mountaesan

[mountaesan]

can you please write a leehan x fem ! reader ! fic where leehan sells drugs to reader to get closer to her, to wrap them around his finger and at a time reader gets seriously addicted to it and goes to him whenever they needs drugs but at a time leehan regrets it and wishes they were sober

basically a lot of angst with happy ending!!!

hello anon !! thank you sm for sending this request ~

i know you sent this in a while back , but after a lot of careful consideration and thinking, i’ve decided that i cannot take this request 😞

for one , i don’t use any kind of substances nor do any of the people around me so im afraid i wont be able to deliver the full , accurate depiction of drug use as i would like .

second ! i know i js said no one in my circle does drugs , but ive had previous partners and friends who struggled with substance abuse and im afraid this is a bit of a sensitive topic for me and could possibly trigger others .

so , with that being said , thank you so much for requesting but i’m afraid you’re going to have to find another author who’s open and willing to write about these topics !

[mountaesan]

this wip is literally eating away at my soul right now i need to finish this asap ( spoiler under the cut )

[mountaesan]

chicken-less dreams ; m. jaehyun

pairing. drunk!jaehyun x fem!reader genre. fluff , est. relationship synopsis. your boyfriend’s drunk antics are often loud and chaotic, but they also remind you why he’s your favorite kind of trouble word count. 1.7k warnings. mentions of alcohol (but no actual drinking) , stripping in a non-sexual context ? , kissing , jaehyun is very drunk and very in love but so is reader playlist. you are in love by taylor swift , ribs by lorde notes. i actually had literally no idea what to title this… so ‘chicken-less dreams’ it is ! unless i can think of another title 😭

riwoo: 911 riwoo: emergency emergency

you: ????

riwoo: your man’s shitfaced and refuses to go home

you: i’ll be there in 15

riwoo: plz hurry he’s about to sing bigbang’s haru haru

You could spot your boyfriend from a mile away. Your eyes were immediately drawn towards him—the way he held onto a metal spoon as if it were a lifeline, singing into it with unbridled passion like it was a microphone. You folded your arms, a quiet laugh escaping your lips as you watched from a distance. Jaehyun stood in the middle of the bar, belting out the melancholic lyrics of BIGBANG’s ‘Haru Haru’, accompanied by his dramatic and melancholic acting. Despite sitting at the same table, his friends were looking away, as if embarrassed to be associated with his drunk singing. 

You caught Sungho’s gaze and he gestured to you to come over to save them all. Despite being embarrassed, he also seemed to enjoy the situation with the way his eyes sparkled with a small smile. With a small resigned shake of your head, you made your way towards their table, weaving through a throng of bodies.

Snatching the spoon from Jaehyun mid-chorus earned you a dramatic gasp and a look of wounded betrayal. “Hey! I wasn’ done!” he protested, but the moment his bleary eyes focused on you, his face lit up and he threw his outstretched arms around you. “My girlfriend! It’s my girlfriend, guys!” 

He turned to the rest of the bar, raising his voice to a volume only a drunken Jaehyun could manage. “My girlfriend came to pick me up! Suckers!”

You wrinkled your nose at the overpowering scent of alcohol wafting off of him. “How much did you guys give him to drink?” you asked the guys as you tried your best to dodge Jaehyun’s drunk kisses. 

The boys shrugged in unison. 

“Uh,” Riwoo started, scratching the back of his head. “It started with one, but then he promised to not sing if he had more, but as you can tell…” he gestured to the spoon Jaehyun had just used as a microphone. “So… yeah, this is on us. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you sighed, already resigned to your fate. “I’ll take him home now. Thanks guys.” 

You nodded at your boyfriend’s friends and tugged on said boyfriend, only to find that he had somehow slouched into a near-horizontal position on the couch, looking suspiciously comfortable. Muttering under your breath, you tugged on his arm. You became highly suspicious that he would actually die if your attention wasn’t on him at all times, like he often argued. “God, this kid.”

With Taesan and Leehan’s help, you were able to load Jaehyun into the passenger seat of your car. He slumped against the window, lips smacking loudly together. “Nono… I needa sing one more song…”

“Babe, one more song and you would’ve been blacklisted from that bar for life,” you chuckled, starting the car. The engine roared to life and you backed out of the busy parking lot. “Come on, let’s go home.”

Jaehyun didn’t protest and the quiet hum of the car engine soon lulled him to sleep.

Getting Jaehyun into the house was a battle of endurance and patience. Juggling keys, fumbling in the dark, and supporting the dead weight of a half-conscious boyfriend clinging to you was more than exhausting.

“Please let this be the one,” you whispered, trying yet another key. When the lock finally clicked, you let out a loud sigh of relief. “Thank you,” you murmured to the heavens, tugging Jaehyun through the doorway as he nuzzled into the crook of your neck. “C’mon.”

“Don’t wanna…” he mumbled, and his warm breath sent a slight shiver down your spine. “I gots to finish my performance…”

Somehow, you managed to guide him to the couch, where he collapsed in a heap. He sprawled out, stretching out his limbs in all directions. Brushing a strand of hair from his face, you observed how the pale moonlight streaming through the window highlighted the sparkle in his eyes.

“Alright, Mariah Carey. Let’s get you ready for bed. Even a diva needs to sleep, no?” you said gently, stroking his hair. “Did you drink any water?”

Jaehyun shook his head with a small pout.

When you straightened up to fetch him some, his hand shot out, grasping your wrist tightly. “Where’rr you going?” he slurred, looking up at you like a lost puppy. “Please don’ go…”

“I’m just grabbing you water, baby.”

“Nono…” he said firmly, shaking his head as if the thought of you leaving him for a second was unbearable. “I’m goin’ with you. It’s dangerous outthere.” 

“Oh, really? What kind of dangers?” you asked, amused.

He leaned in, wide-eyed, and whispered gravely, “... Chickens.” 

You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing. “Okay, okay. You can protect me from the chickens, Myung Jaehyun.”

What could’ve been a 30 second trip to the kitchen turned into a 10 minute ordeal. He clung to you like a koala, stumbling along as you poured water into a glass. Perched on the counter, he sipped reluctantly while you stroked his hair, murmuring soothing words.

“Nomo…” (translation: "no more…")

“No, you’ve gotta finish everything, Jae,” you responded firmly. Your boyfriend huffed with a dramatic roll of his eyes but nonetheless complied. “Good boy,” you patted his cheek affectionately once he finished the entire cup of water and Jaehyun beamed at your praise.

When you wiped his face with a cloth, he grinned lazily, leaning into your touch. You pressed a quick kiss to his lips. 

Jaehyun’s eyes flew open at the contact and he stared at you in shock. You burst into laughter at his reaction and brushed your fingers through his hair. “What, never been kissed by a girl before?” you asked jokingly. 

“Not by a pretty one,” Jaehyun whispered and you laughed again. “Not funny!”

“Is too,” you teased. Tucking your arms under Jaehyun’s arms, you hugged him tightly and you rested your head atop his shoulder. “I love you, Jaehyun.”

All you got was a quiet “Whoa” in response. 

You managed to get him to the bedroom, but Jaehyun’s antics still weren’t over. When you tried to pull his shirt off to help him change, he recoiled dramatically, crossing his arms over his chest like a scandalized debutante. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! I’m sure you’re a very nice lady, but I have a girlfriend!” he protested, wagging an accusatory finger at you. “She doesn’t like it when I talk to other girls. Especially ones who—who try to take my clothes off! Like you! Perv!”

You watched with an amused smile, your hands resting on your hips as Jaehyun retreated further into his bed, distancing himself from you. 

“And I love my girlfriend! Sorry not sorry, but I’m not for the huzz,” he waved his hand dismissively. 

“Jae, I am your girlfriend,” you insisted but Jaehyun wasn’t having it. He shook his head with vigor.

“No thank you lady, I’m not interested.” 

With a sigh, you leaned in and kissed his cheek. “It’s me, Jae,” you spoke softly, watching as his cheeks turned pink.

“Ohh… hi baby,” he whispered sheepishly.

Thankfully, getting Jaehyun into bed afterwards wasn’t too difficult, his protests reduced to sleepy murmurs. Once he was settled, you took a moment to ensure he was comfortable and you brushed a stray strand of hair from his face.

