#also i have to note that this is a pattern for him

[slaybinnie]

HUMIN SMUTT PLEASE 🙏

PROBATION

ׂ╰┈➤ Humin (baku) x fem!reader

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃 Warnings: explicit sexual content (18+ MDNI), explicit language, KINDA CRACK FIC, reader has boobs, humin has a boob obsession (lolz), dw I don't mention the size.

about: Humin usually seeks comfort in touching y/n’s chest.. privately. But when he crosses the line in public, he’s but on restriction. Oh the horror! How long can Humin last his boob probation? (lol)

note: WHO DOUBTED MEEE?? I ended up finishing this fic and it kicked my ass lolzers but it was so fun to write. thanks anon for requesting ILY. MUAH

WORD COUNT: 5k <3

Okay you admit it, this was partially your fault. The first time Humin had ever put his hands in your shirt was by your suggestion. 

It was a cold day and you were both curled up on your couch watching some random drama he had put on. You'd noticed Baku rubbing his hands together periodically with that adorable frustrated expression he got when he was annoyed. 

You reached over to touch his hands and they were freezing, “Your hands are so cold.” 

“Well yeah, the heating in my house is so bad,” he grumbled, even though you both knew he just ran cold naturally.

Without really thinking about it, you grabbed his hands and guided them under your oversized sweater, pressing his palms against your warm stomach. “Better?”

Humin grinned and nodded, “Much better!” His thumbs traced small circles on your skin, and you tried to ignore the way it made your heart skip.

That innocent moment had somehow evolved into... this. Since then Humin's hands seemed to have claimed permanent residence under your shirts, hoodies, and sweaters. What had started as a simple solution to his cold hands had become his go-to comfort method.

What had started as something innocent had slowly become something much more intimate as time went on. You weren't even sure when it had shifted but soon enough, Humin had discovered that your chest was the perfect temperature for warming up his hands. Your stomach was no longer an option for him. 

You'd be lying on the couch together, his head on your shoulder while you scrolled through your phone, and his hands would automatically find their way under your shirt to cup your breasts. It wouldn’t always be in a sexual way, though you were very affected sometimes, but just for comfort. 

“Mmm, you're so warm here,” Baku would say, sleepily, his thumbs brushing over your nipples unconsciously. 

Sometimes he'd even massage them gently while you watched TV or he'd trace patterns on your skin, and also play with the lace of your bra until you were squirming beside him. He seemed to find some kind of peace in the action which was fine by you. But Humin had a big problem. The problem of not differentiating between “at home” and “literally anywhere else.”

It was fine when he did it at home. More than fine, actually. You'd grown to love the way he'd automatically slip his hands under your shirt when you cuddled on the couch, or how he'd sleepily reach for you in the morning. But gosh, Humin had absolutely zero sense of appropriate timing or location.

You'd lost count of how many times you'd had to grab his wrists and gently pull his hands away when you were out in public. At the grocery store when he got bored waiting in line. During study sessions at the library when he got restless. Even at cafes when he'd absent-mindedly reach for your chest while scrolling through his phone.

“Baku, no,” had become your most frequently used phrase and honestly, the worst part? He has no idea why you were stopping him. He’d give you these genuinely confused looks as if the middle of the campus quad was an appropriate place for his hands to be wandering under your clothes.

Today’s situation had been the most annoying though, which led to your final decision of banning his touches. 

You and Humin had decided to catch the latest action movie on a Friday night. The theater was packed, and you'd managed to snag seats in the middle of a row, surrounded by other moviegoers. The previews were still playing when you felt Humin's familiar cold fingers slip under the hem of your sweater.

You didn't think anything of it at first as you were expecting his usual gentle touch on your stomach. The theater was dark enough, and you were tucked away in the corner where no one would notice. But his hands moved higher than usual, and instead of stopping at your bra like he did in public, his fingers slipped underneath the fabric to cup your bare breast.

You jumped so hard you nearly spilled your drink and a quiet gasp escaped your lips. 

“Humin.” you whispered angrily, grabbing his wrist and yanking his hand away. “What the hell?”

He looked genuinely confused, how annoying. “What? I wasn’t-”

“You can't just…” you took a deep breath “grab my boobs in a movie theater.”

“Why? There's barely anyone here. And I always touch you?”

Your eye twitched in frustration. You wanted to raise your voice to get your point across, but since you were in a movie theater, you just rolled your eyes and ignored him for the rest of the film.

-

After the movie was over you walked out in a tense silence. Humin kept trying to hold your hand, but you pulled away each time, still irritated. 

“Baby, come on,” he whined as you both got into his car. “What's the big deal? It's not like anyone saw anything.”

You turned to face him. “That's not the point, Baku! You can't just... feel me up in public. It's cringe and inappropriate!”

“But I always touch you,” he said, that same dumb confused expression on his face that made you want to kill him. “You’ve never minded before.”

“Because we were at home, Humin. At fucking home! Not in a movie theater, not at the grocery store, and not at the library!” You replied, turning your head to look out the window.

After a few minutes of silence Humin spoke, “Y/n. I’m sorry about touching you like that in public. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable but I did. I promise I won’t do it again.”

You crossed your arms over your chest and stared at Baku's apologetic face. His genuine remorse was clear, but you wanted to have a little fun with this. “I forgive you.”

Humin smiled and was about to say something until you said, “But I’m going to have to put you on restriction.”

“Restrict- what the fuck is that?” 

“Probation. You’re cut off. You’re not allowed to touch my boobs until you fully understand my frustration.” 

Humin's eyes widened in horror like you'd just told him the worse news of his life. Well, maybe this was the worst news of his life. “What? No! You can't do that to me!” 

“Well, I just did so…” You shrugged your shoulders, trying to ignore how his bottom lip was already starting to wobble. “Maybe this will teach you the difference between private and public spaces.”

The rest of the ride home was filled with Humin's dramatic sighs and protests.

“But what if my hands get cold?”

“Then you’ll wear gloves like a normal person.”

“What if I need comfort?”

“I don’t know, hug a pillow.”

“What if I can't sleep without touching you?”

"Then you'll be very tired."

“But I can’t survive without sucking them!” 

“Humin shut up!” 

By the time you reached his home, Humin looked like a kicked puppy. He followed you inside, hovering around you like that would change your mind. 

“This is cruel and unusual punishment,” he sighed, throwing himself onto the couch, “I'm going to die. Actually die. From sadness.” 

“You're so dramatic,” you said, but you couldn't help but smile a little. 

“Dramatic? Would if I withheld my penis from you? How would you like that huh?” Baku whined then buried his face in a couch cushion and let out a muffled scream.

“What the fuck is actually wrong with you.” You responded. 

“Nothing is wrong with me! I just love you is all.” Baku said, finally looking up from the couch cushion. 

You laughed then sat next to him on the couch, slowly running your hands through his hair. He immediately leaned into your touch, eyes fluttering shut. 

“So I can touch you now?” he mumbled, hope lacing his voice.

“No,” you said firmly, pulling your hand away.

“Goddammit woman!” 

-

So turns out Humin was the most dramatic person on the planet when he didn't get his way. He'd taken to wearing the most pathetic, sad expressions whenever you were around. He'd sigh heavily every few minutes, like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

When you cuddled on the couch, he'd place his hands on your waist or shoulders, then let out pitiful sighs like he was being tortured.

Mind you, it was only Saturday. One day after his ban. 

“You're being ridiculous,” you told him when you caught him staring longingly at your chest.

“I'm not being ridiculous,” he muttered, but his pout suggested otherwise.

“You're pouting.”

“I don't pout.”

“You're literally pouting right now.”

By Tuesday his friends had started to notice his very… very unusual behavior.

“Dude, what's wrong with you?” Gotak asked during a group lunch, watching as Humin stabbed at his food with unnecessary aggression.

“Nothing's wrong with me,” Humin grumbled.

“You've been weird all day,” Juntae added. “You keep sighing and staring at Y/n like she kicked your puppy.”

“She might as well have,” Humin muttered under his breath.

You kicked him under the table. “Don't be dramatic.”

“I'm not being dramatic!”

Sieun leaned forward, “Did you two have a fight?”

“We didn't have a fight,” you said quickly, shooting Humin a warning look. “Baku is just being a baby about something completely reasonable.”

“I am not being a baby!”

“You cried yesterday because I wouldn't let you put your hands under my hoodie.”

“I didn't cry! My eyes were just... watery.”

Sieun, Juntae, and Gotak exchanged confused looks but let it go. 

By Wednesday, you were starting to feel a little bad for Humin. Not bad enough to lift his punishment, but bad enough that you were considering it..

You had just gotten back from classes and were in his bedroom changing into more comfortable clothes. Normally when you were at home you never wore a bra. It was just more comfortable that way. Humin had gotten so used to it that he barely even noticed anymore. Well, he noticed, but it was just normal for him.

But now, with him on probation, you realized this might be the perfect opportunity to mess with him just a little before ending his punishment. 

You put on a fitted shirt that showed every detail of your chest and some comfy shorts then walked into the living room where Humin was spread on the couch, still looking pitiful. Cute, but pitiful. 

“Hey,” you said casually, settling down next to him.

Humin looked over at you, and you watched in real time as his brain processed what he was seeing. His eyes went wide, then narrowed, then wide again.

“Y/n,” he said slowly.

“Hm?”

“Why did you even put on a shirt?”

You tilted your head, like you were confused, “What do you mean?” 

“I can see your tits through the shirt!” 

You looked down at your shirt innocently, as if you hadn't deliberately chosen the most fitted top you owned. “Can you? I didn't notice.”

Humin's jaw dropped. “You're doing this on purpose.”

“Doing what on purpose?” you asked, stretching your arms above your head in a stretch. The movement made your shirt ride up slightly and pull tighter across your chest.

Humin made a strangled noise. “You're evil. Actually evil.”

“I'm just wearing a shirt, baby,” you said, settling back against the couch. “It's not my fault you're... distracted.”

“Distracted?” His voice cracked slightly. “Y/n, you know exactly what you're doing to me right now.”

You turned to face him fully, watching as his eyes immediately dropped to your chest before snapping back up to your face. “What am I doing to you?”

“You're... you're…” He gestured helplessly at your shirt. 

“Use your words, baby,” you teased.

Humin let out a frustrated groan and buried his face in his hands. “You’re giving me blue balls!” 

“No I’m not!” 

“Yes, you are. You're the worst girlfriend ever.”

“Aw, that's not very nice,” you pouted, leaning closer to him. “Maybe I should add another week to your punishment.”

“No!” Humin's head shot up, eyes wide with panic. “No, no, no. You're the best girlfriend ever. So beautiful  and funny. I love you so much.”

You laughed at his dramatic change in tune. “You're being very cute right now.”

For the next hour, you continued your torture. You'd lean over to grab the remote, giving him a perfect view down your shirt. You'd stretch, arch your back, and basically do everything you could to drive him crazy without actually letting him touch you. 

Thursday came and guys were having dinner with friends and they still had so many questions.

“Seriously dude, what is wrong with you? We tried to drop it last time but I can’t ignore it anymore” Gotak asked.

“Y/n's still being mean to me,” Humin mumbled.

“Stop lying to your friends.” 

“I’m not lying. You're torturing me!”

“How is she torturing you?” Gotak asked, looking between you two with confusion.

“She just…” Humin trailed off, clearly not wanting to explain the situation to his friends. “She's withholding affection.”

“Withholding affection?” Juntae pressed.

“Yeah, like... she won't let me…” Humin caught your warning glare and quickly changed course. “She won't let me hold her hand!”

His friends exchanged confused looks.

“You're being weird about hand holding?” Sieun asked slowly.

“Very weird,” Gotak agreed.

“I'm not weird! I just love holding her hand! And she's being stingy with the hand holding!”

You buried your face in your hands, torn between embarrassment and amusement at his terrible cover story.

“This is the weirdest conversation I've ever been part of,” Sieun said.

-

Later that evening, you were curled up on Humin's couch, still giggling about his ridiculous hand-holding excuse.

“Hand holding?” you said, holding in a giggle. “That's the best you could come up with?”

“I panicked!” Humin flopped down beside you dramatically. “I'm not good under pressure, okay? I just wanted them to stop asking questions.”

