#but watching the movie felt like going home

[kwondotcom]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

lost in translation ♾️ minghao x reader.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hm.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“In Korean or in Mandarin?” you prod. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit.

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

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

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

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

And just like that, he’s breathless again.

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

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

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

“I’ll say it more, then,” you muse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The way you'd need him.

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

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

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

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

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

He can only offer a nod, his throat dry, as one hand lifts in a half-wave. “I’ll pick you up,” he says, his brain lagging behind with the rest of his body.

You give a small wave back, your smile just as bright and friendly as the rest of you. This was going to be a thorn in Minghao's side, it seemed. Your brain wasn’t good at half measures. You needed clarity, needed straightforwardness to confront abstract feelings.

You disappear through the revolving front doors of the company, leaving Minghao in the company lobby that suddenly feels all-too warm. His phone pings in his pocket; a text from Jun.

You're late to game night, his member teases. Get away from the love of your life and get your ass over here. ㅋㅋㅋ

Because of course Jeonghan had tattled to all the other boys where Minghao had been. He rolls his eyes as he glances down at the screen, tapping out a quick response.

I'm coming. Don't cheat.

He glances up and back at the glass revolving doors, knowing full-well that you're already on the street at this point.

Minghao, for all his bluntness, has suddenly found himself in a situation where all he can do is beat around the bush.

Minghao arrives outside your apartment building on time, his hands shoved deep in his pockets against the early evening chill. His heart is pounding in his chest, the nervous energy buzzing in his veins.

He had dressed up. He had put on cologne. He was taking you to a film festival. What could possibly happen that would go wrong?

It's a thought that is interrupted when a horn beeping snaps Minghao's attention away from his inner thoughts, as he straightens and glances down the street. There's no one parked on your street, no one walking down the sidewalk. He takes a step forward, peering across to the other side of the street— and there you are, stepping out of the building.

It takes everything he's got to keep a straight face. It feels like something out of a drama, and he's still not entirely sure he's not dreaming.

The fact that you're dressed up too is not lost on him. Damn it, of course you'd look good to him, no matter what you'd chosen to wear.

Minghao straightens as you draw closer, suddenly not quite knowing what to do with his hands. Does he pull you in for a hug? Offer up a casual, friendly greeting?

He settles for a nod, shoving his hands further into the pockets of his jeans, doing his best not to stare. "Hey."

"Hey," you greet right back, flashing Minghao a dimpled smile. You give Minghao a once-over.

"You look nice," you say like it's the most casual observation in the world. 

The praise sets something aflutter in Minghao's stomach, his hands gripping his car keys a little tighter to try and keep them from shaking. "Thanks," he responds, somehow finding it in himself to step closer and unlock the car door for you. "You look good, too." 

Good doesn't even begin to cover it, he thinks as he goes to slide into the driver’s seat. 

"You got me nervous," you say as you pull the seat belt over yourself, suddenly slipping into Mandarin. "About the film having no subtitles, I mean. So I ended up brushing up on my Mandarin."

He lets out a small huff of a laugh that's bordering on a scoff. "Since when have you had to brush up on anything?" he responds in Mandarin as well, flicking on the turn signal and pulling the car out into the street. "Your Mandarin is perfect."

"I'm always studying. You know me," you chirp, leaning forward slightly to fiddle with the knobs of Minghao's car radio. You’ve been in his passenger seat enough time to feel comfortable doing this; you settle on a station playing mostly Western indie songs.

"And my Mandarin always has room for improvement," you go on. "I'm still working on that C2-level proficiency."

Of course you weren't satisfied with just good. You had to go and be an overachiever. Minghao finds himself shaking his head at the thought of how your drive for excellence in everything was— for lack of any better word— admirable and adorable all at the same time.

"You're insane," he says under his breath, still so awed by self-imposed standards. "You really don't need to do that, you know. You're great the way you are."

"How is it that you're both goading and complimenting me at the same time?" you tease.

The way you speak sounds effortless and yet Minghao can pick up on the little moments where your tongue would just ever so slightly stumble. He could correct you, but God, he's never quite heard that same sound before.

In fact, he's suddenly very aware of just how different you two sound when you speak his mother tongue.

"It's called being a good friend," he responds, fighting the rising urge to say something else.

"You're a pain in the ass, but I love you, anyway," he continues, his hand settling on a knob on the center console to change the radio station to something with a bit more of a modern beat. You always had to listen to indie music.

As the sounds of some Top Fifties pop song filters through the car, you let out a snort of laughter and respond noncommittally to Minghao's jab. "Love you, too," you say with no shortage of sarcasm. The words, in Mandarin— wǒ yě ài nǐ— still sound soft and sweet and lilting, despite your best effort to sound mocking.

Minghao suddenly has to swallow against his very dry throat. He hadn't expected that response from you, not when the last time he had said those words to you was months and months ago during an argument between the two of you. A particularly stressful work week, a squabble that neither of you talk about anymore.

"You better," he manages to respond, his voice cracking ever so slightly on the second syllable of 'better'. He hopes it goes unnoticed.

That little stutter, that tiny stumble around the last syllable of 'better', was the only indicator that betrayed the way Minghao's heart was hammering out the wildest beat in his chest.

He knows it's a sign of his own impending nerves when he turns the radio volume all the way up, drowning out any chance of conversation between the two of you for the rest of the ride to the venue.

Far too used to Minghao's pockets of peace, you pay no heed to the fact that the rest of the car ride is spent in companionable silence. You only break it once Minghao is pulling up into the parking lot of the theater house.

"You should go ahead. I'll get us snacks," you offer delicately, this time in Korean. The reminder of how the two of you had to hide any sort of public interaction settles like a stone at the very bottom of Minghao's stomach, and yet he nods anyway, silently agreeing with the logic of your suggestion.

You ask, "Is there anything you want to eat?"

He lets out a soft sigh as he pulls the keys out of the ignition. "Popcorn," he responds, his eyes skimming over your form as you unclick the seatbelt to leave. "With M&Ms."

The familiar request makes a small smile tug at your lips. It was the same thing, still, that Minghao asked for after all these years of movie-watching. "Got it," you say, sliding out of his car. "I'll find you in a bit."

Even through the closed car door and over the sound of the car radio turned up to its highest, he can still clearly hear the smile in your voice. It sets that now familiar thump in his chest into overdrive.

"Hurry up," he responds in all of his usual nonchalance, despite the fact that his eyes are still following your figure, taking in the way you carry yourself as you walk away.

Shit, he's so gone for you.

Minghao's choice of seats are typical as always. In the very back of the theater, to keep him away from possible prying eyes.

You settle into the seat at his right, carefully balancing the food you’d gotten the two of you. "I couldn't carry two popcorn buckets, so we'll have to share this big one," you whisper to him as you pass him his pack of M&Ms and a bottle of soda.

"Thanks,” he murmurs over the sound of advertisements playing over the big screen.

"I've heard a lot of good things about this film," you mumble. "No making fun of me if I cry."

"I would never," he replies, voice as light as yours.

Sure enough, the opening of the film has Minghao leaning forward on the edge of his seat, engrossed in the drama unraveling between the characters on-screen. It's like he was that sixteen year-old boy in the movie, struggling to find his place in the world.

He's all but quiet in his consumption of popcorn, a hand sneaking into the bucket at times to munch on a few pieces idly. A few times, when the food almost runs out— he accidentally brushes his fingers against yours. The touch is brief, accidental, but each time, his skin feels like it's singing, and he fights the impulse to grasp your hand altogether every time he reaches for popcorn.

He does notice, however, when you seem to encounter unfamiliar words. His gaze flicks over to you as your lips wordlessly form the nickname they call the main character. Xiǎoshì.

It's a term, sure, but it's far more than that to him.

For him, it's a moment. A time in his life that was so brief, but one he remembers like it happened yesterday. A small part of him wants to tell you all about it, but he can't now. 

And so he settles on another form of communication. With your attention still on the screen, Minghao reaches over— and finally grasps your hand. Interlocking your fingers together.

As your fingers grasp with his, a part of him hopes that you don't pull away. He almost wants to look sideways at you, just so he can see your reaction— read your face as you focus on the movie in front of you, as your heart beats fast, loud, against your ribcage.

He doesn't dare to hope, though. He keeps his hand in yours, holding on tightly, as the movie continues to play out, the scenes getting more familiar to him.

The main character gets into a particularly nasty row with his mother about following his dreams, about leaving home, about wanting a better life than the one they had in their province. His gaze flinches slightly at the familiar scene before him and the memories, the emotions, that it all brings up in him.

It's a tense scene, spoken in the scathing language he'd grown up in, and you can tell the way it's affecting him. Instinctively, you reach your free hand over to gently press at the side of Minghao's head; a quiet invitation for him to rest his head on your shoulder.

Minghao takes you up on your invitation, the touch of your hand almost a command to him. He lets his head rest on your shoulder, not unlike a weary puppy. He can practically hear his mother's voice in some parts of the argument playing out in the movie. He can hear his own words echoing in his ears— almost as if he himself was the one speaking on-screen.

He wants to stay in the moment, with you, in the darkened theater as the movie continues to play. He doesn't think he can tear his eyes away from the screen, just like how he feels like he can't let go of your hand.

But it's a movie— a coming-of-age one, at that— and so all ends well. The boy and his mother reconcile. The main character is not any older by the last part of the film, but he's wiser, and the whole thing ends with him looking out at the Beijing skyline, humming an old lullaby for comfort.

The credits roll. The lights stay off as they do, and you finally, finally, bring yourself to pull away from Minghao's shoulder.  

You keep your hand in his, though, as you let out a quiet, watery laugh. "Xu Minghao," you reprimand in Mandarin. "You took me to the saddest movie ever."

"I told you," he responds back lightly, in Mandarin, his own voice a little rough from trying to hold himself back just a bit. "My friend said it was a sad one, when he recommended it. And you said you were fine."

He squeezes your hand again, shifting in his seat so that he was facing you, a hint of teasing in his tired eyes.

Absent-mindedly, you rub your thumb on the back of his palm. "How did you like it?" you ask, pitching your voice lower, still, despite no one being within your vicinity.  

Minghao's eyes soften a little at the tender gesture on your part. He feels the light, comforting motion of your thumb brushing against the back of his palm and he lets out a small, shaky sigh of his own. "It was... a little difficult to watch," he admits, his voice quiet, his eyes focused on your interlocked hands between you.  

"Do you want to talk about it over dinner?" you offer, your smile just a touch rueful. "Or we could just... have dinner and not talk about it at all. Whichever works best for you."  

At your offer, a small, almost self-deprecating smile quirks at the corner of Minghao's lips. He squeezes your hand one more time. "Dinner, yes. Talking, no."

The walk back to the car is a quiet one. Once you’re in your seats, Minghao puts the burden of deciding on you. 

"There's this barbeque place I've really been wanting to try out over in Myeongdeong," you rave, but then your fingers freeze over the GPS screen. You glance at Minghao over your shoulder, suddenly a bit sheepish. "It's a bit out of the way from your dorm and my apartment, though. Is that alright?"  

He lets out a small, soft laugh, shifting in his seat a little before reaching over to lightly flick your ear. "When has distance ever stopped me?" he retorts, his usual dry tease in his voice. "Let's go, I'm starving."  

"Alright, alright," you huff as you plug in the address. The directions to the restaurant— somewhere twenty minutes away, barring traffic— appear on screen as you move back into your seat, still pouting slightly at your ear being flicked. "I just thought you'd be sick of me after the movie."  

"Sick of you?" He scoffs at your words as he begins to peel out of the parking lot. "I think I would die of boredom without you, actually."  

“Ah. Because no one else will keep up with you like this, hm?"  

"They're not quick enough. You're one of the rare ones who don't make me want to tear my hair out."  

"You're laying it on thick tonight. Is this a ploy to get me to pick up the dinner bill?” you tease. "Because really, Hao, there's a rather big difference between the salaries of idols and translators."  

He chuckles a little at your comment, his grip around the steering wheel tightening slightly. "No, this is not a ploy to make you pay for dinner. I'm treating tonight. I'm rich, remember?"  

"Yah, you're not treating!” you shoot back. “We’ll pay for our own shares. You should only spend your money on things that are important.”  

"And treating you isn't important? You're always important to me. Don't deny it."  

When you suddenly go silent as a flush starts to creep up your face, Minghao can't help but look away from the road for a few moments to glance at you from the corner of his eye. He can only see the side of your face, the blush that colors your cheeks glowing against your skin.  

"You can't just say stuff like that so casually," you snap, though your tone is soft around the edges. "You should save that for birthdays or holidays."  

"And why only birthdays and holidays?" he muses. "I'd rather tell you all the time."  

In a bid to regain a bit of an upper hand, you keep your eyes out the window as you mumble in Mandarin, "Just keep driving, xīngān."  

Seeing your flustered face flush an even deeper color of red gives Minghao a sort of satisfaction, his lips tugging up at the corners. He can't help but chuckle a little more when he hears the words that leave your mouth in Mandarin, his mind taking a few moments to register the nickname he's grown to like.  

"Yah, don't just call me that without warning," he says, voice slightly muffled as he continues to focus on the road. "My heart can only handle so much."  

You finally glance over at him. The blush still lingers, but there's a bit of a mischievous glint in your eyes now. "Should I warn you, then, if I'm about to use it?" you say sweetly, sticking to his mother tongue for the sake of seeing how far you can go with it. "Should I only save it for special occasions?"

"Yes," he manages to hiss out after a beat, a small scowl on his face when he realizes that you're taking advantage of his weakness. "I'd much prefer you to warn me in advance. And only use it on occasions that actually count."

"I'm about to use it," you warn instantly, leaning slightly forward to turn down the radio. There had been some other group's song playing, filling the car with the sweet, lilting sounds of a ballad.  

"This occasion counts, xīngān," you sing-song. "Every moment with you counts."  

At your obvious mockery, Minghao's scowl only deepens, not that he really minds. Your sweet words have his heart thudding loudly in his chest in spite of his protests.  

"Stop being so cheesy. You're only saying this because you know that I like it, aren't you?"  

"I'm saying it because I like it," you answer. "It suits you. I'm about to use it again."  

You pause for a beat. "Darling," you say, this time cycling between English, Korean, and Mandarin. "Yeobo. Xīngān."  

This time, Minghao can't help but chuckle. He's definitely going to be having a good time tonight.  

"Are you going to spend the rest of the night calling me that?" he questions, finally having to pause at a red light. He turns to look at you for a few moments. "Just so I know what to expect."  

"Do you want me to?" you ask right back, your eyebrows raised slightly.  

"If you did," he starts, the words coming out before he even fully registers them, "I wouldn't stop you."  

The light turns green. The cars in front of you move forward a bit, and that means that you have to as well. The moment passes ever so slightly as Minghao is forced to lurch forward, to turn the corner that will finally have you at the barbecue place you'd recommended.  

You look ahead, away, the smile on your face widening just a bit. And because he said he wouldn't mind, because he'd given you something akin to a go-ahead—  

"Alright, xīngān," you say softly.  

The term of affection in your voice has Minghao's heartbeat rising, the nickname ringing in his ears, filling his chest with a sort of sweetness at the sound of it. It was like music to his ears, he thinks, the way you say it, the way it sounds.  

Once again, he can't help the smile that finds a place on his face, though he hides it by turning away to concentrate on the road ahead, trying to focus on it instead of the way his heart just won't stop racing in his chest.

The meal is comfortable. You talk about everything and nothing; you take turns cooking the meat. If sometimes you fall silent, neither of you feel the need to fill that quiet. You're so assured in each other's presence that we're fine to just be.

It's easy, with you— easy to relax in a way that he sometimes can't with others. He feels comfortable with you, safe around you, and he doesn't really have to think about what words he uses or the right thing to say.

You make it easy for him. And he's grateful for it.

As the night continues, though, the light conversation seems to eventually die down. Not that it bothers him; no, as Minghao has said before, the two of you do well with silence.

In the quiet that now surrounds the two of you, though, his mind begins to wander. A thought that has been in the back of his mind since earlier that night resurfaces again.

"Xīngān," he begins tentatively, his eyes still on the grill in front of him as if staring at it is supposed to give him some strength. Once again, he finds himself turning to Mandarin for the question, the words feeling like home on his tongue.

It feels, somehow, more fitting to ask you this question in the language that's his, one that he's comfortable and practiced in. "Do you believe in fate?"

Mìngyùn. Fate. Your mouth soundlessly tries out the word, the two syllables lolling on your tongue.  

"Like— the red thread of fate," you say, just a little dumbly, as you contemplate Minghao's question. You don't even notice the way you've switched over to Mandarin to match his pace. "Like that kind of fate? Or something else?"  

He takes a beat before he answers, trying to figure out how to word his question, how to express what he means in a way that makes sense, even to himself. "I mean that kind of fate," he clarifies. "Like, soulmates."  

"Do you?" you ask suddenly, throwing the query back to him.  

"I do."  

"What version of the red string of fate do you believe in?"  

He hesitates when you ask him the question, not quite sure how to explain the kind of fate he believes in. "I believe in things that are inevitable."  

"I mean— I believe in things that are destined," he continues, trying to elaborate. "I believe the people— the ones who are supposed to be together— will always find each other, in a way, no matter what happens. No matter how much time passes, or what obstacles there are between them."  

The way the corner of your mouth twitches when he says the word inevitable sets something ablaze inside him. 

He knows the look you're giving him is just one of interest, not a look of affection, but to him, it feels like a look of affection.  

Your lips twist into a slightly rueful smile as you take a moment to flip the meat on the grill, trying to keep it from burning. It's your turn to keep your gaze evasive as you answer. 

"I'm not sure if I believe in fate," you say, your Mandarin deliberately careful and slow. "Or soulmates. Not in the way that you do, at least."  

The words strike a painful sort of ache in his chest and Minghao finds himself having to bite down on the inside of his lip, trying to quell the way his heart seems to clench at the confession.  

This time, you slide into Korean, desperate to get your point across in the language that you know, in the tongue where you won’t be misconstrued. "I want to. I want to believe that soulmates exist— that there's someone out there for all of us," you say with a little more firmness, the change in speech giving you some more conviction.

"But I think that if soulmates do exist, they're not found; they're made." You pause to bring your gaze back up to Minghao. "People meet, they get a good feeling, and they get to work building a relationship. And that will lead to the inevitable."  

He's not quite sure why it feels like a loss, somehow, to no longer be speaking in Mandarin, and it makes his fingers itch for something to do. There's a moment where Minghao has to process the words you say, the way you express yourself so firmly and deliberately, as if you've given this some thought. Slowly, he gives a nod. "Like working in a relationship. Like making it work."  

"Like making it work," you concede.  

You gently place the last pieces of meat on Minghao's plate. "The concept of the red string of fate has always scared me," you admit, your mouth twitching upward in a slightly wistful smile. "What if the person on the other end follows the string only to realize they don't like what they find?"  

Minghao's gaze drifts down to the plate of food you've assembled for him, a gesture that feels oddly domestic, somehow, to have someone prepare a plate for him, and his heart gives a warm, affectionate little squeeze. 

He looks back up when you speak, his face a carefully stoic mask in spite of the way his heart is giving a painful thud, thud, thud inside his chest.  

"I think..." he begins slowly, his eyes still on you, the words leaving his lips careful and deliberate, as if he's trying to pick them out slowly from a tangled mess in his mind.

There's an intensity to his gaze, a gravity that's hard to miss. "I think even if the person on the other end of the string doesn't like what they find, it's what they're supposed to have. It's what they're destined for."  

"Ah. Destiny."  

Minghao had stuck with Mandarin; you say it in Korean. The two words— mìngyùn, unmyeong— are the two faces of the same coin.  

"And who do you think I'm destined for, xīngān?" you ask with just the right amount of teasing, making it a point to still refer to Minghao with the Mandarin term of ‘darling’ despite speaking the rest of the question in Korean.  

It's supposed to be nothing more than a good-natured joke, but Minghao feels the sudden urge to be honest.

He knows it's a joke, he knows it's meant to be a lighthearted question, but something in the back of his head, something sharp and cruel, his traitorous, selfish heart keeps repeating the question back to him: Who do you think I'm destined for? 

The thought that you'd be destined for anyone but him makes him feel like there's something lodged in his throat, something painful and sharp, and he wants to reach out and grab you, hold you, pull you tight against him and just never let go.

But instead he just looks at you and he forces the corners of his lips to tug up into a smile. "You're destined for someone wonderful," he says in his soft Mandarin, his trademark sincerity.

It's a non-answer; a cop-out, a way to avoid confessing things he shouldn't, but it's the best he can manage at this moment, when I wish it was me is screaming so loud in his head, it's all he can hear.

You smile softly.

Minghao had told the truth. You are destined for someone wonderful. 

He just wishes he could have been more specific. 

The next time he sees you is ahead of the boys’ Japanese showcase. Minghao had been lagging behind in the airport; he'd managed to get a few moments of shut eye on the plane, but it did little to stave off the exhaustion he still felt.

He walks a few steps behind Seungcheol, his eyes flitting idly through the crowd, until they land on you, walking slightly ahead.

You were already moving efficiently, keeping your gaze straight as you walked next to Seungcheol, your eyes focused and unflinching even as the press and fans yelled out at you.

Minghao's eyes don't leave your figure, following you and Seungcheol as you navigate the throngs of airport patrons with practiced ease. He's almost unsettled by how effortless you seemed— walking through the crowd as if it were nothing more than a casual stroll through the park, your expression set and unwavering as you translate for Seungcheol in a low, firm tone.

Once you finally get past the front doors of the airport, there's a lull as the boys all pile into a twelve-seater van. You stay by the door, finally stealing seconds to see each of them as they pass by you.  

Vernon dips his head in a nod. Mingyu throws you an exaggerated wink. Jun mouths 'hello' to you in Japanese. 

And then it's Minghao's turn to get in the van, to pass by you. There's not much either of you can do or say yet, considering the fact that there are still fans and press scrutinizing your every move, but he still has this. A moment of acknowledgment, however he deems fit.  

Minghao's mouth tugs up at one corner as he sees you smile at him, the sight immediately making something warm bloom in his chest.  

He can't help the subtle, almost instinctual reaction as he stops ever so slightly in passing you. He wants to say something, but words elude him.  

Instead, his hand just grazes against your wrist— the merest press of his fingers against the bare skin of your arm. It's a tiny gesture, but one that speaks volumes.

For the rest of the car ride to the hotel, Minghao struggles.

He's stuck in a car full of members, all exhausted from the flight, all loud and noisy and rowdy, and the van feels suddenly stifling. He spends most of the time looking out the window, trying to focus on whatever he sees.

Anything to distract himself from thoughts of you and the ghost of your soft, warm skin under his fingers.

The next time you're slated to see the group is in the dressing room before their showcase. It's hours later. Hours you spend translating, liaising, transcribing. The dressing room is as lively as ever, most of the members having already changed into their stage outfits. Several of them are sitting around, idly eating snacks or watching videos.  

You carefully push open the door. "Hey," you greet, and you're met with the instant chorus of thirteen boys welcoming you.  

Seungkwan excitedly calls out, "Hey, hey, hey!"  

Joshua gives you a warm smile. Chan waves exaggeratedly.  

You let out a huff of laughter, already acutely familiar with the boys' habits. "Just wanted to check in on everyone before the showcase," you say as you lean against the doorframe.

Minghao is sitting on a couch in the corner of the room, his eyes on you as you say your reason for coming to see them. 

"We're all good here," Jeonghan answers, one hand propping his chin up. "You look like you could use a sit, though."

Your laugh is just a little strained, your smile a touch forced. But your façade stays intact, even as you shake your head. "I've still got some preparations to do," you say lightly, and then you shift gears before anyone can press. "How was the flight?"

"It was fine," Seokmin pipes up. "You know, nothing out of the usual. We were well-behaved."

"Well-behaved," Wonwoo echoes from the couch. "If by well-behaved, you mean Soonyoung and Vernon got extremely handsy in the plane."

"Hey," Vernon protests, whipping his head around to look at Wonwoo, "don't say it like that!"

On the couch, Jihoon lets out an amused snort, shaking his head in fond, exasperated disbelief. "No, no, please," he encourages, his voice laced with sarcasm, "tell everyone how you two almost got us yelled at by the stewards because you were roughhousing over some food."

Soonyoung pouts, his expression instantly adopting a look of exaggerated innocence. "I don't know what you're talking about," he insists. "I was a perfect angel."

While the other boys are all busy ribbing on Vernon and Soonyoung, Minghao makes his way over to where you're standing against the doorframe.

He stops when he's standing next to you, and the corner of his mouth tugs up into an amused smile as he takes in your distant, almost out of it expression. When he speaks, his voice is soft enough for you to hear but low enough that the others can't, barely more than a whisper. 

"You look tired."

You give him a sheepish smile as you pat out invisible wrinkles on your linen blazer. "Hao," you greet quietly, still a bit hesitant to use xīngān in front of his members.

Your gaze flickers briefly to the rest of the room before you switch to Mandarin, a clear indication that you want your next words to be for Minghao and Minghao alone.  

"I am tired," you admit in his native tongue. "But it's nothing crazy. Just the usual exhaustion."  

"You always work too hard," he responds, matching your switch to Mandarin. His gaze sweeps over your form, taking in the weary lines of your frame, the subtle stiffness in your stance. "You look like you'll fall over any second."  

You roll your shoulders a bit, unconsciously leaning closer toward him. "It's my back, still," you confess. "Making things a little harder than usual. I really will get it checked when we're back in Korea."  

A concerned frown tugs at the corners of Minghao's mouth when he hears you say it's your back, his eyes sweeping over your frame once again. "How long has it been bothering you?" he asks, his gaze sweeping over you.  

He tries not to seem too obvious about it, but he steps a little bit closer, shifting a fraction of an inch closer in case you do fall over. His arm brushes up against yours, the contact between the two of you almost imperceptible.  

"This morning," you say with a rueful smile, your hand reaching behind to massage the small of your back from over your layers of clothing. "The plane was a bit cramped."  

Minghao's eyes narrow a fraction of an inch when he hears the reason, one of his eyebrows lifting slightly in a mixture of surprise and annoyance. "I told you to get it checked before the flight," he says.  

You give Minghao a look that's mildly exasperated and wholly exhausted. "I'm already booked to see a physician once this trip is over," you grumble, crossing your arms over your chest as you look up at Minghao.  

"You always say that," Minghao responds, the hint of annoyance in his voice a clear indication of just how frustrated he is. "It's clearly bothering you every day. If you just took some time off, maybe even just a week, maybe you'd—"  

"Minghao."

The quiet, stern way you say his name— just his name; not Hao, not xīngān— cuts right through his frustrated tirade. A flicker of surprise passes across Minghao's features, the almost snap in your tone shutting him up.

"I'm going to go," you inform him stiffly, slipping back into Korean and away from the language you reserved for each other. "We need to prepare for the showcase."

His jaw clenches, a muscle in his cheek twitching as he tries to keep his mouth shut for once, biting back the words he wants to say, the protests that are so close to leaving his lips. He lets out another huff of air, forcing his expression to stay neutral. 

"Yeah," he replies in the same language, the one word filled with annoyance. "See you."

When the showcase rolls around, you maintain a backstage presence. Your role, as always, entails that you pay complete attention to the boys as they speak. Whenever they address the crowd as a whole, you translate their Korean into Japanese.

For some reason, hearing the familiar sound of your voice coming out of the speakers, the smoothness of your Japanese, still feels somewhat calming to Minghao. In the chaos of lights and loud music, hearing the rhythm of your words through the speakers makes it feel like, at least for the moment, you're still right there beside him.

When the songs pass and the showcase ends, the members are all still riding the high of the excitement of their performance, the energy of their fans still buzzing in the atmosphere.

They all make their way backstage, the hum of their conversations filling the air, a sense of excitement and satisfaction, each and every one of them energized. Minghao, once again, makes his way over to where you're standing, his eyes on you, his expression almost intense.

You don't immediately notice Minghao approaching because a staff member is talking to you in rapid Japanese about some interviews you need to coordinate, need to play the role of interpreter for. You're trying to bargain for a moment's break, but it's a losing battle.

The staff then suddenly folds into a bow, and only then do you realize that Minghao had come up to you. You dip your head in an equally respectful bow of acknowledgement.

In Japanese, you tiredly assure the staff member you'll be there for the press circus; she leaves Minghao and you alone at your reassurance. You flash Minghao a weary smile, slipping, this time, into Korean. "Good job with the showcase," you say benevolently. "You did well."

He can't help the subtle frown that forms on his face, the way his eyebrows furrow in concern. The fact that you're once again hiding behind that professional exterior of yours, the friendly, polite smile you're shooting him, does nothing to soothe his frustration.

"Thanks," he mutters, his tone somewhat clipped.

He hesitates for a moment, his gaze sweeping over you. "Hey," he eventually says. "Come with me for a second."

You cast a glance around backstage. The boys are all off doing their own things— chugging water, ribbing each other, taking photos. In a gaggle of thirteen, it's easy to fly under the radar at any given time.

"You have a magazine interview in fifteen minutes," you tell Minghao, clueing him in on the conversation you had with staff just moments prior. "We can't really go anywhere—"

"I know," Minghao responds, his tone perhaps a little sharper than he'd meant it to be, frustration getting the better of him.

He takes a quick glance around the backstage area, confirming that the others are all occupied enough that they won't notice, before his gaze lands back on you. "We won't be long," he assures you, already grabbing your wrist.

His grasp on your wrist is firm, his hand strong and his fingers wrapping around the limb easily, pulling you along with him, with no room for any protest. He doesn't break his pace until he's found a small, secluded bathroom, pulling you inside and shutting the door behind the two of you before anyone could notice.

"Minghao," you hiss under your breath, still obviously pissed in the way you forgo both his nickname and pet name. "You can't just drag me off when we have work."  

Even in his already frustrated state, Minghao finds himself momentarily distracted by your pissed off tone, and the use of his name without a nickname or pet name. He likes you calling him by some form of a cute or affectionate moniker far more than just plain, unadorned Minghao.  

"We still have a couple more minutes," he retorts, mirroring your tone even as his hand slides down to lace your fingers together.  

His eyes are heavy on you, his expression intense even as he takes an unabashed, close-up look at your face, studying the weariness in your expression, and the strain that's clearly weighing down on you.  

He makes a move to reach down, his gaze on your cheek, to brush away a strand of stray, loose hair. His heart lurches when he sees the way your expression softens subtly, even when you're still trying to be mad at him. The way you immediately intertwine your fingers in his— God.  

"We look very suspicious right now," you say dryly, your free hand gesturing vaguely to the fact that Minghao practically has you pinned against the bathroom wall. "Is this what you pulled me away for?"  

"We'll make it quick," he manages to reply, sounding slightly hoarse, before closing the already-minimal distance between the two of you, one arm snaking around your waist.  

"We shouldn't—" you protest weakly, because there's just some things you can't explain away. Like how Minghao and you might be caught hugging in this bathroom when you were colleagues at worst, good friends at best. "We're going to get in trouble."  

"We won't," he responds, his tone firm, stubborn.  

His other hand comes up to rest at the back of your head, pulling you in even closer, burying your face in his chest, the other arm still looped firmly around your waist. He lets out a sharp exhale of air, the frustration and tension of the moment melting into something akin to relief. 

"Just—" he mumbles, his breath hot in your ear. "Let me hold you. Just a little— for a second."  

A small flicker of relief fills his chest when he feels the tension ease as a result of his embrace, the way you lean against him, almost as if you're allowing yourself just to relax. To melt against his body the way you almost never did in public.  

When you mumble Mandarin against his chest, your words are slightly muffled. "I'm sorry about earlier," you whisper. "I was really stressed."  

"I know," he responds, just as quietly. "I'm sorry too."  

