⠀ ☆ ͡ sabbath 🪡୧

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, ZHANG HAO 𖥻

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, SUNG HANBIN 𖥻

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, SEOK MATTHEW 𖥻

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, KIM TAERAE 𖥻

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, SHEN RICKY 𖥻

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, KIM GYUVIN 𖥻

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, PARK GUNWOOK 𖥻

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, HAN YUJIN 𖥻

In his parents, it was a cup of morning coffee made without request. An orange peeled perfectly just the way he likes.

In you, it is everything. You are love.

Your tears are pearls dripping like skylights, your hair like woven threads from Athena’s tapestries. Your anger is a flame and your words are mercury. Your touch is liquified planets, your fingers over his skin like the cosmos themselves flickering over his body.

You love him like a starved man, and he loves you as if you were his oxygen.

“Lovelicky,” You call, voice sweetened with the memories of thousands of forehead kisses and midnight dances. A form of endearment.

Ricky used to read romance novels of soulmate tropes. Of those who couldn’t see the world in color until meeting their beloved, and he wonders internally if that is how you came into his life. For you gift him the love he could never give himself.

He tends to fear withdrawal so heavily he looks for those who he knows cannot give him commitment to prepare himself for the lack. If you show even a sliver of doubt, he will go further to distance himself before the heartbreak can set in.

But you… oh you.

Wonderful, beautiful, breathing, loving you.

He sees the world in color thanks to you— your fiery anger, the red with which blood is made. Your silvery tears the same which fills the oceans. Your sweet smile the green of the grass, and your loving embrace the pink which colors the sky on most nights.

“Ricky, Earth to Ricky!” You call again, corners of your lips turned up ever-so-slightly in a way he could admire forever.

“Sorry,” He says in that soft tone of his. The one which melts your heart.

“It’s okay. Anything on your mind?” You ask, combing your fingers through his deceivingly soft hair. The blonde locks spill between your digits in fields of sparkling wheat and bubbly soda pop.

Ricky thinks for a moment, eyebrows furrowing inward just a tad as his gaze focuses on your shoes left by the door.

Right next to his shoes. Right where they belong.

“I love you,” He breathes out. “A lot.”

You laugh, a sweet thing that tickles his ears like whispers of wind. He hopes, in his next life, he is a star that can gaze down at you for eternity.

“I guarantee I love you more,” You reply. Ricky shakes his head.

“Not possible,” He says.

You just smile. So effortlessly endearing, so little work to make his heart race and palpitate like crazy.

“Possible,” You finally say, leaning forward to place a soft kiss on his exposed forehead. “There isn’t anything else bothering you?”

“No,” He says resolutely. “Not with you here.”

You chase away any thoughts that might threaten to tear himself down. You, his own angel, his own downfall, his home and his road and the journey to get you.

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, SUNG HANBIN 𖥻 ❛ blue salvias ❜

SUNG HANBIN, contrary to what you may think, didn’t like flowers all that much. Sure, they’re pretty, but they’ll fade and wilt after only a few moments of appreciating them. He much preferred other gifts— that is, until he met you.

You reminded him of a flower; beautiful in a way that is not meant to be touched. Cherubic and angelic, petals of morning dew and silk that blossom and bloom when left to their own devices. As a man, he could never wish to hold you, for that will corrupt your beauty.

You have a timeless face. Hanbin could gaze upon it for eternity and find a new feature to appreciate each year. He could map the coordinates of your smile and the altitude of your eyes; he could graph the volume of your laugh and how it pitches slightly in the middle.

He first realized that, perhaps, flowers can be something beautiful when held by man, too, when you introduced him to pressed flowers.

Your room had countless flowers of all kinds hanging from the ceiling; crimson bouquets of begonia, flushing yellow poppies and dried salvias, all tangled together in twine. Your fingers gently held them as if made of glass, as if even the softest of movements would cause them to disappear in a flurry of sweet scents.

“Why do you keep flowers?” He asked you one afternoon.

“They have so many meanings,” You replied. “Like a blue salvia; it means ‘I’m thinking of you’. Most people get roses because they symbolize romance, but I think picking each specific flower with a meaning in mind is so much more romantic.”

“But they wilt so easily,” He argued.

“And then you can press them, and turn them into something beautiful again.”

“Press them?

“Yeah. Like, in between books and stuff,” You explained lamely, gesturing at the floor. “You can preserve them that way. They look really pretty. Usually, I use them as bookmarks.”

Hanbin thinks about that interaction more than he likes to admit— actually, he thinks about every interaction you have a good deal more than he’d like to admit. He performs autopsies on the words you’ve spoken, dissecting each consonant and vowel for the slight confirmation you might like him in the same way he likes you.

