whos-eda

[whos-eda]

“𝓤𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻 𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓮𝔂𝓮𝓼“-

seongje x reader

╰┈➤Summary: Where you and Seongje are on a mission in a club, but what neither of you expects is you getting drugged—forcing him to step in with brutal force.

╰┈➤Pairing: Seong-je x fem!reader

╰┈➤Genre: fluff,angst,comfort

╰┈➤Tw: physical assault, sexual harassment, drugging, violence, emotional manipulation,vomiting

Feedbacks would help me alot and please request something,i need ideas ;<

You find yourself in your living room, dressed in comfortable joggers and a hoodie—your pajamas. Alone in your small apartment, the loneliness is nothing new.

You’ve always been a simple girl, or at least that’s what you dreamed of. But life had other plans. Fighting at night to pay the bills wasn’t something any ordinary student would do. Yet, who could blame you? There was no mommy or daddy behind you, tossing money your way. No matter how hard you tried to stay out of the union’s business, trouble seemed to be hunting you down.

Four months ago, after a long day, you were heading home when you noticed a group of guys trailing behind you. They whispered to each other as if you couldn’t hear them. Minutes later, you found yourself backed into a narrow alley.

It all ended with you driving your knee hard into one of their stomachs.

That’s when he showed up. A guy a head taller than you stepped into the alley, a cigarette dangling from his lips and a striking orange jacket that almost glowed under the streetlights. The group of boys looked at him like he was their saver.

But he just laughed.

With a slow step forward, his presence shifted the air—there was something unsettling about him, something that made your instincts go wild. He took one last drag from his cigarette, tossed it to the ground, and crushed it under his shoe.

“You guys are an embarrassment to the union” he said.

Before you could even blink, he kicked his boot into the knee of the boy you still had pinned. The crack that followed made your stomach twist.

He wasn’t saving you—he was tearing into his own people.

Crazy didn’t even cover it. Psycho was closer.

But as you watched the chaos unfold in front of you, you couldn’t help it—

you smiled.

From that day on, you and seongje shared a strange bond no one could quite explain. It wasn’t friendship—not exactly.

Your thoughts were cut short by a sudden pounding on your front door. Not a polite knock—a hard, insistent thud, like the person on the other side already knew you’d answer. You let out a slow sigh, pulling your hoodie tighter around you as you walk toward the door. No one sane would be knocking at this hour.

When you opened it, there he was—standing in the hallway, close enough that you could see the faint curl of his breath in the cold air.

He was dressed in all black,which wasnt his usual fit,but it suited him in a way you didn’t want to admit. The fit was sharp—too sharp for him—and somehow chic enough to make you suspicious. Your eyes flicked over him, from the cigarette dangling between his fingers to the paper bag in his other hand.

“I didn’t think you’d let me in,” he said, leaning lazily against the doorframe.

“Don’t lie. You knew I’d open the door.”

He ignored you completely, thrusting the paper bag toward you as he stepped past into your apartment.

“Wear that.”

You shut the door behind you, brow furrowed, and peered inside the bag.

A black dress. Simple, but short. Far shorter than anything you usually wore. The fabric slid like water between your fingers.

“What… what is this?” you asked, your voice caught somewhere between confusion and disbelief.

Seongje had already made himself at home, collapsing onto your couch like he owned the place. He didn’t even glance at you when he answered.

“You’re going to wear that.” He took another slow drag from his cigarette, the ember briefly lighting his face. “It’s simple, so I won’t say it twice—perk up those bunny ears. We’re going to a certain club. You’ll play the flirty little distraction for our target—some pig who thinks he’s untouchable. Get him outside, alone, and I’ll do my buisness.”

He saidä it like he was explaining the weather—casual, effortless, as if it wasn’t dangerous in the slightest.

“…First of all,” you said, crossing your arms, “I told you not to smoke in my apartment.”

You tossed him the ashtray from the table—a ceramic thing with tiny painted cherries circling the rim. It matched you.

Seongje caught it easily, grinning down at it. “You don’t even smoke. You bought this for me.” His smirk deepened. “I thought you wanted to get rid of me. But now? You’re decorating your living room for me?”

The way he said it was pure provocation—teasing, yes, but with that quiet undertone of control. He enjoyed this game. The fact that you let him see a side of you no one else did only seemed to feed him.

