#him having changed so much but at the same time not having changed AT ALL | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cevenths · 3 days ago

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somewhere south with fruits sweeter

logan howlett x fem!reader — 6.6k

(s). with your mother smitten during your visit, he was bound to taste her cooking soon. sharing food is an intimate act, and you weren’t expecting to offer something to him, too.

. . . extras: 18+ minors dni; written with origins!logan in mind; one (1) mention of drinking; reader is slightly shorter than logan; no use of y/n or she/her pronouns, only described as a daughter; pet name ‘sweetheart’; descriptive touching and kissing; very brief thigh riding; implied sexual content: oral (r receiving); a lot of fruit & food symbolism—do with that what you will; this is my first longer-length work so comments are much appreciated! x

────────────── gif from @ultrviolecnt

Maybe the fruits tasted all the more ripe, a real pleasure to eat, due to his hands now arranging their shapes in the weathered, woven baskets; you hadn’t seen him when you visited last year and such a change in the apples, peaches, pears would’ve surely made itself known.

He was one your mother brought into casual conversation sitting on the front porch or working simple chores, and she insisted others were doing just the same; who could place blame on them when such a man was sure to bring about hushed dialects and connotations, a secret of sorts kept in the confines of the town’s acres.

Because of your visiting for the season, it was you instead of your mother who drove the half an hour to the familiar wooden shop that rose with the respective fall of the leaves.

It was becoming something of a bore in the years past, but a little less so now with him around, his presence and rather effortless strength admittedly easy on the eyes. Your mother spoke of him with high regard; only a few minutes after stepping out of your car and onto the gravel of the market’s driveway was enough for her praise to turn tangible in the summer heat that first morning, it now being replaced with a push of a breeze.

You noticed that even with the broad stretch of his shoulders, the trecks his boots left behind from mud crawling in the back, he somehow still managed a sort of ease about his figure as he worked. Anything he started in the chill of the morning he got done right as the sun rested its bleary eyes, leaving with a nod and a cigar in between his lips—all without speaking much. When he would carry in fills of crates with jams or fruits and vegetables, he wouldn’t stop to make talk with the customers, instead searching for another task that whispered his name once as wood warmed from the sun, now as a twirl of leaves browned and reddened scuttling against the exterior. You figured he didn’t do so from irritation at the others he worked with—you had known them since you were little and they were nothing if not welcoming—but as a means of simply getting work done; talk not adjacent to his doing must’ve been fruitless.

You didn’t dwell on the fact, instead revelling—as much as you hated to admit—in meeting hazel with an unintelligible finish to the color in the teasing cold the times you had walked with a slow gait through the aisles, brushing past weathered gingham a dusted color from years past.

Tonight you were to be greeted with an infamous cherry pie, having been told to get as many cherries as you pleased, along with anything that seemed ‘good on the soul’. (She might as well have been hinting at him, written his name big and bold, with hearts curving over the letters.)

When you stepped through the doorway and atop the makeshift floor of scuffed wood underneath homemade rugs frayed at the edges, you only barely caught denim shifting out the back, presumably to bring in more boxes with whatever was to be displayed alongside a handwritten note detailing a new price for eager hands and acquired tastes. You stepped around tables with thin cloths acting like decor, embellishments to distinguish one from another, and stopped short when the usual spot for your mother’s preferred cherries was implied with folds in gently disheveled plaid.

At the furrow of your brows and your leaning over adjacent boxes and barrels to see if perhaps they were hidden someplace nearby, a lady to your side gestured to the spot with a jut of her chin.

“Logan just went to grab a new batch, hun. He’ll be back in a second.”

You nodded at her words, involuntarily crossing your arms over your chest to the best of your ability with a basket in your hand. Broken conversations slipped in one ear and out of the other as you waited, talk of food to be prepared or how distant children were growing taller by the day. Shuffling of feet with a deep groan brought your attention back to the space prior, Logan now standing with a crate in his hands, a stitched cloth draped over the top. His tongue prodded at his cheek—the skin there, the bridge of his nose, the knuckles of his hands, beginning to flush pink from a gentle biting of the air outside—as he set it down, taking the covering off and tucking it into the back pocket of his jeans after hitting it once against his thigh, the dust trickling down the denim to the floor, the creases in his boots.

You muttered a ‘thank you’, not expecting much more out of him in return. He simply nodded, but a clearing of his throat dragged your eyes to his.

“Your mom the one making the pie?”

He continued talking at the quick flicker of slight confusion that washed over your features, that made your palm pause as it reached out to pick the nicest ones, reds shiny and seductive around inedible pits. “Someone came around last week, told me her daughter was coming to stay for a little while and she wanted to bake something nice.” A pause, a narrowing of his eyes, your own drifting upwards to brown strands undone from their styling, now brushing above his brows in light curves.

Knowing your mother spoke of your person to him brought a smile to your lips. “She loves to gossip,” you admitted with a nod to confirm his ask. “Especially over her cherry pie.”

He let out a hum, eyes following the hand that held a bunch of said fruits from their stems. He stayed that way for what felt like a while, though it was really only a few seconds; his gaze was soft, but bore into your basic movement, as if assessing which of the fruits he had brought you so kindly you were to pick.

A call of his name directed them someplace behind you with a lean of his upper half and a hand to his hip.

“Nice meeting you,” he said, catching your eyes as he brushed past your figure, smell of smoke and freshly picked fruits stuck to his skin, mimicking a wanting to bite innate to your psyche, to savor the source at your lips and teeth, though they were all laid out in front of you; perhaps that was the point.

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The next week, with a complaint of the chill that crawled into the crevices of her jacket and a harsh adjusting of the heater, your mother sat in the passenger seat eagerly awaiting an order she had placed with the owner days prior. Turning onto the gravel lot that rocked the interior, you found a vacant spot with a curse at how uneven the small plot had gotten. She let out a gasp and nudged an elbow to your arm as she unbuckled her seatbelt, hand already opening the door.

“Look who’s working today.” She knew he worked everyday they were open, but you rolled your eyes with a smile at her teasing nature—she could have her fun, you figured as you followed her out, slamming the door behind you.

Logan, much to your amusement, played into her harmless comments. He worked at the front, adjusting the panneling of the signs welcoming passerby, a carpenter’s belt wrapped around his waist and a nail inbetween his lips. At the shuffling of your mother’s feet coming closer to where he stood, he looked over with a charming smile.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he mumbled, nail a mimic of his cigars as he spoke, dipping his head as a hello to the both of you when you stepped to her side.

Your mother dismissed his words with a swat of her gloved hand in the air, flattery evident as a smile. “You’re talkin’. Just here to pick up a few things for dinner tonight.”

He furrowed his brows, shoving the nail into a pocket of his belt, adjusting its hold on his waist. “I might’ve packed them all earlier”—he began to make the way inside, gesturing his chin for you to follow—“but I’ll have you check.”

Not long after, he was carrying crates to the trunk of your car at the insistence she needn’t lift a finger—even with the slight cold becoming familiar with the skin of his own hands. You offered after her, but he repeated his words with a threading of his hand through his hair. There were quiet huffs and groans leaving his lips as he did so, his breath mocking smoke. Your mother instead headed inside, while you stood at the trunk, leaning against the chilled exterior; there wasn’t any harm in looking for a little longer, hearing more evidence of his voice a little closer.

He spoke first, an octave lower and with a lilt of amusement.

“Dinner must be good tonight.” He met your eyes for a split second before placing a hand ahold of the trunk above his head. “Seems like you’re having…” he pinched a cloth from the crate closest to the edge, lifting it with a dramatized slowness, leaning over with a raised brow—something of a defeated breath left his lips. “Why don’t you mind tellin’ me.”

You leaned over for yourself, hands pushing similar cloths for a peek at what it was your mother had bought. The two of you were so close, or so it felt, as if keeping the contents of your trunk hidden from all but the hazel of his and your own. There wasn’t a need for your peripheral; a simple knowing he was near was enough, a certain spark in your nerves for the scene felt intimate, this unveiling of what you were to eat—you knew, of course, what was to be served that night, and he most likely knew that, too.

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Surely they would be sick of seeing you when the sun had dipped with a lazy arch, pulling underneath the horizon. And yet, there was an ache in your mother’s stomach that she insisted could only be softened with one of their homemade pastries, something she shared with you when you were little, and as she focused on dinner—which you’d assume would only make such an itch worse, even given the contrast of savory to sugar—you flipped on the headlights into the last hours of the evening.

You gave something of a guilty nod to the woman at the counter as you made your way to the shelving in the back corner that held the familiar packaging, alongside others. All that was on display was shrouded in thin, gentle slits of white, the moon offering its own of what the sun had given prior. The fruits looked misty eyed, the jars as if filled by a dreamy hand.

Just as quickly as you had pulled into the lot, you were twisting the keys once more; yet this time, a weak sputtering from your engine sounded rather than its usual dull rumble.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you mumbled, one hand gripping the wheel and the other getting ahold of the key once more, this time with a slower insertion and turn, it’s cold against your palm a mimicry of the early night air. The same cough, akin to a sickness in a body, invading the steel and screws of your car.

With a groan, you threw the door open, circling to the hood and, with a steady grip, lifting it above your head.

It was now far too dark to tell where one part ended and another began, it simply a blend of shadow you certainly did not feel like combing through with the chill as an accomplice.

You smelled the burning end of a cigar before the scraping of gravel along soles.

“You alright?” Logan asked, voice leaking smoke like a lure for both your eyes and ears. His skin was accented with a soft gold from the flickering bulbs of the market as he stopped a few feet away, holding the cigar lazily at his hip. The lighting was bewitching, a natural distraction, and you cursed the way your eyes dragged at the outline of his shoulders, the narrowing at his waist, silver of a buckle glinting for a moment as if catching you in the act.

At your not answering, he took another drag, peering into the hood for himself, though you were sure he could guess your response at the knitting of your brows, the irritated grip of your hands to the front bumper.

“C’mon.”

You simply stared as he gestured with his chin, cigar to his lips, front half already turning the other direction. “I’ll take you home”—smoke curled at his cheeks, the hair that was cut shorter to the skin, when he glanced over his shoulder at you having not moved a muscle—“unless you’d rather stay out here.”

Much like when you both had been eyeing the insides of your trunk, it was as though your body knew of his presence just as much as your mind; sitting in his passenger side stiff against the seating, some unconscious reminder that tugged at your joints to keep them still, as if there was an awareness that preceded him in the form of tensed muscles and intrigue, a nipping at your eyes to even just look at him when he was this close, wanting that satisfaction, whatever it was, that came as a consequence to curiosity, infatuation, more like.

“Never seen you this late at the market.”

You cleared your throat, explaining the pastry you bought for your mother. “I think this is just my car’s way of telling me not to.”

A laugh disguised itself as an exhale through his nose. “‘m not that bad.”

Your eyes caught his own when you furrowed your brows in amusement at his words, a barely registrable hint of a smile on his face.

“I didn’t said that,” you argued, though your tone was anything but. He angled the hand resting atop the steering wheel and the palm at his thigh upwards, feigning defense.

The drive wasn’t too long; neither was conversation. He asked about your mother, how long you were staying for, but more as a means to ease the space in between simple directions from you.

He slowed to a stop in front of your doorstep, shoving the stick into park as you began to get out, opening the door and stepping onto the ground, pastry in hand. You placed a hand against the cool exterior, offering a smile and about to utter a thanks—not entirely dismissing the way he was looking over at you, leaned over to grab a cigar from a case stowed in the glove box, a necklace of some sort having loosened from beneath autumn layers and swaying in tandem with the column of his throat—when your mother’s voice called instead.

“Logan, is that you?” she sang, voice sounding pleasantly surprised and a harsh cut through the relative quiet of the night.

His brow raised in amusement; you rolled your eyes in a silent apology.

He answered nonetheless.

“Yes, ma’am, it’s me.”

Immediately at his simple confirmation your mother was ushering him in for dinner. And who was he to decline such an offer.

It was far too casual: the way he let you in first, a ghost of a palm over the small of your back; taking off his boots at the front door; nodding at your mother and asking her how she was as he eyed two plates she had already filled with whatever she had made for dinner that night on the countertop. You placed the pastry in her hands, to which she gave a quick kiss to your cheek and insisted the both of you sit and eat before the food got cold.

Without a word he took the two plates in his hands and walked over to the dining table, setting them opposite each other as you stood at your mother’s side, her face implying an explanation as to why you were in his truck, as well as a teasing response to his manners. You merely muttered an ‘I’ll tell you later’ as you filled two cups of water and grabbed two forks and knives.

