shinggi banggi bboong bboong banggi

23, she/her, 💎

[bihannies]

Name: Star Pronouns: she/her Age: 24

I'm a multi-group fan, with current faves being Seventeen! I also like SKZ, TXT, BTS, and plenty of other boy groups, too many to list. For girl groups, I like (G)I-dle, TWICE, Le Sserafim, Purple Kiss, ITZY, IVE, and more.

I am 18+ and this blog will include 18+ posts. You have been warned.

This is a side blog and it runs on an untagged queue (sorry :/)

Requests: Open Will Do: any gender reader, non-reader, smut, angst, fluff, polyamory, smaus, fics Won't Do: cheating, drugs, underage

Not sure if I'll do something? You can always ask!

my works can be found here!!

[xinganhao]

xinganhao 🌟 shared a moment with you: "wonwoo x reader"

boyfriend!wonwoo texts except you're his chronically online girlfriend, part two. part one here. in filo terms: nonchalant, 'pogi typings' wonwoo x oa!reader. suggestive + 'kms' jokes + headcanons under the cut. for one of my first friends on this site, @wonustars. <3

a day in the life of chronically offline!wonwoo and his girlfriend.

you’re on his lap, mid-rant about a fictional character’s downfall arc, waving your phone. wonwoo isn’t even pretending to understand. he just lets you use his chest as a podium while he hums in response, occasionally muttering, “that does sound tragic,” like a therapist indulging your latest mental illness. you pause, point a dramatic finger in his face. “you’d get it if you watched the edits i send you.” he presses a kiss to your knuckle. “i’d rather just watch you.”

once, you made a meme of him. full-on impact-font-level stupid. it was a blurry screenshot from a video call, wonwoo mid-blink, captioned, when she says she’s gonna sleep but you see her still liking tiktoks at 3am. it went semi-viral in your niche circle. he found out. he sent you a voice note with an unamused “mnnh.” but when you apologized, laughing, he just said, “keep it up, and i'm charging licensing fees.”

he likes words. you like emojis that are vaguely threatening. he sends you a poem; you send him 🔪💕💥🩸. wonwoo asks, “was that a response?” you say, “it's interpretive.” he saves the message anyway.

he doesn’t get why you need to narrate everything you do like a youtube vlog, but he lets you. you’ll be brushing your teeth, half-foam, going “today we’re gonna gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss our way to productivity,” and wonwoo will be leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching you like you’re his favorite anomaly. doesn’t say much. just smiles a little when you nearly choke on your toothpaste from laughing at yourself.

wonwoo reads with glasses on. it does things to you. things that are unspeakable. once you saw him half-sprawled on the couch, legs long and messy, copy of ‘the unbearable lightness of being’ in hand, and you just... climbed him like a tree. no warning. running purely on thirst and impulse. he blinked, said, “do you mind?” but his hands were already steadying your hips.

you told him you had a parasocial crush on him before you got together. it slipped out one night when you were tipsy and emotional, rambling something like, “i used to look at fancams of you and think: no way he’s real.” wonwoo had blinked slow, cheeks red, voice soft. “i thought the same thing. about you. just not with fancams. with... you being you.”

when you sleep over, wonwoo always turns off the wifi for your own good. “i’m saving you from another four-hour deep dive into love island lore,” he says, confiscating your phone. you glare. he grins. you wrestle for it like gremlins. you lose. he throws it across the room and pulls you under the sheets like a jail warden. you sulk into his chest until he rubs your back and calls you his “terminally online menace.”

you gave wonwoo a custom keyboard with purple switches and cat paw keycaps. he gave you a first edition of your favorite manga, annotated with his thoughts in the margins. you cried. he panicked. you said, “they were happy tears!” he said, “that’s worse. now i have expectations.”

wonwoo likes slow mornings. you wake up like a cracked egg, chaotic and leaking everywhere. wonwoo doesn’t mind. he just pulls you into his lap, tucks your head under his chin while you scroll your cursed meme feed aloud. he doesn’t laugh at most of them, but his chest occasionally shakes and he might sometimes even snort. for the most part, he presses kisses to the top of your head as if it’s the most normal way to say i love you.

you sexted him a poorly-drawn ms paint diagram of your thighs with “wonwoo parking only” scribbled across them. wonwoo left you on read. came home early. didn’t say a word. just dropped his bag, walked over, and knelt between your legs with reverence. then, deadpan: “i saw the sign. i’m obeying traffic laws."

sometimes, wonwoo doubts himself. thinks he’s not enough, too quiet, too strange. you shut it down every time. “you’re my favorite human-shaped wikipedia tab,” you say. “you’re my proof that love can be gentle.”

wonwoo has a folder of screenshots titled “stupidly cute.” it includes everything from your cursed selfies to your half-thought texts at 2am (“do you think bugs have dreams”). you find it once and try to tease him. he just shrugs. “you document the world. i document you.”

[xinganhao]

xinganhao 🌟 shared a moment with you: "wonwoo x reader"

boyfriend!wonwoo texts except you're his chronically online girlfriend. in filo terms: nonchalant, 'pogi typings' wonwoo x oa!reader. suggestive on some slides + two 'kms' jokes. inspired by & dedicated to @wonustars. <3

[diamonddaze01]

UNTIL YOU KNOW ME

PAIRING: lee seokmin x f!reader | WC: 5.7K GENRE: reincarnation au | soulmate(?) au | angst with a happy ending | time is non-linear and also not real don't read into it too much imo.... WARNINGS: major character death, discussions of blood and weapons, heartbreak x 10000, Seokmin Just Needs A Hug.... A/N: for the 100 collab! thank you to @gyubakeries, @eclipsaria, @nerdycheol, and @shinysobi for hosting such a wonderful collab! | first fic in over a month! sorry I've been gone so long work SUCKS! but writing this was actually so refreshing. I really do enjoy putting Seokmin in Situations (i'm sorry darling boy)

SUMMARY: Seokmin has loved you 99 times. But in this life, just like every other, you don't remember. You never do. But Seomin? He remembers everything. Every goodbye. Every loss. Every time he almost kept you.

On the 47th time Seokmin fell in love with you, he realized it would be the 47th time he lost you, too.

For the first 46 times, he had been foolishly optimistic. For the first 46 times, he still thought himself a king, like he was the first time, his first life. But here, in the 47th (or what could have been his thousandth at this point), Seokmin watched you drop his hand—king of nothing, loser of everything.

He had thought the 47th time would be different. But then again, he had thought that about the 46th. 

In the 46th, he first saw you at the market, laughing—loud, unabashed, bright enough that every head turned toward you. You were tucked between crates of peaches and dried herbs, a smear of pomegranate staining your bottom lip, the sunlight catching in your lashes. A leather satchel hung from your shoulder, worn at the edges, and you walked like someone with places to be and time to waste. You didn’t even glance at him.

That life, Seokmin had sold ink. Hand-ground, bottled in glass, sealed with wax. You visited his stall every week, even though you barely needed supplies. You’d spend long minutes just standing there, brushing your fingers over the shelves like they were familiar somehow. You never lingered on him—but you always lingered.

You asked questions you already knew the answers to. You always added a little extra money to the pile of coins. Once, you’d looked at him for a second too long and said, “It’s strange. You feel like a face I dreamed about.”

Then you’d smiled, tossed a coin onto the table, and left.

You weren’t his, not in that life. You married a cartographer—a good man, Seokmin remembered. He hadn’t hated him. Smelled like cedarwood and carried maps that curled at the edges like flower petals. He’d watch you walk back to the cartographer’s booth, the hem of your skirts catching the breeze, your satchel bouncing against your hip, and think—at least she’s happy.

You died giving birth to your second child. Seokmin found out from a friend of a friend. He didn’t go to the funeral.

And still, your absence gnawed at him in ways he never admitted aloud. He hated himself for thinking it stung a little less that time. Like grief was something you could grow used to.

He closed the stall early the next day. Burned every ledger with your name in it.

This time, in the 47th, you had been the one to say his name first. In this life, you were a singer. Jazz, mostly—low, smoky notes that curled through the air like perfume. He heard your voice before he saw you, carrying out the back of a bar he hadn’t meant to stop at. It had been years—lifetimes—since he last found you, and hearing you again hit him like a blow to the chest.

He’d stepped outside to clear his head. The alley behind the bar was quiet except for the scrape of a match. When he turned, you were already leaning against the brick wall, a cigarette balanced between your fingers.

“You got a light?” you asked.

He fumbled with his lighter. “Yeah. Here.”

Your fingers brushed his as you took it. Your touch felt exactly the same. You lit your cigarette, exhaled a ribbon of smoke, and looked at him for a beat too long.

“What’s your name?” you asked.

“Seokmin.”

You smiled. “Seokmin,” you repeated, like it tasted good on your tongue. “I feel like I’ve said that before.”

Later that week, you sang for him alone. After the last show, after everyone else had gone. You stood barefoot in the dressing room, still in your stage makeup, and sang something soft and unhurried. He watched you from the chair, hands clasped between his knees, trying not to hold his breath.

In that life, you let him stay.

You fell asleep with your hand curled into the front of his shirt. You let him make you breakfast. You danced with him barefoot on cold tile floors, laughed at his terrible jokes, pulled him into bed when you were too tired to talk. You never once said the word soulmate, but some mornings you looked at him like you were starting to remember.

He almost believed the curse was lifting.

Three weeks later, he read in the paper that the bar had been raided. Police found illegal opium stashed under the floorboards. One casualty. Female. Unnamed. Mid-twenties.

He read the sentence again. And again. The words didn’t change.

