One More Night
Title: One More Night
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: G-Ri
Word Count: 2098
Genre:Smut & angst
Summary: Jiyong hates him, he’s sure of it; somewhere in that dank place he calls his soul. But he just can’t let him go.
Warning: Fight scene-ish?
AN: So I was inspired by Maroon 5's 'One More Night', so listen to that when you have a chance. Also, this is dedicate to Martina, because her smut inspired me to write smut. And because I kind of promised her I would. That promise kept me going! So I hope you enjoy it, even if it's a little late.
Seungri slips into his apartment late into the night, the handle of the door blurring in front of his eyes. He barely manages to stumble inside, the alcohol in his system working its way through out his body and it’s hard to focus on any one thing at a time. He tries to take his shoes off, but bumbles and falls on the floor, the sound of a painful exhale heard as his body comes to rest on the wooden panels. Looking up at the ceiling, Seungri fleetingly thinks that maybe he’ll just stay here for the night. His heavy eyelids drag down as they come to rest upon his eyes, exhaustion pulling him down towards oblivion.
But before he can sink into the sleep of the dead, the light from his kitchen is snapped on, the normally warm light appearing harsh and disorienting. Seungri blinks rapidly, a figure swimming in front of his vision before solidifying into a familiar person. Jiyong appears, arms resting calmly by his side, the epitome of nonchalance. But even drunk, Seungri knows Jiyong. And Jiyong is anything but calm.
His jaw is clenched tightly, the muscle underneath his skin bunching and stretching, the slope of his shoulders is tense, and his hands are clenched into fists by his side. But even more than that, it is Jiyong’s eyes that give off the fury underneath. The slim arches of his eyebrows are pulled down low over his eyes, the pupils constricted to mere pinpricks of black. But in them is a fury that surprises Seungri and brings him to his feet.
“Where the fuck were you Seungri? Huh? Out fucking some whore, or are you too drunk to even know where you are?”
Seungri blinks in confusion for a moment, but the anger in Jiyong’s voice is enough to snap him out of the drunken stupor he had begun to fall into. The shear anger and frustration seems like a bucket of ice water poured onto his consciousness. The dreariness of the alcohol is drifting from his mind, and in its wake a pounding headache has begun to form. At least he can focus clearly now, but that means understanding Jiyong’s every word.
“While the rest of us are preparing our own solo activities you go out and get shit-piss drunk. Do I need to even remind you how bad for our image it will be if the paparazzi catch wind of this?!”
“What? Jiyong I just, I was just out wit-“
“What? Out with some ‘friends’? I don’t think so Seungri. I know the way you are. You probably had a few drinks and were grinding on the first thing with breasts. Honestly, this is out of hand. And you wonder why Sajang-nim won’t let you out without us.” By now Jiyong has stalked towards Seungri, the clicking of his shoes reverberating inside of his head.
But now Seungri is starting to anger, his own eyes narrowing in irritation. The head-ache pounding behind his eyes is intensifying each of Jiyong’s words, piercing further than ever before. “I don’t have time for you Jiyong. I went out drinking with some friends. Yes I got drunk. And maybe I even danced with some girls. But you know what? I think I’ve earned it.”
“Why you little shi-”
“Yeah, and you know what?! I’ve been working on my second solo album as well. Excuse me if I’m not the genius Kwon Jiyong who can get it done quickly,” he sneers. It’s late; he’s tired, can think straight at the cost of pain, and Jiyong’s accusations and holier-than-thou attitude had pushed him over the edge. He grabbed his phone, intent on calling one of his friends and asking to stay the night, but before he can push a single button a hand intrudes into the corner of his vision and snatches the phone away. Before he can even protest a smash is heard across the floor, as his phone shatters into pieces.
Jiyong is shaking, a snarl ripping its way out of his throat as he yells “Who the fuck do you think you are?! Have you forgotten who you are? Who I am? I am your leader, goddamit, and you better remember that!” He grabs the edges of Seungri’s shirt, dragging him closer to himself. In the stillness that follows both of their breaths are heard, Jiyong’s labored breathing and Seungri’s shallow breathes. For a second it looks as if Seungri will back down, accept Jiyong’s wrath and stop. But for years Seungri has kept calm, and he remembers very clearly who he is. He is Seunghyun, the member that for all his faults as an enormous patience for accepting his position. Of being quite, even when he isn’t the one wrong.
