I neeeed scenarios of Ateez where they had an argument with s/o, who chooses to sleep on the couch, but they don’t want and try to make up😩
Love your writing keep going🫶🏻
pairing: Ateez x reader!
warnings: fighting, established relationship, childish behaviour
disclaimer: not my pic!
Well my Ex used to kicked me out of the appartment when we fought so....
Hongjoong
The night was quiet, the kind of silence that pressed against your chest and made every thought louder. You had stormed out earlier, too angry to even look at him, and he had stayed behind, pacing through the apartment until exhaustion finally dragged him to bed.
When Hongjoong woke up, the space beside him was cold. For a moment, he reached out instinctively, expecting to find you there — maybe turned away, but still close enough to feel. His fingers brushed only the sheets.
His chest tightened.
He sat up, rubbing his face with both hands as he blinked away the fog of sleep. “Y/N?” he called softly, his voice hoarse. There was no answer. The red numbers on the clock told him it was past two in the morning. He pushed the blanket aside, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and ran a hand through his messy hair.
The apartment felt heavy as he walked through it — lights dim, air still thick from the earlier tension. His mind started running through possibilities he didn’t want to consider. Had you gone back out? Were you still angry enough to leave for good?
Then he saw you.
You were lying on the couch, wrapped in a throw blanket, one arm tucked under your head. Your face was turned toward the back of the couch, and for a moment he thought you were asleep. Relief washed over him so hard he had to exhale just to steady himself.
Hongjoong leaned against the doorway and let out a quiet sigh, his fingers absentmindedly scratching the back of his head. He wanted to say something — anything — but the words tangled in his throat. Apologies felt too small, explanations too late.
Before he could decide, your voice broke the silence.
"Are you just going to stand there and look stupid?”
You turned over slowly, eyes meeting his in the dim light. He froze, caught between guilt and affection. Then, softly, almost sheepishly, he smiled.
“Where have you been?” he asked, his tone lighter than he felt.
“Walking around the neighborhood,” you said, your voice low but steady. “Figured I should walk it off before I strangle you.”
He let out a small laugh — that kind of tired chuckle that carried more love than humor. “Fair enough,” he said, his lips curving into a real smile for the first time that night.
He took a few steps closer, watching your expression. “Come to bed,” he murmured.
You didn’t move. You only looked at him, eyes guarded.
He sighed softly and rubbed the back of his neck. “If you don’t,” he said, “I’m just gonna end up sleeping on the couch with you. And even though I'm not the tallest...this could get uncomfortable."
That earned the faintest twitch of your lips. You let out a quiet sigh and finally sat up, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. Without saying anything, you got up and brushed past him toward the bedroom. He followed, quietly grateful, giving you space but staying close enough that you knew he was there.
When you both lay down, the silence returned — but this time, it wasn’t heavy. It was tentative, fragile, the kind of quiet that comes after the storm passes but before the sky clears.
After a few moments, you felt the mattress shift. Hongjoong moved closer, his arm slipping gently around your waist. You didn’t stop him.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered against your shoulder. His breath was warm, shaky. “I'm sorry...I'm sorry....I'm sorry."
You turned in his arms, meeting his eyes in the dim light. His expression was open, raw — no walls, no pride left. You cupped his cheek, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth.
“Me too,” you murmured.
He leaned in slowly, almost hesitant, until your lips met. The kiss was soft, quiet — an unspoken promise to try again, to do better, to hold on.
Seonghwa
The sound of running water filled the apartment, echoing faintly down the hallway. Seonghwa lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, his jaw tight. His teeth caught his bottom lip, and he chewed it in frustration. The argument from earlier still replayed in his head like a broken record.
He heard the bathroom drawers slam — once, twice, a little louder each time. He rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, “Absolute cinema."
He turned onto his side just as you emerged from the bathroom. Your hair was damp, your expression sharp enough to cut glass. For a long moment, you just stared at each other — two exhausted people who loved each other too much to back down.
“Calmed down?” Seonghwa asked, his voice cool but teasing, like he couldn’t help himself.
You didn’t answer. Instead, you raised your middle finger, grabbed your pillow, and started for the door.
