Hands That Ruin, Hands That Hold
Pairing: Kwon Jiyong x Fem!Reader
Summary: What begins as weeks of teasing glances at Jiyong’s hands finally breaks during a quiet movie night. He positions you between his legs, forces you to watch as his fingers edge and wreck you, dragging squirt after squirt from your trembling body. When you’re left spent and ruined, he cleans you up himself, makes you wear his shirt, and holds you close — possessive even in his tenderness.
Warnings: Explicit sexual content (18+), fingering, edging, overstimulation, multiple squirting, possessive/dom behavior, degradation + praise mix, overstimulation/tears from edging, spit play (sucking slick off fingers), aftercare
You told yourself it was nothing, just a slip of attention, a passing thought. But somewhere along the line, you couldn’t stop watching Jiyong’s hands.
The way he flicked a lighter open and shut as he leaned against the balcony rail, cigarette tucked lazy between his fingers. The precise snap of his rings against the wood as he drummed a rhythm without even thinking. The curl of his knuckles around a coffee cup, steam rising into the pale morning light.
How his veins shifted when he flexed his wrist. How his nails, short and clean, caught the light when he reached for a pen. How his fingers spread when he typed across his laptop — swift, elegant, commanding. And every time, your mind betrayed you, wandering into the same dangerous territory: how those hands would feel inside you. Around your throat. At your mouth. You’d stare too long, heart thudding, then force yourself to look away before he caught you.
Except Jiyong wasn’t blind.
One evening, the two of you sat at the kitchen counter — him hunched over his sketchbook, rings gleaming as he flipped a page, you pretending to scroll through your phone. Your eyes slipped down again, following the sweep of his pen, the effortless curl of his fingers as he sketched out something abstract and sharp. “You’re quiet,” he murmured without looking up. Your throat caught. “Just tired.”
He hummed, unconvinced, his pen pausing for a moment as he twisted a ring back into place. His gaze flicked up, sharp and knowing, and your stomach lurched as you realized you’d been staring again. “You like something?” he asked, voice low, amused. You blinked quickly, scrambling. “What?”
His smirk was lazy, deliberate, as he held his hand up — flexing his fingers, spreading them out like he was presenting them. “You’ve been staring. Don’t think I don’t notice.”
Heat rushed to your cheeks, your pulse skipping. “I wasn’t—”
“Mm.” He leaned closer, his voice a whisper against your ear. “You’re a terrible liar.” His hand brushed over your thigh then, casual at first — but his thumb lingered, stroking slow circles into your jeans, teasing. You sucked in a breath, eyes flicking down to where his fingers rested. “See?” he murmured, almost smug. “You’re staring again.”
You swatted his hand lightly, trying to laugh it off, but your voice shook. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?” he pressed, and this time, his palm slid higher, fingertips pressing faintly into your inner thigh. Just enough to make your breath hitch. Your phone screen dimmed, forgotten. The only thing you could focus on was the heat of his hand inching higher and the sharp, glittering look in his eyes — the look of a man who’d caught you red-handed and wasn’t about to let it go.
It went on like that for weeks. You thought maybe he’d let it slide after that first night at the kitchen counter — the lazy accusation, the smug smirk. But Jiyong wasn’t the type to let things go.
If anything, he doubled down.
Every day felt like a test you were bound to fail.
He’d stir his coffee deliberately slow in the mornings, metal spoon clinking against porcelain as his fingers wrapped tight around the handle. He’d tap rings against tables, spin pens between knuckles, pull lighters from his pocket just to flick them open and shut while looking straight at you. And always, always, that smug little smirk when your eyes inevitably dropped. Sometimes, he’d push it further — brushing his hand across your lower back when he passed you, letting his thumb skim your waist, drumming lazy patterns on your thigh if you sat too close. Nothing enough to call him out on, but more than enough to keep you flustered.
He never said it outright. He didn’t need to. The silence of his knowing was worse. And then there was the ice cream.
It was stupid, domestic — the two of you slouched on the couch one humid night, spoons digging into a carton of vanilla like kids. A movie hummed in the background, the light low, the air heavy.
The apartment was thick with the hum of summer — windows cracked open but doing little to fight the heavy, humid air. A fan ticked lazily in the corner, its rotation squeaking every so often.
He sat sprawled comfortably, hair falling in his eyes, shirt unbuttoned just enough to tease. One hand held his phone, scrolling lazily. The other — the one that had been tormenting you for weeks — clutched the carton. His rings glinted in the low light, his veins taut where his knuckles flexed.
You told yourself not to look. You failed.
Your eyes slipped down every few seconds, tracing the tendons in his hand as he adjusted his grip, the curve of his thumb pressing into the cardboard. The metal of his rings caught against the carton edge, scraping soft, sending goosebumps down your arms.
He answered with his usual drawl, balancing the carton in one hand, the phone pressed to his ear with the other. “Yeah?”
It should’ve been nothing. Ordinary. But as he leaned back into the couch, his hand tilted just slightly — and you noticed it.
The ice cream had softened, melting around the spoon lodged inside. A slow rivulet of cream escaped, trailing down the handle, slipping over his fingers. One droplet curved across his knuckle, sliding into the crease of his ring. Another pooled against his skin, glistening in the flickering light of the TV.
