༝༚༝༚

𝐚𝐦𝐲. 𝟐𝟎𝐲𝐨. 𝐬𝐡𝐞/𝐡𝐞𝐫, 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐨𝐫.

[euphicess]

are there any parts to all she allows?

Hii.

Sorry I‘m currently trying to recover from my mental health and due all the pressure I am dealing with! I‘m really trying to coping with all of your requests and wishes but its very hard for me to motivate myself in the slightest. The parts i prepared are still in my drafts waiting to be continued. As soon as I feel much more motivated i‘ll definitely continue everything and most likely keep up with y‘alls requests! I promise. 💕

[moonqz]

Hello! What’s the smuttiest fic you’ve ever read? 🩵

heyyy angel 🤍

OKAYY THERES A LOT BUT HERE ARE SOME THAT I ADORE AND REREAD 😝

revolving door : kwon jiyong @jiyongsangel holy moly i died and got resurrected by rei 😦

hands that ruin hands that hold : kwon jiyong @euphicess GODDAMN I LUV THIS TOO MUCH

the music video made me do it : han jisung @starlostjisung OH MY GODDDDDDDD 🧎‍♀️

nite rite : choi seunghyun @berfgrimm this saved me😣

the ‘noona’ series : kwon jiyong @ikwon1c it’s not allllll smut but this series changed me as a person i fear

oh there’s DEFINETELYYY MOREEE but these are off the top of my head ~

[euphicess]

Aw thank you so much!!💕💕

[euphicess]

as someone who once wanted to write for dae-gil and myung-hoon/dae-ho, i am awed and inspird and have no words for how much i love the fact you are oh my days IM SO SCITED LIKE GENUINELY THANK YOU FOR WRITING THESE ILY AND YOUR WORK BROSKI thank you for feeding us. 😔😔😔💅🏼💅🏼 such a diva

AHHHH TYSM!! i appreciate ur words so much, sometimes i feel like my fics are a bit rushed cos i am not ALWAYS motivated to write but before i dont post anything. But i‘m so happy you all liked it! I do the best as I can🫶🏻🤍

[euphicess]

hey, just a quick update! i‘ll take care of y‘alls request soon dont worry. i‘ve been working and didnt had time to write at all! i hope you aren‘t mad about it! but i‘ll defo get into work as soon i have nothing to do!🫶🏻

[euphicess]

Can you write headcannons for Chae Mooshin from i am Sam/your teacher

I love him so much there’s barely anything for him

Chae Mooshin Headcanons

Pairing: Chae Mooshin x Fem!Reader

Warnings: possessiveness, jealousy, rough behavior, aggressive intimacy, smoking mentions, semi-public risk: possibility of sexual moments, power dynamics: He often takes control, giving commands, manhandling, emotional vulnerability.

Note: Hey!! I hope i did it as much accurate as you wanted! Actually i kind of forgot about this character. But I hope you liked it!

//

Personality & Habits:

→ He’s the type who rarely speaks unless he has to, but when he does, it’s sharp and cutting — the kind of words that stick with you.

→ Constantly leans back in his chair, arms crossed, like he doesn’t care. But he’s always observing, noting everything in the room.

→ His anger simmers quietly. He doesn’t lash out often, but when he does, it’s explosive.

→ Stares a lot. He uses his eyes to intimidate more than his words. Half the time it’s impossible to tell if he’s thinking about hurting someone or just zoning out.

→ Smokes behind the school building when he’s stressed, hiding it from the teachers but not really caring if he gets caught.

→ His fists are his first solution to most problems, but there’s an unspoken code in him — he never hurts someone without a reason.

Relationships & Loyalty:

→ Incredibly loyal to the few people who earn his trust. If you’re in his circle, he’ll fight anyone for you, no questions asked.

→ But he doesn’t show affection openly — instead, it’s in small gestures: walking you home without saying a word, shoving his jacket into your arms when it’s cold, or standing just a step behind you so nobody dares bother you.

→ He hates being vulnerable, so when he does care, he covers it with gruffness. “Don’t be stupid, you’ll catch a cold,” actually means I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.

→ Struggles with authority. Teachers, adults, anyone who tries to tell him what to do — he’ll meet them with silence and a hard glare, because he refuses to be controlled.

With Reader (Romantic Angle):

→ If you were his love interest, he’d never admit it first. Instead, you’d catch him staring, jaw tight, fists clenching whenever other guys talked to you.

→ He doesn’t flirt. He protects. His “romantic” gestures are things like showing up at your side during a fight, carrying your books without a word, or dragging you away from people he doesn’t like.

→ He doesn’t smile often — but if you tease him enough, he’ll try to hide a smirk. That’s when you know he’s softening around you.

→ He’d kiss you like he fights: rough, desperate, like he’s trying to claim you. Hands in your hair, grip firm, teeth clashing.

→ But afterward, he’d go back to silence, maybe lighting a cigarette to calm down, pretending it didn’t shake him as much as it did.

School Life:

→ Always at the back of the classroom, half-asleep or staring out the window. Teachers gave up trying to get him to answer questions.

→ Despite looking like he doesn’t care, he’s sharp. If he wanted, he could ace tests — but he hates playing by their rules.

→ Other students are terrified of him, but also respect him. He’s the kind of guy you don’t cross, because you know he’ll settle it with his fists.

General (NSFW):

→ Sex with Mooshin is always charged with tension — it feels like an extension of his fights: heavy breathing, bruising grips, messy and raw.

→ He’s quiet most of the time, but in bed? Low groans, teeth grinding, curses under his breath. If he speaks, it’s short and commanding: “Stay still.” “Look at me.”

→ Always wants control. Puts you where he wants you, holds you down with his weight or his hands.

Kinks & Behavior:

→ Possessiveness: He doesn’t like others looking at you. If some guy talks to you at school, expect him to drag you into an empty classroom later, fucking you rough against the desk until you’re moaning his name — a reminder of who you belong to.

→ Rough hands: He grips hard — your hips, your throat, your thighs. Leaves bruises and doesn’t apologize. To him, they’re proof you’re his.

→ Biting: Sharp nips at your neck, your shoulder, even your lip while kissing. He likes seeing the marks after.

→ Risky places: Empty stairwells, the back of the school, rooftops. He thrives on the danger of being caught.

→ Eye contact: His stare doesn’t soften in bed — he keeps it locked on you, sharp and intense, like he’s daring you to look away while he wrecks you.

How He Fucks

→ He kisses you the way he fights: hard, teeth clashing, tongue rough, leaving you breathless.

→ Likes to bend you over — desks, sinks, walls — anywhere he can take you fast and deep.

→ When he eats you out, it’s messy and rough, more like devouring than teasing. He doesn’t stop until you’re trembling and begging.

→ Sometimes, he’ll edge you just to watch you cry for it — then slam into you when you least expect it.

→ Always leaves you ruined: legs shaking, lips swollen, marks down your neck.

Aftermath:

→ He’s not the type for soft cuddles — but he’ll light a cigarette, pull you against his chest with one arm, and let the silence speak.

→ Might mutter something low like, “Don’t let anyone else touch you,” before going quiet again.

Personality in the Relationship:

→ Mooshin isn’t sweet in a traditional sense — he’s not one for words or flowery gestures. His love shows up in action: walking you home without asking, shoving money into your hand when you forget lunch, standing guard outside your classroom.

→ He hates showing vulnerability, but you’re the only one who gets to see his walls down. With you, he sometimes admits when he’s tired, angry, or lost.

→ He doesn’t smile often, but when you make him laugh (really laugh), it’s rare and unguarded — and he’ll cover it quickly with a scoff, embarrassed he let it slip.

→ Fiercely protective. He notices when people look at you wrong, when you seem uncomfortable. He won’t make a scene in front of you, but those people tend to disappear from your path later.

With You (Daily Life):

→ Loves being near you but won’t always initiate touch. He’ll sit close, bump shoulders, or rest his arm over the back of your chair. If you reach for him, he won’t resist — in fact, he secretly loves it.

→ He’s the type to steal your things — your pen, your scarf, your hair tie — not to annoy you, but to keep something of yours with him.

→ If you’re in class together, he acts like he’s not paying attention to you at all… but you catch him watching when he thinks you’re not looking.

→ He listens more than he talks. You’ll rant about your day, and he’ll just nod, smoke dangling from his lips, but later he’ll prove he remembered every word.

When It Gets Physical (Smutty Edge):

→ Rough kisser. He kisses like he’s mad at you — bruising, needy, biting your lip, pulling you close until there’s no air left.

→ Easily jealous. Yeah, you cannot convince me that this man DOESNT get jealous i mean look at him!!! If another guy talks to you, expect Mooshin to corner you later, pressing you against a wall, whispering in a low growl: “He touched you here?” before sliding his hand to your waist, staking his claim with his mouth on your neck.

→ Prefers control. He’ll pick you up, push you against the desk, drag your chair back to pull you into his lap — no hesitation.

→ Sex is intense, sometimes frantic. He takes out his frustration and emotions on your body, fucking you until you’re trembling. But afterward, there’s a strange gentleness when he smokes a cigarette and pulls you against him silently.

→ He won’t say I love you much — but you’ll hear it in the way he mutters, “Only mine,” against your skin, or how his hand lingers too long on your cheek when he thinks you’ve fallen asleep.

The Soft Side (Rare, Just For You):

→ Late-night walks where he actually talks. He’ll reveal little things: how he hates his father’s expectations, how he doesn’t see a future for himself. Only you get those truths.

→ He has a quiet clinginess — not obvious, but he gets restless if you’re gone too long, and he’ll show up at your door at 2am just to sit in silence with you.

→ If you’re upset, he doesn’t know how to comfort with words, so he offers presence instead: sitting beside you, giving you his jacket, lighting a cigarette and just… staying.

[euphicess]

After the Glasses Are Empty

Pairing: Choi Seunghyun x Fem!reader

Summary: A quiet evening in Seunghyun’s penthouse turns tender — dinner, laughter, and wine shared between husband and wife. But warmth gives way to heat on the couch, where slow kisses linger and devotion deepens, leaving the night painted in love and wine-stained kisses.

Warnings: 18+ mdni! married couple intimacy, domestic fluff → smut, wine drinking / alcohol use, slow burn kissing → oral sex (m!receiving), blowjob / cum swallowing (implied), gentle dominance (hair holding, praise, restraint), aftercare & cuddling, soft, romantic tone with explicit sexual content

Note: Is kinda rushed, but I needed to let it go off my chest!

//

The key turned smoothly in the lock, the weight of the day still dragging at your shoulders as you pushed the penthouse door open. Warmth hit you instantly — not just from the heated air, but from the faint smell of garlic and herbs drifting in from the kitchen. You smiled despite yourself, slipping your shoes off by the door, already hearing the low hum of music playing in the background. Not the blasting bass he sometimes lost himself in — something softer, jazzy, almost indulgent.

And then you saw him.

Seunghyun stood at the stove, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a wooden spoon in one hand, a half-empty glass of wine on the counter beside him. His hair was tousled, a few strands falling into his eyes as he stirred the pan, humming quietly under his breath. The domesticity of it tugged at something deep in your chest. “Smells good,” you called, your voice breaking the quiet.

He turned immediately, eyes lighting up as soon as they landed on you. That smile — the one reserved only for you — curved his mouth. “You’re home.” He wiped his hand quickly on a towel before crossing the room to meet you. His arms slipped around your waist the second you dropped your bag, pulling you close, his lips brushing your temple. “Long day?”

You sighed into him, leaning against his chest, letting his warmth seep into you. “Endless. But this—” you breathed in the scent of food and his cologne clinging to his shirt—“makes it better.” His chuckle rumbled low, his chin resting on your hair. “I was trying to surprise you. Thought I’d cook for once instead of dragging you out.”

“You mean trying not to burn the kitchen down?” you teased, tilting your head back to meet his gaze. His smirk deepened, eyes glinting with mischief. “Maybe. But you’re worth the risk.”

You laughed, swatting lightly at his chest before letting him guide you to the counter. He poured you a glass of wine, sliding it across to you with an easy elegance that made your stomach twist. “To surviving another day,” he said, raising his glass. “And to you not burning dinner,” you added, clinking against his. The first sip was rich, the warmth blooming instantly through your chest. You leaned against the counter, watching him stir the pan again, his profile lit warm by the overhead light. The little lines at the corners of his eyes, the concentration in his brow, the ease in his posture — this was the Seunghyun you loved most. The man who was yours not on a stage or a screen, but here, in your kitchen.

//

The plates clinked softly as Seunghyun set them down on the table, a proud grin tugging at his mouth. “See? Not burned.”

You laughed as you slid into your chair, raising your glass in mock salute. “I’ll be the judge of that.” He rolled his eyes fondly, sitting opposite you. The city lights sprawled wide behind him through the glass walls, the penthouse bathed in a soft amber glow that made the evening feel almost unreal. The first bite surprised you — tender pasta, perfectly seasoned sauce. You glanced up at him, eyebrows raised. “Okay… I admit, this is good.”

He smirked, leaning back in his chair, sipping his wine like he hadn’t been waiting for your reaction all along. “I told you. I can cook when I want to.”

“Once a year doesn’t count.”

“Twice,” he corrected with mock sternness, his eyes twinkling. You both laughed, the sound mingling with the low hum of jazz still drifting from the speakers. “So,” he said after a moment, resting his chin on his hand, studying you across the table. “Tell me about your day. All of it.”

You toyed with your fork, smiling faintly. “It was… long. Meetings stacked one after another, everyone cranky. But there was this one moment—” you leaned in a little, lowering your voice as though sharing a secret—“when the printer jammed during a presentation, and my boss turned so red I thought he’d explode. I almost lost it.”

Seunghyun chuckled, his deep laugh vibrating in the quiet. “You always find the ridiculous in everything.”

“It’s a survival tactic.” He reached across the table, his large hand covering yours, thumb brushing idly against your knuckles. “And it’s why I love you.”

Heat bloomed in your chest, spreading faster than the wine. You squeezed his hand gently, your gaze holding his. “Your turn. How was your day?” He shrugged, but his eyes softened. “Meetings. Calls. A photoshoot reschedule.” He paused, smirk tugging at his lips. “Mostly, I was waiting for this.”

You tilted your head. “For dinner?”

“For you.” His voice was low, steady, the weight of it settling warm between you. The moment lingered, stretching like silk, until you both chuckled softly, breaking it before it grew too heavy. The conversation flowed after that — silly tangents, small stories, teasing. He stole bites from your plate, claiming his was better, and you kicked him under the table when he smirked too smugly. By the time the plates were cleared, the second bottle of wine was nearly empty, both your cheeks warm from drink and laughter. Seunghyun leaned back in his chair, watching you with that quiet, unreadable gaze of his — the one that always made you feel like he was memorizing you.

“What?” you asked, laughing nervously under the weight of it. He only shook his head, his smile slow and full of something deeper. “Nothing. Just… you.”

Your heart flipped, the simplicity of the words hitting harder than anything elaborate could. The jazz hummed on. The city burned bright behind him. And as you rose together to clear the table, his hand lingered at your waist, his thumb brushing slow circles — a touch that promised the night wasn’t finished yet.

The clink of dishes echoed softly in the kitchen, the smell of garlic and wine lingering in the air. You rolled up your sleeves, rinsing plates under the warm water, while Seunghyun leaned against the counter behind you with his glass of wine. “You know,” you said, over your shoulder, “if you’re not going to help, at least don’t hover.”

“I am helping,” he said smoothly, sipping his wine. You shot him a look. “By supervising?” His smirk curved slow, lazy, the kind that made your stomach twist even when you pretended to be annoyed. “Exactly. Someone has to make sure you don’t chip our plates.”

You flicked water at him, droplets catching on his shirt. “Yah,” he grumbled, setting the glass aside and stepping closer, looming behind you. His arms slid around your waist, his chest pressing against your back, chin resting on your shoulder. “That’s not very nice.”

“You deserved it,” you teased, scrubbing at a plate. His breath was warm against your ear as he murmured, “Maybe I did.”

The shiver that ran through you had nothing to do with the water. You tried to focus on the dishes, but his hands started wandering — one sliding up your side, the other lazily tracing circles at your hip. He nuzzled your hair, pressing a soft kiss just below your ear. “Seunghyun…” you warned lightly, though your voice lacked conviction. “Hm?” he hummed innocently, kissing lower, his lips brushing the line of your neck. “You’re distracting me.”

“That’s the point.” His chuckle was low, rich, vibrating against your skin. You turned your head, meeting his eyes, and found him smiling with boyish mischief. The same man who could look devastating in a suit, intimidating on camera, was now trailing water droplets down your arm with his finger like it was the funniest thing in the world. “You’re impossible,” you muttered, shaking your head. “And you married me anyway,” he shot back easily, stealing a quick kiss against your jaw before reaching for a towel. He plucked the plate from your hands, drying it with exaggerated care. “See? I am helping.”

You laughed, your chest warm. Together, you moved through the rest of the dishes — you washing, him drying, both of you stealing little kisses and nudges along the way. It was slow, unhurried, filled with laughter and the kind of ease that came from years together. When the last plate was put away, Seunghyun leaned back against the counter again, arms folded, watching you wipe your hands. “You know,” he said, his voice softer now, “I could get used to this. Just you and me. Wine, dinner, dishes.”

You smiled, stepping closer, your fingers brushing his. “You don’t already have that?”

His eyes softened, a fond smile tugging at his lips. “I do. But I don’t think I’ll ever stop being grateful for it.”

The quiet sincerity in his tone pulled at your chest, and you leaned in to kiss him — soft at first, then lingering, the taste of wine still warm on both your tongues. When you pulled back, breathless, he smirked. “Couch?”

“Couch,” you agreed, laughing as he slipped an arm around your waist, tugging you toward the living room.

//

The couch welcomed you both like an old friend — soft cushions, the blanket draped lazily over the armrest, the city lights spilling in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Seunghyun dropped down first, sprawling with that easy elegance that always made him look like he owned every room he was in. You followed, curling into his side with your legs tucked under you, the half-empty wine bottle and glasses sitting abandoned on the coffee table. Jazz still purred quietly from the speakers, the saxophone smooth, unhurried.

For a while, you just sat like that — his arm draped across the back of the couch, your head resting against his shoulder. His hand traced lazy patterns against your arm, sometimes brushing your sleeve up just to draw directly on your skin.

“You’re too quiet again,” he murmured, his voice low, warm with amusement. You tilted your head up, smirking. “And you’re too observant.” His lips curved faintly, his thumb brushing across your cheek. “It’s my job to notice you.”

Your chest tightened, the warmth of wine and his words settling deep. You leaned into his touch, letting him hold your face for a moment as you watched each other. The silence stretched, heavier this time. He caressed your cheek again, slower, his thumb skimming the corner of your mouth. “What am I going to do with you?” he murmured, almost to himself.

You smiled softly, brushing your fingers along his jaw in return. “Love me?” His eyes glinted, something sharp under the softness. “Always.”

And then he kissed you.

Slow, at first — unhurried, wine-sweet, the kind of kiss that lingered. His lips moved against yours gently, savoring, like he wasn’t in any rush to let it end. You sighed into him, your hand sliding up to cup his face, your thumb brushing his cheekbone. He leaned into your touch, deepening the kiss just slightly, his tongue brushing yours, teasing, testing.

The warmth spread low in your belly, your body melting against him as the kiss grew heavier. He pulled back only for a breath, his forehead resting against yours, his lips brushing yours when he whispered, “More?” You nodded, your voice already gone.

This time, the kiss came deeper, hungrier. His hand slipped from your cheek to cradle the back of your neck, guiding you closer, while the other slid around your waist, pulling you against his chest. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to draw a low groan from him. The sound vibrated through you, setting every nerve on edge.

By the time he pulled back again, both of you were breathing harder, lips swollen. His eyes searched yours, dark with a familiar heat that promised the night wasn’t stopping here.

He smirked faintly, thumb brushing your swollen bottom lip. “You taste like wine.” “So do you,” you whispered, already leaning back in for more.