His brows furrowed. “What the Fuck?”
“I’m going to sleep on the couch,” you snapped, clutching your pillow like a weapon.
He groaned, pushing himself up onto one elbow. “Seriously?”
You ignored him and kept walking, but he reached out, grabbing the corner of your pillow and tugging it back. “You’re ridiculous,” he muttered.
“Let go,” you hissed, tugging harder.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Y/N, you’re not—”
“Seonghwa, let go!”
The pillow became a silent battlefield, the two of you pulling it back and forth like stubborn children. The frustration that had built all evening poured into that ridiculous tug-of-war. Finally, you huffed, released your grip, and took a sharp step back.
“Fine! Keep it!” you spat, turning to storm off.
But you didn’t get far. Seonghwa was faster — the bed creaked as he lunged forward, catching your wrist before you could reach the door. You gasped as he pulled you back toward him, stumbling until you fell onto the mattress with a soft thud. Before you could react, he rolled over you, one hand braced beside your head, his dark eyes locked onto yours.
“Look at me,” he said quietly, but firmly.
You tried to glare, but his closeness made it hard to think. Your heart was still pounding from the argument, from the tugging, from him.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low and steady. “I really am. I can’t stand the thought of you sleeping on that couch.”
You pressed your lips together, refusing to answer. His thumb brushed along your jawline, his tone softening.
“Please,” he murmured. “You can hog the blanket. Steal my pillow. Kick me if you want. Just… stay.”
The sincerity in his voice melted the last bit of your anger. You sighed, looking up at him with tired eyes. “You’re an asshole,” you muttered.
His lips twitched into a small smile. “Likewise.”
You hesitated, then finally nodded. “Fine. I’ll stay.”
Relief flashed across his face. “Good,” he whispered. “Now kiss me.”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Kiss me,” he repeated, a hint of playfulness returning to his tone.
You scoffed, turning your head slightly. “Fuck off.”
But when he leaned closer, your resolve cracked. His nose brushed yours, his breath warm against your skin, and you finally met him halfway. The kiss started slow, uncertain, but deepened as all the frustration bled into tenderness.
When you finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours. “Thank you,” he whispered.
You sighed softly. “You still owe me a new pillow.”
He chuckled, brushing his thumb over your lips. “Deal. Just as long as you don’t leave my bed again.”
Yunho
The apartment had been painfully quiet all evening. You hadn’t said a word to him since your argument — not one. Every attempt Yunho made to talk was met with silence, a blank look, or you simply walking away.
He followed you from room to room a few times, trying to apologize, trying to explain, but your silence hit harder than any words could. Eventually, he gave up and let you have your space, hoping that maybe things would cool down by bedtime.
But when he went to bed later that night, he froze in the doorway.
Your pillow was gone. So were your blankets.
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as a faint crease formed between his brows. “You’ve got to be kidding me…” he muttered to himself.
Sure enough, when he walked into the living room, there you were — fluffing a pillow, spreading a blanket across the couch like you were settling in for the night. He watched you for a moment, torn between amusement and frustration.
That was it. He’d had enough.
As soon as you stepped into the kitchen, probably to grab some water, Yunho made his move. He walked over to the couch, crouched a little, and — with a determined look — climbed onto it.
It was far too small for him. His legs hung off the edge, one arm barely finding a place to rest, but he still stretched out and folded his hands over his stomach like he’d just claimed a victory.
When you returned, your jaw dropped. “The Fuck are you doing?”
Yunho looked up at you calmly. “I’m sleeping on the couch.”
Your eyes narrowed. “No, you’re not. I’m sleeping on the couch.”
“Well,” he said, shifting slightly, the couch creaking under his long frame, “I already got here first.”
You crossed your arms. “You don’t even fit, Yunho. You’re going to hurt your back.”
He shrugged, lips quirking into a faint, stubborn smile. “Then I guess we both won’t sleep comfortably tonight.”
“Yunho…”
“Either I sleep on the couch,” he said, turning his head toward you, “or no one does.”
