to his house was a silent, somber procession. Gyeong-tae’s grip on your elbow was firm, not to hurt, but to ensure you couldn’t flee. His mother walked slightly ahead, her shoulders slumped with a mixture of pity and distress, completely unaware she was leading a lamb to the slaughter.
The house was modest but tidy, a stark contrast to the chaos he had brought into your life.
“Gyeong-tae,” his mother said, her voice weary as she turned to her son. She glanced at you, her expression a confusing mix of concern and faint disapproval. “She can take the spare room.”
You stood in the entryway, a ghost in this domestic scene, your small bag at your feet.
Gyeong-tae nodded. “It’s alright, Mom. She just… needs a place for a while. Her family couldn’t keep her.” His explanation was a masterful void, filled with implication but devoid of truth. He let his mother’s assumptions do the work for him. A rebellious girl? A family dispute? He offered nothing, and she was too polite, too trusting of her son, to demand more in front of you.
He looked at you, his eyes performing a convincing mask of gentle concern. “You’ll be right next to my room. So if you need anything at night… anything at all… you just call for me.”
The threat in his words was an ice pick to your heart. Right next to his room.
His mother offered a hesitant, confused smile. “Yes. You’re safe here.” She bustled off to find clean sheets, her mind likely racing with questions she would never dare to voice.
The moment she was gone, his expression shifted. The concern evaporated, leaving behind a flat, possessive coldness.
“You’ll keep your mouth shut,” he murmured, his voice too low to carry. “You’ll eat what she gives you. You’ll smile and thank her. You will be the perfect, grateful little guest. Because if you upset my mother… if you make her life difficult…” He didn’t finish the threat. He didn’t need to. The unspoken promise of violence hung in the air, more potent than any words.
That night, after a silent, agonizing dinner where his mother tried to coax you to eat, you lay in the spare bed. The room was small and smelled faintly of dust.
The door creaked open long after the house had fallen silent.
You froze, squeezing your eyes shut, pretending to be asleep. You heard his footsteps, soft on the floorboards, felt his shadow fall over you.
He didn’t say a word. His calloused fingers brushed a strand of hair from your forehead, a mockery of a tender gesture. Then his hand slid under the covers, his touch becoming possessive, exploring, claiming. You lay perfectly still, tears leaking silently from the corners of your eyes, praying for it to be over.
He stopped as suddenly as he had begun. He leaned down, his lips close to your ear.
“This is your home now,” he whispered, his breath hot against your skin. “My mother will take such good care of you.”
He left as silently as he came, leaving you trembling in the dark, the ghost of his touch seared into your skin. The horror was no longer a violent attack in a field; it was this. The slow, intimate, nightly violation in a warm house, with a kind woman sleeping just down the hall, completely unaware that her son had brought his prey into their nest. You were trapped in a beautiful, normal-looking cage, and the door was locked from the inside by the very person who believed she was offering sanctuary.
The floorboard in the hallway creaked.
It was a small, familiar sound, one his mother knew well. It was the sound that always announced her son’s midnight trips to the kitchen for a glass of water. But tonight, the footsteps had stopped outside the guest room door. And they had been still for too long.
A mother’s intuition, a cold dread she couldn't explain, pulled her from her bed. She padded softly down the hall, her heart beginning to hammer against her ribs. The door to the room where the sweet, unfortunate girl slept was slightly ajar.
She pushed it open.
The scene imprinted itself on her mind with the searing, slow-motion horror of a nightmare.
The moonlight streaming through the window illuminated everything.
She saw you. Not sleeping peacefully as she’d imagined. But pinned beneath her son. Your eyes were wide, glassy with terror, a single tear tracing a path through the bruise on your cheek. Your hands were trapped above your head in one of his. Your nightgown was shoved up around your waist.
She saw him. Her son. Gyeong-tae. His back was to her, his body moving in a ruthless, familiar rhythm. She heard his low, grunting breaths. She saw the muscles in his back tense and coil.
It wasn't lovemaking. It was a violation. A brutal, one-sided taking.
A small, strangled sound escaped her lips—a gasp, a whimper, a prayer choked in her throat.
Gyeong-tae froze. His head slowly turned. And in the moonlight, his mother saw his face. There was no surprise. No guilt. No shame. There was only a flicker of annoyance, as if he’d been interrupted in the middle of a mundane task. His eyes, meeting hers, were flat and empty.
