Baby, Love Me Lights Out | Choi San
❤️ Summary: San comes home after filming content for the Wanteez series. He's drunk and loud, but you can't get mad he woke you up at 2 AM on a work night when his silliness makes up for it.
❤️ Pairing(s): idol!San x GN!Reader
❤️ Genres/Tropes: idol AU, tooth rotting fluff, established relationship
❤️ Warnings/Tags: no use of (Y/N), gender neutral reader, san is drunk, petnames (love, baby, darling, sannie), not beta read
❤️ Wordcount: 1.0 k
❤️ Author's Note: I had to get this one out of my system. My Yunho zombie apocalypse oneshot is like 90% done, but I needed a lil pause from all the angst and BOOM this was created. I present drunk and romantic Sannie!
This is all fiction and not meant to represent any idols involved in any way or form.
AO3 Masterlist Click on me!
San insisted on being dropped off at your door instead of returning to the dorm with Mingi and Seonghwa. Their manager was torn on what to do, but with enough drunken encouragement of Seonghwa slurring about young love and San being love-sick, he swerved right onto your street and helped the idol out of the car. If there was someone San could always rely on, it’d be his Seonghwa-hyung. It was decided, he was going to give him a massive hug when they’d see each other again.
The promise was forgotten the second San succeeded in unlocking your apartment (after many failed attempts) with the spare key you gifted him. It was by some miracle San refrained from shouting out his usual ‘Darling I’m home’ and just quietly exchanged his shoes for the slippers assigned to him specifically. The darkness swallowed him whole, but he had no trouble navigating to your bedroom.
The sight of your sleeping figure tucked beneath the covers set off an explosion of warmth in his chest. His face hurt from cheesing too much, but he couldn’t help himself. You looked so cute and cuddly, like a kitten passed out from a very exciting day of discovering new things. As much as he wanted to pepper you with kisses, trap you in his arms and not let go until you freed yourself from his death grip (much to his dismay), San knew it would wake you up. San may be a lightweight, but he was a self conscious lightweight. You had work in the morning and he’d hate for you to lose sleep over his selfish need for some cuddles.
He granted himself one light peck to the top of your head and ventured back into the living room. The couch would suffice for the night. The sound of rustling sheets accompanied by your hoarse voice stopped him before he could cross the threshold.
“Sannie?”
Said man hummed in reply and leaned against the doorway. His eyes adjusted to the dark enough to make out you sitting up with the sheet pooling around your waist, hair slightly messy and sleep adorning your eyes.
“When did you get home, baby?”
“Some minutes ago,” he slurred with the brightest grin you had ever seen.
“Are you coming to bed?”
“Mhm, need to wash up first.”
“Okay,” You yawned. “Do that baby then let’s cuddle. I’ve missed you.” You laid back down in the comfort of your bed and closed your eyes with the intent to just rest them until San was done.
“Missed you too,” San said to himself as he stumbled into the bathroom.
The minutes ticked away and there was still no drunk San in your bed. You knew your boyfriend like the back of your hand. San would never pass up on a cuddle session, whether it be a two second long kiss or being wrapped up in each other’s embrace for hours, he’d be there. It didn’t take a genius for you to figure out something was wrong when the clock on your nightstand showed twenty past two and San was still not beside you. The lack of noise out in the hall added to your suspicion. It was seldom that a drunk man was silent.
With the quilt wrapped around your shoulders and each foot tucked in your bunny slippers, you went to check on San. You flicked the light switch and lo and behold, your boyfriend laying flat on his back with each limb stretched out akin to a starfish and a pillow slapped on his stomach. He quickly threw an arm over his eyes and hissed from the sudden brightness.
“Sannie? Love? What are you doing?”
“Sleeping.”
“I see that, but don’t you wanna sleep in the bed?”
“I am in bed.”
If it weren’t for the fatigue tugging at your eyelids you’d be hunched over from laughing too hard.
“Love,” you started, “that’s the living room floor.”