You groaned, throwing your hands in the air. “This is bullshit”
He just smiled softly, settling deeper into the tiny couch, clearly refusing to move. You stood there for a few seconds, glaring at him, before letting out a frustrated huff and storming off toward the bedroom.
“Goodnight!” he called after you, cheerful despite the situation.
He stayed there for a while, staring at the ceiling, the blanket barely covering him. The couch was definitely too small, but he didn’t care. The idea of you out here alone didn’t sit right with him.
A few minutes passed. Then the sound of your footsteps echoed down the hallway again.
Yunho turned his head just in time to see you glaring down at him, arms crossed.
“Get your ass off the couch and come to bed,” you snapped.
He blinked, then smiled. “You sure?”
“Don’t make me repeat myself.”
That was all he needed. He got up, stretching his stiff limbs, and followed you quietly back to the bedroom. You climbed into bed first, turning your back toward him, and he slid in beside you, careful not to push.
The silence returned — but it wasn’t cold this time.
“I hate you,” you muttered into your pillow.
Yunho chuckled softly. “Yeah, I can tell.”
But then he felt it — your foot brushing against his under the blanket, your toes tangling gently with his. You didn’t move away.
He smiled to himself, closing his eyes. She’s not mad anymore, he thought. Not really.
Yeosang
After dinner, the air between you was heavy — not stormy anymore, just heavy. The kind of tension that lingered even after the arguing had stopped. You didn’t say anything, just quietly started gathering your pillow and blanket, carrying them toward the living room.
Yeosang noticed immediately.
He leaned against the doorframe, brow furrowing slightly as he watched you spread your blanket across the couch and fluff your pillow with a little more force than necessary.
“What are you doing?” he asked, voice calm but confused.
“I’m sleeping here tonight,” you said shortly, avoiding his gaze.
He blinked, head tilting slightly. “Why?”
“Because,” you muttered, adjusting your blanket, “I don’t want to sleep in our bed tonight.”
He stood there for a few seconds, lips pressed together, trying to process your words. Then he let out a quiet exhale through his nose — not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh.
“Okay,” he said simply.
You glanced up at him, expecting him to argue, but instead, he just turned around and walked back toward the bedroom. You watched him disappear down the hallway, frowning slightly. Maybe he really didn’t care.
But a minute later, he came back — with his pillow and blanket in his arms.
You blinked. “What are you doing now?”
He shrugged, unfazed. “If you’re not sleeping in our bed, I’m not sleeping there either.”
“Bullshit,” you said, shaking your head. “You can’t sleep on the floor.”
He gave a small smile, one corner of his lips curving up. “You'd be surprised.”
And just like that, he set his blanket down next to the couch, fluffed his pillow, and lowered himself to the floor without another word. He didn’t even hesitate.
You stared at him, half exasperated, half touched. “Yeosang,” you started, “that’s not comfortable. You’re going to wake up sore.”
He just adjusted the blanket, stretched out, and closed his eyes as if to prove a point. “It’s fine,” he said quietly. “If you’re here, I’m here.”
Your heart twisted a little.
You stood there, arms crossed, watching him settle in. His face looked calm, peaceful even — like he hadn’t just volunteered to sleep on the hardwood floor. You sighed softly, the last bit of irritation melting away.
“Unbelievable,” you muttered, shaking your head.
He cracked one eye open to glance up at you. “What?”
“I can’t watch you sleep on the floor,” you grumbled.
“Close your eyes then,” he said lightly, closing his eyes again.
You rolled yours, but a small smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. Finally, you knelt down beside him, dragging your own blanket with you. “Move over,” you said quietly.
His eyes opened again, and he gave you a small, knowing look before scooting to the side, making room for you. The floor was cold and hard, but when you settled beside him, he wrapped his arm around you without hesitation.
You rested your head against his shoulder, feeling his heartbeat under your ear. “You’re ridiculous,” you whispered.
He chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Maybe. But now you’re stuck down here with me.”
You smiled, eyes fluttering shut. “Guess I am.”
The two of you lay there on the floor, tangled together under shared blankets, the fight fading into nothing more than a memory.
