Atiny Star

HONGJOONG .𖥔 ܁ ˖ he’s sitting in the studio late into the night, hair unkempt, breathing ragged as the ferocity of your movements intensify. his jeans are bunching around his upper thigh, ass threatening to touch the leather of his seat, clammy hands sticking to the material like melted gum. you’re perched behind him, comfortably draped over the top of his black swivel chair, curve of your arm cascading down into his lap. you’ve been at this for roughly 20 minutes now, initiated on some ‘stress relief’ bullshit. but hongjoong’s eyebrows are furrowed so hard he’s probably going to get a headache afterwards.

owns a fleshlight — was trying to keep it a secret from you, his sober mind regarding masturbation as a solitary act

when you find it (you were cleaning) (cleaning his room specifically) (transparent? really?), you try your damndest not to bring it up, knowing for certain he’d kill you as soon as he got the chance

so you spring it on him: crawl into his studio while he’s working (late as usual), ask some questions about what he’s doing to throw him off when you start for his fly

and hongjoong loves when you come to the studio just to play with his dick, you know that. so it’s the perfect way to catch him off guard, get his dick out, get it aching with a few tweaks of your wrist, and then submerge it in silicone

literal hot fucking mess — noisy, cut-off, choking on his own whimpering; unable to get out more than a syllable

his eyes remain squeezed shut the entire time, like he’s imagining it’s actually you, not some toy — incapable of looking at you, head thrown back like he’s trying to get away (and yet, he doesn’t pull you off, doesn’t tell you to stop)

starts grabbing at you towards the end, grip bruising where it strangles your wrist; “i’m— i’m gonna c— cum— gonna cum— cumming—!”

has enough sense to almost toss his soundboard off his desk before his hips keen and he’s geyser-ing all over his jeans, over the seat cushion, nearly spilling on the floor; slumps back on the chair and for a solid 4 second you think you've fucking killed him; takes a full minute to come to and suddenly he's scolding you

would still prefer you around him than a toy (but you know it’s because he’d have more control over himself with his hands grounded on your waist)

SEONGHWA ⋆˚✿˖° seonghwa ordered you to look at him the entire time he was sheathed in the picture-perfect toy, and you were anything but disobedient. you don’t quite remember what got you in this situation in the first place, but you’ll have to think of it quick, because if seonghwa asks you and you don’t have an answer, you’ll be at this all night. and there’s nothing that ticks you off more than seonghwa making noises over some stupid fleshlight when he could’ve been fucking into your hole. your mouth. shit, you’d rather him use your hand if that’s what he really wanted—anything. worse yet, you’re the one with the fleshlight in his hand.

owns a fleshlight, has a nice little case for it so it doesn’t collect dust.

for backup purposes primarily—if he has to use it, that means you’ve been neglecting him and ur a horrible boyfriend and you should be ashamed

and now he’s clenching his jaw while he listens to a voice memo you sent him a bit ago, the fleshlight taking the brunt of his cock

the following night, seonghwa asks you to come to his room, which you do. you weren’t really prepared for the sight of him naked on his bed, but you’re not one to complain

however, you are one to complain when he asks you to fetch something from his drawer and it’s a toy.

you’re still clothed as you angle the fleshlight for his cock to pierce, your lip pursed as he slides in with practiced ease, making the same exact sounds he would’ve made had it been you instead of silicone

groans about how soft the plastic feels, how it sucks him in so readily, how it feels like it was molded to the shape of his cock; “so good for me. knows just how to take me.”

looks you dead in the eyes when he’s halfway there, hair sticking to his forehead: “d’you have a preference, honey? throat or some other hole? which would you rather replace this toy with?”

he’s not cruel, though—comforts you after he’s filled the fleshlight, assures you he’s not actually upset; allows you to cockwarm him while he rests his eyes—an offer you readily jump at

YUNHO ༄.° he lays himself back on the bed, arms up and cushioning his head in addition to the pillows below. you’re hovering over him, straddling his long body, his legs drifting past where you’ve grounded your knees. him way too relaxed and you way too high-strung. yunho should be grateful he found the toy as quickly as he did, or that he had one in the first place, because the strength of your grip around it is bruising (and at this rate you would’ve gladly subjected his dick to it).

