#claimed

Jax Teller stepped out, denim jacket hanging off his shoulders, white prison-issue clinging to his chest. His hair had grown out, his beard roughened, but the smirk—that cocky, dangerous smirk—was the same as ever.

The brothers broke formation, surrounding him in a tide of claps, hugs, rough laughter. Chibs grabbed him first, thumping his back. Tig was next, his grin feral as he shook him by the shoulders. Bobby, Happy, the rest—it was ritual, a welcome-home steeped in noise and love.

But Jax’s eyes weren’t on them. Not really.

They were on her.

She stood just behind the wall of leather, caught between smiling and crying, and the second he broke through the crowd, she was in his arms. He didn’t speak. Didn’t give her the soft, careful kiss she’d imagined through endless nights alone. No—he crashed into her like he was claiming lost territory, mouth hot and wet, tongue thrusting deep until she gasped. His hands locked low on her ass, squeezing tight enough to make her arch against him.

A chorus of whistles erupted from the club.

“Fuck yeah, Prez!” Tig whooped.

“Get it, Jackie boy,” Bobby chuckled.

Jax ignored them, kissing her harder, grinding his hips forward so she could feel the thick line of his cock already straining against his jeans. He pulled back just enough to press his forehead to hers, blue eyes blazing with hunger that bordered on feral.

“Mine,” he rasped, loud enough that the catcalls rose higher.

She flushed, trying to bury her face in his chest, but Jax tilted her chin back up, kissed her again—deeper, filthier, like he wanted the whole damn world to see.

The clubhouse was already alive when they rolled back into Charming. Music pounded from the jukebox, the air thick with smoke, spilled beer, and laughter. Pool cues cracked against balls, bottles clinked, voices rose in drunken cheer. It was SAMCRO at its core—loud, lawless, and free.

But Jax wasn’t celebrating. Not in the same way.

He sat at the bar with a beer in hand, his Old Lady locked tight under his arm like he was afraid someone might try to take her. His thumb traced lazy circles over the bone of her hip, sometimes drifting higher, sometimes lower, just enough to make her shift in her seat.

Every time she tried to stand, maybe to fetch another drink, maybe to breathe, his grip tightened. He yanked her back into his lap with a smirk that said she wasn’t going anywhere.

His mouth brushed her ear, voice low, dirty, meant only for her. “You know what I’ve been dreamin’ about in there? Spreadin’ you open on this bar, makin’ you scream while every brother watches. Showin’ ‘em all who fuckin’ owns you.”

She stiffened, glancing around at the crowded room, but Jax only chuckled, pressing his lips to her neck in a kiss that was half bite.

He didn’t hide it. His hand slid up her thigh under the table, fingers creeping between her legs until her breath hitched. She tried to catch his wrist, but he only smirked harder, dragging his thumb across the seam of her jeans.

“You’re already wet, aren’t you?” he murmured, blue eyes sharp with triumph when she shivered. “Knew it. My dirty little slut.”

Her face burned, but the sound of Tig’s laugh broke over the music. He’d seen Jax’s hand under the table, his grin feral as he leaned to Chibs. Whatever crude comment he made was lost in the din, but Chibs barked a laugh, shaking his head.

Jax didn’t care. He wanted them to see. He wanted them to know.

Finally, he slammed his beer down, tugging her hand hard enough to make her stumble into him. “Business,” he announced to the table, his voice rough with need.

“Handle it, Prez!” Chibs shouted, grinning wide.

“Bet she won’t be walkin’ straight!” Tig whooped, raising his bottle.

The room roared with laughter and whistles, but Jax didn’t look back. He was already dragging her down the hall, his pace so quick it was almost a march.

The garage door slammed shut behind them, the echo swallowed by the throb of music from the clubhouse. The bay door was cracked just enough for sunlight to slash across the concrete floor, catching chrome and steel. The air reeked of oil and smoke.

Jax didn’t waste time. He spun her, slammed her back against the wall, and kissed her like he was starving. His hands were rough, tugging her jeans open, shoving them down her thighs before she had the chance to catch her breath.

“Fuck, I missed this fucking pussy,” he growled, shoving her underwear aside and ramming into her with one brutal thrust.

Her cry rang out, sharp and unguarded, and his palm clamped over her mouth, pinning her head back to the wall.

“Shut that pretty mouth,” he hissed, his grin feral. “Don’t want ‘em runnin’ in here—unless you want that. You want the whole fuckin’ club watchin’ me wreck you?”

