#jiyong scenario

[ikwon1c]

Cat Blocked

pairing: kwon jiyong x reader

summary: just two people trying to make love and two cats who thought it was their netflix show.

tags: 18+ smut, comedy, domestic chaos, soft dom/sub undertones, explicit content

so… i just had this weird and craziest idea 😆 also have you guys seen jiyong’s collab with line featuring zoa as the main character TT where’s my baby iye 💔 #iyeworlddomination #justiceforiye

The room smelled like vanilla, sweat, and hurried desperation. His back pressed into the soft mattress, my knees bracketing his hips, both our bodies slick with heat and tension. The kind that made every kiss a little messier, every moan a little louder. I rolled my hips with slow, unhurried control, watching his lips part as he swore under his breath, a hand gripping my thigh like it was the only thing keeping him tethered.

“Aein…” His voice cracked somewhere between a whimper and a plea. “Don’t stop. You feel—fuck—you feel insane.”

I grinned down at him, hands sprawled over his inked chest. “You say that like it’s the first time.”

“It feels new every time with you,” he groaned, thrusting up gently, just enough to make my breath hitch. “Every. Fucking. Time.”

His words were wrecking me, turning me feral. My nails dug into his ribs, head tilting back, letting out a breathy moan as I rolled my hips again—slow, teasing, cruel. The lights were dim, music humming in the background, his playlist looping between The Weeknd and his old unreleased demos. Our phones were somewhere on the floor, forgotten the moment he’d pulled me onto his lap.

His mouth latched onto my mound earlier, tongue lazy and warm, suckling until I cried out and swore at him, hands buried in his hair. Now, those same strands were wild beneath my fingers as he looked up at me like I was holy. Sacred.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice reverent. “Dripping on me like that. This pussy was made to ruin me, wasn’t it?”

A breathy laugh escaped me. “You already look ruined.”

“I am.” He sat up in one smooth motion, arms wrapping around my waist, his cock buried so deep inside me I swear I saw stars. “And I fucking love it.”

We kissed again, teeth clashing, tongues tasting, his thrusts sharper now, our rhythm quickening until…

“Wait—what the fuck?” Jiyong froze mid-thrust.

I blinked. “Huh?”

His eyes widened in absolute horror as he looked past my shoulder. “Don’t move. Just… don’t look.”

“What are you—” I turned around.

Two pairs of judgmental eyes were locked onto us from the foot of the bed.

Iye, our dramatic grey Abyssinian, sat perched on the dresser like an aristocrat catching his servants in the act. Meanwhile, Zoa, our scruffy British shorthair, was mid-lick, then paused in frozen horror like she’d walked in on her parents doing something unspeakable.

“Oh my god,” I gasped, clutching my chest instinctively even though I was already completely naked. “They’re watching us!”

Jiyong groaned, flopping back down onto the pillows. “I’m literally inside you and being shamed by a cat right now.”

Iye blinked slowly, as if saying filthy peasants.

“Do you think they understand what’s going on?” I whispered, trying not to laugh.

“I think Zoa’s traumatized,” he muttered. “Look at her. Her little cat brain just exploded.”

“I can’t do this while they’re watching, Ji!”

“Well, I can’t not do this when you’re riding me like that, babe.”

I slapped his shoulder. “Be serious!”

He grabbed my hips again, trying to stifle a grin. “Okay. Okay. We relocate. You hop off slowly… and we go to the guest room.”

“But what if they follow us?”

“They do follow us. Especially when they hear the bed creaking.”

“Jesus. We’re raising perverts.”

He snorted so hard his abs flexed. “Babe, cats are like living security cameras. They see everything. They probably saw us in the shower yesterday, too.”

“Zoa literally tried to jump into the tub that time!” I yelped, suddenly scarred.

“Okay. Plan B,” he said, deadly serious. “We maintain eye contact… with each other only. Don’t break focus. Block them out. Like snipers under pressure.”

I gave him a deadpan look. “Snipers aren’t usually naked and has their dick inside me.”

“Details.”

But we tried. God, we tried.

I began to ride him again, slower this time, trying not to glance at the dresser. Jiyong’s fingers dug into my hips as he muttered filth in my ear, teeth grazing my neck, trying to pull me back into our own little world. His cock hit a spot that made me cry out, head falling forward onto his shoulder.

“Fuck, yes. Just like that, Aein.”

Until a loud thud echoed.

I turned my head just in time to see Zoa leap from the dresser onto the bed, landing directly beside us with an offended meow.

“NO—” we both shouted in unison.

Chaos erupted. Iye leapt down with all the grace of a pissed-off god. Zoa pawed at the comforter like she was trying to bury our sins. I screamed. Jiyong was laughing so hard he slipped out of me.

“You little shit!” he howled, grabbing a pillow and tossing it toward Zoa, who bolted out of the room like she had just seen Satan.

Iye walked—no, sauntered after her, but not before giving us one final, scathing look.

“What the fuck just happened,” I gasped, sprawled on his chest, heartbeat wrecked.

“I think we got cockblocked. By our cats.”

We stared at the ceiling in stunned silence. Then we both burst into uncontrollable laughter.

“Do we—do we even try to finish?” I wheezed.

Jiyong rolled us over, his knee parting mine again. “Oh, we’re finishing. But now the door’s locked, and we’re pretending we don’t own cats.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good girl.”

I raised my eyebrow. “I’m not a cat, Jiyong.”

He leaned down, smirking against my ear. “No… but I love your kitty.”

I gasped in mock offense, slapping his arm then moaned when his hips rolled forward, slow and deliberate.

“What the hell, Ji…” I looked at him incredulously, half moaning and half laughing.

He laughed while still moving, kissing the temple of my head.

And this time, with the door locked, the lights low, and nothing but our ragged breathing filling the room — we finished without interruption.

[idiotic-fangirl]

Kayden and Kartein are the definition of the cool gay uncles that make every family gathering less boring

one of them will have puked in the flower pot before the night is over

[saidrabbles]

the way you are

pairing: kwon jiyong x idol! reader

summary: amidst crazy stalker threats, you receive an irresistible opportunity to collaborate with the one and only, g-dragon.

warnings: excessive stalking, threatening with weapons.

a/n: i’m always reluctant to write for jiyong, feeling like i won’t give it justice. but i’ve been wanting new jiyong fics heh

not proofread

breathe in, breathe out. that’s what you have been trying to do to regulate the overwhelming fear and stress from the last couple of months. you’ve had plenty of haters, critics and stalkers all up on your business, but not quite like this one. the stalker released personal information that almost cost you your house, as you stare at the plants that you’ve spent incredible attention so that they flourish. not only that, but he started threatening your life, posting photos of the weapons he will use on you.

which is why you’re currently laying on your bed, with countless guards all around your apartment, as well as the entry. what started as a two-week hiatus stretched into three months, as they still can’t pinpoint his location. your thoughts quiet down as the ringing becomes louder. it’s your manager. “hello? have you found him?” it was instinct at this point, asking about updates.

the person on the other side sighed, “no, but i received an interesting collaboration invite. i know that you can’t think about music at the moment, but i thought if i turn this one down without asking you, you’d come for my ass one day.” you were intrigued to say the least. “go on..”

“it’s g-dragon.” you jump up from your bed, your breath caught in your throat. “he’s making his comeback album, and he told us he would love to work with you, he’s a fan.” you feel your heart beat a little faster. you not only know about g-dragon, but you knew him as kwon jiyong too. you’ve met at several events, hitting it off as you found several shared interests. but he never asked for your number, nor did you.

