Get Me A Man Like Choi San - Tumblr Posts

Tall Trees | choi san x reader

San's had a crazy day at work, and now that it's finally over, he feels like he's forgetting something... (You, he's forgotten you)

Rating: M (18+) | WC: ~7.1k | Pairing: san x reader | Genre: romance, smut, hurt/comfort

Backstory I didn’t feel like writing: A year and a half ago, personal trainer!San found himself in a new part of town while he was scoping out potential buildings for the gym he was opening with Yeosang. He doesn't really care for coffee but he saw you smile at a customer through the window of the cafe he was walking past and for some reason, he desperately needed you to smile at him like that. So he went inside and asked you to make him something without coffee, something sweet, resulting in the best chai latte he's ever had and a crush that just wouldn't fade. For a year, he visited your cafe and ordered the same chai latte, soaking up your smiles and jokes and pretending like that was enough for him. It was until the customer in front of him flirted with you, sparking a jealousy he could feel in his toes. He knew he had no right to be jealous, and that's what really got him. That day, like every other, he brought the mug and tea plate back to the counter for you, only this time, he left a napkin with his number carefully written under the mug. You texted him ten minutes later, and that was that.

Warnings: non explicit semi public masturbation, vaginal fingering, size kink, big dick!san, praise kink, unprotected piv sex, creampie, cum as lube, cum eating, finger sucking, aftercare

Reader Notes: has breasts and a vagina, works out but body type isn’t mentioned, hair is mentioned but not hair type (i tried to imagine the scene w different textures and i feel like it works but send me an ask if you feel differently), gets slightly injured but it's not a big deal, gets carried by san

San grunts as he lifts the weights above his head, holding them there for one shuddering second before carefully lowering them and setting them on the floor. His arms are throbbing, his muscles exhausted but pumped, and for the last set in a two hour workout, he thinks it was pretty good. 

What’s not pretty good is the way Yeosang is spotting you. He’s not doing anything untoward, San knows he would never, but he’s just so close to you, and he’s taking care of you in the way San should be. But the crack of dawn is San’s only chance to get a workout in; he’s booked with clients for the rest of the gym’s opening hours, which he’s obviously happy about but it’s difficult when it means he has to watch this. 

Watch one of his best friends practically straddle you as you bench press more weight every day, as you get stronger and stronger under the guidance of someone who isn’t him. San should be the one spotting you, he should be the one helping you grow, he should be the one patting you on the shoulder as you hit a new personal best. 

He can’t help but be jealous that it’s Yeosang experiencing all of that with you, no matter how well San knows that you want him and only him. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he almost doesn’t bother checking it, knowing it couldn’t have been you who texted him, until he remembers he set a timer for the arrival of his first client. 

He returns the weights to their racks and wipes everything down quickly, checking around the area to make sure he’s left it clean before heading to the locker room. 

Scrubbing himself down in the shower, he bites back a groan as images of you flood his mind. He doesn’t have time for this, he really doesn’t have time for this, but when you’re so close and so unavailable, he can’t help but think about you. You in your cute little workout gear. You bending over to pick up the bar for a deadlift. You smiling at him from across the gym with sweat dripping down into your cleavage. 

Maybe he has a little time, he thinks as his hand slips down to wrap around his cock. 

With his mind clear and his dick soft, he grabs his clipboard and makes his way to the front desk to pick up… 

Shit, what was her name again?

He rifles through his notes to find it, thankfully locating the intake form before he makes it to the lobby. 

“Hey! Ready to work?” He asks, his hands on his hips and a bright smile on his face. 

“For sure!,” She says as she looks up from her phone reluctantly, though her gaze doesn't go to his face, it goes to his biceps. He doesn’t mind (much) but it would be nice of her to look him in the eyes when they’re speaking. It seems she’s not able to do so, her focus darting between her phone and his body as he leads her over to the free weights. 

He guides her through her workout, encouraging her at the appropriate moments and holding her phone to film when she asks. She seems more interested in getting footage than getting fitter, and as soon as she says, “My followers will love this, and you,” he understands what the real goal is. 

She asks for a picture when the session is finished and he sees no reason to deny her, so he walks her back to the lobby and waits for her to set her phone up on a mini tripod, asking, “What should I do?”

“Let’s go back to back! You’re so much taller and bigger than me,” she giggles, reaching a hand out to squeeze his arm before he can dodge her. He laughs it off, turning to press his back to hers and flexing a bicep for the camera, his smile wide and his muscles wider. 

She sets up a couple shots, requesting different poses and manually fixing him when he doesn’t do exactly what she wants. It’s tedious, and he decides that if this is the life of an influencer, it’s not one he wants.

His next client is waiting by the desk by the time she decides she’s gotten enough, and before he can politely shoo her away, she hands him her phone with Instagram already pulled up. 