You laughed, and the sound made Humin's expression soften.

“I love your laugh,” he said quietly.

“Even when I'm laughing at you?”

“Especially then.”

You looked at him as the two of you cuddled on the couch. His hair was messy, his eyes were soft, and despite his dramatics, he looked genuinely happy just to be near you. 

“Can I ask you something?” he said quietly after a while.

“Sure.”

“Do you like it? When I touch you like that, I mean. Not in public obviously, but at home.”

You turned to look at him, surprised by the uncertainty in his voice. “Of course I like it. Why would you even ask that?”

“I don't know. This whole week made me think that maybe you just put up with it because you felt bad for me or because you felt like you had to or something.”

“Baku.” You shifted so you were facing him fully. “I love the way you touch me. I love that you find comfort in it. The only thing I don't love is when you try to do it in front of other people.”

Relief flooded his face. “Really?”

“Really. And you want to know a secret?” You leaned closer, dropping your voice to a whisper. “Sometimes when you're just holding me like that, playing with the lace on my bra or just touching me  gently. It drives me crazy.”

Humin's eyes darkened slightly. "Yeah?"

“Yeah. A good crazy. Like I can barely concentrate on whatever we're doing because all I can focus on is your hands.”

“Fuck,” he breathed, his grip on you tightening slightly. “You can't say things like that to me right now.”

“Why not?”

“Because I've been thinking about touching you for six days straight and if you keep talking like that I'm going to lose my mind.”

You bit your lip, studying his face. His pupils were dilated and you could see the way he was holding himself back. It was actually pretty hot, seeing him like this.

“Well,” you said slowly, “I suppose you have been very good today.”

“Have I?” he asked hopefully.

“Mmhm. Very well behaved. Very respectfulish.” You traced a finger along his jawline, enjoying the way he shivered at the light touch. “I think you've learned your lesson.”

“I have. I definitely have. I'm a changed man.”

You laughed, “Okay. Your punishment is officially over.”

The words were barely out of your mouth before Humin was kissing you, his hands immediately going to cup your face. It wasn't rushed or desperate like you'd expected, but slow, like he was savoring the moment.

When you broke apart, he rested his forehead against yours and said, “I love you.”

“I love you too baby.” 

Humin grinned and leaned down to kiss your neck, his hands finally sliding under your shirt to rest on your waist. His touch was gentle and his hands were cold. The two of you shuffled so that you were sitting on his lap. 

“I want to see them,” he said, looking up at you with dark eyes. “Please?”

You nodded, and he carefully pushed your shirt up, his breath catching when you were revealed to him.

“So beautiful,” he whispered. “You're so beautiful.”

He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your chest, right over your heart, and you smoothed your fingers through his hair.

“Can I suck on them?” he asked, and the question was so direct and honest that you laughed.

“Of course baby.”

He didn't need to be told twice. His mouth latched onto your nipple, and the feeling made your back arch. He sucked gently at first, then with more pressure when you made a soft sound of approval.

“Missed this,” he mumbled against your skin, switching to your other breast. “Missed this so much.”

His free hand continued to knead and caress, and you got lost in the sensation. You missed this too. The way Humin touched you like you were his treasure, like you were his whole world.

“Feels good,” you breathed, and he hummed against your skin in response.

He took his time, switching between gentle kisses and firmer sucking, using his tongue to tease and his teeth to just barely graze your nipple. Your fingers tightened in his hair, and he groaned at the sensation.

“Humin,” you gasped when he bit down a little harder.

“You like that?” he asked, looking up at you with dark eyes. “You like when I bite?”

“You know what I like.”

“I want you to say it,” he said, his thumb brushing over your other nipple. “Tell me everything you like.”

“I like when you bite,” you said breathlessly. “I like when you suck hard enough to leave marks. I like when you use your tongue to…oh!”

He'd taken your other nipple into his mouth while you were talking, sucking hard just like you'd described. Your words dissolved into soft moans as he worked you over with his mouth and hands.

“You're so sensitive,” he murmured, switching between your breasts. “So responsive. I could do this for hours.”

“Please,” you gasped, not even sure what you were asking for.

“Please what, baby? Tell me what you want.”

“I want... I want you to keep going. Don't stop.”

“I won't stop,” he promised, his hands sliding down to grip your hips. “I'm going to love every inch of you. I'm going to make up for every day I couldn't touch you.”

Humin flipped you on your back so that he was hovering above you. He took a moment to just look at you, “I can't believe you're mine,” he said, his voice full of awe.

“I'm yours,” you confirmed. “All yours.”

Humin smiled and took in your nipple in his mouth again, his hand trailing down to pull your pajama shorts off. 

“Baku,” you whimpered when he bit down gently on your nipple.

“Hm?”

Instead of answering with words, you took his hand and guided it down your body, past the waistband of your panties. He groaned when he felt how wet you were.

“All this for me?” he asked, his fingers starting to move in slow, teasing circles around your clit.

You nodded as you moaned loudly, sensitive from not being touched in a week. 

“So wet, Y/n.” He whispered, voice thick with desire. “So perfect like this. Falling apart for me.”

Your head tipped back against the couch cushions, a soft whimper escaping you. Humin kissed your cheek, then your jaw, then moved lower again to kiss the swell of your breast. 

His fingers slipped lower, circling your entrance but not pushing in, just teasing. You let out a sound of frustration, and he let out a low laugh. “Use your words, baby.”

“I want your fingers,” you whispered. “Inside me. Please.”

The moment you said it, he obliged, slowly sliding two fingers into your heat. You gasped and your back arched as your hands flew to grip his shoulders. “Fuck!”

Shh,” he murmured, curling his fingers just right. “Let me take care of you.”

He set a steady rhythm, pumping in and out of you as his thumb found your clit again. Your body responded instantly—hips rocking, breath hitching, thighs trembling around his hand.

“That’s it,” he whispered, never taking his eyes off of you. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this. You always look so good when I’m touching you.”

You felt like you were going crazy, your body wasa over-aware of everything being said and done. “I’m close,” you breathed, barely able to speak. “Please, don’t stop.”

“I’m not stopping,” he promised as his fingers pressed deeper into you. 

With a cry, you came hard around his fingers. Your body jerked as the wave crashed over you. Humin held you through your climax, his free hand stroking your thigh as he whispered praises into your skin.

He kissed your forehead. “You okay?”

“Yes but, It was so good.” You said as your body sunk deeper into the couch as you tried to catch your breath. 

Humin stayed close, his fingers slowly pulling out of you with gentle care. He brought his hand to his mouth, tasting you with a soft groan that made your thighs twitch.

Can’t believe I went a whole week without this,” he murmured, trailing kisses across your collarbone. “Lift your hips baby.” 

You lifted your hips and Humin tugged your now soaked panties down your legs. He ran his hands along your thighs, then leaned down to press kisses to the inside of each one then pressed a firm kiss to your clit. 

You gasped when his lips made contact with your core and a soft surprised moan caught in your throat. His tongue flicked over your clit in slow, deliberate strokes. He wasn’t rushing it. He was taking his time, savoring every reaction you gave him.

“Humin,” you breathed, voice already trembling again.

He hummed in response, the vibration sending a jolt through your whole body. His hands gripped your thighs, keeping you open for him as he worked his tongue on the place you needed him the most. He’d always been good at this but now it felt like he was determined to remind you exactly how much you’d missed this week.

You reached for him, one hand fisting in his hair, and he groaned softly when you tugged. His tongue pressed harder and faster when your hips started to buck into his face, he paused and sucked your clit into his mouth.

You choked nearly jerking away, but his grip on your thighs tightened. “Stay still,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin. “Let me take care of you, baby. ”

Your head tipped back in pleasure. Your body burning with pleasure and your nerves buzzing. You could barely think. All you could do was feel. 

Humin kept going until your whole body was trembling and your moans were little whimpers. Your second orgasm hit stronger than the first, and you cried out in pleasure. 

After your orgasm Humin didn’t stop. He kept licking you through it, even sucking your clit. “You taste so good,” he murmured between licks. “I could do this for hours.”

Finally it was getting to be too much, you were moaning continuously and you were pushing weakly at his head, oversensitive and gasping.

“Too much,” you cried.

Humin finally let up and gave your clit one last soft kiss before lifting his head. His lips were slick, and there was a soft look in his eyes. “You’re unreal,” he whispered, brushing your hair away from your face. “So fucking pretty when you cum.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him down into a kiss. He melted into the kiss and his hands slowly found there way back to your chest, thumbing at your nipples. 

“Humin, I need a break,” you said pulling away from the kiss.

“Of course baby. We don’t have to go all the way tonight.”

“No! I want to go all the way, I just need a breather.” You responded, kissing his lips. 

“Thats fine! Want to watch a movie?” 

You shook your head no and pointed to the obvious bulge in his pants, “I can help take the edge off until I’m ready.” 

“You don’t have to do that, I can wait. Or I can take care of it in the bathroom-”

“No! I want to do it.” 

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice low, already affected.

You nodded slowly, “Let me take care of you, baby. You’ve been so patient.”

He swallowed hard, “You sure?”

“Very.” You kissed the corner of his mouth. 

He sat back as you shifted to the floor in front of him, pressing your palms to his thighs. His breathing was heavy as he watched you, and his hands rested awkwardly on his knees like he was trying not to grab you. You ran your fingers up his thighs, teasing the waistband of his sweats before tugging them down.

Humin helped you ease them off, his erection springing free. He looked painfully hard.

You leaned forward to kiss the tip, just a soft press of your lips, and he let out a shaky breath. “Fuck,” he muttered, head tipping back.

“And you call me sensitive.” 

When you finally took him in your mouth, his hips jerked up and he let out a string of curses. 

“Fuck, baby, your mouth feels so good,” he groaned, his hands gripping the ends of the couch.

You hummed around him in response, taking him deeper. Every reaction made you want to give him more. 

You took your time with him, using your tongue and lips to drive him crazy. When you could tell he was getting close, you pulled back, ignoring his whimper of protest.

“You can’t come two times. You know that.” 

“But-”

“I’m ready, Humin.” You said, cutting off his protest. 

His breath hitched as you cupped him, wrapping your fingers gently around his length. You got up from your knees and placed yourself over his lap, slowly sinking down onto his length. Both of you moaned at the sensation, your eyes falling closed as you adjusted to the feeling of being filled.

“Fuck Y/n, you feel incredible,” Humin moaned, his hands going to your hips.

You started to move slowly, savoring the feeling of being connected to him like this. His hands roamed your body freely, stopping to cup your breasts as you rode him.

“So perfect,” he murmured, his thumbs brushing over your nipples. “You're so damn perfect like this. Riding me. I’m the only one who gets to see you like this, hm?” 

You leaned down, pressing your forehead to his, lips barely brushing his in a soft, lingering kiss, “Yes Humin, only you.” 

Slowly, you picked up your pace, riding him faster and clenching him in. You felt him deepen his grip and his breathing get uneven as you slid down and back up again. 

He pulled you down for another kiss, and the angle change made you both moan into each other's mouths. 

You slowed your pace, leaning forward to press your hands against his chest, grounding yourself. His lips found your neck, trailing soft, featherlight kisses.

“Touch yourself,” he requested breathlessly. “I want to watch you touch yourself while you ride me.” 

“Fuck Humin,” you said but did as he asked.  Your fingers found your clit as you continued to move on top of him and stimulation was almost too much. 

“That's it,” he encouraged, hands guiding your hips, “Keep going.” 

Your free hand tangled in his hair as you picked up momentum again. Your eyes locked and you moaned at the lustful look behind his. 

Your hands left his hair and he leaned down to take your breast into his mouth for the 100th time today. You felt yourself tipping over the edge and you couldn’t hold it anymore. 

“Humin,” you gasped

“I know, baby. I can feel you tightening around me. Let go for me.”

Humin pushed your hand away from your clit and replaced it with his hand. The stimulation from his fingers was all you needed. You came with a cry, your body clenched around him as your third orgasm hit. 

The feeling of you coming around him was enough to push Humin over the edge too, and he thrusted into you one last time before spilling his seed into you.

You collapsed against his chest, both of you breathing heavily. His arms wrapped around you immediately, holding you close as you both came down from your high. 

