☾ warnings: nsfw, masturbation/toy use, filthy language, obsessive behavior, worship kink, degradation kink, voyeurism (recording/cam sex), exhibitionism, possessiveness, cocky/dom energy, sub vibes (only a few), accidental creampie, breeding kink, overstimulation, scent kink, crying, rough sex, (joong is my fav in this)
☾ hahaha...ha ha, so well, here we are. enjoy lmaoooo, one of these may honestly turn into a full fic 💀 who’s ur fav?
edit: there's now a full spin off fic, ft. yunho and mingi: pocket pussy incident
seonghwa – (kinda a softy but addicted)
He unwraps the gift like it's fragile. And in a way, it is. His hands are slow, reverent, and when he sees what's inside, his breath actually catches. No teasing. No wide-eyed shock. Just quiet awe.
"This is you," he murmurs. Thumb dragging slowly along the slit, memorizing the shape. "You let me have this?"
He doesn't use it right away. He showers first. Changes the sheets. Sprays your perfume on his pillow and dims the lights like he's setting up for a date. And when he finally presses into it, it's with a low groan, hips stuttering almost instantly.
"Fuck… you're so warm even in my head."
He whispers your name like a prayer. Thrusts deep, slow, and holds himself there like he doesn't want to finish too fast. Like cumming would ruin the moment. But when he does? It's with a shaky cry and your name on his lips.
He leans down between thrusts once, just to kiss the clit. Doesn’t matter that it’s silicone, in his head, it's you. He moans against it like it's holy.
He kisses it after. Cleans it gently. And tucks it away in silk like a secret.
—
hongjoong – (filthy, obsessive)
He asked for it. Of course he did. He researched molding kits, offered to help position you, took photos for "accuracy." He was fussy about the angle. "If I'm gonna fuck it," he said, "it's gotta be perfect."
When it arrives, he's hard before the box is even fully open. Uses your moan recordings and a video of your last orgasm as audio. Lube? Optional. He wants it raw.
"You're tighter than I remember, baby. Miss me that much already?"
He ruts into it at his desk, cock flushed and leaking, both hands wrapped around the toy like he wants to crush it. He props his phone up and hits record. "You wanted a video, right? Watch me ruin it. Watch me wreck your perfect little clone."
He moans your name, curses, even slaps it once just to see how it jiggles.
He leaves it out on the nightstand. Doesn't hide it. Wipes it down like a prized instrument and kisses it goodnight.
—
yunho - (gentle, addicted in secret)
He blushes so hard you think he might combust. Opens the box slowly, like he's afraid it's going to moan at him. When he realizes what it is, his ears turn red.
"You made this? For me? Like… molded?"
He acts like he'll save it for a lonely night. But that night? It's tonight. He's too curious. Too hard. He lies on his back, headphones in, listening to you breathe from a voice note. Lubes it carefully. Hesitates.
Then slides in and whimpers.
"Oh my god. Oh my god."
He's loud. Embarrassingly loud. Moaning into a pillow, hand gripping the toy like he's afraid it’ll disappear. When he cums, he gasps your name and makes a mess of his stomach.
He pulls out dazed, sees the mess leaking from the toy, and blushes all over again. “Shit… I—I came inside. I’m so sorry…”
He can’t look at you the next morning. But the toy stays in his drawer. Within reach.
—
yeosang – (worshipful, lowkey possessive?)
He unwraps the box slowly. Fingers lingering on the soft inner walls, eyes dark.
"You gave me this," he says, mostly to himself. "You really let me have this."
He doesn’t fuck it immediately. He sets it on a velvet towel. Stares at it like it’s a relic. He talks to it.
"Did you miss me today? You look so wet, baby. So ready."
When he finally uses it, it’s like worship. He presses in slowly, voice cracking. One hand stroking himself, the other caressing the outer folds like they’re real.
He cums with his forehead against the mattress and your name breaking off his lips in a whisper.
He never shares it. Never hides it either.
He keeps a drop of your perfume sealed in the same drawer. Dabs it inside before use. Wants your scent to cling to him for days. If anyone even thinks about touching it, his voice goes ice cold:
"That doesn’t belong to you."
—
san – (desperate, loud, horny type)
You don’t even get to explain. He rips open the box and screams.
"NO FUCKING WAY. YOU DID NOT. YOU—" (he's already naked btw)
He fucks it on cam. With you watching. One hand on his chest, head thrown back.
"You molded your pussy for me, baby? You wanted me to fuck it while thinking about you? You wanted me to cry, didn’t you?"
He screams your name when he cums. Falls apart. Pulls out messy and still hard, gasping.
He strokes it after like a lover. “You’re her,” he murmurs. “My sweet girl.” You hear him coo to it like it can respond.
Uses it again before cleaning it. Leaves it next to his water bottle like it’s his gym towel.
Texts you: it twitched around me. swear to god. she misses me
—
mingi – (overwhelmed, ruined, a princess duh)
He tears up. Literally holds it like a newborn.
"You did this for me? You really let them mold… there?"
First use, he puts on one of your oversized shirts and your perfume. The video call is open, but all you see is his hand trembling.
"I missed you so much. I—I know it's not you, but I had to try."
He fucks it like he’s scared of hurting it. Whispers little apologies even as he cums inside.
"Sorry baby, I just… couldn’t hold it. You felt so good."
Afterwards, he wraps it in a towel and kisses the rim. Cries again.
He wears your shirt while he uses it again. Sobs into the fabric when he cums too fast the second time.
“You smell like home. I need you again, I—please.”
He talks to it when he’s lonely. You catch him once. He doesn’t stop.
—
wooyoung – (cocky, deranged!!, too proud)
He sees the box and grins like you handed him a Nobel prize.
"Oh, you shouldn’t have. No, really. I might propose."
Fucks it with the lights on, music blasting, sunglasses on. Makes you watch.
"She’s sucking me in, babe. I think she loves me."
He spits on it. Spreads the lips open for the camera.
He licks it once. Grins. “Taste test approved.” Later, he sucks his fingers clean and moans like he’s at a wine tasting.
"Tell the real thing to be jealous. Her twin’s working overtime."
You hear him moan your name and his own.
Texts you at 3am: ur pussy has a clone. i’m in a throuple now.
Also buys a backup. Just in case.
—
jongho – (controlled, brutal, undercover addict)
He doesn’t react. Not at first. Just raises a brow, thanks you, and disappears into his room.
But behind closed doors? It’s carnage.
He fists the toy with both hands. No build-up. No lube the second time.
"Tight little thing. Can’t even take me."
He doesn’t moan. He grunts. Breathes harsh through his nose.
Finishes fast the first time. Slow the second. By the third, he’s groaning your name like a curse.
He wipes it clean. Places it in a drawer. Comes back 20 minutes later. Uses it again.
“Take it,” he growls under his breath. “Take my cum like a good girl.” Your moan plays through his earbuds. He fucks harder.
He never brings it up. Never admits it. But the sheets are always damp, and his jaw’s always clenched.
⌇warnings: lil plot, smut, explicit nsfw, hormonal mood swings, crying/sobbing, ovulation horny desperation, p in v, oral (f!receiving), discharge eating (he's a greedy boy in this!!), fingering, body worship, begging, dirty talk, light choking, creampie, overstimulation, clingy needy behavior, messy, slight bleeding post-sex, affectionate aftercare, comfort sex, teasing, soft dom/sub vibes, slow soft orgasm, casual humor, soft praise, san is so bf here
⌇tysm for all the love on my recent works, it means the world--so here's a sannie one for yall <33
The rain had been coming down for hours. You watched it trickle down the glass, grey sky split with flickers of pale lightning every so often, the house dim except for the kitchen light left on above the sink.
The sound of the storm had long since faded into background noise, white noise for the ache growing in your stomach.
It wasn’t the cramps that had started it, not really. It was the need.
You were ovulating. You knew your body like clockwork. Your skin was flushed, your nipples stiff under your shirt for no reason, and the ridiculous amount of slick between your thighs had you changing your underwear twice today already.
But that wasn’t the worst part; the worst part was how empty you felt.
Three weeks. That’s how long it had been since you last saw him. Since you’d last touched him. Since you’d heard that particular rasp in his voice when he pressed you into the mattress and told you how sweet you were when you cried.
Now he was finally coming home.
You curled your fingers around the warm mug in your hands and tried not to squirm on the couch. Tried not to think about how the crotch part of your sleep shorts was already damp. Tried not to think about how your body didn’t just miss him, it was screaming for him.
You wanted him, not just for the way he touched you, but because you needed the quiet comfort of having him near, his presence like a tether to hold you steady.
You didn’t hear the key turn, you only heard the door click open.
Then a warm voice, familiar, hoarse with exhaustion and soaked in affection.
“Baby, I’m home.”
The mug slipped from your fingers and clattered onto the coffee table, sloshing tea across the surface. You shot up from the couch without thinking, and the second your eyes met his across the living room, you ran.
San caught you mid-jump, arms wrapping around you like instinct. You crashed into him with a breathless laugh, burying your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply.
God, he smelled like the rain, leather and laundry, and just a hint of sweat.
“I missed you,” you whispered into his shoulder. “I missed you so fucking much.”
“I missed you more,” he said, setting his bag down and squeezing you tighter. “Every day. Every city.”
You could feel it already, the tension pulling taut between you, like a bowstring straining under pressure.
He leaned back slightly to look at you. You must’ve looked a mess, skin flushed, lips bitten, your shirt rumpled and sleeves pulled down over your hands. His eyes softened.
“Hey,” he said, voice lower now, “what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” you lied. But the tremble in your voice gave it away.
He tilted his head. “Come here.”
You followed him quietly to the couch, legs shaky, throat tight. The moment he sat, he pulled you onto his lap, your knees straddling him as his hands cradled your waist.
“Tell me.”
You hesitated. “I’m… hormonal.”
His brows rose just a little.
“Not in a sad way. Just my body’s going nuts. And I’ve been alone and stressed and horny for like three days straight.”
San’s expression shifted fast. From concern to heat in a heartbeat.
“Oh,” he said, voice dipping lower.
You bit your lip. “It’s not even the sex part—I mean, okay, it is, but it’s also just how empty I feel. I keep crying at dumb things. I almost cried over a pothole earlier. A pothole, San.”
He grinned. “Baby…”
“It’s my fucking ovulation window. And it’s making me feel like a crazy person.”
He wrapped his arms tighter around you, chest rising and falling against yours. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t want you to feel pressured after tour. You’re probably tired, and I’m just—” Your voice broke slightly. “I’m just really needy right now.”
San leaned in, forehead resting gently against yours.
“You think I wouldn’t want to take care of you?” he whispered.
You blinked at him. His eyes were darker than before, his hands sliding up and down your sides in slow, grounding motions.
“I know this body,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth. “I know what you feel like when you’re ovulating. I can smell it on you, baby.”
You shivered, his voice was like molasses now, deep and slow.
“You’re flushed. Warm. You keep rocking your hips like you’re not even aware of it.”
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, humiliated by how true it was.
“Don’t be,” he said, brushing your hair back gently. “I think it’s hot.”
Your breath hitched.
“I want you exactly like this,” he said. “Soft. Needy. Out of your mind.”
He kissed your neck low, slow, and purposeful. His hand slid down between your thighs. Pressed softly.
You whimpered.
“You’re soaked,” he muttered, groaning. “Fuck. I’ve barely touched you.”
You couldn’t breathe.
“I’m gonna take care of you, baby,” he whispered. “Gonna give your body what it wants.”
You whimpered against his shoulder. The second his fingers pressed against the thin cotton of your shorts, your body shuddered.
San cupped you fully, his palm broad and heavy, and rubbed a slow circle. You felt how embarrassingly slick the fabric had gotten, and the groan that left his chest was hungry.
“You want me to take care of you, don’t you?” he murmured. “Let me make it better, sweetheart.”
You nodded.
“Need you to say it, baby.”
“Please,” you whispered. “Touch me. I can’t take it anymore.”
He laid you back gently on the couch, pulling the throw blanket under your hips to cushion you.
His lips kissed down your throat, your collarbones, your chest. Slow, slow, slower, until his fingers caught the waistband of your shorts and peeled them down.
Then there it was, the second your panties came off, San paused. His breath caught. You were dripping, inner thighs damp, the whole couch faintly scented with your arousal.
“Oh, baby…” he exhaled, sinking to his knees between your thighs. “You’re so ready for me.”
He spread your legs wide, running his thumbs through your slick, parting you open.
San dropped to his knees between your thighs like a man possessed.
He spread you open with both hands, thumbs gliding through the slick that coated your folds, wet and glossy, stringing between your inner lips and soaking the blanket beneath you.
He let out a guttural groan. “Fuck. You’re not just wet, baby… you’re creamy.”
You flushed hard, hips twitching. “I told you—ovulation makes me—”
“You think I’m complaining?” He slid one finger through your folds, slow, collecting the thick mess coating you. When he pulled it back, it glistened, cloudy, slippery, stretched like honey between his fingers.
Then, without breaking eye contact, he brought that finger to his mouth and sucked it clean.
Your stomach dropped. He moaned.
“Tastes like you need to be filled,” he growled. “Sweet. Warm. Fucking ripe.”
“San—” you gasped, breath catching as he went back for more. He dipped two fingers in this time slow, twisting, curling deep, and when he pulled them out coated and dripping, he held them out to you.
“Open,” he whispered.
You hesitated, cheeks blazing, but obeyed.
He slid his fingers into your mouth and you sucked them instinctively, tasting yourself thick on his skin.
Salty, slippery, overwhelming. San watched with blown pupils and a smirk so filthy it made your toes curl.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Taste what your body’s begging for. You feel it, don’t you? That emptiness. That ache?”
You whimpered, clenching down hard around nothing.
He licked another trail up your thigh and groaned again. “Fucking leaking for it. Dripping down your thighs like your pussy already knows what’s coming.”
Then his mouth was back on you, hot, hungry, greedy. Tongue plunging deep, lips sucking the slick straight from your entrance as if it was the first thing he’d eaten in days.
“You’re making so much of it,” he panted between licks. “You want me to fuck it all back into you, don’t you? Fill you so full it leaks out for hours?”
“Yes,” you choked, writhing. “Please—please, I need it.”
“You’ll get it, sweetheart,” he growled. “But not until I’ve tasted every drop this perfect body’s made for me.”
You broke. Your orgasm hit hard, your body seizing as you clenched around his fingers, thighs squeezing, a loud sob tearing from your throat. You could barely breathe.
The wave dragged on and on, slick pouring out of you, making your inner thighs stick to the blanket.
San kissed you through it. Soft, open-mouthed kisses across your stomach and chest as you came down. His fingers stayed inside you, slow and gentle.
“Hey, hey. I’m right here,” he murmured, tucking your head under his chin. “You don’t have to hold anything in.”
You melted into him again, boneless and trembling...
A tear slid down your cheek before you even noticed you were crying, and San brushed it away without a word.
Your body sagged forward into his chest like you’d been unstrung. Every part of you pulsing and soft, skin too tight for how much emotion buzzed underneath.
You clung to him, breathing him in. Clean sweat, worn cotton, a hint of his shampoo still clinging to the ends of his hair.
Your brain was already slipping into that hormone-drunk haze, the kind that made your ribs ache just from being held.
You barely registered when he started undressing. A shirt peeled over his head, jeans sliding low over his hips.
It was all just movement and warmth and comfort, the room spinning gently while you floated at the center of it.
By the time his clothes hit the floor, you were blinking up at him with glassy eyes, lips parted, thighs pressed together, pliant like your body had already decided what it needed from him before your mouth could ask.
But you did notice the way his cock brushed against your thigh, heavy, thick, already leaking.
You whined.
“Still want me?” he asked, sliding two fingers back into you, checking how open you were. “Still this needy, even after coming so hard?”
You nodded, voice wrecked. “Please, San. Please, I need it deep.”
He kissed your knee. “You tell me if it’s too much, okay?”
You were about to promise when he pushed in. Slow, stretching, deep. You both groaned in tandem, your cunt clenching down like he belonged there. Which, truthfully, he did.
“Fuck,” he whispered, folding over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other on your hip. “You’re so tight.”
“I can’t help it,” you cried. “You feel too good. It’s too much.”
“I know, baby,” he cooed, starting to move—long, grinding thrusts that made your whole body jolt. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
His pace quickened. You wrapped your legs around his waist. He fucked you deep, not hard yet, but the angle had your toes curling. Every time he bottomed out, your body tried to take more.
“You want me to ruin this pussy, don’t you?” he growled.
“Your hormones are driving you crazy. You’re clenching like you never want me to leave.”
He grabbed your throat lightly, pressing just enough to make you gasp.
“You want me to come inside you?” he rasped. “Want to feel me leak out of you for hours?”
“Yes, San—please—don’t pull out—”
That was it. His control snapped.
He fucked you harder now—loud, wet slaps of skin on skin, your moans broken and desperate. Your second orgasm hit without warning, your body convulsing, nails digging into his back, sobs escaping as he stuffed you full, over and over and over again.
He came right after, you felt it when he spilled.
Thick, hot, flooding you. His hips stuttered, voice cracking in your ear as he pressed as deep as he could and stayed there.
“Shit,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours. “So full. You took all of it, baby.”
You didn’t realize you were bleeding until after. Not much, just a faint smear on the inside of your thigh, red-pink and mixed with cum. San noticed it first.
He immediately slowed.
“Hey—hey, you okay?”
You nodded, you felt dazed and fuzzy, just sensitive everywhere.
“Hurts a little,” you whispered. “But in a good way.”
As he pulled out, the mess was immediate. His cum mixed with yours, leaking in thick strings down your thighs, soaking the blanket beneath you.
San paused, staring, chest heaving.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “Look at that.”
You glanced down and your face flamed at the sight. The discharge from earlier, now laced with thick streaks of white, clung to your folds like your body was still trying to keep him inside.
He didn’t move for a second—then dipped back down, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh.
“Fuck, baby,” he whispered. “It’s dripping out already.”
You squirmed, thighs twitching, too sensitive to do anything about it.
Then he licked it up.
One long, slow drag of his tongue from your hole to your clit, scooping up the mess like it was his reward.
You whimpered. “San—”
He moaned into your cunt. “Don’t worry. I’ll clean you up my way first.”
You hid your face in your hands, torn between embarrassment and the slow curl of heat returning to your gut.
“You’re obsessed,” you whispered.
He smirked, licking his lips. “Damn right I am. You think I could watch my cum dripping out of you and not taste it?”
He was already grabbing a warm towel, muttering apologies as he kissed your temple.
“But still, I should’ve slowed down sooner,” he said softly. “You’re so sensitive right now. I wasn’t thinking.”
“You were perfect,” you whispered.
He was careful with the cleanup. Gentle between your thighs. Talking to you the whole time.
“You did so good for me,” he murmured. “Such a pretty girl. Always so sweet when you’re all soft like this.”
You whimpered when the towel grazed your clit, and he immediately soothed you with a kiss to the cheek.
“I’ve got you, baby. Just a little more, and I’ll get you in the bath.”
Once he was done, he helped you into the bathroom, set you in a warm soak with Epsom salts, and sat beside the tub rubbing circles into your calf.
“You’re always like this when you’re ovulating, huh?” he said, smiling gently. “All needy and messy and desperate.”
“Shut up,” you muttered, flushing.
He leaned in and kissed your nose.
“I fucking love it.”
You splashed a bit of water at him with your toes, but your body was too wrecked to hold a proper pout. When he stood and started peeling off his shirt again, you blinked up at him.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting in. You think I’m letting you float around in here alone?”
You opened your mouth to argue, but the weight of the day and of him made the thought of being close again too tempting to resist.
He climbed in behind you, easing your back into his chest with a contented sigh. The water shifted around you both, warmer with his skin against yours.
The sound of his heartbeat against your back slowed, each thud syncing with your breathing.
His body stayed wrapped around you, chest flush to your spine, arm curved protectively over your middle like he was afraid you'd slip through his fingers.
San didn’t move right away, he just let you breathe. And you were so grateful because you didn’t have the words yet.
Your body was limp, trembling in the comedown, your thighs sticky with sweat and slick and the warm, wet mess he’d left inside you.
But your chest was tight too, overwhelmed. You blinked, and tears welled again. This time, not from overstimulation, not from pain.
Just from everything. It was too much and not enough, you missed him, needed him, you had him, and it still didn’t feel like enough.
He kissed your shoulder softly.
But eventually, the bath cooled and your skin started to prickle.
He helped you out first, wrapped you in one of his shirts, dried your legs with a towel so gentle it made your eyes sting again.
“Couch?” he murmured.
You nodded, lips too soft and sore to bother forming words. He led you there with a hand at the small of your back, settled down with you tucked between his legs again, a blanket thrown loosely over both of your bodies.
“Hey…” he murmured. “You okay?”
You nodded against the couch pillow, but your throat burned.
Then your voice cracked, so small. “I think I’m gonna cry again.”
“Oh, baby…”
He turned you gently, shifting so he could face you. One hand cupped your cheek, the other sliding up your side, grounding you.
You were blinking fast, tears falling for no reason you could name, and San just held you through it, no judgment, no questions.
“Come here,” he whispered, gathering you into his lap. “S’okay, let it out.”
You curled into him like it was instinct.
“I don’t even know why I’m crying,” you sniffled, nuzzling his neck.
“I just—everything feels so much. Like my body’s on fire, and I want you again, but I’m tired, and I love you, but I also want to scream, and—”
“I know,” he said instantly. “You don’t have to explain it. Hormones are insane. You’re feeling everything at once, and I’m just glad you’re telling me.”
You breathed shakily, nose pressed to his damp skin.
“You’re not mad?”
He chuckled, warm and breathy.
“Mad? Baby, I’m honored I get to hold you like this. I love this part—when it’s just us. After everything. When you’re all soft and sleepy and honest.”
You bit your lip, more tears spilling. “You’re too sweet to me.”
“No, I’m not,” he said. “You deserve all of this. I mean it.”
He kissed the top of your head, then your forehead, then your damp cheeks.
You curled tighter into him, arms around his neck. “Don’t leave again.”
He smiled against your temple. “You know I have to. But not tonight. Tonight, I’m here. All yours.”
You relaxed with a shaky exhale, and you felt it again.
A pulse low in your belly, a flutter of need, small but insistent.
You whimpered, shifting against his thigh. San froze, then pulled back just enough to look at you, brows furrowed, lips parted.
“…you’re turned on again?”
You blinked, ashamed. “I can’t help it. I think my body’s just—”
He kissed you before you could finish, not hungry or desperate. Just slow, lazy, and familiar.
Then he smirked. “We don’t have to move.”
He slid one hand between your thighs, easily, your folds still soaked, slick still leaking from your entrance.
“Fuck, baby,” he muttered. “You’re dripping down your thighs. I think you really do want a second round.”
You whined, burying your face in his chest. “We can’t. I’m so sensitive—”
“Shh,” he whispered, stroking you gently. “No pressure. Just let me touch you. I’ll be soft this time. No thrusting, no roughness. Just slow circles… like this.”
He rubbed his fingers in slow motion against your clit, barely-there pressure, but enough to make your hips twitch. You squirmed in his lap, helpless, lips falling open.
Your voice was small. “That feels so nice…”
“I know, baby,” he whispered. “That’s all I wanna do. Just give you this. No more tears. Just good things.”
And he kept rubbing, gentle and warm and hypnotic. Your breathing grew heavier, head tipping back against his shoulder as he coaxed you into it.
No demands, no commands. Just yes, baby, good girl, let go for me again.
You came with a soft gasp, legs trembling, toes curling, arms still locked around his neck. This time it didn’t hurt, it just eased something. A calm orgasm, full of warmth and release.
After, he kissed your temple again. “There she is.”
You were silent for a moment—then you mumbled, “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this emotionally insane and also completely at peace.”
San laughed quietly. “That’s love, baby.”
You huffed a teary, dazed laugh, then whispered against his collarbone:
“Next time you’re on tour and I’m ovulating, I might die.”
He held you tighter.
“Next time, I’m flying you out.”
You didn’t even register that you were crying until San thumbed another tear from your cheek.
“I got you,” he whispered. “That’s it. Let it all out.”
Every nerve felt raw and stretched thin under the weight of too much pleasure, too much closeness, too much him.
At some point, he cleaned you up again. Grabbed a warm cloth and murmured quiet little things like he always does.
You’re okay, I’m right here, just breathe for me, baby, as he wiped you down and slipped one of his shirts over your head. The soft cotton dragged over your hypersensitive skin like a second set of hands.
Just you in his arms, half-buzzed, cheek pressed to his collarbone as he settled the two of you into the cushions. The night air through the window was cool; his skin was warm against yours.
He curled behind you and draped a new throw blanket over your bodies, pulling you into his chest like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space.
“All clingy and messy and fucking desperate.”
You groaned, flushing. “Hush.”
He leaned in and kissed your nose. “My favorite love.”
His heartbeat thudded against your back, slow and steady. You let yourself sink into him, body heavy, brain soft. All of it, the wreckage of pleasure, the gentle care, the calm after, wrapped around you like a cocoon.
A few minutes passed before you mumbled, “…I didn’t even realize it was ovulation week at first.”
San tilted his head down. “You’ve been on the red zone of that app since Wednesday.”
You blinked. “You checked my period app?”
He huffed a laugh. “Babe. You made me download it so I’d stop offering you milkshakes when you’re cramping.”
“…Right.”
You reached for your phone and pulled up the app.
Sure enough: Cycle Day 17. Fertile Window.
A bubble popped up with a cutesy message: 🩷 “You may be extra sensitive, sensual, or emotionally intense today!”
You snorted. “They forgot ‘will sob uncontrollably while getting railed.’”
San peeked over your shoulder. “Oh, I’d swipe right on that.”
Another notification popped up, this time from your group chat.
woowoo:
bitch are you okay??
or just too full of dick to respond???
joongie:
at least confirm you’re ALIVE you were ghosting us mid-tour and now radio silence???
mingithingi:
when u coming back? imy
You started typing through a laugh.
you:
alive. sore. not sorry. imy2 also tell wooyoung i hope he steps on a lego
San took your phone, added:
san:
don’t worry. she’s hydrated, stretched, and fully taken care of. she doesn’t miss u mingi.
Then he tossed it back onto the coffee table and tucked his face against your neck, one hand sliding under your shirt to rest on the warm skin of your belly.
“You good?” he murmured.
You shook your head yes, “Just wrecked.”
“Wanna cry some more?”
“Dunno, maybe.”
“I got you.” He kissed your shoulder. “Always.”
The ovulation app chimed softly in the background, like it knew exactly what it had done.
✦ warnings: smut, nsfw. m/f/m threesome, oral, rough and gentle interplay, overstimulation, exhibitionism, voyeurism, orgasmssss, consensual non-monogamy, praise kink, dirty talk, teasing, public/private setting (studio), use of recording equipment during sex, aftercare, reader & mingi in established relationship!!
✦ enjoy 4k words of filth, mingi and joonie are my bias wreckers so this was coming sooner or later lmao
edit: the pt 2 to this is now posted!! — cherry cravin’
Soup.
Warm, harmless. Comfort food. Not exactly the kind of thing you'd expect to end with your voice echoing through a studio mic, soaked in sweat and begging for release.
You’d only dropped by the studio because you knew he hadn’t eaten. The bag in your hand was still warm, the lid on the takeout container slightly fogged up. But the moment you stepped into the booth room and saw Mingi hunched over the mixing board, headphones askew, brows furrowed, lower lip between his teeth, you knew food was the last thing on his mind.
“Baby,” you said softly, setting the bag down. “Have you eaten anything since noon?”
“Mm… I had a vitamin water?” he said without looking up, then immediately perked up as you leaned over his shoulder. “Wait—did you bring—oh my god, I love you.”
You grinned. “I know. But do you love me more than this track?”
He spun in his chair, tossing the headphones onto the desk. “Hard question. It’s a sexy track. You wanna hear it?”
He hit play without waiting for an answer.
The beat rolled out of the speakers like smoke. Slow, sensual, laced with deep synth and breathy background vocals. You raised a brow. “This is… different.”
“It’s called Velvet Ash,” he said, grinning. “It’s kind of dirty. Too dirty for the album, probably.”
“Mm. Sounds like foreplay.”
Mingi leaned back in the chair, letting his knees fall apart as he looked at you. “Exactly. But it’s missing something.”
You sipped your drink. “What, more moaning?”
His grin widened. “Exactly.”