He didn't jump off you. He didn't scramble to cover himself. He simply held his mother's horrified gaze for a long, terrifying second, asserting his dominance even in this.
Then, with a final, contemptuous look at your frozen, violated form beneath him, he slowly, deliberately, pulled away. He stood up, pulling his pants on with an infuriating, casual calm. He turned his back to both of you, as if you were both beneath his notice.
His mother stood rooted to the spot, her hand clamped over her mouth. The world she knew had just been obliterated. The kind son, the protector, the boy she raised—it was all a lie. This monster in his skin was the reality.
Her eyes finally tore from him and found yours. The raw, agonizing truth was there, reflected in your shattered expression. The story of the runaway father, the disowning family—it was all a lie he had forced you to tell her.
She stumbled backward, her legs giving way. She collapsed against the doorframe, a low, guttural moan of utter despair finally breaking free. It was the sound of a soul breaking.
Gyeong-tae finally turned around, fully dressed now. He looked from his sobbing mother to your broken body on the bed.
"Mom," he said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Go back to bed."
It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order.
He had just been caught in the most monstrous act imaginable, and his only reaction was to tell his mother to go back to bed. The sheer, psychopathic normalcy of it was more horrifying than any rage could have been.
He had shown her that his cruelty wasn't a fit of passion; it was his nature. And he expected her to simply accept it and return to her life. The confrontation was over. He had won simply by refusing to acknowledge he had done anything wrong.
He left the room, stepping over his weeping mother as if she were a piece of furniture, and disappeared down the hall to his own room.
The two of you were left connected by a devastating, silent understanding. The kind woman who wanted to save you had just had her heart ripped out. And you had just learned that even being discovered wouldn't save you. There was no bottom to this darkness. The nightmare was now hers, too. And it had only just begun.
The silence he left behind was heavier than any sound. It was a vacuum, sucking all the air, all the hope, out of the room.
For a long moment, the only sound was his mother’s ragged, choked sobs from the hallway floor. They were not loud cries, but the desperate, suffocated gasps of a person whose entire reality has been dismantled in an instant.
You lay frozen on the bed, the cold night air biting the exposed skin he had violated. You didn’t move to cover yourself. What was the point? The last shred of dignity, the last secret, was gone. The horror was now a shared, suffocating entity in the house.
Slowly, shakily, his mother pushed herself up. She didn’t look at you at first. She couldn’t. Her hands trembled violently as she gripped the doorframe for support. When her eyes finally lifted to yours, the look in them was beyond devastation. It was a hollow, ghastly understanding. She saw the truth now—not just of this moment, but of every lie he’d told her. The “runaway father,” your “shame,” his “nobility”—it was all a grotesque fiction constructed to hide the monster.
She stumbled into the room, her steps unsteady. Without a word, her eyes overflowing with a grief that seemed to age her decades in minutes, she gently pulled your nightgown down and drew the covers over you, tucking them around your shoulders as if you were a child. The maternal gesture, now coming from her, felt like the most profound and terrible apology imaginable. Her touch was gentle, but it made you flinch. Every touch was a threat now.
“I…” she tried to speak, but her voice was a broken thing. “I… didn’t… know.”
The words were useless. They changed nothing. But they were all she had.
The rest of the night passed in a hellish, silent vigil. She didn’t leave. She sank into the wooden chair in the corner of the room, pulling her knees to her chest, and simply… watched you. She was guarding you. From her own son. The tears never stopped streaming down her face, but she made no sound. It was the silence of absolute, world-ending shock.
The Next Morning
The dawn broke, cruel and bright. The house was a tomb.
Gyeong-tae emerged from his room as if nothing had happened. He showered, dressed, and walked into the kitchen. You could hear him from the room, opening cabinets, the casual, normal sounds of life continuing.
His mother, who had finally left your side at first light to mechanically make breakfast, stood at the stove. Her body was rigid. She didn’t look at him.
He sat down at the table. “Morning,” he said, his voice flat.
She didn’t respond. The silence was thick enough to choke on.
He sighed, a sound of pure annoyance. “Are you going to be like this now, Mom?” he asked, as if she were the one being difficult. As if she had caught him stealing money, not raping a traumatized girl under her own roof.