He kept talking, distracted, his voice low and casual in the phone speaker. “…no, tomorrow’s fine. Yeah, just send it over.”
You forced your eyes to the screen, shoving a spoonful of ice cream into your mouth. The sweetness sat heavy on your tongue, doing nothing to distract you from the sight of his hand — relaxed, careless, utterly beautiful as the ice cream dripped down in slow, mocking lines.
The more you looked, the more you couldn’t stop. The slick shine along his fingers. The way he absently flexed them when the carton wobbled, making the drip spread further.
Your thighs pressed together without you realizing. Another rivulet slid, slower this time, curling along the side of his index finger. You clenched your spoon tighter, staring blankly at the TV, pulse hammering. If you just focused on the movie, maybe you wouldn’t…
But your eyes betrayed you again.
And there it was — his hand, sticky with cream, the silver of his rings catching the light like they knew your secret. Jiyong cursed under his breath suddenly, glancing down. “Ah, fuck.”
He shifted the carton onto the table and reached for a napkin, phone still tucked to his ear. “No, sorry, not you. Just—hold on.”
And that was when you moved.
Your hand shot out, catching his wrist before he could wipe it clean. His brows knit, startled, mouth opening — but before he could speak, you guided his hand to your lips.
His body went rigid. “What are you—”
You didn’t let him finish.
Your lips parted, warm and deliberate, and you slid his fingers into your mouth. The taste of sugar flooded your tongue, sticky and sweet, but it was nothing compared to the taste of him — the faint tang of skin, the cold press of metal against your tongue, the weight of his hand trembling in yours.
You sucked slow, licking along each knuckle, tracing your tongue against the line where cream had dripped, moaning faintly at the indulgence. Jiyong froze, phone almost slipping from his ear. His eyes widened, sharp and stunned, his lips parting as if to speak but no sound came out. You hummed, savoring it, your tongue curling between his fingers before slipping them free with a wet, obscene pop.
Then you licked your lips, wiped the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, and leaned back casually against the cushions. “It was dripping,” you said simply, as though you hadn’t just undone weeks of teasing in one move. He stared at you, completely wrecked by nothing more than your mouth on his fingers.
And for the first time in weeks, you were the one smirking.
You turned back to the TV, spooning another bite of ice cream into your mouth as though nothing had happened. Jiyong stayed frozen beside you, hand still raised midair, eyes locked on you in utter silence.
For days after, Jiyong didn’t bring it up.
He didn’t ask why you’d licked his fingers clean. Didn’t tease you for it. Didn’t even give you the satisfaction of that smug smirk. But his silence was worse.
Because now you caught him watching you.
When you sat at the table, he’d stir his coffee slow, his spoon clinking in measured rhythm — his eyes flicking up to see if you’d notice. When he lit a cigarette, he’d drag his fingers across his lips as he exhaled, smoke curling like a dare between you. When he adjusted his rings, he’d pull them off one by one, sliding them back with deliberate care, his tongue pressed to his cheek as if waiting for you to break.
Every time, your eyes betrayed you. He never said a word, but you saw it — the tiny twitch of his lips, the flicker of amusement in his eyes. He knew. It turned into a rhythm, a game neither of you admitted to playing.
One night, you were sprawled together on the couch, a vinyl spinning low in the background. He rested an arm behind you, fingers tapping idly against the cushion. Every few beats, his knuckles brushed your shoulder, light and careless. You tried to focus on the music, but your skin burned where he touched.
“You’re distracted,” he murmured, not even looking at you, his hand still drumming. Your breath hitched. “No, I’m not.”
“Mm.” His hand stilled, his fingers curling into the fabric just beside your bare arm. You felt the warmth of him there, so close. His rings pressed faintly against your skin when he finally leaned closer, his voice brushing your ear. “You keep staring.”
You swallowed hard, shifting in your seat. “You’re imagining things.” His laugh was low, sharp, almost cruel. He reached forward suddenly, plucking your glass of wine from your hand and lifting it to his lips. His fingers brushed yours deliberately in the exchange, lingering longer than necessary. “Am I?” he asked again, eyes glittering as he sipped from your glass.
You hated the way your body betrayed you — thighs pressing together, stomach clenching tight, your gaze fixed helplessly on the slide of his fingers down the stem of the glass.
The weeks blurred into more moments like this:
His hand on your lower back when you walked ahead of him, thumb pressing just above your waistband.
Him reaching across you at dinner, his fingers brushing yours as he set down the plate.
Lazy afternoons where he’d rest his hand high on your thigh, too casual, the weight of it burning through your clothes until you squirmed.
Each time, he left you wrecked with want — never pushing, never giving, just teasing until you were dizzy with it.
But the ice cream night lingered. Sometimes, when the apartment fell quiet, you’d catch him looking at his own hand — flexing his fingers absently, lost in thought. His gaze would flick to you, sharp and unreadable, before he smirked and looked away.
You never asked. He never told.
And every day, your hunger for those hands only grew.
