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bluedenebii · 1 month ago

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HOW SKZ ACT WHEN YOU'RE ON YOUR PERIOD

stray kids ot8 x reader | eight boys, one mission: defeat your uterus with snacks and affection

🌙 synopsis: In this emotionally feral docuseries of domestic chaos, witness eight men spiral between panic, pouty affection, and god-tier cuddling skills as they try to soothe your demon womb. Hormones? Fluctuating. Pain? Off the charts. Love? Disgustingly abundant. Because when you're bleeding, these boys are bleeding emotionally.

💌 a/n: hello bleeding babes 💋. this was written under the influence of one (1) rage cramp, two (2) emotional support chocolates, and the ghost of every ex who didn’t bring me a heating pad. every skz boy is ✨feral✨ in love here because you deserve nothing less than devotion when your insides are trying to kill you. take this as a reminder: you don’t have to be cute while suffering. you can be bloated, bitter, in socks that don’t match and still be the main character of someone’s romantic fever dream. p.s. reblogs = strawberry chocolate covered kisses p.p.s. take a nap. eat something. drink water. i will literally cry if you don’t

📍credits: @cafekitsune for the divider

🎧 » Dimple — BTS « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:16 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Bang Chan // 방찬 domestic softness | clingy cuddles | emergency snack mission | intuitive caretaker

It starts around 2AM, when your cramps get so bad they actually wake you up.

You curl up tighter, hoping they’ll pass, but the wave hits harder this time—twisting, aching, blooming low in your stomach like something cruel. You let out a small whimper before you can stop it.

A pause. Then: Chan stirs beside you.

"Hey," his voice raspy, half-asleep, already worried. "Was that you?"

You nod into the pillow. “Mmhm. Cramps.”

He’s fully awake in seconds. No panic, no noise—just that quiet, laser-focused way he moves when it’s something important. You barely get a breath in before he’s rolling over, warm hand already on your waist.

“Babe,” he murmurs, soft and serious, “where’s your heating pad?”

You blink at him. “Living room. Under the couch. I think.”

“Okay. Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

He slips out of bed shirtless, in his boxers, feet padding across the cold floor like a man on a mission. You hear him fumbling in the dark, then the microwave, then some mild swearing when he stubs his toe on the table, and then—

He’s back. Holding a warm rice sock. And a small pack of chocolate-covered almonds. And a bottle of water.

You blink up at him, dazed. “...You brought snacks?”

Chan gives you the softest little smile, one hand brushing your hair off your face. “You always crave something sweet when it starts. I remember.”

He gently tucks the heating pad against your lower belly, adjusting it until you sigh in relief. He doesn’t crawl back under the covers right away—just watches your face with that puppy-eyed tenderness he saves for rare, quiet moments. Then—

“Can I hold you?”

You nod, and he pulls you into him slowly, like he’s scared to hurt you. One arm around your waist, the other beneath your neck, anchoring you against his chest.

You can feel his heartbeat.

He kisses your hair. “I hate that you’re in pain.”

“You’re making it better.”

“Good,” he whispers, breath warm against your ear. “That’s my whole job, you know.”

You smile tiredly into his chest. “I thought your job was being the leader of Stray Kids.”

Chan chuckles. “Nah. That’s just a side hustle. My real job is being yours.”

You groan and smack his chest, but it’s lazy, affectionate. He catches your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles. And then, quietly: “If it gets worse, or you need anything else—wake me up. Even if it’s just to cuddle, yeah?”

You hum sleepily. “You’re already doing perfect, Chris.”

Lee Know // 리노 soft grump mode activated | petty grocery store rampage | cat therapy squad | the quietest, most extra caregiver alive

You try to hide it at first. It’s not a big deal. Just some cramps. You’ve had worse. So when Minho walks in and sees you curled up on the couch, a pillow hugged to your stomach, blanket barely covering your legs, expression just slightly off—he narrows his eyes.

"What's wrong?"

You wave him off. “It’s nothing. Just tired.”