He didn’t even finish the article. Just threw the paper into the fire and stood in front of it until the smoke made his eyes sting. He didn’t speak for days. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t breathe without hearing your voice in his ears.

The worst part was that it was different, this time. You’d let him love you. You’d leaned into it. And for a moment—just long enough to hurt—he’d thought you might stay.

When the fire burned low in the hearth, and your scarf still hung on the back of the chair, Seokmin realized he was already mourning the 48th.

The first time he had known you, truly known you, he had worn a crown made of thorns and gold.

The thorns were metaphor, at first: guilt threaded through power, a boy-king raised too fast, carved sharp by grief and coronation. But over time, the weight grew real. Heavy. Gilded. Cutting. On colder nights, he would remove it and find faint red grooves across his temples, like the memory of someone’s fingers pressing too tight.

You had never touched the crown. You never bowed, either, not when the court looked on, not when his voice carried over the fields and froze armies in their march. Your head only ever inclined out of habit, not reverence.

You were not a queen. You had never wanted to be. You had been his warhound. His iron nerve. His blade and the hand that steadied it. You walked three steps behind him in court: silent, precise, eyes ever-moving. But in battle, you rode so close your knees brushed. He had memorized the rhythm of your breathing beside him: steady as the northern wind, sure as thunderclouds in spring. He trusted you more than he trusted his gods.

You bled for him, once.

An assassin’s blade had found its mark, but not the one it sought. He remembered the scream—his own—and how it had barely broken free before you collapsed. Steel had kissed your ribs. You had grabbed the attacker by the hair and run them through before falling.

That night, he paced the length of the war tent, blood soaked through his hands, staining the floor in places the servants would scrub for hours. The physicians had whispered, muttered things about odds and infection and prayers.

But you had lived.

And he had never again worn his crown without hearing your ribs break beneath his fingers.

He never said thank you. You never asked him to.

After, something shifted.

He began reaching for your wrist before any decree. You no longer waited to be summoned. He told his advisors he did not dream. You knew he did. (You were the only one who stayed when he woke screaming.)

And then, the witch came. 

Not cloaked, not veiled, not smoke and shadow. No, she came clothed in grief. In mourning black, with a spine stiff from loss and a voice that broke on the names of her sons. She stood in chains before the court, and the king stood tall as justice was read to her face.

But he flinched when her eyes found you.

Because the witch saw it. The way his gaze darted to you first. Always first. The way he moved closer to you without realizing, even now, even here. The way his hand curled—not around his crown—but around the hilt of his sword, every time her voice rose.

“You strung my children in your gallows,” she said, voice dry as sand. “For every son I buried, you will live a life. And in each one, you will find her again.”

The court murmured. The king stilled.

“And in each one,” she whispered, “she will not know you.”

He tried to kill her then. Blade unsheathed, a scream tearing from his throat. But the magic had already rippled through the chamber, warping the air. By the time his steel reached her, she had turned to dust.

He fell to his knees in it. In her. In the curse that still trembled on the marble floor.

He had dreamed of you, every night before the curse. After, he dreamed only of losing you.

He never told you what the witch said. Maybe he should have. Maybe you would’ve believed him. But how could he? How could he say, I think I’m going to lose you for a hundred lifetimes, and still hold you like it wasn’t already happening?

He tried to make the most of it. He held your hand longer. He stole minutes, lingered in rooms just to watch you fasten your cloak or pull your hair back with a cord. He memorized the scar on your collarbone, the way your mouth curved when you were amused but trying not to show it.

And when the end came—when a blade meant for him found your heart instead—he didn’t scream.

He only whispered, “Please. Not yet.” And somewhere, in the distance, the witch laughed.

The next time he woke, he was in a crib. Small hands. Weaker lungs. No crown.

But still, even as a child, he dreamed of you.

And he remembered everything.

In the 19th life, you had been a lighthouse keeper’s daughter.

A quiet girl, born of fog and brine, made of solitude and wind-whipped cliffs. You spoke with your hands more than your mouth. You hummed sea shanties under your breath and slept in a narrow bed beneath a round window that framed the moon like a portrait.

The nights were long. You were used to ghosts.

That life, Seokmin came to you in a storm; not a man so much as a memory trying to remember itself. His ship had shattered itself against the rocks sometime before dawn. You found him tangled in a net of driftwood and broken oaths, sea-foam in his lashes, a gash on his forehead like something the ocean had kissed and bitten in the same breath.

You dragged him inland, breathless and barefoot, the hem of your nightgown soaking in salt. He coughed up seawater and a name you didn’t recognize.

When he woke, it was to the sound of your fire and the creak of old wood settling in your cottage walls. He bled on your sheets. He slept in your father’s clothes.

You fed him soup without asking questions. He answered them anyway.

“My brother,” he said, fingers twitching against the wool blanket. “The sea took him.”

You didn’t tell him the sea takes everyone, eventually.

He watched you when you weren’t looking. You always were—looking, that is. Out toward the rocks. Up at the sky. Across the slow breath of the sea. But never at him.

Still, you brought him what warmth you could: your silence, your bread, your presence. And he, in return, gave you stories of constellations; of stolen ports and stars that guided without mercy; of the ship he had sailed, black-flagged and silver-rigged, bearing the symbol of your father’s enemy.

He didn’t know you had kept the flag.

Your father did.

He found it three days later, soaked and tangled in the wreckage like a secret unraveling.

He came home with the wind behind him and blood already in his eyes. The storm had passed, but it howled still in the bones of your home.

You stood between them — the man you had nursed back into life, and the man who had given you yours.

“Please,” you said, your voice cracking like driftwood underfoot. “He didn’t come here to fight.”

But your father had known too many men like him. Men with soft eyes and hidden blades. Men who flew foreign flags and left entire villages burning in their wake.

Seokmin tried to stand. He was still weak. Still foolish. Still yours.

“I would never hurt her,” he said, voice hoarse, hands raised as if in prayer.

But prayers are no match for grief. And your father’s blade was already moving.

The hunting knife sank in just below the ribs. 

Small. Cruel. Inevitable.

Seokmin tasted iron. Then salt.

Then the press of your hand over the wound, trembling, desperate, too late.

You cradled his face like something fragile and fading. Like driftglass worn smooth by time.

“Why does it feel like we’ve done this before?” you whispered, tears carving salt lines down your cheeks. “Why does this feel like an ending I already know?”

He opened his mouth.

He wanted to tell you: Because it is. Because I’ve loved you this way before. Because I always lose you.But his lungs were filling, and your hands were shaking, and the candlelight was flickering like it knew what came next.

So instead, he closed his eyes and let the sea take him again.

Death came easy, the 19th time. Almost like falling asleep to your voice.

He never woke from that dream. Not until the 20th.

In the third life, you had been a thief, laughing as you ran, skirts hiked, hair wild like a storm had fallen in love with you.

Seokmin had been a soldier then: duty-bound, spine straight, boots loud. He’d seen you first at the edge of the market square, slipping an apple into the folds of your shawl with a wink at the grocer. You’d moved like a secret, like the city itself was built to part for you. You were sunlight in the cracks of stone, mischief bottled in human form.

He hadn’t meant to follow you.

But that’s the thing about you. You happened to him. Like falling. Like gravity.

He chased you through alleyways for reasons even he didn’t understand—at first because it was his job, then because it was you.

You let him catch you once.

Once.

You turned around in the dark, lantern light catching the gold flecks in your eyes. “You’re not very good at this,” you told him, grinning as you pressed him to the wall. “A real guard would’ve cuffed me by now.”

“I forgot the cuffs,” he’d said, heart stuttering.

You laughed into his collarbone.

You were made of quick fingers and quicker stories. You never told him your real name.

You whistled as you walked. Stole buttons from his coat just to stitch them into your own. Called him “soldier boy” until he stopped asking you not to.

He kissed you like he didn’t know it would end. Like maybe it wouldn’t. And you let him. You let him want you.

The last time he saw you, your laugh echoed too far ahead.

You had stolen something you shouldn’t have—something political, or dangerous, or cursed. He couldn’t remember now. Only that you had turned and run, and he had followed.

You were already bleeding when he caught up.

A blade between your shoulder blades. A pool of red blooming at your spine like the worst kind of flower.

You collapsed in his arms, breath catching like it didn’t know whether to stay or go.

Even then, you looked up at him and smiled. Like he was the one who had stolen something. Like he was the lucky one.

“You almost had me,” you whispered, voice broken but bright.

He pressed his forehead to yours and lied. “I’ll find you next time.”

You died before he got the last word out.

In that life, he carved your name into the hilt of his blade. Even though you never gave it to him. Even though you never said it once. Even though he wasn’t sure it had been real.

Still, he wrote it in the steel.

Seokmin thinks the lives where he doesn’t see you die are the worst of all.

When death comes suddenly—when he holds your body in his arms, when your final breath stutters against his skin—there is at least a shape to the grief. An ending, cruel and sharp, but certain.

But the lives where you just fade? Where you disappear in the blur of traffic, or laughter, or time? Where you leave without knowing him, without ever realizing what you meant, who you were—those are the ones that ruin him slowly.

There’s no body to mourn. No grave to kneel before. Only the ache of unfinished things. Unkissed mouths. Unspoken names. An entire love story dissolving like fog in morning sun.

He tells himself it’s mercy, that maybe not seeing the end means there wasn’t one. But deep down, he knows better.

The 88th time, he’d been your professor.

