warnings: MDNI! +18. smut???, unprotected sex, provocative language, sub jiyong, dom jiyong... fluff. i think that's all :* !!
pair: kwon jiyong/gdragon x female reader
• He is sooo down bad for you. In an argument, even when he's in the right, he always ends up begging you for your forgiveness. Shamelessly. He doesn't care, he just wants his princess to love him always...
• When he's jealous —because he gets really jealous—, he gets moody. Not angry, not aggressive, he just starts to pout his pretty lips and his face is like seeing a little boy throw a tantrum... but everything fades away once you hold his face, look him in the eye and tell him how much you love your good boy. He gets so flustered and his cheeks go all tones of red...
• However... when you get jealous he feels like throwing up. In his mind there's not a reality in which he's attracted to other people, there's only you. The thought of making you feel jealous, sad or angry makes him mad. He does everything for you. Everything to make you happy. If you were to ask him to kill someone that's bothering you... he would actually do it. Seriously.
• Of course he spoils you. It's ridiculous. He once tried to buy a spaceship for you. Not a toy one. No, a real one. Said he wanted to take you to the moon. You told him to stop or you were breaking up with him, so he stopped, but he would 100% have done it.
• But it's not all material. He does those small things. Loves to cook for you, then look at your face while you enjoy it. He loves to massage you. Soft, sweet, caring.
• When he gets horny, it's no different at all. If he's clingy, he gets clingier... if you're in public, he can't stop touching you. That's normal, he's touchy, but it's different. His hands become more desperate, he's rougher, faster, dumber. His eyes expose him. Maybe not to everyone but to you. Normally, he has this dreamy, loving gaze for you, but in those times, his eyes look smaller, sharper, darker and he doesn't even try to hide it. He loves to tease you with that confident grin you love.
• The dynamic between you two it's never the same. You don't even plan it, sometimes he just likes to be called an idiot and a good boy and other days he likes to edge you, make you beg, possess you. But his favorite is when you're on top on him, riding him like you're getting paid for it and then you suddenly slap him. Hard. He loves that. One night he came right after you slapped him.
• He loves it even more when right after the slap you make him kiss you and then tell him how much of a good boy he is. You sink your nails to his cheeks and look him in the eye with that pretty face of yours and he can't stop telling you how fucking gorgeous you look on top.
• He's really careful. He would always bring a condom with you, until one night, you looked him through your long lashes and told him you wanted to feel him. He doubted it for a second but gave in when you said "Please, ji", with that tone of voice that has him wrapped around your finger.
• That night, something shifted inside him. After, he wanted to fuck you everyday at every hour. It was crazy. He was horny all the time. He was never really a religious guy, but fucking you had become something holy. Coming inside you was heaven. If he believed in something it was you.
• And he's AfterCaringBoy final boss. He keeps kissing you slowly, all over your face, all over your tummy, your legs, your feet, your hands. He worships you. He thanks you a thousand times for giving him "A perfect life"... he says that... seriously. Sometimes that leds to a second round —slower, more like a dream—, but sometimes it just puts you both to sleep happily next to each other. It never gets old!
that was it... :ppppp i don't really know how to feel about this but I think I liked it!!
a/n: see the full request here! I changed it a little, hope you don't mind! I wrote this while kind of tipsy so it's not my favorite, sorry if the proofreading was shit/if there's any mistakes! I hope you enjoy regardless! <3
synopsis: After their fight, Y/n is surprised to hear that her best friend still needs her so desperately.
warnings: angst, language, panic attack, fluff
wc: 3.7k+
Spending time with your best friend has always been your favorite thing in the world. Jiyong was your safe space, your person—the one you could sit in comfortable silence with or talk to for hours on end without ever running out of things to say. But lately, that joy had been overshadowed by a growing concern gnawing at your chest.
BIGBANG’s tour was just around the corner, and their new album was about to drop. It was supposed to be an exciting time, and it was—you were beyond thrilled for them, for him. You had always been his biggest supporter, ready to help in any way you could. But as you sat in the dimly lit practice room, watching Jiyong push himself to his absolute limit, that excitement soured into unease.
His voice was raw from overuse, cracked and strained in a way that made you wince every time he spoke. He practiced his choreography until he was drenched in sweat, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. Some nights, he worked himself to the point of collapse, and you were the one left to pick up the pieces—carrying his limp, exhausted body to bed, draping a blanket over his shaking form, whispering for him to rest even though you knew he wouldn’t listen.
Tonight was no different. The music blasted through the studio speakers, and Jiyong was lost in the rhythm, his body moving on autopilot despite the evident exhaustion written all over him. You watched as his steps faltered, his balance wavering. Then, just like that, his legs buckled, and he went crashing down.
“Jiyong!” You rushed to his side, your heart hammering as you kneeled beside him. His skin was clammy, his breathing ragged as he tried to push himself up. You grabbed the water bottle you’d brought for him and shoved it into his trembling hands.
“Drink,” you urged, your voice softer now, laced with worry. He took a few sips, barely able to keep the bottle steady. “Ji, you’re worrying me,” you admitted, eyes searching his for any sign that he’d finally listen, that he’d see what he was doing to himself.
“I’m fine,” he muttered, his voice hoarse as he wiped the sweat from his brow. “Just have to make sure I’m ready for tour.”
You shook your head. “Ji, you’re overworking yourself. You’ve got everything perfected, okay? Give yourself time to rest.”
He exhaled sharply, pushing himself to his feet despite your hand reaching out to steady him. “You don’t get it, Y/n,” he said, brushing past you, already making his way back to the center of the room.
You stood as well, crossing your arms as you watched him stubbornly reset the track. “I get that you’re tired, Ji,” you said gently, trying again. “You’re just hurting yourself at this point—”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he snapped, cutting you off as the first beats of the song echoed through the studio.
Your chest tightened. “I’m just worried… I mean, you fainted and now you just want to keep going like nothing happened?”
Jiyong clenched his jaw, his fists balling at his sides. He turned to face you, eyes blazing with something you couldn’t quite place—anger, frustration, desperation?
“Look, Y/n,” he said, his voice cold and sharp, each word like a blade slicing through your chest. “You’re a bartender, alright? You don’t have to be that skilled at anything.”
The air in the room shifted instantly. You felt the words like a physical blow, your breath catching in your throat.
Jiyong must have seen the way your face fell because for a split second, his expression flickered with something softer—regret, maybe? But then it was gone, replaced by a steely determination as he turned back to his practice.
“If I’m not perfect, then I’m done. Alright?” He let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “If you can’t handle it, then fuck off.”
Silence.
You scoffed, a bitter chuckle escaping your lips even as you fought to keep the tears at bay. “Wow,” you whispered, voice thick with emotion. “Fuck you, Jiyong.”
You turned on your heel, grabbing your bag with shaking hands as you stormed out of the studio. You half-expected him to call after you, to chase after you and take it back. But he didn’t.
The only sound that followed you was the relentless pounding of the bass as he started the song over again.
The moment you stepped outside, the cold night air hit you, but it did nothing to dull the sting of his words. Your vision blurred as tears spilled freely down your cheeks. You barely registered getting into your car, hands gripping the wheel so tightly that your knuckles turned white.
You had always known Jiyong could be stubborn, obsessive even. But this? This was something else. This was him drowning, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t pull him back to the surface.
And worst of all, he didn’t even want you to.
You barely made it into your apartment before collapsing onto your bed, burying your face in the pillows as sobs wracked your body. You cried until there was nothing left, until exhaustion took over, pulling you into a restless sleep.
-
How is he? You texted Seunghyun, your fingers hesitating for a moment before hitting send.
A few minutes passed before your phone buzzed with his response.
Being a total prick.
You sighed, pressing your forehead into your palm. It had been three days since you last spoke to Jiyong. Three days since he spat those words at you, since you walked out of that practice studio, feeling like the ground had been ripped from beneath you. Three days of silence.
And now, with BIGBANG’s first show of the tour just four days away, all you could do was check in through the others. You had been messaging Seunghyun and Daesung, hoping—maybe even praying—that Jiyong would come to his senses, that he’d realize how badly he had hurt you. But instead, he was still working himself into the ground, still burning himself out, and in return, treating everyone around him like shit.
You bit your lip, debating whether to text him. Your fingers hovered over his contact, but your stomach twisted at the memory of his voice.
"You’re a bartender, alright? You don’t have to be that skilled at anything."
That one line alone still stung like hell.
Jiyong had always been intense when it came to his career, but never—not once—had he spoken to you like that. You had been his best friend for years, his shoulder to lean on when things got too heavy. And yet, the moment you expressed concern, he shoved you away like you were nothing.
Was that really how he saw you? Just some nobody?
You blinked back the fresh sting of tears. No. You refused to let yourself dwell on it anymore. Instead, you did what you always did when life became too much—you threw yourself into work.
Extra shifts, late nights, anything to keep your mind occupied. And it worked… for the most part. But when Saturday rolled around, that familiar ache settled in your chest like a weight you couldn’t shake.
You had never missed one of Jiyong’s home shows. Not once. From his first-ever performance to the biggest sold-out stadiums, you were always there, watching from the V.I.P section, cheering him on. But this time? This time, you weren’t even sure if he wanted you there.
So, you made the decision. You picked up an extra shift at the bar. Saturday nights were always hectic, and if nothing else, at least the tips would be good.
Still, as you got ready for work, your heart ached. It felt wrong not being there.
You glanced at your phone. Zero messages from Jiyong. Nothing. He wasn’t even going to check in. Not even a half-assed apology. Your fingers tightened around your phone, debating one last time if you should reach out.
“Fuck it,” you muttered under your breath before quickly typing out a message.
“I love you, Ji. Good luck at your show tonight.”
Short. Simple. To the point.
You sent it before you could overthink it, shoving your phone into your bag and focusing on finishing your makeup.
-
Meanwhile…
Jiyong sat in the dressing room, his body slumped against the couch. His vision swam as he stared at his phone, your message illuminating the screen. His hands trembled as he gripped the device tighter, reading and rereading your words.
"I love you, Ji."
God, his chest ached.
His head was pounding, his skin slick with sweat despite the AC blasting in the room. He was exhausted—more exhausted than he had ever been in his life. His entire body ached, his muscles screaming in protest with every movement. He had barely eaten in days, barely slept. And now, the crushing weight of knowing you weren’t here—knowing that he had done this, that he had driven you away—was suffocating him.
She should be here, he thought bitterly.
You were always there. Always in the crowd, always waiting for him backstage with a knowing smile and a bottle of water, telling him how proud you were. No matter what, you were there.