You slid under the covers beside him, the mattress dipping slightly under your weight. Jaehyun was sprawled across the bed in an ungraceful manner, one arm flung over his face and the other clutching the blanket like a child with a security toy. His lips moved faintly, forming incoherent words as he teetered on the edge of consciousness.

Carefully, you reached out and placed your hand on his cheek, the warmth of his skin grounding you. He stirred at your touch, his eyes cracking open just enough to reveal the sleepy gaze within them. A slow smile crept across his face: lopsided and utterly endearing.

“Hi…” he mumbled, the word drawn out and soft. 

“Hey,” you whispered back, your thumb brushing against the curve of his cheekbone in a slow, soothing motion.

Jaehyun’s brows knitted together, his drunken thoughts forming an odd jumble of words. “Y’know… you’re really, really pretty. Like… unfairly pretty. Like… if there was a… a contest or somethin’, I think you’d win. Every time.”

You couldn’t help but laugh quietly at his rambling. “You’re too sweet.”

“No, no, no,” he insisted, his voice muffled as he turned his face slightly into your palm, pressing his lips against your skin. “It’s true. You’re, like… the queen of… uh… the stars? Yeah, like a star queen. Like, Dairy Queen but instead of queen of dairy, you’re the queen of stars.”

“A star queen?” you repeated, amused, leaning closer until your noses were almost touching.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his words slurring together. “And… and I’m just some guy… but you picked me anyway. Like what?” He blinked sluggishly, his expression a mixture of wonder and disbelief. 

You chuckled softly, your fingertips tracing the edge of his jaw. “You’re not just ‘some guy,’ Jae. You’re my guy. My favorite guy.”

That earned a pleased hum from him, his eyes fluttering shut as he melted further into your touch. “Mmm… your guy. I like that. Sounds nice. Sounds… cozy.”

“Cozy?” you echoed, your lips twitching into a smile.

“Yeah,” he murmured, barely audible now. “Like… blankets… or hot chocolate…” He paused, letting out a soft sigh. “Or… you. I think you’re cozy too.

You leaned in, pressing a feather-light kiss to his forehead. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“Y’know what’s ridic..ous?” he mumbled, his voice trailing off as sleep began to claim him. “How much ‘m love with… y... and… ch… chi…”

You stayed there for a while, watching his breathing even out as he sank into peaceful slumber. Your hand never left his face, your thumb continuing its gentle strokes along his cheek. His skin was warm beneath your touch, a quiet reminder of his presence, his love. 

Nestled beside him, you whispered, “I love you, too, Jaehyun. So much.”

Although he was asleep, his lips curved into the faintest of smiles, as if somewhere in his chicken-less dreams, he had heard you. 

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[mountaesan]

anywayssss

hi guys !! sorry for being ia :( i js started my new job so i’ve been super busy w training and working all week long , hence my week-long absence . but i promise im working on a few new fics !!

[mountaesan]

the simple lack of empathy will ultimately lead to this generation and our current society’s downfall. how do you see a person so grateful for an achievement that they’ve worked so hard for, to the point where they’re moved to TEARS, and the first thing that comes to mind is to point your finger and make rude and derogatory comments just for the sake of it.

yes, everyone is entitled to their own opinions, but there were reasons for why we were taught as children to think before we speak and that if we have nothing kind to say, then don’t speak at all. words hold power and people fail to realize that in this digital age where everyone cowers behind the convenience of anonymity provided by a keyboard and a pseudonym.

check yourself. and please, get a life.

i love how op worded this out. never seen anyone more grateful than jaehyun even with the smallest things. he doesn't take anything for granted

[mountaesan]

241231: TAESAN 'PLAYING WITH FIRE' ©

[mountaesan]

does anyone else sometimes smell something and it’s a really exact and distinct smell of a place / memory

[mountaesan]

of pomegranates and love stained fingers ; p. sungho 

pairing. idol!park sungho x reader genre. fluff , est. relationship , lots n lots of domesticity ! synopsis. in which sungho shows you that love could be found at an ordinary kitchen table , amidst a mess of pomegranate peels and love stained fingers word count. 1.9k warnings. nudity and bathing in a non-sexual context , a lot of inner dialogue , sungho is… such a gentleman i actually might have fallen in love with him while writing this (yes this is a warning) playlist. the way that i am by abby powledge  notes. this is. so. so. so. self indulgent. but oh to be loved and to be seen by park sungho (◞‸◟)

Pomegranates are a contradiction wrapped in a tough, leather-like skin. 

On the outside, they’re unassuming. Their ruby-red hue is muted by a dull, almost dusty sheen, like they’ve been brushed by centuries of history. But break one open, and it’s utter chaos. Vivid, gleaming seeds spilling out in clusters, their translucent walls catching the light like small, blood-red jewels.

The juice is relentless. It stains fingers, clothes, and countertops with a color so intense that it almost feels alive, impossible to tame. 

And it doesn’t simply mark, it claims. Eating one is an exercise in both patience and surrender. Each seed is a burst of a tart sweetness that’s worth the mess, but it leaves you wondering how something so beautiful can also be so unruly.

That was exactly why you loved pomegranates. They were a little wild, a little untamed. It was in the way the juice stained your fingers, leaving behind traces of something alive and uncontainable. It’s how every seed is a burst of flavor: tangy, sweet, and unapologetically bold. For you, pomegranates were a reminder that the best things in life aren’t always neat or simple; they’re messy, vivid, and unforgettable.

Back in your adolescence, when you were still a hopeless romantic and believed in fate and soulmates and such, you had a theory: that anyone willing to peel a pomegranate for you was to be the one. The one the universe had assigned you—your soulmate. The person you’re meant to share the messiness and beauty of life with, because, let’s be honest, peeling a pomegranate isn’t just an act, it’s a labor. 

It’s tedious, requiring patience and precision to carefully break apart the tough skin without crushing the delicate seeds. The juice inevitably smears, the tiny ruby jewels scatter, and by the end, it looks like a small battlefield in the kitchen. 

You thought of it as a test of devotion. Who else would endure the sticky fingers, the risk of stains, and the painstaking effort, all for the sole purpose of handing over a bowl of gleaming seeds? Your theory wasn’t about the pomegranate itself, it was about what it represented: the willingness to take on something cumbersome and time-consuming just to bring joy to someone else.

In your teenage mind, peeling a pomegranate was love distilled into action. A quiet, unspoken declaration that said, ‘I see the things you cherish, even the messy, difficult ones, and I want to be a part of them.’

So you used to wait, watching the people in your life with a careful eye, jokingly tossing your theory at dinner tables and gatherings but secretly hoping and wondering if someone might one day sit down, pick up a pomegranate, and show you that love can be as simple, and as profound, as peeling fruit. 

But as you grew older, your pomegranate theory began to feel like a relic of a softer, more naive version of yourself. You used to imagine someone peeling away the tough, leathery rind, their hands stained red with love and effort, and thought to yourself, ‘that’s love.’ But with time, the weight of practicality started to take hold. 

Your theory about pomegranates, something you once held close with a spark of whimsical belief, soon became just another one of those silly little things that poets and hopeless romantics dreamed up.

So, you tucked your silly theory away in a dusty corner of your mind, dismissing it as an innocent fantasy of your youth. You searched for love that was grounded, sensible, and serious about the practicalities of life. You looked for someone who could handle the demands of life without the weight of romantic idealism like yours clouding their judgement. 

There was no room for mess or chaos anymore, certainly not for the kind of love that required peeling pomegranates, both literally and metaphorically.

A loud slam of your front door made your ears perk up and you heard the familiar rustling of your boyfriend’s clothes as he shuffled through the living room. You could almost envision the way he shrugged off his outer coat before neatly hanging it on the coat hanger by the entryway.

“Baby? I’m home!” 

“In here!” you called out. The bathwater lapped at your knees, forming small waves that crashed and fell against the porcelain wall of your bathtub. Sungho knocked on the bathroom door, but only out of courtesy, before he pushed it open and greeted you with a bright smile.

“Hi, gorgeous,” he knelt by the side of the bathtub to press a warm kiss to your forehead. 

“You’re home early.” you pointed out. A hand reached out to stroke your boyfriend’s cheek, a single droplet of water running down the slope of your arm and landing back in the bathtub with a small plop. 

“Mastered the choreography first so I could come home to you,” he replied, ever so gently leaning into the warmth of your palm. “Did you just start your bath?”

