Gianna's Notebook

mohyo + ujb + chaeyu twice ot9

[mangomohyo]

gianna's blog ^^

INTRO !!!!!

hai tumblr! i'm gianna, i like to write so im going to start posting short works on here. i write a lot of mohyo so thats mostly what i will post but im open to anything! fyi i am an adhd disaster so i can be a lot sometimes, apologies. feel free to message me, i promise im nice! ^^

my little circle: ❄️ & tofu <3

aquarius, intp 5w4, 19 (07)

fandoms: TWICE, arcane, atla, lok, victorious

REQS:

disclaimer!!! I will only write wlw works as that is all i am comfortable with. I would prefer to keep my works about twice, but any other fandoms above are okay!

will do: member x member, rarepairs, smut/fluff/angst, au's, g!p, kinks to an extent, omegaverse

will NOT do: threesome/non-monogamous smut, scat/piss kink, pregnancy, x reader, anything straight, extreme gore/violence, major character death

reqs should take about 2-ish weeks depending on length/content and how busy I am. I am a student-athlete so I can be very busy, therefore causing delays in works.

dni: cishet men (sorry not sorry), racists/homophobes/fascists, bad people in general.

[mangomohyo]

gianna is officially free

[misahyochaeng]

“Only You (And you Alone)”

tw’s// thriller, angst, teacher!au, psych-teacher!momo x literature-teacher!jihyo, mental health decline, car crash/ depictions of accidents, slightl violence, trying a new writing style hope u enjoy!//

Hirai Momo was born in Kyoto, to a family that never had much, but never let their daughters feel the weight of that. Her parents worked the kind of hours that left marks.. not bruises, but something quieter. The permanent fatigue behind her father's eyes when he came home at night. The way her mother's hands had aged twenty years ahead of the rest of her. The particular silence of people who have decided not to complain. Momo watched all of it.

She watched and she absorbed and somewhere in the process of absorbing, she developed a hunger she couldn't name for a long time. Not for money or comfort or any of the things her parents were sacrificing themselves to give her. Something stranger. She wanted to understand why.

Why people suffered quietly. Why they lied to the people they loved. Why some broke under pressure and others walked through fire and came out the other side looking almost untouched.

While other children dreamed of fame, of stadiums and crowds, Momo read. Novels, essays, academic journals she was far too young to fully comprehend, she read them anyway, turning the unfamiliar words over in her mouth like stones, wearing them smooth. The more she learned about the human mind, the more she needed to know. It was less like a passion and more like a compulsion. Even then.

She excelled in school the way serious, quiet children do, not by being the loudest or the most liked, but by being relentless. While her classmates celebrated exam results going out to drink, Momo was already studying for the next one. She didn't think of it as sacrifice. It was simply the only thing that made sense to her.

At the age of twenty-one, she completed a master's degree in Psychology. Her professors were surprised. She was not.

She kept going.

Six years of research, publications, late nights that blurred into early mornings. At twenty-seven, she earned her doctorate in Forensic Psychology. She had traveled further from that Kyoto kitchen table than she could have mapped as a child, and she knew it, and she was proud of it.

And yet, there was a feeling she couldn't quite place. Like arriving at a destination and discovering it was only a waypoint. Like standing in a room she'd spent years working toward and finding that something in the architecture was incomplete a door that opened onto a wall, a window facing nothing. She didn't tell anyone. She wasn't sure she had the language for it.

---

The call came on a Tuesday afternoon. An unknown number. A voice she didn't recognize offering her a position at a prestigious academy in Seoul, full faculty, her own courses, competitive salary. They had reviewed her portfolio, they said. They wanted her.

Momo spent three days convinced it was a mistake. Then she spent two weeks unable to sleep, turning the offer over and over in the dark. Leaving Japan meant leaving everything familiar. Her city, her language, the specific comfort of streets she had always known. Her family.

But something in her recognized the moment for what it was. Some doors only open once. She accepted.

At twenty-eight, she moved to South Korea and joined the faculty as a Psychology professor. She had worried, in abstract, that the transition would be difficult, it was a new country after all.. a new language she had studied but never lived in, colleagues who didn't know her.

Yet she loved it from the first week.

She loved the students most of all. The way they argued in her classroom, the way a well-placed question could visibly rearrange something behind their eyes. She loved the work of it, the daily construction of something she hoped would outlast the semester. For the first time in years, the incomplete feeling faded.

She had no way of knowing she was already walking toward something. That Seoul was not the destination either. That it was only the place where everything would begin to come apart.

---

Her colleagues described her as brilliant. Her students called her demanding, then inspiring, then both at once (which to her, was the highest compliment, she thought, that a teacher could receive.) What they didn't see was the cost of it.

Momo had always had a tendency to fixate on what she couldn't explain. It was the engine of her academic success and the source of her private exhaustion. She could not let a question rest. She could not choose not to understand something. The compulsion that had driven her through degrees and dissertations and publications didn't stop running just because the workday ended. It followed her home. It followed her to bed.

In Seoul, it grew louder.

There were nights she stayed up until four in the morning reading research papers she had no professional reason to read, simply because something had snagged in her mind and wouldn't release. There were evenings she stood at her apartment window watching the city breathe below her, the lights running gold and white across the Han River, and she would catch herself thinking: “I am content. I am exactly where I should be.”

And then the thought that followed it, quieter: “Aren't I?“

She always answered yes. She was almost always sure she believed it.

—

The literary and arts club had been dormant for three years before the new semester began. When the administration announced it was reopening, with expanded funding, new faculty advisors, the news moved through the building with the particular energy of something people had been waiting for without knowing it.