This was how it was with the two of you— the quick-tempered arguments, the stubborn disagreements, and then the inevitable apologies that always followed. Minghao knew he was stubborn, maybe even a little irritable, and he would admit that he could've handled his response better.

But, for some reason— in the moment, at least— all of that tension that had been between the two of you in that moment just evaporated in the embrace. "You're working yourself to the bone," he mutters quietly, into your collarbone.

He knows how hard you work, in general, but it's become increasingly worse as of late. The endless translation, the interviews, the subtitles and scripts. It all seemed to be getting too much, even for you.

"I know it's not my place to tell you this but—" he continues, his voice becoming even more hoarse and heavy in worry. "You need to take better care of yourself. You can't just keep pushing yourself like this. Not like you've been doing. You're going to burn out at this rate."

It's just the way the two of you were— you, the overworked, over-stressed, and over-tired, and him, almost constantly worried about your general well-being, worried about you working yourself to actual exhaustion.

The moment you gently run your fingers through his hair, he instantly melts against you even more, practically nuzzling against your shoulder.

"You do have some right to tell me this. We're friends," you sigh, tilting your head to press your lips to the side of Minghao's temple. "And you're right— I'll look into taking a medical leave for a bit, once we get back home."  

"Good," he responds, his voice quiet but firm. "You need a break. And I—" he pauses, hesitating.  

He doesn't like seeing you like that, he wants to say. He doesn't like seeing you so tired and so stressed every day. He doesn't like how you barely have any time together anymore. He doesn't like seeing you overexert yourself so much.  

He stops himself from saying it out loud, instead letting out a soft huff before continuing. "I really worry about you, you know?" he mutters against your shoulder.  

"I know, xīngān," you respond, slipping into Mandarin in a bid to comfort Minghao a little more. A beat. And then, ever so quietly: "I worry about you, too."  

You slide your hand up and down his back. "We're both fools," you whisper with a slight huff of laughter.  

"Yeah," he agrees with an exhale of a laugh at your last words. "We are both fools."  

But we're fools for each other, his mind unhelpfully reminds him as he dares to hold you for just a moment more.

He just has to go and mess it all up by insisting, "I wish you’d let people take care of you."

People, meaning him. He had meant to say I wish you’d let me take care of you, but instead something entirely else came out. He knows he ought to back down the moment he feels you tense under his grasp, but Minghao was nothing if not adamant.

"I don’t need to be taken care of," you persist. 

Minghao huffs into your hair. "That’s bullshit and you know it."

"Hao—"

"It’s not a sign of weakness—"

"You keep treating me like—"

"I’m not—"

"Minghao!"

You’ve all but pulled away now, your earlier softness replaced with a new kind of tension. It’s not the same tiredness from being overworked; no, it’s the frustration of the two of you trying to speak over each other. The push and pull of your words. Your mutual inability to communicate just what you mean. 

Minghao’s fingers ball into fists at his sides to hide his almost trembling hands. It’s all he can do to keep himself from reaching back out for you.     

"I'll go ahead," you whisper decisively, your gaze fixed on the door. "I'll see you at the magazine interview."

An almost visceral, physical pain shoots through Minghao's chest at the mention of you leaving. His mind screams no, don't leave, don't go. But he swallows down his own irrational, impulsive desires, his own selfish longing for you.

"I— yeah," Minghao responds slowly. "I'll meet you there."

He watches silently, almost helplessly, as you make a beeline for the door.

The interview is with NYLON JAPAN. You interpret and translate for both the interviewer and the boys, once again acting as an off-camera presence— an intent, constant figure quietly relaying questions and answers.  

There's some benefit in SEVENTEEN being thirteen members strong. That way, Minghao is in the second row, some distance away from you. If you avoid his gaze, it almost feels negligible.

For the duration of the interview, Minghao can hardly concentrate on the questions and answers being traded between the members and the interviewer. His focus is firmly drawn towards you.  

He can't help but glance in your direction every so often. Every time your gaze accidentally meets his, it's like a jolt of electricity straight to his chest, his stomach clenching at the painful realization of how close you are and how far away you feel.

When the interviewer begins to ask member-specific questions, you do your job as well as you always do. The first two are for Seungcheol, then Chan. And then, of course, there it is.

You nod a bit as the interviewer poses his question. "Jun and Minghao," you translate, your voice wavering imperceptibly on the second name. "You two are the members that have given up a life in your home country in exchange for being an idol. How are you able to cope with that?"

As you translate Jun’s answer to the interviewer, Minghao can hardly focus on the actual words he's saying. He’s only half-listening as he watches the subtle flutter of your eyelashes, the slight parting of your lips, the crinkle in your forehead as you concentrate hard on getting the Japanese translation perfect.

His chest feels tight, like there's a band wrapped around his entire body, constricting his airflow.

When your gaze finally moves back to him, locking eyes with his own, a rush of breath leaves his lungs, his heart jumping in his throat. The look in your eyes, the distance between the two of you— it’s nothing short of exaggerated.

For a brief moment, he's not answering a question for a Japanese magazine interview. He's answering a question for you. 

"It's hard," Minghao answers, his voice quiet and low, somewhat hoarse. "It’s really hard and lonely sometimes."

Every word that leaves his lips feels like a struggle to get out, like they're getting stuck in his throat, choking him.

"But I have the members, and we have the fans," he continues, a quiet yearning in his eyes. "And so it’s bearable," he says, despite the pit still present in his stomach, despite the ache of needing more.

He keeps his gaze focused on you, letting every word he says hold a meaning beyond the answer to the interviewer’s question— as if he’s answering for you and not the interviewer. But he has to keep his words vague, just in case those damned cameras picked up on his words and the way he looks at you.

"It's bearable," he repeats, swallowing hard, letting his eyes convey what he really means, even if his words can’t. You make it bearable.

There are some things that don't need to be translated. The pinched look on Minghao's face. The way he's openly staring at you. The subtle shift among the members— all of whom seem to pick up on something Minghao isn’t saying.

"Is that all?" you ask Minghao in Korean, your voice steady as ever despite the flicker of emotion in your gaze.

That aching, yearning expression is still present on his face as he responds. 

"Yeah," he says. "That’s all."

Minghao's phone is tucked under his pillow, the device set to vibrate.

He jolts awake the moment it begins to buzz, a habit he had grown after years of being under the spotlight and on the road. His hand flies out to grab the phone.

His eyes bleary, he blinks a few times to clear his vision. A slight smile involuntarily tugs at his lip when he sees your message, his eyes skimming over the contents of it several times.

i'm sorry about today. (yesterday, technically?) i hope you're resting right now. ily.

"Idiot," he murmurs quietly to himself.

You don't have anything to apologize for, he replies quickly. It's not your fault. I'm the one who should be sorry. I should've been more patient with you.

How are you? Are you okay?

i'm ok. fell asleep on the couch and woke up suddenly. but did i wake you? it's so late. you should be asleep.

A quiet sigh leaves Minghao's lips as he reads your response, a part of him feeling a pang of guilt, as if knowing he was the reason you were awake right now.

You did wake me. But don't worry. I'm glad you texted me. Can you call me?

A beat. 

let me just step out onto my balcony so i don't wake my roommates.

The image of you carefully sneaking out onto the balcony to talk, just so you wouldn't wake your roommates, briefly flashes through Minghao's mind. It reminds him of his own sleeping roommates a mere few feet away from him.

He sighs softly, quietly pulling himself out of bed, careful to not disturb Mingyu and Jun as he quietly makes his way out into the balcony from the door to his left.

The air is cold and the night sky is clear. Those are the two of the three things Minghao registers when he steps out on the balcony of his hotel room. The third thing comes after you call him and there’s a slightly amused edge to your tone as you say, "Look to your right, xīngān."

He turns to look to his right just as you asked, his eyes searching the balcony area in the distance. He can't quite make out any details on your figure in the low lighting, but when his eyes finally land on you, his heart skips a beat all the same.

"Found you," he murmurs.

"I didn’t mean to wake you," you say softly. "We could have talked in the morning, you know."

"I know," Minghao responds. He leans against the railing of his own balcony, the metal cold to the touch, his eyes fixed on you. He's sure you can't see him clearly, but it doesn’t matter at this moment.  

He was looking at you, and that was enough.

"I wanted to talk to you," he says simply, the words said without a trace of shame, just quiet honesty.

"What did you want to talk about?" you ask, giving him the liberty to set the pace for tonight, to pick and choose his battles.

There are a lot of things Minghao could say right now, a lot of things he wants to say. But instead, he settles for, "How are you?"

"Better now," you say simply, your gaze still fixed on Minghao in the distance. And it's the truth, even if the second half of your answer goes unspoken. Better now, that you're talking to him.

He stands there silently, still watching you from a distance. Despite his earlier confidence in talking to you, he's suddenly feeling uncharacteristically timid. Tongue-tied, almost, with his words caught in his throat. He can’t bring himself to speak for a moment, a part of him still feeling guilty about earlier.

He swallows the tightness in his throat, taking a deep breath, before finally forcing the words out. "I'm sorry," he mumbles. "For what happened in the bathroom."

Perhaps it's the years you’ve known each other, the herculean task you’ve both faced. But Minghao and you know better than anyone that things were so easily lost in translation, that there’s only so many emotions that can be grasped in all the languages of the world.

"We just have to get better at using our words, I guess," you sigh. 

Something in his chest settles at your response— at the understanding in it, at the fact that you don't hate him. The knowledge washes over him like a sudden warmth, the guilt he'd felt earlier slowly evaporating with each passing moment.

"We do," he replies quietly.

There's a comfort, still, in being just a couple of balconies away. How you can make out each other's vague silhouettes in the late evening of this foreign country.

It feels like you're standing on the precipice of something, of possibility.  

But instead of confronting it, you opt to dance the line a little longer. Your eyes are still trained on the sky as you slip into Mandarin.  

"The stars out here are so clear, xīngān," you muse thoughtfully. "It's beautiful, don't you think?"

The change in language registers quietly in Minghao's mind, his brain taking a second to get used to it after speaking in Korean and stilted Japanese most of the day.  

He looks up at the night sky for a moment in quiet contemplation, taking in the beauty of the stars as you'd described them, before turning his gaze back to the shadowed outline of your figure in the distance.  

Something about the sight, about you, makes his heart ache a little bit. Beautiful, you had said about the stars, but he’s not looking at them. 

He responds softly, longingly, in Mandarin, his voice almost a whisper in the night air. "It really is."

The next day, you both get on separate flights back to Seoul. As Minghao had poked and prodded you to do, you finally take the medical leave from work— a one-week block, which was the longest you’d ever gone away from PLEDIS since you first started nine years ago.

Roughly three days into your break, Minghao is in dance practice when he feels his phone buzzing in his pocket. He frowns when he glances at the screen and sees your name. 

can i call? 

The sight of the message, so unlike your usual lighthearted air, makes his heart drop instantly in his chest. There's no text-speak, no cutesy words, no emoji— just a simple question. He drops whatever he's doing, ignoring the questioning stares from the members as he steps out into the hallway and quickly dials your number without a second thought.

"Xīngān," he greets you, a little breathless from the rush he'd felt upon seeing your message. There's a hint of concern in his voice as his heart races in his chest, his mind whirling with thoughts. 

He doesn't even bother with pleasantries or small talk, diving straight into the issue at hand. "Is everything alright? What's wrong?"

Much to Minghao's chagrin, you bother with pleasantries. "Hey," you say back in Mandarin when he greets you. For a moment, you hesitate; like you're not quite sure which language you want to speak to Minghao in.  

"I'm sorry," you say in Korean. "Did I bother you?"  

Minghao shakes his head even if you can't see him. He's silent for a moment, mulling over his words before replying, "No. Never. You didn't bother me, xīngān."  

The words are uttered quietly, his voice soft and gentle, as if he's afraid that the volume of his own voice might somehow scare you away.  

"I finally visited a doctor for my back," you say, finally. "It's a herniated disc, and I'm being slotted in for a surgery in two days."  

His heart drops into his chest at your admission, the words feeling like a sudden weight upon him. Herniated disc.  

The words feel like a sudden strike to his heart, his mind racing with questions and concerns. "A herniated... disc," he repeats, his voice a little breathless, a little shocked, as he quickly tries to process what he'd just heard.  

He doesn't realize he's switched to Mandarin, his own words spoken in a rush. "How bad is it? What are the doctors saying?"  

You stubbornly stick to Korean, likely because it's easier to accurately relay your medical results in the same language you'd received them in. "It's not bad," you say firmly. "The operation is an open discectomy on my lower back. It will take at most an hour, and I'll only need to stay in the hospital for up to three days."  

There's a flicker of irritation in Minghao's eyes at your insistence to continue speaking in your language, frustrated at the lack of comprehension and understanding it brought. He wants to protest, to argue, to tell you to just use Mandarin— but it disappears when he hears your firm voice, when he realizes what it is you're telling him.  

An hour-long operation. Three days in the hospital. It didn't sound bad, per se, and logically, he knew that you would probably be fine. It still didn't make him worry any less.  

"What are the risks?" Minghao asks after a moment.  

Normally, he would have just looked up whatever answers he wanted, searching it up in medical databases and online articles. But, for some reason, he's suddenly terrified to hear anything other than the sound of your voice— your words, reassuring him that everything will be okay.  

"No change to the back pains," you rattle off. "A five to fifteen percent chance of a revision discectomy if the herniated disc returns. A lower chance of an unstable spine. It's— they're truly not bad risks, Hao."  

"Five to fifteen perc— no, that's not a 'truly not bad risk'," Minghao counters immediately, his voice sharp and frustrated, as if scolding a child that was being too nonchalant.  

"You— it's surgery, xīngān—" he continues in Mandarin, his tone almost pleading. "Five to fifteen percent chance— it— what if something goes wrong?"  

He feels a little bit frustrated at his sudden loss for words in both languages, as if his own limited vocabulary couldn’t express the rush of emotions that had suddenly overwhelmed him.  

"Hey," you say softly into the receiver, this time switching over to Mandarin. Because it had always been more soothing to him, more familiar in the sense that mattered. "Take a moment and breathe for me, xīngān."

There's a sense of calm that washes over him as he finally hears the change in language. He takes a deep, shuddering inhale, followed by a slow exhale, his eyes squeezed shut as he mentally counts down seconds.

Slowly, the panic, the fear he'd felt gradually starts to subside, leaving his heart and breath steadier— but not completely unbothered.

After a moment, you go on in Mandarin, calm and measured. "It's a surgery with a high success rate of sixty to ninety percent," you maintain. "I need it to address the persistent back pains, xīngān. If I don't do it now, the pain will only get worse and more of my spine could be affected."  

You pause, letting the words sink in. "These doctors are good," you go on. "They do their job well."  

Minghao takes several more slow, steady breaths as he listens, the sound of your voice alone calming him down, helping him keep his mind clear and focused. He knows you're speaking to him in Mandarin because it's easier to communicate with him this way, but he can't help but notice the subtle firmness, the reassurance in your tone.  

The statistics, the numbers, the facts— they're hard to deny, and as he takes another shaky inhale and exhale, he realizes that you're right. "Sixty to ninety percent success rate," he repeats to himself, his voice a soft murmur.  

"Sixty to ninety percent," you reaffirm. Then, in a more shy tone, you add, "I'm sorry for springing this on you. I— I just didn't know who else to call."  

He notices it then, the meekness in your words, the small hint of vulnerability in your voice. Any remaining anxiety he felt from the situation suddenly dissolves with the realization that you needed this.  

You had called him because you’d needed to hear a familiar, comforting voice, a sense of reassurance after what you'd just confessed. He swallows back his fears, his worries, any thoughts about the risk and that lingering, unpleasant feeling in his chest, because you needed him to be calm, to be steadfast.  

"Don't... Don't apologize, xīngān," he says almost immediately after. He swallows again before continuing, mentally berating himself for letting his anxiety and irrational fears take over his brain. "No, don't— I'm glad you called. I'll always pick up the phone."  

"Are you free tomorrow?" you ask tentatively. "We could grab a meal before I have to check into the hospital."  

As he hears the question, his mind immediately begins to run through his schedule for the next day.  

He knows what he should do. He knows what the logical part of his brain, the part that's in control of his rationality, is supposed to do. But when he thinks of you— of you, in the hospital, waiting to undergo a surgery (it's safe, it's a safe surgery, he chants in his brain) alone, without him—  

"I'll clear my schedule," he tells you.  

"No, you don't have to," you say quickly, falling back on Korean in an attempt to express your haste. "It's okay. We can just meet once the operation is over—"  

"I'm clearing my schedule,” he repeats, his voice firm, final. “I’m going to be there. We’re eating before the surgery, and I’m going to be at the hospital with you afterwards. I’m not letting you go to the hospital alone."  

A beat. While there are things that Minghao and you have yet to clear about the nature of your friendship, one thing stands true regardless of label.

"You're too good to me, Xu Minghao," you say softly, shifting to his mother tongue for the sake of sentiment. 

He lets the sound of your voice, the familiar language, wash over him. As it does, it soothes the anxiety that still gnaws at the corners of his mind.

"It’s…” he begins quietly, a small, almost sheepish smile forming on his lips, “not really…”

There’s a moment of silence before he sighs softly, his expression growing more earnest as he continues. “Being good to you is the easy part.”

"And it’s xīngān, not Xu Minghao," he adds quickly, and he’s sure you can hear the pout in his voice. 

It draws a laugh out of you— one that's still quiet, but a lot more genuine. A moment of levity. A brightness that only Minghao could truly give you. The sound of your laughter, even over the phone, is enough to lift his spirits, his heart swelling in his chest in relief.

"Xīngān," you amend, and your voice is just a little too fond to be friendly. 

For a moment, Minghao can convince himself that all will be alright in the world again. 

The discectomy is relatively uneventful, which can only mean that it was good. There's no way of Minghao knowing this, of course, not as he spends the entire morning in a group meeting he can't really skip.

Regardless, all the members can tell that Minghao's heart isn't really in it. That he's physically at the PLEDIS building, sure, but his mind is on you— somewhere in an operating room, under anesthesia.

Seungcheol broaches the topic carefully. "Ah, it’s their surgery today, isn’t it?" the leader asks almost too casually, to no one in particular. There's a murmur of agreement across the table of thirteen boys. Some shifty, knowing glances at Minghao.

Minghao nods in response to Seungcheol's question, his expression still entirely too… anxious. "Yeah," he replies, keeping his voice as controlled as he possibly can, even as he feels his dread build up inside of him. "I'll be going to see them, after this."

It doesn't go amiss to anyone that Minghao doesn't even bother to extend the invite to anyone else. Jun is the only one who looks vaguely miffed about it, but they're all mostly understanding of how different Minghao felt with you compared to their own concern, their own affection.

Joshua offers the next best thing. 

"I was thinking we could chip in to send flowers," he says, and there's easy assent across the group. Minghao feels a small flicker of warmth in his chest at the thought of how you'd receive these messages of their care and concern.

As Vernon and Jeonghan debate what arrangement to send, Jun throws a glance at Minghao and almost smiles. Almost.

"What flowers did you get them?" Jun says in Mandarin, so no one else in the room can pick up how quickly the other Chinese man had clocked that Minghao was already three steps ahead.

Minghao glances over to his friend, his expression unreadable, as he answers in the same language. "Sunflowers," he replies, not missing a beat.

Jun can only smile faintly at Minghao's answers. "Sunflowers for your sunshine," Jun teases good-naturedly, still in the tongue that none of the other members will understand.

There's something about the way the Mandarin word for 'sunshine'— yángguāng— that sounds just so right. The Chinese term falls from the older man's lips like a blessing, a wish for good luck and health and goodness for all those involved. 

Minghao isn't sure if he'd imagined it, not exactly, but he sees the way Jun looks at him right after he says the word. For a split second, Minghao's chest tightens, his throat clenching up, because maybe Jun thinks his feelings for you are obvious.

Maybe Jun thinks he's been obvious all this time. In his head, Minghao had already been thinking it— yángguāng, sunshine, mine— And it's only now that he realizes that he was never the only one who saw it that way. That saw you and Minghao as something inevitable. 

He glances at Jun, eyes softening, filled with almost a wave of gratitude.

"Sunflowers for my sunshine," he repeats, hoping it will somehow manifest like a prophecy. 

You wake up after your operation with one less disc in your spine and one too many floral arrangements in your hospital room. As you blink against the vestiges of your anesthesia, you register the absurd, almost comical amount of flowers piled on the couch, and it doesn't take you more than a couple of seconds to realize it came from the boys.  

One of whom is dozing off in a chair next to you. You watch with mild amusement as Minghao's head dips in his restless slumber, his fingers still surprisingly firm around the bouquet of sunflowers in his lap. The affection you feel for him then threatens to overwhelm you.  

You manage to tamp it down in favor of gently prompting, "Minghao."  

Your voice is still hoarse, still a little rough around the edges. Not quite enough to rouse him from his sleep. After two or so more attempts, you go for what you know will wake him up.  

"Xīngān," you call out with no shortage of fondness.  

The sound of your voice jolts Minghao awake, and he opens his eyes in an instant. For a moment, his vision is still blurry, the world around him seeming almost vague, fuzzy with sleep, but then it snaps into focus when he sees you.

When he sees you awake, alive, and looking at him. His heart does somersaults in his chest.

"Yángguāng," he answers, his voice low, soft and affectionate, barely above a whisper.

"That's a new one," you say in Mandarin; your voice is still scratchy, but your amusement is not any less evident.    

He thinks he'll never get tired of watching that. Of watching your lips move that way. "You like it?" Minghao asks.  

He doesn't need an answer to his question, because he already knows that you do— but he can't help himself, needing the confirmation, needing to hear your answer. The thought of calling you 'sunshine' isn't a new one, but saying it out loud to you for the first time, when you're awake? It feels like a miracle.  

"I could live with it," you answer with a soft smile— even though both Minghao and you knew that you would now never be able to live without it.  

Minghao wants to laugh at the way you shrug his question off, at the way you seem so nonchalant, even as you give him that sweet, sweet smile that is so bright that it could rival the very sun itself.  

Because he knows the truth. He knows you're happy about it. He knows you love it. He can tell it in the way you're looking at him, in the way your eyes glitter with affection.  

"I'm glad," he answers, playing right into your charade because he knows every little trick in your book.  

And then, in a fit of bravery— one that he almost feels like applauding himself for— he leans in to press a kiss to your temple.  

When he pulls away, the bouquet of sunflowers still clutched in his hands, he's sure he can see it. The happiness in your eyes. The sheer, blinding affection in your smile.  

"Thank you," you whisper earnestly. Partly because your voice is still shot; partly because you don't trust yourself to speak any louder. "For coming to see me."  

He has to swallow hard to regain control of his emotions, because he is so terribly, terribly in love. He laughs under his breath because he's not sure what to do about his feelings anymore. Maybe it's best to just throw himself off the cliff and see what happens, right?  

"I'll always come see you," he answers, instead, making a promise for the future.  

He leans in again with that thought on his mind, and he presses another kiss to your temple, softer, longer, his lips lingering against your skin for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary.  

He pulls away to meet your gaze, and he almost feels like laughing at the way he can see his feelings reflecting in your eyes, shining in the pools of your irises. He loves you, he loves you, he loves you. How is he going to live with that?  

Minghao leans in again, but this time, he kisses the corner of your lips, right where your smile is.  

And it's astounding, really, just how terrible Minghao and you still are at this whole thing. Despite all the years between you, you still falter and stumble in getting your feelings across.  

There was always something. A job to do. A reputation to uphold. And now, a hospital bed, a recovery period.  

But, for once, you can only laugh breathlessly as Minghao gives you two more kisses, as you feel the upward curve of his lips against your face. Your heart stutters at the peck on the corner of your mouth; it's not quite what you both want, what you both need, but you'll take it. God, you'd take it.  

"Stop that," you try to chide in between your giggles. "Get off me, Hao—"

The sound of you laughing is like a revelation in Minghao's chest. As if a chord of tension that had been strung taut within him for so long had been cut.

He pulls back with a look of satisfaction on his face, that teasing grin playing on his lips as he does. "But why?" he asks in an absolutely, unbearably sweet tone, a tone that is laced with faux innocence, even though he knows why. You were recovering. You had to be careful.

A part of him is almost glad he hadn't kissed you properly. Because if he so much as feels the softness of your lips against his, he's not sure he'll be able to stop.

But God, does that make him want it even more— the fact that he can't, the fact that you're so close and still beyond his grasp. He forces himself to look elsewhere then and his gaze falls to the bouquet on his lap, to the flowers he'd brought you.

Sunflowers, because he doesn't think they make flowers that even compare to the brightness of your smile, or the way your eyes glitter when you laugh— at least, not flowers that make him think of you and you alone.

He holds the bouquet out to you. "Do you like them?" he can't help but laugh. He had chosen them and bought them for you, and yet, in true Minghao fashion, he finds himself still asking for your approval.

"I love them," you say easily, readily, already reaching out to take the arrangement from Minghao. 

Three sunflowers in full bloom, flanked by chamomile and irises and baby's-gypsophila. Your smile is bright and wide as you look down at it, as you hold it delicately. 

When you look back up at Minghao, there's that touch of amusement again. That tinge of disbelief that seems to wordlessly communicate, I can't believe you.  

"You didn't have to," you point out with a low chuckle, shifting slightly in your hospital bed as your fingers go imperceptibly tighter around his flowers. "But thank you."  

The sight of the smile on your face is enough to almost make him want to kiss you all over again.  

It's not the first time he'd given you an arrangement of flowers, but it's the first time it's made Minghao feel like he's just given you his heart, too.  

"No, I didn't," he agrees lightly, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, the very tips of his fingers brushing against your soft skin. But I wanted to.

The boys all come to visit, one after the other. In small groups, in age order, until they have to be kicked out for being too noisy and potentially drawing too much attention to themselves. There are doctors, too, and nurses. All of whom are a little shell shocked at the idols just milling about in your hospital room, making themselves at home.  

Throughout it all, Minghao stays. His usual quiet, steadfast presence. He absorbs all the diagnoses; he tells off his members when they get overwhelming. And, when no one's looking, he'll squeeze your hand or press his fingers into your shoulder.  

As always, there are some things neither of you have to say out loud.  

He's more than happy to play the role of your protector, even as he continues to worry, even as he's filled with dread over the possibility of you not recovering fully and what that might mean.  

See, Minghao would never describe himself as a man of prayer. He doesn't go to temples nearly as often as he should, though he does go often, and he doesn't consider himself not spiritual.  

He finds himself praying anyway. To the universe and whatever is out there, begging for the chance that all of this would work out for you.  

But for now, at this moment, all Minghao can do is wait, and focus on the way your hand feels in his— a source of comfort in and of itself.  

That's how your mother finds you, actually, on the evening that she deigns to visit.  

Minghao is at your bedside, playing with your fingers, and the two of you are debating over something trivial— the merits of adapting dramas into other languages— with your heads bent together. It would've been negligibly friendly if it weren't for the obvious affection in your petty argument, the way you practically lean into each other's touch.  

That's why it takes a moment for either of you to register that a third person had entered your hospital room. You look up at the sound of a throat clearing, and you're just about to apologize when you register who the silver-haired woman by the entryway is.  

Your spine goes rigid; your eyes, imperceptibly wide. "Eomma," you choke out in a slightly strangled whisper.  

Minghao goes still the moment the word leaves your lips, and his mouth goes dry when he registers the figure at the door. He doesn't exactly know what kind of a relationship the two of you had, but Minghao can only hope, for the sake of politeness and respect, that she doesn't despise him.  

"Hello," he says weakly, his hand tightening almost protectively around yours in a silent gesture of support before he finally rises to greet her. He bows respectfully, clearing his throat to greet your mother appropriately.  

Your mother's scrutinizing gaze flickers over Minghao— everything from his polite bow to the way he had just been holding your hand, moments prior. When she speaks, it's in garbled Korean; there's a hint of a French accent, one that doesn't quite match her Seoul dialect.  

"There's no need for that," your mother tells Minghao, referring to his bow. She's aiming for kindness but comes off, still, as cold. It must come with the nature of her profession; you had once mentioned that your parents were diplomats.   

Minghao forces himself to stay calm and composed, even as the fear of how your mother may react to him sets in the pit of his stomach. He nods his head, but he doesn't quite dare to look her in the eye  

"I'm Xu Minghao, ma'am. I'm here to offer some company," Minghao tries to explain, though he's not sure he's doing the best job of it.  

There's a flicker of recognition on your mother's composed expression. The look of recognition in your mother's eyes puts Minghao slightly at ease, but that doesn't quite erase the nervous tension, the anxiety that thrums against the underside of his very skin.  

"Xu Minghao," she repeats, and you let out a groan when she sounds just a little amused despite her stoic demeanor.  

He waits, just about holding his breath as your mother comes further into the room, stopping in front of the two of you. Minghao shifts awkwardly in his spot, glancing over to you just about nervously, as if waiting for you to take charge of the situation.  

"Eomma," you repeat. This time your voice is a lot more level. You try to ignore the way Minghao seems absolutely scared shitless at your side. "When did you fly in?"  

There's a detached casualness to your mother's response, almost more like you're colleagues than family. "Just this morning," she says. "I'm staying at your grandparents’ for now."  

You dip your head into a nod. There's a pause.  

"Minghao is a member of SEVENTEEN," you say, sounding just slightly resigned at having to remind your mother.  

The older woman turns her gaze back to Minghao, her eyebrows raised slightly. "I'm aware," she says coolly, an edge of amusement in her tone. When she refers to you, she sticks to your full name instead of your nickname. "How is it working with my child, Minghao?"  

"They’re wonderful," Minghao answers without hesitation, his answer almost coming out a little too fast.  

He doesn't bother to temper it back, because that's how he feels— and because he believes that your mother needs to know how he feels about working with you, about being around you.  

"Kind," he adds after a moment of pause, looking back over to you, just about begging to be given permission to continue, to gush about you.  

You look straight back at Minghao, barely resisting the urge to vehemently shake your head. You know him. You know how he wants to say more, would probably talk hours and hours about your role as an interpreter if you gave him the green light.  

As you attempt to wordlessly communicate with him through your pointed glare, your mother watches the exchange with growing amusement. Then, just as you always have whenever you wanted to get Minghao talking more—  

"I would hope they were kind," your mother says, though she says the words in Mandarin.  

When your mother speaks in Mandarin, Minghao can't help the rush of gratitude that floods through him, because that only means one thing— that it was okay, that he was encouraged to say more. And so, he does, a small smile on his lips.  

"Kind, thoughtful, patient," he says softly, almost like a litany. "Always on top of things. Brilliant."  

There was something about talking about you in his own language that made everything come so much easier to Minghao. "They make us all look bad," he adds with a soft laugh, though there's a hint of truth behind the words. He means it.  

You made him want to be better to you, more worthy of you, and not just as a person, either. As a man, too.  

You stare up at Minghao, exasperated at how a simple change in language had suddenly gotten him so honest. "You shouldn't say all that—" you hiss at him.  

As you go on to tell off Minghao under your breath and he only looks down at you with that completely smitten expression, your mother puts two and two together. One doesn't have to be in the same room as the two of you for too long to recognize it.  

Ah, the older woman thinks to herself. They're in love with each other, and they don't even know it.  

The expression on Minghao's face as you scold him would be better described as that of a puppy who doesn't quite understand what he'd done wrong. His eyebrows furrow, and as you continue to hiss under your breath, he looks like he simply wants to reach out and pull you into a hug because he can't stand it when you fuss over him.  

But he settles for squeezing your fingers once more, his grip tightening, just enough to ground himself when you don't seem to relent in your quiet berating.  

After a moment, your mother clears her throat again. It's a habit of hers that immediately gets you to shut up.  

"I just wanted to drop by," she says vaguely, switching back to Korean. "But I really must get going. Duty calls."  

