Just got back from church camp!! I’ll be done with the story soon guys I promise 🥹💗
seen from United States
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Just got back from church camp!! I’ll be done with the story soon guys I promise 🥹💗
not sure if you’re open to requests (couldn’t find anything on your page about it, sorry if i missed it!), but are you able to write something about geum seongje x secretary reader. lowk like the idea of him being controlling in a freak way e.g., what we do/wear (freakazoid alert!). basically dom/sub
fyi love the way you write!!
hi anon! i am open to requests! unfortunately i couldn't think of a full coherent storyline for this but in return i WILL give you a bunch of headcanons i have for this scenario. not sure if you've seen the movie the secretary but that's what this prompt reminded me of
content warnings: boss x secretary relationship so power imbalance and multiple hr violations, dom/sub, high protocol/lots of rules, total power exchange, spanking
thinking about a reader who desperately needs a job and is in a tight spot. you see a flyer for a secretary position, it looks a little sketchy but a scam can't hurt you if you have nothing to lose.
boss!seongje who is immediately off putting. he is really particular about things, so the first week is full of constant rules and reprimands. like, can he really feel the difference between three spoonfuls of coffee creamer vs two, or is he just fucking with you?
slowly but surely it starts to morph into something more personal. there's no set dress code, but he constantly gives your outfits disapproving stares. one day he full on tells you to stop dressing like a slut to the office.
you're beyond pissed because all of your skirts are knee length and your blouses are always buttoned up. but fine. you'll bite. so you start covering up even more, wearing slacks and a blazer on top of your blouse. it only makes him stare more, but this time there's something in his gaze that makes you squirm
boss!seongje who ends up cornering you in his office, accusing you of distracting him on purpose so he gets nothing done. you're confused, because you haven't done anything in particular to seduce him
he thinks you're playing coy, so he bends you over his knee and spanks you to get his point across. his heavy hand leaves you in tears, so he just rolls his eyes and lets you cry into his shoulder as he gets back to work
he starts adding in absurd rules just so he gets an excuse to punish you. no restroom breaks over 3 minutes. only black or white shirts. only dress flats. lunch must be eaten at 12:30pm on the dot. when you get good at following his rules, he starts implementing maintenance spankings just to make sure that you stay well trained
he rarely praises you, but you can tell he's becoming more fond of you based on how he lets you cling to him longer after each spanking. he even lets you suck his fingers if you're crying particularly hard!!
his absolute favorite thing is to control what you wear. his excuse is that he won't have you embarrassing him in front of clients. what started out as minor uniform rules is now him picking out your exact outfit in the morning, right down to what pair of bra and underwear you're wearing (and yes, he does check)
dead weight
pairing: geum seongje x fem!reader
wc: 5k
summary: you’ve been running empty for days, just the hollow motions of existing. when seongje finds you at a convenience store at 3 AM, barely recognizable without your usual armor of makeup and carefully maintained appearance, he doesn’t ask if you’re okay. he already knows you’re not.
content: fluff, hurt/comfort, mentions of depression/lack of energy/lack of appetite/dissociation, seongje helps you shower, nonsexual nudity, seongje typical smoking, cuddling, hwangmo shows up for like one paragraph, reader is mentioned to typically wear makeup
based off this request. role reversal version here.
⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔
The fluorescent lights hum overhead with that specific frequency that makes your skull ache if you pay attention to it. You have not been paying attention to much lately. The past few days have passed in a blur of disconnected moments that your brain stopped trying to organize into linear time.
Your hand hovers over the shelf of instant noodles. Shin Ramen sits in its red package. The package in front of you blurs slightly. You blink. It stays blurred.
The question of when you last ate surfaces without urgency. Yesterday feels like a possibility. The day before seems equally likely. There was toast at some point.
You put the noodles in your basket without remembering the decision to reach for them. They join the other items you have collected. Energy drinks you will not open sit next to bandaids for cuts you do not have. A bag of cheap sugar cookies that taste like cardboard rounds out the selection. The basket weighs almost nothing in your hand. Everything weighs almost nothing these days.
The glass door of the refrigerated section reflects someone you don't quite recognize. Your hair is pulled back in a knot that was never meant to last four days. No makeup covers the greyish tint your skin has taken under these lights. You're wearing one of Seongje's hoodies. The sleeves hang too long and there is a stain on the cuff that might be coffee. The fabric smells like him and cigarette smoke.
He’s never seen you like this.
The thought arrives with unusual clarity, cutting through the static that has replaced most of your thoughts. In the eight months you have been together, he has never seen you barefaced. The version of yourself he knows is maintained and deliberate.
The version currently buying random shit at three in the morning looks like she has been underwater for a week.
You move toward the register on autopilot, body carrying you there without conscious input. The cashier is some college student doing overnight shifts. He glances at your basket and then at your face. Something flickers in his expression that looks like concern.
"You okay?" he asks.
The question takes too long to process. You blink at him and form the word in your mouth before speaking. "Fine."
He does not look convinced but he's not paid enough to push. The scanner beeps as he runs your items across it. Each beep sounds too loud in your skull. Everything is too loud or too quiet lately.
His voice carries from the next aisle over.
