this blog contains 18+ and nsfw content. minors do not interact!
i mainly write for kwon jiyong and bigbang. no requests. please do not repost or use my work anywhere without my permission.
i just write for fun :D i’m always on hiatus.
𝖐𝖜𝖔𝖓 𝖏𝖎𝖞𝖔𝖓𝖌/𝖌-𝖉𝖗𝖆𝖌𝖔𝖓
noona series pt. 1* | pt. 2* | pt. 3* | pt. 4 | pt. 5 | pt. 6 | pt. 7* stand alone inked midnight rendezvous* dye me down* motte wrapped in you cat blocked* 365* still got it taste of smoke just a dream
synopsis: you’re in paris with your boyfriend jiyong.
warnings: smut, 18+, oral, praise, unprotected sex, a lot of fluff, aftercare.
a/n: based off my fav song on taeyangs new album ‘quintessence’ (which yall are WAYYY too quiet about by the way.) enjoy!
the lights of the stunning city of paris shimmered over the river as you leaned over the railing of the bridge you and jiyong had accidentally stumbled across on your late night walk that evening. the cool breeze swept across your cheeks, but the warmth of him behind you made you forget it about it immediately.
jiyong wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled your back against his chest gently and rested his chin comfortably against your shoulder. a small smile tugged at your lips at the familiar feeling, he’d brought you along to paris a lot but it never got old.
your eyes lit up as you pointed into the distance. “ji! look it’s the eiffel tower.” excitement filled your voice despite having seen it several times beforehand, paris with him felt softer and much warmer.
a quiet chuckle escaped his lips, vibrating against your shoulder as his fingers traced slow and careful circles against your stomach.
“mmm very beautiful jagi.” he murmured but you already knew he wasn’t talking about the view. you turned around in his arms and caught the way he was gazing at you, like the city didn’t even matter to him. his gaze was almost dreamy and it made your heart flutter.
“you’re staring ji.” you giggled.
a smirk spread across his face. “not like you mind it.” his voice dropped lower sending a rush of warmth onto your cheeks before he leaned down and kissed you softly.
your hands instinctively slid around his neck, fingers tangling in the longer hair at the nape of it. he’d been growing it out recently and you absolutely adored it and played with it whenever you could.
the kiss deepened naturally between you, unhurried whilst the paris wind swept through your hair and around the two of you. it felt unreal, like a scene from one of those romance movies jiyong always claimed he hated but watched them with you anyways.
he hummed softly against your lips as his hand wandered lower down to your ass, pulling you closer.
you laughed a little and pulled back before he got carried away. “not now jiyong let’s just go back.”
his lips formed an exaggerated pout immediately. “please?”
you scoffed trying to keep a straight face while he had that stupid expression on his face. “no puppy eyes, you’re old.”
he placed a hand on his chest, scoffing dramatically. “watch your mouth baby.”
“yeah, yeah.” you teased and grabbed his hand before he could complain further. “come on.”
he was still muttering under his breath but he let you drag him down the glowing streets of paris towards your hotel, his hand holding yours the entire time.
as you were walking you passed by a small street musician playing a slow melody on his violin and jiyong came to a halt.
you stopped too and blinked, confused. “what?”
he didn’t answer, just turned towards you and held out his hand. “dance with me.”
you stared wide eyed for a moment before laughing. “jiyong there’s literally no one else dancing.”
he shrugged. “so? we can start.”
before you could protest he gently pulled you closer as if you’d break and settled one hand on your waist, the other intertwined with yours. he slowly guided you into a lazy sway in the middle of the quiet paris street.
you had the biggest smile on your face, despite not wanting to dance moments ago. you noticed the moonlight had softened his features as he looked down at you with that loving gaze he always had with you and his messy hair falling into his eyes, making him look unreal as the music echoed around you.
it wasn’t perfect dancing, he was teasing half of the time stepping too close to hear you whine about it, but that made it even more special to you.
“you’re so cheesy.” you muttered, but you rested your head on his shoulder anyway.
“you love it though.” he smiled, and he wasn’t wrong.
he spun you around carefully, your laughter filling blending with the music in the quiet street. you carried on swaying under the full moon that had made an appearance tonight, the eiffel tower glittering in the distance.
eventually jiyong pressed a soft little kiss onto your forehead before lacing his warm hand with yours. “let’s go to the hotel now baby.” he sighed.
and so you walked back, stopping at a few small shops on the way, jiyong buying you everything you so much even looked at and you finally got back to the hotel.
you walked into your room flopping down onto the bed and jiyong immediately climbed on top of you, hands running over your curves and his lips finding yours in a messy kiss.
you grinded your body up into him as he embraced you and carried on kissing you, before trailing his hot lips down your neck and praising you in between every single one.
“my perfect girl.”
you threw your head back and sighed as he praised you like he meant it, and you knew he did.
“such a good girl for me.”
he said while kissing over your stomach making you shiver, his eyes looking up at yours.
you felt his hands brush at your waist band as he finished up with kissing and worshipping you like a god and before you knew it you felt his finger press down on your core through your panties.
“mm ji.” you whimpered as he started circling his finger tips gently on it.
“yeah, that feel good?” he murmured softly as he kissed your inner thighs gently as if rewarding you.
you fisted a bunch of his hair in your hand and moved his head closer to your aching clit. “please.”
“use your words sweetheart, what exactly do you want?” his voice still ever so soft.
you breathed heavily as he pressed his fingers more firmly over your clit. “eat me.” you whispered.
he didn’t waste a second before sliding your panties to the side, licking up the slick that was on your pussy already. “you taste so good baby.” was the last thing he said before licking inbetween your folds.
he went slowly at first, just gentle circles with the tip of his tongue before picking up his pace and you felt him start to trace out the letters of his name on your pussy with his tongue.
“who do you belong to.” he said raspily while going on to trace the letter ‘y’.
“fuck, you.” you said shakily, the pleasure over taking you.
“ah ah say my name. tell me exactly who you belong to.” he said sternly this time.
“jiyong, i belong to jiyong.” you groaned.
“good girl.” he cooed softly before tracing out the rest of his name with his tongue, making you shudder.
after some time of him playing around with his mouth you finally came all over his tongue and he swallowed as much as he could before gazing up at you with lustful, albeit soft, eyes and licked his swollen lips. god he looked sinful.
he gently flipped you so you were laying on your stomach and his gaze roamed over your bare back, taking in how your hips dipped and your back arched. “so fucking perfect and all mine.” he murmured before starting on the zipper of his pants.
he lined up his hard cock with your entranced and slowly pushed himself into you. he groaned softly before speaking to you. “you can take it baby, i know you can.” he muttered out. “be good for me.”
he praised as he thrusted a little bit harder into you but still making sure he was gentle. he pulled your hair into his hand and gently tugged your head back as he fucked you from behind.
his other hand hovered over your hip, the slight weight grounding you. “you feel so good.” you breathed out, burying your head into the pillow.
“mhm i know baby.” he grunted as he started fucking harder making you gasp. “fuck jiyong, faster.” you found yourself begging for more.
he ran his smooth hands over the soft skin of your bare back as he thrusted harder making a loud moan escape you. his touch, his cock buried inside you, god it was doing things.
he took his time with you, sometimes going slow to make it last and sometimes going fast to make it more pleasurable. the way he kept stopping and starting made the knot in your stomach tighten endlessly but you didn’t do anything about it, you secretly liked it.
“the sounds you make are so gorgeous jagi.” he whispered as you kept making little whines and moans. “and they’re all because of me.” he said before gripping your hips and sliding into you more.
you grinded back on him wanting to feel more friction and he threw his head back, making the hottest groan you’d ever heard in your life.
“fuck i’m close.” you whined as you felt him go faster. “go on baby let go for me hm.” he said roughly.
you finally let go with a loud cry and he came just after you did. you both stayed like that for a moment, taking in the euphoric feeling taking over. the dim hotel room, the warmth of your bodies, the distant smell of the vanilla candle in the corner of the room and jiyongs cologne. it was so peaceful.
he eventually pulled out and you turned to look at him. his gaze was no longer lustful but so full of love and care. “are you feeling okay baby.” he asked gently.
you smiled, your cheeks heating up a little as you saw how pretty he looked, he was absolutely glowing and his hair was damp and falling into his face making him look breathtaking. the soft look in his gorgeous brown eyes didn’t help either. “yeah i feel better than ever.” you spoke in a whisper.
he nodded and you both cleaned up after that, jiyong gently getting into a perfectly warm bath with you (that he ran ofcourse).
after he’d dried you off with the softest towel he could find, he gently tucked you in bed before climbing in next to you.
he laid back against the pillows next to you while you tucked yourself into his side, he wrapped one arm around you while the other played lazily with your fingers under the blanket.
your head rested on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heat as he rubbed your back gently. “good night baby.” he softly murmured.
“good night ji.” you whispered softly and you both fell asleep content, knowing you had eachother always and forever.
☾ synopsis: Late nights. Closed doors. Something that only existed in the dark. Wanting Jennie was easy. Being enough for her was the hard part.
☾ pairing: jenniekim x producer!fem!reader
☾ contents/warnings: 18+ (MDNI) angst, unhealthy dynamics, situationship, jealousy, smut, fingering, dry humping, sexual flashbacks. English isn't my first language so please bare with me🫶🏻 PLUS, THIS FF IS ONLY ME GOING FERAL AFTER THE MET GALA
☾ a/n: hello everyone! i’ve been feeling a bit sick these days, so i haven’t had the chance to keep working on my vampire!jennie x fem!reader fanfiction. i’m still writing it, of course! in the meantime, i didn’t want to disappear completely, so here’s a little oneshot while you wait ♡
Enjoy!!
☾ run from the sunlight m.list ☽
“I CAN'T BE YOUR MIDNIGHT LOVE,
WHEN YOUR SILVER IS MY GOLD.”
─── ⋅ ⋅ ∘ ✩ ☾ ✩ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───
Being a producer meant spending her life in studios, surrounded by voices that were never hers.
Y/N started small. No one knew her name. Just another credit buried at the bottom of a track, another pair of hands behind the sound.
But then came Chappell Roan.
One song. That was all it took.
It climbed the charts faster than she could process, her name suddenly everywhere — interviews, credits, people finally saying it out loud like it mattered.
After Chappell came Billie Eilish.
Bigger rooms. Longer nights. Louder expectations.
And then came the person who ruined her life.
Jennie Kim.
When Jennie asked specifically for her to work on her first solo album, Ruby, Y/N thought it had to be a mistake.
People like Jennie didn’t know people like her. And yet, somehow… she did.
The first time Y/N met Jennie, it wasn’t supposed to mean anything.
Just another session. Another artist. Another song to finish before sunrise.
The studio was dimly lit, the soft glow of the equipment filling the room with a quiet hum. Y/N was already there, headphones around her neck, scrolling through files on the screen when the door opened.
Jennie showed immediate interest in Y/N — in her work, in the way she moved through it like she belonged there. The compliments came almost too quickly, right after a brief shake of her hand, like she had already decided something.
Y/N wasn’t used to that.
She brushed it off the only way she knew how, focusing on her setup, on the familiar comfort of buttons and sound levels, pretending it didn’t settle somewhere under her skin.
They worked for hours that day. At some point, it stopped feeling like a first session. It felt easier than it should have. Natural, in a way that didn’t quite make sense.
And every now and then, Y/N felt that attention. Not on the screen, not on the music — on her.
She never looked up long enough to confirm it, but she felt it linger anyway, like something just out of reach.
Y/N could remember vividly the first piece of clothing slipping to the floor, forgotten the moment it left her skin. She could remember the quiet gasp that followed, swallowed almost immediately by Jennie's greedy mouth, like it wasn’t meant to be heard.
Everything after that blurred together.
Warmth. Closeness. The disorienting feeling of being pulled in without ever really deciding to move. Limbs tangled, hands unsure for only a moment before they weren’t anymore.
It hadn’t felt reckless. It had felt… inevitable. Like something that had been building from the very start, finally breaking through all at once.
Things went like that for months — writing and producing, spending more time in the studio than anywhere else, talking about things that had nothing to do with music until comfort settled between them without either of them really noticing.
At some point, they started finding excuses to stay a little longer after the other producers left for the night, the studio quieter and smaller somehow, intimate in a way it probably shouldn’t have been.
The kisses only happened then, when no one else was around to see them, easy to dismiss in the dark even as they slowly turned into wandering hands, muffled sounds and tangled bodies against the couch while Seoul City played softly in the background, already finished with nothing left to fix, making everything feel softer than it should have.
And somewhere in the middle of it all, without really meaning to, Y/N realized it wasn’t something small to her, not something she could just brush off once it was over, not something that would stay behind when the night did.
Ruby came out not long after.
What they had spent months building in quiet studios and late nights was suddenly everywhere, no longer theirs in the same way it had been before.
It didn’t take long for it to take off.
Streams, charts, interviews, The Ruby Experience— everything moving faster than Jennie could keep up with, the album turning into something bigger than either of them. Bigger than the moments it had come from. Bigger than whatever had been happening between them.
Because that hadn’t stopped. If anything, it only got worse.
They kept finding their way back to each other, in between schedules, after long days, in the few quiet hours they could still call their own. It wasn’t something they talked about, not really. It just… kept happening.
Getting closer without ever naming it. Crossing lines without deciding where they were. And every time it got close to becoming something real, something that might actually exist outside of closed doors and late nights, Jennie would pull back just enough.
Not completely.
Just enough to remind Y/N what this was… or what it wasn’t.
Jennie didn’t want to commit. She never said it like that, not out loud, but Y/N understood it anyway.
All Jennie gave her were nights of skin against skin, promises of things changing whispered in the dark — only to disappear by morning. She would drive to Y/N’s apartment almost every night, get her fix, and be gone again by sunrise, like none of it was ever meant to last past the quiet hours they shared.
It started small — a toothbrush left by the sink, then a shirt, then her favorite pajama set — little pieces of her scattered around the apartment like they meant something more than they did.
Y/N had suggested, more than once, moving things to Jennie’s place instead, but those suggestions were always met with immediate refusals. It was easier this way — easier for Jennie to leave in the morning without waking her, easier than having to ask Y/N to leave if it was her own apartment.
And slowly, without either of them really acknowledging it, Y/N’s whole place began to scream Jennie’s name, while Jennie’s didn’t carry a single whisper of Y/N’s.
Still, Y/N stayed, because it didn’t matter what Jennie Kim said they weren’t. For her, it was enough — every crumb taken like a starving woman.
“I want you to stay,” she whispered in the dark, tracing every mole on Jennie’s back as though she were a canvas and Y/N the one meant to remember it. “Just for tonight.”
“You know I can’t,” Jennie murmured, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead like it was the easiest thing in the world, just as easy as leaving.
“You could.”
Jennie paused, her jeans in her hands, and for a moment she didn’t move, like she was actually considering it, like something in her might give — but then she looked away.
That silent answer was enough, and Y/N knew she would bottle up her emotions for the sake of keeping her.
─── ⋅ ⋅ ∘ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───
People started speculating when Y/N was seen more often with Jennie.
Lunches together, nights at clubs, moments that should have gone unnoticed — until one video almost slipped through, Jennie drunk and leaning in too close, her lips brushing against Y/N’s before anyone could look away.
It was dismissed just as quickly, Alison stepping in to laugh it off, insisting it had been nothing more than a hug.
Fans didn’t believe it, of course.
Every time Jennie got close to someone, people were quick to turn it into something it wasn’t.
And it didn’t help how close they were — the way Y/N was always there, just a step behind or right beside her, slipping too easily into spaces that weren’t meant for anyone else.
It showed in the small things — in the way they moved around each other, in the glances that lingered a second too long.
And when they weren’t together, it didn’t help that paparazzi caught Y/N on her own, a Gomdeuki keychain clipped to her carabiner, hanging loosely from her jeans like it didn’t mean anything at all.
The comments didn’t take long. Neither did the ship videos on TikTok, the edits, the endless theories.
rubyjendeuki: am I the only one noticing how often Y/N is around Jennie lately?
blinkforever: Y/N is so lucky omg
jenbias96: lucky for what exactly…
protectjennie: I don’t like her idk something about her feels off
rubyjennie_era: y’all just hate her because she’s close to Jennie
0t4blinkeu: y’all are reaching, she’s just her producer
jeny/n_defender: are we forgetting the video at the club rn ?? be fr😭
0t4blinkeu: it was just a hug btw. jen is straight
The threads kept growing, turning small moments into proof, into stories, into something bigger than either of them had ever said out loud.
And somehow, that was enough to ruin something that had never even properly begun.
“Can you not wear that, please?” Jennie asked one day, her eyes following the keychain hanging loosely from Y/N’s jeans.
Y/N’s hand moved almost instinctively, fingers brushing against the small plush as it rested against her hip, the familiar weight of it suddenly harder to ignore.
“Why?” she asked quietly, even though she already knew the answer.
Jennie didn’t answer right away.
Her gaze lingered for a moment longer before she finally looked away, like the words had to be chosen carefully.
“It’s just… better if you don’t,” she said, tone light, almost casual, like it wasn’t a big deal.
Y/N’s fingers stayed on the keychain.
“They’ve been paying more attention lately,” she added after a second, softer now, like she was trying to make it sound reasonable. “I just don’t want things to get… complicated.”
“Things became complicated the moment we fucked in the studio,” Y/N replied, her tone sharp and unforgiving, months of pent-up frustration finally spilling over. "And at my apartment… and after every concert for the Ruby experience."
"They became complicated when you left your toothbrush in my bathroom," she added, her voice tightening. "And your shirts in my closet."
Jennie’s expression shifted almost instantly, something tightening in her jaw as she let out a quiet breath.
“That’s not fair,” she said, a little too quickly, like she’d already been bracing for it. Her arms crossed loosely over her chest, not quite closed off, but not open either. “You knew what this was.”
“No, actually, I didn’t,” Y/N scoffed. “We didn’t exactly have that conversation when my head was between your legs.”
Jennie’s expression hardened almost instantly. Her shoulders tensed, jaw tightening as she let out a sharp breath, eyes snapping back to Y/N with something colder this time.
“That’s not what this is,” she shot back, quicker now, like she didn’t even need to think about it.
“You’re acting like I forced you into something,” she added, her tone edged, defensive in a way that didn’t try to hide itself. “Like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing.”
She crossed her arms, more closed off now, putting space between them even without stepping back.
“I never said it was anything more,” Jennie continued, the words coming out faster, harsher. “You don’t get to turn this into something I didn’t promise.”
“I’m not the only one, Jennie,” Y/N snapped, frustration bleeding into her voice as she tried to hide the disappointment. “Your fans are starting to notice.”
Jennie exhaled sharply, running a hand through her hair as she looked away for a second, like she needed the distance. “That’s exactly why I’m asking you to… back off a little.”
Y/N was mad. Not loud, not explosive — but the kind that sat heavy, sharp under the surface. “Why do you do this only with me?” she asked, her voice steadier now, but no less cutting.
Jennie frowned, her brows pulling together as she finally looked back at her, something defensive flickering in her eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“You never act like this when people speculate about you and your other friends,” Y/N said, the words coming out faster now, frustration slipping through before she could stop it. “It’s the same thing with Deb right now and you don’t seem to mind.”
Jennie’s expression shifted, something sharper settling in as she let out a short, bitter laugh, shaking her head.
“Oh, so that’s what this is about?” she shot back, tilting her head slightly, her eyes narrowing just enough to sting. “You’re jealous?”
The truth was… Y/N was jealous.
Ever since Jennie had been seen more often with Deb, people hadn’t just started speculating — they had started calling her Jennie’s girlfriend like it was something real, something official. So yes, Y/N was jealous, but Jennie didn’t need to know that.
“Don’t twist it, Jennie!” she snapped, the control she had been holding onto finally slipping. “Answer the fucking question.”
“It’s different!” Jennie shot back, the words coming out sharp, defensive. “Those are my friends.”
A brief pause.
“Deb is… just a friend.”
This time, her voice softened, the edge fading just enough to be noticeable.
Y/N’s breath caught slightly, her hand tightening around the keychain, fingers pressing into the plush like she needed something to hold onto.
“So you don’t see me as just a friend?” she asked, a hint of something fragile slipping into her voice — something dangerously close to hope.
Jennie didn’t answer right away.