The second kiss lingered longer than the first — softer, deeper, unhurried. Seunghyun’s lips moved against yours like he had all the time in the world, tasting, teasing, letting the warmth between you build in quiet increments. Your hand stayed at his jaw at first, feeling the slight scratch of stubble beneath your fingertips. But slowly, without even realizing it, your touch began to wander. Down along the strong line of his throat, the slope of his collarbone, the steady rise and fall of his chest.

He groaned softly when your fingers brushed across the top button of his shirt, the sound low and rich in his chest. “Careful,” he murmured against your mouth, though his hand slid lower on your waist, pulling you closer until your body was pressed flush against his. “You keep touching me like that, I won’t be able to stop.”

“Maybe I don’t want you to stop,” you whispered, your lips brushing his as you spoke. His laugh was soft but edged with hunger, vibrating against your mouth before he kissed you again — deeper now, his tongue sliding past your lips, coaxing another sigh from you. His hand at your waist tightened, anchoring you against him, while the other slid up into your hair, holding you exactly where he wanted you.

Your own hands kept moving — across his chest, feeling the steady thrum of muscle beneath his shirt, down the flat of his stomach until your palm rested just above his belt. You felt him tense under your touch, his breathing rougher, lips dragging over yours as he muttered, “You’re playing with fire, jagi.”

But he didn’t push you away. If anything, his kiss grew hungrier, his teeth catching your lower lip before sucking it gently into his mouth. The hand at your waist slipped under your shirt, fingertips brushing warm against your bare skin, making you shiver against him. The jazz in the background blurred, the city lights outside fading into nothing. The only thing that mattered was the weight of his body pressed against yours, the taste of wine still clinging to both your tongues, the slow, inevitable heat pooling lower with every passing second.

You shifted closer, straddling his thigh without thinking, your skirt riding up as you settled against him. His sharp inhale was immediate, his hand tightening on your hip. Your palm slid lower, brushing against the outline of his growing hardness through his pants, and the groan that tore from his throat this time was broken, ragged.

His forehead fell against yours, his breath hot and uneven as he muttered, “Fuck. What are you doing to me?”

You smiled faintly, kissing the corner of his mouth, your hand pressing just a little firmer over him. “Loving my husband.”

His chuckle was guttural, cut off as he kissed you hard again — rougher now, but still slow, savoring. The kind of kiss that said: this was only the beginning.

The kiss broke again, both of you flushed and breathless, the room thick with heat. Seunghyun leaned back slightly, his chest heaving, his eyes half-lidded behind the messy fall of his hair. “Come here,” you whispered, but instead of pulling him closer, you shifted down, slipping gracefully from the couch to kneel between his spread legs.

His brows lifted, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in a smirk. “Ah… my wife has plans.”

“Always,” you teased softly, your hands sliding over his thighs, feeling the warmth beneath the fabric of his pants. He leaned back into the cushions, his arms draping lazily across the back of the couch like a king on his throne, watching you with hooded eyes. “Then show me.”

You pressed a soft kiss to his knee first, through the fabric, then another a little higher. His thighs flexed under your touch, his breath catching faintly. Your hands smoothed up and down the length of his legs, your mouth trailing slow kisses higher, across the muscle, lingering just enough to make him groan. You could smell the faint mix of cologne and wine on him, feel the heat radiating where he was already straining hard against his zipper. “Teasing me?” he muttered, voice low, rough.

“Always,” you whispered again, lips brushing the inside of his thigh. He groaned, his head tipping back against the couch, one hand dragging down his face in exasperated pleasure. “You’ll kill me.”

You smiled, taking your time as your kisses reached the crease of his thigh. Your tongue darted out, wetting the fabric there, and his hips jerked involuntarily, a sharp curse slipping from his lips. “Jagi—” His voice cracked, his hand gripping the edge of the couch like he was fighting not to just grab you.

Finally, your fingers found his belt, tugging it open with slow precision, then lowering his zipper inch by inch. The sound seemed deafening in the quiet room, the city lights painting everything in silver and gold. When you freed him at last, his cock sprang heavy into your hand, flushed and hard, precum glistening at the tip. “Fuck,” he muttered, his breath ragged, eyes burning into you.

You kissed his thigh one more time before pressing a soft kiss to the base of his length, then another along the side, slow and reverent. His groan was guttural, one hand slipping to the back of your head, not pushing, just holding — needing the contact “You’re too good to me,” he rasped, his voice breaking as your lips moved higher, your tongue flicking teasingly against the swollen head.

You looked up at him through your lashes, your lips parting as you whispered, “Always.” And then you took him into your mouth — slow, savoring, his groan shattering the silence as his head fell back against the couch, his chest rising in a desperate rhythm.

The first press of him against your tongue made his whole body shudder. His hand in your hair tightened slightly, not forcing, just grounding himself as you eased him deeper. “Shit,” he muttered, breath ragged, his thighs flexing under your palms. “You’re going to ruin me, jagi.”

You hummed softly, the vibration making his cock twitch against your tongue. The sound pulled a guttural groan from his throat, his head tipping back against the couch. You drew back slowly, saliva clinging in glossy strings between your lips and the swollen head of his cock. Your tongue flicked out, circling the tip, tasting salt and heat. His hand twitched in your hair, his breathing breaking into sharp exhales.

“You—” He cut himself off with a low growl as you slid him back into your mouth, deeper this time, until the heavy weight filled you almost to the back of your throat. “Fuck, you’re perfect. You set a slow rhythm, your lips stretched around him, your hand wrapping around the base to pump what you couldn’t take yet. Your other hand smoothed along his thigh, feeling every twitch, every tremor of muscle as he fought to keep still.

The room filled with the wet sounds of your mouth working him, soft moans slipping from you as you savored the taste, the stretch, the way he fell apart under your tongue. “God…” His voice cracked, rough and raw. His free hand dragged down his face, glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose, making him look utterly undone. “Look at you. My wife—on her knees, swallowing my cock like you were made for it.”

You moaned again around him, the sound desperate, and his hips jerked forward before he caught himself. His hand tangled tighter in your hair, thumb brushing against your temple like he was clinging to control. “Don’t stop,” he rasped, voice hoarse. “Whatever you do, don’t stop.”

You went deeper, your throat relaxing as you took him further, tears pricking at your eyes. The stretch burned, but the groan that tore from his chest made it worth every second. “Fuck—” His breath hitched, sharp and broken. “You’re going to make me come so fast like this. You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You pulled back with a wet gasp, saliva coating your lips, your hand stroking him slow as you kissed the head, sucking lightly just to watch his face twist with pleasure. “Do I?” you teased, your voice husky. His laugh was sharp, guttural, cut off by a moan as you slid him back into your mouth. “You know exactly.”

Your pace quickened slightly, your hand and mouth working in tandem, wet, obscene sounds filling the room. His thighs trembled, his grip on your hair tightening as his breath grew ragged. “You’re mine,” he groaned, hips jerking despite himself. “Every bit of you. You don’t know how fucking lucky I am—ah, fuck.”

You swallowed him down, humming again, and that was it. His control snapped. His hips rolled shallowly, his cock hitting the back of your throat, his groans spilling raw and unrestrained.

„Jagi—shit—don’t stop—” His voice broke, his body tensing under your hands as he spilled into your mouth, hot and thick, filling you in heavy pulses. You swallowed every drop, tears slipping at the corners of your eyes as you held him deep until his grip finally loosened, his body slumping back against the couch. The silence after was heavy, broken only by his ragged breathing, the soft hum of jazz still spinning in the background.

When you finally pulled back, his cock slipping wetly from your lips, you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, gazing up at him with glassy eyes.

Seunghyun looked wrecked — hair messy, shirt rumpled, his glasses sliding halfway down his nose. But the smile that tugged at his mouth was slow, soft, almost reverent, tucking himself back into his pants. “Come here,” he whispered, reaching down to pull you up onto his lap.

He kissed you then — slow, tender, tasting himself on your lips — as though thanking you in the only language he knew.

Seunghyun’s arms stayed firm around you as he pulled you fully onto his lap, settling you against his chest. His breath was still uneven, his pulse thudding heavy under your ear, but his touch had softened — no more urgency, just warmth. “You’ll be the death of me,” he murmured, voice low and rough. His thumb traced idle circles against your hip, grounding, steady.

You chuckled weakly, pressing your face into his shoulder. “Not such a bad way to go.”

His laugh rumbled through his chest, tired but genuine. He pressed a kiss to your hair, lingering there for a moment as though memorizing the scent of you. The jazz still drifted softly in the background, the city glittering beyond the glass walls, but here on the couch, the world felt small. Contained. Just the two of you. When he finally shifted, it was only to reach for the blanket draped over the armrest. He tugged it around your shoulders, tucking you in closer against him, his body curved protectively around yours.

“Warm enough?” he asked, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. “Mm. Perfect.” You sat like that for a while, the quiet stretching easy between you. He sipped the last of his wine, then offered you the glass. You shook your head, smiling softly.

“I think I’ve had enough.”

“Lightweight,” he teased, but his tone was fond, his lips brushing your temple again. You shifted to look at him, catching the way his glasses had slid low on his nose, his eyes softened by the golden lamplight. Messy hair, flushed cheeks, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.

Your husband. Entirely yours.

“I love you,” you whispered, sudden and sure.

His expression shifted, softened into something deeper. He cupped your face gently, thumb brushing along your jaw, and kissed you — slow, tender, nothing like the hunger from before. Just love, quiet and heavy. “I love you too,” he said against your lips, voice steady. “Always.”

The weight of it settled warm in your chest. Eventually, he pulled back, his hand sliding down to your waist. “Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s go to bed before we both pass out here.”

You laughed, but didn’t move right away, savoring the cocoon of his warmth. “Five more minutes.” He smiled, indulging you, his hand stroking lazy patterns on your back. “Five minutes,” he agreed. And so you stayed, wrapped up in him, the city still burning outside but your world small and safe — just two people, married and in love, tangled together on the couch after a long day.

//

[euphicess]

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

//

It started small.

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.

You noticed everything.

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.

Jiyong had other ideas.

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.

Then his phone buzzed.

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.

Your throat tightened.

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.

And you always looked.

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.

And he knew.

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.

The game continued.

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.

Always.

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.

And he knew it.

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.

“Spread your legs.”

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.

“Lift your hips.”

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.

Not fast. Not careless.

Slow.

Deliberate.

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.

And then his hand moved.

Slow. Deliberate.

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.”

Then everything shifted.

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.”

And then you broke.

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.

But Jiyong wasn’t done.

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.

Your breath caught.

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.

And then Jiyong shifted.

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.

“Arms up.”

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.

//

[euphicess]

The Commanders Prize

Pairing: Kwon Jiyong x Reader

Summary: After a long day shooting in full military uniform, Jiyong comes home still buzzing with the persona he wore on set. What begins with teasing in the car unravels into something darker — orders, denial, rough fucking, and his voice in your ear commanding you like a soldier under his control. But when the uniform finally loosens and the heat fades, he’s just Jiyong again: soft hands, gentle care, and whispered words as he holds you close through the night.

Warnings: 18+ mdni! roleplay/power dynamics (commander persona, uniform kink), oral sex, fem and male receiving, deepthroating, face-fucking, rough sex, dirty talk, spanking, hair pulling, choking grip, dom/sub dynamics (commands, denial, no touching without permission), semi-public tension, cum play, aftercare (domestic tenderness, soft jiyong)

Note: Was a little idea of my best friend! Hope you enjoy it.🤭

//

The pan hissed as oil met heat, the sharp scent of garlic and soy curling into the kitchen air. You nudged the wooden spoon through the stir-fry, tapping it against the pan when the vegetables started popping too loud. It was late — later than either of you should’ve been eating, but Jiyong had been in one of his moods, vanishing into the bedroom hours ago with a cryptic, “Don’t come in yet.”

You rolled your eyes at the memory, flipping the flame a little lower. “Do you even know how long I’ve been waiting for you?” you called, voice carrying through the apartment. “I’m not about to burn dinner just because you’re taking forever to—”

The words died on your tongue when you heard the bedroom door creak open. At first it was the shuffle of his slippers on the wood, that familiar lazy gait. But when you turned, spoon still in your hand, you froze.

Jiyong stepped out like he was walking onto a stage. The overhead light cut across him in sharp angles, catching on the fabric of the camouflage uniform clinging to his frame. The beret sat tilted over bleached hair, shadowing his smirk as he tugged at the sleeves he’d rolled up neatly to his elbows.

“Sorry I took so long,” he said lightly, as though nothing about this was strange, his tone casual even as he adjusted the strap across his chest. “Had to get the look right.”

You blinked, once, twice, because for a moment it was ridiculous — your Jiyong, the man who misplaced his socks every other day, standing there in full military attire like he was about to bark orders at you. But then your eyes lingered. The uniform hugged his lean arms, the rolled cuffs showed the veins tracing down his forearms, and the confidence — that natural swagger — suddenly made your chest feel too tight.

“You—” you started, but laughed instead, the sound half-nervous, half-giddy. “What are you even doing?”

He tilted his head, expression playing somewhere between playful and serious. “Photoshoot tomorrow,” he explained, smoothing a hand down his chest like he was already posing. “They wanted me to try everything on tonight. Said it needs to ‘feel natural.’” His eyes glittered when they met yours. “What do you think?” You turned back to the pan a little too quickly, stirring with a force that betrayed your fluster. “I think… you’ve lost your mind.”

“Mm.” He walked further into the kitchen, the sound of his boots surprisingly heavy on the floor. “That’s not what your face said.” You scoffed, keeping your eyes on the sizzling vegetables. “I was just— surprised.”

His laugh was low, throaty, and suddenly he was close, leaning against the counter like he owned the room, one hand braced near your hip. The faint scent of his cologne, mixed with the starch of new fabric, curled around you. “You like it,” he said simply, confident, like he’d already read your thoughts. You tried to roll your eyes, but your voice betrayed you — softer, thinner. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

“Not what I asked.” When you risked a glance, his smirk was sharper now, the beret tipping lower over his eyes, making him look more dangerous than silly. His gaze lingered on you like a command in itself. The pan hissed again, the food threatening to burn, but you couldn’t bring yourself to turn back to it. Not when he was standing there like that.

You tried to focus on the food, but he wouldn’t give you peace.

Jiyong wandered from the counter to the hallway mirror, adjusting his beret with the kind of intensity he usually reserved for stage outfits. He tugged the brim lower, tilted his head one way, then the other, running his palm down the line of his sleeve like he was checking himself for dust.

You bit your lip, spoon abandoned on the stove, and reached for your phone. The shutter sound was louder than you expected. His head snapped toward you immediately, one brow arching high. “Yah,” he said, pointing at you with mock offense. “Did you just—” Another snap. This time with flash, just to make him squint.

You grinned, holding the phone up like a shield. “What? You look—” you hesitated, heat prickling your cheeks, then settled on a safer word, “—official.” He stalked toward you, boots heavy on the floor, but the smirk tugging at his mouth betrayed him. “Delete it.”

“Never,” you shot back, snapping another one as he got closer, catching the angle of his jaw under the shadow of the beret. He groaned, exasperated, before turning sharply and dropping into one of the dining chairs. His legs spread, elbows resting on his knees, and suddenly he looked less like Jiyong-your-boyfriend and more like some hardened officer waiting to issue orders.

“Fine,” he muttered, motioning with two fingers. “If you’re going to take them, at least do it properly.”

You blinked. “Properly?”

“Angles,” he said, completely serious, leaning back now and running a hand along his thigh. “Lighting. You’re wasting my efforts if you don’t.” Your laugh cracked out, sharp and disbelieving. “Oh my god, you’re actually posing.”

But you couldn’t help yourself — you lifted the phone again. The camera clicked as he tilted his chin, gaze sliding sideways at you like he was staring down a barrel. The picture came out sharp, too sharp, and you swallowed, pulse skipping.

Another photo — him adjusting the beret again, eyes half-lidded with concentration. Another — his fingers tapping absently against the table, veins visible against tanned skin.

“Send them to me later,” he said casually, as if the command was obvious. You rolled your eyes but kept snapping, unable to stop grinning. “You’re insufferable.” He leaned back further, spreading his arms against the back of the chair like a king on his throne, the camouflage stretching across his shoulders. His smirk was lazy now, smug.

“And yet,” he murmured, voice low, “you can’t stop looking.”

The pan hissed again behind you, food nearly forgotten. And he knew it — the glint in his eyes said as much.

The smell of garlic finally bullied you back to the stove. With a sigh, you set your phone down and stirred the pan, though your eyes kept darting to him — sprawled in that chair like some general about to issue orders. You shook your head, biting back a smile. “Alright, enough. Take it off before you get it dirty.”

He blinked, thrown. “What?”

“The uniform,” you said, motioning with your spoon. “I slaved over this dinner, and I am not about to explain to some stylist why there’s soy sauce on your camo.” For a second, his smirk held. But then — like a switch — his mouth twitched, the mask cracking. “You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, rolling his eyes as he tugged at the velcro straps on his chest. The beret came off first, tossed lazily onto the table, followed by the jacket, which he peeled off with a little grunt. Beneath, the black shirt clung to his frame, damp from the heat of the fabric he’d been wearing.

You leaned against the counter, spoon still in hand, lips quirking. “There. Much better. Now you look like a person again.”

He scoffed. “I was never not a person.”

“Mm,” you hummed, plating the food with a grin. “You looked like a man possessed. Do you realize how seriously you were posing?”

“That was for you,” he shot back, leaning his cheek against his hand. His platinum blonde hair was mussed now, sticking up where the beret had pressed it flat. His smirk softened into something crooked, boyish. “You think I enjoy looking like a wannabe action hero?”

You set the plates down, laughing as you slid one in front of him. “You looked like you enjoyed it plenty.”

He reached for his chopsticks, but his gaze lingered on you, sharp even now. “You’re the one who couldn’t stop taking pictures.”

Your cheeks warmed, but you shoved his shoulder lightly as you sat. “Shut up and eat.”

And just like that, the roleplay dissolved — the “commander” slipping away, leaving only Jiyong in his black shirt, hair messy, lips twitching as he tried not to laugh at how flustered you still looked. The scrape of chopsticks against the plate filled the quiet for a moment, but his foot nudged yours under the table, a silent reminder. He wasn’t finished with this little game. Not by a long shot.

//

Dinner ended the way it always did with him — too much laughter, not enough food left for leftovers. Jiyong leaned back in his chair, groaning dramatically as he patted his stomach.

“I think I need to enlist after all,” he said, voice pitched with mock seriousness. “Boot camp might be the only way to burn this off.” You snorted, stacking plates. “Please. You’d last half a day before begging them to let you nap.”

“Hey,” he protested, standing to collect the chopsticks you’d forgotten, “I’d last at least a full day. Out of pure stubbornness.” You shot him a look over your shoulder, amused. “You’d cry the second they cut off your coffee.”

That earned you a sharp gasp as he followed you into the kitchen. “Cruel. Absolutely cruel. Who even are you to say such things?”

You rolled your eyes, turning the faucet on and rinsing a plate. “Go sit down. I’ve got this.”

But of course, he didn’t listen. He never listened. Within seconds he was beside you, sleeves pushed up, already dunking a dish into the soapy water like he’d been trained to do it. “Jiyong—”

“What? I’m helping.” His grin was mischievous, boyish, the same one that always got him out of trouble. “We’re a team, remember?” You swatted at his arm with the dishtowel, water droplets splashing both of you. “You don’t even know how to wash properly. You’re just making more mess.”

He laughed, flicking water from his fingers onto your cheek. “There. Now we match.”

You gasped, wide-eyed, and retaliated by snapping the towel at him. He yelped — far too dramatic for the tiny sting — and clutched his side as if mortally wounded. “Unbelievable,” he groaned, staggering back a step. “First you insult my stamina, and now you assault me. Some girlfriend you are.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you said, but your laughter broke through the words, bubbling up uncontrollably. He joined in, the sound warm and easy, filling the small kitchen until even the hum of the refrigerator seemed to soften.