He nodded as a thanks as you put the glass in front of him. The overhead light was warm, dipping down the slope of his nose and the hair that curled upwards at the nape of his neck—it almost didn’t look like him seated in your home, taking the silverware from your hand, the tips of his fingers brushing again the skin of your hand. It was someone who needn’t falter at the door, who memorized which floorboards creaked their complaints, who muttered ‘good morning’s and ‘good night’s to a lover in time with the celestial company.

Watching him eat food from your mother’s hand felt like he was indulging in a part of you, this meal that you’ve eaten time and time before now being offered to him.

“It’s really good.” His voice was practically a whisper, the quietest you’d ever heard it, as if only you could be told such a thing—you hadn’t any part in the plate already nearly scraped clean in front of him, your mother feet away, unwrapping the pastry for dessert.

You nodded, a smile on your lips even with the fact. “Family recipe,” you simply said.

He hummed, eyeing you over the rim of his glass. It met the wood with a gentle clink after a generous sip, tongue darting briefly across his lips.

His eyes drifted to her at the counter, crossing his arms on the tabletop.

“You’re a wonderful cook.”

She turned her head with a smile. “Thank you, Logan.” You hadn’t missed the way she gestured towards yourself with a fork donned with crumbs and raspberry jam. “Though I might have competition soon, what with the pie that’s supposed to be made this week.”

You furrowed your brow in mock irritation, your voice spoken through a smile nonetheless. “Who’s to say it won’t be the worst thing you’ll ever taste in your life?”

She raised her own brow, questioning your words. “If I’ve taught you anything, it’s how to make a damn good pie, hun,” she retorted with conviction in her tone as she averted her attention to her pastry once more.

You rolled your eyes in a lighthearted manner, catching Logan’s as your knife’s teeth dragged along what little you had left on your plate; the barely-there smile on his lips told you he was amused by your shortlived banter.

“That a family recipe, too?” he asked.

“It will be, once I figure out how to make it.” You paused to finish your plate, the knife and fork resting nicely atop the porcelain. “Though I’m thinking of a blueberry pie rather than cherry.”

With a nod, he gathered his own plate, reaching over to take yours as he got up from his seat, his way of insisting you need not get up and clean after him nor yourself.

Hazel slightly hooded held the color of yours as he did so. “I’m sure it’ll be just as good.”

At this point, it almost seemed proximity was an arrangement made from whatever guided your limbs to his, and that same culprit threaded itself in his, for your mother handed you the dish towel when she hastily remembered she needed to call her sister. Whether it was true didn’t matter: here was an excuse to stay close, revel in contact that was teased by the lack of it. He stood at the counter, sleeves rolled to below his elbows, hair corded at his forearms wet from the tap water, the lather that coated his palms and knuckles. Lavender was a foreign scent to be attached to his skin, not one to prettily mingle with cigar smoke, but your nose got used to it regardless.

It was a quiet process, his washing and your drying. Your eyes would wander to his hands, stay for just a little while, the shine from the warm water accenting the skin something almost seductive with the performance of such a domestic task—if he noticed, he didn’t say anything.

Over beer you had found in a back cabinet growing lukewarm under the dining lighting, you learned he had gotten the job at the farmer’s market just as the sun opted for a few more hours, offering as a trade deep oranges that shrouded the landscape and any roaming warmth that stuck to wood and grass and skin. He was in the area and needed work, there had been a sign posted near where he was staying of the address and basic requirements, and, in his words, ‘he could use the free food’. Though it made you wonder where exactly it was that he was staying, you didn’t pry. He instead recounted the morning your mother came in and they—though mostly her, he admitted with a smile at your small laugh—had engaged in friendly talk as he carried her groceries to her car.

“She hinted at saving a slice of that cherry pie f’me, for the help.” His lips tugged ever so slightly as he leaned back comfortably, stretching the denim at his thighs taut with a shift in his legs, arms crossed and all the while keeping his eyes on yours. “But I prefer blueberry.”

And how cliché it had been when you first saw him, a rugged yet quiet stature of a man with sweat at his brow and the dents of the muscles lining his arms, blue denim to the dirt of his boots, a worn baseball cap keeping the sun from his eyes, and how cliché it was now that he was in your home and you didn’t mind.

There was a mention from your mother, standing just at the end of the hallway to face the kitchen and the two of you, of a shelf and drawer that needed fixing in the old guest room as you walked him to the door, a calloused hand already wrapped around brass.

“I’ll take a look at it in a few days,” he reasssured her with a soft smile, to which she told him you could offer a few slices of pie in thanks, all with a grin on her face that she also adorned when quoting others’ words of amusing connotation.

He chuckled, a low sound that came from his chest. The old creak of the door was paired with a ‘have a nice night’ as she retreated around the corner into the hallway. You stepped out before him onto the front porch as he swung it closed, though just enough so it didn’t click into place with the frame; the porch light adjacent to it casted a similar color against his skin to the one when he ate.

You didn’t really know why you stood there in the chill that lay stagnant around your home, but he didn’t ask.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, nodding to the door. “That better be a promise.”

You crossed your arms across your chest. “Depends on how good of a job you do.”

A chuckle, same as before, this time his breath appearing in between the two of you. “Are you doubting me already?”

“There’s only one way to prove me wrong,” you said, raising a shoulder.

He hummed in , barely audible, tilting his head.

Your body wasn’t as stiff, your mind as clouded with nerve as it had been in his passenger seat, though you blame it on his figure having been surrounded by comfort, familiarity, food he had eaten with your cutlery at your dining table and with a good word.

Perhaps that was why it had leaned the small distance towards his own, lips meeting the skin of his cheek and the stubble adorning it. The small smile that he reciprocated was something almost satisfactory, albeit a little bashful, as you put a hand against the door, not missing the brief dart of his eyes from yours to your lips and back again.

“Good night, Logan.”

“G’night.”

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It served as a harsh reminder, the honk that met your ears rather than the usual gentle birdsong. You cursed, shoving the window open with one hand and yelling a ‘give me a minute!’ as you hurriedly dressed in the dwindling dim of your bedroom; the memory that he was picking you up to get your car from the market came far too late for your liking as you made your way to the front door, grabbing the keys and about to say a rushed ‘goodbye’ when the absence of your mother made itself known, as well—she had left to visit her sister, and you noticed the familiar yellowed sheet lined with grooves from cherry staining fingertips placed at the counter.

He gave you an apologetic smile as he stood leaned against the passenger side, eyes following your rushing down the stairs, uncrossing his feet and opening the door for you.

“Too early?” There was humor in his words and the way he eyed the buttons left undone at your sternum.

“You told me you don’t work today,” you reasoned after he circled the hood, closing the driver’s-side door and adjusting the heating, catching your eyes as he did so.

“Early bird get’s the worm, or whatever,” he shrugged. “The worm’s your car.”

You rolled your eyes, though a tired yet amused smile was already at your lips. “I already own it.”

“Regardless.” He rolled out of your driveway, the morning sun through the windshield catching the silver of a ring at his pinky finger. “Don’t want anyone stealing it, do we?”

“No, sir,” you said, eating into this side of him like teeth against a sweet.

A smile akin to the one he adorned at your doorstep hours previously came across his face, and you returned one of your own, despite his eyes on the small bit of gravel road.

He worked as you watched from the wooden fencing behind him. “A simple fix,” he had deemed it, eyeing into the hood of your car. “Shouldn’t take longer than half an hour.”

Beneath gray cotton the plane of his back shifted and stretched. Though it wasn’t as cold as days prior, you noted the pink coming to at the shells of his ears.

“‘s it alright if I come by this afternoon to take a look at that shelf your mother was talking about?” He turned his head just enough to see you nod.

You told him you were going to walk around the market, just to see if there were any new jams or pastries shelved; he watched you leave.

Given the sun had only made its tired arrival a few hours prior, some items were still being arranged nicely atop the patterned cloths, labelled with notes marking the price. The jams were put with ribbons at the lids with their respecting fruit.

There were a few wildberry, a number of blackberry. As you read the labels on some of the fresher desserts, someone carried a crate of needed vegatables behind you; not before they asked if you were the one that came with Logan. You confirmed, wondering for a second if maybe he had work and simply lied, but they spoke before you could with a singular, almost dumbfounded laugh.

“You must’ve put him in some sort of spell,” they said, dropping the crate at a table in front of them and shoving it to the edge. They turned to face you, clapping their hands to dust off chips stuck to thin gloves. “I don’t think we’ve even heard more than a ‘good morning’ from him.”

You couldn’t figure out how to respond to such a blunt way of reiterating something you already knew, but perhaps it was because others had noticed it was you he chose to speak to, and you who implicitly invited him in your home, and you who were to do so again.

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That afternoon, you indulged in the sun that was filtered through the lace curtaining as you gathered cutlery and tins and bowls and plates. The quiet of the house was something you liked every once in a while, as it allowed you to imagine you were cooking for yourself rather than for two; something about only your word and teeth influencing the taste when you were to set up the dining table for yourself, lighting a candle to present a dinner for one was nice to admire.

But you weren’t, for the hammering persisted rooms over once more, a reminder that something sweet was to be offered to him this time.

You might have felt more at ease if he was your lover; you’d have enough tries at that point, perfected a recipe already perfected by your mother. Instead he would be second to cut the lattice for his own pleasure with a fork you would hand over to him—a part of you did not want to disappoint.

Blueberry had since settled into the skin of your fingertips, the backs of your hands, and it made you sigh. Logan, alongside yourself, was to be given this performance of sorts, an edible delicacy that you hadn’t even tasted yet. He might as well gauge sweat in the crust, nerved blood in the filling.

It was not that serious, you told yourself. Yet the fact that it was him made it so.

Something your mother had said to get a rise out of your tired state the night he had taken you home made you roll your eyes at the mere cantation in your head: ‘I saw the way he looked at you when he led you through the door, sat at the dining table; I’m sure he didn’t mind your car breaking down’.

The tin was placed into the oven, out of sight, out of mind. It was a little while later when he had stepped around the corner, familiar carpenter’s belt around his waist.

“Shouldn’t cause her any more trouble.” His voice was quiet as he ran a hand through his hair.

You turned to face him, gathering utensils and jars dirtied with ingredients and tossing them into the sink. “Thanks—let me get you a drink, hold on.”

Opening the upper cabinet, you hoped he didn’t catch the sigh that left your lips seeing the only glasses left lining the back of the wood.

But he did, and ever the gentleman, he was at your side with a clear of his throat.

“I’ll get it.” It came out in a near whisper, only for you to hear; not the already setting sun, not as a cue for the moon to bleed the kitchen a gentle white.

You let him. You felt the warmth of his figure as it stood close, akin to all the times prior, a hand just above the small of your back, not making contact but close enough, and the other reaching overhead. The glass chased the last streams of sunlight from the kitchen window, and rather than handing it to you, he set it on the countertop, the soft clink deafening in your ears.

He repositioned himself so he leaned against the counter, hands splayed behind him atop the surface, gesturing to the oven with a tilt of his head. “How’s the pie?”

You caught his eyes, hooded hazel, brushed your hands along your apron as a means to ease the wanting to guide his own back to where it was. “It looks good. Don’t know if you want to wait a little longer to eat it here—if anything you could always take it with you.”

He gave you a smile that was so sincere, so unashamedly forgiving, though for what, you thought, if not to insist you could stay for however long. “I can wait, if it’s alright with you.”

If you did as you wanted—keep your eyes on his—your knees were bound to give underneath you with the way he looked at you, a gentle accepting to waiting alongside you in your kitchen, such a sacred place. “Of course.”

He stayed in place, eyes following as you walked around him to put any last dishes into the sink and leaving them be, not feeling like touching anything else with a smooth finish.

“You can leave those in there,” you told him when you noticed him shift. “Rest for a while.”—directed at him and the dirty dishes. You reached behind yourself to grab the knot at your back, desperate to take the thing off with reasoning much like the pie in the oven—you hadn’t realized just how tightly you had wound the string.

And there he was, ever so reliable, behind you once more as he uttered an ‘I got it’ under his breath, putting his hands over yours and already beginning to unravel the knot himself.

Your previous thought still rang true, like a delicate synth prettily reverberating in your mind: this would be so much easier, bearable, if he were a lover, simply something more than a frequent acquaintance.

And perhaps he heard you, for his hands went to the strap around your neck, fingertips gently grazing against the junctures of your neck and shoulders.

“You should rest, too,” he mumbled as he lifted the fabric above your head, held it out for you. You took it in your hands, staring down at the fabric, what was left of the sun for the evening slithering through window and lace, joining flour and rich violet.

You muttered a ‘thanks’, a sigh. “I know.”

The kitchen fell quiet, not silent, for it contained the two of you; your passing breaths and pulsing heart comparable to the clatter of porcelain beneath familiar conversation.

