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inkieun · 27 days ago

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Word for Word — Oh Beom-Seok x F!Reader

“You ever meet someone who just feels off?” you ask, stabbing your straw into a watery iced americano. Suho and Sieun trade a glance—Suho half-hidden in his hoodie, Sieun boredly tearing at his sandwich. “That Beom-seok guy?” Sieun says.

cw: dark!beomseok, noncon/dubcon, stalking, gaslighting, physical violence, choking, hairpulling and creampie.

i've been wanting to write a dark beom-seok since he gives loser vibes

You notice the first note tucked inside your essay.

It isn’t stapled. Isn’t typed. Just a small piece of paper folded once, the edges sharp like someone took real good care not to crumple it. You hesitate before opening it, like it might be a mistake. Like it’s not meant for you.

But it is.

You know your own name when you see it.

The handwriting is neat. Slanted and familiar. It reads like something you might’ve written in the middle of the night, in that floaty space between dreaming and waking.

“The walls blink when you aren’t looking. Your words are louder in silence than in air.”

You blink. It doesn’t make immediate sense, but it feels like it should. Like a line from a poem you don’t remember writing.

You look around the room. No one is watching you.

You slide the note into your notebook and don’t mention it to anyone.

The second one is harder to ignore.

It’s written in your style. The commas fall the way you place them. The images are strange, soft, slightly bruised like a mirror of your own. Whoever wrote it has read your essays closely. Intimately.

“You carry grief in a glass jar. You pretend it’s perfume.”

That’s a line from something you almost submitted last week. You deleted it at the last second because it felt too raw, too revealing. You never turned it in. You never posted it.

You feel cold, suddenly, despite your sweater.

Someone is watching you.

You start checking the backs of your papers. Looking over your shoulder. Taking different routes between classes. The halls feel longer now. The lights overhead too white. The sound of your own name when it's called in roll, when it’s printed at the top of a page, it all feels like a target.

You try to shake it. Tell yourself it’s just some weird joke. Someone admiring your writing. Maybe a classmate. Maybe—No. You’ve seen how they all read each other's work. Half-glances. Skims. No one is reading you like this.

No one should be. And yet, someone is.

“I'm telling you, it’s not just some cute little poetry fan. It’s... weird,” you say, keeping your voice low but tight. “I think someone’s been reading my writing. Like, really reading it.”

Sieun sits across from you, stone-faced, tapping his pencil once, then again, then again against the side of his notebook. Suho’s beside him, legs jittering under the table, half-listening, half-scrolling on his phone.

“I mean, that’s... good, right?” Suho says, offering a smile too quick to be genuine. “Someone appreciating your stuff? Could be worse. Could be nobody's reading it.”

“They’re not.” You don’t budge. “They’re studying me.”

Suho shifts in his seat, visibly uncomfortable now. “Maybe you posted it somewhere and forgot? You know, like Tumblr or Instagram or one of those creepy anonymous poetry blogs you’re always reading?”

You shake your head. “No. I didn’t.”

Now Sieun looks up. His eyes are unreadable, steady. One of his fingers stills on the table. “You’re sure?” You nod once. “Positive.”

Suho makes a soft, awkward sound—somewhere between a cough and a laugh. “Okay, well… maybe it’s a coincidence. People write similar stuff all the time, right? Like, unconscious… uh, what’s the word. Parallels.”

“I’m being watched,” you whisper, half to yourself. “I know I am.”

The words sit heavy between you. You glance down at your own notebook, the edge of the last note still peeking out from the side pocket. It feels radioactive now.

“You sound paranoid,” Suho says, the edge of his voice wobbling even as he tries to laugh. “Like, this is how it starts, right? Next thing you know you’re pinning strings to walls and muttering about CIA satellites in your toothbrush.”

“You think I’m making this up?”

“I think you’re spiraling.”

“Shhh!” the librarian hisses from somewhere behind the nearest shelf, sharp as a slap.

You all freeze. You mutter, “Sorry,” without turning. Suho gets up, fast, grabbing his bag and swinging it over his shoulder. “I need caffeine or I’m gonna flat line.”

Sieun follows him, slow and quiet, like a shadow detaching from its host. Before he leaves, he looks back once. “Next time it happens,” he says, voice like ice poured into a glass, “don’t throw the note away.”

Then they’re gone.

The lights above buzz faintly. You stay seated, the silence pressing in on all sides. Now you are wondering if someone’s watching you right now.

Then came the text messages.

At first, it’s one. Just one. From an unknown number.

“You looked tired today. But the blue in your sweater suits your sadness.”

You freeze, phone glowing in your hand at 1:04 a.m., the silence in your room suddenly too quiet. You block the number. Obviously. Immediately. But another pops up two days later.

“The way you bite your nail during class… what are you trying to chew your way out of?”

You block that number, too. They just keep coming.

