#it's like...... repeated words too close together?? or phrases???

[menlove]

the way you can edit something several times and only notice glaringly annoying mistakes when ur rereading the published version on ao3

[harrysfolklore]

can we have a little honorary wag blurb where she’s freaking out about meeting charles’s entire friend group but when she does , she gets along with them really well and baby chiara ADORES her 🥹

thank you for sending this request, i really missed writing about these babiesss 🥺🥺 i hope you like thisss

READ THE HONORARY WAG HERE

A few weeks had passed since Kika and Pierre’s wedding, and life had settled into a pleasant routine for you and Charles. It was a lazy Sunday afternoon, and you were sprawled on the couch in Charles’ living room, a cozy blanket wrapped around you as you watched TV.

Charles was in the kitchen, making coffee. You could hear him humming to himself, a soft, contented sound that made you smile. The past few weeks had been a whirlwind, but you were finally finding your rhythm together, and it felt perfect.

Being his girlfriend felt perfect.

“Do you want anything with your coffee, mon coeur?” Charles called out, his voice carrying into the living room.

“Just some cookies, if we have any,” you replied, stretching out and snuggling deeper into the blanket.

Charles appeared a few minutes later, balancing two mugs of coffee and a plate of cookies. He handed you your mug and placed the plate on the coffee table before sitting down beside you.

“Thanks,” you said, taking a sip of the coffee. It was perfect, just the way you liked it.

Charles smiled and wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. “I could get used to this,” he said, his voice soft and full of warmth.

You leaned into him, feeling a sense of contentment. “Me too. It’s nice to have some time to just relax and be together.”

He kissed the top of your head, his lips lingering for a moment. “So, I've bee thinking."

You turned to look at him, curiosity piqued by his tone. "Oh? About what?"

Charles took a sip of his coffee before continuing, "Well, we've been together for almost a month now, and things have been going really well…"

"They have," you agreed, smiling up at him.

"And I was thinking," he continued, his fingers absently playing with a strand of your hair, "maybe it's time for you to meet my friends. My whole friend group, I mean."

You felt a small flutter of nervousness in your stomach. You'd met some of Charles' friends in passing, of course, but the idea of meeting his entire friend group felt significant.

"Your whole friend group?" you repeated, trying to keep your voice casual.

Charles nodded, his eyes searching your face. "Yeah. Joris, who you've already met a few times, Riccardo and Marta, and a few others. They're really important to me, and… well, you're really important to me too. I'd love for you all to get to know each other better."

You almost melted at his words, his green eyes looking at you with a tenderness that made you regret not looking at them for so long.

It wasn’t just the idea of meeting his friends—it was the way he phrased it, making you feel special, like you were becoming an integral part of his life. But at the same time, your nerves fluttered in your stomach.

“Charles, that sounds… great,” you said, trying to sound confident, but the slight edge in your voice gave you away.

He narrowed his eyes at you, gently setting his coffee cup down on the table. “But?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’m just a little nervous," you sighed, shifting so you could look at him fully, "They’ve known you for so long, and I don’t want to feel like the odd one out, you know? What if I don’t fit in?”

“Mon amour, you’re not an outsider," Charles’ expression softened even more as he reached for your hand, interlocking your fingers with his, "You’re my girlfriend, and that means you’re already part of my world.”

You bit your lip, still feeling a little unsure. It was a lot of pressure—meeting the people who had been with Charles through thick and thin, who knew sides of him that you were still discovering.

“I’m sure they’re great,” you said, leaning into him a little, “but it’s still kind of intimidating. I mean, Riccardo and Marta have a baby. What if I’m awkward around Chiara?”

Charles let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Chiara’s a baby. All she cares about is who makes her laugh and who gives her food. And knowing you, you’ll have her wrapped around your finger in no time.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at that, imagining a tiny baby giggling in your arms. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Charles replied, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Look, I get it. Meeting new people, especially people who are important to me, can be overwhelming. But I promise, they’re going to love you. And more importantly, I’ll be there with you the whole time.”

His words calmed the nervous buzzing in your mind, and you found yourself nodding slowly. “Okay. Let’s do it. I’ll meet them.”

Charles’ face lit up with that boyish grin you adored, and he kissed you softly on the lips. “That’s my girl. I’ll talk to them, and we’ll make a plan for next weekend.”

You smiled against his lips before pulling back. “Next weekend, huh? No pressure, right?”

He winked, squeezing your hand, “None at all. Just you, me, and my crazy friends.”

The following weekend came quicker than you expected, and before you knew it, you and Charles were standing outside Riccardo and Marta’s house, your heart beating a little faster than usual. The sounds of laughter and conversation drifted out from the backyard, and you could already hear Chiara’s high-pitched giggles.

“You okay?” Charles squeezed your hand as you stood at the front door.

“Yeah, just…" you took a deep breath, nodding, "You know, trying to remember how to be a functioning human.”

"Mon coeur, it's fine!" Charles gave you a huge grin, "Just think bout the first time you came to a race with Kika and met everyone. You were a natural."

You chuckled at the memory. "Yeah, and from that moment, I thought you disliked me for the longest time."

"Baby, we've talked about this," Charles raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. "I was just... reserved," he said, his tone teasing but with a hint of sincerity.

You nudged him playfully. "You were cold! Barely even smiled at me. I thought, 'Great, Pierre’s friend is grumpy and doesn’t like me at all.’"

"And now, look at me," Charles laughed, pulling you closer, "Head over heels for you. Who would've thought?"

You felt a warmth bloom in your chest at his words. His eyes softened, and before you could respond, he leaned in, brushing his lips against yours in a gentle kiss.

When you finally pulled away, Charles rested his forehead against yours. "I promise, they’ll love you. Just be yourself, like you always are."

You nodded, a small smile on your lips. "Okay, I’m ready."

With that, Charles opened the door, and the two of you stepped inside, the lively sounds of his friends filling the space around you. The air was warm, the atmosphere welcoming, and as soon as you stepped through, Joris waved at you from across the room, and Marta smiled brightly, holding little Chiara.

"Well, well, if it isn't the girl who used to roll her eyes every time Charles spoke," Joris teased, approaching you and pulling you into a friendly hug.

You laugh, feeling some of your nervousness dissipate. "What can I say? He grew on me."

"Like a fungus, I'm sure," Joris winked, earning a playful shove from Charles.

Marta spotted you both and beamed, making her way over with Chiara balanced on her hip. Riccardo followed closely behind her, grinning widely.

"Ah, there he is," Riccardo greeted, pulling Charles into a hug before turning to you with a bright smile. "And this must be YN. It’s so great to finally meet you."

Charles stepped to the side, his hand still holding yours as he made the introductions. "Riccardo, Marta, this is YN, my girlfriend. YN, these are two of my closest friends in the world."

You smiled nervously but warmly, offering your hand to Riccardo, who brushed it aside to pull you into a friendly hug. "We do hugs around here," he said with a wink.

Marta followed suit, hugging you carefully while balancing Chiara in her arms. "It’s so nice to meet you, YN," she said, her smile warm and welcoming. "Charles has told us all about you. It’s about time we finally get to meet the girl who’s got him smiling all the time."

You chuckled nervously, your cheeks flushing a little. "He exaggerates."

"I don’t think so," Charles teased, his arm slipping around your waist again as he beamed at you.

Another one of Charles' friends raised his glass from where he was standing. "And here she is—the woman who tolerates Charles better than any of us."

You laughed at that, feeling some of the tension slip away as everyone welcomed you with open arms. The introductions continued as more of Charles’ friends trickled into the conversation, each one greeting you warmly, making you feel like part of the group in no time. It was clear that Charles’ friends were just as kind and friendly as he had promised.

“I’m so glad you could come," Marta said as she sat down next to you, little Chiara still in her arms.

“Thank you for having me,” you replied warmly, already feeling more at ease with her friendly demeanor.

Baby Chiara’s curious eyes darted toward you. You waved at her with a soft smile, and to your surprise, Chiara giggled, her little hands reaching out toward you.

“She’s been so excited all day,” Marta said with a chuckle, adjusting Chiara on her lap. “I think she knew we were having company. You want to hold her?”

You hesitated for a moment, but before you could even reply, Chiara was practically leaning over to get closer to you. You couldn't help but laugh, your heart melting at the sight of her small, chubby hands reaching out.

“I think she’s made up her mind,” you said, taking Chiara from Marta. The little girl settled in your lap immediately, looking up at you with wide, innocent eyes before giving you a sweet, toothy grin.

Charles, who had been chatting with Riccardo and Joris nearby, turned around just in time to catch the scene. His expression softened as he watched you interact with Chiara, his heart clearly in his eyes as he leaned against the counter, completely mesmerized.

“She loves you already,” Marta said softly, watching the way Chiara kept reaching for your face, fascinated by your hair and earrings.

“She’s adorable,” you said, your voice equally soft as you gently played with the little girl’s hands. Chiara giggled again, her laughter filling the room, and you couldn’t help but beam at her.