For a moment, she just looked at the girl before her, something unreadable flickering across her face, like she was standing on the edge of something and didn’t know whether to step forward or pull back.
Her gaze dropped briefly, jaw tightening, a quiet breath leaving her lips as if she was forcing herself to decide.
“No,” she said finally. The word came out flat, too quick and too final. “I don’t see you as a friend.”
For a second, it almost sounded like something else. Like it could mean more. But then she shook her head slightly, taking a small step back, putting space between them.
“We worked together,” she added, her voice steadier now, colder. “That’s that.”
Y/N’s brows furrowed, disappointment settling in before she could even try to hide it.
For a split second, she had thought they were finally going somewhere — that whatever this was could finally take shape, become something real instead of something half-lived in the dark.
She was wrong.
Her grip tightened around the small plush keychain, the soft fabric of the little bear worn from how often she carried it, familiar against her skin.
Then, slowly, she stepped closer. She reached for Jennie's hand, turning it over just enough to place the plushie in her palm, her fingers lingering for a moment as she closed Jennie’s hand around it.
“There,” Y/N said quietly, her voice steady in a way she didn’t feel. “That should make things less complicated.”
And then she pulled away.
For a second, Jennie just stood there, her hand still half-curled around the small plush bear, like she hadn’t fully processed what had just happened. “Y/N—”
The name came out quieter than before, stripped of the sharpness, but she didn’t know what to follow it with.
Y/N didn’t answer. Instead, she turned away, moving toward the bedroom with a kind of quiet purpose, like she needed something to do with her hands.
Jennie stayed where she was, listening to the soft sounds of drawers opening, fabric shifting.
When Y/N came back, there was a small pile of folded shirts in her arms, and Jennie recognized them instantly.
Y/N stopped in front of her, not quite meeting her eyes this time as she pressed them into her hands, right over the plush keychain she was still holding.
“These are yours,” Y/N said, her voice even, almost distant. "Take them back."
No accusation. No softness either.
Just… final.
Jennie blinked, caught off guard, her grip tightening around both the shirts and the small bear, like she didn’t know what she was supposed to hold onto first.
“You’re overreacting,” she said finally, but the words came out weaker this time, like they were meant to convince herself more than anything else.
Even she didn’t sound like she believed it.
“I guess I should give yours back,” she added, quieter now.
Y/N shook her head, the movement small but immediate, her expression tightening with something that looked a lot like disappointment.
Most of her favorite shirts were still at the brunette's place — taken by Jennie one by one from Y/N's closet, because she always claimed they were warmer. They carried the memory of quiet moments in the kitchen, of Y/N fucking her on the counter with nothing but one of those shirts on, until cooking was forgotten altogether.
“No,” she said. “Keep them.”
Y/N let out a slow breath, her gaze dropping for a second before lifting again, steadier now, colder.
“I don’t want anything that reminds me of you.”
─── ⋅ ⋅ ∘ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───
Just like that, everything stopped — no more late-night drives, no quiet mornings, no messages left unread, because there were none to begin with.
Jennie disappeared from Y/N’s life as easily as she had slipped into it, leaving behind a silence that stretched longer than anything they had ever shared, until days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, and Y/N slowly learned how to live with it, even when her fingers still hovered over Jennie’s name out of habit, finding nothing on the other side.
The fans noticed. Once again.
rubyjendeuki: y'all, jennie and y/n broke up??
jeny/n_defender: y/n's not wearing nini's keychain anymore😭 I'm a child of divorce
jenbias96: or maybe they just worked together and then went their separate ways??
0t4blinkeu: fr, these fans are so delulu💀
Y/N read every comment, every day. Sometimes, just to get a reaction out of Jennie, she even liked the ones claiming they were a couple.
But nothing ever came from it.
No text, no call, nothing.
At some point, Y/N convinced herself that the only way she would ever see Jennie again was on billboards or in paparazzi pictures.
Until the Met Gala after party.
The invitation came months later, the museum filled with familiar faces and industry names, people used to living under constant attention, now gathered in a space that still managed to feel strangely intimate despite everything.
Y/N almost didn’t go, but work had a way of finding her anyway, and she ended up there behind the DJ booth instead of among the guests, keeping her focus on the music, on something she could control, letting the bass drown out anything that tried to resurface.
She told herself she didn’t think about Jennie anymore.
That held up until she noticed her.
Jennie was already there, moving through the crowd with the same ease as always, laughing, close to someone in a way that felt just a little too intentional before drifting closer, not directly, but enough for it to stop feeling like a coincidence.
Close enough that Y/N couldn’t ignore her.
From behind the booth, everything should have felt distant — reduced to sound and light and movement — but it didn’t.
Not when Jennie was right there.
Not when Y/N could feel it, the weight of her presence, like something pulling at her attention no matter how hard she tried to keep it on anything else.
Jennie let herself be guided toward the dance floor, her hand slipping into someone else’s as they spun her lightly, the white fabric of her long skirt catching the light with every step.
She danced like she always did — relaxed, controlled, every movement intentional without ever looking rehearsed. Her head tilted back slightly as she smiled, her sunglasses slipping just enough down the bridge of her nose for her eyes to be seen.
And every now and then, almost carelessly, she looked up.
Not at the crowd.
At Y/N.
From behind the booth, Y/N kept her hands steady, her focus locked on the console like nothing had changed, like the air hadn’t shifted the moment Jennie stepped closer.
But she felt every step, every movement, every second Jennie stayed just a little too close. Close enough to break something all over again.
When Jennie followed a few friends behind the DJ booth, Y/N knew she was doing it on purpose.
She moved closer than necessary, letting herself fall into the rhythm of the music, her body brushing against one of them as she laughed, easy and careless on the surface, like she was just having fun.
Like it didn’t mean anything, but it wasn’t true. Y/N knew Jennie too well for that.Every movement was deliberate, studied down to the smallest detail, every shift of her hips timed perfectly with the beat — and with her. Like she was waiting for a reaction.
At first, it could have passed as just another glance over her shoulder, something easy to ignore if it hadn’t lasted a second longer than it should have.
Jennie kept moving like nothing had changed, her body still in sync with the music, still too close to someone else, still laughing like she was just there to enjoy the night — and yet her eyes found Y/N’s and didn’t leave.
There was nothing careless about it.
Y/N felt it before she could even think about it, the way her chest tightened, the brief hesitation in her hands over the console before she forced herself to keep going, to focus on the music instead of her.
After a moment, Jennie leaned in, her breath brushing against Y/N’s ear, close enough to be felt even over the music.
“Can you play my song?” she asked, her voice raised just enough to carry through the noise, lingering there for a second longer than necessary before pulling back.
Y/N didn’t answer.
Her fingers moved over the console instead, precise, controlled, like nothing about the moment had affected her at all as she queued up the track without hesitation, letting the first notes slip into the room as naturally as if it had always been the plan.
“No…” Jennie murmured when Y/N played Jump, a faint smirk on her lips as her gaze lingered on the producer. “I meant Damn Right.”
She didn’t step away after saying it, staying close enough for it to feel intentional, like she had slipped back into Y/N’s space without asking.
Y/N didn’t reply, her attention dropping back to the console as her fingers moved almost automatically, switching tracks without looking at her, even though she could still feel Jennie there, too close to ignore.
As Damn Right filled the room, the memory came back to Y/N all at once, blurred at the edges but sharp where it mattered — Jennie's jeans on the studio floor, her body pressed against Y/N’s, the way she had dry humped against her thigh like she couldn’t get close enough, soft whimpers slipping past her lips as she fell apart against her.
The memory was still vivid in her mind —how Jennie's pussy soaked through her own black panties, dampening the fabric of Y/N’s jeans.
Y/N kept both hands on the console, her focus fixed on the controls even as she felt Jennie move closer again, the space behind her shifting just enough to make it impossible to ignore.
There was a brief pause, like Jennie was deciding how far to push it, and then she slipped past, ducking slightly to move between Y/N and the edge of the booth, close enough that their bodies almost brushed.
Her hands settled on Y/N’s hips like it was nothing, like it was familiar, like it had always been allowed.
Y/N took a deep breath, her gaze drifting over the crowd of celebrities partying without a care in the world, phones raised as they recorded moments that would blur by morning.
“What are you doing?” she asked through gritted teeth, turning her head slightly away. “People are recording.”
“I know,” Jennie murmured against her cheek, her voice low, almost lost under the music. “I don’t mind.”
There was a brief pause, just enough for the words to settle, before Jennie reached for Y/N's hand, guiding it between her legs, like she didn’t expect to be stopped.
Y/N pulled back immediately, like she’d been burned. “Are you fucking crazy, Jennie?!"
Jennie only smiled at that, slow and unbothered, like the reaction was exactly what she had been waiting for.
“Relax,” she said, tilting her head slightly, her gaze dragging over Y/N’s face in a way that felt too familiar, too intentional. “You didn’t seem to mind before.”
She stepped closer again as she said it, not enough to draw attention, just enough to make it impossible to ignore. “Or is it just a problem now that someone might see?”
“Look who the fuck is talking,” Y/N shot back, her voice low but sharp, the frustration finally slipping through. “You didn’t want people to know, remember? That’s the reason we—”
She stopped herself, the words catching in her throat as the rest of the sentence fell apart before it could take shape, because what was she even supposed to say?
that’s why we broke up?
that’s why we’re not together anymore?
They had never really been anything to begin with.
For a moment, Jennie just looked at her, something unreadable passing through her expression before her gaze dropped, like she didn’t trust herself to hold it.
Then, instead of stepping back, she moved closer slowly, almost carefully, like she was testing the space between them.
Her hands found Y/N’s sides, not as bold as before, not teasing this time, just… there, grounding herself as she leaned in, letting the music take over the silence she didn’t know how to fill.
She pulled her just enough to close the distance, their bodies falling into the same rhythm, like it was something they already knew, something they didn’t have to think about.
No words.
Just the weight of it, of everything that hadn’t been said, settling between them as Jennie rested there, closer than she had any right to be, like she didn’t know how to let go.
Y/N didn’t stop her.
Her hands stayed on the console as Jennie leaned in, her lips brushing softly against her neck, familiar enough to make her exhale.
For a moment, Y/N just let it happen, one hand settling on Jennie’s lower back while the other stayed on the console.
Then Jennie smirked at Diplo, leaning in just enough to mutter something Y/N couldn’t catch.
Before Y/N could think too much about it, Jennie took her hand, her fingers slipping between hers with an ease that felt too familiar.
“Come with me,” she murmured, already pulling her away from the booth, guiding her through the crowd until the noise softened behind them and the lights dimmed slightly.
“Jen, I can’t just leave the booth—”
"I told my friend to cover it for you."
Jennie didn’t stop until they reached the bathrooms, pushing the door open and slipping inside, the music now muffled, distant, like it belonged to a different world entirely.
The music dropped to a dull thud behind them as the door shut, and Jennie didn’t let go, turning to her immediately, still too close, like she hadn’t planned on stopping.
Jennie didn’t say anything, just pulled her in, her hand firm against Y/N’s jaw as she kissed her like she had been holding it back for too long.
It wasn’t hesitant, her lips pressing hard against hers, insistent, almost impatient, like she needed to feel it again to believe it was real.
Y/N inhaled sharply, caught off guard by the force of it, by how familiar it felt, how easily it pulled something out of her she had tried to bury.
Jennie didn’t pull away, her grip tightening slightly as the kiss slowed but didn’t soften, making sure Y/N felt every second of it.
And she did.
In fact, she moved first this time, her hand sliding from Jennie’s jaw to her waist, gripping just enough to turn her, guiding her back until the edge of the sink met her hips.
Jennie let out a soft breath against her lips as Y/N lifted her slightly, settling her on the counter without breaking the kiss, like she couldn’t bring herself to stop now that she had started.
Jennie pushed herself up slightly, her skirt sliding higher along her thighs, revealing the delicate lace underneath as her gaze stayed fixed on Y/N’s. Then she reached for her hand, guiding it down, pressing it flat against her core.
Y/N understood what Jennie wanted right away and didn’t hesitate, circling her clit with her thumb. "You always find a way to get what you want, Jennie.”
“It’s not like you ever say no to me.”
Y/N let out a quiet, humorless breath, her thumb still tracing her bundle of nerves, feeling the heat starting to spread there. “That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?” Jennie shot back, her voice lower now, less teasing but no less intense. “Because you’re still here.”
Y/N’s jaw tightened, hooking her fingers into Jennie's underwear and pushing them down so she could wiggle out of them.
“And you’re still doing this,” she murmured, her fingers sliding between Jennie's folds, spreading her open and gathering the arousal on her fingers. “Like nothing ever changed.”
"Maybe nothing did." Jennie gasped, clenching around nothing, hands gripping the sink below her.
"No, nothing did," Y/N answered as her fingers moved into her entrance, angling just right, like she still knew exactly what worked with Jennie. "You still throw yourself at me like a bitch in heat."
"Fuck—" Jennie moaned loudly when Y/N hit the spot inside her over and over again at a relentless pace. Her palm brushing against her throbbing clit with every single movement.
Her legs began to shake as the girl before her added a third finger, stretching her out around her digits.
"You always come so easily," Y/N mocked as she kept thrusting her fingers against Jennie's sensitive walls. "It's embarrassing, really."
"Shut up."
But even as Jennie said it, her legs moved in sync with Y/N’s deep thrusts, betraying her, head back against the mirror.
A faint, knowing smirk tugged at Y/N's lips as her grip tightened just slightly, her voice dropping when she spoke again, quieter now but edged with quiet confidence. "Just let me see your pretty face when you come all over my fingers.”
Jennie didn’t need to be told twice, her grip tightening painfully against the girl's shoulders as her orgasm washed over her and Y/N’s name kept falling from her lips in broken breaths, repeated over and over like a prayer she still whispered at night when she was alone, with no one else but herself to keep her company.
Y/N didn’t stop, not even when Jennie’s body went slack. She wanted to savor the moment just a little more, keeping her fingers inside long enough to feel the way Jennie's pussy still throbbed around her digits.
“Fuck, I missed you," Jennie stayed where she was on the sink, slightly breathless, her hands still resting on Y/N like she hadn’t fully come back to herself yet. Her lipstick was ruined, her hair messier than before, and for once she didn’t seem to care.
Y/N stood between her legs, her gaze fixed on her for a moment longer than necessary before she let out a quiet breath and looked away first.
The tension was still there, heavy and familiar, lingering in the small space between them even after everything had settled.
Jennie’s fingers brushed lazily against Y/N’s arm before a faint smile pulled at her lips. “I want more.”
“We can go to your hotel—”
“No,” Jennie cut in softly. “Take me to yours.”
Y/N’s smile faded almost immediately.
Of course.
Nothing had changed. Jennie was still afraid of letting her into her world, still keeping her at a distance even now, even after everything.
No commitment. No staying.
And Y/N hated that a part of her still couldn’t say no. So she only nodded and took Jennie’s hand.
─── ⋅ ⋅ ∘ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───
The next morning, Y/N woke up with an ache deep in her bones, fading marks scattered across her skin and cold sheets beside her.
Jennie was gone.
Just like every other time.
For a few seconds, Y/N stayed there staring at the empty side of the bed, already knowing what she would find before she even reached out.
Nothing.
No note. No text. Not even the sound of the shower running somewhere in the room.
Just silence.
She let out a slow breath and pushed herself up, wincing slightly as she searched the floor for her leather jacket, expecting to find it mixed somewhere between last night’s discarded clothes.
But it wasn’t there.
Before she could even react, her phone lit up violently against the nightstand, notifications flooding the screen one after another.
Videos from the after party.
Clips of her and Jennie standing too close behind the DJ booth, Jennie’s hands on her, the way they looked at each other impossible to explain away this time.
And then pictures from that same morning.
Jennie somewhere in New York, coffee in hand, sunglasses on despite the early hour, wearing Y/N’s jacket like it belonged to her.
But that wasn’t what made Y/N’s breath catch.
Clipped to Jennie’s bag was a small keychain with Y/N’s initial hanging from it.
All the posts exploded with comments.
rubyjendeuki: y/n's initial on jennie's keychain, hello???
jeny/n_defender: JENNIE WAS SPOTTED LEAVING THE AFTER PARTY WITH Y/N AND DIDN'T GO BACK TO HER HOTEL UNTIL THIS MORNING WEARING Y/N'S JACKET FROM LAST NIGHT. JENY/N IS SO BACK!
0t4blinkeu: or maybe she just borrowed a jacket damn😭
jeny/nnation: borrowed the jacket, spent the night there, wore the initial… right
blvckpinknini: not her carrying y/n’s initial around like a girlfriend without actually being one 😭
rosiemynumberone: even i have to admit the closet is made of glass now shyt
jeny/n_era: wearing y/n’s jacket and carrying her initial around after months of silence is actually insane behavior
Y/N kept scrolling through the comments long after she should’ve stopped, rereading the same pictures and videos until everything started blending together.
The jacket, the keychain, Jennie leaving in the morning like she had nowhere else to be.
It was stupid how much those small things still affected her.
Her phone buzzed again.
Jennie.
Y/N stared at the name for a second before opening the messages.
Jen: flying back to korea
i finally have some time off and i intend to spend it at my apartment
another text.
Jen: you should come and get your jacket back
Y/N’s eyes lingered on the screen a little longer than necessary, her heart betraying her almost immediately despite everything.
But what really made her smile was the next text.
Jen: you can stay if you promise to cook breakfast in the morning :)
─── ⋅ ⋅ ∘ ✩ ☾ ✩ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───
Thank you so much if you made it this far! This was my second attempt at writing smut and I hope you liked it! If you have any suggestions on what I should improve, let me know!
Title: Good Boy
Summary: Jiyong is struggling before an awards show. You help him relax.
Pairing: G-Dragon x f!Reader (established relationship)
Word Count: 3,238
Warnings: 18+ !!!, dom/sub, degrading talk, collar/leash.
The awards ceremony is just an hour away and you can see Jiyong is ready to crawl out of his skin.
It’s his first performance at this particular awards show as a solo artist in many years. Unfortunately for Jiyong, who is a perfectionist and a bit of a control freak, many things that could go wrong have gone wrong. Rehearsals had been cut short due to time constraints. The outfit he had chosen had gotten a snag upon taking it out of the luggage, and was now in the hands of his stylist who was trying to fix it before he was called to sit for the awards. Just when he thought he could relax, a message came from the event organizer. There was a last minute change to the order of the performances happening. Instead of performing around the middle of the ceremony, he would now be going last. The closing act. All eyes would be on him to give a performance worthy of the time slot.
Now, Jiyong knows the performance he prepared is good, but so many things have gone wrong today. It doesn’t help that this award show is coming after a couple of weeks of negative headlines. It is understandable that his nerves are completely frayed.
So now he’s pacing the dressing room, anxiety coming off of him in waves so noticeable that everyone seems to be moving with careful steps. You can see that the way everyone is being careful with him only seems to be irritating him more.
He moves away when someone tries to put on some jewelry. It’s something you’ve noticed in your time together, how he dislikes people touching him when he’s anxious. Most times he’s able to hide it behind a laugh, some silly dance.
Today, everyone notices.
There is a moment of awkwardness. You can see him swallow, eyes darting down, like he’s ashamed of what just happened. He extends his hand for the necklace. His hands are shaking, you can see it. Everyone can see it and he knows it.
He misses the clasp. Once. Twice. He throws it to the dresser.
“I don’t want to wear that,” he declares. Someone picks it up to put it away. “Give it back,” he says, annoyed.
When he has it back in his hands, he manages to put it around his neck. You can see his fingers twitching and you know he’s itching for a cigarette, but he doesn’t ask to leave to have a smoke somewhere he can. He drinks from a water bottle, puts it back on the table after. It wobbles, he manages to catch it. But his hands are shaking and he topples it and it spills across the dresser and down to the floor. He curses under his breath.
Immediately someone is there trying to wipe it and that’s it.
“I can do it!” he all but yells.
Everyone stills.
He swallows. He wipes a hand over his face. Then he bows and stays there. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry everyone. I’m being an ass. I’m sorry.”
His stylist walks over. “I’m almost done. Don’t worry,” she says.
He nods. “I know, I know. Thank you. I’m just–” he waves a hand.