You nodded, the corners of your lips lifting at his sweet words. “Just a few minutes ago. You don’t have to keep kneeling like that, you know. Your knees are going to hurt.”

“I’m fine,” he said with a chuckle. His gaze softened as he noticed the way the water cradled your form, the steam rising in delicate swirls around you. “Want some help?”

You tilted your head, teasing. “Are you volunteering to join me?”

Sungho laughed softly, shaking his head. “Maybe next time, but I can still take care of you from here.”

Before you could respond, he reached for the loofah sitting on the edge of the tub and dipped it into the warm water before lathering it up with your favorite body wash. His movements were slow and deliberate, as though he wanted to savor every second of this small, intimate moment. 

“You don’t have to, you know,” you murmured as he started gently running the loofah along your shoulder. His featherlight touch sent a slight shiver down your spine.

“I know,” he said, his voice steady and warm. “But let me.”

His voice was so soft, so filled with love, that you couldn’t bring yourself to argue. You let out a small sigh of defeat and leaned back against the tub as he started gently running the loofah over your arms. 

Sungho’s touch was delicate, as though he was handling the most fragile thing in the world. The loofah glided over your arms, his hand following to rinse away the bubbles.

“You work so hard,” he murmured, almost to himself, as he moved to your legs. “You deserve this.”

The words made your chest tighten with emotion. “You’re too good to me,” you whispered.

“No such thing,” he said with a soft chuckle, his hand brushing the back of your calf. “Taking care of my partner is the easiest thing in the world.”

You let your head rest against the edge of the tub, closing your eyes as his hands continued their tender work. The care and love infused into every motion, the way he poured his entire being into making sure you felt safe, cherished, and adored made your heart squeeze tightly.

As he finished, Sungho pressed a soft kiss to your damp shoulder, his lips lingering for a moment. “All done,” he whispered, and you noticed a hint of pride in his voice.

“Thank you,” you said, meeting his gaze. 

Sungho smiled, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Anything for you, gorgeous. Always.”

He stood up and grabbed the big, fluffy towel from the nearby rack, shaking it out to fluff it up. “Alright, come on, let me help you out.”

You shifted in the tub, the water sloshing as you moved to stand. Sungho reached out instinctively, steadying you with his strong, gentle hands. His fingers pressed lightly against your arm and waist as he guided you to step out of the tub.

“Careful,” he murmured, his brows furrowed in concentration. 

The moment your feet touched the bath mat, he draped the towel around you, cocooning you in its warmth. You couldn’t help but giggle as he adjusted the plush fabric, tucking the edges around your shoulders like a protective shield.

“There we go. Let’s go get you dried up, and then we can go see the present I got you.”

The kitchen table was a mess—juice stains spreading across its surface, pomegranate seeds scattered among paper towels and discarded bits of rind. Sungho sat across from you, elbows resting on the table as he carefully pried apart another piece of fruit. His fingers were stained a deep crimson, the juice clinging to his skin and pooling in the small creases of his knuckles. 

“You’re making such a mess,” you teased, watching as he plucked a cluster of seeds free and placed them in a bowl.

He grinned, unfazed. “Worth it.”

He picked up a few seeds between his stained fingers, flicking away the stubborn bits of membrane, and brought them to your lips. “Here.” 

You let him feed you, the tart sweetness bursting on your tongue as he watched you with unspoken fondness. It wasn’t until you noticed the way his brows furrowed in concentration, focusing on getting a particular seed unstuck from the membrane, that it struck you how absurdly thoughtful this was.

“When did I even mention that I like pomegranates?” you asked, your voice softened with wonder and adoration.

Sungho glanced up briefly, his lips quirking up into a sheepish grin. “You told me once, when we first started dating. You were talking about how much you loved them as a kid. Said they were your favorite fruit, even though they’re a pain to eat.” 

You blinked, stunned. The memory was hazy even to you—just a passing remark in some forgetful conversation. But he’d remembered.

“You didn’t have to go through all this trouble,” you murmured, feeling your chest tighten with an unfamiliar mix of emotions.

Sungho shrugged, returning his attention to the pomegranate in his crimson stained hands. “It’s no trouble. Besides, I like seeing you happy.”

You looked down at the table and took in the chaos of it all: the stains, the mess, his juice-streaked hands, and something deep inside you shifted.

Suddenly, you were seventeen again with your heart wrapped in whimsical theories about soulmates and love.

This was it. This was what you had been searching for back then but had long stopped believing in. This was the kind of love you’d once dreamed of but had dismissed as a silly, adolescent fantasy. Yet, here it was, sitting across from you with juice-stained hands and a soft smile, proving you wrong in the most beautiful way.

Your teenage self had been right: peeling a pomegranate wasn’t just about the fruit. It was a quiet act of devotion, a willingness to embrace the mess and the effort for the sake of someone else’s joy.

Sungho broke your reverie by holding up another handful of seeds, his smile so effortlessly warm that it sent a pang through your chest.

“You don’t have to feed me,” you said with a small laugh, though your voice wavered slightly.

“I know,” he replied. His tone was gentle but resolute. “But let me.”

And as you opened your mouth for the next bite, you realized that love didn’t have to be a grand, sweeping gesture.

Sometimes, it was sitting at a messy kitchen table with stained hands and sticky fingers, peeling pomegranates because someone mentioned, just once, that they liked them.

ᰋ liked this ? consider liking, reblogging, or providing feedback !

ᰋ want more ? send in an ask to be added to my taglist !

[mountaesan]

of pomegranates and love stained fingers ; p. sungho 

pairing. idol!park sungho x reader genre. fluff , est. relationship , lots n lots of domesticity ! synopsis. in which sungho shows you that love could be found at an ordinary kitchen table , amidst a mess of pomegranate peels and love stained fingers word count. 1.9k warnings. nudity and bathing in a non-sexual context , a lot of inner dialogue , sungho is… such a gentleman i actually might have fallen in love with him while writing this (yes this is a warning) playlist. the way that i am by abby powledge  notes. this is. so. so. so. self indulgent. but oh to be loved and to be seen by park sungho (◞‸◟)

Pomegranates are a contradiction wrapped in a tough, leather-like skin. 

On the outside, they’re unassuming. Their ruby-red hue is muted by a dull, almost dusty sheen, like they’ve been brushed by centuries of history. But break one open, and it’s utter chaos. Vivid, gleaming seeds spilling out in clusters, their translucent walls catching the light like small, blood-red jewels.

The juice is relentless. It stains fingers, clothes, and countertops with a color so intense that it almost feels alive, impossible to tame. 

And it doesn’t simply mark, it claims. Eating one is an exercise in both patience and surrender. Each seed is a burst of a tart sweetness that’s worth the mess, but it leaves you wondering how something so beautiful can also be so unruly.

That was exactly why you loved pomegranates. They were a little wild, a little untamed. It was in the way the juice stained your fingers, leaving behind traces of something alive and uncontainable. It’s how every seed is a burst of flavor: tangy, sweet, and unapologetically bold. For you, pomegranates were a reminder that the best things in life aren’t always neat or simple; they’re messy, vivid, and unforgettable.

Back in your adolescence, when you were still a hopeless romantic and believed in fate and soulmates and such, you had a theory: that anyone willing to peel a pomegranate for you was to be the one. The one the universe had assigned you—your soulmate. The person you’re meant to share the messiness and beauty of life with, because, let’s be honest, peeling a pomegranate isn’t just an act, it’s a labor. 

It’s tedious, requiring patience and precision to carefully break apart the tough skin without crushing the delicate seeds. The juice inevitably smears, the tiny ruby jewels scatter, and by the end, it looks like a small battlefield in the kitchen. 

You thought of it as a test of devotion. Who else would endure the sticky fingers, the risk of stains, and the painstaking effort, all for the sole purpose of handing over a bowl of gleaming seeds? Your theory wasn’t about the pomegranate itself, it was about what it represented: the willingness to take on something cumbersome and time-consuming just to bring joy to someone else.

In your teenage mind, peeling a pomegranate was love distilled into action. A quiet, unspoken declaration that said, ‘I see the things you cherish, even the messy, difficult ones, and I want to be a part of them.’

So you used to wait, watching the people in your life with a careful eye, jokingly tossing your theory at dinner tables and gatherings but secretly hoping and wondering if someone might one day sit down, pick up a pomegranate, and show you that love can be as simple, and as profound, as peeling fruit. 

