No escape
Part 1
Pairing: dark! Pi hanwool x female reader
Summary: He’s rich, dangerous, and obsessed and you’re in his sights. After your brother’s rivalry with Hanwool turns brutal, hiding isn’t enough. Every shadow, every glance drags you deeper into a game you can’t control.
Warnings: NONCON, bullying, stalking, degrading comments, pregnancy threats, power imbalance
A/n:Sorry for the wait! Pt2 is coming soon and it’s going to be darker and more intense than anything before.
Wc: 4.4k
Ready at your own risk!! Sensitive content ahead!!
The air in the hallway always felt thinner when he was near. You'd developed a sixth sense for it, a prickle at the nape of your neck that screamed danger before you even saw him. Pi Hanwool. The name was a curse in your household, spat out by your brother Gamin with a venom that stained the walls. You knew the rules; keep your head down, take a longer route to class, never ever make eye contact. The rivalry between your brother and Hanwool was a raging, bloody war and you were determined not to become collateral damage. For a while, it worked. You were a ghost, flitting between home, school your part-time job at the quiet little bookstore. You existed in the negative space of Hanwool's world, or so you thought.
The shift was imperceptible at first. It began the Monday after the latest, most brutal fight between him and Gamin. Rumours swirled that Hanwool had been humiliated, caught off-guard by Gamin's clever tactics. The loss wasn't just physical; it was a blow to his pride, a currency he valued above all. And you, you were the perfect soft target.
It started in the nearly empty courtyard after school. You were stuffing your notebook into your bag when his shadow fell over you, long and imposing.
“Well, well if it isn't Gamin's precious little shadow?”
Your blood ran cold. You didn't look up, your fingers fumbling with the zipper.
“What, no hello for me?” His voice was a lazy drawl, dripping with false warmth. “Running home to big brother? Gotta tell him about your day?”
You tried to sidestep him, but he moved, a casual step that blocked your path. His friend, Minhwan, from behind a pillar, a snickering hyena to Hanwool's prowling lion.
“She's even prettier up close, Hanwool,” Minhwan leered. “No wonder Gamin keeps her locked up.”
Hanwool's eyes raked over you, from your worn sneakers to your hair. It wasn't a look of appreciation; it was an appraisal, like he was judging livestock. “Pretty is a stretch. That innocent face is a good act, though. Tell me, Yoon ssi,” he used your family name like an insult, “how many guys have you actually slept with? I know it's a lot. That sweet act can't save you.”
The vulgarity slammed into you, leaving you breathless. Your face flamed. “I don't…I haven't..”
“Oh come on,” he chuckled, a sound devoid of any real humour. “Living alone with your brother, just the two of you? No parents to watch? It's only natural. Hell, if you were my sister, I'd have tried my luck too. Can't blame Gamin for being….protective.” He delivered the last words with a tone that made your stomach churn. “Or possessive.”
“Leave me alone.” You whispered, the words barely audible.
“Or what?” He leaned in, his expensive cologne, something darker and spicy invading your senses. “You'll tell Gamin? Go ahead. See if I care. It'll just make things more fun.”
That was the first day. It didn't stop. It was like he had a radar for your vulnerability. He'd appear in the stairwell when you were alone, at the bus stop just as your bus pulled away, his comments a relentless, degrading torrent.
“Do you dress like that for him? The oversized sweaters? It's a tease, you know. Makes a man wonder what's underneath.”
“I was thinking, me and Minhwan, maybe we could have turns. Would you like that? A real experience.”
He was careful, always just out of sight of teachers, of crowds, of Gamin. The bullying was a private performance for an audience of two; you and him, with Minhwan as a gleeful spectator. The isolation was the point. It made the humiliation burn hotter, the fear sink deeper.
Then the touches began.
‘Accidents’ he called them, with a smirk that told you they were anything but.
In the crowded school hallway, his hand would ‘slip’ from the wall to graze the side of your breast, the contact brief but deliberate, his fingers curling slightly. You'd jerk away, heart hammering and meet his cold, amused eyes.
At your part-time job, he started showing up.
It was your safe place, a place of quiet and old paper smells. He shattered that. He and Minhwan would loiter in the graphic book section, not buying anything.
“Need to reach that?” he'd say softly, coming up behind you as you restocked a high shelf. His body would press against yours, his hand, his hand landing on your lower back, sliding down to cup your ass through your jeans, squeezing once, hard before you could wrench away. “My mistake. You're in the way.”