But not tonight.
And it was his fault.
“Jiyong, are you okay?”
He barely registered his stylist’s voice until he felt the cool press of her hand against his forehead.
“You’re burning up,” she muttered, concern evident in her tone.
“M’fine…” he mumbled, swatting her hand away weakly.
She frowned but didn’t argue, instead focusing on finishing his hair, even though the strands were already damp from the sweat clinging to his skin. No amount of styling product would keep it in place—not with the way his body was overheating.
He closed his eyes, willing himself to push through the exhaustion. One hour until showtime. Just one more hour.
But even as he tried to rest, the shivering wouldn’t stop.
“Jiyong!”
His eyes snapped open at the sound of Seunghyun and Taeyang’s voices.
“What?!” he snapped, his patience paper-thin.
The two men exchanged a glance before Taeyang took a cautious step forward. “Dude… you don’t look so good.”
Jiyong scoffed, turning onto his side to face the couch. “Fuck off, I’m fine…” His body trembled violently, contradicting his words. “Just leave me alone.”
Seunghyun frowned. “You’re sweating like hell, and you’re shaking, Ji. You seriously think you can get through a full show like this?”
Jiyong gritted his teeth, forcing himself to sit up. “I said I’m fine,” he ground out, even though the room spun around him.
The others weren’t convinced. They had seen Jiyong push himself too far before, but this? This was different. He looked pale—too pale. And the way his shoulders trembled, the way his breaths came out shallow and labored, sent a deep sense of unease through them all.
“We need to tell the manager,” Seunghyun finally said. “If he collapses on stage, it’s gonna be bad.”
Jiyong let out a bitter laugh. “I won’t collapse.”
“Bullshit,” Taeyang muttered. “You can barely sit up.”
The room fell into tense silence before Daesung finally spoke up. “I’m gonna call Y/n.”
Jiyong’s head snapped up, his eyes flashing with something unreadable. “No,” he croaked, but it was weak, barely a whisper.
“She can help,” Daesung insisted, already pulling out his phone.
“Yeah, good idea,” the others agreed.
Jiyong clenched his jaw, his fists tightening in his lap. The last thing he wanted was for you to see him like this—to see him so weak, so broken.
But deep down, past all the pride, past all the self-inflicted suffering…
He just wanted you.
Because no matter how badly he fucked up, no matter how much he pushed you away…
You were the one person who could always put him back together.
The moment you stepped away from the bar, you broke into a sprint toward the bathroom, your heart hammering against your ribs. Your phone buzzed relentlessly in your pocket, each vibration sending a fresh wave of anxiety through you. Hands trembling, you yanked it out, eyes widening at the flood of missed calls.
Daesung. Seunghyun. Taeyang.
Something was wrong.
You barely had time to inhale before hitting Daesung’s number. He answered on the first ring.
“Y/n, Jiyong needs you.” His voice was tight, urgent.
Your stomach clenched. “What’s going on? I’m at work.”
“I think it’s a panic attack or something. I don’t know—he won’t let any of us help him. Y/n, please, just come.”
You swallowed hard, your breath hitching. “I don’t… I don’t think he wants me there, Daesung. We had a fight. He—he said some things…”
“He’s shutting down, Y/n. Our manager is thinking of canceling the show.” His voice cracked, desperation seeping through the line. “You’re his best friend. If anyone can get through to him, it’s you.”
Your fingers dug into the bathroom counter. The things Jiyong had said to you still echoed in your head, sharp and unforgiving. But was that really him talking? Or was it exhaustion twisting his words, pushing him past reason?
He was your person. Your best friend. And right now, he needed you.
“I’m on my way.” You hung up, moving quickly to gather your things, but before you could slip out, your boss caught sight of you.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going? It’s packed out there—we need you!”
“I’m sorry, sir. Family emergency,” you stammered, throwing your apron onto the counter.
“If you walk out that door, don’t bother coming back.”
You met his glare, then—without a second thought—flipped him off and stormed through the crowded kitchen to the back door, heart hammering as you reached your car. You tossed your bag onto the passenger seat and peeled out of the parking lot, heading straight for the stadium. The city lights blurred past you, neon signs flickering against the darkening sky.
Your phone rang again. It was Daesung. “Hey, I’m almost there. Where do I go?” you asked breathlessly.
“You’re on the list,” Daesung said. “Just head backstage.”
You barely parked before jumping out of the car, navigating through the maze of security and flashing lights. The walls of the venue were lined with photos of legendary musicians, their eyes seeming to watch you as you ran past. Your pulse thrummed in your ears.
Then you heard Daesung call your name. “Y/n!” Daesung waved you over, his relief evident.
You didn’t waste a second. Following him down the hall, you turned a sharp corner and stepped into the dressing room. The air inside was thick with tension.
Jiyong sat hunched over, his elbows braced on his knees, his face pale and drawn. A paramedic stood beside him, pressing an ice pack to his head, murmuring something you couldn’t hear.
“Ji…” Your voice came out softer than you intended, your heart twisting at the sight of him. “What happened?”
His head lifted at the sound of your voice. His dark eyes met yours, wide and glassy.
Then, as if gravity had yanked him forward, he surged up from the couch and threw himself into your arms. His entire body trembled against you, his grip so tight it nearly stole your breath.
“I’m so sorry,” he choked out, his voice breaking.
You barely had time to steady yourself before he buried his face in your shoulder. His weight pressed into you, as if you were the only thing holding him up.
“Ji…” you whispered, your hands sliding up his back, fingers threading into his hair. “I’ve got you.”
His breath came in shuddering gasps. “I was an idiot. I shouldn’t have said those things. I should have listened to you—I shouldn’t have pushed myself so hard. I—” His voice cracked, raw and desperate. “I’m just so fucking sorry.”
The others watched silently as he clung to you, their faces a mix of relief and quiet concern.
“It’s okay,” you murmured, rubbing slow circles into his back. “I forgive you.”
His shoulders shook as he let out a quiet sob, the dam finally breaking. The weight of exhaustion, pressure, and regret poured out of him all at once.
“Can you guys give us a minute?” you asked over his shoulder, still holding him.
Daesung nodded, ushering the others out. The paramedic handed you an ice pack and a bottle of water, giving you a small nod before exiting.
Jiyong let you guide him back to the couch, collapsing onto it with a heavy sigh. He wiped at his tear-streaked face, sniffling as you handed him the water. You pressed the ice pack gently to the back of his neck.
“Ji, tell me what happened.”
He took a slow sip, his voice hoarse. “I fucked up, Y/n.” He shook his head. “You were right. I shouldn’t have pushed myself so hard. I—” He exhaled sharply. “I’m exhausted. And then you weren’t here, and I just… I don’t know. I lost it.”
You hesitated. “I didn’t think you wanted me here after what you said to me.”
His gaze snapped up to meet yours, guilt swimming in his eyes. “I didn’t mean it. Not for a second. I was out of my head, Y/n. I’ve been beating myself up over it for days, but I was too ashamed to call.”
Your heart softened. You reached for him, pulling him close and pressing a light kiss to his temple. “I know, Ji.” You stroked his hair gently. “I just worry about you.” A quiet pause. “I love you.”
His breath hitched. “Can you ever forgive me?” he asked, his voice small. His big, innocent eyes searched yours, raw and vulnerable.
You let out a soft laugh, brushing a tear from his cheek. “Of course I can. Just don’t ever say some dumb shit like that again.”
A weak smile tugged at his lips. “Cross my heart.”
“Do you feel any better? Do you need to cancel the show?”
He shook his head, squeezing your hand. “You fix everything. You always do. You’re magic like that.” He brought your knuckles to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss against them.
Shivers ran down your spine.
“Here.” You tugged him down gently. “Lay back. You have forty-five minutes until the show. Rest as much as you can.”
With a deep breath, he let himself relax against the couch, his fingers still loosely curled around yours. You ran a comforting hand through his hair, cooling him down with the ice pack.
-
“How’s he doing?” Taeyang and Seunghyun appeared in the doorway of the dressing room, their faces laced with concern but softened by the sight of Jiyong sitting upright.
“I’m fine,” Jiyong muttered, his voice still a little hoarse. He ran a hand through his damp hair, exhaling slowly before flashing them a sheepish smile. “Sorry for being such a prick…”
Taeyang let out a chuckle, shaking his head. “We’re just glad you’re okay, man.”
Seunghyun smirked, glancing between the two of you. “Y/n, I think we need to keep you around more often. Seems like you’re the only one who can get through to him.”
You grinned. “Well, I just lost my job, so I’m free whenever!”
“What?” Jiyong snapped his head toward you so fast it nearly gave him whiplash. His smile faded instantly, replaced by guilt and concern.
You waved a dismissive hand. “It’s fine, Ji. My boss was a fucking dick anyway. I was gonna quit eventually.”
But Jiyong wasn’t convinced. He looked down, his fingers twisting the hem of his shirt as his jaw clenched. You could see the thoughts racing through his mind—this was his fault. Another thing to add to the weight he carried.
“Hey.” You softened, reaching out and tilting his chin up with your fingers, forcing his eyes to meet yours. “You’re more important, yeah?”
His bottom lip quivered ever so slightly before he muttered, “M’sorry…” His voice was barely above a whisper, thick with emotion.
Your heart clenched. Without thinking, without hesitation, you leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips.
He froze for half a second, as if his brain was struggling to process what was happening. But then, slowly, he melted into you, his hands coming up to cradle your face as he deepened the kiss.
It was hesitant at first—uncertain, full of unspoken words—but then something shifted. His fingers tightened against your skin, his lips moving with more urgency, more need. Like he had been waiting for this just as long as you had.
The sound of someone clearing their throat made you both jolt apart.
“Uh… show time in five,” Seunghyun said, eyes wide with amusement before he and Taeyang practically ran out of the room, leaving you and Jiyong in breathless silence.
As you pulled back just slightly, your noses brushed, his breath warm against your lips. His dark eyes were searching yours, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
“W-what was that for?” he stammered, voice cracking slightly.
You bit your lip, hoping you hadn’t just overstepped everything. “Good luck,” you whispered, offering him a small smile.
Jiyong blinked at you, stunned. Then, to your surprise, his lips curled into a slow, boyish grin before he cupped your face and kissed you again. This time, it wasn’t hesitant—it was filled with silent promises, unspoken confessions, and years of built-up longing neither of you had dared to acknowledge until now.
You smiled against his lips, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it.