The apartment was dim except for the flickering light of the TV, the hum of a movie spilling through the speakers. A bowl of half-eaten popcorn sat abandoned on the coffee table, wine glasses sweating faintly beside it. You were curled against Jiyong’s side on the couch, his arm draped loosely around you, your head resting on his chest. His body was warm and steady, his heartbeat slow against your cheek. From the outside, it was the picture of comfort — two people unwinding after a long day.
But your mind was elsewhere.
Because while the movie played, you weren’t following the plot. Your eyes kept slipping lower — to where his hand rested against your arm.
At first, it was innocent: his palm spread loosely, thumb brushing idly against your skin every few minutes. Casual, unconscious. The kind of touch you should’ve been used to by now.
But you weren’t. Not anymore.
Not with the way his fingers flexed faintly when he shifted. The way the veins along his hand caught the soft light from the TV. The way his rings pressed cool against your bare skin. Every tiny movement set your thoughts spiraling. What would those fingers feel like if they slipped lower? If they curled deep inside you the way you kept imagining? The thought pulsed hot through your veins, making it impossible to focus on the screen.
You swallowed hard, pressing closer to him, as if that would ground you. It didn’t.
Jiyong shifted again, this time reaching with his free hand for his vape on the table. He brought it to his lips, inhaling slow, his chest rising beneath you. You watched the way his fingers curled around the sleek device, the slight hollow of his knuckles as he held it. He exhaled a thin stream of vapor toward the ceiling, his eyes fixed on the TV, completely relaxed. His thumb brushed your arm again, absent, like he didn’t even realize he was touching you.
But you noticed. God, you noticed.
Your thighs pressed together under the blanket, your breath catching when his nails skimmed lightly across your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “Mm,” he hummed absently, eyes narrowing at the screen. “This part’s good.”
You couldn’t even process what was happening onscreen. All you could think about was the weight of his hand, the drag of his rings, the rhythm of his thumb brushing your arm in slow, endless strokes.
And the way he alternated between touching you and lifting the vape to his mouth — lips wrapping around it, fingers curling, smoke sliding past his lips — only made the ache worse.
You tilted your head just enough to glance up at him. He looked completely absorbed in the movie, eyes glinting faintly in the light, jaw relaxed. He didn’t seem to notice the way your body was tensed, your chest rising and falling a little too fast.
But deep down, you wondered.
Because Jiyong always noticed.
You shifted against him, hoping he wouldn’t notice how flushed you felt, how uneven your breathing had become. But Jiyong wasn’t blind — never had been. His thumb paused on your arm for the first time in what felt like forever. The movie droned on, but his gaze slid down toward you, sharp and deliberate. “You’re not even watching, are you?” His voice was low, almost amused. Your chest tightened. “I am.”
“Mm.” He inhaled from his vape again, smoke curling soft past his lips as his eyes lingered on your face. “Liar.”
Heat rushed through you at the single word, the quiet authority in it. You forced your gaze back to the TV, but it didn’t matter — his hand began to move again.
Not on your arm this time.
The lazy rhythm of his thumb drifted lower, sliding across your elbow, down toward the soft skin of your inner forearm. The touch was featherlight, almost teasing, but deliberate enough to make your breath catch. “You’re warm,” he murmured, eyes still fixed on the screen as though he hadn’t just set you on fire.
Your pulse hammered. “It’s—hot in here.”
“Mm.” His thumb traced slow circles over your wrist now, the cool edge of one of his rings grazing your skin. “Sure.”
He shifted slightly, letting his hand fall to your thigh under the blanket. At first, it rested there innocently — heavy, warm, anchoring. But then his fingers flexed, squeezing lightly, before trailing idle shapes against the fabric.
Your body tensed, thighs pressing together instinctively.
He noticed. You knew he did. Because his hand stilled for just a beat, then slid higher — an inch, maybe two, but enough to make your breath stutter. His smirk curved, barely visible in the blue light of the TV. He took another slow drag from his vape, his other hand holding you steady against his chest.
“You’re flushed,” he said finally, exhaling smoke upward. “You should tell me why.”
You swallowed, words caught in your throat. His hand squeezed your thigh again, firmer this time. Still nothing overt — still perfectly deniable — but every brush of his fingers screamed with intent.
The weight of his hand stayed heavy on your thigh, warm even through the blanket, through the fabric of your pants. For a moment, he didn’t move — just rested there, like nothing was unusual, eyes still fixed on the movie. But then his fingers flexed. A slow squeeze. The drag of his thumb over the seam of your jeans.
Your breath caught. Jiyong smirked faintly, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’d been waiting for that exact sound. He exhaled from his vape again, smoke curling between you, then lowered it lazily to the table. All his focus, now, on you.
His hand slid higher, palm pressing into the curve of your thigh, fingertips skimming closer to the place you needed him most. The pressure was light, almost absent-minded — except you knew better.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
You shifted against him, thighs pressing together instinctively, trying to relieve the ache building low in your stomach. But the movement only drew his hand higher, until his palm hovered over your center, the heat of him seeping through the thin barrier of fabric. Your pulse hammered, your lips parting in a shaky exhale.
He chuckled softly, finally tilting his head down to look at you. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
You couldn’t answer. Not with the way his thumb began to stroke slow, deliberate lines along your clothed slit, dragging the pressure just enough to make your hips twitch. It wasn’t enough. God, it wasn’t nearly enough. The friction dulled by the fabric, the way his touch lingered right where you needed more but never pressed hard enough.