He knew it the second you walked into his lecture hall: late, breathless, a pen tucked behind your ear, hair still damp from the rain. You slid into a seat near the back, opened your notebook with fingers that trembled from the cold. You didn’t look at him once that entire hour. Not when he stammered over a line of Yeats that reminded him of the 9th life, or when he dropped his chalk mid-sentence because you had tilted your head in the exact way you used to when you were a queen’s ghost in his bed.

He pretended not to notice you. Tried to be good. Tried to be just a man teaching literature to a room full of strangers. But you weren’t a stranger. Not to him. You were the poem.

You stayed after class one day, weeks in, to ask about a line in The Waste Land. You tapped your pen on the margin like you always did when you were thinking. He watched the ink smudge on your thumb, the same way it had when you'd written him battle reports by candlelight in your first life. You said, “It’s funny, this part—about memory being a kind of burden.” And you laughed.

He forgot how to breathe for a moment. Because for him, memory was everything. And it was crushing him.

He resigned two weeks later. Left behind a half-finished syllabus and a note to the department chair. You never saw him again. But he saw you, from a distance, months later, laughing in the courtyard with someone else, your copy of Eliot annotated to death. You had underlined the line "These fragments I have shored against my ruins."

So had he.

The 72nd time, he was your neighbor. Third floor, two windows across.

You liked to play music late at night—old jazz, mostly. Sometimes rock. Sometimes nothing at all, just the clink of a spoon against ceramic as you stirred your tea. He watched the glow of your lamp through the blinds, a moth to something warm and unreachable.

You passed each other in the hallway every morning. You wore headphones, always. He would nod. You’d smile, distracted, polite. Once, you left your laundry basket in the communal room and he guarded it like a temple, sitting cross-legged in front of it with his back against the dryer until you returned. You thanked him with a granola bar and said, “You’re sweet.”

He wanted to tell you that once you had sewn up the wound in his side with your bare hands. That once you had taught him how to peel mangoes with a knife curved like a crescent moon. That once you had died cradled in his lap, whispering a name he hadn’t used in that life—but it was his all the same.

But all he said was, “Anytime.”

You moved out six months later. He never saw where you went.

But for years after, he still left his window open at night, waiting for the sound of your record player.

The 91st time was different.

You met in a secondhand bookstore. It was raining, the kind of rain that turned the city soft and slow. You were in the classics aisle, thumbing the cracked spine of a copy of Wuthering Heights like you couldn’t decide whether to take it home. You looked up when he reached for the same shelf.

He should’ve walked away.

Instead, he picked up the book and offered it to you, holding it out with a sheepish grin. “You look like you’d like this.”

You tilted your head at him. “That obvious?”

He didn’t know what came over him then—maybe it was the scent of the rain in your hair, or the shape of your mouth on a word like obvious—but he said, “You just remind me of someone who once loved tragic things.”

Your eyes narrowed. “And how’d that end for her?”

He could’ve said: with a sword through her chest in a burning chapel or: with your hand in mine on a battlefield, dying with your mouth full of my name or: you don’t want to know, not really.

But instead, he smiled and shrugged. “She loved anyway.”

You paid for the book. Wrote your number on the receipt. Said, “Just in case you have any other doomed recommendations.”

For three weeks, you met in quiet corners of the city. Cafés, museums, bookstores with creaky floors. You kissed him in a park under a jacaranda tree, your hands in his hair, and he thought—please, this time. Just this once.

But the dreams came.

You woke up one night, tangled in his sheets, your breath short, a name you didn’t recognize on your lips. You stared at him like he was a ghost. And maybe he was.

The next morning, your number stopped working.

He never returned to that bookstore.

Time no longer moved straight for him. It twisted, coiled like smoke in a sealed jar, writhing just out of his grasp. It folded in on itself, looped through seams he couldn’t stitch shut. Days became out-of-order photographs, blurred at the edges. Sometimes he woke with dirt beneath his fingernails and someone else’s name on his lips. Other times he woke mid-sentence, his voice hoarse, body trembling, your name already half-formed in his throat before he could stop it.

He’d come to in the middle of moments he hadn’t yet earned.

One time, he opened his eyes and your hand was in his. Candlelight flickered across your features, dancing shadows onto the wall, and you were laughing. Your smile was soft and wine-stained, and he thought, pleasepleasepleaseplease don’t let this be the middle or the end. Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease let this be the beginning.

But then the world exhaled, and so did you. And just like that, you let go. The wax had melted too far. The moment was already behind him.

He was always late. Or far too early.

Once, he walked past a street performance in a rainy city, the smell of chestnuts thick in the air, and a violinist was playing your song. You were in the crowd, arms linked with someone else. You didn’t look his way. That was the 59th life. You’d been happy. He’d gone home alone and carved your name into the baseboard with a penknife.

There were lives where he found you on accident: caught in laughter in a passing car, your head tipped back, wind in your hair. He'd pull over. He’d get out. He’d run after you. By then, it was always too late. Always.

And then there were lives where he lived entire decades without knowing you were there. Lives where your name never passed his lips, but his dreams were full of you anyway. Your eyes in faces of strangers. Your laugh hiding behind glass storefronts and voices on the radio.

Once, he met you on the first day.

He had blinked into existence and there you were, leaning over a record store counter, your chin in your palm, chewing a pencil that had no eraser left.

You didn’t even look up as he entered. “New here?” you asked, thumbing through a crate of old CDs.

He couldn’t speak. Could only nod.

You turned then, slid him a mix tape in a clear case with handwritten words across the label: for the sad boys.

You raised an eyebrow. “You look like one of them.”

And then—God, then—you smiled.

Not the kind of smile made for anyone else. The kind he remembered from lifetimes ago, before curses, before loss. The kind you gave him when you’d collapse into a tent after battle, dirt on your cheek and blood on your blade, and he would press his forehead to yours and whisper, you made it. That smile.

He didn’t breathe until he was out the door.

In his 98th life, he kept that tape in the top drawer of his nightstand. Even when the store burned down. Even when you left before winter. He never played it. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to know what songs you’d chosen. He didn’t want the sound of your past to be louder than your memory.

And still, some nights, when the silence stretched thin and the moonlight spilled like milk across the floor, he’d take it out of its case. Run his fingers over the letters, worn down by time and hope. He'd hold it to his chest and listen, not to the music, but to what was missing.

You always felt just out of reach. Like a word he once knew. A breath he hadn’t finished taking. A promise made on a night neither of you could remember.

And the worst part was this: You didn’t know he was waiting. You never did.

By the 99th, he no longer prayed for you to remember.

He didn’t beg the stars, didn’t barter with fate, didn’t scream into the ocean the way he had in the 57th life. Didn’t offer up his name like a chant or a wound. No, by then, Seokmin asked for nothing more than time. A brief stay. A held breath. A quiet life, even if it flickered out too soon.

In the 99th, he found you behind a glass door painted with chipped celestial decals, a crescent moon flaking off the ‘o’ in “OPEN,” a trail of stars skimming the corner of the window like they were escaping. The bell chimed as he stepped in, sharp and unkind.

You looked up. You wore a threadbare tank top and boredom like armor, curled on a stool, a single earbud tucked under your hoodie’s drawstring. The whir of a needle hummed from the back room. He thought, just for a moment, that he’d walked into a dream stitched together from old memories. But no, it was you, older, sharper, your smile missing. You hadn’t seen him yet.

He didn’t know what compelled him to speak. Maybe it was the ache in his chest. Maybe it was the way his heart clenched like it always did when it sensed you in the room.

“I don’t have an appointment,” he’d said, voice unsteady.

You glanced at the empty chairs, then at him — his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve, his breath shallow.

“No one does anymore,” you replied, voice dry. “Sit.”

He lowered himself into the cracked leather chair like a man about to confess.

You set your gloves on with the kind of efficiency that told him you were good at this — careful hands, precise eyes, the kind of focus that once won wars in other lives. You didn’t ask many questions. Just raised a brow as you prepped the machine.

“What are we doing?”

“A sun,” he said. “Small. Over the heart.”

You didn’t laugh. Just nodded.

“Bold placement,” you murmured, your touch ghosting across his chest as you wiped the spot clean. Your fingers were cold. He felt his ribs shudder under them.

When the needle buzzed to life, he barely flinched. Pain was easy now. Familiar. It grounded him, steadied his breathing. He focused instead on your face: the soft crease between your brows, the way your mouth tugged slightly to one side in concentration. The same mouth that had once commanded armies. That had once kissed him behind a curtain of falling snow. That had once whispered his name as you drowned in the 34th life.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to.

The silence between you was velvet-lined, thick with memory he could not share.

But then, when it was over—when the ink had settled beneath his skin, permanent and small like a secret—you lingered.

You stared at the sun, your thumb brushing gently around it, not quite touching.

You tilted your head.

“Feels familiar,” you said.

The words weren’t soft. They were hushed. Like they didn’t belong to the present at all. Like they’d spilled out from another life by accident.

Seokmin’s throat tightened.

He wanted to say, It’s because you’ve drawn it before. On my wrist, in the 18th life, when we were both seventeen and on the run. Or the 42nd, when you painted it in the sky for me with fireflies. Or the 65th, when you carved it into the bark of an apple tree and told me you’d always come back.

But he didn’t say any of that.

He just nodded. Quiet. Reverent. Grateful.

And you didn’t press.

He left with a bandage over his heart and the ghost of your fingers still clinging to his skin.

He didn’t ask for your number.

He didn’t need it.

You were always a life away.

And this one was almost over.

When his 100th life comes, Seokmin almost forgets.

Time, by then, is waterlogged: bloated, heavy, slipping through his fingers before he can name it. He wakes sometimes and feels seventeen. Other days, he’s all of them at once: soldier, scholar, ghost, god. There are lifetimes he can no longer separate from dreams. Some where he knows he died before you. Others where you didn’t die at all, just vanished, like smoke trailing from the edge of a candle, leaving him in the dark.