By the time the dishes were stacked, your hands were pruned, and Jiyong had somehow gotten soap suds in his hair, the two of you were breathless with laughter. He leaned against the counter, watching you dry the last bowl, his expression calmer now, softened by the glow of the under-cabinet light.

“You know,” he said, voice lower now, almost thoughtful, “this is my favorite part of the day.”

You glanced up, surprised. “Doing dishes?” He shook his head, lips twitching. “No. Just… this. You. Home.”

Your chest tightened, warmth spreading like the steam still fogging the sink. You tossed the towel at him to break the moment, and he caught it easily, grinning again. “Alright,” you said, stretching your arms overhead. “Bedtime before you get any more sentimental.”

He followed you down the hallway, still chuckling, his steps light. The uniform jacket was slung over his arm now, the beret dangling from his fingers, his hair messy and damp where the suds had stuck. It was just Jiyong again — silly, stubborn, endlessly distracting. And yet, when you glanced back at him, the way the fabric still clung to his frame reminded you that the soldier act wasn’t gone. Not really.

It was waiting.

The bedroom was warm, faint city light spilling through the blinds. You pulled your hair up with a sigh, already tugging your hoodie over your head when Jiyong all but flopped onto the bed. The mattress dipped hard beneath his weight, his uniform jacket tossed carelessly over the chair. He kicked off his boots in the least graceful way possible, one landing with a thud against the dresser. You shot him a look. “Real soldierly.”

He smirked from where he sprawled across your side of the bed, hands folded behind his head like a king. “I’m conserving energy. That’s strategy.”

“Strategy is brushing your teeth before collapsing,” you countered, tugging at the blanket. But he only rolled, stealing more of it with him. “Mm. No, strategy is making sure you don’t hog all the covers.”

You gaped. “Excuse me? You’re literally wrapped in the whole thing right now.”

He chuckled, eyes closing, clearly enjoying himself. “Because I anticipated your moves.”

“Jiyong,” you warned, climbing onto the mattress. He cracked one eye open, grin lazy. “What? You gonna fight me for it?”

You lunged for the blanket. He yelped, laughing, but didn’t let go. The two of you wrestled like kids, tugging and rolling, until he had you pinned under him, his arms braced to either side of your head. Your breaths were loud now, chests pressed together, laughter fading into something heavier.

His hair fell into his eyes as he leaned closer, grin still tugging at his mouth. “You know…” His voice lowered, gravel slipping through the syllables. “…you didn’t stop staring earlier.”

Heat flared at your cheeks, and you shoved lightly at his chest. “Shut up.” But his smirk only widened, his nose brushing against yours as he hovered above you. “You liked it. The uniform. The attitude. Don’t lie.”

Your throat tightened, words caught somewhere between denial and truth. He tilted his head, studying you like a predator who already knew the answer. The playfulness was still there — but beneath it, something else stirred. A flicker of that sharp, commanding edge you’d seen when he first walked out in full attire. His voice dipped lower, steady. “Say it.”

The blanket slipped further, baring more of his black shirt, the fabric still clinging to his frame. His eyes, hooded now, glinted under the thin light cutting across the room. The silliness hadn’t gone — but it was twisting, shifting, turning into something that made your pulse quicken in a different way.

You swallowed, your fingers curling into the sheets. “You’re ridiculous.” He tilted his head, closing the distance just enough for his nose to graze yours. “Maybe. But you still looked at me like you wanted me to ruin you.”

Your lips parted, breath catching. The grin on his mouth faltered — and then, with a sudden, sharp movement, he kissed you. It wasn’t playful. It was hungry.

His mouth claimed yours, hot and insistent, teeth clashing as his hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you steady. The taste of him was all heat and control, the kiss messy, consuming, like he’d been waiting all night for this.

You gasped, and his tongue slid against yours, slow but deliberate, coaxing, demanding. A low sound rumbled in his throat, vibrating against your lips, making your body arch up into his. Your hands found his shoulders, clutching at the fabric of his shirt, the muscles beneath tense and solid. He pressed closer, his chest flattening yours, the blanket twisted around you both in forgotten tangles. “Fuck,” he muttered against your mouth, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes burned, darker than before. “You like this. Don’t you?”

Your answer caught in your throat, but he didn’t wait. He kissed you again, harder, his tongue sweeping your mouth, swallowing your moan. His hand dragged down your side, firm and steady, sliding under your shirt to palm the heat of your skin. His thumb pressed into your hipbone as his mouth devoured yours, your pulse racing under his touch.

You broke the kiss, gasping for air, lips wet and swollen. He smirked faintly, thumb brushing across your lower lip as though admiring his own work. “Say it,” he whispered, voice gravel, eyes locked onto yours. “Say you liked me in that uniform.”

Your body shivered, pinned beneath him, the tension between play and command tightening until it was about to snap.

Your breath still trembled when you broke the kiss, lips swollen, his weight heavy against you. For a heartbeat you just stared at him — his hair messy, his grin smug, his eyes glittering with that dangerous edge.

Then you smirked, and before he could press in again, your hand slid down to swat his ass. The sharp sound made him jolt. “Yah!”

You wriggled out from beneath him, laughing, tugging your shirt back down as you rolled off the bed. “Go brush your teeth, soldier,” you teased, already padding barefoot toward the bathroom. “You reek of soju.”

Behind you, he sat up, stunned, then barked a laugh. “Did you just— slap my ass?” You glanced over your shoulder with the most innocent expression you could muster. “What? You deserved it.”

He scrambled to his feet, mock outrage dripping from his tone as he followed you down the hall. “Unbelievable. You attack your commander and then insult his breath?”

“Commander?” you shot back, ducking into the bathroom and flicking on the light. “You can’t even command your own toothbrush.”

That earned you another laugh — low, genuine, the kind that warmed the air between you. He leaned against the doorway as you reached for both of your toothbrushes, his black shirt hanging loose now, hair sticking out where your hands had tugged at it. You pressed his toothbrush into his hand with mock authority. “Here. Show me your best discipline.”

He raised an eyebrow, but the smirk broke through. “You’re going to regret this when I outrank you later.”

You ignored him, humming as you loaded your own brush with paste. Side by side in the mirror, you both bent over the sink, shoulders bumping. He foamed up instantly, mouth puffed out like a chipmunk as he tried not to laugh, bubbles threatening to spill from his lips. You snorted into your own brush, covering your mouth as he gave you the most exaggerated glare, toothpaste dripping onto his chin. “Oh my god,” you managed around your bristles, choking on laughter.

He spat into the sink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, still laughing. “This is war,” he muttered, leaning close enough to smear a dab of toothpaste foam onto your cheek with his thumb. You squealed, swatting at him with your brush. “You’re disgusting!”

But your grin betrayed you, wide and warm, reflected in the mirror beside his. The commander act had melted away for now, leaving only Jiyong — silly, ridiculous, messy Jiyong — brushing his teeth beside you, his laughter turning the bathroom into a softer battlefield.

By the time you rinsed and wiped the last foam from your lips, your cheeks ached from laughing. Jiyong was still leaning on the counter like he’d just won a fight, lips twitching smugly as he tapped his toothbrush back into the holder. “That’s what you call discipline,” he muttered, shoulders squared like he’d just proven a point. You flicked water at him, droplets spotting his black shirt. “That’s what I call a mess.”

He caught your wrist when you tried to brush past him, tugging you close. The grin on his mouth softened as he pressed a quick kiss to your damp cheek — mint clinging to his breath, laughter still caught between your lips. “Cute mess,” he corrected. Your stomach flipped, but you rolled your eyes and wriggled free, padding down the hall to change into your sleep shirt. Behind you, he lingered a second longer in the bathroom, running a hand through his hair, pushing it back in that half-careless, half-deliberate way he always did before bed.

When he finally joined you, the uniform had been folded neatly on the chair, his shirt hanging loose over joggers. He dove into bed with too much energy for someone who’d been groaning about exhaustion twenty minutes ago, bouncing the mattress until you yelped. “Jiyong!”

He grinned, pulling the blankets up to his chin, eyes sparkling with mischief. “What? Gotta keep morale high.” You slid under the covers, shaking your head, but warmth crept up your neck as his leg immediately found yours beneath the blanket, his toes hooking around your ankle. He always did that — little anchor points, as if he needed to tether you close even when half-asleep. “Morale?” you teased, curling onto your side. “Pretty sure you’re just annoying.”

His arm slipped around your waist in answer, tugging you back against his chest. His breath tickled the back of your neck, warm and steady now. For a moment, it was quiet. Just his heartbeat against your spine, the weight of his arm, the hum of the city muted through the window. Then his voice — lower this time, calmer, but edged.

“You know…” His lips brushed your hair, the words slow, deliberate. “…you really did stare at me earlier.”

You stiffened slightly, pulse skipping. “I told you, you looked—”

“Hot?” he cut in, smirk audible in his tone. You huffed, shoving his arm lightly, but he didn’t budge. If anything, his grip tightened, his breath pressing closer. “You don’t get it,” he murmured. His voice had lost the silliness now, dipping into something firmer, heavier. “When I put that uniform on… you’re not supposed to tease me. You’re supposed to follow orders.”

Your stomach dropped, heat coiling low as his hand flexed against your waist. The laughter from earlier still lingered, but it was being swallowed now — replaced by something sharper, commanding, the edge of the “commander” sliding back into his tone, curling around the air between you.

Your body tensed, heat sparking down your spine, but instead of answering, you shifted in his hold. Then, quick as lightning, your hand darted up and gave a sharp twist to his nipple through the thin cotton of his shirt. “Ah—!” He jerked back with a startled groan, eyes flying open. “What the hell—”

You rolled onto your back just long enough to smirk at him in the dim light. “Shut up, commander.” And before he could recover, you turned over fully, presenting him with your back and yanking the blanket high over your shoulder.

The silence that followed was delicious. You could feel his stare burning into the back of your neck, his body gone stiff beside you. His hand hovered where it had been resting on your waist, fingers flexing like he didn’t know whether to grab you or laugh.

Finally, his voice, low and incredulous: “Did you just…” A pause. “Twist my nipple?”

You bit back a laugh, eyes closed, feigning sleep.

Another beat of silence — and then, the faintest sound of his laugh breaking through, helpless and disbelieving. “You’re insane,” he muttered, shifting onto his back. The mattress dipped as he adjusted, tugging at the blanket until you both had an even share again. But even as his breathing slowed, even as the room filled with the quiet rhythm of night, you could feel it — the weight of his gaze still lingering, the way his body remained a little too tense, like a wire pulled tight.

You knew him too well. He wasn’t going to let that go. Not tonight. Not after you’d dared to turn his game back on him.

And the thought made your smile curl, even as you pretended to drift off.

//

The apartment was already warm with the smell of toast and eggs by the time you padded back down the hallway. The morning light bled soft gold through the blinds, catching on the stray mugs you’d rinsed and the neat folds of the blanket you’d thrown over the couch. Your hair was tied back, clothes fresh, sleeves rolled up from cooking. It had been hours since you’d gotten out of bed.

Jiyong, of course, was still in it.

You leaned against the doorframe, hands on your hips, watching the lump of blankets that was your boyfriend. His head was buried in the pillow, both arms tucked underneath like a kid hiding from responsibility. His hair stuck up in every direction, messy blond tufts that made him look younger than he had any right to.

“Jiyong.”

Nothing. Just the faint rise and fall of his back. You stepped inside, voice sharper. “Wake. Up.” A muffled groan rose from the pillow. His foot kicked lazily against the mattress, and he pulled the blanket higher over his head. “Five more minutes,” he whined, his voice thick with sleep, petulant like a child.

You crossed the room and yanked at the corner of the blanket. “It’s already been five more minutes. Twice.” He clung tighter, curling onto his side with a groan. “You’re evil.”

“Evil is letting breakfast get cold because you can’t get your ass out of bed.”

That got a small laugh from under the covers, though he didn’t budge. His messy hair peeked out from the edge, strands falling over his closed eyes. You crouched beside the bed, poking his shoulder through the blanket. “You’re supposed to be the big, scary commander, remember? Some soldier you are. Can’t even face the morning.”

His eyes cracked open, bleary and narrow, lips twitching. “Commanders don’t wake up before nine.”

You scoffed, standing again. “Oh, really?”

“Mhm.” He rolled onto his back finally, blinking up at you with all the tragic dignity of a man ripped from a dream. His arms stretched wide, a soft yawn spilling from his mouth before he tugged the pillow back over his face. “Jiyong.”

“Dead,” he mumbled, voice muffled under the fabric. “Tell the world their commander is dead.” You laughed despite yourself, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

But your chest warmed as you looked down at him — rumpled and messy, his morning pout the polar opposite of last night’s sharp grin and commanding tone. The same man, two versions you knew equally well. And you knew, sooner or later, he’d find a way to flip the switch again.

It took another five minutes, a tug at the blanket, and the promise of coffee before he finally shuffled out of the bedroom.

His joggers hung low on his hips, the hem of his black shirt twisted from sleep, collar stretched from the way he’d yanked it over his head last night. His hair was a complete disaster — sticking up at the back, falling into his eyes at the front.

“You look like you fought a war in there,” you said, sipping your coffee at the table. “I did.” His voice was hoarse, petulant, as he collapsed into the chair across from you. “The war of you dragging me out of heaven.”

You slid a plate toward him. “Eat before it gets cold.”

He poked at the toast like it had offended him. “Mmm. What if I want to sleep on the table instead?”

You raised a brow. “Then you’ll starve.” He looked up, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “You’d let your commander starve?”

You laughed, shaking your head as you bit into your toast. “Commander, my ass. You can’t even butter your own bread in the morning.”

That earned you a crooked grin, one that softened his whole face despite the mess of his hair. He picked up a piece of toast finally, biting into it with exaggerated effort, chewing slow as if to prove a point. “See? Self-sufficient.” Crumbs clung to his lip.

You leaned across the table, swiping your thumb over his mouth. “Pathetic.” He caught your wrist before you could pull back, his thumb brushing your pulse, his smirk sharpening just slightly. “Careful.”

Your stomach tightened, the tiniest reminder of last night sparking between you. But then he yawned loudly, letting your wrist go as he flopped back in his chair. “You’re lucky I love you,” he mumbled, reaching for his coffee.

You hid your smile behind your cup. “Lucky is me not throwing you out the window for being this dramatic.”

He sipped, eyes closing like the taste itself had revived him. “Mm. Dramatic, maybe. But still irresistible.”

Your laugh cracked, warm and helpless, as you reached across the table to steal a bite of his toast. He gasped in mock horror, swatting at your hand. “Betrayal!”

“Breakfast tax,” you said simply. He groaned, dropping his head into his hand, but his grin betrayed him. And as the two of you sat there, sunlight warming the table, toast crumbs between you, and coffee steam curling into the air, it felt almost too easy — the calm before whatever storm he was quietly planning in that clever head of his.

Breakfast wound down the way it always did with him — more laughter than actual eating. By the time you were rinsing the last of the plates, Jiyong had slumped over the table like a child, cheek pressed to his arm, spoon balanced precariously in his other hand.

“You’re hopeless,” you muttered, plucking the spoon away.

“Efficient,” he mumbled, eyes half-lidded. “Minimal energy expenditure. Maximum comfort.”

You flicked water from your hands onto his hair. He groaned, batting at the drops, then straightened with a stretch, his shirt riding up to reveal a slice of pale skin. “Alright,” he sighed, dragging himself to his feet. “Playtime’s over.”

You blinked, turning from the sink. “What does that mean?”

He smirked faintly, already padding down the hallway. “I’ve got a photoshoot, remember? And you’ve got a front-row seat.”

Before you could reply, he disappeared into the bedroom, door clicking shut behind him. For a few minutes, you busied yourself with wiping the counters, humming to fill the silence. But then the faint sound of hangers shifting reached your ears, the thump of boots against the floor, the telltale rustle of fabric being tugged into place.

Curiosity tugged at you, pulling you closer.

When the door finally opened, you almost forgot to breathe.

Jiyong stepped out with the kind of presence that made the air tilt. The camouflage jacket hugged his frame perfectly this time, sleeves buttoned neat at the wrist. His boots thudded with every step, precise, deliberate. The beret sat low over his blond hair, and the black glasses perched on his nose cast his face into sharp, unreadable angles.

It wasn’t Jiyong who had groaned over toast fifteen minutes ago. It was someone else entirely. He adjusted the strap across his chest, his reflection catching in the hallway mirror as he tugged the brim of the beret lower. He didn’t glance at you right away — he didn’t need to. The weight of his presence filled the room before his eyes finally slid your way.

“Ready?” His voice was calm, even. Too calm.

Your throat tightened, caught between laughter and something hotter that curled low in your stomach. You tried to scoff, to roll your eyes, but the words tangled in your mouth. He smirked, reading it instantly. “Thought so.”

And with that, he stepped fully into the room, boots heavy on the floor, the sharp scent of starch and cologne cutting through the air. It was just a photoshoot. Just clothes.

But the way he wore them…

The game was starting again.

//

The apartment door shut with a muted click behind you, the weight of the morning still hanging in the warm air. Jiyong walked ahead, hands tucked in the pockets of his camo jacket, boots heavy on the stairwell. The beret sat low. He didn’t speak — not yet. Outside, the late morning sun flared across the hood of his car, the black paint gleaming. The driver was already waiting, engine humming faintly.

Jiyong slowed, tugging his phone from his pocket. You knew the shift the moment it happened — the subtle tilt of his shoulders, the sharper angle of his chin, the way his silence turned into something calculated. “Hold on,” he muttered, voice slipping lower. He tapped the screen, flicking it to camera mode. You sighed, already recognizing the ritual.

He turned the phone, arm raised, catching himself in the lens: sunglasses, beret, jacket crisp against the bright sky. A short clip, but the weight of it was immediate. He watched it once, head tilting, before hitting post. You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt. “Unbelievable.”

He finally glanced at you, grin tugging wide. “What?”

“You,” you said, stepping past him toward the open car door. “You were just whining about brushing your teeth half an hour ago, and now suddenly you’re G-Dragon.”

He chuckled, slipping into the seat beside you, his phone already buzzing with notifications. “Different contexts.”

“Different personalities,” you muttered under your breath, tugging your seatbelt on. He leaned back, stretching his legs wide, tapping his phone with easy confidence. “You love both.”

You scoffed, staring out the window as the car pulled from the curb. But your lips betrayed you, twitching against a smile.

He noticed — of course he did — and smirked wider, turning the camera back on himself for another clip. This time, he angled it so the corner of your annoyed face caught in the frame. “Don’t,” you warned. But he only laughed, hitting record anyway. “Look at her. Already mad at me, and it’s not even noon.”

You shoved his shoulder, muttering, “You’re insufferable,” but he only leaned closer, voice dropping just for you, soft enough that the phone didn’t catch it:

“And you can’t stop staring.”

The city blurred past the tinted windows, buildings stacked high and gray against the pale sky. The low hum of the engine filled the silence between you, broken only by the faint tap-tap of Jiyong’s thumb scrolling through his phone. You shifted, settling into the seat, the seatbelt tugging against your shoulder. “So,” you started casually, “what exactly is this photoshoot?”

“PUBG,” he said without looking up. You blinked. “The video game?”

That finally made him glance at you, sunglasses sliding low enough to reveal the sparkle of his eyes. His grin tugged slow. “Mm. Battlegrounds. Guns. Strategy. Perfect fit, don’t you think?”

You snorted. “Perfect fit for someone who can’t even wake up before noon.”

“Yah,” he protested, slipping his glasses off completely now, tucking them onto the collar of his jacket. “I could survive. I’ve got tactics.”

“Uh-huh,” you teased, turning in your seat. “Step one: complain until your enemies give up.” His laugh broke out, warm and sharp in the quiet car. “Step one: distract them with charm. Step two: shoot them when they’re staring.”

“Romantic,” you muttered, but your smile betrayed you. He leaned back, stretching, the fabric of his jacket pulling taut across his shoulders. “You’d watch my back though, right?”