Water from the tap directed your attention to the sink, where he suddenly stood pouring himself the glass, taking a sip; water hitting the sides of the house came like an afterthought.

It might as well have been his doing, such perfect timing, with the way he raised his eyebrows in surprise. “D’you know it was s’posed to rain?”

You shook your head. You took it as an attempt to cover the tension that how hung heavy in the air, a rhythmic tune to combat the beat of your pulse and the itch that resided in your hands.

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Blueberry bubbling warmed in pastry spilled into the wood of the kitchen and his nose; he let out a hum at the smell from where the two of you sat on the floor against the cabinets across from each other, his body next to the oven. He pushed his sleeves up, similar to when he stood at the sink with hands of lavender, from the heat that crept as company to the finished taste.

“You ok with me being the first to taste it?” he asked with a nod in your direction, something adjacent to surprise, or disbelief in his voice.

You furrowed a brow—“I never saw what you did to that shelf.”—in reference to the hint your mother had made.

“Feel free to take a look for yourself,” he crossed his arms as if to imply he wouldn’t be here with you if he hadn’t done a perfect job.

You hummed. “I better not have to call you back here in a week, then.”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

A flush betrayed your skin; you hated its response. “So you made it worse, is what I’m hearing.”

He tongued at his cheek, fighting a smile yet narrowing his eyes and shrugging a shoulder. “Define ‘worse’.”

“It’s definitely what you’ll be feeling after you leave without that pie you want so bad,” you said, standing up to check on the oven, adjusting the dish towel that hung from the handle. You let out a small hum at the golden color that blossomed along the crust.

You took it out with delicate hands, the metal of the tin clattering with the stovetop.

“We’ll let it cool.” A declaration implying more wait—though he didn’t seem to mind, if his following your actions and standing behind you with hooded eyes was any indication.

“Looks good.”

You gave him a small, satisfasfied smile, though not necessarily from his words but at the dessert in front of that did, much to your relief, look good. You stayed admiring the work made from your hands to be eaten by them, alongside another whose familiar cigar smoke slowly paired with blueberry; it made a nicer blend than lavender.

It was similar to when he had spoken to you first, the smell of other fruits stuck to his clothing enticing you to reach out and distinguish which ones were where—you were close to acting upon intrigue. You figured he was too, for he did not move—except for one part you could see out of your peripheral.

His voice was soft as he asked: “Is this okay?” He was referring to the hand smoothing over the countertop to rest next to yours, the skin just barely meeting.

You nodded—“Yeah.”—hated the breathy delivery of your response; he hadn’t even done anything, but you wanted to put the same hands that made a necessity sweet upon him, a blunt want and nothing more than to satiate an ache not riddled in your stomach.

His voice was much closer, a little deeper, almost timid in its hushed delivery.

“Can I kiss you?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

His kisses were slow, trailing up, up to just below your ear. The hair cut at his cheek left a delicate burn along the skin, yet you leaned your head back to his chest without a second thought.

“Here?” His question was asked along the skin of your cheek, your head tilting as if lured, enchanted by his words. One hand set itself on your hip.

You mumbled an ‘mhm’, resting a hand atop his own; he draped the one on the counter over yours, lacing the fingers. His fingertips were calloused, a welcomed touch akin to natural skin encasing an apple, rough yet promising.

He placed a kiss to your cheek, the corner of your lips; you could feel a small smile stretch across his.

You spoke before he could ask, eyes shut and a gentle nod: “Don’t be such a tease.”

He let out an exhale, amused at your words. “My bad, sweetheart.”

At his lips on yours, you turned around, putting the hand alongside his at your hip to his cheek; he threaded the other in a similar fashion atop the counter. He kissed with a gentle fervor, a low hum coming from his throat when you combed a hand through the hair at the nape of his neck. Denim slotted between your legs, an offering to the lust leaking into your blood.

His nose pushed at yours as he tilted his head, quickening to placing pecks to your lips so you could catch the breath he had taken from your lungs. The moon peeking as if with curiosity from behind roaming clouds and lace shrouded his figure in alluring white, accenting the beginnings of a flush to his skin.

He bowed his head to your neck once more, biting the skin and leaving a kiss in its place.

With fog from his touch contaminating your brain, the blueberry baked into pastry snuck into your nose.

Logan put his hands underneath your thighs and lifted your body without hesitation, pressing a kiss to your sternum and mumbling into the skin a claim that he hoped you wouldn’t mind him indulging in something sweeter.

And you didn’t, laying back as he bit and kissed at skin like a man starved, holding you down against your sheets with gentle drags of his palms. The insides of your thighs burned, sweat dotting the fabric underneath you; he insisted a second with praise for the first.

#my works #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett fic #logan howlett x y/n #logan howlett x you #logan howlett fanfic #logan howlett x reader smut #logan howlett smut #wolverine x reader #wolverine fanfiction #wolverine fic #wolverine x y/n #wolverine x you #wolverine fanfic #wolverine x reader smut #wolverine smut

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exhausted-archivist · 2 days ago

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This is the banter about his going rates that I referenced in another post, and I see the comments and tags. I cannot tell you how much this isn’t him being a nepo baby or the “how much could it cost” meme.

Shoving the rest under the cut because I get the joke here but I need to yell about this man.

tldr: This isn’t dialogue about Lucanis being out of touch, and not knowing what money is worth. He knows, he’s a union man. This dialogue is about Lucanis learning about Harding’s values and priorities. He was worried he was low balling Harding. The tone in this dialogue throws him because what Harding says could easily be taken as “six thousand is only this much and I deserve more compensation.” Hence why he offered to negotiate with her and also why he clarified that the comparison was good.

Now for me yelling about this man:

Lucanis is a union man. Lucanis thinks everyone should be paid fairly, equally, and the market rate. He tells Neve to unionize with the other detectives to make sure she is being compensated fairly (to make sure they all are tbh) and that no one is underpricing themselves. If they are, they’re a scab.

He tells Bellara the Veil Jumpers are providing a service and risking their lives - they should be fairly and properly compensated. They should not only unionize but charge for their services.

Now there is something to say about capitalism and such, but Lucanis is vouching for this stuff because at the end of the day money is important in Thedas. With money you can buy the supplies you need. With money you can make more impactful change, bribe people with lesser morals, provide for people who need it. Cover funerary costs, compensate the families of those who died who maybe the person working for/with you was the only money earner. With money, you can choose to help on jobs that don’t pay at all because you have the comfort of knowing you have other work to cover things.

Lucanis isn’t asking Harding if that’s good because he doesn’t understand the value of what he’s offering. He’s asking Harding if it’s good to understand what her value of it is. Money is after all just a social contract of a universally agreed to system to value the more abstract concepts of value (and even then it fails at times). For all he knows she could have been presenting those examples to show he is lowballing her.

This man is offering to negotiate with her, but her words and tone throw him so he’s not sure if she is happy with the offer or offended.

Lucanis isn’t a nepo baby who thinks 10 dollars for a banana isn’t a lot. Illiaro is the nepo baby. Lucanis was born into wealth but he knows the value of it and works hard to not only earn it but also maintain it. This man has standards, he wants the best because he can afford it so he will not accept anything less than his expensive, luxury Orlesian peaches.

Lucanis doesn’t value goats or a barn the same way Harding does. For her there is personal attachment and sentimentality (see where money fails to properly put a value on something). He knows their monetary worth of those things but he would not be pleased or excited to be paid in a herd of goats (unless perhaps if they were Ayesleigh gulabi goat). But Harding does value those things. Those things have more meaning to her than their value in gold, that’s home. That’s stability. That’s purpose and security. Giving books to the whole village? That’s enriching lives, that teaching people to read. That is uplifting people.

If you asked Lucanis to list off what 6k gold could get him? You’d see his values are different, it would be coffee, luxury food ingredients, wyvern memorabilia, daggers.

Anyways, this isn’t my blorbo but he’s the blorbo of friends I have and man is up there with Cullen, Davrin, and others. Just rotating in my brain space because people I care about like him.

Also this makes me wonder how much the Inquisition was paying Harding and if Lucanis is going to provide her with one of his lawyers like he did for Neve and Bellara.

I've seen Lucanis' family villa so I knew he was rich, but this banter made me realize that he's a rich boy who has no idea what money is worth lmao.

#datv spoilers #da4 spoilers #dragon age the veilguard #dragon age 4 #datv #da4 #lucanis dellamorte #lucanis #harding #lace harding #listen I just woke up and I get the jokes but I like the nuance in my DAtV companions #it’s there. I waited 10 years for it. they’re flawed. I want us to look at them with some media literacy and nuance #long post

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threeacttragedy · 16 hours ago

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Entry 12: The One Where We Start Laying the Yellow Brick Road to Italy

I realized the other day that, even though I like to bounce around from place to place in the Lukola timeline, I probably needed to start tightening things up on the ship if I ever wanted to get to the end of the story. And, yes, dammit, this story better have a finale at some point because there’s nothing more annoying than an open-ended ending, particularly in the romance genre.

Today we’re going to take a quick jaunt over to Italy because –

NO! Not because Luke is allegedly filming there. If you’re into real-time stalking, you’re in the wrong blog. But, I’m sure there’s a Discord for that.

It’s because I’ve had several people ask for my opinion about the change in behavior between Luke and Nicola during their Day 1 interviews there. Wait – people are interested in my thoughts? Wow, that’s actually kind of nice. Thank you! Okay, back to what I was saying –

Was there a change in behavior when Luke and Nicola reached Italy? Yeah, actually, there kind of was.

By May 9, we had been gifted with a slew of material from Luke, Nicola, and the Bridgerton cast and, I must admit, those early interviews are some of the most entertaining of the tour. In the very beginning, Nicola appeared as the utmost professional – charming, intelligent, and witty at the right moments – and Luke played her likeable counterpart to “Book Colin” perfection – bouncing between being awkwardly boyish and wickedly roguish, all while looking at Nicola like she had just served him homemade peanut butter crumble.

The two of them together, playing off each other, in my opinion, was better than Bridgerton Season 3 (you cannot beat the World Tour being 99% Luke and Nicola, with only a few random side characters taking up screentime). There was some major “Electric Love” radiating from those two throughout the tour, but it seemed very much heightened in the beginning (probably because they hadn’t yet answered the same question 67 times). By the way, if you haven’t heard that song by Børns, go have a listen. It will, at the very least – hopefully – put you in an upbeat mood for the day.

Now, where was I? Oh, yes – was there a change in behavior between Luke and Nicola when they reached Italy?

Absolutely.

Do I know why?

Absolutely not.

Perhaps Luke was bent because someone spilled his coffee, or Nicola was upset because her stylist made her to wear that little silver bow in her hair. In my opinion, the most intriguing part of Day 1 of the Italy press junket was that Luke and Nicola struggled with answering the question, “What is love?” I swear they both babbled on like two kids in debate class who hadn’t bothered to read the material given to them before taking their respective podiums. They finally seemed to settle on Luke’s “Maybe it’s, like, connection.” Well, they seemed to be missing the “connection” that day.

Honestly, no one can explain their “don’t stand so close to me” vibe during those first day interviews except Luke and Nicola. But, we can at least have some fun and speculate about it with a bird’s eye view. At this point, you should know that I love spreading the puzzle pieces out and seeing how they might all connect. Most people – when putting a puzzle together – start with the side pieces, right? You’ll get my joke in a moment (I hope).

In March 2024 – I don’t know the specific date because my timeline is rather murky going back that far (I was unaware Lukola even existed!) – Luke traveled to Los Angeles for a photo spread with InStyle magazine. I’ve heard two versions of this story. The first being that Luke traveled to Los Angeles with Antonia alone; the second being that he traveled to Los Angeles with his friend group, which included Antonia. I couldn’t tell you which is true, and it really doesn’t matter because it doesn’t necessarily add or take away from today’s story.

Before I get started, I wanted to give a “hurrah” to The-One-Whose-Group-Chat-Fills-in-Lots-of-Missing-Bits-for-Me-Including-the-Part-Where-Video-Footage-of-Antonia-in-Los-Angeles-Seemed-to-Indicate-a-Celebrity-Was-Not-the-Videographer-and-There-Were-So-Many-British-Accents-in-the-Background-One-Would-Fancy-a-Guess-She-was-Traveling-with-a-Group.

Moving along…

On April 7, 2024, Antonia posted a series of photographs and clips to her Instagram grid indicating she had been in Los Angeles, including one where she was laying on a blanket in front of the Griffith Observatory and one where she was sitting at a table marked with the number “95.” On April 14, she posted a second set of photographs, tagging her location as Beverly Hills, California and using “End of Beginning” as her audio (yes, I side-eyed this choice of music so don’t feel bad if you did as well). The second photo dump included her lounging on a rooftop.

