c4shm0neyxxx

Latest Posts by c4shm0neyxxx

I wanted to request for Sieun x high functioning depressed female reader.

“You’re Still Here”

Pairing: Yeon Si-eun x fem!Reader

Theme: Comfort | Emotional Intimacy | Hurt/Comfort | Slice of Life

⸻

It’s not easy to explain to people why you’re tired all the time.

You get up. You show up. You speak when spoken to. You get the grades. You smile just enough. You reply to texts with just the right tone that no one notices you drifting further away in your own mind.

No one, except Si-eun.

He doesn’t pry.

That’s the scariest part.

He just knows.

You’re sitting in the quiet corner of the school library, cheek resting against your fist, eyes glazed over a page you’ve reread four times without registering a word. You’re supposed to be taking notes. The pen sits still in your hand, ink bleeding faintly onto the page where your grip is just a bit too tight.

Then, you feel it.

The shift of air. The quiet footstep. The presence.

Si-eun slides into the seat across from you without saying anything, placing a bottle of banana milk and a protein bar on your notebook like it’s a normal Tuesday thing. Like he knows you haven’t eaten anything solid since yesterday afternoon.

“Hey,” he says softly.

Your throat aches at how gently he speaks. Like he’s afraid to break something in you that’s already barely holding.

“Hey,” you whisper back.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you reach for the bottle. He watches, eyes steady, calculating—not judging—and then pulls out his own book, opening it silently. As if to say: You don’t need to talk. I’m just here.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours. You finally begin writing again. Slower than usual, but it’s something. He’s still reading, occasionally scribbling in his notebook, and not once does he look impatient.

After some time, you whisper, “I don’t think I’m okay.”

Si-eun doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t fumble. He looks up, meeting your tired eyes with those calm, unreadable ones of his.

“I know,” he says. “But you’re still here.”

The words hit somewhere deep in your chest.

You let out a shaky breath. “Sometimes I don’t even know why. It’s like I’m…running on fumes. Like I’m surviving by accident.”

His hand moves across the table. It lands near yours—not touching, just close enough.

“I don’t think you’re a burden,” he says quietly, almost too quiet for anyone else to hear. “And I don’t care if you don’t have the energy to be ‘fine’ every day. You’re still… you.”

You close your eyes.

You’ve cried alone before—into pillows, into showers, into the dark silence of your room—but this feels different. You’re not crying yet, but your chest is finally exhaling.

Safe. That’s what he gives you without even trying.

You whisper, “Why do you stay?”

He tilts his head, like he’s confused by the question.

“Because I care. Isn’t that enough?”

You nod. Just barely. And then, almost timidly, you reach your hand out. His fingers curl around yours slowly, naturally, like it was always meant to happen this way.

And in that quiet library, surrounded by fluorescent lights and the scent of old textbooks, you find something rare.

Not a solution. Not a sudden burst of happiness.

But something softer.

A hand to hold in the dark.

Someone who sees the version of you you’re too tired to perform.

“Glass Cage: Part 10 – The Echo After”

Geum Seong-je x Reader | Trial Aftermath, House Revisit, Emotional Collapse, Deep Angst

⸻

The courtroom was painfully still.

Wooden seats. The sterile smell of old books and polished floors. The silence was the kind that bruised—too thick to breathe through, too quiet to feel real.

Your palms pressed together in your lap, knuckles white.

The jury foreman stood.

“We, the jury, find the defendant—Geum Seong-je—guilty of kidnapping in the first degree… obstruction of justice… unlawful possession of a firearm… harboring a missing person—”

Each word hit like a blow to the ribs. You didn’t cry. Not yet.

You looked at him.

He sat straight. Hands cuffed to the table. But his shoulders were relaxed—not because he was okay, but because he didn’t want you to fall apart.

His eyes met yours.

Soft. Steady.

The kind of look someone gives you when they know they’re about to be taken from you forever.

You almost whispered his name.

You almost ran to him.

But the gavel slammed. And the moment broke.

⸻

Weeks later. Same courtroom.

You’d begged to speak.

Your voice shook at first, but you held it together. You had to.

“They call him my captor. I call him my husband.”

“They say he took me. I say I never wanted to be found.”

“He gave me safety. He gave me warmth. He gave me our daughter.”

The judge stared at you like you were broken beyond repair.

Maybe you were.

The sentence:

25 years. No chance of parole for 12.

You didn’t remember standing.

Or being escorted out.

You just remember turning around one last time, and seeing his head bow forward.

Not in shame.

But in goodbye.

⸻

They gave you a hotel room.

Neutral colors. Government-issued warmth. Fresh sheets you couldn’t sleep in.

Your baby was at your best friend’s apartment, just outside town.

Safe. Fed. Asleep.

Your best friend had seen you through every version of yourself—before, during, after. She never judged. Not once.

“I’ll keep her tonight,” she said after the sentencing. “Go do what you need to do.”

And so you did.

⸻

You drove there on muscle memory. No GPS. Just the tug of your soul pulling you back to where it last knew peace.

The house was unlocked. The investigation team had been through already—swept it for evidence, cleared it out of anything dangerous.

But they left everything else behind.

The living room was exactly how it was the night they came.

Now, that same wine glass lay in pieces beneath the table.

You knelt down, picking up one of the shards.

Your hands shook.

The fireplace was dark.

His slippers still sat by the hearth.

Your hoodie hung over the arm of the couch.

The couch pillow had an indent where his head rested that night—just hours before they stormed in with guns and shouts and flashlights in your baby’s face.

You walked through the house like a ghost retracing its own death.

⸻

And then it happened.

The weight of it.

The silence of it.

The absence of him.

You collapsed to your knees in the middle of the floor.

Blanket still bunched up beside you, wine stain still in the rug, everything exactly where your life had stopped.

You cried so hard it was animal.

It ripped out of you—loud, shaking sobs into the cushion he used to rest his head on.

You punched the floor. Screamed into the blanket.

You shouted his name again and again like if you said it loud enough, he might walk back through the door.

“Seong-je—*Seong-je please—*I can’t do this—”

Your chest heaved, raw.

Tears soaked your shirt. The hardwood. The blanket.

The house didn’t answer.

⸻

It was dark when you heard the front door creak.

You didn’t move.

You couldn’t.

Soft steps. Then a familiar voice.

“It’s just me.”

She found you curled on the floor, arms wrapped around the blanket like it was him.

She didn’t say, ‘Are you okay?’

She didn’t say, ‘You need to get up.’

She sat down next to you, pulled you into her lap, and let you cry all over again.

Her voice was soft in your hair.

“You don’t have to explain. I know. I’ve always known.”

You let yourself fall apart in her arms because you knew—deep down—she was one of the few who never saw your love as something twisted.

Only tragic.

Heyyy

Can you do one sieun x reader finding about about her scars??

(The seonge one was really good tho)

“The Quiet Things You Hide”

Yeon Sieun x fem!reader

Angst + Hurt/Comfort, Slow Emotional Unraveling, Mutual Healing

Themes: Self-harm scars (non-active), emotional vulnerability, tender connection, comfort without judgment

⸻

It was late evening when the tutoring session ended.

The sky outside Sieun’s apartment had gone indigo, with streaks of pale orange fading behind the buildings. You stretched with a groan, setting your pencil down and letting your head fall onto the stack of notes between you. Math equations blurred together.

Sieun just watched you quietly from his side of the low table, his expression unreadable — but not unkind.

“I’m done,” you sighed. “My brain is officially fried.”

“Understandable,” he said in that calm voice of his. “You’ve been focused for over an hour. That’s a first.”

You cracked a smile. “Don’t act like I’m a slacker.”

“I’m not. I’m just surprised.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t protest. Around Sieun, it was easy to let your guard down without even noticing it. You weren’t sure when it started — the way you felt safe around him. Maybe it was the fact that he never pressured you to talk. Never forced a smile. He was just… present, like a quiet constant.

You reached for the hoodie you had taken off earlier, chilled now from sitting so long. But when your sleeve hitched up slightly, Sieun’s eyes dropped.

Just for a second.

So fast you almost missed it.

But you didn’t.

You followed his gaze, and your stomach twisted.

The scars were faint now, pale lines that ran just below the crease of your elbow. Most days, you forgot they were even there. But seeing the flicker in Sieun’s expression — the one you had trained yourself to notice in people — made your chest tighten.

You pulled the sleeve down quickly and looked away.

Silence stretched between you. Too long. Too loud.

“I wasn’t staring,” he said softly.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t know how.

Sieun sat up straighter but didn’t move closer. He respected space, always had. Still, his gaze was steady on you — not pushing, but not avoiding it either.

“Y/N.”

You flinched. It wasn’t his tone. It was the way your name sounded when he said it — like he actually saw you, not just the version you performed for everyone else.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” he continued, “but I also don’t want to pretend I didn’t see.”

You let out a breath and turned your head toward the window, your voice low. “You probably think I’m—”

“—Human,” he cut in.

You blinked.

He leaned his forearms on his knees, fingers interlocked. “I think you’re human. I think something must’ve hurt you a lot. And I think you’re still here, which means you fought through it.”

You bit your bottom lip. Hard.

“Why aren’t you asking questions?” you whispered. “Why aren’t you trying to fix me like everyone else?”

“Because I’m not trying to fix you,” he said. “I just want to understand.”

That made you look at him again.

He met your eyes. Calm. Steady. No pity, no horror — just quiet concern.

You swallowed hard. “It was a while ago. I’m not doing it anymore.”

“I believe you.”

“But it’s still part of me.”

“I know.” He paused. “And I still want to be near you.”

You felt your throat tighten. The tears hit your eyes fast — too fast to blink them away, but you tried anyway.

“You don’t even know how bad it got.”

“I don’t need to,” he replied. “I just need you to know I’m not going anywhere.”

You didn’t know when you moved, but suddenly you were in his arms.

Not in a dramatic, movie-style fall — it was more like gravity pulled you there. Like your body just knew he was safe. Sieun tensed slightly, as if unsure what to do with you at first, but then his arms wrapped around you carefully. One hand rested on the back of your head, the other curled around your waist.

And he just held you.

Not a word.

Not a breath wasted on trying to fix anything.

You cried quietly, and he let you.

Eventually, your voice broke against his shoulder. “Do you think I’m broken?”

He shook his head against your temple. “I think you’re surviving. And that’s harder than breaking.”

You pulled back enough to see his face. He was so close — his expression soft in a way most people never got to see. His usual guarded calm melted into something else. Tenderness.

“I didn’t want you to find out like that,” you said.

“There’s no right way for something like that,” he replied. “But I’m glad I know.”

You took a slow breath. “Why?”

“Because now I can stop pretending you’re okay when you’re not. I can actually be there for you. Not the version you show people.”

Your heart cracked a little more — but this time it didn’t hurt. It felt like something letting go.

You looked down at your arm, your fingers gently covering the faded lines.

He noticed.

“You don’t have to hide them from me,” he said.

You met his gaze again, voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t think I’m… too much?”

“Y/N.” His hand reached up and gently took yours. “You’re enough. As you are. No performance. No pretending.”

There was silence again. But this time it wasn’t heavy.

It was comforting.

You stayed like that with him, sitting side by side, his hand still holding yours.

Eventually, when you both lay back on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, you let yourself breathe. Fully. Deeply. And when his fingers brushed yours again, intertwining like it was nothing, you knew something had shifted.

You weren’t alone anymore — not in the way that mattered.

CAN YOU PLEEEAAAASE WRITE A NA BAEKJIN X FEM!READER NSFW ONESHOT OR SERIES EVEN PLSS 😔🤲🏻

“Control”

Pairing: Na Baek Jin x fem!reader

Genre: NSFW / Smut, Emotional Intimacy, Slight Power Play, Soft Aftercare

Setting: His apartment, late at night after a long day

(I’ve had this in my drafts also😭)

⸻

You were already breathless when Baek Jin pressed you against the door of his apartment, your back hitting the wood as his lips claimed yours with quiet urgency.

The moment the door clicked shut, something shifted.

His grip on your waist tightened, jaw flexing as he pulled back just enough to look at you — eyes dark, sharp with intent.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that in public,” he said lowly, voice rough against your ear.

You smirked, despite the way your heart was thundering. “Like what?”

“Like you want me to lose control.”

He didn’t give you a chance to answer — his mouth was back on yours, hot and consuming, his hands already beneath your shirt. He peeled it off slowly, letting his fingers trail up your sides like he was memorizing every inch of you.

Every move was precise, almost studied — the way he touched you like he was in command, not just of your body, but of himself. Until you looked at him with that softness in your eyes, and the control cracked.

He pushed you gently but firmly toward the bedroom, never breaking eye contact. You laid back across the sheets, propped on your elbows, watching as he undressed with a slow deliberateness that made your thighs press together.

When he crawled over you, his hands planted firm beside your head, his expression changed — colder, hungrier.

“You drive me insane,” he muttered, lips brushing your jaw. “I don’t show it. But I think about you… constantly.”

“Then show me,” you whispered.

That was all it took.

His mouth claimed your neck, then your chest, his hands sliding under your thighs to pull you closer. You gasped when his fingers brushed over your soaked panties, and he smirked against your skin.

“So wet already?” he murmured, pushing them aside.

Two fingers slipped in easily, his thumb circling your clit while his mouth returned to your chest. You moaned, arching into him, fingers gripping the sheets.

“Baek Jin—” you breathed, your voice cracking slightly.

He glanced up, eyes half-lidded. “Say it again.”

“Baek Jin.”

He cursed under his breath and pulled away just enough to rid you of your underwear and align himself. He didn’t rush — just eased in slow, watching your expression like it was the only thing he cared about in the world.

You gasped, clinging to him as he filled you completely.

He groaned low in his throat, voice strained. “You feel too good. Fuck…”

His thrusts started deep and slow — steady, controlled, each one hitting just the right spot. You wrapped your legs around his waist, nails digging into his back as the pace built, your moans echoing into the night.

It wasn’t just sex — not with him.

It was the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching. The way his lips would soften against your shoulder mid-thrust. The way he whispered, “Mine,” like a secret no one else was meant to hear.

Your orgasm hit fast and hard, your body trembling beneath him, back arching off the bed as you cried out his name. He held you through it, slowing only slightly before chasing his own release with low, breathless groans.

When he came, it was with his forehead pressed to yours, hands locked around your wrists like he needed to anchor himself to you.

The silence after was heavy with heat and heartbeats.

He rolled off you, but didn’t let go — pulling you into his chest, holding you close like he was afraid you’d disappear.

You nuzzled into his neck, smiling softly.

“Still in control?” you teased, voice hoarse.

Baek Jin chuckled — a rare, genuine sound. “Not even close.”

Sup! Love your content

You shouldn't do this one if it makes you uncomfortable.

Could you do a si-eun and/ or seong je x reader where they find out about readers sh scars?

