jessica

18yo kdrama & kpop💕 lee jun young supremacy🧎🏻‍♀️

[queenelisabitch]

goodbye lee jun young, i’m so sad he has to enlist tomorrow i hope that the time he’s away pass quickly, I NEED WHC3!!!!!

damn i hope people will not stop making fanfics about his characters because otherwise idk what to do with him away.

can’t wait to see the incoming drama he’s in which will be out on august damn am i his sponsor? anyway i will miss this HOT man…. 🫩😭🙏🏻

[fightingballerina]

Okay but they way they built up the meeting of Hyuntak with Seongje is not talked about enough:

Like first we meet Hyoman, who is CLEARLY trying to emulate Seongje by the way he talks (arrogant and knowing exactly where to push e.g. mocking Baku and calling Hyuntak his lap dog or sth.) and dresses (orange jacket). He just can’t back it up with same skills.

Then we learn that Hyuntak genuinely hates it when people smoke to the point he scolds random guys.

Lastly when Baku reveals he has set up a “friendly game” against Ganghak aka Seongjes school’s team, Hyuntak immediately looses it, pointing out how violent they are and how little they care about rules.

And when Seongje comes after Hyuntak, Seongje immediately does all of the above:

He fights dirty by attacking both from behind AND his bad leg and arrogantly grins at him with his “it’s been a while”.

He stakes a claim on him in a „Yeah, I might be Baekjins lap dog but you’re „MY playmate“.“ -way.

And lastly he starts smoking the moment they’re basically alone.

Aka everything we learned about Hyuntak and what he despises… Seongje embodies that or at least uses that to aggravate him more. And YET Hyuntak stays relatively calm in comparison to all his minor and major crash outs we saw before. Because he clearly knows, Seongje just wants a reaction.

Aka there just HAS to be more history between them!!

Like I know this whole thing was leading up more to Sieun‘s and Seongje‘s fight in the end but yeah

[cptspau1ding]

bitch just kiss

no straight reason to be looking at bro like that

[spoonosu]

don't come towards me (i don't wanna fall for you)

Synopsis: In which a certain smug asshole keeps worming his way into Go Hyuntak’s life. Or alternatively, Geum Seongje was only trying to make amends in his own weird, stupid, idiotic way. How is it his fault that it snowballed into something much bigger than they both could’ve imagined?

Warnings: Aged-up characters, Go Hyuntak is still traumatized by Geum Seongje (the guy helped break his knees for god's sake), weaponized cigarette smoke, mentions of actual school assignments (ew!), Baku's a doofus (and we all love him for it), Seongje beats up a guy (whether or not they deserved it is still debatable)

Pairing(s): Computer Science Student! Geum Seongje x Nutritionist Student! Go Hyuntak

Genre: Slight angst, little hurt (but maybe more comfort??)

Word Count: 4.8k

[part 1] part 2 part 3

ao3

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a/n: i didn't wanna keep proofreading this anymore ༼;´༎ຶ ۝ ༎ຶ༽ this was only supposed to be a one-shot but, as always, i have no self-control.

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It doesn’t take someone with a rocket science degree to figure out that Go Hyuntak doesn’t like Geum Seongje. Why would he? There’s absolutely nothing that Seongje has ever done that has made Gotak want any resemblance of a relationship with him. After he practically beat Gotak into unconsciousness before Baekjin delivered the final blow to his knee and nearly derailed Eunjang’s plans to take down the Union, Gotak doesn’t exactly have any intentions to interact much less see Seongje again. 

That period of his life was over. 

Gotak doesn’t fight anymore. 

At least, that’s what he hoped. But the world is cruel to Go Hyuntak. So cruel, in fact, that when he stepped into his first Nutritional Sciences class of the semester, there he was—Geum Seongje, smack dab in the middle of the lecture hall. 

Alive. 

Breathing.

Standing out like there was a designated spotlight shining directly on the asshole’s head. 

And busy unplugging his computer charger from the desk socket.

There was no doubt about it, Gotak‘s mortal enemy #1 was not only in his university, but in the exact same room as Gotak. But unlike his high school counterpart, he crazily enough wasn’t covered in bloodied bandages or bruises that littered his body like paint splotches. 

It was by now that Gotak realized that this lecture hall didn’t only hold courses in the Nutritional Sciences realm. Sure, Seongje could also be in Nutrition but Gotak highly doubts that he would even be remotely interested in learning about it. The guy’s palate mostly consists of cigarette ashes and the tears of all the guys he beats up anyways. Why would he have any use for nutrition in his diet? 

Now, Gotak isn’t stupid—though he does think that hanging around Baku automatically puts a buffer onto his brain cell capacity. He knows he has to play this cool. There are like a hundred other students who were supposed to attend his mandatory introductory class. And fortunately for him, since this is the first class and he knows absolutely no one, there isn’t even an unspoken designated spot for him to sit at yet. 

Besides, what are the chances that Seongje would even see him from this far away? The man wears glasses for a reason. He doubts Seongje would even remember what he looked like. Gotak likes to think he’s grown a lot more mature and handsome—sharper features, a taller build, muscled stature. Nothing that made him appear so easy to bully in front of assholes like Seongje. 

Still, he exhales a long breath before walking through the lecture hall doors, trying to avoid any and all forms of accidental eye contact with everyone around him. Gotak’s trying to keep a low profile, after all. Even if Seongje was at least half a lecture hall’s distance away from him, he still doesn’t want to risk the chance of getting noticed. 

Unfortunately, he’s a little too good at dodging all forms of contact because he somehow also forgets to dodge the presence of physical bodies. 

“Ow! Son of a bitch, watch where you’re going!” 

Ever since high school, Go Hyuntak prides himself as someone who’s fit. Well-built, as his mother puts it to the neighbourhood aunties. Even with his bad knee, he can still probably find a way to knock someone out of commission for a while. But when he sees the behemoth of a man that he accidentally stepped on, he thinks that everything he’d been training for has been for nothing. Because this? This was the real deal. 

He jumps back, quickly bowing down as he profusely apologizes to the wall of muscle, catching the brief glances of some nearby students. 

“I’m sorry! I didn’t see you in the way!” his mouth fires off quickly, still trying to act as inconspicuous as he can. “I really didn’t mean it!”

The guy dramatically rolls his eyes and pulls his unproportionately small backpack straps over his shoulders. As he leaves, he intentionally knocks himself into Gotak, sending him hurdling into the nearest table. Gotak just barely hears the remnants of a mumbled idiot before picking himself up, assessing his injuries. There weren’t any big ones, but he’s wincing as he touches a growing spot of pain on his right hip. Guess he clipped the edge of the table pretty good. 

“God, this is embarrassing,” he murmurs under his breath to himself, already feeling his face begin to flush, averting the gazes of whoever heard the sudden commotion. 

First day of classes and he’s already pissed off a student. Brilliant work, Go Hyuntak. 

“Well, I’ll say,” a familiar voice breaks the silence.

Gotak freezes, body suddenly enveloped in a cold sweat. This voice is one that he knows all too well. The same one that laughed manically when they realized that Gotak was totally unable to get up (on the day his dreams were completely shattered). The one that filmed him and Juntae on the roof just to bait Sieun into fighting. 

The voice that can only belong to one singular evil monster: Geum Seongje. 

“You should’ve kicked him back,” Seongje whistles, stepping down the stairs to Gotak’s level. “Where did the tough guy back in high school go?”

Gotak gulps. Shit, guess he hasn’t changed enough. This is quite literally the one thing that he didn’t want to happen. 

“Fuck off, Seongje,” Gotak manages to spit out after a beat, voice slightly wavering with a little less conviction than he wanted.

In his typical fashion, Seongje doesn’t let go. 

“Is that really how you’re going to treat such a long-lost friend?” he mocks, bottom lip sticking out with a pout. “I thought we were so much closer than that.”

Gotak scoffs, patting away some excess dust that had gotten on his sleeves when he fell. 

“In your fucking dreams, Seongje. You gotta shoot me in the head before I would even remotely want to be within a fifty meter vicinity with you.”

Seongje smirks, his canines briefly flashing under the harsh ceiling lights. 

“So there is a possibility?”

“God, you’re fucking impossible,” Gotak grits out between his teeth. “Why are you even here anyways? Who even let you into campus with your criminal record?”

“Well, aren’t you curious for someone who supposedly hates the bane of my existence,” Seongje totally ignores the question. “Tell me, do you have a dartboard with my face plastered in the middle like in the movies, or is it more lowkey, like a voodoo doll with a million pins sticking out? Either way, I’ll be flattered.”

“What are you talking about?!” Gotak sputters. “I barely think of you at all.”

“Barely?”

Fuck Gotak and fuck his choice of words. 

Around him, more students were beginning to trickle into the lecture hall, taking whatever seats that were free. He doesn’t have time for this. 

“Whatever, go away Seongje. Unlike a certain someone here, I have classes to actually pay attention—”

“What makes you think about me, Gotak?” Seongje cuts in, his smirk growing wider by the second. “You’re making me so curious.”

Gotak swallows. 

His mouth feels so dry. 

Because if he had to be totally and brutally honest? He does think about Geum Seongje from time to time. Not because he even remotely wanted to. 

But because his body reminds him of it. 

Especially when it’s pushed to its limits. 

A flash of pain that suddenly zipped up his legs. A hard bump to his ligament. Sometimes even from a small bend to his knees. 

It was worse when he was alone.

So Gotak bites his lips, deciding he isn't going to supply Seongje’s twisted version of fun anymore. Seongje had already extracted enough entertainment from him to last him a lifetime. Laughed at it too. No, this time, Gotak is maintaining his pride and staying quiet. 

…

If only he didn’t just glance down at his injured knee. 

Seongje followed Gotak’s gaze down, smirk fading as realization hit him like a speeding truck. That was all the answer the other man needed. And suddenly, the once smug asshole is looking a little less smug now. 

“You know what? I don’t care,” Seongje mutters, not meeting Gotak’s eyes for the first time this whole interaction. “Have fun learning your nerd shit. I’ll see you around.”

He quietly slips around Gotak and walks down the stairs. His demeanor turns cold as he walks past the next wave of incoming students, pushing himself out the doors marked with the EXIT sign.

Gotak exhales a breath that he didn’t even know he was holding. He takes a brief glance back.

Seongje doesn’t come back. 

Something curls in his stomach. His legs feel unstable, like all the adrenaline from the interaction just came crashing down. He sharply inhales, trying to collect all his thoughts. 

He had just met Geum Seongje. And all his limbs are intact. Everything is okay. 

When Gotak finally throws his bag down in an empty chair at the back of the lecture hall, there is only one thought in his mind. 

Baku’s in for a treat tonight. 

<><><><><><><>

“YOU SAW WHO AT SCHOOL TODAY?!?”

Gotak pulls back from his phone as much as he possibly can—all in a vain attempt to preserve what was left of his hearing. He winces as his best friend continues to crash out. His knees are already fucked enough, let’s not add another body part to the list, thank you. 

“God, Baku, either learn to volume control or fucking mute yourself.”

“SEONGJE!?” Baku screams again, completely ignoring Gotak. “THE GEUM SEONGJE?! LIKE THE ONE BACK IN HIGH SCHOOL!?! THE MASOCHIST WHO HAD TO GET A TETANUS SHOT ‘CUZ SIEUN STABBED A PEN INTO HIS FOOT?!?”

Gotak rubs his eyes, already feeling the tension beginning to settle into his shoulders. Talking to Baku feels like he’s shaving years off of his already shitty lifespan. He bellyflops down onto his bed, grabbing the nearest pillow to prop himself up. 

“Yes Baku, the Geum Seongje. God, I think I need to put this phone in another room.”

“WHAT IS HE EVEN DOING THERE? IF ANYTHING HE—” Baku pauses, forcing Gotak to check his phone if his friend was even still on the phone. Unfortunately, the call was still in session. Baku’s stupid face that he set as his profile picture was still on the screen. 

“Do you think he was tracking someone in there?” Baku’s voice suddenly lowers conspiratorily. “Like, do you think he’s still involved in some shady shit?”

Gotak pauses to think. He wouldn’t exactly put it past Geum Seongje to still have some connections to the guys that dragged Baekjin into the Union. After that whole group collapsed, it sort of felt like Seongje’s existence also faded along with them. Sure, he did overhear from some Ganghak guys that the asshole was still there terrorizing the student body but it was never as brutal as before. Maybe just a few punches and kicks exchanged to guys that asked for a fight. Nothing too overboard. 

“Probably not,” Gotak finally replies. “He didn’t look like he came out of some war scene like he did back in high school.”

Gotak can hear a long exhale from the other side of the call. 

“Okay,” Baku breathes out. “Well, can you drop the class?”

Gotak squeezes the pillow closer to his chest.

“Well, not really. The introductory class is mandatory and all the other slots don’t really fit in with my schedule. I’m kinda stuck here.”

“Man, if only we were in the same classes,” Baku imitates some punching blows, mouth making whooshing sound effects as his fists connect with empty air. “I totally could’ve whooped his ass in two seconds. No doubt.”

Gotak snorted softly at that. 

“You sure? Weren’t you just complaining that your coach ransacked the mountain of junk food that you hid in your locker? That doesn’t sound like someone who can exactly ‘whoop his ass’.”

“You try eating straight up white chicken breast for a week and tell me that you won’t be drooling over the smell of tteokbokki,” Baku rants. “That’s right, you can’t, you coddled, privileged piece of trash. Show a little sympathy for your friend.” 

Gotak rolls his eyes. How is it his fault that Baku decided to abandon him to pursue Kinesiology after he received the best athlete scholarship in high school? And besides, it’s not like he’s the one who told Baku to join the Basketball team right away.

“Don’t blame me for your bad decisions, idiot. Stop making impulsive decisions.”

“Well, whatever, I’m never gonna do that again; Coach forced me to eat more chicken breasts this week just because of that junk food stunt,” Gotak hears Baku fake-gagging through the phone. “And now I’m suffering even more.”

Gotak huffs out a laugh.

“Should’ve listened when I told you not to do it, idiot.” 

Gotak hears the sound of a fridge door being opened while Baku mutters something inaudible from under his breath. 

“Well, you have fun doing that.”

“Call me again if Seongje tries anything.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure. Bye moron.”

“Back at you.”

Gotak hangs up the phone with a sigh. His fingers pick at a thread that hung out of the pillowcase. Geum Seongje was one of the last people he wanted to see, and now Gotak feels like he’s being strung along by said man, helpless as he waits for his next move. He curls into himself, muffling a frustrated groan into his pillow. 

His knee slightly clicks when he stands up to turn off the lights.

<><><><><><><>

Right after he finished the last class of the day, Go Hyuntak immediately bolted to the vending machine located at the corner of the Nutritional building. That machine was like his lifeline—it was the only one that sold his favourite brand of banana milk. 

But the one thing that Gotak expected to encounter when he turned the corner was to be ambushed face-to-face with a wall of smoke. 

A very targeted wall of smoke. 

Gotak sputters, hitting his chest and stepping back to whatever misfortune decided to descend upon him today. He quickly whirls his head up through squinted watering eyes, gritting his teeth as he sees a familiar figure through the fading wisps.

“Oops,” Seongje apologizes, not looking the least bit sorry at all. “Didn’t see you there.” 

Gotak finds that really hard to believe. He is wearing very vibrant colours today. But he isn’t going to waste his breath arguing knowing that it’ll probably get nowhere. No, he has so much more class than that. 

Go Hyuntak’s a (self-proclaimed) pacifist. 

A pacifist that, five seconds after he’d gotten over the initial shock, had decided to flip Geum Seongje off with the dirtiest look he could muster on his face.

Ignoring the asshole (who’s definitely quite amused by this situation right now), Gotak takes another step toward the vending machines. This action only earns himself another hit of smoke in his face, this time infinitely more potent and definitely on purpose. 

“Didn’t mean to do that again,” Seongje lifts the cigarette from his lips, eyes lazily combing over Gotak. “Clumsy me. Ever the ditz.”

If it was possible, steam would be coming out of Gotak’s ears by this point. No one should get between him and his banana milk, especially not Geum Seongje. Gotak’s fists clench tighter by his side as he tries to restrain himself from strangling the man—this, unfortunately, like many of Gotak’s actions, does not go unnoticed by Seongje. The fucker even shoots a smile back at him for it. 

“So, tell me Gotak, why are you here?” Seongje questions innocently, cigarette still burning between his fingers. 

“Move out the way before I crack your head open.”

Okay, maybe Gotak wasn’t quite the pacifist he originally stated he was.

Seongje tsks. 

“Now, now, let’s not aggravate that knee of yours.”

Gotak’s eyebrows furrow. 

“Why would you even care?”

“Because—”

Seongje’s words die just as he opens his mouth to respond, eyes flitting as he catches something over Gotak’s shoulders. He drops his cigarette to the ground, smushing it underneath his sneakers. 

“I need to go take care of…something,” Seongje mutters over his shoulder, side stepping around Gotak. He then pauses, a sly smirk curling around the edges of his lips, eyes trailing down to Gotak’s still clenched fists. 

“Be sure to check your phone today.”

Gotak stands there, confusion etched into every crevice of his face as he watches Seongje stroll away, like a predator hunting down its prey. His eyes held the same maniacal look behind those glasses as the day he texted Yeon Sieun onto the balcony—it’s quite a whiplash seeing it again, to be honest. 

Gotak turns around and continues his walk towards the vending machine. 

Guess Geum Seongje hasn’t changed at all.

<><><><><><><>

Go Hyuntak wanted to strangle him. 

As soon as Seongje’s class ended for the day with the professor bidding their dismissals, Gotak immediately came barreling in, scouring the tables. Spotting the familiar Kenzo shirt that was still horribly in Seongje’s closet rotation, he rushed up the stairs, pushing past a pair of students that blocked his way. Nearing his table, Gotak quickly fumbles out his phone, unlocking it before slamming his dominant hand on the wooden surface. 

Seongje slowly raises his head up from his computer as Gotak thrusts his phone directly into his face, weirdly not looking the tiniest bit fazed at the sudden intrusion.

“What the fuck did you do!?!” Gotak snaps sharply, eyes throwing daggers at Seongje who looks a little bit too calm for his taste.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the asshole replies instead, closing his computer slowly, eyes half-lidded as if he was already bored with the conversation.

“Look at what I saw sent to my phone after I went home yesterday!” Gotak taps at his screen, zooming in furiously. “I’m extremely sorry for bumping into you? I wasn’t paying attention to my surroundings? I’ll never do it again? I’ll even drop out of the class?”

Seongje whistles. 

“Wow, I wonder who that is. You must have scared them pretty bad, Gotak.”

“Cut the bullshit, Geum Seongje,” Gotak closes his phone with a click, shoving it back into his pockets. “I know it was you.”

Seongje sighs loudly. 

“Still trying to keep tabs on me, Takkie? You’re becoming quite a stalker, you know?”

“Don’t deflect the conversation,” Gotak hisses out. “I didn’t even give him my name. How did he even find me?”

“Lucky guess?” Seongje slowly blinks with a noticeable glint in his eyes. “I always thought you were someone who liked a slower form of foreplay.” 

“What?!” Gotak feels a burn rising up in his chest. “Tell me what you did.”

“Okay, fine, whatever you want, princess,” Seongje throws his hands up in the air like he’s just been caught. “I just played around with the guy a little. Nothin’ else to it.”

Gotak squints his eyes.

“Then why are your fingers so roughed up?”

“I punched a wall,” Seongje shrugs. Like that was anything close to resembling something normal. 

Gotak scoffs, folding his arms over his chest. 

“You’re impossible, you know that? I can’t trust a single word you say.” 

“Mmm sure. I’m programmed to confuse everyone around me every five seconds or else I’ll explode. It’s built to count down too. Goes somethin’ like beep beep beeeeeep KaBLOOsh!” Seongje imitates his brain exploding, falling back a little for dramatic effect. Gotak would be lying if he didn’t find that at least a little bit entertaining. But this was Geum Seongje, so nothing was funny about it. 

“Are you trying to piss me off?” 

“Only for you, baby,” Seongje winks in his direction.

Gotak blinks fast, heat rising up his neck. What kind of guy would call another baby at a time like this? This is a confrontation, for god’s sake. 

“What are you trying to do here?” Gotak asks, exasperated. “Do you want a thank you? Are you somehow threatening me? What do you want from me, Seongje?”

The man pushes his glasses up, eyes glinting as he looks up at Gotak. 

“I want you,” he starts, voice quieter than it was this whole conversation. 

Gotak holds his breath, ears fully alert as he anticipates the next oncoming words. Seongje leans in closer.

“To trust me.”

A beat.

“What?” Gotak softly breathes out.

“That’s it,” Seongje casually says, pulling back into his seat. He then stuffs his laptop back into his bag, throwing it over his shoulder.

“I’ll see you around, Gotak.”

Seriously, this would be a funny little story to hear from someone else. Hell, it would even earn them a sympathetic pat on the back from Gotak himself if he wasn’t the one put in the same predicament. 

“Also,” Gotak whips his head around, slightly more bewildered when he realizes that Seongje was pointing at him. 

“You should take my seat.”

“And why should I?” 

“Doesn’t look like anyone else wants to,” Seongje shrugs. Before he leaves, he shoots Gotak another wink.

Gotak huffs.

It’s not that he wanted to follow Geum Seongje’s orders. But there were really no other suitable seats that were so close to an outlet to sit in. 

At least, that’s what Go Hyuntak likes to tell himself when he shoves his backpack onto the ground as he sits down in Geum Seongje’s seat. 

<><><><><><><>

Go Hyuntak is one week into university and he already feels the doors to heaven are opening right in front of his eyes. 

His cause of death? A (very valid) crashout session over an assignment. 

“Why couldn’t I have picked an easier class?!” Gotak groans as his screen displays another ERROR message in what seemed like the millionth time in the span of an hour. 

Currently sitting by his desk at home, Gotak’s laptop whirs as he types out any piece of code he could think of. His eyes droop heavier with every passing minute he stares at the loading cursor bar.

“God, are you out there?” he wails, knocking his head against the table. “Please let me go. I don’t know what I’ve done, but I’m sorry, okay?”

Go Hyuntak wouldn’t be caught dead in this situation if his school hadn’t mandated him to register in at least one Science class in the first semester of his first year. And being a dumb first year, he stupidly registered in some introductory Computer Science class, thinking that it would be a breeze with his three other Nutritional classes. 

It wasn’t. 

It took him an admittedly embarrassing amount of time to even find the course webpage.

And now he’s in hour four with a program that doesn’t even work. 

“‘This should take about one hour a week to do’ my fucking ASS,” Gotak mimics his professor. “Where are we? In a fuckin’ time machine?”

He inhales deeply before he tries running the program again. The familiar error message pops up again, bringing down the rest of Gotak’s remaining sanity. 

He inhales deeply. 

This was due tonight. And he still had work from his three other classes to do.

Gotak closes his laptop with a muffled scream. 

He needs to go out. 

“Life is more than grades, Go Hyuntak,” he chants to himself, closing his eyes. “Life is beautiful. You are beautiful. You can overcome this adversity, you stupidly handsome bastard.”

If only he can believe that right now. 

Pushing himself out of his chair, he grabs his phone, wallet, and keys. Just as he clicks open the door, Gotak sighs before also grabbing his bag, shoving his laptop in. 

“Maybe I just need a new studying space.”

And that’s how he lands himself at the entrance to the public library. He checks his watch.

6:38PM

Okay, the library closes at 9, he still has plenty of time. He’s been here so many times that he doesn’t even need to check the signs anymore, feet already taking him towards the third floor’s designated studying area. Gotak’s about to take a seat in the corner of the room before he notices a familiar orange jumpsuit in the corner of his eyes, stopping him in his tracks. 

It’s Geum Seongje. 

Who has very clearly also noticed Go Hyuntak. 

And is now walking towards him. 

Gotak’s blood runs cold. His eyes darts towards the exit sign. A hand lands on his shoulder. 

“What a coincidence seeing you here, Takkie,” Seongje cocks his head, taking him in from head to toe. “You look like shit.”

Gotak scoffs, brushing off Seongje’s hand.

“I could say the same to you.” 

That was a lie. Seongje actually looked better than how he normally did, but Gotak wasn’t going to tell him that.

“What are you even doing here?” Gotak cuts in sharply. “This isn’t a prison cell.”

“What? Trying to keep tabs on me again?” Seongje retorts. “Seriously Gotak, let’s establish some boundaries.”

Fuck this guy.

Gotak rolls his eyes before sitting down in the corner chair, dropping his bag by his feet and takes out his laptop. Beside him, Seongje also plops himself down in the chair next to Gotak, yawning as he tries to sneak a peek at what Gotak’s doing. 

Unfortunately, as soon as Gotak flips up his laptop case, the very familiar (and extremely unwelcomed) error message pops up again. Heat rises up into Gotak’s face as embarrassment floods his system.

Seongje shuffles closer to Gotak and rests his hand on his chair as he leans in, suddenly very intrigued by what's on the screen.

Gotak wants to cry. He thinks he’s going to actually break down if Seongje starts ridiculing him right now. But instead—

“You forgot to store a value in that variable,” Seongje states in a blank voice, pointing into Gotak’s screen. “See here? The computer doesn’t know what the ‘HP’ of your character is because you didn’t actually specify a value to it.”

Gotak blinks.

“Also, you have to make your own functions for movement abilities,” Seongje continues. “You can’t just tell the computer to make the character ‘move right’. It doesn’t know what that means.”

He turns to Gotak. “Treat the entire map as graph coordinates.”

Gotak is stunned. Under no circumstances did he think that Geum fucking Seongje would be teaching him introductory computer science mechanics in a public library today. Or ever, actually.

Gotak clears his throat.

“Th-Thanks,” he stutters out. Seongje nods briefly before pulling out his phone. 

“Call me if you’re still getting errors,” he lazily drawls out before clicking open a game.

Gotak turns back to his laptop as the muted sounds of gunfire play out in the background. Much to his chagrin, Seongje’s changes actually do make sense. It takes him a bit to implement the suggestions, but once he does, he thinks that the program might actually work for once.

His hands are trembling as his mouse hovers over the RUN button in the corner of the screen. He inhales sharply before clicking the button. Seongje had also put his phone down, peering over as the computer loads. 

SUCCESS!

“S-Success?” Gotak stammers out, blinking furiously. “I’m not hallucinating this, right?”

“Nah, you did it right.”

Gotak turns to Seongje. Seongje stares back with an undecipherable expression before nodding once to confirm. Then, Gotak explodes in pure unadulterated joy. Gotak hollers before Seongje can even shut him up (not that he has any intention of doing that), ignoring the very pointed looks of the people nearby. He quickly saves the program before slamming his laptop shut, shoulders feeling lighter now that his biggest source of stress is now gone. 

“God, do you know how fucking long this took? Way too much, I’ll tell ya,” he rambles as he shoves his laptop back into his backpack, not wanting to touch it any more seconds than he needed to. “I was losing so many hair follicles I could make my own hairball.”

Gotak chuckles. 

“I swear, I could feel my life force being sucked out of me.”

Seongje can only stare at Gotak in amusement. 

“Really?”

“Yeah, I was holed up in my room for so long I could feel a beard coming in. Oh man, I was willing to do anything to finish this shit.” 

“Anything?” Seongje probes, eyebrow raising in question. 

Gotak nods.

“I would even fucking kiss you on the mouth if it meant that I didn’t have to see a single line of code agai—”

Gotak cuts himself off. His face drops, eyes widening in the size of dinner plates as he quickly whips his head up, meeting Seongje’s (equally as wide) eyes. 

Wait. 

WAIT. 

WAIT. 

Gotak wasn’t supposed to say that. 

After a moment’s silence, Seongje blinks first. He huffs, emitting a quiet heh that breaks the silence between the two. His lips slowly curl up into a smirk as he cocks his head.

“Well, why don’t you?” 

[spoonosu]

don't come towards me (i don't wanna fall for you) // pt.2

Synopsis: It's time for Go Hyuntak to take the initiative…but not without a bit of liquid courage.

Warnings: MDNI! (Mentions of sex...briefly), Aged-up characters, Go Hyuntak is still traumatized by Geum Seongje (but he's lowkey turned on by him?!?!), Baku fumbles a girl (obviously), the rest of the cast finally makes an entrance...at least for a little while

Pairing(s): Computer Science Student! Geum Seongje x Nutritionist Student! Go Hyuntak

Genre: Slight angst, some comfort (idk, let's just have a good time)

Word Count: 5.6k

part 1 [part 2] part 3

ao3

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a/n: this update was long overdue (sorry!!). i didn't want to let this sit in the depths of my drafts for much longer. as always, there's probably some writing mistakes in there but hey, just glaze over it, alright?

---------

The first time Go Hyuntak learned of the concept of irreparable change was in the first grade, back when his parents were still together and long before he met Baku. Life was easier then. He never had to worry about who he was potentially pissing off or of any stupid social hierarchy to follow. The only thing he had to worry about was whether or not his Tomodachi survived the night.

Gotak never wanted to grow up. 

Unfortunately, the world had other plans. 

It was a barely memorable day. Go Hyuntak was assigned to clean the class turtle’s cage. His memory before the incident is fuzzy; all he knows is that one second Petey was in his cage, and the next, lying upside-down on the carpet in front of him, shell splintered through the middle. 

He still remembers his little hands, trembling in midair as he stood frozen, eyes widening at the scene before him. The world collapsed, tilted on its axis. The air instantly thinned, as if someone had clenched his lungs between their hands, gripping forcibly and not letting go. 

He just wanted to admire the shell. 

Truly. 

It wasn’t like he woke up that morning wanting to see how blood stained a classroom carpet—a carpet that ironically displayed a cartoon dog with a speech bubble reading ‘Today is another happy day!’. 

He quickly stepped back.

Through gasps and welling tears, Gotak tried to conceal himself in the corner of the classroom, away from the hushed conversations of the kids around him. Plugging his ears with his fingers, he squeezed his eyes shut, completely cutting off the rest of the world. He knew he had made a mistake; there was no need for anyone to tell him otherwise. 

Upon seeing his condition, his teacher had tried to console him. She tried telling him that she called a nearby veterinarian clinic to fix the crack, working in ‘everyone made mistakes!’ and ‘Petey’s going to be fine!’ every few seconds, patting him on the back. Her words fell upon deaf ears. 

The ride home that day was quiet. His parents exchanged looks when Gotak bolted into his room, quietly locking the door and diving under his blanket. Under normal conditions, his mother would have asked him how his day was. 

He self-grounded himself for two weeks, isolating himself in the bathroom when it came playground time. Not even his usual favourite snacks brought him any joy. His beloved Tomodachi pet eventually died from starvation. 

But he didn’t care. 

All he could see was Petey's glossy eyes staring up at him from the carpet. 

Helpless and in agony.

When Petey came back, his shell was a little more lopsided than before. Gotak never went near the cage again, scared that even his general presence brought a bad omen to the class pet. Those two weeks were the worst he’d ever had, and he swore that he’d never make such a dumb mistake ever again. 

If only life continued in that black-and-white fashion. 

Enter Na Baekjin.

Na Baekjin was the kid every parent wished their child to be. Incredibly intelligent, diligent in his studies, physically strong, and most importantly, self-disciplined. In those days, that was hard to come by. In a sea of kids, Na Baekjin was the golden child. A parent’s wet dream. After he joined the Union, he became synonymous with the added title of untouchable. 

And then there was Go Hyuntak. 

You had to be a special kind of person to keep Gotak in control. He was easy to piss off, immediately puffing his chest and jutting his chin out at any semblance of a threat. Other than Baku, there was almost no one who could calm him down from his angry spats. 

So maybe that’s why Baekjin decided he had to be subdued. 

In hindsight, Go Hyuntak really shouldn’t have smart-mouthed the literal leader of a criminal ring. Nor should he have continued when he was dealt two black eyes and was practically swinging randomly in the air. 

And especially not again when he was thrown against the metal fence, backed into a corner with nowhere to run. 

It was ridiculous knowing how easily Baekjin shattered his kneecap. The initial bone crunch was abysmal. But the intense throbbing jolts of pain afterwards? Hurt like nothing he has ever felt in his life. He screamed out until his throat felt hoarse. 

Gotak could only watch through blurred vision as Baekjin retreated into the shadows. 

Nothing like the fucker that had stood beside him. 

Geum Seongje looked like he had the time of his life. 

At the time, Go Hyuntak barely had any interactions with Geum Seongje. He’d only heard of the guy’s existence through hushed rumours from his Eunjang classmates sporting particularly bad bruises and Band-Aids. Admittedly, he initially scoffed when he first heard them. Three-second rules be damned, he’ll look at whatever he wants to look at. It’s a free country, after all. No one was above the law. 

…

Bleeding out against that fence put things into perspective. 

There, Geum Seongje stood, the whites of his teeth bared out like an unleashed mutt. Staring down over the edge of his glasses with Gotak’s blood drying up along cracked-open knuckles. Gotak’s vision was too blurred to make out any specifics, but he heard it—a low, momentary sound that sounded a lot like a click of a light. 

A huff. 

Then, the smell of smoke twisted its way into his lungs. 

Before losing consciousness, Go Hyuntak solidified one realization: the rumours didn’t encapsulate the true nature of Geum Seongje’s brutality enough. 

The man was an absolute, deranged lunatic.

And he was absolutely terrifying.

<><><><><><><>

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

The rush of blood into Gotak’s face was instant, heartbeat speeding up inside his chest. His hands feel clammy, slightly trembling as he tries to shove his laptop back into his bag. He wants to slap himself in the face. 

How did he even get himself into this situation? What kind of guy proposes a kiss to someone who clearly hates their guts?

“You know I didn’t mean it like that,” Gotak reiterates, eyebrows furrowing, getting a little bit pissed off that his backpack isn’t cooperating with his obvious attempts to zip it close.

“Hm?” Seongje prods, leaning in closer, closing in, eyes never wandering far off. 

Encroaching.

Gotak bites his tongue, twisting away. Heat rises into his cheeks. A sense of fear floods his system when his eyes stupidly flicker up, meeting Seongje’s eyeline. 

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop trying to get close to me.”

“Why?” 

Seongje doesn’t even refute it. Can’t. But he does momentarily stop moving in. 

Gotak gives up on closing his backpack. His knees feel weak. Seongje follows him up when he stands, gaze chipping away at Gotak’s hardening resolve. Gotak fights back the urge to just grab and crush Seongje’s glasses between his hands. He now knew how Sieun felt back on the rooftop. 

“You know exactly why,” Gotak grits out through clenched jaws. 

Seongje’s eyes dart down. 

A beat. 

Gotak sucks in a breath. He raises his hands and pushes Seongje out of the way, unzipped backpack in one hand. He ignores the pointed looks from concerned spectators as he walks away, picking up speed by the second. Down the flights of stairs. Past the front desks. 

A lump had formed in his throat when he pushed past the entrance. Gotak balled his fists, hitting them repeatedly against his chest, hoping that it would somehow dislodge the obstruction. He freezes when he hears a deep exhale of breath behind him.

Gotak doesn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Seongje can move quite silently. 

It doesn’t click to him that he had begun to run again until a familiar shot of pain flashes up his knee. 

When Gotak reaches home, he immediately locks the door behind him. 

It was probably unlikely that Seongje would have followed him all the way home, but his mind is racing too frantically to make a coherent thought. He chucks his backpack away to his side, collapsing onto the door once he hears the familiar click of the lock. His back feels hot against the cool surface. He slides down, knees tucked into his body, dry heaving. 

Go Hyuntak was an idiot. 

Because just for a singular moment, Go Hyuntak had forgotten who he was talking to. That was an idiotic move on his part. Pathetic, really. Gotak had actually treated him like a regular human being. A friend. Perhaps even an option, going as far as to allow himself to believe it too. 

As in, he stared at Seongje’s stupid punchable face longer than he had to. As in, the thought of reaching over his shoulder had crossed his mind. As in, he thought of pulling him in. As in, he might have even accepted the thought of kissing the asshole on his dangerously annoying lips. As in—

As if he believed that Geum Seongje wasn’t who he really was: a cold, deranged lunatic hellbent on crushing everything in his path. If he dared to join the Union as Na Baekjin’s lapdog, everything else was completely on the table.

It doesn’t matter what happens. Whatever this relationship is between him and Seongje has to be some kind of sick manipulation. 

It has to be. 

Because if it isn’t, this is going to open a Pandora’s box of possibilities that he would rather keep shut. 

And Go Hyuntak doesn’t know what is scarier. 

<><><><><><><>

The next few weeks at school felt quiet. Seongje hadn’t come to school. Or, if he did, he always left at least a few minutes before Gotak came in. The table he frequented was empty, which Gotak still took full advantage of. He wasn’t going to pass up the best seats in the hall, even if it did leave a bitter taste in his mouth. 

Occasionally, Gotak would catch a slight passing of a certain orange windbreaker. His heart would flutter a little when his legs carried him forward. 

He’d always manage to lose it through the crowd. But no, it wasn’t like he was chasing after it. 

Not really.

Just the other day, he smelled the faintest whiff of cigarette smoke coming from the vending machine by the Nutritional building. Gotak instinctively ran towards the source, about to voice out a speech of disdain. The sound had died in his throat when all he found was the butt of the leftover cigarette instead, simmering against the tiled ground. 

Crushed. 

His banana milk tasted less sweet that day.

<><><><><><><>

“Aren’t you glad he’s avoiding you?” Juntae asks, blowing on his chicken wing. At his side, Baku takes a bite of his own freshly-fried wing, immediately fanning his mouth to cool the meat instead of waiting like a normal person. 

The kid was always so impatient. 

“Yeah, what’s the big deal?” Baku gets out between huffs. “You’re acting like this isn’t something to celebrate.”

Beside Baku, Sieun silently observes Gotak before dipping his chicken into ketchup. He’d usually be more talkative with Suho around, but his boyfriend was supposedly too busy “earning back his hours” at his part-time job—as if he had to after experiencing a freaking coma. 

Usually, they’d be complaining about whatever schoolwork had just been handed out. But this time, Go Hyuntak had stupidly opened up the conversation by mentioning the human train wreck that is Geum Seongje.

“Yeah, I guess I am,” Gotak emptily responds, fidgeting with the chicken wing in his hand. Baku was right for once—Gotak had wanted this to happen. As an outsider would put it, he was suffering from success.

Somehow, it doesn’t feel like success. It feels more like a hollow victory.

Baku pauses, a look of heavy concern pulling down his usual happy-go-lucky face. Gotak perks up and nudges his shoulder. 

“What?”

“Go Hyuntak, you may be able to casually hide all those porn magazines under your bed from your mother, but you cannot lie to me.”

Gotak chokes on his own saliva. He knows that things are about to get serious when Baku starts using his full legal government name. He’s also starting to regret telling Baku nearly every embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to him. 

Juntae stifles a laugh, choosing to instead peer rather intently at the wing in his hands. Always considerate, that one. A faint smirk slides up Sieun’s face. 

Baku reaches a rather greasy hand out, patting Gotak on the shoulder.  

“Don’t worry, I know what will fix you.”

Gotak blinks. Once. And then twice. Before—

“What?!” 

Baku sighs as if it hurts him to say what he was just about to say.

“I know you’ve been feeling lonely without me,” he starts, shaking his head. “You don’t have to pretend in front of me.”

“Get your dirty ass hands off of me, you dumba—”

“Don’t worry, I’ve been there,” Baku cuts him off. “Suddenly transitioning from seeing my gorgeous face almost every day of the week to only a few days has got to hurt.”

He clutches his chest, as if even imagining it brought him an indescribable sense of heartbreak. Gotak rolls his eyes before reaching for a tissue to dab the grease from his hoodie. He sighs. It’s not coming off.

“And that’s why you’re so hellbent on finding him,” Baku incorrectly diagnoses. “Because you’re just craving any sense of a connection, even to that murderous psychopath.”

Baku pulls Gotak into his arms, ruffling his hair, much to his absolute dismay. Juntae, being the absolute angel he is, quickly wipes his fingers against his napkin and combs the strands back. Gotak sends him a look of gratitude before sending a glare at Baku. 

“My poor, poor Gogo, doomed to navigate the world without his best wingman.”

Gotak hears a sniffle. 