Minho stares for another solid beat. Then, in the driest, most unimpressed tone imaginable: “Lie again and I’m feeding your emergency strawberry Pocky stash to Soonie.”

You squint. “...I’m on my period.”

A pause.

“Did you take meds yet?” “No.” “Heating pad?” “No.” “Water?” “...No.” Minho exhales. “Jesus Christ, babe.”

You blink at him, kind of amused. “Why do you look personally offended?”

“Because I’m your boyfriend, not a background actor. You’re not supposed to suffer in silence when I exist.” Before you can respond, he turns on his heel and disappears into the kitchen. Fifteen minutes later, he’s back—with a full survival kit.

– Painkillers – A hot water bottle – Three kinds of snacks – Tea – A protein bar – A suspiciously aggressive amount of napkins

You stare at the spread. “Why do you look mad?”

“I’m not mad.” He sets everything down like he’s preparing a shrine. “I’m annoyed that you thought I wouldn’t want to do this for you.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Then: “…You’re so dramatic.”

“Correct,” he says, plopping down beside you. “But I’m also right. Now drink your tea.”

He doesn’t offer cuddles—not immediately. Minho’s love language is closeness, but it’s always on your terms. He lets you shuffle over to him first, curl into his side, blanket dragged over both of you.

A few minutes later, Dori hops up and makes himself at home on your lap. Then Doongie curls by your feet. Then Soonie pads over with the slow, quiet grace of a prince and lays directly on your stomach.

“…Ow,” you mutter.

Minho shrugs. “Cat therapy. He’s trying.”

You glance up. “You trained them to do this, didn’t you?”

He doesn’t answer (That’s a yes.). Eventually, when your eyelids start fluttering, he shifts beneath you, tucking your head against his shoulder, his voice low: “You get a pass today. From everything. I’ll handle food and chores. You just rest, okay?”

“Mmh.”

He kisses your temple. Doesn’t say I love you, but—“Try not to bleed on the couch. It was expensive.”

You snort. He grins.

Changbin // 창빈 gym bro but make it nurturing | snack-stocking menace | constant verbal reassurance | bear hug therapy

You don’t even say anything. Just shuffle into the kitchen with a pout and that one specific oversized hoodie you always wear when you’re crampy. Changbin looks up from where he’s meal-prepping chicken breast and protein muffins.

“…Oh no,” he says, immediately dropping the spatula like it offended him. “Is it…?”

You nod solemnly.

He gasps softly like it’s tragic news. “Not the cursed week…”

You give him a weak grin. “Yeah. It’s started.”

“Oh baby…” He sweeps across the kitchen in three steps and engulfs you in a warm, solid hug that smells like soap and cinnamon protein powder. He sways you gently side to side. “My poor little womb warrior.”

You muffle a laugh into his chest. “Did you just call me a womb warrior?”

“Yes. Because you’re strong. And scary. And currently bleeding from the inside.”

He lets go just long enough to grab your hand and lead you to the couch. “Sit. No, wait. Lay down. Actually, gimme a second—let me make you the Nest.”

The Nest, as he calls it, is a masterpiece of plush blankets, body pillows, and one of his giant hoodies stuffed like a plushie. You flop down into it like a marshmallow landing in hot cocoa.

He comes back in five minutes with: – A hot water bottle in a cute cover – Your comfort drink (the overpriced iced juice he always says is a scam but secretly buys for you anyway) – A bowl of hot rice with kimchi and a fried egg – A pack of sour gummies – His hand on your forehead like he’s checking for a fever

“You good?” he asks, brows furrowed in that classic Changbin worried but trying to stay cool way.

You nod. “You’re spoiling me.”

“Damn right I am. You’re my girl, and my girl doesn’t suffer alone.” Then, serious voice: “Tell me the pain scale. 1 to ‘rip my uterus out.’”

“Uhh... seven.”

He kisses your temple. “We’re going to war.”

You laugh, and he smirks like it was his life mission to make you do that.

