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jeongsoo-jin · 2 years

Note

Want more hard thoughts? I got more thoughts for you. These K-Pop men live in my head rent free (skz owns like 90% of it though)

Here is my breakdown for types of doms I think skz would be (please give your opinions)

Bangchan: Daddy Dom. Do I need to explain? (Key nickname would be Baby/baby girl/baby boy)

Lee Know: Hard Dom/Mean Dom. He would be strict with his rules. I don't think he would be super mean more like teasing mean? Definitely the meanest out of all the guys (Key nickname: kitten)

Changbin: I struggle with him but I'm thinking low-key primal dom. Not like predator/pray but like he let's go and let's his feelings take control. He doesn't plan a scene but rather uses his pure strength to dom you (Key nickname: little one or tiny)

Hyunjin: Rigger Dom. He is into art and being artsy. So I feel like he would love the art of tying up a rope bunny sub. He would pick specific colors and patterns for different situations. It's about the art just as much as it is about the pleasure. (Key nickname: Doll or Muse)

I'll write the Maknae line in another ask so this one isn't so long

Bang Chan is most definitely daddy Dom, as he has basically spelled it out for us to the best of his ability without getting in trouble.

I feel like Minho could be a mean Dom when he wanted to be, and most of the time he is, but he also has his really sweet times where he turns into the best pleasure dom you've ever seen; like on days that you don't really feel like yourself, i feel like he would go the whole nine yards to make you feel better.

Changbin is such a primal dom that it's not funny, he just loves to be the one in complete control, and then gets lost in the feeling of it that he just looses himself, and ends up acting very primal.

Hyunjin would love having a rope bunny as his sub, just so he could see the way you look in 'his artwork' (the ropes), and he would definitely take pictures of you all tied up (consensually ofc)

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hwangsify · 2 years

Text

L.MH. — THE EIGHT STAGES OF FALLING IN LOVE WITH HIM.

pairing. lee know x gn reader

genre. angst

warnings. strong allusions to abusive parents, mentions of physical abuse, mild cursing, alcohol, blood (non-graphic), one very implicit death scene.

summary. part of you feels selfish for allowing yourself to have him like this when you are tainted on the inside, your heart spoiled and bruised like overripe fruit. but you pull him in closer all the same.

length. drabble

word count. 1.5k+

a/n. this piece is heavily inspired by the six stages of falling in love with her, a writing piece that will forever hold a special place in my heart. also, please let me know if i missed any warnings 😭 i tried to include them all but i'm not sure if i missed any.

you meet him for the first time on the streets. you are only four and your mother is clutching your hand in an iron grip as she tugs you along, chattering to someone on the phone.

when you try to pull away to loosen her grip, she tugs you closer.

he is perched on a wooden bench when you first see him, quiet as he sits by his father, who is drunk and laughing with a beer bottle clutched in his hands, surrounded by other equally drunk men.

he looks as if he would rather be anywhere but there as he curls in on himself, making himself smaller while his father uncaps yet another bottle of beer and you understand that feeling. you catch a glimpse of the dark heat of his eyes when you push past him, calculative and feline.

you want to know more about this boy who sits by his drunk father in silence and whose eyes mirror those of a cat.

ii.

you’re five when you meet him again on a playground. it’s an old playground, with rusty swings and plastic slides that have long since lost their color to the rain. a playground for children whose parents care enough to raise them, but not quite enough to keep from dumping them on a faded playground to sit and wait for the better part of the day.

he’s crouched over the rotten wood chips when you approach him. messy locks of hair, faded blue jeans.

he is crying. there is a kitten in his hands.

a filthy, feral kitten with fleas crawling over its eyes and nose and blood matting its orange fur. a dying kitten, its life seeping out of it with every gasping breath it takes.

“you shouldn’t touch it,” you say. because you once made the mistake of picking up a kitten you found on the road to bring it back home and your mother slapped you twice across the face and forced you to throw it away. because you don’t know anything about this boy, but you still want to keep him from experiencing the smarting pain that bloomed within your chest when your mother lifted her hand and brought it down hard against your cheek.

he shakes his head and brings the kitten closer. cradles it to his cheek, soaking its knotted fur with his tears. you squat down next to him and hope that his parents never found out that he held a dying kitten close to his chest while sobbing his lungs out, infesting his clothes with fleas.

when the kitten finally dies, he buries it under the rotten decay of the wood chips. there are crescents of dirt underneath his fingernails when he stands up and brushes off his jeans.

iii.

his eyes have hardened when you meet him for the third time at thirteen.

he stares at you from his desk as you stand at the front of the classroom to introduce yourself to the class. his eyes have lost their soft glow, the round innocence he possessed when you met him on the playground. your chest jumps at the sight of him, flickering with recognition.

you wonder if he remembers you, too.

it takes you an eternity to muster up the courage to sit by him at lunch. even longer to ask him for his name.

