#and it's coming just in time for my birthday

[bugboi01]

The Family Omega

batfam x gn! reader imagine

Tw for grooming, sexual coercion, incest, some underage (Damian is 14 and not included in the sexual stuff but Tim and Reader are both 17)

Being a family full of alphas and betas is tough, especially during rut season. While Alfred and Dick did their best to help mediate any fights, the whole family was hoping Damian would be an omega despite the boy's feisty nature. Unfortunately for everyone, Damian woke up on his 14th birthday snarling and acting territorial over his room.

That's where you come in. Maybe you're a friend of Damian's from school, or you work as an intern for WE. Either way, you've piqued the family's interest, and they're desperate enough to make you theirs.

It would start off small, like offering to let you stay the night after a fight with your parents or lending you a jacket covered in one of the alphas' scents. You probably won't even notice how close you've gotten with the family until it's too late. All it takes is one spiked drink or drugged meal for you to go into an early heat.

Bruce would be first as the head of the family. If you try to struggle or protest, he'll simply coo at how cute you are before fucking you mercilessly until he knots your needy hole.

Dick would be next, eagerly eating you out and tasting his father's cum still dripping out of your hole. As a beta, Dick doesn't feel the overwhelming urge to mate with you, so he focuses on making you cum as many times as he can until your omega brain is turned to mush (though he'll definitely fuck you later).

Duke will get his turn after just coming off of patrol. He'll lazily thrust into you until he knots, whispering praises all the while.

Youll get a small break with Damian as the younger alpha will be more focused on scenting you and making sure your nest is up to his standards. You'll get some water and your favorite food from Alfred before it's back to being bred.

Jason is probably the most rough out of all the batboys, but he doesn't mean to be. He just loves the feeling of you so much that he can't help but lose control a little. He'd definitely have some sort of mommy/daddy kink. Will suck on your nipples while he waits for his knot to go down.

Finally, Tim. Tim is either really fucking energetic or a bit more tired and subdued like Duke depending on how much sleep he's had. If he's bored from working on a case or as ceo, he'll get all his energy out on you. If he's tired from patrol or staying up, he's more relaxed, maybe even making you ride him. I also think he rambles during sex, maybe about how good you feel or maybe just whatever hyperfixation he has at the moment.

(Omg that was a doozy. First time writing on tumblr btw! Feel free to leave requests if you want more or constructive criticism in my asks!)

[just-some-random-blogger]

Bruhhhh. I read this just as I woke up and it left me so fucking hit and bothered. 😭😭😭😭 I legit di my chores and was in the middle of watching a movie when I realized I still had yet to come back to this and I just want to say I am not the same person I was 1 fic ago fucking hellll what the fuck.

You say a quick prayer to the Mother as you gaze at the moon, praying for your sister’s safety during her pregnancy; praying that this one would carry to term and that the Seven would bless your sweet niece Rhaenyra with a little brother or sister. 

ARRYN READER?! you had me at this honestly. I have not yet read an arryn!reader fic and it's so girlie pop refreshing we love to see it

“No meanness,” you smile, eyes scanning his muscular body as you watch him unbuckle and untie his leathers and tunic; you bite your lip when he finally pulls the tunic over his head, eyes scanning his bare back, lightly tanned with various scars and bruises from his training. You feel a heat building in your belly at the sight of him, which only grows stronger when he turns to face you once more, your eyes roaming over his strong chest and stomach, covered in dark hair that disappears beneath the tops of his trousers. 

She better than me. I simply would have jumped him again

As per usual, though, your ever-observant husband was one step ahead of you. His toned arms wrap around you and pull you up, until you’re sitting in his lap, your legs on either side of his muscular thighs as you straddle him, balancing yourself by holding onto the rim of the tub as his hands remain on your waist, “It is the prince, is it not?” He asks slowly, carefully, his eyes never leaving your own.

First of all [obscene noises], second of all HES SO BIG DICK ENERGY SUCH A DADDY SUCH A GIVER CUZ WHAT DO YOU MEAN IS IT THE PRINCE HELLO

“Husband,” you gasp, eyes squeezed shut as you mewl into his neck, the lavender scent of your bath oils filling your lungs, “Oh, Gods!” You moan, your aching bud catching on the head of his cock.

FUCKING hell fuck

“I imagine I shall see Prince Daemon in the training yard today,” he had softly cooed, a warm hand tenderly caressing your cheek, “If I do, I shall speak with him about our…offer. See what he says.” 

😭😭😭😭😭 HE SO JDJDJDJDKSKSKSKKSKS I WOULD SUCK HIS DICK LIKE YOURE GONNA GET ME THE PRINCE FOR MY BIRTHDAY FUCK I WOULD PAY TO SEE WHAT THEY TALKED ABOUT FUCKKKKKK

What if he thinks me perverse?

🧍‍♀️ bestie. That men bred not 1 but 2 of his nieces

You know this is nonsensical — [...]

YEAH calm ur tits

“Konir sagon ñuha gaomilaksir,” a deep, smooth voice answers from behind you. You gasp, whipping your head around just in time to see Daemon step into the courtyard, dressed in his familiar dark metal armor, Dark Sister hanging from his belt, “Ñuha riña.” He nods simply. (That would be my job.) (My lady.)

THE WAY THIS HAD ME SCREAMING (CREAMING) AHHHHH

“To ride Syrax!” She giggles, “She’s getting big and the keepers say she is almost ready!”

🥺🥺🥺 my baby girl. My baby girl

“Nothing to worry your pretty head about,” Daemon chides, shaking his head with a small smile, “Just some news from the council, nothing that would be of interest to you,” he continues quickly, waving his hand dismissively before nodding his head to the old stone archway that leads back inside the Keep, “I need to speak with your aunt quickly, run along to the dragonpit. I’m sure Syrax would appreciate a treat before we begin training.” 

HES SO COCKY AND FULL OF HIMSELF. I NEED TO BE FULL OF HIS COCK

“Ser Harwin approached me earlier this morning in the yard,” he starts, eyes sweeping over your body like a predator eyeing its prey, “Vēttan nyke iā jiōragon.” He smirks, watching you blush under his gaze. (He made me an offer.)

I WANT TO KNOW I WANT TO BE A FLY ON THE WALL SO FUCKING BAD. HE MADE ME AN OFFER GOT ME LIKE

(I am legally obligated to say that I fucking hate this gif but love it so much every time I use it it's so fucking horrible and hilarious I loathe it HAHH)

“Consider this my agreement,” he says proudly, gaze straying to the neckline of your gown, “I’ve been asked to arrive at your chambers at the hour of the owl,” his lilac eyes meet yours once again, “Is this acceptable, naughty girl?”

GNAWING AT THE FUCKIN BARS OF MY FUCKING ENCLOSURE HELLO?????

“There’s no need to be so formal,” he chides, reaching forward to tuck a stray hair behind your ear, “Certainly not with the way we’ll be so intimately acquainted later this evening,” he steps back again, still smirking, “You may call me Daemon…or sir.” He adds, noting the way it makes you squirm. 

HES SUCH A LIL SHIT SUCH DIPSHIT ENERGY IM GONNA WRECK IT

“Ser Harwin,” Daemon drawls, looking your husband up and down as he strides into the room, cocky as usual. Finally, his eyes land on you and you can’t help the small fizzle that takes hold in your belly at the way he stops suddenly in his tracks, his eyes glazing over as he looks you over, “My lady,” he says softly, nodding at you as he stalks closer to where you stand, feet still planted firmly in the carpet, “Ȳdra daor ao jurnegon gevie.” (Don’t you look beautiful.)

NSJJSNDJSKSKSN IM SO FUCKING SORRY FOR REQUOTING YOUR ENTIRE FIC BACK BUT THE IMAGE OF DAEMON WALKING IN FUNDAMENTALLY SAYING SUP BRUV & HEY BEAUTIFUL IS SO FKDKKDNSNSNSNSJ

“He says I am beautiful,” you tell your husband, translating the Valyrian for him, an act that is second nature for you now.

KSJJSSJS I LOVE HOW THEY LOVEEEE MDKDKSNJSJSKSJSJ NAURRR 😫😫😫😫😫

“Oh, hush,” the prince dismisses, prying his hand from Harwin’s grasp with a tsk, “She’s enjoying it, naughty little thing.”

“You told me, yes,” Daemon interrupts, giving your husband a pointed look before shifting his gaze back to you, “However, it is her nameday. I believe she should get to decide.”

HES SO SASSY I WANT TO KNOW HOW HARWIN PROPOSITIONED HIS FUCKING WIFE TO HIM PLEASEEE

At that remark, Daemon looks at you with great interest, making your cheeks heat up as Harwin helps you remove your robe, draping it over a nearby chair. He turns around quickly when he hears you gasp, only to see the prince laving his tongue over your nipple again, mouthing at it through the paper thin lace of your nightgown, as one of his hands busies itself with your other breast, palming at it desperately; his other hand visible through the thin material of your gown as his fingers tease at your center, brushing through the slick folds with practiced ease. 

Just as your husband's fingers speed up within you, Daemon traces tighter and tighter circles around your eager bud, his mouth growing more insistent on your breast as he teases your nipple with his tongue and teeth, sucking it harshly into the warmth of his mouth. 

DONT MIND ME I JUST HAVE TO REQUOTE ALL THE SCENES THAT MADE ME CREAM MY PANTS

“What a naughty, dirty girl,” the prince teases, fingers only leaving your bud once your legs had started to twitch from the overstimulation, “Peaking over the fingers of two men,” you whimper as your husband carefully removes his fingers from you, face flushing when he immediately takes them into his mouth, licking off the evidence of your arousal, “No better than a common Flea Bottom whore.”

🫡🫡🫡🫡🫡🫡🫡YES SIR WHATEVER YOU SAY SIR THANK YOU SIR SORRY SIR

“She is a good girl,” Harwin corrects him, hands lovingly stroking over your body, “For peaking exactly when I commanded her to. Such a good, obedient girl.”

I WOULD CREAM MY PANTS HES SUCH A GIVER HES SO SOFT HES SUCH A SOFT DOM I WOULD GIVE HIM 100 BABIES

“Please…” you start softly, finally finding your voice, “Please, husband, sir, please may I have my nameday spankings?”

SCREAMMINNGGGGGGGGGGGG SHE LIKE ME FRRRR SHES SO ME WHO IS THIS DIVAAA

“Pretty little cunt,” Daemon quips, smirking when he hears you whimper as he spreads your cheeks apart, hands gripping you hard enough that there are sure to be fingerprint sized bruises, “Wetter than the Narrow Sea.” He remarks, chuckling as he runs a thumb over the slit of your heat, marveling at the way your slick remains connected to his thumb by a thin thread for a second as he pulls his hands away. 

“N-no,” you say tearfully, taking deep breaths to calm yourself, “I want to, please.”

SHES SO ME A FULL BLOWN MASOCHIST

Harwin has Daemon pushed against the wall next to the bed, one of his forearms pinned down across his chest to hold him back; Daemon looks enraged, his teeth bared as he stares down your husband, “Unhand me, Strong.” He growls. 

I WOULD CRY BUT ALSO TOUCH MYSELF BUT ALSO CRY AND CREAM MY PANTS AND SO MANY EMOTIONS BIG DICK HARWIN COMING THROUGH

Daemon whimpers.

DAEMONNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN FUCKIN GGG HEELLL DAEMON MY BRAT SUB HES SO ME I WOULD NOT MAKE IT I WOULD MOAN AND BEND OVER AND BEG AND

He’s quiet for a second more before a teasing, nearly sinister smile slowly spreads across his face, “She likes being spanked, you say,” he starts, putting more pressure on Daemon’s throat, “And you, your grace, like being choked, don’t you? Nothing more than a common Flea Bottom whore, right?”

GAGGGEEDDDDD JAW ON THE FLOOR HARWINS SUCH A GOOD DOM HARD DOM STERN DOM SOFT DOM I NEED HIM PLS FUCKING HELL

You’ve never heard your husband use that tone before, so deep and threatening, it makes your thighs clench, a soft breath escaping your lips. 

GIRL YOU AND ME FR MOVE OVER IM TRYNA GET RAILED BY FUCK AND FUCKER

“Come now,” Harwin shoves him a little, just enough to make him jump, “Answer properly.” 

Me and daemon, except one of us is more in denial I wonder who it is:

“Such a lovely, precious girl,” he grunts, his eyes nearly black but still shining with adoration, “Gods, princess, you’re perfect like this.” 

NFJDNDNDN I LOVE THE DEGRADATION NEXT TO THE PRAISE I THINK IM PREGNANT WHAT

“Seven—“ Daemon chokes, hands gripping your waist enough to bruise. You can’t help but ruck your hips against him, your bud dragging deliciously against the barely there hair on his chest, “Fuck you, Strong.” He grunts, legs twitching as Harwin meanly squeezes at his length. 

IM SAYIN DAEMON MOVE THE FUCK OVER IF YOURE NOT GONNA GET YO ASS FUCKED I WILL

“Please, let me fuck your pretty wife,” Daemon sighs, his hands coming up to cup your breasts, making you gasp and rut your hips against his stomach again, “Please, ser.” 

🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤 head empty no thoughts I think is should be stuffed somewhere else

The man below you groans, the wild look returning to his eyes as you start bouncing more frantically, “Fucking perfect,” he grunts, wrapping an arm around the small of your back and pulling you down to him, your chests pressing together, “Perfect, wet, fuck, wet little cunt.” He groans into your neck, hands gripping at your ass again. 

MMMM GOOODDD SOUPPPP AM I BEING SO SI ANNOYING GOOD

“Ooh, she’s getting close,” Harwin observes, lightly tugging at his length as he watches you come undone atop Daemon, “Don’t you want her to soak your cock?”

Literally creaming

“Aren’t you going to ask my permission?” Harwin teases, smirk spreading across his face at the frustrated groan that leaves Daemon. “You need my permission to make her peak,” your husband says, his gravelly tone making you shiver as you lose yourself, “Beg for it.” 

SWEATING SO MUCH IM SO HOT AND BOTHERED AND HANDMSKNSNSN HELLO

He laughs, kissing the top of your head, “You need not thank me, princess,” he says tiredly, his choice of pet name making your heart skip a beat, “The pleasure was mine.” 

FUCKKKKKKKK DAEMONNN SCREAMING

“Fuck her,” Daemon says suddenly, his eyes scanning over Harwin, “I wish to see her break.” 

JAW ON THE FLOOR YOU DO NOT HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT ME YOU DO NOT HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT ME WHAT HE FUCKING SAID

“Fuck,” he grunts, rutting into you as you squirm beneath him, “I swear to the Seven you feel better every time.” He praises, looking down at where his cock disappears into you, marveling at the way your cunt shines in the light of the many candles placed around your chambers. 

WHAT IF THIS EAS MY LAST STRAW IM LITERALLY TOO FUCKED UP IN THE HEAD I MAY BE OVULATING THIS MAY BE WHY IM SO AFFECTED BY THIS HELLO

A second later, he is leaning down again, his lips  nearly connecting with yours as he spits into your waiting mouth, sharing Daemon’s seed with you. 

When I tell you I SCREAMMMED well I've been screaming but NDKZJNDNSNSNNSNSMSKNS FCUUKFN SUCJNCNDMMDMXUJ DNDNSNSS BARKKINGGGG I WISH I COULD PUT A MEME BUT IM ON MOBILE AND I HAVE ONE LAST CHANCE

“Yes, yes, yes!” You moan in time with each of his thrusts, nodding your head wildly as you thrash within his grasp, pleasure threatening to overwhelm you. 

She's so me 🫦💅😋

“Watch as I claim her,” he commands Daemon, tangling a hand into his silvery hair, pointing his gaze exactly where he wants it — where the two of you connect, “Watch as I breed our princess.” 

“Vaogenka riña,” Daemon drawls, his hands grasping one of your legs, massaging the muscle of your calf as your foot rests delicately on the center of his chest, “Taking pleasure from watching your husband with another.” (Dirty girl.)

I never said I was more than a hole

Daemon kisses you, much sweeter than he had before, “Hen rhinka, dārilaros.” He smiles, picking you up by the backs of your legs, making you squeal with laughter as he carries you over to the tub, sitting on the edge with you on his lap as Harwin prepares the bath, just the way you like. (Of course, princess.)

This was so self indulgent I may have to reread this because fuck and I don't like rereading stuff cos my brain isn't wired like that but fuckkkkkkkkkk FUCKKKKKKKKKKK AND ITS 11K WORDS BUT ITS NOT DRAGGING AT ALL FUCKKKKKK it so good lobotomy me rn

Hour of the Owl

summary: there's only one thing you want for your nameday and your sweet husband is more than happy to let you have it

pairing: dom!harwin strong x sub!reader x switch!daemon targaryen

warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors go away!), afab reader, reader is described as having some targaryen features (white hair, lilac eyes) but no other physical descriptors are mentioned, threesome, oral sex (f & m receiving), handjobs, piv sex, brief spitting, cum play, brief breeding kink, choking, spanking, daemon ignoring the rules, fingering, breast/nipple play, hair pulling, facesitting, very brief mention of miscarriage (world building only, does not directly affect the reader), praise kink, degradation, aftercare included, some fluff, "good cop/bad cop" trope, hair pulling, creampie, bi!daemon and harwin (they're at least experimenting asdfgh), daemon whimpering!!! i repeat, daemon whimpering!!!

word count: 11.8k (genuinely HOW)

a/n: this is dirty, y'all, i won't lie. this is filthy, filthy stuff. there's literally about 7.2k words of just pure smut here. gird your loins, this one is a wild ride. godspeed.

likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!

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A soft breeze blows through the sheer curtains of your chambers, filling the room with the scent of the sweet smelling flowers your older sister had planted in the gardens of the Red Keep a few moons prior. You busy yourself with removing the countless delicate golden pins your ladies had stuck in your hair that morning, silvery hair pooling around your shoulders as you undo braid after braid. Finally, you run your fingers through the last one, lost in thought as you walk out onto your balcony, your feet bare against the cool stone floors. 

You sigh as you lean against a stone ledge, looking out over the many fires and torches that light Kings Landing each night, spread out below the Red Keep like a field of stars. You say a quick prayer to the Mother as you gaze at the moon, praying for your sister’s safety during her pregnancy; praying that this one would carry to term and that the Seven would bless your sweet niece Rhaenyra with a little brother or sister. 

You smile as you hear the heavy wooden door to your chamber opening, practically skipping to the door as Harwin slips inside, already unbuckling his leather armor.

“My love!” You call happily, giggling at the exaggerated groan he makes as you thud into him, practically attacking him as you wrap your arms around him, “I missed you!” You whine playfully, breathing in his scent as you bury your face in his chest, your cheek pressed against the tunic he wears. 

“I missed you too,” he laughs, his hands hooking under the backs of your thighs as he lifts you up, wrapping your legs around his middle. He walks you over to your large bed and gently sits you down on the plush fabric, “My sweet little wife,” he coos, pressing a kiss to your forehead before turning around and striding over to the mirror leaning against the wall next to your wardrobe. “What meanness did you busy yourself with today, I wonder?” He questions, smiling adoringly at you over his shoulder. 

“No meanness,” you smile, eyes scanning his muscular body as you watch him unbuckle and untie his leathers and tunic; you bite your lip when he finally pulls the tunic over his head, eyes scanning his bare back, lightly tanned with various scars and bruises from his training. You feel a heat building in your belly at the sight of him, which only grows stronger when he turns to face you once more, your eyes roaming over his strong chest and stomach, covered in dark hair that disappears beneath the tops of his trousers. “I simply assisted Aemma in choosing decorations for the princess’s upcoming nameday celebrations,” you start, standing from the bed and making your way over to Harwin, watching for a second as he struggles with the knot at the top of his trousers before you finally push his hands away and begin pulling at the strings yourself, “Then I aided her in welcoming some new maids, worked more on my needlepoint, and responded to the letter from our mother.” You shrug, finally pulling the ties free before returning to the bed. 

“A busy day indeed,” he smirks, running a hand through his curly hair as he stalks toward you, “Mine was much the same; we started training the new recruits today.” 

“My poor husband,” you pout, sitting on your knees at the edge of the bed, “Working so hard.” You coo, aching between your thighs as Harwin places his hands on your waist, feeling his warmth through the thin, nearly translucent Myrish lace of your nightgown. You press a soft kiss to the middle of his chest, the hairs there tickling your lips, before you bring your hands up to his shoulders and begin kneading the skin there, massaging around his neck and shoulders. 

He groans appreciatively, letting his eyes slip closed and his head tilt back as he allows himself to savor the feeling for a moment; your sweet hands, so small and delicate compared to his, still send shivers down his spine. He can’t help but think of the first day he saw you – you had looked so ethereal stepping out of your family’s carriage in the courtyard, draped in a fine silk dress in the sky blue color of House Arryn’s coat of arms. You had arrived the day Princess Rhaenyra was born and had made King’s Landing your home ever since.

He had been fond of you from that moment forward, offering to give you tours of the Keep and personally escorting you anytime you ventured from its walls. He had known you for nearly eight years and in all that time, he had yet to find a single fault with you. Were it up to him alone, the two of you would have been married within a week, although you had always joked with him that those were the exact sorts of thoughts you’d expect from the foolhardy teenage boy he was at the time. Eventually, your families finally came to a marriage agreement, Lord Rodrik Arryn pleased with the promise of you one day inheriting Harrenhal with Hawin. He smiles, thinking back to your wedding day, in disbelief that it was nearly a year ago now. 

Finally, he opens his eyes once more, finding your mesmerizing lilac ones already gazing back at him. “You are so handsome,” you breathe, fingers tangling in his hair as you lovingly smile at him, “The most beautiful man in all the kingdoms.”

He captures your lips in a sweet kiss, his arms holding you tightly to him, wanting to feel as much of you pressed up against him as possible. He buries his face in your hair, inhaling the sweet smells of the oils you use in your baths, “And you are positively divine, my sweet love,” he murmurs, pulling back to gaze at you once more as he twirls a silvery strand of hair between his fingers, “The Seven have truly blessed me with the most heavenly of creatures.” 

You blush, lying back on the bed as he kicks off his trousers, his entire form finally bare to you. Your eyes roam his tanned skin appreciatively as you lean back against your pillows, fingers fiddling with a tie at the front of your dressing gown. 

“Would you do me the honor of joining me in the bath, my lady?” he asks, reaching out a hand to help you up from the bed. 

“Oh, I would be honored, my handsome knight,” you joke back, kissing his cheek before the two of you make your way over to the bath, separated from the rest of your chambers with a decorated screen you’d gotten from a trip to Dorne many years ago.

You quickly undress, draping your gown over the screen, as Harwin steps into the bath with a hiss, “Seven Hells!” He curses, wincing as his skin adjusts to the water, “Did you have your maids retrieve this water from the belly of the Dragonmont itself?” 

You snicker, gently easing yourself into the water at the opposite end of the tub, “After all this time one would think you would know how I take my baths, husband.”

He simply rolls his eyes, finally lowering himself into the rest of the water with a pained groan, much to your amusement, which earns you a splash. The two of you laugh together for a moment and you tell him all about the various decorations you’d chosen for Rhaenyra’s nameday as the two of you quickly wash. Finally, he beckons you over, resting his arms on the rim of the bath as you settle yourself against him, curling into the side of his long, burly body as you lay your head on his chest, creating swirly patterns in the hair on his chest with the point of your finger as you finish describing the decadent flavors you and Aemma had chosen for the cake. 

“Speaking of namedays,” he begins, chuckling as he hears you groan, “A certain someone’s nameday is a mere two days away and she has yet to tell me anything she wishes for.”

“I’ve told you,” you start with a sigh, peering up at him, “How am I meant to wish for anything when you spoil me so?”

“I do not spoil you!” He admonishes, a guilty smile tugging at his lips, “I simply give you all that you deserve for being such a sweet little wife.” he teases, punctuating each word of the pet name with a kiss to your forehead and cheeks, making you giggle – his favorite sound in the world. You lay in a comfortable silence for a moment, still tracing various shapes and patterns onto his chest before he speaks again, his voice soft and questioning, “There must be something you long for, my love. Anything you want, simply name it.” 

You stay silent for a minute longer, pondering exactly how to voice your thoughts. There was something you wanted, or rather someone — Daemon, the king’s younger brother. Like Harwin, he had caught your eye quickly when you’d first arrived at King's Landing. According to Aemma, Viserys had even been considering betrothing the two of you for a time; though your sister had put a quick stop to that, she had never been the Rogue Prince’s biggest fan. 

Yet, still, there was something about him that simply drew you to him, something intriguing in the way he moved, the way he spoke. You loved your husband, more than anything else, but Daemon was…tempting, you couldn’t lie. 

You look up at Harwin, still silent as you stare into his soft brown eyes, before looking away again, unsure of how to even broach the topic. 

As per usual, though, your ever-observant husband was one step ahead of you. His toned arms wrap around you and pull you up, until you’re sitting in his lap, your legs on either side of his muscular thighs as you straddle him, balancing yourself by holding onto the rim of the tub as his hands remain on your waist, “It is the prince, is it not?” He asks slowly, carefully, his eyes never leaving your own.

“Husband,” you start, worried he is upset with you, “You must unde–”

“I understand, my little love,” he soothes, pulling you closer to him, relishing the way your breasts press against the firmness of his chest, “You need not explain it to me,” you rest your head on his warm chest, your face buried in his neck, “Lust for him does not do away with your love for me, I know this.” He confirms, gently carding a hand through your hair.

Even with his reassurance, you remain silent for a moment still; this is new territory in your relationship – never before had you seriously considered the possibility of sharing yourself with another, your husband so adoring and protective of you that you never dreamed he would entertain the thought.

“You…wish to share me in this way? Truly?” You question, heart skipping a beat when you feel his cock beginning to harden between your legs.

“I admit I was wholly against the idea at first,” he starts, his calloused hands slowly running up and down your thighs, half-submerged in the warm water, “I am still not thrilled that the object of your desire is Prince Daemon,” he laughs, teasing you, “Of all the knights in all the seven kingdoms, you pick him.” He jokes, his chest vibrating underneath you as he laughs.

“Harwin!” You gasp to hide your own laughter, though you know the cheeky smile tugging at your lips gives you away, “Please, be serious!” You reprimand, playfully slapping at his chest.

“I yield, I yield,” he laughs, holding his hands up in surrender. Eventually, the two of you settle down once more, a quiet calmness descending over you, “But I see the way you look at him,” he smiles, indicating that he isn’t upset when he sees worry cloud your soft features once again, “Very different from the way you look at me…only lust. And I see the way he looks at you,” your head shoots up at this, a soft blush creeping over your cheeks at this knowledge, “Lust, yes, but also a certain softness,” his hands come to rest on your hips once more, gently rocking your slick heat against his length, “Like you are something sacred to behold.”

He finishes finally, taking pleasure in the way you shudder against him, small whimpers and whines escaping your lips as your bud is dragged up and down his cock, his hands gripping your waist so tightly there are sure to be bruises in the morning.

“Husband,” you gasp, eyes squeezed shut as you mewl into his neck, the lavender scent of your bath oils filling your lungs, “Oh, Gods!” You moan, your aching bud catching on the head of his cock.

“He should look at you in that way,” Harwin grunts, thighs bending under the curve of your rear as his knees come up out of the bathwater, giving him more leverage to rut against you, “Like you are, fuck, like you are something divine.” He groans into the hair at the crown of your head, big hands coming up to cup your breasts, thumbs swirling against your sensitive nipples, “You are, my love,” his words come out in breathless, broken gasps, “Divine, sacred, a gift sent straight from the Seven.”

You nod wordlessly, whines and moans getting caught in your throat as your hands roam over the firm planes of his chest, lips busying themselves against the column of his throat. No further words are needed between the two of you, a common understanding being enough for now as your bodies press closer together, nearly melding into one beneath the warm, sweetly scented water. 

Golden morning light shines in through the sheer curtains of your chambers as you busy yourself with dressing for the day, your maids flitting around you as they button, tie, and lace you into your dress. 

Harwin had left much earlier than you, already strapped into his leathers before the sun rose above the horizon. Just like every other morning, he had gently kissed you awake to let you know he was leaving, telling you he promised to be safe when training and that he would see you at supper. Unlike every other morning, however, he had added, “I imagine I shall see Prince Daemon in the training yard today,” he had softly cooed, a warm hand tenderly caressing your cheek, “If I do, I shall speak with him about our…offer. See what he says.” 

At the time, you had simply mumbled sleepily, head too clouded with sleep to truly process his words. Now, though, you could not keep from wringing your hands with worry, fidgeting uneasily as your hair was pinned up, half your hair braided and wrapped up into a bun at the crown of your head, the rest left to cascade down your shoulders like a pearly waterfall. 

Your maids finally finished, leaving you in your chambers with your still steaming breakfast, which you could only bring yourself to pick at, the nervous knots in your stomach keeping your appetite at bay. 

What if he thinks me perverse? You worry, staring out at the morning sky, watching as puffy clouds blow in from the winds of Blackwater Bay. You know this is nonsensical — if even half the rumors of Daemon’s various appetites were true, he had no justification to call you of all people perverse. What if he tells everyone? You wonder, halfheartedly sipping at your tea, but even this you know was absurd. He was brash, incredibly rude at times, but the prince knew when to be discreet, and if he truly gazed at you in the way your husband claimed, you had no doubt he would keep your secret. 

After exhausting your list of worries, you finally stand up from your small breakfast table, intending to find Aemma and ask for her to accompany you on a walk through the gardens. 

You make your way into the hallway, winding your way through the various passages of the Red Keep in your search for your sister, saying polite thank you's to anyone wishing you a happy early nameday.

“Auntie!” You hear a small voice call behind you as you step out into the Godswood, the stoic face of the weirwood tree there peering at you from under its canopy of red leaves. You turn on your heel, smiling brightly when you see Rhaenyra running at you at full tilt.

You scoop her up at the last second, grunting a small “Oof!” as she barrels into your arms, “If it isn’t my favorite little niece!” You chirp brightly, her small arms hugging around your neck, “What wickedness are you up to?”

“Training!” She answers, excitedly squirming in your grasp, perched atop one of your hips.

“Training?” You question with exaggerated interest, “Whatever for?”

“To ride Syrax!” She giggles, “She’s getting big and the keepers say she is almost ready!”

“How exciting,” you nod, setting her down before crouching before her, “She is growing quickly indeed,” you add, motioning for her to turn around before you begin braiding her hair, the same pale shade as your own, “Are the keeper’s training you as well?” 

“Konir sagon ñuha gaomilaksir,” a deep, smooth voice answers from behind you. You gasp, whipping your head around just in time to see Daemon step into the courtyard, dressed in his familiar dark metal armor, Dark Sister hanging from his belt, “Ñuha riña.” He nods simply. (That would be my job.) (My lady.)

“Ñuha dārilaros,” you nod in return, quickly finishing Rhaenyra’s braid before standing and turning to face him, “I trust the morning has found you in good spirits.” (My prince.)

“Oh, it has indeed,” he says, eyes flashing with mirth as he smirks at you, his head cocking to the side, stands of pale hair contrasting against the dark metal covering his chest, “Eman ryptan mirri udir, ñuha riña.” He drawls. (I have heard some news, my lady.)

This catches Rhaenyra’s attention, her Valyrian lessons clearly paying off as she gasps excitedly as she bounces between the two of you, “What news? What news?” 

“Nothing to worry your pretty head about,” Daemon chides, shaking his head with a small smile, “Just some news from the council, nothing that would be of interest to you,” he continues quickly, waving his hand dismissively before nodding his head to the old stone archway that leads back inside the Keep, “I need to speak with your aunt quickly, run along to the dragonpit. I’m sure Syrax would appreciate a treat before we begin training.” 

Rhaenyra nods happily, twirling a small yellow flower around in her hands as she practically skips from the courtyard, singing, “A treat for Syrax, a treat for Syrax!” as she disappears down the hall.

“Ao jorrāelatan naejot ȳdragon lēda nyke?” You question once Daemon returns his attention to you, politely clasping your hands together. (You needed to speak with me?)

“Ser Harwin approached me earlier this morning in the yard,” he starts, eyes sweeping over your body like a predator eyeing its prey, “Vēttan nyke iā jiōragon.” He smirks, watching you blush under his gaze. (He made me an offer.)

“Gōntan ziry?” (He did?)

“Konir sagon paktot,” he continues, voice nearly patronizing as he slowly paces around you, circling you like a shark in the water, “He says you want me to fuck you.” He finishes, coming to stand before you once more, a proud smile on his face once he sees the shock on yours. (That’s right.)

“Iksis bisa drēje?” He asks once it becomes clear you don’t know how to respond. (Is this true?)

“Kessa.” You say simply, inwardly wincing at the wobble in your voice, though you try your hardest to appear confident. (Yes.)

Daemon snickers, “Naughty, naughty girl,” he tsks, shaking his head teasingly, one hand casually perched on the hilt of his sword, “He tells me I’m meant to be your nameday present; quite the honor, I must say.” 

“Mērī lo ao agree naejot se jiōragon, ñuha dārilaros.” (Only if you agree to the offer, my prince.)

“Consider this my agreement,” he says proudly, gaze straying to the neckline of your gown, “I’ve been asked to arrive at your chambers at the hour of the owl,” his lilac eyes meet yours once again, “Is this acceptable, naughty girl?”

You flush deeply at his nickname, only used to sweet praises from Harwin, “That is most acceptable, my prince.” You nod.

“There’s no need to be so formal,” he chides, reaching forward to tuck a stray hair behind your ear, “Certainly not with the way we’ll be so intimately acquainted later this evening,” he steps back again, still smirking, “You may call me Daemon…or sir.” He adds, noting the way it makes you squirm. 

“Very well…Daemon.” You tease, feeling proud when you see his eyes widen just the slightest bit. 

“Perhaps this sweet little kitten has claws after all,” he smirks, eyes looking you up and down once more, “Very well,” he says with a nod, “I’m needed at the dragonpit, but I shall be seeing you and your husband later this evening.”

“Hen rhinka.” You nod as you watch him leave, your entire body relaxing, releasing unrealized tension, as soon as his back disappears from view. You allow yourself to breathe for a few moments, standing in the silent courtyard as your heartbeat returns to normal, before you leave, once again going to try and find Aemma, or really anything else to keep yourself occupied until the evening. (Of course.)

“I promise, sweet girl,” Harwin says, watching from the small sitting area in your chambers as you pace back and forth across the stone floor, “I told him all he would need to know. About you, about what you like, all of it.”

You nod, half listening, as you walk back and forth, feet bare on the large, plush fur rugs that cover the floor in front of the fireplace. The warmth of it on your skin was usually a welcome feeling, although tonight you only felt overheated. Outside, the sky was dark, the sun having set quite a while ago. King’s Landing once again sprawled out like a sea of stars beneath the Keep, mirroring the stars in the black sky overhead, the bright light of the moon reflecting off of the waters of the bay – the hour of the owl was drawing close. 

“We do not have to do this if you’re having second thoughts, my love,” he says, standing and striding over to you, “If you wish, I will simply tell Daemon to fuck off.” He jokes, chuckling as you relax in his arms.

“I do want to!” You sigh, tilting your chin up to peer up at him through your lashes, “I’m simply nervous, I suppose. We’ve never done anything like this before,” you bite your lip, looking away from him as you resume speaking, “Honestly, I’m still shocked you agreed to it at all.”

“I want to share you,” he shrugs, pressing a comforting kiss to the top of your head, “Show off what’s mine.” He says lowly, chuckling when he feels you shiver against him – he knows very well that his possessiveness gets to you.

Suddenly, a knock sounds on the thick wooden door of your chambers, making you jump, which makes Harwin chuckle as he stands to open it; he had dismissed the guard that normally stood at your door in the evening, insisting that he take the night off. Not knowing what to do with yourself, you merely stand in front of the fire, nervously fidgeting. 

Your husband gives you one last look, his eyes questioning; you nod to him, signaling that it was okay, that this was truly what you wanted, and he opened the door. 

“Ser Harwin,” Daemon drawls, looking your husband up and down as he strides into the room, cocky as usual. Finally, his eyes land on you and you can’t help the small fizzle that takes hold in your belly at the way he stops suddenly in his tracks, his eyes glazing over as he looks you over, “My lady,” he says softly, nodding at you as he stalks closer to where you stand, feet still planted firmly in the carpet, “Ȳdra daor ao jurnegon gevie.” (Don’t you look beautiful.)

“He says I am beautiful,” you tell your husband, translating the Valyrian for him, an act that is second nature for you now. “Kirimvose.” you say, trying your hardest to keep your voice from trembling. (Thank you.)

Daemon comes to stand in front of you, his eyes searching yours for a second, looking for any hesitation you suppose. When he finds none, he hooks a finger into the delicate ribbon tied around your waist, the one keeping your silk dressing gown shut; again, he catches your eyes, and again you suppose he must find what he’s searching for because suddenly he’s pulling the bow there undone. 

“She looks ravishing all the time,” your husband said, his breath fanning over the back of your neck as he seems to materialize behind you, rough hands skirting up your arms before coming to rest at your shoulders, “The most beautiful creature.”

“A beautiful creature,” Daemon agrees, his hands, not as rough as Harwin’s though still battle-worn, settling on your hips as he looks at your body appreciatively, his light eyes growing darker by the minute, “And a naughty thing.” He finishes, smirking when he hears a small, barely there whimper escape your lips. 

“Is she?” your husband asks, gathering all your hair over one shoulder, exposing one side of your neck before he kisses you there, relishing the sigh he gets in return. You gasp as one of his hands comes up to cup your breast, warming your skin through the thin lace of your nightgown, “She’s such a good, obedient girl.”

You lean back into Harwin, your back against his firm chest as he kneads your breast, sending sparks flying down between your thighs. “Only bad little things fantasize about being taken by two men.” Daemon practically growls. Your eyes are only half open but you still don’t miss the look he gives your husband over your shoulder, nor do you miss the way the brunette subtly nods against the column of your neck. You moan when Daemon’s lips finally press against your own, his mouth soft and warm, tongue already licking into your mouth. 

The motion presses you further back against Harwin, pressing his half-hard cock into the small of your back, the feeling making you near dizzy with lust as you realize that he truly wanted this just as much as you. Daemon’s tongue eventually wins its battle for dominance and the two of you kiss for a moment longer, the only sounds in your chambers being being yours and the prince’s lips moving together as your husband kisses, licks, and bites along your neck, causing you to mewl softly into Daemon’s waiting mouth like a puppy. 

“Are you a bad girl, sweet little thing?” The prince growls against your jaw as he finally separates his lips from yours, trailing kisses down the opposite side of your neck. 

When you neglect to answer, too caught up in the men’s attention, Harwin suddenly palms at the plump flesh of your rear, roughly grabbing and squeezing it enough to have you whining, “I believe Daemon asked you a question, my love,” he chucked, his other hand pulling down the neckline of your nightgown, nearly ripping the delicate lace, to reveal your breast, “It would be rude not to answer.”

“Gods!” You moan, sucking in a breath when you feel the blond’s lips wrap around your exposed nipple, his teeth teasing at the sensitive, peaked skin, “I-I’m a good girl!” You gasp, your fingers carding through silky hair, the same silvery shade as your own, “Harwin says I-“ You start, only to be brutally cut off as one of Daemon’s large hands wraps around your throat. 

“Harwin may claim what he wishes,” he sneers, nose touching yours as he speaks, “But to me, you’re nothing but a lovely whore.” 

You gasp, having never been called such a thing before. A part of you knows you should be offended, yet you can’t help the way your thighs squeeze together at his harsh treatment, knees nearly buckling beneath you. 

Your husband tenses behind you, his kisses freezing on your neck before he lifts his head. Narrowing his eyes at Daemon over your shoulder, he grabs his forearm and pushes his hand off of you, “You are not to speak to her in that manner,” he growls, jaw squared, “Nor handle her so harshly. We discussed this earlier.” 

“Oh, hush,” the prince dismisses, prying his hand from Harwin’s grasp with a tsk, “She’s enjoying it, naughty little thing.” He nods his chin at you, noting the blush on your cheeks and the way your chest is heaving. 

Harwin’s eyes shift to yours, his hand tilting your chin up as he peers at you. Before he can speak, though, the large bells at the top of the Keep begin to chime, signaling the hour. Once, twice, all the way up to twelve. Finally, the hour of the owl had arrived, and with it your true nameday. 

“Well, well,” Daemon drawls, abandoning you and Harwin to perch at the edge of your bed, helping himself go to the pitcher of wine sitting at your bedside, “You know, the girls in Flea Bottom have quite the… interesting nameday tradition.” He smirks, studying you and Harwin with amusement as he takes a sip of wine. 

“What is it?” You ask, pulling your husband behind you as you approach the bed, accepting a glass of wine from Daemon. Beside you, Harwin shakes his head, glaring at the other man.

“We talked about this. I told you that I would be taking the lead–”

“You told me, yes,” Daemon interrupts, giving your husband a pointed look before shifting his gaze back to you, “However, it is her nameday. I believe she should get to decide.”

“Decide what?” You inquire, looking between the two men.

“Who will be giving you your birthday spanks, naughty girl.” The blond smirks, gazing at you appreciatively, “One for each year you’ve graced the realm with your presence.”

You looked back and forth between the two men again, Daemon looking at you as if you were a piece of prey, a prize to be won, and Harwin looking at you concerned, as if you were a precious treasure in need of protection. You deliberate for what feels like a long while in your mind – on one hand, Daemon was new and exciting, but you also knew of his unpredictable nature; on the other hand, Harwin was comfortable and safe to you, but wasn’t the entire point of this endeavor to branch out?

“Can…” you begin hesitantly, looking back and forth between the two men, “Can both of you do it?”

“I think that can be arranged, my sweet girl,” your husband says huskily, excited at the promise of exploring this particular act with you once more, “Why don’t you be a good little girl and kneel on the bed for us, hm? On all fours, as you normally do.”

At that remark, Daemon looks at you with great interest, making your cheeks heat up as Harwin helps you remove your robe, draping it over a nearby chair. He turns around quickly when he hears you gasp, only to see the prince laving his tongue over your nipple again, mouthing at it through the paper thin lace of your nightgown, as one of his hands busies itself with your other breast, palming at it desperately; his other hand visible through the thin material of your gown as his fingers tease at your center, brushing through the slick folds with practiced ease. 

