Reactivating this blog to be my writing update one so I can also see how much I've been writing on a weekly basis!!!! Very excited. I'm currently writing for TXT.
I'm excited!!
I'm doing a bingo with my best friend aka this one...
Plan is to make a bingo. Each week we work on a different idea (either new or old, chosen at random) and we change every Friday! We can't say we did it until it's actually finished work, not a WIP!
Hi everyone!! Honestly this is a bit out of the left field but it's related to being creative so I think it's okay?
I've been both writing and rping for a good while and I've recently lost my rp partner so I'm currently looking if someone would like to roleplay with me? I always do with the members and I love them all+ all the pairings as well ( seriously I'm not picky at all) I also like short and long rps!
So if anyone is interested I would love to do it! Just dm me I guess?
Friendly reminder that these only happen slowly, carefully, with lots of reader encouragement, engagement, reflection, and support, and an ending is never a guarantee.
Writing communities are gardens, not subscription services
author's note: i wish i could turn this into an idol!series where i portray them as our boyfies because i have SO MANY ideas like this but i'm can't tell if anyone would enjoy this lol. also, not me writing this while i'm studying for my finals and trying not to die from burnout. but hey! at least my winter break is close teehee. txt is here to help me with my delulu and ALSO I'M SO EXCITED FOR THE NEXT COMEBACK, I FEEL LIKE IT'S GOING TO BE BIG. this work is part of our moa net here on tumblr, you should check it out! @onedreamnet.
warnings and tags: sfw content • ot5!separate x reader • fem!reader in mind • fluff • domestic txt • est. relationship • the boys are so soft here i want to cuddle them • one kissy kiss scene on taehyun's • NOT PROOFREAD.
word count: 3.1k (500~700 per member).
my kpop masterlist: here.
★˚๑🎐％﹒choi yeonjun﹕ᘏᘏ୭₊˚
the duality drives you insane.
in public — on stage, in photos, under the lights — he’s confident in a way that borders on unfair. head tilted, eyes half-lidded, body moving like he owns the air around him. no hesitation. no nerves. just pure, deliberate charisma.
but offstage?
you catch him sulking in the kitchen because he dropped his dumpling on the floor and “no one will ever understand that kind of grief.”
you’ve learned his patterns by now.
the morning of a performance, he’s quiet. not because he’s nervous — not exactly — but because he’s already thinking about the camera angles. the formations. the fans. the five-second part where he gets to smirk like a villain and cause cardiac arrest on a national scale.
you sip your coffee across from him in the early morning silence. he’s still in pajama pants, hair pushed back with a headband, eyes unfocused as he mumbles his lines under his breath between bites of toast.
“you’re going to burn a hole through the table,” you say softly.
he looks up, blinking. “was i being weird again?”
you nod.
he smiles.
and when he gets up, he kisses your forehead like it’s the one part of him not too busy to love.
later, you visit the music show set.
he’s already in full styling when you arrive — velvet jacket, smoky liner, lip tint sharp enough to cut. he looks nothing like the boy who fell asleep face down on your laundry pile two nights ago.
“don’t look at me like that,” he says as you approach. “you’re going to make me trip on stage.”
you hold up the bag you brought. “you forgot your vitamins.”
he blinks. you raise a brow.
he pouts.
“thank you, baby,” he says, voice soft and dramatic all at once, like he’s the main character in a romance film. he holds your hand for half a second too long. “will you cheer for me?”
you smirk. “only if you wink during your center part.”
“that’s illegal.”
“do it.”
he does.
after the show, you find him sitting on a folding chair in the corner of the dressing room, head tipped back, chest rising and falling with exertion.
you crouch beside him, hands gently brushing his thighs. “hey.”
his eyes flutter open. “did i do okay?”
you almost laugh. “you’re joking, right?”
he smiles sleepily. “just wanted to hear you say it.”
you press a kiss to his shoulder. “you killed it.”
he leans into your touch, the heat of performance slowly melting into something tender.
“can we go home?” he murmurs.
“you still have a fan call.”
he groans, flopping dramatically. “they don’t let me rest.”
“i’ll wait,” you say. “we’ll eat after.”
his eyes light up. “can i pick the place?”
you roll your eyes. “you always do.”
that night, you fall asleep with him tucked into your side — his hair damp from a late shower, his breathing slow, one arm curled around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.
he always wants to be babied after a stage. wants back rubs and snacks and quiet praise whispered into his hair.
