⛄️ winter brings lights, laughter, and everything martin is too busy to stop for. between endless rehearsals and year-end schedules, christmas starts to feel like just another date on the calendar — until longing becomes impossible to ignore. as snow falls and wishes go unspoken, the only thing that truly matters isn’t wrapped beneath the tree. because sometimes, all you want for christmas is the person who feels like home.
⎯⎯ ⋆⁺₊❅. @wooahoe's 12 days of kpopblr
GENRE : fluff
PAIRING : idol!bf!martin x gn!reader
WORD COUNT : 981
PLAYLIST : All I Want for Christmas is You by Mariah Carey
NOTE : [written 13 dec]
Winter arrives quietly.
It slips into the city without asking permission, frosting rooftops and sidewalks, softening the sharp edges of everything familiar. Strings of golden lights loop around lampposts and storefronts, blinking patiently as though they know people will eventually look up. The air smells like sugar and coffee and cold metal—December in its truest form.
You notice it most at night.
From your apartment window, the street below glows with reflected light, snow catching on coats and hair, laughter curling up into the dark like smoke. You press your palm to the glass, feeling the chill seep through, and think—absentmindedly, achingly—this would be prettier if Martin were here.
The thought settles in your chest and refuses to move.
Martin has always loved winter in theory.
He likes the idea of it—the aesthetics, the warmth people find in each other, the way cold weather gives everyone an excuse to be closer. But in practice, winter means longer rehearsals, year-end performances, travel that leaves him exhausted and half-asleep in the back of vans with his hood pulled over his eyes.
This December is no different.
Every time you meet him, it’s between schedules: ten minutes in a practice room hallway, a rushed coffee before he disappears again, late-night messages when neither of you can sleep. You tell yourself it’s fine. You’ve always understood his world.
Still, understanding doesn’t make the quiet less loud.
On the first real snowfall, you’re alone in your kitchen, stirring cocoa on the stove. The radio hums softly in the background, some cheerful holiday song playing that makes you roll your eyes and smile despite yourself. Outside, flakes drift lazily past the window, thick and slow, like the sky is taking its time.
Your phone buzzes on the counter.
Martin: Guess what.
You grin, already warming.
You: You finally escaped rehearsal?
Martin: No 😔
Martin: But it’s snowing outside the studio. The big kind.
You imagine him there: leaning against the window, hair slightly damp from practice, eyes softer than usual as he watches the world slow down for once.
You: You always said you liked snow.
Martin: I like it better when I can share it.
The spoon in your hand stills.
You swallow, heart tightening just a little.
You: Come over, then.
Minutes pass. You don’t expect a yes. You already know the answer before it comes.
Martin: I wish.
You turn the stove off and stand there for a long moment, cocoa forgotten, the apartment suddenly feeling too big and too empty. Outside, the snow keeps falling—unbothered, unapologetic.
As Christmas approaches, the world gets louder.
Shopping bags pile up by doors. Children tug at their parents’ sleeves, pointing at lights and decorations with wide-eyed wonder. Everyone asks the same question with the same expectant smile: What do you want for Christmas?
You never know how to answer.
Because the truth is simple to the point of absurdity. You don’t want anything shiny or expensive or wrapped in paper. You don’t care about stockings or ornaments or what’s waiting under the tree.
You just want Martin.
You want him sprawled on your couch, stealing the warmest blanket. You want his cold hands tucked into your sleeves. You want his laughter echoing through your apartment, warm and familiar and real.
You want him here.
Christmas Eve arrives wrapped in silence.
Snow has piled up along the sidewalks, turning the city into something almost unreal. Your apartment glows softly—tree lights twinkling, candles flickering gently on the table. You’ve gone all out despite yourself, like part of you still believes magic might show up if you prepare for it.
You hang mistletoe in the doorway and laugh at your own foolishness.
“Like that’s going to work,” you murmur to yourself.
Your phone lies face-up on the coffee table. No new messages.
You try to distract yourself—folding laundry that doesn’t need folding, adjusting ornaments that are already perfectly straight. Outside, bells ring somewhere in the distance. Children laugh. The world feels full.
Your apartment does not.
You’re standing beneath the mistletoe, arms crossed, when doubt finally creeps in. Maybe this is just how it is. Maybe loving someone means accepting their absence, especially during moments meant to be shared.
Then—
A knock.
It’s soft at first. Almost hesitant.
Your heart stutters.
Another knock follows, louder, more certain.
You don’t breathe as you cross the room. You don’t think. You just open the door.
Cold air rushes in—and with it, Martin.
He stands on your doorstep, hair dusted with snow, cheeks flushed pink from the cold. His coat is half-zipped, scarf wrapped crookedly around his neck—the one you gave him, the one he wears even when it doesn’t match.