One after another. Different numbers every time. Always poetic. Always familiar. Always close enough to your thoughts it feels like whoever’s writing them is reading your mind—or something worse.

You stop reading them. You stop opening messages altogether. You change your number.

It’s humiliating, dragging yourself to the mobile store and muttering something vague about spam or exes. The guy behind the counter doesn’t ask questions. You leave with a new SIM card and shaking hands.

For a moment, there’s quiet. But it’s not peace. Now you’re waiting for the next thing. You’re halfway out the classroom, already zipping up your jacket, when Professor Kim’s voice calls after you.

“Can you stay back a moment?”

You pause mid-step, the low hum of students clearing out around you. Your body says go, but something in her tone clips your breath short. You nod slowly and return to your seat as the door clicks shut behind the last person.

She’s standing by her desk, looking at you like she’s trying to choose the gentlest way to say you’re slipping.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” she says, carefully. “Your writing’s changed. It used to carry this... emotional clarity. You wrote like you had nothing to lose.” You sit rigid in the chair, staring down at your fingernails.

“I’m just tired,” you say. “It’s nothing serious.”

“You’re missing assignments. You’re distracted in class. I don’t think this is nothing.” You don’t answer. There’s no point.

She picks up a slip of paper from her desk. “I’d like you to meet with one of my TAs. Just a session or two. He’s new, but very insightful. He’s good at picking up patterns.” Something about the word patterns makes your skin prickle.

She moves to the door. Opens it. “He’s outside. I asked him to come by.”

You expect someone familiar. Another student from class. A face you’ve seen slumped behind a Mac Book in the library. But the guy who walks in isn’t familiar at all.

Tall. Hoodie, layered under a jacket. Black backpack. Hair slightly unkempt like he tried to fix it on the way in but gave up halfway with glasses that sit on his nose. He looks... ordinary. Not harmless. Not threatening. Just there.

Professor Kim gestures between you. “This is Beom-seok,” she says. “He’ll be your writing tutor for the rest of the term.”

You nod politely, already anxious to leave.

Beom-seok steps forward and offers a half-smile. It twitches oddly at one side, as if it doesn’t quite belong to him. “Hey,” he says. “Nice to meet you.”

His voice is too quiet. Too soft. There’s something in the way he says it—like he’s been waiting for this moment a little too long. You murmur a hello. Professor Kim smiles with finality, grabs her bag, and heads out. “You two get settled. I’ll check in next week.” The door closes behind her.

Silence.

He sits across from you, pulling his chair in close, too close. He rests his elbows on the desk, fingertips tapping rhythmically, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands.

“I’ve read your stuff,” he says, not looking at you. “It’s really... intense. In a good way. Honest. I like that.” You tilt your head slightly. “Which one?”

“All of them,” he says too fast.

Then quieter: “I just think your writing is different from most people. Like you write with your heart.” The comment sits wrong. You’re not sure why. Maybe it’s the way he says it like a compliment he’s rehearsed in the mirror.

You shift in your seat. He notices.

His smile curls again, sheepish. “Sorry. I’m not great at, uh... people.” You want to ask how he ended up tutoring then, but you don’t. You just nod. He clears his throat. “Anyway. We can start next session, if you want. Or, you know, talk now. Whatever works for you.”

You glance at the clock. You want to leave. Every part of you wants to leave because you don’t want him to know how fast your heart is beating.

“Next session,” you say. “That’s fine.”

“Cool,” he says, like he didn’t just spend the last two minutes staring at you like he already knew you. He stands and watches you pack your things. You feel his eyes on your back as you walk to the door.

You don’t say goodbye. You don’t look back.

“You ever meet someone who just feels off?” you ask, stabbing your straw into a watery iced americano.

Suho and Sieun glance at each other across the table. Suho’s got his hood pulled halfway up and Sieun’s picking apart the corner of a sandwich like he was bored.

“That Beom-seok guy?” Sieun says.

You nod. “Weird energy. He doesn’t blink enough. He kept saying stuff about my writing like—like he already knew it. He talks like he’s been thinking about me.” Suho chuckles. “Oh no. You got one of the creepy TAs. Did he offer to read your soul lines in the espresso foam?”

You don’t laugh.

You’re too busy remembering how still he was. Sieun catches your expression and leans forward. “Seriously?.”

“Yes." you say, voice low.

Your phone buzzes in your lap.

Unknown Number. Your chest tightens. You answer, slowly, eyes flicking to your friends. “Hello?” There’s a breath on the other end before the voice comes in. “Hey. It’s Beom-seok.”

You sit up straighter. “Hi…”

“I just wanted to confirm our session for tomorrow. Four o’clock. Library, upstairs back corner. Don’t be late.” His tone isn’t mean—but it’s too assumptive. Like you already belong to the schedule in his head.