Xx

“No Need to Hide”

Pairing: Geum Seong-je x fem!reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Romance

Warnings: Mentions of self-harm scars, emotional vulnerability, soft Geum Seong-je

A/n: if you are going through this just know you are not alone. Coming from someone who has been in that spot it can be hard especially if you feel alone, but everything will be ok in the end just keep your head up! Just take your time and remember everything will pass. There’s always a light at the end of the tunnel. Luv y’all🫶🏻

⸻

The rain outside painted the windows with a steady rhythm, soft and calming. Inside the small apartment, the lights were low—just the warm glow of the lamp near the couch where you and Seong-je were tangled up together. His arm was around your waist, your head resting on his chest, listening to his heartbeat while a random movie played on the TV neither of you were watching.

It had been a long day, and you were finally letting yourself feel safe.

You had taken off your hoodie earlier, now just in a loose tank top and shorts. You didn’t think about it when you raised your arms to stretch, your body relaxed for once.

But when you reached for the blanket beside you, Geum Seong-je’s eyes caught something he hadn’t noticed before.

Scars.

Faint but unmistakable, etched gently along the soft skin of your upper arm.

Your breath hitched when you saw him looking. You tried to pull the blanket over yourself quickly, to cover up, to hide, but his hand gently caught yours.

“Wait…” he said quietly.

Your heart pounded. You looked away, suddenly cold even in the warmth of his arms. “Don’t.”

“Y/N…” His voice was soft, so different from how he usually spoke to the world—sharp, cold, intimidating. But this wasn’t the gang leader now. This was your Seong-je.

He sat up, carefully taking your hand, fingers brushing against the faded scars like they were something delicate. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You swallowed hard. “Because it’s not something I want people to see. It’s ugly.”

His jaw tensed, eyes flicking up to yours. “Don’t say that.”

You gave a hollow laugh. “Well, it’s the truth.”

But then he did something that made your chest tighten—he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to your arm. Right over one of the old scars.

“You lived through it. That makes it anything but ugly,” he said. “You’re still here.”

You blinked quickly, eyes stinging.

He held your face in his hands then, looking into you like he could read every part of you. “You don’t have to hide from me. Not ever.”

“I didn’t want you to think less of me,” you admitted, voice barely a whisper.

“I think more of you,” he said without hesitation. “A lot more. You went through something and you’re still standing. Still laughing. Still loving. That’s strength, not weakness.”

You bit your lip, the tears falling now—slow but real.

Seong-je pulled you into his arms, wrapping you up tightly, protectively. His voice was lower now, soft against your hair. “Next time you feel like hiding… come to me instead. I’ll hold it with you. The weight, the pain, all of it.”

You nodded into his chest, unable to speak, just clutching onto him like he was the only solid thing in the world—and right now, he was.

He stayed like that with you for a long time, whispering soft things, reminding you that he wasn’t going anywhere.

And for the first time in a long time, you believed it.

——-

The rain outside was still falling in slow waves, casting soft shadows through the window. Geum Seong-je had his arms around you, and you stayed tucked into him for what felt like forever—safe, warm, and finally breathing without the weight of shame pressing down on your chest.

Eventually, he leaned back a little, his hand still holding yours. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow and grounding.

“You hungry?” he asked, voice low. “I can make you something. Or order from that place you like.”

You shook your head with a small smile. “I just… wanna stay like this. With you.”

He tilted his head, studying you for a second, and then gave a quiet, almost shy smile. The kind of smile not many got to see from him.

“Then we stay like this,” he said simply.

You both shifted to lie back on the couch, your head now resting on his chest while one of his hands played with your hair and the other wrapped securely around your waist. It was quiet, but the kind of quiet that felt good—like healing.

“You know…” you said after a moment, your voice soft against his shirt, “I used to think no one would ever love me if they saw all of me. The broken pieces. The dark parts.”

Geum Seong-je didn’t answer right away. He just ran his fingers slowly down your back and whispered, “Then they didn’t deserve you.”

You lifted your head to look at him. His eyes were already on you—serious, soft, filled with something deeper than just affection. Something like devotion.

“You’re not broken,” he continued. “You’re just… still healing. That’s different. And I’ll wait. However long it takes.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“You mean that?”

He nodded. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

You were quiet for a second, overwhelmed by how gentle he was being with you—this boy who so many feared, who had blood on his knuckles and scars of his own, was handling you like glass but never treating you like you were weak.

“I’m scared sometimes,” you admitted.

“So am I,” he said. “But I’m not scared of us.”

That broke something open in you. You leaned forward and kissed him—soft, slow, your hand resting against his cheek. He kissed you back with the same tenderness, like this moment was something sacred.

When you pulled back, he looked at you with so much warmth, his forehead resting against yours.

“Let’s go to bed,” he whispered. “Not for anything else. Just to hold you properly.”

You nodded.

In his room, the sheets were warm from the dryer. You slid under the covers, and he pulled you into his chest, wrapping himself around you like he never wanted you to leave.

You rested your hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat again.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

that new chapter AND y si fuera ella?? perfect tbh

Thank youuuuuu. I’m not even gonna lie reading the chapter back I did shed a little tear 😭😭😭😭there will be another chapter thooooo😝😝😝😝

“Just You, Just Me”

Geum Seong-je x fem!Reader

Smut | Soft possessive | Explicit

*They had a first round and he goes back for another*

⸻

The room was quiet except for the sound of your breaths evening out, skin still slick with heat, your bodies tangled under the sheets.

Seong-je lay on his side, one arm draped across your stomach, his fingers tracing lazy circles just above your navel. His lips brushed your shoulder — light, like he was barely touching you.

You thought he’d fall asleep like that. But then—

His voice, rough, low:

“You’re too good for me.”

You blinked at the ceiling, heart slowing but full. “What?”

He didn’t answer with words. Just shifted closer. His mouth found your jaw, then your throat, tracing the edge of it with deliberate slowness. You felt his breath fan across your skin as he whispered, “I’m not done with you.”

Your body reacted instantly — heat pooling low, thighs pressing together beneath the sheets. He pulled the blanket down just enough to expose your chest, his eyes darkening at the sight of you bare beneath him again.

His voice dipped, rough with that edge only you got to hear.

“I want to take my time this time.”

His lips found your breast, tongue flicking over your nipple before he sucked — slow, teasing. One hand slid between your thighs, already finding you soft and wet again.

“Still so ready for me,” he murmured with a smirk, kissing lower now, down your stomach, until he was between your legs.

“Seong-je—” your voice broke as his tongue dragged up your center, gentle at first, then deeper, more focused. One arm slid under your thigh to pull you closer to his mouth.

He moaned softly against you. “Taste so good. Could stay here forever.”

Your hands tangled in his hair as your hips bucked, but he held you steady, savoring you, taking his time. His tongue moved slow but confident, lips wrapping around your clit just right — until you were trembling, back arching, eyes fluttering shut.

When he finally pulled back, he licked his lips like he was addicted.

He moved up your body, resting his forehead against yours. “You’re shaking.”

You nodded, breathless. “You’re unreal.”

He chuckled, low and satisfied. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

This time, he slid into you slowly — deep, deliberate, like he was trying to memorize every second. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, anchoring him closer.

He kissed you through it, lips slow and open-mouthed, swallowing every gasp, every moan.

His thrusts were smoother now — not rough, but deep. Intimate. You could feel every inch of him, and it made your head spin.

He held your face in one hand as he rocked into you, watching your expression, whispering, “Look at me… I want to see you fall apart.”

You tried to look away, but he caught your jaw gently.

“No hiding. Not with me.”

And you didn’t. You gave him everything — every breathless cry, every broken moan, every pulse of your body around him as you spiraled over the edge a second time, tighter, hotter, deeper than the first.

He followed fast after, with a low, guttural groan, hips stilling deep inside you, his forehead pressed to yours as he let himself go.

You lay there, breath tangled in his, hearts thudding together in the dark.

His thumb stroked your cheek, voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

“Only you do this to me.”

You smiled, exhausted but full. “Good.”

He chuckled, brushing your hair back.

“You gonna survive round three later?” he teased.

You narrowed your eyes, barely holding back a grin. “Only if you keep looking at me like that.”

He leaned in, kissed your nose.

“Oh, I will.”

“The Side No One Sees”

Yeon Si-eun x fem!reader

Tone: Soft angst + comfort | Slow burn vibes

Setting: Late evening, empty classroom, after a fight

I’ve had this in my drafts for so long 😭

⸻

The classroom was dark, the only light coming from the hallway as it spilled in through the cracked door. You sat on the desk across from him, your knees tucked up to your chest. He was slouched in his seat, back against the wall, breathing slow and deliberate.

His knuckles were raw again.

“You could’ve walked away,” you said quietly.

Si-eun didn’t answer right away. He stared down at his hands like they were foreign to him — like he didn’t quite understand why they always ended up this way. Blood on his knuckles. That distant, cold look in his eyes.

You shifted forward. “You didn’t have to fight back.”

“I did,” he said flatly. “There was no choice.”

“There’s always a choice.”

His jaw clenched.

He didn’t snap at you — he never did — but his silence hit just as hard. Still, you didn’t leave. You never did. And maybe that was the problem. Or the answer.

After a long moment, he spoke again, voice low. “I know how this looks. To you. To everyone. Like I’m just trying to be something I’m not.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you think it.” He looked up at you then. His eyes, usually guarded and unreadable, were just… tired. “I know how people see me. Some cold, broken kid trying to act like I can win in a world that already chewed me up.”

You slid off the desk and crouched beside him, gently reaching for his hands. He flinched at first — not from pain, but like he wasn’t used to being touched unless it was in a fight.

“You never let anyone see this side of you,” you murmured. “Why me?”

His gaze dropped to your hands wrapped around his. His voice cracked just enough to sound like a whisper:

“Because you don’t look away.”

The silence between you now was different — not heavy, not sharp. It was something careful. Something new.

And in the flicker of fluorescent light, Si-eun didn’t seem like a fighter, or a tactician, or a boy trying to survive a world that wanted to swallow him whole.

He just looked like someone who was finally being seen.

“Glass Cage: Part 9 – The Night They Came”

Geum Seong-je x fem!reader | heavy angst,

Guys I’m sorry for doing this to y’all. But I couldn’t help it. Trust when I say your are gonna need to listen to this song while reading this ok😓🙏🏻🙏🏻

⸻

It was raining.

A quiet, warm rain that tapped gently on the windows like it didn’t want to disturb anything.

The house smelled like vanilla and red wine.

The soft hum of the heater filled the room.

The baby had just fallen asleep — her little fists curled under her chin, breathing soft and perfect.

You’d both stood over her crib a little longer tonight.

Just looking.

Seong-je had kissed your temple and whispered:

“She looks like you when she sleeps.”

You smiled, eyes full.

“You say that every night.”

He just grinned, kissed your lips next, and turned the baby monitor on.

⸻

You sat together by the window, watching the rain blur the world.

Two glasses of wine.

His fingers intertwined with yours.

Married.

Safe.

Hidden.

In love.

You almost believed the world had forgotten you.

You almost believed forever could fit inside four walls.

And then—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Three deafening knocks on the front door.

Too hard.

Too fast.

Too official.

You jolted.

Wine glass spilled.

Your heart stopped.

Seong-je was already on his feet.

You grabbed his arm.

“Don’t—wait—don’t open it—”

But he was calm. Too calm. Like he’d been waiting for this moment his whole life.

“Stay with the baby.”

“No—”

Too late.

He opened the door.

⸻

Ji-won was standing in the rain.

Behind him—

Two FBI agents.

Their badges out.

Jackets soaked.

Guns visible.

Outside, headlights cut through the dark.

Several cars.

People moving behind trees.

Voices on radios.

It wasn’t just a knock.

It was a raid.

⸻

You stepped into the hallway, barefoot.

And time slowed.

You saw Ji-won’s face.

Guilt. Regret.

And something like mourning.

One agent stepped forward, raising his voice:

“Geum Seong-je—hands on your head. Get on the floor. Now!”

You couldn’t process it.

“W-what? What’s going on—?”

“We’ve been investigating the disappearance of [Y/N] for over a year now. A camper in the area saw you both near the river. We confirmed the identity. We know you’re here. Sir—on the ground. Now.”

Your world cracked like glass.

The baby monitor screeched from the table.

Your daughter crying, wailing in the other room.

“No—no—no!”

You ran forward, but one of them grabbed you—holding you back gently but firmly.

“Ma’am—step aside—”

“Don’t touch him! He didn’t do anything wrong!”

But Seong-je just looked at you.

Not afraid.

Just heartbroken.

⸻

He lowered himself slowly to the floor.

Hands on his head.

The agents surrounded him.

Cuffed him.

One read him his rights, voice drowned out by your screaming.

“Don’t take him!—please—PLEASE!—don’t take him away!—”

You were shaking, clawing to get to him.

The rain poured harder.

Your feet slipped in the mud.

Seong-je looked over his shoulder as they pulled him to the truck.

And he smiled.

Just a little.

Like it was the only thing he had left to give you.

“You’re safe now,” he mouthed.

“I love you.”

⸻

You ran after them.

Screaming.

Begging.

Your body against the side of the truck as they shoved him in.

“I love him! You don’t understand—HE SAVED ME! Please—please—just let me talk to him—let me touch him—just ONE MORE TIME—!” You screamed as the cops held you back.

But the engine roared.

The door slammed.

And Seong-je disappeared behind steel and glass and red lights.

You stood in the driveway.

Soaked.

Bleeding from your knees.

And screamed.

“BRING HIM BACK—”

“PLEASE BRING HIM BACK—”

⸻

The FBI tried to talk to you.

One woman crouched down, jacket shielding your body from the rain.

“Are you okay? Do you need medical—?”

You shoved her away.

“I’m not okay! I’m never going to be okay again.”

And you collapsed.

Right there in the mud.

Hands in your hair.

Eyes toward the empty road where they’d taken your husband.

⸻

Your baby’s cries still echoed from inside the house.

The monitor was still glowing.

And your chest caved in as you whispered to no one:

“She won’t even remember his face…”

——-

hi i love your weak hero fanfics 😍😍 could you make something about baek dongha?

Heyy thank you sm for requesting!!!!(srry for taking s long time I was very busy😘)

“Beneath the Smoke”

Pairing: Baek Dong-ha x fem!reader

Genre: Slow-burn romance, angst with comfort, emotional vulnerability

⸻

The rooftop was Baek Dong-ha’s escape.

Most people thought he thrived in chaos—always at the center of smoke and blood, commanding fear like it was instinct. But up here, with the city lights flickering below and the sky swallowing up his silence, he could finally breathe.

And now, you were here too. Sitting beside him, your legs swinging off the edge like you weren’t afraid of anything—not the height, not him.

“I figured I’d find you up here,” you said softly, placing a convenience store coffee beside him. It was the same one he always grabbed. Iced black, no sugar.

