summary: soul keeps photos of you everywhere he goes
warning(s): none
wc: 0.5k
🎧: in a good way
read more under the cut!
Soul kept small pictures of you inside of his wallet. Small photos from an old camera you’d bought him for the holidays— something you found in a thrift shop, all scratched up and smelling of old cigarettes. He laughed when he took it out of the wrapping paper, tilting it in his hands and fiddling with the leather strap like it was unfamiliar to him.
At first, he hadn’t known what he’d do with it, thinking it’d just sit in the corner of his room and become one with the dust bunnies. But then he figured out the photos he took would actually print out and become something he could actually hold and touch.
From then on, Soul took pictures of you— awful ones at that. Moments no one would want to keep posted on the refrigerator door by a small magnet. Pictures of you asleep and vulnerable on the couch, a dark puddle of drool spilling out from your open mouth. Or a photo of you mid bite into your dinner, eyes half open and fingers covered in grease. He’d always laugh at your attempts for him to put the camera down, whiny groans leaving your mouth when you stand up to chase him around the house. But he’d run off to the safety of the bedroom, locking the door and developing his newest photo of you with the biggest grin on his face.
And then there were the photos Soul held closest to him. The ones he kept in his wallet for only his eyes. The good photos of you. Photos of you in nice dresses and a pretty smile on your face, hair framing your face just right in the sun.
They’d end up worn out from friction and well loved from small kisses he’d place onto your printed face. He'd look at them any chance he got, on the bus, plane rides home, even when his band mates would sit just below him on the floor. But they were never shared with anyone else; you were his and he was yours. His thumb would slide over the crease as his eyes flickered over the photo he’d seen a hundred times, heart racing and face growing red. The corners were slightly bent from being handled so often, the lamination wearing out every time he slid the folded photo back into the safety of his wallet.
It was almost like an addiction to him; he could never get enough, even if he gave in multiple times. An addiction he never dreamed of quitting. Each glance at your photograph only made his heart grow fonder, caught so easily off guard by the sight of your white smile and kind eyes.
On days he’d finally come home, he’d find you— real and standing in front of him, more beautiful than in the pictures. You’d smile just like how you always do, teasing him about the look on his face before pulling him into a tight hug. He couldn’t ever get enough of you, enough of your pictures. So, when he pulled out his trusty camera, pointing the lens at you, you couldn’t help but give him a small groan.
“Just one more picture, my love.”
masterlist
my work is not ment to be taken as a serious reflection of anyone!
On any normal day, your boyfriend actively professes his affection for you. Not only is he hugging and pinching your cheek any chance he gets, but he’s whispering little adorations into your ear before giving you a peck on the cheek and acting like he didn’t just make your legs turn into jelly.
It’s how casual he is that gets to you; one moment you’re putting on makeup, finger gliding over your cheekbone with highlighter, and the next he’s kissing you on the cheek and whispering in your ear.
“You’re so pretty, my love.”
His fingers leave your shoulder, sweeping under your hair as he leaves your room. You blink at yourself in the mirror, cheeks redder than the blush you had just put on.
ʚɞ theo
It’s safe to say your boyfriend is your best friend. He’s with you everywhere— the grocery store, the library, and hell, he’s there with you at the doctor’s office, sitting in the corner like he’s your mother. He’s never not there.
You throw your purse over your shoulder, the little keychains attached to the metal ring clicking against each other.
“Baby?” you call out. “I’m leaving!”
Thumping echoes out from your shared bedroom, the door clicking open, and out Theo walks.
He’s out of breath when he speaks. “Where to?”
“Gonna go get my nails done.”
He’s already down the hall. “I’ll get my shoes on!”
ʚɞ jiung
If anything ever needed to be done, Jiung had already done it for you. Fridge needed to be stocked? It’s filled to the brim with everything on your list. Laundry piling up? It’s washed, folded, and put away in its designated area.
In a way, it’s almost like having a maid in the house… that maid being your loving boyfriend who’d rather die than have you lift a finger, that is.
Work days are long, waking up before the sun does, and then arriving home when everyone has already gone to bed. You walk into your shared home, dropping your leather purse onto the hook by the door.
You sigh, jacket falling off your shoulders and onto the couch. “Baby?”
Pots and pans clink from inside the kitchen, and Jiung sings your name like a prayer.
“Hey, baby!” He smiles. “I made dinner for you.” He carries ceramic plates to the dining room, carefully placing metal utensils onto the wooden table.
“Sit down, I’ll make you a plate.
ʚɞ intak
It’s dark out, the moon hiding behind mountains of dark clouds. Streetlights line the sidewalk, illuminating only a few feet of the street. It’s a quiet night, just before a storm. The wind is cold and moderate.
Intak walks beside you, hands nestled in his jacket pocket. His footsteps are heavier compared to yours, the soles of his shoes thicker.
A faint rumble of thunder echoes from the distance; trees shake and leaves fall. A cold gust of wind passes you by. You shiver, hands rubbing against the fabric of your pants as if it’ll magically make you warmer.
Without a word, Intak stops, hands falling from his pockets and unzipping his jacket.
“What are you doing?” you ask, arms crossed to conserve warmth.
“Giving you my jacket,” he replies, throwing the shoulder of his warm jacket over yours and helping your arms through the sleeves.
“But then you’ll be cold,” you murmur, lips pouting as you stare up at him.
He smiles, leaning down to press a soft kiss just shy of your lips. “Then so be it.”
ʚɞ soul
If a person could be killed by love, you’d be long dead. Your boyfriend, Soul, is the personification of physical affection. Anytime your back is turned to him, he’s wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you in and pressing his warm cheek onto the side of your neck.
“You smell good,” he murmurs, nuzzling deeper into your neck, breath caressing your collarbone.
You giggle, shoulders shaking when his hands grab your waist. He hums, lips brushing against your skin this time. Leaning back into him, he places small, open-mouthed kisses to your neck; warm and familiar.
ʚɞ jongseob
He never tells you about it; he simply hands you a notebook with messy lines written in blue ink. Some words are scribbled out, rethought. But the lines have meaning— love lyrics.
Your breath catches as you read line after line, noticing small connections he’s made. They’re things you do, things you have. The way your eyes look in the sun, how your scent transports him into dreams, how you make him feel.
You look up at him, but he’s not watching. He’s nervously picking at his fingers as he sits next to you on the couch, legs draped over yours.
“Is this about me?” you whisper, placing his notebook on a nearby coffee table.
“Of course,” he murmurs. “They always will be.”
masterlist
my work is not ment to be taken as a serious reflection of anyone!
warning(s): suggestive (implications of sex) hurt comfort , fluff
wc: 1.0k
Request!
read more under the cut!
✿ bangchan
He’s always hyper-focused on how your body responds to him. To him, you’re the sole person who should be receiving a hundred percent pleasure, so he’s always focusing on you. Most times, you don’t use your safe word, letting Chan bend you in ways you never knew you could. But life happens.
When you do use the safe word, he halts all movement, pulling you up from the bed and caressing your face with his large hands.
“Are you okay?” he pants. “I’ll be gentler.”
And that he is. He cleans you up with the utmost care a person could give. His touches are almost imperceptible, but he's picking you up bridal style and leading you over to the kitchen. He makes you your favorite dish, serving it to you with a smile on his face before he steals a sweet kiss from your lips.
✿ minho
He was more confident than ever when you two were in bed. You loved the thrill; the things he’d do to you would send your heart through the roof. But when it becomes too much, you’re grabbing at his sweaty chest and pushing.
“P-pink!” you whimper.
He’s panting above you, eyebrows furrowed and mouth half open. He picks you up from where you lie, arms wrapping around your shaking body and caressing your hair.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he says, kissing your damp forehead. “So sorry.”
✿ changbin
His body is that of a Greek statue, muscles contracting with every move. He more than covers you with his entire body, encapsulating you within himself. He listens to how you respond— moans and whimpers pushing him further, cries and yelps pulling him away. It’s charming to you, how much he cares.
So, when you use the safe word, he’s at your side in seconds, voice wavering like he’s about to cry at the thought of him hurting you. He’s washing you in the shower right after, hands caressing your skin so gently, like you’ll break if he presses harder. He loves you with everything he has.
✿ hyunjin
Hyunjin is a powerhouse in bed; he’s somehow rarely tired, pushing you to limits you knew you had. His fingers make you dumb, your head goes into the bedsheets, and your skin is bitten. He’s more than confident in what he does, cocky voice talking you down just how you like it.
But he squeezes you in a way that hurts, making you yelp out your safe word in seconds. The grip he has on you goes slack, fingers moving to soothe your hot skin instead.
He moves away, laying you down on the bedsheets so you can breathe.
“I’m sorry,” he says, moving hair out from your face. “I went too far, I’ll do better.”
✿ han
Han is probably one of the most awkward guys you’ve met, tumbling over his words and making a fool of himself often. But he’s cute and quick-witted.
He cares about your pleasure when he’s in bed with you, often asking you how you’re doing every time you make a certain noise. It’s almost rare for you to use your safeword, but when you do, he’s off of you before you can close your mouth.
“I didn’t mean to!” He says, thumbs caressing your cheekbones. “I’m so sorry, baby.”
