#dark! jake

The air in the chemistry lab smelled like bleach and rotting dreams. You'd made it. One final bell between you and never seeing Sim Jaeyun or Park Sunghoon again.

Your graduation gown was already packed. Your transfer paperwork was finalized. A public school across the city, where your mother's waitress salary could barely afford the tuition but where their names wouldn't echo in the hallways.

You were almost at the main doors when a hand closed around your wrist.

“Leaving without saying goodbye?”

Jake's voice was a low-purr now, no longer the cracking taunt of freshman year. He'd grown into his family's money–taller, broader,  with a sharp jawline that made teachers overlook the cruelty in his eyes. Sunghoon stood slightly behind him, a silent, beautiful shadow. They were both in uniform, but theirs were tailored, the fabric expensive where yours was threadbare.

“I have to go.” You said, voice barely a whisper 

“We saw you.” Sunghoon said. His voice was softer and almost melodic. It made the words worse. “Talking to that scholarship kid by the lockers. Kim something. You smiled at him.”

Your blood ran cold. “We were just—”

“Just what?” Jake tightened his grip, his thumb pressing into your pulse point. “You know what happens when you smile at other people.”

You did. The memory of beomgyu, the guy from your geometry study group they'd cornered last semester, flash behind your eyes. The sound of his nose breaking. The way they'd make you watch.

“It wasn't like that.” You pleaded. 

“We'll see.” Jake said.

They'd dragged to the unused music wing. The school had poured money into a new athletics center, leaving this part of the building to decay. Sunghoon kicked open the door to the practice room, the piano inside covered in a dusty sheet.

Kim Minho was already there, slumped against the wall, one eye swollen shut, lip split and bleeding onto his white shirt. He looked at you and you saw shame in his eyes–shame that he couldn't protect you, shame that he was seeing you like this.

“Watch.” Jake commanded, shoving you to your knees on the dusty floor.

What followed wasn't a fight. It was a systematic dismantling. Sunghoon held Minho while Jake hit him–not wild punches, but precise, brutal strikes to ribs, the stomach, places that wouldn't show in graduation photos. Each impact was dull, wet thud. Minho stopped crying out after the third blow. He just grunted, a wounded animal sound.

“Stop.” You sobbed. “Please. I'm sorry. I'll do anything, just stop.”

Jake paused, chest heaving. He looked from Minho's broken form to you, kneeling in your pleated skirt. A slow, terrible smile spread across his face.

“Anything?” He repeated.

Sunghoon let Minho slump to the floor. He wasn't unconscious but he wasn't moving either. His breath came in ragged, wet hitches.

Jake walks towards you. Sunghoon followed, closing the door and sliding the lock with a final echoing click.

“Take off your shirt.” Jake said.

Your hands trembled. The buttons on your blouse felt impossibly small. The air in the room was cold against your skin as you let fabric fall. You crossed your arms over your chest, your white bra feeling flimsy as tissue paper. 

Sunghoon made a low sound in his throat. “Look at that. All this time.”

Jake unbuckled his belt. The sound was loud in the silent room. “You know what to do.”

You didn't. You really didn't. You have watched things here and there or heard about it only. But the reality upon seeing him–thick, already hard, the tip flushed and leaking–made your stomach turn. The smell of his cologne, something expensive and woody, mixed with the coppery tang of Minho's blood.

“Jake i–”

His hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head forward. “Open.”

You gagged immediately. The stretch was painful, intrusive. He didn't thrust, just held you there, his grip on your hair keeping you in place as you choked, tears and saliva leaking from the corner of your mouth. 

“Eyes on me.” He commanded, his voice strained.

You look up. His eyes were dark, glazed with pleasure. Besides him, Sunghoon had freed himself, stroking slowly as he watched. “For a virgin. She's taking it so well.” He mused, as if commenting on the weather.

When Jake finished, he pulled out, releasing your hair. You collapsed forward, coughing the taste of him sour in your mouth. Before you could recover. Sunghoon was there, tilting your chin up.

“My turn.”

It was worse, because you knew what to expect. The ache in your jaw, the helpless choking, the sheer violation of it. You cried in earnest then, the sob making you gag harder, sunghoon groaned, his free hand coming up to squeeze your breast over your bra, his thumb rubbing roughly over your nipple.

“Good girl.” He whispered, and the praise was more degrading than any insult.

When it was over, they tucked themselves away, adjusting their uniforms as if they'd just come from a meeting. Jake looked down at you, a crumpled half- naked mess on the floor.

“Consider that our final warning.” He said. 

Sunghoon tossed your blouse at you. It landed on your head. “Get dressed. And if you ever talk to another guy again.” He glanced at Minho's still form. “We'll know.”

You left the school and never went back again. You never reported the incident. You knew their families owned the school board, the local police precinct, the newspaper. You were a scholarship student. Kim Minho was a scholarship student. You were replaceable. They were untouchable. 

You packed your trauma away with your uniform, believing distance was a cure. You were wrong. 

[♡]

Six years later, the waiting room of Sim Global Innovations smelled of lemon cleanser and quiet wealth. You smoothed your skirt for the tenth time. Your blazer was expensive, bought on credit you no longer had room to spare—immaculate, unforgiving, and necessary.The job–executive assistant to the CEO–paid twice what you made at logistics firm. Enough to finally start chipping away at the mountain of medical debt from your mother's heart surgery. 

You'd researched sim jaeyun. The photos showed a man, not a boy. Sharp-suited, devastatingly handsome. There was no hint of the sadistic teenager in those polished smiles. Maybe he'd changed. Maybe money had smoothed his edges. Maybe.

“Miss Y/L/N? He'll see you now.”

His office was a monument to glass and steel, with a view of the city that felt like owning it. He stood at the window, his back to you, a silhouette of power.

“Thank you for coming.” He said, turning. 

Time folded in on itself.

The eyes were the same. Dark, intense, missing boyish malice but gaining something heavier, more calculated. He looked you up and down, a slow appraising sweep that felt like being undressed.

“Have a seat.”

The interview was a blur of standard questions. Your qualifications, your experience. He was professional. Then he leaned back, steepling his fingers.

“You went to Hansong high?”

A block of ice settled in your chest. “For a year, but I transferred. “

“I know. I was a student there.” He tilted his head, studying you. Something flickered in his eyes. A spark of recognition, then confusion, then….a slow dawning hunger. “Wait, I know you.”

You forced a laugh. It sounded brittle. “I don't think so. It was a big school.”

“No.” He stood up,walking around his desk to lean against the front of it, looming over you. “No. It wasn't. And you. You had the locker by the east stairwell. You flinched when anyone raised their voice.” He squinted and then it clicked. The predator recognizes its old prey. A slow, terrifying smile touched his lips. “Well, I'll be damned. The little mouse from the music room.”

Your heart stopped. The air vanished from your lungs.

“It's ….it's you.” He murmured. 