You rolled your eyes, laughing. “You want me to moan into the mic, don’t you?”
“Honestly? After bringing me soup instead of sucking me off in the hallway, I think you owe me.”
You threw a straw wrapper at him, but he was already standing, motioning toward the sound booth with a flick of his hand.
“Come on,” he said. “Just for fun. I want to hear how you sound through the headset.”
You hesitated for about half a second, and finally you walked into the booth.
Inside the booth, everything felt tighter. Darker. Your reflection glinted faintly in the glass. Behind it, Mingi leaned on the console, watching you with amusement and just a hint of heat.
You slipped the headphones on. The mic stood inches from your mouth, silver and cold, catching your breath even when you didn’t speak.
“Okay,” Mingi’s voice said through the headset, already lower. “Give me something.”
You smirked. “Like what?”
“Start with my name.”
You bit your lip and leaned in, the sound of your own voice strange in your ears. “Mingi.” A wave of heat pooled low in your belly, nerves tingling and something deeper blooming.
A beat passed and you heard him suck in a quiet breath.
“Again. Softer.”
“Mingi.”
“Fuck, baby…”
The track played softly in your ears now. He’d dropped in the instrumental beneath your voice, looping the synth under your breathy tone.
“Now… say it like you can feel my cock hitting that spot you can’t reach without me,” he murmured.
Your thighs pressed together.
“Mingi,” you said, a little needier this time, and the mic caught the edge of it. Your breath, the almost-whimper.
“Shit. Stay just like that.”
You watched him move, leaving the mixing board behind, disappearing from the window. A second later, the booth door creaked open behind you.
Mingi stepped in and shut it, the red “recording” light blinking above him like a warning. Your mouth parted, but he didn’t say anything. Just walked up behind you, big hands settling on your waist.
“I can hear everything,” he murmured against your ear, adjusting the mic so it was just above your lips. “Even your heartbeat. Wanna know what turns me on more than anything?”
“What?”
He leaned in close, voice just for you now.
“The way you sound when you fall apart for me.”
One hand slipped between your thighs, cupping your heat through your leggings. His palm was wide, warm, pressing slow and deliberate against your pussy until you let out a shaky gasp–and it echoed instantly through the mic. pressing gently over your clothes.
He grinned against your neck.
“There it is.”
In a fluid motion, he dragged your leggings down, kneeling behind you, kissing the back of your thigh as he eased them past your knees. Then his hands were on your ass, thumbs spreading you apart, his breath hot against your cunt as he leaned in and licked a slow stripe up your folds.
“Fuck–” you whimpered, legs twitching, your voice breaking into the mic.
Mingi groaned against you, tongue flicking your clit before he pulled back just slightly to look at you. “You’re soaked already–this pussy missed me, huh?”
You nodded, dazed, one hand braced on the mic stand as the other tangled into his hair.
“Say it,” he demanded. “Say how bad you missed my mouth.”
“I missed it, I missed your tongue–I missed everything.”
That was all he needed.
His mouth found, like he was starving, lips latching onto your clit while his tongue swirled fast and messy, not teasing anymore. "Gonna tell me what feels good?"
He buried his face between your legs, nose brushing your ass as he sucked your clit with so much pressure, letting out a deep growl that vibrated through your entire core.
The mic picked up everything, the wet, filthy sounds of his mouth working your cunt, the ragged gasps falling from your lips, the whispered “fuck, fuck, Mingi–”
Then he slid two fingers into you, they curled perfectly, hitting your sweet spot like he knew exactly where it was.
His pace was ruthless, tongue dragging over your clit as his fingers pumped in and out of your dripping hole, spreading you wider and deeper.
“Listen to yourself.”
“Lean into me, just like that, baby.”
You moaned helplessly. It was all so loud, his fingers squelching inside you, the wet drag of his tongue, your own desperate, breathless cries.
“Mingi–don’t stop, don’t stop–” you panted, hips rocking shamelessly against his face.
He slapped your ass hard enough to make you yelp. “Say it into the mic, pretty girl.”
You choked on a sob. “Mingi–please, I’m so close, I’m gonna–”
“Fucking cum for me, I wanna hear how you break when I make you finish.”
That did it.
Your whole body tensed, thighs shaking as the orgasm ripped through you. You cried out–loud, raw, moaning his name into the mic while your pussy clenched around his fingers and your knees nearly buckled.
But he didn’t stop.
He groaned like he was on your taste, lips dragging over your swollen clit again and again, tongue flicking until your body jerked and twitched and kept cumming, wave after wave rolling over you until you were boneless.
Only then did he finally pull back, his mouth and chin glistening. He kissed the inside of your thigh one last time, then stood slowly, towering over you as you tried to catch your breath.
“Fuck. That sound? He muttered, licking your taste off his lips. “That’s better than anything I’ve written.”
You didn’t have time to answer.
Under the dim booth lights, his pink hair was messy and pushed back from the headphones and casting golden shadows across his sharp cheekbones. A loose white tank clung to his torso, the neckline slipping wide over one shoulder. His black sweatpants hung dangerously low on his hips, revealing the deep cut of his V-line every time he moved towards you.
You had one hand gripping the mic stand. “Baby…” Your voice cracked, helpless.
“This mic’s not gonna survive tonight.”
You barely heard him over the blood rushing in your ears.
Your legs started to shake as the pressure built, every nerve lit up.
“Jesus,” you panted, letting him wrap an arm around your waist to steady you. “You—fucking—“
“Better than soup?” he teased.
You slapped his arm. “Shut up.”
But he only grinned and kissed you hard, one hand cupping your jaw as your taste lingered on his tongue. His other hand slipped behind your thigh, gripping it and tugging you forward until your hips met the hard length straining against his sweats.
You gasped into his mouth. “Mingi—”
“I need to be inside you,” he growled, forehead pressing against yours. “Can I?”
You didn’t answer. Just nodded and grabbed the waistband of his pants, pulling them down with a needy moan as his cock sprang free. It was thick, flushed red at the tip, already leaking.
You braced your hands on the mixing desk inside the booth, arching your back as you looked at him over your shoulder.
“Fuck me here. Just like this.”
He didn’t hesitate. His hand gripped your hip, the other guiding his cock between your folds, he was sliding in, slow but unrelenting, filling you inch by inch until he was buried to the hilt.
“Holy fuck,” he groaned, forehead pressed to your shoulder. “You’re so fucking tight–gripping me like you don’t wanna let go.”
He started to move deep, hungry thrusts that made the desk creak and your voice rise. He pushed the mic closer to your mouth and whispered:
“Talk. I wanna hear every filthy fucking word.”
You moaned loud. “You feel so good–so deep, Mingi, fuck me harder, don’t stop baby.”
He slammed into you faster, rougher, his hips slapping against your ass as your tits bounced with every thrust. You could hear everything: his panting, your cries, the obscene wet sounds where your bodies met.
“I’m gonna cum inside you,” teeth sinking into your shoulder. “I’m gonna fill you up so deep it drips down your thighs.”
“Do it please, want you to–” you begged, tears threatening from the pressure building again.
He reached down and rubbed your clit with two fingers, fast and messy. “Come for me again, baby. Let the mic hear how my cock makes you unravel.”
Your vision blurred. The pressure exploded in your gut, your walls clenching tight around him as you screamed his name into the mic.
“Fuckkk–I’m cumming—” he gasped, then he was spilling inside you, groaning like an animal, thrusting deep as his release flooded your cunt.
You both collapsed against the desk, sweaty, shaking, barely breathing.
And the entire time?
The track kept looping softly in the background, now layered with the most explicit, honest take he’d ever captured.
A few minutes later, you lay curled in Mingi’s lap on the studio couch, your bare legs tucked beneath his hoodie, your head resting against his chest. His hand stroked lazily up and down your thigh, slow enough to calm your still-trembling muscles.
He had cleaned you up with one of his softest shirts, murmuring little apologies as he wiped between your thighs, even though his cock had twitched the whole time like he wanted to go another round.
Now, with your pulse finally settling, he fed you bites of lukewarm soup between kisses to your hairline.
“Think I blew your mic out,” you mumbled, voice hoarse, lips swollen.
Mingi chuckled, low and pleased, rubbing his knuckles against your hip. “You blew me out.”
You snorted, eyes fluttering closed. “I’m serious. That mic probably short-circuited the second I screamed.”
He shifted slightly to grab his laptop from the desk and hit play. The track rolled through the studio monitors again–still smoky, still sensual–but now layered with something new; your breathy moans spliced into the background like vocals, tucked between beats like a secret only he could hear.
You looked up, shocked. “Wait, is that seriously me?”
He smiled, eyes dark. “You said not to use the whole thing. You didn’t say I couldn’t sample you.”
“Babe, are you insane?”
“Insanely inspired,” he said, all smug affection. “You sound better than any synth I’ve ever layered. Your voice moves.”
You groaned and buried your face in his chest even deeper. “You’re the worst.”
But his hand slid up under the hoodie you wore, his hoodie, just to rest against the curve of your bare back.
“I’m serious,” he whispered, brushing his lips over your temple. “I’m keeping this version. I don’t care if it never gets released.”
Silence hung for a second, soft and golden.
Then, Mingi leaned down and murmured against your ear, “Next time, I want you in my lap with the mic between us. I want to feel you fall apart while I stay deep inside.”
You blinked slowly, heat curling low in your belly again despite the haze of exhaustion.
“Jesus, Mingi.”
“What?” He smirked. “Art takes commitment.”
You exhaled a laugh and let him tuck the blanket tighter around you both.
Outside the booth, the city lights glowed faintly through the windows. Inside, the studio felt like its own universe, dim, pulsing, echoing with the memory of your moans looped under Mingi’s unfinished track.
And as the soft, dirty demo played in the background, Mingi kissed the top of your head and whispered, “Don’t worry. I saved all the stems. We can remix it together next time.”
The track looped when the door creaked open.
You didn’t even look up at first, too dazed in Mingi’s lap, your bare thighs tangled under his hoodie. His hand still cupped your hip, possessive and warm.
“Uh.”
The voice hit you like a shockwave. Familiar. Sharp. Hongjoong.
Mingi didn’t flinch. He didn’t cover you. Just grinned lazily, his chin on your shoulder as he looked toward the door.
“Yo.”
You turned your head slowly. Hongjoong stood frozen in the doorway, headphones around his neck, eyes flicking between your flushed face, Mingi’s hand on your thigh, and the faint, breathy moans echoing from the studio monitors.
His voice was dry. “...Should I come back later?”
Mingi just chuckled. “Too late. We just finished recording.”
“Did you,” Hongjoong deadpanned.
Your cheeks burned. You tried to tug the hoodie lower over your thighs, but Mingi's hand stopped you. Kept you in place.
“Mingi,” you whispered, mortified. But he only squeezed your thigh.
“Don’t hide. You sounded gorgeous.” He flicked his gaze to Hongjoong, smug. “Wanna hear the demo?”
“I’m...already hearing it,” Hongjoong said, stepping fully into the room now. His voice was neutral, but his jaw was tight. His gaze dropped to the waveform still rolling on Mingi’s laptop, the audio looped with your moans layered soft in the mix.
Mingi hit play.
Hongjoong stood silent as the sound filled the room. The filthy edge of your breathing. The tremble in your voice when you said Mingi’s name. The wet sounds of Mingi’s mouth on you, caught raw by the mic.
Then Hongjoong spoke, voice low. “This your new production method? Guess I’m behind on trends.”
You buried your face in your hands. “Oh my god.”
Mingi laughed softly, his hand sliding up your bare thigh. “Jealous?”
That made you look up. Hongjoong’s expression shifted, not shocked now. Curious. Something darker simmering behind his eyes as they flicked to you.
“I didn’t say no.”
Silence pulsed. Mingi’s fingers flexed against your skin. You felt the shift in the air before anyone spoke.
Hongjoong set his headphones on the desk. “I’m not touching unless you want me to. But...” He stepped closer, voice dropping. “I want to watch you fall apart. This time, clean vocals.”
Your breath caught, heart pounding in your ears. A swirl of nerves, curiosity, and something thrilling flickered inside you. Could you really let him? Could you bear the weight of both their gazes?
Mingi murmured against your ear. “Baby. Your call.”
Slowly, shakily, you nodded.
Mingi’s hand stroked your thigh once, warm and grounding. Then he shifted beneath you, setting you gently onto the couch before standing. You watched, dazed, as he adjusted the mic arm lower, turning to Hongjoong like this was just another collaborative track session.
But you could see the hunger in Mingi’s eyes. And Hongjoong?
His gaze was locked on you now. Heavy. Unblinking.
“C’mere,” Mingi murmured, guiding you over to the couch. He sat first, pulling you directly into his lap, facing out toward the room. His thighs spread beneath you, his arms wrapping tight around your waist. You felt his cock, hard and heavy against your lower back.
“Let him watch you,” Mingi whispered against your neck. “Let him hear you.”
The mic picked up your breath instantly. Hongjoong stood frozen, watching. Silent. Starving.
Mingi reached down between your spread thighs, cupping your cunt possessively. His fingers dipped between your folds, sliding through your slick, then slowly, deliberately, he spread you open wider using just his thumbs. Letting Hongjoong see everything.
“Fuck,” Hongjoong exhaled.
Mingi chuckled darkly. “Pretty, right?”
You whined, trembling in his hold. But he didn’t let you close your legs. Didn’t let you hide.
“You’re perfect,” he murmured, dragging two fingers over your clit, slow and steady.
“Come here, Joong,” Mingi said softly. “Taste her while I hold her open for you.”
Hongjoong moved like he was in a trance. He dropped to his knees between Mingi’s spread legs, directly in front of you, his breath hot against your bare, soaked cunt.
“Don’t make her cum yet,” Mingi warned, voice sharp.
Then Mingi held you wide open while Hongjoong leaned in and licked a slow, thick stripe over your clit. You sobbed instantly. The mic caught it raw.
Mingi’s grip on you tightened. His cock rutted up against your back as Hongjoong worked his mouth over you, wet and filthy. Every flick of his tongue sent tremors through your overstimulated body.
“Good, Joong. Just like that. Tease her. Make her fall apart in my arms,” Mingi rasped.
Hongjoong hummed against your clit. You could feel Mingi's cock twitch behind you. He let one hand slide up to squeeze your breast, pinching your nipple while his other hand held you splayed for Hongjoong’s tongue.
“Say his name, baby,” Mingi ordered.
“H-Hongjoong,” you gasped, back arching helplessly against Mingi’s chest.
“Again. Louder.”
“Hongjoong!”
Both men groaned.
Your whole body shook, overstimulated and pinned down, Mingi controlling every inch of you while Hongjoong’s tongue destroyed you from below.
Just when you thought you couldn’t take more, Mingi leaned down and whispered, “You’re gonna cum now. Right on his mouth. And I’m gonna feel every second of it.”
You screamed as your orgasm ripped through you, loud and broken, the mic capturing every desperate sound. Hongjoong didn’t stop, he lapped at your clit mercilessly, drinking down your release while Mingi held your convulsing body still, praising you through your cries.
When your body sagged limp, Mingi finally pulled Hongjoong back, voice rough. “That’s enough.”
Hongjoong wiped his mouth, panting, eyes blown wide as he looked at you. “Shit… you’re shaking.”
“I’ve got her,” Mingi said softly, sliding his arms around your waist. You could feel how hard he was, pressing up against your back, but his touch was gentle. “Baby. You okay?”
His throat bobbed. “Tell me if you need me to stop.”
Mingi leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “She doesn’t want you to stop.”
Hongjoong let out a strained laugh. “No… I didn’t think so.”
Mingi eased you forward, guiding you carefully toward Hongjoong. “C’mon, baby. Let him feel you.”
Hongjoong sat back on the couch, legs spread, watching you with something between awe and hunger. His cock flushed dark and heavy, leaking precum.
“Ride him,” Mingi murmured. “I’ll help you.”
Your thighs trembled as you moved, letting Mingi lower you slowly until you were straddling Hongjoong, facing him. His hands instinctively caught your hips, steadying you.
Hongjoong looked up at you as you sank down onto him inch by inch, his jaw slack, his breathing wrecked. “So fucking tight... you feel unreal.”
Your moan cracked as he filled you. Mingi’s arms came around from behind, one hand holding your waist, the other finding your clit instantly, circling in slow, merciless patterns.
“Fuck, Joong. Feel her?” Mingi rasped against your neck.
“Too well,” Hongjoong groaned, eyes fluttering shut as your walls squeezed him. “She’s choking me.”
“Good girl,” Mingi praised, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Take him. Just like that.”
Hongjoong’s eyes flicked up to yours again, blown and desperate. “Move for me, babe. Please.”
You rocked your hips forward instinctively, grinding down on him as Mingi’s fingers worked your clit, drawing a broken sob from your throat.
“Fuck… that’s it,” Hongjoong gasped. “Ride me. Just like that.”
“Let him use you, baby,” Mingi whispered, teeth grazing your skin. “Still mine.”
You whimpered, your body shaking between them, pleasure building sharp and fast. Hongjoong’s hips began meeting yours, rhythm desperate, sloppy. His hands slid up, cupping your breasts, thumbs flicking your nipples as his cock dragged in and out of you.
“You’re so good to me,” Hongjoong rasped, head falling back. “So fucking good.”
Mingi chuckled low behind you. “Don’t cum yet Joong.”
“Not planning on it,” Hongjoong snapped back, breathless.
Mingi’s fingers pressed harder against your clit. “She will first.”
Your body tightened, the orgasm building too fast to stop, especially with Mingi teasing your swollen clit and Hongjoong stretching you thick and deep beneath.
“Tell him you’re close,” Mingi demanded softly against your ear.
“H-Hongjoong… I—”
“Fuck, yeah. Let go. Cum for me,” Hongjoong begged, his voice raw now.
“Not just for him,” Mingi rasped. “For me.”
You shattered, your whole body locking up as your orgasm tore through you. Your cry ripped out of you, loud, broken, echoing off the studio walls. Both men moaned as you clenched down around Hongjoong, your body trembling violently.
Mingi tightened his grip around your waist, holding you still on Hongjoong’s cock.
“Fill her up,” Mingi ordered. “Now.”
Hongjoong’s broken gasp was the last thing you heard before he came, spilling deep inside you, his body shaking beneath you. He held you tight, voice caught in his throat as he emptied inside you.
Mingi didn’t move. He kept you pinned, kept Hongjoong buried inside you while you convulsed helplessly between them.
“Did I hurt you?” His voice cracked, eyes flicking between yours, still cautious even while wrecked.
“No… I’m okay. Better than okay.”
“Good girl. You took him so well.” His lips were soft against your skin now, his voice pure praise. “I’ve got you.”
Hongjoong’s chest heaved under you. He looked up at you, ruined. “Fucking hell.”
“Breathe,” Mingi murmured with a smirk.
You sagged forward against Hongjoong’s chest, unable to hold yourself up. Mingi slowly, gently pulled you back against him, lifting you carefully off Hongjoong’s cock, both of you panting, wrecked, his cum leaking down your thighs.
Mingi wrapped his arms around you tightly from behind, pressing kisses into your damp hair, your temple, your shoulder, wherever he could reach.
Your body was still trembling, the aftershocks rolling through you in waves. You couldn’t speak, not yet.
Across from you, Hongjoong sat sprawled against the couch, chest rising and falling hard, his face flushed and dazed. He watched you in silence, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Maybe guilt. Maybe hesitation.
Mingi noticed.
“She’s alright,” Mingi said quietly, glancing at him without letting go of you. “Don’t overthink.”
Hongjoong’s throat worked. “I wasn’t sure I should’ve…” He stopped himself, dragging a hand through his sweat-mussed hair. “I didn’t want to push.”
“You didn’t.” Mingi’s voice was simple. Honest.
You turned slightly, weak but lucid now. Your voice cracked. “Joong.”
He blinked.
“Don’t look so wrecked,” you whispered, lips twitching faintly. “I said yes.”
That made him let out a small, rough laugh, relieved. Tired. “Yeah. Yeah, you did.”
Mingi kissed your cheek softly. “And you’re still mine.”
You hummed, leaning against him fully, limp in his arms.
Hongjoong shifted awkwardly, glancing down at himself, then back up. “Want me to… go?”
Mingi looked at him for a long moment. Then shook his head.
“Sit with us.”
Hongjoong hesitated, but he obeyed, moving closer, settling beside you, not touching, but close enough you felt his warmth.
Mingi reached over without thinking, pulling a blanket from beside the couch and draping it gently around your bare skin, then around Hongjoong too.
“Just relax,” Mingi said, his voice dropping soft for both of you now. “She needs to come down.”
Hongjoong’s voice was quieter. “You too.”
Mingi let out a soft chuckle. “Maybe.”
For a few long minutes, no one spoke. The soft loop of your demo played faint in the background, a ghost of the sounds you’d made together.
Mingi kissed your hair again, still holding you as if letting go wasn’t an option. Hongjoong watched you from the other side of the couch, quiet, his breathing finally slowing.
Eventually, Mingi spoke, voice low, possessive but warmer now. “We’ll talk later.”
You weren’t sure if that was meant for Hongjoong or you, maybe both.
But for now, wrapped in Mingi’s arms, Hongjoong silent beside you, you felt safe.
𐚁warnings!: smut, a lil plot, spit play, bondage/rope, choking, power dynamics, size kink, cum play, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, marking, spanking, biting, cowboy!mingi, im prob forgetting some
𐚁fun fact, i rodeo irl. im here to burst the bubble that cowboys are gentlemen. majority are assholes that have community d :) but we love cowboy mingi so it's acceptable in this circumstance!! this isnt rlly proofread, this was for funsies. (fyi the term "roughie" means someone who competes in rough stock events! in this case mingi is a bull rider)
𐚁𓄀✮⋆˙ 𐚁𓄀✮⋆˙
You knew better, you knew riding in shorts would rub you raw.
Yet you did it anyway because it’s warm out, who would put on jeans when it’s 90 out? Horses gotta get warmed up too.
Mingi told you while you were saddling up, you waved him off. Listening to roughies never got you anywhere but in the back seat of a truck.
You weren’t going to let a very tall, muscular, good-looking bullrider sway you…right?
You didn’t need the distraction, not before a run, so you continued to lope circles in the warm-up pen.
There’s no shade of trees, barely a breeze, the dust is all in your lungs, and it’s like you can feel the heat radiating from the bleachers.
Your horse’s ride is smooth, and you match it, but the constant rubbing of your thighs from the rough out saddle is making it more agonizing.
Other contestants are scattered throughout the grounds, eating, talking; it’s the most relaxed time before it’s time to run at night.
All but one bullrider, whom you’ve sworn not to touch with a ten-foot pole. Mingi has a tank on, shades covering his eyes, a trucker cap, and jeans. His long limbs just hanging on the fence, watching you.
Each time you get to his side of the fence, you glance his way. He smirks that stupid smirk, you get goosebumps even though you’re sweating bullets.
Your horse’s body heat isn’t helping, so you decided to give both of you a break. It feels like scraping your knee on concrete as you slide off the other side of your saddle, you wince to yourself at the sensation.
You waddle to the fence to tie your horse and loosen up the girth for her.
“I told you.” Mingi walks over, pats your horse’s head, his voice is filled with glee.
“Shut up, I’m fine, just slight saddle burn.” You roll your eyes as you secure the rope knot, you wipe your forehead with the back of your hand.
“Slight?”
“Isn’t that what I said?”
“Smart mouth.” He clicks his tongue, climbs over the fence, and goes to help remove the splint boots from your horse.
“I got it, Mingi.” He pays you no mind and continues to unwrap. You get up from crouching, and that’s when your thighs touch.
“Fuck—shit.”
He goes around to your side, takes his shades off, he’s towering over you as he holds the left splint boot in his hand.
“No, darlin’, you’re chafed really bad—not just ‘slight’.”
You snatch the boot out his hand, “Stop looking between my legs.”
“It’s obvious from a mile away that you’re hurting, and one more ride in that saddle is gonna have you bleeding.”
“Now you’re being dramatic.”
“You’re standing like you had 15 beers.” Your jaw tightens, and you try to straighten up. He’s so close that the brim of his cap shadows your face.
“No I’m not.” But even the small shift makes you inhale sharply, he catches it, his eyes are drilling into you.
He smiles at you again, you shove at his chest. You hate proving anybody right, “Don’t you gotta buckle bunny hanging around somewhere?”
His tongue presses into his cheek, “See—I would,” he leans down a little closer, feeling his body heat against your own, “but they don’t ride in soccer shorts like you.”
Your stomach gets that empty feeling, and you hate that you’re falling for old patterns again. He reaches down before you can step back.
He hooks his finger under your shorts at your outer thigh; he doesn’t lift, just keeps his fingers there.
“Mm.” He observes, and you swat his hand away. “Don’t.”
“C’mon, lemme see.”
“No.”
He tilts his head, “So you’re just gonna be in pain through your run tonight, just to prove something?”
You don’t say anything, because that was the plan all along, you were just going to suffer the consequences of your actions for the day.
Then he straightens up, “My truck–now.”
“Absolutely not.” You cross your arms, lean on the shoulder of your horse, you don’t dare cross your legs over.
“Relaxxxx, it’s not like that—unless you want it like that.”
You glare, and his grin only gets wider, then he softens up a bit. “I got aloe.”
Now you know he’s getting serious, he’s actually offering you a practical solution, not just the thing between his legs.
He knows your run is important, he knows that’s the real threat for you. He turns and starts walking towards the field with the parked truck and trailers.
You don’t follow at first, but you wait about five seconds before you attempt a step across the gravel.
Pain immediately shoots up your thighs, you huff out, trying to keep it down because you swear he’s smiling even though he doesn’t turn around.
He keeps walking as gravel shifts under your boots, it’s uneven footing, so every brush of skin makes you clench your jaw.
His long legs make big strides, but you can tell he slowed down a bit, he definitely wasn’t trying to make it obvious.
By the time you reach his truck, he’s already dropped the tailgate. No trailer hooked to it, as roughies only need to bring themselves and their gear, no animals to worry about until their performance.
They have it easy outside of the 8 seconds of them risking their life.
He leans against it, arms crossed, shades hanging on his tank. “Took you long enough.” You stop a few feet away.
“Whatever, you planning on actually helping or just enjoying the show?”
He looks you up and down slowly. You look all over the place, to be honest. A tank top on with dust sticking to your body, sweat on your face, hair pulled back under a cap, with boots on.
You never look your absolute best during the day of the show anyway. Except Mingi isn’t looking at your face or your chest, he’s looking at your legs.
“That depends,” he says lazily. “You gonna keep pretending you don’t need help?” He pushes off the tailgate, taps on it.
“Hop up.”
“I can stand.”
“I really didn’t ask.”
You hesitate until he raises a brow, then you grab the edge and pull yourself up, the metal is hot through your shorts. His truck is not covered and has been sitting in the beaming sun.
Your legs part just a little, limiting the friction against them. He goes around to the front of his truck and grabs a bottle that has green gel inside.
The aloe, you could jump for joy. He steps between your knees as your legs hang and your back stiffens.
“We’re in public– dude, you see how many trailers parked next to you?”
“Would you prefer this in the truck? Windows are tinted–plus nobody is looking at your legs but me.”
Your pulse jumps, it shouldn’t, because this is just a favor, but it seems your body doesn’t care what your brain thinks.
“Yeah, truck please.” You slide off the tailgate and go to the open passenger door. He follows and stands in front of you, his body plus the door covering you completely from any other eyes.
It just looks like Mingi digging into his truck at this angle. He flips the cap open with his thumb, squeezes some into his hand. “Last chance to tell me to stop.”
You swallow, your pride is screaming, but your thighs are on fucking fire.
“...Just make it quick.” His mouth curves up.
“Oh—you know I don’t do anything quick.”
The first touch is cold, the aloe hits your skin, and you suck in a breath. It feels like pouring peroxide on an open wound.
His hand is rough, calloused from the bull ropes and working with his hands all the time. He spreads it slowly along the inside of your thigh.
He doesn’t go high or inappropriately, just where the roughed-up skin is. He doesn’t rush, he rubs it in like he does baby powder before his rides.
“You’re so sensitive,” he murmurs.
“Well, no shit.”
“You should’ve listened.” His thumb drags a little slower, and you can feel the shift in breathing. He looks up at you from under his hat.
“Still just ‘slight?’” His thumb presses a little harder as he works the aloe in some more, the stinging sensation still subtle.
Your knees go loose, opening up a little more, and his eyes don’t leave yours. “You can tell me to stop.”