Charles crossed the room, his eyes still glued to the two of you. "She’s not the only one," he teased, placing a hand on your shoulder as he bent down to kiss your temple. "She’s got good taste."

"You're such a sap," Joris called out from where he sat, grinning as he popped another cookie into his mouth. "Look at you, all gooey and soft."

“Careful, Joris,” Charles replied, smirking at him. “Don’t make me start telling embarrassing stories about you."

“Oh, I’d love to hear those,” Marta chimed in, clearly enjoying the playful banter.

“Hey, I’m not the one who once locked himself out of the house without pants,” Joris shot back, earning a chorus of laughter from everyone around the room.

Amidst the laughter, Marta leaned closer to you, her voice just above a whisper. “You know,” she said, glancing at Charles, who was still gazing at you and Chiara with that adoring smile, “I’ve never seen him like this. I can tell he’s really happy with you.”

Her words made your heart skip a beat. You glanced up at Charles, feeling a warmth spread through you as you caught his eye. He winked at you, completely oblivious to Marta’s words, but it only made the moment more special.

"Thank you," you replied quietly, feeling a bit shy under her knowing gaze. "That means a lot coming from you."

Marta smiled, patting your hand. "I'm really glad he found someone special. You fit right in."

Before you could respond, Chiara began fussing slightly in your lap, clearly looking for something. Charles noticed immediately and knelt down beside you, offering the small toy she had dropped earlier. As soon as you handed it to her, Chiara calmed down, grabbing the toy and happily gnawing on it.

"I told you she'd love you," Charles grinned as he watched the two of you.

"You're right," you replied with a smile, gently bouncing Chiara in your lap. "She's perfect."

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of laughter and easy conversation. You found yourself quickly settling into the group, enjoying the way everyone seemed so at ease with one another. Joris and Riccardo were relentless in teasing Charles, often making jokes about how smitten he was, while Marta continued to shoot you knowing glances, clearly pleased with how everything was going.

At one point, as the evening wound down, Chiara started to get sleepy. She nestled into your arms, her little fingers curling around your shirt as her eyes fluttered closed.

Charles, who had been watching the whole time, leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head. "You’re amazing with her," he whispered, his voice filled with warmth.

"She’s the sweetest," you whispered back, glancing down at the tiny girl fast asleep in your arms.

Charles’ gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, his heart completely full. He had never imagined that watching you with Chiara would have such an effect on him, but here he was, absolutely melting at the sight.

As the night drew to a close, Riccardo and Marta thanked you both for coming. “Next time, we’ll have to do it at your place, Charles,” Riccardo joked, clapping him on the back.

“Sure, as long as you bring Chiara,” Charles replied with a grin, his arm wrapped securely around your waist as you stood by his side.

Marta gave you a quick hug before you left. "Seriously," she whispered in your ear, "We're really glad you're in his life."

You smiled at her, feeling the warmth and sincerity behind her words. "Me too."

[goldsbitch]

Ah...

In a world where people get born with the first sentence their soulmate shares with them tattooed on their wrist, Y/N and Oscar are probably not the ones with the easiest story to tell.

note: first Oscar fic! this is prep for a longer 1k followers celebration...i'm a little too excited for that one

warning: pure fluff

Not everyone got to meet their soulmate, and that was totally fine. Her parents weren't soulmates and they still managed to have an amazing life. Why waste time waiting around and looking for a guy who's first word he'd ever say to her was suppose to be "Ah."

"Ah."...? What was that about anyway? Stupid wrist tattoo, marking her forever with a word so unimpressive.

During her teenage years, it became an inside joke between her and her best friend. A word to overuse so much it could truly mean anything. Ah.

Her boyfriend was definitely not her soulmate. He was blessed with having a full sentence on his wrist - but in French, a language she did not speak. The hot, dark haired boy was too obsessed with studying physics to take the whole concept of soulmates seriously, so when they met in university, it was a no brainer to follow the path set by hormones rather than fate and date together.

Only after they graduated she realized just how soul-crushing it was to spend time with him. When the social circles broke down and they were left alone, it was more than clear they were not a good match. But it's hard to see the tornado when you're standing inside of it.

The vacation was suppose save the relationship. Instead, their fights were laced with her running away and him having his eyes wonder around any girl walking by.

Only two more days, she said as she walked hastily around a garden adjacent to the villa they were staying at, once again. It was like a dance - they'd fight, she'd run away, he'd search for her and they'd go back to their room for a night of silence. On repeat for the whole vacation organized by the devil himself. The plan was to turn her life upside down once she arrived back home. Start fresh. At that moment, she had no idea just how fresh that would be.

She stood in the middle of a pathway leading to dimly lit swimming pool, tired and impatient. By this time her boyfriend would usually be on his way to get her back.

Finally, grass cracking sound that followed any footstep in this garden. She closed her eyes, unable to do this dance anymore.

"I want to break up," she whispered and turned around.

Oscar did not plan on speaking with this woman standing in the middle of the way back to his hotel room. He was just coming back from his late evening swim session.

When she uttered those words, it was like each of the syllable burned on his skin. Hundred questions answered and thousand new on the table.

Absolutely baffled, yet in his typical stoic style of keeping it together on the outside, while exploding internally, he couldn't bring himself to a more than..."Ah."

//

Oscar fully believed in the concept of soulmates and had no doubt that he would meet his, that's why he refrained from dating anyone who did not have the specific, very strange, words on their wrist.

"I want to break up"...? Why would this be the first thing you ever say to someone?

Over the time, he figured it would just be him overhearing the words. Or that he was one of the lucky ones, having a soulmate who has a special catch phrase they use when introducing to anyone new. He imagined his soulmate to be clever and cunning. And like the dreamer he was, he already had several versions of their meet up in his head, usually followed by their whole life together playing out. Oh, what a bliss when the moment would finally come.

But when it came, it took him totally of guard. Somehow, in all the scenarios he thought about his whole life, he missed probably the most realistic one. He was only trying to get back to his room and this girl was standing in the middle of the only clear pathway, as if it was nothing. She spoke with her back turned to him.

"I want to break up."

And when she turned around, after mistaking him for someone else, he saw a beautiful face, all puffy with smudged make up. And obviously in a really bad mood. He was, as they say, too stunned to speak.

"Ah." He said bluntly, too quickly for him to even notice it, processing the fact he just heard that one specific sentence, the one that should define the rest of his life.

She stared at him, as if he just offended her entire family. "What?!"

He felt..nothing. She couldn't be his soulmate. No way. Most likely because he had his response to "I want to break up" rehearsed his whole life. It was supposed to be "Worry not, now I am here." A lovely sentence to walk around with, right? He wanted his soulmate to wear the tattoo proudly, not with - what was it he even said? Did he even say something? He didn't, did he?

"Worry not, now I am here," he tried, feeling like he had nothing to loose. The words came out clumsily, as if they tripped over one another.

He was sure her face was already the most confused one could make, but she proved him wrong, quickly.

"Sorry, I'll leave you to it. This was obviously a misunderstanding," he said, trying to be polite and took few steps ahead to get going. She reacted and stepped right into his way.

This surely couldn't be it. But, emotions were running high, she thought she was addressing her boyfriend and was somehow trying to comprehend the fact she nearly broke up with him. And then she hears an "Ah." "What did you say?" she shot at him, no filter whatsoever, watching him with fascination and some flavor of anger.

Oscar was beginning to regret ever engaging in this conversation. "Worry not, now I am here...There, now, is that tattooed on your wrist? I imagine not, so, apologies and I'll leave you to whatever you're doing," he said, without giving her much space to respond. He felt slightly guilty about leaving an obviously distressed woman alone there, but his social awkwardness won this round and he just wanted this to be over.

"No, you didn't," she said, not intent on moving anywhere. Determined look replaced her sorrow.

"I'm pretty sure I did."

"And I am sure you didn't," she said, raising her wrist all the way to his eyeline. "You said this, didn't you?!"

It was not a tone of playful or even hopeful realization. Her delivery was spiced with unresolved anger that grew inside. He squeezed his eyes, having hard time seeing the small letters in the light of the nearing night. "What's that?"

She put her hand down, having a really hard time believing this was actually happening. It took him by surprise the speed with which she reached for his own hand, but his racer reflexes kicked in and he managed to avoid her.

Annoyed sigh left her mouth. "Will you show me your hand? I've already had a pretty shit day without you making obstructions."

He looked deeply in her eyes. This was a lot of emotion battling each others, little too much for Oscar.

"I'm pretty sure we're not soulmates," he said dryly.

"Tell me what's on your hand and I'll let you fuck off from when you came from."

"I'd actually like to go the other way-"

"Show me your hand!"

Visibly taken back, almost offended by her shouting, he reveled his wrist.

