You play a popular game you found on social media that you play with your partner, and you think it's the perfect way to get Seong-je's half-assed attention. One applies the chapstick, and the other must guess the flavor through a kiss.
Warnings: Language, nsfw content, fingering
Word Count: 1.3k
Notes: I'm currently working on requests! I've been gone for so long, but I promise I'll lock in now.
masterlist whc masterlist rules
Seong-je snuck through your window a little over two hours ago. He's leaned up against your headboard, one leg thrown over yours, while the other is propped up. He's currently playing on your console, curses quietly flowing past his lips as he mashes the buttons on your controller.
"Shit...little fucker is probably playing on his brother's account. We all know you aren't level 420, ugly little shit." he curses, eating the chocolate-covered acai and blueberries he got for you.
The reason why Seong-je was even over was because you had sent him a photo of a cute dress you had found at the thrift store. As pretty as it was, it was incredibly short. You thought that maybe if you provoked him, he'd come over and finally give you the attention you've been craving.
Instead, he's in your bed, eating the snacks he bought for you and playing on your console like a bum.
"Seong-je." you nudge him.
"Hm." he hums, not looking away from your TV.
You stare at him a little longer, waiting to see if he'd ask for the follow-up, but he was clearly occupied. You roll your eyes and lie on your side, turning away from him. You scroll on your phone, liking videos your friends had posted, when you remember why you invited him over.
You came across a cute trend where couples guess Chapstick flavors by kissing each other, taste-testing each flavor. You quickly sit back up, stretching your body over his lap as you reach into your bedside table. You pull out the chapstick packaging of several flavors you found at some cheap dollar store.
Right as Seong-je finishes his game, you face him, sitting with your legs crossed. You push the chapstick into his hands.
Seong-je looks down at his lap, thinking you got him a gift, only to see the cheap knock-off brands of chapstick. Hershey, Skittles, Strawberry, Cola, etc.
"What are you, a kid? What is this?" he tears the packaging open, picking up the Redbull flavor. "This is the equivalent of when you go shopping at Bath and Body Works and only get those nasty food-scented perfumes."
You frown. "You told me you liked my strawberry poundcake."
"I lied."
You gather the tiny cylinders in your hands, putting them in your lap.
"I wanna play the Chapstick game. I saw it on TikTok." you urge.
Seong-je thinks for a second before he nods once. "The game where you guess all the flavors and shit? I've seen that before."
"Yes!" you exclaim excitedly. "Okay, so you know the rules. Come on, put that down. Let's play."
He sighs, placing your controller down and sitting up. "Alright, Princess. Let's play."
"I'm going first. Close your eyes!"
The edge of Seong-je's mouth quirks up into a smirk as he reluctantly shut his eyes. You pick a random flavor in the pile of many flavors, lathering your lips with it.
"Okay, open!"
He opens his eyes. Now, to guess. He leans in, tilting your chin upwards towards him. His lips meet yours, prompting your eyes to close in bliss. He deepens the kiss, his tongue swiping against your bottom lip before he abruptly pulls back.
"That shit tastes like lizard ankles."
You laugh, concealing the true flavor in your clenched hand.
"No, that's not a guess."
He leans back, wiping his mouth. "That's got to be like, slime or something."
"It's Sprite."
"That was sprite...?" he asked in disbelief, looking at the flavor you presented to him.
"Okay, it's your turn. Pick one." You close your eyes, waiting patiently.
You can hear Seong-je rustling through the flavors before finally picking one. He doesn't tell you he's done, nor does he tell you to open your eyes. He just slams his lips against yours, pushing you down towards the bed. You let out an involuntary moan, hand sliding up his chest as you try to taste the flavor on his lips.
Seong-je's teeth bite down on your tongue, causing you to gasp out in pain. He smiles down at you, relishing in the pain he inflicted on you. You look up at him through your lashes, licking your lips, trying to taste the flavor.
"Is it...Cola?"
Seong-je gave you a tight-lipped smile, shaking his head. He placed his hand on your chest, squeezing your breast shamelessly.
"Nope. That's wrong, Princess." his hand trails down. "For every answer you get wrong, my hand will go lower."
Your breath hitches in your throat as you feel his large, calloused hand slide down your stomach.
"Liquorice?" you guess, rubbing your thighs together.
"Nope." he huffs, hand now rubbing your lower belly. "One more guess."
"Pepsi?"
Seong-je sighs, giving you a moment to process the silence before slipping his hand past the waistband of your underwear.
"Three guesses, and you got them all wrong, Baby." he smiles, palm sliding down your freshly shaven skin. "You've lost."
You let out a whimper, wrapping your hand around the wrist of the hand buried in your underwear. His lips find your neck, his free hand angling your head backwards.
"This isn't...fair," you protest. "This isn't how you play the game."
Seong-je's kisses turned into nips as his fingers found their way towards your entrance. His free hand hooks underneath your knee, spreading your legs so he'd have more access.
His fingers, playing in your heat, finally dip into your aching entrance, relieving you of the emptiness that had been bothering you all day. You gasp, burying your mouth in the palm of your hand. He must've forgotten your parents are still home.
You grind your hips against his hand as his fingers curl against your g-spot, rolling your eyes to the back of your head.
"Right there," Seong-je speaks to himself, making a mental note of where you like it best.
The rolls of chapstick were long forgotten, some across your floor after they had rolled off the bed. You were hot, and the room felt like it was closing in on you with each passing minute. You clench around his fingers, embarrassed that it didn't take you long to get close.
"Already?" he laughs, his other hand gripping your knee, making sure you kept your legs spread, while the other pumped two fingers inside of you. "That's even quicker than last time."
Your face flushed with a mix of embarrassment and pleasure. Your whimpers progressed into moans as each pump brought you closer to the edge, and it didn't help that he added another finger.
The hallway light flickered on, followed by the sounds of footsteps. Your parents.
"Honey?" your mother's voice calls out, startling you. "Are you still awake?"
Your body goes stiff at the sound of her voice. You try to get Seong-je to stop, but a wicked grin formed on his face. He curled his three fingers around your weak spot, making your back arch.
"Careful now," Seong-je warns with that shit-eating grin. "Don't wanna be too loud, now do we?"
You stare at your boyfriend in betrayal, coughing in your hand to mask a moan.
"I was studying, Mom. I'm going to bed now." You lie easily.
The light eventually shuts off, making your body relax. You're filled with ecstasy and relief as you clench around him, feeling the knot tie in your lower belly. His fingers come to a slow stop, coated in your liquids.
You breathe heavily, chest heaving as the ceiling of your bedroom spins in your vision. While you slowly come back down to Earth, Seong-je rubs your thigh with his thumb, bringing his coated hand towards his mouth.
He sucks his fingers off, not once breaking his glare on you.
synopsis: seongje turning into a whining pathetic masochist after his girl slaps him in an argument. lol.
cw: MDNI, aged up obviously, slapping, spitting, choking, biting, handjob, thigh riding, overstimulation, masochism, sadism, seongje crying lowkey, pet names
you wanted to see him like this. it was rare but the rarity of it was what got you going; seeing seongje below you, whimpering like a pathetic dog. you were in complete control and there was nothing more you enjoyed than abusing it.
after an aggravating argument with the poor guy under you, you lost your composure, ready to walk out of the door until seongje grabbed your wrists, dragging you back into his room. his domineering presence, threatening and intimidating, pushing you against a wall. in times like these, you felt helpless. you hated how he towered over you with that malicious glint in his eyes, teasing at you, pointing a finger at you with that shit-eating cheshire grin on his face. the smell of cigarettes clawed at your throat, punching you in the lungs. and that’s all seongje needed to have you cornered and submit to him.
but today, today was not the day. today he failed to do that. today you were the one to push at his chest until you cornered him into a wall and when he tried to stop your one hand, you used the other to slap his face. you didn’t mean to be violent nor did you mean to hurt him. you were just overwhelmed with the heat in the room and your anger and just him.
it was just one painful slap.
that one painful slap turned something in your boyfriend. something dark. something dangerous. as if he were possessed by a demon, his head slapped to the side, he laughed, adams’s apple bobbing and shoulders shaking. when he turned to you, your stomach churned in fear and anticipation— a sadistic coil. you were enjoying it. so was he.
“did you just slap me, sweetheart?” he raised a brow, that same snarky glint in his eyes.
