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jupote · 1 day ago
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This one got away from me but I had a ton of fun writing this!
Human were so useless that you could find no use for them aside for your little toys. You'd taken blood bags and lovers both, most of the degenerates weren't picky to which they were. A cute plaything here, a roughish boy toy there. Sometimes multiple at once, just for some variety. Never had they produced offspring, with your rather poor constitution you figured it was impossible to do so.
So imagine your surprise when you smell your scent wandering the streets. You had to pause, debate whether this was some kind of trap to lure you out.
It wasn't until you heard a sniffle, the tiniest sound you've ever heard, that you ventured after the smell. After your smell. As you followed the trail, you could smell the difference in it. While it wasn't yours entirely, the other scents were completely overpowered by yours.
As you followed the trail, it led you to an alleyway. A dirty, disgusting, trash filled, sex smelling alleyway. But still you went on, wrinkling your nose and finding the trail.
It was hard to pinpoint the exact moment you saw her as one second you were staring straight ahead and the next, you were face to face with a familiar set of eyes. Ruby red almond shaped eyes stared at you, unshed tears providing a glossy finish to the orbs.
"You, child," you spoke, voice commanding attention. "Why do you smell like me?" You asked.
The child, so tiny you could hold her with one arm, looked away and gave a small shrug. "Where are your parents? I demand to speak to them." You ordered, watching the child flinch from under you.
"Pa 'ied m'nths ago." The little thing mumbled, words slurred. "'ama lef' days ago. J'st Apa now."
"Apa w'nt be 'lone 'ny more?" The child asked, head burying itself in your neck.
You stared at the dirt covered, sickly pale child in front of you. You could kill it, quite easily in fact. Nothing could stop you from sinking your fangs into the tiny neck and having a little snack before heading home.
Scoffing at the idea, you grabbed the child and held it against your chest. There was barely enough blood to support the child, much less fill you with anything but boredom.
With the child resting on your elbow you found that yes, you could easily hold it with one arm. The thing couldn't have weighed more than 30 pounds, if even that. "Well that won't do. Come with me, I shall get you cleaned up, fed, and then we will discuss why you look and smell like me." You said, even as the child all but slumped against your shoulder.
You hesitated to answer, though ultimately you knew what it was. "No. Apa won't be alone anymore. Apa won't ever be alone again," you promised as you brought the sleeping child back to your home.
---
It was hours later that the child woke up again. In the time, you took a rag and wiped away all the dirt from her face, neck, arms and legs. You'd rather not have any dirt brought into your house but waiting for the child to wake up was the best course of action, lest you set off any kind of reaction with her.
So wait you did, meditating on the chair next to the bed you laid the child on. It was quiet, almost peaceful. If it wasn't for the insistent stare glued onto your form, you could even call it the most restful meditation you've had in years.
"Why must you stare at me." You asked the owner of the stare, opening your eyes to see the child fully.
She sat huddled under the blanket, forming a cacoon around her with only her big eyes pearing through. "Who 're you?" She asked, words less slurred although there was still a hint of exhaustion.
"My name is-" you paused, wracking your brain for your name. You hadn't heard the word in years. Your little playthings had taken to calling you master, so much so that you gave up trying to get them to call you your name after the first couple of years. "Cyrus. You may call my Cyrus."
"Why'du stop?" She asked, eyes curious is the mischievous way only a toddler can have.
"I hesitated because I forgot my name." You explained, standing up from the chair and dusting yourself of invisible debris.
"Why'du f'rg't your name?" Another question left her as she followed you with her eyes.
"No one has called me by my name for years longer than your bloodline has been alive. Speaking of your bloodline, who were your parents?" You asked, standing in front of the child and staring down at her.
She seemed to shrink in on herself at the question, lowering her eyes away from yours. "Papa 'ied wh'n it was cold cold. N mama w'nt to get Apa food wh'n Apa said she was hungry. Apa made mama go 'way." Tears filled the childs voice as she hiccuped the last few words.
You stared at the child as she shook in grief. Judging by how skinny and dirty she was when you first picked her up, she'd been alone for more than a few days. Either that, or they were already in a shitty situation to begin with.
As a centuries-old vampire, you thought you'd grown detached from humanity, not caring about its ultimate fate. That is, until you learned that you had a single living descendant, a child whose parents had just died. Turns out you do care.
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softpascalito · 2 days ago
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Dulcissima I Marcus Acacius x Vestal!Reader I Chapter XIX - Dulce
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Summary: Set before and during Gladiator II. General Acacius finds himself entranced by a highly valued priestess of Rome – A Vestal Virgin. But you both have taken vows that make sure your paths may never cross. Until they do.
Aka a fix-it fanfic where Acacius survives the Colosseum.
Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Vestal Virgin Reader Rating: Explicit / MDNI Word count: 57k+ Tags: Secret Relationship, Vestal Virgins, Religious Guilt, Gladiator fights, Gladiator II compliant (more or less), Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Ancient Rome, Age Difference, Slow Burn (ish), Injury, Kissing, Historical Inaccuracy, (Attempted) Sexual Harassment, Smut, First Time, Oral Sex (f receiving), Vaginal Sex, Unprotected Sex, Slight Breeding Kink, Semi-Public Sex, Pining, More tags to be added
AO3 // Series Masterlist // Masterlist // Fic Playlist // Ko-Fi
notes: hi! this one took a little longer but i've been so swamped with my other work that i didn't get to uploading until now. as always, comments and support are greatly appreciated ♡
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(art by Gökberk Kaya)
Chapter XIX - Dulce
Acacius’s cubiculum is off to the other side of the landing above the atrium and you let him take the lead, allowing the gentle pull of his hand to drag you behind him. You have half a mind to cast a glance around the quiet space, checking whether or not your sudden rush has any witnesses. But you seem to be alone.
“Here,” he hums as he lets go of your hand and stops in front of the door, pushing it open to reveal a bedroom not unlike yours. The curtains that frame the windows have the same color, the same airiness to them that seems to carry throughout the whole villa. The walls that may have once been white are more of a comfortable creamy color now, several alcoves decorating them. They’re not too big, raised a few feet off the floor and barely big enough to fit a small statue. But the largest of them, the one beside the bed, is decorated with a mosaic.
A woman facing away from her viewer, her garments floating around her while she holds a fresh bundle of flowers in one arm, the other outstretched to touch those that still rise from the ground, maybe not quite tall enough for picking. Her form is such a stark contrast against the deep green and blue tiles that are all around her, filling the rest of the alcove from top to bottom, that it makes you pause for a moment, stepping closer to the piece of art as Acacius locks the door behind you.
“She is beautiful,” you hum softly, catching his attention. You listen to his footsteps coming up behind you and then his hands settle on your waist once more and he hums in agreement, resting his chin on your shoulder.
“She reminds me of you.”
“Why?” You ask bluntly. For the woman does not wear a veil or carry a flame. “You cannot even see her face.”
“I do not need to.” Acacius explains simply. “I know beauty and brains when they find my presence. Even if they are turned away. Even if they are veiled.”
“Acacius–” You start but he tuts softly, shaking his head.
“Allow me.” He whispers, nudging you until you turn to face him instead of the nameless woman on the wall. He has put the wine onto the table beside the bed– and you find that he is holding something else, a package shaped like a small square that fits perfectly into the palm of his hand. “I know I have hurt you.”
“I already told you, you are forgiven,” you repeat quietly but you can tell he’s not satisfied with tha. Which, really, who would not be satisfied with the forgiveness of a Vestal so easily given?
“I wish for you to have this,” his eyes flicker back and forth between both of yours and you can tell he is nervous. “My hope is that it will show you where my 
 true intentions lie. Where they have been.”
You take the small parcel from him, the size of a small honeycake wrapped into brown, worn paper, held together with red string. Carefully, you begin to open the present, making sure to neatly unwrap it. Your mind is already going miles and miles an hour, wondering what exactly he can mean. You thought you knew where his priorities lied and it clearly was not you. Not fully, anyway.
The skillfully melted gold, that seems to lighten up the room with a dim glow the moment you unwrap it, makes your breath catch in your throat. So does the green stone that sits on the side of the bracelet.
But not because of their worth, even though you are sure they could not have come cheap. But because of where they are from.
The shop he found you in in Beneventum. You were holding this very bracelet when Acacius stormed in with panic in his eyes and hurried you back to the villa and into the confines of your new guard before you had a chance to protest. You still remember the tremble you thought you saw in his hands that day, when he left you to be in your room. And it raises the one question.
“You went back to buy it?” You whisper, only able to raise your gaze from the bracelet resting in your hand with immense willpower.
“The same day, yes.” He confirms quietly and now you understand why he wanted you to have this. Because it shows that he did care. “I meant to give it to you. I thought it may lighten your mood but when I came to the villa in the morning, you were nowhere to be found.”
“I was with Rusticus,” you quickly explain. “He allowed me to visit the temple to say my prayers.”
“Yes. I saw you return with him.”
It’s like reading a book you loved as a child after youïżœïżœïżœve become older, after you’ve turned wiser. You let the morning pass through your mind once more. The temple, the old man with his cart, buying baked goods. Laughing with Rusticus on the way back to the villa. Of course that is the part that Acacius would have seen.
“Either way–” He starts again and you’ve been quiet long enough that you know Acacius has understood where your thoughts have gone. And his eager attempt to distract from them only solidifies your belief that you are right in thinking that he did not enjoy seeing you with the other man. “I meant to give it to you. But I was not sure how.”
“I have it now,” you offer weakly, a smile playing around your lips as you put the paper and string to the side and push the bracelet against your free hand.
“May I?” Acacius hums and you nod, stilling as he carefully takes the bracelet from you. One hand comes to steady your arm. “The woman refused to sell it to me at first. I think I came off a little 
 strong when I came into her shop.” With seemingly no effort, the gold slips over your knuckles and onto your arm, the cool metal sending a small shiver through your body.
“You were worried,” you defend him quietly, even though you know he is right. And you were livid. But that night, you imagined how you’d have felt if you had shown up to the villa to find him missing. You believe your reaction would have been similar. “You paid her handsomely, I hope.”
“More than.” Acacius nods but unlike yours, there is no joy in his voice. You’re not sure how or why but you can tell you have hit a nerve. You quirk an eyebrow in question and he sighs in response, unfastening the leather pouch he used to pay the lady earlier from his belt and throwing it for you to catch. You just barely manage to, your hands weighed down with how heavy it is. And when you loosen the string that holds it together and peek inside, you almost gasp.
“These are all–” You press out, taking one of the gold coins out to inspect it. “This is half a fortune, Acacius.”
You are no stranger to money, not in your position. It is something you have to understand, both for yourself and the many people the Vestals have business with. But this is 
 a lot, even for you.
“I do not care for the gold,” Acacius says quietly and you watch as he lowers himself onto the bed, propping his elbows up on his knees and brushing his hands over his face. “It is cursed.” It is just a whisper, one slipping between the fingers covering his face.
“Why?” You question softly, like you are scared he may take offense to your question.
“It is gold I get paid for sending young men to their deaths.” A sad smile plays around his lips. “Like I said. Cursed.”
You sigh as well, slowly padding over to him and getting on your knees in front of him. You reach for his hands, drawing them away from his face and into yours instead. “I do not believe in curses, my General.”
His smile changes, from sad to something you can’t quite name. “I know you said you did not wish for grace or gifts tonight,” Acacius hums, his eyes fixed on yours, his thumb stroking your fingers in the gentle motions you’ve become so accustomed to. “I am sorry I failed you on at least one of those accounts.”
“You did not fail me,” you whisper, bowing your head to press your lips against the back of his hand. You place a gentle kiss onto his skin and whisper your words against it, like they will travel into his body this way. “You are here now. That is what matters.”
You can tell he does not fully believe you but he nods anyway, his voice cracking slightly. “Come here, anaticula.” He pulls you up and into him so that you’re perched on his thigh, not unlike the way you were below the pavilion in his gardens so many moons and suns ago.