“I got you something,” You’d said that morning, hands hiding behind your back in an endearing way that made him smile. He nodded, urging you to explain further.

You’d presented him a small box (which made hardly any sound when he tried shaking it later to see if he could guess what was inside it). It was wrapped in brown parchment paper, a cute bow of twine sitting atop.

“You can’t open it until you’re home, alright?” You instructed him, a stern look in your eyes that had him agreeing before he even registered what you asked. The entire day it sat in his backpack, feeling heavy despite the fact it couldn’t have weighed more than half a pound, box included.

That led him here; sitting anxiously in front of his desk with the box atop the mahogany wood. He swiveled back and forth in his chair, running through every possibility of what it could be in his mind.

After a few tense moments, he opened it.

Hanbin didn’t recognize the flowers at first.

A few hours later, only when the collection of flowers were already tightly pressed within books just the way you taught him, did he realize where he’d seen them before.

Blue salvias.

He didn’t stop smiling for the rest of the night.

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, SEOK MATTHEW 𖥻 ❛ pink bluebell ❜

SEOK MATTHEW doesn’t know much about pop culture, but he knows it’s a definite cliche to fall for someone who works in a flower shop. It’s not his fault, though—really! I mean, anyone would fall for your cute smile and rosy words and soft eyes and…

Matthew groans. Yeah, he’s got it bad.

Well, he knew that already. If the almost daily trips to the flower shop you work part-time at didn’t indicate anything, the fact his face turned bright pink at the mere mention of flowers certainly did.

But, seriously, he can’t help it. You’re so sweet when you offer to help him find what exactly he’s looking for (which he doesn’t even know, because before this Matthew had exactly zero interest in flowers). And when you explain the meanings behind each and every flower, and your eyes light up— Matthew swears he could see the stars behind them. He wonders if the sky ever gets jealous that, no matter how hard it may try, it can never compare to you.

“Oh, Matthew, back again?” You ask, voice ringing like bells. He could listen to it on repeat.

“Yeah! Uh, just here to look around,” He replies, voice sounding strained even to him. You just nod, bright smile never leaving your face.

“You must really like flowers.”

“Something like that.”

He takes his time strolling around, discreetly stealing glances at you each time he moves to the next aisle. His blush must match the color of the roses, by now, he thinks. When he finally picks out a flower, not paying attention to the meanings scribbled hastily beneath the care instructions, he feels a surge of disappointment.

His time getting to see you is almost over (even if a good portion of it was spent staring at you with no actual conversation initiated).

“Who’s the lucky person?” You ask while plugging the number of the flower into your cash register. Matthew stares at you, eyebrows furrowed, before realizing you must think he’s giving all the flowers he buys to someone. Hurriedly, he shakes his head.

“No— no one!” He exclaims, far too quickly to be believable. You laugh.

“You picked out a pink bluebell, Matthew,” You say, smiling even brighter now (he didn’t think it was possible). “It means ‘everlasting love’, you know.”

“Oh. I didn’t, I mean, I wasn’t looking at the meaning,” He mumbles bashfully. You just laugh again, and he cherishes the fact he was the cause of it. “You could, I mean, you can keep it. Not like I have anyone to give it to.”

That’s the closest he’ll ever get to making a move, he thinks dimly. Your smile morphs into something different— something softer, more genuine and human. Something full of human emotion. He thinks he sees that smile in his mirror every time he thinks of you.

“Well, since it’s mine, now,” You say, examining the sweet flower and inhaling the scent briefly. Your eyes flit toward him, making contact before he looks away. “I’ll just have to gift it to someone.”

Matthew feels his heart sink momentarily. Of course— of course!— someone like you already has a partner. How foolish would he be to think someone who shines brighter than the sun itself doesn’t already have a moon? He chides himself mentally over and over again.

“I hope you at least read the care instructions,” You tell him. He glances up, confusion gracing his features for a second, before you hand the flower to him. He hesitates before taking it, looking around as if there were anybody else you could possibly be handing it to.

“For you, Matthew,” You say. He wonders if you know the effect you have on him. He wraps his fingers around the delicate blossom, pink petals bouncing with the movement.

“But—!”

“Don’t think too hard about it.” You tilt your head to the side. “Just a flower for my favorite customer. Surely you can’t refuse that, right?”

“I… I guess not,” He concedes, looking down at the flower like it was a gift from a god. He thinks it must’ve been, considering how heavenly you are.

The moment he leaves the shop, he feels as if he’s walking on air. As if the clouds lowered to allow him to step, as if he was floating above the Earth. The feeling in his chest is squeezing his heart so tight he thinks it might burst— and he would be fine with that, if it were at your hand.

Everlasting love, he thinks to himself.

Everlasting love.

That sounds just right.

