Norwegian librarian with passion for different types music and Tv-dramas. 38 years old. - I love many different kpop groups, actors/actress' and mostly K-Drama/C-drama/J-drama. -I obsess over certain actors/artists from time to time so while I am a fan of many things, you can still expect a spam of the thing I am obsessed with at one time^^
Yesterday, Disney asked users on Threads to use Disney quotes to show how they are currently feeling. To say that this did not go according to Disney's plan would be an understatement 😂
They deleted the thread, but they should know that this doesn't help because now the videos are making their rounds 🤣😂
i keep seeing posts from people about how they’re shocked robby pulls all these hot women, and like… guys. he's a tall, bearded, enormously competent doctor with big steady hands, sad eyes, and a motorcycle. if you don't get it i fear you may just not be old enough yet.
I feel like I want to keep doing rock climbing. I've truly found something I really enjoy doing. I want to climb, and I want to discover routes that can be climbed in many places across China. I want to work hard to make rock climbing culture in China better.
About Story: Wrong place, right time. You escaped a party to the rooftop. He was already there, hiding from his own guests. A interrupted moment. A hand on your wrist. Suddenly you're in an emergency stairwell and he's on his knees, and you're realizing some bad decisions are worth making.
Pairing: Jiyong (G-Dragon) x Reader (strangers)
Word Count: 6,971 | Oneshot (complete)
Content Note: Explicit sexual content, semi-public sex, strangers, oral sex (female receiving), standing sex, unprotected sex, intensity
You wouldn't have come here alone.
You knew that from the moment you stood at the bar, the glass of gin and tonic cooling your palm more than was comfortable. Condensation from the ice ran down your fingers. Around you, people laughed in a way that looked easy and natural, but it was starting to grate on you. It felt like everyone was pretending—or maybe you were the one who didn't fit in. Hard to say.
The music was too loud. Bass vibrated in your ears and in your stomach. Someone next to you laughed out loud—that fake, exaggerated laugh people use when they want to be noticed. The air was heavy—a mix of perfumes, alcohol, and that specific heat that comes from too many people with too many ambitions packed into one room.
The dress you'd chosen felt too tight now. Perfectly fitted when you looked in the mirror at home, but here—in this pressure of bodies and expectations—it felt like a constraint. Like a costume for a role you weren't playing well enough.
Your friend had talked you into going to this party with her. You couldn't possibly miss the opportunity to go to a party hosted by G-Dragon. Supposedly it was a once-in-a-lifetime chance and she "generously" offered that you could come with her. Right, she needed someone to go with. An escort. She talked enthusiastically about the venue, the interesting people, that this was just something you don't turn down.
"This is just something you don't turn down," she'd said.
But now you stood there with that half-empty drink, wondering how much longer you had to last before you could leave without it looking weird.
You didn't know anyone here. Not even the host—Jiyong—at least not personally. You'd only seen him on screens, in articles, in moments when he became something more than human. And now he was somewhere in this room, surrounded by people pressing closer, trying to catch his attention, his smile, anything.
You'd let yourself be lured by the promise of luxury catering, top-shelf drinks, and "good company." And yes, the catering was luxurious. The drinks were top-shelf. The company was... exactly what you'd expected.
But now you were looking for an excuse to slip away unnoticed. Not because it was bad here. More because you just weren't enjoying it. It was exhausting. The emptiness of the conversations. The way everyone looked past your shoulder to see if there was someone more important they could talk to.
As time went on, you increasingly felt like you were suffocating. Not physically—more from the overpressure of voices, perfumes, laughter, drunk conversations that led nowhere. Every sound layered on top of the next until it started to sound like one continuous noise. You were starting to feel sick.
You set your glass down on the bar and excused yourself to your friend with an uncertain smile. "I need some air for a minute."
She just waved you off, already absorbed in conversation with someone you'd never seen before. She didn't need you. She never had. She just wanted someone there in case she needed them.
You pushed through the crowd toward the glass doors that led to the roof. Someone glanced at you—a fleeting, superficial look—then returned to their conversation. They didn't see you. Not really. You were just another face in the crowd.