For a second, neither of you speaks.
Then he exhales, laughing breathlessly. “Hi.”
Your chest aches.
“You’re—” You stop, because words feel too small.
“I know,” he says softly. “I’m late. And I’m probably insane for coming out in this weather.”
You shake your head, eyes burning. “What are you doing here?”
His gaze softens completely.
“I didn’t want to wake up tomorrow and realize I missed this,” he says. “I don’t care about the presents. Or the tree. Or anything else.” He takes a step closer. “I just wanted you.”
The door closes behind him, sealing out the cold. Your apartment feels warmer instantly, like it recognizes him.
You don’t remember who moves first—but suddenly his arms are around you, strong and familiar, pulling you close. His coat is cold, but his body is warm, solid, real.
You press your face into his scarf and breathe him in.
“This,” Martin murmurs against your hair, holding you tighter, “is all I need.”
The lights glow softly around you. Snow continues to fall outside. And for the first time all season, your heart is quiet.
Christmas, you realize, has already arrived.
creds: heart by @anitalerina, snow lines by @saradika-graphics, please support by @dollywons ♡
tags: [wanna be tagged in my next fic? comment on the user directory to be added!!]
📜 on a rare quiet afternoon in the dorm, you’re left alone with keonho — just the two of you, a box of hair dye, and the kind of small, accidental moments that make your chest flutter.
The dorm is unusually quiet. You can hear the faint hum of the air conditioner and the distant sound of cars outside. The usual chatter of the other members is gone, leaving the apartment feeling almost too empty, but comforting in its own way. Sunlight cuts through the blinds in broad stripes, painting golden lines across the tiled floor. Dust floats lazily in the rays, and the subtle scent of shampoo and the remnants of snacks lingers in the air.
Keonho stands at the bathroom sink, a towel draped over his shoulders, head tilted forward as he examines the box of ash-brown hair dye. “You really think this is a good idea?” you ask, gloves on and fingers curling nervously around the plastic packaging.
He shrugs, a playful spark in his eyes. “You’re careful, right? I trust you.”
Trust. The word sits in your chest like a soft weight. You glance at him, heart fluttering, and for a moment, forget the gloves and the dye entirely. He’s smiling, calm, leaning slightly forward, and it makes your stomach twist pleasantly. You take a shaky breath and nod, letting your hands move toward the first section of his damp hair.
The moment your fingers brush through the strands, you realize how soft his hair really is. It’s warm under your touch, slightly sticky from the conditioner, and you almost pause at the sensation. He hums softly, eyes tracking your movements. That small sound makes your chest tighten — the intimacy in the quiet, the simplicity of touching his hair, feels enormous in the emptiness of the dorm.
“You’re… really gentle,” he murmurs, voice soft, almost hesitant.
“I… I’m just following directions,” you reply, laughing nervously. But your heart is pounding. Your hands move more deliberately now, brushing and separating strands, careful not to miss any spots, yet acutely aware of how close you are to him.
As you finish applying the dye to the first section, he leans forward, his hands sliding around your waist in a gentle, grounding motion. You freeze, the warmth of his body pressing lightly against yours, heart skipping a beat. He hums softly against your ear, subtle and grounding, like a quiet reassurance. You adjust your stance slightly, leaning back into him, and the small contact sends shivers down your spine.
“Relax,” he whispers. “You’re doing great.”
You can’t help but smile, cheeks warm, fingers brushing lightly against his temple as you work. Every small motion — the way he holds himself still for you, the faint smell of his shampoo mixing with the chemical scent of the dye — makes the world narrow down to the two of you in this small, sunlit bathroom.
Minutes pass, and the small intimacy grows in waves. He teases you lightly about reading the instructions too carefully, and you respond with a mock glare, though your fingers linger in his hair a fraction too long. His hands stay around your waist, steady, reassuring, almost possessive in the softest way. He hums quietly, a gentle vibration against you, and you feel a dizzying mixture of calm and fluttery nervousness.
When it’s time to rinse, the quiet balance collapses. Water splashes everywhere — the showerhead slips slightly in your hands — and Keonho yelps, laughing so hard he almost tips off the stool. You’re both drenched, hair plastered to your foreheads, clothes clinging damply. Towels are grabbed and dropped, dripping all over the bathroom tiles, and laughter fills the space, bouncing off the walls.
“You look like you lost a fight with a sprinkler,” he teases, shaking water from his hair, droplets scattering across your shirt.
“Yeah? Says the one who trusted me with chemicals on his head,” you fire back, flicking a droplet of water at him.