Later, when you’re drowsy and curled into his side, he runs his fingers gently through your hair and whispers: “Next month, I’m buying you a little heating pad you can wear. One of those fancy ones. You deserve a luxury uterus experience.”

You glance up, barely holding in your giggle. “That’s not how it works.”

“I don’t care,” he says, dramatically pressing a hand over your stomach. “We’ll rebrand menstruation into an elite spa process.”

You snort.

And just before you drift off, you hear him mutter: "You're still the prettiest person alive, by the way. Even when you’re grumpy. Especially when you're grumpy."

Hyunjin // 현진 sensitive prince mode | soft-reading-voice therapy | bath prep connoisseur | cries because you cried

You don’t say much that morning. Just shuffle around the apartment with a sluggish pace, wrapped in one of Hyunjin’s big sweaters and hugging a warm water bottle like it’s your emotional support pet. Hyunjin notices instantly. You haven’t even finished your first sigh before he’s halfway across the room, one hand gently brushing your cheek.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

You hesitate, then mumble, “First day… cramps.”

His face crumples like you told him you’d just been hit by a truck. “Oh no. Oh, angel—come here.”

You’re pulled into his arms in seconds. He tucks your head under his chin, rocking you slowly like he’s trying to lull the pain out of you. Then he kisses the top of your head and says with complete, poetic Hyunjin™ sincerity: “If I could trade places with your uterus right now, I would. I’d fight it. With a sword.”

You choke on a laugh. “That’s not how uteruses work.”

“Don’t care. I’d challenge it to a duel.”

You try to tell him you’ll be fine, but he’s already deep into period care prince mode. The next thirty minutes are a flurry of whispered comforts and gentle commands:

“Lay down, my love. I’ll get your fuzzy socks.” “You’re not allowed to move unless it’s to kiss me or pee.” “I made your favourite tea with honey and a cinnamon stick because you’re precious.” “Do you want me to read to you? Or just hold you?”

Eventually, you find yourself nestled between his thighs, back to his chest, as he reads aloud from your favourite book in that soft, lilting voice of his. His fingers stroke your arm as he reads, each word slow and sweet like honey dripping into your brain.

When he feels you tense from another wave of cramps, he stops reading immediately. “Hey—breathe. You want me to rub your tummy?”

You nod weakly. He shifts, placing a warm hand gently over your lower belly, thumb stroking small circles through the fabric of your hoodie.

Then he goes quiet.

You glance back at him. Hyunjin has tears in his eyes. “…Are you crying?”

“I’m just—” he sniffs, “—you looked like you were in pain. And I love you. And your uterus is being evil. And I feel useless.”

You burst out laughing. It hurts, but you can’t help it. You twist around to cup his face, pressing a kiss to his damp cheek. “You’re not useless. You’re literally being perfect.”

He smiles through it, sheepish and pink and glowing.

Later that night, he draws you a warm bath, lights candles (unscented, because strong smells make your nausea worse), and plays your favourite soft playlist. He even ties his hair up in a bun to match yours. You sit between his legs, soaking and sighing.

“You’re everything,” you murmur.

Hyunjin kisses your shoulder. “No. You are. I’m just your backup dancer.”

Han // 한 snack gremlin turned snack provider | panic researcher | dramatic empathy overload | “i gotchu baby” energy

You shoot him a warning text before he comes over.

"just a heads up: cramps. mood: possessed."

Jisung shows up thirty minutes later with:

a bag of snacks too big to be legal,

a heating pad still in the box (he bought a new one just in case),

your favourite hoodie,

and the most anxious but determined look on his face.

“Babe. I Googled things. I am ready.”

You’re half-laying, half-flopped on the couch, blanket over your head like a sad ghost. You peek out. “Google, huh?”

He nods furiously, plopping down next to you with his phone. “Listen. Did you know dark chocolate, bananas, and omega-3s can help? Also—massage, but not too hard or your uterus gets pissed.”