“i did.” you breathed, staggering a little back from him seeing the maniacal, livid look in his eyes that could devastate a whole audience.
“my baby girl just hit me.” he stated to himself.
his eyes dead on you. the shift in atmosphere weighed down on you. it was hot and fuzzy and you couldn’t ignore the desire and need in your stomach from the way he gazed at you. seongje tilted his head back with a airy chuckle before coming to an abrupt stop. another look at your eyes and then at your lips.
“do it again.” he ordered, “slap me.”
“w-what?” you wavered, unsure of what just came out of your boyfriend’s mouth.
with another step back you watched him pull himself off against the wall to lunge at you. no second to breathe or grasp onto what just happened, seongje was onto you. he bit your bottom lip with a low groan. he glided his tongue over the bite before smacking another kiss to your parted mouth. it was more a kiss to your teeth than it was to your lips that were slightly trembling from the shock. he pulled away, breathless and red, sweat forming on his temple. a swift slide of his fingers and his glasses were off and thrown onto the night stand.
“don’t make me ask again, y/n.” he purred, his breath tickling your cheeks, “slap me.”
it took you a minute to register it all and you came to the realization that he’d probably do anything to get slapped in the face by his pretty girlfriend right now and you’d take advantage of that. take advantage of him. work him dry.
“what if i said no?” you asked, biting your bottom lip gentler than seongje had.
seongje tilted his head to the side in amusement, a low chuckle barreling in his chest, the fluorescent light revealed the red mark from your palm on his chisled face. his jaw was taut. that hunger in his eyes only raging by the second. every breath he took came out shallow as if he were holding himself back. you jutted your jaw out in false confidence, wanting to tease him more; get on his nerves until he broke.
“geum seongje. if you want me to slap you get on the bed.” you demanded with a light nudge on his shoulder.
you stood face-to-face with him with a smirk threatening to creep up your face. you enjoyed the slight, barely noticeable surprise in his face. it turned you on.
“don’t make me ask again, seongje.” you mocked him, “get on the bed.”
“okay. whatever you say, darling.” he complied with a nod and a smirk.
once he was on the edge of the bed, you swiftly straddled his laps, pushing him in the shoulders until he fell flat on his back with a low cuss. he raised a brow in question, amused, watching you crawl over him. your hair falling over his face as you bit his earlobe, a low teasing moan escaping your lips. by now, you could feel his hard-on pressing the side of your inner thigh through his sweatpants. you used your knees to push it down on his cock, earning a low groan.
“what do you think you’re doing?” he hissed, snaking his hands over your waist to stop you but you pinch him away earning another pained groan.
“you wanted this. so, take it.” you spoke through gritted teeth, grabbing his hard on with your hand “you’re so hard. just by this? you’re pathetic.”
“fuck— are you—“ you undo the strings in his sweat pants, pulling it down with his boxers, springing his twitching cock free.
pre-cum dropped from his tip, causing you to giggle. you sat between his thigh, lightly rubbing your clothed clit against it.
thwack.
you spit on your hands, making a lubricant to use to rub on his hot cock. your strokes are slow and calculated, your fists balling on his cock as you pumped agonizingly low. seongje’s brows furrowed in frustration wanting more. he bucked his hips into your fist only to get slapped in the face. hard.
“sh-shit, baby, could you go faster?” he asked, his voice cracking.
“tsk. that’s not how you ask, now is it?” you tutted, shaking your head in teasing disappointment “say please like a good boy. hmm?”
you stopped moving your hands. waiting for his plead. continuing to rub yourself against his thigh.
“p-please.” his voice came out ragged and broken. you slapped him in the face again, his face turning red. his hair a tousled mess.
“say it louder, boy.” you urged. relishing in the desperate look in his eyes. he looked completely gone.
“fuck— please— go faster!” he begged swallowing hard.
“atta boy.” you took that chance to grab his throat with one hand to squeeze it hard with no mercy until he started to audibly choke and gasp. with the other hand you started stroking harsher and faster, making him twitch and whimper with a choke.
you squeezed his cock harder and his throat. thumbing his tip to make him more sensitive, his eyelashes lined with tears that you had never seen before and your thighs clenched agaist his thighs, rubbing onto your clit in an overwhelmingly hot sensation that made you moan a little too loud. seongje struggled in your hold, gasping for air when you let go of his throat. relentlessly, you pumped his cock upwards and down until hot, white spurts of cum splattered out onto your wrists and hand. but you didn’t stop. you forced your weight onto him, riding his thighs until you reached your own climax and closed your eyes to feel the sensation take over you. your panties were soaking wet, clit sensitive causing you to twitch and writhe over your sensitive boyfriend who looked like he was about to cry.
tears and drool fell down his beautiful face. his brown hair a mess, and his taunting smirk replaced with parted lips that released whimpers and low, guttural groans. he tried to grab onto your wrist one more time only to get slapped hard in the face by you. your hands pumped mercilessly on his cock, his body twitching and shaking from overstimulation.
a cry escaped his lips “gosh, y/n. slap me again. i love it when you slap me. please.”
“yeah? you like it? open your mouth.” you said, bringing your hand up to his throat. he complied, opening his mouth. a glob of your spit trickled sloppily down his mouth, some of it splattering onto his bottom lips “swallow.”
he swallowed hard, an embarrassing high-pitched moan leaving his mouth as he pleaded for you to slap him and you did. he pleaded again. slap. slap. slap.
“o-oh my god—ngh—“ he gasped with every sensation that struck every vein in his body, “feel s’good. fuck— just like that, baby, just like that.”
“f-fuck—i’m gonna— i’m gonna cum— i’m gonna cum!” he whined, holding onto your wrist for support. his eyes rolled back, mouth parting open into a silent moan. his deep voice now a pitch higher.
he came undone for a second time. bucking his hips up into your fist in desperate attempt to ground himself.
a thick rod of his white cum spurt out of his veiny cock. seongje drawled out a long shuddering sigh, whimpering thanks yous. his face contorting from the soreness of getting slapped over and over. poor boy looked used up. flushed red and droopy eyed. seongje laid breathless and used up below. a look of surrender making its way into his eyes as if to say “you won”. the asshole smirk of his wiped right off.
You get into a fight, and Seong-je is left to patch up your bruises when normally the roles are reversed.
ᯓ fluff I wc : 2.0k I established relationship
ᯓ➤ swearing, mild violence
Not proofreading because im really lazy so apologies for any repetitive wording, grammar mistakes, etc.
───────────────────────
Shoes hitting the ground firmly and preciously, you walked down the street, a few feet away from your house.
The atmosphere was cloudy and gloomy. It was a clear indication that it was going to start pouring soon along with the sound of roaring thunder and small purplish streaks of lighting can be seen within the fluffy clouds.
As much as you enjoyed the rain, now was the worst time of the day for it. You felt anger coursing through your veins still.
Every little thing seemed to boil your frustration even more, indulging into the fact that you got into a very unpleasant fight on your way home from girls who envied you.
You couldn’t bother less to understand or know why.
So, after a very unnecessary fight, you continued your way to your house with messy and tangled hair, bruised knuckles, and wrinkled clothing.
Not only did you look like a mess, you also felt like a mess. Admittedly, you wanted to cry. Like a soda bottle that’s being violently shaken up and due to the amount of pressure the inside is holding, it blows up the lid and all of the liquid pours out like a waterfall uncontrollably.
Life was stressful, and the stupid fight that you were forced into did not help, in fact, it made things worse for you. All it gave you was a sore body, bruised knuckles, and anger that had nowhere to go.
You continued walking, your hands slapping your face in irritation at the reoccurring memories, you wiped your tears rather aggressively and took a deep breath, not bothering to acknowledge the slight heat that was forming onto your cheeks and forehead from the pressure of your hands.
Finally reaching your home, you opened the door and entered. You sighed, letting the air hit your lungs while kicking your shoes off and throwing your backpack carelessly against the wall.
Both of your parents were at work, so it was just you in the home.
Which is what you thought.
When you finally got inside, your face twisted into confusion within the sight that beholded in front of you.
In the living room of your home was your boyfriend, Geum Seong-je.