You swallow, you’re sweating even more now, and your hand finds the front of his tank. You don’t push him, you bunch it up in your hands, holding him there.
“Mingi,” you warn, but it comes out more breathy, not serious in the slightest.
“Didn’t think so.” He says, stepping where his hips brush the edge of the passenger seat, your thighs hitting his.
You know the aloe is just becoming an excuse at this point, you both have played these games before.
“You’re such an ass.” Your grip tightens, pulling him closer.
His voice drops lower. “Then tell me to fuck off.” His hand rubs your inner thigh again, getting close to where you’ve been secretly aching and wet.
He leans in, his other hand bracing against the middle console behind you. You don’t say anything, don’t tell him no.
He hooks one finger under the edge of your shorts, tugs on them. “These are in the way.”
“Then do something about it.” Your pulse has quickened, know you shouldn’t be getting involved with him.
His eyes flash, he grabs the shorts at the inseam, and they rip. Your shorts hang open, exposing your panties, already damp.
“Shit, Mingi.”
“You told me to do something.” He yanks them away, hangs them on the rearview mirror. You’re left in your underwear, tank top, boots, and spurs.
His hand cups you through your underwear and you bite back a moan. “You’re so damn wet, bet there’s evidence of a snail trail in your saddle, huh?”
“Don’t get cocky, honey.”
He pulls your panties to the side, fingers sliding through your folds, and you choke. “Mhm. Keep talking for me.”
You can’t form words. His fingers work you open, you’re still covered from the other trucks and people in the parking lot, as two fingers push inside and his thumb finds your clit.
Your head falls back against the console, and he leans by your ear, tongue swipes it and you shudder.
“All that mouth and you can’t say shit now.”
“Maybe if you were better at this–”
He pulls his fingers out, and you whimper slightly. He grabs your jaw, forcing you to look at him, and his fingers wet with you press against your lips.
“Open for me.” You glare as you do. He slides his fingers into your mouth, and you taste yourself with the tart lingering taste of aloe. His eyes are dark as he watches.
You hollow your cheeks as you suck, and his breath hitches. He then pulls his fingers out, a string of spit connecting as he puts his fingers in his mouth. Moaning around his own fingers, holding direct eye contact with you.
He then leans over into the bed of his truck and comes back in front of you, holding his bull rope. The one he uses for his rides, worn leather and frayed orange cord. Your eyes go wide.
“Turn around.”
“I’m not a fucking bull, you’re gonna have to make me.”
His hand grabs the hair peeking out of your cap and spins you, bending you over the console. Your boots scrape against the truck frame, spurs jingling.
“You keep acting like a bull, get treated like one, baby.” He loops the rope around your wrists, pulling them behind your back and tying them tight.
He tears your underwear next, throwing them in the backseat to be added to his collection. You can hear his buckle and zipper, and then you feel the head of his cock pressing against you.
You think about onlookers and slowly stop giving a fuck, you’re covered. If they want to see Mingi's cheeks, they’ll get a show.
He’s fucking big, you feel every vein, every muscle as he pushes in slowly. “Jesus–shit, shit.”
“Too much? Thought you could handle it like you do your horses.” His voice is strained while still mocking you.
“Fuck everything about you.” You grit out, but get broken by a moan as he bottoms out in you. You’re so full, the air is getting scarce.
He doesn’t give you time to adjust, he just pulls back and slams in. His balls slapping against you as you cry out. It hits the chafed skin from the saddle, and it hurts, but feels so damn good you can’t think straight.
“Take it.”
He fucks you hard as your cheek rubs against the console, slobber smearing along the leather. The truck rocks with every thrust.
Sweat drips, the rope burns your wrists, and you pull against it, which makes him go harder. He leans over you, one hand wrapping around your throat, pulling you up slightly so your back arches.
Your spurs catch on him and he hisses. “Careful with those,” he goes deeper, hitting your cervix, which makes you go delirious.
“Oh my god.”
“Uh uh, wrong name.”
You can’t form coherent thoughts, so you push back against him, meeting his thrusts, and he groans.
He pulls out, and you whine. He unties the rope and flips you over, pulling you back to the edge of the seat. Your legs wrap around his waist, spurs digging into his ass, and he grins.
He pushes back in and you both moan. The angle is deeper, you can see him now. His hat is half on, tank top clinging to his body with sweat, happy trail visible, jaw clenched.
He looks damn good.
He spits into his hand and brings it between you, rubbing your clit in tight circles while he pounds into you. It’s so much, you’re coming before you can stop it, your whole body squeezes around him tight.
“Fuck,” he thrusts three more times, and then he’s spilling inside you with a groan. He collapses forward, head hanging on your shoulder, both of you gasping.
He pulls out slowly, and you feel his cum drip down your thighs, they burn even more now. The aloe has gone to waste.
He swipes his fingers through it and brings it to your mouth again. “Clean this all up, you’ve already fucked up my seats.”
You maintain eye contact as you do, and his cock twitches against your thigh. “You’re such a dick.”
He grins lazily, satisfied. “You’re the one who was on this dick in a parking lot with your spurs still on.”
You can’t even argue with that, but then your breathing steadies, and when you look at him, there’s a look in your eyes that makes him falter.
“Looks like it’s my turn, huh.”
He blinks, “What–”
“Get in the truck.” He stares at you a moment, cock still hard, then he laughs. “You serious?”
“Does it look like I’m fucking joking?” You move over to sit on top of the console to give him room, it takes all your strength to move because of how shaky you are.
The seat is soaked in spit, cum, everything that’s dripped out of you. It’s absolutely filthy. “But that’s your seat.”
“And now it’s yours, sit.” His cocky smirk returns, and he gets all the way in. The truck dips, and he takes up the entire passenger seat, even in his big ass truck.
His thighs spread wide, and when he settles into the seat, you hear the wet sound of him sitting in your juices and the leather.
“Jesus christ I’m gonna need a detail.”
“You should be honored.” You climb over him and squeeze in where you can, the heat seeping through with no ac.
His hands go to your hips, the fit is tight. His shoulders are so broad you have to brace your hands on the roof of the truck to balance, your knees press against the seat on either side of him.
No one can hear or see into his truck, tinted so dark you don’t know how he drives it on the regular.
You reach down between your bodies and wrap your hand around his cock. He begins to harden even more, and you stroke him slowly.
You sink down on him in one stroke, and his words cut off into a choked groan. The stretch is delicious. You never took off your boots, dirt in his seat, spurs digging into the side of his thighs as you settle.
“What’s wrong Mingi?” You roll your hips and watch his eyes roll back. “Thought you’d be able to last 8 seconds?
“Fuck–”
You brace your hands on his shoulders, you set a fast pace. Your thighs burn, but you lift yourself almost completely off him before slamming back down. Cum drips down your thighs, down his cock, adding more to the mess he’s sitting in.
His hands go to your hips, trying to slow you down, but you slap them away. “Didn’t say you could touch.” You lean forward and wrap your hand around his throat.
His cock twitches inside you, and you laugh breathlessly. “Oh? You like?” You squeeze your thighs tighter, changing the angle.
“I’m gonna die before my ride. Shit–”
“You’ll make it, just maybe not last the full time–” You sit up as much as you can, your head nearly brushes the roof. Your hips roll and snap, your spurs jingle with every movement, scraping his skin that’ll leave marks.
Sweat drips between your breasts, and you can feel his chest slick under your hands. The windows start to fog, but you don’t slow down.
“Look at you—big tough roughie who can’t take what he dishes out. Pathetic.”
“I like it when your mouth is occupied.” He sticks his fingers into your mouth and shoves them down your throat, your hips stutter a bit.
“Good girl, all nice and quiet.” His other hand comes up to grab your tits, squeezing hard, he pinches, causing you to moan and clench around him. It only makes you go harder.
You spit his fingers back out, some of it hits his face, he uses his tongue to lick it off around his lips. The scene alone makes you want to buckle at the knees.
“You’re fucking insane.”
His hand slides down to your ass, and he spanks you, the sting matching the sensation of your inner thighs. Then he does it again.
“Fuck—yess–” He spanks you harder, and you grind down harder, taking him deep. Your clit rubs against his unshaven stubble with every movement. You’re getting close again.
“Shit, I’m bout’ to nut.” His voice is wrecked, and you can feel him throbbing inside you.
You tap his cheek playfully, “Not yet.”
“Please–”
“Please what?” You roll your hips, start spelling your nickname with your hips, and he chokes. “Use your words, honey.”
“Please let me come—fucking please.” You lean down, lips brushing his ear. “Fill me up again, wanna feel it.”
He comes with a groan, hands on your hips, and the feeling of him pulsing inside you. You come shortly after, thighs clamping around him.
Even as you come, you keep moving, slower. “Wait–I can’t.”
“Yes, you can, take it.” You sit up, wringing every last bit out of him. His head falls back against the seat, throat exposed, and you lean down to bite it.
Your muscles are screaming, you chase another orgasm as you grind down on him. His hands roam your thighs, ass, tits as you come down.
He’s about to say something smart until the sound of a mic squeals. You both freeze. A voice echoes from the arena, running sound check for the speakers before the night.
The loading of bulls and horses into the chutes, it makes you realize how the world didn’t really stop, and you’re still parked between trailers.
Still supposed to compete.
Your thighs burn when you shift off him, the aloe is smeared everywhere. He runs a hand over his face, hat crooked, jaw tight.
You adjust your tank top like nothing happened, grab what’s left over of your shorts off the rearview.
“Better ride better than how you handled this.”
He laughs, you lean down as your lips brush the shell of his ear. “Wouldn’t want you lasting less than eight seconds under those lights.”
You pull back before he can respond, open the door, and slide on your ripped shorts. Heat floods in, and real life hits you.
He watches your boots hit the gravel, your thighs are still red, still raw, and it’s all his fault.
݁𖥔 warnings: this is pure smut, plot?? we don't know her. big!d hwa, dom/sub dynamics, cockwarming, degradation kink (he loves u i swear), praise kink, facefuckin, tit fuckin, spit play, cum play, breeding kink, squirting, multiple orgasms (rip), spanking, hair pulling, light choking, humiliation, slight dumbification (?), super possessive, rough sex, oral (m!receiving), legos are reader's enemy, there's like no breaks in this, i could be missing some :)))
݁𖥔 yeah, so, um...hwa has been on my mind since the concert and then THAT live inspired this LMAO. enjoy the filth💀
The dining room table had become Seonghwa's kingdom, and you were about to declare war on it.
He sat hunched over the wooden surface, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, silver chain catching the light streaming through the windows.
His black tank top stretched across his shoulders as he leaned forward, absorbed in the lego architecture set before him. Tiny plastic bricks organized in neat piles, instruction manual spread open.
You'd been watching him for the past hour from the kitchen doorway, growing irritated by how captivated he was by those damn toys.
The way his brow furrowed in concentration, how he'd pause to push his glasses up his nose before diving back in, the clicking sounds of plastic snapping together.
It was crazy how something so trivial could hold his attention when you were standing right there.
"Hwa." Your voice cut through.
He didn't even glance up. "Mmm."
You stepped closer, bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. "How long have you been at this?"
"Few hours." His response was distracted, eyes still fixed on the instruction manual as he searched for the next piece.
The dismissal stung. You moved to the edge of the table, leaning your hip against it so the surface shifted, a few bricks scattered.
His hands froze. Slowly, his eyes lifted to meet yours, and there was a warning there. "Don't."
The single word was sharp.You could see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers tightened around the piece he'd been holding.
"Don't what?" trailing your finger along the table's edge, purposely brushing against more bricks. "I'm just looking."
"You're being a brat." He set the piece down, "Do you have any idea how long it takes to line these pieces up? How much work I've put into this?"
"It's just plastic, Seonghwa."
His glasses slipped down his nose as he finally turned to face you fully. "Just plastic?"
You could see you'd struck a nerve, and something in you wanted to push harder. Without breaking eye contact, you swept your arm across a section of the table, sending more sorted bricks scattering across the floor.
The sound of plastic hitting hardwood filled the silence between you.
Seonghwa's expression went completely blank for a moment. He stood slowly, the chair scraping against the floor.
"You want attention that badly?"
Before you could respond, his hands were on your waist, lifting you onto the table. Bricks pressed into your thighs through your shorts as he positioned you right in the middle of his workspace.
"Then you'll have it."
His mouth crashed against yours. You could taste the tea he'd been drinking, could feel the chain around his neck pressing cold against your chest as he kissed you with intensity.
When he pulled back, you were breathless, lips already swollen.
"But we're doing this my way."
His hands found the waistband of your shorts, yanking them down along with your panties in one motion.
"Seonghwa, what are you—"
"Getting comfortable." He settled back into his chair, pulling you forward until you were straddling his lap.
You could feel him already hard beneath his sweatpants, the thick outline of his cock pressing against you.
His hands gripped your hips as he lifted you, just enough to free his cock from his pants. The sight of him, thick and already leaking made your mouth water and your pussy clench with anticipation.
"Damn, already dripping." His thumb brushed through your folds, collecting the wetness there. "All worked up from being ignored."
You tried to sink down onto him, desperate for the stretch and fullness you craved, but his grip on your hips held you in place.
"Patience." The word was low against your ear. "You barged in and interrupted my work—now you’re gonna sit here and wait while I keep you stuffed."
He positioned his cock at your entrance, the thick head barely hitting you, and then stopped. The stretch was already intense, Seonghwa was big, bigger than anyone you'd been with before, and your body always needed time to adjust to his size.
"Please." The word slipped out before you could stop it.
"Please what?"
"Can you please fuck me already, shit."
His laugh was dark, vibrating against your throat where he'd pressed his lips. "Oh, I will. But first, you're going let me finish what you so rudely interrupted."
Without warning, he pulled you down onto his cock in one brutal thrust, burying himself completely inside you. The sudden fullness knocked the air from your lungs, your walls stretching to accommodate his girth.
"Fuck." The curse tore from your throat as you tried to adjust to the sensation of being so full.
"That's it. Take all of me." His voice was strained, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. "You feel that? All the way up in there—”
You could only whimper, your body trembling. He was so deep you could swear you felt him in your stomach.
"Now." His hands moved to the table, reaching around you for the instruction manual. "You're going to sit there, stuffed full of my cock, and not move until I'm done."
The casual way he said it, like you were nothing more than a convenient cock warmer, sent arousal through you. Your walls clenched around him involuntarily, drawing a hiss from his lips.
"I said don't move."
One hand left the manual to wrap around your throat, not squeezing but holding you in place. The weight of his palm against your pulse was a constant reminder of his control.
"But Hwa."
"No." His thumb pressed harder, just enough pressure to make your breath catch. "You wanted my focus. This is what you get. And if you're very good, maybe I'll fuck you right."
The clicking of lego pieces resumed, along with your shaky breathing and the wet sounds of your pussy adjusting around his cock.
Every small movement he made, reaching for a piece, consulting the manual, shifting in his chair, made you want to pull your hair out from the roots.
Minutes passed. Your thighs began to shake from the strain of staying still, your walls fluttering around him as arousal built to an almost unbearable level. The position had you completely open to him, unable to create any friction or relief.
"Look at you." His voice was sooo casual, like he wasn't buried balls-deep inside you. "So desperate. I can feel how wet you're getting, dripping all over my cock."
You tried to rock your hips, seeking any kind of movement, but his free hand clamped down on your hip.
"What did I say about moving, once again?"
"I–I need it though."
"You need to learn patience." His fingers found your clit, circling it with light touches that made you gasp. "This is what happens when you act like a spoiled brat. You get treated like one."
Your hands fisted in his tank top, trying to ground yourself as pleasure built slowly..
"Please, Seonghwa. I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry I messed up your stupid lego set."
"Stupid?" The word was quiet.
His hand left your clit, and before you could process what was happening, he was standing, lifting you with him. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively as he turned and bent you over the table, his cock never leaving your pussy.
Lego bricks clattered to the floor as he swept them aside. The instruction manual crumpled under your chest as he pressed you down, the glossy paper sticking to your sweat dampened skin.
"You think my work is stupid?" His hips snapped forward, driving his cock deeper than you thought possible. "Let me show you what stupid looks like baby."
The first thrust knocked the breath from your lungs. The second had you crying out, fingers scrambling on the table surface. He set a brutal pace, each stroke hitting that spot inside you that made your vision blur.
The table shook with each impact, more pieces falling to the floor. Some of the bricks remained pressed into your skin, not painful enough to truly hurt.
"This is what you wanted, isn't it?"
"Couldn't stand being ignored, so you had to ruin my stuff."
His chain swung forward with each thrust, the metal links dragging across your back and shoulders.
"Answer me."
When you didn't respond immediately, too lost, his hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back.
"I said answer me."
"Yes." The word came out as a broken sob. "Yes, I wanted your attention."
"And now you have it." He released your hair, both hands gripping your hips as he managed to fuck you even harder. "Being bent over and used like a toy."
There was something about the way he said it, like you were his toy, his to use however he wanted.
"Fuck, you're tight." His rhythm faltered for a moment. "No matter how many times I fuck this pussy, you never get used to my size."
It was true. Even now, after months together, the stretch was still intense, still required your body to adjust. He was just too big, too thick.
"Never." You managed between thrusts. "Too big."
"That's right."
"No one else could fill you like this. No one else could stretch this cunt the way I do."
His hand pressed against your lower belly, and you could feel him there, the thick outline of his cock moving inside you, creating a bulge with each thrust.
"So so deep I'm rearranging your guts." You could feel every ridge, every vein of his cock as it moved inside you.
"Mine." The word was harsh against your ear as he leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back.
"Yours." The word was barely a whisper, but he heard it.
"Louder."
"Yours!" You cried out as he hit that spot inside you.
"That's my good girl."
Your orgasm was building, that tension coiling in your belly. Your walls began to flutter around him again, drawing a curse from him.
"Already close? We're just getting started."
He started pulling out, already moving.
He flipped you over, and you were on your back on the table. He began to position himself between your thighs. He was moving higher, his cock dripping with your combined arousal as he straddled your chest.
"First, I think you need to be reminded of your place." His hands cupped your breasts, squeezing them together around his cock. "Look at these perfect tits. Made just for me to fuck, aren't they?"
The weight of his cock between your breasts was intoxicating, precum smearing across your chest as he began to thrust. His chain swung with each movement, occasionally brushing against your nipples and making you gasp.
"Answer me, slut."
"Yes," you breathed. "They're yours to fuck."
"Yes, ma’am." His pace increased, cock sliding between your breasts as his hands kept them pressed tight around him. "Shit–every part of you just fits me. That mouth, tits, pussy. Just built for me, baby."
He thrust harder, the tip of his cock hitting your chin with each stroke. Precum began to make everything slippery.
"Open your mouth," and when you complied, he adjusted his angle so the tip of his cock caught your lips with each thrust. "Suck."
You wrapped your lips around the head when it reached your mouth, tongue swirling around it. The taste of yourself mixed with him was mind-boggling, making you moan around him.
"Fuck, just like that." His hands tightened on your breasts, using them to stroke himself faster. "Such a little cock holder, yeah."
But just as you were getting used to the pace, he was pulling away entirely, moving down your body.
"But I think I need to focus on this ass of mine." His hands gripped your hips, flipping you over again so you were on your hands and knees on the table. Legos pressed into your palms and knees as he positioned himself behind you.
"Look at this ass." His hands roamed over your cheeks, squeezing and kneading. "The way it bounces when I fuck you."
His palm came down in a slap that made you cry out, the sting soothed by his gentle caressing.
"This ass is mine," he said, punctuating each word with another slap. "Say it."
"My ass is yours," you gasped, pushing back against his hands.
"Can’t hear you, baby."
You cried out as he delivered another slap. "All of this is yours, Hwa," He soothed the reddened skin before yanking you backward.
Before you could adjust, he was dragging you off the table, your knees hitting the floor hard.
"Now you're going to show me just how sorry you are for interrupting my work," he said, his hand fisting in your hair as he stood before you, cock hard and glistening. "C’mon open up for me again."
You parted your lips. His hips snapped forward, burying his cock deep in your throat in one thrust. You gagged around him, tears springing to your eyes as he held you there.
"Gag on it." His voice was strained as he pulled back only to thrust forward again.
He set a harsh rhythm, using your mouth like a plaything. Saliva dripped down your chin, mixing with the tears streaming down your face as he fucked your throat without any mercy.
He panted, his free hand reaching down to wipe the tears from your cheeks. "Such a pretty slut, crying on my cock."
When you gagged hard, he pulled out once more, his cock slapping against your face as you gasped for air.
"Can't handle it?" he taunted. "And here I thought you wanted all of me."
He started pushing his cock back past your lips, but this time he moved lower, pressing his balls against your mouth.
"Hold ‘em. Keep them warm in your mouth like a sweetheart."
You opened wider, taking both of his balls into your mouth, licking around them as he groaned above you.
"You love having your mouth stuffed full of me, don't you?"
You could only hum in response around his balls, the vibration making him curse under his breath.
But then he was pulling away again, his cock bobbing in front of your face as he looked down at you with dark eyes.
He put pressure on your lips with his thumb so you’d open up, and when you did, he leaned forward and spat directly onto your tongue. "Swallow."
He dragged his spit-slicked cock across your face, marking you with his precum. "Now you're going to take my cock down your throat again like the whore you are."
This time, when he pushed back into your mouth, it was with renewed vigor. He used your face to its fullest extent, fucking your throat with no care as you choked and gasped around him. Your makeup was ruined, mascara streaming down your cheeks as he used you.
"This is what you get for being such a needy brat."
Just when you thought you might pass out from lack of air, he pulled out, leaving you drooling on the floor..
"Back on the table," hauling you up by your arms. "I'm still not finished."
He positioned you on your back again, but this time he settled between your thighs with intent. His cock slammed back into your pussy without warning, the fullness after the emptiness making you scream.
"Now I'm going to fuck you until your legs forget how to work," he promised. "Until you're nothing but a dripping, sloppy mess."
True to his word, he fucked you dumb. The combination of the rough treatment and his earlier teasing had you racing toward orgasm fast.
“Mmm, baby, you’re so close huh?" He could feel the way your walls were squeezing him. “Come on my cock. Show me how much you love being used."
The orgasm tore through you, your back arching off the table as you screamed his name. But he didn't slow down, didn't give you time to recover.
"Shit shit shit, too much Hwa," you sobbed, hands pushing weakly at his chest as the overstimulation bordered on painful.
"You can take it," he insisted, his thumb finding your clit. "You're going to give me another one—I know you can."
His pace and the pressure on your clit was building toward something different, something more intense.
"Let go for me. Make a mess all over me."
When the orgasm hit, it was unlike anything you'd ever experienced. You felt something give way inside you as liquid gushed from your pussy, soaking his cock and the table beneath you.
"Fuck yes," he groaned, his pace becoming even messier as you squirted around him.
You were barely coherent as he continued to fuck you through the aftershocks.
"Think you can give me another? Huh, baby, how’s that sound?"
You didn't think you could, but your body responded anyway. The orgasm was smaller but no less intense, your pussy clamping down around him.
This time, he couldn't hold back. His rhythm faltered as he chased his own release.
But at the last second, his hand started working his cock frantically as he pulled out, aimed at your chest and face.
He signaled to your mouth. You barely managed to comply before he was coming, thick ropes of cum painting your face, your tits, your throat.
"Don't move," he ordered when the last spurts finished. "Don't you dare waste a drop."
His fingers gathered the cum from your cheeks and lips, pushing them into your mouth. "Suck them clean."
You wrapped your lips around his fingers, tongue cleaning them thoroughly as he watched with satisfaction.
"Good girl. Now show me you swallowed it all."
You opened your mouth to prove you'd swallowed every drop he'd given you.
"Perfect." He was already hardening again as he looked down at you.
Without warning, he was sliding back inside your pussy. But this time he wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling you close as he began a slower, deeper rhythm.
"This time I'm going to fill this pussy for real," he promised.
"You want that, don't you?" He pressed his hand against your lower belly, "Wanna be so full of my cum that it's dripping out for days?"
"Yes, please," you gasped.
His pace increased as he chased his second release.
When he came this time, it was deep inside you, his cock pulsing as he filled you with spurt after spurt of hot cum. You could feel it mixing, could feel how it began to leak out around his softening cock even as he stayed buried inside you.
Finally pulling out to watch his cum drip from your well-used pussy onto the ruined lego instructions below.
You tried to sit up, but your muscles felt like jelly. Your entire body was covered in a mix of sweat, saliva, and his cum, and you'd never felt more thoroughly used in your life.
"The lego set," you said weakly, looking at the destruction around you. Pieces were everywhere, some of them now sticky with your combined fluids.
"Don't worry about it," he said, but there was a glint in his eyes. "Actually, on second thought..."
He was pulling you off the table and down to your hands and knees on the floor among the pieces.
"Clean them up," settling back in his chair with his arms crossed. "All of them. And don't you dare wipe away my cum while you do it."
The humiliation of crawling around naked, his cum dripping down your thighs as you gathered the pieces one by one, should have been degrading. But with you, it was definitely the complete opposite.
He praised as you moved on hands and knees, ass swaying as you reached for the bricks.
Some of the pieces were sticky with your combined fluids, but you collected them anyway, placing them in neat piles as he watched. The entire time, you could feel his cum leaking from your pussy, leaving a trail on the floor that you'd have to clean later.
"Great job baby," he said when you'd finally gathered all the pieces. "Now c’mere."
You crawled over to him, looking up from your position on the floor. He reached down to cup your face gently, thumb brushing over your cum-stained cheeks.
"You look so beautiful like this," he said softly.
The contrast between his gentle words and the filthy state he'd left you in was dizzying. But this was Seonghwa, capable of being both dominant and caring, rough and tender.
"I should shower," you said weakly.
"Later." He was already pulling you up into his lap, seemingly unbothered by the mess covering your body. "Right now I want to hold you."
You melted into his embrace, letting him support your weight as your body continued to recover. His hands stroked your back.
"I'm sorry," you murmured against his chest. "About interrupting your work. About making such a mess."
"No, you're not." There was amusement in his voice. "You got exactly what you wanted."
He was right, of course. You'd wanted his attention, wanted to break through that focused concentration. Mission more than accomplished.
"Maybe not," you admitted.
"That's what I thought." His fingers traced lazy patterns on your back. "My needy baby."
You shifted in his lap, becoming aware again of the mess covering both of you, the sticky evidence of everything that had just happened. "I really should shower now."
"Should you?" His grip tightened. "Or should you sit here a little longer, feeling exactly what you've done to me?"
The smugness in his voice made you want to roll your eyes, but the way his cum was still slowly dripping down your thighs made it hard to argue. You'd gotten what you wanted, all of his focus, all of his control, all of him.
"What happens next time I interrupt your work?" you asked, settling more comfortably against his chest.
"Next time?" He laughed. "Next time... I'm locking the door."
You stayed like that until the mess became too uncomfortable to ignore. As you headed toward the shower, you glanced back at the mess; the table would need serious cleaning.
"You're rebuilding that, aren't you?" you called over your shoulder.
tinted windows don't hide the sound of you getting split open
⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 yeosang x f!reader x seonghwa
⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢warnings!: smut, pure filth, m/f/m threesome, established relationship w/ yeo, alcohol consumption/drunk sex, semi-public sex, squirting, overstimulation, rough sex, oral (m!f! receiving), cum play, spit play, spanking, attempted DP, degradation & praise, rip reader's cervix, marking/biting, toe sucking (brief), creampies, light aftercare, could be more
⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 quick intermission on syncink, purely self-indulgent nonsense, hands down the messiest & most unorganized thing i've written lmao if you make it to the end you deserve a medal or therapy idk
You weren’t planning to be almost nerfed by a taxi stepping out the club.
The taxi came out of nowhere, one second you were stumbling off the curb, the next Yeosang was yanking you back against his chest, your heel catching on the concrete as the cab's horn blared past.
"You’ve gotta be kidding me," he breathed into your hair, his heart hammering against your shoulder blades. His hand splayed across your stomach, fingers pressing into your dress.
"You trying to give me a heart attack, baby?"
The bass from the club still thrummed in your ear, mixing with the adrenaline and the eight patron shots you should’ve said no to, quite literally on the verge of pissing yourself.
You turned in his arms, and the movement made the high slit of your dress fall open, exposing your thigh.
"Sorry-yy," you said, not sorry at all. Your hands found his chest, god his chest is fucking divine, sliding up to loop around his neck. "But I need to get you home. Like, now."