“‘M comfortable,” he insisted and waved his other hand, urging you to let the darkness back out.
“Are you sure? Your back is going to hurt tomorrow and you still have practice for your comeback.”
“I promise, darling. Lights off, please.”
How could you deny him anything when he spoke in that honey smooth voice with his lips jutted out and one arm coming around the pillow he proclaimed as his cuddle buddy?
A few moments later, when the moon was at its highest point in the sky and the streets finally decided to call it a night, a loud noise of something dropping against the floor washed over you like ice cold water. The speed you leaped from the bed would've made long jump athletes fear for their position. The frantic shout of your lover’s name erupted before you could reach the door. Horrid thoughts plagued your mind and it worked over time to create scenarios that could have him nursing an injury. Everything from falling and cracking open his head to dropping something heavy on his feet.
Ripping open your bedroom door, you relaxed to see him unscathed and in the same condition you left him; alive and breathing. However, the accommodation was entirely different and you understood where that loud thunk came from. San was no longer laying on the floor, no. He had somehow managed to open one of your old suitcases and shuffled inside it with his previously worn t-shirt used as a blanket.
Breathing out in relief you retrieved your phone from your nightstand and snapped a couple photos of his unconscious form folded into the bag.
“Sannie?”
“Lights off!” He whined and pulled the shirt over his face.
“Love, no. Come on. Let’s get to bed.”
You gently took the fabric from him and slipped your hand into his, weaving your fingers together and giving it a gentle tug.
“Wanna sleep here~”
Despite his complaint, he listened to you and for the third time that night, you were back in bed but with your lovely boyfriend to keep you company. The trail of kisses you pressed on his neck, cheeks and nose were apologies for your future actions. The photos captured in your camera roll would serve their purpose sooner or later, until then you’d remind him of your never ending love and hope it would suffice as a good enough apology (it would, he could never be angry with you).
© HONGJOONGSPOETRY 2024 - All rights reserved. Copying, editing, reposting or translating my work is not allowed.
164 notes
·
View notes
Back in the olden days, if you used the "keep reading" function on a Tumblr-dot-com post, it would
not get very many notes.
At all.
I am not sure exactly why.
I think people hated pressing an extra thing.
But maybe it was also a psychological phenomenon where, given the choice, they were unwilling to trust me with their time.
But if I sucked them in with a good story or a compelling image, they would get serious FOMO.
When I created a super high effort post-of-length I would get comments like, "This was way too long but before I realized it I was reading the last sentence."
That was a really good feeling.
I used to do tests to figure out the best posting strategies and I think I figured out you'd lose about 90% of your notes if you did a "keep reading" post.
So that notion was ingrained in my brain again and again from when I was very note-obsessed and I have since avoided the "keep reading" option almost like a conditioned response.
Just seeing that squiggly line appear still induces a Pavlovian fear.
But that was probably a decade ago and I did a new experiment. My story about replacing my mailbox did reasonably well with a strategically clickbaity "keep reading."
This was a promising result due to the fact that some people like to send me hate for writing a lengthy post.
I recently got a death threat for writing too much, which was a fun reminder of my M&M days (I melted men's rights activists' brains with a poorly worded analogy and they launched a years long harassment campaign).
It seems in present-era-Tumblr-dot-com many more people prefer pressing an extra thing rather than scrolling a bunch on their smartphone. The collective behavior has changed. And maybe I don't need to use tricks and running gags in order to get folks to "keep reading".
Unfortunately I started writing that ring light post a few months ago so I wasn't able to include that in the experiment. But I am going to try using the keep reading function in the future and as long as the average number of folks that usually read my longer posts continue to read my posts, that will be the standard approach.
I also tag these posts with "long post" so you can flag that if you wish.
While I am no longer in the audience-building phase of my Tumblr career, these essays and stories and educational posts take a considerable amount of time and effort to create, so I do want to make sure everyone who wants to read them is able to. But posts without hearts and reblogs can quickly die a gruesome algorithmic death. Even my most ardent followers would tell me things were not showing up on their dash. (I think replies help mitigate that, so if you like a long post, you can help with engagement.)