The air outside was colder than you'd expected. Sudden, sharp. The difference was so stark that you stopped for a moment. The fabric of your dress chilled against your skin where it had been sticking from the heat. As soon as the door closed behind you, the music transformed into a muffled pulse—still there, but distant. Manageable.
Seoul glowed below you. Millions of lights, each one someone's life, someone's story. From up here, everything looked so small. Including the party behind you.
Finally.
You exhaled—properly, for the first time in the last hour. Your chest expanded, your shoulders released. You hadn't realized how much tension you'd been holding until you stopped.
You walked a bit further, to where not as much light fell from the room. You wanted to be in shadow. You wanted to be alone. You leaned against the railing—the metal was cold under your fingers, real, solid—and closed your eyes. Just for a moment. Just to breathe.
Once your eyes adjusted to the darkness, you realized you weren't alone.
He stood a few steps away. Not facing you, but not completely with his back turned either. With one hand he leaned on the metal railing, with the other he held a cigarette, which he was obviously lighting more out of habit than need. He was looking down at the city—focused, lost in something he saw down there or thought he saw.
He didn't look unapproachable. Not the way you'd imagine a star of his caliber. He looked more absent. Tired maybe. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up. Like out here, at least, he could afford to stop playing his usual role.
After a moment he noticed you—turned his head toward you and his gaze stopped for a moment. He didn't say anything. Just looked, as if calculating whether you were a problem.
You hesitated and held your breath. You felt caught in the act. This was supposed to be an empty space. An escape. And now you stood a few steps from him, not knowing whether to leave or apologize, or just pretend this was normal, that people came here all the time.
You automatically took a breath and were ready to turn back. Return inside, to that noise, to that heat, because at least there you knew what to expect.
"Sorry," you said before you could think it through. You were already turning. "I didn't mean to—"
"Feel free to stay."
His voice was quiet. Not urgent, not encouraging. Just stating a fact, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if it wasn't a problem at all.
You stopped. Not because he stopped you, but because there was nothing in that tone you needed to defend yourself against. No pressure. No expectations. None of that specific tone people use when they say things they want from you. Just an offer of space.
He took a step back toward the railing, as if letting you know there was no obligation to stay closer. The distance between you remained—the kind that could be increased at any time. Or decreased.
"I'm hiding," he added after a moment, as if he felt the need to explain. The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. Not a smile, more an acknowledgment of the absurdity. "From my own party."
This time you laughed. Briefly, honestly, because it sounded absurd and completely logical at the same time. Because you were hiding too.
"So this is the official hideout?"
"For now."
He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered you one. You noticed his hands—calm, precise. His fingers held the cigarette loosely, the movement automatic, as if he'd done it a thousand times before. He wore rings—silver, plain. You shook your head.
"I don't smoke."
"That's probably smart."
He lit another cigarette. The flame from the lighter illuminated his face for a second—sharp features, tired eyes, the expression of someone who'd had a long evening and knew it wasn't over yet. Then darkness fell again and all that remained was the glowing point of the cigarette between his fingers.
He looked ahead again. Exhaled smoke to the side, away from you. Slowly, deliberately. Like this was the first calm moment of the whole evening. The first breath he took not because he had to, but because he wanted to.
You stood in silence for a while.
It wasn't awkward. It was... strange. Pleasantly strange. As if this silence made more sense than anything happening inside. Your shoulders almost touched, but not quite. Still, you became aware of his presence uncomfortably sharply—the way he stood, how he breathed, how he wasn't in any hurry. How he didn't try to fill the silence with words that wouldn't mean anything anyway.
You felt the cold metal of the railing under your fingers. The air cooled your face, neck, shoulders. Seoul below you lived its own life—independent of the party behind you, independent of the two of you. And next to you stood someone millions of people knew, but at that moment he just looked like a person who needed a moment of quiet.
Just like you.
"Most people here talk more," he said finally. He didn't look at you. Just stated. A fact without judgment.
"And you?"
"I try to be quiet for at least a little while."
He turned to you. This time more slowly. Not scrutinizingly. More curiously. There was no judgment in his gaze, just calm focus, as if he was trying to figure out whether he really didn't want you here, or whether he was actually glad you were. Like he wasn't sure what to think about it.
You realized you'd been looking at him for a second longer than was socially safe. You didn't look away. Neither did he.