Baek Dong-ha didn’t look at you right away. He kept his eyes on the skyline, the cold wind brushing against the bandage on his jaw. “You shouldn’t be here.”

You smiled, not offended. “Neither should you. But here we are.”

He finally looked at you. Not with the sharp, cutting gaze that scared most people away. This one was quieter. Tired. Like he was always bracing for the next fight, even when there wasn’t one.

“Why do you keep showing up?” he asked, voice low. “Even after everything you’ve seen?”

You leaned back on your hands, your shoulder brushing his. “Because you’re more than what people see when they look at you.”

A bitter scoff escaped him. “They see what’s real.”

“I don’t think so,” you said, turning to face him. “I think they see what you want them to see.”

That made him pause. His fingers tightened slightly around the coffee cup. “And what do you see?”

You hesitated, then answered honestly. “Someone who’s hurting. Someone who doesn’t know how to be soft without feeling weak. Someone who thinks being alone is safer—but deep down, doesn’t want to be.”

His throat worked around a swallow. “You think you know me that well?”

“I’m still trying,” you said. “But I’m not scared to.”

Baek Dong-ha didn’t say anything for a while. The wind picked up, carrying the distant sounds of traffic and the echo of something fragile between you.

Then, so quietly you almost missed it, he said, “You shouldn’t get close to me.”

“I’m already close,” you replied. “And I’m still here.”

He turned his head just slightly, studying you. Like he was trying to find the catch. But there wasn’t one. Just you, stubborn and soft, sitting beside a boy the world had already written off.

Finally, he leaned back against the railing, letting out a slow breath.

“…I don’t know how to do this.”

“You don’t have to,” you said gently, brushing a strand of hair out of his eyes. “You just have to let me be here.”

Baek Dong-ha closed his eyes, letting your hand linger. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel the need to run or fight. He just… existed. Right beside you.

And maybe, for now, that was enough.

Part 4- Cherry Coke & Cigarettes

Geum Seong-je x Fem!Reader | Soft Romance, Flirting, Emotional Vulnerability, soft seong je

——

He didn’t call it a date.

You knew that already. He wouldn’t.

He just texted:

“Be ready at 6.”

And when you opened your door, he was already there — hands in his pockets, leather jacket, a little more cologne than usual. He didn’t meet your eyes at first. Just scanned you up and down, slow.

“That’s what you’re wearing?” he asked, voice unreadable.

You blinked. “Uh… yeah? Why?”

A pause.

He looked away. “You look good.”

You smiled. “Is that your way of flirting?”

“No,” he muttered. “That was me being honest.”

⸻

At the Ramen Spot — Late Evening

He brought you to this little ramen place that had two tables, cracked walls, and the best broth you’d ever tasted. He didn’t say much at first — just watched you blow on your noodles and sip slowly, his own bowl untouched.

“You’re staring,” you said, playful.

He didn’t deny it.

“You always eat this slow?” he asked, leaning on one elbow. “Or are you just trying to look cute?”

You nearly choked on your spoon.

You narrowed your eyes at him, teasing. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to charm me, Seong-je.”

He smirked. “Is it working?”

You leaned forward a little. “Maybe.”

He blinked. You saw the way his smirk faltered — just for a second — and something tender settled in its place.

Then, quieter:

“I’ve never done this before.”

“What, flirt?”

He chuckled under his breath. “No. This. The… normal stuff.”

You twirled your noodles, voice soft. “What’s normal to you?”

“Running. Fighting. Keeping people out.”

You didn’t say anything — just reached out and gently brushed your knuckles across his hand.

He looked at it, then at you.

“I guess you’re not ‘normal’ either,” he said.

“Is that a good thing?”

“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”

⸻

Walking Home – Under Dim Streetlights

He walked close to you. Not touching, but his hand would brush yours every few steps like he was thinking about it. You didn’t push — just let it happen.

“Can I ask you something personal?” you said suddenly.

He tilted his head. “That’s all you ever ask me.”

You laughed. “Okay. What were you like… before all this?”

He took a breath, eyes fixed on the sidewalk.

“Quiet,” he said. “Angry. Always trying to prove something.”

“To who?”

“Myself. Mostly.”

You nodded. “I think I tried to disappear a lot. Not because I hated the world. Just… I didn’t think it would miss me if I went.”

He stopped walking.

You turned toward him.

He stared at you for a long time. “That’s not true.”

You shrugged, trying to smile through it. “It felt true.”

He reached for your hand again, lacing his fingers between yours without looking away.

“Well. I would’ve missed you.”

That did it.

Your face flushed, and he noticed — and the way his expression softened after that made it even worse.

“You really like me, don’t you?” you asked, voice light but hopeful.

He pulled your hand up to his mouth and kissed the inside of your wrist, like it wasn’t a question.

Part 3 - Cherry Coke & Cigarettes

———

Part 3 is finally here!!!! Hope yall enjoyyyyyy

——

Geum Seong-je x Fem!Reader — Soft, Vulnerable, Relationship Begins

The apartment was quiet.

Too quiet for Geum Seong-je. He always preferred noise — the kind that distracted him from whatever was going on in his own head. But now, after the party, after the jealousy, after the silence on the way back…

You were still here.

Sitting on the edge of his bed in his hoodie, legs tucked under you, watching him with that cautious, thoughtful look — like you weren’t scared of him, but could be if you wanted to. You just… weren’t.

“You’re really staying?” he asked suddenly, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

You looked up. “You told me to.”

“I tell a lot of people things. Doesn’t mean they listen.”

You smiled, small and quiet. “I’m not a lot of people.”

He stared at you for a long moment.

“You’re not.”

A pause. You looked down at your hands in your lap. “You didn’t mean to scare me, did you?”

His eyes lowered.

“No,” he admitted. “I don’t like feeling that way. Jealous.”

“Because it makes you lose control?”

He nodded once. “Yeah.”

You stood slowly, walking toward him. You stopped just short of touching him.

“Then let’s try something else.”

He looked at you.

“Let’s get to know each other. Like… actually,” you said. “Without fighting. Without games. Just—us.”

Seong-je hesitated, as if the idea was harder to accept than it should be. Slowly, he nodded.

“I don’t know how to do that,” he muttered.

“Okay. Then I’ll go first.”

You held up a finger. “One fact about me: I used to doodle cartoons in all my notebooks. My teachers hated it.”

That drew the smallest smile out of him.

“You?” you asked.

He shrugged. “I hate mornings. Always have.”

You tilted your head. “Because of school?”

“Because of my life.”

He looked at you then, really looked — and something about your expression, calm and unflinching, made the edge in his shoulders loosen.

“You’re not scared of what I’ll say, are you?” he asked.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t think you’ve ever had someone just listen. Not without judging you.”

He was quiet.

“I don’t care what you’ve done,” you said. “I care about who you are when no one’s watching.”

His throat tightened at that.

Another silence passed, but it felt warmer this time. More settled.

“…I used to take care of someone,” he said, voice low. “Back before all this. She was just a kid. I didn’t know what I was doing. But I tried.”

You nodded, gently. “You’re good at protecting people.”

“Not always.”

“You try, though.”

He blinked, then looked away like he didn’t know what to do with that kind of faith.

You reached for his hand and laced your fingers through his — slow, careful, like he was a storm you weren’t afraid of. And when he didn’t pull away, your chest eased.

“I want this,” you said. “Whatever it looks like, however long it takes.”

He squeezed your hand once.

“Only if it’s you,” he replied quietly.

⸻

Later that night…

He let you lay your head on his shoulder while the TV played quietly in the background. He didn’t move much, just played with the hem of your sleeve, glancing down at you every few minutes like he was still trying to figure out if you were real.

You were the calm in all his chaos.

And for once… he didn’t want to push you away.

Bro he’s so fucking fine😫😫😫he’s my new obsession for the month bro

(Every time I listen to this song all I think abt is him. He legit owns this song 🤧)

——

“To Be Loved by a Monster”

Pairing: Seo Moon Jo x fem!reader

Genre: Psychological Thriller | Dark Romance | Canon-Compliant

⸻

You should’ve moved out the second the landlord smiled at you with one too many teeth.

You should’ve trusted your instincts when you heard footsteps in the hall at 3 a.m., pacing back and forth like a caged animal.

But you stayed.

Because your rent was cheap.

Because your boss didn’t care where you lived.

Because the man in room 302 smiled at you like he knew something you didn’t — and somehow, that made you feel less alone.

⸻

Seo Moon Jo was never just a dentist.

He moved like he owned the world — or at least the walls of this rotten place. And when he first knocked on your door with a cup of tea and a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, you told yourself it was just kindness.

“You’re new,” he said, voice soft like silk hiding a blade. “Welcome to Eden.”

You shouldn’t have let him in.

But his voice had a lull to it. A pull.

And you were so, so tired of being invisible.

⸻

He never asked too many questions. Never needed to.

You found yourself talking anyway — about your job, your loneliness, the way Seoul could swallow people whole and no one would notice.

He listened.

And when you told him your ex had been stalking you, Moon Jo’s gaze darkened just enough to stir something cold in your chest.

“People like that,” he said gently, brushing your hair from your face, “should disappear.”

You laughed nervously.

But he didn’t.

⸻

The next week, your ex stopped texting.

His number disconnected.

And Moon Jo started visiting you more often.

⸻

It wasn’t love. Not really. Not at first.

It was obsession disguised as attention. Possession wrapped in compliments. He brought you food when you forgot to eat. Walked you to your door after late shifts. Touched your wrist lightly as he passed by — like he was reminding you that he was always near.

“You don’t belong with the rest of them,” he whispered once, eyes glinting in the dim hallway light. “They’d ruin you. I won’t.”

You didn’t ask what he meant.

Some part of you was afraid of the answer.

⸻

Then one night, you opened your door and saw blood.

A smear on the floor. A trail leading down the corridor.

You froze.

And just like that — like he’d been waiting for you to see — Moon Jo appeared behind you.

“Don’t look at that,” he said quietly, curling a hand around your shoulder and turning you away. “Come inside.”

You should’ve run.

Instead, you let him close the door behind you.

⸻

Later, in the dark of your room…

He sat beside you on the floor. His shirt was clean now. His hands too. You were shaking.

But he wasn’t.

“You knew, didn’t you?” you whispered, staring at the carpet.

His silence was the answer.

“You kill people.”

Another beat.

Then:

“Only the ones who deserve it.”

You turned to him then, eyes burning. “And what about me? What do I deserve?”

His gaze softened — in that strange, terrifying way he had — like you were something delicate.

“Everything.”

“Love. Safety. Someone who’d burn the world just to keep you breathing.”

He reached out slowly, brushing your cheek with knuckles too steady for someone who’d just taken a life.

“And if the world can’t give you that…” His smile was faint. “Then I will.”

⸻

You didn’t leave.

Maybe you were just as broken.

Maybe he’d already sunk his claws too deep.

Or maybe — worst of all — part of you liked being needed by someone so terrifyingly devoted.

So you let him hold you.

Let him kiss your hair.

Let him whisper things you’d once been too sane to believe.

“You’re mine now.”

And the scariest part?

You didn’t argue.

Bare with me here…univerisity setting kang wooyoung x reader having a friends with benefits relationship but surprise reader catches feelings she decides to ignore until one day she learns there are rumors going around campus about wooyoung having multiple girls he sleeps with so she decides to break it off bc maybe they agreed to not sleep around while they have their lil deal going on? And that leaves wooyoung confused bc he doesn’t know what he did wrong until he finds out about the rumors and confronts the reader bc he also caught feelings and he’s like let me put an end to any rumors and since we know he likes to make lil videos this time he keeps the camera rolling while they do their thing but out of respect for the reader and also not wanting people to see what’s his the video doesn’t show much but records the sound of what’s going on for everyone on the campus to shut up with their silly rumors 👀

Ok ngl this was kinda confusing (but that’s ok!!!) so I hope you like this😘

“Rumors & Recordings”

Pairing: Kang Wooyoung x fem!Reader

⸻

You should’ve known this was a bad idea from the beginning.

Friends-with-benefits rarely stayed just that. Not when the lines blurred so easily — in the way Wooyoung would stroke your hair after, or pull you close as if he hated the idea of you leaving his bed. Not when his texts came in at midnight just to say “missed you,” like you were anything more than a body in his sheets.

But you had rules.

And you were foolish enough to believe he’d follow them.

So when whispers started floating around campus — about Wooyoung and a girl from his stats class, then another from his gym club — you told yourself they were just that. Whispers. Cruel rumors. Until your friend accidentally let it slip:

“I thought you and Wooyoung had, like… an open thing? He’s kind of all over the place.”

That was it. The crack that split everything open.

Because no matter what you told yourself — that this wasn’t real, that you weren’t allowed to care — it still hurt. Maybe more than it should have.

You didn’t cry when you ended things. Just gave him a quiet, “We’re done,” before walking out of his dorm.

Wooyoung didn’t chase you. Not at first. Just stared after you, jaw tight, eyes sharp like he was trying to figure out a puzzle he didn’t know he’d been handed.

⸻

Three Days Later

“You’re avoiding me,” he says, cornering you outside the library like it’s nothing. Like you didn’t just shatter whatever fragile thing you had.

“I’m not.” Lie. “We’re not anything anymore. I’m just giving us space.”

Wooyoung frowns. “You ended it out of nowhere.”

“Did I?” Your voice is cold now. Sharper than you want it to be. “Thought maybe you were too busy with your other hookups.”

He goes still. “What are you talking about?”

“Come on, Woo. People talk. They say you’ve been with half the girls in our year. What, did you forget we said no one else while we were—”

His hand shoots up. Not in anger — in frustration. “I haven’t touched anyone but you.”

You blink. “The rumors—”

“Are bullshit.”

Something in his voice stops you. There’s none of his usual cocky charm, no teasing glint in his eyes. He looks… tired. Hurt, even.

“I wouldn’t break the one rule we had,” he says. “You think I’d risk losing this? You?”

You look away.

“I caught feelings too, Y/N.”

It crashes into you like a wave — the admission, the weight of everything unspoken between you.

But he’s not done.

“Let me fix this,” he murmurs. “Let me make sure they know who I’m with. Who I want.”

⸻

That Night

It’s familiar, the way his hands explore your body like they already know every scar, every freckle. But there’s a different energy now — something raw, something laced with emotion neither of you want to name out loud.

You notice the camera first.

Perched silently on his desk. The red light blinking.

“Wooyoung—”

“It’s not for anyone’s eyes,” he says quickly, seeing the look on your face. “Just the audio.”

You freeze.

“I want them to hear what real sounds like,” he says, voice husky. “Let them talk. Let them wonder. But they won’t have a single doubt who I’m with.”

It’s crazy. Messy. Petty.

But you understand it. The need to take back the narrative. The need to show the world that you’re not some secret. That you matter.