She touches his arm. You can see the way he fights hard not to flinch, not to move away. His stylist notices it too. She’s known him for years after all. Most of his team does. They all understand the pressure he faces every time he has to perform. She subtly moves away, but tells him everything will be alright.
Jiyong sits on the chair, knee bouncing in place as he waits.
Finally, you move from your own corner of the dressing room. You go to his personal assistant. “Hey, do you think I can have a moment alone with Jiyong? I think he just needs some quiet time.”
She looks over to Jiyong, then back to you. “Okay. We have about forty minutes before he needs to finish dressing.”
You nod and thank her. That’s more than enough time. You watch as she moves around the room, how efficiently she communicates with everyone, how she goes to Jiyong, whispering something. You watch the relief that crosses his face. You know he needs the quiet.
You also know how to get him out of his head.
Soon, the dressing room is silent.
Jiyong exhales, then stretches his neck, but his eyes snap to yours the moment you turn the lock on the door. You can feel his gaze on you through the mirror as you walk back.
“Did you bring the leash?” you ask. Do you want this? You don’t ask that out loud. You know he’ll hear it anyway.
His lips part, then nods.
You walk over to his personal bag, the one you know no one is allowed to open. You dig through the few items he carries: a book, cigarettes, a pair of glasses, a scarf. And underneath it all, a leash and a collar attached. You pull it out, feeling the heat of his gaze on you as you walk to the center of the room.
“Up. Come here,” you say.
He gets up, walks to stand a couple of feet from you. His eyes are wild, surprised. Maybe that you’re doing this now, here, but he doesn’t stop you. You gave him a chance when you asked if he brought the leash. That’s the code you two have. He could have said no even if the leash was tucked under his personal items. He did not say no.
Without breaking eye contact, you drop the leash on the floor. “Pick it up.”
He moves to obey. And immediately realizes what you’ve done.
By making him go on one knee to pick up the leash, you’ve effectively put him at your feet. The leash is in his hand as he looks up at you. You adopt a look of disinterest, like this situation is not turning you on. It is, you can feel yourself getting wet, but this is not about you.
He doesn’t move. He watches as you walk a few steps to sit on the green couch they’ve put in his dressing room. He watches you as you cross your legs, your elbow propped on the sofa’s arm to rest your head on your hand. He’s still kneeling where you left him.
You watch him for a moment and then you speak. “Put it on.”
His hands are shaking, this time for a different reason, as he fumbles with the clasp of the collar attached to the leash. The sound it makes once it closes around his neck makes him visibly shiver.
You wait a few seconds, knowing what waiting when he’s like this does to him. How quickly he gets desperate. “Come here,” you say. He moves to stand up, but you don’t let him. “No.”
He looks at you. Another shiver as he understands. He falls to his hands and knees.
And starts to crawl his way to you.
You look at him, that same disinterested, almost impatient look on your face. His breath catches, a little whine, a soft sound you’d miss if you weren’t paying attention.
He stops at your feet and waits as he looks up at you. The collar looks beautiful on him. You told him this the first time he wore it in bed as you held on to the leash while he fucked you. You remember him coming with your name on his lips.
You extend one hand and he puts the leash on it. Your fingers close around it, not pulling, just holding. “What do you want?” you ask.
You watch him as he blinks, as he wets his lips with his tongue, his mind racing. You watch him struggle because you know this is the last thing he wants, to make decisions, to have even the slightest bit of control. But you ask because you know how his mind works now, what he needs. The illusion of control before it’s taken from his hands.
“Let me make you feel good,” he says, just like you knew he would.
You look at him without saying anything. And then you open your legs. The tight skirt you wear doesn’t allow for much movement, but it’s enough. Jiyong takes it as permission.
He moves forward, his eyes dropping between your legs. With careful movements, with something that nearly borders on devotion, Jiyong places his hands on your thighs, fingers splayed over smooth, soft skin. He moves them up under the skirt, making the fabric bunch high on your legs. You watch as he leans in, as he buries his face between your legs.
It takes everything in you not to react, not to move your hips. You keep your focus on Jiyong, on the way he trembles as he pushes forward, as he puts his parted lips high on the inside of your thigh. You feel the wet heat of his tongue as he tastes the skin, as he kisses it after. You feel it when he shifts, his mouth finding the silk of your panties. He presses his face even further and takes deep breaths like the smell of your wet pussy is some expensive perfume.
You are wet, so incredibly aroused your panties are already soaked, but you make sure not to show it. You know what it does to him when you give him this– the disinterest, the almost bored attention. You let him bury his face between your legs, your hand still holding the leash. He licks your silk covered pussy, once, again, and then moans.
“Be quiet,” you say and yank the leash.
It has the complete opposite effect.
The moment he feels the tug of the leash, he shudders and lets out a loud moan.
“I told you to be quiet,” you say. “I will not repeat myself. “Do you want everyone to know what you’re doing?” You tug on the leash and it forces his face deeper between your legs. He can only breathe in your scent now. “Do you want everyone to know you’re here snuffling at me like some dog?”
“Oh fuck,” he groans, his body shaking, the words working him into a frenzy.
His eyes are squeezed shut as he takes in a deep, ragged breath. Then another. “You like that scent?” you ask and watch him nod, a frantic movement. He mouths at you over the silk of your panties. You bite your lip, close your eyes for a few seconds. His tongue is wet and hot as he licks you over the fabric.
But this is not about you, so you open your eyes and watch him. He looks like he could stay like this, his face pressed between your legs, and that it would be enough. Some days it is.
“Go on. Lick,” you say. He doubles his efforts. “More,” you command. “Is that supposed to make me feel anything?”
He moans. You watch as he moves one hand from your leg to the visible tent in front of his pants. He palms himself once before you tug hard on the leash.
“Did I say you could touch yourself?” He shudders again as he puts his hand on your leg. He takes a gulp of air and you’re so wet, so wet, and you know he must smell it. He groans, his body shakes. You tug hard on the leash again. “Don’t come. Don’t embarrass yourself by coming in your pants in front of me like some green boy.”
He moans your name, lost in the haze of the pleasure he’s feeling. He licks at you, groans as he tries to bury his face deeper between your legs.
You give him a few minutes of this, where his world narrows down to the heat between your legs, the scent of your arousal, the way the collar pulls at him as you tug on the leash.
And then you grab a fistful of his hair and push him away, hard enough to make him tumble backwards until he’s sprawled in front of you.
Still holding on to the leash, you put one foot against the front of his pants. The red bottom of the heel, Louboutins he gifted you last month, now press lightly against his crotch.
“Look at you,” you say, pressing your heel against him a bit more. Jiyong’s hips move, squirming under the firm press of the shoe. “Aren’t you ashamed? Humping my leg like a dog?”
He lifts his head and you can see it then. Jiyong’s eyes are wild, unfocused. He’s no longer in this dressing room. The awards show is completely forgotten. The anxiety of the day is gone. Right now he is only a being of sensation, hyper aware of how you have him pinned under your heel.
“What are you waiting for?” you ask. You press harder and watch him wince. It must border on painful now, but he squirms again, eyes closed as he lifts his hips slightly to get more friction. “If you do well today, I will let you fuck me later when we go home.” You press harder. “Go ahead. Be a good dog now.”
He gasps as he opens his eyes to look at you, his face going red at the realization of what you’re telling him to do. That expression of boredom, of being utterly unimpressed by what he’s doing is still on your face, but you’re watching him closely, making sure he wants this. He knows the safe word.
He doesn’t say it.
With trembling hands, he grabs your ankle and moves his hips up to rub against the red sole. He groans, lips parting at the sensation. He does it again, harder this time. And again. His eyes become shiny with tears. You know the tears are for being pushed to this degrading act, but also at the shock of how much he’s enjoying it. The mind numbing pleasure he’s getting from it.
He grips your ankle and moves his hips up, working himself against the shoe in a series of frenzied movements that have him groaning and gasping. He’s so turned on it only takes a few minutes. He opens his eyes, groans your name. His body is trembling with the effort he’s making not to come yet. A tear spills, then another.
“Go ahead. Come for me now,” you say just as you press your show harder against his body, once again tugging on the leash.
That’s all it takes. Jiyong comes with a groan that is half sob, his body arching, his hips still moving to rub himself against your shoe as he comes. He almost sounds like he’s in pain from how hard he comes.
“Good boy,” you tell him and watch his body convulse at the words. He groans, that same sound mixed with a sob as you imagine the last drops of cum shooting out of his cock. He shudders, then stills, breathing hard.
“Come here,” you say softly and he lets go of your ankle to crawl back to your feet. He slumps against your lap, his head resting on your legs. You take off the collar, the sound the clasp makes as it opens causing him to shiver. You put the collar and leash next to you, then you run your fingers through his hair. “Shh, shh, you did well. My good boy.”
A low, satiated groan escapes his lips as he closes his eyes. You touch him gently, with an aching tenderness that’s the complete opposite of what just happened. “My perfect, pretty boy.”
You look at the clock, you still have some time. You let him rest like this, occasionally leaning forward to kiss his temple. His breath evens out, his body stops shivering.
“Are you okay?” you ask.
He nods, still a bit sluggish. You kiss his temple again, then lift his face gently to kiss his forehead, his nose, the corner of his mouth. He lets out little sighs of pleasure with each kiss. You pick up one of the water bottles from the stand next to the sofa and offer him a drink. He drinks half of it in one go, then he finally tries to focus on your face.
After a couple of seconds you smile softly. “Welcome back.”
He smiles and you smile at how dopey it is, how sweet and vulnerable he looks, just like he does when he wakes up next to you on the nights you are able to spend the night. He leans forward to rest his head on your lap again and you let him. You give him a few moments and then you kiss his temple again. “Can you tell me you’re okay with words?”
He licks his lips, swallows. It takes a second. “I’m okay,” he says.
“Good boy,” you say. Another kiss to his temple. “Rest. Just a few minutes more, okay?”
He nods, his eyes closed. He breathes in deep, completely relaxed.
After, you tell him to clean himself up and change into the pants he’ll wear for the night while you put the collar and leash back into his personal bag. You take the lock off the door but leave it closed.
When he sits back on the chair in front of the mirror, you walk over to him. He immediately turns and wraps his arms around your waist, his head resting against your stomach.
“Thank you,” he says.
You smile and lift his face with a finger under his chin so he can look at you. “You’ll do well tonight.”
“If I do well, I get my reward?” he asks.
You think of what you said before. If you do well today, I will let you fuck me later when we go home.
“Yes,” you say. “You can get your reward.”
He gives you an adoring look before resting his head against you again. That’s how his whole team finds you when a few minutes later they begin to enter one by one after a soft knock. You step away, letting his stylist get close so she can work along with the make up artist. Jiyong is calm now. His hands steady as he puts on those press ons he likes so much on his nails.
You’re standing in a corner when his assistant walks over. “Thank you,” she says. “I’m glad you were here. We told him to nap earlier but he refused.”
You smile. “He just needed some quiet time to get out of his head.”
His assistant nods. You smile again, amused because you know his whole team thinks “quiet time” means Jiyong meditating and taking a short nap to calm down when he gets like this.
The less they know, the better.
********
The headlines that night read as follows.
AFTER WEEKS OF DOUBT, G-DRAGON DELIVERS A CAREER-DEFINING PERFORMANCE.
FROM SCRUTINY TO STANDING OVATION: G-DRAGON ONCE AGAIN SILENCES CRITICS WITH FLAWLESS LIVE PERFORMANCE.
The comments from FAM start flooding under the posts.
the way he turned the last couple of weeks into a victory lap… i’m emotional
he had every idol on their feet singing and dancing his song. that’s legacy
imagine doubting him. couldn’t be me.
the confidence. the control. he definitely proved once more why he’s the king of k-pop
Title: Pink Neon Lights
Summary: Jiyong wants attention. After a playful exchange, you end up locked inside the bar’s bathroom.
Pairing: G-Dragon x f!Reader (established relationship)
Word Count: 2,726
Warnings: 18+ !!!, public bathroom sex, silliness at the end.
The first text comes in late at night, the screen lighting up with the notification.
you should be here.
A beat. Then another vibration.
why did you let me come here? i could be home with you
Then just a few seconds later, more messages in rapid succession.
can you come by for a bit? i want to see you
babyyyy are you awake?
what if some woman tries to seduce me?
You pause the movie to read the message and a laugh slips out at the last one. You imagine him at the bar, surrounded by his celebrity friends. A drink in hand, his phone in the other. Probably horny since this morning when you stopped the quickie he obviously wanted because you were already late for work.
Instead of answering, you take your favorite vibrator from your bedside table. You spend a little while with it, your thoughts filled with Jiyong.
After, you dress quickly. You wear the red lipstick that drives him wild.
The phone buzzes again.
leaving me on read. love is dead
You smile again, then head out to your car. The bar is just ten minutes away. You finally reply.
If a woman tries to seduce you, tell the hussy you’re taken.
A grin tugs at your mouth as you pull out of the driveway, anticipation building with every traffic light.
********
The bass thumps through the club, a physical pulse that vibrates in your chest as you greet a couple of people you know. You laugh with them, they tell you it’s good to see you, ask if you’re here alone. You say you plan to meet up with someone later.
You feel his eyes on you before you even look up. Across the dance floor, Jiyong leans against the bar, a glass of something dark in his hand. His gaze is locked on you, tracking your every move, your every laugh. A shiver runs straight down your spine to settle as a deep, throbbing ache between your legs.
You hide a smile as you turn back to your friends, but the heat of his stare lingers, adding to the arousal you already feel. It doesn’t help that you touched yourself before coming here, that you held a vibrator against your clit until it was swollen. That you fucked yourself with three fingers until you were moaning and desperate to come. You’d stopped with a choked whine, your body trembling from being held at the very edge. You knew it’d be better if you waited for this.
After a few more minutes of conversation you’re barely paying attention to, you excuse yourself and saunter over to him, your hips swaying with every step. You slide into the spot next to him before leaning in close. “Hey there, stranger. Care to buy me a drink?”
Jiyong’s lips curve into a smirk, eyes moving over you in a quick, appreciative glance. He signals the bartender without breaking eye contact. You order your drink, something sweet and fruity. Jiyong is still looking at you when the drink is placed in front of you and you take a sip.
“What are you doing here all by yourself?” you ask. “Why aren’t you mingling?”
“I’m not in the mood to mingle,” he says, his voice that low rumble you like.
“What are you in the mood for then?” you ask.
His eyes drop to your mouth, linger on the red lipstick there. “I’d like to dance.”
“Dance? So why aren’t you dancing?”
He looks up from your lips to meet your eyes. “No one’s made me want to ask.”
“What if I ask?” You lean closer, like whispering a secret. “Will I get some crazy girlfriend pulling my hair because I asked her man to dance?”
He smiles, a real one that crinkles the corner of his eyes. “Is that your subtle way of asking if I’m single?”
“Maybe.”
His lips twitch as he barely manages to hide a smile. “I’m taken. Sorry.”
You bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing as you remember your text. “I don’t think she’d get mad if you danced. It’s just dancing.”
He shakes his head. “She’s the only one I want to dance with.”
You melt, a dopey smile threatening to overtake your face before you freeze and then glare at him. He lifts his glass to hide his laugh.
“Jiyong! Play along,” you hiss.
He laughs, even passes a hand over his face in a show of composing himself. “What about you, you’re here to dance?” he asks.
“Yeah, I want to dance. So how about it? Am I not tempting enough for you to ask?”
He lets his gaze travel over you, a slow, visual caress that you feel on your skin. It lingers on the cut of your blouse, the curve of your breasts before meeting your eyes. “Yeah, you are.”
“Then? Is she really the jealous type?”
“A little, yeah,” he says, taking a sip of his drink.
“That’s a shame.” You down the rest of your drink, the glass clicking on the counter as you set it down. “I’m going to the restroom. In case you change your mind about dancing.”
You turn, feeling the weight of his stare on your back like a brand. The walk to the back of the bar is a blur of colored lights, bodies as they move on the dance floor, and pounding music that seems to shake the floor.
Your heart hammers against your ribs as you push into the single-occupancy restroom, a tiny dim space with pink neon lights and music posters on the walls. There’s a small table next to the sink. A mirror. Only one bathroom for the whole bar. It means it has to be quick.
Alone, without the noise, without the crowd, the anticipation becomes a physical torment. Your clit is a hard, insistent pulse. Your pussy feels hot and swollen, throbbing with the need to be filled.
The door clicks open.
Your breath catches as Jiyong steps inside. The beat drops outside, making people cheer for the DJ. Jiyong locks the door, muting all the noise from the bar. Before you can speak, his hands are on your hips, fingers digging in as he pins you against the wall. His mouth crashes onto yours, his tongue pushing past your lips. You moan into the kiss, your own hands grabbing at his shoulders to steady yourself.
His hands slide under your skirt, up your thighs. He stills. A sharp inhale as he breaks from the kiss. “Fuck.”
You’re not wearing panties. You took them off in the car at a red stop on your way over.
“Fuck,” he says again, his voice ragged. He yanks your skirt up to your waist, his hands moving over the bare curve of your ass. Your own hands are frantic at his belt, the button of his jeans, then the zipper. You push the fabric down just enough to get his cock out, thick and already fully hard. You give him a squeeze, watch him close his eyes.
After a moment he moves your hand away before lifting you, your legs wrapping around his waist as he settles you on the small table. He kisses you, deep and filthy. His tongue is in your mouth when he grips your ass to pull you to the very edge of the table to align your bodies, rough and urgent. It makes you whimper against his mouth.
When you feel the blunt, hot pressure of his cock against your soaked pussy, you pull away from the kiss. “Please,” you gasp against his lips. “Please.”
He takes himself in hand, the broad head of his cock nudging through your slick folds, spreading you. You shamelessly open your legs wider, offering yourself. “Yeah, yeah, fuck me.”
He pushes in. Not a slow slide, but one smooth, powerful thrust that sheathes him to the root in one go. The stretch is exquisite. Your pussy, already sensitized, clamps down around his cock. A sharp cry tears from your throat. He puts his left arm around your neck, cushioning your head against the mirror as you lean back, his other hand holding your hip.
His mouth leaves yours, travels to your jaw, your neck. With skillful fingers, he yanks open the buttons of your blouse and then the front hook of your bra. Your breasts spill free, and his hand closes over one, kneading the soft flesh before playing with your nipple until it’s a tight, sensitive peak. Every squeeze is a jolt of pleasure that goes straight down where he’s fucking into you.
He fucks you hard and fast, your nails digging into his shoulders as he thrusts inside you again and again. The small table rattles against the wall, and in a moment where the music outside hits a lull, you hear the obscene, wet slap of your bodies. It will be easy for anyone who stands outside the door to know what you’re doing.
“Jiyong, Jiyong, we have to be–” you try to warn him about the noise, but he angles his hips and thrusts. It pulls him deeper, hitting a spot that makes you see stars, all thoughts forgotten. “Oh fuck yeah, just like that. Just like that.” .
“I didn’t tell you my name,” he grunts, his breath hot on your skin.
Lost in the pleasure of being so utterly filled, it takes a second to remember the exchange outside. Then you laugh, the sound broken by a moan as he pushes into you. “You look like a Jiyong to me. Lucky guess.”
You feel him smile against your jaw before he licks his way to your mouth for another kiss. He stops kissing you after a moment, and when you open your eyes, you find him staring at you. “What?”
“You look so fucking hot like this,” he says. “Look.” He pulls out of you completely, making you whine in protest.
He pulls you off the table, turns you around, and suddenly you’re facing the mirror. Your reflection is debauched: lips red and swollen from his kisses, blouse hanging open, breasts bouncing with each heaving breath, skirt rucked up around your waist. You try to look away, but he stands behind you, one hand firm on your jaw, forcing you to keep your eyes on the mirror.
“Look,” he commands again. He bends you over the table and then guides his cock back inside you in a hard thrust. Palms flat on the table, you cry out. “Look how beautiful you are with my cock inside you.”
You shake your head, try to close your eyes, but he fucks you harder as the grip on your jaw tightens. “Look.” The moment you do, he slams right back into you. Hard. He does it again.
“Oh fuck… Jiyong…” you groan, your voice shaking.
His breath is hot against your skin as he thrusts. “You feel so good. Perfect,” he grunts, his rhythm becoming more urgent.
The song changes again. Another pause in the music. You try to muffle your moans by lifting a hand, but he stops you. Instead, he presses two fingers against your lips. You open for them, sucking them into your mouth, lips tight around them.