you sat silently thinking about doing a collaboration with him, during this icky time where you don’t know how to go out without feeling hyper-aware of every eyeball pointed your way. but remembering his deep brown eyes got you agreeing. you missed singing, and you missed the presence of another human other than your bodyguards and manager. that’s all that it is, you tried reasoning with yourself.

~~~~

walking down to his studio, you felt nervous. there will be nothing between us, you breathed. you knocked, and almost immediately heard footsteps coming your way. he opened the door, his eyes meeting yours almost instantly. “hey.” he awkwardly scratched the back of his neck, “hey” you smiled. he settled for a handshake, wanting to seem cool and casual. you felt vulnerable standing outside, and wanted to be engulfed with the safety of four walls as soon as possible. you couldn’t shake the uneasiness.

for the next few hours, thoughts of said stalker left you as you listened to his demo, discussed the essence of the song, which emotions he wanted the song to evoke. he was truly charming when he spoke with such passion. his eyes sparkled in a way that pulled you right into them, wanting to know the meaning behind some of the deeper sparkles in them. he has a habit of ruffling his hair or biting his thumb when he’s thinking, you thought to yourself.

the moment of admiration and peace came to a stop as your manager entered the studio with worried eyes. you knew. you excused yourself as you left the studio with her, feeling the overwhelming stress take over your senses. “he’s posted again. he was dumb enough to leave a big clue on where he is, but i’m not sure we’ll make it in time.” you felt yourself go numb. he’s on the run, he could be anywhere and you were not in the safety of your home. “hey” the brunette held you in place by the shoulders, “don’t worry. i’m here, you’re here and i will protect you no matter what.” she sighed “the safest place right now is in that studio” she left you frozen in place as your manager went to talk to the police.

after a few minutes, you regained your composure and went back in.

he could sense your change in demeanor, he could see it in the paleness of your once rosy cheeks, the lack of focus in your eyes. you sat in your chair, barely acknowledging the warm presence next to you. he stared at you for a few moments, trying to figure out what went wrong.

he was pulled out of his thoughts as he heard a clap. “okay, let’s do this!” you try to look at him, unable to hold eye contact, feeling like you would cry if you did. “i think i got the gist of what you want in the song, i want to start on the lyrics right away- “(y/n)” you stopped midway, but still refused to fully look at him, the plushies on his sofa look way more interesting than his intuitive eyes. “(y/n), please look at me.” he tried again.

you don’t know if it was the pleading or the softness of his voice that made you give in. you slowly look at him, feeling tears well up in your eyes. his brows knit together in a frown, looking like a worried puppy. you bring your shaking hands to your face, covering the tears threatening to fall. “i’m so tired” your voice was raw and shaky.

all he wanted to do was pull you into his arms, to kiss away your precious tears...but he wanted you to be comfortable in being vulnerable with him and didn't want to scare you off.

"i just.." your voice was betraying your stance of resilience. that's when you felt a hand caressing the top of your head, so softly that you'd almost not notice if you weren't closing your eyes trying to suppress your tears. "i’ve been stalked for a while now, and yes i know, we have stalkers almost everywhere we go but this…he’s different.” you finally gain the courage to take your hands away from your face.

you carefully look at him, only to see his eyes already searching yours. “at first it was ‘normal’ stalking behavior but it progressed aggressively, from posting my whereabouts with possessive words to posting photos of me in the distance and a weapon pointed at my direction.” you heard him sharply inhale, like a dragon preparing to blow a huge fire on something, or someone. only then did you realize the close proximity that you’re in, his knees almost touching your thighs.

his eyes were no longer warm and inviting, you can almost see the protective fiery glistening. he gets up and leaves, leaving you dumbfounded. after what felt like hours, he came back. “i talked to my attorney, he works with some of the best detectives in seoul, and he will get the fucker on his knees in two days max.” he walked towards you, “until then, please allow me to escort you to the safest place i know, a house that not even my family knows about.” he stops in his tracks, his eyes widening at you. that’s when you realize your tears has betrayed you and are flowing freely down your face.

without thinking, he kneels down at where your sitting, and envelops you in the warmest embrace. it was right, protective, and everything you needed. sobs escaped as you held on to him, finally letting go. “i’m scared” you say almost incoherently, and you feel him pulling you closer, if it was even possible, as he drew comforting circles on your back. as he whispered protective promises, you felt your cries becoming hiccups, as you slowly calmed down.

he pulled away, only slightly, with one of his hands holding you while the other cupped you face, gently wiping your tears away. “i’m sorry that i didn’t know sooner” he breathed. “it’s okay” you choked. “no, it’s not. i have been following your updates, looking forward to anything that you do, wanting to approach you, but i never did.” he eyes moved down your lips for a moment then back to your eyes. “i should’ve asked your number the first day that i met you.” he confessed. it was your turn to stare at him wide-eyed.

“what do you…” you were once again aware of your close proximity. “mean?” you whispered, afraid talking any louder would give your feelings away. “i…liked you the first time i saw you, then started wanting more of you when i started talking to you. you amaze me, (y/n), truly.” he let you go, and you didn’t realize that you were holding your breath. “but i didn’t want to come off as weird, because, as weird as it sounds, im serious about you.”

you felt warmness spread from the center of your ribs outwards, enveloping you whole with new intense feelings. “well,” you breathed, “then that makes us two weirdos.” you brought your hand to hold his in place, afraid that he’ll run away with your confession, “i feel the same way about you” he felt his heartbeat speeding. “i like you too, jiyong. and i wanted to get your number way earlier on as well.”

you were almost blinded by his toothy smile, his eyes twinkling under the fluorescent lights. and before you could return a smile, he pressed his lips on the space between your brows, sending an embarrassing blush from your cheeks down to your neck. he pulled back, ghostly brushing his thumb over your lower lip, and before you could prepare your heart, he closed in the distance.

he wanted it to be a gentle kiss, he really did, but he couldn’t get enough of you. he could almost taste the coffee you’ve had a while ago, and he wanted to devour all of you. he put one hand around the back of your neck and his other on your waist and kissed you harder, biting your lower lip for permission. but he didn’t need one, because you were so desperate to let him in. he was rough, his neediness seeping through the kiss.

you both got lost in the kiss, forgetting about the necessity of air. you reluctantly pull back, only enough for the both of you to breathe, as he rested his forehead on yours. “that was…” you were both smiling. you haven’t felt this safe and happy in a really long time, and you didn’t want to let go of him, ever. “so, you said you know of a safe place for me?” you can see the side of his mouth move upwards into a smirk, “eager, are we?” you hit the his elbow, giggling.

“we have plenty of time to get there, i want to take it slow, with you.” you looked away, your cheeks betraying you. you heard him laugh, “me too (y/n), and i’ve never felt this way about someone. i want to protect you, if you allow me to.” you reached for his hand, interlocking them, and adding a reassuring squeeze “you have no choice now, since i don’t think i can feel safe with anyone but you.” you still had one question lingering in your mind.

“hey…uhm, does that mean you didn’t really want to collaborate with me? like…using it as an excuse..?”. “no, i really love your music, and i really want to release music with you.” you searched his eyes, looking for any sign that what he said wasn’t true. “although, i’m not going to lie, i thought if you saw me doing what i do best, music, you would…like me.” you placed your hand on the top of his head, ruffling it.

“but i liked you for the way you talk, the way you try to involve everyone in the conversation, the way your eyes shine when you talk about your passions.” you were now stroking his cheek, “i liked the way you carried yourself, and i like you even more for the way that you can be vulnerable with me. i love your music, of course, but kwon jiyong is so much more than music.” you smiled.

he brought your palm to his lips, and kissed it. he was in trouble now. you were in trouble. because he believes that he won’t be able to let you go, ever.

[kpopsmutdepot]

The One That Got Away

Pairing: Kwon Ji-yong x Reader

Genre: strangers to ?

Warning(s): MDNI, little fluff, bittersweet, pining, mentions of sex & alcohol, language

Sometimes, when Ji-yong’s off tour, he gets this itch.

Not literal. Metaphorical. Tour ends, the lights shut off, and suddenly he’s just... still. No crew, no call times, no adrenalin. His body rests, but his brain? His brain starts looking for motion.

Sometimes, that motion looks like travel or locking himself in a studio for ten hours with nothing but the mic and his own ego.

And sometimes?

It looks like sex.

Nothing wild. Not news site-worthy orgies or some god complex fantasy. Just something familiar. People he trusts. Cities he knows. People who text back with a wink and nothing more.

Like his past hookup.

‘Still got the scratches?’

‘Healing. Thought about showing them off at dinner.’

‘Only if you don't want to get re-invited.’

Clean. Easy. Physical.

They know who he is. He knows who they are. No games. No post-coital eye contact loaded with unspoken questions. Just heat, good rhythm, maybe a laugh after. A nice arrangement for a man trying to forget he's too wired to sleep.

That was the plan tonight.

Not to sleep with them, specifically — they were in a different city — but to find something easy. Familiar. Maybe even new, if the stars aligned.

Friend of a friend was throwing this rooftop drinks thing. Low-key. Good crowd. Soft music. Warm enough to not be awkward about coats.

He almost didn't go.

And then he saw you.

Didn't even catch your name at first.

You were wearing an oversized jacket, boots, and jeans like you weren’t trying to impress a soul. No makeup obvious enough to notice, hair up like you’d been running late. And still? Still stunning.

Not in the blow-you-away, jaw-dropping model kind of way. In the... look again kind of way. Something in your mouth, or the way you held your glass like you knew what you liked.

You didn't even glance at Ji-yong.

Because he’s an easy man that got his attention real fast.

Ji-yong wandered over to the drinks, mostly to get closer.

"Is this the only wine," he asked you, "or am I about to embarrass myself by asking for red?"

You glanced at him. Not through him. At him.

He smiled. Charming but soft. The usual.

You blinked. "Think it's rosé-only tonight," you said. "Could be worse."

"Could be sangria," he offered.

"Could be boxed sangria."

Jesus. A real one.

He tipped his head and poured himself a glass. "To survival, then."

"To drinking questionable things on strangers' rooftops."

He liked that. He liked your voice, too. Low, a little raspy, like you didn't care enough to make it sweet.

"Are we strangers?" He asked.

"You tell me."

"What's your name?"

You told him. Just first. No Instagram handle, no mention of knowing who he was. He gave you his anyway.

"I'm Ji-yong."

"I know," you said, sipping your drink, not even looking at him anymore.

No smile. No fan-crazed glint. Just a fact.

Well, shit.

You both talked for over an hour.

Not just the polite kind of talking, either. Real and stupid stuff. The music. The dog someone brought ("Who the fuck brings a Frenchie to a drinks party?"). The weirdly specific type of people who only wear ramie in Korea.

You made him laugh. Properly. And not the oh-you're-so-charming-I'll-play-along kind of laugh. Genuine.

Ji-yong liked how you looked when you were amused. Tipped your chin, lifted your eyebrows, said "Jesus Christ" like it was punctuation.

You were magnetic. And you weren’t trying to be. That's the worst part. The best part.

So he leaned in.

"You always look at people like that?" He asked.

You looked up, mildly amused. "Only when I'm suspicious."

"Of me?”

"Of anyone who wears nail polish better than I do."

Touché.

"Could try complimenting me," Ji-yong says, still polite, still smooth. "I don't bite.”

Liar. He does.

You shrugged. "I don't think you have to. I bet people just lie down and offer their neck.”

Jesus.

That went straight to his spine.

He liked the way you said it — bored, like it wasn't even meant to provoke. But it did provoke.

So he pushed. Just a little.

"You flirting with me, love?"

You blinked. Twice. Looked at him properly for the first time.

Then laughed. Fucking laughed.

"Oh, wait. Are you seriously flirting with me?"

You sounded surprised. Like you thought the both of you were just riffing. Bantering. Like he wasn't dead serious about fucking you six ways from Sunday if you gave him the green light. Every position, every angle. Just to see you come apart under him.

But he kept his tone light. "Might be."

"I thought we were just being dicks to each other." You said, smirking behind your glass before adding slowly, "you're persuasive. But fictional."

That made him pause.

"Fictional?"

You gave a lopsided smile. "You're the guy people daydream about while dating someone else. Not... real."

Not real?

You didn't mean it to hurt. But it did. Not sharp. Not deep. Just... enough.

Ji-yong laughed, but it came out hollow.

"You don't think I'm serious?"

"I think you're gorgeous and curated and slightly terrifying. But I'm not your type."

The audacity.

That made him tilt his head. "And what's my type?"

You didn't flinch. "Someone who already knows they're fuckable. Who don't need convincing. Makes it easier for you."

Shit.

That was accurate.

He likes confidence. He likes ease. He doesn’t like convincing anyone they're worthy of being touched.

But now? Now he wanted to convince you.

"I'm not saying I'm not," you added. "I just don't have the energy for it tonight. And I don't do casual."

And then your phone buzzed.

You glanced at it, sighed, and looked back up. "My friend's calling me. You've been fun."

You smiled. Small. Infuriating.

"And very pretty."

Very pretty? Well, thanks, darling. Really.

That should've been enough. Flirt, smile, walk away.

But then you added, "Hope someone writes a fanfic about this someday."

And he stood there, jaw slightly slack, watching you disappear.

You didn't even look back.

Ji-yong didn't go home with anyone that night.

He talked to a girl for a bit. Cute. Nice tits. Wore perfume like she meant it. Smiled up at him the right way.

But his brain was stuck.

Replay. Rewind. Your voice in his head: "I thought we were just being dicks to each other." Your laugh. That fucking smirk.

He should've texted someone. Could've. Would've been easy. But he didn't want easy. He wanted you.

Or maybe just the version of you he didn't get to undress.

Ji-yong opened his Notes app. Typed:

Didn't even want you til you smirked like that. Didn't know I couldn't have you til you left.

Fuck.

Then closed it. Laid awake for longer than he should've. Didn't even jerk off.

