"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.