To him, hurting you is the worst thing a person could do. And afterwards, he’s doing everything he can to make you feel better. He makes tea, adding honey to make it just a touch sweet. He replenishes your favorite snacks, showers you, and kisses your face until you fall asleep.
✿ felix
Felix is a sweet, attentive guy. If you're not actively enjoying yourself, he's the first to notice. But sometimes, things get a little too.. intense. He has you in a tight hold, hands kneading the fat of your hips and pulling your body into his. It's too much for you; your fingers turn white as you grip the bedsheets like it owes you money.
“Red!” you cry, cheeks wet with fat tears.
He thinks he's dreaming when you say the safe word, but then it clicks in his head. It really clicks. He panics a little, pushing himself off of you and leaning over to see your face. His eyebrows are furrowed, and his lip quivers slightly as he brushes away your tears.
“Fuck, I'm so sorry, honey,” he whispers. “I hope I didn't hurt you too much.”
✿ seungmin
He's sort of surprised to hear you use the safe word. It's not rare for you to do it, but it's not a common thing either. He slows down, hands soothing your bare back before he leaves and returns with a damp towel. He cleans you up before you even need to ask, running you a warm bath in the adjacent bathroom.
“I didn't mean for it to be too much, I should've made sure with you first,” he murmurs, combing your hair with his fingers.
✿ i.n
Jeongin is someone who'd never hurt a fly. He's the sweetest guy you know— shy, kind-hearted. Someone you trusted deeply. He's the same way when he has you laid out all pretty for him. He's not rough, but he's also not as gentle as he seems like he would be. He has your thighs parted, hands above your head, and eyes half-lidded with pleasure.
It's anything you could ever want. It's rare, but when you do use the safe word, he almost reverts to his usual self. He's gentle with you once again, pulling you into his lap and caressing your shoulder to soothe your shaking body.
“I didn't mean to hurt you,” he murmurs into your hair. “I’ve got you.”
masterlist
my work is not ment to be taken as a serious reflection of anyone!
warning(s): suggestive (implications of sex), hurt comfort, fluff
wc: 1.2k
Request!
read more under the cut!
ღ hongjoong
Hongjoong was normally a gentle guy, someone who'd ask you to tell him how you were doing almost every minute you spent whining. That's what you loved the most about him, his attentiveness to your every cry and moan, pushing or pulling away at your every word.
But after a long day, he just needed more. Clouded with lust, his cold hands grappled at your waist just a little too hard, his hips rutting against yours with a pace too fast. You tried to bite back your cries of pain, hands coming up to cover your mouth. But pain and pleasure don't mix with you.
“R-red!” you cry, fingers grappling at his hands and pushing.
Almost like the word had broken him out of his spell, he immediately lurches forward, hands dropping from your body and moving over to cradle your face.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, thumb wiping fat tears from under your eyes. “I-I didn't mean to, I'm so sorry.”
He lets you breathe, feeding you sips of water and kissing your hairline, making sure you're comfortable. The one thing he hates is hurting you, whether that be physically or mentally. So best believe he's not landing a finger on you until you tell him to.
ღ seonghwa
Intimate moments with Seonghwa meant never using your designated safe word, only because of how much he never drifted from what you liked. Gentle, caring, rough only when you asked for it.
But the first night you used the safe word, he froze in his tracks. His head slowly comes up from the crook of your neck, eyes half-lidded and unsure.
“Are you okay, was it too much?” he asks, hand pushing a strand of your messy hair behind your ear.
He’s careful with you for the rest of the night, lips kissing the crown of your head and whispering small apologies into your ear before you fall asleep.
ღ yunho
Being with a man much taller than you always made you feel giddy. He’d reach up for items you couldn’t reach and give them to you with a small smirk on his face, hugs always felt the safest, and you always felt like a schoolgirl having to go onto your toes just to kiss him. The one thing you really liked about it was how he practically enveloped you with his entire body as he took you in every way possible.
Yunho was perfect in every way possible, and the pleasure was almost never enough for you. Until it was way too much. Sometimes it just creeps up on you, overstimulation overloading your body.
When you use the safe word, his first instinct is to buffer, wide eyes blinking down at you before he actually processes what you said.
“Hey, shit…” he whispers, climbing off of you and pulling your shaking body into his arms. “I didn’t mean for that to happen, baby. I’m so sorry.”
ღ yeosang
Yeosang is probably one of the sweetest guys you’ve ever met in your entire life. Not because he’s shy and awkward, but because of how much he waits for you to respond to his advances. He’s insanely big, muscular arms taking you in, thighs pushing yours apart, body moving with yours.
It’s not every day you use the safeword— only on those occasions when he squeezes or pushes you in a weird way. You yelp, tapping on his arm and whimpering out your safe word.
He’s instant in halting his movements, pulling you up from where your face lay in the pillows.
“Breathe, I got you,” he hums, hands running through your hair and rubbing your shoulders. “I’ll be more careful.”
ღ san
San is cute, kissing you on the cheek any chance he can get, hugging you whenever you're in his range, practically glued to your side. The first time you got into bed together, you thought that same demeanor would follow.
How wrong you were.
He’s rough if you let him be, hands grabbing at you, guiding you. It’s not that you hate it, in fact, you love it when he takes charge. But he’s so much, sometimes too much. He’s quick to catch on most times, your legs shake too much? He’s slowing down and making sure you feel comfortable.
Tonight isn’t so different from most, you’re laid out just how he likes, hair splayed out across the soft duvet, tears dampening the pillow your face lies in. The pleasure begins to build up a little too fast, your brain slowly turns to mush the longer he continues, and it becomes uncomfortable.
“Pause!” you yelp, hands struggling to push yourself off of the bed.
He immediately halts, pulling off of you and taking your face into his hands.
“You okay?” he breathes. “I got lost in it, I forgot to check up on you, I'm sorry. I’ll be gentler.”
ღ mingi
With the way he acts on stage, you imagined Mingi to be ruthless in bed. To your surprise, he’s quite the opposite. He’s not exactly quiet, but he’s gentle. He’s shy when you come onto him, usually letting you decide where you take things because he’s so wrapped up in making sure you feel comfortable.
At first he thinks he’s hearing this, freezing in his place as he stares down at you. It’s almost like his soul leaves his body when he sees you all teary-eyed and shaking beneath him.
“Crap, too far,” he says, wiping your tears with his thumb and planting a kiss on your cheek. “Won’t happen ever again, baby. Let me take care of you.”
ღ wooyoung
He knows he’s rough, strong hands all over and fingers working you so nicely. You know how to take it; you more than love it. When you use the safe word, the smile on his face falls and turns into a small frown. His hands are soft and gentle in a matter of a second, fingers caressing your sweaty skin.
“You need a break? I can stop,” he whispers, kissing the palm of your hands.
He’s extremely gentle with you after, showering you with love and attending to your every need like his life depends on it. He knows how to make you feel good and better.
ღ jongho
They always say quiet guys have something hidden deep down. They wouldn’t be entirely wrong either. You met Jongho at a party, beer in hand and forehead damp with sweat. The entire night consisted of small talk and light banter. And then of course, one thing leads to another.
Your relationship didn’t last just that one night; days turned into months, and months into years. He definitely knew exactly what he was doing: hands all over your body and lips kissing praises onto your skin. Every rut from his body onto yours would send whispers out of your mouth, pleasure building deep down in your stomach. Safe words weren’t as common as you thought they’d be— especially with the way he managed to amplify your pleasure by a thousand every time he touched you.
When you finally use the safe word, his kisses slow, hands halt, and his breath hitches. He’s pulling you up in a matter of seconds, hand over your heart, chin resting on the crown of your head.
“Take your time, honey, all the time you need.”he says, pressing kisses into your hair.
masterlist
my work is not ment to be taken as a serious reflection of anyone!
Your car keys fall from your unzipped purse, the metal key ring clattering against the wooden dining table. Your hands are deathly cold from the icy winds, your hair is messy, and your makeup is basically gone from your face. It had been a long night, celebrating your older sister's wedding reception with expensive wine and slutty dance music as entertainment (although you spent most of the night tripping over your feet while snacking on a bag of chips you had managed to find in a nearby vending machine outside the venue).
You could thank being a lightweight for that.
You hadn’t driven home— one of your sister's friends gently closed your front door, locking it when it clicked shut. Chris was his name— but he liked to be called Chan, a nice guy with a kind smile. You’d met him many times before: birthday parties, holiday get-togethers; it was safe to say he was a good friend of yours too. That’s why you let him carry you bridal style into his cold car and drive you home. Anyone else and you would've said no.
“Your roommate coming by soon?” he asks, rubbing your shoulder when you hiccup.
You blink slowly, unconsciously leaning over to one side before stabilizing yourself on your dining table. “Don’t have one.”
“Oh.”
He pauses, obviously stuck on what he should do. He’s never been in a position like the one he’s in now; a very drunk girl in front of him, dress covered in red splotches of wine and some other mysterious liquid.
“Stay?” you whisper through half-lidded eyes.
Chan’s hand stops rubbing your shoulder; instead, he takes you by the arms and away from the dining table. “I won’t leave you alone, let me help you clean yourself up.”
He leads you down your hallway, careful not to push you too hard as he thinks you’ll fly onto the floor like a leaf in high winds if he dared to try. The bathroom light stings your eyes when he clicks it on; you squint, groaning slightly as he sits you down on the closed toilet lid.