He takes them out when the music starts again. “Harder,” you beg. You’re so close. “Fuck me harder.” He obeys, his movements becoming desperate, the table screeching against the floor. His wet fingers find their way down to your clit. He rubs it in hard, fast circles, just the way you like.
For that glorious moment, the world narrows to that tiny room. To the feel of his hand, his cock inside your pussy filling you up.
“Baby, sweetheart,” he moans against your ear, his own control fraying. “I’m going to come. You want it?”
You nod frantically, your orgasm coiling tight in your belly, a spring about to snap. “Come inside me. Come on. Jiyong, Jiyong–”
Your orgasm hits you in a sudden and violent convulsion. Your pussy spasms around his cock, a series of tight, milking clenches that pull a ragged groan from him. You push back against him, fucking yourself on his cock through the waves of pleasure. He moans, holds your hips tight as his rhythm falters. With three more deep, grinding thrusts, he comes. He holds you tight against him, his cock pulsing as he empties himself inside you.
For a moment, there is only the sound of your breathing and the distant cheers of people as the music continues. After a minute, he softens and you feel him slip out, but he still holds you against his chest as you catch your breath.
He turns you around, his hands gentle now as they cup your face. He kisses you softly, a stark contrast to the frenzy of moments ago. Another kiss, sweet and lingering. He holds you after, his lips pressed to your temple.
Then.
“Suddenly, I realize how gross this was,” you murmur against his neck.
He barks out a laugh. “This was your idea!”
“I know! And I was so horny I didn’t think it through. But a public bathroom? Why did you accept?” You pull back to look at him, pretending to judge him.
He grins. “As if I was going to say no to sex with you.”
You start fixing your bra, your fingers fumbling with the buttons of your blouse after. He helps, pulling down your skirt, a satisfied smirk on his face.
But then you feel it. The warm, sticky evidence of what just happened, sliding down your thigh.
“Jiyong! I’m not wearing underwear. Why did you– ugh.” You press your legs together.
He laughs, unabashed. “What? You told me to come inside–”
A loud, impatient banging on the door interrupts.
“Hello??” a male voice calls out.
You and Jiyong go still, both turning towards the locked door.
“Hello? Anyone in there?”
Jiyong clears his throat, pitching his voice lower. “Yes?”
“I’m pissing myself here. You done?” the man asks.
You cover your face with both hands, mortified. Jiyong is trying his best not to laugh.
“Uh, yeah, give me a few minutes,” he says, voice strained as he tries to sound serious.
“Fuck, dude, forget it,” the man outside says, sounding annoyed as he walks away.
“Oh my god,” you mutter into your hands, your face burning.
Jiyong finally lets out a snort of laughter as he gently pulls your hands away from your face. “Relax, no one will know.”
You tsk at him. He grins, fixing his own clothes. You look inside your purse, cursing under your breath when you remember dropping your underwear somewhere behind the passenger seat.
“Ready?” he asks, running a hand through his hair as he checks himself in the mirror.
“No! I’m leaking here, god, don’t– yes, sure, laugh about it,” you say, shooting him a glare as he bursts out laughing.
He grabs a wad of paper towels from the sink and hands them to you, shoulders shaking from laughter.
“Turn around,” you say.
“What, why?”
“Because I don’t want to wipe with you watching, that’s why,” you say, waiting.
He laughs again. “Baby, I’ve seen every inch of you.”
“This is different! Turn around!” you insist and he complies with a chuckle. You start to clean yourself up as quickly and as best as you can. When you peek over in his direction, he’s already turned back around to look at you. “Jiyong!”
He cackles, a full body laugh that has him falling against the wall. You glare at him and then give up, wiping yourself with more paper.
After washing your hands, you shove him towards the door. “Check if it’s clear.”
He opens the door just a bit, then peeks outside. “All clear,” he says with a thumbs up. You mean to walk past him, to walk out first and leave the bar as soon as possible.
He stops you. “Hey.” You turn to look at him. “I really enjoyed dancing with you,” he says.
You smirk. “I knew you would.”
He lets you leave then. You act casual as you say goodbye to the people you know, a satisfied throbbing between your legs.
********
Later, a text comes in.
couldn’t resist the hussy. she was too sexy. can i still come over and spend the night?
Title: It Feels Like I'll Die Without You
Summary: You know this is wrong. You've known it for two years. You tell yourself this is the last time you will meet Jiyong.
Pairing: G-Dragon x f!Reader
Word Count: 9,714
Warnings: 🚩🚩🚩PLEASE READ 🚩🚩🚩 18+ Explicit sexual content. Rough sex. Toxic relationship between Jiyong and reader. Infidelity (reader has a bf). There is also a brief physical altercation between Jiyong and reader (she slaps/scratches him, he shoves her).
Note: Please heed the warnings! This was inspired by GD's Bonamana. I tried my best to portray a toxic relationship between two people that should have let go a long time ago and didn't and now they're hurting each other. Do they still love each other? Was it even love? I think so. BUT PLEASE BE AWARE OF THE WARNINGS, especially the last one. It's brief, but it's there. Thanks for reading!
The kitchen smells like garlic and sesame oil. There’s music playing, some random playlist you’d put on with the kind of soft music that exists mostly to serve as background noise. You’re cooking japchae, one of Minjun’s favorite dishes, while he sits at the kitchen island, laptop open.
Every now and then he looks up and says, come here, look at this one, and you go and he shows you an apartment or a house. You notice, the third time he calls you, that the house you liked is already pinned. You hadn’t even told him to consider it, you had just spent more time looking at it, at the big garden that you’d imagined yourself spending time in. With a big garden like that, I could grow tomatoes. Maybe some cucumbers. Perilla leaves, since you eat so many of them. You’d said it laughing a little, just throwing it out there. Just saying it. He’d pinned the listing anyway. Because he saw you imagining a life there.
“You sure you don’t want any help?” Minjun asks when you return to the stove.
“Nope. I’m good,” you say. “If you help, you’ll just end up distracting me.”
He laughs. “Maybe that’s what I want.”
You point a carrot at him. “Don’t get any ideas.”
He smiles and returns his attention back to the screen. You go back to blanching the spinach, then move to cooking the carrots. You know the best way to cook this dish is to prepare each element separately. That way everything is cooked perfectly and each ingredient keeps its color.
It is, in every way you can think of, a perfectly ordinary evening. You have come to appreciate the ordinary. The peace that comes from quiet evenings that follow a certain routine.
You are reaching for the wooden spoon when your phone lights up on the counter with a new notification. You see the name before the phone goes dark again. Grabbing the spoon, you stir the contents in the pan. You stop yourself from picking up the phone.
It’s nothing, you think. It must be one of his usual texts: a link to something he’s been listening to, a meme, a picture of something with no explanation. You see these messages for what they really are. A way to still be a presence in your life, of keeping a door open between you. You’ve gotten good at not responding to these messages. At keeping that door halfway closed.
Minjun calls you over again and you go. He shows you another house with a bigger garden, and you know he’s watching you, you know he’s waiting for you to get excited about it, to list all the things you could grow there. But your mind is somewhere else already and you can only smile and say It’s good. Do you like it?
He talks as you go back to the stove. He’s telling you this one isn’t as close to his work as the last one, but that it’s close to cultural spots, that it’d be perfect for you and your work. You know he’s thinking of you, of your comfort, of making sure this change is a happy one for you. You smile at him and you think to yourself: See? This is what you have.
Then the phone lights up again.
This time you pick it up. You know how it goes sometimes when you don’t answer his texts. Sometimes he calls. And you don’t want him to call right now. You look up at Minjun, he’s focused on the screen.
You look down and read the two messages he’s sent.
Hey.
I need you.
Not How are you? Are you busy? Not even I need to see you. Just this: I need you. Which is worse somehow because you know what he wants. What he’s asking for.
“Is everything okay?” Minjun asks.
“Yes,” you say. “It’s a work thing.”
You turn away slightly, not enough to be suspicious, and you read the two messages again. You think about all the reasonable things you could do. You could ignore it. You could turn off your phone. You could simply silence it and go back to making dinner so that you can sit across from Minjun to eat, have a bottle of wine, and then watch a movie. Go to bed. Make love.
You could block the number, which is something you had told yourself you were going to do the last time this happened.
You type back: I can’t tonight.
You mean to leave the phone on the counter, to go back to the stove, but his response comes just a few seconds later.
Please.
Just one word. That’s all it takes.
You feel your pussy clench, like some pavlovian response to his texts, because your body knows where they lead to. It’s humiliating, to realize your body is used to it. It makes you think about the last time, which you had told yourself was the last time, and the time before that. You think about the way you’d driven home afterward and promised yourself, out loud in the car where no one could hear you, that you were done. No more, you’d said. You were going to let whatever this was finally finish dying the way it had been trying to die for two years.
Dinner is almost ready when you tell Minjun that something has come up.
The words are out before you can stop them. You hear yourself explaining, the lies coming out so easily it is actually concerning. There’s something at work, a thing you need to look over, you are sorry. You tell him that if he wants, you will call and say you can’t make it. You hear yourself say this knowing full well he won’t ask this of you because Minjun has always been an understanding person. It is one of the things you loved first about him. It is also one of the things that makes this moment so difficult.
“At this hour?” he asks.
“I know,” you say. You know he’s not asking that because he doesn’t believe you. He’s asking out of concern for you, at the fact you’re being asked to work so late. You reach for your jacket that’s hanging on the back of the chair. “I shouldn’t be long, but you should eat. Don’t wait for me.”
He’s looking at you in a way that 's simply attentive. He’s trying to read whether you are stressed, whether you need something from him. You recognize the look because he’s always been open, with his thoughts, with his feelings, never guarding anything. Not like—
“Want me to drive you?” Minjun asks.
“No, no, it’s fine. You worked all day today. Just rest.” You walk around the kitchen island to stand in front of him. “I’m sorry about dinner.”
“Don’t worry about dinner,” he says. You know he means it. There is no anger, no annoyance, no disappointment. He kisses you and you let him. “Drive safe.”
“I will,” you say.
You pick up your keys and your purse and you walk out of your own apartment thinking: this is the last time.
You hold on to that thought as you drive. You let the anger inside you fester, you let it go in every direction.
First: Jiyong. You let yourself feel anger because he texted you when you had told him the last time, standing in his penthouse, getting dressed, and not looking at him, that you were not going to come if he texted you again. That you were done with this. So now you’re angry because he’s done it anyway. You’re angry because once again he’s shown an inability to leave you alone. You’re angry because he said please knowing what it would do to you.
Then: yourself. The anger you feel toward yourself has always been stronger, more corrosive, because you know you could have put a stop to this a long time ago. You hadn’t blocked his number two years ago when it all had ended. Not when he texted you more than half a year later. Not the month after that. Or at any other time you told yourself you would. You have allowed this to happen. This is not an easy thing to acknowledge. This is the last time, you think. And then you think about how you’ve said that before. You have said it and believed it, each time. This is, perhaps, the part that unsettles you most. The fact that each time you resolve to stop, you fully meant it. And yet, it takes one text each time for you to go back.
And then: Minjun. You are not proud of the anger you feel at him. You know how unfair it is, but you feel it anyway. He hadn’t pushed. At this hour? and then nothing, just Drive safe, and you’re angry at him for this, knowing it’s completely irrational. He is too understanding, you think suddenly, one of the things you first loved about him turning into an inconvenience. He believes you too easily. He’d let you walk out, didn’t think to stop you, didn’t ask you to cancel this work thing, and now you’re on the highway driving towards Jiyong’s penthouse.
But you know nothing about this is his fault. It’s yours. His only mistake is that he trusts you completely, in a way you don’t deserve.
This is the last time. You’ve said it before and you meant it each time, but now you truly believe it. There’s something you need to tell Jiyong, something that will make this final.
You let the anger settle into something cold, something you try to wear as armor as you pull into the private garage of his building. The doorman greets you with a respectful nod and doesn’t ask for identification. You have arrived at all kinds of odd hours enough times that your face is simply expected now. This is a fact you try to ignore, just like the shame you feel every time he watches you leave this building.
The elevator requires a code for the penthouse floor. You look at the keypad for a moment. You wonder, the way you wondered last time and the time before that, whether he’s changed it. You press the numbers.
03120420
The keypad accepts them. The doors close and the elevator begins to rise. You try not to think about the code. You’ve wondered before if he keeps those numbers so you remember. So that it causes you pain.
He’d been kissing the side of your face, down your jaw. You felt warm. Loved. Happy.
“You smell like me,” he’d said.
You were wearing his shirt under your jacket. You hadn’t been able to find your blouse, not even after ten minutes of the two of you laughing while you searched his place, genuinely baffled as to where it had ended up.
You’d tried to hide your face against his neck.
“Shy? Now?” He was smiling. “Because an hour ago—”
“Jiyong!”
He’d laughed softly and held you closer.
It was in the lobby that the security staff had approached. They’d explained, professionally, that the floor codes were rotated every few months as standard procedure, but that residents could request to keep their current one. Jiyong had said he wanted to change it. So you’d stood beside him, his shoulder warm against yours, and watched him type in the new code.
03120420
After the staff left, you’d turn to him. “You don’t want to write it down? You’ll forget.”
He smiled and shook his head. “Never.”
You’d open your mouth to ask what the numbers meant, but then you stopped. They were dates, you’d realized. March 12th. And today, April 20th. The day he’d asked you to be his girlfriend. And today, the first time you’d—
“Jiyong!” Your voice came out high, embarrassed. “Oh my god. Change it! Are you insane?”
He’d already been laughing, had started laughing the moment he saw the realization cross your face. You felt yourself blushing.
“You’re cute,” he’d said.
“Change it right now or—!”
“No.” He’d pulled you close again. “I need numbers I’ll always remember.”
And ever since that evening, every few months when security staff came with their politely worded reminder, he had chosen to keep it. For more than three years, he had kept it.
The elevator opens to the private foyer and the door to the penthouse is already open. He must have heard the elevator, or seen it on the security panel mounted near the entrance. Or perhaps, you think, and the thought stings, because he knew you’d come. You always do.
You take off your shoes in the entry way and slide on a pair of guest slippers before walking inside. Jiyong is standing in the main room. White t-shirt, dark jeans, bare feet. His hair is damp, recently showered. The penthouse is dim, most of the light coming from the city through the floor-to-ceiling windows that make up the far wall, Seoul spread out beyond the glass in all its late night brightness, the Han Riven threading through it like a dark ribbon.
You remember standing by that window once, his arms around you from behind, his lips near your ear as he whispered—
“Are you just going to stand there?” he asks, now in the present, cutting through the memory.
You don’t move from your spot. You still have your jacket on, your purse still hanging from your shoulder. "What was so urgent?"
“I just needed to see you,” he says.
“What for?” you ask.
He doesn’t answer. You hold his gaze for a moment, then you look away. You look around and find an empty glass on the console table, another on the coffee table behind him, something amber, mostly finished. A couple of small food containers beside it, half-eaten. The television is off, but there’s music playing from somewhere, something slow. His jacket is thrown over the back of the couch. There’s enough disarray that you know he’s been restless for hours and has tried to manage it alone, which is something you recognize because you’ve seen it before.
“How long have you been drinking?” you ask.
“I’m not drunk.”
“I didn’t ask if you were drunk,” you say.
The corner of his mouth lifts slightly, like he’s amused. “A few hours,” he says. “I’m fine.”
You look at him and you think: no, you’re not. You think it with the sort of knowledge that comes from knowing him, how he gets during these destructive episodes of his. He’s strung out in a way that has nothing to do with the drinks he’s obviously had. There’s a tension in him that he’s wearing through the casualness of his posture, visible if you know where to look. Around his eyes. The way he’s holding his shoulders. He looks exhausted in a way that sleep won’t fix.
You know his schedule. You shouldn’t, not anymore, and sometimes it’s not like you go looking for it, but it’s hard to escape it when his face is plastered all over billboards and every bit of news mentions his name or the band in some way or another. You know they have a few days in Seoul before Japan. The MADE tour’s shadow is still behind them, and now they’re doing this 10th year anniversary tour that carries its own expectations and pressure to perform on stage and in front of cameras. You know Seunghyun’s military service is coming. You know Jiyong has his solo tour next, then the last stretch with the other three before his own enlistment. That is a particular clock ticking in the background that you’ve tried hard not to think about.
You know all this and he has never once, not tonight or in any of the nights that came before this, asked you a single thing about your life.
Not about your work, not about where you’ve been, not about who you’ve become in the two years since the relationship ended. He only reaches out to you when he needs you. You have thought about this before. You are thinking about it now, still standing in his entryway with your jacket and purse still on.
“I was cooking dinner,” you say. “I had dinner plans with Minjun.”
“There’s food here,” he gestures toward the containers on the coffee table. “Or we can order something.”
He does this too. He hears Minjun’s name and just steps around it, like he never heard the word. He has never asked about him, who he is, what he does. The only reason Jiyong knows he exists at all is because you told him last year. I have a boyfriend now, I can’t keep doing this. He’d only looked at you for a long moment and then said: are you staying? You had stayed.
“I had plans and you texted,” you say. “Why?”
“I already told you. I needed to see you,” he says. And then, “The plans couldn’t have been that important. You’re here.”
Minjun is not important, because look. You’re here.
You hear it clearly. You turn back toward the door, ready to leave.
“Wait, wait, fuck. Sorry,” he says. The apology stops you because it’s a first, and because it sounds like he means it. You turn to look at him. “Can you just—Let’s have a drink. It can be coffee or whatever. Just….”
You’ve tried this before, in the beginning. When he first texted, you had come with the idea you could be civil, that you could recover something from the wreckage. A friendship, at least, because you two had been good friends once. You knew it wouldn’t be easy, but you’d tried. You’d sat with him, a drink in hand, and you’d tried. You know where it leads now. You want to tell him you can’t just sit with him. You can’t be any of the things he seems to need. Not a friend. Not a lover.
“You look terrible,” you say instead.
He laughs softly. “Well, thank you.”
“I mean it,” you say. “When did you last sleep properly?”
“Define properly.”
“Jiyong.”
“I sleep,” he says. “On the plane. Between rehearsals. During car rides.” The way he says this tells you he doesn’t register it as a problem. “Are you sure you don’t want a drink?”
“No.”
He watches you for a moment. “You’re not staying?”
You don’t answer, which is a problem, because the answer should have been an immediate no, and he of course knows it.
He crosses the room and stops in front you, close enough that you can smell him. Something warm and familiar, his perfume underneath the faint trace of alcohol. He doesn’t reach for you yet, he just stands there and looks at you and you look back. You think about your apartment, your kitchen, the man you left looking up houses for the two of you to move into together.
Say it, you think. Tell him what you came here to say and then leave.
“I’ve missed you,” he says, quietly. Honestly.
You’ve heard him say things for effect, have watched him be sweet and magnetic and deliberately, skillfully charming. You know what that looks like on him. This isn’t that. This is just him, at the end of a long day telling you something real. You hate him for it.
“Jiyong—”
“I know what you’re going to say. I know, okay?” He reaches up then, his hand finding the strap of your purse on your shoulder. He doesn’t take it, he just leaves his hand there. “I wasn’t going to text you. I sat here, thinking about it for three hours before I did.”
“Then you know—”
“Stay,” he says. “Just—Stay for a while.”
The city glitters behind him through all that glass. You think about the drive over, the decision that this time would be different. You then think about how many times you’ve stood here, different versions of the same moment, and how it has always, without exception, gone the same way. You don’t move.
“Stay,” he says again, softer this time.
His hand on your shoulder is warm through your jacket. You think about stepping back. You see it in your mind: one step to create distance, then you say what you came here to say, you make him understand why this is the last time. You know that’s what needs to be done. The gap between knowing and doing it has been the problem all along.
“You look tired,” you say, because it’s true and because it’s easier to say than other things. Up close like this, the exhaustion is more obvious than when he was across the room. It’s his schedule, all the pressure. You know what the version of Jiyong that the world gets costs the version standing in front of you now.
“I am tired.”
“Then sleep, Jiyong.”
“I can’t sleep,” he says. “I haven’t been able to since—There’s too much noise in my head. That’s why I needed to see you. You always know when something’s wrong. I don’t have to explain anything to you. You just—You help quiet my mind.”