You were silent. Not that awkward, compulsive silence that forces a person to speak just to fill it. This was different. Denser, conscious. As if you both realized that any word would only unnecessarily disrupt it.
You leaned against the railing, your fingers cooled by the metal. Next to you he stood close enough that if you moved one step, you'd touch. You didn't do it. Instead you noticed things you normally wouldn't notice.
His breath—calm and regular. The way his chest rose slightly when he inhaled.
His face in profile was sharper than it seemed from a distance. Jaw clenched just enough not to look hard. Eyelashes cast a shadow when he looked down at the city. He looked focused—not on you, but not completely away either. Like he was somewhere in between.
You felt the warmth of his body. Not intensely, but enough that you were aware of it. Strange how quickly the brain gets used to someone else's closeness. How it starts to take it as something natural. As if it belonged there.
"It's actually quiet here," you said softly, not even knowing why. Maybe just to hear your own voice. To verify that this was real.
"For a moment," he replied. He didn't look at you, but you felt he gave that answer attention. "Then someone will notice you again."
You didn't ask who he meant. It made sense on its own. Someone always needed his attention. Someone was always looking. And now you were both here—hiding from the same thing.
He raised his hand with the cigarette, but in the end didn't take a drag. Just held it between his fingers, as if he'd forgotten it was there. You noticed he had slightly chapped lips. Not much. Just enough to seem real. Human.
Suddenly a voice sounded. From a distance, but clear enough.
"Jiyong-ah!"
You tensed before he did.
As if that name cut through the space between you. Reminded you who this actually was. That this wasn't just some stranger who needed a moment of quiet. This was him. And you stood a few centimeters from him, thinking about things you shouldn't be thinking about.
He turned his head toward the terrace. Didn't answer right away. Just exhaled through his nose—briefly, amused and tired at the same time.
"Fuck," he muttered more to himself.
Footsteps. Laughter. Someone was approaching.
Instinctively you straightened up, ready to step back, give him space, disappear from the way. Return to the role of invisible visitor who shouldn't have been here anyway.
But he caught you by the wrist. Not roughly, not firmly. Just enough to stop you.
The touch was warm and sure. His fingers wrapped around your wrist so naturally, as if he'd done it a hundred times before. You felt his pulse. Or maybe your own. Hard to say.
"This way," he said quietly and was already leading you aside, behind a massive air conditioning unit that hummed with a deep, constant sound. The wall of metal separated you from the rest of the roof before you could protest.
Suddenly the space was different.
You stood close. Closer than was reasonable. Your back against the cold metal, facing him. Barely a few centimeters between you. Enough that you felt his warmth more distinctly. Enough that you were aware of every breath—his and yours.
You heard his breath. No longer so calm now. Just slightly faster. Like yours.
Footsteps passed by. Voices stopped, then faded again. Someone laughed, someone called him again, this time farther away. The sound disappeared, but you remained standing.
Neither of you moved.
You became aware of his face so close that you saw small details—a fine line at the corner of his eye, a slight shadow of stubble you'd only notice from this distance. He was looking at you. Not surprised. Not triumphant. More... focused. As if he too realized exactly what you did. That this had stopped being a chance meeting on the roof. That it had become something else.
Your breath caught. Not completely. Just for a fraction of a second.
"This is probably the moment," he said quietly, almost ironically, "when I should apologize."
"For what?" you exhaled.
His thumb moved slightly on your wrist. He still held you. Still just enough that it could be released at any time. But he didn't release it.
"For dragging you into my escape routes."
You swallowed. Not because of the words. Because of how close he was. Because of the warmth of his body. Because of how his gaze stopped at your lips—just for a second, but enough for you to notice.
"I can leave," you said, but it sounded more like a statement than an offer. Like a sentence you had to say, even though you knew you didn't mean it seriously.
He nodded, but didn't let you go.
"I know."
It was a quiet decision that neither of you spoke aloud.
The noise of the air conditioning was constant, low, almost soothing. Muffled. It covered the sounds of the roof, voices, music. As if it cut you out of the space where everything was happening too fast for a moment.