But as you grew older, your pomegranate theory began to feel like a relic of a softer, more naive version of yourself. You used to imagine someone peeling away the tough, leathery rind, their hands stained red with love and effort, and thought to yourself, ‘that’s love.’ But with time, the weight of practicality started to take hold. 

Your theory about pomegranates, something you once held close with a spark of whimsical belief, soon became just another one of those silly little things that poets and hopeless romantics dreamed up.

So, you tucked your silly theory away in a dusty corner of your mind, dismissing it as an innocent fantasy of your youth. You searched for love that was grounded, sensible, and serious about the practicalities of life. You looked for someone who could handle the demands of life without the weight of romantic idealism like yours clouding their judgement. 

There was no room for mess or chaos anymore, certainly not for the kind of love that required peeling pomegranates, both literally and metaphorically.

A loud slam of your front door made your ears perk up and you heard the familiar rustling of your boyfriend’s clothes as he shuffled through the living room. You could almost envision the way he shrugged off his outer coat before neatly hanging it on the coat hanger by the entryway.

“Baby? I’m home!” 

“In here!” you called out. The bathwater lapped at your knees, forming small waves that crashed and fell against the porcelain wall of your bathtub. Sungho knocked on the bathroom door, but only out of courtesy, before he pushed it open and greeted you with a bright smile.

“Hi, gorgeous,” he knelt by the side of the bathtub to press a warm kiss to your forehead. 

“You’re home early.” you pointed out. A hand reached out to stroke your boyfriend’s cheek, a single droplet of water running down the slope of your arm and landing back in the bathtub with a small plop. 

“Mastered the choreography first so I could come home to you,” he replied, ever so gently leaning into the warmth of your palm. “Did you just start your bath?”

You nodded, the corners of your lips lifting at his sweet words. “Just a few minutes ago. You don’t have to keep kneeling like that, you know. Your knees are going to hurt.”

“I’m fine,” he said with a chuckle. His gaze softened as he noticed the way the water cradled your form, the steam rising in delicate swirls around you. “Want some help?”

You tilted your head, teasing. “Are you volunteering to join me?”

Sungho laughed softly, shaking his head. “Maybe next time, but I can still take care of you from here.”

Before you could respond, he reached for the loofah sitting on the edge of the tub and dipped it into the warm water before lathering it up with your favorite body wash. His movements were slow and deliberate, as though he wanted to savor every second of this small, intimate moment. 

“You don’t have to, you know,” you murmured as he started gently running the loofah along your shoulder. His featherlight touch sent a slight shiver down your spine.

“I know,” he said, his voice steady and warm. “But let me.”

His voice was so soft, so filled with love, that you couldn’t bring yourself to argue. You let out a small sigh of defeat and leaned back against the tub as he started gently running the loofah over your arms. 

Sungho’s touch was delicate, as though he was handling the most fragile thing in the world. The loofah glided over your arms, his hand following to rinse away the bubbles.

“You work so hard,” he murmured, almost to himself, as he moved to your legs. “You deserve this.”

The words made your chest tighten with emotion. “You’re too good to me,” you whispered.

“No such thing,” he said with a soft chuckle, his hand brushing the back of your calf. “Taking care of my partner is the easiest thing in the world.”

You let your head rest against the edge of the tub, closing your eyes as his hands continued their tender work. The care and love infused into every motion, the way he poured his entire being into making sure you felt safe, cherished, and adored made your heart squeeze tightly.

As he finished, Sungho pressed a soft kiss to your damp shoulder, his lips lingering for a moment. “All done,” he whispered, and you noticed a hint of pride in his voice.

“Thank you,” you said, meeting his gaze. 

Sungho smiled, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Anything for you, gorgeous. Always.”

He stood up and grabbed the big, fluffy towel from the nearby rack, shaking it out to fluff it up. “Alright, come on, let me help you out.”

You shifted in the tub, the water sloshing as you moved to stand. Sungho reached out instinctively, steadying you with his strong, gentle hands. His fingers pressed lightly against your arm and waist as he guided you to step out of the tub.

“Careful,” he murmured, his brows furrowed in concentration. 

The moment your feet touched the bath mat, he draped the towel around you, cocooning you in its warmth. You couldn’t help but giggle as he adjusted the plush fabric, tucking the edges around your shoulders like a protective shield.

“There we go. Let’s go get you dried up, and then we can go see the present I got you.”

The kitchen table was a mess—juice stains spreading across its surface, pomegranate seeds scattered among paper towels and discarded bits of rind. Sungho sat across from you, elbows resting on the table as he carefully pried apart another piece of fruit. His fingers were stained a deep crimson, the juice clinging to his skin and pooling in the small creases of his knuckles. 

“You’re making such a mess,” you teased, watching as he plucked a cluster of seeds free and placed them in a bowl.

He grinned, unfazed. “Worth it.”

He picked up a few seeds between his stained fingers, flicking away the stubborn bits of membrane, and brought them to your lips. “Here.” 

You let him feed you, the tart sweetness bursting on your tongue as he watched you with unspoken fondness. It wasn’t until you noticed the way his brows furrowed in concentration, focusing on getting a particular seed unstuck from the membrane, that it struck you how absurdly thoughtful this was.

“When did I even mention that I like pomegranates?” you asked, your voice softened with wonder and adoration.

Sungho glanced up briefly, his lips quirking up into a sheepish grin. “You told me once, when we first started dating. You were talking about how much you loved them as a kid. Said they were your favorite fruit, even though they’re a pain to eat.” 

You blinked, stunned. The memory was hazy even to you—just a passing remark in some forgetful conversation. But he’d remembered.

“You didn’t have to go through all this trouble,” you murmured, feeling your chest tighten with an unfamiliar mix of emotions.

Sungho shrugged, returning his attention to the pomegranate in his crimson stained hands. “It’s no trouble. Besides, I like seeing you happy.”

You looked down at the table and took in the chaos of it all: the stains, the mess, his juice-streaked hands, and something deep inside you shifted.

Suddenly, you were seventeen again with your heart wrapped in whimsical theories about soulmates and love.

This was it. This was what you had been searching for back then but had long stopped believing in. This was the kind of love you’d once dreamed of but had dismissed as a silly, adolescent fantasy. Yet, here it was, sitting across from you with juice-stained hands and a soft smile, proving you wrong in the most beautiful way.

Your teenage self had been right: peeling a pomegranate wasn’t just about the fruit. It was a quiet act of devotion, a willingness to embrace the mess and the effort for the sake of someone else’s joy.

Sungho broke your reverie by holding up another handful of seeds, his smile so effortlessly warm that it sent a pang through your chest.

“You don’t have to feed me,” you said with a small laugh, though your voice wavered slightly.

“I know,” he replied. His tone was gentle but resolute. “But let me.”

And as you opened your mouth for the next bite, you realized that love didn’t have to be a grand, sweeping gesture.

Sometimes, it was sitting at a messy kitchen table with stained hands and sticky fingers, peeling pomegranates because someone mentioned, just once, that they liked them.

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[mountaesan]

LOSING MY MARBLES RIGHT NOW WHAT THE ACTUAL FREAK

[mountaesan]

you’re so sweet :(( , thank you so much for reading !

of pomegranates and love stained fingers ; p. sungho 

pairing. idol!park sungho x reader genre. fluff , est. relationship , lots n lots of domesticity ! synopsis. in which sungho shows you that love could be found at an ordinary kitchen table , amidst a mess of pomegranate peels and love stained fingers word count. 1.9k warnings. nudity and bathing in a non-sexual context , a lot of inner dialogue , sungho is… such a gentleman i actually might have fallen in love with him while writing this (yes this is a warning) playlist. the way that i am by abby powledge  notes. this is. so. so. so. self indulgent. but oh to be loved and to be seen by park sungho (◞‸◟)

Pomegranates are a contradiction wrapped in a tough, leather-like skin. 

On the outside, they’re unassuming. Their ruby-red hue is muted by a dull, almost dusty sheen, like they’ve been brushed by centuries of history. But break one open, and it’s utter chaos. Vivid, gleaming seeds spilling out in clusters, their translucent walls catching the light like small, blood-red jewels.

The juice is relentless. It stains fingers, clothes, and countertops with a color so intense that it almost feels alive, impossible to tame. 