You think about telling him that this isn’t the comfort he thinks it is. Knowing him well has come at a cost, and his words only make you feel pathetic, to know he’s learned that he only has to text and you’ll come. Like some service he only has to order. You don’t say any of it. You suddenly feel very tired.
“I can’t keep doing this,” you say instead. You hear the weakness in your voice and it humiliates you a little. You, who drove here so angry, who had it so clear in the car, who had the words lined up and ready.
His hand finally moves, this time it lifts the strap of your purse off your shoulder. He sets it down on the console table beside you. Then his fingers find the lapel of your jacket and he pauses for a second, like he’s waiting, giving the opportunity to stop him.
You don’t stop him.
He pushes the jacket back off your shoulders and you let him. When it’s gone you feel strangely vulnerable, exposed. The jacket and purse you’d kept on as if to say I’m only here for a moment, I’m not staying is now somewhere on the floor behind you. All that cold resolve from the drive. Gone.
“Stay,” he says for the third time. And then, almost a whisper: “Please.”
His mouth finds your jaw, your temple, the soft spot below your ear that makes you shiver, and you close your eyes.
You think about your car parked downstairs in the private garage, about the doorman who knows your face and barely meets your eyes anymore, who can probably guess what happens between your arriving and your leaving a few hours later. You think about your apartment and the smell of the dinner you didn’t get to eat and the man who told you to drive safe. You think about the excuse you gave him and the ease with which the lie came.
You think about the last time you said this was the last time and the time before that.
And then you think about how his hands feel warm and familiar, and how this part has always felt, underneath everything, underneath the history and the damage, like something true. Despite all the lies told to get here, once you’re here, once his hands are on you, this feels like relief. You’ve realized long before tonight, that this is part of why you keep coming back, and also why it’s a problem. The fact that it’s so addictive has already cost you so much.
Later the relief will turn into shame. Later you’ll go to your apartment and eventually into your new life in another country with a man who has never given you a reason to lie to him. You’ll carry the shame like you’ve carried the guilt.
But right now, you stop thinking.
You stop thinking and you let yourself have this. That is the only honest way to put it: you let yourself. No one is forcing you. You have never been passive in this, not once. The wanting has always been mutual and the choice to come here has always been yours.
His hands know you, which is what undoes the last of your resistance. There’s no fumbling, no uncertainty, not the awkward navigation of someone learning what you like. He just knows and so you let him take you to his bedroom where he finishes undressing you before pushing you back onto the bed.
He makes you come twice with his mouth and his fingers. He doesn’t draw this part out, he does all the things that get you off fast. His mouth over your clit, his fingers inside you, curled and steady as he fucks you with them. When he finally crawls over you, you pull him down to lick his lips, tasting yourself on them, before opening your mouth for a kiss.
Your hands go to his clothes next, quickly pulling off his shirt before going to his belt. Then the button, the zipper, your eyes on him as you pull his jeans and boxers down, letting him help you. Finally undressed you push him back and he goes easily, pulling a pillow under his head so he can watch as you move down his body.
You lick a trail down, your tongue tracing the tattoo on his side and then the two small x’s tattooed around his belly button. He’s breathing hard even before you take his cock in your hand and you look up and hold his gaze. You let your cheek brush against the side of his cock, feeling the heat, the weight of him against your skin. He makes a sound, a choked exhale. You’ve missed this, you realize. His body. His smell, how warm he is.
You turn your head and place your lips against the base, just a soft closed mouthed kiss. Then you trace upwards with your mouth, lips slightly parted along the length, until you get to the head of his cock. Still meeting his eyes, you open your mouth and take him inside. Your tongue flattens against the underside, applying more pleasure at the head of his cock, where he is most sensitive. You let saliva gather, wetting him thoroughly, making the glide easier, and because Jiyong has always liked this to be messy.
You take him deeper, your lips stretching to accommodate his girth, and then you begin to move. You focus on the rhythm, the in and out motion, varying the pressure on each retreat, sucking firmly, then relaxing so that your mouth is just a soft, wet sheath. You keep one hand on his lower belly, the other gripping the base of his cock, your thumb stroking the sensitive skin there.
His breathing becomes ragged, his hips twitch, a tiny involuntary thrust. You take it, you allow him that little bit of control. When you look up at him, his eyes are locked on yours. Still looking at him, you pull back until just the tip of his cock rests in your mouth. You suckle at it, your tongue flicking over the slit. He groans, head falling back for a moment before he forces to keep looking at you.
You dive down again, taking him as far as you can until your nose is pressed into the skin of his lower abdomen. You hold him there, letting the stretch of your jaw, the press of him against the back of your throat, become the only thing you can think about. You retreat, almost completely, before taking him all the way inside your mouth once more. You set a faster pace now, the wet, obscene sounds filling the room. Despite coming twice already, your own pleasure rises. It’s the power of this act, the way you can unravel him with your mouth, the way he tries and fails to keep still.
When he pushes his hips up and holds the back of your head to keep you still, you let him. He pushes hard against the back of your throat and you moan until your eyes water and he finally lets you go. You tighten your lips as you pull back, the suction pulling a ragged cry from his mouth.
You bob your head, keep the head of his cock in your mouth, intent on letting him finish, but with his fingers tangled in your hair he pushes you back. “Stop—fuck.,” he says, his voice rough.
You release home with a soft, wet pop. “You don’t want to come in my mouth?”
He groans, closes his eyes for a second, then opens his eyes. His hand is gentle on your hair. “I want to fuck you.”
You kiss his thigh, a damp open mouthed kiss, before moving to straddle him. You shift, reaching over to the bedside table to get a condom.
He grabs your hand. “Can we—without?”
You pause and stare at him.
“You’re on the pill, right?” he asks. You nod. “Please. I miss you. I want to feel you.”
You are hopelessly defenseless to Jiyong looking at you like this, saying please, wanting something you crave as well.
You wrap one hand around his length and then you lift yourself enough to guide him. Your pussy is swollen, glistening, still wet that when the broad head of his cock nudges against your entrance, it meets no resistance, only a silken, welcoming heat. You sink down, slowly, inch by inch, as you watch his face. Your lips part on a shaky exhale, your head falling back at the sensation. You can feel your inner walls stretching to accommodate him, your pussy clutching his cock tightly.
His hands move to your breasts, his fingers toying with your nipples, pinching you gently. The pleasure-pain has you clenching around him.
“Jiyong,” you gasp.
And then you begin to move. A shameless, hungry rocking that is all for your own pleasure. Your eyes are squeezed shut, your mouth slightly open, each breathy exhale a testament to the sensation of having him inside you again. He lets you set the pace, his hands roaming your body, first holding the curve of your waist, then resting on your thighs to feel your movements, before grabbing your ass.
Minutes pass in a haze of wet sounds and stifled groans. You can feel yourself getting close again, the pressure beginning to coil low and urgent.
“Let me watch,” he moans.
You know what he wants. You shift your weight back, planting your feet flat on the bed, bracing yourself on your arms behind you. The new angle makes his breathing falter because like this, he can see everything.
Like this, he can see where your bodies are joined. The way your slick folds part around his cock with each slow downward grind. The way your juices have his cock glistening in the low light. Jiyong has always loved how wet you get, the mess that sex can be, messy and loud, and so, so good. The angle drives him deeper. You lose yourself in it, in the slick drag and the way he fills you with his cock with each movement, the way the head of his cock keeps dragging over a spot inside you that has you moaning with every thrust.
Your control breaks when a particular thrust hits that spot with enough precision and just the perfect amount of pressure that you let out a loud cry. “Yeah,” you moan. “Right there. Fuck me—Just like that—”
His hands are on your thighs, his eyes between your legs where he’s fucking you, and you feel your inner muscles begin to flutter, a frantic rhythmic pulsing around his cock. You’re close. “Touch me,” you tell him.
Bringing his thumb to his mouth, he wets it thoroughly, his eyes never leaving where your bodies are joined. Then he brings his thumb to your clit and begins to circle it with firm, insistent pressure.
“Oh, fuck!” Your hips stutter, losing their rhythm, becoming frantic jerking motions as you chase your orgasm.
“That’s it,” he says, watching your face now. “Fuck yourself on my cock.”
Your cries grow louder, uninhibited, as you do exactly that. You know what you must look like, coming apart above him as you work yourself on his cock with mindless abandon. But there is no shame, there are no thoughts about why this is wrong, there is only the mind numbing pleasure he gives you. The way his cock feels as it plunges into your wet, gripping heat.
A powerful, shuddering contraction seizes you, so tight it’s almost painful, and then you’re coming. Your pussy clamps down on him, a series of hard, rhythmic pulses that have him cursing under you, one hand between your legs, the other holding you steady as you keep moving. You shift to your earlier position and you keep moving, riding him through the aftershocks, prolonging your orgasm with every grind of your hips.
He groans your name and then he thrusts up into you, once, twice, and then he buries himself to the hilt as he comes. Heat floods you as his cock pulses, and you open your eyes to watch him. The sensation of him coming inside you makes you moan and you clench your pussy around him, over and over again, knowing what it does to him, wanting to feel every pulse of it.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He has his head thrown back, his eyes closed, completely lost in the pleasure of his orgasm.
You rotate your hips, you clamp down on him on every grind, milking every last drop of cum from him until his whole body shudders beneath you. He says your name and finally stills.
You shift a little, full of cum, utterly content, and you let yourself collapse forward, your sweat slick body plastered against his chest and your head tucked under his chin. For those blissful moments, you simply listen to the frantic hammering of his heart under your ear, a perfect echo of your own.
For a few moments you lie there, his arm around you, and you simply forget.
And then he moves his hand to the back of your head, tilts your face up towards his, and he lowers his mouth towards yours. It’s then the spell breaks. Clean and sudden as a switch. The warmth drains out of the room so fast it makes you shiver.
You move first.
You sit up to find your things. The guilt arrives even before you pick up the first piece of clothing. You think of your boyfriend’s face when he said drive safe, the trust in his eyes as you added another lie to the mountain of lies you’ve told him. The dinner on the stove. The houses on the laptop he was showing you. You think of all that and how you are here, in this room, putting your clothes on, because you’ve been here doing what you said you wouldn’t do.
You finish dressing. You don’t look at Jiyong. You hear the nightstand drawer, then the click of a lighter.
When you do look, he’s exactly as you knew he’d be. He’s sitting up against the headboard, one knee bent, cigarette between his fingers, watching you with an expression you can’t quite decipher. The smoke curls up toward the ceiling and he tracks you with his eyes and says nothing. Something about the way he’s watching you without saying anything unsettles you and you turn away.
“This was the last time,” you say.
He exhales smoke.
“You’ve said that before,” he replies.
The tone makes you bristle. It’s not cruel, which probably makes it worse. It’s just Jiyong making an observation. You’ve said this so many times that it has lost its capacity to surprise him. To pull any reaction from him. It’s like he has filed your words away under things she says but doesn’t really mean. It makes you feel like you have no real power here, in whatever this thing between you is.
Anger and humiliation move through you. You turn and look at him again. He meets your eyes as he takes another drag of the cigarette.
“I mean it this time,” you say.
He looks at you for a moment. Then he taps ash off the end of the cigarette. “Okay.”
The way he says it like whatever you say only anger you further. You know he’s only acting on what past history has taught him. You’ve stood in this very same bedroom multiple times telling him the same thing and yet you’re here. Just a few minutes ago he was inside you.
“This was the last time, Jiyong,” you say it again. You realize you’re not repeating it to convince him, but because you need to hear yourself say it like you mean it. He only watches you through the smoke, but doesn’t say anything.
You go to the ensuite and you quickly clean yourself as best as you can, all the while avoiding looking in the mirror. You don’t want to see what you look like.
When you come out again, he’s up, having put on his jeans, shirtless, cigarette still in his hand. You don’t say anything as you walk out of the bedroom into the expanse of the penthouse. You start moving toward the door, feeling him follow at a distance. You find your jacket on the floor and you pick it up. You retrieve your phone from one of the pockets and you check it with your back to him.
One message from your boyfriend. Sent thirty minutes ago.
Hope it’s not too bad. Let me know when you’re heading back.
You read it once and you stop yourself from crying. Putting your phone back in the pocket of your jacket, you put it on. You take a breath.
“I want you to stop texting me,” you say. Your back is still to him. “No more calls. No more—” you gesture at the air. “Whatever tonight was. It needs to stop.”
He’s silent for a moment and then: “You always say that too.”
You turn around.
He’s leaning against a doorway, cigarette held loosely between two fingers. You look at him and you think about what you’ve been carrying all evening like a stone in your pocket, something heavy and final, something a part of you didn’t want to say, but that you knew it would be necessary for him to understand this is over.
“He asked me to marry him,” you say.
Jiyong is still. He looks at you like you’ve said something in a language he doesn’t understand.
“When?” he asks.
“Three weeks ago.”
Something moves across his expression at your answer. He takes a drag of the cigarette and then, with the absolute certainty of someone who hasn’t considered the alternative, he says: “And you said no, of course.”
You cannot blame him entirely for the assumption. You’ve come every time he’s texted, every time he’s called. You’ve kept that door open with your own hands. But it also angers you that he sees you as someone who apparently doesn’t get to belong to someone else. You’re just someone he calls when the noise gets too loud, when he wants to fuck. You’re nothing more than some service he needs.
“I said yes,” you say.
The cigarette stops halfway to his mouth.
The expression that crosses his face is not something you’ve seen on him before. You’ve seen Jiyong jealous before, it tends to run hot, and tends to express itself as something close to anger. This isn’t that, or at least it’s more than that. He seems, you think, disoriented, like the ground has shifted beneath his feet. For a moment he just looks at you, then the expression disappears. Like he’s shut some door before he can show more of his feelings.
“Congratulations,” he says, the word coming out fat.
You turn away.
“I mean it.” He doesn’t mean it. He pushes off the doorway, moves into the main room, and stubs the cigarette out in the ashtray on the coffee table. He picks up the glass with liquor in it and he drinks it. He doesn’t look at you while he does this. “Where did he propose? Somewhere nice, I’m sure. Somewhere thoughtful.” Pure disdain drips on the last word. “He seems like someone who does things properly.”
Something about his words don’t sit right with you, but you can’t quite pinpoint what’s wrong until he speaks again.
“His job is very boring, by the way.”
You stare at him.
“Did you—what the fuck, Jiyong. Did you have him investigated?”
He pours another glass. “Yeah.”
“You had my boyfriend—”
“Fiance,” he corrects you.
“—investigated.” You feel yourself go hot with anger. “Are you out of your mind?”
“Don’t worry,” he says. “He’s squeaky clean. No record. Nothing that could embarrass you. Just very boring.” He drinks the whole content from the glass in one go. “So what, like—” he goes to pour another one. “You’re moving in together now? You’re going to be a proper little wife?”
You’re angry and he’s being purposely mean. You almost don’t give an answer. But then you do. “He got a job offer abroad. I’m going with him.”
Something tightens in his jaw. “Ah, I see why you came here tonight.”
“What—”
The smile that appears on his face is one you’ve never liked. “The timeline, I get it now. Three weeks ago he asks you to marry him, you say yes, you agree to move abroad—” He gestures at the air, toward the bedroom. “And tonight you’re here. One last visit. Is he that boring in bed?”
“You need to stop drinking,” you say. “It makes you an asshole.”
He laughs. “I’m not drunk.” And then, looking at you. “Does he smell me on you when you get home? You never go home and spread your legs for him after spreading them for me here? I just find it very hard to believe a man can’t tell when his girlfriend has spent the evening being fucked by someone else.”
The room goes very still. Very quiet.
You look at him and you can see it on his face that he knows what he just said. His expression breaks for a fraction of a second. He almost winces at his own words, but then he holds your gaze and he doesn’t take it back. You know him well enough to know cruelty is a reflex. That he’s been shaken, that he’s upset. You know this, but your anger is greater.
“That’s a disgusting thing to say,” you tell him.
That brief moment of awareness, of knowing he should stop, disappears. “It’s just something I’ve been wondering about.” He sets the glass down on the table, then moves toward you, slowly. “So you leave here, you go back to him, you sleep in the same bed, and he just—”
“Stop talking.”
“—doesn’t notice, or doesn’t want to notice, maybe he just—”
“I said stop.”
“Or maybe you don’t let him touch you on the nights you come to me?” You try not to react to the words, but something must cross your face because you see the change in his expression. He almost looks pleased. “Ah, I see.” He’s close now, enough that you feel the warmth of his body. “You don’t, huh?” And then: “Does he get you off when you do? Does he know how?”
You should leave. You look up at him.“Yes,” you say it to wound him. “He’s good at it.”
“And yet, you’re here,” he says. He lifts one hand to touch your face and you slap it away. He grabs your wrist, keeps you close when you try to step back. “Which tells me he doesn’t know you the way I do. Doesn’t make you feel what I do.” A pause. “Does he know how loud you get when you get your pretty ass fucked?”
You feel anger, but then there’s also heat. It travels straight to your core. You try to step back, put some distance between you, he doesn’t let you. He pulls you against him and you push him back. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t—”
You push against his chest. He doesn't move. You push again, harder, and you struggle and pull and somewhere in the middle of it you’re also gripping his arms, your nails pressing in, holding on instead of pushing away.
Then he turns you around, your back to his chest, movements rough and pins your hands to the wall as he whispers against your ear. “The filth that comes out of your mouth when my cock is inside your ass—”
“Stop.”
“—he’s never heard it, has he? He’s never heard you beg for his cock?”
He’s always pretended not to hear Minjun’s name, has stepped around it like it wasn’t there, as if refusing to acknowledge the name kept the man from being real. Now, he won’t shut up about him. It should anger you, the way he’s talking. And it does anger you, it brings you shame, and yet you feel the way your body is reacting.
“I can’t—Jiyong, we can’t—” you try weakly. You hear how unconvincing you sound.
He lets go of your hands and grabs your hips, pulls you against him. He’s hard underneath the denim and you push back, wanting to feel him.
That’s all it takes.
You don’t know who moves first. You only know that when he works your jeans down you don’t fight back. You’re already bending over, your hands finding the edge of a console table as he pulls your panties to the side. Positioning yourself. Wanting.
You feel him behind you, opening his jeans. Then you feel the head of his cock dragging between your folds, feeling how wet you are. He pushes inside to the hilt and you cry out. Your pussy clamps down on him and he doesn’t give you a moment to breathe.
Before was need. Before was the relief of having something you both had missed. This is not that. This is fast and graceless and there is something almost punishing in it. Not violence, even if it’s rough. It’s anger with nowhere to go. Only hunger stripped of everything soft.
He tangles one hand on your hair, the other stays at your hip to steady you. He fucks you hard enough that you have to put a hand on the wall to keep from slamming your head against it, the other on the console table for balance. Your jeans are halfway down your legs so you can't spread them to give him more room. It keeps your body tight and it amplifies the pleasure of his cock pushing into you.
After a moment with his hand tangled in your hair, he pulls you back. He kisses the side of your face, open mouthed kisses, then finds a spot on your neck and bites. Brief, but painful, and you cry out. He soothes the bite with his tongue, sucks on the red mark, and you try to pull away then. You never allow him to mark you. Never.
He pulls you close again, forces you to turn your face towards him. You bite his lip. Angry. And so fucking turned on you hate yourself for it. He grunts against your mouth and kisses you anyway, hard, and you taste blood, his or yours, you can't tell. His hand slides from your jaw to your throat. He doesn’t squeeze, just holds, just enough pressure to make your thoughts dissolve. Your body clutches around him like a fist and he groans against your neck.
This time, he comes first. You feel it, the shudder that moves through him, the way he presses deep to fill you up. You moan at the feeling, your body already moving to take what it needs while he's still hard. You're close, close enough that another minute would do it, and you brace your hand against the wall and begin to move—
“My wedding gift for Minjun.”
The words land like icy water. Before you can react, he pulls back so suddenly you stumble, one hand catching the wall to keep yourself upright. Your body protests, the sharp frustrated ache of being so close and then nothing, and right alongside it, the humiliation. Hot and nauseating.
You turn and look at him shocked.
He’s already tucking himself back into his pants, away from you. Your hands are trembling as you reach down to pull your underwear and jeans up.
“You’re fucking disgusting,” you say.
“Maybe,” his tone is flat. “I’m not the one with a fiance and another man’s cum running down my leg, though.”