“Yeah. Sure,” you say. “How did you get my number?”

“From Professor Kim,” he says quickly. “She gave it to me so we could coordinate.” You nod reflexively, like he can see it.

Then freeze. You didn’t give her your new number. You hang up shortly after, muttering some excuse. The second your screen goes dark, you look up at Suho and Sieun.

“He called me,” you say.

“Who?” Suho asks. “Beom-seok. He has my number. But I didn’t give it to Professor Kim. Not this number. I just changed it.”

Sieun frowns. “Are you sure you didn’t email it to her or something?”

You shake your head. “Positive.” You all sit in silence for a beat too long. And for the rest of the evening, no one brings it up again.

You find him already there in the back corner of the upstairs library, just like he said. He waves you over with that same off-kilter smile. There’s already a seat pulled out for you. A pen waiting on the table.

“Hey,” he says brightly. “You came. I wasn’t sure you would.”

You sit down slowly. “It’s a tutoring session, not a date.” He laughs at that, though you weren’t trying to be funny. “You look really focused,” he says, watching you pull out your notebook. “Even the way you organize your notes feels... poetic. Like there’s rhythm in your margins.”

You glance up, uncertain. “Thanks?”

“I like that you don’t censor yourself when you write. It’s raw. Kind of haunting.”

There’s a pause.

“Like that line from the essay about the blackout,” he adds. “‘I wanted to flip the switch, but I was scared of what would still be there in the dark. That one killed me.”

You stared at him. You never turned that essay in. You remember writing it, yes but you saved it in a private folder. Never shared it. Not even with your friends.

Your stomach twists. “I—I don’t think I submitted that one.”

Beom-seok’s eyes go wide. Too wide. “Wait, really? No, I—I think Professor Kim might’ve shared it with the TAs in a sample packet. She sends us excerpts sometimes, for grading calibration. You know how she is.”

You nod slowly. That sounds true. You want it to be true.

You look down at your notebook. “Right. Yeah. Makes sense.”

“Totally,” he says, already sliding your last essay across the table. “Anyway, let’s dive in. I’ve got a few thoughts.” And for the next hour, you try to focus. But it’s hard not to notice the way he watches you when you’re not speaking.

Like he already knows what you’re going to say.

You left that tutoring session more unsettled than when you walked in. You couldn’t quite put your finger on why—he hadn’t said anything strange, hadn’t done anything wrong. But something about the way he watched you, the way his eyes lingered a little too long behind those plain glasses… it stuck with you.

It happens two days later at the campus café.

You’re not hiding, you tell yourself. The café is loud, packed with half-zombie students scrolling through notes, nursing espresso, their eyes glassy and gone from finals week burnout. You’re wedged into a corner table, earbuds in, phone off, pretending you don’t feel cracked open.

You haven’t told Suho or Sieun about the tutoring session. Not yet. You don’t know how to bring it up—not when you’re still trying to convince yourself it was nothing. Normal. Just awkward, maybe. That you imagined the way Beom-seok looked at you. That his comment about your essay was just strange timing. A fluke. A coincidence. Something you could explain if you tried hard enough.

But you haven’t tried. Not really. You’ve almost started to believe it.

Almost. Until now. Because now—you feel it. That prickle.

At the base of your neck. That low, electric hum beneath your skin that tells you something’s wrong before your mind catches up.

You glance up, slow and casual, like you're just stretching. Like your muscles are stiff and you're not wired with quiet panic.

And there he is. Beom-seok.

Three tables away. No laptop. No books. No notebook open in front of him. Just a single coffee cup. He’s not scrolling through his phone. He’s not pretending to study.

He’s looking at you. Not past you. Not near you. At you.

You drop your gaze like it burns. Turn back to your notebook, scrawl something just to keep your hands moving, to keep from shaking. Your heart is pounding so hard you’re convinced people can hear it. That it’s echoing off the café walls.

Maybe he only just walked in. Maybe he didn’t see you here, didn’t come here for—But then. He smiles. That smile. Not warm. Not friendly. Something about it is wrong. Like it’s meant for someone else. Like he knows something you don’t.

You don’t think. You just move. Grab your bag, your coat, your half-filled coffee cup. You don’t look back. Don’t care how abrupt it is, how strange you must seem. You head straight for the side door and push out into the street, heart still hammering, breath tight in your chest.

You don’t look back.

You don’t want to know if he follows. Faster than you need to.

When you finally stop three buildings over behind the student center, half-hidden by a vending machine—you check your phone out of pure instinct. No texts. No calls. But your hands are still shaking.

You lean against the concrete wall, trying to catch your breath. You tell yourself to be rational. That it was public. That maybe he was there first. That maybe—Your phone buzzes. Unknown Number. You freeze. And then, against every instinct, you open it.

"You left in a rush. I hope I didn’t scare you. See you tomorrow."