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, ZHANG HAO 𖥻 ❛ red chrysanthemums ❜

ZHANG HAO is not a sap. Sure, he watches a (frankly) embarrassing amount of romance dramas, and yeah, he weaves intricate scenarios of relationships in his mind before he sleeps, but that doesn’t mean anything! He is not a sap.

He doesn’t crave the feeling of another’s hand in his. He doesn’t fantasize about how your lips would slot against his like the missing piece of a puzzle he’s been trying to complete his entire life. And he sure as hell doesn’t wish you would love him the way he loves you. No, absolutely not. That’d be insane.

His heart isn’t speeding up as Ricky alerts him you’re walking his way. He doesn’t fight the urge to check his reflection in Keita’s glasses. He doesn’t take a deep breath to steel his nerves and calm his beating heart.

He doesn’t relish in the sound of your voice as you call his name, the way your gaze is directed at him and only him. No, no, no! He doesn’t, he swears!

“Hao!” You say, tickling his ears like a sweet melody of wind chimes tinkling against each other gently. “Would you mind checking over the Prom plans with me? I need the student head’s approval to move forward!”

Zhang Hao doesn’t slap Keita’s head for making kissy noises at him, and he doesn’t secretly hope there’s an ulterior motive behind your words. No.

“Yeah, of course,” He says. He hopes he looks as calm as he sounds. (And he hopes you don’t see Ricky and Keita pretending to make-out behind him).

“Awesome! I just need your signature to finalize the theme, time, and decorations!” You tell him, holding out the clipboard with a long string of papers attached. You flip through at the speed of light, talking about the different streamers and confetti, and how the theme ‘Night out in New York’ is one of your favorites because it allows creative freedom. He listens to every word.

“The bouquet samples arrived just a few minutes ago, if you want to go check them! That’s actually why I decided to come find you,” You admit, tucking the clipboard away. He nods, as if there was any doubt he’d ever want to spend more time with you.

Hao stands up, brushing off any dust or dirt that might’ve speckled his uniform, and heads off after you. He neglects waving goodbye to his friends, as he could see Yujin and Ollie approaching, and they were sure to make it egregiously well known just how much he liked you. The two couldn’t seem to keep a secret for their lives.

“The flowers were pretty expensive, but the board told me to go all out for Prom! It’s not every year their star students graduate, after all!” You tell him, bouncing as you led him. Hao tried not to smile too hard.

It was true. MNET High had always been an incredibly prestigious school, but the batch in his year were notably exceptional. Between Sung Hanbin, Seok Matthew, Cha Woongi, Keita, and himself, it was no secret this year's seniors were favorites of the school board. Zhang Hao had even managed to snag himself the role of student head— with you as his vice. Originally, it’d been a bother to have someone else working with him, but he’d grown unabashedly grateful for the opportunity to meet you.

“What do you think of them?” You ask, clasping your hands together and rocking back and forth on your heels. Belatedly, Hao realizes you’d arrived at the student center.

“They’re really pretty,” He says earnestly, taking a step toward the bouquets of pink, red, yellow, and blue. He says your name to catch your attention. “Really, they’re beautiful. Did you design the bouquets yourself?”

“Uh, partially,” You reply, seeming bashful to be receiving compliments. “I chose the red chrysanthemums! They’re my favorite flowers.”

“Really? Why?”

“Well— they— they just look cool,” You say lamely, looking away. “I liked to study the meaning of flowers when I was younger.”

“What do red chrysanthemums mean, then?” Hao asks, curious as he slowly lifts a finger over the ridges of the bright petals.

“Oh—! Uh, I forgot,” You say. You’re lying. Obviously. Even he can tell, but he doesn’t push. He watches as your fingers flex, seeming to be in an internal debate with yourself, before you pluck a flower from the bouquet and hand it to him.

“Here. You can… you can look it up yourself, later.”

Zhang hao signs off on the Prom preparations.

He isn’t fighting the urge to take out his phone right now and look up the meaning right now. It isn’t lingering on his mind all the while during his walk back to his friends. He doesn’t fight a smile when he finally sees the meaning.

He doesn’t.

He doesn’t.

“Love and passion.”

That doesn’t mean anything.

It doesn’t.

Zhang hao has never been good at lying to himself.

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, PARK GUNWOOK 𖥻 ❛ pink aster ❜

PARK GUNWOOK thinks he must be dead and gone to heaven. That’s the only explanation for your beauty. He wonders if your love story is one of the beauty and the beast; he is hulking and tall, built of muscle and blood. You are lithe and spry, built of springs and ichor.