And it doesn’t simply mark, it claims. Eating one is an exercise in both patience and surrender. Each seed is a burst of a tart sweetness that’s worth the mess, but it leaves you wondering how something so beautiful can also be so unruly.

That was exactly why you loved pomegranates. They were a little wild, a little untamed. It was in the way the juice stained your fingers, leaving behind traces of something alive and uncontainable. It’s how every seed is a burst of flavor: tangy, sweet, and unapologetically bold. For you, pomegranates were a reminder that the best things in life aren’t always neat or simple; they’re messy, vivid, and unforgettable.

Back in your adolescence, when you were still a hopeless romantic and believed in fate and soulmates and such, you had a theory: that anyone willing to peel a pomegranate for you was to be the one. The one the universe had assigned you—your soulmate. The person you’re meant to share the messiness and beauty of life with, because, let’s be honest, peeling a pomegranate isn’t just an act, it’s a labor. 

It’s tedious, requiring patience and precision to carefully break apart the tough skin without crushing the delicate seeds. The juice inevitably smears, the tiny ruby jewels scatter, and by the end, it looks like a small battlefield in the kitchen. 

You thought of it as a test of devotion. Who else would endure the sticky fingers, the risk of stains, and the painstaking effort, all for the sole purpose of handing over a bowl of gleaming seeds? Your theory wasn’t about the pomegranate itself, it was about what it represented: the willingness to take on something cumbersome and time-consuming just to bring joy to someone else.

In your teenage mind, peeling a pomegranate was love distilled into action. A quiet, unspoken declaration that said, ‘I see the things you cherish, even the messy, difficult ones, and I want to be a part of them.’

So you used to wait, watching the people in your life with a careful eye, jokingly tossing your theory at dinner tables and gatherings but secretly hoping and wondering if someone might one day sit down, pick up a pomegranate, and show you that love can be as simple, and as profound, as peeling fruit. 

But as you grew older, your pomegranate theory began to feel like a relic of a softer, more naive version of yourself. You used to imagine someone peeling away the tough, leathery rind, their hands stained red with love and effort, and thought to yourself, ‘that’s love.’ But with time, the weight of practicality started to take hold. 

Your theory about pomegranates, something you once held close with a spark of whimsical belief, soon became just another one of those silly little things that poets and hopeless romantics dreamed up.

So, you tucked your silly theory away in a dusty corner of your mind, dismissing it as an innocent fantasy of your youth. You searched for love that was grounded, sensible, and serious about the practicalities of life. You looked for someone who could handle the demands of life without the weight of romantic idealism like yours clouding their judgement. 

There was no room for mess or chaos anymore, certainly not for the kind of love that required peeling pomegranates, both literally and metaphorically.

A loud slam of your front door made your ears perk up and you heard the familiar rustling of your boyfriend’s clothes as he shuffled through the living room. You could almost envision the way he shrugged off his outer coat before neatly hanging it on the coat hanger by the entryway.

“Baby? I’m home!” 

“In here!” you called out. The bathwater lapped at your knees, forming small waves that crashed and fell against the porcelain wall of your bathtub. Sungho knocked on the bathroom door, but only out of courtesy, before he pushed it open and greeted you with a bright smile.

“Hi, gorgeous,” he knelt by the side of the bathtub to press a warm kiss to your forehead. 

“You’re home early.” you pointed out. A hand reached out to stroke your boyfriend’s cheek, a single droplet of water running down the slope of your arm and landing back in the bathtub with a small plop. 

“Mastered the choreography first so I could come home to you,” he replied, ever so gently leaning into the warmth of your palm. “Did you just start your bath?”

You nodded, the corners of your lips lifting at his sweet words. “Just a few minutes ago. You don’t have to keep kneeling like that, you know. Your knees are going to hurt.”

“I’m fine,” he said with a chuckle. His gaze softened as he noticed the way the water cradled your form, the steam rising in delicate swirls around you. “Want some help?”

You tilted your head, teasing. “Are you volunteering to join me?”

Sungho laughed softly, shaking his head. “Maybe next time, but I can still take care of you from here.”

Before you could respond, he reached for the loofah sitting on the edge of the tub and dipped it into the warm water before lathering it up with your favorite body wash. His movements were slow and deliberate, as though he wanted to savor every second of this small, intimate moment. 

“You don’t have to, you know,” you murmured as he started gently running the loofah along your shoulder. His featherlight touch sent a slight shiver down your spine.

“I know,” he said, his voice steady and warm. “But let me.”

His voice was so soft, so filled with love, that you couldn’t bring yourself to argue. You let out a small sigh of defeat and leaned back against the tub as he started gently running the loofah over your arms. 

Sungho’s touch was delicate, as though he was handling the most fragile thing in the world. The loofah glided over your arms, his hand following to rinse away the bubbles.

“You work so hard,” he murmured, almost to himself, as he moved to your legs. “You deserve this.”

The words made your chest tighten with emotion. “You’re too good to me,” you whispered.

“No such thing,” he said with a soft chuckle, his hand brushing the back of your calf. “Taking care of my partner is the easiest thing in the world.”

You let your head rest against the edge of the tub, closing your eyes as his hands continued their tender work. The care and love infused into every motion, the way he poured his entire being into making sure you felt safe, cherished, and adored made your heart squeeze tightly.

As he finished, Sungho pressed a soft kiss to your damp shoulder, his lips lingering for a moment. “All done,” he whispered, and you noticed a hint of pride in his voice.

“Thank you,” you said, meeting his gaze. 

Sungho smiled, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Anything for you, gorgeous. Always.”

He stood up and grabbed the big, fluffy towel from the nearby rack, shaking it out to fluff it up. “Alright, come on, let me help you out.”

You shifted in the tub, the water sloshing as you moved to stand. Sungho reached out instinctively, steadying you with his strong, gentle hands. His fingers pressed lightly against your arm and waist as he guided you to step out of the tub.

“Careful,” he murmured, his brows furrowed in concentration. 

The moment your feet touched the bath mat, he draped the towel around you, cocooning you in its warmth. You couldn’t help but giggle as he adjusted the plush fabric, tucking the edges around your shoulders like a protective shield.

“There we go. Let’s go get you dried up, and then we can go see the present I got you.”

The kitchen table was a mess—juice stains spreading across its surface, pomegranate seeds scattered among paper towels and discarded bits of rind. Sungho sat across from you, elbows resting on the table as he carefully pried apart another piece of fruit. His fingers were stained a deep crimson, the juice clinging to his skin and pooling in the small creases of his knuckles. 

“You’re making such a mess,” you teased, watching as he plucked a cluster of seeds free and placed them in a bowl.

He grinned, unfazed. “Worth it.”

He picked up a few seeds between his stained fingers, flicking away the stubborn bits of membrane, and brought them to your lips. “Here.” 

You let him feed you, the tart sweetness bursting on your tongue as he watched you with unspoken fondness. It wasn’t until you noticed the way his brows furrowed in concentration, focusing on getting a particular seed unstuck from the membrane, that it struck you how absurdly thoughtful this was.

“When did I even mention that I like pomegranates?” you asked, your voice softened with wonder and adoration.

Sungho glanced up briefly, his lips quirking up into a sheepish grin. “You told me once, when we first started dating. You were talking about how much you loved them as a kid. Said they were your favorite fruit, even though they’re a pain to eat.” 

You blinked, stunned. The memory was hazy even to you—just a passing remark in some forgetful conversation. But he’d remembered.

“You didn’t have to go through all this trouble,” you murmured, feeling your chest tighten with an unfamiliar mix of emotions.

Sungho shrugged, returning his attention to the pomegranate in his crimson stained hands. “It’s no trouble. Besides, I like seeing you happy.”

You looked down at the table and took in the chaos of it all: the stains, the mess, his juice-streaked hands, and something deep inside you shifted.

Suddenly, you were seventeen again with your heart wrapped in whimsical theories about soulmates and love.

This was it. This was what you had been searching for back then but had long stopped believing in. This was the kind of love you’d once dreamed of but had dismissed as a silly, adolescent fantasy. Yet, here it was, sitting across from you with juice-stained hands and a soft smile, proving you wrong in the most beautiful way.

Your teenage self had been right: peeling a pomegranate wasn’t just about the fruit. It was a quiet act of devotion, a willingness to embrace the mess and the effort for the sake of someone else’s joy.

Sungho broke your reverie by holding up another handful of seeds, his smile so effortlessly warm that it sent a pang through your chest.