So you let him.

The camera rolls, but only the sound of tangled sheets, whispered names, soft gasps, and the distinct, unmistakable rhythm of passion fill the air.

He kisses your collarbone and whispers against your skin, “Only you. Always you.”

And when the audio clip somehow finds its way into the group chat of a certain gossip-prone student society — cropped, tasteful, and full of unmistakable truth — the rumors stop.

Just like that.

⸻

Days Later

You’re walking across campus when a girl smirks and says, “Guess we were wrong about Wooyoung.”

You don’t answer. Just smile — a private, satisfied curve of your lips — and disappear into the arms of the boy waiting by the quad.

He kisses your forehead in front of everyone.

Let them talk.

This time, the story’s yours.

“Cherry Coke & Cigarettes”

(Part 2 !smut!)

⚠️ NSFW / 18+ SMUT

Tags: Dom!Geum Seong-je, sub!innocent reader, first time, fingering, soft corruption, praise kink, possessive dirty talk, slightly rough but caring.

@ashayein

————-

You weren’t supposed to be here again.

You told yourself it was just a one-time thing—the Cherry Coke, the stolen glances, the kiss that nearly took your breath away. But here you were. Standing in Seong-je’s room, heart pounding, hoodie sleeves bunched in your fists.

“You nervous?” he asked, sitting on the edge of his bed, legs spread like he had all the time in the world.

“Yes.”

He smiled, eyes flickering down your body. “Good. You should be.”

You swallowed. “I… want you.”

He tilted his head slightly. “You sure?”

You nodded.

“Then come here.”

You walked over, slow steps across the hardwood until you stood between his legs. His hands came up, resting at your waist gently, thumbs rubbing circles over the fabric.

“Look at you,” he murmured, dark eyes devouring you. “Little angel… about to let a guy like me touch you like that.”

“I want it to be you,” you whispered. “Only you.”

Something shifted in his expression. Like the last thread of patience snapped.

He pulled you into his lap, your legs straddling his thighs, your chest flush against his. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me, do you?”

You shook your head, fingers curling in his shirt.

“Then let me show you.”

His mouth was on yours again—hot, deep, and claiming. His tongue slid past your lips, tasting every inch, setting your nerves on fire. You moaned softly, hands gripping his shoulders like he was your only anchor.

“Take this off,” he said against your lips, tugging at your hoodie. “Wanna see you.”

You hesitated, cheeks flushing.

“I’ll go slow,” he said, voice lower now, rough with restraint. “We stop if you say stop.”

You nodded.

You lifted your hoodie over your head. His hands didn’t waste a second—they slid up your bare waist, fingertips dragging over your skin like he was memorizing you.

“Fuck…” he breathed. “You’re perfect.”

You whimpered as his hands cupped your chest, thumbs brushing over your bra. He leaned in and kissed the top curve of one breast, then the other, so tender it made you ache.

“You shaking?” he asked against your skin.

“Yes…”

“I’ll make it feel good, baby. I promise.”

You let him push the straps down. The moment your bra was gone, he stared—quiet, reverent—and then leaned down to press a kiss to your sternum.

And then he bit. Not hard—just enough for you to gasp and cling to him.

“You’re so soft,” he whispered. “So fuckin’ sweet.”

One hand cradled your back as the other massaged your chest, mouth working over your nipple with tongue and teeth until you were whimpering his name.

“Seong-je—”

He chuckled. “There she is.”

His hands slid lower, under your waistband. “Can I touch you here?”

You nodded, breathless.

He pushed your shorts down, slowly, until you were straddling him in nothing but your panties. His fingers pressed lightly over the damp fabric.

“Already wet?” he teased. “Did I do that?”

“Y-yeah…”

“Good.”

He slid the fabric aside and dipped two fingers through your folds. You moaned, hips twitching.

“You’re soaked,” he said, voice rough. “You’ve been needing this for a while, haven’t you?”

You buried your face in his neck, nodding.

His fingers circled your clit gently, teasing, never giving you what you really wanted. “You ever touched yourself before?”

“…No.”

That made him groan. “Fuck. You’re gonna make me lose it.”

He eased one finger into you, slow and deliberate. You gasped, tightening around him instinctively.

“Shh… I got you,” he whispered, kissing your temple. “Just feel it.”

He added a second finger, curling them gently as he whispered filth in your ear.

“Feel how tight you are? Gonna stretch you out so good… make you mine.”

Your hips started to roll against his hand, chasing the pressure.

“That’s it,” he whispered, licking into your neck. “Let go for me, baby. Just like that.”

You came with a soft cry, trembling in his lap, clutching his shoulders like you’d fall apart without him. He kissed you through it, slow and deep, letting you ride the high with his fingers still inside you.

When you could finally breathe again, you whispered, “What about you…?”

He chuckled, dark and low. “Don’t worry. I’ll be inside you next time.”

You blinked.

“Oh, yeah,” he smirked. “You think I’m letting you go after this?”

———-

HII could you do a kang wooyoung x reader fic 😛😛😛

“Dirty Little Secret”

Pairing: Kang Woo Young x Fem!Reader

Genre: Drama, Angst, Romance, Secret Relationship

Warnings: Swearing, emotional tension, implied possessiveness

Summary: You’ve been sneaking around with Kang Woo Young for months—behind stairwells, in empty classrooms, under shadows. But you’re tired of being a secret. And he… he doesn’t want to let you go, but he won’t let the world have you either.

⸻

You pulled your hand away first.

The bell rang, signaling the end of lunch, and Woo Young’s grip on your wrist lingered a little too long before he let go.

“Someone could’ve seen us,” he muttered, eyes sharp as ever, scanning the empty stairwell where he’d kissed you like he owned your lungs.

You crossed your arms, heart still hammering from the way he’d just whispered your name minutes ago like a damn prayer.

“Then maybe we should stop hiding in goddamn stairwells.”

Woo Young’s eyes snapped to yours. Cold. Warning.

You didn’t flinch. Not this time.

“It’s not that simple,” he said, voice low. Controlled.

“It is for me,” you shot back. “Either we’re together, or we’re not. I’m not going to keep being your secret.”

He took a step closer. “You want everyone to know? You want to walk the halls with my name in your mouth like it’s safe?”

You blinked. “Yeah. I want to hold your hand without ducking behind a corner. I want to be seen.”

Woo Young scoffed—bitter, harsh. “You think that’s romantic? You think anyone around here’s gonna let you breathe if they find out you’re mine?”

Your breath caught. Yours.

He wasn’t denying it. He just didn’t want anyone else to know it.

“You’re not protecting me,” you said. “You’re protecting yourself.”

Silence.

His jaw clenched. You watched him war with himself—the need to hold on, and the instinct to push you away. The same look he always wore after a fight: bruised pride and something darker underneath.

“You knew what this was,” he finally said.

You stepped back. “Yeah. I thought it was something worth fighting for.”

You turned, heading back down the stairs, ignoring the way your chest ached when he didn’t stop you.

It had been four days.

Four days since you walked away from Kang Woo Young in that stairwell.

Four days of no calls. No texts. No midnight glances. Nothing.

You hadn’t spoken a word to him. Not in class. Not in passing. Not when he lingered in the hallway just a little too long, waiting for you to look at him.

You didn’t.

And that? That drove him insane.

He never said it out loud. Of course he didn’t—he was Woo Young. Cold, unreadable, untouchable. But beneath the silence, the storm was building.

He watched you laugh with a friend by the vending machines. That smile—the one that used to be just for him—was out in the open now. It made his jaw tighten.

Then he saw it.

Some guy. Tall. Too confident. Reaching for the same drink you did. Laughing. Leaning too close. And worse—you didn’t pull away.

Woo Young didn’t think. He moved.

One second, the guy was smiling.

The next, he was slammed against the wall.

“Back the fuck off,” Woo Young growled.

You spun around. “Woo Young—!”

The hallway fell quiet.

Eyes were on you. On him. On the way his hand fisted in the guy’s collar like he was ready to crack teeth against tile.

“Are you serious right now?” you snapped, shoving his arm.

He let go—but his eyes never left yours. Not even as the guy stumbled away, swearing under his breath.

“You’ve got no right to act like that,” you hissed.

“I do,” he said calmly. Too calmly. “You’re mine.”

That word again.

You felt heat crawl up your spine—not from desire this time, but fury.

“You only remember that when someone else looks at me.”

His silence was confirmation enough.

You turned to leave, but his voice—low, ragged—caught you.

“You don’t look at me anymore.”

You froze.

He wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t pushing. He just… sounded like something cracked under the surface.

“I see you walking past like I’m a stranger,” he continued. “Like none of it meant anything.”

You swallowed hard.

“You made me your secret, Woo Young,” you said quietly. “Now you don’t get to act like I betrayed you just because I stopped playing along.”

Then you walked away again.

But this time, his hand didn’t reach for you.

Not yet.

HEY GURL, can you write a story with geum seong je x reader, where the girl is the complete opposite of him, she is sweet, smiling, kind, does not smoke or drink and is a not very sociable girl and does not like to go out. They could meet at a party where she was forced by her friends, where she will only drink a cherry coke and read bluelock scans (don't judge) Afterwards I don't have too many ideas but it could be a romance where she is innocent (like +++) and will be a kind of entertainment for seong je. Tysm (your biggest reader)

He's so fine shibal

“Cherry Coke & Cigarettes”

Pairing: Geum Seong-je x Innocent!Reader

You never wanted to come to this party.

You made it very clear to your friends—parties weren’t your thing. The music was too loud, the people too fake, and the smell of alcohol and weed made your head spin. But here you were, pressed into a corner of someone’s overpriced rooftop apartment, sipping Cherry Coke from a red solo cup and pretending not to exist.

The only thing keeping you sane was the Blue Lock chapter you were rereading on your phone, thumb swiping slowly while chaos swirled around you.

“Yo,” someone drawled beside you, voice low and smooth, like a cigarette dragged too slow.

You didn’t look up at first, assuming he wasn’t talking to you. Nobody here ever did.

“Cherry Coke?” the voice asked again, closer now. You raised your head.

And there he was. Geum Seong-je. Rumored gang leader. Smoky eyes, lazy smirk, tattoos peeking beneath his sleeves. He looked like every bad decision you avoided on purpose. The kind of guy whose stare alone could unravel someone like you.

You blinked at him. “…Yeah?”

He cocked his head, eyes scanning you like you were a puzzle he hadn’t solved yet. “You’re the only one here not getting wasted or sucking face with someone dumb.”

“I didn’t want to be here,” you replied honestly.

That made him grin, slow and wolfish. “Neither did I. But now I kinda do.”

Your cheeks burned. You looked down quickly, pretending to scroll, trying to steady your voice. “You should probably talk to someone else. I’m not very fun.”

“I don’t like fun girls,” he said, exhaling smoke through his nose. “They’re boring.”

You glanced up. “I’m the definition of boring.”

“Nah,” Seong-je said, stepping closer. “You’re entertaining in a different way.”

He plucked the phone from your hand and squinted at the screen. “Blue Lock? Seriously?”

“It’s good,” you mumbled, trying to take your phone back. He didn’t let go.

“I don’t read, but if it gets you that focused… maybe I should.”

You met his gaze then, and it felt like falling. Sharp eyes, but something behind them—curiosity, maybe. Or hunger.

“You shouldn’t flirt with girls like me,” you whispered.

He leaned in, voice a low purr. “Why not?”

“Because I’ll believe it.”

For a moment, the smirk faltered.

Then he handed your phone back and stepped even closer, cherry smoke mixing with your soda scent. “Good. Believe it.”

——-

There will be a part 2 later😜😜

“Glass Cage: Part 8 – Our Vows, Our Future”

Geum Seong-je x fem!reader | dark romance, private wedding, intimate obsession, hope twisted into devotion

⸻

It starts on a night with no power.

Just wind through the trees.

Candles casting long shadows against the shrine room walls.

Your perfume lingering in the air.

His sketch of you half-finished on the floor, ink still wet.

You sit beside him.

Knees tucked under you.

Your hand resting lightly on his thigh.

“You ever think about it?” you whisper.

He doesn’t look up. “What?”

“Us. Making it… official.”

He stiffens, just slightly.

Then sets the sketch aside.

“Like a wedding?”

You nod.

“A private one. Just you and me.”

He turns to you.

Eyes like midnight storms. “You’d want that?”

You smile. Soft. Honest.

“I already live like I’m yours forever. Might as well say it out loud.”

⸻

He doesn’t answer.

Not with words.

He leans in, presses his forehead to yours.

And whispers:

“Then write the vows.”

⸻

That night, you write them in separate corners of the room.

No peeking. No rules. No white dresses or rings.

Just candlelight and ink.

Just love — obsessive, dark, loyal.

And when it’s time—

You both kneel on the floor.

Hands clasped.

The shrine around you.

His name on your thigh.

Your perfume on his collar.

He speaks first.

His voice is low. Reverent. Bare.

“I vow to keep you hidden if the world tries to take you.

I vow to love you so deeply it rewrites who I used to be.

I vow to never ask you to be good, only mine.

And I vow… that if I ever fall apart, I’ll fall apart with you in my arms.”

Your lips tremble.

Then it’s your turn.

“I vow to never try to change the way you love me.

I vow to see every twisted, brutal part of you — and stay.

I vow to never crave freedom more than your touch.

And I vow to want forever, even if the world burns for it.”

He pulls you to him then.

Hands in your hair.

Kisses you like you just gave him eternity.

⸻

The next morning, he disappears into the woodshed for hours.

You don’t ask.

You don’t need to.

You hear hammering. Sanding. The low drag of something heavy.

And when he finally comes back, his shirt clings to him with sweat.

Dirt on his hands. Dust in his hair.

He drops to his knees at your feet.

And whispers:

“If we’re going to be forever… then I want to start building for more than just us.”

⸻

You find the room the next day.

Hidden behind a panel in the hallway.

New. Unfinished.

But you know exactly what it is.

A crib in the corner.

Your favorite color on the walls.

And a tiny drawing — taped to the door.

A child. Holding both your hands.

Your throat tightens.

And when you walk back into the house to find him—

You throw your arms around him.

And say only one thing:

“I want forever. And I want it to look like this.”

———-

It starts with a suspicion.

You’ve been tired.

Sleepy in the middle of the day, hungry at odd hours, emotional over things that never touched you before.

But the thing that tells you—

The thing that confirms it—

Is the way Seong-je starts hovering.

Worse than usual.

You catch him staring at your hands, your stomach, your reflection in the mirror.

And when he presses his lips to your lower belly one night without a word, without explanation—

You know.

You buy a test in the little town.

You hide it in your coat.

Take it in the upstairs bathroom while he’s outside chopping wood.

You watch the line appear.

Clear. Unmistakable.

Pregnant.

And your hands shake.

Not from fear.

From how much you want this.

⸻

You find him on the back porch.