Yeosang's eyes dropped to where your dress opened. His blonde hair was still messy from your fingers earlier on the dance floor, and his face was flushed from alcohol, from the heat, from you.
"Yeah? That urgent?"
"You know I wanna jump your bones like 24/7." You pressed closer, feeling the way your nipples hardened, knowing he could feel it too through his shirt. "Been thinking bout’ it all night."
His hand slid lower, fingers grazing the bare skin of your thigh through the slit. "Babe, you're gonna kill me before we even get there." But he was smiling, those perfect white teeth.
"Let me call us a ride before you do something that gets us arrested for public indecency."
"That's taking too long," you whined, your hand dropping to palm him through his pants. He was already half-hard. "Can't we just—"
"In one piece," he said firmly, catching your wrist even as his hips pressed forward into your touch. "I need you in one piece. And conscious. And preferably not in the back of a cop car."
You pouted, admitting defeat, letting him pull your hand away. It was chilly out, handing off his jacket because he just knew the complaining was about to begin.
“Yeo, I’m shaking like a stripper. Where is the damn car?”
He clicked his teeth; he hates it when you get upset, and it’s cold without his jacket on. He pulled his phone from his back pocket to check the current drivers.
“Fuck, no cabs are local right now.”
“Why didn’t we take the company car again?”
He rolls his eyes, mimics you, “‘Let’s be like normal civilians going to the club, no cameras, no chauffeur.’”
“I DO NOT sound like that.” You trip again as you try to whip around and give him a look. He steadies you once more, body pressed against the front of him.
At this point, he’s not even hiding how he was groping you
He checked the app one more time for the cabs with no luck, to put you both out of misery.
“This is so damn impossible right now.”
“Need a ride?”
You nearly break an ankle when you jump out of Yeosang’s arms to turn and see Seonghwa.
He was club hopping with the group you were with, but you thought he had already dispersed somewhere else. He had his hair tied back, a black dress suit, just the image of composure.
The opposite of what you and Yeosang were.
Seonghwa takes in the scene of you bent over a bit, trying to fix the strap on your heel. Yeosang is crouched down, trying to block onlookers' views; he’s failing.
Seonghwa lingers on the bare skin your slit reveals, can tell you’re also slightly inebriated. It’s all amusing to him.
“Or you two gonna continue giving the street a show?”
Yeosang finally turns around to properly acknowledge Seonghwa. “Hwa?” He’s not surprised to see him, just forgot, as usual.
Yeosang gives him a blank stare, nothing behind those pretty eyes.
“Yeosang.” Seonghwa’s voice was always smooth to you, like, get this man on a podcast right away, at least he wouldn’t say dumb shit.
“Hey, lightweight. Having trouble?”
You take the praise back.
“One. fuck you. Two. I ammm nottt a lightweight! You know this.” The slight slur of your words is not helping your case.
You straighten up a bit, a bit flustered as you notice how high your dress rose up from bending over. You’re horrible at playing it cool when in reality you're just drunk and so damn horny.
“I have my car, driver’s around the corner.”
Yeosang side eyes you, “See, someone came prepared.”
“Beats waiting for a cab that’s not gonna show.” Seonghwa is addressing both of you, but you take note of how his eyes drift to you every now and again.
Yeosang double-checks with you one more time, you give him a hesitant nod, knowing that you were all over him on the street. You know you’re just gonna combust in the car with anticipation.
Yeosang wraps his hands around your waist from behind, head resting on your shoulder.His breath heating your ear and along your neck.
He whispers, it sends more chills. “Gonna behave in this car, kay?”
Seonghwa agrees to drop both of you off for the sake of your dignity. He waves down the car as it turns the corner.
“The partition works,” Seonghwa adds, too casually. “In case ya know–want some privacy.”
The words just sit there between you as you all exchange looks, because the dude has gotta be joking, right?
Rightttt?
You clench your thighs, Yeosang’s arms tighten around you, his breathing getting heavier.
Seonghwa has a knowing look; he’s smirking. A menacing look..
“Unless you’d rather I keep it down?”
Yeosang clears his throat, “We’ll take the damn ride.”
The sedan parks next to the curb, the tinted windows, the ones so dark to protect whoever is riding in them.
In this case, it’s Park Seonghwa and Kang Yeosang, perfection.
You reach for the back door at the same time as Seonghwa, hands touching. He helps you slide into the backseat while Yeosang gets in from the other side.
The seats are leather, seatwarmers are on, low lighting, and the car smells brand new. It's just the complete contrast to the state of mind you’re in.
Your dress slides up, you accidentally flash your thigh to Seonghwa in the process. “Be careful.” You catch him looking, and he doesn’t give two fucks that you did.
Yeosang slides his hand over your lap, yanking your dress down, making direct eye contact as he looks up at Seonghwa, who’s still hanging on the door next to you.
You can tell Yeosang is barely holding it together. He whispers in your ear again, “shit, just behave.”
Seonghwa hops in the front passenger seat, adjusts the rearview, even though he’s not driving, his chauffeur is.
Makes eye contact with both of you in the backseat. “Comfy?”
He motions to the driver, “Both of 'em, Yeo’s place.” Seonghwa pressed the button, and the privacy partition began to rise, tinted glass sliding up between the front and back seats until it sealed with a soft click.
Yeosang's hand was still on your thigh, fingers digging in hard.
You turned to look at him. His eyes were fucked, pupils blown, that look he gets when he's past the point of pretending to have self-control.
"C'mere," he said, and yanked you into his lap before you could even respond.
You barely got your knees on either side of him before his mouth was on yours. His hands went straight to your ass, pulling you down against him, and yeah, he was hard as hell. You could feel every inch of him through his pants.
You ground down, and he made this noise in his throat, half-groan, hands already shoving your dress up.
"Shit," he muttered, breaking the kiss to look at you. His hair was messy from your hands, lips swollen.
"Can't believe you wore this dress."
"You like it?" You rolled your hips again just to watch his eyes flutter.
His hands slid down to your ass, squeezing hard, then he shifted you until you were straddling just one of his thighs.
"Ride it," he said. "C'mon, show me pretty baby."
He pressed his thigh up and the friction hit just right. You gasped, hands bracing on his shoulders as you started moving, grinding down.
Dry humping, a lost art.
"Wait—fuck," Yeosang said, eyes going wide. "Are you not—"
"Nope." You didn't stop moving, grinding down harder.
"You're shitting me." His hands tightened on your hips, pulling you down so hard you gasped. "You've been walking around all night with no—"
"Told you I was ready."
"Fuck." He looked wrecked already, staring at where you were riding his thigh, and you could feel how wet you were getting, soaking straight through his pants.
He groaned, one hand sliding up to grip your jaw.
"Open for me," he leaned in and spit directly into your mouth.
You swallowed, eyes locked on his, and his grip got tighter.
"Just so hot," he muttered, and then his hand was between your legs, fingers on your clit, rubbing in tight circles that made your thighs shake. "C'mon, baby. Wanna feel you come on my thigh."
The combination of his thigh and his fingers was so much. You were already wound so tight from the club, from teasing him all night, and it only took a few more grinds before you were coming.
Yeosang didn't let up, kept you grinding through it, his fingers still working your clit until you were shaking and had to swat his hand away.
"Fuck," you breathed, slumping against his chest.
"One down," he said.
You caught your breath for maybe five seconds before your hands were at his belt, fumbling with the buckle.
"Need you," you said, fingers clumsy from the alcohol and the orgasm still buzzing through you. "Yeo, please—"
"So needy," he said, but he was already lifting his hips, helping you shove his pants down just enough to get his cock out.
It was already leaking, and you wanted to put your mouth on it, started to lean down, but he caught you by the hair.
"Later," he said. "Get up here."
He pulled you back onto his lap, lined himself up, and you felt the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. You were so wet he slid in easy, both of you groaning.
You both just breathed for a second, adjusting, and then you couldn't wait anymore. Started moving, bouncing on him, hands braced on his shoulders because the car was cramped as hell.
"Shit—just like that," Yeosang groaned. "Fuck, you're so sooo tight."
Your dress was bunched up around your waist, tits bouncing every time you moved, and you caught him staring, couldn't decide where to look. Your face, your chest, where he was disappearing inside you.
He leaned forward, buried his face between your tits, mouth hot and wet on your skin. Then pulled back and spit right on your chest.
You moaned, and he rubbed it in with both hands, before yanking you down into a kiss. Messy, all tongue, and you could hear the wet slap of skin every time you came down on him.
"Get off—" he said, pulling you up. "Spit on it."
You leaned down, let spit drip from your mouth onto his cock, and he groaned, used his hand to spread it before pulling you back down.
The car was definitely rocking on moving wheels. You were being loud, but you couldn't stop.
Yeosang started fucking up into you, hard, taking over completely. You just held on, head thrown back, nails digging into his shoulders.
"Yeo," you gasped, "Yeo, wait, I—"
"Come on," he said, voice wrecked. "Fucking give it to me."
The pressure kept building, almost uncomfortable, and you tried to say something but his hand on your throat and the way he was hitting your cervix was delicious.
The gush of liquid, your whole body locking up as you came so hard. You were making sounds you'd never made before, and distantly you remembered wetness everywhere, soaking his lap, dripping onto the leather seats.
"Holy fuck," Yeosang choked out, and he kept going, kept fucking you through it. "Baby, fuck, you're—shit—"
You couldn't stop shaking. It felt like it went on forever, your body just giving and giving until you were just fully spent.
When you finally came down, you realized how much of a mess you'd made. His pants were drenched. The seats were wet. Your thighs were sticky.
"Oh my god," you said, voice hoarse. "Did I just—"
"Mhm." Yeosang sounded dazed. He was still inside you, still hard. "You just—fuck, that was—"
The car wasn't moving, you both froze.
The engine was off. You'd stopped. Which meant you'd arrived, which meant…
"Shit," you breathed, looking around at the fogged windows, the soaked seats, the absolute disaster you'd made of Seonghwa's car.
Yeosang's hands were still on your hips, gentler now. "That was new."
"I know, I—I didn't know I could—"
Seonghwa twisted in the passenger seat, partition down, driver standing outside, and the look on his face made your stomach flip.
Not mad. Hungry.
His eyes dragged over everything, you still on Yeosang's lap, dress bunched up, thighs spread, the wet mess everywhere. The fogged windows. The smell of sex.
"Busy back there?" His voice was low, and the tent in his pants was obvious.
Yeosang's hands tightened on your hips, again. You were still stuffed full of him, could feel him twitching inside you.
"Sorry about your car." Your brain was fuzzy, body still buzzing.
Seonghwa's eyes met yours. "Are you?"
Hell no, not in the slightest.
You shifted on Yeosang's lap, making him groan. "You just gonna sit there, or you gonna help?"
Yeosang's breath hitched. His jaw clenched, something jealous in his eyes, but you could feel how hard he still was inside you.
"She's lovely," Yeosang said, hands sliding up your sides.
Seonghwa climbed into the back, and suddenly the space was way too small for three people.
"Let's see if you can keep up," you said, and Seonghwa's smile was sharp.
His hand landed on your thigh, and the touch was different from Yeosang's. You grabbed his wrist and moved it higher, right where you wanted it.
"Don't be shy now."
Seonghwa's fingers slid through the mess between your legs, and you gasped. Oversensitive, but you wanted more.
He brought his fingers to his mouth, tasted them. "Sweet." His eyes locked on yours. "Yeosang's been holding out on me."
"Fuck off," Yeosang muttered.
Seonghwa leaned in and kissed you. His tongue was in your mouth, tasting like you, and when you broke apart to catch your breath, Yeosang was right there.
He pulled you into a kiss, reminding you exactly who you were with at the start.
When that kiss ended, you turned back to Seonghwa, testing. His hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your bottom lip. "You always let him share his toys?"
"I'm not a toy," you said.
"No?" Seonghwa's smile was dangerous. "Then show me what you want."
Yeosang's hand fisted in your hair, yanking you back hard enough to make you gasp. There was something raw in his expression you'd never seen before.
"My girl," he said.
Your pussy clenched at the tone. "Then fuck me like it."
For a second he just stared at you, jaw working, and then his grip in your hair tightened until it hurt. "You want me to show him who you belong to?"
His other hand wrapped around your throat, "Want me to fuck you sooo good he knows nobody else gets you like this?"
"Yes," you breathed.
"Say it."
"Show him."
Something snapped. He pulled out of you and you whimpered at the loss, already missing the fullness. His hand left your throat to grip your jaw, forcing you to look at Seonghwa. "Watch. Watch what I do to her."
Then to Seonghwa, "Lie down."
Seonghwa raised an eyebrow, amused. "Giving orders now?"
"You want in or not?"
"Oh, I'm in." Seonghwa stretched out across the backseat, that long black hair fanning out. "Come here, lightweight. Let's see if you taste as good as you look."
You straddled his face, and his hands gripped your ass hard. The first swipe of his tongue made you gasp, licking up everything. Your cum, your wetness, Yeosang's precum. When he sucked on your clit, your thighs clamped around his head.
"Grind on me," he said against your pussy. "Don't be polite."
Yeosang was watching with his cock in his hand. "Get over here," you told him.
You took him in your mouth, tasting yourself, and his hand tangled in your hair, Seonghwa's tongue was relentless and you couldn't focus, couldn't do anything but take it from both ends.
"Nobody eats this pussy like I do." Yeosang's voice had that jealous edge you rarely heard. His hand in your hair, pulling you off his cock. "That's enough."
He yanked you off Seonghwa's face completely, Seonghwa made a noise of protest, his chin wet with you.
"The fuck, Yeosang—"
"She's mine." Yeosang's voice was sharp, final. He pulled you back against his chest, one hand splayed across your stomach, the other sliding between your legs. "You're here because I'm letting you be here. Don't forget that."
Seonghwa's eyes went dark. "Noted."
"Say it," Yeosang demanded, fingers circling your clit, making you whimper. "Tell him whose cock you choke on every night, who you're with."
"You," you gasped. "Yours, Yeo, I'm yours—"
"Good girl." He bent you over the center console, your ass in the air, face pressed against leather. "Now I'm gonna prove it."
Yeosang slammed back into you. The angle was brutal. He wasn't holding back anymore."Who fucks you this good?" he demanded.
"You—fuck, Yeo—"
Seonghwa reached for your foot and sucked your toes into his mouth. The unexpected sensation made you clench around Yeosang and he groaned, fucking you harder.
The car rocked on its suspension, definitely obvious to anyone outside, but you were way past caring.
Your tits were hanging down, bouncing with every thrust, and Seonghwa grabbed them roughly, spit dripping from his mouth onto your chest.
He rubbed it in with both hands before leaning down and biting, hard enough to make you yelp, his teeth leaving marks on the skin.
"Fuck," you gasped, and Yeosang spanked your ass in response.
"She likes that," Yeosang said, voice rough. "Do it again."
Seonghwa bit the other one, then sucked a bruise into the curve of your breast, his tongue soothing over the sting.
But you couldn't focus. There was too much happening. Yeosang's cock hitting your cervix, Seonghwa's mouth on your tits now, biting and sucking.
That pressure was building again. "Yeo, I'm gonna—"
"Do it," he gritted out. "Fucking do it."
You squirted again, gushing around his cock, and Yeosang pulled out just in time for it to spray everywhere.
Some of it hit Seonghwa square in the chest. He looked down at himself, then back up at you with a feral smile. "Fuck. Do that again."
Yeosang dropped to his knees in the cramped space, mouth on you before you could even process it, drinking you down like he was dying of thirst.
"Oh my god—" You couldn't stop shaking, his tongue still working you, licking and sucking.
He sat back, face soaked, looking feral. "Hwa's turn."
"Sit," you told Seonghwa, already moving.
You freed his cock, thick and pretty, and he caught your wrist before you could sink down.
"Slowly," he said, eyes locked on yours. "Wanna watch you take every inch."
You lowered yourself in one slow motion that had you both groaning.
"There she is," Seonghwa said, hands gripping your hips. "Now show me what all that noise was about."
The stretch was different, the angle hitting new spots, and you rode him hard. Used him. Yeosang's hands found your tits from behind, pinching your nipples until you gasped.
"Harder."
He slapped them instead, sharp stings that made you clench. Seonghwa groaned, guiding your hips, and Yeosang bit down on your shoulder hard enough to bruise.
Then your neck. Your ear. Marking you up while you fucked his friend.
"Open," Seonghwa said, and spit in your mouth. You swallowed, then grabbed his face and kissed him. Turned and kissed Yeosang, passing it to him.
"Dirty girl," Yeosang murmured.
You were close, grinding your clit against Seonghwa with every roll. Yeosang's hand slid down and slapped your pussy, right on your clit.
You nearly screamed. "Again—"
He did it. Once, twice, three times, until you were coming, clenching around Seonghwa's cock so hard he cursed.
"Gonna cum," Seonghwa groaned.
"Inside." You felt the hot pulse of him coming inside you. You kept moving, milking him, until he was gasping and oversensitive.
When you climbed off, cum dripped down your thighs. Yeosang spread your legs, watching it leak out, then shoved two fingers inside you.
"Look at this mess." He pushed Seonghwa's cum back in, fucking you with his fingers before pulling them out and pressing them to your lips. You sucked them clean, tasting everything.
He didn't give you time to recover. Just lined himself up and slid in, groaning at how wet and used you were. Cum squelching with every thrust.
"Fuck, you're so full," he said, and you were. Could feel both of them inside you, the stretch almost too much when he bottomed out and hit your cervix.
"Too deep?"
"Don't you dare stop."
He fucked you harder, deeper, until tears were streaming down your face and you couldn't tell if it was too much or not enough. Seonghwa leaned in, wiped your tears with his thumb, then circled your clit with the wetness.
That did it. You came sobbing, clenching around Yeosang as he groaned and added his load to the mess. You could feel it, so much cum leaking out around his cock, dripping onto the seats.
"Wait," you gasped through the haze. "Both of you."
They both looked at you.
"Both of you. At the same time."
"Baby, I don't think—" Yeosang started.
"Try."
"Fuck, okay."
It took maneuvering, you on your back, legs spread wide, Yeosang still buried inside you. Seonghwa lined up next to him and the first push made you gasp. The stretch hurt like hell but you wanted it anyway.
He got halfway before you had to tap out. "Wait—fuck, too much—"
He pulled back immediately, but those few seconds of being that full had you shaking.
"Holy shit," you breathed. "Almost."
"You're fucking insane," Yeosang said, grinning.
When he thrust again, your pussy made this wet sound, all the air and cum getting pushed around.
"Oh my bejeezus," you said, mortified for half a second.
"Don't," Seonghwa said. "That's hot as fuck."
Yeosang groaned. "Do it again."
He fucked you harder and the sound got worse, louder, your body making noises you couldn't control. But they were both so into it.
They started passing you between them after that. Seonghwa pulled you onto his cock while Yeosang moved to your mouth.
You took him deep, gagging yourself on purpose, trying to see how far you could go. Spit dripped down your chin as you choked on him.
"Fuck, look at her," Seonghwa said, watching you struggle. "She's trying so hard."
You pulled off, gasping. "I can take more."
"Yeah?" Yeosang's hand fisted in your hair.
You forced yourself down until your nose hit his pelvis, throat convulsing around him. Held it until you couldn't breathe, then pulled off coughing.
"Good girl," he said, and the praise made you clench around Seonghwa.
Then they switched. Yeosang pounding into your pussy while Seonghwa fed you his cock. You took him just as deep, determined, and he cursed when you swallowed around him.
"Gonna cum," Seonghwa warned, pulling out of your mouth.
You opened wide, and he came on your tongue, warm and bitter. Before you could swallow, Yeosang stilled inside you and grabbed your face, kissing you hard, taking half of it into his mouth.
You passed it back and forth between kisses, messy and gross and so damn hot, until you both finally swallowed.
Time blurred. More orgasms, more cum. Yeosang filled you up again, a third time, and you were leaking everywhere.
Your cervix ached. Your tits were covered in bite marks. Your ass stung from being spanked. You were utterly destroyed.
"I can't," you finally sobbed, pushing weakly at whoever was touching you. "I'm done, I can't—"
"Okay, baby, okay." Yeosang pulled you against his chest. "You're done. You did so good."
Seonghwa grabbed your dress and wiped between your legs, cleaning up the mess still leaking out of you.
The fabric came away soaked.
"Open," Yeosang said softly. He wadded up the cum-soaked part of the dress and pushed it into your mouth.
You could taste all of it, your cum, their cum, your squirt, everything. You gagged a little but kept it there, looking up at them with tear-stained cheeks.
"Fuck, look at her," Seonghwa said.
"Hold on." Yeosang grabbed his phone. "Can I—"
You nodded, and he took a picture, then Seonghwa took one. You, naked and wrecked and gagged with your own dress, covered in marks and cum.
Yeosang pulled the dress out of your mouth and you gasped for air.
"One more thing," Seonghwa said, and he scooped cum from between your legs, you didn't even know whose it was at this point, and held his fingers to your lips.
You opened your mouth, and he fed it to you. Then he did it again. And again. Making you swallow every drop he could collect, a whole cocktail of cum.
"So nice," he murmured, and you whimpered.
When he was done, you collapsed back against the seat. Your body was still twitching with aftershocks.
For a minute, nobody moved. Just heavy breathing and your occasional whimper.
Then Yeosang was pulling you back into his lap, gentler this time. His hand smoothed down your back while Seonghwa found someone's jacket and draped it over your shoulders.
"You okay?" Yeosang asked quietly, lips against your temple.
"Mhm." Your voice was shot. "Just... holy shit."
"Yeah." He huffed a laugh. "Holy shit."
Seonghwa handed you a water bottle from somewhere up front. You didn't even question where it came from, just drank half of it in one go.
"So," Seonghwa said after a moment, looking around at the destroyed interior. The soaked leather seats, the fogged windows, the smell that would definitely never come out. "We're never getting the deposit back on this car."
You started laughing, and then Yeosang was laughing too, and suddenly all three of you were cracking up in the ruined backseat.
"Worth it though," you said when you could breathe again.
Yeosang kissed your shoulder, right over one of the bite marks he'd left. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You looked between them, Yeosang with his fucked-up hair and swollen lips, Seonghwa with your release still drying on his face. "Definitely worth it."
Seonghwa met your eyes, something unreadable in his expression. "This happening again?"
You felt Yeosang tense slightly behind you. Possessive, but not stopping you from answering.
"Maybe," you said. Then, because you couldn't help yourself, "If you can keep up next time."
Yeosang laughed against your neck, and even Seonghwa cracked a smile.
"Guess we'll see," Seonghwa said.
Outside, the sky was starting to lighten. You were naked in a destroyed car with your boyfriend and his friend, covered in evidence of what you'd just done, and you'd probably regret at least some of this soon.
hwa is for the girls who kept the sweater & the screenshots
| series masterlist | series teaser |
⋆˚࿔ seonghwa x f!reader
⋆˚࿔ wc: 15.5k (i never include this, but i'll give heads up for this one lmao)
⋆˚࿔ warnings!: plot&smut. oral (f! & m! receiving), fingering, unprotected sex (they have history), possessive!hwa, marking/biting, choking (consensual), praise kink, the app is lowkey watching y'all fuck, past relationship trauma, anxiety/panic themes, obsessive behaviors, fighting/arguing, emotional breakdowns, smoking mentions, invasive surveillance themes
⋆˚࿔ a/n: hi my hwa stans (bias wrecked victims anon, i GET it).
this is part one. hwa gets the ex treatment AGAIN because i'm obsessed with second-chance him. BUT listen—every member has a COMPLETELY different trope. like you won't even recognize the vibes. hwa's is actually the tame one. the absolute chaos coming for the other seven? we're not ready. there are easter eggs in here hinting at who's next, but i promise you cannot guess the order. you'll be wrong. it's fine. the app works differently depending on the person, the history, the damage levels… you'll learn more with each story. trust the process <3 thank you for reading. please hydrate. scream in my inbox if you survive this. love u
Because girls' night is not girls' night without doing some regrettable shit.
Especially when it's 3 in the morning and you're being surrounded by your two closest friends who live for the chaos in your life.
Your apartment is warm, fairy lights that twinkle, music playing in the background, and laughter between the three of you. You're not sure how many bottles of wine you've gone through, but it is taking up the surface area of your only coffee table in the living room.
Six weeks since you last checked his Instagram. Two months since you stopped wearing his hoodie to bed. You're doing fine, really. Maybe even better than fine.
Nilou is currently sitting criss-cross on your island, scrolling through her phone. You can tell she's drunk by how red her ears are, but she has that smile on her face that never equals good.
"Lou what is it?" Hana, who is sitting on the couch nursing a fresh headache, glances over towards the kitchen as you're nose deep in the fridge looking for something besides alcohol.
Whenever you ask Nilou "what is it," nine times out of ten it's never good, so the search in the fridge ends abruptly as you furrow your brows and turn around to face her.
"Hm?"
"Oh my gosh, guys, it's nothing. Just that new app. I got a match—no clue who he is though."
She has your attention fully at this point because in your group in three, you're all single and sworn off men for the time being. But that doesn't seem to be the damn case.
"What app?" You and Hana say at the same time, in utter confusion.
"synCink—heard of it?"
"What the hell is that?"
"Just download it to find out for yourself—seriously too much to explain at 3am. You guys know my attention span is that of a goldfish."
"Ya, we know–but it's the compatibility app thingy right?" Hana adds on.
"Hey! And yes, I went down the rabbit hole and took the quiz."
"A quiz?" Your interest is piqued, not sure if that's a good or bad thing, as you see who the information is coming from.
"OH–I heard about that. Creepy, though, would never touch that app. Those 100% couples? Odd as fuck." Hana has always been the logical one; you and Nilou…not so much.
"Hana, stop walking with a stick up your ass— Like what if you found you got matched to the love of your life?"
"Or what if you end up being matched with someone you know and have like really good compatibility?" Although Hana has a headache and is half drunk, she is going to question everything.
Little do they know, you're downloading the app onto your phone as they have the back and forth, nothing new, completely normal. You lean against the counter as the bickering continues and the app pops up, immediately having you agree to all kinds of terms.
But it's 3 in the morning, who has time to read all of that? You go through it like rapid fire until you get to the quiz screen.
c'mon take the quiz, lovely
You hit the blush pink button. Is this how they reel you in? The user interface is so pretty and sleek, it's inviting in a way that you disregard the million terms and conditions buttons.
your attachment style? how do you handle conflict?
"Ok kinda basic questions…" You continue to answer the questions, kinda flying through them as they're kindergarten level in your opinion. Not sure what Hana was all worked up about.
You take a moment to butt into the ongoing conversation, they've gotten onto the subject of mindless things, drunk talk if you will.
"Hana, it really isn't that bad–you should take it too."
"HUH, you're doing it?!?"
"HELL YEAH! Let us know whatcha get."
You smile and nod your head, turning your attention back to your device. Then, there's a shift the further you go. The questions become slightly more invasive, specific.
do you revisit places that hold emotional significance?
You pause, your thumb hovers.
how long does it take you to feel safe with someone?
You answer and watch the loading bar jump without letting you answer the other questions that came up afterward. One question stays on the screen for like 0.2 seconds before vanishing: how many times have you thought about someone you're not supposed to think about?
"What the fuck.'"
Nilou props up from lying on the rug. "What is it?"
"The questions keep vanishing—I legit can't answer them fast enough, I guess?"
"Yeah, it does that, no clue why–you'll still get results, so don't worry!"
"Right…"
You answer some more, then finally reach the final question of the quiz. who are you hoping to see? You linger on this; it begins to blink and advances without you answering once again.
Then you're met with the damn loading screen that almost makes you want to end it all just by how long it takes. But then it starts with a hum, like it's loading some confidential private shit, and maybe it is. You don't know; you have the word of a half-drunk girl to go off of.
"I told you, don't worry about it, just wait a bit." You roll your eyes; the nonchalance is not a facade with her at all. Then the hum gets even louder.
MATCH FOUND.
Your breath catches, and the screen goes white. Just complete silence.
98% compatible.
"98%..." A laugh tries to escape, but never makes it out. Who in the hell could be matched that closely with you? There's someone out there who might get you, understand all of you. The pretty, the ugly, the vulnerable, and you're scared. Scared to open yourself up to the potential hurt again.
It's 3 and you're tipsy and you're probably overthinking, but how could you not? 98% is so close to 100%, the 100% who is known to go kookoo according to Hana.
