#i say this and realize i *have* been on pause

[boke---hinata---boke]

RON WEASLEY GUYS

The best most canon divergent my brain has been but please guys hear me out i

Okay so we all know the things that Harry, Ron and Hermione had to do to get to the sorcerer’s stone in the first book. Devils Snare, the key, the riddle and Wizarding Chess. We know that the Chess set was the work of Professor Mcgonagall, and assuming the protections were meant to work that means that Mcgonagall would have to have been an incredible chess player. Not above average, like GrandMaster level player. Given this when Ron beats McGonagall she is taken aback. Only 3 other people have beaten her, Albus, Severus and Tom Riddle. She takes to playing chess with Ron in the nights following in the common room (Ron doesn’t sleep at all until Harry wakes up and is back in the dorm). She has not beaten him. At the end of year feast when Dumbledore awards him points for the “best chess game Hogwarts have ever seen” the Slytherins and Ravenclaws are utterly ill. Throughout the rest of his Hogwarts career Ron is challenged by more and more students to play chess, Theo Nott, loses to him and the Slytherin students begin to look at him differently. Half of the Ravenclaws in their year watch in awe as he swiftly beats Parma. It continues like this through his time at Hogwarts, he has never lost. The Slytherin students begin to see his cunning mins, right after he beats Pucey, who is infamous for thinking 20 steps ahead. When Ron beats Marietta Edgecombe the Ravenclaws begin to follow him, they watch nearly all of his matches and take notes, completely ignoring the 5 pave paper due tomorrow. After Ron has beaten all of the students Snape (who has been listening to the whispers in the Slytherin common room) challenges him. The whole school watches with bated breath. It is well known that Snape has only ever lost to two people: Dumbledore and Voldemort. McGonagall promises him 15 Knuts if he wins, she can’t contain the shame any longer.

The ensuing chess match takes place over the span of several days, Snape is frequently writing late notes for the students who wish to see it. Other teachers are arriving to their respective classes late. Every time the game is paused Dumbledore casts the anti-tampering ward. This continues for nearly a week, Ron wins. Snape has never respected a Gryffindor more in his life (he is doubly harsh on him in potions, you beat one of the best players in the nation and you mean to tell me your potion is still bubbling??[Ron knows that Snape is seeing him, he just smiles and tweets for a few minutes before a perfect potion is bottled{Snape keeps them in his personal store]}) Eventually Ron is set to play Dumbledore, he is utterly terrified. Soon enough the match is the talk of Wizards across the nation, the Weasley family are all overjoyed for him, win or lose. The game begins and reporters from the Daily Prophet are there, Ron almost cracks, almost In the end after a week and a half Dumbledore’s eyes twinkle, with renewed vigor as he forfeits. Word gets out to Voldemort- he immediately tries to recruit Ron as a Death Eater. Every time Ron rejects him Voldemort sends an increasingly expensive and rare gift. Eventually Ron says if Voldemort vows to not hurt Harry that he will play him in chess, just once. The winner decides their own boon. The world is watching with baited breath as the best chess player and one of the most calculating minds in a century take the stage.The game lasts fornearly 2 weeks, a peace settles over the UK that has not been since Voldemort rose in that grave. The two declare a tie. No body wins, but Voldemort does realize that the war has become far too brutish.

[tan1shere]

Heyyyyyyy could YOU please PLEASE do one where Billie tells the reader how to touch herself, while Billie is on tour?!!?

Call Me

Billie Eilish x female reader !

A/n: coming righttttt up, hope you like it 😊

Warnings: smut, phone sex ?? Masterbating - think thats it !

Masterlist

It was lonely here all alone. Finding little jobs and activities to do to fill in time. Whenever you weren't working, yourself. Your girlfriend, Billie was currently on her HMHAS tour. And you haven't seen her in days. Truth be told you missed her like crazy. Her presence. Her voice. Her touch..

Which led to the next feeling you missed. Ovulation was no joke. And you were currently facing the feral-ness of it. Even more so that she isn't here. You had been frustrated all day. And you only now realize why. You needed to touch yourself, you had to relieve this pent up tension. So as the night comes along you get into your warm, comfortable bed. Checking the time. Billie usually calls around this time.

You figure shes sleeping, she had been extra tired lately. You go to slide your hand down into your shorts, about to touch yourself. When you do, but stopping. Things aren't the same. You wanted her touch. You try to continue but nothing was feeling good right now. That caused more frustration to bubble inside you. Deciding to just sleep it away. And hope tomorrow was normal.

Next day rolls around and you still have the same feeling. Frustration and horniness. Not a great combination, the day felt longer because of it. It was a bit earlier when you got home, but thankfully Billie didn't have a show today. So she was hopefully going to answer when you call. You couldn't take it anymore you needed her help. And you needed it desperately.

You go to lay on the bed, grabbing your phone and dialing her number. She answers in seconds, causing you to grow nervous. In all the years of being with her, phone sex was the one thing you've yet to do. So ofcourse you were nervous. Would she even help you, would this be odd? "Hi baby." You hear her say, cheerfully. You smile to yourself. "Hello!" You try your hardest to not jump into things, going to try give her some hints.

"How was your day?" She then asks. You sigh, ever so lightly. "A little frustrating, good to be home though. How about yours?" - "Mine was pretty boring I've just been preparing for tomorrow's show and chilling. Why was yours frustrating my love?" You think for a moment. "Just some work and other little things, some of which I just can't fix by myself.." - "I'm sorry, anything I can do to help at all?" Yes. Phone fuck me. Was all you wanted to say but you had to play things cool. Even if your body was heating up at the thought of this happening.

"Not that I can think of, just wanted to hear your voice I missed you." She smiles to herself. "I miss you too babe." There was a small pause, you were contemplating on how you'd do this. When a small idea pops into your head. You missed her voice so much, and it sounds like you had just woke her up from a nap. Her voice was slightly raspy, a bit of her tiredness peeking through.

"Did anything else happen today?" You then ask, getting comfortable on the bed. Moving your hands just above the waistband of your underwear. You had decided to get straight into your sleepwear, just a loose night gown. Wanting to feel good as all you've been wearing lately are big t-shirts to bed. You wanted to feel hot, make this moment more sensual. "Not too much if im honest, just got my outfit for tomorrow, did some other things. Just boring stuff really." You hum in reply, moving your hand in your underwear as she speaks.

Was this wrong? It felt a little like that. Your face heats up what're you even doing. But you get pulled from your thoughts when you hear your name. "Hello? Y/n, baby. You still there?" The name made you bite your lip. "Y-yeah sorry." She chuckles. "You didn't answer my question love." "Oh, oops. What was it?" She smiles to herself again, finding you cute. Except what you were doing was far from cute and downright filthy. "I asked you how shark had been, he's behaving right?" Your hand moves lower, trying to stay focused on the conversation and her voice. "Y-yeah he's been good." You let out a quiet sigh but she hears it. "Everything ok?"

You get nervous again, how were you even going to manage this. "I'm fine.." You needed her to keep talking, and thankfully she does. "Ok, Im sure if it's anything youre just tired. I was going to talk to you about when I get back, we have a dinner with Finn on the Friday. Just thought I'd remind you incase you forgot." Your finger had been in you, slowly moving the whole time she was talking. And when you don't reply she gets more confused. "Baby, what're you doing you seem distracted." You holt your movements, trying to think of an excuse but why? You wanted to call her and ask.

Ask her to talk to you, help you. So why were you so damn nervous. "Talk to me baby." God sake her voice was so hot even when she wasn't intentionally trying. You bite your lip again trying to stop any noise that was about to escape. Mustering up some sort of strength to reply. "I'm f-fine." Was all you managed to respond with. Billie sits there in thought, when she hears another sigh. Was she catching on? She needed to be sure. "I miss you, so. So much." She was playing with fire. You don't respond again, having your eyes shut as you try to give yourself pleasure.

When it's not working you let out another sigh followed by a tiny whine. She hears that loud and clear, smirking to herself. She knew good and well what you were doing. "Can't wait to see you in a few days, get to kiss you. Hold you. Touch.. you." She chose her words evily. But she didn't stop there. A breath was to be heard. Followed by a frustrated sigh. "Let me help, baby. You sound annoyed." Another small whine left you, at the fact she was right and just overall the way she was speaking to you.

Your brows knit together, giving in and letting her. She knows now, there's no point in staying silent. "It's no good, I miss you. Your hands." She coos. "I know baby, I know. I'm just so good at touching my girl huh?" Your head rests back. "So good." You breath into the speaker. "Your fingers still inside?" You reply with a hum. "Move em." So you do just that, slowly at first. "Move your thumb, touch your clit for me." You do that, touching it then moving your thumb in a circle motion.

Everything was so still and quiet she could hear your wetness and God it was driving her nuts, she wanted to be there. To see it, to feel it. "That's it." She says encouragingly, hearing your noises as you speed up on both tactics. She could just imagine it, you touching yourself just to her speaking. "Was baby doing this the whole time I was talking?" She then says. Your cheeks grow red with heat. "I- uhm." She lets out an evil chuckle, sending tingles straight to your pussy. It was such a hot chuckle. But then again, anything she did right now was 10x hotter. "You're such a filthy girl huh?" You bite your lip yet again.

Feeling more pleasure than you had been. "Please keep talking please." You begged. Voice so needy. "Plunge deeper for me, know you can. Imagine my fingers. How deep they go. Imagine your thumb is my tongue as I swirl it around your throbbing clit." Your back arches at the thought, you needed it more than anything. "Need you so bad." A louder moan was to be heard. The fact this woman is just talking to you and you almost coat the sheets in your nectar. She felt all the power in this moment. "Go faster for me - that's a good girl." She finishes as she hears the squelching increase. Your breaths and moans mingle into one as you get closer.

"Mmm, fuck I'm so so close. Please." She laughs yet again. "So cute, still asking to cum even when I'm miles away. So incredibly good, aren't you?" Your head lulls back into the pillows again, feeling the knot almost snap. "Fuck, Billie." - "Faster baby, rub your clit. Wanna hear you squirt." Just those words alone send both of those sensations out of you, having you leak and squirt all at once. Your breath being uneven as your eyes roll back. "Good, girl. That's what I like to hear."

[4linos]

how they ask to marry you.

stray kids hyung line x gn!reader

synopsis: how stray kids hyung line proposes ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

wc: 1063 (maknae line ver. soon)

bang chan.. right from the start, you two decided to keep your relationship quiet and very private, with only a select few people—your parents, his parents, and of course the members—knowing. He had been able to arrange for your whole family to be flown from your home country to Australia, where you two had been going on "vacation." The night before your last day, he was sure that he had been acting weird to you, mostly because of nervousness, and he wanted everything to go as smoothly as possible. you two were taking a walk along a beach as the sun started to set, and you said, "oh look! someone looks like they're getting proposed to.” when you saw a long crimson carpet with candles and rose petals leading to a large illuminated sign that read, "will you marry me?" you exclaimed out. chan laughed and said, "let’s get closer?" with excitement, you nodded. until you realized he had started to walk ahead of you and you saw the familiar faces of both his and your families. when you got to him, he got down on one knee, held the ring, and began, "there are countless ways I could express my love for you, but I believe that what really counts is that I want to live out the rest of my days demonstrating to you how much you mean to me. I feel like I can handle anything with you by my side, even though I know life can be unpredictable and there are many obstacles in my path. Your love, your support, and your trust are more than I could have ever asked for. Will you marry me? For the remainder of our journey together, will you walk hand in hand with me?" you blurted out, "yes," without hesitation.

lee know.. everyone knew you two were going to be together for a long time from the minute you two became a couple. no one has ever seen minho so enamored of someone as he was with you. since you two started dating, you had taken vacations together, so when he told you he wanted to spend the weekend at a cabin, you didn't suspect anything. However, when he urged you to get your nails done and purchase a formal outfit for a dinner, you began to feel suspicious.

after finishing the meal that minho had cooked for you on the last night of your weekend, you were making your way back up to your cabin from outside. "That was delicious, Min. thank you," you said as you placed your dish in the sink. "You're welcome, love." You paused before kissing him when you heard a pop come from your cabin bedroom. "What the hell was that?" you shrieked in fear "You wait here, and I'll check." Before you could object, he hurried up to the bedroom and said, "Y/n!" He yelled from upstairs, startling you, and you snatched up whatever weapon you could just in case. When you entered, you noticed lit candles, white balloons, and petals spread out in a heart shape. "Oh my God, Minho! You—" "I want to go through every high and every low with you, even though I know life won't always be perfect. No matter what, I want to stay by your side forever. Will you marry me?” lowering himself to one knee and smiling warmly while offering the ring, and saying, "this is it, no turning back." before you said yes, you kissed him.

changbin.. had always been open about his relationship with you even though dispatch had knowingly exposed your relationship, he was the one who confirmed it and asked everyone to respect your privacy and his relationship with you. you two had been dating for five years, but he knew he wanted to marry you since you stayed with him despite all the bad headlines that had been written about your relationship. he had grown highly protective of you and quickly silenced any negative comments of you.

so for his proposal he’d definitely gone all out, he had to, it’s what you deserved. changbin chose a rooftop overlooking the city skyline, where the setting was exquisitely furnished to fit the theme, complete with fairy lights, candles, and calming music. he would tell you how you have helped him grow as a person, how he views you as his partner in everything and how he can't imagine going into the future with anyone else. It would be raw, emotional, and completely authentic. changbin wanted the proposal to be a moment you both share with the people you care about the most. when you answer "yes," he would have your closest friends and family members hidden nearby to join in the cheering and celebration. the air would be filled with love, excitement, and enthusiasm as you two shared this unique time with your loved ones.

hyunjin.. although you had known each other since high school, you didn't start dating until a few years after his debut. over the years, he had accomplished great success and was appreciative that you had remained by his side for so long, despite being convinced that he wasn't the greatest partner. he had a big proposal plan for you and wanted everything to be special for you, but his plans were derailed when he unintentionally sent you a text about the details that was meant for someone else. he put off his proposal for a while in hopes that you would forget about it, but one day he asked you to join him for an “event” in paris. although you had already visited with him there a few times, he assured you that this time you would have more time to spend with each other. during his "event," he would plan an intimate dinner at a modest café overlooking the night skyline of paris. following a memorable evening, he would take you to a beautiful, hidden spot with a secret garden nestled in the nearby area. the warm, poetic light of a neighboring streetlamp would illuminate you both as hyunjin took your hand and explained his desire to live out the rest of his days with you. then he would come down on one knee and ask you to be his lifelong partner with a gentle but sincere "will you marry me?"

—

nini’s notes 110524

hi hi 😙 definitely say this every time but i’m nervous about this one 😀 i hope you enjoy this? i’m sorry if this is bad it’s my first time writing something like this :>

asks are always open if you have a request, concern, or question!

-🎀

[mind-intheclouds342]

Do it for them - Co-captain reader x Curly

Previous - Part 12 - Next

"So we just have to wait a little longer... Here you go"

You were finishing explaining the situation to Curly while giving him his medicine, Anya was standing behind you grimacing in pain at the sounds the man made while swallowing.

Anya: "How is it that... Can you tolerate that?"

"What thing? The sounds? The burnt meat? The smell? The blood?"

You were mentioning while slowly and carefully removing the bandages from his body, the man trying to be as quiet as possible so as not to further discomfort the other woman present, but the bandages were almost stuck to his skin.

You were applying water little by little to be able to peel them off better, you had managed to get more drinkable water from the station, grateful for it since they had been without bathing or cleaning themselves to avoid wasting it for weeks now.

Anya: "Everything..."

"Well, I've been to many places, doing different jobs... I've gotten used to it."

When you saw the woman's horrified face, you realized how bad that sounded.

"I worked in morgues and crematoriums! Heavens... I didn't kill anyone."

Anya: "Seriously?"

"My dad owned a morgue and a crematorium, when I turned 18, he made me work, you have no idea how many times I had to clean my own vomit off the floor... or the corpses."

Immediately, she covered her mouth, almost vomiting at the thought of it, but you laughed at her reaction.

"That was exactly my reaction! I grew up with a strong stomach."

Anya: "How did you get here?"

You finished removing the bandages from the man, looking at his skin, you sighed knowing full well that you would have to clean it, pus was already forming in certain areas.

Anya, upon seeing that, had to turn around and hold her stomach, trying to think of something else.

"If you want to get into medical school, you have to watch this, no professor will have pity on you for having a sensitive stomach."

Anya: "I've already seen it without the bandages... But... Today they look extremely bad... I'm sorry..."

Upon saying that, she took a deep breath and turned back again, ready to help you clean her wounds.