But in this life—in his 100th—Seokmin finds himself with a crown on his head and your hand in his.

It startles him. The symmetry. The cruelty of it. Or maybe it’s mercy. He hasn’t decided yet.

The palace is quieter than he remembers. Not the gold-dripping empire of his first life, where bells tolled and sycophants bowed. This one is quieter. Older. Cracks in the stone. Ivy on the columns. A throne made of wood instead of war.

He looks down, and there you are: fingers woven between his, knuckles familiar.

You’re not in armor this time. No blood on your boots. You wear blue. The soft kind. The same blue as the ink that once stained your hands, satchel heavy with pomegranate. The same ink you dabbed on his trembling skin as he told you he wanted a sun on his chest. Permanent. Just above the heart. The fabric sways when you move, like you’ve never known a battlefield. 

But your gaze?

Your gaze is sharp as ever. It slices through the years. Finds him like it always does.

And this time—this time—it lingers.

There’s something different in your eyes. Not just fondness. Not just fate.

Recognition.

He swallows.

You smile. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’ve seen you,” he says, and it’s the closest he’ll ever come to falling to his knees.

You smile at him as the court rises, as banners are unfurled above their heads.

He lifts his eyes to the crest on the silk.

A sun.

Gold and jagged and familiar, encrusted in diamonds atop your crown.

You wear it differently than he ever imagined. Not like royalty. Not like a symbol. You wear it like it’s always been yours. As if, somewhere in you, your hands remember what it was to trace its shape onto his skin. Onto tree bark. Onto war maps. Onto history.

He turns to you, and for a moment, you're no longer queen—you’re the daughter of the man who had once stood on a gallows, made martyr by the very flag Seokmin now rules under. You had screamed that day—not words, just grief. And even as they pulled you away, he had met your eyes. In that life, his 23rd, you never forgave him.

But in this one, your palm finds his. And stays.

You lean in, as the crowd dissolves around you, a blur of robes and oaths and rustling pageantry.

“I had a dream last night,” you say, soft and faraway. “We were in a forest. I had a sword. You were bleeding. I held your face and told you not to die.”

He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Did I?”

“No,” you whisper, brushing your thumb across the inside of his wrist, where he swears the skin still remembers the kisses you pressed there 43 lives ago. “You came back.”

The throne behind you is carved wood. No gold. No fanfare. Ivy spills from its corners like it’s always been part of the earth. And maybe it has. Maybe this kingdom is a little quieter, a little humbler, shaped by all the lives he never got to finish. All the ones he watched you slip through like sand.

But here—in this 100th, his last—he thinks maybe it was all worth it.

Because when he looks at you now, all the pieces come together. You laugh with the same mouth that once kissed him behind a bookshop, that once shouted orders on horseback. You smile like a thief who never got caught. You hold his hand like a promise.

And when you kiss him,  it tastes like ink and salt and rain.

He feels it then: every life pooling into this one.

Every sun he ever wore.

Every name you ever said, even when you didn’t know why it made your chest ache.

Every version of love that wasn’t enough—until now.

Until you.

Until you knew him.

And this time, he doesn’t need to pray.

This time, he just stays.

[xinganhao]

🍀 svt reacts to you calling them your ‘current’ boyfriend.

includes ─── humor/crack, fluff, one (1) joke about death, established relationship, reader is referred to as ‘girlfriend’, dramateen. ᯓ★ footnote ─── heyyy.. it’s me :-)!!! i’m a bit out of shape, so let me ease in a bit hehe.

› scroll through all my work ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ my masterlist | @xinganhao

[wonhuist]

slice of life. | husband!seungkwan smau one shot

pairing: husband!seungkwan x gn!reader

tags: some texts from your daily life with husband!seungkwan ! :), nsfw jokes (minors dni), cheating jokes, horny!yn, clingy!seungkwan

request: Seungkwan x reader but they both are married and just as much as sassy.

join my taglist here ! | requests for smaus are open !

taglist: @enchantedlaufeyson @christinewithluv @jihoonsbbygirl @theidontknowmehn

© minghaoes 2025.

[lololololchips]

a/n: lost the request for this:((( buttttttt to whoever asked for idol!reader doing HYOLYN “Wait” dance challenge and svt reacting to it here it is after MONTHSSS

SEVENTEEN || reacting to their idol!partner doing a dance challenge

genre: fake texts, smau, fluff, humor, idol!partner, suggestive

warnings: cursing, mentions of twerking, mention of throwing up (jeonghans slide), suggestive jokes, lmk if i missed anything else

[pochaccoups]

“ bf!seventeen reactions to you doing the titty photocard trend ! ”

cw — minors dni! highly suggestive, fake texts, i did the trend so i used my own pic SUE ME

[gyubakeries]

𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗳𝘂𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝘄𝗲𝗲𝘁 | h.js

a/n: wrote this in a daze after having a fun conversation with the person who matches my freak, rie <3 ( @okiedokrie ) i absolutely love how crazy you are for shua, so im here to make it worse!! hope you enjoy this <3 (pt. 2 may already be in the works 👀)

part 2

word count: 1.4k contents: NSFW content , joshua x afab!reader , college au , joshua records nsfw audios as a side hustle , reader has a crush on joshua , nsfw warning below the cut!

nsfw warnings: mdni! 18+ , nsfw audios , masturbation (both m and f) , fingering (f) , lowkey badly written smut <3

“good girl, you’d feel so good around me. can’t wait for when i can finally fuck you the way you deserve. my princess deserves the best, right? i’ll give you every-”

“y/n, are you okay?” a voice startles you, making you hit the spacebar on your laptop aggressively and yank your earphones out. you look up to see joshua hong, your classmate, and your college crush, standing in front of you, a look of concern etched onto his features.

his head is tilted to the side in confusion, and you feel your cheeks grow even hotter. 

how is he acting so innocent? you think to yourself. as if he wasn’t moaning in my ear two seconds ago-

“are you sick?” joshua asks, and you shake your head immediately. 

“n-no! i’m fine, it’s just hot in here,” you stutter, laughing nervously. “you know how i get in the heat.”

joshua nods slowly, as if he isn’t fully convinced, but he doesn’t probe any further either, and you couldn’t be more grateful for it. “cool, i’ll let you get back to your work then. how’s the playlist i sent you?”

your body stiffens up instantly at the mention of the playlist. you mean the playlist of you jerking yourself off while you talk dirty in that sweet voice of yours? that playlist?

“good! i love it!” you exclaim, sounding too cheery even to yourself. you pinch your thigh when you see joshua looking even more bewildered at your strange behaviour. “i- i have to finish up this essay. let’s talk later?”

“yeah,” joshua nods, fixing the strap of his bag and you couldn’t be any more relieved at the sight of him getting ready to leave. “see you around, y/n.”

you wave goodbye and watch as he walks away from your table, your heart beating rapidly, and something else pulsing too.

“fuck, joshua hong, what exactly are you hiding behind that angelic face?”

—

how had you managed to end up with an entire playlist of ‘angel boy,’ joshua hong’s moaning audios? you have no clue. 

it had started out as a simple conversation. joshua and you were working on a project together, and joshua had offered to play some music to keep the both of you motivated.

as his playlist progressed, you realized that your music taste was very similar, which led you to ask joshua, “hey, can i get your playlist? i really like these songs.”

“of course!” joshua had beamed at you, the smile making your heart skip a beat. later that evening, joshua sent you the playlist, and you hadn't bothered listening to it, up until you went to the library to catch up on assignments and had joshua groaning in your ear as he slowly worked himself towards a climax.

a normal person would stop listening immediately. a normal person may have even felt disgusted.

but you didn't feel like that, at all.

no, you packed up your things in a haste, stuffing your laptop and notes in your bag, and ran back to your apartment.

you put your phone on silent, locked your door, and turned off all the lights, save for a small nightlight. 

you propped up your laptop on the bed and sat in front of it to examine the playlist joshua had sent you, plugging your earphones into your ears. to make sure no one else hears the audios, you reason.

your efforts were in vain, mainly because you don't share your apartment with anyone who possibly may hear joshua, but also because the link of the playlist takes you to a website first. 

www.angelaudios.com

the website is primarily black with neon accents, and the account description displayed in a large, white font reads: 

Welcome to ShuaTalks! Sit back, turn your volume up, and let me make your fantasies come true 💋

your heart thuds in your chest. there's no way this account, on a website that has millions of audios, belongs to joshua. the hong joshua you know.

still, you scroll down to find all the audios uploaded on the website and click on the first one you see.

POV: you help me relax after a stressful day 💗

as the audio loads, you increase the volume on your laptop. 

this is only to confirm that it isn't joshua, you tell yourself as you hit play.

at first, you only hear the click of a door, and the sound of someone sitting down on a chair or couch.

then, you hear the voice you'd recognize anywhere.

“hi baby, sorry for coming home so late,” joshua says, in that silky voice of his, and then there's a pause, presumably for the listener to imagine their own response.

something akin to arousal pools in your gut, even though joshua hasn't gotten to the… sexual part.

“i had such a tiring week at work” joshua sighs, frustration creeping into his tone. “missed spending time with you.”

“missed your body, too,” his tone grows darker with those words, and you unknowingly let out a whimper.

“did you miss me too, baby? missed me stretching out your little hole?” joshua's voice remains as sweet as honey, but his words are making you all too aware of the mess you're making in your panties.

your hand hesitates at the waistband of your shorts. you really shouldn't be touching yourself to the voice of your classmate-slash-crush, no matter how dirty his words were.

