Weak Hero Class:

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.”

I need more geum seong je fics to read on here. Ive done read them all😩😩😩

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.

“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.

“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?”

———-

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.

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.

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.

“Only I Hurt You”

Oneshot were seong je finds reader in his bed after he was out handling a couple of guys who had fought her while walking home in an alley way (he told her to go home but she went to his house instead)

The front door creaked when he opened it.

Blood still clung to his knuckles, dried into the creases of his fingers. His hoodie was soaked with someone else’s sweat, maybe some of his own, and the adrenaline hadn’t fully left his bloodstream yet. It rarely did.

They’d laid hands on you. That was enough to make him see red. Enough to make him track them down like dogs.

But the house was too quiet now.

Geum Seong-je kicked off his boots and headed down the dim hallway. The rain hadn’t stopped — he could still hear it hammering against the windows. He told you to go home. Told you to listen.

You never listened.

And when he stepped into his bedroom, there you were.

Curled in his bed, soaking wet, blood streaked down one arm, your lip split and trembling. His sheets were damp. Your clothes were stuck to your skin like a second layer. Your shoes were still on.

“You walked here?” His voice came out low. Barely controlled.

You didn’t look at him. Didn’t answer.

He crossed the room in two steps.

“You walked here. In the rain. After they touched you?”

You blinked. He could see the shiver you tried to suppress, your body reacting before your pride could hide it. The blood on your shirt wasn’t all dried. Some of it was still fresh.

“I didn’t want to be alone,” you whispered.

That cracked something in him.

Geum Seong-je didn’t speak for a long moment. He just stood there, fists clenched, chest rising slowly. Then, without a word, he knelt at the edge of the bed and started untying your soaked laces. You flinched when his knuckles brushed your ankle.

“I told you to go home,” he muttered. “But you came here, instead.”

Your voice was barely audible. “This is home.”

He froze. Just for a second.

Then he yanked your shoes off with more force than necessary and peeled your jacket away from your shoulders. It clung, resisting, your blood and the rainwater mixing into a mess that stained his fingers.

You tried to sit up, but his hand landed on your thigh — firm, grounding.

“Stay still.”

You didn’t dare disobey.

He left for a moment. You heard drawers open, the faucet running. When he came back, he had a towel, gauze, ointment, and one of his oversized shirts.

“Take the top off.” His tone left no room for argument.

You moved slowly, the sting in your ribs sharper now that the adrenaline was fading. He watched you, eyes narrow, jaw tight, like he was memorizing every bruise so he could repay them tenfold.

He cleaned the cut on your arm with terrifying gentleness, fingertips brushing over your skin like you were something fragile, breakable.

“You should’ve called me,” he murmured.

“You told me to leave.”

“You should’ve still called.”

Your eyes flicked up. “Would you have come?”

He paused.

Then leaned in.

“I’m always coming for you.”

The silence between you tightened, thick with something you didn’t know how to name. You winced when he pressed antiseptic to your split lip. He cupped your jaw to steady you, his thumb brushing your cheek, rough with callouses and blood.

“I handled it,” he said. “They won’t touch you again. They won’t touch anyone again.”

A beat.

“Did you kill them?”

His eyes didn’t flinch. “No. But I made them wish I had.”

The room went still.

“You scare me sometimes,” you admitted.

He brushed damp hair from your face. Then leaned forward and kissed your forehead — barely a whisper of contact.

“I know,” he said. “But I’m the only one who’s allowed to hurt you.”

You didn’t know whether to cry or kiss him.

So instead, you let him pull his shirt over your head, let him dry your hair with the towel like he’d done this a hundred times before. And when he climbed into bed behind you, one arm sliding under your neck and the other over your waist, pulling you close, you didn’t fight it.

You just let yourself be held. By the boy who broke bones with his fists and still handled you like porcelain.

Because somehow, in all this cold, bleeding chaos —

Geum Seong-je was the only warmth you had left.

⸻

“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.”