“Glass Cage: Part |||– The Lock And The Longing”

“No One Else” — Part 3: “Downhill Doesn’t Feel Like Falling”

Genre: Angst, dark romance, mutual obsession

Tone: Slow-burning surrender, dangerous comfort

⸻

You should’ve left.

You should’ve screamed. Slammed the door. Blocked his number. Told someone.

Instead, you let him in.

Not just into the building. Into your room. Into your space. Into that quiet, aching part of you that had grown used to his presence—his chaos—his control.

He didn’t smile when you opened the door.

He didn’t need to.

The moment you stepped aside, the silence between you both said everything.

You sat on the floor beside your bed. He followed, without a word. Shoulder to shoulder. Close, but not touching.

It was almost worse than touching.

“You scare me,” you whispered. The words burned your throat.

He didn’t flinch.

“Good,” he said again, voice low. “Then we’re still real.”

You turned your head slowly to look at him. His profile was all shadows and sharp lines. Beautiful in a way that hurt to look at too long.

“You don’t scare me like a stranger does,” you said. “You scare me because… you feel like home sometimes. The kind of home that locks all the doors behind you.”

His eyes shifted toward yours. “I told you before. You make me worse.”

“And I told you,” you murmured, “you make it hard to breathe.”

Neither of you moved. But something between you did. A pull. A surrender. A sick kind of trust.

“Then don’t breathe,” he said. “Not if it means walking away from this.”

You should’ve fought it.

But your hand moved. Found his.

Not because you forgot what he’d done. What he could do. But because no one had ever made you feel so seen. Even when he hated your freedom, even when he tried to cage it—he saw you.

And you were so tired of feeling invisible everywhere else.

“I think I hate you sometimes,” you whispered.

He smiled. “That means it’s real.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder. And he finally, finally breathed out like he’d been waiting hours for that single moment.

Like your head there was the missing piece in a puzzle made entirely of jagged edges.

“Promise me something,” you murmured.

His body tensed beneath you.

“Anything.”

“Don’t ever lie to me. Hurt me, break me, scare me—fine. But don’t pretend this is something sweet. Don’t call it love when it’s something darker.”

He was quiet for a long time. Then:

“I won’t lie. This isn’t sweet. It’s twisted. It’s wrong.”

His hand tightened around yours.

“But it’s ours.”

You closed your eyes.

And for the first time in days… you slept.

Wrapped in danger. Wrapped in obsession. Wrapped in the one person you knew would burn down the world just to keep you for himself.

And part of you?

Part of you liked it.

“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 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.

“No One Else” — Part 5: “Collateral”

Genre: Dark romance, psychological drama, emotional fallout

Tone: Dangerous affection, unraveling consequences, possessive tension

(The guy Jun hyuk is a made up character for this fan fic)

⸻

It wasn’t just between the two of you anymore.

People had started to notice.

The way you always sat next to him—even when there were open seats. The way his eyes followed you like a tracking system. The way no one could joke with you anymore without feeling like a shadow was hovering behind them.

You hadn’t meant for it to get this far.

But the deeper you fell into him—the more obvious it became that there was no getting out without a cost.

And people were beginning to pay it.

⸻

It started with Jun-hyuk.

He’d been your friend since middle school. Safe. Easygoing. The kind of guy who knew your mom’s name and brought you snacks during exam week.

He was also the first person to finally say it out loud.

“You’ve changed,” he told you after school, standing just outside the school gates. “You don’t laugh anymore. You watch. Like you’re waiting for something bad to happen.”

You didn’t answer.

He stepped closer. “Is it… is it Seong-je?”

The name made your chest tighten. You hated how much you liked hearing it from someone else’s mouth. Like he was yours, and everyone knew.

You didn’t say yes. You didn’t have to.

Jun-hyuk’s jaw clenched. “He’s not normal. You know that. He’s dangerous.”

“He protects me.”

“No,” he snapped. “He isolates you.”

That made you look up.

And the worst part?

You felt angry.

Because even if it was true—even if you knew it deep down—he didn’t get to say it. Not him.

Not anyone.

⸻

You told Seong-je about it that night.