Time stopped for Y/N for few seconds. She was staring at the words she uttered just a minute ago. Decided to take a deep breath before she looked in his eyes once again. "Sorry for...screaming. We're almost definitely soulmates...You said "Ah." It felt good to finally know what kind of tone this sound was spoken with. End to the endless possibilities.

The irony of the fact that Oscar had a hard time remembering if he had actually said something so stupid dwelled on him. Did he? Knowing himself, he probably did.

"Ah," he repeated with a much heavier, slightly bitter, undertone.

"Yeah."

They just stood there, staring at each other. Was this suppose to be it? The moment he longed for and the one she already mourned? Just now she noticed that he was a gorgeous guy. Heavenly actually. Such a kind smile. Innocent look with a hint of spice. But she believed in love, not necessarily soulmates. Even if she did, this was the worst moment to do this. Little, almost invisible, tears started rolling from her eyes.

"Can I take a photo of you?" she asked, with defeated smile, wanting to walk away with a tangible evidence for her lonely evenings in the future.

Oscar was still processing. "Sure," he replied to a sentence he heard thousand times each month. Very automatically his body moved for a classic hug with a fan - which she rejected and just snapped a photo of his face.

"Nice to meet you. But I have my shit to deal with. I'm not good for you anyway," she said and sprinted back to he hotel room, to her current boyfriend and a deadend life. He just stood there, unable to comprehend. When he finally did, she was gone.

//

"Mr. Piastri, you understand that I can't just give you a room number to someone who you don't even know by name," the receptionist said, not backing down to his urgency.

"But she is my soulmate! She just passed by, surely you would know which one of the guests she is," he said, both hand on the counter, towering the poor reception lady.

"I'm going to have to ask you to stop this request or we might be forced to cancel your stay and remove you from the premise."

He rolled his fingers into his first, mad at himself the most out of all the people. "Yeah. Great. Understood."

//

Y/N didn't sleep for a minute that night. When she returned back without a word, her boyfriend didn't even look up. She didn't really care.

"Let's just get through these few days," he said and she just nodded.

Mind racing around new set of eyes she memorized from the photo she had, not having a clue that he in fact was a racer.

//

Breakfast. Oscar's chance to take destiny into his own hands. He was the first one to arrive and planned on being the last one to leave. And should she miss her breakfast, he'd move into the lobby. Determined to talk to her at least one more time. Sat there, drinking his juice and bouncing his leg up to the point it annoyed even him.

//

He'd probably be at the breakfast, she realized as her sleep deprived body walked towards the elevator. A stolen glance at her partner. They hadn't said a word to each other the whole morning. To think she once thought one of them would bury the other after a nice full-filled life. Coffee and croissant was her only hope now. And of course the guy from yesterday was there. Sitting at a table, alone, very obviously finished with his breakfast. Arms crossed and eyeing all the entrances. She couldn't help but smile and light up when she saw him. He sat there. Waiting. Was there even a possibility he'd be waiting for her? Like a soulless ghost, she followed her current partner and sat down to the table he picked.

Oscar was a secret over-thinker. He spent every minute going through every possibility of what could happen. So of course he was ready, in theory, for her entering with another guy or a girl. However, the whole nature of her first sentence to him was about breaking up. And you don't say that in a healthy relationship.

It was now or never for him. He watched the pair grab a seat few tables away from him. God, she was gorgeous. Seeing her walk in, summer dress proving the internet was right once again, made him weak in his knees and unable to look away. She paused upon noticing him, eyes shyly flashing back and forth, absolutely no plan or idea what to do. Awkwardly put her things down the at the table, fumbled around aimlessly and proceeded to walk over the breakfast bar. As she walked, she could almost feel his eyes piercing through her back. For some reason, it felt as if he knew something she didn't. she had to actively convince herself to act normal, as if this was her first time having breakfast at a hotel. Copy others. Oscar did indeed stare at her as if there was no tomorrow. Eyes glued to her back, cosplaying as the worst private detective this planet ever produced. He found himself getting up and approaching the bar she was standing by, the guy she came in long gone from her close proximity.

Oscar gulped before speaking, standing right beside her, pretending to be interested in a stack of apples. Her eyes flashed to her left, but she already knew who was standing next to her. It was as if she could hear his energy, something divine, intoxicating and most importantly - inevitable.

"Morning....I hope you've had better night than when you left yesterday," he opened with, desperately trying to break the ice. He was absolutely hopeless with small talk. His tone created a small smile on her face. This sort strange and unique tonality, which was exceptionally hard to decipher, mixed with his Australian accent. Again, so many questions popping up in her head - her body wanted her to find out everything about this guy.

"I'm not sure that's the case. But thank you for asking I guess," she said and leaned over his hand to reach for a fresh peach. It was not her conscious decision to brush his hand, but it definitely could have been avoided. Neither party mattered. Two shy smiles were created at that moment.

"Would you mind sharing your name with me?" he asked, as she glanced over to his wrist, to look at his tattoo once again.

She answered, slightly hesitantly. "Y/N."

"Uuh,"

"Are interjections the only language you speak?" she whispered, still not over the whole "Ah." thing and finally stopped pretending to be interested in the breakfast bar. She did the best she could to meet his eye while not turning around and becoming too obvious.

Oscar was having trouble processing his body's reaction to this girl being so close now. "No, but I am happy you seem interested to know that."

It was impossible to fight of the smile. "I'm not, you're the reason I'm walking with this my whole life," she said, lifting her wrist once again.

He fiddled with some apples, trying to keep his hands busy. "I'd like to object that in this pair I'm the one who lost"

"Don't say the word pair," she said in a tone so unserious even she couldn't pretend to believe it.

"Why, does that idea make you nervous?" he clicked his tongue, feeling more confident with every second she stayed there with him.

"I have a boyfriend," she stated, lying to herself anyway.

He smirked. "Apologies, must have misread my own hand."

"I can't break up with someone on a holiday," she responded, reaching for straws, not even knowing why. She took two steps to the coffee line and to no surprise, he followed.

"You didnt seem to think as such yesterday," he said in more serious tone. "Look, I don't know you-"

"No, you don't," she jumped in before he continued.

"-But...let me present my hypotheses, so that we can test the whole soulmate thing. Does that not make you at least a bit excited?" he said, trying to hide his own excitement, which was something he did not have to do often, so he was not really good at it.

She found his confidence mixed with clumsiness so intoxicating. "It's overrated," she argued, perhaps trying to see how much he's willing to defend it.

"I'm so much looking forward to proving that theory wrong." There is was. The point of no return.

"Well before you do," she bit her smile, accidentally leaving a pause for him to fill.

"Ah, so you believe that I will," he said sith his signature "I won" smile.

"Again, with the interjections, you gotta unlearn that," she said, happy he couldn't see directly into her face, as she felt the blush spreading.

"Teach me."

"Stop it...." she froze, searching in memory a moment when he'd introduce himself.

"Oscar."

She finally paused and dared to look at him, or more specifically stopped resisting her wondering eyes. Her mind rushed through all the Oscar's she had the pleasure to meet and absolutely none of them did justice to the name. His kind eyes, while somewhat giving shy guy vibes, pierced through her fearlessly. So sure of himself, et somehow humble. An impossible enigma she could see herself deciphering for the rest of her life.

"Nice name," she said, in a completely new tone, one he hadn't heard yet. Calm, kind and intrigued.

"Thank you." They stared at each other for few more moment, utterly inappropriately for two strangers in a coffee line. Taking in the little intricacies about the other, as if memorizing for a test.

"You said you had a hypotheses?" she broke silence, not quite sure they were at the same planet as their surroundings anymore. All around them sort of blended together into an unclear, totally unimportant mush.

"I do. Hope I don't overstep."

"I think that does not matter now," she said, walls crumbling down one by one.

"Good. I think you don't want to break up with your current boyfriend now that you'd met me," he said boldly.

"Astonishingly obnoxious," she teased, unable to believe he caught her.

"Fair. But, yesterday you wanted to. Now, it serves like a perfect excuse why run away from this," he said and stepped just a little bit closer to her.

"I don't want to be a slave of some destiny bullshit," she said, while absolutely agreeing with destiny this time.

There was no way back for Oscar. Looking into her eyes was making him drown in lands never explored before. "Yes, but why reject it before we even get the chance to discover if we like each other."

"I don't even know you."

"Your parents didn't know each other at one point," he said matter-o-factly.

The reality was creeping into her mind. "I hardly know anything about you! Like where you live, what you do..."

He was not letting her go. "All over the globe, I am a racing driver. You?"

How come it seemed so easy and obvious for him? "Oscar, I'm..I'm scared." Intimidated was the word she wanted to use, but it felt a little bit too much.

"Of what?"

"I dunno...? Of this working out?"

"Do you realize that sounds quite ridiculous."

"...Yes".

"Well, I believe this is going to be great fun. Listen, it's not socially acceptable for me to bother you for longer. But I desperately hope this is not the last conversation we share," he lowered his voice, parting ways with her being the last thing he actually wanted to do, but his intuition told him, that he had to give her some space to come forward to his, her decision.