“Let it out, Gotak. Real men can cry. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. ”

Gotak rolls his eyes. Baku should consider a minor in Theatre. He shuffles awkwardly out of Baku’s grasp with an exasperated sigh. 

“I have other friends.”

Baku coos, lightly tapping Gotak’s cheeks with his fingertips before taking another bite of his chicken wing. Gotak feels a spare breadcrumb drop down from his cheeks onto the ground. He’s definitely taking a deep scrub shower after this. 

“You’re so cute, Gogo.”

Gotak wants to bonk his friend on the head. Park Humin is just so lucky that he cares about preserving his 99 IQ.

“I’ve made friends here,” he grumbles incredulously, wiping at his face. 

His words fall upon deaf ears. The table then grows silent. He looks up to see his friend looking at him with a look of silent contemplation. It’s actually starting to scare Gotak that something was going on in Baku’s brain. Clearly, it’s also starting to scare Juntae and Sieun too as they both stop chewing, cautiously observing. 

Suddenly, Baku lights up, as if a thought had pierced through his thick skull. 

“I heard from my basketball team that there’s a party this Saturday,” he declares excitedly. “Open invite. You guys have to come.”

A beat.

Then, a whole table of sighs. 

“Pass,” Sieun refuses. “I promised Suho I’d help him study for his upcoming exams.”

Baku nods solemnly. “Guess that can’t be helped. How ‘bout you, Juntae?”

Juntae deflates, pouting.

“I would, but I have to help plan an event for the Anime club. I'm scared they’ll kick me out if I skip another meeting.”

Baku huffs.

“Guess it would just be me and Gotak, then.”

Gotak punches his shoulder, scowling. 

“Hey! Who said that I’d come?”

“I know you don’t have anything planned.”

That admittedly hurt Gotak’s ego a little bit. He was planning to just scroll on his phone the whole weekend. But hey, brainrotting at home is a natural form of entertainment now.

…

Not that he’ll acknowledge that out loud. 

“I have…” Gotak racks his brain for a valid excuse. “Homework!”

“Pah!” Baku waves a half-eaten drumstick in front of his face. “It’s just one day, how bad can it be? Think about all the baddies you can have the honour of meeting.”

Gotak makes a face of disdain.

“Absolutely not.”

“Nah, you’re comin’,” Baku decides resolutely. “And I’ll drag you out of your place if I have to.”

There is no question in Gotak’s mind that Baku would actually go through with that plan. The sky’s the limit with the amount of shit Baku could endure to get what he wants. It’s honestly endearing if it weren’t for the fact that he’s actively tanking both of their grades into the ground. 

“You come over and I’ll break your fucking phone.”

Baku’s chair screeches against the wooden tiles as he recoils away from Gotak, guarding his precious phone against his chest.

“You stay away from my baby!” He points an accusatory finger. “She and I have been through more than you can ever imagine!”

Sieun raises an eyebrow.

“She?”

“She’s more capable than a man will ever be.”

Ever the feminist. 

Gotak shakes his head. 

“Whatever, I’m still not going.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No—“

<><><><><><><>

Go Hyuntak needs to work on his persistence. 

They’re now both at the front gates to the house party, Baku’s phone having been securely pocketed in his pants. 

Gotak cringes as muffled hoots and hollers emanate from inside, as awful strobe lights flash across the windows. He’s surprised that the neighbours haven’t made a noise complaint by now. Across from them, a dirtied Converse shoe lay sideways, existence forgotten. There might be something leaking out through the top, but Gotak wasn’t planning to play detective today.

“I’m not going in.”

Baku dismisses Gotak’s words with a wave of his hands. 

“You’re already here.”

Gotak groans, already feeling tension starting to grow at the base of his neck. 

“Why am I friends with you?”

“Because face cards stick together, Gogo,” Baku pushes him in by the shoulders. “Now come on, I wanna see some baddies.”

The inside of the house party was somehow worse than what he had envisioned. From random streamers hanging from the ceiling lights to disco lights beaming into his eyes every five seconds, Gotak was sure this place was hell on earth. He hears a splash of water in the back followed by a group cheer. He shifts a bit to see through the window that most of the party was in the backyard, choking down Jell-O shots and performing keg stands beside the pool outside, loud music playing in the background. 

Just then, a cup was shoved into his hands. Baku grins.

“This shit will rock your world.”

Gotak looks down, cringing at an orangey-red semi-translucent liquid in his hands. He smells the strong tinge of vodka and whatever other weird chemical warfare was mixed into the solution. He doesn’t think he should be physically feeling his nose hairs burning from one whiff.

Just as he was about to hand it back, Baku’s attention had seemingly already fixed on his next target. That was some random girl at the corner of the room, seemingly equally as disgusted with the ruckus around her. She looked two seconds away from throttling someone’s head off. 

Just Baku’s type.  

Gotak sees his friend swoop into her peripheral vision. 

“Hey girl, do you have a map?” Baku shoots his usual wide-mouthed grin. “Because I’m getting lost in your eyes.”

…

Nope. 

Absolutely not. 

Gotak was leaving. He’s seen enough of Baku’s failed attempts at flirting to need to sit through another. The guy can find some other punk’s shoulder to cry his eyes out on once she undeniably rejects him.

His eyes flit towards the entrance. He’s just going to leave. Baku said that he should come to the party, not that he had to stay. If he waits just a few more seconds, he’s sure that his friend won’t even notice him sneaking out. Besides, if Gotak were to leave right now, he'd still have some time to finish his work before bedtime. 

He inches himself closer to the entrance but is stopped when a drunken man mistakes the welcome mat for an optimal place to empty their entire stomach content. He doesn’t know who’s hosting this party, but he sends his condolences to whoever will have to clean it up. 

Gotak recoils. 

He didn’t sign up to play janitor today.

His eyes trail around the surrounding area. A forgotten beer pong table left deserted, cups precariously close to the edge. Ahead, he spots a TV displaying some random reality show that he has no interest in binging. Nor does he want to sit near a pair of guys currently making out on the couch. Beside him, a couple runs down a nearby flight of stairs that he hadn’t even noticed, hands holding the other, lipstick stains and hickeys trailing down to both their collarbones. 

He sighs. 

The rooms upstairs were probably his best bet for staying sane. Gotak just hopes he has enough data on his phone to last however long most people are deciding to stay at this party.

When he reaches the second floor, he is met with a hallway of closed doors.

What is this? Open Sesame?

Without thinking, he opens the door closest to him.

Gotak’s mouth gapes. Two guys are unquestionably going to town on each other in front of him, totally unfazed by the sound of the door opening. If anything, it sounded like it probably turned them on even more, judging by a heavy, erotic whine from the guy on the bottom. 

He quickly shuts the door, never wanting to squeeze lemons into his eyes as much as this moment. Gotak swore he made eye contact with at least one of them. 

He speedwalks to another door, this time making sure to listen in to whatever was inside before walking in. He doesn’t find much luck with door number two, being met with even more erogenous noises. 

Gotak feels like he needs to take a shower. 

He feels a sense of relief when he doesn’t hear anything behind door number three. 

His breath hitches in his throat once he opens the door. 

Not because he saw another scene that came straight out of some porno.

No, it was way worse.

Standing over the railing was the man who’s been haunting his daydreams nightmares for the past few weeks. 

It truly wasn’t fair. 

Whatever deity was out there clearly had its favourites—very clearly going by the name of Geum fucking Seongje. Even the moonlight illuminated his figure in a way that made Gotak jealous, glowing behind him like an angel of death against his black and red hooded jacket. His hair had grown out, bangs slightly covering his glasses. He held a bottle of beer in one hand, evidently having been drinking, judging by the blush that tinged his normally pale skin. 

It’s weird. 

Seeing Seongje so quiet, that is. 

Gotak doesn’t know if he likes that.  

The angel turns, freezing as recognition floods in at the sight of Go Hyuntak. His lips part, about to say something, but he quickly turns back around, thinking otherwise. 

Gotak decides that was good enough of a signal to proceed. 

He walks up beside Seongje, throwing his arms over the railing, still clutching Baku’s concoction in his hand. The scene ahead was nothing like the party downstairs. It was more of a forested area in the back than Gotak envisioned, the party downstairs and moonlight above being the only sources of light illuminating the nearby trees, casting dark shadows onto small crevices and distant figures. A pulsing bass reverberated below, occasionally followed by splashes of water and the sound of drunken laughter. 

No one speaks for a while. Gotak never did well when things got quiet. So he cuts the silence first.

“So this is where you’re hiding? On the balcony of some shitty house party? I thought you’d be beating up some thugs in some alleyway.”

Seongje cracks a smirk.

“At least I’m not stuck at home,” he casually responds. “Let me guess, Baku dragged you here?”

Gotak scoffs, frowning as he rolls his eyes, shooting a glare. 

“I’m not that predictable.”

Seongje takes a swig of his beer, eyes glinting behind his glasses. 

“You are.”

A night breeze passes through, slightly tussling Seongje’s bangs across his face. It makes him look more boyish than usual. Gotak feels his neck heat up. 

“It’s like you’re a whole new person,” he comments. 

Seongje shifts, rolling his bottle of beer between his fingers. His eyes quickly flit to Gotak before going back to observe the moonlit scenery outside, silently ruminating. 

Then, he quietly admits, “Changing is not as entertaining as I like it to be.”

Gotak quirks an eyebrow up. 

“Changing?” 

Seongje sighs.

“Beating up thugs in some dark ass alleyway has lost its fun.”

Gotak snorts in disbelief. 

“You’re unbelievable.”

Seongje shoots him a wink, grin stretching wide enough to display his canines. 

“Only for you, princess.”

The heat rises to Gotak’s face. That last word rolled off Seongje’s tongue a bit too naturally. He looks down, briefly sloshing the drink around in his cup, the reddish-orange liquid glinting under the moonlight. 

Rocks your world, huh?

Gotak takes a solid gulp. 

He immediately chokes as the liquid works down his throat. The burn was instant, seemingly burning a hole through his esophagus, stinging his eyes. Gotak can’t help but let out a symphony of expletives. Seongje barks out a short laugh, head thrown back, eyes crinkling in amusement.

“You’re such a dumbass.”

“Takes one to know one,” Gotak hisses out between coughing hacks. After what seems like an eternity of trying to suck in enough air to wash away the taste of the gross alcohol, a warm fuzziness begins to muddle his thoughts. Gotak has always been a lightweight. 

He inhales sharply. For future reference, he entirely blames the alcohol for what he says next. 

“Are you avoiding me?” 

Seongje’s grin falters. The air becomes heavy with tension. Then—

“You told me to.” 

Gotak huffs. 

“That’s never stopped you before,” he retorts. The Seongje he knew from before barely comprehended the meaning of personal boundaries. 

Which is why his next statement catches Gotak off guard. 

“You ran out on me.”

Just like that. Spoken in a tone as if Gotak had left him to fend for himself. Like that was the biggest crime he could’ve committed against someone like Geum Seongje. 

Gotak gnaws on his lower lip. They both don’t say anything for a while. He brings the cup to his lips again, this time taking a sip. The second time is better than the first, probably because he portion-controlled, but it still brings tears to his eyes. Gotak carelessly wipes up a couple of drops that had dropped down the side of his lips with the back of his hand. 

“I’m sorry.”

Seongje takes a glance at Gotak before raising his bottle to his lips. Gotak had never realized how hot it was to see someone’s Adam's apple rise and fall with each gulp. He unexpectedly has an urge to bury his face in Seongje’s neck. He stares, transfixed, even after Seongje stops drinking. The man cocks an eyebrow. 

“Why are you even apologizing to me?” Seongje suddenly inquires, snapping him out of his thoughts. 

Wasn’t this what he wanted? 

At this point, a normal person would have kept their thoughts hidden. But this isn’t a normal situation. And Gotak isn’t normal, even less with liquid courage coursing through his veins. 

His mouth moves faster than he can stop himself.  

“I think I’ve started to miss you.” 

He doesn’t notice how a slight tint of red runs along the shells of Seongje’s ears. Gotak leans harder against the railing as a dizzying wave hits him. 

“I think I’ve missed you,” Gotak says again, words slurring around the edges, tongue heavier than he remembers. 

He’s met with silence. 

“I’ve missed you, but I hate that I’ve missed you, and it’s like…” Gotak crinkles his nose. He doesn’t wait a second before blurting out—

“It’s like I want to keep you in my life.”

He barks out a short, awkward laugh. His hands move quickly across his face when he feels something flit down his cheeks. 

“Isn’t that so fucking hilarious?”

Seongje can only continue to stare at him. Has it always been so hot here? Gotak fans himself, ruffling up his hair a little in the process. 

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Seongje says with an unreasonable amount of seriousness in his voice. It’s kinda unfair how tolerant he was of alcohol. Gotak’s lips feel a little drier than usual. 

“Yeah, I do,” Gotak insists through half-lidded eyes. “You’re the dumbass here.”

He blinks harder when Seongje seems to appear a little blurrier along the edges. Seongje’s chest rises, intaking a sharp breath. 

“You’re drunk.”

No shit. 

Geum Seongje is lucky that he’s so frustratingly pretty because Gotak doubts he has enough conversational skills to last a lifetime. He’s also lucky that Gotak is good at running his mouth enough for the both of them. 

“It’s funny because you were there when my knee got absolutely obliterated. Remember? By Na Baekjin?”

From the second the last word was uttered, Go Hyuntak already knew that he fucked up. It was a question that didn’t need answering, one that he doesn’t even know he wanted the answer to. The sentiment is clearly shared when he notices Seongje’s gaze darkening, tonguing the inside of his cheeks, debating whether to answer or not. Gotak waits. 

“I didn’t know that he was going to take it that far,” Seongje finally replies.

“You didn’t stop him.”

“No,” Seongje agrees. 

The slight crack of the plastic penetrates the air.

“Do you know who was the first person I saw after I woke up?” His voice cracks a little. Seongje can only stay quiet, eyes turning to fixate on some faraway trees over the railing. 

“Baku, that stupid, dumb idiot.” Gotak blinks hard, resting his head against the cool railing. “All snotty and teary because he didn’t get to me on time, and promising that he’d buy me banana milk when we got back home. He even offered to take a few days off from school to take care of me.”

Gotak snorts.

“Idiot probably just wanted to skip classes to play video games at my place.”

He straightens back up.

“My mom was even worse. She thought I had been mugged.”

A weird mixture of a cry-laugh came out of Gotak. 

“I don’t even know how I managed to hold myself back from telling her it was nothing like that—that it was because star student Na Baekjin believed I was a threat to some batshit insane organization I had no interest in joining.”

He sniffs. 

“But I still cried at his funeral. Not as much as Baku, but I did anyway. Because he was just a fucking kid. Granted, with issues that even a bucketload of therapy can barely fix because let’s be real, that kid was an absolute mess of a human being bu—”

Gotak cuts himself off, looking towards the horizon. Overhead, the moon shone brightly, casting shadows on his face. 

“But he was just a kid. A kid who was being completely fucked over by all the adults in his life and surrounded by absolute shitheads whose only concern was how many zeros trailed under their bank accounts.”

Seongje doesn’t dare breathe, beer left dangling between his fingers, condensation dripping onto the wooden tiles. Gotak turns, wet eyes clear under the moonlight. He opens his mouth, landing one last blow. 

“And I don’t think you did either.”

Another breeze flows in. 

“You don’t fucking know me,” Seongje spits out, snarling. 

Defensive. 

“Maybe I don’t,” Gotak nods. “But I’d like to think that I’m starting to get your tells.”

The conversation ends with that. 

Because there was nothing else left to say. 

They stay there, staring out over the leaning. There was no more alcohol left.

A ring cuts through the silence. They both turn to the source, apparently coming from the pockets of Gotak’s pocket. Reaching in, his phone displays Baku's face. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. He accepts the call. 

“Yeah?”

“SHE REJECTED ME!” Baku’s voice rang through the other end, hiccupping, clearly choking down a sob, quieting down. “Then told me I reminded her of her younger brother, Gotak. YOUNGER BROTHER! What does that even mean?”

Gotak exhales, rubbing his temples.

“It means you never stood a chance, you big oaf.”

Another hiccup.

”I wanna go home. Let’s Uber together.”

Gotak takes a glance beside him. Seongje stares back, expression unreadable. 

“Do you wanna join?”

Seongje exhales. 

“You're a real romantic, Gotak.”

“That didn’t answer my question.”

“Take your idiot friend home.”

“Are you stupid? It’s almost one in the morning.”

Seongje pushes himself off the railing, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. 

“I’ll see you around.”

Gotak scoffs seeing Seongje retreating around the corner. 

He left his beer bottle on the railing. 

<><><><><><><>

When Gotak comes back into his introductory nutritional class the next day with a painfully throbbing hangover, his seat is empty. That was normal. 

What wasn’t normal was the giant cooler bag sitting in the middle of the table, with a note with his name taped on the top. He glances around, looking for anyone who may have placed it. All he got instead was a ton of awkward eye contact and a few pointed looks shot his way.

He decides to open the bag.

Peering in, his eyes widen at the sight. 

Inside was what he thinks is a vending machine's full stock of banana milk.

There was another note attached above it. He reaches in. There was a rushed number jotted down on the top, along with some writing below. Gotak squints, trying to make out the absolutely horrendous handwriting.

Ball’s in your court, sweetheart. – S.

His face flushes.

Damn you, Geum Seongje.

[spoonosu]

don't come towards me (i don't wanna fall for you)

Synopsis: In which a certain smug asshole keeps worming his way into Go Hyuntak’s life. Or alternatively, Geum Seongje was only trying to make amends in his own weird, stupid, idiotic way. How is it his fault that it snowballed into something much bigger than they both could’ve imagined?

Warnings: Aged-up characters, Go Hyuntak is still traumatized by Geum Seongje (the guy helped break his knees for god's sake), weaponized cigarette smoke, mentions of actual school assignments (ew!), Baku's a doofus (and we all love him for it), Seongje beats up a guy (whether or not they deserved it is still debatable)

Pairing(s): Computer Science Student! Geum Seongje x Nutritionist Student! Go Hyuntak

Genre: Slight angst, little hurt (but maybe more comfort??)

Word Count: 4.8k

[part 1] part 2 part 3

ao3

---------

a/n: i didn't wanna keep proofreading this anymore ༼;´༎ຶ ۝ ༎ຶ༽ this was only supposed to be a one-shot but, as always, i have no self-control.

---------

It doesn’t take someone with a rocket science degree to figure out that Go Hyuntak doesn’t like Geum Seongje. Why would he? There’s absolutely nothing that Seongje has ever done that has made Gotak want any resemblance of a relationship with him. After he practically beat Gotak into unconsciousness before Baekjin delivered the final blow to his knee and nearly derailed Eunjang’s plans to take down the Union, Gotak doesn’t exactly have any intentions to interact much less see Seongje again. 

That period of his life was over. 

Gotak doesn’t fight anymore. 

At least, that’s what he hoped. But the world is cruel to Go Hyuntak. So cruel, in fact, that when he stepped into his first Nutritional Sciences class of the semester, there he was—Geum Seongje, smack dab in the middle of the lecture hall. 

Alive. 

Breathing.

Standing out like there was a designated spotlight shining directly on the asshole’s head. 

And busy unplugging his computer charger from the desk socket.

There was no doubt about it, Gotak‘s mortal enemy #1 was not only in his university, but in the exact same room as Gotak. But unlike his high school counterpart, he crazily enough wasn’t covered in bloodied bandages or bruises that littered his body like paint splotches. 

It was by now that Gotak realized that this lecture hall didn’t only hold courses in the Nutritional Sciences realm. Sure, Seongje could also be in Nutrition but Gotak highly doubts that he would even be remotely interested in learning about it. The guy’s palate mostly consists of cigarette ashes and the tears of all the guys he beats up anyways. Why would he have any use for nutrition in his diet? 

Now, Gotak isn’t stupid—though he does think that hanging around Baku automatically puts a buffer onto his brain cell capacity. He knows he has to play this cool. There are like a hundred other students who were supposed to attend his mandatory introductory class. And fortunately for him, since this is the first class and he knows absolutely no one, there isn’t even an unspoken designated spot for him to sit at yet. 

Besides, what are the chances that Seongje would even see him from this far away? The man wears glasses for a reason. He doubts Seongje would even remember what he looked like. Gotak likes to think he’s grown a lot more mature and handsome—sharper features, a taller build, muscled stature. Nothing that made him appear so easy to bully in front of assholes like Seongje. 

Still, he exhales a long breath before walking through the lecture hall doors, trying to avoid any and all forms of accidental eye contact with everyone around him. Gotak’s trying to keep a low profile, after all. Even if Seongje was at least half a lecture hall’s distance away from him, he still doesn’t want to risk the chance of getting noticed. 

Unfortunately, he’s a little too good at dodging all forms of contact because he somehow also forgets to dodge the presence of physical bodies. 

“Ow! Son of a bitch, watch where you’re going!” 

Ever since high school, Go Hyuntak prides himself as someone who’s fit. Well-built, as his mother puts it to the neighbourhood aunties. Even with his bad knee, he can still probably find a way to knock someone out of commission for a while. But when he sees the behemoth of a man that he accidentally stepped on, he thinks that everything he’d been training for has been for nothing. Because this? This was the real deal. 

He jumps back, quickly bowing down as he profusely apologizes to the wall of muscle, catching the brief glances of some nearby students. 

“I’m sorry! I didn’t see you in the way!” his mouth fires off quickly, still trying to act as inconspicuous as he can. “I really didn’t mean it!”

The guy dramatically rolls his eyes and pulls his unproportionately small backpack straps over his shoulders. As he leaves, he intentionally knocks himself into Gotak, sending him hurdling into the nearest table. Gotak just barely hears the remnants of a mumbled idiot before picking himself up, assessing his injuries. There weren’t any big ones, but he’s wincing as he touches a growing spot of pain on his right hip. Guess he clipped the edge of the table pretty good. 

“God, this is embarrassing,” he murmurs under his breath to himself, already feeling his face begin to flush, averting the gazes of whoever heard the sudden commotion. 

First day of classes and he’s already pissed off a student. Brilliant work, Go Hyuntak. 

“Well, I’ll say,” a familiar voice breaks the silence.

Gotak freezes, body suddenly enveloped in a cold sweat. This voice is one that he knows all too well. The same one that laughed manically when they realized that Gotak was totally unable to get up (on the day his dreams were completely shattered). The one that filmed him and Juntae on the roof just to bait Sieun into fighting. 

The voice that can only belong to one singular evil monster: Geum Seongje. 

“You should’ve kicked him back,” Seongje whistles, stepping down the stairs to Gotak’s level. “Where did the tough guy back in high school go?”

Gotak gulps. Shit, guess he hasn’t changed enough. This is quite literally the one thing that he didn’t want to happen. 

“Fuck off, Seongje,” Gotak manages to spit out after a beat, voice slightly wavering with a little less conviction than he wanted.

In his typical fashion, Seongje doesn’t let go. 

“Is that really how you’re going to treat such a long-lost friend?” he mocks, bottom lip sticking out with a pout. “I thought we were so much closer than that.”

Gotak scoffs, patting away some excess dust that had gotten on his sleeves when he fell. 

“In your fucking dreams, Seongje. You gotta shoot me in the head before I would even remotely want to be within a fifty meter vicinity with you.”

Seongje smirks, his canines briefly flashing under the harsh ceiling lights. 

“So there is a possibility?”

“God, you’re fucking impossible,” Gotak grits out between his teeth. “Why are you even here anyways? Who even let you into campus with your criminal record?”

“Well, aren’t you curious for someone who supposedly hates the bane of my existence,” Seongje totally ignores the question. “Tell me, do you have a dartboard with my face plastered in the middle like in the movies, or is it more lowkey, like a voodoo doll with a million pins sticking out? Either way, I’ll be flattered.”

“What are you talking about?!” Gotak sputters. “I barely think of you at all.”

“Barely?”

Fuck Gotak and fuck his choice of words. 

Around him, more students were beginning to trickle into the lecture hall, taking whatever seats that were free. He doesn’t have time for this. 

“Whatever, go away Seongje. Unlike a certain someone here, I have classes to actually pay attention—”

“What makes you think about me, Gotak?” Seongje cuts in, his smirk growing wider by the second. “You’re making me so curious.”

Gotak swallows. 

His mouth feels so dry. 

Because if he had to be totally and brutally honest? He does think about Geum Seongje from time to time. Not because he even remotely wanted to. 

But because his body reminds him of it. 

Especially when it’s pushed to its limits. 

A flash of pain that suddenly zipped up his legs. A hard bump to his ligament. Sometimes even from a small bend to his knees. 

It was worse when he was alone.

So Gotak bites his lips, deciding he isn't going to supply Seongje’s twisted version of fun anymore. Seongje had already extracted enough entertainment from him to last him a lifetime. Laughed at it too. No, this time, Gotak is maintaining his pride and staying quiet. 

…

If only he didn’t just glance down at his injured knee. 

Seongje followed Gotak’s gaze down, smirk fading as realization hit him like a speeding truck. That was all the answer the other man needed. And suddenly, the once smug asshole is looking a little less smug now. 

“You know what? I don’t care,” Seongje mutters, not meeting Gotak’s eyes for the first time this whole interaction. “Have fun learning your nerd shit. I’ll see you around.”

He quietly slips around Gotak and walks down the stairs. His demeanor turns cold as he walks past the next wave of incoming students, pushing himself out the doors marked with the EXIT sign.

Gotak exhales a breath that he didn’t even know he was holding. He takes a brief glance back.

Seongje doesn’t come back. 

Something curls in his stomach. His legs feel unstable, like all the adrenaline from the interaction just came crashing down. He sharply inhales, trying to collect all his thoughts. 

He had just met Geum Seongje. And all his limbs are intact. Everything is okay. 

When Gotak finally throws his bag down in an empty chair at the back of the lecture hall, there is only one thought in his mind. 

Baku’s in for a treat tonight. 

<><><><><><><>

“YOU SAW WHO AT SCHOOL TODAY?!?”

Gotak pulls back from his phone as much as he possibly can—all in a vain attempt to preserve what was left of his hearing. He winces as his best friend continues to crash out. His knees are already fucked enough, let’s not add another body part to the list, thank you. 

“God, Baku, either learn to volume control or fucking mute yourself.”

“SEONGJE!?” Baku screams again, completely ignoring Gotak. “THE GEUM SEONGJE?! LIKE THE ONE BACK IN HIGH SCHOOL!?! THE MASOCHIST WHO HAD TO GET A TETANUS SHOT ‘CUZ SIEUN STABBED A PEN INTO HIS FOOT?!?”

Gotak rubs his eyes, already feeling the tension beginning to settle into his shoulders. Talking to Baku feels like he’s shaving years off of his already shitty lifespan. He bellyflops down onto his bed, grabbing the nearest pillow to prop himself up. 

“Yes Baku, the Geum Seongje. God, I think I need to put this phone in another room.”

“WHAT IS HE EVEN DOING THERE? IF ANYTHING HE—” Baku pauses, forcing Gotak to check his phone if his friend was even still on the phone. Unfortunately, the call was still in session. Baku’s stupid face that he set as his profile picture was still on the screen. 

“Do you think he was tracking someone in there?” Baku’s voice suddenly lowers conspiratorily. “Like, do you think he’s still involved in some shady shit?”

Gotak pauses to think. He wouldn’t exactly put it past Geum Seongje to still have some connections to the guys that dragged Baekjin into the Union. After that whole group collapsed, it sort of felt like Seongje’s existence also faded along with them. Sure, he did overhear from some Ganghak guys that the asshole was still there terrorizing the student body but it was never as brutal as before. Maybe just a few punches and kicks exchanged to guys that asked for a fight. Nothing too overboard. 

“Probably not,” Gotak finally replies. “He didn’t look like he came out of some war scene like he did back in high school.”

Gotak can hear a long exhale from the other side of the call. 

“Okay,” Baku breathes out. “Well, can you drop the class?”

Gotak squeezes the pillow closer to his chest.

“Well, not really. The introductory class is mandatory and all the other slots don’t really fit in with my schedule. I’m kinda stuck here.”

“Man, if only we were in the same classes,” Baku imitates some punching blows, mouth making whooshing sound effects as his fists connect with empty air. “I totally could’ve whooped his ass in two seconds. No doubt.”

Gotak snorted softly at that. 

“You sure? Weren’t you just complaining that your coach ransacked the mountain of junk food that you hid in your locker? That doesn’t sound like someone who can exactly ‘whoop his ass’.”

“You try eating straight up white chicken breast for a week and tell me that you won’t be drooling over the smell of tteokbokki,” Baku rants. “That’s right, you can’t, you coddled, privileged piece of trash. Show a little sympathy for your friend.” 

Gotak rolls his eyes. How is it his fault that Baku decided to abandon him to pursue Kinesiology after he received the best athlete scholarship in high school? And besides, it’s not like he’s the one who told Baku to join the Basketball team right away.

“Don’t blame me for your bad decisions, idiot. Stop making impulsive decisions.”

“Well, whatever, I’m never gonna do that again; Coach forced me to eat more chicken breasts this week just because of that junk food stunt,” Gotak hears Baku fake-gagging through the phone. “And now I’m suffering even more.”

Gotak huffs out a laugh.

“Should’ve listened when I told you not to do it, idiot.” 

Gotak hears the sound of a fridge door being opened while Baku mutters something inaudible from under his breath. 

“Well, you have fun doing that.”

“Call me again if Seongje tries anything.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure. Bye moron.”

“Back at you.”

Gotak hangs up the phone with a sigh. His fingers pick at a thread that hung out of the pillowcase. Geum Seongje was one of the last people he wanted to see, and now Gotak feels like he’s being strung along by said man, helpless as he waits for his next move. He curls into himself, muffling a frustrated groan into his pillow. 

His knee slightly clicks when he stands up to turn off the lights.

<><><><><><><>

Right after he finished the last class of the day, Go Hyuntak immediately bolted to the vending machine located at the corner of the Nutritional building. That machine was like his lifeline—it was the only one that sold his favourite brand of banana milk. 

But the one thing that Gotak expected to encounter when he turned the corner was to be ambushed face-to-face with a wall of smoke. 

A very targeted wall of smoke. 

Gotak sputters, hitting his chest and stepping back to whatever misfortune decided to descend upon him today. He quickly whirls his head up through squinted watering eyes, gritting his teeth as he sees a familiar figure through the fading wisps.

“Oops,” Seongje apologizes, not looking the least bit sorry at all. “Didn’t see you there.” 

Gotak finds that really hard to believe. He is wearing very vibrant colours today. But he isn’t going to waste his breath arguing knowing that it’ll probably get nowhere. No, he has so much more class than that. 

Go Hyuntak’s a (self-proclaimed) pacifist. 

A pacifist that, five seconds after he’d gotten over the initial shock, had decided to flip Geum Seongje off with the dirtiest look he could muster on his face.

Ignoring the asshole (who’s definitely quite amused by this situation right now), Gotak takes another step toward the vending machines. This action only earns himself another hit of smoke in his face, this time infinitely more potent and definitely on purpose. 

“Didn’t mean to do that again,” Seongje lifts the cigarette from his lips, eyes lazily combing over Gotak. “Clumsy me. Ever the ditz.”

If it was possible, steam would be coming out of Gotak’s ears by this point. No one should get between him and his banana milk, especially not Geum Seongje. Gotak’s fists clench tighter by his side as he tries to restrain himself from strangling the man—this, unfortunately, like many of Gotak’s actions, does not go unnoticed by Seongje. The fucker even shoots a smile back at him for it. 

“So, tell me Gotak, why are you here?” Seongje questions innocently, cigarette still burning between his fingers. 

“Move out the way before I crack your head open.”

Okay, maybe Gotak wasn’t quite the pacifist he originally stated he was.

Seongje tsks. 

“Now, now, let’s not aggravate that knee of yours.”

Gotak’s eyebrows furrow. 

“Why would you even care?”

“Because—”

Seongje’s words die just as he opens his mouth to respond, eyes flitting as he catches something over Gotak’s shoulders. He drops his cigarette to the ground, smushing it underneath his sneakers. 

“I need to go take care of…something,” Seongje mutters over his shoulder, side stepping around Gotak. He then pauses, a sly smirk curling around the edges of his lips, eyes trailing down to Gotak’s still clenched fists. 

“Be sure to check your phone today.”

Gotak stands there, confusion etched into every crevice of his face as he watches Seongje stroll away, like a predator hunting down its prey. His eyes held the same maniacal look behind those glasses as the day he texted Yeon Sieun onto the balcony—it’s quite a whiplash seeing it again, to be honest. 

Gotak turns around and continues his walk towards the vending machine. 

Guess Geum Seongje hasn’t changed at all.

<><><><><><><>

Go Hyuntak wanted to strangle him. 

As soon as Seongje’s class ended for the day with the professor bidding their dismissals, Gotak immediately came barreling in, scouring the tables. Spotting the familiar Kenzo shirt that was still horribly in Seongje’s closet rotation, he rushed up the stairs, pushing past a pair of students that blocked his way. Nearing his table, Gotak quickly fumbles out his phone, unlocking it before slamming his dominant hand on the wooden surface. 

Seongje slowly raises his head up from his computer as Gotak thrusts his phone directly into his face, weirdly not looking the tiniest bit fazed at the sudden intrusion.

“What the fuck did you do!?!” Gotak snaps sharply, eyes throwing daggers at Seongje who looks a little bit too calm for his taste.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the asshole replies instead, closing his computer slowly, eyes half-lidded as if he was already bored with the conversation.

“Look at what I saw sent to my phone after I went home yesterday!” Gotak taps at his screen, zooming in furiously. “I’m extremely sorry for bumping into you? I wasn’t paying attention to my surroundings? I’ll never do it again? I’ll even drop out of the class?”

Seongje whistles. 

“Wow, I wonder who that is. You must have scared them pretty bad, Gotak.”

“Cut the bullshit, Geum Seongje,” Gotak closes his phone with a click, shoving it back into his pockets. “I know it was you.”

Seongje sighs loudly. 

“Still trying to keep tabs on me, Takkie? You’re becoming quite a stalker, you know?”

“Don’t deflect the conversation,” Gotak hisses out. “I didn’t even give him my name. How did he even find me?”

“Lucky guess?” Seongje slowly blinks with a noticeable glint in his eyes. “I always thought you were someone who liked a slower form of foreplay.” 

“What?!” Gotak feels a burn rising up in his chest. “Tell me what you did.”

“Okay, fine, whatever you want, princess,” Seongje throws his hands up in the air like he’s just been caught. “I just played around with the guy a little. Nothin’ else to it.”

Gotak squints his eyes.

“Then why are your fingers so roughed up?”

“I punched a wall,” Seongje shrugs. Like that was anything close to resembling something normal. 

Gotak scoffs, folding his arms over his chest. 

“You’re impossible, you know that? I can’t trust a single word you say.” 

“Mmm sure. I’m programmed to confuse everyone around me every five seconds or else I’ll explode. It’s built to count down too. Goes somethin’ like beep beep beeeeeep KaBLOOsh!” Seongje imitates his brain exploding, falling back a little for dramatic effect. Gotak would be lying if he didn’t find that at least a little bit entertaining. But this was Geum Seongje, so nothing was funny about it. 

“Are you trying to piss me off?” 

“Only for you, baby,” Seongje winks in his direction.

Gotak blinks fast, heat rising up his neck. What kind of guy would call another baby at a time like this? This is a confrontation, for god’s sake. 

“What are you trying to do here?” Gotak asks, exasperated. “Do you want a thank you? Are you somehow threatening me? What do you want from me, Seongje?”

The man pushes his glasses up, eyes glinting as he looks up at Gotak. 

“I want you,” he starts, voice quieter than it was this whole conversation. 

Gotak holds his breath, ears fully alert as he anticipates the next oncoming words. Seongje leans in closer.

“To trust me.”

A beat.

“What?” Gotak softly breathes out.

“That’s it,” Seongje casually says, pulling back into his seat. He then stuffs his laptop back into his bag, throwing it over his shoulder.

“I’ll see you around, Gotak.”

Seriously, this would be a funny little story to hear from someone else. Hell, it would even earn them a sympathetic pat on the back from Gotak himself if he wasn’t the one put in the same predicament. 

“Also,” Gotak whips his head around, slightly more bewildered when he realizes that Seongje was pointing at him. 

“You should take my seat.”

“And why should I?” 

“Doesn’t look like anyone else wants to,” Seongje shrugs. Before he leaves, he shoots Gotak another wink.

Gotak huffs.

It’s not that he wanted to follow Geum Seongje’s orders. But there were really no other suitable seats that were so close to an outlet to sit in. 

At least, that’s what Go Hyuntak likes to tell himself when he shoves his backpack onto the ground as he sits down in Geum Seongje’s seat. 

<><><><><><><>

Go Hyuntak is one week into university and he already feels the doors to heaven are opening right in front of his eyes. 

His cause of death? A (very valid) crashout session over an assignment. 

“Why couldn’t I have picked an easier class?!” Gotak groans as his screen displays another ERROR message in what seemed like the millionth time in the span of an hour. 

Currently sitting by his desk at home, Gotak’s laptop whirs as he types out any piece of code he could think of. His eyes droop heavier with every passing minute he stares at the loading cursor bar.

“God, are you out there?” he wails, knocking his head against the table. “Please let me go. I don’t know what I’ve done, but I’m sorry, okay?”

Go Hyuntak wouldn’t be caught dead in this situation if his school hadn’t mandated him to register in at least one Science class in the first semester of his first year. And being a dumb first year, he stupidly registered in some introductory Computer Science class, thinking that it would be a breeze with his three other Nutritional classes. 

It wasn’t. 

It took him an admittedly embarrassing amount of time to even find the course webpage.

And now he’s in hour four with a program that doesn’t even work. 

“‘This should take about one hour a week to do’ my fucking ASS,” Gotak mimics his professor. “Where are we? In a fuckin’ time machine?”

He inhales deeply before he tries running the program again. The familiar error message pops up again, bringing down the rest of Gotak’s remaining sanity. 

He inhales deeply. 

This was due tonight. And he still had work from his three other classes to do.

Gotak closes his laptop with a muffled scream. 

He needs to go out. 

“Life is more than grades, Go Hyuntak,” he chants to himself, closing his eyes. “Life is beautiful. You are beautiful. You can overcome this adversity, you stupidly handsome bastard.”

If only he can believe that right now. 

Pushing himself out of his chair, he grabs his phone, wallet, and keys. Just as he clicks open the door, Gotak sighs before also grabbing his bag, shoving his laptop in. 

“Maybe I just need a new studying space.”

And that’s how he lands himself at the entrance to the public library. He checks his watch.

6:38PM

Okay, the library closes at 9, he still has plenty of time. He’s been here so many times that he doesn’t even need to check the signs anymore, feet already taking him towards the third floor’s designated studying area. Gotak’s about to take a seat in the corner of the room before he notices a familiar orange jumpsuit in the corner of his eyes, stopping him in his tracks. 

It’s Geum Seongje. 

Who has very clearly also noticed Go Hyuntak. 

And is now walking towards him. 

Gotak’s blood runs cold. His eyes darts towards the exit sign. A hand lands on his shoulder. 

“What a coincidence seeing you here, Takkie,” Seongje cocks his head, taking him in from head to toe. “You look like shit.”

Gotak scoffs, brushing off Seongje’s hand.

“I could say the same to you.” 

That was a lie. Seongje actually looked better than how he normally did, but Gotak wasn’t going to tell him that.

“What are you even doing here?” Gotak cuts in sharply. “This isn’t a prison cell.”

“What? Trying to keep tabs on me again?” Seongje retorts. “Seriously Gotak, let’s establish some boundaries.”

Fuck this guy.

Gotak rolls his eyes before sitting down in the corner chair, dropping his bag by his feet and takes out his laptop. Beside him, Seongje also plops himself down in the chair next to Gotak, yawning as he tries to sneak a peek at what Gotak’s doing. 

Unfortunately, as soon as Gotak flips up his laptop case, the very familiar (and extremely unwelcomed) error message pops up again. Heat rises up into Gotak’s face as embarrassment floods his system.

Seongje shuffles closer to Gotak and rests his hand on his chair as he leans in, suddenly very intrigued by what's on the screen.