I’m not going to delve into posts made by Luke and Nicola during that timeframe. I mean, I’m sure Nicola’s comment, “’Friends’…sure Jan,” on Luke’s April 11 reshared post about Bridgerton Season 3 was only meant to be applicable to Polin. And, if Luke wanted to use yellow and black hearts to represent the colors Nicola and he were wearing in his April 12 post, that’s cool, too. And, I am definitely not going to speculate on Nicola’s April 15 post (for Big Mood) that Luke liked, and she captioned, “I will bite off anything that dangles.”

By April 21, Luke and Nicola were in Australia at the World Premiere of Bridgerton. I am only going to provide a quick overview of Australia instead of a full-fledged recital because, at some point, I will almost certainly dedicate an entry to this country. Let’s start with Luke pulling off the hottest walk-up in Netflix human history (I mean, have you watched it in slow motion?). Then, we had the hard launch of the handholding business (because why again?). And, we had Luke tripping over his words, “We’re very, like, giving…I’m not talking about those scenes…” Oh, and Nicola telling an interviewer that, “[y]ou can’t keep a good girl down,” and, in response, Luke’s lips curling into a wicked-ass Cheshire cat's. We had them in the garden, with Nicola bending down to hug Luke after she had scratched/hit/petted his head. Perhaps I should not mention the possibility of a man’s shirt being visible on a bed behind Nicola (I said possibility not that it was). And, Nicola telling Luke, “You’re the funnier one,” when he was concerned that perhaps Benedict was funnier than Colin. Then we had the “Nicola-in-the-green-dress” day where, as they were going down the steps, Luke seemed to instinctively reach for Nicola’s hand, but she played it cool and took his arm instead. Oh, and that entire “green dress” day in general (I mean, there was so much shit going on that day). And, best we do not forget Nicola saying, “the best foundation for love is friendship,” which mirrored the bracelet “someone…in Australia” gave Luke that read, “Do you believe the best foundation for love is friendship?” Because that’s not suspicious at all. Alright, let’s get the fuck out of Australia – but not before I mention Nicola commenting on Luke’s April 27 Instagram post with “Ready for the next?” and Luke replying, “Absolutely.” Yeah, yeah, yeah, their shenanigans in Australia expanded the USS Lukola tenfold.

Oh, also, let me throw this in here because, if you are a “ring truther,” this fact plays a significant role in the Lukola timeline. If you do not know what a “ring truther” is, that’s perfectly fine. You can catch up by reading Entry 6 (The One Where I Explained the Claddagh Ring to My Dad) of my blog. I mentioned in Entry 6 that some Lukola sleuths have stated the metadata they pulled from the sketches of the Claddagh ring uploaded by Chupi indicate they were done as early as April 26. In other words, it means the Claddagh was likely commissioned between Australia and Italy. In fact, if we are to believe Chupi when it said it took four weeks to make the ring, then it had to have been commissioned by May 9, 2024, at the latest. Oh, lookie there, that’s Day 1 of the Italy interviews.

But, before we get to May 9, let’s pause on April 29. That was the day Luke’s InStyle spread was published – yes, the one I mentioned earlier. Luke has pictures from this photoshoot still on his Instagram grid – in fact, Nicola commented, “Yess dude!!” on them – but those aren’t the pictures I want to talk about. No, I want to talk about the pictures InStyle posted on its Instagram grid that day. These photographs came directly from Luke, which was confirmed by the InStyle article when it said, “…the actor delighted the InStyle team by delivering the polaroid photos he’d taken for this story tucked oh-so-carefully in a little brown bag for safekeeping.” The pictures Luke provided, among others, included one where he was laying on a blanket in front of the Griffith Observatory in Los Angeles; one where he was sitting at a table marked with the number “95;” and one where he is sitting in a lounge chair on a rooftop. If you want to see the pictures, InStyle still has them available – you just need to go through hundreds of posts to find them. Luke did not like this InStyle post, which was kind of odd because he was tagged in it, and they were reportedly his pictures.

Why did these InStyle polaroids seem so familiar?

Oh, that’s right, because they were.

Remember that April 7 post of Antonia’s I mentioned a bit ago? Yeah, the one where Antonia posted a bunch of random pictures from Los Angeles and – only after InStyle posted Luke’s polaroids – fans realized Antonia had preemptively posted her version of some of Luke’s polaroids.

I am not going to speculate too much about these pictures or their implications in this blog post, but these pictures may resurface in future posts because I find myself side-eyeing the fact they even exist. And, we should probably accept that Luke was aware of them before his pictures came out on April 29 because he threw a like on Antonia’s April 7 post. Could it have been a “blind” like? Sure, I guess, but the logical side of my brain says he probably looked through them at the time she posted. Let’s not worry too much about it right now, though.

After trying to write out my “general” opinion about the pictures several times, I finally decided that the best way I could articulate my thoughts was through the conversation I had with my father. Yes, Dear Dad returns again for another insightful Q&A.

I started by showing Luke and Antonia’s three “matchy” pictures to my dad and then asked him to compare them. To be clear, the pictures were their respective Griffith Observatory, Table 95, and Rooftop Lounging pictures.

Me: “So what do you think?”

Dad: “About what?”

Me: “Ugh! Why did Antonia take those pictures?”

Dad: “Well, to show she’s part of the ‘in’ crowd. The only reason I can see them being taken is if she was going to put them on the Internet.”

Me: “Uhh, as a matter of fact, she did put them on the Internet! Approximately three weeks before Luke’s were published.”

Dad: “See! I’m not as dumb as you think.”

Me: “Whatever. So, you really believe that? She took them to show people that she was, like, there?”

Dad: “Yeah. Why else would she take them? They’re not the kind of photos you’d take normally. What’s she going to do, put them in an album and show her friends in five years and say, ‘Look, I sat in Luke’s chair?’ Who does that? Nobody. Plus, Luke’s pictures look like they were taken with a polaroid camera and Antonia took hers with, I guess, a phone. Why use two different cameras? Again, it doesn’t make sense. Seems to me like she knew what pictures he was taking, and she was trying to copy them so she could put them on the Internet.”

Thanks, Dad.

You do not have to accept my father’s thoughts on the photographs. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion. However, I think we can meet in the middle and opine that, at a minimum, Antonia’s pictures caused the weak Lukolas to jump overboard; at most, they gave some people stalker vibes; and somewhere in between, they introduced Antonia's negative influence over the fandom and what some may consider trolling behavior (even if it wasn’t recognized then).

Now, before we land in Italy on May 9, let’s summarize what has happened during the preceding two months.

First, we had Luke traveling to Los Angeles in March with Antonia, either alone or as part of a friend group. Luke had pictures of himself taken while there.

Second, we had Antonia posting pictures in early April that would be linked directly to Luke’s pictures by the end of the month.

Third, throughout the month of April, we had Luke and Nicola traveling together for the World Tour. We have all seen these interviews, and we have all formed independent opinions about them.

Fourth, based on Chupi’s own words, we know the Claddagh ring must have been commissioned no later than May 9.

Okay, now we’ve reached May 9, Day 1 of the Italy press junket.

Besides the press interviews, what happened on that day?

Well, Antonia reposted Luke singing Coldplay’s “Yellow” to her TikTok account.

Uhh… Huh. Interesting.

I mean, it’s possible that this was just a coincidence and she just liked Luke’s version of it. Or, it’s possible Antonia knew that “Yellow” was the Polin wedding song and she anticipated trolling Nicola and/or the fandom with it. But, if we believe she knew “Yellow” was the Polin wedding song, that means either Luke told her, or someone with that knowledge told her (i.e., someone from Luke’s team or family/friend group). We also know that Luke mentioned this song in the May 16, 2022 Netflix Tudum article when Nicola and he were asked about their song choices for Season 3. Luke stated his frontrunner was “Yellow” by Coldplay “because of Penelope’s dresses.” Regardless of why Antonia posted the song, I find it hard to imagine Netflix, Bridgerton, Shondaland, Nicola, or Luke were too impressed by Antonia resharing it on TikTok. I mean, at this point, Netflix & Co. would surely have been aware that Antonia’s “copycat post” went over with the fandom like a wet blanket in December in Canada. I imagine some questions were being asked and Luke may very well have received a hand slap from Corporate – and maybe even from Nicola.

But, that’s not the only thing that happened on May 9.

Luke posted his Homme magazine spread to his Instagram grid on that day, too. He captioned the post, “Chatting through all things S3 with @hommeplusmag [o]ut next week x.” Nicola commented, “Yessss,” and Luke tagged his post with the location of Hackney, London. That last part – about Luke tagging the location in Hackney – apparently sent the fandom into a deep-dive of…Nicola’s backyard. Why? Because Nicola lives in Hackney (Nicola herself confirmed she lived in Hackney in a March 18, 2024 interview with Derry Now), and rumors started to circulate that Luke’s pictures were taken at her home.

Hmm, I didn’t realize May 9 was such a busy day, did you?

So, which came first – the chicken or the egg? Did Antonia repost “Yellow” to her TikTok before Luke posted his Homme in Hackney images to Instagram, or vice versa? I’m sure someone out there has this information. The answer might help shine some light as to why Luke and Nicola seemed “off” in the early part of their Day 1 Italy interviews. But, then again, does the order really matter? Regardless of who posted first, it would seem to me that “Yellow” was a very possible culprit for the different energy on set that day.

That, or Luke really was peeved over someone spilling his coffee.

#lukola #luke newton #nicola coughlan #my thoughts #my opinion #speculation only

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docdudo · 2 days ago

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Hybrid 141 As Parents - Foster Human Child!Reader (Part 9)

It was snowing.

Actually, 'snowing' was an understatement. It was a freaking blizzard. And it really came out of nowhere too, just a thin layer of snow covering the ground during the early hours and now, you couldn't see anything besides white throught the window.

Oh yeah, you were also sick.

To be fair, you knew you would get sick eventually thanks to this huge change in temperature. It wasn’t even because you were out with Johnny yesterday night; you would have gotten sick regardless. It just happened that everytime the seasons changed, a flu would strike you.

It happens, you were used to it, but still...

You certainly weren't used to the attention.

First of all, you woke up with someone already in your room. Two someones, actually. Johnny was anxiously pacing close to your bed, a frown on his face as he sniffled the air around you. Kyle was with him, head tilted in your direction as he also frowned in concern.

And in a second, Kyle's large hand was pressing against your forehead, then your warm, red cheeks, and then your small neck. His hand felt warm, as always, but even you could feel it that you were warmer, making him tsc in concern.

So, they decided to place you on the large living room couch, still in the sweater and sweatpants you were wearing as pajamas, propped carefully against the many pillows and cushions, with a blanket draped over your lap and legs.

The same blanket John had bought for you the day before.

"Temperature?" Price asks, voice gruff and arms crossed as he watches Kyle staring at the thermometer with a frown.

"37,7ºC. That's high for humans." He sighs, putting the thermometer aside.

Johnny frowns a bit at the information, sitting close to you so he could also check your temperature for himself.

"Almost as warm as a werewolf..." He mutters with his own frown on his face, leaning close enough to almost lay his head against your lap and torso. "How are ye feeling, wee pup?"

"F-Fine..." Your voice sounds a little rough, your throat a bit raspy. "I... I have... I usually get sick when the temperature changes... too quickly..."

He nods and croons at your quiet answer, now actually leaning to rub his head and fluffy ears against your chest.

"Here you go." Simon says quietly as he approaches with a light blue mug on hands, passing to you carefully as he kneels in front of the couch.

The mug was big and warm on your hold, but it was also enveloped in a small white cloth to make sure you wouldn't burn your hands, even tho the liquid inside wasn't even that hot. It was warm, just like it has to be.

"Lemon and honey tea, darlin'. Helps your throat nicely." He grunts out, heavy hand coming up to your forehead too, making you close your eyes slightly in satisfaction. His hands are much cooler thanks to his Wraith nature.

As he takes his hand away, you take a small sip of the tea. You weren't a fan of tea, but considering it's just lemon and honey... you can manage.

"With the way it's snowing outside, it's an indoor day for all of us." Price notes, looking out the window with his burly arms still crossed.

"Ah'll 'ave fun shoveling the snow later..." Johnny murmurs sarcastically as he sits up once again, glaring outside the window.

"Darlin', the tea." Simon reminds you gently after you took too long for a second sip.

You blush a little, nodding quietly as you take another sip. At least it felt soothing going down your throat; it didn’t hurt like it usually did when you forced yourself to drink water all the other times you were sick.