“So I can tag you and the gym!” She says, which makes sense he supposes. It would be good exposure, and he knows Yeo would be disappointed if he denied an opportunity to get the gym out there, so he types in the handles and nods when she asks if he’ll follow her back. 

“See you in a few days,” he says, waving her off and apologizing to the client that’s been waiting for, shit, four minutes now. 

“I’m so sorry about that, let’s get started!”

With San’s schedule so full, the day passes quickly. He doesn’t even get to check his phone until he’s getting the gym ready to close with Yeosang, nearly a full hour later than usual. There are texts from you that he can’t wait to read, and, to his shock, hundreds of notifications from Instagram. Normally, he’d answer you first, but his phone is still blowing up and he’s more than curious as to why. 

The app takes a second to load, but when it does, his eyes grow wide and his mouth drops open. His fitness account has grown from a measly two hundred followers to over ten thousand, and his posts are full of thirst comments and fire emojis and marriage proposals. The gym account has grown too, gaining a similar amount of followers, and he calls Yeosang over, his hands trembling as he reads the DM from their favorite brand of weights.

“Yeo, come look at this,” he shouts in the general direction of their office. 

Hearing the urgency in his voice, Yeosang jogs over, a furrow to his brow and a confused tilt to his mouth. “What’s wrong?” 

San just passes his phone over wordlessly, letting Yeosang scroll through the notifications before directing him to the private messages. 

“‘Hi, this is Matrix Fitness! We noticed you don’t have our newest technology in weightlifting and we’d like to extend an offer of partnership to you. In exchange for posts promoting our brand, we will supply you with our entire range of adaptive equipment for a deeply discounted price. Please reply if interested,” Yeosang reads slowly, squinting as if he doesn’t believe his eyes. 

“How did all of this happen?” He asks in astonishment, looking between San and the phone in awe. 

“You know the first client I had today? She’s an influencer, I guess. She filmed her workout and we took a picture after, and she said she’d tag me and the gym. I didn’t realize it because I’ve never looked her up, but she has like fifty thousand followers.” 

“And now we have a fifth of that. That’s crazy,” Yeosang laughs through a beaming smile, making San’s mouth stretch in one that mirrors his best friend’s. 

Yeosang holds the phone out to him and San takes it before closing out Instagram and going to his messages. There are… quite a few from you, and he feels his heart drop as he reads the last three. 

You | are you still picking me up or…?

You | guess that’s a no

You | i’ll take the bus to my place then. 

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. 

San was supposed to get you at the cafe an hour ago, and you were going to spend the weekend at his apartment. He can’t believe he forgot about you and left you waiting like that. Sure the day was busy, but you’re the most important thing in his life, and he completely neglected you. 

God, and you had to take the bus? You didn’t text him when you got home, which means you’re pissed for real. He can’t blame you, not when you were stuck out there in the cold, dark night after a long day of work, expecting him and the safe warmth of his car, only to get fluorescent lights and chilly plastic seats instead. 

Yeosang says something but he doesn’t hear, too distracted trying to put together an apology in his head. Telling you the truth likely won’t make things better, but it’s his only option. He won’t lie to you, won’t make up excuses, not when he knows the only solution is to admit his wrongdoings and beg for your forgiveness. 

“I’ve gotta go, man. I’ll see you tomorrow,” San shouts as he jogs through the lobby, racing to his car so he can drive to yours and make this right. 

He speeds over to your place, knuckles pale on the steering wheel, speedometer spiking on the dash, and miraculously finds an open parking spot to slide into. His door slams far louder than he means it to but he’s not around long to hear the echoes, already running across the street and up the stairs to your flat. 

Bouncing on his toes with anxiety, he knocks on your door, tentatively calling out, “Baby? It's me.”

He can hear puttering behind the wood, hear the clacks of pans and the beeping of a timer, and he frowns when he realizes you must be cooking for yourself. San was going to make your favorite for dinner tonight, spam fried rice, and he wonders if you’re making the same. You usually have all of the ingredients, and he knows it’s a comfort food for you. 

He just hates that he’s made you need comforting. 

The door unlocks, the handle turning just slightly, just enough for the door to crack open a smidge. You don’t open it any further, and San takes this as his signal to enter but to tread carefully. 

He pushes the door the rest of the way open and steps into your apartment, locking up with a soft click before toeing out of his shoes and cautiously continuing into the kitchen where he knows he’ll find you. 

He stops in the doorway, leaning against the frame and taking in the tense set of your shoulders, still clad in your work clothes. He wants to approach you, wants to wrap you up in his arms and hug you until the tension melts away, but he fears touching you would only make it worse. 

Instead, he timidly offers, “Baby, why don’t you sit down? I can finish this up.”

“I’ve got it,” your voice is short, dismissive, making San cringe and bite his cheek before he nods and walks on eggshells to sit at your dining table. 