He still held you. Not so you couldn't move. More so you were aware that he could let you go—and didn't. You felt the pressure of his fingers on your wrist. Warmth. Firmness. And your own pulse, which suddenly sounded louder than the music below you.
You should pull away.
Instead you noticed how close his face was.
You felt his breath. Warm. Slightly smelling of alcohol and smoke. Not unpleasant—more familiar, disturbingly natural. When he inhaled, you felt like the air between you moved.
"We should go back," you said. Not because you really wanted to. More because it should be said. Because that was the thing a normal person says at a moment like this.
"Yeah," he replied. Immediately, without hesitation.
But he didn't do anything.
His gaze slid to your lips, just for a second. Enough for you to notice, enough for your stomach to tighten and your breath to stop.
"Someone might see us," you added more quietly.
"They almost already did," he replied. The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. Not amused. More resigned. As if it was an inevitability he'd long since accepted.
His hand finally moved. He released you. Not immediately, not abruptly. His fingers just slowly loosened, slid across your skin. The touch was brief, but left a trace you were aware of even when he was no longer physically touching you.
You took a step back. One single step. And hit the metal wall with your back.
You stiffened. Not from fear. More from the awareness that you had nowhere left to retreat. That this was the moment when you had to decide.
He noticed. He stepped closer. Not so he touched you—not yet—but enough that there was almost nothing left between you. He raised his hand, but stopped just before your face. As if asking wordlessly. As if giving you the option to say no.
You didn't answer. Just took a breath.
His fingers touched your face. Lightly, exploringly. His thumb slid along the line of your jaw, slowly, as if verifying you were really there. The touch was more intimate than anything you'd expected. There was no rush in it, no pressure, just attention. Pure, undivided attention.
You closed your eyes before you could think it through.
"This is a bad idea," you exhaled.
"Yeah," he replied. This time closer. So close you felt his lips almost at your ear.
His thumb moved. Gently, perhaps even challengingly.
And then his lips touched yours. Gently, no violence, no hunger.
The first time it was almost careful. Brief, testing, as if giving you one last chance to back out. As if he wanted you to have the option to take it back.
You didn't do it.
The kiss deepened. His hand moved into your hair, fingers tangling in it, firmer, more confident. He pressed you against the metal behind you and this time there was no doubt. Just need. Simple, clear need.
Your breath broke in a quiet sound you tried to suppress. He pulled back barely a few centimeters, rested his forehead against yours.
"Not here," he murmured. "Someone would—" he didn't finish.
He kissed your neck. Slowly, deliberately. Lips, teeth, a brief touch of tongue. You closed your eyes tighter, your fingers clutched his shirt on their own. You needed to hold onto something.
"We can still stop," he added quietly, but his body said the exact opposite.
He kissed you again. This time deeper. Without restraint and then he grabbed your hand. Firmly. Not questioningly.
"Come on."
He didn't ask if you wanted to. Just led you to inconspicuous doors you hadn't noticed before. Doors that led to an emergency stairwell.
When they closed behind you, the sound changed. The music muffled. The air was cooler. Emergency lighting colored the walls in a warm, muted shade. Stairwell—narrow, enclosed.
And just the two of you.
You leaned back against the wall. The concrete was cold even through the fabric of your dress. That contrast brought you back more than anything else. Cold concrete, warm body in front of you. The reality of where you were and what was about to happen.
He was close. Not touching you—he was close.
You had his hands on your face before you realized he'd moved. He held you firmly, but not hard. His thumbs pressed under your cheekbones, as if forcing you to stay right here. Right now. When he kissed you, there was no more hesitation.
It was a different kiss than before. Deeper, more urgent. As if he'd released something—some last brake he'd been holding until then.
You felt his breath, how it quickened, how it mixed with yours. Every touch was a fraction of a second longer than was safe. You realized you weren't thinking—not if, but how far.
This wasn't an impulse. This was a decision that had been forming in you the whole time.
His forehead rested against yours for a moment. You closed your eyes. You perceived his closeness with all your senses—body heat, pressure of space, the sound of your own breath that seemed too loud.
"We can still stop," he said again. A quiet voice. Honest.
This time you noticed it wasn't a challenge. It was a boundary he was putting in your hands.
You didn't answer with words. Just moved closer to him.