“Now go!” you laughed, gently shoving him toward the door. “You don’t wanna miss your first show.”
Jiyong stumbled back slightly, his grin never faltering. As he reached the doorway, he hesitated, his fingers lingering on the frame as he turned to look at you.
“You’ll be here when I get back?” he asked, almost shyly.
Your expression softened. “I’ll always be here, Ji.”
Something in his eyes shifted, like he was silently thanking whatever higher power had brought you into his life. Then, with a final, wide smile, he spun on his heel and took off down the hall, his energy renewed.
From backstage, you watched him take the stage, his presence electrifying the entire stadium. The roar of the crowd was deafening, but all you could focus on was him.
And as he stood under the blinding lights, microphone in hand, he turned his head ever so slightly—just enough to catch a glimpse of you in the shadows.
A private smile ghosted across his lips.
Your stomach flipped.
This was only the beginning of a whole new chapter in your life.
Hi can you do gdragon facetimes his gf on his tour but she ends up falling asleep on FaceTime with him tyyyy
next to you
a/n- this is quite short sorry but here you go!
pairing- kwon jiyong x f!reader
contents- fluff, long distance relationship
synopsis- you and your boyfriend jiyong facetime as much as possible while you're long distance.
word count- 443
The phone rings once before Jiyong picks up. His face lights up when he sees you through the screen.
“Hi,” you smile, yawning.
“Tired already?” He laughs.
“A little. It’s 2am here.” You look to the clock. Jiyong groans.
“Ah, I’m sorry, jagi. I couldn’t get out of the venue till like an hour ago, then had to deal with some shit at the hotel.”
“It’s okay, baby. I would’ve stayed up ‘till the sunrise just to watch it with you.” You tilt your head a little, causing him to smile. “Tell me about the show.”
“It was so good. Everything went perfectly. Would have been so much better if you were there.” He leans his head on his hand, rolling over on his bed.
“I wish I could be.”
“I know. But the tours almost over. I’ll be home before you know it.” Jiyong says, voice strained just a little from fatigue.
The two of you talk for hours. He tells you about the show, when a staff member accidentally exploded a water bottle backstage, how amazing it was to meet all of the fans. You tell him about your day at work, how your friends invited you out on Friday night, and how much you miss him.
Which is a lot.
He’d been on tour for what felt like forever. Long, gruelling hours, barely enough time for a good morning text most days. But every night, no matter how late, he’d call you.
And you’d sit up and wait for that call. Every night.
Eventually, a knock at Jiyong’s door distracts him. You lay back in your bed, eyes fluttering as he puts down the phone to answer the hotel room door.
He talks with someone for a little, before returning back to his phone to find you fast asleep. The phone is propped up sideways against a pillow, camera still pointed at your face.
Jiyong just stared for a moment, admiring how peaceful you look, how beautiful you are, even when sleeping.
You stir when he picks up the phone again, the speaker rubbing against his mattress and echoing a slight crinkling noise. He’s careful to mute himself, but doesn’t hang up. How could he? He never got to say goodnight, after all.
He props up his phone next to his bed, standing up straight against the water bottle on his nightstand. He watches the screen for a second, smiling at your serene expression as you take soft breaths in your dormant state.
Eventually, he drifts off as well.
Jiyong could never sleep without you next to him. And even though it’s through a screen, this will do.
Summary: Whenever her heart gets broken she knows who to call. Her best friend Jiyong has cute cats and hugs and expensive wine to make it all better.
Whenever her heart gets broken his breaks as well, every new idiot who doesn't deserve her a new crack.
Warnings: 18+, explicit sexual content, protected sex, swearing, alcohol, friends-to-lovers, pining, female character is dramatic and Ji loves it, don't get me wrong - this is mainly fluff, so why did she buy that vacuum cleaner? Even I have questions.
<3: Hello, long time no see. The GD Paris concert was five days ago and I am still completely overwhelmed. Whenever I try to talk about it I choke up... Cool, so this is life now. But at least it finally made me finish this one shot for @jiyongsangel Man's Best Friend writing challenge (Thanks for asking me, love doing those! <3) This is for the song Nobody's Son by Sabrina Carpenter which at first challenged me because I have... absolutely no interest in writing about toxic romantic interests but I think i found a way to incorporate the song into the story in another way nonetheless, let me know what you think. <3 I hope it won't be too long before the next update of one of my stories but I am going on vacation (Seoul<3) next month and before every weekend is chaotic. But I am trying my best.
----------------
I am crying when Jiyong picks up.
“He broke up with me!”
No hellos. At first, no reaction either. Just silence on the other end while my blurry vision scans the rainy street in front of the dark, lonely bus stop where I sit.
“What? Weren’t you having dinner with his parents tonight?”
“I thought so too.” My voice almost hiccups from crying. “But then he showed up alone and told me we should take a break because he needs to grow emotionally instead.”
Ji curses under his breath. Apparently, he finds that reason just as pretentious as I do. When the words came out of my (now) ex’s mouth, I thought it was a joke for a second. His face said otherwise.
“What a… fuckface.” That’s one way to put it. “Where are you now?”
“I… I bought wine and gummy worms and a new vacuum cleaner and now I am sitting with all that in a bus stop and…”
“Okay, what… why… why did you buy a… ah, whatever. You want to come over?”
Obviously, I want to come over. That is why I called. That is why I always call.
It’s not like we only see each other when my heart breaks; Jiyong and I have been friends since our early twenties. We’ve shared the good times, even had a joint birthday party or two. Group vacations. If he weren’t usually busy being a superstar, I’d say he’s my best friend. Well… no, he is my best friend.
But I definitely always do call him when I get my heart broken. He’s nice to me, he has cats to cuddle and that huge bathtub in his apartment. It’s just good being around him when I feel bad. Everyone should have a comfort-Jiyong. And did I mention the huge bathtub?
“Yeah, is that okay?” I still ask and he scoffs, because it's a stupid question and hangs up. Rude?
I get an Uber. The driver looks a little confused at the mascara-stained woman with a vacuum cleaner box on her lap, headed to Hannam. He doesn’t ask. I lean back dramatically and stare out at the lights flashing past.
A bit later, I kick Ji’s door with my foot because my hands are full. Half with the box and the grocery bag of cheap wine and candy, half with my pride in shreds. Jiyong stares like I’ve tracked mud into his spotless apartment, which I probably have. His hair is messy in a way that says he didn’t plan for company, but I don’t care.
“You look like hell.” he says.
“I look like a woman scorned.” I kick off my shoes, shuffle past him and collapse on the couch. The cats follow me like I’m a human jungle gym, climbing onto my lap before I can even open the wine. “Your children missed me.”
“They like whoever feeds them.” He sets the bag on the table, pulls out the wine and raises a brow. “You brought screw-top Merlot. Truly the taste of heartbreak. I have better stuff here?”
“Don’t mock me in my time of suffering. And of course I couldn’t come empty-handed.” He scoffs again. I always invite myself over and pretend cheap wine makes us even. And then we usually drink his expensive stuff. Not sure what happens to my bottles actually.
I hold out my hands. “Pour it, servant.”
He ignores me, twists the cap and takes the first swig himself, straight from the bottle. I gasp like he just stole my firstborn.
“I needed that.” he groans, but when I reach for it, he lifts it higher.
“You’re supposed to comfort me.”
“I am comforting you. By saving you from drinking this.” Still, he hands it over. I take a huge sip. It’s gross. When I finally come up for air, he asks “So what did this one do?”
I fling myself dramatically against the couch cushion. “He was nobody’s son.”
Jiyong blinks. “And what the hell does that mean?”
“It means he was pretty, charming, sweet and absolutely allergic to commitment. It means I wasted six months on another guy who only wanted the honeymoon phase, but didn’t bother to tell me.”
“You mean he was an asshole.”
“Yes, thank you, Detective Obvious.” I pat Zoa, bury my face in her fur and mumble, “I just want someone who’ll love me forever. Is that so much to ask?”
From the corner of my eye, I see Ji watching me. Not laughing. Not teasing. Just watching with that unreadable expression he gets sometimes, like he knows something I don’t.
I swirl the bottle, watching the cheap red slosh. “He told me he was busy. All the time. Business trips, late nights, family dinners. Turns out…” I tip the bottle toward Jiyong like it’s a mic and pretend to be a game show host when I reveal the answer to it all. “…he was busy dating two other women. At the same time. Like a fucking group project.”
Jiyong freezes halfway into sitting down beside me. “You’re joking.”
“I wish.” I laugh, but it comes out cracked. “One of them DM’d me. Sent screenshots. Said she felt sorry for me. I confronted him and he said he didn’t realise we were THAT exclusive. For some reason, I said whatever, as long as from now on I’m the only one.” I look down, embarrassed. I do believe everyone should live the relationship model they want, but this was bullshit. We had talked about being exclusive when we… became exclusive? I knew he was lying, but I was sad and decided to turn a blind eye. “Et voilà. A couple of days later and he already decided I’m not enough. ‘Needs to grow emotionally’, my ass.”
Even now I am aware this is probably for the best… But he could have done it in a way that didn’t make me feel like I am the problem. Like I am too much and not enough at the same time.
Ji’s jaw tightens, sharp as glass. “Where is he now?”
I blink. “Why?”
“So I can have him buried in the mountains.”
Despite myself, I grin. “So you kill people now?”
Ji shrugs, ruffling his hair. “I wouldn’t get caught. Or at least the people I would pay wouldn’t get caught.” His eyes flick to me, the muscle in his cheek jumps. “He strung you along for months. Lied to your face. Made you think you were crazy for wanting more. Do you know how much I want to kill him right now?”
“Aw.” I coo, reaching out with the bottle like I might toast him. “You love me.”
Jiyong’s face twitches. “I do, which is why I’m angry.” He leans forward. “Why do you keep letting men like that near you?”
The smile fades. My heart sinks. “Excuse me?”
“You fall for the same type every single time. Pretty face, smooth lines, a little mystery and you jump headfirst like you’ve never been burned before. The next one will be different, sure. One was a chaebol heir, one was American, one was a lawyer. But inside they were all shit.”
I sit up, indignant. “So this is my fault now?”
“I didn’t say that.” His voice is tight, rising. “I’m saying you need to be more careful. You say you want something real, but you’re not even looking in the right direction.”
I shove the cat off my lap and set the bottle down too hard. “Thanks, Ji. Really supportive.” My voice a bit shriller than I would have liked it to be.
He drags a hand through his hair, exasperated. “I am supportive. I’ve been supportive for years. I’ve been here every time some idiot breaks your heart. Do you know how insane it drives me to watch you cry over men who don’t even deserve to know your name?”