He can’t help but admire you for a short moment, cock hardening at the soft blush that settles across your cheeks, the way your chest heaves as you gasp with pleasure, tits bouncing as you writhe against the other man’s hand. Finally, he comes out of his reverie and strides to where you and Daemon stand, taking his place on the other side of your body. 

He begins toying with you once more, guiding your mouth to his while his hands roam over your curves before one finally settles on your breast, the one unoccupied by Daemon’s tongue. His tongue battles with yours as his palm gently squeezes your breast, fingers teasingly pinching at your nipple, causing him to groan in satisfaction once you start mewling in the way he loves. His other hand joins the prince’s at your core, two of this thick fingers teasing at your opening, “Fuck,” he groans, nipping at your bottom lip with his teeth, “So wet, my love.” His fingers slide into you with a practiced ease, knowing exactly what you like after having spent nearly a year taking you apart on a practically daily basis. 

They crook up perfectly, rubbing against that spot within you with the perfect pressure and accuracy. If there was one thing Harwin was determined to perfect from the moment you were officially declared his in the eyes of gods and men, it was bringing you pleasure in greater amounts than you’d ever thought possible. He couldn’t help the satisfied smile that spread across his bearded face as the sounds of your whimpers and whines grew more and more desperate, telling him once more that he was successful in his mission. 

Just as your husband's fingers speed up within you, Daemon traces tighter and tighter circles around your eager bud, his mouth growing more insistent on your breast as he teases your nipple with his tongue and teeth, sucking it harshly into the warmth of his mouth. 

“Getting close, naughty thing?” the blond asks teasingly, lilac eyes peering up at yours as he continued stimulating you. 

You nod frantically, whining as Harwin begins tracing his lips down your jaw, right to that spot on your neck that he knows drives you crazy. “Let go, princess,” he husks, the tips of his fingers zeroing in on that small rough patch within you, “Give us your pleasure.”

You can’t help the noise that leaves you, a loud, desperate, whining moan that would leave you horribly embarrassed at any other time, but right now you don’t have the ability to care. The ministrations from the two men, along with the utterance of the one pet name Harwin only dared utter in private, send you tumbling over the edge. You feel your knees buckle, although you aren’t worried about falling, too dumb with pleasure to think but still reassured that two pairs of strong arms will surely hold you steady. 

Fireworks explode behind your eyelids as you feel your center contract around your husbands fingers; the two men groan when they hear the slick sounds pouring out from between your thighs multiply nearly tenfold as your peak takes you, soaking Harwin’s fingers and wetting Daemon’s hand. 

“What a naughty, dirty girl,” the prince teases, fingers only leaving your bud once your legs had started to twitch from the overstimulation, “Peaking over the fingers of two men,” you whimper as your husband carefully removes his fingers from you, face flushing when he immediately takes them into his mouth, licking off the evidence of your arousal, “No better than a common Flea Bottom whore.”

Again, Daemon’s words send a shiver up your spine, the knot that had just come unraveled in your stomach tightening once more. “She is a good girl,” Harwin corrects him, hands lovingly stroking over your body, “For peaking exactly when I commanded her to. Such a good, obedient girl.”

Your head spins at their words, head swimming as one man degrades you, clearly gaining pleasure from the way his teases and rude remarks affect you, while the other praises you so lovingly, proud at way his tender words affect you so after months of perfecting them, learning exactly which phrases drive you to madness and fully exploiting them. 

“Are you ready for your sweet spanks, my good girl?” Harwin asks, brown eyes shining with love.

You nod breathlessly, still leaning on both men for support. Beside you Daemon chuckles, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Ask for it properly, naughty girl.”

“Ask us, sweetling.” Harwin nods encouragingly. 

“Please…” you start softly, finally finding your voice, “Please, husband, sir, please may I have my nameday spankings?”

Daemon growls lowly in his chest, satisfied at you finally learning your place and addressing him the way he feels he deserves, “Get on the bed.” He commands easily, leaving no room for backtalk or questioning.

Blessedly, your sweet husband still sees fit to help you arrange yourself on the edge of the bed, taking your shaky legs into account as he helps you move. You’re indeed kneeling on all fours, your legs tucked up under you as your feet dangle off the bed, your ass in the air, though still covered by the lace of your gown.

You feel the air shift behind you as they move, both standing behind you still but Harwin to the left and Daemon to the right. The one of Daemon’s hands strokes down your back, you can feel him leaning over you as he trails his hand down from the very top of your shoulder blades all the way down to the small of your back, right where the curve of your ass starts; you can hear him hum appreciatively. His other hand drags up the back of one of your thighs and slowly, he slips his fingers under the hem of your gown. He pulls it up over your ass, letting the soft, silky fabric pool in the dip of your spine; your walls clench around nothing when you hear both men groan behind you.

“Gods,” Harwin breathes, rough fingers lightly tracing over your skin, “You get more beautiful every time I see you.”

“Pretty little cunt,” Daemon quips, smirking when he hears you whimper as he spreads your cheeks apart, hands gripping you hard enough that there are sure to be fingerprint sized bruises, “Wetter than the Narrow Sea.” He remarks, chuckling as he runs a thumb over the slit of your heat, marveling at the way your slick remains connected to his thumb by a thin thread for a second as he pulls his hands away. 

“Ready, princess?” Harwin murmurs behind you, hands soothing where Daemon had grabbed you.

“Please!” You nod, hands gripping the furs spread across the bed. 

Suddenly, a hand comes down on the left side of your ass, harsh but not overly painful; you whimper at the impact, walls clenching from the pleasant sting left behind. Harwin. You were sure of it – the two of you had only experimented in this way a scant few times but enough that you knew the feel of his blows. 

Again, a hand comes down, this time making you jerk as a palm strikes the right globe of your rear. A sharp cry leaves your lips, back bowing for a second before the same hand is pressing harshly at the small of your back, “Keep that back arched, naughty little thing.” Daemon hums. 

Harwin gives you a moment to breathe, a gesture you appreciate very much, before striking you once again. Again, you mewl as you feel the welcome heat spread across your skin. You turn your head, burying your face into the soft furs beneath you, only to practically inhale the wolf pelt there as Daemon brings his hand down again, making you gasp. Another cry leaves your lips, louder and harsher than the last as tears pool in the corner of your eyes, some already leaking onto the coat. The right side of your ass practically feels as if it’s on fire, the sting so harsh it makes your ears ring. 

“That’s two,” Daemon taunts, smiling wickedly as he sees an outline of his handprint already blooming on your ass, “So many more left to go.”

Harwin leans over you, brushing the hair from your face, brows furrowing with concern when he sees your tears, “Are you alright, my love?” He asks, smoothing a hand down your back, “Do you wish to stop? We don’t have to continue.” He reassures you, smiling lovingly.

You shake your head, determined to see it through – determined to impress Daemon, really. “N-no,” you say tearfully, taking deep breaths to calm yourself, “I want to, please.”

“Don’t be so modest,” Daemon cuts in, gripping your cheeks harshly once again as he spreads them, tugging them somehow further apart than before as he clicks his tongue, pleased, “You love this,” his hand wetly smacks against your slit, making you whine as Harwin further soothes you, glaring daggers at the prince, “Little cunt’s soaking the bed.”

Your husband knocks his hands away, the ferocity of it making you gasp and peer over your shoulder, “We’ve discussed this,” the brunette hisses through his teeth, knuckles white as he grips Daemon’s wrist, “You will not handle her in such a manner, we agreed on this.”

“Oh, please,” the prince huffs, rolling his lilac eyes as he jerks his arm from Harwin’s grip, “She’s enjoying it, see?” You don’t have any time to react before his palm is once again smacking against your flesh, harder than the previous two hits combined. Your vision swirls, eyes stinging as tears blur your sight, a scream ripping its way from your throat as his hit shoves you further up the bed. You feel as if your entire lower half is radiating with pain, ears ringing once again.

There’s some commotion behind you, though it takes you a few seconds to get your whits about you enough to turn over, grimacing as the tender skin of your rear brushes against the pelts, ones that normally feel so soft now digging into your skin like dozens of little thorns. When you do finally clear your eyes, rubbing the tears away, your mouth practically falls open at the sight before you.

Harwin has Daemon pushed against the wall next to the bed, one of his forearms pinned down across his chest to hold him back; Daemon looks enraged, his teeth bared as he stares down your husband, “Unhand me, Strong.” He growls. 

Harwin presses him down harder, chest heaving with anger, “You dare harm her,” he mutters, his other fist clenched at his side, “We trusted you for this and you harm her!” 

“She fucking liked it!” Daemon retorts, struggling against your husbands strength — although strong in his own right, he had nothing on Harwin, “Go look at her fucking cunt, it’s soaked! She loves being hit!” He positively seethes, nodding his head toward you. 

The brunette sneers, lip curling up in disgust as the other man continues to squirm in his grasp. You watch, worried, as the hand not pinning the prince to the wall shoots up and roughly grips Daemon by his throat, forcing his head back. 

Daemon whimpers.

The world seems to stop in a single breath, the three of you staying quiet and still. Your eyes are wide, not believing the small sound you heard, but there was no mistaking it. Harwin seems just as shocked as you, taking a half step back from Daemon as soon as he hears the noise.

He’s quiet for a second more before a teasing, nearly sinister smile slowly spreads across his face, “She likes being spanked, you say,” he starts, putting more pressure on Daemon’s throat, “And you, your grace, like being choked, don’t you? Nothing more than a common Flea Bottom whore, right?”

You’ve never heard your husband use that tone before, so deep and threatening, it makes your thighs clench, a soft breath escaping your lips. 

The small sound seems to remind both Harwin and Daemon that you’re still there and their heads whip toward you. They remain silent for a moment but then your husband smiles, looking between you and the prince with a mischievous smirk. 

Harwin leads Daemon over to where you sit on the bed until both men are standing in front of you once again, the blond in the front with the brunette behind him, one hand holding his arms behind his back while the other remains wrapped around his neck. There is still a fire in Daemon’s eyes, though it’s merely a simmer now instead of a blazing inferno; you can’t help but be reminded of a tamed animal, of the dragons in the dragonpit — so much wildness choosing to be contained. 

“I think you need to apologize,” Harwin starts, pushing Daemon forward until his legs hit the side of the bed, the two of them towering over you, “For hurting our lady, hm?”

Your breath catches at his choice of words, our lady. You watch as Daemon nods, his eyes half closed, glazed over by some kind of fog, his breathing slow and calm, as if he’s in a trance. 

“Come now,” Harwin shoves him a little, just enough to make him jump, “Answer properly.” 

“Yes….” Daemon whispers, hardly able to get words out around the grip Harwin has on his throat. 

“Yes what?” Your husband asks slowly, words spoken through clenched teeth, his lips right next to the prince’s ear. 

Daemon sighs, his shoulders sagging as any fight that remained in him seemed to vanish, “Yes, ser.” 

“See?” Harwin teases, patronizingly tapping him on the cheek, “You can be good.” You see Daemon shiver at that. 

Leaving Daemon to stand at the side of the bed, your husband bends down and kisses you softly, “You still desire this?”

You nod, looking deeply into his eyes as one of your hands cards through his curly hair, “Yes husband,” you whisper, “More than anything.” 

“Stand.” Harwin commands simply, and you obey, coming to stand beside Daemon. “You,” your husband snaps, motioning at the man standing next to you, “Strip and lie down.” 

Daemon does as he says, with no fuss for once. You can’t help but admire the way he moves as he removes his tunic and pants, his movements still so fluid and graceful despite the haze he seems to be in. After a moment, his clothes lie in a pile on the floor as he takes his place on your bed, laying on his back, half hard cock lying on his stomach, already leaking and flushed. 

“Good.” Harwin praises simply, though you see Daemon’s brows flutter with pleasure. “My love,” he addresses you, giving you a gentle kiss, “Let me?” He asks, gesturing to your nightgown. You nod with a smile, letting him undress you. “Perfection,” he groans once you’re bare before him, dark eyes roaming your body. 

“I want you to do something for me, princess,” he says, leading over to the bed, motioning for you to kneel on your knees next to Daemon. 

“What’s that?” You ask, looking from your husband to the prince. 

Harwin grabs your waist, much gentler than Daemon had ever touched you, and you can’t help but whimper, loving the way he manhandles you into position. Before you know it, he has you hovering over Daemon’s face, your entire body flushing as you realize what he wants. 

“Sit.” He says lowly, letting you drop onto the prince’s waiting mouth. 

“Oh!” You say in surprise, your thighs clenching around Daemon’s head. Immediately, you feel a rumble beneath you, making you whine as you realize he’s groaning with contentment as his tongue meets your aching heat. “Gods!” You gasp, hips moving of their own accord over his lips as your fingers tangle in his pale hair, causing him to groan more underneath you. 

You pant, humping against his face like nothing more than the wanton whore he claimed you to be, mewls and whines escaping your lips constantly as your eyes squeeze shut. 

You hear Harwin shuffling next to the bed and open your eyes, peering over your shoulder and shivering at the sight of your husband undressing, his muscular body on full display for you. Finally undressed, he turns to you, stroking his cock as he stalks toward the bed, eyes scanning over your body. 

“Is he making you feel good, my little love?” 

“Yes, sir!” You pant, nodding frantically. The bed dips under his weight as Harwin kneels on the bed next to you, his free hand coming up to palm at your breasts, thumb teasing over your nipples before he pinches them, humming appreciatively at the way you squirm atop Daemon. 

“Good,” Harwin chuckles, leaning over to mouth at one breast while his hand continues teasing the other, “He must atone for earlier.” He finishes, letting go of his stiff cock to slap at Daemon’s thigh, making the man below you jerk and moan, his hands gripping at your rear tighter as his cock twitches against his abdomen.

You gasp, surprised by both the slap and the way Daemon’s lips seal around your bud in response, sucking it into his mouth and teasing it with his hot tongue as your hips grind down harder, “Oh, Gods, fuck!” 

Beside you, Harwin stands on the bed, bending to kiss the top of your head, chuckling at the way you cling to him for support. “Shh, little sweetling,” he soothes, standing up straight, the sight of his cock making your mouth water as he fists it in front of your lips, “I have something you can occupy yourself with.” He teases, moving closer to you. 

Smiling up at him, you softly lick the tip, pride swelling in your stomach at how much the slit is already leaking. You wrap your lips around the head, suckling softly as one of your hands untangles itself from Daemon’s hair to stroke the rest of Harwin’s length. You mewl around him as the prince continues feasting on your slit, plunging his tongue inside of you, deep groans vibrating through you every time he feels your walls clench around the muscle as he fucks it into you. 

Slowly but surely, you take more of your husband into your mouth, eyes watering when he hits the back of your throat. He groans above you, half lidded eyes keeping contact with yours as he gently strokes his hands through your hair. 

“Such a lovely, precious girl,” he grunts, his eyes nearly black but still shining with adoration, “Gods, princess, you’re perfect like this.” 

Your husband’s sweet praise pushes you closer to the edge, the knot in your stomach growing dangerously tight as you rut against Daemon’s mouth, his tongue zeroing in your bud as he feels you moving more and more determinedly against him, his eyes rolling back in his head at the way you taste. 

“Are you getting close, sweet girl?” Harwin asks, gently fucking his hips into your mouth. 

You nod around his length, eyebrows furrowing together as you stare up at him pleadingly. Blessedly, your sweet husband can never bear to make you wait very long. 

“Find your peak, my love,” Harwin huffs as he strokes his length, “Cover him with it.” 

As always, you do as he commands. The knot in your belly finally snaps once more and you moan above Daemon, practically crying at the way each wave of your orgasm crashes over you, sending shivers down your spine. The prince slurps noisily below you, savoring your release as his cock twitches, leaking heavily onto his stomach. 

“Ah!” You cry, hips twitching as Daemon’s tongue persists against you, only stopping when you lift yourself off of him and settle back onto his chest, “Seven Hells.” You breathe, your wet slit pressed tightly against the center of Daemon’s chest. 

Harwin once again kneels on the bed and you peer over your shoulder, eyes widening as you see him swipe a finger through the pool of of arousal leaking from the flushed head of the prince’s cock, where it rests against his stomach, bringing it to your lips for you to suck off, which makes the man below you groan. 

“Seems he wants something,” Harwin teases, “Shall we let him have it?”

“Please, sir,” you whine, nodding pathetically at the chance to finally sink onto Daemon’s cock, “Let him, please!”

“Aww, sweet thing,” Harwin coos, tenderly caressing your cheek, “Thank you, although you are not who I wish to hear from.” 

At that, you can feel Daemon squirm beneath you, a determined set to his eyes, “Forget it.” He shakes his head, hands tracing over your curves. 

“Really?” Harwin asks, reaching behind you and grabbing Daemon’s aching length, stroking him slowly, making the prince’s body go rigid as he practically whines beneath you, “You don’t want to feel our lady’s sweet little cunt on your cock?” 

“Seven—“ Daemon chokes, hands gripping your waist enough to bruise. You can’t help but ruck your hips against him, your bud dragging deliciously against the barely there hair on his chest, “Fuck you, Strong.” He grunts, legs twitching as Harwin meanly squeezes at his length. 

“I don’t think it’s me you want to fuck,” your husband taunts, shaking his head, “I know you want it, know you want to have your way with my little wife,” you can tell when Harwin begins stroking Daemon’s length again as the man underneath you tenses, his muscles pulling taut, “Simply ask nicely and you may have her.” 

You watch Daemon for a moment, studying the pained look on his face, his jaw still clenched and determined. You know he won’t do as your husband commands, still too proud no matter how true Harwin’s taunts are. So, you take pity on him, unable to reign in your own desire either. Bracing your hands on his chest, you move yourself back along the length of his torso, coming to hover over his stomach just above where your husband continues teasing at his length. 

Leaning down, you gently kiss along Daemon’s jaw until your lips are positioned just under his ear, “Tell him what he wants to hear,” you implore, your breath tickling his pale skin, “I want it as badly as you, please my prince, please just do as he asks.” You beg, rutting your hips against his firm stomach. 

Daemon opens his eyes finally, dark with desire as he looks at you, watching as you nod encouragingly, your own brows set in a pleading furrow. Again, the prince sighs, his body deflating, “Please,” he starts, his voice barely a whisper at first, growing louder once you dip your head down and begin teasing his neck, “Please let me fuck her, let me please her.” 

“Let you fuck who?” Harwin teases, finally releasing Daemon’s cock. 

“Please, let me fuck your pretty wife,” Daemon sighs, his hands coming up to cup your breasts, making you gasp and rut your hips against his stomach again, “Please, ser.” 

“That wasn’t so difficult, hm?” Your husband chuckles, making himself comfortable at the head of the bed, his back against the plush pillows. He fixes you in his dark gaze, muscular arms folded over his chest, “Ride him. Tame our dragon, sweetling.” 

Our dragon. Again, his words make you shiver and you nod wordlessly, sliding further down Daemon’s lithe body before your center, dripping and aching, is finally positioned over his length. Once more, you look down at the prince’s face, his silvery hair spread in a halo around his head; he’s breathing harshly, his cock twitching against your center as he gazes at you, the animalistic lust in his eyes replaced with a glimmer that makes your heart twist — you’ve seen the same one in Harwin’s dark eyes time and time again. 

Before you have time to dwell on it, Daemon’s hands grip your hips, pushing you down slowly. Both of you groan, his length stretching you deliciously. You brace your hands on his chest, nails digging into his skin as your hips sink lower and lower, cursing as he’s finally pressed inside you completely, his cock filling every inch of you as your walls pulse around him. 

“Fuck,” Daemon grunts, his hands gripping at your waist and hips as his eyes roll back, “Tight little cunt, so good.” His hands suddenly grip your ass, making you whimper and grind yourself against him at the feel of his rough hands against your still tender skin. 

You can’t help the moans and whimpers that escape your lips as you begin rocking in Daemon’s lap, angling your hips in a way that causes his head to brush against that spot deep within you, the one that makes your head spin. “Gods, shit!” You can’t help but gasp at the way he feels inside you, his cock stretching you nicely — not as wide as Harwin’s but just a hair longer, filling you to the brim. 

“Does he feel good, my love?” Your husband asks, causing you to open your eyes and look over at him. You nod as you meet his eyes, the brown almost totally taken over by blackness as he relaxes against the pillows, eyes sweeping up and down your body as he watches you grind yourself atop the prince, “How does she feel, your grace?” He addresses Daemon. 

The man below you groans, the wild look returning to his eyes as you start bouncing more frantically, “Fucking perfect,” he grunts, wrapping an arm around the small of your back and pulling you down to him, your chests pressing together, “Perfect, wet, fuck, wet little cunt.” He groans into your neck, hands gripping at your ass again. 

You whine at the feel of his lips and teeth on your neck, your hands tangling in his hair. You whimper when you feel him bend his legs behind you, his thighs pressing against your bum; your whimpers turn to sharp cries as he begins thrusting up into you, spearing you down onto his cock over and over, the head nearly kissing your cervix as he does. 

Your cries rise in volume the closer you get, your thighs tensed against his movements as the knot in your stomach tightens, your walls clutching at his length. You gasp as one of his hands comes up, abandoning your ass to wrap lightly around your throat, only holding it instead of squeezing. His movements make your bud rub against the small thatch of hair at the base of his cock, sending sparks throughout your body.

“Ooh, she’s getting close,” Harwin observes, lightly tugging at his length as he watches you come undone atop Daemon, “Don’t you want her to soak your cock?”

“Gods,” Daemon groans, feeling the way your walls keep getting somehow tighter around his cock. He pants as he moves his hips faster, punching his length into you relentlessly, savoring the way you gasp and moan into his mouth, “Yes, yes want it.” He groans brokenly, spiraling toward his own release as well. 

“Aren’t you going to ask my permission?” Harwin teases, smirk spreading across his face at the frustrated groan that leaves Daemon. “You need my permission to make her peak,” your husband says, his gravelly tone making you shiver as you lose yourself, “Beg for it.” 

This time, thankfully, Daemon does not protest, both of you too desperate. “Fucking hell,” he hisses, a light sheen of sweat on his brow, “Please, fuck, please I need to make her peak, please!” He huffs, pressing his forehead against your own, staring deeply into your eyes as he grabs at any flesh of yours he can reach. 

“Very good,” you do not miss the way Daemon shivers at Harwin’s praises, “Make her come undone.” Your husband commands. 

At this, one of Daemon’s hands buries itself between your two bodies, fingers frantically seeking out your bud and rubbing tight, wet circles into the sensitive flesh. Within seconds, you unravel, light bursting behind your eyelids as you cry out, fire igniting in your veins. Your walls pulse around Daemon’s cock as you cry out, your whole body shaking as your release flows over you in waves. 

Even through the blinding pleasure you can tell Daemon is teetering on the edge, savoring your orgasm before he allows himself his own. Harwin can tell too and his smirk grows, a devious idea coming to mind, “You cannot finish inside her,” he growls, shaking his head at Daemon, “That is mine and mine alone.”

The prince curses, his eyes squeeze shut as he manages to lift you up, pushing you back to sit atop his thighs as one of his hands comes up to strip at his cock a scant few times before a low, rumbling growl settles in his chest. A second later, he jerks suddenly, abdomen contracting as he finishes over his fist, pearly cum dripping onto his stomach, some of it shooting onto your chest and torso as well, making you gasp. 

The two of you breathe heavily as you collapse forward onto his chest, your tired muscles unable to hold you up; you whimper softly at the feel of his seed on your stomach, one of his hands stroking over your hair. “Thank you.” You sigh. 

He laughs, kissing the top of your head, “You need not thank me, princess,” he says tiredly, his choice of pet name making your heart skip a beat, “The pleasure was mine.” 

You feel the bed shift beside you before a pair of lips descend upon your back, kissing up to your shoulder. Your husband pushes your hair back and you smile up at him shyly. “You are truly perfection, my little love,” he smiles, “Has our dragon tired you out?” 

You shake your head, reaching out for Harwin, “I want you,” you breathe, letting him flip you onto your back until you’re lying next to Daemon, “Please, take me, my love.” You beg, grabbing onto every part of Harwin you can as he positions himself between your legs. 

“Fuck her,” Daemon says suddenly, his eyes scanning over Harwin, “I wish to see her break.” 

You shudder at his words, your core clenching at nothing, making you whine. Harwin shushes you lovingly, running his length through the slick still dripping from your center. “Shh, I will give you what you want, sweet one,” he says as he pushes his head into you, already deliciously stretching you, “As I always do, always will.” He grunts, sinking into you. 

Your eyes flutter, his cock still stretching your walls, causing your center to ache beautifully, your back arching on the furs. “Gods,” you breathe, moaning as Harwin bends down to lick into your mouth, your hands grabbing at his thick shoulders, “You feel so good inside me.”

He chuckles into your mouth before leaning back up, brown eyes gazing down at you adoringly, watching your chest bounce with every frantic breath you take as his hips finally press against yours. Groaning, he grabs at the backs of your knees, your legs bending as he pins them back, nearly folding you in half. 

“Fuck,” he grunts, rutting into you as you squirm beneath him, “I swear to the Seven you feel better every time.” He praises, looking down at where his cock disappears into you, marveling at the way your cunt shines in the light of the many candles placed around your chambers. 

The two of you move together for many moments, slick sounds from your center making you blush as you lose yourself in Harwin’s strong thrusts. He knows exactly how to unwind you after this much time together, and he wastes no time in doing so, a proud smile on his face as he feels your muscles tensing underneath him. 

“Close already, pretty girl?” He asks, his curls tumbling wildly as he moves. You nod, words catching in your throat as you clench around his thick cock. 

Beside you, Daemon, who has been watching with dark eyes all the while, slowly strokes his length, his other hand resting on your throat once more, his own breath growing more ragged each minute. 

Harwin’s gaze shifts to him, his thrusts speeding up as he looks over the prince’s lean figure, “Up,” he commands, motioning for Daemon to stand next to him, “Watch as I claim her, see her in the way I do.” 

Again, Daemon listens without a fight, rising from his place next to you as he comes to stand at the side of the bed, shoulder to shoulder with Harwin as he continues pumping at his cock, breathing heavily as he stares at the place where you and your husband connect. 

Harwin bends down suddenly, the motion pulling his length from you and causing you to whine — though that quickly turns to a sharp gasp when you feel his tongue lick at your stomach. Tilting your head up, you look down in just enough time to see his tongue sweep through the pool of Daemon’s seed, still splattered on you. “Oh!” You exclaim, surprised as you watch your husband gather the other man’s spend on his tongue. 

Leaning up, Harwin once again spears you on length before hovering his face over yours, his eyes searching your gaze. Knowing what he wants, you open your mouth, smiling through moans at the familiar sight of him gathering spit in his mouth. A second later, he is leaning down again, his lips  nearly connecting with yours as he spits into your waiting mouth, sharing Daemon’s seed with you. 

Your eyes roll back as you swallow, savoring the unfamiliar, heady taste of the prince as your cunt flutters. Above you, Daemon lets out a groan so loud he almost sounds as if he’s in pain. 

“Good girl,” Harwin praises, smoothing a hand through your hair as he resumes his harsh thrusts, his other hand bracing itself against your lower stomach, thumb toying with your bud, “My good girl.” 

“Seven Hells.” Daemon groans, fisting his cock harder and faster as he nears his own release. 

“I’m close, my love,” Harwin pants, his thumb pressing against your bud harder, making your hips twitch under him, “With me?” He asks, half lidded eyes watching your own. 

“Yes, yes, yes!” You moan in time with each of his thrusts, nodding your head wildly as you thrash within his grasp, pleasure threatening to overwhelm you. 

“Watch as I claim her,” he commands Daemon, tangling a hand into his silvery hair, pointing his gaze exactly where he wants it — where the two of you connect, “Watch as I breed our princess.” 

His words send you over the edge, your walls milking his length as you feel the heat of the two men’s gazes fixed on your cunt. You gasp as your peak washes over you once more, the strongest of the night, causing your entire body to spasm uncontrollably in Harwin’s strong grasp. 

Above you, Harwin grunts as his cock spasms within you, painting your walls with his seed. As he tips over the edge, he turns his head to Daemon, pulling the dragon to him, their mouths crashing together. Hearing their twin groans, you manage to open your eyes, the sight before you nearly making you peak again. Their lips battling for dominance, neither relenting as their tongues tangle together, grunts and growls filling each other's mouths. 

Daemon finishes at nearly the same second your husband does, his seed splattering onto the furs beside you as his chest heaves. 

Harwin comes to a stop within you, his hand softening in Daemon’s hair though he does not pull away. You watch them kiss for a moment more, surprised at the heat building within you at the sight. Your walls clench around your husband's spent cock, making him jump and finally pull away from the other man, facing you with a knowing smile as you blush, your eyes flitting between four others. 

“Vaogenka riña,” Daemon drawls, his hands grasping one of your legs, massaging the muscle of your calf as your foot rests delicately on the center of his chest, “Taking pleasure from watching your husband with another.” (Dirty girl.)

“Watching him with you.” You clarify with a grin. 

Happily groaning, Harwin withdraws his length from you, shushing you as you whine. You feel your husband's seed dripping from you a moment later and both men hum appreciatively at the sight. 

“Shall I draw us a bath, sweetling?” Harwin asks, brushing sweat from your forehead, “I know you do not like to go to sleep so dirty, though if you are too spent…” 

You shake your head, giggling as both men help you stand on shaky legs, “I would gladly take a bath, husband,” you look between the two of them before your gaze settles on Daemon, “With both of you?” 

Daemon kisses you, much sweeter than he had before, “Hen rhinka, dārilaros.” He smiles, picking you up by the backs of your legs, making you squeal with laughter as he carries you over to the tub, sitting on the edge with you on his lap as Harwin prepares the bath, just the way you like. (Of course, princess.)

A few moments, and kisses, later your husband confirms it’s ready. He steps into the bath first with a curse, “I do not know how you find pleasure in this heat,” he jokes, gritting his teeth as his skin grows accustomed to the hot water, “Caraxes may as well be burning me where I stand.” 

Daemon laughs at that, the two men helping you into the bath, settling you against Harwin, a position you’d taken many times before. You sigh gratefully as the water warms your tired skin, the sweet smelling oils relaxing you, “Hush,” you chuckle, watching as the prince lowers himself into the water as well, on the opposite end of the large tub, “It feels perfect.” 

Daemon sighs in agreement, long arms resting on the lip of the tub as he tilts his head back, the steam making silvery strands of his hair cling to his shoulders and chest. “Perfection indeed.” He says contentedly, making Harwin’s chest shake with laughter against your back. 

Your eyes droop closed after a moment, Daemon massaging your feet and legs as Harwin busies himself with washing your shoulders, neck, and chest.

A gentle breeze billows through the sheer curtains of your chambers, the cool air feeling delicious on your heated skin, the smell of Aemma’s sweet blossoms in the palace gardens making your lips quirk up into a tired smile. 

“Sleep, princess.” Harwin commands gently, whispering against your neck. 

“Ēdrugon.” Daemon echos. (Sleep.)

You obey.

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[hees-mine]

Birthday girl - L. Heeseung

Pairing: heeseung X fem reader

Warnings: smut, unprotected sex, alcohol consumption, multiple orgasms, cursing, stepcest, daddy kink, dirty talk, cheating.

Genre: 18+, stepcest.

Word count: 2k+

-

“Mom, just one, please. I promise it’ll only be one.” It was your 21st birthday, and you celebrated in the kitchen with your mom and your stepdad as you begged her to let you have your first shot on the day you officially turned 21.

“No, I never had a shot at 21,” she simply answers, turning away from you and putting away the leftover cake she had your stepdad buy from the store cause she apparently couldn’t be bothered to get one for you herself.

“Mom, come on, that’s not fair!” You whined. “I’m literally an adult,” you reasoned.

“And you’re literally under my roof,” she replies back nonchalantly like she always does. You hated it when she acted like this.

She would always hold things over your head: no sleepovers, no parties, no boyfriends, no nothing, and it’s not cause she was looking out for you. It’s cause she was jealous of you.

She always told you how she never got to have any of those things, and now you can’t shake the feeling that even though she never directly said it to you, you feel like she’s taking it out on her only daughter, which just isn’t fair.

“Dad!” You turned to heeseung your stepdad, looking for his approval, and he gave you the tiniest hint of a smile while folding his arms and resting against the kitchen counter.

You and your stepdad had a much better relationship than you and your mother, unlike her. He seemed to actually care about you, which is comical cause he wasn’t even your real dad, and he treated you better than your mom ever did.

He’d always vouch for you, defend you when arguments got too heated, and he never made you feel like you were always in the wrong, unlike your mother did.

His care for you did go a lot further than just how a stepdad would care for their stepchild because his hugs would last a couple of seconds too long. His kisses on the cheek were a little too affectionate, and he'd eye you when you wore revealing outfits a bit too much.

You didn't mind, though. You did it on purpose cause you liked the attention. He wasn't your real dad, and besides, you had met him so late in your life that you were already fully grown, and you didn't even see him as a father figure at all.

Dad never even crossed your mind when you thought about him. All you saw was a very attractive man, and you wondered how your strict, bitter mother landed a gem like him.

“You heard your mom.” he swipes the cake as your mom sets it in the fridge and licks the frosting off his fingertip, humming at the sweet taste. “Now go upstairs and get ready for bed, young lady.”

You rolled your eyes and did as he said. You thought he’d vouch for you this time, too, but apparently not.

Little did you know he had other plans up his sleeve. He only said no to you cause he was not about to start a fight with his wife over you taking one measly shot, especially since it was your birthday.

His wife always had a way of making things about her just cause she didn’t get a shot at 21. Why couldn’t you? If he didn’t know any better, he’d say his wife was jealous of her own daughter, and if he’s being honest, it was kinda getting on his nerves the way she’d bitch at you all the time for virtually nothing.

When he married her, she was not like that at all, but once he moved in and you all became family, the whole dynamic changed. She paid more attention to scolding you than him.

He wasn’t needy necessarily, but he did get lonely sometimes, especially in the bedroom, and heeseung noticed that you talked to him more than his own wife.

Which resulted in him developing maybe not a crush but a certain attraction to you, and to his luck, it was mutual between the two of you, considering all the shameless flirting you did back and forth.

At first, he felt a bit guilty, but with the way he was feeling in his marriage, he might as well have been single. He’s not excusing his actions, but he definitely doesn’t care or feel any shame in checking you out from head to toe on a daily basis.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t spill his load in his palm once or twice at the thought of you.

How could he not when you’d purposefully bend over in front of him pretending that you dropped something or the way you’d push your chest against his whenever you’d hug?

You had already gotten ready for bed, sulking a bit as you leaned against the bed frame, scrolling on your phone.

Heeseung had joined his wife upstairs, lying next to her and sharing a quiet goodnight before they turned off the bedside lamps.

It was always like this: completely silent, no conversation, no talking about the day, no intimacy, absolutely nothing.

Even if he did try to talk, she’d always say she was stressed or tired.

Another one of the reasons Heeseung didn’t feel guilty for having feelings toward you was that you gave him the time of day.

He sighs putting his hands behind his head and staring at the celling finally after an hour passed his wife was fast asleep so he silently slipped out of bed and went to the kitchen where the cupboard was located pulling out a bottle of liquor one he bought expressly for you cause you had been going on all week about wanting to take a shot on your 21st.

He snuck over to your room, knocking on it softly, knowing you’d still be up. You were always up late.

You sighed and got out of bed tossing your blanket to the side and ripping open the door ready to be faced with your mom and some more of her shenanigans. “Wha-“ you stopped mid-way through, shocked to see that it was actually your stepdad instead, and you were pleasantly surprised to see he was in nothing but his underwear and a shirt.

“Hey,” he laughs softly, waving a bottle of liquor in your face along with two shot glasses.

“H-hi,” you smile upon seeing the bottle.

“Are you gonna let me in? Or are you gonna wait for your mom to catch us?” He smirks and you open the door further to let him in…

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[world-of-aus]

Hot Shot

Pairing: NHL!Photographer!Reader x Hockey Player!Bucky

Warnings: Bucky being a heartthrob.

A/N: I've been reading one to many hockey romances and well here we are scratching an itch. I know I would like to eventually come out with a bigger story for these two but for now this is just the start a taste if you will. I'd like to leave this open to suggestion of what y'all would like to see or know about these two if anything.. Hope you enjoy the first taste.

You barely had a chance to unlock your screen to reply to her message before her caller ID

was taking up your screen, a recent photo of her and Steve that she had made as her contact picture pulling a smile onto your lips.

“Tasha.” you answer.

“Y/n, listen I know you were just planning on watching the game from the comfort of your living room but I mean talk about an upgrade! From a television screen to being at the actual game on the floor behind the safety of the glass getting some wicked shots, and no one captures action shots like you do - I promise I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.” she tacks on her voice pleading.

You chuckle, you know had the circumstances been different she’d be one of the first ones at the arena, she hadn’t missed one of Steve’s games yet, not since you had been signed on. “Natasha relax, you know you don’t have to pull out the stops on me, I'll go - do you want me to send you the photos?”

The redhead turned blonde breathes a heavy sigh of relief, “oh god thank you! and if you don’t mind, but take your time, I’m sure a certain bruin's player is going to be demanding your attention after the game especially if they bag a win.” she teases seemingly mentioning the man in your DM’s.

Your cheeks warm, the unread notification from the player she speaks of appearing in your mind, “please Tasha,” you deflect, “it’s the game of the season he’ll have plenty of attention with all the puck bunnies sporting his name on their jersey throwing themselves at him for an inkling of his attention.” you murmur picking at an invisible speck of lint on your sweater as you stand from the couch, intent on getting your things packed to head out.

“And yet he only seems to want yours,” she sings, “you should totally wear the jersey I got you for your birthday.”

You roll your eyes smile pulling at your lips, “is your flight really delayed, do I have to text Steve?”

Your friend laughs, “unfortunately it is and hey thank you again for this, I owe you, love you, oh and send me a picture of Steve, one of you and Bucky too!”

You shake your head as your friend rushes out her farewell your screen now gone black as you look down at it “looks like pjs are out of the question for tonight” you murmur continuing on through your apartment to grab your things Bucky’s text still sitting in your messages unanswered.

He’d have his answer soon enough.

🏒🖤

The cool of the arena’s backstage floor seeps through your jeans, your tripod sitting off to the side, your camera nestled in your hands as you wait for the first few players of the bruins to make their arrival.

Your camera goes up; the first of the team to come through the backdoors is the Bruins coach Fury, he spots you smile on his face his hand coming up in a greeting as you get your first arrival shot of the day. Slowly players begin to trickle in, most of them spot you posing for you as they stride by, others walk by with a simple wave their heads already in the game.

Speaking of head in the game center Steve Rogers makes his way in, his suit pressed, duffle thrown over his shoulder as he owns the floor. “Looking good Rogers, say you wouldn’t have Natasha tucked away in that duffle by chance?” you tease grinning behind your camera. You laugh at the grin that breaks his lips, a shake of his head as he directs his gaze at you, “can assure you Natasha wouldn’t be packed in my bag, she’d be hanging on my arm.” You coo at the bearded blonde, “you think you can say that again I didn’t have my phone out.”

The two of you laugh as you capture a few more shots, “Come on Rogers leave some love for the rest of us, you already have your face glued on billboards!”

Left defenseman Sam Wilson is striding in next million dollar smile painted on his lips like the suit he wears on his skin. “But no one has their face printed on as many shirts like you do Wilson, now give me something new to look out for will ya, want to make sure these etsy sellers get only the best!” Wilson eats your words up, feeding the fans through your film. He comes closer kneeling to your level to pull you in for a hug, “it’s good to see you hot shot, thought you weren’t coming out tonight with how Barnes was moping.”

Your heart beats like a wild drum in your chest, “Tasha’s flight got delayed, cashed in her IOU, so here I am and surely your version of Barnes moping is different from mine.”

“Oh man you should of seen him, had to smack the phone out of his hands with how often he was checking it, you’re gonna join us tonight after the win right?”

“You Bruins are so sure about that win,” you laugh.

“That’s because it’s in the bag, hot shot.” It takes everything in you not to snap your eyes to the broad shoulder right defenseman sauntering into the building. “Here comes your boy.” Sam chuckles patting your shoulder as you find said man with your camera lens. You wanted to eat him up like he was eating at your film.

Like Sam Bucky strolls till he’s standing above you, grin pulling at his pink lips as he offers you his hand. You set your camera down gently against your chest before taking his offer, warmth seeping though you at your hand wrapped in his. “Thought you weren’t gonna show.” He murmurs watching you.

“Well as enticing as staying in my pjs on my couch with a glass of wine watching the game tonight sounded IOUs are a serious thing to cash in.” you say struggling to keep his gaze, you were certain you’d turn into a puddle of goo soon.

“More enticing then upgrading your lock screen?”

You let out a groan reaching out to smack his chest, but his hand captures yours instead keeping it there a teasing smile playing at his lips. “You’re never going to let that go are you?” you question recalling the night at the bar that he discovered himself as your lock screen. To be fair it was one of your favorite shots you had captured at the beginning of the seasons. It didn’t hurt that he was your favorite Bruin player to follow on and off the ice.

“Never, though I’m hoping by the end of the night ill see a photo of me after the win.” He chuckles thumb running over your hand.

“You’d have to secure a win first Barnes.”

Your breath catches in your chest as he closes the distance between the two of you, “I’ve already won though.”

Your reply is caught on your tongue, Fury voice breaking through the haze, “Barnes you’ll have time to catch up with y/n later get your ass in the lockers now!”

Bucky let’s your hand falling, chuckle brewing in his chest as he steps back, “hope you’re not watching Wilson or Rogers to closely tonight hotshot because this wins for you, and I’m going to be the one bringing it home.”

You watch him walk away, his gaze lingering on you till he disappears through the locker room.

And God how you hoped he would.

