𝕷𝖚𝖎𝖙𝖊𝖓𝖆𝖓𝖙 ·🐉

・❥・ summary: seunghyun tells you to behave while he's away at his listening party but you just can't help yourself ・❥・word count: 2.6k ・❥・warnings: 18+, mdni. use of sex toy, mutual masterbation, dirty talk, swearing, alcohol mentions. ・❥・ authors note: this photo gave me a lot of feelings so when i got a request for it you bet i had to try and do it justice. enjoy <3

“I’ll only be gone a few hours, behave,” Seunghyun gave you one last soft kiss against your lips before reluctantly pulling himself away. He took a step back as if being any closer to you would draw him back, distracting him from leaving for his listening party.

“I always behave,” you pouted, trying to sneak in another kiss but he only chuckled.

“Liar,” he said. The urge to kiss that pout clean off your lips was at the forefront of his mind but he had to be strong. “Stop distracting me.”

“Fineeee,” you sighed. “Go! Meet with your fans. Have fun. Tonight is all for you, baby. Maybe when you get back we’ll have our own private listening party but it’ll just be you listening to my mo-“

Can you not…

pairing- kwon jiyong x f!reader

contents- smut, hate sex, unprotected piv, verbal argument, alcohol to cope, angst, comfort, based in MOTTE tour era

synopsis- the hate you've always had for jiyong slowly turns into something softer when you see a side of him he always hides from the cameras.

word count- 2.2k

a/n- idk how good this is i wrote this very tired lol but i hope u guys enjoy this angsty little mess

You hate him. You always have. You only ended up on this tour because of a random assignment from your boss. It’s great for your career, of course. Working as a background dancer for Kwon Jiyong during tour would really put your name out there and get you some really great jobs when you return. 

But Jiyong is almost unbearable. Even during the months of practice before the tour opened. You’d clashed with him from the beginning. You’re both very outspoken, very protective of your peace, very defensive. It started with snarky comments and backhanded compliments, but now, about four months into his tour, you often find yourselves in screaming matches when the other dancers leave. 

But somehow, you’ve gotten yourself tangled in his mess. No matter how many fights the two of you have, how many times you yell or storm off or ignore each other, you always find yourself right here. 

The lock on the dressing room barely works, but neither of you really care about that right now. Jiyong fumbles with it for a minute but he gives up pretty quick when he sees you pulling off your shirt. 

His hands are on you quick. He pulls you in by the waist, claiming your mouth in a hungry kiss. Clothes fall seemingly on their own. He spins you around and bends you over the vanity, his hand grabbing your hair and tilting your head upward so you have no choice but to look at him through the mirror. 

“Fuck off.” You mutter, trying to pull your hair back from his grip, but he only tugs harder. 

Jiyong uses his other hand to take his cock in his hand, pressing it to your clit. You let out a low groan, trying to hide how much you actually do want this, but failing. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Jiyong grins. 

He gives no warning when he buries himself inside you, and you gasp, your knuckles turning white as you grip the table. Jiyong grabs your hip as he starts moving. 

He sets a grueling pace as usual, both of you chasing nothing but release. He fucks you like you’re his property, like he can do whatever he wants without any repercussions. 

He’s probably right.

Jiyong’s nails dig into your skin, but you don’t really notice. The only reason your head hasn’t fallen to the desk is the rough grip Jiyong has on your hair. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, speeding up. Your knees almost fail you, but he keeps you upright. You meet his eyes in the mirror—dark and dazed. 

Jiyong trails his fingers from your hipbone down and between your trembling thighs and presses them right on your aching clit. He works you so annoyingly well, but all those thoughts of anger were replaced by hunger a while ago. 

“Jiyong!” You cry, leaning back into his grip on your hair, eyes squinting shut. He tugs hard. 

“Look at yourself when I ruin you.” He growls, and you obey. You look up at yourself—your eyes half-lidded, sweat coating your face, but you quickly avert your gaze to Jiyong. 

“F- fuck… so close-” You stutter, which only makes Jiyong go faster. 

He buries himself deeper with every thrust, hitting your spot every time and finally pushing you over the edge. You let out a cry but Jiyong quickly covers your mouth with his hand. Jiyong follows, pulling out quick to spill his release all over your bare back. He keeps his fingers rubbing on your clit until you’re shaking, then he finally lets go of your hair and steps back. 

Jiyong throws a nearby hand towel at you while he puts his clothes back on. No words. Not even a second glance. You’re used to it. You do the same. 