"...I was in charge of the morgue in just a few years, and one day, while preparing bodies... I saw him, my father on the table in front of me, ready to be open and empty like any other corpse.. Three shots to the chest, some guys had robbed a store while he was in, he tried to be a hero defending the cashier, and they shot him. The thieves fled with nothing in their hands... I got depressed..."

You looked at Curly, who was watching you attentively while you told that story he already knew.

"I ran away from home... I started with drugs... and all kinds of things to get money... I went to my mother's house just to ask her for money or to eat something, I didn't care how much she begged me to stay... I just... I couldn't feel good again, and I was destroying myself to know that I was still alive."

Anya: "...How did you get out of that?"

"Because of this stubborn one"

You smiled at Curly, who soon looked away as if he weren't paying attention to what you were saying.

"He found me shoplifting in a store, and instead of turning me in, he bought the things I was taking and invited me for a coffee" you laughed, recalling that moment.

Anya: "Seriously?"

"Then he was looking for me all over the city."

Anya: "Did he want to see you again?"

"I stole his wallet."

You paused to laugh at the memory as well, before continuing with the story.

"But he insisted on keep meeting with me, on helping me, and I ended up falling for his kindness... I started living in his house, he was never around because of work, I got a job as a dog walker to have my own money while I was recovering, and he was always making sure I was okay... After years... Finally, I had the strength to see my mother again... And she felt relieved to see me well... Ugh, you have no idea the scene she made when she met Curly, so happy that i found a good man, I wanted the ground to swallow me up."

Anya: "That still doesn't tell me how you ended up as co-captain."

"...Five years ago... Curly recommended me, I did the physical and psychological exams, the training, and since I passed everything flawlessly, well... That's how I ended up here!"

You scratched your neck, smiling somewhat embarrassed that it wasn't a great story of how you became captain on your own; that was the plain truth of how you had ended up there.

You finished putting the upper bandage on Curly, ready to continue with the lower part.

Anya: "We're going to have to be careful with the catheter for this part."

Immediately, they heard Curly's complaints when they were about to remove the bandages from that part.

"Don't be like that, Curly! Anya was the one who has been changing your bandages, washing them, and put the catheter in for you; there's nothing wrong with her seeing you again."

Anya: "I think he doesn't want you to see him..."

She said a little embarrassed, you turned to look at Curly, speechless, not knowing what to say to him.

"Okay, no problem, I'm leaving."

You raised your hands to get up from your seat and leave that room. 

Anya: "You shouldn't feel ashamed, she'ss your wife after all, she'll see you again someday."

Curly shook his head slowly, he preferred that you see him again when he was recovered.

[amiableness]

Peonies ; part four

Pairing: Theo Nott x Fem!Reader

Summary: Mattheo is in an awful mood after the party while Theo takes reader to the peony field.

Word Count: 4772

Warnings: Unrequited love & Mattheo and Theo get into it. Reader overthinks for a little bit. Mentions of drugging? One mention of Y/n. Let me know if there’s more!

A/N 💌 I can't tell you how nervous I am to post this, I feel like it's not my best work. But regardless, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter. As usual thank you to @moonpascal for reading, helping me with ideas, and just providing support and comfort. I love you endlessly!

SERIES MASTERLIST <3

“Did something happen last night between you and Mattheo?” Pansy asks, throwing the door open with an expectant look. Despite your low mood, you can’t help but crack a tiny smile at the sight of her—hair a tousled mess, mascara smudged beneath her eyes. She’s the perfect picture of someone who had way too much fun last night.

“Is there any particular reason you’re asking?” You reply cautiously, eyes following her as she saunters over and slips into bed beside you. She gives the blanket a hard tug, leaving you to huff in irritation when she claims more than her fair share.

“Because I heard him and Veronica fighting. I didn’t catch much, but I did hear your name.” Pansy looks you over, taking in your rumpled clothes and tired eyes. You’re not in much better shape than she is, and she can't tell if it’s the lingering effects of last night’s drinks or the aftermath of whatever happened with Mattheo.

“Merlin,” you sigh, rolling your eyes and sinking deeper into the warmth of your bed. You haven’t moved since Theo left about twenty minutes ago, and you’re not sure if you’ll find the energy to do so anytime soon. Honestly, the idea of staying curled up here is more tempting than you'd like to admit. “We got into it again last night.”

“Again?” Pansy raises an eyebrow, shifting to face you.

“Apparently, he does care.” Your voice is dripping with sarcasm and frustration.

“He told you that?” Pansy shifts so quickly it’s as if you’ve shocked her. Both of you know very well that Mattheo isn’t the type to open up about what he’s feeling. Years of watching him around his parents taught you why—with how many times you had seen them scold him for even a flicker of emotion, it was no wonder he kept everything locked up.

You sigh, staring up at the ceiling, “He said he wanted me to admit I have feelings for him too.” Pansy's eyes widen, her mouth falling open as she stares at you in disbelief.

“Feeling for him too?” She echoes, and you finally turn to meet her eyes with a weak nod. Your best friend sits there for a moment, studying your face carefully before choosing her next words. She knows she has a nasty habit of saying the first thing on her mind without considering that it might not be what you need to hear.

Pansy sits up, grabbing the pillow she was using and hugging it to her chest as she stares at you impatiently. She’s waiting to hear if you’ve finally told the boy you’ve been head over heels for, for years, that you like him too. “Well? Did you?”

“I couldn’t do it.”

“Please, tell me it’s for the reason I’m thinking.” She all but begs, her eyes wide with hope.

You let out a weary sigh. “I don’t know when I stopped having feelings for him, Pans. I didn’t even realize I’d lost them until he asked me to tell him I felt the same, and there was just...”

“Just..?” Pansy prompts gently.

A pause hangs between you as you search for the right words.

You hardly slept last night; your mind raced with thoughts of the past few months, trying to pinpoint when and how your feelings faded so quietly. You had liked Mattheo for so long, even convinced yourself that maybe you even loved him. But how could you truly love someone who was so closed off? Sure, he turned to you when he was struggling, but that didn’t mean he ever shared what he was feeling. He liked your presence and relied on you to be there whenever he needed support, but he never trusted you enough to truly let you in.

Not in the way you wanted, at least.

If he wasn’t comfortable with his own emotions, there was no way he would be able to handle yours. Maybe that was the heart of it—the realization that he would never fully open up to you, and that had kept you from falling in love with him. And maybe that was the best thing that could have happened, no matter how painful or uncomfortable it was to come to terms with at the beginning.

Then there was Theo. Who had promised to help you get over Mattheo, and from that moment on, he was there for you without hesitation. He held your hand whenever you needed it, and honestly, you had begun to lean on him a bit too much—being close to him had become your favorite feeling. He never made it feel like supporting you was a chore; instead, he made it seem like something he had always longed to do.

In truth, everything had changed for you. Spending time with Theo was no longer just a way to distract yourself from Mattheo; it became where you wanted to be. Being around him made you feel safe and accepted in a way you hadn’t realized you craved.

And that was absolutely terrifying.

You sit up abruptly, fully facing Pansy, “When you said that you thought Theo would give me everything if I let him, did you mean that?”

“Babes,” she begins, sending you a soft smile. “I’ve always thought you would be good for Mattheo. You bring something out in him; he’s happiest when he’s around you. Veronica seemed to make him happy at first—” she adds with a snort—“but nowhere near the level you do.”

“But with Theo…” Pansy trails off. “I’ve never seen you so happy—and not the kind of happy you were with Mattheo. It’s not the relief of him not having a one-night stand or flirting with you a bit bolder at a party. It’s genuine happiness; you’re truly yourself. Theo brings out a different side of you, and you do that for him, too.”

Glancing over at the vase of red peonies, battling the tightness in your throat and the sting in your eyes. You decide you’d rather not spend the day in bed.

.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.

Since last night, Theo has been struggling to push away the thought that maybe the idea of you having feelings for him isn’t so far-fetched. Especially after you’d implied that the two of you were together to the girl who’d tried to flirt with him. The way you’d intertwined your fingers with his, staking a silent claim that he was off-limits, had left him reeling. There was no way you’d be so possessive if you didn’t feel the same. At least, that’s what he’d been telling himself all morning.

And then there was the way you hadn’t been able to answer Mattheo about your feelings. Theo’s whole heart had been in his throat as he waited for you to tell Mattheo that you did have feelings for him, that you’d had them for years. But you hadn’t answered.

In a way, though, you had, hadn’t you? You’d pushed past Mattheo without a word and gone straight to him.

“Are you coming with us to Hogsmeade or not?” Enzo nudges Theo, pulling him out of his thoughts. The boys had all planned to go to Hogsmeade together this weekend, a plan set firmly in stone since last weekend. But when Theo saw you this morning, he couldn’t hold back. On impulse, he asked if you wanted to spend some time together, suggesting—almost shyly—that he could finally show you where he’d been getting the peonies.

“No, I’ve got plans.” Theo shrugs, and Draco sends him an irritated look from the opposite couch.

“We made plans.” Draco huffs, clearly agitated with the change. He always hated it when the boys ditched at the last second.

“Something came up.” Theo sighs, hoping that he’ll let it go quickly. He’s well aware that Mattheo should be coming down the stairs at any second. Enzo had told them that he was taking forever to get ready, probably hungover from last night. 

“You mean your girl.” Blaise corrects, and Draco looks disgusted. His head swings back to look at Theo.

“You’re ditching us for her? Mate, that’s pathetic.” Draco scoffs. “She isn’t even your girlfriend.”

“She’s pretty damn close.” Blaise points out, and Theo tries his best to ignore the feeling that jolts through him when he thinks of you as his girlfriend.

He doesn’t have a chance to say anything—not that he would have—before Mattheo walks over to join the group. He claps a hand on Draco’s shoulder, only for Draco to shrug him off irritably. “C’mon,” Mattheo says, his tone leaving no room for argument.

As the others rise, stretching and adjusting their robes, Theo remains seated, gaze fixed on the fireplace in front of him. Mattheo pauses, giving him a puzzled look, one brow lifting in question. “You’re not coming?”

“No.” Theo answers curtly, clearly uninterested in extending the conversation. The truth is, he hasn't spoken to Mattheo in quite a while, and when they do, it’s nothing but tension—a quiet frustration simmering beneath each exchange.

Mattheo’s curiosity sharpens. “Why not?”

“He’s got plans with his girl,” Draco interjects with a roll of his eyes, impatience seeping into his voice. “Now, can we go? We’ve waited long enough for you as it is.”

“Wait. Hold on,” Mattheo turns to face him fully, and Draco huffs when he realizes they’re not going to be leaving any time soon. “Your girl?”

“You know what he means.” Blaise interjects calmly, his eyes shifting to Mattheo as he watches tension coil through his stance.

Mattheo gives a casual shrug, though his jaw tightens. “No, Blaise, I really don’t.”

Theo huffs, rolling his eyes as he stands, making to push past. “Why the hell do you even care?”

Mattheo’s hand snaps out, stopping him mid-step. “You know why I care.”

Theo’s gaze darkens, voice low. “Oh, you mean because of your feelings for her?” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Does your girlfriend know that you told Y/n you’ve always liked her?”

Theo’s eyes flicker over Mattheo’s shoulder, catching the shared looks between Blaise, Enzo, and Draco. There’s no shock in their expressions—only a knowing look as if they’d been bracing for this moment all along. It’s unsettling, the way they seem almost resigned, like they’ve seen the tension building between him and Mattheo from a mile away.

Mattheo scoffs, an edge of irritation slipping into his voice. “Did she go and tell you everything I said?”

Theo raises a brow, “No, I overheard you. But even if she did, what does it matter to you?”

Matteo narrows his eyes, “Because I care about her.”

“Bullshit. If you cared about her, you wouldn’t have put her in that position last night.”

“I care about her more than you think.” Mattheo bites out, and the boys watch carefully as Mattheo takes another step forward.

“Right,” Theo scoffs, “You care so much you went and found yourself another girl.”

Theo sees it before Mattheo even speaks—the subtle shift in his expression, the tightening of his jaw, the flicker of defensiveness flashing in his eyes. “I wasn’t ready to—”

“So you weren’t ready for her? But you were for Veronica? I don’t get it. You can’t just expect her to always be there when you finally figure out what you want.”

Mattheo laughs in disbelief, “I wasn’t waiting, I—”

“Then what the hell were you doing?” Theo’s voice sharpens. “You had years to tell her how you felt, and you didn’t say anything. Then you get a girlfriend, she starts spending time with me, and all of a sudden, you care? Leave her alone and quit messing with her.”

“I’m not fucking messing with her—”

“You are. You’ve been doing it for years.” Theo’s eyes flash with frustration, and suddenly he feels the urge to make it clear that he wants you—that he always has, and Mattheo isn’t the only one. “She deserves better than someone who can’t make up their mind. She deserves to be someone’s first choice.”

Mattheo’s expression hardens and his tone drops. “And that’s you?”

Theo doesn’t have the chance to answer, because Veronica’s shriek causes both their heads to snap in her direction, “Matty!”

Theo watches as Mattheo steps back, anger giving way to frustration, a quiet curse slipping from his lips at the sight of his girlfriend. Veronica strides forward, pushing right past Blaise and Enzo without a second glance. Blaise shoots her an agitated look, irritation flashing in his eyes as she barrels through.

“I thought you said you guys were going to Hogsmeade.” Veronica smiles, reaching out to take Mattheo’s hand, but he subtly pulls away, dodging her touch with a flicker of impatience in his eyes.

“We are.” He grumbles under his breath, but Veronica keeps smiling sweetly, unfazed, as if her boyfriend hadn’t just blatantly brushed off her attempt to hold his hand. Mattheo turns to leave, muttering something to the boys, likely a brief comment about their plans.

Theo watches as an agitated Mattheo strides out of the common room, with the boys trailing behind him. But the boys glance back at Theo, their expressions a mix of caution and confusion. Theo turns to leave as well, but Veronica’s voice stops him, soft and pointed, just loud enough for him to hear.

“You should tell your girlfriend that last night was a mistake,” she murmurs, a sympathetic smile tugging at her lips. “Mattheo thought she was me; you know how he gets after a few too many drinks.”

Theo thinks about correcting her, letting her know that he doesn’t really know what she means at all. From what he saw last night, Mattheo was tipsy—not that drunk—and Theo has had enough years of experience to tell the difference. But instead, he shrugs it off, deciding he’d rather find you than spend any more time in the common room.

.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.

“Hogsmeade is that way.” You say, a bit confused, gesturing in the opposite direction as you walk beside Theo.

“I know.” He replies simply, his gaze flickering back to the trail that you’ve never gone down before. Honestly, you had no idea it even existed. It’s evident that this path isn’t used often, as moss and grass have claimed most of the walkway. Vibrant wildflowers dot the sides, their colors brightening the greenery around them. 

He’s been quiet for most of the walk, which feels strange; you’re not used to this side of him. The more time you’ve spent with Theo, the more he’s opened up—sharing memories of his late mum, the weight of his father’s expectations, and his hopes for the future. These walks, where you slowly unravel each other’s stories, have become your thing, something that only the two of you share.

You frown slightly, glancing at him as you try to piece it together. “But I thought you said you got the flowers from a shop.”

“I never said that.” Theo’s lips curve into that soft, gentle smile that never fails to send your stomach into a flutter. “I said I’d take you with me the next time I went to get some. I never said it was in Hogsmeade.”

It takes you a second, too enamored with the view in front of you for it all to click. The walk isn’t long, but as you continue down the path, you spot a patch of red ahead. It stands out against the greenery, a cluster of flowers blooming a pretty, vibrant hue. You can’t quite tell what kind they are, but when you glance at Theo, you notice the way his eyes flicker nervously, and it suddenly feels like you’re walking toward something important.

But then it hits you all at once: “They’re peonies.”

On instinct, you grab Theo’s hand, giving it a playful tug to urge him along toward the blooms. He lets out a soft laugh at your enthusiasm, and a warmth fills you as his earlier mood seems to lift, the tension in his shoulders fading.

When you reach the edge of the flower field, you pause, still holding Theo’s hand as your gaze lingers over the vibrant blooms stretching out before you. Theo glances at you, heart beating a little faster as he wonders what you’re thinking, but he brushes aside his nerves and releases your hand, shrugging off his jacket to lay it carefully on the ground. You murmur to him, urging him not to squish any of the flowers, and Theo smiles, his expression softening as he gently reassures you that he won’t.

There isn’t much room on his jacket, so you find yourself pressed against Theo’s side—though you don’t mind in the slightest. He’s leaned back on his hands, while you sit cross-legged beside him.

The quiet is soothing, broken only by the soft chatter of birds and the occasional hum of an insect drifting from flower to flower. The warmth of the sun on your skin feels heavenly, its heat a welcome contrast to the long, cold months that have passed.

“Is this why you left? The first night you stayed with me?” You ask, glancing to the right to watch his reaction. 