Seongje says something you do not catch. Then laughter follows. Hwangmo is probably with him. The sound makes your stomach drop in a way that almost registers as emotion. That makes it the strongest thing you have felt in seventy-two hours.
Your hand tightens on the basket handle. The cashier continues scanning. The energy drinks beep. The cookies beep. Your brain screams at your body to move faster but everything moves through honey.
"That'll be-"
You shove money at him before he finishes, not bothering to wait for change. The plastic bag crinkles as you grab it and turn toward the door. If you can just get outside before he rounds the corner then maybe he won’t see that the girl in his hoodie with greasy hair is supposed to be his girlfriend.
"Yo, isn't that your girl?" Hwangmo's voice carries that specific amusement that means he is about to say something stupid. Every muscle in your body locks. Your back is to them but you can feel the weight of attention shifting in your direction.
"Where?" Seongje sounds closer than you expected.
"Right there. Chick at the register."
You keep walking. The automatic doors are right there. Five more steps separate you from escape.
"Wait."
Four steps remain.
"You guys have the wrong person." Your voice comes out flat and empty. The doors slide open. You are almost through when footsteps sound behind you.
"Turn around."
The words are not a request.
You stop in the doorway. Night air hits your face with sharp cold. The plastic bag cuts into your palm. Behind you Hwangmo is probably grinning. The fluorescent lights are bright enough to see through your closed eyelids.
"I said turn around."
You do.
His eyes land on you and something in his expression shifts. His gaze moves over your face and catalogs the absence of makeup. The circles under your eyes look dark enough to be bruises.
Hwangmo says something. You don’t hear it. Seongje isn’t looking at him.
"When did you eat last?" The question comes out quiet and matter-of-fact. He could be asking what time it is.
You open your mouth and then close it. The answer requires accessing information you do not have. "Today."
"Bullshit." He steps closer. Cigarette smoke clings to his jacket. "When?”
"I don't know."
"You don't know." He moves close enough that you have to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. "You don't know when you ate."
"I've been busy."
His eyes drop to the plastic bag in your hand. Energy drinks and cookies, things that are not food in any real sense, look back at him. When he looks at your face again, something cold and controlled has settled into his expression.
"How long has it been since you slept?"
"I sleep."
"How long?”
Your brain tries to count backwards. It gets lost somewhere around yesterday afternoon. The timeline refuses to organize itself. "I don't know. A few hours here and there."
He reaches out and touches your face. His thumb presses gently under your eye where the skin is darkest. You flinch from the shock of being touched after days in a body that stopped feeling like yours. "You look like shit."
"Thanks." The word has no bite to it. It just falls out of your mouth and lands between you.
Hwangmo still stands nearby. Seongje does not glance at him. His attention stays fixed on you with that careful intensity that makes you feel pinned in place.
"You're coming with me."
"I have to go home."
"No, you don't."
"I have-"
"Whatever you have can wait." His hand drops from your face to your wrist. The grip is firm but not painful. "You're coming with me."
You should argue. You should pull away and insist you are fine. You should go back to your apartment and continue the very productive spiral you have been in. The thought of doing any of that requires energy you stopped having days ago.
"Okay," you hear yourself say.
His expression doesn’t change but something in his posture relaxes slightly. He takes the plastic bag from your hand and turns to Hwangmo.
"Go home."
"But-"
"Go. Home."
Hwangmo must see something in his face that makes arguing a bad idea. He shrugs and wanders toward the back of the store. Seongje's hand is still around your wrist. The warmth and solidity of it registers as the first real thing you have felt in days.
"Can you walk or do I need to carry you?"
The question should be humiliating. Instead it just sounds like an assessment of your current functionality.
"I can walk."
"Then walk."
He doesn’t let go of your wrist. He pulls you gently toward the door and out into night air so cold it almost feels like sensation returning to your skin. You follow because the alternative is standing in a convenience store trying to remember what functional human behavior looks like.
His apartment is six blocks away. You have walked this route before as the version of yourself that wore lipstick and laughed at his dark jokes. That version seems very far away now, unreachable.
"You've been avoiding me," he says after the first block.
You stay quiet.
"Three days. No texts. Calls going to voicemail." His voice stays even without accusation. "I thought you were pissed about something."
"Not pissed."
"Then what?"
You don’t have an answer that makes sense. How do you explain the emptiness? How do you describe going through the motions of being alive without any of the actual living parts working? You have been wearing his hoodie for four days straight because it was the only thing that felt like it belonged to something real.
"I don't know," you say finally.
He makes a sound that might be acknowledgment. He does not push for more. He just keeps walking with your wrist held loosely in his hand, like he’s afraid you will disappear if he lets go.
Maybe you would.
His apartment looks the same as it always does. A couch sits against one wall while a low table holds an ashtray and his phone charger. There are no decorations or photos. The functional space could belong to anyone.
A hand on your shoulder guides you to the couch. The pressure feels gentle but firm enough that your body follows without question. You sink into the cushions and watch him move toward the small kitchen area.
"Stay there," he says.
The couch has become the most comfortable place you have sat in days. Your body settles into it like it might never get up again. Going anywhere was not part of your plans anyway.