The movement was small. Barely noticeable. Yet it was the clearest answer you could give. You felt his body tense, felt his breath catch—just for a second. Then he kissed you again, harder, with a certainty that surprised you.
His hand slid lower. Not where it should. Where he allowed it to. Over your side, over the curve of your waist. The touch was firm, grounding. He held you where you were.
Something inside you tightened. Not from fear. More from that strange feeling when you know there's no turning back, and instead of panic comes calm.
You leaned against him. You shifted your body weight forward, almost without thinking. His reaction was immediate—his hand moved more firmly, as if he caught you before you could hesitate.
You perceived his closeness now completely differently—as a presence that surrounded you. Every movement he made had weight. Every breath. Every silence between them.
You moved a bit away from the door, toward the stairs. His tongue slid into your mouth with such intensity that you couldn't help the quiet sighing that gradually sounded more like whimpering. You tried to suppress it—you knew you were still on the emergency stairwell, that someone could walk by—but you couldn't completely control it.
His left hand rested on your breast, circling in gentle circles over the fabric of your dress. You felt it even through the material—the way your body responded to that touch, how your nipple hardened under his fingers. His right hand slid dangerously under the hem of your dress.
"Oh god," you couldn't help but sigh when he ran over the thin fabric of your soaked underwear. His fingers were skilled, sure—they slipped under the fabric of your panties and he groaned right into your mouth when he found you completely wet, slick, sensitive. Instinctively you spread your legs wider, put one foot on a higher step to make access easier for him.
Jiyong took this as clear evidence to continue. He broke your kiss, pulled away just a few centimeters. He looked into your eyes and his gaze literally burned through you. You would have sworn you were blushing, that you looked terrible—blown out, desperate—but there was nothing in his gaze that suggested judgment. Just focus. He lifted the fabric of your dress and indicated you should hold it bunched up at chest level.
You exhaled sharply and your knees shook slightly as he slowly knelt in front of you.
You watched him from above—how he held the hem of your panties with one hand and ran his other hand over your thigh. He looked up at you again, as if wanting to make sure he could. As if giving you one last chance to say no.
When you gently moved your hips forward, he continued.
With one skilled motion he removed your panties and tossed them beside him on the floor. Both his hands moved to your thighs, which he gently opened for better access. The touch of his palms was warm, firm. He held you so you couldn't escape. Not that you wanted to.
You tilted your head back and moaned when you felt his warm breath between your legs. One hand still held your dress, the other automatically moved into Jiyong's hair. You needed to hold onto something.
The first touch of his tongue almost brought you down.
A long, slow stroke upward made your legs buckle and you had to lean your other hand against the wall behind you for support. Jiyong held you firmly by the thighs so you couldn't move, and continued what he'd started.
His tongue was everywhere at once—circling around your entrance, sliding up to your sensitive point, then back down. When he pressed it directly on your clit and started creating short, rhythmic movements, you had to bite your lower lip so you wouldn't lose the last remnants of self-control.
"Jiyong," you moaned quietly, your fingers dug into his hair. You didn't want to be too loud—you were still on the emergency stairwell, there was still a chance someone could walk by. But his tongue did things to you that took away your ability to think about anything else. About safety. About where you were. About who this was.
You felt his lips smile against your skin before he pulled his mouth away for a moment. "You need to be quiet," he whispered. His breath tickled the sensitive spot and you almost shook just from that. Then he returned with even greater intensity, as if challenging you—whether you could keep it.
His tongue found your clit and started applying constant pressure, circling around it, then gently sucking it. At the same time one finger started slowly sliding inside, then a second. As soon as he found you wet and ready, he started moving his fingers in a rhythm that perfectly matched the movements of his tongue.
Your breathing became chaotic, uneven. The hand in his hair pulled him closer, your hips involuntarily moved against his mouth. Your whole body was tensing, climbing upward to the edge that was dangerously close.
"I... I can't..." you moaned half into the silence, half into the air. You weren't able to finish the sentence. Your body spoke for you—how you writhed, how you pressed against his mouth, how you tried to stay conscious even though orgasm was just seconds away.
Jiyong understood perfectly. His fingers quickened, hooked upward and found that spot inside you that made you shake all over. At the same time his tongue worked tirelessly on your clit, pushing you over that edge beyond which there was no return.