“Sorry, I know.” He hums, kneeling before you. His warm fingers find the clasp of your heels, undoing the small buckle of the strap.
It’s quiet in your small bathroom, the sounds of your breathing overlapping his, filling your ears. You do nothing but watch him— the way his styled hair falls into his eyes, how his eyebrow wrinkles when the strap won’t fully come out.
It’s cute, you think.
“Do you want me to grab you some clothes?” he asks, finally standing up once your heels fall off your feet.
You slowly nod, face tucked into the crook of your elbow like a makeshift pillow. He smiles softly.
“Please.”
You don’t even notice when he leaves the bathroom, footsteps making the wooden flooring creak under his weight. But you can hear drawers opening from down the hallway, plastic hangers clicking together when he riffles through your closet. The overhead light makes you think your head might explode, so you lean forward, catching yourself on the wall and pushing off.
You’re wobbly at first— your feet are still used to wearing heels for the past day. Your head spins, and you crinkle your eyes shut.
When he comes back, he holds a shirt you don’t remember buying and some sweatpants you threw onto your bed just the night before.
“This okay?” he whispers, eyebrows drawing together.
You smile, lopsided. “Yeah.”
He sets them down on the counter, covering his eyes with his hands and turning around— his back now facing you.
“I’ll turn around, just tell me if you need help.”
It makes you giggle.
Getting the dress off was harder than it seemed— especially when drunk. The small zipper slips from your grasp when you try to unzip, hair gets caught in places it shouldn’t be, and your arms grow increasingly tired from all of the stretching and pulling. You frown, frustrated, tears building up in your eyes until you hear the scuffle of Chan's shoes along the tile.
“Need help?” he asks, eyes still covered.
You sigh dramatically, palming your eyes with the heels of your palms. “Yeah.”
Your back flinches when his warm hands meet your cold skin, fingers finding the zipper and sliding it down with no problem. He steps back after a second, hands at his side.
“Come outside when you’re done, I’ll make you some tea.”
୨୧ minho
The bandage around your ankle is unbearably itchy, the fabric of the netting scratching against your skin when you move around in bed.
Minho had ordered you to stay in bed, only allowing you to move when he'd be the one carrying you around your shared home. Was he dramatic? Yes. But that never stopped him from taking care of you, even when you thought you didn't need it.
You had taken a nasty fall during one of your tours, twisting your ankle when you slipped on a part of the stage. He was one of the first to rush to your side when you were finally brought backstage, moving past staff as his life depended on it. And you bet he was there when you finally got your ankle checked out—asking the doctor a million questions like he was your mother.
The bedroom door opens, cats rush in, and Minho follows suit. He carries a cup of hot tea in one hand and a small basket of medical supplies in the other.
You sigh, playfully rolling your eyes. “Again?”
You know the drill: unbandage, ice, compress, elevate, rest, repeat. And don’t forget the random ointments he puts on your ankle—he swears it helps.
“Do you want to recover?” he replies, his voice riddled with the same playful tone.
Minho sets down your cup of tea on the nightstand, placing the basket on the part of the bed nearest to your injured foot. His cats follow, Dori nestling onto your lap while the other two settle on your hips.
He sits beside you, fingers gently curling around your ankle to place it on his thigh. His touch is barely perceptible, but you still wince nonetheless.
“Sorry, love,” he whispers, his thumb lightly caressing your calf.
The ice pack is cold against your ankle, causing an airy hiss to pass your lips. His eyebrow twitches, lips curling into a slight frown.
“The towel should help a little,” he reassures. “It’ll only be for a little while.”
By a “little while,” he means till the ice pack melts, becoming a mushy mess inside the packet. But he does everything he knows best to distract you: talking about his day at work, what he plans on doing with his friend on the weekend, what the cats did earlier—anything to brighten your day just by the slightest.
You don’t even notice that the ice has melted, only realizing when he tosses the now-warm pack into his basket. He moves on to some balm he had brought, his warm hands gently rubbing it over the entirety of your ankle before he rewraps it. He glances at your face practically after every move he makes, checking for any sign of discomfort.
“You’re lucky you have me,” he says, lips quirked into a playful smirk.
୨୧ changbin
Work had been a living hell.
Your manager managed to piss you off in every way possible that day, saying things that didn’t make sense to anyone and then going off to smoke in the back while three of your coworkers practically ripped their hair out of their heads.
You don’t say much when you get home, tossing your purse onto the coffee table and shrugging off your coat. Changbin notices your glum face, arms stretched out wide when he sees your shoulders slip in exhaustion. It’s like a silent dance; you slide into his arms, head resting in the crook of his neck, taking in the sweet smell of his cologne. Legs are tangled together, hair splayed out on the couch cushions, and his hands massage the tense knots in your shoulders.
He doesn’t ask, doesn’t speak, just places small, open-mouthed kisses to the sides of your cheek, letting you sigh into the expanse of his chest.
“Just breathe,” he whispers. “Let me help you feel better.”
୨୧ hyunjin
They say with winter comes winter depression.
The days are shorter, with the sun setting early, the air so cold it feels like it’ll freeze your lungs in place. It’s supposed to be magical— cool white snow settling on everything it touches, Christmas just around the corner. But it’s hard to feel joyous when the cold sinks into your body, making every movement feel impossible.
Hyunjin is relaxed with you, especially in the mornings. He stays cuddled with you beneath the warm blankets, limbs tangled with yours to keep the cold away. Of course, he notices your lack of enthusiasm when it comes to getting up. You stay in bed most of the day, eyes heavy and hair messy.
He nudges your shoulder from above, gently tugging on your sweatshirt. “come here.”
You let him take you, his arms wrapping around your back as he lifts you from the mattress. He leads you to your shared bathroom, the walls already damp with condensation, the mirror fogged over. Your clothes are pulled off slowly, his joining yours only after yours are completely gone.
The water is warm, almost scalding against your cold skin, but it doesn’t hurt. Instead, it sends shivers down your spine as the heat seeps in. He wraps an arm around your waist, his chest against your back, and gently begins to wash your hair.
“I’ll always take care of you,” he whispers, pressing an affectionate kiss to your neck as you melt into him.
୨୧ han
Han always knew how to make you feel better before you even realized you needed it—especially on days when you had your period.
Periods meant loading up on snacks: different chocolate bars, Pocky sticks, various flavors of salty chips you’d never had but somehow craved anyway, and even those dollar-store yogurts no one bought. You never had to ask him to buy anything, as he’d always come home with that all-too-familiar crinkle of a plastic shopping bag. You’d drag your feet into the kitchen, his hoodie swallowing you whole, and some random sweats you’d found hidden deep inside your clean laundry.
“Bought the last bag of dill pickle chips,” he announces, tossing you a lime-green, party-sized bag. “Thought you’d like it.”
Gestures like that were what made you fall in love with him in the first place— always willing to be by your side, no matter the day or time: letting you eat chips on the clean bedsheets, rubbing your back when the cramps hit hard, and pressing kisses to your stomach when you lay back onto the bed.
“Tomorrow I’m thinking ketchup chips. What do you think?” he asks.
୨୧ felix
Felix finds you curled up into a little ball on the couch, your favorite blanket wrapped tight around your shaking shoulders. There are tissues scattered around your head like stars, and a big ceramic mug sits on a coaster just next to you on the coffee table. You're sick, undoubtedly.
You manage to slowly lift your head when you hear the front door click shut, eyes half-lidded and dark. Your face has been drained of its color; though the tip of your nose is a bright red from how much you had been rubbing it, and your eyelashes are clumped together from once-shed tears.
He’s at your side in no time, kneeling just before you, the back of his hand coming up to make contact with your warm forehead.
“How long have you been sick for?” he asks, brushing strands of your hair away from your face.
You try to take a breath in through your nose, only to fail. “A few days, maybe a week.”
Your voice is scratchy when you speak, and he scrunches his nose at the sound. “Why didn't you call me? I would've taken off work.”
Your shoulders shrug weakly underneath the blanket, your face nestling closer into the plush of your pillow. “I didn't want to bother you, you've been so busy.”
He clicks his tongue, pressing a quick peck to your temple and standing up.
“Awful excuse,” he tuts, walking over to the kitchen cabinets. You hear him riffle through metal pots and pans before he closes the cabinet with a thud, moving over to the sink to fill —what you imagine to be a pot— up with water.
“Take a nap, honey. I'll make you some soup—your mom's recipe.”
୨୧ seungmin
Exam season has you in a chokehold. Study sessions until you couldn't hold your eyes open, empty cups of coffee at your side, and hands cramping from writing notes you probably wouldn't remember after a week. Your head ached from the lack of sleep, temples surging with pain every five seconds.
You're hunched over your desk, the room dim, with the only light coming from your overhead lamp. You fight to stay awake for hours on end, but when your pen clatters onto your desk, your head falls with it, breath slowing against the plush of your arm.
“Honey?” you hear from the doorway.
The voice comes from your boyfriend, Seungmin. He's pushing the door open all the way, stepping inside until his hip bumps your shoulder.
You don't see it, but his face softens, eyes scanning over your exhausted face. “I think you've done enough for tonight,” he whispers.