You stare at the screen.

You never said yes to another session.

You go straight to Professor Kim’s office the next morning.

You don't email. You don’t wait for office hours. You knock at 8:02 a.m., fresh off a sleepless night and a sick knot in your chest that hasn’t let go since the café.

She opens the door, surprised. Coffee in hand. “You’re early.”

“I need to talk about my tutor,” you say.

That gets her attention.

She steps aside and lets you in. Her office smells like peppermint tea and old paper, the blinds still closed. You sit stiffly, clutching your backpack like it might hold your spine together.

“Is something wrong with Beom-seok?” she asks gently, lowering herself into her chair.

You hesitate. You want to say he’s stalking me, or he said something from an essay I never submitted, or he watched me at the café like a creep. But you don’t have proof.

So you lie.

“I just don’t think he’s a good fit,” you say, voice tight. “He makes me uncomfortable. I don’t feel like I can focus around him.”

She frowns slightly. “Uncomfortable how?”

You shrug. “Just... weird boundaries. He gets personal. I don’t know. It’s not working.” She watches you for a beat longer than necessary. Then nods.

“Okay. I’ll take care of it. You’ll work with another TA—Jun-tae. He’s quiet, but respectful. You’ll like him.” Relief floods your chest like breath after drowning. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” she says. “I’m glad you told me.”

After the meeting, you return to your dorm.

The halls are quiet. Your shoes thud softly against the laminate. Everything feels unnaturally calm. You slip your key into the lock, shoulder aching from all the stress.

You close the door behind you and drop your bag. Sit on the edge of your bed. For the first time in hours, you let your jaw unclench.

Your phone lights up. You didn’t want to answer it but something cold and stupid in your chest makes you do it anyway.

You press the screen to your ear.

“Why would you do that to me?” Beom-seok’s voice erupts through the speaker, hoarse and cracked, like it’s been building inside him all morning.

“You went to Professor Kim?” he hisses. “You told her you didn’t want me anymore?”

You can barely breathe. “Beom-seok—”

“No. No, don’t say my name like that. Like you don’t know what we are. I’ve read you, every word. I know you. I see you. You think some basic-ass TA named Jun-tae is gonna get it?”

He’s pacing. You can hear it in the way the air moves on the other side of the line. “You don’t get to disappear just because you’re scared,” he growls. “You don’t get to cut me out like I’m some side note.”

“I’m warning you,” you whisper. “Leave me the fuck alone.”

And before he can answer, you hang up. You sit there for half a second—heart pounding, ears ringing, body shaking and then you throw the phone again. Harder this time. It cracks against the wall and slides to the floor in a dull, useless heap.

Your hands won’t stop shaking.

Your body won’t stop listening for footsteps, for knocks, for anything that says he’s near.

And for the first time since it all began, you feel it settle fully into your bones:

This isn’t just creepy anymore. It’s dangerous.

The first post-it note is yellow.

Just a single square, stuck dead-center on your dorm door. The handwriting is small, slanted, too neat—like someone practiced it. Like someone wanted it to be noticed.

“It’s quiet here. I like that.”

You stare at it for a second too long. Then you tear it down without thinking, fingers tightening until the paper crumples between them. It lands in your trash can with a soft rustle, barely a sound, but your pulse is loud in your ears.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. A prank. A weird joke.

But your hand doesn’t stop shaking until long after the door clicks shut behind you. You don’t tell anyone.

The next one is pink.

"You looked tired today. I hope you’re resting. You should take care of yourself."

You throw that one away too.

They keep coming. Green. Blue. Orange. Each new note appears the same way—silent, perfectly placed, like a ritual. Always there when you return.

You don’t replace your phone. You can’t. Your bank account is down to single digits and the last thing you want is to borrow money from anyone and have to explain why. No phone means no new number. No apps. No distractions. But it also means no help. And you start seeing him more often now.

Leaving the campus store just as you’re entering. Sitting on a bench when you pass by the art building, his gaze fixed on something else—until you’re close enough that you feel it swing toward you. He never speaks. Never waves. Never follows. He just appears. And somehow, that’s worse.

You’re five minutes early to your tutoring session with Jun-tae, clutching a folder you haven’t even opened because your mind’s been too loud to study. You wait outside the seminar room, watching the door. Professor Kim emerges instead. She looks... frazzled. “Oh,” she says, seeing you. “I was just about to email—Jun-tae won’t be able to meet today.” You blink. “What?”

“He had a bad fall,” she explains. “Stairs behind the science hall. Broke his leg.” Your stomach knots. “Oh,” you say again, slower this time. “Is he okay?”

“He’s okay, but won’t be able to tutor for at least a few weeks.” She frowns, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’ll try to get someone else assigned to you soon, but with finals coming, the TA schedule is a mess.”