Not because you wanted him to do anything.

But because you wanted him to know.

He was silent for a long time after you finished. Sitting beside you, eyes on the floor, the silence thick.

Then he spoke.

“Do you miss him?”

You turned your head slowly.

“Do you want me to?”

His gaze snapped to yours. Cold. Controlled.

But something was breaking.

“No,” he said. “Because if you ever do…”

He trailed off. Didn’t finish.

Didn’t need to.

⸻

Jun-hyuk stopped showing up to school the next day.

Rumors swirled.

Some said he got into a fight and didn’t want to come back.

Others said someone threatened him.

You knew the truth.

And when Seong-je sat beside you in class like nothing had happened—calm, composed, triumphant—your stomach twisted.

But you didn’t say anything.

Because part of you felt safe.

And part of you liked it.

⸻

You were losing things.

But you still had him.

And in the growing silence of your life, that started to feel like enough.

Even if he was a storm and you were just learning how to breathe in the eye of it.

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👀👀

“The Quiet Between Us”

Pairing: Yeon Si-eun x fem!reader

Genre: Fluff, slow-burn comfort

⸻

The wind was crisp today—cool enough to make you shiver despite the faint sunlight filtering through the trees in Yeongdeungpo Park. You tugged your sleeves over your hands and glanced beside you.

Yeon Si-eun was sitting on the park bench, back straight, hands resting neatly on his knees. His expression was neutral as always—guarded, distant—but you could tell he was relaxed in his own way. The gentle sway of his leg and the way he let out a soft breath every now and then told you more than his face ever did.

“You’re cold,” he said suddenly, his voice low.

You blinked. “What gave it away? My chattering teeth?”

His gaze flickered to you—dry, deadpan.

“You’re not that subtle,” he replied.

You rolled your eyes, but smiled. “You could offer me your jacket, you know. Like a proper gentleman.”

“I would,” he said without missing a beat, “but you’d probably drown in it.”

That made you laugh, and you didn’t miss the tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth. You loved that—you loved the way he didn’t smile often, but when he did, it felt like you’d uncovered something rare. You didn’t need big gestures with Si-eun. His presence, his quiet concern, was enough.

“You always come out here when you’re thinking,” you said, watching the small pond across from the bench. Ducks floated lazily, undisturbed by the cold.

“It’s quiet here.”

“You don’t like quiet?”

“No, I like it,” he said, turning his head slightly to look at you. “But when I’m with you, the quiet feels different.”

Your heart stuttered.

He wasn’t the kind of guy to say things like that. He wasn’t the type to offer compliments or be affectionate without reason. But every now and then, he dropped these quiet, thoughtful lines that left you breathless.

“Different how?” you asked softly.

Si-eun looked away, watching the leaves dance in the breeze. His brows drew together—not in irritation, just contemplation. You’d come to recognize the subtle shifts in his expressions.

“It’s not heavy,” he finally said. “Silence is usually… pressure. But with you, it’s not.”

You didn’t speak for a while, afraid that anything you said might shatter the moment. You simply leaned your shoulder into his, your touch light but intentional. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t move away.

He let you stay there.

That was enough.

⸻

You and Si-eun weren’t dating—at least, not officially. You weren’t even sure what you were. Friends, maybe. Companions. Something suspended in that space between understanding and unspoken affection.

But days like this made you feel like you didn’t need a label.

“You know,” you said after a while, watching a kid try to feed bread to a pigeon twice his size, “most people wouldn’t pick a cold bench over their warm beds on a weekend.”

He shrugged. “Most people aren’t me.”

“Mm, true. But most people aren’t this pretty, either.”

That made him pause.

“Pretty?”

“You know you are,” you teased. “If you ever wanted to stop beating people up, you could just model for skincare brands. You’ve got that ‘stone-cold beauty’ thing going for you.”

He gave you a flat look, but his ears were pink. That was enough for you to claim victory.

“You’re weird,” he said quietly.

“So are you.”

There was a pause. He was still looking at you, his gaze lingering just a moment too long to be casual.

“That’s why I don’t mind being around you,” he murmured.

You were pretty sure your heart forgot how to beat for a second.