You don't fight him when he lifts you by your arms, your back against his chest. His breath flutters against your neck as he leads you over to your bed, lowering you carefully onto the mattress. You barely register when he drapes your duvet over your shoulders, gently tucking the sides beneath your chin.
“I can’t.” you murmur, half-asleep, eyebrows creasing as you try to open your eyes.
Seungmin shushes you softly, leaning down to peck your overheated forehead. “You just sleep. I’ll quiz you tomorrow if that really helps.”
୨୧ i.n
You're curled up in your bed when Jeongin calls for you. Your hair is down, makeup washed off, and you're tucked into one of his hoodies. He tells you to throw some shoes on— doesn’t matter the type. You want to resist, tell him that you’re too tired after the long week you’ve had, but the sweet smile he has on his face forces you to comply.
He doesn’t take you anywhere fancy, just driving you out into the quiet night where no one seems to be. The warm street lights pass over, illuminating only a small portion of the treeline surrounding the road. The windows are cracked open, allowing the faint smell of pine needles to fill the car, the radio playing softly in the background.
Jeongin ends up parking once the roads open up to a small clearing overlooking the city. You watch as the bright city lights flash in different colors. He reaches into the backseat, pulling out different bags of food: banana milk and some of your favorite homemade sandwiches.
“I noticed you didn’t have dinner,” he says, unwrapping a sandwich before handing it to you. “Figured I’d get you out of the house, somewhere you’d like.”
You take a bite of the sandwich, your mouth salivating and stomach growling with a hunger you hadn’t noticed was growing.
“It’s just us here,” he says, placing his hand on your thigh. “We can stay until you want to go.”
masterlist
my work is not ment to be taken as a serious reflection of anyone!
hello!!! i was the anon who requested handsy and i loved it so much you did such a great job!!! <3 i was wondering, if you're not too busy, could you do another ateez ot8 where the reader uses the safe word? if you're not comfortable it's totally fine!! have a good day!! :)
Hey!! I can fs do that for you— I do have another request in the works so all I ask of you is just for some patience as I’m running a bit behind in work <\3 I’ll get that out as soon as I can 🤍
You woke up with a terrible headache, your legs like jello, and your entire body in pain like you were eighty years old. Only you knew what that meant.
It’d be a miserable week.
You stay in your room for the most part, too tired to try to move around. Hot tears plaster your cheeks when the cramps take over. Hongjoong, of course, notices immediately. And this isn’t new to him; he knows the drill by heart: favorite chocolates in your reach, more water than you can ever think of drinking in a glass jar on your nightstand, takeout already ordered, and a nice, hot bath for after.
“Baby, I ordered your favorite!” He coos, plastic bag in hand.
He lifts it in the air, moving over next to your bed. “I knew you'd be having a rough day, so I wanted to spoil you.”
You give a meek smile, wiping the tears from your face and sitting up to meet him halfway. He scans your face— eyes swollen and red from crying, lips quivering slightly.
“I know, baby.” He pushes a piece of your hair behind your ear, setting the food off to the side.
He continues, pulling you into his lap and cradling your head in his arms. “I hate seeing you like this.”
“Just let me spoil you the best I can.”
❀°。seonghwa
“Five people called out sick today,” your purse hits the wooden dinner table with a loud thud. “Thats practically our whole staff.”
You lean forward, hands flat on the table and head hanging low. From the kitchen, Seonghwa stops sipping on his chai tea.
“Bastards,” he says lowly.
You let out a meek laugh, wiping your mouth with the back of your sleeve. Tears already pricking at your eyes.
He notices, beckoning you over with two fingers. “Come here, love.”
You listen, melting into his arms when they wrap around your exhausted body. He slides his hand to cup the back of your head, nails gently scratching at your scalp.
“Sit,” he says gently, pulling you away from his chest and wiping your tears with the pads of his thumbs. “I already made dinner. You're not gonna lift another finger tonight.”
❀°。yunho
Black, dark streaks of mascara run under your eyes. Your concealer cakes up even after fifty sprays of setting spray. And your fake lashes refuse to cooperate.
Tonight was supposed to be special— date night with your boyfriend, Yunho.
You’d get all prettied up for him, slip into that dress he likes, and gorge on expensive food you wouldn’t have to pay for. But it’s not going how you wanted it to.
“Baby?” he calls, pushing open your creaky bedroom door.
The lights are dimmed. He can’t see it right away, but tears are already falling down your face. You don’t bother to look toward the door; you don’t even acknowledge it. Your hands work on autopilot, soaking cotton pads with makeup remover and aggressively wiping away the already–ruined makeup.
He continues inside, footsteps muffled by the carpet.
“Wanna talk about it?” he asks gently.
You shake your head, lips wobbling as you hold back a sob, cotton pad running underneath your eye to catch a stray tear.
Yunho exhales, crouching down beside your vanity. He looks at you through the mirror— your eyes bloodshot red, eyelids already puffing up.
“Look at me, love,” he says, tilting his head to try catching your gaze in the mirror. But you don’t let him.
He takes your jaw in his hand, guiding you to look at him. He looks heartbroken just from the sight of you.
“My love…” he whispers, thumb brushing away your tears and the mascara streaks. “What happened?”
You try to speak, but no sound comes out. Your throat burns from the effort to stay quiet, tightening under the weight on your chest.
“You know you’re beautiful. You don’t need any of this,” he murmurs, gesturing to the half-opened makeup scattered across your desk. “I’ll cancel the reservation. Just let me take care of you tonight, okay?”
His other hand runs over your knee, thumb stroking the fabric of your satin dress.
“I’ll run you a hot bath.”
❀°。yeosang
“Crap!” you yelp.
You yank your hand away from the metal pan, hand clutched to your chest. The pain slowly creeps down your hand— a cold flash before the stinging. The tears come before you can even think about crying— stinging the same way your burn does.
“What happened?” you hear from down the hall, and out comes Yeosang, running over like someone was hit by a truck.
You hesitate, embarrassed, but slowly, you stick your hand out to him. He notices the obvious growing red mark on the palm of your hand. His eyes grow wide, and he takes your hand into his.
“Oh, honey,” he says, pulling you over to a nearby bathroom and shuffling through the cabinets.
You stand there awkwardly, sniffling and holding your limp wrist.
“I didn't think it would get hot so quickly,” you mutter.
He glances at you quickly before standing up, aloe gel in hand. “It’s okay, it was just an accident.”
His thumbs swipe away your tears, blowing on your burn before applying the ice-cold gel. You wince when it hits your skin, the stinging growing before depleting.
“Call for me when you want to cook,” he jokes, kissing you on the cheek as he wraps your palm.
❀°。san
“I don’t cry at sad movies” were your famous last words.
The movie's ending hit you harder than a truck, used tissues tossed around and tears sliding off your sore cheeks.
“I thought you said you didn’t cry at sad movies,” you hear from beside you.
You glance at San, pouting and shaking your head. “I thought this one wouldn’t be that sad— and then the dog died!”
He lets out a soft sigh as he smiles at you. His body turns to yours completely, and he’s pulling you close.
“It’s just a movie, the doggy actor is alive and well,” he reassures, caressing your hair softly.
“Well, he should’ve lived in the movie.”
❀°。mingi
You've been called sensitive your entire life. A crybaby, dramatic, emotional— everything under the sun. You learned to brush it off, ignore it. You weren't that five-year-old little girl anymore.
But tonight hit you harder. Because the comment wasn't from your sibling, your friend, or a stranger. Those you could handle. Instead, it came from Mingi himself.
“Why are you being so dramatic?” he said, hands grasping at his hair.
It was something in the moment, a comment he made without properly thinking. He hadn’t meant it, and deep down you knew that. But that didn’t stop your heart from shattering into tiny pieces, didn’t stop the tears from flowing.
He stands in the doorway, awkwardly leaning against the doorframe and nervously playing with his fingers.
“Baby?” he whispers. “I’m sorry. Can we talk?”
You sniff, shaking your head against your pillow. “It’s okay, I’m fine.” Your voice wavers on the last bit.
His face falls. He walks into the room, kneeling at the edge of the bed where your face is. He looks almost as if he’s in pain, eyebrows pinched and lips in a pout like he’d also start crying at any moment.
He pushes a stray strand out from your face. “I didn’t mean it, baby; I swear.”
“I was frustrated, and I wasn’t thinking. I was being stupid.”
He immediately pulls you into him, arms wrapping around your shoulders as he pulls you down onto the floor with him.
“Please, baby, you’re not dramatic,” he says, voice now wavering. “Let me fix it.”
❀°。wooyoung
Having an idol boyfriend is not for the faint of heart. Hours pass when they work, their schedules are filled to the brim with things to get done, and not to mention the traveling.
You were fine with it— or at least, you thought you were fine with it. In the beginning it was easy, watching him perform made your day. But gradually, as the days went on, watching him made your heart tug, stomach drop.
His face finally pops up on your phone screen after the second ring. Your once-in-a-lifetime FaceTime. He’s sweaty, black hair sticking to his forehead, and he’s rubbing the exhaustion out of his eyes.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says cheerfully.
You try to smile, but the back of your throat strains before you can even speak. You angle the phone away from your face to gather yourself, rubbing your eyes.
But by the time you come back into frame— he’s already caught on.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
You shake your head. “Nothing, just tired too.”
He leans forward on screen. “Don’t lie, sweets.”