You nod numbly, trying to process her words while something cold slinks down your spine. Jun-tae was your safe option. Now he’s gone. You don’t remember walking back to your dorm. You don’t remember unlocking the door. But when you get inside, there’s another note waiting for you.

This one is written directly on your mirror, in a red marker.

"Told you, didn’t I? You can’t get rid of me."

You can’t keep it inside anymore.

The moment you see Suho and Sieun at the dining hall. They were heads bent over a shared plate of greasy fries, laughing about something dumb—you sit down so fast your tray clatters. They both glance up. You don’t even say hello.

“I think Beom-seok pushed Jun-tae down the stairs.”

The words just come out, wild and raw, too fast, like you’ve been holding your breath for days. Suho blinks. “Uh. Come again?”

You lower your voice and lean in. “Jun-tae didn’t just fall. He was fine. He was normal. And then the moment he’s assigned to me, suddenly he’s out for the rest of the semester? Don’t you think that’s—off?” Sieun raises his eyebrows. “You think Beom-seok, what, attacked him? Because he was your new tutor?”

You nod. You know how it sounds.

“I’ve been seeing him everywhere,” you continue. “Outside my dorm. In the café. Watching me. And he’s been leaving post-it notes. Every day.” They exchange a look. Not a mean one. Just that slow, careful look people give when they’re trying not to say, You sound unhinged.

Sieun speaks first. “I mean… okay. That’s a little weird, but maybe he just really likes you? Like, in a sad poet kind of way. Some guys don’t know how to deal with feelings.” Suho shrugs. “Yeah, this sounds more like—what’s the word—infatuation? Harmless, maybe a little cringey, but not dangerous.”

“He wrote on my mirror,” you hiss. “Inside my room.” That lands harder. But not hard enough. Suho winces. “Okay, that’s crossing a line. Still…It doesn’t mean he hurt someone.”

Sieun adds, “And the notes? I mean… yeah, it's intense. But lovesick dudes do stupid shit all the time. He probably thinks this is romantic.”

You stare at them both. They’re trying to soothe you. Not one of them believed you. “I’m not overreacting,” you say, quieter now. “I know it’s him. He’s everywhere. He makes me to feel trapped.”

Suho picks at a fry. “Look, if you’re this freaked out, go to campus security. File a report. They can at least talk to him.”

You shake your head. “You don’t get it.”

They don’t. You leave them without saying goodbye.

Their voices echo behind you as you walk away—half-concerned, half-curious, not really listening. You can feel their eyes on your back, can almost hear them already figuring out how to laugh it off later.

"She's just tired. She’s just being dramatic." It doesn’t even sting the way it should. It just sits there—quiet and cold and heavy—somewhere in your chest.

By the time you reach your dorm building, the sun’s nearly gone. The air smells like old leaves and someone’s burnt toast. You climb the stairs slowly, one hand trailing along the banister like you need something real to hold onto.

You turn the corner. Your door is in view. And for the first time in days—There’s nothing on it. No post-it note. No message. No trace. You stop. You should feel relief.

But instead, something colder slides into you—deeper than fear. Like the silence is a trick. Like the absence is worse than the presence. The blank door suddenly looks too clean, like a wiped slate, or an invitation.

He knows you're scared.

You step inside quickly, locking the door behind you. Twice. Then dragging your desk chair under the handle for good measure. Your hands are shaking, but your face feels numb.

You don’t turn on music. You don’t open your laptop.

You just move through the motions like a ghost of yourself—changing into sweats, brushing your teeth, folding yourself into your sheets. You lie in the dark, staring at the ceiling. You plan.

Tomorrow, first thing, you’ll go to campus security. You’ll file a report. You’ll do it.

Because no one else is going to. But for now, all you have is the quiet hum of your dorm, the creak of your bed as you shift under the blankets, and that gnawing feeling in your stomach—

That somewhere, he’s watching this too.

You shut your eyes. You tell yourself to sleep. The kind of sleep that feels more like escape, like shutting down.

And maybe you do sleep, for a little while. You’re not sure.

Because the next thing you feel—before your eyes even open—is the weight.

A presence. Not a noise. Not a creak. Not the wind. Just that unmistakable awareness of someone else in the room. Thick and suffocating. So close you can taste their breath in the air.

You open your eyes. And someone’s there. Standing over you.

You don’t even have time to scream. A hand slams down over your mouth, fast and hard, pinning your head to the pillow with a quiet thud.

Your legs thrash, the sheets tangle, and your brain is screaming this isn’t real, this isn’t real, but then—He speaks. Low. Calm. Intimate. Like you’re sharing a secret.

“No, baby. None of that.”

Your blood turns to ice.

Because you know that voice. Beom-seok. He’s smiling. Not wide. Not wild. Just small. Gentle. Like this is all very reasonable.