From where you’re seated, you can see how the sunlight catches every small detail of his face, highlighting any imperfections. There’s the faint mole on his cheekbone, his dark lashes that you’re secretly jealous of, and the thin scar along his chin from when he fell off his broom as a kid. Another mark splits through his brow—a scar whose origin he could never quite remember, but has always just been there. It tugs at you, knowing you can recall the origins of his faded scars. It might seem trivial, but it means he’s let you in, sharing parts of himself that not everyone gets to see.

Theo nods, “I had to go early in the morning to give them to Pansy. With practice later, it was the only chance I could.”

A smile creeps onto your face as you imagine Theo, slightly awkward but determined, handing over the bundle of flowers and the little card to Pansy, who no doubt teased him relentlessly. You’d had wondered how she noticed that Theo was different with you, especially when most of your time together was just the two of you. But now, hearing this, you understand perfectly how she recognized a side of him that only seems to surface around you.

“I didn’t want to leave, y’know.” Theo continues, finally glancing over at you, and the effect is instant—those watercolor eyes meet yours, sending a flutter through your stomach as you instinctively lean closer, feeling yourself melt into his side.

“The flowers made up for it,” you tease, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “Aside from you, they were the only thing that made me feel better.”

“Yeah?” Theo glances down at you, tucked into his side, a satisfied smile tugging at his lips. Hearing you say the flowers meant something to you eases any nerves he had—because they were never just a way to cheer you up. They were his quiet, unspoken way of telling you that he was there, that he cared. And that, despite your feelings for Mattheo, he was an option too.

“Yeah.” You confirm.

For the rest of the afternoon, you and Theo sat together, talking about whatever came to mind as you picked flowers. You gathered a few, but mostly you watched as Theo picked the ones he liked the most, adding to the small bundle that sat between you both. Watching him carefully select the prettiest flowers, knowing he was going to give them to you, made something shift inside you. If you hadn’t fully realized your feelings before, you were certain of them now.

You lost track of time with Theo, but eventually, he had to leave for practice. He handed you the freshly picked flowers and walked you back to the castle, stalling as if reluctant to say goodbye. In the end, you pressed a soft kiss to his cheek and murmured a quiet ‘thank you.’ You didn’t want to say goodbye either, but you couldn’t bring yourself to be the reason Theo might get into trouble.

It wasn’t until you got back to your dorm, leaning against the door with a giddy squeal, the flowers pressed to your chest, their scent lingering in the air, that the realization hit you. You should’ve kissed him. The thought made your stomach dip with excitement, and for a fleeting moment, you entertained the idea of running after him, catching him just before practice, and kissing him. Absentmindedly, your hand rises to trace your lips, lost in your racing thoughts. 

You’re so caught up in the moment that you don’t notice Pansy at her desk, watching you with an amused look.

“You look like you had a good time.” Pansy smirks as you startle and send her a look before pushing away from the door.

“Pansy, I’m fucked.” You whine and she lets out a loud laugh.

“You were from the second he stayed the night with you.” You pause for a moment, letting the realization settle in, and as it does, you know she’s right. You couldn’t remember the last time you felt so safe with someone—not in the way you did that night. Sure, you felt safe with Mattheo, but it wasn’t the same. It didn’t compare to the way you felt when you were with Theo.

“Did you know he’s been picking me flowers?” You ask instead, setting the new bundle onto your desk before turning to face Pansy. 

“Oh, I knew.” Pansy hums, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. 

“How did I not notice?” You wonder aloud. 

“You were a little distracted.” Pansy shrugs, and you nod in agreement.

After Pansy tells you she’s meeting Blaise after practice, you briefly wonder if you should go with her. You sit on your bed, lost in thought, weighing the decision, but before you can make up your mind, Pansy is already gone.

As much as you want to see Theo, you hesitate, not wanting to assume that today meant as much to him as it did for you. It’s clear from the fact he’s been picking you flowers that he has feelings for you, but you don’t want to get ahead of yourself or risk ruining something before it has a chance to begin. So, you stay in your dorm, trying to focus on an assignment you’ve been putting off for far too long, though your mind keeps drifting back to him.

So when you hear the knock, your heart skips a beat, and before you can think, you're off your bed and rushing to the door. You know exactly who is on the other side and your stomach flutters in anticipation. You pause just before opening it, taking a deep breath to calm the flutter of nerves in your stomach, willing yourself to appear composed. 

You pull the door open, forcing a casual smile as you try to sound unaffected. “Hi,” you say, though your voice betrays the excitement simmering just beneath the surface.

Theo stands in front of you, one hand holding onto the doorframe. His hair is a tousled mess, and his cheeks are flushed—whether from practice or the rush of seemingly running here, you can’t quite tell.

And when he looks up at you, he’s out of breath and looks downright impatient, “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” You pause, thrown off and completely caught off guard. That was not what you expected him to say, and your mind spirals into the worst possible conclusions. Was he regretting what happened earlier? Apologizing for showing you the flowers, or for picking some for you? Giving you flowers at all? Maybe his feelings for you weren’t strong enough, or perhaps he only thought he had them? The thought that it could be too soon after your feelings for Mattheo crossed your mind, even though you’d started moving on from him months ago, gnaws at you.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, releasing the doorframe and stepping forward, one step, then another. He pauses, giving you a moment to pull away if you need to, but you stay rooted to the spot, unable to move. Theo stands so close now that you have to tilt your head back slightly to meet his gaze. He reaches up, and your breath catches when his thumb gently brushes against your cheek, his hand settling just below your ear. His voice is quiet, but the weight of his words makes your heart stutter. “I should’ve kissed you, dolcezza.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to respond, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles on your skin as he steps even closer, his breath warm against your cheek. His words tumble out in a rush, desperate and raw. “All through practice, all I could think about was you. The moment I walked away, I just wanted to turn around and kiss you.” His voice drops to a whisper, low and thick with a longing that sends shivers down your spine.

You murmur his name softly, but he’s barely listening, his gaze intense as he leans in slightly, his lips just inches from yours. “Fuck, you've been on my mind for months—years, if I'm being honest. I feel like I’m losing my mind, wondering if you feel even a fraction of what I do.” His hand still lingers at your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin, the warmth of his touch sending a tremor through you as if he’s waiting for something—waiting for you to say what he’s too afraid to ask.

It’s you who closes the distance, your lips meeting his in a sudden, fervent kiss that catches him off guard, pulling a surprised moan from deep in his throat. His body reacts instantly, his free hand snaking around your waist, pulling you closer, pressing you against him. The sound he makes causes a rush of warmth to flood your veins. He’s hardly touched, and you’re already too warm, and your knees threaten to buckle beneath you. You let him guide you backward, the pressure of his hand firm against your back until your steps falter just inside your dorm. Every inch of him feels like fire against your skin, and your previous worries fade into nothing.

Once you’re inside, he kicks the door closed with a thud but the sound barely registers. Without any hesitation, he presses you back against the door, his body close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him. But you want him closer. So much closer. One hand rests flat against the door beside your head, while the other cups your cheek, his thumb brushing gently over your skin. Then, it’s him who leans in, his lips meeting yours in a slow, deliberate kiss that deepens with an aching intensity. There’s no rush now—just an overwhelming wave of longing, a perfect culmination of the emotions you’ve both held back. Your head spins, your heart races, and you’re certain that if you could take your temperature in this moment, it would be burning hot.

But then, slowly, he pulls back just enough to break the kiss, his breath heavy and uneven. His forehead rests against yours for a moment, both of you struggling to catch your breath. You feel the urge to close the distance between you again, to press your lips to his, because there’s something about the way Theo kisses that leaves you breathless, already craving more. But then again, maybe it’s just him—the way his touch makes a thrill course through you.

“I wanted you to kiss me before you left—”

The door jolts against your back, halting you mid-sentence as Pansy’s voice cuts through the moment. “What the hell? Open the door.” You hold your breath, hoping that if you stay silent, she might forget the whole thing and simply go away.

But that’s wishful thinking: “Babes. Please open the door."

“I thought you were hanging out with Blaise.” You call back, stealing a glance at Theo, whose expression mirrors your own surprise. Before leaving practice, he’d told Blaise to keep Pansy distracted—he wanted time with you because he had planned on telling you exactly how he felt about you.

“It’s about Mattheo.” Your brows raise is surprise at the intensity in Pansy’s voice and you fling open the door without another thought.

“What’s wrong?” Theo stands behind you, watching the way your face turns nervous.

“Veronica’s been giving him a love potion,” she says softly, her eyes studying your face as it twists in disbelief. “He’s in the infirmary... and he’s asking for you.”

please please please consider reblogging or leaving a comment! it keeps me motivated to write, and reblogs help to spread my work 🤍

[luimagines]

The Legendary Mermaid

Another commission!

They asked for a Legend and Reader where mermaids are involved. I'd explain more but I don't want to spoil it. XD

Masterlist

Content under the cut!

Link didn’t think much of you at first. You were clumsy. Uncoordinated. One of the most ungraceful beings he has ever had the… um... pleasure to meet.

You spoke in broken Hylian but he could understand you well enough. When he stumbled into you on the beach he tried to go through the number of languages that he knew were native to the area but none of them seemed to click with you.

You were excitable and wobbly. You looked straight out of a ship wreck so you could have been from anywhere.

Still- Link wasn’t about to abandon you when you clearly had no idea where you were.

He took you into his village, set you up with a place to stay with some helpful neighbors and thought that his duty of care was done. He was wrong.

Turns out! You had a habit of running off in the middle of the day and going off to who knows where. The first time it happened, poor Gulley was in a tizzy trying not to panic because he thought you were just really good at hide and seek and he didn’t want you to miss dinner.But he couldn’t find you anywhere.

More people got involved.

They still had no idea where you went. Hours passed and the sun went down but no one had a clue where their strange and sudden visitor could have gone off to.

Link suddenly had the terrible thought that maybe you went off into the lake and something terrible happened. He ran as fast as he could but his panic happened to be unfounded.

You were there, soaking wet but otherwise unharmed, playing a small hermit crab that had somehow made it out of the water.

Link had half the mind to scold you, but your innocent giggles at the tiny creature had enough incentive to get him to calm down first. He bought you back where many of the aunties and elders fussed over you before giving you a warm bowl of soup and tucking you away for the night.

Your galavanting happened at least every other day. It didn’t take long for Link to realize that everytime you went missing, you were actually just by some body of water. 

He thought that maybe you just had a childish way of exploring. Or maybe you just liked to splash and swim. He wasn’t one to judge. He just wished you told people where you were going and when you planned to be back so no one would worry about you.

When you decided to stay in the village and interact with other humans for a change, you were like a fish out of water. 

You crashed into walls. You tripped over your own two feet. You would lose your balance at the oddest of times.

“Whoa!” Link caught you the arm before you could fall over and land face first into a pile of mud. “You know… You walk like a newborn deer.”

“What is deer?” You ask on impulse.

Link pauses and gives you a questioning look but decides to keep his judgment silent. Maybe there’s just no deer where you’re from. Somehow. Which would be strange considering how popular they are. Then again, you’ve never mentioned how you got to where they are or where you grew up. It seemed to be the only topic you actively avoided talking about.

“An animal.” Link says instead. “They have skinny legs and they begin walking on the day they’re born. The males have horns on their heads.”

“....Do they shine? Many colors?” You ask with a hopeful expression on your face.

Link hates to be the bearer of bad news, but he finds that he can’t lie to you. “Not really. They hide a lot so they look like golden grass and dried leaves.”

“Grass.” You stand up straighter, still holding onto his arm. “...Hm…”

Link has no idea how to respond to that.

“Yes.” He tries anyway. “They’re actually quite big once they’re fully grown. They’re majestic creatures.”

“Magic?” You tilt your head.

“No magic.” He shakes his head. “ Ma-ges-tic.”

“...Oh.” 

Is he going crazy or do you sound disappointed? Link swallows the spit in his throat, not sure why he feels the need to not only make you feel better, but to also impress you. “Most animals can’t do magic but they’re still very impressive. You know- if you want, we can always go into the forest and look for them. How’s that sound?”

You smile, but it doesn’t seem to reach your eyes.

Link feels his heart bob. He’s not sure if he’s doing this right. “Maybe tomorrow, yeah? After I’m done with my work in the forge, I’ll come look for you and we can go explore some more.”

Your eyes light up a little more genuinely and you nod enthusiastically to boot.

Link feels better about this suddenly.

Until tomorrow rolls around and you’re once again nowhere to be found.

Link wants to ram his head into the nearest wall. How could he forget? It was a ‘Go for a Swim Day’ today. It was part of your pattern. Did he just forget all his senses suddenly?

Groaning for the extra mileage he has to walk, he heads home first to collect some stuff for the journey. Surely you would be hungry at some point, right? Maybe he can make it a picnic too. There’s a nice spot that overlooks the valley that he knows of. You seem to be the type of person who enjoys the simple things his home has to offer.

Not only that but you seem rather focused on finding magical items. Or at least you try to find something magical in every nook and cranny. …He has a few magical items. That can impress you! He packs his magic mirror, his fire arrows and his mermaid tail. You’ll probably find a river or pond that you’d want to jump in. Since you love to swim so much, maybe he’ll join you just this once and show off a bit. Surely you’ve never seen anything like it.

Once he has everything set, he checks the nearby creek first- hoping you didn’t decide to splash around and find out.

Nothing.

Not a stone unturned and not a single piece of evidence that anyone had been here earlier. 

Link groans louder and turns on his heel to head down to the lake instead. He knows he’s being dramatic, but you’re not around to witness his pettiness, so he’s at liberty to do what he wants.

His feet are aching by the time he finally makes it to the lake. He kicks off his shoes to walk along the warm sandband before he begins his search anew. There’s not much that he thinks he has to look for. A bag? Some footprints? A discarded shirt or something? Your shoes by the side of the bank?

He finds… nothing.

“Where are you?” Link growls and flops onto the dirt. He pouts and puts his cheeks in his palms as he tries to think about what to do next. There goes his plans for the afternoon. And probably well into the evening at that. 

Link can’t help the sinking feeling of disappointment in his chest at the thought of being stood up. Not this was any big deal or anything- but he didn’t realize how much he was actually looking forward to this moment until he couldn’t have it.

Well.. He’s at the lake anyway. And he has the mermaid tail. He’ll get something for you. He can dive to the bottom of the lake and find something cool for you!

Link shimmies the tail on without a second thought and crawls into the water. The magic takes effect at once. He takes his first deep breath and pushes himself further into the cold. He feels his legs become intertwined with his item. The cold loses the sting the further he goes and although it takes a bit longer for his brain to adjust than he’d like, Link is quickly swimming deeper and deeper to where no other Hylian has gone before.

His eyes take longer to adjust. Considering he’s more worried about not forgetting that he can now breathe underwater, he’s still to ignore that little tidbit. All he has to do is swim straight down anyway.

Something moves to his left.

Link stops dead in his tracks.

“What?” He blurts. The sound he makes is warbled, broken as it always is when he tries to speak underwater.

In a split second, the figure blasts in front of him, sending him back a few feet. He brings up his arms to block any unwanted water from going up his nose and growls.

You poke his arm two seconds later.

“AH!” He screams without meaning to.

You seem just as perplexed and confused. You tilt your head and swim back just enough so that you can see him in his entirety. “Link?”

Your voice has changed too, but not quite like his does when he’s in this form. Your voice is clear as crystal and he can physically feel the waves it produces as they curl around his ears and his body.

He repeats your name with the same shocked reverence.

You break out into excited chitters and clicks, sounds he’s never heard before poke all around his body and he thinks he can feel the very effect they have on his brain.

You swim back over to him and twirl him around in earnest. You look delighted to see him here.

Link takes the moment to also look you over.

A mermaid.

He flushes when he sees more than he’s bargained for. Of course. What purpose do clothes serve to a mermaid?

You swim circles around him. The movement is graceful and borderline poetic, nothing like the way you move on land. Your tail was glittery and bejeweled with colors he hadn’t known could sparkle in the low light of the lake water. It trailed after you like a silk scarf or a skilled ribbon dancer.

He was staring.

You seemed to have caught on quickly that he was enthralled by your body. A part of you wonders why. Another feels the need to be embarrassed. You’ve dressed in the way of the finless for so long that you’ve almost adopted their shameful thinking to cover up one's form. The third and final part of you actually likes his attention. He’s impressed. Enamored, almost. This is the part of you that wins.

Smirking, you decide to metaphorically test the waters and dance around him some more, brushing your tail against his and pulling him this way and that with your dance alone. You swim away for just a second, wanting to play some more with the strange boy that can be of both worlds.

Link jolts out of the trance you’ve put him in and skips to follow you.

You laugh.