Just stared at the ceiling like a teenage boy who fumbled the bag.

Two weeks later, another party. Different location. Same vibe.

He didn't expect to see you again. Definitely didn't expect to catch you watching him talk to someone else.

Someone beautiful, touchy — was leaning in, laughing too hard. The usual routine.

And across the room?

You.

Boots again. Different jacket. Same expression.

You raised your glass in a fake cheers. Smirked. Then turned away.

He fucking felt it in his chest.

He ditched the one he was talking to five minutes later.

When you both crossed paths by the bar, you didn't act surprised.

"Didn't think you'd remember me," you said.

"I remember."

"Mm. Memorable, was I?"

"Hard to forget someone who called me fictional."

You shrugged. "You've still got your main character face. It's unnerving."

"You've still got villain energy."

"God, thank you."

Ji-yong laughed. But underneath it? He was buzzing.

"Leaving soon?" He asked.

"Thinking about it."

"I owe you a drink."

"I think you owe me an apology."

"For what?"

"For not chasing me."

Fuck. You wanted him to chase you?

"You wanted me to?"

"No. I wanted you to want to."

That should've turned him off. Instead, it lit a fire.

The power. The tease.

People like you-they're complicated. Him? He doesn’t do complicated.

But he wanted you. Bad.

"You're trouble," he says, watching your mouth.

"You're late," you replied. You touched his sleeve. Barely. Then leaned in. "Looks like you still want me."

Busted.

He couldn't speak. His whole body screamed yes.

You smiled, kissed his cheek, and walked away.

Didn't stop. Didn't wait.

Didn't look back.

He didn't sleep with anyone that night either.

Didn't want to.

Didn't get what he wanted.

And maybe that's the point.

Maybe that's why he still wants you.

© @kpopsmutdepot

a/n: holy shit the last time I written/read a g-dragon fic was 2014….. I’m 26 now 🧍‍♀️

[peachesclose]

Us ◎ Kwon Ji-yong

◎ Summary: A whirlwind year of secret mornings, stolen kisses, and shared dreams with Ji-yong turns into a quiet rebellion against time—where love dares to skip the middle and rush headfirst into forever.

◎ Warnings: only cuteness

◎ ◎ ◎ ◎ ◎ ◎

You never expected to fall in love with a man who lives between time zones and headlines.

But here you are, heart racing, knees curled beneath you on a velvet hotel couch in Paris, watching Ji-yong pace the length of the suite like he’s about to walk on stage. Not for a show. For you.

Your phone buzzes, forgotten on the table next to a room service tray and two half-drunk glasses of expensive red. Ji-yong doesn’t notice it. His eyes are pinned to you like you’re gravity.

“We’ve only been doing this for a year,” he says suddenly, almost to himself. “One year.”

You nod slowly. “I’m aware.”

“But I’m starting to…” He hesitates—Ji-yong doesn’t do that often. Onstage, he’s swagger and smoke. Offstage, with you, he’s peeling back layers like a dare. “I want stupid things.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Like?”

“Like a house with a white fence I’ll probably hate. Like... two IKEA beds we shove together because we’re too tired to care. Like walking into a room and knowing you’ll be there.”

You don’t laugh, even though part of you wants to. Because it’s so unhim. Or maybe it’s the truest version of him. The version the world doesn’t get to see—the one who wears oversized hoodies and reads books he never finishes, who kisses you like he’s starving and whispers “Stay” like it’s sacred.

He exhales, rubbing his hands over his face. “God, this sounds lame.”

“Yeah,” you say. “But it’s the best kind of lame.”

Ji-yong walks over, drops to the floor in front of you, kneels between your knees like he's about to propose, even though you both know this isn’t that moment. Not yet.

His hands wrap around yours. “What if we skipped all the in-between shit?” he says, eyes burning into yours. “The waiting. The career timing. The everyone-says-we-shouldn’t.”

You blink. “You want to fast-forward?”

“No.” His grip tightens, voice low. “I want us to write the rest. I want to kiss you in front of your friends. I want to ignore the headlines. I want to wear a ring that doesn’t match my outfit. I want to build something real before we’re ready. I want the scary parts. All of it. Now.”

You don’t speak for a second. The air between you vibrates with unsaid things. Like how you’ve already imagined your names next to each other on mail. How you secretly look for him in dreams. How you caught yourself wishing on 11:11s again, like a child.

You lean forward, forehead pressed to his, and whisper, “Dare.”

He laughs softly. “That’s not how this works.”

“Then make it work. Dare me.”

He tilts his head, grin fading. “I dare you to tell me you’ll be there at the end.”

You close the space between you. “Only if you promise to go second.”

He kisses you then—hungry, reckless, like the start of a war and the end of one. And somewhere in the middle of it, you realize: you’re not scared.

You’re ready.

And as your bodies press together in the dim golden light of a city that doesn't care who you are, you know this isn’t skipping ahead.

The next day, you wake up to paws on your chest and a tail flicking your nose.

Zoa—Ji-yong’s oldest cat—is doing her usual morning inspection, tiny face too close to yours, breath smelling faintly of the salmon treats Ji insists on feeding her before bed. Ji-yong is behind you, one arm slung low across your waist, bare chest pressed to your back, the weight of him warm and unshifting in sleep. You’re caught between two worlds—the persistent pawing of a spoiled feline and the slow rhythm of his breathing against your skin.

“Zoa,” you whisper, squinting one eye open. “This is harassment.”

The cat meows, entirely unbothered, and you shift a little, accidentally nudging Ji in the ribs. He grunts in protest and pulls you tighter.

“Five more minutes,” he mumbles into your hair.

“It’s not me you need to convince.”

He cracks one eye open. “She likes you more than me now, you know.”

“She’s just obsessed with my warmth.”

He smirks, sleep-drunk and beautiful. “Same.”

Later, in the kitchen, he’s shirtless in gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips, hair a wild mess that makes you ache a little. He’s making your coffee exactly how you like it, not because you asked, but because he remembers. He always remembers—how you hate the taste of burnt espresso, how you prefer almond milk even though you claim not to be picky, how you hold your mug with both hands like it’s a sacred ritual.

“You know what I was thinking about last night?” he says suddenly.

You raise an eyebrow as you steal a piece of toast from his plate. “Besides that very creative thing you did with your hands?”

He grins, leaning over to kiss your jaw, quick and mischievous. “Besides that.”

“What then?”

He turns serious for a moment, toast forgotten. “That time we got caught making out in the dressing room at your friend’s wedding.”

Your laugh echoes through the small kitchen. “You mean your friend’s wedding?”

“I didn’t see any friends after I saw you in that dress.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Impossible about you,” he says simply.

Later that morning, you’re both sprawled out on the living room floor, surrounded by laundry neither of you intends to fold. Ji-yong’s laying on his back, shirt half-tugged up, Zoa now using his chest as a throne. You trace your finger down the tattoo behind his ear—the one only people this close to him ever get to see.

“What are we doing?” you ask, almost whispering.

He glances at you. “Right now?”

“No. Us. This.” You sit up slightly, the question catching in your throat. “What if it’s too much? Too fast?”

He props himself up on one elbow, eyes soft but sure. “Then let it be too fast. Let it be too much. I’d rather love you in chaos than wait for permission.”

And just like that, you kiss him—slow at first, just the brush of lips, then deeper, messier, until you’re straddling him, laundry forgotten, cats fleeing the scene. His hands find your waist like they’re meant to live there. Your name leaves his mouth like a secret. He’s looking at you like you’re gravity again—and this time, you let yourself fall.

Later that week, you're at a market together, disguised in masks and oversized hoodies. Ji-yong’s pushing a cart with entirely too much fruit and exactly one box of sugary cereal you said you “weren’t going to buy this time.”

“You’re such a liar,” he teases.

“Excuse me, you bought it.”

“For us.”

“Mmm. Sure.”

He leans down, whispering in your ear, “Don’t make me kiss you in aisle five.”

You smirk under your mask. “You won’t.”

He does.

Quick and hidden, behind a shelf of ramen and instant coffee, and your heart flips like it’s the first time all over again.

That night, you fall asleep tangled in his hoodie, both cats draped over your legs, Ji-yong beside you, hand on your stomach like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

Before your eyes close, he whispers, half-asleep, “I know everyone thinks we’re rushing this.”

You hum. “Let them.”

“I don’t care if we’re young or if it’s crazy,” he says. “Let’s skip to the part where forever starts.”

You smile into his chest. “We already did.”

[bettelaboure]

bf jiyong x reader where its the morning after doing ykw 🌚

⊹Morning, Jagi⊹ | Kwon Ji-yong

⊹⊹⊹⊹⊹

⊹Pairing: Kwon Ji-Yong x reader

⊹Summary: The morning after their first night together, you and Jiyong share tender moments, teasing banter, and quiet intimacy—with sore bodies, soft kisses, and the company of his two cats, Lye and Zoa—as you navigate the gentle, love-drenched aftermath of something real.

⊹Warnings: brief nudity, soft aftermath, teasing

⊹⊹⊹⊹⊹

It’s the kind of morning that feels suspended in time—like the universe has pressed pause just for you.

The air is still, golden with sunlight filtered through sheer curtains, and wrapped in the kind of hush that only exists between two people who’ve just crossed the most delicate threshold together. Your body is draped in a tangle of sheets and skin, still echoing with the aftershocks of the night before, but it’s not lust that lingers now. It’s something quieter. Thicker. More dangerous.

“I’m your menace,” he whispers again against your shoulder, and this time you don’t argue. "Morning, Jagi."

Because it’s true.

You feel it in every inch of your body—the ache in your muscles, the sore tug between your thighs, the gentle soreness of your lips from where he kissed you too many times to count. Your skin still hums with the memory of his mouth, the way he murmured your name like a promise, like a prayer, like a secret he’d waited his whole life to say out loud.

He’d ruined you.

Not just your body—though yes, thoroughly—but your standards. Because how could you go back to anything less after last night? How could you kiss anyone else, when no kiss would ever feel like that again?

He shifts behind you, the smooth press of his chest against your back, a hand running down your side with the kind of gentleness that belies how rough he had you hours ago. “You sure you’re okay?” he murmurs again, and it’s that question—the quiet sincerity of it—that really undoes you.

“I’m better than okay,” you whisper, nudging your nose against his jaw.

“I’m a little concerned I’ve turned you into a puddle,” he murmurs. “You haven’t moved in twenty minutes.”

“I can’t move,” you say with mock accusation. “You broke me.”

“You loved it,” he says smugly.

“You made me say your name like—ten times.”

“Twelve,” he corrects with a sly grin. “I counted. Every time you said it, I got harder. I thought I was going to combust when you moaned it that last time.”

You swat at his arm, embarrassed, but he catches your wrist and kisses the inside of it, soft as silk. “Don't be shy now,” he whispers. “You were so confident last night. You told me exactly what you wanted.”

Your cheeks burn at the memory of it—how you’d pulled him close by his shirt, whispering in his ear with a voice you barely recognized as your own. He liked when you took control. He loved it when you gasped into his mouth and begged him to let go.

And he did.

Completely. Messily. Beautifully.

Now, in the golden hush of morning, he’s a different kind of creature—softer, gentler, eyes half-lidded and sleepy, but still teasing, still dangerous in that way only Jiyong can be.

“Come on,” he says after a beat, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Bath time. You’re too sore to walk straight, and I don’t want your memory of me to include falling down the stairs.”

“You’re so full of yourself.”

He’s already climbing out of bed, naked and unapologetic. “I have you in my bed. I think I’ve earned it.”

You watch him stretch, lean and gorgeous and completely at ease in his skin. He disappears into the bathroom and a second later, you hear water rushing, the hum of something dropped into the tub—probably one of those expensive bath salts he pretends not to use.

Zoa follows him with an offended chirp, like she’s had enough of this romance and wants breakfast. Lye stays with you, curled into the blanket, still purring like a small engine.

You finally sit up, wincing slightly, and laugh at yourself. “He really did break me.”

From the bathroom, you hear: “I can still hear you.”

You roll your eyes and shuffle toward the doorway, Jiyong’s oversized shirt slipping down one shoulder. The scent of eucalyptus and jasmine is already filling the air, steam curling through the room as the tub fills.

Jiyong’s kneeling beside it, testing the temperature like he’s preparing something sacred.

“You treat baths like rituals,” you tease, leaning against the doorframe.

He glances back, then stops altogether—eyes tracing you slowly, like he’s seeing you all over again.

“You look ridiculous,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“Ridiculously good,” he clarifies. “Like...you should be in a painting. In a museum. Guarded. Or stolen.”

You shake your head, but your smile betrays you.

He stands, reaching for you. “Come on. I made it perfect.”

You let him undress you, slowly, reverently—like last night all over again, but quieter now, gentler. He helps you into the water first, then slips in behind you, pulling your back to his chest as the warmth envelops you both.

His legs slide around yours. His arms find your waist. His chin rests on your shoulder.

And you sit there like that—two bodies suspended in a world made of steam and skin and the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of breath.

“Can I ask you something?” you murmur.

“Anything.”

“When did you start liking me?”

He’s quiet for a second. You almost regret asking, but then he answers, voice low and honest:

“The first time you called me out.”

You turn your head. “Seriously?”

He grins. “Yeah. Everyone around me nods too much. But you? You looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘That’s a terrible idea, Kwon.’ I think I fell in love right then.”

Your heart thumps. “I remember that day.”

“You had no idea who I was,” he says, kissing your temple. “It was so hot.”

You both laugh, and he holds you tighter.

Silence falls again, but it’s the best kind. Not awkward. Not empty. Just comfortable. Like two people who no longer need to fill the space between them with words.

Eventually, you feel your eyes start to close.

Jiyong kisses your wet shoulder and murmurs, “Nap here. I’ll carry you back to bed after.”

You smile. “You’re not strong enough for that.”

“Woman, I lifted you last night while you were wrapped around me. Do not question my power.”

You laugh into his neck. “Okay, okay.”

He kisses the top of your head. “I’ll prove it again tonight.”

You don’t reply.

But your hand finds his beneath the water. Fingers tangled.

Heart full.

And for the first time in a long time, you think you finally understand what home feels like.

Taglist: @petersasteria @redhoodedtoad @mirahyun @sherrayyyyy @sherxoo @dilfismz @breakmeoff @janie-osuih @forevervibezzzz1 @kuinnoa @juliskopf @maskedcrawford @szonyix6277@ldydeath

[spacequokka]

Who You?

