No One Else(follow Up) Mine, Completely

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

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

“Glass Cage: Part 5 – Almost Normal”

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

⸻

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

So he surprises you.

“I’m taking you out today.”

You turn, startled. “What?”

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

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

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

He looks up. Eyes soft, unreadable.

“I want to give you something.”

You ask what.

He answers without words.

Just freedom.

⸻

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

You eventually take it.

And he lets you.

⸻

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

It’s perfect.

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

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

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

But something about it makes you smile.

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

And vanish around the aisle.

⸻

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

“ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ɪs sʜᴇ?”

His voice.

Sharp. Controlled. But underneath it — panic.

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

You step out. “I’m here.”

His eyes snap to yours.

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

“You don’t leave my sight.”

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

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

He stares at it. Then at you.

Then walks away with it.

You follow him, heartbeat still fast.

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

He never asks if you want them.

He just buys them because you touched them.

Because if you want it, it’s yours.

⸻

The ride home is different.

You’re not looking out the window anymore.

You’re looking at him.

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

This time, you do.

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

He turns his head, surprised. “What?”

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

“What is?”

“I feel… happy.”

He doesn’t speak for a moment.

Then he says, without looking at you:

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

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

That gets him.

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

⸻

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

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

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

You ask him things you were scared to ask before.

He answers all of them.

Not because he’s suddenly soft.

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

⸻

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

He kills the engine.

The forest is quiet.

And you whisper, “Thank you.”

He looks at you.

Really looks.

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

His thumb brushes your cheek.

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

Just… grateful.

⸻

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

Not the basement.

Not a guest room.

His.

Because this is your life now.

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

———

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

He opens the strawberry shampoo.

Sniffs it. Blinks slowly.

Then holds it out to you.

“You like this?”

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

He says nothing.

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

He placed it next to his expensive soap.

Side by side.

Like you’re already one thing.

⸻

He brushes your hair out on the bed.

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

“Why are you doing that?” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then:

“Because no one ever brushed mine.”

The silence settles like mist.

You twist to look at him.

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

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

His jaw twitches.

He kisses the top of your head.

⸻

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

You lie there a long time.

Not because you’re scared.

But because it feels like home.

⸻

You cook breakfast together.

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

“Let me help—”

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

You laugh.

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

But with you?

He’s relaxed.

And with him?

You’re whole.

⸻

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

“I don’t miss my old life.”

He blinks. Slow. Turns to face you.

“You mean that?”

You nod.

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

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

His hand comes up to cradle your jaw.

“I’ll always choose you.”

Then he adds — lower, darker:

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

And you believe him.

⸻

You go to sleep that night in his bed.

His arms.

His world.

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

Forever.

—————

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

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

You even started keeping your own mug by the sink.

You started calling it “home.”

He didn’t correct you.

And you thought — maybe the world forgot you.

But the world has a memory like a knife.

⸻

It happens on a Sunday.

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

Footsteps.

But they’re not his.

You freeze.

Then — a voice:

“…[Y/N]?”

You turn.

And time stops.

It’s your friend. From your old life.

The one who cried when you vanished.

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

You whisper their name.

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

You open your mouth.

But the truth dies in your throat.

Because behind them—

Silent. Still.

Like death itself—

Seong-je.

⸻

Your friend doesn’t see him yet.

You do.

His expression is unreadable. Not furious. Not loud.

Cold.

Lethal.

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

You pull back.

They freeze.

“…What?”

You glance behind them.

“Leave.”

“What?”

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

That’s when your friend finally turns.

Sees him.

And takes a step back.

But it’s too late.

⸻

He doesn’t touch them.

Doesn’t speak to them.

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

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

You shake your head.

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

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

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

And you take it.

In front of your friend. Without shame.

“You chose him,” they whisper.

You nod once.

“Always.”

⸻

He lets them leave.

No chase.

No threat.

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

You don’t care.

You go inside with him. Sit on the couch.

You’re silent for a long time.

Then:

“You’re angry.”

“No,” he says. “I’m reminded.”

“Of what?”

He turns to you, fingers tightening around yours.

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

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

“I told them the truth.”

His jaw flexes.

You kiss it. “I chose you.”

He nods.

“I’ll always choose you.”