His breath catches in his throat at the sound of subtle trills and chirps. Link freezes completely in his spot. Your laugh tickles him even as he begins to sink from the lack of movement once more.

“You swim worse than a guppy.”

Link falters and the ethereal moment for him is shattered in an instant.

“Hey!” He says instead.

You laugh again, sending more pins and needles over his skin and tail and begin to swim laps around him, clearly showing off your superior swimming agility. You play with him some more, poking and annoying him but swimming away before he can retaliate and poke you back.

The game catches on from there.

Link is, unfortunately, in over his head and he has to admit proverbial defeat minutes into it. It doesn’t stop him from playing anyway. This is arguably the most free he’s ever seen you and he’s not about to ruin it anymore than his lack of grace does on its own.

It’s nice.

[yuesya]

“Is that her?”

Aoi pauses at the whispered question, glancing down towards the three younger girls who are helping her hang up laundry. The three younger girls who are no longer focused on hanging up laundry, rather –Naho, Sumi, and Kiyo are currently peering curiously towards the other end of the garden, where Shinobu-sama is standing with the newest guest to the Butterfly Estate.

Snow-white hair, and deep blue eyes. The coloration is unusual and eye-catching, and it only takes an instant for Aoi to realize that this is the girl from the rumors. It has to be her –the one who’d saved the Flame Pillar by killing Upper Moon Three, and the one whom Oyakata-sama had mobilized so many people to search for over the better part of the past month.

“It has to be, right? Didn’t Nagakura-san say that the girl who saved the Flame Pillar would be staying at the Butterfly Estate for a while?” Naho peeks over the edge of the freshly-washed bed sheet. “Look at the way that Shinobu-sama is talking to her! It seems like she’s someone important, doesn’t it?”

Naho’s observation is very astute. Even though the white-haired girl only looks to be around Aoi’s age, Shinobi-sama does not speak to her as if she were a junior demon slayer. Rather… there’s a certain level of respect, and… wariness…?

The suddenly girl turns around. Blue eyes look towards them, precise and unflinching, causing all three of the younger girls to let out startled squeaks of surprise simultaneously. Aoi squeaks a little bit, too, embarrassed at having been caught staring red-handed by their new guest.

Shinobu-sama glances towards them, smiles, then says something to the white-haired girl. Then, she leads the other girl over to them.

“I see that you’ve already noticed our new guest,” Shinobu-sama says. “This is Gojo Shiki –our newest recruit to the Demon Slayer Corps, recruited by Oyakata-sama himself after her timely assistance to Rengoku-san.”

The girls pull themselves together, and offer their greetings in a cheerful chorus together. Aoi, too, echoes a polite greeting, and introductions are exchanged.

“Hello.” Gojo-san bows slightly, courteously. The movement is refined and elegant, and Aoi finds herself staring a bit at the other girl. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Gojo-san will be staying with us in the Butterfly Estate for a while,” Shinobu-sama informs them. “She… hasn’t trained with a cultivator before, and there are certain gaps in her knowledge that Oyakata-sama would like me to fill in for her. We also need to send a missive to the Swordsmith Village; she’ll also need a nichirin blade.”

Aoi blinks.

… How in the world had Gojo-san killed a demon, then?! And Upper Moon Three, no less?

“Is there something special about a ‘nichirin blade?’” Gojo-san asks.

Aoi stares at the girl, then turns incredulously to Shinobu-sama.

“… Yes,” Shinobu-sama says. “They’re special blades forged with crimson iron sand and scarlet ore, from the Sunlight Mountain. Decapitating a demon with such a blade will kill them, instead of allowing them to regenerate from their injuries.”

Gojo-san’s expression does not change. But for some reason, Aoi gets the impression that the other girl isn’t very impressed.

Shinobu-sama seems to realize it too, because she lets out a small huff. “Although… from what I understand, the weapon that you used to kill Upper Moon Three wasn’t a nichirin weapon, was it?”

“No.” Gojo-san tilts her head slightly. Then, proceeds to reach inside the sleeve of the kimono she’s wearing, and pulls out a… knife? “I used this.”

… Isn’t that just a normal knife? The kind that’s used in regular households and the like?!

Aoi looks at the knife, then looks at Gojo-san, and swiftly comes to a decisive conclusion:

She’s utterly terrifying.

[libraryofgage]

Mermaid/Pirate Steddie Six

One | Two | Three | Four | Five

This fic was line-jumped! If you'd like to learn more about line jumping, please see this post

Anyway, thank you line-jumper for your patience, I know this was a little late orz but I hope you enjoy it!

As always, if you see any typos, no you didn't ;)

---

“Why do they look so weak?”

“Do you have more of these?”

“Can he really not breathe under water?”

“Does he understand bubble patterns?”

“He’s not the worst swimmer.”

“I could probably break his ribs with one tail swipe.”

“Please don’t break my mate’s ribs.”

Of all the words echoing in the water around him, those last few are the ones Eddie gets stuck on. He perks up as the curious hands of adolescent merfolk poking and prodding at him pause. From the determined expression on Steve’s face as he tugs Eddie closer, he definitely meant to say that.

“Seriously?” Robin asks, curling around Steve’s other side. Her hair floats across Eddie’s vision before settling, and bubbles rise from her fluttering gills. “You’re already mated? How did that even work?”

She glances down as she asks, and Eddie follows her gaze to Steve’s tail. It looks normal to him. His wound has healed, leaving only a faint scar behind. If anything has changed, it’s that the inexplicable splashes of orange across his scales make sense in the water. They glimmer and shine like gold and silver coins in the wavering sunlight that manages to break through the surface. Eddie is hypnotized by them, and it takes a conscious effort for him to look away.

Steve’s flush tells Eddie something important has been alluded to, and he’s starting to get an idea of it. “Robin! Not in front of the guppies!” Steve tells her. She cackles in response, bubbles bursting from her gills as she curls around Steve’s right side and flicks his forehead.

“But we already know about that stuff,” one of the guppies, Lucas, says. A few bubbles rise from his gills, too, and Eddie is starting to wonder if they’re important when Robin and Steve pause to study them. 

Another one, Dustin, nods and places his hands on Eddie’s shoulders. He pushes up to float above him, holding tight so he doesn’t end up floating away. Somehow, this results in Dustin’s tail smacking against his back a few times, but at least it doesn’t hurt. “Yeah,” Dustin says, “You taught us during the last cold tide trip. Remember? Joyce and Hopper got together and started talking about more guppies, so then Erica asked what they meant and you got all red like a lobster as you tried to explain it.”

“Teaching you about reproduction and discussing…recreational enjoyment are very different things,” Steve says, his firm tone undermined by his flustered look. 

Eddie taps Dustin’s hand, tilting his head and raising his eyebrows in a curious expression when Dustin looks down.

“Oh, do you wanna know?” he asks.

“No, he doesn’t,” Steve says at the same time Eddie nods. When Steve glares at him, Eddie grins, salty water rushing into his mouth. He doesn’t mind too much, especially when he points at his throat and Steve’s glare immediately melts into fondness and concern. He leans in, kissing Eddie and pushing more air past his lips. 

“We are just teaching Eddie about reproduction,” El says when Steve pulls back. She pushes under Eddie’s arm, wrapping her tail around his leg to stay in place. With her there, Dustin’s tail is no longer hitting his back, and Eddie hesitates before patting her head. 

Between her, Dustin on his shoulders, Steve holding him close, Robin practically wrapped around Steve, and the rest of the guppies surrounding them, he’s starting to realize how touchy merfolk are. Or maybe this is just Steve and Robin and their guppies. He’ll have to ask later.

“Why are you making such a big deal when it’s boring?” Max asks, huffing as two lone bubbles rise from her gills. “Two merfolk decide to have a kid. One fertilizes the other, they carry the egg for a while and birth it. After that, caretakers watch the egg until it hatches. Simple.”

Yeah. Eddie has so many questions. He can’t ask any of them now, though. All he can do is nod along, forcing his expression to remain serious as he listens. Max seems to like the attention, her gills fluttering again and letting a stream of bubbles rise to the surface as she perks up.

“Man, it sounds boring when you say it like that,” Mike tells her, grinning as he turns to look at Eddie. “So, anyway, dicks an--”

Robin laughs as she smacks her hand across Mike’s mouth, using her other hand to ruffle his hair until it’s floating wildly in the water. “All right, all right, let’s stop before dingus goes belly-up,” she says, pinching Mike’s cheek when she pulls his hand away.

He huffs and sticks his tongue out at her. “Eddie asked,” he says.

“Eddie didn’t ask anything. He can’t talk, and he doesn’t make bubbles,” El says.

“No, like, he used his face.”

“Oh.”

As they talk, Eddie tugs on Steve’s hand, pointing to his throat again. Instead of immediately kissing him, he glances up at the surface with a frown. It’s not like Eddie was actually running out of air, so he doesn’t tug on Steve’s hand again. “How about we go up,” he says, looking at Robin. When she just looks confused, he adds, “You could see Eddie’s ship.”

“Really?!” Dustin and Will ask, both of them looking at Eddie hopefully.

Eddie considers for a moment, figures the guppies can be entertained by his crew if they get too bored, and nods once.

“Yes!”

----------

“They have so much energy,” Eddie says, carefully setting Steve on the bed before collapsing into it next to him. He rubs his fingers together, feeling how wrinkly they are after spending most of the day in the ocean. They still haven’t smoothed out despite being on the ship for an hour already.

Steve hums softly, reaching over and taking Eddie’s hand. He laces their fingers together, rests their hands on his stomach, and says, “They liked you.”

“Really? I couldn’t tell between Mike trying to drown me and Erica trying to bite me,” Eddie says, squeezing Steve’s hand.

The drowning attempt had happened when they surfaced. Mike had grabbed Eddie’s ankles and yanked him back under, grinning as Eddie yelped and swallowed half the ocean in the process. Somehow, Steve had managed to both kiss Eddie some air and smack Mike upside the head with his tail.

The biting had happened while trying to get all the guppies onto the ship. It involved nets and ropes and straining muscles, but they’d managed. When Eddie was getting Erica untied from the ropes, she’d leaned over and snapped at his shoulder. Robin saved him in time by yanking her back, refusing to hear her excuse about Eddie smelling like “really fresh krill” and her being hungry.

Things had been chaotic between getting the guppies and Robin settled, figuring out food, and keeping them entertained so they wouldn’t destroy the ship out of boredom. Eddie had never been so relieved as when they’d started nodding off in a giant tub they secured to the mast.

“They were just…testing you. A little. It’s normal when caretakers introduce a mate,” Steve tells him.

“What, are they making sure I’m sturdy?”

“More that you can handle them if you join the pod,” Steve explains. “Caretakers don’t leave their pods. If they mate with a merperson from another pod, that merperson just joins it. Guppies are overprotective and want to make sure mates deserve their caretakers.”

“That’s kinda sweet,” Eddie says.

Steve nods in agreement, shifting around some until he can turn to face Eddie. The bottom of his tail curls around Eddie’s leg, a heavy weight that he finds reassuring. “How do you feel?” he asks.

Eddie can hear the questions lying beneath. Did he like the guppies? Did they manage to scare him away? Is he going to end their courtship?

“They’re cool. I like them,” Eddie says, the words spilling out so he can reassure Steve. He feels something light and happy bubble in his chest at Steve’s smile. “I am wondering about something, though.”

“What?”

“How, uh, how does all of that…work?” Eddie asks, his face burning as he gestures to Steve’s tail, focusing on the general area Robin had looked at before. Despite the embarrassment of asking, he can’t help the heat that simmers through him at Steve’s knowing smile.

“Are you interested in theory or practice?” Steve asks.

“Practice. I am so, so, so interested in practice,” Eddie says, throwing an arm around Steve’s waist and tugging him closer. “But I wouldn’t mind a little theory so I know what I’m doing.”

Steve laughs, pushing against Eddie’s chest lightly. When he lets go, Steve sits up, gesturing for Eddie to sit behind him. Once they’re settled, Steve is nestled between Eddie’s legs and Eddie is resting his chin on Steve’s shoulders. “There’s a slit,” Steve says, taking Eddie’s hand and placing his palm on a patch of scales just below his waist. “When a merperson is aroused, it opens to provide access.”

Eddie swallows, nodding as he feels the cool slide of Steve’s scales under his palm. He glances at Steve and moves his hand, brushing his fingers over the area until he can feel where the slit is. It’s a slightly raised line, barely noticeable if he weren’t looking for it.

“And, uh, how does it work? For two mermen, I mean,” Eddie says.

He feels more than hears Steve hum, the vibrations pulsing through him from where Steve is resting against his chest. “Well, it doesn’t matter much,” Steve says, reaching up to tug on a loose strand of Eddie’s hair. “You humans have a word for it, I think, but all merfolk have the ability to carry or fertilize. It really just depends.”

“Oh,” Eddie says, biting the inside of his cheek as he presses his palm flat against Steve’s scales again. “So, which…I mean, what do you…you know, prefer?”

Steve thinks for a moment, twirling Eddie’s hair around his finger. “Anything that feels good,” he finally says, tilting his head back to grin at Eddie. “How about finding out what does?”

Not for the first time, Eddie thinks, perhaps, the merman in his arms will be the death of him. It’s a good thing he doesn’t mind one bit.

------

Tag List! (tags are full, please follow #high seas steddie)

@mugloversonly, @raisedbylibrarians, @thegirlwiththelibrarybag, @savory-babby, @vankaar,

@beckkthewreck, @itcanbepalped, @imfinereallyy, @finntheehumaneater, @mightbeasleep,

@weekend-dreamer7, @whenindoubtb72, @troublemaker2azz, @just-a-tiny-void, @upallnightogetloki,

@mxmakessense, @ellietheasexylibrarian, @haelreadsshit, @y4r3luv, @starman-jpg,

@littlewildflowerkitten, @estrellami-1, @stevieschrodinger, @gaelicblue, @they-reap-what-we-sow

@5ammi90, @noodle-shenaniganery, @acrolius, @hallelujahimatheist, @rainbow-freckle,

@desidrarry-wolfstarshipper, @goodolefashionedloverboi, @79chevyimpala, @aliea82, @hopefulcookieoperatorpersona,

@sani-86, @queenie-ofthe-void, @goosesister, @hello-fellow-nerds, @luthienstormblessed,

@xtkxkrzrizir, @potato-of-the-lord, @geekymagicalpotato, @child-of-cthulhu, @aizawa-emma,

@m-owo-n, @newtstabber, @cartercaptainofthemoon, @spectrum-spectre, @a-little-unsteddie

[cuubism]

If you’re taking prompts, I’d love more chronic pain retired!dream stuff!

oh yeah we need emotional support dream hurt/comfort today

( i assume you meant in regards to this fic )

-

For the first few months after dying and becoming human, nearly all Dream had known was pain.

It was an adjustment, to fold and cram an amorphous existence into a rigid human body. And there was the psychic change, the constant feeling of stepping and missing a stair, as he instinctively reached for the Dreaming and found it gone. He had thought, then, that he regretted his choice, that perhaps he should simply have died, or, stranger, that he should have remained Dream--though, by the end, that was not truly an option for him.

Strange, to miss something that had wrapped like a pillory about his neck for so long. But that was change. The familiar, sometimes, was a comfort even in the suffering it brought.

Eventually, he decided that he did not, in fact, wish that he had died, or that he had remained Endless. Hob had cautioned patience during that time and he had been correct. It helped, too, to eventually learn that the level of physical pain he was experiencing was, in fact, abnormal. Dream was often tired and struggled to find the wherewithal to do anything about it. But Hob seemed determined to make it better for him, to the extent that he could.

One of these ways was through the application of comfortable items. Dream now had an extensive collection of blankets, including a weighted one that helped him sleep, and a heated electric one that soothed a lot of his muscle soreness and which he'd taken to essentially living under on cold days. Sometimes Hob would leave in the morning to go to class, leaving Dream curled up on the couch under his blanket, only to return hours later and find Dream still there. "You're like a cat," he'd say, running his hand through Dream's hair.

Dream thought cats were favorable creatures to be compared to.

On this night, he was once again wrapped in his heated blanket, curled up on the couch. Stubbornly drawing in his sketchbook despite the persistent ache in his shoulder. It was kind of his own fault, that. Slightly too vigorous in bed last night. But Dream had been restless and he'd wanted Hob to be vigorous and he didn't regret it, though it was annoying him now.

He was shading in the bird he'd sketched, piece of charcoal held sideways in his fingers, when he realized. Despite the ache in his shoulder. Despite the lingering stiffness in his hips. Despite the fact that he was still waiting for Hob to get home and so couldn't yet crawl on top of him and take advantage of heat sources on both sides. He felt... content.