Pairing: Ex!Jiyong x Reader Genre: Angst Rating: G Summary: It's harder to pretend he doesn't miss you than he thought. Word Count: 0.8k Warnings: slighty mean Ji

Jiyong never understood why he turned up to these things. Hanging out with friends when you were among them wasn’t the same anymore. He knew he said he could do it, he could go back to being just friends, but it was a lie. His fingers ached to touch you, to hold your hands like you used to do. His lips tingled thinking of the many kisses you shared.

But now you were a crowd of people away and barely looked at him.

He hated it.

“Hey, we should all pile up on the ferris wheel!” Someone called out and the group immediately agreed. Assholes. Jiyong hoped like hell he’d get paired with anyone but you.

The line wasn’t too long, but somehow you’d drifted closer to him. Close enough to reach out and touch. He huffed and looked away. He wouldn’t give in now, not after a month of toughing it out and swallowing the pain. Another thirty minutes was nothing.

“Hey, Ji.”

His traitorous heart lurched at the sound of your voice and his head whipped around fast enough to make his neck hurt. Sure enough, there you were looking up at him with shy, unsure eyes. He said he’d never fall in love again yet there he was falling for you once more.

“Hey.” The word was stilted and rough around the edges.

You didn’t care. “Everyone’s pairing up. Do you have someone yet?”

He hated how the words seemed to carry a hidden meaning, as if you were asking if he’d moved on. A silly question given his history. He always took his time warming up to someone enough to hold them close the way he’d done with you. He had at least another year ahead of him and he didn’t even have someone new in mind.

He shook his head. “Nope.”

You nodded, more to yourself than in response to him, and pursed your lips. “Me either. We can buddy up then.”

“You assume I’d want to.” The second the words were out he cringed. He couldn’t help but be a little bitter, a little petty.

Your smile faltered. “We can’t go up alone.”

He wanted to argue, wanted to throw a tantrum and say mean things he didn’t mean just so you’d feel the same as he did. Yet, as always when it came to you, he couldn’t bring himself to keep up the act. And he was sure as rain that you knew how weak he was for you. The breakup had been a shitty attempt to get away from the vulnerability you brought out of him.

“Right.” He muttered. “Well, I’m not holding your hand if you get scared.”

He hated how everyone gave you both knowing eyes and sly smiles. This meant nothing. It was a simple ride that be just like your failed relationship—slow but over as soon as it started. He hated how the car was small and forced you sit close together. He needed much more than an arm’s length of space between you. Being so close to you made his skin tingle in ways he’d rather not feel. This was a stupid idea. Suddenly he couldn’t stay. still, fidgeting in his seat while pointedly looking away from you. There was no telling what dumb idea his body would get looking at you this close.

“Do you regret it at all?” Your voice cut through his unease, slamming him back down to earth with the tenderness in your voice. “Do you…do you ever miss me?”

What possessed him to look your way, he’ll never know. Yet still, his eyes found yours in the dimly lit car just as it reached the top of the ride. For the first time of the night, you looked hurt, wrecked and falling apart.

“What does it matter?” He ground the words out, determined to keep up the appearance of indifference. “The past is in the past.”

He hated the way tears lined your beautiful eyes but didn’t fall. The way your bottom lip trembled as if it was just that hard to keep it together. The way he wanted to pull you close and hold you and tell you it’d be okay—that you’d be okay, you just needed more time to get used to life without him. That he honestly still loved you more than words could express but the fear of being left wanting was stronger.

A fear you were living in that moment.

His body moved on its own, an arm curling around your shoulders and bringing your face to his chest. You shuddered with a quiet sob and he broke too, turning in his seat to hold you properly. As his eyes started to burn, he found himself whispering into your hair:

“I miss you every day and night.”

[angels-main-acc]

Covenant

Choi Seunghyun x AFAB! Reader x G-Dragon Synopsis: Jiyong shows up at your door, but what does he want? What will Seunghyun think? Warnings: SMUT! Oral (both receiving) unprotected p in v (Wrap it up!) fingering. Angst, fluff A/N: Part 7!! Due to my torture of the last two chapters I was excited to get this out! Enjoy my sweets! As usual, comment if you want to be added my tag list! ❣ Part 6

Your stare at him for only a second before you go to shut the door in his face, but Jiyong stops it with his foot.

“I don’t want you here,” you spat as you try to shove the door closed, but he won’t budge.

“I know,” is all he can say as he pushes the door back open and pushes past you into the room.

“Get out!” You stare him down, anger bubbling in your veins.

“I know you’re mad, but,”

“Mad? You think I’m fucking mad? I’m livid! I’m fucking furious.” You throw your hands and up as your chest heaves. The emotions won’t stay down any longer. Jiyong wanted to be in the room, well now he gets it.

All of it.

“I’m in a loveless marriage where we were supposed to be working on things and yet when we get home, after my sister fucking died, his fucking side piece is on what’s supposed to be our couch! I was alone! He left me alone our first night back home, spiraling in my head. I couldn’t call you because I was so pissed off. You left me alone, Seunghyun left me alone and you kept me from saying goodbye to the only person I was sure loved me in this entire world,” your stepping towards him now. All you can see is red.

“I care about two men who don’t seem to truly give a flying fuck about me or what I want or how I feel.” You point at his chest.

“And I don’t fucking want you here,” you seethe as a blow hits his chest. He stands there, motionless, letting you get it all out.

“Get out!” You start banging on his chest like a mad woman. He looks at you with sorrow in his eyes, but your anger has control, blows keep coming as he slowly raises his arms and catches yours.

“Y/n,” he tries to speak but you struggle against him, tears flowing free down your face.

“Stop, listen to me,” he tries to calm you down.

“NO, get out get out get out!” you repeat. You struggle against his grip but it’s too strong. It’s no use fighting him.

Your resolve breaks and you stop fighting, choosing to crash into his chest instead, where his arms are wrapped you and his head rests on yours as you sob into his chest.

“I swear I fucking hate you,” you choke out a slight pain in your chest mainifesting. Jiyong’s heart aches, but he tells himself it’s the pain talking. Your cries intensify as he holds you, his eyes shut, trying to keep himself together at the sound of your anguish.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen. My life wasn’t supposed to go this way,” your hands fist his shirt.

He slowly leads you over to the bed, crawling on top of it, allowing you to lay with him.

“I’m sorry, y/n,” he whispers into your hair. Your wailing is unstoppable at this point.

“I have to fucking bury her tomorrow,” you sniffle as your eyes begin to ache.

“I know, that’s why I’m here.” He rubs your arm with his nails, a soothing comfort in the moment of distress.

“I can’t do it,” you whisper.

“Don’t even worry about it, ok? You just show up. Seunghyun and I will take it from there,” he reassures you.

“Why would you help me?”

“Huh?”

“Why would you help me?” you look up at him, eyes glassy and puffy. He rubs circles on your cheek with the pad of his thumb.

“Because I loved your sister and,” he takes a deep breath, “I love you,” he says before capturing your lips in a short sweet kiss. He pulls away and you look at him, then down to his lips again. You crane your neck upwards and kiss his lips again, this time more desperate.

“We,” he begins but another kiss causes him to pause, “can’t,” his body betrays him, pulling you into his lap.

“Fuck him,” you whisper against his lips as your hips grind down against his.

“Y/n, you’re still married,” he says between kisses. Your hands go to the buttons on his shirt.

“Jiyong, please,” your voice is desperate. You are desperate, desperate to not feel alone right now, desperate to feel like someone cares, desperate to feel anything but pain and suffering.

“Please,” you plead again as the first few buttons come undone.

“He doesn’t even take care of me, leaves me needy while he takes care of another woman in what was supposed to be our house, our bed,” you explain as the last button pops his shirt open. He slides it off, one final look between your eyes before he caves.

He caresses your cheeks as he pulls your face to him, the kiss strong, full of unspoken words, full of passion and longing, full of everything that had been boiling under the surface the last year and a half.

You kiss down his neck, tongue licking and teeth nibbling on the soft skin. His hand finds the back of your head. A small hickey is left on his collarbone as you work your way down his torso.

“Wait,” he says as you get to his waistband. You look up, a lustful daze clear in your eyes. This is all that matters right now. Not the pain, not the bull shit contract, not the pain of losing your sister and your husband, just Jiyong.

Feeling him.

Tasting him.

“This is about you right now,” he murmurs.

“I want you,” you whisper as your fingers dance around the waistband of his pants.

“I want to taste you,” you almost whimper. Jiyong can feel the straining in his pants, his cock growing harder as images flood of his mind of what you’d look like with your pretty mouth around him.

Your lips on his pelvis pull him back to reality, the skin warm as you press teasing kisses to it.

Your fingers wrap around the waistband of his pants, pulling them down and you watch him spring free, precum already leaking out. Your stomach tenses, heat flooding your body. You squeeze your thighs together at the thought of how good he would feel. You look at Jiyong who’s stiff as a board.

“Relax,” you chuckle seductively as your hand rubs up his thigh. You see his body shake slightly as he inhales.

You look him in the eye as you slowly wrap your fingers around the hard, warm flesh, smearing his juices on his cock to help your hand glide better.

Jiyong’s eyes flutter closed and you stop your hand.

“Look at me,” you command and he forces his eyes open. You go back to the movement, eye contact tense as you can feel him shift beneath you at your teasingly slow pace.

“Fuck, I need you,” he breathes out. You smirk before licking a strip up the underneath side of his shaft, wrapping your lips around the head, teasing his slit with your tongue. The salty taste hits your tongue, something about it addicting.

Jiyong’s mouth falls open as he forces his eyes open to watch you.

“Please, y/n,” he whines and you sink your head down before coming up again. You repeat the movements, closing your eyes to focus on the rhythm. Jiyong feels a mix of pleasure and guilt. He knows its wrong, but truth be told, Seunghyun shouldn’t have left you here either, or at least that’s what he’s telling himself. He watches your head bob up and down, his cock twitching in your mouth as you pick up the pace. You take your mouth off, pumping him with your hand.

“ah, fuck,” he moans as his hips jerk into your hand.

“I’m gonna cum,” he says as he feels the familiar euphoria approaching.

“Fuck, please use your mouth, I wanna cum down that pretty little throat,” he gasps as your mouth reattaches to him in an instant, cheeks hollowed out, tongue swirling around him.

“Fuck, y/n,” his eyes screw shut, hips sputtering as hot liquid bursts into your mouth, shooting down your throat. Your head continues to bob, only slower, as he comes down from his high.

“Holy shit,” he breathes out as he tries to catch his breath. You let go of him with a little pop.

You kiss his pelvic bone again, teasing him.

“That was amazing,” he breathes out and you smile, proud of yourself, but you still feel empty.

“Come here,” he beckons you forward and lays you on your back. He hovers over you, kissing your lips passionately and your thighs, again, squeeze together, a small whimper leaving your mouth.

“I’ve got you, baby,” he whispers in your ear before nibbling your lobe. You gasp at the sudden feeling before he kisses just beneath it, taking his time, savoring the feeling of your skin on his lips.

Your hands find his hair, curling into it and Jiyong moans, his teeth sinking into your skin. A small gasp is heard and it makes his hunger worse. He pulls off your top, allowing your chest to sit before him, free and full. He bites his lip as he takes the time to drink in the image before him. For all he knows it’s the only one he’ll ever get.

He notices a blush creep up your neck as your hands go up to try and conceal your self from him. He slowly pulls your hands away before leaning in to kiss your lips again.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers and your blush deepens.

His mouth attaches to your nipple, his wet tongue hardening the bud as the nerve endings send small waves of pleasure to your core. Your legs instinctively spread at the feeling, a small pulse being felt in your center. You squirm underneath him and he takes your nipple between his teeth, ever so slightly applying pressure.

“Ah, Ji,” you hiss.

He rolls the other in between this index finger and thumb, your mouth slightly parting.

“Jiyong,” you whimper out and he can’t control the growl that escapes him.

He kisses down your stomach, teeth grazing you in his wake.

He kisses your thighs, nibbling on the soft flesh, licking over it to soothe the pain.

“Please,” you lift your hips up as your desire grows.

“So needy, huh?” He teases.

“Such a shame he’s never even tasted you,” he mumbles to himself before spreading your folds, his tongue dipping into you, collecting your arousal as you gasp at the sudden, but welcome, intrusion.

“Mmm,” he hums as he furiously begins circling your bud, the sudden contact causing your body to shake. His tongue does figure 8’s as he mercilessly laps at your clit.

“Oh fuck,” you gasp as your back arches off the bed.

“Ah- yes, ah,” your eyes screw shut, the feeling strong as pleasure takes over completely. It’d been so long since another person had you, you almost forgot what it felt like to leave your pleasure in the hands of someone else.

Your hips start to grind on his face, Jiyong pulls away, sticking two fingers to your mouth. You suck on them as if your life depends on it.

“Good girl,” he praises as he slips them from your mouth. He kisses your pelvis once more before he inserts his fingers, curling them and watching you closely.

“Oh, fuck yes,” you sigh as you feel his fingers hit that beautiful spot just inside your entrance.

“God, ah go faster, please go faster,” he obliges and his tongue is back on you adding to the buildup of pressure in your stomach. Your hips roll as if they have a mind of their own, your walls clamping down around his fingers, telling him you’re close.

He speeds up, wet sounds filling the room amidst the moans and whimpers falling from your pouty lips.

“Fuck,” you whimper out, barely audible. Your body tenses, a wave of bliss crashing over you as your ride out your high with a loud, pornographic moan.

Jiyong’s finger pump still, helping your ride it out.

“That was incredible,” he says more to himself than you.

“That was,” your chest rises and falls as you catch your breath, “intense,” you giggle. He comes up kissing your lips, your arousal still on his tongue.

“Jiyong, please, let me have you,” you ask against his lips. He looks into your needy, lustful eyes.

Fuck it.

He lines himself up at your entrance, looking to you one last time before he continues, and you nod. He slides in slow, the stretch causing you to choke out a gasp.

“I’m not hurting you, am I?” His voice is laced with concern.