You rolled your eyes. “Not if you’re crawling around with no coffee.” He smirked, and his hand dropped casually to your thigh. Warm, steady. The weight of it lingered, heavy enough to make you shift. Your breath caught, but you tried to keep your voice even. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.” His thumb stroked absently over the inside seam of your jeans, slow, deliberate. “Making sure my partner’s paying attention.” You narrowed your eyes at him. “This is not a strategy meeting.” He tilted his head, expression wicked. “Feels like it.”

Despite yourself, your fingers found his, twining absently over his knuckles. His smirk softened, eyes dipping down to where your hands met. For a moment, he didn’t say anything — just traced lazy circles against your thigh with his thumb, the city rolling endlessly outside. “You know,” he murmured finally, quieter now, “you’d look good in uniform too.”

You barked a laugh, squeezing his hand. “Dream on.”

But his grin stayed, smug and knowing, as he squeezed back.

The hum of the engine lulled the car into a rhythm, steady and quiet. Jiyong still hadn’t moved his hand, thumb stroking lazy circles into your thigh, but now his gaze lingered on you more than the window. You felt it, the weight of his eyes, and tried to ignore the heat rising in your chest. “What?” you muttered, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve.

“Nothing,” he said, lips twitching. Then softer: “You’re cute when you try to look annoyed.” You scoffed, looking away. “I am annoyed.”

“Mm.” He shifted, leaning in closer, his shoulder brushing yours. His hand tightened on your thigh, firm now, anchoring you. “So annoyed you’re holding my hand.” Your cheeks warmed, but you didn’t let go. Instead, you squeezed his fingers, glaring at him sideways. “Shut up.”

His grin widened, sharp and boyish at once. Then, with that unhurried confidence that always made your stomach flip, he leaned in. The kiss started light — just a brush of his mouth against yours, tasting of coffee and mint. But when you sighed, his lips pressed harder, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, claiming stroke. Your hand flew to his chest, clutching the fabric of his jacket, pulling him closer even as your head tipped back. The weight of his hand on your thigh shifted higher, fingers pressing into the muscle, spreading heat through your body.

A low hum rumbled in his throat, vibrating against your lips. He kissed you like he had time to waste, savoring every drag, every nip, every parting breath. When he finally pulled back, his mouth was swollen, his grin lazy. He brushed his nose against yours, still close enough that his breath warmed your lips.

“You see?” he murmured. “Strategy.” Before you could roll your eyes, the driver cleared his throat from the front. “Sir… we’ve arrived.”

You jerked back, startled, cheeks burning. Jiyong only chuckled, slipping his black glasses back on in one smooth motion. The soldier persona clicked back into place like armor.

He patted your thigh once, sharp and possessive, before reaching for the door. “Showtime,” he said.

//

The studio was colder than you expected — the kind of chill that clung to concrete floors and steel beams. Bright lights had been rigged on every side, casting sharp pools of white across the set. Military crates, sandbags, and rust-colored barrels were stacked strategically, an artificial battlefield in the middle of Seoul. You stood just off to the side, hands tucked into your sleeves, watching.

Jiyong was already in position.

It was dizzying, how fast the shift happened. Minutes ago he’d been tugging you into a kiss in the backseat, his hair messy, his grin boyish, his hand warm on your thigh. Now—

Now, he was a weapon.

The uniform clung to him perfectly, every seam crisp, every fold sharp. The beret tilted at that deliberate angle, his sunglasses glinting beneath the studio lights. His posture had changed entirely: no slump, no lazy sprawl — his shoulders squared, his stance wide, one hand gripping the strap of the rifle prop slung across his chest like it was second nature. The photographer barked directions, but Jiyong didn’t need them. He moved like he already knew the script, adjusting his jaw, tilting his chin, shifting the rifle higher until the lines of his body cut perfect angles in the frame. The camera shutters clicked in rapid bursts.

You tried not to stare too hard. Tried.

But your eyes betrayed you, drinking him in: the way the camouflage hugged his forearms, veins taut where his hands flexed around the grip; the curve of his mouth when he smirked at the lens, sharp and dangerous; the sheer presence he radiated, filling every inch of the set with ease.

Your stomach twisted.

This was supposed to be silly. Just a job, a costume. You had laughed at him last night, teasing him for posing in the mirror, snapping pictures of him being dramatic. But now—

Now it didn’t feel like a costume.

The rifle swung low across his body as he crouched behind a sandbag, his expression deadly calm. The angle of his jaw cut sharp beneath the light, sweat glistening faintly at his temple. The staff murmured among themselves, impressed, cameras flashing faster.

And you— you could only watch, your fingers tightening around the sleeves of your hoodie, the heat in your chest rising. Your mind betrayed you, slipping back to the car. His lips bruising yours, his tongue against yours, his hand on your thigh. The weight of his grip, the way he whispered “Strategy” with that lazy confidence.

The uniform made it worse. Or better. You couldn’t decide.

All you knew was that he looked devastating. And the worst part? He knew you were watching.

Between poses, he adjusted his beret, his head tilting just slightly in your direction. The corner of his mouth curved — not for the camera, but for you. You inhaled sharply, cheeks burning, tearing your gaze away as though the act itself hadn’t already been caught. When you dared to look back, he was smirking at the lens again. Your heart thudded, and you pressed your lips together, trying to steady yourself.

You were supposed to be invisible here, just a shadow in the background. But with every click of the camera, every shift of his body, every sharp tilt of his smirk, you felt like you were the only person in the room he was performing for.

And maybe… you were.

The shoot unfolded like a carefully choreographed battle.

Assistants darted in and out of the set — one crouching low to fix the way his beret tilted, another tugging at the hem of his jacket so it sat clean against his waist. A stylist fussed with the strap of the rifle, checking the way it caught in the light. Jiyong stood in the middle of it all, patient, unbothered. A king on the battlefield, letting his soldiers prepare him.

Then, when the lens lifted again, he switched on instantly.

He dropped low behind a crate, one knee bent, the rifle slung high across his chest. The smirk vanished, replaced with something colder, sharper. His lips pressed into a line, jaw taut, gaze locked on the lens like he was aiming down the barrel.

The camera shutters went wild. “Perfect,” the photographer barked. “Hold that. Don’t move.”

You hugged your arms tighter around yourself, shifting on your feet as you tried to breathe evenly. The studio lights threw heat against your skin, but it wasn’t the lamps making you sweat. It was him. The curve of his forearms beneath the rolled sleeves, the way his fingers flexed on the grip — even the smallest movement looked purposeful, dangerous. His whole body spoke in commands, and you couldn’t tear your eyes away.

He rose from the crouch, the rifle lowering to his side. The smirk returned — slow, deliberate, curling only one corner of his mouth. And this time, you knew it wasn’t for the camera. Your breath caught, heat prickling your cheeks. You looked away quickly, pretending to check your phone, pretending you weren’t caught staring again. “Next set-up!” someone called, rushing forward with a headset. The scene changed: sandbags swapped for a dented metal barrel, a smoke machine whirring softly until the air filled with a hazy fog. The rifle was propped against the crate for now, leaving his hands free.

He stepped into the smoke, lifting a hand to adjust his beret again. The light cut across him, haloing the haze, making the sharp edges of his jaw glow. He tipped his head, lips curling, and your stomach twisted violently. Because all you could see was the car again. His mouth on yours. His voice rasping “Say it” when he pinned you down last night. The same sharp glint in his eyes now, mirrored through the smoke. You exhaled slowly, hugging yourself tighter, praying no one else could hear the rush of your pulse. He shifted poses, slipping one hand into his pocket, angling his body toward the light. The camera clicked furiously, the staff buzzing around him with praise.

But he knew.

You could feel it in the way his chin tipped just slightly in your direction, the way his mouth twitched as if he could read your mind. He was playing to the camera, yes. But he was playing to you more. And you hated — loved — how transparent you must have looked, rooted there in the corner, unable to look away.

The shoot dragged on, scene after scene shifting with military precision — smoke machines hissing, crates moved, lights tilted. The staff bustled like a small army around him, barking directions, adjusting angles, tugging at his jacket.

You lingered in the corner, hugging your arms tighter across your chest, trying to be invisible. But there was no ignoring him. Jiyong looked… unreal.

One minute he was crouched low, weapon drawn, his whole body coiled like a spring. The next, he stood with his arms folded across his chest, chin tilted, beret shadowing his eyes as if he had just won some war only he understood. Every pose was sharp, deliberate. And every time the camera clicked, you felt your throat dry out a little more.

You shifted your weight from foot to foot, pressing your thighs together under your jeans. Heat spread slow and steady through your body, and you hated yourself for it. You were supposed to be laughing at this, teasing him later for playing soldier.

But your body betrayed you.

Your pulse throbbed low, insistent, each shutter of the camera like a match against your skin. You crossed your arms tighter, hiding the way your hands fidgeted against your sleeves “Perfect. Hold that,” the photographer barked.

And Jiyong… oh, he knew.

He adjusted his beret again, tilting his head just enough that his gaze slid toward you. Not the camera. Not the staff. You.

The smirk that tugged at his mouth was dangerous — not wide, not playful. Subtle. Sharp. The kind of smirk that said he’d already figured you out. Your breath caught, heat prickling up your neck. You looked away too fast, pretending to scroll through your phone, pretending you weren’t trembling inside your own skin.

But the damage was done.

Your thighs pressed tighter, your lips parted against the sudden dryness in your mouth. You could still taste him from the car, still feel his hand on your thigh, still hear his low voice murmuring “Strategy.”

And now, watching him command the entire set like it was his battlefield, your body hummed with restless, hungry energy you couldn’t disguise. “Take five,” someone finally called. The staff dispersed, lights dimming slightly, chatter filling the room. His eyes scanned the room once — twice — before locking on you.

You froze.

The corner of his mouth curved, slow and deliberate. Then, without a word, he started walking your way.

The break was short — just enough time for someone to press a water bottle into his hand and another to blot the shine from his forehead. He waved them off after a minute, rolling his shoulders, stretching his neck. You lingered nearby, pretending to sip from your own bottle, though your eyes betrayed you every time they slid back to him.

“Ready in five!” the photographer called.

Jiyong glanced at you then, sweat-darkened hair clinging slightly to his temple, beret tucked under his arm for the moment. Without his glasses, his gaze was unfiltered — sharp, direct, dark in a way that made your chest tighten.

He smirked faintly, tilting his head as he walked closer to you. You drifted closer, pretending to check something on your phone, until you were standing just beside him. “Tired already?” you teased, nodding at the way he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. He huffed, the corner of his mouth curling. “This jacket is like wearing an oven. You try holding a rifle under lights for an hour.”

You smirked. “Poor baby. All that soldiering wearing you down?” That earned you a low chuckle. He tilted his head toward you, his blond hair sticking slightly to his temple from sweat. “You like seeing me like this, don’t you?”

You shrugged, casual. “Depends. Am I supposed to salute you now?”

“Wouldn’t hurt,” he murmured, grin widening. You rolled your eyes, about to retort — but the moment held. His gaze lingered on you, longer than it should have, his tongue pressing against his cheek as if he wanted to say something more but bit it back.

And that was when you leaned closer. Close enough that the staff’s chatter became a dull buzz. Close enough that your breath brushed the shell of his ear. “I keep imagining you in this outfit…” you whispered, voice low, deliberate. “Bossing me around. Making me do everything you say. Fucking me until I can’t walk.”

For a beat, he went utterly still.

The smirk faltered. His lips parted, sucking in a quiet breath as his grip on the water bottle tightened until the plastic crinkled. You pulled back slowly, expression feigning innocence, as though you’d said nothing at all. But his eyes told the truth — dark, sharp, flicking down your face like he needed to re-anchor himself. He dragged his tongue across his lower lip, biting it once, hard. Frustration carved across his features in a flash — because he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. Not here. Not now. “Back on set!” the photographer called.

Jiyong stood quickly, beret tugged back onto his head, posture snapping sharp. Too sharp.

And when he walked back under the lights, his jaw was tight, his expression darker, hungrier than anything the staff had seen all day. They praised him instantly — “Perfect! That’s it, hold it there!” — while he leveled the camera with a gaze that could cut glass.

But you knew.

Every click of the shutter was another reminder of what you’d just whispered into his ear.

The call of “Back on set!” rang through the studio, and Jiyong was already moving, shoulders squared, steps clipped, as if discipline alone could smother the fire you’d lit in his chest.

You stayed in the background, arms crossed, watching. The staff swarmed him with quick touches: tugging his jacket straighter, adjusting the rifle strap across his torso, dabbing sweat from his temple. He endured it all in silence, jaw locked, eyes fixed on the floor until the space cleared again.

Then the camera lifted.

And the shift was immediate. Jiyong raised the rifle, cradling it across his forearm as though it was real, his posture razor-sharp. He tilted his chin, gaze dark, lips pressing into a grim line. “Perfect,” the photographer shouted. “Hold that!”

The shutters clicked in rapid bursts, the flashes popping across his face.

But you saw it — the tension running too tight.

His grip on the rifle was firmer than it should’ve been, knuckles pale where they wrapped the handle. His chest rose too fast beneath the camo, breath shallow. He shifted his weight, adjusting his stance — not for the camera, but for himself.

Your words were still in his ear. Bossing me around. Fucking me until I can’t walk. And every snap of the shutter was another reminder he couldn’t forget. “Good! Now crouch—yes, exactly like that!” He dropped low behind a crate, jaw clenching harder, a bead of sweat running down his temple. The pose was perfect — soldier at rest, waiting for the next strike — but his thighs tensed, his hips shifting subtly, betraying the discomfort of holding himself back.

The staff ate it up. “That’s incredible, GD! That look—amazing, hold it!”

Only you knew the truth. You pressed your lips together, your pulse quickening as you hugged your arms tighter across your chest. Watching him unravel while everyone else applauded was dizzying, the heat curling low in your stomach. When he rose again, the beret cast half his face in shadow. His eyes burned, sharp and unblinking. He smirked — but it wasn’t for the camera. It was for you.

The camera shutters went wild at the expression.

“Beautiful! That’s the shot! Stay with me!”

He licked his lips once, slowly, the way he always did when frustration chewed at him. His jaw flexed, and his tongue darted against his teeth like he wanted to speak — to snap — but bit it back. Instead, he leveled the lens with a stare that could have carved stone, all while his thoughts — his body — burned with the filth you’d whispered into his ear minutes ago.

And the longer you watched, the harder it became to breathe, because you knew the second this shoot ended, the commander act would stop being just for the cameras.

//

“Alright, that’s a wrap!” the photographer shouted, clapping his hands together. The staff erupted in scattered applause, chatter buzzing as the lights dimmed and props were shuffled aside. Jiyong tugged the beret from his head, running a hand through damp blond hair. He gave a polite nod to the crew, murmured a few thanks, but his eyes—

His eyes were already searching for you. You pretended to scroll through your phone, but when he crossed the room, boots heavy, sweat still shining at his temple, your breath caught anyway. “Let’s go,” he muttered, low enough for only you to hear. The ride back was quiet at first.

The driver kept his eyes on the road, city lights streaking across the tinted windows. You leaned against the cool leather seat, trying to calm the restless heat coiled inside you.

But Jiyong didn’t give you the chance.

His hand found your thigh again, heavier this time, sliding higher, fingers pressing with intent. His head dipped, blond hair brushing your cheek as his mouth pressed against your neck.

The first kiss was soft, deliberate. The second, harder — teeth grazing just enough to make you jolt. “Jiyong—” you whispered, glancing toward the driver. “Shh,” he murmured, lips dragging down to the hollow of your throat. His hand squeezed your thigh, thumb stroking slow circles that had your pulse racing. You shifted in the seat, torn between pulling away and leaning closer. His mouth found the sensitive spot beneath your jaw, sucking lightly until heat shot through your veins.

“You think you can just whisper that shit to me,” he growled against your skin, “and I’ll sit still?”

Your breath hitched, your fingers gripping the edge of the seat. “It worked, didn’t it?”

He pulled back just enough for you to see the smirk tugging at his mouth, sharp and dangerous. His eyes glinted in the dim car light, hunger written plain across his face. The driver cleared his throat softly, and Jiyong chuckled, low and unbothered, before pressing one last kiss to your neck.

“Wait until we get home,” he whispered, hand sliding slowly back down your thigh. “Then you’ll see what happens when you tempt a commander.”

Your stomach dropped, heat pooling low, as the city blurred past outside. By the time the car pulled up to your building, your skin was already buzzing, your pulse uneven. And when Jiyong stepped out, jacket slung over one shoulder, glasses dangling from his fingers, you knew the playful, bratty boyfriend from this morning was gone.

The soldier was coming home with you.

The car door clicked shut behind you, the echo swallowed by the quiet of your building’s private garage. Jiyong adjusted the jacket on his shoulder, his steps deliberate, boots heavy as he guided you toward the elevator. The ride up was silent — too silent. He didn’t touch you this time, didn’t even look at you. But you felt the weight of him, the simmering heat still radiating off his body, the unspoken promise in the sharp set of his jaw. By the time the elevator dinged, your chest was tight with anticipation.

The apartment was dark when you stepped inside. You toed your shoes off automatically, dropping your bag by the door. Jiyong followed, shrugging his jacket onto the back of a chair, the soft thunk of his boots landing in the entryway. For a moment, it was almost normal. The quiet hum of the fridge. The soft glow of the city bleeding through the curtains.

But when you turned to head toward the kitchen, his voice cut the silence. “Stop.”

You froze.

It wasn’t Jiyong’s playful drawl. It was lower. Firmer. A command. Slowly, you glanced over your shoulder. He stood by the door still, sunglasses dangling from his fingers, his gaze fixed on you with razor focus. The uniform clung to him, the sharp lines making him look taller, broader. The air around him had shifted — no longer your boyfriend, no longer the man who whined about brushing his teeth this morning.

This was the commander.

“Come here.” His tone left no room for argument. Your pulse hammered. You hesitated only a beat before crossing the room, your feet soft against the wood. When you stopped in front of him, his hand shot out, gripping your jaw firmly, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. “You think it’s funny?” His thumb brushed across your lower lip, rough, possessive. “Whispering that in my ear, making me hard in front of the entire set?”

Your breath hitched, your hands curling into fists at your sides. “I—”

“Quiet.” The word cut sharp. He leaned down, his mouth grazing your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “You wanted this, didn’t you? Me in this uniform. Bossing you around. Owning you.”

Your body shivered, heat flooding your veins. His grip shifted, sliding from your jaw down to your throat, not squeezing — just holding, steady, his thumb stroking the hollow there. His eyes burned into yours, daring you to look away. “Good,” he whispered. His smirk tugged slow, dangerous. “Because I’m not letting you sleep tonight.”

The lights of Seoul bled against the glass windows behind him, and for a dizzying moment, you couldn’t tell if this was still a game — or if the man standing in front of you had become exactly what you’d begged for.

His mouth was on you before you could breathe. The kiss was rough, consuming — teeth dragging your lip, tongue sliding past yours like he wanted to claim every inch. His hand slid down, gripping your ass hard enough to make you gasp, while the other climbed up to your chest. He palmed your breast through the thin fabric of your shirt, thumb rubbing across your nipple until it stiffened, a low groan spilling against your lips when you arched into his touch.

“Fuck,” he muttered, breaking the kiss only to latch onto your neck, biting just hard enough to sting. His free hand shoved your shirt up, his palm warm and heavy against bare skin. “You’re mine like this. You know that, right?”

Your breath hitched, your hands clutching at his shoulders — and then, without thinking, you let one trail lower, pressing against the hard bulge straining beneath his uniform pants.

He froze.

Not because he didn’t want it — no, the twitch beneath your palm betrayed him. But his hand caught your wrist instantly, iron-tight, pinning it away from him. His eyes burned into yours, lips still wet from the kiss. “No.”

