hiii i’m starved for touch starved sieun or honestly the core characters (hc? 🧐) and how they react during the blooming of the relationship their relationship when they realize how much they wanted to be touched or held ☹️💔💔💔
A/N: I DIDNT FORGET ABOUT YOU GUYSSS IM SORRYYYY. ik I'm late my love's but life has been crazy stressful lately :/ I'm getting back into these and requests are being fulfilled. also this is not proofread cause I kept messing up and idk if I caught them all :c .
CORE CHARACTERS TOUCHED STARVED HEADCANNONS
YEON SI-EUN
Yeon Si-eun never thought of himself as someone who needed physical affection. He'd gone years without it—his parents were distant, his peers afraid or dismissive, and he’d learned to armor himself with logic and control. Touch wasn’t something he craved. Or so he thought.
Then he discovered you.
At first, it was the small things. your hand brushing his when you sat together, your fingers absentmindedly smoothing the wrinkle in his sleeve, the way you leaned into him when you laughed at a joke he found dumb. Each time, his breath caught, like his body was reacting faster than his mind could understand. He didn't like how he couldn't comprehend it. He didn't push you away, but he didn’t initiate either. He chalked it up to unfamiliarity.
But one evening, you hugged him. No reason—just wrapped around him and held on, warm and solid. His arms froze midair. He felt something twist in his chest and he couldn’t breathe, not because he didn’t like it, but because it felt like something inside him had cracked open.
His mind raced, but his body slowly sank into your touch like it had been waiting forever. You didn’t say anything, just kept holding him, and it was in that silence that it hit him. He had longed for this. For warmth, for closeness, for the kind of gentle, grounding contact he never let himself admit he needed.
After that, he started noticing it. The way his shoulders relaxed when you played with his hair. The way he leaned into your touch without thinking. The strange ache that bloomed when you weren't around.
He still wasn’t great at asking for it—but when he curled his fingers around yours, or let his head rest on you shoulder, it said what words never could.
And you always understood.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
AHN SU-HO
Ahn Su-ho doesn't think much about physical closeness. Growing up in a world where survival meant keeping your guard up, affection was never a luxury he could afford. He’s used to standing on the sidelines, arms crossed, back against a wall, watching and calculating. His hands are always in his pockets—not for warmth, but for safety. For control.
Touch, to him, is either a threat or a formality. A shove, a grab, a clinical pat on the back. He’s never known what it means to be held, not truly.
Then comes you.
you are gentle in ways that unsettle him. You're not pushy or demanding, just present. You touch him like it’s natural—like you don't expect anything in return. You brush hair from his forehead when he's tired, wrap your fingers around his when they’re walking, rest your head on his shoulder like it belongs there. At first, it makes him tense up. He chalks it up to habit. He tells himself he just "isn’t used to it."
But one night, after a long, brutal day—blood still drying under his nails, his body aching—you pull him into a quiet hug. No words, just arms around his waist, your face buried in his chest. And something inside him breaks.
His arms hang there for a beat too long. Then they wrap around you, almost on instinct. He realizes, then, how much he's needed this—how long he's been walking around with this empty ache he couldn't name.
He doesn’t cry, but his grip tightens like you're the only thing keeping him standing. And maybe you are.
From then on, he finds himself reaching for you. A hand on your back. Sitting closer than necessary. Letting his fingers drift to yours under the table. He doesn’t say anything about it, doesn’t know how to explain it—but you notice.
And you never let him forget: he doesn’t have to carry everything alone anymore.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
NA BAEK-JIN
Na Baek-jin lives with precision. His mind is sharp, his moves calculated, and his emotions carefully guarded behind a cool, unreadable mask. He’s learned to survive by staying in control—of situations, of people, of himself. Emotions are distractions. Touch is unnecessary.
Or so he tells himself.
He has you now—something that still feels foreign on his tongue. You're steady, gentle, and confusingly warm. You don't challenge his logic with arguments, but with softness, which he finds more disarming than any fight.
You touch him so easily. Not in a possessive way, not for show—just small, natural gestures. A hand resting on his arm, your fingers brushing his hair from his eyes. A thumb tracing the back of his hand when you sit side by side. It catches him off guard every time. He doesn’t flinch, but he always goes still, as if his body is trying to process something it’s never been taught.
Then comes the day you straddle his lap and bury your head in his neck. It’s quiet. He’s mid-sentence, analyzing something, maybe a strategy or a fight plan—when suddenly, your smell envelopes him in a sweet strawberry cloud.
He stops.
It’s like someone pressed pause on the constant hum of calculations in his brain. For the first time in a long while, he feels... calm. Anchored.
His throat tightens in a way that alarms him. His hands hover in the air like he’s unsure what to do, and then slowly, awkwardly, he places them over your waist. He’s stiff. Unsure. But he doesn’t pull away.
He never knew how much he missed this—how much he needed it—until it was given freely. Until love wasn’t another battle to win, but a quiet, steady presence that simply stayed.
From then on, he starts to lean in a little more. Lets you hold his hand without resistance. Stays close when you sit together. Even rests his forehead against yours when no one’s watching.