“Gunwook,” You say, wiping a splotch of dirt from your forehead. Your gloved hands are covered in the substance, and it stains your clothes and skin. Your jeans have green all over the knees, which are threadbare from years of rolling around in the grass. With a trowel in one hand and a handful of weeds in the other, you look every part messy and sweaty. He loves you more than anything.

“Sorry.” He steps forward, trying desperately to ignore how hot it is and how the humid air clings to him as he tries to help you with your garden. Canopies of hanging flowers and grapes hang over his head, drooping down into his eyes and casting a much-appreciated shade over the two of you.

Peas, tomatoes, potatoes and all sorts of wild flowers litter your backyard, some growing in basins and stone patches, some tended to in batches of odd stems and petals.

He takes a handful of weeds and pulls them from the dirt, tossing them into the small pile you’d created.

“You’re seriously perfect for this,” You tell him, watching as he barely uses any of his strength to pull the roots you’d been struggling with the past hour.

“I’m starting to think you’re only dating me for the gardening benefits,” He says, eyes squinting against the sun as he stumbles into a patch of dirt not covered by the overhanging plants.

You gasp in mock offense. “Of course not!”

He gives you a disbelieving look from the corner of his eye.

“I’m dating you because you’re the only one tall enough to pick my grapes, too!”

“I hate you.”

“Love you too!”

You set a basket down beside his feet, empty save for the purple stains of grape-picking seasons long gone.

“Now get to work, peasant!” You exclaim, giving him a deceivingly bright smile. Gunwook can only shake his head, an affectionate smile crossing his face despite himself. Damn you.

“Yes, chef,” He mutters, a reference to the obscene amount of Gordan Ramsey shows you watch. As you work on gathering up the pile of weeds in your arms to toss away in the compost, he busies himself reaching up to pick the long vines of grapes and throw them down into the basket beside him. (He doesn’t actually. He sets them down gently, because he knows you hate when your grapes are squishy).

After a few minutes of picking grapes, the basket half full, Gunwook feels a tug behind his ear, like someone’s pulling his hair. He rolls his eyes for a moment, thinking you must be teasing him, until the light brush of something unfamiliar nestles against his skin.

“Hold—still!” You struggle, trying to balance something behind his ear. He, of course, spins around and catches the item as it falls. A flower, bright pink and petals stretching long, falls into his open palm.

You frown, picking the delicate blossom up not even seconds after it lands and trying to place it again.

“Hey, stop!” He struggles. He doesn’t want pollen in his hair.

You ignore him, continuing to adjust the flower until it lays snuggly parallel to his ear, the petals invading the peripherals of his vision.

“It’s a pink aster!” You tell him. “They’re Aphrodite’s flower, you know!”

He turns the same shade as the flower behind his ear. “You mean, like, the love goddess?”

“Yeah! They symbolize love and charm!” You explain, stepping back to admire Gunwook— or rather, how the flower sits. He looks away, suddenly shy.

You were always the more bold between the two of you, despite what people think. He tends to hesitate before pulling moves on you, and you tend to grab him by the collar and force him to finish them. That’s why he loves you, really.

“…Thanks,” He says, smiling at you as you pick a grape from the basket and wash it under the hose. He has no idea how sanitary it is, but you seem to not care as you plop the fruit into your mouth.

“‘Course. It looks cute on you, princess,” You say, winking as you steal one more grape.

Gunwook kicks at you, pretending to be upset you’re stealing from his harvest, despite his beating heart and loving gaze.

He thinks the entire universe must have conspired to let him find you, and he thanks his lucky stars they did, for he has never felt so deeply for someone.

He loves you so much he pretends not to notice you stealing yet another grape from his basket.

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, SUNG HANBIN 𖥻 ❛ a new shirt ❜

SUNG HANBIN thinks you are his better half; the blood of his past mistakes spills from his lips and his mind and yet you are always there, ready to wipe away the dribbling crimson from his features with a soft hand and an even softer smile. Oftentimes he feels like a schoolboy with a crush, like he should pull at your hair for attention or kick you from beneath his desk.

Really, what did he do to earn someone so caring, someone so effortlessly generous? You joke you used up all your luck in getting to be with someone like him, but then what has he given for you? His hourglass of luck has been flipped upside down and inside out just to get a glimpse at you.

It shouldn’t be a surprise you gift him something when he hasn’t even asked for it— when he has mentioned needing it briefly in passing once or twice, hardly on his mind for longer than a second, but you picked up on it.

“Do you like it?” You ask nervously, wringing your hands as Hanbin stares at his reflection in the mirror. You’d brought home a new shirt for him— one that was expensive, of quality you’d never spend on yourself, but that you’d bought because it was for him.

Hanbin rolls the sleeves up, his forearms on display as he examines his reflection.

“I’d love anything from you,” He says, as if it were a simple fact. To him, it was. Your eyebrows furrow inward slightly, a sign of displeasure, and he turns to face you. “What?”