The mood shifts. We always banter, sure. But this is different. He’s not play-annoyed. He’s actually annoyed. And it hurts.
My throat tightens. I fight it. “You think I like this? You think I enjoy getting wrecked every few months? I want something serious, Ji. I want flowers, anniversaries, a family one day. I want someone who stays and is crazy about me. It’s not like I’m asking for the moon.”
“You say that, but your actions don’t match.” His voice is sharp, almost a shout. “If you really wanted that, you wouldn’t keep choosing men who run at the first sign of responsibility.”
I push to my feet, heat flooding my face. So that’s what he thinks? Really thinks? That I’m some masochist who’d rather get my heart broken than date for real? Fuck him. Also: “And where the hell are these men you think I’m supposed to find, oh wise rapper GD? Point them out, please. I’ll go get one right now.”
At some point, he’s stood too. The air between us is heavy. His jaw flexes. We haven’t fought like this since the New Year’s fiasco in 2015. Then he jabs a finger at his own chest.
“Here. Right here. Open your damn eyes.”
I blink at him, stunned. “Very funny.”
“Do I look like I’m joking?” His voice is low, rough. “You want someone who’ll stay? Who’ll give you family and flowers and big gestures? I would. I’d give you all of it. I’d love to make you happy. I’d love to have children with you.” His mouth twists into something like a smirk, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’d even enjoy the process.”
My heart stumbles. “Oh fuck off… you’re crazy.”
“No. I’m not.” His frustration is all over him: eyes sharp, shoulders tense, hands restless. “I’m just a good man you refuse to see. Because you’re too busy chasing idiots. And I would know… I used to be the biggest idiot. Still am often, actually. But not with you. For you, I’d be good.”
The silence that follows is unbearable. My pulse is thundering in my ears.
I grab my bag, because if I don’t leave right now, I’ll say something I can’t take back. “I need air.” I mutter, pushing past him. He doesn’t stop me.
…but outside, there’s not enough air to erase what I just heard.
“Clearly he’s doing harder drugs now.” I mutter in an Uber a couple of minutes later, even though he seemed perfectly sober. He was wearing pyjamas. Who does hard drugs in pyjamas? Ah, what do I know.
“What? Who is?” The cabbie looks confused, which is fair. These are the first words I’ve said to him.
“My best friend. Who just told me he wants to start a family with me. He must be using.”
Silence.
“Or… he wants to start a family with you?” the guy offers. I shoot him an evil look. He has a two-star rating coming his way.
At home, I sit by the window and feel like crying.
What the fuck happened tonight. Over the next couple of days, I try to convince myself he didn’t mean it. He MUST not have meant it. Maybe he was speaking figuratively. Like… good men like him. Not him. It’s not that I never thought about it, of course. Considering these things, especially when meeting someone new, is normal, right? And we even kissed once. Or twice? But it was a dare when we got drunk and we were basically babies. Okay, maybe twenty-four, but I can barely remember it and we never talked about it again and… well… does it even count if it’s been so long?
I don’t text him. And he doesn’t text me either. A week later, while I’m at work, my phone finally buzzes.
Jiyong: Your vacuum cleaner is still here. Should I let someone bring it over to you?
“I’m sorry I couldn’t help with the move.” I say, collapsing a box of kitchen utensils.
She takes it and drops it with the others. “I mean… you are right now, right?”
I shrug, then nod. “Well, yeah, but you know what I mean…”
She waves it off. “You were busy abroad, I get it. Also… what would that have looked like? You? Signing autographs in front of my ex’s apartment instead of helping?”
She touches my arm, teasing like I couldn’t carry much anyway. I swat her hand away and grab a heavy stack of plates, trying to lift it to the highest shelf like it’s effortless. It’s not, but my ego needs it.
She’s right, of course. Still, I’m here now.
Even I thought this relationship might last. After my usual jealous streak when she found someone new, I admitted the guy seemed decent. Should’ve known something was off. Tax evasion on the level of jail time? New. Cheating on her with his lawyer? That’s a new record, even for her. She’s so fucking unlucky with men, my god.
“Still, thanks for always being there, Ji. I promise the next one will be the last. So you won’t have to pick up the pieces again.”
I can’t help smiling at her. She still believes in the next one. The one true love. It’s always the next person she dates. She’s a hopeless romantic and after all the shit she’s been through, I admire her for it.
Break-up no. 7 – Five years ago
“And so… basically… It’s a good thing.” She says it like she almost believes it. I don’t, but who cares. My job is to listen. “I can finally concentrate on what’s important.”
We’re at a bar. She looks incredible, hair freshly cut, outfit perfectly styled. She needs to believe she’s fine with the breakup. And even though I told her he was bad news from the start, I can’t gloat. At least she isn’t crying or drunk. This could still be a good night.
“Good, I’m glad. Whatever makes you happy.” I smile at her.
She scans my face, suspicious, but I just keep smiling and nudge the shared starter platter toward her. She takes some, then looks down. Her shoulders sink and my heart cracks.
Of course, she has priorities outside her love life. But I know her. Her number one priority has always been love. Lover girl. I relate.
“Man, I can already tell this will be good for you. You’re glowing. You look so good tonight.” I blurt it out without thinking, just trying to make her feel better.
She looks up again, smiling, beaming almost. Exactly what she needed to hear.
I’m getting too good at this.
Break-up no. 1 – Seven years ago, four months after they met
She calls me in the middle of the night. If I’m honest, I half-hope it’s a drunk booty call. Instead, she’s crying so hard she can barely talk. Eventually, I get a location out of her. Not far, but it’s pouring, a Saturday night, people everywhere. I throw on a hoodie and a mask and hurry there.
I find her sitting on the sidewalk, clutching a soju bottle in each hand. Pathetic, but also a little funny.
“Aish… what’s going on, it can’t be that bad…”
She looks up, face a mess, lets the bottles drop and raises her arm like a toddler who wants to be picked up. I can’t lift her, but I can sit beside her and wrap my arms around her.
“What happened?”
“He… he left me and I didn’t know who else to call…”
Her head is on my shoulder, soaking it with tears.
Let’s be honest. I’m not used to being friend-zoned this hard. When we met a few months ago, I flirted. She thought I was joking, laughed, kept telling me about her boyfriend. The guy’s good-looking, sure, but I’m cooler. Didn’t matter. To her, I was the party buddy. Then the hangover buddy. Now? The emergency-contact buddy. A “good friend.”
Not sure I’m comfortable with that.
But her sobs are loud, people stare and my heart hurts because hers does.
“Hey, it’s gonna be fine, little one.” I say it softly, because I know how it feels. I just show it differently. Less crying, more angry lyrics.
“No, it won’t. I’ll never be happy again. There’s no one like him.”
I almost laugh. She’s so dramatic and I always liked that about her. That night we met at the club, she told me to remember her face, because meeting her would soon be one of my most cherished memories. I laughed, asked why and she just said Watch me, downed two shots and did the dumbest little dance under purple and yellow lights. Just ran straight to the by that time of the night emptied dance floor. No skill, no sex appeal, just pure fun. She indeed was unforgettable.
I think I fell for her right then and there.
So I hug her tighter, swaying. “Ah, bullshit. There are a million guys for you. All with great hair, dumb jokes, amazing in bed. It’s good he’s gone - you wouldn’t meet them if he was still around.”
She laughs a little, then cries again. But that’s okay. I’ll hold her until she stops.
I think I’ve been in love with her since that stupid dance. But she doesn’t love me back and being her friend is the next best thing.
HER
Two weeks later, I go to pick up the vacuum. It’s the longest we’ve gone without seeing each other, I guess. When he’s on tour, I sometimes don’t see him for months, but that feels different. I still get sleepy voice notes and cat pictures from his housekeeper. I’ve even hung out at his place when he wasn’t home - he thought it was weird, but I told him the cats shouldn’t be abandoned by me just because he did.
Every day, I had moments where I thought, I need to tell Jiyong about this. But I didn’t. It’s awkward. We both know it.
I’m low-key sweating in the elevator.
And then… It’s fine. Weird and different, but fine. He pretends nothing ever happened, so I do too. We chat. He tells me what he’s been up to. We eat ramen. I go home. Not how we usually are, but maybe we just needed to shake it off.
The next morning, I still feel weird. I miss my friend. I miss Ji.
My brain keeps circling. Maybe he only said it to prove a point. Maybe I imagined it. Maybe he lost his mind. But sometimes, sitting at work, I wonder. What if…?
Wouldn’t being friends first be a solid base for something real? That’s what people with healthy long-term relationships often say. Ignoring the chaos of his fame, he’d make a good boyfriend, right? A caring one. He can be charming…
And then I wonder what he’s like in bed and I blush so hard my co-worker asks if I’m okay. Honestly, I’m not sure.
That night, my head and heart and body form an alliance against me and I dream about him.
We are on his couch. My safe space. Comfortable, familiar. We’re having tea - ridiculous, because I never drink tea, only he does. Probably just my brain trying to keep it as wholesome as possible before everything tilts. Good dramatic effect, I have to admit.
Because suddenly I’m pulling his arm, dragging him down with me until we sink into the cushions like it is quicksand. Physically impossible, but in dreams, anything goes. He looks startled at first, then his face softens and suddenly we’re tangled, half on top of each other. Somehow I’m on his lap. Somehow, my hands are in his hair, tugging lightly and he closes his eyes like he’s savoring it.
His mouth twitches and I want to kiss it so badly, but the dream won’t let me. It’s like there’s a string pulling me close, but never close enough. I whimper in frustration and the sound makes his eyes snap open. What I see there wrecks me - frustration, yes, but also longing. Lust. I want him even more.
And then his hands are on me. Sliding up my sides, slipping lower, tracing my waist like he owns it. Unfair. He can touch me, but I can’t kiss him? His body is solid beneath mine, his cock hard against me, my own body aching wet for him. Please, just…
A noise cuts through. We both look up.
My mom is standing beside the couch.
His too, actually. Both unimpressed.
“So… just so you know… he actually isn’t Nobody’s Son. He is mine.”
Oh god, there is nothing as scary as pissed momma Kwon.
And then I wake up.
I try to compartmentalize the whole following day. File it under random dream nonsense. Doesn’t work.