“Shh,” he breathes, stroking your hair with his free hand like you’re a frightened animal. “You looked so peaceful. I almost didn’t want to wake you.”

You make a strangled noise under his palm.

He leans in, slow and deliberate, his knee sinking into the edge of the bed. His eyes roam your face like he’s studying a painting he’s seen before but never quite understood.

“I didn’t like the way you talked about me today,” he murmurs, the edge creeping in now. “To them. Suho and Sieun. You told them lies.” You shake your head, or try to, but his hand presses harder, turning denial into a muffled whimper.

“I don’t like when people lie about me,” he whispers. “You know that.”

His hand lifts—just enough to let you breathe. You suck in air, raw and shaking, your voice catching in your throat. But he sees it And faster than you can scream...

His hand clamps around your throat. Not choking. Not yet. Just holding.

His breath is warm against your cheek as he leans in. “You were doing so well,” he murmurs. “The notes. The mirror. Our little cat-and-mouse game.” His grip tightens slightly—not enough to cut off air, but enough to remind you he’s in control.

“You were supposed to understand what this meant.”

Your chest rises and falls too fast. You want to move. Scream. Fight.

But it was like a out of body experience and your voice is gone.

He tilts his head, studying you like something broken he doesn’t know how to fix. “I was patient. I waited. But you let foolish thoughts get into your head. And now you’re scared of me?” His lips brush your ear.

“That hurts.”

A soft, cracked sound escapes you—more instinct than speech. A broken plea.

He watches. The kind of watch that empties the air from the room. Then he moves. Straddles your waist, knees digging into the mattress, pinning you down. You can feel the weight of him pressing you into the bed.

One hand stays wrapped around your throat. Firm. Controlling. The other tangles into your hair, tightening until your scalp stings. He leans in, face inches from yours, breath laced with mint and menace. The glint in his eyes is sharp and empty. Calculating. Cold.

That smile on his lips—it never fades. But it isn’t human. It’s the smile of something that enjoys the fear. “Now, now,” he whispers, low and coaxing, “let’s not make this harder than it has to be.” His hand in your hair tugs harder. “I’ve been watching you sleep. You looked so peaceful. So... touchable.” Your heart slams against your ribs, desperate and wild.

Every nerve screams at you to move to run but his weight on you is making it difficult to move.

Then his thumb brushes your lower lip—slow, mocking. “I know you’re scared, baby. I can feel you trembling,” he says softly. His hand is still at your throat, not squeezing, not yet.

But the threat is there, sharp and clear. If he wanted to, he could end it right now and you both know it.

"I'm not going to hurt you. Not if you do as I say." His face dips closer, until you can feel the whisper of his breath on your cheek. "I just want to play a little game. A game that I think you're going to enjoy." He chuckles softly, a dark and sinister sound.

His hand slides lower, over your collarbone, your breastbone, until it rests just above your navel. You can feel the heat of his palm bleeding through the thin fabric of your nightshirt.

Something inside you snaps.

Your fist flies up on instinct and connects with his face with a sickening crunch, you feel a surge of adrenaline coursing through your veins. Seizing the momentary advantage, you push against his chest with all your might, throwing him off balance. He tumbles backwards, his body hitting the floor with a heavy thud.

Without hesitation, you leap out of the bed, your bare feet hitting the cold hardwood. Your heart pounds as you bolt towards the door, desperate to escape. Just as your fingers brush the doorknob, you feel a rough hand grab your ankle, yanking you backwards with brutal force. You cry out in pain and surprise as you're pulled off balance, falling hard onto the ground.

Beom-seok looms over you, his face contorted in rage, a trickle of blood running down his chin from where you struck him. "Bitch!" he snarls, grabbing both your ankles now and dragging you back towards him. You kick and struggle, trying to break free, but his grip is unyielding.

You scrabble at the floor, your nails raking against the carpet, searching for something, anything to anchor yourself with. Your hand closes around a heavy, metal object from the bedside table, Your weights. Without a second thought, you swing it at Beom-seok's head with all your strength.

He roars in pain and fury as the metal connects with his temple, splitting the skin and drawing a gash of blood. But he doesn't let go. If anything, his grip tightens, his fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to leave bruises. You feel his hand grab at your throat, squeezing, choking.

You gasp and choke, your lungs burning for air, as you continue to struggle wildly, thrashing and flailing. You manage to land a few more blows with the weights, feeling it crash against his arms, his ribs, his head. The room is filled with the sounds of grunts.

He grabs your hand thats holding the weight and takes it out of your hand and throws it across the room and backhands you and then flips you around on your stomach.

Without hesitation, he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your pajama pants and yanks them down, exposing your ass to the cool air.

Rising up on his knees, Beom-seok takes a moment to admire the sight of you laid out before him, your panties the only scrap of fabric between your thighs. He leans down and places a tender kiss on the small of your back.