Water hits metal too loudly in the quiet apartment as he fills a pot from the sink. The pot goes onto the stove and he turns the burner on. Blue flames lick up the sides. A cabinet opens and he pulls out two packets of instant ramen. The cheap kind costs less than a dollar and tastes like salt and MSG.
His movements are efficient and practiced as you watch with detached interest. This is clearly not the first time he has made food at three in the morning. The water begins to boil. Torn packets release noodles into the pot. Seasoning follows. Steam rises and fills the small space with the smell of artificial beef flavor.
A bowl appears in front of you on the low table three minutes later. Noodles sit in their broth and release heat into the air. Chopsticks rest across the top of the bowl.
"Eat," he says.
Your stomach turns at the thought of eating in a way that has nothing to do with nausea. Food has become an abstract concept over the past few days. Your body stopped asking for it.
"I'm not hungry."
"I don't care. Eat anyway."
The chopsticks feel heavy in your hand as you pick them up because arguing seems harder. Some noodles lift from the bowl and broth drips back down. Steam hits your face. The chopsticks lower without any food reaching your mouth.
"What's the problem?" he asks.
"I'm just not hungry right now."
"You haven't eaten in days. You're hungry."
"I don't feel hungry."
A long moment passes while he stares at you. Processing this information seems to lead him toward finding it unacceptable. His jaw tightens slightly. Frustration rather than anger shows in the gesture. "Why?”
The chopsticks go back across the bowl as you set them down. Noodles sink back into the broth. Your brain searches for an explanation that will make sense.
"I usually shower before I eat dinner," you say. "So I'm not hungry right now."
The logic sounds reasonable in your head. Out loud it sounds less convincing. His expression suggests you have just said something in a language he does not speak.
"You're not hungry because you haven't showered," he repeats slowly.
"I always shower before dinner. It's just a thing."
He stands up from where he has been leaning against the arm of the couch. The new information gets processed. Some conclusion forms that you cannot see.
"Okay," he says. "Then go shower."
"I don't have any clean clothes here."
"I have clothes. Go shower."
Standing up and walking to the bathroom seems like the logical next step. Your body refuses to respond to these commands. The couch cushions might as well have grown roots into your spine.
Ten seconds pass before he reaches down and takes your hand. Steady pressure pulls you up until you are standing. Your legs remember how to hold your weight but only barely.
"Come on," he says.
His hand stays wrapped around yours as he walks toward the bathroom. Following requires less energy than resisting. Water turns on as he reaches into the shower. Steam begins to fill the space.
Temperature adjustment happens while you stand in the doorway and watch. The sound of water hitting tile almost drowns out the ringing in your ears that has been there for days.
Turning back to you, he reaches for the hem of his hoodie that you are wearing. You take a step backward and create distance. His hands stop.
"What are you doing?" you ask, suddenly shy.
"Helping you shower."
"I can shower by myself."
"Can you?"
"Yes."
That same careful assessment from earlier returns to his expression. Showering alone probably exceeds your current capabilities. Standing without swaying takes most of your energy. Coordinating the complex series of actions required to wash your hair feels impossible.
"I'm coming in with you," he says.
"What? No. I can do it myself."
"You've been wearing the same clothes for four days. You can't remember the last time you ate. You look like you're about to pass out. I'm not letting you get in the shower alone."
"That's weird."
"I don't care."
A staring contest begins. Steam continues filling the bathroom. Exhaustion has soaked so deep into your bones that arguing feels like climbing a mountain.
"I've never showered with someone before," you say finally.
"There's a first time for everything."
"This is weird."
"You already said that."
"Because it is."
"Are you getting undressed or am I doing it for you?"
Your gaze drops to the hoodie and sweatpants you cannot remember putting on. His hands move to the hem of the hoodie.
The fabric catches on your hair tie and pulls it loose. Greasy strands fall around your shoulders. The hoodie drops to the floor. Sweatpants follow. Underwear joins the pile. Once you’re completely naked, you feel no embarrassment or self-consciousness like you thought you would. His shirt comes off next, followed by his jeans. Looking at your body does not seem to interest him particularly. Nothing sexual lives in this moment.
You step into the stall first. Hot water hits your skin and the sensation shocks your system. Heat seeps into your muscles and reminds them that relaxation used to be possible.
He steps in behind you. The shower stall allows maybe six inches of space between your back and his chest. Water hits both of you. Standing under the spray lets you watch it run down the drain.
"Tilt your head back," he says.
Compliance comes easily. Water hits your hair and soaks through to your scalp. His hands follow and work through the tangled mess with unexpected gentleness. A bottle opens somewhere behind you. Then his fingers return with shampoo that smells like mint.
Slow circular motions scrub your scalp. The pressure feels good without hurting. Your eyes close. Water runs down your face. Days of grease and grime get worked through by his fingers. Rinsing removes the shampoo and the bottle opens again. The conditioner works through the ends of your hair where tangles are worst.
"You smell like cigarettes," you say. Your voice sounds strange in the small space.
"I was smoking earlier."
"You're always smoking."
"Yeah."