He sat on the soft cushions of your sofa, the sound of cartoony voices with sound effects coming from the video game on his phone that was in his grip. When he saw you come through the door and saw the state you were in, he was a bit taken back to say the least. Not because you were hurt, but because you looked like you got jumped by wild animals.
So of course, he laughed.
“You look like shit,” He snickered, making fun of you.
“What are you doing here?” You asked.
“I wanted to stop by, see how you were doing.” He told you, turning his head away from you and onto his phone.
The front of the sofa was facing away from you, so Seong-je’s back was toward you.
You grumbled before you made your way towards the bathroom. The thought of what happened earlier flashed through your mind and you can feel your body tensing up. Normally you would’ve told him to shut up humorously, but considering the events of today, you couldn’t care less.
“What happened?” Seong-je asked you before he himself got up, following you into the bathroom.
You smack your lip, “Got into some stupid fight.” You quickly told him, not wanting to think about it much longer.
He hummed amusingly.
Once the both of you were in the bathroom, you reached over to open up the cabinet before Seong-je grabbed your wrist. “Let me,” he said, placing your arm back to your side.
“Suit yourself.”
Obediently, you sat on top of the toilet lid, hands resting on your lap with the sight of knuckles bruised with a red that was slowly fading into a dull purple tone, along with crusted dried blood sitting on top. Not only that, a small cut also ran across your cheek.
As you wait patiently for Seong-je, you can feel your entire body aching sorely. Brushing aside the uncomfortable pain, you sat silently, listening to the sound of plastic bottles and products being shuffled around the inside of your cabinets by your boyfriend.
“Thought you hated fighting?” Seong-je questioned you as he searched for a bandage wrap tape, holding a cloth–wrapped bag.
“Dont.” You started sharply.
Your boyfriend laughed at your half-assed threat.
Your leg started bouncing up a bit at the reoccurring memories of earlier, and you could feel your eyes slowly burning up and throat tightening.
The feeling of your eyes slowly pricking up with water snapped you back into reality. Jaw tightening as you got lost in your thoughts. You were angry. So why were you getting teary-eyed?
One thing you disliked about yourself was how you cried when you felt any sort of outrage. It could be mistaken as weakness and you despised that. You weren’t weak, crying doesn’t mean you’re weak or sad.
Right?
Suddenly, you felt a soft tap on your shoulder. Looking over, you spot the cloth that was wrapped around the pack of ice being held out for you. Your boyfriend's gaze was still on the cabinet, not bothering to look at you considering he wanted to get this over with.
“Take it.” He commanded.
Reaching out to grab it, your fingertips immediately feel the cold, freezing sensation of the ice cubes. Once the bag was in your hands, you placed it on top of your knuckles, shivering at the frosty feeling that was now touching your skin.
“Not so much of an angel anymore, huh?” He clicked his tongue before shutting the cabinet. A bandage tape was held in the palm of his hand whilst he turned his body to face you. He took a brief second to scan his eyes over you and your knuckles before scoffing at you.
You didn’t say a word, not building up the courage to. Your emotions were still brewing up inside you, and a single slip up could have them spilling everywhere, so you weren’t willing to take the risk.
“Stand up.” He told you.
Obliging, you slowly push yourself off the toilet lid, and immediately your legs enveloped in a sore ache. Your eyes remained glued onto the floor, not wanting to look up in fear of bursting into tears.
Seong-je’s index finger went underneath your chin and turned your head up, making you look at him. You both stared at each other, his eyes having something unreadable swimming within them.
You knew he could see how upset you were. The way your eyes locked onto his and how glossy and vulnerable they looked.
He shook his head in a mocking disapproval way, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek before pulling the cloth with the ice bag away from your bruises and started wrapping them in bandages.
“Don’t get into any more fights.” He spoke out softly, making sure he didn’t say anything that would snap the final string of your waterfall.
“Ironic coming from you.” You mumbled.
“It’s different.”
“How so, huh?”
“How about you shut that mouth of yours, huh?” He mocked you, making you roll your eyes.
Once he was finished wrapping your hand injuries, he made sure to clean the cut on your face with an antibiotic and placed a bandaid on top.
As he was making sure to put everything back in their original spot, you stood there patiently. “Thank you, Seong-je.”
He gave you a small ‘mhm’.
Your eyes made way onto your patched—up, beaten knuckles.
Usually things would go the other way around, Seong-je would come home to you with bruises and small minor injuries and you were left to be the one who patched him up. Cleaning his wounds and bandaging them up as you scolded him for getting into another pointless fight.
Even with all the union stuff, he still made sure to slightly keep down the fighting even if it took lots, and you mean lots of convincing.
Once he was done putting your products back into their original place, he turned his head to you.
“What made you jump at them?” He asked curiously, referring to the very obvious fight you had earlier.
Grumbling, you look away. “I didn’t.”
“What?”
“They hit me first.” You spoke, placing your hands into the pockets of your hoodie.
Seong-je stood there for a second before he made a small ‘hm’ sound, slight possessiveness hidden behind it.
He didn’t like the thought of people touching you, let alone let people hurt you. Normally he would push back the feeling, but when it came to someone injuring you, that was a different story.
“Let me fuck them up.” Seong-je abruptly said.
You scoffed, “Yeah, no Seong-je.” Quickly disapproving the idea.
Regardless if you said no, you knew he was still most likely going to find them and gouge out their eyeballs.
You sighed in defeat knowing you really can’t control your boyfriend for the most part. Your gaze was now shifting from him and towards your shower.
A hot steamy shower session did sound nice at the moment.
A sudden touch was on your shoulder, and when you looked back Seong-je was wrapping his arms around your waist and rested his chin on your shoulder.
Smiling, your hand raised up to his hair, massaging his head as you felt the rims of his glasses tickling your neck.
“Be careful next time.” He murmured, staying completely still, not wanting to move. “If you get your shit rocked again I’m not helping.”
You giggled, knowing that he didn’t actually mean that. If you did get beaten the shit out of you, he would most likely be on a mission to kill someone. “You got it.”
Seong-je tapped your hip lightly, signaling that he wanted to grab your attention, you hummed at the gesture.
One of his hands left your waist and he dug into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out his phone. “Wanna see a picture of this guy that I beat the hell out of earlier?” He proudly asked, and whenever you told him no he completely dismissed your words and still insisted on showing you.
His arm went around your waist once again with his phone in hand, raising the technology device up to your face.
“What did this one do?” You quired, your eyes going onto the boy's bruises as he was slumped over a fence.
“Baek-jin sent me to recruite a new school top dog, and he decided to one up me like a fucking moron.” He chuckled, looking at the picture from your shoulder.
You shook your head in a dramatic disapproval manner, “Not surprised. You see red when you're mad.”
Seong-je’s free hand made its way towards your cheek, pinching it in which earned him dramatic squeals of ‘ow’s and hisses in pain from you. It was like he was telling you to shut up.
“You done?” He asked before letting go of your cheeks, a satisfied smile playing on his face.
“Jerk.” You groaned, placing your hand onto your face to soothe out the area that was previously being pinched.
Your boyfriend's lips made their way to your neck, pressing a small kiss. “Can we go lay down.” He asked.
“I have to shower, I smell.” You said to him.
“So?” He questioned, unbothered.
You gave him a look of your own, “So let me shower.”
“Im giving you twenty five minutes and if you aren’t out the bathroom by then I’m breaking down your door.”
“Oh my god, okay deal, now go.” You waved your hands outward at him, signaling him to get out as he got off you and stepped back, ready to head out.
He chuckled, pushing his glasses back on the bridge of his nose and giving you a smug smile before walking out and shutting the door behind him, letting you give yourself the therapy your sore body yearned for.
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.
"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.
Geum Seong-je X GN!partner who isn't afraid of him but avoids him at first
"It's not love, nor is it hate. It's something else. Something between fire and nothingness. A flame that doesn't warm, that burns for no reason. That burns just because it wants to. Like him."- Geum Seong-je
He has this way of walking as if he's conquered every corner of hell and left his crown there. That smirk, the one born without warmth, crackling like broken glass in a leaden silence.
He's crazy, they think. Unstable. Cruel. He's not a boy. He's a storm whose eyes promise only ruin.
And yet, you, you've never been afraid.
You avoid him, yes. Not out of fear, but out of self-preservation. Not because you dread him, but because you know oceans destroy what they love. And Seong-je is an ocean that wants no shelters. It wants shipwrecks.