He’s lighting a cigarette — one of the last ones left from his old stash.

You take it from his mouth.

Flick it out into the wet grass.

Then place his hand against your stomach.

He freezes.

“Yours,” you whisper.

Then — quieter — “Ours.”

He doesn’t move.

Not for a long time.

And then he pulls you to him. Wraps both arms around you. Holds you like you’re glass.

And says the first thing that comes to him:

“I won’t let the world touch her.”

⸻

You find out it’s a girl in the next town over.

A tiny clinic tucked between forgotten buildings.

The nurse smiles. “Want to know the sex?”

You nod.

Seong-je stays sitting, hands clenched on his knees.

“She’s a girl.”

He lets out a breath that sounds like he’s been holding it for years.

Then he looks at you.

And something in him shatters.

⸻

The months pass in a strange rhythm.

He won’t let you lift anything.

He paints her room twice, because the first color didn’t feel soft enough.

He carves her name into the side of the crib.

He talks to her when he thinks you’re asleep — whispers things like:

“I’m going to teach you how to fight. How to be soft without being weak.”

“I’ll kill for you before anyone hurts you. Just like I did for your mother.”

“You’ll never have to fear the dark — not while I’m breathing.”

⸻

The labor comes one rainy afternoon.

He drives you into town, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

No music. No sound. Just the road winding through the woods and your hand clamped in his.

The little hospital is quiet.

The nurses kind.

He won’t leave your side.

Not for a second.

He whispers “I love you” between every contraction, every push, every breath.

Until—

She arrives.

Tiny. Red. Wailing.

And everything stops.

⸻

He cries for the second time in his life.

The first was when you came back to him after trying to run.

The second is when they place his daughter in his arms.

He doesn’t say a word.

Just holds her.

Like she’s something holy.

⸻

You name her that night.

No middle names from old families.

No pieces of a past life you’ve long abandoned.

Just a name that fits her.

A name that sounds like warmth and wildfire.

⸻

The drive home is long and soft.

The baby sleeps in your arms.

Seong-je watches the rearview like a predator — like something might still come for you.

But nothing does.

You reach the house.

The lights are on.

The crib is ready.

The fire is warm.

And when he carries her inside — cradled like she might dissolve — he whispers:

“You’ll never know pain. Not while I’m alive.”

You place her gently in the crib.

She makes a tiny noise.

Then settles.

And for the first time, your house is silent — not from emptiness, but peace.

⸻

You sleep that night with her beside you.

With him wrapped around both of you.

His hand resting on her back.

Your hand on his.

And when the wind picks up outside — rattling the trees, brushing the windows — you don’t flinch.

Because your daughter is safe.

Because she has the father the world fears.

And the mother who chose this life, again and again.

———

This is the last part and did take me the longest (the rest were in my drafts so I posted them all at once cause I didn’t want to make y’all wait😘)

“Glass Cage: Part 7 – The Key”

Geum Seong-je x fem!reader | dark romance, forbidden knowledge, quiet rebellion, raw intimacy

____

You didn’t mean to do it

Not at first.

You just want to hold him. He’s sleeping deeper than usual — jaw relaxed, brow soft, his breath warm against the back of your neck.

His hand is heavy on your waist. Like always.

But this time…

You’re not content.

You lie awake, heart loud in your chest, staring into the dark of the new house.

That room.

That door.

What does he think will break if you see?

You slide out from under his arm like you’ve done a dozen times before — when you just wanted water, or to wander the house barefoot in your own thoughts.

But this time you go to the closet.

And you kneel down.

Where he keeps the small fireproof lockbox.

You saw him slip a key into it last week.

The only key you’ve never asked him for.

You open the box.

And find it.

Thin, silver. Cold.

The key to the locked door.

You hold it in your palm.

You don’t even hesitate.

⸻

The hallway is darker than usual.

Like the shadows know.

Your bare feet are silent against the floorboards. The only sound is your breath — fast, sharp, not from fear…

But from knowing this is the one thing he wouldn’t forgive.

You reach the door.

Slide the key in.

Click.

It swings open without a sound.

⸻

The air smells… different.

Dust. Metal. Paper.

The room is dim — covered windows, low light.

You step inside.

It’s not what you expected.

No blood. No chains. No horror.

It’s a shrine.

To you.

⸻

Photos of you, before he took you.

Candid ones. Ones you didn’t even know were being taken.

In cafés. On your old college campus. Walking down streets at night.

Dozens. Hundreds. Lined on the wall like a timeline of his obsession.

There are journals, too.

Notebooks filled with his handwriting — pages upon pages of you.

“She wears the same shoes again today. I think she likes them because they squeak when she walks. They sound like her — small, but impossible to ignore.”

“Someone touched her wrist when handing her change at the bookstore. I almost followed him home.”

“I know her patterns. I know what time she showers. I know what time she cries.”

You stand still.

Not afraid.

Not disgusted.

Just… quiet.

Because it makes sense.

All of it.

The way he looks at you like he’s starving.

The way he memorized your breath before he memorized your body.

The way he loves you so deeply it started before you even met.

And in the back of the room…

A sketch.

Drawn by hand.

You, asleep.

In his bed.

Before he ever brought you here.

⸻

You hear his voice before you turn.

Low. Lethal. Broken.

“…You weren’t supposed to come in here.”

You freeze.

Then slowly, turn around.

He’s standing in the doorway.

Barefoot.

Shirtless.

Key still missing from the box you forgot to close.

You say nothing.

He walks forward, every step measured.

And stops in front of you.

“You disobeyed me.”

“I know.”

“You saw everything.”

“I did.”

He’s breathing harder now. His jaw’s tight.

His hands twitch like he doesn’t know whether to hold you or strangle the air between you.

Then—

“Do you hate me?”

You look up at him.

Shake your head.

“I think I love you more.”

His breath catches.

“What?”

You step forward. Place your palm over his chest.

“I always knew you were dangerous. I just didn’t know how long you’d been mine.”

He swallows hard.

Then falls to his knees in front of you.

Head against your stomach. Arms around your waist. Shaking.

Like you just saved him from himself.

⸻

You don’t sleep in his bed that night.

You sleep on the floor of the secret room.

With him curled around you.

Surrounded by the proof of how long he’s loved you.

—

The morning after you found the secret room, everything feels different.

Not colder.

Not tense.

Just… exposed.

Like something raw and sacred has been shared.

He doesn’t speak much that day.

He makes you breakfast, quiet. Watches you eat like you might vanish if he blinks.

He cleans the gun under the table while you braid your hair in front of the mirror.

He doesn’t bring up the room.

But he doesn’t lock it again either.

And that night, after he falls asleep—

You get up.

And start bringing in your things.

⸻

You take your favorite lipstick and draw a heart on the wall over one of the photos.

Then you tape up a photo of him.

Not one he took.

One you stole — months ago — when he wasn’t looking, standing at the stove, half-asleep in his hoodie.

You bring your perfume.

A strand of your hair from his brush.

A paper napkin with your old handwriting on it — the one that says “I love the way you look at me.”

And you tape it to the wall.

Right next to his sentence:

“I love the way she doesn’t know she belongs to me yet.”

⸻

He finds you in the room three days later.

Sitting on the floor.

Drawing his silhouette in the corner of one of his notebooks.

He stands in the doorway, stunned.

“…What are you doing?”

You look up.

Smile.

“Making it ours.”

⸻

He walks in, slowly.

Looks around.

Sees the photo you added.

The lipstick heart.

The perfume bottle.

He swallows hard.

“You’re not afraid of this?”

“No.”

He crouches beside you.

“Of me?”

You shake your head. “I’m yours, remember?”

His hand trembles as he cups your cheek.

“And I’m yours,” he whispers. “Even the parts I wanted to hide.”

You lean in. Kiss the corner of his mouth.

Then say:

“Then give me more.”

⸻

That night, you don’t sleep in the bed.

You sleep in the shrine again. Together. Tangled. Safe.

You fall asleep with his name written in ink across your thigh — because he asked to write it there.

And when you wake up, he’s already sketching you again.

This time not from memory.

This time from right here.

Right now.

In the place where obsession turned into something neither of you has words for.

——-

I’m not even gonna call with y’all I did cry when I wrote this and when I reread it✋🤧

“Glass Cage: Part 6 – Relocation”

Geum Seong-je x fem!reader | dark romance, paranoia, fresh start, domestic intimacy in isolation

⸻

In the late nights of you tangled in his arms, he thinks , and thinks, and get get thoughts out his head

He bolts upright in bed, breath caught in his throat, eyes burning into the dark.

You stir, rubbing your eyes. “Seong-je…?”

He doesn’t answer at first.

He just gets up.

Goes straight to the closet. Pulls down bags. A duffel. Two black suitcases you’ve never seen before.

“…What are you doing?”

He finally looks at you.

“We’re leaving.”

You blink. “Right now?”

“Yes.”

He doesn’t explain. Doesn’t need to.

The memory of your friend standing in the garden hasn’t left either of your minds.

He kneels by the side of the bed, fingers brushing your cheek.

“I waited too long last time. I thought we were safe. I won’t make that mistake again.”

You nod slowly. “Okay. What do I grab?”

He kisses your hand.

“Everything that’s yours.”

⸻

He moves like a ghost through the house — precise, silent, tense.

You pack your makeup carefully, your perfume, the soft brush he used on your hair.

He brings up your clothes from the basement — folded already, like he was always ready to flee.

Your sheets. The shampoo. A framed photo you took together, hidden in the drawer.

He takes the guns. The documents. The cash.

Every trace of the life you built together in that house vanishes into bags.

He opens the front door of his truck for you to get in. You’re still in your pj’s with a robe on and still tired and a little confused as you wait for seong je to finish coming in and out of the house with bags.

And two hours later, just before dawn —

you disappear.

⸻

The new house is deeper in the woods.

Colder.

Bigger.

Safer.

At least, that’s what he tells you when you arrive.

“It’s unregistered,” he says, pulling into the overgrown driveway. “No digital footprint. No cell towers for miles. No neighbors.”

You step out of the car and breathe in pine and fog.

It smells like secrecy.

It smells like home.

⸻

He opens the door to the new house.

Everything is wooden. Clean. Empty.

You look at him. “Where’s the basement?”

“No basement,” he says. “You sleep with me. Always.”

Your stomach flips. You nod.

Then you carry your bags into the master bedroom — his room.

And start unpacking your makeup on the wide wooden dresser.

Lipsticks, brushes, serums. Your world in little glass bottles.

He watches you from the doorway, arms folded.

Like you’re art. Or a miracle.

You glance at him. “You okay?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then: “I thought you might say no. When I said we were leaving.”

You blink. “Why would I say no?”

He looks down. Then back at you.

“Because most people run from cages.”

You walk over.

Wrap your arms around his waist.

“I don’t care where we are. I care that we’re together.”

He closes his eyes like your words slice him open in the best way.

Then kisses you.

Hard. Grateful.

⸻

Later, while he’s setting up the locks and security cameras, you explore the house barefoot.

The floorboards creak. The windows are tall, and the kitchen smells like pine and dust. You find:

• A fireplace in the den, untouched

• A loft above the stairs, with a single skylight

• An empty room filled with wild light — one you think could be yours

There’s a long hallway that leads nowhere.

But you find his jacket on a hook near the back door.

You touch it, smile to yourself.

Because even in this new place…

He still leaves pieces of himself lying around for you to find.

⸻

That night, after you make ramen in the new kitchen and eat it on the floor by candlelight, he pulls you into bed.

No words.

Just his arms around you.

Tighter than ever.

You whisper into his chest:

“I’m not scared.”

And he replies:

“Good. Because I’ll never let anyone find you again.”

—————-

It starts with the floorplan.

You were wandering the new house again — barefoot, robe tied loose, sunlight warming your skin — when you noticed it:

A hallway with five doors.

But only four open.

One stays shut.

Always.

You try the knob.

Locked.

You frown. “Strange.”

⸻

That night, curled in bed, your head on Seong-je’s chest, you whisper into the silence:

“What’s in the last room?”

He stiffens.

Subtly.

But you feel it.

“…Storage,” he says.

You lift your chin. Look up at him. “What kind of storage?”

He’s quiet.

Then: “Things that don’t belong to this life. Old things.”

You brush your fingers along his ribs. “Will you show me?”

He exhales, long and low.

“No.”

You blink. “Why not?”

He looks at you then — expression unreadable, jaw sharp with restraint.

“Because what’s in that room isn’t for you.”

You sit up a little. “But I want to know everything about you.”

His voice is low.

“I’m giving you everything that matters. This house. This life. Me.”

“And that room?”

He looks away.

“That room is before you.”

⸻

The next day, you wake up alone.

He’s already gone — probably outside, checking the traps, the perimeter, the signals. His new routine.

You walk barefoot again.

Same hallway.

Same five doors.

Four open.

One locked.

You kneel by the door and press your ear to it.

Nothing.

No sound.

Just stillness.

But somehow… it feels loud.

Like whatever’s in there is waiting.

⸻

Later, he finds you painting your nails on the windowsill.

He notices the chipped polish on your thumb.

“You were picking at it again,” he says.

You shrug. “I was bored.”

He sits beside you. Watches you brush on the new coat.

Then he says — casual, but careful:

“You went to the locked door, didn’t you.”

You pause.

“I didn’t open it.”

“You tried.”

You stay silent.

Then:

“I don’t want to lie to you.”

His jaw tightens. But his hand doesn’t leave your thigh.

You turn to him. “You said what’s in there is before me.”

He nods.

You lean close, lips brushing his cheek. “But I want all of you. Even the pieces you locked away.”

His eyes flick to yours.

Quiet. Dangerous.

“You’d regret it.”

“I don’t regret anything with you.”

⸻

That night, he sleeps restlessly.

You feel it in the way his arms tense around you.

How he murmurs your name in his sleep.

How he clutches you like you’re already slipping.

The door stays locked.

But now the house feels different.

Heavier.

Like the air’s holding its breath.

⸻

You dream of the hallway.

You dream of the door opening.

And Seong-je standing inside it —

Not angry.

Not afraid.

Just waiting for you to follow him into the dark.

“Glass Cage: Part 5 – Almost Normal”

Geum Seong-je x fem!reader | dark romance, emotional intimacy, small town trip, slow burn, someone shows up from the past

⸻

He watches you from across the room — standing by the window, staring at the woods like they’re whispering promises of somewhere else.

So he surprises you.

“I’m taking you out today.”

You turn, startled. “What?”

“Town. A small one. Off the map. Quiet.”

He sets down a folded hoodie and sneakers at your feet. “No one’ll know you.”

You blink, barely believing it. “You’re serious?”

He looks up. Eyes soft, unreadable.

“I want to give you something.”

You ask what.

He answers without words.

Just freedom.