Gotak wants to cry. He thinks he’s going to actually break down if Seongje starts ridiculing him right now. But instead—

“You forgot to store a value in that variable,” Seongje states in a blank voice, pointing into Gotak’s screen. “See here? The computer doesn’t know what the ‘HP’ of your character is because you didn’t actually specify a value to it.”

Gotak blinks.

“Also, you have to make your own functions for movement abilities,” Seongje continues. “You can’t just tell the computer to make the character ‘move right’. It doesn’t know what that means.”

He turns to Gotak. “Treat the entire map as graph coordinates.”

Gotak is stunned. Under no circumstances did he think that Geum fucking Seongje would be teaching him introductory computer science mechanics in a public library today. Or ever, actually.

Gotak clears his throat.

“Th-Thanks,” he stutters out. Seongje nods briefly before pulling out his phone. 

“Call me if you’re still getting errors,” he lazily drawls out before clicking open a game.

Gotak turns back to his laptop as the muted sounds of gunfire play out in the background. Much to his chagrin, Seongje’s changes actually do make sense. It takes him a bit to implement the suggestions, but once he does, he thinks that the program might actually work for once.

His hands are trembling as his mouse hovers over the RUN button in the corner of the screen. He inhales sharply before clicking the button. Seongje had also put his phone down, peering over as the computer loads. 

SUCCESS!

“S-Success?” Gotak stammers out, blinking furiously. “I’m not hallucinating this, right?”

“Nah, you did it right.”

Gotak turns to Seongje. Seongje stares back with an undecipherable expression before nodding once to confirm. Then, Gotak explodes in pure unadulterated joy. Gotak hollers before Seongje can even shut him up (not that he has any intention of doing that), ignoring the very pointed looks of the people nearby. He quickly saves the program before slamming his laptop shut, shoulders feeling lighter now that his biggest source of stress is now gone. 

“God, do you know how fucking long this took? Way too much, I’ll tell ya,” he rambles as he shoves his laptop back into his backpack, not wanting to touch it any more seconds than he needed to. “I was losing so many hair follicles I could make my own hairball.”

Gotak chuckles. 

“I swear, I could feel my life force being sucked out of me.”

Seongje can only stare at Gotak in amusement. 

“Really?”

“Yeah, I was holed up in my room for so long I could feel a beard coming in. Oh man, I was willing to do anything to finish this shit.” 

“Anything?” Seongje probes, eyebrow raising in question. 

Gotak nods.

“I would even fucking kiss you on the mouth if it meant that I didn’t have to see a single line of code agai—”

Gotak cuts himself off. His face drops, eyes widening in the size of dinner plates as he quickly whips his head up, meeting Seongje’s (equally as wide) eyes. 

Wait. 

WAIT. 

WAIT. 

Gotak wasn’t supposed to say that. 

After a moment’s silence, Seongje blinks first. He huffs, emitting a quiet heh that breaks the silence between the two. His lips slowly curl up into a smirk as he cocks his head.

“Well, why don’t you?” 

[gotaksboyfie]

I really want a story about after a hectic day as a Union member, Geum Seongje back to his house, full bruises, a cut, blood stain on his face then the reader (female probably) treat him first, prepare a bath for him and then end up in bath sex lol I know I'm such a gooner over Geum Seongje

quick fix

gif creds: @1liv

pairing keum seongje x female reader

summary when there's a couple problems with the union meeting, seongje comes back later than usual. to your surprise, he's all beaten up. nothing a first aid kid (and bath sex) won't fix

word count 1.4k

warnings/tags smut, small descriptions of blood

you sat on your couch, drowsily blinking tears away after you've yawned for the fifth time. it was getting late. too late. seongje was supposed to be back at nine pm, and it was nearly eleven. he was late for date night. you were going to give him the scolding of a lifetime the second he came back.

snuggling into a pillow, you nearly dozed off again until you heard the front door click.

"seongje?" you muttered sleepily, looking over your shoulder at the door.

a faint grunt came as your reply. then came a slight crashing sound. you jumped to your feet, rushing to seongje.

you gasped as you saw the state he was in, all bloody and bruised. there was an open cut on his cheek, as well as blood coming from just about everywhere.

"oh my god–! seongje, are you okay?" you asked, helping him steady himself.

"just peachy," he muttered, "can you get the first aid kit? i'm going to the couch."

seongje was already walking off despite his wounds. you tsk'ed, that high pain tolerance of his was going to get him killed.

you went to the bathroom cabinets to find it, and you heard seongje drop himself on the couch. there was a loud thump! as he probably all but launched himself at it.

walking back out, you saw seongje's head tipped back with slightly snores escaping. you left for only a few minutes, how was he knocked out already?

"wake up, seongje-ah," you patted his shoulder, sitting in his lap. seongje blinked and sluggishly sat up, closing his eyes.

you get to work, and seongje nearly dozes off multiple times. the small sting of the antiseptic helps keep him upright, but he's just like putty in your arms otherwise.

wiping away the crusted blood on his forehead, you take a moment to appreciate seongje's face. surely his parents do a high five every time they see him (which is never, probably)

seongje is asleep when you finish placing the last bandage. you slowly begin getting up to avoid waking him up. seongje's hand shoots out to hold your waist in place, and he grumbles something incoherent. so much for not waking him up.

gently prying his hand off, it falls limp and seongje lets out a huff. you quickly make your escape and start running a bath. you ran it hotter than normal, hoping to ease any potential aches seongje might have.

"seongje-ah, seongje," you shook him awake, watching drool run down his chin.

"huh?" he yawned, wincing as he nearly reopens the cut on his cheek.

"come, i started a bath for us."

"us? i must be lucky tonight," seongje grins and licks his lips, already eyeing your chest. "i'm sure i'll come alright."

you flush at the implication, "while you're injured?"

"it's barely a scratch," seongje stretches and his joints pop loudly. you disagree, the amount of blood you had to clean said otherwise. although now that you're thinking about it, was it really his blood?

you follow seongje to the bathroom, and he starts stripping. at first you're eyeing him because, well, he's hot. but it soon morphs into concern at the amount of bruising there is on his arms and some on his chest.

"are you okay?! oh my gosh, i didn't notice that before," you hurriedly rush to his side, flipping him around to find any other hidden wounds.

"calm down, it's just a few scratches." seongje waves you off, "but are you going to bathe fully clothed?"

of course this pervert seongje is thinking about your body when he's all battered and bruised. you quickly pull your clothes off, motioning for seongje to get in the bath. he pulls you in after him, making you sit in his lap with your back to his chest.

"been thinking of you all day," seongje presses wet kisses along your nape, one of his hands going to fondle at your chest. "fuckin' union bastards kept me from you."

"i was waiting for you. you came home so late," you bite back a moan, letting out a heavy breath instead. his other hand inches towards your inner thigh, getting closer and closer to your cunt.

"can't fucking stand it when they keep me from you," seongje bites along where your shoulder snd neck meet, making you jerk slightly from the sharpness of his teeth. "was so close to just beating the shit out of everyone."

his fingers find your clit, rubbing harsh circles on it. you tilt your hips upward, seeking more from him.

"you're this wet already?" seongje laughs right next to your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

"told you already, i was waiting," you whined, guiding seongje's hand towards your hole. the first finger slips in without much hesitation, and he adds a second one almost immediately.

"yeah, i can tell sweetheart. you've just been sitting here hoping i'd come home early to fuck you senseless, weren't you?"

his fingers curl, aiming for your g-spot. you let out a whimper as seongje starts fingerfucking you, adding a third after not even a minute.

"seongje– want it– please," you gasp out, throwing your head back onto his shoulders. you can his hard length against your ass, rubbing against it.

"you feel it? i've been dreaming of fucking you all day," seongje chuckles in your ear, lifting you up to slide home. you sink down fully without stopping, letting out a low moan.

you turn your head to your side to pull seongje into a sloppy kiss. the first roll of his hips has you choking on your breath. you can feel seongje smirk, and he grips your hips firmly.

you know he's steadying himself to fuck you senseless from the countless times he's gripped you similarly before. you relax against seongje, letting him take full control. you break from the kiss to catch your breath, moaning directly into his ear.

"that's right sweetheart, just sit there and look pretty. don't gotta lift a finger, all you have to do is take it." seongje growls, watching you bare your neck to him.

staccato moans are punched out of you, and the bathroom is filled with slick sounds of skin slapping and water sloshing with every harsh thrust.

this spurs him on, and he starts going rougher. you can feel the heat building up in your stomach. your hand finds seongje's, interlocking your fingers with his to try and steady yourself.

"you're close? already?" seongje chuckles, "you're squeezing me like crazy sweetheart." his free hand snakes down to rub quick circles on your clit.

"come on sweetheart, let go for me." that's all the confirmation you need. your body tenses up as you reach your peak, your vision even blurring at the intensity of it. seongje fucks you through it and milks out your orgasm.

"gonna– gonna cum, fuck, you feel so good around me," seongje groans, his voice slightly shaky as his thrusts grow sloppy from him chasing his high.

his hands clamp down on your waist with a bruising force. he buries himself to the hilt before he stills, spilling inside you with a ragged moan.

seongje leans against the bathtub, breath uneven and heavy, as he slowly loosens his grip on you.

"seongje.." you let out an airy breath, watching how seongje peeks one eye open at you. he lets out a small hum, waiting for your next words.

"there's water all over the goddamn floor." your voice is flat as you nod your head towards the bathroom floor. your clothes are soaked wet, snd there's giant puddles forming.

"and your cunt is still throbbing around me." seongje raises an eyebrow.

"wh– what does that even have to do with anything?!" you sputter, trying to find the correlation between the two.

"nothing, just seemed like we were just saying the truth. so what if there's water over the floor? that's a problem for later."

"yeah, later when we bust our head open on the sink." you roll your eyes, getting up to turn the shower head back on to rinse off. seongje pulls you down though, slamming you back down before you can pull off his cock.

the movement makes a sudden moan slip out of you. then you realize—seongje never softened up.

"you're so fucking horny," you choked out. seongje just laughs and keeps you seated on his cock.

"you thought i'd be done with just one round?" you can hear seongje's grin, even with your back to him. "we're going for at least three today."

"can't we at least get out of our cum infested bathtub first?"

feeling seongje's dick twitch inside you, you already know that you're gonna need another bath.

fin

a/n yo i did Not know how to end this i'm sorry 💔

[seongjesdoll]

off the record

pairing: music producer!geum seongje x fem idol!reader

wc: 14k

summary: you've spent three years being exactly what everyone needed you to be: the sweet member who smiled through every comeback even when the group was falling apart around her. when your members walk out and the label won't let you follow, you're handed a solo debut you didn't ask for and a producer you didn't choose. you figure you can at least keep the version of yourself you actually know how to be. geum seongje has never once in his career told an artist what they wanted to hear. he listens to your demo for forty seconds, closes his laptop, and tells the room you should go sexy. he doesn't seem to care whether you agree or not. he's already certain about what you're apparently capable of whether you believe it or not.

content: porn w slight plot, smut, 18+, slight power imbalance, enemies to not lovers but something worse (relationship is left open to interpretation at the end), virgin reader x seongje who makes fun of her for it, lots of emphasis on how unexperienced and untouched she is, possessive behavior from seongje, reader calls him a perv multiple times, fingering (f receiving), edging and orgasm denial, sex in the recording booth, romance blooms and then seongje ruins it by being a possessive pos, slut shaming, noncon recording during sex since reader isn’t aware and seongje doesn’t delete it when asked, p in v, condom use for the first round and then raw for the second round, “it won’t fit” x “i’ll make it fit” mmmmmm, size kink (reader is referred to as small/tight) , reader slaps him during their argument

a/n: based off this ask!

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

The meeting is scheduled for ten o'clock. By nine fifty-eight you are already seated in the conference room on the fourteenth floor with a paper cup of coffee going cold between your palms, watching the door.

You’re nervous.

Eight months ago, the other four members of Blossom terminated their contracts and walked out of this building with their personal items in paper bags. You watched them go from the window of this exact floor. The label had offered a restructured deal and they had declined it, collectively and without much deliberation, and then they had looked at you in the hallway outside the legal team's office with an expression you have spent eight months trying not to think about too precisely.

You did not leave with them. The label's restructured deal had your name on a separate clause, and the penalties attached to that clause were a number that made your vision go briefly white when you read it. So you stayed, and now you are a solo artist with eight months of rejected concept submissions and a debut that the label needs to happen before the end of the fiscal quarter.

The concept submissions are not bad. You know they are not bad. Sunshine, Sunshine has a key change in the bridge that your vocal coach called exciting, which is the most enthusiastic thing your vocal coach has said about anything in three years. The production team said it was charming.

Chansung, the label's head of A&R, is at the head of the table rearranging his papers. Your manager Jisoo is beside you reviewing something on her tablet. Two junior A&R staff sit at the far end of the table with their laptops open, speaking quietly to each other about something that stops the moment you glance at them.

Everyone in this room knows something you don't know yet. You can feel it in the particular quality of their helpfulness this morning, the way Chansung offered you coffee twice and then apologized for the cups being paper.

"He's particular about punctuality," Chansung says, to no one specifically.

"It's ten oh four," you say.

The door opens.

Keum Seongje is not what the industry photographs suggest. The photographs present him as angular and composed, all sharp jaw and expensive neutrals. In person he takes up more space than his frame should allow. He’s wearing a grey hoodie with the cuffs pushed up and glasses that cost more than your monthly vocal coaching sessions. He has a coffee cup from the place two blocks over, which means he stopped somewhere on the way here and did not hurry.

He sits down without greeting anyone. He opens his laptop and reads something on the screen. He does not apologize for the time.

Chansung clears his throat. "Seongje, thank you for making the trip. We're very glad to have you on board for this project. As I mentioned in the brief, we're looking at a solo debut for our artist here, building on the fanbase she established with Blossom, and we thought given your track record with image repositioning that you might have some interesting-“

"Play it," Seongje says.

Chansung stops mid-sentence. "Sorry?"

"The submission." He sets his phone face-down on the table. "Play it."

Chansung looks at you. You pull out your own phone, connect it to the room speaker, and press play. Sunshine, Sunshine fills the conference room. The opening is bright and synth-driven. Your vocal sits high in the mix, clean and controlled. The key change arrives at two minutes and twelve seconds, right on schedule.

Seongje listens with his elbow on the table and two fingers pressed against his mouth. He stares at a fixed point slightly above the speaker like the music is a document he is reading rather than something meant to be felt.

The track ends. Thirty-two seconds of silence follow it.

"No," he says.

Chansung shifts in his seat. "The key change in the bridge was something we were particularly excited about, the production team felt it added a real sense of-“

"It's not bad. It’s just not right,” Seongje says. He finally looks at you. "Sing something for me."

You blink. "The track is right there."

"I heard the track." He gestures vaguely at the speaker. "Sing something. Anything. Whatever you were singing this morning."

Your manager Jisoo makes a small sound beside you.

"I wasn't singing this morning," you say.

"Then yesterday. Whenever you last sang something because you wanted to, not because someone was recording it."

You think of the voice memo you recorded at two in the morning three weeks ago, sitting on your bathroom floor because the acoustics were good and you couldn't sleep and there was a melody circling your head that wouldn't resolve. Then you look at this room full of people and you sing four bars of Sunshine, Sunshine instead, a cappella, just to give him something to work with.

"Lower," he says.

"It's written for my range."

"I'm not asking about the song. Drop it an octave and do it again."

The melody transforms into something your chest has to work for, something that sits in the back of your throat rather than the front of it. Four bars. Twelve seconds, maybe.

Seongje is very still.

Then he picks up his pen, writes two words on the notepad in front of him, and turns it to face Chansung.

"What does it say?” you ask.

Neither of them answers immediately, which is its own answer.

"What does it say?" you repeat.

Chansung turns the notepad toward you.

Sexy concept.

The silence that follows is the loudest thing that has happened in this room all morning.

"No," you immediately refuse.

"Yes," Seongje says, already writing something else.

"That is not what we discussed. You can’t just-“

"Your submission was written for a group," Seongje says, without looking up. "Four other voices, a concept that only works as a unit. What I just heard from you in that octave has nothing to do with Blossom. That belongs to you."

"I can't pull off sexy." The words come out before you can arrange them better.

"I didn't ask if you could pull it off."

"Because you are not the one who has to."

"Chansung." He caps his pen and looks straight at you. "Play me her fancam from the Inkigayo performance last March."

Chansung pulls it up on his laptop and turns the screen. You know the one. You know every frame of it. You were in the center, the camera finding you every eight counts, and you were doing exactly what the choreographer told you to do, which was be bright and accessible and pleasing.

Seongje watches twelve seconds of it and stops the video.

"That part." He points at the frozen frame. "Right there. You dropped the smile for exactly two seconds because you were listening to the bass line change." He taps the screen. "That is not a cute concept face. You made that face because the music did something to you and you forgot to perform for a second."

Your throat tightens.

"Oh," says one of the junior A&R staff at the end of the table, very quietly, like something has clicked into place for him.

"Oh my god," says the other one, slightly louder.

Chansung is nodding the way he nods when he is already composing the press release in his head.

"It suits her perfectly," the first staff member says. "Why didn't we ever-“

"Because you were looking at what she was doing instead of what she was about to do.” Seongje picks up his coffee. “I will take the full project."

"I am in the room," you say.

"I know," he says.

I haven't agreed to anything." The words come out sharper than you intended but you can’t help it. This stranger showed up four minutes late and now he thinks he can dissect your entire career in one sentence. You have been doing this for five years. Your image has been carefully constructed and maintained through comeback after comeback. No producer who couldn’t even arrive on time should be able to unravel it this quickly.

The protest sits on your tongue ready to be spoken. Except the bass line change from the Inkigayo stage is still lodged somewhere in your chest like a physical object. The way your voice sounded in that lower octave has not stopped replaying in your head since you heard the recording. A terrible suspicion creeps in that he knows exactly what both of those things are doing to you right now, that he can see the curiosity you are trying to bury under professional skepticism.

Your gaze shifts to Chansung for backup or at least solidarity.

Chansung’s posture has relaxed. One hand rests on the table near the portfolio like he is already planning which photos to use for the concept shoot. The betrayal of it makes your jaw tighten.

"Fine," you say. The word tastes like defeat. "But I want approval rights on the final direction."

Seongje has already turned back to his notepad before you finish speaking. His pen moves across the page in quick efficient strokes. Notes get added to whatever framework he has been building this entire meeting.

"Sure," he says without looking up. The tone carries the easy agreement of someone who has no intention of honoring what they just promised, like he is humoring a child who thinks they have negotiating power.

Your fingers curl against your thigh under the table where no one can see.

────୨ৎ────

The second meeting is in the same conference room, which you are beginning to resent on principle.

Seongje arrives on time. The punctuality gives you nothing to be quietly annoyed about before things officially begin. He sets his laptop on the table and pulls a small portable drive from his jacket pocket. The drive slides across the table toward you.

"Reference tracks," he says. "Listen to all of them before you say anything."

You don’t even bother reaching for the drive. "Good morning to you too."

He opens his laptop without acknowledging the comment.

Chansung has developed a new habit of sitting precisely between the two of you like a human buffer. He clears his throat now and attempts to restore some semblance of professional courtesy. "Today we are narrowing down the creative direction. Seongje has prepared some references, and we thought it would be useful to-"

"I have references too," you say. Your own laptop opens and the screen turns toward Seongje. A mood board you spent four hours building last night fills the display. Clean lines and soft lighting create something that walks the border between the image you have and the image they want. It’s a version of the concept that does not require you to become someone unrecognizable. "This is what I think we could be working toward."

Seongje glances at it for approximately three seconds.

"No," he says.

"You looked at it for three seconds."

"I didn't need longer." He nods at the drive still sitting in front of you. "Listen to the references."

The drive gets picked up. You put it in your laptop and open the first file with more force than necessary.

The track is nothing like what you expected. Slow and low, it builds around a bass line that takes up more space than the melody does. The vocal sample sitting on top is not pretty in any conventional sense. The voice sounds like it has been somewhere and came back changed.

You close the file after ninety seconds.

"That is not my style," you say.

"Not yet," Seongje clarifies.

"Not ever. My fanbase is not going to follow me into whatever that is." The gesture you make toward the laptop encompasses the entire concept he seems to be building.

"Your fanbase followed Blossom. Blossom doesn't exist anymore. You are building a new fanbase. The old one is a bonus if it comes along, not a blueprint."

The junior A&R staff are very still at the end of the table. Nobody seems to be breathing.

"I have two hundred thousand people who have followed my career for five years," you huff, suddenly angry. "That’s the foundation of everything the label has invested in, and if we alienate them with a complete image overhaul then we’re gambling with the only one I have."

Seongje glances at Chansung. "She's not wrong about the risk."

You blink, surprised he even had the ability to agree with you.

"She's wrong about the solution," he continues. You sigh. You knew it was too good to be true.

His hands pull the laptop toward himself and open the second reference file. "The answer isn’t to stay inside the old image to keep the old audience. The answer is a transition that gives the existing audience somewhere to go."

He turns the screen toward you. A chart fills the display with streaming numbers across a three-year period. The artist whose name you recognize stares back from a thumbnail photo. "She had a cute concept for four years before doing a full pivot at twenty-three. She lost thirty percent of her casual listeners in the first month but gained them back within a quarter, plus the new audience on top. The music was good enough that people followed it."

"She isn’t me," you argue.

"Correct. Her voice is less interesting than yours."

The room goes quiet in a different way than it has before. The junior A&R staff exchange glances.

"You don't know my voice well enough to say that. You heard me sing for twelve seconds in this room last week." The compliment feels fake coming from him.

"Fourteen seconds," he says. "And yes, I do."

"That is exactly my point. You don’t know me. You walked in here with a decision already made based on fourteen seconds and a fancam.”

"Then what do you actually want?" He closes the laptop. His full attention lands on you and it carries an uncomfortable weight. "Not what's safe or what keeps the label happy. What do you want the music to do when someone hears it?"

"I want people to feel something," you say. The answer is true but also a lie at the same time.

He looks at you for a long moment while his expression remains unchanged. "That's not an answer. That's what everyone wants. Try again."

"I don't have a better answer for you right now." Your hands flatten against the table on either side of your laptop.

"Then we have a problem," he says as his coffee cup lifts to his mouth without him drinking from it yet. "I can't build a direction around an artist who doesn't know what she wants the music to be."

"I know what I want it to be. I want it to be..." The words trail off as you stop yourself mid-sentence. The mood board is still open on your laptop and your eyes drop to it. "I want it to feel like me."

"The mood board doesn't feel like you." He sets the cup down.

"You don't know what feels like me." The defensiveness in your voice has become obvious now. "What do you even want from me?"

Seongje leans back in his chair and the leather creaks under his weight. "For you to stop performing in the studio."

"I am a performer. That is literally what I do for a living." Your spine straightens in response.

"That’s it. You perform for the crowd, not for yourself," he corrects. "The music I'm building will not work if the person singing it is managing everyone else's reaction to her the whole time.”

“That’s a very easy thing to say to someone whose entire career was built on being likable," you scoff.

"I’m not asking you to change your identity. I am asking you to separate your music from it,” he continues. "The problem is that you think your music has to be your identity and that every song you release has to represent the totality of who you are as a person. The music is part of you, not all of you.”

You have no idea what to say to him or how to argue against something that makes this much sense. Every meeting with him goes like this. You walk in prepared for one conversation and he tilts the entire axis of it before you realize what is happening. The ground keeps shifting beneath you and you keep losing your footing.

His laptop opens and the sound of keys clicking fills the quiet as he types something. A few seconds pass before a soft chime indicates an email being sent.

"I just sent you the rest of the references," he says while his eyes stay on his screen. "Listen to all of them before our next session. Pay attention to how the music makes you feel.”

You pull out your phone once everyone leaves and open the email to find six audio files attached. The subject line reads simply: "Listen with headphones."

You download the first file.

────୨ৎ────

The references he sends are forty-three minutes of music you would never have found yourself.

You listen to all of them sitting cross-legged on your studio apartment floor with your laptop open and the lights off because somehow the dark makes it easier to hear things properly. Track after track, the same aesthetic running through all of them like a thread pulled tight. Low tempos, with negative space in the production where most music would fill in the gaps.

You listen to the whole thing twice. Then you sit in the dark for a while.

The problem is not that the music is bad. The problem, the one you cannot say out loud in a conference room, is that it makes sense. Not for the image you have built and maintained for five years or for the fanbase that knows your name because of synchronized choreography and matching pastel outfits, but for something inside you that you have carefully buried inside you when the label first told you to do a cute concept.

You open a new browser tab and sit there for a moment. Then you type: clubs in Mapo idols frequent.

It takes you twenty minutes to get ready. You tell yourself this is a reasonable and professional thing to do, gathering information, field-testing a concept before committing to it in a studio with Geum Seongje watching you through the glass. If you walk into a room dressed the way his references suggest and nobody looks at you, then you will have concrete evidence that the concept does not work. Concrete evidence is something even he cannot argue with.

The cab drops you outside at eleven-fifteen. Inside, the music is bass-heavy and continuous, and the lighting is dark enough that your eyes take a moment to adjust.

You find a spot at the bar and order something without tasting it.

This is the part where you did not think far enough ahead. In the version of this plan that existed in your apartment with the lights off, you walked in and either things happened or they didn't and you had your answer. You didn’t account for the specific loneliness of standing alone at a bar in a club at eleven-fifteen on a Wednesday, nursing a drink you don't want, performing casualness for an audience of nobody.

Blossom used to come to places like this together. All five of you in a corner booth, Jiyeon ordering for everyone, Haerin stealing fries from the platter, the particular noise of four other people who knew your face without the stage makeup on. You hadn’t thought about that in a while. You think about it now, standing here alone. You finish your drink and order another one.

The second drink is when he sits down.

He’s attractive in a generic, well-maintained way, wearing a shirt that costs money. He smiles at you with the confidence of someone who does not often hear no.

"You've been standing here alone for twenty minutes," he says, leaning slightly toward you to clear the music.

"I'm aware," you say.

"That seems like a waste." He flags the bartender. "Let me get you something."

"I have something." You hold up your glass.

"Then let me get you something better." His smile doesn't shift. "I feel like you could use the company."

You’re deciding how to handle this when a hand settles at the small of your back.

"She's good," says a voice beside your ear.

You go completely still.

Seongje is looking at the man on the stool with the mild, unhurried attention he gives everything, glasses catching the bar light, one hand still at your back and the other wrapped around what appears to be his own drink. He looks like he belongs here in a way, the complete opposite image of how out of place you feel.

The man on the stool reads the situation in about four seconds. His smile stays but the confidence behind it drains out. "My bad," he says, and picks up his drink and leaves.

Seongje's hand drops from your back and leaves the space where it was feeling suddenly cold.

You turn to look at him but he is already facing forward with his elbow on the bar. His attention focuses on the middle distance like none of the last thirty seconds happened.

"What are you doing here?" you say.

"Having a drink." He takes a sip of whatever he's drinking and the ice clinks against the glass.

"Here specifically."

"It's a bar. They have drinks here." His tone suggests this should be obvious. He turns his head and looks at you with an expression that differs from the conference room version of him. The club lighting does something to the sharp lines of his face and softens the edges just enough that he reads like a different person standing in the same body.

"Go home," he says.

"I was here first." Your grip tightens on your glass.

"I know." He looks at you for one more moment that lasts long enough for you to feel it in your sternum before he looks away again. "Go home. This place isn’t for you."

You set your glass down on the bar with more force than necessary. The sound of it hitting the wood makes the bartender glance over. "This place doesn't suit me? You picked a sexy concept for me."

"I know." He swirls the liquid in his glass and watches it move.

"Both those things can’t be true," you say slowly in the way you speak when you are trying very hard not to raise your voice.

"They are. You just don't understand how yet." His fingers tap once against his glass in a rhythm that matches the bass line bleeding through the speakers.

The laugh that comes out of you is not polite. Several people at the bar nearby glance over in your direction. Seongje closes two fingers lightly around your wrist. He pulls you away from the bar without any particular urgency but with clear purpose.

"What are you doing?" You pull back against his grip but he is already moving. "I’m not going anywhere with you."

"You're making a scene." He navigates through the crowd like he knows exactly where he is going.

"I’m whispering."

"You're whispering loudly." He steers you down a short corridor off the main floor before stopping at a door marked Private which he opens without knocking.

The room inside is small and dim, with a lounge arrangement that sits empty. The door closes behind you both and the bass from outside drops to a low thrum through the walls. The sudden quiet makes your ears ring.

"You brought me into a private room in a club." Your arms cross over your chest defensively.

"You were about to get loud." He leans against the wall like he has all the time in the world.

You point at him with one hand while the other stays wrapped around your elbow. "Pervert."

"You came here to prove you couldn't pull it off," he says, seeing right through your plan.

"I was trying to understand the concept," you argue.

"The concept isn't about being in a place like this," he says. "It's not a club concept. What I sent you, those references, did any of them feel like this?"

He gestures vaguely at the walls, the muffled thump of the music outside.

"No," you admit, quietly and with great reluctance.

"You were trying to test the wrong thing." He pushes off the wall. "You can't field-test this in a club. It doesn't live here."

"You are still a pervert for bringing me in here,” you turn to leave, because suddenly all of the exhaustion from the night hits you all at once.

"There was a bouncer twelve feet away the entire time."

"A pervert with backup," you say, and push open the door before he can respond.

The bass hits you immediately, full volume, and you walk back through the club and out the front door into the cold without looking back. The cab you call takes four minutes and you spend all four of them standing on the pavement in the black dress telling yourself the heat in your face is from the noise inside and not from anything else.

────୨ৎ────

Three more concept meetings happen in the following two weeks, each one shorter than the last. The direction is set. The aesthetic is what it is.

His studio is in Mapo, on the fourth floor of a building that looks like it should contain a dental practice or a mid-tier accounting firm. There is no label signage anywhere. The directory in the lobby lists the fourth floor as a private recording space with no company name attached, just a unit number, which tells you something about the kind of person who works here. His name is not on anything.

The door code he texts you the night before is eight digits. You stand in the hallway and type it in and feel, for no reason you can justify, like you are entering somewhere you were not entirely meant to find.

The studio is not what you pictured. There’s a long desk crowded with two monitors, an audio interface, and a keyboard controller pushed to the far edge to make room for a legal pad covered in handwriting you cannot read from the doorway. Cables are bundled and labeled with small pieces of tape. Three empty coffee cups are lined up along the windowsill. One of the monitors has a sticky note on the bezel that says fix the low end on 3 in what you assume is his handwriting.

Seongje is at the desk with his back to you, headphones around his neck, clicking through something on the left monitor. He does not turn around.

"Sit down," he says.

The only other chair in the room is pushed against the far wall. You pull it up to the desk and sit.

He finishes what he is doing, rolls his chair slightly to the right, and pulls up a project file on the right monitor. The waveforms are dense, layered, more tracks stacked than you expected for something still in the working phase. He has been in here building this for a while. You look at the file name at the top of the screen.

YN_titletrack_v9.

Version nine.

"Instrumental first," he says. "Don't say anything until it's done." He hits play.

The track comes through the studio monitors. It’s different from what you’ve been hearing his references through laptop speakers for the past two weeks. The sub-bass sits below your hearing and registers in your sternum instead, a low persistent pressure that you feel before you consciously process it as sound. The opening is sparse, the bass and a hi-hat pattern land slightly behind the beat in a way that makes your body want to lean forward into the rhythm.

Then the melody comes in. It’s softer than the instrumental suggests it should be, sitting in a middle register that has room and warmth to it. There’s a moment in the pre-chorus where the bass drops out entirely for two counts.

The chorus builds slowly. It deepens, adding texture in layers, the melody folding into a lower harmony that runs underneath it and pulls the whole thing somewhere more serious than it started.

The second verse is tighter than the first. He has compressed something in the arrangement, pulled the space in slightly, and the effect is the feeling of something closing around you. The bridge strips everything back to the bass and a single vocal line, unharmonized, and the nakedness of it after the layered chorus is the most affecting thing the track does. It is over in eight bars and when the final chorus comes back in you feel the loss of that space immediately.

The track ends on a single sustained note that fades.

"It's good." The admission requires no effort because it is simply and completely true, and dressing it up would be embarrassing for both of you. "It's very good."

Something in his posture settles. Not pride or satisfaction in the way you expected it would look on him but more like the quiet release of a tension he was not visibly carrying.

He pulls up a new document on the left monitor and turns it toward you. "This one’s still a working draft. Nothing is locked."

You lean forward. The title track is called Under Your Skin.

The first verse opens cleanly, the language restrained, almost domestic in its specificity.

You leave your things on my side of the room Like you're marking something Like you already know I don't mind, I don't mind That's the part I can't say out loud

You read it twice. It’s not explicit per say. Implication is more effective than statement, and the restraint of the first verse makes the turn in the pre-chorus land harder than it would have otherwise.

I've been good at keeping distance You make it look so easy to close it Come here, I said, come here

The repetition of come here sits in your chest the same way the bridge of the instrumental did, stripped and direct. You keep your face very still. The chorus arrives and the track stops being careful.

I want to get under your skin Find the parts you don't let anyone near Stay there I want to stay there Tell me where it hurts I'll learn every single one

The second verse deepens what the first established. The language is still not technically explicit but it has stopped pretending to be innocent, the domestic specificity of the opening replaced by something more physical.

You run warm, always warm I notice everything The way you breathe when you're trying not to show it I notice everything

The bridge has four lines.

Don't tell me to be careful Don't tell me to slow down You've been watching me the whole time We both know what this is

You finish reading and sit back in your chair and look at the ceiling for a moment.

"It's still good." You look back at the monitor. "It's also very."

"Very," he repeats, waiting.

You gesture at the screen. "You’ve written a song about sex."

He leans back in his chair. "The reading is up to the listener."

"Seongje." You point at the screen. "Explain to me how that is suggestive and not explicit."

He reads it again with the genuine focus of someone considering the question seriously. "It could be about emotional vulnerability."

"It’s obviously not."

"You're being a prude."

"I am being a professional." You sit up straighter. "I agreed to sexy. Not to whatever the bridge is doing."

He looks at you for a long moment. "Are you actually going to be able to sing this?"

"I can sing it."

"You look like you've never heard a song with a double meaning before." He tilts his head slightly. The studio lighting catches the edge of his glasses. "You're not seriously this sheltered. You've been in the industry for five years."

"Being in the industry for five years does not mean—"

"I'm just saying." He leans back in his chair. "You're acting like a virgin."

The word lands in the room and sits there. You open your mouth, unable to stop yourself from gaping at him.

"It was a joke," he scoffs, already turning back to the monitor. "Calm down."

"I know it was a joke."

"You're very red."

"It’s warm in here."

"The temperature is fine." He scrolls through the lyrics. "Look at the second verse, the meter is what I actually want your opinion on—"

"I'm not a virgin," you say.

The scrolling stops.

He turns his chair very slowly and looks at you. You avoid eye contact. The back of your neck is hot. You said it too fast and too loud, with the specific energy of someone who has proven the exact opposite of what they intended to prove. You know it, and he knows it.

"Okay," he talks to you in the same tone you would use with a toddler throwing a tantrum.

“The second verse,” you change the topic. “You wanted my opinion on the meter.”

He’s quiet for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice has lost its usual edges. “I shouldn’t have said that. It was a cheap joke.”

You weren’t expecting this. Three weeks of meetings have taught you to anticipate his deflections. You don’t know what to do with this plain acknowledgment. The lack of performance disarms you more than the apology itself.

“It’s fine,” you manage.

He accepts this with a small nod and turns back to the monitor. “The third line in the second verse runs long. Tell me if it feels natural to sing or if it needs cutting.”

You pull your chair closer to the screen and read the third line of the second verse.

You run warm, always warm

It sits cleanly in the melody in your head. The problem is not the meter. The problem is that the line means something different than it did sixty seconds ago, and Keum Seongje is eighteen inches away waiting for your professional opinion.

"It's fine," you say, in a perfectly level voice.

"Agreed," he nods and opens the next file.

────୨ৎ────

The break happens at a natural pause, him switching between project files and you reaching the limit of how long you can read suggestive lyrics with your face arranged into something professional. He gets up to deal with the coffee situation, which apparently involves a small machine on the shelf behind the desk that he operates with the quiet focus of someone who does this exact thing at the same time every day.

You roll your chair back and stretch your neck.

"I want to see the rest."

"Sure," he says, and sits back down.

He opens the second file and turns the monitor toward you.

The title is two words. Taste Test.

You read the title. You set your coffee cup down.

"That's just the title," he says.

You read the actual lyrics. You read them twice because the first time through you are not entirely certain you are parsing the Korean correctly, and the second time confirms that you are.

"I need a moment," you say.

You stand up and walk to the far side of the room and stand there with your hands on your hips facing the wall for approximately ten seconds. The wall has a small framed print on it, abstract, which you study with great attention while you locate your professionalism. Then you walk back and sit down.

"Next one," you say.

He opens the third file. Get Closer.

The opening line is deceptively simple. Four words, nothing technically explicit, but sitting inside the melody he has built for it in your head they land with a weight that is considerably more than the sum of their parts. You read the first verse without incident. You read the second verse. You get four lines into the bridge.

Don't keep the door between us You know I can hear you breathing Come here, just come here Stop pretending you don't want this too

You stand up. You make it to the door this time before you turn around. Seongje watches the entire thing with his elbow on the desk and his chin resting in his hand, expression unreadable.

You walk back. You sit down. "All of them," you say. "Just show me all of them at once."

He opens tracks four, five, and six in sequence and pushes the monitor toward you without a word.

Track four is called Running Hot and opens with two lines that make the back of your neck prickle immediately.

You run warm, I run warmer Come find out what that means

The chorus of track four does not bother with implication.

Track five is called After Hours and is structured as a conversation, call and response, the kind of song that requires two people to perform it.

Track six is called Stay and is the quietest thing in the folder, slower than the others.

You read all three without getting up, which you consider a genuine personal achievement, though by the end of track six you are sitting with your elbows on the desk and your face pressed into both palms.

The room is quiet. Down the hall, something from another studio moves through the walls at low volume.

"I'll edit them," Seongje says.

You lift your face. "What?"

"The other tracks. Pull the language back on a few of them." He is already opening the second file. "The title track is close to final but the rest have room to—"

"Don't."

He stops.

You look at track six still open on the screen. Stay is sitting there in plain text and the last two lines are still doing something to the inside of your chest that you are not going to examine right now. "These work. All of them. Don't water them down because I made a face."

He says nothing for a beat. Then, carefully: "I just want to make sure we're on the same page. Because two weeks ago-"

"I am aware of what I said two weeks ago." You pick up your coffee. "I am updating my position. People are allowed to do that."

He looks at you for one more moment, the corner of his mouth doing the thing you have started to recognize as the closest he gets to laughing, and then he turns back to his keyboard.

"Meter on the bridge of track two," he says. "It runs long."

You pull up Taste Test and read the bridge again. The bridge is still the bridge. You read it with professional detachment and only minimal damage to your composure. "Last four words. They're dead weight."

He makes the note.

"Track three, second verse, line five," you say. "Syllable count is off against the instrumental. You can hear it even when reading it cold."

He leans over and reads it, then pulls up the instrumental file and plays the section in question. Twelve seconds of music fills the room, the bass sitting in your chest the same way it did on the first listen. He stops it and makes a note. "Good catch."

"The call and response structure on track five," you say. "Is that intentional or a draft thing?"

"Intentional."

You look at the lyrics for After Hours on the screen. "That requires two voices. Are you planning a feature?"

"Something like that," he says, which is not an answer .

The session continues. Track four remains exactly as written. You read the chorus of Running Hot two more times over the course of the afternoon for purely professional reasons, and by the third time the initial heat in your face has downgraded to something that is almost, almost manageable.

Almost.

────୨ৎ────

The booth is smaller than it looks from the other side of the glass. You put the headphones on. Through the glass Seongje settles into his chair at the board, pulls the monitor toward him, and his voice comes through the cans a moment later, close and direct in a way that is slightly disorienting.

"Warm up first. Anything."

You run through your scales. Your voice sounds different here than it does in any rehearsal room you have worked in, the acoustic treatment catching every detail.

