♱

you were finally moving on. this was supposed to be your first real date in years.

and it should’ve been perfect.

simple, even. you went downtown and browsed a bookstore together, shared a drink at a nearby café, and laughed over which books had the shittiest covers. your date was thoughtful, soft-spoken, overly polite. he asked about your favorite genres, held doors for you, he smiled so much you were starting to feel guilty you couldn’t smile back the same way.

because that was the problem.

it was all too easy, safe, predictable.

there was no pull in your chest or rush of adrenaline. no wondering if you were going to get kissed or carved open. no shadows moving behind you. just… normalcy. and you realize— chan’s really fucked you up. because you’re standing here, trying to appreciate the gentleness of this boy, yet all you can think about is your ex. your obsessive, twisted, violent ex.

chan never took you to cafés. he never once asked what your favorite anything was. but he used to look at you like he’d burn the world down for you. and when he touched you, it never felt soft. it was intense, all-consuming.

you blink, pulling yourself out of your thoughts when your date steps way too close for comfort.

“maybe we could do this again sometime?” he asks, his tone is hopeful, laced with a hint of desperation.

you force a nod. “sure, maybe..”

he misreads your hesitation and leans further, aiming for your lips until you dodge at the very last second. he ends up kissing the corner of your jaw instead, letting out an awkward laugh to mask the rejection.

“sorry,” he murmurs. “didn’t mean to be too forward. you’re just… really cute.”

“goodnight,” you say quickly, already shutting the door.

you exhale and lock it behind you with one click. you should lock the others too, but you don’t. haven’t felt the need to in months.

the moonlight spills softly across your living room floor and you let it guide you upstairs, flipping the light on as you go. everything feels still, quiet, calm.

you peel off your day clothes and start the shower. the water runs hot, steam rising to fog the mirror and ease the tension in your shoulders. half an hour passes. you step out, skin warm and dewy from the heat, and reach to grab your dirty clothes from the floor.

but something’s missing.

your panties.

“what the hell…” you mutter, checking under the pile. nothing.

“looking for these?”

your body stiffens.

that voice.

your blood turns to ice as you whip around toward the open door.

he’s standing there— chan— head cocked, clad in black, mask pulled down over his face. he twirls your underwear on the tip of his knife, blade slick with blood, the curve of it catching the bathroom light. his free hand? stained crimson. dripping.

you feel detached from your body, watching yourself from a distance. the towel’s still clutched to your chest, but your arms don’t register it. your knees stay locked in place, feet cemented to the floor.

“y’know,” he drawls, voice gravelly beneath the mask, “figured you’d keep locking every damn window for at least another year.. twelve months in this new place and you already got too comfortable?”

he lifts the mask just enough to reveal his face. tousled curls damp with sweat. a faint scar beneath his cheekbone. warm brown eyes flickering over your exposed skin with something feral.

chan flicks your panties off the knife and takes a step in.

then another.

you step back until your spine hits the wall.

“you miss me?” he murmurs, “c’mon. don’t lie.”

he grins when your breath catches.

“who was he?” he asks, tone suddenly colder. “that guy tonight. the one who walked you home like he had a fuckin’ chance.”

you attempt to speak, but nothing comes out.

“thought you’d learn better by now,” he sneers, leaning closer, “no one touches what’s mine.”

you flinch as he drags the tip of the knife along your collarbone. it bites just enough to sting, reminding you he could do a whole lot worse. his breath fans your face. then—

“you remember why that is, don’t you, doll?”

your body trembles at the sound of the nickname that hasn’t been aimed at you in years.

“doll.”

he used to call you that all the time, usually after he’d already made you cry. or after a fight that ended with you half naked against his chest, his hands still shaking from whatever he’d done. the first time he said it, you were on your second date, laid up together watching some cheesy horror flick with cheap jumpscares. you couldn’t take it serious, mouthing off about how dumb the characters were and you’d never die that easily.

“think you could do better?” he’d asked, smirking, voice deep and mocking.