“N-no, just give me a sec,” you breathe through it, the feeling foreign to you.

“Ok,” you nod after a moment. His hips slowly rock, the feeling fresh, full and down right heaven sent.

“Go faster,” you urge him and that’s all he needs, what was once a slow rock of his hips, careful and calculated, has now become a more forceful, desperate slam of his hips. Your heart begins to thud against your ribs, a blush carefully blooming onto your cheeks as you can feel him hit your sweet spot almost every time.

He kisses your lips once before replacing his lips with his thumb. Your mouth opens instinctually and you begin to suck on it, the pad flat against your tongue. Jiyong’s eyes widen as he feels his cock twitch. Your eyes are wide, blown and fucked out as he slams into you repeatedly, skin slapping skin echoing in the room.

“Fuck, I’m close,” he grunts.

“Me too,” you whimper as you bring him close to you. With your foreheads resting together, Jiyong reaches down between you rubbing your clit.

“Come with me,” he murmurs and your eyes screw shut as the pressure builds.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum,” you whimper as your orgasm is at its brink.

Jiyong snaps his hips one last time and that’s all it takes, the two of you are moaning and groaning as the blissful waves of pleasure wash over you.

Jiyong stays still for a moment, bracing himself on one arm as he looks at you, your face dusted pink, body slick with sweat and warm underneath him. Then his eyes grow wide.

“Oh shit,” he almost yells as he flails off you.

“What? What happened?” You quickly scrunch to cover up, as if he hasn’t seen your entire naked body all ready.

“Y/n, we, Seunghyun, he’s,” he stutters as he can’t look at you.

Fuck Seunghyun. It’s time Jiyong knew.

“Jiyong, I need to tell you something.” You take a deep breath as he wills himself to meet your gaze, you slip your clothes back on, half way, and slip under the blankets of the hotel bed.

“Seunghyun and I, it’s not a real marriage.”

Jiyong tilts his head.

“What are you talking about?” You take a deep breath.

“We did legally marry, but we don’t love each other, I’m not even sure we like each other. I don’t know what we are honestly.” You sigh as you pick at the invisible lint on the white sheet on the bed.

“What?”

“You know about the all the shit he went through with his image, how he was constantly in trouble. His label said he needed a girlfriend, then he needed a wife. It was never supposed to get to marriage but he couldn’t keep his ass out of trouble.” You sigh.

“So it’s not real? This whole thing is a smoke screen?” You nod timidly. Jiyong breaks out into the biggest grin you’ve ever seen.

“Holy shit, so that means we didn’t, oh thank God!” he almost laughs as the tension ceases in the room and he leans over, connecting your lips. The kiss is sweet, passionate, and longing. You smile into it.

Jiyong picks up his pants and shirt.

“You wanna go get something to eat?” He asks and that’s when he notices the small frown. The reality of life crashes into him at the sight.

“Oh, baby we can order in, I know tomorrow,” he begins but you nod.

“I’m upset about that yeah, but I have to keep up my contractual obligations. At least until the label can get us divorced. Meaning,” you take a deep breath but Jiyong beats you to the punch.

“We can’t be seen out together,” he nods. You nod to confirm his words.

“Exactly.”

“Wait, so tomorrow, I can’t be there for you?” he asks and his eyes look discontent.

“You can, but we can’t be together,”

“No holding your hand, no kissing your cheek, y/n that’s not fair. If he doesn’t even care,” he huffs knowing it isn’t your fault, but he wants to be there for you. However, you need him.

“Just promise you’ll hold me afterwards,” your voice cracks slightly and looks to see your eyes start to turn glassy.

“Baby, I swear it.” He pulls you to him, kissing the top of your head.

-

The next morning, you and Jiyong get your wake-up call. You whine into the pillow, Jiyong’s hand coming up to rub small circles into your back.

“I don’t want to do this,” you mumble out as your cheeks is cushioned against the pillow.

“I know,” he offers you a sad smile. Your eyes brim with tears and you blink them back, forcing yourself to get up.

Jiyong gets dressed, leaving before Seunghyun arrives.

“I’ll see right after, ok? I’ll meet you back here and we’ll order in, watch movies, do whatever you want.” He smiles before pressing a deep kiss to your lips.

You hug him tight before he leaves, the scent of his cologne still faintly in the air as he disappears.

You take a deep breath as Seunghyun texts you letting you know he’s outside. You exit the elevator, paparazzi everywhere. Your eyes widen, no one was supposed to know. You see Seunghyun come through the doors, he notices your panicked state.

“I know I’m sorry, I have no idea what happened, I,” he stops in the middle of the apology when notices a bruise on your neck. His face is unreadable, but his eyes flash with a tinge of hurt and disbelief.

“What?” You ask definitely.

“Nothing, let’s just go.” He says through gritted teeth. He takes hold of your hand, the paparazzi swarming you despite the body guards around.

“Y/n why did you stay in a hotel last night? Are you T.O.P having problems?” one reporter tries to put a mic to your face.

“Y/n, we’re sorry to hear about your sister’s death, tell us how will this affect your relationship,” another goes.

The lights are blinding and the sea of people is over whelming. Once you’re safe inside the car, your tears spill over.

“Fucking vultures,” you mumble under your breath. Seunghyun watches you, putting a hand on your thigh.

He puts an arm around your shoulder, allowing you to lean into him. You do, despite your feelings and frustrations with him. You needed someone today, and it’s not as if Jiyong could do it.

“I told him.”

Seunghyun’s heart drops, he knew you wanted him to know but a small sliver of him hoped fate would keep it from happening, giving you and him a real shot.

“So, what does that mean?” he murmurs.

“It means he knows.” You sniffle, dabbing a tissue under your eye and checking your mascara.

“No, I mean, for us,” his voice is weak, unsure.

“I don’t know,” you sigh, “I didn’t know where we stood before he got there let alone now,” you look out the window, the air between you feels isolating. Similar to how it was not long ago when you were first married, only this time, it felt as though you were losing something; someone.

“We’ll figure it out,” he tells himself more than you.

“Can we just not do this today?” You ask as nicely as you can.

“I have to bury my sister and I don’t want this drama weighing on me while I do it.” Seunghyun simply nods, the same feeling of isolation encapsulating him.

-

You get to the funeral home, more cameras and even fans show up wanting pictures and asking questions. You sigh as you give Seunghyun a dirty glare. He throws his hands up in mock defense.

“It wasn’t my idea,” is all he says before the door opens. He takes your hand, weaving you through the crowd to get you inside.

The funeral home is nice, a cold atmosphere, but overall as pleasant as one can be on a day like this. The viewing is small, friends, family. Your mother is beside herself with grief. You try to comfort her as much as you can, but it’s no use.

You spot Jiyong in the mix of people, walking away from her and he comes up to hug you.

“You doing ok?” he whispers in your ear. Seunghyun is watching the two of you like a hawk.

“As good as I can,” you choke out with a tear escaping. He rubs your back, holding you for as long as he can before he has to let go.

“I’ll see you tonight,” he whispers before going to hug his best friend. You say hello to people you recognize from her life, friendly faces who are distraught and offer their sympathies.

-

The funeral procession ends at the burial sight and just like the hotel and funeral home, there are paparazzi everywhere.

“What the actual fuck is happening?!” You complain as the car comes to a stop. The people swarm the car, camera’s flashing, sympathies and questions being thrown to your and your husband all at once. Every single one is ignored. The tent is set up as people gather in chairs and standing room to be near the man doing the service. Seunghyun sits on your left while Jiyong manages to sit on your right.

“Have you seen my mother?” you whisper to Jiyong as the service gets started. He shakes his head no. He puts his hand on your thigh, sympathetically and the sudden clicking of cameras reminds you where you are and what’s at stake.

“Move your hand,” you whisper and he pulls it away discreetly, folding his hands in his lap. The service continues, words are said, songs are sung and the time comes for the casket to be lowered. At this point tears are flowing down your cheeks. Seunghyun puts his arm around you, holding you close and as much as you appreciate the gesture, Hae’s words still ring in your head.

“I have your sister to thank for dying. She’s giving me my man back.”

You want nothing more than to shove him off and take Jiyong’s hand and just run, but you don’t. You sit through it. You let the camera’s get the pictures and as soon as you can, you leave the scene.

Jiyong watches you walk to the car, powerless to help you right now. But he watches as Seunghyun lets you go, not immediately chasing after you.

“She told me,” he says walking up to him. Seunghyun looks around nervously.

“Then shut the fuck up, dude,” he snaps. Jiyong looks at him as if he’s lost his mind.

“What the hell is your problem. Y/n, I get. She’s under a whole lot of stress, but you?”

“No one else can know. You’re risk enough without everyone else hearing you,” Seunghyun says it, but he doesn’t mean it the way it comes across.

“You’re afraid I’ll fucking tell someone and screw you over?”

Seunghyun rubs his temple.

“Maybe I fucking should if that’s what you think of me. Since you clearly don’t know me better than that by now,” Jiyong grits his teeth, jaw ticking, before he walks away. Seunghyun’s fists ball at his sides as he watches Jiyong leave in the other direction. He walks back to the car; you’re inside staring out the window.

He gets in, the car silent as it pulls onto the highway.

“I’ll call your company tomorrow, let them know they should have everything they need and we can get divorced.” Your voice is flat, Seunghyun looks up at you like he’s broken.

“What the hell happened to working on it? I know you wanted to give Jiyong a chance but you promised to give us one too.” You hear the confusion and brokenness in his voice and you peer over at him.

“Is that really what you wanted? Or was that just some stupid shit you said because you didn’t have your little girlfriend? Well, now you’ve got an out to be with her, so go fucking do it. You never gave a damn about me, ever. I was just annoying, a pain in your ass, a girl who wanted you for your fucking money.” You spat; voice laced with venom.

“Y/n,” he breathes.

“Yes I said those things, but that was before-,”

“Before what, exactly? You know you literally went down to a bar and had a drink before you came up that hotel room that night wanting to suddenly work on things. You never explained anything further to me.” The car pulls up to the back of the hotel.

“And quite frankly, I’m not sure it matters at this point. Go home to Hae, who’s fucking name is on the deed to what was supposed to be our damn house.” The look on your face causes Seunghyun to go pale. He’d never seen you so angry.

You exit the car, running up to your room, despair and anger bubbling all at once.

Tags:@breakmeoff @ilovethe141 @tom-hollands-blog @tabibabib @gdgirl21 @thelovelybireader @hyunjifilm @bcfcpsh @patheticgirl127 @1950schick

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Love notes, comments, and requests are appreciated!

[xxtoptaexx]

IT WAS A SCHOOL TRIP - p2

Summary: Mina and seunghyun meet unexpectedly during a school trip and form a special connection that changes everything.

pairing: choi seunghyun x reader 

genre: romance - 2000s

warnings: fluff! (this is my first time writing for him, English isn’t my native language T - T)

note: [please if u saw any weird stuff just lmk]

PT2

The sun was beginning to set as Mina and T.O.P stepped out of the supermarket, blending back into the crowd of students making their way to their respective buses. The air smelled of gasoline and fried snacks from a nearby food stall, but Mina’s mind was still stuck on the bizarre yet amusing encounter she had just had with him.  

“See you around, secret agent,” T.O.P had teased before heading to his bus, leaving Mina standing there with a lingering smile.  

As soon as she climbed onto her own bus, her friends bombarded her with questions.  

“Where were you?”  

“Did you get snacks?”  

“Wait… why do you look like you’re blushing?”  

Mina waved them off, trying to focus on her seat by the window. She wasn’t blushing. Not really. Right?  

The journey continued, but an hour into the trip, the teachers made an announcement:  

**“The trip is longer than expected, and to make sure everyone is well-rested, we’ll be stopping at a hotel for the night.”**  

Excited whispers filled the bus. A hotel meant freedom—at least for a few hours.  

By the time they arrived, the sky was painted in hues of deep blue and violet. The hotel wasn’t fancy, but it was decent enough, with a cozy lobby and warm lighting. Mina shared a room with two of her classmates, who were already planning what to do before curfew.  

“You wanna come with us? We’re thinking of checking out the convenience store next door,” one of them asked.  

Mina thought about it but shook her head. “Nah, I think I just want to walk around for a bit.”  

She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but something about the quiet evening air called to her. She slipped on a hoodie, grabbed her phone, and snuck out of the hotel, her steps light against the pavement. She had no particular destination—just the thrill of being somewhere unfamiliar.  

That’s when she spotted the small, dimly lit restaurant across the street. It wasn’t anything fancy—just a cozy, family-owned place with a few tables inside. Her stomach rumbled slightly. Maybe she could grab a quick bite before heading back.  

She pushed open the glass door, and the little bell above it chimed. The warm scent of sizzling food hit her instantly. She was just about to look for a seat when—  

“Are you following me?”  

That deep, familiar voice.  

Mina turned her head and saw him—T.O.P—sitting alone at a table near the window. He had a half-finished plate of food in front of him and a cup of soda he was lazily swirling with his straw.  

Her heart skipped a beat.  

“You wish,” she said, rolling her eyes, but she couldn’t help the smile tugging at her lips.  

T.O.P grinned, kicking the chair across from him lightly. “Well, since fate keeps throwing us together, might as well sit.”  

Mina hesitated for a second before sliding into the seat.  

“What are you even doing here alone?” she asked.  

He shrugged. “I don’t like crowded hotel rooms. And I figured I’d get some decent food before they trap us with cafeteria meals tomorrow.”  

She laughed. “Smart move.”  

They ordered a few dishes to share, and as they ate, their conversation flowed naturally. They talked about school, music, the most embarrassing things they had done in class. Mina found out that despite his laid-back and cool demeanor, T.O.P was actually hilariously awkward at times—especially when he talked about getting caught sleeping through an exam once.  

The restaurant was nearly empty by the time they realized how late it was. The only sound left was the soft hum of an old radio playing some ballad in the background.  

Mina leaned back in her chair, sipping the last of her drink. “You know, this is kind of weird.”  

“What is?” T.O.P asked, tilting his head.  

“That we just met today… but it doesn’t feel like it.”  

He studied her for a moment before a small, almost secretive smile played on his lips.  