Y/N's head was a mess, truth slipping through, passing all the filters that seemed to have stopped working. "I am afraid it's not."

He smiled. "Good. Now, I'll leave you to your life - do whichever you think is right. But please give me your number."

"No, you give me yours so that I can call you when i want to. You know, boundaries," she ordered, trying to keep some control in her hands.

He trusted his gut. "Fair."

//

"Lady, I can't tell you where's Oscar's room." It was a different receptionist that Oscar had dealt with, but probably with the same training.

"But it's a suprise! Look, I have his number an everything."

"Why don't you call him?"

"You're familiar with the concept of a surprise?"

//

Unlike Oscar, she managed to convince the reception into giving her Oscar's room number. It was all the way up at the last floor. Fancy, she thought. It's impossible to convey the energy and adrenaline cocktail that Y/N was on when she was on the way to knock on his room and announce that she actually went though with the break up and the guy was on his way home, cutting the vacation early. It was unhinged, reckless, addictive. She had to stop herself several times, as the excitement mixed with fear was making her put on faces very strange to anyone who should pass by. If music was on, she'd dance for hours. Hell, she had no idea what was suppose to happen now. And that had never felt so exhilarating before.

With one last breath before her life changed for good, she knocked on the door.

After the longest few seconds ever experienced on this planet, he finally opened the door.

She physically couldn't hold it anymore. "I broke up with him," she blurted out the moment their eyes met.

Oscar tried to take in the image of his soulmate, standing there in front of him, flustered and ready to take the leap with him, once again, having trouble holding his smile in.

"Ah."

[ylangelegy]

lost in translation ♾️ minghao x reader.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hm.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No apologies necessary,” you say easily, because this was just sometimes the reality of our friendship. You always had a dozen other things pulling at 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. 

[fandoms-x-reader]

MC Who Stims

@opiopal

Headcannons

Summary: The brothers' reactions to MC who stims a lot The Seven Demon Brothers x Reader Word Count: 1,548

I hope it's accurate enough! <3

Lucifer was able to witness your stimming in two different ways.

The first was when you were nervous or anxious.

He kept a close eye on you when you first came to the Devildom for the exchange program, despite putting Mammon in charge of you.

He would notice that during student council meetings or in situations that weren’t the safest for you, you would pick at your skin or pull on your hair.

It was a big tell for Lucifer to know that you weren’t comfortable.

And as the two of you got closer, he worked to remedy whatever situation you were in that was causing you to feel stressed.

He also noticed you stimming when it was just the two of you alone in his study.

You sat next to him to keep him company as he quietly worked on his paperwork.

During this time, you would always quietly make noises beside him or repeat phrases from something you heard or seen.

And although it seemed strange to Lucifer at first, he thought it was cute, and so he would happily listen to you fill the silence.

And now, if you weren’t around to keep him company, he would need some kind of background noise while he was doing paperwork. 

The first time Mammon caught you stimming, he didn’t know what to think of it.

The two of you were watching a movie together but you couldn’t sit still.

At first, Mammon thought your restlessness was a sign that you thought the movie was boring.

But, you seemed invested in the movie, your eyes watching vigilantly as your body subconsciously moved.

It started with you tapping your foot on the ground, gently shaking the couch that the two of you were sitting on.

Then he noticed you flapping your hands.

Mammon couldn’t take his eyes off of you after noticing the things you were doing and eventually, his staring got to be too much for you to ignore.

You asked him what he was staring at, and in turn, he asked you what you were doing with your feet and your hands.

You slightly blushed at how blatant his question was, but answered it nonetheless, explaining what stimming was.

Mammon was really understanding once he understood what you were doing.

Mammon had a tendency to be restless himself like when he was in class or when sitting in front of Lucifer, listening to a lecture that had dragged on for way too long.

Mammon had his own ways of stimming, and you noticed him gently tapping his thumb against you while the two of you were holding hands or lightly drumming his fingers on your knee when the two of you were sitting close to each other.

If you’re comfortable with it, partner stimming would become a big thing in your relationship.

Levi wasn’t sure what to do the first time you stimmed in front of him.

The two of you were hanging out in his room, playing one of his all-time favorite games and just having a good time.

The more time that was spent playing the game, Levi would begin to hear you muttering something under your breath.

He’s too socially awkward to ask you what you said outright, so he just focused his ears on listening to what you’re saying.

When he realized that you were repeating the catchphrase of the main character in the game, a deep blush coated his cheeks.

Why did you sound so adorable saying those words?

Levi’s heart raced the entire time the two of you played the game as he focused more on hearing those words he cherished coming from your lips.

Hearing you mimic something he loved so much would give him so many fantasies of the two of you cosplaying as certain characters together.

And if you ever decided to start repeating phrases from “The Magical Ruri Hana: Demon Girl”, Levi would be an absolute goner.

Dig his grave and write a nice epitaph because hearing you mimic Ruri-chan would kill him.

Satan was used to there being silence in the library when he was reading.

So the small noises you were making beside him while you read as well took him by surprise.

He tried to listen to what you were doing, to try and understand if it pertained to the book you were reading.

But although they were repetitive, the noises seemed to be random.

Satan decided not to say anything, but after you left, he did his research.

It wasn’t that you were annoying him, he just wanted to understand why you were doing it.

He would become your resident expert in all things stimming overnight.

And once Satan understood the reasons why you were doing it, he couldn’t help but find the habit of yours loveable.

He’ll wear a small smile as he continues to read his book when he hears you start making those noises.

He isn’t afraid to admit that he hoped he was the only one who got to see you doing something so uniquely adorable.

If you choose to discuss you’re stimming with Satan, he will gladly listen to what you have to say about it, and he’ll even compliment you.

But if it was something you didn’t want to talk about then he would admire you quietly from afar and do everything he could to make you feel comfortable with opening up to him.

You were standing next to Asmo at a rather large event, surrounded by a massive group of people and you were starting to feel nervous.

Being close to the seven demon brothers meant that you had been to several large-scale events like this one.

But, when they were all there, it was easy for you to stick to the sidelines and not have to be in front of everyone if you didn’t want to be.

When it was just Asmo with you, there was no avoiding the spotlight. You were front and center no matter what situation you were in.

Asmo thrived in that environment, but having hundreds of eyes staring at you could be a bit overwhelming.

And when you were feeling anxious you tended to pick at your skin or pull at strands of your hair.

When Asmo first noticed you doing this, he panicked, afraid you would damage either one of them.

He immediately pulled you to the side and asked if something was wrong.

When you explained that it was your way of stimming when you were feeling anxious, Asmo will offer you two options.

He’ll ask you if holding your hand or hugging you close to him would help with that feeling.

Or he’ll ask if you would rather just leave the event.

He’ll do whatever you need <3

Beel has a hard time hiding his excitement when it comes to food.

So he understands when others have a hard time hiding their excitement for things they like as well.

But in his opinion, you have the most adorable way of expressing your excitement for things.

The way you flapped your hands or tapped your feet when you were happy about something melted his heart.

Whenever this happened, he would stop whatever he was doing to watch you in action, even if he was eating.

And Beel would definitely go out of his way to get you your favorite food or drink just to see your excited motions as you smiled at him.

His favorite is when you do it while he’s sharing food with you.

He feels like it’s an intimate moment between the two of you because you’re showing him a side of yourself that others might not get to always see.

He would always find it adorable if you happened to partner stim.

He’ll enjoy the feeling of your fingers gently drumming on his skin or fidgeting with something he was wearing.

Belphie had a hard time taking naps with you at first because you wouldn’t lay still.

You would last maybe a couple of minutes before you would start moving, whether it be your hands or a different body part.

Belphie thought that maybe you didn’t like taking naps with him, so he would always let you go off on your own and then sulk and take a nap in his own room.

But, then he started noticing you flapping your hands and tapping your foot when you looked genuinely happy or excited.

Belphie wouldn’t be afraid to confront you about it, asking questions about what your motions meant.

If you’re comfortable with taking naps with him, Belphie will adjust to your stimming and eventually get used to it enough to fall asleep easily despite you moving around. 

As the two of you grow closer, this would most likely evolve into Belphie being used as a tool for your stimming.

He would insist on being cuddled up to you and because of that, you would be able to tap your fingers on his shoulders or back or gently poke him wherever you wanted.

Whether he was awake or asleep, Belphie would enjoy the attention and he would encourage your stimming when you were both up and around as well.

[jeonscatalyst]

Over the years, we have gotten tons and tons of information which have proven beyond measure that Jikook are incredibly close to each other and spend a lot of time together but it felt a little different watching AYS and seeing more aspects of their closeness manifest.

During the solo era, we had people saying that Jikook weren’t close at all and had never been close and that everything from the past that made it seem like they were close was because the company wanted people to believe they were and that the solo era had exposed the fact that Jikook were really not close but I really do wonder how the following things could have been possible at all if Jikook were infact not close in real life.

