#it was just a game to them the entire time

[shioaoi]

Rundown of the more interesting parts from the Necrits live stream with Christian Linke (Creative Director and Co-Creator of Arcane) :

There was a longer version of the Caitvi sex scene but they got bonked by the ratings people, and because it would have raised Leagues rating to mature, it got brought down to what we got.

The entire Caitvi sex scene was directed and animated by Fortiche with zero input by Riot. Christian says, "That was French people being French."

Riot making Arcane canon didn't change where they were taking characters or the story, it just made them more aware of how it would affect other Riot projects.

Christian refused to confirm exactly when the events of Arcane take place in the existing timeline.

The Arcane doesn't originate from Hextech. It is just one - in universe - interpretation of magic.

Christian doesn't view Viktor and Jayce's love as romantic, and that romance wasn't the intention when writing their relationship. However, by the way he talks, it doesn't seem he's against people shipping them romantically - just as a creative team, they were more interested in exploring a close, complex male friendship / brotherhood.

The 250-million dollar show budget number is not accurate as marketing is included in that fund. Fortiche's goal from the beginning was to bring the level of animation found in feature animated films to serialised content. While the show was very expensive for an animated series, it was way cheaper than an animated feature film because they try and work efficiently. As an example, Christian says how often in Hollywood, it's not uncommon for sometimes 40-50% of what is animated to end up on the cutting room floor while with Fortiche they try and keep it around 5%

Ekko's hair was changed from a mohawk to dreads because the artist who worked on him told them that black hair doesn't work like that (in reference to the mohwak), and here's how it would actually work.

Legends of Runterra affected Arcane in terms of giving the team inspiration for how the everyday street life is for people in the regions.

Caitlyn's LOR Tactical design (2021) and Warwicks VGU Voicelines (2017) were made to reflect what was going to happen in Arcane - production of Arcane just took a long amount of time.

They've said from the beginning that the only person who could ever defeat Viktor at the height of his power was Viktor himself. His story is about the glorious evolution, the pursuit of that, and what it actually means to remove these human elements until there is nothing left.

All projects Riot is working on - whether the MMO, Games, Written or Animated projects - are in talks with one another at all times.

Christian comments on how very few games have remain in service as long as League has, and because of its ever growing and evolving story, it's hard to bring everything together cohesively since everything was made at different times, in different era's, by a multitude of different people. So, while many things may be very cool creatively, it makes it impossible to successfully bring it all together more often than not. So for new projects, they are more focused on making something good and successful with the team and talent they have, even if it retcons or replaces content made in the past.

Christian pitched singing Heimerdinger.

Arcane's scripts for S2 were locked in before S1 was released, so they were not impacted by fandoms or online reactions. Christian thinks maybe some animation choices were influenced by things the animators saw online, but not the story.

When watching the premier of the final arcane episodes in LA - the entire 4000 seat theatre cheered when Maddie died.

The butterfly motif shared between Jayce and Viktor specifically was used to represent transformation.

Christian talked about how they don't think about really whether people will like something or not, but whether it's the right consequence for the story (this is in discussion to Caitlyn losing an eye). What makes a character likeable to an audience in his eyes is their decisions in the story; the choices that they make.

Continuing on from this, he comments on how the choices Caitlyn makes now are so different now compared to the beginning of the show. She is now willing to take risks and sacrifice parts of herself for people, for Piltover and for what is right.

When asked about Caitlyn's signature hat, Christian says that the team saw it as somthing that didn't really fit this version of Caitlyn they were writing and the person she becomes and that's why it was never incorporated into her designs.

Back in the beginning, when they were first working on Arcane, Christian would constantly going back to Jinx and Vi's original design artists & Riot August who was their champion designer to make sure they weren't messing anything up with these characters.

Christian goes on to tell an anecdote of when Paul 'Zeronis' Kwon was drawing the first concepts for Vi. This was back when Christian was in music. She didn't have a name at the time, but when Christian looked over Paul's shoulder at the art, he comments "she kinda looks like a Violet to me." They never spoke about it, but months later, when she became a serious character concept internally, she was gifted the name Vi. To this day, Christian doesn't know if his comment resulted in her name or if it was just a coincidence, but Violet became stuck in Christian's brain as Vi's true name. Riot August (who was in chat) then confirms that her name came from her tattoo, which came from one of her key design elements, being that she had the number 6 on her face. So, just a happy coincidence.

Talking about the tattoo. The tattoo was shrunken in size so, from a distance, it would look more like a beauty mark and the brain can more easily disregard it. One of the many things that they had to think about when translating the designs over as, is animation, you would be looking at a characters face a lot more than you do in league where the camera is situated top down.

As they were wrapping up the stream, Christian talks about how there always needs to be a bit of space between what content creators / content consumers do (pointing at Necrit) and what Riot does. He thinks it's good that there is space for criticism and a critical view of the things Riot does. In order to succeed, he believes they need to listen to their audience but also that they need to have their own vision, take risks, and be bold. It's a delicate balance in his eyes, and projects tend to fail when these two sides are too in cahoots.

He iterates that they are not trying to shove anything down anyone's throats. They are just trying to find what makes these characters cool, tell their stories, and be true to the regions they come from. With taking the characters from League to Arcane, it was important that they translate these stories and characters so they can hold up with the best storytelling in the world.

This circles back to the earlier point about retconning things and replacing past stories and content. He comments on how some characters are very outdated or too archetypal, but they still have an essence that people love about them.

Arcane was something Christian worked on for 9 years, and he was getting clearly emotional near the end. He also adds they're just getting started and he wants to make sure they do a good job with this IP and the characters we really love.

To those who are not happy with certain decisions, he's sorry they didn't hit what you personally wanted, but there is simply no way they can please everybody. While they are trying to make as many of the Riot / Arcane audience happy, they as the creators and artists need to follow their own compass, be the shepherds of this IP; that being creative is hard. They will keep doing that even if they sometimes have to ruffle some feathers.

He closes the stream by confirming that they are investing quite a bit in Noxas, Ionia, and Demacia for the next regions they explore.

[wileys-russo]

stealth mode II a.russo

unc!era stays on🔝

stealth mode II a.russo

"alessia we're on the bus!" you laughed quietly, smacking your girlfriends hands away where they began to wander, the blonde huffing and pressing her face into your neck instead.

"you are no fun." the brit muttered as you smiled and shook your head, body leaning fully into yours as her weight bore into you and the pair of you basically sat in one chair together.

"be professional captain." you warned playfully, another huff and something grumbled into your neck before she shuffled back a little, resting her chin on your shoulder with arms looped around your waist as the pair of you turned to talk to your teammates on the other side of the aisle.

"now girls! i know last time there was a lot of sneaking out after lights out, and that will not be happening tonight. we have a big game tomorrow and we need everyone well rested and ready to go!" your coach clapped for everyone's attention as groans sounded in response.

"yeah against the team bottom of the table who are yet to win a game." your girlfriend whispered causing those within earshot to snicker and a small smile curl into your lips as you gently smacked her knee.

"i also understand a few of you have your finals starting next week, so i would encourage you use your downtime tonight after dinner to get some study in!" the coach suggested, chuckling at the boo's that rang out her way in response, loudest of all from the boisterous blonde clinging onto you like velcro as she had the entire bus ride.

"i don't see you booing, but i did see you pack two textbooks into your overnight bag." lotte teased as you rolled your eyes as a few of the girls around turned their booing toward you.

"watch it." alessia sat up straighter, fixing the group of them with an evil warning glare as immediately everyone turned back to their own conversations and your girlfriend settled again.

"mean ole captain russo." you teased quietly, turning in your seat as your girlfriends eyes rolled but a smile.

"yeah cause the only person allowed to tease you is me, obviously." the english woman reminded as you shook your head and pushed her, accepting the airpod offered your way as the two of you settled for the rest of the bus ride, leaning into one another.

~

"less!" you gasped as your girlfriend snuck your last roast potato when she thought you weren't looking. "its carb loading!" she justified, giving you an innocent smile with her mouth half full as you made a face of disgust.

there was a snicker across the table and within seconds the blondes features shifted, potato swallowed and eyes narrowing, fixing the junior across from her with a menacing stare.

"something funny?" the striker questioned though everyone could tell it was rhetorical, the table a little quieter now as some watched on in pity and the junior went pale, shaking her head furiously.

"no? oh but i'm sure we'd all love to know what was so funny, its in the team spirit to share." your girlfriend baited with a dangerous smile as you frowned, squeezing her knee beneath the table before your hand was batted away.

"uh no no it was nothing." the poor girl stammered out as you sighed, knowing better than to try and intervene, not fancying an argument just yet and knowing your girlfriend could be incredibly pig headed about defending her behaviour.

"nothing? well then maybe you should go and finish your food over there, you might find something worth laughing at." alessia nodded across the room and within milliseconds the junior grabbed her plate and all but sprinted away.

"teach her to laugh at me." the english woman mumbled under her breath, nobody else daring to make a comment on the interaction as alessia turned feeling your eyes set onto the side of her face.

"what?" the blonde huffed, clearly now grumpy and irritable as you sighed. "you know what." you muttered back, scraping your last mouthful of food onto your fork with a roll of your eyes.

"god please not this tonight. i wasn't that mean!" alessia defended herself, crossing her arms and spinning to face you head on as you only hummed, your conversation interrupted by your coach standing and clapping for everyones attention.

"now as i said earlier girls, there will be no messing around, sneaking out, getting up to any sort of trouble tonight!" your coach warned as a few murmurs and mutters sounded in response.

"and to ensure that is what happens, myself and assistant coach taylor have organised with the hotel staff that there will be adults on a roster in the hallway and any player caught out of their room or in someone else's will be benched tomorrow." she finished as collective arguments and groans of discontent rang around the room.

"none of that! my mind is made up. i know you all think tomorrow will be an easy win but that is a lazy mentality. if you start to enter play thinking you don't need to try then that's already cost us the championship girls!"

~

"i cannot believe you're actually studying right now." your girlfriend made a face of disgust from on your phone screen where it sat propped up against your water bottle.

"some of us like preparing for tests russo." you smiled, knowing your girlfriend nine times out of ten would just show up on the day with a pen and a dream, her course work hardly her biggest priority considering she wasn't on an academia based scholarship.

"can i please come over?" alessia whined for the tenth time in an hour as you chuckled. "no baby, you can't." you repeated yourself with an amused smile as the blonde pouted adorably.

"but why?" "you know why, would you like the captain of the team to be benched tomorrow?" "they wouldn't bench me, its just an empty threat to try and scare everyone out of sneaking out." "well its not worth the risk." "oh babe come on please? i'll even study with you!"

"oh you will?" you laughed at that, the strikers pout shifting into a scowl and a huff. "i will! even study my favorite subject." alessia retorted matter of factly as you raised an eyebrow curiously.

"and that would be what? the playbook for tomorrow?" "no, my favorite subject would be you of course baby." alessia beamed, clearly quite proud of herself as you tried to bite back a smile.

"come on, you can tell me. i'm the best!" your girlfriend grinned wolfishly as you flipped her off and looked back down to the barely started essay in front of you.

"need i remind you california, we have pre game traditions!" alessia tried a different approach as you rolled your eyes at the nickname. "yes we do, and we can make out in the change rooms tomorrow. not right now!" you warned as alessia groaned again, her head dropping down onto the pillow in front of her with a small thump.

"you are no fun. wheres your sense of adventure?" "left it behind." "clearly! but what did you bring with you?" your eyes flickered upward and catching the cheeky glint in her eyes you knew what it was she really wanted from that question.

not getting anywhere with your essay with the blonde distracting you and knowing the longer you placated her whining the more desperate she'd get, you closed your textbook and scooted your chair back a little.

"blue and black." you answered with a sly smile as your girlfriend closed her eyes and threw her head back with a groan. "seriously? the blue one? on an away game? where we're roomed separately?" your girlfriend accused as you nodded.

"you're lying, just to wind me up." "am i?" "you so are and-" the blonde fell silent as you grabbed the hem of the large faded UNC shirt you had on, lifting it up to your neck revealing the baby blue bra in question as your girlfriends jaw dropped and her eyes locked on your chest.

"i don't lie, goodnight babe. sweet dreams!" you dropped your shirt back down with a wink, covering yourself again and ignoring your girlfriends hurried protests, telling you you loved her and blowing her a kiss before clicking end call.

you grinned to yourself knowing for once you'd had the upper hand and gotten under her skin, it normally being the other way around as you chuckled at the incoming barrage of messages and calls from the striker.

you sent her a message you needed to concentrate and you'd message her when you were headed to bed, turning your phone over and putting it on silent.

though you should have known well enough, this would not the end of things.

so when you heard the knock on the window you just thought it the wind, not paying it much mind as you tapped your pen against your forehead trying to formulate the points of your introduction.

but then, it came again, and again, growing in frequency and volume as did your concern and slight worry for what was actually hidden behind the curtains.

you looked around for a weapon of sorts, grabbing one of your cleats and holding it up as if it was a sword, creeping toward the window as the knocks sounded again and you jumped.

taking a deep breath you paused, should you alert a teacher? your girlfriend? the hotel? no, it was probably just a bird who'd been fed by someone in this room before, that was clearly the only explanation (which didn't terrify you).

so steeling your nerves you crept forward a few more steps and yanked aside the curtains, your heart leaping into your mouth until you locked eyes with who the intruder was and your eyes widened as large as plates.

"alessia? what the fuck!" you hissed, sliding open the back door as she stepped inside and huffed. "i knocked like ten times are you deaf?" the blonde rolled her eyes as you glanced around to see if anyone could see before promptly closing and locking the door.

"how on earth-" you started to question but it was swallowed by your girlfriend pulling your body into hers, lips pressing sweetly against yours as you relaxed momentarily before tensing up again and pushing her off.

"are you crazy? you could have died!" you hissed, smacking her a few times as the taller girl shielded her face with her hands. "what two stories from the ground? worse it would have been a broken leg! and not my first." alessia grinned as you glared at her and raised your hand to hit her again.

"okay okay okay! i just snuck across three balconies, i'm fine see? nothing bad happened." your girlfriend assured softly with a smile that normally would have you melting but right now your heart was racing and it did nothing to quell that in the slightest.

"not yet! what if you had gotten caught? or if they come to do room checks and you get caught? we'll both be benched!" you warned with a shake of your head, pacing back and forth as the blonde sat herself on the edge of your bed.

"are you done?" alessia asked with an amused smile, leaning back on her hands and raising an eyebrow as you paused your pacing and fixed her with a glare.

"last room checks were at ten, and i'll set an alarm for six and sneak back over for the wake up at seven. no one will know!" the blonde assured as you huffed, shaking your head and deciding to ignore her, taking your seat back at the desk you'd been studying at.

"well thats quite the welcome." your girlfriend scoffed, stripping off her hoodie, tossing it onto your bed and making her way over to you.

"you're an idiot." you mumbled back, eyes not leaving the page in front of you. "oh its so lovely to see you too. no 'hey baby how was your day? hey baby how are you? hey baby I missed you! hey baby i appreciate you breaking the rules and almost dying for me!" the brit mocked sarcastically with a roll of her eyes.

"you choosing to do all that was your choice. i was with you all day alessia, and i saw you-" you paused to flip your phone over and shaking your head at the barrage of texts from her. "-like two hours ago." you turned it back over and opened your text book again.

"well i missed you. so you didn't miss me?" alessia asked, and beneath the hard mean exterior she often exhibited, she was always herself with you and you didn't miss the slight whiff of insecurity hidden in the question.

"of course i missed you less. but it was one night, and you could get us both in trouble!" you dropped your pen with a sigh, leaning your head back on your chair and staring up at the blonde behind you with a small smile.

"well, then at least we'd keep each other company on the bench wouldn't we?" alessia grinned, english accent thick as she leaned down to connect your lips, warm hands cupping your cheeks and necklace clinking as it tapped against your forehead, though that wasn't anything you weren't already used to.

"i love you." alessia pulled away, squeezing your cheeks slightly between her fingers before letting you go, retreating back to the bed and flopping down, wiggling around to get comfortable.