Jiyong stops at the door just as he’s about to leave. He looks back to you, gaze narrow and brows furrowed. Clearly right back to being angry. 

“What?” You spit. He sighs, then leaves without a word. 

The rest of the intermission passes quickly, and the remainder of the show goes as normal. You’re not above admitting that Jiyong is an incredible performer. His stage presence is unmatched, even you can see that. 

But that doesn’t stop him from shooting you condescending glances when he gets the chance, which you return in full. 

When the lights go down and you all come off stage, you can already tell that Jiyong’s annoyed. He approaches you. 

“You fucked up that last song.” He says, pointing right at you. 

He’s right, you slipped. Not even close to noticeable to the audience though, it was barely a mistake. But of course he noticed. 

“Are you kidding? Jesus, Jiyong. I breathe in the wrong direction and you’re on my ass.” You scoff, trying to walk off but he follows. Staff and other dancers are watching, but this is normal by now. His managers have tried to fix it, but both of you assured them that you could handle it on your own. 

“You are the head of my dancers. You cannot be fucking up on my stage, and trying to laugh it off.” He grabs your wrist when you try to enter your dressing room. 

You pull away from his grasp. “Nobody fucking noticed! Go yell at someone else for a change!”

He just stares at you for a moment, before storming off while muttering incoherent swears under his breath. 

-

The bar is far too loud for your liking. These afterparties are common, and you’re basically forced to attend all of them. You’re in a circle surrounded by other dancers, but you’re only able to focus on one thing. 

Jiyong isn’t here. 

You don’t really know why you care. 

After your little spat backstage, he hadn’t spoken to anyone and went straight back to the hotel. You’d reluctantly asked staff if he’d called or texted, but no one had heard from him. 

You’d even sent him a text. But he hasn’t read it. 

He doesn’t usually miss these parties. Staying for ten minutes then leaving immediately? Sure. But missing them completely without telling anyone isn’t like him. 

So you leave. You tell the others that you have a headache. They don’t ask questions. Tell you to rest up, to prepare for tomorrow. You thank them and call a taxi. 

When you arrive at your hotel room, you immediately slip out of your dress. You take off all of your jewelry and makeup with slow, tired movements. You find yourself sitting on the edge of your bed in sweatpants and a hoodie, your mind still only on one thing. 

Jiyong. 

With a heavy sigh, you make your way up to his suite. You know exactly where it is. 

You assume to find him working, or sleeping, or smoking on the balcony with a glass of wine. You assume another fight would be in order, followed by the same dynamic of rough sex and no talking. 

But instead, when you insert the key card he’d given you, you find something that actually does worry you. 

Jiyong is slouched against the bathroom wall, a bottle of soju still lazily clutched in his hand. He’s knocked out. His makeup is smudged, hair messy and unmade. His shirt is half unbuttoned, and he has one arm still thrown around the toilet, as if he’d been sick before he’d passed out. 

You crouch next to him and check his pulse—slower than normal, but definitely there. His breathing is shallow. 

“Jiyong.” You shake his shoulder just a little. You notice an additional empty bottle next to him. 

He groans, eyes squinting at the bathroom light. “Fuck off…”

“Hey.” You try to tilt his chin up to you, but he breaks from your grasp to lean over the toilet. You stay put and hold his hair back, rubbing his back gently with your other hand, absentmindedly. 

Jiyong turns to you after, his eyes bloodshot and misty. Your chest aches. 

“Are you okay?” You ask, but he doesn’t answer. 

You reach to the counter and grab the hand towel and gently wipe his mouth with it. He holds your gaze, almost a sense of shock behind his eyes. Like he can’t understand why you aren’t leaving. 

You don’t really understand either.

“One second.” You lean Jiyong back against the wall and exit the bathroom. You return a moment later with a cold bottle of water from the mini fridge. You open it and hand it to him. He slowly takes it and downs half of it in one go.

He sighs and places the bottle next to him. Then, he does something you weren’t expecting. He reaches over and laces his fingers with yours. 

You allow it. 

A long moment of silence passes, only interrupted when Jiyong reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cigarette and lighter. He lights it without a care. Smoke curls above his head in a big cloud. He offers it to you, and you take it. 

“I’m sorry.” Jiyong mutters. You almost gasp. You’ve never heard those words from his mouth before.

You pause, not quite sure how to respond. Then, “me too.”