“you were perfect,” you murmur against his temple, fingers tracing his spine. “i’m proud of you.”
he exhales, almost asleep now, and whispers:
“you make it all feel worth it.”
and you hold him a little tighter.
★˚๑🎐％﹒choi soobin﹕ᘏᘏ୭₊˚
you didn’t expect soobin to be this… domestic.
the first time he spends the night at your place after promotions end, he shows up at your door with a tub of strawberries, three different types of cereal, and a full-size body pillow he carries like a briefcase. no suitcase, no overnight bag. just snacks and sleep gear.
“don’t judge,” he says, stepping out of his shoes. “my brain is too tired to pack properly.”
he immediately lies down on your floor like his bones have dissolved. doesn’t even make it to the bed. you poke him with your foot. “you good?”
“i live here now,” he mumbles.
being with soobin means you never know what version of him you’re going to get.
sometimes he’s the shy, blushing leader who asks “can i hold your hand?” even after months of dating. other times he wraps himself around you on the couch like a weighted blanket and says “you’re mine now” while chewing crackers like a menace.
he kisses the top of your head when he’s proud. gives you a thumbs up when he’s too shy to say “you look beautiful.” and tries to act cool when he walks into a door frame because he still forgets how tall he is.
idol life with soobin is not as glamorous as you thought.
he practices so hard his neck sounds like bubble wrap when he turns it. sometimes you massage his shoulders while he’s half-asleep on your lap and he lets out a noise so pained you almost cry laughing.
he loses his phone in the fridge. he forgets to eat. he falls asleep mid-conversation, still holding his chopsticks, because rehearsals went until 2am. and you tuck him in, clean up, and never say a word.
when he wakes up the next morning, guilt in his eyes, you just hand him a warm can of coffee and say, “don’t even start.”
he hugs you for five full minutes.
when you visit him on set, he pretends not to notice you at first. just nods politely, like you’re staff. until you pass by his chair and whisper, “your mic pack is crooked.”
then he turns pink. very pink. and immediately fixes his posture.
his members don’t say a word—but they’re smirking. especially beomgyu.
later, during a break, he sneaks over to where you’re sitting behind the monitors and plops down beside you with a sigh.
“missed you,” he whispers, forehead bumping your shoulder.
you pull out a protein bar. he lights up like a golden retriever. “you know me so well.”
“you only like this one because it tastes like cookies.”
“exactly. healthy cookies. it’s good for my image.”
you raise a brow. “your image?”
he leans in, voice low and teasing. “you mean my boyfriend image? the one where i’m tall, sweet, and snack-efficient?”
on tour, he texts you only when it’s quiet.
after the stages, the chaos, the screaming fans and interviews, he always finds a few minutes in the hotel room to send you something real.
sometimes it’s a photo of the ceiling with “i wish you were here.”
sometimes it’s “what if we just lived in a cabin and raised rabbits.”
sometimes it’s just “i’m tired. but i love you.”
you never pressure him to call. you know his body hurts. you know the silence is sacred after giving so much of himself away.
so you send back things like “drink water, stretch your legs, think about my face.” and he replies with a sleepy selfie and a peace sign.
he gets back after two weeks on the road and the first thing he says when you open the door is:
“do you still have the cereal i left here?”
you do. and he kisses your cheek like it’s the biggest act of devotion he’s capable of.
★˚๑🎐％﹒choi beomgyu﹕ᘏᘏ୭₊˚
dating beomgyu is like having a cat that bullies you all day but sleeps curled into your side every night.
he says things like “you’re obsessed with me” when you ask if he’s eaten, and then posts your shared playlist on his story with no caption. he makes fun of your hair when you wake up, then ties his hoodie around your waist if you ever mention feeling self-conscious.
he flirts like he’s joking, but stares like he means it.
the first time you visit his dorm (unofficially, when the members are out), he spends the entire afternoon pretending he doesn’t care.
“this place is nothing special,” he says while literally dusting the keyboard of his PC with a microfiber cloth.
“i didn’t clean for you,” he adds, minutes after you catch him color-coding his sock drawer.
“and that candle was already lit. it’s not for ambience or anything.”
you raise a brow. “is that… a cheese board?”