“I don’t want you to like it because it’s from me. I want you to like it because you… well, because you like it,” You say, lamely gesturing at the ground as if it would prove your point.

Hanbin merely smiles at you, reaching up a hand to affectionately ruffle your hair.

“You know me better than anyone. Of course I love it, idiot,” He tells you, his voice cased in a teasing lilt. You bite back a satisfied smile, opting instead to huff as you fix the collar for him (Hanbin had a bad habit of flipping the collar portion of shirts upwards, which bothered you to no end).

You feel the press of a soft kiss to your forehead as your hands move down to smooth out the fabric. “I love you,” He murmurs into your hair.

He needn’t say it; Sung Hanbin loves you so much it emanates off him in waves. He loves you like you are a child of the cosmos, like you are the ruler of his own personal world and life. And you love him just the same.

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, ZHANG HAO 𖥻 ❛ hair clips ❜

ZHANG HAO, contrary to what you may think, loves fiercely, like a flame burning bright for only you. His words are liquid amber dripping down your ears, his kisses like a lighter setting your personal wax candle aflame. Zhang Hao is all of wintry branches and warm breezes, sticky-sweet toffee and bitter coffee.

He’s undeniable in his fiery spirit and gripping eyes, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. He shows his love in affirmative words and soft touches— and you reciprocate. Neither of you gift the other things very often, and that’s never been a problem. It’s just not your style.

However, you couldn’t pass by a pack of emoji hair clips Hao didn’t yet own and not get them for him. That would be blasphemy.

You simply drop the pack of emoji clips on his bedside table, not bothering to leave a note or any indication it was you. Your Hao was smart, he’d know.

Likewise, he never gave any indication he ever received them, or that the clips hadn’t been a part of his collection to begin with. But you noticed, of course, that the next day his mess of dark hair was adorned with a new moon emoji clip.

He didn’t say thank you— well, not with words.

Hao looks at you like he’s hallucinating a halo atop your head, like he sees two wings sprouting behind your back and unfolding like a crisp book. And maybe he does; in his world, the sun revolves and spins around you. He is just one of many admirers, because he thinks you must have several hundred with how wonderful you are.

You don’t need to tell him you bought those clips with him in mind. No words are exchanged, but a million are said; “I thought of you and your stupid hair clips”, “These are from me”, “I love you enough to think of you all the time”.

A few weeks later (during which he has not worn a single hair clip not from the packet you bought him), a small box appears on your nightstand. When you open it, a collection of bright and colorful stickers fall out onto your lap. You know, instantly, these are from Hao (who constantly complains about the sheer amount of stickers decorating every piece of furniture the two of you own).

You sort through them, a smile breaking out when you land on the final sticker, not in a pack like the rest. This one was clearly cut out from another, placed deliberately among the others.

“I love you,” in bright, bold letters, with a combination of emojis surrounding it.

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, TERAZONO KEITA 𖥻 ❛ blankets ❜

KEITA sometimes wonders if you are a dog. He read somewhere that dogs like to be underneath things or between their owner’s legs because it makes them feel safe; currently, you’re bundled beneath about seven blankets of varying colors and textures, head just barely poking out to be seen.

He thinks he’s never seen anything cuter.

Keita isn’t used to being loved as strongly as you love him— you love him as if something may take him away at every waking moment, as if he will slip between your fingers, as if you are the luckiest person on earth to be able to spend a single second in his presence.

That doesn’t make any sense in his mind. But perhaps it’s like butterflies (he needs to stop comparing you to animals, he thinks to himself), and how they’re unable to see just how beautiful their wings are because they’re always behind them.

“Keita!” Comes your voice, muffled beneath the several layers of fluff. “Open up my backpack, the biggest pocket!”

He gives you an unimpressed look, his thoughts clearly communicated through only his gaze; you seriously can’t do it yourself?

“Just do it!” You huff, trying to move underneath the crushing weight of ten thousand blankets. You remind him briefly of when cats step on sticky notes and start flailing around (yet another animal comparison, he scolds himself), although he follows your orders and treads toward your bag obediently. Perhaps he’s the dog, after all, with how he follows you loyally.

It wouldn’t be the worst thing to be, he muses. Keita would follow you to the ends of the Earth if the situation arose, and he would do so without hesitation.

His fingers move deftly to unzip the bag, a mass of fluffy white greeting him. His first thought is, My god, did I manifest her getting a dog?, followed by, My god, it’s another blanket!