Acacius takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with air and with you, pressing his nose into your shoulder while his arm wraps around your waist to make sure you won’t fall. Slowly but surely, you find yourself able to relax, much more than you have in the last few weeks. Even when there has not been actual danger to your life, quite literally having no one to lean on has been rough.
“Have you been on a ship before?” He muses, posing the question without judgement. You shake your head, your right hand tracing the fine golden lines on his toga, those that form tiny leaves.
“No. But I have seen them in the colosseum. And at Ostia, of course.” You dimly remember visiting the port of Ostia a few times as a child, before you were chosen. But the visits were brief and while impressive, you were not too occupied with the ships lining up along the shore.
Acacius nods and you can almost see the thoughts swirling in his eyes. “We will leave in a few days time, when everything is prepared. These waters are not as dangerous but it is naive to think any waters can not be deadly if treaded the wrong way.”
“Well, I am sure it will be an interesting experience. It must be fascinating, seeing no land. Being so far away from everything.” In truth, you have been looking forward to this part of the journey, something that you are certain not many of your kind have gotten to witness.
“Beautiful and treacherous,” Acacius agrees quietly. “I assume you know how to swim?”
You can practically watch the surprise spreading over his face when you shake your head again. “No. It was not exactly on the curriculum for a Vestal. I used to step into the river, play on the bank. Then one time, I stepped too far in and the current took me.”
Acacius has tensed slightly below you and you think you feel his grip tighten even more at hearing your story. “And then?”
“And then my father was there. He did not even yell. He just pulled me out and carried me back to land.” It feels so far away, like it was a completely different lifetime and you realize that you haven't thought about that day in a long while. “After that, I never strayed very far from the bank. And then I was chosen and life changed.”
“Let me teach you,” he says suddenly and you frown, needing a few seconds to figure out what he means.
“Teach me to swim?” You echo to make sure you’ve understood him correctly. And he nods, like it is the most natural thing in the world for a Roman General to take a day off his duties to teach a priestess how to keep herself above water. “Our dancing may have gone undiscovered but I doubt a swimming lesson would.”
He laughs softly at that, a brown strand of hair falling in front of his face as Acacius shakes his head. “No. No, I do not intend to teach you here. But there is a place that would work.” The familiar concern is back in his eyes but you find that it doesn’t bother you as much anymore. Not if he is allowing you to help him soothe his worries.
“Very well. Tomorrow, then?”
“Tomorrow,” Acacius hums in agreement, his eyes following you as you stand and step back from him, your form throwing a soft shadow into his direction, the windows to your back. His hand is still in yours, his arm outstretched so that you will not pull away.
“Is there anything else, my General?”
He almost growls at the way you address him, his fingers tightening around yours. “There is indeed.” His eyes seem to follow your curves once more. “I like how you think I would let you sleep in your own bed after tonight.”
You know very well that it is an empty threat, that Acacius would escort you back to your own bed yourself if you made it clear that was your wish. But the way he’s looking at you right now, combined with the idea of spending the night with him– it is almost too good to be true. “You consider it unsafe then, I take it?”
Your words are merely a breath spoken into the quiet room but you see the smirk that spreads over the mans face, more than ready to play the game you just started. “I do.” In one quick motion, he pulls you into him. Before you even know what has hit you, you’re straddling him while he sits on the edge of his bed, legs spread. “What if Rusticus decided to ask for another dance?”
His hand trails over your leg, fingers ghosting under the hem of your stola that has already ridden up quite a bit thanks to your position on top of the General. “You really hate his guts, don’t you?”
The hand on your thigh squeezes down at that and Acacius tuts softly. “No, I don’t. I just don’t like when others touch what is mine.”
A rush of warmth spreads through your body at his words, at his implication. For a moment, you consider if it’s nerves or if he’s being too much for you, especially after so many weeks of being apart from him. But then you feel your core clench around nothing and a frustrated whine escapes your throat, making you realize that it is not too much– it is not enough.
“I am yours?” You breathe, your hands wandering over his body, one cupping his cheek. Chocolate brown eyes watch you as he nods softly, his other hand cupping the curve of your ass.
“As far as I am concerned,” Acacius hums and you see him almost holding his breath at the question that follows. “Is that alright, dulce?”
“More than,” you agree immediately, leaning in to chase his lips. You don’t even have to. He meets you halfway, his mouth on yours in the blink of an eye. And it’s like all the worries, all the hardships fall off your shoulders when you are so close to him; when you have his hands on your skin and his lips on yours.
“Hold on–” Acacius rasps when you both break the kiss for a few moments and you withdraw reluctantly, wrapping your arms around his neck in silent protest to not let him leave. You hear him grunt at that and after a moment, you’re up in the air as he carries you through the room and to the windows. “Will you open one of these for me?”
You nod and do as told, extending one arm to the small piece of wood that keeps the windows closed at wish. A wave of cold air rushes in as soon as you do and with it the voices from the people below, some evidently still dancing around the piazza. “You enjoy hearing the sounds of the night?”
Acacius shifts you in his arms, shaking his head. “I will not deny that I do. But more than that–” He groans slightly as he lowers you back onto the bed, two arms caging you in on either side, his teeth scarping over that sensitive part of your ear. “I enjoy letting them hear you.”
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monstersholygrail · 8 months ago
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I am such a nuzzler (I’m severely touched starved). But I just love me a good nuzzle with some sweet cuddling and maybe a bit more than that.
Imagine Werewolf bf who welcomes and encourages your clingy behavior and all the nuzzling that comes with it. Not only because he loves the attention but because he is just as obsessed with you as you are him.
You get this sort of shy look in your eye when the urge arrives and Werewolf bf notices it instantly. His arms move on their own as they spread out wide. Allowing you to immediately dive into his embrace. Nuzzling your way up his furry body till you burrow into his chest.
Loud purrs emanate from Werewolf bfs chest as his arms move to wrap around you, practically squishing you to his chest. You both adore the hard secure touch of each other’s hold. His purrs only growing louder as you move up and nuzzle into his neck, nosing brushing along his marking spot.
His cock can help but harden whenever you do this. It’s his instant weakness. The idea of you two marking each other. Of being bound and getting these cuddles for the rest of your life. It sounds like heaven to him.
And of course when you’re cuddling with a Werewolf bf, cuddling doesn’t stay cuddling for long. With your delicious shapely body pressed so tightly against him, he can’t be blamed for his actions that follow.
As you two continue to squirm against each other, practically wanting to crawl into each other’s skin, it’s simply not Werewolf bfs fault that his erection just so happens to grind into your lovely pussy. He can feel the growing dampness through your panties and he growls out his approval. Always so wet for him you are.
The whine that leaves you vibrates through his skin, only serving to make Werewolf bf even harder. His hands never leave their place around your body, not even as they slide down and so gently push your panties off to the side. He wouldn’t dare take his hands off of you when in need of such closeness.
Making sure to maintain your cuddles while he rolls his cock easily inside your addictive wet heat. Werewolf bf tightens his hold on you to the point where you can barely move as he starts moving your bodies in a steady rhythm.
Your bodies rocking together as noises of pleasure fall from your lips and spill right into each other’s skin. Not an inch of space between you and neither of you would have it any other way. Werewolf bf’s claws scratch along your back and you cry out, toes curling at the added sensation.
Burying your hands in his fur you move as best you can, eagerly sucking his cock back inside you with every thrust. Wanting all of him as close to you as possible. Rough grunts leave your bf as his pace picks up, fulfilling your need as he does all the others.
Werewolf bf keeps his grip firm but gives you the room to move faster and meet the snap of his hips. You immediately jump at the chance, drool dripping onto his fur as you bounce sloppily on his huge girth. Wanting to feel just how roughly he can split you open and stretch your weeping cunt.
As you both move together it doesn’t take long for you both to explode, clenching down on his length and milking his cock for all it’s worth as he shoots spurt after spurt of hot cum deep inside your walls. Werewolf bf shivers in return, his body buzzing as your essence coats his member and your walls stay firmly implanted around him.
Your limp form sags happily back into his chest. Nipping playfully at his neck and resulting in Werewolf bf’s cock twitching inside you as he snaps his jaw at your neck in retaliation. You laugh lightly, nuzzling back into him, glad to be even closer to him as his softening cock stays inside you.
Werewolf bf moves his hands up and down your back and over your body, caressing every inch of you. Loving how your body trembles and leans into it in response.
Yeah, Werewolf bf wouldn’t give up your nuzzles and clingy behavior for anything. He’s got everything he needs right here.
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mariasont · 9 days ago
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OKAY OKAY OKAY this might seem really simple but i love the simple stuff
spence x reader
spence is just yapping about whatever, the quantum mechanics of coffee beans, as you said in one of your posts i think, and reader just cuts him off by kissing him IN FRONT OF EVERYONE on the jet.. and everyone’s there like.. oh! im imagining he kisses reader like he kissed lila in that pool scene IM FERAL. yes he kisses back.. and then the rest of it’s just garcia being a squeaking happy person and hotch and morgan are like “that’s my boy” but rossi and jj are just gagged
please im like
Reid the Room - S.R
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spencer reid has never met a bad time to discuss aviation disasters. and before your survival instincts can stop you, you're kissing him just to make it stop
pairings: spencer reid x reader warnings: gn!reader (correct me if im wrong), secret relationship, pda, mild workplace inappropriateness lol, teasing/banter, spencer reid being spencer reid, mentions of plane crashes! wc: 0.9k
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The words don’t just come from Spencer, they pour — fast and inevitable, like water rolling down slick stone, shaping everything in its path. You’ve spent months memorizing the subtleties of it, the tiny furrow between his brows when he’s thinking too hard, his fingers twitching mid-sentence, like even his body can’t quite keep pace with his brilliance.
He becomes more animated when he’s passionate. It should be illegal, you think, for someone to be this smart and this pretty at once. If the team ever noticed how intently you watched him, they’d know. They’d know everything. 
“— the likelihood of a plane crash is about one in 11 million, but what’s really fascinating is that 95.7% of people actually survive crashes, assuming they’re seated within the five rows of an emergency exit. Though, of course, the probability of surviving depends on factors like impact angle and —”
Morgan leans forward, bracing an arm against his knee, eyes locked on Spencer with the patience of a man debating the ethics of shutting someone up by violent force.“Hey, man, you ever hear of a bad time? We are currently on a plane. Read the room.”
For once, you don’t leap to his defense. No well-timed he’s just trying to educate us, Morgan, or an indulgent I think it’s interesting thrown in to buffer the onslaught. 
Instead, you glance at him, eyebrows lifting into something dangerously close to betrayal. Because, yeah. This might actually be one of those times. One of the Morgan is completely justified in wanting to tape Spencer’s mouth shut for the next four hours.
“I have heard of a bad time, but the concept is largely subjective. What you’re experiencing is cognitive bias, your brain associating this discussion with immediate danger because of proximity. In reality, the likelihood of a crash remains the same whether I mention it or not, so from a purely logical standpoint, this is no worse a time than any other.”
Morgan drags a hand down his face.
“...In fact, not talking about it could be considered the real danger. Avoidance leads to complacency, and complacency leads to fatal mistakes. Did you know that the most survivable crash positions involve bracing at a 60-degree angle? Although, of course, survivability depends largely on the structural integrity of the fuselage upon impact, and in cases of explosive decompression —”
It happens before you can think about — before the gnawing, frantic need to make him stop talking about plane crashes while you are actively inside one overrides all rational thought.
You turn, grab Spencer’s collar, and yank him in, your own common sense careening into a tailspin somewhere at 30,000 feet.
The moment your lips collide, Spencer’s entire body goes rigid, frozen mid-sentence, mid-thought, mid-existence. His mouth is still forming a syllable that dies in a half-swallowed exhale against your tongue. His hands, previously conducting an invisible orchestra of statistical doom, trap in mid-air like he forgot what hands are.