You blink at him. “How long were you researching?”

“Since your text. And also last month. I made a doc.”

“…You made a period doc?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

You snort, already feeling better, but your stomach twists again and you wince. Jisung’s face falls like you just told him his puppy died. “Oh no no no. Come here.” He gently pulls you into his lap, wrapping you in the hoodie like a burrito. “C’mere, my angry little cinnamon bun. You wanna scream into my chest? I can take it.”

You do, in fact, scream into his chest. It helps.

He rubs slow circles into your lower back with one hand, the other holding a juice box to your mouth like a doting nursemaid. Occasionally he whispers things like:

“You’re so strong.” “I would absolutely fight your uterus in a 7/11 snack isle.” “I bet if we played sad songs, your cramps would get scared and leave.”

You’re half-laughing, half-dying, and he’s leaning into both roles like a professional clown slash life coach. Then, when you least expect it, he looks down at you—all softness and sincerity: “I know I can’t feel what you’re feeling, but… I hate seeing you hurt. I’d switch with you if I could.”

You melt. Fully. Into him. And he holds you like you’re made of glass and gold at the same time. Eventually, you fall asleep in his arms while he plays soft lo-fi beats from his phone and feeds you Pocky like a spoiled hamster.

And from the way he holds you all night, you just know—next month, he’s showing up again with a full annotated PDF and a playlist called “Period Pains Ain’t Shit (ft. me and snacks).”

Felix // 필릭스 literal cupcake with a god complex | affirmation factory | creates a healing shrine out of your bed | draws you a glitter bath

Felix notices before you even say a word. You shuffle out of the bedroom with a scrunched-up face and a bloated waddle, and he pauses mid-toast, blinking in slow realization.

“…it’s that time, isn’t it?”

You nod dramatically and collapse into the kitchen chair like a fallen soldier. “She has risen from the depths. My uterus is currently staging a revolution.”

Felix gasps like you’ve been personally attacked. “Not the inner apocalypse!!” he gasps, running to your side. “I knew I felt a disturbance in the force!” You start laughing and groaning at the same time while he holds your face like he’s cradling a wounded fairy. Then—

“Go lie down,” he says gently. “I’m turning our bedroom into a cloud.”

And he does. Twenty minutes later, you return to find:

— Your weighted blanket fluffed on top of fresh sheets — Two body pillows on either side like a pain-relief sandwich — A tray of tea, lemon water, and chocolate-covered strawberries — Mood lighting from the fairy lights he set to warm orange — And a soft playlist titled “you deserve the world (and also naps)”

You blink. “Felix what the hell—”

He beams. “Cloud.”

You stare. “You made me a healing shrine.”

“You deserve a healing shrine,” he says, dead serious, crawling onto the bed and patting his chest. “Now get in here. I’m gonna spoon the sadness out of you.”

You curl into him, head pressed to his cinnamon-sugar heartbeat.

But then you start to tear up and Felix notices immediately and pulls you closer, fingers stroking your back with a gentleness that makes your throat ache. "Hey hey hey, shhh—no tears, baby. You already bled enough today," he jokes softly, then immediately kisses your forehead like he’s apologizing to your soul.

Later, he insists on running you a bath—with lavender bubbles, flower petals (that he definitely plucked from your neighbour's garden), and gentle music. He even lights a tiny candle and sets it on the sink like it’s a spell. And when you emerge, cosy and flushed, he wraps you in a towel burrito and murmurs: “Next time, I'm writing a passive-aggressive letter to your ovaries.”

“…You know they don’t read fanmail, right?”

He smirks. “Then I’ll write hate mail.”

You fall asleep giggling, cradled in his arms, full of chocolate and comfort and sunshine-boy magic.

Seungmin // 승민 sarcasm-flavoured care | savage but intuitive | cuddles like a weighted puppy | makes you laugh until it hurts less

It’s early afternoon. You’ve said nothing all day except for a grumbled “ow” while dramatically faceplanting into the couch. Seungmin, across the room eating cereal like it’s a military mission, just raises one eyebrow.