The organizational meeting was held on a Thursday afternoon in late September. Rain against the windows. Coffee gone cold on the conference table. Six faculty members, two administrators, and a slideshow that kept losing the projector connection.

That was where Momo met Park Jihyo.

She was the other advisor. Art department, she said, when they went around introducing themselves. She taught painting and contemporary visual culture and had the kind of stillness about her that Momo found immediately disorienting, not blankness, not reserve, but genuine ease. Like she'd made peace with taking up space.

Momo noticed she'd made an error in her projected event calendar about thirty seconds after the presentation began. She waited until Jihyo had moved to the next slide.

Then she said, clearly enough for the room to hear, "The spring symposium date conflicts with the national arts council review. You'll need to move it." Jihyo looked at her. The expression on her face was unreadable for exactly one second, and then it shifted into something that was either amusement or challenge, Momo couldn't tell yet.

"That's correct," Jihyo said. "Thank you, Miss Hirai. I'll update it."

After the meeting, in the hallway, while they were gathering their things: "You could have told me afterward," Jihyo said. "Instead of in front of everyone."

"It needed to be corrected."

"That's a very psychologist answer."

"Is that an insult?"

Jihyo considered it with what seemed like genuine thoughtfulness. "No," she said finally. "Just an observation."

She smiled then not politely, but like something had genuinely pleased her, and walked toward the elevator, and Momo stood in the hallway for a moment longer than was necessary before following.

What came next was not sudden. That was the thing she would return to, later, when she was trying to make sense of it. It wasn't a lightning strike. It was weather — the slow accumulation of fronts, pressure building over weeks.

Coffee, first. Comparing syllabi, then drifting into actual conversation. Then longer conversations. Dinners that lasted until the restaurant wanted them to leave. Messages at midnight, at one in the morning, the specific kind of message you only send when you've stopped editing yourself.

Momo had been in love before, or something close enough to it. She knew the vocabulary. What she wasn't prepared for was the way Jihyo made her feel still.

She was a person who had never been still a day in her life. Her mind ran constant commentary, analysis, catalogued behavior, searched for patterns, questioned conclusions. Around Jihyo, it quieted. Not into numbness, but into something more like attention. Like her whole self was pointed in one direction and content to be there. She found the sensation faintly terrifying and entirely welcome.

Jihyo, for her part, seemed to find Momo's relentlessness fascinating rather than exhausting. She would listen to Momo's lectures about cognition and behavioral theory and then cut through to the center of whatever Momo was actually trying to say with one question, unhurried, perfectly aimed. She had the artist's ability to sit inside ambiguity without trying to resolve it. Where Momo needed answers, Jihyo needed form.. the shape of something, even if the interior of it was unknown.

They were different in ways that should have made closeness difficult, yet It made it feel inevitable instead.

Months into it, on an ordinary evening in February, Momo watched Jihyo sleep on her couch with the particular feeling of someone who has stopped being surprised by happiness and started being afraid of it. This is too good, said the clinical part of her mind. Something this consistent, this undisturbed, prepare for disruption.

She told the clinical part of her mind to be quiet. It listened. For a while.

Until that night.

—

The cold that February had been extraordinary. Not weather-cold but the other kind, the kind that seeps through walls and settles at the base of the spine and makes the world feel contracted, reduced. Momo had taken to keeping the lights on longer than necessary. She hadn't examined why.

They were sitting in her kitchen late on a Wednesday. Rain again, Seoul had been rainy all winter, a persistent grey softness over the city. The coffee was hot, and Jihyo was in the middle of a story about a student who had submitted an abstract expressionist painting of what she claimed was the concept of waiting, and Momo was laughing, and everything was ordinary.

And then it wasn't.

It happened without transition. Jihyo stopped mid-sentence. Not trailing off, not distracted — stopped, like something had been cut. She was looking at a point behind Momo's left shoulder, and her face had changed entirely. The ease was gone. Something had replaced it that Momo recognized from clinical literature but had never seen on someone she loved.

"Jihyo?"

Nothing. Her eyes didn't move.

"Hey." Momo reached across the table and touched her hand. "What is it?"

Jihyo blinked. Once. The kind of slow blink that looks like someone returning from a very long distance.

"Don't you feel them?" she said. Her voice was different. Lower, strained, like the words were effortful.

"Feel what?"

Jihyo swallowed. She looked at Momo then — really looked, the way she always did, that full attention — but it was wrong somehow. Tilted. "Them," she said.

"Who?"

"The ones who are watching."

The kitchen was exactly as it had been thirty seconds ago. Same light. Same rain against the glass. Same coffee going lukewarm between Momo's hands. And yet something had shifted in the quality of the air in a way that Momo could not have quantified and therefore could not acknowledge.

"Jihyo, baby." She kept her voice measured— a voice she knew how to use, a professional voice, and she hated herself a little for reaching for it now. "Talk to me. What's happening?"

What happened next was fast. Jihyo stood so suddenly that her chair skidded back and her arm swept across the table and the mug went over, and the coffee —hot, still very hot— spread across the surface and over the edge and across Momo's arm, and the burn was immediate and real, a sharp white pain that Momo absorbed in silence because Jihyo was standing with both hands pressed over her mouth like she was holding something in, and her eyes were wet, and she was shaking.

"Don't call me that," she said. The words came out strange, compressed. "Don't say it like I'm—"

"Jihyo, you're not—"

"I'm not crazy."

The words cracked in the middle. Her hands came down from her mouth and she was crying now, quietly, the way people cry when they've been practicing not crying for a long time.

"I know that," Momo said.