Your stomach dropped at the single word, your thighs clenching. “But—”

“Did I give you permission?” His voice was low, gravel and fire, his grip on your wrist tightening just enough to remind you who was in charge. Heat rushed through you, and you shook your head. “Good girl,” he murmured, releasing your hand only to curl his fingers under your chin again, tilting your face up. He kissed you once more, slower this time, dragging it out until your body trembled against his. Then he pulled back, smirking faintly. “On your knees.”

The words dropped like lead between you.

Your chest heaved, your lips parting, but his stare didn’t waver. He tilted his head slightly, commanding without raising his voice, like the uniform had fused with his skin. “Kneel,” he said again, sharper now. The city lights spilled in through the window, the glint of his beret still casting shadow across his eyes, and for a dizzying moment you realized — this wasn’t Jiyong playing.

This was the commander.

And you were about to obey.

Your knees hit the hardwood with a muted thud, the uniformed figure of Jiyong towering above you. The sight of him — beret tilted low, chest rising hard beneath the camo, jaw clenched tight — made your breath catch.

He looked down at you like you were already conquered “Good,” he muttered, brushing his thumb across your lower lip, smearing the faint shine of spit from the kiss. “That’s where you belong.”

Heat coiled in your stomach, your hands instinctively lifting to his belt. But before your fingers could reach, his hand shot out, gripping your chin hard enough to hold you still. “Not until I tell you,” he warned, his eyes narrowing. His smirk tugged sharp at the edge of his mouth. “Patience.”

You swallowed, pulse hammering. “Yes, sir.”

That earned you a low chuckle — dark, dangerous, vibrating in his chest. “Open.” Your lips parted instantly, and he slid his thumb inside, pressing down on your tongue, holding it there as he stared down at you. The weight of his presence made your body tremble, every nerve screaming with the need to please him. “Look at you,” he drawled, his voice dripping with command. “So desperate. Already dripping just from kneeling.”

You whimpered around his thumb, and he finally pulled it free, dragging the wet pad across your cheek before his hand fell to his belt. The buckle clinked sharply in the quiet, the sound like a gun cocking before battle. When he freed himself, his cock sprang heavy into his hand, flushed and thick, already aching. He stroked once, slowly, eyes fixed on yours.

“Hands behind your back,” he ordered.

You obeyed instantly, lacing your fingers together, spine straight. His smirk deepened. “Atta girl.”

He guided the head of his cock to your lips, smearing precum across them like paint. “Taste.”

Your tongue darted out, licking him tentatively, and his groan cracked through the silence, sharp and guttural. “Wider.”

You opened fully this time, and he slid into your mouth, the heat of him filling you, the weight pressing heavy on your tongue. His hand tangled into your hair, not yanking — not yet — just holding you steady as he pushed deeper.

“Fuck,” he hissed, jaw tight. “That’s it. Take it.”

You hummed around him, the vibration making his hips jerk. His grip tightened, finally dragging you closer until your nose brushed the camo at his waist. Tears pricked your eyes, saliva spilling down your chin, but the sound of his low, ragged groan made it worth every second. He pulled back suddenly, making you gasp for breath, spit stringing between your lips and the swollen head of his cock. His thumb swept across your mouth again, smearing the mess across your cheek.

“You want more?” His voice was cold, sharp, the smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “Yes,” you breathed, your voice breaking. He chuckled darkly, pushing your head back toward him. “Then earn it. Show me how good you can choke on your commander’s cock.”

Your lips closed around him again, your throat opening as he thrust shallowly, groaning as he watched tears stream down your cheeks, his cock glistening with your spit. “Look at me,” he snapped. Your eyes flew open, locking on his. The heat in his gaze was devastating, raw hunger fused with total control.

And you realized — you weren’t just giving him head.

You were submitting.

And he wasn’t letting you up until he was finished.

Jiyong’s grip tightened in your hair, twisting just enough to hold you still. His cock pressed heavy and hot on your tongue, the taste of him thick at the back of your throat. “Good girl,” he muttered, his voice low, rasping. “Keep it open. Don’t you dare close your throat on me.”

And then he thrust. Slow at first, letting the weight of his cock sink past your tongue, stretching your mouth until your lips strained around him. You gagged softly, tears brimming in your eyes, but he didn’t ease up. “Breathe through it,” he snapped, hips rolling forward, pushing deeper. “You wanted this. You begged for this.”

You whimpered, saliva spilling from the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin. His free hand caught your jaw, thumb digging into the hinge to hold you steady as he drove himself deeper. “Fuck—” he hissed through clenched teeth, his head tipping back briefly before his gaze snapped down to you again. “Look at you. Tears running, throat stretching around me. My perfect little soldier.”

Your chest heaved, lungs burning, but your eyes stayed locked on his, wide and glassy. The command in his stare kept you there, held you captive. He groaned, the sound guttural, his hips snapping harder now. Your gagging noises echoed in the room, wet and obscene, mingling with his ragged breath.

“Take it,” he growled, thrusting harder, deeper, until your nose pressed against the camo at his waist. Your throat convulsed around him, squeezing tight, and he nearly lost it right there. “Shit—fuck—”

He pulled back suddenly, his cock dragging out of your throat with a slick pop. You gasped for air, saliva stringing from your lips, your chest heaving. But he didn’t give you long.

“Tongue out.”

Your lips parted instantly, tongue lolling, spit glistening down your chin. “Good,” he rasped, stroking his cock once, slow, smearing precum across your tongue. “Messy little thing. You love being used like this.”

You nodded, desperate, and he shoved himself back into your mouth. This time there was no patience — just raw, brutal rhythm as he fucked your face, his groans breaking through with every snap of his hips. “Fuck, yes—” His voice cracked, his grip yanking your head into every thrust. “That’s it. Take it all. My cock down your throat, my mess dripping off your chin. You’re mine.”

Tears blurred your vision, spit soaking your chest, but you moaned around him, the sound vibrating through his cock.

He choked out a laugh, sharp and wrecked. “You’re fucking insane. Loving this. Look at you—ruined already, and I haven’t even fucked your pussy yet.”

His thrusts grew erratic, deeper, harder, his breath ragged, chest heaving beneath the camo. He held you down one last time, his cock buried to the hilt in your throat, your nose pressed flush to him as you gagged around the fullness.

“Don’t move,” he snarled, his voice breaking on a groan. “Stay right fucking there.” And you obeyed, throat stretched, lungs burning, your body trembling as he pulsed deep inside your mouth, holding himself back by sheer force of will.

Jiyong’s grip was brutal now, fingers tangled in your hair, holding your head flush against him. His cock throbbed deep in your throat, every inch stretching you open, every pulse felt in your chest. Your lungs burned, your eyes streamed, spit dripping from your chin to your collarbone. But you didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. “Fuck—fuck, stay there,” he snarled, voice cracking on a groan. His hips ground forward, deeper still, his thighs tensing against your shoulders. “That’s it. Take it. Don’t you dare pull back.” Your throat spasmed around him, the convulsions milking him, and his entire body shuddered.

“Shit—” His head tipped back, jaw clenched, a low, guttural groan tearing from his chest. “Swallow it. Every drop.”

The first hot spurt hit the back of your throat, thick and overwhelming. You gagged but forced yourself still, letting him pour into you. “Good girl,” he rasped, voice breaking as he pulsed again, and again, cock twitching deep inside you. His hand held you tight, keeping you pressed flush, making sure you took everything he gave you. You swallowed convulsively, throat working around him, and he groaned louder, hips jerking at the sensation.

When the last shudder left his body, he pulled back just enough for you to breathe, his cock dragging wetly from your lips. A string of cum and spit clung between your mouth and his swollen head before snapping, dripping down your chin.

You gasped for air, chest heaving, tears streaking your flushed cheeks. He looked down at you — hair tangled in his grip, face ruined with spit and cum — and smirked, dark and satisfied.

“Messy little soldier,” he murmured, brushing his thumb across your swollen lips, smearing the white that leaked down your chin. “You did good.” You whimpered, tongue darting out to catch his thumb, sucking it clean. His groan was immediate, sharp, his jaw tightening as his eyes darkened all over again.

“Fuck,” he muttered, releasing your hair at last, but his hand slid down to your jaw, tilting your face up. He bent low, kissing you hard — swallowing the taste of himself from your lips, his tongue licking into your mouth like he couldn’t get enough.

When he finally pulled back, his breath ragged, he smirked again. “And now,” he rasped, brushing his thumb over your damp cheek, “I’m going to fuck you until you can’t stand.”

He pulled you up from your knees in one sharp tug, your body stumbling against his chest. His mouth crashed onto yours again — deep, hot, messy — tongue sliding past your lips, tasting the lingering salt of himself on your tongue.

Then, without a word, he turned you, pressing you down on the couch. His hands moved fast, tugging your shirt up, dragging it over your head until you laid bare from the waist up. The cool air hit your skin, nipples already peaked, and his smirk cut across his face like a blade. “Pretty,” he murmured, palming your breast roughly, his thumb flicking across the sensitive bud. You gasped, arching into him, but he caught your chin, forcing your gaze back up to his. “But you’re not touching me.”

Before you could answer, he dropped to his knees.

your chest heaving, your thighs trembling from the way he’d bent you against the wall. But Jiyong wasn’t done — not even close. Your body obeyed before your mind caught up, sprawling against the couch cushions, shirt bunched high over your breasts, jeans and underwear shoved down to your knees. The cool fabric pressed against your bare skin, raising goosebumps.

He smirked at the sight, tugging the beret lower before climbing onto the couch with you, his knees sinking into the cushions at either side of your hips. “Hands above your head,” he muttered, dragging his fingers down your ribcage, pausing to flick your nipple, making you gasp. “Don’t move them unless I say.” You stretched your arms over the cushion, heart hammering, your chest rising high as he lowered himself.

And then his mouth was on you again. This time, slower. More deliberate. His tongue traced lazy circles around your clit, barely brushing the swollen bud, just enough to make your body jerk. “Fuck—Jiyong,” you gasped, hips twitching up.

His hand shot out, pressing you flat against the couch. “Stay still,” he growled against your folds, the vibration sending sparks through you. “Or I’ll stop.”

Your back arched, but you obeyed, whimpering, your nails digging crescents into the cushion above your head. He hummed in approval, then flattened his tongue against your clit, licking up and down, slow, dragging it until your thighs trembled. His other hand gripped your thigh tight, spreading you wider, holding you open for him. Saliva mixed with your slick, dripping down his chin as he devoured you, sucking your clit into his mouth with sharp, rhythmic pulls that made your breath break into ragged sobs. “God, you taste so fucking good,” he rasped, pulling back only to dive in again. “Messy little slut—so wet for me already.”

You whimpered, toes curling, your stomach tightening as his tongue circled you relentlessly, never easing up, never giving you more than you could handle. Your thighs closed instinctively around his head, but he only growled into your cunt, the sound vibrating against your clit as he shoved your legs wider apart. “I said stay open,” he snapped, pulling his mouth away just long enough to smack your thigh, the sting making you gasp. “You want me to eat you? You keep still and let me.”

Your entire body shivered. “Yes—yes, sir.” He smirked, dark and satisfied, before lowering his mouth again. This time, he didn’t tease. His tongue flicked fast over your clit, then thrust deep into your cunt, curling against your walls, fucking you with each wet stroke. His nose pressed against your clit, his groans reverberating through you as his tongue worked you ruthlessly. You cried out, hips jerking, but his grip on your thighs was iron, keeping you spread wide for him. Tears pricked at your eyes, your orgasm clawing higher with every relentless flick of his tongue. “You gonna come for me?” he muttered between licks, his voice muffled, dripping with hunger. “Come on, baby. Make a mess on my face. Give it to me.”

Your back arched, your scream muffled in your arm as the release hit you, shattering through your body, your cunt clenching around his tongue as slick spilled down his chin. He groaned like he’d been waiting for it, devouring you harder, licking you through the spasms, drinking in every drop until you were trembling and raw against the cushions. When he finally pulled back, his mouth glistened, his chin dripping with your slick. He wiped it with the back of his hand, smirking down at you, his chest heaving, eyes dark. “Messy,” he muttered, licking his bottom lip. “Just how I like you.”

And as you lay ruined beneath him, gasping, trembling, he shifted — tugging his zipper down, uniform still clinging tight to his body. “Now,” he rasped, pressing the swollen head of his cock against your soaked entrance, “it’s my turn.”

Your body was still trembling from his mouth, chest heaving, thighs sticky with your own release, when his hand gripped your chin hard enough to force your eyes up to him. “You think we’re done?” His voice was low, dangerous, cutting through the heavy silence of the apartment. His beret had slipped slightly, sweat shining at his temple, but it only made him look sharper — harder. “Get on your hands and knees.”

You blinked, dazed, your voice cracking. “Jiyong—”

His grip tightened, his thumb pressing into the hinge of your jaw. “Now.” The command hit like lightning. Your body obeyed instantly, crawling onto the couch cushions and lowering yourself down, palms pressing flat into the fabric, your ass arched high. The cool air swept over your bare skin, your shirt still bunched at your ribs, leaving you half-dressed, trembling under his gaze. You felt him move behind you — the creak of the couch, the heavy breath through his nose, the sharp rasp of his zipper dragging down. Then the blunt head of his cock pressed against your swollen entrance, teasing, smearing your slick around your folds. “Look at you,” he muttered, his hand gripping your hip, fingers digging bruises into your flesh. “Already dripping, begging for me.”

You whimpered, pushing back just slightly, but he pulled away.

“Did I say move?” His palm cracked against your ass, the sting making you cry out, heat blooming across your skin. “Stay still until I give you what I want.” Your body burned, your breath catching as you nodded frantically. “Yes, sir.”

“Good girl.”

And then he slammed into you. The force knocked a choked scream from your throat, your body jolting forward as his cock drove deep in one brutal stroke. He groaned low, his grip on your hip iron-tight as he bottomed out, buried to the hilt inside you. “Fuck,” he rasped, his chest heaving behind you. “Tight. So fucking tight for me.”

He pulled back slow, almost teasing, before snapping his hips forward again, the sound of skin on skin cracking through the room. Your arms buckled, your cheek pressing against the cushion as he fucked into you, hard and unrelenting. Each thrust was sharp, commanding, his hips slamming against your ass with bruising force. His hand slid up your spine, curling into your hair, yanking your head back so your moans spilled louder into the air. “You’re mine,” he growled into your ear, his teeth grazing your jaw. “Say it.”

“Y-yours,” you sobbed, tears brimming as your cunt clenched desperately around him. He snarled, his pace quickening, every thrust angled deep, hitting the spot that made you see stars. “Louder.” “YOURS!” The word ripped from your throat, your body trembling violently as the pleasure built higher, hotter, threatening to consume you. “That’s it,” he muttered, his breath ragged, his hips pistoning into you with brutal rhythm. “My little soldier. My slut. Taking my cock like you were made for it.”

The sound of your slick echoed obscenely with every thrust, wet and messy, dripping down your thighs. The couch creaked beneath you, the fabric bunching under your fingers as you clung to it, your body stretched and broken on him. “Don’t you dare come until I tell you,” he snapped, teeth gritted, his grip on your hip bruising.

You whimpered, your body betraying you, every nerve begging to unravel, but you forced yourself to hold back, trembling violently as he fucked you harder, deeper, rawer. His groans broke through the air, sharp and guttural, the sound of a man on the edge. “Fuck—fuck, I could come just from this—your tight little cunt milking me.”

You screamed, your body shattering as the orgasm ripped through you anyway, clenching so hard around him that his rhythm faltered. Slick gushed down your thighs, soaking his uniform pants, your entire body trembling with the force of it.

His snarl was immediate. “I didn’t give you permission—” but his words broke into a groan, his thrusts erratic now, punishing. “Fuck, you’re squeezing me—shit—”

His cock pulsed deep inside you as he came, grinding into you hard, filling you with heat until it spilled out around him, dripping onto the couch beneath. He stayed there, buried to the hilt, his chest pressed against your back, his mouth at your ear. “You’re in so much trouble,” he whispered, voice wrecked, his breath hot against your skin. But the smirk in his tone told you exactly what that meant.

The room smelled of sex and sweat, the air heavy and damp. Your body sagged against the couch, forehead pressed into the cushion, your chest heaving as tremors rippled through you.

Jiyong stayed pressed against you for a moment longer, his cock still buried inside, his chest pressed hot against your back. His breath rasped in your ear, ragged and uneven, his body trembling with the aftershocks of release.

Then slowly, carefully, he pulled out. You whimpered at the loss, your cunt clenching around nothing, the heat of him spilling down your thighs. “Shhh.” His voice was softer now, hoarse but stripped of command. He placed one last kiss at the back of your neck before straightening. “Don’t move.”

The sharp edge of his tone was gone, replaced with something gentler. You heard the shuffle of fabric, the click of his belt as he zipped himself back up, but he didn’t take the uniform off. Not yet. Instead, he disappeared for a moment. When he came back, the soft press of a warm towel met your thighs.

You flinched at first, but then melted into the touch as he wiped you clean, slow and careful, his rings clinking softly against the towel. “Messy girl,” he murmured, but his tone was fond, almost indulgent. “Always ruining my uniform.”

You managed a weak laugh, your cheek still pressed to the cushion. He worked patiently, wiping away the slick and cum that dripped down your skin, making sure you were clean before tossing the towel aside. Then he bent, sliding an arm under your knees, the other beneath your back, and lifted you effortlessly. You groaned, your head falling against his shoulder. “Jiyong…”

“Shhh,” he soothed, pressing his lips to your hairline. “I’ve got you.” He carried you to the bedroom, the uniform jacket still clinging to him, his boots heavy against the floorboards. The bed dipped as he laid you down, pulling the blanket up over your bare skin. Then, finally, he shrugged out of the uniform, putting on his pyjamas before climbing in beside you. His arm hooked around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest, his nose burying into your hair.

For a long moment, there was only silence — his steady breathing, the faint thrum of the city outside.

“You okay?” he whispered at last, his thumb stroking lazy circles against your hip. You nodded weakly, eyes fluttering shut. “Yeah.” He kissed your temple, lingering there. “Good.”

The commander was gone. It was just Jiyong now — soft, warm, grounding you in his arms as sleep pulled you under.

And before you drifted off, you heard him murmur against your skin, almost too quiet to catch: “You always come back to me.”

//

[lovemepartly]

BAD REVIEWS

short n' sweet writing challenge! | ♬⋆.˚ bad reviews

pairing: idol!choi seung-hyun x famous!reader (idol, model, actress, etc.) wc: 1.3k warnings: 18+. unprotected sex (don't!), mild cursing. kind of player!seung-hyun. a/n: i'm so excited to be part of this writing event! make sure to check out all the other writers' works, everyone is so talented!! (p.s. i tried a slightly different writing style (i think?) so lmk what you guys think!)

⋆˚꩜.ᐟ

he looked just as bored as he felt. sitting at the bar, drink in hand, eyes flitting around the room like he was waiting for something to happen.

you approached him carefully, eyes landing on him just once as a small smile curled on your lips, taking a seat next to him as you waited for your drink.

he spoke first. introductions weren't really necessary; you knew who he was, and he knew who you were. he said your name like it tasted good. you asked him seemingly meaningless questions, chin resting in your hand like he was talking about the most interesting thing in the world.

but truly, there was more to him than the media let on. he wasn't just a famous idol with lots of money and adoring women chasing after him. there was something quieter. poetic, almost.

by the time you were tipsy enough to feel light-headed and laugh at his every joke, his voice dipped a bit lower. "wanna get out of here?"

you nodded, took his hand, and stood from the bar. no one at the venue noticed when he led you out to his car, arm draped around you. but you knew the media would notice.

seung-hyun was a player— at least that's what you'd read online about him. you weren't sure if that was true. but honestly, between his busy touring schedule and long hours at the studio, you knew someone like him didn't exactly have the time for anything long-term.

he kissed you in the backseat of the car on the drive to his house. his lips were soft and tasted like an expensive drink you'd never order yourself. the kiss was slow, yet also messy. his hands tentatively hovered over the fabric of the dress you were wearing, so when his fingertips brushed your arm, it felt like heat.

seung-hyun's house was, of course, a penthouse overlooking seoul. it was minimalistic but touched with his presence in that same quiet way. expensive art hung on walls, classy records stored on bookshelves.

now, you were curled up on his couch, glass of red wine in hand, barely touching, yet the tension between the two of you felt papable. seung-hyun's hand was resting comfortably on your thigh, like it belonged there.