“You can’t be serious,” He says, pulling the blanket out from the bag. He feels a bit like a magician pulling a scarf out of a jacket pocket for a second, with how the blanket seems to just keep coming. You nod eagerly, wiggling around like a caterpillar in a cocoon (seriously, what is wrong with him? That’s the fourth one in five minutes) in an attempt to free one of your arms. You give up after a few seconds of struggling, instead opting to nudge your head in his direction.

“It’s for you!” You exclaim, as if you’ve just gifted him the greatest prize on earth. He can’t help the huff of laughter that escapes him as he examines the blanket. It’s similar to one you own, he realizes, your favorite blanket that he tends to steal when he gets cold. “Come on, join me in the blanket pile!”

“You are so dumb,” He comments, even as his smile grows ever bigger, eyes transforming into crescent moons. The gift is so innocuous— so entirely you— that he can’t help but treasure it.

When he turns to you, there’s a split second you can sense you’ve made a mistake. In the next second, he’s on top of you.

You can barely feel his body through the separation of all your blankets, but his weight crashes onto you violently and you fall off the couch, wriggling your cocooned-body around in an attempt to shake him off.

“Heathen!” You scream, turning around and around like some kind of spinning top. Keita just laughs, clinging onto you like a koala (that’s the fifth one, he counts in his head), as he spreads the blanket over both of your bodies.

Several hours later, you’re both still on the ground (but now you’re laying fully on top of Keita in an act of belated revenge, both of you snoozing peacefully in an outrageously large pile of blankets).

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, YOON JONGWOO 𖥻 ❛ cookies ❜

YOON JONGWOO is pretty sure he’s a guardian angel fallen from heaven and you’re the human he was sworn to protect. Not only because he loves you so strongly it has to have some kind of explanation behind it, but because you’re dumb as a brick and surely would have died by now if he wasn’t always there to set things right.

Yes, Jongwoo loves you so strongly he’s sure if his admiration for you was a physical object it could stop bullet trains and shatter diamonds. He is eternally, devastatingly in love with you.

And as he watches smoke rise from your oven and you frantically wave a towel at it like it’ll do anything, he thanks whatever being let him fall down to earth to protect you. Because lord, how have you survived this long?

A tray of something (he thinks they’re supposed to be cookies, from the bag of chocolate chips on the counter and vaguely circular shape they take on) sits on the counter, burnt to charcoal and permeating the air with the smell of burnt sugar.

“You’re so goddamn stupid,” Jongwoo deadpans. You scream a little, whipping around to face him with an expression of both mortification and excitement (an interesting mix that he somehow finds endearing. Curse you and your stupidly attractive face). “Open the windows before the fire alarm goes off.”

“I’m sorry!” You squeak out, hurrying to follow his directions. He notices now that flour dusts your cheeks and nose, the apron hanging virtually useless on you. In fact, you seem to have gotten ingredients everywhere on you but the apron. It’s almost impressive. “I was trying to make cookies for you, but I took a nap halfway through and slept through the timer and—,”

Jongwoo interrupts you with a laugh, throaty and genuine, as he takes in the scene.

The kitchen; an absolute mess, a plethora of ingredients he doesn’t even think belong in cookies decorating the counter and floor. The oven, a steady stream of smoke still emanating from it, and the tray full of lumps of charcoal. And then you, hair a mess— is that an entire chunk of brown sugar in it?—, eyes wide, clothes stained and breathing heavy as you run around trying to open every available window. And, somehow, you’re still the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen and ever will see. He wonders for a moment if you’re the real angel between the two of you.

“It’s fine,” He says, stopping your long tirade of frazzled excuses and explanations. “I appreciate it, really. But…”

He grabs a ‘cookie’ using a paper towel, banging it against the counter and hearing a loud ‘thunk’ greet him in return.

“I don’t think we should eat these.”

You seem on the verge of tears, lip quivering and breathing shaky, so Jongwoo crosses the bit of space between you and wraps his arms around you.

“I really did try my best,” You say, worried that he was upset with you—or worse, thinks you incapable of basic motions. You’re usually a decent cook, you swear!

“I know,” He says, trying to discreetly pick the chunk of sugar from your hair since he’s pretty sure you haven’t noticed it yet. “And I love the thought.”

“If you really loved me you’d eat them,” You argue. He can tell you aren’t serious, but even the thought makes his nose scrunch up— he’s pretty sure he saw marmite out on the counter.

Jongwoo instead picks a cherry from the basket left untouched (probably the only thing in the kitchen left unscathed from your endeavor), and eats it.

“Does that satisfy you?” He asks, giving you a sweet kiss before you have the chance to answer. You can taste the cherry juice on his lips, and you’re sure he can taste the chocolate on yours, considering how many extra chocolate chips you ate.