"Duty calls," you echo quietly, and your mother's gaze softens imperceptibly.  

"I'll be back later tonight," she reassures you. Her gaze flickers to Minghao for a moment before returning to you. "I trust that you'll be in good hands until then."  

"Eomma," you huff, and your mother looks like she almost might laugh.  

Minghao stays still as he watches you interact with your mother, as he watches her gaze flicker back and forth between the both of you. He can't help the slight smile on his face at the look in your mother's eyes, however, because it's almost like approval.  

She turns to Minghao, this time. Gives him a once-over. He's jolted when your mother suddenly speaks French. It's not anything Minghao will understand— just a brief sentence that is meant for you and you alone. It's almost impertinent; the words are anything but.

Your smile widens and you respond in the same language.  

Your mother gives Minghao a nod. "Goodbye, Minghao," she says in Korean as she takes her leave. "It was a pleasure to meet you."  

Minghao is left looking at you, still holding on to your hand. His eyes flicker down to your smile, a grin of his own blossoming on his lips. "What did you say to each other?" he asks, almost immediately pouting.  

He won't admit it, but he feels almost jealous. The feeling tides over when you absentmindedly note, "It was nothing."    

The smile on Minghao's face turns soft and he squeezes your hand for good measure, still watching your face even as you slump back against your bed.  

"You're a terrible liar, y'know." He raises your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss against your knuckles. "You know I can read you, right?"  

"She asked me if I agreed with the meaning of your name," you say point blank. "And I said yes. Of course."  

Minghao pauses, his lips still at your knuckles as he absorbs your words.  

He knows what his name means. He's heard it enough in his lifetime. As far as names were concerned, he always considered himself lucky for the fact that he's got a pretty decent one.  

Ming, 明, which meant bright and brilliant. Hao, 浩, which meant grand and vast. Minghao— someone bright, brilliant, vast like the sky.  

But to hear you say it back to him like this? It feels like a revelation. Like you're giving him a gift, something that he can hold on to.  

"Of course," he repeats reverently, his heart a steady thump, thump, thump in his chest.

The subsequent recovery period is a slow crawl. Minghao fusses more often than not. He ensures you're on top of things— physical therapy, check-ups— and is extra careful about anything that might involve your back.  

Even as you're given the go-ahead to return to work, he frets, having read through one too many articles about the risks of having a discectomy. How strenuous labor and contact sports are still off the table for the foreseeable future. How, now, four weeks after the surgery, you still ought to be careful with routine activities.  

It's as endearing as it is vaguely irksome, especially on instances such as these. The rest of the staff avert their gazes and try not to laugh. The boys look like they're most definitely going to give you grief later on.  

Because Minghao is still adamantly carrying your things as you all head to a shooting location for the newest Going Seventeen episode.  

"Hao," you say through gritted teeth, right at Minghao's heels as he lugs around your duffel bag. "I told you, I can carry that!"  

Despite the slight exasperation in your voice, Minghao can't hide the way the corners of his lips tug into a smile.  

He knows exactly what he's doing and he knows how it makes you feel. But he can't help himself; it's too easy to wind you up. "It's heavy," Minghao insists, despite the fact that it's not that heavy, or that he doesn't actually believe that it is.  

He’s just being a slight nuisance on purpose, something he does often to get your attention.  

"It's not heavy," you seethe, taking extra steps to keep up with Minghao's lithe strides. He’s leading you to one of the company buses that would take all the members and the staff to today's shooting location— some beachside AirBnB along Sokcho.  

"I packed it, for Christ's sake. I know it's not heavy," you insist helplessly, reaching out one hand to tug at the back of Minghao's shirt.  

He's always like this, pushing and prodding and annoying you to get reactions out of you because he finds it amusing. It's been such a long time since you last properly scolded him, and oh, how he wants you to do it again.  

He stops in his tracks, forcing you to either halt in yours or bump into him. When he pauses, your feet keep moving on their own accord. Your face smashes right into Minghao's back.  

Immediately, your hand that had been grasping his shirt flies to your face. You clutch the bridge of your nose— feeling a slight sting there, following the impact— as you mumble a low chorus of "ow, ow, ow, what the hell..."  

The moment your face smashes into his back, Minghao finds himself doubling over in laughter, his frame shaking as he braces against his knees. The look of pure disbelief on your face is probably one of the funniest things he's seen all week, and the laughter that bubbles up out of his chest is unrestrained and free.  

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" he apologizes, his voice wavering in between laughter as he slowly tries to regain his composure. "Are you... are you alright? Does it hurt? Is it broken?"  

"You're insufferable," you huff before stomping ahead of him, making it a point to bump your shoulders against his as you make a beeline for the bus.  

Minghao only continues to chuckle, shaking his head as he follows after you, his laughter never once dissipating. By the time he reaches the bus, he's still smiling, completely unable to hide the way he keeps grinning.  

Much to Minghao's chagrin, however, you exact your revenge in the smallest way possible: By settling into a seat next to Mingyu, who's always more than a little willing to jump on Minghao's nerves when given the chance.  

"Sorry, Hao," Mingyu sing-songs, his eyes sparkling with mirth. "But I'm calling dibs for the next two hours. There's an empty seat next to Jun, though!"

Minghao only rolls his eyes, clearly slightly miffed at the way you'd just abandoned him for Mingyu in a heartbeat.

He finds his way to Jun's side, plopping down on the seat next to the other boy with an overdramatic, exaggerated sigh. "He snatched her away from me, ge," he whines, glancing back over to you with that same pout still on his face.

"You made her bump into you, Haohao," Jun points out with another roll of his eyes, shaking his head, though there was still a slight curl on the corners of his lip.

"I'm just having fun! You could at least sympathize with me.” There's no seriousness behind Minghao's complaint. It's a tone of complete and utter playfulness, and that only deepens Minghao's smile as he leans back in his chair.

The bus ride drags on, slow and careful, with Mingyu and you chatting about menial things. At one point, he slumps against your side to fall asleep on your shoulder, and you doze off with your cheek pressed to the top of his head. Seokmin takes a photo for posterity purposes.

Jun and Minghao watch from a couple of seats behind, and for a moment, Jun is contemplative.

It's a conscious choice for Jun to slide into Mandarin. The only other person in the bus who might understand it would be you, and you’re knocked out cold. That means the words are for Minghao alone.

"How much do you like them, Haohao?"

The switch in language catches Minghao's attention, especially when he hears the seriousness in Jun's voice. It's enough for him to pause, lifting his head up from where he'd had his chin resting against his knees.

"Too much, I think," he finally answers, with just a slight hint of hesitation.

It's not because he's ashamed, but because he's never been the kind of person to be so open about these type of feelings before. He's not even sure he knows how, sometimes.

"There's no going back now," Jun says, reaching out to lightly nudge Minghao's hip with his own. There's a slight look of concern in his eyes, but he speaks carefully, keeping his voice low as he continues.

"You might be in too deep," Jun continues, his voice a low murmur as he adds. "But I think... if the way they look at you is any indication, they’re right there with you."

The smile that spreads across Minghao's face is blinding, despite the way he turns his gaze down to his shoes. He can't help it— not when his heart is beating fast against his chest, at the idea of you feeling the same way that he does.

He wants it to be true, more than he's ever wanted something to be true in his entire life.

"I should hope so," he says, in an attempt at being flippant, but the way his voice sounds? It would give him away instantly.

When the company bus eventually rolls up onto a gravelly parking lot, the sight beyond the vehicle is one to behold. Sprawling, white sand beaches with glittering waters. The boys are still supposed to film some content, do some challenges, but the prospect of being in somewhere so pretty has significantly boosted everyone's spirits.

Wonwoo rouses Mingyu and you from your sleep. Mingyu chatters aimlessly at your side, only pausing when Minghao comes up to you; of course, the older boy can't resist one last jab.

In full view of Minghao, Mingyu does an infuriating shaka sign in front of his face and mouths 'call me, jagiya', completely unwarranted. It draws a proper snort of laughter out of you. 

"Stop it," Minghao whines as he reaches out to pinch Mingyu, though there's no real heat behind his voice. He doesn't even try to hide that smile on his face, not when he catches the way you laugh.

He can't look away from you once he sets his eyes on you. He's never been able to.

He just hopes that you can't tell exactly how in love he is. Because how is he supposed to tell you he's fallen hard?

The day at the shore flies by faster than any of them expect it to, but in the end, the filming is finally over.

By the time the staff tells them they're finished, the sky is painted in beautiful shades of orange, pink, and purple. It only adds to Minghao's already good mood, especially when he gets the chance to steal you back from Mingyu and get you all to himself.

When filming wraps up and the cameramen all begin to pack their material, the boys take it as a go-ahead to treat the rest of the late afternoon as a beach day.

You smile, mostly to yourself, as they break off— to take photos, to go for a swim, to explore the private beach. All the while, you try to maintain your focus on your laptop, your practiced fingers moving across your keyboard.  

It's why you're initially oblivious to Minghao's stealthy approach.  

Minghao lingers behind for a moment, watching you work. He's already gotten changed, his clothes swapped with swim trunks and a simple black tank top.  

He knows better than to bother you while you're working, and so— to your oblivious self— he's content to stand by and simply watch until you're done. After another moment, his expression softness as he sees how your brow furrows in concentration. Minghao steps in a little closer, one hand coming up to gently ruffle your hair.  

He almost doesn't want you to get back to work and instead considers pulling you up so you can go for a swim with him. He does no such thing, though, settling for patting your cheek once before pulling his hand away.  

You briefly glance up from your laptop so you can flash him a ghost of a smile. There's something to be said about the ways you often communicate without words, how easy it is to just understand.  

You dip your head, give a wave of your hand, turn your gaze back to your laptop. A silent, speechless Go ahead, I'll follow.  

It's like there's nothing he's not feeling right then— just happiness at seeing a smile, and the way that it feels like there's no secrets between the two of you.  

He reaches out to gently pat your cheek once more, his hand lingering for a moment before he pulls away again, turning to make his way out of the tent, the grin on his face still ever-present.  

By the time you're done with your work and changed into some proper swimwear, most of the boys and the staff are already in the water. It's in moments like these when you're reminded why you've stayed with PLEDIS for so long— the ways you're allowed to interact, to just be, when there's no cameras on, no job to do.  

You linger by the shoreline for a beat too long. Before you know it, you're being swept off your feet. Your shriek of surprise pierces across the beach as Jun easily throws you over one shoulder, his hand respectfully bracing the part of your back where there's still marks from your surgery.  

"Sorry, tàiyáng," Jun cheekily says in Mandarin as he rushes the two of you into the water, eliciting laughs from everyone else. He sends you hurtling into the ocean as you scream bloody murder, but you're laughing, still, as you go down.  

Minghao is laughing from where he's standing near the shore, still waist-deep in the water. He'd heard you scream, but the second he hears the sound of your laugh he knows you're fine. Instead of rushing to his feet and out of the ocean, he just stays where he is, the smile on his face never faltering.

The sound of your laughter is only made better by the way the sunlight dances off the water, reflecting off its shimmering surface like diamonds.

He watches as you resurface, your wet hair in your face as you gasp for breath, your face bright with a smile, and he can't help the way he feels himself falling, falling, falling.

He wants to swim over and make sure you're alright, but he knows that Jun won't let anything happen to you. All Minghao does is watch, his grin wide and bright, his eyes never leaving you. He's completely smitten, and right now, the others are just going to have to deal with him being even more of an insufferable, lovestruck fool.

The next couple of moments drag on with light-hearted rough housing, with idle splashing and lazy swimming, until Jun has somehow maneuvered you and him towards where Minghao is in the water.

Jun, behind your back, throws his best friend a conspiratorial wink.

Minghao knows that he can be obvious to an almost comical degree when he's in over his head in his feelings for you, but Jun winking is an entirely different story, and he's already a little wary as Jun brings the two of you over in his direction. 

Even still, nothing could prepare him for the sight of you soaked from head to toe, the water shimmering on your skin in the sunlight as you near him.

Oh, he's screwed, and he's pretty sure Jun and the others know that.

So he does the only thing he can think of.

Minghao dips under the surface of the water and disappears, ducking under the water for a few seconds before he comes back up just behind you, and reaches out to tickle your sides. If he's going to be an idiot and fall all over you, he might as well try and cover it up with a little bit of playfulness.

"Yah, don't do that!" you cry, already rounding in a futile attempt to stop Minghao. You weren't particularly ticklish, but something about the cool water and the warm breeze has you feeling more sensitive than necessary. Breathless laughter escapes you as you try to capture Minghao's wrists, to stop him from his actions.  

Jun quietly pads away with the pleased air of someone having done his job well. Some of the other boys share knowing glances— like they know they ought to intervene— but it's Seungcheol who shakes his head, who wordlessly calls everyone off.  

The leader, telling his members in the most subtle way, Let Minghao have this.  

There are words Minghao wants to say when you reach for his wrists to stop his actions, to ask if you want to join him in diving under the water with him, but words have never been his strong suit.  

No, it's actions that are his strength. And so, instead of asking if you'd like to join him, Minghao does just that, wrapping his arms around your waist and ducking the both of you under the water, the salt in the water stinging his eyes a bit as he opens them briefly beneath the surface.  

And then he brings you back up for air, the look on his face almost triumphant as he laughs, shaking his head to rid himself of the water that's plastered all over his hair and face.  

When you emerge, you laugh in between gasps for air, and instinctively reach up to push aside the wet strands of hair sticking to Minghao's face. "Look at you," you say disapprovingly, but you're betrayed by the pure, unadulterated adoration in your tone.  

"You love this look on me, xīngān," he insists, with that same wide grin on his face.  

And, well, he's not wrong. He can see the way your gaze lingers on his face, even as you scold him and ruffle his wet hair teasingly.  

It makes him wonder what it'd be like if all the what-ifs were real, if this was a relationship rather than an almost. He's almost afraid to wish for it. As if wanting it too much might break it.  

Minghao likes the way that you press close to him, and he keeps his arm wrapped snugly around your waist as you talk and laugh and joke with the others.  

It almost feels right, the way you're there next to him. Even though this isn't a relationship, the way that you slot right next to him is comforting because it almost makes what isn't feel more like what it could be.  

He wants the taste of you to be something more than just a taste. He wants more than a simple bite.

And so, that's how he finds himself suggesting that the two of you go on a walk together once the sun starts to set. There's a slight flush to his cheeks as he asks the question, a shy little smile on his face as he murmurs it.

He wants a chance to be alone with you. He thinks he deserves that much, especially now, after spending the rest of the day having been teased and prodded and jabbed at by the others about his feelings for you.

"Sure," you say coolly, somehow managing to keep your voice level. "Let me just grab my stuff."  

That's how you and Minghao end up breaking off from everyone else, kicking up the sand underneath your feet as you go. There's a couple of jeers here and there; Seungcheol warns you both to be back before dark.  

You take it in stride as you go on ahead, your shoulders just barely brushing. Like you're absolutely helpless to the pull of gravity that tries to keep you together.  

Once the other boys are out of sight, out of earshot, Minghao finds himself growing slightly less shy as you walk side by side, the two of you headed for a small cliffside pathway.  

His gaze is drawn to you rather quickly— to the way the ocean breeze makes your hair blow about, the way you almost shine when the sunlight hits you. The way your hand is so tantalizingly close. His own almost aches to reach out and take yours.  

"You know," he says instead, his lips quirking up into a little cheeky grin that makes his dimple show when he sees the path lined with flowers. Some of them blooming, some small clusters of white blooms scattered around the cliffside.  

Minghao plucks one of the blooms from its plant and tucks it into your hair so it's just behind your ear. He has to focus to not notice the way his fingers skim your cheek, and God, you're so close.  

"I think you look pretty like this," he says, and the words are whispered out like a confession. He picks another of the blooms, and offers it to you, his smile bright, genuine. "Take it. For good luck, maybe."  

When he extends to you one of the white blooms with that gorgeous, dimpled grin, you chuckle quietly. You take the flower. You hold it in your fingers for just a beat.  

And then you stand on your tiptoes to mimic Minghao's action— tucking the bloom right above his ear.  

"You're all the good luck that I need, xīngān," you say laughingly, in Minghao's mother tongue.  

Minghao melts, his lips parting in the slightest as he stares at you like you're a vision, like you're something to worship. He's already far too gone on. The moment he feels your fingertips against his skin, he decides he'll never be able to get over you, not if it takes him years to try to do it.  

There, the two of you stand, looking at each other with an unspoken, shared admiration, standing in front of a cliffside that overlooks the ocean with the sun setting against it, the horizon all burning shades of amber and orange and red.  

This is a moment that Minghao won't forget, and he takes your hand in his, slowly interlacing your fingers together to see if you'll let him.  

Just to know that there's a little bit of a chance that his dreams could come true, someday.  

Your fingers find purchase in the spaces between Minghao's, slotting there as if it was something meant to be. As if the two of you might have the right.  

For a beat, neither of you really say anything as you look out to the glittering expanse of ocean, the sun setting right beneath the horizon. It's a little too picture perfect.  

Exactly the reason why neither Minghao nor you dare to verbalize whatever this is, whatever you've been dancing around for years and years. Minghao wants to tell you everything, tell you that he loves you, maybe get down on his knees and kiss your hands, ask you to be his and to let him be yours.  

But he stays there. Silent. Holding your hand by your side.

When you head back to everyone— where food is being served for the members and the staff— there's a bit of an exaggerated welcome from all sides. The boys all jeer, and the staff give you side-eyes, but you only shake your head slightly as you peel away from Minghao's side.  

The words stay unspoken. The red thread of fate, the one that Minghao so firmly believes in, draws out for another moment more.  

As you go to shoot back some drinks with your team, Mingyu sidles up to Minghao's side. The older man presses a sweating bottle of beer into Minghao's hand.  

"Still not tonight, huh?" Mingyu asks with no shortage of amusement.  

The beer in his hand is cold enough that it would be a little uncomfortable to hold onto if Minghao weren't so used to it, but he simply wraps his fingers around the bottle and takes a half-hearted sip from it.  

His lips purse as he hears Mingyu's question, a frown crossing his face.  

"No. We didn't talk about anything," he says, somewhat regretfully, because tonight just felt like it could have been the right night to say something. To finally admit how he feels, to finally ask what he wants to ask.  

And maybe you would deny him, tell him that you just wanted to be his friend, but he'd take it. He'd take anything if it meant he could stay in your life—  

Or maybe you'd even say yes, and he could finally have a chance to prove himself to you.  

"Are you going to try again tomorrow?" Mingyu asks, taking a sip of his own beer, his eyebrows raising a little.  

Another sigh falls from Minghao's lips and he nods, his gaze softening as he looks in your direction, watching you smile in spite of the way he aches to be by your side.  

"Of course I'm going to try again tomorrow," he whispers, and he'll do that for the rest of his life if he has to.  

The night drags on with everyone getting progressively more drunk. Soonyoung is reduced to tears at one point, while Seungkwan puts on an enthusiastic, one-man performance of Aju Nice. 

And maybe Minghao drinks a little more than he usually does, partly because Mingyu and Jun take advantage of the fact that it's a rare thing for them to be drinking with you within the vicinity.  

Minghao's best friends are menaces who want to see what type of drunk he is, who want to see how it will affect the way he approaches you. He's always been quiet when he's drunk— the type of drunk with a slight permanent blush to his cheeks, with a lazy grin on his face, with thoughts too slurred or in Mandarin for most of the boys to understand.  

And tonight was no different, with his face flushed from alcohol and his words so slurred that all Mingyu and Jun can pick up is the word pretty over and over, along with a couple of other words in Mandarin. But he's always been honest when he's drunk— almost too much so.  

Jun is a bit stressed having to play interpreter for Minghao's drunken ramblings, but it's all worth it when Mingyu tosses his head back with raucous laughter at every word spilling from Minghao's lips, interpreted by Jun.  

"This is too much," Jun whines once the three of them have worked through a significant amount of soju. A glassy-eyed Mingyu nods in agreement, though neither of them are as bad as the notoriously lightweight Minghao.  

"Haohao, are you going to go up to her or what?" Mingyu teases.  

Another slurred word in Mandarin falls from Minghao's lips upon hearing that, his eyebrows knitting together for a moment as he pouts at Mingyu.

It's almost comical to see, to hear Minghao's usually soft and lilting voice falter, all while his cheeks stay a soft pink and his hair is a mess from how he's been running his hand through it.

The thought of approaching you makes his stomach churn, but he knows that he will. After this next shot. Just one more drink.

"Ge, you said you'd only drink one," Jun murmurs, a bit of concern seeping in his tone as he sees Minghao grab shakily yet another shot glass of soju.

Of course, he ignores their warnings for the moment as he downs the shot, his face growing pinker as he shakes his head and pushes himself to his feet.

It takes him a moment to gain his footing, his legs a little wobbly from alcohol, but he gets it. Mingyu laughs so hard that tears come out of his eyes. Jun, distressed, shoots back some more alcohol.

Minghao's vision is a little blurry, but you're just within his sight. And so, with Jun and Mingyu watching from behind, he makes his way towards you.

He's got a lopsided grin on his face, his cheeks a little pink, and he thinks he must be in love in a moment like this.

"Xīngān," he slurs, a slight hiccup following the word as he stops in front of you, his vision still a little fuzzy. He raises his hand to gently rub the back of his neck, his tone a little softer— and a bit more earnest— as he murmurs his invitation. “Can we talk for a minute?”

"Hey, you," you greet, readjusting the flower that he'd placed behind your ear. "Having fun?"  

Minghao shakes his head, his lips parting to say no only to dissolve back into soft little hiccupping giggles instead. Of course he's having fun— how could he not, when his love is right there, and he gets to see you smiling and laughing and tipsy yourself?  

He stumbles forward, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and pulling you in, his free hand coming up to your face as he squishes your cheeks and gives you a bright, gummy smile. "Are you having fun, xīngān?" he asks.  

"I'm having fun, Hao," you concede laughingly, resting your other hand at his waist to keep yourself steady. It's— once again— a position that implicates you a little more than it should, but everyone's varying levels of drunk anyway.  

This isn't the drunk Minghao, exactly, that everyone has seen. This is the one he so rarely allows anyone to witness, the one who gets clingy and a little emotional. He's usually much more capable of keeping his composure, even with alcohol loosening his tongue and his inhibitions, but he just can't manage to focus on anything but you tonight.

"Come run away with me," he murmurs. He tugs you against his side again, a little less carefully this time. He wants the closeness, tonight, as he leads the two of you over to the chairs loosely surrounding a warm bonfire.  

It's mostly the other boys here— Joshua and Vernon practicing an acoustic guitar, Jihoon chatting with the co-producer everyone knew he had a bit of a thing for. They all watch with mild amusement as Minghao drunkenly stumbles over to one of the chairs, single-minded in his ambition of sharing a single seat.  

He plops down onto the chair, tugging you right into his lap. He's so close to you then, his lips next to your ear as he wraps his arms snug around your waist, his legs on either side of you, pressing you close against him.  

"I missed you," he murmurs, and the words are slurred, warm on the shell of your ear as he presses his face into the crook of your neck and exhales softly for a moment.  

He's drunk. And in love. And that's a dangerous combination.  

You press your fingers into Minghao's knee, your shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. "How could you miss me?" you whisper back. "I was right there the whole night, xīngān."  

He shakes his head, burying his face into the crook of your neck, mumbling softly. "You were far," he pouts, his words a little more garbled than before. He has no sense of personal space right now, with you pressed so close against him, and he's more prone to whine to get his way. 

He wants this. He wants you close. He wants you. 

"Is that so?" you say sympathetically, the words coming out almost like a coo. "You have me now, though." 

"I'm never letting you go," he responds.  

There's still an almost childish part of him that thinks if he says it, like this, with you wrapped up in his arms, with your face flushed from alcohol, that maybe you'll stay by his side.  

He just has one question that he wants an answer for.  

"Will you hold my hand," his words are slurred, his fingers tracing along the small of your back, up, down, back up again, "and look at the moon with me?"

Wordlessly, you reach for his hand at the small of your back and you thread your fingers together. You keep your intertwined hands over your thigh as you lean just a little further into Minghao until he's pressed against the back of the chair and you're practically lying on top of him.  

It's easier, this way, for you to tilt your head back and do exactly as he asked. "Moon," you point out with your free hand, the word coming out in Mandarin. Yuèliàng. "It's a crescent moon tonight, see?"  

With his arm securely around your waist, he presses closer still to look at the moon together, his words still a stammer as he murmurs, "Yeah. Just like us."  

The words have no logic, not when he's drunk and soft and clingy like this. But he's still happy with it.  

"Just like us?" you echo, and you briefly wonder if you're just a little too tipsy; if you'd missed a chapter or two about how you could be compared to the waxing crescent. Your eyebrows furrow in mild confusion, though you quickly realize there's no point in worrying your head when you could just ask.  

"I'm the moon, and you're the flower," he declares, with all the confidence of his own drunken logic, his eyes falling to look at the flower still tucked behind your ear. He reaches up a hand to brush his fingers against the side of your face. 

If not for the alcohol, he might be too shy to admit how pretty you are to him. 

"We're a matched set, xīngān," he says.   

The smile that breaks out on your face, then, is bright and wide and warm, rivaled only by the bonfire raging a couple of feet away. Your friends are still chattering amongst themselves, completely oblivious to Minghao's bold declaration.

A matched set. And you're just a little out of it, just a little drunk yourself, as you mindlessly link Minghao and your pinkies together. It's a quiet promise on its own. An assurance that this was something that could happen, would happen, at the right time.  

"My moon," you concede, calling Minghao with a breathless sort of giggle. "My moon, my xīngān, my Hao."  

"I love it when you speak Mandarin," he admits, his words warm against your temple as he presses closer still, his lips a few centimeters from your skin.  

He has too much alcohol in his system, too little a filter for his thoughts, and right now, Minghao's world consists only of you and how you look in the moonlight— like some kind of vision, like something he'd write about in a song.  

"Say it again," he instructs, his tone gentle. A request. Never a command.  

"Which part do you want me to say again?" you ask in Mandarin, because Minghao had said he loved it when you spoke in it and you'd be damned not to give in.  

It's all the same to him. The gentle words that come tumbling from your lips— he doesn't need to understand the meaning, he just wants to hear you speak. 

Because how you sound when you speak Mandarin is lovely, and Minghao can't help but lean in just a little to drink in the sound of it, his fingers tracing along the exposed skin of your upper back.  

He's never cared or loved the way he does when he's speaking Mandarin. But you, when you speak to him, it sounds like poetry.  

"Anything," he murmurs. "Just say anything."  

You tilt your head back up to the sky, where none of the usual Seoul light pollution is barring you from seeing the stars. When you see the expanse of the Big Dipper, you stick to what you know.  

A Korean myth from your yesteryears, one that he hadn’t heard of in his own childhood.  

"Once upon a time, deep in the mountains, lived a mother and her seven sons," you start softly, in Mandarin, as per Minghao's request. You tell the story almost in a whisper— the cold winter, the seven brothers, the Jade Emperor of Heaven.  

A part of you, in the language that was a part of Minghao.

As you tell the fable, the alcohol settles comfortably in Minghao’s system. He feels sobered by the fact that you’re so close, that you’re indulging him in the way that you always do. So much, he thinks again. You give me so much. 

And yet it’s not enough, still. He thinks back to the Korean phrase he once sought you out for. Intuition. Zhíjué. 

Your story is winding to a close when he decides to trust his gut, this time. His arms tighten around your waist and he buries his face into the back of your shoulder.

"I love you," he says. Wǒ ài nǐ.

You pause. He can hear the smile in your tone as you respond, "I love you, too." Wǒ yě ài nǐ. 

But, no. Minghao is done.

He won’t let this pass, won’t let miscommunication take this away from him. He has spent the better half of his twenties grasping at straws, bridging gaps in languages; this will not be another one of those things that he can’t say. He takes a fortifying breath. 

He doesn’t care if you don’t believe in soulmates. If he’s the only one who thinks there’s a red string tied between you two. He’ll subscribe to your credo of destiny. He’ll do all the work. 

"I’m in love with you," he amends. Wǒ ài shàngle nǐ.

He says it in his language, because it feels right, but then he repeats it in yours so there’s no room for you to misunderstand. It doesn’t change, anyway. Korean, Mandarin. English, Japanese. 

Minghao is helplessly, hopelessly in love with you. 

It feels like forever before you respond. 

When you do, it’s in Mandarin. "Me, too," you admit, and he peeks at you enough just to see the way you’re gazing up at the night sky. He catches the hint of the smile on your face; the sincerity of which threatens to bowl him over. 

You repeat his words— I’m in love with you— in Mandarin, then Korean, then English, then Japanese. Then all the other languages you know. 

Minghao resists the urge to tell you to stop, to tell you it’s okay. He holds you tight, laughing quietly, as he basks in what feels a lot like the beginning of something. 

It’s okay, he wants to say as you confess to him in Spanish, in Portuguese, in Italian. 

I hear you. 

I hear you loud and clear. 

[snowball-doie]

୨୧ Poly!7Dream x Jisung ୨୧

| pairing: Poly!7Dream x sub!Jisung x Dom!gn!Reader

| warnings: 18+ MDNI. NSFW link. Orgy activities. MLM behavior. Corruption kink. Bondage. Nipple play. Forced orgasms. Overstimulation. Two instances of tickling (I’m personally not into tickling, but it was applicable here…… This won’t be a common thing in my fics tho).

| words: 3.6k

| aurora's note: squad, this was supposed to be about 500 words max......... idk what happened........... for my followers, this goes into the sooah au... for those who are new, welcome lmao <3

"You can hold my hand, baby, it's okay."

Jisung could be frustrating from time to time. His dedication to his job made it difficult to find free time where all seven boys and yourself were available to hang out and spend quality time together. The boys were always so busy... Mark and Haechan were out of the country more often than not, and with 127 schedules going on the back burner, the Dreamies were so busy that they were hardly home with you anymore, and that sucked-- It hurt, and they all knew that. When they were home, they tried to make the most of it, showering you with love and attention so that you had enough love in your heart and good memories to last until the next time they'd be able to hang out with you. But Jisung... He was pressuring himself too much again, constantly practicing around the house, going to the office on free days for extra help from his vocal coach or his choreographer, and he was at the office before the boys' schedules then stayed late past their schedules. You hated that. It felt like he was choosing to work instead of being with you and the boys, because he was going out of his way to work and rehearse instead of taking a break to relax in your arms or playing video games with Haechan.

“He’s been at it for two hours,” Jeno complained, wiping his palms over his face as he sighs. “How’s he not exhausted yet?”

The boys had practice starting in the morning, so of course Jisung headed out early, and they finished practice around 6PM, but Jisung stayed until 8PM when his choreographer finally sent him home… At which point Jisung continued practicing in the free room at the end of the hall. That had been his schedule for the past three days straight. The boys were sick of it. You were sick of it. While the seven of you were watching movies and tv shows together in the living room, Jisung was always upstairs, playing the same chorus over and over and over again—

“I’m going insane! Can we just tie him down or something so he finally fucking rests?” Haechan said, annoyed.

Even though he had been joking, it wasn’t a bad idea. Jeno perked up first because he was the one who was most eager to get Jisung to stop, and once he started looking around silently for back up, Mark and Haechan moved too, then Jaemin was at Jeno’s side. Chenle groaned as he stretched and mumbled, “Finally,” before pushing himself to his feet. The last two to give in were you and Renjun. The other boys’ reassurance to you were smiles they tossed in your direction as Chenle swung his arm over Renjun’s shoulder and started dragging him along upstairs while they conversed quietly in Chinese.

“I got the ropes,” Jaemin said.