But he catches up fast. One second he’s buffering and the next his fingers twitch — once, twice — and then lock onto your waist like he’s just decided physics no longer applies and you need to be closer. It starts semi-tentatively, inhaling against your lips, breath uneven, before he presses deeper. A lit match dropped straight into gasoline.
You pull back, breath coming fast, Spencer still leaning in like he isn’t done yet. “Anyway. What were you saying?”
Spencer stares, lips parted, pupils blown wide. For a second, he seems to genuinely try to answer, searching his mind for whatever deeply important fact he was so adamant about a minute ago. “...I don’t remember.”
The jet is quiet — too quiet — and that’s when it hits you. 
You kissed Spencer. In front of everyone.
Something cold and hot spreads through you, and suddenly, your limbs don’t seem to be operating under your jurisdiction anymore. Do something. Anything. Breathe. Blink. Move. But nope, your brain is still buffering, and Spencer – dear, sweet Spencer — looks just as dazed, which means absolutely no one is saving you from this.
You could just
 not turn around. Avoid whatever is waiting for you. Live the rest of your life facing forward like a malfunctioning animatronic. But the weight of twelve pairs of eyes boring into your back is impossible to ignore.
So, with all the grace of a person walking into their own execution, you turn.
Garcia has both hands glued to her mouth, body vibrating like she’s one second away from either screeching at a frequency only dogs can hear or launching herself into the air like a bottle rocket. Her eyes are huge, pupils dilated. JJ, meanwhile, is just staring. Frozen, lips parting as if she wants to say something but has no idea where to start.
And then there’s Hotch.
You swallow hard as you meet his gaze, expecting some level of seriousness, some stern professional acknowledgment of the wildly inappropriate display that just took place — but instead, he just exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose like a man who is simply too tired for this.
And then, breaking the tension with the ease of a wrecking ball, Morgan lets out a low, satisfied chuckle. “Damn. I knew there was something going on, but damn.”
After the initial shock wore off — and after Garcia had texted Emily a summary in all caps, Morgan had called you both a lost cause, and Rossi had actually applauded — things mostly went back to normal. Mostly. Except now Spencer absolutely knew what he was doing.
And later that night, as you sat beside Spencer on the couch, he turned to you, utterly serious, and murmured, “You know, in the U.S., the majority of residential break-ins occur between 10 a.m. and 3 p.m. —” 
You groaned, yanked him in, and cut him off the same way you had earlier. He made a very pleased noise.
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💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs
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monstersflashlight · 28 days ago
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Magic dick
A/N: It's been a while since I posted something non-request or commissioned, so here. Also, what’s more romantic than a glory hole?
Non-identified monster x fem!reader || glory hole, free use (kinda?), oral sex, dirty talk
Ending Valentine’s Day on a monster club isn’t what you were expecting, but definitely welcomed. The dance floor is great, and you talked and almost humped a couple monsters. You are keyed up and ready to ask one of them to bring you home for the night, but when your friend asks for a bathroom break, you follow her.
That’s when you see it.
There’s a door at the back, a black door with only one sign in the front that says “Let a magic dick decide your destiny”. You turn to your friend with a smile, she’s already shaking her head.
“No,” she cuts your overexcited self. "Let's go, come on," your friend says, pulling you away from the door. But you dig your heels on the floor.
"Dude, come on! It says Let a magic dick decide your destiny. We need to try it!" You know it’s very unlikely she would say yes, but you want to. You want to end your Valentine’s on a high note, and what a better note than a monster dick.
"I don't wanna try a magic dick," she says, almost exasperated.
You look at her, clasping your hands and begging her: "But I do! Come on, pleaseee!" You try to sound as annoying as possible.
"Ugh, okay, I'll wait here. Go in, have fun, if you aren't out in 30 min I'm coming in, though." She rests her back against the wall and takes her phone out, dismissing your very happy-self.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you," you say as you kiss her cheek loudly and open the door.
Your excitement and anticipation can’t barely keep up with the instant joy that fills your insides. You don’t have time to process why do you feel like that, though.
At the other side there’s a colorful wall with all kinds of genitals painted in pastel colors: human, monster, alien, robot
 There’s so many and in so many shapes and colors that it looks almost cozy, like something you could see in a Monstagram post or something. But you don’t focus on that for very long, because in the middle of all of that, there are three holes
 and one of them is occupied.
It’s in a pretty combination of purple and green, and it has ridges under the tip, forming almost a crown that looks like it could drive you into oblivion if they rubbed against your G-spot. You lick your lips, your mouth salivating at the idea of tasting him. You don’t know what kind of monster he is, but you can almost picture him with his head thrown back and maybe
 maybe horns. Yeah, you’d like if he had horns.
You approach slowly, measuring your steps so he’s at least surprised when you touch him. “Fuck, fuck, fuck
” He starts cursing as soon as you wrap your hands around his shaft.
You aren’t expecting such strong reaction, but it ignites something inside of you that drives you a bit insane with desire. You always preferred partners that were vocal, and the monster on the other side of the wall definitely is.
He’s so big, bigger than any dick you’ve ever seen before, and it’s making you all kinds of hot and bothered. “Hi there, I hope you don’t mind if I help myself here,” you tell the monster, not expecting him to say anything else, but being surprised when he does.
“Are you... who are you?” He sounds choked out, almost as if he’s holding back already and you have only touched him.
“A human,” you simply say, amusement clear in your voice. You don’t know much about glory hole etiquette, but asking for somebody’s identity is probably not it.
He takes a deep breath, sniffing the air audibly. “You smell
 Fuck, you smell so good.” He groans, as if your smell is good enough to give him pleasure. His dick twitches in your hand, and well
 Maybe your arousal is clear to him? You aren’t sure, but you don’t really mind it, you want to suck his cock and get out of there.
You chuckle, not the first time somebody said that to you tonight. “You can smell me from there?” You ask back, spitting on his dick and using it as lube as he whimpers pitifully.
“Yes. Fuck, yes.” You go faster, your hands working in tandem over his shaft as he bulks against the thin wall.
The sounds he’s making are desperate, and you can feel your pussy tingling as you fall to your knees in front of the hole. You think about saying something, but you end up just leaning forward and taking his tip on your mouth, your tongue softly touching the ridges at the crown until he’s begging you to take him deeper, to move faster, until he’s crying so loud you are sure even the people on the dance floor can hear him. But you don’t even care about it.
You only care about the dick in your mouth and the pathetic sounds he’s making, bulking against the wall as if he’s trying to get as far as possible down your throat. But he can’t. You have all the power, and that excites you. That drives your desire higher and higher until you are drenched and your clit is mirroring the pulses of your heartbeat.
“You are great. Fuck. You are doing perfect. You are perfect. Such a pretty mouth, such good tongue over my shaft. Holy fuck
” He’s chanting all kinds of nonsense, but you don’t answer, too busy swallowing around the shaft in your mouth. You hum a response, making the monster groan very loudly. “Goddess, darling, that feels so good
” His voice breaks in another groan, one that makes your insides twitch and your free hand travels down.
You rub your clit over your panties, thanking the universe for wearing the cute little dress that allows you to touch yourself easily. “Are you touching yourself? Fuck, that’s so hot! Get yourself there, darling, please.” You don’t even question how he knows, but knowing he’s aware of your hand in your panties makes you swallow around him, groaning around his shaft. “Finger that pretty pussy for me. Make yourself come with my dick in your mouth.” His words are exhilarating, you’ve never been with somebody who didn’t make dirty talk sound corny, but good damn it if he isn’t helping you out with that dirty mouth.
You do as he says, rubbing your clit at the same time you jerk him off, your mouth too little to take all of him, not even half. He doesn’t seem to care, cursing and screaming for the Goddess as you drive him crazy with your mouth and hand. You push two fingers inside your welcoming pussy, rubbing the heel of your hand against your clit.
The combined sensation between your hand and the cock in your mouth is enough to make your eyes roll back into your head, the symphony of your mixed moans ascending you to heaven. Your back and knees hurt, but you don’t care, you can’t care. You are so close. So, so close

“I’m
 I’m coming. Goddess, fuck. Holy fuck. Come with me, darling, please, let me smell your orgasm
” His words mean nothing, but they are enough to drive you over the edge.
You clench around your fingers at the same time he screams and your throat is filled with his seed. He tastes sweet, almost like pie (the joke in there isn’t missed). You hum around his shaft until he’s begging and crying out, pulling back as you smile and run your tongue over your lips, catching the last drops of his release. You lick your own fingers as you get up, humming happily and sated.
“Wait there,” he grunts across the wall, the dick disappearing completely as you wipe your mouth and get your dress down.
You chuckle, walking to the door and opening to find your friend looking over your shoulder. You turn around just in time to see a very big, very scary purple and green monster barreling down the hallway, dick still wet and hanging out his open pants.
Turns out the magic dick could predict who would be your soulmate, and nobody was expecting for you to be the mate of the dick in question
 Not even him.
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ssahotchnerr · 25 days ago
Note
possible idea for married hotch since you asked for requests😋 (and cause i love your writing)
maybe one where he gets injured and with the rest of the bau he’s just brushing it off but when wifey pulls up? different story.
he’s just all đŸ„șđŸ„ș at her and the team is like wtaf?
also can i be 🌊 anon pretty please?
healing touches
i love that đŸ„șđŸ„șđŸ€• cw; bau fem!reader, established relationship (hehe they're soooo in love), injury/blood descriptions, aaron being stubborn🙄, playful banter, fluff <333
The first SUV arrived back at the police department after apprehending the unsub. Morgan, JJ and Prentiss walked inside, pulling their vests off in sync.
You might have been mistaken, but their gazes immediately locked onto you as they removed their protective gear. Their stares were almost unsettling, as if they knew something you didn’t, and were waiting to see the rest unfold. Unease filled you from head to toe.
"Hey," you stacked a few files together, placing them down. "How'd it go? Did you get him?"
"Yeah, 'course we did." Morgan sauntered over, dropping his vest onto the table with a thud.
"Well," Emily added, a slight grimace on her face. "Not without putting up a relentless fight. It wasn't pretty, I'll tell you that."
A bad feeling formed in your gut. Even Spencer's attention was gained, his head lifting from his book.
"What do you me-"
Your words were interrupted by Aaron and JJ walking in. JJ, perfectly fine. Aaron on the other hand, was moving at a much slower speed than normal, definitely banged up with a fair amount of blood present on his face.
Your eyes widened in alarm, meeting him halfway.
"Oh my god, Aaron. Are you okay?" You immediately unstrapped his vest for him, tucking it under your arm. The lessening pressure seemed to help some, light tension lifting from his body.
Your hand raised to cup his jaw, moving it gently to observe the damage. There was definitely a developing bruise underneath his right eye, his forehead and cheek were both littered with scrapes of all shapes and sizes. Aaron winced when his head reached a particular angle, and it wasn't a subtle wince either. It was a startling jolt, agonizing pain obvious.
But it was at your touch, and your presence, that his eyes softened. The stagnant sharpness dissolving as he looked at you with a tenderness that was almost too raw to hide. You pulled back to get a better look at him as whole, ensuring he was fully intact.
"He's 'fine', in case you were wondering. Only told us 'bout a million times." Morgan added air quotes, sitting down and kicking his feet onto the table. "Refused medical attention, even."
"Manners." You swatted his foot, causing him to lower them before turning back to Aaron. You tutted at him softly, "You did? After that lil stunt you just pulled?"
"Well... I guess it is starting to hurt more now."
"I wonder why," JJ commented humorously under her breath, hiding her smile with her palm. Additionally, Emily and Derek gave him a look.
You quickly reached into your bag, riffling through it until you found your handy tube of Neosporin. "C'mon, let's get you cleaned up."
Aaron didn't argue, didn't utter a single word as he followed you to the bathroom like a lost puppy. Once inside the small space you maneuvered him back against the sink, washing your hands next.