His friends, especially Minhwan, would laugh a harsh, ugly sound. “She jumped like a scared rabbit, Hanwool!”
The stalking became undeniable. You'd seen the sleek, black sedan that you knew was his idling outside the bookstore. You'd catch a glimpse of him across the street from your apartment building, leaning against a lamppost, smoking, his eyes fixed on your window. He was a phantom, a malevolent spirit haunting the edges of your life. You stopped sleeping. Every sound at night was him. The smell of his cologne seemed to linger in your clothes.
You couldn't tell Gamin. The shame was a thick, tar-like substance coating your throat. Telling him would make it real. It would fan the flames of the war between them, and you were terrified of what they would cost your brother. You saw the fresh bruises on Gamin's knuckles, the tired set of his shoulders. He was fighting his own battles. So you swallowed the terror, the disgust and tried to become smaller, quieter, hoping Hanwool would grow bored.
He didn't.
The escalation was a steady, horrifying crescendo. One afternoon, he cornered you in the deserted literature aisle at the back of the bookstore. It was late, and Mr. Park, the elderly owner, was at the front counter.
Hanwool backed you against a shelf of classic poetry, his arms caging you in. “You smell different today,” he mused. “Scared or…….excited?” He brought his face closer to your neck, inhaling deeply. You froze, paralyzed. “Definitely scared. But your heart is racing. I can see it here.” He pressed a thumb to the frantic pulse at the base of your throat. “Does Gamin make your heart race like this?”
“Please,” you begged, hating the tremor in your voice.
“Please ‘what’ ‘please stop’? Or ‘please more’?” His hand slid down, over your ribs, his thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your shirt and bra. You slapped his hand away, a bust of desperate courage.
He caught your wrist in a grip of iron, his amusement vanishing, replaced by something dark, more intense. “Don't,” he warned, his voice low and deadly. “You don't get to tell me no. Not after what your brother did. You're my payback. Every tear, every shudder,...it's for him.”
He released you with a shove that made the bookshelf rattle. “See you around, little sister.”
[♡]
The night it happened was a Thursday, Mr. Park asked you to close alone because his wife was ill. A knot of dread tightened in your stomach, but you couldn't say no. You worked quickly, your eyes darting quickly to the windows, to the dark street beyond. The bell above the door didn't jingle. He must have slipped in while you were in the back room, disengaging the lock.
You turned around from wiping the counter, and he was there, leaning against the locked door, a shadow in the dim light of the single lamp you'd left on. Your breath hitched, the cleaning spray clattering from your numb fingers.
“All alone,” Hanwool observed, his voice a smooth, poisonous velvet. “Just like I knew you would be.”
“Get out,” you said, your voice surprisingly steady. “I've already called the police.” It was a pathetic bluff.
He laughed, pushing off from the door. “No, you haven't. You're too scared. And too ashamed.” He began to unbutton his tailored black coat, his eyes never leaving yours. “This is a nice place. Quiet. Private. Perfect for what I have in mind.”
You backed away, your hip hitting the edge of the reading table. “Hanwool, don't–”
“Don't?” He echoed, tilting his head. “You don't give me orders. I've been patient. I've played these little games of cat and mouse. But I'm done playing.” He tossed his coat over a chair. Underneath, he wore a simple black t-shirt that stretched over his broad shoulders and chest, and dark jeans. He looked powerful, deliberately casual and utterly terrifying.
“My brother will kill you,” you spat, the fear morphing into a hot, sharp rage.
“Let him try,” Hanwool said, his smile cruel. “But first he's going to get a used sister back.”
You ran. It was instinctual, a blind bolt for the back door. You barely made it three steps before his arm hooked around your waist, lifting you clean off your feet. You screamed, but the shop was in a secluded alley. No one would hear.
He carried you, kicking and struggling, to the large, heavy reading table in the center of the shop, sweeping books and reading lamps to the floor with a crash. Your back hit the polished wood, the impact knocking the wind from you. Before you could draw another breath, his body was on top of yours, his weight pinning you down, one hand clamping over your mouth.
“Scream all you want,” he growled into your ear, his breath hot. “I like the sound. It's honest.”
You fought. You bucked, you twisted, scratched at his arms, his face. You were in a frenzy of panic but it was like fighting a stone wall. He was immovable, his strength absolute. He caught both your wrists in one of his large hands and slammed them above your head, holding them there with terrifying ease. With his free hand, he ripped at your clothes. The sound of your shirt buttons pinging on the floor was obscenely loud. The cool air of the shop hit your skin, followed immediately by the searing heat of his touch.