“Grab the gag too,” Haechan commented quickly, just before Jaemin dove into his bedroom. “I’m sick of hearing him yap all night ‘cause he’s still wired with energy when we’re all exhausted…”

On your way to the extra room that had turned into a temporary practice room for Jisung, Jaemin gathered the materials needed for the night. Mark pocketed his phone as you all gathered outside of the door. He told the boys that he pulled a few strings so their practice the following day was delayed until after lunch, meaning they could have their fun and sleep in without worrying about any consequences.

“And this is why we love you, hyung,” Haechan teased. He wrapped his arms around Mark’s neck then started hanging off him. “What’s the plan?”

“I can distract him,” you offered.

“I can grab him,” Jaemin said, passing the ropes to Jeno.

As Jeno accepted the ropes, he contributed with, “I’ll tie him up.”

“And then what?” Renjun questioned.

“We tire him out,” Chenle replied with a grin.

With a series of nods from everyone standing in the hallway, you pushed the practice room door open to reveal the loud music Jisung was dancing to-- From downstairs, all you could hear was the obnoxious bass and the thumping of his footsteps, but the second you were in the room with him, the full force of how loud he was actually blasting the music suddenly hit you like a slap in the face. Once Jisung noticed you, however, immediately rushed to pause the music. His face was flushed from overworking himself all day. Sweat dripped from his dark hair, his glasses were all fogged up, and he was panting through his plump, swollen lips.

"Sorry, was I too loud?" he asked.

Well, the answer was yes, but that didn't matter so much with the boys anxiously waiting outside for their moment to jump him. So you shook your head and approached him. His blue hoodie was soaked in sweat, and his black gym shorts were barely clinging to his hips; you figured the safest place to touch him was his bare waist which wasn't too sweaty.

You shook your head. "No... I just missed you today... Wanted to hang out with you for a bit." When your cold hands made contact with his warm skin, Jisung hissed under his breath before gulping down his reactions. "Did you miss me?"

He nodded.

"You sure?"

He pouted and nodded some more. "I'm just really busy right now, I don't really have time to stop and--"

"And hang out with your partners?"

Jisung fell silent.

"It's okay," you cheered him up with a smile.

Jisung's eyes met yours again, giving you the perfect opportunity to kiss him passionately, your hands still glued to his hips so that he couldn't escape. He teased you by biting your lip. In return, you chuckled and started unzipping his sweaty hoodie to remove it from his body, which he surprisingly didn't protest to even though he was very adamant that he had no time to waste. In the midst of Jisung's habit of closing his eyes while kissing, the boys snuck into the room quietly, and you turned Jisung slightly so that his back was to the door, leaving all of his focus on you. Just as Jisung leaned further into your body and moaned into your mouth, Jaemin grabbed his hands that were headed for your hips.

"Wha--" Jisung pulled back. He looked around, confused, startled. "Hyung, what--" Despite Jisung's attemps to wiggle out of Jaemin's tight grip, his hyung was far stronger than him, making it impossible to escape. He looked at you for help with those big eyes of his.

Haechan approached and started kissing Jisung's exposed collarbone from behind until Jaemin rolled his eyes and pushed Haechan out of the way because he was in the way of their plan, which included Jeno stepping forward to help manhandle Jisung onto the floor so that all the boys could work together to hold him still while Jeno tied Jisung's wrists to his calves so that he was forced to sit down with his legs spread. Jisung whined and continued to thrash around. He asked silly questions and look around for help, but he was outnumbered. All of you were on the same page that he needed to let loose and that you were desperate to spend time with him, even if that meant restraining him to make it happen. To keep him quiet, Haechan took the gag he'd requested and he stuffed it into Jisung's mouth then secured it with the straps that wrapped around his head.

“Hyung, there’s duct tape in my desk drawer,” Jaemin said in Mark’s direction, prompting the eldest to hurry to his feet and scurry to Jaemin’s desk drawer. He dug around for a few seconds before returning with a roll of duct tape. Mark eyed Jaemin suspiciously. “It’s for wire management.” Jaemin took the roll and pulled the end up with his teeth before he began wrapping the sticky side around Jisung’s feet to keep him for kicking anymore. “And for tying Jeno up—“ Jaemin chuckled as Jeno reached over to smack Jae upside the back of the head. “Hey! It came in handy! Look!”

Jaemin patted his work then leaned back. All eight bodies in the room stilled as seven of you stared at the sight in front of you. Wow, Jisung really was handsome. Of course you knew that perfectly well already, but it was times like these where you were specifically reminded of it because there was a lull in excitement and all of the focus was put into every detail of who Park Jisung was. From his fogged up glasses, to his shirtless torso that showed off his hard work via his toned abs that he kept hidden from the public because he only ever wanted you guys to see all of him— He really was just a mini-me of Mark sometimes; to his erection growing in his gym pants, to the ropes tied expertly around his arms and legs… He was perfect. He was amazing. You needed him. Every inch of him. Always.

Haechan laughed as he tickled the bottom of Jisung’s feet to get the reaction he wanted where Jisung jolted, his body tensing, his eyes shooting wide, and desperate, muffled pleas were panted behind his gag. When Haechan did it again, Jisung’s feet fought against the tape, but he had nowhere to go. His struggle was in vain. That right there was the best part— Watching the moment he tried his best to free himself but couldn’t… Watching as all of his defined muscles worked in tandem to find a solution that would never appear.

Jisung pouted and slumped. His breathing was heavy thanks to Haechan who had riled him up, but also because he was anxiously watching all of you, waiting to see what you had in store for him.

“Do you remember what you said to me this morning before you left for work?” Jeno finally began the interrogation.

Jisung looked up through his lashes and vaguely shook his head. He was being extra cautious, you noticed. Perhaps he did remember but didn’t want to confess because it would only land him in more trouble— Or maybe he really didn’t remember and that was why he was so confused to have ended up in the position he was tied up in.

“I told you that you needed to say goodbye to everyone… That you needed to find a way to spend more time with us.”

Jisung gulped. So he did remember.

“And you said, ‘What does it matter?’”

The fear in Jisung’s face was nothing in comparison to the anger washing over half of the people standing in the room. He had said what?!

“Let me at him, hyung… I asked him to play basketball with me two days ago and he ghosted me,” Chenle said.

“You’re ghosting us now?” Mark questioned.

Jisung shook his head adamantly, his eyes pouting and his eyebrows raising like he was trying to tell you something, but it went unsaid.

“He talked back to me, so I get dibs,” Jeno said, which forced Chenle to back down. “But you can help.” Now that brought a smile to Chenle’s face.

Jisung squirmed some more as the audience closed in on him. Renjun went to his side first to ask something about safe words and if Jisung remembered how to put a stop to this even with the gag in his mouth. Jisung nodded. That seemed to ease both Mark and Renjun who were a bit uneasy about ambushing Jisung in the first place. Renjun shifted slightly so that he was at your side instead, leaving plenty of room for Jaemin to take his spot because his job was to try to keep Jisung still while Jeno took the lead and Chenle followed by sitting opposite Jaemin.

"Are these sensitive yet?" Chenle flicked his finger over one of Jisung's nipples. Jisung moaned and rolled his head back against the wall. "They are..." And he did it again.

Jeno ran his palm over Jisung's erection in tandem with Chenle's teasing, and when Jisung jolted upright and pulled against his restraints, Jaemin jumped into action by pressing his hand on Jisung's bare chest before pushing him against the wall. By the time you could bring yourself to pry your attention away from Jisung, Haechan was already kissing Mark who had his hands on Hyuck's hips to keep both of them steady so that they didn't fall back onto the floor. Hyuck was a bit aggressive. He was trying to sit on Mark's lap, but Mark fought by using his grip to roll over on top of Haechan who moaned when their crotches touched over their pajama pants.

Renjun whined beside you. He was looking for attention too but three of the boys were busy with Jisung, Mark and Haechan were busy with each other, and Renjun was getting hard watching everything happen around him. You pulled Renjun onto your lap and slid your hand under the waistband of his pants. He shifted slightly to accommodate your touch. You moaned into his ear once you got a hold on his cock, his pre-cum already leaking onto your hand; and he moaned in return when you used your free hand to hold his chin to make him watch what was happening in front of you where Jeno had fished Jisung’s dick out of his shorts and slowly started jerking him off. Jisung moaned happily.

Though he seemed to dislike being ganged up on and tied up, the fact that Jisung was finally being touched after you’d worked him up in the first place came as a relief to him. You matched Jeno's pace. Whenever he jerked Jisung off fast, you went at the same speed on Renjun-- Both of them wiggled their hips, Renjun struggling adorably in your lap-- and when Jeno slowed down, you teased Renjun's tip until he was begging you for more. Chenle contributed to Jisung by pinching his nipples over and over again as an added measure of stimulation to get Jisung off. Poor thing had incredibly sensitive nipples. All of you liked to take advantage of that because he made the cutest noises when his nipples were teased; but Chenle was doing it with the sole purpose of getting Jisung closer to the edge.

"Jebal--" Jisung moaned behind his gag.

Jeno pulled his hand away from Jisung's cock. While Renjun anticipated you to follow suit and was prepared to beg you to continue, you actually didn't stop touching him. He wasn't being punished like Jisung was. There was no point in edging him and torturing him, which came as a relief to Renjun who continued to moan your name and thrust his hips up into your fist. Beside you, Haechan and Mark were finally going at it like they were in their own world as they rubbed up against each other and Haechan was adjusting to ride Mark's thick thigh.

When Jeno restarted his motions, everyone else continued too. Jaemin and Chenle played with Jisung's nipples, you jerked Renjun off faster, and Haechan was biting Mark's bottom lip to pry more moans out of his hyung. Jaemin did something mean where he kissed Jisung's cheek to keep him distracted momentarily before he pressed his index finger over Jisung's sensitive tip to gather up some of his dropping pre-cum before smearing it over the gag Jisung was wearing.

"Jebal, jebal, jebal--" Jisung moaned as he came.

Renjun's body toppled forward, his hands on your knees, fingernails digging into your skin. "C-Can I--"

"Cum for me, sweet boy."

Jisung's body was still shaking through his orgasm when Renjun hit his peak too. As Renjun's cum leaked down your hand, Jisung's cum painted his stomach and hit Chenle and Jaemin's hands, and both boys were watching each other as content to really make their highs hit harder, as if they were watching porn or something. When there was nothing left to milk out of Renjun, you slowed down before wiping your hand on his thigh then pulling away entirely. He slumped against your chest. For a moment, he caught his breath while watching Jeno who didn't slow down or stop playing with Jisung. The poor guy realized what was happening just as his orgasm faded and the overstimulation began.

"Hold still, Jisung-ah," Jaemin cooed tauntingly with a tigher grip on their maknae.

"Some help would be nice," Chenle called over to you and the three other onlookers.

You inched forward with Renjun still resting on your lap so that you could corner Jisung even more to make it really noticeable that there was no escaping the nipple stimulation or the fact that his cock was still being played with after he'd made a mess. Jisung whined pathetically. He looked around for a savior, but the only two who could have been any help-- Mark and Haechan-- were still preoccupied with each other. You looked down to see Jisung's cum frothing between his straining cock and Jeno's pumping fist-- And much to your surprise, Jisung wasn't softening. He was still hard, and he was leaking cum bit by bit by bit.

Haechan finally sat upright. His brown hair was a mess, his cheeks were flush, and his cum left a wet spot in his pants, and there was another wet spot on his thigh where Mark had cum too. Both of them panted as they looked around to catch their bearings.

"You guys aren't helping," Chenle scolded.

"Sorry," Mark apologized, completely dazed.

Haechan and Mark crawled over to find empty spaces for them to squeeze into. Haechan, to have fun, tickled Jisung's feet again, which set him off with another serious of muffled moans before he opened his eyes long enough to glare at Haechan. That earned him a pinch to each of his nipples.

Jisung started squirming harder and whining louder the closer he got, almost like it was a warning to everyone in the room with him that he was about to tip over the edge if you kept messing with him. The only problem for him was… the seven of you knew exactly what you were doing. You wanted him to cum. Again. And then maybe again for good measure— And fuck it, another time after that. You wanted to pry as many orgasms out of him that his body could provide, and even then you were sure that you could get a dry orgasm or two in there for your entertainment.

Shaking his head, he mumbled behind the gag, "I can't."

You ran your fingers through his hair comfortingly as you cooed, “Shhh, shhh, shhh… You can hold my hand, baby, it’s okay.”

Jisung did just that. His hand grasped yours desperately— Well, he tried to find your hand but kept slipping to your wrist which he held with an iron-tight grip as his hips squirmed some more in an attempt to get away from Jeno.

“I’ve got you,” you said.

A loud moan echoed through the room as another orgasm was forced out of him. His cum leaked onto his chest in a pathetic stream which Haechan caught with his fingers so that he could have Mark clean it up. Both Jeno and Chenle worked Jisung through his second orgasm, Jaemin tried his best to hold him still, and Mark and Hyuck were back to kissing each other. To everyone's surprise, Renjun leaned forward on his knees to roll his palm over Jisung's sensitive tip.

"Hyung!" Jisung cried out behind his gag.

Jaemin put more pressure on Jisung's chest to hold him still for the last minute or so that they continued to bully him with overstimulation.

"Okay, okay," Mark said, pushing Haechan off him in order to catch his breath. He licked his lips. "We should get cleaned up."

"He has one more in him, hyung," Chenle complained, his fingers still playing with Jisung's nipples.

Mark observed Jisung for a moment. His body was slumped with exhaustion, his head braced against the wall, his eyes squeezed shut as he tried to bear the way Renjun was torturing his tip. He looked exhausted. After working long hours and practicing so much, you'd already milked the rest of his energy out of his body-- For lack of a better word. You pulled Renjun's hand away. When Jeno noticed, he brought his movements to a halt and shot Jaemin a look which told him to release Jisung who panted the second he was shown an ounce of mercy. Chenle, despite what he wanted, obeyed Mark's orders and your silent lead.

"Let's get him out of these," Hyuck said.

Everyone moved to undo the restraints. Jeno's knots were tight, but the ropes were loose around Jisung's limbs, making it easy to wedge the knots loose before untying them altogether. Meanwhile, you moved your weight onto your knees so that you could reach over the boys and take Jisung's gag out of his mouth. He gulped through a heavy breath.

"You okay?" you asked.

Jisung nodded tiredly. "Ne."

A wadded up ball of duct tape made its way into the trash in the corner, thanks to Renjun, and when he returned he had Jisung's water bottle in hand so that once Jisung was free he was able to take slow sips that Mark monitored closely.

"You did good," Mark complimented.

Jisung blushed. "Thanks, hyung..." He turned to face away from everyone.

"I'm going to get him in the shower. You smell disgusting," Jeno said.

"That's what rehearing for thirteen hours a day will do to you," Jaemin added.

Jisung set his water bottle down on the floor. "Okay, I get it, I need to relax with you guys more. I get it. I'm sorry." He hooked his arm over Jeno's shoulder, then on the count of three, he was lifted to his feet. He put all of his weight against Jeno because his legs were shaking and his body was exhausted from the overstimulaton.

You stood to kiss Jisung gently. "Sleep in my bed tonight?"

He nodded.

taglist: @junrenjun @topmoondanse @wonsyn @jaeminnanaaa17 @jsbluu

@trash-number-one @multifandomania @jimintrain @notbasickpopie @blueblazings

@ho3central @kiwiiess @ant-onie @jeongjaeleftbicep @secretlifeoftw

@9763vill @sinsgaybutthatsokay @aeriwave @leesura @kittydollzz

@daryaa8a @henderysposts @mystverse @mwokyo @nbm08

@seokiesung @j4rsofit @fuckmeupnct @pandagirl753 @starrysturniolo

@your-local-k-pop-stan @neverendingminho @strawberryax0lotl @nmhkih @itskpopular

@n0hyuck @meowniee @faeryus @zhapire @oonyourmmark

@hyunjinologyy @october-saturn @kiwichenji @shoetaroshoe @neo11kun

@iiohii @armaegddn @vinsmokesanjis-wife @riaa72 @czennielove

@llcvleywons @s3onghwaswifey

[thefaithfulnightwriter]

𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐊 ~ Chapter One

Summary - 𝙄𝙣 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙘𝙝 Azriel's mate is banished to another world by Amarantha. To a world she never knew existed. To a different world called Zenithara. She finds herself being stuck in Zenithara for many years. And as more time passes it leads her to giving up hope to ever get back to her family, her mate. It changes her living in such a world. She never once felt safe in Zenithara. But one day when she is given a mask. She finds herself feeling safe and concealed from the world. It gave her a sense of strength and power. Which leads her to persevere in the new world she was in.

But what will happen when she finds herself being sent back to her old world Prythian, to her home in Velaris? What will happen when she is finally reunited with her family… her mate?

Pairing - Azriel x Female!Oc

Universe - A Court of Thorns and Roses

Warnings -  Characters may be a bit OOC, Mature Themes, Gore, Death, Semi Smut, Violence, Language, Weapons, Mention of Past Abuse, Mention of War, Things Will Be Changed, Fluff, Angst, Some Sensitive Subjects, Mating Bonds, Scars, Experimentation, More Will Be Added If Needed.

Disclaimer - I do not own the series ACOTAR. I do own certain characters, and I own my mc. I do own somethings that are made up. I also got some inspiration from some movies and tv shows. So if you see anything familiar.  But i own my writing and whatnot you get where im going and what i am saying lol.

Author's Note - i really hope you like this fic. i gotta say this fic is very challenging for me because of the world building around it and what not. but i do love it. i hope you guys do too. that is all i can think to say lol.

─── Zenithara ───

─── Sky City ───

Gleaming lights were now in the night sky. A plethora of luminous lights is what Annamarie's gaze was on. She was watching the world outside of the large window beside her. Lights of all kinds down below and surrounding her. 

She could also see vast ships and smaller ships flying around in the night sky. In the sky of Zenithara around the 1st Sector also known as the Sky City. 

Sky City being located in the sky on a vast floating island. Anna never understood how the Sky City came to be. She was never good at retaining Zenithara's history. It never interested her or grabbed her attention. And ultimately she never cared for it.

Right now though she was watching the lights shimmer and the ships fly. Lights of different colors flashing and glowing. The ships of all sorts transporting goods and people to locations. 

She couldn't deny it was a beautiful sight. But it could be a bit overwhelming at times. As time passed though and the longer she stayed in Sky City she had gotten used to it. It has been a few years since Anna has been in Sky City now. And it was an amazing city but it wasn't her favorite Sector.  

Middle Ground, the 2nd Sector was her favorite. It was where her favorite home was. Well one of the three homes that she made in Zenithara, in the 3 Sectors. The homes that were just buildings she stayed in. It would never be her true home. Zenithara would never be Anna's true home. Her home is and always would be her old world. 

A place called Pyrthian, in Velaris. Where everyone she loved was, her true family… and her mate. They were somewhere she couldn't reach. No matter what Anna did she couldn't reach them. It seemed like they were worlds away. Well they were worlds away from Anna’s knowledge. Or more like Anna was worlds away being banished from Prythian.

Anna still remembers somewhat. She remembers bits and pieces of the days, weeks, and months that led up to her banishment. 

She was in Pyrthian. In a place called Under the Mountain. A place ruled by a cruel female named Amarantha. There was a masquerade ball that Anna had attended as emissary of the Night Court. Her being a part of the Night Court's inner circle. 

Being she was the emissary and it was an event to gain relations. Anna had to go. At the time she was attending the ball with her High Lord Rhysand. More so best friend or brother in her eyes. The event was pleasant… until it wasn't.

Amarantha the host had used the ball to her advantage. To execute her plan. A plan that was successful. A plan to steal a part of all seven of the High Lords powers. To get all seven High Lords of Prythian to submit to her. 

Which Amarantha had achieved. She was able to take part of the High Lords powers and keep them submitted to her. And she soon became the new ruler of Prythian. With her ruling it caused a darkness to wash over Prythian. Amarantha truly was a cruel ruler. She killed and torture innocent people. She abused people for fun. She took advantage of many and abused her power without care. 

Amarantha also liked to play with people and use them as puppets.The ones who she used most as her puppets were Anna and Rhysand. She seemed to get the most satisfaction with playing with the two of them. 

But Amarantha liked treating Anna cruelly the most. It was because of how close she was with Rhysand. All the Courts knew how much Rhysand cared for Anna. She was like a sister to him. Everyone knew because they had witnessed their brotherly sisterly bond at meetings and events. Being the two were High Lord and emissary to the Night Court they had to attend such events together.

So many saw their interaction, and saw how much they cared for each other. Even when they hid their true selves from everyone. They couldn't hide the care they had for one another though. They were truly best friends.

Having heard such information, Amarantha used that knowledge and their bond to her benefit. To control Rhysand, which worked on more than one occasion. She would beat Anna black and blue. She would make Anna work as her servant. She would torture her with magic and much more. Anna took such treatment with her head held high. She stayed strong for her Court, her home, her family, for Rhysand, and her mate. 

Even after a year Anna was still strong... mentally. Physically though Anna was weak. Her body and magic were weak. But she kept her head high. Anna knew she had to be and stay strong. Because if she didn't... Anna knew that the first time she'd let her head fall she would go into a downward spiral. She would break. 

Anna wasn't going to let that happen. She wasn’t going to let Amarantha get that satisfaction. And she wasn't going to leave Rhysand on his own. She wasn't going to let him shoulder all the weight by himself. Because she knew he had a lot of weight on his shoulders. 

But while they were Under the Mountain he didn’t tell Anna what he did or what happened to him. But Anna was always there for him and would let him lean on her. Much like he would let her lean on him. The two never really talked about what they did or what happened to them while Under the Mountain. But they did hold each other. 

They would whisper stories and reminisce on memories together. Speaking of their family and trying to keep their memories alive in their mind. So they wouldn't forget them. Rhysand more than once used the little power he had as a daemati to show Anna memories in her mind of their family, and her mate.

Even though a year had passed and they were still Under the Mountain. It felt like eternity for the two. Which they had voiced to each other and agreed it felt like such a long time had passed. But really only one agonising long year had passed. And it was one of those many mornings that they were leaning on one another that they laughed. But it soon was different. 

It was after a moment they laughed and during the early morning hours that Rhysand finally leaned fully on Anna. It was the first time he cried. And not being able to handle the weight, he told Anna everything. Everything that Amarantha had him do, and what she has done to him. Anna held him the whole time as he cried in her arms. 

But when it was time they had to separate and go back to their reality. Anna still couldn't believe what Rhysand had been put through. She couldn't understand why she was being put through such things as well. It caused Anna to be stuck in her head the whole day. Going over what was told to her by Rhysand. Going over everything she has been put through. 

That night was the night Anna burst. It was during a gathering and Anna couldn't take her glaring eyes off of Amarantha. Who sat on her throne with a smug look. Anna was furious. And most of all she was done. She couldn't take it anymore. The treatment. The torture. Everything. She couldn't do it anymore, sit back, watch, and be treated in such a way. And watch her best friend, or brother be treated like he was.

It was when Amarantha tilted her head back and laughed. As she ran her fingers down Rhysand's arm. Anna could now notice him tense. She could tell it was taking everything in him not to grimace at her touch. At that moment she was remembering everything he had told her, and all her own memories. 

It was that moment and that night that everything changed. 

Anna could feel her magic buzzing under her skin. And without realizing what she was doing she was taking steps closer to Amarantha's throne. Her glare never leaving Amarantha’s form. As she stepped closer her anger and adrenaline grew. So did her magic. As she stepped closer many around her could feel her magic and stepped away. Making a part in the crowd.  

Anna could only remember very few words that were said... she remembered seeing Rhysand's face. He had a look of fear. She remembered his muffled yelling. Seeming to be pleading with her to calm down. But it was too late. She had let out a powerful burst of magic aimed at Amarantha. Wanting to kill her.

But after letting her powers free Anna had fallen to the floor. The glasses she wore fell from her face. Her light brown skin was pale, more pale than usual. She and Rhysand having lost the glow in their skin since being Under the Mountain. Her whole body was exhausted and she could barely move. Her vision was more blurry as usual without her glasses. But what made her fearful was she began seeing black dots. 

Blinking, she tried clearing her vision quickly. Soon she was able to reach and find her glasses. Reaching for her glasses as she hunched over she was trying to get up. She was almost able to sit up when she felt a hand wrap around her throat. Then nails digging into her skin. She knew instantly who it was, Amarantha. 

Looking at her Anna could see her with a snarl upon her face. She had cuts on her face, her hair was disheveled, and her dress now had tears in it. What scared Anna the most was the rage that was in Amarantha's eyes. Not being able to see such rage she looked away.

As she did Anna was met with the room in shambles. What caught her attention instantly was Rhysand. He looked to be unscathed but he was now being held back by many guards. He had tears in his eyes and he seemed to be yelling. Looking in his violet eyes with her dark brown eyes Anna sent him a small reassuring but meaningful smile. As she saw him struggle more. Because Rhysand and her knew that this was it for her. 

Thinking of her demise, tears fell from her eyes. Because the first person to come to mind instantly was her mate… Azriel. The one she missed so much. The one she kept fighting for. The one she wished she could be in the arms of every night and every day. But she knew now it was never going to happen. It filled her with regret. She knew she shouldn’t have exploded but she just couldn’t help it. But now she was sad and angry at herself. But she was quick to shake the feelings away. 

Quickly for the first time in a year she found herself opening that golden tether that connected their souls fully. An accepted mating bond between them. A bond that they cherished and held close to their hearts. As she opened the bond, the first emotions she felt were confusion, love, and urgency. It was all Azriel's emotions. She then felt a tug on the golden tether. A tug she knew was his way to tell her to tug back so he could follow it. So the bond could lead him to her. 

"I love you so much," she whispered to him. She remembered saying in her head at that moment. She knew he wouldn’t be able to hear her. So she then sent all the love she could to him. Sending every bit she could. So much that she knew it may have overwhelmed him. 

Which it did, it brought him to his knees when he felt her love. The love he knew she had for him. The love he knew she held back from him. So she didn’t overwhelm him. It was a feeling that felt like a fierce wind had crashed into him. But after a moment of gaining control he felt like he was soaring up to the clouds close to the night sky above. Close to the stars that shined so bright. It was a feeling he gained while flying and he loved it. He had never felt it in such a way. And he wanted more. It made him want to go to his mate and have her in his arms even more.

Though Anna knew she may have overwhelmed him she didn't care; she wanted him to feel all her love that she felt for him. She wanted him to know at least one more time. And at that moment she was grabbed hard by the hair by Amarantha. Making Anna look at her. Anna was quick to steel herself. Not showing any fear. Not saying a single word. It was then that she heard the last Amarantha said. 

"Hm, killing you would be too easy. I'm going to do something much worse. I know how much you love Pyrthian, your family. So I'm going to send you far far away. Say goodbye to Pyrthian. Say goodbye to Rhysand. Say goodbye to everything you've ever known. Enjoy your banishment Annamarie Emissary of Night Court," Amarantha smirked at her. 

Hearing her words struck fear in Anna as her eyes widened. 

The last she saw was Amarantha's smirk upon her face, then she waved her hand. The last thing Anna remembered hearing was Rhysand screaming her name. As he tried to fight to get to her. A scream that haunts her till this day. Then the loud noise that sounded like the snapping of a whip and thunder behind her. 

She was then being pushed back by Amarantha. And then she saw a bright white light, and soon darkness engulfed her vision. She remembers falling harshly on the ground, then fainting after that. When Anna opened her eyes she was in another unknown world. A world she knew nothing about. A world she didn’t know even existed. The world of Zenithara.

"Hey Auntie Goldie, we got a mission to stop a load from reaching the Abyss, the Arena. You up for it?" 

Anna heard a deep male voice question her. A few steps from the side of the table she sat at in her room at headquarters. She knew that voice. It belonged to Evan. Turning she was met with a handsome well built, tan skinned man, with dark short wavy hair, and crystal blue eyes.  

Evan was a leader. But Evan also was Anna's nephew. They weren't related but she earned the respect and title. Having been in his family for years now. Evan was one of the few she has gone on many missions with in the past couple years. While she worked with G.H.O.S.T. meaning Guardian Heroes of Sector Three. 

A group of people who work with the justice system of Zenithara to clean up Sector Three, the Abyss. And sometimes Sector One and Two. But mainly the Abyss being it was the worst Sector of Zenithara. The worst of them all. The Abyss, the worst Sector, was located in the center of the planet of Zenithara. And the home of many criminals and horrible people. 

It was also where a place called the Arena was located. The Arena was a notorious horrendous place. It was a prison of sorts for all the Sectors. Filled with many horrid people. People who have committed horrible crimes. 

The Arena was a dark complicated place. It was never ending and had different levels to it. There were the holding areas where people are placed in holding cells. Then the judging area, where people were judged. People were then subjected to being experimented on. The worse the crime the longer the person is put through such treatment. Some people even end up dead from the experiments. 

But there were some who ended up with abilities. The abilities ranged from little things like enhanced hearing, enhanced sight, intelligence. Then there were some with dangerous abilities. Such as being able to control fire, the air, or enhanced strength. There were many powers and abilities that were given to people.  

But after such people survived the experiments, they soon had a collar placed around their neck. That would locate, read their body signatures, and electrocute them if need be. The collar being controlled by the Overseers. Overseers being the ones who controlled the Arena and observed everything that happened in it.   

Many groups of people were then placed in a very huge vast dark run down Arena with a dome. Ten people in each group and five groups were placed in different parts of the Arena. And soon the Killer games commenced. It was kill or be killed in the Arena. Every day these people have to fight for their lives while being watched by the Overseers. 

Once you were in the Arena there was now way out... unless you were the last one standing in the Arena. Once you win the Killer games you are taken out. Then placed in a living area for about a year then you had to go back to the Arena. 

Nobody knew these things about the Arena. Only hearing little rumors. The only one to know the most was Anna. She was the only living person to ever fully leave the Arena. After being in the Arena many times. 

The first many years of Anna's life in Zenithara was spent in the Arena. Being that the portal Amarantha pushed her through led her to land in the Arena. And it wasn't pretty those first years had changed Anna. She thought being Under the Mountain was horrible. The Arena was a true nightmare for her. 

But the last years were bearable once she met a certain blonde Overseer named Katrina. The Overseer was the one to change Anna's life. Along with another contestant. It took her years to escape the Arena completely with their help. The Overseer having been killed while saving Anna and the contestant's lives while they escaped. Which Anna was and would be grateful for. Never forgetting her. 

The contestant’s name who escaped with Anna was Evangelina, Eva for short. While in the Arena Eva and Anna stuck together. Helping each other. Eva helped with her high intelligence she got from experimentation. While Anna was the fighter. Anna having her fae magic enhanced after experiments were done on her amongst other things. 

The two grew close as sisters and were unstoppable. The two grew even closer when Anna found out that Eva was in the Arena because she was framed for a crime she didn’t commit. Anna believed her. She could tell Eva was innocent. And Anna wanted Eva to keep that innocence. Which was why Anna protected Eva and did most of the killing while in the Arena. While Eva did more of the thinking.

But when Anna and Eva were able to escape with the help of Katrina, they brought all their knowledge to the justice system. But there was only so much the justice system could do. Which led Anna and Eva wanting to help clean up Sector Three and take things into their own hands. They were soon telling the people in charge of the justice system. And in doing so the justice system gave them permission to create G.H.O.S.T. Which was very successful, and still running strong after many years. 

That is where Evan the II came in. He was Eva's grandson who took over G.H.O.S.T. after his father. Anna still helped the organization but slowed down over the past years. Having been in a state of grief after the passing of Eva. It took a toll on Anna losing Eva. Watching her grow old while she stayed the same. But Anna stayed by Eva until her last breath. Taking care of her and her family. 

Some time after the loss of Eva, and Anna having nothing better to do, but get stuck in her mind. Thinking about all she has lost. Pythain, her family, her mate, Katrina, then Eva. As an immortal Anna thought she better do something with her life. So she started helping Evan more and more over the years. Which he greatly appreciated her help. 