“You don’t have to feed me,” you said with a small laugh, though your voice wavered slightly.

“I know,” he replied. His tone was gentle but resolute. “But let me.”

And as you opened your mouth for the next bite, you realized that love didn’t have to be a grand, sweeping gesture.

Sometimes, it was sitting at a messy kitchen table with stained hands and sticky fingers, peeling pomegranates because someone mentioned, just once, that they liked them.

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[mountaesan]

js had a mini heart attack thinking the pic of jaehyun in chicken-less dreams wasn't actually jaehyun and i was about to be accused of being racist

[mountaesan]

chicken-less dreams ; m. jaehyun

pairing. drunk!jaehyun x fem!reader genre. fluff , est. relationship synopsis. your boyfriend’s drunk antics are often loud and chaotic, but they also remind you why he’s your favorite kind of trouble word count. 1.7k warnings. mentions of alcohol (but no actual drinking) , stripping in a non-sexual context ? , kissing , jaehyun is very drunk and very in love but so is reader playlist. you are in love by taylor swift , ribs by lorde notes. i actually had literally no idea what to title this… so ‘chicken-less dreams’ it is ! unless i can think of another title 😭

riwoo: 911 riwoo: emergency emergency

you: ????

riwoo: your man’s shitfaced and refuses to go home

you: i’ll be there in 15

riwoo: plz hurry he’s about to sing bigbang’s haru haru

You could spot your boyfriend from a mile away. Your eyes were immediately drawn towards him—the way he held onto a metal spoon as if it were a lifeline, singing into it with unbridled passion like it was a microphone. You folded your arms, a quiet laugh escaping your lips as you watched from a distance. Jaehyun stood in the middle of the bar, belting out the melancholic lyrics of BIGBANG’s ‘Haru Haru’, accompanied by his dramatic and melancholic acting. Despite sitting at the same table, his friends were looking away, as if embarrassed to be associated with his drunk singing. 

You caught Sungho’s gaze and he gestured to you to come over to save them all. Despite being embarrassed, he also seemed to enjoy the situation with the way his eyes sparkled with a small smile. With a small resigned shake of your head, you made your way towards their table, weaving through a throng of bodies.

Snatching the spoon from Jaehyun mid-chorus earned you a dramatic gasp and a look of wounded betrayal. “Hey! I wasn’ done!” he protested, but the moment his bleary eyes focused on you, his face lit up and he threw his outstretched arms around you. “My girlfriend! It’s my girlfriend, guys!” 

He turned to the rest of the bar, raising his voice to a volume only a drunken Jaehyun could manage. “My girlfriend came to pick me up! Suckers!”

You wrinkled your nose at the overpowering scent of alcohol wafting off of him. “How much did you guys give him to drink?” you asked the guys as you tried your best to dodge Jaehyun’s drunk kisses. 

The boys shrugged in unison. 

“Uh,” Riwoo started, scratching the back of his head. “It started with one, but then he promised to not sing if he had more, but as you can tell…” he gestured to the spoon Jaehyun had just used as a microphone. “So… yeah, this is on us. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you sighed, already resigned to your fate. “I’ll take him home now. Thanks guys.” 

You nodded at your boyfriend’s friends and tugged on said boyfriend, only to find that he had somehow slouched into a near-horizontal position on the couch, looking suspiciously comfortable. Muttering under your breath, you tugged on his arm. You became highly suspicious that he would actually die if your attention wasn’t on him at all times, like he often argued. “God, this kid.”

With Taesan and Leehan’s help, you were able to load Jaehyun into the passenger seat of your car. He slumped against the window, lips smacking loudly together. “Nono… I needa sing one more song…”

“Babe, one more song and you would’ve been blacklisted from that bar for life,” you chuckled, starting the car. The engine roared to life and you backed out of the busy parking lot. “Come on, let’s go home.”

Jaehyun didn’t protest and the quiet hum of the car engine soon lulled him to sleep.

Getting Jaehyun into the house was a battle of endurance and patience. Juggling keys, fumbling in the dark, and supporting the dead weight of a half-conscious boyfriend clinging to you was more than exhausting.

“Please let this be the one,” you whispered, trying yet another key. When the lock finally clicked, you let out a loud sigh of relief. “Thank you,” you murmured to the heavens, tugging Jaehyun through the doorway as he nuzzled into the crook of your neck. “C’mon.”

“Don’t wanna…” he mumbled, and his warm breath sent a slight shiver down your spine. “I gots to finish my performance…”

Somehow, you managed to guide him to the couch, where he collapsed in a heap. He sprawled out, stretching out his limbs in all directions. Brushing a strand of hair from his face, you observed how the pale moonlight streaming through the window highlighted the sparkle in his eyes.

“Alright, Mariah Carey. Let’s get you ready for bed. Even a diva needs to sleep, no?” you said gently, stroking his hair. “Did you drink any water?”

Jaehyun shook his head with a small pout.

When you straightened up to fetch him some, his hand shot out, grasping your wrist tightly. “Where’rr you going?” he slurred, looking up at you like a lost puppy. “Please don’ go…”

“I’m just grabbing you water, baby.”

“Nono…” he said firmly, shaking his head as if the thought of you leaving him for a second was unbearable. “I’m goin’ with you. It’s dangerous outthere.” 

“Oh, really? What kind of dangers?” you asked, amused.

He leaned in, wide-eyed, and whispered gravely, “... Chickens.” 

You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing. “Okay, okay. You can protect me from the chickens, Myung Jaehyun.”

What could’ve been a 30 second trip to the kitchen turned into a 10 minute ordeal. He clung to you like a koala, stumbling along as you poured water into a glass. Perched on the counter, he sipped reluctantly while you stroked his hair, murmuring soothing words.

“Nomo…” (translation: "no more…")

“No, you’ve gotta finish everything, Jae,” you responded firmly. Your boyfriend huffed with a dramatic roll of his eyes but nonetheless complied. “Good boy,” you patted his cheek affectionately once he finished the entire cup of water and Jaehyun beamed at your praise.

When you wiped his face with a cloth, he grinned lazily, leaning into your touch. You pressed a quick kiss to his lips. 

Jaehyun’s eyes flew open at the contact and he stared at you in shock. You burst into laughter at his reaction and brushed your fingers through his hair. “What, never been kissed by a girl before?” you asked jokingly. 

“Not by a pretty one,” Jaehyun whispered and you laughed again. “Not funny!”

“Is too,” you teased. Tucking your arms under Jaehyun’s arms, you hugged him tightly and you rested your head atop his shoulder. “I love you, Jaehyun.”

All you got was a quiet “Whoa” in response. 

You managed to get him to the bedroom, but Jaehyun’s antics still weren’t over. When you tried to pull his shirt off to help him change, he recoiled dramatically, crossing his arms over his chest like a scandalized debutante. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! I’m sure you’re a very nice lady, but I have a girlfriend!” he protested, wagging an accusatory finger at you. “She doesn’t like it when I talk to other girls. Especially ones who—who try to take my clothes off! Like you! Perv!”

You watched with an amused smile, your hands resting on your hips as Jaehyun retreated further into his bed, distancing himself from you. 

“And I love my girlfriend! Sorry not sorry, but I’m not for the huzz,” he waved his hand dismissively. 

“Jae, I am your girlfriend,” you insisted but Jaehyun wasn’t having it. He shook his head with vigor.

“No thank you lady, I’m not interested.” 

With a sigh, you leaned in and kissed his cheek. “It’s me, Jae,” you spoke softly, watching as his cheeks turned pink.

“Ohh… hi baby,” he whispered sheepishly.

Thankfully, getting Jaehyun into bed afterwards wasn’t too difficult, his protests reduced to sleepy murmurs. Once he was settled, you took a moment to ensure he was comfortable and you brushed a stray strand of hair from his face.

You slid under the covers beside him, the mattress dipping slightly under your weight. Jaehyun was sprawled across the bed in an ungraceful manner, one arm flung over his face and the other clutching the blanket like a child with a security toy. His lips moved faintly, forming incoherent words as he teetered on the edge of consciousness.

Carefully, you reached out and placed your hand on his cheek, the warmth of his skin grounding you. He stirred at your touch, his eyes cracking open just enough to reveal the sleepy gaze within them. A slow smile crept across his face: lopsided and utterly endearing.

“Hi…” he mumbled, the word drawn out and soft. 