⸻

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

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

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

————

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

“Glass Cage: Part 4 – Stay With Me”

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

⸻

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

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

And he’s already awake.

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

You breathe in the moment. Safe. Claimed.

Then his voice cuts through the silence.

“You’re not sleeping downstairs again.”

Your eyes flutter open.

“What?”

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

You look up at him.

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

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

His jaw ticks.

“I like knowing you can’t disappear.”

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

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

He nods.

But his eyes don’t soften.

⸻

That afternoon, you hear a car.

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

Then the gravel outside crunches under tires.

You freeze.

His hand stops mid-slice.

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

Then the knock.

Three sharp raps at the front door.

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

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

“Seong-je—”

“I said stay.”

Then he disappears down the hall.

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

He opens the door.

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

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

Seong-je doesn’t let him finish.

The door slams.

Then a click.

The lock.

The deadbolt.

Then silence.

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

Not in anger.

But in pure, animal fear.

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

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

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

“Why would I—”

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

Your breath catches.

You don’t know who that man was.

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

⸻

That night, you don’t ask permission.

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

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

He doesn’t say a word.

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

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

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

You whisper it back. “Yours.”

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

The kiss he gives you then is not gentle.

It’s permanent.

⸻

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

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

You whisper:

“I never want to sleep alone again.”

He’s quiet.

Then he nods.

And pulls you tighter.

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

——-

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

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

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

But you weren’t looking for escape.

You were looking for more of him.

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

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

You pick one up carefully.

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

You know it’s him.

His mother. The pain that shaped him.

Then you find the letter.

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

It’s from her.

Just a few lines.

You’re not like him, Seong-je.

You’re not a monster.

Don’t let them make you one.

Your chest tightens.

You hear the door open behind you.

He sees the photo in your hand — the letter.

And he freezes.

⸻

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

You turn to face him.

“I wanted to understand you.”

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

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

You shake your head, stepping toward him.

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

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

You reach up.

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

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

And just like that — he snaps.

⸻

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

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

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

His voice is rough.

“I’ll be gentle.”

You pull him closer. “Don’t be.”

Eyes lock.

Then he sinks into you.

And the world disappears.

⸻

It’s not soft — not entirely.

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

Every movement says:

Mine. Mine. Mine.

And your answer is always the same:

Yes. Yours. Always.

You come undone with his name on your lips.

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

Afterward, he doesn’t let you go.

Not for a second.

⸻

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

Then he says it.

“I’m going to make you my wife.”

Your breath catches.

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

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

You stare at him.

“You’re serious.”

He turns his head.

Those eyes — black fire, unwavering.

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

He shakes his head.

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

Your pulse is wild.

And still — there’s no fear.

Just heat.

Love.

Obsession.

“Yes,” you whisper. “I’ll be yours.”

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

“You already are.”

“Glass Cage: Part 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.

“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.

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

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.

“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.

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

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

⸻

It starts in the afternoon.

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

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

You look toward the window.

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

You shift under the blanket.

Then you call out, voice soft but clear:

“Seong-je.”

A pause upstairs.

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

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

You nod. “I want something.”

His gaze sharpens.

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

He stares at you.

Not angry. Not surprised. Just still.

Like a hunter waiting for movement.

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

Silence.

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

“Outside means risk,” he says flatly.

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

“They won’t.”

“Then why can’t I breathe fresh air?”

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

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

Your heart tightens.

That should scare you. It did, weeks ago.

But now?

Now it feels like devotion.

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

He doesn’t speak for a long time.

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

“Five minutes.”

⸻

The outside world smells like cold pine and damp earth.

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

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

It’s bliss.

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

Seong-je stands close behind you. Too close.

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

“You’re tense,” you murmur.

“I’m waiting for you to run.”

You look over your shoulder at him.

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

His jaw tightens slightly, but his grip eases.

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

Two steps. Then three.

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

He crouches beside you, not saying a word.

You pluck a flower and hold it out to him.

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

His throat bobs.

“You don’t mean that,” he says.

“I do.”

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

He lets you.

There’s a long silence.

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

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

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

He leans in.

The kiss is soft. Not hungry. Not violent.

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

You exhale into his mouth.

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

⸻

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

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

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

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

A pause.