Her eyes went wide, shame and heat mixing until her body betrayed her, clenching tight around him. Jax’s smirk deepened.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he rasped, pounding into her so hard her body bounced against the wall.

His hand slid from her mouth to her throat, fingers tight as he held her still, his hips snapping with violent precision. “Been jerkin’ off to this for months, baby. Thinkin’ about this tight little cunt. And look at you—fuckin’ soaked. You needed me just as bad.”

Her nails dug into his shoulders, desperate, her muffled moans rising with every thrust.

The door creaked.

Chibs stood in the gap, Tig beside him. They froze for a beat, then grinned like wolves, taking in the sight: their president slamming his Old Lady into the wall, her jeans tangled around her ankles, her body arching helplessly as Jax held her throat and drove into her.

“Oh, shite,” Chibs muttered, amusement curling in his tone.

“Lucky son of a bitch,” Tig barked, his laugh filthy.

Jax didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow. He stared them down, blue eyes hard, thrusting deeper with a groan. “She’s mine,” he spat, the words punctuated by the brutal slap of his hips against hers.

She whimpered, trying to hide her face, but Jax caught her chin, forcing her eyes back on him. “Nah, darlin’. Let ‘em see. Let ‘em fuckin’ watch.”

Chibs smirked, tugging Tig’s arm. “Come on, Jackie boy’s busy.”

“Waste of a good show,” Tig muttered, still grinning as they pulled the door closed.

The second they were gone, Jax spun her around, bending her over the nearest bike. Her cheek hit the leather seat, the smell of oil filling her nose as he yanked her hips back and drove into her from behind. The frame rattled under the force, the bike rocking with every savage thrust.

“Look at you, takin’ it like you’re made for me,” he groaned, fisting her hair, yanking her head back so her cries spilled free. “You think anyone else could fuck you like this? You’re mine. My whore. My Old Lady.”

Her body convulsed around him, her moans sharp and broken as she came, shuddering against the bike. Jax bit down on her shoulder, growling into her skin as he spilled inside her, his hips grinding hard, forcing every drop deep.

But he wasn’t done.

Her body quaked under him, trembling, hair damp with sweat, cheek pressed to the leather seat of the bike.

He pulled out, breath ragged, tucking himself back into his jeans only long enough to fumble a cigarette from the crumpled pack on the workbench. The flame from his lighter caught, glow spilling across the hard planes of his face. He perched on the seat of the bike, legs spread, smoke curling from his lips as he looked down at her.

“On your knees,” he ordered, voice low, commanding.

She sank down between his legs, shaky, still catching her breath. Jax smirked, dragging on his cigarette, one hand cupping the back of her head as he freed himself again, thick and still hard.

“Open wider,” he muttered, sliding the blunt head against her lips until they parted. “That’s it. Take it all, baby. Been thinkin’ about this mouth every fuckin’ night.”

Her lips stretched around him, spit already slicking her chin as he eased deeper. Smoke curled above them, the scent of oil mixing with nicotine as Jax groaned low in his chest.

“Christ,” he rasped, head tipping back as she gagged softly around the length of him. “That’s it. Choke on it. Only mine, you hear me? Nobody else gets this throat.”

His hand tightened in her hair, guiding her up and down his cock, sharp little thrusts that made her eyes water. Ash glowed at the end of his cigarette as he dragged long, slow pulls, exhaling smoke through gritted teeth while she sucked him deeper.

When her jaw ached, when she whimpered around him, Jax smirked down, wiping a thumb across her spit-slicked cheek. “So fuckin’ pretty like this. Ruined for me.”

He pulled her off with a wet pop, flicked the cigarette to the concrete, and crushed it under his boot. Then he dragged her up, lips crashing to hers, tasting smoke and spit and hunger.

“Now ride it,” he ordered, collapsing back onto the seat, hauling her into his lap. His jeans were still open, cock hard again, and he lined her up before she could even think.

She sank down onto him, the stretch brutal after the rough pounding. Jax hissed, his grip bruising her hips as he forced her lower, until he was buried to the hilt.

“That’s it,” he groaned, eyes locked on hers, every word a filthy promise. “Show me. Bounce for me, baby. Make me believe you missed it as much as I did.”

“Ride it,” he ordered, voice low, commanding. “Now. Let me watch you bounce on my cock.”

Her legs trembled as she sank onto him, the stretch brutal after the rough pounding. Jax hissed, his grip crushing her hips as he forced her down until he was buried to the hilt.