For a moment, you stayed wrapped in each other’s arms, heartbeats slowing to match, skin sticky and warm. You were the one to break the silence, “Are you okay?” 

“I should be asking you that, you’re the one who came three times.”

You laughed, “Light work.” 

Humin smiled and kissed you softly. “We should probably shower.”

You yawned, “Probably.” 

“You’re not going to get off of me are you?” Humin asked.

“Nope.”

-

AND SCENE. Erm... thank you queens for reading. Was very very fun to write this :D REQUEST IF U WANT

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MINOR DO NOT INTERACT.

Paring: Choi San x Reader Word count: 6k Genre: Exploring themes of longing, control, and explicit intimacy within a relationship facing external familial conflict. Dom!reader, softdom!san, sub!san. Beg beg beg. Please note: This content is for mature audiences due to explicit sexual themes. It contains elements of emotional manipulation, toxic relationship, and power dynamics, as well as descriptions of crying, anxiety, and self-esteem issues. There are also mentions of consensual, safe, and aftercare. Self-indulgent. Reader discretion is advised. Author note: Please, lovies. Give me a heads up if I forgot to mention something that I needed to add, or if there’s any errors. I am new to this, and it’s my first time uploading my work here. I didn’t fully checked my work, do expect some errors, lovies. English is not my first language, bear with me. Happy reading.

You hate him so much. You despise him. Your coping mechanism is to hate your ex, even though you both ended on good terms. All you can think of are the things he did that made you frown—ick, rather. You loathe San. Oh, not really. You ended things with him because of your grandparents. They wanted you to focus on your future by studying business management to take over their company. You’re sick of this. Your parents can’t even protest; they obey as well. They love San, and they want him for you. Too bad, because they also want a “better future” for you.

It’s almost been a month since you last saw him face-to-face. You’ve done everything you could: visiting different cafes with your friends, going out to a park with your dog, isolating yourself in a library, and trying new recipes for pastries within that month. But in the end, San is still in your mind. You keep thinking that he’s supposed to be with you, visiting those new cafes, playing with your dog out in the park, reading books together in a library (but he’d be looking at you, not even a single glance at the upside-down book he’s holding), and baking with you using his passed-down recipes from his great-grandmother. It pisses you off so bad that every time you think of doing something, there’s always a reserved space for him. You hate him because there’s no other thing that could help you forget him since you did it all with him for over six years. You’re in your second year of college, all fucked up, rotting in your bed. Your best friend Ningning had visited your apartment just a few hours ago to lighten you up, knowing you’re not fully okay after finals and your endless reminiscing of San. You felt sorry for your best friend, but she reassured you it was all fine. Satan must be having fun... fucking my life in every way, you thought to yourself.

You’re staring at your ceiling, and now you’re thinking of your ex. You miss how he used to trace imaginary patterns on your arm when you were lying next to him, how his laugh would fill your apartment, making even the emptiest days feel vibrant. You miss the way he’d pull you into unexpected hugs, smelling faintly of the coffee shop he worked at and his subtle, comforting cologne. You miss his endless patience when you were struggling with an assignment, sitting quietly beside you, offering a reassuring squeeze of your hand every now and then. You even miss his annoying habit of leaving his socks by the bed, because at least then you knew he was there. A sharp pang echoes in your chest. It’s not just the absence of him, but the gaping hole where your shared future used to be. Every dream you ever spun, every “what if” scenario, every plan for five, ten, even twenty years down the line, had his face in it. Now, it’s just a blurry, undefined expanse, shadowed by your grandparents’ “better future” and the weight of their company. You clench your jaw, a bitter taste filling your mouth. This isn’t your future; it’s theirs. And you resent it. You resent them. But most of all, you resent San for being so unforgettable, for being so intrinsically woven into the fabric of your life that even tearing him out leaves a ragged, bleeding edge. You close your eyes, wishing for sleep, for oblivion, for anything that could silence the unwavering echo of his memory. But even in the darkness, you can still feel the ghost of his hand in yours, a phantom warmth that refuses to fade.

The city lights hummed around you, a stark contrast to the quiet ache in your chest. You’d decided to brave one of your old haunts tonight—a small, dimly lit bar with good music and even better cocktails, hoping to drown out the persistent thoughts of San. The air was thick with the scent of whiskey and faint perfume as you nursed your drink, tracing patterns on the condensation of your glass. Suddenly, a shift in the ambient noise, a subtle change in the energy of the room, snagged your attention. You didn’t even have to look up. You felt him. Every nerve ending in your body tingled with an electric awareness. Your breath hitched. He was here. Your eyes finally lifted, drawn across the smoky room as if by an invisible string. And there he was. San. He was standing by the bar, talking to the bartender, but his gaze, hot and familiar, was already locked onto yours. The casual hum of conversations, the clinking of glasses, the music—it all faded into a distant murmur. There was only him. And you.

He started to move, not directly towards you, but as if on a circuit, heading towards the restrooms, a path that would take him directly past your table. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence that now enveloped you. As he approached, his eyes never left yours, a silent, potent conversation passing between you. There was no awkward smile, no forced pleasantry. Just a raw, undeniable hunger in his gaze that mirrored your own. As he drew level with your seat, his pace barely faltered. His hand, warm and calloused, brushed against your lower back, a deliberate, lingering touch that sent a searing current through you. It was a familiar ghost, a memory of countless other touches that had promised so much more. He didn’t stop, didn’t speak, but the brief contact was an explosion of suppressed desire, an unspoken question hanging heavy in the air. You watched his retreating back, your skin still humming from his touch. You knew exactly what that meant. And you knew, with a terrifying certainty, that you were going to follow.

As San moved past, the spot on your lower back where his hand had lingered burned like a brand. The air around you crackled with unspoken tension. Your breath felt shallow, caught somewhere in your throat. You watched the line of his shoulders beneath the dark jacket, the way his dark hair caught the dim light. It had been almost a month, but the sight of him, that look in his eyes, the brief, deliberate touch—it had ripped through your carefully constructed walls of indifference. Your mind raced, a chaotic jumble of longing, resentment, and that undeniable, insistent pull of physical attraction. You hated him for doing this to you, for disrupting the fragile peace you’d been trying to build. But a louder voice, a more primal instinct, was screaming something completely different.

Without conscious thought, you pushed yourself to your feet, your chair scraping slightly against the wooden floor. The sound seemed amplified in the sudden quiet that had descended around you. You hesitated for a fraction of a second, a sliver of your rational mind screaming at you to sit back down, to ignore the magnetic force drawing you in. But the memory of his touch, the intensity in his eyes that mirrored your own buried desires, was too strong to resist. You took a step, then another, your gaze fixed on San’s broad back as he disappeared through the door marked “Restroom.” You knew he hadn’t actually needed to use them. This was a silent invitation, a pretense.

Taking a deep breath, the humid night air clinging to your skin as the bar door briefly opened and closed, you followed. The dimly lit hallway leading to the restrooms felt thick with anticipation. The sounds of the bar faded behind you, replaced by a low hum of the air conditioning. You knew what you were about to do. And despite the turmoil in your heart, a part of you, a deeply buried, fiercely yearning part, couldn’t deny the electric thrill of it.

You reached the restroom door and paused, your hand hovering over the cool metal handle. The low murmur of male voices could be heard from within. Taking one last shaky breath, you pushed the door open and stepped inside. San was leaning against the sink, arms crossed, his gaze already on you, that same intense, knowing look still blazing in his eyes. The air crackled. The game had begun again.

He was still leaning against the sink, his arms crossed over the glossy texture of his jacket, the silver chain around his neck catching the faint light from the overhead fixture. His dark hair, slightly disheveled, framed a face that was both impossibly familiar and unnervingly alluring in the muted light. His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, devoured you. There was no casual greeting, no “fancy meeting you here.” His gaze alone was a physical touch, tracing every curve, every shadow. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, yet vibrating with an unspoken language only the two of you understood. It was the language of six years of shared history, of bodies that knew each other intimately, of a passion that had never truly died, only been forcibly buried. You felt your cheeks flush, a wave of heat spreading through you that had nothing to do with the humid night. You wanted to look away or flee, to break the potent spell, but you couldn't. You were a moth to his flame, drawn in by the sheer magnetic force of his presence.

He pushed off the sink, taking one slow, deliberate step towards you. Then another. The small space of the restroom felt even smaller, every inch of it shrinking until it felt like the world had narrowed down to just the two of you. The faint scent of stale cigarette smoke and generic air freshener was obliterated by the clean, distinct scent of him—something woody and slightly musky, utterly San. His hand rose, slowly, as if in a dream, and he reached out. His fingers didn’t go for your face or your hair. Instead, they settled on the sensitive skin of your neck, his thumb brushing lightly over your pulse point. The contact was electric, sending shivers down your spine and igniting a fire in your core. It was a possessive gesture, a silent claim.

“You followed,” he murmured, his voice a low, rough rasp that sent another jolt through you. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact, laced with triumph and a raw, carnal anticipation. His eyes dropped from yours, trailing slowly down your face, lingering on your lips. Your breath hitched. Your body was already betraying you, aching for his touch. The fight you’d been putting up for the past month dissolved like smoke. All the reasons you shouldn’t, all the ‘what-ifs’ about your grandparents and your future, vanished. There was only this moment, this man, and the undeniable truth of your shared, burning desire.

“Of course, I did,” you whispered back, your voice barely audible, a confession, a surrender. “Why wouldn’t I?” You leaned into his touch, your eyes closing for a brief moment as his thumb continued its maddening rhythm on your neck. The next move, you knew, would be yours to make, or his. And it wouldn’t involve talking. You snaked your arms on the back of his neck and pressed your lips against him, closing the gap between you and San. His fingers squeeze the side of your neck—enough to make you breathe, even. San’s other hand traveled down on your ass, squeezing it, pulling you closer until you felt his hard, clothed cock. You started to grind your body against him. San let out a low groan against your mouth, a sound of pure pleasure that vibrated through your entire body. He deepened the kiss, his tongue tangling with yours in a passionate dance. The pressure on your neck eased slightly, allowing for more comfortable breathing, but his grip on your ass remained firm, keeping your bodies tightly pressed together. You could feel the undeniable heat radiating from him, mirroring the inferno building within you. Every grind of your hips against his was met with an eager pushback, a silent language of escalating desire. The air around you crackled with an unspoken urgency, a shared need that threatened to consume you both. You felt yourself getting dizzy, not from lack of air, but from the intoxicating rush of his presence, the raw intensity of the moment. The world outside of his embrace faded into a blurry background, and all that existed was the pounding of your hearts, the delicious friction of your bodies, and the promise of what was yet to come.

You broke the kiss, gasping for air, your forehead resting against his. His eyes, dark with desire, met yours. “God, you drive me insane,” he breathed, his voice thick and rough. His thumb, still on your neck, traced the line of your jaw, sending shivers down your spine.

“Oh, really?” You purred back, a mischievous glint in your eyes, a slight smirk playing on your lips. You could feel the frantic beat of your heart against his chest. His grip on your ass didn’t lessen, keeping you flush against him, making the undeniable evidence of his arousal all the more present. Your fingers, still laced in his hair, gave a gentle, possessive tug. He chuckled, a low, husky sound that sent another wave of heat through you.

“Is it now?” He murmured, his gaze utterly devoted. “Because I feel like I’m the one about to lose my mind here... if you’d allow it.” His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, filled with an almost desperate plea. “What kind of spell are you doing to me, beautiful?”

You leaned in, brushing your lips against his. “What do you want me to do?” You challenged softly, a hint of steel beneath the teasing sweetness in your voice. You felt him tense beneath your touch, a clear sign of his hunger and his readiness to submit. He pulled back just enough to look at you properly, a serious intensity replacing the playful glint in his eyes, now mixed with a deep, consuming adoration.

“Everything,” he said, his voice dropping to a near growl, a tone of absolute surrender. “I want you to do everything.” He squeezed your ass again, pulling you impossibly closer, his body vibrating with controlled anticipation. “And I want to do everything for you, to you, as you wish.”

You let out a soft, knowing laugh, a sound that held a hint of delicious victory. “Are you willing to do such thing, San?” You murmured, your fingers tightening around the back of his neck, pulling him a fraction of an inch closer until your lips were almost touching again. Your gaze dropped to his mouth, then back up to his eyes, watching the worship intensify.