"shoes less." you interrupted as she went to speak, nodding to her sneakers which were currently resting atop your comforter. "an 'i love you too' would have sufficed, so bossy." your girlfriend rolled her eyes playfully but none the less pulled herself into a sitting position, yanking off her shoes and tossing them in a corner.

"you know i love you, but i hate when you wear shoes inside." You sighed with a pointed look to which she simply waved you off. "yeah yeah and you hate outside clothes touching your bed as well, i know all your little quirks baby."

"my little quirks? shall we discuss your game day routine?" you asked amused, pink flushing the strikers cheeks as she huffed. "doesn't count! all footballers have traditions on a game day, you're just weird." alessia shrugged as you scoffed.

"one; its soccer, remember where you are. and two; i'm weird?" you crossed your arms and glared her down only making her grin and wiggle her eyebrows. "the weirdest. but i still love you, don't i? just risked a broken leg for you baby girl, wouldn't do that for just anyone." the striker smiled charmingly as you hummed.

"no you're normally the breaker of legs." "hey that is so not fair! it was one time, a freak accident." "mm and it just so happened to be my ex involved in this freak accident?" "right? such a coincidence."

"whatever you say hot head. aren't british people supposed to be well mannered?" you chuckled, picking up your pen again as your girlfriend mocked you under her breath.

"you're not seriously going to study are you?" the striker groaned, voice thick with annoyance as she collapsed back atop the bed, head hitting your pillows with a small thump.

"well one of us needs to be the smart one in this relationship." you smiled in amusement, the older girl lifting her head and shooting an unimpressed glare in your direction. "and what's that supposed to mean?" alessia challenged, propping her head up on her hand.

"it means you know if you studied for once, or spent the same amount of time doing the work as you do complaining about it, you might not need to keep retaking things!" you gasped sarcastically, clapping your hands together before wrapping them around yourself with a shiver as a cold gust of wind blew through slightly open window.

"and if you actually closed your window in the middle of winter or wore pants, you wouldn't be so cold!" alessia retorted back with the same sarcastic bite, hauling herself to her feet and making her way over to the window.

"i like the window being open a little, it helps me think, and if I don't want to wear pants then i won't!" you defended as she yanked the window closed with a loud bang, grunting with effort.

"oh i would never complain about you not wearing pants my love." alessia smiled coyly, perching herself directly across from you on the end of your bed.

you'd first properly met the english girl at a frat party, your first since enrolling at UNC, invited by the girls in your dorm when they saw you didn't have any friday night plans, one of them dating one of the boys in the frat.

you had soccer tryouts on monday and though not usually a heavy drinker or party goer during season you'd agreed to accompany them, your families words about embracing college life ringing in your ears.

several shots later and you found yourself roped into playing a heated game of beer pong against alessia and one of the girls from your dorm emily, who you were delighted to learn when you moved in was also part of the soccer program at UNC.

"if we lose you're drinking that last cup, I can barely see straight." you mumbled to your other roommate sam who simply clapped you on the back. "if you could see straight i'd know you were having a terrible time." the girl grinned before taking her turn, missing by a mile.

"oh come on you can do better than that carter!" one of her friends jeered from beside the pair of you, a small group gathered and watching the game.

"i know we can." emily smirked, her turn now as she effortlessly sunk their final ball, not having missed a single throw as the small crowd cheered and you groaned.

"you're up!" you shoved sam toward the deadly final cup, knowing that it was filled with various remnants of everyone else's drinks, disgusted at the mere thought of how it would taste.

you watched on with a wince as she somehow downed the entire thing, gagging a little but steadying herself before fist pumping and tossing the cup over her shoulder with a cry of victory.

shaking your head with a small smile you left her to attempt to keep flirting with one of the frat boys she had been insistent looked exactly like her future husband as you wandered away from the table, searching the crowded room for any of your other friends you'd made this week in your classes.

but unable to see any you collapsed onto the couch instead, taking a small sip of your drink, though sam had mixed it for you and you'd been warned she had a notoriously heavy pour, so you put it aside with a wince.

"so what do I get for winning?" you looked up hearing an unfamiliar voice behind you, tensing in surprise as one of the girls you'd just lost to catapulted herself over the top of the couch, landing nimbly beside you.

"sorry?" you raised an eyebrow in confusion, taking in the smiling blue eyed blonde beside you, seeing it was indeed the girl who'd paired off with emily earlier.

she wore blue frayed jean shorts and a tight slightly lowcut tank top, neck adorned in at least three different necklaces, all beginning to get tangled with one another though she didn't seem to care.

"you lost, your friend sam drank but you didn't. so i'll ask again, what do I get for winning?" she asked again, a dopey grin gracing her lips as you chuckled.

"the rewarding sense of self satisfaction that you beat two drunk uncoordinated idiots at a game designed for douchey frat boys. take it or leave it!" you bit back, surprise flickering across the girls face at your sudden change of tone, though her features melted back into an amused smile.

"alessia." she introduced herself, extending the hand which wasn't draped over the back of the couch toward you. you gave your own name back as you shook her hand before dropping it, shifting on the couch and tucking one leg under another, placing your own hands in your lap.

"you know i have a feeling we're gonna become really well acquainted." alessia grinned, subtly shuffling a few paces closer to you on the couch.

"nice accent. where are you from?" you ignored her remark, the english girl with a slight twang you couldn't quite place. "guess." she sat back a little and raised an eyebrow as you paused.

"london?" "is that because its the only english capitol you know?" "no, you're just...posh sounding?" "posh!" the girl laughed as you couldn't help but allow a grin to curl into your own features.

"you're new, right?" alessia changed the conversation and you shifted under her piercing stare as her bright eyes looked you up and down.

"maybe I've been here for years, you don't know me." you smiled, reaching over for your cup and once again wincing as you took a small sip, placing it back on the coffee table.

"oh i'd know if you'd been here for two years, i never forget a face." she grinned. "but this is also my first year too, so maybe not." the blonde admitted as you pushed her lightly with a playful roll of your eyes.

"are you always so sure of yourself?" you questioned with a shake of your head. "sure of myself? no. confident? i try to be." alessia shrugged honestly and without having known her for more than a few minutes you couldn't deny that did in fact radiate off of her.

"so what are you here for?" alessia asked curiously, finishing her drink and placing her empty cup down beside yours. "well since you're so confident alessia, why don't you tell me?" you smiled slyly as the blonde hummed and looked you up and down for a moment.

"you're studying...psychology? mm no. maybe business? marketing? this wasn't your first choice school but you didn't get accepted to that one, plus your best friend was going to go here so you decided to join her. you call your parents every weekend, your mom lets say...almost every day. you broke up with your boyfriend because you 'didn't want to try distance' but in reality you'd been bored of him for months. am i close?" alessia grinned cheekily, tilting her head as she leaned in a little closer, only half an arms length away from you now.

"hmmm...no. i'm majoring in journalism as a backup this was my first choice school, because as a d1 athlete the soccer program here has had my name on it for years." you began to lean in closer as you spoke, hyper aware of the warm hand which was now resting on your knee as you did so.

"-i moved here alone from california. i don't talk to my parents much, i call my mom maybe once a week if i have to because she just begs me to come back home. i broke up with my girlfriend because she cheated on me with one of my now ex best friends, though she could get a little boring sometimes." you shrugged, your face now only a few centimetres away from alessia, whose eyes were trained on yours.

"nice to meet you alessia." you breathed out with a smile, your lips a hairsbreadth from hers as you pulled away, grabbing your drink and walking off to find sam or emily, feeling her eyes follow you the entire way, unaware of how fast your heart was beating in your chest as you did.

"hey that's mine, i was looking for that this morning!" the taller girl raised an eyebrow, pointing to the large shirt you had covering the top half of your body. "mine now." You smiled coyly, tucking your knee up to your chest as she shook her head, unamused.

"you know I don't care if you borrow my clothes california but at least eventually give them back."

"well i look better in them anyway russo." you smiled smugly not at all meaning what you said, you adored the way alessia dressed. "very cute, but I'm still taking it back with me tomorrow, it's my favourite." alessia shook her head again, having bought the article of clothing from the gift shop her first week of college.

"and you're studying again." alessia groaned as you turned back to your paper. "don't you also have things to work on? like your sociology class you're set to fail?" you questioned glancing over your shoulder and waiting for whatever else it was you knew she wanted to say.

"hey i can still pass if i take the test again or write a make up paper." alessia explained as you hummed along in understanding, turning your attention to your own essay.

"but let me guess, you haven't started either and you have no intention of working on it at all this weekend?" you chuckled with a shake of your head, unable to see but knowing the blonde had rolled her eyes.

"the paper has to be at least four thousand words and give my opinion on a previous medical study or report which was deemed 'unethical'." alessia started to explain as you hummed again, fully aware of the minutes ticking by in which you weren't spending writing your own paper, knowing you both needed to be in bed by midnight to get a goods night rest before the game.

"so i was thinking-" alessia started as you scoffed lightly. "thats dangerous." you interrupted, your girlfriend giving you a serious dose of side eye before continuing. "so i was thinking. can you help me write it? i have a week." alessia finished with a smile, and now it all made sense.

"i knew there was an angle. you only snuck here to use me!" you huffed, giving her an unimpressed glare over your shoulder. "no i didn't! i mean yes, but no. please gorgeous you're so smart you barely even have to try!" alessia whined, shooting up to her feet.

"no. now get out and climb back to your own room, i'm busy." you mumbled annoyed, shrugging off her arms as she attempted to wrap them around you from behind. alessia huffed, moving to the side and tugging at her shirt on your body, trying to pull you off the chair and into her arms instead.

"go away alessia." you warned but before you could even utter another word the pencil was yanked from your hand and a warm hand firmly gripped your chin and turned your head.

"i didn't just come here to ask you to write a paper baby, i promise." the blonde assured softly, hands moving to cup your face and you'd be lying if your stomach didn't flip a little.

"i need to write my own paper and we have a game tomorrow." you sighed pulling your face away, her own softening as she took her seat back at the end of your bed, your pen captive in her hand as she swiped it from the desk.

"It's only friday you have plenty of time baby. come on and give me a cuddle at least, i really did come here cause i missed you." she opened her arms expectantly with a pout, getting up with a sigh eventually caving in as she knew you would.

"you're so annoying sometimes." you mumbled as you sat on her lap facing her, wrapping your arms around her neck as her own hugged your waist, the two of you sitting there just holding one another for a moment.

"i literally saw you a couple of hours ago, needy." you teased, leaning down to peck her lips a couple of times, her grip tightening around your waist.

"correct. but you slept over last night, and this morning i believe we started something before I had to leave for class, didn't we?" alessia grinned suggestively, hands moving to rest on your upper thighs.

"did we? guess I forget." you pouted sarcastically, moving her hands off your thighs and trying to reach for the pen still secured tightly within them.

"nah uh, you have to earn it." alessia smirked, holding it out of reach behind her head. "you know i literally have a whole handful of pens over there right?" you snickered, nodding behind her to your overnight bag on the floor.

"but you still gotta get through me to get to them." alessia challenged, tossing the pencil over her shoulder as it landed on the floor with a clatter.

"since you forgot, let me jog your memory gorgeous." alessia breathed out against your neck, peppering the warm skin with small kisses, hands moving slowly around your waist and resting cheekily on your ass.

"alessia." you tried to warn seriously, though it came out as more of a breathy moan as the blonde suddenly nipped at your neck, simultaneously squeezing your ass in her hands.

"yes love?" she hummed, slowly kissing up your jaw. "we have to-" you paused as she dipped her head and bit down on the other side of your neck,  harshly sucking to form a bright red hickey.

alessia had always been a biter from the moment the two of you crashed down into bed together, even if it was just to get your attention when she deemed you weren't paying enough of it to her.

the girl was notoriously mean to everyone but you, but that didn't stop her from being cruel in other ways when it suited her, the english woman perhaps the most eager tease you'd ever met.

"we have to?" alessia trailed off mockingly, moving her assault on your neck down a little lower as her hands moved to trail up your sides.

then before you could even utter another syllable her grip tightened on your hips and she pushed you down on the bed, moving to sit herself on top of you.

"we have to..." the striker whispered again, leaning down to tug on your earlobe with her teeth as her hand trailed up your stomach, nails gently raking down the bare skin, your shirt pooled up around your neck.

"do you remember yet baby?" alessia hummed with a grin, moving her jogger clad knee to rest between your legs and leaning down to connect your lips.

you withheld a groan as she bit down on your bottom lip, small gasp as she pressed her knee against you all she needed to take control of the kiss, tongue roaming your mouth freely.

"nope! no no no, we can't!" you pulled yourself from the hazy fog she was trying to drown you in and sat up suddenly, alessia falling off of you with a squeal as you pulled your shirt down and stood.

"no sex the night before a game. we have an agreement less!" you whined, burying your face in your hands and counting to fifteen, trying to will your body to leave its current state of need for the blonde.

"well fuck the agreement love i'm horny!" the brit hissed bluntly as you peeked out from your hands with a glare. "then count! we have an agreement for a reason." you reminded firmly, a slight pinch to your neck alerting you to a different problem as you hurried to the bathroom.

"alessia!" you shouted with a scowl, touching the two fast forming love bites on your neck with a wince, the blondes head popping sheepishly into the doorway as she shrunk beneath your glare.

however before either of you could say another word there was a knock at the door and both your heads snapped toward the door, your coach calling out your name.

"hide!" you mouthed at the blonde, yanking her into the bathroom as you stepped out, looking around the room wildly and hurrying to shove any evidence you weren't here alone into the closet as another knock and your name sounded again.

a towel hit you in the head as you spun around and glared at your girlfriend who'd thrown it. "hickeys!" she pointed to her neck as you hurried to sling the towel around your neck as if going for a shower.

taking a moment to collect yourself you rubbed your eyes a few times and slowly cracked open the door. "yeah coach?" you asked, faking a yawn as the womans eyes narrowed.

"i heard you yell, something wrong?" she asked suspiciously, trying to see behind you as you closed the door a little more. "no no, must have been someone else. night coach!" you assured, trying to close the door properly as a hand grabbed it and you winced.

"you won't mind if i check you're here alone then, will you?" "of course not coach." you forced a smile and opened the door properly, gesturing for her to come in.

"bit late to be studying, we need you sharp on defense tomorrow, its critical we maintain a low block." the woman noted your materials scattered across the desk in the corner as you hurried to note you weren't aware of the time.

"i could have sworn i heard you shout your girlfriends name. and i would hope that the captain of the team would know better than to be breaking rules?" the woman seemed to emphasize her point a little louder.

"oh we were uh, on facetime coach! we'd just hung up." you quickly lied with a smile as she hummed. "so i could shower! then head right to bed." you tugged on the towel with a somewhat nervous chuckle as she hummed again.

"well i'll leave you to it then." the woman did a quick check of the bathroom and you tried not to let the relief flood your face as she seemed satisfied you were alone, one last scan of the room before she left.

you barely exhaled before there was a thump and your girlfriend came careering out of the bathroom where she'd been hidden in the shower. "she is absolutely heading for your room now you idiot, go!" you whispered, shoving her with a huff.

"not that way! the way you came." you hissed, turning her around and pushing her toward the balcony door. "god you are so bossy, and everyone says i'm the mean one?" alessia scoffed as you smacked the back of her head.

"not the time! go!" you shoved her as she stumbled, catching herself and shivering. "hoodie!" she demanded as you rolled your eyes and hurried off to collect it, tossing it in her face and stepping back to shut the door.

"hey! what about my kiss?" the girl scowled as you stared at her in disbelief, a finger tapping her lips expectantly as you rolled your eyes but stepped forward, bunching her shirt in your hands and pressing your lips to hers.

"this was hot, like a forbidden love!" alessia grinned as you pulled away and pushed her toward the edge of the balcony where she'd climbed over. "yeah it'll be forbidden when you get suspended for being an asshole, go russo!" you pointed firmly as she blew you another kiss and swung a leg over the railing.

"i love you." "i love you." she repeated again as you went to close the door. "i love you!" a third time.

"oh my god shut up someone will hear you! i love you too, now go!"

[luveline]

If you are still writing for bombshell x Spencer could you write something from early seasons when he had feelings for JJ 👉🏻👈🏻

Hotch told you once that he was tempted to put an automatic lock on the office doors, so that he can lock them when he sees you coming during your working hours. 