"so," you began, taking a sip of the wine, letting the bittersweet warmth settle in your chest, "do you bring a lot of girls here?"

seung-hyun smirked, running a hand through his hair, and taking a sip from his own glass himself before answering. "no," he murmured, but the same teasing smile played on his lips.

you don't know who moved first but within moments he was kissing you again, more sure this time than it had been in the backseat of the car. his mouth moved against yours slow and steady, hand gently tilting your chin up. you were still tipsy and light-headed— maybe it was the wine, or maybe it was just him.

seung-hyun shifted a little, his other hand coming to your waist, blindly leading you from the couch to the bedroom, his lips still pressing messy kisses to the corner of your mouth then trailing down to your jaw.

you were propped up on your forearms on the bed, and for a brief moment, your gaze flickered over to a half-packed suitcase on his bedroom floor. seung-hyun followed your gaze and offered you a sheepish smile, mumbling, "didn't think i'd have company tonight."

he leaned in to kiss you again before you could respond, knees on either side of your hips. you wrapped your arms around the back of his neck, pulling him closer. his mouth trailed down your neck to your collarbone, pressing soft kisses on your bare skin.

both your clothes came off in a fury. not because out of haste, but out of hunger. when he sunk into you, your breath caught, legs instinctively tightening around his hips. your nails dug a bit deeper into his shoulder with every thrust, head leaning back against the mattress, soft moans escaping from your lips. seung-hyun's lips continued to press messy kisses on your bare skin and suck soft marks on your neck and collarbone.

"shit," he mumbled, hand reaching for yours, intertwining your fingers together, "i'm close."

"me too." you whispered, pulling him a bit closer and squeezing his hand. you could feel your orgasm building, the tension in your stomach coiling and squeezing him tighter. it only took a differently angled thrust for your release to crash over you, his name spilling from your lips with a loud moan. seung-hyun followed soon after, the feeling of your walls pulsing around him overwhelming as he came, head buried in your shoulder.

you stayed there like that for a while, him still inside of you, both of you breathing heavily and trying to catch your breath. you brushed a piece of hair out of his eyes and he kissed your shoulder as if it was nothing.

when he finally pulled out of you, he took a moment to admire the way you looked under him, still wrecked, before going to the bathroom to retrieve a damp cloth to clean you up with. he was silent as he cleaned up the mess between your thighs, but looked up once, murmuring, "you okay?"

you nodded. seung-hyun gave you his hoodie when he was done, wrapping you up in the warm fabric that smelled like him.

"stay the night." he murmured softly once he was settled in bed in his sweatpants, one arm wrapped lazily around you.

"okay." you agreed, gaze soft as you met his gaze. for a moment it felt like something different flickered in his gaze, but it was gone in an instant. seung-hyun merely kissed the back of your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world, and pulled you a little closer into his chest, your eyes fluttering shut softly.

the next morning was soft, golden light trickling in through the curtains and illuminating the bedroom. seung-hyun wasn't in bed when you woke up, so you padded out of bed to find him, still in only his hoodie. you found him in the kitchen, rummaging in the fridge for something, shirtless, and humming something softly under his breath.

"hi." you murmured, voice still hoarse from sleep, as you stood in the doorway.

"morning," seung-hyun smiled, gaze landing on you. "coffee's over there if you want some."

"thanks." you said, walking over to the other side of the kitchen and pouring yourself a cup. you leaned against the counter, taking a sip. you could feel seung-hyun's gaze on you. it was silent for a moment in the kitchen. it wasn't awkward silence, but there was something unspoken in the air.

"i'm flying out this afternoon." seung-hyun said suddenly, voice soft, his gaze shifting over to the floor.

you nodded. his tour was starting soon, you knew that. but you didn't know if you were allowed to say that you'd miss him. or to ask when he'd be back.

seung-hyun sighed softly, running a hand through his hair. part of him wanted to say 'i'm sorry,' but he bit his lip, instead asking, "can i offer you a ride home?"

"that's okay," you responded, offering him a weak smile, "i'll call one."

once you finished your coffee, you set it down gently on the counter, then walked back over to the bedroom to get dressed again. you slipped on the same dress you'd been wearing last night, but kept seung-hyun's hoodie on. your gaze landed on the half-packed suitcase still sitting on the floor.

as you made your way over to the door, seung-hyun didn't ask for his hoodie back. but he also didn't ask for you to stay. "i'll see you around." he mumbled.

"yeah." you agreed softly, taking a shaky breath. for a moment, the two of you just stared at each other. you wanted to say more, but you knew shouldn't. "bye." you said, smiling at him softly.

"bye." he echoed, closing the door behind you. the silence you'd left behind in his apartment felt like something that wouldn't leave him for a long time.

[euphicess]

Training Room Clash

Pairing: Vick (Iris) x Fem!Reader

Summary: A sparring match with Vick turns violent, then feral — blood, torn clothes, and raw sex on the mat. In the aftermath, silence lingers, not soft but dangerous, a possession neither of you can deny.

Warnings: mdni 18+, voilence, blood, knife play, choking, rough sex, semi-public setting, possessive behavior, lack of tenderness, power struggles, mutual obsession, enemies-to-lovers tension, explicit sexual content.

Note: Had this sudden idea, i hope you enjoyed it.

//

The IRIS training facility was as sterile as the rest of headquarters — concrete walls, mats worn thin from years of bodies hitting them, the air carrying the faint sting of disinfectant and sweat. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, cold and unforgiving.

The fluorescent lights hummed above, throwing a cold, sterile glow across the training hall. The mats smelled faintly of rubber and disinfectant, the air humming with silence so sharp you could hear your own breath. You stood in the center of the mat, barefoot, dressed in black training gear that clung like a second skin. Even stripped of heels and silk, you carried yourself with the same infuriating elegance — chin lifted, eyes glittering with a smirk that refused to fade.

Across from you, Vick adjusted the straps of his gloves with mechanical precision. He hadn’t said a word since you walked in. Jacket hung neatly on the bench, sleeves rolled just high enough to expose the tension in his forearms, he looked carved from stone: all focus, no distraction.

And yet you could feel it. His eyes skimmed you when he thought you weren’t looking. Too quick for most — but you caught it. Always. You tilted your head, smirk curling wider. “What’s wrong, Vick? Six feet between us and you still can’t look me in the eye?”

His head lifted at that, slow, deliberate, dark eyes locking onto yours. Cold. Cutting. “You mistake arrogance for skill.”

“Mm.” You flexed your fingers, stepping into stance with the ease of a dancer. “And you mistake silence for superiority.” The faintest flicker in his jaw. A muscle tensed. That was enough for you to pounce on. You began to circle, bare feet whispering against the mat, movements deliberate and liquid. Your body stayed loose, controlled, graceful, every step a performance. He mirrored you with the same ruthless calm, no wasted breath, his presence heavier with each shift. “Tell me,” you said lightly, voice taunting, “do you ever get bored of brooding, or does it thrill you to pretend you’re carved from marble?”

“Focus,” he snapped, low and sharp. You grinned, lunging just enough to draw him out. His block came fast, wrist snapping up, hand catching your forearm in a grip like steel. He held it too long, the press of his palm firm against your skin. His eyes cut into yours — calculating, cold. “You’re watching,” you whispered, your smirk curling. “Calculating,” he corrected, releasing you with a shove. “Mm.” You stepped back, smoothing a stray strand of hair from your cheek. “Same thing. You keep calculating, I keep teasing. Balance.”

The next round came quicker. He lunged; you twisted. His elbow caught your lip on the brush, splitting it faintly. You stumbled, but you licked the blood away slowly, deliberately, never breaking eye contact. “You like me better this way, don’t you?” you murmured, voice thick with arrogance. “Not silent. Not cold. Angry.”

Something flickered in his gaze. Heat. Buried deep, dangerous.

You stepped closer, brushing against him on purpose — shoulder grazing his chest, your breath ghosting over his jaw as you feinted. His body went rigid, the air tight between you.

“What is it, Vick?” you teased, low. “Afraid I’ll break through?”

This time, he snapped. His hand shot out, faster than a strike of lightning, catching your arm and twisting hard. The world flipped; the mat hit your back in a sharp crack. He loomed over you, one knee pressing into the mat beside your hip, his hand pinning your wrist to the ground. His breath came harsh, controlled, his face a mask of ice. “Enough,” he hissed.

You smirked up at him, blood bright on your lip. “Make me.”

The words hung heavy, the fuse sparking hot between you. His silence burned, his grip unrelenting, his body pressing into yours just enough to make your chest rise faster, heat sparking through the thin layer of sweat and tension. And though he stayed still, you felt it: his eyes dragging over your face, your lips, your throat. Want buried under restraint, violent and raw.

You laughed softly, defiant, teeth stained red. “There you are.”

The game wasn’t over. It was just beginning.

The silence after your taunt was razor-sharp, a live wire humming between you. Vick’s grip pinned your wrist, his weight pressing you into the mat. His face hovered above yours, unreadable — stone and steel, jaw clenched tight, dark eyes burning like embers banked too long.

You tilted your chin up, defiance curling your lips. “What’s wrong? Finally realizing I’m not as easy to bury as the others?”

His silence cut sharper than any reply.

And then he moved.

He yanked you up with brutal precision, flipping you forward. Your body hit the mat again, shoulder first, the air cracking from your lungs. You rolled with it, twisting, refusing to give him the satisfaction of staying down. Your elbow caught his ribs, sharp and deliberate, enough to make him grunt — quiet, controlled, but a sound nonetheless.

You smiled through the sting in your lip. “Didn’t like that, did you?” His response was a blur — his hand locking your wrist, the glint of steel flashing as he pulled a knife from his belt in one swift motion. Cold metal kissed your throat, the edge barely grazing your skin.

But you didn’t flinch. You laughed — low, breathless, maddening. “There it is. The real you.” Your hand shot up, gripping his wrist. Instead of pushing it away, you shoved the blade closer, the flat pressing harder into your skin. A taunt. A dare. “Go on,” you whispered, smirk curling. “Prove me right.”

His nostrils flared, his jaw tight. For a heartbeat, his hand trembled — not with weakness, but with restraint cracking at the edges. Then you twisted, hard, knocking the knife from his grip. It clattered onto the mat, spinning once before skidding out of reach.

In the same breath, you shoved him back with all your strength, straddling him in one swift, graceless move. Your thighs locked against his hips, your hands pressing into his chest, blood smearing from your split lip onto his shirt. “Looks like I win,” you taunted, breath ragged, your hair falling loose around your face.

His hands shot up, gripping your hips, fingers digging bruises into your skin. The look in his eyes was volcanic now — fury and hunger entwined, the calm mask fractured. “You think this is a game,” he growled, voice low, raw. Your smirk widened, even as your chest heaved with adrenaline. “No. I think this is foreplay.”

For the first time, his composure cracked completely. His grip on your hips tightened, dragging you harder against him, the friction sharp, unignorable. His breath came rough, hot against your face, his silence finally heavy with something more dangerous than control.

The knife lay forgotten on the mat. The fight had shifted. It wasn’t about winning anymore. It was about breaking.

The mat burned under your knees, your body straddling his, chest heaving, sweat and blood mixing in the sterile air. His hands gripped your hips with bruising force, pulling you hard against him, control fraying in the dark edges of his gaze.

You leaned in, lips curling, your voice low, taunting: “What’s the matter, Vick? Losing your edge?” His silence was thick, his breath harsh against your skin. You could feel his restraint trembling — like a bowstring drawn too tight, threatening to snap. You pushed harder. You dragged your nails down his chest, catching the fabric of his shirt, sharp enough to leave faint lines through the cotton. His jaw flexed, his nostrils flaring, eyes burning into yours.

“Still pretending,” you whispered, smirking, blood staining your teeth. “Still hiding.”

That broke him.

In a blur of motion, he surged upward, his hand snapping from your hip to your throat. The mat thudded beneath as he twisted, rolling you beneath him in one violent move. His body caged yours, his hand pinning your jaw, forcing your head back.

“Enough,” he hissed, his voice rough, low, nothing like his usual silence. You laughed, breathless, your lips split and shining with blood. “Make me.” His eyes locked on your mouth — and then the fuse finally ignited.

His mouth crashed onto yours, brutal and consuming. Teeth clashed, lips split wider, the taste of copper and heat filling the space between you. His tongue forced past your lips, rough, hungry, claiming, every stroke a declaration that this was no longer a game. You gasped against him, your hand fisting his shirt, dragging him closer, your legs curling tight around his waist. The kiss was violent, messy, drenched in adrenaline — a fight turned into something feral.

His grip on your jaw tightened, tilting your face higher as his tongue swept deeper, ruthless, unyielding. When he pulled back just enough to breathe, his lips dragged over the blood at the corner of your mouth. And then, deliberately, he licked it. Slow. Sharp. His tongue tracing the split, tasting you, copper-salt heat smearing against his mouth.

Your breath caught, your smirk trembling even under the violence. “You like it,” you whispered against his lips, voice ragged, broken with desire. “The blood. The fight. Me.”

His forehead pressed to yours, his eyes black, burning, unreadable. His silence said more than words ever could.

And then his mouth was on yours again, deeper, hotter, tongue and teeth, devouring you like he’d waited too long to stop pretending. The training room was gone. The mission, the world, everything outside those four walls vanished.

There was only the fight. And the kiss that turned it into fire

The kiss was savage, all teeth and heat, his mouth devouring yours like it was war. The copper taste of blood mixed with sweat, the sharp sting of your split lip making it almost unbearable — almost. But not enough to stop you. You clung to him, your nails digging crescent moons into his chest through the thin fabric of his shirt, dragging him closer until there was no space left between you. Your legs tightened around his waist, locking him against you, grinding up just enough to make his breath hitch against your mouth.

His tongue slid against yours, rough, unrelenting, every stroke a reminder that this wasn’t tenderness — it was control. Possession.

The kiss deepened until it was no longer a kiss at all — it was a brawl with tongues and teeth, every clash an attempt at dominance. His hand stayed firm at your throat, thumb pressing into the thrum of your pulse as though testing how fast it raced for him. You arched into it, smirking against his mouth even as your lungs fought for air.

Your nails tore down his chest, fabric scratching under your grip until the threads strained. His growl vibrated through the kiss, a warning — but you only dragged harder, tugging his shirt until buttons popped and fabric gaped, exposing hot skin beneath.

His response was instant. His free hand shot to your shirt, gripping the hem and tearing upward. The sound of fabric splitting filled the sterile room, obscene against the hum of fluorescent lights. Cool air kissed your bare skin, quickly followed by his palms, rough and possessive, sliding over your ribs as if claiming every inch.

The room was still heavy with tension— the smell of sweat, iron, and blood clinging to the air. The fluorescent hum above felt too bright, too sharp, the sterile walls an ugly contrast to the wreckage on the mat: your clothes shredded, your skin flushed and trembling, your lip still bleeding faintly from where his teeth had split it open.

Vick hadn’t moved far. He crouched over you, breath still rough, chest rising and falling with the force of what he’d just unleashed. His hand rested on your stomach, splayed wide, fingers sticky with sweat and blood that wasn’t all yours.

You smirked up at him, weak but defiant, your voice hoarse. “Well? Satisfied?” His eyes flicked to yours, dark and silent, but there was no satisfaction there. No release. If anything, he looked hungrier now, like he’d only sharpened the edge of something deeper. Slowly, without a word, he caught the hem of your ruined shirt and dragged it higher.

The fabric peeled up over your stomach, your ribs, then bunched uselessly around your collarbones. You weren’t wearing a bra. The chill of the training room air raised goosebumps over your bare breasts, your nipples tightening instantly under his stare.

His gaze lingered, unreadable, devouring.

Then he lowered his head.

His mouth met your stomach first — a slow, deliberate drag of his tongue across the taut skin just above your scar. Hot, wet, obscene. You gasped, your back arching, your hand flying to his hair. He didn’t flinch. He licked again, slower this time, tracing the edge of your ribcage, tasting salt and sweat. You smirked, breath shaking. “You’re thorough. Making sure you didn’t miss a spot?”

He didn’t answer. His mouth climbed higher, tongue flicking across the underside of your breast, his teeth grazing sharp against the soft swell. You hissed, your nails digging into his scalp, tugging him closer.

He obliged, not gently. His lips wrapped around your nipple, sucking hard enough to bruise, his tongue circling slow and deliberate. Your moan echoed off the cold concrete walls, obscene against the sterile silence of the training hall.

When he pulled back, his mouth glistened, a smear of your blood still at the corner of his lip. He dragged his tongue across it lazily, his eyes fixed on yours with that same unreadable fire.

“Vick…” you whispered, voice breaking between smirk and plea. He didn’t reply. He ducked again, his tongue hot as it traced back down your stomach, lower and lower, his hands spreading wide across your hips to pin you in place.

The fight wasn’t over. It was only changing shape.

The mat was slick under your back, your ruined blouse shoved high above your breasts, every inch of skin exposed to the sterile chill of the training hall. Vick’s mouth had already left your lip raw, your throat bruised, your nipples wet and swollen from his tongue.

But he wasn’t done.

His hands spread wide across your hips, fingers digging into the hollows hard enough to bruise. His gaze flicked up once, dark and unreadable, before he bent lower.

His mouth dragged slow down your stomach, tongue tracing the line of muscle, licking the sweat, tasting you. He paused over your scars, tongue flicking dangerously close. You smirked breathlessly, your nails curling into his hair.

His only answer was to bite down on the soft skin of your hip, sharp enough to make you gasp, before his tongue soothed the mark. And then he was between your thighs. He shoved your legs open with brutal precision, forcing your knees wide, pressing them flat against the mat. His palms slid down, pinning you in place as his mouth descended. The first swipe of his tongue was rough, deliberate, dragging up the entire length of your cunt. You cried out, back arching, your smirk shattering under the shock of it.

“Fuck—”

He didn’t pause. His tongue licked again, slower this time, savoring, the wet sound obscene in the empty room. He circled your clit deliberately, not gentle, not teasing — just steady, relentless pressure until your hips bucked against his grip. He growled low against you, the vibration shooting through your core. His hands pinned your thighs harder, forcing you still, his tongue flicking faster now, ruthless in its precision.

You writhed, gasping, nails dragging down his scalp. “Vick— fuck, don’t stop—” His tongue plunged deeper, fucking into you with obscene wetness, his nose grinding against your clit. Your moans echoed harsh and raw, bouncing off the cold walls, your body jerking with every drag of his mouth.

He ate you like it was combat. No rhythm wasted, no movement soft. Just relentless, consuming. Your climax built fast, your thighs trembling under his unyielding grip, your voice breaking into desperate cries. When you finally shattered, it tore through you like fire, your back arching high off the mat, your scream sharp and ragged. He didn’t stop. He licked you through it, devouring every twitch, every gasp, dragging it out until your body collapsed limp against the floor.

Only then did he pull back, his mouth glistening, blood still faint on his lip. He dragged his tongue across it lazily, then smirked faintly — the barest curl of his mouth — as if satisfied by the ruin he’d left you in. You panted, trembling, your smirk barely holding. “See?” you rasped, voice hoarse. “Knew you weren’t made of stone.”

His eyes, dark and sharp, flicked up to yours. He didn’t reply.

But the way he licked his mouth clean, slow and deliberate, said everything.

Your body still shook from the orgasm he’d forced out of you, sweat slick across your chest, your thighs trembling against the mat. But the hunger in his eyes hadn’t dulled. If anything, it had sharpened — silent, lethal, still wanting more.