"Beautiful," Beom-seok murmurs, his voice low and tinged with reverence. "I've been dreaming of this moment, saving myself for you. To feel your soft skin, to claim you as mine..." You could feel Beom-seok’s breath as he hovered just above, his body trembling with a reverence that bordered on obsession. “Every night I imagined this,” he whispered, voice barely more than a breath, thick with heat and restraint. “You laid out for me like this… waiting.”

His hand slid down your thigh, fingers trailing like silk, lingering, mapping every inch as if it were sacred ground. The heat of his body pressed against yours, his chest rising and falling in sync with the tension building in the room. He aligned himself with agonizing slowness, his movements deliberate, worshipful.

“You’re mine now,” he breathed against your neck, lips grazing skin with featherlight reverence. “No more dreams. Just you. Just this.”

And then—he pressed forward, slow and unrelenting, claiming you inch by inch. His breath shuddered out in a broken gasp, his hand gripping your hip as if to ground himself in the reality of this moment. Every muscle in his body tensed with the intensity of it, of finally being inside you, of the culmination of desire long denied.

“Fuck... you're so goddamn tight," he pants, voice dripping with lust, glasses fogging up with each harsh thrust. He buries his nose in your hair, inhaling deeply as he growls filthy things in that sickeningly sweet voice. "You don’t even realize how much I want to wreck you... slowly, carefully, until all you can think about is me."

You twist beneath him, your wrists straining against his grip, body bucking in defiance even as it betrays you with heat and need. "No—" you gasp, the word breaking on a moan you can’t hold back.

But he doesn’t stop. He’s relentless, driving into you with ruthless precision, every thrust forcing another helpless sound from your throat. The room fills with the obscene slick sounds of your body reacting, no matter how hard you try to resist.

Your thighs push against his hips, trying to shift him off balance, but he only tightens his hold, catching your chin in one hand to force your eyes back to his.

"You're fighting me," he murmurs, voice dark with something wicked and possessive. "But listen to yourself. Feel yourself. You want this."

A fresh wave of embarrassment crashes over you as your body clenches around him, pulsing with every punishing thrust. You shake your head, biting back a sob, but you’re trembling now for all the wrong reasons, lost in the terrifying, electric edge of surrender.

"Please... please Beom-seok!" you cry out, every movement shatters what little strength you have left, every second stretching into something unbearable. You try to pull away, to twist from his grip, but it's futile. He's relentless. You’re nothing but raw nerves and shaking limbs now, reduced to the desperate, broken shape of someone who just wants it to end.

He just chuckles darkly, gripping your hip hard enough to leave bruises as he slams into you even harder. "There you go, sweetheart. Take it all. Let go for me—let me give you exactly what you’ve been aching for."

His other hand comes up to fist in your hair, yanking your head back as he hilts inside you, grinding his pelvis against your ass. "I’ll cum so deep you’ll still feel me tomorrow, just the way I know your body craves it."

You sob tears slipping down your cheeks unchecked as the pressure builds, unbearable and hot, curling in your core like a storm you can’t outrun.

The cold ground scrapes at your skin, but you barely register it. The only thing you feel is him is the weight, the pace, the overwhelming heat of being taken.

He watches you fall apart beneath him, eyes sharp and unreadable, breath hot against your ear.

“Look at you,” he growls, a wicked edge in his voice. “You’re begging without a word.”

You choke on a sob, the sound dissolving into a moan as pleasure crashes over you, brutal and consuming.

There’s no room left for thought, no space for resistance and just sensation. Just the way he fucks you mercilessly into the cold, unforgiving ground, until you forget where you end and he begins. You feel him ground your hips harshly and flips you over onto your back with a sudden, rough motion. Before you can catch your breath, he's on top of you again, looming above, eyes burning with feral lust behind the steamed up glasses. He hooks your knees over his elbows, nearly bending you in half as he drives back into your abused pussy with a guttural moan.

“Fuck… the way you hold me—so warm, so tight—I swear you were made just for me.” His voice is low, rough with cruel satisfaction, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as he drives into you with punishing precision.

The lenses catch the low light, reflecting just enough to mask his eyes, but you can still feel them—locked on your face, watching every tear, every flicker of surrender.

He sets a merciless rhythm, each thrust deeper than the last, stretching you around him until you're gasping, seeing stars. You’re pinned beneath him, your body overwhelmed and trembling, reduced to sensation and sound—slick, wet, and ragged cries echoing off the walls.

And he still watches you through those damn glasses...fogged at the edges, a little crooked and like you’re something precious he intends to ruin slowly.

"That’s my girl… make those sounds for me. Let the whole world know who’s fucking you like this." Beom-seok growls, sweat dripping from his chin onto your heaving tits. "You're mine now. Every sound you make, every time your body opens for me—it’s all mine."