1:Their Inside Jokes:

I feel like so many things are debatable but one thing which isn’t is the fact that Jimin and Jungkook have so many inside jokes or meme references which only the two of them seem to understand and AYS once again proved this. There is no way two people who aren’t incredibly close and who don’t spend a lot of time together get to have as many inside jokes as Jimin and Jungkook. We have compilations of their jokes from years ago but just from AYS alone, we got this much!

What is interesting here is that other people or members around them do not seem to get their jokes or references. I mean we all saw Tae sitting there with them looking lost as hell while Jikook just came up with meme references after the other or with Jokes after jokes so before someone tries to bring up the argument that they are bandmates and have lived together for years so of course they know the same jokes, then why didn’t Tae get all these jokes or meme references?

The way Jimin immediately understood the “apologize to me” meme references the moment he saw Jk making the face without Jk even saying a word, was very telling. The way Jk immediately got the “goood” meme reference while they were at the restaurant in Sapporo, the way Jimin and Jungkook started going “who is going to feed the cows” with the hand and body movements while Tae just sat there looking kinda lost was so telling. It makes you question when, where and how did they even learn all those things to just completely get each other with little or no words if they weren’t close and spend no time together as some people so desperately want to believe?

It’s not rocket science. People only have this many inside jokes if they spend a lot of time together watching the same stuff and repeating them over and over to themselves as jokes or for fun. Notice how neither Jimin nor Jungkook ever had to ask the other, “do you know this meme” but instead just went along with the other as soon as one of them started it? Yea you cannot fake this and once again if this only happened because they are bandmates and have lived together for years, Tae would have gotten those references too but he clearly didn’t the same way in older bangtan content, we have seen Jikook make reference to other memes or jokes that only them two understood while the rest of the members around them looked confused as hell.

2: Tae seeing JK doing a soju bottle trick and immediately assuming he learnt it from Jimin was also very telling. Just like the first point, this too was another very subtle proof of how close Jikook are and how much time they spend together. Tae wouldn’t have immediately assumed that it was Jimin whom Jk learnt that trick from unless he knew about how much time they spend together, what they do when they are together and how close they are. Jimin and Jungkook have mentioned spending time drinking together (amidst other things) and Tae clearly knows this. This also kinda goes hand in hand with the little comment he made: “they are like twins” while Jikook were snorkelling. The phrase often highlights how inseparable two people are. It suggests that they are so close emotionally and spend so much time together that they seem to function as a unit, much like actual twins. If Tae didn’t think or know how close those two are and how much time they spend together, there is no way in hell he would have seen Jk doing something and immediately thought he learnt it from Jimin especially because Jk might have learnt that bottle trick from anywhere else and the kicker is, Jimin said Jk actually didn’t learn that from him because he doesn’t do that when he drinks but it’s interesting how Tae immediately assumed he did.

The other members don’t have to explicitly say “Jimin and Jungkook are close” for one to understand that they are because statements like this tell us how the members see Jikook. This goes hand in hand with the members constantly mixing up Jimin and Jungkook’s names, or the members instinctively mentioning their names after each other’s. These are things you cannot fake.

3: Jimin and Jungkook maintaining certain patterns of their behaviour throughout the years is another thing that was interesting to see play out on AYS. Throughout the years, we have heard from members and Jikook themselves just how much they enjoy spending alone time together in their down time and at nights and it was interesting to see that this habit of theirs just didn’t die. In AYS, we saw how Jikook made decisions to do things together which included staying up late together, deciding to go to bed together etc even when Tae always went to bed earlier than they did. These are things we have heard that they did for years and we were able to see glimpses of this but it was interesting to really see this play out on AYS. It was beautiful to see how they didn’t need much to keep themselves entertained as they could always come up with the smallest things to giggle about or play with. People just don’t get each other like this unless they are incredibly close and have a deep connection. It was important for them to do things together and they did them so naturally that you could easily tell they were so used to this.

4: Both of them knowing exactly what the other person likes was another example. Jimin knowing the kind of activities that Jk would love and choosing them. Jk knowing exactly how Jimin likes his food (spicy) and also knowing that Jimin was going to love the beef stew.

Sometimes too it was the way they understood each other without words. Jungkook realizing that Jimin felt sad about their trip coming to an end and doing everything in his power to cheer him up. Another thing which made me so soft and which I didn’t even know until someone pointed it out, was the fact that Jungkook knew that letting cold air get into the car by keeping the windows open would be a sure way to get Jimin to cheer up because Jimin had once mentioned that when he feels sad, he goes to a cold place. This was something Jimin said back in 2018 so it was really beautiful to see that Jungkook still remembered it.

5: Jk saying that “if we had met as friends of the same age, we would have been copies of each other”. I feel like this one is pretty self explanatory. This isn’t something you say to someone you aren’t incredibly close to.

The idea of being “same age friends” suggests that meeting as two people who were of the same age (while taking into consideration the cultural context) might have shaped their personalities in a way that made them even more alike than they already are. It implies that age or circumstances have caused some differences, but the core of who they are is so similar that, under different conditions, they would have been almost indistinguishable. The statement also conveys a strong connection or bond. It implies that the Jk sees a lot of himself in Jimin and vice versa and feels a sense of kindred spirit, as if they are mirror images of each other in many ways and this isn’t something you say to a person unless you feel really close to them.

These were a few things from AYS that once again proved how close Jikook are and these are things that cannot be faked because they come very naturally. Habits, instinctive statements and phrases etc.

[kittenintheden]

You Can Read Me Anything Part 2

*ELMO ON FIRE GIF* so that took longer than anticipated but you know. HERE YOU GO. (thank you for all the wonderful comments on Part 1)!

***

Druidic Tav grew up in a nomadic clan that recorded their history through spoken word and song rather than written text. As such, she's illiterate, and one charming-ish vampire offers to help her with reading lessons and a whole lot more. Out of the goodness of his heart, of course.

Then one night, she unwittingly brings him smut for their lesson.

Rating: E Word Count: 5100 words Content: illiterate Tav, Astarion being a shit, but also being cute, innocent Tav, suggestive dialogue, blood drinking, biting kink, first time oral, cunnilingus, fellatio, PIV sex, Astarion playing himself

AO3 Link

Astarion cradles her head, palm gently pressed to her cheek as she leans into it. She sighs and it tickles his ear, sending a dissipating wave of gooseflesh down the length of his back.

“Are you done yet?” Tav asks, voice breathy.

He hums and detaches from her neck, admiring the clean pair of fang marks he left there. His tongue swipes his bottom lip so he doesn’t waste a single drop of her blood. He releases her and takes a step back.

“You…” he says with a lazy smile as he reaches out with a finger to boop her nose. “... are so delicious.”

“Ha, ha,” she says with an affectionate eyeroll. She spreads her hand over the bite mark and calls on her connection to nature, using it to knit the flesh back together and restore her blood supply. “Glad to help.”

“I’ll bet you are,” he drawls at her with a wink. “Thank you for the appetizer. I’d best go find myself a full meal now.”

As he starts to saunter off deeper into the woods, Tav clicks her fingers and lightly bonks herself on the head. “Oh, almost forgot.” After him, she calls the Elvish phrase Shadowheart taught her.

For the first time since she met him at the site of the nautilus crash, she watches Astarion trip over his own feet.

He catches himself quickly, spine unusually straight as he puts his hands on his waist and takes a few more steps like he’d meant to do that the whole time. When he turns around to look at her, her smile fades when she notices his wide-eyed expression. The tips of his ears have gone very pink.

“Wha-” His voice cracks and he clears his throat and tries again, tone painfully casual. “What did you say?”

Tav grimaces. “Shit, did I get the middle part wrong? It was tricky when Shadowheart had me practice.”

Astarion leans forward a bit and gives a shaky laugh. “Ah. Right. I must’ve misunderstood. What were you trying to say?”

“She told me it meant, ‘I’m pleased to have provided you a good meal,’” Tav says, reaching up to pull some of her hair over her shoulder and fiddle with it.

“I see,” he says as he comes closer, his eyes searching her face. “Could you say it again? So I can correct your enunciation.”

“Oh, okay.” Tav gives a soft cough into her hand and repeats the phrase.

Astarion is close enough now that she sees his pupils dilate the tiniest bit. The flush at the tips of his ears spreads down the edges. Do they always do that after he feeds? They must.

He reaches delicate fingers up to cup her chin and draw her jaw down, parting her lips. His eyes are trained on her mouth and that makes her feel all too warm.

“Loosen your tongue,” he says softly. “Once more.”

She tries one more time and watches his eyelids flutter, inches from her own.

“There we go,” he whispers.

His gaze shifts to her neck again and he leans down toward it. She nearly stops him, but then she feels the draw of his tongue over the spot where he bit. He punctuates it with a soft, barely-perceptible press of his lips. A kiss, she might think, if she were a silly little girl. Which she certainly is not.