He didn't realize, until he was sitting there, sketchpad in hand, blanket around his shoulders, pain a distant ache deep in the muscles of his back... that part of what had been unsettling him so in these recent weeks was actually... a lack of another pain.

Stepping. Missing the stair.

But this missed stair was not the familiar touch of the Dreaming. It was a darkness. He kept going from one day to the next, stepping forward, and expecting darkness to swallow him. Without knowing he was expecting it. Without knowing it was there. Falling, and then jerking awake, falling and jerking awake again--when the darkness didn't catch him.

His conversation with Hob came back to him.

How much pain are you in? Not right now--I mean usually.

Upon what metric is the scale?

Upon what metric?

By the time Hob got home, Dream had paused drawing, his charcoal suspended over the page, staring off into the distance. Lost in thought. He didn't come back to himself until Hob had crouched in front of him and was swiping his fingers over Dream's cheeks. "Love?"

Dream didn't realize until then that he was crying. Just silently, tears streaming down his face. Hob watched him with concern, but waited for him to speak.

"I--" Dream started, and his voice cracked. He tried again. "I. Hob."

"Yeah, love?"

"I. Don't think I hurt anymore."

Hob's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?" He well knew that Dream's body wouldn't just stop hurting, not for good.

Dream wiped at his eyes. This, another adjustment: his body was so much more susceptible to visible displays of emotion than it once was.

"Before," he said, and didn't have to specify when he meant. "It hurt. I did not realize."

He had been so used to the way he felt that he did not realize he was feeling anything. He didn't realize, until the pain left him.

"My shoulder still hurts today," he continued. "But. I do not. And. Regardless. I want to be here."

"And I want you here," Hob said, and pulled Dream close, wrapping him in his arms. Dream pressed his face into Hob's shoulder, tears streaming again, but they did not feel sad. They felt cleansing.

"Come here," Hob said, and sat beside him on the couch. As Dream had fantasized, he pulled Dream close, letting him sprawl atop him, wrapped in his blanket, absorbing Hob's body heat. Dream clung to him, legs twisted up with Hob's. It made his hip twinge, but he didn't care.

"I'm glad you're not hurting," Hob whispered, lips brushing Dream's hair. "I'm so glad."

Dream was still hurting, in a sense, but the pervasive soul-deep ache he'd accepted as foundational to his existence, so foundational he'd stopped noticing it entirely, had gone. An ancient weight had lifted off his chest. He felt breathless with it.

His shoulder hurt more now from how he had his arms wrapped around Hob and it would probably hurt tomorrow but if this was the exchange then he would not take it back.

All the human pains in the world in trade. He would not trade back.

[eldritch-spouse]

I can imagine a distant future of Santi overcoming his nature and finally realizing his dreams of having and raising kids. Then, one time he goes to visit his old friend Vesper who's like " So how are you and your *gags* chi- *gags* child *gags* the family is doing ?"

[*Snort*. This is a collection of little moments between Santi and Vesper after Santi has kids.]

Santi doesn't visit as often.

It's only a given, not only does he now have children of his own to take care of, the incubus also knows his presence has stopped being as pleasant to the Ring of Lust as it once was.

He's not necessarily surprised by such.

After all, Santi behaves in a much more subdued manner, dresses a lot more, his clothes have the stink of children, even when he washes them. He can't blame Vesper for scratching at himself and snorting in distaste every now and then. They are still friends, but life has taken them down very different paths.

That doesn't mean some encounters aren't funny to the incubus.

" No. No no! " The King covers his eyes with a clawed hand. " You did not just walk into my chambers with a turtleneck sweater. "

Santi's cheeks are puffed. " King Ves- "

" A fucking sweater, this absolute- " Santi can't help but let a cackle slip. " Take it off right now, I feel sick- I'm going to call the imps over to strip you if you don't! "

[...]

Santi passes his phone to the King, allowing the demonlord to swipe through an album full of family pictures.

Vesper's lips keep curling higher at every picture, no matter how much he tries to muffle that response.

" Well uhm. They're... They sure are. " The King tries, but all he sees are snot-nosed ankle biters who likely stink of all that's nasty.

" They are. " Santi parrots, a devious grin on his face at the other's discomfort.

" I- " A long, pensive hum follows. " They look... "

" Is it really that hard? " The darker demon snickers.

" I'm finding it, Santi. Be patient. "

[...]

While cooking, you get to listen to a call between your husband and the King of Lust on speaker. When the topic becomes inappropriate, both adults switch to infernal language. Santi helps your daughter dress her baby doll, while your son sits by the carpet watching his favorite show.

" Alright, I should get a move on. " Santi says, watching you struggle with a few pans. " We can catch up eventually. Say bye to uncle Vee. "

Both children parrot mildly enthusiastic goodbyes, until your son pipes up. "Dad? " Santi hums. " When will uncle Vee visit? "

" Never. " Comes from the phone immediately, and the incubus doesn't need to see the King to know he's shivering in dread.

Your kids start deflating, to which their father is quick to think of something. " Ah, see, uncle Vee can't visit us. "

" Why? " The little girl sits her doll down, now brushing its hair.

" Uhm. " The incubus opens and closes his mouth a few times. " He's trapped in a biiig castle. " Pause. " And there's a dragon. "

" A dragon?! " Your son's fixation has been mentioned, he's almost vibrating.

" Yes. " Santi nods. " It's very big. And it doesn't like little boys and girls. "

" Aww.... " Both of them huff.

The girl frowns. " I'm sorry uncle Vee. "

" No, it's quite alright. I'll live, the dragon isn't that bad. " Vesper seems to sigh in relief.

" That means a knight is going to save you soon! " She brightens up immediately. " And then he's going to woo you, and you're going to marry! Can I go to the wedding, uncle Vee? Can I? "

Santi covers his mouth with his palm so as to not openly bark in laughter.

" I uh- Y-Yes, of course sweetie. Goodbye now, the uh, dragon, is calling me... "

[oldsoul007]

you got it

nicholas chavez x reader

summary: reader audition for a big part in a movie and has her suspicions 

I sat down across from Nicholas, noticing the huge grin on his face. Nicholas was chatting with me, and in his excitement, he accidentally mentioned something about the movie we’re both involved in.

He said, "I can't believe we're both going to be in this film together!" without realizing that I hadn't been informed yet that I got the part. I paused, looking puzzled, and asked

For a moment, I was thrilled. But then something clicked in my mind—Nicholas had hinted before that he might know more about the casting decisions than he let on. My suspicion grew. "Wait a minute, Nicholas. Do you know something you're not telling me?" I asked, my tone serious.

Nicholas hesitated, his smile fading a bit. "Uh, well, I might have heard something through the grapevine," he stammered.

I wasn't convinced. "Come on, Nicholas. Be honest with me. Do you know something?" I pressed, my eyes searching his.

After a moment of silence, Nicholas sighed. "Okay, okay. I do know something. I overheard the producers talking about the final decision a few days ago. I didn't want to say anything until it was official, but I couldn't keep it from you any longer," he admitted.

I felt a mix of relief and frustration. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?" I asked, my voice softening.

"I didn't want to get your hopes up in case things changed," Nicholas explained. "But now that it's official, I couldn't be happier for you. We're going to make an amazing team."

Nicholas could hardly contain his excitement “We're going to be in the movie together y/n!"

My eyes widened in shock and then pure joy. "So I actually got the part? Are you serious?"

Nicholas's face turned a shade of pink as he realized what he'd done. " I was supposed to let you find out from your agent. I just got so excited, I couldn't hold it in!"

I laughed, my excitement bubbling over. "It's okay, Nicholas! This is the best news ever! I can't believe we're going to be in the same movie!"

We hugged tightly, both of us laughing and almost jumping up and down with excitement. Nicholas pulled back, his face beaming. "I can't believe I just spilled the news like that. I wanted to surprise you, but I was too excited!"

I shook my head, grinning. "It's perfect. I couldn't have asked for a better way to find out."

He took my face in his hands and kissed all over my face. Leaving one big kiss on my lips.

We spent the rest of the evening celebrating, talking about the movie and imagining all the incredible experiences we were going to have together on set.

Nicholas couldn't stop smiling, thrilled not just for y/n success, but for the chance to share this incredible journey with her.

[ylangelegy]

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 us 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 is heavily 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 loose 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 muse, 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 sign that betrayed the way Minghao's heart was beating 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 finally 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 and 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.

Damn it, he's so gone for you.

Minghao's choice of seats are predictable 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 terms. 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 interlock 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 on the screen, 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 delicately, 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 back, 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 softened out in the edges. "You should save that for birthdays or holidays."  

"And why only birthdays and holidays?" he retorts. "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 it.  

"Yah, don't just call me that without warning," he says back, 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, a small huff of laughter leaving his lips in spite of it.  

"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 say simply, sincerely. "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 had suddenly started to race 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, Minghao's heart hammering in his chest at the slight movement. 

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 when he hears the way you say his name, 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 pissed 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, it seems. 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 temples. "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 stubborn.

"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 flying out to grab the phone.

His eyes bleary, he blinks a few times to clear his vision, a slight smile involuntarily tugging 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, and 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 go to 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 quietly, leaning 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, 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 both 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 quietly in Korean. "Did I bother you?"  

Minghao shakes his head, even as 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 stubborn 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, his voice quiet and tentative.  

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, the comforting, familiar words he'd spent his entire life surrounded by.

He takes a deep, shuddering inhale, followed by a slow exhale, his eyes squeezed shut as he mentally counts the seconds like he had done before. 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. "I'm sorry for springing this on you," you say, suddenly a little meek. "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, and 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) alone, without him—  

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

"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 our 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 term 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. In his head, he'd 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.    

God, he'd 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 yet so painfully out of reach. 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 stands, then, holding 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 warmth that spreads through Minghao's chest at 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 hate 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 them, 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 always 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. You're 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 quietly in the same language.  

Your mother gives Minghao a nod. "Goodbye, Minghao," she says in Korean. "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 as you absentmindedly note, "It was nothing."    

The smile on Minghao's face turns soft and he squeezes your hand back 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 in his chest, 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, but it's an easy thing. 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. But it has 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 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, Jun.” There's no seriousness behind his words, 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 him 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 his 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 and so, 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 like music and it's 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 even deeper in love with you.

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 he 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 slight 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 right there next to him. Even though this isn't a relationship, the easy 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 little 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 you and 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 moment, 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 a little 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, Mandarin rumblings, but it's all worth it when Mingyu tosses his head back with raucous laughter at every word spilling from Minghao's lips, translated by Jun.  

"This is too much," Jun whines once the three of them have worked on 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 hiccuping 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. 

[lila-lou]

✨His true fate - Part 29/?✨

Summary: Jensen hasn't been happy for years. But it seems almost impossible for him to escape. After another nasty argument between him and his wife, he decides to visit his ´former´ best friend for his birthday. Back in Austin, an encounter awaits him that will turn his life completely upside down.

Pairing: Jensen x Reader

Warnings: Language, age gap

Word Count: 8642

A/N: English isn’t my first language, please be lenient. 💙

As the evening settled around you, the soft glow from the bedside lamp cast a warm light over the room. You and Jensen were curled up in bed, his arm wrapped around you as your head rested on his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat was comforting, and for a while, the two of you just lay there in contented silence.

But you could feel a slight tension in the way Jensen held you, as if something was on his mind. After a few minutes, he shifted slightly, and you looked up to meet his eyes. He hesitated for a moment, his gaze soft but thoughtful, before finally speaking.

“I’ve been thinking”, he began, his voice low and careful, as though he wasn’t sure how to bring up what was weighing on him. “About what Jared said earlier… and about the future”.

You didn’t say anything yet, just waited for him to continue, sensing that this was something important.

Jensen exhaled slowly, running a hand through your hair as if gathering the courage to ask what was on his mind. “I know things are complicated right now, and I don’t want to rush anything. But I’ve been thinking… Could you ever imagine… moving in with me? Dealing with the kids? I mean, I know it’s a lot to ask”.

His words hung in the air, and for a moment, you could feel his uncertainty, the way he was carefully treading around the topic. He glanced down at you, searching your eyes for any hint of how you were feeling. “I can imagine it might feel like too much”, he continued, his voice soft. “I mean… you’re still so young, and you have your whole life ahead of you. I just… I don’t want to put any pressure on you. But I have to ask”.

You felt your heart flutter at the vulnerability in his voice, the way he was so careful with his words, not wanting to overwhelm you. You could see the weight of the question in his eyes, the fear that maybe this was too much for you—too complicated.

But you also saw something else. You saw how much Jensen cared, how deeply he was considering what it would mean for the two of you to take this step. And despite the complexities, the uncertainties, you realized something important—you could see yourself doing this. With him.

Jensen shifted again, his hand brushing through your hair, his voice quiet and slightly hesitant as he continued, “I wouldn’t ask this so soon… I know it’s a big thing, and I don’t expect you to just jump into it. It’s nothing I want to do by tomorrow or even next week. It’s just…”.

He trailed off, his brow furrowing as he struggled to find the right words. You stayed silent, giving him the space to work through his thoughts.

“With my kids involved, it’s not just about me”, he finally said, his tone serious. “It’s about them, their lives. I have to think about what’s best for them, and I want things to be stable. As stable as they can be, given my lifestyle”. He paused for a moment, exhaling softly as his hand came to rest gently on your arm. “If… when I introduce you to them, I want it to be because I’m sure. Because it’s going to last”.

His words were filled with such a deep sense of responsibility, and you could see how heavily this weighed on him. The uncertainty he carried wasn’t just about the relationship between the two of you, but about the future he was building for his kids. He wanted them to have stability, security—and that included anyone who came into their lives, including you.

Jensen looked down at you, his eyes searching yours, almost as if he was waiting for you to tell him that it was too much. “I’ve been through enough with the divorce”, he continued, his voice soft but steady. “I don’t want to confuse them, or bring someone into their lives if I’m not completely sure it’s the right thing. I want them to feel safe… to know that if you’re going to be part of their world, it’s because I believe it’s going to work”.

You could feel the weight of what he was saying—how much his kids meant to him, how carefully he was navigating the future for them, and how much this conversation wasn’t just about you and him, but about building something meaningful that could truly last. He wasn’t asking for an answer right away, but it was clear that when he thought of the future, he was imagining you in it.

You bit your lip, your heart pounding as you searched for the right words. The weight of what Jensen had said, the vulnerability in his voice, made the moment feel all the more real. You knew this was a pivotal conversation—not just about logistics or plans, but about where you saw yourself in his life, in the lives of his kids. He was asking for reassurance, but he wasn’t pushing. It was like he was holding his breath, afraid to hope too much.

Finally, you exhaled softly, your voice gentle but steady. "Jensen… I don’t have a problem with your kids. In fact, they’re not just part of your life—they’re part of you. I’ve known that from the beginning. And if they lived with you full-time, or if they were just visiting every other week, it wouldn’t change how I feel about us".

You paused, watching as his eyes searched yours, hanging onto every word. You reached out, brushing your thumb lightly over the back of his hand as you continued, your voice thick with emotion.

"I know it’s complicated… and I’m not saying it’s going to be easy. But I’ve thought about this, Jensen. And I’m not scared of the idea of being part of your life, your whole life, kids and all". You hesitated, biting your lip again before speaking from the deepest part of your heart. "And as for Austin… I mean, I like it, but I don’t need to stay there forever. I’d move for you. If it meant building a life with you, I’d choose that over anything else".

His breath caught, and you could see the emotion building in his eyes. He looked at you like he was trying to absorb your words, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing.

You shifted slightly, sitting up more so you could face him fully. "Jensen, I’m not here just for the easy moments. I’m here because I see a future with you, because I want that future with you. Wherever that takes us, wherever we have to go—whether it’s Austin, or another city, or… making space for your kids. I’m ready for it".

He opened his mouth to speak, but for a moment, nothing came out. He just shook his head slightly, overwhelmed.

"You… you really mean that?", he finally asked, his voice rough with emotion.

You nodded, your voice breaking slightly as you replied, "I do. I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it. I love you, Jensen. And I know that loving you means loving the life you’ve built—the good, the complicated, the messy. And I’m ready for all of it".

Jensen let out a breath, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, his thumb gently brushing your skin. He looked at you like you were the most important thing in the world, like you were offering him something he never thought he could have.

"I don’t even know what to say", he whispered. "I’ve been so afraid that this—us—was too much to ask for. That I was asking you to carry too much, to take on my baggage… but hearing you say that…". He trailed off, emotion overwhelming him.

You leaned into his touch, your hand resting over his heart, feeling the steady thrum beneath your palm. "You’re not asking for too much", you whispered back. "We’ll figure it out together. And whatever happens with the kids, wherever we end up—I'm in this with you".

For a moment, there was only the sound of your breathing, the stillness of the room wrapping around the two of you. Then Jensen pulled you closer, his forehead resting against yours. His voice was barely a whisper when he spoke again, full of gratitude and love.

