genre/warnings/wc. comfort, fem!reader. morning newlyweds fluff ft. sleepy pouty cheol. he just loves His Wife™ idk. unbeta’d, mistakes my own. 0.7k.
note. for anon, in response to seungcheol + filling spice jars as your wife, by kai coggin. thank you so much for waiting!! part of my 100 followers event!
Seungcheol wakes to gold flashing at the edge of his vision. Blinking his eyes open, he winces slightly before focusing on the source: his ring catching the sunlight streaming through the window. Despite his mind still holding on to the last of his slumber, he can’t help the dopey smile that pulls at his face.
There is the faint sound of something sizzling; a delicious smell wafts in from the bedroom door, left ajar. His heart feels fit to float.
The house is still bare; boxes of both your stuff and the yet-to-be-assembled furniture render the floor a mini-labyrinth to walk through, regardless of the room. Judging by the sound of your cooking, you must have fished out the pans and knives from somewhere, too.
As he shuffles down the hallway, Kkuma yips in greeting. He scoops her up semi-consciously, nuzzling in her fur as he coos. The sizzling slowly grows louder, until he’s greeted by a dream.
You turn briefly to glance at him, clad in his shirt and the bright red fluffy slippers you had snagged from the thrift store. The smile on his face must be utterly besotted, but Seungcheol doesn’t care. He keeps shuffling forward, dodging the boxes on the ground until he can wrap his arms around your waist and bury his nose into the crook of your neck. Seungcheol peeks at your hand, where the matching gold band glints as you coax the spatula under the sunnyside-up eggs.
The moment the hot pan leaves your grip, he pulls you firmly against him.
“Morning, wife,” he murmurs, then giggles into your skin.
Without looking up, he feels your hand come up to rake through his hair. The metal of your ring contrasts with the warmth of your fingers, and he shudders, ever so slightly. He feels your shoulders shake gently.
“Morning, husband,” you coo, and he doesn’t muffle the giddy laugh this time, encasing your hand with his own and relishing in the subtle clink of your rings.
“Can’t believe you cooked breakfast,” he mutters, still holding onto you as you carry the two bowls—both with just rice, kimchi, and eggs—not to the nonexistent dining table, but on the shorter coffee table you had elected to try assembling last night. There were already two pairs of chopsticks on the table.
“Grab the sesame oil and gochujang, won’t you?” You reply instead, pinching his side and laughing as he yelps and jerks away. Pouting slightly, Seungcheol obeys, and rummages through the boxes until he finds them. He pulls open the sesame oil seal, and peels away the foil of the gochujang, too.
Instead of across you, Seungcheol bumps you away from the center of the table, ignoring your complaints to press himself against your side as you eat. Eventually, you give up, and he nudges your knee in teasing gratitude.
Over bites of creamy yolk, crispy egg white, and crunchy kimchi, you tell him, “Let’s work on the kitchen today.”
“Okay. Is it just the shelf rack and the cabinet?”
“And the slip-in shelves over the stove. If we finish before lunch we can go grocery shopping again and cook something.”
“Can we have pork cutlet?”
You wrinkle your nose. “As long as you keep your wedding promise and do the dishes.”
“Deal.”
Later, predictably, you both get sidetracked from finishing the assembly to make out against the cabinet, and you change plans to order lunch, then finish up the kitchen and swap out the absurdly dim lights so you could eat dinner properly. You coach him through sorting the spices and seasonings and their storage in the kitchen, pointing which ones he should use to fill the jars and dispensers for the slip-in shelves.
His fingers are dusted with chili and herbs and curry powder. His work is now neatly lined above the shelf, labeled with your careful hand. Tomorrow, there will be more warm meals. And dishes to wash. A wife to love.
Seungcheol steals a glance at you from where you’re sitting on the couch and turning your hand—none the wiser to his staring—to let your ring catch the light. Already waiting for him. Already all the way in his heart. He prays for every life to be like this again: the rooms of his heart wide open for you to enter, love as little forevers, infinite as the fine powder of your spices. To keep a life where his soul sings the melody of having you as his wife.