When you came, you had to bite your own hand so you wouldn't cry out.
A wave of pleasure flooded you so intensely that for a moment you thought your knees would buckle. Your whole body shook, muscles tightened around his fingers, which were still inside you and slowly guided you through the aftershocks. You saw stars. Or maybe just the emergency lighting, but at that moment it didn't matter.
Jiyong gave you a moment to recover. He gently withdrew his fingers, kissed the inside of your thigh—a gentle contrast to what he'd been doing before—and slowly stood up. He looked satisfied, almost proud, when he saw you staring at him with a darkened gaze and blown-out lips.
"You're..." you started, but couldn't find the right words. Your brain wasn't working properly yet.
"I'm what?" he asked with a slight smile, resting his forehead against yours.
Instead of answering, you pulled him to you and kissed him. Hard. Hungrily. You tasted yourself on his lips and tongue, which might have normally stopped you, but now it only poured fuel on the fire that still burned in you. You ran your hands under his shirt, stroking his chest, his abs, descending lower.
When your fingers touched his belt, Jiyong groaned right into your mouth. He didn't resist. Just watched as you unbuckled his belt, pulled down his pants. His breathing quickened with your every movement, his eyes darkened with desire.
When you finally freed him from his clothes, he stood before you hard, ready. He grabbed your hand and pulled you closer, kissed you again, this time deeply, urgently. Then he pushed you back against the stairwell wall.
The cold of the concrete contrasted with the warmth of his body in front of you. His hand slid down your thigh, lifted one leg up, bent at the knee. He held it firmly, opened you for himself. His other hand slid between you, his fingers found you to make sure you were ready.
When his fingers plunged inside and found you still wet, he groaned right in your ear. "God," he exhaled, "you're so..."
"Please," you whispered, your hands resting on his shoulders. You needed to hold onto him. "Jiyong, please."
He looked straight into your eyes. In his gaze was a mix of desire and something deeper, something you couldn't quite name. Care maybe. Attention. "Ready?" he asked quietly.
You nodded, not trusting your own voice.
He entered you slowly. So slowly you almost went crazy. Every centimeter was felt—how he filled you, stretched you, completely claimed you. You heard that sound—the wet, obscene sound of your joining that might have normally embarrassed you, but now only reminded you how much you wanted him. When he was all the way in, he stopped, exhaled sharply through his nose, rested his forehead against yours, gave you a moment to adjust.
"Move," you whispered. "Please, move."
And he obeyed.
The first few thrusts were slow, controlled. His eyes didn't leave yours—he watched your every reaction, every expression on your face. He wanted to see everything. But as you both heated up, as his breathing quickened and your back arched closer to him, his movements became faster, harder.
He held you firmly—one hand on the thigh of your raised leg, the other pressed against the wall beside your head for support. Each of his thrusts pushed you against the concrete behind you, each movement felt deeper than before. The angle was perfect—he hit the spot inside you that made you shake all over.
The other leg you stood on buckled slightly under the weight, but he held you so firmly there was no chance you'd fall.
You heard his breath—quickened, raspy, occasionally interrupted by a quiet growl when he plunged especially deep. That sound almost got to you more than anything else.
You tried to be quiet, you really tried. But the way he fucked you—deeply, precisely, with an intensity that took your breath away—caused quiet gasps and moans to escape your mouth that you couldn't hold back. You whimpered into his shoulder, tried to muffle the sounds into his shirt, but each of his thrusts tore another quiet sound from you. You couldn't control yourself. You didn't want to control yourself.
"Look at me," he whispered hoarsely.
When you raised your head and met his gaze, you saw in it the same desperate need you felt. His eyes were dark, focused, and the way he looked at you—as if you were the only one who existed—made your throat tighten.
"I want to see your face when you come."
His words, combined with what he was doing to your body, were too much. You felt another orgasm starting to build in you, stronger than before. "I'm about to... I'm already—"
"I know," he interrupted you, his movements quickened. The hand that had been pressed against the wall slid down between your bodies, his fingers found your sensitive clit and started circling in perfect rhythm with his thrusts. "I feel it. So come on. I want to see you."
He didn't finish the sentence, because at that moment you went over the edge.
