#cortis cozy

✮ CRAMPS, CUDDLES

AND CORTIS

STARRING: OT5 cortis x fem reader (seperately)

GENRE: cozy , fluff, crack , established relationship

SUMMARY: Cortis members take care of u during ur periods

𐙚────────────────────────𐙚

Martin

The first thing Martin does when he realizes you’re on your period is stare at you like he’s just been handed a life-or-death mission.

“You should’ve told me sooner,” he says, already halfway out of bed. “This is serious.”

You blink at him from under your blanket. “Martin, I told you ten minutes ago.”

“Exactly. Ten minutes too late.”

And then he’s gone.

You hear cabinet doors opening, the fridge closing, something falling in the kitchen, and Martin muttering to himself like he’s directing a military operation. By the time he returns, he’s carrying approximately seven things in his arms: a heating pad, a blanket, painkillers, a bottle of water, a snack basket, your favorite plushie, and—somehow—his dog trotting behind him like emotional support backup.

You sit up a little. “Why do you look proud of yourself?”

“Because,” he says, dropping everything onto the bed with the energy of a man who absolutely did not think logistics through, “I have built a survival nest.”

“A survival nest.”

“Yes.” He points at the heating pad. “For cramps. Water, so you don’t get dehydrated. Snacks, because obviously. Plushie for morale. Blanket for insulation. Dog for emotional stabilization.”

His dog immediately curls against your leg, warm and sleepy.

You snort. “Emotional stabilization?”

Martin nods solemnly. “Very advanced treatment method.”

He’s loud even when he’s trying to be gentle, but there’s something weirdly comforting about it. Like there’s no room for you to spiral because Martin has already decided this is a problem the two of you are defeating together.

When you mention your stomach hurts, he frowns so hard you almost laugh.

“Okay,” he says, climbing back onto the bed. “No moving. I’ll get food.”

“You already got snacks.”

“That was pre-food. This is different.”

He comes back with toast and something warm and easy on your stomach, then proceeds to hand-feed you bites because “you look too cozy to sit up properly,” which is humiliating, but also kind of nice.

The real problem starts when he decides the cramps are his personal enemy.

At one point he has his hand on your lower stomach, glaring like he can intimidate biology into backing off.

“Martin.”

“Mm?”

“You cannot fight my uterus.”

He narrows his eyes. “Watch me.”

You laugh so hard it actually helps, and he brightens immediately, like that was the goal all along.

By the end of the day, you’re bundled up against him, half-asleep while he rambles about random things just to keep you distracted. His voice fills the room, warm and familiar, and every now and then he presses a kiss to your forehead like punctuation.

“Better?” he murmurs.

“A little.”

“A little is enough. We’ll keep going.”

And somehow, with Martin’s ridiculous survival nest and his even more ridiculous determination, you believe him.

𐙚────────────────────────𐙚

James

James notices before you even say anything.

It’s in the way you curl into yourself on the couch, remote hanging loosely from your hand, expression pinched in that quiet way you get when you’re trying not to complain.

He sets down his drink and comes over without a word. “Bad cramps?”

You look up at him and sigh. “That obvious?”

“To me? Yeah.”

There’s no panic with James. No dramatic reaction. Just calm, immediate understanding.

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and presses a soft kiss to your temple. “Stay here.”

You expect him to come back with the heating pad and maybe some water.

You do not expect him to reappear twenty minutes later with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cape, a little tray of snacks, your favorite drink, and the exact type of sweet dessert you once mentioned craving on your period three months ago.

You stare. “Were you planning for this?”

James sits beside you, all soft limbs and quiet warmth. “I’m dating you. Of course I was planning for this.”

Then, after a pause: “Also, I know your cycle better than you do at this point.”

You squint at him. “That’s a little scary.”

He smiles, small and smug. “Only a little?”

It’s impossible not to melt a little when James takes care of you. He does it in this gentle, unhurried way that makes the whole apartment feel quieter. Softer. He tucks you into his side, fixes the blanket over your legs, and rubs slow circles into your back while the movie plays.

When a cramp hits particularly bad, your face twists before you can hide it.

James mutes the TV instantly. “How bad?”

“Like… my organs are betraying me.”

He hums sympathetically and places the heating pad against your stomach. “That’s rude of them.”

“Extremely.”