"You don't believe me."

"I believe that you're frightened. Tell me what's happening."

"I've been trying to—" Jihyo stopped. Started again. "They follow me. I can feel them. I've been able to feel them for months and I didn't say anything because I knew— I knew how it would sound—"

"Who follows you?"

"I don't know." A breath, ragged. "I don't know who they are. I just know they're there."

Momo's arm was still burning. She would have a scar. Months later, she would trace it sometimes without meaning to. "We'll figure this out," Momo said. "We'll figure it out together. Whatever it is."

Jihyo looked at her, and Momo felt the look before she understood it. There are looks that lodge themselves somewhere behind the sternum and stay there. This was one of them. Jihyo's eyes were full of something that was not quite grief and not quite apology.

"You'll see them eventually," she said quietly.

"Huh?"

"I've been watching it happen to people. There's a point where you start to see, and once you—" She shook her head. "Momo. When you understand, it'll already be too late."

"Jihyo—"

"*It'll already be too late to run.*"

Then she was moving. Past the table, past Momo, through the kitchen doorway, and Momo scrambled after her —a chair hit the floor, she didn't look back— calling her name, and Jihyo had already reached the front door and wrenched it open, and the cold came in like a wall, that extraordinary February cold, and Jihyo was already on the stairs, and Momo was behind her still calling her name.

They came out onto the street.

It was past midnight. The road was quiet. Momo remembered, afterward, the particular quality of the silence, no wind, no voices, the rain finally stopped, the street slick and black and empty.

She remembered seeing headlights, very far away.

She remembered the space between one breath and the next.

The sound of impact.

The way the light moved.

She closed her eyes, praying, hoping she was okay. She didn’t wanna look, the thud was too graphic.

After a few seconds and an audible groan from Jihyo, she opened her eyes.

And then she was standing in the street, and the road was empty, and Jihyo was not there, and no truck was there, and the road was blank and undisturbed in every direction, and Momo stood in the middle of it in her socks —she had forgotten her shoes— and the silence was total.

She stood there for a long time.

Waiting for something to be real.

---

The worst part was not watching her disappear. It was that the world decided she had never existed.

---

It should have been simple to find her. Momo kept telling herself that in the first hours, then the first days: there would be an explanation. Jihyo had run, had taken a cab, had gone to a friend's apartment. There would be a phone call in the morning. There would be a reasonable answer.

There was no phone call.

Momo went to the administration office on Friday morning, before most of the building had arrived, and asked for contact information for Park Jihyo in the art department.

The woman at the desk looked at her pleasantly. "Can you spell the name?"

She did. Twice.

The woman looked at her screen for a long time. "I'm not finding anyone by that name."

"She's been here since the fall semester. Art department faculty, she teaches—"

"I'm not finding a record. Is it possible you have the department wrong?"

It was not possible. But Momo thanked her and walked away and sat in her car in the parking structure for forty-five minutes before she was able to drive.

She went through every channel she could access legitimately. HR records, faculty directories, the course catalog from the past two semesters. She searched Jihyo's name in every combination she could construct. She found nothing, and then she found nothing again, and then she went back and looked more carefully and still found nothing.

She filed an access request for the administrative databases. When it was pending too long, she escalated it. When that moved too slowly, she stopped waiting for permission.

It took her eleven days to convince a graduate student she vaguely knew to loan her his access credentials. She told herself it was a temporary measure.

She searched for three hours and found nothing.

There was no Park Jihyo. No employment contract, no tax filing, no building access card, no email address in the faculty system, no class rosters. She searched the public records databases she had clearance to access through her old forensic psychology consulting work. Nothing. Not even a registration of the name at this address, in this city, in any capacity that left a bureaucratic trace.

She hired a private investigator who took her money and came back two weeks later with an apologetic expression and a folder that contained nothing she hadn't already found herself.

Her colleagues, when she asked, looked at her with an expression she recognized and hated. The careful, neutral look of people deciding how much concern to show. Park Jihyo? In the art department? Heads shaking slowly. I don't think I know that name. Are you sleeping enough, Momo? You look tired.

She stopped asking her colleagues.

She paid someone she shouldn't have paid to get her further into records she shouldn't have been in. She reviewed the security camera footage from the building for the past six months, looking for Jihyo's face.

The footage from September through February showed nothing she was looking for.

She kept watching it anyway.

---

The mug was still in her apartment. She had not touched it — had moved around the kitchen in a wide arc to avoid it, had not washed the coffee stain from the floor, had left the chair where it had fallen that night. Evidence. She kept reminding herself that it was evidence. That the broken piece of ceramic near the refrigerator proved that something had happened in this room. That she had not invented it.

The scar on her arm proved it too.

She pressed her thumb to it sometimes, in faculty meetings, under the table where no one could see. Reminding herself: this is real. This happened to you. You did not invent this.

She slept badly for months, then worse, then hardly at all. She lost six kilograms without intending to. She caught herself checking the space behind her shoulder in elevators, in empty hallways, in her own apartment at three in the morning when the city was quiet and the shadows at the edge of her vision seemed to move.

She made an appointment with a psychiatrist and cancelled it.

She made it again and sat in the waiting room for twenty-five minutes reading a magazine she didn't absorb a word of, and then walked out.

She went back to the clinic the following Tuesday and stood outside the glass doors for almost an hour, watching the people who went in and out, and thought about what it would mean to open that door. What she was confirming if she walked through it.

She went home.

She taught her classes. She prepared her lectures with the same care she always had. Her students noticed nothing. Or if they did, they didn't say so.