He has yet to follow through. You slip in through the doors and take a deep breath. It smells like coffee, printer paper, all the same stuff as your own office, but your office doesn’t have Aaron Hotchner, Derek Morgan, or Spencer Reid. 

“Neither does this one, apparently,” you mumble to yourself, casting your gaze around the room to no avail. The boys aren’t here. 

Emily’s sitting at her desk. She’s new, you’re jealous of her job, but she’s gorgeous. You won’t mind sitting at Spencer’s desk until they get back. “Hello,” you drawl, setting down in Spencer’s chair comfortably. 

Emily’s mildly startled. “Hey?”

Spencer’s desk is an explosion. You debate cleaning up for him. What if you put something in the wrong place? It’ll be more annoying than helpful. “How are things?” you ask, pushing Spencer’s chair back, and kicking a leg over your knee, high heel bobbing. 

“What?” 

You smile at her. Flirting, just a little, but your concern is real. “How are things going, Prentiss? With you?” 

“They’re good. Yeah. I just moved into my new place.” 

Bless her for not knowing what to do with you. She doesn’t have practice like the rest. “A new place? Where to?” 

She relaxes while you talk. Her apartment overlooking Kingman, her cat’s annoyance at the new smells and the long case time away. “Spencer says that cats aren’t capable of holding grudges, but Sergei can.” 

“He’s cute, isn’t he? He knows a fun fact for everything.” 

Emily sits up. You can see the excitement of a secret in her dark eyes. “He’s adorable. His little crush on JJ is so sweet, I’ve tried to give him some advice but he’s totally stuck on her.” You falter. And Emily, profiler in training, she catches it. Her lips part, startled. “You’re not–”

“I had no idea Spencer had a little crush,” you breathe, sitting up with a smile. “For how long? What about JJ, is she interested in him?” You hug your hands together. “You know, I think they’d make a cute couple.”

“Well, I heard they went to a football game together, but I don’t know when. Before I got here, at least.” 

What? “That’s fun.”

“I don’t think it’s serious.”

You tip your head back and the heavens have opened, Derek Morgan’s making his way toward you with a grin and a hand reaching for you. “Sweetheart, where have you been?” he asks. “It’s been weeks, I was starting to miss you.” 

You texted him a few days ago about a property nearby for rent, and you had coffee the day after to hear his advice on the area, so he’s just making stuff up. “Hi, Derek.” 

You get up and let him hug you. You deserve it. You’re beautiful and fun and smart, and you deserve a handsome man rubbing your arm and telling you he missed you. “How much?” you ask warmly. 

“Like a hole in the head.” 

Hotch is behind him. And there, the surprise item of the afternoon, Spencer Cheating Reid. 

“Hi, Hotch,” you say. 

“I heard something about you I’d rather not repeat,” he says. 

“Hotch, the details were wildly exaggerated, and I was less at fault than you might think.”

“I thought it was entirely your fault.” He shakes his head. “You’re shooting yourself in the foot, doing things like that.” 

“Why, what did you do?” Spencer asks. 

You falter again. Everyone sees your insecurity: Hotch’s brow furrows deeper than it had been, Morgan pauses, and Spencer, to your panic, holds your eye as the emotion passes. “It’s not worth talking about,” you say, shrugging. 

“Try not to do it again,” Hotch says. “Morgan, with me.” 

“Uh, Hotch?” Emily speaks up. 

“You too, Prentiss.” 

He leads a procession up to his office. Morgan throws you a look like he wants to talk to you, but you’ve plastered unaffectedness over the wound again. Why does the idea of JJ and Spencer going on a date upset you? He’s a sweet guy, she’s a nice girl. Is it because you didn’t know? 

“You really haven’t been here in weeks,” Spencer says. 

“Missed me?” 

He holds the strap of his bag. “Yeah, I did.” 

What use does he have missing you? “I heard something interesting about you, Spencer.” 

“You did?”

He looks shy, pale, and worried. You forget sometimes how he’s not just your favourite dork, he’s a friend. And he doesn’t seem to have very many of them. 

Oh, you think, jealousy, you heartless monster. 

“The rumour mill says you aren’t sleeping enough,” you say gently. 

“I sleep fine.”

You put one kitten heel in front of the other and stay, squinting at him with a teasing suspicion. “That’s not what my informants have been telling me. You look tired, honey. You aren’t sleeping, or Hotch won’t let you?” 

“Both.” 

He does that playful smiley thing that makes you wanna scrunch his hair in your hands, like he knows he’s made a good joke. 

“Your case in Cincinnati sounded tough.” 

“Wait,” he says. 

“What?” 

“Are you okay?” 

“Usually. Why?” 

“Are you okay right now?” 

“I’m fine.” You purse your lips. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“Just– you– I don’t know, you didn’t seem like yourself. I didn’t mean to upset you, asking about that stuff. It’s none of my business, sorry.” 

“How are you feeling about physical touch today?” you ask. 

He seems to regard you with distrust, for a few seconds, like he’s worried you’re messing with him. “I’m okay with it,” he says eventually. 

You step into his space and touch his cheek gently, fingertip tapping into a beauty mark you often remember only when he’s in your reach. “You didn’t say anything wrong. I’m sorry I made you think that.” You drop your hand. “Just having a weird day.” 

“Me too.” 

Spencer puts his bag under his desk and mentions a video he found on profiling you might like by one of the old Unit Chief’s, SSA David Rossi. You steal Derek’s chair and sit knee to knee with him to watch it, Spencer’s cheeks turning dark with blush in the screen’s reflection. 

Can JJ make him blush like that? 

—

bombshell fics

[tbshorts]

Is Arcane canon?

full video script below the cut

Arcane season 2 makes a lot of very big things happen, and some of you may be wondering if all of this is canon to the main League of Legends universe.

Well, yes and no. Riot Games has insisted that Arcane is the main canon, and have said that they are going to change the broader League of Legends universe to fit it, so that people who watched Arcane can play League of Legends and not be confused by different versions of the character running around.

So in that sense, yes, Arcane is canon.

Now, Riot has said they're going to do that, but also… they haven't actually done that yet. To be fair, it's not something you can just do overnight, I'm sure it'll take a while, but for the moment, the reality is that the overwhelming majority of published story that actually exists… contradicts Arcane, almost entirely. And despite having three entire years since season 1 to start making things fit… even the champions of just Piltover and Zaun have not yet had new material published that would make them fit with the story of Arcane.

So, is Arcane canon? Technically, yes. Practically? Absolutely not. And don't hold your breath for that to change anytime soon, last time Riot did a big lore retcon was over a decade ago and they still haven't finished that one either.

[kwondotcom]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(10) i'd written the story mostly in order— about 85% of it is done that way— but it's worth noting that the japan bathroom 'fight' scene is the last part i wrote. i couldn't figure out a proper argument for them to get in, because the original argument involved minghao getting a little too handsy with the reader. it felt out of character and i'm glad to have written it out.

i still feel like the bathroom scene is one of the weaker scenes in the entire peace, especially as the 'conflict' takes place in vague, overlapping conversation, but i needed some sort of catalyst for the scene that follows.

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

(12) the phone call scene is one of my favorites, if only because there's a lot of interesting dynamics there about the push-and-pull of language. reader choosing to stick to korean because of medical jargon/minghao's moment of wanting to tell you to just use mandarin/reader's switch to mandarin when she senses minghao's mounting panic. i feel like it's the part that encapsulates the fic the most.

in it, there's also the line i eventually lead with in the intro. being good to you is the easy part. again, it's minghao in a nutshell. the idea that— despite later insistence, in the confession scene— minghao will 'do all the work', he still thinks it's effortless. treating you well. loving you.

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

(14) again, no notes, except for that i truly wanted to do something in ode of minghao since this is a birthday fic. i've always loved his name (the etymologies of names, in general), and so being able to squeeze it in here felt apt.

notably, there's at least three distinct sky scenes in the fic. the stars in japan, the cliffside sunset, and the ending with the moon.

in japan, minghao has his revelation; on the cliffside, he's given something he can hold to. the beach scene, under the moon, is where he finally confesses.

(15) "of course i'm going to try again tomorrow," he whispers, and he'll do that for the rest of his life if he has to. is probably my favorite line in the entire fic. it's difficult to explain, but it goes much deeper than just a confession of feelings. it speaks a lot about minghao as a character, as a person, from someone who worked hard to get to each tomorrow, someone steadfast and resilient.

it's also just a nice sentiment, [fan]fiction or not. the idea that, no matter what it is, there is only really one thing we can do for the rest of our lives: try again, and again, and again, for all the tomorrows that we have.

lost in translation ♾️ minghao x reader.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hm.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“In Korean or in Mandarin?” you prod. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit.

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

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

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

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

And just like that, he’s breathless again.

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

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

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

“I’ll say it more, then,” you muse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The way you'd need him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm coming. Don't cheat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit, he's so gone for you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Alright, xīngān," you say softly.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I do."  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Like making it work," you concede.  

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

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

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

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

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

"Ah. Destiny."  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile softly.

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

He just wishes he could have been more specific. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joshua gives you a warm smile. Chan waves exaggeratedly.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You look tired."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Minghao."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hao—"

"It’s not a sign of weakness—"

"You keep treating me like—"

"I’m not—"

"Minghao!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah," he says. "That’s all."

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

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

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

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

"Idiot," he murmurs quietly to himself.

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

How are you? Are you okay?

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

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

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

A beat. 

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

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

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

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

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

"Found you," he murmurs.

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

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

He was looking at you, and that was enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We do," he replies quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

can i call? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joshua offers the next best thing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your smile widens and you respond in the same language.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How much do you like them, Haohao?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So he does the only thing he can think of.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I love you," he says. Wǒ ài nǐ.

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

But, no. Minghao is done.

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

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

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

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

Minghao is helplessly, hopelessly in love with you. 

It feels like forever before you respond. 

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

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

Minghao resists the urge to tell you to stop, to tell you it’s okay. He holds you tight, laughing quietly, as he basks in what feels a lot like the beginning of something. 

It’s okay, he wants to say as you confess to him in Spanish, in Portuguese, in Italian. 

I hear you. 

I hear you loud and clear. 

[adimouze]

an incomplete list of truly unhinged shit max verstappen has said/done this year about daniel ricciardo

said he should have taken a picture of daniel asleep on the plane next to him because it was sooooo funny bearing in mind no one found it funny (daniel found it funny)

checked out at daniel on the honda thanks day podium then tucked his hair behind his ear when daniel looked at him

honda day in general (kart fucking, passenger princessing)

asked if he was going to go on a romantic date with daniel

when said it wasn't a romantic date he y/n-ed a date at daniel's farm where they would be racing dirt bikes and daniel (someone who has experience with dirt bikes) would be getting injured but they both would be missing the next few races

used checo and yuki as padel nets for their game of pretend padel while scotty james (another daniel ricciardo harem member) stared off into the distance

walked so far off ahead with daniel during filming that marketing could barely point them out in the photo

pointing and laughing at checo's rendition of suzuka circuit together

said, in front of nico hulkenberg, kevin magnussen, checo perez and god himself that he would choose to go to a deserted island with daniel and just daniel

said he couldn't describe daniel in just three words

said everything is better with daniel right next to his teammate

hitting each other with fishing nets in monaco

max placing his hand on the railing behind daniel while taking a photo

daniel casually walking into an interview max is doing and bringing him stroopwaffels when asked

called daniel a horny man

let daniel walk him through the paddock with his hand on max's back

"it is of course daniel" and the world's biggest smile

answered daniel for most things

told everyone he hated going to goodwood then looked like he had the most fun with his legs tucked up next to daniel

sat next to each other the entire time and hoped they could be teammates (for the WEC!!! ofc!!! sneaky look)

spent an entire drivers parade shitting on his car with daniel (who is in another team)

walked past his teammate to leave for the summer break without talking because he was with daniel

HELICOPTER RIDE INTO THE SUNSET

singapore padel date

defended daniel to the world without prompting

singapore walk in the rain

"thank you daniel"

"he can have whatever he wants"

liked every single post daniel made within seconds except the one where he's cuddled up with another man

monaco padel date with daniel in last night's clothes

[tsuutarr]

As just imagined then everything as a game and the hero as seeing like a freak by all the people and the reader as the only good and nice npc then treat him well and even give him free item even if our store is not very we still give him a apologize about the others (npcs) being rude with him and the hero being so delusinal the fall over us lol

so, because i have absolutely NO self control, I made another story <3

Yandere! RPG Protagonist x Reader

Gallius isn’t entirely sure when he gained sentience. Maybe it was when he’d have insistent feelings of déjà vu. Maybe it was when he would want to go somewhere or do something, but an external force prevented him from doing so. Maybe it was when the people he talked to would say the same things over and over and over again.

Regardless, one day, he realized that he doesn’t actually exist – at least, not in a way that matters. He’s just a piece of code, a bunch of pixels moving across the screen, trapped in a video game.

The worst part is that everyone around him – and he means everyone – lacks sentience. It’s gotten to the point that he’s memorized everything. Every dialogue, every story path – everything.

It’s a fruitless life, really, especially since he’s forced to obey his code. He’s forced to go along with whatever the person controlling him wants. He’s forced to be the happy-go-lucky protagonist. He can’t be anything but that.

Gods, he’s going to go insane.

And he’s tried to talk to people, really.

“Hey, so, I think we’re in a game.”

“Beer is fifty percent off, young man.”

Gallius never thought the tavern’s owner could look so lifeless. “So, you know, I guess you really don’t have sentience.”

“Man, can you believe the monster outbreak?”

“Don’t you wish there was a way you could… I don’t know, break free? Talk beyond your code?”

“Beer is fifty percent off, young man.”

Gallius holds back a sigh. The tavern owner says three things exactly. “Beer is fifty percent off, young man”, “Man, can you believe the monster outbreak?”, and “I don’t know if I prefer a full tavern or an empty one!” are the exact phrases the tavern owner recycles. It isn’t just the tavern owner, either. It’s everyone else in town. The blacksmith, the carpenter, the seamstress – all of them.

It kind of drives him insane. Maybe that’s why he tries to find solace in anything he can, like you.

“Gods, I hate being the only one who sees that we’re a pile of code,” he tells you. You’re a cute shopkeep – whoever designed you must be a genius – that he likes to see from time to time. If anything, you’re easy on the eyes, at least.

“Yes, it does appear that you’re having quite the rough time,” you say. He knows you’re just saying one of your coded phrases, he does, but he can’t help but latch on to that piece of support you give.

“Yeah, you get it.” He laughs dryly. “But what can I do? I have to keep going. It’s not like I have a choice.”

“You’re doing well. I’m proud of you.”

Gods, he can’t hide his grin. Yes, you’re just saying one of your phrases, but the comfort your words bring – it’s unreal. It’ll probably be even more unreal if he could actually talk to you. If you both had sentience, if you both could go against your code. The thought makes him fall silent.

“...Hey, I’m gonna leave for a bit. Maybe a long time,” he says finally, determined to help you break away from your code. He doesn’t really care too much about the other NPCs, but you? Oh, he wants you. He wants to talk to you, to be with you in a way that matters.

“Have a safe journey,” you say, automated. You hand him a potion, a freebie from your shop, with a smile. “On the house.”

Gallius smiles, taking the potion from you. Yeah, he’ll find a way to give you sentience like him. That way, you guys can truly be together forever.

[luvergirl-866]

something like love

part - 6

pairing - paige bueckers x azzi fudd

word count - 4.7k

c/w - language, tiny bit of angst (this is only the beginning i fear.)

a/n - is it cringe of me to ask for live reactions? bc i want live reactions sb. anyway, sorry ik i said this chap would be long and juicy but i decided to hold off on the juicy part, i needed a lil more plot development! also ty to everyone who sends me asks, even if it’s just things like “when’s the next part😫” i love it sm lol. hope yall like this one!!

The next two days are—at least compared to the first two—almost peaceful. The weather is nice, just warm enough and not too humid, which Azzi’s hair appreciates. She got goddess braids done just before the trip and even in protective styles, her hair gets frizzy at the very notion of moisture.

