“You Don’t Know Me, But You Will”

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.

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👀👀

“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 9 – The Night They Came”

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

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

⸻

It was raining.

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

The house smelled like vanilla and red wine.

The soft hum of the heater filled the room.

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

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

Just looking.

Seong-je had kissed your temple and whispered:

“She looks like you when she sleeps.”

You smiled, eyes full.

“You say that every night.”

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

⸻

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

Two glasses of wine.

His fingers intertwined with yours.

Married.

Safe.

Hidden.

In love.

You almost believed the world had forgotten you.

You almost believed forever could fit inside four walls.

And then—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Three deafening knocks on the front door.

Too hard.

Too fast.

Too official.

You jolted.

Wine glass spilled.

Your heart stopped.

Seong-je was already on his feet.

You grabbed his arm.

“Don’t—wait—don’t open it—”

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

“Stay with the baby.”

“No—”

Too late.

He opened the door.

⸻

Ji-won was standing in the rain.

Behind him—

Two FBI agents.

Their badges out.

Jackets soaked.

Guns visible.

Outside, headlights cut through the dark.

Several cars.

People moving behind trees.

Voices on radios.

It wasn’t just a knock.

It was a raid.

⸻

You stepped into the hallway, barefoot.

And time slowed.

You saw Ji-won’s face.

Guilt. Regret.

And something like mourning.

One agent stepped forward, raising his voice:

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

You couldn’t process it.

“W-what? What’s going on—?”

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

Your world cracked like glass.

The baby monitor screeched from the table.

Your daughter crying, wailing in the other room.

“No—no—no!”

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

“Ma’am—step aside—”

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

But Seong-je just looked at you.

Not afraid.

Just heartbroken.

⸻

He lowered himself slowly to the floor.

Hands on his head.

The agents surrounded him.

Cuffed him.

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

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

You were shaking, clawing to get to him.

The rain poured harder.

Your feet slipped in the mud.

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

And he smiled.

Just a little.

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

“You’re safe now,” he mouthed.

“I love you.”

⸻

You ran after them.

Screaming.

Begging.

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

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

But the engine roared.

The door slammed.

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

You stood in the driveway.

Soaked.

Bleeding from your knees.

And screamed.

“BRING HIM BACK—”

“PLEASE BRING HIM BACK—”

⸻

The FBI tried to talk to you.

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

“Are you okay? Do you need medical—?”

You shoved her away.

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

And you collapsed.

Right there in the mud.

Hands in your hair.

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

⸻

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

The monitor was still glowing.

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

“She won’t even remember his face…”

——-

“No One Else” — Part 7: “The Silence Between Us”

Genre: Dark romance, emotional unraveling, obsession

Tone: Cold war tension, quiet heartbreak, dangerous buildup

I have no music for this one😖

⸻

You didn’t answer that night.

And you didn’t follow him when he walked away.

That was the beginning.

The shift.

The unraveling.

⸻

You stopped texting first.

You sat with other people at lunch.

You let your headphones drown him out in the hallway. Walked past him without slowing down. Not in hatred—just in resistance.

You needed to know if you were still a person without him. If your thoughts were your own. If your voice didn’t echo back his name every time you breathed.

He noticed, of course.

He always noticed.

⸻

At first, he didn’t confront you.

Just watched.

From his usual spot near the stairs. Or across the hall. Or from a corner of the convenience store he never used to go to.

He watched you laugh with someone else.

He watched you tuck your phone deeper into your bag.

He watched the space between you grow like a wound.

And then—he started cracking.

⸻

It came out in bursts.

One day, he grabbed your wrist in the hallway. Too tight. Too fast.

“Don’t ignore me,” he said.

You stared at him, calm and deliberate. “You said to choose. I’m choosing.”

He didn’t let go.

His hand was shaking.

You’d never seen him shake before.

“You think walking away makes you free?” he asked. “You think I’ll just disappear?”

“I don’t know,” you whispered. “Do you want to disappear, Seong-je?”

That made something in him snap.

He let go.

But the next day?

He wasn’t at school.

And neither was the guy you’d been working on the project with.

⸻

You found out through someone else that the kid ended up in the nurse’s office with a busted lip and no explanation.

You didn’t ask.

You knew.

You went home that night with your heart pounding and your stomach twisted.