[euthymiya]

you want to change my mind (and maybe you already have) — ft. wriothesley.

art credits: rana_co_co on twitter

synopsis: november 23rd comes and goes just like every year. wriothesley looks at you in his bed, curled under his sheets—pretty. soft. kind. a gateway to a cushy sort of life he never envisioned for himself. this birthday, he finally realizes that neuvillette sending you down for weekly compliance checks at the fortress was the first time celestia had ever favored him

word count: 8.7k — this was truly agonizing. just know that

before you read: female reader ; reader works at the palais ; work relationships ; fuck buddies who clearly are smitten ; newly turned duke wriothesley ; my own personal headcanons about his childhood and past (spoilers for his backstory ahead!) ; mentions of murder and child trafficking (his canon backstory) ; mentions of serial murders and disappearances of women (the canon missing women’s case so major fontaine spoilers if you’re not done) ; very lightly implied sexual comments about reader made by an inmate ; violence, injuries, and blood descriptions (wriothesley defends her honor) ; blow jobs ; cum eating ; semi public office sex ; exhibitionism ; wet dreams + male maaturbation ; cunnilingus ; unprotected vaginal sex (he pulls out) ; fluff and getting together

commentary: a little late, but here’s my birthday fic for my birthday boy who owns my whole heart <3_<3

“Duke,” you say as soon as you walk into his office, making Wriothesley want to hide in the corner, “You’re late.”

He saw it coming, really. Knew it would be the first thing you’d point out as soon as your shoes would thump against his quiet, peaceful office floor. Well, peaceful until now—now you’re here to disrupt that tranquility with demands that he’d like to politely ignore. Unfortunately, because Celestia have never exactly favored him, that’s not an option.

“Ah, my favorite babysitter. Whatever do you mean?” He smiles at you innocently. He knows exactly what you mean, of course—and he knows you know it, too, because you stare blankly at him before rolling your eyes. But there’s still a small hint of fondness underneath the staged irritation. He can’t help but throw you a little playful wink as he notices it.

As far as babysitters go, you’re not bad, exactly.

That’s how Wriothesley likes to think of you. His weekly babysitter. You come in once a week, keep an eye on him, check and make sure he’s doing what he’s supposed to and following all the rules, tattle on him if he does anything wrong, and you force him to do his homework.

Neuvillette likes to call it an administrative compliance audit. You make sure Wriothesley is keeping things at the Fortress running smoothly, get an update on how the standing situation is, report back to Neuvillette so he stays informed, and make sure that no paperwork is submitted or completed past the expected deadline. 

Wriothesley says babysitter, you say compliance officer. Tomayto, tomahto. 

“You’re late to sending in the quarterly reviews of the most recent batch of prisoners,” you hum, jotting that down in your convenient little notepad that is the bane of Wriothesley’s existence. You return his cheeky wink with one of your own. Every time you pull it out, he knows he’s about to get a write-up. Every time he gets a write-up, he knows a letter from Neuvillette is coming with a lecture about his responsibilities and how seriously he should take them.

Fighting back a groan, he rubs his face tiredly as he mumbles, “I’m getting to it.”

“Yes,” you agree, “You are. It’s not exactly optional—the sooner, the better, of course.”

“You love pushing my buttons, don’t you?” He looks up at you petulantly. 

One thing about Wriothesley is that his rugged, almost tactless demeanor only adds to his charm. He wears formal wear only because he has to—which, to be fair, his outfit choices are considered formal by a very loose definition as is. He keeps his tie knotted loosely and borderline informal. He has a rather sarcastic and playful way of speaking professionally. 

All of these things should scream that he's a misfit for this position, but you think they almost make him the perfect candidate. In an odd sort of way, he’s not as stiff as a board and at risk of using his position to his advantage. He’s down to Earth enough that you can trust him not to take his role too seriously and run the Fortress like his own personal military grounds. 

Grinning, you walk over to him, seating yourself on the armrest of his chair before tracing a finger along his bicep as you lean in and murmur against his ear, “C’mon, they’re not so bad. If you finish it up, you might even have a nice little reward waiting for you after.”

He swallows thickly for a moment before reconstructing his carefully crafted composure. Raising a brow, he gives you an amused—although shaky—smile as he hums, “Oh? Is this some sort of incentive?”

“You could say that,” you bite your lip to keep from letting out a giggle. “Incentive. Reward. Compensation. Whatever you want to call it.”

 “Can I pick what I get?”

“Perhaps if you’re lucky, I’ll let you have your way,” you tease.

Neuvillette sends you from the Palais to the Fortress to make reports about the Fortress of Meropide after observation. It’s imperative, of course, that during this weekly assignment, you stay fair and unbiased. That seemed easy enough when you took on the job.

That is until you met Wriothesley. 

It happens by accident. One second, you’re letting him walk you around the underwater prison that he calls his home, taking notes of the way prisoners do their jobs and how they're compensated. (The name credit coupon still makes you giggle sometimes, but you keep it to yourself for the sake of avoiding his glare). The next second, you’re slipping on leaked water from a burst pipe and heading straight for your demise of a face-first fall onto the hard metal flooring of a tunnel. 

Wriothesley catches you with ease. Effortlessly, his strong arms wrap around you to catch you against his chest before you have a chance to fall any further. It’s cliche, you think—how this weird difference between professionalism and personal attraction gets blurred more and more every day. How it all started with your body being pulled flushed against his for the sake of avoiding a rather painful injury, only to have both of your lips be mere inches away from each other as your wide eyes bore into each other. 

You never knew who kissed first. It never mattered. All you know is that you’ve been kissing in the comfort of his office ever since. Sometimes in his bed, too. He tries to convince you in riskier, less-than-appropriate spots, too—but luckily, between the two of you, one of you has a sense of proper risk calculation. 

That person would not be him.

“Would you do me the honors and make me a lucky man today, then?” He asks sweetly, blinking innocently before his arms wrap around you, pulling you from the armrest of his chair to his lap, comfortably perched for him to have easy access to your lips. 

“I’ll have to see if my schedule allows it,” you say slyly, pretending to look at his clock as you add, “I’m a busy woman, you know. They demand my time underwater and above land. Can you believe the requirements they have for me?”

“Sounds like you’re severely overworked,” he nods in faux sympathy, shaking his head as though he really feels for your predicament. You laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck as his hands firmly grip your hips.

That’s the thing about Wriothesley. It’s just so easy to be charmed.

“I am,” you murmur, leaning in.

He closes the gap as he mumbles, “I can think of a way or two to take the edge off.”

With that, your lips meet. It’s not the first time, and the Gods certainly know you hope it’s not the last. Your mouth slots against him perfectly enough that it feels like sunlight on water—warm, bright ripples of light gliding along the surface that waits for them to make their home against it. 

He brings you closer, dragging your body up his lap as he kisses you deeper, groaning lowly into your mouth as your fingers tug at the roots of his hair. You feel it between your bodies—the proof of his arousal is clear and so hard to miss that you can’t help but reach a hand between your bodies to get a better feel.

 “Already?” You grin, pressing your hand over his hard, clothed cock. He grunts, glaring at you as he stiffens in his chair at the way your hand offers limited friction to a rather delicate issue. “I’m flattered.”

“Great,” he hisses, “Why don’t you do something about it, then?”

“Here?” You gasp dramatically, “In your office? What if someone walks in?”

“No one would disrupt the Duke without knocking first, sweetheart,” he gives you a smug, self-assured wink. You snort before shaking your head, slowly climbing off of his lap before sinking between his legs onto the floor. His breath hitches—sure, you’ve taken him in your mouth before. But it’s never been here and not there. Never in his office and at his desk instead of the bedroom that's just a few feet away. 

It feels more intimate there. He almost misses that sort of atmosphere. But there’s something filthy enough about watching you unzip his pants and slowly free his cock just enough in his office that almost makes his brain short circuit too.

So beautiful, he wants to tell you. Because you are. And he thinks he will, but just as he opens his mouth, his door interrupts him with a knock, vibrating through its metal surface. You pause. He almost curses under his breath.

“Your Grace?” A voice comes from behind his door. “There are urgent matters I must report to you.”

“Not now,” he grits, fighting back a groan as you take this opportunity to throw him a sly, almost evil grin before wrapping a hand around his cock, leaning in to run your tongue along the slit and get a taste of his pre cum. “I…I’m busy.”

“But Nurse Sigewinne has insisted we tell you immediately.”

Well, fucking hell. It’s not like he can exactly ignore that—and you seem to know it, too, because you blink up at him with innocently expectant eyes. So, gritting his teeth, he gently shoves your under his desk and rolls his chair to cover himself under the open leg space where you’re cramped. 

He clears his throat. “C-come in. I’m late on documents to the Chief Justice, so it better be quick.”

You hold back a snort at his convenient excuse that happens to consist of papers he’s really in no rush to get finished at all. He fights back the urge to glare at you, instead peeking up as soon as the door to his office opens and a guard steps in. 

“You’re Grace,” he nods politely. Respectfully. A small part of Wriothesley is still not used to being addressed so…seriously. So formally. So importantly. “The head nurse would like to bring to your attention that a group of inmates have been ganging up on others. This has been the third fight this week, and the infirmary is busier than usual from flu season for her to properly handle such constant injuries.”

He’s only half listening. It’s hard to pay attention when your lips are wrapped around his cock, sucking slowly as you move your head up and down his length. Warm. Hot. Tight. Your mouth feels obscenely good—he can’t help but let out a low groan of pleasure. 

The guard flinches slightly at the sound. “I apologize for springing this on you while you’re so busy, Your Grace. The head nurse insisted I tell you as soon as possible for things to be handled properly.”

It’s clear the guard is oblivious to the way Wriothesley is hardly holding onto his thinly kept composure. Your tongue traces that heavy, thick vein along the side of his cock. You take him as far as you can, bobbing your head up and down impressively well along his length for being stuck in a tightly cramped place like under his desk. 

He grabs the edge of his desk, gritting his teeth as he lets out a sharp inhale when your hand reaches to fondle the delicate, sensitive sacs of his balls. 

“Your fault,” he hisses abruptly. 

The guard shrinks back, furrowing his brows in confusion as he stammers, “Y-your Grace?”

“I mean,” he clears his throat, barely fighting back a low moan as your swirl your tongue around his tip, “I-I mean it’s…it’s not your fault. That’s all.”

If relief was an expression, it would certainly be the cowering guard’s expression in front of him. Deciding it's time he put both of them out of their misery, Wriothesley barely grits out, “I’ll be done with this report for Monsieur Neuvillette shortly. It’s very—v-very time sensitive.”

You let out a quiet snort that only he hears at that. He nudges you warningly with his knee. 

“As…as soon as I am, I’ll drop a visit to the infirmary and have a chat with the group involved,” he continues. “J-just…fuck…just give me a few minutes.”

The guard rushes to insist a panicked, “No, no, no! No rush! Take your time, Your Grace. I’ll leave you to it—just wanted to get the message across as the head nurse wished.”

“Thank you,” he hardly manages to keep a straight face. A slight grimace of a smile is all he can offer before the guard nods and hurries out as if trying to avoid whatever wrath he thinks he’s conjuring up by being in the Duke’s office any longer than he should be. 

Wriothesley thinks that’s a habit of most guards he needs to correct: assuming that being anywhere near him is a quick to be punished sort of behavior. But for now, he’s too worried about sliding his chair backwards and letting you crawl out of his desk’s enclosure as soon at the door shuts closed and the guard is gone. 

Finally. Fucking finally. 

“You’re a piece of work,” he glares down at you, watching as you suck on his cock innocently. Your lips look so wet. So sticky. So swollen parted around him that he almost wants to pull you off for just another taste. “You know that?”

You only hum around him, the vibrations forcing his head back against the chair as he moans low and drawn-out. Freely this time that no one’s here, but still quiet enough in case anyone’s outside the door. 

One more swirl of your lips around his thick, swollen tip, and he’s limp in his chair, groaning into his hand as he tries to muffle the sounds while cums down your throat. You can feel every twitch of him, hot, thick seed painting your throat white with his release. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants, completely lost in his own world of pleasure. You watch him like that. It’s pretty. You’re a little too used to it—a little too dependent on the routine of watching his face break over the devastation of pleasure like that. 

When you pull away, making a show to swallow everything you can, he groans and rubs a hand over his face as he mutters something about trying to kill him. 

“So,” you wink with a cheeky, sly little smirk. “See you next week?”

“If I make it alive long enough,” he says tiredly. “You might kill me before that. Or these damn prisoners and their shenanigans.”

You laugh, standing and dusting yourself off before leaning down and pressing a small kiss to his lips. He tastes himself on you. Something about that makes him swell with more pride than it should. 

“You’ll be fine,” you hum softly. “I’m sure of it.”

────────────────────────

Wriothesley never earned the title of Duke—not at first, anyway.

You’ve heard the story.

He was supposed to be released from his sentence a few months ago. Except, by some stroke of bad luck, the warden at the time was nowhere to be found in his office the day of Wriothesley’s release. So, as on-brand as ever to his nonchalant, carefree attitude, Wriothesley signs the papers himself and effectively crowns himself with the title of Duke. 

He’s been running things down at the Fortress ever since. And pretty well, too—you’ve heard that things have improved rather drastically in prison for inmates. Free meals once a day. Better regulation of currency to exchange for benefits. A system of rules that keeps them in check and prevents them from behaving like dogs.

You’ve heard it all. 

But hearing everything means you hear the snide whispers, too: not everyone thinks he’s earned the title enough to keep it even if he’s done good—he’s a murderer, they gossip. We can’t have someone like that running the Fortress! That’s an outrage! Neuvillette has received enough formal complaints on the matter that you’re the product of a compromise—weekly audits done by a relatively impartial member of the Palais who doesn’t necessarily ignore his stained record but doesn’t particularly deem it as an irrefutable reason why he shouldn’t be Duke. You accept under the agreement of a slightly better paycheck for your troubles of making the trip to the Fortress and a little extra vacation time for the added paperwork to your usual responsibilities. 

Under the Palais and court rules, you take an oath to honesty and promise to offer, to the best of your abilities, the truth of what goes down in the prison and how its warden runs it. 

But, well…Wriothesley grows on you. A lot. It’s not that you ever have to lie about him—he really is a good Duke. But you like him enough that you’re starting to wonder if you could keep your honest streak if it really came down to it. You like him enough that you can’t claim anymore that the once sexually charged tension is just that: sexual. Because it’s not. It’s more complicated than that. Coming down and seeing him every week, finding your way in his sheets, getting to know him through a tangle of sweaty bodies and bantered pillow talk only makes you human. With feelings. Feelings for a man who’s more good than he’s not—you learn that pretty quickly. 

Wriothesley is a good person. Murder be damned. He did it to save people—sure, it’s a sin all the same. An extreme all in the name of justice, but it was to save people. He’s not a cold-blooded man. And he cares about the prisoners, too. That much is palpably abundant with the headaches he takes on to better the quality of life for convicted criminals.

No one believes in second chances like Wriothesley. No one has put as much work into offering people second chances like him, either. You think, despite initially earning his title or not, he’s certainly earned it by now.

So, when you watch him get pulled off of the limp body of a beaten prisoner by a handful of guards, you’re more than a little shocked by the almost feral, heartless look in his eyes as he snarls at the crumpled body on the floor in disgust. 

This is not the Wriothesley that you know. This isn’t the Wriothesley who runs the Fortress. The Wriothesley that you know doesn’t tolerate violence within his walls, and he certainly doesn’t instigate it. 

“What happened?” You ask quietly as you bandage his knuckles. It’s a deadly tone. He doesn’t answer, choosing to stare at his desk instead as he sits and lets you disinfect the broken skin. “Wriothesley.”

“He was being an asshole,” he grumbles vaguely. 

You raise a rather unimpressed brow at the juvenile response. He doesn’t seem to miss it either—even if he doesn’t meet your gaze to see it, the way he wilts a little is a hint enough that you know he’s aware. “Being an asshole,” you repeat. “That’s your sound logic for pounding someone into a bloody pulp?”

“Oh, please. He’s fine—”

“Really? He has a cracked rib, Wriothesley, for crying out loud!”

“So he’s fine,” he snorts almost bitterly. “In my time here, I’d have considered that lucky.”

“That’s exactly why you’re still here even though your time is over,” you say, the anger in your voice almost palpable as you throw your hands up and look at him in disappointment. “You’re supposed to be here making sure something like that is not the standard for luck anymore! Not upholding it.”

Wriothesley exhales sharply, his jaw tightening as he leans back in his chair, finally lifting his gaze to meet yours. He looks like a stubborn, moody teenager being scolded. You have to take a deep breath and remind yourself his teen years probably didn’t consist of a lot of patience, so you try to keep yourself calm for both of your sakes—the storm brewing in his icy eyes is far from calm.

“You just wouldn’t understand,” he says, his voice low and strained, “Things are different down here than up there.”

“Then explain it to me,” you challenge, arms crossed as you stand your ground. “Help me understand why the Duke of the Fortress of Meropide—the one who’s supposed to set an example—decided to act out like a rowdy delinquent.”

His lips press into a thin line, and for a moment, it almost looks like he’s going to lose his temper, the same temper that’s already rather thinly composed. His hand clenches into a fist in your hold, the faint wince that follows indicating the pain in his injured knuckles. “He said something,” he mutters finally, his voice barely above a growl.

“Something?” you glare, your voice doing pretty much nothing to hide the frustration that’s mounting. “Wriothesley, I’m going to need a lot more than that. You realize I have to report this, right? To Neuvillette? People already have tons to say about your position as Duke at the Palais—we’re supposed to try and change their minds! You’re telling me you threw the progress away because some asshole said something you didn’t like?”

“Yes. He said something he shouldn’t have said,” he mutters vaguely, voice low but laced with a dangerous edge. It’s almost like he’d do it all over again if it called for it. 

You pause, narrowing your eyes. “Okay, then let’s hear it. What did he say?”

His jaw tightens, and he looks away, his gaze fixed on the faint bloodstains on his knuckles. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Wriothesley.” Your tone is sharper now, more insistent. “Tell me.”

“He said something about you,” he snaps, his voice cutting through the room like one of his well-practiced uppercuts to a jaw. 

“About…me?” you frow, crinkling your brows in confusion. “What about me? Because of my job? Who cares—they’ll realize soon enough that I’m not here to harm the Fortress rather than help it. You didn’t need to—”

He clicks his teeth as his gaze drops to his legs, unable to meet your expectant gaze as his jaw works while he tries to force the words out. “Not like that. Something…disgusting. Something he had no right to even think, let alone say out loud. So yeah, I broke his rib. I could’ve broken more, but he got lucky.”

The ferocity in his tone leaves no room for doubt—he means every word, and he’d do it again if you let him. Maybe even worse without the intervention of guards dragging his body off the limp figure. You chew your bottom lip as you process what he’s telling you, the almost tangible way he’s so…so what? You stop to think. So protective? What exactly is it that he’s making you feel that has your anger washing away so fast? So respected? Perhaps he respects you enough to fight for your dignity, but that’s not quite it.

You know that. 

You know that really, at the heart of things, it’s so easy to stop being mad at him when there’s real proof that he cares. About you. Sure, you have faith in Wriothesley’s ability to be a respectable man to the ladies—you doubt he’d accept someone talking about any woman that way. But it’s clear that…well, he cares enough to take it this far because it’s not just a woman. It’s you.

You.

“Wriothesley…” you start, slow and careful. It’s like you’re approaching a cornered animal in a cage you trapped yourself. 

“I know what you’re going to say,” he interrupts, his tone softer now, almost resigned. He slumps back in his chair almost petulantly as if he’s accepted that this is a lecture he can’t avoid. “That I need to be better. That I need to think before I act. That there’s a lot riding on my behavior and all that nonsense about proving to some assholes in a chair that I deserve this title and so on. And you’re right—I know you’re right,” he sighs.

You raise a slightly shocked brow at his admission. “Oh, well—”

“But I had to, okay? So everyone knows things are different around here now. Things like that were normal before, you know? Things weren’t safe for girls like you in the Fortress, and it’s about time they changed, so yeah, I set an example. Not the best one, but it got the message across, didn’t it? I’ll take some losses, sure, but that’s okay. It’s one minor setback.”

“Yes,” you nod carefully, “And I just want you to know—”

“But…about you? It’s…it’s different when it’s you, and you know it. Hearing someone talk about you like that...” He trails off, his fists clenching again. “I couldn’t let it slide. Not you. So—”

“Thank you.” You interrupt before he can finish. You say it softly. Like you mean it. 

He pauses, reeling back. “What?”

“I said thank you,” you huff, rolling your eyes. “Don’t make me say it again, you jerk.”

“You’re not mad?” He looks at you bewildered, like you’ve grown two heads. You snort, looking at him like he’s an idiot. He huffs at just the look on your face alone.

“I’m furious,” you shake your head, “But I’m not ungrateful enough not to appreciate someone defending my honor. I’d prefer it if it was less violent next time.”

Wriothesley sits in silence for a moment after your words, the tension in his frame ebbing. “Less violent,” he repeats, a sulky, almost pouty look on his face. “I guess I’ll work on it.”

“Yes,” you nod, ��You will. So that I won’t have to lie to Monsieur Neuvillette next time.”

He blinks. “What—”

“Since an inmate attacked you, I’ll let him know you had no choice but to throw him off and crack a rib from the impact,” you shrug innocently. 

He looks at you in wonder, a small, amused smile curling on his lips as he lets out a soft, quiet snort. “I don’t know if you can crack a rib from—”

“You should be quiet and think about what you’ve done,” you hiss. “Awful behavior means you’re on time out!”

“Oh, yes,” he salutes, obediently straightening as he folds his hands together on his desk. He winces a bit at the strain it puts on his hurt hand, making you bite back a fond smile. “I’m deeply thinking about my mistakes and regretting my deplorable actions. I promise.”

“Good,” you roll your eyes. “Don’t let it happen again.”

You turn to leave, and he sinks back in his chair, sighing as he watches you go. Next week’s audit can’t come fast enough, he thinks.

────────────────────────

When he hasn’t seen you in too long, Wriothesley has dreams. Vivid ones, in fact. 

They start not too long after the shift in your fragile friendship—you’re still friends, of course. It’s not as though that part of your relationship was ever fragile. It's just that….now, you’re more than friends without actually being more. It’s a delicate sort of arrangement that can easily have someone like him wanting more. And regrettably, he wants more. That much is clear by these dreams of his—and you’re often in these dreams of his. Scandalizing dreams, if you will. 

He never really took himself for a guy who’s attracted to someone with a pristine and spotless record—if anything, all Wriothesley seems to be attracted to anymore is trouble. 

But you’re different. Not because you’re unique or anything special by any means (which, he realizes, sounds a little bit rude in his head when he really thinks about it), but that’s exactly why he likes you. You’re rather ordinary. You work your ordinary job at the Palais, go home, do what’s expected of you, and go about life simplistically. He can’t help but enjoy it because there’s this weird, odd sense of normalcy that you grant his life. 

Nothing about Wriothesley’s life is normal. Not now, not then, not ever. 

He was young as an orphan. Doomed to the fate of no family by the tender age of four. A poor, sickly father who left this world long before he left his mother’s womb and, by fate’s desire, later orphaned by a missing mother who never came home from work. By the time he’s old enough to piece together that his mother was yet another victim of the missing young women’s case in Fontaine, he’s far too past that life to properly grieve her. 

And then there’s the darker part of his past…the messy memories of blood and betrayal that he chooses not to dwell on for the sake of his own peace. It landed him on the streets for the better part of his youth and then in a dark, ruthless prison where just even a meal is a burden to acquire. 

Nothing about his life is normal. His mother was ripped away by the nation’s darkest mystery, his siblings weren’t ones he’d acquired by normal means, his “parents” were anything but standard, and his housing conditions (or lack thereof once upon a time) consisted of a large, metal cage situated at the bottom of the ocean. Even his romantic history, which he can count on one hand the instances of, have been odd, unconventional flings that he indulged in rarely because he was but a growing boy turned into a man, raging desires that make any form of relief seem like a blooming romance. 

His first girlfriend left the Fortress after finishing her sentence when he was barely an adult. She promised to write to him every day until his own release. He’d never heard from her again. His second “girlfriend” didn’t even make it far enough to earn that title at all. She was a girl, who was a friend, who sometimes when he was exceedingly lucky, wove herself into his sheets and let him have his way with her so his growing frustrations have an outlet. 

Romantic intimacy is a world beyond the skies of Teyvat for him.

So, when you wander into his life, working a standard nine-to-five job that requires nothing excessively abnormal of you, grinning at him with a happy, free smile that carries little to no burdens, he can only fight the human part of him for so long before his desires come hitting him full force. There was a time when dreaming of a wife and kids and white picket fences was well within his reality. When he dreamt of being like his father, hearing small, excited footsteps pounding against the hardwood floor to greet him at the door. When he dreamt that the mother of his children would smile just as sweetly and brightly as his own mother. 

That’s gone now, of course. Well out of his reach and far from his realm, but at the very least, you bring some rare burst of normality in his fascinatingly odd life. 

So he dreams of you. Admittedly, they’re not always the best-natured of dreams.

He wakes up sweaty and tangled in sheets as a familiar heat is already built between his legs—for quite a while, too, he surmises, because the ache is thick enough to let him know that he’s been sporting this erection for quite a bit. How—he wonders—did he end up with such a shameless problem in the middle of his rare and well-deserved rest? The answer is infuriatingly obvious, but he hates to admit it to himself. 

You. 

You’re the reason for this predicament—that raunchy, filthy dream of his from just a few moments ago, the vision in his subconsciousness of your mouth taking him, your hand stroking him, your lips kissing him. All of it lands him here with a thickly hardened cock and little to no dignity left for the pure filth he indulges himself in. 

Flaring his nostrils with a tired exhale, he decides there’s no point in dragging out his suffering any longer. What’s happened has happened. 

“Fucking hell,” he hisses as he frees his length from his boxers, tugging them down just enough to rest against his balls. Even under the protection of his blanket, he can feel cool air kiss the hot, velvety skin enough to make him twitch involuntarily. “Mmh,” he groans.

His fist takes shape around his cock. It’s different from your touch—he’s felt it enough times briefly to know that your hand is far smaller and far softer. Less wear and tear from boxing and fights, less scabs and calluses of healed skin. But he works with what he has, stroking himself slowly as he throbs in his own hand. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he all but whines to an empty room as if you’re right there with him, helping him through his glaringly obvious problem. “Fuck, it almost hurts, baby. You’ll help, right?” 

You will. You nod from the depths of his imagination in the back of his head, where you live to play out his shameful fantasies. He bites his lips and lets out a shaky breath as he imagines you leaning forward, pressing a soft, delicate kiss to the tip of his cock. 

As if in response to the phantom touch of your mouth, his cock does another little twitch. I’ll take care of you, Wrio.

No one has ever called him that—not affectionately, at least. (He refuses to let his old prison nickname born from bantering mockery count.) The nickname falling from your (imaginary) lips has him throwing his head back against his pillow as he groans deeply. 

“Don’t be a fuckin’ tease,” he demands gently. Obediently, you giggle and listen to him. “Gods,” his back arches as soon as your hand pumps his aching length, finally offering him some sort of relief as he bucks his hips up in time to meet your strokes.

Feels good, huh, baby? You hum. He nods, letting out a throaty sound in response. I can tell. It’s all over your face.

“Quit it,” he clicks his teeth petulantly. A thumb rolls through his slit teasingly, collecting pre cum and smearing it along the thick, sensitive vein along the side of his cock. “You’re…you’re such a brat, you know that?”

You like it, you hum.

“I do,” he lets out an airy, breathless chuckle of admission before the strokes get faster. And faster. He’s grunting freely now; something crossed between a moan and a gasp sounding through the small, secluded bedroom built in with his office. Luckily, it’s deep enough into the Fortress that no one could hear him if they tried—not unless they were standing right outside his bedroom door from his office.

No one has the audacity to do that, he thinks with smug satisfaction, so you don’t have to worry about how much noise he’s making. You’re the type to get stressed about things like that.

Close, Wrio?

“So close, baby,” he chokes.

Do I make you feel good?

“Better than anyone,” he confirms. 

You look so pretty like this, did you know?

“F-fuck, fuck—I…I’m gonna cum, sweetheart,” he warns.

Yeah? Then do it, pretty boy.

He does. He cums in thick, full loads of cum that have his cock twitching with every rope. Your hand is a mess, coated in his release, stroking him through his pleasure and smearing it along the heated skin. You know just what he likes—have his little quirks and preferences memorized as if you know him better than himself. You know he likes having the vein traced with your thumb, and you know that when he’s just about almost finished, giving his balls a soft squeeze makes him gasp and let out one final rope of his seed. 

By the time he’s done, slumped against his bed with boneless, tired muscles, he realizes with a sigh that the hand on his cock is not yours. It’s his.

Somewhere in the midst of his fantasies, he forgets what’s real and what’s not. Your voice in his head sounds so close, so real, so tangible, he forgets he’s talking to the empty air of his room and not you.

“Shit, sweetheart,” he groans to himself, rubbing his good hand over his face tiredly, “You’re seriously messing me up in the head. What’re you doing to me?”

────────────────────────

“What time do you need to return to the Palais by?” Is the first thing he says to you when you walk into his office. You pause, staring at Wriothesley before you blink and huff.

“Ah, yes. It’s wonderful to see you, too! I’ve been doing fantastic; it’s so kind of you to ask,” you bat your lashes with a sarcastic smile before adding, “And you? How have you been? Rather well, I’m sure.”

Wriothesley purses his lips, looking at you with a fractional amount of patience before giving you an equally as sarcastic smile and responding, “I’m doing quite well. Thank you for your generous concern. In fact, if it wouldn’t trouble you too much—because you know I’d hate to do that—I would be faring quite a lot better if you’d even more generously answer my question.”

“I don’t have to return to the Palais today,” you roll your eyes, “I go home directly after five and bring Monsieur Neuvillette your report card tomorrow morning.”

“Wonderful,” is all he says. “Perfect.”

“Why—”

You don’t know how he got up fast enough to bridge the distance between you and his desk and cut you off mid-sentence with a crash of his lips to yours, but he does. His lips are pressed to yours in a desperate kiss that has you melting against him against your will. Like he’s expecting it, his arms are there waiting, catching you to hold you upright against him as he chuckles against your mouth.

Bastard, you want to say into his lips. He’s too busy keeping them occupied to give you the chance.

“I need you,” he rasps, “Now.”

“It’s technically still my work day,” you gasp between breaths, “I’m supposed to observe—”

“Then observe me from here,” he grunts.

With that, he sweeps you into the bedroom connected to his office. You’ve been in it so many times, yet you always wonder why it still shocks you that such a convenient room is in his personal office—but you figure the Duke of a prison surely would not sleep with the rest of the prisoners. And more importantly, it’s…good for the noise to be located in such a private, secluded area.

“Been thinking about fucking you all day,” he mumbles in between kisses, his large, callused hands cradling your face as your hands tangle in his hair. 

“Then fuck me,” you challenge, making him let out a low, unimpressed sound from the back of his throat. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says lowly, trailing his lips to nip at your neck and jaw, “Trust me, I will.”

Your back meets his mattress. You don’t have the slightest concept or understanding of time—by the time you’re both bare with all your clothes tossed to the floor, you can feel a dull, building ache between your legs as a pool of slick coats your inner thighs. 

“So wet,” he grins to himself, bringing a hand between your thighs, right to the apex where he studies the leaking essence waiting for him there. “All this for me?”

“Not for long if you don’t make good use of it,” you hiss stubbornly. His gaze darkens at that, making him let out a snarled sound of displeasure before he lowers himself between your legs. 

“Careful, baby,” he warns, “You have no idea what you’re signing yourself up for.”

And you don’t. Because by the time Wriothesley’s face unburies itself from between your legs, your two orgasms and a semi-decent stream of tears smeared along your face in. He finally unlatches himself from your clit once the waves of your second high finally come down, glistening slick coating his chin and lips as he grins. 

“How was that for making good use?”

“I don’t know,” you huff. “I had something else in mind.”

Pointedly, you stare at his tall, standing and neglected cock. It’s clearly painfully hard and painfully aching for some form of relief as it twitches between his legs. 

You admire it for a moment. The nearly trimmed hair at the base—how Wriothesley supplies the necessary equipment to even trim himself downstairs in a place like a prison, you’re unsure but definitely not ungrateful. He’s always been pretty, in a ruggedly handsome way—but his cock…well his cock is pretty because it responds so well to you. To your body. To your every movement. 

You gently grab him, gently stroking a few times and humming in satisfaction as he groans and clenches his jaw while it twitches in your touch. 

“Sensitive,” you tease. 

“I could argue the same about you,” he replies smartly through a labored, breathless voice. You laugh, sweet as honey on warm bread. 

He doesn’t taste that too often in the Fortress, but he doesn’t think he’s missing out. Not with you here. 

“Come here,” you whisper. “I want you too.”

With that, you guide him slowly to your entrance. He shivers as he rubs the tip along your folds, coating himself in your wetness and swearing his own pre cum along your cunt before slowly sinking in. 

“Fuck,” you both hiss in unison. 

“Feel…feel so good,” he says hoarsely, “So fucking tight.”

With that, it’s a blur. Something you’re used to by what feels like your millionth week feeling him, but something that never feels like it’s not the first time all over again. 

He rocks his hips in a steady, perfect rhythm. You pull him close and feel his body searing against yours. Skin on skin. Heat against heat. Body melting into body. 

“Never get enough to you,” he whispers. 

“Then keep taking more of me,” you whisper back. 

“Yeah?” He chuckles, breathless. Hopelessly smitten. It’s written all over his face. You’re sure the same goes for yours. “You want that? Want me to keep taking more and more of this pretty cunt?”

“What, you’re saying you’ll get bored of me?” You pout teasingly. 

He huffs, pulling you into a deep, bruising kiss. “Never. You hear me? Never.”

Like that, you fall apart. And with that, he follows not long after. He pulls out just before he can spill into you, hand moving to pump himself until yours beats him to it, wrapping around his girth and stroking the way you know he likes it. With his vein traced. With a fast pace but not too fast. With everything he needs to feel seen and known because that’s what you do best. 

See him. Know him. Treat him like he matters. 

“Gods,” he says shakily as he finishes. “I needed that. Needed you.”

“You always have me,” you remind him softly. “Always.”

He grins. Kisses you softly—ike you’re a fragile, blooming lakelight lily. He’s gone momentarily to grab a warm, wet towel to clean you off before he’s sinking into the bed beside you, turning to look at you as he takes in your curled up figure under his sheets. 

He could get used to this. More than just once a week. 

“It’s the twenty-third,” you whisper quietly, like it’s a secret. 

Huh, he thinks. It doesn’t register what day it is until you bring the date to his attention—he didn’t even realize today’s date. Not that this date ever matters enough to make his day any different from the rest of the days of the year. But typically, he at least remembers when it passes by. 

It’s the first time it’s slipped his mind completely. 

“It is,” he agrees, looking at you with a slightly confused look. “Any reason why that’s relevant?”

“It’s your birthday,” you look at him incredulously, lifting your head off of the pillow to get a better look at him. 

He lays quietly beside you, still slowly catching his breath. He doesn’t answer at first—just pulls the sheets over both of your bare bodies as he curls an arm around you and pulls you close. You used to never take Wriothesley for the cuddling type. You used to never take him for the affection type, in general. 

Maybe, you like to think, maybe even people like Wriothesley aren’t above enjoying something soft. It’s a comforting thought. It’s nice to know that even someone so strong and immovable like him craves some sort of bond with another human. Some tangible form of safety and kindness. Some form of proof that people can be—and are—good enough to trust, good enough to lie beside and slowly lose consciousness around.

“And who told you that?” He quirks up a half amused, half shocked brow, voice low and smooth enough that you almost think you could go another round just from the sound of him.

You don’t tell him that, of course. The Gods know he doesn’t need any more reasons to be smug. 

“I read the files,” you answer with a wave of your hand, trying to dismiss him. “I like to know who I work with.”

“Yeah?” He snorts, “That so?”

You don’t really have to answer him. You shouldn’t let him win—but something about that wolfish grin and that cocky glint in his eyes tells you he already knows more than you’d like. They have you huffing as you quietly mumble out, “Okay. I asked Sigewinne when it was. You’re awfully ungrateful about the fact that I cared enough to ask.”

“Your benevolence graciously exceeds my expectations every time,” he chuckles. 

“Well,” you raise a brow expectantly, “Are you going to do something to celebrate?”

He shakes his head. It’s too instant for your liking—and he seems to notice that, too, because he takes one look at your frown and shrugs, “My birthday’s not that important to me. I’ve never really celebrated it much.”

“What?” You ask incredulously. You think you’re being a touch dramatic—you seem more hurt about this than him, but you can’t help yourself. “What do you mean? Birthdays are the one important day we get.”

Wriothesley lets out a soft breath, his chest rising and falling steadily against you as he looks up at the ceiling. There’s a flicker of something in his expression—something fleeting and hard to name. It’s not quite pain, but it’s close enough that you can feel it in the way his body tenses beneath your touch.

“They weren’t important growing up,” he says finally, his voice quieter now, rough around the edges. “And now I’m too old for it, anyway.”

He keeps the answer pointedly vague, like he’s avoiding the truth on purpose. You don’t mind. Not so much when it’s him, not so much when something heavy and unresolved that he doesn’t elaborate on is clearly there. You don’t like to push him—not yet. Maybe not ever. He deserves patience and compassion for once, you think—someone who puts his feelings first so he knows that his feelings aren’t at the bottom of some tiered list of relevancy that he somehow always ends up on the bottom of.

Instead, you shift closer, laying a hand against his chest and feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips.

“Not even when you were a kid?” you ask softly, careful not to sound too intrusive.

His lips press into a thin line, and for a moment, you think he’s going to brush you off. That maybe he’ll throw you off his scent with some annoyingly smooth-talking joke and change the subject. You’re prepared for it—for the disappointment of being pushed away and not let in. You’re prepared for anything because it’s him, and you don’t mind when it’s him. But then, his hand moves, his fingers idly tracing along your arm as he speaks again, his voice low and resigned.

“I did celebrate. Briefly. We’d get a party every year, my siblings and I.” He pauses, his jaw tightening briefly. “And there would be people. I thought they were friends…you know? Friends my parents would invite over to celebrate with us. When I got older, I realized the truth. Those parties were just another excuse to show us off. To market us easier.”

Your heart clenches at the bitterness in his tone. You don’t need to ask what he means—you’ve heard the rumors about his past, heard the whispers about how the Duke of Meropide is a killer. Cold-blooded and ruthless as he watched the life drain from his own parents’ eyes without a single regret. Didn’t even hesitate to plead guilty and admit to his crimes.

You read the files in Neuvillette’s office before he first sent you down. Something about reading his testimony made you feel helpless—like there’s still a child stuck in an awful predicament with no way out instead of a now grown man who’s well on his way to being a rather significantly important figure in Fontaine. 

“—And after that,” he continues, his voice almost a whisper now as it breaks you from your thoughts, “I was stuck down here. Not many birthday festivities you can do down in the ocean alone, so I didn’t see the point. A birthday’s just a day. Another reminder of…everything I’d rather not think about if I can help it.”

“Wriothesley,” you start gently, lifting your head to look at him. He meets your gaze, his eyes darker than usual, guarded but not completely shut off. He doesn’t like being comforted—doesn’t like the idea of his emotions being in someone else’s domain to handle. It leaves him open to worse wounds. But you ignore the way his jaw tenses, cupping his cheek as you hum, “It’s not just a day or some reminder of them. It’s about you if you make it about you. And you’re not a sick marketing scheme. You’re…”

You trail off. Not because you don’t know all the things he is: cunning, resourceful, selfless, incredibly smart. But because you don’t know which one to start with. Like choosing one first means it’s the most important one—you can’t bring yourself to define him as one thing more than the others.

“Devilishly handsome?” he cuts in with a faint smirk, the tension in his face easing just a little as he pushes your buttons. “You seem stuck there, so let’s start with that.” You roll your eyes, but the warmth in your smile is impossible to ignore as you let his good-natured jab slide. 

“Yes, that’s one way to describe you, I suppose. But you’re also just…good.” You settle on that word because he is. He’s good, and he makes things good. He makes life feel okay and the day a little better. Like your own piece of good from the world to have for yourself. “And you deserve to have something good. Something that’s just for you.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you, his expression unreadable but soft in a way that makes your heart beat with a painful ache. Then, he leans in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead.

“Maybe,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice low and almost tender. “Maybe next year, I’ll let you change my mind.”

“Next year? Surely, if you mean I’ll be around for that long, then this is your way of asking me out?” Your lip twitches at the corners, hopeful. You force it down to a neutral look before faking a yawn and saying, “What an underwhelming way of asking.”

He raises an amused brow. Still, there’s something dangerously cautious about his expression as he looks at you. Like he’s guarding himself from possible disappointment. “You’re saying you’d say yes if I asked nicely?”

“Depends. Are you asking?” You ask softly. 

He lets out a shaky breath, studying your features and avoiding your eyes as he brings his gaze along your nose and lips and the slight sweatiness of your skin from your earlier activities. “If I’m asking, is that a yes?”

“Yes,” you say breathlessly.

“Then yeah,”  he stares at the ceiling, voice quiet. Hopeful. A rare moment that he lets himself try to be happy without worrying the world will fuck it up for him. You’ll handle it if it tries, he thinks—you always do. “Maybe next year, you’ll change my mind.”

“Not maybe,” you insist. It’s firm enough that he believes you. “I will change your mind.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

“Happy birthday, Wrio.”

“Thanks,” he grins, “Same time next year?”

“Same time next year,” you laugh, nodding in confirmation. He doesn’t tell you that you’ve already changed his mind. Maybe he’ll even tell you next birthday that you haven’t managed to—just to have an excuse to keep you around one more year.

But something tells him you’ll stay even without such a ploy. 

This fic was genuinely such a struggle for me to write. I’m not sure why. I suppose because it doesn’t have a real conflict to guide me in a sense—I wanted it to be mainly happy and just a small sort of timeline of them having each other but still finding each other. If that makes sense. Idk if it does LOL. The main focus was just making his bday happy. Hopefully I achieved that but ANYWAY!! If you made it this far, thank you so much for reading!! Kissing you on the forehead <3

[kwondotcom]

(1) i reference almond by won-pyung sohn as the book that minghao is reading. in the english translation, one of my favorite lines is "anything will lose its meaning if you repeat it often enough. at fisrt you feel you are getting the hang of it, but then as time goes by, you feel like the meaning's changing and becoming tarnished. then, finally, it gets lost. completely fades to white. love, love, love, love, love, lo, ve, looo, veee, love, lovelo, -velo, -velo."

i think that perfectly encapsulates a conflict that minghao goes through in the fic. how often can we say a word before it loses its meaning? how generous should we allow ourselves to be when it comes to the truth?