Teaching was the only thing that held the center of her. When she was in the classroom, the investigation could wait, the question could wait, the arithmetic of the impossible could wait. For fifty minutes at a time, she was only who she had always been: a woman who understood things and was good at helping others understand them.

She came home afterward and went back to the evidence and the open tabs and the growing document on her laptop that she titled, with grim precision, WHAT I KNOW.

What she knew filled eleven pages and proved nothing.

What she knew was that she had met a woman and loved her and lost her and could not find a single official record that she had ever existed.

What she knew was that her own mind was the only archive.

And what she knew, quietly, in the part of herself that was most honest and most afraid, was that Jihyo had been right.

Something was there. Had been there. Maybe for longer than she'd realized.

She could feel it at the edge of things now. The slight wrongness of a room she'd just entered. The sensation of gaze on the back of her neck in empty spaces. The way a silence could turn, in certain hours, from absence into presence.

She understood, with the clarity of someone who has spent her life studying the mind, that this could be explained. Grief disrupts cognition. Extreme stress produces paranoid ideation in otherwise healthy individuals. She had spent two decades learning that the brain's distortions are not signs of weakness — they are the mind trying to survive.

She understood all of this.

And she was no longer sure it explained what was happening to her.

---

She was in her office on a Thursday night in late spring, the building mostly empty, the city below running its lights across the dark, when she stopped moving entirely. Stopped typing. Stopped thinking.

She sat very still, the way she had learned to sit when something was approaching that she needed to receive without flinching.

She looked at the document on her screen.

She looked at the reflection of the room in the darkened window behind her monitor.

There was a question she had been refusing to ask. She had been refusing it for months, building her alternative explanations around it the way construction workers board up a sinkhole, putting barriers around the perimeter and hoping no one falls in.

The question was not: did any of this happen?

The question was: if it happened, what the fuck does that mean?

If Jihyo had existed —and she had, Momo knew it in the layered wordless way that people know what is true— then her disappearance was not a disappearance in any ordinary sense. Records don't simply not exist. Entire people don't simply not exist. What she had found, at the end of months of searching, was not absence.

It was erasure.

And you don't erase something unless it's been there.

Which meant Jihyo had been there.

Which meant what Jihyo said, that night in the kitchen with her hands shaking and her voice cracked down the middle, might have been—

Momo closed the laptop.

She put her hands flat on the desk.

Outside, the city was vivid and indifferent and very far below her, and the room was reflected in the window dark, and she sat in it, and she tried very hard not to look at the place to the left of her own reflection, at the edge of the glass, where the shadow was doing something that shadows didn't do.

She tried very hard not to look.

She looked.

---

She had spent her entire life learning how the mind breaks down.

She had never once considered that the mind might be the last thing to know.

[mangomohyo]

mohyo works are coming i swear. might write some jichaeng or jeongmi as well 🤭

[mangomohyo]

hi i saw ur username in my notifs and im so jealous

you’re so cool

lmaoo tysm you're super cool too i love ur works 🧡

i see u with that tori vega pfp i love victorious.

[mangomohyo]

not mohyo or twice related, js my nyc pride, W KNICKS 🧡💙

[misahyochaeng]

SUB MOMO SUB MOMO SUB MOMO TOP JIHYO TOP JIHYO TOP JIHYO Enlighten us Please oh wise one 😣

(I’m hoping my chanting convinced you)

Talk You Through it

a/n: anon you’re so lucky i’m mohyo pilled this gave me a spark of motivation

tw’s// smut, fwb!mohyo, sub leaning!momo & top leaning jihyo (they’re both switches), implied phone sex, dirty talking, lots of lots of flirting, fingering, cunnilingus, mentions of getting caught//

Before all of this happens, it’s best we talk about how it started.

About five weeks ago, Momo found herself at a giant pocha tent in Hongdae with the girls, still riding the high from wrapping up their comeback promotions earlier that day. Someone—probably Nayeon—had insisted they needed to celebrate properly with soju and grilled meat.

The grill hissed and popped as Momo turned another skewer, watching the tteokbokki and sausage char at the edges just right. The heat from the flames made her face warm, and she could feel a bead of sweat forming at her temple. Behind her, the noise in the tent was in full swing; Nayeon's laugh rising above everything else, Sana singing to whatever was playing, someone clinking shot glasses together for another round.

She was so focused on making sure the sausages didn't burn that she didn't notice Jihyo until fingers touched the small of her back.

Momo's breath caught. The touch was light at first, almost tentative, just fingertips tracing the edge where fabric met skin. Then Jihyo's whole palm pressed flat against her spine, warm even through the heat of the grill.

"How's it looking?"

Jihyo's voice was right by her shoulder, closer than Momo expected. Lower than usual too—that slight rasp she got after a few drinks.

"Good," Momo said, trying to keep her voice steady. She adjusted one of the skewers even though it didn't need adjusting. "Almost done. Just making sure nothing burns."

"Mm-hmm." Jihyo's hand started moving, sliding up her spine slowly. So slowly. Each muscle on her back felt hyperaware of her touch. "Smells good."

"Nayeon did really well with the tteokbokki this time," Momo said, rambling a little because Jihyo's hand was still moving upward and her brain was starting to short-circuit. "She used less gochugaru than last time. Remember last time? When Tzuyu couldn't stop crying?"

Jihyo laughed softly, her breath ghosting across Momo's shoulder. "Mhm, I remember."

Her fingers reached the space between Momo's shoulder blades and paused there, just resting, her thumb drawing small circles against her skin. Momo tried to focus on the grill. She really did. But Jihyo's hand was so warm, and she could feel her standing close behind her now, not quite touching but close enough that Momo could feel the heat of her.

