hii can u pls do a baku version for this one ?? but i feel he'd be like a victorian man seeing one for the first time 😭 like he would be giggling fluffy and shit at first but then he turns very veryyy serious the moment he realizes that he can get that anytime he can😇😇😇
https://www.tumblr.com/juliettejwnewinesa/785730379440095232/can-u-please-do-a-fic-with-sieun-x-a-reader-who?source=share
Title: Enlightenment Humin x fem!reader | NSFW | ~3.6k | boob worship, obsession, possessive Humin, oral (f!receiving), soft to unhinged progression, fluff-turned-feral
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Humin was… strange.
Not in a bad way. Not in the way most people assumed. He just felt everything a little too deeply — thought too long, stared too hard, got shy for reasons no one else seemed to understand.
Which is why it made perfect sense to you that the first time he saw your boobs — like, really saw them — he turned into some kind of Victorian gentleman getting flashbanged by a single tit.
“…Oh my god.”
You blinked. “What?”
His jaw dropped a little further. He was sitting upright at the edge of your bed, pupils blown wide, a visible blush spreading up his neck like a slow, creeping fever.
“You—" His voice cracked. "You have those??”
You stifled a laugh, sliding your bra off the rest of the way and tossing it aside. “Yeah, I have those.”
He was quiet for a long moment. Just… staring.
Then: “I think I’m gonna faint.”
You crawled over to him, bare and smug, and gently took his hand to place it over one breast. “Then faint on these, Humin. They’re yours.”
And it was like something snapped in him.
“…Mine?” he whispered, blinking at you like you’d just handed him a loaded weapon.
You nodded innocently. “All yours.”
That was all it took.
At first, it was kind of adorable.
He couldn’t stop touching them. Not in a gross or grabby way — in a reverent, curious, dazed way. Like he was a scientist discovering something sacred. He would cup them gently, thumb brushing soft circles over your nipples like he was learning a language no one had ever taught him.
He giggled the first time they bounced.
Like, full-on covered-his-mouth giggled.
Then blushed even harder when your nipple stiffened under his palm and you let out a soft noise.
“S-Sorry—did that—was that okay?” he stammered.
“More than okay,” you breathed, leaning into his touch.
And Humin, cheeks glowing and eyes wide, whispered:
“…I love them so much.”
The worship only got worse from there.
He couldn’t not look. If you wore a tank top, his eyes would drift. If you changed in front of him, he’d pretend not to notice but go quiet for ten minutes after. He became obsessed.
And when you finally pulled him into bed for something more serious — something filthy — you realized just how far gone he really was.
You were lying back, completely bare, Humin kneeling over you with shaky hands, looking like he was about to commit a crime and get away with it.
“Can I…” he murmured, fingers hovering over your chest. “Can I taste?”
Your stomach flipped. “Please.”
He groaned.
Then leaned down, and kissed the swell of your breast like he was kissing a religious relic.
You expected him to get shy again — maybe even giggle. But the moment his lips closed around your nipple, something changed.
He moaned.
Loud.
Like the realization hit — that he could do this, anytime, whenever he wanted. That he didn’t just get to look at you like this — he could touch, taste, devour.
His hand slid under your back to pull you closer, mouth latching tighter as he sucked, tongue flicking desperately over your nipple like he was trying to imprint the shape on his memory.
You gasped, hips shifting, and he groaned into your skin, switching to the other side with a ravenous kind of hunger.
“You’re so soft,” he mumbled between kisses. “So fucking soft—God, I can’t—”
He squeezed them together with both hands, face buried between them, nose brushing your sternum, moaning like he was drunk off the feel of you.
“You don’t get it,” he said, breathless. “You don’t get it. You’re perfect. You’re insane. I think I’m losing my mind.”
You whimpered, thighs squeezing together.
“Humin—”
“I could live here,” he whispered. “Right here, forever. In your arms. On your chest. I’d never need anything else.”
And then his hand slid down, finally, between your legs, and you gasped at the sudden heat of his palm.
“All this for me?” he murmured, mouth still on your nipple. “I make you this wet?”
You nodded, shaking.
He moaned again — high and unfiltered.
“I want to eat you out while I hold them. Is that—can I do that?”
You barely choked out a yes before he moved, spreading your legs open, dragging you to the edge of the bed.
And that’s exactly what he did.
He laid flat, face buried between your thighs, arms up so his hands could still grope your chest as he devoured you — slow, then fast, then slow again, tongue curling and dragging, nose bumping your clit just enough to make you cry out.
“You taste so fucking good,” he murmured, muffled. “I’m obsessed with you. I’m so obsessed with you.”
And when you came, gasping, legs trembling around his head, he just moaned like you were feeding him something divine — licking and kissing and whimpering against your skin.
After, when he crawled back up and laid over you, still breathless and flushed, he buried his face in your chest again and sighed like he’d just come home.
“You’re mine,” he said, quiet but possessive. “Right?”
You smiled, fingers carding through his messy hair. “Always.”
He exhaled like you’d just saved his life. Again.
And just like that — he was calm again.
Until the next time he got a glimpse of cleavage.
Then it was Victorian Man all over again. (or a hongdae guy)