The peacefulness largely comes from the fact that Paige is avoiding her parents like the plague, instead spending all her time with Azzi and her siblings. The third day they spend almost entirely at the local park, shooting around at the court there under the hot sun. Lauren even reluctantly joins for a few games, and she may be adamant about not wanting to play basketball but the talent for it must be genetic because she’s a natural. And if Paige and Azzi spend the whole ‘competition’ brushing hands and flirting, nobody says anything. (Though Ryan does wrinkle his nose at them a few times.)

The fourth day starts out warm, and so Paige and Azzi sneak the kids out bright and early (Azzi, of course, ends up with the job of waking all three siblings up—not one of them is a morning person whatsoever) and go to an ice cream shop, where they eat their cold, sweet breakfasts on the curb while they chat. Both Ryan and Lauren may have argued that they were too old to be excited about ice cream for breakfast anymore, but they both end up with matching, chocolate-covered grins when they’re done.

The weather turns for the worst before noon, though, and the kids want to go home but Paige insists they go to the arcade instead. When she says she’ll pay for as many games as they want, they’re easily swayed. Of course, Paige and Azzi make a competition out of the day, deciding to keep a tally of all their points so that whoever has the most wins by the end has to buy the whole group prizes.

Azzi gives it a fighting go but Paige plays way more video games than she does so she very nearly beats her—but then, when they’re almost out of game tickets, Azzi pouts at her about the whole situation, and suspiciously, she ends up making an incredible recovery, easily beating Paige at almost every game after that.

Lauren picks a koala plushie, Ryan picks some new shoes, and Azzi gets this shiny plastic tiara.

“You didn’t have to get the cheapest prize,” Paige says as Azzi adjusts the tiara on her head. “I got money.”

“I know,” Azzi replies, smiling at her reflection in the mirror. “But I had to. As the princess.”

Paige gives her that stupid fucking look again—the one Azzi still can’t figure out even though she knows Paige like the back of her hand, which is just driving her crazy—and that look shows up so often Azzi should really just start referring to it as The Look at this point.

But then Paige smiles, previous odd expression gone, and the way she does that,—slips out of it like she doesn’t even realize it was there in the first place—drives Azzi even more crazy than The Look itself.

Now, it is the fifth day. And Azzi reminisces on these past two blissful days to try and distract herself from the fact that Paige and her parents are having a heated argument right in front of her and her scrambled eggs.

“No, Paige,” Amy is saying. “Absolutely not.”

“You can’t do that!” Paige replies, throwing her hands into the air. “I’m an adult, I make my own money, I can do—“

“It’s stupid.”

“It’ll be fun!”

“It won’t, because it’s not happening.” Amy is unpacking a load of groceries, and Dean is lingering in the corner of the kitchen being absolutely useless. That seems to be his brand.

“Yes it will, Mom,” Paige replies, voice lower now but still obviously frustrated. “I wasn’t asking for your permission. I was just seeing if you wanted to come with us. I was tryna be nice!”

“Well it won’t be nice when you crash and we all drown, Paige.”

“Jesus, Mom! I ain’t gonna go around crashing!”

Azzi feels very uncomfortable, wishing she were literally anywhere else, but at the same time this is sort of amusing and she has to hide a smile in a bite of eggs.

This argument is, out of all things, about a boat. Paige wants to rent one and have a lake day, and though she didn’t want to, Azzi convinced her to invite her parents—she figured they’d decline but that they’d be offended if they weren’t at least invited.

She wasn’t really expecting a lecture to come out of it, though. But by the tired look on Paige’s face, she knew exactly what was coming their way.

“You don’t even have a boating license,” Amy continues, placing a new jug of milk and some apples in the fridge. “This is illegal. If you won’t listen to your mother, at least listen to the law.”

That very nearly gets a giggle out of Azzi. She chokes it down.

“This is a private lake, I’on need my license.”

“Well that doesn’t sound shady at all.”

“It’s not, it’s super legit!” Paige makes for her phone in her back pocket. “It has its own website and everything, I looked way into it.”

Amy stares her daughter down for a few seconds, hands on her hips, before she lets out a resigned sigh. “Like you said, Paige, I can’t tell you what to do. You’re an adult, do what you want. But you will not be taking your siblings on that death trap.”

“Wha…” Paige flounders, eyebrows furrowed, and her voice raises again, “that was the whole point of this entire thing!”

“Well, that’s too bad. It’s dangerous.”

“I’ll make them wear life jackets!”

“They’re teenagers,” Dean points out rather unhelpfully, and it’s the first time he’s spoken around her in days but Azzi is already sick of him again. “Neither of them are gonna wear life jackets.”

“I’ll force them, I swear.”

“Paige Madison,” Amy snaps, and Paige may be an independent adult now but she still straightens her back subconsciously at her mother’s warning tone, “no means no. They are my kids.”

“They’re my siblings!” Paige replies—rather boldly, Azzi thinks, because if Azzi were in her place she would’ve given up by now.

But Paige, as most daughters do, knows exactly how far to push her mother to get what she wants—apparent in the way Amy massages her temples with her fingers before saying, “You know what, Paige? Fine.”

Dean is jumping in immediately. “What? No, she can’t take my kids out on a boat.”

“She’s right, Dean,” Amy says, though she looks a little pained to be siding with her daughter for once. “They’re her siblings. She wants to do something fun for them.”

“It’s dangerous!” Dean motions sporadically at where Paige and Azzi are sitting at the island. Azzi’s eggs are gone now and so she has nothing to put her awkward energy into. “Neither of them owns a boat, and they are practically strangers—“

“She is my daughter,” Amy says, and it’s so quiet Azzi almost doesn’t hear it, but she does, and it sends shivers through her. Because there’s something dangerous, something protective in her tone, something only a mother who loves their child could convey. And it sends a flicker of hope through her. “She is my daughter and I trust her with her siblings.”

Dean flounders for something but comes up empty, instead storming off all red-faced like a child. Amy doesn’t look either of them in the eye when she says, “Let me know if you kids need anything today,” before leaving the two best friends alone in the kitchen.

Slowly, Paige turns to look at Azzi, something like disbelief in her expression. “Did that—actually go well?”

“Yeah,” Azzi responds. “I think it did.”

Things may just be looking up.

———————————————

Dean may be an asshole, but it turns out he was right about one thing: Ryan and Lauren will not wear life jackets.

“C’mon, guys, it’s the law,” Paige insists, thrusting a pink life jacket at her sister, who scrunches her nose in disgust.

“No way! That’s so ugly, Paige.”

“The color wont matter when you’re drowning.”

“You sound just like Mom!” Lauren sighs, and Paige’s mouth falls open.

“You did not just say that.”

Lauren gives Paige a smug smile, which amuses Azzi because it’s the same smile Paige gives her whenever she wins an argument. “And I meant it too.”

If Lauren were not much smaller than Paige, she would be tackling her right now, based off the look on her face. But instead she composes herself and turns to Ryan, who is sitting at the front of the speedboat on his phone. He feels his older sister’s gaze and looks up at her, then at the life jacket in her hands. “You’re funny.”

“I’m being so for real.”

“There’s gonna be hot girls in bikinis on the lake,” Ryan replies, as if this is the most obvious thing ever. “No way I’m wearing a life jacket.”

Paige sighs and rubs her temple with her fingers, and Azzi would never say it out loud (for fear of being pushed into the lake) but she does kind of look like her mom in this moment.

When Paige turns on her with a warning look, Azzi startles, wondering if she’s somehow read her mind. But instead, Paige picks up another life jacket and says, “Will you at least wear one?”

Azzi smiles, a little puzzled. “Paige, I don’t need a life jacket. I can swim.” Which is obvious considering she and Paige have spent various lake days at her family’s cabin.

“Yeah, but for my peace of mind, though!” Paige shakes the life jacket in Azzi’s direction.

The truth is, Azzi wouldn’t mind wearing the life jacket. But ever since she put on this bikini—pastel purple in color—Paige has been swallowing thickly and averting her eyes constantly. So Azzi thinks she has other reasons for wanting her to cover up.

And Azzi can’t let her get away with that, can she?

“I don’t need it.” Azzi steps forward and takes the life jacket out of Paige’s grasp, tossing it aside before reaching to trail her hand down Paige’s bicep, squeezing the hard muscle a little bit. “And besides, won’t you save me if I’m drowning?” she asks, smiling coyly.

Paige’s throat bobs, eyes landing respectfully on a spot past Azzi’s shoulder. “Well, that’s not really how that works.”

Azzi blinks, and she knows just how big and brown her eyes are when she looks up at Paige through her lashes. “No? Thought you’ve been in the gym?”

“I have,” Paige says defensively.

“Hm.” Azzi lets her hand trail off Paige’s arm, resting it on Paige’s side before dancing her fingers dangerously over Paige’s exposed abs. “You wanna prove that to me, baby?”

Paige’s eyes widen, and Azzi loves the way she can not only see but feel her stomach tense under her fingers. But the moment is broken by a gagging sound nearby.

Lauren—who has sat beside her brother and pulled out her own phone—is now looking at them with disgust. “You guys are so gross.”

“You shouldn’t be making sexual innuendos in front of Lauren,” Ryan adds on, though his eyes don’t leave his screen.

“Yeah!” Lauren agrees, then furrows her eyebrows and starts tapping at her phone. Azzi guesses she’s probably searching what sexual innuendo means.

“Hey, yo, don’t blame me,” Paige says, putting her hands up and taking two big steps away from Azzi. “She started it.”

“Azzi’s a freak,” Ryan says.

“Whoa, chill!”

“Hey, that’s actually offensive,” Lauren says. She has picked up a habit of defending Azzi with her life these last few days they’ve spent together, and Azzi has decided she would do the same. “That’s like calling her a monster or something.”

Ryan smirks, finally looking up at them. “I didn’t mean that kinda freak.”

“Okayyy!” Paige jumps in before Lauren can do any more Googling. “Let’s get this show on the road. Imma go untie us real quick, then we’ll head out.”

For the first time, nerves bubble in Azzi’s tummy. “Paige, you sure you’ll be able to drive this thing?”

Paige looks almost offended at the question. “Yeah, duh.”

“It’s just, you’ve never driven a speed boat before…”

“Trust me, mama,” Paige says, nodding cockily to herself. “I got driving skills like you’ve never seen.”

Fifteen minutes later, Azzi realizes Paige was telling the truth. She has certainly never seen these driving skills before.

Paige is an—erratic driver, to put it mildly. This lake is private, huge, and though there are plenty of other boaters out Paige drives as if they’re the only ones on the water. At one point, she gets to such a high speed that even Ryan grasps onto Azzi a little bit.

When Paige very nearly runs into a cruising party boat, Azzi finally gets up from her place between the kids and marches over to Paige, who glances up at her with a sheepish smile. “Whoops.”

“Lemme drive,” Azzi demands, beckoning for Paige to get up.

“No!” Paige says stubbornly. “I’m doin’ good!”

“I thought I was going to die!” Lauren pipes up angrily.

Azzi motions to her. “See? You’re scaring your brother and sister.”

“Whoa, who said I was scared?” Ryan says.

Azzi decides against bringing up the fact that he kept clinging to her arm. “This is scary, I wanna drive.”

“But babeee,” Paige groans, bringing the boat to a stop so she can properly argue, “you drive like a grandma.”

“I drive like a sane person, is what I think you mean to say.”

“It’ll be boring.”

“Paige.”

Paige stares her down for a moment before sighing like a stubborn little kid. “Fine. You can drive.”

Azzi nods, pleased, and shoves at Paige’s shoulder when she doesn’t move. “Get up.”

A slow smile creeps over Paige’s face and Azzi doesn’t like the look of that at all. “I gotta show you the ropes.”

“I don’t need you to teach me how to drive this thing,” Azzi says as if it’s obvious, because really, it is. The thought of Paige trying to teach anyone her…unique ways is downright scary. “I got it.”

“Nah, I think you’ll need some help.”

“P, for real, stop being difficult and move.”

“I’m not about to—“

“Can we go?” Lauren says loudly, getting both girls’ attention.

“Yeah, I’m getting hot as hell just sitting here,” Ryan agrees.

“I wanna get to that diving cliff Paige was talking about!”

Before Azzi can turn back to Paige to continue arguing with her, Paige has her hands on her hips and is pulling her firmly into her lap. Azzi squeaks, grabbing onto the wheel for leverage.

“Paige!” she exclaims, turning to glare at the smug-looking girl underneath her.

“You heard them,” Paige says simply, shrugging her shoulders as if her hands are tied. “Let’s go.”

“I don’t—“ Azzi starts to argue once again, but then Lauren is sighing dramatically in that teenage-girl way of her’s and saying, “Seriously, come on!”

So, almost in a daze, Azzi turns back to the front and moves her hand to the shift, getting the boat moving slowly again. She tries desperately to ignore it when Paige leans up close to her ear and murmurs, “Atta girl,” but she can’t help the goosebumps that erupt over her neck and Paige must spot them because she chuckles lightly before leaning back, letting Azzi do her thing.

Trying to shake off the feeling of Paige’s hot breath fanning over her skin, Azzi amps up the speed a little bit, determined to show Paige that she can be fun and safe, as promised.

After a few minutes of skimming over the water, Azzi calls over the wind, “Thought you were gonna ‘show me the ropes’?”

“Looks like you got it,” Paige says, sitting straight so she’s pressed up against Azzi’s back again, and her hands find their place on Azzi’s waist.

“Why’d you make me sit on your lap, then, P?” Azzi asks, and her tone lilts teasingly but she is sort of freaking out on the inside because moments like these—moments where Azzi hardly bothers to hide her feelings for Paige and Paige, instead of shying away, responds—are becoming a little too common for comfort.

Paige rests her chin on Azzi’s shoulder, lips brushing her cheek when she says, “Think you know why, hm?”

Yeah. Definitely far too common for comfort.

Ramping up the speedboat a little bit—enough that Ryan whoops and Lauren leans over the side to touch the water—Azzi shifts her hips. She moves out of discomfort, almost subconsciously trying to get away from this buzzing energy between her and her best friend, but Paige lets out a huff of air at the motion and, curious, Azzi does it again.

A full-on gasp this time.

A flush creeps up over Azzi’s cheeks all the way down her chest, and she’s not sure if it’s from pleasure or shyness, though likely it’s both. But she can’t let Paige have the upper hand, because Azzi can’t even imagine how quickly she’d fold if that happened. So instead, she turns her head to the side and says, “All good, Paige?”

The problem with this is Paige’s face is still turned toward her when she says it. And when Azzi moves to reciprocate the angle, their lips are so close that they brush on the last word. On the utterance of Paige’s name.

Azzi jerks back as soon as it happens, putting a couple inches of distance between their faces, and she’s sure the flush is noticeable by now. She tries for a lighthearted laugh, “Oh, sorry, didn’t realize you were so close—“

She doesn’t see it coming when Paige kisses her.

It pulls a gasp out of her, lips now pressed against Paige parting slightly in surprise, and her eyes don’t even close until she feels Paige’s tongue dip inside her mouth.

It’s a quick swipe, her tongue against the space between Azzi’s teeth and upper lip before she’s pulling away—only enough to make the kiss much more chaste.

Her hands slide from Azzi’s waist to her stomach, and Azzi grips onto the steering wheel for dear life when Paige moans ever so quietly into her mouth, the sound barely heard over the wind whipping around them. And then the wind is whipping Paige’s hair into their faces, a few strands getting in Azzi’s mouth, which she takes as her opportunity to pull away. Paige stares at her—The Look again—for only a split second this time (Azzi much prefers that over the lingering one) before her face is breaking into a smile, not cocky or smug or teasing but just bright, and Azzi can’t help but laugh with her as they pull Paige’s hair out of her mouth.

“Keep your eyes on the lake!” Lauren yells at them, and when they look at her she’s got her nose wrinkled. “What is it with you guys and PDA today?”

“Maybe someone put viagra in their coffees this morning,” Ryan suggests, looking equally as disgusted as his little sister but also twice as amused.

“What’s viagra?” Lauren asks.

“Yo, Ryan!” Paige snaps, her hands moving tantalizingly from Azzi’s tummy to rest low on her hips instead, and Azzi forces herself to look back where she’s driving. “Keep it PG, dawg!”

