I Need A Minho Right Now - Blog Posts

One of my favorites🥰 I really love this 😩✋🏼

a/n: training minho to reach for you when he is hurt instead of being an angry little guy (inspired by this racha log clip)

you’ve seen it a few times now - minho stubbing his fragile toe against a corner and freezing, or bumping his elbow on a table and hissing slowly through his breath, his eyes closed and his head thrown back as if he is trying to control himself from combusting. him curling up on the couch with his legs pressed close to his chest, hands looking impossibly small where they’re clasped around his knees to hold them close, a deep scowl on his face completing the picture.

he seems angry to the average person, like he’s somehow mad about being hurt and is stewing in that fury while the pangs of pain evaporate from his system. you know better, though. you know he’s not angry, but frustrated. a little annoyed at himself because all he wants to do is curl up in someone’s arms and have them kiss his wound better like a tiny little kitten, but he can’t do that. because he’s minho, and minho’s complete brand is acting tough. sure, everyone knows hes a pure softie on the inside, but he can’t really go around showing it can he?

you’ve elected to convince him that he can. 

it starts when his morning coffee splashes on the back of his hand and he hisses, glaring down at his hand like he wanted to chop it off (or something else equally as violent). usually you’d let him calm down on his own, knowing his faux anger goes as quickly as it comes, but today you swoop into his space and cradle his hand in both of yours. you press a gentle kiss to the spot, coffee staining your lips as you meet his eyes warmly. you guide his hand to the sink and let cool water run across it, rubbing your thumb against his skin in what you hoped was a comforting way. 

“okay?” you ask once you’re satisfied with the temperature of his skin, wrapping a fluffy towel around his hand to dry it. he just blinks at you for a moment, head tilted so adorably that you feel a scream bubbling under your chest that you have to contain. he’s so cute. you finish making his coffee for him while he continues to stare at you with wide eyes, not faltering once until you press a kiss to his cheek on your way out of the kitchen. 

the second time is when he’s come home from dance practice, a little sweaty and tired and very sore all over. he’s grumbling about his muscles hurting under his breath and you can barely hear it, but you know him well enough to know that his aborted movements and sharp little exhales mean that he’s in pain and doesn’t want to say it. the way he sat himself on the sofa instead of showering first was also a sign - he liked to be clean, especially before relaxing. 

you wince in sympathy, knowing the exact feeling of muscle pain from exercise and while it comes with the benefit of self-satisfaction it almost isn’t worth the all-encompassing ache that comes right after. he reaches for his water but stops halfway, cringing at the stretch in both his arm and his abdomen, and falls back against the couch in defeat. you take pity on him, picking up his water and twisting open the cap for him, even going as far as to hold it up to his lips for him as he takes in greedy gulps. when he’s satisfied, he pulls back and fixes you with a suspicious look, like he’s asking what do you want with his eyes. 

you just smile at him in return, giving his upper arms a gentle massage with your hands as you lean at an awkward angle to press a flutter of kisses to his stomach. he’s a little dazed when you finish your ritual, melted back into the cushions with a glazed over look in his eyes, and you cuddle up next to him with a satisfied smile. 

“better?” you ask, letting your finger trail over his stomach in the pattern your lips had just made.

“yeah,” he breathes out, brow furrowing a little in confusion, thinking too hard. 

the third instance is perhaps the most challenging, because it happens in public. the street you’re walking down hand in hand isn’t the busiest, but there are bustling around corners and crossing streets. you’re not at all surprised when minho straightens up in excitement and pulls you to a tree at the end of a sidewalk, a tiny bundle of fur curled up underneath it. minho pulls out a little tube of cat treats from his jacket pocket, something he seems to have an endless supply of, and kneels down next to the small kitten.

the thing is, cats love minho. everyone knows that they do, it’s in his blood. you’re sure that he has cat genes somewhere in his ancestry. 

but, as the both of you discover, this particular cat does not love minho. he leans towards the poor thing, making soft noises with his mouth as he holds the opened treats out, and the cat lets out an angry hiss and swipes at him with its little paw. he lets out a yelp, falling back on his haunches in surprise and his betrayed gaze trails after the kitten as it scampers away. 

he raises the palm of his face to his hand, decorated with lines of angry red that don’t look too bad but you know they probably sting something fierce. he leaves the cat treats abandoned under the tree as he stands and you prepare yourself for the anger to set in but - it doesn’t come. instead, he looks up at you with wet, wide eyes and a trembling pout and your composure breaks.

you swoop in beside him and take his hand, blowing lightly onto his palm before pressing a light kiss to the corner of it. he rests his head on your shoulder in an uncharacteristic display of public skinship, not caring one bit of the passersby behind the both of you as he soaks in your comfort. you have to hide your shock - you didn’t have to come to him, he asked for you. he sought you out in his pain, didn’t get adorably angry, and leaned towards you. this wound was different, this one was personal, a betrayal of his brethren creating a mix of physical and emotional pain that  served as the perfect opportunity for your conditioning to run its course. 

with the way it’s going, you’ll have him perfectly trained in no time.