That was his strategy. He would not acknowledge the magnitude of what he’d done. He would treat it as a minor family disagreement, a nuisance to be weathered until she got over it.
She placed a bowl of rice in front of him with a hand that shook so badly the ceramic clattered against the wood. She finally spoke, her voice a thin, fractured wire of sound.
“You will not… go near that room again.”
He looked up at her, a slow, cold smirk spreading across his face. It was the most terrifying expression you could imagine. It held no remorse, only a challenge.
“Or what, Mom?” he asked softly, picking up his chopsticks. “What will you do?”
He held her gaze, and in that look, he communicated everything: You are my mother. You will protect me. You will always protect me. Even from this. You have no choice.
He left for school then, leaving the two of you in the silent, ruined house. The dynamic had shifted forever. She was now a prisoner too, trapped by her maternal love for a son she now feared and loathed, and by her devastating guilt over what he had done to you under her nose. She was your warden and your fellow inmate, bound to you by a secret so dark it would inevitably destroy them all. The house was no longer a cage; it was a shared crypt..
aww tabby, you’re adorable and thank you so much!! can’t wait to see what you have in store for eris! 🥰
I’m walking the line between very excited and very scared
Very excited because wooo! Dark!fic + Eris
Very scared because aaah! Dark!fic + Eris
For real though, I think I might write something about reader being lost in the woods?
Okay no, I’m really laying my thoughts bare here, but I would definitely be down for some predator play? Maybe the day Beron dies and Eris inherits the Autumn Court throne he goes a little mad that night from the sudden surge of power, and needs to work his frustrations out - kind of like Calanmai - and who better than you? You practically stumble straight into his lap
Also, I feel like I shouldn’t have given you this power. I actually fall apart at the seams whenever I get called Tabby :’)
Dark!feysand x closeted!reader: Drunken Promises[***]
A/N: This follows on from Drunken Mistakes but can be read on it’s own :) (Drunken Confessions continues this story!)
Warnings: dubcon/noncon, pussy-eating, face sitting, smut, threesome fmf.
You crack your eyes open, then squeeze them shut.
The sunlight is pooling on the bed, crisp white sheets blinding to look at. Your eyes flutter with the weight of early morning fatigue, and you nestle further into the warmth of the duvet. As you turn onto your front, you brush against skin, and you stiffen, peaking open your eyes again.
Feyre lays beside you, features calm and peaceful. Radiant as always. It takes a moment for you to realise how odd it is to wake at her side, but things are usually a little out of place after a night out with her.
It’s only when she shifts in her sleep that you see she’s bare, the sunlight warming her chest as it spills across the smooth skin. Your eyes widen and you shift back a little, startled. And you bump into another body.
Oh gods.
You turn around and—
Rhysand.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck—
What the fuck happened?
You jolt when he sighs in his sleep, blue-black hair soft and ruffled from unconsciousness, so different to his usual neat and tidy persona. His arm slings over your waist, tucking you against him, slotting beneath his jaw.
He’s utterly bare—
And so are you—
Boiling Fucking Cauldron.
You start into action, scrambling away from him but his arms lock and you’re dragged back against his chest. A laugh rumbles across your back and you feel as he shifts, lowering his mouth to your neck as he places lazy kisses down your skin. You stiffen. He must think you’re Feyre.
Panic and humiliation burns across your skin.
Gods, what’s he going to do to you when he finds out you aren’t his mate—
“Rhys,” you hiss, trying not to wake the female up. His hands drop to your hips, rolling you over then pulling you back to him as he meets your gaze. Your eyes go wide as they peer up into soft violet, warm in the morning light. You brace for fury, for the utter rage of invading his space, but it doesn’t come.
Instead, his hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing against you affectionately as he presses his mouth to your forehead.
You still, not quite understanding his wildly inappropriate behaviour. You shift to press your wrists against his chest, careful to avoid touching him too intimately as you try to gently push away.
“Where do you think you’re going, little lynx?”
You flush beneath his intent gaze, how it dips to your mouth, running over your throat, peaking at your breasts.
You bring your arms closer to your body in attempts to hide yourself from him—you can feel that neither of you are wearing a single ounce of fabric, so Feyre probably…
You desperately try to remember what happened.