He doesn’t say much about it, but the way he lingers in your touch says everything.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
SEO JUN-TAE
Seo Jun-Tae has always known what it feels like to be looked at—with expectations, with judgment, with pity. But held? That’s something he’s never really known.
He learned early on that affection could be dangerous. That the people who were supposed to love him often used touch to manipulate or control. A hand on his shoulder was followed by orders. A pat on the back meant nothing real. Physical closeness became something that made his skin crawl—not because he hated it, but because he never trusted it.
So he built walls, obeyed when it was expected, but never really let anyone in. He thought he preferred it that way. Safer. Cleaner. No one could hurt him if he stayed submissive
Then came you
You didn’t push past his boundaries, didn’t cling or crowd him— But you stayed. Quietly, gently, patiently.
At first, it was confusing. The way you brushed his hair out of his eyes. How your hand would graze his when you walked side by side. The way your hugs weren’t quick or shallow—but long and steady, like you meant every second of it.
He’d freeze every time, unsure of what to do with his hands, his heart thudding in his chest like something was wrong. But nothing ever was.
The moment it hit him was simple—quiet. You were sitting next to him, his head in your lap as you absentmindedly stroked his hair while humming. And for the first time in maybe forever, he melted. His breath hitched. His eyes stung.
He realized then: no one had ever touched him like this. Like he wasn’t just something to play with, something to bully. Like he wasn’t something to break down. Just someone to be loved.
From that point on, something shifted. He stopped pulling away. Started leaning in. Rested his head on your shoulder when he was tired. Reached for your hand when he felt anxious. Let you cup his face when he couldn’t meet your eyes.
He never said much about it, but when you held him, he held on like he was afraid to let go—because, deep down, he was.
And you never made him feel weak for it.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
GEUM SEONG-JI
Seong-ji has always been reserved. The kind of person people describe as "hard to read" because he rarely lets anything show. He’s used to handling things alone, both out of necessity and habit. He’s loud, chaotic, crazy. Always watching, always assessing, always reacting.
People assume he doesn’t need much. They mistake his silence for strength, his independence for preference. And he lets them believe it—because even he believes it.
He doesn’t remember the last time someone touched him kindly. Maybe no one ever really has. Not in a way that lingered. Not in a way that mattered.
So when you start doing it—light touches on his arm when you laugh, a hand on his back when you pass by, fingers threading through his hair when he’s resting—he doesn’t know what to do with it.
It feels… strange. Foreign. Like his body is being spoken to in a language it forgot it once knew.
He doesn’t flinch or pull away, but he goes rigid, like he’s waiting for the catch. The joke. The moment it all disappears.
But it doesn’t.
One night, he’s sitting beside you, smoking as always, and you just… reach over and pull him into a hug. No warning. No hesitation, just wrap your arms around him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And he freezes.
Not because he doesn’t like it—but because it hits him all at once. The stillness he’s lived in. The absence of warmth. The fact that no one’s ever held him without asking for something in return.
It cracks something in him. Not loudly. Just… a quiet crumble.
He hugs you back, hesitant at first, then tighter. And tighter. Like he’s afraid you might vanish if he lets go. He buries his face into your neck and doesn’t speak, but everything in his silence screams, Please don’t stop.
That’s when he understands.
He wasn’t just tired. He wasn’t just numb. He was starving—for comfort, for closeness, for the quiet assurance that someone saw him and still wanted to hold him.
After that, he doesn’t say much about it. But he starts seeking you out. Sitting closer. Resting his head against your shoulder. Letting his fingers slip between yours. It’s subtle, but it’s everything.
you never make a big deal out of it, just keep holding him—soft, steady, and without question.
And for Seong-ji, that’s the first time in his life something truly feels safe.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
PARK HU-MIN
Park Humin doesn’t do softness. He doesn't trust it, doesn’t rely on it, doesn’t expect it. The world’s never been soft with him, and he’s adapted to survive that reality. Tough skin, sharp edges, and loudness where there should be silence
He learned early on that silence hurt. That touch meant a hit, a shove, or a grip that told him to stand straighter, be tougher, be quieter . So, he locked himself up—emotionally. Even when he found a place away from the gang, the fights, and into the noise, touch was always aggression or playfulness. Never comfort. Never care.
He didn’t think he needed it. He kept his hands on others, but never enough. Shoulder-checks instead of hugs, pats on the back instead of holding each other, an arm on the shoulder sometimes. He convinced himself that physical closeness was a weakness—until he met you.
You weren't scared of his loudness. You didn’t flinch at the way he surrounded people with noise or the way his fists curled to ruffle someones hair. You just stayed. Gently, quietly, but with the kind of presence that made walls tremble.
At first, you were careful. You'd place your hand on his when he was tense, tuck your arm through his on cold nights while he was at the court. rest your head on his shoulder when he said nothing at all. It made him uncomfortable—not because he didn’t like it, but because he did, and he didn’t know what to do with that.
Then one day, he came to you after a rough day—his least favorite day—when he had gotten into a fight—bruised knuckles, cold eyes, and exhaustion weighing down his frame. And without a word, you pulled him into your arms and held him.
No expectations. No fear. Just warmth.