The chaos dies down into a soft, steady quiet. You reach for a towel, brushing the damp hair from his forehead, hands lingering a fraction too long. His hands remain around your waist, holding you close, his body warmth grounding you in a way that makes your chest ache. He hums against you again, leaning just slightly, and the small tilt of his forehead to yours says more than words ever could.
“Thanks,” he murmurs, soft and low.
“Anytime,” you reply, brushing your fingers along his temple, heart fluttering with every subtle movement.
He leans just a little closer, the faintest touch of his lips brushing against your hair. “You did a really good job,” he says.
“You’d look good even if I’d ruined it,” you whisper.
His smirk is soft, affectionate. “Lucky for me, you didn’t.”
The dorm has settled into a calm rhythm. Outside, the sun has dipped low, painting the windows with a soft amber glow that warms the walls and casts long shadows across the furniture. You sink deeper into the couch, the fabric soft under your palms, wrapped loosely in a damp towel still smelling faintly of shampoo and the chemical tang of the dye. Keonho is beside you, leaning in, head resting lightly on your shoulder.
One arm drapes over you, hand brushing absentmindedly along your side, fingertips tracing idle patterns that send small shivers through you. You can feel the warmth of his body, steady and familiar, pressing slightly against yours. The quiet of the dorm — the soft hum of the air conditioner, the distant rustle of papers or a door somewhere down the hall — makes everything else fade away.
You brush his damp hair gently with your fingers, lifting strands that have fallen against his forehead. The hair is soft, warm, and slightly sticky from the dye rinse, and it clings lightly to your skin. He hums softly in response, a low, contented sound that vibrates faintly against your shoulder. Your chest flutters, a delicate rhythm matching the steady thump of your heartbeat.
“You know,” he murmurs after a few minutes, voice low and thoughtful, “I didn’t think dyeing my hair could feel… this nice.”
You glance down at him, eyebrows raised in surprise, smiling softly. “This nice?”
He hums again, eyes half-lidded, and tilts his head slightly. “Yeah. Just… you being here. Helping me. Touching my hair. It’s… nice.”
Your stomach twists pleasantly at the unspoken affection behind the words. You tuck your fingers more carefully into the ends of his hair, brushing them back, and your fingers linger longer than necessary. He shifts slightly closer, pressing a little more into your side.
“You’re warm,” you say softly, a little shyly, more to yourself than him.
He grins faintly, tilting his head down just enough to nuzzle against your shoulder. “And you’re… soft,” he replies, teasing lightly, but there’s a quiet sincerity under it.
You let yourself lean into him, closing your eyes briefly, breathing in the mix of shampoo and faint lingering dye, the faint musk of him that’s uniquely Keonho. Your fingers curl into his hair, and he hums again, tilting his forehead lightly against yours.
“You smell… really good,” you whisper, almost embarrassed.
“Really?” he says, a soft laugh escaping, warm and musical. “Guess I’ve been saving this just for you.”
Your cheeks flush, heart fluttering. You look down, and he’s watching you, eyes bright in the soft glow, lips curved in that small, teasing smile that always makes your chest feel tight. You can’t help but smile back, feeling the gentle thrill of being so close, of sharing this quiet moment together.
He shifts, one hand brushing down your arm to rest over your hand, fingers curling slightly around yours. “I could stay like this forever,” he says quietly, voice soft enough that you almost don’t hear it.
Your breath catches. You squeeze his hand gently, leaning your head against his. “Me too,” you whisper.
For a few minutes, neither of you moves. You stay wrapped in the quiet warmth, the faint scent of shampoo and dye, the subtle creak of the couch as you both settle. Outside, the light fades further, the dorm shadows stretching longer, but inside, it’s a cocoon of warmth and softness.
Then he nudges you playfully with his shoulder. “You’ve got a little dye on your shirt,” he says, mock stern, but his grin gives him away.
You laugh softly, brushing it off with your fingers. “And? You’re soaked, too.”
He laughs, the sound low and musical, and leans against you again, hand resting over yours, squeezing just enough to remind you that he’s here, warm, present, and completely yours for these small, perfect moments.
The rest of the evening stretches slowly, filled with soft touches, quiet laughter, and the simple comfort of being together. Each small gesture — a hand brushing a strand of hair, a nuzzle against your shoulder, shared teasing that melts into laughter — carries the kind of intimacy that doesn’t need words to feel important.
By the time you finally get up to grab water, he sighs softly, stretching against you. “I could get used to this,” he says.
“Me too,” you reply, smiling down at him, feeling the warmth of your chest bloom outward. And in that ordinary, quiet dorm space, with faint sunlight fading and your fingers brushing his, it feels like the most extraordinary evening in the world.