The conditioner rinses clean. His hands on your shoulders turn you around until you face him. Water runs between your bodies. Wet hair pushes back from his forehead. A washcloth hangs from a hook and he reaches for it. Body wash pours onto the fabric. He begins washing your arms with the same methodical attention he gave your hair.
"This is really weird," you say.
"You already said that twice."
"I'm saying it again."
Your shoulders receive attention next. Then your back and stomach. The washcloth scrubs away layers of sweat and stale air that have been clinging to your skin. Standing still and letting him work seems like the only option. Your brain has stopped trying to process what is happening. Making sense of anything no longer seems possible so passive observation takes over.
Legs get washed. Then feet. Every part of you receives the same careful attention. When he finishes, the washcloth gets handed to you.
"Your turn," he says.
The washcloth gets handed to you and you take it with hands that barely remember how to grip properly. Body wash pours onto the fabric in an amount that is probably too much. Your hands move to his chest and start scrubbing with all the coordination of someone who has forgotten how arms work.
The washcloth slides across his skin in uneven strokes that miss spots and repeat the same areas. You go over his left shoulder three times while barely touching his right. Your movements lack any kind of rhythm or purpose. This is not helping him get clean and both of you know it.
He stands completely still anyway and lets you work with clumsy hands and unfocused attention. No corrections come from him. He doesn’t guide your wrists to the areas you are missing. Your hand drags the washcloth down his arm and then back up. The water has started to run cool but he does not rush you or take over. He waits.
Eventually your hands slow and then stop moving entirely. The washcloth hangs limply in your grip while you stare at his chest like you have lost track of what you are supposed to be doing.
"Done?" he asks quietly.
The question takes a moment to process before you can answer. "Yeah."
The washcloth drops from your hand and hits the shower floor with a wet slap. He reaches past you and turns the water off in one smooth motion. Sudden silence fills the small space and makes every other sound seem amplified.
"Feel better?" he asks.
"A little," you say.
"Good. Now you can eat." He steps out of the shower first and grabs a towel from the rack. The fabric wraps around his waist with practiced efficiency. Another towel gets pulled down and held open in both hands. You step out on unsteady feet and he wraps the fabric around you immediately. His hands tuck it in above your chest with quick movements. The towel feels rough and clean against your skin while holding more warmth than you expected.
He leaves you standing there wrapped in his towel. Movement sounds from the other room as drawers open and close. He comes back with a t-shirt that will be too big on you and sweatpants with a drawstring waist.
"Get dressed," he says. "Then we're eating."
The clothes get pulled on with movements that feel disconnected from your brain. The t-shirt hangs off your shoulders and reaches mid-thigh. Sweatpants bunch around your ankles even with the drawstring pulled tight. You shuffle back to the couch where the bowl of ramen still sits on the low table. Steam no longer rises from it. The broth has probably gone lukewarm.
Sitting down takes more effort than it should. Your body folds onto the cushions and you reach for the chopsticks. They still feel heavy. Everything feels heavy.
Seongje settles into the spot next to you with his own bowl. Noodles disappear into his mouth at a steady pace. A small amount lifts to your lips and you chew slowly. The taste registers as salt and something vaguely meat-flavored. Swallowing requires conscious effort.
Another bite follows. Then another. Each one takes time to get from bowl to mouth to stomach. Your jaw moves like it has forgotten the mechanics of chewing. The noodles are soft enough that this does not matter much.
He finishes his bowl in the time it takes you to eat maybe a quarter of yours. The empty dish gets set on the table with a quiet click. Settling back against the couch cushions, he reaches into his pocket. A cigarette pack emerges. The familiar sound of the flame catching fills the quiet.
Smoke curls up toward the ceiling as he takes a drag. The smell of tobacco mixes with the lingering scent of artificial beef broth.
Your hand reaches out without thinking about it. The gesture asks for what your mouth does not bother saying.
He looks at your outstretched hand and then at your face. The cigarette stays between his fingers.
"No," he says.
"Why not?" Your hand stays extended in the space between you.
"Because I said no."
"You're literally smoking right next to me." The smoke still hanging in the air gets a vague gesture from you.
"That's different."
Your hand drops back to your lap with more force than necessary. The chopsticks pick up more noodles but your movements have lost what little coordination they had. "How is that different?"
"You breathing in my secondhand smoke and you smoking directly are not the same thing." He takes another drag and this time turns his head to blow it away from you.
"The distinction seems pretty arbitrary."
"It's not arbitrary."
Another bite goes into your mouth while you stare at the remaining noodles in your bowl. "You smoke around me all the time. What difference does it make if I'm the one holding it?"
"The difference is you're already self-destructive enough without adding nicotine to the list." His voice stays matter-of-fact while the cigarette dangles from his fingers. "This is the last thing you need."
"That's hypocritical." The words come out without heat.
"I don't care."
"You're sitting here smoking while telling me I can't smoke." Another bite lifts to your mouth and the chopsticks shake slightly in your grip.
"Yeah." He takes another drag and blows the smoke away from your face. "I am."
The energy required to argue about this does not exist in your body. Your brain tries to form a rebuttal and gives up halfway through. Whatever. The fight is not worth having. Going back to eating your noodles in mechanical silence seems easier.