The second orgasm was more intense than the first—wave after wave flooded you, your whole body clenched around him, muscles contracted convulsively. A muffled sound escaped your throat, something between a sob and a moan. You tried to keep your eyes open, look at him as he wanted, but it was almost impossible.
You saw how his face contorted in pleasure when he felt you coming around him, how his breath caught with each of your contractions. There was something raw, unfiltered in it—as if he too had lost that last layer of control.
Jiyong thrust deep a few more times, irregularly, and then he came too. His forehead pressed against yours, he growled deep in his throat—an almost animal sound suppressed by the effort to stay quiet. His breath broke into short, sharp exhalations directly against your face, his whole body shook. You felt him spilling into you, warm pulsing that lasted long seconds.
He stayed inside you for a while longer. You were both breathing heavily, trying to return to reality. But reality wasn't coming yet. Only this moment existed—the two of you, connected, breathing into each other.
He slowly lowered you back to the ground. Your raised leg came down, but he didn't let you go completely—his hands remained on your sides, supporting you until your legs regained their certainty.
He pulled out of you slowly and immediately you felt the loss. The emptiness where he'd been a moment ago.
You saw him adjusting his clothes. He looked... satisfied. Tired, but satisfied. As if something in him had released.
He helped you adjust your dress back in place, his fingers ran over your shoulder—gently, considerately. Then he grabbed your chin and forced you to look into his eyes.
He kissed you one more time. This time differently—slower, softer. As if he wanted to prolong the moment before you'd have to return to the real world down there. As if he was saying goodbye to what you'd been a moment ago.
When he pulled away, he had something in his eyes you couldn't quite read. He just stood there for a moment, looking at you, as if he wanted to remember you exactly like this.
"I have to go back," he finally said quietly. "Before someone notices I've disappeared."
You nodded. You knew it had to come. Reality was returning, whether you wanted it to or not.
But he didn't move. Instead he rubbed his hand over his face, then laughed slightly—almost to himself. "This is absurd."
"What?" you asked.
"I don't even know your name."
You smiled despite how hard your heart was still pounding. "Y/N."
"Y/N," he repeated, as if wanting to test how it sounded on his tongue. He nodded. "It suits you."
"Thanks, I think," you replied.
He pulled out his phone from his pocket, unlocked it, then handed it to you. "Give me your number."
You took the phone. The screen was bright, clean—a new contact waiting to be filled in. Your fingers trembled slightly as you typed the number. You tried to ignore it, focused on each digit so you wouldn't make a mistake. When you handed it back to him, you noticed he was looking at your hands.
"Nervous?" he asked, with a hint of a smile.
"No," you lied.
"Liar," he said, but it didn't sound condemning. More... gentle. As if he found it endearing.
He looked at the screen and quickly typed something—just a few thumb movements. Then he pressed send.
"I'll give you a few minutes," he said and turned toward the door. "Then come after me."
"Okay."
He looked at you one last time over his shoulder. "Y/N," he said quietly, as if wanting to verify he'd remembered correctly.
You nodded.
He opened the door. Light from the party flooded the stairwell, the music became louder for a moment. Then the door creaked and closed behind him.
You stood there alone. Leaning against the wall. Dress wrinkled, hair disheveled, heart still faster than it should be. You slowly sat down on a step and gave yourself a moment for your breathing to return to normal. For your ability to think to return.
What the fuck just happened?
Only then did you notice something vibrating. You bent down for your purse, which was leaning against the wall next to you—you don't even know when you put it there—and pulled out your phone.
One new message. From an unknown number you hadn't saved yet:
„Can't wait to taste you again…“
You felt heat rising to your face. You tried to suppress it, but it was futile—you felt your cheeks burning. You stared at those words on the screen and didn't know what to do with it. What to answer. Whether to answer at all.
Finally you just tucked the phone back into your purse, stood up and leaned your forehead against the cold wall. You needed another moment. A few more breaths.
Then you adjusted your dress as best you could, ran your fingers through your hair and returned to the door.
When you returned to the party, your friend was waiting for you at the bar with another drink and a knowing look.
"Where were you?" she asked.
"I needed air."
"Thirty minutes?"