(2) i think i'm a better poet than i am a writer (lol), so one of my habits is referencing beginnings in the endings. this is one such parallel: how minghao learns about the 'gut feeling' from reader, only to subscribe to it when it matters the most.

(3) language as a time capsule, as a chronicle of one's self, is a recurring theme throughout the work. to minghao, mandarin is the sound of a home that he doesn't get to go back to as often; it's his mother's singing, his childhood friends' games. and to you, who knows several languages, korean sounds a lot like coming home. it's the simple language of your past. before you became a translator. before you had to make a living out of words.

(4) more parallels! :) from minghao thinking it's too much, to so much yet not enough. it's a subtle acknowledgement of his feelings taking a turn for something more romantic.

(5) i've joked that this is an origin story for @xinganhao, except it's not really a joke (lol). this fic came to fruition before i made my sideblog. i couldn't figure out a username, and so i just mindlessly jammed out xinganhao, and, bam. the rest is history. so, quite literally, my sideblog is 'darling, hao.' [xīngān is pronounced shin-gahn!]

(6) when i first wrote the movie-watching scene, i expressly named dìdi as the the film they watched. i eventually culled it in favor of being more vague about the movie, since i couldn't bear the story going on for longer. i'd chosen the film for its logline: "in 2008, during the last month of summer before high school begins, an impressionable 13-year-old taiwanese american boy learns what his family can't teach him: how to skate, how to flirt, and how to love his mum."

(7) i remain a firm believer that minghao is not only soulmates coded, but red string of fate coded. honestly, it's the underlying thread (badum-ts) trying my minghao birthday series together. it's explicitly mentioned in haven't we met?, but pervades in the sense that no matter the universe that minghao is set in, there is a string of fate and love tying him into place.

(8) translator!reader's sentiment about soulmates is a ripoff from my favorite series of all time, the good place. i have minghao echo it in the end for another 'full circle' moment.

(9) a small, almost inconsequential part, but i really loved getting to write this. the two faces of the same coin, the sentiment and the language, in the languages that each of you know.

(10) i'd written the story mostly in order— about 85% of it is done that way— but it's worth noting that the japan bathroom 'fight' scene is the last part i wrote. i couldn't figure out a proper argument for them to get in, because the original argument involved minghao getting a little too handsy with the reader. it felt out of character and i'm glad to have written it out. i still feel like the bathroom scene is one of the weaker scenes in the entire piece, especially as the 'conflict' takes place in vague, overlapping conversation, but i needed some sort of catalyst for the scene that follows.

(11) no real^TM notes on this except that i love yearning...! lmao. the "you said it was pretty, but i was looking at you instead" trope is the oldest cliche in the book. unfortunately, i eat it up every! single! time!

(12) the phone call scene is one of my favorites, if only because there's a lot of interesting dynamics there about the push-and-pull of language. reader choosing to stick to korean because of medical jargon/minghao's moment of wanting to tell you to just use mandarin/reader's switch to mandarin when she senses minghao's mounting panic. i feel like it's the part that encapsulates the fic the most. in it, there's also the line i eventually lead with in the intro. being good to you is the easy part. again, it's minghao in a nutshell. the idea that— despite later insistence, in the confession scene— minghao will 'do all the work', he still thinks it's effortless. treating you well. loving you.

(13) the tooth-rotting fluff in the hospital scene genuinely makes me want to tear my hear out. personally, i latch on to this one little line, as well as this part: "he laughs under his breath because he's not sure what to do about his feelings anymore. maybe it's best to just throw himself off the cliff and see what happens, right?"

(14) again, no notes, except for that i truly wanted to do something in ode of minghao since this is a birthday fic. i've always loved his name (the etymologies of names, in general), and so being able to squeeze it in here felt apt. notably, there's at least three distinct sky scenes in the fic. the stars in japan, the cliffside sunset, and the ending with the moon. in japan, minghao has his revelation; on the cliffside, he's given something he can hold to. the beach scene, under the moon, is where he finally confesses.

(15) "of course i'm going to try again tomorrow," he whispers, and he'll do that for the rest of his life if he has to. is probably my favorite line in the entire fic. it's difficult to explain, but it goes much deeper than just a confession of feelings. it speaks a lot about minghao as a character, as a person, from someone who worked hard to get to each tomorrow, someone steadfast and resilient. it's also just a nice sentiment, [fan]fiction or not. the idea that, no matter what it is, there is only really one thing we can do for the rest of our lives: try again, and again, and again, for all the tomorrows that we have.

lost in translation ♾️ minghao x reader.

“being good to you is the easy part.” # day eight of (the)8 days of minghao. ♡ happy birthday, minghao!

☆ includes: translator/interpreter!reader, idiots in love, yearning!!!, hurt/comfort, confessions. alcohol consumption, reader gets a [minor] surgery. mandarin & other languages are all courtesy of google translate. word count: 25,800+ (damn.)

Minghao learned early on that there were words that didn’t always have a translation.

He had grown up with Shenyang Mandarin, only to have to learn Korean, English, and even some Japanese. It was always such a frustrating feeling, to have the Mandarin word at the tip of his tongue then to need to swallow it or substitute it.

He’s never felt that way with you, at least.

You, PLEDIS’ skilled, multilingual interpreter-slash-translator. Minghao remembers the day you came in, nine years ago. How he had felt a spark of hope when you slid into the dialect that was all-too familiar to him. Finally, Minghao had thought.

He had started off as your pupil, your tutee for Korean. Over time, it blossomed into genuine friendship. He can count on one hand the things that he has in Korea. The group. The fans. The other Chinese idols. And you.

It’s comfortable and easy with you. It’s always been. It’s why Minghao is fine with seeking you out at the company, with sliding into the seat next to you even though you’re working on something on your laptop. Checking subtitles for a SEVENTEEN video, it seems.

He waits until you’ve noticed him before he holds out the book he had been reading. It's a Korean novel. Almond by Sohn Wonpyung. He points to a particular phrase— 눈치가 빠르다— before speaking, but the words aren’t in Korean.

“Is there a Mandarin word for this?” he asks in Mandarin, his voice taking on the lower pitch of the dialect. His eyebrows knit together in a look of utter concentration. “Or is this one of those untranslatables?”

You pull out your earphones, a mild look of amusement on your face at Minghao’s sudden appearance. When you realize what he’s asking of you, a small huff of laughter escapes, but you concede to looking at the book in his hands. You say the phrase under your breath, as if testing it out. 

“It’s not untranslatable,” you say, sliding right into Mandarin to match Minghao. “The literal translation is observant or perceptive. But in Korean contexts, it’s meant to describe— I suppose, comprehension that something is going on with a friend, or a family member. Like, ah—”

You pause. And then you code switch, again, this time, to English. “A gut feeling?”

“Ah.”

Minghao’s expression clears as comprehension filters across his face, his mouth forming that little ‘o’ shape as he repeats the phrase as well. “A gut feeling... okay, like intuition.”

He pulls his legs up on to the chair, resting his chin on his knee. “Do you think it's something that is universal? A gut feeling. Is there a word for that in Mandarin?”

You’re far too used to Minghao getting philosophical, to him pressing for more than the first answer. “Gut feeling in Mandarin... zhíjué?” you offer. 

“Zhíjué,” Minghao repeats quietly, mulling the word over. There’s something satisfying and soothing about rolling the syllables on his tongue, the way he does it. The way they come from the back of his throat— a language that's as intimate as his mother's lullabies when he was a child.

He lets the word rest in his mouth for a while— zhíjué, gut feeling— before he looks back at you, his chin tilting forward in a nod. He gives you a little smile, appreciative.

"Mhm," he says. "That’s close enough."

You chuckle before slipping right back into Korean. It’s a dizzying back-and-forth between at most three languages, at any given time. The two of you have been called out for it, but Minghao secretly enjoys the challenge. 

"I’ve been meaning to check that out from my neighborhood's library," you note as you tap at the spine of Minghao's copy of Almond. He privately marvels at how your voice sounds more mellifluous in your first language, almost missing the question you pose. “How are you liking it so far?”

He looks down at the book in his lap, thumbing through the pages idly. “It’s good,” he answers simply. There’s a pause, but it's not quite awkward. It's something else... an afterthought. The next words are quieter than the last. “A bit sad.”

“That’s what most reviewers have said about it,” you muse, leaning back against your chair to stretch your legs underneath you. “Maybe I’ll finally pick it up this weekend.”

Minghao doesn’t look at you directly when you start to stretch out, when your shoulders roll forward. Instead the focus of his eyes is on the book on his lap, but his mind is most definitely not on the words on the pages.

When you mention picking it up that weekend, he nods in silent agreement, the movement a bit stiff. And then, in that same beat: “Have you gone to the doctor about your back pain?”

The question is quiet but pointed, with just a hint of concern to his voice. He spots all the tells of you preparing to lie to him— the tick in your jaw, your tongue peeking out between your clenched teeth. “Of course I have,” you lie smoothly. “It’s just your regular back pains that come with sitting in a chair a lot.”

“Hm.”

Even this late in the game, you still thought you could lie to Minghao. And maybe you could, and he would let it slide, in favor of being considerate and polite.

But only for a bit, because he knows you haven't seen a doctor about the back pain that started recently. Knows that you’re being a hypocrite, always asking him to take care of himself when you aren’t even doing the same for yourself.

He’s not entirely surprised, admittedly. You’ve always been so focused on your work and on taking care of others that it was sometimes hard to think that you focused on yourself. Not that Minghao is one to talk, when it comes to taking time for his own health. But this was you.

He sighs, just barely, before he reaches over to nudge you on the shoulder, like he would do with Jun or Soonyoung or any of the other members. “Liar.”

A sound between a huff and a laugh escapes you, but then you raise your palms in a show of surrender. 

“I haven't really had the time to go to the doctor,” you admit sheepishly. “There’s been a lot of content to translate. And I’ve been preparing for the group's Japan showcase next week.”

Minghao knows you well enough to know that you'd probably work yourself till you dropped, if you had the chance. The thought makes him want to roll his eyes.

“Mm,” he responds, his eyes narrowing as he crosses his arms across his chest. “You can stop working for ten minutes to go to a clinic. You have enough money. And even if you don’t, I could—”

He cuts himself off, biting the inside of his cheek. The words nearly slipped.

— take you to one, he had meant to say. 

The offer is on the tip of his tongue; the thought of you walking around with such bad back pain that you could barely walk without hobbling having pissed him off. Some part of him, some tiny selfish part, is holding him back from saying anything.

Maybe he just wants to see what you do. If you’ll finally do something about it, if only because he’s asked you to care for yourself for once.

There’s a flicker of surprise on your expression, though it's quickly smoothed out by something more akin to affection. Minghao had always been the thoughtful kind. It had taken some time for him to warm up to you, but around three or so years into your friendship, you’d started becoming a recipient to his quiet care and compassion.

“I’ll get a proper checkup once the Japan showcase is over,” you finally concede, if only to put his mind at ease. “The whole thing. A CT scan and all that.”

Minghao let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding out in silent relief, his shoulders dropping. When you promise that you'll go for a checkup when the Japan showcase is over, part of him wants to say I don’t believe you or I’m coming with you or even I’ll take you there myself.

But he decides to keep his mouth shut. There's no point in arguing, unless he wants to give you even more of a headache. He huffs with faux annoyance. "I’ll hold you to that," he tells you.

Minghao’s little show of annoyance does little to unnerve you, especially when you know it’s just that. A show. You shake your head with amusement before glancing at the table in front of you, where your laptop rests, forgotten. 

“I still have to finish this, though,” you say almost ruefully to Minghao, tilting your head slightly as you look back at him. “Do you have any other schedules for the rest of the day?”

“I don’t,” he says. “We have a free day today. My only plans were to bother you.”

Minghao’s definition of bothering was a lot different from, say, what Mingyu or Jeonghan would call being a bother. No, for Minghao, bothering you entailed simply being in your space— mostly in silence.

“Knock yourself out, then,” you say with a slight wave of your hand, essentially giving Minghao the carte blanche to stick around, maybe read, as you finish off your work. “I'll probably be done in half an hour. Let's grab something to eat after?”

“Thirty minutes,” he agrees. “And I get to pick the place.”

For the next half hour, Minghao makes an effort to not bother you in the way most of the other members would. No unnecessary comments, no sudden pokes with a pen or a random finger tapping at your shoulder.

He simply sits there, legs crossed out in front of him, one hand flicking through the pages of the book he was reading earlier, the other hand on his knee. Every so often, he glances up, just a brief glance to check if you’re still swamped with work.

It’s hard for anybody, even the most unobservant of people, to miss the sight of the two of you  sharing the couch in the company lounge. Two such different people— you, with your cool temperament and soft features, and Minghao, with his sharp eyes and his sharper tongue.

And yet, the sight of the two of you is more familiar than anything else. Anyone who’s been around the company long enough has seen the two of you sitting almost shoulder to shoulder. Quiet. Serene. At utter peace with each other's company.

There are others who want to interrupt, but the intensity of Minghao’s gaze as he glances up briefly is enough to discourage them. It’s a silent challenge and a promise that they better not disturb the two of you.

By the end of the thirty minutes, you’re nearly done with the video subtitles, and Minghao is about five or so pages from finishing his book. The book has been set aside on the table by then, his gaze now focusing on your work, rather than the story in his hands.

You hammer out the last of your subtitles with a mumble of “I’m done, I’m done.” 

You shut your laptop with a slight snap, groaning slightly as you sink back against the back of the couch. “That was rough,” you huff as you press the heels of your hands to your eyes. “My French is getting rusty.”

“You say that about every language,” he points out. He watches you for a moment more before he reaches over, fingers wrapping around one of your wrists to tug at your arm. “Come here.”

This wasn’t the first time he’d used touch to get your attention. Minghao wasn’t the most outwardly tactile, but he had his moments. Touch was an easy, unspoken thing; it required no language, it spoke volumes.

This was one of those rare, intimate, moments of his. The moments where he let his guard down, the walls around him falling away. He tugs again, pulling you a little closer to him.

“Come here,” he says again. The word comes out in Mandarin, his fingers gently squeezing around your wrist, his other hand going to your hip to encourage you to lean in.

“So demanding,” you huff in the same language. 

You’re complaining, but there isn’t any bite or any real annoyance in your tone. If you were really bothered, you’d pull your arm away and snap at him in Korean. Instead, you go along with what he’s doing, allowing him to pull you closer, even as you continue to grumble under your breath in Mandarin.

You give too much, he thinks silently, as his hand moves up from your hip to gently press your head into his shoulder, his arm wrapping around your waist instead. You let me have too much.

It’s a compromising position, especially in the company lounge. No other idol would be caught dead cozying up to a staff member like this, but Minghao was just a little bit above it all and HR had long since given up on lecturing you both about propriety.

Your hand absentmindedly rests over his knee, the platonic touch hidden underneath the table. You stick to Mandarin as you hum “This is nice.”

Minghao can’t help but agree with your words, his eyes fluttering close as he rests his cheek on the top of your head. Even with a company full of people around you and a door that anyone could walk through at any second, the two of you are tucked away in your own little world. He hums in response to your words, his own hand moving slightly to lace his fingers through yours.

Despite the fatigue weighing down on you both, the two of you stay like that, tangled together on the couch in a way that's more akin to a couple than just friends.

Eventually, the silence and stillness between you two is broken by a gentle knock on the wood.

Minghao’s eyes flutter open; he lifts his head up slightly to glance towards the door. “It’s open,” he says, his voice not betraying that you’re tucked into his side or that his hand is tangled with yours.

The door creaks open a crack, and Jeonghan peeks in. His eyebrows shoot up slightly. His mouth opens and closes, as if to say something, but you can see a knowing look pass across his face.

“Ah,” he says, and it almost sounds like he’s laughing.

You code switch to Korean, unsurprisingly. “Jeonghan,” you greet, raising your free hand to wave at the older boy. You make no real effort to disentangle from Minghao. If anything, the fact that it's just one of his members makes it easier for you to just relax a bit more. "Hao kept me company while I was working."

"I can see that," Jeonghan says with no shortage of amusement. He steps into the room, decisively closing the lounge door behind him. "I figured he'd be here."

Jeonghan takes a few steps closer to the couch before he halts, just a few steps away, his legs slightly apart and his arms folded over his chest. He looks between the two of you, his gaze drifting meaningfully from the arm wrapped around your waist, to the fingers still entwined with Minghao's.

“He's good at keeping company,” Jeonghan agrees, his head slightly tilted.

“Shut it,” Minghao grumbles in response, irritation obvious in his voice.

He doesn’t move his head or his arm wrapped around your waist. Instead, he raises his other hand— the one that’s still holding your hand— to give Jeonghan a gesture that clearly means for him to go away.

Jeonghan just laughs in response to the gesture, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “What, are you two lovebirds too busy for me?” he says, his tone deliberately saccharine. “I just wanted to tell you that the boys scheduled a game night later.”

Minghao glances down at the watch on his wrist, before looking back at the two of you. “What time?” he grumbles to Jeonghan, visibly displeased at the thought of having to disentangle from you. 

“In about an hour,” Jeonghan sing-songs. 

“Don’t be late,” he adds cheerfully, before promptly turning around and leaving the room.

“There goes our dinner plans,” you deadpan to Minghao once Jeonghan has left, although you don’t really sound upset about it. It’s more of a statement of a fact.

“Guess so,” he responds, his chin still resting on top of your head. Your hair is soft, and his fingers absently brush against the strands.

There’s a beat of stillness between the two of you, before he speaks again. “Sorry,” he murmurs, the word quiet and soft. He knows you’d probably been hoping to eat before going back to subtitles.

“No apologies necessary,” you say easily, because this was just sometimes the reality of our friendship. You always had a dozen other things pulling at you in different directions, and so a couple of stolen hours was always a welcome reprieve.

You give Minghao's hand a gentle squeeze. “Let's stay like this for— five more minutes,” you bargain, a slight smile tugging at your lips as you stare ahead. “And then we can pack up.”

“Five more minutes?” Minghao repeats, his voice low. He thinks over your words for a moment, before he lets out a soft sigh, his hand tightening around yours. “Okay.” 

There aren’t many moments when he isn't in control, or when he lets his guard down. But this— with you, with your soft hair and comfortable warmth, is something he can’t resist. He lets his chin rest on top of your head, the weight of his head resting against you. He closes his eyes, and simply lets himself breathe.

The minutes pass by in comfortable silence, the two of you still tangled together on the couch. For those few moments, Minghao has nothing to worry about and nothing to think about. He has no choreography to practice, no schedule to keep. 

Five minutes spin into seven, then ten. Neither of you are keen to pull away. At the fifteen-minute mark, you finally do try. “We’ve had more than five minutes,” you say against Minghao’s shoulder.

Minghao’s arm tightens around your waist, his fingers curling around your hip in a silent bid to keep you in place. He can feel the reluctance in your tone, the hesitation, and that’s what spurs him to be a little selfish.

He lets out a soft breath, his words a low, reluctant mumble. “Just... one more minute.”

“We have to go, xīngān,” you mutter absentmindedly.

It’s unfair, the way a single word in Mandarin sounds perfect in your voice. He doesn’t know if you’re even aware that you just called him darling— maybe it was a lapse in the switch to Mandarin, maybe it was intentional.

Either way, it doesn’t take more than a single moment for his heart to skip a beat, the sound of the word making something flutter and stir in his chest. His fingers involuntarily tighten around your hip.

“Okay,” he responds, his own voice coming out quieter than usual.

He does let go of you afterwards, the loss of your body heat making his hand feel a little cold. The couch feels noticeably larger and cooler without your side pressed against his, and he already misses the weight of your head against his shoulder.

Minghao tries very hard to look collected as he stands up from the couch, his face almost carefully neutral. His lips quirk up into the ghost of a smile before he offers you a hand to help you up as well.

He holds your hand a little longer than is necessary before letting go slowly. Silence drifts over the two of you as you make your way to the door, and for once, Minghao isn’t quite sure what to say. All he can think about is the single word you’d used— xīngān, in that warm tone of yours.

It’s an endearment he’s heard from friends, family, and fans. It’s a simple, innocent term. The only thing that makes it strange is that he’d never heard you use it for him until now.

He clears his throat, trying— and failing— to keep the quiet waver out of his voice. “Hey,” he says, the word falling from his lips a little more softly than he'd intended.

He pauses for a beat, as you turn to look at him questioningly. He doesn't know how to voice what he wants to say, so he opts to keep things as simple as possible.

“You called me xīngān,” he says point blank. 

For a moment, the silence drags on as you keep walking. "Xīngān," you repeat a little dumbly, your eyebrows furrowed as you try to remember how the word translates in. When it seems to dawn on you, you stop dead in your tracks. 

You’re speaking in Korean when you frantically wave your hands in front of you, your eyes slightly wider than before. “I’m sorry,” you say, panicked. “I think I was aiming for yīngjùn de. You know, ‘handsome.’ I don’t know why I called you—”

Minghao's shoulders nearly slump in disappointment. It’s a stupid, pointless feeling. It’s just a word, and a common endearment, at that— and yet he’s disappointed to learn that you were trying to say something else.

He gives a little scoff, not bothering to keep the petulance out of his voice. “Oh,” he responds, his hand lifting to rub absently at the back of his neck. “Damn.”

“Did you— like being called xīngān?” you ask, and then you try for the term in your smooth, easy Korean. “Yeobo?”

Minghao hesitates, the slightest hitch in his breath as you repeat the word in Korean.

The truth is a stupid, pointless one. The truth is that his heart almost jumped into his throat the moment he heard that single word, those two syllables. The truth is that he did like being called that. He liked being called darling. He liked it a lot, to be quite honest.

He gives an aborted nod, his gaze falling away from your face. “Maybe. A little.”

“In Korean or in Mandarin?” you prod. 

“Do you prefer yeobo,” you start, the Korean term rolling easily off your tongue. “Or xīngān?”

Your Mandarin version is a little more hesitant, more reserved, but just a touch more sweeter.

Both, Minghao nearly blurts out, before he stops himself. He doesn't know which one it is he likes more— the sweet, gentle lilt of the Mandarin, or the smooth, almost-familiar Korean. All he knows is that the sound of being called ‘darling’ in your voice, in any language, makes something in his chest flutter and tighten.

He hesitates, but again— there's no point in being coy about it, is there? 

“Both,” he answers softly, his eyes lifting up to meet yours.

“Darling,” you test out— this time not in Mandarin or Korean, but in English. It's heavily accented and clumsy, but the sentiment is still the same. Minghao sucks in a breath, his heart skipping another beat. It's stupid, he’s stupid, but—

He likes how you sound, speaking English. He likes the way your words soften and drag, the way your tongue wraps around the syllables, the gentle flow of your sentences. It’s all so stupid, and yet his heart can't help but skip another beat as he listens to you speak.

The corners of his mouth lift slightly. “I like that one too,” he responds.

“In any language, huh?” you tease lightly, a light pink dusting your cheeks. The two of you begin to walk, again, because you do have places to be.

In an absentminded way, you begin to mumble the ways you know ‘darling’ is translated in other languages.

Spanish. Cariño. Portuguese. Querido. Italian. Tesoro. French. Chérie. German. Liebling.

If nothing else, Minghao has to admit that watching your cheeks flush— and hearing you speak all these other languages— is very distracting.

He’s still busy mentally storing away this new, intriguing tidbit of information that he's learned about himself, but he still can't help his mind from wandering at the sound of other languages falling from your lips. A few of them are familiar, having seen or heard them before, but some of them are entirely new.

Minghao can’t help his mind from dwelling on how good they sound when you say them.

"Wait— what about Arabic?" he asks, cutting into your little list.

It’s the only one he can think of. He just wanted to hear you say this one, too.

“I haven’t touched Arabic in ages,” you mutter distractedly. Minghao can’t help but silently laugh as he watches your facial expressions flicker in a series of micro-emotions, each one slightly different from the other. Frustration, confusion, a pinch of annoyance— and all of it over this little thing.

“I think it's maḥbūb,” you answer after a full moment's pause. Your nose scrunches up in mild frustration; the endearment accented in the language you don’t use often.

His laugh turns into a little scoff, before he finally just lets the laugh roll right out of his lungs. “You’re cute when you’re frustrated,” he tells you fondly, the words falling from his mouth before he can help himself.

Shit.

He'd planned on saying that, but not so— casually. So off-handedly, without a thought to the meaning behind the sentiment. It’s a little much, and yet he can't take the words back now that they’re out there. Thankfully, you take it in stride. 

“And you’re cute for liking to be called darling,” you tease right back.

The words hit Minghao square in the chest like one of your punches. He’s glad you’re a few paces ahead of him so you can’t see the way his mouth parts slightly, the way he nearly stumbles. He’s thankful for the few beats of silence before you pipe up once more.

“I think I’ll stick to xīngān,” you commit.

And just like that, he’s breathless again.

He’s a sucker for that term, the way it rolls off your tongue. The way you choose it, like it's the easiest, most obvious choice in the world. “Xīngān,” he finds himself echoing, his voice softer, breathier than he’d meant it to be.

The sound of it leaves a warm, pleasant feeling in his chest. He likes the safety of the word, the way it makes something in his chest flutter. He can’t help the slight smile from tugging at his lip.

“I like the way you say it,” he admits, no longer bothering to keep up the charade of nonchalance.

“I’ll say it more, then,” you muse.

Minghao isn’t even fully convinced that you realize that this is flirting. He’d always gotten that feeling, that you don't always notice when something turns into that sort of casual teasing. He knows you can flirt; he’s witnessed some of your flirtations personally and he’s heard plenty of stories from the others.

But this sort of thing— this banter, the way you tease him with a casual sweetness in your voice— it’s new flirting territory. It’s something he's never experienced in your presence.

He follows you silently to the doors of the company, his heart pounding in his chest. The two of you walk side-by-side, your hips and shoulders nearly brushing with every two steps.

Neither of you bother to slow down as you near your inevitable separation. There isn’t a point, after all. Why draw out the goodbyes?

Before he loses the confidence, Minghao reaches out to snag your wrist. He can only hope that you’re less oblivious than he’s afraid you are. 

“Hey,” he calls you back, his voice just a touch breathless. “You free this weekend?”

You tilt your head to one side, only momentarily thrown off. It wasn’t unnatural for you to meet with the boys when they didn’t have a schedule. Sometimes, it was a language lesson; other times, it was a spontaneous hangout. It was always discreet, never anything to really read in to.

You and Minghao have had your fair share of escapades. Chinese takeout on the floor of your apartment, trips to a local library. They’re few and far between, but always welcome.

“I’m free Saturday evening. I have to work in the morning, and I have a family thing on Sunday,” you answer. “What’s up?”

Minghao feels the slight tension in his shoulders loosen at your answer. It’s not a no, not when it comes with a little extra clarification, as though you had been expecting something of a meetup anyway.

He drops the grip on your wrist, his fingers loosening just enough that you can pull away if you want. “Do you want to—” he starts, the words catching in his throat. Is it just him, or is the hallway warm? “Do you want to go to the movies?”

“The movies? Sure. What did you want to watch?" you inquire, your head tilting further as your curiosity is piqued.

The overhead lights catch the soft, sharp lines of your face, illuminating the features that Minghao knows like the back of his hand. The gentle tilt of your chin, the way you’re slightly shorter than he was, the way your hair frames your face in a messy but unfussy way— as though you didn’t try, but the effect was pleasing nonetheless.

It’s an effect that isn't lost on Minghao, that leaves something warm and fond twisting in his chest. He struggles to get a hold of himself.

“There's a film festival,” he says. “An international film festival, over in Gwangjin.”

If Minghao were a weaker man, he would have beamed at your reaction— the excitement in your voice, the way you reached out to squeeze his wrist in turn.

“That sounds fun,” you say happily. “I’d love to go.”

He knew you were passionate about languages, about cultures— one of the reasons you two have gotten on so well, as you’re the only person he’s ever met who shares that sort of enthusiasm. The only person who understands it in a way that doesn’t feel too much.

He gives you a little flicker of a smile before he answers. “Good.” 

There's a beat of silence as he contemplates his next few words— and what exactly he was about to propose. “You know…” he finally says, his tone just a little hesitant. “There's a… there's a film that I really wanted to see. In the festival, I mean.” 

“It’s in Mandarin,” he quickly clarifies, the words tumbling from his mouth in a way that feels a little too much like panic. “Um— will your Mandarin be up to it? No subtitles.”

“I’ll be up for it,” you assure Minghao laughingly. “If I miss anything, I guess I’ll just have to ask you.”

Ask him? The idea— the mere implication that you’d be leaning in, closer, to ask him. That you’d be needing something, some sort of clarification, a better context.

The way you'd need him.

And perhaps it was obvious, the way you and he were constantly switching back and forth— him with his Mandarin and your Korean and English, to fill in the blanks. But the words still set something loose in his chest, to know that he would be there to help you if you needed it.

“Yeah,” he says, once he finally manages to remember how to speak. “Yeah, you can ask me.”

As you begin to step away, you speak up. “It’s a date, then,” you say casually, still painfully unheeding to the implications of everything. “Will you pick me up or should I meet you there, xīngān?”

Minghao has never felt more simultaneously grateful and betrayed by your lack of awareness.

Because how could you be so casual, how could you just drop that right in front of him— calling it a date, calling him ‘darling’— as though it was nothing more than just another hangout? It leaves him reeling in a way that makes it impossible to respond.

He can only offer a nod, his throat dry, as one hand lifts in a half-wave. “I’ll pick you up,” he says, his brain lagging behind with the rest of his body.

You give a small wave back, your smile just as bright and friendly as the rest of you. This was going to be a thorn in Minghao's side, it seemed. Your brain wasn’t good at half measures. You needed clarity, needed straightforwardness to confront abstract feelings.

You disappear through the revolving front doors of the company, leaving Minghao in the company lobby that suddenly feels all-too warm. His phone pings in his pocket; a text from Jun.

You're late to game night, his member teases. Get away from the love of your life and get your ass over here. ㅋㅋㅋ

Because of course Jeonghan had tattled to all the other boys where Minghao had been. He rolls his eyes as he glances down at the screen, tapping out a quick response.

I'm coming. Don't cheat.

He glances up and back at the glass revolving doors, knowing full-well that you're already on the street at this point.

Minghao, for all his bluntness, has suddenly found himself in a situation where all he can do is beat around the bush.

Minghao arrives outside your apartment building on time, his hands shoved deep in his pockets against the early evening chill. His heart is pounding in his chest, the nervous energy buzzing in his veins.

He had dressed up. He had put on cologne. He was taking you to a film festival. What could possibly happen that would go wrong?

It's a thought that is interrupted when a horn beeping snaps Minghao's attention away from his inner thoughts, as he straightens and glances down the street. There's no one parked on your street, no one walking down the sidewalk. He takes a step forward, peering across to the other side of the street— and there you are, stepping out of the building.

It takes everything he's got to keep a straight face. It feels like something out of a drama, and he's still not entirely sure he's not dreaming.

The fact that you're dressed up too is not lost on him. Damn it, of course you'd look good to him, no matter what you'd chosen to wear.

Minghao straightens as you draw closer, suddenly not quite knowing what to do with his hands. Does he pull you in for a hug? Offer up a casual, friendly greeting?

He settles for a nod, shoving his hands further into the pockets of his jeans, doing his best not to stare. "Hey."

"Hey," you greet right back, flashing Minghao a dimpled smile. You give Minghao a once-over.

"You look nice," you say like it's the most casual observation in the world. 

The praise sets something aflutter in Minghao's stomach, his hands gripping his car keys a little tighter to try and keep them from shaking. "Thanks," he responds, somehow finding it in himself to step closer and unlock the car door for you. "You look good, too." 

Good doesn't even begin to cover it, he thinks as he goes to slide into the driver’s seat. 

"You got me nervous," you say as you pull the seat belt over yourself, suddenly slipping into Mandarin. "About the film having no subtitles, I mean. So I ended up brushing up on my Mandarin."

He lets out a small huff of a laugh that's bordering on a scoff. "Since when have you had to brush up on anything?" he responds in Mandarin as well, flicking on the turn signal and pulling the car out into the street. "Your Mandarin is perfect."

"I'm always studying. You know me," you chirp, leaning forward slightly to fiddle with the knobs of Minghao's car radio. You’ve been in his passenger seat enough time to feel comfortable doing this; you settle on a station playing mostly Western indie songs.

"And my Mandarin always has room for improvement," you go on. "I'm still working on that C2-level proficiency."

Of course you weren't satisfied with just good. You had to go and be an overachiever. Minghao finds himself shaking his head at the thought of how your drive for excellence in everything was— for lack of any better word— admirable and adorable all at the same time.

"You're insane," he says under his breath, still so awed by self-imposed standards. "You really don't need to do that, you know. You're great the way you are."

"How is it that you're both goading and complimenting me at the same time?" you tease.

The way you speak sounds effortless and yet Minghao can pick up on the little moments where your tongue would just ever so slightly stumble. He could correct you, but God, he's never quite heard that same sound before.

In fact, he's suddenly very aware of just how different you two sound when you speak his mother tongue.

"It's called being a good friend," he responds, fighting the rising urge to say something else.

"You're a pain in the ass, but I love you, anyway," he continues, his hand settling on a knob on the center console to change the radio station to something with a bit more of a modern beat. You always had to listen to indie music.

As the sounds of some Top Fifties pop song filters through the car, you let out a snort of laughter and respond noncommittally to Minghao's jab. "Love you, too," you say with no shortage of sarcasm. The words, in Mandarin— wǒ yě ài nǐ— still sound soft and sweet and lilting, despite your best effort to sound mocking.

Minghao suddenly has to swallow against his very dry throat. He hadn't expected that response from you, not when the last time he had said those words to you was months and months ago during an argument between the two of you. A particularly stressful work week, a squabble that neither of you talk about anymore.

"You better," he manages to respond, his voice cracking ever so slightly on the second syllable of 'better'. He hopes it goes unnoticed.

That little stutter, that tiny stumble around the last syllable of 'better', was the only indicator that betrayed the way Minghao's heart was hammering out the wildest beat in his chest.

He knows it's a sign of his own impending nerves when he turns the radio volume all the way up, drowning out any chance of conversation between the two of you for the rest of the ride to the venue.

Far too used to Minghao's pockets of peace, you pay no heed to the fact that the rest of the car ride is spent in companionable silence. You only break it once Minghao is pulling up into the parking lot of the theater house.

"You should go ahead. I'll get us snacks," you offer delicately, this time in Korean. The reminder of how the two of you had to hide any sort of public interaction settles like a stone at the very bottom of Minghao's stomach, and yet he nods anyway, silently agreeing with the logic of your suggestion.

You ask, "Is there anything you want to eat?"

He lets out a soft sigh as he pulls the keys out of the ignition. "Popcorn," he responds, his eyes skimming over your form as you unclick the seatbelt to leave. "With M&Ms."

The familiar request makes a small smile tug at your lips. It was the same thing, still, that Minghao asked for after all these years of movie-watching. "Got it," you say, sliding out of his car. "I'll find you in a bit."

Even through the closed car door and over the sound of the car radio turned up to its highest, he can still clearly hear the smile in your voice. It sets that now familiar thump in his chest into overdrive.

"Hurry up," he responds in all of his usual nonchalance, despite the fact that his eyes are still following your figure, taking in the way you carry yourself as you walk away.

Shit, he's so gone for you.

Minghao's choice of seats are typical as always. In the very back of the theater, to keep him away from possible prying eyes.

You settle into the seat at his right, carefully balancing the food you’d gotten the two of you. "I couldn't carry two popcorn buckets, so we'll have to share this big one," you whisper to him as you pass him his pack of M&Ms and a bottle of soda.

"Thanks,” he murmurs over the sound of advertisements playing over the big screen.

"I've heard a lot of good things about this film," you mumble. "No making fun of me if I cry."

"I would never," he replies, voice as light as yours.

Sure enough, the opening of the film has Minghao leaning forward on the edge of his seat, engrossed in the drama unraveling between the characters on-screen. It's like he was that sixteen year-old boy in the movie, struggling to find his place in the world.

He's all but quiet in his consumption of popcorn, a hand sneaking into the bucket at times to munch on a few pieces idly. A few times, when the food almost runs out— he accidentally brushes his fingers against yours. The touch is brief, accidental, but each time, his skin feels like it's singing, and he fights the impulse to grasp your hand altogether every time he reaches for popcorn.

He does notice, however, when you seem to encounter unfamiliar words. His gaze flicks over to you as your lips wordlessly form the nickname they call the main character. Xiǎoshì.

It's a term, sure, but it's far more than that to him.

For him, it's a moment. A time in his life that was so brief, but one he remembers like it happened yesterday. A small part of him wants to tell you all about it, but he can't now. 

And so he settles on another form of communication. With your attention still on the screen, Minghao reaches over— and finally grasps your hand. Interlocking your fingers together.

As your fingers grasp with his, a part of him hopes that you don't pull away. He almost wants to look sideways at you, just so he can see your reaction— read your face as you focus on the movie in front of you, as your heart beats fast, loud, against your ribcage.

He doesn't dare to hope, though. He keeps his hand in yours, holding on tightly, as the movie continues to play out, the scenes getting more familiar to him.

The main character gets into a particularly nasty row with his mother about following his dreams, about leaving home, about wanting a better life than the one they had in their province. His gaze flinches slightly at the familiar scene before him and the memories, the emotions, that it all brings up in him.

It's a tense scene, spoken in the scathing language he'd grown up in, and you can tell the way it's affecting him. Instinctively, you reach your free hand over to gently press at the side of Minghao's head; a quiet invitation for him to rest his head on your shoulder.

Minghao takes you up on your invitation, the touch of your hand almost a command to him. He lets his head rest on your shoulder, not unlike a weary puppy. He can practically hear his mother's voice in some parts of the argument playing out in the movie. He can hear his own words echoing in his ears— almost as if he himself was the one speaking on-screen.

He wants to stay in the moment, with you, in the darkened theater as the movie continues to play. He doesn't think he can tear his eyes away from the screen, just like how he feels like he can't let go of your hand.

But it's a movie— a coming-of-age one, at that— and so all ends well. The boy and his mother reconcile. The main character is not any older by the last part of the film, but he's wiser, and the whole thing ends with him looking out at the Beijing skyline, humming an old lullaby for comfort.

The credits roll. The lights stay off as they do, and you finally, finally, bring yourself to pull away from Minghao's shoulder.  

You keep your hand in his, though, as you let out a quiet, watery laugh. "Xu Minghao," you reprimand in Mandarin. "You took me to the saddest movie ever."

"I told you," he responds back lightly, in Mandarin, his own voice a little rough from trying to hold himself back just a bit. "My friend said it was a sad one, when he recommended it. And you said you were fine."

He squeezes your hand again, shifting in his seat so that he was facing you, a hint of teasing in his tired eyes.

Absent-mindedly, you rub your thumb on the back of his palm. "How did you like it?" you ask, pitching your voice lower, still, despite no one being within your vicinity.  

Minghao's eyes soften a little at the tender gesture on your part. He feels the light, comforting motion of your thumb brushing against the back of his palm and he lets out a small, shaky sigh of his own. "It was... a little difficult to watch," he admits, his voice quiet, his eyes focused on your interlocked hands between you.  

"Do you want to talk about it over dinner?" you offer, your smile just a touch rueful. "Or we could just... have dinner and not talk about it at all. Whichever works best for you."  

At your offer, a small, almost self-deprecating smile quirks at the corner of Minghao's lips. He squeezes your hand one more time. "Dinner, yes. Talking, no."

The walk back to the car is a quiet one. Once you’re in your seats, Minghao puts the burden of deciding on you. 

"There's this barbeque place I've really been wanting to try out over in Myeongdeong," you rave, but then your fingers freeze over the GPS screen. You glance at Minghao over your shoulder, suddenly a bit sheepish. "It's a bit out of the way from your dorm and my apartment, though. Is that alright?"  

He lets out a small, soft laugh, shifting in his seat a little before reaching over to lightly flick your ear. "When has distance ever stopped me?" he retorts, his usual dry tease in his voice. "Let's go, I'm starving."  

"Alright, alright," you huff as you plug in the address. The directions to the restaurant— somewhere twenty minutes away, barring traffic— appear on screen as you move back into your seat, still pouting slightly at your ear being flicked. "I just thought you'd be sick of me after the movie."  

"Sick of you?" He scoffs at your words as he begins to peel out of the parking lot. "I think I would die of boredom without you, actually."  

“Ah. Because no one else will keep up with you like this, hm?"  

"They're not quick enough. You're one of the rare ones who don't make me want to tear my hair out."  

"You're laying it on thick tonight. Is this a ploy to get me to pick up the dinner bill?” you tease. "Because really, Hao, there's a rather big difference between the salaries of idols and translators."  

He chuckles a little at your comment, his grip around the steering wheel tightening slightly. "No, this is not a ploy to make you pay for dinner. I'm treating tonight. I'm rich, remember?"  

"Yah, you're not treating!” you shoot back. “We’ll pay for our own shares. You should only spend your money on things that are important.”  

"And treating you isn't important? You're always important to me. Don't deny it."  

When you suddenly go silent as a flush starts to creep up your face, Minghao can't help but look away from the road for a few moments to glance at you from the corner of his eye. He can only see the side of your face, the blush that colors your cheeks glowing against your skin.  

"You can't just say stuff like that so casually," you snap, though your tone is soft around the edges. "You should save that for birthdays or holidays."  

"And why only birthdays and holidays?" he muses. "I'd rather tell you all the time."  

In a bid to regain a bit of an upper hand, you keep your eyes out the window as you mumble in Mandarin, "Just keep driving, xīngān."  

Seeing your flustered face flush an even deeper color of red gives Minghao a sort of satisfaction, his lips tugging up at the corners. He can't help but chuckle a little more when he hears the words that leave your mouth in Mandarin, his mind taking a few moments to register the nickname he's grown to like.  