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, SUNG HANBIN 𖥻 ❛ touch ❜

SUNG HANBIN touches you like you are his lifeline; like golden ichor flows through your veins and bubbly springs overflow in your mouth, as if your skin is made of fibers woven by Athena herself. His touches are feather-soft, lingering sweetly on your flesh and body, leaving fingerprints of moon dust. He wraps his hands around your torso under the cover of the sun, pressing sugary kisses to your temples early in the morning through silk curtains, whispered promises of love and devotion leaving his lips to caress your ears.

Hanbin laces your fingers together more often than not; soft hands tracing the lines of your palm as if he could read the future you two will build together there. Whether it’s a hand on your thigh, a finger wrapping around your pinky, or a head on your shoulder, he craves your touch like a starved man.

As you lay in bed, head resting softly on his chest, you peer up at him.

“Can you breathe fine like this?” You ask, eyebrows furrowing inward slightly in concern. Hanbin laughs— a short, sweet thing that rings like wedding bells in your mind— and nods.

He gazes down at you, eyes staring at you as if you hold the world in the palms of your hands, and you feel the cold touch of his fingers brushing circles against your hip.

“There is no other way I could wish to breathe,” He replies, words soft and laced with the admiration he feels for you.

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, ZHANG HAO 𖥻 ❛ fruits ❜

ZHANG HAO loves you dearly— his love runs deeper than the ocean, glittering water that shimmers and shines with every action and word you perform. You know it, he knows it, and there is nothing else either of you need. He loves you like the sun loves the moon, like the waves love the shore, like Prometheus loves his creations. He loves you like there is no other option; and for him, there isn’t.

Often, you find yourself staying up late to finish the schoolwork you neglect until the last minute, pencil in your mouth and eyes narrowed in thought. Problems and their solutions swim in your mind, crossing over into the other and leaving you more and more confused.

“You need to sleep,” Hao’s stern voice comes from the doorway, arms crossed in discontent as he watches you study.

“I need to finish this,” You argue, even as your eyes beg for sleep and your knees ache from sitting down for hours. You can hear Hao move across the room, floorboards creaking softly underfoot as he makes his way toward you.

“At least eat something,” He says, placing a bowl of crisp apple slices in front of you. You pick one up, noticing how the skin has been cut in a specific way to resemble a bunny. Before you can thank him he’s gone, out the doorway— probably to sleep.

The next day, as you sit down to study, you notice a bowl of freshly-cut bunny apples waiting for you, and a small sticky-note with the words “try and sleep early tonight”.

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, KIM JIWOONG 𖥻 ❛ long drives ❜

KIM JIWOONG was always extremely stubborn when it came to road safety— not that it was a bad thing, you could appreciate it, really. Eyes on the road, two hands on the steering wheel, music never too loud, and seatbelts are buckled before the car moves even a millimeter. But ever since meeting you, he’s taken to driving one-handed, always leaving one hand open for you to hold.

Inside his car, there is only you and him. There is only Jiwoong’s devotion to you. There is only starlight and sublime tears, moonlit kisses and beating hearts that mold into one, only his hand in yours.

No words need to be exchanged as wheels turn steadily on pavement roads, soft chirps of grasshoppers and croaks of frogs filling the empty spaces. There are no words that need to be exchanged when they’ve all already been said; “I love you” loses its meaning after a while, and now your love is found in the feeling of his hands on yours, of your eyes interlocking gazes in the rearview mirror, of hidden smiles and inside jokes. Now, your love is found in the lack of words needed when Jiwoong grabs his keys from the wall and only has to look at you to ask if you want to go on a drive with him.

No words are needed when you love as strongly as you do.

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, PARK GUNWOOK 𖥻 ❛ this reminded me of you ❜

PARK GUNWOOK thinks that, if there are a million universes, he loves you in every single one. He has bared his heart for you to take like a oyster with its pearl— he would rip apart his heart and sew it back together in the shape of you, for you are in the only thing in it. He sees his entire world in you, and in the world he sees you.

He sees you in the lipstick mark of an abandoned coffee cup, he sees you in the sketchy lines of a street mural, he sees you in blossoming bouquets of spring and bicycles parked on the beach. When Gunwook enters a shop, every item relates back to you; how would you like this shirt on him? Would this look cute on you? Is this your style of decor?

He doesn’t mean to buy you so many things, really, it just happens. As you dance in your living room with him, choked laughter ringing in the air, a collection of miscellaneous items decorate your walls and shelves.

A penguin sculpture for the way you purse your lips in thought. A magazine cut-out of an ad for the same picnic blanket you had your first date on. A collection of pink stickers scattered along the walls for the color of your shirt the day he asked you out.

This room is a log of your m emories; of the love you share, of the tears and the smiles, of all the good and the bad and the in-between. It’s a dictionary of every moment the two of you have shared, fluent in the language of love. And yet there are so many empty spaces, empty pages, for the next moments to come, and you doubt this book will ever close.