“In the flesh.” His smile widened, showing perfect teeth. “All grown up. And applying to work for me? What are the odds?” he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial 

whisper that reeked of expensive aftershave. “I looked for you, you know. After you vanished. Asked around. But you just…poof. Gone. Over a little….extracurricular activity.” He tsked. “I didn't expect you'd transfer just over sucking couple of cocks.”

The vulgarity, delivered in that smooth, boardroom voice, was a shockwave. The professional veneer was gone, stripped away in an instant. The boy from the practice room was right there, in a Brioni suit. 

“I…I should go.” You stammered, standing on shaky legs.

“Sit down.” The command was quiet, absolute. “This job is yours. The salary is 20% more than  advertised. Full benefits. Your mother…she's not well, is she? I had HR pull your background check. Hospital bills can be so crushing.”

It was a threat wrapped in a gift. A glided cage, and he was holding the door open. 

You thought of your mother, of the collection notices, of the way her hand shook when she looked at the statements. You sat back down.

The smile he gave you was one of pure,unadulterated victory. “Smart girl. You start Monday. “

The first week was a surreal tense dream. Jake was… courteous. He called you ‘miss y/l/n’. He thanked you for the coffee. He didn't mention high school. You started to breathe, to believe in the impossible–that he'd grown up, that the power had mellowed him.

It was a lie and you were a fool for believing it.

It started small. A Monday morning, you were organizing files in the supply closet, a narrow room lined with shelves.

“Need something, sir?” you asked, trying to squeeze past him in the doorway. 

He didn't move. Instead, he shifted, his chest brushing against yours, his hip pressing into you. You were pinned between his body and shelf. You could feel the warmth of him,the solid muscles beneath his dress shirt.

“Just looking for the new printer cartridge.” He said, his voice casual, but his eyes were on your lips. His hand came up, not to touch you, but to reach for a box above your head. His arm caged you in. He lingered, his breath stirring your hair. “You smell different than you did in high school. Less..scared.”

He pulled back, taking the box and left without another word. Your knees were trembling. 

One day you heard him saying familiar name ‘sunghoon. He was on call with him. You didn't mean to eavesdrop, you just happened to be there.

Sunghoon.

The name was a bucket of cold water. You'd never asked if they were still in touch. The idea of seeing him again, of those cold, assessing eyes on you, made your hands slick with sweat.

Unfortunately, sunghoon appeared the following Thursday. You were delivering a stack of contracts to Jake's office when you heard a smooth, familiar laugh from inside. Your steps faltered.

“Come in.” Jake called.

Park Sunghoon was draped in the visitor's chair like he owned it. He'd grown even more strikingly handsome, his beauty almost sevre. His suit was dove grey, impeccable. His eyes landed on you, and for a moment, there was nothing. Then recognition, slow and delighted.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in.” He drawled. “The little runaway. “

You set the contracts on Jake's desk with numb fingers.

“Sunghoon, you remember our new EA?” Jake said, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

“How could I forget?” Sunghoon's gaze traveled over you, from head to toe. It felt like being licked by something cold. “You've filled out nicely. Still working the virgin vibe, I see.”

Heat flooded your face.

“The coffee, miss Y/L/N.” Jake reminded you, sweet as poison. 

You fled.

When you returned, balancing the tray, their conversation halted. They were both watching the door, waiting for you. 

“Here you are, sir, Mr. Park.” You set the cups down, careful not to touch their fingers.

As you straightened, Sunghoon's hand shot out patting your backside with a loud, stinging smack. It wasn't playful. It was possessive and demeaning.

“Still a great ass.” He said to Jake, as if you weren't standing right there. “For a virgin, she gave a really good blow job. Good tits too.”

The world tilted. The casual cruelty, the way he reduced the most traumatic moment of your life to the critique of your sexual performance, stole the air from the room.

Jake chuckled, sipping his latte. “Don't embarrass her, hoon. She's our professional employee now.” 

But his eyes said otherwise. 

The harassment became your new normal, a daily degradation you had to swallow with a neutral face.

“Miss Y/l/n, close the door.” You obeyed standing before Jake's desk.

“Mr. Park firm, Park consolidated, is our new lead partner on the Aerion project. He'll be in office frequently for meetings. I'm assigning you as his liaison while he's here. Any tasks he requires, you handle.”

“Sir. My job description–”

“Has just been expanded.” He interrupted, his voice losing its false warmth. “Your salary has been adjusted accordingly. A… hardship bonus, let's call it. For your mother's continuing care.” He leaned forward. “Do you have a problem with that?” 

The threat was crystal clear. Your mother's health versus your dignity.

“No, sir.” 

“Good.,” he smirked.

[♡]

The next day, you stood in a sleek, empty conference room.  The door opened. Not Jake. Him. Park Sunghoon.

“Well what a pleasant sight.” He said, his voice smooth, quiet baritone that slithered down your spine. 

He simply closed the door behind him with a soft definitive click. The sound echoed in the silent room.

“M-Mr. Park. Welcome. Can I get you anything? Coffee, water?” you hated the tremor in your voice. 

He walked a slow circle around you, his gaze a physical touch. “Y/n. Six years. You have filled out. Nicely. “

You flinched. “I'm here to assist with your meeting agenda. Mr. Sim should b–”

“Jake's running late. Told me to get started with you.” He stopped in front you, too close. The clean, citrus and sandalwood scent of his cologne was suffocating. “Jake told me you have been a really good girl.”

You took a step back, hitting the edge of the polished conference table. “I'm just doing my job.”

“Are you?” A slow, cruel smile touched his lips. “Jake showed me your file. Your mother's condition is…costly. It's admirable,  your dedication. If misguided. “ he reached out, before you could react, his thumb was stroking the line of your jaw. His touch was ice-cold. “You left quite an impression, you know.” His gaze dropped to your chest, concealed by a modest blouse and blazer. “They were perfect, handfuls. I've wondered how they have matured.”

Revulsion, thick and hot, climbed your throat. “Don't touch me.”

His hand snapped to your waist, gripped hard, yanking you against him. The air left your lungs in a shocked gasp. “Don't?” He whispered, his mouth near your ear. “You're not in a position to give orders, sweetheart. You're a glorified office slut on salary. Now, be a good girl and get me a coffee. Black. And take this ridiculous jacket off. It's stifling here.”

Tears of shame and fury pricked your eyes but you blinked them back. You pulled away, your body moving on autopilot, the survival instincts from high school roaring back to life. You shrugged off your blazer, leaving you in a blouse and walked on unsteady legs to the coffee station in the corner.

You felt his eyes on you the entire time. As you poured the coffee back to him, you heard his footsteps. You went rigid, the carafe trembling in your hand. 

His presence materialized behind you, a wall of expensive fabric and menace. His hands landed on your hips, pulling you back against the hard line of his body. You could feel unmistakable evidence of his arousal. 

“Still so jumpy.” He murmured, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. One hand slid around to your stomach, splaying possessively, while the other came up to fondle your breast over your blouse, his fingers pinching your nipple through the fabric. A sharp, unwelcome jolt through you. “See? Just as perfect. Jake said you have been pretending to be a good little employee. But we know what you really are. Don’t we?” 