“Maybe we were meant to meet,” he said casually, but there was something in his voice—something deeper.  

Mina felt her face grow warm, and she quickly looked away, pretending to check her phone.  

“We should probably head back before the teachers catch us,” she mumbled.  

T.O.P chuckled but stood up, grabbing his jacket. “Yeah, wouldn’t want to get detention before the trip even starts.”  

As they walked back to the hotel, the air between them felt different—warmer, charged with something unspoken. Their steps slowed as they reached the entrance, neither of them really wanting to say goodnight just yet.  

Mina hesitated before finally looking up at him. “Thanks… for earlier. At the supermarket.”  

He gave her a lazy smirk. “Anytime.”  

And just as she turned to leave, she felt a gentle tug on her hoodie sleeve.  

“Hey.”  

She turned back, and for the first time, his usual teasing expression softened.  

“I hope we run into each other again tomorrow,” he said, his voice quieter.  

Mina felt her heart flutter, but instead of answering, she simply smiled—because something told her that they would.

tysm for supporting my first ff >_<

[greenxgloss]

BELLE'S MASTERLIST Writing Tips

HIII im Belle, short for Isabella (i’m 19<3) isfp and don’t have preferred pronouns i’m okay with any Xb Everything I write is pure fiction written for the enjoyment of fans using celebrities and characters as face claims. just fun and entertainment

REQUESTS ARE CLOSED

RULES 18+

What I will write: I primarily write Rory Culkin content on this blog at this point though previously having been an even peters account. i try my best to answer all requests that i get, unless they go against things that i write. minors dni. assume its all nsfw

what i won't write: incest, pedophilia (age gaps where one is a minor), scat play, watersports, race play, omegaverse, age play, puppy play

Evan Peters / AHS

Jimmy Darling A-Z I've been here long before you. Pretend pt1. Pretend final part "And I, You." Scripted PART 1 Juliet. Scotty Doesn't Know Lemons Prom? Dear Tate, Lip Ring Dating Peter Maximoff First Job/ Alex Best Friends With The Evans PT.1 Best Friends With The Evans PT.2 Digested-Human Art blurb Peter on Halloween Rory Monohan NSFW Alphabet First Kiss/ Peter Maximoff Fantasy/ Kyle spencer Hentai/ Tate Langdon Dating Ralph Bohner Confession/ Kit Walker Quiet - Evan Peters Rotten Apple (Kit Walker)

Rory Culkin

Clyde (Electrick Children) Honey To The Bee Meet Cute (mini-series) master list Chris Kenton (Twelve) Dating Chris Kenton Gabriel (Gabriel) Love Is A Gentle Thing (Gabriel 2014) Dating Gabriel (NSFW)

Charlie Walker (Scream 4) Friends For Now? 7 Minutes (Charlie Walker) Movie Date (Charlie Walker) School Dance (Charlie Walker) NSFW

Scott Bartlett (lymelife) we'll Never Have Sex (Scott Bartlett) First Date - Scott Bartlett

Marcus (Swarm) Marcus HCs (swarm)

Mike (5lbs of Pressure) Turn Me On (Mike 5lbs Of Pressure)

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MISC

Otis Milburn (link broken </3) Eddie Munson Glenn Rhee Colin Shea

Min Yoongi Masterlist G Dragon Masterlist KPop Masterlist

REQUESTS: OPEN/CLOSED

[ikwon1c]

Still Got It

pairing: kwon jiyong x reader

summary: a quiet night of cuddling turns into chaos when you start drooling over jiyong’s old fancams, leaving your 36-year-old boyfriend hilariously jealous of his own past self.

tags: tooth-rotting fluff, domestic au, established relationship, boyfriend!jiyong, cuddling, teasing

The glow of the TV cast a gentle hue across the room, illuminating the living room with soft flickers of stage lights and old concert footage. Your legs were thrown lazily over Jiyong’s lap, blanket tangled between you, half-forgotten popcorn resting in a bowl beside his thigh. His arm was around your waist, his fingers absently tracing shapes into your shirt, but his attention wasn’t on the screen anymore.

Not when you were leaning forward, eyes wide, literally gooning over 26-year-old him dancing in black leather vest and skinny pants during his 2014 MAMA performance.

“Okay but like—pause—look at that hip thrust,” you whispered, mouth open in awe, eyes sparkling. “This should be illegal. How were people alive back then?”

Jiyong let out a quiet scoff, raising a brow, lips twitching. “Wow,” he said dryly, watching you swoon over him, but not this him. Not the 36-year-old version sitting beside you, who was wearing glasses and mismatched socks and whose hair was currently half-flattened from your weight against his shoulder. “Should I leave you two alone?”

You glanced back at him, grinning. “Hmm? Oh no, no. Stay. You’re part of the commentary.”

He rolled his eyes but tightened his grip on your waist anyway. “You’re literally drooling. Do you need a tissue, or should I get you a lightstick?”

You ignored him and clutched your chest dramatically as fancam!Jiyong licked his lips on screen, sweat dripping, jaw sharp as hell under the spotlight. “God, he even bit his lip. He was insane.”

“He was me,” Jiyong deadpanned, clearly trying to sound unaffected but his voice gave him away—just a tad sulky. “You know, I still have that vest. Somewhere.”

You turned to him slowly, trying not to smirk. “Do you also still have those abs?”

That did it. Jiyong scowled and yanked the blanket higher over your shoulders with a sharp tug, trapping your arms inside it like a burrito. “I can’t believe I’m being insulted in my own home.”

“You started it!” you laughed, wiggling under the blanket as he pinned you down slightly, looming over you with that classic scowl that never really scared you.

“Look at you, ogling 2014 Jiyong like a groupie.”

You gasped, mock-offended. “Excuse me? I was a respectful fan. I just… admired the art. Of his… pelvis.”

“Oh my God,” he muttered, but his ears were pink.

You kicked your feet, cackling. “Don’t tell me you’re actually jealous of yourself?”

Jiyong leaned down, resting his weight slightly on your chest, his face inches from yours now, squinting. “I don’t know. Should I be worried that my girlfriend wants to time-travel just to sit on my younger self’s face?”

You burst into laughter, shrieking into the throw pillow. “You’re the worst!”

He grinned now, proud of himself, but still pouting just a little.

You reached up and pinched his cheek. “Aw, my sulky ahjussi.”

He growled. “Take it back.”

“Make me,” you teased, grinning as you stuck your tongue out.

He didn’t hesitate.

Suddenly, his hands slipped under the blanket and found your sides, fingers digging mercilessly into your ribs. You screamed, wriggling like crazy, laughter spilling out in hysterics as he tickled you with absolutely no mercy.

“Say you love this Jiyong!” he laughed.

“Never!” you shrieked, tears prickling in your eyes as you tried to escape but failed miserably under his grip. “I want the *hip-thrusting dragon—*ahh!”

“You brat,” he muttered, giggling now as he kissed the side of your neck between tickles. “Say it. Say the 36-year-old is better.”

“Okay, okay!!” you choked out between laughs. “You’re better—this Jiyong is better! I swear!”

He stopped at last, panting slightly with a satisfied grin, then leaned his forehead against yours. “Damn right,” he whispered, catching your lips in a soft, warm kiss that made your stomach flutter more than the hip thrusts ever could.

Your hand cupped the back of his neck, pulling him closer, and the kiss deepened—slow, lazy, affectionate. His fingers now caressed your sides instead of tickling, his thumbs rubbing gentle circles through your shirt. It was quiet again except for the faint noise of old concert screams still playing in the background.

When he pulled back, his gaze had softened.

“Yah,” he murmured, nose brushing yours, “I may not do flips or strip on stage anymore… but I still got moves.”

You hummed, dragging your thumb along his lower lip. “You really do. Especially the one where you turn into a clingy baby when I’m not paying attention to you for five minutes.”

He mock-gasped. “Disrespect.”

You grinned and pulled him into another kiss, this time slower, more deliberate, just enough to make his breath hitch. When you pulled back, your voice dropped to a whisper. “I love this Jiyong. Mismatched socks and all.”

“…Even with the back pain?”

You laughed. “Especially with the back pain.”

He groaned, burying his face into your neck like a koala. “Remind me never to show you my fancams again.”

“Too late,” you smirked, fingers carding through his hair. “I downloaded all of them. They’re my new night-time comfort.”

“Ugh.”

“You’re so cute when you’re sulky.”

“You’re so annoying when you’re in love with me.”

You giggled, wrapping your arms around him as he settled comfortably on top of you. The blanket cocooned you both, the forgotten popcorn cooling beside the couch cushion, and the past Jiyong continued to dance across the screen—hip-thrusting, winking, devilishly confident.

But the real Jiyong—the one pressing sleepy kisses to your collarbone now was the one you wouldn’t trade for anything.

Not even for 2014 G-Dragon in black leather vest and pants, accessorized with sunglasses and statement jewelry.

Totally not.

ughhh he’s so husband coded 😫 god i want him so bad

[kwomikailea]

♡⁠˖⁠꒰⁠ᵕ⁠༚⁠ᵕ⁠⑅⁠꒱Introduction꒰⁠⑅⁠ᵕ⁠༚⁠ᵕ⁠꒱⁠˖⁠♡

Hello! This my first time using Tumblr as a writing/reading platform, I might try and post something here🐈‍⬛

Here is some info about me:

Ira/Mika🌕 • INFP-T💚

Current Obsessions: S.coups, Wonwoo, Seventeen, G-Dragon, and many moree

Fair warning English isn't my first language so please bear with my minimum vocabulary and grammar🙏🙏

That's all thank youuu

(⁠´⁠∩⁠｡⁠•⁠ ⁠ᵕ⁠ ⁠•⁠｡⁠∩⁠`)

[saidrabbles]

vulnerable

pairing: g-dragon x reader warnings: none word count: 1.1k

.

— this is for anyone that feels like a burden to others if they dare open up about their feelings —

.

jiyong slides in his chair, letting out an exasperated sigh. music production has been so stressful, trying to meet the high expectations put on his name. g-dragon. sometimes, he wishes he can run away from this name, from his genius producer reputation. but he loves music, his fans and...he wouldn't have met you.

he met his girlfriend of three months now through mutual friends, and he couldn't be more thankful. you're everything to him, which is why your reply made him sulk.

jy: hi baby, are you free tonight? ;) y/n: hii my beloved, im sorryy :( work has piled up and i see no escape. i'll be busy for the next few days :(

several days is way too long of a time without seeing you. "i don't blame her, i'm struggling the same with my work. but i would love to see her for an hour or two." he was ranting to his bestfriend, taeyang, on the phone with a visible sulk in his voice. "i think you should tell her that jiyong, maybe she was too stressed to think of meeting for a few hours."

he was staring at the demo he produced a few hours ago, his mind thinking of ways to make the song sound better. he forgot taeyang, still on the other side of the call, but a feminine voice pulled him out of his thoughts. "did she say she's busy with work for a few days?" "yeah, why?" he cleared his voice, "uhm guys, what are you on about?"

hyorin, taeyang's wife, sounded worried. "i think you should go check up on her, jiyong-ssi." he sat straight in his seat "why? what does it mean when she says she's busy?" hyorin sighed on the other end, "i can't talk in detail about it because it's not my place but, (y/n) has struggled with being vulnerable because of a previous relationship." he stood up fully now, rushing to save his work. "i coincidentally went to visit her with a meal when she said she was busy, and she was having a breakdown...she thinks she will be a burden if she made people rush to her side everytime she's going through something." his heart felt like it stopped working, like it malfunctioned. why would she...she's not comfortable with me?...

.

.

you heard a knock on your apartment door and you started wiping your tears, the delivery man doesn't need to be seeing dried tears and puffy eyes, you tried to joke. "you can leave it just on the inside-" you were super-glued to your place. it wasn't the delivery man. "ji-jiyong?" your voice came out thick from all the crying you did. "can i please come in?" his voice was almost a whisper, like he is afraid to raise it any higher in case you run the other way.

you silently opened the door wider to allow him in, not knowing what to do with yourself. run, hide, don't show him your weakness. your traumatised mind was screaming at you, but you were still glued in-front of the gentlest man you've ever met. his eyes had an expression you couldn't read; pain? guilt? sadness..?

your body starts forcing you to walk into the living room, but before you turned around he leaped and wrapped his arms around your waist, his head leaning into your shoulder, engulfing you whole. you stayed in your place, you didn't understand what was happening. "(y/n)" he breathed again. "(y/n)" he breathed out, "why are you crying, alone, when i'm here?" you felt your body shaking, so you wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your head into the crook of his neck in an attempt to hide from the confession he was asking of you.

you held him tighter, and he returned it by pulling you closer to him. "it's not about you" your voice was more of a whisper than anything. "i know baby" you shifted in his arms, "you know?" he slowly started drawing circles on the small of your back. "hyorin told me a bit about it, but" he placed a kiss on the top of your head as he rested his chin on the top of your head, "who in their right mind would not want to hold you in their arms, like this, and smell your floral shampoo?" he tried to lighten the mood.

"a whiny, clingy person" you started "that's what he told me when i called him, needing reassurance." at which point did your tears started pooling around your eyes again, you don't know, but you notice how jiyong starts swaying the both of you gently right and left, like he's telling you he's listening. he knew you still had more to say. "i'm the type of person that holds it in, i don't complain unless i've suppressed my emotions for too long. at some point in my relationship, he started sighing anytime i tried to express how i'm feeling.." you started crying, but wanted to continue,

"so, i stopped telling anyone how i feel. every time i tried to speak, my mind would start to attack me, scream at me, and it shut me up." you hid your face in his chest as you cried your heart out. you let out all of your pent-up feelings to another human being after all this time. it wasn't just anyone, it was to the person that mattered the most to you. his arms melted away your sadness, stress, frustration. after what felt like hours, your cries were now sniffles, slowly settling into this newly cleansed heart.

you felt jiyong pull away, and pull you with him over to the couch in the living room. he sat you down, held your tear-stained face ever so gently, wiping any escaping tear from your (e/c) eyes. "your vulnerability" he kissed the space between your brows "is what you makes you human" he kissed your left cheek "becoming someone you can lean on," he kissed your right cheek "is a great honour for me." he kisses your nose "i want to know your everything, i want you to cry only in my arms, and to complain when life feels unfair." he grazed his thumb over your lower lip.

he slowly leaned in, placing a feather-like kiss. you smiled as he kissed you again, deepening the kiss, like he's sealing the promise he made to you with his warm, soft lips. you melted, feeling your mind settle into an unheard whisper. he rested his forehead on yours, sighing happily.

"i love you, kwon jiyong." he giggled at the mention of his full name, "i love you too, (y/n) (l/n)." you were both giggling at this point. you settled on his lap, as he held you close to his chest. feeling his heartbeat, you felt yourself come home. "thank you, my dearest." he reassuringly squeezed your upper arm. "always, my most beloved."

a/n: im working on a gdragon x reader slow burn friends to lovers reuqested by anon, but enjoy this scenario written by yours truly :)