PRIOR MATCH DETECTED – RECONNECTION ADVISED
The humming stops. Hana and Nilou have now put their eyes on you, awaiting an answer, anything. But you're glued to your screen with all the information flooding you.
You scroll, and the graph that graces your eyes should have you on the floor; you're trying to maintain composure. Key word: trying. It's a line chart; your screen has now turned to a rose gold color. It's become more clinical-looking than inviting, like it did at the start.
But the interface isn't what catches your attention the most; it's the graph line being high at the start, then dipping sharply in February, then suddenly starting to climb again.
You begin to focus on the dates, not sure of the full meaning, but you're going to read through it all regardless. Because it's a pain you never forgot, something you will always remember.
> july 18 (96%) – told him i loved him
You remember the shirt he was wearing, the way he smiled before he said it back, the way those almond eyes softened at your courage.
> feb 10 (68%) – conflict detection: moving-in argument
You'd thrown a mug then, it didn't break. He left for two hours, and neither of you had apologized.
> march 2, 11pm – final interaction: 8 mins
You begin clicking the timestamps like the lost files of Alexandria. This app really has the fucking time he walked out…" You didn't really cry until minute nine. The color starts to drain from your face, it's as if the universe is aware of your situation, and it begins to rain.
"Damn, you really know how to bring on the doom and gloom. What does the damn thing say?"
"Nilou! Hush!"
You turn the phone face down on the kitchen counter. You can't speak; just knowing anything else would be word vomit. Nilou gets up from the floor, tries to reach for your phone, you snatch it. You share everything with them, so you're not surprised by the attempt.
Hana notices, she makes a face, Nilou reads the room and gives you some more space, goes to sit on the island across from you again. They're trying, giving you space. Not pushing.
You pick your phone back up, begin to scroll some more, going against everything in your right mind.
> heatmap – her apartment 850 events, his 610
Now you're looking at a map view of red dot clusters at two different locations. A span of 22 months, almost 2 years' worth of clusters. You recognize both addresses, of course, one is yours.
The other is his. One of your favorite places to be. Well, used–past tense, not anymore. It was worth visiting the 610 times, though, you think.
It starts to really fester in your brain that this app has been tracking, watching both of you for ages. The incessant hum returns, but now you recognize it has more of a rhythm, almost like a heartbeat.
A heartbeat that actually feels real, something you can feel in your chest. You begin to question if it's the app or your own pulse.
The rain begins to hit your windows harder, a storm maybe, your lights start to flicker a bit. Or is it your vision blurring? Your apartment starts to feel like a too cramped elevator; it no longer feels fun to be in the space, no longer safe.
You look back at the graph, specifically where the score went up. Eight months ago. You haven't seen each other in a year. What the fuck does this all mean?
You sit there frozen, you hear your friends, but it sounds like background noise, nothing registers. "Babe, who is it?"
You can't answer, but your phone buzzes once. A new notification,
SEONGHWA wants to reconnect.
And you don't dare look.
You don't answer Nilou for a solid ten minutes; she has since moved to sit on the couch with Hana, who is knocked out, glasses sliding off her face. The apartment has gotten too quiet, an uncomfortable quiet.
"Our ride is outside. I know you. I know you want to be alone right now. Woo is downstairs, don't worry. We love you, and always–always here for you."
Nilou nudges Hana, puts the glasses back on her face. Hana cries and complains, gives you a kiss on the cheek on her way out. "It'll be okay."
You give them a soft smile until you hear them outside your door. "WHY AM I PICKING YALL UP AT 4 IN THE DAMN MORN–"
The door shuts, back to silence, with the rain still pattering on your windows. You haven't moved, not even an inch. Frozen while time keeps on going around you, and the phone light becomes the source of light in your kitchen.
You finally pick up your phone, the notification in bold letters still there: SEONGHWA wants to reconnect. You could swipe away, pretend you never saw the thing, delete the app, and go to bed. But instead, you decide to open it.
You scroll through the data again, unsure of what you're looking for. Proof. You're looking for proof that this is real, this is not something your brain is conjuring up to torment you. The obsessive scrolling is like a calling to you; there's endless loads of information and details you didn't even gather yourself.
You then click on the climbing line on the graph, ya know, the point where it just all of a sudden went up 8 months ago. A dropdown appears when you click on the date:
proximity event detected → coffee shop, shared location, 11 minutes. user 2 behavioral note → avoid direct interaction. left 3 min after user 1 arrival.
He saw you, and he left. The app tracked it all. The thought alone sends you into a spiral, picking at your lip as you open your spotify, connect it to your speaker.
Scroll to the playlist you haven't touched in a year, the one he made you. You press play on the second song, Sienna. The one he used to hum while cleaning.
"And I'll watch the sunset, wearin' all your clothes…"
It's too much, but it's not enough. You let it play anyway. The song you haven't been able to listen to since him. You let the tears roll.
Tears blur your vision as you pick up your phone once more, you go to your messages and scroll to his name. You couldn't bring yourself to delete it completely. So he just sits there in your logbook as Park Seonghwa. Not Hwa. Not Baby. Not Honey. Not My love.
The last message: March 2nd.
Park Seonghwa: I'm sorry.
you: [Read 11:55pm]
You'd never responded; the cursor blinks in that empty text message box, all while your hands are shaking. Before you can even take a step to send anything, message bubbles appear. He's typing. And the message comes through. Your heart stops.
Park Seonghwa: did you take that quiz?
Three more dots, he's still going.
Park Seonghwa: because i just got a notif.
You stare at the screen, the rain is still pouring, while the song is still playing. You don't know what to say. You should say something. Anything, but the words won't come. And the phone buzzes again while the song plays on. "See her face in the forest, then it disappears."
You set the phone face down on the counter for a bit, because you know picking it back up was about to lead to a whole other world. Sitting there alone was supposed to do you some good, but all you're doing is reprocessing everything the app revealed. The timestamps, the graphs, his texts.
The proof of it all sitting right in your lap. Like you asked for this. Like you signed up to have your heartbreak timestamped and graphed, and quantified.
The apartment is too quiet now since the music stopped. Just the rain and your breathing and the occasional ting of your phone against your countertop. You should eat something. Drink water? Do literally anything besides sit here taking note of every way the app has dissected your relationship.
Your stomach feels hollow, but the thought of food makes you nauseous. But you still can't move. Your eyes keep drifting back to the phone, face down.
Ting.
You flip it over before you can stop yourself.
Park Seonghwa: im sorry
Park Seonghwa: ik that doesn't fix anything but i need u to know Park Seonghwa: i saw u that day. @ the coffee shop & i ran
Park Seonghwa: i didnt know what to say so i left…like i always do
The last text in this barrage pisses you off. "Like I always do." He knows, he's always known what his problem is. Literally, what is his issue? Another ting. Then another.
You're doing that thing where you pick at your bottom lip until it bleeds, another nervous habit he used to notice. He would kiss your hands to try to get you to stop. OK, brain, shut up, please.
Park Seonghwa: please can we just talk
You stare at the messages until they blur together. He's breaking, and you can feel it through the screen. His desperation is so evident to you, and you hate it, hate that part of you wants to respond immediately, wants to say 'yes, come over, let's fix this.'
But the other part, ya know, the part that waited three hours for him to come back that night in March, the part that cried on the bathroom floor, the part that had to relearn how to be a person without him.
That part is fucking screaming to leave it on read.
You go back to the app with shaking hands, scroll to the graph, screenshot it. The whole timeline of July's 96% high to February's 68% gap to the slow agonizing climb back up, without even seeing each other. You send it without a message, and the typing indicator appears.
Park Seonghwa: jesus, it really does know everything, even the shit we didn't say out loud
There was so much shit you never said out loud. You would wait for him in all things, like to ask you to move in instead of you bringing it up.
Never spoke about how he was terrified of how permanent it felt. Neither of you said "I'm scared," and instead just fought about furniture and lease terms until he walked out.
you: so it knows everything
Park Seonghwa: so what do we do?
You don't have an answer, don't know if there is one. You don't answer. You set the phone down, face up this time, because what's the point of hiding at this point?
You slide down to the kitchen floor, cold tile against your thighs, raindrops still racing down your window. The playlist started shuffling after Sienna, just adding to the ache, songs that you haven't been able to delete. You pull your knees to your chest and let it play.
Your phone tings again, you don't look again. Then again. Again. You should turn it off, put it in another room. Give yourself even more space to think without his desperation bleeding through the screen. But you don't.
You sit there, sitting in your mess. Wine bottles, texts lighting up your phone, the app's 22-month autopsy report of your relationship in another tab. Like that's healthy.
Like sitting on your kitchen floor at 4 am staring at proof that the love of your life has been just as broken as you is somehow going to make this easier. It doesn't.
You're exhausted, overwhelmed. Wading in feelings you haven't let yourself feel in so long, you forgot how much they weighed. Except the potential remedy is sitting somewhere doing the same thing.
Staring at the numbers, the data, the same proof that whatever you had isn't as dead as you both pretended. The app seems to think you can fix it. You close your eyes, the songs keep flowing, and the rain doesn't stop. You don't text him back until 11 am.
You really have been awake since 6 am, staring at his unanswered question, take your first shower of the day after giving up on sleep. Eyes burning, head pounding from that specific exhaustion that comes from crying and not sleeping and thinking way too much.
8 am comes around, and you're still doing the same thing of staring and contemplating. Take your second shower, thinking a cool rinse off will do you some good. Long story short, it doesn't, babe.
You get out, fix some hot tea, give yourself some warmth while you go back to opening and closing text threads a thousand times.
we shouldn't [delete] i dont think this is a good idea [delete] the app doesn't mean anything [delete] (now you know that's a damn lie) okay [delete]
It's like Nilou senses your bad decisions a mile away, as her name drops down on your screen.
lou: babe. r u like alive? who was it????? u can't just leave us hangin lou: im coming over if u dont answer in 10 min
You ignore them; you really don't know how to explain this situation yet to any of your friends. You can't even say his name out loud. Your throat closes up just thinking about it, like your body physically won't let you form the words.
While ignoring, you go back to doom scrolling, but there's really no joy in it, and only a trigger for all the flashbacks of what once was.
july 18th at the 96%, mmm, the night i said i love you first in his apartment, 2am, tangled in sheets. He had smiled before he said it back. "I've been waiting to hear you say that." i had never felt safer.
You reminisce heavily, a warm feeling forming, kinda forgetting about the ugly parts in your relationship. There were pretty times, thoughtful times, memorable times.
But the ugly times are so important to acknowledge to create the beauty. feb 10th at 68%, can't believe we fought about moving in, i'd thrown a mug over a disagreement, and he left for two hours, and when he came back, neither of us even said sorry. just went to bed that night.
You finally type.
you: yeah. we should probably talk about this.
His response doesn't take long.
Park Seonghwa: when?
He doesn't even ask if you're sure or if you really want to—just when? When, like he's been waiting by his phone for hours. In reality, he has.
you: tn at 7, parking garage on 8th
You spend the rest of your day changing clothes at least three times, not sure why you've become so hyper-focused on it. He shouldn't care, no, you shouldn't care. But you end up with good ole jeans and a sweater that reminds you of his. Wow, progress.
You go back to checking the app, obsessing over the percentage staying at 98% and going to google and falling down reddit rabbit holes of synCink.
r/synCinkstories: my 97% ghosted me after we hooked up r/relationships: the app says we're 96% but he's my ex, do i reach out?
Looking at all the reddit posts makes you think about Nilou. You should text her back, maybe call her, and Hana even? You decide no call, just text for right now.
you: i'm fine. i'll explain later, love u
lou: if ur meeting him wear the good bra, i also liked those lacy panties u showed me
You don't even entertain her last message; it makes you rethink if maybe you should've texted Hana instead. Nilou knows how to feed into your delusion too well. A friend group of balance is what you tell yourself daily.
6:45 comes around, and the anxiety kicks in, you grab your keys and hop in your car, trying to remember how to drive, how to breathe. What's my name again? The night is clear as you drive, but your mind isn't. You can't even appreciate the space around you. Just focused on him, and the thought of him consumes you.
You pull into the garage, it's empty considering the time. You just sit, stare at the entrance, wait for that navy Volvo to pull in. Then the app buzzes. user 2 proximity detected
You look up, and his car pulls into the garage. He knows what your car looks like; it's yellow, bright as fucking day. He still parks two spaces away.
He reverses into the spot, and that's when your eyes meet through the windows. Neither of you moves for at least a minute. He steps out first, then you follow suit, and the space between your cars feels like miles.
You meet in the middle of the gap, you take all of him in. His hair is longer, dyed platinum, has it up in a ponytail. And he has on those godforsaken gray baggy sweats, he still looks effortlessly beautiful, no matter what phase of life he's in.
"You're staring." It's not smug, more of an observation, a sign he's also observing you. Taking you in. You finally meet his eyes, and awkwardness starts to set in. The lights in the garage highlight every look on your face.
"Hi."
"Hi."
You're not sure what to do with your hands, your body. Do you shake hands? Hug? Act like strangers? You don't know, and it's just making your anxiety about the situation worse. He gestures to his car; you can tell he's also feeling a bit out of place.
"You wanna…? You nod.
He speed walks to the passenger door and opens it for you. Still, the gentleman you see.
Then it hits you once he closes the door. His car still smells the same, the coconut and baby powder, his leather seat cleaner, the faint smell of cigarettes he swore he quit.
He gets in, the shutting of his door really making reality set in for you. His phone sits in the cupholder; you put yours next to it. The screens stay dark. Seonghwa rubs his hands up and down his sweats, rings catching on the cotton. He goes into the visor for a cigarette pack that's not there. A tell-tale sign he's stressed.
Good. Let 'em wiggle a little bit. Let him feel even a fraction of what I felt for the last year.
"So, how have you been?"
Ahhh. This is where the small talk begins, huh.
"Fine. You?" "Yeah, yeah, I'm good."
Complete silence. You decide to break it. "The 98%."
He exhales, "Yeah." "When did you take it?" "Last night. Around 1 am. Couldn't sleep." "Oh, same. Well, 3 am. Girls' night." "Nilou's idea?"
You almost smile, "How'd you know?"
"Because Hana would never, and you wouldn't unless someone egged you on."
You don't know if it hurts worse to admit he still knows you, your friends, your patterns, or if that's a sign of hope. How'd a man who didn't stick around still care to remember so much?
"Did you read all the data?" "Most of it." "The coffee shop."
He goes completely still, kind of loses eye contact with you. "Mhm."
"You saw me." It's not a question; he knows, and you know. "I did." "And you left." "Yes."
The silence gets heavy, really heavy.
"Why?"
He looks out the window, really lost for words. "I don't know what to say."
"You could've said hi or something."
"I could've." He turns his attention back towards you. "But if I said hi, I would've said everything else too. And I didn't think you wanted to hear it."
Your lungs forget how to work. "You don't know what I wanted."
"You're right. I didn't ask." "You're good at that." "At what?" "Not asking. Just deciding for both of us."
He clenches his jaw, licks his lips, must've forgotten his chapstick. He's slightly irritated. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" You try to stay steady, but your voice begins to crack. "You decided we needed space. You decided to leave. You decided—"
He cuts you off. "You decided we should move in together without asking if I was ready!"
You laugh bitterly. This was the problem. You guys always felt the need to go tit-for-tat with each other. The pattern you could never break.
"That's what this is about? "That's what it was always about." "Then why didn't you just say that?"
"Because I didn't know how to say 'I love you, but I'm fucking terrified of how much I need you' without sounding insane."
The air shifts, becomes suffocating, because finally, some truth. You stare at him. He's breathing hard, hands moved to the steering wheel.
"You were scared," you say slowly. Like you're trying to grasp the idea yourself.
"Of course, I was scared. You were—are—everything. And I didn't know how to be that for someone without losing myself."
Both of your phones vibrate in the cupholder at the same time, interrupting the tension. You both look down to read the notifications.
*proximity event logged – compatibility: 98.3%*
You look up at each other.
"It went up." You whisper in disbelief. "Because we're actually talking." "We should've done this a year ago."
He nods, he's looking at your whole face, not just your eyes anymore. That's when you realize he was always in your world.
Stars do tend to orbit their galaxy after all.
"I can't do this again if you're just going to—"
He cuts you off again, but this time with a kiss that's all desperate. His hand moves to the back of your neck. You gasp into his mouth and kiss him back. It's hard, angry, aching. So many emotions are transferred between these lips. Your hand moves to his hair, taking out the scrunchie holding it all together, as his hand moves to your thigh. Both competing for breath.
"Backseat." He mutters against your mouth.
You climb over the console first, limbs tangled as he follows behind you. And you're in the backseat before either of you can overthink and make a better decision about it.
The backseat is cramped, and it still feels like you can't get close enough fast enough. Your knee hits the door handle, his elbow smacks the window; neither of you cares enough to slow down.
His mouth is on yours again, and you're pulling at his hoodie, shoving it up and over his head. He breaks the kiss just long enough for the fabric to go over, then he's back biting at your bottom lip until you gasp.
"Fuck, I missed you," he breathes against your mouth, hands already working at the button of your jeans.
"Shut up," because if he keeps talking like that, you're going to fall apart before he even touches properly. "Just—"
He gets your jeans open, starts shoving them down your hips. You have to lift, awkward in the tight space, kicking them off one leg while he yanks your sweater up.
His hands are back to being all over you, your waist, your ribs, sliding up to cup your breasts through your bra. The good bra. Say thank you to Nilou. You'll never hear the end of this from her.
"Did you fuck anyone else?" The question comes out of left field, but it's possessive, his fingers digging into your hips as he pulls you onto his lap.
You straddle him, hands braced on his shoulders, and the look on his face is complex. He always wore his emotions there, so clearly when he wouldn't speak them. Half desperate, half terrified of your answer.
"Does it matter?" you respond, breathless.
His jaw tightens. "Yes, it does."
You hold his gaze, half naked, let him see the truth. "No. No one."
Something breaks in his expression, relief turning into something darker. "Good."
"You?" Your nails dig into his shoulders through his shirt.
"No." He pulls you down into another kiss. "No. Just you. Always fucking you."
The words shouldn't hit as hard as they do, but they crack something open in your chest. You kiss him even harder than before, because now you really know he left and he's been yours the whole time, and that makes it so much worse.
His hands slide down to your ass, gripping hard as he grinds up against you. You can feel him through his sweats, hard and thick. You roll your hips down, trying to find that friction.
"Shit," he hisses, head falling back against the seat. "Think you might kill me."
"Great," you gasp, doing it again, watching his face change at the feeling. "You deserve it."
He laughs, breathless, then sits up and flips you. You're on your back across the seat, his body looming over yours, those pretty eyes dark and pupils blown.
"Yeah," he murmurs, hands sliding up your thighs, spreading them. "I do."
He hooks his fingers in your underwear, the lacy ones, and he pauses. Looks at you. There's a question in his eyes, even now, even while he's so desperate.
"Don't stop," you tell him.
He pulls them down, tosses them somewhere on the floorboard, moves his hand between your legs, and you're already so wet it's almost embarrassing.
"Jesus," he breathes, fingers sliding through your folds, the coldness of his rings hitting every now and again. "You're—"
"Your fault," your hips jerking when he circles your clit.
He grins, he's pleased with himself, then pulls his hand back. You're about to complain when he spits on his fingers and reaches down again —
"Did you just fucking try to spit start me?"
He freezes, hand halfway to your pussy, and for a second, you both just stare at each other. Then he laughs, a real one, surprised and genuine. You can't help it; you laugh too, and it really helps break some of the tension.
God, you missed this, missed him, the way he can make you laugh even when you're supposed to be mad, even when it feels like your life is falling apart.
"Shut the fuck up," he says, grinning, and slides two fingers inside you.
The laugh cuts off into a moan, your back arching off the seat. He knows exactly how to touch you, the angle, the pressure, curling his fingers just right. It's insane how easily your body remembers him. Like it's been waiting this whole time, like it knew he'd come back eventually.
"Mmmm. There she is," he murmurs, watching your face as he fucks you with his fingers. "Missed this, missed you like this."
You're already close, wound up from a year of nothing and three minutes of everything. "Hwa—"
"Not yet," he says, slowing down, and you could hurt him for it. "Need you to wait for me." "I can't."
"Yes, you can." He pulls his fingers out, and you whimper at the loss. "Patience for me, baby."
He sits back, shoves his sweats down just enough to free his cock, and the sight of it makes your mouth water. He's thick and flushed, leaking at the tip. He catches you staring once again. "See something you like?"
"Ughhh. Fuck you."
"That's the plan, sweetheart." He reaches over into the console for his wallet and pulls out a condom.
You bat his hand away. "I'm still on the pill. Haven't been with anyone."
"Then I wanna feel you."
His face shifts. He drops the condom, grabs your hips, and pulls you back onto his lap in one smooth motion. You're straddling him again, his cock trapped between you. He's looking at you like you hold his world.
"You sure?" He checks in still.
You lift up, reach between you, and line him up. Sink down slow, watching his face as you take him inch by inch. His mouth falls open, hands tightening on your waist. "Fuck. Fuck, baby—"
You don't stop until he's fully inside, buried deep, and you have to pause because it's so so much, perfect.
"Been craving this," your forehead dropping to his. "Craving you."
"I'm here," his hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck. "I'm here, not leaving."
You start to move, slow at first, rolling your hips, finding the rhythm. He meets you thrust for thrust, hands guiding you, pulling you down harder. The car begins to rock and windows fog, you should be thankful as it blocks out the horrible garage lighting. Let's hope security isn't doing their rounds.
"You're so damn beautiful," he pants, watching where you're joined. "Look at you taking me so well. Fits like a glove, made for me."
"Hwa–" Your thighs are burning, the angle is perfect, and you're so close.
Then he does it, that thing. The move that used to make you see god. His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, and while you're riding him. While his cock is buried inside you, he slides two fingers in alongside it, stretching you impossibly fuller.
"Oh fuck—" You choke on the words, hands scrambling to his shoulders. "Hwa, I can't, it's too much."
"You can take it. You always do," he grits out, working his fingers in and out while his thumb circles your clit in tight circles. The stretch is so big. You're so full you're counting colors, can feel every thrust of his hips and fingers working together, and the pressure on your clit is relentless.
"Come on, baby," he coos, voice wrecked. "Let me feel it. You feel so warm when you do it."
You're shaking, and his thumb presses down hard, and you shatter. Coming so hard and clenching around his cock and fingers, crying out his name.
"That's it, that's my pretty girl—fuck—"
He pulls his fingers out, grabs your hips with both hands, and fucks up into you through your orgasm, trying to get his own. You're still shaking when he follows soon after, spilling into you with his head thrown back as he puts his fingers, the ones that were just inside you, in his mouth. One hand still gripping your hip with bruising force.
You watch him, all dazed and fucked out as he sucks his fingers clean, tasting you. His eyes flutter close, throat working as he swallows, it's the filthiest thing he does, and you love it.
He pulls his fingers from his mouth slowly, a string of spit connecting his lips to his fingertips, eyes locked on you when they open again. Then he leans forward, cups the back of your head and kisses you.
His tongue ties with yours, and you taste yourself on him. You kiss him back, exhausted, and for a moment it's almost tender. Then he shifts, and you both wince. He's still inside you, softening, the angle uncomfortable. Reality crashes back.
You're in a parking garage. You just fucked your ex in his backseat. You can feel him leaking out of you. He seems to realize it at the same time. He carefully helps you off his lap.
You find your underwear, your jeans, start putting yourself back together in silence. He tucks himself back into his sweats, runs a hand through his disheveled hair. The silence is a different kind of heavy.
Then he reaches for his phone in the cupholder. You reach for yours at the same time, a habit even now. You check the app together, screens side by side in the dim glow.
98.9%
You stare, show him your screen even though his says the same thing. "Up again."
He's looking at the number like it's a puzzle. "I see." "Why?"
Neither of you has an answer. You just had desperate, filthy car sex, and somehow the app thinks you're more compatible. Maybe it's measuring honesty. Or need. Or the fact that your bodies still speak the same language even when your mouths don't know what to say.
The silence stretches. You finish fixing your clothes, run your hands through your own messed up hair, knowing you look thoroughly fucked.
"I should go," you say, not looking at him.
His voice has gone flat, neutral. "Okay."
He gets out first, comes around to open your door again. Helps you out of the backseat like he's back to being a distinguished gentleman who didn't just finger fuck you alongside his cock five minutes ago. You stand there between the cars again, that same distance, and everything seems the same, but also very, very different.
"So…" he starts.
"I'll text you," you finish, even though you don't know if you will.
He nods. Doesn't argue. You get in your car, hands twitching as you start the engine. You tell yourself you won't look back. But that's a lie. You look in the rearview mirror as you pull away. He's still standing there, platinum hair catching the lights, watching you leave. Again.
You don't remember the drive back home. It's like your body went on autopilot mode… just driving. Making turns you don't consciously make, muscle memory kicks in. You park in your spot and sit in the car for ten minutes, no thoughts, no noise. Then you finally turn the engine off, don't bother checking your surroundings, and go inside your apartment.
You kick off your shoes, can't get them off fast enough. Your clothes feel too tight, uncomfortable, can feel him all over you. You strip immediately, don't even make it to your room as a pile of your clothes lies in the hallway, and turn your shower to the hottest setting it has to offer.
Burning your skin in scorching water did not wash off your feelings. You stand under the shower head until your hot water runs out. That's definitely gonna show on my water bill.
You stand there dripping on the bath mat for god knows how long, just staring at nothing. You get out and look in your mirror, the led lights that surround it putting your swollen lips and the mark on your collarbone so clear.
You grab your phone off the bathroom counter, with the towel wrapped around you as you sit on the floor. Don't even bother to put on clothes. You go to synCink right away.
And you see that you and he are still at 98.9% and you can't help but check the activity logs.
> 7:35pm – proximity event: 42 mins
> intimacy detected: physical
> emotional resolution: incomplete
> heart rate correlation: 94%
> compatibility increased due to: physical reconnection, partial vulnerability,
unresolved tension remains
'Unresolved tension remains.' You almost chuckle, such an understatement. But you also almost text him. You open the thread, and the cursor is just in your face, blinking, like it's urging you to say something. You don't have a first clue on what to say.
that was a mistake, but was it? we should talk, but you just did. i still love you, no no too much.
You don't say anything, just close the thread and put on your favorite pjs to get in bed, all just to stare at the ceiling. Your brain won't shut off; everything is on replay. His hands, those rings, his voice, the 98.9%, that damn incomplete 'resolution.'
You check the app again: still at 98.9%. Staring a hole into your screen won't change the number; you don't know if you really want it to change to begin with.
You set the phone back down on your nightstand, don't remember exactly what time you fell asleep, but you do know that the phone was still in reach. Just in case, in case of what, you don't know, but it stays within arm's reach anyway.
The notification wakes you at 6:50 am. compatibility decreased to 98.1%
You sit up so fast the room tilts. Black spots dance across your vision, your mouth tastes like pennies and regret. Fuck. Iron pills. Need to— But that's not important right now. What's important is the number. 98.1%. Down from 98.9%.
You fucked last night. It was good, necessary, the kind of sex that feels like kneeling in front of something sacred and then ruining it with your hands.
So why did it go down? Your hands shake as you scroll through the data logs, looking for the exact moment it dropped, looking for proof this isn't your fault.
****compatibility decreased. cause: intimacy without emotional resolution. vulnerability deficit detected.***
You read it three times. The words blur. Intimacy without emotional resolution. The app is saying you fucked but didn't finish the conversation, the app is saying bodies aren't enough. The app is saying you're still broken.
You feel it then, the emotional hangover. Not from alcohol, from him. From letting him back in before you'd finished processing him leaving.
Your throat closes up. When did you become this person? The anxious data-obsessed mess who takes note of every percentage point like it's a life or death?
March 2nd. That's when.
You open your notes app. The folder labeled march '23 that you've never deleted. Inside are timestamps of when he stopped texting as much. Screenshots of conversations that felt wrong. A voice memo from the night he left that you've never been able to listen to.
You've been archiving for a year, organizing your pain like you're building a case file. Like if you document it thoroughly enough, it'll make sense. It never does.
You click on the app's explanation again.
vulnerability deficit detected. physical intimacy occurred, but emotional barriers remain.
user 1 deflected post-intimacy conversation. user 2 avoided direct emotional acknowledgement. recommendation: complete unresolved discussion from feb 10 & march 2 within 24-48 hours to prevent further degradation.
A countdown, synCink is giving you a fucking deadline to fix your relationship. You can't breathe right.