“Hey,” you whispered back, your thumb brushing against the curve of his cheekbone in a slow, soothing motion.

Jaehyun’s brows knitted together, his drunken thoughts forming an odd jumble of words. “Y’know… you’re really, really pretty. Like… unfairly pretty. Like… if there was a… a contest or somethin’, I think you’d win. Every time.”

You couldn’t help but laugh quietly at his rambling. “You’re too sweet.”

“No, no, no,” he insisted, his voice muffled as he turned his face slightly into your palm, pressing his lips against your skin. “It’s true. You’re, like… the queen of… uh… the stars? Yeah, like a star queen. Like, Dairy Queen but instead of queen of dairy, you’re the queen of stars.”

“A star queen?” you repeated, amused, leaning closer until your noses were almost touching.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his words slurring together. “And… and I’m just some guy… but you picked me anyway. Like what?” He blinked sluggishly, his expression a mixture of wonder and disbelief. 

You chuckled softly, your fingertips tracing the edge of his jaw. “You’re not just ‘some guy,’ Jae. You’re my guy. My favorite guy.”

That earned a pleased hum from him, his eyes fluttering shut as he melted further into your touch. “Mmm… your guy. I like that. Sounds nice. Sounds… cozy.”

“Cozy?” you echoed, your lips twitching into a smile.

“Yeah,” he murmured, barely audible now. “Like… blankets… or hot chocolate…” He paused, letting out a soft sigh. “Or… you. I think you’re cozy too.

You leaned in, pressing a feather-light kiss to his forehead. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“Y’know what’s ridic..ous?” he mumbled, his voice trailing off as sleep began to claim him. “How much ‘m love with… y... and… ch… chi…”

You stayed there for a while, watching his breathing even out as he sank into peaceful slumber. Your hand never left his face, your thumb continuing its gentle strokes along his cheek. His skin was warm beneath your touch, a quiet reminder of his presence, his love. 

Nestled beside him, you whispered, “I love you, too, Jaehyun. So much.”

Although he was asleep, his lips curved into the faintest of smiles, as if somewhere in his chicken-less dreams, he had heard you. 

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[mountaesan]

picked up the guitar for the first time in months and i jinjja fr think my fingers are gonna fall off

[mountaesan]

boynextdoor when their s/o is on their period

pairing. ot6 x afab!reader warnings. period mention , therefore reader has a uterus but other than that no other terms are used to specify gender , period cramps & cravings mentions , jaehyun has women in his life ? , and woonhak is a feminist ( LMAO PLS DON’T TAKE THIS SERIOUSLY IT’S A JOKE ) notes. gave up on my constipated leehan x constipated reader fic and decided to write this banger on a whim more under the cut !

sungho : 

he 100% tracks your cycle with you. if you don’t have him added to your tracking app, he has his own where he makes note of your different symptoms (safe to say you were deeply impressed and got emotional when you found out). also does a lot of research about menstruation and your cycle. he wants to know everything there is to know so that he can be there for you throughout all four phases of your cycle. genuinely becomes concerned sometimes when you’re doubled over in pain and you can’t get out of bed. sungho also has a tendency to stock up on hot packs/water bottles because he absolutely hates to see the love of his life struggling. always willing to wrap you up in his arms 

riwoo : 

says ‘miss bitch is back’ when you’re on your period. yes, he has nicknamed your period ‘miss bitch’ (mostly because it’s a bitch to you whenever it’s that time of the month). let’s you do anything and everything you want to do. if you feel like going to the nearest convenience store at 2 in the morning because you want to eat three bowls of buldak, he’s right behind you. if you feel like crying while watching ‘The Notebook’ for the thousandth time, he’s holding the box of tissues for you. to be frank, he enjoys it when you’re on your period (not when you’re in pain ofc) because that means he can bring home the gazillion different desserts he’s been meaning to try. the two of you have a taste testing on the bed, taking bites from different tarts, cakes, donuts (duh), and other sweets to your silly little hearts’ content. 

myung jaehyun : 

gets upset that you have to be in pain for a week every month. curses the menstruation gods and begs for the pain to be transferred to him (half joking, half serious). so, to prove his solidarity, he bought one of those period cramp simulators and tried it on himself. afterwards, he apologized to every single woman in his life. twice. he likes to cuddle up with you and pretend to punch your abdomen, saying he’s fighting the period cramps for your honor. it’s silly but you’re too tired to say anything. will immediately fix up any absurd cravings you have because if his baby is craving bacon and chocolate, his baby will be eating bacon and chocolate! 

taesan : 

he can recognize your period before you do, without the help of a tracking app (sungho is seething with jealousy). you’re impressed, but taesan doesn’t think much of it; he just notices the slight changes in your diet and attitude, and acts accordingly. wordlessly stocks up on snacks and junk food a couple days prior. once it’s leak week, taesan refuses to let you do anything. you’re basically in bed arrest. if he catches you waddling out of the bedroom with the hot water bottle pressed to your abdomen, he’s ushering you right back to bed. likes to push your hair back and kiss you on the forehead. it’s weird and random, but it’s something he only does when you’re on your period. otherwise, he’s back to usual kissing regimen. 

leehan : 

clueless #1. he doesn’t know much about periods or menstruation cycles so he does his best to research on it. he does know a thing or two about mood swings though, so if you’re ever in a mood, he just lets himself be yelled at until you’re feeling better. afterwards, he’ll give you a kiss and swaddle you with blankets to help you unwind and relax. you noticed that leehan liked to be the little spoon when you were on your period, which is weird because he usually likes spooning you. turns out, he liked the warmth of your hot water bottle and used cuddling as an excuse to warm himself up. likes to cozy up with you in bed and do netflix marathons, re-watching all your favorite rom-coms and tv shows. 

woonhak : 

clueless #2. woonhak cried the first time you cried when you were on your period. you weren’t even crying because of him, you were crying because you remembered cheesepuff, your pet hamster from the third grade, was dead. regardless, he was freaking out! researches and asks around a lot, especially his hyungs, about periods and what he can do to help. steals sweets from riwoo, hot packs from taesan, and uses leehan’s netflix account. oh he also stole borrowed jaehyun’s period cramp simulator and almost cried a second time that week. becomes a feminist whenever you’re on your period and whips out his copies of Jane Eyre, Pride and Prejudice, Little Women, and The Awakening to prove that he stands with you. ig it’s the thought that counts ?

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[mountaesan]

hey!!! i enjoyed reading ur recent sungho fic, and i saw u had a song reco for the fic too so I had to check it out and listen, and idk....while listening to the song and remembering the way you wrote, it feels so homey and comforting <33 loved the vibes so much!

hiii AAA omg thank you sm !! i had that song on loop for the majority of the time i was revising and editing because it just fit so well </3

[mountaesan]

of pomegranates and love stained fingers ; p. sungho 

pairing. idol!park sungho x reader genre. fluff , est. relationship , lots n lots of domesticity ! synopsis. in which sungho shows you that love could be found at an ordinary kitchen table , amidst a mess of pomegranate peels and love stained fingers word count. 1.9k warnings. nudity and bathing in a non-sexual context , a lot of inner dialogue , sungho is… such a gentleman i actually might have fallen in love with him while writing this (yes this is a warning) playlist. the way that i am by abby powledge  notes. this is. so. so. so. self indulgent. but oh to be loved and to be seen by park sungho (◞‸◟)

Pomegranates are a contradiction wrapped in a tough, leather-like skin. 

On the outside, they’re unassuming. Their ruby-red hue is muted by a dull, almost dusty sheen, like they’ve been brushed by centuries of history. But break one open, and it’s utter chaos. Vivid, gleaming seeds spilling out in clusters, their translucent walls catching the light like small, blood-red jewels.

The juice is relentless. It stains fingers, clothes, and countertops with a color so intense that it almost feels alive, impossible to tame. 

And it doesn’t simply mark, it claims. Eating one is an exercise in both patience and surrender. Each seed is a burst of a tart sweetness that’s worth the mess, but it leaves you wondering how something so beautiful can also be so unruly.

That was exactly why you loved pomegranates. They were a little wild, a little untamed. It was in the way the juice stained your fingers, leaving behind traces of something alive and uncontainable. It’s how every seed is a burst of flavor: tangy, sweet, and unapologetically bold. For you, pomegranates were a reminder that the best things in life aren’t always neat or simple; they’re messy, vivid, and unforgettable.