"That was stupid of you." You wet a paper towel, dabbing his cuts and ridding of any dry blood, once again causing him to flinch at the touch. You pulled the towel away, pausing a moment, before resuming gently. "Even if you think you're not in need of getting checked out, please do, for my sake at least. I'd like my husband to stay in one piece if possible."
"I know, I'm sorry."
"What happened?"
"We were clearing the grounds and he managed to catch me by surprise," Aaron huffed out, evidently annoyed at himself. "I should have seen it coming. Seen him in the shadows, reacted faster."
"Baby, you may think you have the invincibility of Superman, but you don't. You're human, it's okay to miss things every once and a while." You reassured him softly, tossing the towel aside and moving onto the Neosporin. After dabbing some onto your index finger, you began blotting it thoroughly onto the cuts. "Which I'm fine with, by the way, you're much better looking."
"Yeah?" A laugh escaped Aaron, but his chuckle was interrupted by the twinge in his ribcage, the entirety of it shooting up in pain.
"I'm sorry," you gasped gently, guilt sweeping through you.
"It's fine, 'm fine." He breathed out through his teeth, his jaw clenching momentarily, until the pain subsided. "I'm okay sweetheart. Now c'mon, your face is far too pretty to look that worried."
Your eyebrows were furrowed, eyes frantically searching his face.
"Really. So I'm a little bruised up, I've been through far worse."
You sighed, not entirely convinced. "Fine. But when we get home tomorrow," your eyes narrowed slightly, pointing the Neosporin at him as a 'threat'. "You're resting. Come hell or high water."
"Deal."
"I'm happy you're okay." Suddenly emotional, tears dared to spill from your eyes. They stalled at your waterline, completely blurring your vision. You hated to see him in pain, and the reminder of past events didn't help. "Don't scare me like that."
"C'mere," Aaron raised his arms, gesturing for you to come close.
"I don't want to hurt you-"
"Come here."
You took a step forward, not raising your arms to potentially inflict pain, but rest your body against his. Your face found home in the crook of his neck, while his arms did wrap around you. Not as tight as usual, but enough to hold you and not hurt.
"I'm fine," he kissed the side of your head. "And I have my girl to thank for that. Although, you did miss a spot."
"I did? Where?" You pulled back, beginning to unscrew the tube's cap but Aaron's hand stopped you.
"Right here." He pointed to his lips, playing up the 'anguish' in his eyes. "Hurts real bad."
Your lips tugged into a smile, leaning in and offering him a short, sweet kiss.
"That's all I get?"
You playfully rolled your eyes before giving his lips another quick kiss. He chased your lips, but you pulled back, keeping just out of reach.
"Want a longer one? Get medical attention next time."
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pleasureable · 2 months ago
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Pink Goes Well with Purple
Summary - After entering in a series of death games, a popstar fallen from grace finds comfort in a certain purple haired stranger.
Warnings - mentions of reader having pink hair (hence the title lol), ooc Thanos?, bad writing, please excuse any grammatical errors, this is pretty short
A/N - this is my first ever attempt at writing fanfiction for a character so I know this story might be hot ass, I just really wanted to jump on the Thanos bandwagon since he's one of my favs from this season and there's not enough fics on here for him to quench my thirst lol
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Once a universally loved popstar, the emotional distress caused by the separation from your ex-boyfriend caused you to fall down a rabbit hole of sex and drugs, not to mention the $70,000,000 lawsuit you were slapped with after punching a paparazzi for putting his camera just a tad bit too close to your face. The heavy fallout from the legal battle was enough to make the whole world turn its back on you. Essentially blacklisted from the industry as a whole, you were desperate to rebuild your image (or at least get your money back) in any way you possibly could.
That's when you were approached by a man in a suit offering you $100,000 if you beat him in a game of ddakji. Managing to win 2 out of the 3 games played, you were given your $200,000 as promised by the suit-clad man standing before you.
"You know, I have a simple solution to your debts." he said. You were confused as to how he knew you had debts, you didn't recall mentioning your financial situation to him, at all. You tried to brush his comment off, maybe he had seen your name in a tabloid mentioning your lawsuit somewhere and he recognized you.
"How do you know I'm in debt?"
No answer, he just pulled a card out of the inside pocket in his suit and handed it to you. "We don't have many spots left so if you're interested, please call us as soon as possible." Then, he was gone.
You spent the rest of the day looking at the brown business card given to you, you took notice of the shapes that were on the front of it. The simplistic design of the card was weirdly intriguing. On the back, a phone number. On one hand, you didn't want to be wasting your time. On the other hand, you needed money in order to rebuild your life. So, this could either be the biggest scam or the biggest blessing of your entire life.
Fuck it, you dialed.
You didn't really know it at the time, but that phone call would unleash a chain of events that would change your life, forever.
That's how you winded up in the situation you were in now. Transported to a room designed to simulate a courtyard, a giant doll on the other side of the room.
Suddenly, you heard a voice come up from behind you, "Hey señorita" the deep voice spoke. Turning your head around, your eyes were met with the sight of a tall, purple haired man. "Knew I recognized that pretty pink hair from somewhere. You're that singer that socked that paparazzi guy in the face; Y/N, right?"
"Yes, Y/N. Who are you?" I said back. "You don't know who I am?" He said, a twinge of pretend hurt in his voice. "Am I supposed to?" You always had a slight dislike for people who expected everyone to know who they were. Clearly, this guy was one of those people.
"No, but we can get to know each other. Tell me about yourself, beautiful."
"Are you flirting with me?" a slight smirk began to form on your face. While his attitude was a bit off-putting, he was pretty cute.
"Yo, pink hair, you're so fine
like a bouquet of flowers, all intertwined
You're the rose to my thorn, the petal to my stem
Red, orange, yellow, green
I'm a legend, Thanos"
You giggled at his comically bad attempt at freestyling. "Thanos, huh? I guess that would explain the purple hair. Although, you're not as hideous as the titan."
"I'll take that as a compliment, petal."
Masked men wearing pink jumpsuits began to round up every other person who was dressed in the same blue-green sweatsuit as you and Thanos; you did a quick head count, confirming the amount of people to be about 400. Once a female voice on the intercom explained that you were all going to participate in a game of Red Light Green Light, the big robotic doll began to recite the games' chant.
Red light, a bee had landed on the neck of the girl standing in front of Thanos while the doll was scanning the room for movement. ''There's a bee on you, don't freakout." Instantly, the girl began to swat at her neck in an attempt to get the insect off. While the scene unfolding was slightly amusing to watch, your heart felt like it had stopped once a single bullet pierced her forehead. Her blood had splattered onto Thanos's face, and you watched as his face dropped once her body hit the ground.
Green light, Thanos picked up his cross-shaped necklace and opened it, revealing an array of colorful, circular pills. "Want one, petal? They'll help you relax." Red light, you stood still while staring at the pills in his hands; you had been clean for a little over 3 months now, but pill popping had never sounded better. "Fuck it, give me one."
Green light, he quickly placed a blue colored pill in your hand then grabbed an orange pill for himself. He grabbed your hand and started to lead you both further across the courtyard. Immediately, you began to feel the effects of the mysterious pill you had just ingested. As you continued to advance through the game, your vision became nothing but a colorful kaleidoscopic blur. The sudden energy burst allowed you and Thanos to quickly cross the red finish line, jumping, dancing, and twirling together on the way there.
After the game was over, the remaining players were all taken back to the room where your bunk beds were. You and Thanos were standing against a wall together, giggling at seemingly nothing. "Stick with me from now on, petal. I'll protect you." He said, finishing his statement off with a playful wink. "THE Thanos wants to protect me? Wow, I'm so fucking lucky" you chuckled. "I'm serious! I wouldn't want anything to happen to my flower now, would I?"
You just looked at him with a slight smile. His nickname for you made you blush, your cheeks taking on a subtle hue that matched your hair. He had such a way with words, you couldn't help but be totally charmed by him. "Fine then, let's team up. Thanos the Mad Titan and Y/N, Popstar Fallen from Grace; world's greatest duo." Your words made him smile like an idiot. He loved your company already.
"Of course we're the world's greatest duo. Pink goes well with purple, petal."
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studioeisa · 4 months ago
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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!
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☆ 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: 25.8k (damn.)
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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— 눈ìč˜ê°€ ëč ë„Žë‹€â€” 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... zhĂ­juĂ©?” you offer. 
“ZhĂ­juĂ©,” 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— zhĂ­juĂ©, 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 yÄ«ngjĂčn 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 maáž„bĆ«b,” 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.
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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.
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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?"
MĂŹngyĂčn. 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— mĂŹngyĂčn, 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. 
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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."
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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."
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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. 
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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.
"Yångguāng," 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, 攩, 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.
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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, tàiyång," 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.
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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. YuÚliàng. "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. ZhĂ­juĂ©. 
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. 
2K notes · View notes
5sospenguinqueen · 9 months ago
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Princess Party Pt 2 | Lando Norris x Best Friend! Reader
Summary: After a drunken night with his best friend, Lando ran away from the consequences. Over the next eight months, he's reminded that he made a huge mistakes.
Warnings: Swearing. Angst. Baby fever. Pregnancy. Lando redemption.
Blonde female reader with various faceclaims. Pics found on Pinterest.
Main F1 Masterlist
prev.
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YourUserName posted a new story
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georgerussell replied et’s hope that bean doesn’t expect homemade treats in the future → YourUserName this is exactly why i’m crying so thanks for the reminder! → georgerussell63 oh no, i was joking. i'm so sorry! don’t cry! i’m on my way with ice cream → YourUserName i’m over ice cream now. i'll take hot dogs? → georgerussell63 don’t tell charles. he just released an ice cream line for you
charles_leclerc replied don’t cry, y/n/n. bean has a life supply of free ice cream. she won’t even like cookies
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YourUserName just posted
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YourUserName not long now. (i believe george called this nesting)
1,123 comments
lilymhe counting down the days until i become a godmother
→ francisca.cgomes lily we’ve talked about this. i know the number for a good therapist, help with your delusions
→ alex_albon ladies, ladies, please. we’ve already had this fight. you both lose
→ georgerussell63 you all lose because i’m the only contender for godmother
→ YourUserName none of you are godmother unless you show up to meet bean in a red sparkly dress and a wand
→ georgerussell63 stop watching shrek 2
→ YourUserName never!!!
oscarpiastri the room is really coming together. those drawers look amazing
→ YourUserName i ask you to help me build one piece of furniture and i never hear the end of it
danielricciardo 2 months to go! not that i’m counting. or excited. in any way shape or form
flonorris1 such a beautiful room. bean has such an amazing mum 
charles_leclerc baby incoming!
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YourUserName posted a new story
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alex_albon replied bean's just training to be an F1 driver  → YourUserName isn't the term usually footballer  → alex_albon oh, please. that kid won’t be a footballer if uncle george and i have anything to do with it. we’ll make her the first female wdc  → YourUserName my poor baby. what untalented uncles she has → alex_albon oi! 
georgerussell63 replied carmen says bean was kicking so much because she’s excited to meet her aunty → YourUserName and carmen would be right  → georgerussell63 i told carmen it was because bean heard my voice and loves me so much already  → YourUserName and you would be wrong → georgerussell63 pregnancy has made you mean → YourUserName nah, the hormones just make you less tolerable → georgerussell63 after all i’ve done :( → YourUserName <3
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YourUserName just posted
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YourUserName welcome to the world baby bean l/n-norris tagged: landonorris
1,098 comments
landonorris my two beautiful girls. no words will ever express the amount of love and gratitude i have for you but i will spend the rest of my life trying to show you
→ danielricciardo simp
carlossainz55 congratulations. you make beautiful parents
alex_albon little bean is the most beautiful girl ever. i don’t think i’ve stopped crying since you named me godfather
→ lilymhe he really hasn’t. but tbf, i haven’t stopped crying since you named me godmother
→ yoursister i still think she should revoke alex's godfather title. traitor
→ alex_albon i apologised!!