“you're already wet, hm?” joshua mutters into your ear, and you gasp softly. if you close your eyes, you can imagine him sitting next to you in the flesh, speaking every word into your ear.

“i'll take good care of you, sweetheart. but, shouldn't i get a payment in advance for it?” you can hear the smirk in his voice, and fuck it, you think, before hastily tugging your shorts and panties off in one go. you prop yourself up against the headboard and bend your legs at the knees before finally brushing your fingers over your dripping core.

and fuck, you haven't been this wet in forever. all your recent hook-ups were rather mediocre, and you don't know if you should be embarrassed by the fact that merely someone’s voice can have you soaking your panties completely. 

“mm, fuck, see how hard you make me?” joshua's voice is deep and the slightest rasp makes its way through the smooth tone of his voice. “c'mon baby, don't tease. you know how i like being touched.”

his words spur you on, two fingers spreading your folds apart as you run your middle finger through the slit, rubbing lightly over your hole.

you inhale shakily as you finally dip a finger into your hole, a low whine escaping your throat. coincidentally, it’s in perfect sync with a groan joshua lets out.

“shit, your hand looks so tiny wrapped around me,” his voice is breathy, and you wish you could hear him moan with that melodious voice of his. “yeah, just like that, nice and slow.”

you hear the tell-tale signs of joshua's hand working over his own cock in tandem with the way you thrust your finger into yourself.

“baby, ‘s too dry. spit on it,” joshua instructs, and almost as if you're under a spell, you bring your fingers into your mouth to coat them in saliva before going back to thrust two fingers in this time.

“you're so good at this,” joshua whines, and it makes a loud moan escape you. your other hand comes down to pinch your clit. “‘m not gonna last long if you keep that up, darling, fuck.”

you start rubbing tight circles over your clit now, your orgasm building up rapidly. “joshua, fuck, i'm gonna cum-”

“you've been touching yourself this whole time?” joshua laughs. “naughty little girl, aren't you?”

the way a pre-recorded audio could guess so accurately just what you're doing is what pushes you over the edge, just as joshua reaches his climax too, your breathy whimpers harmonizing with his rough grunts.

“you take such good care of me, baby,” joshua pants, and you keep your eyes closed, trying to process one of the best orgasms you've ever had. “why don't i show you just how much i appreciate you, hm?”

you wait with bated breath for him to continue talking, but the audio ends there, a soft static noise filling your ears instead.

“holy shit, that was insane-”

your post-orgasm bliss is rudely interrupted by the loud ringing of your phone, which was apparently not on silent.

the contact name flashes on the screen, and your heart drops to your stomach.

the screen of your phone displays the name of the man who, unknowingly, just made you cum: joshua hong.

fuck.

fill this form to be added to the taglist <3

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[svtiddiess]

eunha, babieeee,

“jealous? who, me? impossible” *is actually seething with rage & jealousy* + joshua (as tuss tells me, i am predictable :3) for the drabble thing!

"Jealous? Who, Me? Impossible."

Pairing: Joshua x gn!reader

Word count: 0.3k

Note: A!! You are maybe just a tiny bit predictable hehe. I hope you enjoy!

Request a drabble from me using these prompts!

Joshua’s eyes narrow as he watches you shamelessly flirt with some guy you just met at the frat party—the same one you dragged him to against his will. His jaw tightens, anger bubbling beneath the surface. It's not like you’re doing anything wrong—you're single, free to flirt with whoever you want. But as your best friend, he knows you could do so much better than that… himbo.

He rolls his eyes at the guy's pathetic attempt to flirt back. It's obvious he's only interested in getting in your pants, and judging by the way you're smiling, you might just let him.

Grumbling, Joshua downs his drink, hoping the alcohol will wash away the bitter taste in his mouth. This wasn't how tonight was supposed to go. You were supposed to be beside him, getting stupid drunk with him. With a sigh, he pours another drink and knocks it back.

His stomach twists when he sees the guy lean in and kiss you. Every nerve in his body screams at him to step in, to rip you away from that man. It's for your own good, he tells himself. To protect you. To stop you from another heartbreak. He can't stand the thought of you crying into his arms over some guy who never deserved you in the first place.

A chuckle snaps him out of his thoughts. Jeonghan, having noticed the death grip Joshua has on his now-crushed solo cup, nudges him with a knowing smirk. "Someone's jealous."

Joshua scoffs. "Jealous? Who, me? Impossible," he mutters.

But he knows it's a lie. A complete, undeniable lie. Because the truth is, he's been jealous of every guy you've been with. Every time you come to him gushing about a new relationship, his heart aches with the wish that it was him instead.

Maybe one day, he'll stop holding back and finally confess.

Taglist: @tinyelfperson @gyuguys @stay-tiny-things @unlikelysublimekryptonite @miyx-amour @iamawkwardandshy @codeinebelle @brownbunnyb @do-you-remember-summer-127 @sclovreina @theidontknowmehn @toplinehyunjin @gyuhao365 @mysticfairies @cherrylovescheol @cookiearmy @4shypotato @lxnnrobin @sashaaahh @xueisaaa17 @aeriyell @eshia16 @dreamingofpcy @archivistworld @kyeomiis @iwannakisspoutycheol @foxiesgf24 @livelaughloveseventeen

[xinganhao]

xinganhao 🌟 shared a moment with you: "seungkwan x reader"

you find yourself in a strangers to lovers enemies situation with seungkwan after you use his 'boyfriend material' photo for clout.

[woozivrsefactry]

l.jh & c.sc — melt an igloo

pairing : fwb!lee jihoon x reader x fwb!choi seungcheol

synopsis : when you joined to voyeur your two fuck buddies fuck each other, you didn't know how it would turn out really. It turned out better than whatever you were hoping for.

w.c. : 2.6 k

tw : piv sex , unprotected sex , threesome , double penetration , gay sex (csc × ljh) , assumed bisexual csc and ljh, dom ljh , sub reader , sub csc , crying , degradation , voyeurism

The hum of the hotel room was low and steady, the sound of the air conditioning mingling with the muffled city noise outside. The curtains were drawn, the soft glow of bedside lamps casting warm light across the room. It was a space that felt intimate, secretive, and you could already feel the electricity in the air. Seungcheol and Jihoon stood face to face beside the bed, eyes locked with the kind of glaze like they were the only ones in the room.

But they weren’t. You were there too. Perched on a chair in the corner, you watched them, your knees pressed tightly together, your hand buried between your thighs. Your arrangement with both of them was unconventional, but it worked, a three-way friends-with-benefits situation. On nights you wanted hardcore action, you went to Seungcheol, and he delivered the roughness you craved, his dominance always leaving you a writhing, satisfied mess. Other nights, when you sought intimacy and tenderness, it was Jihoon’s bed you found yourself in, his touch delicate but deliberate, coaxing pleasure out of you in ways that felt deeply personal.

So naturally, whatever you ever thought of them together, it had never occurred to you that it could look like this. Sure, you’d known they have been hooking up with each other too. They were both somewhere on the bisexual-spectrum, and the dynamic between the three of you was built on a foundation of trust and mutual enjoyment. You'd always pictured Jihoon being the soft bottom while Seungcheol his top. Yet, in all this time, you’d never been part of the moments with both of them—until tonight. You weren’t participating, though. You were only here to watch. The rules were clear: you could touch yourself, but you weren’t allowed to cum. You weren’t allowed to speak. You were only here to observe.

It had seemed like a good idea at first, thrilling even. But now, as you sat there, panting softly and unable to tear your eyes away, you weren’t so sure you could handle it.

Jihoon’s voice, sharp and authoritative, cut through the quiet hum of the room. “On your knees.”

Seungcheol obeyed without hesitation, his broad shoulders bowing as he sank to the floor. The sight sent a jolt of arousal through you. You squeezed your thighs together, trying to remain as still and quiet as possible. Your hand shifted beneath the waistband of your pants, fingers brushing against your slick heat. You weren’t supposed to cum. You weren’t even supposed to move much. But how could you resist?

Jihoon tilted his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His hand found its way into Seungcheol’s hair, gripping tightly and forcing the older man to look up at him. “Look at you,” Jihoon said, his tone laced with mockery. “Always so desperate to look like you're in charge. But here you are, on your knees like a pathetic little slut.”

The degradation was unexpected from Jihoon's sweet lips. His words were sharp and cutting, a far cry from the soothing whispers he used with you. What shocked you even more was how Seungcheol reacted to it. He groaned, his lips parting as if the humiliation fueled him. His hands twitched at his sides, itching to touch Jihoon but clearly awaiting permission.

“Speak,” Jihoon commanded, his grip tightening in Seungcheol’s hair. “Tell me what you want.”

Seungcheol’s voice was low and shaky. “I want you.”

“Be more specific.” Jihoon’s other hand moved to Seungcheol’s jaw, forcing him to keep his gaze locked upward. “Beg for it.”

You bit your lip, stifling a gasp. Seungcheol, the man who had pinned you to walls and growled filthy promises into your ear, was now pleading.

“Please,” Seungcheol said, his voice breaking slightly. “I want you to fuck me. Use me however you want. Please.”

Jihoon laughed, a dark, almost cruel sound that sent shivers down your spine. “Good boy.”

The bed dipped as Jihoon sat on the edge, pulling Seungcheol closer by his hair. You watched as Jihoon undid the buttons of his shirt slowly, deliberately, as if savoring the control he held. Once his chest was bare, he leaned back slightly, spreading his legs. Seungcheol immediately moved forward, his hands resting on Jihoon’s thighs, but Jihoon clicked his tongue in disapproval.