Silence settles between you like a physical presence. His cigarette burns down slowly and leaves a trail of ash that he taps into the ashtray. Eating at your glacial pace continues. The bowl is maybe half empty now. Progress exists even if it feels minimal.
He reaches over and taps ash into the ashtray on the table. The movement is practiced and automatic. Smoke continues to curl upward while you continue to chew with your eyes half-closed from exhaustion.
"When did it start?" he says after a while.
The question is vague enough that clarification seems necessary. "When did what start?"
"This." He gestures vaguely at you with the hand holding the cigarette. Smoke trails from the lit end. "The not eating and sleeping. All of it."
Your chopsticks pause halfway to your mouth and hover there while you think, trying to pinpoint when things started going wrong feels impossible. There was no clear beginning, just a gradual slide from functional to whatever this current state is.
"I don't know," you say finally. "A week ago maybe. Could be longer."
"What happened?" He stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray and immediately reaches for another one.
"Nothing happened."
"Something always happens." The lighter flicks and catches. New smoke joins the old.
"Not this time. I just got tired."
"Of what?"
"Everything." The word comes out flat and empty as you set the chopsticks down across your bowl. "All of it, the constant effort of being a person."
He does not respond right away. His eyes stay on you with that careful attention he gives to things he is trying to understand. The weight of his gaze feels heavy enough to press you further into the cushions.
"You should have called me," he says finally.
"I didn't know what to say." Your hands fold in your lap while your thumbs press against each other.
"You don't need to say anything. You just needed to call."
"I'm done," you say, not sure if you were referring to the noodles, or to the weight of everything on your shoulders.
"You barely ate half." He looks at the bowl and then back at your face.
"It's more than I've eaten in three days."
"Fine. That's enough for now."
Standing up requires pushing yourself off the couch with both hands. Your legs remember how to support your weight but protest the effort with a slight tremor. The bowl gets picked up as you turn toward the kitchen area.
"I'll wash this and then head out," you say.
"Why would you head out?" The question comes immediately.
"Because I should go home." Your feet are unsteady as you take a step towards the kitchen.
"Why?"
The question stops you mid-step. Going home means going back to your apartment, the unwashed dishes and the pile of laundry. It means going back to the space where the spiral started.
"I just should," you say without turning around.
"That's not a reason." His voice comes from behind you on the couch.
"I can't just stay here." The bowl trembles slightly in your grip.
"Why not?" The leather creaks as he shifts on the couch.
"Because I have things to do." Your knuckles are white where they grip the bowl.
"What things?" His voice stays level but something in it suggests he already knows you are lying. "What do you have to do at four in the morning?"
"I don't want to be a burden," you say. The words come out barely above a whisper.
"You're not." The couch creaks again and footsteps sound behind you.
"I'm literally falling apart in your apartment. That seems like a burden."
"I don't care. You're staying here."
"You can't just decide that,” You argue as you finally turn around to face him.
"I just did." He stands now and looks at you with that immovable expression.
"That's not how this works." Your voice lacks conviction.
"You can barely stand up without swaying. You're not going anywhere."
“I don’t have my stuff,” you say weakly.
“You don’t need stuff. You need sleep.”
“I can sleep at home.”
“No you can’t.” The certainty in his voice allows no room for argument. “You’ll go back to your place and stare at the ceiling for six hours and then come back here looking worse than you do now.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes I do.”
He is probably right. Going home means another day of going through motions without any actual living happening.
Your mouth opens to protest again but nothing comes out. The exhaustion has finally won. Fighting takes energy you stopped having days ago.
“Fine,” you say. “I’ll take the couch.”
“Get in the bed or I’m carrying you there.” The bowl gets taken from your hands before you can respond. Water runs in the kitchen as he rinses it. Dishes clink together.
He comes back and finds you still standing in the same spot. His hand wraps around your wrist.
“Come on,” he says, leading you to the bedroom.
You climb onto his bed without waiting for further instruction. The mattress gives under your weight.Muscles you did not know were tense begin to release. The pillow smells like him.
He moves around the room for a moment. A drawer opens and closes. The lamp on the nightstand gets turned on and casts warm light across the space. Then the overhead light goes off and the room becomes softer.
"Move over," he says.
You shift toward the wall and your body protests the movement. The mattress dips significantly as he climbs in next to you. His weight settles and changes the entire landscape of the bed. The blanket gets pulled up higher over both of you. An arm drapes over your waist with familiar weight. Warmth radiates from his body into yours and seeps through the borrowed t-shirt you are wearing.
“If you kick me I’m going to the couch,” you mumble into the pillow.
“I’m not going to kick you.”
"You say that now." Your words slur slightly with exhaustion.
“Go to sleep.”
“Thank you,” you say quietly. The words barely make it past your lips. “For not letting me leave.”
His arm tightens around your waist slightly. “You’re not going anywhere. Not anymore.”
Sleep pulls at the edges of your consciousness. For the first time in days it feels possible rather than theoretical. Your body starts to let go.
“Don’t disappear again,” he says against your hair. His breath is warm on the back of your neck.
You manage a sound that might be agreement. Your brain has stopped forming coherent words. His warmth and the weight of his arm and the smell of cigarette smoke all blend together into something that feels almost like peace.