Because I get more the next night…
One moment I’m falling asleep, the next I’m watching him across a golden-tinted room that feels surreal. Makes sense, it’s a dream after all. He’s leaning back in a chair that looks more like a throne, one hand curled over the backrest, legs spread in that careless sprawl he does when he forgets anyone is watching. Except that he knows my eyes are on him. His grin is sly, slow, the kind you want to slap off - or kiss until you can’t breathe.
This dream is nothing like the other. The other one at least started cozy. This is… fae-smut-romance territory. Because somehow… he has a crown and wings and I should stop reading that shit, clearly.
He stands and even that is unfairly elegant. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, the sharp line of his ass in black tight leather pants.
My throat goes dry. His grin sharpens into something dangerous. Half-promise, half-threat.
He doesn’t need to move closer, but of course he does. Each step is deliberate. Eyes locked on mine.
Then his hands are on me again - slim fingers skating over my sides, dragging across my ribs before sliding higher to cup my breast. Uhm, why am I naked? Unfair.
His thumb brushes my nipple and I gasp, embarrassingly needy. He laughs, low and delighted, then bends his head, lips pressing to my collarbone, tongue circling lower, slower.
I arch into him, already aching. His mouth lingers over the swell of my breast, teeth grazing, lips closing around my nipple until I moan. He knows. Of course, he knows. His palm drags lower, resting just above where I need him. Cruel. He kisses down over my ribs, my stomach, pausing to breathe hot against my skin until I clench around nothing while he kneels in front of me.
“Please” I whisper, though I don’t remember deciding to speak.
Instead of giving me what I want, he kisses the inside of my thigh. Wet, open-mouthed kisses that get closer, then retreat. His hand spreads my legs wider, thumb pressing just beside where I throb. He’s too good at this, every second orchestrated to make me ache harder.
I want his tongue, his fingers, his filthy voice. I can almost feel it, but the dream refuses. He stays maddeningly slow, teasing bites on my inner thigh.
I can’t take it. I push my hips up, chasing his mouth, but he only chuckles. Shakes his head. His tongue flicks once, fast, infuriating. I let out a sound that’s more growl than moan, but he just smiles, elegant and smug, as if he knows exactly how undone I am.
And then I wake. Sheets twisted around me, skin damp with sweat.
It feels like his mouth is still on me, his laugh still low in my ear. I don’t even think before my hand slides under the sheets, slipping between my thighs.
I’m soaked. My fingers glide over my clit too easily and I moan into the pillow, embarrassed even though I’m alone. My body doesn’t care. It rocks into my touch like it’s his, like he’s finally giving me what I begged for.
When the orgasm crashes through me, I’m left panting, heart racing, the dream dissolving, but his face still sharp in my mind.
That grin. That deliberate teasing. I press my palm to my face, half-laughing, half-mortified.
What the hell was that?
Except I know exactly what it was. I just got myself off thinking about my best friend.
--------------
So, there we are.
I kind of hate myself after I start wondering if I only like him because he suddenly gave me attention. Or maybe not so suddenly. I don’t know. Either way, it’s not a good reason to want someone, right?
But the next time we’re at a bar with friends, about three weeks after the incident, I look across the table at Ji and wonder how I didn’t see him before. Just like he said.
If I think about it… all those things he says I’m into - “pretty face, smooth lines, a little mystery” - he’s all of that. And I know he isn’t some innocent little angel; he messed up in the past. Sometimes badly, however, he left that behind him in recent years. But at the same time, he’s the guy who loves nothing more in the world than his cats and his parents and his friends. The one with a collection of cuddly blankets on the couch, who’ll watch a drama with you if you ask nicely, who remembers random details from things you told him ages ago and organizes amazing cakes and flowers for my birthday and…
…fuck.
Turns out Kwon Jiyong is fucking dreamy.
I realise it in the middle of this lively crowd. From one moment to the next, I know this isn’t a fluke.
I’ve loved him for the longest time.
But maybe I also… like… love love him.
Because right now I want to circle his name with a heart, just because he’s leaning over a napkin, sketching something no one else can see. Tongue sticking out a little as he concentrates. Around him, it’s drunk people, loud music, a whole dinner table. But he’s off in his own world. Only to snap out seconds later and rejoin the circle he built around us over the years, laughing, telling stories, cheeks flushed from the drinks and totally present. I love both those sides of him.
I don’t think he notices my stare, but then his head turns and his eyes find mine nevertheless. He looks surprised, like this is something he always does, but usually I’m not there glaring back.
I almost look away. But I don’t. We just keep staring and I can’t help but smile. He smiles too. My eyes flick toward the hallway and then I get up.
Waiting there, I start to get nervous. Maybe he didn’t understand. But then he appears, confusion written all over his face.
“You good?” he asks.
His cheeks are red, his eyes spacy. He’s drunk and so am I. Not the only reason this isn’t a good idea.
I nod. Don’t speak at first, just stare until he slows down, frowning a little.
“What?”
“Can I try something?”
He shrugs, then nods hesitantly.
And then I just kiss him.
Let me say this again. Not a good idea.
Maybe realising I like someone like him is, but throwing caution to the wind and just trying something with your best friend? Really not a good idea.
But it doesn’t matter.
No, screw that. It’s a great idea.
He tastes of soju and cigarettes. It doesn’t sound romantic, but in the moment, it’s perfect. Even before he reacts, his lips feel right on mine. I kiss into him, press him back against the wall. Ji freezes for a second, then jolts into action.
His arms wrap around me, not my waist exactly, more like a hug over my back. It feels like he’s holding on now that I’ve finally made it into his arms. And when he kisses me back - firm and determined and perfect - I lose my mind. Forget where I am. Forget who I am.
We stumble sideways into the wall, one of his palms now warm against my cheek, stroking my hair. His tongue gentle against mine.
It’s so good, it feels like I’ve been playing kissing on an easy level my whole level and now finally get to advance.
“How long…” he finally gets out between kisses “do you need to try before you have a verdict?”
I shut his mouth with mine and he chuckles into my lips.
I don’t know… Except for maybe that I don’t want to stop.
We move further away from the light, deeper into the hallway and eventually he does halt us. His hand on my back steadies me, the other one gently pushes me away. I growl. But try to stand on my feet without needing his support, looking up at him a little pouty. A little embarrassed, a little upset, a little horny.
“Not like this…” he finally gets out and there are so many things visible in his eyes that I get overwhelmed as well. Hunger, but also a little sadness.
“Like what?” I ask, breathless. My hands reach for him, wanting him back close.
“Like a drunk mistake.”
That halts me. Well, nah, don’t call me a mistake…
I guess he didn’t; he did the opposite. He sees me pouting more and I can tell he is having a hard time resisting not at least hugging me. Instead, he moves a hand across my hair, putting a couple of strands where they belong.
I let my shoulders slump.
Jiyong leans in, whispers an almost apologetic, somewhat soothing. “I’m gonna head home…” into my ear.
But instead of acknowledging that he is being good, I hold onto his shirt for a second. “Can I come?”
“Oh my god, you are the devil.” he says, laughing, creating distance between us again, but at the same time clearly enjoying that I am being that needy. “No, you can’t. But you can call me tomorrow when you are sober again, alright? No matter what the verdict of the trial was.”
He lets go and smiles and disappears. And I stand there for a second, then I go back to the table and decide to get absolutely shitfaced.
----------------------
The hangover the next morning feels like a movie one. I wake up disoriented with a headache from hell. Cry a little, moan a little, only leave the bed because I have to pee and drink at least two bottles of water. Feeling strangely accomplished because I even manage to brush my teeth and stand under the shower long enough to call it a shower, though just barely.
That is when I remember. The headache eases for a second, leaving room for the flash of Jiyong. Close and far away at the same time. At first, I thought it was another dream, but it wasn’t. That happened.
My heart rate spikes, my headache slams back into me and I crawl into my bathrobe, then into bed.
With every pounding throb behind my eyes, I squeeze them shut tighter. Oh god. What did I do? Regret floods me, but not entirely. The memory is too good. Still, I’m terrified. At some point, I remember him telling me to reach out, but I can’t bring myself to. It takes an eternity to grab my phone, battery almost dead, screen lit up with notifications.
No texts from him though. No calls. :///
Maybe he’s waiting for me to wake up. Maybe he wants to give me time to recover. Maybe… he changed his mind, maybe…
The doorbell rings. I think I might faint from how badly my head protests. Moving slowly, I shuffle to the door and then freeze, because it’s him.
I sigh, let him in and try to steady myself against the wall. When Jiyong steps into the frame, my heart does something weird, slowing and quickening at the same time. He just stares at me.
“Hey… I just wanted to see if you are… lucid?”
“Barely.” I groan, watching him close the door behind him. “I think I drank a lot after you left.”
“Yeah, you did.”
His hair is a mess, sticking out in all directions, clearly he is not what I would consider well rested and I can’t help but stare at him.
“How would you know?”
“The voice messages you left me were really hard to understand.”
“I did… no…”
Tears threaten immediately. Why do I always overdo everything?
“Did I really?”
He smiles, shoulders sinking deeper into his jacket as his hands slide into the pockets. “Nah, just kidding.”
“What? Don’t mess with me like that…”
“It was just the one.”
That’s all it takes. A couple of seconds later, I’m crying. My headache rages.
“Oh, hey, no…” he says, half laughing, half concerned and moves toward me, wrapping his arms around me. “I didn’t mean to… It’s fine. Don’t cry over this, okay? You were being kinda cute, actually. It was just obvious you had a bit too much, so I figured I’d check on you.”
I sink into him right away, hiding my face against his jacket. The light still hurts my eyes, but in his arms, I feel a bit better.
He smells good. He feels even better. Warm and real and steady.
“That bad?” His voice is right by my ear as he strokes my head.
I nod and sob a bit more. “Was I actually cute in the message?”
“Super cute.” His grin is audible.
“Did I tell you any secrets?”
He chuckles. “You want to listen to it?”
“Absolutely not. Just tell me what I said.”
“That you were walking home. That you really want to visit Spain at some point next year. And that I’m a very good kisser.”
Embarrassing, but not as bad as it could have been. I could have mentioned how dreamy he is. Or worse, the dreams. If I did, he’s keeping it to himself.
“Let’s get some hangover cure into you, hm?” he says eventually, swaying me gently. I nod.
A few minutes later, I’m back in bed, painkillers and herbal medicine downed. Ji stands over me like he pities me and I find myself enjoying the attention if I'm honest. I open my arms lazily, an unspoken plea for cuddles. He looks relieved, slides in beside me and holds my hand. Strokes my hair.
“You know…” I mutter after I have hidden my face a little. “You really are a good kisser.” It comes out soft, uncertain.