He leans down, biting at your neck hard enough to leave a mark. The mix of pain and pleasure is dizzying, your mind short-circuiting with the intensity of it all.

"Beom-seok!" you wail, fingernails scrabbling at his back. You're so close, teetering on the edge, your pussy clenching wildly around him. But he just fucks you harder, chase his own release, determined to make you fall apart completely.

You could feel it. You feel the way Beom-seok’s breath hitched, the way his grip tightened just slightly, fingers digging into your skin like he was trying to anchor himself. His rhythm faltered for a heartbeat, a sharp stutter that made your own body brace, tension coiling tight. His glasses on his nose, fogged at the edges, crooked from how hard he’d been moving. You caught a glimpse of his eyes behind the lenses—heavy-lidded, unfocused, undone.

Then his head tipped back slightly, eyes fluttering shut, a raw, breathless moan breaking from his throat. With a final, brutal thrust, Beom-seok drives in deep buried to the hilt and goes still.

A guttural sound tears from him as his cock twitches inside you, each pulse drawing a soft cry from your lips. You feel the heat of him, spilling in thick, hot waves as your own body clenches around him, milking every last drop.

And through it all, those fogged-up glasses stay on his face—crooked, slipping, catching the light as he shudders against you, lost in the high of it.

“Fuck… take it all, baby. Just like that.” he growls, grinding against your cervix, making sure every last drop of his cum paints your insides. You can feel the warmth of it, the obscene amount of it, flooding your walls.

Panting, he finally pulls out, his breath still ragged as he watches you. You lie there trembling, legs slack, your body caught between exhaustion and afterglow. His eyes track the slow drip of him leaking from you, your inner thighs sticky and glistening. It slides out in lazy pulses, leaving no doubt who you belong to.

He adjusts his glasses with one hand, slow and deliberate, then leans back on his thighs, eyes raking over you like you’re something obscene and beautiful all at once. The faint glint of his lenses catches the low light, masking the hunger in his gaze but you feel it, sharp and possessive.

He exhales, a low, satisfied sound. “Look at you,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Fucking perfect like this.” The heat in his stare scorches you, more searing than his touch ever could. He leans in, slow and deliberate, eyes locked on yours like he wants to brand the moment into your bones.

“Remember this,” he says, voice low and rough, “every inch… every breath.” His hand drifts between your thighs, fingers gathering the slick evidence of what he’s done to you. You shiver as he gently presses two fingers back inside, slow and unyielding, pushing his claim deeper into you.

“The way I filled you,” he breathes, watching your face as his fingers begin to move in a lazy rhythm, “left myself buried so deep, your body’s going to ache with the memory.”

Each thrust is deliberate—more intimate than rough—drawing soft, helpless sounds from you as he curls his fingers just right. You clench around him, your breath hitching, and that only makes him smile.

“You’re mine now,” he murmurs, lips brushing your cheek. “Always were.”

He slows, then pulls his fingers out with a deliberate, gentle slide. Your body still trembling from the sensation, he leans down and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead—warm and slick with sweat.

His lips hold the kiss for a moment, grounding, almost tender amidst the heat and chaos. You can feel the steady beat of his breath against your skin as his eyes meet yours again, quieter now, but no less intense. He then scoops you into his arms, his grip firm even in its care. Your body, boneless and trembling from everything and melts against his chest, not out of trust… but because you’re too spent to resist. He carries you back to the bed without a word, the silence louder than it should be.

When he lays you on the sheets, they feel cold against your flushed skin. His fingers brush the damp strands of hair from your face—gentle, yes, but it’s a studied gentleness. The kind you know could vanish in an instant.

“There now,” he murmurs, voice gravelly but controlled. “That was just what you needed, wasn’t it, sweetheart?”

There’s something in the way he says it—like he’s not really asking. Like your need is something he gets to define.

"A reminder of who you belong to."

The words settle over you like a weight. Your stomach tightens. He tucks the blanket around your naked body—marked, bruised, his. The act should be comforting, but instead it feels like being wrapped in a cage you can’t quite see. Then he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, soft but possessive, lingering just a moment too long. You don’t move. You don’t dare.

"I expect you to be a good girl now, understand?” His voice dips lower. “No more of this bratty behavior."

His fingers drift across your cheek—slow, almost affectionate—but it only makes your heart pound faster.

“I want you focused on being good for me,” he says, like a warning disguised as care. “Behave yourself, sweet thing. I’ll be watching."

And you believe him.

When he rises, he dresses slowly, methodically. Shirt buttoned, belt fastened, everything smoothed into place like nothing happened. You lie still, skin cooling, muscles sore. The silence he leaves behind is heavier than before, thick with the scent of sex… and something colder. Your body still trembles, not just from the aftermath, but from the growing sense that he isn’t finished with you.

And you’re starting to understand that in Beom-seok’s world…belonging isn’t a choice.

fin

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