Minutes pass in comfortable silence. He shifts slightly closer, resting his cheek against yours, warm and steady, and you notice your eyelids feeling heavier with each passing minute. A small yawn escapes, and you brush your lips against the top of his head without thinking.
He chuckles softly, a low, sleepy sound. “You’re tired,” he murmurs, nuzzling against your shoulder.
“Maybe a little,” you admit, letting your body relax into his.
His hand tightens slightly around your waist, fingers curling over your side as if to anchor you. “Stay like this for a while,” he says, voice low and soft. “I like it.”
You close your eyes, letting the warmth of his body seep into yours. The soft brush of his fingers against your side, the faint scent of his shampoo and the lingering dye, the gentle hum of the air conditioning — all of it lulls you further into calm. Another yawn escapes, this time shared silently as he stretches one arm over your waist, drawing you closer.
You rest your head against his, cheek pressed to his temple, heart fluttering as you feel him inhale softly. The room grows dimmer, the amber sunlight fading to a gentle glow from the ceiling light. His breathing steadies, slow and even, and you realize your own pulse is syncing, soft and steady against his warmth.
“You feel… really nice like this,” you murmur sleepily.
He hums in response, a content, sleepy sound, pressing his forehead gently against yours. “So do you,” he whispers.
The world outside ceases to matter. The dorm, the air, even the faint chemical scent of the dye — it all blends into a cocoon of warmth. Fingers intertwined lightly, your legs tangled, bodies pressed close, you both sink into the couch fully, drifting together toward sleep.
Your last conscious thought before the pull of sleep takes over is the simple, beautiful feeling of being held, warm, safe, and inexplicably at home with someone new, someone gentle, someone you already care about more than words could say.
And then the room quiets completely, save for the soft, steady rhythm of his breathing, matching yours, as the two of you drift into dreams, wrapped up in each other.
Sunlight spills lazily through the blinds, painting golden stripes across the living room floor. You stir slightly on the couch, still wrapped in Keonho’s oversized sweatshirt, hair mussed from sleeping curled against him. His head rests lightly on your shoulder, one arm draped across your waist, fingers brushing lazily against your side even as he snores softly in that low, contented way that makes your chest squeeze with fondness.
A quiet yawn escapes you, stretching and rolling your shoulders. You glance down at him, blinking at the sunlight catching in his damp, newly-dyed strands, and a small smile tugs at your lips. He murmurs in his sleep, shifting slightly, nuzzling closer against you without waking fully.
“Cute,” you whisper, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. He stirs, mumbling something incoherent, then settles again, eyes still closed. You take a deep breath, the warmth of his body, the faint shampoo-and-dye scent, the softness of his sweatshirt — it’s all so cozy, so safe.
The sound of footsteps and chatter announces the other members’ return. They pile in, half-teasing, half-caring, and the dorm instantly fills with life.
“Whoa! Who did your hair, Keonho?” one of them calls, pointing at him. “Did you finally let someone brave do it?”
Keonho groans softly, burying his face deeper into your shoulder. “Someone talented,” he mutters, a blush spreading faintly across his cheeks. His hand tightens slightly over yours under the sweatshirt, just enough to remind you he’s present, warm, and sharing this small private moment with you despite the teasing.
You bite your lip to suppress a giggle, feeling your own cheeks flush. “He let me do it,” you say softly, squeezing his hand.
“Lucky you,” one member teases, nudging him gently. “Did they make you pay for it in hugs or something?”
Keonho blinks, then smirks faintly, still half-buried against you. “Something like that,” he says, fingers tightening over yours.
You glance down at him, heart fluttering at how small, shy, and content he looks like this — hair messy, body pressed lightly against yours, warmth radiating through his sweater. You rest your chin on his head, letting a soft sigh escape as you take in the playful chaos around you.
“You’re really… something,” you murmur quietly, almost to yourself.
He shifts slightly, peeking at you with a sleepy, teasing grin. “I could say the same about you,” he whispers, thumb brushing your knuckles.
The members continue their playful banter, but you barely notice. Your attention is entirely on the subtle, perfect intimacy of the moment — the warmth of his body, the gentle pressure of his hand, the faint sound of his breathing matching yours. Even amid the teasing and noise of the dorm, it feels like a small bubble of just-the-two-of-you serenity.
Sunlight glances off the polished floor, dust floating lazily in the golden rays, and for a moment, you simply stay there: wrapped up in him, fingers intertwined, hearts fluttering, silently knowing that these small, domestic, and quiet moments are the ones that matter most.
Keonho shifts again, tilting his head to nuzzle against your cheek. “Don’t ever let me forget this morning,” he murmurs sleepily, voice soft, warm.