→ georgerussell63 it means nothing!!! 
charles_leclerc baby bean is here! i am so excited. we can have little playdates
→ alexandrasaintmleux charles, i don’t think bean will be able to play with leo for a good while
→ YourUserName no but i can! bring him over!! 
danielricciardo who’s crying? not me. let me know when you feel ready for visitors as i may have bought a ‘few’ things
georgerussell63 beautiful girls. thank you so much for letting me be part of this journey, and for naming me godfather 
→ YourUserName it’s a thank you for driving me to the hospital and holding my hair back whilst i puked. i don’t know what i would’ve done without you and carmen
carmenmmundt it was such an honour to be part of this beautiful journey with you. 
→ YourUserName thank you for being there for me. bean and i cannot wait for our first brunch date with aunty carmen
maxverstappen1 i am very happy for the both of you. she’s beautiful 
oscarpiastri the most beautiful baby. i hope she’s enjoying that dresser 
→ YourUserName let it go, pookie x
francisca.cgomes i haven’t taken my godmother hoodie off since you gifted it to me
→ pierregasly can confirm. i'm sick of looking at shrek’s face anytime i walk behind her
mclaren our beautiful papaya baby. we can already promise that she will be the most spoiled girl in the paddock. we’re already setting up a racing nursery 🧡
→ mercedesamgf1 except she will be spending time in our garage
landonorris just posted
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landonorris to my beautiful daughter and her astounding mother. i am in awe of the pair of you. for the past nine months, i have been the biggest idiot on the planet. and yet both of you welcomed me back into your lives without a second thought. y/n, i have loved you since we were 12 and you kissed me because i grazed my knee falling off my bike. instead of telling you that, i dragged you around the world with me whilst i raced, falling more in love with you each day. your generosity and kindness never fail to wow me. to those who don't know, i was a complete idiot. i ran away from my responsibilities and yet, she didn’t hesitate in giving me a second chance. not just as a father but as a partner. she brought our beautiful bean into the world, and i will forever cherish the pair of you. you are my whole world, and if i ever upset either of you, george has full permission to run me over with his car. to y/n and bean, i love you both forever. you are my everything.
7,995 comments
alex_albon i’m so happy for you, mate. you owe me for all the grey hairs you gave me
→ landonorris i’m grateful for your friendship, mate. i owe you for so much more than just that haha
→ YourUserName @/alex_albon you’re still in trouble
→ lilymhe yes he is
carlossainz55 felicidades, compañero đŸ„łâ€ïž
danielricciardo well done, brother. y/n did an amazing job. i’m glad you took responsibility
fernandoalo_official what a beautiful family. make sure you cherish it
georgerussell63 y/n made such a beautiful bean
→ landonorris hey, part of my dna is there too (but, yes, yes she did)
→ georgerussell63 unfortunately
oscarpiastri the caption is why you kept asking me for synonyms? but seriously, i’m so glad to have been part of this journey for both of you
pierregasly đŸ„łđŸ„łđŸ„‚
mclaren papaya baby! we cannot wait to see baby bean in the paddock. she’ll be the most important part of race week
arthur_leclerc i cannot believe someone willingly had a baby with you, especially someone as beautiful as y/n 
               liked by YourUserName
user1 anyone else notice that none of the wags commented on this post despite y/n being in it?
→ user2 you can guarantee they all commented on hers though because they’ve all been gushing about buying baby stuff 
→ user3 they really said y/n may have forgiven him but we certainly don’t
user4 y/n stronger than me because if my baby daddy walked away from me and my child for the entire pregnancy just to decide he wanted to be a father once it was born, i’d cut his dick off
user5 guys, not only did we finally get lando and y/n together. we got mom and dad y/n and lando together
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landonorris just posted 
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liked by maxfewtrell, oscarpiastri and others 
landonorris happy 1st birthday to my prettiest princess. you’re my favourite mini muppet in the world but if you don’t stop growing then you and daddy are going to have some words. (also, daddy best be the only prince charming in your life) 
15,449 comments
YourUserName whoa whoa whoa, i thought you were my prince charming
→ landonorris sorry babe but you know you lost me the minute i looked into her eyes 
→ YourUserName and here i go crying again 
danielricciardo mate, do you really think calling yourself daddy in an insta post is a good idea?
→ landonorris @/YourUserName pay up, i told you he’d make it weird
→ YourUserName damn it, daniel. you just cost me a back massage 
georgerussell63 and best godfather of the year award goes to me for the princess castle
→ alex_albon liar! best godfather of the year ‘twas me. she danced with me the most and wanted me to have the second slice of cake
oscarpiastri can’t believe princess bean locked me in the dungeon 
→ landonorris she wasn’t impressed that you overtook me last weekend 
→ oscarpiastri sucks to suck, i guess 
francisca.cgomes i still can’t believe my baby brunch buddy is 1!! when did that happen? 
→ landonorris @/YourUserName has enjoyed playing with the brunch kitchen kit more than bean has
→ YourUserName why would you expose me this way? i pushed a kid out for you
alex_albon happy birthday baby bean! can’t believe it’s been a whole year of spoiling you
→ User6 does this mean alex has been forgiven?
→ YourSister no. 
→ alex_albon don’t lie to the internet. you gave me a hug earlier
→ lilymhe it was only so she could spit in your drink, honey
charles_leclerc happy birthday, bean! she is the most adorable little girl. i think i will need to wear my fairy wings on the weekend to help me go faster
→ pierregasly i’ve already told alpine that they need to add my tiara to the helmet
User7 okay but can we all appreciate the fact that this little girl had the majority of the grid at her party, all dressed in some way as princesses 
→ User8 @ YourUserName c’mon, we all know you’re a girls’ girl, release the photos of the princess grid
→ YourUserName shh, i have to wait until they're racing so you've all got 2 hours to save them before they make me take them down
maxverstappen1 P had the best day with bean, and said that y/n is her new bestest friend
→ YourUserName aww my heart. please bring P around for playdates forever though, she’s the best kid 
→ kellypiquet she was so exhausted she fell asleep in her princess dress
→ YourUserName so did lando
→ landonorris hey! 
→ YourUserName you started it
User9 i think we’re all asking the same thing; when are you having the next one?
→ landonorris @/YourUserName so..? 👀
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Baby Fever Angst Series
F1 requests are open!
Tag list - so sorry if I missed anyone. It wasn’t finding a lot of people
@bibissparkles @barcelonaloverf1life @rlalliehayes @softtina @callsignwidow @lav3nder-haze @minkyungseokie @luvrrish @evans-dejong @sadsierra2 @justdreamersdream @spookystitchery @dark-night-sky-99 @majusialikesfastcars @luckyladycreator2 @mrosales16 @reguluscrystals @tvdtw4ever @alwaysclassyeagle @gigicisneros @spanishcorndogs @thecubanator2 @goldenharrysworld @awritingtree @jxnellat @hc-dutch @buckybarnessweetheart @ironmaiden1313 @dreamercrowd @yourbane @reguluscrystals @peachiicherries @rosecentury @prettypink11 @emmynotawards @tinyhrry @sltwins @daemyratwst @lemon-lav @noneofyourfbusinessworld @bwormie @leclercsluvs @spanishcorndogs @hard4ndsoft @formulaal @classiclitfreak @weekendlusting @evesfile @powerpuffgirly @leclercvsx
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sttoru · 1 year ago
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·.⌇ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. your stressed lover comes home from a long day of work and finds you asleep. he can’t help but wake you up in a rather special way.
wc. 1.6k total
tags. dom!jjk men x sub!female reader (gojo, toji, sukuna). smut. general warnings: dark content — somnophilia (consensual). size difference because im self indulgent ; reader gets referred to as small. ehm they’re kinda depicted as perverts. rest of the warnings are given before each character.
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GOJO SATORU; cw. cunnilingus. fingering. he’s a bit whiny. nicknames used ‘princess, sweets’. he cums untouched lol.
“mm, fuck. look at my sweet princess,” satoru sighs under his breath. he’s welcomed home by the sight of you sleeping peacefully on the bed, your hips lifted a bit as you rest on your stomach.
satoru’s voice is shaky as he mutters something to himself. he carefully sits on the edge of the bed, trembling fingers reaching out to trace the shape of your plump ass. he can’t not touch you—especially when you present yourself so nicely to him.
it isn’t long before his fingers dip under the material of your shorts. satoru gauges your reaction to his advances and notices the corners of your lips twitching. a sign you’re unconsciously feeling his warm touch.
“fuckfuckfuck. ‘m sorry, princess — i have to.”
satoru gives up any self-control that he had left. he doesn’t waste any time pulling down your shorts and panties to your knees. his already erect cock twitches in his pants at the beautiful scene; your wet cunt in all its glory.
he clenches his fists, desperately trying not to do anything. that determination does not last long.
in just a second, satoru’s already lapping up your juices, his hands firmly holding your hips still. his nails dig into your flesh and he moans once he feels your body instinctively pushing back against his mouth.
“mm, s’rry,” the sorcerer whines in a muffled voice. he knows you’re awake by now—judging purely by the increase of your little moans of pleasure. his tongue doesn’t stop moving between your spread folds, tasting you until your thighs are spasming.
you’re confused when you’ve awoken to a tingly sensation between your legs, though you quickly put two and two together. you’re too lazy to comment on satoru’s sudden actions, only babbling a soft ‘welcome home’ between whimpers.
satoru’s breath hitches the moment you tell him those words. those sweet words. like you don’t mind that he’s dragged you out of your slumber this way. it’s such a turn on—your acceptance to what he’s doing.
“yeah? oh god,” satoru’s nose bumps against your slit each time he moves his jaw, lewdly slurping the fluid your pussy produces. he can feel his dick throbbing against his pants, begging to be released, “ngh, can’t—gonna cum, sweets.”
your lover’s desperate whines make your fingers curl around the bedsheets. the sole image of him cumming in his pants just from eating you out pushes you over the edge as well.
you reach your climax at the same time. satoru lolls his tongue out to catch your juices, moaning loudly against your puffy folds as he feels it trickling into his mouth. he can feel a wet spot forming on the fabric of his boxers, “shit.”
the white-haired man removes himself from behind you, licking his lips for any residue. you lazily look over your shoulder at him with glazed over eyes. his big hands are already working on his belt and zipper.
satoru shows you the dark spot in his underwear and pouts, “ah, look what you’ve done to me, princess—made a mess out of my favourite boxers b’cause of you.”
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FUSHIGURO TOJI; cw. tiny hint of implied age gap (reader early 20’s, toji early 30’s). p in v -> unprotected. spooning position. reader gets called ‘little girl, slut, whore’. degradation / objectification.
toji kicks his shoes off and makes a beeline towards his bedroom. he’s in a shitty mood after he had met up with a rude client. despite that, his lips curl up into a faint smile the moment he sees you laying on his bed.
“heh, there’s my little girl,” his voice is raspy, hoarse and utterly exhausted. the older man climbs under the covers and wraps his strong arms around your small figure. he nuzzles his nose into your hair, breathing in the nice smell of your shampoo.
toji wouldn’t be him if his hands didn’t wander all over your skin. his rough palms squeeze everywhere and anywhere—enjoying the feeling of your soft flesh in them. you subconsciously react to his touches by pushing your body back against his.
“. .do not,” toji hisses like you can hear him. he was already half hard on his way home as the thoughts of you clouded his mind, but now that he’s actually with you, he’s fully aroused. especially with your ass pushing back at his aching bulge.
he’s too lazy to get up and get himself off in the shower. thus, he starts off by humping the fat of your ass. the friction isn’t enough for the assassin and therefore he switches to the real thing.