The static that has been filling your head for days finally quiets to nothing. Sleep takes you under like water closing over your head, but this time it feels like relief instead of drowning.
back on my hwangseong shit
geum seongje college! au x reader
description: geum seongje is your partner for your midterm project. notorious frat dude. it doesnt seem like he wants to do any work.
tags: seongje is lowkey really misogynistic, sorry guys i dont think he respects women, reader is girl. reader gets pissed off easily, typos, very honest depiction of college, guess what his major is lol, yes hes an annoying frat guy who plays league, btw seongje is not wolf, this is purely seongje, wolf typcial violence, bullying lowkey, bystander effect, sorry if ur in a frat i really hate frat dudes, comedy?? itry to be funny idk
a/n: i wrote this with alot of hate in my heart for some of these characterizations ive been seeing for seongje. i know i know suicidal reader. this is just practice and because i have alot of hate in my heart for some of the things i see in our small fandom.... i hold my own chaaracterizations vvery close. #freehim
word count: ~3,000
oh my god.
your fucking group partner is geum seongje.
you think your college must actually be hell.
you wouldn’t describe yourself as very academically gifted. in fact, you’re starting to lose touch with reality ever since college started. but hey, you’re in your second year and things should looking up right?
apparently not.
because your group mate is one of the lovely lovely frat guys in your class.
notorious for picking fights with other frats just because, being on the school’s e-sports team, and somehow being a player with that.
thankfully, he’s mostly quiet in class. but he yawns loud and clicks on his mouse obnoxiously when he’s bored. probably playing league of legends. he cusses under his breath and his friends lean over to see what he’s doing.
you don’t care much for school but even then, can’t he be unscholarly quieter?
and now youre stuck with him for your fucking midterm project.
he’s currently staring at you from across the library table. the table is way too small but it’s the only one available since it’s midterm season. you see whiteboards being written on and people chugging celsius and redbull like it came from the fountain youth.
it’s been an odd staring competition ever since you got here. neither of you are willing to give in and say anything. the one thing you said when you were assigned to each other was, “wanna go to the library?” and that’s where your minimal conversation ended.
looking closer, you see that he has a mole under his eye that’s usually covered by his glasses. he has a long looking face and the tips of his eyes are roundish. though, his brunette hair is looking a little shaggy today.
you’d ask him if he was wearing a wig but you’re worried your reputation will wither up and die if you open your mouth to sass him.
he’s wearing a multicolored jacket with trigger print on the breasts. it’s vaguely better than the neon orange one he seems to treat like his first born child. secretly, you do have a favorite jacket that he wears.
(it’s the red racing jacket he has.)
(not that you care or anything.)
you can hear noises from his laptop and you’re sure it’s league of legends. you wonder why he even plays the game because you’ve heard around that he’s broke multiple mouses due to the game. he probably needs a different hobby.
“so? are you gonna do it for me?”
his voice perks up, breaking your staring context as he settles back into the seat. tilting his head at you and his eyes widen a little. you assume he’s trying to intimidate you.
well, he’s not very bright.
too bad you’ve been tainted by the lifelessness that college instills in you everytime you walk around on campus. it then occurs to you that you don’t have a reputation. you don’t stand out and you do not give a fuck what people think of you.
“why the fuck would i do that?”
his eyebrows shoot up, as if he wasn’t expecting you to talk back. which is such an odd thing for you to think about because who on earth wouldn’t talk back to literally being made to the whole group project. emphasis on group.
“because i asked nicely.”
“ask my right foot, bruh.”
he barks out a laugh in the almost full library and you scramble to shut him up. no one actually cares but it’s embarrassing enough you have to be seen in public with this shell of a man.
your hand clamps over his mouth and he immediately retaliates by licking your hand. you seethe and pull at his jacket. this group project is going extraordinarily well so far.
you believe in the ideals that no one is ever really staring at you. public humiliation is a construct created by insecure people. it doesn’t actually exist as long as you believe it doesn’t.
“holy shit, your face is so fuckin red right now!”
okay.
you’re tanking the F.
you go to snatch your shitty $200 laptop but he slaps his hand on top of it. he has a shit eating grin and his eyes are staring into yours. he’s reached across the table and is leaning his cheek against his knuckles.
“you have balls to talk to me like that. you got a dick too?”
“if i did, could you hop off of it already? i’m tanking the F. i can’t do this with you.”
there’s that cackle again and he grabs your wrist. yanking you so your torso tumbles onto the table. a grunt leaves your lips as the boy digs his elbow into your spine to make you stay there.
“you’re funny but you’re doing the fuckin project.”
“are you seriously assaulting me over a gen ed????”
you crane your head to look up at him and he’s giving you a lazy shrug. his lips pursing as he thinks about what to do. his grip is tight on your wrist and when you try to wiggle out, he stretches you across the table like a sad slinky.
you think everyone is genuinely possessed by the midterm demons because no one is telling him to stop and is actually talking louder to not acknowledge this frat guy literally assaulting you.
damn it all.
it’s then some girl comes up to your guys’ table. well you assume it’s a girl from the voice. your face is currently smushed against the table and his sharp ass elbow is still preventing you from moving.
she’s talking to seongje without even looking down at your body. there’s no way your reputation is so down under the dirt that absolutely no one cares right?
well apparently so because she has a giggly voice talking to geum seongje. oh you see, she must be one of the girls he’s rotating with. fucking gross… it’s known around campus he’s a player. and you don’t think he’s that attractive.
it’s completely blindsided to you why they let themselves be side chicks for a guy who doesn't even treat them like people.