“And why would you even drag me into your union stuff,i never agreed to this and you come knock at my door at Midnight with a dress you would never see me Outside with.I thought you wanted me to stay out of the unions buisnesses.“

He was silent, just starrung at you,his expression shiftet

“It was Baekjin who told me to take you with me,” he said, voice steady. “And he had his reasons. Smart ones. Your face isn’t as well-known as ours—especially since you’re not part of the union. And, if I’m honest, you’ve got a poker face I’ve never seen before. If—”

His tone shifted, darkening as he leaned forward. The cigarette hissed softly as he pressed it into the ashtray.

“And I’m serious when I say that if it were up to me, I’d rather have you sitting here in your room, looking all pretty in your hoodie, than bring you anywhere near the kind of scum who—”

You let out a sigh before he could finish. He cared.

And you hated that it mattered as much as it did.

“It’s fine,” you muttered, though the corner of your mouth twitched. “At least I get to keep a new… dress, I guess.”

You dropped down beside him on the couch, pulling the dress from the bag. The fabric was cool and smooth under your fingertips, but as you turned it over, your gaze snagged on the label.

“Don’t worry,” Seong-je said before you could speak, leaning back with casual arrogance. “The size will fit you perfectly. I checked.”

You froze, then slowly turned your head toward him, your eyes narrowing. “You checked? Wait—” Your voice shot up an octave. “Did you sniff around in my wardrobe? What the hell, Seong-je?!”

He didn’t even flinch. Instead, he calmly adjusted his glasses with one finger, expression unreadable, as if you hadn’t just caught him in the act.

The audacity.

In his car, there was no music—just the hum of the engine and the steady rhythm of the road. He drove like a man who had traced this route a hundred times before, every turn and stop mapped out in his head. You noticed something else, too: Seong-je was a silent driver. No small talk. No distractions. Just focus.

The ride itself felt calm, but the dress he’d chosen for you was its own battle. Every bump in the road made the hem creep higher, and it became a constant game—pull it down, watch the silk slide right back up seconds later. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught the faintest curl of amusement on his lips.

Any other guy might’ve tossed you his jacket, or at least looked away. Not him. This was exactly what he’d wanted when he picked that dress. Watching you fuss over it was part of the entertainment.

“So…” you finally said, trying to redirect your thoughts, “any details on how I should act?”

“At first,” he replied, eyes still on the road, “we act casual. We’ll drink something, blend in. You stick by my side. Don’t talk to anyone unless it’s necessary—we want this over quickly. And only accept drinks if you have to.”

Listening to him you just nodded,you always were good in what you were doing.You both knew that.As much as he didnt want you there he knew you would take this serious.

He parked right in front of the entrance—great. Less walking in heels.

Seong-je stepped out first, circling around the car to open your door. You tucked one side of your hair behind your ear as you stepped onto the pavement.

“I could’ve done that myself,” you said.

“I know.”

He pushed his glasses up with one finger and moved ahead, keeping one step in front of you as if to shield you from the bouncer’s eyes. His outfit matched yours in a way that felt unintentional but… striking. Black suited him, though a part of you preferred him in his strange, mismatched clothes—they felt more him.

But seongje? He was utterly obsessed with how you looked tonight. You were wearing something he’d chosen, and to him, that made you his for the evening.

When he caught sight of a group of guys—around his age—staring at you with hungry eyes, something dark flickered in his gaze. He took in their faces, memorizing every one of them. Normally, he would’ve sent you away, handled it in the shadows, then returned like nothing happened. You always knew the truth.

But not tonight. Tonight, he slid an arm around your waist and pulled you closer, his grip firm. Then he shot a glance over his shoulder. The moment they realized who he was, the laughter and whispers died in their throats.

Inside, the club hit you with a wall of noise—the pounding bass vibrating through the floor, the lights flashing in dizzy bursts of color. You remembered instantly why you weren’t a club girl.

But tonight, you had to be.

Tonight, you had to pretend this was your world.

Seongje’s hand pressed firmly against the small of your back as he guided you through the crowd—not gently, not roughly, but to make sure that you stayed exactly where he wanted you. You bypassed the dance floor, bodies and flashing lights, until he steered you toward a lounge tucked in the corner—leather seats, dim lighting, and just enough shadow to make secrets comfortable.

From here, you could see the entire room.

He sat first, then gave a small nod toward the space beside him. “Here.”

You slid in, and his arm immediately draped over the backrest—not resting so much as guarding, a silent barrier ensuring no one even thought about slipping between you.

A waiter appeared, polite but wordless, and Seong-je didn’t hesitate. “Two drinks,” he ordered, his tone more command than request. The man nodded and disappeared behind a curtain.