You wipe at your eyes again when a tear escapes the corner of your eye.
“I just really miss you.”
His face falls. He leans the temple of his head against his arm, staring up at the camera.
“I just wish you were here,” you finish.
He glances off screen, a mischievous look on his face. “Give me a few minutes.”
You blink, sniffling. “Why?”
“I’m gonna sneak out and come over.”
❀°。jongho
Thunder was the one thing that got to you.
Not blood, not pain, not even the creepy crawlers that hid in the dark crevices of the house.
Thunder.
Rain pounds against the window of your shared bedroom, heater on high, fan off. There’s no sound but the sweet, comforting patter of rain— at least until thunder and lightning come into the mix.
Some people love it, the combination of beautiful flashes hitting the earth accompanied by the harsh boom right after. Some say it’s calming, grounding.
But for you, it’s the bane of your existence.
You lie in bed with the duvet pulled up to your ears, only your toes peeking from the bottom of the blanket. Your whole body shivers, tensing when a loud crack of thunder breaks the calm rhythm of the rain. Tears slip past your lashes, dampening the pillow beneath you.
Jongho sleeps beside you— fast asleep. He’s like a rock, able to sleep through anything.
However, a pair of arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer to the safety of a warm chest.
It’s him. Jongho.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he whispers, his thumbs caressing the soft fabric of your sleep shirt.
You turn, burying your face in his chest, hands pressed firmly over your ears. Was it childish? Maybe. But you’ve never had a good experience with thunder. Something was always bound to happen when a storm hit— and he knew this.
So, there he stays, petting your soft hair, skimming your thigh when you inch closer, and kissing your damp hairline. He never once complains about your fear— just holds you, comforting you until you inevitably fall asleep in his arms.
masterlist
my work is not ment to be taken as a serious reflection of anyone!
hi!! i love your fics so much but i was wondering if would you consider adding a read more divider on your fics? i absolutely love them but it becomes a hassle having to scroll all the way trying to get to the next one. i also think itd be much cleaner for your page!!
I wasn’t aware of this so I apologize <\3 I think I fixed it though. Thank you for letting me know !!🤍
My blog is basically here for fluff, headcannons, blurbs, and the occasional long(er) fic. I’m very open to all and any requests asked of me as long as it doesn’t involve
oc’s
illegal stuff (crimes and violence are okay when it’s involving things like fights and mafia)
age play
daddy mommy kinks
bodily fluids (other than the obvious )
That being said, yes, I do sometimes write smut but I am far from an expert at it so I stay in the fluff route— but I will write it if asked.
requests:
you can ask me for anything in any way as long as you ask.
ex:
hello, I would love xyz…
Or
could you write xyz?
going off of that, I am a real human being so I also go through the long days and hours of work outside of this hobby. If you send me a request, expect it done maybe within a 2 - 3 week time span although it could take longer (I try to be quick I promise <\3) but however, I am also not obligated to fulfill requests that make me uncomfortable.
Hongjoong sits on his old chair, the hard plastic creaking with every bounce of his leg. He’s been sitting there for almost the entire day, the sun already starting to set with a beautiful orange glow— not like he’ll see it anyway.
His hands are wrapped around the sides of his head, fingers rubbing at the sides of his temples in an attempt to ease his headache that just won’t go away no matter how many pain relievers he takes. And it’s not like this is a new thing, in fact, days like these happen almost everyday. Music, eat, sleep, repeat.
When you can’t get a hold of him, there’s a ninety-nine percent chance he’s locked up in that stupid stupid playing around with random beats that only he can make work.
You step into the room quietly, careful to not let the door slam when you shut it. You never know if he hears you, eyes always glued to the big screens in front of him. His leg keeps bouncing, fingers still rubbing up and down his face.
“Honey?” You whisper, stepping closer to the dark haired man.
He doesn’t even flinch at the sound of your voice, instead, he lets out a small sigh and glances your way before snapping his gaze back onto the software in front of him. “Hey..”
When he responds, you hear the cracking of his voice, a tall tale sign that he had been crying just before you came in. And if that wasn’t enough, you notice how his shoulders are more scrunched up than usual— back tense with stress.
Your hand grazes the top of his head, fingers feeling the silky strands of his dyed hair. “You okay?”
He hesitates for a moment, closing his eyes like he’s trying to hold in all of his emotions. But it doesn’t work— almost never does. When he finally looks at you, there’s tears pooling in his eyes, glassy and slightly red.
“Baby, I’m so tired,” he says, voice quiet, “ My mind feels so foggy— and everything I try to do to fix it isn’t working.”
Your heart tugs at the sight of him, and you take his moment to pull him into your side. He doesn’t fight it, his arms wrap around your waist and his head buries into your stomach. You feel the little jumps of his sniffles, his breath stuttering hot against you. You bring a hand to the back of his neck, your fingernails gently scratching at the smooth skin.
“I know,” you whisper, “you don’t have to figure it out now.”
His breath hitches, little whimpers following suit as he tries to swallow his cries. His shoulders shake with every breath, his chin pressing more into your abdomen.
You’re sinking to your knees, arms moving to fully wrap around his figure— holding him tight to your body. Your lips meet the side of his temple, then again on his forehead.
“I have you, I promise.” You murmur, fingers caressing his back, “ it’ll be okay.”
❀°。seonghwa
Small tissues lie around your shared home. The lights are dimmed, the heater is on, and Seonghwa’s bundled up in fifteen different blankets. He’s shivering; he’s somehow cold. It’s flu season, something inevitable. You never thought you’d be one to catch something like that, so that’s why you assumed you wouldn’t fall victim. And you didn’t, but Seonghwa did.
His breathing is short under the covers, his face pale but flushed on the apples of his cheeks. You know it’s hitting him hard, because almost every five minutes he’ll sit up from his fetal position and wipe his nose with the many tissues he has.
You walk into the living room, a mug of chamomile tea nestled in your hand. There’s honey slowly dissolving at the bottom of the ceramic cup, just enough to soothe his throat. Seonghwa looks at you through hooded and swollen, red eyes. The moment he sees you, his eyes close and his face scrunches.
“What’s wrong?” you whisper, placing the hot mug on a nearby coaster.
He shakes his head, a hand coming up to wipe at his eyes before opening them. “I hate this,” he whispers. “I should be working, not stuck here.”
He tries to keep it together, but the longer he speaks, the more his voice cracks and shakes.
“I hate that you have to take care of me like I’m some child. I should—”
And all at once, the floodgates break open. Everything comes out, a small whimper as he shields his face with his hands, hot tears falling down his cheeks.
“Hey, hey…” you whisper, hands grabbing at his arms.
He looks at you through his fingers, eyes bloodshot and full of tears. “I’m sorry, it’s so stupid—”
You interrupt him, “Nothing about it is stupid.”
Nothing else comes out of his mouth but soft sobs; he’s grabbing at your hands, pulling you in ever so close. The warmth of your arms has him collapsing into you, face pressed into the crook of your neck. His fingers cling to your hoodie as if you’d disappear in seconds.
Your hands cradle the back of his head, fingers caressing his messy locks. “Your body needs to rest,” you whisper, kissing his hairline. “I’ll take care of you every time. Even if you don’t need me to.”
His breathing slows, but you still hear little sniffles muffled by the fabric of your now damp hoodie.
❀°。yunho
The door closes a little harder than usual, echoing down the hall. His shoes accidentally hit the wall with a thud, and you hear his bag hit the dining table. That's how you know something's wrong.
Yunho walks in, shoulders slumped like he's carrying the weight of something heavy. He doesn't look at you, just walks past you and runs a shaky hand through his hair.
“Hello?” you question from the couch.
He freezes in his spot, his hand coming up to wipe his eyes before he actually turns to you. But it's obvious what he's trying to hide—his glassy eyes, trembling lips, and the way his face is slightly scrunched.
You stand up from your relaxed position, rushing over with your arms held out. “What happened?”
“I don't know…” he mutters, his hands coming up to wrap around you. “Today was too much.”
You hold him tighter, hands rubbing the tense parts of his shoulder blades. He shakes against you, the soft breathing of his nose tickling your neck.
He pulls at your shirt, pulling you closer to him. “I tried so hard…”
Your hands caress the stray strands of his hair at the nape of his neck, shushing him as you soothe him. “I know, baby, you always do.”
❀°。yeosang
It’s late at night. So late that everyone has already gone home, gone to bed. But Yeosang hasn’t.
He sits in the practice room, sweaty and panting from repeating the same dance moves over and over again. His knees are pulled up close to his chest, his face stone cold with an unreadable look.
You step inside, closing the door softly behind you.
“Yeosang?”
No response.
So, you step closer until you stand behind him, looking at him through the mirror where he makes no effort to acknowledge you.
You sigh, lowering yourself to sit next to him on the floor. “You okay?”
Then, a soft, shaky reply: “No.”
You reach out to him, fingers gently resting on his damp back. He flinches slightly, melting into your touch only after a moment.
“I don’t…” he pauses, clearing his throat. “I don’t think I’m enough.”
His eyes stay fixed on the floor, his hair plastered to his forehead. His fingers are trembling, and his lips quiver, which gives away everything he’s trying to hide from you.
“You’ve been here all day?” you whisper.