“Please.” You choked out, staring blankly at the artwork on the wall. “Someone could come in.”

“The floor is cleared. Jake's orders.” His hand left your breast, and slid down over your skirt, cupping you between your legs. You jerked, a strangled sound escaping you. He pressed harder, his fingers digging in. “Our little secret. For now on.”

The conference room door flew open.

Jake stood there, a smirk playing on his lips. He didn't look surprised. He looked pleased. 

“Starting without me?” Jake's voice was light, teasing.

Sunghoon didn't move his hand, just turned his head slightly, his grip on you tightening. “Just getting reacquainted with the liaison. She was getting me coffee.”

“I see that.” Jake strode in, closing the door again. His eyes raked over you, pinned between sunghoon and counter. “She makes a good pot, doesn't she? Among other things.”

The meeting that followed was a special kind of hell. You were made to sit, legs tightly crossed, blazer forgotten on a chair, taking notes as two men discussed merges and acquisitions. All while the sunghoon gaze burned into you. Every few minutes, under the table, his polished longer loafer would nudge your ankle, then slide up your calf. Once, when you reached for your water glass, his hand shot out and squeezed your thigh, his finger biting in, a silent warning.

When the formal part ended, Jake leaned back. “Miss Y/n, Sunghoon needs the projection files from the marketing server. The secure one. Walk him down to the Tech center. Help him access it.”

It was a transparent ploy. The tech center was secluded, ĺow traffic wing, especially after house, which it nearly was.

“Of course, Mr. Sim.” You whispered. 

The walk down the long, silent hallway felt like a death march. Sunghoon walked beside you, his stride leisurely. As you turned the corner into an empty corridor lined with server rooms, he grabbed your arm and shoved you into a dimly lit printer alcove, crowded with spare toner and paper reams.

He crowded you against the storage cabinet, his body caging you in. The polite corporate mask was gone, replaced by a raw, mean boy from the past. Or maybe Sunghoon never tried to pretend to be like Jake.

“You have been avoiding my eyes all afternoon.” He said, his voice low, nasty rasp. He gripped your chin, forcing your face up. “Look at me when I'm talking to you.”

You met his gaze, your own burning with hatred. 

“Better.” His other hand went to the waistband of your skirt, popping the button, sliding the zipper down. “Jake says you still jump when he touches you. That you still cry. Is that true?” 

“Go to hell.”You spat.

He laughed, a short humourless sound. His hand pushed into underwear, his fingers cold and intrusive. You cried out, trying to twist away but he slammed you harder against the cabinet, the edge digging into your back.

“Still so tight.” He mused, as his finger pushed inside you. The invasion was a dry, painful violation that had nothing to do with pleasure. Tears finally spilled over, tracing hot paths down your cheeks. “Just like I remember all those years and no one has touched this? Pathetic. 

He worked his fingers cruelly, watching your face contort in pain and shame. “You belong to us. You always did. Running away just made the chase more fun.” He leaned in, his breath hot on your face. “And now we have caught you. We're not letting go. You're going to be our little office pet. Our stress relief. Whenever we want. However we want.”

He removed his fingers, glistening with your unwanted wetness and wiped them slowly over your silk blouse, right over your heart. The stain was a brand.

“Now.” He said, redoing your zipper with chilling tenderness. “Fix your face. Get the file. And meet us back in Jake's office.”

He stepped back, adjusting his suit jacket, looking every bit the pristine executive. You slid down the cabinet, knees giving away, clutching your ruined blouse, sobs wrenching silently from your chest.

As he walked aways, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. His expression was one of pure, unadulterated possession. 

“Oh and y/n.” He said, his voice echoing softly in the empty hall. “The next time a male intern so much as smiles at you. I won't use my fingers.”

He disappeared around the corner, leaving you shattered on the floor. The sterile hum of servers was the only sound, a mockery lullaby for your new reality.

[♡]

Niki from accounting, a sweet guy fresh out of college, stopped by your desk to clarify a billing code. He was leaning over your monitor, pointing at the screen. When the shadow fell over you both.

“Is there a problem?”

Jake's voice was deceptively calm. Niki straightened quickly, flushing.

“N-no Mr. Sim..just a query about Aerion.”

“Miss y/l/n can handle her own queries.” Jake said, his eyes fixed on you. “Go back to your department, niki.”

Once niki scurried away, Jake placed his hand on your desk, caging you in.

“What did I tell you about fraternizing? He asked, softly.

“You didn't tell me anything.” You whispered,  defiance sparking for a second.

His hand snaked out, grabbing your thigh under the desk, his fingers digging in painfully high, too close. You jolted.

“He's not paying your mother's bills, is he?” he hissed, his face close to yours. The scent of him, expensive cologne from high school filled your nose. “I am. Every fucking penny. That means this.” His grip tightened. “Is mine. Your time is mine. Your attention is mine. Do you need a reminder of what happens when you forget that?” 

The ghost of Minho's broken face swarms before your eyes. You shook your head, tears of shame and rage welling up.

“Good.” He released you, standing up and straightening his cufflinks. “Now Sunghoon needs those TPS reports collected before 4. Look busy.”

With that he walked away.

[♡]

The email came at 7:45 PM on a Friday. The office was a tomb of empty desks and humming computers.

From: Sim Jaeyun

Subject: Urgent- home office

Miss Y/L/N,

I've left a crucial folio for the Monday merger at my penthouse. I need it reviewed and annotated tonight. I'll text you the address. Be there by 9 PM. 

J.S

Your thumb hovered over the keyboard. I can't, it's inappropriate. It's Friday night.

But the unspoken words hung in the digital silence. Your mother's next payment is due Monday. Do you want to explain to the hospital why it's late?

You typed a single word: understood.

His penthouse occupied the entire top floor of the tallest residential tower in the city. The private elevator opened directly into a living room of minimalist opulence–concrete, steel, floor‐to‐ceiling windows showcasing the city's glittering veins.

He was waiting, dressed in dark jeans and a tight black sweater that hugged his shoulders. He held two glasses of red wine.

“You made it.” He handed you a glass. You took it, your fingers brushing his. “Relax. The file can wait a minute. You look tense. “

“I should just get the file and go, Mr.Sim.”

“Jake.” He corrected, stepping closer. “We're not at the office now.” He reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The touch was intimate, claiming. “You know, I've thought about you a lot over the years. Wondered where you went. What you were doing.” 

You took a step back, hitting the edge of a cold, marble console. “It was a long time ago” 

“Was it?” he followed, closing the distance. His body was a wall in front of you. “It feels like yesterday to me. The look on your face in that room. The way you cried.” His voice dropped husky. “It was the hottest thing I'd ever seen.”

Revulsion twisted your gut. You tried to slide away, but he caught your wrist. 

“Please Jake, don't.”

“Don't what?” He leaned in, his lips a breath from yours. “Don't take what's mine? You walked back into my life. You took my money. You think that doesn't come with strings.”