You swallow, “I was going to get up and get out of your way…” You manage to look him in his eyes, trying to shift so you can crawl out of their bed. He laughs at that, and you flinch in case it wakes Feyre. “We didn’t even tamper with your mind, and you’ve forgotten all of it, haven’t you?” His hand brushes hair from your face, pushing it to the side so he can look at you with those damn eyes of his. “You always do.”
Your brow furrows as you peer up at him, pushing a little harder at his chest as you attempt to wiggle away from him, get out of his possessive hold.
“But not this time,” he sighs, watching you with that hungry gaze. “You promised.”
And his hand is drops to the swell of your ass, squeezing appreciatively, making you gasp, flinching at the proprietary touch. The entitled arrogance at the presumption.
“Don’t move.”
Then his mouth opens over your own and you’re paralysed by shock as he plies your lips apart. His grip on you tightens, pulling you flush against his chest so he can feel the soft plushness of your breasts. A longing groan drags from the back of his throat, loud enough to snap you out of your gaze.
You shove at his chest, breaking the kiss, and your skin begins to buzz.
“Wh—”
His mouth descends on yours again, chasing after the warmth of your lips, the flavour of them that still coats your tongue. They made sure to use you thoroughly.
The buzzing turns into light zapping, a frenetic pulse inside of you as you continue shoving and pushing desperately. A whimper bleeds into his mouth, and he swallows it greedily, humming with satisfaction as he takes what he wants with leisurely grace.
Your head begins to pound, hard enough you can’t concentrate on pushing away from him, body going lax and pliant beneath his powerful hands.
The ache fades almost immediately, leaving a dull tingle running along your seems as he pulls away to look at you. “You’ll only make it worse for yourself if you don’t listen to us,” he murmurs against your lips. His fingers move to trace between your breasts, over your sternum. “You can move.”
Your head dips down to peer at his hand, and you spot the dark ink that symbolises a bargain being struck. “Rhys—… What happened?” You ask, fear uncoiling in your stomach.
Bargains are serious things. You should never make one unless you have to, or you trust your life with the sharer. Even then, it’s discouraged.
He gives a dark laugh that slides down your spine. His hand lowers to the back of your thigh as he hooks it over his waist, allowing you to feel the invasive press of his cock against your front. “You promised yourself to us. Whenever we want, for whatever we need, you’re ours.”
Rhysand’s hips shift, pulling away so he can align himself with you.
You flinch when you feel his tip pressing against your slick entrance, still aroused from the night before. “Rhys!” You panic, shoving hard at his chest but he’s gripping you too tightly. “Rhys, stop it! You can’t—”
His hips push upward, guiding himself inside and you gasp in shock, tears welling at the edges of your eyes before he’s rolling you to be seated atop him. Your hands land flat against his abdomen and you tense as you feel him inside of you.
“Rhys,” you whimper, crying out desperately as he keeps you perched atop his hips, his grip like iron. “Please stop. You can’t—… I don’t want this!”
Beside him, Feyre stirs, and undiluted terror slices through your gut. She’ll get the wrong impression. She’ll think you’re trying to take Rhys away from her. She’ll think you’re forcing him.
“Fey…” you plead. “Fey, it’s not what it looks like. Please, I don’t want—”
Instantly she’s pushing up onto her knees, cupping your face in her soft hands as she cradles you. “Hey, hey,” she shushes, “what’s the matter? What’s wrong?” Her eyes narrow as she shoots a glare at Rhys, “why’s she crying? What did you do?” Her lips pull back from her teeth, “I swear to the mother Rhysand, if you did anything—”
“She’s fine,” he reassures, glaring at you for getting him in trouble with his mate. “She’s just enjoying the ride, aren’t you, little lynx?” Feyre turns to look at you for an answer, but when you go to shake your head, he subtly rolls his hips, his cock touching a spot inside your sensitive walls that has heat flushing your skin. You lips part in pleasure and the High Lady relaxes a little.
“Just feeling good, huh?” She soothes, stroking your cheek tenderly, “Rhysie making you feel good?” You attempt to shake your head but he rolls his hips again, your arms weakening with the force of the pleasure.
Feyre snaps her head toward Rhys, “I was talking to her.” He shrugs nonchalantly, repeating the action just to get a rise out of her. A startled moan slips from your mouth as tears fall.