“Fuck you.”
“Just did,” he says.
The juvenile answer only serves to fan your anger. You feel, standing there, fixing your clothes with shaky fingers, like something has been taken from you. Not by him, really. By the version of yourself that promised not to come here and still did when he texted. By this horrible, relentless sickness that pulls you towards him even when you want to move the opposite away.
You feel tears burn behind your eyes. From the corner of your eye, you see him wipe a hand over his face. You hear him say fuck under his breath. You know Jiyong. You know him so well you know he’s regretting what he’s just done, the line he crossed with his words. But his regret comes in after the damage like someone arriving late to a fire. It doesn’t change anything.
“Look—” he starts.
You don’t listen. You are furious. And underneath the fury you are ashamed in a way you’ve never been before, because he’s right. You’re the one with a fiance. You’re the one who has been choosing to come here. Again and again.
He might be speaking again, but you tune it out. You pick up your purse. Without looking at him, you start moving again towards the entrance.
“What—” he is right behind you. “So you’re just going to leave now? Really? You’re going back to him.”
You don’t answer, you keep walking, thinking: just get to the door. Just get to the door and then you’re done.
“Don’t walk away from me,” he says.
You stop walking. You don’t turn around just yet, you simply stand in the middle of his living room, and you breathe. You think about the door which is less than twenty feet away. You could cover that in seconds if you walk fast and don’t look back.
But his words have somehow hit an old wound. “I’m not the one that walked away, Jiyong.”
You start walking. He catches you, one hand on your wrist that you push away.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he asks.
“It means,” you start, “that we are in this fucking mess because of you. You walked away first.” He looks at you and you can’t read his expression. “I might have been the one to say we needed to end things back then, but you’re the one who wanted it. You pulled away. You—” Your voice is steady. You’re almost surprised by how steady it is. “I barely saw you at the end. You would disappear. You wouldn’t talk to me. There was always something going on that needed your attention first. And I tried to understand. I knew you were busy with the album. But even when you had time, you wouldn’t see me. You gave me so many excuses until I finally realized what you were doing. You wanted me to end it. Your absurd belief that men shouldn’t end things, they shouldn’t be the ones breaking hearts.” You laugh, you swallow past the lump in your throat. “What did you think you were doing pushing me away?”
He doesn’t say anything, he just looks at you.
“I ended things. I gave you the freedom you wanted. Then, the next day Youngbae called me. He said you were miserable. He said I should talk to you. And I—” you stop, but then you decide to say it. “I missed you so much. Just after one day, I missed you so much that I let it get my hopes up. I thought maybe I'd read it wrong. I thought maybe I'd made a mistake, that maybe you still—"
He knows what comes next. You can see it in his face.
“I came to see you. I wanted to fix things. And I walked in here and you were fucking someone else. One day, Jiyong. You didn’t even wait one whole day.”
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t deny pushing you away. And you wait. You wait the way you’ve been waiting, you realize, for two years, for something that explains it, that reframes it, so that it lessens the hurt. You remember that day. The pain of seeing him with someone. The humiliation.
“You said you were here just to pick up some of your things,” he says, finally.
You laugh, mirthless. “Did you want me to tell you I loved you and wanted to fix things while you pulled your pants up?” You pause, then: “Did you even love me?”
He doesn’t answer. The silence is enough of an answer for you.
You always thought if you ever asked him this, if you ever brought up the hurt he caused you, that you would feel like something was resolved. Instead, it just feels like wasted years of your life. And you feel smaller, somehow, pathetic.
“I’m leaving,” you say. “Don’t contact me again.”
His hand closes around your arm.
Not violently, not with force. Just his hand on your arm, stopping you, the way he’s stopped you many times before when you tried to leave. Every time, that contact did something to you. It made you pause, it gave him the opening to push, to bring down your walls.
Not this time.
You are hurt in a way you think you weren’t even that night you walked in on him here, on the couch, fucking someone else. You are angry and humiliated.
You pull your arm back. He doesn’t let go, so you pull harder.
“Let go of me.”
“Just—”
“Let go.”
“No. You can’t just—”
What happens next is brief and ugly.
You pull your arm free and your hand comes up. It doesn’t feel like a conscious decision. It’s your body reacting, doing something before your mind has caught up. Your palm connects with the side of his face. The sound of it is awful. Your hand stings. He steps back, more from surprise than from the impact. And then he grabs your wrist and you pull away again.
“Just stop. Listen—” he tries to say.
You don’t want to hear it. “Let go. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t—Let go of me.”
You struggle. He speaks, you don’t hear it. Your nails drag down his neck. And then his hands are on your shoulders and he shoves you, not hard but hard enough, and your back hits the wall behind you. Your shoulder catches on the edge of something and it hurts. You almost go down. You catch yourself.
You are both breathing hard. The penthouse is completely silent. Even the music that was playing before has stopped, or you’ve stopped being able to hear it, the hammering of your heart drowning it out. You look at him and he looks at you.
There is a scratch on the side of his neck, a thin dark line. His chest is rising and falling. His eyes are—
It takes a moment to understand what you’re seeing. His eyes are wet. You think is he doing to cry?, but you don’t know, you can’t tell if what’s in them is anger or pain, or both, or something else, and you realize it doesn’t matter.
What matters is the line that's just been crossed and that you cannot take it back.
You stand with your back against the wall and you breathe. Unexpectedly, you think about being happy with Jiyong. You think about the beginning, the months where you were inseparable, when it was good. And it was good. He might not have loved you by the end, maybe he never loved you at all, but he cared. You know this. You cannot be wrong about this. He made you happy. He made you so happy that you understand why you held on to those memories, even after it ended. Why, for two years, you have allowed those memories to pull you back in, time and time again.
Now you understand that those memories happened to two people who no longer exist in the present. You understand what they have cost you. Your ability to be honest. Your ability to look your boyfriend in the eye without shame. A version of yourself that you could respect.
You look at Jiyong.
“I hate you,” you say. Your voice doesn’t shake. The words are quiet and they feel true at this time. “I hate what I’ve become.” You take a breath. “I wish we’d never met.”
The last sentence does something to his face that you weren’t prepared for. Not anger, not the defensive cruelty of earlier. He just looks devastated. Like he finally understands that this time is different from all the other times when you’d say this is the last time and still found yourself here after a while.
You force yourself to look away. You pick up your purse from the floor where it fell. You straighten your jacket. Your shoulder aches, but you don’t touch the tender spot.
You walk toward the door. You put your shoes on.
You don’t look back.
He doesn’t stop you.
In the small mirrored elevator on the way down you look at your own face and you think:
About story: A dinner that was supposed to be just a simple step forward suddenly turns into something much more. What starts as a sweet evening with Jiyong’s parents slowly shifts into something dangerously intimate once the door to his childhood bedroom closes. Surrounded by remnants of his past, faded posters, old memories, and glow-in-the-dark stars, the line between who he was and who he is now begins to blur. And when restraint finally breaks, it’s not just about desire anymore, but about risk, tension, and the thrill of almost getting caught...
Pairing: Jiyong (G-Dragon) x Reader
Word Count: 7,068 | Oneshot
Content Note: Meeting the parents, humor, teasing dynamics, explicit sexual content, dirty talk, semi-public risk (parents in the next room), loss of control, praise/degradation elements, intimacy, aftercare, almost getting caught, soft emotional ending
A/N: This is actually the first story that came out of my Korea trip. Give me a bottle of soju, drop me into Seoul at night and this is the kind of thing I end up writing... 🫣
Today is the first time you’re having dinner with Jiyong at his parents' house. You’ve been dreading this dinner for an entire month, basically from the moment Jiyong told you his parents would finally like to meet you. You played out every possible scenario in your head, every sentence, every look, and you were even prepared for the possibility that they’d tell you they couldn't imagine a woman like you by their son's side…
But reality turned out to be completely different. Your nervousness slowly fades as the evening progresses because Jiyong’s parents are incredibly sweet and friendly to you. You laugh, you talk, time seems to fly by, and suddenly it’s so late that going home doesn't even make sense anymore. When Jiyong’s parents suggest you stay the night and head home in the morning, you both agree before you even have time to think it over.
When you step into Jiyong’s room, you pause in the doorway for a moment. You just stand there, letting your eyes slowly glide over the space, as if you’ve stepped into something more personal, almost intimate. Faded posters on the walls, a bookshelf packed with old CDs and manga, a desk with photos of Jiyong and his friends, all of them striking strange angles and overly cool poses.
"Oh my god," you breathe out when you finally take a few steps inside. "This is amazing!"
Jiyong follows you, and the door clicks shut quietly behind you. "It’s a bit embarrassing, I’d say…" he mumbles and nervously rubbing the back of his neck. "I told my mom to redecorate this place years ago."
You turn to him, surprised and the corners of your lips twitch into a smile. "And destroy this time capsule? Never!" you answer seriously, walking over to the bookshelf. Your fingers slowly brush over the spines of the books and CDs, as if uncovering layers of his past. "Is this... is this a signed TVXQ album?" you ask and picking it up.
"I was fifteen," he answers softly.
"You were a fanboy!" you laugh and waving the signed CD in the air.
"I wasn't, I just..." he starts, but you don't let him finish.
"You definitely were," you interrupt and turning the album over in your hands. "Did you have more posters on the walls? Did you practice choreographies here in front of this mirror?"
Jiyong crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the wall, watching you with a slight tension in his eyes. "I’m not answering that."
"So, yes," you smirk victoriously, putting the album back in its original place and moving with interest to the corkboard hanging near the bed. You lean in closer, examining the individual photos and sensing out of the corner of your eye how Jiyong is watching you. He looks a little nervous for your taste, or maybe he’s just curious about what else you’ll discover and what will catch your eye in his teenage kingdom.
"Look at you, that hair... were you trying to look like an anime character?" you chuckle and pointing at one specific photo where Jiyong is posing like the biggest gangster in Seoul... or at least trying to. "Were you one of those teenagers who wanted to seem dark and mysterious?"
Jiyong snorts. "I was dark and mysterious," he counters, but there’s amusement and a hint of embarrassment in his voice.
You look at him over your shoulder and studying him for a moment. "You were cute…" you say more softly than you originally intended, and for a second, a brief silence falls between you, though you break it immediately, as if not wanting to let it develop further. "I guess you brought a lot of girls here and tried to impress them with your dance skills."
Jiyong just shifts his weight from one foot to the other and rolls his eyes, but he doesn't answer or comment on your assumptions. Meanwhile, you move toward the bed and stop beside it, lightly running your palm over the comforter before sitting down.
"And this bed…" you start again, "…how many girls have you had in here, Kwon Jiyong?"
He raises an eyebrow. "Do you really want to know?"
"Probably not," you laugh and bouncing slightly on the bed. The bed immediately creaks in protest and you both freeze, looking at each other.
"Yeah," Jiyong says drily. "that’s been a problem since I was sixteen."
You move slightly again and the bed creaks even louder, which making you laugh. "How could you... I mean, with this..." you start, but you don't even have to finish. Jiyong sighs. "Very carefully... and very quietly."
That amuses you even more and you laugh without restraint. You lie down on the bed and bury your head in the pillow. Only now do you notice the ceiling dotted with glow-in-the-dark stars, which are a bit faded but still clearly visible. "Stars…" you whisper. "Of course you had stars here."
Jiyong shrugs and takes a few steps closer to the bed. "Every drowning teenager needs stars, right?" he answers, and you lift your head to give him a quick smile. He was clearly always like this. Gentle, a bit of a dreamer, his head always somewhere between reality and a dream. That’s exactly what you love most about him...
You lay your head back down, but out of the corner of your eye, you catch something peeking out from under the mattress. Curiosity makes you reach out and pull it out. It’s a magazine and you just stare at it for a moment before realizing what kind of magazine it is. "Oh my god!" you gasp.
Jiyong instantly snaps to attention. "Give me that!" he says quietly but quickly, heading toward you with fast strides. You roll to the other side of the bed to escape him.
"Definitely not!" you laugh. "Is this what teenage Jiyong used when..."
"Y/N, I swear to God I’ll kill..."
"Under the mattress, how original!" you continue and flipping through the magazine while watching his face turn red out of the corner of your eye. "This is amazing... you were lying here, looking at these pictures while you were touching your..."
At that moment, he reaches out, finally snatches the magazine from your hand and quickly hides it in the nightstand drawer. You notice that besides his face, even his ears are red now.
"You’re terrible," he mumbles.
You sit up and lean back on your hands, still wearing an amused expression. "And you were a horny teenager with a creaky bed and porn magazines hidden under the mattress. God… I wish I knew you back then. I would’ve laughed at you and tortured you."
Jiyong just looks at you for a moment and then snorts. "You’re laughing at me and torturing me now…"
"That’s different," you reply and patting the bed beside you. "Come here and tell me more about your tragic and sexually frustrated youth."
Jiyong rolls his eyes but eventually sits down next to you. The bed creaks in protest again.
"Two," he says after a while, and you look at him, confused. "You asked me how many girls I’ve had in this bed. There were two. Both experiences were very quiet and very... fast."
You raise an eyebrow. "Fast?"
"I was sixteen, everything was fast. I lasted about two minutes, no more."
You snort. "And now?" you turn to him. Jiyong looks at you and his expression changes. You know that look all too well. He leans closer, his fingers gently tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear and staying there a second longer than necessary.
"Now I take my time," he says quietly. His fingers slowly slide from your ear to your neck, tracing its line. "Now I know exactly what I’m doing, I know how to touch a woman, how to satisfy her and how to make her beg."
"Jiyong..." his name sounds almost like a warning, but you know yourself that there’s no real resistance in your tone, more of a weak attempt to stop this before it’s too late. But Jiyong just stares at you, his eyes darkened, focused only on you, as if nothing else exists in that moment.
He leans closer, his voice turning husky as he whispers right against your lips, "Do you want to know what I was thinking about? Do you want to know what I was thinking about when I was lying in this bed, staring at those stars above me with my hand gripped tight around my hard cock?"
You swallow hard, your throat dry, yet you ask, barely audibly, "What?"
His fingers touch your skin again, gently brushing over your collarbone and sliding into the hollow of your throat, where they pause for a moment as if he’s savoring the contact. "I was imagining a girl…woman like you," he answers softly. "A beautiful woman, smart... exactly the kind I could have spread out under me while I fucked her."
Your body reacts before your mind does; you shiver and try to say something else. "Jiyong, your parents..."
"Are sleeping," he interrupts immediately, not allowing you to finish the sentence. His hand slides lower and, through the fabric of your shirt, brushes over your breast, very slowly, exploringly, as if testing how far he can go. "The house has been dead silent for at least an hour," he adds quietly.
You try to grasp the last bit of rationality. "The walls are thin and..."
He leans closer to you, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “Then you’ll have to be quiet,” he whispers. “Do you think you can do that for me? Do you think you can stay completely quiet while I do all those smutty things I’ve been fantasizing about since dinner?”
You shiver because his hand is still resting on your breast, moving in slow circles and squeezing your nipple through the fabric between his fingers. “What… what things?” you breathe out, barely able to control your voice as his mouth drifts down to your neck, his tongue sliding upward to your earlobe, which he gently bites.
“I was thinking about burying my face between your thighs,” he whispers, his voice deeper now, rougher. “I was thinking about how wet you’ll be, how you’ll taste when I spread you open with my tongue and how your pussy will clench around my tongue when you come…”
“Oh God…” slips out of you quietly, your fingers digging slightly into the blanket beneath you.
“I was thinking about sliding my fingers inside you. One at first, then two and how I’ll stretch you out. I was thinking about how tight you are, how hot, and how desperately you’ll want me,” he continues, his hand slowly sliding down from your breast across your belly, stopping just above your skirt. “I was thinking about fingering you until you’re shaking, crying, begging me to let you come...”
“Jiyong…”
His teeth catch your earlobe again. “And then…” his voice drops even lower, “...I was thinking about burying my cock inside you, so deep you forget your own name… how I’ll fuck you into this mattress, how you’ll be screaming into the pillow trying to stay quiet while I take this sweet little pussy…”
You tremble when his hand finally slips under your skirt between your thighs and he exhales sharply the moment he feels how wet you are, how that dampness has soaked into the fabric of your panties.
“We shouldn’t…” you whimper, but there is no real resistance in your voice, only a faint echo of what you know you’re supposed to say. You lower your gaze and watch the way his hand moves beneath the fabric of your skirt over your soaked panties.
“I know,” he says quietly, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. “Tell me to stop and I will… But if you don’t say it within five seconds, I’m going to undress you and show you exactly what adult Jiyong learned and teenage Jiyong never could…”
The five seconds pass before you even realize it. You don’t even manage to take a breath before he presses into you and kissing you hungrily and passionately. His tongue moves against yours with confidence, claiming you, while his hands are already reaching for the hem of your shirt. “Take it off,” he murmurs against your lips. “I need you to take it off right now.”
Your shirt is gone within seconds. His mouth immediately drops to your neck, biting, sucking hard enough that you know it will leave marks. His hands are everywhere on you. He unhooks your bra and pulls it down and his palms instantly wrapping around your breasts. He squeezes them, kneads them and rolls your nipples between his fingers until your back arches beneath him. “Look at those perfect tits…” he breathes. “Do you know how many times I stared at them during dinner? Every time you leaned forward and I could see down your shirt. I’ve been so fucking hard for hours thinking about how I’d lick them, suck them…”
“Really?” you gasp, your head falling back as he lowers himself to them, circling one nipple with his tongue before gently biting it.
“Yeah… I imagined sucking on these beautiful tits… bending you over the dining table and fucking you,” he murmurs, biting a little harder this time. You have to bite your lip to keep from making a loud sound.
“Exactly,” he whispers. “Stay quiet, be my good girl…”
He gives your breasts his full attention, as if nothing else in the world exists in that moment. He alternates between them slowly, methodically. His tongue glides over sensitive skin and his lips wrapping around them before releasing them again only to return with even more intensity. Sometimes he bites gently, sometimes he just presses harder and you squirm restlessly beneath him. Your back arches into the mattress, which creaks softly but dangerously under every movement. Every touch sends electric waves deep into your whole body. All your muscles tighten, your breathing quickens and you feel yourself growing wetter and wetter, the tension building inside you, spreading with every movement of his, with every word he breathes against your skin…
“Please,” you moan softly, barely audible, as if you’re trying to monitor how loud it sounds. “Please, I need…”
Jiyong pulls back slightly, just enough to see you. His lips are glossy, his breathing uneven, his eyes dark and focused only on you. “What do you need, baby?” he asks calmly, but there’s something in his voice that makes you hold your breath. “Tell me, be specific.”
You swallow, but the words still get stuck somewhere between your chest and your throat. “Touch me…” you breathe out in the end, almost helplessly.
His lips lift just slightly into the hint of a smile. “I am touching you,” he replies, running his fingers over your breast again.
You shake your head, just a little, nervously. “Lower, please…”
He pauses for a moment, watching you. He enjoys it, that moment when he knows he has you exactly where he wanted you. “Lower where?” he asks calmly, almost amused. “Use your words, tell me exactly where you want my hands.”
Your face burns and you can feel the heat rushing into it, but the need is stronger than the embarrassment. You can’t look away from him. “Between my legs,” you whisper. “Touch me between my legs.”
His fingers slide down, stopping again right at the hem of your skirt. He lightly traces the fabric, as if deciding. “What am I supposed to touch?” he asks quietly. “Say it… Say the word.”
You close your eyes for a moment and take a breath. “My… my pussy…”
“Good girl,” he answers immediately, satisfied and hooking his fingers into the hem of your skirt. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. He pulls your skirt down along with your panties in one smooth motion, as if he already has no patience left. The fabric slides down your legs and gathers somewhere around your ankles while you lie beneath him completely naked and spread out on his boyhood bed. For a moment you become intensely aware of it. Your gaze flickers up to the ceiling where those old glow-in-the-dark stars still shine, and the contrast between that innocent remnant of his adolescence and what is happening now throws you off balance for a second.
Jiyong pauses only briefly, his gaze moving over you slowly, hungrily, as if he wants to memorize you exactly like this. His hands return to your body again and you feel your breathing pick up instantly and the tension inside you rising again just as quickly.