The elevator chimed softly. The door opened, and Sunghoon stepped out. He was in a tailored coat, his cheeks flushed slightly from the cold night air. He saw you pressed against the console, Jake holding your wrist and a slow predatory grin spread across his face.

“Starting the party without me?” he shrugged off his coat, revealing a cashmere sweater. “I see the little mouse is all grown up and still playing hard to get.” 

“She was just reminiscing about old times.” Jake said, but he still didn't let go of your wrist.

Sunghoon walked over, his eyes drinking you in. “I remember how tight your cunt felt around my fingers. How you shook.” He took your free hand, and placed it against the front of his trousers. You felt the hard, thick length of him through his trousers. “See? I remember very well.” 

Panic, pure and electric shot through you. You tried yanking your hand free, but Jake's grip was iron.

“Let me go!” 

“Shhh.” Jake murmured, his other hand coming up to stroke your cheek. It was a grotesque parody of tenderness. “You're going to be good for us, just like before. Only this time, we don't have to hide in a dusty music room.” 

Sunghoon's hand slid from your hand to your hip, pulling you away from Jake and against him. His mouth found your neck, biting down on the tender skin where your pulse hammered. “Missed this.” he growled against your skin. 

“Wait.” Jake said, his eyes gleaming with a new dark fire. He looked at Sunghoon. “She's still a virgin.”

Sunghoon pulled back, eyebrows raised. He looked at you, then back at Jake and a dark hungry laugh escaped him. “You're joking.” Sunghoon has his own doubts but a woman as attractive as you can’t be a virgin right? No wonder you felt so tight around his fingers on that day.

“I'm not.” Jake's gaze burned into you. “All these years…you saved it. For who? For us?” The concept seemed to intoxicate him. “You saved yourself for us.” 

“No.” You choked out. “It's not like that.”

But they weren't listening. The revelation had flipped a switch, turning their cruel nostalgia into something ravenous, primal.

“Mine first.” Jake said, his voice leaving no room for argument. “I found her again.”

Sunghoon's jaw tightened, but he gave a curt nod. “Fine, but I get her after all. All of her.”

What followed was not a seduction. It was a reclamation. 

Jake dragged you, struggling weakly, to a bedroom dominated by a huge, low platform bed. He threw you onto it. The duvet was cool silk.

“Take off your clothes.” It was the same command from six years ago, but his voice was deeper, more sure.

When you didn't move fast enough, Sunghoon was there, his hands efficient and cold. He unbuttoned your blouse, popped the clasp of your bra. His thumb rubbed over your nipples, pinching them hard enough to make you cry out.

“Good.” Jake muttered, ripping off his sweater. His torso is carved, a testament to personal trainers and privilege. “So responsive.”

They both undressed and the sight of them–both fully erect, both solely focused on you–was paralyzing. This was planned, inevitable.

Jake climbed onto the bed, kneeling between your legs. He pushed them apart, his gaze fixed on the core of you. “Look at this. Untouched. All for me.”

He didn't kiss you. He didn't prepare you. He spat into his hand, slicked himself roughly and pushed the head of his cock against your entrance.

“Please.” You begged, tears streaming sideways into your hair. “Please, jake don't–”

He shoved in.

The pain was white-hot, tearing, a violation so complete it stole your breath. You screamed, a raw sound.

He stilled, buried inside you, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. His eyes were wide, dark with a frenzy of possession. “Fuck.” He breathed. “So fucking tight. All for me.” He began to move, shallow brutal thrusts that made you sob with each one.

Besides you, Sunghoon watched, stroking himself. He leaned over, capturing one of your nipples in his mouth, biting and sucking until it was sore and peaked. His hand replaced his mouth, pinching and twisting as Jake drove into you.

“That's it. That's it.” Jake grunted, his pace increasing. He was lost in it, in the conquest. “You're mine now. Really mine. My virgin. My girl.”

The pain began to morph, mixed with a treacherous, unwanted slickness your body produced out of sheer trauma. Jake groaned, feeling it.

“She's getting wet.” he panted to Sunghoon. “She likes it.”

“She knows her place.” Sunghoon agreed, his voice strained. He moved down the bed, pushing your legs wider apart from Jake. You felt his tongue, hot and flat, licking through the mess where Jake was joined to you. The intimacy of it, the degradation was a new low. You squeezed your eyes shut. 

“Look at me.” Jake ordered, grabbing your chin. “Look at me while I take what's mine.” 

You opened your eyes. His face was a mask of ecstatic ownership. He was close. His thrusts became erratic, pounding. 

“Gonna come inside you.” He gasped, “Gonna fill you up. Put my baby in you. Would you like that? Being the mother of my child? Having my money, my name, forever?” 

The words were a nightmare. You shook your head weakly.

“Too late.”He snarled, and with a final deep grind, he came. You felt the hot, foreign rush of him inside you, claiming you in the most fundamental way possible. He collapsed on top of you for a moment, his weight crushing, his breath hot on your neck.

He pulled out, rolling off. You were exposed, used, dripping. 

Before you could even process the emptiness, Sunghoon was moving. He pushed your limb legs apart.

“My turn.”

He didn't ask. He just pushed in. The stretch was different, another layer of violation. He was rougher, angrier, as if furious he hadn't been first. He fucked you with a punishing rhythm, one hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back.

“You remember this, don't you?” he hissed in your ear. “you remember taking me in your mouth? You're taking me better now, Deeper.” 

Jake recovered beside you, his hand roaming over your stomach, your breasts. He seemed fascinated by the sight of a sunghoon moving inside you, by your complete submission. 

“Look at her.” Jake murmured, his fingers tracing the bite marks on your breast. “She's perfect.” 

Sunghoon's pace became frantic. He released your hair, his hand gripping your hips, slamming into you so hard that the bedframe knocked against the wall. 

“Gonna breed you too.” He grunted, a vicious echo of Jake. “Let you figure out which one of us is the father. Wouldn't that be fun?” 

He came with a choked shout, pumping into you, adding his release to Jake's already leaking from you.

Silence, broken only by their heavy breathing and your shattered sobs.

Sunghoon pulled out. You curl onto your side, a broken doll. The physical pain was deep, throbbing. The emotional devastation was absolute. 

Jake got up first. You heard the shower turn on, sunghoon stayed, his hand stroking your bare back, a mockery of aftercare.

“You did well.” He said, his voice back to its cool detached tone. “Better than high school.”

Jake returned, towel around his waist. He looked at you, a satisfied gleam in his eyes. “Get cleaned up. There's a guest bath down the hall.” 

You didn't move.

His expressions hardened. “Now, y/n  unless you want me to carry you.”

The use of your first name, now, after everything, was its own violation. You forced your battered body to move, clutching the silk sheet to your chest. You stumbled to the bathroom, locking the door. In the mirror, a stranger stared back–mascara smudged, lips swollen, neck and breasts mottled with bruises and bite marks. You were ruined.

When you emerged, wearing your torn clothes, they were in the living room, drinking whiskey. They looked like two kings after a successful hunt.