“That’s it,” he groaned, head tipping back, eyes blazing as he watched her sink and rise. “Fuck, baby, look at you. Bouncin’ on me like a desperate little slut. Anyone could walk in right now, see you ridin’ your old man like this.”

Her cries echoed in the garage, louder now, no hand to muffle them. Jax didn’t care. He wanted the party outside to hear. His hand snapped across her ass, the sound sharp, making her jolt.

“Faster,” he barked, dragging her down harder. “Show me how much you missed this cock.”

She sobbed his name, head falling back against his shoulder as she rode him, her body trembling, sweat slicking her skin.

When she shattered again, clenching tight around him, Jax bit down on her neck, snarling his release into her ear. He held her there, impaled, both of them shaking, his grip unyielding as if letting go would break the claim.

The garage smelled of sweat, oil, smoke, and sex. The bike was still rattling faintly where Jax had slammed her over it, the seat damp with her sweat. Her hair was wild, makeup smeared, lips swollen from his kisses — from his cock. Her body trembled, legs unsteady, thighs sticky with the mess of him still dripping out of her.

Jax didn’t bother to straighten her up. He tugged her jeans only halfway into place, zipped himself without tucking his shirt, and hauled her into his side with an arm locked tight around her waist. She was limp against him, wrecked, but he grinned like the king of the goddamn world.

When they pushed back into the main room, the music hit like a wall. Heads turned instantly.

Chibs was the first to notice, raising his glass with a knowing smirk. “Business handled, eh, Jackie boy?”

The room erupted in laughter and whistles. Tig banged his bottle on the table, eyes glittering. “Handled real fuckin’ good. Thought the walls were gonna come down with the way she was screamin’.”

Her cheeks burned hot, her body trying to shrink into Jax’s side, but he only pulled her closer, smirking wider. He wanted them to see. Wanted them to know.

He reached across the bar, grabbed a beer, popped the cap with a flick of his thumb. “Damn right,” he said. “Business handled.”

The roar of laughter and jeers rolled over them, crude jokes flying like darts, but Jax didn’t care. His hand never left her hip, thumb stroking slow, possessive circles into her skin. Every touch screamed mine.

As the party roared back to life, Tig leaned toward Chibs, shaking his head with a wicked grin. “Prez comes home one hour ago and already makes the clubhouse sound like a fuckin’ porno.”

Chibs chuckled into his glass. “Aye, brother. Mark of a man who knows his priorities.”

It was the kind of cold that settled in your teeth. Dry air, dry land. Smoke from a cooking fire clung to your jacket like something alive, and every step crunched like bone underfoot.

You stayed close to the tree line while Daryl walked ahead, crossbow slung low on his back, posture half-feral. The others trailed nearby—Joe, Len, Billy, and whatever stragglers they'd picked up since the last camp. The Claimers. They called themselves that with pride, like they weren't just scavengers with vocabulary.

They weren’t so bad at first. Talkative. Friendly. The kind of friendliness that came with teeth.

You and Daryl joined up a few days ago. Not by choice - not really. You needed the strength in numbers if you guys wanted to sleep at night without two eyes open. It was simply smarter to travel in groups, or at least that's what you kept telling yourself. The rules were simple: don’t take what’s been claimed, and don’t walk away.

That last one was never spoken aloud. But you could feel it, like being circled by wolves that hadn’t decided whether to bare their teeth. This was only temporary. This first chance we get we are hightailing it and we never see these assfucks again. You could only dream of that moment for now.

The nights were the worst. You always woke up before sunrise, not from noise, but from the quiet. The wrong kind. Like someone holding their breath near your ear.

You felt eyes on you. Not Daryl’s. His, you were used to. His gaze was steady, grounding, always followed by the warmth of his palm finding yours under the blanket.

No, the others were different.

Joe had a habit of watching too long and saying too little when it came to you. Always quiet, always smiling, always sitting just close enough to be noticed. Len, on the other hand, didn't hide his thoughts. He'd whistle when you walked by, crack jokes about "needing a good woman to stick around." The worst was Billy, who once asked if Daryl "shared well."

You laughed it off, quickly stepping in front of Daryl so he wouldn't tear the guy's eyes out. Sure, that would be fun to watch, but two against eight weren't odds you would gamble on. Besides, you knew that was what they wanted; to see you snap - that would be like stepping into a trap. And at this rate, Daryl would be at his breaking point sooner or later.