[megangovier]

@promisesox 💟

Hi I just found this blog and love it! Please could I have number 4: “You know I love you, right? I have every intention of fucking you like I don’t.” For Jiyong (G-Dragon - Bigbang) x female reader - with him saying the line to her during smut? Thank you ^_^

kink edition

❅ pairing - g dragon x reader

❅ rated - 18+ | NSFW

❅ genre - smut | idol and secretary secret affair

❅ word count - 748

❅ warnings - profanity | smut | NSFW | unprotected sex | binding hands | spanking | hair pulling | usage of vibrator | slight gagging nothing too serious

You always considered yourself to be...tactical. Neat and organized. Clever, proper, and modest. You had every skill needed and more to be outstanding in whatever position you played. Being an idol’s secretary was no easy job, especially the popularity he carried with him. G Dragon was a name known worldwide and he was always on the go. You didn’t just keep up, you always stayed a few steps ahead of him. Thankfully you weren’t the manager, always following him around and attending to his beck and call. You were the one giving the manager the things he needed to keep up with Jiyong, setting the coordinates for the next stops.

You occasionally got to see him when you attended his hectic schedule or he made his way into the office. A snide remark here and there, weak attempts to throw you off your game but you always remained professional.

You always considered yourself to be smart. Attentive, respectable, and great at keeping secrets.

Though the both of you had very different jobs and could debate over who had it the most rough, you both shared the need to let off some steam. The first time it happened; it was a bad week and you were stressed out. His shit talking was a little bit more than you could tolerate so you needed to put him in his place. Ironically, your place was bent over on your desk, a hand pulling your hair and his handprints on your ass. You swore never to bring it up, completely act like it never happened so the both of you could keep your jobs. Surprisingly you didn’t expect for him not to speak a word about it to you, not even a little tease. You battled with yourself if it made you feel relieved or skeptical, but you were taken back once more when he began to act more polite and dare say ‘sweet’ with you.

You finally had enough when you found flowers on your desk every morning the following week, confronting the idol for his sudden change of heart. He had confessed, apologizing that it occurred right after the sex that he had always been interested in you. If you were willing, he wanted to pursue more with you. You were dumbfounded and instantly answered no, only thinking about how your boss would have your head if anyone would find out the both of you were dating. But a couple of drunk nights led to drunk texts and calls, and you find yourself in his bed every other week. Now, over the past couple of years you’ve been sharing an intimate relationship with the idol without a soul knowing. You agreed to keep it on the down low, knowing you would have been immediately fired if your superiors found out you were fucking the client. But you couldn’t lie, you absolutely loved being ravaged by Jiyong.

The way his eyes would rake over your form, whether you were in the office in your regular attire or in his bedroom draped in newly bought lingerie just for him. The way his tongue would run over his lips, eyes darkening with every inch he covered all the way up to your eyes, the corner of his lips pulling into an open mouthed grin.

“On your knees, baby girl.”

After a long week of providing service and giving out orders, you needed someone to do that for you. Jiyong knew exactly how you liked it, and he enjoyed watching you writh and ache for his touch. He would spend an hour teasing you, purely on deciding on how he was going to have you as your hands were tied behind your back with a leather belt and a vibrator in your cunt. Once he finally decided, he made sure to always whisper in your ear, “You know I love you right?” His voice low and rasp as he would sink his cock in feeling the tightness squeeze around him. Tonight was different, with your legs pushed back to your chest shaking uncontrollably as he kept a firm grasp on the back of your knees. His cock inches in slowly, making you go crazy as your whimper was muffled with your lace panties in your mouth.

“I have every intention of fucking you like I don’t.”

Jiyong would never let the night end, never letting up until you were a crying mess and cumming on his cock at least four or five times.

[peachesclose]

Meet me backstage ◎ Kwon Ji-Yong

◎ Summary: A long-simmering attraction between you and Kwon Jiyong ignites backstage after a performance, unfolding into a slow-burning, emotionally charged encounter where desire meets deep, unspoken connection.

◎ Warnings: suggestive content, i guess?

◎ ◎ ◎ ◎ ◎

The bass is still humming through the walls when you step off stage, skin hot beneath sequins and silk. Seoul’s summer air clings to you, sticky and electric, and your mind is still halfway in the last chorus. The crowd’s roar lingers in your bones. But it’s not just adrenaline that’s keeping you charged.

You didn’t expect him tonight.

Kwon Jiyong. GD. The name everyone else whispers like gospel in the industry — but to you, it’s more than legacy. It’s late-night studio sessions and glances too long to ignore. It’s the text he sent you two hours ago: “I’m watching tonight.”

You’d hoped he meant it.

And then, you saw him.

Leaning against the VIP balcony like he owned the air around him, black shirt open just enough to show a glimpse of ink at his collarbone, a drink untouched in his hand — watching you. Not your group. You. Eyes low and deliberate, lips parted like he was singing along, even though you could barely focus on your lines once you caught him there.

Now, backstage is buzzing — but none of it touches you. You’re alone in the dim corridor by your dressing room, breath caught in your throat when the door opens without a knock.

He’s here.

“Didn’t think you’d actually come,” you say, voice lower than you meant.

He doesn’t smile — not fully. Just closes the door behind him and leans against it, eyes running over you in that way that makes it hard to breathe. “You looked good up there,” he says, voice soft and slow, velvet with heat. “You knew I was watching, didn’t you?”

Your throat tightens. You nod.

He steps closer, the scent of him filling the room like the first hit of a track you didn’t realize was on repeat in your head. Sandalwood. Smoke. Something sharp and expensive.

“You were singing my verse,” he murmurs.

“You wrote it.”

He smiles this time. “You still remember every word.”

The space between you evaporates in an instant. His fingers lift the hem of your stage outfit — not suggestively, not yet. Just a brush, feather-light, like he’s checking if you’re real. You don’t move away. You don’t want to.

“Why don’t you meet me backstage?” he whispers, quoting his own lyric — and suddenly, everything tilts.

You back into the wall, your breath catching when his hand slides up your arm. Not rushing. Never rushing. Jiyong doesn’t do anything without control, without purpose. His eyes lock with yours, asking without words.

You nod.

He kisses you like he sings — measured, poetic, dangerous in its precision. Lips brushing over yours once, twice, slow enough to make you chase the third. He lets you. His hand tangles in your hair, pulling slightly, anchoring you to him, while the other traces down your waist like he’s finding lyrics in the curves of your body.

Your heart’s beating out of time.

He mouths against your jaw, “You drive me crazy in that black outfit.”

“Then do something about it.”

He does — but not in the way you expected. No frantic need. Just closeness. Palms against your sides. A low exhale against your neck. His breath travels from your ear down the curve of your throat, lingering there, just where your heartbeat flutters the most. He kisses you there — slow, slow, slow — his signature tattooed behind your eyelids with every pulse.

It’s not just lust.

It’s something heavier. Older.

Maybe it’s the way you’ve been circling each other for years now, both too careful to touch what you couldn’t undo. Or maybe it’s the silence after the spotlight — when all that’s left is two people backstage, stripped of illusion, chasing something real.

You run your hand through his hair, fingers tugging gently at the nape as you pull him closer. “You gonna sing me that line again?”

“Which one?”

“‘Oh, you so good on your knees…’”

His eyes darken, a smirk flickering like static at the corner of his mouth. “You’re dangerous.”

“You started it.”

He sinks to his knees without breaking eye contact. His hands on your thighs are steady, reverent. But before anything else can happen, he pauses — presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, slow and deliberate. Then the other. Not moving higher.

You’re trembling before he’s even touched you.

He whispers, “Tell me to stop.”

You don’t.

Instead, you drop to your knees too, facing him in the quiet pulse of the backstage haze. Your forehead touches his, both of you breathing the same air, wanting the same release.

But what you say is, “This… isn’t just tonight, is it?”

His answer comes in a whisper, pressed to your mouth.

“No. This is the start.”

The room isn’t made for moments like this. It’s too cold, too white — a temporary space built for quick changes and exit routes. But the second his hands find your waist, the space warps around him.

Jiyong’s presence is commanding without trying. He doesn’t touch you like a man who’s guessing. He touches you like a man who’s been imagining this for months. Like he’s traced every inch of your body with his mind a thousand times before tonight — and now, he’s finally allowed to confirm the fantasy.

His hands slide under your jacket, knuckles brushing your bare skin. You shiver — not from cold, but from anticipation. From the weight of his gaze as he watches your reaction, as if memorizing the exact sound you make when he drags his fingers along your ribs.

“You always perform like that?” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Or just when you know I’m watching?”

Your reply catches in your throat. He’s too close, too overwhelming, and his breath is warm against your skin, flooding your nerves with heat.

“I didn’t expect you,” you whisper.

“No?” He’s grinning now — wicked, confident. His fingers slide the zipper of your outfit down one slow inch at a time. “Then why were you looking up at me like you wanted me to walk down and pull you off stage?”

You swallow, the movement betraying you. He hears it. Feels it.

“You want me to stop?” he asks, thumb brushing just beneath your chest now, grazing the edge of your bra like a threat.

“No.”

It comes out hoarse. Honest.

His lips finally meet yours again, this time without hesitation. It’s not a kiss meant for cameras. It’s deep, deliberate — the kind of kiss that takes. His mouth moves with rhythm, tongue teasing yours, breath mixing until you can’t tell where you end and he begins. You grip the collar of his black shirt, feeling the silk stretch in your fists.

“Been thinking about this since Jeju,” he murmurs into your mouth. “You remember that after-party?”

You do. You remember the way he stood too close behind you in the hallway, breath ghosting over your shoulder as he passed, saying nothing. The way his hand brushed your back — not enough to be obvious, but enough to stay with you. The way you felt all night after.

“I thought you didn’t like sharing,” you murmur now, teeth catching his bottom lip.

“I don’t.” His voice dips. “That’s why I waited.”

He pulls your jacket off completely, letting it fall to the floor. The air hits your skin and you hiss through your teeth — not from cold, but from how exposed you feel under his eyes. He’s staring like he’s starving.

“You’re prettier up close,” he says. “But I already knew that.”

Then he’s on you again — hands on your hips, mouth at your neck. His lips move slowly, deliberately, down your throat to your collarbone. He doesn’t rush. He savors. Every kiss a message, every exhale a promise. You gasp when his teeth catch lightly on your skin — not enough to mark, just enough to claim. One hand slides behind your back, pulling you flush against him.

You can feel him. All of him. Hard, unyielding, and pressed right against your hips. The pressure makes your knees threaten to give, but he holds you steady.

“You good?” he murmurs, nose brushing yours.

You nod, breathless. “Better than good.”

He lets out a soft laugh — low, satisfied — and turns you slowly, backing you toward the vanity mirror. Your body hits it gently, and the cold glass is a shock against your spine. The contrast only makes the heat between your bodies more intense.

You stare at yourselves in the mirror — his dark eyes over your shoulder, your parted lips, your body pressed to his. His hands snake around your stomach, dragging up slowly, flattening against your ribs.

“Look,” he whispers in your ear.

You do.

“Look how you react to me. This is what I wanted.”

Your eyes lock in the reflection, and it’s almost too much — too intimate. But you don’t look away.

His lips skim your shoulder, then lower, lower. When his hands finally touch the hem of your skirt, you suck in a breath. You don’t stop him. Your head tilts back onto his shoulder, letting him explore.

Then, without warning, he lifts you.

You gasp, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. His grip is strong, practiced — like carrying you is second nature. He sits you on the makeup table, knocking over a few compacts and brushes that clatter to the ground. Neither of you care.

He leans in, forehead against yours, breathing hard.

“We don’t have to go further,” he says, and it’s real — not a line. His eyes are serious, even while his body is still pressed tight against yours.

You place your hands on his jaw, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones.

“I want to,” you whisper. “But not fast. Not like I’m another stop on your tour.”

That stops him. Something flickers in his eyes — guilt? Respect?

He leans forward, kisses your temple, your cheek, your lips — all soft now, all careful.

“Then I’ll go slow,” he says. “So slow you’ll still feel me tomorrow.”

You close your eyes and let yourself fall.

Not into lust. Not into recklessness.

Into him.

[bettelaboure]

⊹ Mile High ⊹ Kwon Ji-yong

⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹

⊹ Pairing: Kwon Ji-yong x Reader

⊹ Summary: Kwon Ji-yong (G-Dragon) and the reader—his tour manager's assistant—amid the chaos and intimacy of a world tour in 2025. Their teasing banter grows into deep affection, culminating in moments of vulnerability, connection, and a quietly powerful love that lingers long after the final encore.

⊹ Warnings: mature language and suggestive content, emotional vulnerability and themes of burnout, references to illness and exhaustion

⊹ Author's note: i'm trying to push myself out of my comforting smut and angst. what do we think about sweeties? 🤍

⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹

You never meant to get so close to him.

But cities bled into each other like watercolor on a hotel napkin—Lisbon to Prague to Tokyo—and somewhere in the blur of passport stamps, sleepless nights, and hastily ordered lattes, Kwon Ji-yong started slipping under your skin. What began as harmless proximity soon became a slow entanglement of glances, whispered jokes, and quiet, charged moments you didn’t know how to name.

You meet him for the first time in Berlin, two hours behind schedule and six minutes before the soundcheck meeting. The venue buzzes like a kicked beehive, everyone darting around with a job, a headset, or a minor crisis. The air is thick with urgency and sweat, stage lights blinking awake, sound techs testing mics like angry gods in the rafters.