"Okay, I searched, and… it seems to be safe for humans to take Tylenol, but only in small doses." Kyle warns seriously, his wing twitching for a moment as if to reach for your small form sitting on the couch.

"I'll go get it." Simon gets up quickly, going to the bathroom closest to the living room.

You were sipping on your tea, distracted, staring at the direction Simon went off, enough to startle you as John kneels by your side on the couch, fixing the blanket on top of you to make sure it wouldn't slip off.

"Tell us if you feel worse or need anything, yes, hatchling?" he murmurs gruffly, leaning close enough to bump his forehead against yours. You were small enough to do it without his big horns getting in the way.

"O... Okay..." You mumble, a bit caught off guard, shyly looking away. "B-But... I'm fine..."

"Mhm, yeah, lassie, ye are. An' Ahm gonna know if ye aren't..." Johnny murmurs in the most omnious way possible, making you shiver a bit in place as you stare at him wide eyed, John just rolling his eyes with a smile on his lips. "Can smell ye, gonna knae right awa' if you worsen, yeah, wee pup?" He croons, scottish accent strong, leaning closer with a big, smug grin.

"Stop scaring the kid, mutt." Simon growls as he comes back, slapping the back of Johnny's head with a bit too much force in your opinion, but all the werewolf does is snap his teeth at the bigger man's direction with a huge smile still on his face.

"We only have in tablets?" Kyle murmurs, face scrunching in displeasure.

"Unfortunally. I'll buy drops later for next time." Simon rumbles back, gently running his hand over Kyle's ruffled feathers, making the harpy relax a little. "The tablets are good for now."

"These the 500mg?" Kyles asks, humming in consideration as Simon nods.

"Too strong." John rumbles lowly from his place kneeling by your side, hand firmly planted on your blanket.

The harpy nods, agreeing with the dragon as he stares at the tablet he popped out on his hand. In a quick movement, Kyle bites more than half of the tablet off, leaning over the back of the couch to give you the rest.

"Here you go, baby. Swallow it with your tea." He smiles lovingly, sharp nails gently putting the small piece against your small palm.

"Y-You swallowed...?" You mumble, slightly shocked with his actions.

"This medication is not enough to have any effect on me, chick." He smiles, a small and gentle laugh coming out of his mouth.

"Garrick has taken much stronger shit just to stay awake during missions." Ghost huffs humerously.

That comment certainly makes you curious, but your attention is called back to John as he gently pushes your small hand close to your mouth.

"Take it, doll, come on."

You nod quietly, quickly putting the tablet in your mouth and taking a sip of the almost-finished tea to swallow it under the watchful eyes of the four of them

"Good." John croons deeply, his eyes getting lighter for a second, startling you a little.

"Pup needs food." Johnny mumble, once again leaning close to your body.

"I'll make it," John huffs, climbing back to his feet. "Make a good bean soup with some bacon. Gonna liven up the pup right away."

"Add collard greens, great for the human flu." Ghost notes gravelly, leaning over the back of the couch where he and Kyle were standing to grab the empty mug from your hands.

They’re starting to give you a small headache. They truly didn’t stop, did they? They were always moving, always doing something. They worked so well together too, on top of their own game and each other’s.

"While they do that, it's time for a nap, don't ye think?" Johnny rumbles, pulling you to him in a quick motion that gets you almost dizzy.

"I-I just woke up..." You mumble, unsure, trying to look up at him from where you were laying against his body, but you were unsucceful as he simply pulled your blanket over you once again and made you lay sideways, putting a pillow over his stomach so you could lay your head on it confortably.

"And ye're sick, pup. Ye sleep." He rumbles gently, patting your small head of hair.

"That's good. We'll call you when the soup gets ready." Kyle nods with a loving smile on his face, his wings puffing out now for a different reason than his stress from moments ago.

Simon rounds the couch to reach the fireplace, adding more firewood with expertise, moving the still-not-burned logs with his bare hands to make sure the fire keeps going. Kyle takes the time to also draw the curtains close, immediately bringing darkness to the room now that all that expanse of white snow was covered.

You were still a bit in alert, but the darkness helped your mind to settle a bit, Johnny's warmth under you making you sleepier than you though you would feel as his giant hand kept caressing your short hair, sharp nails scratching oh so gentle against your scalp. Apparently, he's going to be with you all the time to make sure you're safe and sound, healthy and comfortable.

He cooed something very quietly, but you didn’t manage to understand it before your eyes fell closed, exhaustion brought on by the flu making you fall asleep quickly.

Your social worker was right... they are so nurturing... you have been with them for barely three days, and yet...

Your eyes go a little misty as you start to lose consciousness.

You don't want to leave.

335 notes · View notes

hanniesbrat · 3 days ago

Text

the boy is mine | k.mg

pet play w mingyu

pairing: kim mingyu x reader, reader’s best friend is yuqi! ((g)i-dle) also cheol lol

wc: 5.6k (can you believe i cut it down?)

genre: strangers -> fucking, smut, little cracky at some parts

synopsis: when one of your best friends (who also happens to be a frat bro), seungcheol, invites you to his halloween party, you hesitantly accept. you were never really the party type… but one guy, one of his new friends to be exact, might single handedly change that.

!other kinktober fics!

a/n: ......heyyyyy... no one hate me. i know im almost a whole month late ): prepping for the svt concert took more time than i anticipated, i live in america so... yeah all that happened, work got in the way, i had a lot of yap days with my wife @jenoslutie which has been so nice!! <3 and i JUST (literally today) got back from visiting my bestie @goblynnrockz for their birthday :p BUT in between all that, i managed to finish this bitch. (pun intended) ALL OF THAT BEING SAID, i really hope you guys enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it. and if it seems like its eluding to there being a potential relationship between mc and gyu, well... maybe there will be in the future ;p

(P.S. you must picture long, wavy haired mingyu in this :3 more like the pic on the right. i just put the lolla pic bc it fits the vibe you CANNOT argue w that lol okay imma stop yapping now. ENJOY LUVLIES!!!!)

you weren’t the party type, but when one of your best friends, seungcheol, invited you to his frat’s halloween party with a nearly quivering bottom lip, you couldn’t say no.

“you have to let me bring whoever i want as my plus one.” you deadpanned while crossing your arms.

“so you’ll go?!” he nearly squealed.

you sighed before nodding with an annoyed, “yes.”

“fuck yeah!” he yelled before swooping you up in a big hug. you couldn’t help the laughter that erupted from your chest.

you loved when cheol got all giddy. it was such a silly contrast to his wide, strong build, and that’s always been so enduring yet hilarious to you. you didn’t think anyone else like him existed in real life.

until you met him.

“remind me again why you are dragging me to a party?” your best friend, yuqi, chuckled out from the passenger’s seat of your car.

you took the last right before reaching the house. “cheol asked nicely and… i’ve been needing an excuse to wear these boots,” you smiled, looking for a parking spot.

yuqi silently pointed to a spot on the street, and as you parked, she went on. “i just can’t help but wonder why cheol wanted you to go so bad like… he knows you’re not a partier.”

“he wants me to get out of my shell more.” you shrugged, getting out of the car.

“well you’re definitely out of your shell, fucking look at you. a full latex outfit and tits out? girl…” yuqi gawked at you for a moment.

dressing as blackcat was far out of your costume comfort zone. normally you went the horror route. billy the puppet, jennifer check (in the prom dress with the contacts, blood and all), freddy krueger, etc. so, wearing a latex set that left nothing to the imagination except for any ink you may have on your skin was out of character, but you wanted to spice it up this year.

“i think the little mask helps be feel a bit hidden,” you giggled seen as it’s a thin black eye mask, not hiding who is under it at all. yuqi jokingly scoffed and you then took the attention off yourself. “look at you, catwoman. you look devious with that whip,” you cooed, then took her hand in yours and gave her a spin on the sidewalk.

“oh stop it,” she blushed. “let’s get inside before it starts getting too crazy.”

you two walked in practically attached at the hip. you scanned the front room for cheol, yuqi doing the same. “ah! there he is,” she pointed toward the kitchen.

you looked over, immediately making eye contact with him. he waved you guys over to stand with him and some frat bro you didn’t recognize.

“y/n!” he greeted you with a bear hug, unfazed by your tits practically spilling from your top. “and yuqi! hey long time no see!” he said sweetly, giving her a side hug.

“hi! it’s good to see you, cheol,” she giggled.

“are you gonna introduce us?” you motioned to his friend beside him and smiled.

the friend smiled and reached a hand out, “hey, i’m chan! nice to meet you both.” after shaking both of your hands, a warm smile across his face, he turned around to finish concocting a drink for himself.

“you know we have a spare room. if you guys want, you can have some drinks! chan makes a mean lemon drop.” cheol offered you both.

yuqi got a devilish smile on her face, “don’t mind if i do, fred. one lemon drop, please, daphne!” she giggled leaning backwards on the counter next to chan, watching what he was doing over her shoulder. she faced forward after a moment and motioned her head toward you. “what about you miss latex?” she smirked giving you a once over. the girl wasn’t even drinking yet and she was already getting flirty. typical. (<3)

“don’t even let her answer that,” seungcheol quickly intervened. “make blackcat a drink, please. the pretty lady deserves it,” he grinned, wrapping an arm around you.

“well thank you, cheolie… but deserve it? for what?” you asked cutely, looking up at him.

“putting up with my bitchass. thank you for coming tonight. i’m glad you did,” he stated sweetly, giving you a kiss atop your head. you just leaned into him, silently telling him “you’re welcome” and “me too”.

“what’s up?” you look over at chan who’s finishing your drink up, and he’s got his phone between his ear and shoulder. “oh shit okay! we’ll be right out!” he hung up, sliding the phone in his pocket, then turned around handing you your drink. “pretty lady,” he smiled. “cheol lets go. that was vernon, they’re outside.” he said, patting cheol on the shoulder, making his way out of the kitchen hurriedly.

“okay! you two wait right here, i’ll be back.” seungcheol requested, then ran after chan.

“oh god,” you walked forward to the counter and turned so your back was leaning on it with yuqi. you two looked out from the kitchen, into the crowd of people that had seemingly gotten significantly larger since you’d arrived minutes ago. “they’ve all gotta be members of the mystery inc huh…” you trailed off.

“i wonder what poor guy they got to be scooby,” yuqi empathized.

“i bet it’s soonyoung.”

“be so fucking for real, y/n. he’s a fucking tiger every year,” yuqi said pointedly. she was right.

just then, the room got significantly more quiet meaning- oh those boys and their group entrances…

it was never anything elaborate, but they did have to make their presence known. cheol almost always walking in first as the rest of the boys followed.

you and yuqi made your way out of the kitchen to the living room, disregarding cheol’s words from earlier. you two managed to push toward the front of the swarm of people that were gathered near the door. shouts then could be heard from all over, praising the commitment of all the boys. first was cheol as fred, then chan as daphne walking alongside wonwoo as velma, and last but not least vernon as shaggy with… not soonyoung as scooby. “who the fuck is that?” you nearly drooled leaning over into yuqi’s ear.

“wonwoo?” she suggested.

“no, dumbass, obviously i know wonwoo… who’s scooby?” your voice dropping a cool octave or two in curiosity.

“i don’t know but… fuck is he fine,” she said bluntly.

you both had your eyes locked on him until yuqi’s gaze redirected to wonwoo… her main interest right now and always. “if you’ll excuse me,” she hummed, grazing a hand across your shoulder and handing you her whip as she strolled forward toward the tall boy wearing thicker framed glasses than normal.

you made your way back to the kitchen to wait for one of your friends to come back, knowing one of them would find their way to you.

or so you thought.

someone did definitely make their way to you, but it wasn’t cheol, yuqi, or even chan.

“i didn’t know blackcat carried around a whip,” scooby shot you a cheeky smile while reaching beside you on the counter for a drink.

you smiled, leaning your hip on the counter to face him. “she doesn’t, but cat woman does and she needed me to hold it for her.”

“well… i’m glad she needed you to because it gave me an excuse to talk to you.” you both chuckled, your face getting flushed. he turned, mirroring your position against the counter. “i’m mingyu. i just joined the frat,” he explained rather shy in comparison to his confident demeanor that he approached you with. it was charming.

“well hello mingyu,” you chuckled, chugging the rest of your lemon drop. “i’m y/n. i’m friends with cheol.”

“oh no way! you’re like… his best friend,” he laughs trying his drink. you giggled watching his face contort at the potency of the alcohol. “hey don’t laugh! bleh! but it’s nice to finally meet you.”