San
The apartment had been silent since the fight. Not the heavy, angry kind of silence filled with shouting or slammed doors — just cold, distant quiet. Neither of you said a word after it ended.
When you went to the bedroom to grab your pillow and blanket, San didn’t stop you. He just watched you from the doorway, his expression unreadable, jaw tight. You didn’t look back.
You spread your blanket on the couch, settled down, and tried to convince yourself you were fine with it. But sleep didn’t come easily. The couch was too small, the air too still, and every creak from the bedroom made your chest ache just a little more.
At some point, exhaustion won. You drifted off, your body curling under the blanket.
When you woke again, something felt… different. There was warmth pressed against your back — solid, steady warmth. And an arm, strong and familiar, wrapped tightly around your waist.
Your eyes snapped open.
You turned your head slightly and saw a familiar mop of dark hair behind you. Choi San.
He was lying on the couch. With you.
You blinked, confused. The couch wasn’t built for two people, not even close, yet somehow he’d managed to wedge himself there, his body molded perfectly against yours. His chest rose and fell evenly, his breath soft against the back of your neck.
“San,” you whispered, still half-asleep and half-annoyed. “What are you—”
“Shut up,” he mumbled, voice low and groggy, eyes still closed. His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer until your back was flush against his chest.
You froze. “You can’t just—”
“Mm-hmm,” he hummed lazily, not loosening his grip. “Go back to sleep.”
You sighed, torn between irritation and the strange comfort of his warmth. For a few minutes, you stayed silent, staring at the shadows on the ceiling. His heart beat steadily against your spine, and despite yourself, your breathing started to match his.
After a long pause, you whispered, “This is not going how I planned.”
San’s lips twitched against your shoulder. He didn’t open his eyes. “You don't say.”
You frowned, even though he couldn’t see it. “You weren’t supposed to come out here.”
“I’m not letting you have your dramatic moment,” he murmured, his voice softer now, the usual playfulness bleeding through. “You don’t get rid of me that easily.”
You rolled your eyes, even as a small smile threatened to form. Carefully, you turned in his arms until you were facing him. His face was half-buried in the pillow, hair messy, expression peaceful — too peaceful for someone who’d just crashed your self-imposed exile.
“You’re a jerk,” you muttered, trying not to sound fond.
One of his eyes cracked open, the corner of his mouth curving into a faint smirk. “Call me whatever you want,” he said quietly, leaning forward until his lips brushed yours. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The kiss was soft — gentle but sure. The kind that didn’t ask for forgiveness but gave it anyway.
You pulled back slightly, still pouting, though your heart felt lighter. “God you really are a nightmare sometimes,” you whispered.
“Mm,” he hummed, smiling. “You’ve mentioned that before.”
Then he took your hand, slow and deliberate, and placed it over his chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath your palm, strong and real.
“See?” he said softly. “Still here.”
Something inside you finally unclenched. You sighed, letting your head rest against his chest as his arm tightened around you again.
“Fine,” you mumbled. “But only because it’s too cold to kick you out.”
San chuckled, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Whatever helps you sleep, baby.”
And with that, wrapped in his arms on a too-small couch, you finally did.
Mingi
The apartment was quiet except for the sound of laughter from the TV. It was late — the kind of late that made the world feel soft and small. You were curled up on the couch, blanket around your shoulders, eyes fixed on the screen as another Friends rerun played.
You’d made yourself comfortable there hours ago, not ready to face the awkward silence of the bedroom after your argument. The cushions weren’t as soft as your bed, but at least the TV kept your mind busy.
At some point, you heard shuffling behind you — heavy, slow footsteps. You didn’t even have to turn to know who it was.
Mingi appeared in the doorway, hair messy, eyes half-lidded from sleep. He rubbed the back of his neck, squinting at the TV light that flickered across the room.
“What time is it?” he mumbled, voice rough from sleep.
“Late,” you said without looking at him.
He sighed and leaned against the doorframe, his head tilting as he watched you. “When are you finally coming to bed?”
You snorted softly, still not meeting his gaze. “As soon as Ross stops being a red flag.”
There was a beat of silence, and then he chuckled — that deep, sleepy laugh that always made your heart skip even when you didn’t want it to.