“such a slutty fuckin’ thing. can’t keep my hands off ya,” toji groans into your ear, half hoping you’d hear all the dirty things he’s calling you. your pants are pulled down and your panties are pushed to the side—making way for his fat cock to drill into you.
your impatient lover adjusts your legs so he could have easier access to your tight cunt. the slow strokes inside you make you squirm and tighten up around his throbbing erection. this only riles toji up more.
“hah, y’can feel it even in y’r sleep, can’t you? my cock stretching your tight pussy out—my pussy,” toji corrects himself with a low moan. his warm breath hits the nape of your neck, his hands fondling you whilst he thrusts aggressively.
he doesn’t care if you wake up or not. he’s going to use your delicious body to relieve himself. you gave him the green light when he asked you if he could fuck you in your sleep when he needs it. so, there’s no reason to stop now.
you eventually jolt awake once the continuous stimulation become too much. if it wasn’t for toji’s hand on your mouth, you’d have woken up the neighbours with your loud and lewd moans.
toji scoffs. he keeps a tight grip on your face and thigh, not stopping the rough pounding he’s giving you. he sees your eyes roll back from the unexpected pleasure and he snickers.
his lips connect with yours, muffling your moans that way;
“hah, seems like you needed this as much as i did—waking up ‘n already moaning like a whore. missed me that much, huh?”
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SUKUNA RYOMEN; cw. true form!sukuna. has two cocks woops. masturbation (m). turns into blowjob. hairpulling. reader gets called ‘brat’.
sukuna returns to his chambers. finally, after dealing with some sorcerers that’ve had challenged him for a battle. he’s tense, sweaty and obviously in need to blow off some steam. he knows just where to get said relief.
sukuna’s red eyes instantly spot your sleeping form on the middle of his kingsized bed. his favourite little human—resting without a care in the world. the innocent sight is one that sets his loins on fire.
“oi, brat,” the male speaks up as he sits on his side of the bed. the mattress dips to one side due to his huge form, causing your small body to automatically manoeuvre his way. you don’t seem to stir nor wake.
you’ve gotten used to sukuna’s demanding voice to the point that it doesn’t scare you anymore. he smacks his lips in frustration. guess he’ll take care of his problem himself for now.
low grunts fill the spacious room—sukuna’s head lolls back against the headboard whilst two of his hands move swiftly on his now exposed cocks. his sharp eyes are focused on your body, shamelessly checking you out. from the cleavage of your breasts, your clothed cunt to your perfect parted lips; all of you is turning him on.
“fuck, can’t believe this. .” sukuna curses under his breath. he can’t believe how weak he is for you. how his cocks throb and leak drops of pre-cum from just the sight of you sleeping. fully clothed at that.
whilst one set of his hands is busy touching himself, the other reaches out to grope your body. one hand on your chest and one on your ass. of course, sukuna doesn’t pass on the opportunity of smacking the soft flesh.
“i said get up,” sukuna clicks his tongue and tries to wake you again. this time you do actually wake up. a short, inaudible whine leaving your lips. you take a few seconds to process the view in front of you; your lover with both his thick cocks out, pre-cum making the lengths glimmer under the light of the lamp.
it got you horny. immediately. you slowly crawl over between his legs, like you know just what to do. sukuna raises an eyebrow—surprised by your lack of questioning. he’s amused at how fast you took the hint.
“that’s it. you’re learning fast,” sukuna sighs deeply the moment your lips wrap around his upper dick. your small hand jerks off the lower one. both stimulations at once makes the man beneath you grunt in satisfaction.
you still are and look extremely drowsy, though your devotion to sukuna knows no bounds. even in your half-asleep state. the king of curses pats your head—a surprisingly appreciative and loving gesture that he rarely does.
you bob your head carefully, not wanting to gag too much. however, the pace you set is too slow for sukuna who’s waited way too long to fuck you. in any way.
he bucks his hips—thrusting upwards into your hot mouth. his strong hands yank at your hair, keeping you in place as he hears your muffled whimpers of protest. not that he cares; you choking on his fat cock only adds to his pleasure.
“keep it up like that. fuck, where do you want me to cum? in your little mouth? yeahh, you’d like that huh, filthy girl. you’d have to work harder for it if you’re so desperate.”
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REBLOG TO SUPPORT YOUR FAVORITE CREATORS !!
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tiza0925 · 11 months ago
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Like Honey | 18+
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Warnings/Tags: nsfw, afab/female!reader, alcohol, tipsy!reader, squirting, pussy eating, multiple orgasms, pussy drunk!Sakusa, overstimulation, praise kink, bit of pussy slapping ♡ SET IN A TIMELINE WHERE ALL CHARACTERS ARE AGED-UP AND OVER 18
Pairing: Sakusa Kiyoomi x Female Reader
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT
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Kiyoomi Sakusa hates parties. 
Too many people. 
Too loud. 
Too many germs. 
It’s why he almost always declines to go to one whenever the rest of the MSBY team invites him along. 
Parties in any shape and form make him uncomfortable, to be honest. 
But what Sakusa hates more than parties themselves—is the idea of you going to one on your own without him there. 
Not that he doesn’t trust you. 
But it’s that he knows how volleyball players are at parties—especially when there’s a pretty girl and alcohol is involved. 
Hence, the reason why he finds himself at a house party tonight that Atsumu invited the two of you to—while he stands away from everyone else, mask on, and holding a drink that he’s taken maybe one or two sips from. 
Not because he wants to but—
But because there you are—in the crowd, giggling and drinking with a few other people—and he watches with a level of affection, only ever giving any other guy who even dares to touch you a single look that causes the hairs at the back of their neck to rise. 
He talks to a few friends here and there, laughs, and takes another drink to loosen up as much as he’s willing to allow himself, but his eyes remain on you—
Almost protective. 
He raises a brow when he notices you walking over to him—but all you do is grin, eyes droopy, as your lower lip gets pinched under your top teeth, and—
Oh. 
He lets out a huff of breath filled with amusement when he sees you bat your lashes at him, giving him a certain look that he knows too well whenever you have alcohol in your system. 
A look of want—need—with your eyes so murky with desire that if you looked at any other man like that, they’d probably take you to the nearest surface to bend you over and—
Well, you get the point. 
Sakusa turns to face you—looking down at you with a tease in his voice. “The alcohol already gotten to that pretty little brain of yours?” 
Your eyes grow alight with want, and your cheeks flush as you get closer to him to wrap your arms around his waist—and a pout adorns your red lips. “I’m only a little tipsy.” 
That’s a lie. 
He can see that right away with how foggy your eyes are and how red your cheeks are. 
You’re more than just a little tipsy. 
Not that he minds, though. 
In fact, he’s letting out a breath of relief as he holds you back with one arm, the other still holding his drink, and he lowers his head so only you can hear him—his voice coming out a low rumble, “Let’s go then, love.” 
Because whenever you’re like this—it gives him an excuse to leave. 
To go home and take care of you in a way that he knows what you need right now. 
You nod, eager, excitement shooting up your nerves as he guides you through crowds of people—him saying bye to those he gives a shit about, and—
And that’s how, about an hour later, you end up back at his apartment—his bedroom door locked—as your body sinks into his plush mattress, one of your hands carding through his silk-softened hair that’s nestled between your thighs. 
“Fuck—”
You suck in a shaky breath as a flat tongue runs from your entrance to your clit, and you whine as Sakusa hooks his arms under your thighs to bring your pussy flush against his mouth—his mask thrown off somewhere in the midst of you two kissing so deeply on your way here—and he spits on your clit, making your cunt pulse. 
“You’re always so wet when you drink,” Sakusa groans against you, his mouth covering your entire pussy as his jaw goes to work, sucking and eating you out like he's starved. 
Just the way you like it when you’re this tipsy—the alcohol making you pleasantly warm, mixed with how his tongue and mouth feel on you.
It’s like you’re drowning in a pool of liquid heat as he makes out with your cunt, his tongue dipping in and running through your pillowy folds, and all you can do is lay there and take it with your toes curling and your fingers digging in his hair. 
It’s funny when you really think about it.
One would think that he—of all people—would be against this. 
Grossed out by it, even. 
But he’s the complete opposite with you in bed and behind closed doors.
He’s fucking dirty—uncaring of how messy he gets as your fluids gush onto his face as he fucks you with his tongue, eating your pussy and licking your clit like it’s honey. 
He even likes it more when you’re fucking yourself back—riding his face—making his eyes roll back, eyebrows furrowed, and a groan being muffled against your soft pussy. 
He doesn’t care about the way his chin gets drenched from your juices—not when it means he can hear you moan so pretty for him, and feel your plush thighs squeeze around his head. 
He’s so intoxicated by having his hot tongue in your cunt that he finds himself growing light-headed—his bulge growing and pre-cum leaking against his sweatpants as he licks and licks until you’re cumming on his tongue, moaning his name as you buck your hips into his face. 
“Oh god—Omi, ‘ts too much now—”
He hears you. 
Loud and clear. 
But he doesn’t stop. 
He doesn’t stop giving your poor, puffy little clit kitten licks as your cry from overstimulation. 
He doesn’t stop holding onto your thighs right where they are—keeping your pussy close to his mouth so he can lap you up, not wanting to waste a single drop of your fluids drooling everywhere. 
“You’re okay,” His voice is rough, and his eyes move up to look at your body—taking in the way your chest is rising and falling with quick breaths, your nipples are hard and waiting to also be sucked on—and he gives your sopping cunt one long, wide glide of his wet tongue from bottom to top. “Just give me one more, baby. Just one.” 
Instead, it’s never only one more. 
Once he’s in this position with his stomach flat on the bed and comfortably lying in between your legs—
Sakusa doesn’t intend to stop anytime soon. 
You taste too fucking good.
You feel too warm. 
And you sound so damn needy and pretty for him.
You whine, a sob escaping you, and you shake your head. “Omi—please—”
But then your words die with a gasp when you feel him nip the curve of the skin of where your cunt and inner thigh meet—and you let out a ragged exhale, his voice thick and smooth as he kisses your thigh. 
“I’m sorry, baby,” You feel so dizzy from the heat that you throw an arm over your forehead, panting as you feel two of his fingers strum your dripping folds before spreading them apart, glistening and throbbing. “You know I can’t help it.” 
He doesn’t let you say anything else, though. 
Not when he immediately dives back in to prod his tongue into your tight walls, flexing and curling it to bring you back to that hot, buzzing ache in your belly. 
And he keeps your folds open for him to get drunk on—sucking and licking and nipping while his nose bumps against your clit, feeling his hairs tickle your thighs as he gets you to orgasm again. 
And again. 
And again—
“Fuck, fuck, fuck—Omi!” 
He gets his tongue all worked up, mouth open and thumb rubbing your swollen clit until you’re cumming for the fourth time like this—fluids squirting on his face as your abused and soaked cunt spasms, his name on your tongue as you cry, and he drinks it all up like he’s needy for your taste. 
“Such a good pussy, baby,” Sakusa sucks on your clit with obscene suction noises, making tears stream down your cheeks as a few more spurts of liquid squirt out of you—you’re so fucking overstimulated—and his face is a mess at this point, too. 
When he eventually does pull away—his lips are swollen and shiny—you don’t even have it in you to force your limbs to move anymore. 
You’re so fucked out and he hasn’t even put his cock inside you yet.
“You took it all so well for me.” 
Sakusa looks down at your body—so sweet and perfect—and he can’t help but smile at the little mess he’s made between your legs. 
He then unties the strings to his sweatpants as he sits back on his knees, his dick throbbing to feel your pussy swallow him, and once his thick cock bounces free—
He gives your pussy a slap—his palm against it with a harsh sting—making you whimper, then cups his hand over you as some way to soothe your tired cunt. 
“I just need you to lie there and be pretty for me now, okay baby?” 
end.