⸻

Later, the two of you wandered the nearby streets, your footsteps naturally falling in rhythm. Si-eun didn’t talk much, but his presence filled the space in other ways. You always noticed the little things—how he walked on the side closest to the road, how his eyes subtly scanned your surroundings, how he slowed his steps if you fell behind.

There was comfort in that. In knowing that he cared in ways that didn’t need to be said aloud.

You stopped in front of a small convenience store.

“Want hot chocolate?” you asked.

He nodded once. You ducked inside, grabbing two cans of warm cocoa from the heated shelf. When you came back out, he was leaning against the wall, hands tucked into his pockets, face turned up slightly to the sky like he was trying to read something in the clouds.

You handed him one can.

“Thanks,” he said, fingers brushing yours as he took it.

The contact made you warm in a way the drink couldn’t.

You both stood there for a moment, sipping cocoa in silence.

“I used to do this alone,” he said suddenly.

You looked at him.

“Come out on weekends. Watch people. Drink hot chocolate.”

You smiled. “Sounds lonely.”

“It was.”

His eyes met yours. There was something unguarded in his gaze, a softness that didn’t come often.

“It’s not anymore,” he said.

“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?”

———-

Geum seong je x reader headcanons!!

Obsession Disguised as Protection

• He tells you he’s “just keeping you safe,” but it’s really about control. You’re not allowed to walk home alone. Your location is always known.

• He doesn’t trust anyone else with you — even your friends. He’ll start isolating you, gently at first. Then, not so gently.

• If someone touches you — even accidentally — he notices. And that person will feel it, later. Quietly. Violently.

Emotional Withholding & Power Games

• He’s not affectionate in public. Not out of shame — but control. You’re his. That’s enough.

• When you fight, he shuts down. Ice-cold silence. You’ll beg for a reaction, and he’ll stare at you with that deadpan expression that makes your heart drop.

• But later, he’ll show up outside your door, bruised from a fight, and press his forehead to yours like nothing happened.

Violent Loyalty

• The only way he knows how to love is through violence. If someone hurts you — even emotionally — he will retaliate.

• He doesn’t understand emotional boundaries. If you cry, he gets angry. Not at you — at the world. At whoever made you feel like that.

• He has no limits when it comes to revenge. People disappear. Rumors start. You stop asking questions.

He Watches, Always

• He doesn’t need to ask what you’re doing. He already knows. His reach in the streets makes sure of that.

• Sometimes he’ll be standing outside your class, not saying a word. Just watching. People start whispering. You don’t know if you’re flattered or terrified.

• He reads your texts when you leave your phone unattended. Not because he doubts you. Because he needs to know.

His Softness is Conditional

• He shows affection when you’re broken — when you’re crying in the dark or trembling after a confrontation. That’s when he becomes gentle. That’s when his voice drops low, and he brushes hair from your face like you’re something fragile.

• But if you act too independent, too distant? He withdraws immediately. Gives you the cold shoulder until you come crawling back. He needs to feel needed.

Your Pain Grounds HiM

• He doesn’t flinch at your anger. But your tears? That kills him — because he knows he causes them, and yet he still wants to keep you close.

• He once held you after a breakdown and whispered: “No one’s allowed to hurt you. Not even me.” But he already had.

Codependence as Romance

• He tells you, “You don’t need anyone but me.” Over and over — until you believe it. Until it’s true.

• You can’t tell if you’re in love or if you’ve been caged. But some twisted part of you doesn’t want to escape.

• He’d burn the world down for you — but he’d burn you too, just to keep you his.

BONUS IMAGINES!

Even if he has a cold demeanor he would give In to your hugs and kisses and if you asked he’d cuddle you to sleep.

He loves seeing you wrap your arms around him if it means you will sleep feeling safe.

If it ever seems he’s not listening to you when he’s on his while your telling him all your school problems or girl drama. He’s most likely writing down names so he knows who he can’t trust around you.

