“The Last Cigarette”

“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😈

Every Time

Geum Seong-je x Fem!Reader

Dark Romance · Obsession · Intimate NSFW · Angst & Craving

____________

You hadn’t seen him for three weeks.

You changed your number. Blocked him everywhere. Moved out of your apartment without telling anyone where. But Geum Seong-je had a way of finding things — people — when he wanted them. And he always wanted you.

So when you opened the door to your new place and saw him standing there in the hallway, hood up, eyes bloodshot, fists clenched at his sides, you knew it was over.

“You really thought you could disappear on me?” he said quietly.

You should have slammed the door. Screamed. Called for help. But your heart was already racing — not from fear. From that sick, aching part of you that missed him every night, even when you hated him.

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

“I never stopped looking.”

His voice was low, almost broken. When he stepped into your apartment without asking, you didn’t stop him. When he grabbed your face and kissed you like he was drowning, you didn’t push him away. And when he whispered, “You ruined me, and you think I’d let you leave?” — you pulled him closer.

His jacket hit the floor. Your shirt followed. His hands were rough, desperate — dragging down your back, gripping your waist like he could hold you in place forever.

“Say it,” he growled against your neck. “Say you missed me.”

You didn’t want to. You tried to lie.

But his hand slipped between your thighs, fingers sliding over your underwear, and your body betrayed you with a soft gasp that only made him smirk.

“Liar,” he whispered. “You’re soaked.”

He pushed your panties aside, fingers teasing you, slow at first, then harder when you arched into him. Your hands tangled in his shirt, dragging it over his head. His body was tense, inked with bruises and rage, but he let you touch him like you were the only thing that calmed the fire.

“You think I don’t know you?” he rasped. “You leave, you run — and you still want me like this.”

You hated how true it was.

He pushed you back onto the bed, crawled over you like a storm — wild eyes, clenched jaw, every muscle in his body coiled like he was barely holding himself together. He kissed you like he wanted to devour you. And when he finally slid inside you, deep and punishing, you moaned his name like it was salvation.

“I’ll never let you go,” he groaned into your ear. “I’d burn the whole world to keep you.”

His thrusts were rough at first, fueled by weeks of madness — but when your nails dug into his back and your legs wrapped around his waist, he slowed. Not because he wanted to — but because he needed to feel you break for him.

Every time you gasped his name, every time your body trembled around him, it made something darker settle behind his eyes.

“You’re mine,” he said, forehead against yours, breath heavy. “You always fucking were.”

When you came undone under him, crying out, he followed with a hoarse moan and buried his face in your neck, breathing you in like you were the only thing keeping him alive.

He didn’t leave that night.

He held you after — arms wrapped tightly around you, his voice barely a whisper: “Run again, and I’ll come find you. Over and over.”

And you knew you would let him.

Every time.

Guys I don’t know what got write. I haven’t written in almost a week!!!!😫😫😫

⸻

“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.”

“No One Else” — Part 8 (Final): “If I Can’t Have You”

Genre: Dark romance, psychological climax, toxic intimacy. Very little brief mention of smut

Tone: Obsessive desire, emotional conflict, sensual tension, blurred lines

A/n: this is the last part but if you want like a follow up of there lives i’ll do it!!

⸻

You knew he’d come back.

He’d been gone for three days, but his absence only thickened the air, like the moments before a storm—calm, but electric. When you opened your bedroom door and found him there, sitting on your bed in silence, it wasn’t fear that hit you first.

It was recognition.

You shut the door quietly behind you. Your heart didn’t race. It waited.

“Hello,” he said.

His voice was low. Tired. Dangerous.

“I should call someone,” you said.

“You won’t.”

And the terrifying part was—he was right.

He stood slowly, shadows clinging to him like they belonged to him. His presence filled the room until you couldn’t breathe around it. He looked at you like a man who’d spent days walking barefoot through hell, just to stand in front of you again.

“You lied to me,” he said. “You pulled away.”

“I needed to.”

“I needed you,” he growled, stepping closer. “Do you know what it felt like? Thinking you’d outgrown me? That you’d left me?”

You stepped back, but not far.

He stopped inches from you, chest rising and falling fast. He looked desperate and furious and shattered.