⸻

The drive is long and winding, the road narrow and wrapped in green. You watch the trees blur past the window, sunlight flickering through the leaves like gold. He’s quiet at first, one hand on the wheel, the other resting between you — close enough to touch.

You eventually take it.

And he lets you.

⸻

The town is small. Too small for crowds. Barely more than a gas station, a diner, and one dusty little grocery store with faded signs and empty aisles.

It’s perfect.

He holds your hand like a warning — not to you, but to anyone who might look your way.

You walk beside him through the store, looking at the shelves, grabbing a few things — fruit, snacks, tea you remember liking. Then you drift.

Your eyes catch the tiny beauty section tucked into the corner. Old shelves. Plastic bins of lip gloss, lotion, cheap face masks in wrinkled packaging. Useless stuff, really.

But something about it makes you smile.

You let go of his hand — just for a second.

And vanish around the aisle.

⸻

You’re holding a little blush compact and a pink tube of something when you hear it:

“ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ɪs sʜᴇ?”

His voice.

Sharp. Controlled. But underneath it — panic.

You peek out from the aisle and see him talking to the bored cashier, who shrugs like it’s no big deal.

You step out. “I’m here.”

His eyes snap to yours.

He crosses the distance in three strides. Grabs your wrist, not hard, but firm.

“You don’t leave my sight.”

You nod quickly, whispering, “I just… saw this stuff.”

You show him the little basket in your hands. It’s got three sheet masks, a cheap perfume, two scrunchies, and a bottle of shampoo that smells like strawberries.

He stares at it. Then at you.

Then walks away with it.

You follow him, heartbeat still fast.

At the register, he adds a few more things. Things you didn’t even ask for — a soft brush, scented candles, a compact mirror.

He never asks if you want them.

He just buys them because you touched them.

Because if you want it, it’s yours.

⸻

The ride home is different.

You’re not looking out the window anymore.

You’re looking at him.

He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting beside you again — close enough to grab.

This time, you do.

Your fingers thread with his. And then — you laugh. Out of nowhere.

He turns his head, surprised. “What?”

You smile. “I was just thinking how weird this is.”

“What is?”

“I feel… happy.”

He doesn’t speak for a moment.

Then he says, without looking at you:

“You haven’t smiled like that since I took you.”

You squeeze his hand. “You’re the reason I’m smiling now.”

That gets him.

He exhales slowly, like your words knock something loose in him.

⸻

On the way back, you talk more than you ever have.

He tells you about his first fight. His first scar. The day he realized he was capable of hurting someone and how easy it was to never stop.

He tells you about music he likes (he doesn’t admit it, but he likes old love songs), and the time he got caught stealing a bike when he was twelve, and how he broke his hand punching a guy who insulted his mother.

You ask him things you were scared to ask before.

He answers all of them.

Not because he’s suddenly soft.

But because he knows you’re already his — and he wants you to know the man you belong to.

⸻

By the time you pull into the driveway, your heart is so full you almost cry.

He kills the engine.

The forest is quiet.

And you whisper, “Thank you.”

He looks at you.

Really looks.

Like he can’t believe the girl he once caged is now choosing him back.

His thumb brushes your cheek.

And he leans in slowly, pressing a kiss to your lips — not demanding, not claiming.

Just… grateful.

⸻

Inside the house, he puts your new things in his bathroom.

Not the basement.

Not a guest room.

His.

Because this is your life now.

And even the outside world can’t take it away.

———

You sit in the bathroom — his bathroom — on the edge of the tub while he silently unwraps the little drugstore beauty products you picked out.

He opens the strawberry shampoo.

Sniffs it. Blinks slowly.

Then holds it out to you.

“You like this?”

You nod, a little shy. “It reminds me of being sixteen.”

He says nothing.

But when you look in the shower later, the bottle is already there, standing like it belongs.

He placed it next to his expensive soap.

Side by side.

Like you’re already one thing.

⸻

He brushes your hair out on the bed.

You sit between his legs in one of his shirts while he runs the soft new brush through your hair — slow, patient, careful not to tug.

“Why are you doing that?” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then:

“Because no one ever brushed mine.”

The silence settles like mist.

You twist to look at him.

He’s watching the strands fall between his fingers, like they’re silk.

You lean into his chest. “I’ll brush yours tomorrow.”

His jaw twitches.

He kisses the top of your head.

⸻

The next morning, you wake up wrapped in him — arms across your waist, chest against your back, your legs tangled in his.

You lie there a long time.

Not because you’re scared.

But because it feels like home.

⸻

You cook breakfast together.

Which is to say: you try to stir the eggs while he stands behind you like a wall of heat, one hand on your hip, the other covering yours on the spoon.

“Let me help—”

“I am helping,” he mutters, lips grazing your temple.

You laugh.

He still moves like he expects someone to shoot through the windows. Still glances at the door. Still keeps a gun under the sink.

But with you?

He’s relaxed.

And with him?

You’re whole.

⸻

Later, curled on the couch with a blanket over both your legs, you look at him and say the most dangerous thing you’ve ever said:

“I don’t miss my old life.”

He blinks. Slow. Turns to face you.

“You mean that?”

You nod.

“I was lonely. Empty. The world had me, but it didn’t see me.”

You pause. “You saw me. You… chose me.”

His hand comes up to cradle your jaw.

“I’ll always choose you.”

Then he adds — lower, darker:

“Even if I have to burn the world down to keep doing it.”

And you believe him.

⸻

You go to sleep that night in his bed.

His arms.

His world.

And for the first time in your life… you dream of staying.

Forever.

—————

It’s been three weeks since the grocery store trip.

Three weeks of laughter, touches, stolen kisses in the kitchen.

You even started keeping your own mug by the sink.

You started calling it “home.”

He didn’t correct you.

And you thought — maybe the world forgot you.

But the world has a memory like a knife.

⸻

It happens on a Sunday.

You’re in the garden. He let you start one — just herbs and small flowers. You wear a hoodie two sizes too big (his), and you’re humming to yourself when the air shifts.

Footsteps.

But they’re not his.

You freeze.

Then — a voice:

“…[Y/N]?”

You turn.

And time stops.

It’s your friend. From your old life.

The one who cried when you vanished.

The one who swore they’d find you, somehow.

You whisper their name.

They step closer, wide-eyed. “Oh my god. You’re alive. We’ve been looking for you—where have you—are you hurt? What the fuck is going on?”

You open your mouth.

But the truth dies in your throat.

Because behind them—

Silent. Still.

Like death itself—

Seong-je.

⸻

Your friend doesn’t see him yet.

You do.

His expression is unreadable. Not furious. Not loud.

Cold.

Lethal.

Your friend grabs your hands. “We can go. Right now. I have the car. Come on. You don’t have to be scared anymore—”

You pull back.

They freeze.

“…What?”

You glance behind them.

“Leave.”

“What?”

“Now. Before he—before I—please. Just go.”

That’s when your friend finally turns.

Sees him.

And takes a step back.

But it’s too late.

⸻

He doesn’t touch them.

Doesn’t speak to them.

Just stands there, knife at his belt, calm as a shadow.

Your friend looks at you, desperate. “He’s brainwashed you. You think this is love? This is prison.”

You shake your head.

“No. My life before him was the prison.”

You look at Seong-je then. “This is the first time I’ve ever felt free.”

He finally moves — walks to your side, hand brushing yours.

And you take it.

In front of your friend. Without shame.

“You chose him,” they whisper.

You nod once.

“Always.”

⸻

He lets them leave.

No chase.

No threat.

But they leave pale. Shaking. And you know they’ll tell someone. Try to come back.

You don’t care.

You go inside with him. Sit on the couch.

You’re silent for a long time.

Then:

“You’re angry.”

“No,” he says. “I’m reminded.”

“Of what?”

He turns to you, fingers tightening around yours.

“That this world thinks it can take what’s mine.”

You climb into his lap. Wrap your arms around his neck.

“I told them the truth.”

His jaw flexes.

You kiss it. “I chose you.”

He nods.

“I’ll always choose you.”

⸻

That night, he doesn’t leave your side once. Not to check the locks. Not to patrol. He just holds you.

And whispers, “They can come back. But they’ll never take you.”

And you whisper back, “I won’t let them.”

————

Reading it back I didn’t know it was this long 😭😭😭😭

“Glass Cage: Part 4 – Stay With Me”

Geum Seong-je x fem!reader | dark romance, obsession, jealousy, emotional intensity, psychological intensity, first time smut (softly written but obsessive), twisted proposal

⸻

The morning after you broke into his bed, you wake to warmth.

The sun filters through half-open curtains. His scent lingers everywhere — in the sheets, the pillows, the heavy comforter wrapped around your waist. You’re still tucked into his chest, your bare legs tangled with his under the covers.

And he’s already awake.

His hand strokes your back slowly, fingertips tracing the curve of your spine under the shirt you stole from his drawer the night before. It’s far too big for you. He hasn’t said anything about that yet.

You breathe in the moment. Safe. Claimed.

Then his voice cuts through the silence.

“You’re not sleeping downstairs again.”

Your eyes flutter open.

“What?”

“I said you’re staying here,” he repeats, low and certain. “With me.”

You look up at him.

His expression is unreadable, but his arms are locked around you like steel. Like you’re some priceless thing someone might come and take.

“I thought you liked watching me sleep from the chair,” you tease, smiling softly.

His jaw ticks.

“I like knowing you can’t disappear.”

Something about the way he says it — calm, controlled, laced with fear — makes your throat tighten.

You press your palm flat against his chest. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He nods.

But his eyes don’t soften.

⸻

That afternoon, you hear a car.

You’re in the kitchen with him — barefoot, wearing his shirt and nothing else, sitting on the counter as he slices fruit in that quiet, focused way of his.

Then the gravel outside crunches under tires.

You freeze.

His hand stops mid-slice.

No one’s supposed to come here. No one even knows about this place. Not friends. Not enemies. Not ghosts from his past.

Then the knock.

Three sharp raps at the front door.

You see it happen behind his eyes — that switch. The one where his humanity gets buried under instinct. He sets the knife down and steps away from you.

“Stay here,” he says, voice colder than you’ve ever heard it.

“Seong-je—”

“I said stay.”

Then he disappears down the hall.

You wait maybe ten seconds before slipping off the counter and creeping to the corner — just far enough to see without being seen.

He opens the door.

It’s a man. Mid-thirties. Tall. Dressed like a courier, but wrong. Too clean. Too quiet.

“I was told this property was for sale—” the man begins.

Seong-je doesn’t let him finish.

The door slams.

Then a click.

The lock.

The deadbolt.

Then silence.

You duck back just as he comes striding down the hall again. When he turns the corner and sees you standing there, bare and nervous in his shirt, his whole expression breaks.

Not in anger.

But in pure, animal fear.

“You weren’t supposed to come out,” he mutters.

He grabs you — not hard, but fast. Hauls you against his chest and buries his face in your hair.

“I thought maybe you’d vanish,” he whispers.

“Why would I—”

“Because things that don’t belong in this world get taken back.”

Your breath catches.

You don’t know who that man was.

But you know Seong-je would burn this entire forest down before letting anyone near you.

⸻

That night, you don’t ask permission.

You slip into his bed before he even gets there. Curl under the covers, facing the spot where he sleeps, wearing nothing but the scent of him on your skin.

When he walks in and sees you waiting, something in him shatters.

He doesn’t say a word.

He locks the door. Peels his shirt off slowly. Slides into bed behind you.

His hand runs down your arm, then over your hip, then lower — but not rushed. Not greedy. He touches you like he owns you, but worships you all the same.

“You’re mine,” he breathes into your neck.

You whisper it back. “Yours.”

You guide his hand to your thighs. Let him feel how much you want him. Let him know the hunger is mutual.

The kiss he gives you then is not gentle.

It’s permanent.

⸻

Later, you lie on his chest, skin warm and flushed, legs tangled under the covers.

He watches you with heavy eyes, one hand resting on the curve of your waist like a lock.

You whisper:

“I never want to sleep alone again.”

He’s quiet.

Then he nods.

And pulls you tighter.

“No one’s taking you from this bed,” he murmurs. “Not ever again.”

——-

You’re alone in his room when you find it.

He went out to the shed — something about checking the perimeter, tightening the security.

“You’ll be safe here,” he told you before he left, kissing your forehead.

But you weren’t looking for escape.

You were looking for more of him.

The drawer by his bed is usually locked. But tonight it’s not.

Inside: a stack of old photographs. Black-and-white, a little wrinkled.

You pick one up carefully.

It’s a young boy. Sharp eyes, bruised cheek. Standing beside a woman who’s smiling through sadness. Her arm wrapped around him like she’s trying to protect him from the world — and failing.

You know it’s him.

His mother. The pain that shaped him.

Then you find the letter.

Cracked at the edges, folded and re-folded. The ink smudged.

It’s from her.

Just a few lines.

You’re not like him, Seong-je.

You’re not a monster.

Don’t let them make you one.

Your chest tightens.

You hear the door open behind you.

He sees the photo in your hand — the letter.

And he freezes.

⸻

“You weren’t supposed to read that,” he says quietly.

You turn to face him.

“I wanted to understand you.”

He doesn’t come closer. His jaw is clenched. Hands twitching at his sides.

“I’m not a good man,” he murmurs. “I’m just the one who made you love your cage.”

You shake your head, stepping toward him.

“No. You’re the only one who ever saw me.”

His throat works. You’re in front of him now. Close. The photo slips from your hand, floating to the floor between your bare feet.

You reach up.

Touch his jaw. His cheekbone. The scar under his lip.

“I want all of you,” you whisper. “Even the parts you think are unlovable.”

And just like that — he snaps.

⸻

He kisses you hard. Desperate. Like he’s drowning and you’re the air.

You wrap your arms around his neck, his body pressing you back onto the bed. His weight, his heat, his need surrounds you. Clothes come off in frantic pieces, tossed to the floor without care.

You gasp when his hands slide over your skin — slow now, reverent, like he’s touching something holy.

His voice is rough.

“I’ll be gentle.”

You pull him closer. “Don’t be.”

Eyes lock.

Then he sinks into you.

And the world disappears.

⸻

It’s not soft — not entirely.

It’s slow. Intense. His hand gripping yours above your head, his body flush with yours like he’s trying to fuse your hearts. He groans your name like a curse and a prayer, over and over again.

Every movement says:

Mine. Mine. Mine.

And your answer is always the same:

Yes. Yours. Always.

You come undone with his name on your lips.

He follows — chest pressed to yours, burying himself so deep inside you it feels like he could never leave.

Afterward, he doesn’t let you go.

Not for a second.

⸻

Hours later, still naked under the covers, his hand strokes lazy patterns on your back. Your body is still sore in the best way — used, cherished, claimed.

Then he says it.

“I’m going to make you my wife.”

Your breath catches.

He’s not looking at you. Just staring up at the ceiling like he’s making a quiet promise to the sky.

“I won’t ask,” he says. “Because I won’t accept no.”