“Look at you,” he muttered, his eyes drinking in the sight of your bra, your chest heaving. “All this for Gamin? Does he appreciate it?”
“Fuck you!” you sobbed behind his hand.
“Oh, you will,” he promised. He released your mouth to yank your jeans and underwear down your thighs in one brutal motion. The vulnerability was instantaneous and total. You squeezed your eyes shut, a whimper escaping you.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice hard. When you didn't, he gripped your chin, his fingers digging in, forcing your face toward him. “I said look at me.”
You opened your eyes, tears blurring his handsome, hateful face.
“Good girl.” He let go of your chin and stood up between your spread legs, looking down at you, a predator savoring his capture. He pulled his shirt over his head, revealing a torso carved from muscle, showing just how much his wealth and dedication shaped his body. He unbuckled his belt, the snick of the leather, a death knell and pushed his jeans and boxers down.
You couldn't help but stare. He was fully, brutally erect. His cock was long, thick and veiny, a proud, angry-looking thing that seemed to pulse with malice. He saw your gaze and smirked, wrapping a hand around himself, giving a slow, taunting stroke.
“Bigger than Gamin's, isn't it?” He asked, his tone obscene. “He seems like the vanilla type. Nerdy. Tell me, does he even know how to fuck? Does he fulfill your needs? Or do you lie there thinking of a real man.”
You gathered what little saliva you had and spat at him. It landed at his chest.
He froze. The smirk vanished, wiped away by a wave of pure, icy rage. For a second, he just looked at the spit trailing down his skin. Then his eyes locked down on yours and you saw the last vestige of humanity leave them.
“Wrong move, you little bitch.”
He surged forward, not bothering with any more foreplay. He forced your legs wide apart with his knees, his body crushing you into the table. The head of his cock, hot and insistent, pressed against your dry, terrified entrance.
“How does Gamin fuck you, huh?” he repeated, his voice a guttural rasp against your ear. “Be honest. Maybe I'll be nice.” He chuckled, a dark hollow sound.
Then he shoved in.
A white, searing pain tore through you. You screamed, the sound that scraped your throat raw. He was too big, too rough. And you were too tight and too scared.
He didn't stop. He buried himself to the hilt inside you with one brutal thrust, groaning as he did. “Fuck. Like a virgin. Or just a tight little whore for your brother.”
He began to move, setting a punishing, relentless rhythm. The white-hot pain subsided into a deep, aching burn with every drag of his cock. The sounds were hideous; the wet, slapping noise of his body against yours, his grunts, your choked sobs, the creak of the table under the assault.
“You're taking it,” he panted, one hand still pinning your wrists, the other groping your breasts, his fingers pinching and twisting your nipples through the lace of your bra. “You're taking my cock so well. Maybe you were made for this. Made to be Gamin's secret slut and my personal cunt.”
He bent his head, his mouth latching onto your neck, sucking and biting, marking you. You could feel the bruises forming. His teeth scraping your collarbone. “Gonna cum inside you,” he muttered against your skin. “Gonna pump you so full, it might take. Imagine that. You, swollen with my child. My heir growing in Gamin's precious little sister. Would he raise it, do you think? Call it nephew?”
The degradation was endless. Whore. Slut. Brother-fucker. Each word was a lash. He released your wrists to grab your face, forcing a kiss on you. It was a violation atop a violation, his tongue thrusting into your mouth, tasting of mint and malice. You gagged, trying to turn your head away but he held you fast.
To your utter, soul-crushing shame your body began to betray you. The frantic struggle, the overwhelming assault, the brutal friction…..a heat began to coil low in your belly. Your breathing, once ragged with sobs hitched for a different reason. Wetness seeped between your joined bodies, easing his violent strokes, making obscene, slick sounds.
He felt it. Of course he did. He laughed, the sound triumphant and filthy. “Look at that. Dripping for me. I knew it. You're just a needy little thing. All that pretending and your cunt knows what it wants.”
He shifted, hooking your leg over his arms, driving even deeper. The new angle hit something inside you, a spark of unwelcome, electric pleasure that made you cry out.
“There it is,” he grunted, pounding into that spot with vicious precision. “Cum for me. Cum on the cock of the man who owns you now.”
You didn't want to. You fought it with every fibre of your being, but your body was no longer yours to command. The coil snapped and a devastating, shameful orgasm ripped through you, wringing a broken wail from your throat as you fluttered and clenched around his invading length.