He noticed you.
Not as he notices others – with that mocking expression first, like a hungry animal playing with its prey before disemboweling it. No. He looked at you once and didn't laugh. He stared. For a long time. As if he'd never seen anyone exist without fear in front of him. As if you were a flaw in the code of his world.
Then you ignored him. And that, he didn't understand.
→ FIRST CONTACT
He doesn't need to speak for everyone to feel his presence. But with you, he speaks. Not to explain himself. Not to convince. Just to see if you tremble when he speaks low.
"What exactly are you playing at?"
You look at him. Don't answer.
"I'm talking to you."
His voice isn't soft. It's raw, split with arrogance and acid. You reply:
"I'm not listening to you."
He laughs. A short, almost shocked laugh. No one says things like that to him. And that snicker he lets out is far from happy. He thirsts. To understand. To dissect what you hide beneath your calm. Because there's no calm in his world. Just lies neatly tucked into bursts of violence.
He starts appearing in your line of sight. Everywhere. In the hallways. Near your locker. In front of your door. Not to talk to you. To spy on you. Like a predator who's seen something rare and doesn't understand why he can't make it flee.
→HE DOESN'T UNDERSTAND WHY YOU STAY IN HIS HEAD.
Geum Seong-je isn't one to ruminate. He fights. He screws. He destroys.
But you, you remained.
→ FIRST BREAKTHROUGH
The day you come back with blood on your chin, his gaze tears into you. It's not compassion. It's rage. To see that someone touched you. Not him. Someone else.
You don't want to talk. He doesn't like that. So he clenches his teeth. Then follows you. All day. Like a silent warning to the whole world: "Don't touch what's mine." And yet, you're not his. You never were.
Not yet.
→ FIRST CONNECTION
You find him one evening, alone, gaze lost on a wall, knuckles still stained with blood. He has that empty expression, like a kid who no longer knows why he broke the toy.
He doesn't look at you. You sit down. In silence.
He says:
"I like nothing about people. I searched. I found nothing. It's hollow."
And you reply:
"Maybe that's because you're not looking in the right place."
And for a moment, just one, he doesn't laugh. He looks at you as if he's just felt an emotion for the first time. And it bothers him.
→ DIFFICULT BEGINNINGS
Geum Seong-je doesn't know how to be tender. He learned that tenderness doesn't survive. His love manifests as brutal protection, as the fierce glare he gives to those who approach you, as the heavy hand he places on your shoulder to guide you through the crowd, not to suffocate you, but to ensure he's watching over you.
He doesn't understand small gestures, cute texts, trivial gifts. But he remembers every word you say. He remembers you don't drink coffee in the morning. So he hands you a hot drink he bought without a word. This is his way of loving: silent, instinctive, visceral.
→ POSSESSIVENESS
He doesn't know how to love. He wants. He takes. He keeps. He crushes. Not out of malice, but out of reflex. Like an animal that doesn't know love is given, not devoured.
He sometimes destroys you without realizing it. Talks to you like throwing a glass against a wall, to hear the sound it makes. Then he comes back. Touches your cheek as if it might break.
You stay. Not because you excuse him. Because you see something else. The emptiness in his eyes after the anger. That fear he never shows, but that resonates in his silences.
→ WHEN HE TRULY FALLS IN LOVE
It's not a spectacular moment. It's a mundane scene: you're laughing while reading a book. He watches you. And suddenly, he realizes he'd kill for that sound. That if someone silenced your laugh, he'd lose everything. Not out of dependence, no. But because that laugh is proof that beauty still exists in his world.
That day, he takes your hand. Not out of habit. But because his doubts are weaker than his desire to keep you.
→ FIRST KISS
It's brutal. Nothing tender. He presses you against a wall, his hand in your hair, his mouth like a fierce slap. He devours you. Because he doesn't know how else to do it. Because he believes that's how you hold someone.
But you don't moan. You don't cry. You respond. With the same intensity. And that's when he understands you were never afraid.
→ THE AFTERMATH
He starts to change. Not quickly. Not smoothly. He still growls. He still hits. But he waits for you. He watches you sleep as if watching a comet pass in a sky he thought extinguished.
He starts to ask:
"Did you eat?"
And for him, that's a declaration of love.
→ CONFLICT
One day you leave, without warning. Not for long. Just a few hours. But for him, it's a betrayal. He destroys an entire room. Yells. Finds you. And he doesn't shout.
He looks at you and says:
"I can't survive if you put me out. You get it? I'm not made for solitude. I'm not made for calm. But you, you're here, and I'm not moving. You get it? You don't move. I'll destroy you if you move."
You place your hand on his chest. His heart pounds like a caged animal.
"Then don't make me a prison."
He recoils. He understands.
→ THEIR NIGHTS
He doesn't make love. He devours. Every night is an implosion. He takes you as if he's going to die. Because he doesn't know how to do things by halves. It's full of an almost painful desire, a need to prove to himself that you are real, that you both bleed the same way. He likes marks. He likes scratches. He likes leaving traces. Not to possess. To bear witness. As if your body is the only page he knows how to write on. Sometimes, when you're asleep, he runs his fingers over your skin silently. He looks at you like one looks at a treasure you're not supposed to touch.
It's there, in that silence, that he's in love.
→ THE TRUTH
He will never be simple. Never gentle. But he will be real. Every beat, every glance, every word is raw, pure, clumsy but sincere.
And you are the only person he has ever looked at without thinking of breaking.
Because for the first time in his life, he wants to keep. Not possess. Just... keep.
And that, for Geum Seong-je, is love.
→ HIM
Love, if you can call it that, with Geum Seong-je, is like a cigarette you smoke knowing it's killing you. It's a fire you caress because you've forgotten how to be cold. It's brutal, without promise. Without a safety net.
But he is there. Whole. Massive. True.
And you are the only place in the world where he feels almost human. Not cleansed. Not saved. Just... seen. In all his darkness. And accepted anyway.
"I don't want you to leave. I don't want... you to look at me like that again. Like I'm poison. I'm not poison. I'm... I don't know what I am. But when you touch me, I feel like I exist for something other than breaking things."
He struggles to sleep when you're not there. He won't admit it. He'll go to bed in jeans, light a cigarette, get annoyed at nothing. But he won't sleep. Because without your breath in the room, it's too quiet. Too empty. Too much like his own head.
He becomes possessive, of course. Maliciously jealous. He wants you all to himself, completely. He can't stand others around you. He watches you like an animal guarding its only water source. Because if you leave, there's nothing left. He knows it.
And he says it, one night, his voice broken between two sighs:
"I'll kill you if you leave me. I'm not kidding. I'll kill myself. Or both. I don't want... I don't want to go back to what I was. With you, I'm not healed, I'm not better. But I'm... I'm something else. And I like it. Damn, I like it."
→ HIS FLAW
He doesn't know how to say sorry. But he knows how to be silent.
When he's messed up, he doesn't come with flowers. He doesn't come as a hero. He sits down. He waits. He looks at you like one looks at a sentence.
He listens to you. He clenches his teeth. And he promises, eyes damp, that he will try. Not to be perfect. Just not to lose you again.
And when you open your arms to him, he cries silently. Because you've just done what no one has ever done for him: taught him that violence is not an inevitability.
He has sleepless nights. You are there.
He doesn't wake you. He gets up, squats in the kitchen, smoking in silence.
You slip behind him. You rest your chin on his shoulder. You don't speak. You stay. He never asked for this. But he doesn't tell you, because he's afraid that if the words come out, you'll disappear with them.
So he drags on his cigarette, and blows smoke into the night. And you hold him. Each time a little longer.
→ THE FEAR OF LOVE
He loves you, but he's afraid of it. Because if anyone discovers he loves you, you become a weakness. And if he loses you, he loses the only thing still tethering him to the human he once was.
So sometimes, he pushes you away. Not because he doesn't care. But because he thinks your love is undeserved. He tells himself you'll eventually leave, like the others. That you'll see his violence-stained hands, his haunted gaze, and you'll flee.
But you stay. You hold his hand when he clenches his fists. You call him gently when he drifts too far into his anger. And slowly, he begins to believe that maybe, just maybe, he has the right to love.
→ THE SMALL VICTORIES
He once told you, "I didn't fight today."
You kissed him as if he'd just won a world.