But looking at him now it reminded her of Eva. Which caused a wave of sadness to wash over her. Yes, he had blue eyes he got from his mother. But he had Eva's features, he then had her hair, and tan skin. Much like his father Eva's son. Who looked exactly like Eva, his mother. He was hard to look at at times. Bringing memories of Eva to her mind. But Anna pulled through like she always did. But right now a soft sad sigh escaped Anna's lips as she looked at him. 

Evan was quick to send her a smile as he sat next to her. Which caused Anna to turn to the window. Before he spoke again after receiving a nod to his question. Which was Anna agreeing to go on the mission with him and his team.          

"I got some entail that says that the load is leaving on a ship some time before dawn. When the lights dim. They'll be using passage A tryin' to get to the Arena from above," Evan explained to her. Taking in the information Anna pushed her glasses over her scared nose.

Part of three thick lined scars taking over her face. Starting from her temple on the side going across her face, and ending at the other side of her jaw. A scar from her years in the Arena by a person able to shift into a creature.

"Okay," Anna whispered with a nod to Evan. Her voice was soft and never above a soft whisper. Being that she never really talked anymore. Her voice left her more and more over the years. Because she didn't feel the need to talk much. The only ones she talked to were Evan and his father. Having nobody else who would listen and never wanting to talk to anyone else.

"Alright wanna relax for a lil then gear up together when it's close to time for the mission?" Evan asked Anna with a smile. Looking away from the window again and turning her gaze to Evan she smiled with a nod. She enjoyed spending time with Evan. He always knew how to get her mind off things. And from the little memories she could remember Evan reminded her a lot of Cassian with his antics. 

"Awesome! Come on then Auntie Gold," Evan chuckled playfully with a wide smile. Before slowly reaching a hand to Anna for her to take. A soft giggle left Anna's lips as she took his hand. Letting him help her up. 

A smile washed over her. She was happy to spend time with her nephew. Who was now rambling on about his day. Which she caused her to laugh softly when he made big hand gestures, speaking with his hands. She was happy to have Evan in her life and also his father. They helped with the loneliness and lost feeling she felt while being in Zenithara. 

But little did Anna something was going to happen on this mission. Something that was going to change everything for her.

[kaybreezy3000]

The Drive-In A Five Hargreeves x Female reader insert, request

(7995 words, rated M for adult themes and explicit sexual content)

After the way it ended with season four, you couldn’t help feeling like Five had done you wrong. 

But…

On a night filled with men masquerading as mythical monsters, your favorite bad boy did you right, mending both your hearts.

Side note: I received the base idea for this one from an anon request. It asked for Five at a horror movie drive-In night, with a female reader insert. That idea for them was inspired by anon being tired while watching old monster movies. The rest of this storyline is perhaps not what they had in mind, being it addresses things that some would rather forget, but overall, I think this story has a nice message that many of us Five lovers can relate to and enjoy.