I need to call him. It's 6 am. I can't call him at 6 am. Can I? "Hey we fucked and the app is mad we didn't immediately process our collective trauma?"
Your phone is still in your hand, screen lighting up your dark bedroom. You open his contact. Close it. Open it again.
you: are you awake. You delete it before sending.
Your phone buzzes.
Park Seonghwa: you up?
Your heart stops. You don't think and just call him. He answers on the first ring.
"Hey." His voice is rough with sleep.
"It went down." Your voice cracks immediately. So much for playing it cool.
Silence for a beat. "I know. I saw."
"Why? We—we were together, it should've—"
You hear him exhale. Can picture him running a hand through his hair, biting at his bottom lip. "Because we didn't finish talking."
You close your eyes. You knew. But hearing him say it makes it real.
"We had sex in your car, and the app wants us to have a feelings conversation."
He laughs, but it sounds hollow. "Sounds about right."
Silence. Just breathing on both ends. The rain has started again outside your window. Or maybe it never stopped.
"Can I come over?" he asks quietly.
You should say no. Should protect yourself. Should establish boundaries.
"Yeah." "Now?" "Yes."
"Okay. I'm—" He pauses. "I'm leaving now."
You hang up. Seonghwa lives twenty minutes away. He knocks on your door fifteen minutes later. He was already on his way before I said yes.
He looks exhausted. You probably look worse. Sweatpants, hoodie, hair a mess. He just rolled out of bed and drove straight here.
"Hey." "Hello."
When did we get so formal? We had each other's come dripping out of us six hours ago and now we're saying "hi" like strangers.
Your apartment feels smaller with him in it. You remember what it used to be like, him here, making coffee, existing in your space like he belonged. You move to the kitchen without thinking. "Coffee?"
"Thanks."
You make tea for yourself, coffee for him. Black, no sugar. Such a simple thing to remember. He sits at the island, hands fidgeting. Neither of you drinks. You move to the couch. Safe distance between you, both phones on the coffee table, synCink already open.
98.1%
"Um," you start. But neither of you continues. The silence is harder than fighting. Harder than fucking. This is the thing you've been avoiding for a year. You stare at the number. "It says we need to talk about February 10th and March 2nd."
"I know."
"Okay, so if you know—we actually have to talk. Not just... surface shit."
He nods. Jaw tight. "Okay."
But nobody starts. You can't do the tiptoeing anymore, can't be the one who has to guide every hard conversation.
"Why did you really leave?"
Same question as last night, but you need a better answer. Because what he said in the car wasn't enough, wasn't the whole truth.
He looks at you. "Which time?" "March 2nd. The last night."
He's quiet for so long, you think he won't answer.
"Because I woke up that morning and realized I couldn't imagine my life without you in it. And it fucking terrified me."
What? That was the last thing you expected. "What?"
"The moving-in fight wasn't about the lease. Or logistics. Or furniture." He stops, bites his lip. "It was about the fact that I woke up next to you and thought 'this is it, this is my person' and I—I panicked."
"So you left." "Mhm."
"That doesn't make any fucking sense, Hwa. If you loved me—"
"I loved you too much." His voice cracks. "That was the problem. I loved you so much I didn't know where I ended and you began anymore. Every decision I made, I thought about you first. Every plan included you. I couldn't remember the last time I did something just for me without considering how it would affect us."
You're staring at him. Throat so tight.
"And it scared the shit out of me," he continues, words coming faster now, like he's been holding them in for a year. "Because the last time I loved someone like that, I lost myself completely. I became whatever they needed me to be until I didn't recognize myself anymore. And when it ended, I didn't know how to exist without them."
"You were scared of losing yourself again," you say slowly.
"I was terrified. And instead of talking to you about it, I just—I ran. Because running felt safer than staying and watching myself disappear."
The anger you've carried for a year starts to crack. Not gone. Just... shifting.
"You should've told me."
"You should've fucking told me, Seonghwa." Your voice is sharp. "Instead of just—instead of making me feel like I was asking for too much. Like wanting a future with you was unreasonable."
"You weren't—"
"Let me finish." Tears are coming. Angry ones. "Do you know what that year was like for me? Do you have any idea what it's like to have someone you love just leave without a real explanation? To spend months replaying every conversation, every fight, trying to figure out what you did wrong?"
"I'm sorry—"
"I'm not done." You're crying now, fuck. "I blamed myself. I thought I pushed too hard, wanted too much, loved too intensely. I made myself smaller in every relationship after—" You stop. Laugh bitterly.
"Who am I kidding. There were no relationships after you. I tried. Went on dates. But no one was you. And I hated you for that. I hated that you got to leave and I had to stay behind, haunted by you."
He's crying too now. Silent tears.
"I made spreadsheets." Your voice breaks on the word. "Actual fucking spreadsheets. Dates, conversations, what I said, what you said. Trying to find the pattern. Trying to figure out the exact moment I became too much."
It's insane. You know it's insane. But what else were you supposed to do with all that pain?
"I didn't want to leave," he says finally.
"But you did!" You're yelling now. "You did leave! You don't get to say you didn't want to when you're the one who walked out! You don't get to rewrite it now because an app brought us back together!"
Both of you are crying, trying to breathe. Your face is hot and blotchy, you hate crying. Always have, can't stop.
"You're right," he says, voice wrecked. "You're absolutely right. I left. I made that choice. And it was the worst fucking mistake of my life."
"Then why—" You can't stop asking. Can't stop trying to understand. "Why did you do it?"
"Because I thought it would hurt less if I left first. I thought if I was the one to end it, I could control the pain. I could leave before you realized I wasn't enough and left me instead."
You stare. "Are you serious?"
"I know it's fucked up—"
"You're damn right it's fucked up. Seonghwa, I was in love with you. I wanted to build a life with you. And you threw it away because you were scared I might leave you eventually? So you left me first?"
"I know it doesn't make sense—"
"No, it doesn't! You keep making decisions for both of us! You ended something good because of a fear of something that never even happened!"
"I KNOW!" He's yelling too now. Standing. "I know, okay? I know it was selfish and stupid and I've regretted it every single day for a year. Do you think I don't know I fucked up the best thing in my life? Do you think I haven't been miserable?"
"Good! You should be miserable! I was miserable!"
"I SAW YOU AT THAT COFFEE SHOP AND I COULDN'T FUNCTION!"
His voice echoes in your apartment. You've never heard him sound like this, even when he left. He's breathing hard, more tears streaming. "I saw you and you looked... fine. Better, even. And I realized I threw away everything we had and you were just—existing without me. Like I was easy to get over."
"I wasn't fine." Your voice is quieter now. "I was falling apart. I just got really good at pretending."
"Me too."
Two people performing normal for the world while drowning separately. You both sit back down. Exhausted. synCink buzzes.
emotional vulnerability: increasing → proceed.
"It wants more," you say. "What else is there?"
You know. The thing you haven't said. The thing you've avoided.
"I need to know if you're going to run again."
He looks at you. "What?"
"If things get scary. If it feels like too much. Are you going to leave?"
"No—"
"How do I know that? How do I trust you when you've already proven you'll run when things get hard?"
He doesn't have an answer.
"I can't do this again, Hwa." You're crying again. "I can't let you back in just to watch you leave when you get scared. I can't survive that twice."
"I'm not going to—"
"You don't know that! You can't promise that! People promise forever all the time and then they leave. You did leave!"
"I can't prove the future," he says quietly. "I can't promise I'll never be scared again, because I probably will be. Loving someone this much is fucking scary." You're still crying. You wipe your face with your sleeve, sitting up slightly. The tea has gone cold, everything feels cold.
"Okay," you whisper. "Say the rest."
"But I can promise I won't run without telling you why. I can promise that if I get scared, I'll say it out loud instead of disappearing. I can promise to stay and fight because fighting is better than losing you again."
"That's not enough."
But looking at his face, you realize it might be all either of you has. "It's all I have."
Ting. emotional resolution: in progress. compatibility: 98.6%
You both stare. You take a shaky breath. "My turn."
"Your turn?"
"To say the shit I've been avoiding." You look at him. "I pushed you away too."
He starts to protest. You hold up a hand.
"I did. The moving-in thing—I brought it up during a fight on purpose. I wanted you to say no so I could be mad at you instead of being scared you'd say yes and it would be real."
He's staring.
"I have this thing where I test people. I push and push until they leave, because at least then I was right about them leaving eventually. At least then I control when it happens." You're shaking.
"And I did it to you. I picked that fight knowing you weren't ready. I backed you into a corner and then got mad when you felt trapped."
Saying it out loud makes it worse somehow.
"You wanted me to leave?"
"No. I wanted you to stay anyway. I wanted you to fight for us. But I also made it impossible for you to stay."
"We're both fucked up," he says. "We sure are." "The app can't fix that." "No. It can't."
Silence. But it's lighter.
"What do we do?" you ask.
"Try again? Fuck it up differently this time?"
You almost laugh.
"I can't promise I won't test you again," you admit. "When things get good, I start waiting for the other shoe to drop."
"And I can't promise I won't get scared. But I can promise I'll tell you when I am."
You look at each other. And for the first time in this conversation, you both smile.
"I'm sorry," he says. "For leaving. For running instead of fighting."
"I'm sorry too. For pushing. For not telling you I was scared."
"Intimacy architecture," you read. "What does that even mean?"
"I think it means we just did the work."
Morning light is coming through the windows now.
"Can I stay?" he asks. "Today. Just today. We don't have to do anything. I just—I don't want to leave yet."
You nod. "That's fine."
He exhales like the question took everything out of him.
"But Hwa?" "Yeah?" "If you run again, I won't chase you." "I won't run."
You don't know if you believe him. But you want to. Maybe that's enough for now.
He kisses you slow this time, like he's memorizing the taste of your mint chapstick. Not reclaiming, rebuilding. It starts on the couch, after the crying, after the confessions. After the kind of honesty that leaves you raw. You're both exhausted. Emotions wrung dry, and somehow that makes this feel inevitable.
His hands cups your face, thumb brushing away the salt tracks from your tears. Cherishing your face no matter what it looks like. Cherishing you.
"C'mere," you whisper against his mouth, and he understands you right away.
You stand, taking his hand, leading him to your bedroom. Sunlight peaks through your room. It's barely 9 in the morning, so everything is visible. No darkness to disappear away in, no cramped backseat. Just your bed and the two of you deciding to try again.
Your room looks different; you can feel the change of having him in it again. He hasn't been here in over a year. You rearranged everything after he left, trying to erase every trace of him. Every fingerprint on the headboard, every stray hair, his colognes he left on your dresser.
"Is this okay?" he asks, and you realize you've both just been standing there. Like those two emojis holding hands. Awkward when it shouldn't be.
"I want this."
He nods, steps closer, his hands find your waist, slipping under your shirt. It's one of his old ones, actually, one you never gave back.
"This mine?" He tugs the hem. "Maybeeee."
"Liar." But he's smiling ear to ear when he pulls it over your head. You're not wearing a bra, couldn't bother, and his breath catches. It's his thing; he always becomes short of breath while being in your presence.
"Lie down," he says softly. "Let me take care of you."
You climb onto the bed, settle against your mountain of pillows and plushies. He strips slowly until he's completely bare. Seeing his happy trail when he undid his sweats has you foaming at the mouth. You're gonna combust, genuinely, if he doesn't hurry up. Then he crawls up, settling between your legs.
"I wanted to do this yesterday," he says, kissing your inner thigh. "Didn't have time in the car. But now—" He looks up at you. "Now I'm about to do this body of yours sooo right."
His mouth finds you, and you gasp, hands flying to his hair, no scrunchie to hold you back this time. He really takes his time, slow thorough licks. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider and holding you open.
"Look at me," he hums against you. When you meet his eyes, the intensity makes you shake. He doesn't break eye contact. Watches your face while he works you with his tongue. When he slides two fingers inside, curling them, you arch off the bed.
"Stay still. Wanna make you feel good."
The softness in his tone, the attention, the way he's looking at you like you're a lost painting. It builds slower than yesterday, but much deeper. You're shaking, his name falling from your lips.
Seonghwa never sounded any prettier.
Seonghwa, Hwa, baby, honey, my love; all the names you called him, all yours again.
"Yes, yes. That's it. Let go, baby."
You come on his mouth, trembling. He works you through it until you push at his head. He crawls back up, mouth glistening. Your juices on his face suit him much better. You reach and grab his face to kiss him, tasting yourself on his tongue.
You look at him with those bedroom eyes, he knows what you're up to, and he always tries to protest out of feeling bad.
"You don't have to—" he starts.
"I want to." You push at his shoulders. He settles against the pillows.
You position yourself between his legs. He's hard to where it looks painful, and leaking at the tip. You wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly while maintaining eye contact.
"Missed this," you admit. "Missed seeing you twitch and moan for me."
His breath hitches. "Sweetheart—"
You lean down and take him in your mouth. The sound he makes is music to your ears. You want to bottle that sound, replay it, live in it for all time. His hands find your hair, doesn't push. Just holds.
You work him slowly, trying not to gag. The spit gets thick and foamy, gathering around your hand on what doesn't fit. He's trying not to thrust; he's failing terribly. But you revel in the loss of control.
"Keep your eyes on me," you say, pulling off briefly.
You maintain eye contact as you take him back. Watching him struggle to keep his eyes open. You can feel his thighs tense up.
"Fuck—stop, I'm gonna—"
You pull off, licking your lips of the mess you've made. "Uh-uh. I want that inside. How do you want me?"
He pulls you up, kisses you hard. "Turn on your side for me."
He shifts, and you turn so your back is to his chest. He pulls your leg up, opening you up.
"This okay?" His voice is rough against your ear. "Perfect."
He lines himself up, slides in slow. The angle is deeper, every inch devastating.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You feel—" "Fucking amazing? I know."
He chuckles, "cocky, are we?"
"Just stating the obvious, baby, now c'mon."
He starts doing deep rolls of his hips. One arm wraps around your waist, holding you close. The other hand comes up to your throat. Not squeezing yet, just resting there. He's asking for permission.
"Yes," you gasp.
His fingers tighten, just enough to make you lightheaded.
"You're so pretty," he says against your ear. "I don't even believe in a god, but being in you like this is my biggest blessing."
The praise makes you clench, and he groans.
"Turn your head. I wanna look at you."
You crane your neck back, and he gets your mouth in a messy kiss. His hands tighten up even more on your throat as his hips speed up.
"Need you to come first," he pants.
His free hand slides down to your clit, circling at the same pace as his thrusts. It's all becoming overwhelming.
"Oh shit—fuck Hwa." "You got it, baby, you can take it all."
You come hard, vision going in and out from the pressure on your throat and the intensity of the orgasm. He releases your throat. Lets you breathe. His hand laces with yours, pinning your joined hands against your stomach.
"I love you," he says, voice breaking. "I never stopped."
His words, with the feeling of him still moving inside you, makes you sob. "You can't just—"
"I know. But I need you to know. I loved you then, and I love you now, and I'll love you tomorrow—" His thrusts are getting sloppy, close.
Crying during sex wasn't on your bingo card today, but here you are.
He comes, spilling everything into you. Forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, his hands tighten around yours, like it's the only thing keeping him on earth. You stay connected. Both crying. Both shaking.
"I love you too," you finally whisper. "I'm so mad at you and I love you and I don't know how to do both."
"We'll figure it out." He kisses your shoulder. "Together."
He pulls out carefully, both of you wincing. He gets up and comes back with a warm washcloth, cleans you gently, then himself. After tossing the washcloth and navigating your bathroom with ease, he climbs back into bed and pulls you against his chest.
You notice the marks on your thighs. A bite on your shoulder you don't remember. You press down on the mark on your collarbone, and it hurts, and some fucked up part of you likes that it does.
"Damn. I marked you up," he says, tracing one with his finger.
"I like it." You're surprised by your own response (hell, i am too). "Wanna remember this."
He kisses you. "Me too."
You both reach for your phones.
99.1%
You stare at it together.
"We did it," you say, exhausted.
He's quiet while staring at the number; something changes in his expression that you can't read.
"What?"
He shows his screen, same number. "We're almost there." "Almost where?" "100%."
Something in his tone makes your stomach drop. "You don't sound happy about it."
"I don't know if I want to hit 100%."
You prop up on your elbow, turning to look at him. "What do you mean?"
But he just pulls you back down, kisses your forehead, avoids your eyes. "Nothing. Forget it. Let's just…stay here for a bit."
You don't push, not yet. The unease of it settles in your chest, a seed of doubt being planted that you can't quite uproot.
He still stays. You don't ask him to, he just does, and you don't question it because questioning it feels like you might jinx the whole damn thing. Not just that day, but the next. And the one after.
His toothbrush appears on day three, the fancy charcoal one. By day five, there's a drawer that's just his:
Hoodies, sweatpants, that one shirt you always loved on him. Coffee and tea in the morning become routine again. He knows you still take your tea with some honey, and you still know he will keep asking if he made it to your liking. The small things that feel enormous.
You exist in this bubble. Your apartment, his presence, synCink always nearby like a third person in the relationship. You check it constantly: post-tea, post-sex, random afternoon when that anxiety creeps in.
99.1%
It doesn't move, hasn't budged in five days. Then a week. Then two.
"It's stuck," you say one morning. "That's good though, right? Stable." "Right. Stable."
The word makes you queasy.
The days blur together, but in the best way. Inside jokes have returned, the ones you thought you'd forgotten. Shared silences that used to feel uncomfortable are comfortable again. He makes you laugh during dinner. You make him watch your favorite reality show that he pretends to hate but is actually invested in.
It feels good. Really fucking good. But also fragile, like a vase sitting on the edge of a countertop. If the wind blows wrong, it'll all shatter. So both of you move carefully around it, holding your breath, waiting for the wind to blow wrong.
Three weeks in, you finally tell Nilou and Hana everything. You've been avoiding this conversation because you know they're gonna have opinions, and you're not sure you're ready to hear them. You spill it all.
"Soooo you're back together?" Nilou asks, leaning forward.
"I…think so? We haven't really said it out loud."
"And the percentage?" Hana's doing that thing where she's trying not to do her judgy thing, but she definitely is.
"99.1%. Three weeks straight."
Nilou grins. "Honey, that's so good!!"
Hana doesn't smile. "Be careful. Don't let the app become the relationship."
Ooopsy, too late.
"Also," Nilou adds, stirring her matcha, "I tried the app again. Got matched with Woo AGAIN. 96%."
You blink. "Wait, again?"
"We dated briefly, like six months ago. Total chaos. Fun chaos but still." She shrugs. "The app say we're compatible during conflict. Which…tracks."
"Are you getting back with him?"
"God no. I love mess but I also love my sanity."
Hana snorts into her drink. You file that information away for later. Wooyoung, 96%, conflict-driven compatibility, when your brain isn't completely swimming in Seonghwa.
You've always noticed things, especially the small things. Like how he checks the app less than you do. How sometimes when he does check it, there's something in his expression you can't read. Not unhappy. Just thoughtful, a bit distant.
One night, you're both in bed. Post orgasm, his arm around you. You're scrolling through synCink, reading old data logs like they're bedtime stories.
"Do you think we could hit 100%?"
The question comes out casually, you know what water you're treading when you ask it. He goes completely still, his body tenses and breathing changes.
"Hwa?"
Long pause that goes on for way too long. "I don't know."
You prop up to look at him, but his eyes are on the ceiling, not on you.
"You don't know, or you don't want to?" "Does it matter?" "Yeah, it does."
He still won't look at you. Then he finally does, and what you see on his face makes your stomach drop.
"I don't want to."
"What do you mean, no?"
You sit up so fast the sheets pool around your waist. He's still lying there, one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling like he didn't just say the most insane thing.
"I mean no. I don't want to try for 100%."
Your brain short-circuits. "I—what? Why not?"
"Just don't think it's a good idea."
"That's not—" You're stammering. "That's not an answer."
He looks at the ceiling. Won't meet your eyes.
"Hwa, what aren't you telling me?"
Silence stretches. Finally, "There's a section in the app. About 100%. I found it last week."
Your stomach drops. "What section?"
"Just—" He runs a hand through his hair. "Look at it yourself. I don't want to explain it wrong."
He gets up, goes to the bathroom. The door closes. You grab your phone.
100% COMPATIBILITY REQUIREMENTS
> complete algorithmic synchronization
> behavioral patterns must align permanently
> routine disruption tolerance: 0%
> individual decision-making: minimized
> WARNING: enmeshment risk detected > WARNING: identity dissolution possible > WARNING: individuality erosion – high probability
You read it twice. Three times. What the hell. There's more. Case studies. A whole fucking section you didn't know existed because you were too busy obsessing over your own percentage to read the fine print.
> the parker pair (99.6% → 100%): last seen separately 8mo ago. social media dormant since May. friends report: "They finish each other's sentences mid-word. It's not cute anymore. It's wrong."
> case #839 (100%): hospitalized after 48hr separation attempt. both users: heart palpitations, severe dissociation, inability to recall individual memories vs. shared memories.
> case #1200 (100%): deleted app after 3 weeks at 100%. user testimony: "We weren't two people anymore. We were something else. Something that couldn't exist as individuals."
You read until your eyes burn. The Parker Pair's Instagram is public. You shouldn't look. You look anyway. Matching tattoos. Matching captions posted at the exact same timestamp. Photos where you can't tell whose hand is whose. Comments from concerned friends getting ignored.
The last post: six months ago. 99.6% forever <33. 4,000 likes. 200+ comments, all variations of: "guys are you okay" "please just text me back" "this is getting concerning"
You click their tagged photos. Someone posted them at a grocery store three weeks ago—shaky video, caption: "saw the Parker Pair IRL and I'm genuinely unsettled. they moved in PERFECT sync. same facial expressions. same head tilt. it wasn't cute."
You lock your phone. The bathroom door opens. He's been in there fifteen minutes.
"You looked," he says quietly. Not a question. "When did you find this?"
"Week and a half ago. Right after we hit 99.1%."
"And you've just been sitting on it." He sits on the edge of the bed, won't look at you.
"How about 'hey babe, fun fact, if we try for 100% we might lose our entire sense of self'—that would've been a great start!"
"Would you have believed me?" His voice goes sharp. "Or would you have thought I was making excuses because I was getting scared again?"
You open your mouth. Close it. Damn. He's right. You would've thought he was running.
"I've been checking that forum every day," he continues, voice getting quieter. "Reading every post about 100% couples. And they're all the same. They all say the same thing—'we're so happy, we're perfect, we don't need anyone else'—and their friends are in the comments, terrified."
Your stomach twists.
"The last 0.9%…" Your voice sounds far away. "That's where we stop being us." "Yes."
You stare at your phone. His phone. Both showing 99.1%. Three weeks stable. Three weeks of good. Three weeks of still having girls' nights and gym sessions alone and separate coffee orders. Three weeks of being together, but still being you and him. Not us in the way that erases the individuals.
"So this is it? 99.1% is the ceiling?"
"I think so. If we want to still be ourselves."
The disappointment hits weird. You didn't even know you wanted 100% until someone said you couldn't have it. Classic.
"But what if—" You're spiraling, you can feel it starting. "What if 99.1% isn't enough? What if we need that last 0.9% to actually make it work long-term?"
"Then we were never gonna work."
You stare at him. He's looking at his hands, picking at his cuticles. "If we need an app to engineer the last 0.9% of compatibility—if we need to erase ourselves to be perfect—then we weren't right to begin with."
"That's…" "Harsh?" "I was gonna say terrifying." "That too."
Silence. Just the sound of your breathing, the hum of your humidifier in the kitchen. The distant sound of dogs barking. You look at the Parker Pair post again. The matching tattoos. The identical captions. "99.6% forever"
Who decided to get the tattoo? Or did they just both want it at the same time? Did they even have individual thoughts anymore?
"I don't want that," you whisper.
He exhales like he's been holding his breath since he handed you the phone. "Me neither."
"I don't want to lose myself loving you."
"I don't want you to lose yourself either. I fucking love you. Not some algorithm-optimized version that's been sanded down to fit perfectly."
He's scared. You can see it in how his jaw is clenched, how he won't hold eye contact for more than three seconds. He's scared you're gonna choose the number over him. God, when did everything get so wrong?
"Last time," he says, voice cracking slightly, "before I left—I didn't know where I ended and we began. That's what scared me so much. I couldn't make a decision without thinking about us first. Couldn't remember what I wanted outside of what we wanted."
"And you think 100% would do that again."
"I know it would. The app literally says 'individual decision-making: minimized.' That's not—I can't do that again. I won't survive it."
Three weeks ago, you would've said yes to 100% without thinking. Would've chased it like it was the only thing that mattered. But three weeks ago, you didn't know the cost.
"What if I spiral without a goal?" The question comes out small. "What if not having 100% to chase makes me go back to—to testing you and pushing until you leave?"
"Then we'll deal with it."
"That's not a plan."
"No. It's not." He finally looks at you fully. "But it's real. And I'd rather have real and messy than perfect and hollow."
You sit with that. The app is still open on your phone.
"Do you think we can do it? Stay at 99.1% and not—not implode?"
"I don't know." "Super comforting, thanks." "You want me to lie?" "...No."
He reaches over, takes your hand. His palm is sweaty. He's more nervous than he's letting on.
"I think we have a better shot at 99.1% than we do at 100%. And I think—I think I'd rather fail as myself than succeed as someone I don't recognize."
When did he get so good with words? You look at the case studies again. The warnings. The forum posts. Then you look at him. Platinum hair a mess, anxiety written all over his face, picking at his cuticles until the skin goes red. Still him. Entirely, completely him.
"Okay."
He blinks. "Okay?" "Okay. We stop at 99.1%." "You're sure?"
"No. But I don't want 100% if it means I lose this."
"This?"
You gesture vaguely between you. "You being you. Me being me. Us being—whatever the hell we are. Messy and scared and probably gonna fuck it up sometimes."
He's staring at you like you just said something in another language.
"Did you think I'd choose the number?" you ask.
"...Little bit, yeah."
"Asshole." "Sorry."
You shove him lightly. He catches your wrist, pulls you closer.
"We just—what? Stay at 99.1% forever? Never try for perfect?"
"Fuck perfect." He kisses your knuckles. "Let's just try for real."
You want to cry. Get it together.
"The app is still here though," you say. "Still tracking. Still measuring every time we fuck up."
He goes still. "What?"
"We could delete it."
Your stomach drops. "Delete it?"
"We know the number. We did the work. We don't need it watching us anymore."
"But—" But it's proof. But it's validation. But it's the thing that brought us back together. But but but.
"I don't know if I can," you admit.
He nods, just holds your hand. You look at the app. 99.1%. Three weeks stable. 22 months of history, proximity events. Every fight, every reunion, every choice that led here. It's all documented and timestamped. Proof the pain was real and you survived it.
"Can I think about it?" you ask. "Of course."
You lock your phone. Set it face down. He does the same. "Come here," he says quietly.
You curl into him. Let him hold you without checking if it increased your percentage. It feels wrong. It also feels right. What are we doing?
You don't sleep. Neither does he, you can tell by his breathing. He's doing that thing where he tries to stay perfectly still, like if he doesn't move you won't know he's awake. Idiot. I can literally hear you thinking. 4 am comes. Then 5. Then 6.
You reach for your phone at 6:50 am. Open synCink. 99.1% stares back at you. The case studies are still there. The warnings. The Parker Pair with their matching everything and their friends' worried comments. You scroll to your own data.
"Are you checking?" His voice is rough with sleep-deprivation.
"Yup..." "What's it say?" "Same. 99.1%."
Then, "Do you want to delete it?"
"I don't know."
You scroll through the data again. There's a proximity event from July 18th, the night you said I love you first. The app logged it. Noted the elevated heart rates, the prolonged eye contact. It watched us fall in love.
There's the fight from February 10th. Proximity event: 42 minutes. Compatibility dropped 28% in a single conversation. It watched us fall apart.
March 2nd. The last night. Proximity event: 8 minutes. Then nothing for eleven months. It watched him leave. Then the climb back. Every month, the percentage creeping up even though you never saw each other. Like your data was still in conversation.
It watched us find our way back.
"It's proof," you say quietly. "That all of it was real. The good parts and the awful parts. It's all right here."
"If we delete it, what do we have?" "Each other."
You almost laugh. "That's so fucking corny."
"Doesn't make it less true."
You sit up. He does too. You're both awake now, might as well commit. "I need tea for this conversation."
"I'll make it." He gets up, pulls on sweats. You watch him shuffle to the kitchen, still half-asleep, hair sticking up. He looks so normal. How is he so normal about this?