"Yah, don't just call me that without warning," he says, voice slightly muffled as he continues to focus on the road. "My heart can only handle so much."  

You finally glance over at him. The blush still lingers, but there's a bit of a mischievous glint in your eyes now. "Should I warn you, then, if I'm about to use it?" you say sweetly, sticking to his mother tongue for the sake of seeing how far you can go with it. "Should I only save it for special occasions?"

"Yes," he manages to hiss out after a beat, a small scowl on his face when he realizes that you're taking advantage of his weakness. "I'd much prefer you to warn me in advance. And only use it on occasions that actually count."

"I'm about to use it," you warn instantly, leaning slightly forward to turn down the radio. There had been some other group's song playing, filling the car with the sweet, lilting sounds of a ballad.  

"This occasion counts, xīngān," you sing-song. "Every moment with you counts."  

At your obvious mockery, Minghao's scowl only deepens, not that he really minds. Your sweet words have his heart thudding loudly in his chest in spite of his protests.  

"Stop being so cheesy. You're only saying this because you know that I like it, aren't you?"  

"I'm saying it because I like it," you answer. "It suits you. I'm about to use it again."  

You pause for a beat. "Darling," you say, this time cycling between English, Korean, and Mandarin. "Yeobo. Xīngān."  

This time, Minghao can't help but chuckle. He's definitely going to be having a good time tonight.  

"Are you going to spend the rest of the night calling me that?" he questions, finally having to pause at a red light. He turns to look at you for a few moments. "Just so I know what to expect."  

"Do you want me to?" you ask right back, your eyebrows raised slightly.  

"If you did," he starts, the words coming out before he even fully registers them, "I wouldn't stop you."  

The light turns green. The cars in front of you move forward a bit, and that means that you have to as well. The moment passes ever so slightly as Minghao is forced to lurch forward, to turn the corner that will finally have you at the barbecue place you'd recommended.  

You look ahead, away, the smile on your face widening just a bit. And because he said he wouldn't mind, because he'd given you something akin to a go-ahead—  

"Alright, xīngān," you say softly.  

The term of affection in your voice has Minghao's heartbeat rising, the nickname ringing in his ears, filling his chest with a sort of sweetness at the sound of it. It was like music to his ears, he thinks, the way you say it, the way it sounds.  

Once again, he can't help the smile that finds a place on his face, though he hides it by turning away to concentrate on the road ahead, trying to focus on it instead of the way his heart just won't stop racing in his chest.

The meal is comfortable. You talk about everything and nothing; you take turns cooking the meat. If sometimes you fall silent, neither of you feel the need to fill that quiet. You're so assured in each other's presence that we're fine to just be.

It's easy, with you— easy to relax in a way that he sometimes can't with others. He feels comfortable with you, safe around you, and he doesn't really have to think about what words he uses or the right thing to say.

You make it easy for him. And he's grateful for it.

As the night continues, though, the light conversation seems to eventually die down. Not that it bothers him; no, as Minghao has said before, the two of you do well with silence.

In the quiet that now surrounds the two of you, though, his mind begins to wander. A thought that has been in the back of his mind since earlier that night resurfaces again.

"Xīngān," he begins tentatively, his eyes still on the grill in front of him as if staring at it is supposed to give him some strength. Once again, he finds himself turning to Mandarin for the question, the words feeling like home on his tongue.

It feels, somehow, more fitting to ask you this question in the language that's his, one that he's comfortable and practiced in. "Do you believe in fate?"

Mìngyùn. Fate. Your mouth soundlessly tries out the word, the two syllables lolling on your tongue.  

"Like— the red thread of fate," you say, just a little dumbly, as you contemplate Minghao's question. You don't even notice the way you've switched over to Mandarin to match his pace. "Like that kind of fate? Or something else?"  

He takes a beat before he answers, trying to figure out how to word his question, how to express what he means in a way that makes sense, even to himself. "I mean that kind of fate," he clarifies. "Like, soulmates."  

"Do you?" you ask suddenly, throwing the query back to him.  

"I do."  

"What version of the red string of fate do you believe in?"  

He hesitates when you ask him the question, not quite sure how to explain the kind of fate he believes in. "I believe in things that are inevitable."  

"I mean— I believe in things that are destined," he continues, trying to elaborate. "I believe the people— the ones who are supposed to be together— will always find each other, in a way, no matter what happens. No matter how much time passes, or what obstacles there are between them."  

The way the corner of your mouth twitches when he says the word inevitable sets something ablaze inside him. 

He knows the look you're giving him is just one of interest, not a look of affection, but to him, it feels like a look of affection.  

Your lips twist into a slightly rueful smile as you take a moment to flip the meat on the grill, trying to keep it from burning. It's your turn to keep your gaze evasive as you answer. 

"I'm not sure if I believe in fate," you say, your Mandarin deliberately careful and slow. "Or soulmates. Not in the way that you do, at least."  

The words strike a painful sort of ache in his chest and Minghao finds himself having to bite down on the inside of his lip, trying to quell the way his heart seems to clench at the confession.  

This time, you slide into Korean, desperate to get your point across in the language that you know, in the tongue where you won’t be misconstrued. "I want to. I want to believe that soulmates exist— that there's someone out there for all of us," you say with a little more firmness, the change in speech giving you some more conviction.

"But I think that if soulmates do exist, they're not found; they're made." You pause to bring your gaze back up to Minghao. "People meet, they get a good feeling, and they get to work building a relationship. And that will lead to the inevitable."  

He's not quite sure why it feels like a loss, somehow, to no longer be speaking in Mandarin, and it makes his fingers itch for something to do. There's a moment where Minghao has to process the words you say, the way you express yourself so firmly and deliberately, as if you've given this some thought. Slowly, he gives a nod. "Like working in a relationship. Like making it work."  

"Like making it work," you concede.  

You gently place the last pieces of meat on Minghao's plate. "The concept of the red string of fate has always scared me," you admit, your mouth twitching upward in a slightly wistful smile. "What if the person on the other end follows the string only to realize they don't like what they find?"  

Minghao's gaze drifts down to the plate of food you've assembled for him, a gesture that feels oddly domestic, somehow, to have someone prepare a plate for him, and his heart gives a warm, affectionate little squeeze. 

He looks back up when you speak, his face a carefully stoic mask in spite of the way his heart is giving a painful thud, thud, thud inside his chest.  

"I think..." he begins slowly, his eyes still on you, the words leaving his lips careful and deliberate, as if he's trying to pick them out slowly from a tangled mess in his mind.

There's an intensity to his gaze, a gravity that's hard to miss. "I think even if the person on the other end of the string doesn't like what they find, it's what they're supposed to have. It's what they're destined for."  

"Ah. Destiny."  

Minghao had stuck with Mandarin; you say it in Korean. The two words— mìngyùn, unmyeong— are the two faces of the same coin.  

"And who do you think I'm destined for, xīngān?" you ask with just the right amount of teasing, making it a point to still refer to Minghao with the Mandarin term of ‘darling’ despite speaking the rest of the question in Korean.  

It's supposed to be nothing more than a good-natured joke, but Minghao feels the sudden urge to be honest.

He knows it's a joke, he knows it's meant to be a lighthearted question, but something in the back of his head, something sharp and cruel, his traitorous, selfish heart keeps repeating the question back to him: Who do you think I'm destined for? 

The thought that you'd be destined for anyone but him makes him feel like there's something lodged in his throat, something painful and sharp, and he wants to reach out and grab you, hold you, pull you tight against him and just never let go.

But instead he just looks at you and he forces the corners of his lips to tug up into a smile. "You're destined for someone wonderful," he says in his soft Mandarin, his trademark sincerity.

It's a non-answer; a cop-out, a way to avoid confessing things he shouldn't, but it's the best he can manage at this moment, when I wish it was me is screaming so loud in his head, it's all he can hear.

You smile softly.

Minghao had told the truth. You are destined for someone wonderful. 

He just wishes he could have been more specific. 

The next time he sees you is ahead of the boys’ Japanese showcase. Minghao had been lagging behind in the airport; he'd managed to get a few moments of shut eye on the plane, but it did little to stave off the exhaustion he still felt.

He walks a few steps behind Seungcheol, his eyes flitting idly through the crowd, until they land on you, walking slightly ahead.

You were already moving efficiently, keeping your gaze straight as you walked next to Seungcheol, your eyes focused and unflinching even as the press and fans yelled out at you.

Minghao's eyes don't leave your figure, following you and Seungcheol as you navigate the throngs of airport patrons with practiced ease. He's almost unsettled by how effortless you seemed— walking through the crowd as if it were nothing more than a casual stroll through the park, your expression set and unwavering as you translate for Seungcheol in a low, firm tone.

Once you finally get past the front doors of the airport, there's a lull as the boys all pile into a twelve-seater van. You stay by the door, finally stealing seconds to see each of them as they pass by you.  

Vernon dips his head in a nod. Mingyu throws you an exaggerated wink. Jun mouths 'hello' to you in Japanese. 

And then it's Minghao's turn to get in the van, to pass by you. There's not much either of you can do or say yet, considering the fact that there are still fans and press scrutinizing your every move, but he still has this. A moment of acknowledgment, however he deems fit.  

Minghao's mouth tugs up at one corner as he sees you smile at him, the sight immediately making something warm bloom in his chest.  

He can't help the subtle, almost instinctual reaction as he stops ever so slightly in passing you. He wants to say something, but words elude him.  

Instead, his hand just grazes against your wrist— the merest press of his fingers against the bare skin of your arm. It's a tiny gesture, but one that speaks volumes.

For the rest of the car ride to the hotel, Minghao struggles.

He's stuck in a car full of members, all exhausted from the flight, all loud and noisy and rowdy, and the van feels suddenly stifling. He spends most of the time looking out the window, trying to focus on whatever he sees.

Anything to distract himself from thoughts of you and the ghost of your soft, warm skin under his fingers.

The next time you're slated to see the group is in the dressing room before their showcase. It's hours later. Hours you spend translating, liaising, transcribing. The dressing room is as lively as ever, most of the members having already changed into their stage outfits. Several of them are sitting around, idly eating snacks or watching videos.  

You carefully push open the door. "Hey," you greet, and you're met with the instant chorus of thirteen boys welcoming you.  

Seungkwan excitedly calls out, "Hey, hey, hey!"  

Joshua gives you a warm smile. Chan waves exaggeratedly.  

You let out a huff of laughter, already acutely familiar with the boys' habits. "Just wanted to check in on everyone before the showcase," you say as you lean against the doorframe.

Minghao is sitting on a couch in the corner of the room, his eyes on you as you say your reason for coming to see them. 

"We're all good here," Jeonghan answers, one hand propping his chin up. "You look like you could use a sit, though."

Your laugh is just a little strained, your smile a touch forced. But your façade stays intact, even as you shake your head. "I've still got some preparations to do," you say lightly, and then you shift gears before anyone can press. "How was the flight?"

"It was fine," Seokmin pipes up. "You know, nothing out of the usual. We were well-behaved."

"Well-behaved," Wonwoo echoes from the couch. "If by well-behaved, you mean Soonyoung and Vernon got extremely handsy in the plane."

"Hey," Vernon protests, whipping his head around to look at Wonwoo, "don't say it like that!"

On the couch, Jihoon lets out an amused snort, shaking his head in fond, exasperated disbelief. "No, no, please," he encourages, his voice laced with sarcasm, "tell everyone how you two almost got us yelled at by the stewards because you were roughhousing over some food."

Soonyoung pouts, his expression instantly adopting a look of exaggerated innocence. "I don't know what you're talking about," he insists. "I was a perfect angel."

While the other boys are all busy ribbing on Vernon and Soonyoung, Minghao makes his way over to where you're standing against the doorframe.

He stops when he's standing next to you, and the corner of his mouth tugs up into an amused smile as he takes in your distant, almost out of it expression. When he speaks, his voice is soft enough for you to hear but low enough that the others can't, barely more than a whisper. 

"You look tired."

You give him a sheepish smile as you pat out invisible wrinkles on your linen blazer. "Hao," you greet quietly, still a bit hesitant to use xīngān in front of his members.

Your gaze flickers briefly to the rest of the room before you switch to Mandarin, a clear indication that you want your next words to be for Minghao and Minghao alone.  

"I am tired," you admit in his native tongue. "But it's nothing crazy. Just the usual exhaustion."  

"You always work too hard," he responds, matching your switch to Mandarin. His gaze sweeps over your form, taking in the weary lines of your frame, the subtle stiffness in your stance. "You look like you'll fall over any second."  

You roll your shoulders a bit, unconsciously leaning closer toward him. "It's my back, still," you confess. "Making things a little harder than usual. I really will get it checked when we're back in Korea."  

A concerned frown tugs at the corners of Minghao's mouth when he hears you say it's your back, his eyes sweeping over your frame once again. "How long has it been bothering you?" he asks, his gaze sweeping over you.  

He tries not to seem too obvious about it, but he steps a little bit closer, shifting a fraction of an inch closer in case you do fall over. His arm brushes up against yours, the contact between the two of you almost imperceptible.  

"This morning," you say with a rueful smile, your hand reaching behind to massage the small of your back from over your layers of clothing. "The plane was a bit cramped."  

Minghao's eyes narrow a fraction of an inch when he hears the reason, one of his eyebrows lifting slightly in a mixture of surprise and annoyance. "I told you to get it checked before the flight," he says.  

You give Minghao a look that's mildly exasperated and wholly exhausted. "I'm already booked to see a physician once this trip is over," you grumble, crossing your arms over your chest as you look up at Minghao.  

"You always say that," Minghao responds, the hint of annoyance in his voice a clear indication of just how frustrated he is. "It's clearly bothering you every day. If you just took some time off, maybe even just a week, maybe you'd—"  

"Minghao."

The quiet, stern way you say his name— just his name; not Hao, not xīngān— cuts right through his frustrated tirade. A flicker of surprise passes across Minghao's features, the almost snap in your tone shutting him up.

"I'm going to go," you inform him stiffly, slipping back into Korean and away from the language you reserved for each other. "We need to prepare for the showcase."

His jaw clenches, a muscle in his cheek twitching as he tries to keep his mouth shut for once, biting back the words he wants to say, the protests that are so close to leaving his lips. He lets out another huff of air, forcing his expression to stay neutral. 

"Yeah," he replies in the same language, the one word filled with annoyance. "See you."

When the showcase rolls around, you maintain a backstage presence. Your role, as always, entails that you pay complete attention to the boys as they speak. Whenever they address the crowd as a whole, you translate their Korean into Japanese.

For some reason, hearing the familiar sound of your voice coming out of the speakers, the smoothness of your Japanese, still feels somewhat calming to Minghao. In the chaos of lights and loud music, hearing the rhythm of your words through the speakers makes it feel like, at least for the moment, you're still right there beside him.

When the songs pass and the showcase ends, the members are all still riding the high of the excitement of their performance, the energy of their fans still buzzing in the atmosphere.

They all make their way backstage, the hum of their conversations filling the air, a sense of excitement and satisfaction, each and every one of them energized. Minghao, once again, makes his way over to where you're standing, his eyes on you, his expression almost intense.

You don't immediately notice Minghao approaching because a staff member is talking to you in rapid Japanese about some interviews you need to coordinate, need to play the role of interpreter for. You're trying to bargain for a moment's break, but it's a losing battle.

The staff then suddenly folds into a bow, and only then do you realize that Minghao had come up to you. You dip your head in an equally respectful bow of acknowledgement.

In Japanese, you tiredly assure the staff member you'll be there for the press circus; she leaves Minghao and you alone at your reassurance. You flash Minghao a weary smile, slipping, this time, into Korean. "Good job with the showcase," you say benevolently. "You did well."

He can't help the subtle frown that forms on his face, the way his eyebrows furrow in concern. The fact that you're once again hiding behind that professional exterior of yours, the friendly, polite smile you're shooting him, does nothing to soothe his frustration.

"Thanks," he mutters, his tone somewhat clipped.

He hesitates for a moment, his gaze sweeping over you. "Hey," he eventually says. "Come with me for a second."

You cast a glance around backstage. The boys are all off doing their own things— chugging water, ribbing each other, taking photos. In a gaggle of thirteen, it's easy to fly under the radar at any given time.

"You have a magazine interview in fifteen minutes," you tell Minghao, clueing him in on the conversation you had with staff just moments prior. "We can't really go anywhere—"

"I know," Minghao responds, his tone perhaps a little sharper than he'd meant it to be, frustration getting the better of him.

He takes a quick glance around the backstage area, confirming that the others are all occupied enough that they won't notice, before his gaze lands back on you. "We won't be long," he assures you, already grabbing your wrist.

His grasp on your wrist is firm, his hand strong and his fingers wrapping around the limb easily, pulling you along with him, with no room for any protest. He doesn't break his pace until he's found a small, secluded bathroom, pulling you inside and shutting the door behind the two of you before anyone could notice.

"Minghao," you hiss under your breath, still obviously pissed in the way you forgo both his nickname and pet name. "You can't just drag me off when we have work."  

Even in his already frustrated state, Minghao finds himself momentarily distracted by your pissed off tone, and the use of his name without a nickname or pet name. He likes you calling him by some form of a cute or affectionate moniker far more than just plain, unadorned Minghao.  

"We still have a couple more minutes," he retorts, mirroring your tone even as his hand slides down to lace your fingers together.  

His eyes are heavy on you, his expression intense even as he takes an unabashed, close-up look at your face, studying the weariness in your expression, and the strain that's clearly weighing down on you.  

He makes a move to reach down, his gaze on your cheek, to brush away a strand of stray, loose hair. His heart lurches when he sees the way your expression softens subtly, even when you're still trying to be mad at him. The way you immediately intertwine your fingers in his— God.  

"We look very suspicious right now," you say dryly, your free hand gesturing vaguely to the fact that Minghao practically has you pinned against the bathroom wall. "Is this what you pulled me away for?"  

"We'll make it quick," he manages to reply, sounding slightly hoarse, before closing the already-minimal distance between the two of you, one arm snaking around your waist.  

"We shouldn't—" you protest weakly, because there's just some things you can't explain away. Like how Minghao and you might be caught hugging in this bathroom when you were colleagues at worst, good friends at best. "We're going to get in trouble."  

"We won't," he responds, his tone firm, stubborn.  

His other hand comes up to rest at the back of your head, pulling you in even closer, burying your face in his chest, the other arm still looped firmly around your waist. He lets out a sharp exhale of air, the frustration and tension of the moment melting into something akin to relief. 

"Just—" he mumbles, his breath hot in your ear. "Let me hold you. Just a little— for a second."  

A small flicker of relief fills his chest when he feels the tension ease as a result of his embrace, the way you lean against him, almost as if you're allowing yourself just to relax. To melt against his body the way you almost never did in public.  

When you mumble Mandarin against his chest, your words are slightly muffled. "I'm sorry about earlier," you whisper. "I was really stressed."  

"I know," he responds, just as quietly. "I'm sorry too."  

This was how it was with the two of you— the quick-tempered arguments, the stubborn disagreements, and then the inevitable apologies that always followed. Minghao knew he was stubborn, maybe even a little irritable, and he would admit that he could've handled his response better.

But, for some reason— in the moment, at least— all of that tension that had been between the two of you in that moment just evaporated in the embrace. "You're working yourself to the bone," he mutters quietly, into your collarbone.

He knows how hard you work, in general, but it's become increasingly worse as of late. The endless translation, the interviews, the subtitles and scripts. It all seemed to be getting too much, even for you.

"I know it's not my place to tell you this but—" he continues, his voice becoming even more hoarse and heavy in worry. "You need to take better care of yourself. You can't just keep pushing yourself like this. Not like you've been doing. You're going to burn out at this rate."

It's just the way the two of you were— you, the overworked, over-stressed, and over-tired, and him, almost constantly worried about your general well-being, worried about you working yourself to actual exhaustion.

The moment you gently run your fingers through his hair, he instantly melts against you even more, practically nuzzling against your shoulder.

"You do have some right to tell me this. We're friends," you sigh, tilting your head to press your lips to the side of Minghao's temple. "And you're right— I'll look into taking a medical leave for a bit, once we get back home."  

"Good," he responds, his voice quiet but firm. "You need a break. And I—" he pauses, hesitating.  

He doesn't like seeing you like that, he wants to say. He doesn't like seeing you so tired and so stressed every day. He doesn't like how you barely have any time together anymore. He doesn't like seeing you overexert yourself so much.  

He stops himself from saying it out loud, instead letting out a soft huff before continuing. "I really worry about you, you know?" he mutters against your shoulder.  

"I know, xīngān," you respond, slipping into Mandarin in a bid to comfort Minghao a little more. A beat. And then, ever so quietly: "I worry about you, too."  

You slide your hand up and down his back. "We're both fools," you whisper with a slight huff of laughter.  

"Yeah," he agrees with an exhale of a laugh at your last words. "We are both fools."  

But we're fools for each other, his mind unhelpfully reminds him as he dares to hold you for just a moment more.

He just has to go and mess it all up by insisting, "I wish you’d let people take care of you."

People, meaning him. He had meant to say I wish you’d let me take care of you, but instead something entirely else came out. He knows he ought to back down the moment he feels you tense under his grasp, but Minghao was nothing if not adamant.

"I don’t need to be taken care of," you persist. 

Minghao huffs into your hair. "That’s bullshit and you know it."

"Hao—"

"It’s not a sign of weakness—"

"You keep treating me like—"

"I’m not—"

"Minghao!"

You’ve all but pulled away now, your earlier softness replaced with a new kind of tension. It’s not the same tiredness from being overworked; no, it’s the frustration of the two of you trying to speak over each other. The push and pull of your words. Your mutual inability to communicate just what you mean. 

Minghao’s fingers ball into fists at his sides to hide his almost trembling hands. It’s all he can do to keep himself from reaching back out for you.     

"I'll go ahead," you whisper decisively, your gaze fixed on the door. "I'll see you at the magazine interview."

An almost visceral, physical pain shoots through Minghao's chest at the mention of you leaving. His mind screams no, don't leave, don't go. But he swallows down his own irrational, impulsive desires, his own selfish longing for you.

"I— yeah," Minghao responds slowly. "I'll meet you there."

He watches silently, almost helplessly, as you make a beeline for the door.

The interview is with NYLON JAPAN. You interpret and translate for both the interviewer and the boys, once again acting as an off-camera presence— an intent, constant figure quietly relaying questions and answers.  

There's some benefit in SEVENTEEN being thirteen members strong. That way, Minghao is in the second row, some distance away from you. If you avoid his gaze, it almost feels negligible.

For the duration of the interview, Minghao can hardly concentrate on the questions and answers being traded between the members and the interviewer. His focus is firmly drawn towards you.  

He can't help but glance in your direction every so often. Every time your gaze accidentally meets his, it's like a jolt of electricity straight to his chest, his stomach clenching at the painful realization of how close you are and how far away you feel.

When the interviewer begins to ask member-specific questions, you do your job as well as you always do. The first two are for Seungcheol, then Chan. And then, of course, there it is.

You nod a bit as the interviewer poses his question. "Jun and Minghao," you translate, your voice wavering imperceptibly on the second name. "You two are the members that have given up a life in your home country in exchange for being an idol. How are you able to cope with that?"

As you translate Jun’s answer to the interviewer, Minghao can hardly focus on the actual words he's saying. He’s only half-listening as he watches the subtle flutter of your eyelashes, the slight parting of your lips, the crinkle in your forehead as you concentrate hard on getting the Japanese translation perfect.

His chest feels tight, like there's a band wrapped around his entire body, constricting his airflow.

When your gaze finally moves back to him, locking eyes with his own, a rush of breath leaves his lungs, his heart jumping in his throat. The look in your eyes, the distance between the two of you— it’s nothing short of exaggerated.

For a brief moment, he's not answering a question for a Japanese magazine interview. He's answering a question for you. 

"It's hard," Minghao answers, his voice quiet and low, somewhat hoarse. "It’s really hard and lonely sometimes."

Every word that leaves his lips feels like a struggle to get out, like they're getting stuck in his throat, choking him.

"But I have the members, and we have the fans," he continues, a quiet yearning in his eyes. "And so it’s bearable," he says, despite the pit still present in his stomach, despite the ache of needing more.

He keeps his gaze focused on you, letting every word he says hold a meaning beyond the answer to the interviewer’s question— as if he’s answering for you and not the interviewer. But he has to keep his words vague, just in case those damned cameras picked up on his words and the way he looks at you.

"It's bearable," he repeats, swallowing hard, letting his eyes convey what he really means, even if his words can’t. You make it bearable.

There are some things that don't need to be translated. The pinched look on Minghao's face. The way he's openly staring at you. The subtle shift among the members— all of whom seem to pick up on something Minghao isn’t saying.

"Is that all?" you ask Minghao in Korean, your voice steady as ever despite the flicker of emotion in your gaze.

That aching, yearning expression is still present on his face as he responds. 

"Yeah," he says. "That’s all."

Minghao's phone is tucked under his pillow, the device set to vibrate.

He jolts awake the moment it begins to buzz, a habit he had grown after years of being under the spotlight and on the road. His hand flies out to grab the phone.

His eyes bleary, he blinks a few times to clear his vision. A slight smile involuntarily tugs at his lip when he sees your message, his eyes skimming over the contents of it several times.

i'm sorry about today. (yesterday, technically?) i hope you're resting right now. ily.

"Idiot," he murmurs quietly to himself.

You don't have anything to apologize for, he replies quickly. It's not your fault. I'm the one who should be sorry. I should've been more patient with you.

How are you? Are you okay?

i'm ok. fell asleep on the couch and woke up suddenly. but did i wake you? it's so late. you should be asleep.

A quiet sigh leaves Minghao's lips as he reads your response, a part of him feeling a pang of guilt, as if knowing he was the reason you were awake right now.

You did wake me. But don't worry. I'm glad you texted me. Can you call me?

A beat. 

let me just step out onto my balcony so i don't wake my roommates.

The image of you carefully sneaking out onto the balcony to talk, just so you wouldn't wake your roommates, briefly flashes through Minghao's mind. It reminds him of his own sleeping roommates a mere few feet away from him.

He sighs softly, quietly pulling himself out of bed, careful to not disturb Mingyu and Jun as he quietly makes his way out into the balcony from the door to his left.

The air is cold and the night sky is clear. Those are the two of the three things Minghao registers when he steps out on the balcony of his hotel room. The third thing comes after you call him and there’s a slightly amused edge to your tone as you say, "Look to your right, xīngān."

He turns to look to his right just as you asked, his eyes searching the balcony area in the distance. He can't quite make out any details on your figure in the low lighting, but when his eyes finally land on you, his heart skips a beat all the same.

"Found you," he murmurs.

"I didn’t mean to wake you," you say softly. "We could have talked in the morning, you know."

"I know," Minghao responds. He leans against the railing of his own balcony, the metal cold to the touch, his eyes fixed on you. He's sure you can't see him clearly, but it doesn’t matter at this moment.  

He was looking at you, and that was enough.

"I wanted to talk to you," he says simply, the words said without a trace of shame, just quiet honesty.

"What did you want to talk about?" you ask, giving him the liberty to set the pace for tonight, to pick and choose his battles.

There are a lot of things Minghao could say right now, a lot of things he wants to say. But instead, he settles for, "How are you?"

"Better now," you say simply, your gaze still fixed on Minghao in the distance. And it's the truth, even if the second half of your answer goes unspoken. Better now, that you're talking to him.

He stands there silently, still watching you from a distance. Despite his earlier confidence in talking to you, he's suddenly feeling uncharacteristically timid. Tongue-tied, almost, with his words caught in his throat. He can’t bring himself to speak for a moment, a part of him still feeling guilty about earlier.

He swallows the tightness in his throat, taking a deep breath, before finally forcing the words out. "I'm sorry," he mumbles. "For what happened in the bathroom."

Perhaps it's the years you’ve known each other, the herculean task you’ve both faced. But Minghao and you know better than anyone that things were so easily lost in translation, that there’s only so many emotions that can be grasped in all the languages of the world.

"We just have to get better at using our words, I guess," you sigh. 

Something in his chest settles at your response— at the understanding in it, at the fact that you don't hate him. The knowledge washes over him like a sudden warmth, the guilt he'd felt earlier slowly evaporating with each passing moment.

"We do," he replies quietly.

There's a comfort, still, in being just a couple of balconies away. How you can make out each other's vague silhouettes in the late evening of this foreign country.

It feels like you're standing on the precipice of something, of possibility.  

But instead of confronting it, you opt to dance the line a little longer. Your eyes are still trained on the sky as you slip into Mandarin.  

"The stars out here are so clear, xīngān," you muse thoughtfully. "It's beautiful, don't you think?"

The change in language registers quietly in Minghao's mind, his brain taking a second to get used to it after speaking in Korean and stilted Japanese most of the day.  

He looks up at the night sky for a moment in quiet contemplation, taking in the beauty of the stars as you'd described them, before turning his gaze back to the shadowed outline of your figure in the distance.  

Something about the sight, about you, makes his heart ache a little bit. Beautiful, you had said about the stars, but he’s not looking at them. 

He responds softly, longingly, in Mandarin, his voice almost a whisper in the night air. "It really is."

The next day, you both get on separate flights back to Seoul. As Minghao had poked and prodded you to do, you finally take the medical leave from work— a one-week block, which was the longest you’d ever gone away from PLEDIS since you first started nine years ago.

Roughly three days into your break, Minghao is in dance practice when he feels his phone buzzing in his pocket. He frowns when he glances at the screen and sees your name. 

can i call? 

The sight of the message, so unlike your usual lighthearted air, makes his heart drop instantly in his chest. There's no text-speak, no cutesy words, no emoji— just a simple question. He drops whatever he's doing, ignoring the questioning stares from the members as he steps out into the hallway and quickly dials your number without a second thought.

"Xīngān," he greets you, a little breathless from the rush he'd felt upon seeing your message. There's a hint of concern in his voice as his heart races in his chest, his mind whirling with thoughts. 

He doesn't even bother with pleasantries or small talk, diving straight into the issue at hand. "Is everything alright? What's wrong?"

Much to Minghao's chagrin, you bother with pleasantries. "Hey," you say back in Mandarin when he greets you. For a moment, you hesitate; like you're not quite sure which language you want to speak to Minghao in.  

"I'm sorry," you say in Korean. "Did I bother you?"  

Minghao shakes his head even if you can't see him. He's silent for a moment, mulling over his words before replying, "No. Never. You didn't bother me, xīngān."  

The words are uttered quietly, his voice soft and gentle, as if he's afraid that the volume of his own voice might somehow scare you away.  

"I finally visited a doctor for my back," you say, finally. "It's a herniated disc, and I'm being slotted in for a surgery in two days."  

His heart drops into his chest at your admission, the words feeling like a sudden weight upon him. Herniated disc.  

The words feel like a sudden strike to his heart, his mind racing with questions and concerns. "A herniated... disc," he repeats, his voice a little breathless, a little shocked, as he quickly tries to process what he'd just heard.  

He doesn't realize he's switched to Mandarin, his own words spoken in a rush. "How bad is it? What are the doctors saying?"  

You stubbornly stick to Korean, likely because it's easier to accurately relay your medical results in the same language you'd received them in. "It's not bad," you say firmly. "The operation is an open discectomy on my lower back. It will take at most an hour, and I'll only need to stay in the hospital for up to three days."  

There's a flicker of irritation in Minghao's eyes at your insistence to continue speaking in your language, frustrated at the lack of comprehension and understanding it brought. He wants to protest, to argue, to tell you to just use Mandarin— but it disappears when he hears your firm voice, when he realizes what it is you're telling him.  

An hour-long operation. Three days in the hospital. It didn't sound bad, per se, and logically, he knew that you would probably be fine. It still didn't make him worry any less.  

"What are the risks?" Minghao asks after a moment.  

Normally, he would have just looked up whatever answers he wanted, searching it up in medical databases and online articles. But, for some reason, he's suddenly terrified to hear anything other than the sound of your voice— your words, reassuring him that everything will be okay.  

"No change to the back pains," you rattle off. "A five to fifteen percent chance of a revision discectomy if the herniated disc returns. A lower chance of an unstable spine. It's— they're truly not bad risks, Hao."  

"Five to fifteen perc— no, that's not a 'truly not bad risk'," Minghao counters immediately, his voice sharp and frustrated, as if scolding a child that was being too nonchalant.  

"You— it's surgery, xīngān—" he continues in Mandarin, his tone almost pleading. "Five to fifteen percent chance— it— what if something goes wrong?"  

He feels a little bit frustrated at his sudden loss for words in both languages, as if his own limited vocabulary couldn’t express the rush of emotions that had suddenly overwhelmed him.  

"Hey," you say softly into the receiver, this time switching over to Mandarin. Because it had always been more soothing to him, more familiar in the sense that mattered. "Take a moment and breathe for me, xīngān."

There's a sense of calm that washes over him as he finally hears the change in language. He takes a deep, shuddering inhale, followed by a slow exhale, his eyes squeezed shut as he mentally counts down seconds.

Slowly, the panic, the fear he'd felt gradually starts to subside, leaving his heart and breath steadier— but not completely unbothered.

After a moment, you go on in Mandarin, calm and measured. "It's a surgery with a high success rate of sixty to ninety percent," you maintain. "I need it to address the persistent back pains, xīngān. If I don't do it now, the pain will only get worse and more of my spine could be affected."  

You pause, letting the words sink in. "These doctors are good," you go on. "They do their job well."  

Minghao takes several more slow, steady breaths as he listens, the sound of your voice alone calming him down, helping him keep his mind clear and focused. He knows you're speaking to him in Mandarin because it's easier to communicate with him this way, but he can't help but notice the subtle firmness, the reassurance in your tone.  

The statistics, the numbers, the facts— they're hard to deny, and as he takes another shaky inhale and exhale, he realizes that you're right. "Sixty to ninety percent success rate," he repeats to himself, his voice a soft murmur.  

"Sixty to ninety percent," you reaffirm. Then, in a more shy tone, you add, "I'm sorry for springing this on you. I— I just didn't know who else to call."  

He notices it then, the meekness in your words, the small hint of vulnerability in your voice. Any remaining anxiety he felt from the situation suddenly dissolves with the realization that you needed this.  

You had called him because you’d needed to hear a familiar, comforting voice, a sense of reassurance after what you'd just confessed. He swallows back his fears, his worries, any thoughts about the risk and that lingering, unpleasant feeling in his chest, because you needed him to be calm, to be steadfast.  

"Don't... Don't apologize, xīngān," he says almost immediately after. He swallows again before continuing, mentally berating himself for letting his anxiety and irrational fears take over his brain. "No, don't— I'm glad you called. I'll always pick up the phone."  

"Are you free tomorrow?" you ask tentatively. "We could grab a meal before I have to check into the hospital."  

As he hears the question, his mind immediately begins to run through his schedule for the next day.  

He knows what he should do. He knows what the logical part of his brain, the part that's in control of his rationality, is supposed to do. But when he thinks of you— of you, in the hospital, waiting to undergo a surgery (it's safe, it's a safe surgery, he chants in his brain) alone, without him—  

"I'll clear my schedule," he tells you.  

"No, you don't have to," you say quickly, falling back on Korean in an attempt to express your haste. "It's okay. We can just meet once the operation is over—"  

"I'm clearing my schedule,” he repeats, his voice firm, final. “I’m going to be there. We’re eating before the surgery, and I’m going to be at the hospital with you afterwards. I’m not letting you go to the hospital alone."  

A beat. While there are things that Minghao and you have yet to clear about the nature of your friendship, one thing stands true regardless of label.

"You're too good to me, Xu Minghao," you say softly, shifting to his mother tongue for the sake of sentiment. 

He lets the sound of your voice, the familiar language, wash over him. As it does, it soothes the anxiety that still gnaws at the corners of his mind.

"It’s…” he begins quietly, a small, almost sheepish smile forming on his lips, “not really…”

There’s a moment of silence before he sighs softly, his expression growing more earnest as he continues. “Being good to you is the easy part.”

"And it’s xīngān, not Xu Minghao," he adds quickly, and he’s sure you can hear the pout in his voice. 

It draws a laugh out of you— one that's still quiet, but a lot more genuine. A moment of levity. A brightness that only Minghao could truly give you. The sound of your laughter, even over the phone, is enough to lift his spirits, his heart swelling in his chest in relief.

"Xīngān," you amend, and your voice is just a little too fond to be friendly. 

For a moment, Minghao can convince himself that all will be alright in the world again. 

The discectomy is relatively uneventful, which can only mean that it was good. There's no way of Minghao knowing this, of course, not as he spends the entire morning in a group meeting he can't really skip.

Regardless, all the members can tell that Minghao's heart isn't really in it. That he's physically at the PLEDIS building, sure, but his mind is on you— somewhere in an operating room, under anesthesia.

Seungcheol broaches the topic carefully. "Ah, it’s their surgery today, isn’t it?" the leader asks almost too casually, to no one in particular. There's a murmur of agreement across the table of thirteen boys. Some shifty, knowing glances at Minghao.

Minghao nods in response to Seungcheol's question, his expression still entirely too… anxious. "Yeah," he replies, keeping his voice as controlled as he possibly can, even as he feels his dread build up inside of him. "I'll be going to see them, after this."

It doesn't go amiss to anyone that Minghao doesn't even bother to extend the invite to anyone else. Jun is the only one who looks vaguely miffed about it, but they're all mostly understanding of how different Minghao felt with you compared to their own concern, their own affection.

Joshua offers the next best thing. 

"I was thinking we could chip in to send flowers," he says, and there's easy assent across the group. Minghao feels a small flicker of warmth in his chest at the thought of how you'd receive these messages of their care and concern.

As Vernon and Jeonghan debate what arrangement to send, Jun throws a glance at Minghao and almost smiles. Almost.

"What flowers did you get them?" Jun says in Mandarin, so no one else in the room can pick up how quickly the other Chinese man had clocked that Minghao was already three steps ahead.

Minghao glances over to his friend, his expression unreadable, as he answers in the same language. "Sunflowers," he replies, not missing a beat.

Jun can only smile faintly at Minghao's answers. "Sunflowers for your sunshine," Jun teases good-naturedly, still in the tongue that none of the other members will understand.

There's something about the way the Mandarin word for 'sunshine'— yángguāng— that sounds just so right. The Chinese term falls from the older man's lips like a blessing, a wish for good luck and health and goodness for all those involved. 

Minghao isn't sure if he'd imagined it, not exactly, but he sees the way Jun looks at him right after he says the word. For a split second, Minghao's chest tightens, his throat clenching up, because maybe Jun thinks his feelings for you are obvious.

Maybe Jun thinks he's been obvious all this time. In his head, Minghao had already been thinking it— yángguāng, sunshine, mine— And it's only now that he realizes that he was never the only one who saw it that way. That saw you and Minghao as something inevitable. 

He glances at Jun, eyes softening, filled with almost a wave of gratitude.

"Sunflowers for my sunshine," he repeats, hoping it will somehow manifest like a prophecy. 

You wake up after your operation with one less disc in your spine and one too many floral arrangements in your hospital room. As you blink against the vestiges of your anesthesia, you register the absurd, almost comical amount of flowers piled on the couch, and it doesn't take you more than a couple of seconds to realize it came from the boys.  

One of whom is dozing off in a chair next to you. You watch with mild amusement as Minghao's head dips in his restless slumber, his fingers still surprisingly firm around the bouquet of sunflowers in his lap. The affection you feel for him then threatens to overwhelm you.  

You manage to tamp it down in favor of gently prompting, "Minghao."  

Your voice is still hoarse, still a little rough around the edges. Not quite enough to rouse him from his sleep. After two or so more attempts, you go for what you know will wake him up.  

"Xīngān," you call out with no shortage of fondness.  

The sound of your voice jolts Minghao awake, and he opens his eyes in an instant. For a moment, his vision is still blurry, the world around him seeming almost vague, fuzzy with sleep, but then it snaps into focus when he sees you.

When he sees you awake, alive, and looking at him. His heart does somersaults in his chest.

"Yángguāng," he answers, his voice low, soft and affectionate, barely above a whisper.

"That's a new one," you say in Mandarin; your voice is still scratchy, but your amusement is not any less evident.    

He thinks he'll never get tired of watching that. Of watching your lips move that way. "You like it?" Minghao asks.  

He doesn't need an answer to his question, because he already knows that you do— but he can't help himself, needing the confirmation, needing to hear your answer. The thought of calling you 'sunshine' isn't a new one, but saying it out loud to you for the first time, when you're awake? It feels like a miracle.  

"I could live with it," you answer with a soft smile— even though both Minghao and you knew that you would now never be able to live without it.  

Minghao wants to laugh at the way you shrug his question off, at the way you seem so nonchalant, even as you give him that sweet, sweet smile that is so bright that it could rival the very sun itself.  

Because he knows the truth. He knows you're happy about it. He knows you love it. He can tell it in the way you're looking at him, in the way your eyes glitter with affection.  

"I'm glad," he answers, playing right into your charade because he knows every little trick in your book.  

And then, in a fit of bravery— one that he almost feels like applauding himself for— he leans in to press a kiss to your temple.  

When he pulls away, the bouquet of sunflowers still clutched in his hands, he's sure he can see it. The happiness in your eyes. The sheer, blinding affection in your smile.  

"Thank you," you whisper earnestly. Partly because your voice is still shot; partly because you don't trust yourself to speak any louder. "For coming to see me."  

He has to swallow hard to regain control of his emotions, because he is so terribly, terribly in love. He laughs under his breath because he's not sure what to do about his feelings anymore. Maybe it's best to just throw himself off the cliff and see what happens, right?  

"I'll always come see you," he answers, instead, making a promise for the future.  

He leans in again with that thought on his mind, and he presses another kiss to your temple, softer, longer, his lips lingering against your skin for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary.  

He pulls away to meet your gaze, and he almost feels like laughing at the way he can see his feelings reflecting in your eyes, shining in the pools of your irises. He loves you, he loves you, he loves you. How is he going to live with that?  

Minghao leans in again, but this time, he kisses the corner of your lips, right where your smile is.  

And it's astounding, really, just how terrible Minghao and you still are at this whole thing. Despite all the years between you, you still falter and stumble in getting your feelings across.  