You whimpered, low in your throat, and his smirk deepened.
The command was soft but sharp, leaving no room for refusal. You hesitated only a moment before obeying, thighs parting slowly under the blanket. His hand followed, sliding between them, cupping you fully now over the thin barrier of your pants.
“Good girl,” he murmured, his thumb pressing just a little firmer now, dragging across where you throbbed for him. “So warm already… and I’ve barely touched you.”
The praise hit hard, making your stomach twist, your hips jerk helplessly into his palm. But still — it wasn’t enough. Not skin on skin. Not yet. And Jiyong knew. He always knew. Which was why his smirk turned downright wicked as he leaned close, his voice brushing against your ear.
“You’ll take what I give you. For now.”
His thumb circled once more over your clothed clit, drawing another helpless sound from your throat. Your hips twitched against his hand, your body begging without words for more friction, more pressure. He chuckled low, shaking his head as if you were the one being ridiculous. “Already squirming,” he murmured, his voice honey-smooth, laced with amusement. His fingers pressed a little harder, dragging over the damp spot forming in the fabric. “So wet you’ve ruined your pants.”
Your face burned, shame and need tangling, and still you couldn’t stop grinding helplessly into his palm. “Patience,” he whispered, leaning close enough for his lips to brush your ear. “I’ll give you what you want. But you’ll let me take my time.”
He let the words hang there, his hand pulling away just long enough to make you whimper at the loss. Then, with deliberate slowness, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your pants.
The command was quiet but absolute.
You obeyed instantly, your body moving on instinct, and he slid the fabric down over your thighs inch by inch. Not hurried. Not messy. Controlled, savoring. The blanket slipped off completely, cool air rushing against your heated skin. His rings glinted faintly in the TV light as he peeled your pants lower, past your knees, until they bunched at your ankles. He took them off fully, leaving you only with ur panties and ur shirt.
His eyes lingered shamelessly between your legs, then flicked up to your flushed face. His smirk was devastating. “Better.”
His hand returned, this time against your bare thigh, the warmth of his skin searing against yours. He let his fingers trace idle patterns higher, higher, until his knuckles brushed the edge of your panties. You sucked in a breath, your thighs twitching open further. He tilted his head, pretending to study you like art. Then he slipped his thumb beneath the thin fabric, dragging it slow across your slick heat.
The sound that tore from you was broken, needy. “Fuck,” Jiyong muttered, his composure cracking for the first time, his fingers glistening when he pulled them back. He brought them up between you, close enough that you could see the shine in the TV light. “Dripping already. And I’ve barely touched you.”
He pressed his thumb back against your clit, this time skin on skin, rubbing slow, tight circles that made your body jolt against him. “Spread your legs wider,” he ordered softly, and when you obeyed, his smile turned feral. “That’s it. Let me see how much you can take.”
His fingers slipped lower, teasing at your entrance — shallow at first, testing, before pushing in just enough to stretch you.
And all the while, he watched your face, sharp and focused, as if your every reaction was exactly what he’d been waiting weeks for.
The air between you felt thick, the movie forgotten, your body already buzzing from the way his hand had teased you over your clothes. But Jiyong wasn’t finished — not even close.
“Stand up,” he murmured, his tone velvet-wrapped steel. You blinked at him, breath unsteady. “W…what?”
His smirk curved, dangerous and amused. “You heard me.”
Hesitant, trembling, you pushed yourself up from the couch. He stayed seated, legs spread lazily, head tilted back as his eyes dragged up and down your body with unhurried hunger. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he crooked two fingers at you. “Come closer.”
Your knees nearly buckled at the authority in his voice, but you obeyed, stepping until you stood between his parted legs. He leaned forward, his hands gliding up your thighs, his rings cool against your skin. “These…” he muttered, his fingers finding the waistband of your panties, “…don’t belong here.”
Before you could reply, he hooked his thumbs under the thin fabric and tugged them down.
The elastic grazed your hips, dragged across your heat — the barest friction that made your breath stutter. His eyes never left your face as the fabric slid down your thighs, pooling at your ankles. He tapped your foot lightly, smirking. “Step out.”
You did, shivering as he picked the panties up from the floor, twirling them idly around his finger before tossing them carelessly onto the coffee table. “Better,” he murmured, satisfied. Then his hands were back on you, gripping your waist as he guided you down, down, until you were seated against him — your back pressed firm to his chest, your legs draped over each of his thighs. The position spread you wide, caged by the length of his body, your skin flushed and bare in the dim light. His thighs held you open, unmovable, while his arms curved around you like a trap.
You whimpered, squirming instinctively, but he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Shh,” he whispered, voice low, steady, devastating. “Stay like this. I want you open for me.”
His hands slid slowly up your thighs, tracing lazy patterns higher, higher, until his knuckles brushed against your slick folds. He didn’t touch yet — just hovered, teasing, letting the anticipation burn. Then his mouth found your ear again, his words a dark caress. “Watch,” he commanded, his hand finally sliding down between your thighs. “Don’t close your eyes. I want you to see what my hands do to you.”