“Fuck,” he exhales quietly, almost disbelievingly as he looks at you. His gaze travels over you slowly, thoroughly, as if he wants to memorize every detail. “Look at you. Naked in my bed and completely wet because of me… This is exactly what my teenage self used to secretly dream about.” There is a mix of satisfaction and fascination in his voice that hits you deep in your body. Before you can say anything, his hand slides between your thighs and the groan that leaves him when he feels how wet you are makes you clench instinctively around nothing, as if reacting to the sound of his voice alone.
“Jesus, baby,” he murmurs, his fingers starting to move along your folds. Slowly, deliberately, spreading the wetness he caused himself. “You’re completely soaked… all this just from my words?” He pauses for a moment, his fingers barely touching your skin and then adds quietly, his voice full of satisfaction: “Your pussy is glistening for me.”
“Yes…” you breathe out, unevenly, barely managing to keep your voice down even though you know you have to.
“From me telling you how I’ve been thinking about fucking you?” he continues, while one finger starts slowly circling your clit, just lightly enough to drive you insane. “How I’m going to lick this beautiful pussy until you start crying?”
“Yes, please…” slips out of you again. Your voice is shaky and your whole body is tense with anticipation.
He stops. “Please what?”
You lift your gaze to him, your breath catching, your body already reacting on its own. “Please, touch me… really touch me…”
His lips lift slightly again. “Like this?” he asks quietly and before you can answer, he slides one finger inside you. You gasp and your body tenses. “Is that what you need? My fingers in this tight little pussy?”
“More…”
“More?” he repeats, almost amused and adds a second finger, slowly stretching you, watching every reaction of yours. “You needy girl… You can’t even control yourself with just two fingers inside your pussy…”
He starts thrusting his fingers slowly but deeply. The rhythm is exact and keeping you right on the edge but not letting you come. He curls his fingers, searching for that spot inside you, and when he finally finds it, your whole body jerks uncontrollably. You quickly turn your head and press the back of your hand against your mouth to keep quiet, to keep anything more than a muffled moan from slipping out. The bed creaks softly beneath you and reminding you where you are, how close his parents are, how little it would take for you to get caught.
“There it is,” he murmurs, satisfied, and you can hear it in his voice, that calm, that certainty. “I can feel how desperately you want to come…”
“Please…” you whisper desperately.
“Not yet.” He pulls his fingers out and you moan at the sudden emptiness before you can stop yourself. “First I want to taste you. I’ve been thinking about it all evening…”
He moves down your body slowly and his hands sliding over your hips, stopping at your thighs, which he gently spreads further apart. He settles between them and looks up at you, his dark eyes holding you in place, forcing you to breathe slowly even though it’s almost impossible.
“Remember,” he says quietly but firmly, his hands running over your thighs, “not a sound. If you wake my parents, I stop. Do you understand?”
You nod desperately and unable to look away from him.
“Good girl.” he murmurs, and then finally touches you. At the very first contact of his tongue, you see stars, and not just the ones stuck to the ceiling... Your head falls back against the pillow, your fingers digging into the sheets as he starts licking you slowly, with full focus and careful attention. He savors you. The sound he makes, that deep, low groan of satisfaction, spreads through your body and vibrates right through your most sensitive places. One hand grips your thigh, holding your legs open.
“It’s even better than I imagined,” he growls against you, his voice muffled but clearly audible. “You taste like fucking heaven...”
He eats you like he’s starving for it. Long, slow strokes from your entrance up to your clit. His tongue dips inside you and moving in shallow thrusts. After a moment his lips focus on your clit and start sucking. The flicking movements of his tongue are so intense you don’t believe you can last much longer. Your body trembles beneath him, trying to stay quiet, but every touch pushes you closer and closer to the edge.
For a moment he pulls back, just enough to look at you. “Do you like it?” he breathes quietly. “Do you like my tongue in your pussy?”
“Yes, God, yes…” you gasp unevenly, your voice breaking as you try to control how loud it sounds.
Jiyong doesn’t stop for even a second, his movements smooth and certain, because he knows you well and knows exactly where to touch and how long to stay there. “Do you know what I used to do in this bed?” he whispers against your skin, his voice calm, almost dangerously relaxed. He pushes two fingers deep inside you again and starts moving them while his tongue goes back to work on your clit. “I used to jerk off and imagining exactly this… A beautiful woman spread out beneath me. Wet, willing, begging me to let her come…”
His fingers curl exactly the way you need and when he hits that spot, your whole body jerks. You quickly grab the pillow and press it against your face to muffle the sound that tries to tear its way out of you, because you know you can’t let it out loud.
“Do you know how many times I jerked off in this bed?” he continues, as if he’s talking about something completely ordinary. “I thought about girls, imagined what it would be like to taste them…”
“I don’t know,” you mumble, not even sure what he’s asking anymore because you can’t focus on anything but his fingers and his tongue.
“A million times,” he murmurs calmly and his tongue dragging slowly over your folds again, a long, deliberate stroke that makes you arch once more. “But I never imagined it would be this good…”
You arch into him, your fingers tangling in his hair and pulling harder than you meant to.
“Exactly,” he mutters against you without stopping. He lets out a quiet laugh and the vibration runs through your whole body, making you shudder again. “Fuck, you’re gripping my fingers so tight… this greedy little pussy wants to come, doesn’t it?”
“Please… please, I need…” your voice breaks, you can barely keep the words together anymore.
“Need what?” he doesn’t let you escape. “You need to come on my tongue?” His lips tighten around your clit and your hips lift instinctively off the bed.
“Yes, God, yes,”
“Then ask me properly.”
You swallow, your eyes filling with tears from the intensity flooding you from every direction. “Please,” you breathe out unevenly. “Please let me come, please, I need it… I’ll do anything…”
He pauses just long enough to take a breath. “Anything?” he repeats quietly, his fingers speeding up. “Will you suck my cock after? Will you get on your knees like a good little slut and take it into your mouth until you’re choking?” he whispers.
“Yes..”
“Will you let me fuck your mouth?”
“Yes… anything, please…”
“Then come,” His mouth clamps firmly around your clit and presses down while his fingers start driving hard into that sensitive spot inside you again. “Come now...”
The orgasm hits you like lightning. A sharp, sudden current that completely consumes you. You bury your face deep into the pillow to muffle the cry that forces its way out of you. Your body tightens violently, shaking, clenching around his fingers while Jiyong doesn’t stop. He keeps licking you and keeps moving his fingers, deliberately stretching out every wave of that feeling until you completely fall apart, sobbing in broken breaths. Eventually, he slows down. He gives you a moment, lets you just lie there, breathe, try to put yourself back together. The bed creaks softly beneath you, but this time you barely register it.
After a while he moves back up to you and leaning over and kissing you. His lips are hot, wet, and from the way he kisses you, you know this is only the beginning for him. Then he takes your hand and presses it firmly against the hard bulge in his pants, letting you feel it fully, leaving no room for doubt.
“Feel that?” he whispers into your ear, his voice rough, broken by breath he still can’t quite steady. He presses your hand tighter against himself, as if he wants you to feel it completely. “This is what you do to me. I’m this hard just from eating your pussy…”
You squeeze him through the fabric instinctively, curiously and he hisses out a breath, his whole body tensing. “I’ve been hard since dinner,” he continues and his voice spreading over your skin as he slowly moves against your hand. “I was watching you smile, watching you talk… and the whole time I was thinking about what I want to do to you.” He rocks against your palm slightly, like he can’t control it. “I almost lost it… the thought of me alone here, jerking off in this bed… and having no idea that one day I’d have someone like you under me.”
“Jiyong…” you breathe, but he doesn’t let you finish.
“Take it out,” he says quietly, but there’s no room for hesitation in his tone.
You obey. Your hands tremble for a moment because your fingers not as steady as you’d like because the aftershocks of your orgasm are still holding onto you. You pull his pants down and wrap your hand around him. He’s hard, heavy, hot and incredibly sensitive. The moment your fingers slide over the wet tip, he groans deep in his throat. The sound is muffled, but still too loud for where you are.
“Careful,” you whisper, leaning closer to him. “You have to be quiet too.”
“I know,” he answers, but his breathing is uneven, broken. He starts thrusting slowly into your grip, losing control of the pace. “I know, but your hand feels so good…”
You look up at him, something new still flickering in your eyes, something bolder than what you had a moment ago. “What about my mouth?”
His whole body shudders. “Fuck…”
“Would you like that?” you ask quietly. You’re still sitting on his bed, in his room, under those stars and suddenly it feels like you’re the one holding the situation, at least for a moment. “Do you want me to suck you off here? Add it to all those teenage fantasies of yours?”
“Yes, God, yes,”
You gently push him back onto his back. The mattress creaks louder than before, but neither of you pays attention anymore. You slowly move lower along his body and bracing your knees on the bed as you settle between his thighs. One hand wraps around him again at the base and you look up at him. Then you take him into your mouth. His hand shoots up to his face immediately, pressing his palm over his mouth to muffle the sound that escapes him. As you take him deeper, slowly, inch by inch, his body tenses and his back lifts off the bed. When you reach as far as you can, his breath catches.
“Fuck,” he mutters into his own hand. “That mouth of yours…”
You start moving, slowly up and down, your tongue sliding over the sensitive tip, your hand working where you can’t reach. He’s big and you feel it in your jaw, in the way he forces you to open more than feels natural. The weight of him on your tongue makes you let out a quiet moan, and the vibration travels straight through him.
He curses again, more muffled this time. “You’re way too good at this,” he breathes unevenly. “If you keep going like this, I’m going to come in about thirty seconds…”
Suddenly you stop. The air between you stills for a moment. He lets out a quiet, dissatisfied whine, almost unexpectedly.
“Not yet,” you say softly. “You promised you’d fuck me.”
For a moment he just stares at you and then he sits up, pulls you toward him and kisses you hard, almost painfully, like he’s trying to make up for every second you made him wait. “I did promise that, didn’t I?” he mutters against your lips. “On your back.”
You obey almost immediately. You lie back on the bed and your body still trembling from the aftershocks, while he moves over you and settles between your thighs. His movements are more focused now, slower, but full of tension. You feel him against you, hard, hot, the tip of him pressing at your entrance.
“Still so wet,” he murmurs against your lips as he leans over you, brushing them lightly, as if savoring the contrast between your uneven breathing and his control. His forehead rests against yours and your breaths mixing. “This pussy is desperate for my cock, isn’t it?”
You close your eyes and nod, your hips shifting slightly against him as if your body is answering for you. “Yes, always…”
Jiyong runs his hand over your thigh and his fingers digging into your skin as he pulls you a little closer. “I can’t wait to feel you around me,” he whispers, his voice low and tense. “I can’t wait to fill you up…”
You look up at him, still unable to steady your breathing. Slowly you spread your legs wider, inviting him closer. “Then do it,” you say quietly. “Fuck me, Jiyong.”
Jiyong braces one hand next to your head and leans down to kiss you again. His expression shifts, softens, as if he’s suddenly that gentler version of himself again and trying to keep control over the wild side that wants to give you everything you ask for. “Remember,” he whispers, and his voice is suddenly sharp, focused. “You can’t make a single sound.”
You nod, but you barely have time to react before he presses closer. He guides himself slowly, every movement careful, incredibly precise. And then he finally pushes inside you.
You both freeze for a moment. The sensation is immediate, full, almost stealing your breath for a second. He stops completely, one arm still braced beside your head while his other hand moves to your thigh and lifts it higher, and you feel how he fills you, how he stretches you exactly the way you wanted... The bed creaks loudly beneath you and you both hold your breath at the same time. Neither of you moves, you just listen. The tension hangs in the air and every second stretching endlessly.
“Okay,” he exhales quietly, almost in relief, but still careful. “Okay… now I’m going to move and you’re going to stay quiet.”
He starts slowly. Long, deep movements that make you grip the sheets beneath you and your fingers digging into them as your legs tense. Every thrust is controlled, precise, like he’s balancing between what he wants to do and what he can allow himself. The bed protests softly beneath you, but it’s still manageable.
“God, you’re so tight,” he breathes and leans closer to you. “This pussy is squeezing me so hard, like it never wants to let me go,” he whispers.
The pace quickens, Jiyong starts fucking you faster, harder, and the bed beneath you begins to creak. The headboard knocks against the wall with every thrust, but you don’t care anymore. You need this, you need him…
“Do you like it?” he pants against your ear. “Do you like me fucking you in my teenage bed while my parents are sleeping next door?”
“Yes…”
“Do you like that my mom could walk in any second? See what a slut you are for her son?”
“Yes, God,” you breathe out, letting out a quiet whine. Your legs wrap tighter around Jiyong’s hips, as if you never want to let him go again.
“You dirty little girl...” He lifts your leg higher, changing the angle and pushing deeper. “At dinner you were such a good girl and look at you now… spread out, taking my cock and trying not to scream.”
“Jiyong, I’m going to…”
“Already?” he sounds almost excited. “I barely started and you’re already about to come again?”
“I can’t help it, it feels so good with you…” you bury your hands in his hair and pull gently. You pull him closer so you can kiss him.
“Then come.” He reaches between you, his fingers finding your clit. “Come on my cock so I can feel it.”
“I’ll be too loud…”
He starts thrusting into you harder and the rhythm breaking into something wilder, more uncontrolled. The bed creaks beneath you, louder now, steady, every movement imprinting itself into it. It’s too loud, you know it, you both know it, but you can’t stop, you can’t slow down.
You shake your head, your body trembling. “I can’t stay quiet…”
For a moment he leans down to you again, almost covering you, and kisses you hard and deep. His mouth swallows everything you would have otherwise cried out. “Then don’t…” he whispers against your lips.
The orgasm hits you again, this time sharp, uncontrollable and your body clenching around him so tightly that he gasps. He holds you firmly as he keeps moving with you until it pulls him under too. He comes inside you, muffled, your name breaking apart on his lips, lost in the kiss.
The bed creaks loudly beneath you one last time, the wood protesting under the weight of your bodies and then everything suddenly breaks into silence. Not complete silence, that wouldn’t even be possible. What lingers is the aftermath. Your breathing is fast and uneven, like you’ve just run something much longer than the few steps between the door and the bed. Your heart is pounding so loudly you feel like it’s vibrating through the mattress, like that rhythm is spreading through the whole room, into the walls, into the hallway… like someone else has to hear it.
The warmth between you hasn’t faded yet. Skin against skin, sticky, sensitive, every small movement echoing with the tension that hasn’t fully dissolved yet. You lie there tangled together, legs intertwined and his hand still resting somewhere on your side as if he doesn’t want to let you go even an inch further away. His chest rises against your face and you feel every breath, every slow attempt to calm down.
“This…” Jiyong exhales after a moment, his voice still slightly hoarse, “…wasn’t quiet.”
You turn your head toward him, your hair sticking to your forehead and neck, and it takes you a second to even focus. “That’s your fault.”
“My fault?”
“You told me not to be quiet.”
He lets out a quiet chuckle, the sound soft, tired, but still carrying that amused edge. “I didn’t think you’d take me so literally.”
You want to say something, maybe argue again, maybe just nudge him with your elbow, but you don’t get the chance, because you both hear it. A quiet, muffled sound you can’t miss. Footsteps.
You freeze before you even realize it consciously. Your body reacts on instinct, your muscles tightening and your breath stopping completely for a moment, as if you’re trying to disappear. Jiyong reacts almost the same, just a fraction of a second later. Your eyes meet and everything is in that look: realization, panic, a clear oh fuck…
The footsteps move slowly down the hallway, unmistakably heading toward his room. Instinct makes you move before your thoughts catch up. You shove him away, sharp and desperate, just to create space. The blanket tangles, catches on your knee, and you struggle with it for a moment before you manage to pull it over yourself. Your heart is pounding even louder now, not from arousal but from pure panic that spreads all the way to your fingertips.
The footsteps stop right outside the door and for a moment there is silence. Both of you stare at the door, almost hypnotized, and then a voice breaks through.
“Jiyong?” His mother’s voice is sleepy and confused. “Is everything okay? I heard some noises.”
Your gaze drops automatically to the doorknob. You watch it so intensely you feel like you’re holding it in place with sheer will. It would take so little. One movement, one decision…
“I’m fine, Mom!” Jiyong calls out, his voice impressively calm considering everything that just happened. “Just… I just dropped something. Sorry for waking you up.”
You can’t believe how normal he sounds and how steady his voice is, as if he isn’t lying there naked next to you, as if you aren’t barely covered and still shaking from everything.
The silence that follows feels endless. The seconds stretch, drag, each one lasting far too long. You keep staring at the handle, waiting for it to move at any moment. Scenarios race through your mind one after another, the door opening, light from the hallway flooding the room, his mother’s gaze falling on the bed, on both of you… on you. Exactly like this. The way she must never see you. You feel your face burning and heat rising all the way to your ears.
“Alright. Good night, sweetheart, good night, Y/N.”
Hearing her say your name hits you harder than anything else. “Good night!” you answer quietly and your face burning. You try to sound normal, calm, as if you aren’t lying there under the blanket wondering if this is the end of your role as Jiyong’s sweet, polite girlfriend the way his parents saw you at dinner.
The footsteps start moving again and slowly fading away. Each step feels lighter than the one before, like the tension is slowly peeling off you. You hear the bedroom door at the end of the hall close.
You don’t say anything, you just wait. Ten seconds, twenty, a full minute. And then you both break. You collapse into quiet, hysterical laughter, trying to keep it inside but failing completely. Your body shakes, your shoulders tremble and your breath falls apart again, this time not from arousal but from that absurd relief that comes after fear.
“Oh my God,” you gasp, tears running down your face. “Oh my God, what did we just do?”
“I dropped something,” he pants, shaking. “I told her I dropped something…”
That sentence makes you laugh even harder. It’s completely ridiculous, painfully childish, and at the same time terrifying, because it would have taken so little for his mom to actually open the door.
You lie there tangled together, his arm coming back around your shoulders as if he needs to reassure both of you that the danger is really over, that you’re safe. You try to stay quiet, but every now and then a muffled burst of laughter escapes anyway.
“God.” You cover your face with your hands. “She knows, she definitely knows.”
“She doesn’t know.”
“She knows, Jiyong! She knew I wasn’t asleep too, she said good night to me!”
“Maybe she… suspects. That’s different.”
“I’ll never be able to look her in the eyes again, I’ll have to fake my own death…”
“You’re being dramatic… But maybe next time we visit, we should get a hotel.”
“Or just not have sex in your parents’ house.”
“That’s also an option.” He takes some tissues from the nightstand and fumbles with them in the dim light of the lamp for a moment before finding them. He gently cleans you both and his touch now calmer and more caring, as if he’s trying to bring things back into balance. “Less fun, but safer.”
You curl up against him and hide your face in the crook of his neck. His skin is still warm and smells familiar, in a comforting way that slowly pulls you back from that wave of adrenaline. Above you, the faded stars glow softly in the dark, some barely visible, but still there. A quiet reminder of something that existed long before you.
“I think your teenage self would be impressed,” you whisper and press a kiss to Jiyong’s neck.
He laughs and kisses your hair and his lips lingering there for a moment. “My teenage self would have come the second you touched him.”
“You think?”
“Definitely.” He pulls the blanket over both of you again, properly this time, hiding you completely from the world. “But my teenage self would have never even been able to imagine someone like you… so I’d say my adult self is winning.”
“Winning what?”
“Life.” He holds you tighter. “I’m winning at life over my teenage self.”
You smile against his chest and close your eyes. Your thoughts keep running for a while. Tomorrow, breakfast, his mother, her gaze… You know it’s going to be awkward, maybe painfully awkward, but that thought fades after a moment, because right now, in this room full of faded posters, teenage memories, and glowing stars, you’re with the person you love more than anything in the world, more than anything under the sun and under the stars…
His warmth surrounds you and his fingers gently tracing your back reassure you that you are exactly where you’re meant to be, exactly where you want to be forever… in his arms.
Dry humping with Jiyong? Maybe when he has that fuckin neon green hair during MADE?
Okay, challenge accepted! Thank you for this request 🖤
Ready, set...go 🟢
About Story: He says he needs fifteen minutes. You’ve already given him an hour. Neon green under studio lights, the track still unfinished. You decide you’re done waiting. Fully dressed doesn’t mean harmless, especially when proximity turns rhythmic. Some deadlines get extended, some friction doesn’t require undressing.