As though in reply, even the last few bits of dust floating in the air seem to turn into gold, too.
note. cheol's will you cook for me? bit got me giggling and kicking my feet im sorry feminism which is also feminism. er, long time no see? (kind) feedback is fuel <3
genre/warnings/wc. tooth-rotting fluff, idol!sc, gn!reader. established relationship, pet name (baby), kissing, it's implied once that they are sexually active. unbeta’d, might proofread when it’s not 3am. optional listening: be - acoustic. 0.6k.
note. for @nerdycheol, in response to seungcheol + aedh wishes for the cloths of heaven, by w.b. yeats. part of my 100 followers event!
It’s a quiet night. Rare, nowadays, and all the more precious for it. Seungcheol has showered off the last bits of persistent product in his hair and the smell of the airport. Now, finally, he’s one with the bed and in your arms.
No premium threadcount from any hotel could compare to the bliss of being home. With his home.
The comforter rustles as you snuggle yourself closer, throwing a leg around him for good measure. Without thinking, his hands settle on your waist, pulling you closer to him. You’re running your hands through his hair, the pads of your fingers gentle as they card through the strands. He faintly registers your chin grazing his scalp. His nose nudges the soft, fleshy space between your collarbones.
“While you were away, I dreamt of the stars.” Your murmur breaks the silence.
“You did? Was it a good dream?”
You hum thoughtfully. “Mm. Yes. Your outfit reminded me of the night sky. Couldn’t even tell you were nervous.”
He thinks back to that day—the innumerable camera flashes, the creative work as early as from the hotel room itself. Faces of celebrities and stars he never thought he’d see in person, all dolled up and decked out in their finest efforts to match the theme of the gala. The persona he channeled, and the number of times he said variations of This is Hugo Boss! to every Who are you wearing?.
“Your hair too, it reminds me of the stars,” you whisper, still playing with his hair. Seungcheol, despite himself, grins against your skin.
“Most people just say grey.” Trust that you’d find the poetic even in something that, admittedly, felt a bit understated—if not boring—to him at first.
“Shh, let me compliment you.” Your voice is only half-stern as you tug at his hair in reprimand. He just chuckles happily, enjoying the familiar feeling of you pulling at it.
“Careful, baby.” Both of you know it’s not a night for that kind of fun—you’re both too exhausted—but Seungcheol nips your throat teasingly nonetheless.
“Anyway,” you continue pointedly, though your voice has gone a touch breathier, “you’ve already read through me spamming your phone, but I don’t care. You should hear how proud of you I am. How happy everyone is that you’re shining not just as the leader of your group, but as yourself.” He’s thankful for the darkness of the room hiding the way his earn burn at the sincerity in your voice as you continue with your barrage of praise. Stubbornly, he nuzzles against your neck, avoiding your coaxing to meet your eyes.
“Cheol, darling, let me see you please,” you coo, voice dripping with affection, and oh, it feels like the most blissful kind of drowning. He doesn’t stand a chance.
He looks up, and your hands shift from playing with his hair to squishing his cheeks together. From here, the city lights streaming through the window is just enough to bathe your face in a soft glow. The soft wonder in your eyes overwhelms him, and he can’t help but twist his neck just that little bit further, capturing your lips in a kiss.
Seungcheol relishes in the familiar way you melt against him. Even the way you smile against his lips feels like a miracle.
It’s hard to believe he has this, sometimes. Years of steadfast devotion. Being, inexplicably, blessed with a partner who has been so patient and supportive throughout the pains of being an idol—including and especially the days he was deeply afraid that things would not work out. Having love embrace him in all its beautiful, graceful warmth, even as he was cursed to be unable to proclaim it for everyone to hear.
Overwhelmed again, he returns to hiding into the crook of your neck, staying there even as he feels your chest vibrate with a soft laugh.
“You’re so good to me.” He whispers it into your skin.
In response, your lips press against the top of his head.
“And I’ll be even better tomorrow. Like you always are to me.”
note. in this universe sc comes home after the holiday fanmeet in japan, locked and loaded with his gakuran's second button as a present. boss seungcheol greys is very much yeats’ "night and light and half light" thank you for coming to my ted talk. stream hozier
genre/warnings/wc. fluff to angst, gn! reader. some food descriptions, prose-y ending ft. jihoon's (over)thinking. unbeta'd, might proofread when it's not 3am. 0.7k.
note. for @shinysobi, in response to jihoon + for m, by mikko harvey. part of my 100 followers event !