The air in the kitchen is strained, silent but for the sizzling of the spam and the scrape of your spatula. He sits, and waits. 

You tip the cold rice into the pan, breaking it up and letting it brown before adding the spices and sauces. It smells delicious and San’s stomach grumbles, though he’s not sure he has much of an appetite with his heart in his throat like this. 

You crack three eggs into the pan and scramble them together before stirring them into the fried rice, switching the burner to low and retrieving two bowls from the cupboard. The rice is plated up in two steaming heaps, spoons stuck in the middle, and finally, you look at him. 

It’s just a glance as you walk over to the table, your gaze still down when you set his bowl in front of him and take the opposite seat, but it’s enough for him to see the dark circles under your eyes and the hurt in them.

The apology burns in his throat, words of repentance and regret sitting heavily on his tongue. But he can sense that it’s not the time to apologize yet, no matter how much he wants to, so he thanks you for the meal and digs in. He thought he wouldn’t be able to eat but now he can’t stop, spoon shoveling rice into his mouth at a near concerning speed. 

He can’t tell if it’s because it’s delicious or because he knows that if he doesn’t keep his mouth full, he’ll let all the words and thoughts spill out of it before you’re ready. 

You, on the other hand, eat slowly, carefully, like your mind is too weighed down with worries for you to enjoy your food. He wonders if it’s just because of him, or if you had a shitty day before he stood you up. 

He hopes you didn’t, hopes your day was perfect before he ruined it with his thoughtlessness, hopes you had good chats and a yummy lunch and nice, well-tipping customers. He’s almost sure his hopes are in vain, though, as he studies you. 

You and your dimmed glow, your palpable tiredness, your wounded feelings. 

If he’s responsible for all three, he’ll have no choice but to beg on his knees for the opportunity to make it up to you. 

Of course, he wants you to forgive him, but more than that he wants you to know you can call on him, rely on him, lean on him, and he’ll be there, unlike tonight. He wants you to know that he cares for you, that he reveres you, that he worships you. 

That he loves you. 

Fuck, San loves you, and he can’t believe that he forgot about you. He’ll never let it happen again, and he needs to find a way to make sure you know that. 

First, he needs to get through tonight. He’s already finished with his rice but he doesn’t want to leave you alone at the table, so he’ll clean when you’re done. Maybe with some food in your stomach and a tidy kitchen, you’ll be more receptive to hearing him.

God, you’ve had the worst fucking day.

It started out near perfectly, a great gym sesh with Yeosang giving you hope for the hours to come, before it went downhill at the speed of light. First, that girl showed up and was all over San, touching him and staring at him and surely flirting with him. You didn’t even get a kiss goodbye before work because he was so busy with her. 

Then your bus broke down two stops away from the cafe, leaving you to hoof it there. You arrived twenty minutes late and drenched with sweat. 

Because of that, your boss called you in for a ‘chat’, also known as her diminishing your role in the shop and reminding you that you’re replaceable. You went back to the espresso machine in tears, and through the blur, pressed the wrong button and got a searing steam burn on your forearm from the milk frother. 

Then, you had rude customer after rude customer. One demanded you remake their latte four times, saying it was burnt and then too watery and then too sweet. Another complained about the size of their coffee, saying they expected to get more for the price when all they ordered was one fucking shot of espresso. The last told you to smile more, said that coffee tastes bitter when the barista is too. That one, you wanted to punch and shockingly enough, not a single tip was left between the three of them.  

Your back and knees ached from standing all day, your spirit was bruised from your mean boss and terrible customers, and all you wanted was a hug from San and his spam fried rice. Of course that had to go wrong, too.  

You knew he’d come over, knew he’d feel awful and guilty and sorrowful for neglecting to pick you up, and you thought you’d feel vindicated. Now that he’s sitting in front of you at the dining table, his bowl empty and yours full, you’re not sure how you feel. 

There’s exhaustion, weighing you down like the gravity in the room is doubled, your limbs heavy and your movements sluggish. There’s actual, physical pain, the burn on your arm throbbing and stinging even with antibacterial ointment and a topical pain reliever. There used to be anger, indignation, but now there’s just hurt brewing in your stomach from being forgotten by your normally doting boyfriend, and a certain insecurity too (am I not that important to him? this is the first time, but will it be the last time?). 

The hurt is the worst, being an emotion you’re not used to feeling around San. 

You thought dinner would help but your comfort food isn’t comforting, it just feels like stones settling in your belly. His presence would normally bring you solace, but having him near just makes you think about sitting alone in the dark cafe for an hour, waiting for him to never come. 

Would he have remembered if you didn’t text him? Would he have gone home and cooked for himself and not thought about you at all?

Eventually, you give up on trying to eat, pushing the no longer steaming bowl of rice away and sitting back in your chair. You tilt your head back, gnaw at your lip as the burn starts up in your eyes. 