“Did I say you could touch?” Jihoon asked.

Seungcheol froze, his hands retreating as he looked up at Jihoon with wide, submissive eyes. “No. No, sir.”

“Then don’t.”

Jihoon pulled off his pants next, before pulling Seungcheol by his neck, giving a single head tilt, and as if knowing the command by heart, Seungcheol, leaned in to take Jihoon's cock in his hands, stroking it once, twice, before getting his mouth on it. you'd never seen Seungcheol like this, obedient and submissive, ready to take whatever is given. he took Jihoon's cock in his mouth, eyebrows knit together as he struggled to fight his gag reflex to take Jihoon all the way in.

Your eyes widen when Jihoon's hand meets Seungcheol's face, the loud smack making you leak in ways it shouldn't. "Suck it properly, whore, will you?"

The next moments blurred together in a haze of heat and tension. Jihoon pushed Seungcheol to his limits, demanding and commanding with an edge you hadn’t seen before. It was intoxicating. You shifted in your chair, your fingers moving against yourself in slow, teasing circles. You couldn’t take your eyes off them.

When Jihoon finally bent Seungcheol over the bed, you expected something softer, maybe even a reversal of roles. But Jihoon was relentless. He pushed seungcheol on all four limbs on the bed, getting behind him with lube-coated fingers, giving his ass the bare prep, before impatiently sliding his cock in. seungcheol let out a whimper, a beautiful cry you'd never thought you's hear from him. He fell forward on the mattress on his shoulders, his palms coming under his head to support it as jihoon set a punishing speed.

“Look at you,” Jihoon said, his hand coming down hard on Seungcheol’s ass, leaving a red mark. Seungcheol moaned loudly, tears slipping down his flushed cheeks. “Crying like the desperate little whore you are. Is this what you wanted? To be treated like this?”

“Yes,” Seungcheol choked out, his voice thick with arousal and emotion. “Sir, yes.”

Jihoon tutted, hand smacking seungcheols ass again, then rubbing the reddened spot admiringly. "look at that big, useless cock of yours. Its just for show, isn't it? You'll get any man in your ass, in the end."

You were overwhelmed. Your chest heaved with the effort to remain quiet, your fingers trembling as you edged closer to release. Jihoon’s eyes flicked toward you briefly, a smirk playing on his lips as he noticed your struggle.

The tension in the room was palpable, the air thick with heat and arousal as Jihoon moved with precision and authority, his dominance washing over the space like a tidal wave. You were a mess in the chair, your hand disobeying the rules as it worked furiously against the ache between your legs. Watching Jihoon absolutely wreck Seungcheol—someone you’d always seen as unshakable, your ever-commanding dom—was driving you to a point you’d never experienced.

But you weren’t supposed to cum. That was clear. And yet, stopping wasn’t an option either.

The skin-to-skin slaps and the soft, wet sounds of Jihoon pounding into Seungcheol mixed with the older man’s broken moans were a symphony that only pushed you further. Seungcheol’s face was wet with tears, his lips trembling as he begged for more, for Jihoon not to stop, even as his body shook with overstimulation. You couldn’t hold back anymore; you needed relief.

“P-please…” The word tumbled from your lips before you could stop it, your voice trembling with desperation.

Everything came to a standstill. Jihoon paused mid-thrust, turning his head sharply to look at you. His face was unreadable for a moment, his expression neutral except for the faintest lift of his brow.

“You couldn’t keep quiet, could you?” Jihoon said, his voice low and laced with mock disappointment. “Tch, pathetic.”

Seungcheol whimpered beneath him, still desperate for Jihoon’s touch, but Jihoon ignored him for the moment, pulling out with a deliberate slowness that left the older man gasping. Jihoon climbed off the bed, and the way he moved—slow, calculated, and commanding—made your stomach tighten.

“Get up,” Jihoon ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You scrambled to your feet, your body trembling as you stood before him. He tilted his head, his sharp eyes raking over you. “Strip,” he said simply, his voice calm but carrying the weight of authority.

Your hands moved on their own, pulling your clothes off piece by piece until you stood bare before him. The tension in the air was suffocating, your skin prickling under his gaze as Jihoon’s smirk deepened.

“Good,” he said, his voice softer now, almost approving, "At least you know to listen." Then, without warning, he grabbed your wrist and pulled you toward the bed. He handled you with such ease, flipping you onto the mattress like you weighed nothing.

Seungcheol lay on his back, his chest heaving as he stared at you with wide, pleading eyes. Jihoon manhandled you into position, gripping your hips firmly as he guided you to straddle Seungcheol.

“You want to cum so badly?” Jihoon said, his breath hot against your ear. “I'll help.”

With one hand on your hip, Jihoon used his other hand to position Seungcheol’s hard and leaking cock at your entrance. The stretch was immediate, your body struggling to adjust to Seungcheol’s size, but Jihoon didn’t give you much time to think about it. He pushed you down slowly, forcing you to take all of Seungcheol until you were fully seated on him.

The sensation was overwhelming. Seungcheol filled you completely, and the way Jihoon’s hands gripped your waist to hold you in place made you feel like nothing more than a toy for his amusement.

“Fuck,” Seungcheol groaned, his voice hoarse. His hands instinctively found your thighs, holding on as you adjusted to the sensation.

Jihoon leaned forward, his lips brushing against your neck in a rare moment of softness. The kiss was sweet, almost tender, a stark contrast to the commanding way he handled you. But it was fleeting. Jihoon straightened, his demeanor shifting back into control as he pulled your hips upward, forcing you to start bouncing on Seungcheol.

“Bounce,” Jihoon murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction as he watched you ride Seungcheol. “Show me how desperate you are.”

Your movements were shaky at first, your body still overwhelmed by the intensity of the situation. But Jihoon’s hands guided you, his grip firm as he set the pace. He pushed you down till your face was against Seungcheol’s, the latter's hands roaming your body, his lips meeting yours in a wet, heated kiss. The taste of him—salty from sweat and tears, tinged with the faintest hint of desperation—only fueled your arousal further.

Jihoon’s eyes gleamed with approval as he watched the two of you. But he wasn’t done. Not yet.

His fingers found your entrance, slick with arousal, as he began to stretch you further. One finger became two, then three, each one pushing you to the edge of what you thought you could handle. Your body trembled, your breaths coming in shallow gasps as he worked you open.

“You’re going to take both of us,” Jihoon said, his voice low and commanding. “And you’re not going to cum until I say so. Understood?”

You nodded quickly, unable to form words as Jihoon continued to prepare you.

Finally, Jihoon positioned himself behind you, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. The stretch was almost unbearable, the sensation of being filled by both of them sending shockwaves through your body. Jihoon moved slowly at first, giving you time to adjust, but it didn’t take long before he set a pace.

The three of you moved together, a tangle of limbs and moans and heat. Jihoon’s hands gripped your waist tightly, his thrusts perfectly timed with Seungcheol’s, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

“Hold it,” Jihoon growled, his voice sharp. “Don’t you dare cum until I do.”

It was torture. Pure, unrelenting torture. Your body was on fire, every nerve ending alight with sensation as you teetered on the edge of release.

Finally, Jihoon’s thrusts grew erratic, his grip tightening as he reached his climax. “Now,” he commanded, his voice rough with pleasure. “Cum. Both of you.”

The three of you unraveled together, your bodies trembling as waves of pleasure washed over you. It was messy and chaotic and utterly perfect, both of their semen filling you to the hilt. You melted on top of Seungcheol, while he himself looked ready to pass out already. Jihoon gently exited you, pulling Seungcheol's cock out too.

As much as you loved sweet and sappy Jihoon in bed who is all about love making than sex, it would be a lie if you said you didn't like this side of jihoon more. and although your insides still ache from that double penetration, you cannot wait for the next time.

bonus footage : jihoon kisses your temples gently as he settles by you after cleaning you and seungcheol up. you did so well, he murmured softly, his hands wrapping around your waist pulling you closer to him. you smiled shyly, whispering back a thank you.

"And me!?" seungcheol's whiny high pitched voice broke through the moment. "I was a good boy too! why don't I get a well-done ever!" you didn't have to look at either of them to know that seungcheol was pouting and jihoon had his mildly irritated face on. "well, I would be saying it now if you weren't so needy for praises, interrupting the sweet moment. god, this is why you never get well-dones, seungcheol." jihoon clapped back and you struggled to keep your giggle in as the two continued arguing like kids.

[seungcheorry]

svt answering to "would you still love me if i was a worm?"

seungcheol: stares at you, so ready to tease you - pouts when he realizes that "yeah, i would". he's a simp.

jeonghan: "yeah, i would adopt you~ you could be my new little pet"

joshua: "i would love you in any form as long as you are you, baby" 🥰

junhui: thinks too hard about it. goes to sleep thinking about it, ponders everything. the next morning, when you already forgot that you even asked him, he says "yeah, probably not".

soonyoung: secretly googles if tigers mean no harm to worms because of course that if you turned into a worm he would turn into a tiger. his answer depends on what google tells him.

wonwoo: "...it's 3am, you should go to sleep" "but i-" "go to sleep".

jihoon: "well, i would try not to step on you, that's for sure".

dokyeom: "yes, i would 🥹 would you love me too?" "um... yeah, i don't think so".

mingyu: asks a hundred hypothetical questions such as how would you two still kiss, just so you get tired and go to sleep. doesn't have the heart to tell you that he wouldn't love you.

minghao: "i'm not even sure i love you right now" then chuckles and pulls you closer. he would still love you, deep down.

seungkwan: "would YOU still love ME if i was a worm?"

vernon: "yeah, totally" - at least he thinks so.

dino: "turn me into a worm with you and put me out of my misery, please!!" "...are you okay, babe?"