“I could say the same thing to you,” he replies, and Azzi isn’t looking at him but she can picture the smirk on his face—she knows the look all too well by now.

The three of them bicker for a few more minutes, and Azzi tries really hard to focus on where they’re going rather than the implications of that kiss and all the questions that follow it.

Paige is the bad driver, but when she leans forward and mimics her—“All good, baby?”—Azzi worries she may be the one to crash this boat.

———————————————

“Sunscreen time!”

“No, what?”

“We just put some on!”

“Az, I’m never gonna tan at this point!”

Shaking the sunscreen into her hands, Azzi motions the three siblings towards her. “C’mon, you need it.”

“I don’t burn,” Lauren insists as she steps up in front of Azzi, lifting her arms dutifully anyway.

“You’re already getting a little red,” Azzi points out, applying an extra-thick layer onto Lauren’s rosy nose.

“This is lame,” Lauren groans, though she still lets Azzi work in silence and mumbles a thank you before she turns back to the lake.

Ryan is next, and he doesn’t complain about it but he does stare down at his phone the entire time, his head only falling back down when Azzi tries to push it up. “Ryan,” she sighs.

He tears his eyes away from his phone, only to look around subconsciously. Azzi knows he’s trying to see if the gaggle of teenage girls along the rocky beach have noticed him getting his sunscreen done.

“Hurry up,” Paige complains, nudging her younger brother in the back, and he turns around to shove her.

Azzi fights back a smile. “You can put it on yourself if that’s better.”

“It’s good,” he says nonchalantly, but he hasn’t quite mastered acting like he doesn’t care.

Azzi finishes up quickly, ending the torture with an encouraging smile, watching him run up to join his sister where she stands on the ledge above the lake, sneaking up on her. He pushes her in and Azzi laughs at the way Lauren screeches before her eyes drift to Paige, who is now standing right in front of her, looking awfully petulant.

“You really don’t want me to tan, huh?” she says, wincing as Azzi rubs the cold lotion over Paige’s sun-kissed shoulders.

“Your white ass is gonna burn if we don’t do this every thirty minutes,” Azzi says, reiterating what she said the past five times Paige complained about the sunscreen.

“I got a little melanin in me.”

Azzi looks at the way Paige’s blue eyes are squinting against the summer sun, the way her pale skin is already tinted pink, and raises her brows.

Paige holds her hand up. “Just gimme the sunscreen.”

Chuckling, Azzi squirts some into her hand before giving the bottle to Paige, who turns around and starts doing her front while Azzi does her back. They’ve done this maybe a hundred times, before countless sunny fair days and hot boat rides, but today it just feels a little…off. Everything feels a little off about them recently.

Azzi worries it may be her fault. She has always been good at hiding her feelings for Paige, good at making sure her attraction doesn’t show on her face just like she knows all her other emotions do. But recently, ever since they began this facade—and more so ever since they arrived in Montana—she knows she’s been slipping up. She thought she’d be okay but she wasn’t prepared for the way Paige would look at her like she wasn’t pretending, the way Paige calls her pet names even when they’re alone, the way Paige told her she liked kissing her and wants to do it again.

The way Paige did do it again.

And there lies the burning question: why?

Azzi knows Paige doesn’t have feelings for her. Azzi knows that she’s the only one who lies awake thinking about having Paige in every sense of the word, the only one who wakes up in the middle of the night thinking of Paige with an uncomfortable stickiness between her legs. She is the only one, of course, who is in love.

Then why do Paige’s eyes and hands wander nowadays? Why does she call her baby in quiet moments? Why did she kiss her when she really didn’t have to?

Could she be—attracted to Azzi? Maybe through playing this role, she’s seen Azzi in a new light, and realized her best friend is no longer dorky and fourteen but rather a tall, pretty twenty year old with a great ass. (And yes, Azzi knows she has a great ass.)

She could be attracted to her and not be in love. She could be attracted to her and have no other attachment whatsoever. The two things can be true at once, can’t they?

The thought flatters her but it mostly scares her, because she’s barely surviving this unrequited love as it is. But with her best friend having any level of attraction back? How is she supposed to continue on like that?

“Azzi?” Paige asks, and the tone of her voice implies she’s already said it a few times.

Azzi hums, blinking. “Sorry, yeah?”

“Uh,” Paige says, and it’s then that Azzi realizes her hands have stopped rubbing lotion into Paige’s back and have sort of just come to rest on her waist—like it’s instinctive. Like it’s natural. “You done back there?”

“Yeah, sorry,” Azzi says, but for some unknown reason she can’t find it in herself to let go.

Paige glances over her shoulder. “Azzi?” she repeats.

Azzi can’t really take it any longer.

“Why’d you kiss me?”

Paige’s sides tense up under Azzi’s hands, and then she’s stepping away, out of her grasp, and turning to face her.

The look on her face is guarded, almost closed off completely. This is dangerous territory and Azzi has barely dipped her toes in the water yet.

When Azzi’s hands fall helplessly to her sides, Paige says, “I was pretending.”

As much as Azzi doesn’t buy it, the words—and the flat, cold intonation of them—sting. “Didn’t feel like it.”

“Why’re you being weird about it?” Paige asks, eyes dancing nervously away from Azzi’s face.

“I’m not, Paige. I just—I wanna know. For real.”

“You agreed to do this for me,” Paige reminds her, as if that has anything to do with this. But, of course, it has everything to do with this, and Azzi hates how easy it makes it for the both of them to hide under a facade, a lie.

“I know,” Azzi says carefully, also taking a step back if only to get away from Paige’s chilly stare. “But you didn’t have to kiss me this time. There wasn’t a reason.”

Paige shrugs, and Azzi hates to admit it but she is much better than her younger brother at acting nonchalant. “We’re s’posed to be a couple. I don’t want my siblings getting suspicious. They know I’m a touchy person.”

Getting the sinking feeling that Azzi won’t get anything out of this conversation other than a fight, she nods slowly, looking down at the ground. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Paige, as usual, thaws at the slightest hint of weakness, taking a tiny step forward. “Did it make you uncomfortable?”

“No,” Azzi is a little too quick to say. The kiss caught her by surprise, but they’ve only done it two times and Azzi is quickly coming to find that kissing Paige is the most comfortable thing in the world—it’s natural, and right, and like curling up in bed with a book and a warm cup of tea—and Azzi also knows they should never do it again.

Despite the earnest answer, Paige looks at her suspiciously. “You sure, ma? Don’t ever wanna make you uncomfortable.”

Azzi does her best to fix her face, which she worries may be showing a little too much. “Yeah, yeah. I’m sure.”

“Aight,” Paige says, but she still doesn’t sound very convinced. Azzi’s just glad she’s letting it go.

“Sorry for bringing it up,” Azzi says. She’s not.

At this, Paige sighs, reaching out to bridge the gap between them, running a gentle hand up and down Azzi’s arm. “Nah, don’t be, I get it. Sorry for getting a lil defensive.”

A little? Despite the fact she doesn’t believe Paige one bit, and that she doesn’t like anything about the interaction they just had, Azzi manages a smile. “You’re good.”

Paige nods, and her smile at least seems to be sincere. But as they jump into the lake, and as Paige talks Azzi’s ear off while Azzi floats around lazily in a donut floatie, things feel even more off than before.

Azzi can’t quite place what it is until late that night, when they’re both going to sleep and Paige is, for the first time in ages, strangely quiet. She glances over to find Paige lying on her stomach, face turned away, breathing too quickly to be asleep.

And that’s when Azzi notices it. The gap between them, the sheer amount of space from Azzi on her side all the way to Paige, who is almost on the edge of the bed.

Paige always sleeps close to Azzi.

And she always sleeps with her head turned towards her.

@azzibuckets @smiths-fan--13 @ch12334 @makethemhoesmad @the-other-half @rosemariiaa

lmk if u wanna be on my tag list btw!!

[crossdressingdeath]

Ah, I think what we're getting into here is the difference between Andrastianism and the Chantry. There were a lot of different Andrastian sects(? Cults? Not entirely sure what the right word is, but I'm gonna go with sects) when the Chantry was first founded; most of them aren't around anymore (at least some of them gone because of the Chantry and its habit of wiping out every other religious group it can, see the codex entry on the Daughters of Song for an example; that one's especially nasty since they were pacifists and the Chantry steamrolled over them anyway), but even in the games' time period there's still a couple, most notably Chantry Andrastianism and Tevinter Andrastianism. Orlais chose a very warlike sect to follow right from the start, which might just have been because that's how Orlesians are but it's still a thing to keep in mind: the sect the Chantry came out of was already one that glorified war above most other things. How convenient for an expansionist empire! The Chantry itself was absolutely created from that initial sect with propping Orlais up in mind, and it has stuck to that mandate pretty consistently throughout Thedas's history (even up to the occupation of Ferelden, the Orlesian king put in charge had a Chantry advisor; as far as I'm aware there was no significant Chantry presence among the rebels, at least not in any official capacity). It's also important to me to keep in mind that in the games there is a vague acknowledgement of how Andrastians don't necessarily follow the Chantry and many don't agree with it; Anders is a devout Andrastian, and he understandably despises the organization. Varric is Andrastian, and Cassandra comments he wouldn't be caught dead in a Chantry. Basically the Chantry as an institution and Andrastianism as a religion are not the same thing, the Chantry was created with a specific goal that Andrastianism did not share, and after a point they have to be discussed as separate entities.

I sort of agree with the "institutions are at their heart the people" thing? But also that only goes so far when we're talking about an institution that is fundamentally not in it to do good, or at least not for anyone who isn't already wealthy and in a position of power. I think the best example is Mother Giselle; she was working in Jader during a famine, and she demanded the Chantry step up and offer aid to the people who were starving. She's the epitome of someone determined to do good within the Chantry and fulfill their supposed mandate of charity. And... the Chantry refused to help. Just straight up refused to send aid no matter how many times she entreated them to help these desperate people. Eventually Mother Giselle fell back on a hunger strike, and that worked (although the Chantry insisted she feed herself and her fellow sisters first, which they merrily refused to do; I have issues with Mother Giselle but this is very good, gotta respect the determination). But the Chantry was so furious with her for "shaming" them and forcing their hand that by breaking that famine she ensured she would never be able to move any higher in the institution than she was already. Mother Giselle was fighting the Chantry the whole way and was punished for succeeding. That's kind of the running theme in the Chantry; there are a lot of genuinely good people who are genuinely determined to help! But outside of the individual level they consistently find themselves stymied and slapped down by the organization they serve, because the Chantry does not actually exist to help and does not actually want to. There comes a point where you can't take the intentions of people who join up as the true purpose of the institution, because the institution absolutely does not agree with those intentions and will do everything in its power to shut them down. (Also I mean there comes a point where it's like... hey if you people are in this to help people why aren't you quitting when it becomes clear the organization is going to demand you hurt people at every turn, Keran DA2 you will always be famous to me.)

FINALLY SOMEONE SAID IT. Thank you Dorian for being the best once again and pointing out that hey maybe if the Chantry didn't treat their mages like shit and traumatize all of them they'd get possessed less often.

[robo-writing]

helloooo

I’ve recently gotten into call of duty and I make a humble request 🕺

could I have a ghost x afab!reader who’s usually innocent and stuff, but tries to seduce him or something? Take your time!! I love your work

I don’t think I’m ever gonna get used to people saying they love my writing 🥹

His squadmates check up on him occasionally—especially Soap, nosey as he is. For everything that they've gone through together they practically know nothing about Simon, and he likes it this way. Not to say that he doesn't trust them, but because Simon's a solitary creature, nothing more. However, it's surprising to the entire team when he off-handedly mentions that he's picked up a new hobby recently—bird-watching.

Immediately questions are fired off, but much to everyone's annoyance Simon only smiles as he takes another swig of beer. They almost suspect him of lying; he's not. His favorite past-time is making his way to his local haunt—9:00 pm sharp, every Friday—all to watch the pretty little bird behind the bar. He hasn’t missed a day, a regular customer every week for the past three months.

He likes the atmosphere, he likes how no one seems to ask questions about the 6’4 beast that orders his whiskey neat and sits alone in the corner—even more than that, he likes how you greet him with a smile every time he walks through the door.

Adorable really, how you fly about the bar, chirping out orders at the speed of light. More than once he’s had the opportunity to talk to you, and more than once have you averted your eyes from him, made yourself busy in hopes that you could hide the obvious attraction written on your face.

It never works, but he likes that about you.

He likes how you stumble over your words, how you meekly offer him a refill once his glass is empty, how your face lights up when he purposely lets his fingers touch your own when you set down a new glass. It's easy to let his mind wander knowing how easily riled up you are, and let it wander he does. Sensitive little birdy, he thinks to himself. Wonder how you'd react if his fingers were stroking your clit instead.

His pretty little birdie, shy little thing you are. So shy that you can’t bring yourself to express your little crush with words, but it’s alright—he knows—and he's willing to play this game for as long as you want it to go on. He's a patient man. It's February now, and it seems as if you're ready for this game to end. Among the red streamers and paper hearts that decorate the bar is you, and the cute red set you're so excited to show him. "I got the boss to sign off on it, see?" You ramble excitedly, stepping away for a single moment to show off your low-cut top and jeans to match. "Isn't it so cute?" He's the only one that gets this special treatment, the sight of you doing a 360 almost enough to make him reach across the bar. "Mhm," he agrees, far too engrossed in the shape of your ass than the color of your outfit. "Y'look amazing birdie." You bow your head in embarrassment at the nickname, unable to see how Simon's lips curl upward in response. "How am I supposed to react when you say things like that..." "It's a compliment. I don't say shit I don't mean." Again, you feel your face heat up at the implication, surprising yourself with a sudden burst of confidence. "You really mean that, don't you?" "I do. You think I don't?" "I think you're a flirt," you reply, the timbre of his voice sending shivers up your spine when he answers— "I'd be more than happy to prove just how honest I am, birdie." The look he sends you is nothing short of a promise, eyes boring into your own as he takes a sip. He knows, and you're willing to guess that he's known for a while based how how quick he is to laugh at your befuddled expression. "That's—I mean—" He sets his glass down slowly, tilting his head towards you. "Am I reading something wrong here?" You stumble over your words, barely muttering out a meek little "no" under your breath as he leans in close, enough to smell the liquor on his breath. "So, if I ain't wrong, feel free to meet me in the back after closing. I'd hate for you to think I'm a liar." Hours later, he found the answer to the question of how you'd react with his fingers against your clit—turns out you're even more sensitive than he imagined.

[ihavemanyhusbands]

for a lucius fic/blurb maybe he was betrothed to a girl before he was sent away and them reuniting after the events of the movie

OMG YES THANK YOU!!! This is divineeee im gonna make it a lil angsty (with happy ending though)

———

In all the years he’d been gone, he had never stopped counting the days until he saw you -- his betrothed, the love of his life -- again. Both of you had been young when your engagement was arranged, meant to marry when you were of age. You were the daughter of a senator who was close to Emperor Marcus Aurelius, his grandfather, and you had been friends since infancy.

He remembered playing in the gardens together, chasing butterflies, picking flowers for your mothers, and feeding the fish in the vivarium. Endless days of laughter, without worry of what the future might bring. At least you had each other, and there was comfort in thinking it would be for the rest of your lives.

But everything changed after the death of Maximus, the gladiator who had slayed his uncle, Emperor Commodus. Staying in Rome as a youth was far too dangerous, as many would attempt to assassinate him for the throne. His mother Lucilla's last act of love was to save him, even it it meant there was a possibility he would never come back.

Unfortunately, though, that meant he did not have time to say goodbye to you; to vow his everlasting fidelity. In Numidia, the breeze blowing in from the sea whispered your name, and he swore he could almost see your face -- as he remembered it in youth -- where the sky and the water met on the horizon.

The resulting rage and guilt fueled him as he started training, becoming stronger and more cunning over the years. He vowed his revenge against the Roman armies, fiercely defending the country that housed him.

Their arrival had been both a curse and a blessing, but only because they took him back with them. In the sands of the Colosseum, he fought harder than ever before in order to prove himself.

It was torture being unable to find you, wondering day and night where you might be in the great city. But once again, he let it fuel him, hellbent on taking down any enemy that might stand in his path.