Warnings and Tags: Smut, Soft Five and Dom Five, NOT a Lila and Five fic

~~~~~~The Drive-In

Convincing Five to go for a ride in his 1965 Nassau Blue Stingray wasn’t as hard as Klaus thought it would be. Then again, going for car rides as a form of entertainment was a very old person thing to do, and his brother was that guy, even if he didn’t look the part of the old fart who couldn’t take a shit without eating his daily dose of prunes.

Driving along, Klaus jabbered about anything and everything that came to mind, but Five said almost nothing in return, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, his lips set in a thin line. 

The sun was about to set. It was a beautiful fall evening. The warmth of summer had refused to let go. With the convertible top down, the wind ruffled his dark hair. It felt good, but Five still didn’t feel right.

All around him, life moved on, everyone obliviously living their best lives ever, but here he was, feeling out of place in all of that, just like before.

Trying not to think about his ledger full regrets, or all the idiotic things coming out of Klaus’s mouth, Five instead was doing his best to focus on the soulful sound of the ‘Queen of Jazz,’ Ella Fitzgerald as it mixed with the rumble of his Corvette’s powerful engine. 

Not sharing his brother’s tastes in music, Klaus reached for the radio, but like the last four times he’d done it, he got his hand slapped away.

“Leave it, or I’m going to leave you out here in the middle of nowhere and you can walk home,” Five lowly warned.

Rubbing his hand, pretending to be hurt, Klaus laughed. “You wouldn’t do that because you love me too much. And we aren’t that far away from civilization. I’d be fine. See-” He pointed to the lights shining through the trees up ahead.

“What’s going on up therrr-”

“Quick! Turn!” Klaus excitedly shouted, grabbing the steering wheel, causing the car to swerve off the road. 

Gravel flying, and tires spinning to an abrupt stop, Five slammed on the brake just before rear ending the car ahead of them. There was a line of cars, all of them waiting to get into what he now saw was the entrance to an outdoor, drive-in theater.

Angrily twisting his body around in his seat, so he was facing Klaus head-on, Five went off. “I said I would take you for a ride, not go to a movie with you!”

Klaus stuck out his bottom lip. “Awww, come on. It’s just like that time you got all jacked-up about that Big Ball of Twine. It’s you and me against the world!” “Yeah. Sure. You and me against the world.” Five threw himself back in his seat as he shifted into first, letting off the clutch to inch the car forward. “I can’t even back out of here!” he fumed while flipping off the minivan that just pulled in behind him, blocking his escape route.

“Who cares. This will be fun. And check it out! It’s an old-school monster movie double feature, and a scary costume event! Look at all these cool people!” Like he’d won the lottery, Klaus pumped his hand to the sky despite Five’s sour expression. “You need more of this kind of thing in your life, man. Spontaneous adventures are always the best.”

“Getting stuck with a bunch of juvenile dipshits that are getting drunk is exactly what I need. You’re right,” Five dryly mumbled.

Slowly rolling past the marquee, the warm lights glinted off Five’s shiny chrome side mirror. The reflection of the unhappy young man staring back at him frowned even more. All Five could think about, other than getting out of there, was how not fun all his spontaneous adventures had been. 

As a headstrong, thirteen year old with something to prove, he’d run out the Umbrella Academy dinner room, abandoning his family, and everyone knew where that got him. And then, with the last big adventure that Lila convinced him to go on, he’d royally screwed himself, and her, and that was not at all something he counted as a check mark in his plus column of ‘fun times.’ 

That one was… 

There were no words for that, other than to say, he’d really fallen off the deep end by thinking that was a viable option to end his loneliness.

The usual sickness pooling in his gut as he pushed those memories down as far as he could, Five’s shoulder rapidly jerked, the evidence of his tick impossible to hide. 

“I hate you for this,” he grumbled at Klaus, but he didn’t really mean it. He really hated himself.

Thankfully that, like usual, Klaus didn’t seem to notice how miserable he was, Five followed his line of sight, taking in a very attractive female passenger that was getting out of the car ahead of him.

You were dressed in a 1950’s style, polka dot mini dress, the top a tight corset that accentuated your breasts in a way that wasn’t at all hard on the eyes. Your hair was done up in old-fashioned victory style curls, making you the quintessential damsel in distress in all the old black and white horror movies. All you needed to do to complete the look was put your hands to your face and scream in terror as the hungry zombies surrounded you.

Looking confused and a lot like you might be about to freak out like that, Five watched you come around to the trunk, escorted by a guy who was dressed in what he could only figure had to be a Swamp Thing costume.

Swamp guy popped the trunk open.

Your eyes met Five’s for a fraction of a second. Next to him, Klaus was waving at you with a big goofy grin, and the next thing you knew, you were being flipped up, ass over tea kettle, your heels dangling out of the back-end of the car as your green friend hopped inside with you, shutting the hatch.

What was going on? And why did that hot guy who was glaring at you from the driver seat of that Corvette look exactly like the fictional character Five Hargreeves from the Umbrella Academy!!! And was that Klaus?

These were your thoughts, those and- 

“Get your foot out of my face,” you yelled at your friend as the car lurched forward, to which he only laughed even more because he was clearly high and smelled like it too.

“What the hell is going on?” you shouted, assuming you had to be high out of your mind too, even though you didn’t remember smoking anything.

“Shush-sshhhhh! You’re gonna get us busted,” your buddy sputtered, still giggling as your other friends talked to the cashier, buying their tickets. As the car moved forward, your trunk mate said, “It wouldn’t be a night going to the drive-in unless someone sneaks in, duh...”

“What are you twelve?” you shot back, to which you got nothing but more wafts of sweaty weed scented swamp monster costume and more foot in your face.

How in the hell did you get here, in a trunk of all places?

The last thing you remembered, you were sitting on your couch, watching TV, lounging in your grungy old pajamas that weren’t fit for going to Walmart. You definitely weren’t a kid anymore, and Five and Klaus weren’t real people, but like the rest of this, here you were, and you were sure it was them.

After bumping along in the pitch dark, the car came to a stop, the hood popping open. Crawling out, you took a deep breath, looking all around you. The lot was filled up with loads of vehicles, music playing loudly from many of them. The party had clearly begun, only you hadn’t realized you were going to it until just now.

Hazy rays from the last light of day streamed through the open field. You were near the back of the action, farthest from the big white screen looming over the field.

“Brains…yummy!”

Whirling around, a guy with a gruesome bite mark in his head came running past, chasing a trampy looking vampire with huge boobs spilling out of her Eliva costume.

Coming to a stop, he backpedaled, heading your way. The zombie’s whiteout contacts creepily moved, taking you in from head to toe. His lips pulled to the side as he nodded his approval. “Now that is the kind of sugar I could really sink my teeth into.” 

“I don’t think so buddy,” you said, stepping out of his reach as you continued searching for that blue sports car and its mysterious occupants.

You didn’t have to look far, because with nowhere else to park, the Five look-alike you’d spotted at the gate had already driven past, parking in the last row, right behind you.

Fascinated, you watched the two fictional superheroes having what looked like a very characteristic, Hargreeves style argument. You weren’t sure who was winning, but slamming the door, the young man in a familiar three-piece suit got out, stormed off, hands jammed in his pockets, looking just like the grumpy old man child from your favorite show. 

His dark hair hung in his eyes, his shoulders hunched in their usual way, his posture appeared to be one of deep thought and frustration as he approached the concessions.

This was all so weird.

Already horsing around, your friends paid no attention when you wandered into the crowd filled with the walking dead and other monsters that were busy acting all sorts of stupid.

Approaching your favorite fictional teleporter as he stood in line, you said nothing. You were sure this was some kind of joke, because he looked like a perfect match to the season four version of Five Hargreeves, scruffy emo hairdo and all, yet no one else around you seemed to realize they are standing next to someone significant. 

He rocked back on the heels of his shiny dress shoes, his eyes scanning the little black letters on the menu board.

“Can I help you,” he asked, apparently aware you were drooling over him even though he hadn’t even turned your way.

Your face instantly flushed, and then it got even hotter when he did face you, raising his eyebrows, waiting for an answer. 

“Ah….”

“Or maybe I should arrest you and your Swamp Thing sidekick back there?” he tartly offered. 

“What! Why? For what?” you stammered, getting more flustered the longer he tried to incinerate you with his pale green eyes.

“You didn’t pay to get in,” he smugly informed you, like you didn’t already know that. 

Taking it one further, he flipped open his suit coat, flashing you his hoity-toity CIA badge.

Wow, he was being an arrogant ass wipe, just like you would have expected him to be. 

Okay…. 

Two can play this game. You did have a bone to pick with him.

“Not paying to get into the drive-in movies is all a part of being young and dumb,” you countered, “but I suppose old shitheads parading around as tight assed, kid sized CIA agents, will never know what it means to let loose like that, and you don’t really want to anyway, otherwise you would have started really living your life before all hell broke loose with that Bennifer blob thing.”

Five’s jaw fish gaped, but you weren’t done with him. 

“Maybe if you’d had done something fun before all that, then you wouldn’t have given up on life and then got stuck with your sister-in-law, playing lovey-dovey possessive strawberry grower with her.” Holding your ground, you put your hands on your hips while shaking your head at him. “You’d been through way worse and that shit show and not given up, and that was not a win for anyone.”

Now your face wasn’t the only one getting red. “How did you-” You rolled your eyes because he was too cute. 

Suddenly, not being cute, before you could order your Milk Duds and buttered popcorn, Five latched onto your arm, spinning you around.

“Hey! Let go!” you snapped as he dragged you out of the musty cinder block concession building.

Insects buzzing as they swarmed the neon Sugar Shack sign above your heads, Five shoved you up against the side of the building, pinning you with his glare and his hands fingers rudely digging into your upper arms.

“How did you know about that?” he snarled. “Nobody knows about that! I reversed it and I nearly died doing it!”

“Well…” You glanced around. “I guess you did, and obviously found a way to save the world, but that Frankenstein guy that’s coming this way looks like he’s going to use his inhuman strength to break your face if you don’t back off, so if you want to keep living, I suggest you let go like I said.”

It dawned on him that he was drawing unwanted attention, so Five stepped back, raking his hand through his hair, making himself look even more bat shit crazy.

He was losing it, but fuck him, so were you.

You opened our mouth to answer the question of why you knew all this about him, but Five didn’t let you get it out.

“Are you with The Commission?” he growled. 

His eyes darted around, stopping on a group of werewolves walking by. He looked terrified, like they were going to suddenly pull a gun on him, or even worse, pull a gigantic black briefcase out from behind their backs, then chuck him into a portal destined for a place where he’d be forced into another round of murderous servitude. 

Like how you felt every time while watching Five struggling on the show, no matter how demented he was acting, all you wanted to do was lift him right out of there and save him from all of it.

“No. I am not with The Commission,” you replied, calmly as possible. “I am just a normal girl who last I knew was living in the normal real world. Now, I am not so sure what is going on.” 

You held up your hands in a placating gesture, like you were trying to calm a ferocious man beast, which wasn’t too far off, except Five looked more like a miniature wolf of Wall Street who was about to bite your head off.

“See… No guns or anything else nefarious here,” you joked.

Five looked dumbstruck, so twirling around, you pulled at the billowing folds of your bouncy skirt, showing him that you didn’t even have any pockets in your old-timey, Dolores-ish, girly-girl get-up. 

He didn’t look any less worried, and all of a sudden, for some reason, the thought of flashing him seemed like a brilliant idea.

You weren’t hiding anything under your skirt that was out to get him so…

Huh…. 

Maybe you should just slap him silly to set him straight? That sounded pretty great too.

Again, you had to wonder if you’d been drugged because this was all on par with a very Wizard of Oz kind of acid trip, your lack of undergarments included.

The warm air wafting up your skirt providing no clarity as it tickled your lady parts, holding up your arm, you pinched yourself.

“That hurt,” you noted, and that observation only made Five look even more like he was going to go nuts on you.

You scrunched your lips to the side, tapping your chin. 

If Five reversed all the stuff from season 4, and then saved the world, and he clearly didn’t die… 

“Hmmm,” you hummed. 

There was so much potential here, and as crazy as it was, with each minute that passed, the idea of running with this fantasy you were having sounded better and better.

You smiled and said, “I know all that stuff about you because I know all about you, Five, I’m the daddy here Hargreeves. I know about your family, your powers, and Dolores…” 

Your grin grew as you thought about Five feeling up the air during his romantic reunion with his mannequin turned real in season 3. 

“Is this handsome young man bothering you, miss?” Klaus questioned, his voice sing-songy as he came around the corner with several of your friends. Stopping next to his brother, he raised a brow at you. “If Five is being a pest, I am happy to make him go sit in the car. He needs a timeout from time to time or the little guy gets all nippy. It’s sort of his thing, especially when he hasn’t had his nap.”

“Fuck off, Klaus,” Five hissed, still standing between you and them, not letting you get away.

“No really,” Klaus laughed, his eyes moving from his brother to you. “It’s so good to see you again. It’s been too long, and look, you finally get to meet my favorite little brother. I told you he’d be all over you the second he laid eyes on you.” 

Klaus formally introduced you, but Five did not accept your extended hand.

“You know each other?” he questioned, looking at Klaus, then to you with narrowed eyes.

“Oh, yeah. We go way back.” Klaus shrugged like this was common knowledge, which it wasn’t, not to you anyway.

Pulling you by your arm, his face coming so close to yours that you could feel the warmth of his breath flooding down your neck, Five quietly said, “He told you about me.”

It wasn’t really a question, and with the bizarre situation unfolding, you felt it best to let him think that.

“You guys want anything?” Klaus questioned, already heading around the building to join the line that was now about a mile long.

“I- I- Sure,” you answered, with Five already stomping off into the dark, leaving you not sure which one looked scarier or sadder out there lurking, him, or the rubbery looking guy dressed like the creature from the Black Lagoon. 

After about an hour into the first creature feature, you were sure of two things. 

One. Klaus was without a doubt the Klaus you had always loved on The Umbrella Academy. His pleather covered legs were kicked out in front of him as he sat next to you, the blanket under your butts keeping you dry from the dewy grass. He was hanging out, having a blast.

Two. Five was slumped in the driver seat of his car, with the driver’s side window rolled up and the leather rag top over his head, sitting there like he was trying to shut out the world. 

He was pretending to be transfixed by the plot unfolding high up on the flickering screen, but he was failing. He still looked like he was going to postal on everyone, and you were sure that being trapped at a drive-in with a bunch of people dressed like rotting corpses wasn’t helping.

Glancing back, each time you caught him looking at you, he’d averted his eyes, looking as vexed by Nosferatu’s ugly mug as he was by your face.

Five didn’t want people to know what had really happened, and you couldn’t blame him for that. You knew his secret and you’d called him out on it, so obviously that meant you were someone he wanted to make disappear.

You really, really didn’t want to end up running through the woods with an temporal assassin coming after you with a fire ax, but every time you tried to wave him over, he wasn’t having it.

You had to fix this, even if you were hallucinating this whole thing. You may have been mad at Five, and the entire season four plot line, but it wasn’t his fault that the writer’s and Steve Blackman were short sighted idiots.

You hopped up, heading his way, your heels not functioning on the soft ground, sunk in as you walked, making you look like a clumsy moron which was not the look you were going for.

The closer you got, the dumber you felt, and the more tense Five looked. 

Dropping your elbows on the threshold of the open passenger side window, to hide your embarrassment, you smiled your best flirty smile. “So… Other than yourself and other people, can you blink things from one location to another, like this car?” you questioned. “I think I heard about this super cool stapler thing you did once, but I didn’t really understand how you did that. Will you show me?” 

Five merely looked at you, stone faced, jaw hard, not taking the bait.

“I am going with you not being able to blink things that big,” you answered for him. “Otherwise, you would have been long gone by now.”

He still refused to speak to you. 

“This really is a nice car. I wouldn’t abandon it either,” you furthered while handing him a giant-sized Fudge Nutter. 

After a few seconds, he took it. His fingers twiddled the unopened candy bar, his was still suspicion plain as day in his stormy eyes, only not quite as tempestuous as it was before. “I never told Klaus about the subway…and he shouldn’t remember what happened with any of that anyway because I reversed the timeline and changed all this bullshit. It never happened.”

You opened the door and sat down next to him.

“I did not say you could join me,” he huffed, getting even more adorably pissed.

“Relax. Klaus doesn’t remember telling me that stuff because he was drunk when he told me about it. And the reason you don’t remember telling him about that mess is because you were drunk when you told him,” you lied.

Five sucked in his lower lip, clearly thinking about that, and the fact that it was highly plausible he’d drunkenly spilled his guts since he wasn’t the best at holding his liquor.

“So…” you continued. “Consider it a closed loop of things nobody wants to think or talk about, including me. I just unleashed on you out there about it because you were being such an asshole. Believe it or not, I still think you are amazing.”

Five looked down at his hands, a small smile tugging his mouth to the side. “I was just moving through life, going through the motions that normal people are supposed to do. I had a chance to start fresh and I blew. You were right about that, and me being an asshole.”

Not sure what to say back to that, a silence resumed, other than the screeches of the vampires’ victims quietly filling his classic car’s small speakers.

Five cleared his throat as he looked over at you again. “Why are you here? Aside from what you said about thinking I am amazing, I mean.”

He grinned, his dimple coming out to render you as speechless.

The longer Five had to wait for you to answer, the cockier he looked, and the more you wanted to jump his bones, or maybe smack him. At that point, you still weren’t sure which would better.

“I don’t belong here. I think you can see that, but…”  You stopped. There was no way you could tell him that his world was based on a comic book because at this point you had no fucking clue if that was true or not. “But…I am here whether it makes sense or not, and you know what?”

“What?”

“I think it’s for a reason, and that’s because I wanted to be here with you.”

“Why?” he pushed.

“Because. It makes me happy to see you finally get the car that you always wanted. I want to see you have good things in your life, Five.”

He said nothing.

“Are you happy?” you questioned.

He gave you a blank look. “Sure. I am happy when you look at happiness relative to the years of me sleeping on the ground, eating bugs, constantly fighting for my life and everyone else's, everyday living in a nightmare.”

His chin dropped as he shook his head.

“My life is, and I fear always will be, pretty fucked up,” he said, followed by a self-depreciating laugh. 

You moved over just a little closer, your hand gingerly touching his, and to your surprise, Five took it, his fingers tangling with yours in a way that showed how desperate he was.

You didn't say a word, but you did scooch closer, and immediately Five opened himself to your advance, pulling you against him in an embrace that you were not at all expecting. 

He breathed in the smell of your hair, then pulled back again. His face melting into a soft smile, but then just as fast, his face contorted, his brows furrowing as he shut his eyes as if in pain.

“I am sick of all the death and the killing and the pain. I don’t want to be a part of that, I never did. I didn’t want any of this to happen.” 

His fingers balled up in his palm, but you refused to let go of the hand.

“Five, look at me.”

Opening his eyes, he whispered, “I did so much of this to myself and to so many others. All I do is hurt people.”

“That is not true. You are not a bad person. You did what you had to, and you've never been wrong for feeling the way you have about any of it. Don’t let yourself think any differently. That’s how you got into this mess. You may have reached for love in the wrong place, and that got burned, but this isn’t over. The Five Hargreeves I know never gives up.”

“I don’t know how to move on.”

You brought his hand to your mouth, running your lips across his knuckles, then flipping it over, you kissed the inside of his wrist, lingering where his umbrella tattoo had been. 

His voice cracked. “I can’t forget. I wish I could, but I can’t.”

“Maybe not, but you can start over, and replace all the bad with something good,” you assured, your words warm against his skin, each pass of your lips, accepting all of him, the good and the bad.

He looked so broken, but maybe this was just what he needed. 

Shifting in your seat, you pressed your mouth to his, and it was as if in that one gentle brush of your lips on his, time stood still.

You could have stayed like that next to Five forever, just softly kissing him, playing with the fluffy ends of his hair, letting him take all the time he needed to come out of the hate filled place he was in, but after a while, he began to pull his arm out from behind you, but it was only so he could shift your body over onto his lap. 

It was as if he held some kind of otherworldly power over you. Before you knew it, your legs were straddling him, your back against his steering wheel.

Looking into his eyes when he breathlessly broke your kiss, there was no way you could deny him, especially with that crease of concern finding its way back, marking his face with worry. Wanting to erase it and all the things haunting him, you started massaging the deep knots of tension out of his shoulders.

You pressed a kiss to his slightly parted lips even before he could breathe his first sigh of relief. Tongue swirling around with his, your hands moved down his chest, lightly exploring the dips and curves hiding under all his layers of clothing. 

Feeling him tensing again, you brought your hand up to his cheek. Surprising you again, Five submissively tipped his face into your palm, closing his eyes, surrendering as you delicately ran your lips across his troubled brow. 

“Just let it all go, Five,” you soothed. “It’s time to be young and stupid for once.”

He started laughing. His chest lifted and fell with a few shaky breaths, then he slowly sighed. Silently appreciating what you were doing, he rolled his head back into his seat.

Looking very relaxed, he cracked open one eye. He smiled that unbelievably handsome smile. Unable to help it, you traced a line along the narrow bridge of his nose, pulling your finger away just as he tried to take a bite out of it.

“Klaus was right.” Looking like he was about to devour you, Five smirked. “I do get nippy when I don’t get my nap. Sorry.”

Those compassionate eyes that could convey so much sorrow looked so full of hope as his gaze flicked down so he could check out how high your skirt had ridden up on your thighs.

Wanting to get him really riled up, you brought your hands back to his chest, unbuttoning first his vest, and then dress shirt. Once you had them opened, and his tie flung back over his head, you moved your palms over his hot skin, heading down, gingerly teasing the bunched-up fabric covering his crotch.

Five let out a long, slow breath, his eyelids slowly drooping closed as he smiled.

“I guess daddy likes that,” you taunted, touching him softly, your hand running back and forth.

He started laughing “You did not just say that while playing with my dick?”

“Yes. Yes, I did,” you laughed back, “and you know you liked it.”

Getting more into it, Five started rutted himself upwards.

He looked so beautiful getting hard in your hand, his words throaty and desperate. “Please don’t stop.”

With a quick glance, you confirmed the cars parked next to you were still empty.

You lowered yourself as much as you could, pressing kisses to his neck, then his shoulder as your hand kept at it, bringing him to his full potential. 

The hand Five originally had held against the small of your back started sliding up, his fingers digging at the clasps holding up your top. He couldn't figure it out, and really, it was probably better that he didn’t. Giving up, he captured your lips again and his kisses that started painfully sweet, quickly intensified as he drifted his hands down, latching them on your ass. His long, strong fingers cupped you, pulling your groin up against the erection trying to rip through his pants.

Pulling your lower lip between his, Five moaned like you were killing him, then he let go. “I think I just died and went to heaven because you aren’t wearing any panties,” he humorously declared.

That got you laughing again, and him covering your neck with nuzzled kisses. Locking a hand in your hair, he started assertively thrusting himself between your legs.

It wasn’t fair to let him do all the work, so you responded by eagerly working your hips, round and round, giving him the lap dance he was evidently craving.

“I am so lucky you don’t care how fucked up I am,” he groaned.

He bent in placing a path of kisses along your jaw while giving your hair another firm tug that had your head automatically dropping back.

Having full access to the side of your neck, Five took advantage, tearing into you like the vampire on screen, only with bites meant to mark you, not maim you.

All you could do was moan as he went wild, but in a brief moment where your brain kicked back on, you managed to reach down, reclining the seat. Then you pushed Five down, doing some of your own marking when your fingernails slid across his chest, leaving red lines across his pale skin.

Having fallen back against the newly adjusted seat, Five’s eyes closed, and his head rolled to the side. He rocked his hips faster, his hands forcing your body to move with his. “I am going to destroy you,” he panted.

When your tongue glided across his pecks, stopping to make a quick flick to one of his little nubs of flesh, he let out a hissing sound, his body involuntarily arching off his seat as his eyes flew open.

Not at all done fucking with him, you slid down, your butt ramming his steering wheel as you hand moved to his pants, unzipping him.

Five’s cock twitched as your fingers wrapped around its girth. When the weakest sound crept out of his throat, you get even wetter.

He exhaled with what looked like a painstaking effort as you started stroking him. “Fuck, yes.” He moved his hand over yours, tightening it over your fingers. 

There wasn’t a hint of modesty in Five’s exquisitely lustful expression as he writhed under you, and that only made him, and you helping him jerk off all the hotter.

He moved your hand up and down in sweeping motions, but not long after he started doing it, his fingers began crushing yours, urging you to grasp him much firmer than you would have without his assistance. 

The way he was going at it, it was like he wanted it to hurt. He moved your hands in sharp, vicious jerks.

He bit back an angry verbalization of unintelligible profanity, his shaft sliding faster as precum seeped out of him, spreading along his length. 

You thought he was looking for a quick release, but then, he stilled your hand. His hand trembled against yours as he peered up at you. “You really want this? With Me?”

“Yes.” You’d never been so sure of anything in your life.

His breathing changed, slowing down again, but only until you dared to tease the swollen head of his cock with your thumb, swirling it around and around. To that, Five let out a breathless chuckle, arching his back as he bucked his hips. 

He only let you get away with that teasing for about two seconds before he brought his hands under your bottom, urging you to rub your slippery heat against his hard length, helping you both get off.

“Oh, fuck this feels so good,” he groaned as he moved you back, urging you to raise up on your knees so he could move his hand between your legs.

Flipping your skirt out of the way, his fingers played along the invisible line where your underwear should have been, but he stopped there. “Can I?” he asked.

Nodding your consent, you said, “Five, you can do me any way you want.”

Hearing that, something in him seemed to come undone.

He started determinedly rubbing your folds, mesmerized by the glistening of your desire as it coated his fingers. He was enjoying doing that to you so much, more precum seeped from him onto his torso. Slowly and gently, he used his thumb in a circular motion, stimulating your clit while he carefully eased his index finger inside you.

“God damn, you are so tight,” he panted.

With the sexiest look of distress on his face, Five reached into his pants pocket, fishing out first his wallet, then a condom. He feverishly ripped open the small square package with his bared teeth while pulling his fingers from inside you at the same time so he could grip his cock in hand and roll the rubber down over his shaft. 

Even doing that had him cursing and the look of madness in his eyes had you quivering in anticipation.

“You need to lead this,” he warned.

He lined himself up and you began to lower your body over him, but as his swollen glans pushed up into you, your body reactively tightened against him, your own excitement working to deny itself. The size and fit issue you were having, and the look on your face about it, earned another breathy hiss from him.

Taking his hands off you completely, Five grasped at his seat, trying his best to remain still and let you take him at your pace.

Balancing yourself with your palm pressed against the window, you resolutely held his cock in your other hand, lowering yourself onto him again. 

Again, your body fought it. Your teeth studded into your bottom lip. With small movements, your hand noisily squeaking down the steamy glass, you were eventually able to sink all the way down, and the success of that was met with your both letting out obscene sounds of relief.

Your eyes crashed shut from the overwhelming sensation of taking in all of him. And it only got better when his hands claimed your breasts and he simultaneously dug his heels into the floor and lifted his hips.

You cried out as Five bottomed out. Pleasure and pain ripped through you, your entire body tightening around him.

You clutched his shoulders, your fingernails clawing into his tensed bands of muscle.

“Feels so-fffuck. Thank you for ffuck,” Five brainlessly panted.

You cried out again when, undaunted by your crushed expression or his inability to speak, he grasped your hips and coaxed you to move up and down, meeting you halfway. His needy thrusts were coming at you vigorously, the strength behind them like it was out of his control.

Your delirious cries as Five fucked himself up into you were beyond your ability to contain. You were unable to do anything other than paw at him as his feet slipped and dug against his floor, desperately searching for more leverage to grind his cock deeper than it already was.

Just when you were sort of getting used to this, Five changed pace and began rolling his hips as best he could while his butt was squashed down in the crook of his seat. The rhythm suited him, his body looking so fucking hot underneath you that only further blew your mind.

His rock-hard dick was stretching you to the point you couldn’t see straight. You were so wet from feeling every inch of him prodding and pulling at your insides, your whimpers were quickly becoming broken moans.

Holding you from going down on him all the way, the sensation of his delicious tip shallowly moving in and out just right, he smiled deviously. “You are mine from here on out. No matter what. Tell me you want that as much as I do.”

“I want this,” you repeated, bouncing on his dick to pull yourself over the edge.

Your world was suddenly getting very small. There was nothing but that sweet tension of him filling in, that delicious coil inside you unraveling, and the simple pleasure of him giving himself to you.

When you least expected it, that was when Five gave your ass a stinging slap, then he moved his hand back into play, circling the tips of his fingers against your clit, extra hard.

“Hey, Five?” Klaus said as he came up to the passenger side of the car. 

“Get out of here!” Five yelled.

“Whoospsie. Sorry, guys.” Laughing, Klaus did an about face, but you could still here him talking. “Nothing to see here people, just move along…yeah, the view is much better over there, and the weed is too.”

“Shhhh- Shhh-it,” you sputtered.

You were on fire, your thighs burning. Everything was coming to a head. Fighting to keep your eyes open, you started to shudder. Five started thrusting deeply again, forcing the breath out of you as his feet kicked down on the floor and his knees repeatedly slammed up against the steering wheel.

Pieces of his gorgeously wild hair fell into his eyes as he lay there with a fucked out smile, his forehead a sheen of shimmery sweat. “Come on, baby, cum on my cock,” he encouraged, giving you the ride of your life.

Unable to stay upright, your body toppled over the edge and tumbled down against him, your forehead falling against his shoulder. “Fivvvv- gah..ah, ah-” Orgasm slamming into you, you couldn’t move your hips anymore, let alone talk, but that didn’t stop Five.

Puffing air through clenched teeth, he kept pumping his cock up into you, so you could get the benefit of each and every wave of your shattering release.

“Mmmmfff, Fiiii-vvve, fffuc—uck,” you cried as his fingers dug into your waist, forcing you up and down, even after you’d gone limp as a rag doll flopped on top of him.

“I need to move,” he suddenly gasped.

You didn’t get it. He was moving.

Before you could associate the feeling of static building with his power coming to life, the humid air around you lit up the darkened car and everything around it. There was a sizzling, then a sharp loud crack, like the sound of him slapping your ass. A second later, only after Five did actually slap your ass again, carrying you in his arms, he set you down, sitting your bottom on the trunk of his car.

Your high heels fell off, hitting the ground next to his feet. Legs dangling around his hips, he nestled deep between your legs, his shirt wide open and his pants slipping down to his knees. 

In a dazed state of post orgasmic bliss, his dick still in you, your was head spinning.

There were woods on both sides of you, and you appeared to be parked in the middle of a road. There were the faintest sounds of people in the distance. You could be near the drive-in still, but then again, maybe not.

“Where are we,” you asked, frantically looking all around. It was so dark, you could hardly see anything.

“Don’t worry, you're safe,” Five replied in a way of explanation while smiling so boyishly innocently. “And to answer your question about me blinking larger things than myself. Size wise, my dick is pretty awesome, and it’s no simple task lugging it around through time and space, but you wanted to see what I could really do, so I decided to go full delivery boy for you. Took me over 69 years, but I have it all figured out now.” 

“Oh, my God, I think I love you,” you laughed.

“I think I could love you too,” Five concurred, bending in, his next words coming out with each gentle thrust that matched the cadence in-between his equally soft kisses. “Everyday. Just. Like. This.”

His hands moved up your back, the tickle of his fingers making you shiver. The bottoms of your bare feet pressing down on the car’s bumper, his mouth found its way to your collar bone where he started methodically moving his lip along the crest of it, licking and nipping as he undid the clasps on your shirt, this time getting it on his first try.

The cotton bodice slipped off your arms and he stopped everything so he could admire you. “So beautiful,” he said, then forcefully slid your bottom across the trunk until he was buried full deep, pressing you to his chest.

Clinging to his shoulders, you whimpered.

“Laydown,” Five breathed. “I want to see all of you.”

With the firm direction of his hands pressing you down, you did as he wanted, easing back against the trunk.

Taking you under the knees, flipping your skirt up and your legs over his arms, Five pulled your hips out away from the car, giving himself more command over your body. 

Almost right way, his eyes rolled back in his head as began to fuck you, pulling himself all the way out before slamming back in. “Oh, fuck yeah,” he groaned, fighting to see straight.

His feet dug into the gravel under his shoes, his hands yanking your ass towards him as he drove himself faster, his pelvis smacking into you with the sound of hot and sweaty flesh on flesh. The faster he snapped his hips, the more you felt like you were falling even though you weren't. Your hands scrambled for purchase, looking for anything to hold onto on the slippery trunk, but all you found as you grasped was slick blue paint. 

“I fucking love fucking you,” Five grunted, fucking you faster and faster.

Again, your body was on the verge of pain and pleasure from how aggressively he was going at it, but as he lost himself, the rope inside you slipped out of your hold, the freefall pushing you to climax again. 

You slipped forward, sure the rest of your body was going to slip off the trunk and hit the ground, but Five didn’t let up.

“Five! My-yyah-hahh, Fiv-ffff-help-ffffuck!” 

His hips rapidly thwacked, his breathy grunts coming faster.

“I-I’ve got you,” he sputtered, his body fighting to keep moving, his eyes fighting to stay open.

He was shaking in a violent stream of tremors, and even with the condom on, you could feel his release throbbing spurts of his seed deep inside you. 

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuccck!” he gasped as his hips moved. His chest heaved with every intake of breath, pained sounds clawing out of him when he exhaled. 

His movements started to lack any pattern, and a profound and satisfied form of relaxation washed over you as he slowed. He dreamily gazed down at you like he was going to pass out.

Looking like he had hardly the energy to do it, balancing your one leg hooked around his arm, Five took himself in hand, gently as possible pulling out of you. 

“Oh my God,” you gasped, as your body spasmed a few more times.

Moving along, Five flung off the heavy rubber he’d filled, tossing it in the ditch, then he readjusted your boneless body, pulling you up next to him so he could kiss you, over and over, whispering unbelievably sweet words and not all of them in English.

With a fraction of space between your lips, he said your name. “...., Thanks to you, I think I finally learned my lesson. It’s time to start living life on my own terms.”

His lips curled in a very curious way that immediately had you wondering what he could be up to now. 

Lifting you, he shuffled back at step, trying not to trip on his pants. Reaching out, you heard the sound of his trunk popping open, then he dumped you inside. 

Stunned, you looked up at him with wide eyes. “Wha-”

“Ah-Ah-Ah, sweetheart,” he menacingly sang while twirling the shoulder strap of your top around his finger. “I’m not letting you get away. You're mine now, remember.”

The darkness started closing in around you. “Five!” you screeched.

“I'm just kidding.” He chuckled at you. “They call me a psycho for good reason, but I am not the put you in my trunk kind of psycho,” he teased, while pulling you back to him. Just as he was about to kiss you, you started to fall.

Your ass hit the floor in front of your couch.

Rapidly blinking, your hair tangled in front of your face, you looked over at your TV. 

H. J. Well’s ‘The invisible Man’ was playing. The doctor who went mad with power, turned villain on a murder spree, was standing there in his black suit with his silly white bandages wrapped around his face. Even though you couldn’t see them, you could sense his empty eyes staring back at the blonde beauty next to him. All he longed for was to go back to before he’d ruined everything. All he wanted was to be loved.

Your chest started shaking with your laughter and your eyes misted over.

Five was gone. 

It was all a dream, a very real and very wet dream based on the feel of your underwear.

Five was never there, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t feel him. He was real in your mind, and just like he’d said, no matter what, he was yours. His story was whatever you wanted it to be, and nobody, not even a botched season finale would make you stop loving him.

With you, he could live on forever.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~Thank you for all the nice requests, guys. I can't do them all, but I do my best with the ones I take on. I hope you liked this one and the idea in it can help heal your own s4 broken hearts. I know that it helps me to rewrite Five's story, time and time again.

And yes. I totally have snuck into a drive-in in the trunk of a car with my friend's foot in my face, and I have done all sorts of inappropriate things in cars while I was supposed to be watching the big screen. Being young and dumb is wonderful, and everyone needs at least a few adventures that don't end with the world ceasing to exist. Just don't get caught. 😜

Cheers lovelies. ❤️ Till next time.

Link to view all my Tumblr story and art posts

Link to my Five centric master list

Link to visit me direct on A03

[afreakingdork]

Writing Request - Reader x Josh (Until Dawn) Body Shots🫗

Y'all thought I only did rottmnt? Nah, and @mermmarie tapped me for some reader x Josh Washington body shot goodness! We're in the last day, people! I might not get too man more of these done but encourage your friends to vote!

From now until the poll closes, if you can prove to me that you voted Hassan/Mikey in this poll then I will do any short story writing request like the one below or draw you any doodle of your choosing!

ᴰᶦˢᶜˡᵃᶦᵐᵉʳ: ᴵ ᵃᵐ ⁿᵒᵗ ᶦⁿ ᵃⁿʸʷᵃʸ ᵃˢˢᵒᶜᶦᵃᵗᵉᵈ ᵒʳ ᵉⁿᵈᵒʳˢᵉᵈ ᵇʸ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜᵒᵐᵖᵉᵗᶦᵗᶦᵒⁿ ᵒʳ ᶦᵗˢ ᶜᵒⁿᵗᵉˢᵗᵃⁿᵗˢ.

We got a little mature content down below, but not explicit! Enjoy~

The party was in full swing. The house was bursting at the seams with people and every step had to be taken by the side. You squirmed past others, not bothering with apologies and only trying to find a sliver of enjoyment in a sea of decadence. The Washington's had always been known for their ragers, but hearing tale and seeing them in person was something else.

You needed a drink.

You were trying your best to get one, but you kept getting boxed out. Between the multi-room mansion and the throngs of people, you were just about done with getting shoved. A crack opened up between two people making out and you made a dash for it. They stumbled for inebriation and made waves which resulted in a parted sea. It was a clean trip to an embarrassingly large kitchen and a drink selection that would make a bar jealous.

You held your cup close and the liquid went down sweet with the mixture with a satisfying burn on the back end. It was perfect in knowing exactly how much intake you were getting and you mingled as your body loosened. A song you liked came on and you swayed with its motion. The thump settled into your brain and its bass took your body.

It helped you slip into a satisfied trance and forget that your friends had dipped last minute. In any other scenario you might not have gone alone, but you had spent all that time getting ready. Fuck it, you thought, you looked too good to waste it on another night at home so you'd gone out.

You would be careful enough, you long decided. Your drink was never out of sight and if it did, they had more than enough liquor for you to pour another. You had nothing on you to pinch beside your phone and that was safely tucked away in a place that you would know in an instant if anyone was copping a feel.

Such a thing was happening now as someone ground against your ass in rhythm and you lolled your head back in time to see who it was. A mediocre man was a little too bold behind you, but you supposed that was to be expected. It was always those guys who had just enough to their facial structure that sloppily thought they could reach above their standards.

This was the main fare of the party, the average masses. You danced with him before you felt his hand ghost over your arm. It felt a little more leading and you thought he might grab your and to finally face you, but instead he shot away. The warning signs went off in your mind and you clearly saw your cup blocking the way. With a dreary glance you knew that meant it was time to dump it and left whoever behind to go refresh your beverage.

Someone screamed out something about a chance of hail and there was a shattering. You looked up where you were pouring a bottle and could sort of see out of a kitchen window through overly floral curtains. Outside some boys had proudly torn their shirts off and were just as busy peacocking as they slammed back shots. It was entertaining enough and you sipped as you headed out there.

You watched on with some amusement as a violent game had been concocted. You never did figure out whatever rules they had set, but the clear goal was drinking and then hucking the small glass receptacles as hard as possible at some gaudy sculpture. It was a movie set piece, you vaguely knew, from the Washington's dad, that had taken root in the garden with a few other ugly pieces.

"Where's Josh!? He's got the arm! He could hit peak, I know it!"

"Yeah, man!"

"Where's our Party Poobah?!"

"What the fuck!?"

There was good natured ribbing and you concealed your mouth as you turned away from the games.

Josh.

It wasn't like you expected to see the man of the hour. He was legendary for hosting these parties, but he was just that. He was there for the purpose of getting lost in himself. The action was where he was and everything around that was a merry hurricane. He was the epicenter and since he attracted only level five events, he was an anomaly.

You wouldn't just be lucky to see him, it would be some kind of miracle.

It was about on par as getting into a VIP section. Skinny girls with pale skin were guaranteed access and that alone bored you. Men's picks for stereotypical hot chicks as about on par with the audacity of the large swathe of average guys. It was all an exhausting back and forth game of mediocrity that you would have no part of.

"Move aside! We're on a mission!"

That was Josh.

With your arm crossed to more comfortably hold your cup, your head rose high.

Speak of the devil and he doth appear, you amused yourself as you tried to place which direction he was. The music just swallowed up noise enough that it happened to throw voices. It filled in space you might have hoped to delineate, but said man had the power to conjure storms.

"This is the party police!" Josh came in with sharp eyes and a face splitting grin. "Prepare to be strip searched!!"

He was flanked by lackeys that weren't Chris, but you doubted the other man was far behind. The others weren't so easy to manipulate into Josh's little schemes and you watched as he, the boss among, them signaled them to fan out in a military manner.

They took on the role of dogs, something you had a feeling Josh had told them to do beforehand, and you watched them howl. They then fanned out, sniffing up skirts and startling men with a sharp gab to their asses. All manner of reaction was had, but when a man on all fours snuffed his way up to you, you looked down at him with enough disdain that he moved on with his tale between his legs.

"Idiots." You heard Josh say in a voice that almost seemed like he hadn't meant it.