“it’s nice to meet you too,” you covered your mouth to snicker a bit more as if that makes it any less “mean”.

once he recovered a moment later, he sat his cup down and spoke up again. “you know, y/n, you make a beautiful blackcat,” he complimented, giving you a once over as respectfully as he could. from the minute he laid eyes on you when yuqi had walked way from you, he knew he had to talk to you. your little whip that didn’t go with your costume was his perfect excuse, and… you looked amazing. that could’ve even been enough of an excuse on its own.

your cheeks grew warm at the compliment with his demeanor and tone. it’d shifted to something more sensual than before. his eyes getting darker, but still soft.

“thank you,” you smiled before reaching up to play with one of his ears. “and you make an adorable puppy.”

his body stiffened, but it was so subtle you almost didn’t notice. you chose to ignore it, moving to his collar. “did minghao make this?” you asked, tilting your head admiring the well recreated scooby dog tag. you pulled on it a little, as if to test its durability, but really you wanted to see if this was doing something to the tall man before you. sure enough, you watched as he swallowed rather hard under your touch. you wouldn’t have noticed had you not been staring at his throat already.

“y-yeah he did. he’s really talented,” he said softly, slightly tilting his head back as you took your finger from the collar, and slowly traced it down his chest that was only covered by a thin, tight brown t-shirt.

“what’s the matter, scooby? cat got your tongue?” you asked in a very playful way, not wanting to come off too strong too fast as you were already mere centimeters away from his body now.

when he looked down at you, his eyes were pleading. desperate. like he was silently begging for you to do something more. he couldn’t find the words to answer your silly question. instead he sent his eyes to scan your face, lingering longer over your lips.

“gyu!” you both jumped back from each other. up pranced soonyoung, but he wasn’t a tiger. “and y/n? hey!” he gave you a hug and you squeezed him back.

“hey soonyoung!” you gathered your composure far quicker than mingyu who was still trying to comprehend what the fuck just happened. “a cowboy this year?” you motioned your hands to his costume.

“had to change it up,” he shrugged. “still got my date, though,” he grinned. you knew it was the stupid plastic skeleton he dragged along every year in the spirit of the holiday.

“well, wherever you set her down, i can imagine she goes way better with this outfit than the tiger onesie,” you both laugh.

“girl… a whip? i don’t think blackcat-“

“shutup, i know. it’s yuqi’s. she’s catwoman.” you deadpanned.

he put his hands up as if to surrender, “got it, no need to use it on me.” you two laughed together again.

mingyu wasn’t enjoying this conversation like you and soonyoung were, however.

he gently grabbed your wrist while patting soonyoung on the shoulder. “excuse us,” were the first words to come out of his mouth in the past couple minutes. it came out low and demanding, an extreme contrast from the state you had him in before soonyoung showed up.

you looked at soonyoung then shrugged your shoulders in confusion and blew him a quick kiss, whip in hand as mingyu pulled you away. “have fun!” he yelled after you both.

“mingyu, where the fuck are we going?” you finally ask as he's pulling you up the stairs.

“my room,” he states bluntly.

“your room? why didn’t you just get ready here then?” your genuine curiosity taking over.

mingyu stopped you both in front of his door. “except for cheol and chan, we all got ready at vernon’s,” he answered very matter of fact, then his eyebrows furrowed remembering what he was doing.

he opened his door, pulling you in with him. once he closed the door, he grabbed you and pushed you against it, hands cupping your face, instantly attacking your lips with his own. your hand naturally found its way to his long, wavy hair while your other rested on his chest. you slightly tugged at his hair, a groan escaping his lips. you smiled and chuckled against his mouth, knowing exactly how this was gonna end, despite his attempts at taking control of the situation.

he ignored your cockiness, moving a hand to the zipper of your top, toying with it just to be a dick. after about 10 seconds of that, you decided it was enough.

“why don’t you be a good puppy and unzip me already,” you pull on his hair hard enough to pull him away this time. his eyes desperately searched yours, not understanding, himself, why every time you called him that, it made him feel weak in his knees.

“o-okay,” he stuttered before unzipping your top the rest of the way. his mouth hung open at the way your tits broke free from the tight latex. “god..” he whispered. eyes still locked on your chest, he tried to speak, “c-can i please-”

“yes,” you breathed, not letting him finish his sentence, knowing exactly what he wanted.

mingyu wasted no time, latching his mouth onto one of your nipples, desperately sucking on the skin as if his life depended on it. a low groan escaped your lips as you finally dropped the whip on the floor, and moved that hand to his back, lightly scratching at him through the thin fabric of his shirt. he moaned against your chest, sending a chill down your spine.

“on your knees,” you demanded. he pulled away from your chest with a rather puzzled expression on his face. “don’t make me say it again,” and with that, he practically dropped to the floor, looking up at you with the most beautiful eyes you’d ever seen. “good boy,” you praised, petting his head between his ears. you walked over to his bed, sitting yourself down at the edge of it.

“come,” you said gently. mingyu started to stand up. “nuh uh,” you stopped him. “on all fours.”

“i- but i-,” he tried to protest, stumbling over his words.

“crawl. or i’ll walk out that door right now,” you threatened.

he immediately got back on his knees, then bent forward, using his arms to help him crawl over to you. he didn’t break eye contact as he made his way to where you sat on his bed, your legs slightly opened. you leaned down, reaching in between your legs for his collar. you hooked two fingers underneath it and pulled him forward. he wrapped his arms around your waist, knees still planted on the floor as he looked at you longingly.

“what a good puppy,” you cooed, moving your hand from his collar to his hair along with your other hand. you petted him right next to his ears on either side of his head. he hummed, tilting his head to the side, you moving your hand so he could rest his face on it. you thought this was just gonna be a typical dom/sub dynamic, but you quickly started realizing that it was far more than that.

you leaned down giving him a soft kiss to his lips, making him crave more. he moved his hands up to your face, pulling you back down. you both hungrily attacked each others lips, breathing in every bit of the other. “what the fuck are you doing to me,” he growled between kisses. to be quite honest, you had no idea either. you didn’t even know this man, really.

“get on the bed,” you demanded, out of breath. he mumbled, “okay,” then stood up and sat in the middle of his bed. “lay down, obviously,” you deadpanned. he felt like an idiot as he laid himself down. he watched you with big eyes as you crawled up his body. you sat yourself on top of him and reached to hook your fingers under his collar again. you used it to pull him up to your level.

“take your stupid shirt off.” he fumbled with the hem of his shirt, lifting it up and over his head. you ripped it from his hands and threw it across the room to god knows where. you pushed him back down, diving after his neck with your mouth. his back arched slightly from the bed as a whimper escaped his lips. as your teeth sunk into his skin, beginning to suck, his chest pressed against yours.

he knew it wasn’t physically possible for him to get closer to your body, but he could try. he was desperate. he craved your warmth. he craved you. a complete stranger. “y/n, please,” he whined.

“please what?” you whispered into his ear, then proceeded to kiss down his neck to his chest. all he could do was make pathetic little noises in response. “cmon, use your words like a good boy, huh?” you cooed looking up at him. you traced your fingers over his large pecs sending chills through his whole body.

“f-fuck,” he threw his head back into the pillow. “fuck me, y/n, please!” he panted, grabbing at the sheets beneath him.

“you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” you teased as you slipped a hand under his pants, grabbing him through his boxers. you couldn’t help the sigh that escaped your mouth when you felt how big he was. he looked down at you with flushed cheeks, embarrassed at how easily he was being turned on by your words alone.

“i- i would love that, y/n,” his eyes were so desperate, so needy. “c-can i take my pants off?” god, he was so obedient. it excited you beyond your own comprehension. before you could even think about it, you hooked your fingers under the waistband of his pants and started shimmying them down his thick, muscular thighs.

“fuck,” you mumbled under your breath. the tent in his boxers was intimidating to say the least. you sat on his thighs as you pulled his cock out, admiring the way it grew even more at your direct touch. mingyu was panting like a bitch underneath you and you hadn't even started stroking him yet. “easy there, big boy,” you giggled at his uneasiness. as you started pumping him with one hand, you used the other to stabilize yourself above him.

a deep groan ripped from his throat as he screwed his eyes shut at the sensation. “does that feel good, puppy?” you asked innocently. mingyu whimpered and looked into your eyes again, mere inches away. he used all his extra strength to push his head up to capture your lips with his. this kiss was far deeper than the others. it felt… more intimate than before.

“please y/n i need you,” he whispered against your lips. honestly, you needed him too, so instead of continuing the torture any longer, you got off the bed to remove your top completely, and took your pants off. before getting back on top of him, you pulled his pants the rest of the way down, then stood at the edge of the bed, gawking.

this man’s body was godly. skin the perfect shade of gold, soft muscle curves, the slight glisten on his skin as the moonlight from the window reflects off of his sweat. and his face… fuck, his face. the way his eyes glisten with lust and need, his lips swollen and slightly parted as he’s nearly drooling, waiting for you to do something, and to top it all off, his puppy ears on his head with the collar on his neck making him all the more irresistible.

you climbed back on top of him, his eyes not leaving yours, whether you were looking back at him or not. he only looked away when you started grinding your soaked cunt against his cock. he watched intensely as your slick coated him from top to bottom, his tip leaking precum each time you slid forward. “ready for me to fuck you, gyu?” you nearly whined out, your hands firmly placed on his chest to balance yourself.

“b-been ready, mo-” he stopped himself. “fuuuck please, y/n, please.” he begged.

“what a good fucking boy you are. don’t even have to ask you to beg.” you lifted yourself, and as if there was a form of telepathy happening, he reached down to lift his cock straight up, ready for you to do nothing but line yourself up and sink down in him. however… you both knew that was going to be painful for you. your nails began to dig lightly into his chest as you slowly sunk yourself down on him. a long string of whimpers falling from your lips while he gripped your hips, helping you steady yourself as you now sat all the way down on his cock. you swiveled your hips a couple times before slowly lifting them and slamming back down onto him without warning. a gasp escaping your own lips.

“ah! Fuck!” mingyu cried out, throwing his head back into the pillows again. the grip he had on your hips only tightened.

you moved your hands to his neck, applying only slight pressure as you started moving up and down on his cock. his breathing became sporadic, and you could feel his veins on his neck starting to bulge under your fingers as you started to pick up your pace. “collar getting too tight?” you breathed.

“n-no,” mingyu choked out. “mmmph~ i like it,” his voice was hoarse, but soft. his hands finally moved from your hips to roam your body. he dragged them up your waist until he was cupping your tits. he started kneading the flesh, licking his lips as he watched your face start to contort with pleasure. you let go of his neck and put your hands on top of his, over your chest.

the scene was so beautiful before him, he was growing more and more impatient, needing to chase his high. you threw your head back crying out a “fuck!” as mingyu started meeting each bounce of yours with a sharp thrust.

“a-am i doing a good job?” he whined, “does it feel good?” all he wanted was your validation and praise.

“y-yes~ fuck- such a good boy for me,” you cooed as stable as possible. you brought a hand down and combed your fingers through his hair right below his puppy ears. his thrusts slowed and so did you. you hadn’t realized how much of the “fucking” was being done by him now instead of you. he hummed and closed his eyes while you ran your fingers through his hair again. both of your movements came to a complete stop. nothing but cockwarming and heavy breaths while you petted the pretty boy beneath you.

once he opened his eyes, you gave him a soft smile and he nestled his face into your hand. looking up at you with those puppy eyes, the next words that came out of his mouth were jarring to say the least. “w-will you sit on my face? please?” you could’ve sworn he batted his lashes too.

you giggled before teasing him, “are you seriously asking to pleasure me right now?”

“no im fucking begging, y/n please.” he whined.

“well, when you beg like such a good boy, how could i tell you no, hm?” you hummed before moving your hands to his headboard, climbing up his body, stabilizing yourself over his face.

he wasted no time trying to attack your core with his tongue, but you didn’t want to let him have it that easily. you moved a hand down to tug at his hair, pulling him off of you. “nuh uh. stick out your tongue,” you demanded.

“w-what?” his eyes were big with uncertainty.

“did i stutter? stick out your tongue and stay like a good puppy.” you spit at him, no patience left in your voice.

so, mingyu did just that. slowly but surely he opened his mouth wide, laying his tongue out for you like the good boy he was.

you lowered yourself back down onto his tongue, slowly moving your soaked cunt back and forth. he just looked up at you with such adoration in his eyes, but tongue out like an absolute idiot. it was driving you crazy.

mingyu was going arguably more crazy, though. he wanted to devour you. taste every single inch of you, and lap up every last drop of your arousal like there was no tomorrow.

you let out a whimper that drove him over the edge, and he couldn’t contain himself anymore. he brought his strong arms up, wrapping them around your thighs, locking you in place on his face. you gripped onto his bed frame tighter as he began to suck on your clit with such vigor, you almost came on the spot.

fuck he’s good at this.

he then started fucking his tongue in and out of you, using his own strength alone to bounce you up and down slightly on the muscle.