It wasn't until the first game he participated in that Fate seemed to smile upon the two of you, and you saw each other across a great distance. Him in the arena and you sitting on the second tier with your father.

Your eyes widened in recognition and you couldn't look away. You almost stood but stopped yourself in order not to bring any unwanted attention to yourself. You absently grabbed your throat, your heart thundering fiercely with a maelstrom of emotions.

"Lucius..." you murmured, your voice barely audible.

"Did you say something, dear?" Your father asked, glancing at you curiously.

You shook your head, but an icy dread spread throughout you as beasts were released into the arena. Lucius nodded at you just barely before he had to tear his gaze away, his sword at the ready. The way he fought was precise and ruthless, reminiscent of his father, Maximus.

You anxiously looked towards the Emperor's box, seeing Queen Lucilla come to the same realization. You desperately hoped you would be able to speak to her, so the two of you might find a way to speak to Lucius.

You sat at the edge of your seat the entire time, watching him fight his way to victory. You couldn't help but cheer with the crowd, immensely relieved, but covering it up with infectious enthusiasm. Lucius looked to you once again before he was forced to leave the arena, silently vowing to get to you, no matter the cost.

Under the cover of night, and with some help from General Acacius, some of your father's guards accompanied you to the underground cells where Macrinus kept his gladiators.

The gate to Lucius' cell was opened and you stepped in, making him immediately stand from his cot. Tears sprang to your eyes, a sound that was half sob and half laugh escaping you.

"Lucius!" you said as he embraced you, kissing you desperately.

You kissed him back as tears of happiness tracked down your cheeks. You pulled apart to look at each other, taking in the evidence of time on your features. Your hands cradled his face tenderly, seeing the boy you remembered beneath the man that now stood in front of you.

"I can't believe you're here," you said as he kissed your palms. "We have to get you out."

His jaw clenched in rage and frustration. "I have to earn my freedom in the arena, it is the only way for me."

You let out a sound of despair, trying not to break down sobbing. "But surely General Acacius can--"

He shook his head. "No one can know who I am. At least, not yet. There is too much at stake."

You grabbed both of his hands and held them against your chest.

"My heart belongs to you, Lucius Verus Aurelius," you said solemnly. "I have always been yours, and I intend to marry you no matter your status."

He swallowed thickly, pulling you in for another kiss as he realized time was running out. He leaned his forehead against yours, holding you as close as possible.

"I love you," he said. "Nothing could keep me from you.”

“Then promise me you’ll live.”

He promised, intending to see it through. There simply was no other way. Even through the most grueling trials that followed, losing one too many people in his life, he prevailed. He rightfully claimed the throne of Rome, ridding it of the threats that almost were its downfall.

And his first act as Emperor was to marry you in the palace’s gardens under the night sky, with only the Gods as witnesses. The way it was always meant to be, your fates written in the stars.

————-

[xinganhao]

🩵 dead poets society member!vernon x reader.

offshoot from the dead poets society!hhu x reader verse. (highly advise to read that first before delving into this!) part of my svt university milestone event.

I said / "I am afraid I will spend entire years / trying not to need you." / As if I wasn't certain. As if this wasn't my confession. — I swear, next time I see you I'll be funny by Clementine Von Radics

PREVIOUSLY ›

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺ cool about it by boygenius. sa ngalan ng pag-ibig by december avenue. everything by the black skirts. buyer's remorse by daniel caesar & omar apollo. godspeed by frank ocean. someday i'll get it by alek olsen. everyone adores you (at least i do) by matt maltese. tie my shoes by beabadooobee. nothing can by niki.

on his first year away, vernon focuses on physical distance. a foolish part of him thinks that the more miles he puts in between the two of you, the easier it will be for him to get over this stupid, hopeless crush that lasted throughout his uni years. and so vernon goes backpacking, goes solo traveling. he lets the wind take him wherever. if anything, he only realizes just how deeply ingrained you are in his subconscious. he thinks of you when he passes a secondhand bookstore. he itches to text when he has a particularly good coffee. and when the sky is clear, when it's just the perfect shade of blue? he swears he can hear you in the back of his head, quoting mary oliver. (or: this is the year vernon learns all the different ways you can miss a person.)

vernon spends his second year on dating apps. it makes him a bit sick to his stomach, really. he doesn't think he's doing it right. he matches with people, sure. even manages to bag a handful of dates. each one ends with him giving them some variation of 'i don't think this is going to work out', and when they inevitably ask why, he lies through his teeth. too busy to be in a serious relationship. too emotionally out of it to commit. anything but the truth. (or: this is the year vernon realizes that no one measures up to you.)

by the time his third year away rolls around, vernon is beginning to feel a bit pathetic. here he is, after all that time, and he's still haunted by the shadow of a relationship that didn't even come to the light. sometimes, that seems to be worse— saying goodbye and knowing the door is left open a crack. he distracts himself with literally everything else. he tries out improv. he finally opens up a letterboxd account. he signs up for marathons. (or: this is the year vernon runs, in more ways than one.)

there's less of an ache by the time that year four comes. vernon doesn't think of you as often as he used to. he's able to be with someone else without imagining you in their place. even as that relationship eventually ends, he's glad that it's because of reasons unrelated to you. he's finally gotten to a point where he can look at himself in the mirror and not think of all the ways he faltered or failed. despite everything, it's still him. (or: this is the year vernon accepts the version of himself in his reflection.)

five years. it takes five years before vernon can finally reach back out. not to everyone yet, no. he starts slow. mingyu gives him a whole load of shit for it. seungcheol asks a dozen questions. wonwoo understands. vernon is grateful for them, so much so that he finds himself watching the dead poets society on his plane ride home. it's all fun and games until the scene with robin williams, where the schoolboys are paying ode to him with cries of "o captain, my captain!" it's the very line that echoes in his head when he sees you some feet away from him during a chance encounter. suddenly, none of it matters. not the distance, not the blind dates, not the man that he's tried so hard to be. all he can think of— all he can see— is you. o captain, my captain. (or: this is the year vernon decides to be honest with himself.)

[flaetsbnort]

It's a very common and very damaging mistake to think that the difference between "narrativist" RPGs and "simulationist" RPGs is that only the former has a story; or that the people playing the latter don't care about story. Dungeon Gal has been fighting bravely on this front for a very long time.

The difference, in my eyes, is one of focus. When you're playing a story-centric RPG, all the mechanics exist first and foremost to tell a story. And, in order to make this story-creation process simpler and easier and natural, it uses building blocks from well-worn genre clichés to achieve that. So story-centric RPGs aren't more likely to create a story, because we always create stories from stuff that happens to us, and even more so from play; they're not even more likely to create better stories. Rather, it's just easier to create stories, and to make sure that these stories follow a desired theme and vibe.

I really like that one way to categorize RPGs that calls this axis as simulationist X emulationist. I know that the "simulationist" term comes with bad baggage from the GNS days, but I think it's a useful descriptor for systems that care more about the physical properties of objects (how strong is your punch? how dextrous is your lockpicking? how much power does your spell call forth?). But I think using the term "emulationist" for narrative or story-centric RPGs is a good way to stress that the main difference about them is that they have tools to create a story along a pre-defined thematic axis, that is, their mechanics exist to emulate a kind of existing media; it's not that they have tools to create a story at all.

One example I can think of about this difference is character death. Most simulationist RPGs don't care about it much. It's entirely possible to create a character then die in two unlucky hits fighting a giant rat in the sewers. Conversely, in most emulationist RPGs, character death is difficult to come by. Apocalypse World is known to be a particularly cruel RPG, but look at its mechanics. It outright says that most (unarmored) NPCs die after taking 4 or 5 harm, but PC's harm clock has eight segments. Sure, a PC that takes 5 harm is actively dying - but an NPC in the same situation is dead and gone. And even if a PC is dying, there are four scars you can take to keep them in the game for longer. Players can of course accept their character's death earlier, but they don't have to.

Why does this happen? That's because, in most stories, you wouldn't kill a main character (and all player characters are main characters) in the first combat unless you were going for some sort of subversion, so there are many tools to make sure that bad rolls only change the direction of the story and to make sure that every player character gets to have at least some semblance of an arc. Simulationist RPGs don't care because they know that a pompous knight that shows up talking big about their quests and then dying to a sewer rat is hilarious and makes for a great story. And it's not that emulationist RPGs don't see it - it's that they don't want a story that doesn't fit the vibe their going for.

The best metaphor for me is an offroad car. If you care a lot about driving offroad, you'll get an offroad car, and it'll do the best job at it. But you buy a car that's not specially made for offroad, that doesn't mean you'll never be able to drive it out of the asphalt. It just means you'll have a bit of a harder time to do it. But you'll eventually get to the same destination just the same.

What are some examples of mechanics in games that advance the story?

I mean very few mechanics in TTRPGs don't advance the story. So, to provide few examples:

Attack and damage rolls (advance the plotline of "how this guy got fucking killed")

Skill checks (advance the plotline of "how that one asshole did a thing and succeeded/failed"

Gaining experience/other character advancement currency (advance the plotline of "how the character learned from their experiences and learned to shoot lighting")

Random encounter checks (advance the plotline of "look at all this fucking bullshit these idiots ran into while traveling from point A to point B")

Note: I've specifically chosen D&D centric examples because while D&D is the furthest thing from whatever the fuck "narrativist" is supposed to mean, simply by virtue of being a tabletop RPG the creation of an emergent narrative is an inevitable consequence, so if you're wont to look at TTRPGs in terms of "stories" technically all those things do advance the story.

[shixcherie]

Gonna Make You Rock Hard | Jeong Yunho ☆

~ ~ call me chérie ☆

Navigation | Kinktober List

☆ Day 30: Mask Kink (Connected with Rum To My Whiskey (iykyk!😉))

↬ [ Synopsis ] : Under dim lights and the cover of a masquerade party, you’re alone with Yunho, the man you’ve been craving all night, with only one rule: the mask stays on. What starts as a playful bet with Wooyoung soon turns into a sultry, forbidden encounter behind closed doors, where every whispered word and heated touch makes the stakes feel deliciously higher.

☆Word count : 1.8k ☆Genre : Smut, no plot just drunk and fun vibes, Non-idol Au. ☆Pairing : Stranger in the party! Yunho x F.Reader

☆ ☆ ☆WARNINGS : mdni!, reader’s craving for Yunho builds all evening, playful eye flirting, alcohol-fueled tension, mask kink, mild voyeurism, size kink (it’s Yunho, after all), dom/sub undertones, messy and intense makeout sess, fingering (fem receiving), biting kink, praise (pet names like babygirl, baby, cutie), unprotected sex (remember to wrap it, buddies), overstimulation, and filthy talk.

A/N NOTE : With this fic ma chéries, we conclude Kinktober 2024🏆. Thank you for sticking with me till the end. I appreciate and love each and every one of you, and in whichever way you supported this rookie writer, THANK YOU SOO FUCKING MUCH! 💖😘🤗

I love ATEEZ (Atiny for life 💖🏴‍☠️), and writing these fics about them made me appreciate the art they create even more🤩. I also explored new genres and learned that I can write various genres and scenarios (they all did not turn out perfect, but some did and to me what really matters is that I actually gave it a try).

I will be on a short break and then will come back with more awesome stuff for y’all. Till then, enjoy these 30 fics (my first writing work…ahhhhh…this feels surreal). Hope u miss me🥺...cuz I sure as hell will😤. Thank u again for giving my work a chance! Adios! 👋👋

P.S.: My DMs and requests are open now..so feel free to send me any particular requests you guys have or any msgs you wanna send me. I will be gone for now but will be responding to comments & dms. Adios mah loves...Byeeeee.

Before stepping into that dimly lit room with Yunho, you remembered exactly how you had ended up there.

It had started with Wooyoung and his unpredictable games, pushing you to see just how far you would go to prove a point.

“If you’re as bold as you say, then show it,” he had dared, a smirk dancing on his lips as he nudged his chin toward Yunho, the man you had been eyeing all night at the masquerade-themed party at Club Havana. “Hook up with him and prove me right. But here’s the catch,” he added, his grin widened mischievously. “The mask stays on the entire time.”

The cocktails had been flowing freely, and Yunho had looked like an absolute snack, leaving you more than a little tipsy and far too eager to rise to the challenge. The thrill of proving Wooyoung wrong and maybe even showing him just how unpredictable you could be had landed you here, flirting with Yunho before you could even give it a second thought.

The attraction had been instant, his charming smile and intense gaze igniting a spark in you that only grew stronger with each passing moment.

So here you were, leading Yunho through the crowd and away from the party's noise. A mix of drunk excitement from Havana’s finest shots and the thrill of winning the bet coursed through your veins.

The mask you had worn only added to the excitement as you both made your way into the room.

The deep red walls of the room had welcomed you under the dim lights, shadows casting an intimate glow that served as an invitation for the moments about to unfold. As you closed the door, the sounds from the club outside became muffled, leaving you and Yunho in silence. The scent of leather and faint traces of cologne filled your senses, the air in the room growing thicker with every passing second.

You faced him, your masked gaze teasing. His eyes searched yours, curiosity slowly turning into hunger. As you took a step closer, your fingers slid up his chest, moving slowly as you felt the warmth of his skin through his shirt. You could tell it was driving him crazy, not seeing all of you, your eyes just peeking through the mask. He caught your hand, his grip warm and firm, his fingers tracing slow circles against your wrist.

“Are you always this mysterious ?” he murmured, his voice low and smooth, his eyes locked on yours with a delicious mixture of intrigue and excitement.

You gave a sly smile, tilting your head just enough for the light to catch your lips. “Only for the right kind of company,” you replied, your voice filled with playful flirtation.

A slow grin spread across his face as he stepped closer, closing the distance between you. His hand found your waist, his fingers firm as he pulled you against him. His gaze flickered to your lips, torn between playing the game or surrendering to it. His chest rose and fell, his breath quickening as his eyes tried to memorize every inch of what the mask hid.

You reached up, your fingertips brushing his jaw, soft and deliberate. Leaning in, your lips hovered near his ear. “Want to see what’s behind the mask?” you murmured, your breath warm against his skin.

His chuckle was low and rich, his other hand sliding to the back of your neck, his thumb grazing your collarbone. “Maybe not,” he teased, his lips brushing your cheek. “I think I like the mystery. It keeps things… thrilling.”

You smirked, leaning into his touch, your hands gliding to his shoulders. The mask and the tequila shots you had taken fueled your boldness as you pressed closer, your lips brushing his in a kiss that sparked between tender and electric. He deepened it, his hand trailing to the small of your back, pulling you tighter as if he was as captivated by the game as you were.

As seconds passed, his kisses grew hungrier, his hands exploring your curves with desperate passion. When his fingers grazed the edge of your mask, you caught his wrist, stopping him with a playful, breathless smile.

“Not yet,” you whispered, your voice soft but commanding.

His laugh was low and rough, filled with something darker. “Alright,” he murmured, pulling you closer, his hands refusing to leave your body. His fingers pressed into your hips, giving a little squeeze on your ass, which excited you even more. He had surrendered to the mystery, letting the unknown drive him wild as he lost himself in every inch of you he could reach. Everything but what was hidden behind the mask.

The mask had become part of the game, a sensual mystery like a barrier between you that fed his desire and made each touch more desperate.

His hands, once hesitant, now roamed with bold intent, tracing your curves with a hunger that matched the fire in his kiss. His lips crashed into yours, deep and demanding, pushing you back until the cool surface of the wall pressed against you, a faint contrast to the heat building between your bodies. As he surrendered to the game, his restraint slowly slipped away, leaving only the raw, electric energy that burned hotter with every touch, every breath.

His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, brushing lightly before pressing firmly, the sensation making your breath hitch. His touch grew bolder as his fingers found your core, your arousal evident.

Slowly, he slid one thick finger into you, his pace teasing at first, each movement deliberate, as if testing how far he could push you. But as your breaths quickened, he picked up speed, his fingers curling and thrusting in a rhythm that had you gripping his shoulders for support.

The pleasure built quickly, the pressure overwhelming, and when you came undone around him, your moans muffled against his neck, he didn’t stop. Instead, he added another finger, the stretch making your body arch into him. His lips grazed your neck, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin as he drove you toward another release.