Then he’s standing straight again, releasing her face and putting space between them.

“Missed a smudge. Can’t let it go to waste.” His eyes rove over her face. “It’s so very precious.”

Then he walks off and she’s left standing there, cheeks hot and chest uncomfortably tight. Tav continues to run her fingers nervously through her hair as she turns and walks back toward their camp.

Astarion counts out fifty paces before he ducks behind a tree and leans his back heavily against it, letting out a shivery breath. He puts his cool fingers to his ears and tries to rub the heat out of them.

“Stop it,” he whispers to himself. “Stop it, stop it.”

---

Near the crumbling wreckage of a stone alter, Shadowheart kneels in prayer seeking guidance and direction from her Lady. The darkness, the loss, the silence… they are vast and answerless. She opens her eyes and takes a deep breath in and out. Clenches her right hand, glancing at the ever-present wound there.

If only she could remember… anything useful. No matter. For now, it’s whatever path will take her back to Baldur’s Gate.

She gathers her components and packs them away, standing to walk back down the path toward camp. There’s a trio of crumbling walls that clearly used to be some sort of holy building and she walks along one, trailing her fingers over the soft moss overgrowth.

Then she turns round the corner of the broken temple to find a bristling, broody vampire leaned up against the wall with his arms folded, glaring at her with a tic in his jaw. He raises an accusatory finger.

"You," he says, the word hard on his tongue. "Are an arsehole."

She gives him a smug smile and arches her brow. "You're a bigger arsehole."

He refolds his arm and narrows his eyes at her. “Really think you’re clever, don’t you.”

The cleric shrugs and cuts off to the side to walk back to the path. “The goal was to make you lose your cool. Seems like it worked.”

Silently and suddenly he’s walking at her side, lip curling in disdain. “Congratulations to you, you managed to annoy me. Don’t do it again.”

“Oh, he’s testy tonight,” she says, putting a hand to her cheek in a mockery of shock. “Maybe you’d feel less the fool if you hadn’t been teaching her to talk dirty.”

“We can’t all be ice queens, dear,” he sneers. “Some of us are queens with needs.”

Shadowheart rolls her eyes and her entire head along with it. “You should be thanking me, then. I gave you your opening.”

Astarion stops and she keeps on walking.

“To what?” he says.

“To have your ‘needs’ met,” she calls over her shoulder. “I’m not the one who was teaching her to invite me betwixt her thighs. Have a frustrating night.”

Astarion makes an affronted noise after her, pouts a moment, and then calls back, “Your bangs are wretched, by the way.”

She throws a rude gesture up at him and continues onward.

---

He plots and flirts for three days straight before he decides to make his move. Tav’s guard is down, her shy little moments are increasing in frequency, and he can literally hear her heartbeat quicken when he’s near. If that’s not all signs pointing to yes, he doesn’t know what is.

All he has to do is, you know. Make the move. Which he’ll do. Soon.

Because she still makes the most sense. The others all adore her, listen to her. She’s the perfect choice of protector should his vampirism prove a problem to anyone. She’ll say yes. Of course she’ll say yes.

… of course she’ll say yes. No one denies him. It doesn’t happen.

… it rarely happens. Not as if he’d care if it did, this time.

Astarion rocks his weight onto his back leg, flicking his gaze up to see Tav kneeling near the campfire and giving the dog a generous belly rub. Before she stops, he goes back to his extremely casual reading. Standing posed outside his tent. Holding a book with the title facing out. Very normal.

After what feels like an hour, his ears pick up approaching footsteps and he skims the page he’s on, waiting.

“Is that a new one?” Tav asks timidly.

He closes the book and looks up to meet her. His close-lipped smile feels almost natural. Almost.

“There you are,” he says, dropping his register a fraction. “I was just thinking about you.”

Not a lie, actually.

She tucks her hair behind one ear. “Oh? Do I owe you something?”

He laughs and sets his book aside. “Only a bit of your time. I do enjoy it so very much.”

Tav quirks her mouth up on one side. “Yeah? You’re pretty okay, too.”

“Better than okay, I should hope.” He closely examines his thumbnail. “I’m… growing to enjoy the whole package, honestly.”

She doesn’t immediately respond and he chances a look up at her.

“Deer in the magicked light” is what one might call the expression on her face. She blinks rapidly and gives her head a small shake before she looks to the side, color rising prettily in her cheeks.

“Is that so?” she says, giving a tight laugh.

His smile starts to go a little toothy and he dials it back. “I’ve been thinking an awful lot about our last reading lessons,” he lilts at her, peering up through his lashes. “And our language lessons. I’ve been pondering over what other sorts of lessons I could offer.”

Tav’s cheeks go pink to red.

He leans in to speak softly, making her lean in closer to be able to hear him. “I like you,” he says. “And I think you like me, too. So?”

“So, what?” she blurts, immediately grimacing at her own outburst.

A giggle bubbles up out of him before he can stop it and he puts a hand up in front of his mouth to hide his smile. When he regains control, he lowers his hand. “So, I thought you might like to indulge in certain curiosities with me.”

I want to go down on you.

Astarion blinks the thought away as soon as it appears in his head, briefly letting his smile slip before he snatches it back.

Tav is blushing furiously, but she leans in closer to him nonetheless to whisper, “Like what, exactly?”

Elvish, rising like the language of his dreams: I want to drink of your fountain.

He gives his head a light shake, playing it off with a mirthful huff as he says lowly, “Like sex, sweet thing. Whatever kind you might be… interested in.”

Tav nods rapidly and hums, slowly leaning back and standing at her full height again, not quite meeting his eye. “I was pretty sure that’s what you meant, but you know. Better safe than sorry? Is that a thing people say?”

Astarion reaches out to gently guide her chin toward him until she’s looking at him. “Think about it. If you’re amicable, you’ll find me later at the clearing where you last offered me a bite after the others are asleep.” He chucks her under the chin. “I’ll be waiting.”

She nods once more, expression unchanged. “Yeah. Yep. Okay. I’m going to… see you later. Maybe.” Then she turns on her heel and walks away.

“See you later,” he says. “Lover.”

When she disappears into the dark, he blows out a breath, subtly shaking his hands out. That was a yes.

Right?

“Of course it was,” he snipes at his own brain.

---

Hours later, Astarion paces the moonlit clearing, fiddling with the cuffed sleeve of his shirt. The others must be asleep by now. He pulls at the sleeve. It feels too tight.

Should he take the shirt off? He should just take the shirt off.

He does.

Astarion glances around the clearing once more, noting the blanket he spread on the ground nearby. Not a bed, but you know. He’s okay with that, actually.

He clenches and unclenches his fists, rolling his hands at the wrists. Cracking his neck. Rolling out his shoulders. He takes a deep breath and forces himself to be still. Controlled. Practiced. This is an act he’s performed thousands of times. This is no different.

It’s not.

She’s going to come out of those bushes any moment and-

The bushes he’s looking at actually rustle and he jumps, whispering “oh, shit” before he can stop himself. He manages to put a smile back on his face just as the leaves part and a small doe takes two hops into the clearing and freezes when it spots him.

Astarion doesn’t move. He doesn’t even breathe. The doe relaxes very slightly, flicking an ear.

It’s one of the little black-tailed deer native to the area. He’s made a meal of more than one of them in recent days. Her coat is smooth and healthy, her eyes brown and clear.

The doe blinks at him and takes a step closer.

He gives a relieved chuckle and says, “There you are, Tav.”

“Oh, you heard me? Damn,” says a voice from behind him.

“Ah-” he yells. He tries to cut off the sound, but it’s too late. The doe spooks and bounds off into the underbrush once again.

“Apologies,” he says, regaining his composure and rolling his eyes to the stars above. “She was such a pretty little thing that I assumed it was you.” He starts to turn. “But I’m glad you made it. I was starting to worry you’d gotten lost and…” He finally sets eyes on her and loses his smile immediately. “... and you’re already naked.”

Tav stands before him without a stitch on, her long hair hanging over her rounded breasts and everything from the waist down on full display. He spots her clothing and staff in a neat stack nearby. Her whole body is flushed.

Astarion swallows. He’s seen untold numbers of people in states of full undress. This is routine. She caught him off-guard, is all.

“I… was I not supposed to be?” Tav says, hands going up to run nervously through her draping hair. “Sorry, I thought… you said sex? And then I saw that you had your shirt off, so…”

He holds up a hand and ticks up his brows. “No, no, it’s fine. It’s fine! I like it.” He finds the mask, the posture, like muscle memory. Slips back into the person in control. “You’re just full of surprises, beautiful.”

Tav rewards him with a bashful smile, continuing to comb her hands through her hair.

Astarion huffs a laugh. He can’t help himself. He approaches her with slow, intentional steps. “I had a whole catalog of poetic nothings to whisper in your ear, but looks like I needn’t bother, which is fine by me.” He stops in front of her, smiling his charmer’s smile. “So long as you still want to be tasted.”