He nods, head turning away from you for just a second before turning back to stare at the mirror ahead. “I can’t get this stupid choreo down.”
He continues, “Everyone else got it easy, but there I was…” his voice cracks, “I shouldn’t even be there.”
You shift closer, thigh brushing his. “Don’t say that.”
“But it’s true,” he interjects. “I work so hard just to be noticed, just to get half as far a-and…”
He chokes on his words, eyes closing and hand covering his mouth to suppress the sobs waiting to fall. You gently remove his hand from his mouth, pulling him closer to you.
“You are not dragging anyone down. You’re here because you earned it. You’re more than enough,” you say, nails caressing the bare skin of his shoulder.
He collapses into you, shoulders shaking with his silent sobs, forehead pressed against your sternum.
He whispers, “I’m so tired.”
You hold him tighter, hands moving to his face, thumb wiping away his hot tears. “I know, I know you are.”
❀°。san
The relationship wasn't new. You've been dating for more than three years, you could say with full confidence that you knew San like the back of your hand. Every mood shift, every tiny mannerism. You knew what it meant.
So, that's why when the apartment fell silent, you knew something had happened. You walk into the kitchen, expecting to find him elbow-deep in a box of crackers, but that's not where he is. Instead, you notice him standing in the middle of the living room. The TV is paused and the lights are turned on.
His shoulders are slumped, head down, and he seems to be holding something low in his lap. It's a piece of notebook paper.
Your heart falls to your ass.
He holds a letter you wrote to him a year into dating. Sickeningly sweet and sappy with little drawings all over it. You never planned on giving it to him, but you had always kept it.
“San?” you call out, slowly making your way over to him.
He doesn't answer you, just holding the paper close to his face. But when he finally looks up, his eyes are red and glassy.
He blinks hard, a tear rolling down his cheek. “You wrote this?”
You nod, stepping closer until you're kneeling in front of him. “Yea, like a million years ago.”
“Why didn't you ever give it to me!” he asks, holding out the letter.
“Because,” you shrug your shoulders, “it was so cheesy.”
“It's not! It's so beautiful and honest and— and” his voice cracks as he whines. “I love cheesy, I love you.”
You pause, sitting below him in disbelief as he mutters little incoherent sentences. But then he breaks. He falls forward, arms wrapping around your shoulders and burrowing his face into your hair.
“Sannie,” you smile, chuckling under your breath as you wrap your arms around his waist.
“Just hold me,” he whines.
and so you do.
❀°。mingi
“I'm home!” you call out, hearing your voice echoing through the empty hallway.
No response follows. You frown, kicking off your shoes and shrugging off your coat. Normally, Mingi would be skipping his way to you, cheerfully asking about your day and giving you a loving kiss on the cheek.
But he's not there.
You're about to shout his name when you hear sniffling coming from the couch. That's when you see him, wrapped up in a fuzzy blanket and staring at his phone with big, swollen eyes.
“What’s up with you?” you chuckle, sauntering over to where he sits.
He sniffs loudly, wiping his nose with his sleeve. “Oh, hi,” he mumbles, voice higher than usual.
You squint at him, nudging his foot with your knee. “Why are you crying?”
He slowly turns his phone to you. It's one of those videos of an old couple going out for lunch together, lovingly looking at each other like they were the only people on earth.
“You're crying because of that?” you chuckle, poking at his cheek.
He nods, “Old people always get me, they're so cute and in love.” his hands are wavinc around wildly as he speaks.
You bite your lip, pushing him over and flopping next to him.
“Why are you laughing!” he whines, pushing you away from him.
“I’m not!” you giggle. “It’s a very cute video.”
You pull him to your side anyway, patting him on the head through the fabric of his blanket. “I know how emotional you get about old people.”
“Stop making fun of me!”
❀°。wooyoung
“Are you alive?”
You jump awake, seeing Wooyoung hovering over you, face uncomfortably close.
“What?” you mutter, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. “Why are you so close to me?”
“I was just checking to see if you were breathing,” he says like it's the most obvious thing in the world. “You died in my dream.”
You blink, finally noticing the tears on his cheeks glistening in the moonlight. “Oh.”
“It was horrible!” he whines, flopping back onto his spot. “We got married and everything, then when we were about to kiss, you just died! In front of me!”
You roll your eyes without him noticing, reaching over to lay a hand on his bare, clammy chest and caress him. “Well, I’m not dead, I’m right here.”
He pulls at your arm, nestling close to your neck. Holding you tight, he runs his fingers through your hair.
“I cried in my sleep.”
“I noticed.”
❀°。jongho
Touring was always something to be excited about. The adrenaline, fans, new cities. But it can become exhausting. Long hours, sleepless nights.
Jongho sits on the bed of his expensive hotel room, eyes heavy with a lack of sleep he desperately wants but can’t seem to get. His hair is damp from his latest shower, skin still warm from the hot water. He’s holding his head in his hands, thumbs rubbing at his temples like he’s trying to cure a headache.
You sit up on the bed, hesitating before you tap him on the shoulder. “Come sleep,” you whisper, pulling at the fabric of his sleep shirt.
But he doesn’t budge.
You crawl over to him, both hands resting on his sore shoulders. He flushes slightly, head bowing away so you can’t see his face.
“I know you’re tired,” you murmur, pulling his face to look at yours.
He’s crying, tears slipping from his eyes and rolling against his skin.
You swallow hard at the sight of him. Your throat becomes sore as you fight against your own urge to cry. “Oh, honey…”
He trembles underneath your hands, small hiccups and whines escaping past his lips, his fingers grasping your shirt to pull you close.
“I’m so tired,” he mutters against your neck.
Your hands find the back of his head, cradling him like he’ll move away any second. “I know, honey. I’m right here, I love you.”
“I love you too,” he whispers, holding himself close to you as his breathing slows in your grasp, finally allowing himself to rest in the safety of your loving arms.
masterlist
my work is not ment to be taken as a serious reflection of anyone!
summary: how ateez reacts when you play with thier hands/rings!
warning(s): slight angst
wc: 4k
Request!
a/n: sorry this took forever to get out- I've been buried in a million things to do these last few weeks so I've been lacking a bunch. Thank you for requesting!
read more under the cut!
ᰔhongjoong
You’re known for your nervous tics: biting your nails, cracking your knuckles, playing with your necklace, pulling on your earrings, eating everything and anything within arms reach. The list goes on.
And it drives your boyfriend, Hongjoong, absolutely crazy. It’s not that it annoys him, he has seven members practically crawling up his drawls every waking moment. No, watching you tweak out about the smallest things known to man makes him feel incredibly bad for you. And mind you, this man isn’t one for physical touch or nitty-gritty feelings, especially when it’s for one of his members. You think he’d rather sell his underwear on the black market than to share a bed with one of them for a night.
But for you? That all goes out the window. You wanna cuddle in bed because you’re cold? He's practically blanketing himself over you in seconds. You wanna hold hands while he showers? He’s already been waiting for you to open the door and sit on the sink for the past forty minutes.
Yea, he’d do anything for you.
So when he comes to find you elbow deep in an article due in a week for your law firm, nervously raking your fingers through your hair and biting on your already short nails, he’s sighing deeply and tossing his bag somewhere near the door.
“Baby?” He calls out, sinking onto the couch next to you, his hands taking hold of your nimble wrist and pulling it away from your lips.
You sheepishly look away from him, the laptop sliding off your thighs. “Didn’t mean to,” you mutter, picking the laptop up and placing it on the coffee table in front of the couch. “I didn’t even realize what I was doing”
He’s looking at you with that look, the look that says “how can I help?”
You sigh, nervously playing with the hem of your shirt, “nap?”
He doesn’t answer, doesn’t have to. You know by the shy smile on his face that he’s already thinking about slipping on his silk pajama set and cuddling you until you’re peacefully asleep in his arms.
And that’s exactly what happens, you’re lying in bed, he’s pressed against the plush fabric of the pillow, side pressed into the soft mattress. He’s spooning you, legs pressed against yours, his face pressed into the back of your neck, chest pressed tight to your back. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was trying to absorb you. You’ve already calmed down, eyes becoming heavier with each passing second, breathing slowing down.
His hands are around your waist, fingers resting on yours, but you can’t help yourself. If there was something you really loved about Hongjoong, (besides his personality, of course) it’d be his hands. They were the perfect amount of slender and welcoming. You loved the feeling of them, the softness of the pads of his fingers every time he traced the perfect features of your face, or the warmth of his skin when he’d cup your face and kiss you the way you liked it.
They drive you crazy, and they are also your safe space. So he never flinched when your cold hands grabbed his fingers, squeezing them gently, feeling the knuckles, and cracking the joints. If anything, you playing with his hands is what calmed him down, and if you playing with his hands meant you were thinking about him instead of what worried you— then he’d gladly let you play with them forever.
ᰔseonghwa
Children are running around the park, their sticky hands grabbing at any surface they can reach. It’s not something you come out of the house to see. It’s mid-winter, and the wind is cold as it flies past your warm face.
It’s cold, but comforting. And it’s especially nice when your best friend, Seonghwa, is sitting next to you. This wasn’t one of your usual hangouts. Normally, you’d be at some family restaurant, scarfing down a delicious meal for cheap and walking out pregnant with a food baby. Today, you’re sitting on a park bench, watching the cute children run around, laughing and screaming in their silly game of tag.