You pushed yourself up, smirk curving despite the wreckage of your body. “My turn.” Before he could snap back, you straddled him again — thighs wide, knees digging into the mat on either side of his hips. His shirt still hung open, chest glistening with sweat, muscles tight under your hands as you pressed him down. His hands shot to your waist instantly, grip bruising, but you caught them and shoved them back against the mat. “No,” you rasped, smirk curling as you leaned over him. “You stay still. Let me see what it takes to break you.”

For once, he didn’t fight it. His chest rose hard against yours, his jaw clenched, his eyes black fire locked onto you as if daring you to try. You slid down onto him in one sharp, deliberate motion, your walls stretching around him, dragging a gasp from your throat. His nostrils flared, his jaw flexing, but he stayed silent. “Fuck,” you hissed, rolling your hips slow, deliberate, savoring the drag. “You feel—” your voice broke, catching on a moan as you ground down, “—so fucking good.”

His hands twitched against your thighs, fingers digging in, but he let you set the pace. You rode him slow at first, rolling your hips in tight circles, your breasts bouncing free, his gaze burning up at you. You leaned closer, hair falling loose around your face, your forehead pressing against his. The eye contact was molten, unbearable — his dark stare locked into yours, every breath shared, every gasp tangled together.

When you moaned again, ragged and open, his hand snapped up to your throat, fingers tightening just enough to make your pulse pound under his grip. His lips brushed yours, not soft, but urgent — kisses broken by your heavy breaths, tongues clashing, biting, consuming. You moaned into his mouth, riding harder now, your hips slamming down, your clit grinding against him with every thrust. His silence cracked, a low groan spilling against your tongue as he kissed you, his grip bruising your waist as if to anchor himself.

“Look at me,” he growled low against your lips, his forehead still pressed to yours. You gasped, obeying without hesitation, your eyes locked on his, the connection so raw it felt like falling. You bounced harder, chasing that high, your moans spilling between ragged kisses. “Vick—” you cried, your body clenching tight around him, the orgasm slamming into you with violent force. You arched, forehead still pressed to his, your scream swallowed by his mouth as he kissed you through it.

He broke with you — his groan guttural, deep, his hips slamming up into yours, spilling hot inside you as his grip on your throat tightened, then loosened, his lips crushing yours again and again. You collapsed against him, chest heaving, your forehead still pressed to his, your mouths brushing in ragged, half-formed kisses that weren’t tender, but desperate, consuming. His silence returned slowly — but his eyes stayed locked on yours, intense, unflinching.

And for the first time, you realized his silence didn’t mean absence. It meant possession.

The training room was silent again — save for the ragged echoes of your breathing, the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead, and the dull throb of bodies still pressed together. The mat beneath you was slick with sweat, fabric, and blood — a battlefield turned into a bed. You straddled him still, chest pressed to his, your forehead resting against his, both of you too spent to move. His silence filled the room, but this time it wasn’t distant. It wasn’t the wall he usually built. It was heavy, present, alive.

Your lip stung, blood drying sticky at the corner of your mouth. His was smeared with it, shining faintly when the light caught, but he didn’t wipe it away. He just breathed, his chest rising and falling against yours, steady now, controlled again — though his eyes betrayed something darker.

You shifted faintly, smirk tugging even through your exhaustion. “Not so stone, after all.”

His jaw flexed. He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. One of your hands drifted up, threading through his damp hair, pulling it back from his forehead. The strands clung to your fingers, dark and heavy with sweat. You let your nails scrape faintly over his scalp, not gentle but claiming, mirroring the bruises his fingers had left on your hips. For a second, he closed his eyes. Just a flicker. Barely there. But enough.

When he opened them, his gaze locked onto yours again — sharp, unblinking, as if daring you to say out loud what had just happened. You smirked, dragging your thumb down his temple, your voice low. “See? You break too.” His hand slid up, gripping the back of your neck, not rough this time but firm, holding you there. His silence pressed against you heavier than words, his forehead still against yours, his breath steady.

No tenderness. No admission.

Just the weight of possession, in the way he let you touch his hair, in the way he held your neck, in the way neither of you moved to get up from the wreckage of the mat. The mission, the danger, the world outside these walls could wait. For now, there was only this — two predators, bloodied and breathless, tangled in something that wasn’t softness, wasn’t love.

But it was undeniable.

And it was dangerous.

[euphicess]

Under the Brim

Pairing: Choi Seunghyun x Reader

Summary: Backstage chaos after BigBang’s concert spirals when Seunghyun’s cowboy hat ends up on your head, sparking endless teasing from the members. But when the noise fades, he steals a quiet kiss beneath the brim — turning their joke into your shared secret.

Warnings: None, just fluff!

Request: „Heyy can you write something about the reader hanging out with the boys before/after a concert (maybe one with T.O.P's cowboy hat) and then being all cute?“🤭

//

The dressing room still pulsed with the leftover electricity of the stage. The bass from the arena bled faintly through the concrete walls, mingling with the smell of sweat, cologne, and takeout cartons already being pried open on the long table. The air was loud—laughter bouncing off mirrors, chairs scraping, staff weaving in and out with half-empty bottles of water and congratulations.

You paused in the doorway for a moment, unseen, just taking them in: Daesung twirling in circles with his shirt half-untucked, Youngbae hunched over unlacing his boots while grinning at something Jiyong was scribbling furiously on a notepad. And at the far end, like a mountain unmoved by the storm, Seunghyun sat back on the couch, long legs sprawled, cowboy hat tipped low as if it had grown out of him.

“Yah—look who it is!” Daesung spotted you first, loud as ever. He bounded across the room in three strides, pulling you into a sweat-damp hug before you could protest. “Our good luck charm finally arrived! You missed my high note, though, unbelievable!”

“Missed it?” Youngbae chimed in, standing up to greet you with a warm grin and a gentler hug. “She could probably hear you from the street. Half of Seoul heard you.” Daesung clutched his chest, feigning injury. “Rude! y/n, you agree with me, right? I sounded angelic?”

You laughed, tugging your arm free. “You sounded like you were fighting a dragon.” That set Youngbae off—he doubled over, his neat braids falling into his face as he howled, slapping his knee. “Dragon?” Jiyong’s head snapped up from his notepad, eyeliner smudged from sweat, grin spreading sharp and mischievous. “Excuse me, that title is taken.” He bounded up, arms wide, pulling you into a theatrical spin before kissing the air beside your cheek. “How do I look? Tell me I looked the best. No hesitation.”

You snorted, adjusting his sweat-slick cap. “You looked like you wrestled a glitter factory and lost.” The room erupted—Daesung howling, Youngbae nearly toppling over again, Jiyong clutching his chest in mock despair. “Betrayal!” Jiyong cried, spinning away like a wounded poet. “I sweat for hours on that stage and this is what I get?”

In the middle of it all, Seunghyun still hadn’t moved. He was watching, eyes hooded beneath the brim of his cowboy hat, lips tugging with the faintest curve at the corner. The quiet in his gaze made your stomach flip harder than all the chaos.

Daesung noticed first, of course. He jabbed a finger across the room. “Hyung! Don’t just sit there like a statue. At least say hi to her!”

Seunghyun’s gaze slid lazily up from beneath the brim, locking with yours. His voice, when it came, was deep enough to cut through the noise. “You came.” Just two words, and somehow the whole room’s noise faltered for a beat. And then Daesung, bless him, clapped his hands together like he’d solved the riddle of life. “Hyung! Give her the hat!”

Jiyong’s eyes lit up. “Ohhh, yes.” He lunged before Seunghyun could move, snatching the cowboy hat right off his head with a wicked laugh. “This belongs to me now!” He slapped it on his own head at a jaunty angle, strutting like a runway model, hips swinging. Youngbae was useless—he collapsed into the nearest chair, tears in his eyes from laughing. “You look—you look like—” He couldn’t even finish.

Daesung was clapping like a seal, chanting, “Give it to y/n! Give it to y/n!!“ And through it all, Seunghyun didn’t so much as blink. He rose slowly, his height swallowing the room, stepped across the chaos, and in one smooth motion plucked the hat back off Jiyong’s head. The room stilled for half a beat as he turned toward you.

Without a word, he set it onto your head, large hand lingering just long enough to tip the brim into place. His gaze lingered, dark and steady, the faintest smirk tugging his lips. The noise detonated. Daesung whooped like he’d just won a jackpot. “I knew it! Cowboy couple!”

Jiyong clutched his heart dramatically. “She wears it better than you, hyung. It’s destiny.” Youngbae just shook his head, still grinning, muttering between chuckles: “Perfect fit. Absolutely perfect.” Seunghyun only leaned back again, calm in the storm, eyes still fixed on you beneath the brim of his hat—now yours.

The room hadn’t calmed for a second after the hat found its place on your head. If anything, the teasing doubled.

Daesung circled you like a hype man, clapping and pointing as though he’d just unveiled the eighth wonder of the world. “Ahhh! Cowgirl y/n! Everyone make way, make way!”

Jiyong was fanning himself with an empty water bottle, pretending to swoon. “It’s official. The cowboy hat has chosen its true master. Or… mistress. Sorry, Seunghyun, you’ve been replaced.”

Youngbae couldn’t breathe. He was folded in half on the chair, hands covering his face, shoulders shaking with laughter. “Stop, stop—” he gasped between fits. “I can’t—this is too much—”

“Stand next to him, stand next to him!” Daesung urged, physically dragging you by the arm until you were planted at Seunghyun’s side. “Look, everyone—our cowboy couple!”

Seunghyun didn’t resist. He rose to his full height, a looming figure at your side, expression unreadable but for the faint twitch of his mouth. His hand came up, adjusting the brim of the hat on your head like it belonged there, fingertips brushing your hair for the briefest moment. The touch was small, fleeting — but it made your heart race harder than Daesung’s cheering.

“Yahhh, hyung, you’re not even denying it!” Jiyong cried, eyes wide, delighted. “Look at that! He’s smiling!” Youngbae, still wiping tears from his eyes, nodded. “It’s true. That’s a smile. It counts.”

“Take a picture!” Daesung yelled suddenly, spinning toward the nearest staff member. “No, no — wait, I’ll do it!” He fumbled with his phone, nearly dropping it twice in his excitement. “Pose, pose! Act like a couple!” Jiyong didn’t even wait — he grabbed your shoulders, spinning you to face Seunghyun like you were shooting an album cover. He ducked into the frame himself, making a heart with his hands.

Seunghyun, ever the unbothered one, simply tipped the hat lower over your brow with one long finger, then slid his arm around your shoulders, pulling you neatly against his side. Calm. Smooth. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The room exploded again. “Oh my god!” Jiyong shrieked. “He touched her! We’re never letting him live this down.“ Daesung was shouting incoherently, words lost in his laughter.

Youngbae was doubled over once more, tears rolling down his cheeks. Through all of it, Seunghyun didn’t so much as blink. He held you there, steady at his side, his hand warm at your shoulder. When you glanced up, he leaned just enough to murmur for you alone, voice a low rumble against the chaos:

“You wear it better than I ever did.” The teasing swelled around you like fireworks, but in that quiet little pocket carved between his words and his smirk, it was just the two of you.

Daesung was unstoppable. The second Seunghyun’s arm settled around your shoulders, he started hopping in circles like he was MC-ing an event. “Look, look, look! Everyone! True love is real!” He threw both hands in the air, voice booming. “Today isn’t just BigBang’s concert—it’s the wedding of Cowboy Hyung and Cowgirl y/n!”

Jiyong collapsed onto the makeup table, howling. “Yes! Yes! Let’s do it right now!” He snatched up a paper cup and pretended to officiate. “Do you, Choi Seunghyun, take this lovely—” Youngbae couldn’t breathe. He was bent double against the wall, wheezing, “Stop, stop, I can’t—my stomach—” but every time he looked up and saw you standing there in Seunghyun’s hat, tucked neatly under his arm, he dissolved all over again.

Jiyong marched right up to you, waving the cup like a microphone. “y/n, do you accept this tall, mysterious, cowboy-hat-wearing man as your lawfully wedded hyung?”

The room roared. Daesung was chanting, “Say yes! Say yes!” at the top of his lungs. You looked up at Seunghyun, and for a moment, you swore you saw the faintest flicker of amusement in his dark eyes. He leaned down slightly, voice low enough to brush only your ear: “Careful. If you say yes, I might take it seriously.”

Heat bloomed in your cheeks before you could stop it.

The chaos lasted a few more minutes—Daesung trying to throw a veil together out of tissue, Jiyong proclaiming himself best man, Youngbae unable to stop laughing—but eventually the noise shifted, staff calling them out for post-show meetings. One by one, the members spilled out of the room, still cracking jokes as they went.

And suddenly, the storm was gone.

It was quiet again, just you and Seunghyun in the dressing room. The cowboy hat still sat low on your head, too big, threatening to slide over your eyes. Seunghyun rose from the couch, crossing the small space in two long strides. He reached out, steadying the brim with one hand, tipping it back just enough to see your face. His fingers lingered there, brushing lightly against your temple. “You handled that well,” he murmured, voice deep, rich, softer now that it was just the two of you. His smirk tugged slow, subtle. “They’ll never let it go.”

You exhaled a shaky laugh. “Neither will you.”

Something shifted in his gaze then—still unreadable, but heavier, warmer. His thumb traced the edge of the brim before letting it fall back into place. “No,” he admitted quietly. “Not when it looks better on you.” The quiet settled between you, heavy but sweet, the echoes of laughter still buzzing faint in the halls outside. And in the calm, with his hand brushing against yours as if by accident, it felt like the hat was no longer just a prop. It was a secret you shared.

The dressing room was almost unnervingly still after the others spilled out. You could still hear Daesung’s laughter echoing down the hall, Jiyong’s voice carrying dramatic vows to some poor staff member, Youngbae’s chuckle trailing behind them. But here, it was just you and Seunghyun.

The brim of his cowboy hat still shaded your face, too big, the weight of it tugging low. Seunghyun’s hand lingered against the brim, steadying it, his long fingers grazing your hair. “You’ll start to believe them if you’re not careful,” you whispered, trying to deflect, your voice lighter than the thundering in your chest.

His lips curved, slow and knowing. “Maybe I already do.”

The words landed heavier than you expected. You blinked up at him, caught in the steady depth of his gaze, the quiet warmth there that cut through all the teasing and laughter. He tipped the brim of the hat lower, shielding your face from the door as though the world outside might still catch a glimpse. Then, with a calmness that made your pulse trip, he leaned down.

The kiss was unhurried, almost careful at first — his mouth brushing yours, warm and deliberate, tasting faintly of stage sweat and mint. His hand slid from the brim to your jaw, thumb tracing the edge of your cheek as though you were fragile. It was brief, but it lingered, the kind of kiss that said more than the chaos ever could. When he pulled back, the brim of the hat slipped further down, half-hiding your expression.

His smirk returned, subtle, secretive. “Looks like it’s ours now.”

From the hallway, Daesung’s voice bellowed again: “Hyung! Did you give her the hat yet?!” followed by Jiyong’s loud laugh. Seunghyun straightened, tugged the hat into place on your head, and gave you a look that was half amusement, half promise. “Let them think it’s a joke,” he murmured, voice low. “We’ll know better.”:

[gds-daisy]

part one of my photo dump from newark night one 🥹

[wcnderlnds]

greenlight [part five] ★ choi seung-hyun (t.o.p)

・❥・ summary: with seunghyun's enlistment creeping closer, you want to show him just how much you love him. ・❥・word count: 3.2k ・❥・warnings: 18+. mdni. oral (m receiving), unprotected sex, dirty talk, loss of virginity (virgin!reader), swearing. ・❥・authors note: and we've finally reached the end. thank you for all the support with this series, i hope it lives up to your expectations. i really tried to make it the best yet. i love you all!! p.s. i didn't proofread because it's late so please excuse any mistakes.

GREENLIGHT MASTERLIST

The loud roars from the crowd were deafening. It was impossible to hear anything else but the screams and cheers for the four men on the stage. Nothing warmed your heart more than hearing the cacophony of love for some of the most talented men you’d ever met. Each and every one of them deserved it. But, tonight was extra special. This was one of the last shows before Seunghyun enlisted and the guys, unbeknown to Seunghyun, had planned speeches for him. Usually, you’d be right there in the crowd, cheering them on with all the fans but tonight you were watching from the side of the stage, wanting to be there when Seunghyun came off stage. None of the guys had told you exactly what they were going to say but your boyfriend was sensitive and you knew he’d need you once they were done.

So, with bated breath, you watched as each one of them began their speech.

It brought tears to your eyes listening to their heartfelt words. Seunghyun kept wiping at his eyes, trying not to make it obvious as he turned his back to the crowd. At one point, you caught his eye, sending him a reassuring smile to let him know it was okay. Nobody in the world deserved to know how much they were loved and supported than Seunghyun. He was often hard on himself, feeling like he didn’t deserve everything he had but he did. He deserved it and so much more. His self confidence was always so low but that’s why you were there every day to remind him how incredible he was. Maybe one day he’d be able to see himself how you saw him. A kind, caring, talented person who put everyone around him first before himself.

The second Seunghyun walked off stage, you threw yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck, crushing his body against yours. The emotion was still evident in his eyes but he wrapped his arms around you tightly, taking a deep breath as he buried his nose in your hair. The two of you stood there holding each other, the backstage crew moving around you, packing the equipment up but neither of you cared. In that moment all you wanted to do was hold your boyfriend, convey all the love you felt for him.

After what felt like an eternity, Seunghyun pulled back slightly, his hands coming up to rest on either side of your face. No words were needed. Instead, he leaned forward, his lips coming to meet yours in a slow, gentle kiss. Your hands came up to rest on his, meeting the movement of his lips against yours. His forehead rested against yours when he pulled back. Seunghyun was about to speak but the moment was shattered when Daesung called out from somewhere behind you.

“We’re going out to eat. You two coming?” He asked.

Seunghyun looked at you, silently communicating with you. No, as much as you loved spending time with the guys, tonight you wanted to just be with Seunghyun. He must have caught on to that because he shook his head in Daesung’s direction.

“I think we’re just going to head back to the hotel,” he said, moving his hands to lace his fingers with yours, bringing them down to your sides. Daesung simply smiled, understanding immediately. It was an emotional night, he knew that Seunghyun needed to be with you right now. He left you to it, calling out to the other guys that you wouldn’t be joining them. 

Seunghyun gave your hands a gentle squeeze. “Come on, let's get out of here.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Back in the hotel, the tension could be cut with a knife. It wasn’t bad, more like it was charged with anticipation. The car ride back had been filled with longing stares, stolen kisses and exploring hands. In the back of your mind, you’d already decided that tonight would be the night. But, seeing how emotional Seunghyun was, it sealed the deal. Tonight, he needed to know how much you loved him. If he was leaving soon, you couldn’t let him go without showing him just how much he meant to you. He must have had the same thought because the way he was looking at you made your heart pound against your chest. It was like he could read your mind, see right into the depths of your thoughts. You were both on the same wavelength, knowing that this night was going to be one both of you would remember for the rest of your lives.

Seunghyun stood before you, still in the clothes from his last performance. He’d taken a quick shower before leaving the arena but you’d insisted he wore the outfit he’d been wearing. You had whispered into his ear how hot he looked and that was more than enough to convince him.

“I’m so proud of you,” you said softly, running your fingers along the lapels of his jacket. “Every word they said out there tonight was the truth. You are one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met. I know you’ll try and disagree with me but I’m not going to let you tonight. If you’re leaving soon, I need you to know that… well, I love you. I love you so much.”

Seunghyun’s hands rested on your hips, stepping closer into you. “I love you, too. For tonight, I won’t disagree but tomorrow is a whole different story.”

“Guess I’ll just have to distract you enough so you forget then, huh?”