“Please, love. Let me feel you. Let me fuck you right here, please.” Your hand moved from his neck, trailing slowly down his chest, resting over his heart, which was pounding a frantic rhythm. You felt his sharp intake of breath, a subtle shiver that ran through him. You could feel the undeniable strength of his body, the hard planes of his muscles, yet he was utterly still beneath your touch, waiting.

“Begging already?” you whispered, your voice dropping to a seductive husk. “Then you’ll have to earn it, won’t you?" Tilting your head slightly, a clear signal of your will. “You hear me, San?” The words hung in the air, a silken thread of absolute will.

“Yes. Please, let me touch you…” He spoke in a low tone, grinding on your thighs. Sweating gathered on his forehead and fell down to his jaw as he breathed heavily.

“Fucking insane. I didn’t order you to grind like a dog on me,” you spat. “Kneel.” A last word that followed out of your mouth. San immediately fell to his knees, hands on his lap. Looking at you as a vulnerable piece. The dim light of the restroom played across the silk black dress, highlighting the curve of your back, the enticing hint of your thong visible as you leaned against the sink, supporting your weight.

“Eat me out. Devour me like you own me.” You looked down to San, who was reaching for your ankles, massaging them as his hands traveled up to your legs, kissing them inch by inch, worshipping your body, parting your legs as he went up to your thighs, leaving a mark, and licking them after. His eyes, dark with fervent desire, remained fixed on you as he slowly, deliberately, brought his face closer to your waiting heat. You could feel his warm breath ghosting over your most sensitive skin, sending shivers through you that were a delicious mix of anticipation and absolute control. He paused, just for a moment, a silent question in his gaze, seeking your final, unspoken approval, even as his body trembled with eagerness. You watched him, your own breath catching in your throat, the thrill of his utter devotion a potent potion. Without a verbal cue, but with a subtle shift in your weight and a slight parting of your lips, you granted him permission. His dark head dipped, and then his tongue, hot and wet, made first contact. A sharp gasp tore from your throat, your fingers instinctively gripping the cool edge of the sink behind you.

He was everything you remembered, everything you craved, and more. His movements were precise, deliberate, a worshipful exploration that left no inch of you untouched. Each flick of his tongue, each gentle suck, was designed to push you closer and closer to the edge, a master of his craft, completely consumed by the act of pleasing you. You felt the warmth spread, fire igniting in your core, and the world outside the small restroom dissolved into a blissful haze of sensation. His hands moved to cup your buttocks, lifting you slightly, pressing you more firmly against his mouth. The silk dress rode up, revealing even more of your thong-clad rear. You arched your back, a low moan escaping your lips as the intensity built. You could feel his hot breaths, hear his soft groans of pleasure, mingling with your own. He was truly devouring you, just as you’d commanded, lost in a single-minded pursuit of your satisfaction. The thought of your grandparents, your future, and the entire world outside was utterly obliterated by the exquisite reality of San at your feet, making you burn. As he continued his movements, you found yourself twisting, unable to keep still, your fingers digging into the cool porcelain of the sink. Each stroke of his tongue, each gentle pull, was a direct shot of pleasure, spiraling through you. He paused for a moment, just long enough for you to let out a frustrated whimper, before resuming with renewed intensity, as if punishing you for your impatience, yet simultaneously rewarding you with deeper sensations.

“San,” you gasped, your voice strained, barely recognizable even to your own ears. Your head fell back against the mirror, your eyes squeezed shut, the world now nothing but the rhythmic, insistent pleasure he was eliciting. He didn’t answer verbally, but the way his tongue moved and the increased pressure of his mouth told you he heard your plea and was only going to push you further. He shifted, bringing one hand to cup your mound, his thumb sweeping over your already swollen clit, while his mouth worked wonders. The combination was almost unbearable, pushing you right to the edge. You felt a soft trembling start deep within you, growing, consuming.

“Please,” you whimpered again, the word barely a breath. “San... please…” You weren’t sure what you were begging for—was it for him to stop, for him to continue, for release, for more, or for less? It was just a desperate, animalistic sound of pure need. He lifted his head for a second; his eyes, dark and glazed with his own rising passion, met yours. His face was flushed, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, his lips glistening.

“Beg for it, doll,” he murmured, his voice a low, rough rumble against your skin, just before his mouth closed over you again, sending a jolt that made your toes curl.

A whimper tore through you. “San, I—I need—” Your words broke off into a choked cry as he intensified his service, driving you closer to the edge than you thought possible. “Please... please, I’m almost there…”

He pulled back again, just a fraction, the sudden withdrawal almost painful. You whimpered, reaching out blindly, your fingers tangling in his dark hair. “Don’t stop, San. Please, don’t stop. I need you, fuck.” Your voice was raw, stripped bare of any pretense of control. “Please, baby, don’t stop, I beg you.”

His eyes burned into yours, a successful glint mixing with the absolute adoration. “Say my name,” he rasped, his breath hot against your thigh. “Say you need me.”

“San, baby. Oh god, San, I need you. Make me cum. Please, baby.” Your hips bucked instinctively against his face, a desperate plea for release. You let out a loud moan; you didn’t realized how loud you are. He watched you, a slow, sensual smile spreading on his lips as your desperation grew. He was enjoying every single second of your unraveling, your complete surrender to the sensations he was orchestrating.

“Such a good girl. Begging for me just to fuck her stupid using my mouth,” he purred, the words sending another shiver through you. And then, with a final, deep dive, he pushed you over the edge. A strangled cry ripped from your throat as your body convulsed, pleasure exploding through every nerve ending. You clutched his hair, your nails digging lightly into his scalp as your knees threatened to buckle. He held you steady, his mouth still working, catching every last tremor of your climax, devouring you completely. When the last movements ended and your breathing evened out, he finally pulled away, his face slick with your mutual pleasure. He looked up at you, his eyes still dark with a simmering desire, but now also filled with a profound, almost reverent satisfaction. He reached up, his thumb gently wiping a tear from the corner of your eye that you hadn’t even realized had fallen.

“All for you, sweet,” he breathed, his voice soft, utterly devoted. He then leaned forward and pressed a chaste kiss to your now-sensitive skin, a lingering, possessive touch. “Always.”

It took a few shaky moments for you to regain your composure, to find your footing again as the waves of pleasure receded, leaving you delightfully weak. San rose from his kneeling position, his movements fluid and unhurried. He didn’t speak, but his gaze, hot and possessive, lingered on your face, reading every lingering trace of your climax. He reached out, his hand gently settling on the small of your back, a silent anchor.

“We can’t stay here,” you murmured, your voice still a little breathless, the words feeling foreign and heavy in the aftermath. The fluorescent lights of the restroom, the lingering scent of disinfectant, suddenly felt stark and unwelcome after the intimate intensity of the past few minutes. San merely hummed in agreement, his thumb stroking your skin. He didn’t need words. He knew exactly what you meant, what you wanted. Your apartment. Your bed. The place where inhibitions could truly melt away. He turned, guiding you gently with his hand on your back, leading you out of the restroom and back into the muffled hum of the bar.

The transition felt surreal. The conversations and laughter of strangers seemed distant, a mere backdrop to the vibrant thrumming between you and San. You didn’t speak a word as you walked past the main bar area, past curious glances, out into the humid night. The air was thick and warm, clinging to your skin, a stark contrast to the cool air-conditioned interior of the bar. He hailed a taxi with practiced ease, opening the door for you before sliding in beside you. The ride to your apartment was a silent symphony of anticipation. Your hand found him in the darkness of the backseat, fingers intertwining, a silent promise exchanged. His thumb drew lazy circles on your knuckles, a comforting rhythm that spoke volumes. The earlier resentment, the carefully constructed walls of hatred, felt like a distant, irrelevant memory. All that mattered was the warmth of his hand, the shared heat in the small space, and the electric hum of what was coming next.

Soon enough, the taxi pulled up to your apartment building. You fumbled for your keys, your hands still trembling slightly, a small laugh escaping your lips. San took them from you, his fingers brushing yours, and effortlessly unlocked the door. He let you enter first, a silent deference that made your stomach clench in a delicious way. The apartment was dark and quiet, save for the faint glow of city lights filtering through the blinds. You kicked off your shoes, letting them fall unceremoniously to the floor. San closed the door behind him, the soft click echoing in the stillness, severing you from the outside world.

He didn’t turn on any lights. The dimness felt right, adding to the illicit intimacy of the moment. You turned to face him, the faint light catching the contours of his face, the intensity in his eyes. He reached for you, his hands cupping your face, his thumbs gently caressing your cheeks.

“My love,” he whispered, his voice a low, rough reverence that sent shivers down your spine. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then your eyelids, then tracing the curve of your jaw with his lips before finally finding yours. This kiss was slower, deeper than before, a lingering promise. His tongue traced your lips, asking for entry, and you readily granted it, your body already arching into his. San’s hands moved from your face, trailing down your neck, over your shoulders, and then found the hem of your black silk dress. He slowly, deliberately, began to pull it up, his eyes never leaving yours, watching for any sign, any hint of resistance. There was none. The silk glided upwards, revealing more of your legs, the smooth curve of your hips, until the thong beneath was fully exposed. San took a moment, his gaze sweeping over your exposed skin, a low groan rumbling in his chest. You reached for him too, your fingers fumbling with the zipper of his jacket, then the snaps of his shirt. He stood still, a statue of patient devotion, allowing you to undress him. The leather jacket came off first, then his shirt, revealing the hard planes of his chest and the taut muscles of his abdomen. You traced the lines of his body with your fingertips, feeling the heat radiate from him, the faint tremor that ran through him as your skin met his. San stepped back slightly and took your hand, leading you deeper into the apartment, as if he lived there, to the bedroom. The soft rug underfoot felt luxurious against your bare soles. In the dim light, your bed looked like an island, an irresistible haven. He paused at the edge, his gaze searching yours.

“May I?” he murmured, a silent question asking permission to continue, even though every fiber of your being screamed yes. You nodded, a shaky breath escaping your lips. He reached for the strap of your dress at your shoulder, slowly sliding it down, allowing the silk to pool at your feet. You stepped out of it, the black fabric a discarded puddle. He then lifted you effortlessly, carrying you to the bed. You gasped, wrapping your legs around his waist as he lowered you onto the soft mattress. He hovered over you, supporting himself on his elbows, his eyes never leaving yours.

“You are so beautiful,” he breathed, his voice thick with adoration. “Perfect. So fucking perfect for me and mine only.” His hand found the waistband of your thong, his fingers slipping underneath. He slowly, agonizingly slowly, peeled it down your legs until you were completely bare beneath him. He didn’t rush, savoring each moment, each inch of exposed skin. You reached for the waistband of his pants, pulling at them impatiently. He chuckled, a deep, satisfied sound, and helped you, shucking off his pants and boxers until he too was naked, his hard form pressing against your bare thighs. He settled between your legs, his weight a delicious pressure. He leaned down, burying his face in your neck, inhaling your scent, leaving a trail of hot kisses along your collarbone.

“You have no idea how long I have dreamt of this,” he whispered against your skin, his voice raw with a desperate longing that mirrored your own. "Of being here again, with you, like this.” You threaded your fingers through his hair, pulling his head back slightly so you could meet his gaze. His eyes were dark, almost black, brimming with an overwhelming emotion that captivated you.

“Show me, San,” you whispered, your voice a soft invitation, your hips unconsciously tilting up, pleading. “Show me everything.” He met your gaze, a powerful mixture of adoration and barely contained hunger in his eyes. He leaned in, pressing his lips to yours, a deep, consuming kiss that stole your breath away. This was not just desire; it was a profound connection, a reunion of souls that had been torn apart, now finding their way back to their inevitable convergence. His body moved, pressing deeper, finding that familiar, perfect fit. You gasped against his mouth, a sound of pure, unmixed relief and escalating pleasure. He groaned against your lips, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through your entire being as he began to move. Slowly at first, a deliberate testing of the waters, a teasing rhythm that built the excitement. You responded immediately, your hips instinctively meeting him, pushing back, craving the full immersion. His hands found your waist, gripping you firmly, lifting you slightly to deepen the angle, to ensure every friction was maximized.