He stays like that for a while, one hand resting over yours on the heating pad, the other tracing lazy shapes on your arm. You’re so used to him being quietly affectionate that it barely registers how intimate this is until you notice he hasn’t looked at his phone once.

“You don’t have to babysit me,” you mumble.

“I know.” He glances down at you. “I want to.”

And then, because he apparently can’t let a sweet moment stand without ruining you emotionally, he adds in the calmest voice possible, “If necessary, I’m prepared to square up against your uterus too.”

You choke on a laugh. “You too?”

“I’d win,” he says, dead serious.

“You’re insane.”

“No,” he murmurs, pulling you closer, “I’m prepared.”

The rest of the evening passes in a blur of quiet jokes, warm food, and James kissing your knuckles whenever you get grumpy. He doesn’t fuss too much, doesn’t overwhelm you. He just stays close, steady as ever, until the pain dulls and your eyes start slipping shut.

Right before you fall asleep against his shoulder, you hear him murmur, “You’re doing well, baby.”

And somehow that nearly makes you cry harder than the cramps did.

𐙚────────────────────────𐙚

Juhoon

Juhoon reacts to your period the way Juhoon reacts to everything important:

with food.

The second you mention cramps, he whips around from the kitchen like he’s been activated by a secret code.

“What do you want to eat?”

You blink. “Hello to you too.”

He ignores that completely. “Sweet? Salty? Warm? Spicy? Soup? Noodles? Rice? Bread? All of the above?”

You stare at him, wrapped in your blanket like a burrito of suffering. “I just said I was in pain.”

“And I just said what do you want to eat,” he replies, as if this is obvious.

That is how you end up with Juhoon hovering over you for the next several hours like a very affectionate meal-delivery app.

He makes ramen first because it’s comforting and easy. Then he brings fruit “for balance.” Then crackers “in case your stomach’s weird.” Then chocolate “for morale.” Then tea because “you looked sleepy.” Every time you finish one thing, he appears with another.

At some point you squint up at him. “Are you trying to feed me into another dimension?”

“Yes,” he says. “A better one. Without cramps.”

You laugh despite yourself, then immediately wince.

Juhoon’s expression drops. “Was that from laughing? Don’t laugh. I mean—laugh if you want to, but not if it hurts. Wait, no, I want you to laugh. Just… gently.”

You hold your stomach, still smiling. “You’re spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling.” He hands you the heating pad. “I’m being a supportive boyfriend.”

“A supportive boyfriend with noodle-related tunnel vision.”

“That too.”

The cutest part is that he can never quite sit still when you’re not feeling well. He’ll fuss with your blanket, fluff your pillow, ask if you’re too warm, ask if you’re too cold, ask if your cramps are better, then immediately ask if you’re hungry again.

You finally grab his wrist before he can get up for the fifth time in ten minutes.

“Stay.”

He looks startled. “But your tea—”

“Can survive.”

“The crackers—”

“Will be okay.”

He hesitates, then carefully settles beside you. The bed dips, warm and familiar. You lean into him instantly, your head on his shoulder, and he goes still for a second before relaxing.

“Oh,” he says softly.

“Yeah,” you mumble. “I mostly just want you here.”

That shuts him up for a whole thirty seconds, which is practically a world record.

Then his arm comes around you, strong and careful, and he presses his cheek to the top of your head. “You could’ve just said that first.”

“You were in your provider era.”

“I’m still in my provider era.”

A beat.

“Do you want dumplings later?”

You snort into his shirt. “Juhoon.”

“What? This is romance.”

And honestly? Somehow, in his case, it is.

𐙚────────────────────────𐙚

Seonghyeon

Seonghyeon treats your period like the universe has assigned him two tasks:

1. make you comfortable

2. distract you from the pain by any means necessary

The first part he handles beautifully.

The second part becomes a little questionable.

It starts well enough. He gets the lights dimmed, puts on your comfort show, brings you a blanket, and settles you on the couch with a heating pad and a drink. His hand is warm where it rubs up and down your arm, and he kisses the side of your head with absent affection.

“Comfy?”

“Mhm.”

“Need anything?”

“A new uterus.”

He sighs. “I’ll see what I can do.”

You don’t think anything of it until ten minutes later, when you hear typing from the other end of the couch.

“What are you doing?”

“Composing.”

You slowly turn your head. “Composing what?”