He said, "Thank you." You looked at him with a smile. "For what?"
"For not looking at me like everyone else."
→ THE FUTURE HE DARED NOT DREAM OF
One evening, in his bed, he asked you: "Do you think someone like me can have a tomorrow with someone like you?"
You replied: "You already have a today. And that's already a hell of an achievement."
He kissed you like one clings to life.
And for the first time, he smiled gently. "We'll see tomorrow, then."
→ OTHERS
When you touch him, he doesn't move. He observes. He analyzes. But when you look at him with something other than desire, he panics. He closes off. You've learned to love him in the cracks, in moments stolen between storms. He doesn't know how to be smooth. He doesn't know how to be gentle. But he's there. And sometimes, that's more than enough.
You often find him in places where he has no business being. On a rooftop. In an empty hallway. In a deserted gym. And each time he sees you, he smiles, but not with happiness. With chaos. As if your appearance were a new variable to destroy. And yet, he never pushes you away.
He has that nervous, almost cruel laugh when you do something silly or tender. He treats you as if he barely tolerates you, but he always leans in when you speak. He pretends not to care, but he remembers every word. He never tells you goodnight, but he stays awake until you fall asleep.
And in the darkest moments, when you doubt everything, it's him who appears. Not with words, but with a presence. A hand on your thigh. A fixed gaze. He promises nothing. He doesn't reassure. He just shows you he's there, and for now, that's enough.
............................* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊
CONCLUSION –
LOVE ACCORDING TO GEUM SEONG-JE
It wasn't soft, not easy, not Hollywood.
But it was real. Burning. Raw. At the edge of the heart.
Geum Seong-je loved like he fought: without backing down, without a plan. But when he loved you, he did it without fleeing. With all the chaos he was.
And in a world that had always seen him as a threat, he had found, with you, the right to be fragile. To be loved.
To be a human, not a storm.
And that, for him, was more than love. It was redemption.
summary; after a whole day of feeling sick, seongje takes care of you
warnings; fluff, established relationship, some swearing, use of ‘baby’, reader is sick, seongje is being soft and is completely whipped
notes; i feel like it’s too long and it might be ooc, i’m sorry if the writing his bad, i got super lazy toward the end:( also just to clarify than english isn’t my first language so if there are any mistakes, i’m sorry
the sound of rain hitting the windows was the only sound that enveloped the library, which was surprisingly very quiet at this hour.
a few people walked between the aisles looking for a book, while students sat at tables, engrossed in their homework or study books.
school ended a few hours ago, the sun was already beginning to set, the sky taking on a grayish color due to the bad weather. streetlights were already shining, some flickering like dying stars.
you were slumped over the table your friends had chosen two hours ago, your head resting against your arms as a faint snoring sound escaped your parted lips.
“[name]..” your friend that was sitting right next to you gently shook your shoulder as she tried to wake you up. but it was mission impossible. you had fallen asleep an hour ago and nothing seemed to bother you in your sleep.
your friend shook your shoulder again, this time a little bit stronger. “she’s drooling on her textbook.” your other friend who was sitting in front of you said, the both of them chuckling at the sight.
as she pulled her phone to capture the moment, you seemed to know an embarrassing amount of pictures were going to be taken and suddenly woke up, groaning softly.
you lifted your head up, feeling a pang of pain shooting right up your neck because ot the uncomfortable position you had been sleeping in. your two friends laughed even harder when they noticed the mark of your bracelets on your cheek as you looked around a bit confused.
last time your eyes were open, it was still bright and sunny. now, it was just rainy and getting dark which made you pout in frustration. “why didn’t you wake me up?” you said with your voice a bit raspy, feeling completely exhausted and sore.
your head was pounding even more than before you fell asleep, your throat hurt whenever you tried to swallow and you felt so cold. you weren’t feeling any better than this morning.
“we tried, believe us or not.” your friend sitting on your right said as she looked back at her homework. the other one stared at you for a few seconds before unexpectedly reaching over the table to touch your forehead with the back of her hand.
the touch caught you off guard, your body slightly leaning back to avoid it, but she was already making a weird grimace. “you’re burning up. are you sure you’re okay? you’ve been acting differently all day.” she said worriedly.
your other friend reached out to touch your forehead too, making you pull back again with a ‘tsk’ as you hated being touched on the face. you ended up using the back of your hand to touch your forehead anyway, feeling that you were indeed burning hot.
“i don’t know. i’ve been feeling sick since this morning. i thought sleeping for a bit would help but i just feel worse.” you spoke more quietly, scratching the top of your head.
both of your friends looked at each other with concern before looking back at your tired face. “you should probably go home. get some rest and eat something.” one of them said softly as she closed some of your open notebooks on the table.
“yeah, we’ll study with you another time.” the other said as she patted your shoulder once in a sign of affection, but you barely noticed it as your head started hurting even more. you just nodded, starting to pack your things up.
they helped you, silence settling between the three of you until your bag was filled with all your textbooks. “do you want me to call a taxi for you?” the one on your right asked as you put on your coat. you stopped for a second, looking at the time on your phone.
“no, don’t worry, i’ll text seongje.” you said softly, putting your scarf on in a messy way. they just nodded, knowing it wasn’t something to argue about.
when you were ready to go, you waved at the both of them while grabbing your bag. “take care, [reader]. text us when you get home.” one of them said as you smiled at her. “i will!” you assured them, making your way to the exit.
it was only you now, making your way down the stairs to the main lobby, feeling completely sick and tired. it wasn’t just a little cold, you knew it. your head was pounding way too hard and your body felt way too sore to just be something so small.
it was still raining outside. maybe less than a few minutes ago, but the weather was still just as cold and discouraging. you sat down on a bench near the door, pulling your phone out of your pocket with a sigh.
it’s only now that you noticed the texts seongje sent you in the last hour:
seongje<3
are u still at the library? 5:08pm
call me if you need anything 5:10pm
i’m dealing with some bullshit rn 5:11pm
miss u baby 5:13pm
you smiled softly at your screen, thumbs hovering over the screen as you thought about if you should bother him or not. he said he had things to deal with, probably related to the union, so it must be important.
but then again, you were feeling completely shitty and you didn’t have any energy left to walk home or take the bus.
you
can you please come and pick me up? 5:58pm
seongje<3
is there something wrong baby? 5:59pm
i’m omw 5:59pm
you
i just don’t feel so good 6:00pm
i wanna go home 6:00pm
seongje<3
alright 6:02pm
wait for me inside i’ll be there soon 6:02pm
you simply locked your phone after receiving the confirmation that he was coming to get you, sighing as your head hit the back of the wall right behind you.
a few people passed by, some coming in to protect themselves from the rain, others going outside while unfolding their umbrellas. you watched them through half lidded eyes, waiting for a familiar face to appear.
the bowling alley wasn’t that close to the library, so you thought you’d had to wait for a bit longer, but only ten minutes after his last texts, seongje entered the building.
he was wearing his infamous black and red windbreaker, his hair a bit messy from the wind outside, his glasses sliding down his nose.
even if you weren’t feeling good at all, you still managed a small smile on your face. as if on cue, he noticed you. his expression, which seemed a bit harsh and cold, softened a little bit as his eyes met yours.
“there you are.” he said with the usual raspy tone he had whenever he smoked too much. he was obviously a bit worried, but he got even more concerned about you when he noticed how red your cheeks were and honestly just your state in general.
he frowned, his hand reaching out to touch your forehead which was in fact burning up, like you didn’t already know that. you slightly leaned back again, eyebrows furrowed. “what is it with people and touching my forehead like that.” you mumbled, scratching the spot he had just touched.
he simply smirked, his hand retreating to his pocket. “you’re sick.” he said in a flat tone, making you raise your eyebrows with sarcasm. “no shit sherlock. i’ve been feeling all sore and bad since this morning.” you said with a slight pout, opening your arms widely. “hug me.”
you were waiting, bouncing slightly on your heels, but seongje didn’t lean forward. instead, he pulled your arms down. “i don’t wanna get sick too.” he said playfully, knowing it would annoy you. and it did. you scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “idiot.” you mumbled.