“My love,” he breathed, the words muffled against your mouth as he broke the kiss, his lips trailing down your jaw to your ear. “You feel so good. So good.” His breath hitched as you arched into him, a soft moan escaping your lips. The pace quickened, a primal dance that spoke volumes without a single word. The bed beneath you became a tempest, the soft mattress sinking with each powerful thrust. You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him in closer, urging him deeper. Your nails lightly scraped against his back as you clung to him, lost in the escalating storm of sensation. His muscles flexed under your touch, a testament to the raw strength he held in check for you. He was a force, yet utterly devoted to your pleasure, watching your face for every sign, every gasp, every subtle shift in your expression. He leaned down, catching your lips in a passionate kiss again, swallowing your moans, mingling your breaths until there was no telling where one ended and the other began.

The air in the room grew heavy, thick with the scent of aroused bodies and desperate need. The sounds of your apartment, usually so familiar, were now just the frantic pounding of your hearts and the soft gasps and moans that filled the space. The thought of anything beyond this moment, beyond the exquisite friction and the intoxicating scent of San, completely vanished. This was your true future, the one you truly desired, unraveling beneath you in a tangle of limbs and breathless whispers. He pulled back, just enough to look into your eyes, his own dark and dilated, filled with a burning intensity.

“Look at me,” he rasped, his voice strained, raw with his own approaching climax. “Look at me, doll.” You met his gaze, completely consumed, your body trembling on the brink. You could feel the building pressure deep inside, the undeniable ascent towards another peak. His eyes, fixed on yours, were the only anchor in the swirling of sensation.

“San,” you whimpered, his name a desperate plea, a worshipful prayer on your lips. With a final, powerful thrust, he drove into you, a deep, all-consuming connection that sent you spiraling over the edge once more. A guttural cry escaped you as your body shook uncontrollably around him, clutching him tighter. He groaned, a primal sound of release, as he followed you, collapsing onto you, his body heavy and satiated. The aftermath was a symphony of heavy breaths and pounding hearts, bodies slick with sweat, entangled in the peaceful silence that followed the storm. He buried his face in your neck, pressing kisses to your damp skin, utterly spent, yet still holding you impossibly close, as if afraid to let you go. He lay heavy on you, his chest rising and falling against yours, the scent of him—a mix of sweat, sex, and his familiar cologne—filling your senses. Your fingers, still tangled in his hair, gently stroked the nape of his neck. The frantic rhythm of your heart gradually slowed, syncing with the steady beat of his. The silence in the room was profound, punctuated only by your soft breaths and the lingering hum of satisfaction that resonated deep within your bones.

After a long moment, he shifted, lifting his head from your neck and propping himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. His eyes, still clouded with the afterglow, held a tenderness that made your own heartache in the best way possible. He reached out, his thumb tracing the curve of your bottom lip.

“Are you... Alright, my love?” he whispered, his voice a little rough, a hint of concern in his gaze. He always checked. He always made sure you were okay, even when he was completely lost in the moment. It was a subtle, natural care that had always been one of the things you loved most about him and something you had desperately missed.

You smiled, a soft, content smile. “More than alright, San,” you murmured, reaching up to cup his cheek, feeling the slight stubble beneath your palm. “Perfect rather.”

A relieved sigh escaped him, and he leaned down to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “Good,” he breathed, the word filled with sincere relief. He rolled off you, but only to lie beside you, pulling you immediately into his side. Your head rested on his shoulder, your leg thrown over his, your bodies still connected by the lingering warmth and the unspoken intimacy.

The city lights still filtered through the blinds, casting faint, shifting shadows on the ceiling. You were both quiet, simply existing in the shared space, in the aftermath of something raw and powerful. You felt a wave of conflicting emotions wash over you—the lingering resentment for the life your grandparents had dictated, the sharp pang of regret for the time lost, and an overwhelming surge of pure, unadulterated contentment in his arms.

“I missed this,” you whispered, the words barely audible, a confession that tasted like freedom on your tongue. “I missed you.”

He tightened his arm around you, pulling you even closer. His lips brushed your hair. “I missed you too, more than words can say,” he murmured back, his voice thick with emotion. “Every single day; It was hell without you—even though I can sense that you hated me to death. I know you.”

You sighed, burying your face deeper into his shoulder. The fragile peace was here, in this bed, with him. The outside world, the demands of your family, the future they had planned—it all felt distant, a problem for another day. For now, there was just this. Just San. And the undeniable, aching truth that you were exactly where you belonged. You felt his breathing even out, a soft snore starting to rumble in his chest. He was falling asleep, utterly relaxed in your embrace. You closed your eyes, letting the exhaustion and the profound contentment wash over you. For the first time in a long time, the insistent echoes of his memory were not tormenting you but lulling you into a peaceful sleep.

[zerocoded]

summary: what is like to date idol!txt.

author's note: i wish i could turn this into an idol!series where i portray them as our boyfies because i have SO MANY ideas like this but i'm can't tell if anyone would enjoy this lol. also, not me writing this while i'm studying for my finals and trying not to die from burnout. but hey! at least my winter break is close teehee. txt is here to help me with my delulu and ALSO I'M SO EXCITED FOR THE NEXT COMEBACK, I FEEL LIKE IT'S GOING TO BE BIG. this work is part of our moa net here on tumblr, you should check it out! @onedreamnet.

warnings and tags: sfw content • ot5!separate x reader • fem!reader in mind • fluff • domestic txt • est. relationship • the boys are so soft here i want to cuddle them • one kissy kiss scene on taehyun's.

word count: 3.1k (500~700 per member).

my kpop masterlist: here.

★˚๑🎐％﹒choi yeonjun﹕ᘏᘏ୭₊˚

the duality drives you insane.

in public — on stage, in photos, under the lights — he’s confident in a way that borders on unfair. head tilted, eyes half-lidded, body moving like he owns the air around him. no hesitation. no nerves. just pure, deliberate charisma.

but offstage?

you catch him sulking in the kitchen because he dropped his dumpling on the floor and “no one will ever understand that kind of grief.”

you’ve learned his patterns by now.

the morning of a performance, he’s quiet. not because he’s nervous — not exactly — but because he’s already thinking about the camera angles. the formations. the fans. the five-second part where he gets to smirk like a villain and cause cardiac arrest on a national scale.

you sip your coffee across from him in the early morning silence. he’s still in pajama pants, hair pushed back with a headband, eyes unfocused as he mumbles his lines under his breath between bites of toast.

“you’re going to burn a hole through the table,” you say softly.

he looks up, blinking. “was i being weird again?”

you nod.

he smiles.

and when he gets up, he kisses your forehead like it’s the one part of him not too busy to love.

later, you visit the music show set.

he’s already in full styling when you arrive — velvet jacket, smoky liner, lip tint sharp enough to cut. he looks nothing like the boy who fell asleep face down on your laundry pile two nights ago.

“don’t look at me like that,” he says as you approach. “you’re going to make me trip on stage.”

you hold up the bag you brought. “you forgot your vitamins.”

he blinks. you raise a brow.

he pouts.

“thank you, baby,” he says, voice soft and dramatic all at once, like he’s the main character in a romance film. he holds your hand for half a second too long. “will you cheer for me?”

you smirk. “only if you wink during your center part.”

“that’s illegal.”

“do it.”

he does.

after the show, you find him sitting on a folding chair in the corner of the dressing room, head tipped back, chest rising and falling with exertion.

you crouch beside him, hands gently brushing his thighs. “hey.”

his eyes flutter open. “did i do okay?”

you almost laugh. “you’re joking, right?”

he smiles sleepily. “just wanted to hear you say it.”

you press a kiss to his shoulder. “you killed it.”

he leans into your touch, the heat of performance slowly melting into something tender.

“can we go home?” he murmurs.

“you still have a fan call.”

he groans, flopping dramatically. “they don’t let me rest.”

“i’ll wait,” you say. “we’ll eat after.”

his eyes light up. “can i pick the place?”

you roll your eyes. “you always do.”

that night, you fall asleep with him tucked into your side — his hair damp from a late shower, his breathing slow, one arm curled around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

he always wants to be babied after a stage. wants back rubs and snacks and quiet praise whispered into his hair.

“you were perfect,” you murmur against his temple, fingers tracing his spine. “i’m proud of you.”

he exhales, almost asleep now, and whispers:

“you make it all feel worth it.”

and you hold him a little tighter.

★˚๑🎐％﹒choi soobin﹕ᘏᘏ୭₊˚

you didn’t expect soobin to be this… domestic.

the first time he spends the night at your place after promotions end, he shows up at your door with a tub of strawberries, three different types of cereal, and a full-size body pillow he carries like a briefcase. no suitcase, no overnight bag. just snacks and sleep gear.

“don’t judge,” he says, stepping out of his shoes. “my brain is too tired to pack properly.”

he immediately lies down on your floor like his bones have dissolved. doesn’t even make it to the bed. you poke him with your foot. “you good?”

“i live here now,” he mumbles.

being with soobin means you never know what version of him you’re going to get.

sometimes he’s the shy, blushing leader who asks “can i hold your hand?” even after months of dating. other times he wraps himself around you on the couch like a weighted blanket and says “you’re mine now” while chewing crackers like a menace.

he kisses the top of your head when he’s proud. gives you a thumbs up when he’s too shy to say “you look beautiful.” and tries to act cool when he walks into a door frame because he still forgets how tall he is.

idol life with soobin is not as glamorous as you thought.

he practices so hard his neck sounds like bubble wrap when he turns it. sometimes you massage his shoulders while he’s half-asleep on your lap and he lets out a noise so pained you almost cry laughing.

he loses his phone in the fridge. he forgets to eat. he falls asleep mid-conversation, still holding his chopsticks, because rehearsals went until 2am. and you tuck him in, clean up, and never say a word.

when he wakes up the next morning, guilt in his eyes, you just hand him a warm can of coffee and say, “don’t even start.”

he hugs you for five full minutes.

when you visit him on set, he pretends not to notice you at first. just nods politely, like you’re staff. until you pass by his chair and whisper, “your mic pack is crooked.”

then he turns pink. very pink. and immediately fixes his posture. his members don’t say a word—but they’re smirking. especially beomgyu.

later, during a break, he sneaks over to where you’re sitting behind the monitors and plops down beside you with a sigh.

“missed you,” he whispers, forehead bumping your shoulder.

you pull out a protein bar. he lights up like a golden retriever. “you know me so well.”

“you only like this one because it tastes like cookies.”

“exactly. healthy cookies. it’s good for my image.”

you raise a brow. “your image?”

he leans in, voice low and teasing. “you mean my boyfriend image? the one where i’m tall, sweet, and snack-efficient?”

on tour, he texts you only when it’s quiet.

after the stages, the chaos, the screaming fans and interviews, he always finds a few minutes in the hotel room to send you something real.

sometimes it’s a photo of the ceiling with “i wish you were here.” sometimes it’s “what if we just lived in a cabin and raised rabbits.” sometimes it’s just “i’m tired. but i love you.”

you never pressure him to call. you know his body hurts. you know the silence is sacred after giving so much of himself away.

so you send back things like “drink water, stretch your legs, think about my face.” and he replies with a sleepy selfie and a peace sign.

he gets back after two weeks on the road and the first thing he says when you open the door is:

“do you still have the cereal i left here?”

you do. and he kisses your cheek like it’s the biggest act of devotion he’s capable of.

★˚๑🎐％﹒choi beomgyu﹕ᘏᘏ୭₊˚

dating beomgyu is like having a cat that bullies you all day but sleeps curled into your side every night.

he says things like “you’re obsessed with me” when you ask if he’s eaten, and then posts your shared playlist on his story with no caption. he makes fun of your hair when you wake up, then ties his hoodie around your waist if you ever mention feeling self-conscious.

he flirts like he’s joking, but stares like he means it.

the first time you visit his dorm (unofficially, when the members are out), he spends the entire afternoon pretending he doesn’t care.

“this place is nothing special,” he says while literally dusting the keyboard of his PC with a microfiber cloth. “i didn’t clean for you,” he adds, minutes after you catch him color-coding his sock drawer. “and that candle was already lit. it’s not for ambience or anything.”

you raise a brow. “is that… a cheese board?”