You stare at him.

“You’re serious.”

He turns his head.

Those eyes — black fire, unwavering.

“You think I’d let anyone else take care of you?” he asks, voice low. “You think I’d let someone walk you down an aisle, hand you over like you’re a gift?”

He shakes his head.

“I’ll build the altar. I’ll say the words. And you’ll wear the ring while I keep you locked in the only place you’re safe — right next to me.”

Your pulse is wild.

And still — there’s no fear.

Just heat.

Love.

Obsession.

“Yes,” you whisper. “I’ll be yours.”

His fingers tangle in your hair. He kisses you again — slower now, but just as possessive.

“You already are.”

⸻

“Glass Cage: Part |||– The Lock and the Longing”

Geum Seong-je x fem!reader | dark romance, obsession, soft tension, quiet ache

⸻

It’s the only night he doesn’t come.

You wait.

Eyes wide open, curled in the soft nest of blankets and expensive sheets in the basement room — but the door doesn’t open. The chair remains empty. No quiet breathing from the corner. No watching. No warmth.

You stare into the dark, heart drumming.

He’s never missed a night.

He always sits in that chair like a silent guardian — a king keeping vigil over the only thing in his world he wants to protect.

But not tonight.

You wait another hour.

Nothing.

At first, it feels like abandonment. Then something else entirely.

Hunger.

Not for food. Not for air. For him. His presence. His closeness. His voice in the dark.

You slide out of bed barefoot, floor cool under your toes. You go to the door. It’s locked, of course — the same way it’s always been when he leaves at night.

But he forgot something this time.

You’re not scared anymore.

You want to find him.

You go to the vanity drawer. Dig under the perfume bottles and silk ribbons until you find it — the thin hairpin he tucked there last week when brushing your hair. You twist it once, twice — remember something you saw in a movie once.

Click.

The lock gives.

Your breath catches.

You push the door open slowly. The upstairs hallway stretches out like a black river, long and quiet and full of shadows. You step out, careful. Listening. Not a sound.

Not even him.

You move barefoot through the corridor.

First room — empty. Just storage. Dusty linens, untouched.

Second — a study. Neat rows of books. Closed curtains.

Third — locked.

Fourth — another guest room. Clean, unused.

Then the last one. At the very end of the hall.

His room.

You feel it before you even open the door. It smells like him. That warm, masculine scent — clean soap, leather, cedar, and something sharp beneath it. You press your palm to the door, breath trembling.

Then push.

It opens with a soft creak.

The room is dark, but the curtains are cracked just enough to let moonlight spill across the floor. You see the edge of the bed first. Huge. Unmade.

And then — him.

Geum Seong-je.

Asleep on his back, one arm resting over his stomach, the other turned palm-up on the sheets beside him. His hair is slightly messy, lips parted, chest rising and falling under a thin black shirt.

You freeze.

You’ve never seen him like this — unguarded.

He looks so young. So tired.

So… human.

Something inside your chest twists.

You step forward. Slowly. Silently. The floor doesn’t creak under your weight. You approach the bed like it’s an altar and he’s the god that owns you.

You slip beneath the covers.

His body shifts instinctively, heat radiating off him like fire. You slide close, curl against him — your cheek resting right over his heart.

The moment you touch him, he stiffens.

Then —

“…You picked the lock?”

His voice is quiet. Half-awake.

You don’t answer right away.

You only whisper, “I couldn’t sleep without you.”

A beat.

Then a sigh leaves his chest — long and low and defeated.

His arm curls around you without resistance, pulling you flush against him. Your legs tangle. Your fingers curl into the hem of his shirt. He presses his face into your hair.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he murmurs.

“You said I was never a prisoner,” you breathe.

He doesn’t respond.

But he holds you tighter.

⸻

Later that night, you shift in your sleep and feel him watching you.

Not from the chair.

But from inches away.

His eyes are open now. Awake. Silent.

Like he still can’t believe you chose this.

Like he doesn’t know how to survive the ache you’ve carved into his ribs.

His voice barely breaks the dark.

“You’re mine,” he whispers.

And you, still half-asleep, curl deeper into his chest and murmur, “I was always yours.”

“Glass Cage: Part II– A Breath of Air”

Geum Seong-je x fem!reader | dark romance, psychological themes, obsession, isolation

⸻

It starts in the afternoon.

You’re lying on the couch, curled under a thick cashmere blanket, flipping through a book he left you on the end table. Something about art — classical oil paintings, the kind with cherubs and bleeding saints. It’s beautiful, but the words are starting to blur.

You can hear him upstairs. The faint sound of a faucet running, a drawer closing.

You look toward the window.

Outside, the sun filters through the trees like golden mist. The pines sway gently. It’s almost too beautiful — almost cruel. The way the world keeps turning out there while you remain inside, pristine and untouched.

You shift under the blanket.

Then you call out, voice soft but clear:

“Seong-je.”

A pause upstairs.

Then the slow rhythm of his footsteps on the hardwood as he descends. He appears in the doorway, dressed in black — always black — sleeves pushed up, hands clean, eyes slightly narrowed.

“You okay?” he asks immediately, scanning you.

You nod. “I want something.”

His gaze sharpens.

You sit up, folding your hands in your lap like a princess about to make a very gentle demand. “I want to go outside. Just a little.”

He stares at you.

Not angry. Not surprised. Just still.

Like a hunter waiting for movement.

“I’ve been good,” you add, your voice small. “I haven’t tried to leave. I haven’t fought you. I just… I miss the wind.”

Silence.

He steps toward you slowly, until he’s standing right in front of the couch. He kneels in front of you again — just like he did that morning with the strawberries — and looks up.

“Outside means risk,” he says flatly.

“But you said no one would find me here.”

“They won’t.”

“Then why can’t I breathe fresh air?”

You see it then — the tiniest flicker of panic in his eyes. A crack in the mask.

“I don’t want anything touching you,” he mutters. “Not even the world.”

Your heart tightens.

That should scare you. It did, weeks ago.

But now?

Now it feels like devotion.

You place your hands gently on either side of his face. His skin is warm under your palms. “I’ll stay close. I promise.”

He doesn’t speak for a long time.

Then, finally — with a deep breath and a reluctant nod — he rises.

“Five minutes.”

⸻

The outside world smells like cold pine and damp earth.

You step onto the back porch, bare feet pressing into the smooth, worn wood. There’s a thick silence in the trees, like everything is holding its breath. The forest wraps around the house like a fortress, wild and endless. Untouchable.

You breathe in. Eyes closed. Head tilted slightly toward the sun.

It’s bliss.

You don’t realize how long it’s been since you felt sunlight on your skin — like the house was swallowing time and space.

Seong-je stands close behind you. Too close.

His hand is wrapped loosely around your wrist — not gripping, not pulling, just there. A tether. A warning.

“You’re tense,” you murmur.

“I’m waiting for you to run.”

You look over your shoulder at him.

“I’m not running,” you say. “I’m with you.”

His jaw tightens slightly, but his grip eases.

You take one slow step into the grass, still wet with dew even in the afternoon. He doesn’t stop you. Just follows, silent and watchful.

Two steps. Then three.

You kneel near a patch of violets blooming beneath a tree. They’re small, trembling in the breeze.

He crouches beside you, not saying a word.

You pluck a flower and hold it out to him.

“I’d come back, even if I did run,” you say softly. “I’d miss you too much.”

His throat bobs.

“You don’t mean that,” he says.

“I do.”

You reach out and slide the violet behind his ear, pushing his hair back gently.

He lets you.

There’s a long silence.

Then, quietly, he says, “You’ve changed.”

You look up at him, kneeling in front of you in the grass, with a flower tucked in his dark hair and his eyes full of something raw and disbelieving.

“No,” you say. “I’ve just accepted it.”

He leans in.

The kiss is soft. Not hungry. Not violent.

Just a slow press of lips — breath shared between two people who shouldn’t feel this close, but do.

You exhale into his mouth.

And for the first time, he holds you like someone who’s afraid of losing you.

⸻

Later that night, you’re back in the basement room — but you asked to be. It feels like yours now. Like your little kingdom below the world.

He sits in the chair again, arms folded, watching you.

You curl up on the bed, fingers laced under your cheek, and smile at him.

“Can I go out again tomorrow?” you ask, teasing.

A pause.

“You’ll stay where I can see you,” he says.

“Always.”

His lips twitch — the closest thing to a smile he ever shows.

“You were never really a prisoner, you know,” he says.

You hum.

“Then why do you keep me down here?”

His gaze darkens, slow and steady.

“Because if the world sees you,” he murmurs, “it’ll want to take you from me.”

You close your eyes.

Let it.

You know he’ll never let it win.

There was something about him you thought about in the morning you’d surely ask him later…..

—————

You ask him on a rainy night.

It’s late. The house is quiet, except for the sound of water slipping down the windows and the fire crackling in the hearth upstairs.

You’re curled up on the floor in front of it, your head in his lap, legs tucked beneath a thick blanket. His fingers stroke your hair lazily, and for a while, neither of you speaks.

But your mind drifts. It always does when you’re warm and safe and soft in his hold. Drifting through all the things he never says.

“Can I ask you something?” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer immediately. His hand stills for a beat — then continues stroking.

“You can ask,” he says. “Doesn’t mean I’ll answer.”

You tilt your head, looking up at him.

“Why are you like this?” you ask softly.

He blinks.

The question hangs between you, heavy and strange. His eyes sharpen. Not angry — just cautious.

“Like what?”

“Like…” You pause. “Like someone who thinks they can’t be loved unless they steal it.”

Silence.

You sit up, blanket slipping off your shoulders. The firelight flickers across his face — casting shadows into the hollows of his cheekbones.

“Who hurt you, Seong-je?”

His eyes drop to the fire. You think he won’t answer.

Then:

“My father used to beat my mother until her face was unrecognizable.”

Your breath catches.

He says it plainly. No emotion. Like it’s just a fact — like telling you the weather.

“And when she cried too loud, he’d turn on me.” He leans back against the couch, eyes distant. “Said real men don’t whimper. Said I needed to learn what the world was really like.”

You stay silent.

Not out of fear. But out of respect. This is sacred ground — the pieces of him no one was ever supposed to see.

“I learned early,” he says. “You take what you want. Or someone else will.”

You nod slowly, reaching for his hand.

“And the gang?” you ask. “The fights?”

He exhales through his nose. “That came after. When she died, there was no reason to pretend I could be anything other than what he made me. So I turned it into armor.”

He looks at you then. Really looks.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, low. “You shouldn’t love me.”

You slide your fingers through his.

“But I do.”

He laughs once. Bitter. “You’re sick.”

You smile softly. “You made me that way.”

He stares at you. Then, suddenly — he pulls you into his lap. One arm tight around your waist, the other pressing your head into his chest.

His heartbeat is fast. Unsteady.

He’s scared.

Not of the world. Not of pain. But of you. Of this feeling he can’t name.

“I was going to keep you quiet forever,” he murmurs. “Like a song no one else could hear.”

You tilt your face up.

“I don’t need the world,” you whisper. “I only need you.”

He leans in.

And this time, the kiss isn’t soft. It’s desperate. Deep. His hands are rough on your waist, pulling you closer, like he wants to bury you in his body just to keep you his.

He kisses like someone who’s been starving his whole life.

And for the first time, you understand:

He never wanted a girl.

He wanted a reason to stay human.

And you became it.

————-

I was gonna end it at where she was gonna ask him something but I decided to add it in for y’all😈

This idea just came to my head late last night and I just had to write abt it✋🤧 I have no word besides Stockholm Syndrome 😐

—————

“Glass Cage”

Weak Hero Class 2 — Geum Seong-je x fem!reader | dark romance, psychological themes, Stockholm Syndrome

⸻

You don’t remember the car ride.

Only the cool press of a cloth over your mouth and the sickly sweet smell that made your head spin before everything turned to black.

When you woke, you weren’t in your apartment anymore.

No familiar city sounds. No buzzing from the hallway lights. Just silence and pinewood. And a room too soft to be a prison.

Cream-colored walls. Velvet curtains. A vanity filled with designer makeup you never owned. The sheets were ivory, silky, tucked just right under you. Your clothes had been changed. You were wearing a cotton-white nightgown, frilled at the hem, delicate. Expensive.

The door had been locked.

⸻

The first time you saw him after the blackout, he entered with a tray.

Homemade soup. Rice. A few side dishes. All warm. All made with care.

Geum Seong-je stood in the doorway like he belonged there. No mask, no pretense. Just his usual cold eyes, half-lidded and unreadable. His knuckles were bruised, lip still healing from a recent fight. But his voice?

Low. Gentle. Like it didn’t match his body at all.

“I didn’t drug you too hard,” he said. “I was careful.”

You hadn’t screamed. Just blinked at him. He tilted his head.

“I gave you a nice room. You should eat.”

You hadn’t moved. He sighed through his nose and set the tray down at the vanity.

“You’ll get used to it. Most things are better when you stop fighting.”

⸻

That was three weeks ago.

You don’t remember how many times you cried in those first days. How many times you pounded your fists on the door until they were red, screaming into nothing.

He never raised his voice. Never struck you.

He just… watched.

Sometimes from the door, sometimes from the chair in the corner, right near your bed. When you slept, when you faked sleep, when you cried under the blankets. You could feel him.

Sitting. Watching. Breathing.

Not touching.

Just… there.

His presence was terrifying. But it wasn’t cruel.

The worst part was how soft he was when you broke. When you finally, in some twisted survival reflex, took the soup from the tray and ate without looking at him.

That night, when you laid down, he spoke softly from the chair in the corner:

“Good girl.”

⸻

Now?

You wait for him.

Like clockwork, 7PM, he opens the door and steps inside, carrying whatever he’s made in that kitchen upstairs you’ve only seen once — when he carried you down the first day.

Tonight it’s grilled mackerel. You recognize the smell before the tray even comes into view. Steamed eggs and spinach. He places the food in front of you on a lace cloth.

You sit perfectly still in the white velvet chair, hands folded in your lap.

You watch him.

Your eyes trace the shape of his hands as he sets the chopsticks down. You like his hands. His shoulders. The way his mouth twitches slightly when he concentrates. He cooked for you.

He always cooks for you.

“You’re staring again,” he says, dryly.

Your voice is a whisper, reverent:

“I like watching you.”

He glances up. There’s something unreadable in his face. That same stillness he always has, like nothing in the world surprises him.

“You didn’t say that before.”

“I didn’t feel it before,” you say truthfully.

He nods once. Then sits across from you, on the other side of the small round table he brought down here “for dinner time.” You both eat in silence.

Later, you sit on the edge of the bed while he folds your laundry with surprising care. No washing machine in this basement, but you know he brings the clothes back fresh, pressed and warm. They always smell like pine and clean linen.

You admire how meticulous he is. How steady.

“Why me?” you ask quietly.