“Yes!” He roared, his control snapping. “Fuck yes! Milk me You slut!”
His thrusts became erratic, frantic. He slammed into you a few final, deep times, then buried himself to the hilt with a shuddering groan. You felt the hot, sudden flood of his release inside you, pulse after pulse, filling you up. He held himself there, panting, his forehead damp against your shoulder.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of heavy breathing and the distant hum of the refrigerator in the back room. The reality of what had happened crashed down on you, heavier than his body. You felt the sticky wetness between your legs, the throbbing ache, the burning stretch. The smell of him, of sex, of your own betrayal filled the air.
He finally pulled out and you felt a sickening trickle escape you onto the wood of table. He looked down at the mess, at your limp ravaged body, with an expression of profound satisfaction.
“Perfect,” he breathed. He reached down, dipped two fingers into the combined fluids leaking from you, and brought them to your lips. “Taste it. Taste what we have made.”
You clenched your mouth shut, turning your head. He forced your jaw open, smearing his fingers over your tongue. The taste was bitter, metallic. You retched but he held your mouth closed until you swallowed.
He stepped back, putting his clothes on with calm, deliberate movements as if he'd just finished a workout. You lay there, unable to move.
“Clean yourself up. You look like hell.” He said. “If you tell Gamin….Well I'd love that actually. I'd love to see his face. But remember what comes after, this? He gestured vaguely at you. “This was just the beginning. I get bored easily. Next time I might Minhwan. Or others. And the pregnancy thing? That wasn't a joke. My family has ways of making things……permanent.”
He left the same way he came, silently, leaving the door unlocked behind him. You lay on the table for what felt like eternity before you could even twitch. Every movement was agony. You slid off the table, your legs buckling, and collapsed onto the floor amidst scattered books. With a lot of effort, you walked to the small staff bathroom, heaving dry sobs. You cleaned up as best as you could with paper towels and cold water. Your clothes were torn. You found your oversized cardigan and wrapped it tightly around yourself, hiding the ruined shirt. You mechanically finished closing the shop, your movements robotic. The world had taken on a fuzzy, distant quality.
The walk home was a blur of shadows and streetlights. You could still smell him on your skin, taste him in your mouth. You could feel the ghost of him moving inside you, the dull, deep ache a constant reminder.
You fumbled with your keys at the apartment door. It swung open before you could insert them. Gamin was there, his face tight with worry. “Where have you been? You're over an hour late! I was about to call the police and go down to the shop–”
His words died in his throat. His eyes scanned you. He saw everything; the tear-streaked, makeup-smeared face, the swollen lips, the red bruising marks on your neck peeking above the cardigan, the wild hollow look in your eyes, the way you stood hunched in on yourself, protecting your tender body. He saw the tremor in your hands, the rip in your jeans.
The color drained from his face. His knuckles, already scarred, turned white as he clenched the doorframe.
“No.” He whispered, the word a broken thing. “No no no….”
He reached for you, his hand shaking. “Who?”
The silence in the apartment hallway was louder than any scream. You stood frozen on the threshold, Gamin’s horrified whisper—“No.”—echoing in the hollowed-out cavern of your chest. You could see the exact moment his mind connected the dots: the ripped jeans, the cardigan clutched like armor over your torn shirt, the vivid, purpling bruises on your neck, the vacant, shattered look in your eyes that no amount of blinking could clear.
His hand, reaching for you, trembled violently. “Who?” The word was a crack in the dam holding back his rage.
Hanwool. He’ll kill you. Then he’ll send Minhwan. Or others. Permanent.
The threats, slick and venomous, coiled around your heart, squeezing tighter than his hands ever had. You couldn’t. You couldn’t paint a target on Gamin’s back bigger than the one already there. You couldn’t be the reason he walked into a slaughter.
You took a shuddering step back, avoiding his touch. The movement sent a fresh wave of pain radiating from your core, a brutal reminder. You focused on the dull throb, using it to ground yourself in the lie.
“Nothing,” you rasped, your voice raw from screaming, from crying, from the violation of his fingers in your mouth. You cleared your throat, forcing the words out. “Nothing happened.”
Gamin’s face contorted, a mask of disbelief and dawning agony. “Nothing? Y/N, look at you! You’re… you’re shaking. Your neck… your clothes…” His voice broke. “Please. Just tell me who did this. Tell me who touched you.”
“I fell.” The lie was flimsy, pathetic. You wrapped the cardigan tighter, as if you could physically hold the truth inside. “I was closing up… I tripped. Over a stack of books. Hit the table. It was… it was stupid. I’m just tired.”