“shut up.”

idol life with beomgyu is unpredictable. one day he’s writing songs with raw vulnerability. the next he’s sticking googly eyes on the studio whiteboard and pretending they’re his A&R team.

you’ve seen both versions.

you’ve seen him hold a guitar like it’s a shield. you’ve seen him nearly cry because a take wasn’t perfect. you’ve seen him rip his in-ears out after a recording and say, voice flat: “i’m not good enough.”

you sat with him on the floor, forehead to his shoulder, and said nothing.

he doesn’t need cheering up. he just needs to know you’re there.

later, when he’s back in his element, screaming about a pizza discount code, he throws himself onto your lap and says, “you always bring me luck. you know that, right?”

he texts you like a menace.

🧍‍♂️: i saw a dog today and thought of u 🧍‍♂️: but in a cute way 🧍‍♂️: actually nvm i take it back 🧍‍♂️: are you free tmrw or do you hate me

he also sends you voice memos where he sings badly on purpose just to make you laugh.

but sometimes, right before bed, he’ll send a 12-second clip of a guitar riff he’s working on. no words. just sound. soft, warm, intimate.

you save every single one.

when you visit him backstage during promotions, he tries to act unfazed—but his entire face lights up when he spots you. he’s mid-hair touch-up, blush still fresh on his cheeks, mic taped to his jaw.

“you came,” he says like he didn’t remind you of the schedule twice and send a location pin.

you hand him a snack. he looks at it like it’s priceless. “you get me.”

“it’s literally just a peach tea.”

“and yet… from your hand?”

you roll your eyes. but when he walks back to the dressing room, he takes the tea with him. drinks it in every behind-the-scenes video. holds it like it’s good luck.

you don’t realize how much he talks about you until taehyun tells you, deadpan: “if i hear one more ‘my baby did this cute thing’ story i’m blocking him.”

“you’re just jealous,” beomgyu says. “my baby has rizz.”

he calls you that too—my baby. unironically. constantly. even in front of staff.

but then you catch him watching fancams of you (he took them himself) on the couch, face soft and unguarded, and he quickly shuts the screen. “wasn’t even watching anything,” he lies.

you don’t bring it up.

he buys you matching keychains. he “accidentally” leaves a stuffed animal on your bed. he begs you to stream his comeback and then says “actually don’t, it’s cringe,” even though he secretly checks if you listened.

he pulls you onto his lap when you’re sitting too far. he tucks your hair behind your ear when you’re ranting. and when you cry—really cry—he doesn’t joke. doesn’t speak.

he just wraps his arms around you and says, “i’ve got you, baby.”

and for once, you believe him completely.

★˚๑🎐％﹒kang taehyun﹕ᘏᘏ୭₊˚

you don’t remember when exactly it happened, but somewhere along the way, you started treating taehyun like gravity.

he doesn’t ask for your attention — doesn’t need to. he’s just there. solid, steady, magnetic. he listens more than he talks, watches more than he reacts, and loves in the way most people overlook — in water bottles handed to you without a word, phone batteries at 78% because he charged them while you slept, and texts that say “lock your door tonight. i saw the news.”

he doesn’t say “i love you” that often. but he acts like it constantly.

he wakes up at 6am even when he doesn’t have schedules. works out in silence. tracks his reps on a crumpled post-it you keep trying to replace with an app. tells you, deadpan, “the gym is my therapy,” and then does squats to BLACKPINK like it’s nothing.

and he’s hot. obviously. but not in the loud, performative way — more in the how is your side profile even legal way.

he ties his hair back and opens water bottles with one hand. stares at contracts on his laptop like he’s about to buy out the company. walks around shirtless after practice like it’s your fault for looking.

you once called him “CEO boyfriend” as a joke. now he uses it to get his way.

“i can’t carry your groceries today,” you mutter. “would a ceo let you lift things?” “…you’re holding an iced americano with two straws.” “exactly. for us.”

idol taehyun is a different beast.

you see it when you visit the studio — the switch. he nods at staff, reviews choreography videos, calls out adjustments to their stage formations like a perfectionist who knows he’s right. and he is. he always is.

he’s not cold. just focused. a little intimidating.

okay, a lot.

you sit in the back, thumbing your phone, and watch him work like he was born for it. no wasted words. no wasted moves. the others tease him for being a robot, but you know the truth.

he just doesn’t half-ass anything.

and that includes you.

he’s the kind of boyfriend who remembers your schedule better than you do. who texts “wear a jacket” before the weather even shifts. who watches your reactions when you eat something new because he wants to know if you like it before you say anything.

he brings you home vitamin packets and high-protein snacks. then lies with his head in your lap for two hours while you scroll through reels and read fan comments out loud. he pretends he doesn’t care. but every time you read one that says “taehyun’s the boyfriend type fr,” he smiles. just a little.

after performances, he’s quiet.

not in a moody way. just… cooling off. energy still simmering under his skin. you help him undo his mic tape. he watches your hands like they’re fragile things, even though you’re tugging pretty hard.

“good show,” you murmur.

he shrugs. “i messed up the angle on the chorus.”

you raise a brow. “literally no one noticed.”

he looks at you then — really looks at you — and it’s like the whole room stills.

“you did,” he says. softly. honestly.

your breath catches. “i’m not a critic.”

“you’re my person,” he replies. “it matters.”

he doesn’t do PDA in front of staff. never kisses you in dressing rooms. rarely even holds your hand where others can see. but every now and then — in the hallway, behind the black curtain before a show, in the elevator after press — he’ll lean down and whisper, “come here.”

and when he kisses you?

it’s slow. confident. the kind of kiss that says i’m not afraid of anyone knowing you’re mine — i just like keeping it between us.

when he’s away, he never says “i miss you.” he says things like:

“don’t forget to eat protein.” “i’ll call after the shoot.” “send me a picture. just you. no filters.”

and when he comes back?

he pulls you into his arms like he never wants to let go. buries his face in your neck. sighs like home is finally real.

“missed you,” he says, once. “i know,” you say back. and he smiles.

★˚๑🎐％﹒huening kai﹕ᘏᘏ୭₊˚

you realize you love him the day he apologizes for looking at you too long.

“sorry,” he mumbles. “i didn’t mean to stare.”

you’re sitting across from each other, legs tangled under the kotatsu table. his hoodie sleeves are pulled over his palms. his cheeks are pink. and he’s looking at you like you hung the moon and forgot to tell anyone.

you blink. “kai,” you say, gently. “you’re allowed to look.”

he shrinks a little, but he nods.

he doesn’t know what to do with attention — not really. not when it’s personal. not when it’s you.

you’ve heard it in passing before — in interviews, old livestreams, articles that fans have archived and translated — that kai has always been quietly unsure about his looks.

it doesn’t make sense to you. he’s so striking in person it almost hurts. luminous eyes. impossible bone structure. a smile that feels like finding your favorite song after a bad day.

but insecurity isn’t about logic. and kai isn’t the kind of person who wants praise just to hear it.

he wants to feel seen.

you learn how to love him in his language.

you send voice notes when he’s on tour — your voice soft, half-asleep, saying “i’m proud of you.”

you leave sticky notes in his backpack with doodles and stupid puns and reminders to stretch.

you call him pretty only when no one else is around. and he smiles every time like he’s hearing it for the first time.

his love language?

unlabeled. sideways. soft.

he leaves you little things: guitar picks in your coat pocket (“that one’s lucky”), a folded napkin with your name written in tiny hearts and a playlist titled “for when it rains but you still have to smile”

he doesn’t like big declarations. but he’ll hug you from behind when you’re brushing your teeth. hum into your neck when you’re washing dishes. whisper “i dreamed about you again” like he’s sharing a secret.

and then there’s the stage.

you never get used to that version of him — the one with a guitar strapped across his chest, a reed in his mouth, eyes glittering under the lights.

it’s not that he becomes someone else. it’s more like he steps into himself.

his body moves differently. his presence shifts. there’s this subtle confidence — not arrogant, just rooted. he plants his feet. commands the space. owns the note. and you, watching from the side curtain or through a screen, forget to breathe.

he finishes with the reed between his lips, hair slicked to his temples, and walks off like he didn’t just rearrange the earth’s axis.

you stare at him, stunned.

he looks back at you and says, in the softest voice:

“did i look weird?”

when he comes home, he doesn’t talk much. he curls into you on the couch, hoodie zipped all the way up, and plays chords on an unplugged electric guitar while you read. every once in a while, he’ll glance up — make a face — and go back to playing.

sometimes he lets you sit in his lap while he composes. sometimes he dozes off mid-layer, one headphone in, fingers still resting on the frets.

you kiss his forehead and tuck a blanket over him. he murmurs something you don’t catch. and you think — if this is love, then it’s the kind that doesn’t need to shout.

check out more works like this on here @onedreamnet !

author's note: first time writing for other members except soobin kinda nervous lol. send me a request • my masterpost

[patchw0rks]

Ok, reread of scum villain vol. 2 has been accomplished. Here are my thoughts and just things I wanted to note down (disclaimer: make sure to read these knowing the important context that liushen is my favorite ship lol)

I can't get over the Shen-Mu-Liu trio. Those are SQQ's BOYS and watching them interact is very fun. I also love that Mu Qingfang is medicine-pilled in the way that Shen Qingqiu is monster-pilled. Little did we know LQG is actually the most normal of the three

Shen "im just here to cause problems" Qingqiu saying "I know to get my way all i have to do is bat my pretty eyelashes at YQY and he will fold like a house of cards"

SQQ basically telling LQG that he's so strong so he must row the boat, and LQG is just absolutely FUMING because of how attracted he is to SQQ

SQQ referring to LQG as gege ah my heart

More of SQQ causing problems by trying stick Yang Yixuan onto LQG, which I love because you KNOW that in his grief post-Hua Yue City LQG went "fucking WATCH me"

Ngl I've read enough fanfic to realize that people don't really capture LQG's full personality. The usually make him so shy and tsundere that he's barely able to get a word in (Lan Zhan gets similar treatment) but no, he's just as catty as the rest of them

I need to figure out the timeline of how long Shen Yuan had been reading PIDW, it's endlessly important to me

LQG and MQF being like "our beloved little shixiong, please don't fret your pretty little head, just sit there and relax"

There really is some excellent physical comedy in SVSSS, like when SQQ is confronted by LBH and just defenestrates himself. You know that one scene in Angel Beats? Yeah it's exactly that

Qi Qingqi's eyebrows have now been brought up for a second time and it screams gender envy to me. Why are you as a "cis man" admiring a women's eyebrows so thoughtfully? So much to where it's the first thing you bring up about her appearance?

"Why?! Why were two grown men neurotically discussing a pice of clothing while surrounded by staring eyes?" never change Shen Yuan

I'm actually such a simp for Liu Qingge, i'm literally highlighting every mention of him and every word he speaks. I did not appreciate the Liuber my first time reading. He's also so incredibly tsundere "huff puff i can't believe you can't even ride your sword...get on"

Ugh I actually cried while reading the big confrontation. This did not happen my first read, but man it just got me. Also the very subtle POV switch that happens so we don't get any insight into SQQ's thoughts as he prepares to self-detonate

Mushroom Shen Qingqiu!!!! My Beloved!!!!!!! Def one of my favorite parts of the whole series. I think there are so many ways to play around with this character (hence my AU) but also there's this degree of freedom about it where even his internal dialogue is much more loose and less concerned with acting the part

Oh my...he referenced the succubus adventure...

Im sorry how did I completely black out the scene of LQG and SQQ playing hot potato with his corpse?!!?! Remember what I said about physical comedy!!

"Even a few hours ago, he genuinely wouldn't have cared where others (especially those of the same sex) touched him. They could touch wherever they liked, please go ahead" -- Things only said by straight who are 100% comfortable in their sexuality. Yeah. Totally

There are still good moments of seeing SQQ's dissociating himself from the events of the series and just treating everything and everyone as if it weren't "real," and how these thought patterns shift. Once again I think this would be a very fun thing to play around with and explore more

LIU QINGGE!!!! STOP MAKING ME SAD!!!!!!!! HE YEARNS SO MUCH

[webslinger-holland]

just wanted to say that I'm a big fan of your work. was wondering if you'd do a headcanon for the boys where they find out the reader is on their period and they try to do something nice but it kinda ends up awkward

Prompt: Bucky, John, and Bob try to do something sweet for you after they learn you're on your period

Warning: mentions of periods, menstrual cycles, pain, etc.