He turns to you as you hand back his cigarette. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“Yes I do.” You squeeze his hand. “I’ve been an asshole.”

Jiyong shakes his head. He sighs again and leans his head on your shoulder. You don’t move for a second, but then you lean in as well. 

“It’s been a bad year.” He says eventually. You nod. You knew that. You just didn’t really know the true extent of it. 

“I’m sure I’m not the one you want to talk to about it, but I’d listen.” You brush your thumb along his knuckles. 

Jiyong almost laughs. “You’re actually the one I always reach for when I’m feeling like this.”

You tense a little. A pause, then, “I thought you hated me.”

“I tried to.” He laughs a little, but it dies on his tongue. 

He takes another long drag of the cigarette. 

“I don’t hate you, Y/N.” Jiyong’s voice is barely above a whisper. His words are still a little slurred, but you know he means it. You’ve never heard him sound like this before. 

“I don’t hate you either, Jiyong.” You say before you can think twice. But you mean it. 

Neither of you move for a while. You stay still, just breathing, leaning against each other like it’s the only thing keeping you both alive. Maybe it is.

After what felt like hours, Jiyong stands. You follow and go to leave as you notice him getting into bed, but he stops you. 

“Y/N,” he calls, his voice weak. You turn back. Jiyong has discarded his shirt fully now, sitting on the edge of his bed. “Stay?”

You don’t hesitate. You nod, making your way back over to him. 

Seeing him like this is making you aware that you, indeed, don’t hate him. You’d spent this entire tour telling yourself that you do, and wondering what about him kept drawing you back in. You still don’t have a great answer to that question, but right now, you don’t need answers. You just need him. 

You join him in bed, and Jiyong immediately settles against your shoulder. You let him get as close as he wants. 

“Thank you.” Jiyong mutters, half asleep. You only pull him closer and place a kiss on his temple. 

“I don’t want to fight anymore…” his voice ghosts your neck. 

“We don’t have to talk about this tonight, okay? Just sleep.” You rub his back again, and he seems to melt into your touch. 

“You’ll be here when I wake up?” He asks, still trying to get closer. You know he’s only acting like this because he’s clearly still a little drunk, but you never stop him. You know he needs this, needs someone. 

“Yeah I will.” You nod, and he hums, before finally stilling against you. Before you know it, he’s snoring softly against your chest, his fingers slightly curled into your hoodie, as if to hold you in place. 

You never imagined him this way—vulnerable and open—but you aren’t going to mess it up. Even after all of the fights, all you want right now is to be here with him. To hold him until he’s okay, to make sure he never ends up like this again. 

You never needed an answer to that question of why. This is all you really needed. You truly had no idea what you’d been pushing away, what you’d been missing all this time. 

Jiyong hated having people close like this. But you’re something else. He told the truth earlier—he always reached for you when he needed something. But he never thought he could have you in the way he actually needed. He didn’t even really know he needed you in this way. 

But when he saw how you looked at him, drunk and throwing up, crying from being so overwhelmed and exhausted he could barely talk, that changed. He reached for you again, but differently this time. 

You’ll probably have some long conversation about this tomorrow. But right now, that doesn’t matter. This matters. Closeness. Something to hold onto. Someone. 

Summary | After several dates with Ji-yong, you finally decide to invite him over for a quiet movie night at your place. What seemed like a simple evening for two soon takes an unexpected and much more intense turn.

Pairing | post-debut!kwon ji-yong x fem!reader.

Genre | 2000s era.

Warnings | fluff, romantic, smut, explicit content, sweat p in v, protected sex, stablished relationship, virgin reader & ji-yong.

Author's note | English is not my first language, so I apologize for any spelling or grammar mistakes.

Request | @myflancee

After talking with your boyfriend and agreeing he would come over to your house, anxiety took over you. With your heart racing, you hurried to tidy up every corner of your room, making sure everything was in its place. You couldn't let him think you were messy—you wanted to make a good impression. Everything had to be spotless for his arrival.

But there was something that worried you even more than the mess: the posters, albums, and collectible figures of his group, Bigbang. In an almost instinctive act, you quickly hid them under the bed and deep in your closet, as if trying to bury a part of yourself. It wasn’t that you were ashamed, but you weren’t ready to confess just how much of a fan you had been—and still were.

Because yes, you had been a fan of Bigbang since the beginning. Even before he became an idol, you already followed him. You had seen him grow, evolve… shine. And your love for his art wasn’t born out of being his girlfriend, but long before your paths had even crossed.