“mmph~ fuuuck~ mingyu please, don’t stop,” you pleaded, knuckles white from holding onto his headboard for dear life. who was he to deny you? he moved one of his hands from your thigh to the bundle of nerves above where his tongue was fucking in and out of you. as soon as he started rubbing gentle but fast circles on your clit, you knew you weren’t gonna last long. the familiar knot in your tummy forming far faster than you’d like to admit.

“p-puppy i’m c-close. gonna make me cum,” you half panted, half wailed.

he moved his mouth away to talk, fingers still working on your clit.

“cum for me please baby, cum all over my tongue,” his voice had dropped to a dangerously low tone. he went back to tongue fucking you and your grip on his headboard became so tight you thought you might break it.

“gyu! fuck! i’m- fuck!” a wave of pure euphoria flooded your whole body faster than you could comprehend. mingyu lapped up every last bit of cum dripping from your cunt.

“jesus christ,” you panted.

“okay y/n, all fours.”

“what?” you looked down at mingyu’s big brown eyes in complete shock.

“i- i’m sorry please can i fuck you on all fours?”

“mingyu i’m not worried about how you wanna fuck me-”

“then, please? can i? I’ve been a good boy…”

“you definitely have,” you reassured, moving a piece of his hair out of his face. “i just don’t know if i have the energy for that right now.”

“you don’t have to do anything, just- y/n just let me take care of you…” his voice was so soft and genuine. nothing like you were used to from a hookup.

“fine… then can i just lay on my back?” you both chuckled.

“whatever you want.”

once you guys repositioned yourselves, mingyu on top of you for the first time tonight, you couldn’t help but let your mind race. i could get used to this view… y/n stop it’s just a fucking hookup, you’ll only ever see him again in passing. but his voice… the way he’s speaking to me is so… sweet… so? he’s probably just fucking pussy whipped. and pussy whipped he was, but it wasn’t that simple.

“are you ready, baby?” his eyes scanning yours intently as if to catch any trace of uncertainty that may reside in your eyes.

“y-yes. at least i hope,” you giggled. a fangy smile gracing his face. fuck, his smile.

as mingyu started to push himself into you, you winced at the stretch. it was almost like he’d gotten bigger since you were on top of him earlier. “ah~ fuck gyu,” you whined.

“too much? do you want me to stop?”

“no, no please don’t stop,” you just gripped onto his arms and closed your eyes.

a couple seconds later and he finally bottomed out, causing both of you to let out a string of low moans as you both adjusted to the feeling of his rather fucking huge dick inside of you. (how else was i supposed to word that like c’mon now)

within a minute mingyu was drilling into you at an animalistic pace. the grip you had on his biceps probably close to breaking skin with your nails. your back arched at its limit. both of you sounding like you're in one of the most hardcore pornos ever filmed. the bed creaking, slamming into the wall… you get it.

the rest of the world had completely withered away at this point when suddenly…

BANG BANG BANG! “jesus christ, mingyu! that you in there?” seungcheol… fuck.

mingyu stilled all movement, “uhhh yeah… what do you want?” he dropped his head onto the pillow right next to your head. you couldn’t help but giggle.

“Sorry.. just uh… have you seen y/n?!” he yelled from the other side of the door. mingyu’s head shot up, both of you looking at each other with complete panic in your eyes.

“you could… you could say that i’ve seen her… yeah?” mingyu yelled back, wincing as he awaited his response.

when seuncheol didn’t answer right away, you decided to speak up. “hi cheol…” you said softly but loud enough for him to hear you.

“you’re fucking kidding,” seungcheol scoffed before walking away yelling, “you two fuckbirds have fun!”

you and mingyu just laid there for a second before bursting out laughing.

“okay that was embarrassing,” you covered your face.

“oh don’t act like you didn’t like it,” he grinned, leaning down to start kissing on your neck. “you think i can’t feel how much wetter you got?” he bucked his hips into you without warning, making you yelp. he just chuckled, lifting his head up to look at you again.

your mouth was hung open like an idiot, unsure of how to respond, actually embarrassed now.

“look who’s the tough guy now, huh?” he taunted, beginning to slowly pump in and out of you again. your eyes rolled back into your head and your hands reached for his hair. sensing that the puppy fun would be ending now, you tried to focus your vision enough to unclip the ears from his hair and throw them elsewhere in his room. “oh, are we done with those now?” he asked in such a bitchy tone, you could’ve slapped him back into his submissive state, but you were over the playing now.

“mingyu, just fuck me,” you panted now able to put your hands in his hair how you please.

“that’s no way to get what you want now, gorgeous.”

“mingyu, please just fuck me already!” you whined, wrapping your legs around his torso.

the groan that escaped his lips at that action was inhuman as he sped back up to his pace from before, however, far harder.

“fuck! Mingyu!” you cried out, unable to do or say anything else.

“what? wanted me to f-fuck you, no?” he teased, stopping to lift one of your legs over his shoulder, then removing your mask in one quick motion before pounding into you again. the new angle pushed you to your limit once again, far too fast for your own sanity. “let go for me again baby, i can feel it. you’re c-close aren’t you?” he cooed softly in contrast to his brutal movements. “touch yourself for me,” he breathed.

you moved a hand down to your clit, rubbing away at the bud while your other arm moved to his back, pulling his body closer to yours as you reached your high. the close proximity bringing his clingy self closer to his own breaking point.

now forehead to forehead, the knot in your stomach about to snap, you moved your other hand up to his back, fingertips lightly pressing into the skin. mingyu brought a hand to your neck, holding it gently, but firm as he railed into you for the last few times.

“-m cumming!” you cried, now digging your nails into his back.

“fuck!” he growled at the lovely sting of the scratches you were leaving. your cunt fluttering around his cock however was the final straw. “ah~ baby~” he groaned before crashing his lips into yours as his orgasm hit.

“so… you always have wipes conveniently available on your nightstand?” you giggled, curled up in his arms under his blankets.

“you know, it was actually pure luck,” he started. “cheol did a grocery run today and when he brought me my bag there were a couple of our toiletries and i was gonna go put them in the bathroom bu-”

“hey, gyu?” you looked up at him.

“yeah?”

“shhhhh…” you smiled, placing a soft kiss to his lips before laying your head back down on his chest.

he kissed the top of your head and whispered with a chuckle, “sorry. i talk too much.”

“uh uh just… sleepy,” you yawned.

how you two managed to tune out the party is beyond anyone’s guess. he didn’t have to run his fingers in your hair for a full minute before you knocked out, but he did anyway until he fell asleep himself.

tag list: @skzooluvr @jenoslutie @iluvhoshi @goblynnrockz @map0fthes0ul7 @unlikelysublimekryptonite @actuallynarii @glttrlix @ninigyuuu @starcandybby (i hope that was everyone! i feel like my list got messed up but hopefully it's right!)

#svt smut #kinktober #mingyu smut #mingyu x reader #hanniesluvr

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multipleoccupancy · 19 hours ago

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He had once been exactly the same as far as he could understand, he had accepted the first ticket out of the ward and Theo wasn't going to pretend as if he hadn't done the same. Davidson had got to him first, that was all. Not too keen on pointing it out to Violet in that moment, wanting to be as distant from the other Theo as possible in her mind, he just accepted her insistence with a nod. "You have met him, I haven't." He pointed out with his conceding to her answer. "I hope you never see him again either." He at least gave and certainly hoped that was the case, she was already traumatised by him, he didn't think there was a reason to send her back there.

Not noticing she had expertly dodged asking about the rules, and sensibly so, Theo ran an absent hand through his hair for the thought on what other agents sometimes got up to. "Sometimes they cause civilian casualties, attack each other for no reason, are inappropriate with each other or civilians." He made sure to avoid talking about those with the unhealthy relationship and attraction towards monsters. "Sometimes they don't complete a mission and another group end up with a much bigger and more dangerous task." There was a problem in the North of the country that they knew about but were not sure how to handle yet.

While it was true he and Samantha had made something of a difference in how Delta Green treated its agents, it was still just a small dent in the wider problem. So many were used up and cast aside once they went insane or died, their families receiving nothing for an agent's sacrifices. It was something he knew would not change in his lifetime but they could work on setting up the foundations of it.

He shook his head at her calling him cool, still not quite able to manage even a poor dad joke at it. However he was pleased to have seen her accept the compliments and he smiled a little for it. "I'm sorry I scared you by the way," he said of his latest episode. Theo tended to get frustrated and embarrassed when his OCD became obvious, but this time it had been different and he was upset that he had caused her so much worry.

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐎 & 𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐓 @multipleoccupancy

"But he is nothing like you," she countered. Violet knew that the Horned One had taken advantage of a very dark time in Theo's life. Back at the ward, she had worried he was going to offer the same deal to her dad. Instead, it was Agent Davidson who had offered him a deal. But could she have judged her dad for choosing either deal? Not really, no. The ward was a terrible, terrible place. She no longer judged Evil Theo for falling for the Horned One's promises. But he was not a scared teenager anymore. He was a tyrant, now. "I just never want to see him again." And Violet didn't want her dad to see him, either. Her dad was strong. But Evil Theo was barely human. He was more monster than man.

Her eyebrows rose up. "What kind of dumb things do they do?" As for the rules, she didn't dare ask about them, worried they would trigger him. Agent Davidson had explained some of the rules to them, and he had made it very clear that any misstep would have her dad sent back to the ward. She certainly didn't want to bring back this memory right now. Instead, she chuckled at the image of her dad dragging agents by the ears.

"Samantha and you have already made a difference," she encouraged with a smile, "you changed how they recruit people. Maybe, with time, you can make an even bigger impact."

Violet had not expected all this praise, and it left her speechless and bright red. "Thank you," she croaked shyly, wrapping her arms around her knees. "I'm not as cool as you, though." Would she go far in life? Violet had been so sure of her path before the fire. And then, she had been sure again about Delta Green, only to lose all certainty once more. Now, she didn't really know. There was the FBI, and who knew? Maybe she could do what they had talked about at the ward, and open a special branch in the FBI.

#hvbris #killian #violet #asoue au

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valyrfia · 2 days ago

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I think Max will either retire or move to Ferrari in 2027

OUR LESBIAN FERRARI PROPHET SAYS SO? DROP THE TIMELINE

Okay okay anon walk with me.

So I think Lewis is Ready for Retirement. I think he would've retired at Mercedes, eighth championship be damned, if Mercedes had just given him an ambassador contract so he could've used his position and his brand for the causes he wants to dedicate the second half of his life to. As is, Mercedes refused to give him that contract (which, I could go on for AGES about how blindly ridiculous that is and is a clear marker of how far this sport still has to go re: racism)–but Ferrari did.

However, to be a Ferrari ambassador, a 2+1 year race contract accompanies it. Obviously this is a good move for Lewis anyway since it's looking like Ferrari will be one of the quickest teams moving into 2025 and Lewis must have some information on how they might nail the regulation change come 2026, but, and this may be controversial. Charles Leclerc is an established driver at Ferrari, the absolute darling of the tifosi (I mean, he's the second most important person in Italy after the literal pope), and most importantly he's a driver that has not yet hit his ceiling. Now, this is where I tread carefully, but I believe that Lewis, in comparison, is past his prime. Sure, he pulled off an incredible drive at Silverstone this year but he has not been able to match George–and George I believe is currently at a lower level than Charles. I have a sneaking suspicion that Charles is, well, going to walk all over Lewis next year. And if Lewis truly has only moved for the sake of the ambassador contract, he'll break the racing contract after 2 years.

Okay but Ollie is supposedly lined up for that Ferrari seat, and Ferrari NEED an order of succession, so who says that Max will take it?

Red Bull Racing is falling apart at the seams (sorry RB fans). Christian Horner is a power-hungry [REDACTED] who will bring the whole team down with him. The Thai side have never really cared about the Formula 1 team (and I know from Sources, backed Christian Horner in this whole fiasco which is why CH wasn't fired). Newey is gone, I'm sure other key figures will get pinched in the next couple of years, Max has kept everything together for pure skill this past year but the writing is on the wall. I'm going to hold everyone's hands when I say this, but I don't think Red Bull are winning either championships next year....

However, for as much as Max loves to talk about it, I don't think he's actually ready for retirement. I also don't think he'll be the type of guy to retire on a low. Max's contract is until 2028, but he can break it if he drops to P3 in the championship, which, I think there's a non-zero chance of happening in 2026 especially under new regulations/brand new engines.

So Ferrari are likely going to nail the new regs, Max doesn't want to retire on a low, and it looks like Ferrari shopping for a driver and Max wanting to leave Red Bull will line up within roughly the same window.