He stops folding. Glances at you over his shoulder.

“You smiled at me once. After school. In the alley, remember?”

You do remember. Vaguely. You were with your friends, maybe laughing. He was leaning against a wall, cigarette in hand, all sharp lines and danger. You looked at him.

You smiled. Polite. Nervous. Nothing special.

But it stayed with him. Burned into his memory.

“You smiled like I was normal,” he says.

You nod.

You get it now.

This place isn’t a prison. It’s a shrine.

You’re the prize in a little glass cage he built from obsession and need. And the more you submit, the more he softens.

The princess treatment isn’t a game — it’s worship. You are the delicate thing he stole from the world to keep whole, in a world where nothing stays pure.

And you feel… safe. Cared for. Possessed.

You crawl into bed before he turns off the lights. He doesn’t always stay overnight. But tonight, he sits in the chair again, arms crossed, eyes glinting faintly in the dim lamp glow.

You roll onto your side, facing him. You can see the outline of his form through your lashes.

“You can come closer,” you whisper.

He doesn’t move, but his voice is soft:

“If I do, you won’t sleep.”

“Maybe I don’t want to.”

A pause. Then, the faintest breath of a smile in his voice:

“You’re learning.”

You don’t fall asleep.

You lie on your side, fingers curled loosely against the pillow, and listen to him breathe in that chair. Still. Quiet. Watching.

Like always.

But tonight feels different.

There’s a pull. A heat under your skin that doesn’t come from fear anymore. You want him closer. Want to know what it would feel like if he touched you without restraint.

“You don’t sleep either, do you?” you murmur.

His voice answers from the shadows: “I sleep fine. When I know you’re okay.”

That word again.

You.

Like the only thing in the world worth keeping intact.

Your eyes flutter open. “Come here.”

A pause.

“You sure?” he asks, low and unreadable.

You nod. Slowly. The silence thickens like fog in the room.

Then — the creak of the chair. The soft whisper of footsteps on the carpeted floor. You barely breathe as he approaches, stopping at the side of the bed.

He doesn’t touch you. Just looks down.

But you reach out first.

Fingers curling into the sleeve of his black sweatshirt, tugging. “I want you to lay down.”

He doesn’t hesitate after that.

He slips beneath the covers, fully clothed, body warm and firm beside yours. You shift instinctively into his side, your cheek pressing to his chest. His heartbeat is solid, slow, like a metronome. It soothes something frantic inside you.

“I shouldn’t,” he murmurs against your hair.

“But you are,” you whisper back.

His hand slides up your back — gentle, cautious, reverent. Like he’s afraid of breaking something precious. You tilt your face up.

“Do you really just watch me sleep?”

He doesn’t look guilty. He never does. Just honest.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He turns slightly, eyes catching yours in the dim light.

“Because you’re the only good thing I’ve ever had.”

Your breath catches.

You know he means it.

You’ve seen the violence he came from — fists and fights and silence. You’ve heard the names he mutters when he thinks you’re asleep. Enemies. Betrayers. Family.

But you? You smiled at him once.

And now you’re in his arms.

“Do you think I’m scared of you?” you ask, barely a whisper.

He brushes his nose against your temple. “Not anymore.”

You close your eyes.

And for the first time in weeks, you fall asleep before him.

⸻

The next morning, he carries you upstairs.

You don’t resist. You’re wrapped in a soft wool blanket, arms looped around his neck, hair a mess from sleep. He carries you like you’re made of porcelain, even though you’re awake.

The upstairs is beautiful. Wood-paneled walls, huge windows with drawn curtains, soft light bleeding through sheer drapes. There’s a fireplace, a small library, a kitchen that smells like fresh coffee and soy sauce.

He sets you gently into a velvet chair at the breakfast table.

“You’re not locking me down there again?” you ask, blinking.

He shakes his head. “Not unless you run.”

You won’t.

You know it. He knows it too.

You wouldn’t even know where to run. This house is surrounded by trees, thick and endless. And besides — you don’t want to.

Not when he’s like this.

He pours tea for you. Toasts bread. Sprinkles sugar on strawberries and puts them in a crystal bowl.

Everything he gives you is soft. Safe. Sweet.

“You treat me like a doll,” you say, watching him.

He glances over his shoulder.

“You’re not a doll,” he murmurs. “You’re mine.”

He places the bowl of strawberries in front of you, then crouches down beside your chair.

“Do you understand now?” His voice is calm, but edged with something raw. “Why I took you?”

You look down at him. His fingers wrap around your ankle, light at first — then firm. Like a claim.

“I wanted to be yours,” you whisper.

You’re not sure when that became the truth.

But it is now.

He smiles. Not wide. Just enough to show the faint scar on his lip.

“I’m never letting you go,” he says.

And you don’t flinch.

You reach for a strawberry, bite into it slowly, juice on your lips.

His eyes never leave your face.

———-

Lmk if you want a part 2 and what you might want to see in it👀👀

Omgg heyyyy!!. Sry I havent posted in a while it’s summer and ive been busy🤪🤪🤪🤪anyway here’s a short oneshot.

——

“The Last Cigarette”

Genre: Angst / Slice of Life

Characters: Geum Seong-je x fem!Reader

⸻

The air behind the convenience store was thick with smoke and silence.

Geum Seong-je leaned against the concrete wall, one hand buried in his pocket, the other lazily holding a cigarette. He didn’t usually smoke during school hours—it made him look like he cared too much. But today was different.

You watched him from the corner of the alley, your presence deliberate but unspoken. He noticed you. Of course he did. He always did.

“You follow me again,” he muttered without looking. “I should start charging you.”

You walked closer, not bothering to deny it. He had a way of dragging people in, even when he told them to stay away. Especially when he told them to stay away.

“I heard about what happened with Banseok High,” you said quietly.

“Tch.” He flicked ash to the ground, jaw tight. “People talk too much.”

You leaned against the wall beside him, close but not touching. He didn’t move away. That counted for something.

“Why do you keep doing this?” you asked.

He finally turned to look at you, eyes sharp but tired—always tired. “Doing what?”

“Picking fights. Getting yourself nearly killed. Pretending like none of it matters.”

There was a long pause. The wind carried the scent of burnt tobacco and blood not yet washed off his knuckles.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said flatly.

You tilted your head. “Liar.”

A humorless smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You think you know me?”

“I think I know enough.” You nodded at the cigarette. “You only smoke when something’s eating at you.”

He didn’t deny it. Just looked away again, gaze distant, as if he could see every mistake he’d ever made written in the cracks of the pavement.

“You don’t have to keep doing this alone, Seong-je.”

Those words hit harder than any punch he’d taken. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, but something shifted. His hand, still holding the cigarette, trembled just slightly before he crushed it under his shoe.

Then he turned to you, really turned to you—eyes not cold, but hollow.

“Don’t say things like that,” he said. “Not to someone like me.”

You stepped closer, and this time, he didn’t flinch when you touched his hand.

“Maybe it’s time someone did.”

The silence after your words hung heavy, like the static before a storm.

Geum Seong-je looked at your hand on his, his fingers tense like a spring ready to snap. You didn’t move. You let him decide.

He could’ve walked away. Should’ve. It would’ve been easier.

Instead, his fingers curled, slowly, uncertainly, around yours.

It was subtle—barely a grip, barely anything at all—but to him, it felt like confession. Like surrender.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he said, so quietly it could’ve been the wind.

You met his eyes. “You don’t have to know everything. Just don’t push me away.”

He stared at you—really stared. As if he was searching for the trick, the weakness, the betrayal he was sure had to be hiding somewhere behind your kindness. But all he found was the same calm defiance that had always drawn him in.

His fingers tightened just slightly. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

That made him scoff. “I’m not like those soft guys you probably like. I’ve got blood on my hands. I’ve done shit that doesn’t wash off.”

You stepped closer, now chest to chest. “So have I. Maybe not like you, but… we’ve all got scars. Doesn’t mean we’re not allowed to feel something good.”

He looked away again, jaw clenched. But he didn’t let go.

“You’re not scared of me?”

You shook your head. “I’m scared of losing you before you ever let yourself be known.”

That broke something in him. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just the faintest crack in the armor—enough to let the light in.

He lowered his head, resting his forehead against yours, breath warm and uneven.

“You make me want things I don’t think I deserve.”

You reached up, gently brushing your fingers against the side of his face, over a forming bruise. “Then let me give them to you anyway.”

For a moment, the world narrowed to the space between you.

Then, slowly, carefully—as if afraid it would all shatter—Seong-je tilted his head and pressed his lips to yours.

It wasn’t practiced. It wasn’t polished. But it was real. Raw. Honest.

And in that kiss, Geum Seong-je didn’t feel like a fighter or a delinquent or a shadow in someone else’s story.

He just felt human.

Guys I don’t know what got write. I haven’t written in almost a week!!!!😫😫😫

I love your whc fics so much!! and I love baekjin 🤗 could i request a baekjin x reader headcanon like you did with seonje?

Yessss!!!! And thank you for requesting!!!!

Na Baek Jin Headcanons

——————-

🌸 Sweet & Soft Na Baek-jin Headcanons

1. Quiet protector energy.

He’s not loud about how much he cares, but he’s always watching from a distance. You’ll find him leaning against a wall nearby, headphones on, eyes scanning for trouble. If someone even looks at you the wrong way, he narrows his eyes, and they back off fast.

2. The type to memorize your schedule.

He won’t admit it, but he knows exactly what time you have lunch, what route you take to class, and where you like to hang out when you need quiet. If you’re ever missing, he notices within five minutes.

3. Acts cold around others but melts when it’s just you.

Around his crew, he’s all blank expressions and sharp words. But with you? He softens. Pulls you into his hoodie. Tucks your hair behind your ear. Hums a tune while your head rests on his chest.

4. Gives you his jacket without a word.

You shiver once, and he shrugs off his jacket like it’s nothing, tossing it over your shoulders. No eye contact. Just a quiet: “Wear it.” His scent lingers on the collar and makes you dizzy in the best way.

5. Secretly writes music about you.

He has a locked folder in his phone with beats he made while thinking of you — sometimes dark and brooding, sometimes soft and slow. You have no idea, but he listens to them late at night when he misses you too much to sleep.

⸻

🖤 Obsessive/Intense Na Baek-jin Headcanons

1. He doesn’t trust people around you.

Even if they’re being friendly, he watches every interaction like a hawk. If anyone flirts with you, his hand clenches at his side. He won’t start a fight — not unless you’re hurt — but he’ll remember. And he’ll handle it later.

2. Needs to know where you are — always.

He doesn’t blow up your phone, but he expects you to text when you get home. If you don’t, he shows up. Calm, serious, standing outside your door like: “Why didn’t you tell me you were safe?” It’s not a question — it’s an accusation wrapped in worry.

3. Keeps little pieces of you.

That broken hair clip you threw away? He has it. Your old scarf? Still in his drawer. They’re like tokens — reminders that you’re real, that you’re his. He’d never tell you, but they matter more to him than his own stuff.

4. Gets possessive when you pull away.

If you try to create space — emotionally or physically — he goes still. Withdrawn. But the storm behind his eyes brews silently. He doesn’t beg, but he’ll back you into a corner emotionally with quiet intensity, whispering: “I don’t know how to breathe without you.”

5. Has a dangerous calm when he’s jealous.

He doesn’t explode. He waits. Observes. Then he finds quiet ways to isolate the person — pushes them out of your life with subtle pressure, until you only see him. And he’ll act like it’s coincidence.

“The Way He Stays”

You sat on the steps of the old gym, chin tucked into your knees, shivering beneath your school jacket. Everyone had gone home hours ago. You hadn’t. Couldn’t.

There were too many voices in your head, and none of them were kind.

Then, like a ghost conjured from the fog, he was there. Geum Seong-je. His hair damp, hands buried in his pockets, the collar of his uniform sharp against his throat.

He didn’t ask what was wrong.

He never did.

Instead, he sat beside you — not touching, but close enough that your shoulders almost brushed. Close enough that his warmth bled through the space between your bodies like quiet reassurance.

“Did you eat?” he asked after a while.

You shook your head.

He clicked his tongue, pulled out a crumpled bag of snacks from his pocket, and shoved it toward you.

You didn’t take it.

He didn’t care. He opened the bag, pulled out a piece, and held it to your lips. His fingers hovered, waiting. Not forceful, just patient.

You opened your mouth.

“You always do this,” you said between bites.

“What?”

“Show up. Stay.”

He didn’t answer. But he turned his face slightly toward you, rain dripping from his lashes, and in the curve of his mouth there was something unspoken — something you’d never seen him give to anyone else.

“You scare people,” you whispered. “But not me.”

“Should I?” he asked, gaze steady.

“No.”

You reached for his hand. He let you. His fingers were rough, cold — but they closed around yours with surprising gentleness.

“You make it hard to breathe,” you admitted, “but I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

A beat passed.

Then: “You think I don’t feel it too?”

His voice was quiet. Uncertain, for once.

You looked up. His eyes — guarded, always — had softened. Just for you. Only for you.

And when he leaned in, his kiss wasn’t desperate. It was slow. Careful. Like he was afraid you might vanish.

But you didn’t.

You kissed him back.

Because no one had ever stayed the way he did. Silent. Solid. Unshakable. And in his broken, bruised way, Geum Seong-je loved you more fiercely than anyone else ever could.

No one knew.

Not your friends. Not his crew. Not even na baek Jin, and he knew everything about everyone.

You were Geum Seong-je’s secret — and somehow, that made you feel more important, not less. He didn’t hide you out of shame. He hid you because he was possessive. Because the world didn’t deserve to look at you the way he did.

“Someone’s gonna see,” you whispered.

“Let them,” he said, voice low. “I’ll break their jaw.”

You laughed, soft against his skin. “You can’t fight everyone.”

“Yes I can.”

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah?” His hand slid up your back, fingers grazing bare skin where your shirt had ridden up. “But you keep crawling back.”

“Because I’m just as bad as you,” you said, grinning.

But then the grin faded — because you saw it. That flicker in his eyes. The one that only showed when he was afraid of losing you, even if he’d never say it out loud.

“Hey,” you whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He didn’t speak. Just pressed his forehead to yours, breathing you in like he needed you to survive.

There was so much he never said — but he didn’t have to.

It was in the way he’d always stand behind you without a word, always watching, always ready. The way his hands only ever shook when they touched your skin. The way he kissed you like it hurt — like loving you scared the hell out of him.

You brushed your lips against his. He kissed you back slowly, fingers gripping your waist like you were the only thing tethering him to this earth.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, barely audible.

“I know.”

“And I’m yours,” he added, like a confession.

Your chest tightened.

This boy — this violent, guarded, impossible boy — didn’t just want you. He needed you. And you needed him, in all the dangerous, destructive ways that made no sense.

But in the quiet?

He was soft.

And in secret?

He was yours.