Masterpost
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dorkszn · 8 months ago
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LOGAN with bunny mutant!reader | 18+
male reader, bunny boy!reader, pet names, praise, subbot reader, slight boot riding, cowgirl, yk how hugh said he doesn’t have a safe word
 how he doesn’t like to stop, tail pulling, slightly mean dom!logan, I’ve never seen any of the x-men or wolverine movies so not too much
Days where Logan is just sitting on the couch of the room you two share in the X-Mansion. Wearing a hoodie that isn’t all the way zipped up, displaying his muscular chest that you could just bury your face in for hours. And his cargos that sit a little loose around his waist despite the belt he wears.
When he’s just watching whatever is playing on the TV and you ponder into the room. Your eyes on him and him alone. Oh-so-innocent-shaped eyes with such a lustful glint in them. You just stroll over to him, blocking his view of the TV for just a split second before you’re on your knees in front of him, your chin on his knee and your core resting perfectly on his boot.
He pays you no mind, keeping his eyes on the TV. He’s doing it on purpose. A slight pout forms on your lips. “Lo,” you call out softly, looking up at him with those eyes he can never say no to. You roll your hips slightly, trying to create some friction for yourself.
“What’s up, Bub?” Logan finally acknowledges you when you call out his name, his eyes falling on yours. A small, fanged smirk grows on his face as he feels you pitifully grind yourself against his boot through the fabric of your shorts.
“Want you, Lo,” you sigh, resting your cheek against his knee. Your hands absentmindedly fidgeting with his pants leg.
“Yeah, you wanna play, darlin’?” Logan asks, still smirking down at you. You perk up at that. You enthusiastically nod against the fabric of his cargos. Logan’s eyes trail your body. Not missing the way your little cotton tail swishes feverishly behind you. The way you’re pressing yourself right against his shoe. How could he say no to that?
It’s only so long before his large, calloused hands are holding the soft flesh of your hips. He’s laid back on the couch with your legs straddling him, the muscles in them shifting as you fuck yourself on his cock. His hoodie unzipped completely and the fabric spilled onto the couch.
“Fuck, there we go, baby,” Logan groans, watching the way his thick cock disappears inside of you with each movement of your hips. Your bottom lip caught between your teeth as you chase that feeling, that euphoric feeling that it seems like only Logan can give you. “Pretty little bunny takin’ me so fucking good.” He says through labored breaths, his head falling back against the couch’s cushions.
Your chest heaving as you suck in him. Your gummy walls stretch around him each time he fills you again, clinging to him so perfectly. You seem to be the only one who can handle Logan and his stamina and he seems like the only one who can handle you.
“Logan~” you moan breathlessly, that knot in your stomach getting dangerously tighter with every little ‘plap’ that comes from your ass meeting his hips. Your pretty eyes hazed over with lust falling shut for a moment.
“Yeah, baby? Want me to help you? Does the little bunny need help?” Logan pants, his eyes glued to that pretty little fucked out expression on your face. And gosh, he couldn’t be happier when you nod through a shaky breath. His hands gripping your hips a little tighter as he helps you up and down his cock.
Logan’s breath quickens with every tug on your hips, every tug that makes you take him deeper. Every little moan and mewl that falls from your lips goes straight from his ears to the pit of his stomach and his groin.
His hands shifted to grab the plump flesh of your ass, his fingers digging into the flesh harshly. His legs shifting so he can fuck up into you. His hips meeting yours roughly, the quick drags of his dick stroking every inch of you dragging heavy grunts and labored breaths from Logan. Your hips stuttered to meet his.
“Oh c’mon baby, no way you’re getting tired on me already,” Logan comments, watching the way you slightly struggle to match him. He knows you too well. Suddenly, one of his hands moves from your ass to grab that soft, wagging tail that sits right where your ass and your hips meet.
“Logan—! Don’t— fucking— hah, do that,” you squeal in breathless whimpers when he roughly grabs your tail. The energy that you had seemingly lost returned as you brought your hips up again, meeting his in the perfect little rhythm.
“Aw, why not? Look how excited you get,” Logan teases, giving the scut a little tug. A weak moan of his name pulls from your throat, your finger pads that sat on his board chest pressing into the skin slightly. “C’mon, bunny boy, you wanted it, now take it like you know how to.”
A shot of pleasure shoots down your spine as you listen to his hoarse words. “Hngh— Logan, please,” you plead, leaning down and burying your face in his neck. Not quite sure what you’re pleading for but the words just mindlessly fall from your lips.
“Don’t worry, darlin’, I ain’t stopping.”
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burntoutdaydreamer · 8 months ago
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Worldbuilding and Magic Systems: Things to Consider
Have a magic system in mind for your fantasy world? Here's a list of things to consider to help you tie this system into the rest of your worldbuilding, so that it feels more believable and realistic.
Source
What is the source of magic? Is it natural or man-made? Can humans use magic or is it a force of nature that only animals or other races can use?
Does magic originate from inside a person or does it require external items to use? If it comes from items, can the items be made? How long does it take to make the items?
Does the magic cost anything- money, stamina, health, etc.?
Can a person be cut off from being able to use magic? If so, how?
Prevalence
How common is magic in your world? Is it so common that everyone has seen it or is it a subject of myths and rumors?
How long have the people in your world known about magic? Has it always been there or is it a new discovery?
How much does the average person know about magic? How much do experts know? What do people not understand about this magic? Are there any common misconceptions? Myths?
Is magic revered or feared? Or if it's common, is it taken for granted? Are there any taboos surrounding magic?
How many types of magic are there? Are some more common than others?
Are there dedicated schools of thought surrounding the study of magic? Is it taught about in schools? If so, is it taught to children or only at the college (or equivalent) level?
Accessibility
Who can use magic? Who can't? Is it something that only the rich and powerful can use? Why? Or do genetics determine who can use it? Wealth?
Are there any physical limitations that might restrict who can use magic? For instance, maybe old or sickly people can't use magic because it requires a lot of physical effort. Does your society provide accommodations for people who can't use magic? Is a lack of magic ability considered a disability?
Does education level determine capacity for magic?
How easy is it to gain access to magic? How easy is it to learn about magic?
Power/Usefulness
How powerful or useful is magic for different parts of society? Military? Medicine? Entertainment? Art? Childcare? Government? Communication? Business?
How does magic affect the politics of your world? How does it shape the economy? Are there feuds over the use of magic? Do powerful groups in your world have an incentive to limit the use and accessibility of magic? Why?
What happens when people no longer have access to magic? Does this cripple their ability to go through their daily lives? How?
Mix, match, and cross-reference these with other elements of your worldbuilding to form a believable magic system that lives and breaths just as the rest of your world does. For every answer you give to the questions above, consider and build upon the implications of what that might mean for your world. A worldbuilder's best skill is the ability to ask "How will this affect ___?" So make sure you're always considering the ripple effects of each element you add to your world.
Happy worldbuilding y'all!
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nonbinary-vents · 3 months ago
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A lot of non Jews just do not understand ashkenormativity and what non Ashkie Jews mean when we try to discuss it, and it’s really getting infuriating to me. Non Jews think ashkenormativity equals Ashkenazim being like, the privileged oppressors of all Jews, when that is just
 completely not the case, and sometimes actually the invert— the early 20th century, for example, was not a good time to be Ashkenazi among other Jews, Samech Tet supremacy was a pretty big thing. Ashkenazim do not have a ‘one up’ on other Jews when it comes to how Jew haters see us, in fact, there’s actually some specifically Ashkenazi specific bigotries and conspiracy theories, things like Khazar conspiracy or chunks of leftists Jew hatred.
Some examples of actual ashkenormativity is the neglect to try to preserve and document Jewish diasporic languages that aren’t Yiddish, or the heavy focus on Ashkenazi history and oppression while downplaying everything else— I can not sit through another Jew trying to say that Jews had it good as Dhimmis or that Mizrachim were living it up with the Islamic countries until we got expelled, please I will explode—, or acting like the epitome of Jewish food is Kugel and Latkes, or the generalisation of non-Ashkie Jews as one cultural group, or the way Mizrachi culture has been looked down upon and seen as ‘primitive’, and are you seeing the pattern yet? Ashkenormativity is an intracommunity issue, and it works fundamentally differently to how most non-Jews think they understand it. It’s mostly based on the idea of neglect and the centralising of Ashkie experiences, not whatever weird idea you have of ‘Jewish racism’. If you’re trying to define it as that, then you’ve fallen for some intense disinformation and propaganda, or you yourself are knowingly spreading that to demonise Ashkenazim. Frankly, I really don’t want any non-Jews to be involved in these things at all, because it’s a self contained Jewish issue, meaning that outside communities can’t really change or work on the problem. It has to come internally.
There are a lot of things I want the Jewish community to improve on when it comes to non-Ashkenazi subcultures. I want things like my family’s customs, diasporic languages, cultural tales, foods, all of that to be preserved, cared for, and revitalised in the same way that many Ashkenazi counterparts are. I want the neglect of our Jewish subcultures to improve. I want to not feel like crying when I hear about how my mother grew up being looked down upon and being embarrassed to be spoken to in her mother’s native language in public, I want to be able to know that’s a complete thing of the past and there’s nothing that resembles it at all now. I want to be recognised properly.
I do not want, in any way shape or form, to make Ashkenazim less safe, or have Ashkenazi culture be less cared for.
Trying to tear down Ashkenazim, who are just as vulnerable to the non-Jewish world as the rest of us are, who need just as much help and respect from the people on the outside, and whose cultures are just as valuable, just as beautiful and integral to the Jewish people as anything else, that is evil. It’s just evil.
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jeonginsleftcheek · 5 months ago
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Soft (drabble)
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pairing: hyunjin x reader
genre: fluff, just a smidge of smut
warnings: soft cock play, mentions of lovemaking
a/n: i'm sorry if this sucks, writer's block is being a bitch again! i'm working on the dolly fics and stressing myself out so i tried to just write something for comfortđŸ˜­đŸ«¶đŸ»
~ Masterlist
A quiet afternoon spent in your lover's embrace is just what you needed after a hectic work week.
The outside world and all the anxieties it brings, slowly melt away into the background as you lay in your soft blankets, right next to Hyunjin.
Hyunjin is soft too, even though he's all muscle and prominent bones, to you he is soft because he brings you comfort.
He's sitting, his back against the pillows, one of his arms behind his head as the other holds the book he's reading.
Your head is on his chest as you hold your book, both of you lost in the fiction but still present enough to enjoy the quiet scene together.
Moments like this are priceless to the both of you, when you can escape everything and just be in your own little comforting bubble.
You put your book down after some time, closing your eyes as you place your hand on Hyunjin's stomach, gently caressing him.
He hums quietly and you look up at him, he's already looking at you with a sweet smile so you return the smile before closing your eyes again.
Hyunjin thinks you'll fall asleep and he doesn't mind, quite the opposite, he loves the fact that both of you are so comfortable together that you can fall asleep in each other's arms.
But you're not sleeping, you're admiring your lover, fingertips caressing the exposed skin of his navel, where his shirt rode up.
You play with the happy trail leading to his sweatpants and Hyunjin shivers a little but keeps reading, the hand that was behind his head is now tangled in your hair as he cards his fingers through it gently.
You love every part of Hyunjin, in any shape or form, you'd told him that a hundred times, your lips have worshipped every inch of his skin countless time as his did with yours, never tired of sharing the love you feel for each other.
You slide down further to rest your cheek against his stomach, sliding his shirt up a little before you nose at his skin and leave a few gentle kisses.
Hyunjin giggles quietly and you look up at him again.
"Just do your thing." you nod at the book and he rolls his eyes playfully before returning his attention to it.
You keep caressing his smooth skin, staring at the bulge that's visible in his sweat pants even when he isn't hard.
You know he's not wearing any boxers, you'd fallen into each other's embrace and made love this morning, and after another round in the shower, your lover didn't bother to put any underwear on.
Mindlessly, your hand slides into his pants and you grab his soft cock, squeezing it a little.
"What are you doing?" Hyunjin chuckles, his legs jolting a little.
"It's just comforting like this." you hold him, running your fingertips gently on the softness.