“I hope we get this over with fast,” you whispered, eyes dropping to your heels.

Seong-je was used to women leaning toward him, drawn in by that lazy, charismatic smirk of his. But you weren’t here to swoon—you were here to play a part you didn’t like. Selling your looks, selling a piece of your moral line for the sake of this mission left a bitter taste in your mouth.

And he could feel it.

He read you like a book he’d memorized in a thousand lifetimes—every page, every line, every hesitation.

He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, then leaned in, voice low enough to be drowned out by the music.

“You’re safe here. No one’s getting close to you. Not while I’m here… I know you want out, but he’ll be here soon. You just do the talking—leave the rest to me.”

You tried to smile, but it came out more like a grimace. “That’s not exactly reassuring.”

“It’s not meant to reassure you,” he said, a faint edge to his tone. “It’s meant to remind you.”

You were about to reply when movement caught your attention—someone crossing the lounge. Expensive suit, smug face, the kind of arrogance that didn’t need an introduction.

Your target.

Seong-je caught the way your eyes snapped to him. “Catch up to him. Hurry.”

“And you?”

“I’ll take care.” He leaned back in his seat, calm on the surface, but you could feel his gaze tracking your move.

You rose, took a slow breath, and stepped toward the man. This time, you didn’t bother pulling your dress down. This was where the poker face took over.

Trailing behind him, you “accidentally” stumbled, your heel catching just enough to send you into his back. His drink splashed forward, spilling across the floor.

He froze, then turned with a flash of irritation in his eyes. You gasped, flustered. “I–I’m so sorry! I’m so clumsy, I—”

His gaze ran over you, irritation melting into something else entirely.

“Please forgive me, sir,” you said, lowering your lashes just slightly, voice soft and desperate. “How can I make it up to you?”

The brows pulled together in that practiced, helpless look—the one that made men believe you were harmless.

He smirked. “If you give me some company at my table, I might forget. Besides… why’s a pretty girl like you all alone?” You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, letting the movement guide his attention exactly where you wanted it.

Sitting at his table, he leaned back casually—one glass of whiskey in his right hand, the other arm draped around your shoulders. His shirt had a few too many buttons undone, revealing just enough to feel bold. A golden wristwatch on his wrist, but it screamed fake, and his cheap cologne lingered heavily in the air around you. His eyes moved—down your legs, up to your chest, then back to your thighs—before locking onto yours. “So, you’re the man who runs this club? Must be someone pretty well known, right?”

You tilted your head to rest against his shoulder. “Maybe,” he murmured. “But what about you? No one seems to know you… at least, not yet.” He swirled his whiskey glass with slow amusement. “I have to say…” He stretched the words like a cat stretching its limbs. “That dress of yours—it suits you perfectly.” His gaze practically undressed you, and you let out a hollow laugh that echoed in your ears.

“Maybe it matches my mood for tonight.”

He leaned in, close enough that you could smell the alcohol on his breath. You didn’t flinch. “And how’s your mood? Playful?” His fingers slid lightly through your underarm, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Depends on who’s playing,” you whispered, holding his gaze without breaking eye contact.

“I love playing,” he said, a strange smile tugging at his lips as he tilted his head. “Especially to win. And I don’t like to lose.”

If only he knew that very mindset was about to land him in deep trouble. From the corner of your eye, you caught Seongje’s stare—sharp, unwavering, locked entirely on the man beside you. His hands rested casually on the table, but you knew better. Every muscle beneath that calm exterior was coiled tight, ready for whatever came next.

Your target raised a hand, signaling the waiter. “You’ll drink with me, right?”

“That depends,” you said, tilting your head ever so slightly, “on what you’re ordering.”

“Something strong,” he replied without hesitation. His gaze slid down to your décolleté and lingered there shamelessly. “I want to see how you look after that.”

That sentence sent a shiver through you—not the kind that came from a thrill, but something colder. Filthy? Disgusted? You couldn’t even name the feeling, only that it settled heavy in your chest.

Minutes later, the waiter returned, setting a glass in front of you.

“Just one sip—come on.” His eyes locked on your lips. “So we’re on the same wavelength.”

You lifted the glass, forcing a small, practiced smile. Blend in. It’s for the job. And somewhere, deep inside, the thought whispered—you didn’t want to disappoint Seongje.

The first sip burned all the way down your throat. You tried to take as little as possible, but his gaze stayed fixed on you, sharp and watchful, as if making sure you drank every drop.

Something was wrong. You could feel it. And if that drink was what you thought it was… you’d have to act quickly.