Ji-yong strolls in with that careless kind of grace only rockstars and men with nothing to prove can manage. He's wearing sunglasses indoors—of course—and a vintage leather jacket with paint smears across the sleeve. He smells faintly of cedar and something more elusive: the kind of scent that lingers long after someone has left.

He calls you “assistant-nim” the first time. Mocking, lilting, like the title tastes wrong in his mouth but he's going to savor it anyway. He tugs his sunglasses down just enough to show the laughter in his eyes, the corners crinkling with amusement.

“Tour Manager’s assistant, right?” he says, voice dipped in that casual, velvet arrogance. "Big responsibility. Guess that means I should be nice to you."

You don’t flinch. You meet his gaze, arching a brow. "You could try being on time first."

He laughs. A low, rich sound, the kind that curls at the edges and stays with you long after he's walked away.

It begins with small things.

An inside joke here. A brush of hands when he passes you a pen. The way he calls you by your last name like it’s a dare, like he's always two seconds from smiling. You notice how often he ends up in your orbit, uninvited but never unwelcome. His presence becomes a background hum—persistent, teasing, intimate.

In Paris, during a chaotic prep for the arena's layout shift, he disappears for nearly an hour. You're about to start a very well-practiced rant when he saunters in, nonchalantly drops a pack of your favorite gum on your clipboard, and walks off without a word. Taped to it is a neon sticky note in loopy handwriting:

Still not as sharp as your tongue.

You read it five times before tucking it into your notebook.

In Seoul, the night before the show, you’re rechecking cue lists when he steals your sharpie from your hand mid-sentence. He draws a tiny, crooked heart on the back of your hand before handing it back.

"A souvenir," he murmurs, voice soft but certain. "In case you forget me."

You laugh like it means nothing. But you tuck your hand away like it means everything.

By Milan, it’s no longer just teasing. Ji-yong seeks you out. He hovers by your table during production meetings, tapping his foot to music only he can hear. He brings you coffee with your exact order scrawled in black marker on the lid. No one ever gets your order right.

“You work too much,” he tells you one night. It's after load-in, after most of the crew has vanished into their rooms or the city’s neon veins. You're hunched over lighting notes in a staff lounge when he appears, hoodie half-zipped, hair a tousled mess.

“They toss you around like a human paperclip,” he adds, settling beside you like he belongs there.

You shrug without looking up. "It’s the job."

He leans forward, elbows on knees. "No," he says, softer. "It’s not supposed to eat you."

You glance at him, surprised by the seriousness threading through his tone. He reaches out, brushes your wrist with the backs of his fingers. The touch is brief, almost clinical, but it sparks something low in your chest.

You forget the next line on your spreadsheet. You forget the spreadsheet altogether.

The night before Amsterdam, you catch a fever. It's nothing dramatic—just exhaustion with a little vengeance thrown in. But you wake up shivering in your hotel room, your voice gone raspy and your skin burning.

You’re wrapped in every spare blanket you can find, trying to type out an emergency email when there’s a knock. Groggy and unsure, you shuffle to the door and crack it open.

Ji-yong stands there, wearing an oversized hoodie, a pink beanie pulled low, and a plastic bag full of supplies.

"Someone told me you didn’t show up to call time," he says, stepping inside before you can protest. "You never skip."

You try to wave him off, mumble something about being fine, but he’s already unpacking the bag—vitamin drinks, oranges, some kind of throat tea, lozenges. He even brought tissues with little cartoon characters on them.

"I Googled what to get. Don’t laugh."

You don’t. You’re too busy watching the way his brow creases when he checks your temperature with the back of his hand. His touch is gentle, a contrast to his usual bravado. When he brushes damp hair from your forehead, you feel yourself lean into it like gravity’s shifted.

“I’ll find someone to cover for you,” he murmurs, sitting on the edge of your bed. "Stay. Rest. Let me take care of you."

You should say no. But when he adjusts your blanket and mutters something about making sure you eat, you close your eyes instead.

And for once, you let go.

Somewhere between Vienna and Vancouver, the space between you shifts.

He stands too close now. He doesn’t ask permission anymore to steal your pen—just lifts it with a wink, then gives it back with his fingers brushing yours. You start noticing the things you never let yourself think about before: the curve of his smile when he’s tired, the way he says your name when no one’s around.

The first kiss doesn’t happen in a dramatic place.

It’s backstage in Chicago, the night everything goes wrong. The printer eats the setlist, your crew chief is yelling, and Ji-yong’s been orbiting you all evening like a low, simmering star.

You whirl around, eyes blazing, voice teetering on the edge of something sharp and venom-laced. The words are already curling on your tongue—something about him always hovering, always poking at you when you're hanging on by threads—but the second your mouth opens, he steps into your space.

Your breath catches. His hand rises gently, fingertips brushing against your jaw—not firm, not forceful, just there, like a question you didn’t know you’d already answered. The chaos of the hallway fades into white noise, swallowed by the heat in his gaze.

He kisses you.

It’s not urgent, not hungry. It’s slow. Deliberate. A quiet invasion. The kind that demands nothing but takes everything. His lips move over yours like he’s memorizing a secret. His other hand finds your lower back, and you feel the steady pressure of it anchoring you to this moment, to him.

Your mind blanks. Every thought melts under the warmth of his mouth.

And when he pulls back, barely, your foreheads nearly touching, your breath mixing with his—he smirks.

"Still sharp, assistant-nim?"

You don’t answer. You grab his hoodie, tug him back in, and kiss him again—this time with everything you’ve been holding back.

There’s no warning. No preamble.

Just the press of his mouth on yours, warm and sure and devastating. His hand finds your lower back, grounding you. The hallway around you vanishes. The only thing real is the taste of him, the way he exhales through his nose like he's been holding it for weeks.

Now, he sits beside you on plane rides. His head tilts toward your shoulder when he naps. When he wakes, he offers you his water bottle without asking. You share earbuds. You share silences. You share things neither of you can quite name.

When the world tilts beneath you—from jet lag or impossible deadlines or the weight of always being needed—he’s an anchor. A tether. The only calm in the storm.

Sometimes, when the city outside blurs in neon and late-night noise, you’ll feel his fingers trace slow, lazy patterns along your arm. Like he’s writing something only you’re meant to read. Like he’s saying something he can’t quite voice.

He never says the words.

But he doesn’t have to.

You feel them in every shared glance, in every quiet smile he saves just for you, in the way he holds your hand when no one’s watching.

You’re the one thing on this tour he never wants to leave behind.

And maybe, just maybe, you won’t have to.

The flight to New York is an overnight haul, cabin lights dimmed to a quiet haze. Most of the crew is asleep or nodding off behind sleep masks and neck pillows. The hum of the engines becomes white noise, lulling, laced with secrets.

Ji-yong catches your eye from across the aisle. There's a subtle twitch of his mouth, that mischievous curve you’ve come to recognize as a question.

You tilt your head.

He mouths, “Come here.”

You glance around. Everyone's out cold or glued to earbuds. He slides a blanket over his lap, shifts slightly to the side in the wide first-class seat.

You hesitate for half a second before unbuckling your belt and slipping over quietly, your thigh brushing his. The armrest stays up. So does your pulse.

“I can’t sleep,” he murmurs, lips close to your ear.

You laugh softly. “So you decided to corrupt me instead?”

His hand finds your knee under the blanket, his thumb tracing a slow, dangerous circle.

“Corrupt?” he says, voice low and amused. “No. I just missed you.”

The warmth of him, the tension of proximity, the secret thrill of being hidden in plain sight—it coils inside you like a tightly wound thread.

His fingers trail higher, careful and slow, like a question. Like he’ll stop if you so much as flinch.

But you don’t.

Instead, you lean in, press your lips against his neck just below the jawline, where his cologne softens into skin and something uniquely him. He shudders.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” you whisper.

He exhales a soft laugh, but there's something reverent in the way he touches you. Not rushed. Not greedy. Just slow, deliberate devotion. Every movement a promise. Every breath between you thick with the kind of anticipation that only ever builds on flights like these—hours suspended above the world, rules blurred, gravity forgotten.

By the time you rest your head on his shoulder again, his hand still tangled gently with yours under the blanket, you're no longer wondering what this is.

But the moment stretches—longer, heavier.

His hand doesn’t stay still. His thumb slides over your wrist in slow, thoughtful circles, and the curve of your body leans closer into his. Your breaths sync, shallow and shared. His mouth grazes your temple, then the shell of your ear. The whisper of skin-on-skin sparks another slow shiver down your spine.

You glance up at him—just once—and his eyes are already on you, dark and unreadable, full of that quiet fire he only lets you see.

He leans in, and this kiss is different. This one is deeper, all tongue and heat and aching restraint. His fingers slide beneath the hem of your shirt, just barely skimming the soft skin at your waist, and you suck in a breath you can’t release.

The blanket shields you both in a cocoon of velvet silence and tension. Your body turns toward his under the cover, your thigh slipping over his lap. His hands grip your hips like he’s memorizing the feel of you—grounded, present, urgent.

And though you don’t say a word, your bodies speak clearly: this isn’t just longing anymore.

It’s need.

His lips return to your jaw, your neck, and your collarbone as you tip your head back just enough to let him. He moves like he knows exactly what he’s doing, like this isn’t the first time he’s imagined you like this—unraveling slowly in his hands, out of breath, out of excuses.

And when your hand slips under his hoodie, palms pressed to the bare skin of his chest, the way he exhales your name against your throat makes your knees weak even seated.

Your heart pounds with every inch gained under the hush of the flight, under the electric hush of what’s no longer unsaid.

You shift again beneath the blanket, breath catching when his fingers dip just beneath the waistband of your leggings—slow, cautious, and absolutely certain. He watches your face closely, your parted lips, the glaze in your eyes, before his hand moves further. A slow inhale trembles in your chest as his touch finally finds you—confident and unbearably tender.

Your body curls toward his instinctively, eyes fluttering shut as his fingertips work soft, deliberate circles against you, coaxing breathless little gasps from between your lips. You bury your face in his neck, one hand clenching in the front of his hoodie, the other tangled in his hair. His mouth grazes your jaw, your cheekbone, your ear, whispering your name like a secret, like a prayer.

He knows exactly what you need. And he gives it without rushing, every motion measured, every touch speaking volumes of all the things he's never said aloud. The tension builds between your thighs, molten and electric, pooling low until you arch into him, teeth biting back a sound you can’t afford to make.

He kisses you then—deep, slow, anchoring—as your body tightens around the sensation of his hand, your legs trembling beneath the shared cover. When it finally breaks, the wave crashes over you quietly but entirely, your breath catching in his mouth as your fingers grip his shoulder like lifeline.

You collapse into him, body limp, heart roaring.

Ji-yong wraps you close, as if to protect you from gravity, from everything.

When he pulls back just enough to look at you—flushed, eyes half-lidded, chest still heaving—he grins, all mischief and tenderness.

“Congrats on joining Mile High Club.” he whispers.

You let out a soft, shaky laugh and kiss him again, slower this time, sweeter.

You move together like a confession.

And when you finally settle back into him, limbs entangled, cheek resting against his chest, your heartbeat echoing his—

You don’t even have to look to know he’s smiling.

You know.

The tour ends in a blur of tears, champagne, and confetti.

New York is the last stop, and it feels both monumental and surreal. The final show is electric, a cathartic release of everything built up over months of movement, exhaustion, and adrenaline. Ji-yong’s voice cracks with emotion during the last encore. You see it, even if no one else does.

The afterparty stretches into morning—flashes of laughter, photo ops, drunken toasts slurred in three different languages. People cry in the arms of near-strangers who’ve become family. Someone dances on a table. Someone else cries into a speaker case. Crew members embrace like war veterans, promising to keep in touch but knowing most won’t.

You find yourself in a quiet corner of the hotel suite with Ji-yong, both of you barefoot and a little drunk, watching the city flicker beneath the balcony. The glass door is open just a crack, letting in the hum of New York night.

He leans against the frame. You’re curled into the couch with a glass of something golden in your hand, his hoodie drowning your frame.

“What now?” you ask, voice raw from laughter and champagne, from everything.

Ji-yong doesn’t answer right away. He steps toward you instead, crouches in front of the couch, and rests his elbows on your knees. His hands find your hips like he needs to ground himself. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish when the sun comes up.

He studies you—really looks—and his thumb brushes the hollow beneath your lip, gentle and familiar.

“I don’t know,” he says, quiet. “I’ve never finished something and wanted to begin again this badly.”

You blink at him, heart skittering. Then, softly, you set your glass aside and lean down to kiss him—slow, with meaning. His fingers tighten slightly at your waist, and for a long moment, the room forgets the noise outside.

When you part, he stays close, resting his forehead against yours.

“Come with me,” he breathes.

You smile against his mouth. “Where?” you ask, but the question’s barely real.

“Anywhere,” he says. “Everywhere. Just… stay. Don’t let this be something we only remember when we hear a setlist.”

You draw in a long breath, studying the way his expression softens in the dim light. He’s not asking as G-Dragon the icon. He’s just Ji-yong now—tired and open and yours.

You nod. “Okay.”

His arms wrap around you like instinct, pulling you off the couch and into him, lifting you until you’re straddling his lap on the thick carpeted floor, legs tangled, noses brushing. His mouth finds yours again and again—like punctuation. Like promise.

Later, when the suite is dark and quiet and you’re curled up on the same hotel bed with his hand resting on your bare hip, you realize something.

When the tour disappears into memory—city by city collapsing behind you like folded maps—you don’t.

You stay.

Not because he asked.

Because he became the place you want to be.

Taglist: @redhoodedtoad @mirahyun @sherrayyyyy @sherxoo @dilfismz @breakmeoff @janie-osuih @forevervibezzzz1 @kuinnoa @juliskopf @maskedcrawford @szonyix6277