"You look really good tonight," Jihyo murmured.

Momo's hand tightened around the tongs. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Jihyo's fingers started moving again, trailing up to the nape of her neck where the claw clip sat. She played with the loose strands of hair there, the ones too short to stay put, twirling them around her fingers. "This is cute. The hair."

"It's just a clip," Momo said, but her voice came out quieter than she meant it to.

"Still cute."

Jihyo leaned in then, and Momo felt her breath against that spot where her jaw met her neck—that stupidly sensitive spot she'd never really thought about until this exact moment. Warm air, smelling like soju and something sweeter underneath. Cherry chapstick, maybe.

"Really good," Jihyo repeated, softer this time.

A shiver ran through Momo despite the heat radiating from the grill. Her skin prickled where Jihyo's breath touched.

She knew how Jihyo got when she drank. Everyone knew. Jihyo got touchy, got affectionate, got bold in a way she never was when she was sober. Two weeks ago she'd grabbed Jeongyeon by both cheeks and planted a kiss right on her lips that had the entire table screaming and Jeongyeon turning the color of the siracha Sana had brought. Dahyun had literally fallen off her chair laughing.

But this didn't feel like that. This felt different. Focused. Intentional.

Jihyo's lips brushed against her skin, right below her ear. Barely a kiss, just the softest press of lips, there and gone.

"Relax," Jihyo whispered.

Momo's shoulders had gone rigid without her realizing it. She consciously tried to loosen them, taking a breath. "Easy for you to say."

"What?" Jihyo's voice had a smile in it. "I'm just checking on the food."

"Sure you are."

"It's just us here." Another kiss, this one at the very corner of her jaw. Jihyo's hand slid down from her neck to rest on her shoulder, thumb stroking along her collarbone. "No one's paying attention."

That was probably true. Momo could hear Chaeyoung challenging someone to a drinking game, Mina's shockingly trying to talk her out of it. The sizzle of other grills around them, the clatter of dishes, the general chaos of their group when they went out.

Still.

"You're so drunk," Momo said, but she didn't pull away. Didn't move at all, actually.

"I am," Jihyo agreed immediately, easily. She didn't sound embarrassed about it. Her hand was still on Momo's shoulder, warm and sure. "Very drunk."

"You grabbed Jeongyeon's entire face last time."

Jihyo laughed against her neck, and Momo felt the vibration of it. "That was funny though."

"Jeongyeon didn't think so."

"Jeongyeon thought it was hilarious." Jihyo's fingers traced along Momo's collarbone, a feather-light touch that made Momo's skin tingle. "But you're not Jeongyeon."

"No," Momo said quietly. "I'm not."

A beat of silence. The grill crackled. Someone knocked over a glass at another table, and there was a chorus of whines. Momo's heart was beating faster than it should be.

"You're not stopping me," Jihyo pointed out, voice soft and a little amused.

Momo turned her head slightly, just enough to catch Jihyo in her peripheral vision. "Should I?"

"I don't know." Jihyo's thumb was still moving in small circles on her collarbone. "Do you want to?"

The question hung in the air between them. Momo stared at the grill, at the skewers lined up perfectly, at the tteokbokki getting those crispy edges she liked. She could feel Jihyo waiting behind her, patient, her hand warm on Momo's skin.

Slowly, Momo set down the tongs. She turned around.

Jihyo was closer than she expected, or maybe she'd just forgotten how close she'd been standing. Close enough that Momo had to tilt her chin up to meet her eyes. Jihyo's cheeks were flushed—from the alcohol, from the heat, from something else, Momo wasn't sure. Her eyes were dark and a little unfocused but steady on Momo's face.

"I don't want to stop you," Momo said.

Jihyo's expression shifted. The playful edge melted into something more serious, more intense. Her hand moved from Momo's shoulder to her waist, fingers pressing into the fabric of her top.

"No?"

"No."

They stood there for a moment, just looking at each other. Momo could feel the heat from Jihyo's body, could smell her perfume mixing with the soju on her breath. Behind them, someone started singing so loudly their voice cracked. Nayeon shouted something about taking a photo.

Jihyo's gaze dropped to Momo's lips, then back up. "The food's gonna burn."

"Probably," Momo agreed. She hadn't looked away from Jihyo's face.

"Should probably do something about that."

"Probably."

Neither of them moved. Jihyo's thumb rubbed a slow circle just above Momo's hip.

"Momo-ya," Jihyo said, soft and questioning.

Momo reached out and grabbed her wrist. "Come here."

She pulled Jihyo away from the grill, past their table where no one even glanced up—too busy laughing at something Dahyun was doing—down the narrow hallway where the bathroom was. The noise faded a little, became muffled. The hallway was dimly lit, cramped, smelling like old wood and cooking oil.

Momo pushed open the bathroom door and pulled Jihyo inside.

The door had barely clicked shut when Jihyo's hands found her face, cupping her jaw, tilting it up. For a second they just stood there, breathing the same air, close enough that Momo could count Jihyo's eyelashes if she wanted to.

"Are we—" Jihyo started.

Momo kissed her.

Or maybe Jihyo kissed her. It was hard to tell who moved first. All Momo knew was that suddenly Jihyo's mouth was on hers, soft and insistent, tasting like soju and cherry and something that was just her. Jihyo's hands were in her hair, fingers working through the strands, and then the claw clip was clattering to the floor, forgotten.

Momo's back hit the door. Jihyo pressed against her, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other gripping her waist. The kiss was messy, unpracticed, like neither of them had really thought this through but couldn't bring themselves to care. Momo's fingers twisted in the front of Jihyo's shirt, pulling her closer even though there was no space left between them.