But every word, every look, chipped away at your reserve. You started wearing Daryl's clothes over your own, stopped washing your hair so often, and kept your gun closer than usual. You felt like you were betraying yourself, smothering who you were to appease others. This wasn't you; cowering under others' stares while you shrug your hood over your face. No, you would think let em' dream while you strutted by them, swaying your hips like Shakira. And if someone did decide to be dumb and mouth off, you would show them why that was dumb - no need for scary boyfriend Daryl to shoo them away. Maybe everything really was weighing down on you; the loss of the prison, of Hershel, of your group, of… Beth. Maybe that person was left behind at the prison, and here you were left trying to scramble for the pieces, rithing at how vulnerable you felt… it made you sick with fury.

And Daryl felt it, too.

He noticed the change in you. The way your body tensed when someone said your name. The way you touched his arm a second longer when someone else was near. He didn’t need you to say it out loud. He didn’t need to see it happen. He knew, and it twisted something in him.

He wasn’t used to this—to feeling this much. He didn’t always have the words for it, didn’t even always understand it himself. But when it came to you, it showed up in the way he watched. The way he kept near and his eyes stayed on the backs of men too long, like he was calculating angles.

He knew you could handle yourself. Had seen it. Trusted it. That wasn’t why he hovered. It was because his body didn’t know how not to. Because loving you made his instincts loud, louder than they’d ever been. Protection wasn’t a comment on your strength. It was a confession of his. That he couldn’t bear to lose the one thing that made this hell of a world feel like something worth enduring.

The air of your camp for the night had the taste of rust and smoke, thick with campfire. A good place as any - being in the woods was better than out in the open on the road. You excused yourself quietly, weaving through the abandoned, rusty cars that some of the guys had settled into, and stepped over the metal wiresu descended into the woods for some privacy surrounding the makeshift camp, which created a perimeter as yo. Daryl watched you go with a look that said everything—be quick, be careful, be back. 

You felt him before you heard him. Len.

The crunch of leaves behind you was too heavy, definitely intentional. You slowed after a few minutes of walking, every nerve on alert, gaze sweeping the shadows. It was a full moon tonight, silver light catching on the blade at your belt. At least you weren't caught with your pants down. 

“Didn’t think we were doin’ shifts,” you called out flatly, not turning around.

He chuckled behind you, smug and slow. “Just makin’ sure a lady like yourself doesn’t get turned around. It’s dangerous out here.”

You turned. Not startled. Not shaken. Just done. So done with this bullshit. The apocalypse was so effective in wiping out most of the population, why couldn't it have included the entitled pricks like shit-for-brains here?

Len had his thumbs hooked in his belt loops like he owned the night air itself. You stood your ground, arms crossed, weight shifted to one hip.

“You got about three seconds to turn around and walk back to camp," you said, voice cold. "Or I start making souvenirs outta your fingers."

He smiled, eyebrows raising, taking a step closer.

"Oooh," he drawled. "Small thing talks a big game."

"You'd be surprised what a small thing like me can do with such a small tool,” you shot back, taking out your knife to admire it. “Course you know all about that, don't ya, Lenny?”

“C’mon now,” he said, mock-wounded. “We've been travelling companions together, ain’t we? Breakin’ bread, sharin’ fire. That’s gotta mean somethin’.”

“Oh sure. It means i havent slit your throat yet,” you replied, flashing your dazzling smile and twirling your knife.

He didn’t laugh this time.

You saw it then—the flicker of frustration. The way men like him hate being reminded they’re not owed anything. Especially not you.

He moved fast, hand going to your arm.

Your knife was faster. Your leg shot out and swept his leg from under him when it came into contact with the back of his, making him take a knee. It happened so fast, he went from reaching for your arm to now kneeling with you behind him. Oh, and the small tool you mentioned earlier was now pressed against his neck so harshly it was like you were going to peel his skin off like a potato.

“Try that again,” you say quietly into his ears, sending shivers down his spine. “I dare you.”

He blinked, neck taut against the blade, and for the first time, Len looked small.

“I ain’t lookin’ for trouble,” he muttered.

“No?” you snapped, voice going slightly higher, effectively taunting him with the situation he was in. A chick has you by the throat, gonna cry bitch boy? “Well then, don’t go sniffin’ where you’re not wanted. I ain't a prize, and I sure as hell ain’t yours.”

You pressed the knife just enough to nick the skin, drawing some blood. A sweet reminder for later.

Then you stepped back, shoving him into the dirt to tower above him.