Your legs trembled, your forehead resting against his shoulder as you gasped for air, the intensity leaving you weak and breathless. But Yunho wasn’t done. His hands and lips kept you tethered to him, his movements relentless as he worked to break down every barrier between you.

The mask remained, teasing him with what he couldn’t see, but he didn’t care, if he couldn’t uncover your secret, he would take everything else, leaving you trembling and completely at his mercy.

Pressed against the cold wall, the chill against your skin only made the heat between you burn hotter. You felt him move closer, his body pressing into yours. His hips ground against you with deliberate intent, letting you feel every bit of his desire. The friction sent sparks through you, each movement making your breath hitch and your body ache for more.

His hands slid down your thighs, lifting one leg effortlessly, holding you as if he had done this a hundred times. His touch was steady was strong but careful as he tugged your panties away with practiced ease, his focus completely on you.

Your breath caught when he revealed himself, and for a moment, all you could do was stare. A mix of awe and arousal overwhelmed you, your thoughts spinning with the idea of him inside you. His hand moved back to your leg, grounding you, while his hips pressed forward, his hard length teasing against your skin.

The way he moved, slow and purposeful, stoked a fire deep inside, and soft moans escaped your lips, filling the room. Your knees trembled, barely able to hold you, but his strong hands kept you steady as he lifted you into his arms.

You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, your body instinctively clinging to his strength. His eyes met yours, dark and full of restrained hunger, his expression both commanding and tender. The mask on your face gave you a boldness you had never felt, adding a thrill to every moment. As he positioned himself, his length pressed teasingly against you, and your body arched toward him, desperate to close the unbearable gap.

When he finally pushed inside, the feeling was overwhelming, a perfect mix of fullness and heat that left you gasping. He paused just long enough for you to adjust before he started moving, slow and steady at first, every thrust sending shivers through you. His hands gripped your hips tightly, holding you in place as the rhythm built, each movement deeper, faster, more urgent. The intensity grew with every second, his pace losing control, his need for you taking over.

The mask stayed on, a reminder of the thrill of the moment, giving you the confidence to completely let go. Your moans grew louder, your body trembling under the pressure of his relentless pace. Stars danced before your eyes as your vision clouded, the intensity of it all consuming you. His lips brushed against your neck, his breath hot and heavy as he muttered low, broken words that sent you even closer to the edge. Every thrust felt like a claim, every move a promise, as if he knew exactly what you needed and gave it without hesitation.

It felt like you had known each other forever, your bodies fitting together perfectly, moving as one. The tension built higher and higher until finally, with one last thrust, you broke apart, the release crashing over you in waves. Your body trembled in his arms as the pleasure overwhelmed you, every nerve alive and buzzing.

Moments later, his movements grew erratic, his breathing ragged as he buried himself deeper into you, chasing his own release. With a low groan, he came undone, his grip tightening on your waist as he spilled into you, his body shuddering against yours. You held him close, your lips brushing his ear as you whispered, “It’s okay. I’m on the pill.” Your words seemed to pull him further into the moment, his tension melting into complete surrender.

Even when it was over, he didn’t let go. His hands stayed on you, holding you close as you caught your breath, your body still humming with the aftershocks. His dark eyes lingered on your face, the mask a silent reminder of the game you had played and won. No words were spoken, but the moment hung between you, heavy with the memory of something unforgettable.

As you both recovered, your breaths slowly steadied, though the air around you remained charged. His arms stayed wrapped around you, reluctant to let you go. With a soft smile, you gently slipped out of his embrace, his hands lingering on your waist as if trying to hold on to the moment.

“Will I see you again ?” he asked, his voice low, almost pleading.

Adjusting your mask, you took a step back, tilting your head playfully. “Maybe… if you’re lucky,” you purred, a teasing lilt in your voice.

Your lips curved into a smirk into a half promise, half challenge as you walked towards the door. Just before disappearing into the crowd, you paused, looking over your shoulder, your eyes locking with his one last time. “Try not to miss me too much,” you added with a wink, your tone equal parts flirtation and mischief.

The club swallowed you, leaving him standing there, still burning from your touch, his eyes fixed on the spot where you had vanished. The mystery of your face still lingered behind that mask.

Even in the shadows, you could feel his gaze following you, and you knew that tonight, you had won the game and you were unforgettable.

~ ~ Chérie ☆ signin’ off

DISCLAIMER: This is totally fictional and not a real depiction of the ATEEZ members. It's all just for fun only so please don’t take anything seriously and keep the mood light around here.

© ShixCherie.

[moonselune]

I love the concept that plays with how blank a slate Tav is and what that could mean. Like think of a high charisma (bard) Tav who goes through the entire plot carefully conceiling their own struggles and traumas so to not loose focus on helping everyone else first.

A Tav who, till the late game, carefully side stepped ever sharing a shred of their sad life with the group so not to risk loosing respect as leader. Until their romanced companion’s own quest is finished and the companion suddenly realized they don’t know A Thing about the love of their life.

Que intervention as they insist Tav lean on them as well.

Oooooo this is such a cool concept!!! I wrote little snippets of it with the ladies because I just needed to see it in action ahaha, and also i wasn't sure if this was a request or a sharing thoughts situation, but either way thank you!

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Karlach:

Karlach’s laughter usually lit up the camp like a second sun, warm and untamed. But tonight, as she sat next to you, her smile was hesitant, her brow furrowed in thought. The fire crackled between you, casting flickering light over her troubled face. Her quest was over—the engine in her chest hummed quietly, no longer a constant threat, and for the first time in years, she could dream of a future.

With you.

And yet, now that the battlefields were behind you and her own burdens were lifted, Karlach realized something startling: she didn’t know you.

She knew your jokes, your way of rallying the group when morale dipped, your quick wit and even quicker blade. But you’d always deflected questions about yourself, about your past, in such a charming way that no one ever pressed.

Until now.

“You’re quiet tonight, soldier,” Karlach said softly, nudging your shoulder with hers. Her voice was light, teasing, but her gaze held a deeper intensity.

“I thought you’d enjoy a bit of peace,” you replied, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

She tilted her head, studying you. “Peace? Sure. But not silence. C’mon, you’ve got me curious.”

“Curious?”

Karlach nodded, leaning back on her hands. The firelight danced in her eyes. “Yeah. We’ve been through hell together, fought gods and monsters, and you’ve got everyone wrapped around your finger. But I just realized... I don’t know anything about you. Who you were. Where you’re from. What keeps you up at night.”

You laughed nervously, brushing off her words with a joke. “What keeps me up? You, snoring like a troll after a good meal.”

But Karlach wasn’t laughing. Her hand reached out, warm and steady, to rest on your arm. “I’m serious. Why don’t you ever talk about yourself?”

For a moment, the mask slipped. Your smile faltered, your shoulders tensed, and you looked away. “Because it’s not important.”

Karlach’s grip tightened, grounding you. “Bullshit.”

The word hit harder than any blade. You glanced back at her, meeting her gaze, and saw nothing but unwavering determination.

“You’ve carried all of us, soldier,” she said, her voice softening. “You’ve been there for me, for everyone, without ever asking for anything in return. But you don’t have to carry it all alone. Not anymore.”

The weight of her words was unbearable. You opened your mouth to deflect again, to joke, to lie—but Karlach was relentless.

“Talk to me,” she said, her voice cracking with emotion. “Let me be there for you, the way you’ve been there for me. Please.”

And so, with her hand warm against your arm and her eyes locked on yours, the dam broke. You told her everything: the choices you’d made, the people you’d lost, the sacrifices that had carved deep scars into your soul. You spoke until your throat was raw, until tears blurred your vision, until the weight you’d carried for so long began to lift.

When you finished, Karlach pulled you into her arms, her infernal heart humming quietly between you.

“You’re not alone,” she whispered, her voice fierce with conviction. “Not anymore. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Minthara:

The campfire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows across the gathering. It was one of those rare quiet nights when the group could let their guard down after a day of relentless fighting and tension. You sat slightly apart from the others, leaning on a log with your lute resting against your lap, fingers idly plucking a soft tune. The others laughed and chatted, the mood light for once, a reflection of a recent victory in defeating Orin.

Minthara was a commanding presence at the center of the gathering, her voice cool and measured as she recounted a story of conquest from her youth in the Underdark. You watched her with quiet admiration, a small smile on your face. Her victory had brought her a visible sense of satisfaction, and you were glad to have helped her achieve it. But as the group began to disperse for the night, she approached you, her sharp golden eyes intent.

“You’ve been unusually quiet tonight,” she said, sitting beside you on the log. Her tone wasn’t accusatory, but there was a probing edge to it.

You shrugged, still plucking at the lute strings. “Just enjoying the peace. It’s not often we get nights like this.”

Minthara frowned slightly. “You say that as though peace is a luxury you cannot afford.”

You hesitated, the music faltering for a moment before you resumed playing. “We all have things we’re dealing with,” you said lightly, deflecting as you always did.

She narrowed her eyes at you, clearly not satisfied with the answer. “Do we now? I suppose it’s convenient that you always seem to deal with them in private. A leader who asks for nothing of their allies, who gives so much and reveals so little.”

You chuckled softly, trying to play it off. “I’m just a bard. Stories and songs, that’s all I have to offer. It’s better if I focus on everyone else’s happiness. That’s how we keep moving forward, right?”

Her hand shot out, catching your wrist and stilling the lute’s strings. The sudden silence was startling.

“Enough,” she said, her voice low but commanding. “Do not insult me by pretending you have no burdens of your own. I have watched you—carefully, closely—and I see the cracks beneath your mask.”

You stared at her, your heart pounding. Minthara had always been astute, but you hadn’t expected her to press the issue like this.

“I… it’s not important,” you murmured, avoiding her gaze. “Not compared to what everyone else has been through.”

Her fingers tightened around your wrist, not painfully, but firmly enough to make her point. “Do you think so little of me that you believe I cannot handle your truth? Or do you think so little of yourself that you cannot share it?”

Her words hit harder than you cared to admit. For so long, you had poured your energy into being the strong, charismatic leader your companions needed, smoothing over conflicts, supporting their struggles, and offering unwavering encouragement. But you’d never let them see the darker parts of yourself.

Minthara’s gaze softened, her hand loosening on your wrist but not letting go. “You have been my rock through my darkest moments, my most trying battles. Yet I realize now I know nothing of what lies beneath the surface of the one I call my heart. Do you not trust me?”

“It’s not that,” you said quickly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I trust you more than anyone. But I—” You paused, struggling to find the words. “If I start talking about it, it’ll feel real. And I’ve worked so hard to keep it buried. To keep it from interfering with everything we’re trying to do.”

Her expression was unreadable for a moment, but then she moved closer, her presence warm and grounding.

“You are not alone anymore. Whatever demons haunt you, they will not diminish you in my eyes. If anything, they make you stronger for having faced them.” She paused, her voice softening. “But strength is not refusing to lean on others. Strength is allowing those who care for you to share the weight.”

Her words broke something open inside you, and you felt a lump rise in your throat. Slowly, you set the lute aside and took a deep breath. For the first time, you began to speak—not with a practiced deflection or a half-truth, but honestly. You told her about the losses that had shaped you, the scars you carried, and the fear that if you let others see your pain, they would lose faith in you as a leader.

Minthara listened intently, her hand never leaving yours. She didn’t interrupt, didn’t try to offer platitudes or solutions. When you finished, she reached up to touch your cheek, her fingers brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen.

“You are more than I ever imagined,” she said softly, her voice full of conviction. “And I am honored to carry your pain with you.”

Her words were a balm, and as you leaned into her touch, you felt a strange sense of relief. For the first time in a long while, you weren’t carrying the weight alone.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Lae'zel:

Lae’zel was never one for subtlety. It wasn’t her way, and it wasn’t what drew her to you. What drew her to you was your strength, your decisiveness, your ability to unite a group of misfits and drive them toward a common goal. In you, she saw a leader worth following—and eventually, someone worth loving.

But as you sat by the campfire one evening, spinning a tale that had the others laughing and cheering, Lae’zel watched you with narrowed eyes. She noticed the way your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. The way your voice faltered when someone asked about your own past, and how deftly you redirected the conversation back to them. You had thought she would have been too wrapped up in her own victory that day, that she was finally free of Vlaakith's lies, a new champion found in Prince Orpheus. But you were wrong.

It wasn’t until the camp was quiet, with only the two of you lingering by the dying embers, that she decided to confront you.

“You wear your mask well,” she said bluntly, sitting across from you.

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “Mask? I wasn’t wearing one during the performance.”

Lae’zel huffed, her sharp yellow eyes locking onto yours. “You know what I mean. You speak of others’ pain as though it were your own. You rally us with words that stir the soul. But when it comes to you...” She leaned forward, her voice low and accusing. “I know nothing of the one I call ‘commander'. The one I love.”

You hesitated, your usual arsenal of witty retorts suddenly failing you. “Lae’zel, I—”

“Do not lie to me,” she cut you off, her voice firm but not unkind. “I see it in your eyes, in the way you deflect. You think yourself clever, but I know what it is to hide weakness.”

Her words struck a chord, and for a moment, you considered brushing her off. But the intensity in her gaze—equal parts frustration and concern—kept you rooted in place.

“It doesn’t matter,” you said finally, your voice quieter than usual. “What I’ve been through... it’s not important. The group—you—come first. Always.”

Lae’zel’s expression softened, though her resolve didn’t waver. She stood and moved to sit beside you, her hand reaching out to grasp yours. “Do not belittle me by suggesting that your struggles are insignificant. You are not some faceless pawn on a battlefield. You are my partner. My heart beats for you.”

Her words undid you. The walls you’d so carefully constructed began to crumble as she continued, her voice gentler now.

“You have carried the burdens of us all. It is time you shared your own.”

The floodgates opened. Slowly at first, then all at once, you began to speak—of the losses you’d endured, the sacrifices you’d made, and the fear that admitting any of it would shatter the respect the group had for you. Lae’zel listened without interruption, her grip on your hand unwavering. When you were done, she pulled you into her arms, her strength a comforting anchor in the storm of your emotions.

“You are stronger than you know,” she said softly, her voice near your ear. “And you are not alone. Not anymore.”

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, you allowed yourself to believe her. To trust someone else. To share the pain.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Shadowheart:

Shadowheart was patient, but only to a point. She’d fallen for you—not the bard’s mask you wore so expertly, but the glimpses of vulnerability you let slip when you thought no one was watching. Yet those moments were fleeting, and every time she tried to delve deeper, you sidestepped her with the same charming ease you used on everyone else.

It wasn’t until her personal quest had come to a bittersweet end—when she finally felt free from the shackles of Shar’s influence—that she realized the gaping hole in her knowledge of you.

You sat by the edge of the camp, tuning your lute under the pale light of the moon. Shadowheart approached quietly, her steps soft on the grass. She didn’t speak until she was sitting beside you, her gaze fixed on the instrument in your hands.

“You’re always playing for others,” she said, her voice thoughtful. “Have you ever written a song for yourself?”

You chuckled, though there was a hint of unease in the sound. “I prefer to leave the self-indulgent ballads to others.”

Shadowheart turned to you, her expression serious. “Why?”

You hesitated, your fingers stilling on the strings. “Because it’s not about me. It’s about... helping. Inspiring. That’s what matters.”

Shadowheart sighed, her frustration evident. “You’re deflecting again.”

Your shoulders tensed, and you looked away, your usual charm faltering under her unwavering gaze.

“I’m fine, Shadowheart,” you said, though the words rang hollow even to your ears. “Really. There’s nothing to—”

“Stop,” she interrupted, her voice firm but not unkind. “I’ve spent my life serving a goddess who demanded I suppress everything I was. I know what it looks like when someone is hiding their pain. And I know how much it hurts to carry it alone.”

Her words struck a nerve, and for a moment, you couldn’t meet her eyes.

“It’s easier this way,” you admitted quietly. “If I focus on everyone else, if I don’t talk about it... then it’s like it doesn’t exist. Like it doesn’t matter.”

Shadowheart reached out, her hand gently brushing against yours. “But it does matter. You matter.”

You glanced at her, the sincerity in her eyes threatening to unravel the carefully constructed walls you’d built around yourself.