The day is lovely; perfect for one of the few times he’s relented to your persistent pleas to have a picnic. There’s food laid out before you, mostly from the stalls selling fishcakes, but your mains are two large containers from the other stall selling bibimbap with the day’s first batch of freshly-cooked white rice.
Jihoon has been staring at the slope of your neck for about three minutes now.
It’s devastating, he thinks: the path from your neck to your collarbone, then the slope down your shoulder and arm, is enough to meander through for countless steps without feeling like it’s lost time. Jihoon’s fingers twitch, pressing divots into the soft material of the blanket.
“What?” You cock your head at him, finally noticing his gaze.
“Nothing,” he lies. “There’s something between your teeth.”
Immediately, your hand comes up to cover the lower half your face; a muffled that’s not nothing! escapes from beneath your fingers and prompts a quiet chuckle. You move your tongue inside your mouth, feeling for the nonexistent bits stuck to you before baring your teeth for him to check. He pretends to examine your teeth before nodding once.
For a few moments, there’s nothing but the quiet grace of the early morning. The city is not yet so noisy, at least in this corner; everything is just beginning to awaken.
“The bibimbap is really good,” he says, breaking the silence. His lips close around a mouthful of gochujang-coated rice and vegetables.
You watch him, a smile fighting to emerge even as there is a faint, worried furrow at your brow. “Is this okay? You’ve been tracking your macros, right?”
The chopsticks freeze for a moment. “Cheat day,” he murmurs, before he shovels the next mouthful into his mouth.
Something in you seems to settle then, shoulders slumping so minutely he wouldn’t have notice they were tensed if you hadn’t done anything. “Okay.”
Guilt twinges at him. “I wouldn’t mind more of this. Really.”
The smile settles better at those words. “Even with your schedule?”
“Even then.” Jihoon pauses, swallowing. He gulps some bottled tea before weighing his next words on his tongue. “I don’t do well with surprises, though.”
The curve of your lips shifts into something a little more amused. “I know that, Jihoon-ah.”
Instinctively, he reaches out, taking advantage of you putting down the paper cup with the used-up fishcake sticks to lace your fingers together. You blink, not expecting the public intimacy, before letting out a soft giggle.
“You don’t like surprises, but you surprise me?”
Jihoon deigns not to reply, reaching instead for a fishcake even as he keeps your hands intertwined. His ears burn red. He does squeeze your hand, though, not bothering to hide the smile pulling at his mouth when you squeeze back.
He knows he doesn’t do well with verbalizing his feelings. Even as his trade is all about words, Jihoon lays his heart bare in art, not life. Too much contact. His words may touch others, but his soul is too fragile.
But when he aches for the slope of your neck, or yearns for the sight of crows’ feet at your eyes fifty years from now, he can’t help the terrifying wave of fear that the world will decide on a path that Jihoon cannot defy. The hand holding yours twitches, grip tightening ever so slightly. You lean your head on his shoulder, and he adjusts so you fit better against him.
There is no greed without fear of loss.
Finally, the sun breaks through the clouds. It’s then that he realizes how long you both lingered here; you had left the house with the light diffused softly over the world. Sunlight, dappled by the leaves of the tree you nestled yourselves underneath, now dances across your clothes and skin. On your entwined hands. His thumb traces the patterns of the leaves’ shadows, observing idly when his finger’s shadow would alter its shape.
It’s bad habit to mourn things before losing them. It’s spring and Jihoon is bracing for winter.
But perhaps if he leaves enough of his heart with you, and you with him, the world will be kind enough to let them find their way back to each other if they ever come apart.
note. i listened to lucy dacus' lost time on repeat and i am making it everyone's problem.
genre/warnings/wc. fluff, gn!reader. food mention, unbeta'd. 0.6k.
note. for @fxstpace, in response to mingyu + since feeling is first, by e.e. cummings (don't ask how food got in the picture). part of my 100 followers event !