There was always something. A job to do. A reputation to uphold. And now, a hospital bed, a recovery period.  

But, for once, you can only laugh breathlessly as Minghao gives you two more kisses, as you feel the upward curve of his lips against your face. Your heart stutters at the peck on the corner of your mouth; it's not quite what you both want, what you both need, but you'll take it. God, you'd take it.  

"Stop that," you try to chide in between your giggles. "Get off me, Hao—"

The sound of you laughing is like a revelation in Minghao's chest. As if a chord of tension that had been strung taut within him for so long had been cut.

He pulls back with a look of satisfaction on his face, that teasing grin playing on his lips as he does. "But why?" he asks in an absolutely, unbearably sweet tone, a tone that is laced with faux innocence, even though he knows why. You were recovering. You had to be careful.

A part of him is almost glad he hadn't kissed you properly. Because if he so much as feels the softness of your lips against his, he's not sure he'll be able to stop.

But God, does that make him want it even more— the fact that he can't, the fact that you're so close and still beyond his grasp. He forces himself to look elsewhere then and his gaze falls to the bouquet on his lap, to the flowers he'd brought you.

Sunflowers, because he doesn't think they make flowers that even compare to the brightness of your smile, or the way your eyes glitter when you laugh— at least, not flowers that make him think of you and you alone.

He holds the bouquet out to you. "Do you like them?" he can't help but laugh. He had chosen them and bought them for you, and yet, in true Minghao fashion, he finds himself still asking for your approval.

"I love them," you say easily, readily, already reaching out to take the arrangement from Minghao. 

Three sunflowers in full bloom, flanked by chamomile and irises and baby's-gypsophila. Your smile is bright and wide as you look down at it, as you hold it delicately. 

When you look back up at Minghao, there's that touch of amusement again. That tinge of disbelief that seems to wordlessly communicate, I can't believe you.  

"You didn't have to," you point out with a low chuckle, shifting slightly in your hospital bed as your fingers go imperceptibly tighter around his flowers. "But thank you."  

The sight of the smile on your face is enough to almost make him want to kiss you all over again.  

It's not the first time he'd given you an arrangement of flowers, but it's the first time it's made Minghao feel like he's just given you his heart, too.  

"No, I didn't," he agrees lightly, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, the very tips of his fingers brushing against your soft skin. But I wanted to.

The boys all come to visit, one after the other. In small groups, in age order, until they have to be kicked out for being too noisy and potentially drawing too much attention to themselves. There are doctors, too, and nurses. All of whom are a little shell shocked at the idols just milling about in your hospital room, making themselves at home.  

Throughout it all, Minghao stays. His usual quiet, steadfast presence. He absorbs all the diagnoses; he tells off his members when they get overwhelming. And, when no one's looking, he'll squeeze your hand or press his fingers into your shoulder.  

As always, there are some things neither of you have to say out loud.  

He's more than happy to play the role of your protector, even as he continues to worry, even as he's filled with dread over the possibility of you not recovering fully and what that might mean.  

See, Minghao would never describe himself as a man of prayer. He doesn't go to temples nearly as often as he should, though he does go often, and he doesn't consider himself not spiritual.  

He finds himself praying anyway. To the universe and whatever is out there, begging for the chance that all of this would work out for you.  

But for now, at this moment, all Minghao can do is wait, and focus on the way your hand feels in his— a source of comfort in and of itself.  

That's how your mother finds you, actually, on the evening that she deigns to visit.  

Minghao is at your bedside, playing with your fingers, and the two of you are debating over something trivial— the merits of adapting dramas into other languages— with your heads bent together. It would've been negligibly friendly if it weren't for the obvious affection in your petty argument, the way you practically lean into each other's touch.  

That's why it takes a moment for either of you to register that a third person had entered your hospital room. You look up at the sound of a throat clearing, and you're just about to apologize when you register who the silver-haired woman by the entryway is.  

Your spine goes rigid; your eyes, imperceptibly wide. "Eomma," you choke out in a slightly strangled whisper.  

Minghao goes still the moment the word leaves your lips, and his mouth goes dry when he registers the figure at the door. He doesn't exactly know what kind of a relationship the two of you had, but Minghao can only hope, for the sake of politeness and respect, that she doesn't despise him.  

"Hello," he says weakly, his hand tightening almost protectively around yours in a silent gesture of support before he finally rises to greet her. He bows respectfully, clearing his throat to greet your mother appropriately.  

Your mother's scrutinizing gaze flickers over Minghao— everything from his polite bow to the way he had just been holding your hand, moments prior. When she speaks, it's in garbled Korean; there's a hint of a French accent, one that doesn't quite match her Seoul dialect.  

"There's no need for that," your mother tells Minghao, referring to his bow. She's aiming for kindness but comes off, still, as cold. It must come with the nature of her profession; you had once mentioned that your parents were diplomats.   

Minghao forces himself to stay calm and composed, even as the fear of how your mother may react to him sets in the pit of his stomach. He nods his head, but he doesn't quite dare to look her in the eye  

"I'm Xu Minghao, ma'am. I'm here to offer some company," Minghao tries to explain, though he's not sure he's doing the best job of it.  

There's a flicker of recognition on your mother's composed expression. The look of recognition in your mother's eyes puts Minghao slightly at ease, but that doesn't quite erase the nervous tension, the anxiety that thrums against the underside of his very skin.  

"Xu Minghao," she repeats, and you let out a groan when she sounds just a little amused despite her stoic demeanor.  

He waits, just about holding his breath as your mother comes further into the room, stopping in front of the two of you. Minghao shifts awkwardly in his spot, glancing over to you just about nervously, as if waiting for you to take charge of the situation.  

"Eomma," you repeat. This time your voice is a lot more level. You try to ignore the way Minghao seems absolutely scared shitless at your side. "When did you fly in?"  

There's a detached casualness to your mother's response, almost more like you're colleagues than family. "Just this morning," she says. "I'm staying at your grandparents’ for now."  

You dip your head into a nod. There's a pause.  

"Minghao is a member of SEVENTEEN," you say, sounding just slightly resigned at having to remind your mother.  

The older woman turns her gaze back to Minghao, her eyebrows raised slightly. "I'm aware," she says coolly, an edge of amusement in her tone. When she refers to you, she sticks to your full name instead of your nickname. "How is it working with my child, Minghao?"  

"They’re wonderful," Minghao answers without hesitation, his answer almost coming out a little too fast.  

He doesn't bother to temper it back, because that's how he feels— and because he believes that your mother needs to know how he feels about working with you, about being around you.  

"Kind," he adds after a moment of pause, looking back over to you, just about begging to be given permission to continue, to gush about you.  

You look straight back at Minghao, barely resisting the urge to vehemently shake your head. You know him. You know how he wants to say more, would probably talk hours and hours about your role as an interpreter if you gave him the green light.  

As you attempt to wordlessly communicate with him through your pointed glare, your mother watches the exchange with growing amusement. Then, just as you always have whenever you wanted to get Minghao talking more—  

"I would hope they were kind," your mother says, though she says the words in Mandarin.  

When your mother speaks in Mandarin, Minghao can't help the rush of gratitude that floods through him, because that only means one thing— that it was okay, that he was encouraged to say more. And so, he does, a small smile on his lips.  

"Kind, thoughtful, patient," he says softly, almost like a litany. "Always on top of things. Brilliant."  

There was something about talking about you in his own language that made everything come so much easier to Minghao. "They make us all look bad," he adds with a soft laugh, though there's a hint of truth behind the words. He means it.  

You made him want to be better to you, more worthy of you, and not just as a person, either. As a man, too.  

You stare up at Minghao, exasperated at how a simple change in language had suddenly gotten him so honest. "You shouldn't say all that—" you hiss at him.  

As you go on to tell off Minghao under your breath and he only looks down at you with that completely smitten expression, your mother puts two and two together. One doesn't have to be in the same room as the two of you for too long to recognize it.  

Ah, the older woman thinks to herself. They're in love with each other, and they don't even know it.  

The expression on Minghao's face as you scold him would be better described as that of a puppy who doesn't quite understand what he'd done wrong. His eyebrows furrow, and as you continue to hiss under your breath, he looks like he simply wants to reach out and pull you into a hug because he can't stand it when you fuss over him.  

But he settles for squeezing your fingers once more, his grip tightening, just enough to ground himself when you don't seem to relent in your quiet berating.  

After a moment, your mother clears her throat again. It's a habit of hers that immediately gets you to shut up.  

"I just wanted to drop by," she says vaguely, switching back to Korean. "But I really must get going. Duty calls."  

"Duty calls," you echo quietly, and your mother's gaze softens imperceptibly.  

"I'll be back later tonight," she reassures you. Her gaze flickers to Minghao for a moment before returning to you. "I trust that you'll be in good hands until then."  

"Eomma," you huff, and your mother looks like she almost might laugh.  

Minghao stays still as he watches you interact with your mother, as he watches her gaze flicker back and forth between the both of you. He can't help the slight smile on his face at the look in your mother's eyes, however, because it's almost like approval.  

She turns to Minghao, this time. Gives him a once-over. He's jolted when your mother suddenly speaks French. It's not anything Minghao will understand— just a brief sentence that is meant for you and you alone. It's almost impertinent; the words are anything but.

Your smile widens and you respond in the same language.  

Your mother gives Minghao a nod. "Goodbye, Minghao," she says in Korean as she takes her leave. "It was a pleasure to meet you."  

Minghao is left looking at you, still holding on to your hand. His eyes flicker down to your smile, a grin of his own blossoming on his lips. "What did you say to each other?" he asks, almost immediately pouting.  

He won't admit it, but he feels almost jealous. The feeling tides over when you absentmindedly note, "It was nothing."    

The smile on Minghao's face turns soft and he squeezes your hand for good measure, still watching your face even as you slump back against your bed.  

"You're a terrible liar, y'know." He raises your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss against your knuckles. "You know I can read you, right?"  

"She asked me if I agreed with the meaning of your name," you say point blank. "And I said yes. Of course."  

Minghao pauses, his lips still at your knuckles as he absorbs your words.  

He knows what his name means. He's heard it enough in his lifetime. As far as names were concerned, he always considered himself lucky for the fact that he's got a pretty decent one.  

Ming, 明, which meant bright and brilliant. Hao, 浩, which meant grand and vast. Minghao— someone bright, brilliant, vast like the sky.  

But to hear you say it back to him like this? It feels like a revelation. Like you're giving him a gift, something that he can hold on to.  

"Of course," he repeats reverently, his heart a steady thump, thump, thump in his chest.

The subsequent recovery period is a slow crawl. Minghao fusses more often than not. He ensures you're on top of things— physical therapy, check-ups— and is extra careful about anything that might involve your back.  

Even as you're given the go-ahead to return to work, he frets, having read through one too many articles about the risks of having a discectomy. How strenuous labor and contact sports are still off the table for the foreseeable future. How, now, four weeks after the surgery, you still ought to be careful with routine activities.  

It's as endearing as it is vaguely irksome, especially on instances such as these. The rest of the staff avert their gazes and try not to laugh. The boys look like they're most definitely going to give you grief later on.  

Because Minghao is still adamantly carrying your things as you all head to a shooting location for the newest Going Seventeen episode.  

"Hao," you say through gritted teeth, right at Minghao's heels as he lugs around your duffel bag. "I told you, I can carry that!"  

Despite the slight exasperation in your voice, Minghao can't hide the way the corners of his lips tug into a smile.  

He knows exactly what he's doing and he knows how it makes you feel. But he can't help himself; it's too easy to wind you up. "It's heavy," Minghao insists, despite the fact that it's not that heavy, or that he doesn't actually believe that it is.  

He’s just being a slight nuisance on purpose, something he does often to get your attention.  

"It's not heavy," you seethe, taking extra steps to keep up with Minghao's lithe strides. He’s leading you to one of the company buses that would take all the members and the staff to today's shooting location— some beachside AirBnB along Sokcho.  

"I packed it, for Christ's sake. I know it's not heavy," you insist helplessly, reaching out one hand to tug at the back of Minghao's shirt.  

He's always like this, pushing and prodding and annoying you to get reactions out of you because he finds it amusing. It's been such a long time since you last properly scolded him, and oh, how he wants you to do it again.  

He stops in his tracks, forcing you to either halt in yours or bump into him. When he pauses, your feet keep moving on their own accord. Your face smashes right into Minghao's back.  

Immediately, your hand that had been grasping his shirt flies to your face. You clutch the bridge of your nose— feeling a slight sting there, following the impact— as you mumble a low chorus of "ow, ow, ow, what the hell..."  

The moment your face smashes into his back, Minghao finds himself doubling over in laughter, his frame shaking as he braces against his knees. The look of pure disbelief on your face is probably one of the funniest things he's seen all week, and the laughter that bubbles up out of his chest is unrestrained and free.  

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" he apologizes, his voice wavering in between laughter as he slowly tries to regain his composure. "Are you... are you alright? Does it hurt? Is it broken?"  

"You're insufferable," you huff before stomping ahead of him, making it a point to bump your shoulders against his as you make a beeline for the bus.  

Minghao only continues to chuckle, shaking his head as he follows after you, his laughter never once dissipating. By the time he reaches the bus, he's still smiling, completely unable to hide the way he keeps grinning.  

Much to Minghao's chagrin, however, you exact your revenge in the smallest way possible: By settling into a seat next to Mingyu, who's always more than a little willing to jump on Minghao's nerves when given the chance.  

"Sorry, Hao," Mingyu sing-songs, his eyes sparkling with mirth. "But I'm calling dibs for the next two hours. There's an empty seat next to Jun, though!"

Minghao only rolls his eyes, clearly slightly miffed at the way you'd just abandoned him for Mingyu in a heartbeat.

He finds his way to Jun's side, plopping down on the seat next to the other boy with an overdramatic, exaggerated sigh. "He snatched her away from me, ge," he whines, glancing back over to you with that same pout still on his face.

"You made her bump into you, Haohao," Jun points out with another roll of his eyes, shaking his head, though there was still a slight curl on the corners of his lip.

"I'm just having fun! You could at least sympathize with me.” There's no seriousness behind Minghao's complaint. It's a tone of complete and utter playfulness, and that only deepens Minghao's smile as he leans back in his chair.

The bus ride drags on, slow and careful, with Mingyu and you chatting about menial things. At one point, he slumps against your side to fall asleep on your shoulder, and you doze off with your cheek pressed to the top of his head. Seokmin takes a photo for posterity purposes.

Jun and Minghao watch from a couple of seats behind, and for a moment, Jun is contemplative.

It's a conscious choice for Jun to slide into Mandarin. The only other person in the bus who might understand it would be you, and you’re knocked out cold. That means the words are for Minghao alone.

"How much do you like them, Haohao?"

The switch in language catches Minghao's attention, especially when he hears the seriousness in Jun's voice. It's enough for him to pause, lifting his head up from where he'd had his chin resting against his knees.

"Too much, I think," he finally answers, with just a slight hint of hesitation.

It's not because he's ashamed, but because he's never been the kind of person to be so open about these type of feelings before. He's not even sure he knows how, sometimes.

"There's no going back now," Jun says, reaching out to lightly nudge Minghao's hip with his own. There's a slight look of concern in his eyes, but he speaks carefully, keeping his voice low as he continues.

"You might be in too deep," Jun continues, his voice a low murmur as he adds. "But I think... if the way they look at you is any indication, they’re right there with you."

The smile that spreads across Minghao's face is blinding, despite the way he turns his gaze down to his shoes. He can't help it— not when his heart is beating fast against his chest, at the idea of you feeling the same way that he does.

He wants it to be true, more than he's ever wanted something to be true in his entire life.

"I should hope so," he says, in an attempt at being flippant, but the way his voice sounds? It would give him away instantly.

When the company bus eventually rolls up onto a gravelly parking lot, the sight beyond the vehicle is one to behold. Sprawling, white sand beaches with glittering waters. The boys are still supposed to film some content, do some challenges, but the prospect of being in somewhere so pretty has significantly boosted everyone's spirits.

Wonwoo rouses Mingyu and you from your sleep. Mingyu chatters aimlessly at your side, only pausing when Minghao comes up to you; of course, the older boy can't resist one last jab.

In full view of Minghao, Mingyu does an infuriating shaka sign in front of his face and mouths 'call me, jagiya', completely unwarranted. It draws a proper snort of laughter out of you. 

"Stop it," Minghao whines as he reaches out to pinch Mingyu, though there's no real heat behind his voice. He doesn't even try to hide that smile on his face, not when he catches the way you laugh.

He can't look away from you once he sets his eyes on you. He's never been able to.

He just hopes that you can't tell exactly how in love he is. Because how is he supposed to tell you he's fallen hard?

The day at the shore flies by faster than any of them expect it to, but in the end, the filming is finally over.

By the time the staff tells them they're finished, the sky is painted in beautiful shades of orange, pink, and purple. It only adds to Minghao's already good mood, especially when he gets the chance to steal you back from Mingyu and get you all to himself.

When filming wraps up and the cameramen all begin to pack their material, the boys take it as a go-ahead to treat the rest of the late afternoon as a beach day.

You smile, mostly to yourself, as they break off— to take photos, to go for a swim, to explore the private beach. All the while, you try to maintain your focus on your laptop, your practiced fingers moving across your keyboard.  

It's why you're initially oblivious to Minghao's stealthy approach.  

Minghao lingers behind for a moment, watching you work. He's already gotten changed, his clothes swapped with swim trunks and a simple black tank top.  

He knows better than to bother you while you're working, and so— to your oblivious self— he's content to stand by and simply watch until you're done. After another moment, his expression softness as he sees how your brow furrows in concentration. Minghao steps in a little closer, one hand coming up to gently ruffle your hair.  

He almost doesn't want you to get back to work and instead considers pulling you up so you can go for a swim with him. He does no such thing, though, settling for patting your cheek once before pulling his hand away.  

You briefly glance up from your laptop so you can flash him a ghost of a smile. There's something to be said about the ways you often communicate without words, how easy it is to just understand.  

You dip your head, give a wave of your hand, turn your gaze back to your laptop. A silent, speechless Go ahead, I'll follow.  

It's like there's nothing he's not feeling right then— just happiness at seeing a smile, and the way that it feels like there's no secrets between the two of you.  

He reaches out to gently pat your cheek once more, his hand lingering for a moment before he pulls away again, turning to make his way out of the tent, the grin on his face still ever-present.  

By the time you're done with your work and changed into some proper swimwear, most of the boys and the staff are already in the water. It's in moments like these when you're reminded why you've stayed with PLEDIS for so long— the ways you're allowed to interact, to just be, when there's no cameras on, no job to do.  

You linger by the shoreline for a beat too long. Before you know it, you're being swept off your feet. Your shriek of surprise pierces across the beach as Jun easily throws you over one shoulder, his hand respectfully bracing the part of your back where there's still marks from your surgery.  

"Sorry, tàiyáng," Jun cheekily says in Mandarin as he rushes the two of you into the water, eliciting laughs from everyone else. He sends you hurtling into the ocean as you scream bloody murder, but you're laughing, still, as you go down.  

Minghao is laughing from where he's standing near the shore, still waist-deep in the water. He'd heard you scream, but the second he hears the sound of your laugh he knows you're fine. Instead of rushing to his feet and out of the ocean, he just stays where he is, the smile on his face never faltering.

The sound of your laughter is only made better by the way the sunlight dances off the water, reflecting off its shimmering surface like diamonds.

He watches as you resurface, your wet hair in your face as you gasp for breath, your face bright with a smile, and he can't help the way he feels himself falling, falling, falling.

He wants to swim over and make sure you're alright, but he knows that Jun won't let anything happen to you. All Minghao does is watch, his grin wide and bright, his eyes never leaving you. He's completely smitten, and right now, the others are just going to have to deal with him being even more of an insufferable, lovestruck fool.

The next couple of moments drag on with light-hearted rough housing, with idle splashing and lazy swimming, until Jun has somehow maneuvered you and him towards where Minghao is in the water.

Jun, behind your back, throws his best friend a conspiratorial wink.

Minghao knows that he can be obvious to an almost comical degree when he's in over his head in his feelings for you, but Jun winking is an entirely different story, and he's already a little wary as Jun brings the two of you over in his direction. 

Even still, nothing could prepare him for the sight of you soaked from head to toe, the water shimmering on your skin in the sunlight as you near him.

Oh, he's screwed, and he's pretty sure Jun and the others know that.

So he does the only thing he can think of.

Minghao dips under the surface of the water and disappears, ducking under the water for a few seconds before he comes back up just behind you, and reaches out to tickle your sides. If he's going to be an idiot and fall all over you, he might as well try and cover it up with a little bit of playfulness.

"Yah, don't do that!" you cry, already rounding in a futile attempt to stop Minghao. You weren't particularly ticklish, but something about the cool water and the warm breeze has you feeling more sensitive than necessary. Breathless laughter escapes you as you try to capture Minghao's wrists, to stop him from his actions.  

Jun quietly pads away with the pleased air of someone having done his job well. Some of the other boys share knowing glances— like they know they ought to intervene— but it's Seungcheol who shakes his head, who wordlessly calls everyone off.  

The leader, telling his members in the most subtle way, Let Minghao have this.  

There are words Minghao wants to say when you reach for his wrists to stop his actions, to ask if you want to join him in diving under the water with him, but words have never been his strong suit.  

No, it's actions that are his strength. And so, instead of asking if you'd like to join him, Minghao does just that, wrapping his arms around your waist and ducking the both of you under the water, the salt in the water stinging his eyes a bit as he opens them briefly beneath the surface.  

And then he brings you back up for air, the look on his face almost triumphant as he laughs, shaking his head to rid himself of the water that's plastered all over his hair and face.  

When you emerge, you laugh in between gasps for air, and instinctively reach up to push aside the wet strands of hair sticking to Minghao's face. "Look at you," you say disapprovingly, but you're betrayed by the pure, unadulterated adoration in your tone.  

"You love this look on me, xīngān," he insists, with that same wide grin on his face.  

And, well, he's not wrong. He can see the way your gaze lingers on his face, even as you scold him and ruffle his wet hair teasingly.  

It makes him wonder what it'd be like if all the what-ifs were real, if this was a relationship rather than an almost. He's almost afraid to wish for it. As if wanting it too much might break it.  

Minghao likes the way that you press close to him, and he keeps his arm wrapped snugly around your waist as you talk and laugh and joke with the others.  

It almost feels right, the way you're there next to him. Even though this isn't a relationship, the way that you slot right next to him is comforting because it almost makes what isn't feel more like what it could be.  

He wants the taste of you to be something more than just a taste. He wants more than a simple bite.

And so, that's how he finds himself suggesting that the two of you go on a walk together once the sun starts to set. There's a slight flush to his cheeks as he asks the question, a shy little smile on his face as he murmurs it.

He wants a chance to be alone with you. He thinks he deserves that much, especially now, after spending the rest of the day having been teased and prodded and jabbed at by the others about his feelings for you.

"Sure," you say coolly, somehow managing to keep your voice level. "Let me just grab my stuff."  

That's how you and Minghao end up breaking off from everyone else, kicking up the sand underneath your feet as you go. There's a couple of jeers here and there; Seungcheol warns you both to be back before dark.  

You take it in stride as you go on ahead, your shoulders just barely brushing. Like you're absolutely helpless to the pull of gravity that tries to keep you together.  

Once the other boys are out of sight, out of earshot, Minghao finds himself growing slightly less shy as you walk side by side, the two of you headed for a small cliffside pathway.  

His gaze is drawn to you rather quickly— to the way the ocean breeze makes your hair blow about, the way you almost shine when the sunlight hits you. The way your hand is so tantalizingly close. His own almost aches to reach out and take yours.  

"You know," he says instead, his lips quirking up into a little cheeky grin that makes his dimple show when he sees the path lined with flowers. Some of them blooming, some small clusters of white blooms scattered around the cliffside.  

Minghao plucks one of the blooms from its plant and tucks it into your hair so it's just behind your ear. He has to focus to not notice the way his fingers skim your cheek, and God, you're so close.  

"I think you look pretty like this," he says, and the words are whispered out like a confession. He picks another of the blooms, and offers it to you, his smile bright, genuine. "Take it. For good luck, maybe."  

When he extends to you one of the white blooms with that gorgeous, dimpled grin, you chuckle quietly. You take the flower. You hold it in your fingers for just a beat.  

And then you stand on your tiptoes to mimic Minghao's action— tucking the bloom right above his ear.  

"You're all the good luck that I need, xīngān," you say laughingly, in Minghao's mother tongue.  

Minghao melts, his lips parting in the slightest as he stares at you like you're a vision, like you're something to worship. He's already far too gone on. The moment he feels your fingertips against his skin, he decides he'll never be able to get over you, not if it takes him years to try to do it.  

There, the two of you stand, looking at each other with an unspoken, shared admiration, standing in front of a cliffside that overlooks the ocean with the sun setting against it, the horizon all burning shades of amber and orange and red.  

This is a moment that Minghao won't forget, and he takes your hand in his, slowly interlacing your fingers together to see if you'll let him.  

Just to know that there's a little bit of a chance that his dreams could come true, someday.  

Your fingers find purchase in the spaces between Minghao's, slotting there as if it was something meant to be. As if the two of you might have the right.  

For a beat, neither of you really say anything as you look out to the glittering expanse of ocean, the sun setting right beneath the horizon. It's a little too picture perfect.  

Exactly the reason why neither Minghao nor you dare to verbalize whatever this is, whatever you've been dancing around for years and years. Minghao wants to tell you everything, tell you that he loves you, maybe get down on his knees and kiss your hands, ask you to be his and to let him be yours.  

But he stays there. Silent. Holding your hand by your side.

When you head back to everyone— where food is being served for the members and the staff— there's a bit of an exaggerated welcome from all sides. The boys all jeer, and the staff give you side-eyes, but you only shake your head slightly as you peel away from Minghao's side.  

The words stay unspoken. The red thread of fate, the one that Minghao so firmly believes in, draws out for another moment more.  

As you go to shoot back some drinks with your team, Mingyu sidles up to Minghao's side. The older man presses a sweating bottle of beer into Minghao's hand.  

"Still not tonight, huh?" Mingyu asks with no shortage of amusement.  

The beer in his hand is cold enough that it would be a little uncomfortable to hold onto if Minghao weren't so used to it, but he simply wraps his fingers around the bottle and takes a half-hearted sip from it.  

His lips purse as he hears Mingyu's question, a frown crossing his face.  

"No. We didn't talk about anything," he says, somewhat regretfully, because tonight just felt like it could have been the right night to say something. To finally admit how he feels, to finally ask what he wants to ask.  

And maybe you would deny him, tell him that you just wanted to be his friend, but he'd take it. He'd take anything if it meant he could stay in your life—  

Or maybe you'd even say yes, and he could finally have a chance to prove himself to you.  

"Are you going to try again tomorrow?" Mingyu asks, taking a sip of his own beer, his eyebrows raising a little.  

Another sigh falls from Minghao's lips and he nods, his gaze softening as he looks in your direction, watching you smile in spite of the way he aches to be by your side.  

"Of course I'm going to try again tomorrow," he whispers, and he'll do that for the rest of his life if he has to.  

The night drags on with everyone getting progressively more drunk. Soonyoung is reduced to tears at one point, while Seungkwan puts on an enthusiastic, one-man performance of Aju Nice. 

And maybe Minghao drinks a little more than he usually does, partly because Mingyu and Jun take advantage of the fact that it's a rare thing for them to be drinking with you within the vicinity.  

Minghao's best friends are menaces who want to see what type of drunk he is, who want to see how it will affect the way he approaches you. He's always been quiet when he's drunk— the type of drunk with a slight permanent blush to his cheeks, with a lazy grin on his face, with thoughts too slurred or in Mandarin for most of the boys to understand.  

And tonight was no different, with his face flushed from alcohol and his words so slurred that all Mingyu and Jun can pick up is the word pretty over and over, along with a couple of other words in Mandarin. But he's always been honest when he's drunk— almost too much so.  

Jun is a bit stressed having to play interpreter for Minghao's drunken ramblings, but it's all worth it when Mingyu tosses his head back with raucous laughter at every word spilling from Minghao's lips, interpreted by Jun.  

"This is too much," Jun whines once the three of them have worked through a significant amount of soju. A glassy-eyed Mingyu nods in agreement, though neither of them are as bad as the notoriously lightweight Minghao.  

"Haohao, are you going to go up to her or what?" Mingyu teases.  

Another slurred word in Mandarin falls from Minghao's lips upon hearing that, his eyebrows knitting together for a moment as he pouts at Mingyu.

It's almost comical to see, to hear Minghao's usually soft and lilting voice falter, all while his cheeks stay a soft pink and his hair is a mess from how he's been running his hand through it.

The thought of approaching you makes his stomach churn, but he knows that he will. After this next shot. Just one more drink.

"Ge, you said you'd only drink one," Jun murmurs, a bit of concern seeping in his tone as he sees Minghao grab shakily yet another shot glass of soju.

Of course, he ignores their warnings for the moment as he downs the shot, his face growing pinker as he shakes his head and pushes himself to his feet.

It takes him a moment to gain his footing, his legs a little wobbly from alcohol, but he gets it. Mingyu laughs so hard that tears come out of his eyes. Jun, distressed, shoots back some more alcohol.

Minghao's vision is a little blurry, but you're just within his sight. And so, with Jun and Mingyu watching from behind, he makes his way towards you.

He's got a lopsided grin on his face, his cheeks a little pink, and he thinks he must be in love in a moment like this.

"Xīngān," he slurs, a slight hiccup following the word as he stops in front of you, his vision still a little fuzzy. He raises his hand to gently rub the back of his neck, his tone a little softer— and a bit more earnest— as he murmurs his invitation. “Can we talk for a minute?”

"Hey, you," you greet, readjusting the flower that he'd placed behind your ear. "Having fun?"  

Minghao shakes his head, his lips parting to say no only to dissolve back into soft little hiccupping giggles instead. Of course he's having fun— how could he not, when his love is right there, and he gets to see you smiling and laughing and tipsy yourself?  

He stumbles forward, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and pulling you in, his free hand coming up to your face as he squishes your cheeks and gives you a bright, gummy smile. "Are you having fun, xīngān?" he asks.  

"I'm having fun, Hao," you concede laughingly, resting your other hand at his waist to keep yourself steady. It's— once again— a position that implicates you a little more than it should, but everyone's varying levels of drunk anyway.  

This isn't the drunk Minghao, exactly, that everyone has seen. This is the one he so rarely allows anyone to witness, the one who gets clingy and a little emotional. He's usually much more capable of keeping his composure, even with alcohol loosening his tongue and his inhibitions, but he just can't manage to focus on anything but you tonight.

"Come run away with me," he murmurs. He tugs you against his side again, a little less carefully this time. He wants the closeness, tonight, as he leads the two of you over to the chairs loosely surrounding a warm bonfire.  

It's mostly the other boys here— Joshua and Vernon practicing an acoustic guitar, Jihoon chatting with the co-producer everyone knew he had a bit of a thing for. They all watch with mild amusement as Minghao drunkenly stumbles over to one of the chairs, single-minded in his ambition of sharing a single seat.  

He plops down onto the chair, tugging you right into his lap. He's so close to you then, his lips next to your ear as he wraps his arms snug around your waist, his legs on either side of you, pressing you close against him.  

"I missed you," he murmurs, and the words are slurred, warm on the shell of your ear as he presses his face into the crook of your neck and exhales softly for a moment.  

He's drunk. And in love. And that's a dangerous combination.  

You press your fingers into Minghao's knee, your shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. "How could you miss me?" you whisper back. "I was right there the whole night, xīngān."  

He shakes his head, burying his face into the crook of your neck, mumbling softly. "You were far," he pouts, his words a little more garbled than before. He has no sense of personal space right now, with you pressed so close against him, and he's more prone to whine to get his way. 

He wants this. He wants you close. He wants you. 

"Is that so?" you say sympathetically, the words coming out almost like a coo. "You have me now, though." 

"I'm never letting you go," he responds.  

There's still an almost childish part of him that thinks if he says it, like this, with you wrapped up in his arms, with your face flushed from alcohol, that maybe you'll stay by his side.  

He just has one question that he wants an answer for.  

"Will you hold my hand," his words are slurred, his fingers tracing along the small of your back, up, down, back up again, "and look at the moon with me?"

Wordlessly, you reach for his hand at the small of your back and you thread your fingers together. You keep your intertwined hands over your thigh as you lean just a little further into Minghao until he's pressed against the back of the chair and you're practically lying on top of him.  

It's easier, this way, for you to tilt your head back and do exactly as he asked. "Moon," you point out with your free hand, the word coming out in Mandarin. Yuèliàng. "It's a crescent moon tonight, see?"  

With his arm securely around your waist, he presses closer still to look at the moon together, his words still a stammer as he murmurs, "Yeah. Just like us."  

The words have no logic, not when he's drunk and soft and clingy like this. But he's still happy with it.  

"Just like us?" you echo, and you briefly wonder if you're just a little too tipsy; if you'd missed a chapter or two about how you could be compared to the waxing crescent. Your eyebrows furrow in mild confusion, though you quickly realize there's no point in worrying your head when you could just ask.  

"I'm the moon, and you're the flower," he declares, with all the confidence of his own drunken logic, his eyes falling to look at the flower still tucked behind your ear. He reaches up a hand to brush his fingers against the side of your face. 

If not for the alcohol, he might be too shy to admit how pretty you are to him. 

"We're a matched set, xīngān," he says.   

The smile that breaks out on your face, then, is bright and wide and warm, rivaled only by the bonfire raging a couple of feet away. Your friends are still chattering amongst themselves, completely oblivious to Minghao's bold declaration.

A matched set. And you're just a little out of it, just a little drunk yourself, as you mindlessly link Minghao and your pinkies together. It's a quiet promise on its own. An assurance that this was something that could happen, would happen, at the right time.  

"My moon," you concede, calling Minghao with a breathless sort of giggle. "My moon, my xīngān, my Hao."  

"I love it when you speak Mandarin," he admits, his words warm against your temple as he presses closer still, his lips a few centimeters from your skin.  

He has too much alcohol in his system, too little a filter for his thoughts, and right now, Minghao's world consists only of you and how you look in the moonlight— like some kind of vision, like something he'd write about in a song.  

"Say it again," he instructs, his tone gentle. A request. Never a command.  

"Which part do you want me to say again?" you ask in Mandarin, because Minghao had said he loved it when you spoke in it and you'd be damned not to give in.  

It's all the same to him. The gentle words that come tumbling from your lips— he doesn't need to understand the meaning, he just wants to hear you speak. 

Because how you sound when you speak Mandarin is lovely, and Minghao can't help but lean in just a little to drink in the sound of it, his fingers tracing along the exposed skin of your upper back.  

He's never cared or loved the way he does when he's speaking Mandarin. But you, when you speak to him, it sounds like poetry.  

"Anything," he murmurs. "Just say anything."  

You tilt your head back up to the sky, where none of the usual Seoul light pollution is barring you from seeing the stars. When you see the expanse of the Big Dipper, you stick to what you know.  

A Korean myth from your yesteryears, one that he hadn’t heard of in his own childhood.  

"Once upon a time, deep in the mountains, lived a mother and her seven sons," you start softly, in Mandarin, as per Minghao's request. You tell the story almost in a whisper— the cold winter, the seven brothers, the Jade Emperor of Heaven.  

A part of you, in the language that was a part of Minghao.

As you tell the fable, the alcohol settles comfortably in Minghao’s system. He feels sobered by the fact that you’re so close, that you’re indulging him in the way that you always do. So much, he thinks again. You give me so much. 

And yet it’s not enough, still. He thinks back to the Korean phrase he once sought you out for. Intuition. Zhíjué. 

Your story is winding to a close when he decides to trust his gut, this time. His arms tighten around your waist and he buries his face into the back of your shoulder.

"I love you," he says. Wǒ ài nǐ.

You pause. He can hear the smile in your tone as you respond, "I love you, too." Wǒ yě ài nǐ. 

But, no. Minghao is done.

He won’t let this pass, won’t let miscommunication take this away from him. He has spent the better half of his twenties grasping at straws, bridging gaps in languages; this will not be another one of those things that he can’t say. He takes a fortifying breath. 

He doesn’t care if you don’t believe in soulmates. If he’s the only one who thinks there’s a red string tied between you two. He’ll subscribe to your credo of destiny. He’ll do all the work. 

"I’m in love with you," he amends. Wǒ ài shàngle nǐ.

He says it in his language, because it feels right, but then he repeats it in yours so there’s no room for you to misunderstand. It doesn’t change, anyway. Korean, Mandarin. English, Japanese. 

Minghao is helplessly, hopelessly in love with you. 

It feels like forever before you respond. 

When you do, it’s in Mandarin. "Me, too," you admit, and he peeks at you enough just to see the way you’re gazing up at the night sky. He catches the hint of the smile on your face; the sincerity of which threatens to bowl him over. 

You repeat his words— I’m in love with you— in Mandarin, then Korean, then English, then Japanese. Then all the other languages you know. 

Minghao resists the urge to tell you to stop, to tell you it’s okay. He holds you tight, laughing quietly, as he basks in what feels a lot like the beginning of something. 

It’s okay, he wants to say as you confess to him in Spanish, in Portuguese, in Italian. 

I hear you. 

I hear you loud and clear. 

[nathaslosthershit]

The Main Event (Multiple Pairings) Part 1

Can be read as a standalone but also (Part 8 in the Blind Items AU A/N: Its my nineteenth birthday 🥳 I wanted to write about adults being happy in different stages of their life because I am so scared of growing up and the thought of not being a teenager next year makes me nauseous. Enjoy! Each pairing has a Blind Items backstory which is linked at the start of their section (You don't have to read the backstory, though) Multiple (separate) Pairings: Logan Sargeant x Leclerc!reader, Oscar Piastri x reader, Charles Leclerc x reader, Lando Norris x reader, Lance Stroll x reader, Lewis Hamilton x reader, Alexander Albon x reader in the next part Summary: A wedding between Logan Sargeant and the youngest Leclerc child means a very interesting guest list, in which all previous victims of the F1 Blind Items account are included.

Oscar Piastri

“Dude, how come you are more nervous about my own wedding than I am?” Logan asked.

Oscar rolled his eyes and scoffed, pretending what the American was saying was ridiculous, as he nervously picked at his nails, trying to hide his trembling hands. Logan just laughed at his friend's failed attempt at nonchalance.

“It’s just- I’m nervous about the media inserting themselves in the events today. I mean I don’t want to have my toddlers in the spotlight any more than they already are.” Oscar explained. After being forced to reveal his kids to the world before he nor his fiancée were ready, and after just a few interviews and racing events the kids attended, Oscar didn’t want to give the media much more for the time being.

“Wow, way to make my wedding about you.” Logan teased, trying to relieve the utter look of anxiety and despair on Oscar’s face. But the Mclaren driver just shot him an unamused glare. “Look, I have told you time and time again if you don’t want them as flower girls- or kids, I’d gladly make my brother frolick down the aisle throwing petals. As much as I love my honorary niece and nephew, nothing would make me happier than making Dalton do that.”

This finally got a laugh out of Oscar. “They have been practicing too much to do that, we would be in for a shit storm if you tried to take away their time to shine.” It had been a big thing in the Piastri household for the past few months. Every second of every day, Frances and Hudson had been asking their parents questions about what weddings were like, how they should walk down the aisle, and if they had to see uncle Logan kiss his wife (they were not amused by the idea of having to see that). Not to mention the hundreds of times they forced their parents to watch how they would walk down the aisle, asking what they thought and ignoring any criticisms given to them (they saw no reason as to why they shouldn’t be allowed to dance and sing while throwing petals). 

“Then calm down. If all goes well there won’t be any media there, I mean I think we have done a pretty good job at making sure no one outside the event knows about it. Plus, no offense but there are plenty of people with far more interesting stories and scandals than your family. The tabloids are bored with y’all now that there isn’t anything new to expose.” Maybe a harsh way of putting it, but it was true, there were plenty of Formula 1 couples who had been exposed by the media for various reasons in attendance today. 

“Right. Got to say, Logan, the guestlist is impressive. I mean could you imagine telling your 13 year old self that the Lewis Hamilton would be attending your wedding?” Oscar asked. Even after a few years racing against the guy, the shock from being around him never wore off. He just had that ‘greatest of all time’ energy.

“I can’t even take the credit for much of it though. It's the bride who brought all the biggest names.” Logan rolled his eyes playfully. It was true though, his wife-to-be had made friends with all the biggest names in the world and they weren’t half assed friendships either. She could make even the tiniest of acquaintances feel like longtime companionships. She could make everyone feel so unbelievably loved and cherished in such a short time.

God he couldn’t wait to marry her. 

Oscar laughed at the lovesick grin on his friend’s face. Usually he’d tease him, but he decided maybe he should just cut the man some slack on his wedding day. 

But the urge was too great he couldn’t let Logan go unteased, before he could do so though-

“Dad! Dad! Dad! Look, me and Fran match!” Oscar’s son, Hudson, ran into the room, his sister following after him.

The two seemed to light up in their soft blue outfits.

“Don’t you two look awesome!” Logan said from behind the twins, making them turn around. “You guys look better than me on my own wedding day.”

The toddlers shouted in excitement as they ran to their favorite honorary uncle (much to Lando’s chagrin. He fought hard for that title).

“You two ready to be the stars of the show? Throwing petals ain’t easy work.” He said as he crouched down to hug the toddlers.

Oscar rolled his eyes. Leave it to Logan to make his own children completely uninterested in him. Fortunately, someone who was actually interested in him entered the room after them. His wonderful fiancée.

“You look gorgeous, honey.” Oscar said awestruck.

“You saw me in this earlier.” She deadpanned. 

“Let a man compliment his fincée, will you?” Holding her close to him, kissing her deeply. It was only when the two weren’t cut off with toddler “ewws” and “stop grossss” that they looked back at their children, currently in a… dance competition with the groom. “Glad to see how much they care for us.” Oscar sighed, feeling childish jealousy. 

“Let him entertain them, he’ll get some more practice for when he has his own kids.”

“He’s too young, honey. He is about to get married, he doesn't need to think about that right now.” Oscar scoffed, feeling offended for his children that Logan would ever dethrone his honorary niece and nephew from being his favorite kids.