And Park Humin froze. Not because he wanted to run—but because something in him broke open in that moment.
His breath caught in his throat. His arms hung there, rigid, like his body couldn’t understand what was happening. But then, slowly—hesitantly—he held you back. And once he did, he didn’t let go.
Because in your arms, for the first time, he felt safe. Not just loved, but seen. Not as Baku, the loudmouth, the protector, the enforcer—but as Park Hu-min— your boyfriend—the boy who never learned how to ask for a hug.
After that, he starts to crave touch in small, quiet ways. Sitting closer. Letting his hand linger. Leaning into you when no one’s looking. Resting his forehead against yours like he’s drawing strength from it.
He never says it out loud. He doesn’t know how to. But the way he holds you like the only soft thing in a hard world?
That says it all.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
GO HYUN-TAK
Go Hyun-Tak is used to standing behind others. As backup. As the muscle. As the one who takes the hits and never complains. He doesn't ask for comfort—he provides it. Quiet loyalty, dependable presence, unspoken understanding. That's just how he moves through the world.
He doesn't think much about affection. Not because he doesn't want it, but because he's convinced himself he doesn't need it. Touch has always been rough—bruises from a fight, a grip on his arm to yank him back, a ruffle of his hair, a slap on the shoulder that meant “good job” more than “I care.”
So he doesn't reach out. Not for hugs, not for hand-holding, not for anything soft.
And then… there’s you.
You're different. All warmth and calm—someone who doesn’t need to fight to be heard. Someone who reaches for him without fear. At first, it throws him off. When you thread your fingers through his without warning, when you hug him from behind or rest your head on his chest—it feels strange.
Not bad. Just unfamiliar.
He tells himself it's fine. That it’s “not a big deal.” But the first time you really hold him—after a particularly brutal night where he came back scraped, bloody-knuckled, and heavy-eyed—you don't scold or question, just pull him in.
Arms around his shoulders, fingers in his hair, heartbeat pressed to his chest.
And he stands there, frozen, like someone pressed pause on the world.
He doesn’t know why his throat feels tight. Why his eyes sting. Why he suddenly realizes that this is the first time in years—maybe ever—someone is holding him just to comfort him. Not to patch him up, not to thank him, not to pull him into a fight.
Just to love him.
That’s when it hits him: he’s been touch-starved for as long as he can remember. He just buried it under toughness and silence, because softness never seemed meant for someone like him.
Now? He still doesn’t ask for it. But he leans in more. Lets his head rest on your shoulder. Wraps his arms around your waist when you're alone. Holds you like your the only thing anchoring him to the ground.
Because maybe you are.
And when you touch him, he doesn’t flinch anymore.
He relaxes.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
OH BEOM-SEOK
Oh Beom-Seok grew up learning that touch could be punishment.
A slap for stepping out of line. A cold hand gripping his wrist too tightly. A dismissive shove rather than a pat on the back. Touch, in his life, had always come with expectations, pain, or the constant reminder that he was never good enough.
So he learned to flinch instead of lean in. He learned to brace himself when someone reached for him. He taught himself that needing warmth made him weak, that relying on affection made him vulnerable — and Oh Beom-Seok hates feeling vulnerable.
He wanted power, not pity. Control, not comfort.
Then came you— but he doesn't put a label on it. The one person who didn’t expect him to prove anything. Who didn’t recoil from his volatility or speak to him like he was a ticking time bomb. you were soft, and that softness didn’t scare him — it confused him.
You touch him like it’s natural — looping your arm around his, brushing your fingers against his knuckles, hugging him hello and goodbye without hesitation. He laughs it off, makes awkward jokes, stiffens in every embrace. Not because he dislikes it, but because he doesn’t know how to receive it.
No one’s ever touched him like that before. Not gently. Not without some sort of motive.
Then one day, after a rough moment — maybe after a panic attack, maybe after another outburst he instantly regretted — you dont walk away. You don't yell. You just step close and wrap your arms around him like he hasn't ruined everything.
And he just… stands there.
Frozen. Staring. Heart racing.
He feels the warmth of your chest against his, your fingers curled into the fabric of his jacket, voice whispering “I’m here.” And for the first time in his life, he realizes how starved he’s been for something like this.
Something safe. Something real. Something that doesn’t require him to be stronger, smarter, or more useful. Just… himself.
His arms slowly move up to return the hug — shaky, unsure — and he clings to you like a boy who’s never been held and just realized what he’s been missing.
After that, he doesn't say much about it. He probably never will. But you notice the difference.
He sits a little closer. Holds your hand tighter. Sometimes he reaches for you first — small, tentative gestures that say “don’t leave” without needing the words. And when they’re alone, he’ll rest his head on your shoulder and just breathe.
He still struggles. Still lashes out. Still wrestles with the parts of himself he doesn’t know how to love.
But every time you touch him with care — every brush of your hand against his back, every kiss on his cheek, every hug he didn’t know how to ask for — it chips away at that old belief that he doesn’t deserve affection.
Because maybe— just maybe— he does.
A/N: my personal favorite was Baku but lemme know which one was ur favorite and what you think overall!. getting back into writing consistently soon.