“Fey…” you manage, reaching toward her shakily, “Feyre…”
Her gaze switches to you and Rhys bucks his hips sharply in return, your eyelids fluttering at how full you are. You’re sure you would be able to feel him should you lower your hand to your abdomen.
“What is it, birdie? Do you want me somewhere? Where do you want me?” She’s as attentive as always, and you cry harder.
“Make it stop—… Please, make him stop,” you weep, beseeching her with hot eyes. She thumbs beneath your lashes carefully, but shakes her head. “He’s your High Lord,” she tuts, the pad of her fingers swiping across your lower lip, “don’t be ungrateful now. You were so eager last night. What happened?”
She watches as the blood drains from your face. “What happened last night?” You wail, shakily raising a single hand to cup hers and you tremble. “He— He won’t tell me.”
“No? You don’t know about your promise to us?” She murmurs, fingers dropping to trace the skin between your breasts. “You’re ours now. Properly ours.” You shake your head in denial. You wouldn’t have done that, you wouldn’t have made such an obvious mistake as to promise something like that. Even to them.
“I think she needs reminding of some of the events, Feyre, darling.” Rhysand drawls, slamming you down on him suddenly, causing a startled moan to fly from your lips. More tears flood your eyes as you shake your head vehemently. “No! I don’t want to—” He’s pounding into you, pulling you down against him as he bucks up into the wet heat of your cunt.
“But you begged so beautifully, don’t you remember?” Rhys purrs, continuing his assault on your senses. “You were so filthy, pleading Feyre to let you taste her, pleading me to fuck my come into you over and over and over.” Each word is accented with a forceful buck of his hips and you nearly collapse.
“You did something to me,” you cry, throwing out the accusation. “I was drunk, I didn’t know what I was doing!” Feyre glares at Rhys angrily. “You’re making it worse for her,” she snaps. Then your High Lady returns her gaze to you and it softens, “why don’t we quiet him down, hm? Give him something to do with that snarky mouth of his?” She growls the last part at the High Lord as she swings a leg over him, setting herself down on his face.
You can make out the way his tongue eases into her, lapping over her clit with a familiarity you shouldn’t be seeing.
A soft sigh of contentment puffs from her lips as she rides his mouth, grinding her hips over him as she indulges in the early morning pleasure. “Is that better, birdie?” She asks, fingers entwining with your own, affectionate as always. “Make him stop,” you beg. “I want to go home. Please, Fey.” You squeeze her hand in silent hope she’ll help you.
She merely frowns. “You’ll be staying with us from now on. Why would we live together but leave you out of it? That would be mean, don’t you think?”
“No,” you pant, vision blurring, “I don’t want to live with you. I want—”
Feyre yelps as Rhys lifts her from his mouth, just enough for him to snarl at you. “Ride me.” And then the buzzing returns, zapping with frenzied excitement beneath your skin, burning and blazing until you can’t take it any more.
You gasp as you lift your hips from his and begin slamming down against him just to relieve the pain. Your breathing quickens, becoming harsh and desperate as the pleasure boils and bubbles, so near it’s perfect state of euphoria. Your fingers dig into Feyre’s and she moans as she watches you ride her mate, just as he commanded.
The High Lady curses beneath her breath at the pleasure already overwhelming her. Rhys’s silver-tipped tongue working her to that beautiful edge, lapping and flicking over her clit then fucking into her with relentless desperation. Your own lips are parted and Feyre needs to taste you, needs to have her mouth over yours. So she does.
You whimper when she kisses you, her fingers locating the sensitive apex of your thighs as she touches you gently, keeping in time with your rhythm. “You’re so good for us, aren’t you? Just needed a little encouragement and look at you. Already working so hard. Such a good girl.” You want to scream that you don’t want to be theirs, want to scream at her to let you go, but you can’t do anything aside from slam your hips down to meet Rhys’, helping drive his cock deep inside of you.
Her blue-grey eyes meet yours, and you want to cry. She should be helping you escape.
“Please…”
You’re trembling with the effort to continue through the pleasure, the invading pressure of him combined with Feyre’s soft touches to your clit has you cresting a height you aren’t prepared for.
“You want to come, huh? Want to come on his cock?” Her hand raises from between your thighs, in favour of settling over your ribs, pulling your upper body forward a little. “Come on, tell us what you want.”
“Please, Fey. I need it, need it so badly.”