“oh, you should let her go, seongje!”
there’s a beat of silence before the hands are removed off of you. it happens in a flash and you scramble up and go to swear to give the girl your first born child and name it after her.
but something splashes on your shirt.
and when you look down, it’s brown and it smells like a sugar factory exploded. and when you look up, she’s holding a venti sized cup from starbucks in the library. the top removed and there’s only about half of the drink remaining.
oh no fucking way.
she threw her fucking coffee onto you.
“oh i’m soo sorry!! i didn’t mean to! you just moved too fast!”
she’s so hilariously fake that you just stand there with an incredulous smile. your head cocked to the side and your eye twitching. she’s an extremely pretty girl and you’re in complete shock that she’d do this for a man.
does she think this is a webtoon or something? in what universe does this even happen???
in your peripheral vision, you can see geum seongje isn’t even trying to hide his giddiness. as if so amused, he’s about to start laughing in the middle of the library. the library that still hasn’t go silent in shock. the world carrying on as if any of this is normal.
you fight down the rage building inside of you as you calmly bend down to grab your backpack. putting your lovely $200 laptop into the sleeve in your bag. she’s giggling and holds her hand out to seongje so they can probably go fuck in his room.
then you grasp the neck of the starbucks bottled frappuccino in your back pack and twist the cap off. chucking the entire bottle onto the girl who “spilled her coffee on you”. her gasp rings out in the entire library and her half full coffee trembles in her grasp.
it stains her matching blouse and skirt. some of it even getting on her face. the brown matching the stain on your own clothes.
you hear geum seongje break out into the loudest cackles you’ve heard in the last 20 minutes. something snaps in you and you snatch the girl’s half empty plastic cup from her manicured fingers. throwing the entire rest of it onto geum seongje, notorious dickhead on campus.
he goes silent almost immediately as you shove the plastic cup back at the girl. the entire front of his designer jacket stained now too. you grab your backpack and storming out of the library, your fingers balled into fists. not interested to see if the library actually went silent that time.
why are you genuinely in a D rate k-drama now?
this is all geum seongje’s fault.
…
“you mad?”
“no i’m totally fine with the fact your one night stand loves sucking your dick to the point she threw coffee on me. what kind of question is that?!”
“don’t get your panties in a twist. i was making conversation.”
you have no fucking idea why he thought it was a good idea to follow you after you left the library. he had sidled up next to you on the sidewalk while whistling. the wind is blowing against your clothes and it’s making the liquid even colder against your skin.
you just want to get back to your dorm but there’s an annoying child following you. when you snapped and asked what he wanted, he shrugged. but you could see veins popping out the side of his head. he must be a little pissed off. just a little.
then he grabs your wrist and drags you in the direction of the business dorms. dubbed the name because they’re close to the business buildings. which is in the complete opposite direction of your dorm.
you are going to rip your hair out.
well, no one is going to come save you. other guys in frats steer clear of seongje because he gets irritated so easily and fights like a maniac. you’ve seen it on snapchat (a fundamental part of college socializing). some guys posted him fighting another dude from a frat and he was laughing the entire time.
so you just keep up with his long legs as he drags you across campus. every so often trying to run away but he pulls you back with an irritated smile. even pulling your hair to drag you back.
“is it that time of the month or some shit? stop fucking running.”
“wow, it’s a wonder girls fucking like you. violent, misogynistic, and forcing girls to do things. you’re like the perfect trad husband!”
the laugh that leaves his lips is still infuriated but tinged with amusement. his hair even more messed up as his lips hold a cigarette between them. you don’t know how he even got it in his mouth and lit it with one hand but you’re more focused on making it out of here in one piece.
but he drags you along like a disgruntled veterinarian with a feral cat.
…
when you’re shoved into the dorm room of your oh so esteemed partner, it seemed oddly clean. your own building was full of hooligans and you’re sure that their rooms weren’t any better. the freaks there made sure of it…
(your first example is the guy who has satin red bedsheets. what kind of bedroom is that? the dominatrix dungeon?)
but geum seongje’s room seemed clean. he shared his room with someone else obviously, you can tell from the difference in decoration.
or lack there of.
there were some stares from people at his dorm and when they tried to ask seongje how he was doing, he spat his cigarette out and stomped on it on the carpet. all while still dragging you by his wrist.