"I love you", he murmured. "More than I can even say".

You smiled softly. "I love you too. And I’m not going anywhere".

A few weeks later, the tension surrounding the divorce still lingered heavily between you and Jensen. Danneel hadn’t signed the papers, and her silence weighed on him, making everything feel uncertain. Jensen had tried to reach out, to discuss a way to move forward for the sake of the kids, but most of his calls and messages went unanswered. It left him in this frustrating limbo, unsure of what the holidays were going to look like.

This morning was no different. As you both stood groggily in the bathroom, brushing your teeth before the day ahead, the exhaustion of everything settled over him. It was early—way too early—but the upcoming convention meant you had to be up, even though neither of you were truly awake.

Jensen leaned on the counter, mumbling around his toothbrush, “I don’t know what to do about the kids”.

His eyes met yours in the mirror, reflecting the weariness and uncertainty that had been eating at him for weeks. You finished brushing your teeth, rinsing your mouth before setting your toothbrush down, trying to give him a moment to process his thoughts. He was torn, you could see it clearly—wanting to spend Christmas with you, but not wanting to lose precious time with his children.

“I want to be with you, I really do”, he said quietly, his voice raw, “but if I spend Christmas with you, I won’t be with the kids. And I can’t… I can’t imagine not seeing them on Christmas”.

You turned to face him, leaning against the counter beside him, feeling the weight of his words settle in. You knew how important this decision was for him.

“I get it, Jensen”, you said softly. “I understand that the kids come first, especially at Christmas. I don’t want you to feel like you have to choose between them and me. I’d never ask that of you”.

He shook his head, his frustration evident. “It’s not just that. It’s… it’s that I feel stuck. I’m trying to be a good dad, but this whole thing with Danneel, the divorce not being finalized—it’s like I’m in this constant limbo. And if I go to spend Christmas with them, it’s just going to be so awkward with her. But if I don’t… I’ll miss them. I hate this”.

He leaned back against the counter, rubbing a hand over his face, clearly overwhelmed. “And then there’s you”, he added, his voice softening. “I want to spend Christmas with you. I don’t want you to feel like you’re not important, because you are. But if I spend Christmas with you, I’d be missing out on time with the kids, and I just… I don’t know how to balance it”.

You moved closer, your hand gently resting against his cheek, your voice gentle. “Jensen, it’s okay. We can celebrate Christmas together whenever. I don’t need it to be on the exact day. Your kids need you, especially right now, and you should be with them. I’ll be okay”.

His eyes met yours, searching for reassurance, and you offered him a soft smile. “We can make our own Christmas, maybe a few days before or after. I’ll be fine, I promise”.

Jensen let out a breath he’d been holding, nodding slowly as if he was finally giving himself permission to feel less guilty. “You’re really okay with that?”, he asked, his voice quieter now, almost vulnerable.

“I am”, you said with certainty. “I don’t want you to miss out on time with them. We’ll have our moment, I’m not worried about that. I want you to be with your kids if that’s what you need”.

Jensen sighed softly, the weight of everything clearly still heavy on his shoulders. After a moment, he shifted slightly, avoiding your eyes for a beat before glancing back at you. “You sure you wanna come today?”, he mumbled, his voice low and hesitant.

You knew what he was referring to—the convention. Danneel was going to be there too, and the tension of it all had been hanging in the air for days.

“Yeah, I’m sure. I want to be there for you”, you said softly, meeting his gaze. “I know it’s not going to be easy, but I’ll be okay”.

Jensen’s eyes flickered with uncertainty. He wanted you there—he always did—but the thought of having to navigate the awkwardness of Danneel’s presence weighed on him. He ran a hand through his hair, his brows furrowed. “I just don’t want things to be uncomfortable for you”, he admitted, his voice almost apologetic. “With Danneel there… it might get messy. I don’t know what to expect from her”.

You shrugged casually, a playful glint in your eyes as you reached up and gently pulled him down by the neck, bringing his face close to yours. "As long as you come home with me afterward and not her", you mumbled, your lips brushing against his, the teasing smile evident in your voice. Before he could respond, you kissed him softly, letting your touch melt some of the tension from the moment.

Jensen hesitated for a second, still weighed down by his thoughts, but the warmth of your kiss broke through. With a low sigh of relief, he placed his hands on your hips, his grip firm yet gentle, as if grounding himself in the moment with you. He deepened the kiss briefly before pulling away just enough to look into your eyes. Without a word, his hands slid under your thighs, and with a smooth motion, he lifted you effortlessly, placing you on the counter beside the sink.

You laughed softly, the sudden shift catching you off guard, but you couldn’t help but lean into him more. His eyes softened as he stood between your legs, his hands resting on your waist, thumbs brushing your sides in a way that was both comforting and intimate.

"Why do you always know exactly what to say to make everything feel a little easier?", he murmured, resting his forehead against yours, his voice quiet and filled with gratitude.

You smiled, your hands finding their way to the back of his neck again, fingers lightly playing with the short strands of his hair. "Because I know you", you whispered. "And I know no matter how complicated things get, you always come back to me. That’s what matters".

Jensen closed his eyes briefly, his brow furrowing slightly as if letting go of some of the stress he'd been holding onto. "You make it sound so simple", he whispered.

"It can be simple", you replied, your voice gentle but firm. "It’s just you and me, figuring things out. One step at a time. The rest… we’ll deal with when it comes".

He smiled at that, the tension around his eyes finally easing. "I don’t deserve you, you know that?".

You leaned forward, brushing your lips lightly against his again. "You keep saying that", you whispered against his mouth, "but I’m here, aren’t I?".

Jensen kissed you softly, his hands tightening on your waist as if he needed the closeness, needed the reminder that despite all the uncertainty with Danneel and the kids, this—the two of you—was solid. After a moment, he pulled back just slightly, his lips still hovering near yours as he murmured, "I don’t know what I’d do without you".

"You’ll never have to find out", you replied quietly, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw as you looked into his eyes.

For a few moments, you both stayed there, wrapped up in the warmth and intimacy of the moment, all thoughts of the convention and the complications with Danneel fading into the background. Jensen’s hands rested on your thighs now, his touch gentle but reassuring, and for the first time that morning, you saw the tension in his body fully release.

"We’ll get through today", you whispered, leaning your forehead against his. "No matter what happens, you’ll come home to me, and that’s what matters".

Jensen smiled, a real, genuine smile, and pressed a quick kiss to your forehead before stepping back slightly. "Yeah", he said, his voice steadier now. "You’re right".

As you slid off the counter, back onto your feet, he kept his hands on your waist for a moment longer, grounding himself in your presence. "Let’s get through this day together", he said softly. "Then we’ll figure out everything else".

As you both got ready for the last convention of the year, Jensen’s mind was running in a thousand different directions. It should’ve felt like a relief—knowing that after today, he’d have a break until New Year’s Eve, no filming, no appearances, just time to be with you—but instead, his thoughts were consumed with everything that still felt unresolved.

He kept glancing at you as you moved around the hotel room, getting ready with a quiet focus. He hadn’t told you about the houses yet—the one in Connecticut, which he loathed, and more importantly… the one near the river in Austin, which felt like a way better fit. It wasn’t just about finding a place for him and the kids; it was about building something that could include you, too. The idea of you sharing a home with him was something he hadn’t stopped thinking about. But he wasn’t ready to tell you, not until he had a clearer picture of what the future would look like. Not until the divorce was final.

Jensen hated Connecticut. The cold, the distance, the feeling of being disconnected from everything he loved—it wasn’t the life he wanted, but it was where his kids were. And he couldn’t imagine them constantly flying to see him, or him flying to them, especially with the unpredictable chaos that came with being a parent. But the thought of being stuck there, away from you, made his stomach turn. That’s why the idea of Austin, of a home closer to what felt like home, had been so appealing.

He rubbed his hands over his face, trying to shake the thoughts from his mind. He had to focus on today. Get through the convention first, and then maybe—maybe—he could finally sit down and figure out the next steps.

You turned to him, catching the distracted look on his face, and raised an eyebrow. “You good?”, you asked, walking over to where he stood by the window.

Jensen blinked and nodded, forcing a smile. “Yeah, just thinking about how great it’ll be to have some time off after this. No conventions, no filming, just us”.

You smiled softly at that, clearly looking forward to it too. “Yeah, Austin’s going to be nice. And hey, we’ll have time to just relax. No rushing from one thing to another”.

“Exactly”, Jensen said, pulling you into his arms. He held you close, resting his chin on top of your head for a moment. “I can’t wait to get back to Austin with you”.

Little did you know, he wasn’t just thinking about your apartment. He’d been quietly looking for a place that could be a home for both of you, something more permanent than hotel rooms and quick getaways. He’d got an eye on a house near the river in Austin, one that felt like it could be the place. It was perfect—not just for him and the kids, but for you too, if you wanted to be part of that world with him.

But he couldn’t buy anything yet, not with the divorce still hanging over his. Danneel hadn’t signed the papers, and until she did, everything felt like it was in limbo. Still, the thought of starting fresh with you was what kept him going. He just hoped, when the time was right, that you’d want to be part of that picture.

You looked up at him, resting your hands on his chest. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”.

Jensen smiled down at you, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Just thinking about how lucky I am”.

You narrowed your eyes playfully. “You keep saying that. Should I be worried?”.

“No”, he chuckled, shaking his head. “Just… grateful. For you, for us”.

You softened at his words, leaning into him. “Well, I’m pretty lucky too”.

Jensen kissed the top of your head, letting himself relax in the moment. Today, he just needed to get through this last convention, and then, he’d be heading back to Austin with you. Once the holidays were over, and once things with Danneel were settled, maybe he could finally tell you about the house, and what he hoped the future might look like.

The convention had the same motions as always—fans buzzing with excitement, the energy of the crowd palpable. You’d become familiar with the routine by now. You’d sit among the other fans, blending in, acting as though you were just another face in the crowd, while Jensen did his best to keep things professional, never letting on that you were anything more than a fan. It was easier that way, especially with Danneel in the picture, who still had no idea who you were or what you meant to Jensen.

You sat in the front row, your hands clasped tightly in your lap as you watched him from across the room. Jensen entered with Danneel by his side, their presence on stage together sending a ripple of excitement through the audience. You bit your lip, trying to focus on Jensen, to remind yourself that this was just another day, just another convention. But with Christmas only weeks away and the divorce still looming, everything felt heavier than usual.

Jensen looked calm, as he always did in front of the fans, his smile wide and charming, but you could tell by the way his eyes flickered toward you now and then that he was distracted. He was doing his best to keep the focus on the crowd, on the fans who had come to see him and Danneel, but his gaze kept drifting back to you, even if only for a second.

It was subtle—no one else would have noticed—but you saw it. The way his smile faltered ever so slightly when he caught your eye, the way his posture tensed for just a brief moment before he forced himself to relax. He was trying not to let it show, but you could see the internal struggle playing out on his face.

Meanwhile, Danneel remained unaware, smiling and engaging with the fans as she always did, unaware of the silent tension building between you and Jensen. She didn’t know what was going on behind the scenes, didn’t know who you were, and for now, you wanted to keep it that way.

You shifted in your seat, biting the inside of your cheek as you tried to keep your attention on the panel. It was harder than usual, knowing that Danneel’s presence was still such a significant part of Jensen’s life, even though they were in the process of untangling it. The fact that she hadn’t signed the papers yet made everything feel even more unresolved.

It wasn’t until a fan asked the question that the atmosphere shifted, the playful energy in the room becoming something a little more tense.

“Are you and Danneel planning on having another baby?”, the fan asked, their voice bright and casual. “Or are the plans for babies finally done?”.

Your heart skipped a beat. The innocent question hit you harder than you expected, but you did your best to keep your expression neutral. You’d learned to navigate these situations, to let them roll off your back, but this one felt like a punch. Especially when Danneel, always quick with a response, smiled coyly and teased, “Who knows? Maybe another little Jensen could be in the future”.

The audience laughed lightly, clearly enjoying the playful banter, but you felt a tight knot form in your chest. It wasn’t jealousy—at least, not exactly. It was the unresolved tension of everything hanging in the air. Jensen’s divorce wasn’t final, Danneel still hadn’t signed the papers, and here they were, on stage, joking about babies as if the reality of their situation was still the same as it had been years ago.

Your eyes darted toward Jensen, and you weren’t surprised to find that his gaze had immediately shot toward you, his expression tight and slightly strained. He was looking for reassurance, for any sign that you were okay, but you knew you couldn’t give him that in this moment. Not with everyone watching. So instead, you raised an eyebrow, keeping your expression as neutral as possible, silently signaling to him that you were fine. Even though you weren’t.

Jensen quickly turned back to the crowd, a slight chuckle escaping his lips as he tried to deflect the awkwardness of the situation. “No more babies for me”, he said, his tone light and teasing. “I think we’ve done enough damage already”. The crowd laughed, the tension in the room dissipating slightly as Jensen continued, “Parenthood’s a lot of work, you know? It’s like trying to wrestle a tornado while also keeping it alive”.

The audience erupted into more laughter, and Jensen seemed to relax, using humor as his shield. “I love my kids, but three’s a good number. Any more and I’d probably lose my mind”, he added, grinning at the fans.

For a split second, Jensen’s eyes flickered toward you again, a brief, almost imperceptible glance, but enough for Danneel to notice. Her smile faltered for just a moment as her eyes followed his line of sight, landing directly on you. You could feel the weight of her gaze as it lingered for a beat longer than necessary, she was connecting something, sensing a shift in Jensen’s focus.

Your heart raced, but you did your best to stay composed, keeping your face neutral as if you were just another fan in the crowd. You weren’t sure if Danneel had realized who you were or if she simply noticed Jensen’s attention drifting elsewhere, but either way, the shift was palpable.

Danneel’s smile returned, but it wasn’t quite as bright as before. She glanced back at Jensen, her expression still playful for the crowd but with a hint of something more.

Jensen, to his credit, recovered quickly, slipping back into his charming persona as he engaged with another fan’s question. His eyes didn’t wander toward you again, but you could feel the strain beneath the surface, the unspoken conversation that would undoubtedly happen once the panel was over.

The rest of the panel carried on, but the atmosphere felt different. Every interaction, every joke felt more careful, more measured. You kept your focus on Jensen, but your mind was racing. You could feel Danneel’s presence like a shadow in the room, her curiosity likely piqued by the way Jensen had looked at you.

As the panel finally came to an end, the tension still hung in the air like a thick fog. The fans were starting to disperse, and Jensen, despite his usual charm and professionalism, seemed distracted. Danneel, however, didn’t let up, her curiosity piqued by the subtle interactions she had noticed during the panel.

As they made their way toward the green room, Danneel’s teasing began, her voice light but laced with an undertone of something more. “So, who was that girl you kept looking at in the front row?”, she asked, her tone playful but sharp. “Your new girlfriend won’t appreciate you shopping for a new plaything among your little fan girls, Jensen”.

Jensen nearly stopped in his tracks, biting back a grin as he realized what Danneel had assumed. She thought you were just some random girl, someone who had caught his eye like an easy distraction, not realizing that you were, in fact, the very girlfriend she was referring to. The absurdity of the situation almost made him laugh, but he quickly schooled his expression, not wanting to give anything away too soon.

He glanced over at Danneel, raising an eyebrow. “A fan girl?”, he repeated, his tone casual as he slipped his hands into his pockets, trying to act as though the conversation wasn’t affecting him.

Danneel smirked, crossing her arms as they walked. “Don’t play coy with me, Jensen. I know you. The way you kept sneaking glances her way… I saw it. And, well”, she chuckled, “she’s easy on the eyes. But you should be careful. You wouldn’t want to complicate things, right?”.

Jensen fought the urge to roll his eyes, instead shaking his head slightly. “I’m not looking for a ‘plaything,’ Danneel”, he said, keeping his voice measured. “And trust me, things are already complicated enough thanks to you".

As they stepped into the green room, Danneel was about to continue her teasing, clearly enjoying the moment a little too much. But before she could get another word out, Jensen laid a firm arm around her shoulder, pulling her in close for a second, his grip tighter than usual. The shift in his demeanor was subtle but unmistakable. He wasn’t playing anymore.

“Speaking of fucking complicated”, he said, his voice dropping low enough that only she could hear, though there was an unmistakable edge to it. He squeezed her shoulder just enough to make his point, his eyes locked on hers. “How are those divorce papers doing?”.

Danneel’s teasing smile faltered as the seriousness of his tone sank in. She shifted uncomfortably under his grip, her bravado slipping as she met his gaze. “Jensen…”.