But tonight is the night that that ends.
“Fuck. You.”
A hand reaches back to punch Seungri, aims at his face and lets loose, knocks him onto his back. The force is enough to disorient him, but Seungri snaps, shoves hard against Jiyong and grabs fists of clothes, of flesh, of hair to get him off. He lashes out blindly, thrashing under the weight of Jiyong over him until he lands a hit. He hears an angry groan as Jiyong lets off, losing some of his grip against Seungri’s shirt. But just as Seungri gets up, scrambles a couple of steps towards the door Jiyong is on him again, like a lion taking down his prey.
He’s shoved against a wall, his head cracking against it as he continues to fight. “Have you really forgotten who you belong to, Seungri? That no matter how many pretty girls you fuck, and no matter how matter how much time passes, you belong to me. And it seems like you’ve forgotten. We need to fix that.”
Jiyong slams his lips against Seungri’s, claiming them as he shoves lean hands under a tight shirt. Seungri gasps, pushing hands against Jiyong’s chest but to no avail, and now Jiyong’s snaked his tongue inside of his mouth, showing no mercy. Seungri growls, bites down hard on the lips enveloping his own, hard enough until the metallic taste of iron fills his mouth. Jiyong hisses as he pulls sharply away, but Seungri’s victory is short lived when he only laughs, “So, you want it rough, huh?” before biting down hard on the edge of Seungri’s collar bone, nipping at the area until it’s painted bright red.
“No!” Seungri cries out, as much in pain as in pleasure. Fuck, his mind is in a whirlwind of pain and anger, but his body betrays him. The knee places tightly against his crotch and the thin fingers grasping at his nipples are tightening the fabric around his jeans. “Tsk tsk Suengri, you keep saying no, but you’re body tells me yes.” No, this is not how it’s supposed to be. Seungri should be able to go out to a party and dance with the pretty girl across the bar, take her home for the night and remember it as a fond memory. Instead he’s here, trapped against the wall with Jiyong tightening the shackles around his wrist. Because Jiyong will never let him go.
Jiyong hates him, he’s sure of it; somewhere in that dank place he calls his soul. But he just can’t let him go. He’ll drag Seungri back to the pit of his heart, lock him behind the gates and swallow the silver key, leaving him clutching at strings. And Seungri, no matter how many times he wakes with a pallet of bruises ranging across his wrists, and his lips bruised until they’re the color of crimson, he can’t let Jiyong go either. It’s like Jiyong is a tattoo, inking across the expanse of his body; hidden, but still there, visible, always visible only to him. So he promises himself after each time that this will be his last time. That this night will be the last night he spends in Jiyong’s arms.
But he never can, really. He’ll moan and beg and plead until Jiyong takes all he can, until Seungri takes what he can. And then he awakes, feeling guilty as hell and hating himself. Hating that he’s weak and cannot say no.But suddenly he looks to Jiyong, drags his eyes from the ceiling, where he had been praying that Jiyong would stop- or not stop, he was never sure, and sees the lipstick he had been wearing for a shoot smeared across his lips. It’s not attractive, should repulse Seungri, but this single act of humanity breaks what resistance Seungri had.
He kisses Jiyong back, but under the other’s lips Seungri still simmers, still aches with the desire to hurt. So this time, instead of letting Jiyong shove his head against the wall as he roams the expanse of his neck, Seungri tangles fingers in the mane of hair above his own, twists until he’s sure it hurts, and pulls. He drags Jiyong’s head closer to his own, smirking in sheer ecstasy when he hears the older man groan, in pain or pleasure he’s not sure. Fingers previously splayed against the wall are now around Jiyong’s arms, tightened as much as they can, intent on leaving a myriad of bruises.
Seungri’s given in, stopped using his mind and trying to think about what’s right and what’s wrong. All he knows now is that the feeling of Jiyong pressed against his body feels good, so good. In this moment all that matters is the sliver of skin showing above Jiyong’s jeans, pressed tantalizingly close to Seungri’s own hips. He reaches, biting and sucking, leaving trails of spit as he roams the sides of Jiyong’s milky neck. And when Jiyong thinks he’s back in control; holding both of Seungri’s hands over his head, Seungri bucks up hard, the contact of both of their hips meeting with force and friction, Jesus, friction. And Jiyong tumbles, once again, from his position of control.