You will not cry in front of him, you will not cry in front of him, you will not cry in front of him. 

“Y/n?”

Why in the fuck would he call you that right now?

You snap your head up to glare at him, pushing away from the table and taking hold of your bowl before rising with a huff and stomping to the cabinet. Looking away to find containers for the leftovers, you rummage through until you find one that should be suitable. 

You can still feel San’s eyes on you, can almost feel his heart as it reaches out to yours. You just can’t reach back yet. 

So you stay silent as you put your food away, hissing when you brush your wounded arm against the door of the fridge as you open it. San’s on his feet and by your side in seconds, his long fingers gently wrapping around your wrist to bring your arm into the light. 

“Baby, what happened?” He asks, concern and regret clear in his voice. You shake your head and tug your arm free, your heart squeezing in pain when he actually lets you go. 

Fuck, you need to get away from him before you start fucking weeping. You weave around him and speed to your bedroom, hearing his steps follow yours not a second after. The door closes between you just before he reaches it, and you force yourself not to lock it out of pure spite. That would probably hurt his feelings, and as much as you want him to know your heartache, you just can’t inflict it on him. 

Because he’s a smart, respectful man, he doesn’t try to open the door. A smart, respectful man who completely forgot you, a voice chimes in the back of your head, the ugly reminder making your throat close up with tears as you back up and let yourself fall on your bed. 

You didn’t get home much sooner than he arrived, and you set straight to cooking with both your heart and your stomach empty. You feel… weary, drained, spent, but you also feel dirty. You want to wash this day off of you, wash these hurt feelings away. 

It’s not easy to haul yourself off of your comfy bed but it’s worth it when you step foot in the steaming shower. The water is heaven on your aching muscles, and with two doors and a shower curtain between you and San, you can finally let yourself cry. 

Your tears mix with the water dripping down your face, your gasping sobs hidden by the patter of drops hitting the tile as you give in and fully feel the effects of a day as shit as this. It’s not just about San, it’s about the girl and the bus and the chewing out and the burn and the customers too. 

It’s about everything, and the longer you bawl, the lighter you feel. 

Eventually, the tears dry up and you know you have to actually get clean before the water goes cold. You work on autopilot, washing your hair and your body mechanically, suddenly wishing San was washing you instead. 

It’s been such a long day, and even though he fucked up, you miss him. 

He hasn’t apologized yet but after having such a cathartic cry, you’ve all but forgiven him. You could call out to him, you know he’d hear you if you said his name loud enough, but you think you’ll let him stew a bit longer. 

The flow of water turns icy and you yelp, rinsing the conditioner out hastily and reaching out to turn off the shower with trembling fingers. Someone else does before you get there, a big, warm hand connected to your big, dumb boyfriend, making you yelp again and reach to cover yourself out of instinct. 

He grimaces apologetically and holds up your towel for you, “I was sitting outside the door and I thought you fell.”

He keeps his eyes on your face as he waits for you to step out of the shower and into his arms. You don’t move for a few seconds, weighing options in your mind. Do you keep giving him the cold shoulder, maneuver around him and get a different towel?

Or do you let him wrap you up, let him make you warm again, let him repent?

With a great sigh and a delicate heart, you step over the tub and onto the mat, staring at his chest as he tucks the warm towel around you. He must have gotten it out of the linen closet and put it in the dryer, the sweetheart he is. He leans in, wraps his arms around your waist, and pulls you into him, enveloping you with both the towel and his whole body. 

You don’t know how long you stand there, held close to him, water soaking into his shirt from your still wet skin. Your arms come up to twine around his neck and hug him back, making him gasp in relief and hold you tighter, nearly lifting your heels off the ground. 

“I’m so fucking sorry, baby. I could explain, and I will if you want me to, but I just want you to know that I’m so, so sorry, and it will never happen again,” he breathes into your neck, his voice tight but sincere. 

“It better fucking not, you dick,” you whisper back gently, petting his hair and feeling him relax against you at the sound of your voice. 

He laughs fondly, squeezing your waist and bringing one hand up to palm the back of your head, his hand spanning your whole skull. “God, I’m so in love with you.”

You freeze in his arms, your eyes blinking wide open as his words repeat in your brain. He’s never said that before, and neither have you, but there’s a rush of something, in your chest, in your bloodstream, in your bones, and you think it can only be love. 

San must feel the way you still, must realize what it is that’s crossed his lips, because he lets you go, leans back, and says it again, looking into your eyes this time. 

“I am so in love with you, I mean it,” his face begs you to believe him, his fingertips digging into the sensitive skin of your waist and his heart thudding against yours. 

And yes, he did stand you up tonight. But he also pined after you for a full year, he also blushed and giggled after you kissed for the first time, he also raced over here as soon as he read your texts (you timed his arrival with his read receipts). He’s never lied to you, or hurt you, or made you feel small, in a bad way at least. 