“minho,” he says, without looking at you. “it’s minho.”

“minho,” you repeat. and you smile.

iv.

he walks into the classroom with his head held high, pain bottled up in glass jars, eyes defiant and tall. the class stares as he enters and then looks away.

no one mentions the bruise decorating his cheek during the entirety of physics class.

you meet him by the school rooftop and take his face in your hands. he looks away from you when you run a thumb across the bruise, wondering who could have possibly dared to hurt someone like minho.

“you’re angry,” he murmurs as you press a bandaid to the bruise.

you smile. “i’m always angry.”

when you are born into a fragmented world, the product of your mother’s unhappiness and your father’s greed, anger becomes your first instinct— a primal impulse to seethe and simmer at the injustice of it all, to ache for something better. to take the pain in minho’s eyes and crumple it into a ball like a sheet of paper, trampling it under the heel of your shoe and leaving it forgotten on the concrete of the school rooftop.

you dig out the shards of glass from the palms of minho’s hands with tweezers and staunch the bleeding with the hem of your hoodie. running a finger along the torn skin of his palm, you know that this is all you can do.

you wonder how he managed to keep his heart all these years.

the boy in front of you is the same boy from years ago, the boy who cradled a gasping kitten to his cheek even as it was left abandoned to die in the rotten decay of a faded playground.

the past years have not been kind to either of you. and yet minho is unchanged.

he is harder, yes, and there is a permanent sheen of weariness pressed to his skin. but his heart is still intact, still whole and smooth inside the cage of his ribs.

the years have rubbed you raw— numbed you in ways unimaginable, taken whatever softness you ever possessed and hardened it into anger. you know that if someone were to cut open your chest and peer into your ribcage, your heart would be rotten and tainted within your chest, scarred and cracked, barely together by the seams.

you envy minho for his wholeness.

you sometimes wish that, just for once, someone could carve open your chest and see a full and unblemished heart beating within your ribcage.

vi.

there is moonlight splayed across minho’s skin and laughter bubbling from the corners of your lips, threatening to spill out in curls and wisps of smoke. his lips are pressed against your own as he pulls you in closer, all heated skin and tired eyes.

the alleyway smells of burnt rubber.

you brush away the bangs that stick to his forehead as you curl a hand around his cheek, cupping his jaw and brushing a thumb against the scar etched into his cheekbone. minho sighs into your lips and gives you all of him, allowing you to wrap your arms around his torso and press him closer.

part of you feels selfish for allowing yourself to have him like this when you are tainted on the inside, your heart spoiled and bruised like overripe fruit. but you pull him in closer all the same.

you are young gods in this moonlight and gods are allowed to be greedy like this, even if they are rotten to the core.

vii.

he doesn’t say a word. just silently slips into your apartment after dance practice, hair still slick with sweat, and falls asleep beside you on the couch. you watch as he sprawls out across the couch and allow your endearment to bleed through the edges.

his head somehow migrates to your lap over the course of a few hours, hair splayed out in a halo around his head.

you run a featherlight fingertip down the perfect slope of his nose and tell the sleeping boy with the shards of glass ingrained in the palms of his hands that you love him.

he doesn’t stir from your lap.

viii.

he is curled in your lap again, but now he’s sobbing instead of sleeping.

he opens his mouth to choke out another apology, tears soaking into the cloth of your t-shirt, and you tell him to shut up. because you’re not holding him because you pity him but rather because you would give the world to see the boy in your arms happy and if it means that your cheap gas station t-shirt will get ruined in the process then so be it.

he presses his forehead to your collarbone and sighs.

“i hate him,” he says.

“i hate him, too.”

“you don’t even know him.”

but do you need to know someone to hate them? if it were up to you, you would have slipped into minho’s apartment long ago and brought his father to his knees. you would have taken him by the chin and forced him to look. to stare. to breathe in minho’s humanness, his pain, and to understand the magnitude of his cruelty.

look. look at the scars carved into your son’s palms from all the times you got a little too drunk to remember that beer bottles were for drinking from and not for throwing. the scar across his cheekbone from the time your fist connected into his cheek when he came home late from dance practice. look at his brokenness, the weariness that sits heavy against the dark circles underneath his eyes.

look and realize what you have done.

you would have taken him by the chin and made him realize his monstrosity. dragged him through the dust and left him on his knees, head hanging low with the heat of his own shame.

but it has never been up to you. and all you can do is this.

you hold him closer, and you think that when you are in each other’s arms like this, your brokenness becomes a little less apparent.