Your thighs trembled where they rested over his, spread wide and helpless. Jiyong’s chest was solid at your back, his breath warm against your ear, his scent thick in your nose — cologne, smoke, and something uniquely him.
His fingers skimmed down the inside of your thigh, brushing over heated skin until they reached the slick between your legs. He didn’t push in. Not yet. Instead, he let his palm cup you fully, pressing against the soft heat of your pussy. You gasped, your hips jerking into his hand. His smirk curved against your ear. “That’s it. Let me feel how desperate you are.”
His fingers spread, dragging through your folds with unhurried precision. Up, down. Over and over. Gathering your slick, smearing it until you were glistening in the dim TV light.
The wet sounds filled the quiet room, obscene and intimate, echoing louder in your ears than the movie playing forgotten in the background. “Listen to you,” he murmured, his thumb circling lazily over your clit now, slow, featherlight. “Already dripping. And I haven’t even fucked you with my fingers yet.”
Your back arched against him, your thighs trembling as your breath came ragged. “J-Jiyong…”
“Shhh,” he soothed, kissing the curve of your ear, but his hand never stopped moving. His thumb pressed tighter, circling in deliberate patterns while his fingers slipped lower, rubbing against your entrance without entering. Teasing. Testing.
The pressure built, unbearable, your hips grinding helplessly into his palm. “Spread wider,” he ordered softly, his thighs nudging yours further apart. When you obeyed, a low groan rumbled from his chest. “Good girl. Stay open for me.”
His middle finger dragged up again, pressing firm against your swollen clit, rubbing in slow circles that made your vision blur. He alternated — sliding back down to trace your entrance, dragging up to smear more slick over your clit, over and over until you were whimpering. “Look,” he whispered, his free hand catching your jaw, tilting your face down so you couldn’t avoid it. “Watch my hand ruin you.”
Through the hazy light, you saw it — his long fingers glistening as they stroked over your folds, his rings shining faintly as they moved, deliberate, ruthless in their slowness. The sight made your chest tighten, your body clench, your moans spilling freely now. And still, he kept you on the edge. Rubbing. Circling. Teasing. Never giving you the relief of being filled, no matter how desperately your hips bucked. „Not yet,” he muttered, his teeth grazing your ear, his voice wrecked with control. “You’ll wait until I say.”
His thumb circled your clit in lazy, maddening arcs until you thought you’d snap. Your hips rolled helplessly, chasing more pressure, but Jiyong only chuckled low against your ear “Impatient,” he teased, his tone silk and smoke. “But I’m not done playing with you yet.”
And then he shifted his hand. Two fingers slid lower, pressing against your folds — not entering, just spreading you open with a practiced curl. The air was cool against your swollen, slick heat, and the obscene sound of your arousal squelching between his fingers filled the quiet room. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, his composure slipping for a heartbeat as he dragged his fingers slowly up through the wetness he’d exposed. “You’re soaking my hand, jagi.”
You whimpered, shame and heat flooding you in equal measure, your thighs twitching against the cage of his. Jiyong smirked, his eyes glittering in the low light. “So messy.”
And then — without warning — he pulled his hand away.
Your body jerked at the sudden loss, a broken sound spilling from your throat. But before you could protest, his slick-coated fingers pressed firmly against your lips. “Open.”
Your breath stuttered. His fingers pressed harder, smearing your wetness over your mouth. His voice dipped low, commanding, devastating. “Taste yourself.”
Shame curled hot in your belly, but your lips parted on instinct. He slid two fingers into your mouth, pushing deep, his slick spreading across your tongue. “Good girl,” he murmured, watching your lips close around him. “Suck.”
You moaned around his fingers, your tongue swirling against them, the taste of yourself heavy and obscene on your tongue. He groaned, low and sharp, his hips shifting under you as his cock strained against his pants. “That’s it,” he whispered, his voice breaking with hunger. “Choke on how wet you are for me.”
When he finally dragged his fingers out, they glistened with spit, strings of it catching in the dim light. He guided them back down between your thighs, pressing into your folds again, smearing the mess over your clit. And this time — finally — he pushed two fingers deep inside you.
The stretch made you cry out, your head falling back against his shoulder. His lips curved against your ear, satisfied, almost cruel. “Watch,” he rasped, curling his fingers until your body jolted. “See what my hands do to you.”
The first push of his fingers inside you stole your breath, your body arching back against his chest. His touch was deep, curling immediately, finding that spot that made your vision blur. “Ah—Jiyong,” you gasped, clutching his thighs for balance.
His smirk curved against your ear, his breath hot. “That’s it. Watch my fingers.” Your gaze dropped, helpless, to where his long, pale fingers disappeared inside you. They glistened in the dim light, slick coating every motion, his rings catching the faint glow of the TV. It was obscene, intimate, devastating.
He set a rhythm — slow, deliberate thrusts, his thumb circling your clit with agonizing precision. Every curl of his fingers made your thighs tremble, every drag against your walls sending heat coiling tighter in your belly. It built fast — too fast. You could feel release rushing toward you, your hips jerking helplessly into his hand, your breath breaking into desperate gasps. But just as the pleasure crested, he slowed.