"Really? But it's soft..." Hyunjin looks a bit embarassed as you look up at his rosy cheeks.
"Mhm. It's cute." your fingers slide down to his balls.
"You did not just call my dick cute." Hyunjin laughs a little as you gently grab his balls and giggle.
"Stress relief." you smirk and he laughs again.
"I'm glad they help you relieve stress but if you keep doing that, it's not gonna stay soft." he smirks at you and you giggle.
"So what?" you wiggle your eyebrows, fingers wrapping around his soft cock again, feeling it twitch a little.
"You wanna go for round three?" he plays with your hair, his loving eyes filling up with lust slowly.
"Maybe." you tease, feeling him grow in your hand as you move it ever so gently.
"Come here, you little tease." he beckons you with his finger and a smirk and you roll your eyes playfully before releasing him as you scoot closer to him.
Hyunjin grabs your face gently pulling you in to crash his lips against yours, giving you a kiss full of love and desire his heart has only for you.
His arms wrap around you as he easily pulls your body on top of his.
You can feel him pressed against your thigh, now hot and hard, wanting you.
He flips you over and smirks.
"Round three it is then."
Later, when he's buried deep inside you, his tip brushing against your cervix, he will ask you if you still think his cock is cute.
You'll say yes just to tease him, and in that moment of intimacy you will laugh together, completely carefree and infatuated with each other as you exchange words of love.
At the end everything will become soft again, gentle and delicate, just like loving Hyunjin is.
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✹Taglist: @moonchild9350 @janepg @velvetmoonlght @hwanghyunjinismybae @jehhskz @laylasbunbunny @jeonginslefthand @porangporangmeong @laughatdanger @sapphirewaves @simpforleeknaur @s3ungm1nxxl0ve @painterhyunjin @starlost-mochi-x @saintcosette @ooshyana
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cerisahh · 2 months ago
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summary — love language headcanons for the arcane characters (giving and receiving)
characters included — jinx, ekko, silco, vander, viktor
cerisa speaks — literally started writing this the night of s2 act 3 release and only now finishing it if that doesn't tell you something about how inconsistent i am idk what does. ATTENTION PEOPLE IN MY REQUESTS!! i swear to god i will do your request in the next year for sure! viktor forgive me, amen.
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jinx — gift giving. jinx's most loyal companion is her imagination so it isn't hard for her to think of gifts that are personal to you that'd you'd enjoy.
we see many of the little homemade trinkets that she's made for silco throughout the years, my favourite being the ashtray he keeps on the desk in his office. so dependant on what you're into, she'll showcase her love for you in the form of a trinket.
oh, so you like to read? she sees you dog-earing a page of your book whilst you two are in her hangout and drops her current project to fashion you a bookmark. you only notice that her tinkering has stopped when the bookmark has been dropped on your lap and she's made a blasé comment about you destroying your book for too long so she just had to make you this so you'd stop.
hiding behind a mask of indifference when giving out her gifts is kind of her thing, but she's anxious to no end to see if you like it. her mind runs a mile a minute; 'don't they like it? do the colours not match? they hate it they hate it theyhateittheyhateittheyhateme-'
until you're holding it carefully between your fingers and your mouth is making that 'o' shape it does when something unexpected has happened. when you say that it's the most thoughtful gift you've ever received she's insistent on making you a hundred more.
physical touch. stop booing me i'm right! let me explain. as we see before powder becomes jinx, she's quite normal with physical contact, we see vi hugging her, putting a hand on her shoulder, claggor helping her down to the apartment, etc.
it's after vi slaps and abandons her that she becomes uncomfortable with physical touch. silco (most of the time) lets her initiate it on her own terms.
one time he doesn't is where she's playing airplane with his shimmer device and he grabs her wrist. she lets him retain his grip for a moment but when she does move her arm away he doesn't follow her. through my own delusions i've come to the conclusion that jinx wants, maybe even craves physical comfort, but quickly feels smothered by it when it's forced on her.
despite this, with the right person i feel like she would be willing to accept physical affection from them. it would take time to establish and develop a trusting relationship with jinx but when you're there, you're there. she's also a deeply insecure person when it comes to relationships of any kind and retaining them so you'll have to slip in some words of affirmation between touches.
her favourite way to receive physical touch would for sure be you playing with her hair. running your fingers through it and scratching her scalp? congratulations, that's your new job. you mention off the cuff how you'd love to see her hair down? suddenly there's a brush in your hands and an expectant and giddy jinx sitting in front of you.
even though she trusts you, she'll still get startled and tense up if you suffocate her with too much affection. holding your arms out for a hug or patting the seat next to you so she can lean into your arms is a much better way to initiate contact with her.
a little extra headcanon, when she's doing your nails she'll use her own hands to hold your fingers still instead of a wrist rest. she says it keeps them steadier so she doesn't make any mistakes but really she craves that subtle contact.
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ekko — acts of service. season two episode seven dictates this as canon i'll be taking no arguments on this day. seeing his huge mural of future vi to show powder after he upsets her really just cements this headcanon. this is a pretty big action so i'll focus on the smaller ones for now.
starting off really strong with him decorating your room for you. close your eyes and imagine him building you a shelf to store your books or keepsakes. not only building it but carving designs into it. ohh you like music? well take a look at those carvings of sheet music! and do you spy some new books in your collection (stolen from a piltover library, naturally)
with so many different types of people living at the tree, at the beginning he was pretty much forced to learn how to cook all different types of meals. it paid off though because no matter where you hail from, he'll be able to prepare you any of your favourite dishes.
the more i type about ekko the more i realise he is the best househusband out of the arcane gang. he can cook, he can clean, he's a provider - he is quite literally the entire package. him being a certified pretty boy also helps because everyone needs a little eye candy in their life.
this one is sickeningly sweet but for relationship milestones, and even just randomly, ekko will fully plan out a date night for the two of you. picnics on the top of buildings that overlook the neon lights of the undercity, just the two of you. it's so intimate.
physical touch. now this i truly will be taking no arguments on. receiving physical affection for ekko is huge. we all saw how fast he hugged benzo in the alternate au!!
with so many people from his early life either dying (benzo, vander, claggor, mylo) or leaving (jinx and vi), ekko hasn't really had anyone to offer him any form of closeness. sure, he has the firelights. it just isn't the same though.
so when you come along with all the tender hugs and fond touches that he's been deprived of for so long he knows he's done for. consider him addicted. even just clapping a hand on his shoulder after a fight, hell, LEANING ON HIM?? that man is YOURS to command for now until the end.
knowing you're just physically there and not going anywhere - not abandoning him - he's content to bask in your presence.
quick kisses and brief glances at each other come in abundance. if you're not at the firelights base then you're on the go. it's these times that make you both appreciate the time you have with each other. ekko plans to take full advantage of the downtime you both have between missions. don't expect to stray a few feet from each other.
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silco — acts of service. silco's acts of service are usually communicated through orders that he gives his goons. say you offhandedly mention that some shimmer addicts have set up camp in the alley next to your apartment. when you leave the last drop and go home you notice that those shimmer addicts you briefly complained about? gone. without a trace.
i feel like he prefers to give out acts of service to you as a kind of 'i can provide for you, don't leave' kind of thing. you don't need to ask silco to do something, he'll take the initiative. he wants you to view him as a reliable provider. this sounds very 50s but he's an old fashioned kind of guy so it checks out.
not the kind of guy to do chores at the start i'm afraid. he has people for that. maybe you can convince him to wash the dishes after you cook you, him and jinx a meal. but never and i mean NEVER will you catch this man hoovering or mopping the floor. that is just simply not going to fucking happen. you'd have better luck asking him to quit smoking.
not gonna lie he just lightens the load of whatever jobs you need to do so you can spend more time together. the famed eye of zaun is clingy.
physical touch. actually controversial take no way CHILLS! similarly to jinx, silco wouldn't actively look for physical touch in any given situation. he's obviously traumatised by his former best friend choking him out and drowning him underwater. not to mention completely brutalising his eye.
jinx is likely the only person he would willingly let touch him. not even sevika on a good day gets that privilege. you would need to spend a lot of time gaining silco's undying trust. only when you two are emotionally close will you be able to share his touch.
buying you jewellery just so he can feel the warmth of your body heat as he clasps the necklace around you neck. silco is very subtle and sneaky when he wants to be close to you.
his neck is off limits to everyone, even you. placing your hand on his collarbone whilst entangled in bed together is the furthest you'll get.
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vander — physical touch. oh i just know this man gives the best bear hugs. physical intimacy with vander is just safety incarnate. when he takes you into his arms it really feels like a breath of topside air after a lifetime underground.
i don't think vander would really like being with a partner that didn't enjoy physical affection. it's not only a bonding experience for the both of you to engage in but also a display of trust that he deeply values.
conveying his love for you with intimacy, non-sexual and sexual is something he cherishes. the level of mutual understanding and relationship building that comes with it is indispensable to vander. basically the keys to a successful partnership with him.
that little symbol of love in the undercity where two people touch their foreheads together? that's the most significant way you can show that you truly care for someone and it's vander's favourite way to connect with you in moments of peace.
words of affirmation. vander is the type of guy to not necessarily need words of affirmation to feel good about himself but will appreciate it all the same. he tries so hard to be a good example to the kids and in general to the populace of the undercity. he wants this life to be better. he wants to be better.
he's the leader, the protector, all the pressure is on him. affirming his efforts through words goes further than you might think.
it's you and him against the world. the brewing political storm that plagues both the undercity and piltover is little more than a distant thought when you're whispering honeyed words to and fro in the dead of night. for a man with such an imposing presence, telling him that you love and need him makes him weak.
with your words of affirmation, he's more certain of his role in the undercity than he's ever been. you renew the passion he had in youth, he wants the best for you and will do whatever he can to obtain it.
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viktor — quality time. viktor is all about sharing the same space as his partner. with him being the co-founder of hextech, it's difficult for him to find time alone to dote on you. which is why you''ll often find yourself in the company of viktor (and oftentimes jayce) in their lab, them working on a new use for hextech, and yourself either studying or simply watching the magic (literally) happen.
when jayce is off being the poster child of hextech or following councillor medarda around like a lost puppy, you and viktor will settle into comfortable silences. usually with the only noise being the tinkering of science equipment or the quick scribbles of pen on paper. there's no pressure to fill the room with unnecessary chattering. just you being with him is enough. your presence is akin to a relaxant to him.
sometimes most of the time you'll need to remind him to take breaks when you've been there for hours on end and he's showing no signs of stopping or slowing down. it's a practised routine at this point; he refuses, you leave it alone for five minutes, during this time he is sneaking glances at you when he thinks you aren't looking, waiting for you to ask again.
when you do, he feigns reluctance as you grab his hand to get you both some fresh air and a proper meal. he might actually be part cat now that i'm thinking about it. he just can't help but love spending time with you.
words of affirmation. actions speak louder than words? pft, yeah right. communication is deeply valued by viktor. he's exceptional at deducing someone's intentions behind their words so don't even bother trying to get something by him. it won't work. you try to plan surprise birthday party for him? he's one of the first people to find out about it.
so when you earnestly tell him how special he is to you or how appreciative you are of him, he knows it's 100% what you actually think and BOY does that fluster him more than anything.
he isn't very big on compliments, not that he doesn't value the ones you so willingly give him, but he finds it hard to accept the good and beauty you see in him. there will always be a part of viktor, machine herald or mortal man, that refuses to believe he could be good enough for this type of love. when he retracts inside his mind and lets his doubt drown him, it's you who can pull him out of the water and onto land. telling him that you love him just the way he is will silence his uncertainty.
oh you know what would just about finish him off? making him a lunch box and putting a note in there. it doesn't having to be something poetic, even a simple 'i love you ♡' will be at the forefront of his mind until he gets back home to you.
honestly, if you're someone who expresses their love through words of gratitude or proclamations of admiration then a relationship with viktor will be smooth sailing.
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