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

“Always.”

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

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

You hum.

“Then why do you keep me down here?”

His gaze darkens, slow and steady.

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

You close your eyes.

Let it.

You know he’ll never let it win.

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

—————

You ask him on a rainy night.

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

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

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

“Can I ask you something?” you murmur.

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

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

You tilt your head, looking up at him.

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

He blinks.

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

“Like what?”

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

Silence.

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

“Who hurt you, Seong-je?”

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

Then:

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

Your breath catches.

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

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

You stay silent.

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

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

You nod slowly, reaching for his hand.

“And the gang?” you ask. “The fights?”

He exhales through his nose. “That came after. When she died, there was no reason to pretend I could be anything other than what he made me. So I turned it into armor.”

He looks at you then. Really looks.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, low. “You shouldn’t love me.”

You slide your fingers through his.

“But I do.”

He laughs once. Bitter. “You’re sick.”

You smile softly. “You made me that way.”

He stares at you. Then, suddenly — he pulls you into his lap. One arm tight around your waist, the other pressing your head into his chest.

His heartbeat is fast. Unsteady.

He’s scared.

Not of the world. Not of pain. But of you. Of this feeling he can’t name.

“I was going to keep you quiet forever,” he murmurs. “Like a song no one else could hear.”

You tilt your face up.

“I don’t need the world,” you whisper. “I only need you.”

He leans in.

And this time, the kiss isn’t soft. It’s desperate. Deep. His hands are rough on your waist, pulling you closer, like he wants to bury you in his body just to keep you his.

He kisses like someone who’s been starving his whole life.

And for the first time, you understand:

He never wanted a girl.

He wanted a reason to stay human.

And you became it.

————-

I was gonna end it at where she was gonna ask him something but I decided to add it in for y’all😈

“No One Else” — Part 6: “The First Lie”

Genre: Dark romance, angst, possessive unraveling

Tone: Paranoia, emotional cracks, trust bleeding out

⸻

It was a small thing.

An after-school tutoring session. A group project. A few classmates staying late to work on a presentation.

And you lied.

You told Seong-je you had to stay late because your teacher needed help organizing paperwork. Harmless. You just didn’t want him hovering. Watching. Breathing down your neck every second.

You needed air.

That was all.

But the moment you walked out of the school gates, and saw him waiting across the street, back against the wall like always—you knew.

He’d known.

And he’d followed.

You walked toward him slowly.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t blink.

Just stared with those cold, burning eyes like you were a puzzle he had just realized was missing a piece.

“Was it worth lying?” he asked.

His voice was quiet. Too quiet. Not calm—contained. Like something was locked behind it.

You opened your mouth. Then closed it.

He took a step closer.

“I saw you,” he said. “With him.”

“Nothing happened.”

“I didn’t ask if something happened.”

There it was. That awful, quiet fury. Worse than yelling. It made the air feel tight. Your ribs ache.

“I just wanted—” You hesitated. “I wanted space.”

His jaw clenched. “From me?”

You nodded. Barely.

That was the first time he truly looked hurt.

Not angry.

Not possessive.

Just… hurt.

Like you’d ripped something out of his chest and stepped on it.

And for a second—just a second—you hated yourself for it.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.

“Because I knew you wouldn’t let me go.”

“I wouldn’t have stopped you,” he said, voice flat. “But I wouldn’t have liked it.”

He stepped closer. Too close.

And this time, you did flinch.

That pause… it shattered him.

“You’re scared of me again,” he said.

You didn’t answer.

He laughed once. Bitter. Broken.

“You said you could handle me. Said you wanted this. That we understood each other.”

“I did. I do,” you said, voice soft.

“Then why lie?”

“Because I’m tired, Seong-je,” you whispered. “I’m tired of always looking over my shoulder. Of knowing if I talk to someone too long, you’ll find a way to make them disappear. I wanted to feel normal for one day.”

His eyes were cold. But not unreadable.

No—this time, they looked… betrayed.

“You’re not normal,” he said. “You stopped being that the second you chose me.”

You swallowed.

And then he said it. The words that changed everything.

“So pick. Right now. Do you want normal, or do you want me?”

It wasn’t a question.

It was a test.

And God help you—

You didn’t answer.