“duh!” you’d shoot back, kicking your feet up. “i’d get the hell outta there and run as fast as i can.”

“run, huh?”

he’d laughed back then, the kind of laugh that made your stomach twist.

now that same voice is right in front of you again— hoarse, older, darker.

“go on,” chan murmurs, the knife glinting in his hand as he tilts his head. “run.”

the tip of the blade traces the curve of your cheek, cold steel dragging across hot skin. your breath hitches when you notice the blood streaking down your neck, his or someone else’s, you can’t tell.

“who’s blood is that..?” you ask, voice cracking.

he flashes that awful, beautiful smile. “does it matter?”

“drop the towel.”

you blink. “what-?”

“don’t make me ask twice.” his voice gets dangerously low, the blade presses to your throat, making your heart pound. “drop it, doll.”

you let it fall. the towel hits the tile with a wet sound. your nipples tighten from the chill. he watches the goosebumps spread across your chest and smirks.

“should’ve left that window shut..” you whisper, shaking. but he hears it.

“yeah,” his breath warms your jaw as he spoke, “wouldn’t’ve made a difference. i came through the front door.” he sounds almost proud of it “you really stopped locking your shit, huh? what’s that about, doll?”

you glare up at him even though your knees feel weak. chan studies your face, eyes heavy with hunger.

he slides the flat of the blade down your collarbone, over your breast, smearing dark red over soft skin. you gasp, a small sound slipping from your throat before you can stop it. his grin widens.

“missed me, didn’t you,” he says it more as a fact rather than a question.

you shake your head, but he chuckles, low and rough.

“still lying to me.” he hisses, chest brushing yours, his shirt rough against your skin. the knife drags up again, resting under your chin. his other hand comes up to grip your jaw, thumb pressing into your bottom lip until it parts. “open.”

you do.

he slides his thumb inside, slow, his eyes on your mouth as you close your lips around it, tasting metal and salt.

“good girl,” he rasps. “still know how to listen when you want to.”

you suck on his thumb, hollowing your cheeks, and he groans. the sound rumbles through his chest. your thighs press together instinctively.

“didn’t answer me, though,” he says, withdrawing his thumb with a wet ‘pop’. “so i’ll answer for you.”

before you can speak, he crushes his mouth against yours— violent, desperate. his hand grabs at your throat, forcing your head back as his tongue pushes past your lips. you taste blood, and him, and something that burns like nostalgia. you moan against him, half in fear, half in surrender.

his free hand slips down, fingers tracing your stomach before finding your hip, squeezing hard enough to leave bruises.

you squirm, grinding helplessly against the rough denim of his jeans. his thigh wedges between your legs, and the friction makes your breath hitch. the sound that leaves your throat earns a sharp slap to your ass, his palm rough and punishing.

you whimper. he rubs over the spot immediately after, soothing where he hurt.

“that’s my girl,” he mutters. “still soft for me.”

you pant into his mouth, trembling. he tilts your chin up with the edge of the blade again, forcing you to look him in the eye.

“you wanna know whose blood it is?” he asks.

you nod, small and shaky.

“that pretty boy who walked you home.” his tone is casual, almost conversational. “you think i’d let him kiss you?”

your stomach drops. “you- you killed him?”

chan grins, slow and mean. “he was in the way.”

your breath catches. “oh my god—”

“don’t act shocked,” he presses the blade flat against your cheek. “you always wanted me rough. wanted someone who’d take what he wanted. that’s what you love about me, isn’t it, doll?”

he leans in until his forehead touches yours.

“say it,” he whispers. “tell me you still love me.”

“fuck you, chan.” you spit, voice shaking.

he laughs, low and genuine, the sound rumbling from his chest. it’s not the unhinged cackle you remember from horror movies; it’s worse. real, lazy, and overly confident.

“yeah?” he tilts his head, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “sure thing, doll. but first…”

he steps back, slowly, like a cat giving its prey a head start. the knife gleams in his hand.