"Good," he says, when you finish. "Take it from the top of the first verse. Just the verse, don't push into the pre-chorus yet."

You find the melody in your head and come in on the count.

The problem is the bridge.

Specifically the third line of the bridge, which reads simply as "I've been waiting so long I've forgotten how to want anything else", and which you have now sung fourteen times across two hours with results that Seongje has described, in order, as: too bright, too controlled, too performed, too careful, too much like a ballad, too much like a jingle, and, most recently, too much like you are reading a grocery list.

"Again," he says, through the cans.

You breathe. You come in on the count.

Don't tell me to be careful Don't tell me to slow down I've been waiting so long I've forgotten how to want anything else We both know what this is

"Stop," he says.

"I know what the problem is,” You sigh, stopping him before he can start. “I don't know how to fix it."

"What does the line mean to you?" he asks.

"Wanting something for so long it becomes the whole of you," you answer. "Losing the ability to want anything else because the wanting has taken up all the available space."

"And have you ever wanted something like that?"

"That's not relevant," you say.

"It's the only relevant thing." He leans forward, elbows on the board. "The line requires a specific quality of longing. The particular feeling of something you have wanted for so long it has become structural, part of how you're built." He pauses. "If you haven't felt that you cannot fake it. The mic will hear the difference."

"I have felt longing before."

"Not like this," he says, and the certainty in it is not unkind but it is absolute. "This is not the longing of someone who is sad about missing something. This is the longing of someone who wants something long enough that the wanting has become its own kind of fever." He holds your gaze through the glass. "That is a very particular feeling and your voice does not have it yet."

The booth is very quiet.

"I don't have a reference point for it," your voice comes out quieter than you intended and more honest than you planned.

The studio is completely silent except for the low hum of the equipment.

You do not look up.

Through the glass you hear the subtle shift of his chair, the sound of him sitting back. He does not say anything for a long moment, long enough that you are constructing a full list of things he might say, all of them worse than the silence.

"That's the problem," he says finally. "I'm aware."

Another silence.

Then, in the same tone, unhurried and completely clinical: "I could give you that reference point."

Your first thought is that you misheard him. The headphones sometimes do something to consonants, compress them slightly. You have been in this booth for two hours and it’s possible that what he actually said was something logistical, something that your exhausted brain assembled incorrectly into the sentence you think you heard.

Your second thought is that you did not mishear him.

You look at him through the glass. His elbow is on the desk, face in its usual arrangement. He does not elaborate or follow it with anything that would tell you whether it is an offer or a producer solving a technical problem with the most direct available solution. The silence stretches.

You think about asking him to clarify. You construct the sentence in your head: what do you mean by that. Four words, professionally delivered, a reasonable request for clarification in a working context. You could say it. You should say it. You have the sentence fully assembled and ready.

He pushes his chair back, the casters rolling softly on the floor, and stands up. He doesn’t look at you as he walks around the console. He reaches for the door handle of the booth and you take a step back without meaning to, a purely physical response, your body making a decision slightly ahead of your brain.

The seal breaks with a soft thump of releasing pressure.

Suddenly he is in the booth with you. The small booth turns microscopic. He pulls the door closed behind him, and the world outside the glass ceases to matter.

He closes the distance in two deliberate steps. Now he’s standing in front of you, not touching, but the heat from his body is a tangible force. He looks down at you, his sharp eyes cataloging every micro-expression: the widening of your eyes, the quickening pulse in your throat, the way your fingers curl uselessly against the foam panel.

“You’re shaking,” he observes. His voice is lower here, without the mediation of the headphones.

“I’m not.”

“You are. Here.” He lifts a hand, fingertips stopping a centimeter from your throat. “And your breathing is all fucked up. You’re holding your breath, then taking these shallow little sips of air. You can’t sing like that.”

“I know how to breathe,” you whisper. The protest is pathetic.

“Do you?” He finally touches you. Just his index finger, under your chin, tilting your face up. The contact is electric, a jolt that travels straight down your spine. His skin is warm. “You know technique. You don’t know feeling. It’s a physical problem. So we solve it physically.”

His other hand comes up, palm flat against the panel beside your head, caging you in. You are surrounded by him.

“What are you doing?” The question is airless.

“Giving you a reference point.” His thumb strokes the corner of your mouth, a slow, deliberate pass. You do your best to resist leaning into the touch. “You said you lacked the experience. I’m providing the experience. Consider it vocal coaching, free of charge.”

He leans in. His mouth hovers near yours, sharing the same frantic air you’re exhaling. You’ve been kissed before, chaste, staged things for cameras or awkward, fumbling attempts in darkened vans. This is nothing like that.

“Have you ever been touched?” he asks, voice a rough murmur against your lips. You can’t speak. You shake your head, a tiny, shameful movement.

“Ever had a man’s hands on you? Here?” His thumb leaves your mouth and drifts down, tracing the column of your throat, over the frantic jump of your pulse, down to the neckline of your sweater. He hooks a finger in the fabric. “Or here?” His palm settles, heavy and warm, over the swell of your breast through the thick wool. You jerk as if scalded, a full-body flinch that he absorbs without moving.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and for the first time, the clinical edge slips, replaced by something darker, more intrigued. “You really are completely untouched.”

The humiliation is a hot wave. You squeeze your eyes shut.

“Don’t. Look at me.” He commands it. Your eyes fly open. “This isn’t something to be ashamed of. It just means every sensation is new. That’s what I need from you in there.” He nods toward the microphone. “That raw, unfiltered signal.”

His hand on your breast kneads once, slowly, and a shocked, thin sound escapes you. Your nipple tightens instantly under the layers of fabric. The sensation is utterly foreign, a line of pleasure that draws your belly tight.

“See?” He watches your face like a scientist. “That’s a physical response. You’re not supposed to think about it. Your body knows things your brain hasn’t caught up to yet.”

He drops his hand from your breast, and you almost whimper at the loss of contact, a reaction that horrifies you. But he’s not finished. His hands go to the hem of your oversized sweater. You grab his wrists, panic flaring.

“Wait—”

“Do you want to fix the bridge or not?” The question is brutal in its simplicity. It’s not about this. It’s about the song. It’s always about the song.

Your fingers loosen. You let your hands fall to your sides, clenched into helpless fists.

He pulls the sweater up and over your head in one smooth motion. The cool studio air hits your skin, and you cross your arms over your simple cotton bra.

“Stop hiding,” he says, and his hands wrap around your wrists, pulling your arms down to your sides. He bends his head, and his mouth finds the skin where your neck meets your shoulder. He bites.

The pain melts into a deep, throbbing heat that pools low in your abdomen. You feel yourself growing wet, a desperate betrayal between your legs.

“You like that,” he says against your skin. One of his hands releases your wrist and slides down your side, over the waistband of your jeans, to cup you between your legs. You buck against his hand, a shudder wracking your whole frame. Even through the denim, the pressure is intense and overwhelming.

“So sensitive,” he mutters. His fingers rub a slow, firm circle over the core of you. The friction is maddening. Your hips jerk, seeking more, and a ragged moan is torn from your throat. “There it is. That’s the sound. That’s the fucking sound I need on the track.”

He unbuttons your jeans. The zipper’s rasp is obscenely loud. He shoves the fabric down over your hips, just enough. His fingers slip beneath the edge of your plain cotton panties, and then he’s touching you, skin to skin.

You gasp, your head thudding back against the panel. His fingers are direct, exploring without ceremony. They slide through the slick heat he’s found, parting you, finding the tight, clenching entrance of your virgin body.

“Jesus,” he breathes, the clinical detachment faltering for a split second. His forehead rests against yours. “You're dripping wet.”

His thumb leaves your entrance, shifts upward, and finds the swollen, desperate knot of your clit. Your knees actually buckle. Only his body and the wall keep you upright.

“There,” he says, his voice rough in your ear. He begins to move his thumb in slow, deliberate circles. The pressure is perfect. “This is the part they don’t put in the songs. This specific, fucking needy ache.”

You are unspooling. Your hips are moving on their own, a frantic rocking against his hand, chasing the sensation. You’re making noises you’ve never heard before, guttural, hungry little whimpers that echo in the dead air of the booth.

“That’s it,” he coaxes, a dark, approving whisper. “Give me the real sound.”

The pleasure builds in a terrifying, glorious wave. Your muscles clench, breath coming in ragged gasps. The world dissolves into a blur of sensation: the scent of his skin and the perfect rhythm of his thumb. You are so close to something, teetering on the edge of a cliff you didn’t know existed. Your body is tensing, bowing, every cell straining towards a shattering release.

“Please,” you hear yourself beg, the word ripped from somewhere primal. “Oh, God, please…”

You’re right there. The wave is cresting, about to break.

He pulls his hand away.

The loss is so violent and abrupt, it’s a physical shock. A cry of raw protest tears from your throat. Your body convulses, empty and furious. The promised release snatched away leaves you throbbing and desperate, obscenely unfinished. You slump against the wall, trembling violently, humiliation and need warring in the pit of your stomach.

Seongje brings his wet fingers to his mouth and tastes them, his gaze locked on yours.

“Now,” he says, his voice low and graveled with a tension that wasn’t there before. “You know what wanting feels like.”

He steps back, giving a single, devastating once-over your heaving chest and the ruined look in your eyes. “Now let’s sing the bridge.”

────୨ৎ────

The month happens the way most significant things happen, gradually and then all at once, the individual sessions blurring into a continuous thing that you stop being able to separate into distinct memories somewhere around the third week.

What you can reconstruct, if you try: the first time you stayed past midnight because the bridge of track three was not sitting right in the mix and leaving felt wrong. The takeout containers that started appearing on the windowsill beside the coffee cups, a permanent installation, Seongje ordering without asking what you wanted after the second week because he had already catalogued your preferences. The studio couch, which is narrow and not particularly comfortable, on which you fell asleep twice and woke to find a jacket over you that was not yours.

The almost-moments are harder to reconstruct because almost-moments require identifying where they begin and end, and in this studio, in this month, they did not have clear edges. They accumulated instead, layering over each other the way tracks layer in the mix, until the texture of being in a room with Keum Seongje became something you had to consciously manage.

You did not name any of it. Neither did he. The work was always there to return to, and returning to the work was easier than examining what was accumulating in the space around it.

The lap situation has a clear origin, which is that the studio's listening setup is built for one person. There’s only one chair at the board and one set of monitors positioned at ear height for whoever is sitting in that chair, the sweet spot in the room calibrated to a single point in space. When Seongje plays back a finished section he sits at the board and listens from that point. The sound is exactly what he built it to be. When you stand beside him to listen, the perspective shifts enough that the mix loses something. The difference matters when you are trying to evaluate a finished take.

You stood for three sessions before your back made the decision for you.

The first time you sat on the edge of his chair he moved without comment to give you room, which somehow became you sitting properly on his lap and him with an arm loosely around your waist to keep you both on the chair.

It’s simply how you listen to the playbacks now, your back against his chest, his chin occasionally dropping to your shoulder when he is focused on something in the mix, the weight of his arm across your lap a thing you have stopped noticing the way you stop noticing.

That’s not entirely true. You haven’t stopped noticing. You have simply developed a working arrangement with the noticing, a way of letting it exist alongside the professional purpose of being in the room without letting it consume the professional purpose of being in the room.

It is an imperfect arrangement.

────୨ৎ────

The finished album takes six weeks from the first vocal session to the final master. On the last night he sends the final files to the label and then opens them again in the studio.

You climb into his lap. He moves his arm to accommodate you without looking away from the monitor. He pulls up the first track.

Under Your Skin fills the studio through the monitors and it is different from every previous listen, different from the rough mixes and the working drafts and the late-night playbacks where you were still fixing things. It is done. The decisions are made and locked. The version of you that is in this track is permanent now.

Seongje's arm is across your lap. You can feel his breathing against your back, slow and even, the breathing of someone giving the music his complete attention.

The pre-chorus arrives. You remember the fourteen takes of the bridge you two went through. The chorus opens up the way it always does, the production expanding outward, and your voice is doing what he built it to do.

His chin drops to your shoulder, the way it does when he is listening to something specific in the mix. You feel rather than hear the small sound he makes in the back of his throat.

"It's done," he says.

By track four you have stopped looking at the monitor. You listen to your own voice do things that six weeks ago you didn’t know your voice could do.

Seongje shifts slightly behind you. His chin lifts from your shoulder. You feel him turn his head and you are fairly certain he’s looking at the side of your face rather than the monitor, but you don’t turn to confirm this.

Track five begins and you are not prepared for it, which should not be possible given that you already recorded it. After Hours in its final form is the most intimate thing you have ever heard your own voice do.

You remember recording the pre-chorus. You remember the specific quality of Seongje's silence through the glass after the first clean take, the way he sat very still at the board for a moment before reaching for the talkback button. You remember him saying, simply, that's the one, and the flatness of his voice when he said it.

The chorus arrives and it is the most explicit thing on the album, the language finally abandoning the restraint that the other tracks maintained, direct in a way that made you stand very still in the booth the first time you read it and very still again now, listening to your own voice deliver it with a conviction that still surprises you.

Tell me what you want Don't dress it up, don't make it pretty I want to hear you say it All of it Tell me what you want from me tonight I can take it Tell me

The track ends without a resolution, the two channels falling silent at different times, the right channel a half beat after the left, like one person leaving a room before the other has finished speaking.

You look at the monitor. The waveform for track five is complete, flat line at the end, the album continuing to track six automatically. You reach forward and stop it.

"There's no feature," you say.

"No," he says.

"You built the production around two voices." You look at the waveform. "There's a space in it. You built a space for another voice and you never filled it."

"I remember. I’m taking it off the album," he says.

You turn your head to look at him, which requires some maneuvering given the current arrangement, but you manage it. His face is its usual face, attentive and composed.

"What? Why?" you’re more upset than you thought you’d be.

"It doesn't fit the sequencing."

"It fits the sequencing perfectly. You built the sequencing around it. Track four into track five into track six is the emotional arc of the whole second half of the album. You told me that yourself."

"The arc works without it."

"Seongje." You look at him steadily. "We spent four sessions on that track. The pre-chorus alone took two hours. Whatever your reason is, it is the best thing on the album and pulling it makes the record weaker. You know that."

"The record is strong without it."

"Who were you going to feature?”

"It doesn't matter."

"It clearly matters."

"The track is coming off," his voice has the finality he uses to end conversations, the tone that in the first weeks of the project made you feel like a door being closed. You know it better now. You know it is not always a door being closed. Sometimes it is a person standing very still in front of something they do not want looked at directly.

"It's my call," he insists. "I produced it."

"Release it as a solo track," you fight back. "No feature. Reformat the production and close the space in the mix, it works as a single voice. It's actually more interesting that way. You know it's more interesting that way."

The quiet that follows is different from the other quiets in this studio. It has heat in it. Seongje stands up.

"You want to talk about what's actually happening," he says, and his voice is low and even, "or do you want to keep talking about the track."

"Close the space in the mix," your voice is steady, which is an achievement given the current circumstances. "Release it as a solo track. If you pull it, I’ll go to Chansung."

The mention of the CEO’s name lands like a thrown glass. His eyes flash, a crack in the composed facade. “You’d really run to him?”

“To release my best work? Yes.” Your voice doesn’t waver. “It’s my name on the album. My career.”

“Your career.” He repeats the words like they’re a joke in poor taste. The space between you evaporates. He closes it in two swift steps, his hands coming up to frame your face, his grip not painful but inescapable. “You think this is about your career?”

His mouth crashes down on yours.

He bites your lower lip, sucks it into his mouth, and you gasp against him. Your hands fly up, clutching at the front of his shirt, the fine cotton twisting in your fists. He breaks it as suddenly as he began, breathing harshly, his forehead pressed to yours.

“It’s a song,” you pant, your own breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

“It’s our song.” He spits the words. “That gasp in the bridge? At 2:47? That’s the sound you made when I had my fingers inside you. That’s mine.” His thumbs dig into your jawline. “You want to release that? You want the whole world to hear exactly how wet you got for me in that booth? To play it on the radio while they drive to work?”

Heat floods your cheeks, but a different heat coils low in your belly. “They won’t know.”

“I’ll know.” He shakes you, just once. “Every time I hear it, I’ll see you against that wall. I’ll remember how you shook. You want to let strangers get off to the sound of you coming apart?”

“Stop it.”

“Or what?” His voice drops to a seething whisper. “You’ll run to Chansung and tell him what, exactly? That your producer won’t let you release the song he fucked the performance out of you for? You think that helps your ‘sweet member’ image?”

The slut-shaming is crude, effective. It reduces the raw, terrifying intimacy of those sessions to something cheap and dirty. It makes you feel cheap. And yet, your body betrays you, a treacherous pulse throbbing between your legs. He sees it. He always sees it.

“You’re a fucking hypocrite,” he growls. “You cling to that demure little act, but you begged for it in that booth. You came against my hand like a starved thing. Now you want to package that and sell it.”

“That’s not what it is!”

“It’s exactly what it is.” He releases your face, his hands sliding down to your waist, yanking you hard against him. You feel the rigid proof of his anger straining against his slacks.

He grinds himself against you. A ragged moan escapes you, humiliation and arousal twisting together into one inseparable knot. Your head falls back, and his mouth finds your throat.

His teeth sink into the soft skin beneath your jaw, a sharp claim that draws a gasp from your lungs. You push at his chest, but the motion was weak, your body arching into the brutality of his mouth instead of away from it.

“You’re turning me into one of them,” you spat, the words trembling. “You wanted this. A marketable slut.”

He released your throat with a wet sound, leaning back to look at you. His eyes held a weary, cynical amusement.

“Maybe the concept just needed the right material.” He ground himself against you again, the hard line of his erection a blunt demand through the fabric. “We haven’t even fucked yet, Y/N, but you’re fine with the whole country listening to you sound like a desperate little thing begging for it.”

You shoved him, hard enough this time that he took a single step back, his hands falling from your waist. The space between you crackled with violent, unsaid things.

“I’m not desperate,” you said, but it sounded thin.

“Aren’t you?” He laughed, a short, harsh bark.

Your calves hit the edge of the couch and you collapsed onto it, looking up at him as he loomed over you. He undid his belt with a sharp, metallic rip. He pushed your skirt up your thighs, hands rough and efficient.

His fingers hooked into the sides of your plain cotton panties and tore them down, the fragile material yielding with a soft sigh. The cold air of the studio kissed your exposed skin, making you flinch. You were spread open before him, utterly revealed, and the clinical glare of the desk lamp left nothing to the imagination.

“See?” he said, his voice low. “You’re dripping. For a man who’s done nothing but use you for a song. That’s not desperate?”

You had no answer. Your body was a traitor, slick and throbbing, clenching around nothing.

He watched you, his eyes dark and unreadable, before lowering himself to his knees on the floor between your spread legs. You tried to close your thighs, a last instinct of modesty, but his hands clamped on your knees, holding you open.

“Don’t,” he said, the word flat. “This is what you’re selling, remember? Let’s see the product.”

He leaned forward, his breath hot against your inner thigh. So perfect and untouched,” he murmured, a mockery of wonder.

One hand left your knee. You heard the rustle of his slacks, the tear of a foil packet. You squeezed your eyes shut.

“Look at me.” The command was absolute.

You opened your eyes. He was sheathing himself, his expression focused, almost bored. The sight of him sent a jolt of pure animal fear through your veins. It was too much. You were too small.

“I can’t,” you whispered.

“You can.” He moved closer, the head of his cock pressing bluntly against your entrance. The pressure was immense, a fullness that promised to split you open. You cried out, a sharp sound of protest, and your hands flew to his wrists, nails digging into his skin.

He stilled, but didn’t retreat. “Relax.”

“It won’t fit,” you gasped, panic clawing up your throat.

“It will.” He shifted, removing himself, and you felt a dizzying mix of relief and shameful loss. He spat roughly into his palm, the crude sound echoing, and brought his wet fingers back to you.

One finger pushed inside you, deeper than before, a slow, relentless invasion. Your body resisted, clenching tightly around the intrusion, a sharp burn accompanying the stretch. He swore under his breath. “So fucking tight.”

He began to move his finger, a slow in-and-out. The burn began to soften, your body reluctantly yielding, betraying you with a fresh slickness.

“See?” he said, his voice low. “Your body knows what to do. It’s just your brain that’s scared.”

He added a second finger. The stretch was intense, a burning pressure that made you gasp and arch off the couch. He scissored them inside you, stretching the tender, virgin flesh.

“That’s it,” he coaxed darkly. “Take it. Just like you took my direction in the booth. Open up.”

He crooked his fingers, searching, and found a spot that made you jolt. A shocked, sharp sound was punched from your lungs. He pressed it again, circling it, and your hips gave a helpless, involuntary jerk. A broken sob escaped you.

“There,” he breathed, a hint of triumph in his voice. He worked you open, his fingers pistoning with a ruthless rhythm, stretching you until the initial burn faded into a hot, slippery ache. Your cries softened into moans.

The sound you made when he withdrew his fingers was a wet, obscene gasp in the quiet room. Your body clenched around nothing, a reflexive protest against the sudden emptiness. Your mind was a storm of shame and want, the sharp bite of pain from the stretching already softening into a deep, throbbing ache. He watched you, his eyes tracing the glistening evidence of your arousal on his fingers before he wiped them casually on the leg of his slacks.

“Up,” he stepped back, giving you space to rise on trembling legs. Your skirt fell back down, a flimsy veil over your utter exposure. The torn cotton of your panties lay on the floor near the couch, a stark white flag of surrender. You couldn’t look at them.

He was already moving, his back to you as he walked around the desk. You watched his hands, those same hands that had just been inside you, as they reached for a piece of equipment.

It was a microphone. A sturdy, professional condenser model on a short stand, one of several he kept nearby for when a melody or a lyric struck and couldn’t wait for the booth. He placed it carefully on the cleared edge of the desk, adjusting the angle with a precise twist. The small red power light winked on.

He looked at you over the expanse of black glass and scattered papers. “Come here.”

Your feet carried you forward on autopilot. You stopped in front of the desk, the cold edge pressing into your thighs.

“Turn around,” he said. “Bend over. Put your hands flat on the glass.”

You turned, facing away from him, toward the darkened window that reflected a ghostly, fractured version of the room. You saw the lamp, the couch, the torn underwear on the floor. You saw your own wide, dark eyes in the glass. You leaned forward, the position forcing your hips back, your spine into a deep curve. The cool, smooth surface of the desk met your palms. Your cheek pressed against it a moment later. The scent of lemon polish and old dust filled your nose.

One hand settled heavily on the small of your back, pinning you in place. The other gripped your hip, his fingers digging into the bone.

The blunt, thick head of his cock nudged against your entrance, still slick from his fingers and your own arousal. You tensed, every muscle locking.

“Don’t,” he warned, his breath hot against your ear. “You’re ready. Take it.”

He buried himself deep inside you, letting you feel every inch of him, letting your body convulse around the sudden, shocking intrusion. Your cry echoed off the hard surfaces of the office, decaying into a series of ragged, wet sobs.

“Fuck,” he groaned into your hair, the word vibrating through his chest and into your back. “You’re so fucking tight.”

He pulled back almost all the way, the drag a new, shocking friction, and slammed back in. The force of it drove you forward an inch on the desk. His hips slammed against your ass with a wet, meaty sound that was obscenely audible over both your breathing.

He was hitting something deep inside, a place his fingers had only teased. A broken, gasping moan fell from your lips.

“That’s it,” he snarled, his voice rough with exertion. “Let me hear it.”

And you did. You were so, so loud. Every slam of his body into yours punched another sound out of you, a sharp gasp, a choked sob, a high, keening wail you didn’t recognize as your own. You were crying, tears smearing the glass under your cheek, but you were also pressing back against him, meeting his thrusts with a desperation that shamed you.

He shifted his angle slightly, and on the next downward drive, he struck a place that made your vision whiten. A shattered, screaming cry ripped from your throat, echoing wildly in the room.

His hand left your hip. You heard a faint click. Then his fingers were in your hair, fisting painfully, yanking your head up and back. He forced you to look into the dark window at your own reflection.

“Look at you,” he panted, never breaking his rhythm. “Look at what you are. Not the sweet little idol. This. A messy, noisy, desperate little fuck.”

You wanted to deny them, but your body was proof. You were clenching around him, milking him. The coil in your belly was winding to a breaking point, fueled by the overwhelming friction and his degrading praise.

“You’re gonna come,” he stated, as if reading the tremors building in your thighs. “Come on my cock. Let the whole building hear you.”

He reached around your hip, his thumb finding your clit, swollen and exposed. He pressed, hard, and rubbed a rough circle.

Your back arched wildly against his restraining hand. A raw cry was torn from your very core, a sound so loud and ragged it scraped your throat. Your inner muscles clamped down on him in frantic, fluttering pulses, gripping him like a vise.

The feeling of you climaxing around him was the trigger. With a guttural groan that was pure animal satisfaction, he buried himself one last time, grinding deep. You felt the hot, sudden rush of his release inside you.

He held there, both of you locked together, shuddering. The only sounds were the ragged symphony of your breathing and the faint, electronic hum of the equipment.

Slowly, he softened and slid out of you. You heard him dealing with the condom, the soft toss into a trash can.

You couldn’t move. Your forehead was back on the cool glass, body trembling.

You saw his hand in the reflection. He reached for the microphone on the desk beside your head. He pressed a button. The red light went off. He had recorded it.

You pushed yourself up from the desk, your arms shaking violently. The cool air of the studio hit the wet mess between your thighs, a disgusting reminder. You turned to face him, your body screaming in protest at the movement. He was calmly wrapping the microphone cable around his hand, his expression unreadable.

“You… you recorded that?” Your voice was a hoarse shred of itself.

“I record everything.” He didn’t look at you, placing the mic back on its stand. “It’s a studio. That’s what I do.”

A hot, cleansing fury boiled up through the shame and the ache. It cut through the daze. “You’re sick.” The words were a whisper, then a shout. “You’re a fucking pervert!”

He finally looked at you, his sharp eyes assessing. “Am I?”

“You get off on this! On degrading me. That’s what this is!” You gestured wildly at the desk, at your own body, your voice cracking. “It’s not about the music. It’s about you being a twisted, controlling pervert!”

“That performance, right now, was the most honest thing you’ve ever done. I wanted the real thing.”

“That’s not me!” you screamed, the tears coming hot and fast now.

He walked to the laptop, his movements unhurried. He tapped a key, and the screen bloomed with a waveform. He clicked play.

The room filled with the raw, intimate cacophony of your own pleasure. First, the wet, slick sound of his fingers working inside you, obscenely amplified. Then your sharp, hitched breathing, the muffled sob against the leather couch. Your own voice, pleading “I can’t” in a tremulous whisper you hardly recognized.

You clapped your hands over your ears, but it was useless. You were hearing the pure need in the guttural moans that followed each brutal thrust.

“You set me up,” you whispered, the fury gone, replaced by a cold, sinking horror.

He closed the audio file. “You chose to come here. You chose to fight for the track. You chose to push. Your body chose to respond.”

Your hand moved before you could think. The slap cracked through the room. His head snapped to the side. A slow, red bloom appeared on his cheekbone.

He didn’t react. He just turned his head back, absorbing the shock, his eyes never leaving yours. A faint, almost approving smirk touched his lips. “Good.”

Then his hands were on you again. One palm cradled the back of your head, fingers tangling in your sweat-damp hair. The other splayed against the small of your back, pressing you into him. His mouth found yours.

You fought it for a second, teeth clenched, before a broken sound vibrated in your throat and you opened for him. He walked you backward until your knees hit the edge of the heavy steel desk. He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged.

He didn’t bother with a condom this time. He just gripped himself, gave two rough, slick strokes, and guided his head to your sore, swollen entrance. He pushed in with a deep thrust that made you gasp, your back arching off the cold metal.

Your body, despite everything, rose to meet his. A ragged, pathetic moan escaped you with each drive. You were wet for him again, a fresh, hot slickness that eased his passage and betrayed your every protest.

“This is the deal,” he grunted, his rhythm stuttering as he pushed deeper. “You want the art that matters? You pay for it here. I’ll give you a masterpiece to show the world. That’s the transaction.”

“That’s it,” he hissed, feeling your internal muscles begin their frantic flutter. Your legs wrapped around his hips, ankles locking, pulling him deeper into the mire of your own betrayal. “Come on it. Come on the truth.”

Your cunt clamped around him in rhythmic pulses, milking him desperately. It triggered his own release. He slammed into you one final, crushing time and groaned as he emptied himself deep inside your clenching heat.

He pulled out slowly. A gush of his spend followed, pooling beneath you. He found a box of tissues from a drawer and tossed it onto your stomach.

You mechanically cleaned yourself, wadding the tissues and letting them fall to the floor.

He was back at the laptop, his back to you. “Fine. The track stays on the album. Go home. Shower. Be back at ten for vocal comps. We’re finishing the album.”

You walked to the door on numb legs. Your hand paused on the handle.

“The recording,” you said, not turning around. “The raw file.”

You heard the clack of a single key. “Deleted.”

You didn’t believe him. You knew you would never speak of it again. You opened the door and stepped out into the sterile, bright hallway.

The demo he’d played earlier was still on the laptop, the track now irrevocably fused with the memory of your own screams. He highlighted the file: YN_AFTERHOURS_TAKE_H_FINAL.

He changed one letter. The H became a J.

YN_AFTERHOURS_TAKE_J_FINAL.

────୨ৎ────

The album drops on a Friday.

By Saturday morning it has charted in eleven countries. By Saturday afternoon the title track has two million streams and the comments section of every platform is a variation of the same thing: who is she and I did not know she could do this and where has this been hiding.

By Saturday evening your phone has become a continuous notification, buzzing against every surface you set it on. Chansung calls three times. The third call you answer.

"The numbers," he says, and then stops, like the numbers are too large to follow with a complete sentence.

"I know," you say.

"The label is—" Another stop. "There are no words."

He mentions a celebration dinner on Monday. Full label team, management, A&R, the marketing department who spent three months building the rollout. You agree to Monday. You hang up.

You sit on the floor for a while with your back against the bed and your phone face up on your knee, watching the notifications come in. Streaming numbers. Comment screenshots. A fan-made compilation of reaction videos set to the title track that someone has already edited together and posted, which you watch twice.

Seongje does not call. Seongje does not text.

You are not waiting for him to.

────୨ৎ────

The message arrives at 2 a.m.

A link. Below it, eight characters: the password.

Below that, a single word: Congratulations.

You sit up.

You look at the message for a moment, clicking it when you should probably wait. It’s seven in the morning and you are not fully awake. Whatever is behind a password-protected link that Keum Seongje sent at two in the morning is probably something you should approach with more preparation than you currently have.

The drive opens. It has an audio file, the filename a string of numbers with no title attached, the way his working files always look before he names them properly.

You put your earphones in and press play.

The opening is familiar. The bass line of After Hours settling into your sternum the way it always has, the production you spent six weeks living inside, the mix you know well enough to identify individual elements by the way they sit in the arrangement.

The difference arrives in the second half of the first verse, where the right channel comes in with the answer to your voice's question. It is his voice.

I'm not ready to go, he sings. His voice isn’t a performer's voice, not polished or produced in the way yours is, but it doesn’t need to be because he built the track around exactly what it is, something unguarded and direct, and the directness of it is worse than polish would have been.

You open the message thread.

You: what is this You: why does it sound like that You: you recorded yourself on it Seongje: The mix needed something in the right channel. Go listen to the rest of it. You: why did you put your voice on it Seongje: Twelve now. Chile came through last night. You: That's not what I asked. Seongje: Congratulations on twelve countries. The label dinner is Monday. Get some sleep. You: I'm still angry at you Seongje: I know

You look at the word for a long moment. It is the closest thing to an admission you have ever received from him.

You lie back against the pillow and close your eyes.

Seongje: Congratulations again

You do not go back to sleep.

[seongjesdoll]

off the record

pairing: music producer!geum seongje x fem idol!reader

wc: 14k

summary: you've spent three years being exactly what everyone needed you to be: the sweet member who smiled through every comeback even when the group was falling apart around her. when your members walk out and the label won't let you follow, you're handed a solo debut you didn't ask for and a producer you didn't choose. you figure you can at least keep the version of yourself you actually know how to be. geum seongje has never once in his career told an artist what they wanted to hear. he listens to your demo for forty seconds, closes his laptop, and tells the room you should go sexy. he doesn't seem to care whether you agree or not. he's already certain about what you're apparently capable of whether you believe it or not.

content: porn w slight plot, smut, 18+, slight power imbalance, enemies to not lovers but something worse (relationship is left open to interpretation at the end), virgin reader x seongje who makes fun of her for it, lots of emphasis on how unexperienced and untouched she is, possessive behavior from seongje, reader calls him a perv multiple times, fingering (f receiving), edging and orgasm denial, sex in the recording booth, romance blooms and then seongje ruins it by being a possessive pos, slut shaming, noncon recording during sex since reader isn’t aware and seongje doesn’t delete it when asked, p in v, condom use for the first round and then raw for the second round, “it won’t fit” x “i’ll make it fit” mmmmmm, size kink (reader is referred to as small/tight) , reader slaps him during their argument

a/n: based off this ask!

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

The meeting is scheduled for ten o'clock. By nine fifty-eight you are already seated in the conference room on the fourteenth floor with a paper cup of coffee going cold between your palms, watching the door.

You’re nervous.

Eight months ago, the other four members of Blossom terminated their contracts and walked out of this building with their personal items in paper bags. You watched them go from the window of this exact floor. The label had offered a restructured deal and they had declined it, collectively and without much deliberation, and then they had looked at you in the hallway outside the legal team's office with an expression you have spent eight months trying not to think about too precisely.

You did not leave with them. The label's restructured deal had your name on a separate clause, and the penalties attached to that clause were a number that made your vision go briefly white when you read it. So you stayed, and now you are a solo artist with eight months of rejected concept submissions and a debut that the label needs to happen before the end of the fiscal quarter.

The concept submissions are not bad. You know they are not bad. Sunshine, Sunshine has a key change in the bridge that your vocal coach called exciting, which is the most enthusiastic thing your vocal coach has said about anything in three years. The production team said it was charming.

Chansung, the label's head of A&R, is at the head of the table rearranging his papers. Your manager Jisoo is beside you reviewing something on her tablet. Two junior A&R staff sit at the far end of the table with their laptops open, speaking quietly to each other about something that stops the moment you glance at them.

Everyone in this room knows something you don't know yet. You can feel it in the particular quality of their helpfulness this morning, the way Chansung offered you coffee twice and then apologized for the cups being paper.

"He's particular about punctuality," Chansung says, to no one specifically.

"It's ten oh four," you say.

The door opens.

Keum Seongje is not what the industry photographs suggest. The photographs present him as angular and composed, all sharp jaw and expensive neutrals. In person he takes up more space than his frame should allow. He’s wearing a grey hoodie with the cuffs pushed up and glasses that cost more than your monthly vocal coaching sessions. He has a coffee cup from the place two blocks over, which means he stopped somewhere on the way here and did not hurry.

He sits down without greeting anyone. He opens his laptop and reads something on the screen. He does not apologize for the time.

Chansung clears his throat. "Seongje, thank you for making the trip. We're very glad to have you on board for this project. As I mentioned in the brief, we're looking at a solo debut for our artist here, building on the fanbase she established with Blossom, and we thought given your track record with image repositioning that you might have some interesting-“

"Play it," Seongje says.

Chansung stops mid-sentence. "Sorry?"

"The submission." He sets his phone face-down on the table. "Play it."

Chansung looks at you. You pull out your own phone, connect it to the room speaker, and press play. Sunshine, Sunshine fills the conference room. The opening is bright and synth-driven. Your vocal sits high in the mix, clean and controlled. The key change arrives at two minutes and twelve seconds, right on schedule.

Seongje listens with his elbow on the table and two fingers pressed against his mouth. He stares at a fixed point slightly above the speaker like the music is a document he is reading rather than something meant to be felt.

The track ends. Thirty-two seconds of silence follow it.

"No," he says.

Chansung shifts in his seat. "The key change in the bridge was something we were particularly excited about, the production team felt it added a real sense of-“

"It's not bad. It’s just not right,” Seongje says. He finally looks at you. "Sing something for me."

You blink. "The track is right there."

"I heard the track." He gestures vaguely at the speaker. "Sing something. Anything. Whatever you were singing this morning."

Your manager Jisoo makes a small sound beside you.

"I wasn't singing this morning," you say.

"Then yesterday. Whenever you last sang something because you wanted to, not because someone was recording it."

You think of the voice memo you recorded at two in the morning three weeks ago, sitting on your bathroom floor because the acoustics were good and you couldn't sleep and there was a melody circling your head that wouldn't resolve. Then you look at this room full of people and you sing four bars of Sunshine, Sunshine instead, a cappella, just to give him something to work with.

"Lower," he says.

"It's written for my range."

"I'm not asking about the song. Drop it an octave and do it again."

The melody transforms into something your chest has to work for, something that sits in the back of your throat rather than the front of it. Four bars. Twelve seconds, maybe.

Seongje is very still.

Then he picks up his pen, writes two words on the notepad in front of him, and turns it to face Chansung.

"What does it say?” you ask.

Neither of them answers immediately, which is its own answer.

"What does it say?" you repeat.

Chansung turns the notepad toward you.

Sexy concept.

The silence that follows is the loudest thing that has happened in this room all morning.

"No," you immediately refuse.

"Yes," Seongje says, already writing something else.

"That is not what we discussed. You can’t just-“

"Your submission was written for a group," Seongje says, without looking up. "Four other voices, a concept that only works as a unit. What I just heard from you in that octave has nothing to do with Blossom. That belongs to you."

"I can't pull off sexy." The words come out before you can arrange them better.

"I didn't ask if you could pull it off."

"Because you are not the one who has to."

"Chansung." He caps his pen and looks straight at you. "Play me her fancam from the Inkigayo performance last March."

Chansung pulls it up on his laptop and turns the screen. You know the one. You know every frame of it. You were in the center, the camera finding you every eight counts, and you were doing exactly what the choreographer told you to do, which was be bright and accessible and pleasing.

Seongje watches twelve seconds of it and stops the video.

"That part." He points at the frozen frame. "Right there. You dropped the smile for exactly two seconds because you were listening to the bass line change." He taps the screen. "That is not a cute concept face. You made that face because the music did something to you and you forgot to perform for a second."

Your throat tightens.

"Oh," says one of the junior A&R staff at the end of the table, very quietly, like something has clicked into place for him.

"Oh my god," says the other one, slightly louder.

Chansung is nodding the way he nods when he is already composing the press release in his head.

"It suits her perfectly," the first staff member says. "Why didn't we ever-“

"Because you were looking at what she was doing instead of what she was about to do.” Seongje picks up his coffee. “I will take the full project."

"I am in the room," you say.

"I know," he says.

I haven't agreed to anything." The words come out sharper than you intended but you can’t help it. This stranger showed up four minutes late and now he thinks he can dissect your entire career in one sentence. You have been doing this for five years. Your image has been carefully constructed and maintained through comeback after comeback. No producer who couldn’t even arrive on time should be able to unravel it this quickly.

The protest sits on your tongue ready to be spoken. Except the bass line change from the Inkigayo stage is still lodged somewhere in your chest like a physical object. The way your voice sounded in that lower octave has not stopped replaying in your head since you heard the recording. A terrible suspicion creeps in that he knows exactly what both of those things are doing to you right now, that he can see the curiosity you are trying to bury under professional skepticism.

Your gaze shifts to Chansung for backup or at least solidarity.

Chansung’s posture has relaxed. One hand rests on the table near the portfolio like he is already planning which photos to use for the concept shoot. The betrayal of it makes your jaw tighten.

"Fine," you say. The word tastes like defeat. "But I want approval rights on the final direction."

Seongje has already turned back to his notepad before you finish speaking. His pen moves across the page in quick efficient strokes. Notes get added to whatever framework he has been building this entire meeting.

"Sure," he says without looking up. The tone carries the easy agreement of someone who has no intention of honoring what they just promised, like he is humoring a child who thinks they have negotiating power.

Your fingers curl against your thigh under the table where no one can see.

────୨ৎ────

The second meeting is in the same conference room, which you are beginning to resent on principle.