Arguments end the same sometimes with him. He’s yelling at you. He leaves y’all’s apartment.he comes back with silent treatment, so your the one having to say sorry. Then y’all end up cuddling on the couch watching tv

“No One Else”

Pairing: Geum Seong-je x Reader

Genre: Angst, possessiveness, obsession, unresolved tension

Setting: Post-Class 2 events, dark school rooftops and quiet apartments

⸻

You shoved his hand off your wrist for the third time that night.

“Geum Seong-je,” you snapped. “You’re not my boyfriend. You don’t get to act like this.”

His eyes flickered. Not wide, not surprised—but focused. Too focused. Like a lion watching prey try to limp away.

“Don’t call me by my full name like that,” he said, stepping forward. His voice wasn’t loud, but it tightened the air between you.

“Why not? That’s your name, isn’t it? Or should I start calling you what people actually say behind your back?”

He raised a brow. “You think I care what people say?”

“You care when I say it.”

That shut him up, for a beat. And that silence felt more dangerous than any insult he could throw.

You folded your arms, already regretting coming up to the rooftop with him. He’d cornered you at the stairwell after your last class, asking—no, demanding—a word. Always when no one else was around. Always when it would be easier to just nod and let him have his say.

You should’ve said no.

“You were with him again,” Seong-je said finally, his voice low. “You know who I mean.”

You blinked. “Are you seriously bringing this up again? He’s a friend. A normal friend.”

“Normal? You think that guy’s not waiting for you to give him one smile and climb into his lap?”

You stepped back. “You’re out of line.”

He followed, slow and deliberate. “Maybe. But I’m not wrong.”

“Even if you’re not, it doesn’t matter. You don’t get to dictate who I hang out with. You don’t own me.”

That word. Own.

His face twitched. Not angry. Not yet. Just… strained. Tense in that way he got when he was trying not to lose control.

“I don’t want to own you,” he said. But his eyes said otherwise. “I just want you to understand. I’m the one who sees you for who you are. Not them. Not that guy. He doesn’t know how your voice sounds when you’re lying. I do.”

You stared at him, arms still crossed. “That’s not love, Seong-je. That’s surveillance.”

He laughed. Just once. Sharp, bitter.

“Love?” he repeated. “You think what you make me feel is love?”

You paused. The rooftop air felt colder suddenly. And quieter. His voice dropped to a near whisper.

“I don’t sleep some nights,” he said. “Not because of guilt. I don’t have much of that left. But because I can’t stop thinking about you. What you’re doing. Who you’re smiling at. If you’re still thinking about me or if you’ve finally decided I’m just another freak with a control problem.”

You didn’t speak. Because he wasn’t wrong. You had thought that. Maybe still did.

“But then you do something stupid,” he continued. “Like laugh too loud in the hallway. Or wear something that makes every guy turn his head. And I realize—they don’t get to see you like that. They don’t get that part of you. Only I do.”

You exhaled slowly. “That’s not love either. That’s obsession.”

He stepped closer again, so close you could smell the faint trace of smoke and mint he always carried. Not cologne—something darker. More dangerous.

“I don’t care what you call it,” he said. “As long as it keeps you away from him.”

You glared at him. “You think I’ll drop my friends just because you said so?”

He leaned in, voice quiet enough that you could feel it in your spine.

“I think you already have. At least a little. Because you’re still here. Because even when I scare the hell out of you… you stay.”

He was right. And that terrified you more than anything.

Because you had a million chances to walk away from Geum Seong-je. From his temper, from the way he made everything a war, from the way his gaze felt like it could skin people alive—but you didn’t.

Maybe because part of you liked how intense he got. How he looked at you like you were the only real thing in a world full of pawns and trash. Maybe you liked being the one exception.

But at what cost?

“You need help,” you whispered.

His head tilted, eyes unreadable. “You make me worse. You know that, right?”

You nodded, slowly. “Yeah. And you make it really hard to breathe sometimes.”

He looked at you for a long time. No smirk. No anger. Just a quiet, razor-sharp stare.

“Good,” he said. “Then we’re even.”

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t sweet.

It was a claim.

Possessive. Bruising. A kiss like a warning.

You didn’t kiss back. But you didn’t push him away, either.

And when he pulled back, his hand still wrapped around your wrist, you realized he wasn’t going to let go.

Not tonight. Maybe not ever.

“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.