When they broke apart—just for a second, just to breathe—Jihyo's forehead dropped against hers. They were both breathing hard. Momo's lips felt swollen, sensitive. Her heart was pounding so loud she was sure Jihyo could hear it.

"So," Jihyo said, slightly breathless, her lips curving into a smile. "This is happening."

Momo laughed, a little shaky, her fingers still twisted in Jihyo's shirt. "Guess so."

—Present Day —

Momo lay sprawled across her bed, headphones on, some shitty variety show playing on her phone that she wasn't really watching. Boo and Dobby were curled up on either side of her, warm and heavy against her ribs. She should've felt content—her dogs, her room, a rare day off—but instead there was this weird hollow feeling sitting in her chest.

Valentine's Day.

She'd never cared about it before. The stupid chocolates the members gave each other, Sana's overly enthusiastic homemade cards with glitter that got everywhere, Dahyun's terrible puns written on heart-shaped notes—it was always enough. More than enough, actually. Sweet and silly and theirs.

But today felt different. Today she felt like something was missing, and she couldn't figure out what.

She huffed, pulling her headphones off and tossing her phone onto the bedside table. Boo's ear twitched but he didn't wake up. Momo ran a hand through her hair, staring up at the ceiling.

She'd tried asking Nayeon earlier if she wanted to go out, do something, anything to get out of her own head. But when she'd poked her head into Nayeon's room, she'd found her completely passed out—long pants somehow turned into shorts from all her shifting, hair everywhere, a little bit of drool on her pillow. Momo had just quietly shut the door.

She thought about all the people probably out on dates right now. Couples at restaurants, walking through Hangang Park, doing all those cheesy Valentine's Day things. The thought made her chest tighten for some reason.

She was about to stand up, maybe check on Nayeon again or raid the kitchen for snacks, when her phone vibrated.

Momo grabbed it so fast she almost knocked over her water bottle.

Jihyo.

“Hey, wyd??”

“Can i come over, this valentine's day is making me bummed.”

“Need to get my mind off it.”

“Need you.”

Momo's hands shook slightly as she typed. It didn't matter that this had been going on for five weeks now—Jihyo still made her nervous. Still made her heart race. Still made her feel like a teenager with a stupid crush.

And she knew exactly what Jihyo meant by "need you."

“omg”

“heyy”

“im just at home, you can stop byyyy”

“nayeon's home though ://“

She bit her lip, watching the chat bubble appear as Jihyo typed.

“Ok, give me 30”

“xx”

"Fuck," Momo groaned, dropping her phone onto her stomach. Her cheeks felt warm. She stared at the ceiling for another second, then looked around her room—clothes draped over her chair and desk, makeup scattered across her vanity, a hoodie on the floor that she'd been meaning to hang up for three days now.

She sighed and pushed herself up, careful not to disturb the dogs too much. Dobby made a disgruntled sound but settled back down.

It was stupid, really, how much she always scrambled to clean before Jihyo came over. Was she trying to impress her? Make a good impression even though they'd known each other for years? She didn't know. But every time, without fail, she found herself frantically tidying up like her life depended on it.

Momo grabbed the pile of clothes from her chair and started hanging them in her closet, humming under her breath, trying to ignore the nervous flutter in her stomach.

Her phone rang.

She nearly dropped the hanger. Jihyo's name flashed on the screen.

Momo picked up, and Jihyo's voice came through immediately, warm and familiar. "Hi."

There was road noise in the background, the steady hum of the car, the occasional sound of a turn signal. She was driving.

"Sorry I called so out of the blue," Jihyo said, and Momo could hear the smile in her voice. "I just couldn't wait to hear your voice."

Momo swallowed hard, shifting her phone to pin it between her ear and shoulder as she bent down to pick up another shirt from the floor. "No, no, it's no problem."

Jihyo chuckled, low and a little breathless, and then it got quiet. Not awkward quiet—something heavier. Thicker. The kind of silence that made Momo hyperaware of her own breathing.

"I just..." Jihyo started, then paused. The road noise filled the space. "I don't know, Momo. Valentine's has me off."

Momo stopped sweeping, straightening up. "Yeah?"

"I just can't stop thinking about you, Mo."

The shirt slipped from Momo's fingers. She fumbled with the phone, nearly dropping it before catching it and pressing it firmly against her ear. Her heart was doing something stupid in her chest.

"Yeah?" she said again, quieter this time. "Really? I, um... I missed you too."

She could hear Jihyo's smile through the phone, could practically see it. "Mhm? I really wanted to see you today." Her voice dropped lower, softer. "I missed you. I miss your touch."

Momo's breath caught. She stood there in the middle of her room, clothes forgotten, completely still.

"I miss your skin on mine," Jihyo continued, and Momo could hear when she licked her lips, catching her breath between words. "I know we did it on the phone the other night, but... it's not enough for me, Momo."

"Jihyo—" Momo's voice came out shakier than she meant it to.

"You always sound so pretty for me, Momo," Jihyo said, and there was something almost reverent in the way she said it. "So pretty."

Momo's face felt hot. Her whole body felt hot. "Yeah?"

"Mhm."

She tried to steady her breathing, tried to sound normal even though her pulse was racing. "You sound pretty too. I really... I really enjoy it."

"Do you?" Jihyo's voice was teasing now, but underneath it was something more serious. More intense.

"You know I do."

"I like making you feel good," Jihyo said softly. "You know that, right?"