“You did well, love.” Jake’s voice was a soft purr as he strode toward you, making your breath hitch. He leaned down, his lips meeting yours in a mockery of a kiss. When you didn’t open your mouth, he bit your lower lip—sharp and insistent—forcing a gasp from you. His tongue slid inside, claiming your mouth with a slow, possessive sweep. It lasted only seconds, but it felt like hours, another violation dressed as affection.

He pulled back and stroked your cheek with his thumb, a gesture tender enough to make your stomach turn. It was the exact opposite of the way they had manhandled you just minutes before.

“A car will take you home,” Sunghoon said, not bothering to look at you as he straightened his cufflinks. “We’ll see you at the office. You’ll be taking the minutes.”

Just like that, you were dismissed.

You were ushered into the elevator, then back out into the night—a fundamentally changed person. The girl who had walked into that penthouse was gone. In her place was what they had made you: theirs.

[♡]

Monday morning you sat at your desk, every movement was a painful reminder. The high-necked blouse didn't quite cover the bruise on your neck. Jake strode out of his office, sunghoon at his side. They both paused by your desk. 

Jake dropped a small, velvet box next to your keyboard. “A little something for your….dedication,” he said, loud enough for nearby interns to hear. 

Inside was a pair of diamond studs, extravagant and cold.

Sunghoon leaned down, as if to examine them. His lips brushed your ear. “Wear them. So everyone knows who you belong to.”

He straightened up and looked at Jake. “So, the fertility center investment? I think it's a solid move. Growing market.”

Jake's eyes stayed on you, a small smile playing on his lips. “Absolutely. I'm very interested in…family planning. Long term Investments.”

They walked away, their laughter trailing behind them.

You looked down at the diamonds, then at the hospital bill on your screen–partially paid, with a new, zero-balance alert. The price was etched on your skin, in your body, on your soul.

You had escaped them once. This time, there was no graduation bell to save you. This time, the lesson was forever. You put the earrings in, the weight of them a permanent, glittering chain. 

The first time you noticed him was at the corner deli. You were grabbing a late-night snack after your closing shift at the office, the fluorescent lights humming overhead, when you felt that prickling sensation on the back of your neck. You turned, and there he was—a man leaning against the cooler, tall and lean, with sharp features that seemed carved from marble. His eyes, dark and unblinking, were fixed on you. He didn’t look away when you caught him staring. He just smiled, a slow, unsettling curve of his lips.

You paid quickly and left, the bell above the door jangling too loudly. Halfway down the block, you glanced back. He was gone.

Two days later, you saw him again. This time, at the bus stop. He stood a few feet away, reading a newspaper, but you could feel his attention like a physical weight. When your bus arrived, he boarded after you, sitting across the aisle. He never looked at you directly, but his presence filled the space between you.

“Forgive me,” his voice cut through the bus’s rumble. It was smooth, low. “You dropped this.”

He was holding out a hair tie you hadn’t realized you’d lost. His fingers brushed yours as you took it. They were cool, his grip firm for just a fraction too long.

“Thank you,” you mumbled, turning to stare out the window.

“Heeseung,” he said. “My name.”

You didn’t offer yours. He already knew it. You could feel that truth in your bones.

Over the next week, Heeseung became a fixture in the periphery of your life. At the coffee shop across from your office, nursing a single espresso for hours. In the park where you ate lunch, sitting on a bench just within eyesight. He never approached again, but the message was clear: I see you. I am always seeing you.

Your boyfriend, Minho, noticed your jumpiness. “You okay, babe? You’ve been tense.”

“Just work stress,” you lied, forcing a smile.

The violation happened on a Tuesday.

You were working late again, the office empty. The cleaning crew had already passed through. As you gathered your things in the hushed, dimmed space, you heard the soft chime of the elevator arriving on your floor. Odd. You were sure you were the last one.

Footsteps, deliberate and unhurried, echoed down the marble hallway. You froze, your hand tightening around your keys. The footsteps stopped outside your glass-walled office.

Heeseung stood there, dressed in a sleek black suit, looking like he belonged. He didn’t smile this time.

“Working late is dangerous for a pretty thing like you,” he said, his voice a soft caress that made your skin crawl. He pushed the door open. It wasn’t locked. You never locked it during the day.

“What are you doing here? How did you get in?” Your voice trembled.

“The security guard is an old friend.” He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The sound was final. “We need to talk, Y/N. About your lack of manners. I gave you my name. You never gave me yours in return.”

“Get out, or I’ll scream.”

He chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “Scream. No one will come. And if they do, I’ll tell them you invited me. That we’ve been seeing each other. That your sweet, oblivious Minho isn’t enough for you.”

He crossed the room in three long strides. You backed into your desk, the edge digging into your thighs.

“Please,” you whispered.

“Please what?” he mimicked, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. His thumb stroked your bottom lip. “You’ve been leading me on. Smiling at the bus stop, looking at me in the park. You knew what you were doing.”

“I never—”

His hand moved from your face to your throat, not squeezing, just resting, a cold, heavy band. “Don’t lie. It’s unbecoming.”

With his other hand, he swept everything off your desk—files, your monitor, a framed photo of you and Minho. The glass shattered. He pushed you backwards until you were bent over the polished wood, your cheek pressed against the cold surface.

“No! Stop! Don’t!” you cried, struggling.

He slapped you, hard. The shock of it stole your breath. “Quiet,” he commanded, his voice dropping to a whisper in your ear. His body pressed against your back, lean and unyielding. You felt the hard length of his erection against your ass. “You don’t get to say no. Not to me.”

He hiked up your pencil skirt, his fingers tearing at your stockings and panties. The fabric gave way with a sickening rip. You sobbed, pleading, but your words were muffled against the desk.

He didn’t prepare you. He unzipped his trousers and pushed himself inside you in one brutal, tearing thrust. You screamed, the pain white-hot and searing.

“Fuck,” he hissed, his breath hot on your neck. “So fucking tight. Like a virgin. But you’re not, are you? Minho’s been here. But he doesn’t own this. I do now.”

He set a ruthless pace, pounding into you, his hips slamming against your ass. The desk rattled with each thrust. One hand remained on your throat, the other gripped your hip hard enough to bruise.

“You’re my good little whore now,” he grunted. “Mine. Say it.”

You shook your head, tears streaming. He slapped your ass, the sound sharp in the quiet office. “Say it!”

“Y-yours,” you choked out, the humiliation burning worse than the pain.

“That’s right.” His movements became more erratic. “Gonna fill you up. Mark what’s mine.”

He came with a deep groan, spilling inside you, his body shuddering against yours. He held himself there for a long moment, panting, before pulling out. The sudden emptiness was almost as violating as the act itself.

He straightened his clothes, tucking himself away, smoothing his hair. He looked down at you, still bent over the desk, weeping, his release already leaking down your thighs.

“Clean yourself up,” he said, his voice back to that calm, smooth tone. “I’ll be seeing you.” He left, his footsteps fading down the hall.

You slid to the floor, amidst the shattered glass and scattered papers, and cried until you were empty.