Seongje arrives on time. The punctuality gives you nothing to be quietly annoyed about before things officially begin. He sets his laptop on the table and pulls a small portable drive from his jacket pocket. The drive slides across the table toward you.

"Reference tracks," he says. "Listen to all of them before you say anything."

You don’t even bother reaching for the drive. "Good morning to you too."

He opens his laptop without acknowledging the comment.

Chansung has developed a new habit of sitting precisely between the two of you like a human buffer. He clears his throat now and attempts to restore some semblance of professional courtesy. "Today we are narrowing down the creative direction. Seongje has prepared some references, and we thought it would be useful to-"

"I have references too," you say. Your own laptop opens and the screen turns toward Seongje. A mood board you spent four hours building last night fills the display. Clean lines and soft lighting create something that walks the border between the image you have and the image they want. It’s a version of the concept that does not require you to become someone unrecognizable. "This is what I think we could be working toward."

Seongje glances at it for approximately three seconds.

"No," he says.

"You looked at it for three seconds."

"I didn't need longer." He nods at the drive still sitting in front of you. "Listen to the references."

The drive gets picked up. You put it in your laptop and open the first file with more force than necessary.

The track is nothing like what you expected. Slow and low, it builds around a bass line that takes up more space than the melody does. The vocal sample sitting on top is not pretty in any conventional sense. The voice sounds like it has been somewhere and came back changed.

You close the file after ninety seconds.

"That is not my style," you say.

"Not yet," Seongje clarifies.

"Not ever. My fanbase is not going to follow me into whatever that is." The gesture you make toward the laptop encompasses the entire concept he seems to be building.

"Your fanbase followed Blossom. Blossom doesn't exist anymore. You are building a new fanbase. The old one is a bonus if it comes along, not a blueprint."

The junior A&R staff are very still at the end of the table. Nobody seems to be breathing.

"I have two hundred thousand people who have followed my career for five years," you huff, suddenly angry. "That’s the foundation of everything the label has invested in, and if we alienate them with a complete image overhaul then we’re gambling with the only one I have."

Seongje glances at Chansung. "She's not wrong about the risk."

You blink, surprised he even had the ability to agree with you.

"She's wrong about the solution," he continues. You sigh. You knew it was too good to be true.

His hands pull the laptop toward himself and open the second reference file. "The answer isn’t to stay inside the old image to keep the old audience. The answer is a transition that gives the existing audience somewhere to go."

He turns the screen toward you. A chart fills the display with streaming numbers across a three-year period. The artist whose name you recognize stares back from a thumbnail photo. "She had a cute concept for four years before doing a full pivot at twenty-three. She lost thirty percent of her casual listeners in the first month but gained them back within a quarter, plus the new audience on top. The music was good enough that people followed it."

"She isn’t me," you argue.

"Correct. Her voice is less interesting than yours."

The room goes quiet in a different way than it has before. The junior A&R staff exchange glances.

"You don't know my voice well enough to say that. You heard me sing for twelve seconds in this room last week." The compliment feels fake coming from him.

"Fourteen seconds," he says. "And yes, I do."

"That is exactly my point. You don’t know me. You walked in here with a decision already made based on fourteen seconds and a fancam.”

"Then what do you actually want?" He closes the laptop. His full attention lands on you and it carries an uncomfortable weight. "Not what's safe or what keeps the label happy. What do you want the music to do when someone hears it?"

"I want people to feel something," you say. The answer is true but also a lie at the same time.

He looks at you for a long moment while his expression remains unchanged. "That's not an answer. That's what everyone wants. Try again."

"I don't have a better answer for you right now." Your hands flatten against the table on either side of your laptop.

"Then we have a problem," he says as his coffee cup lifts to his mouth without him drinking from it yet. "I can't build a direction around an artist who doesn't know what she wants the music to be."

"I know what I want it to be. I want it to be..." The words trail off as you stop yourself mid-sentence. The mood board is still open on your laptop and your eyes drop to it. "I want it to feel like me."

"The mood board doesn't feel like you." He sets the cup down.

"You don't know what feels like me." The defensiveness in your voice has become obvious now. "What do you even want from me?"

Seongje leans back in his chair and the leather creaks under his weight. "For you to stop performing in the studio."

"I am a performer. That is literally what I do for a living." Your spine straightens in response.

"That’s it. You perform for the crowd, not for yourself," he corrects. "The music I'm building will not work if the person singing it is managing everyone else's reaction to her the whole time.”

“That’s a very easy thing to say to someone whose entire career was built on being likable," you scoff.

"I’m not asking you to change your identity. I am asking you to separate your music from it,” he continues. "The problem is that you think your music has to be your identity and that every song you release has to represent the totality of who you are as a person. The music is part of you, not all of you.”

You have no idea what to say to him or how to argue against something that makes this much sense. Every meeting with him goes like this. You walk in prepared for one conversation and he tilts the entire axis of it before you realize what is happening. The ground keeps shifting beneath you and you keep losing your footing.

His laptop opens and the sound of keys clicking fills the quiet as he types something. A few seconds pass before a soft chime indicates an email being sent.

"I just sent you the rest of the references," he says while his eyes stay on his screen. "Listen to all of them before our next session. Pay attention to how the music makes you feel.”

You pull out your phone once everyone leaves and open the email to find six audio files attached. The subject line reads simply: "Listen with headphones."

You download the first file.

────୨ৎ────

The references he sends are forty-three minutes of music you would never have found yourself.

You listen to all of them sitting cross-legged on your studio apartment floor with your laptop open and the lights off because somehow the dark makes it easier to hear things properly. Track after track, the same aesthetic running through all of them like a thread pulled tight. Low tempos, with negative space in the production where most music would fill in the gaps.

You listen to the whole thing twice. Then you sit in the dark for a while.

The problem is not that the music is bad. The problem, the one you cannot say out loud in a conference room, is that it makes sense. Not for the image you have built and maintained for five years or for the fanbase that knows your name because of synchronized choreography and matching pastel outfits, but for something inside you that you have carefully buried inside you when the label first told you to do a cute concept.

You open a new browser tab and sit there for a moment. Then you type: clubs in Mapo idols frequent.

It takes you twenty minutes to get ready. You tell yourself this is a reasonable and professional thing to do, gathering information, field-testing a concept before committing to it in a studio with Geum Seongje watching you through the glass. If you walk into a room dressed the way his references suggest and nobody looks at you, then you will have concrete evidence that the concept does not work. Concrete evidence is something even he cannot argue with.

The cab drops you outside at eleven-fifteen. Inside, the music is bass-heavy and continuous, and the lighting is dark enough that your eyes take a moment to adjust.

You find a spot at the bar and order something without tasting it.

This is the part where you did not think far enough ahead. In the version of this plan that existed in your apartment with the lights off, you walked in and either things happened or they didn't and you had your answer. You didn’t account for the specific loneliness of standing alone at a bar in a club at eleven-fifteen on a Wednesday, nursing a drink you don't want, performing casualness for an audience of nobody.

Blossom used to come to places like this together. All five of you in a corner booth, Jiyeon ordering for everyone, Haerin stealing fries from the platter, the particular noise of four other people who knew your face without the stage makeup on. You hadn’t thought about that in a while. You think about it now, standing here alone. You finish your drink and order another one.

The second drink is when he sits down.

He’s attractive in a generic, well-maintained way, wearing a shirt that costs money. He smiles at you with the confidence of someone who does not often hear no.

"You've been standing here alone for twenty minutes," he says, leaning slightly toward you to clear the music.

"I'm aware," you say.

"That seems like a waste." He flags the bartender. "Let me get you something."

"I have something." You hold up your glass.

"Then let me get you something better." His smile doesn't shift. "I feel like you could use the company."

You’re deciding how to handle this when a hand settles at the small of your back.

"She's good," says a voice beside your ear.

You go completely still.

Seongje is looking at the man on the stool with the mild, unhurried attention he gives everything, glasses catching the bar light, one hand still at your back and the other wrapped around what appears to be his own drink. He looks like he belongs here in a way, the complete opposite image of how out of place you feel.

The man on the stool reads the situation in about four seconds. His smile stays but the confidence behind it drains out. "My bad," he says, and picks up his drink and leaves.

Seongje's hand drops from your back and leaves the space where it was feeling suddenly cold.

You turn to look at him but he is already facing forward with his elbow on the bar. His attention focuses on the middle distance like none of the last thirty seconds happened.

"What are you doing here?" you say.

"Having a drink." He takes a sip of whatever he's drinking and the ice clinks against the glass.

"Here specifically."

"It's a bar. They have drinks here." His tone suggests this should be obvious. He turns his head and looks at you with an expression that differs from the conference room version of him. The club lighting does something to the sharp lines of his face and softens the edges just enough that he reads like a different person standing in the same body.

"Go home," he says.

"I was here first." Your grip tightens on your glass.

"I know." He looks at you for one more moment that lasts long enough for you to feel it in your sternum before he looks away again. "Go home. This place isn’t for you."

You set your glass down on the bar with more force than necessary. The sound of it hitting the wood makes the bartender glance over. "This place doesn't suit me? You picked a sexy concept for me."

"I know." He swirls the liquid in his glass and watches it move.

"Both those things can’t be true," you say slowly in the way you speak when you are trying very hard not to raise your voice.

"They are. You just don't understand how yet." His fingers tap once against his glass in a rhythm that matches the bass line bleeding through the speakers.

The laugh that comes out of you is not polite. Several people at the bar nearby glance over in your direction. Seongje closes two fingers lightly around your wrist. He pulls you away from the bar without any particular urgency but with clear purpose.

"What are you doing?" You pull back against his grip but he is already moving. "I’m not going anywhere with you."

"You're making a scene." He navigates through the crowd like he knows exactly where he is going.

"I’m whispering."

"You're whispering loudly." He steers you down a short corridor off the main floor before stopping at a door marked Private which he opens without knocking.

The room inside is small and dim, with a lounge arrangement that sits empty. The door closes behind you both and the bass from outside drops to a low thrum through the walls. The sudden quiet makes your ears ring.

"You brought me into a private room in a club." Your arms cross over your chest defensively.

"You were about to get loud." He leans against the wall like he has all the time in the world.

You point at him with one hand while the other stays wrapped around your elbow. "Pervert."

"You came here to prove you couldn't pull it off," he says, seeing right through your plan.

"I was trying to understand the concept," you argue.

"The concept isn't about being in a place like this," he says. "It's not a club concept. What I sent you, those references, did any of them feel like this?"

He gestures vaguely at the walls, the muffled thump of the music outside.

"No," you admit, quietly and with great reluctance.

"You were trying to test the wrong thing." He pushes off the wall. "You can't field-test this in a club. It doesn't live here."

"You are still a pervert for bringing me in here,” you turn to leave, because suddenly all of the exhaustion from the night hits you all at once.

"There was a bouncer twelve feet away the entire time."

"A pervert with backup," you say, and push open the door before he can respond.

The bass hits you immediately, full volume, and you walk back through the club and out the front door into the cold without looking back. The cab you call takes four minutes and you spend all four of them standing on the pavement in the black dress telling yourself the heat in your face is from the noise inside and not from anything else.

────୨ৎ────

Three more concept meetings happen in the following two weeks, each one shorter than the last. The direction is set. The aesthetic is what it is.

His studio is in Mapo, on the fourth floor of a building that looks like it should contain a dental practice or a mid-tier accounting firm. There is no label signage anywhere. The directory in the lobby lists the fourth floor as a private recording space with no company name attached, just a unit number, which tells you something about the kind of person who works here. His name is not on anything.

The door code he texts you the night before is eight digits. You stand in the hallway and type it in and feel, for no reason you can justify, like you are entering somewhere you were not entirely meant to find.

The studio is not what you pictured. There’s a long desk crowded with two monitors, an audio interface, and a keyboard controller pushed to the far edge to make room for a legal pad covered in handwriting you cannot read from the doorway. Cables are bundled and labeled with small pieces of tape. Three empty coffee cups are lined up along the windowsill. One of the monitors has a sticky note on the bezel that says fix the low end on 3 in what you assume is his handwriting.

Seongje is at the desk with his back to you, headphones around his neck, clicking through something on the left monitor. He does not turn around.

"Sit down," he says.

The only other chair in the room is pushed against the far wall. You pull it up to the desk and sit.

He finishes what he is doing, rolls his chair slightly to the right, and pulls up a project file on the right monitor. The waveforms are dense, layered, more tracks stacked than you expected for something still in the working phase. He has been in here building this for a while. You look at the file name at the top of the screen.

YN_titletrack_v9.

Version nine.

"Instrumental first," he says. "Don't say anything until it's done." He hits play.

The track comes through the studio monitors. It’s different from what you’ve been hearing his references through laptop speakers for the past two weeks. The sub-bass sits below your hearing and registers in your sternum instead, a low persistent pressure that you feel before you consciously process it as sound. The opening is sparse, the bass and a hi-hat pattern land slightly behind the beat in a way that makes your body want to lean forward into the rhythm.

Then the melody comes in. It’s softer than the instrumental suggests it should be, sitting in a middle register that has room and warmth to it. There’s a moment in the pre-chorus where the bass drops out entirely for two counts.

The chorus builds slowly. It deepens, adding texture in layers, the melody folding into a lower harmony that runs underneath it and pulls the whole thing somewhere more serious than it started.

The second verse is tighter than the first. He has compressed something in the arrangement, pulled the space in slightly, and the effect is the feeling of something closing around you. The bridge strips everything back to the bass and a single vocal line, unharmonized, and the nakedness of it after the layered chorus is the most affecting thing the track does. It is over in eight bars and when the final chorus comes back in you feel the loss of that space immediately.

The track ends on a single sustained note that fades.

"It's good." The admission requires no effort because it is simply and completely true, and dressing it up would be embarrassing for both of you. "It's very good."

Something in his posture settles. Not pride or satisfaction in the way you expected it would look on him but more like the quiet release of a tension he was not visibly carrying.

He pulls up a new document on the left monitor and turns it toward you. "This one’s still a working draft. Nothing is locked."

You lean forward. The title track is called Under Your Skin.

The first verse opens cleanly, the language restrained, almost domestic in its specificity.

You leave your things on my side of the room Like you're marking something Like you already know I don't mind, I don't mind That's the part I can't say out loud

You read it twice. It’s not explicit per say. Implication is more effective than statement, and the restraint of the first verse makes the turn in the pre-chorus land harder than it would have otherwise.

I've been good at keeping distance You make it look so easy to close it Come here, I said, come here

The repetition of come here sits in your chest the same way the bridge of the instrumental did, stripped and direct. You keep your face very still. The chorus arrives and the track stops being careful.

I want to get under your skin Find the parts you don't let anyone near Stay there I want to stay there Tell me where it hurts I'll learn every single one

The second verse deepens what the first established. The language is still not technically explicit but it has stopped pretending to be innocent, the domestic specificity of the opening replaced by something more physical.

You run warm, always warm I notice everything The way you breathe when you're trying not to show it I notice everything

The bridge has four lines.

Don't tell me to be careful Don't tell me to slow down You've been watching me the whole time We both know what this is

You finish reading and sit back in your chair and look at the ceiling for a moment.

"It's still good." You look back at the monitor. "It's also very."

"Very," he repeats, waiting.

You gesture at the screen. "You’ve written a song about sex."

He leans back in his chair. "The reading is up to the listener."

"Seongje." You point at the screen. "Explain to me how that is suggestive and not explicit."

He reads it again with the genuine focus of someone considering the question seriously. "It could be about emotional vulnerability."

"It’s obviously not."

"You're being a prude."

"I am being a professional." You sit up straighter. "I agreed to sexy. Not to whatever the bridge is doing."

He looks at you for a long moment. "Are you actually going to be able to sing this?"

"I can sing it."

"You look like you've never heard a song with a double meaning before." He tilts his head slightly. The studio lighting catches the edge of his glasses. "You're not seriously this sheltered. You've been in the industry for five years."

"Being in the industry for five years does not mean—"

"I'm just saying." He leans back in his chair. "You're acting like a virgin."

The word lands in the room and sits there. You open your mouth, unable to stop yourself from gaping at him.

"It was a joke," he scoffs, already turning back to the monitor. "Calm down."

"I know it was a joke."

"You're very red."

"It’s warm in here."

"The temperature is fine." He scrolls through the lyrics. "Look at the second verse, the meter is what I actually want your opinion on—"

"I'm not a virgin," you say.

The scrolling stops.

He turns his chair very slowly and looks at you. You avoid eye contact. The back of your neck is hot. You said it too fast and too loud, with the specific energy of someone who has proven the exact opposite of what they intended to prove. You know it, and he knows it.

"Okay," he talks to you in the same tone you would use with a toddler throwing a tantrum.

“The second verse,” you change the topic. “You wanted my opinion on the meter.”

He’s quiet for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice has lost its usual edges. “I shouldn’t have said that. It was a cheap joke.”

You weren’t expecting this. Three weeks of meetings have taught you to anticipate his deflections. You don’t know what to do with this plain acknowledgment. The lack of performance disarms you more than the apology itself.

“It’s fine,” you manage.

He accepts this with a small nod and turns back to the monitor. “The third line in the second verse runs long. Tell me if it feels natural to sing or if it needs cutting.”

You pull your chair closer to the screen and read the third line of the second verse.

You run warm, always warm

It sits cleanly in the melody in your head. The problem is not the meter. The problem is that the line means something different than it did sixty seconds ago, and Keum Seongje is eighteen inches away waiting for your professional opinion.

"It's fine," you say, in a perfectly level voice.

"Agreed," he nods and opens the next file.

────୨ৎ────

The break happens at a natural pause, him switching between project files and you reaching the limit of how long you can read suggestive lyrics with your face arranged into something professional. He gets up to deal with the coffee situation, which apparently involves a small machine on the shelf behind the desk that he operates with the quiet focus of someone who does this exact thing at the same time every day.

You roll your chair back and stretch your neck.

"I want to see the rest."

"Sure," he says, and sits back down.

He opens the second file and turns the monitor toward you.

The title is two words. Taste Test.

You read the title. You set your coffee cup down.

"That's just the title," he says.

You read the actual lyrics. You read them twice because the first time through you are not entirely certain you are parsing the Korean correctly, and the second time confirms that you are.

"I need a moment," you say.

You stand up and walk to the far side of the room and stand there with your hands on your hips facing the wall for approximately ten seconds. The wall has a small framed print on it, abstract, which you study with great attention while you locate your professionalism. Then you walk back and sit down.

"Next one," you say.

He opens the third file. Get Closer.

The opening line is deceptively simple. Four words, nothing technically explicit, but sitting inside the melody he has built for it in your head they land with a weight that is considerably more than the sum of their parts. You read the first verse without incident. You read the second verse. You get four lines into the bridge.

Don't keep the door between us You know I can hear you breathing Come here, just come here Stop pretending you don't want this too

You stand up. You make it to the door this time before you turn around. Seongje watches the entire thing with his elbow on the desk and his chin resting in his hand, expression unreadable.

You walk back. You sit down. "All of them," you say. "Just show me all of them at once."

He opens tracks four, five, and six in sequence and pushes the monitor toward you without a word.

Track four is called Running Hot and opens with two lines that make the back of your neck prickle immediately.

You run warm, I run warmer Come find out what that means

The chorus of track four does not bother with implication.

Track five is called After Hours and is structured as a conversation, call and response, the kind of song that requires two people to perform it.

Track six is called Stay and is the quietest thing in the folder, slower than the others.

You read all three without getting up, which you consider a genuine personal achievement, though by the end of track six you are sitting with your elbows on the desk and your face pressed into both palms.

The room is quiet. Down the hall, something from another studio moves through the walls at low volume.

"I'll edit them," Seongje says.

You lift your face. "What?"

"The other tracks. Pull the language back on a few of them." He is already opening the second file. "The title track is close to final but the rest have room to—"

"Don't."

He stops.

You look at track six still open on the screen. Stay is sitting there in plain text and the last two lines are still doing something to the inside of your chest that you are not going to examine right now. "These work. All of them. Don't water them down because I made a face."

He says nothing for a beat. Then, carefully: "I just want to make sure we're on the same page. Because two weeks ago-"

"I am aware of what I said two weeks ago." You pick up your coffee. "I am updating my position. People are allowed to do that."

He looks at you for one more moment, the corner of his mouth doing the thing you have started to recognize as the closest he gets to laughing, and then he turns back to his keyboard.

"Meter on the bridge of track two," he says. "It runs long."

You pull up Taste Test and read the bridge again. The bridge is still the bridge. You read it with professional detachment and only minimal damage to your composure. "Last four words. They're dead weight."

He makes the note.

"Track three, second verse, line five," you say. "Syllable count is off against the instrumental. You can hear it even when reading it cold."

He leans over and reads it, then pulls up the instrumental file and plays the section in question. Twelve seconds of music fills the room, the bass sitting in your chest the same way it did on the first listen. He stops it and makes a note. "Good catch."

"The call and response structure on track five," you say. "Is that intentional or a draft thing?"

"Intentional."

You look at the lyrics for After Hours on the screen. "That requires two voices. Are you planning a feature?"

"Something like that," he says, which is not an answer .

The session continues. Track four remains exactly as written. You read the chorus of Running Hot two more times over the course of the afternoon for purely professional reasons, and by the third time the initial heat in your face has downgraded to something that is almost, almost manageable.

Almost.

────୨ৎ────

The booth is smaller than it looks from the other side of the glass. You put the headphones on. Through the glass Seongje settles into his chair at the board, pulls the monitor toward him, and his voice comes through the cans a moment later, close and direct in a way that is slightly disorienting.

"Warm up first. Anything."

You run through your scales. Your voice sounds different here than it does in any rehearsal room you have worked in, the acoustic treatment catching every detail.

"Good," he says, when you finish. "Take it from the top of the first verse. Just the verse, don't push into the pre-chorus yet."

You find the melody in your head and come in on the count.

The problem is the bridge.

Specifically the third line of the bridge, which reads simply as "I've been waiting so long I've forgotten how to want anything else", and which you have now sung fourteen times across two hours with results that Seongje has described, in order, as: too bright, too controlled, too performed, too careful, too much like a ballad, too much like a jingle, and, most recently, too much like you are reading a grocery list.

"Again," he says, through the cans.

You breathe. You come in on the count.

Don't tell me to be careful Don't tell me to slow down I've been waiting so long I've forgotten how to want anything else We both know what this is

"Stop," he says.

"I know what the problem is,” You sigh, stopping him before he can start. “I don't know how to fix it."

"What does the line mean to you?" he asks.

"Wanting something for so long it becomes the whole of you," you answer. "Losing the ability to want anything else because the wanting has taken up all the available space."

"And have you ever wanted something like that?"

"That's not relevant," you say.

"It's the only relevant thing." He leans forward, elbows on the board. "The line requires a specific quality of longing. The particular feeling of something you have wanted for so long it has become structural, part of how you're built." He pauses. "If you haven't felt that you cannot fake it. The mic will hear the difference."

"I have felt longing before."

"Not like this," he says, and the certainty in it is not unkind but it is absolute. "This is not the longing of someone who is sad about missing something. This is the longing of someone who wants something long enough that the wanting has become its own kind of fever." He holds your gaze through the glass. "That is a very particular feeling and your voice does not have it yet."

The booth is very quiet.

"I don't have a reference point for it," your voice comes out quieter than you intended and more honest than you planned.

The studio is completely silent except for the low hum of the equipment.

You do not look up.

Through the glass you hear the subtle shift of his chair, the sound of him sitting back. He does not say anything for a long moment, long enough that you are constructing a full list of things he might say, all of them worse than the silence.

"That's the problem," he says finally. "I'm aware."

Another silence.

Then, in the same tone, unhurried and completely clinical: "I could give you that reference point."

Your first thought is that you misheard him. The headphones sometimes do something to consonants, compress them slightly. You have been in this booth for two hours and it’s possible that what he actually said was something logistical, something that your exhausted brain assembled incorrectly into the sentence you think you heard.

Your second thought is that you did not mishear him.

You look at him through the glass. His elbow is on the desk, face in its usual arrangement. He does not elaborate or follow it with anything that would tell you whether it is an offer or a producer solving a technical problem with the most direct available solution. The silence stretches.

You think about asking him to clarify. You construct the sentence in your head: what do you mean by that. Four words, professionally delivered, a reasonable request for clarification in a working context. You could say it. You should say it. You have the sentence fully assembled and ready.

He pushes his chair back, the casters rolling softly on the floor, and stands up. He doesn’t look at you as he walks around the console. He reaches for the door handle of the booth and you take a step back without meaning to, a purely physical response, your body making a decision slightly ahead of your brain.

The seal breaks with a soft thump of releasing pressure.

Suddenly he is in the booth with you. The small booth turns microscopic. He pulls the door closed behind him, and the world outside the glass ceases to matter.

He closes the distance in two deliberate steps. Now he’s standing in front of you, not touching, but the heat from his body is a tangible force. He looks down at you, his sharp eyes cataloging every micro-expression: the widening of your eyes, the quickening pulse in your throat, the way your fingers curl uselessly against the foam panel.

“You’re shaking,” he observes. His voice is lower here, without the mediation of the headphones.

“I’m not.”

“You are. Here.” He lifts a hand, fingertips stopping a centimeter from your throat. “And your breathing is all fucked up. You’re holding your breath, then taking these shallow little sips of air. You can’t sing like that.”

“I know how to breathe,” you whisper. The protest is pathetic.

“Do you?” He finally touches you. Just his index finger, under your chin, tilting your face up. The contact is electric, a jolt that travels straight down your spine. His skin is warm. “You know technique. You don’t know feeling. It’s a physical problem. So we solve it physically.”

His other hand comes up, palm flat against the panel beside your head, caging you in. You are surrounded by him.

“What are you doing?” The question is airless.

“Giving you a reference point.” His thumb strokes the corner of your mouth, a slow, deliberate pass. You do your best to resist leaning into the touch. “You said you lacked the experience. I’m providing the experience. Consider it vocal coaching, free of charge.”

He leans in. His mouth hovers near yours, sharing the same frantic air you’re exhaling. You’ve been kissed before, chaste, staged things for cameras or awkward, fumbling attempts in darkened vans. This is nothing like that.

“Have you ever been touched?” he asks, voice a rough murmur against your lips. You can’t speak. You shake your head, a tiny, shameful movement.

“Ever had a man’s hands on you? Here?” His thumb leaves your mouth and drifts down, tracing the column of your throat, over the frantic jump of your pulse, down to the neckline of your sweater. He hooks a finger in the fabric. “Or here?” His palm settles, heavy and warm, over the swell of your breast through the thick wool. You jerk as if scalded, a full-body flinch that he absorbs without moving.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and for the first time, the clinical edge slips, replaced by something darker, more intrigued. “You really are completely untouched.”

The humiliation is a hot wave. You squeeze your eyes shut.

“Don’t. Look at me.” He commands it. Your eyes fly open. “This isn’t something to be ashamed of. It just means every sensation is new. That’s what I need from you in there.” He nods toward the microphone. “That raw, unfiltered signal.”

His hand on your breast kneads once, slowly, and a shocked, thin sound escapes you. Your nipple tightens instantly under the layers of fabric. The sensation is utterly foreign, a line of pleasure that draws your belly tight.

“See?” He watches your face like a scientist. “That’s a physical response. You’re not supposed to think about it. Your body knows things your brain hasn’t caught up to yet.”

He drops his hand from your breast, and you almost whimper at the loss of contact, a reaction that horrifies you. But he’s not finished. His hands go to the hem of your oversized sweater. You grab his wrists, panic flaring.

“Wait—”

“Do you want to fix the bridge or not?” The question is brutal in its simplicity. It’s not about this. It’s about the song. It’s always about the song.

Your fingers loosen. You let your hands fall to your sides, clenched into helpless fists.

He pulls the sweater up and over your head in one smooth motion. The cool studio air hits your skin, and you cross your arms over your simple cotton bra.

“Stop hiding,” he says, and his hands wrap around your wrists, pulling your arms down to your sides. He bends his head, and his mouth finds the skin where your neck meets your shoulder. He bites.

The pain melts into a deep, throbbing heat that pools low in your abdomen. You feel yourself growing wet, a desperate betrayal between your legs.

“You like that,” he says against your skin. One of his hands releases your wrist and slides down your side, over the waistband of your jeans, to cup you between your legs. You buck against his hand, a shudder wracking your whole frame. Even through the denim, the pressure is intense and overwhelming.

“So sensitive,” he mutters. His fingers rub a slow, firm circle over the core of you. The friction is maddening. Your hips jerk, seeking more, and a ragged moan is torn from your throat. “There it is. That’s the sound. That’s the fucking sound I need on the track.”

He unbuttons your jeans. The zipper’s rasp is obscenely loud. He shoves the fabric down over your hips, just enough. His fingers slip beneath the edge of your plain cotton panties, and then he’s touching you, skin to skin.

You gasp, your head thudding back against the panel. His fingers are direct, exploring without ceremony. They slide through the slick heat he’s found, parting you, finding the tight, clenching entrance of your virgin body.

“Jesus,” he breathes, the clinical detachment faltering for a split second. His forehead rests against yours. “You're dripping wet.”

His thumb leaves your entrance, shifts upward, and finds the swollen, desperate knot of your clit. Your knees actually buckle. Only his body and the wall keep you upright.

“There,” he says, his voice rough in your ear. He begins to move his thumb in slow, deliberate circles. The pressure is perfect. “This is the part they don’t put in the songs. This specific, fucking needy ache.”

You are unspooling. Your hips are moving on their own, a frantic rocking against his hand, chasing the sensation. You’re making noises you’ve never heard before, guttural, hungry little whimpers that echo in the dead air of the booth.

“That’s it,” he coaxes, a dark, approving whisper. “Give me the real sound.”

The pleasure builds in a terrifying, glorious wave. Your muscles clench, breath coming in ragged gasps. The world dissolves into a blur of sensation: the scent of his skin and the perfect rhythm of his thumb. You are so close to something, teetering on the edge of a cliff you didn’t know existed. Your body is tensing, bowing, every cell straining towards a shattering release.

“Please,” you hear yourself beg, the word ripped from somewhere primal. “Oh, God, please…”

You’re right there. The wave is cresting, about to break.

He pulls his hand away.

The loss is so violent and abrupt, it’s a physical shock. A cry of raw protest tears from your throat. Your body convulses, empty and furious. The promised release snatched away leaves you throbbing and desperate, obscenely unfinished. You slump against the wall, trembling violently, humiliation and need warring in the pit of your stomach.

Seongje brings his wet fingers to his mouth and tastes them, his gaze locked on yours.

“Now,” he says, his voice low and graveled with a tension that wasn’t there before. “You know what wanting feels like.”

He steps back, giving a single, devastating once-over your heaving chest and the ruined look in your eyes. “Now let’s sing the bridge.”

────୨ৎ────

The month happens the way most significant things happen, gradually and then all at once, the individual sessions blurring into a continuous thing that you stop being able to separate into distinct memories somewhere around the third week.

What you can reconstruct, if you try: the first time you stayed past midnight because the bridge of track three was not sitting right in the mix and leaving felt wrong. The takeout containers that started appearing on the windowsill beside the coffee cups, a permanent installation, Seongje ordering without asking what you wanted after the second week because he had already catalogued your preferences. The studio couch, which is narrow and not particularly comfortable, on which you fell asleep twice and woke to find a jacket over you that was not yours.

The almost-moments are harder to reconstruct because almost-moments require identifying where they begin and end, and in this studio, in this month, they did not have clear edges. They accumulated instead, layering over each other the way tracks layer in the mix, until the texture of being in a room with Keum Seongje became something you had to consciously manage.

You did not name any of it. Neither did he. The work was always there to return to, and returning to the work was easier than examining what was accumulating in the space around it.

The lap situation has a clear origin, which is that the studio's listening setup is built for one person. There’s only one chair at the board and one set of monitors positioned at ear height for whoever is sitting in that chair, the sweet spot in the room calibrated to a single point in space. When Seongje plays back a finished section he sits at the board and listens from that point. The sound is exactly what he built it to be. When you stand beside him to listen, the perspective shifts enough that the mix loses something. The difference matters when you are trying to evaluate a finished take.

You stood for three sessions before your back made the decision for you.

The first time you sat on the edge of his chair he moved without comment to give you room, which somehow became you sitting properly on his lap and him with an arm loosely around your waist to keep you both on the chair.

It’s simply how you listen to the playbacks now, your back against his chest, his chin occasionally dropping to your shoulder when he is focused on something in the mix, the weight of his arm across your lap a thing you have stopped noticing the way you stop noticing.

That’s not entirely true. You haven’t stopped noticing. You have simply developed a working arrangement with the noticing, a way of letting it exist alongside the professional purpose of being in the room without letting it consume the professional purpose of being in the room.

It is an imperfect arrangement.

────୨ৎ────

The finished album takes six weeks from the first vocal session to the final master. On the last night he sends the final files to the label and then opens them again in the studio.

You climb into his lap. He moves his arm to accommodate you without looking away from the monitor. He pulls up the first track.

Under Your Skin fills the studio through the monitors and it is different from every previous listen, different from the rough mixes and the working drafts and the late-night playbacks where you were still fixing things. It is done. The decisions are made and locked. The version of you that is in this track is permanent now.

Seongje's arm is across your lap. You can feel his breathing against your back, slow and even, the breathing of someone giving the music his complete attention.

The pre-chorus arrives. You remember the fourteen takes of the bridge you two went through. The chorus opens up the way it always does, the production expanding outward, and your voice is doing what he built it to do.

His chin drops to your shoulder, the way it does when he is listening to something specific in the mix. You feel rather than hear the small sound he makes in the back of his throat.

"It's done," he says.

By track four you have stopped looking at the monitor. You listen to your own voice do things that six weeks ago you didn’t know your voice could do.

Seongje shifts slightly behind you. His chin lifts from your shoulder. You feel him turn his head and you are fairly certain he’s looking at the side of your face rather than the monitor, but you don’t turn to confirm this.

Track five begins and you are not prepared for it, which should not be possible given that you already recorded it. After Hours in its final form is the most intimate thing you have ever heard your own voice do.

You remember recording the pre-chorus. You remember the specific quality of Seongje's silence through the glass after the first clean take, the way he sat very still at the board for a moment before reaching for the talkback button. You remember him saying, simply, that's the one, and the flatness of his voice when he said it.

The chorus arrives and it is the most explicit thing on the album, the language finally abandoning the restraint that the other tracks maintained, direct in a way that made you stand very still in the booth the first time you read it and very still again now, listening to your own voice deliver it with a conviction that still surprises you.

Tell me what you want Don't dress it up, don't make it pretty I want to hear you say it All of it Tell me what you want from me tonight I can take it Tell me

The track ends without a resolution, the two channels falling silent at different times, the right channel a half beat after the left, like one person leaving a room before the other has finished speaking.

You look at the monitor. The waveform for track five is complete, flat line at the end, the album continuing to track six automatically. You reach forward and stop it.

"There's no feature," you say.

"No," he says.

"You built the production around two voices." You look at the waveform. "There's a space in it. You built a space for another voice and you never filled it."

"I remember. I’m taking it off the album," he says.

You turn your head to look at him, which requires some maneuvering given the current arrangement, but you manage it. His face is its usual face, attentive and composed.

"What? Why?" you’re more upset than you thought you’d be.

"It doesn't fit the sequencing."

"It fits the sequencing perfectly. You built the sequencing around it. Track four into track five into track six is the emotional arc of the whole second half of the album. You told me that yourself."

"The arc works without it."

"Seongje." You look at him steadily. "We spent four sessions on that track. The pre-chorus alone took two hours. Whatever your reason is, it is the best thing on the album and pulling it makes the record weaker. You know that."

"The record is strong without it."

"Who were you going to feature?”

"It doesn't matter."

"It clearly matters."

"The track is coming off," his voice has the finality he uses to end conversations, the tone that in the first weeks of the project made you feel like a door being closed. You know it better now. You know it is not always a door being closed. Sometimes it is a person standing very still in front of something they do not want looked at directly.

"It's my call," he insists. "I produced it."

"Release it as a solo track," you fight back. "No feature. Reformat the production and close the space in the mix, it works as a single voice. It's actually more interesting that way. You know it's more interesting that way."

The quiet that follows is different from the other quiets in this studio. It has heat in it. Seongje stands up.

"You want to talk about what's actually happening," he says, and his voice is low and even, "or do you want to keep talking about the track."

"Close the space in the mix," your voice is steady, which is an achievement given the current circumstances. "Release it as a solo track. If you pull it, I’ll go to Chansung."

The mention of the CEO’s name lands like a thrown glass. His eyes flash, a crack in the composed facade. “You’d really run to him?”

“To release my best work? Yes.” Your voice doesn’t waver. “It’s my name on the album. My career.”

“Your career.” He repeats the words like they’re a joke in poor taste. The space between you evaporates. He closes it in two swift steps, his hands coming up to frame your face, his grip not painful but inescapable. “You think this is about your career?”

His mouth crashes down on yours.

He bites your lower lip, sucks it into his mouth, and you gasp against him. Your hands fly up, clutching at the front of his shirt, the fine cotton twisting in your fists. He breaks it as suddenly as he began, breathing harshly, his forehead pressed to yours.

“It’s a song,” you pant, your own breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

“It’s our song.” He spits the words. “That gasp in the bridge? At 2:47? That’s the sound you made when I had my fingers inside you. That’s mine.” His thumbs dig into your jawline. “You want to release that? You want the whole world to hear exactly how wet you got for me in that booth? To play it on the radio while they drive to work?”

Heat floods your cheeks, but a different heat coils low in your belly. “They won’t know.”

“I’ll know.” He shakes you, just once. “Every time I hear it, I’ll see you against that wall. I’ll remember how you shook. You want to let strangers get off to the sound of you coming apart?”

“Stop it.”

“Or what?” His voice drops to a seething whisper. “You’ll run to Chansung and tell him what, exactly? That your producer won’t let you release the song he fucked the performance out of you for? You think that helps your ‘sweet member’ image?”

The slut-shaming is crude, effective. It reduces the raw, terrifying intimacy of those sessions to something cheap and dirty. It makes you feel cheap. And yet, your body betrays you, a treacherous pulse throbbing between your legs. He sees it. He always sees it.

“You’re a fucking hypocrite,” he growls. “You cling to that demure little act, but you begged for it in that booth. You came against my hand like a starved thing. Now you want to package that and sell it.”

“That’s not what it is!”

“It’s exactly what it is.” He releases your face, his hands sliding down to your waist, yanking you hard against him. You feel the rigid proof of his anger straining against his slacks.

He grinds himself against you. A ragged moan escapes you, humiliation and arousal twisting together into one inseparable knot. Your head falls back, and his mouth finds your throat.

His teeth sink into the soft skin beneath your jaw, a sharp claim that draws a gasp from your lungs. You push at his chest, but the motion was weak, your body arching into the brutality of his mouth instead of away from it.

“You’re turning me into one of them,” you spat, the words trembling. “You wanted this. A marketable slut.”

He released your throat with a wet sound, leaning back to look at you. His eyes held a weary, cynical amusement.

“Maybe the concept just needed the right material.” He ground himself against you again, the hard line of his erection a blunt demand through the fabric. “We haven’t even fucked yet, Y/N, but you’re fine with the whole country listening to you sound like a desperate little thing begging for it.”

You shoved him, hard enough this time that he took a single step back, his hands falling from your waist. The space between you crackled with violent, unsaid things.

“I’m not desperate,” you said, but it sounded thin.

“Aren’t you?” He laughed, a short, harsh bark.

Your calves hit the edge of the couch and you collapsed onto it, looking up at him as he loomed over you. He undid his belt with a sharp, metallic rip. He pushed your skirt up your thighs, hands rough and efficient.

His fingers hooked into the sides of your plain cotton panties and tore them down, the fragile material yielding with a soft sigh. The cold air of the studio kissed your exposed skin, making you flinch. You were spread open before him, utterly revealed, and the clinical glare of the desk lamp left nothing to the imagination.

“See?” he said, his voice low. “You’re dripping. For a man who’s done nothing but use you for a song. That’s not desperate?”

You had no answer. Your body was a traitor, slick and throbbing, clenching around nothing.