“I wanted to forget you,” you whispered.

“Liar.”

His hand cupped your jaw—rough, trembling. His thumb slid over your cheek like he was memorizing it all over again.

“I hate what you make me,” he said. “But I’d rather be this—unhinged, broken, obsessed—than feel nothing without you.”

You should’ve pushed him away.

You wanted to.

But his lips were already on yours—demanding, aching, full of everything he hadn’t said in days. And God help you, you kissed him back.

Not out of love.

But because it was the only thing that made the silence bearable.

⸻

It wasn’t soft.

It was all fingernails and breathless gasps and clothes dragged off in frustration. He didn’t touch you like he was asking for anything—he touched you like he was claiming you. And you let him.

Because some part of you still needed to be wanted this much. Still craved the danger of him, the way his voice said your name like it was a prayer and a threat all at once.

“Mine,” he growled against your throat.

“Say it.”

You hesitated.

Then: “Yours.”

And it broke you.

⸻

After, you lay tangled in the sheets—half on top of him, your breath slowly returning. Your mind was blank. Your body buzzed. Shame and longing mixed into something you couldn’t name.

He looked at you, eyes calmer now. Sadder.

“Tell me you won’t leave again,” he whispered.

You didn’t answer.

Not yes. Not no.

Just laid your head on his chest and closed your eyes.

Because maybe this wasn’t love.

But it was the closest either of you had ever come.

And that was enough.

For now.

“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 😭😭😭😭

“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.”

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👀👀

I Know You Missed Me

Dark romance•smut**

Geum seong je x fem!reader

You hadn’t seen him for three weeks.

You changed your number. Blocked him everywhere. Moved out of your apartment without telling anyone where. But Geum Seong-je had a way of finding things — people — when he wanted them. And he always wanted you.

So when you opened the door to your new place and saw him standing there in the hallway, hood up, eyes bloodshot, fists clenched at his sides, you knew it was over.

“You really thought you could disappear on me?” he said quietly.

You should have slammed the door. Screamed. Called for help. But your heart was already racing — not from fear. From that sick, aching part of you that missed him every night, even when you hated him.

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

“I never stopped looking.”

His voice was low, almost broken. When he stepped into your apartment without asking, you didn’t stop him. When he grabbed your face and kissed you like he was drowning, you didn’t push him away. And when he whispered, “You ruined me, and you think I’d let you leave?” — you pulled him closer.

His jacket hit the floor. Your shirt followed. His hands were rough, desperate — dragging down your back, gripping your waist like he could hold you in place forever.

“Say it,” he growled against your neck. “Say you missed me.”

You didn’t want to. You tried to lie.

But his hand slipped between your thighs, fingers sliding over your underwear, and your body betrayed you with a soft gasp that only made him smirk.

“Liar,” he whispered. “You’re soaked.”

He pushed your panties aside, fingers teasing you, slow at first, then harder when you arched into him. Your hands tangled in his shirt, dragging it over his head. His body was tense, inked with bruises and rage, but he let you touch him like you were the only thing that calmed the fire.

“You think I don’t know you?” he rasped. “You leave, you run — and you still want me like this.”

You hated how true it was.

He pushed you back onto the bed, crawled over you like a storm — wild eyes, clenched jaw, every muscle in his body coiled like he was barely holding himself together. He kissed you like he wanted to devour you. And when he finally slid inside you, deep and punishing, you moaned his name like it was salvation.

“I’ll never let you go,” he groaned into your ear. “I’d burn the whole world to keep you.”

His thrusts were rough at first, fueled by weeks of madness — but when your nails dug into his back and your legs wrapped around his waist, he slowed. Not because he wanted to — but because he needed to feel you break for him.

Every time you gasped his name, every time your body trembled around him, it made something darker settle behind his eyes.

“You’re mine,” he said, forehead against yours, breath heavy. “You always fucking were.”

When you came undone under him, crying out, he followed with a hoarse moan and buried his face in your neck, breathing you in like you were the only thing keeping him alive.

He didn’t leave that night.

He held you after — arms wrapped tightly around you, his voice barely a whisper: “Run again, and I’ll come find you. Over and over.”

And you knew you would let him.

Every time.