“I’m not joking, Danneel”, Jensen continued, his voice steady but with a quiet intensity. “Not anymore. I want them signed. This back-and-forth, this limbo we’re stuck in—it’s got to end now".

Danneel blinked, clearly caught off guard by the sudden shift in the conversation. Her usual playful retorts were nowhere to be found as she stood there, staring at Jensen. It was as though she hadn’t expected him to confront her so directly, especially not in the middle of a convention.

“I’ve been patient”, Jensen added, his arm falling away from her shoulder as he stepped back slightly, giving her space but making it clear he wasn’t backing down. “But I’m done waiting. I want the papers signed, Danneel".

Danneel bit her lip and shifted slightly uncomfortably, glancing away before finally speaking, her voice quieter than before. “I’m ready to sign them, Jensen”, she mumbled, a trace of hesitation lingering. “But… I wanted to talk about the details. You know, like the properties and custody arrangements for the kids. I thought maybe we could discuss it tonight—over dinner”.

Jensen’s eyes immediately rolled at the suggestion. Of course, she’d want to drag this out further, under the guise of hashing out details. Dinner sounded less like a business conversation and more like another attempt to stall the inevitable. The tension between them hung heavy in the air, and he knew Danneel was trying to exert some level of control over the situation, even if just for one last time.

“Dinner?”, he repeated, incredulity lacing his voice as he ran a hand through his hair. “Danneel, we don’t need to sit over a fancy meal and pretend this is something we can smooth over like old times. The details are already outlined. You’ve had the papers for weeks. You’ve seen the custody arrangements. You’ve seen the damn property split”.

Danneel shifted, crossing her arms, but she didn’t look him in the eyes. “Yeah, well… it’s not that simple, Jensen. There are still things I want to discuss—things we need to clarify for the kids’ sake”.

Jensen clenched his jaw, trying to keep his frustration at bay. “Danneel, I’ve been more than patient. We don’t need to hash this out over dinner. You’ve had plenty of time to ask questions or make changes to the papers. What’s stopping you now?”.

Danneel took a deep breath, her face hardening as her gaze finally locked with Jensen’s. She straightened her shoulders, raising her chin with a defiant glint in her eyes.

"One last dinner, or I won’t sign shit", she hissed, her voice sharp enough to cut through the tension in the room. Her words were laced with a challenge, pushing the boundaries once again. Jensen’s jaw clenched, frustration bubbling beneath the surface as he stared at her.

She wasn’t done. “Besides”, she continued, her voice dripping with bitterness, “the kids are waiting for you at the hotel. JJ’s been missing you, Jensen. They flew all the way here just to get a glimpse of their dad. So, how about you go to dinner with me? Head to my hotel afterward and spend some time with your damn kids, like a fucking dad should”.

Jensen’s fists tightened at his sides, his breath hitching as he tried to rein in his emotions. He hated how she twisted everything, using the kids as leverage, as if the only way to be a good father was to play along with her games. His relationship with his children had never been in question—he knew how much they loved him, how much he loved them—but the guilt she piled on, as though he wasn’t already stretched to his limits, weighed heavily.

His eyes narrowed slightly, his voice low but steady. “Don’t bring the kids into this, Danneel. You know damn well I want to see them. But I won’t play these games with you. This isn’t about dinner. It’s not about us. It’s about doing what’s right for them, and this stalling—it’s hurting them more than you realize”.

Danneel rolled her eyes, her arms still crossed as she leaned back slightly, as if daring him to push back. “I’m not stalling”, she snapped. “I’m making sure we get this right. Maybe you’ve moved on, but this is still my life too. One dinner, Jensen, that’s all I’m asking. And then maybe I’ll sign those papers”.

The room felt smaller now, the air thick with unresolved tension. Jensen could feel the anger bubbling beneath his skin, but he couldn’t let it take control. He needed to stay focused—for the kids, for his sanity, for the life he was trying to build with you.

He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair again, trying to find the right words. “Fine”, he finally said, the word clipped as it left his mouth. “Dinner. But this is it, Danneel. After tonight, I want those papers signed, and I want this over”.

Danneel’s smirk returned, but it was small, more of a flicker of triumph in her eyes than anything else. She nodded, satisfied for now. “Good”, she said, her voice softening just slightly. “Pick me up at 7. And after dinner, you can spend time with the kids. They’ve been waiting for you”.

Jensen stared at her for a long moment before nodding stiffly. “I’ll be there”. His tone was cold, distant, and it made Danneel pause for a second, as if realizing how far things had spiraled between them.

Without another word, she turned and left the green room, leaving Jensen standing alone, the weight of the conversation still heavy in the air. He let out a long, frustrated breath, his hands resting on his hips as he tried to clear his head.

He thought about you—about how he couldn’t wait to get out of this mess and just be with you, where things made sense. But for now, he had to get through tonight. One last dinner, one last play at control from Danneel. And then, maybe, the papers would finally be signed, and this chapter of his life could close for good.

Jensen stood there for a moment, feeling the weight of the conversation settle over him. He didn’t want to make the same mistake as last time—keeping you in the dark and leaving you wondering where he was or why things had changed at the last minute. He’d promised to be better, more open with you, and right now, that meant being honest about the change in plans.

Without hesitation, he pulled out his phone and started typing a message to you:

Jensen: Hey, something came up with Danneel. She’s pushing for one last dinner to talk about the divorce details and the kids. I agreed because I need to get her to sign those papers. I’m sorry. I wanted us to have tonight together, but I’ll have to meet her for dinner first.

He paused, staring at the screen. He hated this. Hated that he was constantly having to juggle things between his past and his future with you. But he knew it was necessary for now. His fingers hovered over the keyboard before he added:

Jensen: I don’t want you to spend the night alone though. I´ll ask Jared and Misha to grab dinner with you instead. At least that way you won’t be stuck waiting around for me. I’ll join you after, I promise.

He hit send and ran a hand through his hair, exhaling as he stared at the message. It wasn’t what he wanted, but it was the best he could do given the circumstances.

The buzz of his phone broke his thoughts. It was you.

You: Thanks for letting me know. It’s okay. I get it. Do what you need to do with Danneel and the kids. I’ll have dinner with Jared and Misha—should be fun. You: Just… don’t let her push you around too much, okay?

Jensen smiled at the text, feeling the warmth of your words even though this situation was far from ideal. You always knew what to say to keep him grounded.

Jensen: I won’t. It’s just for the kids. After tonight, it’ll be done. Jensen: I’ll see you later, okay?

Another buzz.

You: Okay. Good luck. I’ll be here when you’re done.

Jensen let out a breath of relief, slipping his phone back into his pocket. You were so understanding, even when things like this kept coming up.

Dinner with Danneel was exactly what Jensen expected—tense, uncomfortable, and full of sharp remarks wrapped in forced smiles. They had settled into a quiet corner of the restaurant, away from prying eyes, but the air between them was far from private. It was a battlefield of past emotions and unresolved issues, most of which Danneel wasn’t willing to let go of just yet.

Between serious conversations about custody arrangements and splitting their assets, Danneel kept slipping in barbed comments, as if testing him, pushing his patience.

“You’re really going through with selling the house in Fairfield, then?”, she asked, taking a sip of her wine, her eyes scanning his face. “I thought maybe you’d want to keep it for the kids”.

Jensen sighed, trying to keep his frustration in check. “We’ve been over this, Danneel. It’s too big. The kids don’t need all that space… especially when they’re splitting time between us. Selling it is the right move”.

Danneel shrugged, leaning back in her chair, her tone laced with bitterness. “So, where are you planning on moving, then? You always hated the idea of going back to LA, so what’s the plan now that we’re done? Going to shack up with your new girlfriend somewhere quiet and cozy?”.

Her words were sharp, but Jensen didn’t take the bait. He simply placed his fork down and met her gaze with a steady look. “I’m not discussing my personal life with you, Danneel. That’s not what tonight is about. We’re here to talk about the kids and the logistics of moving forward”.

She let out a short, mocking laugh, shaking her head. “Right, because you’ve always been so great at separating business from personal”.

Jensen clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay calm. He didn’t want to argue with her, not tonight, not when they were so close to finalizing everything. But her constant jabs were getting harder to ignore.

“I haven’t decided where I’ll move yet”, Jensen said, his voice level, “but wherever it is, it’ll be somewhere the kids can feel at home. That’s my priority”.

Danneel rolled her eyes, clearly unsatisfied with his answer. “Just make sure it’s close enough so they don’t feel like they’re being shuffled back and forth between two completely different worlds, Jensen. They’re already going through enough as it is”.

Jensen took a deep breath, leaning forward slightly as he spoke. “I know that, Danneel. I’m not going to make it harder on them. I want them to feel settled, wherever they are”.

She studied him for a moment, her expression softening just a bit. “So, where is it? Where are you thinking of going?”.

Jensen hesitated, not wanting to reveal too much, especially about his plans to possibly settle back in Austin. He didn’t owe her that information, not anymore. “I’m looking into a few options. What matters is that the kids are comfortable and have a stable home life”.

Danneel leaned back again, swirling her wine in the glass as she stared at him. “You used to talk about wanting something simple, somewhere quiet. You never liked all the glitz and chaos of LA”.

Jensen sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair as he considered the complicated mess of his future plans. LA would have been a smart choice—his new show was filming there, and it would make things easier in terms of work. But his heart wasn’t in it, and the thought of being so far from the kids gnawed at him. He couldn’t picture himself raising them in the middle of LA’s chaos. Austin, on the other hand, had always felt more like home. It was where he’d love to go back to, but again, the kids came first.

He glanced at Danneel across the table, her expression still guarded as she waited for his answer. “It depends on where you’re planning to move too”, he mumbled, his voice low but firm. “I want the kids to be close".

Danneel snorted, swirling her wine glass before taking a sip. “Well, I’m definitely getting away from Fairfield”, she muttered, her voice dripping with disdain. “The housewives there are unbearable. They never liked me, always giving me dirty looks at the school drop-offs or in town. Bunch of stuck-up, judgmental whores”.

Jensen raised an eyebrow at that, biting back a comment. He could easily imagine why the women in Fairfield might not have taken to Danneel—she had a habit of acting superior, especially around women she viewed as competition. It wasn’t lost on him that Danneel had always felt threatened by other women, particularly anyone she thought was prettier or had more attention.

“Can’t imagine why they didn’t like you”, Jensen said dryly, his tone edged with sarcasm. “Maybe it’s the way you always acted like you were better than everyone else”.

Danneel’s eyes flashed with irritation, her jaw tightening as she met his gaze. “I didn’t act like I was better than them”, she snapped defensively. “They just couldn’t handle someone who wasn’t part of their little Stepford wives club. I didn’t fit in, and they hated it”.

Jensen shook his head slightly, trying to keep the conversation from spiraling into another argument. He didn’t want to waste energy on old grudges or her insecurities about other women. “Whatever”, he said.

Danneel rolled her eyes, clearly not interested in letting go of her complaints about Fairfield, but she didn’t push the issue further.

Just then, Danneel smirked over the rim of her wine glass, her eyes glinting with mischief as she leaned back in her chair. “You know”, she started, her voice taking on that teasing lilt that always set Jensen on edge, “maybe I’ll consider Austin again. I kind of miss Steve”.

The name alone made Jensen’s jaw clench, but he forced himself to keep his expression neutral, taking a slow breath to stop himself from saying something he’d regret. The time when he felt anything toward her other than frustration and disgust was long gone. Any remnants of warmth or affection had been eroded away by years of deception, most of all when it came to Steve.

He stared at her, his eyes narrowing slightly as he fought to keep his tone steady. “Is that supposed to bother me, Danneel?”, he asked, his voice cool but laced with exhaustion. “Because if you’re trying to get a rise out of me by bringing him up, it’s not going to work”.

Danneel chuckled, shaking her head. “Oh, come on, Jensen. Don’t pretend you’re above it. I know it bothers you”. She tilted her head, her smirk widening. “It always did”.

It used to, Jensen admitted to himself. Back when he’d discovered the truth about her on-again, off-again thing with Steve, back when they’d still been trying to hold on to the crumbling remnants of their marriage, it had gutted him. Knowing she’d been with someone he once called a friend, while still sharing a life with him, had nearly destroyed him. But now? Now, it didn’t hurt. It just added to the bitterness of everything they’d built falling apart.

He pushed his plate aside, looking her square in the eyes. “The only thing that bothers me, Danneel, is how much you think you can still manipulate people to get under their skin”. His voice was low, controlled, but there was an undeniable edge of steel beneath his words. “But Steve? He doesn’t matter to me. Not anymore. You don’t get to hold that over my head. Not anymore”.

Her smirk faltered for just a second, a flicker of something—surprise, maybe—that crossed her face before she quickly masked it with her usual bravado. “Whatever you say, Jensen”, she muttered, waving her hand dismissively, but the bite in her tone had softened.

Jensen leaned back in his chair, adopting a nonchalant expression as he considered Danneel's suggestion about Austin. On the surface, he played it cool, but deep down, the idea of her moving back to Texas stirred something inside him. If they were both in Austin, it would simplify things, especially when it came to co-parenting and staying close to the kids. But he couldn’t show that. The last thing he wanted was to give Danneel the sense that she held any more kind of power over him. If she knew how much this could work in his favor, she’d play him, twist it to her advantage.

“I mean, Austin could work for me too”, he said casually, shrugging as if it wasn’t a big deal. His voice remained steady, deliberately unbothered.

Danneel’s eyes flickered with interest as she studied him. Jensen could practically see the gears turning in her head, but he kept his expression neutral, not giving her an inch more than necessary. He could already tell she was weighing her options, figuring out how best to position herself. If she thought for even a second that moving back to Austin was something he really wanted, she’d find a way to turn it into something that benefited her more than the kids.

“Yeah, Austin has its perks”, Danneel said, swirling her wine with a little smirk. “But I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about Dallas too. Bigger city, more opportunities”.

Jensen suppressed an eye roll. Dallas would be fine too—at least it was close.

“I’m sure Dallas has plenty of good options for you”, Jensen replied smoothly, his tone indifferent. “As long as it’s not on the other side of the country, it works. The important thing is that the kids feel settled and have both of us close by”.

Danneel took another sip of her wine, narrowing her eyes slightly, as if trying to figure out where Jensen really stood on the matter. She could sense that he was playing it cool, but she couldn’t quite pin him down, and that was exactly what Jensen wanted.

“So, you wouldn’t mind us both being back in Austin?”, Danneel asked, her tone laced with curiosity, perhaps even skepticism.

Jensen shrugged again, taking a sip of his water before answering. “Austin’s big enough for both of us, Danneel. It’s not like we’ll be running into each other every day. And like I said, it’s about the kids. It’s the most practical option”.

“Well, we’ll see”, Danneel said, her voice softening a little as she finally let go of her playful teasing. “Wherever I end up, I’ll make sure it works for the kids. I want them to feel settled too”.

Jensen nodded, relieved that, for once, they seemed to be on the same page about something. “Good. That’s all I’m asking for”.

They sat in silence for a moment, the tension between them easing slightly as they both seemed to accept the reality of the situation. The bickering, the games—it all needed to end. For the kids. For themselves. The sooner the papers were signed and these decisions were made, the sooner they could both move on.

But as the dinner wound down and they both prepared to leave, Jensen couldn’t shake the lingering thought that Danneel wasn’t done with her power plays just yet. He knew her too well. She’d find another way to push his buttons before all was said and done.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰

-

Taglist: @cheynovak @chriszgirl92 @jenniferr0323 @angelbabyyy99 @cevansbaby-dove @muhahaha303 @jackles010378 @suckitands33 @n-o-p-e-never @mayafatimakhan @ladysparkles78 @viviandarkbloom06 @jassackles @evasmlp @acklesaddict67 @mostlymarvelgirl @emma1998sblog @mishaesque @headinthemoon87 @hobby27 @winchesterwild78 @impala67rollingthroughtown @manicjk @kr804573 @zaratahir @djs8891 @winchesterwild78 @jamerlynn @whimsyfinny @libby99hb @deansimpalababy @deans-queen @kawaii-arfid-memes @faephoria @stoneyggirl2 @fitxgrld @luvr4miya @yikeschoices @lyssalvus @soab1967 @luvr4miya @didi0666 @impala67rollingthroughtown @cheekygirl2309 @kamisobsessed

[novvabee]

And They Were Roommates pt.5

Summary: you dress the boys up

“Hey Y/N love,” you hear James call from down the hall. “Would you come here for a second?”

You close your laptop, pausing what you were doing and made your way out into the hall. You noticed his door to his room is closed, meaning he must be calling from further down the hall, the bathroom. You see the door open and light on, steam wafting into the hall.

“Yeah?” You say, seeing James wrapped in a towel. This wasn’t necessarily an uncommon sight, James and You shared the bathroom so you would often catch a glimpse of him between showers. Not that you were looking! Not that you weren’t… not looking though. He was quite fit, attractive. He was practically flaunting it around, how could you not want to admire him.