“You fell?” Gamin’s voice rose, laced with a fury born of helplessness. He took a step closer, his eyes scanning the specific, bite-shaped marks on your throat. “You fell and got hickies? You fell and your shirt got ripped open? Do you think I’m an idiot?”
His anger, usually reserved for his rivals, now turned on you—the one person he was sworn to protect. It was too much. The fear, the shame, the searing pain, and now his accusatory glare—it all boiled over.
“Stop it!” you shouted, the sound sharp and desperate in the quiet apartment. “Just stop interrogating me! I said I fell! Why can’t you just believe me?”
“Because it’s bullshit!” he roared back, his own control shattering. He grabbed your shoulders, not hard, but the contact made you flinch violently, a full-body recoil that spoke volumes. He released you instantly as if burned, his eyes widening in fresh horror. “Someone hurt you. Someone terrified you. Look at you! You look like you’ve been… you’ve been…” He couldn’t say the word. It choked him.
His outburst, the raw fury on his face, it wasn’t directed at you, but it felt like it was. It felt like another assault. In that moment, the brother you loved, your fierce protector, was just another loud, demanding, frightening man.
“You’re scaring me!” you cried out, the truth of it breaking through. “Just leave me alone! You’re acting just like—” You bit your tongue, the name almost tumbling out.
“Just like who?” Gamin pressed, his voice dangerously low. “Who am I acting like, Y/N? Give me a name. Please. I am begging you.”
But you were done. The dam had burst, but not in the way he wanted. You shoved past him, your shoulder connecting with his chest. The smell of old books, dust, and him—that dark, spicy cologne—wafted from your cardigan. You saw Gamin’s nose twitch, his eyes narrowing in recognition or suspicion, you didn’t know.
You didn’t look back. You fled down the short hallway to your room, your gait stiff and painful. You didn’t slam the door. You closed it with a soft, final click that was infinitely more devastating than any bang. You turned the lock, the sound a small, pathetic shield against the world.
Then, you slid down to the floor, your back against the wood, and finally let the silent, wrenching sobs tear through you. You cried for the violation, for the betrayal of your own body, for the lie now festering between you and the only family you had left.
On the other side of the door, Gamin stood rooted to the spot. The sight of you, broken and retreating, was branded into his mind. The flinch. The specific, possessive bruises. The smell on your clothes—Pi Hanwool’s signature scent, mixed with the coppery tang of fear and something else he refused to name.
He slowly walked to your closed door, leaning his forehead against the cool wood. He could hear the muffled, heart-wrenching sounds of your crying. His fists clenched so tight his nails drew half-moons of blood in his palms.
“I’ll find out,” he whispered, a vow to the silence, to you, to the monster he now knew was responsible. “I will burn his whole world down.”
Across town, in a penthouse apartment that overlooked the glittering city, Pi Hanwool stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, a crystal glass of amber whiskey in his hand. He wasn’t seeing the skyline.
He was seeing you.
The way your eyes had gone wide with terror, then glazed with shock, then brimmed with those perfect, shame-filled tears. The way your body had fought him, then betrayed you, clenching around him in a climax you never wanted to give. The taste of your fear on his tongue. The feel of your skin, so soft under his bruising grip.
He took a slow sip, the liquor burning a pleasant path down his throat. The satisfaction of humiliating Gamin through you had been profound, a sweet, cold revenge.
But it was different now.
The revenge was now just the wrapping paper around a far more intriguing prize. He replayed every moment: your defiance, your spit hitting his chest, the subsequent shattering of that defiance, and the ultimate, exquisite submission of your body. You aren't just Gamin’s sister anymore. You are a puzzle. A challenge. A beautiful, broken thing he had reshaped with his own hands.
His obsession, once a tool for vengeance, had taken on a life of its own. It was hotter, darker, more consuming. He wanted to see that shattered look in your eyes again. He wanted to make you flinch at his shadow. He wanted to hear you sob his name, not in pleasure, but in total, helpless recognition of his ownership.
He smiled, a slow, predatory curve of his lips. You thought it was over. You thought the threat of telling Gamin was the worst of it.
You had no idea.
The game had just changed. The hunt was no longer about your brother. It was about you. And Pi Hanwool always caught what he hunted.
“Soon,” he murmured to the reflection of the city in his glass. “Very soon.”
He finished the whiskey, the ice cubes clinking like a tiny warning bell, already planning the next time he would see you, and what he would take from you then.
[♡]