Ji grins. “I know.” The grin isn’t wicked, just full of quiet happiness. If I had the strength, I’d make sure he understood I wasn’t just drunk last night, but my thoughts move too slowly. For now, this is enough.
This and clinging to him. My hands bunching his shirt, my face buried in the crook of his neck. I’ve known him long enough, seen him with women. He loves that shit; he is a cuddler. Love boy.
And the best part is… so am I. Maybe it really should have been obvious all along. Maybe I’ve been blind.
“Go back to sleep, okay?” he says gently. I want to protest, but don’t. I doze off instead, drifting in and out. Whenever I jolt awake, he’s still there, smiling at me, one hand resting on me while the other scrolls his phone. He soothes me back to sleep every time.
When I wake up properly, it’s almost evening. My headache has calmed down. At some point, he must have pulled a blanket over us both.
“Feeling a bit better?” Ji asks and I pause as if checking. Then I nod. I do. Still tired, but not in pain. The painkillers must have helped but so did having him here. I just know it. And I’m not ready to let go, leaning into his side until he turns to face me, no longer on his back but on his side as well.
As cheesy as it sounds, looking at him now feels different. Things I always knew about him suddenly stand out sharper, brighter. He is so fucking beautiful.
My hand drifts up his chest without thinking, resting against his cheek. Stubble rough under my fingertips, skin warm, the faint smell of his cologne tangled with my detergent in the sheets. It’s good. Too good.
“Do you need to try something again?” he asks, smiling gently, his thumb stroking my arm. I nod.
Before I can second-guess myself, I lean in and press my lips to his. A peck, soft and careful, like testing the weight of something precious. He freezes, almost forgets to breathe, so I do it again - this time with the tiniest smile tugging at my mouth. It’s nothing like the messy, drunken kiss at the bar. This one feels deliberate. Sober. A choice.
He exhales slowly, eyes lingering on mine as if he needs a second to come back to himself. Then he brushes a strand of hair behind my ear and lets out a quiet laugh, almost to himself. He shifts upright. “You should sleep more. And I should head home.”
He’s probably right. I can tell he doesn’t want to leave and I don’t want him to. But it’s better that way and I do need the rest. Only…
“Without… without kissing me back?”
It comes out more desperate than I meant, but once the thought slips out, I can’t take it back.
His brow arches, amused. “What?”
“You… you’ve never…” I trail off, suddenly too awkward to finish. I pull the blanket higher, hiding in it, which is ridiculous because normally I never shut up. But right now, everything is too much.
A few seconds pass. Then he tugs gently at the blanket until I let go.
His grin could kill me. “Sorry, you’re right. I can’t go without kissing you back.” He cups my cheek and leans down, finally doing it.
Soft and careful, but insistent. He doesn’t stop, not until the moment stretches into forever. When he finally lets go, he sighs against my mouth.
“There’s food in the fridge. Eat later, okay?”
I mumble something that might be a yes, still lost in the kiss. I want to pull him back, make him stay, but my arms are heavy and he’s already done so much. He leaves and I don’t stay awake for long. Just long enough to realise that if this is a bad idea, it’s already too late. And somehow I don’t think it is.
----------
A couple of days later - ugh, busy guy, always busy - I’m standing in the elevator up to his place. Waiting to see him again has driven me half-crazy. Sure, we texted and it was… cute. But not enough. I may not have waited as long as he has, but he’s clearly better at it than I am. Because when he opens the door, my coat is already undone and underneath I’m wearing nothing but a black underwear set.
Ji was about to pull me into a hug, but then stops. Then he bursts out laughing. Hard.
My brows knit immediately, because hello, this is supposed to be curves-curves-curves, not comedy hour. I push inside quickly, the door shutting behind me.
He’s still laughing, hand over his face.
“What the hell - you can’t - stop, you -” He can’t even finish through his laughter. My ego stings, so I toss my purse down, kick my shoes off and stalk past him.
“No, oh god, noooo. You look amazing.” he gets out between laughs, following me. He tries to slide an arm around me. I resist, then give in with a pout.
“It’s just… you surprised me, okay? I need a second to catch up. Oh my fucking god, you look so good. I can’t believe I—”
His eyes roam down my body and at least that soothes the sting. “
“Missed me THAT much?” he finally teases, cocky as ever.
I did miss him that much. But I wanted him flustered, not smug. Then again, this is Jiyong. Of course, he’s teasing.
Doesn’t mean he won’t crack eventually. He can do both. He is both.
“And here I thought we needed to have a serious talk.” he says.
“We can talk instead, if that’s what you prefer.” I shoot back, shrugging.
His grin only widens. He closes the distance, fingers gliding across my hips, pulling me in. Goosebumps rise instantly. His hands shake though and that makes my pout soften.
“If it helps…” he murmurs “I missed YOU a lot.” Then he kisses me like he means it. No hesitation, no awkwardness - like this is what we should’ve been doing all along. My arms wind around his neck and for the first time, it feels less like crossing a line and more like finally stepping onto the right side of it.
I drop the coat and go full drama. He stumbles a little, wordless, like he’s trying to put thoughts into sentences and they keep slipping away. I grin because I can see him unravel.
“Well, shit” he finally murmurs, looking up at my face. “Fucking finally.” He kisses me hard, then pulls back to grin. “Have you met my bed? You should. You two would get along.”
I laugh and let him herd me toward his bedroom. By the time we reach the bed, it’s chaos. Hands everywhere, his clothes half-removed, his laughter hot against my neck. The mattress swallows me and he’s on top of me. It’s not careful, not sweet. It’s everything that’s been waiting. He takes my lower lip between his teeth, groans when I arch up and grind. I can feel how much he wants this and it makes my head spin.
His hand slips between my legs and for a second, I can’t believe it’s real. It is real. It feels impossibly good. And the smug grin reappears when he realizes how damp my panties got simply from the thought of all this happening. Hands fumble my bra open, the little dimple appears when he smiles in the corner of his mouth because he has an idea… and then he pushes me onto my stomach, palm pressing into the small of my back. The change in position makes me gasp. I glance at the white sheets in front of me, wide-eyed and surprised, his fingers back between my legs, rubbing me until thighs shake.
His lips are at my ear. “I know you. I know how you like it.”
My eyes go even wider. Oh, good god. He does.
We’ve teased, we’ve joked, we’ve overheard each other’s stupid secrets for years. He knows the corners of me. He knows the way to make me melt and apparently even my favourite position. He moves my arms to lie beside my head, firm but careful, like he’s settling me in. Then he pulls my panties down, slides between my legs and I feel his cock press against my thighs.
“Shit, Ji… I…” The words fall out of me, jagged and useless.
“If you don’t want it, say it. That’s fine.” he murmurs, one hand gliding between the sheets and my stomach, then up to cup my breast, thumb circling my nipple. His touch is patient for a beat, then intent.
“No. I want it. I want it so bad.” I try to tilt my pelvis and meet him, but he pushes me back down with a soft chuckle, the sound vibrating through his chest. He reaches for the bedside table and its contents.
When he pushes in, it’s deep, right away, an angle that steals my breath and punches the world to white noise but slow at the same time. My cheek presses into the sheets. I clamp one hand around a pillow as he finds a slow, hungry rhythm. God. He was right. I do love this. The angle, his weight, the fact that it’s him - it scrambles me.
Each thrust drags over every place that makes me clench. His hand fists at my hip, the other slides up my spine in lazy, claiming strokes. He leans close enough that his breath hitches across the back of my neck. “Good?”
I answer him with a sound, a needy, raw moan. My hips tilt back without thinking, chasing him. He groans louder and drives harder until the bed creaks. The friction builds until I’m tight and trembling and soaked.
Then I turn my weapon on him. I know him as well. I know what makes him lose it. He is into good old fashioned blowjobs. And maybe a bit of risky semi-public hand stuff. But he fucking loves a dirty mouth.
“You’re so good at this.” I gasp, breath shaking. “You’re fucking me so well.”
He stutters, hips stalling for the briefest second. “Don’t-” he breathes.
I keep going, breathy and taunting. “God, you knew exactly how badly I needed it, right?”
He growls now, the sound equal parts laughter and hunger. “You little shit.” he says, realising what I am doing, then thrusts harder.
I smirk into the sheets. “What’s wrong, can’t take a little praise?” The last word ends in a moan because he is so deep inside of me and one of his hands grasps my wrist.
“Fuck you” he mutters, laughing now, though he doesn’t stop moving.
“You are” I shoot back, breathless and grinning, turning my head as far back as I can.
And that’s it - we both crack. Actual laughter, bubbling up between us, ridiculous and hot and so us. He’s still inside me, still moving, but the giggles shake through our bodies until finally he stills, forehead pressed to my back as he catches his breath. Why are we doing this? Just because we know each other so well doesn’t mean we HAVE to skip that slow close first time?
“I want to see you.” I manage, voice thick. I turn my head and he slides out, then rolls me over, easing me onto my back with the kind of slow care that makes my knees weak. He moves above me, hair falling into his face, eyes dark and searching. “Better?” he asks with that crooked grin, one hand on each side of my head. I nod and gently touch his face. He leans into the touch for a second.
So much better. Ji kisses me, mouth urgent and soft at once. When he pushes in this time, it’s even slower, more deliberate, a rhythm that makes everything feel like it’s aligning. Our mouths find one another between thrusts, messy and hungry. His hands cup my face, my nails drag his back until he groans. He traces lazy circles with his tongue across my chest and every noise I make summons a low groan from him.
It’s imperfect at times. Knees bump. We laugh into moans. His hair tickles my neck. It’s messy. It’s real. It’s gorgeous.
When I come undone, it is less fireworks and more of a long, building wave. It hangs between us, warm and endless and somehow more satisfying because it is not sharp and quick. I shake beneath him. He collapses over me, breath hot against my collarbone, kissing the hollow under my ear.
My eyes open. He’s looking at me with that soft intensity that makes me feel cradled. Ji presses a thumb against my temple, tracing slow, lazy lines. I have never felt so seen. I think he loves me.
Panic bubbles up in me, old habits twitching, doubts spitting their rehearsed lines. What if this burns out? What if he leaves? My chest tightens.
He reads it in my face, then shifts, easing out and pulls me into a sideways hug.
“Don’t… don’t get over me now that you have me, okay?” The words come without plan. I wasn’t even aware of that fear myself, but now that I can see how fucking happy I could be with him, the thought of losing that again is terrifying. Not sure if this is the moment I would like to do this… I wanted to bask in afterglow…
Jiyong looks surprised, his eyebrows move around in all sorts of emotions. “Are you really worried about that?” I shrug a little and then nod. Because… yo, even I think I am annoying. Fun as well. Even funny sometimes. But fucking annoying!