“Says the man who had two kids by 18 and has been engaged twice, but not married, by 23.” Honey amused.

He blushed at the reminder that their relationship had been done a bit… backwards.

“They already have an officiant and audience, maybe we can just jump in with the bride and groom, two birds with one stone.”

“Nope! I already have two Piastri’s taking the spotlight today, I don’t need more.” Logan said while both twins climbed all over him.

Charles Leclerc (And the Leclerc Co.)

Normally, hard launching your child was not something a bride would encourage on her wedding day, but as the youngest Leclerc child, Charles’ sister loved the drama. Hence why her nephew was making his debut to the public as the ring bearer. Only a month old, the media hadn’t gotten to meet the cutie as he was born right at the start of winter break. It brought tears to his eyes, how insistent his baby sister was on having her nephew involved in her wedding. It was already an emotional day for Charles, who felt like he was losing his first baby as he walked her down the aisle and sent her off into her future, but he truly couldn’t be happier.

And doing it with his son by his side just made it all the more memorable. 

“Honey?” Charles’ girlfriend called as she popped her head into the room he was getting ready in. In her arms was their newborn who, while still so small, broke everyone’s heart at how big he was getting. “Oh, my love, are you seriously crying again?” she asked as he tried to inconspicuously wipe away his tears.

Being reminded that he had just been crying only made him start to cry more.

“Charlie, you are more emotional than I was while pregnant. What is going on with you today?”

“It is stupid, I’m sorry. It's just- it was yesterday my sister was in my arms, having just been born, and now she is getting married and the American is taking her away.”

If there was one thing the Leclerc brothers loved to do, it was make fun of their soon to be brother-in-law. They truly did love Logan, but it was so easy to pick on him and he was far too polite to try anything with them yet. If you asked them, they would say they are just treating him like the brother he is, but they also just really love how much it pissed their sister off, who will certainly be defending him. 

“Oh, sweetheart, she isn’t going anywhere. They are still going to live in Monaco, and you race with her husband almost every weekend. If anything now that they are married you will see more of her.” 

It was true. Even if the Leclerc brothers had a strict ban on dating drivers, they had to admit that their sister had found a good partner in Logan. A man who was driving alongside Charles, had been on the same team as Arthur in the past, and knew just how important and difficult the sport was on family. 

Giving her boyfriend a quick kiss on the cheek after wiping his tears from his face, Charles’ partner went on to try and fix the mess of hair that her lover was currently fighting. 

The Leclerc’s had terrible bed heads, something that unfortunately had already been seen in the first grandson, even at just a month old his hair was thick and unmanageable. 

Fortunately, Charles had calmed down enough that he was no longer a complete mess when his brothers entered the room. If Charles knew anything about his brother’s (and his sister) it was that such tears would have led to him being teased for the rest of his life about it. 

“Have you seen her?” Charles asked Enzo, hoping for any indication on how their sister was doing, having been too busy setting up for the wedding and taking care of his son to check on the bride thoroughly.

Arthur rolled his eyes, “When we tried to see her, Maman wouldn’t let us in.”

“Why? Is something wrong?” Charles’ girlfriend asked, the same level of concern in her voice displayed accross Charles’ face. 

“No, no, the bride said she wanted to have a little moment with the four of us before the wedding, so she didn’t want us to see anything before.” Enzo explained. He had understood her sentiment, Arthur… not so much.

Letting out a breath at the confirmation that nothing was wrong, Charles sat quietly while he got his hair tamed, his brothers playing with their nephew in the back.

It was a sight that almost brought tears to Pascale’s eyes, but she had already cried so much and she knew she needed to save the rest of her tears for the ceremony. Her three boys, all in different stages of their lives, all dressed up and ready to support their baby sister on her big day. 

There was a sense of love and excitement in the air, reminding her of when her daughter had first been born, her older brothers hardly able to sit still while they waited in anticipation. Though everyone was calm now, having gotten most of their childish impatience out of their system, those feelings hadn’t changed. 

“Someone wants to see you all.” She spoke up, getting the attention of her boys. Charles’ girlfriend pressed a kiss to his cheek and took their son from his uncles, wanting to give the Leclerc siblings a moment alone. 

“My goodness, you look stunning.” She said to the bride as she walked through the doorway before leaving. This made all the brother’s perk up, losing the rest of their patience as they waited to see their baby sister.

The second she stepped into the room and tears welled up in everyone’s eyes, the Leclercs knew it was going to be a long day full of bittersweet melancholy, but also one so full of love.

Lando Norris

“Have I told you how wonderful you looked?” Lando asked, grabbing his girlfriend’s hand as he ran his thumb over her knuckles.

She rolled her eyes, “Only a thousand times since we got in the car. Not to mention when I was getting ready, when I was trying on dresses, or when I was simply speaking to you about what I was thinking of wearing.” She teased.

He knew it was overkill, but he also knew how stressed she was. Not about the wedding, she was excited to attend and celebrate, but of the fact she knew she’d finally be identified as Lando Norris’s “unremarkable” girlfriend the tabloids have talked about for a while. 

The media knew he was dating not a model, or heir to a fortune, or an influencer, but a “simple” teacher, one who had a private instagram account with hardly 100 people on it. They had seen what pictures Lando posted of her, maybe a few posted by friends, but they never showed her face. They didn’t even know her name.

Even though their words were harsh, even though it hurt they thought she was undeserving of him when they didn’t know her, the anonymity at least came with the sentiment that all their judgements came from one simple fact, that she was a teacher. Now, they would have more to criticize, more to know, and she hated the thought.

Despite the public not knowing about her though, she had still been able to become good friends with many of Lando’s. Had been present for many arguments between Logan and Lando as they defended their individual titles of being “the best honorary uncle” to the Piastri twins and had been there to help watch the toddlers so Oscar’s fiancée could get a bit of a break during races. 

She loved so many of the people there, and she knew they all had her back. Because of this, she felt more ready to face the music. She shouldn’t be ashamed of who she was, she loved everything about her life, and she wouldn’t be made to feel bad for loving Lando. 

In the end, it was what the two of them thought and felt about their relationship that mattered. 

Lando smiled as he watched her take a deep breath, ready for what was to come. He’d move heaven and the earth for her, and he for sure wasn’t going to let some idiots online ruin something so good.

Lance Stroll

“You must have the worst heartburn, huh?” A mutual friend of a friend, Marie, asked.

“Oh, well actually-”

“Ugh it was so bad! And the indigestion, that really sucked. Oh! Reminds me of this one awful stretch of time when I was pregnant. I was actually also at a wedding…” Marie started on a tangent about some pregnancy horror story. One the currently pregnant woman she was talking to, didn’t appreciate hearing at the moment.

Lance looked over at his wife, stuck in conversation looking pained. Fearing that something was wrong with her or the baby, he quickly made his way over with an excuse to whisk her away.

“Are you alright?” He asked once out of earshot of Marie. 

His wife opened her mouth to answer, but was unable to when a choked sound made its way out first. The sound attracted the eyes of several wedding guests, who upon seeing that she was pregnant, turned back to their conversations, finding that as the excuse for such an outburst. While she was embarrassed when all eyes turned to her, the lack of interest in her wellbeing after seeing her belly just made her start to sob even more.

Knowing his wife was in distress and clearly the crowded room was adding to the discomfort, Lance led her to an unoccupied hallway. 

“Come on, hun. How can I make this better?” Sweetness, with a bit of helplessness, in his tone.

“You-you can’t!” She cried. God, how was she ever supposed to explain what the hell was happening with her. Especially when each second, she felt differently.

Maybe that was the problem. 

 “I’m- I am so tired of being the pregnant lady.” She managed to get out.

Lance frowned at the confession. “I know, love. I can’t imagine what it's like to be pregnant, and I wish I could help. I know it sucks, but you can get through-”

“Stop! That's the problem. Every single issue I have is written off as something that just happens with pregnancy. Like they are just side effects that can’t be helped! Like I just need to deal with them alone because “I signed up for this”. Maybe it sounds stupid or childish but I don’t give a fuck anymore, Lance. I don’t want to be treated like some pregnant lady, I don't want to be treated as if every single emotion I have is just because of hormones or because all women are just expected to suffer through this! Marie just came up to me and started talking about her own horror stories from when she was pregnant! I don’t want to hear that, not when she isn’t giving actual advice, just trying to laugh about things I, as the currently pregnant person, don’t find funny! I don’t want to talk about how I am so hungry and have people laugh and say ‘oh that's just what happens’. I want to get food! I want to be able to be upset without people losing interest the second they realize it's just the pregnant lady crying. I want the things I'm going through to be taken seriously, Lance.”

A beat of silence as he took in her words. 

As the silence stretched on though, she found herself with an apology forming on the tip of her tongue, feeling bad for yelling at her husband during her tangent when, even if he had contributed to the problem, he didn’t really do anything wrong. 

Just as she opened her mouth though, he got on his phone. 

She started to not feel as bad as she watched her husband seemingly ignore all she said.

“Are you-” She began, just to be cut off by him putting his phone in his pocket, and kissing her deeply.

Most of her anger seemed to disappear at that moment. He hadn’t kissed her like that in what felt like forever. Since she had told him she had been pregnant, he had been unsure of how to go about doing… well, anything. 

After a few passionately blissful seconds, he pulled away, still holding her face between his hands and stroking her cheek with his thumbs. “I ordered a car to take us to a crappy fast food place.”

She stammered, “What do- why?”

“You said you are hungry, the ceremony hasn’t even begun yet, we are going to be here for a while before we can eat and while I’m sure the bride and groom have an amazing set up, there isn’t a point in making you suffer any longer when we can fix it.” he explained.

She didn’t know what to say. She wanted to agree, but she also wanted to support their friends and knew she probably shouldn’t skip out on their wedding day. But she really needed something to eat and her feet were killing her already- 

“No, Lance, we shouldn’t it- it would be rude.” She answered.

Lance laughed at her attempt at trying to convince both herself and him. “As much as I’d love to stay, I’d much rather watch you eat a disgusting amount of fast food in an impressively short amount of time all the while dressed to the nines. Plus, we both know the bride and groom would be understanding.” He said as he grabbed her purse and opened the door for her. “After you, my love.” 

She sighed, realizing he was right. 

“Oh how gentlemanly of you,” she teased in a posh accent. “Is it often you whisk away distressed damsels to fast food restaurants?” 

“Only the gorgeous ones. I did earn my nickname of Sir Lancelot from my wife for a reason.” He teased back.

“It seems you have.” She replied with a kiss on the cheek.

Lewis Hamilton

“Oh, sweet pea. You look stunning!” Lewis said as he facetimed his daughter, currently at home with her mom.

The young girl giggled at the compliment, asking her dad about the wedding. She had been more than curious about weddings lately after hearing that her dad was attending one. 

“-and the bride wears a beautiful white dress”

“Like the one mommy is wearing?” she asked her dad, pointing to the oversized t-shirt her mom was wearing with paint stains on it from when she and her partner had painted the nursery for the 1 year old currently asleep in said room. Lewis laughed at the image.

“While I am sure your mommy could wear that and still be the most beautiful girl in the world. A wedding dress is a little… different.” Lewis answered.

“Mommy! Can I see your wedding dress?” her daughter asked.

Both parents froze at the question, realizing they might have not told their child a pretty important detail about her parents. 

“Oh- honey. Daddy and I never got married.” She answered. Her daughter looked back at the phone, at her dad, confused.

“Dad? Why didn’t you marry mommy? Don’t you love her?” 

Harsh. Lewis didn’t know how to answer such a question, but he eventually found the words. 

“Sweetheart, you know I love your mom very much. You are all my most favorite girls. Some people just don’t get married, they don’t feel the need to.” He answered. It wasn’t that the two of them didn’t want to, they had planned on it. But their first daughter had been unplanned, then their second had been too, and eventually, as they became everything to one another, they didn’t have a wedding so high on their priority list, knowing the proof of their love was evident in the two girls they were raising, in the life they had built together despite many unwanted opinions trying to ruin it. 

“Let me talk to your dad sweetie. Can you grab my water from the living room?” His girlfriend asked as her daughter handed her the phone and jumped off the bed.

After the sound of the young girl’s footsteps softened in the background, she spoke up, “Sorry about that, Lew, she saw a photo of some celebrity wedding today and her interest in the topic was reignited.”

“She is a curious kid, I get it. She is a smart one too, she gets it from her mother.” He watched his girlfriend blush at the compliment. Even while tired having to take care of the two young children alone, she seemed to be glowing. “We never did get around to marriage, did we?” 

She sighed, “I guess we got too busy. I hadn’t even thought about it in a while- not that I don’t want to marry you still!”

He laughed at her realization she may have chosen her words wrong, “No, I haven’t either. Two kids is a lot, and we both know how we feel about each other. But I will always be ready to marry you, the second you say so.”

“Well, I’ll always be ready to marry you, after you properly propose. You already got two kids out of me, I at least deserve a big flashy ring.” She teased.

“And you shall have it my love.” Lewis suddenly heard his daughter coming back. He spoke up when he saw her pop back up on screen, “What do you think, love bug? Should mommy and daddy get married? I think your mom would look beautiful in a big white dress, right?”

The little girl perked up at that, “Yes! But, will it be hard for mommy to wear a dress with the baby in her tummy?” She asked, pointing to her mom’s stomach.

Both adults froze. 

Slowly, Lewis’ girlfriend let out a deep sigh. “Baby, I told you not to talk about that with daddy till we could tell him…”

If his eyes opened any wider, they would have popped out of his head. “She’s serious? We are having another baby?”

“Surprise? I wanted to keep it a secret till you came back and make it all special but she was so sad when you left I told her to cheer her up.”

Lewis’ heart softened at the thought, “Well, I guess a wedding might have to be postponed for the time being” He amused.

They’d get around to it, maybe after this next kid, maybe after the next few.

Part 2 coming soon featuring: Alex Albon x reader, Logan Sargeant x Leclerc!Reader (Its 1 am and I have work in a few hours)

[peach-se]

지민 — - — -> Drunken Nights~! -> Y.JM

Synopsis — - -> Just drunk needy Karina, who just needs her ‘special girl’ to help her relax.. in the middle of the night.

Pairing — - -> DrunkenGf!Karina x SleepyFem!Reader.

Warning — - -> Sex, sex without protection, oral, p in v, gp!Karina, sucking on tits [ Yours ], fingering, making out, dirty talk, cream pie, praising, mommy kink and bunny pet name calling.

When your girlfriend, Karina, came home you had already drifted off to sleep. She stumbled into the penthouse, locking the door behind her and taking off her shoes.

She had went to work earlier today, but after her shift she went to the bar with some colleagues they were celebrating her colleagues birthday. She made her way through the hallway, trying to keep her balance. She sighed as she walked into you guys’ shared bedroom.

Karina was drunk, she was a flirty drunk. You would normally wait up for her to come to bed, but you fell asleep before she came home. Karina took off her shirt and blazer, then she took off her suit pants and belt.

She yawned before grabbing a plain grey baggy shirt and putting it on. She flopped on the bed next to you and looked at you, slowly sitting up.

She loved your sleeping face, it was so peaceful she folded every time she saw your sleeping face. She shifted to you, slowly taking off the covers of you.

She saw your pyjamas, it was the little bear shorts with the matching baggy shirt. It was the one she got you for your birthday as you said you liked cute things and she bought it as it reminded her of you.

She slowly got between your legs parting them slightly for her to fit, she then leaned down and kissed your lips. She knew you were a deep sleeper, so she could do anything to you while you were asleep.

Well she wouldn’t want you to hurt you at all, Karina just wanted to show her love to you. She then pulled away, sighing. “you’re so pretty when you.. hiccups.. sleep my princess..”

She looked down at your body before slowly unbuttoning your shirt, soon enough she was able to see your chest you normally don’t wear a bra to sleep at all.

“Such a bad girl..” she smirked and slowly reached your chest before rubbing your boobs. She loved playing with them, she knew you were a double D and she loved it as it would fit perfectly in her hands.

She then leaned down and took one into her mouth, gently sucking on your harding nipples. She licked, and slightly tugged on it before leaving a hicky on your right breast.

She looked at your face, you were still knocked out, she smiled and brushed some hair out off your face before putter her hands on your waist and on the waistband of your pyjama shorts.

She slowly pulled them down and off you putting them to one side as she looked at your cunt which was covered by your pink bow panties. It was the one she bought just for you as she thought that ‘it would look cute on you.’

So she bought it for you, she saw a small damp spot in your panties before slowly pulling them off you and putting it where you shorts was. “So pretty.. my pretty bunny..”

She manoeuvred herself so that her head was a your, what she called, ‘her bunny’s pretty pink pussy..’ She licked your folds, causing your body to react with a shiver.

You weren’t awake, it was just your body reacting naturally to Karina’s touch. She lightly chuckled at that before going back to you, she licked up and down slowly savouring your taste.

She then started moving to your hole where she gently pushed in her two digits into you causing you to let out a whimper subconsciously. She started moving her digits in and out of you while she continued to suck on your cunt.

All the meanwhile you were letting out moans and whimpers like if you were awake, but you weren’t. Or thats what Karina thought, she started speeding up her movements as she wanted to make you cum. Just so she could taste your sweet juices.

Just as she did speed up, your body started shuddering and your legs started twitching, which interacted that you had cummed all over her fingers. She smirked and pulled out her fingers before lapping up all your slick and sucking it up.

“So sweet bunny and all for mommy huh?.” she smiled and then sat up on her knees before pulling down her boxers.

Karina was way bigger than the average size for her dick, as hers where not only just long but it was also thick and girthy which she liked to keep it clean and smooth.

She looked at her harden erection and slowly pumped it as she looked at your face, she was lost in thought for a few seconds before she positioned herself alining her cock with your pussy.

She slowly pushed into you groaning at how tight you were, when she done so, she saw you shift, causing her to stop her movements. She continued to look at you to see if you had woken up, but to her surprise you hadn’t so she continued.

Till she was fully in you, she slowly started thrusting herself into you. Sucking in a sharp breath, she held your hips close, as her hips slowly continued to hit your hips.

After a few minutes she speed up her paste and it caused you to slowly wake up to Karina’s cock inside you and her holding your hips.

Her eyes were focused on your hips, so when you open your mouth to speak but couldn’t as all you did was let out a moan. She looked up at your face, “did I wake you up princess..?” She smiled and continued to move her hips.

You slowly opened your eyes and continued to release whimpers as she thrusted continuously into you, “ah..yeah.. y-..you ah did..”

You slowly closed your eyes and frowned your eyebrows from the pleasure and pain that karina was giving you. Well you were still sore from cumin from her tongue and fingers but you’re also feeling pleased that she was hitting your G-stop constantly.

“Hmm such a fucking bad girl,” She sped up, “that's it, that's my girl, such a good fucking girl, letting mommy use her like a little fuckdoll. you need to be used so damn badly, babydoll? fucking disgusting-"

You bit down on your bottom lip, you felt yourself coming closer to the edge by every thrust. “Oh ah.. f-fuck m-mommy..” you whimpered as you locked eyes with her.

“Good girl, who’s your mommy..?” Her thrusts became more sloppier by the second, indicating that she was close to her release as well.

“Ah.. you.. hpmf.. and.. o-only you..!” You gripped onto her arms as you clenched around her.

“Oh fuck.. i’m gonna..” She looks down, “Cum in you.. and you’re gonna take it all..yeah..?” Grunting she started taking you pound town.

You nodded, all you wanted at the moment was to feel her cum in your hole filling you up. Whines escaped your mouth, “M-mommy.. I’m gonna..!”

“Me too bunny ah fuck cum with me..”

And at that moment you cum’med all over her cock causing your legs to shiver, all whilst Karina had cum’med in you her hips bucking forward. “Fuck bunny..”

She then pulled out noticing you and her cum flowed out of you before she pushed it back in. She then put your underwear on for you and your shorts back on before laying down beside you and pulling you close so that she could cuddle you.

You guys both slept the night way, with you being in Karina’s arms.

— - — -> Navigation || Master list

Copyright © 2024 Peach-se/Peach!z. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED | Do NOT edit, copy, translate or repost any of my work without permission.

[nylwnder]

little secret

a/n: hiiiiii bbs, sorry for the long gaps between fic drops for this series, life hates me and sometimes i just dont have the time to write </////3 or the motivation which is worse. waahhhh!!! HOWEVER, i was gifted some free time the past month, and because i love you guys so so much, i birth to you all: my first am34 fic <333333

pairing: auston matthews x fem!reader

warnings: SMUT! sex toys (lush toy), edging, fingering, p in v, unprotected sex, overstimulation, cockwarming, swearing, auston being in loveeeeee, secret relationship, confession of feelings

word count: 3.4k

taglist: @shoot-the-puck , @lukepangburn118, @eastoncowan , @boqvistsbabe , @sweetiet , @p1tstop , @occasionallyaurora , @laurenairay , @fallinallincurls , @andrea9 , @dylpickle4791 , @biznastysloneshift12 , @dramatic-queen

series masterpost

the vibrating feeling in between your thighs made you grip the edge of the counter top, almost dropping your drink. a moan escaped your throat as the pressure increased, your legs bucking before you felt yourself coming close to the edge.

“please please oh please” you mumble quietly but then the vibrations disappear all together again. you take a deep breath with a little whine.

you walk back to the couch, setting your small snack on the coffee table. watching as the leafs began to make it back out to the ice for the third period. knowing the teasing would take a break for the rest of the game unless he so happened to have his phone on the bench too.

—

it all started with a birthday present. a more mischievous gift for a relationship that's just freshly bloomed in the last few months. but your relationship is open and free and gratifying like that.

it was a small, curvy, hot pink toy. one that has devilish capabilities with the mere connection to a phone app. auston knew you would love it, and you also knew he would use the toy to its fullest potential—edging and overstimulating your folds as much as he can. and you do in fact love it, so it isn't surprising that you obliged when he handed it to you this afternoon. a mischievous grin on his face.

“need you to put this on for me, baby” he mentions gently, handing you the toy.

you take it in your palm, already imagining the impending feeling between your thighs. “when would you play with me though?” you ask, pondering the thought on how he’d manage in front of the team, nevermind the coaching crew.

he grins again, “i'll find a way. just need you to be a good girl and keep it in until i come home okay?”

you nod, biting your lip.

“i'll be nice, i promise” he mentions with a kiss to your cheek before a kiss to your lips.

—

unless his idea of nice was having you edged every single fucking time his finger began to play with the controls of the toy, then he was in fact nice. you were flustered, frustrated, being edged to reach any sort of release. you squirmed and whined as it tickled the bundle of nerves inside of you again as the team prepared for press. ready to discuss the well earned blowout win against the ducks, and the sixth hattrick of the season for auston.

you couldn’t deny it, auston looked so good out there on the ice—working the puck around bodies like nothing. and it made your heart swell that during the intermissions he couldn’t help but take the time and think of you, play with you, but oh did you want him home. in your arms so he can do you right.

you weren't even sure if you were overstimulated, even though he's been playing with you on-and-off for the past three hours and a half, you just wanted to cum. and oh god please on his cock.

—

auston kept his interview short and sweet, wanting to make it home earlier than usual despite the attention and requests regarding another outstanding performance. he wanted to get home to you.

the boys noticed his eagerness to skim through the usual routine, poking around and asking him if he's got a girl waiting at home. he gave a low smile, not discussing further than that. they didn't know about you yet. nobody knew.

being your boyfriend, he wasn't thrilled about the public eye getting a glimpse of you just yet. sure, he wants to take you out to a fancy dinner, hold your hand while you're walking home from the movies. of course he would want to show you off to the boys just so they can chirp him about how he landed you. but you were too special. too soft, kind and sweet. too perfect, he thought. he didn't want anyone to say otherwise, anyone to try to ruin you. the day will come when they know your name, sure. yet even when the moment arrives, when everyone finally lays eyes on you, he knows he’ll still be a protective force. always. if that means you’re his little secret for now, then so be it.

right now, you were all his. without anyone knowing. his warm soul. his dripping core. the one that he wants… no. he needs. right now. so badly.

—

when he got home his belongings were quickly discarded to the side. auston relishing in the warm and soothing atmosphere you have created out of his apartment, his senses welcomed by the sweet smell of you. the house always felt empty those nights you couldn’t be with him. your presence had brought a light to the home that it never had, that none of the other flings managed to spark.

he noticed your lounge pants laying near the couch in the living room. your slippers discarded on the other side. he moved forward to grab them, but placed it back down when he noticed your shirt near the entrance of the bedroom. a smile grew on his face.

a few steps forward granted him a beautiful view—his favourite view—the sole reason why he rushed through the toronto night traffic.

you sat at the edge of your bed in a satin lingerie slip. your hair was messy in that pretty way that framed your face, the way that made aus bite his lip in admiration. your lips softly pouted a “missed you.”

your legs slowly opened apart, showing your arousal from the night sopping through the fabric of your underwear. auston gave a low groan, and licked his lips.

“need you. so bad.” you whine.

he walks towards you, and you instantly wrap your legs around him to connect your lips. his grip on your hips yanks you higher onto the bed, allotting him space to get on and tower over you. you nip on his lip as you both break for air.

“you were mean” you murmur. he smirked, “i promised you i'd be nice, that's why i'm gonna make her feel so much better” he says, cupping your dripping core.

you whimper, “please”

his fingers hook on your panties, pulling them down and throwing them to the side. he reaches for the tail of the lush toy, making sure to gently pull the rest of it out. you squirmed at the emptiness, aus seeing the way your entrance clenched around nothing.

“you did s’good, baby. taking it like a good girl” he mutters in your ear as his lips attach to your neck. his wet kisses mixed with his nipping move down to your collarbone, then to the tops of your breasts.

he makes sure to keep his work up until he knows purple and red marks will litter your skin in a couple of hours. making it difficult for you to hide them everytime you leave his apartment. god forbid your friends see them. you're not in the mood to be forced to disclose any more details about your boyfriend. you just wanna keep living in this little bubble the two of you have managed to keep.

not yet. just a little longer.

“mmm, you looked so good out there baby” you manage to mutter. trying your best to not get lost in his kisses but sometimes it's just too hard.

you can feel his smile against your skin. “thank you” he says, kissing on top of his mouth’s handiwork before grabbing you by the hips and bringing you to sit down on his lap.

“your sixth hattrick. not everyone can do that” you speak again, smiling, running your fingers through his hair at the nape of his neck.

his smile didn't leave his face, leaning in to kiss you tenderly. “…nevermind the fact that this was your second back-to-back hatty” you say against his lips.

this time he begins to blush, in what you think is quite literally the most beautiful way possible. you can't help but to kiss him again. he looks down while squeezing your hips before looking back up and letting out a light chuckle. “we gonna keep talking about it or are you going to let me celebrate with you? hm?”

it's your turn to flush a bit. embarrassed you may have been discussing something in a situation where you shouldn’t even be talking in the first place. but you couldn't help it, you wanted to give him all the possible affirmations you could.

“m’sorry” you reply, wrapping your arms tighter around his frame, endeavouring in the taste of his mouth once again. you can feel the mint from the gum he was chewing on the drive back home. it relaxes you.

one of his hands stays pressed on your spine, scrunching the material of your night slip between his fingers, while his other hand travels down. his large palm shamelessly grabbing your ass, moulding your flesh to the shape of his fingers. your skin quickly heats up again and your mind swirls over the rhythm of his tongue against yours and the bulge growing beneath you. aus presses you down, hard, against his clothed lap, it feels like he's already fucking you. but it's the illusion of his fingers bluntly sliding between your folds and pressing over your opening, stirring a good moan out of you.

he sticks in a finger and you subconsciously bite down on his lip. he hums before sticking in another and you accidentally do the same thing again. there's a burning feeling between your thighs, perhaps you are overstimulated after all. but that's not stopping you. you still want him to help you to that finish line that he so cruelly didn't let you reach.

he pumps in and out a bit, making sure you’re wet enough. that was surely a fact, with the way your juices covered his fingers so exceedingly. anticipation continued to build inside of auston, causing the bulge between his thighs to strain against his dress pants. hes been thinking about you the whole night, and your pussy even more.

you untug auston’s shirt, allowing you to unbutton his pants. he helps you pull them off of his legs, while you take off his shirt from his sculpted chest. you run your fingers down his torso, following the lines that shape him. his lips connect to your neck, immediately finding your pulse point. you grind down on him and he allows a groan to escape his lips and echo in your ear. you smile.

“can i take this off?” he asks, tugging at your slip.

you nod needily, the cold air hardening your nipples at the exposure. auston can't help but groan again, yanking you up so he can attach his lips to them. you whine sharply, feeling the tip of his cock nudging near your entrance as well.

he releases your one nipple with a “pop”, sinking you down on his length before you can even make out a sound.

“m’fuck” you mumble, your body ablaze.

“god you’re truly the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen” he says. holding your hips back to get a good look at you.

“auston…” you whine at him, blood rushing to your cheeks again in slight shyness. however your walls clench around him.

“let me compliment you.” he laughed, helping your hips sway against his lap. left, right, up and down, it all felt exactly how you wanted. perfect.

your cunt was soaking wet. the sounds the two of you make where your bodies connect is unholy. auston’s fingers have a tight grip on your love handles, trying his best to keep himself together for you. he chose to focus on littering whatever skin he can reach with more marks, making sure you remember you’re his when you wake up tomorrow morning.

with all the emotions and sensations it truly doesn't take you long to feel the addictive feeling deep in your stomach again. eyes fluttering shut, mewls escaping your pink plump lips, boobs swaying gracefully with your movements, it's like a scene out of a dream the way your walls have a snug grip on auston’s cock. shes perfect, he notes to himself.

he holds you close to him, before moving you to lay down on the bed. he pushes his hands under your thighs and lifts your hips. the position slides him even deeper. makes his cock push up into you, into that spongy part inside that forces your eyes to roll back even more. your thighs begin to tremble.

“take me so good baby, s’like you were made for me.”

“i am.” you respond, because he’s made you honest. in the delirium of him, you’re saying what you’ve had buried inside of you for the past months, waiting for moments like this. with the way he makes you feel it's impossible not to think this way. my god, you’re sure you love him.

with your breathing heavy, recovering from your high, auston groans against your lips––pumping himself into you like a man fueled by pure hunger. the warmth of his cum spilling into you makes you all the more lightheaded.

you grip at the nape of auston’s neck, bringing him in for a kiss. both of your lips already hot pink and puffy. but the need to ground each other is so strong.

the euphoric feeling of relief from your earlier pent up frustration begins to make your body soften. your head felt more vulnerable and you couldn't suppress the words any further. “aus..” you say, kissing his lips before looking him in the eyes. he gives out a small hum in acknowledgment.

“i-i love you. i really do.” your hands squeeze the ends of his hair in anticipation of his response.

did you know that a 6’3, beefy, sassy hockey player can feel butterflies? cause auston is pretty sure he just did. a smile crept up from the corners of his mouth and overtook his entire demeanour. you couldn’t help but reciprocate it.

“yeah?” he asks softly.

you nod, auston’s hands moving to drop your legs and grip your sides instead.

“i love you too, baby.” why wouldn't i? you're too good to be true.

a feeling of bliss overtakes your body. pent up emotions finally all out on the table. its been a lovely set of months now and perhaps you both are ready for that next step.

both of his hands interlock with yours, moving your arms up and over your head. the grip is snug and safe. you can picture holding hands in the cold weather, his palm big and warm enough that you don't need mittens like you used to.

his lips meet yours in a slow gentle kiss. your cheeks blush at the thought of kissing auston straight from the locker room, or his lips leaving a peck on your forehead as you two wait for a table at a restaurant.

the little things.

a whimper leaves your lips, an angelic sound, and an unconscious reaction to auston’s kisses. you can feel auston twitch inside you. so in response, you rock your hips upwards.

“there she is,” he smirks down at you, “there’s my fucking dirty girl.” he notes the dreamy glint in your eye, “you want some more, huh?” you bite your lip, nodding. auston pulls out, just for a moment and your pussy aches at the cruel feeling of emptiness.

kneeling in front of you, aus guides you to turn to your side, straddling one of your legs and grabbing the other one to curl around his side. he aligns himself to your entrance and pushes in without hesitation, already missing the warmth of your wet walls. he continues with his sharp thrusts, one of his hands moving to play with your breasts, rolling your nipples in between his fingers. moans fill the space in the room, and slips of his name fill in the gaps.

the stimulation you feel is so fucking good, for lack of better terms. in contrast to his earlier teases, his thrusts don’t seem to stop anytime soon and you couldn't be any more grateful. your cunt clenching around him so tight that auston hisses, groaning deeply. he shakes his head as if he can’t believe it.

“you’re fucking purring angel, like i didn’t just cum on your pretty pussy. what am i gonna do with you, huh?”

his words make you cry, looking up at him with doe eyes, urging him to bring you to that beautiful edge. “fuck dontstop–so close–so close–” you mumble out quickly. searching for his hand laying on top of your breasts, you tangle your fingers around his again, he squeezes them lovingly. your cheeks fill with a blush tint.

“didn’t plan on it, baby.” he says, making his other hand move to your clit, pressing to rub circles around it, then triangles and then squares and then fucking diamonds. god you didn’t know you just wanted him to keep going and drive you through that burning feeling inside of you.

and so he does, eliciting more sounds from your soft lips along with shivers down your body. he whispers to you how beautiful you are in your ear, while he cums in your sweet cunt once again. you’ll never get over that feeling.

auston grabs you close as he flips the two of you, allowing him to lay down on the pillows, your body sprawled on top of him. his cock still snug in you. you softly hum, this position letting both of you settle down from your shared highs. aus feels your smell calm him, the faint scent of your floral shampoo steadying his breathing, his heartbeat relaxed. he has never felt so safe, so comfortable.

he didn’t want you to move, not even dare to leave this warmth the two of you have created. he's used to getting up after a sexual endeavour like such, two people going their separate ways, hell he's even urgently guided girls out the door. but you? never. if he could keep you here, with him–just him–forever, he would.

you felt auston slowly get soft inside you, and you took that as a queue to take a quick trip to the bathroom to clean yourself up. trying to detach yourself from the soft and gentle embrace of your boyfriend was hard, you didn't want to leave him.

“where are you going?” auston asks, grabbing your waist as you sit up from his chest.

“just the bathroom.” you mention, getting further up and feeling him slip out of you. you let out a small instinctive whimper to the loss. you notice the pout in his eyes, “i’ll only be a minute, don't worry.”

auston was hesitant to let go of your hand, missing the soft feeling contrasted to his rough hands, despite the fact they aren't as calloused as they could be. you smiled at his clinginess, it truly was a compliment. you got up and swiftly made your way to the bathroom mats, as the cold floor sent a quiver up your body. after cleaning yourself up you looked at yourself in the mirror while you washed your hands. you could see the love marks appearing around your breasts, not an uncommon place to find them. aus makes sure to leave new ones each time they start fading.

you make your way back to the bed, seeing auston settled in the sheets. he looks at you with genuinity. a twinkle in his eye. love pouring out of his tender gaze. your skin grows hot. you smile and drop your head to his shoulder once you reach him. “you should see the look on your face”

“what?” he asks curiously.

you look up at him, after wrapping your legs around his own. “you look absolutely smitten.”

he smiles. “good.” he exclaims. proud.

you are quick to get soothed back into his pool of warmth, along with his hand running against your back. here and there reaching the top of your bum, before making its way back up.

you think about your shared confession from earlier. the weight of those immense feelings towering over the two of you gone. all the opportunities and possibilities at your fingertips. “so when do you think i’ll get one of those cute playoff jackets the wives and girlfriends get?”

“you want one?” auston asks, you can hear the smile in his words, if you chose to lift your head you would probably see the smirk too.

“yeah,” you reply, playing with the fingers on his other hand. “i want to be at every game.”

“i’ll make sure you’re the first to get yours then.” you now chose to look up at him, your own happiness radiating across your face. “promise?” you ask, lightly giggling.

“promise.”

“good.”

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[ginnsbaker]

All Of Your Pieces (4 - The Assistant)

Chapter Summary: Wanda is worried that you're being distant and unhappy. She tries to get to the bottom of it without using her powers, but ends up discovering something else entirely. Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 3.1k+ | Chapter Tags/Warnings: Mentions of smut

A/N: Because it's my birthday today, you guys are getting another chapter tonight. // More author's notes here.

You’ve been awfully quiet since the Harvest Festival. Wanda can feel it—the suspicion you’re ruminating on—simmering just beneath the surface. It gets under her skin, that urge to use her magic, to just pull the truth out of you. She’s done it before. She could do it again.

But she doesn’t.

Wanda stays put, waiting for you to crack, for something to slip. Her fingers itch to do what’s easy, but she forces herself to stop. Instead, she gives you space. If she can’t fix this, if she can’t make you talk, the least she can do is give you room to figure it out on your own. It’s not much, but it’s all she’s got. And for her, holding back like this is harder than anything else—not when she’s already gone to such lengths for your happiness together.

Eventually, Wanda reaches her breaking point. She’s on the verge of using her powers on you again when, one morning, she wakes to find her panties slipped down to her ankles and your head nestled between her thighs. ​​Judging by the way her body feels and the shiver that runs through her, you’ve been at it for a while. Her breath hitches as the pleasure builds higher and higher, and when it crests, she comes with a soft cry, her fingers tangling tightly in your hair. You rise up to kiss her sweetly, and she hums softly against your mouth, tasting herself there.

“Good morning,” you murmur, nuzzling her cheek and down the length of her neck. Her skin is soft and faintly flushed, and you breathe in the faint scent of her—sweet, comforting, intoxicating.

Wanda’s chest rises and falls, her breaths still uneven. She manages a veiled, almost dazed response. “Good morning, indeed.”

You kiss her temple before sitting up slightly, meeting her eyes. Even though you’ve just woken her up with an orgasm and you're staying close, affectionate even, there’s something distant in your eyes—something that only appeared after the festival.

“Can I return the favor?” she asks, her voice still shaky, hoping making you feel good will make her feel better about this whole thing.

You shake your head slightly, “No, you don't have to.”

“But I want to,” she insists softly, reaching out to caress your jaw lovingly.

You turn your head slightly and press a kiss against her palm. “It might be a while before I get there, Wanda. I just took an Adderall,” you say.

Wanda’s disappointed but she nods slowly, trying not to read too much into you calling her Wanda instead of the affectionate nicknames you usually have for her.

“I gotta wake the kids,” you say, slipping out of bed. “Bath time, then school prep.”

You leave the room, your footsteps fading as Wanda lies back, wrapped in the unsatisfying afterglow.

–

When you're with the twins, you're back to your usual, goofy self.

Wanda watches you with a soft smile as you take care of the kids—keeping them entertained enough to get them bathed, dressed, and making sure they finish their oatmeal. She was right—she always knew you’d make a great mother. Now, she’s living in a world where it’s undeniable. You handle everything with such ease, like you were meant for this.

She doesn’t even have to do much beyond cooking and keeping the house tidy. Even with your busy work schedule, you still manage to help out on the weekends and always take care of the dishes after dinner.

This life, the simplicity of it, is everything she’s ever wanted. A home, a family—with you at the center of it all.

It certainly doesn't hurt that you look incredibly appealing in the loose white, open button-down shirt you're wearing, neatly tucked into navy slacks that hug your hips so perfectly. Wanda can't help but wonder if it's even fair for you to wear that to work, considering how good it looks on you.

“Hey, boys, before we head out, what do we say to Mama?” you call out, rounding up Billy and Tommy with their backpacks slung over their shoulders.

“Bye, Mama!” they chorus, but you give them a pointed look.

“Uh, and?” you prompt, eyebrows raised.

The twins exchange a quick glance before racing over to Wanda, each planting a sloppy, hurried kiss on her cheek. 

As they attempt to sprint away, Wanda wraps her arms around them, pulling them back into a longer embrace. “Hold on, not so fast,” she murmurs, holding them close. 

The boys giggle and hug her back. “Love you, Mama,” they say.

“Love you more,” Wanda replies, her heart swelling as she finally lets them go. 

They dash for the car, their feet barely touching the ground in their excitement. Wanda then turns to you, expecting a quick goodbye kiss, but you're already by the door, keys in hand.

“I might be late tonight, got some extra work. Don't wait up, okay?” you call over your shoulder.

Her smile falters, and her heart tightens painfully in her chest. 

You've never left without asking for a goodbye kiss before.

“Okay, love. Be safe,” she says. 

Although she’s vigilant in not using her powers on you this time,  it doesn't mean she's out of ways to find out what's going on with you.

–

When Agnes first started trying to befriend her, Wanda wasn’t exactly welcoming. Agnes was never invited—she always invited herself over. Wanda didn’t bring over homemade dishes like most neighbors; instead, it was always Agnes showing up with pies or other sweets for no particular reason. Over time, the guilt of constantly being on the receiving end of Agnes’s attention and gifts nudged Wanda into softening, eventually opening up enough to call her a friend, even if it felt strange at first.

Wanda can count on one hand the people she’s considered her friend in her lifetime. And that already includes you. Aside from you (though you didn’t like her very much at first, in fact, you distrusted her for months before things started to develop in a positive direction), she only really felt cared for by Clint, Steve, and Vision.

Pietro was her best friend. And even after you came into her life, she missed his presence, the way he was protective but also her greatest critic. The way he called her out on her bullshit, and the way he supported her ambitions and motivations, even if they were morally ambiguous just to keep her safe. That Pietro-shaped hole was never filled by anyone, not even you. You just happened to occupy a bigger area in her heart that losing Pietro didn’t hurt as much as it did before you.

So, she’s surprised at how her connection with Agnes has grown into something resembling friendship—a relationship that none of her old friends, or you, would ever approve of. Agnes is everything her other friends were not. She’s not kind or selfless, doesn’t share that good-hearted nature that Wanda’s always been drawn to.

And that's exactly how Wanda ends up riding shotgun in Agnes’s car, tailing you as you drop off the twins and head to work.

Wanda nervously glances over at her friend. “Are you sure she won't notice us?” she asks, biting her lower lip.

Agnes smirks, eyes on the road. “Relax, sweetheart. I know what I'm doing. She won't have a clue.”

Wanda fiddles with the edge of her sleeve. “I just... I've never done anything like this before,” she says.