“This might take a while...,” he pointed out, amusement warming his voice.
You shrugged, eyes glued to the TV. “There is your answer."
He stood there for a moment longer, then exhaled loudly and shuffled toward the couch. Without another word, he dropped down beside you, the cushions dipping under his weight.
You shot him a quick look, but he was already settling in, stretching his long legs and blinking sleepily at the screen. For a while, neither of you spoke. The laugh track filled the quiet space between you as Ross and Rachel bickered on-screen.
After a few minutes, Mingi shifted. You felt him inch closer, the warmth of his body radiating toward you. Then, gently, he tugged on the blanket around your shoulders, pulling it — and you — a little closer to him.
You glared at him from the corner of your eye, your lips pressing into a stubborn line.
He didn’t say anything. He just smiled softly and leaned in, his breath brushing your neck.
The first kiss landed just below your ear — featherlight. The next one, on your cheek. Then another, closer to your jaw.
“Mingi…” you warned, trying to sound annoyed.
He ignored it, whispering against your skin, “I’m sorry.”
You huffed, trying to resist, but the corners of your mouth twitched despite yourself. He noticed immediately — he always did.
When you finally turned your head toward him, he was already looking at you with that tired, sheepish grin — the one that always managed to undo you completely.
“I’m really sorry,” he said again, voice soft but earnest.
Your glare melted into a smile. “I know,” you whispered. “I’m sorry too.”
He tilted his head, eyes warm. “So… are we okay?”
You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his. The kiss was slow and sleepy, all warmth and forgiveness. When you pulled back, he grinned and tucked you against his chest.
The TV kept playing — Ross still being a red flag — but neither of you were paying attention anymore.
Before long, your eyes drifted shut. Mingi’s arm stayed wrapped around you, his chin resting on top of your head.
That’s how you both fell asleep — tangled together on the couch, the glow of the TV flickering softly over you two.
Wooyoung
The fight had been loud — voices raised, words sharp enough to sting long after they’d been spoken. It wasn’t your first argument with Wooyoung, but it was definitely one of the worst. When it finally ended, the silence that followed felt deafening.
He’d stormed off to the bathroom, muttering something about needing to “cool off before saying something stupid.” The sound of the shower running filled the apartment, but even that couldn’t drown out the thudding of your heart or the ache in your chest.
By the time he came out, hair damp and towel hanging around his shoulders, you were already dragging your pillow and blanket out of the bedroom. You didn’t even look at him as you headed for the couch.
He froze in the doorway, water still dripping from his hair. “What are you doing?”
“I’m sleeping out here,” you said shortly, fluffing your pillow.
His eyebrows shot up. “Oh hell no.”
You turned to glare at him. “Well watch me!"
Wooyoung dropped the towel onto the back of a chair, jaw tightening. “If anyone’s sleeping on the couch, it’s me,” he argued, heading back toward the bedroom.
“What?” you scoffed. “Why?”
“Because,” he said, grabbing his own pillow and blanket, “I’m not letting you have your dramatic little moment where I’m the asshole who made you sleep out here.”
You blinked, incredulous. “Too late for that,” you snapped. “That ship sailed an hour ago.”
He frowned, walking back toward you with his things in hand. “Nope. Not happening.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Move over.”
“Wooyoung—”
Before you could finish, he threw his blanket onto the couch, right over yours. The two of you stared at each other, the tension sparking again.
“This is ridiculous,” you muttered.
“You’re ridiculous,” he shot back.
And just like that, the tugging began — both of you pulling at the blankets, bumping elbows, stepping on each other’s toes.
“I said I’m sleeping here!” you hissed.
“I said I’m sleeping here!”
“Why are you so—”
But before you could finish your sentence, one of you tripped over the corner of the coffee table. The next thing you knew, you were both stumbling — arms flailing, balance gone — and then thud. You landed on the floor, tangled together in a mess of blankets and limbs.
For a moment, there was silence. Just the two of you staring at each other in disbelief.
Then, slowly, a laugh escaped him. You tried to hold it in, but it was impossible — within seconds, you were both laughing so hard your sides hurt.