“think i’m in the mood for a chase.”

your throat tightens. “what?”

he slides the mask back over his face, and his voice drops, muffled behind the filter.

“you heard me.” he grips the knife tighter. “run, doll.”

you don’t move. not until he takes one deliberate step forward.

then instinct kicks in— you bolt.

the cool air hits against your wet skin as you sprint out of the bathroom, water and blood still dripping off you, feet slapping against the wood stairs. your lungs burn as you reach the bottom, panic clawing at your chest.

the front door. it’s the only thing you can think of. you fling it open, and froze instantly.

your date’s body is slumped against the porch. or rather what’s left of it.. his stomach’s split open, his face slack, his insides glistening under the porch light.

you gag, choking on a scream as you slam the door shut and stumble back, tears pricking your eyes.

heavy footsteps creak down the stairs behind you.

slow, steady, controlled.

“stop!” you yell, voice cracking.

chan doesn’t answer. the black eyes of his mask stare straight through you as he rounds the corner, blade catching the light in a slow arc.

you dart right, through the hallway. your mind races as you think of all the options. kitchen, guest room, second bath. only one way out that isn’t a dead end.

your heart’s hammering as you burst into the kitchen, flinging open a drawer to grab a large steak knife, hands trembling as you head for the back door.

the knob turns and pain slices through your hand before you even register the sound.

a sharp sting. a wet warmth.

you look down, blood seeps between your fingers.

“i wouldn’t do that if i were you,” his voice croons from the shadows, that sing‑song tone curling into your bones.

you spin around just in time to see his knife lodged deep in the doorframe, the blade still vibrating from the force. your blood paints the white wood.

“look at that,” he says, stepping closer. “made me hurt you.”

his voice drips with mock sympathy, and yet his posture says don’t you dare move.

you back toward the counter, eyes darting from him to the window.

he watches you, completely still, head tilted slightly. you can feel the amusement behind the mask. he’s letting you think. letting you scramble. because he enjoys it.

then you run.

out the other side of the kitchen, back through the hall, lungs screaming as you tear up the stairs. if you can reach the bedroom, maybe the window, maybe the tree, you might have a chance to make it.

you hear his footsteps follow. slower than yours. heavier.

he’s not chasing. he’s hunting.

you slam the bedroom door and twist the lock. your whole body shakes as you press against it, shoving with your shoulder.

it doesn’t matter.

the door crashes inward, throwing you backward. you hit the floor hard, the knife skittering across the wood out of reach.

“fuck—” you scramble for it, fingertips brushing the handle.

chan grabs you by the ankle and in one brutal motion, drags you back, and flips you onto your back. your body slides under his shadow, your breath coming out in ragged gasps.

the mask hits the floor with a dull clatter as he rips it off, revealing his face once again.

sweat. blood. and that same crooked grin etched on his lips.

“still fast,” he chuckles, breathing steady compared to yours. he braces a hand beside your head, knife glinting in the other. “but you always forget..”

he presses the blade to your chest, enough to make every nerve in your body go still.

“..i always catch you, doll.”

“s-stop it, ch-chan.” you try to sound firm, but your voice shakes too much. your body’s trembling, legs pressed tight together, ignoring the humiliating wetness between your thighs.

“stop me?” he repeats, mockingly calm, head tilting as his massive frame cages you in, “you’re gonna stop me, doll?”

“go on then,” he dares. “take a stab at me.”

he drops his knife at your feet. metal clatters against the hardwood.

your breath hitches, hands shaking as you pick it up slowly, barely having the strength to raise it. he brings his chest closer, giving you the illusion he’s the one who’s vulnerable. hard abs right underneath his hoodie. so easy to pierce. so easy to end it all.

but his eyes don’t flinch. he just stares down at you, brows lifted slightly, amused.

you won’t.

you sob, hand falling, blade slipping from your grasp with a dull thud. you hide your face in your palms, broken down and completely exposed.

chan coos, crouching down, large hand threading through your hair gently. almost lovingly. his lips press to your damp forehead.