The terror didn’t fade; it just mutated. You quit your job, citing stress. You stayed inside.

A week later, a bouquet of stargazer lilies arrived. No card. Minho was suspicious. “Who sends flowers with no note?”

“A mistake,” you said, your voice hollow. You threw them in the dumpster.

You started using the 24-hour laundromat two blocks away, going at odd hours when it was less busy. It felt safer than the one in your building.

That’s where Jay found you.

It was 11 PM on a Thursday. You were folding towels when he walked in. He was strikingly handsome, with an air of polished, effortless wealth. Designer jeans, a simple white t-shirt that clung to a sculpted chest, a leather jacket slung over his arm. He gave you a charming, practiced smile as he passed, heading for the detergent dispenser.

You kept your head down, focusing on your laundry.

A few minutes later, he was beside you. “Sorry to bother you,” he said, his voice a warm baritone. “This machine is eating my money. Think you could take a look? You seem like you know what you’re doing.”

You hesitated. “I’m not sure…”

“Please? It’s my last clean shirt.” His smile was disarming, laced with a boyish plea.

Reluctantly, you leaned over the malfunctioning machine, pressing the coin return. As you did, he crowded behind you, his front pressing against your back. Before you could react, his arm snaked around your waist, and a hand clapped over your mouth.

“Not a sound,” he breathed into your ear, his pleasant facade gone, replaced by something cold and predatory. He dragged you backward, into the narrow gap between a row of towering, humming dryers and the wall. It was a blind spot, hidden from the street view and the security camera.

He spun you to face him, pinning you against the cinderblock wall. Up close, his handsomeness was terrifying. His eyes, which had seemed warm, were now flat and hungry.

“I’ve seen you,” he whispered. “With that simp boyfriend. Holding hands in the market. Pathetic.” His free hand came up and gripped your chin, forcing you to look at him. “You need a real man. Someone who isn’t afraid to take what he wants.”

“Let me go,” you pleaded against his palm, your voice muffled.

He shook his head slowly, a mockery of regret. “Can’t do that, sweetheart. You’ve been on my mind. That pretty mouth. Those scared little eyes.” His hand left your chin and slid down, under your sweater, over your bra. He squeezed your breast roughly. “I followed you from the flower shop last week. Saw you throw my lilies away. That was rude.”

The flowers were from him. A new wave of nausea washed over you.

He pinched your nipple through the lace, hard, making you cry out against his hand. “Quiet,” he warned. His hand traveled down, over your stomach, and pushed between your legs, palming you through your jeans. “Already getting wet for me? You’re such a slut.”

You weren’t. You were dry with fear. But your body, traitorously, was responding to the brutal stimulation, a slickness gathering that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with shock and violation. He felt it, and his grin turned wolfish.

“See? Your body knows.” He undid your jeans with quick, practiced movements, yanking them and your underwear down to your knees. The cold air hit your skin. He unzipped his own jeans, freeing a thick, heavy cock that made your breath hitch. He was big, intimidating.

He didn’t wait. He hoisted one of your legs up around his hip, forcing you open, and pushed inside.

The stretch was agonizing. You weren’t ready. You whimpered, tears spilling over.

“Tight,” he groaned, beginning to move. His thrusts were deep, deliberate, each one punching the air from your lungs. The dryers vibrated against your back. He fucked you with a focused intensity, his eyes locked on your face, watching every tear, every grimace of pain.

“You like that, don’t you? Being fucked like a cheap whore in a laundromat.” He slapped your ass, the sting sharp and startling. “Answer me.”

“N-no…”

He slapped your ass again, harder. “Liar. Your cunt’s gripping me like a vise. You love it.” He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. “I’m gonna come inside you. Fill you up. Maybe I’ll put a baby in you. Would you like that? Carrying my kid while your boyfriend raises it?”

The horror of his words, combined with the relentless friction, coiled a sickening tension in your gut. Your body, against your will, was building towards a climax, a betrayal so profound it shattered something inside you.

“I can feel you clenching,” he panted, his pace quickening. “You’re gonna come on my cock, you filthy bitch. Come for me.”

And you did. A silent, shuddering orgasm ripped through you, wave after wave of shame and pleasure that left you gasping. He groaned in triumph, his thrusts becoming erratic, and then he was pulsing inside you, hot and deep, his own release mingling with yours.

He held you there for a moment, his forehead against yours, breathing heavily. Then he pulled out, letting your leg drop. You sagged against the wall, your jeans around your ankles, his semen already dripping down your thigh.

He tucked himself away, zipped up, and straightened his jacket. He looked utterly composed.

“Wear a skirt next time,” he said casually, as if discussing the weather. “It’s more convenient.” He turned and walked out, leaving you crumpled in the gap between the dryers.

The city began to feel like a labyrinth designed to trap you. You stopped going out alone. Minho accompanied you everywhere. His concern was a constant, smothering presence. You couldn’t tell him the truth. How could you?

You started seeing a therapist, lying about the cause of your anxiety. You took a new job, a data entry position in a bland, open-plan office with lots of people. Safety in numbers.

Sunghoon worked in the accounting department on the other side of the floor. He was ethereally beautiful, with pale skin and sharp features that seemed carved from ice. He was quiet, efficient, always impeccably dressed. He’d smile at you in the breakroom, a small, polite thing that never reached his distant brown eyes.

For a month, it was just that—polite nods. You started to relax. Maybe this was a safe space.

Then, the company retreat.

A weekend at a secluded lodge in the mountains. Team-building exercises, shared cabins. You were paired with Sunghoon and two other colleagues for a hiking activity.

The hike was strenuous. You fell behind, your lungs burning. Sunghoon dropped back to walk with you. “Take your time,” he said, his voice soft.

The rest of the group disappeared around a bend. The woods were dense, silent except for the crunch of leaves underfoot.

“You’re very pretty, Y/N,” Sunghoon said, his tone conversational.

“Thank you,” you mumbled, speeding up.

His hand shot out, grabbing your wrist. His grip was like iron. “I wasn’t finished.”

You tried to pull away. “Let go of me.”

“I’ve watched you,” he continued, pulling you off the path, into a thicket of trees. “You carry yourself like you’re better than everyone. Like you’re pure.” He pushed you against a broad pine tree, the bark scraping through your thin jacket. “But I know what you are. I saw the bruises on your thigh last week in the breakroom. Someone’s already been marking you.”

Panic seized you. “That was—I fell.”

“Don’t lie.” His voice was still calm, almost bored. He unbuttoned your jeans. “Let’s see if you’re as pure as you pretend.”

“No! Please, Sunghoon, don’t!”

He slapped you. It wasn’t a hard, angry slap like Heeseung’s. It was a crisp, precise strike, meant to stun and humiliate. “Quiet. You’ll disturb the wildlife.”

He yanked your jeans and underwear down, his cold fingers probing between your legs. You were dry, clenched tight with fear.

“Hm.” He spat on his fingers, roughly pushed two inside you. The intrusion was brutal. You cried out, and he covered your mouth with his other hand.