“I can’t… I can’t be too much this time. Not with you.” I murmur, scenes flooding my brain of exes telling me different versions of the same story, so I close my eyes again. Ji looks at me for a second. Then he uses his arms to push up, detangling our bodies. Only to then lean farer over me so I have to look at him.
“Okay. I need you to really hear this, yeah? You are… dramatic as fuck. You are so loud and… sometimes crazy annoying, I am not gonna lie.” I pout. Great. “But that is my favourite thing about you. And you are my favourite person. So basically it is what I like best ever… ever ever.” My face is hesitant, so he keeps going. “You’re a fucking weirdo. Why do you always have to drink so much when you know you can’t handle it. And why… why have you kept on dating these idiots? Why the hell did you buy that vacuum cleaner? Like… I am serious. That was so weird. None of that makes sense, but I love it… You have… passion for everything you do and I could never ever think you are too much. You showed up in underwear and a coat? That was so cool and random? And we just had like… fantastic sex, but also laughed during that? I… love… everything about you…” His face is so close to mine, Ji is pressing his lips gently against the corner of my mouth. “I have loved everything about you for years, so please don’t ever be scared of that. Not with me. You were looking for the one? The person who will be the last? Fucking hell, let it be me…”
My mouth twitches. I want to believe him with my whole body. The old scripts about being left whisper like ghosts. I push them down because he would not say this if he did not mean it. I know his coffee order, his kinks, his offbeat habits. And that he would not lie about this.
“Okay” I manage at last, a small sound that feels huge.
He laughs, delighted. “Okay? That’s it? I finally made you speechless?”
I nod and trace his cheek with my finger. “Thanks for waiting for me.”
He squeezes me close. “It’s fine. You’ll be in love with me in no time, I am just giving you time to catch up.” He winks, cockily sure, moving in for another kiss.
Maybe he’s joking to lighten the mood. But I think I won’t need very long.
Actually… I am probably already there.
<3
------------------
Weeeeee, how are we feeling?
Other writers in the challenge, check them out: @gdinthehouseee @slut4kwon @moonqz @gds-daisy @wcnderlnds @igorluvr @gggtabi @seungsjo @steponupbabe <3
Summary: Jiyong is cool on stage, but at home he’s the soft, overprotective boyfriend who worries about your skating injuries and always takes care of you
Warnings: None
Word Count: 2.6k
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By the time you’ve laced your skates, Kwon Ji-yong has already sighed at least five times.
You hear the latest one from the boards behind you, long and dramatic, like he’s just watched the end of a tragic film instead of you tightening your boots.
You glance over your shoulder. “You know you’re not the one actually skating, right?”
He’s bundled up in a huge black coat, mask pulled down to his chin, hair tucked under a beanie. The rink is basically empty this early, just you, your coach, and one very famous, very stressed boyfriend huddled against the glass.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s why I’m still alive.”
You snort, tugging your laces one more time. Your right knee twinges a little under the compression sleeve. Left ankle’s taped. There’s a fresh bruise blooming along your hip from yesterday’s fall.
You’re used to it.
Ji-yong, apparently, will never be.
He eyes your knee suspiciously, like it’s personally offended him. “That’s tighter than yesterday.”
“It’s fine,” you say automatically.
He makes a face. “You said that when you twisted your ankle.”
“That was also fine.”
“You cried in the car.”
You press your lips together, standing. “It hurt.”
He lifts both brows. “That’s what not fine means, skater girl.”
You roll your eyes and skate out onto the ice before he can start again, the cold biting pleasantly at your cheeks. Behind you, you can feel his gaze like a spotlight.
He watches every step of your warm-up. Every crossover, every three-turn, every little hop. When you move into run-through, he’s glued to the boards, fingers curled over the top, eyes following you like he’s tracking a war zone.
You fall on your third double Axel.
It’s not dramatic. You pop into the air, lose your edge on the landing, and sit down a little too hard on the ice. You’ve taken worse. Your hip stings, your pride stings harder. You’re already pushing back up when you hear, “Ya!”
His voice cracks through the rink like a whip.
You look over. He’s half over the boards, beanie askew, coat flapping, eyes wide.
You give him a thumbs up. “I’m good!”
He does not look convinced. He points at the ice accusingly. “It’s slippery!”
You blink. “It’s… a rink.”
“Exactly,” he says, as if he’s proven something. “Dangerous.”
Your coach is trying very hard not to laugh.
—
It’s always like this.
He’s G-Dragon to everyone else, sharp edges, cool smirks, too many cameras, too much swagger. Blonde hair and eyeliner and a stage persona that makes people scream.
To you, he’s just Ji-yong pacing the length of the rink in a giant sweater, muttering under his breath every time you do a jump.
You fall again on a triple Salchow. This one you really feel, a jolt up your already-achy knee.
You hiss softly as you glide over to the boards, hand automatically going to your leg.
His eyes get huge. “Why are you touching it? Why is your face like that? I don’t like that face.”
“I’m fine,” you repeat, leaning your forearms on the edge.
He leans forward until you’re almost nose to nose over the boards, scanning your expression like he’ll find the pain hiding there. “You know..” he says, voice softening “..you don’t get extra points for pretending it doesn’t hurt.”
You sigh. “I just need to adjust the wrap. It’s okay.”
“Come here.” He taps the top of the boards. “Break.”
You want to argue. You also kind of want to sit down for a second. You skate to the little gate and step off the ice, the rubber mats cushioning your blades as you walk to the bench.
Ji-yong is there before you even sit, already unzipping your skate bag.
He pulls out the little first aid pouch he forced you to start carrying after that one time you showed up at his studio with bloody ankles and a casual, “Oh, they just rubbed a little.”
“Skin is meant to stay on your body,” he’d said, horrified.
Now he kneels in front of you, gloved hands surprisingly gentle as he rests them on your shin. “Which one?”
“Right knee,” you say, feeling a little guilty at how quickly you answer. You like this part. You won’t admit that out loud.
He peels back the edge of your leggings and the compression sleeve, frowning at the faint swelling. Not terrible. Just cranky. Like him.
“It’s a little puffy,” he mutters. “Did you ice last night?”
“Yes, dad.”
He narrows his eyes up at you. “Keep talking and I’m taking your skates away.”
You gasp. “You wouldn’t.”
He leans in, voice dropping. “Try me.”
Your cheeks heat.
It should be ridiculous, him kneeling on the rink bench mats, carefully adjusting your brace, tucking the fabric back in like he’s dressing a doll. He has tattoos, piercings, that lazy rockstar posture. People write articles about how untouchable he is.
Right now he’s biting his bottom lip in concentration, fussing over your knee like it’s the most important thing in the world.
“Better?” he asks, finally, patting your leg.
You roll your knee. It does feel more stable. “Yeah. Thanks.”
He looks up at you, eyes suddenly soft. “Don’t scare me like that,” he murmurs.
You smile. “I just fell.”
“You fall a lot,” he says. “I’m building premature wrinkles.”
You reach out and poke the space between his brows where lines gather when he’s worried. “You’re still pretty.”
He huffs out a laugh, but his ears turn a little pink. “Flirting won’t get you out of wearing knee pads if this keeps up.”
You make a face. “Knee pads are ugly.”
“So are crutches,” he shoots back. “Pick one.”
You lean down, resting your forehead against his beanie, breath mixing in the cold air. “You know I have to fall sometimes, right? It’s part of it.”
His hands tighten just a bit around your calf. “I know,” he says reluctantly. “I just don’t like seeing you hit the ground. I’m allergic to it.”
You giggle. “You’re allergic to my job.”
“I’m allergic to my girlfriend being in pain,” he corrects.
You kiss the top of his head through the knit. “I’ll be careful.”
“You always say that.”
“And I’m only a little broken,” you point out. “That’s pretty good for a skater.”
He gives you a look. “That is not a selling point.”
—
At home, it’s worse.
Not your injuries. His reaction.
You’d think after seeing you slam onto ice at full speed, the sight of a small bandage wouldn’t faze him.
You would be wrong.
You’re sitting on the couch with one leg draped over his lap, scrolling your phone while he unwraps a new box of plasters with unnecessary intensity.
“So,” he says, eyeing your ankle. “Explain to me why this is bleeding.”
“It’s not bleeding,” you say. “It’s just… rubbed.”
He studies the angry pink line where your boot ate your skin. His mouth flattens.
“Baby,” he says slowly. “If you keep sacrificing bits of yourself to your skates, one day there’s not going to be anything left.”
“I’ll haunt the rink,” you reply. “It’ll be iconic.”
He doesnt laugh.
You reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, softer. “It’s okay, Ji. Really. It looks worse than it feels.”
He exhales, shoulders dropping. Carefully, meticulously, he cleans the area with a swab, then smooths a little patch over the sore spot. He touches it like he’s afraid he’ll hurt you, even though you barely feel the pressure.
“Too tight?” he asks.
“It’s perfect,” you say.
He looks absurdly proud of himself.
You can’t resist. “You’re getting very good at patching me up,” you say. “Like a road crew.”
He squints at you. “Did you just compare yourself to a pothole?”
“A very pretty pothole.”
He leans over your leg, bracing one hand beside your hip. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “That’s the problem.”
He kisses you then, soft and slow, tasting like the tea he made you earlier. His hand slides up your thigh to rest just above the knee sleeve, thumb rubbing circles through the fabric.
“Does this hurt?” he murmurs against your lips.
“No,” you whisper.
“Good.” His mouth curls into a smile. “Then I can touch it.”
You swat at his shoulder, laughing. “You’re so annoying.”
“You keep me around,” he says. “Whose fault is that?”
—
The worst his panic ever gets is before a competition.
You’re in the locker room lacing up your skates, music from the arena echoing faintly through the walls. Your left shoulder’s taped from a weird fall two days ago. Your right ankle’s braced. There’s a bruise on your elbow you only noticed in the shower this morning.
You feel… fine. Adrenaline’s already humming. You’ve done this a hundred times.
Ji-yong looks like he’s about to be sick.
He’s sitting backwards on a plastic chair in the corner, chin resting on folded arms, watching you like you might evaporate.
“You okay?” you ask, glancing up.
He startles. “Me?”
“No, the other Kwon Ji-yong in the room.”
He tries to glare, but it comes out more like a wince. “I’m great,” he says. “I love watching the person I’m in love with jump around on knives.”