“shut up.”
idol life with beomgyu is unpredictable. one day he’s writing songs with raw vulnerability. the next he’s sticking googly eyes on the studio whiteboard and pretending they’re his A&R team.
you’ve seen both versions.
you’ve seen him hold a guitar like it’s a shield. you’ve seen him nearly cry because a take wasn’t perfect. you’ve seen him rip his in-ears out after a recording and say, voice flat: “i’m not good enough.”
you sat with him on the floor, forehead to his shoulder, and said nothing.
he doesn’t need cheering up. he just needs to know you’re there.
later, when he’s back in his element, screaming about a pizza discount code, he throws himself onto your lap and says, “you always bring me luck. you know that, right?”
he texts you like a menace.
🧍♂️: i saw a dog today and thought of u
🧍♂️: but in a cute way
🧍♂️: actually nvm i take it back
🧍♂️: are you free tmrw or do you hate me
he also sends you voice memos where he sings badly on purpose just to make you laugh.
but sometimes, right before bed, he’ll send a 12-second clip of a guitar riff he’s working on. no words. just sound. soft, warm, intimate.
you save every single one.
when you visit him backstage during promotions, he tries to act unfazed—but his entire face lights up when he spots you. he’s mid-hair touch-up, blush still fresh on his cheeks, mic taped to his jaw.
“you came,” he says like he didn’t remind you of the schedule twice and send a location pin.
you hand him a snack. he looks at it like it’s priceless. “you get me.”
“it’s literally just a peach tea.”
“and yet… from your hand?”
you roll your eyes. but when he walks back to the dressing room, he takes the tea with him. drinks it in every behind-the-scenes video. holds it like it’s good luck.
you don’t realize how much he talks about you until taehyun tells you, deadpan: “if i hear one more ‘my baby did this cute thing’ story i’m blocking him.”
“you’re just jealous,” beomgyu says. “my baby has rizz.”
he calls you that too—my baby. unironically. constantly. even in front of staff.
but then you catch him watching fancams of you on the couch, face soft and unguarded, and he quickly shuts the screen. “wasn’t even watching anything,” he lies.
you don’t bring it up.
he buys you matching keychains. he “accidentally” leaves a stuffed animal on your bed. he begs you to stream his comeback and then says “actually don’t, it’s cringe,” even though he secretly checks if you listened.
he pulls you onto his lap when you’re sitting too far. he tucks your hair behind your ear when you’re ranting. and when you cry—really cry—he doesn’t joke. doesn’t speak.
he just wraps his arms around you and says, “i’ve got you, baby.”
and for once, you believe him completely.
★˚๑🎐％﹒kang taehyun﹕ᘏᘏ୭₊˚
you don’t remember when exactly it happened, but somewhere along the way, you started treating taehyun like gravity.
he doesn’t ask for your attention — doesn’t need to. he’s just there. solid, steady, magnetic. he listens more than he talks, watches more than he reacts, and loves in the way most people overlook — in water bottles handed to you without a word, phone batteries at 78% because he charged them while you slept, and texts that say “lock your door tonight. i saw the news.”
he doesn’t say “i love you” that often. but he acts like it constantly.
he wakes up at 6am even when he doesn’t have schedules. works out in silence. tracks his reps on a crumpled post-it you keep trying to replace with an app. tells you, deadpan, “the gym is my therapy,” and then does squats to BLACKPINK like it’s nothing.
and he’s hot. obviously. but not in the loud, performative way — more in the how is your side profile even legal way.
he ties his hair back and opens water bottles with one hand. stares at contracts on his laptop like he’s about to buy out the company. walks around shirtless after practice like it’s your fault for looking.
you once called him “CEO boyfriend” as a joke. now he uses it to get his way.
“i can’t carry your groceries today,” you mutter.
“would a ceo let you lift things?”
“…you’re holding an iced americano with two straws.”
“exactly. for us.”
idol taehyun is a different beast.
you see it when you visit the studio — the switch. he nods at staff, reviews choreography videos, calls out adjustments to their stage formations like a perfectionist who knows he’s right. and he is. he always is.
he’s not cold. just focused. a little intimidating.
okay, a lot.
you sit in the back, thumbing your phone, and watch him work like he was born for it. no wasted words. no wasted moves. the others tease him for being a robot, but you know the truth.
he just doesn’t half-ass anything.
and that includes you.
he’s the kind of boyfriend who remembers your schedule better than you do. who texts “wear a jacket” before the weather even shifts. who watches your reactions when you eat something new because he wants to know if you like it before you say anything.
he brings you home vitamin packets and high-protein snacks. then lies with his head in your lap for two hours while you scroll through reels and read fan comments out loud. he pretends he doesn’t care. but every time you read one that says “taehyun’s the boyfriend type fr,” he smiles. just a little.
after performances, he’s quiet.
not in a moody way. just… cooling off. energy still simmering under his skin. you help him undo his mic tape. he watches your hands like they’re fragile things, even though you’re tugging pretty hard.