“Such a tight little cunt,” he murmured, his face close to yours, his breath smelling of mint. He scissored his fingers, stretching you. “But look, you’re getting wet. Your body knows its purpose.”

Tears streamed down your face. He was right. The awful, unwanted slickness was returning, a physiological betrayal.

He unzipped his trousers. His cock was long and slender, like the rest of him. He positioned himself and pushed in. The stretch was different this time—a slow, burning invasion.

He fucked you with a cold, detached rhythm, his eyes fixed on your face, studying your reactions as if you were a specimen. He didn’t grunt or swear. He was silent, save for his controlled breathing.

“You’re thinking of your boyfriend,” he stated. “Pathetic. He can’t have you like this. Only I can.” He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. “I’m going to come inside you. And you’re going to thank me.”

You shook your head, sobbing against his hand.

He increased his pace, his hips snapping against yours. The friction, combined with your own treacherous wetness, began to build that familiar, hated tension. You tried to fight it, to go somewhere else in your mind.

“I can feel you tightening,” he whispered, a flicker of heat finally entering his icy voice. “Come for me, you dirty girl. Come on the cock of the man you ignored for a month.”

The command, the humiliation, tipped you over the edge. A sharp, painful climax tore through you, your muscles clamping down on him. He groaned, a soft, almost surprised sound, and followed you over, his release spilling deep inside you with a few final, deep thrusts.

He pulled out, tucked himself away, and smoothed his hair. He looked down at you, slumped against the tree, exposed and soiled.

“Button up,” he said, his voice flat once more. “We don’t want to be late for the trust fall exercise.” He turned and walked back to the path, leaving you to scramble your clothes back on with trembling hands.

After the retreat, you broke. You told Minho you were sick, that you needed to go stay with a cousin in another city for a while. You just needed to get away. He argued, but you were insistent. You packed a single bag and bought a train ticket to Busan.

You thought you’d escaped.

The train was crowded. You found your seat, tucked your bag under your legs, and stared out the window, watching the city blur into countryside. You allowed yourself a sliver of hope.

“Excuse me? Is this seat 14B?”

You looked up. The man smiling down at you was sun-kissed and handsome, with kind, crinkling eyes and a disarming smile. He looked… safe.

“Yes,” you said, moving your bag.

“Thanks. I’m Jake.” He settled into the seat beside you, radiating a friendly warmth. He made easy small talk—about the weather, the slow train, his visit to his grandmother in Daegu. He was funny, gentle. For the first time in months, you felt your shoulders untense. You even laughed at a joke.

In Busan, you rented a small, furnished studio near the beach. For three days, you breathed. You walked along the shore, the salt air cleansing. You thought maybe you could start over.

On the fourth day, as you carried groceries back to your studio, a motorcycle screeched to a halt beside you. The rider took off his helmet.

Jake.

His friendly smile was still in place. “Y/N? Wow, what a coincidence!”

The coincidence was too perfect. The ice water of dread flooded your veins.

“Jake… hi.”

“Small world! Listen, I’m meeting some friends at a bar nearby. You should come. You shouldn’t be alone in a new city.”

You declined, making an excuse, your heart hammering. He looked disappointed but understanding. “Another time, then.”

That night, there was a knock on your door. You peered through the peephole. Jake stood there, holding a bottle of wine and a concerned expression.

“I know you said no,” he called through the door, his voice muffled but warm. “But I was worried. You seemed… lonely. Just one drink? For my peace of mind?”

He seemed so genuine. So kind. The part of you that was starved for normal human connection overruled your fear. You opened the door.

“Just one,” you said.

He beamed. “Great!”

He was charming. He talked about his job (he was a physical therapist), his love of surfing, his family. He poured the wine. It was rich and red. You drank it too quickly, grateful for the warmth in your belly, the softening of the sharp edges of your fear.

A pleasant fog descended. Your limbs felt heavy. Jake’s face swam in your vision, his smile still kind.

“You’re tired,” he said softly, taking the glass from your slack fingers. “Let’s get you to bed.”

“M’okay…” you slurred.

He helped you up, his arm strong around your waist. He led you to the bed, laying you down. He brushed your hair from your face. “So pretty,” he murmured. “So perfect.”

His hands began to undress you. You tried to protest, to push him away, but your arms were leaden.

“Shhh, pretty girl,” he cooed, his voice like honey. “It’s okay. Jake’s here. I’ll take care of you. You want this. You’ve been asking for it with those scared little eyes.”

“No…” you whimpered.

“Yes,” he said firmly, but his smile never faded. He stripped you naked, then undressed himself. His body was tanned, muscular. His cock was thick and curved, already fully hard. He knelt between your legs, spreading them.

“Look at you,” he whispered, his eyes drinking you in. “Made for me.” He didn’t force entry. He leaned down and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue circling. A shock of unwanted sensation jolted through you. He switched to the other, biting gently, then not so gently.

His hand slid between your legs, his fingers parting your folds. “So wet already,” he lied. The wine, the shock, had made you pliant but not aroused. He spat on his fingers and pushed them inside, working them in and out. “There we go. That’s my girl.”

He positioned himself at your entrance. “This might hurt a little,” he said, as if apologizing for stepping on your toe. “But it’ll feel good soon. I promise.”

He pushed in. The stretch was immense, burning. You cried out, a weak, thready sound.

“Shhh, I know, baby, I know.” He sank in to the hilt, his weight settling on you. He began to move, slow, deep, grinding thrusts that filled you unbearably. He kissed your tears away. “You’re taking me so well. Such a good girl. My good girl.”

His pretended tenderness was the most terrifying thing you’d experienced. He fucked you like a lover, whispering endearments, even as he held your wrists pinned above your head, his grip unbreakable. He talked about the future, about putting a baby in you, about how beautiful you’d look round with his child.

“Gonna fill you up, darling,” he panted, his rhythm increasing. “Gonna breed you. Make you a mommy. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Being full of me always.”

You came then, a silent, shuddering release born of overstimulation and sheer physiological betrayal. He smiled against your neck, pleased. “That’s it. Come for me.” His own climax followed, a hot, pulsing flood deep inside you. He collapsed on you, nuzzling your hair. “Mine,” he breathed.

He didn’t leave. He held you all night, a possessive cage. In the hazy pre-dawn light, he woke you by entering you again, this time from behind, his arm tight around your waist, his teeth on your shoulder. “Morning, beautiful,” he whispered, as he took you.

Before he left, he made you breakfast—eggs and toast. He kissed your forehead. “I’ll be back tonight. Wear something nice for me.” He left as if he were a doting boyfriend.

You sat at the tiny table, staring at the cold eggs, the taste of him still inside you, his scent on your sheets. You were well and truly trapped.

You stopped leaving the studio. Jake visited nightly. Sometimes he was “sweet.” Sometimes, if you resisted, his smile would freeze and he’d punish you—holding your head underwater in the sink until you thrashed, or making you kneel on the rough concrete floor for hours.