Momo sat down on the edge of her bed, her legs suddenly feeling unsteady. Boo lifted his head, confused by the movement, then settled back down. "I know," she said quietly. "I'm glad you... that you can."

"Can what?"

"Make me feel good."

Jihyo made a sound—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. Something in between that made Momo's stomach flip. "You're gonna kill me, you know that?"

"I'm not doing anything," Momo protested, but she was smiling now, biting her lip.

"You don't have to do anything. Just hearing your voice is..." Jihyo trailed off, and Momo heard her take a breath. "I keep thinking about the other night. What you sounded like."

Momo's grip tightened on the phone. "Jihyo..."

"What you looked like that time in your room. How you feel." Another pause, heavier this time. "How you taste."

"Jesus," Momo breathed, pressing her free hand against her face. Her cheeks were burning.

"I'm not even there yet and you're already like this," Jihyo said, and Momo could hear the satisfaction in her voice. "I can tell."

"Shut up."

"Am I wrong?"

Momo didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Because Jihyo wasn't wrong. There was a restless energy building under her skin, a wanting that was making it hard to sit still. She shifted on the bed, tucking her legs under her.

"That's what I thought," Jihyo said softly. "I love that about you. How responsive you are. How I can just talk to you and—"

"Where are you?" Momo interrupted, her voice coming out more breathless than she intended.

"Close. Maybe ten minutes?" The sound of the car turning, the road noise shifting. "Why? Getting impatient?"

"Maybe."

Jihyo laughed, warm and low. "Good. I like when you want me."

"I always—" Momo stopped herself, biting her lip again.

"You always what?"

"Nothing."

"Momo-ya." Jihyo's voice was teasing but there was an edge to it. "Say it."

Momo closed her eyes, her heart pounding. "I always want you."

Silence. Just the sound of the car, the road, Jihyo's breathing on the other end.

"Fuck," Jihyo said finally, quiet and intense. "Okay. I'm driving faster."

Momo laughed despite herself, the tension breaking just slightly. "Don't crash."

"I won't. But you're not making this easy." Another pause. "Are you still cleaning?"

"I was trying to."

"Don't bother. I'm just gonna mess it up anyway."

The implication in those words made Momo's stomach flip again. She pressed her thighs together without thinking about it, trying to ease the growing ache. "Jihyo..."

"I know, baby. I know." Jihyo's voice was softer now, almost soothing. "I'll be there soon. Just a few more minutes, okay?"

"Okay." she whined,

"Are you okay? You sound—"

"I'm fine," Momo said quickly. Too quickly.

Jihyo made a knowing sound. "Mhm. Sure you are."

Momo could feel herself getting more worked up, the conversation leaving her restless and wanting and far too aware of the empty space in her room, in her bed. She shifted again, trying to focus on literally anything else—the clothes still scattered around, Boo's soft snoring, the sound of Jihyo's car in the background.

"I really can't wait to see you," Jihyo said, her voice dropping again into that lower register that always did things to Momo. "To touch you. Been thinking about it all day."

"Me too," Momo admitted quietly.

"Yeah? What have you been thinking about?"

Momo's face burned hotter. "You know."

"Say it."

"Jihyo—"

"Please?"

There was something in the way Jihyo said please that made it impossible to refuse. Momo took a shaky breath. "I've been thinking about... your hands. And your mouth. And—"

"And?"

"Just... you. All of you."

"Fuck, Momo." Jihyo's voice was strained now, affected. "You're making this really difficult."

"You started it."

"I know I did." A sound like Jihyo was adjusting her grip on the steering wheel. "And now I'm paying for it because all I want to do is pull over and call you back so I can hear you properly."

Momo's breath hitched. She was definitely bothered now, that restless wanting feeling more insistent, making it hard to focus on anything except the sound of Jihyo's voice and the memory of her touch.

"Don't," Momo said, though she wasn't sure if she meant it. "Just... get here."

"I'm almost there. Five minutes maybe."

Those five minutes felt like an eternity. They kept talking—nothing as charged as before, just Jihyo telling her about her day, but even the mundane things sounded different now, weighted with anticipation. Momo tried to breathe normally, tried to calm down, but it wasn't working.

Then Jihyo's voice changed. "Okay, I'm outside."

Momo stood up so fast she startled both dogs. "Now?"

"Mhm. Come open the door for me."

Momo opened the door to her room, Boo and Dobby trotting out past her legs, disappearing somewhere into the living room. That wasn't her focus right now. Jihyo was.

She unlocked the apartment door and pulled it open. Jihyo stood there bundled in layers—hoodie, puffy jacket, scarf wrapped around her neck. The February cold had turned her into a marshmallow. A cute one, at least.

Jihyo pulled her hood down, shaking out her hair. Her eyes dragged up and down Momo's body slowly, deliberately. She licked her lips.

"Hey—"

Momo didn't let her finish. She grabbed Jihyo's jacket and yanked her inside.

The door barely clicked shut before Jihyo had her pressed against the frame with a hard thud, their mouths crashing together messy and urgent. Jihyo's hands were everywhere—her waist, her hips, sliding up under her shirt.

"Mmm... Jihyo..." Momo mumbled between kisses, her fingers digging into Jihyo's scalp. "Nayeon's... gonna hear."

"Fuck's sake," Jihyo groaned against her mouth, pulling back just enough to grab Momo's hand.

They stumbled down the hallway, still kissing, bumping into the wall, Jihyo's jacket half-falling off. Momo's back hit her bedroom door and she fumbled behind her for the lock, twisting it with a swift click.

Then Jihyo was lifting her, and Momo wrapped her legs around her waist, their lips never separating. Jihyo's mouth moved to her neck, sucking and biting it. They crashed onto the bed, both of them fighting for control, a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter.