“And you can go ahead and tell your little buddies that, too. You want someone to own get a damn dog.”

Len didn’t speak. Didn’t move. He just lay there, butt hurt trying to process what just happened, lips thin, pride in tatters.

You walked away first, and you didn’t look back. And for the first time in a while, when turning in for the night, you didn't feel like you had something weighing on your chest.

______________________________________________________

The car creaked gently as the wind rocked it. Daryl’s arms had settled heavily around your shoulders, spooning you in the backseat, one hand tracing slow lines along your arm. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t peaceful either. It hovered, like both of you were trying to name something you’d carried too long.

You shifted against him, voice barely above the hum of cicadas. “It’s weird, y’know? The world ended, and for a while… men weren’t the main problem anymore. Just walkers. Just hunger. Then suddenly, it’s back. That same old look. The kind that makes your skin crawl.” 

Your eyes glued to the car ceiling, lost in thought. Part of you didn't wanna say these things to him. Wouldn't it just make him sad? It was one thing to feel completely helpless as a woman in a disgustingly testosterone environment; the last thing you needed was a pity party. But that wasn't how Daryl worked. “Makes you think… maybe it’s better to be hungry than desirable.” 

He didn’t speak right away. Just rubbed his thumb along your arm, like he could erase the tension coiled there.

“You think you’re past it,” you added, voice so quiet it was just short of a whisper. “Then someone stares too long, or gets too close, and it’s like muscle memory. You always watch for it, and the moment you catch on, everything just stops. And you think ‘how the fuck am i gonna get out of here?’ and that feeling hasnt left since we got stuck with these assholes”

Daryl didn’t need you to explain it — he’d already seen it in the way you were always on edge around the Claimers. And still, hearing it cracked something in him. It was one thing to know you were tense — it was another to know you were expecting it. Bracing for it like it was routine. You had to prepare yourself for the way men looked at you. The idea that those bastards had you scanning exits, holding your breath — that they got to live in your mind rent-free like that — it made him sick. You were the best thing in this goddamn world. Tough, loyal, quick as hell, and his — which he still had trouble wrapping his head around half the time. And still, they had the audacity to think about you like that. To make you feel like something to be claimed. He didn’t know how to carry that — didn’t know how to fix it — but he’d be damned if he let you carry it alone.

“Merle used to say somethin’,” he said finally, breaking the heavy silence. “Said, ‘Ain’t nobody gonna care for you but me.’ Like… that was supposed to be enough. Like givin’ a damn made you weak.”

You turned your body to look up at him slowly, your brow furrowed.

“I believed him,” Daryl admitted. “For a long time, I did. Thought the only way to survive was keepin’ your distance. Keepin’ everybody out.”

His hand moved from your arm to your back, warm and steady.

“But you… You make me wanna stay close. Make me wanna care. And I ain’t scared of that no more. Not if it means ya feel safe… Not if it means I can carry some of that for you.”

Your throat went tight—not because you were afraid, but because it was the first time in a long time that someone wanted to share the weight.

You leaned into him, letting your forehead find it’s place in the crook of his neck.

“I gotcha,” he murmured, rubbing your back. “Long as I’m breathin’, ain’t nobody layin’ a hand on ya.”

You huffed a soft laugh against his skin. “Kinda melodramatic, Dixon. ‘Ain’t nobody touchin ma woman ya hear?!’.” you mocked in a hushed voice, face scrunching exactly like his signature scowl.

He grunted, shaking his head. “Yeah, well… you bring it outta me.” 

He hugged you tighter, his arms closing around your frame and locking you to him in the most wonderful way and kissed your head as he nuzzled into your hair. 

______________________________________________________

The morning air was crisp, tinged with dew and the fading smoke of last night’s fire. You wandered down to the creek with a change of clothes tucked under your arm and sleep still clinging to your bones. It was rare to be alone these days, but you needed a moment. The water was cold, biting at your fingers as you crouched by the edge and scrubbed the grime from your skin. You let out a slow breath, staring at your reflection. Jeez, I look like a Tim Burton character.

Behind you, Daryl lingered.

He was meant to be back at camp, but he stayed just a few metres away by a tree, crossbow slung on his shoulder, eyes never leaving your form. Watching, but not invading. There was a quiet reverence in the way he kept his distance. Not because he thought you needed protecting, but because he needed to know he was there if things went sideways.

And things almost did.