“…Again?”

You groan into the cushions. “Yes. Tell your ancestors to take it up with my uterus.”

He shrugs. “You should unionize your organs. Demand better working conditions.”

You crack a weak smile, and that’s all he needs—he gets up, puts down the cereal, and returns with his usual "pain protocol" like it’s just another Tuesday.

He doesn’t announce anything. No big gestures. Just quietly hands you: – A heat patch from the cupboard – A bottle of water already uncapped – A protein bar you always forget you need – And your favourite oversized hoodie that he always pretends not to like when you steal it

He says nothing. Just watches until you take it.

“…Thanks, Minnie.”

He finally sighs, dramatically plopping down next to you. “What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t serve and protect you from your own reproductive system?”

You pause. “A bad one.”

“Exactly.”

You shift closer. He adjusts the blanket over your shoulders with one hand and opens his phone with the other. A few seconds later, he’s playing one of your comfort shows—he remembered which episode you stopped on.

And then?

He lets you rest your head on his thigh while he lazily pets your hair like a spoiled cat. Occasionally, he comments on the show like nothing’s wrong.

“Wow, imagine being this emotionally unstable. Couldn’t be me.”

“You cried at a ramen commercial last week,” you mutter.

“Shh. You’re the one with pain hormones. I win.”

But then—quietly—he leans down and says: “Let me know if you need anything, okay? Anything. I don’t care. I’ll go to the store and buy you twelve types of pads and an emotional support donut if that’s what it takes.”

You look up at him, touched. “You’re actually sweet sometimes.”

He scoffs. “No I’m not.”

You smirk. “You are.”

“Lies.”

But later, when you wake up from a nap in his lap, you find your phone sitting next to you with a new lockscreen: A doodle of your uterus getting karate-kicked by a stick figure with puppy ears labelled “me.”

I.n // 아이엔 panicked rookie boyfriend vibes | clumsy cuddle pro | “i googled it” energy | buys everything he sees in the pharmacy aisle

It’s only been a few months since you started dating, so when your period hits full force mid-date night—Jeongin panics. You’re curled up in bed, hands on your stomach, face tight with pain. He’s sitting next to you looking so painfully concerned it’s almost cute.

“Are you dying? Is this a dying thing? Should I call someone?”

You squint up at him. “It’s just cramps, Innie.”

“…Are you sure?” he whispers, already holding his phone with the Emergency icon half-tapped.

You grab his sleeve and tug him down into a hug. “I’m sure.”

He melts immediately. “Okay. Okay. I got you.”

Then: cue Jeongin’s Period Preparedness Panic Arc™. He disappears for forty-five minutes. You think he went to buy a snack or something.

No.

He returns with: – 3 different heating pads (“I didn’t know which one to get so I bought all of them.”) – A literal mountain of snacks (chocolate, gummies, ice cream, crackers, a random matcha cookie that looked ‘healing’) – A floral-scented candle that he regrets instantly (“It’s kinda… strong. We can throw it away.”) – And the softest stuffed alpaca you've ever seen (“She’s for emotional support. Her name is Princess Womb Slayer.”)

You blink. “Jeongin—”

“I panicked, okay?! You were hurting and I didn’t know what to do and the pharmacy lady told me ginger helps so I bought ginger tea and also ginger candy and gingerbread even though I hate gingerbread—”

You laugh. Hard. Which makes your stomach cramp more. You curl into a little ball again and he instantly shuts up, looking terrified.

“I—did I make it worse? Should I go back and get—”

“Innie,” you wheeze. “Come here.”

He carefully crawls into bed, cuddling you gently, like he’s afraid he’ll break you. Then, after a beat: “…You wanna watch penguin videos?”

You blink. “Penguins?”

“They’re cute. They waddle. You always say that makes you feel better.”

You grin and nod, and two minutes later, he’s got a compilation playing of baby penguins slipping on ice while you snuggle into his chest.