“What if... What if I tell you, and you see me differently?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Shadowheart’s expression softened, and she gave your hand a reassuring squeeze. “I already see you, even if you don’t realize it. You’ve given so much of yourself to this group—to me. Let me give something back.”

Her words were the final push you needed. Slowly, haltingly, you began to speak—about the traumas you’d buried, the fear of letting anyone see the cracks in your facade, and the constant pressure to be everything to everyone.

Shadowheart listened intently, her hand never leaving yours. When you finished, she shifted closer, wrapping her arms around you in a tender embrace.

“You don’t have to carry it all alone,” she murmured. “Not anymore. I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time, you allowed yourself to lean into her comfort, the weight of your secrets finally beginning to lift.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Jaheira:

The campfire burned low, crackling faintly in the still night air. You sat alone at the edge of camp, your lute balanced across your lap, fingers idly plucking a soft melody. It was your usual way of winding down after a long day, the gentle music serving as a balm not just for yourself but for your companions. Tonight, though, your mind was elsewhere, the notes faltering now and then as memories you worked so hard to suppress bubbled unbidden to the surface.

Across camp, Jaheira watched you with a quiet intensity. She had spent decades in the company of adventurers, soldiers, and leaders, and she recognized the signs of a burden carried in silence. Even if the freshly recruited Minsc was determined to fill that silence with his usual babbles. You, the charismatic bard, the glue that held this strange, volatile group together, had always been an enigma. You soothed tensions, inspired courage, and tended to the wounds of body and soul without ever revealing anything of yourself.

It hadn’t bothered her before—not in the heat of the crisis, when every moment was a battle for survival. But now, Jaheira found herself uneasy. The realization struck her that despite all her time at your side, she knew little of the person she had grown to love. And it gnawed at her in a way she couldn’t ignore.

She rose from her seat, approaching you with her usual confidence, though her expression softened as she drew nearer.

“You’ll wear your strings thin at this rate,” she teased gently, nodding toward your lute.

You glanced up, offering her your practiced, easy smile. “Ah, but music soothes even the most restless soul. Should I not share it?”

Jaheira’s lips quirked upward in a small smile, but her gaze was piercing. “Perhaps. But who soothes you, bard?”

The question caught you off guard, and you hesitated, your fingers stilling on the strings.

“I—” You laughed lightly, deflecting. “I’m fine, Jaheira. Don’t worry about me.”

She crossed her arms, her emerald eyes narrowing. “You’ve said that every time someone’s asked. And yet, I can’t help but notice that ‘fine’ is all you ever claim to be. Do you expect me to believe that a life as tangled as yours comes without scars?”

You opened your mouth to protest, but she cut you off, sitting down beside you and placing a firm hand on your arm. “Enough. You’ve carried the weight of everyone else’s troubles, including mine. You’ve fought for us, bled for us, and offered comfort whenever we’ve needed it. But not once—not once—have you shared even a fragment of your own story. Why is that?”

The weight of her words settled over you like a shroud, and for a moment, you couldn’t meet her gaze. “I… I didn’t want to distract anyone,” you admitted finally, your voice quieter than usual. “There was so much to do, so much at stake. If I started talking about my own problems, it would have… I don’t know, shifted things. Made me seem weaker. Less of a leader.”

Jaheira’s hand tightened on your arm. “Weakness? Do you think I’d see you as weak because you’re human? Because you have wounds that haven’t healed?”

You shook your head, frustration bubbling to the surface. “It’s not that simple. I had to keep everyone together. If I faltered—if I let anyone see how badly I was struggling—what would’ve happened to us? To you?”

She sighed, her thumb brushing absently over your sleeve. “You’ve spent so much time tending to others, you’ve forgotten how to let someone tend to you. But that’s not leadership; that’s martyrdom.”

Her words cut deep, striking at a truth you’d been avoiding for so long. Slowly, you looked up at her, and the concern in her gaze nearly undid you. “Jaheira… I don’t even know where to start.”

“Start here,” she said simply, placing her other hand over yours. “Start with me. You’ve given so much of yourself to everyone else; now let someone give something back.”

And so you did. Haltingly at first, the words spilling out in a jumbled, unpracticed mess. You told her of the choices you regretted, the people you’d lost, the nights spent lying awake under the stars wondering if you’d ever be enough. She listened without interruption, her hand never leaving yours, her presence steady and grounding.

By the time you finished, your throat was tight and your shoulders felt lighter than they had in years. Jaheira leaned in, brushing a strand of hair from your face, her expression filled with an affection that made your heart ache.

“There,” she said softly. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

You laughed shakily, a tear slipping down your cheek. “You’re too stubborn for your own good, you know that?”

She smiled, the warmth in her eyes chasing away the last shadows of doubt. “It takes one to know one.”

As she pulled you into a gentle embrace, you realized she was right. For the first time, you allowed yourself to lean on someone else, to let go of the mask you’d worn for so long.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Hope you guys enjoyed this ! - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

[nhlclover]

AFTERGLOW RYAN LEONARD

pairing: fem!reader x ryan leonard

summary: a misunderstanding drives you to a island of isolation, making you question yours and ryan's relationship.

warnings: mentions of cheating/unfaithfulness, self-isolation, crying

wc: 2.34k

notes: based on 'afterglow' by taylor swift. i love me some angst with a happy ending😋

You hadn’t meant to see it. That’s what you told yourself over and over again. It wasn’t snooping. 

His phone had lit up beside you on the couch while Ryan was in the kitchen getting drinks. It was instinct, really — just a glance at the sudden brightness in your peripheral vision. But your eyes betrayed you, catching enough of the notification to make your chest tighten.

Brooke Last night was fun! Let’s do it again soon :)

The name hung in your mind, unfamiliar and somehow venomous. Brooke. Not a classmate he’d mentioned, not one of the guys’s girlfriends. You tried to shake it off, reminding yourself that Ryan was the most solid, trustworthy man you’d ever known, but curiosity — or was it paranoia? — itched beneath your skin.

You quickly stood, frantically gathering your belongings and shoving them into your bag. You called out to Ryan, telling him you weren’t feeling well and you were going to head back to your dorm. He’d rushed out of the kitchen, catching you just as you were shoving your feet in your boots. 

“A-are you alright?” he asked.

“I’m fine, just need some rest,” you reassured him, hoping he’d buy your flimsy excuse. The door was open and shut, with you on the other side before Ryan could ask another question. 

The spiral began as soon as you left his apartment. Every glance at your phone felt like a reminder of what you hadn’t asked, hadn’t confronted. You replayed every moment of your relationship in your mind, searching for signs you might have missed. Had he seemed distant? Had he started texting more? Was he pulling away from you?

It wasn’t deliberate at first — not entirely. You told yourself you just needed time to think, to calm down, to process. But each day stretched into the next, the unanswered texts piling up. Hey, is something wrong? turned into Did I do something? and finally Can we please talk? Your heart broke a little more with every message you ignored.

You stopped going to his games, too — a first since you’d started dating. You simply couldn’t bear the thought of sitting in the stands, watching him skate across the ice, wondering if Brooke was sitting somewhere else in the crowd. The thought of it all felt insurmountable. So you stayed home, your own guilt a quiet, gnawing threat.

Ryan’s friends noticed. Of course they did. You’d all become close since you and Ryan started dating, and the change in your behaviours and your absence from games was glaring. Practices were off — Ryan was missing passes, his shots lacked precision, and his usual easy laughter in the locker room was conspicuously absent.

Gabe had always been the observant one, the kind of guy who noticed when something was off long before anyone else caught on. So it didn’t surprise you when he showed up at the library one afternoon, a concerned look etched into his usually easygoing face.

He slid into the seat across from you, ignoring the pile of books and papers scattered in front of you. You tried to put on a smile, but it felt weak, forced.

“How’s it going?” he asked, leaning back in his chair.

“I’m fine,” you replied, the words coming out automatically. You were fine. You just needed to figure things out, that’s all. You forced yourself to focus on the open textbook in front of you, but Gabe wasn’t buying it.

Gabe leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “I know that’s not true,” he said bluntly. “And before you say anything, I’m not here to grill you or get in the middle of anything. But Ryan’s a mess.”

That got your attention. You looked up, heart thudding uncomfortably in your chest. “What do you mean?”

“He’s barely talking to anyone. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. And on the ice?” Gabe shook his head. “He’s not Ryan. He’s off—like, really off. It’s like his head’s not in the game at all.”

Guilt twisted in your stomach, sharp and unrelenting. “I didn’t mean for—” You stopped yourself, biting your lip. “It’s complicated.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Gabe said. “Look, I don’t know what happened between you two. And it’s none of my business. But I do know Ryan’s not the kind of guy who lets just anything mess him up like this. He cares about you. A lot.”

You finally let out a shaky breath, trying to steady your emotions. “I found a message on his phone. From someone named Brooke.”

Gabe’s expression morphed into confusion. “Brooke?” he repeated, frowning. “Who the hell is that?”

You shook your head, feeling the familiar ache in your chest. “I don’t know. I’ve never heard him mention her. And the message... it felt... off. Like something was going on that I didn’t know about.”

Gabe’s brow furrowed as he processed your words. “But Ryan? I can’t see him doing that to you. He’s... he’s not like that. Trust me.”

“I don’t know what to think anymore,” you whispered, the weight of the situation pressing down on you. “I can’t just ignore it, Gabe.”

Gabe sat back, tapping his fingers on the table as he thought. “Look, I don’t have all the answers, but you need to talk to him. Maybe there’s a reason for all this. Maybe there’s something you don’t know. But shutting him out isn’t going to help either of you.”

You felt torn. You wanted to believe Gabe, to believe in Ryan and the love you shared. But part of you was terrified of confronting him, of facing the possibility that your fears were real.

“I don’t know if I can,” you admitted, your voice barely a whisper.

Gabe studied you for a long moment before leaning forward again, his voice steady but insistent. “You can. You’re stronger than you think, and this — whatever it is — it’s eating both of you alive. Friendsgiving is at my place, Wednesday night. Ryan’s going to be there, and so are you. No excuses.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Gabe raised a hand to stop you. “I’m serious. You don’t even have to talk to him there if you’re not ready. But seeing each other in person? That’s the first step. Take it.”

The next evening, you found yourself hesitating on the porch of Gabe’s house, the soft hum of laughter and conversation drifting out through the windows. Your stomach churned with nerves as you clutched the bottles of wine you brought, the glass cool and grounding against your fingers. You hadn’t seen Ryan in weeks. You didn’t even know how to begin to bridge the chasm that had grown between you.

Before you could turn and flee, Gabe opened the door, grinning like he’d been waiting for you. “There she is! Get in here, we’re just getting started.”

The warmth of the house wrapped around you as you stepped inside, your heart pounding. The inside was warm and chaotic in the way only Friendsgiving could be — mismatched chairs pulled around a too-small table, dishes precariously balanced in a potluck array, laughter and voices overlapping in the candlelight.

You caught sight of Ryan the moment you stepped through the door, standing near the kitchen with a beer in hand. His eyes met yours briefly, widening in surprise. He looked tired — pale, shadows under his eyes, and his usual easy confidence replaced by something far more hesitant. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but Jacob intercepted him, clapping a hand on his shoulder and pulling him into a conversation.

Throughout dinner, you found yourself hyper-aware of Ryan’s presence at the opposite end of the table. Occasionally, your eyes would meet, but neither of you spoke. He seemed quieter than usual, laughing at jokes that didn’t quite reach his eyes and pushing food around his plate more than eating it.

After dinner, you ushered everyone into the living room, volunteering to handle the dishes. Your offer was driven partly by a desire to help and partly by a need for a quiet moment to collect your thoughts. A few protested, but you insisted, retreating to the kitchen before anyone could argue further. The rhythmic sound of running water and clinking plates was soothing, a brief respite from the tension.

You didn’t hear Ryan approach at first. It wasn’t until his voice, quiet and hesitant, broke the silence that you turned.

“Need a hand?” Ryan’s voice was quiet, almost tentative.

You glanced over your shoulder. He was standing in the doorway, his hands shoved into his pockets, looking at you like he was afraid you might tell him to leave. After a beat, you nodded. “Sure.”

Ryan stepped closer, rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt and taking his place beside you at the sink. For a while, neither of you spoke, the clink of dishes and the rush of water filling the silence. You stole glances at him out of the corner of your eye, noticing the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his shoulders seemed weighed down.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost a whisper. “I don’t know what I did, but… whatever it is, I’m sorry.” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “And I know I should know what I did wrong, but I’ve wracked my brain and I just don’t know what I did. But please tell me… let me fix whatever I did.”

You gripped the dishcloth tightly, the weight of his words sinking deep into your chest. Ryan had always been the kind of person to face things head-on, but hearing the crack in his voice—seeing the way his shoulders slumped like he’d been carrying the world—broke something inside you.

“It’s not your fault,” you said, your voice trembling. “I—God, I’ve been such a mess, Ryan. I thought I was protecting myself, but all I did was push you away.”

Ryan paused, setting the plate he was drying onto the counter. His eyes searched your face, a mix of confusion and hurt. “Protecting yourself from what?”

You swallowed hard, knowing there was no turning back now. “I saw a message. On your phone. From someone named Brooke. It said, ‘Last night was fun. Let’s do it again soon.’ And I — I didn’t know how to handle it. I didn’t know who she was or what it meant, and instead of asking you, I let it get to me.”

Confusion flickered across his face, then realization. “Brooke?” he repeated. “That’s — God, that’s nothing. She’s my mom’s friend’s daughter. She just started at Boston College, and my mom asked me to show her around. That’s all it was, I swear.”

His words came out in a rush, like he needed you to understand, like he needed to erase every doubt that had built up in your mind. “We grabbed coffee, and I showed her some places on campus. That’s it. I didn’t think it was a big deal, so I didn’t mention it. I never meant for it to come across as something… more.”

Your throat tightened as his explanation sank in. “So… you’re not—”

“No,” Ryan said firmly, stepping closer. “I’m not cheating on you. I would never, ever do that to you.”

The weight you’d been carrying for weeks suddenly felt unbearable, tears springing to your eyes before you could stop them. “Ryan, I’m so sorry,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “I should’ve come to you. I should’ve trusted you. God, I’m so fucking stupid. I got inside my own head and I-I hurt you.”

“Hey,” he said softly, stepping closer. His hands found yours, damp from the soapy water. “You didn’t ruin anything. Yeah, it hurt, but I get it. I just wish you’d come to me instead of dealing with it on your own.”

“I was scared,” you admitted, tears spilling over. “Scared of losing you, scared of finding out I wasn’t enough.”

Ryan’s grip on your hands tightened, his thumbs brushing gently over your knuckles. His voice was steady, but there was an unmistakable softness in it, a warmth that wrapped around your heart. “You are enough,” he said firmly. “You’ve always been enough. You’re all I want. Nothing — no one — could ever change that.”

Tears streamed freely down your face now, but Ryan didn’t seem to care. He released one of your hands and reached up to gently wipe the tears away with his thumb. “I was so stupid,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “I should have trusted you. I should have talked to you instead of running away.”

Ryan shook his head, a small, sad smile on his lips. “Hey, we all mess up. Relationships aren’t perfect. But we don’t have to let this break us. We’re going to be okay. I promise.”

You looked up at him, the sincerity in his eyes making your chest ache. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because I know us,” he said simply. “I know what we have. And I know we can get through this, as long as we’re honest with each other. No more shutting each other out. Deal?”

You nodded, swallowing past the lump in your throat. “Deal.”

Ryan let out a soft sigh of relief, his shoulders relaxing for the first time in what felt like forever. “You scared me,” he admitted quietly. “When you pulled away like that, I thought… I thought I was losing you. And that terrified me.”

The idea that you’d made him feel even a fraction of the fear and doubt you’d been drowning in made your heartache. “You’ll never lose me,” you said, your voice steady despite the tears. “Not if I can help it. I’m sorry for putting you through this, for doubting you when you’ve never given me a reason to.”

Ryan smiled softly, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. “We’re okay,” he murmured against your skin. “We’ll be okay.”

For the first time in weeks, the tightness in your chest began to ease, replaced by the comforting warmth of Ryan’s presence.