The collective noun is a "business" of ferrets.
Do you want to see a business of ferrets ready to do some business?
KEEP READING
I love writing and it is a huge catharsis for me. And I love sharing any knowledge I feel like I have the earned expertise to speak on with authority (technology, photography, light, fun ferret facts, etc). I wish I had the energy to be a photography teacher, but long posts on Tumblr are probably the best I can do for now.
I know my posts are super long, but I try to make them as fun and informationally dense as I possibly can. I don't like wasting people's time if I can avoid it. Though maybe I should trust my follower's attention span a bit more. I have this fear that if I am not constantly entertaining, people will click away or unfollow.
I think a good business for a business of ferrets would be selling pool noodles that look like ferrets.
So as long as I get roughly the same amount of notes I will do the keep reading. And then maybe people can lay off on the mean comments and occasional requests to end my own life because I bloviated about soft light.
100% true ferret fact..
If you ask a ferret what their business is, they will crawl on your shoulder and whisper in your ear...
178 notes
·
View notes
My Blood And Bone
- Summary: There were many times when Maegor tried to win your favor, before they locked you away. And he never forgot their insolence.
- Paring: niece!reader/Maegor I Targaryen
- Note: These events happen before Fire and Blood.
- Rating: Mature 16+
- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne
- A/N: This was requested by @oxymakestheworldgoround , so here is more Maegor. 🙂
Aegonfort was a cage gilded in gold, its walls bearing witness to the secrets and treachery that brewed within. It was here, beneath the shadows of the Iron Throne, that your uncle's gaze followed you, the weight of his presence suffocating and inescapable. He had always been there, lingering in the periphery, his stormy eyes dark with something unspoken, something forbidden.
You were Y/N Targaryen, second daughter of King Aenys I and Queen Alyssa Velaryon, a jewel in the crown that your father held with trembling hands. But jewels were meant to be coveted, and Maegor Targaryen was not a man content to admire from afar. He was fire and fury, a beast unchained, and you were the treasure he sought to claim, no matter the cost.
It began with a gift, a blade forged in the fires of Dragonstone, its steel as dark as his intentions. “For you, niece,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous, the sword’s hilt pressing against your palm. “To keep you safe.”
Your father had frowned at the sight, his unease palpable. “She is a princess, not a warrior, brother,” he had said, his tone edged with the discomfort of a man who knew his words were futile. But Maegor’s smile was sharp, a predator’s smile.
“A princess should know how to defend herself, should she not?” His gaze flickered to you then, the intensity of it making your breath hitch. “It would be a shame for her to be unprepared should danger arise.”
The court whispered, of course. They always did. Maegor’s infatuation was no secret, nor was the growing tension between him and your father. But it was Visenya, the Dowager Queen, who saw what others chose to ignore. She watched with the keen eyes of a dragon, her silence a tacit approval of her son’s desire, for she, too, believed in the old ways, in the purity of Valyrian blood.
When Maegor took you riding on Balerion, the Black Dread, it was not a request but a command. “Come, niece,” he had said, his hand outstretched, the great dragon’s scales glistening like obsidian beneath the sun. “Let me show you the sky.”
You hesitated, your father’s warning echoing in your ears, but the defiance in Maegor’s gaze was irresistible. You took his hand, and the world fell away beneath you, the wind whipping your hair as the dragon soared higher and higher. His arms encircled you, strong and unyielding, and for a moment, you felt as though you were truly flying, free from the chains that bound you.
But Maegor was not content with mere flights of fancy. He sought to claim you in ways that words could not express, his touches lingering, his gaze possessive. When he found you alone in the godswood, your fingers trailing through the cool waters of the pond, his presence was a shadow that loomed over you, heavy and demanding.
“You should not be out here alone, niece,” he said, his voice a growl that sent shivers down your spine. “The court is full of vipers.”
You looked up at him, your defiance flickering like a flame. “And what are you, Uncle, if not the greatest viper of all?”