From across the room, you knew Seong-je could see it too—every muscle in his body coiled tight beneath his calm. “Are you okay?” he asked. His voice didn’t sound worried—it sounded almost hopeful. “Perfect,” you said with a flirty smile, resting your hand on his arm. “But it’s so loud here… why don’t we go somewhere quieter?”

His eyes lit up. “Great idea.” He slid an arm around your back. It wasn’t just the heat of the club making you dizzy now—your legs felt weak, the room tilting a little. Hurry up. You glanced over your shoulder for Seongje. The seat was empty.

Shit.

Looking forward again, he led you through the crowd. His fingers ran down your back—too far down—making your skin crawl. You took a shallow breath, trying to ignore the shaking in your legs,the lights that leave a burning feeling in your eyes or the feeling that you have to vomit.He had drugged you. You just needed to get outside—just a few more steps.

Instead, he pushed you against a wall in a dark hallway between the VIP area and the exit. His mouth was close to your ear. “You know…” he said, “you’re not like the others. You act like you’ve got everything under control.”

His hand touched your face, holding your chin. “But I can see it in your eyes… you wouldn’t even dare to slap me.”

A cold shiver ran down your spine, but you forced your mind to stay clear, fighting back.

“Maybe because I’m waiting for the right moment…?” you said, forcing the words out.

“The moment is now.”

He pressed himself against your weakened body, his hand sliding up your thigh—too far, too fast. Your stomach turned, and your breath caught. You looked away, unable to meet his eyes.

“Wrong moment.”

The voice came from behind him—cold, sharp, and full of danger.

The man barely started to turn before Seong-je grabbed his collar and slammed him into the exit door. The door burst open, sending him stumbling outside. His eyes went wide the second he saw Seong-je’s face.

Seong-je stepped out after him, his voice like a blade. “Don’t. Touch. Her.” Every word dripped with fury.

You leaned against the wall, sliding down until you sat on the floor, your breaths heavy and uneven. Shock numbed you—too much even for tears. Seong-je glanced at you once, then back at the man now kneeling on the ground.

“I—I’m sorry, I didn’t know she was with you, o-or if this is about the union’s mon—” The words cut off as Seong-je’s boot crashed into his stomach. The man folded over with a wheeze, but Seong-je didn’t stop. Another kick. Then another. The sound of impact was thick and ugly. He grabbed the man by the hair, yanking his head up so their eyes met. “You think you can drug her under my watch huh..?”

The man tried to speak, but Seongje’s knee slammed into his face, snapping his head back. Blood spilled from his nose, dripping down his suit. “You’re not walking away from this.” Seongje drove his fist into the man’s jaw, once, twice—each punch harder than the last—until his victim’s arms hung limp at his sides.

Seong-je’s breathing was heavy. He wiped the blood from his knuckles—not his own—and then turned to you.

You expected that cold, unshakable stare he gave everyone else. But when his eyes found yours, they weren’t cold at all.

“Hey.”

Just one word—deep, steady—and it cut through the noise in your head. He stepped closer.

Your jaw trembled as you tried to speak, but all that came out were sobs. The sound startled even you. You weren’t someone who cried in front of others—especially not him. But the mix of adrenaline, fear, and the thought of what that man had planned stole every breath from your lungs.

Two steps, and he was in front of you. He knelt, hands steady as he took your arm and helped you to your feet. He could feel every quick, uneven breath you took before another sob broke free. With careful pressure, he guided you away from the wall. You leaned into him, letting your weight fall against his chest. The fabric of his shirt scratched faintly against your cheek, grounding you.

“Shh. Calm.” His voice wasn’t a soft whisper—it was low and commanding. “You’re safe now.” You gasped against his shoulder. “H-he drugged me… I shouldn’t have—” “He wouldn’t have let you go,” Seong-je cut in, firm and certain. “Let’s go home.”

His hand found yours, gripping tight—too tight for you to pull away. Not that you wanted to.

He led you through the hallway toward the exit. Behind you, the man lay sprawled on the cold concrete.

Even through the dizzy sway in your steps, you noticed it—how Seong-je’s grip steadied you. It was like being inside a cage—one that protected you and trapped you all at once.

Outside the club, in front of his car, the cold night air hit you like a punch. Your stomach twisted violently.

“Fuck…” you muttered, stumbling a few shaky steps away from the car. Seongje was faster—already at your side before you could take another breath. One hand braced against the small of your back, the other brushing your hair over your shoulder.