“knew you didn’t have it in you, doll.” his voice is breathy, cracked with something far more twisted than affection. “been watchin’ since the night you ran. wanna know what i figured out?”

you sniffle, wipe your tears, already knowing the answer.

you say it anyway. broken. shameful. “e‑even after everything, i… i still need you.”

chan grins. “that’s my girl. couldn’t even let that fucker kiss you, could you?”

you shake your head, tear-stained cheeks burning as his bloodied fingers cradle your face. it’s tacky on your skin, sticky and hot.

“it’s okay, doll. you were good,” he murmurs, petting your cheek with his knuckles. “so i won’t punish you… much.”

he leans in closer. his voice drops.

“as for him—”

his chuckle is dark. empty. pure malice. “he screamed so loud when i carved his throat open.”

then suddenly, you’re weightless.

chan slings you over his shoulder like nothing, one hand gripping your thigh while the other snatches the knife. your shocked gasp turns into a high-pitched yelp when he squeezes your ass, fingers sinking into the plush flesh, admiring the way it jiggles.

“fuckin’ slut,” he mutters under his breath, delivering a harsh smack. you whimper. your hips grind back instinctively.

he laughs. low and condescending.

then he’s tossing you onto the mattress like a ragdoll. you scramble up on your elbows to look at him, heart pounding.

he sets the knife on the nightstand.

his hoodie’s gone. shirt next. and when he shoves down his pants, cock slapping up against his abdomen, you moan. he’s so hard it looks painful.

“missed this, didn’t you, doll?”

you nod quickly, unable to speak. your thighs rub together, pussy already soaked and throbbing from the chaos, the fear, the adrenaline that never really left your system.

“come.”

you drop to your knees without hesitation. looking up at him with glassy, fucked out eyes. he doesn’t say anything, just picks up the knife again and rests the flat of the blade against the back of your neck. cold. sharp. commanding.

“now suck.”

you obey instantly. tongue out. lips parting to take him in.

your mouth stretches painfully, his cock already too thick, hitting your throat before you’re ready. but you don’t stop. gagging, drooling, tears leaking down your cheeks. you stay down, swallowing around him.

his hand fists your hair suddenly, yanking you off with a wet ‘pop’. you gasp, coughing.

“did i say swallow me whole?” he sneers. “dumb fuckin’ whore. suck.”

you nod, apologizing with a soft moan as you lean forward again, this time only wrapping your lips around the tip. gentle, slow, trying to please him.

he bares his teeth, watching you, his pretty little doll with blood on her thighs, on her collarbone, in her hair. trembling on her knees for the man who ruined her life.

god, you’re perfect.

he growls and grabs a tight fistful of your hair, slamming your face into his pelvis. your throat convulses. muffled gags echo through the room as he starts pumping your head along his cock like a fleshlight.

“that’s it, cry on my dick, doll.”

you moan around him, dizzy from the lack of air, tears and spit soaking your chin. he’s brutal. relentless. fucking your throat with the same violence he used to kill the man you dated.

and your pussy’s dripping.

your scalp burns, lungs aching, body trembling, but you don’t want him to stop.

because no one ever made you feel this wanted. this ruined. this his.

and chan knows it.

he always knew.

“almost forgot what a filthy little slut you were, doll. fuckin’ hell…”

chan’s voice cracks through clenched teeth, that deep growl of his finally giving out as your throat clenches around his cock. it only turns you on more. makes you choke on him harder, swallowing around the girth as he fists your hair tighter, controlling every push, every thrust. he’s so deep it burns.

you try to keep your eyes on him as best you can, tears threatening to spill as spit leaks from the corners of your mouth, but you’re determined— licking and suckling in between the brutal thrusts he sets. and then you get an idea. without hesitation, you slide a hand between your thighs, gather a mess of your own slick, and smear it up between his legs. your fingers wrap around his balls, wet and warm, massaging gently while you keep him buried down your throat.