“There’s always a first for everything,” Agnes winks at her. “Though I never pegged you for the snooping type. Imagine my surprise when you asked me for help. I thought you were very…goody-goody.”

Wanda sighs. “I am. It's just—” She hesitates, almost saying more than she should. “Back home, we always shared our locations on our phones. We always knew where the other was.”

Agnes wonders where home is, because Wanda doesn’t seem to be referring to Westview. 

“Really? Sounds a bit... invasive,” Agnes snarks. “Though, I can't say I’d blame you for wanting to keep your wife on a short leash.”

Wanda furrows her brow. “What do you mean?”

Agnes gives a dismissive roll of her eyes. “Come on, Y/N is gorgeous. You must see that.”

Wanda is about to launch into a whole rant about how much she sees it, how fully aware she is that everyone else sees it too, when your car finally pulls up to the school's driveway. She watches as you step out to walk the twins to the entrance. You give the boys a quick hug before they run inside. 

But as soon as you turn back toward the car, heading off to work, Wanda tenses up again.

“She might notice us,” Wanda whispers, sinking lower in her seat.

Agnes chuckles. “Trust me, with all these cars around, we're just another pair of morning commuters.”

“I just don't want her to think I don't trust her.”

“Then why are we following her?” Agnes asks pointedly.

Wanda looks down at her hands. “Because something's changed. And I need to know why.”

Agnes wonders why Wanda won't just ask you directly what's wrong. Though something tells her that this isn't a typical marriage issue. Maybe if she plays her cards right, she might get Wanda to open up just a little bit more—enough to fully let her in.

“You know,” Agnes continues carefully, “if something's bothering you, talking about it might help.”

“It's just... I feel like she's slipping away from me,” Wanda murmurs. She knows she can't confide in anyone about this—especially not Agnes—but she feels like she might burst from all the secrets she's been keeping lately.

Agnes glances sideways at her. “People don't just drift for no reason. Any idea what's causing it?”

Wanda shrugs, avoiding eye contact. “Work has been... demanding lately.”

“Has it?” Agnes presses. “Or is there something else?”

Wanda swallows hard. “I don't know. Sometimes I think she might've figured out that—” She cuts herself off, biting her lip.

Hook, line, and sinker, Agnes thinks to herself. Just a little bit more.

“Figured out what?” Agnes asks, her tone deceptively casual.

“Nothing,” Wanda says quickly. “Just that maybe she's unhappy.”

Agnes bites the inside of her cheek, her smile faltering for a split second. Inside, she’s bristling. It’s maddening how slippery Wanda can be, how carefully she guards her words. The effort it takes to keep up the charade, to play the concerned, clueless neighbor, is starting to wear thin.

But she didn’t get this far just to get this far. 

“Oh, Wanda, if she’s unhappy, maybe there’s something I can do. You know, a friendly ear can work wonders,” Agnes suggests through gritted teeth.

“I appreciate that, but it's personal,” Wanda replies, her voice tight.

Agnes sighs theatrically. “Fine, keep your secrets. But remember, I'm a good listener.” 

Another time then. She is nothing if not patient.

Before Wanda can respond, she spots your car turning into the parking lot of your office building. “There she is,” she says.

They watch as you park and step out, adjusting your bag over your shoulder. You pause for a moment, looking around as if sensing something, then head inside.

Wanda falls back into her seat with a defeated sigh. “She seems... normal.”

Agnes arches an eyebrow. “Isn't that a good thing?”

“I suppose,” Wanda murmurs, though her eyes remain fixed on the entrance where you just disappeared.

Agnes impatiently taps her fingers on the steering wheel. “So, where to now? The salon? Or maybe you want to grab a Margarita to go with lunch?”

Wanda doesn't respond, still staring at the building's entrance. 

“Wanda?” 

At that, Wanda suddenly snaps out of her reverie and unbuckles her seatbelt. Agnes does the same, prompted by Wanda’s sudden haste. 

“What are you doing? You're not going to make a scene, are you?” Agnes.

“I think there might be someone who can give me answers,” Wanda mumbles distractedly.

“And who might that be?”

“Her.”

Agnes follows Wanda’s line of sight and spots Geraldine, your assistant, emerging from the building. Geraldine, who is still wearing the same clothes from when Wanda first met her, starts walking down the sidewalk, oblivious to the two women watching her every move.

“Geraldine?” Agnes lets out a soft, incredulous scoff. “And what do you think she’s going to tell you?”

Wanda is already reaching for the door handle. “She works with her every day. If anyone knows what's going on, it's her.”

“What? But Wanda, that’s—”

But Wanda is out of the car before Agnes can finish, her focus entirely on your unsuspecting assistant. 

Agnes groans inwardly as she watches Wanda’s purposeful strides. “Fine,” she mutters under her breath, her talon-like fingernails scratching the leather cover of her steering wheel. “I’ll let you be this time. But all roads lead to me, Wanda, darling.” Despite her curiosity, she doesn’t stick around. She shifts into reverse, pulls onto the main street, and speeds off.

Wanda steps right into Geraldine's path, causing the other woman to halt abruptly to avoid a collision. Geraldine blinks in surprise but quickly recovers with a warm smile. “Oh! Wanda, hi! Didn't expect to see you here. Are you looking for Y/N? I can take you up to her office if you'd—”

“Hi,” Wanda says, giving a short wave that's more of a hand signal to stop her from talking. “Uh, Geraldine, right? Actually, I was hoping to talk to you.”

Geraldine’s smile dims only a bit. “M-Me?”

–

Wanda doesn’t have to put in much effort to get Geraldine alone for sandwiches at a nearby deli. In truth, it’s more like she tags along after Geraldine casually mentions that you’d be expecting your lunch at your desk within the hour. Though you’re known for being a patient boss—and Geraldine never misses an opportunity to sing your praises, much to Wanda’s irritation—Geraldine is firm about her own punctuality. She cuts her lunch breaks to a strict thirty minutes, ensuring she has time to deliver your meal early.

That doesn’t leave Wanda much time to extract the answers she’s after, but she’s determined to make the most of it.

Still, it’s not in her nature to jump straight to the point. Skipping the pleasantries feels too abrupt, too conspicuous.

“How are you doing?” Wanda asks, trying to match Geraldine’s upbeat energy. It comes out more like a squeak than the breezy tone she was going for. She takes a small sip of her drink before adding, “Good?”

Geraldine’s smile is sunny as ever. “Oh, it got pretty hectic lately at work, as I’m sure you know. But I'm good. How about you?”

Wanda stirs her tea, watching the leaves swirl. “Doing alright. Keeping busy with the boys.”

“They must be growing like weeds,” Geraldine says warmly.

Wanda forces a small smile. “Yeah, they keep us on our toes.” She had hoped to stretch out the introductions, build some rapport first, but her mind is frustratingly blank when it comes to small talk. Conversation has never been her strong suit.

Taking a deep breath, she prepares to dive right into the real purpose of this meeting. “Has everything been okay at work? With Y/N, I mean,” she says. 

Geraldine gives it a thought or two, before answering, “As far as I know. She's been a bit more focused lately, but that's just the board pushing those quarterly quotas.”

“Quotas?”

“Yeah, they're really piling on the pressure this quarter. But you know her—she handles it like a champ,” Geraldine says with a dismissive shrug. “I've been making sure she eats well, though. Only the most nutritious lunches to keep her going.”

“That's thoughtful of you,” Wanda murmurs. Her fingers tighten imperceptibly around her cup, the way Geraldine speaks about you striking a nerve she doesn’t fully understand. Geraldine pretends not to notice anything, just as she’s supposed to.

“You know,” Geraldine says after a beat, “when she’s not working, her mind is always on you and the twins.”

“She talks about us?”

“Absolutely,” Geraldine continues enthusiastically. “Just yesterday, she was showing me Tommy's drawings and Billy's latest test papers. You have a beautiful family, Wanda. Your boys are something special. I can only hope to raise my own kids as well as you do someday.”

“They are,” Wanda agrees, momentarily forgetting about her worries about you. Hearing about the twins always lifts her spirits.

Geraldine sighs happily and takes a bite of her Reuben.

“I'm a twin myself,” Wanda says quietly. “I had a brother. His name was... Pietro.”

“He was killed by Ultron, wasn’t he?”

Wanda doesn’t react right away. The words sink in slowly, like quicksand pulling her under.

“W-What did you say?” Her voice is quiet but carries a dangerous tremor, like a storm cloud about to burst.

Geraldine blinks slowly. “I... I don't know why I said that,” she stammers. 

Wanda's voice takes on a dangerous edge. “How do you know about Ultron?”

“I-I don’t know,” Geraldine insists. “It just came out.”

Wanda slowly tilts her head to the side, her eyes growing cold as it narrows on Geraldine. “Who are you?”

It’s devoid of any warmth—only suspicion and a seething edge that makes Geraldine recoil slightly.

“I'm—” Geraldine stammers, her voice catching. She looks around the shop, desperate for a way out. But there’s no one. The staff who had been behind the counter this whole time is suddenly nowhere to be found. “Wanda, I swear, I don't know. I didn't mean—”

“I think you should leave,” Wanda says finally. The tone of her voice carries the warning itself.

Geraldine stares at her, wide-eyed and trembling. “Wanda, please—”

“Leave.”

In the next second, Geraldine—or rather, Monica—learns the hard way that it’s not a suggestion; it’s a command.

–

“W-Wait,” Darcy stammers, her nose practically touching the television screen from how close she’s peering at it. “Where did Monica go?”

“I think it glitched or something,” Jimmy suggests, peering over her shoulder. 

“That doesn't make sense,” Darcy mutters, frantically rewinding the footage. “She was just there.”

They both stare at the screen showing Wanda sitting alone in the deli, sipping her tea like nothing happened. Darcy wants to bang her head against the monitor. It's the first time any of the characters in Wanda's show has referenced a real-world event, and now they're having technical difficulties? Unbelievable.

Before they can process what's happening, a commotion erupts outside the tent. 

One of Hayward’s envoys bursts in, breathless and wide-eyed. “You guys need to see this!”

Darcy and Jimmy exchange a quick, worried glance before rushing out. Whatever just happened to Monica can't be good, and the situation seems to be spiraling out of control—fast.

[sergeantbarnessdoll]

hiii today is my birthday! i looove your work so i would like to make a request....

maybe tfatws!bucky and politician!reader where she is a senator trying to help people after the blip but karli got her as a hostage with other politician (just as the last ep) maybe angst and fluff? thank you!

💗💗💗

Safe and Sound » Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier

Pairings: TFATWS!Bucky Barnes x Politician!Female Reader

Summary: You get held hostage by Karli and Bucky saves you.

Warnings: Angst, Fluff, language, held hostage, pet names

A/N: Thank you for the request, nonnie🩵 let me start off by saying, happy late late late birthday and my apologies for getting to your request so late🩷

Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes.

Header made by @buckys-wintersoldier

GIF IS NOT MINE! Gif credit goes to the creator.

“I think we should-” You got interrupted before you could finish your sentence.

“No.” The senator said.

“You don���t even know what I was going to say.” You say.

“Whatever it is, the answer is still no.” He says.

You sighed and rolled your eyes, leaning back in your chair.

Every idea or suggestion you bring up immediately gets shot down by the senator. All you’re trying to do is help people who were in the blip and he doesn’t like anything you come up with.

After the meeting, you were looking down at your phone and walking to your car when you bumped into someone and dropped your things.

“I’m so sorry!” You apologized. “I wasn’t paying attention to where I was walking.” You say, crouching down to pick up your things.

“It’s ok.” The man smiles and picked up your bag. “Sounds like you had a rough day today.” He says, helping you pick up your things.

“Rough doesn’t even begin to describe it.” You say.

The man gathered your things and handed them to you and stood up. You walked to your car with him following behind you. You put your things in your car before turning around to face him.

“I’m Y/N Y/L/N.” You held out your hand for him to shake.

“Sergeant James Barnes. Everyone I know calls me Bucky.” Bucky shook your hand. “I think I’ve heard your name before. Are you a politician?” He asks.

“Yes I am.” You answered with a smile.

“That’s why I recognized your name. I’ve seen you on the news a few times.” He said. “If it means anything, I think what you’re doing for the people who were in the blip is amazing.” He says.

“At least, you understand it. I can’t get the senator to understand it.” You say.

“Don’t tell him I said this, but he’s an idiot for not understanding your work.” He says.

You couldn’t help but laugh when Bucky said that. He’s not wrong.

“Do you want to get a drink?” Bucky asks.

“I’m going to have to take a rain check on that. I have a lot of work to do.” You say.

“That’s ok. I understand.” He says understandingly.

“Here’s my number if you want to call, text, or hangout.” You say, handing him your card.

“Will do, doll.” He says with a wink.

You give him a smile before he walked away. You got in your car and leaned your head against the headrest of the seat, sighing loudly. You just want to go home and put tonight’s meeting behind you.

The next morning, you gathered your things for work and left your house. You were going to attempt to tell the senator your idea again. You already know he’s going to shoot it down again, but it’s worth another try. First, you need coffee. You went to a nearby coffee shop before going into work. Once again, you were looking down at your phone and accidentally bumped into someone. You didn’t drop anything this time at least.

“I am so sorry!” You apologized. “I wasn’t paying attention to where I was walking.” You say.

“I’m beginning to think you’re bumping into me on purpose, doll.” Bucky says jokingly.

You smiled when you heard his voice. You looked up at him to see him smiling at you.

“I can say the same thing about you, Sergeant Barnes.” You joked.

Bucky chuckles at your joke and opened the door to the coffee shop for you.

“What a gentleman.” You smiled at him.

“I always am.” He says sweetly.

Bucky followed in behind you.

“What are you getting?” Bucky asks. “My treat.” He says, taking his wallet out of his pocket.

“You don’t have to pay for my coffee.” You say.

“I want to. Also, I insist.” He says.

“Well, if you insist.” You giggled.

You ordered your coffee and so did Bucky.

“I have a feeling we’re going to see more of each other.” You say as you and Bucky walked out of the coffee shop.

“I would absolutely love that.” He smiles.

“As much as I want to stay here and talk to you, I have to go to work to convince the senator my idea is the best way to help the people who were in the blip.” You say.

“Don’t let me keep you from doing that then. Good luck. I hope it goes the way you want it to.” He says.

“I hope so too.” You say.

You gave Bucky a smile before walking away. Bucky watched you walk away with a smile on his face. Then he went on about his day and met up with Sam.

“I just think it’s best to help the people who were in the blip.” You say.

“You don’t know what’s best for them.” The senator says.

“I can’t imagine what they went through during those 5 years, but this could be helpful to them.” You say.

“This discussion is over. Let’s move on.” He says.

You opened your mouth to argue back, but an alarm went off and a red light turned on. Everyone in the room, looked around with confused looks on their faces. Everyone was ushered out of the room and the building. Everyone was told to go outside of the building.

You then noticed someone wearing a mask with a red hand print on it. You already knew that meant it wasn’t good. So you tried to sneak away. You thought you were in the clear till someone grabbed your arm, making you stop in your tracks. You turned your head to see the person wearing the mask with the hand print on it.

“You’re not going anywhere.” Karli says.

You whimpered when her grip on your arm tightened. Karli pulled you towards a police vehicle, almost making you trip over your own feet. She shoved you in the vehicle and stared you down for a second before closing the doors and putting a lock on it. You shifted yourself in the seat and leaned your head back against the side of the vehicle.

“Was this part of your plan?” The senator asks you. “To get us held hostage?” He says.

“No.” You answered honestly, lifting your head to look at him. “I don’t even know what’s going on.” You say.

“Yea, right.” He said.

You scoffed at him and looked out the window of the vehicle. After a little bit, there was a noise that sounded like an explosion. Your eyes went wide when you seen a fire outside of the vehicle.

“Fire.” You whispered. “Fire!” You finally say louder.

The senator and everyone else in the vehicle looked out the window to see the fire. Everyone, including you, began freaking out. You started pushing and pounding on the door to get it to open, but it was no use due to the lock that was put on it to trap you, the senator, and a few other people inside of the vehicle.

That’s when you seen a familiar face running towards the vehicle. It didn’t take you long to realize it was Bucky. You frantically tapped on the window to get his attention. Bucky heard the frantic tapping and seen you.

“I’m going to get you guys out. Just hold on, ok?” Bucky says loudly so you could hear him.

You nodded your head. Bucky’s vibranium hand gripped the handle and he pulled on it, using all of his strength. He looked at the door, seeing the lock. His vibranium fist punched the lock to break it. Then he tried opening the door again. After having to use force to get it open, it opened up. Everyone got out of the vehicle quickly.

“Thank you, sir!” The senator says, shaking Bucky’s hand.

Bucky nodded and turned his attention to you. He helped you out of the vehicle. You immediately wrapped your arms around him and leaned your head against his chest. He wrapped his arms around you too, holding you close to you.

“You’re ok.” He coos softly. “You’re safe and sound now.” He whispers. “Let’s get you somewhere safe.” He says.

You nodded against his chest. Bucky picked you up bridal style and carried you somewhere safe. He gently sat you down on a bench and sat down next to you.

“Are you hurt?” Bucky asks, checking you for injuries.

“No. I’m just shaken up is all.” You say.

“You’ll be fine. Just sit here and take a moment to yourself.” He says softly.

“I know you’re working, but can you stay with me?” You asked. “I don’t want to be alone.” You say.

“Of course, doll.” He smiles.

You and Bucky maneuvered yourselves so you two were facing each other. While you two were sitting there, the senator approached you.

“Y/L/N, I owe you an apology.” The senator said.

You looked at him, waiting for his apology. Bucky looked at him too.

“I shouldn’t have accused you of being part of this.” He starts.

“You accused her of this?” Bucky asks him. “She had nothing to do with this. You just wanted to play the blame game.” He said.

“Yes I did and I’m sorry for that.” He apologizes. “If it’s ok with you, you can present your idea again if you want.” He says.

“I would like that.” You say, giving him a smile.

The senator held his hand out for you to shake, which you did.

“Also, if you want to take some time off, you can. I wouldn’t blame you if you did.” He said.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” You replied.

He nodded and walked away.

After thinking about it, you decided to take some time off. After getting your idea to help people who were in the blip up and running, you decided to take a vacation. Then there was a knock at the door. You got up from your spot on the couch to answer the door. You smiled when you opened the door. You stepped aside to let him come inside.

“Hi Bucky!” You smile widely and hugged him. “What brings you by?” You asked.

“I wanted to see how you were doing, especially after that incident with Karli.” Bucky says.

You smiled, loving that he’s so caring.

“I’m doing better than I was that day.” You tell him.

“That’s good.” He replies. “You look better too.” He says.

You couldn’t help but smile at his sweet words.

“If it’s ok with you, I’d like to accept your offer on that drink if it’s still open.” You say.

“That offer will always be open for you, doll.” He smiles.

“Good.” You grabbed your purse and phone. “I neat a drink or two after what I’ve been through.” You say.

“I’m with you on that, doll face.” He chuckles, following you out the door.

You looked at Bucky with a smile on your face.

“What’s with the smile, doll?” Bucky asks curiously.

“We’re going to be great friends.” You say.

“I hope so.” He smiles and wraps his arm around your shoulders. “I did I save you and check up on you.” He says.

“My knight and shining armor.” You grinned up at him, playfully batting your eyelashes.

“You know it, babydoll.” He said before kissing the top of your head.

🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵

-Bucky’s Doll

[yeagersss]

Hi! Retired boxer!sukuna au was amazing !! all the fluffs are just sprinkled everywhere and I'm loving it 🫶🏼🫶🏼

what are your thoughts on their previous relationship? was it toxic? (I sense angst there) :^))

Hiii 👋🏼 I'm so happy you loved my AU! And yes, their past relationship wasn't the best.

The thing is Sukuna was too focused on his career. You aren't the only one he neglects. He doesn't have a good relationship with his family either (gonna touch that in a part two I plan to write hehe 🤫)

I imagine you and him get together in your 20s. Sukuna still at the start of his career. You're in uni. At first, you two hit it off but slowly and slowly he starts taking rainchecks, spends less time with you.

Dates? Birthdays? Valentines day? "I have this important match coming up. I gotta train. I'll make it up to you later."

His making up is sending you a bunch of flowers with a card that says "Sorry" lmao

The final straw was when he missed your graduation. Your parents were there but your boyfriend couldn't make it to your important day?

And the worst part? It was because he was busy with a photo shoot with some model for an expensive sportswear advertisement. Huge ass billboards have Sukuna with his arm wrapped around the model plastered everywhere and you snap.

You confront him and scream at him that it was the biggest day of your life and he knows it's "one step closer to achieving your dream of having your own business" and he missed it. All because he was out taking photos with some model.

And he snaps too. He says your nagging is a constant headache and "whatever the fuck you're doing is a waste of time anyway when I'm earning shitload more than you."

And that's it. You slap him across the face hard and spat a "fuck you!" and walk out.

[alxtiny]

New hair? | Jung Wooyoung x reader

Synopsis: where your brother’s best friend ends up becoming something more

Pairing: jung wooyoung x san’s sister!reader, brother’s best friend au

Genre: fluff

Word count: 1.3k

Warnings: none :)

Notes: Hah I’m on time today hehehehehehe, Happiest Birthday to our Wooyoungie :D

Main masterlist | Be a part of my taglist!

The apartment was unusually loud today, not that you minded. Ateez had just wrapped up their comeback promotions, and the guys were taking a much needed break. Your brother, San, decided to come stay with you for the duration since your place was conveniently close to the dorms and the company building yet far enough from their everyday chaos. San’s presence was always welcome, there was still a room reserved for your dear brother with several of his favourite things in it, but along with him usually came a headache named Wooyoung. Now it wasn't that you hated Wooyoung or anything, you just happened to like him a little too much.

Your feelings for him had been quietly brewing for six long years—since his trainee days when he practically lived at your house, sticking to San like glue. Back then, you were awkward, caught in your teen phase, and Wooyoung had always treated you with an equal amount of affection as he gave San. You never minded those random hugs he gave you or the way he made himself comfortable with his head resting on your lap on movie nights, until one day. After their first comeback, Wooyoung had started looking a little too good and you found your heart beating a little faster than it usually did. Of course you always assumed he thought of you as a little sister and never made a move, not wanting to lose what you already had.

San, being the annoyingly perceptive brother he was, already figured out your not-so-little crush on his best friend years ago when he caught you gushing over Wooyoung’s fancams. He never pressured you to confess, but he wasn’t subtle in his approval either.

Now, Wooyoung was here, lounging comfortably on your couch, and you had to tread very carefully around him, trying to make sure you wouldn’t make any awkward mistakes.

But it seems fate didn’t like it that way. It was a good day, you had an off from work and San was preoccupied since all the other boys had come over too and had taken over your living room, it was a ‘sleepover’ as San claimed it to be. It was also Wooyoung’s birthday, the boys having partied hard the day before, chose to relax today. You realised your apartment somehow always ended up being the hotspot for these sleepovers, even though it wasn’t all that big, but you enjoyed nonetheless, all the guys were super nice to you, even if they occasionally flirted with you. At those times, usually san or wooyoung would come to your rescue.

You were tasked with making a huge lot of ramen, while the guys were engaged in an intense round of whatever video game they were on now, they had ordered fried chicken and some other side dishes to go with it as well. You slowly stirred the ramen, the scent of the broth filling the kitchen, lost in your thoughts, “Need help?” San’s voice startled you as he appeared beside you with Yeosang.

“Perfect timing,” you replied, handing them trays of bowls. Together, the three of you distributed the nine bowls of ramen in the living room, joining the rest of the group as the fried chicken delivery arrived.

Your favourite movie was put on, Howlks Moving Castle, the boys were sprawled across your couch and floor, plates and bowls in hand. You found yourself nestled very comfortably between San and Wooyoung under a large, fluffy blanket. The cozy warmth from their bodies threatened to lull you to sleep.

Halfway through the movie, a yelp startled you.

“Ow, hot, hot!” Wooyoung exclaimed, jolting upright. He had spilled some of the soup from his ramen onto his shirt, the stain spreading rapidly across the light blue fabric.

“Careful!” you fussed, setting his bowl aside and helping him fan the hot liquid off his skin. The movie was paused as everyone shuffled around, but you were already pulling Wooyoung toward San’s room.

Inside San’s room, you rummaged through the closet for a clean shirt.

“You cut your hair? It looks different,” Wooyoung asked suddenly, his voice softer than usual.

You paused, glancing over your shoulder. “I did. Is it… not good?”

“What? No way!” he said, sounding almost offended. “You look even more beautiful, sweetheart.”

Your cheeks warmed at the nickname. “Oh… thanks,” you murmured, tucking a strand behind your ear.

Wooyoung smirked, leaning casually against the doorway as you handed him a shirt. “Thanks,” he said. But before you could leave to give him privacy, he pulled his soiled shirt off, revealing his toned chest.

You froze, trying not to let your eyes wander, as your face grew hot. “Uh—I’ll just—”

“Why so shy?” he teased, clearly enjoying your reaction.

“I’m not shy!” you shot back, spinning around to face the wall.

He chuckled, and you felt his presence behind you. “Do I fluster you, sweetheart?” His voice dropped an octave, sending shivers down your spine.

You turned back, heart pounding as you found him standing closer than expected. His face was awfully close to yours, eyes gleaming with mischief and if you wanted you could kiss him, which is exactly what you did. You pecked his cheek lightly, making Wooyoung blink in surprise, and you took the opportunity to make a run for the door.

Unfortunately for you, he was faster.

Wooyoung caught your wrist, spinning you around and pinning you gently against the door. One arm rested beside your head while the other slowly settled on your waist.

“Running away after that?” he murmured, his gaze softening.

Your breathing hitched. “Woo—”

“Let me talk first,” he interrupted, his thumb rubbing against your hip. “You’ve plagued my thoughts for so long now. I see your pictures online, looking all pretty in those cute little outfits of yours, and I can’t help but think how much better they’d look if I were beside you, and god every single time you mentioned some boyfriend, it made me so mad, that why didn’t I have you for myself yet. I didn’t say anything because you’re Sannie’s little sister, but…” He paused, exhaling deeply, he lifted a lock of your hair. “Now you’re teasing me again, looking so tempting with your new hair. I can’t hold it in anymore.”

Your heart was racing, you gulped at his confession and decided to do something crazy.

You grabbed his collar and kissed him. You almost pulled back, before he responded, his lips pressing back much more intensely, his hand on you waist pulling you closer to him and your arms going around his neck, as his kissed you with fervour. His tongue teased your bottom lip before you were forced to part for air.

You pulled away, your foreheads resting together, both of you flushed and breathless.

“Happy Birthday to me, I guess,” he laughed, “You’re full of surprises, always know how to drive me insane” he kissed you again, “So, can I call you mine now?”

“Yes,” you breathed, unable to stop smiling.

Before either of you could say more, a knock sounded at the door.

San poked his head in, his eyes narrowing as he took in your flushed faces and disheveled appearances. “Are you two okay? You’ve been gone for a while.”

“Yeah, we’re fine,” Wooyoung answered quickly.

San scanned the room one more time before smirking. Slowly closing the door, he yelled back into the living room, “They’re totally together now!”

A chorus of cheers erupted from the rest of Ateez.

“About time!” Yunho hollered.

You and Wooyoung laughed, leaning into each other as you listened to the chaos outside. “They’ve known all along, haven’t they?” you asked.

“Probably,” Wooyoung replied with a fond smile. You just laughed, pressing another sweet kiss to his lips.

© alxtiny . Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, repost, or use my works on any platform in any way.

Send an ask or a message to be added to taglist

DISCLAIMER: THIS IS PURE FICTION AND NOT RELATED TO THE MEMBERS OF ATEEZ IN REAL LIFE PLEASE DO NOT TAKE IT SERIOUSLY

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[bekolxeram]

Everyone decides to be sad about Tommy spending the holidays alone today. I just want to say, I hate you all. Especially @mmso-notlikethat with this post. As payback for making me cry my way into insomnia, I wrote this on my phone instead of sleeping.

By the time he knocks on the door, Tommy still has no idea what to expect. “Wear something nice, we’re celebrating tonight,” that’s the only instruction he’s received from Evan, his boyfriend once again. Tommy can’t help but smile at the mere thought of finally allowing himself to say that name.

He has a burgundy dress shirt on with a pair of light grey slim fit pants. Simple, but elegant, hopefully properly dressed for this undisclosed commemoration. March is not known for its holidays, so what’s the occasion that calls for such festivity? They did meet last March at the cruise ship rescue, maybe that was it? Or perhaps Evan is having some sort of career advancement? They’ve been back together for just a few weeks, there’s simply not enough time for Tommy to catch up on Evan’s ever so eventful life. To that, Tommy silently mourn the time they’ve lost, due to his own cowardice.

“Hey — Hey,” Evan takes a step outside of the door to greet Tommy with a quick peck on the lips. Tommy lets the younger man drag him into the loft without much reaction, because he’s still confused by the sight in front of him: Evan in his usual navy blue button up, dark jeans and… a Christmas hat?

Inside the loft is a jumble of sparkly festive decorations. To his left, he sees “Happy Birthday Tommy”; to his right, “Merry Christmas”; and deeper into the living space, “Happy New Year”.

“Jee and Mara helped setting these up,” Evan says while taking half of a roast turkey out of the oven. “This one is from Bobby. He said half a bird is enough for the two of us, if we don’t want to suffer through leftover for the next 7 days.” He then sets the tray next to some roasted vegetables and a casserole. “The casserole is from Chimney, but I’m pretty sure it’s Maddie’s recipe. Hen got you a cake. I think she said something about being sure you would like it. We can have it for dessert. Oh, and the champagne is from…”

“Eddie, because he can’t cook.” Tommy cuts in.

“Exactly!”

“Evan, what’s going on here?”

Evan steps closer, taking both of Tommy’s hands into his own, “You told me the other day that you spent your 40th birthday alone… I only realized later that you were probably on your own for the entire holiday season, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year, Valentine’s Day. I know it doesn’t come close to the real thing, but I was thinking maybe we could make up for a few key moments that we missed.” He dims the lights in the loft with a remote control and fiddles with something on the dining table. Suddenly, the whole room is lit up with colorful patterns and twinkling stars. “I couldn’t get any firework around here, so I borrowed this star projector from Christopher.”

“Oh… Evan,” Tommy sighs, eyes already hazy with tears.

“I’m not asking you to move in with me or to make major commitments. I’m not asking for anything in return at all. This is… a promise, from me to you. No matter what happens, what becomes of us in the future, I’ll be there when you need me, we all will.”

Evan says earnestly, with utmost conviction in his tone. The clarity in his eyes reminds Tommy of that day at the café terrace, almost a year ago. “I just want you to know, Tommy, you’re no longer alone.”

A few drops of tears escape Tommy’s eyes, but before he can respond, Evan pulls out a mistletoe from his pocket and dangles it over their heads.

“You have to kiss me now.” Evan says with a cheeky grin. Tommy waits no time to capture those smiling lips with his own, kissing him with all the love and gratitude in his heart.

“I love you, Evan. I’m so lucky to have you.” Tommy pulls him into a warm embrace.

“I love you too.” Now it’s Evan’s turn to tear up.

Tommy pulls back a little and asks, “hey, would you mind if we celebrate Valentine’s Day first?”

“Oh, you mean you’re interested in the Valentine’s Night activity?”

“Depends on what you have in mind.”

“Come upstairs. I’ll show you.”

[halfwayhearted]

hopeless romantic pedri trying his best to approach y/n but is afraid thinking she’s into someone else

A Tu Vera — Pedri González.

Pairing: Pedri González x Fem!Reader

Summary: He’s unsure about your feelings and struggles to interpret your actions, but your birthday gesture gives him the chance to hope that he’s wrong. That you do, in fact, like him.

Word Count: 1.10K+

Disclaimer/s — Nothing, it’s really just comfort, slight fluff?

A/N: So basically… I used the term approach as in like, he felt nervous to approach reader about the… situation? FUCK IDK I struggled horribly yet couldn’t stop writing but whatever! ALSO. HIS BIRTHDAY HELLO. 22, bless the hell up! 🎉🐾🤍

The day you’ve been waiting for has finally come.

It was Pedri’s twenty-second birthday today. You had told him beforehand that you would stop by later on because he needed to stay and practice for his upcoming game tomorrow, and you didn’t want to interrupt his time spent with his family.

Some time had passed when your phone buzzed with a message from him saying that he was, well, alone, so you could be on your way to him.

And you were! Your gift for him sat delicately on your passenger seat. Did you have to stop yourself from spending a lot on him? Yes! But this was Pedri; why wouldn’t you go all out for him?

As you pull up, your eyebrows furrow in confusion when you see him standing on the porch, his gaze locking onto your car. You quickly get out and call out to him, “Hello, why the hell are you outside?”

Now he’s looking at you as if you’ve just asked the most stupidest question in the world. “You were on your way. Of course I’d be waiting outside.” He retorted, slowly making his way toward you.

“Right,” you smile and wrap your arms around him once you’re within reach. “Happy birthday!”

The man returns your hug almost immediately. He hums against you in appreciation, nestling his nose into the crook of your neck. The action easily causes your cheeks to flush ever-so-slightly.

“I’ve got your gift in my car. Want to open now?”

“Yeah,” he breathed, pulling away to his dismay.

Though his answer elicits a smile to spread across your lips… oh. He suddenly doesn’t feel upset about having to break the hug so early anymore.

Grabbing his arm, you gently tug him with you as you quickly reach the car door. “Okay, first things first: unfortunately, I can’t stay long. Secondly, feel free to let me know if you don’t like whatever’s in here; I kept the receipt just in case!”

“Doubtful, but I got it,” he shrugged with a grin.

Sliding your hand under the bag, you lean forward to get a better grip on it. Then, you turn to face him, holding it out for him to take, and he does.

With the gift now in his arms, you walk side by side to the chairs he has already set up outside, due to his family coming over earlier. Once the two of you are seated, you turn towards him and motion for him to open it, but he just keeps his gaze fixed on your face. You feel sick. “Go on.”

Adjusting the bag on his lap, Pedri pries it open, a breathy laugh escaping his lips when he sees how overly decorated it is. He takes out the card first, about to open it when you speak, “You can just read that later or something. Keep going, c’mon!”

He smiles, removing the blue and red wrapping paper to reveal the blue Nike hoodie inside. “You like hoodies, and you like the color blue, so…!”

It was the simplest thing, yet it had him fighting the urge to overthink the entire situation. You were observant, he knew that. He needed to stop.

“Thank you,” he says with a toothy-grin. “Really.”

“Of course. There’s one last thing at the bottom.”

The brunette lets out another laugh and removes more wrapping paper. His eyes widen slightly when he catches sight of the next gift, making you bite your bottom lip in nervous anticipation.

His gaze slowly trails up to lock with yours, and you tilt your head. “Do you like it? I noticed you were running low the other day, plus I know—”

Pedri interjects, “I do, and I was. It’s—this is a lot.”

“Don’t worry about that,” you assure. “Now you won’t have to worry about getting another one!”

The box suddenly feels heavy in his hands, the strip of the brand ‘Prada’ staring right at him. He nods slowly, “No, I won’t. Thank you. Wow.”

“Wow, huh? So, I take it you liked everything?”

Obviously, was he kidding? No, were you kidding?“Really? What gave you that idea? Yes, I loved it.”

With a chuckle, you nudge his foot with yours, eyes rolling in feigned annoyance, “Hey, I can easily take it back. Tell me how your day was?”

“It was good. I had a good practice, had a small dinner with my family, and now I’m with you.”

I’m with you? What? He could’ve cursed under his breath if you weren’t right here. He knew he shouldn’t have said that. If he thought it sounded weird, you probably thought it was even worse.

He’s quick to take it back, “I didn’t—I’m sorry.”

“What? It’s okay,” you tell him with a quirk of your brow. “Sorry, what are you even apologizing for?”

He looks confused. “You’re with him, aren’t you?”

“Him?” You repeated. “I’m not seeing anybody.”

Not seeing anybody? “What about the guy with the blonde hair? The one you hung out with a lot.”

That’s when the person he’s talking about flickers through your mind, and now you’re smiling from ear-to-ear, “Oh. I’m not with him. I don’t like him.”

“Then who?” He blurts out, instantly regretting his words. He didn’t even actually know if you liked anyone to begin with. What was he doing?

You blow out a breath and stand up from your seat, with him following suit. “You’re serious?”

Stick with it. “I’m serious. You don’t have to—”

You refrain from letting your grin widen, nudging your head toward your car. He understands that you’re silently asking for him to walk you to it.

“Well! If it’s need-to-know,” you trail off, rounding your car and spinning on your heel to look at him once you reach the door. Your gaze flickers down to his lips for just a second, but that second is all he really needs for his breath to hitch in his throat.

To his semi-surprise, you reached up and placed a kiss on his cheek, sparing him one last knowing glance while you opened the door and got inside.

“Let me know if that answers your question. And, Pedri?” You pause; he hums. “Happy birthday.”

He stands there in silence. He had been so wrong. You weren’t with the person he thought you were with, and he should have realized that when you showed up at his house this late, knowing full well you have to wake up early for your job tomorrow.

Pedri had been utterly mistaken, and he couldn’t have been happier to be as wrong as he was.

Likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated ^_^.

DT(s) — @planetpedri + @gadriezmannsgirl + @spidybaby + @iovepoem + @joaoflms ! ౨ৎ

[gameboyreplay]

Sevika headcanon's!

An: this is my first time posting, everyone celebrate I gained courage! Wow! Warnings: Fluff!!!! And more fluff!!! Woah!!!! Also, Isha is ALIVE. my child will never die. dont piss me off

She's the cleanest woman you'll ever meet. Like she's doing two showers a day, scrubbing like she's trying to remove a layer of skin, smelling like whatever soap she picked up that month. Has a whole collection of cologne and you best believe she loves when people buy her those soap sets for Christmas or her birthday.

Speaking of birthdays, she's one of those people that HATE them. You even try to do anything nice and she's raising an eyebrow. She just doesn't understand the hype! (Doesn't want to admit she's 40)

Forgets to eat. Like you'll come home from work and she'll be sat on the couch, exhausted from having to work with Jinx and it's like a sixth sense at this point. "Hey." She mumbles, looking over to the front door. Her cape hanging off the back of the couch. "Hi baby." You say as you start to take off your jacket. When you turn back around you immediately furrow your eyebrows at how tired she looks. "Did you eat today?" You ask, taking her cape off the back of the couch and placing it on the coat hanger. She looks up to the ceiling, trying to remember if she had but just from that alone you shake your head and walk over to the kitchen. "Never mind."

When she pulls off her cape, sometimes it'll land in puddles and she has to grab it after whatever fight she was in that day, groaning because now has to wash her cape. She'll stumble home, still angry that she had to clean it. She'll go into the bathroom and lean over her tiny ass bathtub, starting to clean any of the dirt out of it. Like she's mumbling to herself about Jinx, using her breath to blow her hair out of her face and grunting when it falls back anyways. Then she'll bring it over to the bedroom, a water trail in her path. She plugs in the hairdryer, still grumbling to herself. Once it's somewhat dry, she's pulling the iron out. You walk through the door and in front of you is an annoyed Sevika, her cape on your bed, the hairdryer discarded on the floor and Sevika slowly running the iron over the cape, a scowl on her face.

When Jinx needs her hair braiding a few days later, she's absolutely yanking on her hair. Like every single strand she is TUGGING.

This woman SLEEPS. Like I'm talking full on, window shaking, waking you up, waking HERSELF up. She's tired man, she's gotta sleep like a father of four!!

Whenever she walks into where she gets her mechanical arms, every single prosthetist in the room just sigh. They see her face every other week.

Bites her nails like it's going to solve her problems. (It won't, it doesn't)

When Silco was alive Sevika would constantly try to get him to play cards with her. Likeee she'd be manipulative. "Do you wanna play cards?" Her smirk is sooo obvious on her face. "No, I'm busy." Is all Silco says. Within seconds she's placing a cigar in front of him. "You sure?" She mumbles. And you know she's walking away with coins and a cocky grin.

I feel like Zaun would be the type to have so many animals just wandering the street. So, she could be having a conversation and dogs will just walk up and she totally acts like she's annoyed while slowly lowering down and stroking the animal.

Like you'll be having a talk with her and instead of her towering over you like normal, she'll be slowly bending down. "Yeah, yeah..." "Sev, why are you on the floor." And she's just petting the dog like it's obvious.

Whenever she takes care of Isha, that child uses her like a climbing frame. She walks into a room and you just hear little mumbling and gasps behind her until she turns around and Isha is just hanging off her shoulder.

She's WARM, like crazy overheating, can't tell if she's sick, HEATED. Yet she'll still wrap up nice and toasty in the covers.

And if you're like me and you have ice cold fingers and toes, she jumps like you just place an ice cube on her body. She doesn't understand how you get like this. It seriously worries her

She gets sooooo annoyed when her hair gets in her face. Like she'll do the weird blow thing and get even more annoyed when it doesn't work.

Jinx and Isha will put clips in her hair. She pretends to act pissed off but she's secretly grateful!!

Does NOT shave. She does not gaf! Bush and happy trail for days! You could braid her leg hair! She does not care!!

After Silco died you had to practically force her off the drinks, cigarillos and the shimmer. Drowning her sorrows like she's not got two kids to take care of now.

Literally has given up trying to stop Jinx from just stopping around her apartment. She'll just hear a little knock before the sight of Isha and Jinx just standing there.

She has learnt to accept that they probably won't go away for a while. So she just allows them to get comfy while they're there. It's ended up with them stay there for days. Gave them a bedtime and everything.

If she hears them messing around in the living room she's THERE. Like if the room is dark, they only know she's there by her stomping footsteps before she crosses her arms and looms over them. "Go to sleep." And Isha just giggles quietly as she slides under her covers, Jinx doing the same with some look on her face towards Isha that Sevika doesn't notice.

She'll stand there until they're both laying down before turning around and grumbling to herself. Then about ten minutes as she's about to fall asleep again all she can hear is giggles and laughter.

Says some sarcastic shit like, "wow, no way," whenever they say they're tired in the morning. ---- A/n: I just want my wife back guys😞😞😞 Anyways let me know if they're any mistakes... or don't...