“good show,” you murmur.
he shrugs. “i messed up the angle on the chorus.”
you raise a brow. “literally no one noticed.”
he looks at you then — really looks at you — and it’s like the whole room stills.
“you did,” he says. softly. honestly.
your breath catches. “i’m not a critic.”
“you’re my person,” he replies. “it matters.”
he doesn’t do PDA in front of fans. never kisses you in dressing rooms. rarely even holds your hand where others can see. but every now and then — in the hallway, behind the black curtain before a show, in the elevator after press — he’ll lean down and whisper, “come here.”
and when he kisses you?
it’s slow. confident. the kind of kiss that says i’m not afraid of anyone knowing you’re mine — i just like keeping it between us.
when he’s away, he never says “i miss you.”
he says things like:
“don’t forget to eat protein.”
“i’ll call after the shoot.”
“send me a picture. just you. no filters.”
and when he comes back?
he pulls you into his arms like he never wants to let go. buries his face in your neck. sighs like home is finally real.
“missed you,” he says, once.
“i know,” you say back.
and he smiles.
★˚๑🎐％﹒huening kai﹕ᘏᘏ୭₊˚
you realize you love him the day he apologizes for looking at you too long.
“sorry,” he mumbles. “i didn’t mean to stare.”
you’re sitting across from each other, legs tangled under the kotatsu table. his hoodie sleeves are pulled over his palms. his cheeks are pink. and he’s looking at you like you hung the moon and forgot to tell anyone.
you blink. “kai,” you say, gently. “you’re allowed to look.”
he shrinks a little, but he nods.
he doesn’t know what to do with attention — not really. not when it’s personal. not when it’s you.
you’ve heard it in passing before — in interviews, old livestreams, articles that fans have archived and translated — that kai has always been quietly unsure about his looks.
it doesn’t make sense to you. he’s so striking in person it almost hurts. luminous eyes. impossible bone structure. a smile that feels like finding your favorite song after a bad day.
but insecurity isn’t about logic. and kai isn’t the kind of person who wants praise just to hear it.
he wants to feel seen.
you learn how to love him in his language.
you send voice notes when he’s on tour — your voice soft, half-asleep, saying “i’m proud of you.”
you leave sticky notes in his backpack with doodles and stupid puns and reminders to stretch.
you call him pretty only when no one else is around. and he smiles every time like he’s hearing it for the first time.
his love language?
unlabeled. sideways. soft.
he leaves you little things: guitar picks in your coat pocket (“that one’s lucky”), a folded napkin with your name written in tiny hearts and a playlist titled “for when it rains but you still have to smile”
he doesn’t like big declarations. but he’ll hug you from behind when you’re brushing your teeth. hum into your neck when you’re washing dishes. whisper “i dreamed about you again” like he’s sharing a secret.
and then there’s the stage.
you never get used to that version of him — the one with a guitar strapped across his chest, a reed in his mouth, eyes glittering under the lights.
it’s not that he becomes someone else.
it’s more like he steps into himself.
his body moves differently. his presence shifts. there’s this subtle confidence — not arrogant, just rooted. he plants his feet. commands the space. owns the note. and you, watching from the side curtain or through a screen, forget to breathe.
he finishes with the reed between his lips, hair slicked to his temples, and walks off like he didn’t just rearrange the earth’s axis.
you stare at him, stunned.
he looks back at you and says, in the softest voice:
“did i look weird?”
when he comes home, he doesn’t talk much. he curls into you on the couch, hoodie zipped all the way up, and plays chords on an unplugged electric guitar while you read. every once in a while, he’ll glance up — make a face — and go back to playing.
sometimes he lets you sit in his lap while he composes.
sometimes he dozes off mid-layer, one headphone in, fingers still resting on the frets.
you kiss his forehead and tuck a blanket over him. he murmurs something you don’t catch. and you think — if this is love, then it’s the kind that doesn’t need to shout.
check out more works like this on here @onedreamnet !
author's note: first time writing for other members except soobin kinda nervous lol. send me a request • my masterpost
I didn't reach my 4k words but I am quite happy with my process!! I need to keep in mind I have a full time job+ my hobbies + my small business so honestly, writing is amazing!