Sometimes, in intimate moments, he would show you fragments of unreleased lyrics. And you, silently and with a smile you could barely hide, would memorize them like sacred verses. Later, when the songs were officially released, you’d sing them softly, feeling like you were part of something only the two of you shared. He didn’t know it, but you had already sung his lyrics a thousand times in the quiet of your room, long before they reached the world.

You were his girlfriend. But secretly, you were also his number one fan.

That’s when the doorbell rang, slicing through the expectant silence of the house like a chime in your chest. Your heart, already altered by nerves, pounded even harder, as if it wanted to race ahead to the door. Without a second thought, you dashed toward the entrance, your hands trembling and a smile threatening to appear too early.

When you opened the door, there he was. Standing there, waiting for you, with that expression that always managed to disarm you: warm, a little mischievous, and so uniquely his. You couldn’t help it. You threw yourself into his arms with a mix of excitement and relief, feeling your cheeks flush as he caught you naturally, like his body had been made to hold yours.

He kissed your forehead sweetly, smiling against your skin.

"I'm happy to see you too, princess," he whispered between a soft laugh that tickled your chest.

You pulled back just enough to grab his arm and eagerly pull him inside.

"Come on, Ji-Ji," you said with a nervous giggle. "I’ve got everything ready… even picked out the movies we’re gonna watch."

He followed without resistance, as if nothing in the world mattered more than being by your side.

"Hope you don’t mind they’re romantic ones…" you added playfully, glancing at his reaction.

"Romantic, huh?" he murmured, raising an eyebrow as he stepped in behind you, closing the door with a soft click. He gave you a sidelong glance with a smirk. "Trying to tell me something? Or just looking for an excuse to cuddle with me?"

"I don’t need excuses for that…" you replied quietly, half-joking, half-serious, as you walked toward the living room. You didn’t look back, but you knew his smile was growing.

He left his things by the door and followed, watching how you moved around the space—adjusting cushions, checking the lights, making sure the projector was ready. He knew you well enough to realize this attention to detail wasn’t random.

"You really went all out…" he said as he dropped onto the couch, settling in like it had always been his place.

"I wanted you to feel comfortable," you said, turning to him. "For it to be… special."

You sat beside him—not too close at first—but he soon wrapped an arm around you and pulled you in until your head rested on his shoulder and your legs brushed his.

"You know what’s special?" he whispered near your ear. "That I’m with my number one fan."

The world stopped for a moment. Your eyes widened, and you sat up just enough to look at him with a startled expression.

"W-what...? How do you know?"

"Come on…" he laughed, giving you a light tap on the forehead. "Your eyes light up when I talk about music. And all my posters from the last tour mysteriously disappeared… including the signed one with a personal message. Very suspicious."

You covered your face with both hands, letting out a muffled sound between a laugh and embarrassment.

"No way! You noticed everything?"

"Since the first time you came to one of my concerts and didn’t blink for an hour. I thought you were gonna faint when I walked to the edge of the stage," he joked, laughing as he gently pulled your hands away. "But don’t worry, princess. I don’t mind. Actually…"

He cupped your face with both hands, looking into your eyes with disarming tenderness.

"I love knowing the person by my side is also the one who’s been supporting me before any of this started. No one knows me like you do."

And without another word, he closed the distance, pressing his soft lips against yours, still glossy from the pink lip gloss you’d carefully applied minutes before. The kiss began gentle, like a melody shared in silence, his lips moving with yours in a rhythm only you two understood.

You didn’t want to pull away. You couldn’t. It was like everything in you—your skin, your chest, your breath—was begging to stay connected to him. But the air began to run out, and the tingling in your lungs forced you to gently pull at his shoulders to catch your breath, your breathing ragged and your cheeks burning.

You barely had a second before he kissed you again—hungrier, fiercer. As if the brief space between you had only fueled his desire. You instinctively wrapped your arms around his neck, drawing him closer, craving his warmth more than ever.

His kisses were a wild yet tender mix. The way he kissed you made you feel sacred and desired all at once. Like he was afraid of breaking you… but also wanted to make you his. He was a gentleman hidden under the skin of a bad boy, and that contrast had you completely under his spell.

The temperature was rising. You felt it in every cell of your body. His hands slid from your cheeks to your waist with almost reverent softness, stopping right where your belly button piercing sat—a small pink jewel that seemed to glow at his touch. When he gently pressed on that spot, a moan slipped from your lips before you could stop it.