"God, you're so—" Jihyo started.

"Shut up and let me," Momo shot back, tugging at Jihyo's hoodie.

Jihyo grinned against her mouth. "So impatient."

"You're the one who—ah—" Momo's words cut off when Jihyo pinned her down, and suddenly the dynamic shifted.

Jihyo pressed her thigh between Momo's legs and Momo jolted forward with a gasp, hips bucking for friction now.

Jihyo was in control now.

"There you go," Jihyo murmured, voice low and satisfied. "That's what I wanted."

"You're so—" Momo tried, but Jihyo cut her off with another kiss, deeper this time, more purposeful.

Jihyo's hands worked at the hem of Momo's shirt, tugging it up. "Can I?"

"Yes, just—" Momo lifted her arms and Jihyo pulled it off in one swift motion, tossing it somewhere across the room.

"Fuck, look at you," Jihyo breathed, her eyes dark and focused. Her hands traced down Momo's sides, reverent. "You're so beautiful, Momo. So perfect."

Momo's cheeks flushed. "Stop talking and—"

"I'm not stopping." Jihyo kissed her collarbone, then lower. "I want you to know. Want you to hear it." Another kiss. "You're so good for me."

"Jihyo..." Momo's voice came out shakier than she intended.

"So responsive." Jihyo's hands slid to the waistband of her shorts. "Can I take these off?"

"Please."

Momo lifted her hips and Jihyo slid them down, along with her underwear. The cool air made her shiver.

"God," Jihyo said quietly, almost to herself. "Look at you, so wet."

"Stop staring," Momo whined, trying to pull Jihyo back up.

"Can't help it." But Jihyo moved anyway, settling between her legs, pressing kisses along her inner thigh. "You're gorgeous like this. So pretty when you want me."

Momo bit her lip, her hands finding their way into Jihyo's hair. "Jihyo, please—"

"I know, baby. I've got you." Jihyo's voice was soothing even as her hands held Momo's thighs apart. "Just relax for me, okay? Let me take care of you."

"Okay," Momo breathed, and then Jihyo latched onto her soaked cunt.

Momo's back arched off the bed. "Oh my god—"

"Shh," Jihyo murmured, glancing up at her. "Not too loud. Remember?"

"I can't—" Momo's fingers tightened in Jihyo's hair. "You're—"

"What? Tell me."

"So good," Momo gasped. "You're so good at eating my pussy."

Jihyo hummed in acknowledgment and the vibration made Momo whine. "You taste so good, Momo. Could do this all day."

"Don't stop, please don't stop—"

"I'm not stopping." Jihyo's hands gripped her thighs tighter. "Not until you cum. Want to feel you cum. Want to hear you say my name."

"Jihyo—" Momo moaned, and Jihyo’s eyes rolled back

"That's it, baby. Just like that. You're doing so good for me."

Momo could feel it building, that familiar tension coiling tighter and tighter. Her hips started moving on their own, seeking more, and Jihyo let her, encouraging it.

"Please, I'm so close, I'm—" Momo's eyebrows furrowed, a pout forming on her lips as she began pushing Jihyo's head down harder, desperate.

Jihyo laughed against her, the sound muffled. "So impatient," she teased before dipping two of her fingers into her hole while her tongue lapped at her clit.

Momo let out a sound that was too loud, and Jihyo pulled back just enough to bite gently at her inner thigh. "Tone it down," she warned, eyes locked on Momo's face. "Or do you want Nayeon to know her leader is making her best friend feel good?"

Momo whined, crushing Jihyo's head between her thighs. "I can't—it's too much—"

"Yes you can. You're taking it so well. Just a little more, baby. Let go for me."

And then Jihyo sped up, and Momo came undone completely, her body tensing and then releasing in waves, Jihyo's name falling from her lips in breathy gasps as ecstasy flooded through her. Jihyo worked her through it, gentle and attentive, whispering praises against her skin.

"So perfect. You're so perfect, Momo. Did so good for me."

When Momo finally came down, boneless and breathless, Jihyo crawled back up to kiss her softly.

"Happy Valentine's Day," Jihyo murmured against her lips, smiling.

Momo laughed, still catching her breath, her hands coming up to cup Jihyo's face. "Best Valentine's gift ever."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Momo pulled her down for another kiss. "But you know..." Her hand trailed down Jihyo's body. "I should probably return the favor."

Jihyo's breath hitched. "You don't have to—"

"I want to." Momo flipped them over in one smooth motion, settling on top of Jihyo with a grin. "My turn to make you feel good."

[mangomohyo]

so gay thinking about mohyo rn

[mangomohyo]

finals are over mangomohyo is free

[mangomohyo]

Good luck on your exams!! (σ≧▽≦)σ

-❄️

thank uuuu ^^

[mangomohyo]

thinking about jichaeng instead of studying for my finals tomorrow…

[mangomohyo]

theres someone on here who I really want to be friends with but Im too scared to message them 😭

[mangomohyo]

expect a drop this week im procrastinating studying for all my finals by writing

[mangomohyo]

I need a mo to my hyo

[mangomohyo]

I studied for 10 hours today instead of being a loser adhd lesbian disaster who cant do shit except thing about hot girls being gay together. someone be proud of me this is an accomplishment 🥹

[mangomohyo]

thinking abt mohyo…

[mangomohyo]

pushing it down and praying on Pinterest

Explore a hand-picked collection of Pins about pushing it down and praying on Pinterest.

soft launching mohyo angst plot heres the beginning of the mood board :)