She presses a hot kiss to your mouth, tongue lapping over your lips as she pushes inside, tasting you as she wanted before pulling away. ‘What do you think, Rhys?’ A wicked laugh sounds in your mind and you shiver, nipples peaking with sensitivity and anticipation. ‘I think I’ve been exceptionally benevolent to our girl, and she hasn’t uttered so much as a word of thanks for her treatment.’
Then he’s in your mind, and you can feel him kissing along your shoulder, pressing against your back, fucking up into you, feel his tongue lapping at your nipples as he bites and licks, suckling at your clit, kissing you senseless. The overpowering sense of him fills you up until you can no longer tell where he ends and you begin.
‘I’m thinking I want to see her cry, and plead, and beg for us to give her that pleasure. I’m thinking she needs to crawl for it, swear she’ll never be so disobedient ever again. I’m thinking that if she can be good today, we can let her rest tomorrow night.’
Through his own senses that are invading your mind, you feel how close Feyre is, practically feel her atop your own mouth, slick coating your tongue as you drink her down, bringing her endless pleasure.
‘Please,’ You cry, falling to your knees in that strange space they’ve created. ‘Please, I’ll be so good for you,’ you plead as you crawl toward where they’re coupling in your mind. ‘Please, please just let me come,’ you beg, crying out for that release that you know will knock you off your feel.
‘You’ll never try to escape? Follow every order without help of our bargain?’ He purrs, and you feel the caress of talons down your spine as he plays with you. You nod desperately, staring up at him from your hands and knees beseechingly. ‘That’s it. Now take what you want from us.’
You could pass out from relief but suddenly you’re slamming back into your body, and he’s pounding into you, Feyre’s mouth over your own as she plays with your breasts while Rhys thumbs at your clit and you just…shatter.
Your High Lord snarls as he feels you fluttering around him wildly, cunt clamping down as pleasure crests over you, soaring to the peaks of the world before dragging you to the depths of the ocean. The sheer intensity washes into the pair, riding your pleasure as they wrap around your senses, spilling across your conscious, into it.
You might have screamed when you came, but you’re too out of it to understand or process anything aside from the feel of their skin on yours and the calming order to cease your movements. The gentle, soft press of the pads of Feyre’s fingertips, and the slow drag of Rhys’ cock against you as their movements slow.
Pants fill the room as pleasure begins to fade.
“How’re you feeling, birdie?” Feyre breathes, thumb swiping over the knuckles of your hand as you gasp for air. You manage a weak nod, but nothing else, too exhausted from the activities.
Slowly, Feyre eases from Rhys’ mouth that’s gleaming with her release. His eyes lock on yours, taking in the heat from your skin, the plumpness of your lips, the bruises at your hips from where he was gripping you. You whimper when you feel him hardening again inside of you, and you move to climb off him but your thighs are trembling too much and you just slide back down, seated on his hips.
A low growl rumbles through his chest as he pushes up from his reclined position. “Feyre, darling,” he purrs, violet eyes remaining locked on yours with sinister malevolence, ravenous hunger writhing in their indigo depths. “I think you should take the next one from her.”
You stiffen, attempting to squirm backward as his lips twist into a feline grin. “No, wait, please,” you beg, breathless and exhausted. He arches a single, neatly groomed brow, “No? You don’t want Feyre between your legs?”
Tension knots in your stomach as you shake your head. You can’t take another one.
His grin turns vulpine.
In one swift movement, he’s flipped you on your back, spreading your legs apart, driving his cock deeper with the movement. “I suppose we’ll be switching then,” he growls. His High Lady catches his direction, crawling over to you in a sultry manner, mounting your mouth like it’s her throne.
Your eyes widen, but you know better than to resist. It’ll only make things worse, after all.
Feyre leans over, allowing her to lock onto your gaze, piercing into you as her back curves, her fingertips skating over your body, playing with your nipples as if she hadn’t been touching you moments before. As if you’re brand new. Something clean and perfect to play with. Something sweet and innocent to corrupt all over again.
“Open that mouth for me.” She taps her nail against your sternum twice, over the bargain’s mark. “Don’t make me use this.”
Your lower lips wobbles but you part your lips, allowing her to settle down, arousal practically dripping, coating your tongue.
Rhys draws his hips back and you squeeze your eyes shut, arms looping over Feyre’s hips.