Two of the Claimers had peeled away from the group. They tiptoed away from them and made their way towards the creek. Towards you. Their faces dropped instantly when instead of finding you, they found a irratable redneck. One of them let out a short laugh that didn’t reach his eyes, and Daryl’s stance shifted.

“You best turn around,” he said before they got too close.

The two men froze. One of them — a lanky guy with a toothpick — tried to play it off with a smirk.

“We ain’t doin’ nothin’,” he said, face blank.

“Didn’t ask what you were doin’. I said turn around.”

The tension stretched thin as fishing wire.

The bigger of the two men — the one with the beer-can crush of a face — squared his shoulders like he thought he had something to prove. “You always this twitchy, Dixon? She’s just takin’ a bath.”

Daryl stepped forward. “And you’re just about ready to take bolt to the ass. So, unless you wanna get an extra hole, I suggest you walk.”

That did it. They backed off, muttering curses under their breath, but Daryl didn’t move until the last boot crunched out of sight.

You walked back over, hair dripping and a towel hanging off your shoulder, oblivious to the tension that had just slunk off into the trees.

Daryl was leaned against a tree like he’d been relaxing the whole damn time — one foot crossed over the other, arms folded, face like stone.

“Everything alright?” you chirped, side-eyeing him as you wrung water from your ends.

“Uh huh,” he said, nodding once. “Just enjoyin’ the view.”

You paused. “…The creek?”

He smirked, eyes skating over your figure. “Among other things.”

You narrowed your eyes, smiling as you stalked towards him. “That right?”

“Mhmm,” he muttered, straightening up. “Nature’s real pretty this time of mornin’.”

“Oh my god,” you groaned, shaking your head. Then — crack — you snapped the towel against his thigh with a mischievous grin.

He jerked back. “The hell, woman?!”

“That’s for being a creep,” you laughed, already backing up.

He lunged like he might chase you, but you squealed and darted ahead. “Don’t start nothin’ you can’t finish-” he hollered after you, boots thudding in pursuit.

You glanced back with a grin. “Baby, I finish everything I start. You of all people should know that”

“Don’t go bringin’ that up unless you’re plannin’ on finishin’ somethin’ right now.”  He closed in on you, shoulders now relaxed. “cmon, I'm hungry for breakfast.” He motioned for you to walk beside him, playfully patting your ass to move, which of course earned him a scowl from you. "You better be talking about game, Dixon. I ain't servin' up anything else." You looked over to him to see his face, now sporting a cunning smile, and that look in his eyes which you only saw when you guys were alone. You dropped your head in disbelief, a big smile growing on your face as you whipped him with your towel again. "keep dreamin' Dixon."

The earlier tension was now forgotten, or at least tucked behind the sly grin he wore only for you.

**************************************************************

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..

She'd be surprised, not expecting it when he coaxed her to her feet, guiding her closer. She would feel small when his big his hands curled around her waist as he pulled her closer, teasing the hem of her dress. He'd smirk at the way she watches him, tell her he knows he'll find her wet for him at the thought of being taken in front of the crowd.

She'd try to deny it, try to say that there was no way she was turned on from this. She was a princess, she couldn't possibly be aroused in this situation. But all it would take is his fingers dipping between her legs to make her gasp and know he was right.

He'd laugh and pull her on his lap, fisting the fabric of her dress in his hand to rip it off and toss it away, leaving her bare. He'd spread her legs, showing everyone just how much she wanted him. She'd be ashamed, try to hide, but he'd make sure she couldn't look away, easily holding her open so he could rub his fingers over her before pressing them into her. He'd fuck her on his fingers in front of everyone, his free hand holding her in place so she had to look at the crowd.

When he felt like she'd been stretched enough for him, he let her feel his huge, thick cock against her stomach before pulling her down on him.

When he pressed into her, she'd moan so sweetly, gasping as he sank deeper and deeper, impossibly huge inside her. She'd never felt something so good, and she'd beg him to fuck her.

Not one to argue with a pretty woman on his cock, he'd bend her over his throne, rough hands on her soft hips to pin her down and fuck her.

He'd thrust in rough strokes, filling her again and again, taking her as his and making sure everyone knew it.

She'd take it so well, begging for more even when he filled her to her limit, her moans and gasps like music to his ears.

And she'd take it when he came, let him fill her up, gasping at the feeling, rocking into him to urge him to keep going. It wouldn't take much to get him back to pounding her to her own release, and she'd finish with a cry, hundreds of orcs watching and hooked on her every movement.