You looked up and found him staring squarely at you.

Your gaze grew dull as he must have meant that insult for you.

There was a flash of attention in his eye before he surged forward.

"They say you can't teach old dogs, but I think that's true of all animals!"

You almost looked behind you because if he was talking to you, you weren't sure what he meant.

"Humans too." He came squarely up to you. "Don't mind them, beautiful. I've been running around looking for you all night."

"Me?" You asked him with a tip of your cup.

"Oh yeah!" He grinned with something that had a malevolently edge.

Confused signals failed to spark in your mind as he circled you.

"I mean..." He was behind you. "... look..." He came around your side with a slink. "... you..."

It oozed palpable desire and your skin lit even though he hadn't touched you.

"Gorgeous. Supple. I need you. I've been looking for candidates."

Your guard went up. "Candidates?"

"Yep." He swept up from your body and leveled with your eyes. "I'm scouting. Needed a ringer. Be mine?"

There was a boyish tilt to his last question that straddled the line between his devious nature and honest begging.

Your stomach bubbled and you shifted your hips to quell it.

Josh watched on like he picked up every micromovement. "I wouldn't just say this. I've searched the whole party. You're the one."

The whole party.

There were hundreds of girls here.

You?

It was flattering, but you still weren't sure what you were signing up for.

"And what exactly is this for...?" You lowered your cup.

Josh positively beamed. "You're the perfect glass."

Your mouth rounded out in confusion and you were about to ask when he caught your wrist.

Your hand shot up like a flag. "I've got mine!!! Let's do this!!"

"Finally!"

"Let's go!!"

"Hell yeah!!"

"Shots! Shots!"

Before you could do anything else, you were being ushered through the house. Not quite carried, your feet only hit the ground once every few steps as the mob steered you. The only constant was Josh's cuff around your wrist and besides that was the roving pack of men that puffed like slobbering sled dogs.

You were soon in a room with four massage tables set up and for the first time, you got enough ground to snap back on your tether.

"What the fuck!?"

"No, baby shh...!" Josh came around you with cautious hands. "Just look. Look!"

He moved so you could peer around him and watched as three men broke from the pack. They escorted girls of their choosing in different manners. One took one gentlemanly by the hand while another hoisted a squealing girl up in his arms. All their destinations were the tables though and they each laid down with smiles plastered to their faces. They men tended to them with hungry eyes and you watched as each of them rolled their shirts up to expose their stomachs.

"We're having a little competition." Josh said as he also surveyed the scene. "Drunkest wins."

"No, thanks." You responded instantly.

"Not you." He gave you only his profile. "Unless you wanna...?"

Your cup had disappeared in transit and you cocked a hip at him.

"Alright, alright!" He held his hands up defeated and addressed you. "I'll explain."

You cocked a brow.

"Body shots."

Both words popped off his lips and pounded in your ears.

"You see them..." He came around you like sharing a secret and used the arm over your shoulders to point at the others. "They're the idiots. They don't care about the competition. They don't even care about getting drink. They picked all these twigs and for what? You can't hold liquor in that! I'm here to party and I'm here to drink. Make sense?"

You meant to think with reason, but you saw one thing.

Josh's tongue.

Ever since he'd uttered the phrase, you had been watching it.

It rolled around his mouth.

It caressed every letter.

It tongued every nook.

Every cranny.

It was going to run over you.

The superseded reason and you held out for one last complaint. "Typical. You just want me for my body."

He recited your name so clearly that it almost seemed like he tapped some nefarious database.

You gaped at him.

"Partly true. That body is banging." His eyes dip purposefully before re-locking onto yours as he continues. "But believe me, I made sure you were invited. I'm sorry your friends couldn't make it."

It felt like there were a hundred things wrong with that statement, but the way he looked at you, like you were the only being in the world for him, shot straight to your core.

You belly button.

Where he was going to jam his tongue.

"Fine." You managed to make it seem just blasé enough.

"Excellent." He was all teeth and for a moment you feared you'd be devoured.

Instead he took your hand in a firm grip and lead you to the table. In his own fashion and unlike the others, he didn't try to force you. He stood beside and bowed for you to take the table like this was your competition to win. It made you feel all the more important as you hopped up.

He pressed along side you and his eyes never left yours as you wriggled to get comfortable on the firm table. You got as settled as you could before you went for your shirt. There was chatter all around and you thought Josh might ogle you, but he kept his gaze nothing but reassuring. He quirked a brow when you were settled and ready before he brought his head up to announce the rules.

There was a designated pourer who would come around so no one could cheat drinks. They alcohol would flow as necessary until someone tapped out or if the liquid ran out of bounds. That meant not getting slurped up before it leaked off someone's body and with that Chris walked through with a bottle held high in demonstration.

Cheers and bets were placed behind you, but Josh gave you his eyes again. "Just you and me, gorgeous."

You lowered your lashes at the all too obvious flirt and it only made him smile wider.

The competition commenced.

You couldn't really see the other tables, but you heard a loud sucking along with a girl giggling out of her mind. The next person went and the guy complained for both his girl to suck it in which earned him ire. He demanded Chris pour more, but the guy only approached you with his bottle tipped.

"Ready?"

"Always, Cochise."

Chris poured the shot into your belly button.

It pooled up and with a healthy glug and you tried not to shiver at how the room temperature drink chilled straight through your body. A little streaked through the folds in your stomach and Josh shot forward with his tongue extended. It scraped wet and warm over your skin before teasing around your center. He flicked his gaze up, making hard eye contact before his tongue retracted and his lips puckered. With the expertise of someone who had clearly done one too many hands free shots, he drank you dry.

Your stomach flipped, but he wasn't done. He circled his tongue as a moat around your belly button and licked inward for the sake of it. it spoke of what else he could do with the appendage and you arched a little off the table. He kissed down into your soft belly to ease you and you vaguely heard Chris come around again.

"That's one out!"

You blinked as you hadn't heard any dissent.

To your immediate right, the girl and guy there were fighting about how she hadn't told him she had an outie.

More booze was poured into you in your distraction and you squeaked at the chance it would be lost. Josh swept wide, drinking in your skin and catching both sides of leakage in an expert arch. Your lips crinkled a squiggled line and he lifted up with shining lips. "Doing alright there?"

"Fine. Totally fine." You hiccuped.

"Very fine." He lobbed back.

Your head flew back to the table and you heard him chuckle in a way that sounded like it was all around you.

"We're down to two!"

You didn't bother looking.

Josh had found your hand beside the table and squeezed it as he readied himself.

It was just a little mortifying, as if you needed to be soothed, but he refused to let go as Chris appeared once again.

"Bottom's up!" The glasses-clad man chuckled.

"To the top, my good man!" Josh cheered.

"You sure? The other's spilled that way" Chris glanced at his best friend.

"Oh, she can handle it." Josh looked at you.

You believed him.

Flat out, without question.

You were stupid and you liked it.

You readied your stomach in your best flex and Chris poured.

You felt yourself fill and the bare arch you were doing pushed your breasts further into the sides of your cups. The weight held heavy and parted so you had the best view for the moment your stomach overflowed and Josh dove in.

With unsightly slurps, his tongue darted fast and he sucked with all his might. He caught your skin up into his mouth in puckered moments that didn't linger because there was more booze to drink. It spilled a messy burn around your belly and he was apt to lick the plate clean even while it soaked his face.

A single drop escaped down a fold.

"Josh!" You gasped.

He was at the pinnacle of the cup and looked up at you under his euphoric lids.

The drip tickled your side before it disappeared onto the table.

"That's out!" Someone called.

An upset tore through the crowd.

Josh lazily finished his drink and you felt heat pulsing straight down your body.

When he finally came up, it wasn't to accept silver, he had only gold in his eyes.

The winner was celebrated, but Josh tucked closer into you. "You know... I feel like I've only gotten a taste..."

You held out for a single second before matching his darkened gaze. "Get ready to drink up then."

[ourhomealien]

Don't gatekeep feelings, please.

TLDR

I'm autistic and so I have a unique vocabulary, so bare with me please.

Hermitcraft to me is a community for all ages, that's what I expect of it. In the same way a child deserves and expects to be able to trust and learn from their parents without abuse or them being literal criminals. People are as bad as they want to be, and you can 100% grieve your expectations of them. Disappointment can hurt anyone. In the same way you invest your feelings into pets knowing they will die, and then grieving when they're gone, you can invest feelings and expectations into people you know about and that isn't childish or naive, it's human. Hermitcraft is in no way culpable for an individual's actions. The amount of distress caused by this VC's actions is widespread and not limited, in the same way an earthquake has aftershocks.

I'm genuinely grieving over iskall, The character and the community they built and the stims and autistic scripts I've built into myself because of them. I was shocked on Saturday, but at the same time, after reading that first line it didn't make sense to be any other hermit (I did not in any way predict this) at the time of reading nothing was confirmed so I felt that, innocent until proven guilty, was the way to go. My heart sank, I felt sick and I wanted to cry, I was on my way home from a long day at work and it was the first day of my hormone cycle at it's worst. The first thoughts I had were, 'no no please, it's not true, it's true, maybe it's the bullies again and he can't cope anymore'. Then the hermits started acting and I thought maybe he doesn't want to be affiliated anymore. But that didn't 100% add up. <33 to the good hermits for being amazing.

In my experience being autistic means 75% of my existence is made up of scripts I've adopted and will continue to adopt, from other people around me locally like my family, from movies, shows, and books growing up, to everything I've consumed information wise, this includes so many people, some that at one time were my hyperfixation, these scripts can be unlearnt, and I have another script that helps ('we don't do that here') but it's still a process and It's stressful and unpleasant.

VC was one of the only people I've subscribed to on twitch, I didn't even watch his live stream (they were way too stressful for me, the pay to win quality of his streams was really frustrating) I just subbed to support him. At least to me he had a 'victim' persona especially when it came to the other hermits and their success in comparison, and this translated to me the need to support him more. (He was a hermit for crying out loud, he was fine, I tell myself now), then I read the truth and the pay to win made sense because he Was showing favouritism, after reading K's statement before I was finished I knew M would be involved too and I just felt incredibly sad and heartbroken for them, no one deserves to be treated like that, and people except a certain level of human decency. I'm sorry that this happens and I'm so sad that it has.

He made me feel Grian was a bad sport and that Grian was wrong to be in videos with his friends because he was more popular, that Grian couldn't be sincere in his joy 'because he was always stealing the limelight' (I was 15 at the time and irl was tough and I had bigger problems going on, I loved C! Grian a lot) and didn't trust anyone, so I started to dislike CC! Grian a lot. (Again young n Major trust issues); I like Grian again now but felt uneasy for a long while.

VC always pops at the end of his videos when he says bye and I always watched to the end just because of it, and at a certain point I started associating popping with saying 'I love you' I did it to my family and it's been a part of my autistic script since late 2018. Others include (Hallo, Omega, of doom)

Iskall's Minecraft character is canonically non-binary/agender and in fanworks they use they/them pronouns and as someone who's a fan of mcyt, Minecraft and is gender q, that was a big deal for me to be canonically represented. They also inspired me to write incredibly niche and rare minecraft lore and head canon's for them (them being a villager/player hybrid); iskall's character is a separate entity but the association is horrifying now and that is extremely disappointing, it was the same with William Gold.

VC has made fun of people's differences and difficulties and has been generally rude at times under the guise of humour. He has laughed at people's trust in the creepest way, that even though I liked him I was scared and put off for days, I was so genuinely angry at him, because I felt humiliated. He knew who he was and laughed at our trust in him. That hurts and angers me even more now.

[mtvjedi]

can i complain about gladiator 2. i’m gonna!!!! here is your official spoiler warning!!!!!

i knew frankly nothing of the plot before i went to see it i ONLY saw it because of pedro pascal and paul mescal (and denzel) so in that sense it was a good movie. in all other senses it was…………. well……….. a movie. why was lucius beat for beat maximus from the original movie but written worse. birthright stolen from him, wife murdered by the roman army, forced into being a gladiator due to the whims of powerful men, eventually becomes Thee leader of the gladiators, overthrows the current emperors/government/etc. except we have the added “plot twist” of him being maximus’ son AND marcus aurelius’ grandson. double nepo baby. i say plot twist because it was obvious to probably literally everyone who knows even a tiny bit about the original movie.

it is very obvious that they cut basically everything important from the plot because nothing connects. the ONLY plot line that has any kind of follow through is denzel’s so no shock he was the best part of the movie. side note i knew once they cast him that he wasn’t going to be playing some silly goofy mentor character so him turning out to be more important wasn’t surprising but his true motivations were and, again, the only coherent plot line in the movie. he was a slave, he bought his freedom, he got rich, and he did what he had to do to get his revenge. his and paul mescal’s relationship was the most interesting one because you were a slave but now you’re buying slaves and potentially sending them to their gruesome bloody deaths in the hopes that someday one might be powerful enough to help you overthrow the emperors??? did you KNOW paul mescal was lucius when you found him or was that simply pure dumb luck???? “the dream of rome is dead” ???? great continuation of the first movie because truly like what was supposed to happen post russell crowe killing joaquin phoenix and then immediately dying. who was in charge after that. side note: why were there like. full scenes from gladiator in there as flashbacks.

pedro pascal was like. kind of exactly the character i expected him to be. but again it feels like there’s MORE that they could have done with him. i understand why he had to die and it WAS interesting to pit him against paul mescal in the arena and then have the praetorian guard actually kill him to show how the emperors were losing control of the people, enter denzel, but. idk it felt like there was something missing from his character. i was actually convinced that the guy who put young lucius on the horse and sent him away would turn around and be pedro pascal and that would’ve been like an interesting little i saved your life please show me mercy here’s how i connect to the story besides being your stepdad type thing but here we are i guess.

poor paul mescal, truly. i thought he was as good as he could be with what he was given. his whole character just felt disjointed. like, it makes sense up until he’s revealed to be lucius. captured from his home, forced to watch his wife and eventually his friend/mentor die in front of him as a direct result of the roman empire, forced into slavery, doesn’t want to kill other slaves but eventually has to because he, like denzel, has an axe to grind with rome. but then he actually gets to rome and appears to not remember anything about who he really is, his mom figures it out in 0.2 seconds, and he suddenly remembers everything? had he ever even forgotten it? if he hadn’t forgotten, what was his plan back in his city? did he really love his wife? if he had forgotten, how does he remember everything so quickly? why does he hate his mom if he was 12 when she sent him away, aka old enough to understand what was happening? like, him in the first half and him in the second half are completely different characters and there’s not much of a bridge to connect them. there’s no explanation. honestly i kinda thought the real plot twist was gonna be that he actually was just some random kid and not actually lucius. like he just Becomes this character at the end without any real growth!!! he forgets about his wife and his friend! he has the chance to kill pedro pascal but he just……… doesn’t, for whatever reason. i kinda thought he was gonna die at the end because there had been so many little flashback moments to his wife crossing into the afterlife like russell crowe walking in the field to his wife and kid but i was gonna be really pissed if he died because then it’s just like exactly the same as the first movie where like who’s gonna lead??? you’re gonna be in the exact same spot in 20 years again!!!!!

idk it was just so long but nothing like. happened. it’s like a half baked gladiator remake but there’s so much CONTENT missing. overall, cheesy, the “dream of rome is dead, but we can rebuild it for all of us” or whatever thing was a little heavy handed, 10/10 for denzel washington, fun to watch if you don’t wanna think about the plot, pedro pascal and paul mescal as beautiful as expected.

[the-au-thor]

A la velocidad de la Luz | pt.1 | Steve Harrington x Reader

A/N: Heyyy, I’ve got a lot to do, but I’m kinda tired. English isn’t my first language, so I usually have to translate my fanfics. Just wanted to drop this post so you guys know the tragic thing that happened to me 😩. I’m working on translating Babysitting Munson ASAP to update it soon. Sorry for the delay! 💔

Summary: Steve and you seem like you’re friends? And he seems super observant. You need him, and he knows it. Let’s see how you fall for him and what Steve Harrington’s love language is.

Trigger Warning: click here

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Female Reader

Steve recognized the signs as soon as he saw you that movie night on Friday.

After the traumatic events you all had endured, it was only natural that you formed an almost unbreakable bond. A connection that linked the fancy house in the upscale neighborhood with the humble trailer from the wrong side of the tracks. A bond that defied logic, bringing together different ages, circumstances, and tastes into a group that religiously gathered every Friday to binge on popcorn and watch horror films. Afterward, everyone would stay over because, for some reason, no one wanted to go home or be apart. You all needed each other to keep going, though it wasn’t something anyone would openly admit. It was an unspoken agreement, one everyone was perfectly fine with.

This constant practice of coexisting made Steve more observant. He had discovered he genuinely enjoyed taking care of others and that his complaints about it were just part of a ritual. Dustin would insist he absolutely needed to go somewhere, and only Steve could take him. After grumbling, insisting he wasn’t a babysitter, and complaining about wasting his time, Steve would grab his keys and drive him wherever he needed to go. He could predict stomachaches after the kids devoured too much candy and was always ready with antacids and chicken soup. He broke up bar fights at The Hideout to make sure Corroded Coffin’s gigs didn’t get ruined, and Hopper didn’t get unnecessary calls. He had been there for Robin, Nancy, Argyle, Jonathan, and each of the kids. Maybe that’s why Hopper had suggested police academy. And maybe that’s why Steve felt like all of you were the reason he wasn’t that lost kid with a terrible social life anymore, unsure of what to do with his future.

You glanced at him with a small smile during the bathroom break Nancy had enforced after Dustin got a UTI from holding it during Freddy’s killings scenes.

“What?” you asked, tossing a handful of popcorn into your mouth as you turned to face him.

Steve didn’t know you well before Hawkins’ catastrophic events pulled you all together. You were Robin’s friend in high school and worked with Nancy on the school paper. You admitted you didn’t share Nancy’s reporter spirit—you just liked writing and thought being on the paper would look good on a college application. He vaguely remembered seeing you at some parties because Vicky’s twin brother, Justin Carmichael, had tried to date you. Steve recalled Justin whining for a week about how he’d taken you to the best party of the year, and you hadn’t even let him get to first base. Deep down, Steve was glad. Justin Carmichael was an idiot, as dumb as Steve had once been.

After graduation, you met again during the last Hawkins disaster, which almost none of you survived. You were attending Indiana University during the week, but you came home on weekends because, unlike Steve’s parents, yours genuinely loved having you around and cared about your interests. That explained your nurturing, always-ready-to-listen demeanor. Steve thought it wasn’t surprising he hadn’t noticed you before. The old Steve wouldn’t have looked twice at someone like you because he’d been a selfish idiot back then. He’d proved it with Nancy and had to suffer a lot before proving to himself he was more than what his parents or old friends expected of him.

“You okay?” Steve asked, hearing Lucas and Max whispering as they kissed on a couch in the back.

Robin was in the kitchen, microwaving more popcorn while Nancy caught her up on her long-distance relationship with Jonathan. Steve always knew they’d make it work; they were just that kind of couple. Dustin had gone to the bathroom, while Will laughed at Mike and El’s petty argument, which Eddie occasionally fueled with sarcastic commentary.

You held Steve’s gaze for a moment before nodding. “Of course. Finally on break. I missed not having to pack every weekend,” you said with a small smile. “And I’ll get a break from Professor Lewis’s lectures.”

Steve winced. “Still giving you a hard time?”

You nodded. “To the last second of class. I don’t know how I’ll get through next year if he keeps this up. I have no idea what I did to him.”

Steve frowned. “Some people are just bitter, you know? Maybe he’s jealous of how talented you are.”

You wrinkled your nose, letting out a dry laugh. “He’s a Times writer. Jealous? Please.”

Steve shrugged. “Maybe he sees something in you he’ll never have. Adults project their crap onto younger people all the time.”

You studied him in silence, popping another piece of popcorn into your mouth before asking, “How’s your dad taking you being the first in the academy by the way?”

Steve let out a short laugh. “Oh, he’s thrilled. Especially since Hopper was basically his nemesis in high school when they were both on the basketball team.” He took two big sips of Coke.

You smirked. “Speaking of adults who project…”

Steve chuckled, watching you dig through your bag for your medication. He remembered the first time you’d shown everyone your pills. It was after closing the gate for good, when the government stashed you in a fancy hotel while cleaning up Hawkins—and Eddie’s reputation. You were safe for the first time in ages, but none of you could sleep. You’d been holed up in that hotel suite for 24 hours, ordering the most expensive food on the menu and playing video games nonstop. But when Eddie spent three hours curled up on his bed without actually resting, you’d had enough.

Steve had watched as you stood up, turned off the TV, and took Argyle’s pasta tray. No one even had the energy to protest. You stood in your hotel robe, exhaustion in your eyes, and declared, “All right. I’m about to do something I shouldn’t, and you have to promise not to tell your parents. Yes, Erica, I mean you specifically,” you said, leveling a stern gaze at her. Then, you started handing out small capsules to everyone except Erica, who got melatonin gummies.

“What’s this?” Dustin asked, sniffing the pill.

“These are my sleeping pills,” you explained calmly. “They’re mild, but you guys haven’t slept in days. So here’s the deal: we’re going to pretend I’m not breaking the law here. Everyone will take one—trust me, the dose is low—and don’t freak out if you taste something bitter. And you all have to promise to see a doctor after this, because what we’ve been through isn’t normal, and you need help.”

Eddie didn’t hesitate. He swallowed his pill, got into bed, and wished everyone goodnight. One by one, the kids followed, and Steve helped you and Robin dim the lights as everyone found a spot to sleep.

In the quiet, Steve had whispered, “Didn’t know you took sleeping pills.”

You’d hesitated, then admitted, “I started having panic attacks when I was 15. They diagnosed me with PTSD because I...well, went through some shit as a kid. There were too many sleepless nights—it wrecked everything. The pills help.” Your voice was steady, but Steve could hear the pain beneath your words. “With therapy and support, it gets better. These pills are nothing compared to what I used to take. It’s like I got a piece of myself back.”

“Thanks for sharing that. You’re strong, you know?” Steve said, his voice soft with sleep.

Your hand had reached across Robin to give his arm a reassuring squeeze. “Goodnight, Steve.”

Now, watching you down two capsules, Steve frowned. “Two? That’s new.”

You nodded, taking a sip of water. “I’ve been having issues with my dosage. I’ll see the doctor over break and get it sorted.”

Steve’s brows furrowed with concern. “Want me to come with you?”

You shook your head with a quick smile. “And have you waiting an hour while my psychiatrist goes through my baggage? No thanks. But I appreciate it.”

Steve leaned back into the couch, his eyes not leaving you. “Offer stands, though.”

You smiled, genuinely touched. “Thanks.”

Eddie chose that moment to plop down between you and Steve, flashing a mischievous grin at his friend as he wedged into the space. Steve rolled his eyes, resigned, and focused on the movie. But even during the tensest scenes, he couldn’t help but glance at you, his worry lingering. Despite the pills, you didn’t yawn once.

The next morning, you were the first one up, already showered and dressed in your athletic shorts and oversized The Clash T-shirt, making breakfast for the sleepyheads still sprawled out on the couch and carpet, snoring away. Nancy was the next to join you, followed by Robin and Argyle.

Steve eventually got up too, greeting the early risers with a groggy smile before heading to his room for a quick shower. He came back downstairs to help out, finding Nancy making waffles while you focused on the eggs. Taking the initiative, he filled the coffee maker with his dad’s favorite blend—a coffee the man rarely drank himself since he was hardly ever home.

"Shouldn't we wake them up?" Nancy asked as she flipped another waffle onto the stack. "I mean, they were the ones so excited about going to the lake."

“Sis, it’s vacation time; you can’t go all dictator on them. They’ll wake up when they do,” Argyle murmured in his usual laid-back tone.

Nancy huffed but didn’t argue with his logic. Instead, she piled the waffles on a platter and leaned against Steve’s kitchen island, looking at you.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

You had stayed silent, focused on the eggs, your gaze lost in the pan. You nodded, flipping the eggs once before turning off the stove. Turning to Nancy with a smile, you replied, “I’m fine. Have you had it rough at school?”

Nancy rolled her eyes. “I swear, if I have to do group projects again, I’m going to lose it,” she grumbled, prompting a chuckle from Eddie, who was lounging amidst the cushions, watching everyone.

“Come on, Wheeler,” Eddie laughed. “You’ve worked with us, and that’s turned out fine. What could be worse?”

Robin walked past him, tossing her black cardigan—full of intentional holes Eddie had made to make it look “metal”—onto his face. As Eddie pulled it off, Robin raised an eyebrow at him.

“Don’t you have any shame, Munson?”

Steve let out a mocking laugh as he poured coffee into a couple of mugs.

“Yeah, dude. What’s up with stripping in the middle of the night?”

Eddie struggled to get dressed and clumsily got up from the couch.

“Well, next time, you share a couch on a hot summer night with Henderson, okay?” he grumbled, glancing over at Dustin, who was still sleeping soundly with his mouth open. Eddie threw a blanket at him, yelling, “Wake up!”

Dustin jolted awake, looking alarmed, but calmed down when he saw that everyone was fine and the worst thing that had happened was the drool stain on one of the cushions of Steve’s parents’ sofa. Steve slowly approached the couch, picking up the stained cushion, glaring at Dustin with a mix of annoyance and disbelief.

“Dude, this sofa is worth thousands of dollars. My mom is going to lose it when she sees this,” he protested, tossing the cushion at Dustin, who wasn’t fazed by the scolding and instead smirked, even looking proud of himself as he sprawled back on the couch.

Steve’s house was chaotic for the next few minutes. Forks scraped against the plates, definitely leaving marks Steve’s mom would notice. Eddie, in particular, was too aggressive cutting his bacon. Nancy ensured everything was washed in an orderly manner, arguing it was better to clean up now than be too exhausted to deal with it later. You, Robin, and Steve followed her lead without question because no one wanted to argue with Nancy Wheeler. Meanwhile, Argyle, Eddie, and Jonathan dried and put everything away. The kids prepared for an afternoon at the lake.

When you all arrived, everyone spread out on lounge chairs and oversized towels, and most of the group dove straight into the water. Steve watched as you approached with a bottle of sunscreen, making everyone apply it to their backs, arms, faces, and shoulders—even amid Mike’s small protests about it being unnecessary.

You all swam for a while, ate popsicles, and held little swimming races. Steve faked a cramp so Dustin could win one of the races. Steve didn’t know you had noticed, but you did, smiling quietly at his small act of kindness.

Steve wasn’t the type to open up emotionally in front of a group—that was more Eddie’s style. He wouldn’t stand in the middle of a bonfire to confess how much he cared about everyone, but moments like this made him incredibly happy. He had always been alone but hadn’t realized it was a problem until he met all of you. Now, under the warm, glowing sun near the horizon, he could quietly admire the happiness of being surrounded by friends.

The kids were still splashing around with Robin, Eddie, and Argyle. Jonathan and Nancy swam further out, exchanging kisses and chatting softly. You gave Will a hug, kissed his cheek, and playfully squished the other one, making him laugh before he gently pushed you away. Then, you splashed water at his face and messed up his hair, swimming back toward the shore with strong strokes. When your feet reached the rocky bottom, you waded out, grabbed the towel next to Steve, and flopped onto it to dry off in the sun.

Steve watched you push your wet hair to one side through his sunglasses, noticing the tiny water droplets glistening on your skin before disappearing or evaporating. Silently, you put on your sunglasses, pulled out one of the books you always carried, and began to read. He observed your fingers flipping through the pages and the way your tongue peeked out between your lips as you concentrated on finding your place in the story. Smiling to himself, he adjusted his position on the towel and let out a contented sigh, soaking up the warmth of the sun.

“Can you imagine a man with an extraordinary sense of smell who starts killing people to extract the essence of the young women he murders?” you suddenly broke the silence, your eyes still on the book.

Steve frowned, amused. “No, but I mean… it’s not like we haven’t seen worse things than humans killing each other,” he replied with sarcasm, making you chuckle softly.

“Fair enough,” you said, wetting your finger to turn the page.

Steve cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably before turning toward you.

“Hey, I think you need to be careful with Will.”

That made you glance at him over the top of your sunglasses. Even though he couldn’t see your eyes directly, he could feel the weight of your gaze.

“Why? Is he going around sniffing people and plotting murders?”

Steve frowned. “What? No! What are you talking about?”

You set your book down on your stomach and gave him your full attention.

“Oh, no, it’s just that we were talking about the book, and then you mentioned Will… Having to explain a joke makes it tedious, doesn’t it?” you laughed, letting out a sigh of frustration as if suddenly feeling clumsy and awkward. “What’s going on with Will?”

Steve scratched the back of his neck, trying to piece his words together logically. Internally, he regretted starting the conversation without thinking it through.

“I don’t know. I think he might… maybe… have feelings for you. It’s not your fault; you’re just kind to him,” he paused, struggling to clarify his point. “I just think he might be misinterpreting things a little…”

You slid your sunglasses down the bridge of your nose to meet his eyes directly.

“Are you saying Will Byers has a little crush on me?” you asked slowly, wanting to avoid any misunderstanding.

Steve shifted uncomfortably, shrugging his shoulders and rubbing the tip of his nose. His eyes darted away from yours.

“Maybe,” was all he managed to say.

You adjusted your sunglasses back into place and smiled calmly before picking up your book again.

“Will doesn’t have a crush on me, Steve. At least not on me. Trust me, I know,” you reassured him softly, giving him one last glance. “Really.”

Steve didn’t know it, but you understood his concern all too well. There was a reason why you and Will were so close, why your relationship had deepened over time. It had as much to do with Will’s feelings as it didn’t. It wasn’t something you could explain—it wasn’t your story to tell.

You’d noticed something different about Will months ago, even before the Byers family moved to California. But you weren’t exactly friends back then. You’d tutored him a few times, but that didn’t give you the right to pry into his life. When the Byers returned to Hawkins, Will had become even quieter, more withdrawn, and solitary, even when surrounded by the group. You couldn’t help but get involved, especially the day Joyce called to ask if you could spare an hour on weekends to help Will with his English essays. He’d been losing focus more and more. Joyce’s sensitive side wanted to intervene, but her rational side told her to give him time to readjust.

That phone call left you worried for the rest of the week. By Saturday, when you saw it for yourself, you understood. The distraction in Will’s eyes wasn’t about being somewhere else, far from the room where you were trying to help him write an essay his teacher assigned to boost his grade. No, it was deeper. He was trapped inside himself, locked in a cell whose door was wide open, yet he was both comfortable and terrified to leave.

You remembered noticing an old school project from California tucked away under a pile of canvases. The drawings were incredible—realistic and impressionistic depictions of massive dragons and knights in shining armor wielding swords. The project itself was about Alan Turing, and the dedication in his work caught your attention. Dusting it off, you showed it to him, pointing out its potential.

“This is the Will I want to see in school,” you’d said.

When you looked up, you saw his eyes glisten with unshed tears, and that’s when you knew something was deeply wrong. The essay was forgotten as you sat beside him and took his hands. You promised to keep anything he shared in confidence and let him speak.

You’d never heard Will talk so much. His words surprised you—how he’d hidden his pain so well, how deeply rooted his loneliness had become. He was just a kid, experiencing his first heartbreak. The worst part? You couldn’t promise it would be his last. Life wasn’t going to be easy for him, and his future looked rocky at best. From that day on, you made sure to be there for him whenever he needed you. You even started planning a trip to the MET to fuel his enthusiasm for art.

Being the youngest sibling in your family, with three older brothers, you’d never really known what it was like to look after someone else until you met the kids. It made you happy to ensure everyone was okay. Now, you wanted to make sure Will had a good summer, that his heart healed, and that one day he’d meet a kind boy who could help pick up the pieces and mend whatever hate he might encounter.

It was pretty late by the time everyone decided to head home. The kids were dropped off at the Wheeler’s for a sleepover. Eddie invited the rest of you—Jonathan, Nancy, Argyle, Robin, and yourself—to one of his Corroded Coffin rehearsals at The Hideout. You were about to agree when Steve placed a hand on your shoulder, smiling.

“We’ve got plans,” he said casually.

You blinked at him in confusion, but when his hand pressed softly at your side, you went along with it. You all said goodbye outside the bar, and then you climbed into Steve’s car, curiosity buzzing inside you. Once both seatbelts were fastened, you turned to him.

“So... what exactly are these plans?”

“I was thinking we could do something. Just you and me.”

A date? you wondered, maybe naively. Steve Harrington and you, alone without the rest of the group? You couldn’t recall a single time you’d hung out with him one-on-one. Well, except that one time when you brought cookies to the academy.

He’d passed all his physical training exams, and you knew his parents wouldn’t bother to congratulate him. You’d organized a celebration with the gang, but you also wanted to do something special. You made his favorite cookies—crispy ones with cinnamon, caramel, and peanuts—and met him during his lunch break. He must’ve just finished a workout because the ends of his hair were still damp, and he was wearing shorts and a tank top. His skin glistened with drops of water his cheeks still flushed. A towel hung loosely around his neck, and he used one end to dab at his temple.

You’d been waiting for him in the reception area, a bright smile plastered across your face. Later that night, when intrusive thoughts came uninvited, you’d wondered if you’d looked like a lunatic standing there, grinning like that.

“What’s this?” Steve had asked, half-smiling as he eyed the box in your hands.

“Congrats on passing your physical exam,” you’d replied, holding the box out to him.

His expression shifted—gratitude mixed with something softer, sadder. Then, unexpectedly, he hugged you. You’d hugged before, usually after some life-threatening adventure, but this was different. His chin rested on your shoulder as his hands rubbed gently between your shoulder blades. You heard him sigh and thank you in a voice barely above a whisper.

When he pulled back, you were still on tiptoes, his hands resting on your shoulders. His eyes lingered on yours for a moment, and it felt like there was something unsaid between you. But it passed so quickly that you didn’t dwell on it. You never visited him at the academy again, despite having more than one excuse to. You weren’t sure why, but you felt the need to protect yourself, so you avoided being alone with Steve, steering clear of situations where the two of you might end up without the others around.

When you arrived at his house, a strange feeling washed over you. Steve must’ve noticed your furrowed brow or how you hesitated to leave the car, staring cautiously at the house. He walked around to your side, opened your door, and smiled at you in a way that inspired trust.

“There’s something I want to show you inside,” he said, holding out his hand.

You half-smiled, unsure how to feel—curious, maybe a little apprehensive. Taking his hand, you stepped out of the car and followed him to the door. His fingers stayed securely wrapped around yours, his thumb drawing calming circles on your palm every so often.

The house was just as you’d left it, except for a pillow slightly out of place on the expensive sofa. Steve led you upstairs, past strategically placed family photos his mom had hung. One, in particular, caught your attention—a studio portrait with a standard blue background and cartoonish clouds. In the middle was a baby in a sailor outfit, smiling wide.

You couldn’t help but grin. “Is that you?”

Steve chuckled. “Yeah, it’s me. What, you don’t like it?”

“I love it. Did you ever wish you had siblings?”

Steve glanced at you curiously but nodded. “Yeah, I did. My parents didn’t want more kids, though. By the time they changed their minds, it was too late. My dad says it’s because of my mom, but we all know better.”

You winced, recalling the one time you’d met Mr. Harrington. He’d introduced himself as Mr. Harrington, like he’d adopted the title as his first name. He seemed the type to blame his wife for his own failings.

“I always wanted younger siblings,” you murmured, running your finger lightly along the banister. “I guess now I’ve got some.”

“Yeah, and they’re a pain,” Steve grumbled, stopping outside a closed door and turning to look at you.

You smiled nervously. He was looking at you like that. What were you supposed to do? Shrugging, you muttered, “They’re not that bad.”

Steve’s gaze held yours, his brown eyes warm and unguarded in a way you didn’t see often. Then he slipped into the room and shut the door behind him, leaving you to fidget in the hallway. A moment later, he reappeared, his expression unreadable.

“I’ve got something for you on the other side of this door,” he announced before pushing it open.

The guest room came into view, its blackout curtains drawn over the massive windows overlooking the Harringtons’ backyard. The faint sound of ocean waves played from hidden speakers, and the air was scented with lavender from candles scattered around. The bed was immaculately made, piled with soft pillows and clean sheets.

You glanced at Steve, confused. “Uh, you could at least offer me coffee first, Steve. Just saying.”

He laughed, the sound light and genuine. “If I wanted that, I’d spring for something fancier than coffee. Give me some credit.”

Still grinning, he stepped inside and handed you a neatly folded set of pajamas.

“Seriously, though—this is an intervention.”

You stood frozen in the doorway, eyeing the clothes in your hands. The soft fabric slid beneath your fingers as you frowned. “An intervention for what?”

Steve’s smile widened. “Glad you asked.”

He gestured to the pajamas. “I’m gonna run you a bath. My mom’s got all these fancy bath salts that are supposed to transport you to another dimension or something. You’re gonna relax, put on those pajamas, and sleep. You’ve been burning yourself out. It’s bad for the soul. It’s bad for my soul, too, having to watch it.”

You blinked, unsure whether to laugh or cry. “You’re being sweet.”

“I’m always sweet,” he quipped, leaning against the doorframe. “You’re just finally paying attention.”

"Steve; What...?" You shook your head quickly, trying to make the confusion vanish as if by magic. "I don’t understand."

Steve placed his hands on your shoulders and looked directly into your eyes.

"You haven’t slept in months; you’re not fooling me. You said it’s been hard to sleep, but I know it’s more than that. You’ve been really stressed out, and when that happens, insomnia, panic attacks, negative thoughts, and the need to isolate yourself start creeping in. I’ve seen it. So let’s try to avoid that, and for that, I’ve made a sleep bomb. I just need your cooperation. Can we do that?"

You looked at him, trying to read his expression. It surprised you that Steve had noticed the signs of distress in you. You hadn’t wanted to alert anyone, not even your parents, who had already gone through it with you more than once. You didn’t want to make them suffer. You didn’t want to tell them that when you were in college, the only thing you thought about when you weren’t studying or trying to avoid getting on Professor Lewis’s bad side was going back to Hawkins; being with them, your friends, your family. You didn’t want to tell them that you had returned to that dark place, where you would lie awake for those long nights, desperate and crying, wondering what it would feel like to sleep forever, to wake up when everything hurt less. From time to time, your mind would take you there. You knew it was just a phase that would pass with time, but the uncertainty of when or how long it would last was another nail in the torture of your burden. That Steve hadn’t needed any words of help from you to notice meant both a surprise and a terror to you. Surprising because you didn’t think he’d even notice; he was busy with the enormous house his parents hardly lived in, taking care of the younger kids, going through the academy trials while trying to navigate his way through the hordes of renewed fangirls who had returned to their admiration and flirtation exercises. Did he even have room for you in his schedule? You knew he was a friend, but honestly, you had hung out more with Nancy, Robin, and Eddie—shopping, going to the movies, and attending concerts—than you ever had wandering aimlessly around downtown with Steve. Of all the people in your group, Steve was honestly the last person you thought would notice your silent cries for help. And yet here he was, in front of you. At some point, he’d gone out of his way to set up an entire room, light candles, and have a bed that looked too inviting, along with soft satin pajamas, neatly folded for you.

It felt like your lungs had swallowed all the air in the room, and the oxygen only reached you in the form of a soft, weak "thank you" that slipped from your lips in a breathless tone. Steve seemed to appreciate that small effort of gratitude, and something in his eyes softened for a moment. He gently squeezed your shoulders, then stepped away to turn on the faucet, filling the tub with wonderfully hot water. When you tested it moments later, your body relaxed entirely, and your muscles seemed to thank the heat. You tilted your head back as your toes curled in delight. You were sure the salts had done little more than make your skin feel soft, but the pleasant scent had helped you unwind. When you decided it was enough, only because the water had begun to cool and your fingers were starting to wrinkle, you got out of the tub, dried off, and slipped into the soft, comfortable satin pajamas—a beautiful mahogany color that smelled like detergent and fabric softener.

It was paradise. That’s what you thought when you came downstairs to find the table set with iced tea, a salad, and two plates piled high with spaghetti bolognese.

Steve didn’t know how to cook anything else; he could barely make waffles, and his eggs were always dry. But if there was one thing Steve Harrington couldn’t mess up, it was a homemade plate of pasta. You honestly couldn’t understand why he’d never shown off that skill to his dates; you were sure by now Steve Harrington had been off the market for a long time. Part of you—one part you tried not to visit often—wished that little piece of Steve, the one you and the boys knew, would stay in the shadows. Then you’d feel selfish for wanting that. You knew Steve felt lonely, and he deserved to find someone. As you twirled pasta onto your fork, you knew that much because the pasta was delicious, and he had taken the time to make it himself.

You would’ve liked to keep eating, but you knew it was greedy. Steve got up and led you to the room, handing you a long list of reasons why he wouldn’t let you clean, tidy, or do the dishes—starting with the fact that this was all part of an intervention he had orchestrated.

"What’s wrong?" Steve asked when you settled into bed, pulling the cover over yourself.

"Every night I try this, Steve," you said. "I try to relax, close my eyes, and sleep, and I really want to do it now, but I can’t..."

Steve rubbed his nose thoughtfully and nodded as he sat down next to you, ready to listen.

"Look at you," he murmured. "You’re worried because you think you won’t be able to sleep, and that’s exactly why you won’t."

You shook your head. "It’s not that, seriously, Steve. It’s just that I know myself. I know, and it’s maddening. You don’t know how many nights I’ve spent staring at the ceiling, feeling like my body just needs to move. It’s physically impossible for me to lie in a bed, no matter how comfortable it is."