You smile, leaning into him, your heart swelling with the unspoken, gentle confession of new love. “I won’t,” you whisper, and the world feels impossibly soft and perfect, filled with the quiet certainty of belonging to each other in these little, tender moments.
creds: pearl by @cursed-carmine, cat by @ianrkives, scalloped by @chrisssiren ♡
tags: [wanna be tagged in my next fic? comment on the user directory to be added!!]
🌸 a few hours before his birthday ends, the world quiets down, and it’s just you and james. a night of tender affection, whispered words, and soft smiles, where the best gift is simply being with each other.
GENRE : fluff
PAIRING : bf!james x gn!reader
CONTAINS : emotional intimacy, gentle teasing, soft physical affection (cuddling, kisses), a heartfelt letter, and a sentimental gift.
WORD COUNT : 940
NOTE : a very late james bday fic!! i was busy studying for my exam (｡ᵕ ◞ _◟) [written 17 oct]
The apartment is quiet now, almost unreal in how still it feels after the day’s chaos. Outside, the city hums softly in the distance, streetlights spilling golden puddles across the windowsill. Inside, the faint scent of cake lingers, mingling with the warmth of blankets and the quiet electricity of being alone with him. James sits on the couch, slouched just enough to look casual, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, hair still tousled from the day. There’s that soft tiredness in his eyes, the curve of his lips that makes your chest flutter even when he’s half-asleep.
You’re curled against him, legs draped across his lap, your head resting on his shoulder. One of his hands idly traces circles on your thigh, thumb warm and steady, the other tucked behind your back, holding you close without effort. The silence between you isn’t empty — it’s full, layered with the comfort of familiarity and the quiet joy of having survived another day together.
“Almost midnight,” you murmur, watching the shadows shift as the lamp flickers.
James hums, voice low and lazy. “Mm. Feels weird that the day’s almost over. It went by too fast.”
You reach over and slip your fingers into his, holding them briefly. “Not for me,” you whisper. “I’m still here. And I saved one last thing for you.”
His eyebrows lift, playful curiosity mixing with fatigue. “One last thing? You’re spoiling me.”
You smile against him, tugging gently at his hand. “It’s nothing big. I promise.”
Reaching beneath the cushion, you pull out a small, neatly wrapped package. The paper is soft to the touch, a faint crinkle as you hand it to him. He takes it carefully, brushing your fingers as he lifts it, a look of something soft flickering in his eyes — curiosity, amusement, affection all mixed together.
He unwraps it slowly, almost reverently, as though savoring the act itself. Inside is a small metallic keychain, simple but gleaming faintly in the lamp’s warm light. Two initials are engraved side by side — yours and his.
“Us,” he whispers, almost to himself, thumb brushing over the letters. His voice is softer now, quieter, the playful edge from earlier gone.
You lean closer, heart thudding. “Thought you could carry it with you… something small that’s always yours.”
He looks up at you then, eyes bright and slightly wet, and the way he catches your gaze makes your chest ache. “I… I love it. You didn’t have to, but I love it.”
You reach down and squeeze his hand. “I wanted to. It’s your birthday.”
There’s a small pause, almost sacred in its softness, before your fingers brush over a folded envelope tucked beneath the keychain. He picks it up carefully, reading the delicate script, and you feel your stomach flutter in anticipation.
“Should I read it now?” he asks softly, voice barely above a whisper.
You nod, pressing your forehead lightly against his shoulder. “If you want.”
He unfolds the letter slowly. Every line, every word you wrote seems to draw him closer, his breathing catching slightly, his lips tugging into a small, quiet smile as he reads. Sometimes he glances up at you, and your heart skips — the vulnerability there, the quiet adoration, both at once, as though he’s seeing not just the words but everything you feel for him.
“Did you… really write all this for me?” he asks, voice breaking just a little.
“Of course,” you murmur, feeling your own voice catch. “It’s your birthday. I had to tell you.”
He sets the letter aside, resting his forehead gently against yours. His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing along your cheekbones. “You’re… you’re incredible,” he says softly. “The keychain… the letter… you. All of it. I… I don’t know what to say.”
You press a soft kiss to his lips, and he responds immediately, slow and steady, brushing his thumbs along your jaw. It’s not rushed, not urgent — just a gentle confirmation of everything that’s unspoken, a bridge between words and feeling.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead still resting against yours, he murmurs, “I’ve never felt… this quiet before, with someone. I can feel it all, right here,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest. “And it’s you.”
Your chest tightens at his words. You tuck yourself closer, resting your head against his shoulder again. “You’ve got me,” you whisper.