He watched you, his eyes dark and unreadable, before lowering himself to his knees on the floor between your spread legs. You tried to close your thighs, a last instinct of modesty, but his hands clamped on your knees, holding you open.

“Don’t,” he said, the word flat. “This is what you’re selling, remember? Let’s see the product.”

He leaned forward, his breath hot against your inner thigh. So perfect and untouched,” he murmured, a mockery of wonder.

One hand left your knee. You heard the rustle of his slacks, the tear of a foil packet. You squeezed your eyes shut.

“Look at me.” The command was absolute.

You opened your eyes. He was sheathing himself, his expression focused, almost bored. The sight of him sent a jolt of pure animal fear through your veins. It was too much. You were too small.

“I can’t,” you whispered.

“You can.” He moved closer, the head of his cock pressing bluntly against your entrance. The pressure was immense, a fullness that promised to split you open. You cried out, a sharp sound of protest, and your hands flew to his wrists, nails digging into his skin.

He stilled, but didn’t retreat. “Relax.”

“It won’t fit,” you gasped, panic clawing up your throat.

“It will.” He shifted, removing himself, and you felt a dizzying mix of relief and shameful loss. He spat roughly into his palm, the crude sound echoing, and brought his wet fingers back to you.

One finger pushed inside you, deeper than before, a slow, relentless invasion. Your body resisted, clenching tightly around the intrusion, a sharp burn accompanying the stretch. He swore under his breath. “So fucking tight.”

He began to move his finger, a slow in-and-out. The burn began to soften, your body reluctantly yielding, betraying you with a fresh slickness.

“See?” he said, his voice low. “Your body knows what to do. It’s just your brain that’s scared.”

He added a second finger. The stretch was intense, a burning pressure that made you gasp and arch off the couch. He scissored them inside you, stretching the tender, virgin flesh.

“That’s it,” he coaxed darkly. “Take it. Just like you took my direction in the booth. Open up.”

He crooked his fingers, searching, and found a spot that made you jolt. A shocked, sharp sound was punched from your lungs. He pressed it again, circling it, and your hips gave a helpless, involuntary jerk. A broken sob escaped you.

“There,” he breathed, a hint of triumph in his voice. He worked you open, his fingers pistoning with a ruthless rhythm, stretching you until the initial burn faded into a hot, slippery ache. Your cries softened into moans.

The sound you made when he withdrew his fingers was a wet, obscene gasp in the quiet room. Your body clenched around nothing, a reflexive protest against the sudden emptiness. Your mind was a storm of shame and want, the sharp bite of pain from the stretching already softening into a deep, throbbing ache. He watched you, his eyes tracing the glistening evidence of your arousal on his fingers before he wiped them casually on the leg of his slacks.

“Up,” he stepped back, giving you space to rise on trembling legs. Your skirt fell back down, a flimsy veil over your utter exposure. The torn cotton of your panties lay on the floor near the couch, a stark white flag of surrender. You couldn’t look at them.

He was already moving, his back to you as he walked around the desk. You watched his hands, those same hands that had just been inside you, as they reached for a piece of equipment.

It was a microphone. A sturdy, professional condenser model on a short stand, one of several he kept nearby for when a melody or a lyric struck and couldn’t wait for the booth. He placed it carefully on the cleared edge of the desk, adjusting the angle with a precise twist. The small red power light winked on.

He looked at you over the expanse of black glass and scattered papers. “Come here.”

Your feet carried you forward on autopilot. You stopped in front of the desk, the cold edge pressing into your thighs.

“Turn around,” he said. “Bend over. Put your hands flat on the glass.”

You turned, facing away from him, toward the darkened window that reflected a ghostly, fractured version of the room. You saw the lamp, the couch, the torn underwear on the floor. You saw your own wide, dark eyes in the glass. You leaned forward, the position forcing your hips back, your spine into a deep curve. The cool, smooth surface of the desk met your palms. Your cheek pressed against it a moment later. The scent of lemon polish and old dust filled your nose.

One hand settled heavily on the small of your back, pinning you in place. The other gripped your hip, his fingers digging into the bone.

The blunt, thick head of his cock nudged against your entrance, still slick from his fingers and your own arousal. You tensed, every muscle locking.

“Don’t,” he warned, his breath hot against your ear. “You’re ready. Take it.”

He buried himself deep inside you, letting you feel every inch of him, letting your body convulse around the sudden, shocking intrusion. Your cry echoed off the hard surfaces of the office, decaying into a series of ragged, wet sobs.

“Fuck,” he groaned into your hair, the word vibrating through his chest and into your back. “You’re so fucking tight.”

He pulled back almost all the way, the drag a new, shocking friction, and slammed back in. The force of it drove you forward an inch on the desk. His hips slammed against your ass with a wet, meaty sound that was obscenely audible over both your breathing.

He was hitting something deep inside, a place his fingers had only teased. A broken, gasping moan fell from your lips.

“That’s it,” he snarled, his voice rough with exertion. “Let me hear it.”

And you did. You were so, so loud. Every slam of his body into yours punched another sound out of you, a sharp gasp, a choked sob, a high, keening wail you didn’t recognize as your own. You were crying, tears smearing the glass under your cheek, but you were also pressing back against him, meeting his thrusts with a desperation that shamed you.

He shifted his angle slightly, and on the next downward drive, he struck a place that made your vision whiten. A shattered, screaming cry ripped from your throat, echoing wildly in the room.

His hand left your hip. You heard a faint click. Then his fingers were in your hair, fisting painfully, yanking your head up and back. He forced you to look into the dark window at your own reflection.

“Look at you,” he panted, never breaking his rhythm. “Look at what you are. Not the sweet little idol. This. A messy, noisy, desperate little fuck.”

You wanted to deny them, but your body was proof. You were clenching around him, milking him. The coil in your belly was winding to a breaking point, fueled by the overwhelming friction and his degrading praise.

“You’re gonna come,” he stated, as if reading the tremors building in your thighs. “Come on my cock. Let the whole building hear you.”

He reached around your hip, his thumb finding your clit, swollen and exposed. He pressed, hard, and rubbed a rough circle.

Your back arched wildly against his restraining hand. A raw cry was torn from your very core, a sound so loud and ragged it scraped your throat. Your inner muscles clamped down on him in frantic, fluttering pulses, gripping him like a vise.

The feeling of you climaxing around him was the trigger. With a guttural groan that was pure animal satisfaction, he buried himself one last time, grinding deep. You felt the hot, sudden rush of his release inside you.

He held there, both of you locked together, shuddering. The only sounds were the ragged symphony of your breathing and the faint, electronic hum of the equipment.

Slowly, he softened and slid out of you. You heard him dealing with the condom, the soft toss into a trash can.

You couldn’t move. Your forehead was back on the cool glass, body trembling.

You saw his hand in the reflection. He reached for the microphone on the desk beside your head. He pressed a button. The red light went off. He had recorded it.

You pushed yourself up from the desk, your arms shaking violently. The cool air of the studio hit the wet mess between your thighs, a disgusting reminder. You turned to face him, your body screaming in protest at the movement. He was calmly wrapping the microphone cable around his hand, his expression unreadable.

“You… you recorded that?” Your voice was a hoarse shred of itself.

“I record everything.” He didn’t look at you, placing the mic back on its stand. “It’s a studio. That’s what I do.”

A hot, cleansing fury boiled up through the shame and the ache. It cut through the daze. “You’re sick.” The words were a whisper, then a shout. “You’re a fucking pervert!”

He finally looked at you, his sharp eyes assessing. “Am I?”

“You get off on this! On degrading me. That’s what this is!” You gestured wildly at the desk, at your own body, your voice cracking. “It’s not about the music. It’s about you being a twisted, controlling pervert!”

“That performance, right now, was the most honest thing you’ve ever done. I wanted the real thing.”

“That’s not me!” you screamed, the tears coming hot and fast now.

He walked to the laptop, his movements unhurried. He tapped a key, and the screen bloomed with a waveform. He clicked play.

The room filled with the raw, intimate cacophony of your own pleasure. First, the wet, slick sound of his fingers working inside you, obscenely amplified. Then your sharp, hitched breathing, the muffled sob against the leather couch. Your own voice, pleading “I can’t” in a tremulous whisper you hardly recognized.

You clapped your hands over your ears, but it was useless. You were hearing the pure need in the guttural moans that followed each brutal thrust.

“You set me up,” you whispered, the fury gone, replaced by a cold, sinking horror.

He closed the audio file. “You chose to come here. You chose to fight for the track. You chose to push. Your body chose to respond.”

Your hand moved before you could think. The slap cracked through the room. His head snapped to the side. A slow, red bloom appeared on his cheekbone.

He didn’t react. He just turned his head back, absorbing the shock, his eyes never leaving yours. A faint, almost approving smirk touched his lips. “Good.”

Then his hands were on you again. One palm cradled the back of your head, fingers tangling in your sweat-damp hair. The other splayed against the small of your back, pressing you into him. His mouth found yours.

You fought it for a second, teeth clenched, before a broken sound vibrated in your throat and you opened for him. He walked you backward until your knees hit the edge of the heavy steel desk. He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged.

He didn’t bother with a condom this time. He just gripped himself, gave two rough, slick strokes, and guided his head to your sore, swollen entrance. He pushed in with a deep thrust that made you gasp, your back arching off the cold metal.

Your body, despite everything, rose to meet his. A ragged, pathetic moan escaped you with each drive. You were wet for him again, a fresh, hot slickness that eased his passage and betrayed your every protest.

“This is the deal,” he grunted, his rhythm stuttering as he pushed deeper. “You want the art that matters? You pay for it here. I’ll give you a masterpiece to show the world. That’s the transaction.”

“That’s it,” he hissed, feeling your internal muscles begin their frantic flutter. Your legs wrapped around his hips, ankles locking, pulling him deeper into the mire of your own betrayal. “Come on it. Come on the truth.”

Your cunt clamped around him in rhythmic pulses, milking him desperately. It triggered his own release. He slammed into you one final, crushing time and groaned as he emptied himself deep inside your clenching heat.

He pulled out slowly. A gush of his spend followed, pooling beneath you. He found a box of tissues from a drawer and tossed it onto your stomach.

You mechanically cleaned yourself, wadding the tissues and letting them fall to the floor.

He was back at the laptop, his back to you. “Fine. The track stays on the album. Go home. Shower. Be back at ten for vocal comps. We’re finishing the album.”

You walked to the door on numb legs. Your hand paused on the handle.

“The recording,” you said, not turning around. “The raw file.”

You heard the clack of a single key. “Deleted.”

You didn’t believe him. You knew you would never speak of it again. You opened the door and stepped out into the sterile, bright hallway.

The demo he’d played earlier was still on the laptop, the track now irrevocably fused with the memory of your own screams. He highlighted the file: YN_AFTERHOURS_TAKE_H_FINAL.

He changed one letter. The H became a J.

YN_AFTERHOURS_TAKE_J_FINAL.

────୨ৎ────

The album drops on a Friday.

By Saturday morning it has charted in eleven countries. By Saturday afternoon the title track has two million streams and the comments section of every platform is a variation of the same thing: who is she and I did not know she could do this and where has this been hiding.

By Saturday evening your phone has become a continuous notification, buzzing against every surface you set it on. Chansung calls three times. The third call you answer.

"The numbers," he says, and then stops, like the numbers are too large to follow with a complete sentence.

"I know," you say.

"The label is—" Another stop. "There are no words."

He mentions a celebration dinner on Monday. Full label team, management, A&R, the marketing department who spent three months building the rollout. You agree to Monday. You hang up.

You sit on the floor for a while with your back against the bed and your phone face up on your knee, watching the notifications come in. Streaming numbers. Comment screenshots. A fan-made compilation of reaction videos set to the title track that someone has already edited together and posted, which you watch twice.

Seongje does not call. Seongje does not text.

You are not waiting for him to.

────୨ৎ────

The message arrives at 2 a.m.

A link. Below it, eight characters: the password.

Below that, a single word: Congratulations.

You sit up.

You look at the message for a moment, clicking it when you should probably wait. It’s seven in the morning and you are not fully awake. Whatever is behind a password-protected link that Keum Seongje sent at two in the morning is probably something you should approach with more preparation than you currently have.

The drive opens. It has an audio file, the filename a string of numbers with no title attached, the way his working files always look before he names them properly.

You put your earphones in and press play.

The opening is familiar. The bass line of After Hours settling into your sternum the way it always has, the production you spent six weeks living inside, the mix you know well enough to identify individual elements by the way they sit in the arrangement.

The difference arrives in the second half of the first verse, where the right channel comes in with the answer to your voice's question. It is his voice.

I'm not ready to go, he sings. His voice isn’t a performer's voice, not polished or produced in the way yours is, but it doesn’t need to be because he built the track around exactly what it is, something unguarded and direct, and the directness of it is worse than polish would have been.

You open the message thread.

You: what is this You: why does it sound like that You: you recorded yourself on it Seongje: The mix needed something in the right channel. Go listen to the rest of it. You: why did you put your voice on it Seongje: Twelve now. Chile came through last night. You: That's not what I asked. Seongje: Congratulations on twelve countries. The label dinner is Monday. Get some sleep. You: I'm still angry at you Seongje: I know

You look at the word for a long moment. It is the closest thing to an admission you have ever received from him.

You lie back against the pillow and close your eyes.

Seongje: Congratulations again

You do not go back to sleep.

[kissued]

hiii could u do seong je w just the tip smut love ur writing 💕

"JUST THE TIP, BABY": 금성제

pairing. geum seongje / wolf keum x f!reader

synopsis. you're busy while seongje's needy — a little compromising would make everybody happy!

an. oh boy...... 🙂‍↕️ enjoy this while i finish up my longer requests

cw. smut 18+ mdni. seongje's a needy manipulative freak!! cussing. degrading established relationship. he lowkey a liar im sorry this is really not my best work LOL...... soft slap against the face, nothing too harsh

playing. practice by drake, what you need by the weeknd

"i'm busy, seongje, please!"

"come on, you've been neglecting me all fuckin' week," he's faux whining, pout too exaggerated to be real — seongje's hands wander from your shoulders to your chest, each second feeling like electricity on your skin.

it started off innocent enough. your boyfriend offered you a shoulder massage after seeing you'd been slaving away at school work the entire night, frustrated sighs leaving your pretty lips making him gaze over at you a little too long: it wasn't his fault that you just looked so cute, all upset because you couldn't solve one or two problems.

"you know i've been busy."

"too busy for me?"

geum seongje's voice gets all dark and sultry when there's something he wants from you. he knows exactly what moves to pull out from under his sleeve to get you right where he wants: that was the creepy thing about him.

it was like he knew your body better than you. knew exactly what to say or what to do and which reaction it'd illicit. it was like watching a play that he'd directed — you're an art piece that only he understood, only his to analyse.

you sit up, which causes his hands to slip from their previous position on your shoulders. he chuckles, which only makes your stomach turn. he's fucking amused. "yes, too busy for you."

you stand up from your chair, turning around to face him with your arms crossed. geum seongje sits lazily on his bed, legs spread, head tilted with an evident look of gratification on his face.

always looking at you like you were a toy to entertain him.

"come on. . . quickie? you know you cum quick with me," his cheshire smile sends chills down your spine, "need you so bad, baby."

"geum seongje, i'm not having sex with you right now! it always ends up being more than hour—"

seongje laughs at your frustrated tone. he can't take you seriously with that cute, angry pout, and your furrowed eyebrows that make you look like a hungry kitten.

his arms reach out for you, pulling you in between his thighs. in the warm light of your bedroom, your boyfriend's features look like they'd been hand crafted by the gods themselves. you try to pry yourself out of his grip, but he soon presses a kiss right to your collarbone.

you whimper when he starts to leave more. he always knew it was a weak spot of yours, so sly.

"missed this," seongje mutters in between sloppy kisses. he sucks at the skin, tongue swiping against your flesh — it makes you giddy, your arms are quick to rest on his shoulders to stabilise yourself.

he looks up at you through half-lidded eyes, brown irises piercing, seeing through you like glass; his eyelashes bat at you once or twice before he speaks again: "i promise, just the tip. won't be long. you can get back to your stupid school shit after."

when the worries of assignments due tomorrow start to fade, you know you're fucked. "you really promise?" you ask, and seongje's chest once again swells with pride at how easy he's played you right into his trap.

it's not long before geum seongje's got your back on your soft sheets — the pillows thrown onto the floor in the heat of an intense make-out session, which you don't even remember beginning. it was starting to get all fuzzy. the only thing you could focus on was how your boyfriend's kisses are getting sloppier, saliva exchanging between your tongues as if the sounds weren't something pulled from a porno.

the ache in his sweatpants hasn't left him ever since you began studying. he's quick to pull at the string of his sweatpants, loosening it, still not breaking the clash of teeth and lips that you two were busy with.

"s-seongje, you promise—" you breathe against his lips before he's biting down on your bottom lip again. "just the tip, right?"

you whimper into his mouth when his fingers pull at the waistband of your shorts, slipping it off in one quick motion. seongje's not listening to a word you say with the way he can only focus on how swollen your pretty lips look, all bitten, calling his name.

"yeah, yeah, whatever—" his index and finger pulls your black lace panties to the side, not patient enough to fully slide them off your legs — oddly, it turns him on even more seeing that pretty bow while he's inside. "fuck, baby. . . you did this on purpose?"

you roll your eyes, getting all shy and flustered. "shut up, just hurry. . ."

his growing smirk stirs something inside your chest, distracting you from the fact that his briefs are pulled down and he's aligning his swollen tip at your entrance. the mix of precum and slick make it easier for him, and he once again feels immense pride at the fact that he didn't need to prep you beforehand — not that he's ever needed to before. you swore he'd only ever use his fingers just so he'd have an excuse to edge you, considering he always lacks control to do so when he's inside of you.

when you feel seongje's cock slowly sink into you, a low groan makes your nervous system go into overload. "o-oh fuuuck, [name]. . ."

seongje's hips still just as you fully take his tip in. he swears you're sucking him in, almost folds with the way you whimper his name against his neck. he has half a mind to slam his hips against yours, have you cumming all over in record time so you'd be able to get back to studying — he swore his original plan was to try and be considerate: remind himself of what your insides felt like, pull out, get himself off while you finished your work. he made that much clear to you before pushing you onto the bed earlier, after seeing your cutely worried face.

seongje was surprised that you even agreed. he hoped you'd have a little more discipline than him, because in all honesty, he wasn't sure if he could stop himself from pounding into you like the world would end tomorrow.

seongje has to admit the plan has gone out the window. there was no way in hell he'd be able to pull out without slamming his cock back inside your sweet cunt — you should've known better than to trust his shitty plan.

"can't pull out," he breathes, forehead pressing against yours. soft pants leave your lips as you stare into your boyfriend's pretty eyes. "so fuckin' soft inside. you're sucking me in."

you regret ever letting him into your home today. your eyebrows knit in frustration — you didn't want to admit it, but you felt so fucking empty, and it was killing you. every nerve in your body was screaming more, more, more. when you remember all the previous times you and seongje had sex, you can only focus on how full you felt every single time — he's always managing to stretch you out, slowly and deliciously — only having the tip feels more like a punishment to you than to him.

"n-need more," you blurt out, and seongje's already wandering eyes immediately dart back up to meet yours. "just fuck me properly, asshole. you're already pushing it in."

he lets a chuckle escape his lips, heavy breathing following suit. he doesn't say anything — instead sinking his hips till his pelvis meets yours — it earns a long, pornographic moan from you.

"fuuuck, seongje—" you sob, sniffles being the only thing he hears before he pulls out and buries himself inside of you again. "too b-big, oh my god,"

"i know, my baby," he mutters, his left hand tucking your hair behind your ear before he presses a loving kiss to your nose bridge. "taking me so well, mm? i'll be quick, promise."

for such a manipulative man, he sure knows how to make love.

sooner or later, all the gentle touches fade and he's slamming his hips into you haphazardly — your broken moans and soft sobbing fill the room. your legs hang off the bed, wrapping around seongje's waist almost as if to say don't let go.

"s-so fucking good, s-seongje, don't stop," you whine. as if that was in his control, he thinks.

his hands grip your waist so firmly you’re sure they’ll leave bruises. when you finally tear your eyes away from the way his abs glisten under the soft glow of your desk lamp, they land instead on the pile of textbooks stacked messily on your desk.

soon, you feel a hand landing a soft slap at your face.

"l-look at me while i'm in you, yeah? keep those pretty eyes on me," he demands. you feel something starting to tighten in your core — your boyfriend's soft moans only pushing you closer towards the edge. "o-oh fuck, squeezing me so tight. . . greedy, aren't you?"

"s-so mean, seongje," you attempt to respond.

your pout almost makes him cum on the spot. the way you're struggling to respond to him or even react to his words tells him everything he needs to know — you were going to cum all over really, really soon.

small ah's roll off your pretty tongue before seongje's leaning in to close the wide gap. he greets you with an open-mouthed kiss, tongue swirling with yours as you whimper his name against his lips.

"such a fucking slut," the last word pierces through you, you almost felt like geum seongje meant it. "all for me, mm?"

you nod feverishly at his question, desperate to make your boyfriend feel good even when you were too far gone yourself. he smiles at the quick response — trained you so well.

there's hair sticking to both your foreheads. seongje's quick to feel his way up your shirt, fondling your breasts as they jiggle up and down at his rhythm — he finds it so amusing, as if he hasn't done the same thing millions of times before. you always found his addiction to your chest a bit odd.

when his pace starts to falter and your thighs start to twitch, you both know you're close. on a regular day, seongje would be dragging this out a bit longer, but today... the long standing ache in his briefs were enough to determine his end goal. he hadn't had any restraint left by the time you were underneath him.

"i'm gonna fucking cum," you cry, arms around seongje's neck as his breathing gets faster and heavier. "i-i'm close, seongje,"

the way you look so dumb under him makes him feel like he just climbed mount everest. always so easy, turning your brain to mush when he's sinking his cock deep inside of you. "cum for me, baby," seongje's groaning as his tip kisses your cervix, every vein making itself known and remembered against your walls. "can feel you squeezing, f-fuck—"

it's no wonder he always felt like your pussy was made just for him to use. he really swears it was.

you felt so stuffed, the wind being knocked out of you with every thrust of seongje's hips. it doesn't take long to feel the coil in your stomach start to tighten again — and it scares you how seongje's hand flies to your cunt to rub quick, frantic circles on your clit.

your moans get louder, the tears starting to stream down your cheeks. the sounds of his balls slapping against your ass makes you shake, and he can only wear that stupid fucking smile that makes your blood run cold.

"f-fuuuck, seongje, i-i can't!" you sniffle, nails digging into the bare skin of his trapezius. you know he'll be showing that shit off for the next few days to his little union friends. "it's too much, w-wait—"

"told you you'd be cumming quick, right?" he taunts, that fucking thumb making you see stars of various shapes and sizes — you were starting to forget your own name with every wet slap of skin you heard. "man of my word, baby."

"o-ooh fuck, i'm cumming, s-seongje, i'm gonna cum—!"

and with one last harsh thrust, you're coming undone: thighs twitching, broken sobs escaping from your throat, eyes spilling tears that taste so sweet to your boyfriend — he's kissing them away as you clench down on him. you hear a satisfied hum as his hips begin to pull away from yours.

you see the muscles in seongje's jaw twitch as he tries not to fill you up with his cum, which was difficult in itself: your cunt's busy clenching down on his length like it was the last time you two would ever share a bed.

your mind is still hazy from the orgasm when he stops moving completely, right at the where his tip ends and thick shaft begins. your chest heaves as you try to catch your breath, every touch from seongje feeling like being struck by lightning. his thumb wipes a stray tear on your jawline, before a smirk manifests on his stupidly attractive face.

"think we should time how long you take to cum again," he chuckles, the corners of his lips sharply turning upwards. "should i, baby?"

when you feel his rough palms pry your legs from his waist, instead folding them to meet your chest, you feel your heart rate soar. your ankles rest against his shoulder in a mating press — seongje's favourite position, other than when you ride him.

"you said just the tip, seongje!" you mutter, hands landing a weak smack to his bare chest. seongje's pupils darting back up from your ass to meet your eyes. "i g-got shit to do, you know—"

"couldn't help it," seongje wears a faux pout, clearly mocking the one you have on your face right now — he thinks you're most adorable when you're sulking. "give me one more and i'll think about letting you go, huh?" he sneers before you feel his hips retract.

goodnight im going to bed now.... 🥳

buy me a coffee here !

[kissued]

KINKTOBER DAY 5: DACRYPHILIA

ALL FOR ME: 금성제

main masterlist navi kinktober masterlist

kinktober taglist here

pairing. geum seongje / wolf keum x f!reader

syn. geum seongje's extremely unhappy to learn that you've received a love letter — even more so when he finds out you kept it.

an. okay bro im literally HUNTING for whc kinktober posts rn please someone feed me cause i deserve some food too.

cw. smut 18+ mdni dacryphilia explicit language afab reader sadist seongje (u mean normal seongje...) established relationship piv seongje cums inside he's a little roughhh oops degradation he lowk just fucks u stupid lol omfg im sorry is this folloiwng the prompt not beta read Hahaaaaa lmk if i missed anything!

playing. feel good by clara la san

it was no secret that geum seongje had a screw loose in that mysterious head of his — a tiny, crucial piece that could’ve made him just a little more normal. but then again, if he were, he wouldn’t be half as intoxicating as he is now.

your friends teased you for getting with him — always wondering what you saw in a guy like that, never once thinking you were the type to mess around with a sick freak like geum seongje. even a year later, you still catch the same looks of disbelief from your classmates every morning, like they’re waiting for the day you finally come to your senses and wake up from the 'delusion' called you and seongje.

you know they mean well. you once saw geum seongje from the lens of an outsider, too, and you simply couldn't expect everyone to understand why you were so fucking addicted: geum seongje was a vice, and he'd sunk his claws into you a long, long time ago.

intentional or not, you don't know for sure.

still, geum seongje loves you. every kiss burns with a kind of hunger that feels older than the both of you, a craving that only found its answer when you said his name. every touch is rough yet there’s a tenderness in it that feels almost out of character for him. he tries not to hurt you, most of the time. he never wants to. every time you make love, he's rutting into you like it's the last time he'll hold you in his arms — even if the words leaving his lips are filthy and down right degrading.

"you fuckin' crying?"

geum seongje was never really a poet, so to speak. absolutely terrible with words, can't articulate his feelings for the life of him, refuses to speak about his past most days. you gather bits and pieces from his reactions to others, his explosive tendencies which tend to break everything and everyone around him — his eyes soften whenever you tell him you'll wait, because he simply cannot fathom this; fathom you. the girl who refused to leave.

you? wait for someone like him?

it almost feels like a cruel joke, a waste of your time — but if that’s what it takes, he’ll let you give it all to him. the thought of you offering that patience, that love, to someone else feels far worse than quitting any addiction he’s ever had.

he’s always been terrible at letting go of his vices, anyway. that's something that hasn't changed since you met him.

it's just some days — emphasis on some — that his words cut a little deeper, his eyes a bit colder. you weren't immune to his outbursts, you just seemed to understand them more than others.

"stop that shit. you did this to yourself," your boyfriend's hand softly slaps at your cheek a few times, before grabbing hold of your jaw. geum seongje's lips curve into that familiar, anxiety inducing smile — for a moment, genuine fear begins to claw at your ribs. "you cry so much, baby. aren't you tired?"

he's getting so, so fucking hard seeing your glossy eyes lined with tears. bottom lop bitten raw from harsh kisses, and they burn with every second they stay on his.

his tone is anything but gentle, and neither are his hands. he looms over you, fingertips pressing harder against your skin as your expression twists into discomfort. the first tear slips down your cheek, and you catch the way seongje’s eyes glint — sharp, hungry, almost exhilarated by your vulnerability.

his pupils dilate as they follow your tears. darting back up, only to slowly trail down your face again; pure fascination written all over his expression. it made you sniffle, your eyes looking away from his piercing gaze that felt like blades.

"you're so damn pretty when you cry for me," he brings your face closer to his while your nails dig into his wrist, "my little crybaby."

his words were true, though. you've lost count of the amount of times you've spilled tears over geum seongje — over pointless fights, even pettier words. you wonder when he began to have this weird, pervertic fixation on it; perhaps he's had it all along. the thought makes your stomach churn.

you lay naked in his grey plaid sheets, while seongje is still wearing his annoyingly bright orange windbreaker. you always preferred the red and black one on him, but it barely matters now that your vision is blurred with salty tears that stream down your face like waterfalls. he sits relaxed, face one of amusement: as if you were an animal in a glass cage, and he was just watching.

"where's your manners, hm?"

it was a stupid mistake.

you received a love letter in your locker a few weeks back, neatly folded and faintly scented. it didn’t make you feel anything — not excitement, not curiosity, not even annoyance. you’d meant to throw it out after you took it out of politeness, but somehow, it ended up buried in your backpack instead; forgotten among your notebooks and pens.

you didn’t let geum seongje know it existed, of course. he was dangerously possessive, impossibly jealous — even a trace of someone else’s attention would ignite him. hiding it wasn’t about keeping a secret, it was just… easier. safer. you weren't sure if that would flip a switch in him, send him on a hunt for an innocent junior who didn't know any better.

so you smile gently, declining the kid's confession but taking the letter as a way of saying 'thank you for the effort'. you didn't want to complicate things, as was common when you start to involve geum seongje.

just fucking wonderful that you forgot to stop by the trash can on the way to seongje's place.

you choke between loud sobs, legs writhing as seongje leaned in to lick a tear off your wet, flushed cheeks: "i-i'm fucking sorry, seongje, please—"

"not with that attitude," seongje frowns, eyebrows knit together in a expression that tells you he's not letting you off easy tonight. "should i call the asshole? tell him all about how i got you like this?"

he found it sandwiched between the pages of a book he’d borrowed from you, when all he meant to do was copy some homework.

that was more than an hour ago now. your fingers dig into his forearm, and it almost scares you — how weak you are when seongje’s got you in a hold like this, how easily he reminds you of who he really is beneath that loving, clingy, almost gentle persona he’s learned to wear since the day he asked you out.

before all that was the jealous, angry, you’re-mine-and-only-mine seongje. he once joked about kidnapping you someday — only, you were the only one laughing. nights like these seem to bring out that part of him all too well.

there's a giant patch of your slick on his sheets, thighs sticky with cum from his stupidly long fingers overstimulating you earlier. it's pissing you off that he's still clothed, but between blurry tears and half lidded eyes, you see the growing tent in his pants.

he won't last very long. once the tears came, his pants followed soon after.

"s-seongje," you sniffle, lips quivering with genuine sadness that your lover could treat you so cruelly — have you come undone thrice without even stripping his shirt. "you're so mean."

when you look up at him again, there’s a dark look in geum seongje’s eyes — one that takes you back to those late-night convenience store runs, when you used to pray you wouldn’t run into any gangsters, but always did — there he was, geum seongje, beating some poor eunjang kid half to death with that dangerous glint in his eyes and that sickeningly amused smile on his face.

"you think this is mean?"

his teeth flashed just enough to make your blood run cold. you'd turn around and make a beeline for your house. the chocolate milk could wait.

seongje lets go of your jaw when he sees how absolutely destroyed you look. messy hair and puffy eyes, all for him — you sniffle, hand moving to wipe your tears before seongje begins unzipping his jeans.

"you're gonna cry all over my cock," he says almost nonchalantly, fingers pinching the bridge of his glasses only for him to chuck it to the end of the bed. you feel like you're burning up watching every movement of his — from him pulling the waist of his pants down, to the unzipping of his jacket — you squeeze your thighs together, knowing what's to come. "wanna hear you sobbing all fucking night."

somewhere between then and now, you began to understand geum seongje's weird... interests. you crushed on him hard back then: imagining the pool of tears on his pillows as he pounded into you. wet dreams consisting of begging, pleading, soft slaps and seongje's soft lips kissing your precious tears away.

somewhere between then and now, you became just like geum seongje: sick, perverted, as addicted to him as he is to you.

it doesn't take very long for geum seongje to have your knees folded against your chest, tears falling from your eyes and coating your lashes — your boyfriend groans with every harsh thrust, tip meeting cervix; you whine in response, digging your nails into his now (thankfully) bare chest.

"o-oh fuck, seongje, baby—" you whimper, mouth parted to let soft moans loose. you mewl with every retraction, feeling empty momentarily and full the next. "s-sorry, won't do it again—!"

"my pretty baby, getting a-all the attention, mm?" seongje stutters as he feels you pulse around him, his heart pounding at the mere thought that you were enjoying this as much as he was. "cryin' all for me at the end of the day, huh?"

the night seems blurry, but you can't really think coherently with the way he's infecting every thought you have. geum seongje seemed to have effect.

"all for you, s-seongje," you reply brokenly, and you swear you see something change in his eyes.

"all for me," seongje repeats after you, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing — leaning closer with his razor-sharp tongue that licks your cheeks clean from the salty tears spilling from your waterline. "all for me, just me, forever me."

you gasp for air when seongje slams his hips into you with a new kind of force, his lips now pressed against yours with a sense of urgency. his tongue swirls around yours, and you moan into him when you can taste yourself — taste the tears that were proof of how good your boyfriend makes you feel.

your ass is sore from how hard he's fucking into you. sounds of wet skin slapping and squelching that could've been mistaken for a hentai film echo and bounce off the walls of his room, combined with seongje's soft groans and your endless crying; this was heaven on earth to him, and you knew it.

"fuuuck—pussy so fuckin' good," he mutters under his breath. his thumb brushes your cheek with faux gentleness, before he pops it into his mouth and smiles down at you. "you're loving this, aren't you?"

when that familiar bubbling starts low in your stomach and your thighs tense, you know there’s something deeply wrong with you — god, you must have had at least ten screws loose ever since you started messing around with geum seongje.

"mmph, love it—love you, i love you," you babble, and seongje only lets out a breathy laugh in response.

you tried to speak coherently, but his relentless pace is holding you hostage — every time you think, seongje’s there to erase it. every time you speak, he’s stealing the breath straight from your lungs. all you can do is sob, plead with broken words, look up at him through glassy eyes that only makes him want to devour you whole.

it's all his fault. everything is his fault.

"fucking slut, i can feel you clenching," seongje scoffs, forehead pressing against yours. he smelled like sweat, cologne and cigarettes. "pretty girl's fucked dumb already."

your moans sound so sweet. you taste even sweeter, every fucking part of you — if he had to choose between your cum and tears, seongje would rather be shot in both shoulders.

you sniffle pathetically under seongje, nose sucking in as much air as you can take between loud sobs. you feel like a mess, and you look as much; you repeat his name like a prayer with your eyes glued shut, waves of pleasure hitting you hard with every meeting of his hips and the fat of your ass — it's too much and not enough, all at once.

"f-fuck—look at me," he breathes, nose brushing yours with a tenderness that feels almost foreign coming from him — especially with the way his words cut through the air now. "wanna see those eyes when you cum all over me."

you open your eyes, hesitantly meeting his gaze. they lock onto yours, unblinking, scanning every detail as if memorizing the curve of your lashes, the colour of your irises like it was an art piece painted by gods.

such pretty eyes tearing up over him. he feels blessed. he must have saved a country in his past life to witness such a sight, because he feels so achingly close to filling you up with his cum.

"love you so much," seongje mutters before focusing all his force into his hips, angling his hips just right to slam into that one spot that makes you see stars and smell colours. he knew your body like it was his own — because he really swears it's his. "gonna fill you up so good, [name], my pretty fucking girl."

you feel that coil in your stomach starting to tighten. it's dangerously fast, and your fingers claw into his trapezius in an attempt to ground yourself moments before you crash; geum seongje's face is smug, chest swelling with pride as he fucks you stupid.

"i'm cumming, seongje—gonna cum!"

he feels your walls tighten around him in a matter of seconds, a broken moan escaping your throat — his hips stutter before he's burying himself deep inside, his weight no longer held up by his arms and instead shifted onto your thighs.

you've snapped. nothing but a wailing, writhing mess underneath him, saying his name like it's the only word you've known your entire life.

"o-oh fuuuck, seongje—!"

the way you squeeze him so tight, combined with your cute moans, tear-stained face and trembling lips... he can't help but to fill you up, to the fucking brim.

"oh my fucking god," seongje moans, pressing himself impossibly closer against you; you feel every last drop of him, warmth blooming in your lower abdomen making you squirm and whimper your lover's name. "you're so fucking tight when you cum."

he presses kisses onto your cheeks again, tongue swiping against the salty, flushed skin in a twisted attempt to ensure he's gotten all of you — as he plugs your hole with his fat cock to ensure you've gotten all of him.

you pant, some breaths slipping out as soft cries as your lungs struggle to even themselves. he pulls back slightly, fingers brushing through your hair, tucking stray strands away from your flushed, damp face with a careful, almost reverent touch.

there's that loving seongje you knew.

“breathe slowly, baby,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, each word wrapping around you like a tether you can’t escape. you land a weak smack on his shoulder, half out of frustration, half out of disbelief, and he only smiles, unbothered, as if your small rebellion delights him. “you did so well, hm?" he whispers, voice soft yet edged with something darker, something that makes your chest tighten.

“you’re. . . sick,” you pant, lashes drooping, every muscle trembling from the relentless intensity of geum seongje’s twisted games. “so fucking sick, seongje." your voice cracks, a mixture of awe, fear, and tiredness.

"you love me, though, don't you?"

unfortunately so.

o my gawd bro fuck why is he so freaked out Stop licking my face .... or dont hahaaaaaaa what who said that

[kissued]

KINKTOBER DAY 4: VOYEURISM

main masterlist navi kinktober masterlist

DRAW THE BLINDS: 금성제

pairing. geum seongje / wolf keum x f!reader

syn. when you forget to close your blinds one fateful night, your neighbour, geum seongje, discovers a new obsession he can’t quite quit.

an. oh... im 4 days late but Be Grateful ok...... sry..... thanks 4 waiting everyone :,))))))

cw. 18+ mdni seongje's just a fucking pervert icl explicit language masturbation voyeurism DUH not beta read AT ALL any errors r not me. it's my cat sorry! seongje is a Red Flag™ afab reader!

playing teeth + lucifer by enhypen

he didn't mean for it to happen, really.

yet, geum seongje had a sick way of justifying his equally disgusting actions — everyone with a brain knew this — and he had been doing so for the past week, unintentionally.

the friday you left your blinds open, he watched you in silence. he was on dota 2, as per his usual routine. his bedroom window was a bit too far for his preference, but it mirrored yours exactly. it helped that the head of your bed was perpendicular to the glass — there were a few occasions last year where he'd catch you sleeping.

your side profile had been burned into seongje's memory because of it.

he even moved his desk next to his window. all he'd need to do is kick his legs against the wall, effectively rolling his leather gaming chair backwards, the line of sight perfect for watching a pretty, unsuspecting girl like you.

you were so fucking naive. it made him sick.

geum seongje thought he was doing you a favour — what if it hadn’t been him watching you? what if it was some old creep with trembling hands and a hungry stare, someone who’d take more than just a look? what if it wasn’t seongje, who watched quietly, who admired you from the shadows because he cared enough to keep the others away?

in his mind, that made it different — safer, even. someone had to watch you, after all. you wouldn't get hurt.

that night, his eyes followed you as your bedroom door slammed open. you must've ended cram school for the day with the amount of textbooks you're dumping on your desk.

you threw your bag onto the bed, sweat coating your skin obvious under the warm light of your bedroom. your bedside lamp highlights every dip and curve of your body, seongje's starved eyes watching every movement like it was his favourite play.

it was well late into the night. your hair stuck to your forehead in strands, and you hurried to unbutton your blouse without taking a glance at your window — no regard for your safety, he thinks, but the thought is quickly wiped when the last button snaps open with a flick of your wrist.

seongje adjusts in his seat and takes his headphones off, haphazardly chucking it onto his desk. he feels a little gross getting hard while watching you, but even more so when he can hear his dumb friends yelling his name through the device.

you look like you're in a rush. seongje wonders if you'll whip your head in the direction of the window and cuss him out when you see his face watching intently, licking his lips and palming himself through his sweats: like a horny teenager who's never seen a pair of tits before.

he scoffs at himself when his eyes dart down to the growing tent in his pants — you're not even fucking naked yet.

his jaw tenses when he watches you hurriedly slip off the white blouse. it's sweat-stained — he wonders how it smells, momentarily — and the skirt comes off next.

it was nothing special. no sexy lingerie under that uniform of yours. it's just a normal black bra and safety shorts. nothing deliberate, nothing meant to draw attention. but to seongje, every movement, everything clothing choice feels intentional, like a quiet performance made only for him.

still, seongje bites his bottom lip just anticipating the moment you pull those down, curious if you were the kind of girl to match your undergarments.