Sunrise streams in from the windows, hitting the countertops of your apartment like honey, running over his knuckles and painting everything golden. The rice is hot—it stings his palms, paints them a splotchy pink, but it’s the only way to shape it well.
All that, though, is no matter. The door of his bedroom opens and there you are, unassuming in your devastation. There are spots of water on your—his—shirt, and a telltale dampness at the edges of your face that tells him you had just washed it. As you step forward, honey-gold sunlight glazes you too. Syrupy sweet, he thinks, even as his mouth is dry at the sight of bare legs and messy hair. You’re squinting as you lean over the countertop, the stool wobbling under the weight of your knee.
There is rice between his palms and Mingyu is watching you.
You meet his adoration with a grumpy, “Your side of the bed was cold.”
He has to remember to toss the rice a little, his palms cupping it, forming it into balls—jumeokbap, but with last night’s leftovers from recipe development mixed in. There’s carrots, spinach, and mushrooms, with some sesame seeds for good measure.
He also has to remember to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth.
“Sorry, baby.”
You pad forward, circling the kitchen island before your arms settle around his waist. The weight of your cheek burns through the thin cloth of his shirt. He can see, in his mind’s eye, the flutter of your eyelashes, the displeased downward curl of your mouth. He’s helpless to the smile that blooms on his face. He chuckles—giggles, really, as he twists around. “What’s gotten into you?”
Sure enough, there’s your eyelashes, fluttering, and the jut of your lip in an expression he never thought he’d see. His heart swells enough to rival the sunrise. “Just missed you.”
He melts, leaning against you, relishing in the way your bodies rest against each other. “You’re not getting rid of me, baby,” realizing even as he says it that perhaps it was not the best thing to begin the day with. He leans against you even more, all quiet reassurance even as you stiffen in your embrace of him. He feels the regret in your posture—past wrongs that prompt guilt to grate through this slowly blossoming new life.
Mingyu clasps your arms, still wrapped around his waist, waiting until you relax again. Unable to resist, he darts his head forward, kissing the tip of your nose, smile turning brighter at the way you scrunch your face. He does it again for good measure, hoping that you understand that his words held no malice, only silent apologies and earnest promise. You accept his kisses obediently, the little breath of laughter that dances across his skin prompting only more ardent affection.
“Ditto,” you eventually grumble, drawing away from his lips to press your face against his back.
Mingyu coos, affection bursting like a bud breaking the soil. You hush him, digging your face into more insistently, as though you could burrow into him. “The rice will get cold,” you mutter, muffled into his shirt.
“Help me?” He juts his chin to the sink. You’re off him more quickly than he would have liked, but then you’re beside him, hands freshly washed but still damp so as to prevent the rice from sticking. Mingyu hands you the paddle, and you scoop rice onto your waiting palm before beginning to mold.
He can’t help but giggle, again, and you hip-check him even as a matching quiet chuckle escapes you. It’s not quite golden hour anymore, the sunlight settling into its more neutral color, but the morning is no less sweet.
What a fool Mingyu would make himself for you. Even if he tried to write—if his tongue were employed in ways other than tasting—he’s sure that there would be no words for this, no articulation that could limn the joy of mornings with the love of his life.
note. likely an outtake from cooking with chopin (first it was reviving an old draft, now it's making me write a scene for a fic i havent even started on yet ASJAHSAHA aspen your power)
genre/warnings/wc. angst. indie film director!minghao x interpreter!gn!reader. weird books and copious insect mating descriptions (do those count as warnings?). unbeta'd, not proofread. 0.9k.
note. for @studioeisa, in response to minghao + the last love letter from an entomologist, by jared singer. part of my 100 followers event !
As with any retreat house worth its salt, there are shelves filled with the most eclectic titles one could ask for. You’re reading them aloud, eyes bright with both curiosity and tipsy wonder. There’s a bottle of wine held loosely in your hand, which Minghao eyes as you run your fingers lightly over the books.
“‘Long Walk to Freedom’—Mandela, hm…‘I Could Pee on This’… ‘Almanac 2011’—Oh, NatGeo! …‘How to Live with a Huge Penis’…” you begin to giggle, finger still running along the spines as he makes a face behind you. “‘How to Good-bye Depression: If You Constrict Anus 100 Times Everyday. Malarkey? or Effective Way?’” Your giggles grow louder as he snorts.