“goddamn, fuck! that’s it. fuckin’ knew you were still my little whore,” he snarls, his hips jerking like he’s barely holding himself together. “go on, choke on it. make yourself useful. make me messy, doll.”

your pussy throbs from the way he talks to you. the stretch in your jaw, the tears clinging to your lashes, the way his rough hand tugs your head down even deeper as if he wants to stay buried there. you rub your clit desperately with your free hand, hips twitching as the pleasure swells sharp and unbearable. your muffled moans echo against his skin, soft and wet, sinful.

“look at you,” he hisses. “so happy with your mouth full, huh?”

you hum in response, throat tightening instinctively. that’s all it takes for his rhythm to go frantic. chan hunches over, cock twitching inside your mouth as he fucks deep— harder, rougher— his body tensing just before he groans, dark and guttural.

“you ready for my cum, doll? ready for me to ruin your throat again?”

you try to nod, to say yes, please, but it’s all just whimpers, gargled and needy as he shoves his cock to the back of your throat. he holds it there as he spills, hips locking, jaw clenched as you feel him pulse and flood your mouth with a hot, heavy load. it nearly makes you cum right there, especially when you feel the cold press of his blade drag slowly up the curve of your neck.

your thighs quake, cunt spasming around your fingers as your orgasm crashes down, sharp and shuddering, your body curling in on itself with a broken cry.

chan finally pulls out, his cock glossy with spit and cum, still twitching, still rock hard. he grunts, breath heavy as he lazily strokes himself, unable to stop, mesmerized by the mess dripping down your chin, the spit connecting you to him like a string of silk.

you collapse slightly, trembling, trying to catch your breath. chan smirks down at you, gaze hungry.

“get on the bed, doll. ass up.”

you don’t hesitate. your legs are weak, still twitching, but you crawl up like he told you to. he follows behind, gripping your hips when you falter, lifting you into position himself.

“there we go. look at that fuckin’ pussy… goddamn, you’re leaking.”

he spreads your thighs further, hands firm and greedy, letting his eyes roam over your glistening folds. you glance back at him, dazed, drooling, pupils blown wide. your eyes silently beg for more, and he gives it.

“stay just like that,” he mutters, lowering himself. and then you feel it— his tongue. thick and hot and absolutely filthy as he drags it through your folds, lapping up everything he missed.

“oh- fuck, chan!”

your moan breaks off into a sob. you shouldn’t want this. you shouldn’t want him. not after everything he’s done and what he’s become. but your body remembers him too well. his mouth, his hands, the way he devours you like it’s been years since he’s eaten.

and in a way— it has.

he groans into your pussy, tongue fucking into you with wet, desperate strokes, memorizing the way you taste all over again. he pulls back just enough to suck your clit into his mouth, harsh and tight, and you feel your legs buckle. he grabs your thighs to hold you still, slurping audibly before plunging his tongue back inside you.

“chan- please,” you beg, high and trembling. “please, please- i need to cum…”

his response is a vicious growl.

“no.”

he says it without lifting his face. he likes denying you. seeing the way your body quivers under him. how you’re already this sensitive, this wrecked, and yet still begging. because you always beg. you always give in.

and he always makes sure you do.

you whimper. you dare to squirm, to defy him, pathetically rolling your hips like you’re not already soaked and overstimulated from the way he’s devouring your pretty cunt.

chan growls low in warning, hand snapping down against your ass without hesitation.

the slap stings. hard. makes your back arch as the sound echoes, your body jolting forward from the sheer force of it. the pain spreads like wildfire across your skin, making your thighs tremble— and he knows.

he fucking knows how much you liked it.

his smirk presses into your pussy as he groans hungrily, sucking on your clit and dragging his tongue through your mess with no mercy. your hips twitch again, an involuntary reaction, but that doesn’t stop him from reacting.

“didn’t fuckin’ say you could move,” he spits, words muffled against your folds before he spanks you again, right over the bruised spot, harder this time. your sob cracks out of your throat and your face drops into the bed as you cry out.