You can see it in his eyes, the truth of his words, the passion behind them, and you know that he does mean it. It’s easy, then, for you to beam and exhale, “I’m in love with you, San.”

He lights up, his grin brighter than the sun and his grip tighter than ever as he leans down and stops with his lips just centimeters from yours. “Can I kiss you, Y/n?”

You melt into him, your mind flashing back to when he first said those words to you, and with your mouth tingling to feel his, you say, “Only if you call me baby again.”

“Baby. My baby,” he croons indulgently before pressing his lips to yours softly and pulling away before you can kiss him back. He pecks your cheeks, your forehead, your nose, and finally returns to your mouth. 

He kisses you gently, deeply, sipping from your lips like they're finely aged wine, the hand on your skull shifting to cup your cheek and hold you to him. You have no intention of leaving, not when he’s so warm and big against you, not when he’s kissing you as if he needs your air to breathe, not when you can feel his heart pounding in his chest, thump thump thumping next to yours. 

Not when you love him so fucking much. 

In fact, you’d do just about anything to keep kissing him, maybe for the rest of your life if you can swing it, so you’re borderline bereaved when he pulls away again and fully releases you. 

“We should get you dressed and to bed, hm? You’ve had a long day,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to your forehead as he speaks. 

“No, I think you should shut up and kiss me some more,” you breathe in response, taking hold of his jaw and tugging him back to you. 

He obeys, but only for a minute or two, his plush lips making your knees weak before he breaks the kiss again to say, “How about we get you to bed and then kiss some more? Does that work for you?”

You want to be a brat, want to tell him you’ll go to bed when you want to and stop kissing him when you want to, but you have to admit it, you are sleepy. And even close to him like this, you are cold. 

So maybe getting dressed and going to bed is a good plan, but you won’t admit that. Instead, you pout and nod begrudgingly, stepping around him to stand in front of the sink and start your skincare routine. In two steps, he’s by your side and handing you products, watching affectionately as you pat them into your skin. 

When you set the last jar down, he holds his hand out for you, waiting for you to take it before tugging you to your bedroom. He walks you to the bed, pushing you down by the shoulders to sit on the duvet and spinning to grab one of the shirts he keeps at your place from your dresser. 

You let him guide it over your head, gentle hands carefully pulling your wet hair through the neckhole after you push your arms through the sleeves. Scrunching the extra moisture out of your hair with your body towel, he hums absentmindedly, like taking care of you is so ingrained in him, he doesn’t even have to think about it. 

He braids your hair and ties it off with a band you find on your nightstand before lifting your legs onto the bed and pivoting you so your head rests on the pillow. With brute strength, he yanks the duvet out from under you, making you giggle as you’re dragged a few inches down the bed. He covers you with it, tucks you in, and starts to strip. 

You hold the comforter up to your face, peeking out from behind it like you’ve never seen him get naked before. His shirt goes first, damp from you and hauled over his head to land in the corner. He notices you watching him, pushes his gym shorts down teasingly slowly, his cock soft but big where it’s contained by his boxer briefs. 

God, he looks so fucking hot at every stage of undress, it’s unfair. 

When he starts to pull his underwear down, you feel shy all of a sudden, averting your eyes as he steps into a new pair. That means you don’t see him gearing up to jump on top of you, but jump on top of you he does. 

You’re crushed, of course, but you can’t complain when it means you get to feel all of his bulk on you, weighing you down to the bed, his muscles thick and taut against your softness. You can only sigh as all of the air in your lungs is pushed out by the sheer size of him, your head going fuzzy both at the warmth and the lack of oxygen. 

Before you pass out, he snakes his arms around you and rolls over until he lays on his back and you lay on his chest, your ribs expanding against his with newly available air. It tastes sweet, almost, but not as sweet as San does when he leans up and locks your lips with his. 

His mouth is plush against yours, wet, and his skin is soft, hot, smooth where he’s aligned with you. The sensations make your head spin, warmth gathering in your stomach in what you recognize as arousal when he sets one hand on your hip and lets the other delve into your hair. 

The gentle kiss takes on a sharp edge when he nips at your bottom lip, his tongue slipping into your mouth as your lips part in a gasp. You let him lead, knowing he’ll take good care of you and too tired, too needy to fight for dominance tonight. He kisses you until you’re breathless, until you’re moaning into his mouth, until your center is throbbing for him. 

When you both reach your limit, no words are needed. His hand sinks between your legs as you wrap them around his waist, pushing his underwear down with your toes and sighing when you feel his length brush your thigh. He’s hot and thick and long and dripping, and you want him with a syrupy slowness you’re not used to. 

He seems to be on the same wavelength, opening you up on his fingers without urgency, without desperation. One slips into you, then another, and they curl, searching searching searching for that patch of nerves deep inside. You gasp when he finds it, buck into his touch, and he breathes into your mouth, “There we go, baby,” before digging his fingers into it, beckoning forth sticky arousal that seeps out around them. 