Before he even had a chance to reply, you stood on your tip toes, tugging him down to meet your lips. This kiss was hungrier, more desperate. His lips moved against yours with such ferocity, his tongue swiping out against your lips. It was when his hands slid down to squeeze your ass that you gasped, parting your lips for him to push his tongue into your mouth. Your hands slid up to his shoulders, pushing his jacket off, letting it fall down onto the plush carpet of the hotel room. He took the opportunity to pull you against him, letting you feel just how hard he already was. You moaned into his mouth, his lips still on yours. Seunghyun smirked against your lips, his fingers finding the hem of your shirt, momentarily breaking the kiss to pull it up and over your head. He threw it to the other side of the room, his lips crushing against yours yet again. His fingers left goosebumps in their wake as they trailed along your bare skin, up along your sides.

This time, you were the one to break your kiss, tracing a line of kisses along his jaw, down the expanse of his neck. You lightly nipped at the skin, Seunghyun letting out a low groan. That was the exact reaction you wanted. Usually, he’d be the one to leave hickeys all over your skin but now it was your turn. With no shows for a few days, it wasn’t like he had to hide them. With hooded eyes, he watched you as you deftly undid the buttons on his shirt, pressing kisses along his chest, down to his stomach until you reached the waistband of his pants. Now, on your knees, your hands found the button of his black pants, popping the button and pulling down the zipper. A quick tug had them down his legs, his arousal more than evident by the tent in his boxers. You brought your palm up to rub him through his boxers, Seunghyun biting his lower lip to stop himself from letting out an embarrassingly loud moan.

“You’re already so hard, baby,” you said, giving his cock a squeeze.

“This is what you do to me,” he hissed. It was almost involuntarily that his hips thrust into your hand.

“Well, I guess I should take care of it then, huh?” With a wicked grin, you pulled his boxers down. Immediately, you wrapped your hand around his length, slowly pumping him in your hand. You felt him harden in your hand, twisting and stroking him a little quicker now. It was taking all of his willpower not to cum right then.

He was caught off guard when you leaned forward, pressing a light kiss to the tip of his cock. Then, your tongue was on him, licking a long stripe on the underside of his length. In the time since you’d first had him in your mouth, you’d grown more confident. There had been many nights that had ended with him finishing in your mouth or him with his head between your legs. But, this time, you both knew it was different. You knew where this was heading.

After a few more teasing licks, you finally put him out of his misery, wrapping your lips around him. He groaned in relief but that was short lived when you pulled back off, your tongue flicking out to tease the head of his cock. He jerked, his hand coming down to tangle in your hair. He was growing impatient – you loved when he showed his dominant side, showing you exactly what he wanted. Once again, you took him in your mouth and this time began bobbing your head along the length of him. Your hand was still stroking what you couldn’t fit in your mouth, working him in tandem. It felt like heaven to Seunghyun, his eyes squeezing shut as he lost himself in the feeling of your hot mouth wrapped around him.

“Just like that, baby,” he praised. “Such a good girl.”

That caused you to moan around him, deciding to take him deeper. You pulled your hand from him, taking the whole of him in your mouth. The gagging sound you made as he hit the back of your throat was enough to send him into overdrive. As much as he wanted to cum down your throat, he wanted to save it. So, he pulled you off him, lifting you back to your feet. He walked you back towards the bed until you fell back on it. Discarding his shirt, he climbed on top of you. His lips crashed into yours while he pulled at the skirt you had on, throwing it off to the side once he had it off you.

He grinded his hips against yours, feeling how wet you were through your panties. “Did you get this wet from sucking me off, princess?”

“Mhm,” you hummed against his lips. “Touch me, Seunghyun, please.”

“Patience, baby.”

One of his hands stilled your hips, the other reaching behind your back to unhook your bra. It joined the pile of clothes on the floor. A moan passed your lips when his lips found your breast, his tongue flicking out to tease your nipple. You arched into his mouth, one hand winding to rest on the back of his neck to hold him there. “God, yes, Seunghyun.”

He hummed appreciatively, moving his attention to your other breast. Meanwhile, the hand that had been on your hip was now sliding up your leg, finally reaching the place you needed him the most. He pressed his fingers against the fabric of your panties, rubbing slow circles against you. It wasn’t enough. You needed more. As if he could read your mind, he pulled your panties to the side, sliding one of his long fingers between your folds, gathering your juices. He felt his cock twitch, the fact that he’d been the one to get you this wet was one of the best feelings in the world. He found your clit, circling the sensitive bud which drew out a long moan of his name.

“Beg me for it,” he whispered huskily into your ear. “Tell me exactly what you want. Spare no details.”

By now, you were squirming as he teased you, his teeth nipping at your earlobe. Every nerve in your body was on fire. “Please, baby. I want your fingers inside of me. I need you to make me cum. Please.”

“Good girl,” he planted a kiss on your lips. At the same time he slid one finger inside you, pumping into you slowly. It took him no time at all to push another one in. Your hips moved against his hand, his fingers curling inside you to stroke that spot he knew that would send you over the edge. His lips were now on your neck, the overwhelming feeling of his fingers inside you and his mouth leaving marks over your skin was too much. With a cry of his name, you found your release. Seunghyun worked you through it, his fingers slowing down until he was sure you were finished. Your chest rose and fell rapidly, trying to gain your senses back. He pulled his fingers out of you, making a show of bringing them up to his lips, maintaining eye contact as he licked your release from them. “You taste incredible.”

In one swift movement, he had your panties off, settling himself between your legs. He slowly grinded against you, his movements gently as his cock slid between your folds. You met his movements, your nerves rapidly rising to the surface. Sensing it, he brought his fingers up to your cheek, running his thumb over your cheekbone. “We don’t have to do this. If you’re not ready… it’s okay.”

“No, no, I want to. I’m just nervous.”

“I know but I’ve got you. I promise I’ll be so gentle and if at any point you want to stop, we will. You have all the power here, nae sarang. We go at your pace.”

There was a beat of silence before you spoke again. “... okay.”

He kissed your lips lovingly, taking one of your hands in his and lacing your fingers together. “Squeeze my hand as much as you need to. I’ve got you. Are you ready?”

The nod of your head was the confirmation he needed. His free hand moved down to grab the base of his cock, lining himself up with your entrance. His eyes never left yours as he very slowly began to push inside you. The head of his cock slipped inside you, causing you to gasp when you felt it. Immediately, he stilled, giving you a moment, speaking ever so softly. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Keep going.”

He did, inching himself inside you slowly. It felt so strange finally having him inside you. It was indescribable – a sensation like no other. You felt full, not only physically but emotionally. Being joined with him only solidified that you loved this man with every piece of your heart. The way he was looking at you with such care and concern, holding back his own pleasure just to make sure you were okay. It was overwhelming. He stilled once he was inside enough, giving you time to adjust to the sensation. It didn’t hurt as much as you thought it would, only a dull sensation. Mostly, it felt a little uncomfortable but once that sensation had faded, you felt at ease.

“Y-you can move,” you breathed out, your free hand resting on his back. 

At your encouragement, Seunghyun pulled back a little, pushing back in. His thrusts were shallow, letting you get used to it. He was holding back, making sure that this was enjoyable for you more than anything. When he started to feel your body relax a little more, your grip on his hand easing, he started thrusting a little better, almost pulling all the way out before sinking back in slowly.

“Does that feel good?” He asked breathlessly.

“Yes,” you gasped when he picked up the pace a little bit. “Go faster. Please.”

He smiled, kissing you and picking up the pace. You moved your hips with him, trying to match his pace, your moans picking up with each thrust. It was like music to his ears. He couldn’t help it, moving a little faster. The way your walls were gripping him so tightly was better than anything he’d ever felt before.

“Fuck, princess, you’re so tight,” he groaned, burying his head into the crook of your neck. You wrapped your legs around his waist, encouraging him to keep going. “You feel so good. So, so, so good.”

You threaded your fingers through his hair, the moans falling from his lips spurring you on. The sound of your mingled breaths and moans filling the room, Seunghyun thrusting deeper with each movement of his hips. When he angled his hips, his pace never faltering, he hit that spot inside you that caused you to gasp out his name, tugging at his hair. He grunted at the feeling, lifting his head up to look at you. “Do that again.”

You did, tugging on his hair yet again eliciting the same noise from him. It was one of the hottest things you’d ever heard. His movements grew sloppy, his fingers digging into the skin of your hips harder. He was close but he wanted to make you cum first. His fingers found your clit again, rubbing tight, quick circles. 

“Cum for me. I want to feel you cum all over my cock.” His dirty words mixed with the feeling of him moving inside you sent you spiralling once again, your fingernails raking down his back as your body tensed. Seunghyun let out a loud moan when he felt your walls tighten around him. 

“Seunghyun!” You whimpered, arching up into him as you came. That was enough to trigger his release. A few more pumps and he stilled, your name a low moan from his lips. He held you still as he emptied himself inside you, grinding against you to make sure every drop stayed inside.

Collapsing against you, he rested his forehead against yours, both of you trying to catch your breaths back. “I love you so much.”

“I love you, too,” you said breathlessly, a dazed smile on your face. “That was….”

“Amazing, perfect, incredible… should I go on?”

You giggled, bringing your hands up to cover your reddening face but Seunghyun wasn’t having it. He grabbed your wrists, pulling them from your face. Instead, he kissed you so sweetly it almost brought tears to your eyes. With a hiss, he pulled out of you, scooping you into his arms. He laid on his back, your head resting on his chest.

“Was it worth the wait?” You asked quietly.

“You were always worth the wait,” he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “I would’ve waited forever for you.”

“Just because you cried tonight doesn’t mean you have to go and make me cry, too.”

“No crying unless it's because you just had the best sex of your life.”

“I mean… I have nothing to compare it to so how would I know?” You teased, trailing your finger down his chest.

“Give me a few minutes and I’ll give you something to compare it to.”

You laughed, looking up at him. “Is that a promise?”

Seunghyun only grinned, lifting your chin up with a finger and kissing you. No matter what happened, tonight had only confirmed that you loved this man more than anything in the world. It didn’t matter that he was leaving soon, you’d get through it together. 

Just like he’d wait for you, you’d always wait for him.

taglist (ask to be added!): @ldydeath @infinetlyforgotten @berfgrimm @loveesiren @justsisse @sherrayyyyy @aizshallnotbefound @fleabagspurplewife @bettelaboure @breakmeoff @babyrvis @flymetothexmoon @ttturnitup @szonyix6277 @riddlerloveb0t @youlikeex @septywitch @melanatedhorrorqueen @l5byrinth @tabibabib @thanosspills @moontabi @pinkpunkdynamite @zaaraaax0 @pepsicolapussi @charlenethecattt @crvshedpetals @ferald @jenni-wilk

[euphicess]

Can you please make a headcanon for Seung-Hyun? 😭

Yes of courseee!!💞

[euphicess]

hi , do u only write about t.o.p's characters? because I would like to request a fic with Daesung because u know nobody really write about him :(( so in case you can do it (it's alright if you cant) I have this idea where basically the reader is like an assistant/stylist and Dae goes at a random interview and she is in charge for what he will wear his hair etc. So they have a small chit chat before he goes out there and simple convo yk, fast forward the reader now is backstage at that small room only the staff can go in and watches Daesung in that small TV they have there and she can't hide that she's literally magnetized by him looking at him how he smiles and laughing around the interviewers, how hot he looked.... and the reader basically is glued to the screen you know until it ends and hears the door open and it's him.

Now I havent thought farther you canc ontinue it more spicy you know there..in that room which is risky anyone from the staff can enter or even at the end to end in a kiss or Daesung teasing her you can choose.

thank u for listening to my idea and daydream:3

Hey sorry for the late answer!! Actually I only write for T.O.P & Kwon Jiyong. I dont see any vision to write about Daesung! Maybe i‘ll think about it, but i‘m not sure!🫶🏻💋

[euphicess]

Ham Dae-Gil Headcanons

Pairing: Ham Dae-Gil x Reader

Warnings: Canon-typical references to gambling, alcohol references, mild possessiveness/jealousy, language/attitude, post-sex references (very light), lifestyle context

//

Personality & Habits:

Cocky as hell. → Daegil thrives on confidence — half of his success in gambling comes from convincing people he can’t lose. Even when he’s in over his head, he smirks like he already knows the outcome.

Impulsive. → He’ll take you wherever the mood strikes: against a wall after a heated argument, in a car after a long night, even in risky places if the thrill is high enough.

Addicted to the chase. → Addicted to the chase. Sex isn’t just about pleasure for him — it’s about winning. He wants to prove he can make you fall apart faster, harder, better than anyone else.

Hotheaded. → He acts first, thinks later — especially when pride is involved. That impulsiveness gets him in trouble, but it’s also what makes him magnetic.

Street-smart, not book-smart. → He picks up on body language, tone, and the “energy” in a room more than rules or logic. He can read a bluff better than he can do math.

Addicted to the thrill. → It’s not just about money — it’s about the rush of the game. Even when he’s broke, he’ll gamble just to feel alive.

Has a weakness for women. → He’s flirtatious, reckless with romance, and often falls for the wrong people. But under that bravado, he craves genuine affection.

Kinks & Preferences:

Risk / Thrill Sex. → Daegil gets off on danger — sex in places where you could be caught excites him (casino bathroom, empty back rooms, smoky gambling dens).

Praise / Cocky Dirty Talk → Loves hearing you call his name, tell him how good he feels. He’ll mock you between thrusts: “Didn’t think you’d scream for me this loud, huh?”

Possession → Wants to leave marks — hickeys on your throat, bruises on your hips, his cum on your skin. It’s his way of saying “mine.”

Oral (giving & receiving) → He’s messy, sloppy, cocky about it — he’ll go down on you with the same intensity he plays cards: reckless but devastatingly effective. When you go down on him, he leans back, smirking, watching with sharp eyes, praising you shamelessly.

Clothes-on Sex → The thrill of being half-dressed, your panties pushed aside, his belt undone — he loves the rawness of not even bothering to strip completely.

Gambling Games in Bed → He’ll turn intimacy into bets — “If I win this hand, you ride me.” Or he’ll make you play while he touches you, distracting you until you lose on purpose.

In Bed:

Pace: → Rough, fast, but not without rhythm. Daegil likes fucking you hard enough to make the headboard slam — but he also knows how to slow down and grind deep when he wants to hear you beg.

Stamina: → High. He’s restless, fueled by adrenaline, and sex is another gamble to him. One round is never enough.

Favorite Positions:

→ Doggy against a table or sofa, one hand yanking your hair back while he growls in your ear.

→ Cowgirl, because he loves watching you lose control on top of him while he smirks up at you.

→ Standing, holding you up, reckless strength pinning you to a wall or door.

Aftercare: Not traditionally sweet — but he’ll light a cigarette, tuck your hair back, smirk, and say something like “Knew you couldn’t resist me.” He might tease, but he does pay attention — gets you water, drapes his jacket over you if you’re shivering.

NSFW Drabble — “Behind the Game”

The backroom still smelled of smoke and sweat, the murmur of the card game buzzing just beyond the door. Daegil had dragged you out the moment he raked in his winnings, his hand locked around your wrist, his grin sharp with adrenaline.

“Couldn’t wait, huh?” you teased, stumbling into the shadowed hallway as he pressed you against the wall.

His mouth was on yours instantly — hot, messy, tasting of whiskey. His hands didn’t bother with delicacy; they gripped your ass, shoved your skirt up, fingers already tugging at your panties.

“Watching you sit there while I played?” His breath was ragged, lips dragging along your jaw. “Nearly killed me.” He slipped a finger inside you, groaning when he felt how wet you were already. “Fuck. You wanted this as much as I did.”

Your head fell back, a moan spilling out as he worked you open.“You’re reckless,” you gasped, hips bucking against his hand. “What if someone hears?” He smirked, pressing harder, curling his finger until your knees shook. “Let them.” Another finger joined the first, his pace brutal, his cock hard against your thigh. “I want them to know you’re mine.”

Your moan echoed in the narrow hall, louder than you intended. He chuckled, biting your shoulder, then yanked his belt open with one sharp pull. “Turn around,” he growled.

You obeyed, palms braced against the wall, skirt bunched at your waist. His hand shoved your panties aside, and then he was inside you — rough, relentless, a guttural curse torn from his throat. “Fuck— so tight,” he groaned, hips slamming against yours. “Every time, baby. Every fucking time you make me lose my mind.”

The sound of skin meeting skin filled the hallway, your cries muffled against your arm. He gripped your hair, yanking your head back until your reflection stared at him in the dusty mirror across the hall. “Look at you,” he rasped, thrusting deeper. “Taking me like a slut while there’s a whole game happening right next door.”

Your orgasm tore through you with brutal force, your scream muffled against his hand when he clamped it over your mouth. He kept fucking you through it, chasing his own release until he pulled out, spilling hot across your ass, his groan low and ragged in your ear.

For a moment, all you could hear was your own heartbeat. Then his hand dragged lazily down your back, and he smirked against your skin. “Guess I’ll have to win faster next time,” he murmured. “So I can take my prize sooner.”

Everyday Daegil:

→ He’s super touchy — not always sexual, but always physical. Hand at your waist, arm slung over your shoulders, thumb brushing your knuckles during a smoke break. He needs contact.

→ Smirks when you pout. He finds it hilarious when you sulk, and he’ll tease you until you crack and laugh again.

→ Daegil isn’t domestic, but he’ll try to cook for you sometimes (ramyeon, eggs) — and act way too proud even if it’s mediocre.

→ He’s got a soft spot for your laugh. He’ll do dumb impressions, exaggerate his card tricks, or make faces just to hear it.

With You:

→ He can be surprisingly clingy after sex — flopping half on top of you, humming against your shoulder, refusing to move even if you shove him.

→ Likes when you wear his clothes, especially his shirts and jackets. He’ll grin like a fool when he sees you in them.

→ Protective in his own way. He won’t always say it, but if someone looks at you wrong, he’ll stare them down until they look away.

→ If you’re upset, he’ll pretend to be casual, but he’ll get serious fast: sitting close, nudging your shoulder, murmuring, “Hey. Talk to me.”

/

You found him stretched out on the sofa, shuffling a deck of cards between his hands. He wasn’t even playing a game — just flicking them effortlessly, smirk curling when he caught you staring. “What?” he asked, tilting his head, eyes glinting. “You jealous? Think I love these cards more than you?”

You rolled your eyes and dropped beside him. “Sometimes I wonder.” He laughed — that cocky, boyish laugh that always cracked through your annoyance. Then, without warning, he grabbed your wrist and tugged you across his lap. The cards spilled onto the floor, forgotten.

“See?” he murmured, his arms circling your waist. “I’d toss ‘em all away for you.” You arched a brow. “Really?”

„Mm,” he hummed, smirk tugging his lips. “But only if you promise to play with me instead.” Before you could answer, he buried his face in your neck, teeth grazing as he grinned. And just like always, you forgot about being annoyed.

Everyday Softness:

Late sleeper: → If he doesn’t have a game, he’ll sleep until noon — and if you’re there, he’ll cling like a koala, refusing to let you get out of bed.

Food thief: → He always steals bites from your plate, even if he ordered the exact same thing. His excuse? “Yours tastes better.”

Low-key clingy: → If you go out together, he always has a hand on you somewhere — waist, shoulder, back pocket. Not just possessive, but because he likes to feel you’re real.

Big laugher: → He laughs at his own jokes the loudest, and when you laugh too, he gets this proud little sparkle in his eyes like he’s won a jackpot.

Private Side:

Cuddly after sex: → The cocky gambler melts into a sleepy, affectionate mess — playing with your hair, humming against your skin, muttering nonsense until he falls asleep on you.

Gets pouty if you’re mad at him: → He’ll hover around, try to make you laugh, or shuffle his cards dramatically until you crack.

Lazy kisses: → He kisses you everywhere when he’s relaxed — shoulders, hair, the back of your hand — casual, instinctive, like breathing.

Soft gazes: → Sometimes he just stares at you with this quiet, almost shy smile — no words, no cockiness. Just… you.

//

[euphicess]

also sorry guys for currently not posting much I kinda slipped on writers block but i‘m trying to motivate myself much enough. Dont worry I work on y‘alls requests, js it might take a little longer!🫶🏻🫶🏻