He’s starting to notice it’s a good sign when the apples of her cheeks turn red. She nods. “I’d like to try the tongue thing, yes, please.”

“Good,” he purrs, reaching for her hips.

He pulls her in for a sweet, well-executed stage kiss. Most people needed about that much before they got to what they were really with him for. He pulls back and gives her a tight-lipped smile.

Tav looks into his eyes, her lips parted. She’s not moving, and oh gods, he’s going to have to lead completely, isn’t he? Ah well. Such is life.

But then she tucks her chin, her gaze going heated. The pupils of her eyes flicker, changing shape ever so slightly, and Astarion hardly has time to drop his pretender’s smile and ask before she surges forward and kisses him back, throwing her arms around his neck.

Astarion gives a surprised “mmmn!” as he stumbles slightly under her vigor, but he corrects quickly, wrapping his arms around her ribcage and lifting her against his body. Her tongue runs along his mouth and she’s nipping, nipping, and-

There’s a sharp sting on his bottom lip and he releases her right as she pulls back from him, hands to her mouth and eyes wide as saucers. He reaches up to touch his lip and when he looks at his fingers, they show a smeared drop of blood. He blinks down at it, astounded.

He feels a snap deep inside him as the monster in him, the hunter, stirs at the sight and scent of blood.

“I’m so sorry,” Tav says, dropping her hands. “It’s a druid thing, we can get a little wild, I’m really sorry, I won’t do it again.”

Astarion licks at the cut on his lip and stares at her face, his breath heavy and his shoulders ever so slightly hunched. He can see the smallest bit of his blood at the corner of her mouth.

“Do it again,” he says with a voice like gravel as he scoops her bodily up and goes to his knees so he can set her on the ground.

He lays his body on top of hers and she gasps as his mouth covers hers, exploring and hungry. It doesn’t take long for her to return it in kind, arms wrapped around his shoulders and tangled in his hair. He can’t even bring himself to care when she’s making it look like.

Murkily, his brain reminds him why he’s actually here.

Astarion forces himself away from her mouth and she whines at him, a sound far more animalistic than humanoid, but he doesn’t stop trailing his lips down her body until he gets to her hips. He rolls himself up onto his knees and runs his palms up the tops of her legs from knee to thigh, coaxing them open so he can position himself between.

He looks at her face to find her gaze far less “startled doe” and far more “she-wolf in heat.” Her tongue darts out, licking her lip before she says, “People really like to do this?” Then, “You like to do this?”

Astarion positively grins, his pointed teeth showing through.

"Yes. Though it’s a pity this is your first experience," he says through his feral smile. "Because no one will ever best what I'm about to do to you."

“O-okay,” she stammers, clutching her fists close to her sides.

He purrs deep in his throat and puts his mouth to the inside of her knee, the tip of his tongue tracing a sensual line down her thigh, toward her center. He holds her eye the entire time and delights when her leg twitches.

When he nears the crease of her hip, he gives her a sharp nip and she growls at him, bucking her hips. He runs his tongue up along the crease until he reaches her hipbone, to which he gives a firm suck. As she attempts to roll her hips toward him, he spreads a palm over her hips and applies pressure to hold her down.

“Shall we check to see how you’ve kept your garden?” he says, looking at her from under his brows as he speaks.

In response, Tav giggles and slaps a hand over her mouth. Then nods.

She drops her hand to the ground and shakes her head, murmuring, “It can’t be that different, I’m sure it’s just like…” She shudders in a breath. “... just like…”

Astarion parts his lips and huffs out his breath against the slick skin at her core, already shining with want and anticipation. The sensation is a warming one.

Tav continues muttering to herself. “Books are full of all kinds of nonsense, I’m sure it’s-”

He flicks his tongue right over her clit.

“Ah,” she yelps, trying to buck her hips again. He doesn’t let her.

But he does flick again.

“Wha-” she says, thighs jerking on either side of Astarion’s head. “Why is-”

Astarion presses the flat of his tongue firmly at her entrance and draws it slowly all the way to the hood, teasing with the tip before he curls his tongue in slightly and dips back down to better open her inner labia.

“Holy hells,” Tav groans out, her chest arching up and the hands clawing the ground at either side of her growing actual claws.

He gives her another lap before pulling back to smolder at her. “And here I’ve only just started,” he says, voice silky.

“Holy hells,” Tav shouts to the sky this time.

Astarion huffs a laugh against her and goes back down, playing her with highly practiced skill. Full, long licks paired alongside firm draws over the swelling pearl at her center. She continues to buck ever now and again, but mostly she’s gone near boneless above him, head lolling lazily to either side and fingers weakly gripping the grass on either side of her.

When her breathing begins to stutter and he feels the flutter of her getting close, he finally moves his hand from her belly back down until he can get the angle right. He places the tips of his two middle fingers at her entrance so he doesn’t surprise her and glances up to see her eyes flutter open. She stares down at him from between the mounds of her breasts, pupils blown wide.

She licks her bottom lip.

She nods.

Astarion slides his fingers inside her and begins to pump in time with the movements of his mouth. Tav goes wild, both literally and figuratively. The pupils of the eyes watching him go slitted like a cat’s, gradually dilating back as her teeth go sharp and a random patterning of fur shivers down the length of her body before turning back to skin.

He takes that as a good sign and curls his fingers inside of her until he finds what he’s looking for.

Tav bark-mewl-roar-calls into the air above the clearing, her hips grinding into his mouth and hand now that she can move them again.

“Why does that…” she gasps. “Feel… so… good?” The last word comes out a growl.

He’d answer, but his mouth is preoccupied and he dare not let it leave its task.

With his free hand, he pushes her thigh up and guides it higher until she can wrap her leg round his shoulders and he can go deeper. He feels the swell of her under his tongue, going harder beneath his touch, and he begins to trace circles around it as he continues to pump his fingers into her.

Tav’s entire body rolls, trying to get closer, to get more, to get-

She howls as the tension finally snaps. Literally howls, from the very bottom of her chest.

Astarion slows but doesn’t stop, continuing to fuck her through it as he feels her release in the palm of his hand. He’s gentle, taking a touch of pity on her as he gives her a few more soft licks before he leaves her, drawing his fingers from her at the same time. They’re a mess, as is his face. He sits back on his knees and looks her over with lidded eyes, a self-satisfied half-grin on his face. Then he reaches into his pocket to produce a soft cloth to clean up.

He’s not much of a planner, but he plans enough for things like this.

Tav lolls on the ground, her body fully returned back to humanoid form. All except her pupils, which continue to occasionally flicker across the animal kingdom.

“Oh, that was good,” Astarion says, brows raised and grin on his face as he wipes his hand down. “Even for me, that was good. You’re welcome.”

She throws one arm out to her side, then the other, and slowly pushes herself up onto her elbows, trying to focus on him. “Why doesn’t… everybody do that? Oh my gods.” She flops back onto the ground.

Oh, she’s very good for his pride. He gives a pleased wiggle.

“You tell me,” he says. “Or call upon your old lovers and ask.”

Tav weakly waves her hand through the air. “They were bad. I’ve realized. Just now. They were bad at sex.”

“Poor thing,” Astarion croons. “All better now.”

“Yeah.” She rolls onto her side and sits up. Shakes out her head. And starts to crawl toward him.

He instinctively leans back as she comes closer, breasts swaying as she moves. “What are you doing?” he says.

She blinks at him. “I’m going to do it back.”

He blinks at her. “What?”

Tav draws her knees closer and matches his kneeling posture. “I’m going to put my mouth on you back.” She waits a beat. “If you want me to.”

“Uh,” Astarion breathes before he shakes himself and gets his wits back about him. “I would like that very much,” he says. He tries to purr it, but slightly lower in pitch is the best he can do.

It’s been years since he’s been with anyone who even bothered to ask. Probably decades.

Tav beams at him, a bright smile that’s so sunshiny it nearly betrays what they’ve just done. She rolls up onto her knees and pulls him by the wrists to do the same so she can reach the laces that hold his trousers on. His arousal pulses near her hands.

Astarion blinks. He’s… more into this than he usually is.

He blinks again.

He’s very into it, actually.

His fingers go to join hers and together they make quick work of his pants and underthings. Gently, she guides him back to kneeling again as she curls forward. Without thinking too much about it, he reaches out so he can hold her hair up out of her face. She’s at eye level with his cock, inspecting it with the eye of someone all too familiar with all the things nature has to offer and completely unashamed for it.

Astarion swallows back the wanting sound that tries to claw its way out of him.

“Have you done this before?” he asks softly.

Tav peers up at him from her position below and bends her legs at the knees, kicking her feet slowly through the air. She shakes her head “no” and something frozen inside him melts. Best ignore that. That’s a future-him problem.

“You are adorable,” he breathes. He finds he means it in the affectionate way rather than the condescending one, which is alarming. That’s another future-him problem.