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, SEOK MATTHEW 𖥻 ❛ admiration in his eyes ❜

SEOK MATTHEW is like the sun. Bright, happy, a shining, glimmering light that can cast even the most gloomy of days away. His smile is like the medicine to a sickness you never knew you had, his eyes crescent rainbows that reflect every good feeling you can have, his laugh like the ripples of a fresh river swirling around your legs in summer. Seok Matthew is the sun in every meaning of the word.

And you are his moon. He would chase you to the ends of the Earth for eternity just for a glimpse of your smile, just a word from your lips, just a small glance at your eyes, and he would do it for longer than the term “forever” can communicate. He will follow wherever you go, no matter if it’s down to a fiery pit of justice or up to a symphony of angels chorusing for you.

When you speak, Matthew’s eyes are fully on you. Never will it stray (and he has suffered being the butt of many, many jokes because of this), but he can’t help it. Why would he ever want to look away from you, if you are all he ever wants to look at? Stars in his eyes, but you are his one moon.

He hardly ever dreams when he sleeps, for every moment with you is enough to last him through his years without a wink of slumber. He would never have to rest his head if only he can hear you laugh everyday— when you smile, he smiles, and it lights up the world.

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, KIM TAERAE 𖥻 ❛ love songs ❜

KIM TAERAE wonders how anybody enjoyed listening to him sing before he met you, for he never knew true love before. Never has he been able to sing fully with the implication of knowing, never has he embarked on the journey of admiration the songs describe, and never has he known this warm, bubbly feeling called love. Now, every word is charged with the meaning of you; the love he holds for you, the smiles he hides for you, the guitar strings he strums for you, the songs he sings just for you.

His Spotify playlists have become perhaps seven times longer than before, filled to the brim with soft songs that he dedicates entirely to your being.

“Your lips, my lips,” Taerae sang, voice sweet but gravelly, the melody tuned to the sound of beating hearts and hushed kisses. You sit next to him, watching his lips move in a fixed fascination as his deft fingers strum the strings of his guitar like an expert. He plays the strings of your heart the same way; with a practiced ease, like it was what he was born to do.

“Go and sneak us through rivers,” He continues, eyes focused not on his guitar but on you. Taerae thanks every soul that has ever lived on Earth before this, and every soul after, that you were born in such a time and place that he could meet you and fall in love. “Flood is rising up on your knees.”

“Oh please, come out and haunt me.”

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, KUM JUNHYEON 𖥻 ❛ bad movies ❜

KUM JUNHYEON has always been a warm person; he is made of fiery spirits and nipping branches, of autumn leaves tumbling to the ground in piles, ready to be jumped in. He’s made of loud words and screaming laughs, of bad aeygo and joking whispers, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. He is entirely odd, and he’s entirely yours.

So it makes sense he shows his love for you through bad movies. You have never laughed as much as you have when you sit with him on a worn-down couch, bowls of popcorn in your hands, tall cups of soda ready to be drunk on your table. Never have you laughed so hard you snorted except for when Junhyeon made you watch The Emoji Movie with him and interrupted every other sentence to make a joke— and even after that, Junhyeon couldn’t get a joke out because he was laughing too hard at the fact you snorted.

Laughter is uncontrollable when you’re around Junhyeon— when you cuddle up next to him, and even when your eyes are begging for sleep, you can’t stop laughing. When you’re sure you’ve got abs from the hours of jokes, when you’re certain you’ll have laugh lines deeper than the grand canyon after how many years you’ve spent with Junhyeon.

It’s odd, yes, but it’s so entirely Junhyeon.

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, RICKY 𖥻 ❛ gifts ❜

RICKY is young, rich, tall, and handsome, there is no denying that. One thing they never revealed is the fact he’s perceptive— frighteningly so. If you even mention liking something in passing, rest assured there will be a basket of it in your kitchen the next day. If you spend even a fraction of a second too long looking at a piece of jewelry, best believe it’s draped around your neck the next day.

It’s not that he enjoys flaunting his wealth. It’s just… what else should he use it for, if not the one he loves the most? He would buy a thousand gems of the rarest ore just for a single second of your happiness. He would sell his fortune for the feel of his hand in yours— he’d even give up hairspray just to kiss your lips once.

Ricky thinks and feels so much all the time, his heart is bruised and bleeding, but you have become a doctor just to repair him. He loves you in the way nobody can understand; and he does not need understanding when he has admiration. He thinks there is a chapel within his heart entirely dedicated to you; that if he is reincarnated, it will be as a passing breeze that thinks only of you.

“I love you,” He says more often than he thought he ever would.

“I love you, too.” He hears back more often than he thought possible.