He looks up, completely sincere. “A diss track for your cramps.”

You stare at him.

He stares back.

Then he adds, “Working title: ‘Uterus, Count Your Days.’”

You laugh so suddenly it hurts, which is unfortunately very on-brand for him.

“Seonghyeon—”

“No, listen, I think this has potential.”

“It absolutely does not.”

“It absolutely does,” he says, already tapping out a beat on his thigh. “I can make it therapeutic.”

And because he’s him, he actually commits to it.

Within fifteen minutes, he’s performing the first verse to you in the living room, complete with deeply disrespectful hand gestures aimed at your lower abdomen. The song is terrible. It is genuinely one of the dumbest things you have ever heard.

It also works.

You’re laughing too hard to focus on how miserable you felt an hour ago, and Seonghyeon beams like he’s won an award.

“See? Genius.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“You’re in love with me.”

You pull the blanket higher to hide your smile. “Debatable.”

“Liar.”

But once the jokes settle down, he softens again. He curls up beside you, lets you tuck your cold feet under his leg, and absentmindedly massages your stomach whenever you get quiet. When a rough cramp hits, he pauses the show and just holds you there, forehead pressed to your temple.

“You don’t have to act okay around me, you know,” he murmurs.

Your throat tightens a little. “I know.”

“Good.”

Then, because he cannot help himself: “But if your uterus starts acting cocky again, track two is coming.”

You laugh into his shoulder. “Track two?”

He nods gravely. “Featuring anti-cramp ad-libs.”

You’re pretty sure no one else in the world could make period pain feel this weirdly cozy.

But with Seonghyeon, even your suffering gets a soundtrack.

𐙚────────────────────────𐙚

Keonho

Keonho takes approximately three seconds to go from normal boyfriend to overachieving caretaker with too much enthusiasm.

The second he realizes you’re on your period, he crouches in front of you with a look of absolute concern.

“Be honest,” he says. “How bad is it from one to ten?”

“Like a seven?”

His eyes widen. “Seven is criminal.”

Then he gets up and immediately starts moving around the apartment at alarming speed.

You hear drawers opening. A cupboard slamming. The microwave beeping. Somewhere in the distance, his dog starts yapping like it’s part of the emergency response team.

“Keonho,” you call weakly, “you don’t have to—”

“I do,” he calls back. “This is boyfriend law.”

He returns with a heating pad, fries, water, medicine, and a stuffed animal you’re pretty sure he stole from your side of the bed. His dog trots after him and hops onto the couch like it, too, has been assigned bedside duty.

You look at the fries. “Why fries?”

He looks offended. “Why not fries?”

“Fair.”

“I also have ice cream,” he says proudly. “Salted caramel.”

You narrow your eyes. “That sounds suspiciously like your favorite.”

He gasps. “Wow. In my moment of generosity.”

“You bought yourself comfort snacks and decided to share.”

“That,” he says, sitting beside you, “is still care.”

Honestly, it kind of is.

Keonho is sweet in a way that feels bright. He’s all instinctive affection—pulling you against his chest, fixing the blanket every two minutes, kissing your forehead like he gets points for it. He complains on your behalf too, muttering things like “this is so unfair” and “you should be exempt from all responsibilities forever” while rubbing your back.

At one point he looks down at you and goes, “If I had your pain right now, I’d be so dramatic.”

You glance up. “You’re being dramatic and it’s not even your pain.”

He thinks about this. “That’s true.”

Then his dog tries to climb directly onto your stomach.

“No, baby, not there—” you start, but Keonho scoops the dog up first.

“Absolutely not,” he tells the dog very seriously. “She’s injured.”

You laugh. “Injured?”

“Yes. Temporarily. Due to betrayal.”

“By my uterus?”

“Exactly.”

He settles the dog in your lap more carefully this time, then hands you a fry like this is sacred medicine. You take it, smiling despite yourself.

Later, when the apartment is quiet and your pain has dulled to something manageable, you end up half-sprawled over him, sleepy and warm. He keeps one arm around you and the other around his dog, looking absurdly pleased with himself.

“Feel better?” he whispers.

“Yeah.”

He grins and kisses your hair. “See? Fries, heating pad, and me. Elite combo.”

You close your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he says, softer now. “But I’m your ridiculous.”

And really, with his bright warmth and chaotic tenderness, that’s kind of the best thing he could be.

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