You shrugged and took the drink from her hand. It was cold, strong. Exactly what you needed.
Your friend looked at you for a moment longer, then smirked. "Your hair's messed up," she said. Her eyes slid to your lips. "And your lipstick's smudged."
You didn't give her the satisfaction of an answer. Instead you turned and let your gaze slide across the room. You were looking for him, without wanting to admit you were looking.
You found him almost immediately.
He stood by the window, surrounded by a group of people all trying to get his attention. He looked exactly as he should—relaxed, charismatic, untouchable. As if nothing had happened. As if twenty minutes ago he hadn't been on his knees in front of you.
As if he felt your gaze, he raised his eyes and for a second they met yours across the room.
He didn't do anything. Just a slight smile in the corner that no one else would notice. So slight it could be denied. Then he returned to the conversation, as if nothing had happened.
You stood at the bar with a drink in your hand, still feeling his hands on your skin, wondering if you'd dreamed the whole thing.
But the pain in your legs from standing was too real. The smudged lipstick was too real. And the message on your phone was definitely too real.
You got home after midnight. Tired, slightly drunk, and still feeling his hands on your skin. You took off your shoes at the door—finally, after a whole evening in heels that killed your feet—and threw your purse on the couch. You went straight to the bathroom.
Only when you were taking off your dress did you realize you'd forgotten to get your phone from your purse. You went back to the living room, pulled it out. The screen lit up.
One new message. From an unknown number you'd already saved in your phone as "Jiyong".
J: Still awake?
You stared at the screen for a long time. Your fingers stopped over the keyboard. You could ignore it. You could let it be. Make it just one night you'd remember, but never repeat. Return to normal life, as if nothing had happened.
Instead you typed:
Y/N: Yeah.
The response came within a second.
J: Tomorrow evening - dinner? Somewhere we can actually have a conversation. I want to know more about you, Y/N.
You stared at that message for a long time. You read it once, then again. He used your name. Something tightened in your stomach—not unpleasantly. More like a memory of touch.
You found yourself running your fingers over your lips. You could still taste him on them. You closed your eyes and immediately his face appeared before them, beautiful—how he'd looked at you from below when he knelt in front of you. How his breath had caught when he slid into you. The sound he made when he came.
You felt warmth. Not just in your lower belly, but also in your face. You sat on the edge of the bed, phone still in your hands, and slowly smiled. For the first time that evening—really, honestly.
It wasn't just physical attraction. Though that was... intense. It was something about how he talked to you. How he was silent. How he looked when he pulled away from you on those stairs—tired, satisfied, but at the same time as if he wanted more. As if this wasn't an ending, but the beginning of something.
Your fingers started moving across the keyboard before you'd thought it through.
Y/N: I'd like that. What time?
You hesitated, then added:
Y/N: I hope it's somewhere I don't have to be so quiet.
Send.
The response came almost immediately.
J: Brave over text, aren't you?
Your heart skipped a beat. Then another message.
J: You want me to make you scream this time?
You breathed faster, staring at those words on the screen. Before you could answer, another message came.
J: Good. I want to know everything about you over dinner first. And then I'm going to fuck you properly until you can't remember how to be quiet.
The phone almost slipped from your hand. You stared at those words and realized you were breathing even faster than before. Your whole body ignited just at the thought. At the memory of how it had been on those stairs and at the thought of how it could be somewhere else. Somewhere you wouldn't have to be quiet. Somewhere no one would hear you.
J: 8 PM. Send me your address.
You typed your address quickly, your fingers trembling. This time not from nervousness. From something else. Anticipation. Excitement. That feeling that something was happening that shouldn't be happening, but was happening anyway.
The last message came a few seconds later:
J: See you at 8, Y/N.
You exhaled. You put the phone down next to you on the bed and just sat there for a moment. Your whole body ignited—with the memory of what had happened, with anticipation of what would come.
You lay down on the bed, still dressed only in your underwear, and closed your eyes. Behind your eyelids his face emerged. His hands. The way he'd looked at you, as if you were the only person in the world. The way he held you. The way his breath caught when he came.
Tomorrow evening at eight.
You closed your eyes. Behind your lids his face emerged again—tired smile, the way he said your name, as if he wanted to remember it.
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