Was it weird? Maybe a little, but it didn’t feel weird when he was next to you. You’ve known Park Seonghwa for as long as you could remember, stumbling into him at the exact park you sit at now. He was only a few months older than you when you met, his nose running because of the cold weather. You had offered the boy your handkerchief, watching him messily clean his nose with it and running off with your property. But kids being kids, you were too shy to run after him, letting him take your baby pink handkerchief for good. But thankfully, he came knocking on your front door, his mother standing behind him with her arms crossed, and with your handkerchief in hand.
That’s how the friendship came to be, because after that, he’d come over almost everyday to play, and it wasn’t till you two became older when he started to practically live in your home. You’d serve him jasmine tea every study session, and then like clockwork, he’d set up his little makeshift bed beside yours and pass out.
But now, you’re not kids anymore, no longer young adults. You’re both twenty-five, legal adults. The age you both dreamed of being, believing that you’d be a world-famous actor and he, a world-wide known singer. Something’s just not going to happen though, at least not for you. You could speak for him, Mr. K-pop idol. But you had still made a name for yourself, in a way.
You were a kindergarten teacher, teaching kids who were the same age as when you met Seonghwa. It felt like something full circle, meeting him at the park you now sit at. Admiring the park you two once played in.
“You think one day, when one of us has kids, they’d play here?” He asks.
It catches you off guard, and you glance over at him. The wind ruffles his hair, the dark locks falling over his nose and eyes with every gust. He looks almost ethereal in the seething sun, the golden hue highlighting his soft eyes, his sharp jawline.
“Maybe,” you mutter, glancing back at the playground. “I would hope that if im married-”
He’s interrupting you, “When you get married”
You pause, turning your head to playfully glare at him. But his gaze isn’t playful like you had thought it’d be. Instead, the gaze on his face is something serious.
“You’re implying that no one would marry you.” He explains, and you jolt when his hand accidentally nudges yours. But you don’t move away, instead, you gently place your pinky on his. You look away when your cold hand makes contact with his warm one.
“When I get married,” you correct yourself, taking in a breath. “I’d like to think that my kids would be best friends with yours.”
You don’t hear him beside you, but you can feel your heart racing as your fingers find his, his slender digits so soft they feel like they’re made out of cotton.
Suddenly, he’s moving his hand onto your thigh, basically inviting you to play with his fingers. And so you do, your fingers find the ring placed on his ring finger. It was the same ring you bought for each other the day of the county fair, but the metal was still intact as if it was new.
It wasn’t a strange thing for you to do, it was something of a habit. You’d grab at his slender fingers when you felt anxious, in need of something to ground you in the moment. And he’s used to it, basically being your rag doll.
“I think I’d only marry one person.” He says after a beat.
You look at him, eyebrows knitted. He’s already looking at you, eyes transfixed on yours. The tension between the two of you is palpable, your hands are on his, tracing the bone in his hand to the metal of his ring. You take this moment to admire him, his eyes, his nose, his cheeks, his lips. He looked almost the same as he did growing up— just, older. More attractive.
“Who, hwa?” You mutter.
He doesn’t answer right away, turning his head back to the playground, a soft smirk sneaking onto his face.
He finally looks back at you, the same smirk on his face. “I’d marry you.”
ᰔyunho
It wasn’t supposed to happen. A simple argument that could’ve been avoided with a few words, but when there’s a lack of communication, one thing is bound to happen. And that one thing did.
You had accidentally said too much, noticing the way Yunho's eyes had widened for a split second before turning away. He was offended, but he was never the kind to tell you outright how he felt in the moment. It hadn’t been that long, maybe half an hour— but the guilt was eating at you. You wanted to walk out of your bedroom, hug him from behind and apologize until the words “I’m sorry” no longer felt real.
And that’s what you do. You walk out of the comfort of your bedroom, the wooden door creaking as it swings slowly on the metal hinges. Yunho’s sitting on the couch, his head resting on the back of his hand and his legs splayed out stock the expanse of the cushions. There’s an obvious look in his eye, the kind of look that would send a puppy running away with its tail between its legs.
He doesn’t spare you a glance when you crawl next to him, your head finding purchase between the crook of his neck and the back of the couch. You nestle in close, hearing the soft beating of his heart underneath the thick fabric of his hoodie.
It’s quiet for a moment, neither of you daring to speak. But you reach for his hand, taking his cold touch into your warm one, your thumb finding the small metal ring sitting so perfectly on his ring finger.
“I’m sorry honey.” You whisper, your hand squeezing his, and your thumb gently caressing the skin of his knuckles.
He sighs, resting his head on top of yours, “I know, I just with it didn’t happen”
Your heart clenches at his soft words, and he squeezes your hand back. You both sit there together, hands in each other's grip, hearts slowing to match the same beat. The argument wasn’t supposed to happen, but you two always find a way back to each other.
ᰔyeosang
You were never really the nervous type. But there’s something and that day that had just sent you into a frenzy from the moment you woke up.
It was your tradition to host a Christmas movie marathon with your best friend, Yeosang. It was something the two of you decided on the day after you graduated from college together. Something casual. He’d come over wearing cute Christmas pajamas, you’d make his favorite hazelnut hot chocolate, and then he’d pick the movie while you cuddled up on the couch, snuggled in fifteen fuzzy blankets.
Only today was different. You had woken up with a pit in your stomach— but nothing bad had happened. You weren’t fired from your job, your best friend hadn’t broken up with her boyfriend, you weren't going broke. Everything you could think of, it was fine.
So the feeling in your stomach drives you insane the entire day. You began to think it might’ve been the way you had done your hair the night before, or maybe it was the new skincare you bought a few weeks ago. You spent the last few hours checking yourself in the mirror, outfit, hair, face, armpits. Literally everything.
By the time the doorbell rang, your stomach was doing backflips, cursing under your breath when you nearly slipped on the way to the door. And when you open it, there he stands. Same kind smile, and the same pajamas he wore every year. It made your heart grow in your chest
“I already picked the movie on my way here!” he cheers, patting your hip as he passes by.
The action makes you pause slightly. The feeling of his soft hand still ghosting the area where he had been. But you gather yourself up, plastering on a smile that says “I'm okay” and closing the door behind him.
But Yeosang being Yeosang— he notices.
“What's wrong?” he asks, setting down a plastic bag full of peppermint chocolates.
You shake your head, pointing over to the kitchen, “nothing, just forgot I had the cocoa still on the stove.”
He doesn't question you anymore, just watching your figure bounce into the kitchen, and listening to the clinking of the ceramic mugs.
You both pretend like the moment at the front door was old news. Yeosang insists on helping you carry both mugs over to the couch, insisting that he let you bundle up in your usual plethora of blankets. You laugh when he tosses another blanket over you, gently handing you the warm mug of cocoa when you finally get comfortable. The couch dips beneath his weight, his knees brushing yours when he decides to lay his head on the mountain of blankets.
He's oddly close, his free hand fiddling with the soft fabric of your blanket, his head practically resting in your chest. He could probably hear your heartbeat if it weren't for the layers you had on top of you. He was so close you could just reach out and touch him. And maybe it wouldn't be so weird, maybe he'd let you take your fingers through his hair, or maybe he'd let you caress the side of his face.
And before you can process anything, your hand is already moving. Your fingers make contact with his hands, they’re slightly cold from the outside air, but warm when you clasp your palm around his knuckles. It feels as if the world had stopped spinning on its axis, your heart begins to race at a pace unknown to you, you feel him tense up, his fingers stilling. And for once, the air in your lungs completely leaves your body.
You want to rip your hand away from him, apologize profusely and hide your face until he forgets what you look like. But before your panic can ensue, you feel his fingers against yours, his fingernails trace the slender bones of your knuckles and up to your wrist. It’s sorta ticklish, especially with the way he’s barely applying pressure.
And he doesn’t stop there, you feel the side of his head nestle further into the blankets, and his hand fully takes hold of yours.
“If you wanted to hold my hand that bad then you could’ve just said so.” He teases.
You grumble, “Whatever.”
ᰔsan
Today's the day you've been dreading. The day you have to give your final speech— a speech which your grade solely depends on. You're standing behind the stage curtain, the state light bouncing off of the satin fabric.
Your palms are wet and clammy, you've already cracked your knuckles more times than you can remember, but your hand seems to go through the motions of trying to crack them once again. It almost feels like no matter how many deep breaths you take, your lungs will never fill with the air they desperately need, and you can hear the crowd just on the other side, teachers, your peers. It's your worst nightmare waiting to happen.
You bounce on your heels, anxiously watching other students as they frantically go through notecards, flip through their stapled scripts, and mutter to themselves in empty corners. It’s not like you’re the only one who’d have to stand in front of a giant crowd and give a speech— far from it. There are thirty-three other students in your class, so you’re just one person of many. But in this moment, it feels like all eyes will be on you, and only you.
A voice breaks you from your trance,
“Hey.”
Your heart seems to skip a beat when you turn your head away from the kid crying in the corner and to your classmate standing in front of you.
It’s Choi San. The guy who always sits just a few rows down from you and to the left of the class. The guy who always manages to write notes in the neatest handwriting imaginable, and the guy who’s always with his big group of friends after a lecture.