Usually, he would be quite flirty, confident while in this state. But this time he looked slightly… nervous?

“Uh… y-you left something on uh the sink. And, is that… I mean I’m not judging or anything but… maybe you could just bring it back to your room?” He said, face visibly heating.

You looked at the sink, at the thing in question that would get him so uncomfortable. You saw your mascara sitting on the edge of the sink. You usually kept a quite tidy bathroom both of you, you didn’t realize leaving makeup out would be a problem, you were just in a rush and didn’t put it back into your makeup bag. But… looking at it now, it was quite phallically shaped. Wait.. did James think…

“Oh my god, no!” you started to laugh “James no. It’s just mascara, it’s makeup”

James, now very relieved, let out a breath. “Oh.. I mean, sorry it’s just.. The shape is… ya know” he stuttered. 

“I wouldn’t leave that in here” you said without thinking and instantly regretting it. “Um, I’m just gonna let you dry off. Sorry.” you said and rushed back to the comfort of your own room. That was a very uncomfortable and awkward encounter. You will have to apologize for that later.

Later came that evening when you heard a knock on your door. You expected it to be James. “Come in!” you called.

Low and behold it was Sirius who opened the door and stepped in instead. He was hearing an old Sex Pistols t-shirt and some joggers, hair half tied back.

“Oh hi Siri, what's up?” you asked 

“Just wanted to see what you were up to love,” he said with a smirk walking closer to your bed “How has your day been?”

“Oh fine! I just did some work stuff and laundry,” you looked up at him and smiled a bit. “Had a slightly awkward run in with James earlier.” you joked.

Sirius raised his eyebrows and smirked knowingly “Oh yeah,” he said, “James mentioned to us that you keep your sex toys out on the counter.” 

You felt mortified, reddening instantly. “No! That’s not-” you started but were cut off by a booming “SIRIUS” from downstairs followed by feet bounding up the stairs, most likely a just as embarrassed James.

“I’m joking, i’m joking” Sirius laughed “I know it was makeup- James calm down-”

“I told you that in confidence-”James started talking over Sirius, now standing in the doorway.

“-I know it was makeup and I was wondering if you had any nail polish.” Sirius finished.

Nail polish? Why would Sirius need nail polish? “Yeah, I have some… why?” you asked.

“I want you to paint my nails.” Sirius shrugged as if it were obvious. 

“Oh, ok yeah I can do that, come sit.” you patted the bed. You looked at James “you too?”

“Oh no.” he said, still standing in the doorway. “Can I just watch?”

“Course, come on over.” you made space for both the boys on your bed and found your nail polish box next to your bed, pulling it up and showing Sirius all the colors you had. He settled on black (of course) and gave you his hands. They were rougher than you’d imagined, and much bigger than your own.

From here you could really get a good look at all the tattoos on his hands and arms. The ones on a majority of the space of his hands, they looked like symbols, runes. It made his fingers look longer. It made him more mysterious and… hotter.

You delicately dipped the brush into the pot of polish, then dragged it over his nails precisely, trying not to shake or smear any on his skin. It was hard when he was so close to you, his face very near, trying to watch what you were doing closely. You felt his breath on you and you didn’t hate it, it just made you have to concentrate a lot harder.

You then took in the fact that James was also quite close, also trying to peek at what you were doing. They both seemed very intrigued, and you couldn’t complain, not when they were both this close to you.

Once you were done, Sirius pulled his hands back to examine your work, seeming quite happy indeed. “Careful not to smudge them now, Siri. it helps if you blow on them or wave them in the air to dry.” he nodded and started flapping his hands.

“Slumber party?” you heard from the doorway. It was Remus.

“We were painting Siri’s nails.” you smiled at him. He walked into your room lying halfway on your bed and propping his head on his hand. 

“Well let’s see,” He said to Sirius. Sirius smiled and proudly showed his freshly coated hands to Remus. “Ah, classic color.” He looked up at Sirius and smiled. “Nice work, love.” he turned to you.

“Thank you, Remmy.” You liked this, the closeness, the intimacy that the boys brought to your room. It felt quite nice to have them all on your bed, hanging out with you, doing nothing in particular. You decided that you wanted this moment, this feeling more often from here on out. “You know what goes well with painted nails?” you ask.

They all looked at you with intrigue.

“Pretty dresses.” you laugh.

“No. Absolutely not.” Sirius started, but James was already on his feet walking over to the closet, ready to pick out a dress. 

“Please… you owe me for teasing me earlier.” you say with a fake pout, batting your eyelashes.

“Really laying it on thick aren’t you,” Sirius sighed “Ok fine.”

You giggled and looked at Remus “You too Rem.”

“What? Why me?”

You shrugged your shoulders “Entertainment?” you replied

Remus thought it over for a moment, sighed, then stood. You cheered and jumped to your feet, rushing over to the closet.

You handed the boys dresses and sent them to their individual rooms to change, feeling giddy and happy that they were willing to be silly for you. 

“Ok you ready?” you heard James call.

“Ready!” you called back. You covered your eyes and waited for James to give you the all-clear.

“Ok” he said. You instantly started giggling.

He was definitely a sight to behold. He was much too muscular for your dress, looking slightly ridiculous. He did a little spin for you and you couldn’t help but laugh harder. He couldn’t even zip it up, and the dress that came to about your mid thigh, barely covered James' ass. You could clearly see his boxers. He turned back to face you and flexed his arms. “I think this is a good look.”

“ I think so too.” you laughed in reply, trying to settle yourself for the next boy. “Ok, ok, next boy please!” you called out.

Sirius burst through the door and strutted to the middle of the room. You gave him a longer, flowy dress, and he was definitely feeling it. The dress was a bit high-watered on him, but at least he could zip it up slightly. His chest tattoos were on clear display, being that the dress was quite low cut.

You and James whooped and wolf called him, only adding to his confidence. Once Sirius caught a glimpse at James he was cackling, clutching his stomach and doubled over.

“Ok,ok you two,” you said “ Next boy!” he said and clapped your hands twice, signaling the entrance of the final boy. 

But there was only a hesitant “uh…” on the other side of the door.

“Oh come on Remus we both did it!” James called.

“Yeah, you’ll look lovely Moons.” Sirius joined.

“No. I mean I have it on but… I’m afraid this is quite indecent.” he said.

The boys already could not contain their laughter. You just furrowed your brows. What could he mean? You walked yourself over to the door and opened it, about to ask what he meant… but then you saw.

Now, all the boys were much taller than you were, but Remus was much taller, and you forgot this when you handed him one of your more risque, short, tight dresses. The dress did not cover his lower half at all. His entire pair of boxers were on display. He covered up, just in case, and waddled in. If he were to wear this out in public, he would definitely get arrested.

You had no words, the other two were laughing so hard, James on his knee, looking like he was trying to catch his breath, and Sirius wiping tears from his eyes. Remus wasn’t upset at all, he was laughing too, looking at the other two ridiculous looking boys. 

This turned into a night that you would not soon forget, especially since Sirius got lovely polaroid pictures of all three of them separately and in a group shot… and his favorite of the night, one of all three of them kissing both your cheeks.

Taglist 💌: @too-efn-old-to-be-here @cometsghost @eeviee4 @giuli-in-earth @spicybearnaise

[thestrangeblob]

a little list of canon evidence supporting most elriel theories <3

1. elain and the possibility of her training to be a spy

Elain pushed, “We keep it secret—we send the servants away. (...) No one will know.”

My sister Elain can convince anyone to do anything with a few smiles.

She (feyre) nodded toward Azriel. “I think she’s (elain) got you beat for secret-keeping."

It made sense, I supposed, that Azriel alone had listened to her. The male who heard things others could not … Perhaps he, too, had suffered as Elain had before he understood the gift he possessed.

Elain spoke from the doorway, having appeared so silently that they all twisted toward her, “Using me.” She scanned Elain from head to toe, wondering if she’d been taking lessons in stealth either from Azriel or the two half-wraiths she called friends.

Elain stepped out of a shadow behind him, and rammed Truth-Teller to the hilt through the back of the king’s neck as she snarled in his ear, “Don’t you touch my sister.”

2. elain wearing azriel's color (cobalt blue)

Elain rasped, “Nice to meet you,” before hustling after her, the silk skirts of her cobalt dress whispering over the parquet floor. ... She’d (elain) covered her nightgown with a silk shawl of palest blue, her fingers grappling into the fabric as she held herself. ... Elain seemed to realize it, too. She peered down at herself, at the simple blue gown she wore.  ... But Elain wrapped her own blue cloak around herself, ... “Is your father healing?” I added the cobalt of Azriel’s Siphons to the orange and mixed until a rich brown appeared. ... Azriel’s Siphons flashed, a sprawling shield of cobalt locking over Rhysand’s, his breathing just as heavy as my mate’s ... Az held Cassian’s stare for a moment, cobalt Siphons flickering, and then nodded.

3. elain's mating bond to lucien might be wrong

when elain was turned and mated:

Faster than any of us could see, Jurian fired a hidden ash bolt through Azriel’s chest. The ash bolt was coated in bloodbane that the King of Hybern claimed flowed where he willed it. ... “Put the prettier one in first,” the king said, Mor already forgotten. I twisted—only to have the king’s guards grab me from behind. Rhys was instantly there, but Azriel shouted, back arching as the king’s poison worked its way in. (I didn't leave out any lines between these two paragraphs... so why did the poison sink deeper into az when the king says to put elain into the cauldron???)

azriel's mate behaviour to elain:

Azriel smiled faintly. ‘Would you like me to show you the garden?’ But Elain did not balk from him, did not shy away as she nodded—just once. ... Elain sat silently at one of the wrought-iron tables, a cup of tea before her. Azriel was sprawled on the chaise longue across the gray stones, sunning his wings and reading what looked to be a stack of reports ... The two Illyrians paused their inspection of me long enough to note my sisters finishing up breakfast, Nesta in a pale gray gown that brought out the steel in her eyes, Elain in dusty pink. Both males went a bit still.” ... ‘Can I set you up in the garden? The herbs you planted are coming in nicely.’ ‘I can help her,’ said Azriel, stepping to the table as Elain silently rose. No shadows at his ear, no darkness ringing from his fingers as he extended a hand.” ... The ancient healer jerked her chin toward Lucien. “See what he can do. If anyone can sense if something is amiss, it’s a mate. The mating bond. It is a bridge between souls.” She pointed at Lucien as she saw herself out. “Try sitting down with her. Just talking—sensing. See what you pick up. But don’t push.” (what we see azriel do time and again) “She doesn’t need anything,” Azriel answered without so much as looking at Lucien. Elain was staring at the spymaster now—unblinkingly. “We’re the ones who need ...” Azriel trailed off. “A seer,” he said, more to himself than us. “The Cauldron made you a seer.” ... “Because of the shit with Elain?” Azriel stilled. “What happened to Elain?”

the description of feysand:

But the bond, the bridge between us... it was a howling void.

the description of elriel:

The only bridge of connection ... that knife.

the description of elucien:

“It felt ... strange,” Elain breathed. “Like you pulled on a thread tied to a rib.”

finally:

‘There is choice. And sometimes, yes—the bond picks poorly sometimes the bond is nothing more than some…preordained guesswork at who will provide the strongest offspring. At its basest level, it’s perhaps only that.’”

4. azriel's shadows DO like elain:

In the blinding sun off the turquoise water, his shadows were gone, his face stark and clear. More ... human than I had ever seen him. ... “What now?” Elain mused, at last answering my question from moments ago as her attention drifted to the windows facing the sunny street. That smile grew, bright enough that it lit up even Azriel’s shadows across the room. ... Nesta saw the blow land, like a physical impact, in Elain’s face, her posture. No one spoke, though shadows gathered in the corners of the room, like snakes preparing to strike. ... But tonight, here in the dark and quiet, with no one to see…He pulled the small velvet box from the shadows around him. Opened it for her. 

5. elriel's aesthetic as light and dark

I saw the painting in my mind: the lovely fawn, blooming spring vibrant behind her. Standing before Death, shadows and terrors lurking over his shoulder. Light and dark, the space between their bodies a blend of the two. The only bridge of connection ... that knife.

if y'all want any more cold hard canon to back up any other elriel theories/arguments/takes comment it on this post and I'll add it to the list LMAO

good day and good night y'all stay safe our there<33

[swrkn]

Hello!!! I really love your Oliver fic 😭 could you do joker or sangho just fluff if it's fine ofc I'm not forcing ❤️

𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒

Joker (hajun) x g/n reader

Genre : fluff ; sfw

Author note : thank you so much for your request, and thank you for the compliment on my first fic :)) i have a fic for joker in my drafts, so for now im gonna do some headcanons , and I’ll publish it later ! Also those are my personal headcanons , so if you don’t think my headcanons are accurate, please don’t be mean 🙏

Author note 2 : i really enjoyed doing those headcanons so i think i’ll do more , and also some with sangho since you asked ;) My request are open !!

⇨ Protective

Joker is low-key protective of Y/N, though he'd never openly admit it. If they're biking together, he'll instinctively put himself on the side closer to traffic or obstacles, keeping an eye out without making a big deal of it.

When you and Hajun go for a night ride through busy streets, he'll always position himself on your left side, closer to traffic. You notices he does this every time but never points it out, as it's his way of protecting you. One night, a car honks a bit too close, and without thinking, Joker reaches out, gently steering her closer to him. "You alright?" he asks, trying to sound casual, but his hand stays on your arm until he's sure you’re safe.

⇨ Act Tough But Melts Around You

Joker has a "tough-guy" image, but you are the one person who can break through that. When you're alone, he's surprisingly affectionate and lets his guard down. Play with your hair, hold your hand, and even rest his head on your shoulder if he's tired.

After a tough day at practice, Joker shows up at your place looking frustrated and tired. You open the door, pulling him into a hug. He stiffens for a second, but then relaxes, letting himself melt into your warmth. He doesn't say much, just rests his head on your shoulder, breathing in deeply as she rubs his back.You tease him for "acting soft," and he just grumbles, "Only for you."

⇨ Late-Night Talks

Sometimes, You and Joker will have deep, late-night conversations that can last for hours.You both stay up talking about dreams, fears, and everything in between. He trusts you in a way he never trusted anyone, and you’re the one person he feels like he can be his true self around.He's opened up to you about his insecurities and what it's like balancing being a big brother with his own goals.

One summer night, you're lying side by side on a quiet rooftop, staring up at the stars. Joker starts talking about his childhood, sharing stories he rarely tells anyone, while you listen quietly, sometimes just holding his hand when he pauses. You opens up too, and you spend hours sharing memories and dreams, both of them feeling like they're closer than ever.He tells you things he never told anyone, realizing how much he trusts you.

⇨ Lets You Braid His Hair

One day, as a joke, you suggested to braid his hair, thinking he'd refuse. But to your surprise, he agreed, even if he tried to play it off like he didn't care.Now it's a little tradition between you and him. When you're just relaxing, you'll braid his hair, and he'll sit quietly, feeling oddly at peace. He actually finds it relaxing but would be mortified if anyone else knew.

During a lazy afternoon, you were both watching a movie a his house , with him leaning on you, letting you style his hair. As you braid, you notice he's relaxed, eyes half-closed, enjoying the quiet moment. Later, when his two littles brothers came in and burst out laughing, Joker just shrugs. "What ? She did a good job." he says nonchalantly, not caring about what his brothers are saying.

⇨ Always Comes Back to You

No matter how long his day's been or how tired he is, Joker always finds himself wanting to see you. You are his safe space, the person who keeps him grounded, and whenever he's with you, he feels like he finally found a place to rest. He doesn't say it often, but he thinks you are his world, and every ride, every victory, every day somehow feels better just knowing you are there , beside him

One evening, after an exhausting day, he texts you, asking if you’re free. When you agree to meet him, he feels his mood lift immediately. You don't have to do anything special; just being with you is enough to make everything feel better.

⇨ A Stubborn Romantic

Joker tries to act like he doesn't care about romance, but deep down, he's more romantic than he lets on. He'll surprise you by cooking your favorite meals, remember small things you mentioned about yourself, and even bring you your favourite treats every now and then. On special occasions, he'll even plan something for you, like a ride at dawn or a picnic by the river, even if he insists he's "not doing anything fancy."

For your birthday, Joker plans a quiet picnic next to a hidden river. He pretends it's "no big deal," but he packed your favorite snacks and even brought a small blanket to sit on. When you ask him if he went to all this trouble just for her, he simply says, "Don't get used to it." But the sparkle in your eyes , and seeing you this happy , was enough for him to know that if he can see you this happy , he would do it again and again.

✵