He works you slowly, methodically, sinking another finger inside to stretch you out for his cock and crooking all three in a languid rhythm, one that has your hips rolling and your heart racing. His thumb sets on your clit, not moving but applying light pressure, and it’s almost a surprise when your orgasm washes over you, not a strong one, but enough to set your nerves alight and have you whimpering out his name. 

“Perfect, just like that, baby,” San breathes against your lips, his fingers sliding in and out of you and his thumb pressing down on your clit until he’s brought you through to the other side. You melt deeper into his body and barely pout when he withdraws his fingers, leaving you empty and throbbing for him. 

You know he’ll fill you soon, know he won’t leave you hanging again tonight, but it’s hard to stay patient when you also know how good it’ll feel when he finally gives you his cock. 

Surely enough, you feel it gliding through your wet folds and prodding at your entrance, and when he doesn’t slide right in, you feel a bit of that syrupy slow want turn into searing need. 

“San,” you whine plaintively, rolling your hips into his in an attempt to get him inside. 

“Hush, Y/n, let me take my time. You’re worth it,” he says, as if he doesn’t know that will make you want him even more. 

He doesn’t seem to care, dragging the head of his dick over your clit with a rumbling groan, one that you feel all the way to your toes. He slips and slides for a while, working you both up until you’re aching, dripping, nearly begging for it. He’s breathing so fast he’s almost panting, his cock jumping when you finally reach down and take hold of it. 

You keep it in place and roll your hips again, popping the mushroom head into your entrance and keening at the feeling. Even just a little bit of his cock is better than nothing, and now that he’s filling you in some way, you will let him take his time. 

Apparently, that’s not something he wants anymore, as he sinks the rest of his cock into you with one smooth thrust. You sputter at the sudden stretch, your pussy struggling to adjust to the length and girth of him, and he groans brokenly, likely because you can’t stop clenching and squeezing around his huge dick. 

It’s not because he didn’t open you up enough, it’s because he’s just that big. Every time is like the first, his cock carving a new path in you that’s just for him to tread, just for him to own. And you hate to admit it, but he does own you. 

All of you belongs to him, and your only consolation is that all of him belongs to you, too. His thick thighs and his lush tits and his perfect brain and his big, juicy heart all belong to you, and that makes being his even easier, even sweeter. 

Also helpful is the fact that he knows exactly how to use his fat cock. 

His stroke game is off the charts, his hips and thighs powerful enough to bounce you on top of him, though instead he holds you in place and fucks up into you. He angles every thrust toward your belly, grazing your g-spot more often than not and drawing out so much arousal, you can hear the squelch of him bottoming out inside of you. 

All you can do is lie on his chest and take it, your elbows braced next to his head and your open lips pressed against his. You can’t stop making noises, punched out sounds following each buck of his hips into you, and San is just as vocal, rough moans and little whimpers spilling into your mouth as he fills you over and over again. 

“Please,” you gasp, but you don’t know what you’re begging for. You just know you need him, need something from him, and when he shifts one hand from your hip to your clit, you realize he knows you even better than you know yourself. 

Fuck, and he loves you too. That thought sends a shiver zipping down your spine, makes you exhale a giggle and cradle his head with your arms. He lets out a questioning sound, and you sing lowly, teasingly, “You love me.”

He just laughs and thrusts into you harder, catching that patch of nerves inside with the head of his dick and stealing your breath. “Yeah, baby, I fucking love you.” 

It still sends a rush of giddiness through you to hear those words from him, a rush that ends in a hard clench of your walls around his dick. “Fuck,” he bites out, his fingers stuttering on your clit at the feeling of your cunt locking down. 

You’re not cumming yet but maybe you did, just a little, not that you’ll ever admit to it. 

San can never know that the taste of those words on his lips brought you to ecstasy, it’ll make him too proud and happy and charming and you won’t survive it. 

You’re not even sure you’ll survive this, not when the circles he rubs into your clit start to swirl your mind too, not when the flames of pleasure blaze so brightly, you fear you’ll be burned. Not when his cock gets even bigger, even harder inside of you somehow, straining your inner muscles and pushing you to your limits. 

Your thighs tremble as his fingers increase their pace, his hips moving so fast, you hardly even notice him leaving you because he’s back inside before you can register the emptiness. He must be getting close too, you think, he always speeds up when he’s nearing the edge. 

It’s like he wants to make the most of it before it ends, but he’s so frantic for you, he can’t stand not feeling your walls hugging him for even one second. 

“God, baby, you feel so fucking good wrapped around me,” he practically sobs, slamming you down onto his dick with the hand clutching your hip. He also runs his mouth when he’s getting close, a habit you don’t even pretend not to love. 