[lololololchips]

Snowflakes and Love

Synopsis: Jeonghan, a popular model on vacation, heads to the mountains to snowboard and ends up injured in an accident. Y/N, who Jeonghan thinks is a crazy fan, is the only one around to help him. Their bond grows through playful teasing and shared moments, and soon, feelings start to develop. Jeonghan confesses his feelings, thinking Y/N doesn’t feel the same—only to be hit with shocking news. After a week of complete silence a long confession is overdue when Y/N learns her mistake.

genre: smau, fluff, model!jeonghan, non!idols, strangers x lovers, enemies x lovers (?), miscommunication

warnings: cursing, bit of angst, mention of being injured, mention of food

[hoshifighting]

virgin!seungkwan x reader

warnings: dry humping, sex talk?, oral, first time experience, cock riding...

you and seungkwan always had a close, comfortable friendship. one lazy afternoon, as the sun filtered softly through the curtains, you lay on his bed, your head resting on his back. the topic of sex came up, as it often did between close friends.

"have you had sex before?" he asked, his voice casual but tinged with curiosity.

"yeah," you replied, looking up at the ceiling. "i've had sex."

he hummed thoughtfully, a contemplative look on his face. "how does it feel?"

you smiled a little, turning your head to look at him. "it's hard to explain. it's one of those things you really have to experience to understand."

seungkwan continued to hum softly, mulling over your words.

there was a silence between you, comfortable but charged with an unspoken curiosity. finally, you broke the silence, asking the question that had been on your mind.

"do you have any curiosity to try?"

he nodded, his eyes still fixed on you. "yeah, i do."

you felt a flutter in your stomach at his admission. there was something about the way he looked at you that made you feel a mixture of excitement and nervousness. without thinking too much about it, you leaned in and kissed him. his lips were soft and warm, and he responded almost immediately, his hands finding their way to your waist.

the kiss deepened, and soon you were straddling him, your panties rubbing against his shorts as you moved your hips. seungkwan's hands roamed over your back, his breathing growing heavier. you broke the kiss, looking down at him with a question in your eyes.

"do you want to keep going?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

he nodded again, his eyes dark with desire. you guided him to lift his hips so you could pull down his shorts and underwear, freeing his hard cock. he blushed deeply, the color spreading from his cheeks down to his neck. you gave him a reassuring smile.

"don't be shy," you said softly, wrapping your hand around his length and giving it a few slow strokes. you leaned down, licking his tip and collecting the precum on your tongue. his breath hitched, and he looked at you with wide eyes.

you continued to tease him with your tongue, making him wetter as you went along. his hands gripped the sheets, his hips bucking slightly with each touch. you could tell he was getting close, his body tense with anticipation. deciding to take things further, you positioned yourself over him, slowly lowering yourself onto his cock.

he gasped, his hands flying to your hips as you sank down on him. you moved slowly, giving both of you time to adjust to the sensation. the feeling of him filling you was intense, and you let out a soft moan as you began to move.

"does it feel good?" you asked, looking down at him.

"it feels... amazing," he breathed, his eyes half-closed with pleasure.

you smiled, moving your hips in slow, deliberate circles. "good. just relax and enjoy it."

seungkwan's hands tightened on your hips as you rode him, his breathing growing more erratic. you could feel him getting closer, his body trembling beneath you. wanting to push him over the edge, you increased your pace, your own pleasure building with each movement.

"i'm gonna cum," he gasped, his eyes squeezing shut.

"let go, seungkwan," you whispered, leaning down to kiss him again.

with a final thrust, he came inside you, his body arching off the bed as he moaned into your mouth. the feeling of him filling you sent you over the edge as well, and you rode out your orgasm with him, your body trembling with pleasure.

when it was over, you collapsed on top of him, both of you panting and sweaty. seungkwan wrapped his arms around you, holding you close as you both came down from the high.

he sudden starts to laugh nervously covering his face "oh my god you saw me naked, i'm so shy"

you laugh at him, kissing his plump lips ''yeah, and you're so hot"''

"stooooopp!''

[hannieehaee]

thoughts on perv!hoshi 👉👈

18+ / mdi

content: perv!hoshi, f2l!hoshi, he has a huge crush on you, he's a tiny bit pathetic, some second hand embarrassment, panty sniffing, afab reader, smut, penetrative sex, etc.

wc: 1310

a/n: finally a hoshi request!!!!! everyone cheered

masterlist

"o-oh fuck, fuck! it's so good, so fucking good ..."

all that could be heard in the dark room was the slapping of skin accompanied by soonyoung's pathetic whimpers as he yet again engaged in such a shameful act.

he was unable to help himself despite knowing how incredibly ashamed he would be if you were to catch him in what had now become a daily endeavor.

soonyoung groaned and whimpered as he jerked himself off with a pair of used panties he had swiped from your room during his last visit, all while his eyes focused on the latest thirst trap you had posted on your close friends stories on instagram – okay, maybe it wasnt a thirst trap in itself, but your tiny little dress allowed him to see just enough skin to get him going.

was he embarrassed? beyond so. but his carnal needs could not be helped when his best friend happened to be the prettiest girl he had ever laid eyes on. you were the softest and most beautiful thing soonyoung had ever seen, but being your friend was entirely torturous.

as your best friend, soonyoung had to constantly hold back from letting his eyes wander into places they didnt belong. he had to restrict himself in being as touchy with you as he was with other friends, not wanting to risk the inevitable boner that would arise. and the worst of all? he had to jack off in the darkness of his room any time you facetimed him late at night when you were bored, growing far too horny at the sight of you in your skimpy pajamas, laid in bed all pretty for him.

yes, maybe restricting himself in such ways was dumb. maybe not confessing to you years back when he first met you was one of his biggest regrets. but it was too late now for him to ever get you to be his in the ways he wanted you to.

in a perfect world, he liked to imagine the day he'd finally grow the balls to walk into your life and sweep you off your feet, but for now he was stuck finding satisfaction in the form of some lacy panties and the pretty pictures lighting up his screen.

thats how the following few minutes went by as soonyoung edged himself, picturing your pretty eyes staring up at him as you jerked him off, sadistic in the way you'd coo at him any time you'd rob him of his orgasm.

oh, how badly he wanted you to mock him and torment him as he begged you to give him his release. there was nothing in this world he wouldn't do to get you to use him like a toy and steal all pleasure from him for your own selfish benefit. his biggest desire was for you to claim your high on his cock time and time again as he-

"soonie?"

soonyoung's movements halted immediately, somehow not having noticed the new source of light coming from the door you had just opened, peaking into his room as you got the perfect view of his shameful act – him in his underwear, one hand digging into his boxers while the other held your panties to his face, phone lying in front of him at full brightness as it displayed a photo of you.

there was no good way to explain this situation without incriminating himself further.

"y/n, i- it's not what- it's not what you think!" he scrambled to get himself presentable, throwing the phone to the side in hopes it evaporated somehow and letting your panties fall to the side of the bed. unfortunately, his cock still remained tall and proud under his boxers as his hands attempted to cover the sight from you.

you hesitantly stepped further into the room, closing his door behind you as you stared intently at him, no readable expression in your face.

"i swear, this isnt as bad as it looks, i- i was just, uh, fuck. this is the first time i ever do this, okay? i wouldnt- i would never want to make you feel uncomfortable or disrespected or-"

his nonsensical rambles seemed to finally come to and end when you decidedly started marching towards him, putting your hands on his cheeks to press your lips against his own in a rather aggressive kiss.

soonyoung, still extremely horny and never one to turn down a good time, wrapped his arms around your waist and brought you onto the bed, causing you to naturally straddle him as the two of you made out.

his pathetic whimpers filled the room as your tongue invaded his mouth, fighting and suckling his own. your hips began moving against his own the moment you felt his boner pressing up against your crotch.

oh, fuck. how was he supposed to survive against you like this? how, when you were grinding against him so sensually and letting him get his fill of your body as his hands explored and squeezed at every delicious curve?

soonyoung was a gone man already, but he absolutely lost his mind when you disconnected from him, throwing off the boy shorts and tank too you had been wearing – had you come over in your pajamas? – before helping him rid himself of his boxers. without warning, you sat on him, throwing your head back as he filled you up.

wordlessly, you bounced on him, rendering soonyoung completely powerless under you as he did not dare question your sudden appearance nor your sudden thirst for him. he would take whatever you have him with no question.

"soo- soonie, fuck. so fucking pretty ... is this what you wanted? huh? wanted me bouncing on you like this, baby?"

you patronized him continuously as you rode him, knowing he was too drunk on bliss to form a coherent response. your hands explored his body, pulling at his nipples and scratching at his chest in order to optimize the cries he let out for you.

his orgasm came embarrassingly fast, but to be fair, he had had a head start before your sudden arrival. luckily for him, your hand had gone down to play with your clit halfway through your fucking, making your high arrive just on time with his own.

"s-so good, fuck. it's so good ... such a good pussy, fuck. always wanted this p-pussy ... my perfect fucking pussy ..." he whimpered, pressing his head against the bed as he writhed under you.

when it was all said and done, you laid yourself on his chest, not taking him out as you enjoyed the fullness be provided. your lips found his chest, pressing loving kisses against it as he sighed in contentment.

"does this mean-"

"you're far too obvious, soonie," you giggled, "you've stolen five pairs of panties and never given them back. plus, i got a notification when you took a screenshot of my story."