Minghao doesn’t need to know what malarkey means to grasp the utter absurdity of that combination of words.
You pull something from the shelf, handing it to him. “It’s the only book written in Chinese.” Obliging, he accepts it from you, patting the space beside him on the couch as he opens the book to a random page.
You flop down, the wine in the half-empty bottle sloshing with your motion. He gently extricates it from your hand as he reads the first sentence his eyes land on. “Sexual cannibalism is common amongst praying mantises. Typically, the female is the aggressor, which encourages males to approach the female carefully and cautiously when mating.”
Minghao raises an eyebrow, intrigued even as his brain doesn’t quite parse the words.
You continue from where he left off. His mother tongue fills the air, your accent endearing as it always is. But it’s all fluff in his head, nothing quite as important as the weight of your head on his shoulder.
It is well into the night; neither of you have bothered with watches, and the clocks here are wildly unsynced. It’s an hour for dreams; the amber warmth of the indoor lamps meet the remnants of the lights from the pool outside. The result is a hazy mix of blue and orange casting mesmerizing shadows across your face.
“Oh, this is interesting,” he hums, pulling himself out of his daze to listen, “Some flies have been found to be monogamous, challenging prior assumptions of polygy- polygynous relations. Though postmating responses in female flies has been diplomatic, emerging research indicates that copulation, including the exposure to mating-specific pheromones, reduces receptors in certain neurons among males. This results in a severely reduced motivation to re-engage in mating behavior. Neither male nor female would mate with another, leading to loss in genetic material should copulation be unsuccessful.”
Minghao skims the passage. “Not diplomatic,” he corrects, “documented.”
“Mm. ’Kay.” The alcohol has already clearly gotten to you. Your words slur, ever so slightly. “I’d like to be a praying mantis in my next life. A true man-eater. Maybe a fly for the devotion.”
Minghao snorts again, the sound more unrestrained than usual. Perhaps a consequence of the second bottle.
“Must be easy to love if you’re an insect,” you continue to muse, “Just pheromones, sex, then you give birth, then you die. No such thing as ‘cheating’. No room for emotions or family drama.”
“Seems like guys get the short end of the stick,” he replies after a beat. “Maybe not for me.”
You just giggle again, digging your head into his shoulder, only letting up when he yelps in pain. “Good. It’s men’s turn.” He just grunts, pushing you off while nursing the soreness. The moment his hand stops massaging his shoulder, your head has reclaimed its position. You’re saying something, but it doesn’t quite register—his mind has been weighing his next actions even as you talk glibly beside him.
After a beat, he leans his head against yours. Your chatter dies quickly. For a while, you don’t move, until you shift slightly, allowing the top of your head to fit right under his jaw. He doesn’t usually drink; tonight was an exception, but he’s not too concerned. Not when it’s you and your warmth pressing against his side.
Nearly everything has been said and done; his flight is a red-eye, the early morning right after your impromptu midnight screening (A special edition, you had pitched to the head organizer, after your mutual bid of creative madness, where we add subtitles to the silent portions of the film, giving voice to what had been previously left unsaid). He and you had promptly been sent here, amid nature, wine, and strange books, in the name of unleashing the creative spirit.
Tomorrow, you’ll both have left the retreat house, ready with your hard drive of the edited film. A handful of hours after that, he’ll be back in China, to his life of writing and directing, or perhaps preparing for the next screening in some other country, in another film festival.
Perhaps he’ll meet another interpreter, though he’s sure no one would ever quite be the same. No one else could linger between the cracks of himself, as careful as he was to choose what brokenness remains seen in the final iterations of his art.
Silence rests between you, not a burden, but a weight nonetheless. Even a whisper would feel like a scream. There is a precipice, but neither of you will jump. Only yearning can fill this space.
(In the early morning after you part, he boards the plane, How to Good-bye Depression: If You Constrict Anus 100 Times Everyday. Malarkey? or Effective Way? tucked into his carry-on. His first petty crime. A purely selfish way to remember how you laughed every time you read the title.