“you can’t even put your scarf on properly.” he huffed playfully, noticing how it was too loose around your neck and he quickly fixed it up with a gentleness that’s always so surprising coming from him. you looked up at him as he tied it back properly, noticing how focused he was. “no wonder you’re sick.” he quietly said, looking back at you.
you looked too cute in his eyes, even if it was clearly noticeable that you were sick. the way you looked up at him with admiration made his heart warm in a way he’ll never get used to. to make this soft moment last less than his pride could take, he pressed a quick kiss on your forehead before grabbing your wrist in his hand, and your backpack in the other.
“come on, let’s go home.” he said as he guided you toward the exit. you followed with little steps, feeling a bit dizzy because of your headache. but his hand gripping your wrist in a gentle touch made sure you were steady as you got outside.
thankfully, and as if life was on your side, it had stopped raining, only some droplets of water hitting the pavement. seongje, who knew how cold it was, leaned down to pull your scarf over your nose, careful to cover you up so you stayed as warm as possible.
he then walked ahead again, with bigger steps than yours, but still while holding your wrist, his thumb brushing against your pulse unconsciously. he seemed nonchalant, keeping a neutral face, but inside, he was already thinking about what medicine and food he’ll need to buy for you.
you were in your own world honestly, just letting yourself being guided as you struggled to swallow without your throat hurting. it was really starting to get dark, and colder than a few hours ago. chills ran down your spine as the wind blew in your face, your nose stuffed in your scarf.
before you even realized, you had already made it to seongje’s motorcycle. he let go of your wrist to grab a helmet, turning back around to set it on your head. “there you go.” he said quietly.
with your state, using his motorcycle wasn’t as exciting as it usually is for you, but it was faster than walking for half an hour. so you just zipped your coat higher and sighed.
you both hopped on it, your arms automatically wrapping around his waist. the motorcycle roared, the engine already making your headache worse, but you took it upon yourself.
“hold on tight baby, okay?” he said over the sound, as you squeezed his waist once to let him know that you were all good.
he then drove off, leaving the library behind to take the main road. he wasn’t going as fast as usual, he was being considerate. the wind made your hair fly all around your head, your cheek pressing against his back as you still tried to enjoy the proximity between the two of you.
seongje liked it too. he smirked to himself behind his helmet, knowing how extremely clingy you got whenever you were sick or sad or overwhelmed. well, on every occasion.
the ride was smooth, not too much traffic, so you made it home in less than ten minutes. of course, you were feeling even worse now, but at least you were home.
well, what you called home was just a small flat you rented with seongje. it wasn’t a lot, but it was comfortable for the both of you. you made sure to make it your safe place, and it was by far your favorite one.
the walk from outside to inside the building was quiet. you’d usually be ranting about something, anything, but you weren’t in the mood right now and seongje was never the talkative type anyway.
the moment you got to the staircase, the elevator having a sign ‘out of service’, you immediately turned to seongje who was a few steps behind you. “carry me. pretty please.” you said with an exaggerated pout, holding your arms out. “i’m sick and tired. think about that.”
he just scoffed, mentally cursing the broken elevator. “baby, it’s literally just a few steps. we live on the second floor.” he said with a raspy tone, but you weren’t having it.
he ended up giving you a piggyback ride so you wouldn’t complain too much, but he definitely was the one cursing at every steps.
when you finally made it to your door, getting inside, the warmth of your place hit you hard. it felt good, as if you could finally relax after such a long and difficult day.
there were still things scattered around: a hoodie on a back of chairs, cups from this morning on the table in the kitchen, books in the living room that you forgot to grab.
even if you’d usually clean everything up to stays clean, you were too tired for that right now. instead, you immediately sat on the couch, sinking into the cushions.
seongje, deciding to play your guardian angel, didn’t even scold you for not removing your coat and scarf. instead, he did it himself. he calmly dragged the zipper down, slowly removing the sleeves of the fabric until you were just in your sweater.
he then undid your scarf, but that’s when you decided to wrap your arms around his neck, forcing him into a hug. he had to bend down awkwardly, with you sitting and him standing, but he didn’t complain once.
he chuckled softly in your ear at your eagerness to have a hug, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “my baby’s clingy.” he muttered in your ear before pressing multiple kisses on your cheek.
you exhaled softly, smiling widely even tho he couldn’t see your face. “thank you for coming to get me.” you said quietly, squeezing him tightly. “mhm, at least you saved me from having a talk with baek jin.” he said playfully before giving you a final kiss on your nose.
he broke the hug slowly, standing back up. he quickly pushed his glasses back up his nose, then took a good look at you. he smirked down at you, your cute little face making him all giddy inside even tho he’d never say it out loud.
he leaned down again, this time to push a strand of your hair back behind your ear. seongje being this gentle and calm was surprising, but the more time he spent with you, the more he softened.
“why don’t you go take a shower, warm yourself up, while i go buy some things?” he suggested, putting his hands back in his windbreaker that he hadn’t removed.
you only nodded softly, rubbing your face with your hand as you started to feel sleepy again. “i’ll be back in ten minutes then.” he said before turning to the door.
“be safe.” you said quietly, while stretching on the couch. he didn’t answer, instead quickly getting out so he could come back to you quicker.
the convenience store was just a street away from your place, so it wouldn’t take long anyway. seongje knew exactly what to buy, he didn’t need to ask you what you wanted or needed.
he knew that you liked eating your favorite things when you were feeling sick. it comforted you in a way. so he bought one strawberry and one chocolate milk, a pack of cookies and your favorite kind of ramen.
he also stopped at the pharmacy to get some medicine for your fever. when getting out again to come back, he was deep in thoughts, thinking about what he could make you for breakfast tomorrow morning if you were feeling bad again.
but his train of thoughts were interrupted by a notification on his phone. then another. and another. he groaned, knowing exactly who it was. he grabbed his phone anyway, unlocking it with disdain.
dongha
why the fuck did you disappear 6:49pm
baekjin wants to talk to you. it’s urgent 6:50pm
answer your phone 6:50pm
he didn’t even want to answer. the union was pissing him off enough lately, he had other things to deal with. you were far more important than this shit.
so he ghosted dongha, turning his phone off so no one would bother him again. by the time it was done, he was already back home.
when he opened the door, plastic bag in hand full of things for you, he found you sitting down on the couch, this time in your pyjamas, all washed up and comfortable. you were watching something on the tv, pulling a blanket over your legs.
he made his way over to you after removing his shoes and windbreaker, tossing the bag onto your knees as he sank down on the couch next to you. “this is all for you.” he said like it didn’t make you so happy all of a sudden.
“are you competing for the title of the best boyfriend ever?” you said teasingly, snuggling up with him. he ‘tsk’, but wrapped an arm around your shoulders anyway. “just eat your cookies.” he didn’t look at you, but he surely was smirking.
you dug into the bag, grabbing the strawberry milk. your favorite one. you forgot that you were sick for a moment, sipping on the drink, watching the screen in front of you, with seongje drawing circles on your arm.
you stayed like that for a while. silent, just watching tv, enjoying each other’s company and mostly relaxing. you had finished the milk, tossed the empty box on the small coffee table. your head wasn’t hurting that much anymore.
“you hungry?” seongje asked you, knowing it was getting a bit late and you hadn’t eaten anything yet. “not really, no. at least not right now.” you said quietly, before a yawn escaped from your lips.
yeah, you were definitely tired. you slowly moved to lay down with your head on his lap, making yourself as comfortable as possible.
he knew that you were about to fall asleep, he had noticed your sleepy eyes a few minutes ago. so he didn’t bother you. he simply played with your hair, twirling them around his fingers as you exhaled.
“i’ll wake you up when it’s time to eat.” he said calmly, but didn’t need an answer from you because he knew you were probably already asleep.
he looked back at the tv, on the show you were watching, and he smiled. a real, genuine smile. something that really made an appearance on his face.
he was happy. deep down, he loved moments like these. when you needed him, and he could do anything to help you. when you were clingy. when you were just you.
he didn’t regret ghosting baek jin. he didn’t care, actually.
seongje was right where he wanted to be.
author’s note — yeah so basically i hate this. i had no motivation to write the end so bear with it😭
hey! Can you do a seongje fic? Like reader wants to learn how to defend herself properly and throw a punch because let's say she got in trouble with some goons and legit ran and used random things to throw at them and all until seongje who she called comes? So she asks him to teach her? If you can, add some smut pleaseeee!