the normalest about his fleshlight habits. except i lied because his favorite thing to do is use it when he sends you voice memos while you’re conveniently in public

“hey, babe. you coming home soon?” he asks in the sweetest voice he can manage, sound of his lube-slick dick stretching out the plastic as background music

worse yet, he won’t bring it up unless you do it first. you’ll find him lounging on the couch watching tv like he hadn’t sent you personalized audio porn a few hours ago

“where’s your fleshlight,” you ask (but it’s said with the force of a demand) one day after he accompanied his voice memo with a picture (one that really emphasized his long fingers and flushed out cock). he’s blinking up at you like he has no clue what’s got you so tense.

you’re annoyed with the way he so easily pulls his cock out for you to torture, laid out on the bed like there are no hard feelings, his smile candid as he pumps himself from chub to upright

grinning like an idiot the whole time, staring right at you, eyes darting across your pretty face like he’s enamored—he can’t believe what’s happening to him

gets so delirious from the whole ordeal he starts laughing, cannot help himself, just like how he can’t help the way his body squirms and bucks into the wetness of the toy

doesn’t do anything he knows would make you snap at him, until he’s finally seeing your hand shake from continued effort, your shoulders beginning to slack—wraps his fingers around the base of your neck, pulling you closer so he can smile into your fidgeting lips

that’s how he finishes—your lips locked, eyes shut as your hand renews it’s speed, yunho’s spidery digits taking a firmer grasp of your upper spine as he cums onto his shirt, both of you too preoccupied by each other’s mouths to really care

YEOSANG ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ you don’t really remember who brought it up first. maybe it was because you joked about fuckable his tits were (you called them tits) (yeosang looked around the room with a hand over his mouth like there was an audience ready to laugh) (cocked his head like it was a challenge) he’s straddling your torso, strong thighs trapping you in place (not like you’d move anyway). his veiny hands lay flat against your ribcage, fingers splayed out on either side of the fleshlight, which he’s situated above your sternum. the rock of his hips knocks the air out of your lungs, the pace slowly but surely picking up.

thinks you seeing what toys he uses is too incriminating

regards masturbation as a primarily private practice—closest you’ve gotten is him jerking off in front of you just to get himself ready

the whole chestfucking thing happened weeks ago—you don’t even remember cracking the vulgar joke (yeosang did)

so when he pushes you down on his bed, weight of his tongue still tingling on your own, poking out of his unbuttoned pants, you’re confused when he reaches for his nightstand

even more so when you see him take out a see-through fleshlight, but you don’t really have time to ponder the possibilities cuz he’s placing the toy atop your sternum and fishing himself out of his briefs

and soon he’s rutting into the silicone, you below, taking the brunt of the thrusts; his knees sit right outside your arms, effectively securing you—one hand on the toy, another fisting the pillow beneath your head

and you’re breathless—quite literally. he’s staring right at you as he humps, the head sometimes poking out if he goes deep enough, pausing momentarily to let the precum bead and eventually drip onto your skin

your shirts bunched up by your throat, like a shameful necklace, and you have to physically stop yourself from letting your mouth hang open

yeosang finishes on your chest, his arms close to trembling as he holds himself upright, looming over your heaving form (once he comes to he’ll ask if you’d like to switch)

SAN ⟡ ݁₊ . san’s hand is crushing your shoulder, to keep you in place, to keep your lips against his, but also to steady himself. the wet, sloppy sounds resonating throughout the bedroom are half from you moving your hand and half from san’s hips jerking upwards with both intention and mindless spasms of his fucked-out cock. but he keeps going—mumbling about how he just needs one more, that he can take it. and he’s came so many times already, spilling out and soaking your enclosed hand, that it’s going to smell like his spunk for days even after you use scented soap.