His fingers stilled inside you, his thumb easing off your clit until the wave receded, leaving you trembling and empty, tears prickling in your eyes from the denial. “Not yet,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You don’t get to come until I say.”
You whimpered, your body clenching around nothing, desperate for the friction to return. He chuckled darkly, resuming his pace — sliding his fingers out almost all the way before plunging them back in, harder this time, deeper. His thumb found your clit again, rubbing cruel little circles until your hips bucked. The pleasure built again, sharper now, your body tensing, thighs shaking against his.
And again — he slowed. Pulled his fingers out to just the tip, circling your entrance, smearing your slick around without giving you the satisfaction of fullness. You sobbed, broken. “Please—Jiyong, please.”
His laugh was low, wrecked, his lips brushing your ear. “Hear that? Begging already. You’re so easy for my hands.” He pushed back in suddenly, hard, curling his fingers deep until your entire body jolted. The wet sounds echoed filthy in the quiet room, his thumb relentless on your clit now. Your orgasm surged again, higher, closer, your nails digging into his thighs.
And then — he stopped. Completely.
You cried out, your head falling back against his shoulder, tears welling from the sheer frustration. “Jiyong—please, I can’t—”
“You can,” he whispered, licking the shell of your ear. His free hand caught your jaw again, forcing your gaze down. “You’ll watch what I do to you. You’ll feel it. And you’ll wait until I say you can break.”
His fingers plunged back in, ruthless now, pounding into you, curling hard against that spot inside that made stars explode behind your eyes. His thumb pressed firm to your clit, faster, tighter, wrecking you. Your orgasm rushed again, unstoppable this time, and when your body started to shudder, your moans raw and desperate—
“Hold it,” he growled, his pace slowing just enough to keep you teetering on the edge. “Don’t you dare come without me.”
You sobbed, your body twitching, your thighs straining against his. He held you open, unmovable, his fingers deep inside you but cruelly controlled, keeping you right there in unbearable limbo. “Beg me,” he whispered, his voice wrecked with desire. “Beg me to let you fall.”
“Beg me,” Jiyong whispered again, his voice a rasp of smoke and silk, his fingers still curled deep but maddeningly slow.
You whimpered, broken, your head shaking. “Please, Jiyong… please, I need it—”
His smirk curved against your ear, satisfied. “That’s better.”
His pace snapped from lazy to brutal — fingers plunging hard, fast, curling up against your walls with ruthless precision. His thumb ground tight circles into your clit, relentless, every movement sharp and devastating. Your scream tore from your throat, raw and high, your nails clawing into his thighs.
And then you felt it — his free hand pressing down firmly on your lower belly, pinning you against his lap. The pressure sent shockwaves through you, forcing his fingers deeper, harder, each thrust driving against that spot that made your entire body quake.
The wet sounds were obscene.
Every stroke squelched loud in the quiet room, slick coating his hand, dripping down your thighs. With each thrust, the noise grew wetter, louder, until it filled the space more than the forgotten movie on the TV. “Listen,” he growled, his voice rough with arousal. “Listen to how messy you are for me.”
Your thighs trembled uncontrollably, your hips jerking helplessly into his hand, the pressure unbearable. The orgasm hit so suddenly, so violently, that you could only sob his name, your body clenching hard around his fingers.
But Jiyong didn’t let up.
“Give it to me,” he demanded, his fingers pounding faster, his palm pressing harder against your belly. “Don’t hold back. Let me feel you gush for me.”
Your body convulsed, pleasure ripping through you in waves so intense it almost hurt. Slick gushed out of you in a sudden, messy rush, soaking his hand, his rings, his thighs, dripping down onto the couch. The sound was obscene — a sharp, wet splatter with every thrust of his fingers, louder and wetter as he drove you through it. “Fuck,” Jiyong hissed, his composure breaking, his hips grinding up against you as he kept fucking you with his hand. “That’s it. Squirt all over me. Show me how good my hands wreck you.”
You cried out, tears streaming down your face as wave after wave hit, your body writhing in his grip. The couch beneath you was soaked, his thighs drenched, his fingers glistening as they moved mercilessly inside you. Finally — finally — he slowed, dragging his hand out of you, your slick dripping down his knuckles, strings of it catching in the low light. He held his hand up, forcing you to look. “Look at this mess,” he murmured, voice ragged, his lips brushing your ear. “All from my hands. All mine.”
You collapsed against him, boneless, your chest heaving, your body trembling with aftershocks. And Jiyong, smug and breathless, pressed a slow kiss to your damp temple, his slick-coated hand resting heavy against your thigh.
You slumped against him, limp, your chest heaving, your thighs trembling where they rested wide over his. The couch was wet beneath you, his hand soaked, your body still pulsing around the ghost of his fingers.
But Jiyong wasn’t finished.
He shifted behind you, his voice low, dangerous. “One isn’t enough.”
Your breath caught, your head snapping weakly against his chest. “Jiyong—please, I can’t—”
“You can,” he rasped, already pressing his slick-coated fingers back to your entrance. “And you will. I want every drop you’ve got.”
You whimpered, but his mouth was at your ear again, his tone dripping with command. “Open wider.”