“Mm,” he hums, a low, contented sound. “And I’ve got you. Best part of my whole day… my whole year, honestly.”
The clock ticks closer to midnight. Outside, a car hums past, fading into the distance. Inside, the glow of the lamp and the weight of quiet affection fills the room. You can feel him relax against you, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat pressing into your temple. He tucks you closer, arms wrapping around you like he’s never letting go.
“Happy birthday, James,” you murmur, voice thick with emotion.
He presses a kiss to your hair, soft and lingering. “Best one yet,” he whispers. “Because of you.”
And there, in the quiet glow of the lamp, with a letter, a tiny keychain, and all the words left unspoken but deeply felt, you let yourselves stay there — tangled, warm, safe. Time has no hold over you. The world has shrunk to the gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath your ear, the weight of him in your lap, the way your fingers thread together and don’t want to let go.
And for a few hours before midnight, nothing else exists but the two of you, quiet and full, hearts pressed close together, and love so tangible it hums in the stillness.
creds: pearl by @cursed-carmine, swan by @222luvr, scalloped by @chrisssiren ♡
tags: [wanna be tagged in my next fic? comment on the user directory to be added!!]
📹 come spend a full day with us! from groggy mornings and red bull breakfasts to bookstore strolls, park laughs, and a cozy evening at home, join us for a relaxing, playful, and completely ordinary day together!
GENRE : fluff
PAIRING : idol!bf!martin x gn!reader
CONTAINS : caffeine (red bull in honor of their sponsorship!), playful teasing, cuddles
WORD COUNT : 2.4k
NOTE : [written 13 oct]
The first thing you notice is the soft golden slant of morning sunlight spilling across the rumpled sheets, painting the room in warm, sleepy light, and the faint click of a camera turning on. Martin’s low, raspy voice cuts through the haze before you can even open your eyes.
“...Is it on?”
You squint toward the nightstand where the little red recording light blinks at you, and your groggy brain registers that he’s leaning over the camera, blonde hair messy, eyes half-lidded and still heavy with sleep. He’s so tall that even lying down, his shoulder brushes yours when he moves closer.
“Good morning,” he mutters, checking his phone. “Eight-oh-three. Vlog starts… now.” He tilts the camera toward you and you groan, dragging the covers higher over your head.
“You didn’t tell me we were filming first thing.”
“That’s the point,” he says quietly, a teasing lilt in his voice. “Authenticity. Real chaos.”
He swings the blanket off the bed and crawls closer, long legs tangling with yours as he nudges you with his hip. You feel the warmth of his chest against your back, his arm stretching around you until your head barely reaches his chin.
He presses a quick kiss into your temple, whispering, “Cute mess.”
You can’t stop the soft laugh that escapes into the pillow. “I’ll allow it,” you murmur, and for a few minutes you both just lie there, breathing in sync, letting the camera record the quiet intimacy of your shared warmth, the sunlight sliding slowly across the rumpled sheets.
You drift back toward sleep together until the alarm rings thirty minutes later with a sharp, insistent beep. Martin groans into your shoulder, “Nooo…”
You peek at him, still half-asleep. “Exactly thirty minutes.”
He buries his face in your neck, “Time is a social construct.”
You laugh, tugging gently at his sleeve. “We can’t ignore it. You have to film later.”
He sighs, reluctantly swinging his legs off the bed, hair sticking up in all directions, and flashes you a lopsided grin. “Fine. Only because you’re cute.”
He picks up the camera and props it on the nightstand again, leaning over it with that playful sleepy grin. “Step one: complain. Step two: actually get up. Step three: brush teeth without terrifying the audience.”
The bathroom is a warm, narrow space with pale light making the tiles glow faintly. He sets the camera on the ledge, tilting it to catch both of your reflections.
“We could skip teeth and call it a morning adventure,” he jokes, picking up his toothbrush.
“Or you could not look like a sleepy raccoon,” you counter, pointing yours at him, making him laugh through the foam already at the corner of his mouth.
His shoulder brushes yours as you move, reflection showing him towering over you slightly, his arms long enough to wrap around you if he wanted, and his grin softening every time your eyes meet in the mirror.
When you finish, he wipes a stray speck of toothpaste from your cheek and hugs you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder, and murmurs, “We look cute like this.”
“You look like you still need to sleep,” you reply.
“Same thing,” he says, voice soft, letting the morning linger a few seconds longer.
By the time you reach the kitchen, the sun is higher, and the counter is cluttered with cereal boxes, a few mugs, and two cans of Red Bull standing like trophies.
“Breakfast of champions,” he announces, cracking them both open and handing one to you.
“No coffee?”
“Too slow. We’re living dangerously,” he says, smirking.