“Yeah, Sannie? How do I feel? Tell me,” you moan, squeezing your cunt around him just because you can. 

“Li-like fucking heaven. So hot and wet and, shit, so fucking tight, always grip me so well,” he grinds out through gritted teeth. “Gonna cum for me soon? I need you to so I can fill you up, I wanna leave you dripping with it.” 

You whimper and clamp down on his cock, the circles he’s rubbing into your clit and his dirty, evil words combining to send you careening over the edge. Your thoughts spool up like spun sugar then melt like cotton candy in the rain, leaving you dazed by the pleasure he’s inflicting upon you. 

With your nerves alight, you call out his name, hauling him off the cliff with you and virtually milking him of his orgasm with your undulating pussy. He grunts and groans raggedly, woundedly, as he coats the inside of your cunt with white hot cum. You can feel it shooting into you, feel it filling you just like he said, and when he pulls out, you can feel it dripping out of you too. 

Not for long though, as he catches it with two fingers and pushes it back inside, his eyes caught on yours and his tongue pressed against his teeth. 

He leaves the fingers inside of you and starts dotting kisses all over your face, an errant bite to your jaw making you gasp and clench. 

“Will you let me make you cum one more time, baby? Let me start making it up to you?” he whispers into your ear, quirking his fingers towards your stomach. 

You’re sore, to be sure, and tired out of your mind, but when he puts it like that, who are you to say no?

So with a nod, you agree, letting out a sigh of relief when he taps your g-spot gently, grinds against it carefully, rubs your clit cautiously. He always knows what you need though, so you shouldn’t be surprised he’s aware you require a more delicate touch after he fucked you so roughly. 

“How’s that, baby?” He asks, his voice thick with lust as he fingers his cum into you, though you can tell he actually wants your approval. 

“S’perfect, San, just like that,” you sigh dreamily, letting his rocking fingers build you up higher and higher. You start to rock with them, your hips rolling into his touch, and he nods below you, breathes, “That’s it, baby, fuck yourself on my fingers.”

Obviously, you listen, ignoring the screaming of your thigh muscles to grind on his hand, sitting up slightly and looking down to find his wrist and abdomen glistening with a mix of him and you. Sweeping it up with two of your fingers, you bring them to his lips and watch, entranced, as he licks up the mess and sucks your fingers into his mouth. 

You can feel the vibration of his groan when you squeeze around his fingers, his teeth setting around yours, sure to leave indents as you lock eyes with him. His gaze is dark, heady, true, and it feels like he’s staring straight through your tough skin and your masks and your facades to find your impurities. 

He makes them feel lighter, brighter, somehow, like maybe they don’t matter as much as you think they do. 

Like maybe loving you isn’t hard, isn’t a burden, isn’t a fault. 

Before you know it, your eyes are filling with tears and you’re cumming, and cursing, and cumming. You swore you wouldn’t cry in front of him but here you fucking are, sobbing and swearing and soaking his fingers as he unravels you one last time. 

He coos at you affectionately, his hand leaving your hip to pull your fingers out of his mouth so he can whisper sweet everythings at you, tugging you down to rest on his chest again and petting your hair. 

You hiccup, finally free of tears but no less full of annoyance at having cried in his presence. He lets you calm down on your own, keeping his mouth shut as he pulls his fingers free and wipes them on the sheets. You’d scold him but he’s going to change the bed while you let all of his cum seep out, so there’s not really any harm. 

He pushes himself up with one hand, the other wrapped around your back to hold you to him as he swivels to sit at the edge of the bed with you in his lap. He stands easily even with your added weight and lumbers over to the bathroom, setting you down on the toilet and wetting two washcloths, one for you and one for him. 

This routine is familiar to you, one that existed before hurt feelings and ‘I love you’s’ and tears, and for the first time tonight, you know what to expect. 

You know he’ll clean himself off, wash his hands, and wait for you to finish up. Then he’ll lift you onto the countertop and wipe away the remaining sheen on your thighs, kiss you thoroughly, and carry you off to bed. 

After that, you’ll lie down together, and chat until one of you (San) falls asleep. 

What’s different this time is three little words exchanged through sleep heavy lips, and a thought in the back of San’s mind, a little tug that tells him he needs to find out your ring size, if only to have the information on hand. 

AN: surprise!! this was originally written as a commission and i planned on keeping it but i read it again and im just so happy and proud of how it turned out so i reworked it and made it postable ☺️

pls let me know your thoughts and feelings, i always love reading them 💖

MDNI 18+ BLOG -> ageless blogs and minors WILL BE BLOCKED

pairing ✭ bf!san x gn!reader

synopsis ✭ San is always available. Especially on your bad days.

content/genre ✭ fluff, comfort (no angst really. reader just cries over unnamed stress)

word count ✭ 1k

✭ ✭ ✭ ✭

There was a soft knock at your door. You knew who it was, but you still couldn’t bring yourself to get off the couch. He had a key anyway.