He’s standing next to you, clad in an ironed black button up and matching black slacks. He’s the required business casual, and you note how it makes him look incredibly good— because until now you’ve only ever seen him in some random sweatpants and hoodies at early morning lectures.
“You okay? “ he asks.
In what shape or form do you look okay? You practically have “I actually want to die right now” plastered all over your face.
“Yeah.”
He takes a good look at your nervous smile, the beads of sweat accumulating at your hairline, your fidgety fingers. And he knows all too well how you feel, even though he doesn't know why he asked in the first place.
He smiles just enough for it to be noticed by you, his hands falling out of his pockets and crossing over his chest. “Really?” he hums, “I couldn't tell.”
“Oh”, your faux smile falls, and your fingers finally stop picking at your nails. “Was I really that obvious?”
He chuckles under his breath, a sound that's miles more confident than all the students combined together. “Sort of,” he's pointing off to the corner of the room, “but at least you're not like that guy.”
You chuckle when your eyes lock onto the random student ripping out his hair. But the light joking doesn't calm your nerves as much as you'd like it to. You still feel the gnawing sensation in your stomach, the urge to throw up your entire breakfast into the hallway trash bin.
“You’ll do fine. Have you practiced?"
You choke on your breath, finally feeling your nails digging into your skin— something you've been subconsciously doing the entire time.
“Yeah— just not confident about it.”
He hums, “Practice with me, then.”
You're blinking at him, more confused than flustered. “Right now?”
You glance over at the curtain, peeking out at the student who stands on stage, eyes glued to the notecards in his hand.
You know what, maybe you'll take that offer.
“Okay, fine.” you sigh, taking out the colored notecards from your back pocket.
San doesn't interrupt the entire time you speak. He just stands there, eyes half lidded with a kind smile, nodding along when you make a good point. But even still, your voice seems to crack at random times and you mispronounce the easiest words ever. The stress and nervousness are slowly starting to get at you.
“Give me your hands.” he says, his hands held out.
You pause, “What?”
“You,” he takes the cardstock out of your hands, placing them onto a nearby table and taking your hands in his. “are entirely too fidgety, just—”
All the air in your lungs seems to disappear when you feel the warmth of his palms on yours.
“Try again.” he says softly, standing closer than before.
Slowly, the shaking in your fingers stops, your legs don't feel like jello, and you can finally breathe again. You begin to speak again, the words flowing out of your mouth like water— easy and light. Your fingers feel the muscles of his hand, the softness of his palm, and the edge of his knuckles. You never mean to do it, but it's something that seems to ground you in a way.
And he doesn't seem to hate it either.
You end your speech just like how you rehearsed, your eyes big and bright when you give him an accomplished smile that he returns.
“Perfect.” he grins, his hands still grasping onto yours. “You'll do perfectly.”
ᰔmingi
Dating didn't seem so bad until you realized you'd inevitably have to meet parents, siblings, family.
The day Mingi asked you out to a cup of coffee after an early morning lecture was enough to send you into a state of shock for the rest of the week. You've never been the type to get asked out– always being the one girl in the friend group to watch as her best friends got guy and guy.
So the day that cute boy from English came up to you and asked you out of all people— yeah, it's safe to say your heart stopped that day. You said yes, duh, but you never fully thought of what would come after the whole boyfriend-girlfriend thing.
His mother had asked you to join them for a dinner a few weeks prior, and who were you to say no? Three months after dating her son, you owed that woman a dinner.
You even thought about what you'd say to her:
“How was your day today?”
“Anything exciting at work today?”
The usual awkward small talk that never went anywhere. And that's something you were good at, pretending, adapting. Something along those lines.
And there you were, sitting in the passenger seat with your hands shaking like the AC was on full blast. You weren't sure if your heart was going to fail or fly out of your chest with the way it was pounding.
You glance up when you feel a warm hand grasp yours, his fingers slowly caressing the back of your knuckles.
“They’ll love you.” he whispers, comforting you.
You hum, trying to agree with him but the knot in your stomach is too prominent to ignore. “Yeah.”
Mingi only chuckles at your sad excuse of a response, his hand tightening on yours. “Relax, it's just for dinner. They already like you.”
“They do?” you gape, eyes widening.
He nods, letting your finger nails trace over the indents of his palms. “Of course, I talk about you all the time. They know that you make me happy.”
“You talk about me?”
He chuckles again, and little wrinkles form at the corner of his eyes. “What else would I talk about?”
You shrug, squeezing his fingers in your oak and finally resting against the back of the seat. “I dunno, music?”
“That's boring, you know I can never keep my mouth shut when it comes to you.”
ᰔwooyoung
“How do y’know they're mad?”
The question sent you into a rage— and not because it was his fault for asking. But a question like that at this time is like throwing gasoline onto an already mad fire.
“Because!” you snap, fighting the urge to rip out your hair while you turn your phone around, “They haven't responded to my text from three weeks ago and they just posted a story together at the place I wanted to meet at.”
Wooyoung looks down at your phone, a look on his face that clearly shows how bad he feels for you.
“Theyre mad about something— and I don't even know what.” you mutter.
He hums, the back of his head hitting the plush cushion of the couch. “You sure? What if they forgot?”
You glare at him, dropping the phone into your lap and groaning, “It's not forgetting if they haven't bothered to answer my texts or calls for the past few days, Woo.”
You slump onto the space next to him, your cheekbone resting on the softness of his stomach.
“I just don't get it.”
Wooyoung watches you from above, and he rests his hand on top of yours. For a while, he doesn't say anything– afraid that a silly comment would slip past his lips and send you into a breakdown.
(and he knows this because it's happened before.)
His thumb draws little circles on the back of your hand, feeling the hard bone of your knuckles underneath your soft skin. You stare off to the side, listening to the sound of his soft breaths.
“You've done everything you could to try and fix it. Like you said, you reached out more than once— so it's on them if they don't want to talk to you,” he whispers, “And plus, they were never good friends.”
The last comment sends a small smile in your face, and you hook his fingers between your own. “I hate it when you're right.”
“You'll always have me” He laughs, squeezing your fingers, his thumb brushing over the hard metal of your ring.
His hand slips from your hand, brushing a stray hair away from your face, “and besides,” he continues, "I'd love to go to a pumpkin patch with you and take pictures on your digital camera.”
ᰔjongho
You've had a crush on Choi Jongho since you could remember. There wasn't a thing you didn't like about him either. Even the thought of him sent you into an embarrassing excitement– almost like you were his number one fan girl. His laugh, the way he smiled whenever someone would tell a funny joke. Everything was just unfairly perfect.
You've gotten used to admiring him from afar— during class, during lunch. Quite literally whenever you had a chance. You never thought he'd notice you, some random girl sitting in the back of the class.
And today is no different, you're sitting at your assigned desk, a small banana milk sitting on the sleek wood of your desk as you mindlessly doodle on a blank sheet of paper. It's lunchtime, so most and if not all of the students aren't in the classroom anymore. Just you and the few nerds who decided to study until the lunch bell rang.
There's footsteps drawing near your desk, low and heavy on the tiled flooring. You only look up from your paper when someone pulls a chair out from a neighboring desk, scooting it over to face you.
It's Jongho, he's sitting down in the chair and resting an elbow on an empty part of your desk.
“Whatcha doing?” he asks, voice low and steady when he speaks. But you can see a soft smile on his face when he looks at you.
Your heart jumps in its place, sending small bits of adrenaline into your bloodstream. You blink, trying to think of the right words to say.
“Drawing..” you mutter, a nervous smile on your face.
He nods, sitting up slightly and taking a peek at the paper you have. “Can I see?”
You give him a short nod, pushing the flimsy paper over to his hand. Jongho leans in, glancing down at the paper. You watch as his small smile turns into a grin when he notices the silly doodles you've done of the birds outside.
“Wow” he whispers, “you're really good.”
You shrink in embarrassment, and you can feel your face heating up. “Nah.. It's nothing really.”
When you look back up, he's already looking at you. “I think it's good,” He's pushing his hand out from under his elbow, his slender hand now set in front of you.
“Could you draw something for me?”
Your heart practically jumps from your chest at his question, and you ignore the gnawing feeling inside of your stomach. Your fingers meet his slender hand, smoothing the flat part of his hand.
“Uh- sure.” you mumble, face growing hotter every second you touch his hand.
You start drawing on his hand with a dark blue one, the ink gliding perfectly over his skin like butter. You're on autopilot the entire time: a star there, swirl here, maybe a flower over there. But you don't notice the way you unconsciously move his metal ring up and down his finger.
He chuckles lightly, catching you off guard. “You always do that?”
“What?” you freeze.
He points to his ring with his free hand, and you look down to see your thumb still on his ring. “Play with people's rings.”
Your hand practically flies off of his in the matter of seconds, and a slew of apologies follows right after. He laughs softly, shaking his head and taking back your hand.
“No, it's fine. I thought it was cute.” he reassures.
You don't say anything, stunned that he'd put your hand back onto his and call you cute all in the same moment.
“You don't mind?” you ask.
“No, if anything, it feels nice. You can play with my hand all you want— I like it.”
masterlist
my work is not ment to be taken as a serious reflection of anyone!
izzy806
jbbartram-illu
blakekathryn
annaxmalina
snowghoul
discoholicmusic