"oh, ah, i-"

"i didnt think id catch you in the act, but i thought id catch you off guard, and man, did i ever," you laughed (at him or with him, he wasnt sure).

"so ... you're not mad?", he turned the two of you around, making you lay beside him as he held you in his arms, dick still plunged inside you.

"no, soonie. i have to admit ... it was kinda hot how much you wanted me," a small blush made its way to your cheeks, not too noticeable for the naked eye, but soonyoung was an expert in all things you, so he caught sight of it.

"oh?", he grinned, "you know that means i'm just gonna keep stealing your panties, right?"

slapping his chest in jest, you leaned up to kiss his lips, whispering against them, "why steal my panties when you can have the real thing?"

oh, fuck.

thank god you arrived unannounced.

[hoshifighting]

LYLAAAAAAAAA OMG ILYSM EAT ABD SKEEP AND DRINK WELL!!!

if you don't mind a req, Jihoon (or svt reaction) when he finds how good it feels to use a shower spray against the hoohaa

clit stimulation using shower spray w woozi <33

WARNINGS: situationship!woozi, bath sex, using shower head to masturbate, dirty talk, mentions of body fluids (cum)

it always started like this with jihoon—blurred lines that somehow felt crystal clear when you were with him. like, you knew what it was, but did you really? dude would pass by your place at 10 p.m. like, “you eat yet? i got chicken katsu.” then, five hours later, he’s snoring on your couch, legs tangled with yours, an arm slung over your stomach like he lived there. and yeah, maybe he didn’t outright say things, but actions...oh, he was fluent.

tonight wasn’t any different. except it was.

you were mid-rant to your group chat about some guy hitting on you at the café when jihoon’s name popped up. jihoon: "should i bring dumplings or ramen? heading over." like. no question if you wanted him over; just straight vibes of "you good? i’m on my way."

fast-forward, and somehow, you ended up here—in the shower, your body pressed up against the tiles while jihoon held your leg like he was tuning a guitar. the steam made everything feel hazy, as he rinsed the soapy bubbles from your body.

the shower spray hit your inner thigh, the pressure tracing lazy lines up to places he wasn’t even aiming for. “lift a little,” he mumbled, voice low like the water could hear him. his hand slid behind your knee, steadying you like it wasn’t a big deal, but when that stream hit right at your clit. your breath stuttered, sharp enough to make his brows knit together.

“what?” he asked, head tilting like a curious cat. the fucker.

you shook your head, mortified.

his lips twitched, like he didn’t fully buy it, but he adjusted the angle anyway, aiming higher. too high. a broken moan fell out of your mouth, and your hand flew to his shoulder, digging in like it could stop time. it didn’t.

jihoon froze, the stream still very much pressing where it shouldn’t. “wait.” his tone was careful, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him. “does that—does it feel good?”

you groaned, smacking your forehead against his collarbone. “don’t.”

“i’m not judging!” he insisted, but the joy in his voice was hella obvious. “just—wait. do you do this by yourself? like, on purpose?”

“oh my god, stop talking.” you could feel your face burning, like the steam was actively conspiring against you.

jihoon chuckled under his breath, this low, knowing sound that made your embarrassment worse. “okay, okay. no answer needed.” he adjusted the spray, the water softening into a gentler stream, but he didn’t let go of your leg. didn’t pull away either.

the shower went silent for a beat, save for the soft patter of water hitting tiles. you thought that was it—mortification over, donezo. until jihoon, of course, had to ruin it.

“so... you want me to keep going?”

your gaze flickered to him, catching the way his eyes softened regardless the sneer tugging at his lips. you bit your lip, heart pounding louder than the water. and then, quietly, like you were confessing to a crime, you mumbled, “mhmm.”

his grip on your leg tightened just a fraction, his smirk deepening. “okay,” he whispered, so gentle it made your chest ache. “just relax, yeah?”

his hand tightened around your thigh like he was steadying himself, except you knew it was for you. the spray hadn’t moved yet, still teasing the edge of your inner thigh, the warm water trailing in lazy streaks down your skin. jihoon adjusted his grip slightly, his thumb grazing the back of your knee.

“you good?” his voice was soft, almost too soft, and when you peeked up at him, his eyes weren’t mocking anymore. he looked focused. calm. it made your chest twist in ways you weren’t ready to deal with.

you nodded, swallowing hard. “yeah.”

“okay.” he glanced down, adjusting the showerhead with his free hand, the click of the spray setting sounding far too loud in the intimate quiet of the bathroom. then, like he’d done it a thousand times before, he tilted the stream closer, the water landing in a direct line that made your toes curl.

“jihoon—” your voice cracked, half his name, half a choke, and your body jolted on reflex. the spray circled over your clit, not quite a flick but not soft either, the pressure just shy of overwhelming.

he paused instantly, pulling the water back. “too much?”

“no, no,” you rushed, your hand gripping his shoulder like it was your lifeline. “just—fuck, i wasn’t ready.”

his lips curved into the faintest smirk, a tiny dimple ghosting one cheek. “should’ve said something. i could’ve warned you.”

you grumbled, heat blooming up your neck, he was already moving again, guiding the water in slow circles. it was gentle at first, the warmth rolling over you, but as he shifted his wrist, tilting the angle just slightly, the stream narrowed, honing in on that one spot.

your hips bucked forward, a strangled whine slipping from your throat, and jihoon chuckled low under his breath. “there it is,” he murmured, almost like he was talking to himself. “feels good, hmm?”

you wanted to snap at him, to tell him to stop talking like he wasn’t wrecking you in the middle of your own bathroom, but the words dissolved into a needy moan as he flicked the stream upward, the water hitting just right. your fingers dug into his arm, and you swore your knees might give out.

“careful,” he said, his tone shifting to something softer, his hand sliding to cup your hip as his forearm holds the back of your knee now, grounding you. “don’t go falling on me now.”

“easy for you to say,” you bit out, your voice trembling, but he only hummed in response.

he switched the spray again, this time narrowing it even more, and when he angled it just below your clit, letting the water ripple against you in a teasing rhythm, your head tipped back against the tile. “holy fuck,” you choked, legs trembling.

jihoon’s smirk widened, but his grip didn’t falter. “yeah?” he asked. “you like that, hmm?”

your only response was a broken whimper, and his hand flexed against your hip like he was fighting the urge to pull you closer. “relax,” he murmured, his voice steady even as his own breath hitched slightly. “just let it happen. i got you.”

you did relax, maybe too much, because the next moment, your leg wobbled, your body sliding just enough to make you panic. but jihoon moved instantly, catching you before you could even process it, his arm locking around your waist while he adjusted the spray back to that perfect rhythm.

“gotcha,” he said, and there was something in his voice—pride, maybe, or just satisfaction at the way you melted into him. “thought you were gonna make me work for it.”

you glared weakly at him, your cheeks burning, but it only made him laugh, the sound soft and familiar, grounding you even as your body threatened to unravel.

“don’t worry,” he added, his voice dipping as the spray circled again, the pressure building making your vision blur. “i’m not stopping ‘til you’re begging me to.”

jihoon adjusted the spray again, sharper now, the stream jolting directly onto your clit. it wasn’t gentle, wasn’t soft. the sound that ripped from your throat wasn’t human, and your body arched against the tile, your back curving like a bowstring pulled too tight. your neck stretched, your breasts lifting as your lungs fought for air, and he didn’t move.

he just watched. studied, really. his eyes darted between yours, flicking from one to the other, then down to your parted lips, swollen and trembling. but then, as if he couldn’t resist, his gaze fell lower, trailing the path of your shivering belly, your chest rising and falling in frantic bursts.

his grip on your waist tightened, keeping you steady as your legs buckled again. the way you shook wasn’t subtle—your entire body was trembling, your muscles pulled taut under his hands. but jihoon didn’t stop. he tilted the stream slightly, letting the water flick at just the right angle again, and the sound that escaped you was downright obscene, echoing off the walls of the bathroom.

“fuck, jihoon—” your voice cracked on his name, and the way his lips twitched into a barely-there smirk made you want to scream for an entirely different reason.

“yes?” he asked, his tone smooth, but his breath wasn’t. it was uneven, shaky, like he was feeling this just as much as you were. “i can feel it—you’re so close.”

he was right. too right. the pressure built and built, your thighs clenching around nothing as your core tightened, heat pooling low in your belly and spilling over. the water, the angle, his goddamn voice—it was all too much.

“hoon, i—fuck, i’m—” the words dissolved into a scream as your orgasm tore through you. your hips jerked forward, your body trembling uncontrollably as the spray kept hitting that same devastating spot. your moans were loud, messy, your breath hitching in sobs as your climax rolled on.

jihoon didn’t move, his hand firm on your waist, keeping you upright as your legs gave out completely. he looked mesmerized, his jaw tight, his eyes flickering between your face and your trembling pussy. “fuck,” he whispered like he didn’t mean for you to hear it.

but the spray didn’t let up. even as you sagged against him, your hands clutching his arms for dear life, the water kept its merciless rhythm, and your overstimulated nerves lit up like fireworks. “jihoon,” you whimpered. “s-stop—too much, it’s—”

he blinked out of his trance, his fingers brushing your hip in silent reassurance before he turned the showerhead aside, finally giving you mercy. the sudden absence of stimulation left you gasping.

jihoon’s gaze dropped, and when he saw it—saw the string of your cum clinging to your folds before dripping down to the tile—his breath hitched. it was wet, but wasn’t water; it couldn’t have been. it was too viscous, too familiar. the memory of your taste, sweet and unique flickered in his mind, and he swallowed hard.