“Y/n?” you heard from outside the door, “Can I come in?”

He always asked no matter how many times you told him he didn’t have to. He waited a few beats for your response that never came before you heard his keys jingle. You threw your blanket over your head when you heard the key slide into the lock and the door click open.

“Love?” The door closed behind him as he made it into the front room where you burrowed under your blanket on the couch. You felt him kneel down beside you and slowly lift the blanket off your head. 

You were hit with the cold air of the apartment, but you kept your eyes closed. “Are you pretending to sleep?” 

He poked your cheek, “I know you’re not asleep, y/n.”

You groaned and threw a hand over your eyes, “Sannie…”

“I’m here, angel,” he said, peeling your hand from your face to kiss your knuckles.

Opening your eyes finally, you looked to see your lovely boyfriend looking at you softly. His eyes lit up slightly when they met yours. “Hi, how are you?”

You open your mouth to tell him, but just trying to recollect your awful day made your eyes start watering. You try to keep the tears back by keeping your eyes on the ceiling above you but they pool up at your waterline.

You can’t look him in the eyes or you know the tears will fall faster. You don’t want him to pity you. Just the thought of him feeling bad for you makes you sick to your stomach. He shouldn’t have to coddle you like this. You’re not a child. You’re an adult for fucks sake. It shouldn’t be this hard for you to recover from a bad day.

But when you feel his arm slip under your upper back, you let him lift you up. He slides onto the couch behind you and pulls you into his chest. Softly playing with your hair and rubbing your back. He tells you that it’s okay to cry. Even though he knows you hate crying in front of other people, he encourages you to let it out. Never once does he pressure you to give him the details of your day.

You bury your face in his chest as you cry. It’s hard not to feel bad at the wet spot on his shirt even though he’d tell you that you never have to feel bad for something so small. Your tears are hot, though, as they fall from your eyes. Pouring out uncontrollably because of how long you’d held them in. 

It hurts San’s heart to see you like this. As much as he wants to be strong for you and as bad as he wants you to think that he’s unfazed by your outpour of emotion, he wishes he could take it all away. He’d keep all of you anxieties and heartaches on himself if he could. Seeing you so overwhelmed and falling apart on top of him is really hard for him to handle, but he stays strong for you. Because he knows that’s what you need. 

When he notices that you’ve stopped crying, he lets you stay on his chest for a few more moments, running his fingers through your hair. Slowly, and after several minutes of silence, you push yourself off of his chest. You let his thumbs wipe the tears from your cheeks. You smile softly at his gesture, “I love you, Sannie.”

He smiles and kisses you on the forehead. “I love you too, y/n.”

Everything else went unsaid but was fully understood. He knew that it meant everything to you that he had showed up for you. And you knew that his love and devotion ran deeper than either of you could really understand.

✭✭✭✭ 

When San finally got you off the couch, he’d encouraged you to take a shower. He made sure to order food before he took his time to pick up your apartment a little bit. You had been so overwhelmed with work and family stuff that you didn’t really have any motivation to do laundry or keep your apartment tidy. But he knew how much a cluttered space just added to your anxiety.

He picked up the loose clothes scattered around your bedroom and put them in the wash hoping he’d be at least able to get through some of your laundry before he left. In the kitchen he washed your dishes and put them all away before grabbing your trash and taking it out to the dumpster. 

Pushing the door you your apartment back open, he found you seated on the counter. Dressed in a fuzzy pair of pajama pants and an old t-shirt. When you saw him, you opened up your arms for him. He smiled and wrapped you in his own arms. 

“You’re doing okay. You know that, right?” He whispered into your hair. You hesitated but nodded.

You took a deep breath, “Thank you for always being here, Sannie.” 

He pulled away from your hair, still holding tight to your waist, “Of course. I’m here for you always. You know that.”

You smiled at him, “You didn’t have to do my laundry, though.”

Raising an eyebrow, he asked, “Are you complaining?”

“No,” you laughed, “you can come over here every day if your gonna always do my laundry.”

“Baby I have a key. I can come over whenever I want,” he teases. Though, you both know he never comes over without checking in with you first.

You giggled and leaned into him, kissing him softly. He smiled at you with his eyes when he pulled away. “Will you spend the night?” You ask, cupping his face in your hands, running your thumbs over his cheekbones.

“Of course,” he leaned into your touch, “I can tell everyone I’ll be a little late tomorrow.”

Shaking your head you said, “No, baby, you don’t have to do that.”

He reached into his back pocket to grab his phone, “Too late. I’m already doing it.”

You poked him in the chest, “Fine, but you have to go before noon.”

“Are you kicking me out?”

“No. You just can’t always skip work for me.”

He kissed you on the cheek, “I’m always available for you. Work can wait.”