It’s in a blur of lost clothes and bruised lips that Seungri finds himself pressed face first into the couch, the soft fabric acting as a cushion for his bruised faced. Jiyong hovers above him, dragging opulent daggers across the ridges of his spine and licking his way down to his ass. But just then Jiyong drags him over, has brought Seungri to lay face up on his couch. Jiyong pulls harshly at his earlobe, and Seungri turns his head in annoyance. But Jiyong is just there, all wanting, clouded eyes, to whisper hotly against the shell of his ear, “Just remember who made you, Seungri. Who built you up from Seunghyun, and you’ll see why you belong to me.”
Seungri just pulls Jiyong closer against him to kiss him savagely, now is not the time for words. Jiyong complies readily, thrusts forward into Seungri below him below, pulls out and slams back in with a force that shakes the couch. Seungri moans, brings his hands behind Jiyong’s back to scratch grooves into his skin, more, more, each new crescent a testimony to his need. Jiyong’s thrusts are all broken shards of glass and hot need, but so are Seungri’s, until the two bodies intertwined are no longer distinguishable, both a mess of careening gasps and heavy moans. When a slim hand comes to grasp at his cock, Seungri just hisses, pulls his own sharp canines at the junction of Jiyong’s pulse and the bare curve of his shoulder. It’s in this tandem of pain and pleasure that Seungri disappears into, his gasps and Jiyong’s moans becoming senseless noise because the only thing he can focus on is the fingers pulling at his cock and the length driving deeper into his being.
When Jiyong slams into his prostate just right Seungri cums, back arching off of the couch in an arc, a soundless moan escaping his lips and splitting his head, until he doesn’t know which way is up or down, just grabs at the body above his own. Jiyong, savage in his need, continues to thrust at the same pace, showing the body below him no mercy, until with a cry he too, dissipates into this whole of pleasure and pain and Seungri. Exhausted, he slides from the couch to rest on the floor, the gasps of his breathe shaking his chest. But even both of their gasping is not enough to fill the deafening silence that seems to permeate the air.
“You’re mine, Seungri. Always.”
Jiyong receives no response, and he doesn’t need to, knows that there will always be one more night with Seungri.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: G-Ri
Word Count: 2098
Genre:Smut & angst
Summary: Jiyong hates him, he’s sure of it; somewhere in that dank place he calls his soul. But he just can’t let him go.
Warning: Fight scene-ish?
AN: So I was inspired by Maroon 5's 'One More Night', so listen to that when you have a chance. Also, this is dedicate to Martina, because her smut inspired me to write smut. And because I kind of promised her I would. That promise kept me going! So I hope you enjoy it, even if it's a little late.
Seungri slips into his apartment late into the night, the handle of the door blurring in front of his eyes. He barely manages to stumble inside, the alcohol in his system working its way through out his body and it’s hard to focus on any one thing at a time. He tries to take his shoes off, but bumbles and falls on the floor, the sound of a painful exhale heard as his body comes to rest on the wooden panels. Looking up at the ceiling, Seungri fleetingly thinks that maybe he’ll just stay here for the night. His heavy eyelids drag down as they come to rest upon his eyes, exhaustion pulling him down towards oblivion.
But before he can sink into the sleep of the dead, the light from his kitchen is snapped on, the normally warm light appearing harsh and disorienting. Seungri blinks rapidly, a figure swimming in front of his vision before solidifying into a familiar person. Jiyong appears, arms resting calmly by his side, the epitome of nonchalance. But even drunk, Seungri knows Jiyong. And Jiyong is anything but calm.
His jaw is clenched tightly, the muscle underneath his skin bunching and stretching, the slope of his shoulders is tense, and his hands are clenched into fists by his side. But even more than that, it is Jiyong’s eyes that give off the fury underneath. The slim arches of his eyebrows are pulled down low over his eyes, the pupils constricted to mere pinpricks of black. But in them is a fury that surprises Seungri and brings him to his feet.
“Where the fuck were you Seungri? Huh? Out fucking some whore, or are you too drunk to even know where you are?”
Seungri blinks in confusion for a moment, but the anger in Jiyong’s voice is enough to snap him out of the drunken stupor he had begun to fall into. The shear anger and frustration seems like a bucket of ice water poured onto his consciousness. The dreariness of the alcohol is drifting from his mind, and in its wake a pounding headache has begun to form. At least he can focus clearly now, but that means understanding Jiyong’s every word.