There's also a couple of sentimental reasons I want to point to. Max (as much as he tries to deny it) is a victim of the old Red Bull Golden Boy curse of being a Ferrari fan. I mean, he literally grew up in the Schumacher era, with his father being friends with Schumacher. He's stated multiple times how if he can't hear the Dutch anthem on the podium he'd like to hear the Italian one. I suspect deep down, he's much more of a tifoso than any of us realise.

There's also the Charles Leclerc of it all. Now really walk with me here because this is tenuous and yes is coming from a known Lestappie (tomato tomato) but isn't really a Lestappen argument.

Charles throughout his entire career has been obsessed with measuring himself up against those who are considered the "best of the best" and showing that he can beat them. He ate Seb alive, he'll likely do the same with Lewis. But both of these are drivers past their primes, at the very end of their lifespans. Charles has still yet to prove he can go toe to toe with a great at their prime and win.

Charles is, literally obsessed, with comparing himself to Max in interviews. Now (RIGHTLY SO) we Lestappies all point and laugh and call him a little obsessed but there's a very real publicity reason he wants to insist to everyone how him and Max were on each other's level in karting–people will subconsciously start to associate Charles as being on Max's level even if he hasn't proven it with championships. It's a very calculated move by Charles, and one I haven't seen many people discuss. Charles wants his name and Max's to be said in the same sentence because it validates Charles' own skill.

But Charles doesn't want to be known as Max's equal, not really, what he really wants is to be considered better than Max. And if he can't do that through number of championships, he can do it by putting the two of them in equal machinery. I think Charles will actually push Ferrari into trying to sign Max, because this is the way he can cement himself firmly as one of the greatest F1 drivers of all time.

So I think a perfect storm of these combination of different factors will result in a Max to Ferrari move in 2027. Obviously all pure speculation, but drawing everything together, I'd give it maybe a 50% chance (providing Ferrari actually do come together which, Forza).

#discourse asks #lewis to ferrari #max to ferrari gate #or lestappen gate v3......#max verstappen #anon

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virtuald0ll · 2 days ago

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𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲𝐬 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥

♡⸝⸝𝒶𝓁𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓃𝒶𝓉𝒾𝓋𝑒𝓁𝓎 | 𝒦𝑒𝓃𝓉𝑜, 𝒯𝑜𝒿𝒾, 𝒮𝒶𝓉𝑜𝓇𝓊 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒶 𝒴𝑜𝓊𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓇 𝑅𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

⌞♡⸝⸝ 𝒞𝑜𝓃𝓉𝒶𝒾𝓃𝓈⌝ NSFW, Age gap (Reader is 21), Petnames, Dilf fucker Reader (Toji), established relationship (Gojo), small hint of degradation, ⌞♡⸝⸝ 𝒲𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒞𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉s⌝ 1.3k ⌞♡⸝⸝ 𝒟𝑜𝓁𝓁𝓎'𝓈 𝑀𝑒𝓈𝓈𝒶𝑔𝑒⌝ First Post yippieee, got a little carried away on Kento's part ( ⸝⸝´꒳`⸝⸝) for Gojo's part I'd like to mention that he only felt attracted to reader once she was 18 (legal age in my country). English is not my first language!! Not Proofread!

♡⸝⸝𝒦𝑒𝓃𝓉𝑜

He knew he shouldn't but , he couldn't resist it, he couldn't resist you. He was too old for you , in his opinion, you should be with someone the same age as you , not his age. But why was it that you always came crawling back to him? He couldn't deny you anymore as much as he wanted , even though he didn't want to deny you, his facade was crumbling more and more each time. Each and every single caress your hands left on his arm, that sweet smile on your face whenever you greeted him and brought him something from the bakery. He wanted you , but his mind didn't let him , you shouldn't be with someone like him , someone who was nearing his thirties and couldn't give you what you wanted. The age gap worried him , but all those worries flew over his head when you sat down on his lap. That stupid pencil skirt of yours riding up and revealing more of your sheer tights cladded thighs. He swallowed a thick lump as he leaned back into his chair , his eyes never leaving yours as his breathing turned uneven. Your hand reached out , fingers brushing his blonde locks back and out of his face before gently grabbing his glasses and pulling them off of his face.

The tension waas thick , thick enough to be cut with a knife , his heart hammering against his chest. Kiss her , Kiss her , Kiss her, he was having an internal battle himself , his mind fighting against his heart , like a little devil and angel on his shoulders — but in the end, he listened to his heart. Your lips felt so soft against his dry ones , his calloused hands roaming your body over your clothes , his right hand groping your ass befoe garbbing the fabric of your pencil skirt and hiking it up to your waist. Your tights just screamed at him to rip them open , a quiet ripping noise ringing in your ears as he tore the thin fabric up — ultimately creating a big hole in your crotch.

You moaned softly as his cock started to chub in his trousers , a dent froming as all the blood in his body rushed down to his cock. Your ass pressed against it , his hard cock fitting so perfectly between your ass cheeks. " What happened to me being too young fro you?", you mumbled against his lips , earning gruff huff from him. "Be quiet Sweetheart.. I've changed my mind, I'm listening to my heart now", it didn't take long for your panties to be pushed aside , his thick length stretching your tight walls around the girth of it — he didn't care anymore , age was just a number as long as everyone is off age , nor did he care that anyone could walk in any moment , he was too focused on how well your pussy took his cock.

♡⸝⸝𝒯𝑜𝒿𝒾

"Always such a sweet 'lil thing for me , aren't 'ya? Taking my cock so good and deep into that slutty little hole of yours. You like fucking old man , don't 'ya?", his voice was almost mocking you as he rammed his cock inside your cunt , his fat tip kissing your cervix with each thurst his hips delivered, Wet squelching noises rung in your ears — wet squelching noises your pussy created. You could only moan in reply , his rough hand gliding down your bare back , thick fingers wrapping around the back of your neck to press your head further into the pillow. "Your pussy is the best.. taking me so fucking well. So tight and warm , so sensitive and easy to play with", he snickered hoarsely, smoke coming out of his mouth after he took a drag of his cigarette before leaning over and placing the burning cigarette into the ashtray on the night stand. His hands firmly grabbed your shoulders , forcing your back to arch as he pulled you up and fucked you back against his cock — his cock bullying its way deeper inside your cunt, so deep that it had your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

"If only you could see how much your pussy is creaming my cock ... such a slutty hole you have", he grunted under his breath as he felt your creamy hole clenching around his cock , his thrusts getting rougher than before. Your pussy was such a cute lil thing to him , so easy to please and always taking his huge cock like a champ , as if you were a pocket pussy created just for him. He didn't care if this was wrong , pussy is pussy , even if you were one of Megumis Friends — if only his son knew how much of a cockhungry slut his dear friend was. The same friend his son always spoke so highly about , the same friend who'd in the beginning give him shy little smiles — the same friend who was now chanting his name like a mantra and moaning like a slut.

♡⸝⸝ 𝒮𝒶𝓉𝑜𝓇𝓊

He didn't care if you were younger than him , he just waited for you to graduate befoer shooting his shot — after all , a Student-Teacher relationship was scandalous. But god , was it hard to resist you — he may or may not have pulled you away during your training just to make out with you in the empty classroom. You were always so obedient and listened to everything he said , but you also fought back just to rile him up — just like now. "What? Are you too old now to fuck me properly?", you teased as his pace slowed down , his blue eyes looking down at you with a loving gaze, a smirk spreading on his face. "Not excatly , just thought I'd slow down just in case you weren't going to be able to handle me Sweetheart", truth to be told , he didn't want to get rough with you despite how much he loved rough sex — you were just so delicate in his eyes. He wasn't sure if you were going to be able to handle him , but lately , he was having a hard time controlling himself. He wanted to fuck you hard and rough , to have you screaming his name , scratching him up and creaming his cock — but he never showed you his rough side. You could only snort in reply.

"Oh please , not being able to handle what? Your soft vanilla pace?", you taunted him , you knew that he had more in him, he practically gave you nothing. "Oh? I'll show you sweetheart... I'll show you how a real man fucks , not like those wimpy losers you used to date", he leaned back , his knees digging into the matress as he grabbed your thighs and draped them over his shoulders before leaning forward , making your knees bend and press against your chest. "Don't complain later ...", he mumbled under his breath before moving his hips again — at first , slowly to get you used to the change of positon, your eyes already rolling back and closing from how deep he was inside you. His ego was boosting as he watched your mouth fall open , a confident smirk on his face as he watched the way your eyes flew open as he put you in a mating press and drilled his cock inside your tight cunt.

Your hands were desperately clinging onto him as he fucked you just the way he liked — deep and rough. He was sure that his back was going to bleed with how your nails dug into his skin , scratching his pale back up and painting red scratch marks on it, his back your canva and your nails your paint brush. Your mind was fuzzy , you didn't know how long he had been going for you to already cum 4 times while he didn't even cum once.

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tomboy014 · 2 days ago

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Tamaranean Siblings, Part 2!

After the Body Swap incident, Phantom and Starfire get close. Really close. Turns out swapping bodies breaks down a lot of boundaries, and unlike Raven, the two have bonded. Starfire has always been a hugger, and she’s taken to carrying Phantom around like a teddy bear. Phantom is used to having a red-headed big sister, and ever since his parents worked the ecto-deflectors into their jumpsuits, he might maybe be a teensy bit touch starved. He loves to sprawl over Starfire whenever they hang out together.

It’s driving Robin up the wall. Phantom knows he’s been crushing on Starfire for a while, and he goes and does this?! He can’t help but get more brusque with Phantom, to the point it starts to interfere with group dynamics, and it prompts even Starfire to tell him off for it.

Danny confronts Dick privately to tell him off for being a total dingus. As far as the two of them are concerned, Kor’i and Danny are basically siblings now. He’s knows Dick has a crush on her; that’s why Danny has been trying to talk him up to Kor’i so she’ll give him a chance, and his attitude is not helping. Dick needs to CHILL OUT!

Robin: … Who?

Phantom: You live with her for pete’s sake! How do you not know her first name?!

This is also where it comes to light that Robin/Dick doesn’t actually have any dating experience.

Robin is a super popular super hero, leader of his team, and supposedly smooth and charismatic. Dick Grayson is the adopted son of Bruce frickin’ Wayne and beloved by the public. Danny’s at the bottom of the social ladder and he still got a date with the most popular girl in school. Twice! How are you this bad at girls?

Either way, things with Robin start to calm down and the group dynamic returns to normal (though Danny will never let him live down his lack of love life). But things in the training room start to heat up.

Starfire and Phantom now have a much better understanding of each other’s limits, and the gloves are off. The whole tower shakes whenever the two of them spar together, and they’re both experimenting with new ways to use their energy powers after seeing how the other uses theirs. Phantom even manages to give Starfire a black eye for the first time, and she’s ecstatic! It’s a Tamaranean thing. In their culture, it’s an accomplishment when a younger sibling to visibly injures the elder sibling for the first time. It shows how much the younger has grown and how well the elder has taught them. Starfire is super proud and posts it all over SpaceBook.

But Phantom has ulterior motives for pushing Starfire the way he has been. No one knows his strengths like Starfire does. More importantly, no one knows his weaknesses the way she does. If there’s anyone who’d know how to stop him…

Phantom asks Starfire to be his contingency plan, and explains everything that happened in The Ultimate Enemy, about his future self, what he did, and how terrified he is if he one day becomes that. If that ever happens, he wants her to be the one to take him out.

Don’t try to talk him out of it. He already gets it enough from his friends and sister that it won’t happen. That he’s a good person. He doesn’t need to worry about that, etc. He’s heard it all before, but… None of them have actually agreed or promised to end him if it does happen. And if it does… his friends are only human, and they couldn’t stop him before.

Starfire agrees. She can see how important this is to him, and she won’t lose Danny to a dark path the same way she lost her sister. The wave of relief that washes over him breaks Starfire’s heart. These must be the horrible feelings that led him to develop the Ghostly Wail.

Still, she is confident that this future won’t come to pass because he chooses not to let it happen. She, too, has been flung forward into a bleak future, but she knows nothing in the past, present or future is set in stone. She fought and changed the future with her own two hands. She’s knows Phantom is strong enough to do the same.

While Dick and Danny were never really good at staying in contact with each other, Kor’i is and keeps up her relationship with Danny even after he “retires.” She knew months before Dick of Jason did that he took the job at Arkham and is happy for him. It may not be the career path he wanted, but he found a good job and a way to still help people without his powers.

<<Prev

#dpxdc #danny phantom #starfire #arkham guard au #arkham guard backstory #long post #but we aren't done yet!

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kwondotcom · 1 day ago

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(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.

#𖤐 kae annotates

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