You obeyed without thinking, your thighs spreading shakily across his, exposing everything to him again. He hummed his approval, his hand pressing firm against your belly once more as two fingers slid back inside you. The stretch was immediate, the friction brutal, your body jolting from the overstimulation.
“Ah—!” you gasped, clawing at his thighs, your legs twitching.
“Shhh,” he soothed mockingly, already curling his fingers ruthlessly against that tender spot inside you. “I know it’s too much. That’s the point.”
The wet sounds started up instantly — louder this time, sloppier. His hand was merciless, pumping fast, the squelch of your slick filling the room with every brutal thrust. His thumb ground down on your swollen clit, circles sharp and unrelenting. Your hips jerked, your body thrashing in his grip, but his thighs caged you, his arm around your waist holding you down as his fingers drove deeper.
“Look at you,” he growled, watching his hand disappear between your thighs, glistening, drenched. “Dripping everywhere. Making a fucking mess of my couch.”
You sobbed, your head falling back against his shoulder, tears streaming as the pleasure built sharp and unbearable. “Come on,” he urged, his voice wrecked, his pace brutal. “Squirt for me again. Let me see you gush.”
The pressure on your belly intensified, pushing his fingers deeper, harder, until the wave hit again — violent, unstoppable.
Your entire body convulsed as liquid burst from you, soaking his hand, splattering down his wrist, flooding his thighs. The sound was obscene — a raw, wet rush, filling the silence with every messy spurt. “Yes,” Jiyong snarled, fucking you through it, his hips grinding against you as his cock strained under his pants. “That’s it, baby. Give me more. Make a mess all over me.”
You screamed his name, your voice breaking as another gush spilled out, soaking everything beneath you. His rings glinted wet in the light, his hand a blur as he milked you mercilessly, chasing every last drop until you were sobbing, your body wrecked and twitching. Finally, he slowed — but he didn’t stop. He dragged his soaked fingers out of you, spreading your folds with a slick squelch just to watch the mess glisten between your thighs. “Ruined,” he whispered, almost in awe, his lips brushing your ear as his free hand stroked your trembling thigh. “Completely ruined… and I’m not even close to finished with you.”
Your chest was heaving, your body limp against him, the couch soaked beneath you. Your thighs twitched where they sprawled wide over his, every nerve in your body screaming from the overstimulation.
But Jiyong didn’t let go, again.
His soaked fingers traced lazily over your folds, smearing slick up and down, gathering every drop of the mess he’d pulled from you. His breath was hot against your ear, his voice dark silk. “Twice isn’t enough,” he murmured. “I want to see you break again.”
You whimpered, your voice hoarse. “I… I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.” His tone was sharp now, commanding, as he pressed his palm flat against your belly again. “You’ll come for me until you’ve got nothing left. Until all that’s left in you is my name.”
And before you could protest, his fingers slid back inside. There was no gentleness now — no easing you into it. He pushed deep immediately, curling hard, ruthless, his thumb grinding down on your raw, throbbing clit. The wet sounds were deafening — squelches, slaps, every brutal thrust louder than the movie still flickering forgotten in the background.
“Listen,” he growled, his pace unrelenting. “Hear how soaked you are. Hear how your pussy begs for my hand.”
You screamed, your nails digging into his thighs, your hips thrashing against him — but his grip on your waist pinned you down, forcing you to take every merciless thrust of his fingers.
“Jiyong—please, it’s too much—”
His teeth grazed your ear, his voice a ragged snarl. “Don’t beg me to stop. Beg me to ruin you again.”
Tears streamed down your face, your moans breaking as the pressure coiled sharp and unbearable in your belly. Every drag of his fingers, every grind of his thumb, every press of his palm pushed you higher, tighter, past the point of control. “Good girl,” he rasped, feeling your walls flutter, clench. “You’re right there. Don’t hold back. Squirt for me again.”
Your body convulsed, the orgasm tearing through you violently, and this time it was brutal. Liquid gushed from you in heavy, messy bursts, soaking his hand, splattering across his thighs, dripping down onto the floor. The sounds were obscene — wet slaps, slick gushes, each wave louder than the last.
“Yes,” Jiyong snarled, fucking you through it, his hand a blur as you sobbed and screamed against him. “That’s it. Fucking soak me. Ruin everything for me.”
You shook uncontrollably, your body collapsing against his chest, your vision blurring as another spurt shot out, soaking his rings, his knuckles, painting him in your release. When the last wave ebbed, you were trembling, gasping, completely undone. Finally, finally, he slowed. His fingers slipped out of you with a filthy squelch, glistening, dripping down to his wrist. He held them up, turning your face with his free hand so you had no choice but to look. “Look at this mess,” he whispered, voice ragged, wrecked. “All of this — all mine.”
Your body collapsed back against his chest, trembling, completely spent. The couch was soaked, your thighs glistening, your skin sticky with the mess he’d wrung from you.
He slid his fingers out of you with a loud, wet squelch, strings of slick clinging between his knuckles. He raised his hand slowly, deliberately, letting the light of the TV catch on the glistening mess he’d pulled from you. “Look,” he whispered, his free hand gripping your jaw and tilting your face toward his. “See what I dragged out of you.”