You clink your cans together and take long simultaneous sips, grimacing immediately as the carbonation hits.
“Regret,” he coughs.
“You made me do this too,” you laugh.
“Exactly,” he says, taking another sip. “For the vlog. Our subscribers must see the real struggle.”
You sit at the small table, leaning back just slightly to feel him brush against your arm while he sips. Conversation drifts lazily from what to film that day to jokes about hating on Ahn Keonho, his long limbs occasionally brushing yours as he gestures, reminding you of the gentle height gap between you.
After a few quiet moments, he looks over at you, voice softening, “I like mornings like this. Just… here, with you. No rehearsals, no cameras, nothing but us.”
You squeeze his hand and smile. “You should film mornings more often.”
“Only if you’re in them,” he murmurs, a small laugh escaping as he finally stands, tugging his hoodie over his head and reaching for the camera.
You slip on socks and shoes, fingers intertwined as he towers over you, long strides pulling you along slightly, the height difference making his protective presence all the more noticeable.
“Ready for our first destination?” he asks, tilting the camera toward both of you.
“You mean the bookstore,” you reply, already smiling.
“Exactly. Secret mission: find the perfect book,” he says, adjusting the camera so it catches both of you walking down the quiet streets, sunlight hitting his short blonde hair in soft streaks, the long legs forcing you to match his stride, fingers brushing occasionally as you walk side by side.
“Also, look cute while doing it,” he adds, glancing down at you. You laugh, leaning just slightly into him as he nudges your shoulder gently, “I’ll try.”
The city is waking up as you follow Martin down the quiet streets, his long legs carrying him easily while you match pace, fingers brushing occasionally, the camera balanced in his hand. He narrates softly in that sleepy-host voice, “Here we have Y/N, on their first mission of the day: survive a caffeinated morning and look adorable while doing it.” You shove him lightly. “You’re ridiculous.” He grins, towering over you, brushing a strand of his short blonde hair back from his forehead, eyes crinkling as he laughs.
“Ridiculous and charming, thank you very much.”
The bookstore comes into view, its wooden doors small compared to the tall, imposing figure of Martin at the entrance. He opens it for you with a flourish, stepping aside so you can slip in first, towering slightly as you duck under the frame. The bell above the door jingles softly, mingling with the quiet rustle of pages and the faint scent of paper.
You wander slowly between aisles, fingertips brushing the spines, while Martin trails behind, occasionally reaching for a book just to hold it up and examine the cover, whispering his commentary into the camera.
He crouches low to pick up a paperback from a lower shelf, and you catch yourself glancing at him, noticing how his long frame fits perfectly in the cozy, sunlit space.
A magazine on the front display catches his eye, and he groans, ducking behind a nearby shelf.
“I can’t escape,” he mutters, voice muffled by the books. You grin, lifting the camera to catch him hiding dramatically, whispering, “Wild Martin in his natural habitat.”
He peeks out, flashing a cheeky grin. “You’re enjoying this too much,” he whispers back, then ducks again.
You’re laughing so quietly you almost forget to breathe, the way he towers over you in every aisle, brushing past your shoulder occasionally as you pick books together, the warmth of him close to you entirely comforting.
Eventually, you leave the bookstore with a small paperback tucked under your arm, stepping into the sunlit street once more.
The walk to the park is casual, the city around you alive but soft, distant from the peaceful cocoon of your little world together. At the park, he lets you sit on a bench first, towering over you slightly as he slides in beside you.
He leans his shoulder against yours, brushing yours lightly, and you rest your head briefly on him while he whispers observations about the clouds and how one looks like a dragon, another like a tiny cat.
He gestures with his free hand, laughing at how you tilt your head to see what he’s pointing at.
Time drifts lazily—snacks shared on a park bench, an occasional stolen fry or bite of fruit, both of you laughing as the camera catches the candid moments. When he leans down to adjust the camera, you can’t help but notice the height difference again; even crouched, his long frame feels safe and comforting, a presence that wraps around you like a blanket.
He nudges your shoulder lightly, joking about needing a manual to navigate a day out with you, and you push him back just slightly, both of you laughing, cheeks warm from the soft afternoon sun.
The walk home is slow, hands still intertwined, fingers brushing, thumbs occasionally rubbing each other in tiny, unconscious gestures of comfort.
The sun is dipping low as you step inside, the apartment wrapped in that warm, golden light that makes everything feel calm and soft. Martin drops the camera on the counter with a small clink, grinning at you. “Home sweet home. Mission accomplished: survived caffeine, bookstores, and pigeons.” You laugh, shrugging off your shoes, and he slides onto the couch beside you, tugging a blanket around both of you.