Note: As someone who is currently going through this, this really resonated with me :)

When it comes to that time of the month, there are very few things that are pleasant. Your body feels like it’s trying to fold in on itself, your lower back becomes a traitor, and everything from your patience to your appetite swings like a pendulum.

Shuffling around the tower wearing oversized hoodies, mismatched socks, and greasy hair due to the lack of energy it takes in order to shower. You become a little quieter; you're not one to broadcast it.

Both Ava and Yelena know when your time does come around. You don't have to say anything to them; it's the little things that give it away. They never say anything, but they do hand you your favorite chocolate after a meeting.

They protect you from questions and noise and the wrong kind of attention—and without a word, they make the worst week of the month feel a little more survivable. But then the boys grow suspicious.

Bucky: It was the subtle things that really caught his attention. He overheard a conversation on the phone where you asked to take a personal week. He often found you holding your lower back for better support. You'd also swapped out your regular jeans for comfy sweatpants.

He doesn't bring it up—not directly. Instead, Bucky slips out early and comes back from a corner store with a brown paper bag tucked under one arm. You’re in the common room, hunched over a tea mug with barely enough energy to stay upright.

Bucky walks over, sits beside you, and places the bag on your lap without a word. You open the bag to look inside finding: some snacks, a bottle of magnesium and a bottle of ibuprofen, a roll-on essential oil labeled calm, and a paperback book from your favorite author.

You look at him, eyebrows lifted in surprise. "How'd you know?"

Bucky shrugs like it’s nothing. “Used to have a sister. You pick up on patterns. Figured you’d say you were fine even if you weren’t.”

You nod slowly, appreciating that he didn't need to say out loud to acknowledge what you were going through. You gently set the bag down and shift closer, shoulder brushing his. He finally turns his head to look at you.

You nudge him softly. “You always this thoughtful?”

He huffs a dry little laugh. “Only on Wednesdays.”

“It’s Tuesday.” You recall blankly.

“Then...I’m ahead of schedule.” Bucky tries to recover.

You smile, smaller than usual, but it still reaches your eyes.

He watches you for a moment, then tilts his head. “You want me to stay? Don’t have to talk. I can just… sit.”

You nod, settling back into the couch. “Yeah. That’d be nice.”

Bucky leans back beside you, metal hand resting loosely between you, close enough to feel his presence, but not intrusive. The silence stretches—comfortable now.

John: The team had gathering in the kitchen for breakfast; each one focused on making their own foods according to what they preferred in the morning.

While Alexei worked on frying some eggs, Bucky was making another pot of coffee. At the island barstools, Ava and Yelena sat beside each other eating avocado toast with everything seasoning. Bob had his bowl of cereal and John munched on some toast.

Without a word, you came shuffling into the room looking for food yourself. Your hoodie draped over your head and your hands were hidden in the sleeves. There were dark bags under your eyes and your face was pale. It was clear you weren't wearing any makeup.

"Morning," you mumbled, but weren't sure who heard you. You opened the refrigerator and searched for something decent to eat.

John, who was chewing toast, immediately paused mid-bite. His brows lifted, expression half-horrified, half-impressed.

"Jesus Christ," he drawled, lowering his toast. You didn’t even dignify him with a response—just sent a slow, dangerous glare over your shoulder. "You look like death."

Slamming the fridge door shut was enough to cause Bob to flinch. You stormed out of the room with nothing to eat, clearing annoyed and frustrated beyond explanation.

For his comment, Yelena dutifully smacked the back of his head and John reached up to touch it.

"Ouch!" He flinched dramatically. "What the hell—?!”

"Why would you say that to her?" Yelena snapped angrily.

"Because it's true! Did you see her? She looked like a zombie that crawled out of a horror movie," John's eyes tore to the empty spot where you stood only a moment ago.

"She's on her period, dipshit." Ava cut in flatly, not even looking up from her phone.

"Oh." John blinked.

"Go apologize to her," Yelena ordered and pointed towards the hallways. "And try not to sound like an asshole when you do."

Less than an hour later, John was standing outside your locked bedroom door with a heavy brown paper bag tucked under his arm. He reached up and knocked a couple times, patiently waiting for you to answer. When the door slowly creaked open, you poked your head out and glared at him.

"Hey," John awkwardly smiled.

"What do you want?" You narrowed your eyes at him, but didn't miss the paper bag he held.

"I came to apologize for what I said," John shuffled the bag to be in front of him. He cast his eyes down. "I didn't know you were... bleeding."

He winced at his own choice of words. His face was red—clearly embarrassed—but there wasn’t a trace of sarcasm in his voice.

“I wasn’t trying to be a dick,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just… sometimes words fall outta my mouth before my brain gets a chance to check 'em for cruelty.”

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “And what’s in the bag?"

He held it out for you to take, which you did. "Peace offering."

Peering inside, you quickly discovered just how full it was. There was a new heating pad still in its packaging, an array of chocolates, some of your favorite snacks, one of your all-time favorite movies, a pair of warm fuzzy socks, and a note that when you held it up read: "SORRY FOR BEING AN IDIOT. PLS DON’T HATE ME."

Something in you softened. Much to his surprise, you stepped aside without a word, holding the door open and inviting him to join you.

Bob: Your door was strictly locked. Just outside the door was Bob. He lingered outside with his arms crossed tight against his chest. He’d passed the hallway no less than five times in the last hour—each time slowing to listen, hesitating like he might knock, then losing the nerve.

Once he came by holding a mug of tea. Another time it was a blanket. Once he just stood there with a snack bar, staring at the door like it owed him an explanation.

He was starting to look like part of the wall when Yelena rounded the corner.

She stopped, eyebrows lifting. “You planning to camp out here or…?”

Bob flinched, startled. “No! I’m just—"

Yelena didn't say anything at first, just glanced at him suspiciously and then towards the door and then back to him.

He sighed and gestured helplessly toward the door. "She's been locked in there all day. She skipped breakfast. I thought— maybe she was mad at me. Or something happened—"

"She’s not mad, Bob.” Yelena tried to hide the smile from growing at the corners of her mouth.

“She didn’t answer when I knocked,” Bob added, voice dropping with concern. “What if she’s hurt?”

“She’s not hurt,” Yelena said flatly. “She’s just on her period.”

Bob blinked. He processed that for a second, then blurted: “Oh.”

Yelena rolled her eyes and folded her arms. “Don’t look so horrified. She’s not dying.”

“I didn’t know,” Bob said, glancing back at the door like it suddenly made sense. He shuffled back shyly like he was trying to give her some space even though she wasn't there. “She— she didn’t say anything.”

“She doesn’t have to,” Yelena shrugged. “Most girls don’t want to explain it every month. We just suffer in silence and wait for the world to leave us alone.”

Bob looked genuinely stricken. “So what should I do?”

Yelena squinted at him. “Depends. Are you going to be weird about it?”

“No!” he said too fast. She sent him a look and he softened. “I just want to help. I didn’t realize she was in pain.”

She sighed, relenting. “Okay. Bring snacks. Something warm. Maybe painkillers if she doesn’t have any. And don’t say the word ‘period.’ Just… offer. Don’t hover.”

Bob nodded quickly. “Right. Quiet support. No hovering.”

He gave the door one last worried glance before heading off, already mumbling to himself about heating pads, herbal tea, and whether it was weird to give someone three different kinds of chocolate at once.

Yelena shook her head fondly as she walked away.

“Men,” she muttered. “Have been through space, but can’t survive a menstrual cycle.”

A little while later, there was a soft knocking sound coming from your door. You sighed, dragging yourself upright with a groan and shuffling to the door. You cracked it open just a sliver, enough to see him standing there like a very tall, very apologetic mountain.

He had a paper bag clutched in both hands and a look on his face like he was terrified you might tell him to go away forever.

“I—I brought some stuff,” Bob said quickly, eyes flicking between your face and the floor. “Just in case you… needed anything. Not that you have to need anything. Or want anything. I just thought—I mean—Yelena said—well, she knew, I didn’t, I swear—”

You blinked at him.

“I panicked,” he admitted, defeated. He very carefully held the bag out. You took it, still cautious.

Looking into the bag, you found a wonderful arrangement of items just for you. There were; three different kinds of chocolate neatly arranged by intensity, a microwavable lavender-scented neck wrap, a box of your favorite tea, and an entire package of your favorite brand of tampons.

Your brows lifted. “How’d you know which ones I use?”

Bob’s ears immediately turned red. He tried to laugh it off. “I just—uh—I figured, you know… you’d probably… have a preference."

"Yeah,” you said slowly, picking up the pack and turning it in your hand. “There's loads of different brands out there and these are the same ones I use."

Bob cleared his throat. “I might’ve… seen them. Once. I think. Maybe. On the counter.”

You gave him a look. He looked like he wanted to crawl under the couch and never be perceived again.

Much to his surprise, your voice softened. “Thank you. For noticing.”

[sir-kettle-of-countertop]

Safety above all else!

FINALLY, definitive edition of Geier's reference sheet I've made for artfight! Styled like an in-universe manual, too! Here's it plus all the written info on the unit - as well as the Corrupted version and the Gestalt neural pattern donor!

Replika Overview and Known Issues

GEIR maintenance guidebook with design details

Corrupted Geier

Neural pattern donor - Emil Ning, with his little sisters and mother

Below the cut: lots of written notes, beware!

General notes:

- Friendly, polite, responsible, selfless and careful, but generally neurotic, anxious and meek. Very secretive and fraternal - whatever happens within a Geier cadre stays within the cadre. Highly protective of people they love, whether platonically or romantically, often failing to see their flaws. While they tolerate a lot of mistreatment towards themselves, they DO NOT tolerate it towards those they care about, and tend to violently lash out.

- Adore all fiction in general, but films the most. They can get uncharacteristically snobby about them. Geiers sometimes come up with stories to tell each other for comfort. Geiers also tend to blow up any rumor they hear way out of proportion, as they change the details to "be more interesting".  

  

- His hair is almost always messy because of the HAZMAT hood. 

- Treat their suits more like clothes than anything, are normally embarrassed to be seen without them outside of their dorms. Depending on their field of work the normal Geier attire consists of either the full suit with the SCBA or the suit without the gasmask and oxygen tank. The belts may be used to attach heavy weights to their backs.

  

- Besides themselves, Geiers get along best with Eules, however they're prevented from interacting with them frequently as they get along along too well, and get too attached. Best "mandated" connections are with Mynahs and (well-trained) Storches.

- Rank-equivalent to a Mynah normally, may act as subordinates to a Mynah if one is attached to lead their cadre on a mission.

Corrupted Geier notes: 

Visual: abscent lower jaw; heavily damaged throat; the left arm is dislocated out of its socket by a huge lump of cancerous flesh and drags on the floor behind Geier when idle - he can still move it, though; corroded and rusted chestplate from constant stream of oxidant and stomach acid; the collar forms jagged "teeth" from corrosion; slits on their face from tear streams; eyes still appear "normal", with a sad and pained look to them.

Behavioral:

- Still have sparks of consciousness and sentience left, to their agony. Instead of being immediately aggressive, they stalk their targets before striking.

- Geiers are very strong normally, but keep their strength under constant restrain. Corrupted Geiers do not.

- Quiet due to heavily damaged larynx, but constantly sob.

- Attempt to still do their jobs past corruption - drag dead bodies, hang around monitoring machinery, patrol hospital wards etc.

On Emil Ning:

While I don't want to reveal too much about him ahead of time (I have plans), in general: he was a smart and hardworking, promising young man successfully accepted to a fairly prestigious university and studying to become an engineer on Rotfront.

However, due to his father's sudden passing and mother's disability, he had to return from Rotfront to Vineta, to help raise his youngest sister, Elisabeth, and provide for his family by working in a factory. From where he insisted he got all his bruises and broken bones from - just "accidents", and all. And didn't have to do with him being an outcast, a "killjoy" who stuck to all the safety rules and raised the production standards expected for his coworkers by overworking himself and a "weirdo" with passion for cinematography.