“While the rest of us are preparing our own solo activities you go out and get shit-piss drunk. Do I need to even remind you how bad for our image it will be if the paparazzi catch wind of this?!”
“What? Jiyong I just, I was just out wit-“
“What? Out with some ‘friends’? I don’t think so Seungri. I know the way you are. You probably had a few drinks and were grinding on the first thing with breasts. Honestly, this is out of hand. And you wonder why Sajang-nim won’t let you out without us.” By now Jiyong has stalked towards Seungri, the clicking of his shoes reverberating inside of his head.
But now Seungri is starting to anger, his own eyes narrowing in irritation. The head-ache pounding behind his eyes is intensifying each of Jiyong’s words, piercing further than ever before. “I don’t have time for you Jiyong. I went out drinking with some friends. Yes I got drunk. And maybe I even danced with some girls. But you know what? I think I’ve earned it.”
“Why you little shi-”
“Yeah, and you know what?! I’ve been working on my second solo album as well. Excuse me if I’m not the genius Kwon Jiyong who can get it done quickly,” he sneers. It’s late; he’s tired, can think straight at the cost of pain, and Jiyong’s accusations and holier-than-thou attitude had pushed him over the edge. He grabbed his phone, intent on calling one of his friends and asking to stay the night, but before he can push a single button a hand intrudes into the corner of his vision and snatches the phone away. Before he can even protest a smash is heard across the floor, as his phone shatters into pieces.
Jiyong is shaking, a snarl ripping its way out of his throat as he yells “Who the fuck do you think you are?! Have you forgotten who you are? Who I am? I am your leader, goddamit, and you better remember that!” He grabs the edges of Seungri’s shirt, dragging him closer to himself. In the stillness that follows both of their breaths are heard, Jiyong’s labored breathing and Seungri’s shallow breathes. For a second it looks as if Seungri will back down, accept Jiyong’s wrath and stop. But for years Seungri has kept calm, and he remembers very clearly who he is. He is Seunghyun, the member that for all his faults as an enormous patience for accepting his position. Of being quite, even when he isn’t the one wrong.
But tonight is the night that that ends.
“Fuck. You.”
A hand reaches back to punch Seungri, aims at his face and lets loose, knocks him onto his back. The force is enough to disorient him, but Seungri snaps, shoves hard against Jiyong and grabs fists of clothes, of flesh, of hair to get him off. He lashes out blindly, thrashing under the weight of Jiyong over him until he lands a hit. He hears an angry groan as Jiyong lets off, losing some of his grip against Seungri’s shirt. But just as Seungri gets up, scrambles a couple of steps towards the door Jiyong is on him again, like a lion taking down his prey.
He’s shoved against a wall, his head cracking against it as he continues to fight. “Have you really forgotten who you belong to, Seungri? That no matter how many pretty girls you fuck, and no matter how matter how much time passes, you belong to me. And it seems like you’ve forgotten. We need to fix that.”
Jiyong slams his lips against Seungri’s, claiming them as he shoves lean hands under a tight shirt. Seungri gasps, pushing hands against Jiyong’s chest but to no avail, and now Jiyong’s snaked his tongue inside of his mouth, showing no mercy. Seungri growls, bites down hard on the lips enveloping his own, hard enough until the metallic taste of iron fills his mouth. Jiyong hisses as he pulls sharply away, but Seungri’s victory is short lived when he only laughs, “So, you want it rough, huh?” before biting down hard on the edge of Seungri’s collar bone, nipping at the area until it’s painted bright red.
“No!” Seungri cries out, as much in pain as in pleasure. Fuck, his mind is in a whirlwind of pain and anger, but his body betrays him. The knee places tightly against his crotch and the thin fingers grasping at his nipples are tightening the fabric around his jeans. “Tsk tsk Suengri, you keep saying no, but you’re body tells me yes.” No, this is not how it’s supposed to be. Seungri should be able to go out to a party and dance with the pretty girl across the bar, take her home for the night and remember it as a fond memory. Instead he’s here, trapped against the wall with Jiyong tightening the shackles around his wrist. Because Jiyong will never let him go.