owns a fleshlight (translucent and tinted purple), but doesn’t use it very frequently — “i have you ♡” he sings, hands wrapped around your waist, tone sickenly saccharine

would sometimes make a cameo in videos he’d send you when you left him alone for too long; his face barely visible save for his slack-jaw, focused on his tensed stomach and the pretty little toy he’s pretending is you

it’s your idea to be present the next time he uses it, though he makes a bit of a fuss, whining about why he can’t just use you; forgets all about it once the toy’s around him and you’re snuggled into his side, kissing at his jaw

sensitive to a fault, whimpers as it sheaths him, but desperate to remain focused on the action (eyes threatening to close from the sensations, mouth hung open—gaze locked all the same)

your original plan was just one orgasm—watch from beside him, mouth at his neck in encouragement. but it’s never that simple with san. you’re a bystander to his self-induced overstimulation, to his gasping, to his momentary twitch and spurt before he’s bucking at renewed speeds: “one more. please, i need it.”

and by his third one he’s begging for you to hold the toy instead. you oblige—don’t realize it’s a trap until you switch his hand with yours and suddenly san’s reaching for you

has his arms wrapped around your neck for the last round, open-mouth moaning down your throat like it’ll muffle the sound; thrusting harshly if your movement stills, threatening to fuck the silicone toy right out of your grip

and he comes a final, fourth time—laving at your tongue, close to head-locking you when his arms tense, eyes lidded but zeroed in on your equally flush face

still prefers having you on his cock, and will suggest you go one more time so he can feel you instead (you adamantly refuse) (...maybe in half an hour)

MINGI ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ mingi on top of you could mean a multitude of things: a) he’s riding the shit out of you, b) he’s fucking the shit out of you, c) he rolled over in his sleep and now you’ve got five seconds of oxygen left before you blackout he had a habit of wanting to fuck right before bed. you didn’t really mind—indulged him most nights, usually ending in the best sleep of your life. but some nights he gets home a little too late, and you’re halfway to dreamland when he starts pawing at you like a cat in heat. but leave it to mingi to have a workaround.

owns one — usually uses it before bed after a hard day of working if he can manage the energy (helps him wind down—knocks out right after he cums, barely able to muster up the strength to clean himself; sometimes just licks his hand clean and calls it a night)

you’re laid in bed, on the precipice of deep sleep. you hear the bedroom door squeak open, hallway light briefly illuminating the dark space as you assume mingi’s arrived to take his rightful place at your cozy side.

and that he does, sneaking under the blanket after changing out of his outdoor clothes (aka shucking them all off and climbing into bed in his briefs)

he presses a wet kiss to the back of your neck as he spoons you, making you purr—pressing back into him, burying yourself in his broad chest

not even a minute later mingi’s mouthing at your pulse, something solid rutting into your ass

“mingi—,” you groan, voice caked with fatigue, muffled by the pillow so the syllables of his name are mashed into a singular, pained sound. i’m too tired, is your reply to his cockhead poking you

one second he’s begging you for access, the next he’s crushing you beneath him, chest flush with your back, the fleshlight situated between your thighs

it's probably the roughest he’s been with you in a while, his hot panting hitting the shell of your ear as he humps you hard enough to make your breath catch and the bed frame shudder

your body is tingling by the time he’s finished, a frantic hand dipping down to catch his own spurts of cum. the hand disappears behind you, and you’re frozen stiff as you listen to him clean his fingers

WOOYOUNG ⋆⭒˚.⋆ you’re both upright on the bed, wooyoung’s fingernails digging into the fabric of your shirt. his heads tilted downwards, damp forehead almost connecting with yours, watching his cock slide in-and-out of the see-through toy. watching you pump him into near-insanity, deliberately in the motions, the arcs. and yet, despite it all, he has the nerve—the gall—to gaze up at you. eyes lidded, boring into you. the smile playing at his lips is faint yet wicked all the same. daring. you’ve got the toy, you’re controlling the speed, but all his face says is ‘try me’.

owns a fleshlight, not secretive at all about it (sends you vids of him fucking it, will let himself “be caught” using it, totally chill with leaving it out n’ about—both used and unused)

but, depending on his mood, he’ll say shit like “why would i use that when i’ve got a perfectly good toy right here?” and then proceed to either grope or slap your ass. or both.