You pause, laces between your fingers. “…You mean blades.”
“I mean knives,” he insists.
You stand, walking over carefully. He’s in one of his ridiculous coats again, mask hanging from one ear, hat pulled low. He looks smaller offstage, even in all the layers, but somehow more real.
You step between his knees and he looks up at you, eyes immediately dropping to the tape on your shoulder.
“You sure about this?” he murmurs.
You cup his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones. “I’m always sure,” you say. “It’s my job.”
He nods, swallowing. “I know. I just…” His hands slide up the backs of your thighs to rest lightly, carefully, just under the hem of your warm-up skirt. “I wish your job came with a bubble wrap option.”
You laugh softly. “I fall,” you say. “Then I get back up. You’ve seen it.”
“Doesn’t mean I like it.”
“I don’t like when you come home hoarse and exhausted either.” You stroke his hair under the cap. “We both do dumb, intense things we love. And then we come back here and complain about it together. That’s our deal, right?”
Something in his gaze melts.
“Right,” he says quietly.
You lean down and kiss him, gentle but lingering, fingers pressing into the soft hair at his nape. He sighs into it like he’s releasing every anxious thought all at once.
When you pull back, he catches your wrist.
“Wait,” he says. “Hold on.”
He digs in his coat pocket and pulls out… a tiny cartoon band-aid.
You stare. “Ji.”
“It has a star on it,” he says. “For luck.”
“It’s for like, paper cuts.”
“It’s for you,” he insists, peeling it open.
You give up, laughing. “Where are you even gonna put it, I’m covered in half a pharmacy already.”
He thinks for a second, then leans forward and sticks it gently on your forehead.
You blink.
“What is this, a third eye.”
“It’s my ‘no falling’ seal,” he says with a straight face. “Magic. You’re not allowed to get hurt while it’s on.”
“That’s not how..”
“Shh,” he says, smoothing it down with two fingers. “You’ll jinx it.”
You look at him, at his ridiculous seriousness, at the way his hands shake just a little as he touches you.
Your chest goes soft and fizzy.
“Okay,” you whisper. “I won’t get hurt.”
“Promise,” he says.
“Promise.”
He lets out a slow breath. “Go kill it, skater girl.”
You grin. “I thought you didn’t like when I kill things on the ice.”
“Go metaphorically kill it,” he amends. “Then come back so I can kiss you.”
You lean down and press a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I’ll be right back.”
As you walk toward the door, he calls after you, voice low but clear.
“Hey.”
You glance back.
“I’m proud of you,” he says.
The words settle over you like another layer of tape, supportive, snug, exactly where you need them.
Your eyes sting. “You better be there when I get off,” you warn, blinking quickly. “Or I’m giving your star to someone else.”
He clutches his chest, pretending to be affronted. “Cheater.”
You laugh and step out into the bright chill of the hallway.
—
Later, when it’s over, when you’ve skated clean enough, when your knees are intact and your only new injury is a tiny blister you discover in the shower, he fusses over that too.
You’re in his hoodie, hair damp, foot in his lap on the hotel bed. He’s dabbing at the small raw spot with the sort of concentration most people reserve for surgery.
“It’s literally the size of a lentil,” you say.
He doesn’t look up. “It’s on your body. So it’s my problem.”
He puts the smallest bandage known to man over it, then kisses your ankle right above it.
Your breath catches.
He glances up, eyes crinkling. “There,” he says. “All better.”
You smile, heart so full it aches in its own way. “You know my whole sport is just… falling and getting up prettier each time, right?”
“I know,” he says. “And I know you can take it.” His fingers curl around your calf. “I just want to be the one who makes it hurt less when you’re done.”
You lean back against the pillows, reaching for him with your other foot until it bumps his side. “You already do,” you say.
He crawls up the bed, stretching out next to you, one arm automatically looping around your waist, careful of your shoulder.
“I still hate it,” he mumbles into your hair.
“My bruises?”
“Your bruises, your blisters, your knees, your… everything.” He presses a kiss to your temple. “But I love you more.”
Warmth spreads through you like the hot packs you keep in your skating bag.
“That’s good,” you say, tilting your head back to see him. “Because I’m not planning on quitting.”
He smiles, soft and a little resigned. “I know.” He tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “And I’m not planning on stopping nagging you about ice packs.”
You laugh. “Deal.”
He brushes his nose against yours. “Skater girl.”
“Mm?”
“Next time you fall,” he murmurs, “try to land somewhere softer.”
“Like what, the boards?”
“Like me,” he says, grinning. “I’ll stand on the ice and catch you.”
You picture him, in his designer coat and boots, sliding across the rink like Bambi, and start giggling so hard you nearly pull a muscle.
He pouts. “Why are you laughing? I’m being romantic.”
“You’d fall before I did,” you say. “Then you’d make it my fault.”
He considers. “Yeah. Probably.”
You cup his face, thumb tracing his cheek. “I’ll try not to worry you,” you say quietly. “I can’t promise I won’t fall. But I can promise I’ll always come back to you in one piece.”
He kisses you, slow and sweet, like a yes.
“And I’ll always be here with band-aids and bad jokes,” he says against your mouth. “That’s my job.”
You nuzzle his nose. “We’re both overworked, huh.”
He smiles, eyes half-closed. “At least the benefits are good.”
You settle into his arms, your taped knees and bruised hips and blistered toes all accounted for, all gently allowed to just be part of you, not something to hide, but something he cares about.
The night outside your window is quiet.
Your body is a little broken, as always.
Your heart, wrapped up in his, feels annoyingly, beautifully whole.
G dragon x idol reader and they have like a mini age gap? (Maybe 6-5 years (the reader is younger)) just any scenario with this hc. Here are some idea’s <3
> Something similar to the fic of “YG’s weirdo’s”
> a hangout in his house
> anything you prefer <3
Just not seeing much age gap fics wanted to make this req :D
⭒❃.✮:▹ “Wednesdays and Vinyl” ◃:✮.❃⭒
Genre: Idol x Idol (established relationship), fluff, subtle angst, slice of life, domesticity, lowkey introspection
WC: ~3.3k
Notes: reader is 5–6 years younger than GD, but established, mature, and independent; they’ve known each other for a while. There’s no power imbalance, just nuance, admiration, and layered affection. I made. GD younger than his actual age (6years younger) bc for me 30-36 age gap will not be “weirdly seen” by other people, its for the plot trust
hii thank you for requesting! comments and reposts are always appreciated
You didn’t knock. Not because you were rude — you just didn’t need to anymore.
He told you once: “This place is as much yours as mine. No code, no red tape.” You’d rolled your eyes at the time, said something like “So dramatic,” but truthfully, you remembered every word.
Tonight, his studio lights were off, but the lamp in the living room was on. Warm, yellow. The kind of light that made everything feel a little softer. A little slower.
You walked in and slipped your shoes off at the door. The hallway smelled like lavender and worn-out incense. Familiar. Comforting. Just like him.
“Yah,” came his voice from the living room. “Took you long enough.”
You peeked around the corner. He was lying half-sprawled on the couch, hoodie too big, socks mismatched, one arm thrown over his eyes.
“You said 9:30. It’s 9:24.”
“Technicalities.” He lifted his head, pushed his hood back. “I missed you, though.”
You snorted, tossing your bag onto the armchair. “You literally FaceTimed me three hours ago from the studio.”
“Not the same,” he murmured. “That was Producer Me. This is Just Me.”
You padded over, flopping onto the couch beside him, knees brushing his thigh. “Okay, Just You. What’s tonight’s plan?”
He cracked one eye open. “We eat, talk shit, listen to records, maybe dance. You sing, I pretend to rap.”
“So… like always?”
He smirked. “Exactly.”
The two of you sat cross-legged on the rug, surrounded by the glow of the record player and soft shadows dancing on the walls. You had his hoodie on now — oversized and worn-in, the drawstrings frayed from him chewing on them during mixing sessions
A Miles Davis vinyl spun slowly, old jazz humming through the room like it had nowhere else to be. Neither did you.
“Your Hyung called me again today,” you said, tearing a piece of dried mango and popping it in your mouth.
“Which one?”
You tilted your head. “The one who still thinks we’re weird for being… whatever this is.”
G-Dragon hummed, leaning back on his palms. “A 6-year gap isn’t weird when you’re thirty and twenty-four. They just remember you as a rookie. Makes them twitchy.”
“They remember me as seventeen,” you muttered, then added quickly, “Even though I’m not anymore.”
He looked at you, gaze softer now, like he was reading something between your words.
“You’re not,” he agreed. “You haven’t been that version of you in a long time.”
You picked at your cuticle. “Still feels like I’m always being compared to that girl. Even by myself.”
GD sat up and gently grabbed your wrist, brushing his thumb over your hand.
“They only remember her because she was loud, hungry, and scared of nothing. That’s not something to run from.”
You looked up at him — that quiet confidence in his eyes, the years in them, the comfort he always exuded. He wasn’t perfect. He could be blunt. Moody. But with you, he was careful. Not fragile careful. Careful like he respected the weight of what you carried, too.
“You always do that,” you said.
“Do what?”
“Say something that makes me stop spiraling. Like it’s easy.”
He grinned, leaning forward to kiss your forehead. “It’s not easy. You’re just that important to me.”
The air shifted. Not heavy, just charged — like static before a thunderstorm or silence before an encore.
Later, you were curled up against him on the couch, the world outside silent and the blanket draped over both of you. You scrolled through his old photos on his iPad — he didn’t mind. Half of them had you in them anyway.
“This one,” you said, holding it up. “2019. I was still in my second group. You wore that ugly green hat for the whole damn week.”
“It was iconic,” he defended.
“It was hideous.”
He smiled, fingers tracing your arm absentmindedly. “You were always watching back then. Even when you pretended you weren’t.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Watching what?”
“Me.”
You scoffed, but your ears flushed. “Whatever, old man.”
“Old enough to remember you mouthing my verses backstage when you thought I couldn’t see.”
You slapped his arm, laughing. “Why are you like this?”
He caught your hand, laced his fingers with yours.
“Because I get to be,” he said softly. “With you.”
The clock ticked past midnight. The records had stopped spinning. But you stayed.
You always did.
And maybe that’s what made this feel so different from everything else — not the music, not the house, not even the years between you.
It was that no matter how much time passed, or how different your worlds sometimes felt, he never made you feel smaller for being younger, newer, still learning.
He just saw you.
And in a world that constantly tried to tell you who you were — that meant everything.