“you’re a bad fuckin’ girl,” he snarls, pulling away just long enough to shove two fingers deep into your fluttering hole. “can’t even behave for five fuckin’ minutes.”

his fingers curl viciously, thumb punishing your clit while his other hand claws your ass, nails dragging down until your skin burns with faint red marks.

“chan! i-i can’t—” you sob, gasping, overwhelmed and twitching under him.

“you will, doll. unless you want me to stop right now and leave you cock drunk and empty. is that what you want?”

“n-no! please- need your cock, please, i’ll be good, i swear!” your voice breaks as your body bucks into his hand, the sound of your slick squelching echoing lewdly in the room.

“desperate fucking thing,” he mutters darkly, leaning in to bite your hip before groaning again. “then cum for me. make a mess. fucking earn it.”

your orgasm rips through you so violently that your vision whitens out at the edges, a deafening ring in your ears as your body locks up and releases all at once. when you come to, you’re already on your back— drenched in sweat, throat raw, legs limp.

but chan’s still not done.

he lifts your thigh without a word and shoves it over his shoulder, lining himself up as his hand fists his cock, jerking it with slow, messy strokes, using your cum as lube even though it’s still leaking down your thighs.

“chan, wait—” you barely pant, but he’s already pushing in. no warning, no prep, just the sheer force of his cock splitting you open again.

“too late now, doll.” his voice is husky, ruined, shaky with restraint. “you said i could do whatever i want, remember?”

he slams forward, bottoming out with a heavy groan that vibrates through his chest. your cries break into the air as your hands scramble to find purchase, head hitting the headboard from the sheer power behind each brutal thrust.

your pussy can’t stop dripping. can’t stop clenching. it’s too much.

“missed this tight little hole. missed wrecking you, stretching you wide until you cry for me.” he laughs darkly, his teeth bared in something far too hungry to be called a smile. “missed how fucking slutty you get when i ruin you.”

you sob, head thrashing, unable to answer except with the shameless way your cunt tightens around him.

“say it. say you’re mine. say you’ll never run again, bitch.”

“i’m yours!” you cry, the words escaping before you even process them. “i’m your dirty whore, chan, i swear, fuck, i’m yours—!”

his mouth crashes to yours, devouring your lips in a kiss that tastes like blood and spit, smearing your tears across your cheeks as he ruts into you faster. deeper. until your pussy flutters wildly around him.

“cum again,” he demands against your mouth. “cum with me. now.”

you scream, high-pitched and broken, when your orgasm hits again, nerves frayed and brain fogged. you’re not even sure if your body can handle it anymore. but chan fucks through it, moaning into your mouth as he chases his own release.

he cums inside you with a strangled groan, cock twitching as his load floods your overstimulated cunt, his hips barely slowing even after. and he doesn’t pull out. never lets you go.

just leans in. licks the bite on your shoulder where his teeth sank too deep.

“bit me…” you whimper weakly.

“you made me,” he rasps, with a sick sort of fondness. “you always fucking make me lose it, doll.”

his lips kiss over the broken skin sweetly. apologetic. possessive.

“you’re mine. all mine. no one’s ever touching you again.”

and when you kiss him back, tasting your own blood on his tongue, you realize you believe every word.

but chan never felt like he was blending in. in his head, every moment was about you. he memorized your laugh, how often you wore skirts, how sometimes you’d forget to close your curtains all the way before going to bed. he learned that you never locked the back door until right before you went upstairs. he’d catch glimpses of your routines and liked to imagine himself in those empty spaces. slipping into your house before you got home, waiting in your room while you brushed your teeth, standing behind you while you slept. he replayed those thoughts so often they stopped feeling like fantasy and started feeling like plans.