You wanted space.

But distance from Geum Seong-je didn’t feel like freedom.

It felt like walking through a minefield barefoot.

⸻

He didn’t show up again for three days.

And for three days, you slept with your phone on your pillow, waiting.

Not because you missed him.

But because some part of you knew—when he came back, he wouldn’t come quietly.

And if you weren’t ready, he’d take back everything you were trying to reclaim.

One word at a time.

Sup! Love your content

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

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

Xx

“No Need to Hide”

Pairing: Geum Seong-je x fem!reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Romance

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

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

⸻

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

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

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

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

Scars.

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

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

“Wait…” he said quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked quickly, eyes stinging.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

——-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath caught in your throat.

“You mean that?”

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

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

“I’m scared sometimes,” you admitted.

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

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

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

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

You nodded.

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

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

“Thank you,” you whispered.

“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.

“Just Hold Me”

Pairing: Geum Seong-je x Reader

Reader has gone through a bad day and just needs to feel safe

Genre:fluff

⸻

The day had clawed its way through you.

Everything that could go wrong had. Your phone screen cracked. You failed a test you swore you were ready for. Someone said something cruel, and it stuck to you like tar. Every word today felt louder than usual. Every hallway, more suffocating. You were tired of people talking at you, expecting things from you, watching you.

You didn’t cry. Not yet. You just moved on autopilot, feet dragging until they brought you to the one place you didn’t have to pretend.

The warehouse was quiet. Familiar.

Geum Seong-je was there, back turned, doing something with his hands—maybe taping up his gloves, maybe cleaning up after a fight. He always had a reason to keep busy. Even when things were quiet around him, his body was never truly still.

You didn’t say anything. You just walked up behind him slowly, like approaching a wild animal. You knew how he was. Touchy. Defensive. Like if you leaned on him wrong, he’d snap and bare his teeth. But today… today you just needed something to anchor you.

So you leaned forward and rested your head gently on his back, arms not even wrapping around him—just laying against him like a ghost of a hug.

He stiffened immediately.

“The hell are you doing?” His voice was sharp, not yelling—but cutting.

You didn’t move. “I’m tired.”

He took a step forward, trying to shake you off. “Go sleep somewhere else.”

You grabbed the back of his hoodie, fingers curling into the fabric like it was the only thing keeping you from sinking. “Just for a second.”

He turned around now, face shadowed, brows furrowed in irritation. “I’m not your damn pillow. Don’t come around me like that.”

You finally looked up at him, and this time you couldn’t stop your voice from cracking. “I just want to be held.”

It came out so small.

So raw.

Like a piece of you broke off and landed at his feet.

He opened his mouth—probably to say something sharp, maybe tell you to go home—but then he saw your face. Not just your red-rimmed eyes or the trembling line of your mouth, but all of it. The weight. The silence. The fight you had clearly already lost with yourself.

His jaw tightened. Then relaxed.

He sighed, turning his head slightly like he was annoyed with himself.

“…Tch. Come here.”

You didn’t move fast—scared he’d change his mind if you did. But he didn’t stop you when you stepped forward. Didn’t push you when you leaned into him again.

This time, his arms came up—awkward at first, like he didn’t know where to put them. But eventually, one arm wrapped around your back, then the other rested lightly on your shoulders. It wasn’t tight. It wasn’t romantic. But it was real.

Warm. Solid. Human.

His hoodie smelled like worn leather and faint cologne. His chest was steady under your cheek. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding for hours.

You didn’t talk.

He didn’t ask what happened.

And that was the best part.

Seong-je wasn’t the type to whisper comforts or tell you things would be okay. But he was warm. And still. And after a few minutes, his hand lifted—hesitantly—and started brushing down your back in a slow, grounding motion.

“You should’ve just said something,” he muttered under his breath.

You smiled weakly into his chest. “I didn’t think you’d let me.”

“…Yeah, well.” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t think you’d cry on me either, but here we are.”

You weren’t crying, not really—but maybe he said it just to give you permission.

You stayed like that for a while. Long enough for the noise in your head to dull. Long enough for his arms to tighten just a bit more. Long enough to believe—for a little while—that the world wasn’t as cruel as it had felt this morning.

And Geum Seong-je, rough edges and all, held you like maybe he needed this too.

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.