You follow him after a minute. Sit at the island while he makes your tea, his coffee.
"Well," you say. "Devil's advocate." "Okay."
"What if we delete it and everything goes to shit? What if not having the number makes us sloppy? What if we stop trying because there's no percentage to maintain?"
He slides your tea across the counter. "Counter-point: what if keeping it makes us perform? What if we start making choices based on what will increase the percentage instead of what we actually want?"
Shit. Valid.
"Counter-counter-point: the app told us we needed to have that conversation. The ugly one. We wouldn't have done that without it."
"Would we though?" He leans against the counter. "Or were we gonna have that fight eventually, and the app just gave us permission?"
You don't have an answer.
"I think—" He stops. Starts again. "I think the app was training wheels. It got us here. But now we know how to ride."
"That's a terrible metaphor." "I'm tired, give me a break."
You almost smile, sip your tea instead. Would he still remember without an app tracking it? The thought makes you anxious.
"What if I forget things?" you ask. "Like—what if I forget what you like, how you are, all the stuff the app was logging? What if deleting it means I lose all that data?"
"You won't." "How do you know?"
"Because you knew all of it before the app existed. You knew how I like the smell of clean laundry, fresh veggies, my coffee black when we were at 96%. The app didn't teach you that. You just paid attention."
Oh.
"I'm scared," you admit. "Me too." "This is a terrible idea." "Probably." "We're gonna mess up." "Oh, definitely."
You look at him. He's smiling a little, that soft almost-smile that he does when he's trying not to be too sincere. "Why are you smiling?"
"Because you said we. You're scared we'll mess it up. Not that I'll leave or you'll push. We."
Oh lord, don't cry. Don't cry over grammar. Too late. Your eyes are stinging. "I hate you."
"No you don't." "I really, really do."
He comes around the island, stands in front of you, tilts your chin up. "We don't need the app to know we're good."
"But what if we're not good? What if 99.1% is a lie and we just convinced ourselves—"
He kisses you. You make a sound against his mouth, he pulls back just enough to talk.
"Did that feel like a lie?"
"That's not—you can't just kiss me every time I spiral—"
He kisses you again. Asshole. Effective asshole, but still.
"Okay fine," you mutter against his lips. "Point made."
You pull back. Look at your phone on the counter. His next to it. 99.1% on both screens. Three weeks stable. Proof you can do this. Or proof you've just been performing for an algorithm.
"If we do this—if we delete it—I need to keep one thing."
"What?"
"The graph. The full timeline. I need—" Your voice cracks. "I need proof it happened. That the pain was real and we survived it."
He nods immediately. "Okay."
"You're not gonna argue?" "Why would I argue?"
"I don't know, you're very anti-app right now—"
"I'm anti-letting-the-app-control-us. I'm not anti-proof." He squeezes your hand. "Keep the screenshot. Keep all of them if you need to."
Don't cry don't cry don't cry. You grab your phone before you can second-guess it. Screenshot the graph, July to February to March to now.
The whole story in one image. Save it to a hidden album. Right next to the folder with your spreadsheets and timestamps from March. Evidence. Always evidence.
"Okay." You can feel your pulse in your fingertips. "Okay. Let's do it."
"You're sure?" "No. But I want to be."
He picks up his phone. You pick up yours. Both of you just stare at the delete button. "On three?" he offers.
"Okay. Three." "Wait—on three or after three?" "Does it matter?" "I need to know!"
"Oh my god—on three. We do it on three."
"Okay. Okay." He's nervous. You can hear it. At least I'm not the only one losing my mind. You hesitate. He hesitates. "...Three." Neither of you moves.
"You didn't do it," he says. "Neither did you!" "I was waiting for you!" "That's not how counting works!"
You're both almost laughing now, that frantic edge-of-panic laughter. "Okay. For real this time. On three."
You press delete, he presses delete, the screens go blank.
"synCink has been deleted."
Just like that. No ceremony. No final notification, Just gone. Your home screen loads. No rose gold interface, no percentage, no proof. Only your regular wallpaper, that photo of you and the girls from last summer at the fruit market.
The absence is louder than you expected. You keep staring at the empty space of where the app used to be, waiting for something. A confirmation, a warning, a final notification telling you what you just did. Nothing comes.
"Oh fuck," you whisper.
"What do we do now?"
He laughs, slightly unhinged. "I have no fucking idea."
You both just sit there, holding your phones like they might explode.
"Do you feel different?" you ask. "No. Do you?" "No. Should we?" "I don't know!"
Then you start laughing. Can't help it, it bubbles up from somewhere frantic and terrified and a little bit free. He starts laughing too. You're both just standing in your kitchen at 7 am, laughing like idiots because you just deleted an app and now you have no idea how to be in a relationship.
The laughter fades eventually. You're left standing there, breathing hard, phones in hand. No percentage to check. No data to analyze. Just you and him and the choice you just made.
"C'mere," he says quietly.
You step into him. He wraps his arms around you, solid and real. No app confirms you're compatible, no algorithm validates the hug. It still feels right. Maybe that's enough. Maybe that's better.
The first day without the app is fucking weird. You reach for it 15 times before noon. Muscle memory, phantom limb syndrome but make it digital. Every time you pick up your phone, your thumb hovers over where synCink used to be. Finds nothing.
"Did you check?" he asks over lunch.
"There's nothing to check." "That's not what I asked." "...Eight times. You?" "Twelve."
Day two is worse. You have a fight. Stupid shit, he left dishes in the sink again, you snapped, he snapped back, and the first thing you do after is reach for the app.
Need to see the damage. Need to know how much that cost us. There's nothing there, just your weather widget and unread texts from Nilou and Hana.
"Fuck," you mutter. He's in the doorway, watching. "You tried to check."
"I did try…." "Me too."
You look at each other.
"Are we okay?" you ask. "I don't know. Are we?" "That's why I'm asking."
He almost smiles. "I think we're okay. The fight was stupid. I'm sorry about the dishes."
"I'm sorry I snapped." "Then we're good?" "I think so?"
Neither of you sounds certain. But you hug anyway, and it feels okay, and maybe that's all you get now. Just the gut feeling and the choice to believe it. This is gonna take some getting used to.
Day five: Nilou finds out.
"YOU DELETED IT?"
"Can you not yell—"
"YOU DELETED IT! WHY WOULD YOU DELETE IT! YOU WERE AT 99.1%!"
You're at the coffee shop, this was supposed to be a calm girls' date, but Nilou is losing her entire mind. Hana sips her americano, serene. "Good for you."
"IT'S NOT GOOD!" Nilou gestures wildly, nearly knocking over her matcha. "What if you break up now and you never know what percentage you were at when it happened?"
"Then… we just break up? Like normal people?"
"There's nothing normal about any of this!" She's not wrong.
"Why'd you do it?" Hana asks, actually curious.
You explain the 100% thing. The warnings. The Parker Pair. All of it. Nilou goes quiet. "Oh," she says finally. "That's… okay that's actually horrifying."
"You stopped at 99.1% to avoid becoming a single entity?" "Basically."
"Huh." She stirs her matcha aggressively. "That's kinda romantic actually. In a fucked up way."
"Everything about this is fucked up," you mutter.
Hana reaches across the table, squeezes your hand. "How do you feel? Without the number?"
"Terrified. Relieved. Both. I don't know."
"That sounds about right." You appreciate Hana so much in this moment. No judgment, no 'I told you so.' Just presence.
"For what it's worth," she says, "you seem more like yourself the last few days."
"What do you mean?"
"You're less… twitchy. Less checking your phone every thirty seconds. More here."
You didn't even notice. Your phone tings, Hana glances at it, then at you. "You gonna check that?"
You look at the screen, just a spam email. "No."
Hana smiles small, proud. "I'm glad."
Week two without the app: You stop reaching for it as much. Only six times today, progress. Seonghwa's lease ends and he doesn't renew it.
Most of his stuff has been at your place for weeks anyway. It happens so gradually you almost don't notice. His shoes by the door, his toothbrush in the holder, his hoodies mixed with yours in the closet.
"I'm just… moving in?" he asks one night, standing in your now-shared bedroom.
You look around. His cologne on the dresser, his books on the nightstand, his presence in every corner. "I guess you are."
"Is that okay?"
You think about February. The fight that started everything. The moving-in conversation that broke you both. That was about the fear, not the logistics. And the fear is still here. But so is he.
"Yeah," you say. "It's okay."
He exhales. "Okay. Good."
"You thought I'd say no?" "Little bit."
"After everything we just went through, you thought a lease would be the thing that scared me off?"
"Trauma makes you irrational!"
You throw a pillow at him. He catches it, grinning, and something in your chest loosens. We're gonna be okay. Maybe. Probably. Hopefully.
— six months later
November hits like a fucking freight train. Cold, dark at 5 pm, the kind of weather that makes you want to hibernate. You're in the kitchen, attempting to make pasta from scratch because you saw one video and thought "how hard could it be?"
Mau's Narrator voice: Very hard.
Seonghwa is on the couch, yelling at a youtube video about stars and shit, you don't really know.
"THAT'S NOT HOW NEUTRON STARS WORK—" "Babe, I promise you the people know more than you—" "THEY'RE EXPLAINING IT WRONG."
You smile, turn back to the pasta dough that's somehow sticky and dry at the same time. How is that possible.
"Okay what the fuck," you mutter, trying to knead it.
He appears behind you instantly, arms around your waist, chin on your shoulder. "Whatcha doin'?"
"Failing." "Need help?" "Need a miracle."
He laughs against your neck, takes the dough from your hands. Starts kneading it properly, adding flour when it sticks, water when it's dry. "How do you know how to do this?"
"My mom taught me." "Of course she did."
You watch his hands work. Competent, sure. Hands you know intimately now, every scar, every callus, the way they feel in yours. No app required.
The pasta turns out fine. Good, even. You eat on the couch, videos still playing. He explains stars between bites. You understand maybe 30% but you love watching him talk about it.
"You're not even listening," he accuses.
"I'm listening to your voice. That counts."
"That's not—"
You kiss him, tasting pasta and that chapstick he's finally using consistently. "I love you," you say against his mouth.
"Love you too."
Simple, easy. Later, you're in bed scrolling Twitter. He's reading next to you, some thriller Hana recommended. You accidentally open your photos app, the hidden album. The screenshot is still there. The graph from that first night. July to February to March to May. 99.1% at the end. You stare at it for longer than you should.
I wonder what we'd be now. 99.5%? 98.3%? Does it matter?
You think about the last six months. The fights over stupid shit, the good days, the bad days. The days where you just existed next to each other. Just—life. Messy and real and yours.
"What're you looking at?" he asks, not looking up from his book.
"Nothing."
You close the album. Roll over. Kiss his shoulder for no reason.
"Random," he comments, but he's smiling.
"I contain multitudes." "You're so weird." "You love it." "Unfortunately."
You settle against his side. He shifts automatically, making room. His arm comes around you without thought.
"Hey," you say quietly. "Hm?" "We're doing okay. Right?"
He sets down his book. Looks at you. "We're doing okay."
"How do you know?"
"Because you're here. I'm here. We're choosing it." Just the feeling. Just the choice. Turns out that's enough. Who knew.
You close your eyes. His heartbeat steady under your ear. Somewhere in the world, the Parker Pair probably still exists. Still at 100%. Still wrong in that uncanny way. You're at—what? 99.1%? 97.8%? 103%? You'll never know.
And for the first time since that girls' night in March, you're okay with that. The app gave you proof, but it couldn't give you this. This quiet, this choice. This relentlessly normal weekday in November. This is enough, you think as sleep pulls you under. This is better.
His hand finds yours under the covers. Squeezes once. No notification confirms your compatibility.
happy valentine’s day. pssst — it’s always been you.
𑣲yunho x f!reader
𑣲wc: 8.4k (+bonus content of yunho pov at the end!!)
𑣲warnings!: soft smut, some angst if u squint rlly rlly hard, besties to lovers, smitten!yunho, worship dynamic, fluff, he's just a babbling lovesick sweetheart in this ok
this is a valentine's day gift for my secret cupid @eggielix!! writing this for you was so much fun. i have yunho brainrot now lmao, and i really hope it's everything you were hoping for. i tried to pour all my brain power and care i could into it. thank you so much to @everyonewooeverywhere for organizing this fic exchange, ily.
happy reading, and the happiest of valentine's days to you 💌
The saying ‘I hope your pillow is cold on both sides’ is supposed to be endearing, but now it feels more like…quite the opposite.
No heat from another person beside you, no heat coming in from your windows, just cold under your satin sheets.
You’re freezing, you don’t even want to come from under the covers to check your phone, check the date. You probably shouldn’t, it would only add to the despair.
But you do it anyway, because it’s your routine, a routine that maybe you should change because it’s Valentine’s Day, V-day, Love Day.
The day you’ve been trying to ignore in all of your adult life, but it’s evidence of it everywhere. Filters on Instagram, restaurants running themed promotions, the god damn dog being walked outside your window has on a V-Day sweater, even.
You roll your eyes, because what the fuck? Go back under your sheets, groan under your pillow, wish it could smother you itself.
But ma’am, it’s an inanimate object.
You eventually force yourself from under the covers, put on your slippers, and shuffle to the kitchen. Ironic as you look down and notice you’re wearing pink and red themed pjs.
You look in your empty pantry, empty fridge, and there’s nothing but bread to make toast. Just everything, empty.
It’s a holiday you try not to put stock in, but everything around you just reminds you of how lonely times can get.
Just one throw blanket on the couch instead of two, just one toothbrush in the holder, just one profile on your streaming services, one pair of slippers.
Have I finally made it to the age where I want consistent company?
Your home is your domain, it’s done up the way you like it, you’ve made it utterly you, but a piece of you sometimes wants to share that with someone.
Not just for one day, but for multiple days.
You grab your small watering can to water the numerous plants placed around the house, occupy your mind with watering everything else but yourself.
You make it to the big one by the window, the light shining through the curtains, it’s the best spot in the apartment, the prettiest light catches here.
He made sure of that when he placed it.
You see something cherry red peeking out the soil, you mistake it for a ladybug or some other small bug from afar. You definitely didn’t put your glasses or contacts on.
Without looking into it further, you pour water over the plant, notice no movement from the red thing sitting there.
Oh no, is it dead??? Did I just kill a ladybug on Valentine’s Day???? Luck is out the door, ain’t it?
You reach for the tip of what you think is a dead ladybug, but it’s not. The texture is not smooth, there are no spots when looking closer at it, and there are no legs.
Kay,’ not a bug. Then wtf is it?
You pull it completely out the damp soil, almost tear it. It’s a cherry red envelope, closed with a little pink heart sticker.
You hesitate, you think it’s a cruel prank being pulled. Maybe when you bought the plant that’s always been underneath the soil?
There’s no name on the outside, no address, nothing but a cute little sticker. It must be lost. Every odd scenario running through your head besides the practical one.
The light shining from the window almost makes it see through, you can tell there is a card inside. You open it gently, the paper is on its last leg due to drowning it in water.
It opens easily for you, as if it knew you’d find it in the most chaotic way. There’s more paper folded up inside, black ink bleeding through.
You uncrinkle it, and the fresh bleed is what gives it away that this envelope was not buried under the soil when you bought it.
It was just placed there, recently, just for you.
Your heart stops for a beat. Wait a damn minute.
You look around your apartment, taking note of the door, the windows, any shadows in the hallway leading to your room.
Everything looks the same, everything is in its usual spot, but someone was definitely here.
The edges are soft, the sticker is peeling slightly, paper breaking even more under your thumb.
When did he–?
Your heart is outside your body, the realization creeping up your spine. He was in your apartment, he knows where the spare key is, knows you water your plants every morning, knows you’d find this note on this day when you’re lonely and wearing ridiculous pjs.
The loneliness from earlier doesn't feel the same.
He always wrote legibly in the beginning, and it got a little messier towards the end. It’s something you’ve recognized since knowing him.
Since being knee high to towering over you now.
You automatically know it’s a prank, it has to be. You’d never think anything different.
It creates a smile on your face, still, at least the two of you can make some fun out of this otherwise depressing day.
You read it aloud, reading it outloud helps you imagine his voice, and that makes everything ten times better in your world.
“it’s cold, i know ur squinting reading this, so i wrote this in all caps. IT’S C-O-L-D. pls check ur closet for the scarf and earmuffs i left. remember when i said dont give up on me yet when studying for finals? meet me at the science library @ 12.”
You reread it, laugh to yourself, the damp letter that’s slowly falling apart in your hands. He knows you well, too well sometimes.
You have no idea what he has in store at the damn library, no clue why he didn’t just text you and say ‘let’s hang.’
You go to set the card in the windowsill in hopes it’ll dry out, you actually go to check your closet expecting something ridiculous, but it really is new earmuffs and a scarf.
Folded nicely in the deepest corner of your closet, like he intentionally tried to hide them. Must’ve noticed the tears and rips in your old ones.
You read the brand, same brand he wears, also smells like him. That cashmere scent he is always sporting is strong, makes your heart flutter at the mindfulness of it all.
You also noticed there’s a key to your front door underneath once you pick it up. He seriously made a spare key of my spare key, sneaky bastard.
You set the clothes out on your unmade bed, shuffle to the bathroom to get ready. You grab your lonely toothbrush, do your hair, and finally change out the pjs that’s giving you an eyesore.
You put the earmuffs and scarf on, layers on top of layers because you refuse to freeze. You look in the mirror, think he has nice taste, it’s your favorite colors after all. Favorite scent.
He wouldn’t have to buy me this if we just decided to hang at my house! He’s so random, I swear.
You turn off the lights and head towards your front door, grabbing your phone, keys, and wallet. The simple things that actually determine how your day is about to go.
You check your phone before putting your mittens on. It’s 11:30, you’re cutting it a tad close because you have to catch the subway to the library.
He can wait a few. Can’t believe he’s dragging me out in this weather.
You brace for the wind as you walk out your door and walk toward the station, you feel like your eyelids are about to freeze shut, and snowflakes hanging from your coat.
Once you’re out of the way of the wind, you whip out your phone to send a text, you’re that intrigued and annoyed.
you: this better be good or we’re not friends for like ten business days
yunyun: at least it’s not 20 like last time
You roll your eyes and take note of how fast he responded. He normally takes forever to respond, like you’re one of his many hookups since college.
As you’re waiting, you notice how your ears and neck aren’t cold, you hate when he’s right. You’re damn sure not going to let him know.
Matter of fact, I’m going to say my ears and neck are numb and got frostbite.
You get out of your thoughts as you hear the train coming up the tracks, and prepare to scramble for a seat, it seems everyone is on the thing today.
By the time you get off, you check your phone again, you’re right on time, 12 on the dot. The wind gusts are strong and blow your hood off.
You rush down the block to get to the library entrance, to get to some central heating, because you’re over it at this point.
You look up to see your favorite, unfavorite person in the world. He doesn’t notice you yet as he fidgets. His nose and cheeks are red, rubbing the back of his neck and looking at the ground.
He really waited for me out in the cold instead of the lobby.
After doing one more glance at the ground, he finally looks up at you with a smile, and you return it. You always adored how his smile puffed out his cheeks, he looks goofy in the cutest way.
Then his face changes, furrowing his brows as he strides over to you quickly. “Why the hell do you not have your hood on!?”
He pulls it back over for you. “It blew off, chill! The dramatics.”
“It’s cold out here.”
“Says the guy who was standing in it for who knows how long.” You tease him, the easiest thing for you to do, second nature. “Why did you pull me out in this, anyway?”
“Just wanted to do something fun, geez, c’mon.” He pulls you by your coat sleeve and leads you inside, the heat finally hitting your face, your whole body unthawing.
Yunho lets go of your coat as you follow him through the familiar library, making you nostalgic for your college days, even if it’s only been about two years.
It’s still dusty, carpet still has coffee stains that’ll never come out, couples studying instead of being on a date, midterm season.
“Soooo Yun, are we here to live in your glory days again? Likeeee?”
He glances back at you, doesn’t say anything, and continues walking. The man lowkey walks fast, and you have to put a little pep in your step.
Staring at other things makes you almost bump into his back. Notice he stopped at the private room you both called WD40 because the door squeaks like no other.
You two would book the room all the time, might as well write your names on the wall in permanent ink, seems like you can’t leave it alone.
He glances at you again, his face finally not as red as earlier. He’s a bit quieter than usual, he’s normally an auctioneer, but not right now.
He seems a little more tense, his shoulders haven’t relaxed since walking into the building. He didn’t make his jokes about the computers not working or his past hookup spots.
Just nothing, and that’s not the best friend you know. It makes you worry.
He’s terrible at keeping secrets. This is too strange.
The door clicks open, something taped to the chair that’s the same cherry red you saw in your apartment. It catches your eye immediately.
You have no clue what he’s playing at when he stands at the door and gestures to the chair. “Go grab it.”
He’s trying his best to be nonchalant about it, but his body shows otherwise. Deep down, he’s nervous and scared shitless, and you have no clue as to why.
You go to gently untape the envelope from the back of the chair. You turn to him, “Yunho, what the heck is this?”
“Can you just open it?”
You roll your eyes, you know how he likes games, but why a game on v-day and in your undergrad library?
You open it, you open this one with a little more intent since it’s not crumpling from water damage. His eyes don’t leave you.
“You want me to read it?”
“Did Sherlock Holmes ever solve a crime by not reading?”
“You’re shitting me right now, really, oh my gosh?????” The sarcasm is thick between the two of you, always has been, never see that changing.
“Read the damn thing even if it’s at a kindergarten level. I know the literacy rates are low nowadays.”
“Fuck you.” You grin as you unfold it, that same handwriting clear as day. You begin to read it outloud, wanna see if you can get a reaction from him.
“remember when i found u sleeping here after studying all night? u just finished crying ur eyes out about the boy who didnt know 2+2. u told me not to give up on you yet, seems like everyone was leaving ur world at the time. i’d take a look underneath the table if i were u :)”
Tears prickle at your eyes a bit, but you don’t let them flow. He pretends he’s looking away when you glance back at him, but you know he’s watching.
You listen to the instructions and look under the table. The Pocky he’d brought you that same night is taped to it, a small pick-me-up when you felt like your world was crashing around you.
It was so so small, but meant everything—
Means everything to you.
You don’t know why he’s doing this, you’re done trying to guess it. “Why are you being strange? What is this for?”
Yunho shrugs his shoulders with a slight smirk on his face as he stands in the doorway with his arms crossed, “It’s V-day. Can’t I do something nice for my best friend?”
“You’re never this nice.”
“Yes, I am!” He fake gasps, “How dare you!”
“Anywayssss–what’s next? Or did you only bring me here for the Pocky?” You whisper the next words, “Thanks, by the way, for then and now.”
He doesn’t respond right away, you’re still holding the Pocky, and you look down at it, notice it’s the same flavor from that night.
How does he remember the flavor, hell I barely remembered or didn’t wanna remember, but he did.
You look at him, he’s looking away again, rubbing his neck. You see him a bit differently for once, something softer in his expression, but before you can dive deeper, he’s perking back up.
He reaches into his jacket pocket and gives you coordinates to a place that reads, 15h 34m, +26° 44’ “We’re not on an expedition, Yunho.”
He deadpans as he looks at you. “You have a phone gps that will take the coordinates and tell you where to go, duh.”
“Why couldn’t you just put the address?”
“That ruins the fun!”
“Fine, whatever, let’s go.” You huff as you enter the coordinates into the phone, it’s not too far from the library, but that does mean you have to walk in the cold once more.
You begin walking as Yunho moves you to the side of him, away from the street. He always did it subtly when walking along the street.
He’s quiet again. You glance up at him, he’s staring ahead with his hands in his pockets, tense.
The V-day decor haunts you on the walk there, flower vendors for last-minute shoppers, hearts on business windows, just love in the air. It’s just background noise.
Your phone buzzes, you’re expecting another name like your mom asking if you ate for the day, but it’s Jongho.
The guy from work who’s been trying to take you out for the longest.
Choi Jongho: happy valentine’s day! still down for drinks later?
Your thumb hovers over the keyboard. You were going to say yes earlier this week, or let’s say you thought you were.
You glance up at Yunho, he’s not looking at you. His eyes flicked to your phone screen for half a second before he looked away. His jaw is tense, hands shoved deeper into his pockets.
Hmmm.
You notice the shift between you, it feels wrong, not natural, and you can’t stand it. You don’t know if you’ll even see Jongho later, he’s a nice guy, you’ve considered it.
Never felt an urgency to see what Jongho’s about, though, and right now, walking while Yunho won’t look at you, you definitely don’t have that feeling.
You pocket your phone again without responding to the text, like your body is in autopilot.
“So,” you try to pull him back. “The coordinates thing is very, very extra, by the way. Did you have to Google how those work or—?”
“Probably.”
That’s it, just one word, so finite, no laugh, no ‘I spent an hour on Reddit figuring it out,’ nothing!
You look at him, he’s walking faster than before, you’re struggling to keep up the pace.
Does he care? If so, why?
You wonder if he’s being a protective friend, although he’s never been the one to be overbearing in your past relationships. He trusted your judgement always.
Maybe he thinks Jongho is a jerk? Doesn’t want this scavenger hunt to be interrupted?
Why, why, why.
“Yunho—” You stop yourself, you don’t know if you’re scared of the answer, if there even is one. So many possibilities running through your mind.
The silence just feels even heavier, like snow is piling up on your shoulders as you walk.
Yunho breaks it. “You should go.” His voice comes out tight, a little strained. “If you wanna.”
You stop in your tracks, look up at him. “Go where?” You know what he means, but you need to hear him say it, to mean it.
His expression is just off, wrong, his eyes are dark, and you can see the clench in his jaw. “Drinks. With–”
He doesn’t finish, can’t even utter the name. Your mittens are off, thumbs already moving.
you: no thxs, busy today.
sent.
You stare at your phone, confused, wondering what really triggered you to do that when you were planning to say yes before. But leaving Yunho feels impossible right now.
Choosing him like you’ve been doing for years and never clearly realized it.
I still don’t know why he’s upset, or why it matters so much, but I’m not gonna go.
You slide the phone back in your pocket once more, neither of you speaks.
You walk the rest of the way in near silence. Your breath fogs in the cold air, his does too. He fogs up his glasses in the process, but neither fills the space with a laugh or words.
You both have no clue what to say.
The energy from the library, the teasing, the mystery, the fun, it’s gone. Poof. Being replaced with something that feels like standing on a tightrope that’s about to snap.
You begin to see where your location is as you hear kids playing and see couples walking on strolls despite the weather.
You see the bench on the corner, the ice cream truck that’s always parked near the entrance. You pull out the gps again, then look up ahead, and your stomach flutters. You’re at the park.
The park.
You continue to look at where the gps is leading you by the exact coordinates.
To the spot where you’d drag blankets during sophomore year, where he’d bring hot chocolate in the most unconventional container that would go cold anyway. Where you learned what Alphecca looked like.
The small hill where the flowers and trees hold your secrets.
But it’s cold out, and those secrets seem to be dying out.
The grass is dead now, brittle under your shoes, the sky is in overcast with no stars in sight. You stop at the top and look around.
Seeing the city in the distance, couples laughing together, kids throwing woodchips. The air is harsh against your face, but you lean into it.
Yunho is looking at you and hasn’t moved his line of direction since.
“Where—” you begin, but then you see it.
Tucked under the edge of the bench, the one with your initials carved in the back from summer junior year, there’s another red envelope.
Your hands shake as you pick it up, not from the cold. You open this one slower, more cautious. Yunho is standing a few feet away from you.
This folded note has lines with dots in the margins, your initials scribbled, a little smiley face in the corner. You start reading the opening lines.
Your heart immediately flutters.
“you asked me once if anyone still loves like that. enough to make someone eternal–”
You smile at the first two sentences.
“you told me about the crown in the stars, how ariadne got hers. u wanted that too. i remembered, dont give up on me yet.”
Your heart gets tugged on even more. This is so sweet, so thoughtful.
This note is a bit longer as you continue to read it.
“i think about that night on this hill. junior year, midterms weeks. you were crying over a test you thought you failed—”
Your breath catches, a puff of air evident in the sky. “and i brought you here bc u said the library made you feel like u were suffocating. i pointed out alphecca. u said the stars didnt care about ur gpa.”
You’re smiling even bigger now. You remember that night so clearly, the way he made you laugh, how you felt safe just being in his presence.