"It’s okay," Steve nodded, thoughtful. "I have an idea. Do you remember when we were watching over Max, making sure Vecna wouldn’t take her at the Wheeler house?" You nodded. "Yeah, Dustin wouldn’t stop talking, and God knows I couldn’t shut him up, so I just gave in and listened to his annoying voice all night. And suddenly—boom! I wake up, and it’s morning."

You raised your eyebrows in surprise. "You fell asleep during your shift watching over Max?"

"Hey, Henderson was still awake, plus nothing happened, right?"

You opened your mouth in disbelief. "Something could’ve happened, Steve."

"But it didn’t!" he laughed, trying to defend himself. "But that’s not the point. The point is, I fell asleep." You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms while still sitting in bed. Steve had to admit you looked adorable trying to lecture him about his irresponsibility. "I slept like a damn baby with Dustin’s voice."

You raised an eyebrow, finally understanding.

"So, are you telling me that this whole time, all I’ve needed is Dustin’s voice to sleep soundly?"

"No," he replied, pointing a finger at you with a victorious smile. "My voice, baby. My voice will make you sleep like a baby tonight." He then stood up and motioned for you to settle back into bed. You looked at him, hiding a laugh.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Look, right now you think it’s funny, but when you wake up in the morning feeling rested, I’ll have the decency not to tell you it was all because of me."

You smiled, adjusting your hair.

"Oh, Steve, thanks so much, that’s so thoughtful of you," you laughed, but the laugh quickly died when you saw Steve start to settle in next to you in bed. He lay on his side, propping his head up with his hand to look at you.

"What are you doing?"

"I’m just gonna settle in next to you and talk to you. The only rule is, you can’t talk; you’ll close your eyes and listen to my voice."

Bossy.

You nodded silently and closed your eyes. You heard Steve sigh, but you didn’t look at him again. After all, he’d gone to all this trouble, so you would cooperate. You’d do your part.

And then Steve started talking. He talked for at least an hour about his life, his parents, and what he wanted to do in the future, once he graduated and became a cop, taking care of the town again with Hopper as his boss. Damn, it would be hard to follow the old man’s orders, but he’d accept the challenge. He didn’t stop, even when your breathing became rhythmic, signaling you were finally falling asleep. Steve didn’t stop watching you, stretching out his arm to turn down the volume on the ambient noise. He kept watching you as the sound of crickets filtered in from the backyard, blending with the croaking of frogs in a whispered melody.

He couldn’t stop looking at you.

Steve watched your eyelashes brush your cheeks. The air moved in and out through your slightly parted lips as you breathed. He looked at your nose, tracing imaginary lines over your face, following them with his gaze as if he were redrawing you. It wasn’t fair that you couldn’t rest; that it was so hard for you. Steve had seen you sleep soundly in the most difficult places and under the most critical circumstances. You were perfect under pressure. Something told him you’d rather face Vecna as an enemy than any internal demon haunting your mind. He’d seen more fear on your face at the thought of another sleepless night than when one of the Demodogs that attacked Hopper’s old cabin had pinned you down and drooled over your face as if deciding how you’d taste.

Steve struck him right in the middle of the neck with his bat, not stopping until Dustin told him the guy was more than dead, impaled on the wooden floor. He didn’t know it then, but he would’ve killed any monster for you. Even the one that lived tormenting you in your mind.

"Thanks," he finally spoke, reaching out with his other hand to stroke your hair. "You’ve always looked out for us, and that’s an understatement," he admitted. "I think you try so hard because you haven’t been able to take care of yourself the way you should," he whispered, brushing a strand of hair that had fallen across your face. "Don’t worry; I’ll take care of you."

You had made everyone fulfill their promise in the hotel room. They’d each been given separate rooms, but trauma unifies, and no one could stand to be apart; everyone gathered in Eddie’s room and spent hours together. Afterward, when things calmed down and they were interviewed by men in black suits with serious expressions, they were sent to a high-security clinic where Owen was waiting to perform physical exams. None of the scars had fully healed; Eddie had to get skin grafts on his abdomen, and Max had to undergo rehabilitation to walk normally again.

"It’s not enough," you told Owen when he gave everyone the all-clear with prescriptions for the best free medicine. The man raised his gaze from his clipboard to look at you through his glasses. "We need therapy."

"Kid..." Hopper’s tired voice came from behind you, but you stopped him firmly.

"No," you turned to face him and then looked at Owen for a few seconds. "He smelled like a distillery even before the first Demogorgon attack," you reminded everyone. "How do you think he’ll be once all the adrenaline from this is gone? Hopper needs therapy. We all do. Max almost lost her eyesight; Eddie came back from the dead. You can’t say everything’s fine and send us back to a town where everyone will keep judging us, no matter what." Owen opened his mouth, but you weren’t ready to stop speaking. "You weren’t there. You don’t know what we went through. We literally prevented a dimensional-level catastrophe that wasn’t our responsibility, Owen. We’re owed."

Truth be told, none of you, except you, thought therapy was a good idea. A monster had used your worst nightmares and traumas to get rid of you. You didn’t want to have to open your heart to another stranger once a week, only for them to take advantage of it. But you had been firm in making everyone stick to the commitment, and against all odds, they agreed and completed their therapy sessions as they should. Even Mike, who had resisted extreme measures to the heart-to-heart talk his therapist suggested, finally gave in. You had earned the trust of those kids, Steve saw it. And he had to admit that was part of the reason he sometimes felt jealous. It was pathetic to admit it—an adult jealous of kids—but damn, it would feel nice if one day one of those hugs you gave to Will Byers was meant for him.

"You’re going to a lot of trouble for her," Dustin told Steve the next morning while chewing loudly on a raspberry.

"Hey human vacuum, stop eating someone else’s breakfast. This isn’t for us."

"You see? This is what I mean! I could be planning a new D&D campaign that would surprise Eddie, and he’d be kissing my ass for the next decade, but here I am helping you impress a girl."

"It’s not to impress her; she finally slept more than eight hours and needs to eat," Steve began to answer while pouring some of Robin’s pancake mix onto the hot pan. "And let me remind you, I’m the one driving thousands of miles so you and your ‘Phoebe Cates-level’ sexy girlfriend—who, by the way, I seriously doubt—can see each other. So, I’d appreciate it if you stopped eating her food and helped me with this like I asked."

Dustin furrowed his brow but kept adding raspberries to the batter anyway.

"You know? I always thought you and Robin had something," Steve rolled his eyes and sighed. "Then, for a moment, I thought you and Nancy would get back together from the way you stupidly stared at her. But now this makes more sense."

Steve took a little bit of the batter that splashed on his finger and tasted it.

"Yeah? Why’s that?"

Dustin, focused on his work, shrugged.

"When you and Robin are together, you joke like you, and I do, and I refuse to think you're into me."

Steve made a disgusted face.

"Gross, man, stop."

"That, and when you looked at Nancy, you suffered, Steve. You were the saddest, most miserable..."

"Don’t be so kind, you’ll make me cry."

"...pathetic, and depressing human being." Dustin ignored his friend and handed him the bowl full of pancake batter. "But with her, you’re happy; you smile. You don’t have to pretend to be cool all the time, and you really talk to her. Plus, you take care of her, which is good because you’ve been breathing down my neck and acting like my mom for too long. I didn’t want to tell you, but you were suffocating me, and you finding a girlfriend would be great for my individuality, Steve."

Steve flipped the pancake to brown the other side while making a face.

"I get it, Henderson, you need space, and I’ll give it to you as soon as you help me with the coffee and leave."

Dustin scratched his nose and coughed. "Idiot."

Dustin was right; you brought out the best in him. Steve could talk to you without feeling like he had to impress you all the time. You made him feel butterflies in his stomach, but you didn’t make him act like an idiot. It was too hard for him to figure out if what he felt for you was a strong friendship or something more. He missed you during the weeks you were studying at the university, and when you came back to Hawkins, you were never close enough to him.

"I think it would be a big step date her instead of going on dates with a bunch of girls that end when you drop them off at their houses the next morning," Robin had told him one day when he decided to tell her his plan of helping you, while they were reorganizing the shelves at Family Video.

It had survived the earthquake, and Keith didn’t want to deal with the business anymore. Steve and Robin decided to take over; it wasn’t bad to have a business and extra money in their pockets. Max, Will, and Dustin took turns after school and officially entered the workforce, earning some cash they could spend on whatever those little gremlins spent their money on now.

"Robin, it’s already pretty weird to have an ex in your friend circle; two would be excessive, and it’s a risk I’m not willing to take."

His best friend let out a teasing laugh.

"Goofball, you just admitted you like her."

Obviously, Steve liked you, he thought while plating the pancakes after getting rid of Dustin and sending him off to Eddie’s house to plan their new campaign or something. Steve liked a lot of things and people, otherwise, he wouldn’t surround himself with them. The issue was figuring out what kind of feeling he had for you. It didn’t help that everyone else seemed to have it figured out except him. Plus, even if he did figure it out, what about you? What did you feel for him?

Steve was your damn hero, you thought as you stretched between the soft sheets of the most comfortable bed you’d ever tried and opened your eyes after a huge, unashamed yawn. You stared at the ceiling of the room, trying to contain your bliss. You looked at the clock on the nightstand beside the bed and quietly laughed when you saw that it read exactly noon. You’d slept more than twelve hours; that was more than you usually rested in a week at the university. You raised your fist in victory and got out of bed to brush your teeth and freshen up a bit before racing down the stairs two at a time to find Steve on the first floor. You found him squeezing orange juice in the kitchen when he looked at you, somewhat startled. You walked toward him with a smile, then gave him a big hug, burying your face in his chest and feeling him slowly return the embrace.

"Thanks, Steve. I really rested."

You pulled away from him and looked around. On a tray, there was corn syrup, raspberry pancakes, and freshly scrambled eggs.

"You made all this?"

Steve scratched his neck, somewhat embarrassed.

"Dustin came by to help me," he admitted, then looked at your rested face and couldn’t help but smile.

"That’s sweet of him."

If you had heard his string of complaints, you wouldn’t have found it so sweet. But he wouldn’t tell you that.

"Hungry?"

"Starving!"

Steve saw the spark in your eyes; even your smile was different when you rested. As you ate the breakfast with pleasure and asked about his graduation from the police academy, Steve watched you carefully, making sure you didn’t notice. Partly because he didn’t want you to think it was strange, but also because the small shot of adrenaline he got from doing so was addictive. He didn’t know what was happening. He’d known you for years, and you’d never been on his radar. He knew that if he tried hard enough, he could count the number of times you’d talked in high school on one hand. You had never been attractive to him in a way that would make him want to be friends, let alone anything more. It’s true that if he tried to remember, he would say you always had that pleasant smile and those big eyes that seemed to read whoever they saw. You were also pleasant; you never paid attention to Tommy and Carol and didn’t seem to care about fitting into the social hierarchy of school. You didn’t seem to mind being friends with him even after the Hawkins attack. Although it’s true you were always kind, he couldn’t say you became friends until a year or two ago. Steve had lived a life without you, but now, he found it hard to imagine the rest of his life without you in it.

Your heart seemed to hurt. It was strange because you were happy, very happy; you had a bath with aromatic salts, a nice dinner, and most importantly, a good rest and a delicious breakfast. But your heart hurt. Today was a good day, and you didn’t want to be ungrateful, but you wouldn’t always have this; and you weren’t talking about the shower, the food, or the oh-so-comfortable bed the size of a Cadillac. No, it was this—Steve. You couldn’t help but feel that your happiness had an expiration date, and it was very soon. Steve was being so nice to you that it hurt.

It hurt your stomach, your chest, and your mind.

You tried not to let it show, though, and in the afternoon, when Steve dropped you off in front of your house after spending the day lounging in his living room, eating leftovers from the night before, and watching comfort movies like The Breakfast Club and The Princess Bride (which Eddie had gotten through a not-quite-legal but also not-illegal way, since it had only been in theaters for a few months), you tried not to look at him too much or count the freckles on his neck because it was real torture. He had looked at you with those eyes and smiled while saying goodbye. You saw him watch you until you entered your house and waved goodbye one last time. He drove off, and you stood by the window because it was almost physically impossible for you to tear yourself away.

“So?” Your mother’s voice came from behind you, and that was the only thing that made you move. You turned to face her, still holding the bag with the soft pajamas that Steve had insisted you didn’t return.

“Steve told me his plan, did you manage to sleep?”

You nodded, and your mom came over to hug you while letting out little squeals of joy. You hid your face in her neck and began to cry. It took a few seconds before your mom noticed. Damn Steve Harrington and his consideration to tell your mom about his plan. Damn, damn him.

“What’s wrong?” your mom asked, concerned, cradling your face.

“I need help, mom,” you sniffled, and the sentence was barely understandable.

You saw your mom raise her eyebrows and nod.

“Of course, but what’s wrong? What are you feeling?”

You tried to breathe and put your hand over your chest.

“F-fear.”

Your mom’s expression softened, making her look younger when she seemed to understand what you meant.

“Oh, no, sweetheart. No.” She kissed your forehead and wiped your tears away with a small, comforting smile. “You’re in love.”

Yes, at least Steve had recognized the symptoms.

[shesasurvivor]

Beetlejuice Beetlejuice made me so happy and I’m here for the Beetlejuice renaissance

[faaun]

procrastination is starting to have its consequences finally

[thedrotter]

(cw for a gun, mild blood and suicide in the last drawing.)

Day 1-5 of drawing Re:Kinder daily for a whole month! I'll be doing that all month. ☺️

I did not draw Re:Kinder enough (said both sarcastically and genuinely, because while I know the statement is ridiculous I also do believe it www), so I chose to challenge myself. I will post these every 5 days to not clog the tag too much.

[carcarrot]

this time last year i was probably sitting in the kitchen while my dad started making an early dinner of chicken bolognese trying not to get too nervous about the concert i'd be going to in a few hours

[thefaithfulnightwriter]

𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐊 ~ Chapter Two

Summary - 𝙄𝙣 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙘𝙝 Azriel's mate is banished to another world by Amarantha. To a world she never knew existed. To a different world called Zenithara. She finds herself being stuck in Zenithara for many years. And as more time passes it leads her to giving up hope to ever get back to her family, her mate. It changes her living in such a world. She never once felt safe in Zenithara. But one day when she is given a mask. She finds herself feeling safe and concealed from the world. It gave her a sense of strength and power. Which leads her to persevere in the new world she was in.

But what will happen when she finds herself being sent back to her old world Prythian, to her home in Velaris? What will happen when she is finally reunited with her family… her mate?

Pairing - Azriel x Female!Oc

Universe - A Court of Thorns and Roses

Warnings -  Characters may be a bit OOC, Mature Themes, Gore, Death, Semi Smut, Violence, Language, Weapons, Mention of Past Abuse, Mention of War, Things Will Be Changed, Fluff, Angst, Some Sensitive Subjects, Mating Bonds, Scars, Experimentation, More Will Be Added If Needed.

Disclaimer - I do not own the series ACOTAR. I do own certain characters, and I own my mc. I do own somethings that are made up. I also got some inspiration from some movies and tv shows. So if you see anything familiar.  But i own my writing and whatnot you get where im going and what i am saying lol.

Author's Note - i really hope you like this fic. i gotta say this fic is very challenging for me because of the world building around it and what not. but i do love it. i hope you guys do too. that is all i can think to say lol.

─── Zenithara ───

─── G.H.O.S.T Ship ───

Anna was now sitting on a carrier ship that was going back to Sky City. Her team, Alpha team who were mainly led by Evan, surrounded her. Very soft music was playing in the background. To try and keep everyone calm. But also not loud so everyone could stay alert. 

But the main thing she heard was soft talking between teammates and clicking of weapons. All were making sure their weapons were charged and loaded. Making sure they were all in the right holsters and secured. 

Even after the team successfully retained the load of many innocent people that were kidnapped from Sector One, and were on their way to the Arena. The Arena now resorting to kidnapping people for the Killer games. Being that they were losing people from the Abyss. Well more so the Arena. Being that the justice system was moving and placing criminals elsewhere. Not wanting the Arena or Killer games to continue. Which led G.H.O.S.T. to have to step in and save the people they can. 

Right now though Anna’s team was still on guard. Because the mission wasn't over just yet. They still needed to get these people safely back to Sky City. So they could get checked more thoroughly for injuries, and so they could give the justice system their statements on what happened to them. 

The people they had saved were currently in med bay. People from Beta team trying to keep them calm, and helping them with any injuries they could. Along with the team mates who had been injured during the mission.

At the moment Anna was observing her surroundings with her now glowing gold eyes. Now being able to see clearly without her glasses, as she used one of her abilities. Her ability of enhanced eyesight. Which when she used such eyesight her eyes always glowed a golden color. 

Right now she was watching everything around her on the ship. From behind her mainly golden, black, porcelain colored mask. That covered her whole face. The only thing that could be seen were her eyes. Other than that you couldn't see her face, nothing. Only her eyes. 

In Anna's eyes it was a beautiful mask. It was gifted to her by Katrina many years ago when she was still in the Arena. A mask that was very precious to Anna. A mask that she took care of and kept in immaculate shape.  

The top had golden and black intricate patterns that flared up slightly at the crown of her head. With amber and golden jewels that dangled on the side. Then at the middle of her head of the mask was an amber jewel. 

The golden and black detailed patterns that went from the top of her head then curved under her eyes and over her nose. Around her eyes were black, the only thing that was seen were her eyes. The lower half of her face was covered by porcelain with a pair of golden lips painted on it. 

Then around her neck was covered by black cover that had a few golden chains. It held up the mask and some mechanics that were connected to her mask. Her being the only one who knew how to use it. Knowing all the ins and outs of the mask. Having it for many years now.   

The mask was one of Anna's prize possessions. Having her mask on was also one of the things she used to cope with everything. Her mask gave her a sense of safety and power. It concealed her from the world. Giving her the strength to persevere in Zenithara. 

But most of all it kept her hidden. It hid who she was, hid her scars, her emotions, it hid Anna. 

Which was something she loved. She loved to stay hidden. Anna seemed to love it so much that she wore her mask whenever she was around people. The only time she had it off was around Evan and his father. But sometimes it was still hard for her to take it off. The two though knew how to coax it off her and make her feel safe. They were the only two who could. 

Though when Anna was alone. Mainly in one of her homes in the three Sectors or her own room, that was the only time she had the mask off. Not feeling safe but somewhat comfortable. It was when she swapped her mask for her glasses. Letting her eyes settle to their normal dark brown. But that rarely happened.   

She was accustomed to having her golden gleaming eyes on display. She was accustomed to seeing everything in a more intense and enhanced way. 

Though she had her glasses it couldn't compare to having her enhanced sight. And without either she was just blind. Only being able to see a meter in front of her. Which she didn’t like. It made her feel vulnerable, and she couldn’t stand that feeling. That was why she used her enhanced sight so much, most of the time. 

But also with that she always has an ear out for anything as well. Having trained her hearing just as much as her eyesight. So, if anything happened she would be prepared in any way. It wasn't really hard with her being a high fae. 

Though at one point her pointed ears caused her trouble while in the Arena. Doctors became more curious than ever over her, and wanted to experiment on her when they found her in the Arena. More than any other subject they had. They wanted to find out everything about her, and enhance everything. One of the things it led to was having a piece of her ears cut off. Leaving on the outer shell of her pointed ear to have a crescent type shape cut out.  

Even after that inncident she stayed strong, it was hard but she kept going. It didn't deter her. But it did lead to her wanting to train her hearing to be sharper. Just as sharp as her heightened eyesight, when her eyes were glowing. So she could rely on her hearing if anything. Having done such a thing though caused her to have an advantage. With her eyesight and hearing. But also caused her to see and hear the world in a different way. 

Just like now. Looking around once again she took everything in. The walls of the ship, the bags, the weapons, and the people talking and whispering. Who were her teammates. There were many who she noticed and recognized but few she didn't. 

It caused her to sigh and lean further back into her seat. As she stayed to herself. She didn't want to interact nor be near anyone. Anna just wanted to get this mission over with and help where she could. Then go home. Maybe have a drink then escape into her art work. 

When she wasn't on missions she was working on her art. It was another thing she used to cope. Through her art she brought Prythian her old world to Zenithara. She had walls upon walls covered with paintings of her old world, her old life. They were in all three of her houses. 

Her favorite house was in Sector Two, Middle ground. She had dedicated the house to everything Night Court, or Velaris. Middle Ground gave her the most inspiration. Reminding her the most of her home Velaris somewhat.

In her house that was in Middle Ground there were murals all over. They were mainly paintings of places in Velaris. Like the mountains that surrounded Velaris, the stars, the House of Wind, the Rainbow, Rita's, and more. But there were also paintings of her family. One wall was dedicated to them. Cassian, Rhysand, Amren, and Morrigan. 

Then there was a wall dedicated to one more person, a male. A male that she missed so much. That had a piece of her heart. A piece of her soul. A piece of her that she would never get back. He was someone she desperately wanted to not forget. He was someone so important to her. He was her mate... Azriel. 

Over time, over the past fifty something years Anna has forgotten some of her old life, her old world. That was one of the reasons she drew and painted so much, it was so she wouldn't forget. Anna wouldn't say she had the most excellent memory. But she could remember some things. But the one thing or person she remembered the most about was Azriel. 

Though there were things she had forgotten like his voice, his scent, the way his touch felt. It caused Anna to cry for days when she realized she had forgotten such things. But the things she could remember out weighted the things she couldn't. She believed it was because she drew him so many times over the years. It was so she could remember and keep the memories alive. To keep his memory alive and with her. 

She could mostly remember what he looked like. Things like his tan skin that seemed to glow under the sun. His beautiful large strong black wings upon his back that he would use to fly.  His clever shadows that wisped around him. His ebony hair that fell over his eyes. And his eyes. 

His beautiful hazel eyes that could show nothing one moment, then another moment be filled with such raw emotions. He could take her breath away with one look. Anna missed those looks. She missed his intense hazel eyes on her. Anna missed Azriel so much. At times she found herself missing him the most.

A sad sigh escaped her lips. As her head and shoulders fell and her eyes closed. As she remembered Azriel. It took everything in Anna to not let her tears fall. To not let her emotions go everywhere and let her powers out. Being they were connected to her emotions. 

It took a lot out of Anna this time to steel herself. And Anna noticed it. She noticed that it was becoming harder for her to keep doing such a thing. Because lately Anna... she was tired. 

Anna was tired of hiding. She was tired of fighting. She was tired of losing people. She was tired of feeling lost. She was tired of this world. She was tired of it all. But Anna knew she had to keep going. Because she knew that many people would want her to keep going. Azriel, her old family in Prythian, Katrina, Eva, her nephews. Anna knew she had to stay strong. 

Anna though didn't know how long she could go on. Because when it came down to it she was exhausted, lost, and alone. Yes, there were parts of Zenithara that were beautiful. And Anna may have or not seen them all. But if she was being honest with herself Anna just didn't care for Zenithara. Not as much as she cares for Prythian. Because even with more than half a century passing with her in this world Zenithara, she still felt so lost, and alone. 

Even with Evan and his father. Anna loved her nephews very much and they helped her. But there was only so much they could do. They had their own lives, and unfortunately they would never understand her. Not what she has been through. Not what she is or who she was. No one would understand. But she still loved them for helping her.

Anna was soon shaken from such thoughts when she heard Evan. Catching her attention. She was soon looking at him with her golden eyes. She found him kneeling in front of where she was sitting. His crystal eyes were on her and filled with worry. As he gently placed his fingerless gloved cover hands over hers. He was quick to hold them when she didn't pull away from him.

"Hey. Are you okay?" Evan whispered softly to her. So only she could hear what he was saying. Knowing she could hear him. He didn't want to draw any attention to them. Knowing Anna didn't like the attention on her. He also didn't want her to feel uncomfortable. So he took to speaking low to her, and tried to keep her attention on him. 

All Anna could do was take a deep breath and nod slightly. As she looked away from him. She didn't want to tell him her thoughts or problems. She didn't want to push her problems onto him. Nor did she want to burden him with her issues.    

"I find that hard to believe. You know you can talk to me right Auntie Goldie?" Evan sighed sadly. Hearing him caused Anna to nod her head again. Which led him to send her a small smile. He wanted her to talk to him but didn't want to push her. So, he did what he and his father do all the time. Let her know they were there for her no matter what. 

"Remember I'm always here for you Aunt Anna. No matter what you've got me. And you got dad too. I know it's hard and I don't know what you're going through. Just know you are not alone," he tried to soothe her. She was soon nodding her head as a sigh was heard from her. She then gently leant forward placing her head against his. She really appreciated Evan. He was so optimistic, kind, and caring. It made her smile. But her smile widened behind her mask even more hearing what he said next.

"After this mission, why don't I call up dad and all three of us can head to Middle Ground. We can meet at your place cause I know it's your favorite. Then you can tell us some stories or we can watch some movies or something. Have family time together. Just the three of us," Evan planned. He was soon chuckling with a wide smile. As he watched Anna nod quickly. She had  leaned back and clapped her hands together gently to show him her excitement. 

He knew that she was smiling by the look in her glowing eyes. That he's learned to read since he was young. He was happy to see she was excited for the plan, also happy he was able to lift her mood a bit. Nodding his head he agreed. Standing up he still had a hold of her gloved covered hand. He was then pulling her to help her get up from the seat. 

"Alright it's a plan. I'll call -," Evan started. But he was abruptly cut off. Because soon he and Anna were falling back into the seats. Being jostled by the carrier ship shaking. It was as if something had hit the ship. 

Which led everyone to be on guard and alert. Making themselves prepared for anything. Knowing it could be an attack. Evan was quick to grab the radio on his shoulder. Demanding the pilot to tell him what was going on. Asking if the ship was hit or if there was an attack.   

"No attack. It seems we have been hit by something, sir. But umm... there is something we think you should see. We're not sure what it is," The co-pilot stammered unsure and seemed to be a little scared. A sigh escaped Evan before he answered.

"Okay I'm on my way."

"Everyone calm down for now but be on alert. You coming Goldie?" Evan ordered the team. Which he received a nod from many. He was then turning to ask Anna. She was quick to nod and followed him to the cockpit. 

After a few minutes of walking they were in the control area. The pilot and co-pilot seemed to be whispering to each other. While one was pointing outside the window in front of them. It seemed they had stopped the carrier, keeping it hovering in place. Looking at each other Anna and Evan shrugged. 

"What are you pointing at? And why have we stopped? We're still on a mission. We have to get these people back to Sector One," Evan questioned the two with a sigh. As he rubbed his face and crossed his arms. 

He was starting to get frustrated because he wanted to get this mission done with. But he soon stopped when Anna placed a hand on his arm. Turning to her he was met with her golden eyes that were wide behind her mask. She was quick to point as she looked forward. 

Evan was quick to turn to see what she was looking at. All he saw was a bright light in the distance. It looked like a ball of light or an orb. He was then stepping forward with Anna. Both trying to get a closer look. More so Evan. The orb was just hovering there in the middle of the sky in front of the ship. It was as if it were waiting for something.     

"We don't know what it is or what to do. The reading signature from it is off the scale and unknown. And it seems every time we try to move it follows. The jostling you felt was us trying to move away from it. But it hit the ship. Then it started moving around us as if to observe us, to us it's like it's looking for something. We honestly don't know what to do," the pilot explained to Evan, not taking his eyes off the light. 

"Do you think it's something from the Arena?" Evan asked the two. As he leaned forward on the pilot seats. Trying to observe the orb of light. Anna was in a state of wonder as she looked at the orb. So much so she tilted her head in confusion.    

"Like I said sir we don't know what it is. The signature and energy coming off of it is off the scale and unknown. We tried to quickly go through the database, but still can't find a match. We wanted to know what you think we should do. Because it seems we can't move without it following or attacking. And I don't think you want that thing following us to our hidden headquarters. Nor attacking us," the pilot answered. Looking to Evan and Anna for the first time now. 

"Shit," Evan whispered angrily. As he threw his head back and closed his eyes thinking on what to do. Nothing like this has ever happened before. So he was clueless on what to do. He was beginning to get a headache with how much he was thinking. Between this and the mission he was getting tired. He just wanted to get the mission over and have his family day with his father and Aunt. 

But his thoughts were shaken. When he felt a small gloved hand grip his arm and pull him. Opening his eyes Evan looked to see it was Anna and was quick to follow her. After telling the pilots to keep him posted which they agreed to do. Anna was then pulling him just outside the room so they could talk. 

"Let me take a look at it Evan," Anna reasoned with him with her soft voice. She could see that Evan was starting to get slightly overwhelmed. So she wanted to help him. Take some of the weight of his shoulders. Anna knew she was the only one who could get close enough to take a look at the orb of light. She also knew they needed to get past it and fast. So they could finish this mission and get the people who were kidnapped back home. She was pretty much the only one who could try to get this thing out of the way. 

But hearing her Evan was quick to shake his head and disagree with her plan. He didn't want to put her in such danger. Not when they didn't know what it was, and never dealt with something like this before. He didn't want to send her in blind. He didn't want to lose his Aunt. The only real maternal figure in his life now. Evan was about to speak. But was stopped by Anna raising her hand gesturing to him to stay quiet. Which led Evan to sigh and stay quiet as he looked into her golden eyes.

"I only say this because I am the only one who can get close enough to it. And I can do it quickly. We are still on a mission Evan. We need to get these people back quickly. You know the longer we wait and sit here like sitting ducks isn't good. We are losing time. And the chance of someone from the Arena finding us is getting higher. So let me go and take a look at this thing. Let me see what I can do," Anna explained to him softly. It shocked Evan to hear her say so much in one sitting. But he shook the shock away.

Knowing now wasn't the time to think too much about such a thing. Taking in what Anna said Evan grunted in frustration. Because he knew she was right. He was then quick to look at the watch on his wrist. It caused Evan to curse under his breath because of the time. Time seemed to not be on their side right now. 

Turning his gaze on Anna he looked into her shining eyes. Trying to see if he could read her. Trying to see if he could see any emotions. Anna's mask hid her very well. It hid all of her… but her eyes. Even then it was hard to read her still because she could hide her emotions so well. It was more so hard to read her when around people. Though when it was just them or her with his father she showed them her emotions. Showed them her emotions mainly through her eyes. 

Other than that there was nothing else that she really did. As the years went on she talked less, and reached out less and less to them. Which worried him and his father a lot as of lately. But right now he looked into her gleaming eyes. He could see she was tired which worried him. Because it was a look that he sees more and more of over the time he’s spent with her. But he also could see a look of determination in her eyes right now. 

It caused Evan to clench his jaw. Because he knew she was the only one who could do this. Looking at his watch again he growled slightly in frustration. He was then running his hands through his wavy hair and over his face. Before nodding at her. Agreeing with her plan. Looking at her with concern. 

"Okay. You go out there and do what you can as quickly as you can. As you said we are still on a mission. You need to be as quick as possible. I'll make sure we keep an eye on you the whole time. If you want to you can talk to me while out there whenever. And if you need to get out of there, you get out of there. I mean it. We'll find another way if anything," Evan cautioned. Hearing his speech caused Anna to smile behind her mask. But she nodded nonetheless. To let him know she agreed and to ease his worries.  

"Have some faith in your Aunt Goldie. I am around a hundred years old. I got some wisdom in me. And let's not forget I've been doing this longer than you," Anna joked as she pointed at him. Evan chuckled at her before opening his arms. Inviting her into a hug. Smiling behind her mask Anna giggled and walked forward into his arms. Throwing her soft arms around his waist. 

He was quick to wrap his arms around her shoulders. Not wanting to let her go. Sighing Evan was scared for his Aunt. The one he was closest to. The one who has been there for him all his life. He was filled with fear for her because he didn't want to lose her. 

But he knew that she was strong and smart. So he pulled away, letting her go. Having some faith in her. Looking down at her, he smiled with a nod. Kissing her masked cover head quickly before she could push him away. It caused Anna to giggle while Evan chuckled. Both of them were soon shaking their heads at each other. 

Before Evan patted her arm and gestured for her to follow him quickly. Anna nodded and rushed to follow behind him. Both knew they needed to be quick. After a moment she realized he was leading her to a weapons vault room. More specifically hers and his that they shared. 

Soon Anna was grabbing a few gadgets. Her hologram watch, an extra radio, a locator. Then grabbing the two golden guns that Evan held out for her. After making sure they were loaded and giving her extra clips. She rolled her eyes at him and shook her head. Seeing her Evan was quick to voice his worries.

"Hey there's nothing wrong with extra protection. Especially when your goin' in blind. I know you have your powers, magic, or whatever. But just take them to give me peace of mind. Please," Evan pleaded with her. Sighing Anna nodded and placed them in the holsters on her thighs. She never really liked guns or anything of that sort. She preferred her non mechanical weapons. But more so preferred her weapons that were made specifically for her.

Which were her short sword that was strapped to her back. Then her two daggers that were tucked into her long black boots. Then her lasso at her side. Then her knives that were hidden all over her. They were all specially made for only her and her powers. 

So she could use the weapons as a conduit for her magic at times. The weapons could absorb small amounts of her magic’s essences. It made her weapons glow with heat depending on how much magic she stored in said weapon. They could burn through pretty much anything depending on how much magic was stored in them. It was another form of weapon she could use. 

After Anna was done collecting her weapons with Evan's help. She was soon guided to the rear of the ship by Evan. Where the Alpha team was. They were looking at Evan and Anna with confusion. 

"We've seem to have run into a problem. Gold here is gonna go out and take a look at it. We're going to be on stand by so if anything happens. Remember we are still on a mission. So, be ready for anything. Anything can still happen. While she is out we'll be keeping an eye on her from the monitors," Evan explained to them. 

Going over what is happening with them. As he took out a small touch pad and pressed a few buttons on the screen. He swiped the screen and a large hologram monitor soon appeared on the wall. Showing the team what was outside in front of the ship blocking their way still. Many were shocked at the orb. Causing them to ask questions. Which led Evan to answer what he could.  

"Alright that's it with the questions for now we're wasting time. We need to get this over with okay. Goldie, remember what I said. Take a look, do what you can, but if you need to get out of there. Get out," Evan declared. Leading the team to quiet down. He then turned to Anna. 

Who nodded at his request. As she walked past everyone to get to the back opening. Waiting for the hatch to open. Closing her eyes she took a deep breath. Composing herself to fly, and preparing herself for anything. Evan sighed as he walked to the side of the opening reaching for the latch. Looking at her for a moment making sure she was ready.

"You ready?" Evan asked her. Opening her eyes Anna took another deep breath, nodded, and gave him a thumbs up. Seeing her make the gesture he sent her a nod.  

"Alright be careful Aunt Anna. Remember we got our family night coming up,"  Evan reminded her with a smile. Anna giggled and nodded. Before pointing at the latch. Evan was hesitant but reluctantly pulled it. Opening the back of the ship, making wind blow and whip around them. 

Looking at Evan one last time she sent him a small salute. Then before he could say anything else she ran forward and jumped out of the back of the ship. The last thing she heard was the team laugh. As Evan cursed at her for scaring him.

A laugh escaped her as she fell from the ship. But soon she found herself closing her eyes. Anna allowed herself to fall and feel the wind rush past her. Feeling the wind against her skin. She could feel the rush and sensation of falling. And enjoyed the feeling. Letting herself feel free. She wishes she could stay like this for a while longer. But Anna knew she had a task.

So sighing she opened her shining eyes. Feeling the power she had within. Soon a luminescent gold light appeared at her chest. As the light appeared so did the warmth. Feeling it Anna smiled and allowed the feeling to grow and wash over her.

Allowing her powers to engulf her whole. And soon a gold shimmering light surrounded Anna. She then stopped falling and was hovering in the vast sky. With a gold light shimmering around her, that was her magic. Wrapped around her like a blanket. Keeping her safe and in the air. 

Looking around she saw the lights of the city above and below. Noting they would be going off soon because of the time. Then she found the carrier ship above her. She needed to get to the front of the ship, and check out this orb of light. Then try to move it. Nodding to herself she then willed her powers to carry her forward. 

She smiled behind her mask as she flew through the sky. Loving the feeling of soaring through the air. With her task in mind she was quick to reach her destination. Which was the front of the ship. Looking over her shoulder at the front windows of the ship. She could see the pilots, a few of her teammates, and Evan. She shook her head and waved. Before turning and making her way towards the orb of light. She was growing closer and closer to the light. 

Before she stopped abruptly. Her smile falling from her lips as a frown washed over her. The feeling it was giving off. It was a familiar magic. It was a magic she hasn't felt in such a long time from anywhere but herself. Even then her own magic seemed tainted. But this sort of power or magic was pure. And it was from her old life, from her old world Prythian.

"You okay Goldie?"     

Anna heard Evan through her speaker ask. Quickly reaching for the comms on her mask. She was about to answer him and explain what was happening. When suddenly the air shifted around her. She then watched as the orb of light moved closer to her. She was quick to glide and move back but it kept coming closer to her. Anna had no clue what to do. 

She kept slowly moving back more. Trying to keep a distance from the orb of light. That is until she heard it. A loud noise similar to the snapping of a whip and thunder. A noise that haunted her dreams. It was the same noise she heard when she was pushed into that portal by Amarantha. It caused her to stiffen in a state of fear. But the difference now was this time she was hearing it more than once.

She was quick to cover her ears. Feeling overwhelmed by the noises. All she could hear was the whipping noise mixed with loud thunder and Evan on the comms. She was quick to ignore them and pull herself together. And was soon trying to fly away as fast as she could. Anna only got so far when she felt the wind pick up around her. She could feel the magic that was controlling the wind. She felt the force of it against her powers. It caused a scream to escape her as she tried to keep a hold on her powers. As the wind pushed her closer and closer to the orb. 

Tears began to fall from Anna's eyes as she tried to fight against the force. Anna didn't know how to feel. She knew that this may be her way home. And a part of her was hoping for it. But then another part of her was scared and filled with fear. What if this was just another portal to another world she didn't know? What if someone or even Amarantha was just playing with her and was sending her to another world? 

It has been too long for this portal to just come out of nowhere and send her back to Prythian. It seemed too easy. Which meant it was most likely to send her to another world. That was the only thing that was coming to her mind. 

It was what caused her to fight against the current. But it was no use, it was too much. Anna cried because there was nothing she could do to keep from going into the portal. And Anna knew that she needed to stop fighting so she could preserve her magic. So she wasn't defenseless in the next world. 

Looking at the ship one last time. Anna could see her team rushing around through the windows. Seeming to try and find a way to get to her. They were all somewhat a blur to her. But the one she could see clearly was Evan yelling. More tears fell thinking of him. Evan and his father were going to be the only ones she was going to miss from this world. The only ones who she hasn't lost. In that moment she focused on Evan's voice that was coming through the comms. She could hear him yelling frantically through the comms. But the last thing she heard was his cry for her.

"Aunt Annamarie." 

[deviousdiesel]

Hey, wanna hear some unnecessary thoughts about Lemon from someone who’s watched Thomas?

Lemon mentions that the Momomon anime airs every Thursday at 9 AM after Thomas airs. But what specific Thomas show and season? I wonder. The short answer? Well, my closest guess is probably Thomas and Friends: Big World Big Adventures (aka “BWBA”) which is the 22nd - 24th seasons of Thomas. But more specifically, it may have been in its 23rd season airing in Japan during 2020.

From what I gather from the film’s adaptation of Lemon, he strikes me as someone who was a fan of the classic series of the model era (early season stuff, series 1-5) and grew up with it.  The CGI era however is complex with its history and he seems more of an on-and-off watcher of it, he still appreciates the Thomas series even if he doesn’t watch the newer series as much as he did as he was younger (and BWBA doesn’t have the same caliber and direction as the previous Thomas series)

In the novel, it’s very clear that Lemon has watched up until s7 of Thomas, which was in its model era in the 2000s. 

I think it tracks because even if it’s the CGI series, which is more modern and has a LOT of differences, I think Lemon would still be interested in watching it to some extent even if the newer stuff doesn’t hit as hard as the classic series he watched.

The long answer? If you’re a fuckin nerd and want to read I can indulge you.

A lot of this is just purely from my observation and my own take (and this is just silly so I really hope you know that).

Bullet Train started its production in October of 2020 - which I’m going to assume is when and where the movie takes place in because the majority was shot during that time - and incidentally, that same month Mattel had announced that Thomas was getting a brand new reboot called All Engines Go, which is a 2D animated production.

Thomas has a few distinctive mediums on television and it’s divided into the model series, CGI series and AEG, which is its own thing. Lemon obviously is shown to have grown up watching Thomas so he’s more versed in the model series and its characters.

Fun fact: In the novel, he mentions a few more characters who appear not only in early seasons but also season 7.

[froggyrights2]

I could write such a killer autobiography if I was more full of myself

[guinevereslancelot]

why do i feel weirdly guilty for taking a day off of work to have necessary surgery 🤡