“I’m starving,” he murmurs after a beat, glancing at you. You nod, thinking about takeout. “Let’s get something simple,” you suggest. “Pizza, sushi, or ramen,” he adds with mock-seriousness. “Your choice, commander.” “Commander?” “You’re the general of this operation,” he says, nudging you lightly, “and I am your obedient, hungry soldier.” You can’t help laughing, following him into the small kitchen, where he leans casually on the counter as you gather the takeout boxes.
You start opening the containers together, fumbling slightly as he teases you about condiments. “You’re supposed to put that on the noodles, not eat it straight.”
You roll your eyes, nudging him playfully. “You’re lucky I like you.”
He grins, ducking down just enough to press a brief, soft nuzzle to your temple. The gesture is subtle but tender, and you feel a warm ache of affection.
Dinner is cozy and relaxed. The clinking of chopsticks and soft laughter fills the apartment as you steal bites from each other’s plates and tease about who eats more quickly. Occasionally, he reaches across to brush crumbs from your sleeve, and you flick his arm lightly in return, both of you laughing. The camera perched nearby captures all the small moments: the shared glances, the comfortable silence punctuated by jokes, and the quiet happiness of being together without distraction.
After dinner, you both curl up on the couch under blankets, talking softly about the day and what to watch next. He drapes an arm around your shoulders, and you lean into him, feeling safe and warm. Conversation drifts lazily from playful debates over movie choices to joking critiques of the day’s vlog footage. His fingers brush yours absentmindedly, tracing gentle circles as you settle into the quiet rhythm of the evening.
When you tease him about his dramatic commentary at the bookstore, he laughs, leaning slightly into you.
“I’m a professional entertainer. You can’t hold me accountable,” he says, voice low and fond. You hum softly, resting your head against him. The apartment feels cozy, the light soft, and the outside world distant.
By the time the kitchen is quiet and the takeout boxes are cleared, you both sink back into the couch, the blanket draped loosely over your shoulders. You curl up next to him, head resting lightly on his chest, and he wraps an arm around you, holding you close. The room is filled with quiet contentment, laughter from earlier in the day still lingering in your mind, and the soft hum of evening settling in.
He murmurs, half-teasing, half-serious, “I could stay like this forever.”
You hum, closing your eyes for a moment. “Me too.”
He squeezes you gently, and you feel the warmth of the day folding into the quiet, simple comfort of being together, the soft ordinary moments making everything feel perfectly complete.
The movie starts, the screen glowing softly in the dim apartment, and you both settle into the couch under the blankets. You tuck your legs against him, and he drapes an arm across your shoulders, holding you close. The quiet hum of dialogue from the TV fills the room, mixed with the soft rhythm of his breathing.
Every so often he murmurs a comment about the scene—sometimes teasing, sometimes just observational—and you laugh quietly, leaning a little closer to him.
You reach for a bowl of popcorn sitting between you, and he nudges your hand playfully, stealing a kernel before popping it in his mouth.
You flick his arm lightly in mock protest, and he grins down at you, soft and fond. The conversation drifts lazily, from joking critiques of the movie to reminiscing about moments from earlier in the day—the bookstore, the park, even the Red Bull breakfast.
Every memory sparks a small laugh, his warmth radiating beside you as you lean into him.
At some point, you rest your head fully on his chest, feeling the rise and fall of him beneath you. He adjusts slightly to make you more comfortable, wrapping an arm more securely around your shoulders, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head.
The blanket slips around both of you, cocooning you in quiet warmth. The world outside the apartment fades, leaving only the soft glow of the TV, the quiet apartment, and the gentle intimacy of the two of you together.
Your eyelids grow heavy, and he hums a quiet, soothing tune, one you recognize from practice but softened for this private moment. You shift slightly, nuzzling closer, and he presses his cheek to the top of your head.
“Sleepy already?” he murmurs. You hum, not bothering to reply. He squeezes you gently, his presence grounding and comforting, the day’s laughter, adventures, and small chaos folding into this peaceful end.
Eventually, your breathing slows, and he settles fully, holding you like this as the movie plays quietly in the background. The camera, now off, sits forgotten on the table, leaving only the warmth of the apartment and the quiet intimacy between you.
He whispers softly, “Goodnight,” and you feel safe, content, and entirely at home. The soft light fades as the movie continues, but you don’t notice anymore; you’re too wrapped in him, in the warmth and comfort of the day, drifting slowly and perfectly into sleep.
creds: pearl by @cursed-carmine, butterfly by @dollywons, scalloped by @chrisssiren ♡
tags: [wanna be tagged in my next fic? comment on the user directory to be added!!]