"shit. . ." geum seongje's biting back a moan when he sees your fingertips hook into your shorts, and you begin to bend forward to pull them off your gorgeous legs.

they're black, too. lace. how cute, he thinks.

then you start to pull your panties down with your thumbs. your face is obscured by your hair — he almost salivates at the curve of your ass, the orange light making your skin look smooth and supple.

he almost imagines himself with you in your room, his slender fingers gripping tightly at your flesh, with the window wide open — just like this. like he wanted everyone else to watch you two, as he is now.

seongje pulls the waistband of his sweatpants down. he sucks his teeth at the sight of himself; his tip is sticky, leaking with pre-cum. swollen like it needed your lips to wrap around him as soon as possible.

though, he can't let you know about his sick obsession with watching you through windows: so he settles for his own fist. his left hand runs through his hair, moving the annoying strands away from his face as if his view wasn't clear enough already. he pushes his glasses up his nose, heavy and deep breaths making him feel dizzy — god, you made him so fucking hungry.

you unclasp your bra, your head tilting back as if you were relieved at the pressure relief; he moans softly, his hand moving from tip to base. it's torturously slow, but he can't cum yet, not when you're barely undressed.

your pretty fingers hook under the thin straps, and you pull your bra off your arms in one swift motion. seongje watches your chest fall, and he guesses a heavy breath just left your lips.

shit, you looked like a fucking angel — the moonlight bathed you in the way that made your skin glow, and all he could ever think about was sinking his teeth into the flesh beneath. he wanted to taste you, a need so visceral he doesn't realise his hand's sped up.

you walk around your room naked. in a rush yet still so elegant, fluid. you open your closet to look for something, and he fucking smirks when you pull a silk nightgown right out.

he feels something bubbling deep inside just imagining how your nipples would poke through the fabric — needy, so desperate for him to latch his lips onto them and swirl his tongue around like a sweet lollipop. seongje swipes his thumb over his tip at the image, and a groan slips from his mouth soon after.

seongje feels something stir in his chest, his heart pounding at the small smile that forms on your face. he makes sure to remember the dress — must be your favourite with that adorable look on your face.

his eyes lock onto your tits, so supple and so fucking perfect for him to play with. he thinks about leaving hickeys all over: one right in the centre of your chest, between your breasts as he plants his face in them — his tongue teasing, a trail of saliva from the bottom of your sternum to your clavicle, and then up to your neck.

seongje would bite, suck, kiss every square inch of skin. taste the sweat the blazing hot day left on you — fuck you so good 'till you smelled just like him and nothing like yourself. nuzzle his nose into the crook of your neck like he was a needy mutt, breathe in your scent like he couldn't afford to forget it; kiss your pretty lips raw, bite down on them till they bleed and he can taste the metal. geum seongje needed to feel your pulse under his lips, hear your trembling breath in his ear as he sinks his teeth deeper: all heat plus hunger and dangerously close to devotion.

"o-oh, fuuuck," he whines, trying to keep silent in hopes you wouldn't snap your head around if he was just a decibel louder.

seongje spits on his tip, the extra lubrication allowing him to pump his cock in a desperate, breakneck speed that has him panting like a dog. he moans like a pornstar, head tilted back just enough so he's still able to watch how you stretch, back arching, hair falling back as your arms reach back. you open your mouth to yawn, and he almost cums at the sight.

how the fuck did he get here?

you pull a clean towel out from your closet and sling it over your shoulder, before you quickly disappear from view — you're off to the bathroom, he guessed.

geum seongje's left alone with his perverted thoughts, now. he tears his eyes away from your bedroom, half lidded eyes locked in on how he's fucking his fist. his thighs twitch, straining against the cotton of his sweats. his eyes soon shut involuntarily, mental images of you bent over for him. he hasn't seen it for himself yet, but with a clear view like this... he's sure he will, one of these days.

"mm—fuck, oh fuck—" seongje throws his head back, strands of hair clinging to his damp forehead while the rest fall loose, cascading toward the floor.

he didn't even know your name. all he knew was your body, how it looked; he thought he had a pretty good image in his mind from the mornings you bumped into each other on the way to school.

that red blazer hugged you so tight. the skirt clearly too small, blouse too thin that he could practically tear it off with one hand.

but now he's seen all of it, uncensored, unblocked from the pathetic pieces of clothing. he has to thank whoever built this street of houses — almost considers getting on his knees and bowing with how perfect your windows were aligned. it must be some kind of fucked up fate.

geum seongje squeezes his fist a little tighter, and he's biting down on his bottom lip while pretending he's fucking into your tight hole — he inches closer to the edge envisioning it. the delicious moans it would pull from your mouth as his hips meet your ass, your ankles resting against his shoulders in a mating press, knees folded to your chest as you cry his name.

"oh my fucking god," seongje lifts his shirt up by the hem, bringing it to his mouth for his teeth to bite down on. he was starting to get sloppy — he has a broken rhythm, only focusing on what feels good — he strokes himself messily, the mix of spit and pre getting all over his palm and between his fingers.

when he imagines you between his knees and under his desk... your cute fingers wrapped around his cock, slathered in your own saliva instead of his.

he breaks, and it's earth shattering.

"fuck, fuckfuckfuck—" geum seongje is moaning into his shirt, whining like a desperate dog as he drags his fist up and down his length in an attempt to chase his high. his abs flex as the white, sticky fluid shoots out in spurts all over it, coating himself in evidence of sin.

his eyes are still glued shut while he visualises you clenching around his dick as you cum. he scoffs at the imaginary scene, eyes forcing themselves open all while his vision is still hazy — it's either that or he milks himself dry.

seongje pants, letting go of his cock. a thwack sound echoes through the room as it slaps against his belly button. he runs his clean hand through his hair, the post-nut clarity making him realise what he'd just done. he looks down at his abdomen, now covered in his cum, and sighs when he gazes over to the computer screen — which now shows that he's the only one left in the discord call.

bastards must've left pretty early on.

"fuck."

the next day, he sees you do your homework.

on sunday, he watches you slip your hands into your shorts. he pumps himself slower that night, because he notices you take longer than the average girl to cum.

on monday, he thinks you're watching a movie on your laptop — or a youtube video — he doesn't care, actually, because he's only looking at how those shorts barely cover your ass as you lay stomach down.

later into the night, after he's had his last smoke before bed and he's taking off his tank, he sees you riding your pillow with nothing but your panties on.

on a rainy wednesday evening, you're face down and ass up. you fuck yourself with your fingers, clearly struggling to hit all the right spots (which seongje swears he'd get down in sub 5 minutes). he laughs to himself seeing the flushed look on your face, annoyed and very obviously sexually frustrated.

he thinks that's when he decides to throw a sweater on and come knocking at your door, an excuse already forming at the tip of his tongue.

"you're so fucking noisy," seongje almost snorts at the double meaning, though he knows he would never complain if he was the reason for said noise. still, he holds his composure. "you wanna keep it down?"

"fuck, i'm s-sorry. i'll try."

the words are breathy. he knows why.

geum seongje can only smirk as you stutter, shirt slipping off your shoulders: clear proof of your half assed attempt at covering yourself up. your nipples are poking through the shirt, which only makes him hungrier.

the string in your shorts isn't even tied, threatening to fall to your ankles. you fold your arms, eyes glued to the floor as seongje stares down at you. seongje notices how your thighs are trembling ever so slightly.

if only you’d looked up, you could’ve seen the pout he wore — sympathy feigned, practiced to perfection. it almost looked real, if not for the flicker of amusement behind his eyes.

“what’s up?” seongje tilts his head, tone light, eyes hungry. his heart jolts at the sight of you looking up, glossy-eyed and caught, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

you look like you were about to cry.

"it's—it's nothing. i'm sorry about the noise, really."

his lips curve sharply into a sickening smile, the kind that a predator had when a meal had played right into it's hands. he feels the blood rushing to his cock when he sees you break eye contact, desperate to look anywhere but at him.

oh, you were so precious. so fortunate it wasn't anyone else — you were lucky that it was geum seongje, and not some sick freak who didn't give two shits about you.

he told himself that over and over, like a prayer. that he was different, that what he did was out of something softer, something almost tender. that in some twisted way, he was saving you from what could've unfortunately been.

“you can talk to me about it, you know? i’m your neighbour, geum seongje. right over there,” he says, his finger lazily pointing toward his bedroom window — the same one that’s been watching you for the past seven days, storing every dark secret of his.

when seongje sees your gaze soften and your shoulders relax at the warm introduction, something sinister festers in his chest. he prepares himself to sink his fangs deeper into you, with the patience of someone who’s already decided the ending.

you’re already halfway his, he tells himself — all that’s left now is to claim the rest.

DAY 4 DOWN HOW WE FEELINNN 😵‍💫 also why did i kinda picture him kinda vampirey throughout this whole thing. i blame the song choice

[pushinpieta]

“Bruises between us” — Geum Seongje x Fem!reader angst

warnings: swearing, violence, seongje falling for rage bait, bleeding, slightly suggestive, heavy making out

wc: 5.3k

a/n: grrr I’m back from a long hiatus. did u miss me? prologue

Were you friends? Enemies? More? There wasn’t a label for what you were to Seongje and what he was to you but whatever it was— it kept you near each other. At first you felt repelled by him and the smell of cigarettes lingering around him when he was near but as time passed and more bruises blossomed on your knuckles and face, you came the find a familiarity that wasn’t necessarily pleasant nor unpleasant. Once, it used to be foreign being in the presence of the teeth bearing wolf— Geum Seongje— but at some point, in the midst of all the punches and kicks and profanity, you came to find a normality in your sort of “companionship” with him.

Still, he wasn’t your friend. He wasn’t your enemy either. No, not that.

Not when he subtly keeps you away from the union. He never uses his words. You weren’t stupid, you could see it in the way he moved— even the slight shift in his eyes; you noticed it all.

“We done here, princess?” Seongje grunts, standing upwards casually with his tongue poking out the side of his cheek as he throws the cigarette bud that was once between his lips onto the ground next to where one of the guys from Ilsan Technical High lied, stiff and bruised up from getting his ass handed to him by Seongje.

“I really dislike when you call me that.” You retorted walking past him out of the tunnel. His nickname for you wasn’t anything of affection— it was rather condescending but you somehow always let him get away with it because it was one of the few things between the two of you that had a name. A sort of inside joke. Something you felt like you owned and something that you felt was his way of acknowledging you as someone…something to him.

“Works done. These fuckers are weaker than I thought. They were acting like some bigshots when they called me over here.” He chuckled, walking behind you.

“If they called you over here, then why’m I here?’ You really joked. Seongje always called you up when he was near your area, not because you were friends, not because you had some sort of business together, but because he found it fun seeing you fight. He said so himself one time when you asked him why he kept you around when he couldn’t stand someone looking him in the eyes for more than three seconds. His answer was simple, teasing. Its real fun seeing you kick around, it’s rowdy and terrible, but that shit hurts so bad Its fun He said to you its like a arcade game and you’re the character, a little fuckin’ princess.

Why princess? He never answered.

“Why? You didn’t want to come? Ouch, girl, that hurt harder than your kicks. How could you do say that to me?” He joked, poking his lips out, pouting in mock sadness as he balled his fists to his face like a dog. You scoffed, somewhat irritated that he wasn’t actually hurt.

“Get outta here, Geum.” You picked up your pace towards the bowling alley that Seongje spent most of his time in. He rarely invited you in, for reasons obvious; he didn’t want the union boys to cross paths with the princess, you.

“Like a stab in the heart, princess. Hurt me again. Say something mean with that face” He teased, placing a hand on his chest as if he got stabbed and this time you snorted, feeling totally ridiculed. Your words were never taken seriously by the tall boy towering over you. His half-rimmed glasses showing your irritated reflection. A genuine, gummy smile spread across his face at the scowl you gave him. He was a total sadist. There was nothing he loved more than pissing you off until you hit him. Maybe he was a masochist, too? Either way, he drove you mad and excited and confused and…and some other thing you couldn't— wouldn’t name.

“Oh, I really gotta get away from this plague-bearing dickwad.” You groaned dramatically, shoving him in the shoulder and he faked a gasp rolling his eyes back with a laugh threatening to choke him.

“I bid farewell to you, princess,” He bowed, elegantly, looking ridiculous “I shall partake in a rendezvous with Lord Baekjin.”

“How courteous of you. Not very timely, now, are you? Look at the time, idiot, you’re an hour late.” You laughed this time, showing him the time on your phone. His expression was the same; unserious and mocking, eyebrows raised in amusement.

“He wont execute me, I believe,” He shrugged nonchalantly, now walking ahead of you “I am his middleman, afterall.”

You laughed, throwing your head back “Pfft, I know you’re kinda an idiot, but I didn’t know you’d say something so out of character.”

“Out of character?” His smile doesn’t falter, brows raised in curiosity as he questioned you.

“I mean, look at you…Baekjin’s middleman? You’re delusional. You’re nothing but a fighting psycho he only uses for violence. Once he’s done with you, you’re just another rando from the union that just knows how to fight.” You blabbered on, not noticing the shift in the air “You’re just a total nutjob he uses as a shield. That bastard knows how to manipulate. Lucky him for finding an asshole like you who’s willing to do anything for him. You’re like a toy. Jackpot!” You pop your ‘p’.

The wide grin on Seongje’s face falls flat. You wouldn’t lie, this was something you were not familiar with; a serious Seongje. A Seongje without a smile tugging his lips, a Seongje that wasn’t aloof. He shifts his stance, shoving his hands in his pockets. Seongje, looks down to the ground and cusses under his breath and then snickers.

“That’s rich coming from someone like you, don’t you think, y/n?” He breathed out. Your name bitter and unpleasant on his tongue as he glares at you through his lashes. This wasn’t the Seongje you were bickering with seconds prior, this was the teeth-bearing wolf that made the thugs scurry away.

You gulped, guilt tickling your skin. You hadn’t realized how far you had gone with your words. Degrading and dehumanizing the man before you.

Suddenly, you weren’t so familiar with one another and the tension pooled in like water filling up a cramped tank. Suddenly, there wasn’t that silent kinship that you both had held onto. You were just another one of the people he passed by.

His stare bored down to the very molecule of your being, pinning you onto the ground.

“Say it again, y/n, call me a toy, go on.” He bared his teeth, stepping closer “Say it.”

“Seongje, I-” He took another step, crossing into the boundary you had built around yourself.

“What? Can’t say it now?” His head turned to the side, scoffing, he ruffled his hair. That domineering, condescending look in his eyes felt humiliating. Guilt choked at your throat.

“You know I didn’t mean it like that.” You defended, taking a step back, your back hitting the cement wall of the brick alley way that turned into the underpass that lead to the bowling alley “I was only joking–”

“I know I’m an asshole who does nothing but fight, but I thought we were on the same side, y’know? Cause you fight too…with me. On my side. Guess not. Guess you’re just another bitch.” He seethes. Another bitch this time, it stung you. You frowned, shrinking smaller under his gaze by the second.

“Watch your mouth, Geum Seongje.” You warned. A lump lodged in your throat from anger. You hated yourself for saying too much when you were insulting him and for becoming wordless when it came to speaking up for yourself. Why did your voice not work? Why had it been so harsh?

“A princess doesn’t talk so harshly, did you know?” He said before turning his back to you, leaving you in the darkness of the alleyway. You watched as his footsteps receded into silence, his broad shoulders, his height, his brown hair; all of it swallowed far, far away from you into the darkness where you had once met him. And for a second you realize that the alleyway wasn’t so dark when he was here— and maybe that he was the light that brought life to this dark, dead-end that you lived in.

You could have reached out. You could have ran after him. But with a fleeting being like Seongje he was everywhere and nowhere at once, there was no use in trying to ground him. It would be like chasing your own reflection— you’d never be able to catch him…keep him in your grasp and own him. He didn’t belong to anyone or anything. You had misunderstood him completely and as a result you offended him and turned him into just another passing moment in your life. All within a split second with just a few words.

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It had been a week since you last saw Seongje in the dark alleyway. You were where he left you. In that alleyway, walking home from school when you stopped in your tracks upon seeing a clique of high school boys in green uniforms huddled up. Smoke curled in the air from their cigarettes and the sound of a ball bouncing echoed. You pressed yourself against a wall, shielding you from being spotted, as you peered and looked closer you realized they were the boys from Ilsan Technical High that you and Seongje had beaten up last week and a couple other unknown faces.

“That son of a bitch needs to learn his lesson.” One growled.

“What he really needs is to fucking die.” Another joined in the same fuming tone.

“Let’s just kill that bastard.” The first suggests “Please, sunbae, help us.”

“Sounds fun to me, whatcha think, Gobum?” One with long hair asked another with slit eyebrows and round eyes.

“I’m down. I always wanted to put a fist up that prick’s mouth. That punk Geum Seongje is gonna be real fun to play with” He agreed.

You put a hand over your mouth to muffle the gasp that left your lips when Seongje was brought up. He was going to get jumped. You had to warn him.

No. You couldn’t face him. Not after what you said to him. You couldn’t forget the piercing glare in his eyes, the sort of hurt— betrayal in his voice.

“Call him up. This Thursday. After school. Make it seem like its just gonna be you and then we’ll join and fuck his pretty face up.” Long-hair said to Gobum.

“Just texted him. That bastard didn’t give it a second. Look—” Gobum turned the phone to the other boys “He replied with a ‘Okay’ and a laughing emoji. That stuck-up asshole.”

“We’ll see who’s gonna laugh after he gets his shit rocked.”

Your head spun. You had to find a way to warn Seongje. It wasn’t that he weak or incapable of dealing with these guys, it was just something in you irked. A bad premonition. It was eating you from the inside like parasites in your veins. Seongje was all alone. No matter how strong, he was still just one.

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Thursday came by fast like the snap of fingers. Still not in contact with Seongje, you grew anxious. You knew of the time and place where he was to meetup with slit-brows and his minions. There was only one way to get Seongje away from this. It was for you to step in between, cause a distraction, be an obstacle in their path. You could do it. You were fully capable. Seongje was too, but you felt like you owed him this. Which is funny because he probably would prefer to fight because of the ecstatic rush he felt, but for your own selfish unknown reasons, you had to do this. You had to keep Seongje away from the malicious intentions of these guys.

With a hood over your head, you walked into the bowling alley where Seongje was skipping school. You could see him standing in the corner, watching the crowd of people cheer for their friends. Ignoring the ache in your heart, you approached him, hood still covering your face almost entirely as you fake bumped into him, stealing his phone effortlessly from his pocket. You didn’t turn back, rushing off even though he muttered a cuss your way. Luckily for you, he didn’t notice the absence of his phone, too engrossed in the game. A part of you wished he would recognize you, and talk to you, be engrossed in you. You shake the thought of it away, opening up his phone. You thank the sky for your memory, you typed in his password you sneaked a glance of a long time away and it unlocked his phone. You type a text message to slit eyebrows.

Seongje: Meet me at the under pass. The alleyway is too crowded after school. LOL.

Gobum: OK

The guy replied almost immediately, allowing you to delete the texts from his phone so he had no way of knowing of this. You swiftly place the phone in the lost and found bin, rushing out of the bowling alley towards the underpass.

The bell for home time rang and there he was Gobum, slit brows all by himself. You look around, looking for the other three but there were no signs of them. Not letting your guard down, you lower your hood, revealing your face, your hair undone, falling over your face in wisps.

Gobum sneers, meeting yours eyes in furry irritation, “Tsk, what did he pussy-out and send his girl? Where’s Geum Seongje, little birdie”

“Not here, as you can see, fucker.” You spoke through gritted teeth, picking up your pace fast enough to aim for a kick to his head. Your left foot smashed into his shaved head, crushing the side of his face. It probably looked hilarious in slow motion and a sadistic smile creeped up on your face.

That’s rich coming from someone like you Seongje’s words echoed through your mind and he was right. You weren’t so different from him. There was an addictive rush and ecstasy that shuddered through you during a fight. You were no different from a teeth-bearing wolf. Perhaps you were worse because of your bitter words and dishonest facade. Just a pretty girl in the eyes of others. Little birdie.

Gobum yelled, in pain and shock from the sudden kick to the side of his face. It made him stagger backwards, a red bruise blooming on the side of his face so fast and so rapidly it was almost animated. He growled, stomping towards you to throw a punch but you blocked it and he went again and again. Block after block, duck after duck, kick and punch, swivel up and down— it was a mess of movements. You barely had the time to process his movements. He was fast and his punches were impactful. He got a few hits but so did you. You had the upper hand, you were analytical and had dirty tricks up your sleeves. You tripped him, you distracted him, you ran and he chased.

This wouldn’t last long. Your muscles were growing limp and exhausted from over exertion. Your legs wobbled after another attempted kick which Gobum dodged and he punched you straight in the jaw, giving you a purple bruise. You winced in pain. Tears pricked your eyes from the pain but he punched your stomach ruthlessly. Punch after punch. You smashed your knees onto his nose, with a crackle that made you flinch. Blood flowed from his nose into his white button up. He hissed.

“Not bad.” He wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his hand, charging towards you at full speed. pushing you against a wall “but can you handle this, little bitch?”

“I can handle anything.” You choked, as he held you against a wall. Dread pooled in your chest when you heard footsteps coming from behind him. The three other boys from the other day appeared. You recognized them immediately from the smell of smoke and the sound of a ball bouncing off the ground.

“That’s not Geum Seongje. That’s a girl.” The long-haired guy said to the other boys.

“It’s his bitch, she was there and beat us too.” One of the familiar guy spoke, sounding embarrassed.

“Damn. She’s kinda hot. I wanna play with her too.” He responded “Grab her, boys.”

In an instant you were cornered by four men. One on each side of you. You were helpless and you had to find a way out. Before any of them could touch you, you ducked, kicking Gobum right in the crotch earning a loud agonized scream. The others watched eyes wide, stepping back. Taking advantage of that moment of hesitation, you punch the guy on your right then grab him by the collar to push him onto his friend on the left. With full source, you head butt into the long haired jerk that dared lay a hand on you. Groans and grunts of pain bounced off the walls of the underpass, adrenaline pumping through your lungs. Heaving, you coughed out a bit of blood onto your sleeve with a light gasp of surprise. It enraged you but you had to give the final blow to their faces.

“Let me give you a warning, boys,” You spoke bitterly “Don’t fucking touch Geum Seongje.”

“Oh? He got a possessive little bitch. Ain’t that fun?” Gobum, strikes again, you dodge.

“I’ll kill you all.” It wasn’t a threat anymore, it was a promise.

“Scary—“ You punched long-hair straight in the mouth, definitely knocking teeth out. He cried, falling in his bum. Eyes full of horror.

“You two. Come at me.” You say, turning your attention to the two you had once beaten up before. Clearly, they wanted it again. You motioned for them to come forward so confident in yourself, you didn’t feel like yourself. You were somewhere else, high off the adrenaline.

For a split moment, Seongje’s face appeared in front of you. His gummy smile was so threatening and enthralling— you felt as if you were lassoed to him. You hated the truth; you wanted him to belong to you in one way. Even as a friend. Even as an enemy. Right now he wasn’t either, he was a stranger. There was no softness between the two of you but somehow the thought of him had softened you— for the slightest moment, you blinked a little more and panted a little harder too.

When the two cowards stepped closer you didn’t analyze or think. You just punched and kicked. Not one miss, they sucked. Within seconds, four men laid on the ground under you, gazing up in surrender and fear. Slowly, you leer over them, meeting each of their eyes with a domineering gaze that made each of them flinch and turn away in embarrassment.

“Did you take my warning?” You raised a brow, fixing your messy hair and hoodie.

“Can’t hear you. Should I put some more sense into you?” You say about to kick Gobum in the face but he puts his hands up to his face with a desperate sob. So pathetic.

“Y-yes ma’am.” They said in unison.

Triumphant or rather relieved you walk out of the underpass with more than a few bruises.

Your everything hurt and you collapsed the second you entered the alleyway.

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Exactly three days and three nights had passed. Due to the pain still prominent all over your body and especially your jaw, you skipped school. You were back at the alley, not certain as to why you were there. Perhaps you were looking for Seongje. You’d never admit that to yourself. A soft sigh escaped your lips, seeing the empty path, you stood staring at the dark clouds rolling up in the sky. The smell of rain and earth whirled in the air.

An all too familiar figure appeared from the far end of the alley, standing tall and casual. Seongje. He was looking directly into your eyes, unbothered, unwavering. A small smile of relief accidentally made its way to your face and you wanted so badly to slap yourself but that would only give Seongje more points.

“Long time no see.” His voice echoed, deep, reverberating through your bones. You missed it so much and you just realized.

“Y-yeah,” A stutter escaped your lips.

He chuckled, still standing, far enough to not see the bruises on your face “We haven't seen each other for two weeks and you get all shy. Didn’t expect that after all those words.”

Seongje approached slowly, calmly. Walking towards you, finally he was closer and his eyes immediately shot to your jaw and your collarbones and everywhere. Like a hungry wolf watching its prey, he took his time observing you. There was no change of expression in his eyes. His lips in a thin line, there was a flicker of something you couldn’t read.

He took a step closer.

You took a step back.

Another step closer.

Another step back.

Seongje stops, a superficial smile making its way onto his lips. Gently, he brings his hands to your jaw, barely ghosting his fingers over the bruise. The act catches you off guard, your eyes widen in surprise at how gentle he was, his warm finger trailing over your bruises. Shyly, you wince away from his ghost-like touch that was so fiery all at once. His eyes not leaving yours even for a second. Above all the bruises, and pain, your eyes showed the most hurt and he caught it so fast you wanted to run and hide.

“Who?” He asked softly, barely a whisper, his voice blowing away with the wind.

“Don’t worry about it. It was just some rascals I ran into the other day. I won. As always.” You tried to joke but the waver in your voice was so loud.

“Who.” He demanded. He didn’t need to. It was gonna slip out of your mouth anyway. His warm fingers still on your face, now cupping your cheeks. This time, you couldn’t move away, the warmth held you still. It grounded you.

“Gobum.” You replied, avoiding his eyes. He placed a finger under your chin, lifting your face up to meet his eyes.

“He must’ve been tough.” He said.

“What?”

“I mean he must’ve been a tough fighter to be able to bruise someone as strong as you.” the unexpected compliment made you gape.

“He did have three of his minions with him…” You scratched your head. Feeling pride blooming in your chest.

“Shameless motherfucker.” He hissed, eyes livid now “Ganging up on one person let alone a girl.”

“Seongje?” You said. He was speaking to himself rather than to you.

“Knew you’d win.” He said before walking off. You called out to him.

Once.

Twice.

By the third call he was out of the alley.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈ -ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈ -ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈ -ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

A day passed. Three days passed. You haven't heard from Seongje. It wasn’t unusual anymore. It was just discomforting. The guilt still resided deeply in your conscience. The longing even worse. You loathed every second of it.

It was a Saturday, with nothing better to do, you sat inside the bowling alley, leaning against a wall. Howls and cheers filled the thick air. The smell of food and sweat mixed together. Beside you a group of guys sat, on their phones, puffing vape into the air.

“Did you see? Geum Seongje fucked up the thugs from Ilsan Tech. Fuckin’ embarrassing for them.” Your ears perked up and you leaned closer.

“That Gobum son of a bitch deserves it. Good shit, man” Another chided in.

“I heard he crippled em’ all up just a few minutes ago. Look, my friend from Ilsan sent me a video.” The one said, turning his phone to his friend.

At that you got up and interrupted their gossip to watch the video. They turned to you in surprise, but they couldn’t do much since you only butted in to see the video for yourself. You could see Seongje in his maroon uniform, kicking Gobum just like you had on his shoulder over and over. Cussing him off with all sorts of terrible degrading words. The yelps of pain came out loudly through the phone speakers and you just watched. Eyes glued to the screen. The teeth-bearing wolf had his glasses off. He was serious. Then it zooms into another clip where Seongje breaks the Long-haired guys fingers, one by one. You could almost feel the pain. The boys watching the video all made sounds, as if they too, were feeling the pain.

You turned away, unable to watch anymore. Sprinting out of the bowling alley, you turned up at the Union’s hideout Seongje had once briefly shown you. He admitted to spending a lot of his time napping there. And you knew, just from the lingering smell of cigarette sticking to the brick walls outside, Geum Seongje was inside. And inside you went.

To your surprise, the door was unlocked as you slid it open. The place stunk of old ramen and men’s cologne and smoke. You coughed, swatting the air in front of you in pure disgust. On the black leather couch sat Seongje with his head thrown back blowing out smoke onto the ceiling. A cigarette in his hands, almost halfway done. He gave you a full view of his neck and Adam's apple, you couldn’t keep your eyes off. You ran your tongue along your bottom lips, wetting it. Seongje had his uniform off, now just in a black t-shirt that revealed his arms that had cuts and bruises. Did they have a knife fight too?

He looked at you when he heard your voice, an amused expression on his face. Seongje patted the spot on the couch next to him for you to sit like it was the most normal thing on earth, for you to just be walking into a hideout like this. You complied anyway, sitting next to him, your weight dipping to the leather. The atmosphere became warm and sticky— not in a displeasing way but in a familiar way. Like it was something you were used to; being by Seongje’s side.

Your hands immediately darted towards him. Reaching out to cup both his cheeks, squeezing him like a baby. Your eyes softened, heart tender and broken. It was rare to see him this bruised up.

And all because of you. Tears pricked in your field of vision and you just let it fall.

“Why’d you do this?” You sniffled, turning his face one side to another to spot every injury. You reached for the medicine box that was conveniently hidden under the table in front of the sofa. Grabbing a cotton swab, you dabbed some medicine over the cuts on the side of his face. He hissed in response but he let you anyway.

The both of you stayed in silence. only your occasional sniffles could be heard like little adlibs in the room.

“I didn’t do it for you. I just wanted to finish what that asshole started.” He finally answered but he didn’t meet your eyes and a foreign warmth crept into his tone as he continued speaking “I don’t get why you did what you did, though. Did you feel sorry for me?”

“I— I just, I just couldn’t be a bystander…” He scoffed at the response.

“Y/n, don’t do that shit again. I’m not trying to see you hurt because of a fight that I started.” He mumbled, your fingers brushing his bottom lip as you circled it around a bruise with an ointment.

“I’m sorry about what I said before, Seongje.” You started again, you wanted to get your words out before they choked you “I didn’t mean to call you a toy. Didn’t mean to turn you into such a worthless dick. I hope you know that’s now how I see you.”

“I know.” He smiled, so slightly it wouldn’t be possible to notice unless you were close to him.

“Do you ?” You asked, lifting his jaw up to meet your eyes. Just like he did the other day.

“Of course I know, look at the situation we’re in, y/n. None of this would have happened if we weren’t both so fucked in the head” At that you both chuckled, he flinched a little at the pain.

The laughter felt like something you didn’t realize you lost until you got it back. The normality of laughing with him, being by his side, and not needing a label for what you were— all of it felt like an answer to your questions that you had blocked off for so long.

The silent and unacknowledged wait for him was over because he was always there where he belonged; right next to you.

Seongje’s face was centimeters away from yours. This was the closest he’s ever been to you, his warmth and scent radiating onto you. The air no longer felt tense or awkward— just back to what it was, a comfortable familiarity. A routine.

His eyes bored into yours for as if he were contemplating. Your eyes shot down to his mouth, glossy from him licking and biting it.

The sound of the air conditioner blowing suddenly got blocked out with your dizzying thoughts as his breath fanned your face. Your hands were still on his cheeks. waiting for something.

Seongje was impulsive and without a plan in everything he did. Just like now, when he grabbed your jaw and kissed your lips. Your world went so still, so silent, and so warm you could hear your own heartbeat.

Seongje placed his hands on the back of your neck, pulling you closer as he pressed another short kiss on your lips to test the waters, to see how you reacted. You closed your eyes instinctively, allowing him to kiss you once more. For a short moment you open your eyes to see him already staring at you and then your lips as if to ask if you wanted this or not.

“Kiss me.” You breathed out feverishly.

His lips found its way home into yours, rougher and greedier this time. There was a desperation in the way he kissed you, your lips smacking onto each other making wet sounds. His tongue slid along the bottom of your lips, slithering into your bottom teeth, then tangling into your tongue.

He groans into your mouth, hot and wet, swirling his own tongue with yours. He was in full control now. His hands on the back of your head and the other holding your waist. Your hands wrapped around his neck now, pulling him closer to your chest.

Seongje sucked on your tongue and then your teeth and lips and everywhere. Both of you fell dizzy and frantic, wanting more by the second. He groaned.

Making out, eating each other alive. You grabbed a handful of his hair with your hands tugging him as you tongued each other. Spit swirling lewdly inside your mouths. Drool pooled the side of your lips and Seongje licked it off without a second of hesitation. Nasty and thirsty. Slurping up all your saliva.

You were out of breath about to pass out, pushing him off for a second to breathe. A string of spit connected the two of you and you stared into his eyes for a prolonged moment, admiring the mole, his lashes, and those dark irises that you had grown to yearn for.

You finally realized then, that there didn’t need to be an answer to your questions with words when Seongje had always shown that you were something to him the whole time with his actions.

“Didn’t know the princess kissed so well.” He teased pushing you back down onto the couch to resume kissing you.

reposts appreciated >w<

[anonimusunnoaniswriting]

Anyway I'm in love with Geum Seong Je

I can take him (NOT in a fight).

[ikigaidao]

Pt. 8, Pt. 9

summary: You owe him. For what?– let’s just say you and Seongje have a history that haunts you to this day.

content warning: mdni, strong language, drugs, guns, gunshots, knifes, smoking, violence

word count: 3 997

The screen on your phone lighting up made your heart stop. The rain drumming against the window seemed to disappear.

You stood frozen. 

It could only be a message from your parents– what the hell were you even doing right now?

You let out a shaky breath, forcing yourself to walk over to the couch.

You picked up your phone. 

For a second you just stared at the screen before finally unlocking it to see the message.

Unknown number.

: seongje told me to contact u

: ill be taking over some of ur delivery routes, just letting u know

Cold washed over you.

You should be relieved.

Relieved that you’re not tanged up with the Union as much anymore. Relieved that someone is finally taking over the work– it’s what you wanted at the end of the day. 

Then why does it feel wrong?

You didn’t reply.

You knew who it was.

The girl, always the girl.

Who the hell was she?

You scoffed at yourself.

This was getting ridiculous. He slept with you, and now, he’s acting as if you were just another face in the crowd. Someone he spares just one glance at on the street and never thinks of again. 

Your jaw tightened. Your grip on your phone grew tighter.

Fine.

He thinks he can just cut you off?

You were still connected to the Union. You could still take jobs.

Just not from him.

You didn’t even know why you suddenly cared to prove yourself to a gang you’d spend months trying to avoid. There wasn’t a single logical thought behind what you were about to do.

Only anger.

And whatever consequences came with it.

You needed to find Baekjin. 

Your thoughts raced. 

Adrenaline prickled beneath your skin.

Seongje had mentioned a few places where Baekjin usually spent his evenings. If you were lucky, maybe you’d find him there.

Before you even realised it, you were already in your bedroom, changing out of your school uniform to your regular clothes– plain black top, black jeans and your checkered Vans.

You quickly glanced out your bedroom window,

The rain was still pouring out the dark sky with no intention of stopping.

You pulled on a hoodie, the material immediately warming up your ice cold skin.

Then you shoved your phone into your back pocket and headed to the front door.

You couldn’t even care to pick up an umbrella on your way out.

You walked with purpose, the cold air with the rain ironically fitting your exact state of mind.

There was an old warehouse where Baekjin usually hung out. He had an office there for his studies.

That guy had to have a small study room in each spot the Union owned.

It was only a few blocks from your apartment, nothing too far, hopefully he will be there.

The walk there was a blur.

The storm only grew more violent. 

By now, you were completely drenched.

You were about to cross the street– 

Then you saw him.

With her.

Again.

She was getting into his BMW.

Just like you had not so long ago.

Seongje walked carelessly around to the drivers side. His orange windbreaker bright against the grey rain. He flicked his cigarette into a puddle without a second glance.

His expression was unreadable.

Almost bored.

To you, it was anything but that.

Your body was ice cold,

Yet something was burning inside of you.

Any remaining doubts you had were completely wiped out of your mind the moment she closed the passenger door.

The traffic light turned green.

You crossed the road without looking back.

The warehouse was only a two-minute walk away.

The closer you were getting, the less sense you had left in your poor, confused mind.

The less you cared about the consequences.

The alleys were getting narrower, while the buildings were getting older.

Purple and red neon signs buzzed above unknown bars and gambling joints, trying to lure people inside to drink away their paychecks– or lose what was left of them over a poker table.

A few men stood beneath the awnings despite the rain, cigarettes dangling from their lips as they argued over money that was already gone.

You looked ahead.

Finally, you spotted the warehouse.

Your steps got faster, the only thing you cared about was talking to him. 

You wrapped your fingers around the cold metal handle and pulled. The heavy warehouse door groaned open.

The smell of dust and weed hit you the moment you stepped inside.

Your nose scrunched from the smell of it.

There was a small light on around the corner lighting up the empty building a bit. If you weren’t so angry you’d be probably shitting your pants right now.

You hated being in abandoned buildings at night.

The place was eerily quiet– a few chairs had been knocked over, empty cans of cheap beer scattered across the floor alongside trash you tried not to step on.

Puddles covered the cracked concrete, rainwater dripping through holes in the ceiling in slow, steady drops.

Just making your way through the warehouse felt like a task in itself.

You stopped in front of the office door, your hand hanging in the air, unsure if you should knock.

,,You can come in, you know.” 

A hoarse, firm voice snapped you out of your thoughts.

You grabbed the handle and pushed the door open, closing it behind you.

And there he was.

Sitting at his desk.

Uniform still on,  hair perfectly in place.

Papers–math homework, neatly organised– were spread across the desk.

He didn’t even look up at first. Just a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Did he already know who you were?

You hesitated before speaking, taking a small step closer to his desk,

,,I work for Seongje. . . Geum Seongje.”

Your voice came out quiet.

You opened your mouth to add more, but he cut you off,

,,I know who you are,” 

He finally looked up.

His gaze landed on you properly now– slow, measuring, like he was trying to figure out exactly what kind of situation you were talking in as.

 ,,Why are you here?”

His tone was flat. Bored, almost.

You swallowed, straightening slightly. 

,,Seongje doesn’t need me anymore. Give me someone else’s routes.”

Your words came out more confident than you expected.

The silence that followed felt heavy, only broken by the water drops hitting the warehouse floor from your dripping clothes.

Baekjin watched you for a moment.

Not surprised.

Not confused.

Just thinking.

Like he knew something you didn’t. 

And in less than five seconds, he understood.

Not everything– but enough.

Enough to know this wasn’t about work. 

It was about a misunderstanding– about Seongje. Of course Seongje didn’t bother to explain anything to you. That wasn’t his style.

Baekjin leaned back slightly in his chair.

He didn’t play with emotions. Didn’t care for them, either.

But people were useful.

And you had just walked in offering yourself as one.

Business was business.

Whatever was going on between you and Seongje wasn’t Baekjin’s concern.

,,There is one job I can think of..” 

His stare was dead, tone clinical.

His expression never changed, like this conversation meant nothing to him.

,,Can I take it?”

Your voice came out thinner than you intended, your confidence held together by nothing but stubbornness.

A smile slowly spread across his face.

Not a warm one.

But the kind of that made your stomach sink.

Like you just made a deal with the devil.

,,Sure.”

You quietly let out a breath you were holding.

If only you’d  seen yourself through his eyes.

You were trembling.

Hoodie soaked by rain,

Chapped lips,

Dark circles under your eyes.

A girl trying far too hard to prove something.