Back in your adolescence, when you were still a hopeless romantic and believed in fate and soulmates and such, you had a theory: that anyone willing to peel a pomegranate for you was to be the one. The one the universe had assigned you—your soulmate. The person you’re meant to share the messiness and beauty of life with, because, let’s be honest, peeling a pomegranate isn’t just an act, it’s a labor. 

It’s tedious, requiring patience and precision to carefully break apart the tough skin without crushing the delicate seeds. The juice inevitably smears, the tiny ruby jewels scatter, and by the end, it looks like a small battlefield in the kitchen. 

You thought of it as a test of devotion. Who else would endure the sticky fingers, the risk of stains, and the painstaking effort, all for the sole purpose of handing over a bowl of gleaming seeds? Your theory wasn’t about the pomegranate itself, it was about what it represented: the willingness to take on something cumbersome and time-consuming just to bring joy to someone else.

In your teenage mind, peeling a pomegranate was love distilled into action. A quiet, unspoken declaration that said, ‘I see the things you cherish, even the messy, difficult ones, and I want to be a part of them.’

So you used to wait, watching the people in your life with a careful eye, jokingly tossing your theory at dinner tables and gatherings but secretly hoping and wondering if someone might one day sit down, pick up a pomegranate, and show you that love can be as simple, and as profound, as peeling fruit. 

But as you grew older, your pomegranate theory began to feel like a relic of a softer, more naive version of yourself. You used to imagine someone peeling away the tough, leathery rind, their hands stained red with love and effort, and thought to yourself, ‘that’s love.’ But with time, the weight of practicality started to take hold. 

Your theory about pomegranates, something you once held close with a spark of whimsical belief, soon became just another one of those silly little things that poets and hopeless romantics dreamed up.

So, you tucked your silly theory away in a dusty corner of your mind, dismissing it as an innocent fantasy of your youth. You searched for love that was grounded, sensible, and serious about the practicalities of life. You looked for someone who could handle the demands of life without the weight of romantic idealism like yours clouding their judgement. 

There was no room for mess or chaos anymore, certainly not for the kind of love that required peeling pomegranates, both literally and metaphorically.

A loud slam of your front door made your ears perk up and you heard the familiar rustling of your boyfriend’s clothes as he shuffled through the living room. You could almost envision the way he shrugged off his outer coat before neatly hanging it on the coat hanger by the entryway.

“Baby? I’m home!” 

“In here!” you called out. The bathwater lapped at your knees, forming small waves that crashed and fell against the porcelain wall of your bathtub. Sungho knocked on the bathroom door, but only out of courtesy, before he pushed it open and greeted you with a bright smile.

“Hi, gorgeous,” he knelt by the side of the bathtub to press a warm kiss to your forehead. 

“You’re home early.” you pointed out. A hand reached out to stroke your boyfriend’s cheek, a single droplet of water running down the slope of your arm and landing back in the bathtub with a small plop. 

“Mastered the choreography first so I could come home to you,” he replied, ever so gently leaning into the warmth of your palm. “Did you just start your bath?”

You nodded, the corners of your lips lifting at his sweet words. “Just a few minutes ago. You don’t have to keep kneeling like that, you know. Your knees are going to hurt.”

“I’m fine,” he said with a chuckle. His gaze softened as he noticed the way the water cradled your form, the steam rising in delicate swirls around you. “Want some help?”

You tilted your head, teasing. “Are you volunteering to join me?”

Sungho laughed softly, shaking his head. “Maybe next time, but I can still take care of you from here.”

Before you could respond, he reached for the loofah sitting on the edge of the tub and dipped it into the warm water before lathering it up with your favorite body wash. His movements were slow and deliberate, as though he wanted to savor every second of this small, intimate moment. 

“You don’t have to, you know,” you murmured as he started gently running the loofah along your shoulder. His featherlight touch sent a slight shiver down your spine.

“I know,” he said, his voice steady and warm. “But let me.”

His voice was so soft, so filled with love, that you couldn’t bring yourself to argue. You let out a small sigh of defeat and leaned back against the tub as he started gently running the loofah over your arms. 

Sungho’s touch was delicate, as though he was handling the most fragile thing in the world. The loofah glided over your arms, his hand following to rinse away the bubbles.

“You work so hard,” he murmured, almost to himself, as he moved to your legs. “You deserve this.”

The words made your chest tighten with emotion. “You’re too good to me,” you whispered.

“No such thing,” he said with a soft chuckle, his hand brushing the back of your calf. “Taking care of my partner is the easiest thing in the world.”

You let your head rest against the edge of the tub, closing your eyes as his hands continued their tender work. The care and love infused into every motion, the way he poured his entire being into making sure you felt safe, cherished, and adored made your heart squeeze tightly.

As he finished, Sungho pressed a soft kiss to your damp shoulder, his lips lingering for a moment. “All done,” he whispered, and you noticed a hint of pride in his voice.

“Thank you,” you said, meeting his gaze. 

Sungho smiled, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Anything for you, gorgeous. Always.”

He stood up and grabbed the big, fluffy towel from the nearby rack, shaking it out to fluff it up. “Alright, come on, let me help you out.”

You shifted in the tub, the water sloshing as you moved to stand. Sungho reached out instinctively, steadying you with his strong, gentle hands. His fingers pressed lightly against your arm and waist as he guided you to step out of the tub.

“Careful,” he murmured, his brows furrowed in concentration. 

The moment your feet touched the bath mat, he draped the towel around you, cocooning you in its warmth. You couldn’t help but giggle as he adjusted the plush fabric, tucking the edges around your shoulders like a protective shield.

“There we go. Let’s go get you dried up, and then we can go see the present I got you.”

The kitchen table was a mess—juice stains spreading across its surface, pomegranate seeds scattered among paper towels and discarded bits of rind. Sungho sat across from you, elbows resting on the table as he carefully pried apart another piece of fruit. His fingers were stained a deep crimson, the juice clinging to his skin and pooling in the small creases of his knuckles. 

“You’re making such a mess,” you teased, watching as he plucked a cluster of seeds free and placed them in a bowl.

He grinned, unfazed. “Worth it.”

He picked up a few seeds between his stained fingers, flicking away the stubborn bits of membrane, and brought them to your lips. “Here.” 

You let him feed you, the tart sweetness bursting on your tongue as he watched you with unspoken fondness. It wasn’t until you noticed the way his brows furrowed in concentration, focusing on getting a particular seed unstuck from the membrane, that it struck you how absurdly thoughtful this was.

“When did I even mention that I like pomegranates?” you asked, your voice softened with wonder and adoration.

Sungho glanced up briefly, his lips quirking up into a sheepish grin. “You told me once, when we first started dating. You were talking about how much you loved them as a kid. Said they were your favorite fruit, even though they’re a pain to eat.” 

You blinked, stunned. The memory was hazy even to you—just a passing remark in some forgetful conversation. But he’d remembered.

“You didn’t have to go through all this trouble,” you murmured, feeling your chest tighten with an unfamiliar mix of emotions.

Sungho shrugged, returning his attention to the pomegranate in his crimson stained hands. “It’s no trouble. Besides, I like seeing you happy.”

You looked down at the table and took in the chaos of it all: the stains, the mess, his juice-streaked hands, and something deep inside you shifted.

Suddenly, you were seventeen again with your heart wrapped in whimsical theories about soulmates and love.

This was it. This was what you had been searching for back then but had long stopped believing in. This was the kind of love you’d once dreamed of but had dismissed as a silly, adolescent fantasy. Yet, here it was, sitting across from you with juice-stained hands and a soft smile, proving you wrong in the most beautiful way.

Your teenage self had been right: peeling a pomegranate wasn’t just about the fruit. It was a quiet act of devotion, a willingness to embrace the mess and the effort for the sake of someone else’s joy.

Sungho broke your reverie by holding up another handful of seeds, his smile so effortlessly warm that it sent a pang through your chest.

“You don’t have to feed me,” you said with a small laugh, though your voice wavered slightly.

“I know,” he replied. His tone was gentle but resolute. “But let me.”

And as you opened your mouth for the next bite, you realized that love didn’t have to be a grand, sweeping gesture.

Sometimes, it was sitting at a messy kitchen table with stained hands and sticky fingers, peeling pomegranates because someone mentioned, just once, that they liked them.

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