His laughter was dark, a sound that resonated in your bones. “Perhaps,” he murmured, stepping closer, his hand brushing against your cheek. “But I am a viper who would kill for you, who would burn the world to keep you safe.”
Your heart pounded, your breath catching as his fingers trailed down your neck, a whisper of a touch that spoke of desires long suppressed. “You are wed, Uncle. The gods forbid such thoughts.”
“The gods,” he spat, his eyes blazing with fury, “have never cared for me, nor I for them. They saddled me with a barren bride, denied me the one thing I desire most. Why should I bow to them now?”
His words were blasphemy, and yet there was a truth in them, a fire that kindled something dangerous within you. But before you could speak, before you could give voice to the storm raging inside you, your father’s voice cut through the stillness.
“Maegor!”
King Aenys stood at the edge of the grove, his face pale with anger, his hands trembling. “I will not allow this,” he said, his voice shaking with the force of his will. “You will not defile my daughter, my blood, with your twisted desires.”
Maegor’s eyes narrowed, the cold fury in them a stark contrast to the heat of his words. “You think you can keep her from me, brother? You think your weak words and weaker will can stand against what is meant to be?”
“She is not meant for you!” Aenys’s voice cracked, the desperation in it ringing clear. “She is a child, my child. You will leave her be, or I will see you banished, see you—”
“See me what, Aenys?” Maegor stepped forward, his presence towering, his hand resting on the hilt of Dark Sister. “See me banished again, as you did before? Send me away and hope that will be enough to keep her from me?”
The silence that followed was heavy, the air thick with the unspoken threat that hung between them. Your heart raced, your eyes darting between your father and your uncle, caught in the tempest of their rage.
“You will leave her be,” Aenys said at last, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Or I will see you destroyed, brother or not.”
For a long moment, Maegor said nothing, his gaze locked on you, the intensity of it searing into your soul. Then, slowly, he inclined his head, a mocking smile twisting his lips.
“As you command, my king.” The words dripped with venom, but he turned away, the promise of something dark and dangerous lingering in the air as he left.
Your father sagged, his hand reaching out to grasp yours. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice thick with sorrow. “I’m so sorry.”
You could only nod, the ache in your chest a hollow, aching thing. For in that moment, you knew that Maegor Targaryen was not a man who could be denied forever. He was fire, and fire would always find a way to consume what it desired most.
Aegonfort buzzed with the vibrant energy of your name day celebrations, a festival of color and laughter. Musicians played lively tunes, their melodies weaving through the air, while courtiers and lords offered their congratulations and admiration. It was a day meant for joy, for the lavish display of courtly grandeur, but beneath the surface, tension simmered, a crack in the facade.
King Aenys, your father, had spared no expense in organizing the grand hunt in your honor. Noblemen mounted their steeds, hounds barked eagerly, and the banners of House Targaryen fluttered in the breeze as the hunt began in earnest. You stood beside your mother, Queen Alyssa, her smile warm but her eyes watchful, ever the vigilant protector.
Yet it was not the festive cheer that held your attention; it was the shadow that loomed on the edges of the gathering, the one presence that seemed to darken the day’s radiance. Maegor, your uncle, clad in black armor that gleamed ominously under the sun, was a brooding storm amidst the celebration. His gaze lingered on you, piercing and unrelenting, and it took all your composure to return his stare with a steady, if uncertain, gaze.
He had barely participated in the hunt itself, choosing instead to ride apart from the others, his attention fixed on something far more personal. You could feel it, that coiled tension within him, the intent that hummed like a drawn bowstring. And then he was gone, vanished into the woods, leaving a wake of unease behind him.
Hours passed, and the hunt returned, triumphant. Stags and boars were brought forth, the prizes of the chase, their bodies laid at the king’s feet as an offering to your honor. Applause rang out, voices cheering, but the absence of Maegor’s dark figure loomed over the festivities like a shadow.
Then, like a harbinger of doom, he appeared.