❀ ᰷░✿ teach me?
no.38
✿ pairing : dom!geum seongje (금성제) x switch fem!reader ✿ genre : smut , strangers to fwb ig ✿ contains : SMUT!! , both seongje and the reader are 18 and about to graduate soon , swearing (fuck/ing, pissing, asses, etc) , reader gets homewrecker allegations , kissing , aftercare , oral (f rec) , orgasm , pet names (baby, pretty, brat, etc) , fighting (obv) ✿ word count : 3.4k ✿ recommended age rating : 18 + ✿ listenin' to : trance — metro boomin, travis scott, & young thug ✿ a.n : thank you so much for 800 followers, i love each and every one of you so so much. ✿
“fourteen, eighty-two, sixty-five, twenty-nine ..” some kid you didn't care about enough to learn the name of shouted the answers of the test you had taken yesterday, watching everyone check and write down their scores like a teacher would.
you could barely hear him over the chatter of the class. some kids celebrating about getting more than 50% right, more kids sulking about failing, the rest just didn't care as much as they should.
the line of numbers came to an end, marking the end of a class you couldn't wait to leave. “that'll be all for today, off you go.” the teacher — already exhausted, announced to students that paid absolutely no mind. “enjoy your weekend.”
your books closed quietly, pencils put away neatly, your backpack zipped up in no rush and slung over your shoulder lazily like you had nowhere to be. you headed out of your final class of the day, passing what felt like a thousand boys in the crowded halls.
all the noise was almost enough to give you a headache; lockers opening and closing, people laughing and shouting, the squeak of the shoes of those running to leave. it's way too much for your liking, but expected as practically the only girl in a school of animals they call 'teenage boys'.
navigating to the exit of the worn out school, your steps stopped at the sound of a familiar voice. “hey! female!” a groan would've escaped your lips if you werent already used to this. “yes?” you turned around to meet the gaze of your bully. “going home already, homewrecker?”
of course being the only female in the school came with rumors, rumors of sleeping with everyone in the school. “no.” nobody knows who started them, nobody's trying to clear them out either.
you turned around on your heels, trying to think of what to do to escape the situation this time. “why don't you ever sleep with me, huh?” without further words, you start walking aimlessly. “where are you going? you're really pissing me off.”
you made a run for it, sprinting down the emptying halls. “hey! get back here!” the student shouted, he and his friends following you closely. you turned a corner, running as fast as you could to the glass exit doors.
not much went through your head, i mean, you obviously could've just ignored them instead of running away aimlessly with no plan whatsoever, you should've just thought about this for a second and maybe you wouldn't be on a wild goose chase.
“fuck.” honestly, you still don't have a plan, letting your legs take you wherever. “stop following me!” you yelled at the boys chasing you. with little to no brainpower, you grabbed some flower pot off the ground and threw it at them. “what the fuck?”
and sure, throwing a flower pot at their heads held them off for a second, the dirt in their eyes both painful and hard to get out, but the effects didn't last more than a minute, then they were back on your heels. they're persistent to say the least.
with a shortcut in mind, you ran as fast as your legs would take you. a hand grabbed your backpack and stopped your running. thinking it was one of those creepy ass students, you obviously tried to get away. “oh fucking stop already.”
you turned around, preparing a fist for whoever dared to grab you like that. “put it down, you look pathetic.” you looked at the boy wearing glasses, lowering your hand. “are they harassing you?” he nodded towards the group of boys coming your way. “.. yes.”
with a sigh and a tsk, the boy let go of your backpack, shoving his bruised hands into the pockets of his jacket instead. “you should know better than to chase girls.” the students immediately recognized him, apologizing quickly.
for what reason? was he famous or something? he had the looks. maybe he was just popular. it's all so fucked up, why does he have so much authority and control over boys who normally don't listen to anyone? it didn't make sense, at least to you.
“how long have they been fucking with you?” he stared at the group in front of him. “two years ..” you replied quickly, earning a scoff from the older boy. “we won't do it again, i swear. we'll leave her alone.” the one leading chimed in.
“hm, well,” he stepped closer. “i don't think that's enough. what do you think, my lady?” at a loss for words, you didn't say anything, letting the silence say the words that you couldn't. “i think you four deserve to get your fucking asses beat.”
the boy with the glasses found their sudden cowardice almost humorous. after all, they weren't shaking five minutes ago. a punch to the chin knocked one of the students out cold, the rest obviously contemplating fight or flight.
you couldn't see much, as you were safely behind mr. popular, but from what you could see, the student that'd been harassing you for years got one-shotted. it was kinda amusing actually, watching your bully fall with one hit. the rest of the boys exchanged looks, then raised their fists. “okay .. let's go.”
a fight unfolded in front of your eyes, you felt stuck in processing. you've never really seen a fight, a real one, in real life. by the time you were able to come back to your senses, you didn't know whether to stand there or run after seeing the four unconscious bodies on the ground.
“what, never seen a fight or something?” the boy asked. “could you .. teach me how to do that?” he shifted from one foot to the other, laughing quietly. “teach you? how to fight?” you nodded, watching him pretend to think. “what's in it for me?”
“i could pay you.” you already knew his next question, answering quickly. “however much you want.” he huffed at that, shaking his head and shifting again. “₩100k” you nodded in agreement, shaking his hand.
“what's your name?” you asked awkwardly. “geum seongje.” he lit a cigarette, you told him yours. at a loss of words, both of you stood in silence for a while until seongje spoke up once more. “i'll start teaching you this weekend. let's meet up here again.”
“sure, okay.” you nodded and watched him start walking away. “it — it was nice meeting you.” you called out with no reply, now left alone in an unfamiliar, sketchy alleyway. “₩100k? what the hell was i thinking?”
the weekend came seemingly way faster than normal. you stood in the alley by yourself, zoned out on the leaves of a tree, watching as they sway slightly from the wind. the sky was painted red and yellow, the pink clouds fitting in perfectly against the fiery background.
the sound of shoes tapping softly against the sidewalks concrete faded in, leading you to turn your head in their direction only naturally. “ah, you're one of those girls who stare at the sky all day.” he smirked, his steps slowing to a stop in front of you.
his eyes darted from yours to the red sky, letting out a soft hum. “can't blame you, i guess. it doesn't normally look like this.” he looked back down at you, tilting his head while he watched you stare at his looks.
“am i just gonna teach you here or back at my place?” his words snapped you back almost immediately. you hadn't even realized your eyes had locked onto his, but you couldn't deny how mesmerizing they were, like one glance could shatter you if thats what he intended to do.
tearing your gaze away from his, you fixate on the concrete instead, looking everywhere but his eyes while gathering your thoughts and trying to figure out your feelings in the moment. “whatever you're comfortable with.” you cleared your throat and fixed your hair before meeting his eyes once more.
he looked you up and down with a smirk, and then you realized how obvious you'd been. so stupid. “um, are you ready?” you spoke up with the intention of getting his eyes to stop roaming over you shamelessly. “eager, mm? got a hot date?” he asked in amusement, starting to walk with you. “a date? what? no! i'm just — it's getting later and later, got it?” you stuttered out while he laughed. “sure, right, got it.”
he shuffled in his pocket for a few seconds, then pulled out his keys to unlock his front door. before entering, seongje paused on the steps to look back at you. “oh, by the way, you can do whatever you want here. my parents arent home.” you nodded skeptically, walking through his front door after him.
the place was somewhat neat if you didn't notice the reeking smell of cigarettes and alcohol. he turned to look at you again, almost laughing when he saw your scrunched up nose and wandering eyes. “you don't have to pretend it's nice, you know.” he sat down on the worn out sofa. “it's a fucking train wreck.”
“no, no it's fine, it just ..” seongje interrupted. “reeks, i know.” he patted the spot on the sofa next to him, gesturing you over. you walked over almost hesitantly, but sat down nonetheless. “i'll start off by telling you a but about the basics, yeah?” you nodded, pulling out your notebook to take a few notes.
“noting, wow that's cute.” you ignored his comment as best as you could, but the red appeared on your cheeks anyways. “okay, well, you should get a pencil if you're going to write shit down.” he chuckled and leaned back, watching you realize and shuffle through your backpack for a pencil.
you'd been meeting up with seongje on the weekends and occasionally after school when you both felt like it. so far, he'd been pretty helpful with teaching you what he knows. according to a few of your friends at school, he's not someone you want to be around, and you really can't tell why. he's fun, a bit sarcastic, something refreshing.