The sound surprised you more than him. Quickly, you let go of his neck and covered your mouth with both hands, your face flushed bright red.

"I-I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to..."

He looked at you with eyes lit not with lust, but tenderness. He leaned in and, in a whisper that brushed your skin like a caress, said:

"Do it again."

He didn’t give you time to respond. His lips met yours once more with a renewed intensity, as if nothing else existed beyond the touch of your mouths. He gently laid you down on the sofa, his strong arms guiding each movement while his hands began to explore your waist, your stomach, every inch of your skin.

But then, your words came out broken:

"J-Ji-yong… wait..."

He stopped immediately, not a trace of annoyance in his face. He looked at you with that deep gaze that felt like it could see into your soul.

"What is it?"

"I-I…" you swallowed hard, eyes dropping. "I’m a virgin..."

Silence fell, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. He didn’t pull away, didn’t laugh, didn’t react weirdly. He just smiled—soft, warm.

"It’s okay, jagiya… I am too."

He caressed your cheek gently, as if to reassure you that nothing had changed, that everything was fine.

"Do you want to?" he whispered, his voice soft, like your answer was more important than any pleasure. "If you’re not ready, it’s okay. I can wait… as long as you need. I’d do it a thousand times for you."

You stayed silent for a few seconds, searching within yourself. Your heartbeat was a drum in your ears, but when you looked up and saw the sincerity in his eyes, you had no doubt.

"I-I want to… if it’s with you."

He nodded, as if that answer was the greatest treasure he could receive. And then, he kissed you again. Slowly. Respectfully. Lovingly. As if he knew this moment would be one you’d both carry forever.

His kiss was different this time. There was no urgency—only a deep need to make you feel loved. To show you that, in this moment, in this place, there was only you and him.

Ji-yong gently took you in his arms, never breaking eye contact.

"Let’s go to your room," he whispered against your lips. "I want you to be comfortable… at ease."

You nodded, and without letting go of his hand, led him down the hallway to your bedroom door. Once inside, the atmosphere shifted: it was your sanctuary, your most personal space, and now he was part of it. You closed the door softly, as if the world stayed behind it.

The dim light of your bedside lamp softly illuminated the room, and the floral scent from your diffuser filled the air. Your nerves were still present, but so was the warmth he gave you with just a single glance.

"You're trembling," he murmured with a gentle smile. "You don’t have to do this if you're not sure, okay?"

"I am… if it's with you," you replied, barely audible.

He leaned in and kissed you again, sweetly. His hands caressed your face, slowly trailing down your neck and arms as you both sat together on the bed. Then, he gently laid you down on the sheets, as if you were a gem too fragile to hold.

With calm movements, he began to unbutton his shirt, and you helped him, your trembling fingers brushing against his warm skin. He leaned over you and started to slide off your clothes with a patience that made your skin tingle, his eyes taking in every part of you as if you were a masterpiece.

"You're beautiful," he whispered upon seeing you, like the air had been knocked out of his chest.

You blushed, turning your face away for a moment, but he softly took your chin and kissed you again. His lips traveled along your neck and collarbones, leaving a trail of warmth and sighs. His hands caressed your waist with tenderness, as if your skin were something sacred—something that deserved no rush, only devotion.

He was taking his time.

He wasn’t rushing to go further. He touched you, listened to you, and when he sensed you tensing up, he stopped to whisper soft things in your ear—things like “I’m here,” “It’s okay,” “Just you and me.”

And when that moment finally came—when your body and his met with nothing between you—he didn’t move at first. He just looked at you.

"You’re my first love," he said, his forehead resting against yours. "And I want this night to be unforgettable for both of us."

He moved carefully, guided more by your reactions and your breaths than by desire. His touches were slow, his kisses endless, and his body sought to understand yours, to learn it, to cherish it.

At first it was clumsy, imperfect… but it was real. Human. Full of love.

He whispered your name between sighs, and you whispered his. And when your hands clung to his back, when your legs trembled beneath him, you knew there was no one else you’d rather share that moment with.

It was your first time. But it wasn’t just about the act—it was about what he made you feel: safe, special, loved.

And as the world faded away in the dimness of your room, with the distant murmur of a forgotten movie in the background, Ji-yong held you in his arms, his fingers playing with your hair, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with your breath.

"I love you," he said, almost in a sigh, before kissing your forehead and pulling you close. "Thank you… for trusting me."