He rode into the courtyard, alone, his horse’s flanks lathered in sweat. Draped over the saddle, still warm and bleeding, was the heart of a great stag, its size and weight staggering. The sight drew gasps from the crowd, the murmurs of celebration turning to hushed whispers of shock and awe.
“For you, niece,” he said, his voice carrying over the stunned silence. He dismounted, lifting the bloody trophy with a strength that seemed almost inhuman. “A gift, to honor your name day.”
The heart, dark and glistening, dripped blood onto the pristine stones of the courtyard as he carried it to you. Your breath caught in your throat, your eyes locked on the macabre offering. It was a brutal, savage gift, one that spoke of conquest and possession, of a man willing to tear the heart from the chest of a beast to lay it at your feet.
Queen Alyssa was the first to react, her face paling as she stepped forward, her voice tight with barely concealed horror. “Maegor, what is this madness?”
He ignored her, his gaze fixed on you, a challenge in his eyes. “A stag’s heart, the very symbol of life and power. To hold it in your hands is to understand what it means to conquer, to take what you desire and make it your own.”
Your hands shook as you reached out, hesitating before you touched the still-warm flesh, the blood staining your fingers. You understood the meaning, the dark symbolism of his gift. He was offering you more than a bloody trophy; he was offering his loyalty, his devotion, his savage, unyielding heart.
But your father, King Aenys, would not have it.
“Enough!” His voice cracked like a whip, the command echoing off the stone walls. He stepped forward, his face twisted with fury and disgust. “This is an insult, Maegor! A desecration of my daughter’s name day! How dare you bring such… such barbarity into my court?”
Maegor’s lips curled into a mocking smile, his gaze never wavering from yours. “An insult, brother? This is a gift, a token of my esteem. Or have you forgotten what it means to be Targaryen, to embrace the fire and blood of our heritage?”
“Do not twist our words to justify your depravity!” Alyssa’s voice trembled with rage, her hand gripping your arm as if to shield you from the grotesque spectacle. “This is not the way of things, not in our family, not in our court.”
“And what is our way, then?” Maegor’s voice was a low snarl, the barely restrained fury in it sending a shiver down your spine. “To bow and scrape before the whims of men who do not understand us? To deny the bond that is ours by right of blood, of fire?”
Aenys stepped between you and Maegor, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, the gesture more symbolic than threatening. “You will cease this, Maegor. You will leave her be. She is not yours to claim, not now, not ever.”
The air crackled with dread, the crowd holding its breath as the brothers faced each other, the king and the warrior, blood against blood. For a moment, you feared that Maegor might strike, that his rage would explode into violence right there in the courtyard, but then he laughed, a sound devoid of humor, harsh and cold.
“You are a fool, Aenys,” he said, his voice thick with disdain. “You think you can keep her from me, lock her away, and all will be well? She is not a prize to be hidden, not a thing to be kept on a shelf. She is Targaryen, as am I, and we are meant for more than this.”
“Enough!” Aenys roared once more, his face flushed with anger. “You will leave this place, Maegor. Leave now, or I will have you thrown out. I will not tolerate your madness, not on this day, not ever again.”
For a long, tense moment, Maegor stood still, his gaze flickering to you one last time, his eyes dark with something raw and terrible. Then, with a slow, mocking bow, he turned and mounted his horse, the bloody heart still clutched in his hand.
“As you command, brother,” he said, his voice a dangerous purr. “But remember this: I do not forget. I do not forgive.”
And with that, he spurred his horse and rode out of the courtyard, the sound of hooves striking against stone fading into the distance. You watched him go, your heart heavy with a mixture of fear and something you dared not name, the blood on your hands drying as the echoes of the argument lingered in the stillness.
It was the last time you saw him before everything changed, before you were spirited away to Dragonstone, a prisoner in all but name, and Maegor was exiled to the cold, distant lands of Essos. The heart of the stag, the symbol of his twisted devotion, haunted your dreams for years to come, a reminder of what had been offered, and what had been lost.
70 notes
·
View notes