“you told me you felt like you were drowning. that everyone expected you to be fine all the time and you didnt know how to ask for help.”
You smile falters just a bit. You said that and remember say it, but that was—
The cold air stings, but you barely feel it. You didn’t post about that night, didn’t text anyone after. It was just private.
“ –i told u the stars were older than any test score. that failing one exam wouldnt erase you.” That’s exactly what he said, word for word.
Your chest tightens, reread to make sure nothing was misread. This isn’t paraphrased, nor is it a general memory someone could’ve pieced together from stories.
It’s exact, it’s what he said when no one else was listening.
You glance in the margin again, there’s another note scribbled there, super small and slanted.
“(i wanted to hold ur hand that night. i didnt think i was allowed to)”
You burn holes into those words. I wanted to hold your hand.
The closeness of it makes your throat tight. It’s not just remembering a nice moment. It’s someone confessing their thoughts, feelings, what they wanted to do but didn’t.
Your fingertips trace the ink.
You look up at Yunho, he’s already watching you. His fingers pressing into his temples, his rings catching the light as his hands shake.
His face has gone pale, but his cheeks are still red, and when his eyes meet yours, they look terrified. Like he’s been waiting for this moment and dreading it at the same time.
He opens his mouth, closes it, then looks away.
Only two people were on that hill. You and him.
You try to rationalize, come up with a different theory. Maybe you’d told someone else? But no, you didn’t, and you know that.
And Yunho wouldn’t tell someone else about it…would he? Why would he give someone else that story to use?
Unless.
The pieces are forming a puzzle, and you don’t want to see the final picture.
Now your heart is pounding for a totally different reason.
You force yourself to keep reading, there’s more.
“you asked me if i thought you’d ever figure it out. figure out what you wanted to do with your life. i said yes without hesitation.”
There’s another margin note, it’s messier, like it was added at the last minute.
“(i knew even then. i think i’ve always known)”
Known what?
Your eyes skim down to the bottom of the note, “don’t give up on me yet.”
That phrase has been present in every note, below it, coordinates to another location. They show an address you don’t need to map.
amity ln.
You know that corner, it has a broken streetlight. Where it rained last spring, the kind that soaks through your jacket no matter how waterproof it is.
You’d both been laughing, because you two were never the type to check the forecast before heading out. You’d said something along the lines of the universe hating you, not being in your favor ever.
That’s when he stopped walking, just stopped, right there on the corner. Water streaming down his face, glasses completely useless. He’d looked at you like he was drowning in more than just rain.
Like he was about to say something that would change everything, and then he didn’t. You’d pulled him under a bus stop awning, the moment passed, and you never asked.
But you remember the look, it’s seared into your mind now. Your chest is caving in and you can’t control it.
You don’t look at him, you can’t. If you look at him now, you’ll ask, and if you ask he’ll answer, and if he answers…
You start walking.
Not toward the park entrance, but to the street, Amity. You hear him behind you, his footsteps are moving quickly, trying to keep up.
The cold really bites at your face, but your legs are moving, and your mind is trying to make sense of what you’re doing.
Please let me be wrong.
You don't remember walking there. Just footsteps behind you. His, too close. Then you're standing in front of Amity Lane.
The broken streetlight's still there. Same fractured glow on the wet pavement, slush everywhere because February can't commit to snow or rain. The corner looks exactly like it did.
Red envelope taped to the light post.
Your initials in his handwriting.
Oh, fuck.
Yunho's gone completely still behind you. Close enough, you could reach back.
Don't. Don't think about that.
His breathing is uneven. You turn around, and he looks wrecked.
Hair everywhere from the wind, glasses fogged up and crooked, eyes red like he's been crying or trying really hard not to. His jaw keeps clenching. And his hands, he's adjusting his rings. One, then the other, then back. Over and over.
He won't look at you, but you're looking at him.
"I'm sorry."
Oh no no no
His voice is so quiet a car driving past almost drowns it out. "For what?" Wrong question. You know for what. You know.
His hand goes to the back of his neck, fingers digging in. "For—for doing it like this. I didn't—I couldn't—"
He stops, adjusts his rings again, stares at his hands.
God, his hands are so pretty, I can't even—
FOCUS.
"I didn't know how else to—" He swallows. "To tell you."
And there it is.
Your heart is beating so hard, everything's clicking into place and you're actively trying to un-click it. The notes. The memories. The way he's been looking at you all morning.
"This isn't a prank." Your voice comes out flat and dead.
"It's you."
He finally looks at you, the answer's written all over his face, and it's killing him.
"It's—yeah. It's me." His voice cracks. "It's—I—"
"It's always been me."
Silence, just traffic and your heartbeat and the sound of your world ending.
"Since—" He drags a hand down his face. "God, since high school? Maybe—I don't even—I don't know anymore, I just—"
He's not making sense, he's breaking apart in real time.
"I didn't tell you because you're—you're my best friend and I couldn't—" His voice breaks completely. "I couldn't lose that. Lose you."
Oh my god.
"Every time I thought about saying something I'd just—I'd imagine you looking at me different. Like I ruined it. Like I made it weird and you'd start—you'd pull away and I—"
He stops. Swallows. Starts again.
"I couldn't. I couldn't risk it."
His glasses are completely fogged. He takes them off, rubs the bridge of his nose with shaking fingers.
"So why now?" Your voice barely makes it out.
"Because yesterday I saw you on your phone and you were smiling and I thought—" His laugh is broken, hollow. "I thought maybe you were texting him. Jongho. And then this morning you got that text about drinks and you looked—you looked like you wanted to say yes."
Well shit.
"And I just panicked, because I realized I was gonna lose you anyway. Not because I told you but because I didn't. Because I was too scared and someone else wasn't and—"
His voice cracks. "I'm so tired of pretending I'm not in love with you."
No. Wait.
Wait wait wait—
"I almost told you that night," he says, quieter now. "Right here. In the rain. We were laughing, and then you looked at me, and I thought if I said it and you didn't—if you didn't feel the same, I'd lose even that. The way you looked at me."
Your eyes are burning, but you're not crying. I’m not.
"So I thought if I could just show you. Remind you of all the times I was there, all the moments that mattered, maybe you'd—"
"The notes," you say.
"Yeah." He still won't look at you. "I kept writing 'don't give up on me yet' because I was scared you'd just walk away."
You're frozen, every word landing like a punch, he's been carrying this for years.
All this time. It's been him. The whole time. And I—
The thought won't finish. It catches, snags, dies.
Because if it's been him, then the way you always text him first when something good happens.
The way you'd rather crash on his couch than sleep in your own bed.
This morning. Standing outside the library in the cold, the pocky thing. The way you've replayed that memory over and over without understanding why.
The park, the stars. Every single time he showed up and you let him, wanted him to, without question.
Jongho's text, the way you said no without even thinking about it.
No no no.
Because that would mean…Oh god, you absolute idiot.
Every time you thought about moving on, you called him, every time someone else looked at you, you compared them to.
"In love with you."
The words echo in your head and you can't breathe because you thought you just loved him safely. Thought what you had was too important to name.
Thought if you never said it out loud it wouldn't be real, wouldn't be dangerous, wouldn't be something you could lose.
But it's been there, growing, rooting so deep you didn't even notice until he ripped it out into the open.
I've been in love with him too. I've been in love with him too.
How did I not—
"You thought I'd—" Your voice comes out strangled. "Yunho, I—"
The words are stuck. You can't, you can't do this.
You can't stand here and watch him think you're about to walk away, so you close the gap.
You kiss him and it's a mess. His glasses dig into your cheek and your noses bump and you don't care. Your fingers grip his coat, pulling him closer.
His hands find your face, shaking, desperate.
When you break apart you're both breathing hard, cold air between you. His eyes are still closed and you can feel him trembling.
He laughs, broken, disbelieving. "Don't give up on me yet?"
You kiss him again, softer this time. It's your answer under the broken streetlight on Amity Lane, where it almost happened before, it finally does.
You don't remember deciding to go back to his place.
Just his hand in yours the entire subway ride. You took your mittens off because you needed to feel his skin and now your fingers are freezing but you don't care.
Are we—? Is this—?
Every time the train jolts he steadies you, hand at your waist. And it's stupid but your chest does that thump thump thing again, and you're trying not to think about it too hard because if you think about it you'll spiral.
Oh my god, I kissed him. Under the streetlight.
He said he's been in love with me since high school and I just—
You glance at him, he's staring at your joined hands. His thumb keeps twitching, not circles or anything romantic just nervous energy he can't contain and it's so him you want to cry.
Don't cry on the subway. Do not cry on the subway.
When you reach his building he fumbles with his keys, drops them.
"Sorry, I—" He bends down, picks them up, tries again.
You just stand there watching him struggle with the lock like an idiot because what are you supposed to do? Help? Say something?
What do you even say after???
The door finally clicks and you follow him inside.
His apartment is warm, always tidy. You've been here a thousand times but it feels different now. He helps you out of your coat and his fingers brush your shoulders and you both freeze.
"Sorry," he says.
"Stop apologizing."
"Sorry—I mean—" He stops. Laughs. Runs a hand through his hair. "God, I don't know what I'm doing."
"Me neither."
That seems to help. His shoulders drop a little and you're just standing there. In his doorway. Like you haven't been here a million times before.
Why is this so weird? It's not weird. It's definitely weird.
You reach up and fix his glasses because they're still crooked from the kiss and your hands are steadier than you expected. He goes completely still, eyes locked on yours, and for a second neither of you breathes.
"Do you want—" His voice cracks. He clears his throat. "Juice? Water? I can—"
"Yunho." He stops.
"I'm okay. Are you okay?"
He laughs again, breathless and a little broken. "I don't know. Are you actually here?"
"I'm here."
His hand comes up like he's going to touch your face, hesitates halfway, then does it anyway. Palm against your cheek. Thumb under your eye, his hand is still shaking so bad.
"Yeah," he whispers. "You are."
Then he drops his hand and disappears into his room. No warning, no explanation, just gone.
You stand there listening to him rummage around. Drawers opening and closing, something hits the floor, he swears under his breath.
What is he—?
When he comes back he's holding a shoebox.
Old and beat-up. The kind that used to hold his basketball sneakers in high school, you remember because he wore them until they literally fell apart and you made fun of him for it.
He sets it on the coffee table. "I, uh." He swallows. "I wrote you letters. A lot of them. I just—I never sent them."
Your brain stalls."What?"
"You don't have to read them," he says quickly. "I just thought—I don't know. I wanted you to know it wasn't just today. It's been—" He stops. "A long time."
Letters? How many is "a lot"?
You move to the couch and sit. Stare at the box as it might explode.
It's worn, edges soft from being opened over and over. The lid's dented like he's gripped it too hard too many times.
You lift the lid, and there are dozens. Envelopes, folded notebook paper, napkins, receipts, whatever he had on hand, apparently. Some are sealed, some aren't.
The dates span years. One from high school, sophomore year of college, and last spring. Your hands are shaking when you pull one out at random.
Last spring.
"i dont know how to tell u this, so im writing it down instead. maybe one day ill be brave enough (i wont be)"
You can't breathe, another one.
"you fell asleep on my arm bc you had horrible cramps. i didnt move for hours. my arm went completely numb and i didnt even care."
Another.
"you said you didnt believe in soulmates, but i think ive been trying to prove you wrong since we were sixteen."
Your vision blurs and you're trying not to cry. You set the letters down carefully because your hands won't stop shaking and you look up at him.
He's watching you, waiting for it to be too much, waiting for you to leave.
"You've been—" Your voice breaks. "God, Yunho, you've been doing this the whole time and I didn't—"
"You couldn't have known."
"But I should've—"
"No." He shakes his head. "I didn't let you."
You cross the space between you. You're kissing him and his hands find your waist and pull you closer and you end up half in his lap, fingers in his hair.
When you pull back just enough to breathe, his eyes are wide. Lips red and parted and oh so gorgeous, like he’s pleading.
We're really doing this. "Don't stop," you whisper.
His hands tighten on your hips. "Are you—are you sure?"
"I'm so fucking positive."
He stands, pulling you with him, and you follow him down the hall.
You make it to his room, and the door clicks shut behind you. He kisses you, backing you toward the bed until your knees hit the mattress.
But you press a hand to his chest, stopping him. His eyes open, confused and worried, like he’s done something wrong.
“Sit,” you say softly.
He blinks, “what?”
“Sit down, Yun.”
He sits immediately, sinks onto the edge of the bed without question, looking up at you. His hands hover at his sides, uncertain of what to do with them.
“You can touch me,” you tell him, stepping between his knees.
“I just—I’m gonna wake up and hate myself.”
His hands find your hips gently, his fingers tremble against your jeans. You cup his face, tilt his chin up so he has to look at you. “If you wake up, I’m gonna haunt you anyway soooo.”
He exhales, and you lean down to kiss again. You pull back just enough to reach for the hem of his shirt. He lifts his arms without you having to ask, and you pull it over his head, tossing it behind you.
For a moment, you just look at him, the lean lines, the way his chest rises and falls, his long limbs, the redness creeping up his neck.
“You’re staring,” he mutters, trying to sound normal about it. Eye’s still locked on yours.
You smile, drag a finger down his chest. “You stood in the cold for me. I think that earns you a little attention.”
His eyes widen. “You–”
“Shh,” you cut in and work his belt loose. “I’m appreciating the view.”
He helps you with his pants, lifting his hips so you can slide them down, and he’s sitting in just his boxers, looking up at you.
When you start undressing your layers, his hands hover like he wants to help. You guide them to your shirt, and he pulls it over your head slowly.
“You’re so—I’ve thought about this so many times, and it’s—you’re—”
You kiss him so he stops, and he makes a broken sound against your mouth. His hands are all over your skin. When you’re finally down to just your underwear, he presses his forehead to your stomach, breathing hard.
“I love you,” he whispers against your skin. “I love you so much.”
You tug at his hair gently, “Show me, please.”
He kisses your stomach, you giggle as it tickles, and the space between your breasts, every touch leaves you aching. You push him back onto the bed, his eyes never leaving yours.
When you climb onto his lap, straddling his hips, he goes to grip your thighs. “You good?” You ask, rolling your hips, and he gasps.
“Yeah, I—” His head tips back, exposing his throat, his adam’s apple. “Fuck, yes.”
You take your time as you trail your hands over his chest and shoulders. You like watching the way his breath catches and the way his fingers grip your skin, the way he bites his lip trying to hold himself together.
“Please,” he breathes.
“Let me—”
He nods, and when you reach between you to touch him, he buries his face in your neck. “Is this okay?” you ask, even though you can feel how much he wants this.
“Yes. Yes, please I—” he can’t even finish the sentence, holds you tighter, hands sliding up your back.
You learn what makes him gasp, what makes his grip tighten, what makes him say your name. He's so vulnerable for you, every reaction clear on his face.
When you shift to slide your underwear off, he helps you, and when you finally sink down his reaction is overwhelming. He buries his face in your shoulder and makes sounds that make your heart flutter.
"Oh my god," he chokes out. "Goodness gracious, I–"
You stay still so you both can adjust, he's trembling beneath you.
Fuck, I love you.
You start to move slowly, and he follows, wait is this too much? No, he's matching you perfectly, his hands are all over, but every touch asks for permission.
You lean down to kiss him, and he kisses you back so desperately that you can feel the years of want between the two of you.
"You feel—" he starts, then loses it, a breathless laugh catching in his throat. "I'm sorry. I can't get a full sentence out."
"That's okay," you lean in to kiss the corner of his mouth. "You don't have to."
His head tips back again, and when you kiss along his jaw, he lets out a sound that's half gasp, half a laugh. Like he's almost embarrassed.
You pull back just enough. "You okay?"
He nods, but his eyes are glassy and his hands won't stop shaking where they're gripping your hips. "Yeah. Yeah, I just—"
He's overwhelmed.
You slow down, stop. His eyes snap open.
"Don't—" His voice cracks. "Please don't stop."
"I'm not." You brush his hair back from his forehead. It's damp with sweat and sticking up and he looks destroyed already. "Just checkin’."
"I'm good," he breathes. "I'm so—good, you have no idea."
Actually, I think I do.
Because he's looking at you like you’re the crown in the stars he’s been trying to earn. Like every letter was a breadcrumb back to this exact constellation.
Years. He waited years.
The thought hits you sideways and you have to kiss him again just to ground yourself. He makes a sound against your mouth and his hips shift up.
You start moving again, slower this time, and his hands slide up, god his hands are everywhere, my favs.
"You're so—" He tries, fails, tries again. "I don't know how to—you're everything."
He wrote you letters he never sent.
He planned an entire scavenger hunt just to tell you.
"Yunho," you whisper, and his eyes focus on you. Waiting, always waiting for whatever you need.
You lean down and kiss him. His hands come up to cup your face and when you pull back his eyes are wet.
"Are you crying?"
"No." He laughs, breathless. "Maybe. Shut up."
"Little bit."
"Sorry."
"Stop apologizing." You roll your hips and he gasps, fingers tightening on your waist. "You're allowed to feel things."
"I'm feeling everything," he chokes out. "I can't—I don't know how to. It’s so loud."
You pick up the pace and he follows you as his head tips back against the pillow again and you watch his face.
"Look at me," you say. Perfect, he’s so perfect.
Then his hips shift up to meet yours, you both gasp, and you lose the thought. Just sensation. The weight of him beneath you, the sounds he's making.
"I love you," he says again, "I love you, I love you."
"I know." Your voice breaks. "I know, I—"
Say it back. You should say it back.
What if you say it wrong? What if it's not enough after everything?
"Hey." His hand cups your face, thumb under your eye. "You don't have to say it yet."
How does he—?
"I can wait," he whispers. "I've waited this long."
That undoes you completely.
You kiss him so hard you both lose your breath and your teeth hit his. His arms wrap around you, pulling you closer, and you're moving together now, no rhythm.
He's saying your name between kisses, and you're trying not to cry because this is Yunho.
Your Yunho.
Who's been in love with you since you were kids and never said a word because he didn't want to lose you.
"I'm close," he gasps against your mouth. “I'm sorry, I can't—"
"What did I say about apologizing!" You're breathless. Shaking. "Just—"
His whole body goes still beneath you, and buries his face in your neck. You feel him trembling, feel the way his hands grip you.
"I love you," he whispers into your skin. "I love you so much."
God, you..."I love you too." It comes out quiet, but it's there.
He pulls back, those big, pretty eyes wide and wet and so full. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You're crying. "I love you. I'm sorry it took me so long to—"
He kisses you, and when he finally pulls back, you're both breathing hard. Foreheads pressed together.
"Hey there," he whispers.
You laugh, broken and wet. "Hey."
"Can we just—" He swallows. "Can we stay like this for a second?"
Duh, of course we can.
You nod, and he pulls you down against his chest. His heartbeat is racing beneath your ear. His fingers trace patterns on your back.
"I can't believe this is real," he murmurs into your hair.
"You and me both."
You tilt your head up to look at him. His glasses are somewhere on the floor. His hair's a mess. He smiles and pulls you closer.
–
You wake up to sunlight filtering through curtains and the weight of an arm draped across your waist.
For a second, you lie there. Processing.
The events of yesterday crash back in waves, the scavenger hunt, the park, the confession, the oh my god we had sex part that your brain is still trying to categorize as "things that actually happened in real life."
Yunho's still asleep. You can feel his breath against the back of your neck. His fingers are loosely curled against your stomach.
This actually happened.
You should probably freak out. Do the whole "what does this mean" morning after spiral. Panic about how this changes everything. But instead, you just feel warm.
Safe, like the cold side of the pillow wasn’t supposed to last this long.
Yunho shifts behind you, mumbling something into your hair. His arm tightens around your waist, pulling you closer, and you feel him wake up in stages.
The slight hitch in his breathing, the way he goes very still, the soft "oh" against your shoulder when he remembers.
His voice is rough with sleep, muffled against your skin. "You didn’t run away, impressive work."
"Where else would I be?"
"I don't know. I thought maybe I dreamed it." He presses a kiss to your shoulder blade. Then another. "Thought I'd wake up and you'd be gone and I'd have to pretend yesterday didn't happen."
You turn in his arms to face him, he's squinting at you without his glasses and he looks so soft it makes your chest ache.
"I'm not going anywhere," you say.
He smiles, small and disbelieving, and cups your face with one hand. "Okay."
You lie there for a while, just looking at each other. His thumb traces your cheekbone. His cheeks puff when he smiles, dimples cutting in deeper on one side. You noticed it freshman year, memorized and never admitted to it, but now you’re allowed to stare without pretending it doesn’t make your heart ache.
"I'm starving," you finally admit.
What if I'm bad at this?
What if I'm a terrible girlfriend and he realizes he's been in love with an IDEA of me and not the actual disaster human who forgets to text back and leaves dishes in the sink—
He's still looking at you like the stars.
Okay, we're fine.
He laughs. "Yeah?"
"Scavenger hunts and emotional devastation really work up an appetite."
"We could—" He hesitates. "We could go get breakfast? If you want. There's that place you like with the—"
"Those special waffles?"
"Yeah." He's watching your face. "We could do that. If you want."
He's nervous like this is a first date and not the morning after we finally got our shit together.
"I want to get breakfast with you."
His whole face lights up. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. But you're buying. You owe me after putting me through emotional hell yesterday."
He laughs, pressing his forehead against yours. "Fair. That's fair."
"And I'm getting extra strawberries."
"Whatever you want."
"And whipped cream."
"Done."
"And—"
He kisses you. "I'll buy you the whole menu if you want. Just—" Another kiss. "Just don't give up on me yet."
You freeze and pull back to look at him.
He's grinning now, that stupid grin. "Did you just—"
"I've been waiting to use that in context," he admits. "Thought it would be romantic."
"You're an idiot."
"Your idiot."
"Yeah," you whisper. "My idiot."
He kisses you again, and you lose a few minutes to the taste of him and the overwhelming reality that you get to have this now. That you get to keep him.
"Breakfast," you manage.
"Right. Breakfast." He doesn't move.
"Yunho."
"I know. I just—" He cups your face, looking at you like he's trying to ingrain this into his brain. "I really love you."
I’m going to cry again.
"I love you too," you whisper. "Now feed me before I change my mind."
He laughs and kisses your forehead and rolls out of bed to find his glasses, and you lie there for a second, watching him move around his room in the morning light, and think.
You're allowed to be happy, you absolute disaster.
You're allowed to—
He glances back at you, still shirtless, glasses slightly crooked, smiling.
Yeah, okay. I can do this.
♡ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ౨ৎ ‧₊ .ᐟ ♡ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ౨ৎ ‧₊ .ᐟ
BONUS CONTENT [YUNHO POV]
୨ৎlove letter
march 23
okay so i'm writing this at 2am which is probably a bad sign but whatever. you're never going to see this anyway. i'll shove it in the drawer with the other six (seven? i lost count) letters i've written and been too chickenshit to send.
i don't even know where to start. that's a lie. i know exactly where to start but i don't know how to say it without sounding completely pathetic.
you chew the inside of your cheek when you’re lying. not big lies. little ones. “i’m not tired.” “i’m fine.” “it didn’t bother me.” you always do it twice before you say the sentence.
you hum the same notes when you’re scrolling. they’re wrong every time. i’ve tried to figure out what song it is. it’s not a real song. it’s just you.
you pretend you don’t like physical touch but you fall asleep on my shoulder every single time we watch something past 10pm. you say it’s because you’re tired. it’s not.
you read the last page of books first when you’re anxious. you told me that once and then made me swear not to judge you. i don’t. i just think about how badly i want to know what you’re going to do before you do it.
you say you don’t believe in soulmates but you still look up at the sky when you see the first star. every time.
i don’t think you realize how obvious you are. i don’t think you realize how obvious i’ve been.
your sense of direction is terrible. i know it stresses you out. i know you hate asking for help. but i love that you ask me. that you grab my arm when you think we're lost and look up at me like i have all the answers.
i don't. i'm just as lost as you are. just in a different way.
i'm not the guy who says this stuff out loud. i'm not smooth. i'm not confident. i'm not the guy who makes grand gestures or knows what to say.
i'm just stuck. completely stuck on you and i don't know how to be anything else.
i've tried. i've tried to be happy when you date other people. tried to be the supportive best friend who listens and doesn't leave the room when it gets too hard. tried to move on.
but i can't.
i can't watch you fall for someone else and pretend it doesn't kill me. can't keep acting like this is fine.
it's not fine. i'm not fine.
i've been in love with you for so long i don't remember what it felt like before. and i know you don't feel the same way. i know i'm just your friend. the guy you call when you can't sleep or when you need help with directions or when you just want someone to sit with you and not talk.
maybe that's enough. maybe it has to be.
but god i wish i was braver. wish i could tell you this to your face. wish i could risk everything just to know if there's even a chance.
anyway. it's 2:55 now and i have work in five hours and i'm still writing this like it matters. like you're ever going to read it.
you won't, but maybe someday i'll be brave enough to tell you for real. maybe someday i won't be so terrified of ruining everything.
maybe someday you'll look at me the way i've been looking at you.
don't give up on me yet.
— y
(god that sounds so dramatic. i'm leaving it though. it's 2am and i'm allowed to be dramatic.)
୨ৎtext exchanges
12:26am> did you eat
i typed it. deleted it. tyyped it again. i know she hates when people ask that, so i rephrased.
12:26am>did u survive dinner
she sent a picture of half a granola bar and said, “thriving.” i sent skull emojis and offered to drop food off. i was already in my car.
11:11pm>make a wish
i've been sending that for years, i never tell her what mine is, i don’t need to. she knows now.
my love> you’ve been like this the whole time haven’t you
i stared at that text for a full minute, because “the whole time” doesn’t even begin to cover it.
i typed: yeah. sorry.
because loving her quietly for years feels like something i should apologize for.
my love> don’t be.
and for the first time, i didn’t feel stupid about it.
୨ৎmusic playlist: wd40 door
wave to earth – bad
i can't stop replaying it. the way she said my name today when she was distracted, just yunho like it was nothing. my phone's still in my hand. screen's too bright. i should sleep. i'm not gonna sleep. i know how long it takes her to text back. 3 minutes if she's busy. 30 seconds if she's not.i know her breathing changes when she's about to fall asleep on my couch. i know she touches her neck when she's nervous. i know too much. way too much. this song is so slow it makes my chest hurt. if i just don't say anything maybe it'll stop.
mau narrator voice: it will not stop.
sza – garden
she laughed at his joke. his. not mine. i was sitting right there and she was texting someone. i don't know who, i didn't look, i'm not that guy except i kind of am because my stomach did this thing. this ugly jealous thing. and i smiled. i smiled like "oh that's funny" and i wanted to throw my phone into the moon. the bass in this song sits wrong. like something heavy. lie to me, lie to me, yeah. i don't even want her to lie. i want her to look at me the way she looks at literally anyone else when they're funny. i came home and laid face-down on my bed for 20 minutes. mingi asked if i was okay. i said yeah. i'm such a liar. i'm not the chill best friend. i'm actively losing my shit on a daily basis and no one knows.
beverly – again
okay so this song. this fucking song. it starts quiet, right? like you could still back out. like you could still just not say it. keep it in. stay safe. but then it builds and it's like my heart is louder than the street noise, louder than the train, louder than every single reason i have to keep my mouth shut. i listened to this on the way to buy the cards. i listened to it again while i was writing the last one. it's the streetlight song. it's the what if i just song. the moment right before i decide that losing her because i stayed quiet would be worse than losing her because i told the truth. i'm gonna do it. i'm gonna tell her. oh my god i'm gonna throw up.
josh makazo & jean seizure – sights
where do i put my hands. no seriously where the fuck do i put my hands. i've looked at her a thousand times, across the table, across the couch, in the driver's seat while she picks the music, in my peripheral vision while pretending to watch movies. but now she's in front of me and i'm allowed to touch her and my brain is just. gone. static. i can hear myself breathing. that's embarrassing. she says my name and it doesn't sound like teasing. this song builds, it leans in, and that's what i'm doing. i'm leaning in. slow. trying not to rush. trying not to fuck this up. just me finally putting my hands on her after years of keeping them to myself. my mouth is so dry. i'm terrified. i'm doing it anyway.
rocco – in the morning
she's still here. i woke up and she's still here. i'm not moving. if i move it breaks. if i move she disappears. this is the dream, right? this is the one where i wake up and she's gone. but i can feel her breathing. i can feel her. i press my face into her shoulder and i'm thinking please don't disappear please don't disappear please, and then she turns toward me. and she's still here. she's still here. oh my god she's still here.