He had to abandon his dreams over his adult sister, Edith, by societal norms (I think it's fun to think about that in Signalis's universe the gender roles are mostly reversed - so Emil, as a man, is expected to take care of his family first, rather than pursue a career). He had very mixed feelings about it, but he didn't complain.

He loved his family deeply after all. He would not have ever abandoned it under any normal circumstances.

...

and that's the Geier masterpost! I may add to it later especially with more guidebook pages. Insane respect and appreciation if you have managed to sit through this entire wall of a post, dear reader! Any questions appreciated!

[legalandnotease]

This post.

The thing that aggravates me the most is that people are acting like Thunderbolts was *the* first time that Bucky's arm was treated like a joke, when really this has been happening since Infinity War, but TFatWS was the first time it was actually removed. Honestly that whole scene in TFatWS was painful. Not only does he not seem to think his opponent touching his shoulder is off and like - move... but he also wasn't aware that there was a killswitch on the arm. The situation is rendered absurd by Sam asking "did you know they could do that?" after its removal.

(...and *do not* get me started on the gross rhetoric that scene gave rise to in which people started saying the Wakandans had a right to confiscate Bucky's *weaponized prosthetic* because "they gave it to him therefore they own it". Yes, the Wakandan arm is a weapon.

Yes I do understand why T'Challa gave it to him- and I do understand the fate of the very world was at stake. Bucky would probably have been happy to fight Thanos either way but the fact still remains. That new prosthetic was given to him for the express purpose of *fighting*. Bucky knew that- its why he says "where's the fight?" the instant he sees it.

The implication that the Wakandans had a right to remove it for doing something they didn't like is disturbing in two ways. First because its literally weaponizing part of his body which BTW is exactly what HYDRA did to him.

Second there's the idea that disabled people don't own thier own ability aids and have a right to use them as they see fit. Like, someone gives Matt Murdock new sight stick and they - have the right to take it away if he represents someone they don't approve of?The implication that fully able people have the ultimate control over disabled people's bodies is actually gross.

Last of all, its hardly a shock that Bucky's arm became a running gag when *hours* after he got we had Rocket making that quip and *then* several more jokes about it in TFatWS. One character calls Bucky "the bionic staring machine" (it might've been Sam) and another calls him a "cyborg". You can dismiss both oas a harmless jokes if you want (many do) but to me its part of a pattern. First of defining Bucky as nothing more than his disability, and second of mocking and minimizing both the disability and the tramatic events which resulted in him becoming disabled in the first place. A pattern that started in 2018 and still hasn't ended.

Its no surprise really that we got the vile Nebula giving Rocket his arm as a Christmas present plotline the following year. It bears noting with that as well that whilst fandom today denounce and try to distance themselves from that scene at the time people were actively *asking for* it to happen. They *wanted* Rocket to "get the arm".

At very very least in Thunderbolts we had Ava showing enough consideration to pick up the arm when an incapacitated Bucky couldn't and carrying it for him until he asked for it back. (Then you remember that Ava also has a bodily difference... so it at least read that as one disabled person looking out for another). Last time it was "ripped off him" that didn't happen and the time before that he had to pick it up himself whilst Sam just made a joke at his expense.

You know what the worst thing is though @nrilliree? It isn't the casual ableism of the last 7 years. Its that one of the writers of Civil War actually suggested that Bucky's arm being blown off wasn't intended to be sympathetic. It was intended as a narrative "punishment". He wasn't being treated with respect even in Civil War.

Y’kno, for all of CA:CW’s faults, at least it never treated Bucky’s left arm as a joke.

When Bucky loses his arm in this film, it isn’t because he suddenly forgets how to move away from an opponent that’s suddenly in his space and touching him (TFATWS) or he throws some clearly ineffective punches at an enemy and, for whatever reason, doesn’t think to change his strategy (Thunderbolts), but because he got blasted by Tony Stark’s arc reactor point blank after using an incredible feat of strength to try and stop him. And when his arm is blown off? It’s treated with the appropriate amount of shock and horror. It frames it as a terrifying moment for Bucky and makes him feel incredibly sympathetic. He just lost a part of him in an extremely brutal fashion in the fraction of a second. It wasn’t something he could’ve predicted or easily avoided (unlike future instances where he loses his arm…again 🙄).

But now? Now his arm is used as the butt of stupid jokes. Rocket wants to buy it. Nebula STEALS IT off screen to use it as a Christmas gift. Bucky spills some sauce on it and the only way to wash it is by running it through the dishwasher. He now has to lose it at least one ☝️ time in every new thing he’s in like it’s some quota that has to be filled. Like. The MCU writers seriously can’t think of anything involving Bucky’s arm that doesn’t take away his dignity as a disabled person while also showcasing him as the strong, competent fighter he is?

Literally the only genuinely funny thing involving his arm is when he threw a punch at Peter, leading to the latter catching it and immediately exclaiming how cool it is. And that happened in Civil War!

I don’t know. Civil War definitely could’ve been a much better film, but at least it got that part right.

[donnydamakkk]

eric: i havent been lying to u, calleigh!

eric: *jus told her he was downtown n couldnt see her while actively driving past her at PD*

also eric: *was actively lying to her anyway by simply saying he wasnt lying*

[edensgaia]

Honestly if Derap feels betrayed by Zam playing both sides he lowkey had it coming, because playing both sides was exactly what he was doing when he teamed with 4c and hid the exploits from zam for so long, or when he worked with Mapicc to kill Pangi behind Pangi's back.

And the thing is, he most definitely is going to feel betrayed. Because for the whole season, it has been a pattern where Derap points out how things other people are doing makes them untrustworthy and how they are being dumb for not realizing that what they are doing is hurting they're closest teammate, and then he would turn around and do the exact same thing to his own allies and teammates. For the whole season, he's been trying so hard to make people stay with him while using the worst methods possible. He can easily pinpoint when other people are being hypocrites but even when he does acknowledge that the things he did where wrong and hurt people, he doesn't entertain the train of thought for long enough to actually change his actions.

In a way, it is kinda poetic that the way he might end up losing another one of his closest teammates again is by them not even trying to outright betray him, Zam just wanted to do what she thinks is best for server, and at the end of the day she still trusts Derap and cares about him, but she's still gonna go through with it, the same way Derap went through with so many stuff despite knowing it would hurt his teammates.

And like, realistically, regardless of how it went, there's a very high chance Derap might not stop to consider his actions, there's a high chance he's just gonna double down on the "no one trusts me and all my teammates leave me but also I'm gonna continue to do things they don't like behind their back. No idea why they don't trust me though" route. But I think that out of all the ways sunkissed could stop being teammates this season, out of all the ways they could've possibly betrayed each other, the one way where it isn't even intended to be a betrayal is probably the best way to make the problems they had while being teammates so clear. It's not a solution or complete conclusion to an arc, but it's the best way they could rip the band-aid off, make everything that has been boiling up come to a point where it's basically impossible to ignore, and even if things are not solved, maybe it will open a door to change in the future

[qaanngi]

IkeVamp Drake (anng's version)

AKA me getting so pissy on personal about how he isn't kissed by the sun and sea that I decided to give him a tan myself, among other things. But I kept his hair style (slightly) and eye colour.

I just think, in my less than humble opinion, that if they're going to stick a notorious privateer into the game and make him drop a tone of seafaring references then his design should make my timbers shiver and every one of his spicy premium stories should have MC say that his beard tickles the inside of her thighs. And I just don't think White Haired Anime Boy #3 is gonna do that.

[larrylimericks]

12Jul24

Three hundred and fifty-six days Since last we saw Harry on stage, But tonight a duet! For Ms. Nicks’ Hyde Park set, And a Songbird who’s now flown away.

[hitachiincest]

"PICK UP THE PHONE, F*CKER." (-'Bury Me In Black')

an edit of the Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge album cover but with adashu! using panels from the official p4 manga by shuji sogabe ^^ 🩸

[icewindandboringhorror]

Recent life photos

[mildcicada]

[bacchuschucklefuck]

i love your bard! riz au so much. he is so tragic as a character for all the reasons of what living in constant danger fear does to your mind. can i ask about his relationship with the other bad kids and the major differences vs canon?

hey I'm glad ur enjoying what's goin on here! I don't have a Lot of it clear in my mind yet bc it is a full class swap of the entire party so some stuff will just. not play out until they do yknow? it is how it is. but I think from the beginning riz's motivation is decently different so he'll just get into it on an entirely different path - he did Not start out a very kind kid. he would be extremely conflict avoidant, he's got the Actor feat, he's stocked up on Disguise Self, he's ready to disappear mid-conversation, anyone who looks like troubles he's steering Clear of. he goes to aguefort not because he wants to be an adventurer but because sklonda was like "this works for you?" and he was like "yeah 's all good :]" (he is about to throw up bc that's where penny went missing)

I'd say he runs into fabian (rogue) first very briefly and they'd mutually be like oh. a guy. and immediately forget each other once they get out of the same like locked classroom they accidentally both hid in. and then during the corn cutie fight fabian would see the way riz react and Not Like It (haha whoa. like looking in a mirror amirite) and go actually I'd rather be a hero (derogatory) than whatever that is that guy's got going on. great surprise for him when they got out and registration's closed and the mirror is now one of his partners in the career-long group project :]

kristen (sorcerer) would be an Insane encounter at first for riz like this is someone who is extremely powerful, not very controlled, and so fucking starved for people to be nice at. riz is cordial to her on the way and she is like Fuck Yeah Friend! please go do paperwork with me I don't know shit from fuck I haven't had proper paperwork since I was like twelve and gay. do you like candies? she then throws ragh through a window for trying to bully gorgug and netting her and gorgug the detention (riz is of course immediately someone else while this is happening) (he shows up again right after like haha sorry that was scary! resolutely not looking at how kristen's face falls at the idea of someone being scared of her again)

riz and gorgug (cleric) get on like house on fire at first in the sense that they're at that point both fake bitches and they know this about each other and acknowledge this with each other implicitly and they're like I'm not poking at what's going on with you if you don't poke at what's going on with me. and then gorgug dies and sees that the god he's been feeding his anger to isn't real (yet) and has his realization that he's been indoctrinated into a cult through the support group he's been to and starts on deprogramming and in that process he starts poking at riz's deal just by proxy of dealing with his own. riz gets vicious about this a bit into it but after the arcade he kinda comes around again. it helps that at the end of sophomore year gorgug becomes the saint of the Inbetween and riz is very much in need of that stop on his way right then

fig (barbarian) on the other hand does Not like riz off the bat (her whole thing is leaning into rage to live her truth without fear) but then being as perceptive as she is soon she's like ohhhh you're just scared. like Really scared and it's ruining your life. and after that she's like I'll just protect you then :] (this is her solution to most things her friends go through) this does not help at first bc riz has picked up the pattern that is if you're protective of him bad things will happen to you. he will have a breakdown about this in sophomore year but it'll get better from there

adaine (artificer) on the Other other hand just straight up doesn't like riz until after the arcade lol. he's on the prep side, he's not socially awkward and he doesn't use that power for anything but being a coward, he lets biz talk at him in the AV club and that means biz never stops fucking talking, and every time adaine raises a complaint all he does is being like "sorry :[" and changing nothing. it's fucked up between them riz tries to appease her by doing nice things but he doesn't address the things she actually complains about so she doesn't take it. she's the person who outright calls him out for not having the backbone to stand up for himself or his party. despite this she never thinks of throwing him out of the party and he does pick up on this. they get better after the arcade and riz apologizing and by junior year adaine's the one handling the tech end of riz's freelance publication

all of this is subjected to change of course I'm mostly keeping things mobile that's where all the fun is hehe. the world is constantly in motion etc but this is kinda how I'm coming into my art atm we'll simply see!

[totheidiot]

death note is super unrealistic in the fact that everyone who even as much as glimpses at light's direction appears to be completely obsessed with him like L, takada, mikami, misa, all of his past girlfriends, on and on and yeah, like he is literally not anything special. he isn't even that hot but like. personally, though, this part of me knows deep down that i myself would have folded for him immediately. he is an ugly rat but if he showed up, his usual facade of this charming and smart man, there is not much i could do. i am no better than any of them.