Minghao hopes that the Buddhists were right about karma and samsara. If they were, he could be born as an insect in his next life. He could learn to love with the vicious devotion only lesser creatures have. If it’s you, he wouldn’t mind his turn.)
有緣無分 . yǒu yuán wú fèn, destined to meet but not fated to be together (idiom)
note. praying mantis mating description from here ; flies one is straight out of my 2am brain. yet another outtake from a wip yet to be written—this will not be the last you see of this couple (kae hates to see me coming)
genre/warnings/wc. fluff, gn! reader. indulgent food and cooking descriptions, some making out, unbeta'd. 0.7k.
note. for @chugging-antiseptic-dye, in response to joshua + a pot of red lentils, by peter pereira. part of my 100 followers event !
No matter how spacious your kitchen, Joshua finds a way to touch you every chance he gets. He does it again now, hands resting on your waist as he presses his front to your back, pretending to squeeze past to get to the refrigerator. He can feel your eyeroll without seeing it. There’s a pot of soup bubbling merrily on the stove, which he has reduced to a quiet, but no less jolly, simmer.
You’re making scallion pancakes—in the name of finding another way of using up the bundle of old scallions in the fridge that isn’t pajeon. You roll flattened dough overlaid with a paste of scallions, flour, and oil, forming a log. Eventually Joshua returns, squeezing past you once more, this time with a pack of tofu in hand. The log you rolled out is now transformed into a round disc. With no warning, you thrust your hip backward, stifling a laugh when he lets out a small yelp in surprise.
“Baby,” he whines. “What if I had a knife?”
You just snort. “You finished prep ages ago, Shua. Also, you don’t need to put the tofu in yet, the dough needs to rest a bit before I can flatten it out and cook.”
At that, his hands are already on your waist. “Really? How long?” He doesn’t need to say anything else, body pressed more insistently against your back.
“Shua, my hands are oily!” Laughing, you extricate yourself from his hold, quickly washing and soaping the residue from your hands before making your way back to him. You greet him with a small, apologetic peck. “Not long, unfortunately.”
He pouts. You sigh, mildly exasperated, “you literally made me rest the dough ten minutes more than I should have a while ago.”
All the best things take time—and it’s best to take advantage of it. That’s Joshua’s philosophy for cooking, which in simplest terms involves dragging you into makeouts any time you didn’t need to be doing something with the food. Whether it was to let the dough rise, the meat marinate, or the cookies bake, lulls in cooking always means kisses. He does it again now, caging you against the counter, making sure to pick a spot where there’s nothing behind you. Joshua leans in, capturing your lips. It certainly has made jointly-cooked weekend meals at least half an hour later than usual.
You indulge in his kisses for a while, until you remind him, mumbling against his mouth, “Your soup, Shua—” he groans lightly, parting with a wet smack. There’s steam rising insistently from the bubbling pot at the corner of his eye. You seem to find his pout amusing, grinning as you lean forward to offer him a gentle kiss. “I’ll start cooking the scallion pancakes.”
Loath as he was to let you go, you end up hip-to-hip by the stove anyway, as Joshua breaks the tofu with a wooden spoon and you coat the pan in a thin layer of oil. The flattened pancake sizzles as you lay it down, and you cover the pan after pressing the pancake firmly into the oil. Joshua ooh’s when you remove the lid and flip the pancake to reveal a gorgeous golden brown crust, bits of scallions peeking out like pockets of spring. Playfully, you scrape your spatula against the top, teasing him with the crisp sound of it as he plays along, cheering.
Right before you plate up the finished pancakes, he holds a spoonful up for you to sip, relishing your approving grin and nod. You tear off a piece from your most freshly-cooked piece, dipping it in the sauce before holding it up to him. He bites the crispy exterior and into a chewy, layered interior, the perfect mix of scallions and dough. You smile when you see the surprised joy on his face.
The exhaust fan’s lamp casts everything in a warm glow, and the world opens up to this: his mother’s soup that he learned for you all those years ago, shared with a recipe you perfected in the name of changing things up. Your trusty rice cooker pinging in the background. Things both old and new come together, but always with love.
Your shared home smells like scallions, spicy broth, and sesame oil. In this corner of the world, everything is delight.
note. outing myself as a cook/food is my love language. scallion pancake recipe reference