When the laughter finally faded, Wooyoung reached over and grabbed your hand. He brought it to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss against your knuckles.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly, his voice a little shaky from the laughter. “I shouldn’t have yelled.”
You smiled faintly, brushing your thumb over his fingers. “I forgive you.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
You sighed dramatically. “Fine. I’m sorry too.”
“That’s better,” he said with a grin.
For a long moment, you just lay there, the remnants of tension melting into something warm and familiar. Then Wooyoung pushed himself up and offered you his hand. “Come on,” he said, “we’re idiots, but at least we can be idiots in bed.”
You rolled your eyes but took his hand anyway.
Back in your bedroom, the sheets felt cooler, softer — or maybe it was just the calm after the chaos. As soon as you both settled in, Wooyoung wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close until your head rested on his chest.
“See?” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Way better than the couch.”
You smiled against him. “Yeah. But you’re still a pain in the ass.”
He chuckled quietly. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Jongho
The argument hadn’t been loud — not on his part, anyway. You’d done most of the yelling, frustration pouring out in sharp words and quick breaths. Jongho, meanwhile, stood there with his arms crossed, expression calm, eyes steady.
And that quietness — that infuriating calm — only made you angrier.
“Say something!” you had snapped, voice echoing through the apartment.
He didn’t. He just exhaled slowly through his nose and muttered, “I don’t see the point in yelling.”
That was it. The final straw.
You’d huffed, grabbed your pillow and blanket, and stormed out of the bedroom.
He watched you go, jaw tightening, but didn’t say anything at first. You started arranging the couch, fluffing the pillow with more force than necessary, the anger still burning in your chest.
Then came the sound of his footsteps — steady, unhurried — and his voice, deep and calm.
“This is ridiculous,” Jongho said, standing in the doorway. “You’re going to hurt your neck sleeping like that.”
You didn’t even turn around. “Good,” you muttered. “Maybe I’ll wake up paralyzed and you’ll feel bad.”
He let out a quiet scoff, somewhere between disbelief and amusement. “Oh Wow, dramatic much.”
“I’m being reasonable,” you shot back, yanking the blanket into place.
He watched for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching. Then he shook his head slowly. “Unbelievable.”
You heard him move closer — two quiet steps — and before you could react, his arms wrapped around your waist.
“Jongho—”
In one smooth motion, he picked you up, tossed you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing, and started walking back toward the bedroom.
“Put me down!” you shouted, pounding lightly on his back.
“Not a chance,” he said, his tone even but firm.
“Jongho!”
He gave your ass a light smack — more teasing than anything — that made you gasp. “If you’re going to act like a child,” he said, voice low, “I’m going to treat you like one.”
You kicked your legs weakly, half furious, half embarrassed, but he didn’t flinch. Within seconds, you were back in the bedroom, where he set you down on the mattress none too gently.
You glared at him from your spot on the bed. “Are you serious?!”
“Yes,” he said, climbing onto the mattress beside you. Then, with that unbothered calm that drove you crazy, he leaned over, his face hovering just above yours. “But at least I’m not letting you sulk out there like a toddler.”
You turned your head away, crossing your arms. “You’re still annoying.”
He chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “Maybe. But I’m also right.”
You glared at him again, though the heat in your chest was already fading. He sighed, his expression softening as his thumb brushed over your cheek.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I know I’m too quiet sometimes. But you don’t have to walk away. Talk to me instead, yeah?”
You hesitated, biting your lip, then finally nodded. “Fine,” you murmured. “I’m sorry too.”
A slow, bright smile spread across his face — the kind that always made your heart skip a beat no matter how mad you were.
“Good,” he said softly, leaning closer until your noses nearly touched. “Because I really hate fighting with you.”
Before you could answer, his lips pressed against yours — warm, gentle, certain. The kind of kiss that said we’re okay now.
When he finally pulled back, you sighed quietly, all your anger gone.
“Next time,” he murmured with a teasing grin, “just yell at me from the bed, okay?”
You rolled your eyes but smiled anyway. “Deal.”
He laughed, tucking you against his chest — and this time, you didn’t resist.