“don’t you see i’m fucking busy? fucking idiots.”
oh the bystander effect is going to kill you.
so you step onto the elevator with a poor girl trying to politely look away as you and geum seongje bark at each other. both of your outfits tinged in coffee and it overpowers the dingy elevator. he punches the 4th floor and the girl trips over herself to get off at the second floor.
now here you are.
one side of the room has posters of singers that people of his kind would probably like. fucking EDM that frat boys blast in your dorm and some rap artists. there’s a big ass speaker on the floor next to his bed.
you’re like 90% sure he’s the frat boy who blasts the EDM music here.
the other side looks pretty bare. the bed isn’t even neat with being bare. it’s just bare. you start debating in your own head if seongje actually sleeps on both beds and pretends he’s homeless. said boy flops down on the bed that somehow has designer sheets. you wonder how that’s possible but it’s tacky all the same.
when you take too long to sit down, he clicks his tongue and nods to his desk. ah, it’s on the side that has a frat flag hung up on the wall. you should’ve known. of course seongje is the frat guy. when you look on the desk, there’s a bowl full of condoms he probably stole from the health center.
ugh.
“what? annoyed because you thought i’d be dirty?”
“she’s probably annoyed ‘cause you’re annoying as fuck, shit for brains.”
a more raspy voice deadpans. you didn’t even realize the door had opened. your disgust with geum seongje making you deaf to all other noise. your maybe ex group partner leaned back and when you turned your head, you were greeted with a new character.
a very purple character…
his hair seems more unkempt than your obnoxious group mate. it ruffs out at the sides and it curls onto his forehead. it’s dyed purple all the way through, you’re impressed at how violet the color is. his stature is shorter than geum seongje but still taller than you.
he’s wearing a KANZO long sleeve with gym shorts. he’s wearing KANZO strapped shoes as well. how good does the brand have to be that he gets the shoes as well? you have no fucking idea. his knuckles are taped with bandages that disappear under his sleeves.
he walks into the room with no exaggerated swagger like seongje does. he just walks in with a hand stuffed in his pocket and the other holding his phone. he has headphones pulled down around his neck as he haphazardly throws them onto his bed.
geum seongje leans back on his bed and sighs loudly. stretching his back as you stand there between the two beds on either side of the room. his presumed roommate ignoring your presence in favor of putting down the duffle bag that was slung across his shoulder.
“not very romantic, wolf~ don’t you see i have a guest? play nice.”
“piss off.”
you lowkey disgusted by the vast amounts of testosterone assaulting the atmosphere. you don’t recognize his roommate but he seems to not like geum seongje very much. and did he say his name was wolf? is that his actual name?
your thoughts are running with questions for the new guy in the room when he turns to you. he doesn’t bother looking anywhere but in your eyes. as if you’re not worth the effort of moving his pupils.
“get the fuck out.”
you’re taken aback by how blunt he is. his face not emoting anything you’re familiar with other than general stoicism. he’s rolled up his sleeves and is unwinding the tape going up his arms. you can see gnarly bruises decorating his arms and it’s then you realize he has white bandages on his neck and the side of his jaw.
did this dude get run through a meat grinder or something?
you hear seongje mutter something about his “stupid fucking roommate” before picking his head up.
“i invited her, she stays.”
“i don’t remember asking.”
you’re about to walk out yourself because seongje did drag you here against your will. when wolf is about to shove you out of the room, seongje stands up from his bed and goes in front of you. he’s three inches taller than wolf but wolf doesn’t crumble under the height difference. holding a flat face as seongje grins down at him.
you think you’re seeing two wolves fighting for dominance in this small ass dorm room. over… your presence????
wow you must really be in a manhwa right now.
you drop your backpack onto the floor and seongje whips his head around to look at you. you don’t pay any mind to their expressions or their presence despite the fact this definitely isn’t your room. you shrug off your jacket that has coffee splattered on the sleeves.
and proceed to pull the edge of your shirt and lift it over your head. you hear geum seongje let out a breathless laugh. you remove the shirt off your back with a slide of your arms. which leaves you in your black bra.
you don’t spare either of the men in the room a glance as you stomp over to the closet on seongje’s side. throwing it open, you shuffle around until you find what you’re looking for.
“what the fuck are you doing?”
you don’t reply as you keep looking around. and there in the back, you grab what you were looking for.you shove the red racing jacket over your arms and zip it up. it drowns your figure but you’re stubborn enough to not care. you pick up your stained jacket and shirt and shove it at seongje’s chest.
he stares down at you wearing a jacket he doesn’t even let his hookups wear. his lips twitching from a grimace into a very pissed off smile. wolf watching with slightly raised eyebrows.
“wash my fucking clothes. it’s your stupid ass hook up’s fault anyway.”
“why the fuck should i?”
you give him a stare before throwing the clothes onto his bed.
“okay. bye.”
wolf blinks as you pick your backpack off the floor and leave their room. the laugh that leaves his lips hasn’t been heard since his friend hwangmo got his new haircut two months ago. geum seongje whips his head around and his ears are tinged pink.
wolf flops onto his bed, still laughing at the expense of his roommate. as if it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen in his life.
“what a funny girl.”
seongje only grits his teeth as he runs his hands down his face. slumping into his desk chair.
“fucking annoying.”
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Seongtak 🐇🐇❤
I can’t wait to start writing for you guys! The orchestra fanfic already has its intro and characters written! I will start to write more as soon as I find the time! Love you guys and appreciate all you being extremely patient! 🥹🫶💗
Wolf Keum orchestra fanfic coming soon! Enemy to lovers!