at first, he convinced himself he just wanted to protect you. the outside world was cruel, your friends constantly pulled you into useless drama, men would stare at you hungrily as you walked by, and your parents would sometimes get frustrated and snap at you. you were too good for all of them. too soft and fragile. he told himself that if he didn’t step in, someone else would ruin you. so he made himself essential. he made sure you always saw him at his best, the soft-voiced, helpful neighbor who wouldn’t hurt a fly. he wanted to be someone you could lean on, let you believe he was safe. and when you did, when you said thank you with that innocent smile of yours, he felt the sickest kind of thrill curl up inside him.

but being near you wasn’t the same. watching you wasn’t enough. the longer you lived next door, the more unbearable it became. he’d go to bed and lie awake, fists clenched, cock aching at the thought of you just a few feet away. he’d picture you undressing in your room, curled up in bed with your sheets pulled to your chin, your lips parted as you breathed. he would stroke himself quietly, biting his lip to keep from groaning too loud, all while whispering your name into the dark. he hated himself in the morning, but then he’d see you outside, barefoot in the driveway, giggling as you chased after your dog, and he knew he couldn’t stop.

the night he finally acted, you didn’t even hesitate to let him in. the garage light had gone out, and he’d offered to fix it. you laughed, shaking your head, telling him he didn’t have to, but he insisted. you stepped aside, trusting him completely, too trusting, and he knew this was it. he followed you inside, watched as you bent down to grab the toolbox, and he felt his body go still. his thoughts sharpened into one clear line; if he didn’t take you now, someone else would.

he gripped the wrench tightly, breath steady, his pulse strangely calm. he’d rehearsed this moment in his head a thousand times, and now it was real. when he swung, it was fast and clean. the sound of the metal connecting with your skull echoed through the garage. your body sagged, and he immediately caught you before you could hit the ground.

“shh,” he whispered, holding you close, his lips brushing your temple. “it’s okay. i’ve got you.”

he carried you into his house through the back, careful not to be seen. he had prepared everything. the ropes, the blankets, the dim light in the basement. he laid you down gently, brushing stray hairs from your face, and looked at you the way a man might look at a miracle.

when you finally awoke, your head pounded and your wrists burned. the room was colder than anywhere in your house. you shifted, hissing at the feeling of rope digging into your skin. then you heard him— his voice, level and composed, the same way it always sounded over the fence.

“you’re awake,” he said softly. “i was starting to worry.”

your eyes fluttered, adjusting to the pale glow. concrete walls. no windows. his basement. your stomach twisted when you realized. you pulled against the restraints, but it didn’t budge.

“chan, what- what is this?” your voice cracked.

he crouched in front of you, setting the wrench down beside him. his expression didn’t look angry. if anything, he looked relieved. his hand reached out to touch your face, caressing your cheek with the pad of his thumb.

“don’t be scared,” he murmured. “you’re safe here. you don’t have to go back out there anymore. nobody can hurt you now.”

you shook your head, heart racing. “you can’t do this. people are going to—”

he cut you off with a small smile. “people already think you’re gone. do you know what your mom said to me tonight? she was crying so hard she could barely speak. she kept asking if i’d seen you, if i thought maybe you ran away. your dad asked me to help put up flyers tomorrow.” his head cocks sideways, never breaking eye contact. “they have no idea. no one does. only me.”

the terrifying part wasn’t his words, it was how normal he sounded. as if this were simply his role in life. to protect you, keep you hidden, and make sure you never belonged to anyone but him. he seemed proud of it. proud that he could walk into your parents’ living room, hug them, reassure them, and then come back home to you, hidden just a few feet away.

“please,” you whispered, eyes brimming with tears. “just let me go.”

his smile widened, almost affectionate. “why would i do that? you belong here. you’ve always belonged here, you just didn’t know it yet. i’ll take care of everything. you won’t have to worry about school or friends or anyone else ever again. just me. that’s all you need.”

he reached down and untied the rope just enough to bring your hands forward, then pressed something warm into them. a piece of bread, along with a bottle of water.

“eat. you’ll feel better. i’ll take care of you. i’ll take care of everything. you don’t have to think about anything anymore.”

you sat frozen, but when you didn’t move, his voice hardened.