Pairing: Jiyong (G-Dragon) x Reader (FWB)
Word Count: 2, 817 | Oneshot
Content Note: FWB dynamics, MADE era, age gap (Jiyong 27 / Reader 20), explicit sexual content, dry humping, dirty talk, teasing
It’s been exactly forty-eight minutes since you started lying in the dim studio, staring blankly at the ceiling. In that time you’ve checked your phone several times, each time with the quiet hope that the numbers on the screen have finally moved forward by more than a few miserable minutes. Time moves strangely in this studio, stretched out, slow, lazy…
Jiyong texted you that he was alone at the studio and that you should come over. In your head that was a pretty clear signal. Get out of bed, throw on the first clothes you find on the floor beside it, run for the last subway that will carry you across almost the entire city to get here. You had a plan, and it was a good one. You’d arrive, he’d already be waiting for you, horny and impatient, drag you somewhere outside or at least pull you down onto the fucking old couch you’re lying on right now and the night would end very differently.
Except things don’t always go according to plan, and so now you’re lying uselessly on that same couch, waiting, while your plan sits barely a few meters away from you, completely absorbed in the monitor and not paying attention to you at all. Not even a little. The frustration slowly builds, along with a strange sensitivity to everything around you. Out of the corner of your eye you watch the top of Jiyong’s head and his messy neon-green hair, which would normally calm you down a little, but right now just sparks something oddly aggressive in you. There’s the steady clicking of the mouse, the muted hum of the speakers, and the smell in the air: a mix of stale coffee, recycled air and his cologne. Somewhere near the ceiling the air conditioner drones monotonously, the cold air occasionally shifting the papers on the desk, but otherwise the room is almost perfectly still. The longer you lie there doing nothing, the more that sound starts to irritate you.
“How much longer, Ji?” you finally ask, pushing yourself up because the useless waiting has started to make your back ache. You sit forward, elbows on your knees, as if changing position might somehow help your frustration.
“Give me fifteen minutes, kitten,” Jiyong mutters without turning around, continuing his creative process that is clearly far more interesting to him than you are.
“You said that an hour ago…”
He doesn’t react to that at all, which only annoys you more. For a moment you just watch him, hunched over the desk, one knee braced against the chair, eyes glued to the monitor as if the rest of the world doesn’t currently exist.
“What are you even doing?” you ask after a moment.
“I need to finish a track,” he answers.
“And that has to happen right now?”
“Yeah, I’ve got a deadline.”
“Then why did you text me to come?”
Silence spreads through the room again. The monitor lights up his profile with cold light and for a second you get the feeling he’s ignoring you on purpose.
“This is really romantic,” you mutter. “ I came all the way across the city and you won’t even look at me...”
“I don’t need to look, I can sense you, kitten.”
“That counts?”
“Yeah.”
You glance around the room in frustration and grab a pen lying on the small table beside the couch. You tap it against your knee, tapping out a quiet, uneven rhythm that seems much louder in the quiet room than it should.
“Stop.”
He says it calmly, but he still doesn’t turn toward you, his eyes stuck to the monitor. Only his fingers on the mouse pause for a moment, as if waiting to see whether you’ll listen.
The pen keeps tapping against your knee.
“How long is it going to take?”
Jiyong exhales shortly through his nose, irritated. “Twenty minutes.”
“You said fifteen a minute ago!”
“That was before you started interrupting me.”
You throw the pen at him in irritation. It bounces off his back with a dull plastic knock and disappears somewhere under the desk into a dark corner where it’ll probably never be found again. Your tactic clearly doesn’t provoke any reaction from him though, because he doesn’t move, doesn’t make a sound, he just keeps working.
After a moment you get up and walk over to the chair standing in the corner. You drag it over and place it right beside him in a deliberately loud way. Jiyong freezes for a second and the clicking of the mouse stops. Finally he gives you a direct look, a little more attention.
“What are you doing?”
“You told me to come.”
“I told you to come to the studio, not breathe down my neck while I’m working.”
You don’t react to that at all and push the chair as close to him as possible. You rest your chin on your hand and fix your gaze on the monitor as if you actually understand the colorful columns on the screen.
“Back to the couch, Y/N,” he says, eyes already returning to the monitor. The cursor moves back and forth across the screen in small precise motions, as if trying to ignore the fact that you’re sitting right next to him—so close your bodies almost touch.
“I can’t see well from the couch. It’s better from here.”
“This isn’t a concert, Y/N. There’s nothing to watch.” He glances at you again, the look quick, evaluating, maybe a little irritated.
“Are you going to tell me what’s so important that it’s taking this long?”
He stays quiet for a moment and the mouse starts clicking again. One of the colored blocks on the screen shifts a few millimeters to the left.
“No.”
You reach out and press a random key on the keyboard. A pop-up window instantly appears on the monitor and the room is suddenly flooded with brighter blue light from the screen while, in your peripheral vision, you see Jiyong’s jaw tighten dangerously.
“What are you doing?”
You don’t answer. Your finger lingers over the keyboard for another second, as if you’re considering doing it again just to provoke him a little more. Then you quickly pull your hand back into your lap.
“Helping you.” You tilt your head slightly and pretend to study the monitor again, as if you actually understand all those colored tracks and curves. In reality you’re only watching his reaction from the corner of your eye.
You reach for the keyboard again, but this time he catches your wrist halfway through the motion.
“Stop…”
“No,” you say simply, trying to pull your wrist out of his grip. His hand is ice-cold, fingers firm and dry from sitting at the computer for hours, and you become painfully aware of the contrast between his skin and your own. For a moment you watch his fingers around your wrist and then look up at his face. The glow of the monitor reflects in his eyes and strands of that bright green hair fall across his forehead in the light.
“Let go,” you breathe when you realize again just how close you are now.
“If I let go, will you stop?”
“Probably not.”
On the third try you slip your wrist out of his grip, but instead of returning to the couch you stay sitting right beside him. Your knee almost touches his thigh. You watch the screen even though you’re not actually processing anything on it.
“Y/N,” he mutters warningly. His voice is low and calm, but you know that tone. That tone means he knows exactly what you’re doing.
“What?” You tilt your head, the innocent expression almost exaggerated.
“Don’t.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
His eyes finally leave the monitor and slide over to you slowly, assessing.
“Exactly that.”
You smile, because you know you’re irritating him on purpose. And that’s exactly what you wanted.
Then, without another warning, you swing one leg over and settle yourself onto his lap. Jiyong lets out a surprised breath and his hands automatically move to your hips. “Seunghyun is in the next room…” he says in a warning tone, but from the sound of it you can tell he’s not actually trying to stop you.
“Right now I don’t give a fuck about Seunghyun,” you sigh, rolling your hips against the growing hardness in his jeans while your teeth and tongue attack the side of his neck.
“Strong language for such a well-behaved girl…” Jiyong mutters, tilting his head slightly to the side to give you better access. His grip on your hips tightens suddenly. “Seunghyun would be disappointed in you… he thinks you’re sweet, nice, practically a saint… that you’re a good influence on me…” he continues, then hisses when your teeth bite down harder than they should just below his ear.
You shift your hips experimentally, instinctively searching for more friction. For a moment Jiyong removes one hand from your hip. Before you can react, it slides slowly up the inside of your thigh. Your skirt rides up and the fabric rustles softly against his jeans while his fingers stop right at the edge of your soaked panties. His thumb presses through the fabric against your clit and your hips immediately push into his hand in a single sharp movement.
“Well, well, well…” he murmurs quietly, his thumb starting to circle slowly over your clit. “Such a well-behaved girl.”
“Jiyong—”
“What?” He presses harder and the sound that slips out of you is definitely not quiet.
You don’t get to answer because his cold fingers slip under the edge of your panties and the cool air of the studio briefly touches the skin he’s just exposed. Your thoughts scatter instantly. He spreads you slightly and his thumb moves in slow circles over your clit. Your nails dig into his shoulder as you try not to breathe too loudly.
“You’re so fucking wet, you’re practically dripping…” he says almost to himself, his tone not surprised so much as rougher, darker. “My good girl, always so ready for me…”
His index finger slides inside slowly and your body reacts before you have time to control anything. You press your forehead against his shoulder and a breath escapes you, quickly muffled as you press your lips against the skin of his neck.
“Quiet,” he mutters, though it sounds more like a reminder than a command that someone is literally in the next room. He adds a second finger and your hips move on their own, instinctively searching for rhythm, searching for more, while you struggle to keep your balance as your breathing shortens and your thoughts break apart again into scattered pieces.
“Seunghyun’s right behind that wall,” he reminds you softly, almost amused, as if he’s completely certain it won’t stop you anyway.
After a moment both his hands return to your hips and you start moving slowly, cautiously at first. The friction and pressure are immediate and focused, growing stronger with every movement. His length is exactly where you need to feel it, though it takes you a moment to find the right angle. When you finally do, a sound escapes you that might actually make Seunghyun suspicious in the next room.
“Do you know what I’m going to do to you once we get out of here?” he asks quietly, breathless. “I’m going to fuck you until you can’t say a single word…”
He pulls you down against him and the friction intensifies. The pressure becomes sharper, more precise, and you grip his shoulders tighter to keep the pace that starts accelerating almost on its own.
“You’re so wet I can feel it through everything,” he adds quietly, almost fascinated, almost disbelieving, and you just close your eyes because any answer would be swallowed by the next movement of your hips anyway. The tempo increases in small steps. Careful at first, then more certain, until it’s impossible to pretend you’re still in control.
You lean down and kiss him and he responds immediately, without the distant indifference he had all evening. His hand tangles in your hair and the kiss quickly turns rough and hungry. Your breaths tangle together.
The rhythm speeds up and the movements are no longer careful or circular but increasingly aggressive. You stop thinking about how it looks or how loud you are because now there’s only friction and pressure building with every movement.
“Completely soaked, ready for my cock, seconds away from coming…” he growls against your neck. “And it’s still not enough for you.” He pushes his hips up against you. “What do you want?” he breathes, stopping your movement for just a fraction of a second. His hands are still tight on your hips, but the pause is enough to force an answer out of you.
Your breath catches somewhere in your throat. “You know what I want…” you rasp.
“I do,” he says quietly and moves again, this time slower, as if savoring the exact reaction of your body. “I know.” He repeats it, his kisses dissolving into his quickened breathing.
You press yourself fully against him, chest to chest, thighs tight around his hips, and he starts lifting his hips to meet every movement of yours downward. The rhythm locks together within seconds—up, down, again—and the doubled friction is suddenly so intense you have to clutch the front of his hoodie just to stay upright.
“When I get you out of this studio…” he says between breaths, “…you’ll be begging me to give you a moment to recover…”
His hands grip your hips firmly and the sound that escapes you sounds desperate, nothing like you at all. You press closer to him as if it were possible to get any closer.
“Ji…” His name breaks apart in your breath as he thrusts his hips up once more, hard and precise.
And in that moment you lose your mind.
The wave crashes through your body and you bury it against his neck, fingers tangled in his hoodie while he holds you tightly and keeps moving until everything finally fades. For a moment neither of you says anything, both trying to slow your breathing.
Then Jiyong reaches one arm around you and hits pause on the track. You hadn’t even realized the unfinished piece had been playing the entire time. The sound in the studio cuts off instantly and the silence feels even heavier than before.
You look at him. He looks thoroughly fucked out of his mind, wrecked, and unfairly satisfied.
Before you can say anything his palm lands sharply on your ass, a single smack.
“Get off me,” he rasps, the corner of his mouth curling into a smug little grin like he’s enjoying this more than he’s willing to admit. “And give me another fifteen minutes.”
You just stare at him for a second, still slightly breathless, hair messy, your thoughts a few steps behind what just happened.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
Jiyong is already turning back to the monitor as if absolutely nothing had happened between you. His fingers slide across the keyboard, the mouse starts clicking again and the colored sound tracks start moving across the screen.
“The track isn’t finished yet,” he says calmly and that almost kills you.
“Jiyong!”
He doesn’t look like he’s listening at all. He leans closer to the monitor, one shoulder slightly raised, that focused expression back in place as if he’s just been a producer locked in a studio all night and not the man who was holding you so tightly thirty seconds ago your thighs are still trembling.
“Fifteen minutes,” he repeats, a little quieter this time. “Then we leave.”
For a moment you seriously consider throwing something at him. Something heavy… Preferably the empty coffee mug with the broken handle sitting next to the keyboard that looks even more wrecked than you feel right now.
You watch him for a moment, the back of his neck, the strands of that absurdly bright neon green you were dragging your fingers through just minutes ago.
“Was that like… a creative break you needed?” you finally say.
He exhales through his nose and a quiet laugh escapes him, but he still doesn’t turn around and keeps working on the damn track.
“You’re welcome,” you add, much drier this time.
You return to the couch and sit down again. One leg over the other, back against the cushions, arms crossed over your chest.
Your phone reads 00:11.
You watch his back rising and falling with each breath. The clicking of the mouse starts again, rhythmic and focused, the cursor jumping between the sound tracks in precise short movements, the exact sound that had been driving you insane an hour ago… But now you’re calmer, because you already know exactly what you’re going to do.
You’ll give him eight minutes before you touch the keyboard again…
summary: you are working with carl and shortly after rush hour, he asks you for a sexual favor and you can’t really refuse a good offer.
pairing: carl gallagher x afab!reader
warnings: smut, semi-public smut, swearing, kissing, and bathroom smut.
“i’d be more than happy to show you a good time if you’re looking for one” he purrs, one side of his lips turned upwards into his signature smirk with nothing pure or friendly about the look in his eyes, a cigarette in between his fingers as his eyes meet yours. carl gallagher. a coworker of yours you’d been working with for a few weeks now, you kept a professional facade whilst working at captain bob’s and despite how much you hated Lori. The bitch would constantly flirt with Carl and harrass him, taking advantage of the fact he didn’t know better and needed the job, she’d favor him and treat him different. but despite how much you wanted to keep your relationship with him professional, there was a charm about carl that most people would fall victim to. but despite how much you tried to keep your professional even if it meant you were rude towards him, you couldn’t deny how he made you feel, the butterflies in the pit of your stomach, or how he’d make you smile and laugh on your work breaks and outside of work.
note / request - “hi! can we get a carl x reader during like season 10. they were together in the past and they broke up, but hang out everyday. but carl still likes her so he tries getting her back.” this is so trash lmao, but enjoy!
summary - you and carl dated a while back, but now are just friends. he spends the day with you, hoping to win you back
warnings - language, underage drinking, suggestive content but no real smut
————
*gif isnt mine*
“Hey, C-Bear!” You called out.
“‘Sup, Y/n/n!” Carl smiled at you. You ran up the stairs of his porch and gave him a tight hug.
“How was Florida?” Carl asked once you pulled back.
“Hot as shit, but fun. How was Chicago?” You asked a giggle.
I know this isn’t accurate - I haven’t *surprisingly* ever been in Juvie, so this is just based off of the character, and background, really. I know boys, and girls don’t mix in Juvie - just go with it.
“In.” I looked at the guard who pointed to a lone cell. I cocked an eyebrow. “In.” He reiterated I rolled my eyes, as I walked into the small, dull room. A female warden then came in. “Gotta do a pat down.” She said. And I huffed, praying she wouldn’t find anything.
I learnt my hands on the wall, as she used her foot to push my legs apart. “Kinky.” She rolled her eyes. The guard leant down, and her hands circled my ankles, receiving a scoff when she extracted a pocket knife. Then to my waist, where she found a pack of cigarettes. “No don’t take that shit!” I huffed. She stood back when she had finished. The door was locked behind her.
“She took your smokes?” A boy in the cell across asked, leaning against the bars - arms weaving around to support his weight. “What’s it to you?” I mimicked his position, watching as his plaited hair moved as he chuckled. “Gotta whole box in here.” He motioned to the room, behind him. “Don’t smoke.” I replied. “Then why’d you smuggle some in by your ass?” He eyed me. “One, weren’t up my ass. I have some class dipshit.” He shortly laughed, shaking his head. “And two, I have beef with some whore that slept with my ex. I’m the reason she’s in here, bought the slut some cig’s as a peace-offering.” He nodded along.
“So you’re being the bigger person?” I shrugged. “Pussy.” I scoffed. “Then why you in here, huh?” He licked his lips. “Aggravated battery. You?” “Drug and gun dealing.” I hummed. “Respect.” He laughed.
“So you didn’t smuggle smokes in by your ass?” He asked, after a few seconds of silence. “No?” I gave him a look. “How’d you get them in them?” He looked at me questioningly. I lifted my blue shirt only slightly, showing the top of my trousers. “Elasticated waste-band.” I said, pulling it - hearing the snap as it hit against my skin.
“I’ve got something else I could put in your ass.” I looked at him, eyes slightly widened. “The silence don’t mean no.” “The silence ‘don’t’ mean yes either, white boy.” “Do I really look that easy?” I asked, eyebrows raised. “Nah but I’m getting hard just looking at your ass in those pants, baby.” He ground his crotch against the bar. I rolled my eyes with a low, faked laugh.
The gum he was chewing smacked, as the bubble popped. “What’s your name, hot-stuff?” He bit his lip, offering a smirk. “(Y/n). (Y/n) (L/n) What’s yours, you horny piece of shit.” I added the last remark. “Carl.” “Carl Gallagher.” “White boy Carl.” I joked. “Decent nickname, but I think I prefer daddy.” He growled. “Okay tiger calm down.”
“They letting us out in five. Get two hours.” He gave a suggestive look with his eyes. “I’m not good for a quick fuck, Gallagher. If I was a hooker, I’d have standards.” I said, looking him up, and down - head to toe. “Ouch, princess. Don’t even wanna have a chat?” He shrugged. “Is your ass jealous, with the amount of shit coming out of your mouth?” I asked. “Woah! Woah! Woah! I’m just tryna get to know my sexy neighbour.” He smirked.
“I don’t wanna get to know mine.” I responded. “Gonna need some one to protect you, doll.” “I can protect myself.” “Yeah?” “Yeah.” “You, and what weapon?” I looked down at my feet, not responding. “Cat got your tongue?” I loudly exhaled at his comment.
“Fine, Gallagher.”
I heard a loud buzz, which I assumed meant that our break was about to commence. My door opened, as did everyone else’s on the cell-block.
He walked towards me, and squared up, looking down slightly at me. “But don’t think for one second that you’re getting into my pants.” I warned, pointing a finger, at him. He loudly, and quickly snapped his teeth, pretending to go to bite my finger - and I lowered it, shaking my head at the boy. “In my wildest dreams, hot stuff.” His arm making it’s way over my shoulder, glaring; at anyone who even breathed in our direction - trying to look at the new member, to the block. The guards slowly circling the grounds, like hungry sharks, tasers, and batons at the ready.
“You need a shower.” I told Carl, pushing his arm off of my shoulder, laughing a short, whole-hearted; laugh. “Care to join?” He offered. “Oh fuck you.” I huffed. “What time?” He winked, the same arm, going to encircle my waist. “You seem like a pain in the ass.” I told him, as we stopped, (in what I assumed to be), the courtyard. “Thank you.” He grinned.
summary - you and your house arrest officer have some fun
warnings / includes - season 11 spoilers!! language, eating & food, teasing, usual crude shameless humour, smut - some dry humping, unprotected penetrative sex, riding, use of handcuffs. you are both adults in this !! also i just want to say, when i say “perky breasts” and “glowing skin” i mean that your nipples are hardened and yours aroused, and that your skin is beautiful and it looks perfect. just wanted to disclaim bc i dont want you guys to think im writing for a particular look of a person, because i dont have perky boobs either, or perfect looks but i just mean these descriptors as objective and just describing that youre turned on and that carl thinks youre gorg…. i felt like yall know this but i just wanted to say this ok bye enjoy reading lmao
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*gif isn’t mine* (i had to change the sexy gif guys sorry lmao)
“morning, miss, uh, l/n,” carl greeted.
you ran your tongue over your lips, smirking and looking at him up and down.
“you aren’t officer foster,” you stated.
“uh, yeah, i’m not. she’s on vacation, so i’m her fill-in,” he explained. “mm, i bet you could fill me,” you muttered.
“what was that?” carl questioned.
you giggled as you saw his ears go pink. he obviously heard you, but he was trying to avoid starting anything.
“nothing. so, how old are you?” you asked. “19,” he answered.