“Head down.” You bent, half kneeling over the curb, as your stomach heaved. The bitter burn clawed up your throat. He said nothing—didn’t flinch, didn’t look away—just kept that steady hand on your back, a silent wall between you and the world.

You’d always hated this—feared it, even—but the drug didn’t care.

When you tried to straighten, he pressed gently on your shoulder.

“Not yet. Let it out.”

He kept your hair out of your face with a careful grip, a small, almost meaningless gesture—yet it felt disarmingly intimate. Too human for someone like him. Your eyes stung, not just from the strain, but from something you couldn’t name.

“Finished?” he asked after a moment, his voice quieter than before.

You nodded weakly. He pulled you up, an arm catching your weight when your knees wavered. Without a word, he guided you to the car and opened the passenger door.

The motion wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t rough either—just certain. He helped you inside, buckled the belt himself, his fingers brushing your arm in a way that was more grounding than you wanted to admit.

For a moment, he lingered there—close enough that you could smell the faint mix of smoke and his cologne—before shutting the door and circling to the driver’s seat. You sat turned halfway toward the window, forehead grazing the glass. The city outside blurred into streaks of light, each passing lamppost pulling you further away from the noise, the heat, the stench of the club. Your head felt heavy—too heavy—and your pulse still drummed unevenly from whatever he’d put into your drink. Somewhere between the rhythm of the tires on asphalt and the faint hum of the engine, you felt his gaze wander from the road to you, brief but deliberate.

“You look pale.”

“I’m… just dizzy.” You tried to make it sound light, dismissive, but the words trembled. It sounded broken even to you.

For a while, he said nothing, the silence stretching. His hands gripped the wheel too tight, knuckles pale under the dim glow of the dashboard. When he finally spoke, it wasn’t soft—it was sharp, clipped, like a thought that had been growing in his head since the moment he saw you with that man. “I shouldn’t have brought you with me.” It didn’t sound like an apology. It sounded like a truth he would punish himself for. “If I hadn’t drunk it, he would’ve known something was wrong,” you murmured, your voice scratchy from the burn in your throat. “It was for the job.”

“That is not your job.” His voice didn’t rise, but it carried weight—enough to press into you. “Your job isn’t to let men look at you like that.” You turned your head toward him despite the fog in your skull. “And whose fault was that today?” His face didn’t change. “Mine. And that’s why it won’t happen again.”

His eyes cut to you, holding your gaze longer than the road allowed.“I don’t want anyone to see you like that. Not in that dress. Not with that look on your face.”

You let out a weak, humorless laugh. “You gave me that dress.”

“Because I wanted to see you in it.”

The words landed heavy. There was no hesitation, no attempt to dress them up—just truth, stripped bare.

The streets were emptier now, the city pulling back into shadow, the night pressing close around the car.

Then his hand left the gear shift and rested on your thigh. You didn’t pull away. If anything, it anchored you, even as your chest tightened.

“I’ll make sure no one touches you again,” he said, quiet but unshakable. “No one gets to hurt you. Not like tonight. You don’t belong to their world.” His fingers tightened, just enough to make the next words sink in. “You belong to me.”

You didn’t trust yourself to speak. Didn’t know if you wanted to. So you leaned your head against the cold glass and let your eyes close, listening to the low hum of the car.

He didn’t speak again, but his hand stayed where it was—firm, unmoving, a silent claim. And you knew it wasn’t just to comfort you.

When the car finally slowed, you opened your eyes to find you were already in front of your building. He didn’t ask if you could walk—he got out first, came around, and opened your door without a word. His hand was there instantly when your knees buckled, catching you before you could fall. Inside, the air was still and warm compared to the sharp bite of the night. He guided you down the hall to your apartment with a grip that was more than just steady—it was controlling, decisive.

When the door closed behind you, you leaned against it, breathing in the silence. You expected him to leave, but he didn’t. He stood there, studying you like he was memorizing the way you looked in this moment—hair messy from his hands, eyes tired, makeup slightly smudged.

“Sit,” he said. Not a suggestion.

You sat.

He crouched down in front of you, his eyes scanning your face for something—weakness, fear, anything. “I mean it,” he said again, softer this time but still with that razor edge. “No one will ever put you in that position again.”

Something in your chest twisted at the way he said it. It wasn’t just protection—it was possession.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Because deep down, you knew—just like the weight of his hand on your thigh, just like the way he’d torn that man off you—he meant every word.

And whether that truth scared you or comforted you, you couldn’t tell.

Credits to :@uzmacchiato for the dividers im so in love with them check out their page