“don’t make me take it away.”

your hands trembled as you brought the food to your mouth, taking small, hesitant bites. he watched everything, his chest rising and falling with something between relief and desire.

“good,” he praised sweetly. “that’s my girl. see how easy it is? just us. this is how it was always supposed to be.”

when he stood to leave, his figure lingered at the top of the stairs, looking back down at you.

“they’ll keep searching, you know. they’ll keep asking me to help, and i will. i’ll stand right beside your parents and tell them how much i hope you’re okay. but we’ll know the truth, won’t we? you’re here. with me. and no one will ever take you away.”

the door clicked shut, and above you, the sound of his heavy boots drifted through the ceiling, steady and casual, like nothing had happened.

jisung swore he respected it. he’d kiss your temple and say, “it’s fine, baby, i’ll wait.” but every night he pushed a little harder.

“anal isn’t enough,” he muttered one evening, halfway through rutting against you. his face was buried in your neck, damp hair sticking to his forehead. “i want you for real.”

“we are for real,” you whispered, forcing your body to stay relaxed. “this way doesn’t count.”

he pulled out just enough to look at you, sweat dripping down his jaw. “doesn’t count? you’re still moaning for me. still taking me. how’s that not the same?”

“it’s not.”

jisung groaned, throwing his head back. “then let me have just the tip, please, just the head, i’ll stop there. i swear.”

you shook your head, but his words stuck in your chest. he was always careful, always needy, kissing the side of your face and calling you his good girl. the idea of letting him try, just a little, didn’t sound as dangerous as your parents made it out to be.

but you didn’t give him that answer. you stayed quiet, and that silence was enough to make him spiral.

over the next week, jisung changed. he pouted when you turned him down, pulled away when you tried to kiss him goodnight, acted like his hands were tied behind his back everytime you climbed into his lap. when you asked if something was wrong, he gave you half-answers. “i dunno, maybe i’m just not enough for you.”

by the time you ended up in his bed again, the air was thick with his sulking. he kissed you harder, gripped your hips tighter, shoved his cock inside your ass with sharp thrusts that made you bite the pillow. you thought he was just frustrated. you didn’t realize he’d reached his breaking point.

“i can’t fucking do this anymore,” jisung panted, his chest pressed against your back. “it’s not enough. i want your pussy. i want it so bad it hurts.”

“sungie—”

“no, don’t ‘sungie’ me right now.” his hand slid around your waist, pulling you back against him. “you keep telling me it doesn’t count, but it does. it fucking does, and i can’t stop thinking about it.”

you turned your head to argue, but he caught your jaw and kissed you messy, his teeth dragging against your lip. “just the tip. i’ll put it in and i’ll stop, i promise. just let me feel it.”

your chest was tight, your body trembling. you told yourself maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. maybe he really would stop.

jisung lined himself up before you could second guess. the blunt head of his cock pressed against your cunt, hot and slick from how wet you already were. he groaned when he felt you twitch, his voice breaking apart.

“fuck, baby, it’s right there. please, please let me in.”

your breath hitched. “just the tip.”

“just the tip,” he echoed, but the moment he pushed past the first resistance, his entire body shuddered. he buried his face in your shoulder, muffling a desperate moan.

you froze, nails digging into the sheets. “jisung—”

“oh my god, you’re so fucking tight,” he whined. “fuck, i can’t—”

he didn’t stop. he didn’t even try. once he felt you take him, he snapped his hips forward, shoving himself deeper with shaky thrusts. every promise he made crumbled under the sound of your choked moans and his frantic groans.

“‘m sorry, i know i said i’d stop, but i can’t. i can’t, baby. i need you, i need all of you.”

he was rambling, kissing every inch of your skin he could reach, fucking you harder with each apology. “you’re mine, you’re mine, i can’t let this go. i’ll never let you go.”

and even though you’d told yourself a hundred times that you wouldn’t break, that your parents’ rule mattered too much, your body betrayed you. you squeezed around him, back arching, mouth falling open around his name.