and you “catch” him once again — completely naked on his bed, resting back like it’s all chill and cool, hand tucked under his head while he fucks into his fleshlight (you knocked) (he’s catching your wandering eyes as soon as you walk through the door)

so you play along with his stupid fucking game — plop down on the bed (much to his delight) and watch

he’s squirming almost immediately, just to get on your nerves, shimmying himself into a more voyeur-friendly position; one foot perched firmly on your thigh, other thrown out wide so you can see everything

and of course he ends up getting what he wants, because everyone’s weak to wooyoung. that’s how you end up breathing in his moans, hand gripping the fleshlight like you want to crush this stupid fucking dick, your face dangerously close (pun intended) to his smug one

you’d started completely dressed, ending up disheveled from wooyoung trying to genuinely rip your clothes clean off your body (he did not succeed, leaving you with a rumpled shirt and the neckline stretching over your shoulder)

“you like me like this, huh? you’re such a fucking pervert,” he says as he lets out a porny moan, bucking upwards and aiming for you as his cum spurts out and over the translucent toy. glances you up and down: "you gonna clean that up? or should i?"

JONGHO ❀˖° if you wanted to play with his dick, you could’ve just given him a regular ol’ handjob. or sucked him off, y’know. nothing this mortifying (though he’d never outright let you know that). especially if you were going to end up on your knees anyway. jongho’s sat at the edge of his bed, you peering up at him from the carpeted floor below, hand steadily stroking him, a fleshlight separating the warmth of your palm from his thick cock. your eyes are wide, searching, taking in every subtle twitch or contortion of his face.

owns one. feels no need to tell you about it. masturbation is private to him, not something he really cares to share; he’ll palm himself in front of you to tease, but expects you to actually jerk him off

so you asking him if you can use a fleshlight on him bring him pause—why would you wanna do that when you can just jerk him off like normal? but you’re flashing him this look (and promising him he can do whatever he wants next time)

you’re situated like any other night: on your knees, gazing up adoringly at jongho; him seated, dick out, your hand wrapped around him. it’s just that a toy’s been added to the mix

his eyebrows are furrowed in effort, like he’s trying to hold back the groans bubbling up in the back of his throat. and the twist of your hand is trying its hardest to wring them out

in the sweetest voice you can manage, you assure him, it’s okay to give in. jongho makes a face at you, halfway to a scowl. then he stares, flitting across your facial features for a few silent, foreboding seconds

“shit,” he mutters before laying back on his elbows and letting out a well deserved, full-body shudder—you’ve won.

jongho spends the rest of the time sighing into the near-quiet of his bedroom, save for the wet sound of his cock in the fleshlight; you now standing so you can better watch him come apart, still trying to salvage his pride

at one point, you ask if he’s okay with you climbing over him (he twitches in response, cum beading out of the toy, but tells you to fuck off) (you don’t push, decide instead to sit besides him for better access)

when he cums, it's like nothing you’ve ever seen before; subdued, yet powerful the way he twitches. his last chance at fleeting dominance manifests in the rough seizing of your hand, demanding you to still. and you do, peppering kisses across his abdomen. jongho murmurs softly in response (he pulls you up to his face and you realize the murmuring is actually a warning of what’s to come "next time")

April 26

1. “She's been dragging all of my moots into drama that could have been solved in within five minutes”

2. “But she got into a relationship and I told her I was taking a step back from our friendship so she can focus on her and her bf and she went off on a fuckin nut about it”

“Made a huge deal over and went to all of my closest moots”

This was the only thing I believe I had texted any one of her moots about the whole situation. If the person I sent this to wants to get involved, pls lmk and I'll name you.

“Hii, I know we only ever interacted a few times but I know that you're close with Lexi and IDK if this is rude but I wanted to ask if you had any sort of like... Idea why Lexi is... Like IDK she said she isn't mad but her posts seem like she is”

Not only that but.. I went off my nut?? Babes here are the SS of me trying to talk to you and you ignoring me. Make it make sense🤔🤔🤔 remember, YOU went public about it first.

3. “She is a poser, she's also one of the ones who have been taking my content, and trying to be me in general”

Here are 2(two) screen shots of me giving you credit for this idea AND a 3rd (third) SS of me giving you credit AFTER you blocked me.

Second post coming soon with more SS

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.”