Jiyong hates him, he’s sure of it; somewhere in that dank place he calls his soul. But he just can’t let him go. He’ll drag Seungri back to the pit of his heart, lock him behind the gates and swallow the silver key, leaving him clutching at strings. And Seungri, no matter how many times he wakes with a pallet of bruises ranging across his wrists, and his lips bruised until they’re the color of crimson, he can’t let Jiyong go either. It’s like Jiyong is a tattoo, inking across the expanse of his body; hidden, but still there, visible, always visible only to him. So he promises himself after each time that this will be his last time. That this night will be the last night he spends in Jiyong’s arms.
But he never can, really. He’ll moan and beg and plead until Jiyong takes all he can, until Seungri takes what he can. And then he awakes, feeling guilty as hell and hating himself. Hating that he’s weak and cannot say no.But suddenly he looks to Jiyong, drags his eyes from the ceiling, where he had been praying that Jiyong would stop- or not stop, he was never sure, and sees the lipstick he had been wearing for a shoot smeared across his lips. It’s not attractive, should repulse Seungri, but this single act of humanity breaks what resistance Seungri had.
He kisses Jiyong back, but under the other’s lips Seungri still simmers, still aches with the desire to hurt. So this time, instead of letting Jiyong shove his head against the wall as he roams the expanse of his neck, Seungri tangles fingers in the mane of hair above his own, twists until he’s sure it hurts, and pulls. He drags Jiyong’s head closer to his own, smirking in sheer ecstasy when he hears the older man groan, in pain or pleasure he’s not sure. Fingers previously splayed against the wall are now around Jiyong’s arms, tightened as much as they can, intent on leaving a myriad of bruises.
Seungri’s given in, stopped using his mind and trying to think about what’s right and what’s wrong. All he knows now is that the feeling of Jiyong pressed against his body feels good, so good. In this moment all that matters is the sliver of skin showing above Jiyong’s jeans, pressed tantalizingly close to Seungri’s own hips. He reaches, biting and sucking, leaving trails of spit as he roams the sides of Jiyong’s milky neck. And when Jiyong thinks he’s back in control; holding both of Seungri’s hands over his head, Seungri bucks up hard, the contact of both of their hips meeting with force and friction, Jesus, friction. And Jiyong tumbles, once again, from his position of control.
It’s in a blur of lost clothes and bruised lips that Seungri finds himself pressed face first into the couch, the soft fabric acting as a cushion for his bruised faced. Jiyong hovers above him, dragging opulent daggers across the ridges of his spine and licking his way down to his ass. But just then Jiyong drags him over, has brought Seungri to lay face up on his couch. Jiyong pulls harshly at his earlobe, and Seungri turns his head in annoyance. But Jiyong is just there, all wanting, clouded eyes, to whisper hotly against the shell of his ear, “Just remember who made you, Seungri. Who built you up from Seunghyun, and you’ll see why you belong to me.”
Seungri just pulls Jiyong closer against him to kiss him savagely, now is not the time for words. Jiyong complies readily, thrusts forward into Seungri below him below, pulls out and slams back in with a force that shakes the couch. Seungri moans, brings his hands behind Jiyong’s back to scratch grooves into his skin, more, more, each new crescent a testimony to his need. Jiyong’s thrusts are all broken shards of glass and hot need, but so are Seungri’s, until the two bodies intertwined are no longer distinguishable, both a mess of careening gasps and heavy moans. When a slim hand comes to grasp at his cock, Seungri just hisses, pulls his own sharp canines at the junction of Jiyong’s pulse and the bare curve of his shoulder. It’s in this tandem of pain and pleasure that Seungri disappears into, his gasps and Jiyong’s moans becoming senseless noise because the only thing he can focus on is the fingers pulling at his cock and the length driving deeper into his being.
When Jiyong slams into his prostate just right Seungri cums, back arching off of the couch in an arc, a soundless moan escaping his lips and splitting his head, until he doesn’t know which way is up or down, just grabs at the body above his own. Jiyong, savage in his need, continues to thrust at the same pace, showing the body below him no mercy, until with a cry he too, dissipates into this whole of pleasure and pain and Seungri. Exhausted, he slides from the couch to rest on the floor, the gasps of his breathe shaking his chest. But even both of their gasping is not enough to fill the deafening silence that seems to permeate the air.
“You’re mine, Seungri. Always.”
Jiyong receives no response, and he doesn’t need to, knows that there will always be one more night with Seungri.