You got sick. A urinary tract infection, burning and painful. You had to go to a pharmacy.

The young man behind the counter was beautiful in an almost effeminate way, with sparkling eyes and a bright, welcoming smile. His name tag read ‘Sunoo.’

“How can I help you?” he chirped.

Muttering, face burning, you asked for the medication. His smile didn’t falter. “Of course. Do you have a prescription?”

You showed him the slip from the clinic. His eyes scanned it, and his smile turned knowing. “Oh, honey. These are rough. I have something better.” He produced a different box. “Stronger. More effective.”

You were too embarrassed and in pain to argue. You took the pills he offered.

A week later, the infection was worse. You returned. Sunoo recognized you immediately, his face a mask of sympathy. “Not better? That’s terrible. Come, let me check your file in the consultation room.”

The small, private room had a single chair and a desk. He closed the door and locked it. The click was soft, final.

“You’ve been a bad girl,” Sunoo said, his voice losing its melodic warmth, turning syrupy and sinister.

“What?”

He opened a drawer and pulled out your original prescription. “You didn’t take the medicine I gave you, did you? You went to another pharmacy. That hurts my feelings.” He tore the prescription slip in half. “I replaced your pills with sugar. You shouldn’t be putting those chemicals in your body anyway. Not when it’s meant for other things.”

You stood up to leave. He pushed you back into the chair, his strength surprising.

“I know all about you,” he whispered, kneeling before you, his hands on your knees. “Jake talks in his sleep. He’s so proud of his pretty little breeder.” His hands slid up your thighs, pushing your dress up. “I want a taste.”

“No, please—”

He undid his trousers, freeing a cock that was surprisingly thick. He gripped the back of your head. “Open up, slut. Let’s see if you’re as good at this as he says.”

He forced himself into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat, making you gag. He held you there, fucking your face with short, brutal thrusts. Tears streamed from your eyes. He moaned, playing with your hair.

“Such a good little cocksucker,” he cooed. “Swallow it all. It’s good for you. Full of protein.” He pulled out just before he came, spraying his release over your face, your hair, your open mouth. He rubbed the head of his cock over your lips, smearing it. “Clean it up.”

You sat there, trembling, covered in his semen.

He stood, tucking himself away. “I’ll get you the real antibiotics now. We can’t have an infection in the womb, can we?” He unlocked the door, his bright smile back in place. “Feel better soon!”

You stopped going out entirely. Jake brought you groceries. You were a prisoner in your own skin. You thought about running again, but where would you go? They were everywhere.

You missed books. You asked Jake to bring you some from the library. He brought a stack. One was a dense historical text you hadn’t requested. A note was tucked inside, in neat, precise handwriting: “Page 227. You’ll find it relevant.”

With trembling hands, you opened to the page. It described ancient practices of war trophies, of conquered women. The words blurred. Another note was paper-clipped to the margin: “The quiet ones see the most. – J.”

A few days later, a different book arrived, delivered by courier. No return address. It was a photo album. Your photo album. Pictures of you and Minho, of your family, of you as a child. The last page was a recent photo, taken through your studio window, of you sleeping.

You screamed and threw it across the room.

That night, you tried to call Minho. The line was dead. Jake had cut it.

The next afternoon, there was a knock. Not Jake’s familiar rap. This was sharper. You didn’t answer. The knocking persisted, then stopped.

An hour later, as you sat in the dark living room, you heard the balcony door slide open. You hadn’t locked it.

A figure slipped inside, silhouetted against the sunset. He was of average height but moved with a predator’s grace. Jungwon. You’d never seen him before, but you knew. His face was youthful but his eyes were ancient and intense.

“You’ve been ignoring my messages,” he said, his voice quiet, devoid of inflection.

You backed away. “Get out.”

He didn’t speak again. He just advanced. In his hand, a small, sharp folding knife flicked open. The blade caught the dying light.

You turned to run for the front door. He was faster. He grabbed you, spun you, and pressed the cold flat of the blade against your throat.

“Strip,” he commanded.

With the knife at your throat, you obeyed, shedding your clothes with shaking hands.

He looked you over, his gaze analytical. “On your hands and knees.”

You knelt. He moved behind you. You felt the cool edge of the blade trace a line down your spine, then between your buttocks. You flinched.

“History is written by the victors,” he whispered, his breath on your ear. He used the knife not to cut, but to threaten, to heighten the terror. He positioned himself behind you, the tip of his cock pressing against your entrance. He was average in length but thick, a solid, unforgiving weight.

He pushed in, not with a brutal shove, but with a slow, relentless pressure that burned and stretched you open. Once seated fully, he paused, one hand fisting in your hair, pulling your head back, the other still holding the knife flat against your stomach.

“I’ve conquered you,” he stated, and began to move. His thrusts were deep, measured, each one a claim. He fucked you with a quiet, terrifying focus, his breath steady. He bit your shoulder, hard enough to break the skin, marking you.

“You’re a chapter in my history now,” he grunted, his composure finally cracking as his pace increased. “Mine.” He came with a sharp exhale, his release hot inside you. He pulled out, wiped the knife clean on your discarded shirt, folded it, and pocketed it.

He dressed silently and left through the balcony door as quietly as he’d come.

Jake had taken you out, a rare “treat,” driving you to a secluded cliffside viewpoint at night. “Some air will do you good,” he’d said, his hand possessive on your thigh.

While he was on a phone call, you saw a shadow detach itself from the trees. A young man, tall and lanky, hood pulled up. He walked straight to the passenger door, yanked it open, and dragged you out.

“Hey!” Jake called, but he sounded more annoyed than alarmed.

The boy—Niki—shoved you against the side of the car. Up close, he was all fierce, wild beauty and unchecked malice.

“Think you’re too good, huh?” he spat, his voice rough with youth and venom. “My hyungs can’t stop talking about you. The shared slut.”

He didn’t waste time. He turned you around, bent you over the car’s hood, and pulled your pants down. His cock was long and lean, like him. He spat into his hand, slicked himself, and drove into you without ceremony.

“Fuck!” he grunted, his thrusts immediately frantic, pounding. He slapped your ass, hard, leaving stinging prints. “Take it, you bitch! You’re just a hole for us!”

He was rougher than the others, less controlled, all raw, violent need. He fucked you like he was trying to exorcise something, slamming you against the car with each thrust. He called you every filthy name he could think of.

“Gonna come in this used-up cunt,” he panted. “Mark it so everyone knows you’re ours!”

He came with a loud, guttural cry, biting the juncture of your neck and shoulder hard enough to draw blood. He stayed inside you for a moment, panting, then pulled out. He zipped up, looked at Jake, who had finished his call and was leaning against the driver’s door, watching with a faint smile.

“She’s tight, hyung,” Niki said, as if reviewing a product.

“I know,” Jake said. “Now go home. Your brother’s looking for you.”

Niki shot you one last sneer and disappeared into the darkness.

Jake helped you back into the car, tenderly wiping the blood from your neck. “He’s a bit excitable,” he said mildly. “But he’s family.”