“babe, listen, do you know how many girls' hearts he's broken?” your friend pleaded. “have you seen how many fights he gets into? it's insane. you shouldn't hang around him, it's dangerous.” you gazed at him from across the cafeteria, barely listening to your friends.
“are you even listening to me?!” your eyes snapped to your friends', trying to remember what the topic of the conversation was even about. “what?” your friend scoffed, throwing her hands up in annoyance. your other friend spoke up calmly. “you're being played. he's done this before.”
“what do you mean? we're friends, not dating.” you glanced back at the boy with glasses before your friend forced your eyes back on her. “he. is. not. someone. to. be. around. do you understand? you will. end up hurt.” she practically spelled it out for you, but you didn't particularly care. he wouldn't hurt you after all this.
seongje noticed your eyes on him and excused himself from his friend group, approaching you with his signature grin. “fuck, are you in love with me or something? i can feel your eyes on me from all the way over there.” he planted two hands on the cafeteria table, locking his gaze on you.
“what? no, i was just ..” he chuckled, adjusting his glasses and his hair. “you were what?” he was met with no answer, so he watched your eyes dart between his and decided to lean in more. he let out a hum, the noise almost a growl in his throat. “meet me after school, yeah? today's lesson is stamina.”
he stood up straight and walked away after giving you a sly wink. your friends — who had been watching the situation unfold — decided to speak up. “are you stupid or dumb? he's playing with you.” you didn't reply at first, watching his figure walk away. “you're a lost cause, i'm serious, there's no hope for you.”
you showed up regardless, standing in the alley with a racing heart. familiar footsteps could be heard approaching, then seongje grinning at you like he'd won a game nobody else could. “you showed up.” he noted, checking you out. “i did.” he nodded. “follow me.” he turned around, expecting you to follow, and you did, of course you did.
the familiar door creaked open, the smell no longer bothering you anymore. “today we're gonna test something else. do you remember what it is, pretty?” you thought for a few moments, then got interrupted by a laugh from the boy in front of you. “no wonder you needed a notepad.”
“stamina. stamina is today's lesson, we're gonna be testing how long you can last.” he stepped a little closer, his voice dropping in both volume and depth by the second, like a whisper only meant for your ears. he leaned in to your ear, his soft lips grazing it with every word. “would you like that? mm? use your words.”
you nodded, fixing your lips to try to form words, but they get caught in your throat the second his breath hits your ear in a sigh. “didn't i say to use your words, brat?” you tried to snap out of whatever trance he had you in, words tumbling out of your mouth messily. “yes, yes i - i would.”
“that's better .. much better. don't you think?” his hands snaked up your body, stopping at your waist and pulling you closer. he'd given you plenty of options to push him away if that's what you'd wanted, but you didn't, and now he's got you wrapped around his finger.
“you're so gorgeous ..” he whispered, pulling away from your ear to tease you and graze his lips against yours. he watched you lean in eagerly, pulling away just for amusement. “you won't get it easy, baby.” he grinned, watching your eyes and leading you to his room slowly.
he closed his door behind him, pinning you to the nearest wall. “we're gonna take our time with this lesson, got it?” you couldn't manage words with how breathtakingly gorgeous he looked. towering over you, panting through dry, slightly bruised lips, running a large hand through messy hair, loosening the tie around his neck that the school provided.
and he could say the same about you. your eyes large and dazed, your heart racing what seemed like a thousand miles an hour, your hands hesitant to touch him, like if you did you'd wake up from this dream, your breathing shaky and loud, almost anxious for what could come with you in his arms.
“you're fucking insane.” he panted out, his fingers sliding off of you to start unbuttoning his blazer and crashing his lips onto yours, seemingly leaving behind the slow lesson he'd promised moments before. you couldn't care less though, not with how his lips moved against yours passionately, perfectly.
his lips are soft, but textured, the kind that could both break you down and build you up whenever he wanted them to. he tastes like smoke and something sweet, like perfectly ripened strawberries. he pulls away to catch air then comes right back, like he can't stay away for long or he might pass out.
he slides off his blazer, unbuttoning yours feverishly slow, giving you more than enough time to stop him. when you don't, he starts getting bold. his hands getting a bit rougher, his movements a bit faster, his lips moving with more movement now that you've given permission.
seongje pulls off your blazer, somewhere in between the kisses, your shirt and shoes come off too. he dumps you on his bed, caging you under him. “you look perfect under me, like it's where you belong.” he smirks, diving back down to kiss you more.
he pauses and pulls away to slide his shirt off, but he doesn't stay away for long before he's back on you and unbuttoning your skirt. he slides it off almost harshly, his hands roaming over your thighs. your skin is so soft under his calloused hands, like prey in the presence of a predator.
he pulls away and pants out a few words. “are you sure? you want this?” you only nod, and he's not taking that for an answer. “words. hey — look at me.” he grabs your jaw, forcing your eyes on his. “i said use your fucking words.”
you take a moment to gather your thoughts, and he allows it, not moving unless you say yes. he might be a bully, but he's not a monster. “yes, i want you.” he nods, resuming, but slower this time, catching how dazed your eyes are and deciding rough isnt what you need in this moment.
“you're so pretty, princess.” seongje slides off his glasses, placing them next to you. every move was confident, calculated, precise, he knows exactly what he's doing at all times, exactly what makes you react even though you barely know yourself. his fingers glide down your sides, running over each rib with purpose.
he buries his face in your neck, his warm breath hitting your skin, his lips ghosting down the curve of your neck while toying with the lace on your underwear. your breathing is fast, nervous, anticipating, and he can tell immediately.
his eyes dart straight to yours, keeping eye contact while his index finger hooks your panties, sliding them down too slowly. the fabric passes your thighs, then your knees, then finally slipping off of you completely, and leaving you in nothing but your matching bra.
his hands are cold when they splay on your thighs and squeeze gently. “lets prepare you properly, hmm?” he whispers while going down on you. seongje's eyes never look away from yours when he starts to tease your sensitive bud with his tongue.
you taste like heaven, he could stay there for hours just suckling and licking at your sweetest spots. his movements start off slow, his tongue slowly grinding against your heat, savoring every hitch in your breath like he's the one being pleasured instead of you.
he doesn't talk or pull away once he's down there, it actually starts worrying you with how long he's gone without air, but you can't fully be worried with how delicious the pressure is, how fucking amazing his lips feel wrapped around you.
his eyes are so sharply locked on yours, staring up at you like he'd stay here forever if he could. two fingers snake up to press into you, and he relishes in the sound that leaves your lips. he pistons into you slow, licking up whatever liquids ended up leaking out of you.
you're so gorgeous, trying to squirm out of his hold unintentionally, your eyes rolling back in bliss, your fingers tangling in his hair like it could save you. you absolutely couldn't look prettier than you do right now — messy, hot, beautiful.
it didn't take long for your breathing to pick up, your toes to curl, your body tensing in preparation for what's coming next, it only made seongje work harder to get you there. you came on his tongue with a few writhes, tugging at his hair while he slowed down to let you ride it out.
“you can't last that long, can you?” he teased, sliding his fingers out of you and smirking up at you with glossy lips. you stares back equally as disheveled, dropping your head back in exhaustion. “lesson complete, but you're not leaving yet.” he grabbed his glasses and stood up, disappearing into the bathroom for a moment or so. you stayed put, thinking about what had happened not long ago.
seongje's voice is what brought you back, of course. “are you still there? you look like you're dying.” he chuckled, sitting in between your legs to clean you up. the first wipe of the cold cloth had your thighs closing around his hand at the unexpected chill. “open.” and you did, fucking lawn chair.
he wiped you down and helped you slide back on your underwear and skirt, then laid next to you and placed the blanket over the both of you. for someone so dangerous, geum seongje wasn't that bad. he was sweet in his own, slightly psychopathic way, it was cute.
your eyes fluttered closed eventually, and your breathing slowed down when he held you. your eyelashes were laying on your flushed cheeks, your soft lips parted to sigh quietly, your muscles relaxed, your skin hot to the touch, and seongje was staring like he wanted to remember this forever.
CREDITS — DIVIDERS - @/andromeda-graphics HEADER - pinterest, merged by me