Perfect– no one would suspect anything.

Too innocent for anyone to pay attention.

Too desperate to ask the right questions.

,,There’s just one condition.”

He folded his hands on the desk.

,,That package is worth way more than anything you’ve delivered before.”

He paused.

,,Im gonna need you to deliver two kilograms of cocaine.”

Your breathing stopped. Eyes opening wider in shock.

,,…Cocaine?”

The word barely escaped your lips– your brain refused to process anything he just said.

Baekjin raised an eyebrow,

,,What?”

,,Got cold feet already?”

,,What? N–No.” 

Your answered too quickly.

,,I was just…making sure I heard you right.”

He studied you for another second.

Then leaned back in his chair once again.

,,You offered.”

His voice stayed perfectly calm,

,,Im simply giving you what you asked for.”

The room fell silent– too late to back out now.

You nodded in response, gripping your dripping sleeves of your hoodie.

,,Perfect.”

He stood up, straightening his uniform, before walking towards the door.

,,Follow me.”

You nodded, immediately falling into step behind him. Waiting for whatever came next.

He led you to the back of the warehouse. Old furniture was stacked everywhere, covered in a thick layer of dust. Broken shelves leaned against the walls, and abandoned boxes were scattered across the damp floor.

You let out a quiet cough,

,,Sorry.” 

Baekjin didn’t even acknowledge it. His attention was elsewhere.

He gripped one of the heavy wardrobes and shoved it aside, revealing a hidden safe built into the wall.

You froze.

His head turned towards you.

,,Turn around.”

Your eyes widened.

,,Oh… right. Sorry.”

You immediately faced the opposite wall, obeying his words. You nervously picked at the skin around your thumbs. Your heartbeat was so loud you could hear it in your ears.

A series of quiet clicks echoed behind you as he entered the code.

,,Okay.”

A metallic clunk followed.

,,Turn around.”

You obeyed.

Your eyes landed on the open safe.

Your jaw dropped.

There were thousands, no– millions worth of drugs and guns stacked in there. Baekjin reached inside without hesitation– to him it looked as ordinary as taking papers from a filing cabinet.

He pulled out two vacuum-sealed bricks wrapped in brown tape and held them out to you.

You hesitated before taking them.

The weight of it caught you completely off guard.

,,I’ll text you the address and time.” 

He closed the safe and moved the wardrobe back in place like this is not a literal crime scene that could grand him a life sentence in prison.

,,Okay..”

He walked back into his office, coming back seconds later to give you a plain, black backpack.

,,Gonna need you to deliver it tonight.”

He glanced down at his phone before looking back at you,

,,You can go, that’s all.”

You nodded.

Baekjin reached for the handle of his office door, but paused halfway.

His head turned slightly in your direction, though he never actually looked at you.

,,Good luck.” 

A quiet chuckle escaped him before he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

The click of the lock echoed through the warehouse.

You were left standing alone in the darkness, with only the pale moonlight spilling through the broken windows.

You quickly shoved it into your bag before you started walking out.

The air was horrible here. How did he manage to be there for hours?

Your phone buzzed in your back pocket, you took it. A message from Baekjin– time and place.

It wasn’t as far as you thought, in fact you were surprised it was in the city centre.

You searched up the exact address.

You blinked.

You looked at the address he sent you again– it was correct.

A strip club.

Rain poured down around you. You stood beneath the small roof outside the warehouse for another minute before finally forcing yourself to move.

You needed to find a bus stop to get there.

You still had an hour, which should be enough, but you didn’t want to risk walking all the way there.

It took you less than five minutes to find one.

The stop was empty.

No bench. Just a rusted bin overflowing with trash scattered across the wet pavement.

A bus eventually pulled up.

You got in.

Sat down.

You were fidgety, your heart was racing.

You held onto the backpack like your life depended on it.

The city blurred past the rain– speckled windows. You watched strangers come and go, wondering how every single one of them had a life just as complicated as your own.

It was strange.

Your brain had never fully wrapped itself around the idea that everyone around you had their own story.

None of them knew what you were carrying.

Two bricks of cocaine rested quietly inside your backpack.

The bus stopped again.

This time, two police officers stepped inside.

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

They walked slowly down the aisle, casually talking to each other.

One of them glanced in your direction.

You stopped breathing.

Then they kept walking– passing right by you without a second look.

You let out a breath you hadn’t even realised you’d been holding.

Thank god.

You stepped off the bus, the rain growing lighter with every step you took.

The streets were alive.

People laughed, hurried across the sidewalks, or brushed past you without a second glance.

The place was impossible to miss.

A giant pink neon high heel glowed above the entrance.

Your phone buzzed.

You pulled it out and glanced at the screen.

You stopped in your tracks.

seongje: why aren’t you home?

As you were about to shove your phone back into your pocket, it buzzed again.

You let out an annoyed huff.

seongje: where are you, Y/N?

You held the power button until the screen went completely black.

Enough.

You slipped the phone into your back pocket and kept walking towards the entrance.

Seongje’s pov:

No answer.

,,Fuckin’ pissing me off, huh?”he muttered under his breath.

He had been ringing your door like a madman.

Enough is enough.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small lock pick. It wasn’t unusual for him to carry one. You never knew when you’d end up trapped somewhere and need a quick way out. 

He worked at the lock for a few seconds.

Click.

A smirk tugged at his lips.

He pushed the door open, fully expecting to find you inside, probably ignoring him on purpose.

Pretending you weren’t home.

Instead…

Silence.

You were nowhere to be seen.

The apartment was dark.

Empty. 

His brows knitted together.

,, Y/N?”

Nothing.

He shut the front door behind him and walked straight to your bedroom.

Maybe you were asleep?

The door was wide open.

No one.

He stood in the doorway for a second.

Where the fuck were you?

He pulled out his phone and quickly typed a message.

Delivered.

No reply.

He typed out another one.

:why aren’t you home?

:where are you, Y/N?

No answer.

His jaw tightened.

Without another thought, he turned around and stormed out of the apartment.

The front door slammed behind him, the sound echoing through the empty hallway in your apartment complex.

His thoughts were racing.

What the hell were you doing?

He had no idea where to even start looking.

Then it hit him.

Baekjin.

If anyone knew where you were, it would be him. There were cameras all over the Union’s territory– where you, luckily, lived.

Someone had to know where you’d gone.

He cursed under his breath and pulled out his phone again.

He scrolled through his contacts before finding Baekjin’s number.

He pressed call and lifted the phone to his ear. 

It rang once.

Twice.

Then–

“What?”

No greeting.

Typical. 

,,Can you get one of your guys to check the street cameras? ” Seongje said quickly. 

,,I need to find Y/N. She’s been avoiding a delivery she’s supposed to do.”

Silence.

“…Avoiding?”

Something about Baekjin’s tone made Seongje’s stomach drop.

“No.”

Another pause.

“She came to me.”

Seongje stopped walking.

,,What?” 

“She came to me asking for work.”

His grip tightened around the phone.

“I needed a courtier tonight anyway.”

The blood drained from Seongje’s face.

,,…What job?”

Baekjin sounded almost amused.

“The shipment.”

A long pause.

“The two kilos.”

His heart stopped. His hands were sweaty.

The cold outside did not matter anymore.

Nothing mattered anymore.

Except finding you.

,,Tell me where you sent her.”

“The club in the city.”

Seongje didn’t even bother saying a goodbye.

He shoved his phone into his pocket and practically ran to his car.

His thought were a mess.

Everything around him blurred together.

He wasn’t just angry anymore.

He was terrified.

His keys shook in his hands as he unlocked the BMW. He threw himself into the driver’s seat, barely taking a second to slam the door shut before starting the engine.

The tires screeched against the wet pavement as he sped out of the parking lot.

It was only about a ten-minute ride.

If he pushed the car hard enough.

His grip on the steering wheel was so tight his knuckles had turned white– the grip iron.

One of his legs bounced uncontrollably.

His jaw stayed clenched the entire drive.

,,Fuck…”

The word came out almost like a prayer.

If anything happened to you…

He didn’t even bother to park properly– not caring about getting a ticket at all.

His legs were carrying him towards the door of the club.

Pink led lights were shining through the tinted windows, music blaring through the building more loudly with each step he took.

He brushed past the people waiting in line to get in, the security guard immediately recognizing his already familiar face.

He just nodded and let Seongje in without a second thought.

He took two steps at a time to get to the upper wing of the club where the deals were usually made. There were several rooms on that floor– each for private dances or playing tables with hookers all over.

Upstairs, several doors lined the hallway.

Seongje’s jaw clenched.

Please don’t let me be too late.

Y/N pov:

You sat alone in one of the private rooms.

The music from downstairs vibrated through the thin walls.

Your backpack rested between your feet– you hadn’t touched it once.

The second hand on the clock seemed louder than the pop music echoing through the whole club.

Every minute felt like ten.

Suddenly, the door opened.

Two guys. One barely clothed girl.

She didn’t even glance at you, immediately heading to the pole at the back of the room.

They sat down, the couch sinking under their weight.

No greetings. Just blank stares and the screech of their lighters.

,,So..” 

The bald one looked at you. His gold tooth caught the red neon light.

,,Heard you’re gonna be the courtier.”

You swallowed, gaze flicking between them and the girl dancing at the back of the small room.

,,You have what we asked for, baby?”

Baby.

Your stomach sank.

Your mind immediately drifted to Seongje.

Snap out of it.

,,…Yeah.”

You glanced down at your backpack on the filthy ground before looking back at them.

They smiled.

The bald man nodded at the other guy. He reached behind the couch, pulled out a heavy duffel bag, handed it to the bald man first, then passed it to you.

You took it without a second glance.

,,Check it.”

You unzipped the bag. It was filled with money.

Okay, this is good so far.

You nodded, and then–

Sirens.

Your head snapped towards the door.

The men were on their feet in an instant, snatching the backpack and leaving you behind.

The girl ran after them, heels clicking on the ground.

You stood up, taking the duffel bag with you.

The moment you opened the door, chaos erupted.

People were running round.

Men were zipping up their pants.

Strippers were fixing their underwear while running towards the exit.

Then you heard a gunshot.

You froze.

You needed to get out– quick.

You ran through people, trying to find an exit. Instead you found probably the main dancing room.

There was a huge bar, six poles, and a lot of people– including the police officers.

You panicked, unknowing of where to go.

You took two steps and then–

A hand.

Before you could even think you found yourself being grabbed, knife held against your neck.

He’s shaking

,,Don’t move, darling.”

The man was terrified.

Police pointing rifles at everyone, including him.

Everyone was yelling.

,,POLICE! DON’T MOVE!”

Doors slam.

People scream.

Someone fires the first shot, then everyone starts shooting.

The smell of cheap liquor hit your senses as he told you to stay still.

You shut your eyes, praying to the gods he wouldn’t do anything to you.

The hold he had on you was too strong, you couldn’t do anything.

He was shaking too much, the knife grazed against your neck. Slicing you in the process.

You yelped from the pain, the feeling of blood dripping down your neck was all you could feel.

Then–

A gunshot.

For a moment you thought you were dead.

Then, you slowly opened your eyes again. The guy was lying on the ground, blood spilling from his shoulder.

You couldn’t breathe. 

You couldn’t think.

You just ran through the crowds of panicked people.

You tried to claw your way out, steps quick with hurry as you didn’t even look in front of you.

Suddenly you crashed into somebody.

You glanced up.

You couldn’t believe your eyes.

Were you fucking high?

,,S–Seongje?”

Your voice was shaky. You were trembling.

He had seen the whole scene unravel.

The knife.

The blood.

He felt like he couldn’t breathe.

His eyes landed on the thin line of blood running down your neck.

Everything else disappeared.

The shouting.

The sirens.

The guns.

He only saw you.

Without a word, he grabbed your wrist and dragged you outside.

The cold night air hit your skin.

You were in complete shock, not even realizing he had already unlocked the car and shoved you inside.

He slammed the passenger door shut before rounding the hood and climbing into the driver’s seat..

The sound of the door slamming snapped you out of the trance you were in.

He snatched the bag from your lap and threw it onto the back seat without a second thought.

Then he grabbed your face.

Carefully.

Turning your head to look at your neck.

A shallow cut.

You were fine.

Thank god.

,,Are you hurt?”

You couldn’t find your voice.

,,Answer me.”

His voice was breathless.

,,It’s nothing.” You snapped back, refusing to look at him.

He stared at you for a second, like he couldn’t even process what you’d just said.

,,…Nothing?”

A dry laugh escaped him.

,,You call someone holding a fucking knife to your throat nothing?”

His hand tightened around your jaw.

He ran his thumb near the wound without directly touching it.

,,Do you have any idea what would’ve happened if that cop had missed?”

You looked out the window, escaping his hold.

,,Why would you even care?”

A beat of silence.

,,Because something could’ve happened to you!”

The words came out without thinking.

He was annoyed at himself for saying that out loud.

Annoyed at himself for yelling. Because that meant he cared.

He hit the steering wheel with his fist.

Then, silence.

,,You think this is a fucking game? Walking into Baekjin’s office without telling anybody?”

,,You replaced me.”

He couldn’t believe his fucking ears.

,,I tried to fucking get you out!”

What?

You froze.

Your whole body was on fire.

You slowly turned around,

,,You never told me that.” 

,,Didn’t think I’d have to.”

You couldn’t listen to it anymore. You felt like you were suffocating in the car. It was getting smaller with each passing second.

You opened the door.

And you started walking.

He stayed in the car.

Of course.

Five second.

Ten.

He grips the steering wheel so hard he barely feels his hands.

,,…Fuck.”

He gets out.

And he runs after you.

Seongje grabs your wrist and pulls you back.

You struggle as he practically shoves you back into the passenger seat again and locks the doors.

taglist: @luvnarra @d1seongjeglazer

[queenelisabitch]

this is getting more and more interesting with each part uhhhhhh CANT WAIT TO SEE WHATS COMING NEXT!!!!!

[esaestrellaeramilujo]

okay, i've had this idea living rent-free in my head today. This morning I read your Namgyus one-shot called 'Come Back' and it was literally amazing... im obsessed.

I was wondering if you’ve thought about writing something similar with Seong-je from Weak Hero?

Honestly, I feel like he would be exactly that kind of manipulative boyfriend.

Geum Seong-je | The one that could break my heart

Summary: The cycle of toxic dependency and manipulation repeats… and again, and again, and again.

Warning: +18, smut, minors involved (high school setting), unprotected sex, manipulation, emotional detachment, jealousy, possessiveness, Seong-je is an asshole, injuries, fighting.

Now playing: Break My Heart — Dua Lipa

Note: English is not my first language so feel free to tell me if there are any mistakes.

You clung to his shoulders, digging your nails into his skin with the desperation of someone who knows they’re making the same mistake for the thousandth time.

There, in that motel bed, Seong-je had his back pressed against the headboard, his large and powerful arms locked around your waist, roughly helping you move up and down on his cock. Your legs were starting to shake from exhaustion, but you kept riding, ignoring the burn in your thighs. All you needed was to come right there on his lap, with his dick buried deep inside you.

Your face was hidden in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of his skin… salty with the sweat of having fucked like animals for hours. You’d ditched your last few classes to come straight to this cheap motel. Your eyes rolled back when his hand slapped your ass, leaving a sharp sting. You were certain the skin would stay red for days.

Then, his phone started ringing. You saw the screen light up, but you couldnt make out the name. Seong-je glanced at it but didnt even make a move to pick it up, he just let it ring.

"Keep going... don't get distracted," Seong-je whispered in your ear, snapping your attention back to him. "That's my girl. You’re doing so good... fuck."

All you could do was moan. His voice resonated in your ear, hitting every right note in your consciousness. Hearing his praise only made you go faster, desperately chasing your climax, wanting Seong-je to lose his mind the very second your walls tightened around him.

You were on the verge of tears from how good it felt. You loved being stretched out by his length, the base of his cock surrounded by a white ring of froth. The way you fucked was messy and sticky, and you loved every second of it. Sure, you wouldn't deny you craved a little more affection, but this was all you had.

"I can't hold it anymore" you whimpered into his ear, hugging him tight. "I'm gonna come."

"Can I? I want to... please, inside..." he asked. Seeing you nod frantically, he added "Yeah... thats my girl."

It was embarrassing, but that was enough to push you over the edge. You squeezed around his cock one last time as your movements turned erratic. You felt your nervous system catch fire with an orgasm that made you scream into his ear, clutching his shoulders even harder, trying to hold onto that last trace of closeness before the silence filled the room again.

It didnt take long before you felt him come inside you, painting your walls with his warm and thick semen. Seong-je grunted with every pulse and soon you both collapsed onto the bed.

You lay beside him, chests heaving in sync. No words were exchanged… at least not yet. You wanted to save that part for later.

Seong-je got up and headed to the bathroom; you heard the faucet running. You settled into the bed and pulled your water bottle out of your backpack. The heat of what you’d just felt was still vibrating through you, but now, all you felt was cold.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand. You caught a quick glimpse of the name: Baek-jin. Seong-je walked out of the bathroom and glanced at the phone, but didnt answer. He sat on the edge of the bed, back turned to you, and started getting dressed with rough movements. Each piece of clothing was a barrier going back up between you.

You didn't say anything. He always did this, and you hated yourself for allowing it. The silence was thick and uncomfortable, it hurt to see him be so distant.

"I gotta go" he finally said, pulling on his jacket. He pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and dropped it on the nightstand. "Pay at the front desk and take a cab home."

Without another word, he stood up and walked out. The door slammed shut with a dull thud that vibrated in time with your heartbeat. You sighed and lay back down, eyes fixed anywhere but on the money.

You felt dirty and used.  

You knew you deserved better.

The relationship with Seong-je was a mess. He had always been particularly detached and irresponsible with your emotions, but it had only gotten worse since he started working for the Union.

You met him in school, where he was the notorious bully. He was intimidating, yeah... but the stupid girl you used to be felt that you could change him with love. You became his friend first, making sure to be his main support system, pouring out the affection he lacked in his life.

You never even got a "thank you" for it.

As you grew up and surrounded yourself with other friends, you learned that friendship is a two-way street built on respect. But when you tried to cut ties with him, it only resulted in you becoming his favorite sex toy.

Yeah, it's horrible to put it that way, but thats exactly how you feel… how he makes you feel.

You grabbed your backpack and checked your phone. A notification from Soo-min, your best friend, popped up asking where you were.

You: I was with Seong-je. I think it’s finally over.

Soo-min: Did you fight? Did he do something?

You: No, he didn't do anything. I’m just so tired of feeling like shit all the time.

You left the chat and went straight to his. Without a second thought, you blocked him, determined to finally cut him out of your life.

(...)

The first night after that fleeting encounter, Seong-je left his phone on the nightstand with a smirk, convinced you’d be the one to break the silence before dawn.

He was used to your tantrums, those desperate attempts to get his attention that always ended with you sending a regretful text or showing up at his table during lunch at school. To him, this was nothing more than a game of endurance he was already tired of winning.

"She'll get over it" he told himself, lighting a cigarette and watching the smoke drift in the dark. "She always does."

But the second day turned into the third, and the third into the fourth. The silence started to weigh on him in a way he couldnt explain.

At school, he instinctively looked for you, expecting to see a trace of longing or pain on your face, but he only found indifference. You walked right past him in the hallway without even glancing his way, laughing at something a friend said as if he were a complete stranger.

That laugh tasted like gall. Seong-je clenched his fists, feeling rage bubble under his skin.

"What's up with you, Seong-je? You're more distracted than usual" one of his friends remarked while they played League of Legends. "You went down way too easy."

"Shut the fuck up" he spat, slamming his keyboard against the desk. "Nothing’s up. I'm just sick of this shitty heat."

He was lying. He was sick of the lack of messages in his inbox, not even a damn emoji or a stupid "how are you." He was sick of the feeling that, for the first time, you had closed the door and locked it.

By the night of the fifth day, Seong-je’s pride finally cracked. He was alone in his room, and with the echo of your moans from the motel still fresh, he tried to masturbate the stress away, but he couldn't. Nothing can compare to you. With memories of you haunting him, he sat on the edge of the bed and grabbed his phone.

"Stop playing games. Meet me after school tomorrow" he wrote, unable to drop the arrogance that was now his only companion.

He hit send and waited, but the message didnt change to "delivered." Instead, the gray circle turned into a red exclamation mark. He tried again… nothing. Frowning, thinking it was a signal issue, he decided to call you.

"The number you have dialed is currently unavailable..."

The mechanical voice was like a slap to the face. Seong-je pulled the phone away and stared at it like it was a crawling insect. He tried once, twice, three more times. Same result.

"You blocked me..." he whispered, the words feeling like ash in his mouth.

He jumped to his feet, pacing the small space. The realization that you had actually cut him out of your life hit him like a freight train. He knew he’d been an asshole, he knew the way he treated you was terrible. But he never thought you would realize it too. You had always been his refuge, the "stupid girl" who thought she could save him, and now that refuge had crumbled.

The idea of going to your house crossed his mind, but he dismissed it immediately. Your parents would be there, and he wasn't in any condition to play the "good friend" he once pretended to be. Besides, the thought of you slamming the door in his face in front of them was a blow his ego couldnt take.

Then, the darkest thought of all seeped in: If you weren't with him, who were you with?

He pictured another guy touching you, hearing your laugh, receiving the affection he’d always taken for granted. He felt a wave of nausea so real he had to lean against the wall to keep from retching. The mere possibility of someone else taking his place sparked a murderous urge to destroy everything around him.

"You’re mine" he growled into the dark, eyes bloodshot. "I don't care what you do, you aren't getting rid of me that easy."

But he knew that this time, a half-assed "sorry" or a tug on the arm in a hallway wouldn't cut it. You’d gone too far. You’d severed the thread that held him to the little humanity he had left.

He needed something bigger... he needed an excuse so powerful, a scenario so critical, that your protective instincts would force you to come running back.

It had to be something that would disarm you, something to make you forget how cold he’d been. He needed you to see him as that boy who needed saving again, even if it was the biggest lie of his life.

If he had to break himself just so you’d mend him one last time, he’d do it.

(...)

The silence in your room was nearly absolute, broken only by the sound of turning pages. You were trying to focus, forcing yourself to memorize concepts that felt empty while your mind kept drifting back to the image of Seong-je’s back at the motel.

It had been a week since you blocked him, a week of ignoring his looming presence in the hallways and stifling the urge to run into his arms every five minutes. Then, the vibration of your phone on the desk made you jump. Unknown number.

"Hello?" your voice sounded brittle, smaller than you’d like to admit.

"Are we speaking with the person responsible for Geum Seong-je?" the voice on the other end was clipped. "We're calling from the police station. The young man is being held here after a fight. He says you’re the only person we can call."

The world seemed to stop. A part of you… the part that had finally learned to value itself screamed at you to hang up. But the other part, that "stupid girl" who still believed she could save him, was already grabbing her jacket.

When you arrived at the station, the smell of coffee and disinfectant made your stomach turn. You saw him sitting on a wooden bench under a flickering light. Seong-je looked bad… like really bad. His lip was split, his cheekbone was flushed with a bruise that promised to get worse, and strangest of all, he wasn't wearing his glasses. Without them, his eyes looked vulnerable and unprotected.

When he saw you, there was no arrogance, no cold stare. He gave you a weak and crooked smile that completely disarmed you. In that moment, he didn't look like the feared school bully or the Union thug... he looked like a wounded puppy that just needed someone to hold him and tell him everything would be okay.

"You came" he rasped.

"What did you do, Seong-je?" you replied, hands shaking as you signed the release forms the officer handed you.

A nurse approached you with a plastic bag.

"His glasses are broken, they're a total loss" she explained, handing you the snapped frames and a bottle of pills. "We gave him a tetanus shot because the wound was caused by metal, he'll likely run a fever through the night."

"Wound? Where?" you asked, a knot of anxiety tightening in your chest. "Did you get stabbed?"

Seong-je let out a dry grunt and hiked up his pant leg slightly, showing you a clumsily bandaged foot. The dressing was already stained a dark red.

You left the station slowly. He leaned heavily on your shoulder, forcing you to support almost all his weight. Every step seemed like agony for him, and that physical contact burned your skin.

"I'm sorry" he whispered near your ear. "I didnt want you to see me like this."

Before you could respond, a figure materialized on the sidewalk ahead of you. It was a boy with an impeccable appearance, clothes perfectly pressed and a gaze so cold it made you take a step back.

That had to be Baek-jin. You were sure of it. The air seemed to freeze around him.

"Wait here" Seong-je ordered, his tone regaining that usual hardness for a second.

He moved a few meters away, limping visibly, to talk to the boy. You couldn't hear what they were saying, but the tension was palpable. Baek-jin barely moved his lips, but his sheer presence radiated dangerous authority. Seong-je nodded to everything before the other boy turned and disappeared into the night without looking back.

When Seong-je returned to your side, he looked even more exhausted.

"Can you even go home like this?" you asked, worried about his foot and the fever already starting to radiate from his body.

"No" he answered bitterly. "My father... it's not a good time for him to see me like this. You know how things are at my house. Can I go to yours?"

"Umm..." you sighed in defeat. "I don't think so. My parents are home and I don't want trouble."

"Yeah, true." He paused, looking out at the empty street. "Take me to the motorcycle junkyard. There's a room inside the warehouse where I can stay."

"The junkyard? Seong-je, that place is horrible. It’s not safe for you to rest there" you protested, remembering the place he’d taken you a few times.

"It's the only place I can go right now" he stated, his voice laced with a sadness that broke your heart.

You knew his family situation was a disaster… an open wound that never healed, forcing him to spend weeks drifting between friends' houses.

You took a taxi in silence. The ride felt eternal. When you arrived, the place looked bleak, filled with the skeletons of motorcycles and rusted tools. Seong-je led you to the warehouse, where there was a small office on a mezzanine. In the corner sat a narrow bed with sheets that smelled of oil and dampness.

He collapsed onto the mattress with a groan of pain, struggling to pull off his one remaining shoe.

"Lie down with me" he pleaded, reaching a hand out to you.

"Seong-je, I don't know if this is right" you said, keeping a safe distance. "I only came to help because..."

"Please" he interrupted, his unfocused gaze searching for you in the shadows. "I just want to talk."

You gave in. You kicked off your shoes and lay beside him, staring at the water-stained ceiling. Almost immediately, you felt his arm wrap around your waist with desperate urgency. He hooked a leg over yours, pulling you flush against his body and buried his face in your neck. His skin was burning up.

"Sorry" he whispered against your skin, and you felt his body tremble slightly. "Sorry about today... making you come to this shithole... and sorry for everything before. For how I treated you... for being a fucking idiot."

Your eyes filled with tears. It was the first time you’d heard those words come out of his mouth without an immediate sexual agenda attached.

"I know you deserve bette" he continued, holding you tighter. "But you're literally the only good thing I have in my life. If you really leave... if you quit on me, I’ve got nothing left."

His words left you on the verge of crying, a mix of pity for him and resentment for the power he still held over you. But then, you felt his hot hand start to caress your side, slowly sliding up your torso.

The tenderness of the moment began to shift into something thicker and more urgent as his lips sought your earlobe. The heat from Seong-je’s fever seemed to radiate through his clothes. You could smell that scent of his that, despite all the damage, was still your undoing. The bed creaked under his weight as he moved to hover over you, trapping you between his strong arms and the worn-out mattress.

His eyes searched yours with an intensity that took your breath away, and his rough hands slid under your clothes. There was no delicacy, but there was a palpable desperation, as if he were afraid you’d vanish behind a blocked screen again.

"Look at me" he growled.

He stripped you with blunt movements, his fingers grazing your skin and sparking that electricity you’d tried to extinguish all week. When he shed his own clothes, the contact of his burning skin against yours made you gasp. Seong-je positioned himself between your legs, prying them open with his knee. His presence reminded you exactly why it was so hard to leave him.

He entered you in a single motion, drawing a moan that echoed off the warehouse walls. The pain in his injured foot seemed to fade into the background as he focused on the deep, erratic rhythm of his thrusts.

"Forgive me" he murmured, burying his face in your shoulder. "Tell me you forgive me, please."

His words mixed with the sound of his ragged breathing. He was using his vulnerability as a weapon, and you were fully aware of it. You knew he was manipulating your compassion, taking advantage of the fact that you’d rescued him to regain lost ground. But there, with his body pressing you into the bed and pleasure clouding your judgment, logic felt distant and irrelevant.

"Seong-je..." you tried to say, but he moved harder, bottoming out and forcing you to cling to his bruised shoulders.

"Say it. I want to hear it" he insisted, pausing just for a second to lock eyes with you. "Tell me you aren't leaving me again. Tell me you forgive me."

You felt your walls tighten around his cock, leaning into the pleasure surging up your spine. Your mind tried to remember the motel, his emotional detachment, and the humiliation of his coldness, but the heat of his hands on your waist and the way his voice broke when he said your name won the battle.

"Yes... I forgive you" you whispered, losing your mind as he started moving again, faster and deeper, reclaiming every inch of you.

A triumphant smirk appeared on his lips, though it vanished quickly as he leaned down to kiss you with pure possessivity. His hands clamped around your wrists and pinned them above your head, marking his territory in the crudest way possible.

"That's it... you're mine" he declared, his voice laced with a toxicity that made the hair on your neck stand up. "You're always gonna be mine. I don't care who you meet or where you go, you're always coming back to me."

The pace of his hips became unbearable, you could feel the head of his dick stretching you and hitting your cervix. Seong-je stared at you, as if wanting to brand his image into your retinas while he pushed you to the brink.

"You're my girlfriend now" he blurted out suddenly, smirking as the words tasted exquisite in his mouth.

You froze for an instant, your heart skipping a beat. He’d never said it before. You’d always been "his girl," as if you were something disposable... no official name. But now, faced with the real threat of having lost you, Seong-je was throwing his final card: the title you’d always silently begged for.

"What?" you gasped, hips moving instinctively under his.

"You heard me" he replied, his grip on your wrists tightening. "You aren't just someone I fuck. You are my girlfriend... and god help the idiot who tries to get near you at school."

The weight of that label, heavy with jealousy and a suffocating exclusivity, was the final trigger. You came with a scream that he muffled with a kiss, feeling the knot in your stomach shatter into a thousand pieces. At the same time, he tensed above you, growling your name over and over as he emptied himself inside you, painting your walls with the thick liquid that marked the end of the battle.

The silence that followed was heavy. Seong-je collapsed beside you, but it didn't take five seconds for him to pull you close again. He wrapped his arms around you, hooking his leg over yours, trapping you in his embrace as if you were his most prized possession.

"You aren't going anywhere" he murmured against your neck. "You're staying right here with me."

And you stayed there, in the dim light of the tiny office, listening to the frantic thrum of his heart and the wind rattling the metal sheets of the warehouse.

You remembered his detachment and the coldness you’d hated before… but it was gone now, replaced by a promise of a "relationship" that felt just as dirty, but much harder to break.

You knew you were trapped again. But with his heat surrounding you and his breathing leveling out against your skin, you simply closed your eyes and let yourself be carried by the current, knowing that tomorrow, the pain and the toxicity would once again be your only reality.

[ikigaidao]

Pt. 7, Pt. 8

summary: You owe him. For what?– let’s just say you and Seongje have a history that haunts you to this day.

content warning: strong language, mentions of violence, smoking

word count: 1 937

Your mind was all fuzzy.

The first thing you registered was the sharp buzzing of your phone.

It took you a few seconds to realize what had happened. And where you were. 

Seongje was nowhere to be seen–not that you were surprised. He still could be in the living room. Probably not, though. 

You stared blankly at your screen, replying to a few messages from your parents while your mind was somewhere else entirely.

mom: are you okay?

mom: miss you.

Thoughts and distant smell of him on your skin creeped up to you. It felt like vines dragging you underground. With each thought or faint smell of his cheap cologne–you were deeper and deeper in the dirt. It was choking you out. Still, no matter how much your hands tried to claw their way up, you still sinked.

The morning sun warmed your skin through the small bedroom window.

It was 7am–early enough.

You pushed yourself upright, only to immediately regret it. Your legs felt weak, tingling beneath you.

,,Shit..”

You were basically babbling random curses under your breath the whole way to Seongjes bathroom

It was small.

Just a shower, a sink, and a mirror hanging above it.

The air smelled faintly of mens shower gel and cigarette smoke. 

,,Does he have to smoke everywhere?” An annoyed huff was all that could be heard in the tiny bathroom.

Once you managed to look somewhat presentable, you headed into the living room.

Empty.

,,Of course.”

An annoyed sigh filled the empty apartment.

You checked your phone again.

Nothing.

No messages.

A knot tightened in your stomach.

When did he leave?

Did any of it mean anything?

Was all of it just lies, lies, lies?

You hated yourself for even asking. You were basically digging your own grave at this point.

Your feet carried you towards the front door, wanting to get out of the sin–filled space. It was suffocating. 

You couldn’t look at it.

The fresh air outside hit your face immediately.

It felt clean–almost cleansing.

As if the apartment behind you had never existed.

Cars passed by.

Students laughed somewhere in the distance.

The city kept moving.

Everything felt painfully normal.

Except you.

You shoved your hands into your pockets and kept walking.

A part of you regretted everything. 

Another part regretted nothing at all.

Something about Seongje was so thrilling–the way you never knew what was gonna happen next.

He was so adverse, it was killing you.

You never knew what he was thinking.

Never knew what he was going to do next.

Geum Seongje was impossible to understand.

And somehow, that only made it harder to walk away.

You never meant for it to get so far. Even when you were 17, you always kept your distance. You knew what kind of person he was. And somehow you still ended up in that bathroom in the club that night.

It was intoxicating.

Even more so than the alcohol in your system.

It felt like a freight train with no brakes. You got on, unknowing of the outcome it would have.

Stupid of you to think it would be the last time.

It was never like that with Seongje.

No matter if it was the packages, the way your body always reacted to his touch–earning that smug smirk on his face, or even whatever the hell was going on between you two.

It just kept happening.

The sharp sound of your name being called broke the spell of your daydream, bringing the bustling street rushing back into focus. 

It was Ha eun.

,,Hey, Y/N!” 

Her long black hair framed her face with her perfectly-styled bangs. Smile plastered all over her face.

You picked up on your steps, heading towards her.

The sun painted the sky a faint blush, while morning air quickly warmed against your skin as your feet carried you to your friend.

jaes pov:

The pounding of his head woke him up from the blackout sleep he was deeply in. The first thing he could hear was the beeping of a machine next to his bed.

He was in a hospital.

The room was dimly lit, curtains shut. His eyes were burning. Everything oh his body was hurting.

It took him a few minutes before he started to remember.

Seongjes look.

The way he beat Jae up.

And the reason why he did it.

Was Seongje more to Y/N than she admitted that one day in school?

His thoughts were racing, he didn’t know what to think or what to believe. All he knew was that he felt extreme rage at the fact that seongje beat him up over some bitch again. 

flashback:

He lead the way to some corner next to the stairs— ,,Look, what the hell was the other night? Where were you after? And why do you even know that guy?” He just spit the questions out on her and she knew she had to explain or he’ll keep digging until he actually finds out.

,,Look Jae, I don’t know the guy personally. I saw him a few times when i was out, yes. But that’s all. About where was I.. i had to go home,” she said firmly ,,Not like that’s any of your bussiness though.” She just scoffed, ,,Nice nose you have by the way..” Y/N smiled and turned around—walking away from him. He just stood there trying to gather some of the few things you said to him, you were never really a sharing type of a person. But something wasn’t clicking.

There was something going on.

And he will find out what the fuck is it.

You decided to go get some ramen after school with Haeun. You were both hungry and needed to get through some homework together. 

The both of you went to a ramen place near your school–it was pretty popular and had really good food. 

The place had a flickering neon light on which you knew so well. 

Oreno ramen.

The smell of noodles being made hit your senses the moment you opened the door to the place. It was huge–had two floors, pretty dim lights on, flowers all over, neon signs all over.

It was a really relaxing place to be at.

The place was absolutely crowded as always. You had to wait at the host desk for a bit before the waitress walked you to your table.

All you could smell was broth mixed with perfumes of the students and office workers here.

You didn’t even realise how relaxed your body was until you saw him.

He was a few tables in front of you, but you could clearly see him from your seat.

You stopped in your tracks.

There he was, sitting on a couch, legs spread, arms stretched out on the top of the seat.

But he wasn’t alone.

He was nothing close to being alone.

Your heart dropped– a strange heaviness settled in your chest.

You didn’t even know why. 

Its not like he was yours to begin with.

A girl.

The girl from the video.

He wasn’t touching her nor talking to her, his focus was on the group of guys around the table now. Faint sound of laughter here and there was all you could hear.

The girl was giggling at literally anything Seongje said.

,,Hey, you gonna sit down or no?” Haeun broke you out from your analysing of the whole scene unravelling in front of you.

,,Yeah, sorry” An awkward humourless laugh escaped your lips as you sat down. Your skin coated with cold sweat and absolute rage hidden under it.

The study date went on, you ordered food and you both were currently waiting for it.

You were trying to explain some equations to Haeun, then she said something so stupid that made the both of you burst out laughing.

Then you felt eyes on you.

His eyes.

You looked up, he only looked at you for a brief second.

An empty look–like you were a stranger just annoying him with being too loud for his own liking.

He looked at the guys again, talking like nothing happened. As if you were nobody. 

Then the girl put her hand on his shoulder. And he didn’t push her hand of off him.

Your throat tightened.

You looked down, the world around you shrinking all at once. He looked absolutely unaffected.

,,Here’s your ramen, ladies.” The waitress almost startled you, you shook a bit.

Get it together.

,,Oh, thank you so much.” You smiled, the scraping sound of the ceramic bowl against the wooden table as you dragged it closer to you echoed in your ears.

You’ve talked about school with Haeun for another 30 minutes, the ramen long time gone and paid for. 

You glanced at the direction of Seongje’s table again–and that’s when Haeun had enough.

,,Are you crushing on the Wolf guy or what, Y/N?” The question was absolutely innocent. Just something to tease you with.

,,What? No, no I’m not.” You shook your head immediately looking elsewhere ,,Im just annoyed they keep talking so loud.”

Your friend just nodded and looked at the table Seongje was at again,

,,You think they’re dating? They look kinda cute together..” She kept talking about something else, the question being rhetorical.

You needed to get out.

Now.

,,Haeun I’ll need to head home,” 

You started stuffing your textbooks and pens back into your bag ,,I forgot I needed to clean my room today.”

You glanced at her as you already stood up, the heavy bag resting against your shoulder.

,,Oh, okay girl, see you tomorrow.” She smiled completely unaware of your inner panic.

You just nodded, walking away from the seat before you heard your name being called.

You stopped.

,,Y/N! Thank you for the help with the homework again!” Her head was turned, facing you, as she waved you a goodbye.

You just showed her a small finger heart, before you started walking again.

You didn’t even look at Seongje again– you couldn’t.

The sun was setting outside.

The cold hit your bare skin under your skirt.

Your steps were quick, everything around you turning into a mush as you got closer and closer to home.

Small drops of rain started falling on you

Thank god you were unlocking the front door.

You slipped inside before the rain could properly start.

The apartment was quiet– too quiet.

Complete opposite of the thoughts in your head.

Your kicked your shoes off and dropped your bag near the couch. For a few seconds you just stood there.

Staring.

Thinking.

That girl.

Her hand on his shoulder, the way he didn’t move away.

The way he looked at you.

No– the way he didn’t look at you.

You laughed quietly to yourself, a pathetic sound.

,,Get over it.”

The words felt stupid the moment they left your mouth.

You two weren’t . . .anything.

You walked over to the window. The rain was getting heavier now, drops running down the glass.

You reached for your phone, no messages.

Not from him.

Not even a stupid order.

A delivery task.

Nothing.

Your stomach twisted. You hated yourself for even checking like some stupid girl crushing on someone.

You hated yourself even more for caring.

Was she your replacement? Did she do the delivery tasks now?

Outside, thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance. You locked your phone and tossed it onto the couch.

Tomorrow would be different– it had to be.

You were done letting Geum Seongje get inside your head–

Before you could even finish the thought,

Your screen lit up.

Once.

A new message.

You stared at if from across the room.

taglist: @luvnarra @d1seongjeglazer