Your eyes, heavy with tears and exhaustion, fell helplessly to his hand — fingers soaked, dripping, a filthy testament to how completely he’d ruined you. And then, instead of pressing them to your lips this time, he brought them to his own mouth.
He parted his lips and slid two fingers inside, sucking them deep, his tongue swirling around the knuckles, groaning low in his throat. His eyes stayed locked on yours the whole time, sharp and hungry, drinking in your wrecked expression. The sound was obscene — the wet drag of his tongue, the hollow pull of suction, mixing with the faint squelch of your slick. He pulled them out just enough to show the mess coating them, then shoved them back between his lips, sucking harder, until his cheeks hollowed.
You whimpered, your thighs twitching weakly against his.
“Mm,” he hummed around his fingers, eyes narrowing in satisfaction. He slipped them out with a wet pop, strings of spit and slick glistening in the dim light. “Sweet. You taste fucking sweet when you’re wrecked like this.” Your cheeks burned, your chest heaving, the sight of him licking his fingers clean somehow filthier than when he’d been buried inside you.
He smirked, slow and devastating, dragging his tongue along his thumb, savoring every trace. Then he leaned down, his lips brushing your ear, his voice low and dark. “See what you do to me? I could live on this.”
You shivered, too weak to move, too consumed by the sight of him indulging in your ruin. He kissed the corner of your damp cheek, his cock straining against you, his hand gripping your thigh possessively.
The room was heavy with heat, the air thick with the smell of sweat and sex, the couch beneath you still damp from the mess he’d wrung out of your body. You slumped boneless against him, chest heaving, tears drying on your cheeks. Every nerve felt fried, your thighs still twitching faintly where they lay spread over his. You couldn’t catch your breath, couldn’t think — you were nothing but wrecked.
Not to push you further. Not to drag more from you.
His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer against his chest. His other hand smoothed slowly up your thigh, no longer ruthless, just steady and grounding, his palm warm as it traced lazy circles into your skin. “Breathe,” he murmured against your ear, his voice softer now, quieter. “That’s it. You’re okay.”
You whimpered faintly, your eyes fluttering shut, and felt his lips press to the damp corner of your temple. “Good girl,” he whispered, the words no longer sharp with command but heavy with praise. “You took it so well. So fucking well for me.”
He reached for the blanket crumpled at the edge of the couch, tugging it up over your bare legs. The gesture was clumsy, his fingers still slick, but his determination to cover you made your chest ache. “You’re shaking,” he noted, his tone shifting toward concern. His hand slid to your belly, pressing lightly — not cruel this time, not demanding — just grounding. “Can you feel me?”
You nodded weakly, leaning back into him. “Good.” He kissed the crown of your head, lingering there.
For a long moment, there was only silence — his hand rubbing slow circles against your stomach, his chest rising steady under your cheek, the low hum of the TV still flickering forgotten in the background.
When your breathing finally evened out, he tilted his head down, his lips brushing your hairline. “You’re mine,” he murmured, soft but unshakable, the smirk barely there in his voice. “All of this mess… all of you. Mine.”
Your lips curved faintly, too weak to argue, and he smiled against your skin. He tucked you tighter against him, blanket wrapped snug, his hand resting firm over your hip. And for the first time that night, you felt safe in the ruin he’d left you in.
You were limp in his arms, your body heavy and trembling with exhaustion. Jiyong kissed your temple once more, then shifted beneath you, sliding out from under your weight with surprising gentleness.
“Stay,” he murmured, pressing his hand to your thigh when you tried to sit up. “Don’t move. I’ll handle it.”
Your chest ached at the command — not sharp this time, not edged with dominance, but protective. He disappeared briefly, returning with a damp towel. He crouched between your legs on the floor, his dark eyes flicking up to you before dragging the fabric slowly, carefully along your thighs.
The touch made you flinch from the sensitivity, but he only shushed you softly. “I know. Easy, baby. Just let me take care of it.”
He wiped you clean with surprising patience, rinsing the towel once, twice, until the worst of the slick was gone. When he was satisfied, he tossed it aside and leaned down, pressing a slow kiss just above your knee — reverent, almost worshipful.
Then he straightened, tugging the blanket tighter around you. “You’re freezing,” he muttered, shaking his head. Before you could argue, he vanished again — this time returning with one of his shirts. Oversized, soft from wear, smelling of him.
You obeyed, still dazed, and he slipped the shirt over your head, pulling it down until you were completely swallowed by him. The hem fell to your thighs, the sleeves covering your hands, making you feel small and kept. “There.” He tugged at the collar, satisfied, then cupped your jaw and kissed you softly — nothing like the brutal wreckage from before, just lips brushing lips, grounding you.
When he settled back onto the couch, he pulled you into his lap, arranging you so your face was tucked into his chest, the blanket wrapped around you both. His hand stroked your hair, slow and steady, while the other rested heavy on your hip, claiming you even in tenderness.
“You’re mine,” he murmured again, quieter this time, his breath warm against your hair. “Don’t forget it.”
Your lips curved weakly against his chest, your body finally relaxing fully into his. And in the dim light of the room, wrapped in his shirt, his arms, his warmth — you knew you didn’t want to forget.
dededos
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