Astarion clears his throat. “Same general practice applies here, really,” he says lightly.

Tav licks her lips and reaches out to touch him. Her fingers on him give him a little jolt to the solar plexus and he curls toward her on instinct before he catches himself.

“Tell me if there’s something I could do better,” she says, simply.

Then she licks along the underside of his cock and puffs her breath out across it, much in the same way he did to her.

He curls in toward her again and tightens the hand in her hair.

She puts her mouth over the head of him and he’s enveloped in warmth and oh, yes, he remembers this. This feels good. This feels very good.

Tav doesn’t get down very far before she backs up again. When she pulls off, he reaches a hand down to cup her jaw and draw it down, parting her lips.

“Loosen your tongue,” he whispers. “Once more.”

She does. She descends on him again, relaxing her jaw and loosening her tongue, taking him down deeper and deeper with each pass. Astarion means to watch and guide her, he does, but instead his head lolls back, eyes falling closed, and he smiles. A real smile.

It feels so bloody good. It feels good and he doesn’t have to… he can just be…

Tav hums a little with him mostly inside her mouth and he gasps from it, blinking back to the surface.

Oh, that’s too good.

He lets her go a few seconds more before he tightens the fingers in her hair once more to still her and gently guide her back. His chest heaves as her mouth leaves him, a string of saliva connecting them, and Astarion shudders forward.

“What’s wrong?” Tav asks, her eyes wide and concerned.

She can’t look at him like that. That’s not fair.

He lifts her beneath her arms and pulls her up toward him, her face to his, and kisses her again. She happily responds, catching his lower lip between hers and nipping once more.

Astarion groans.

Hands on her face, he breaks their kiss and tries to collect his scattered thoughts. It’s all hazed over with want. There was a reason for this, they were supposed to… he was supposed to…

“Why don’t we…” He loses the thought and swallows. Tries again. “Let’s find our mutual…”

Words, words, words, where are his words?

Astarion hisses through his teeth. “Oh, just… sex. Let’s have sex.”

“Oh,” Tav breathes, lips swollen and cheeks ruddy. “Okay.”

Whatever he had planned, which was not much, goes completely sideways as she simply climbs up onto his lap, reaches between them, and holds him steady so she can sink down onto him.

He’s so wholly unprepared for the suddenness and initiative of it that his eyes nearly roll back in his head before his mind catches up and he grips her hip with his hand, guiding her as he rolls up to meet her, his hips rhythmic, until their hips meet and he bottoms out.

Tav throws her arms around his shoulders and immediately begins to rock against him, her eyes closed and her joyous grin on her face. Astarion is doing his absolute best not to completely lose himself in her heat, her closeness, her scent.

Her pulse, oh, gods.

Astarion rocks himself up into her with steady rolls of his hips, tilting in to press his open lips to her neck with a moan.

“You can,” she gasps as she rides him. “You can bite, if you want.”

He’s not sure if the words he makes are language, but he does know he’s biting her and her blood washes over his tongue and he drinks lazily, sipping as he fucks into her at the same time. His mind is so unbelievably, blissfully bare of anything except how good, how hot, how much, how full, how winding winding winding-

Astarion pulls off her neck with a gasp almost on the edge of his orgasm. Automatically, he reaches between them and uses all the wiles of a skilled lockpick to send her spiraling over her ledge a second time before he furrows his brow, slams his eyes shut, and yells out as he climaxes, his spend spilling where he’s still buried deep.

“Oh, fuck,” he blurts before he can stop himself, nearly collapsing onto his side with Tav along for the ride. He slips out of her on the way down and immediately feels the mess they’ve just made.

Another future-him problem.

Tav casts a very half-hearted create water spell that at least rinses them off. She drapes herself over his chest, dopey smile plastered on her face. “You win,” she says. “I see what all the fuss is about now.”

“I bet you do,” he says breathily.

He’s grateful she’s not looking at his face as he struggles to hide the worry pulling at his expression. It’s future-him time, and future-him is having a moment.

He just had the best sex he can remember having in… that he can remember. With someone who will still be alive in the morning. And he likes her.

Oh, hells.

He likes her.

[typing-catastrophe]

I have been so cooked for this man lately that I need to talk about him— I genuinely think that with a ADHD/autism/AuDHD partner Ford takes notes on your stims and quirks, even before any serious relationship. Just little things like “waves hands when excited :)” and “prefers baggy sweaters” just like a little way of understanding you better 🥺💖

yesss definitely! as an AuDHDer who stims a lot myself, this is everything!! jfskhfshsk

--------------------------------------------------

"Aaaahhhhh oh myy-" the rest of what you were saying was incomprehensible because the words slurred together in an excited squeal. A gleeful expression upon your face, you waved and shook your hands in front of your body, then pressed them over your mouth, to stifle another squeal.

Ford smiled to himself as he watched you from the other side of the room, where he propped his notebook open to scribble something down.

"Heeyyyyy Grunkle Ford, watcha got there?" Mabel's voice rang out right beside him.

He snapped the book shut and whipped his head around.

"Mabel!"

"Waves hands when excited." she cited what she had just read, "Were you talking about-"

"No, I was certainly not!" Ford said, while his cheeks started to turn a deep red colour.

"Are you suuuure? Because to me it looks like you diiiid." she said, a cheeky grin on her face and dragging some of the vowels.

"You are mistaken, dear child. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got work to do." he excused himself and stood up, holding the notebook close to him.

Without letting her get another word in, he moved past her and made his way into his study.

There, he propped open the notebook to the page he'd just added a new note onto.

- likes to hum when no one is around - seems to prefer more loose fitting clothes. possibly because the don't restrict movement as much - will subconsciously play and fidget with any jewellery they're wearing - sorts and eats their food in a particular order - would rather not eat at all than something not appealing - skin irritating clothing causes great discomfort. remove tags!! - wants to talk but holds back. encouraging them has positive effect - avoids eye contact but will look at faces when the person isn't looking at them - do not touch without warning and do not force contact! expressed great discomfort to me after being forced to physical contact by someone else - repeating phrases and noises (quite endearing) - easily startled by sudden and loud noises, as well as irritated by high pitched ones, almost too quite to hear - shows behaviours similar to felines. has stated that they would be delighted to posses the ability to purr (he would be delighted too)

Ford smiled as he looked up and leaned back. He really hoped Mabel hadn't seen too much, otherwise she might figure out how interested in you he really was. And we wasn't sure if he was ready for that.

For now he would be very much content continuing to dreamily gaze over at you and notice all the little things, so he could understand you better.

Maybe one day he could work up the courage to ask you out.

-------------------------------------------------- thank you for reading <3 reblogs are appreciated

[hanjisung-enjoyer]

thinking about being drunk in the back of a car with minho…

tags: drunken decisions!!!!, bsf!lee minho x afab!reader, kissing, making out, spit, fingersss, no actual smut but kind of implied, driver!changbin is fed up

author’s note: not sure if this is considered dubcon due to drunken consent but if you don’t like don’t read!! both characters are functioning and understanding of what’s going on despite drinking, NEVER hook up with someone who is past the point of awareness.

purely fiction, minors dni

you probably shouldn’t have drank as much as you did- if your blurry vision was anything to go by.

as fuzzy as everything around you felt, minho’s beauty suddenly stuck out to you clearer than it ever had before. you never really took in how perfect his features were; his perfectly sculpted nose now scrunched up cutely between two sharp, feline like eyes that currently struggled to maintain focus on changbin, the designated driver of the night, as he attempted to hold a conversation with the tipsy man.

“min,” you eventually whispered. his eyes flickered towards you, to which you finally got to admire his dark orbs under a slight state of intoxication. his eyes were more than alluring; you’d have no problem stare into them forever.

“hmm?” he questioned, his voice low and husky to match the faintness of your own. you didn’t immediately respond, being too busy admiring his features. your attention travelled down to his pink lips: they still looked wet from the drinks he was previously taking down, glistening from the reflection of the moon through the car window. “…what?” he asked again, his voice curious yet playful as his lips turned up in a smirk.

“…nothing,” you reply. “you just look nice.”

‘nice’ is not the word you wanted to use. best friends tell each other they look nice all the time. ‘you look nice’ is the phrase you use to compliment each other before a first date or when dolling yourselves up for a night out.

maybe it’s just because your sex life had been rather dry recently, but what you really wanted to tell him was how hot he was making your body feel. just being next to him and appreciating his features made your face flush with a heavy and sudden lust. minho’s fierce eyes were lidded and faded, yet you still felt intimidated under his gaze. the way he was staring into you, trying to decipher your true intentions, had your thighs shifting together- a small detail that failed to go unnoticed by minho.

“i look nice?” he repeated in a slur. his hand landed on your leg under the guise of holding his balance when the car drove over a small bump. your lower region tingled up at the light touch. “you look nice,” he replied.

“no,” you simply responded, turning your face away from his. he leaned closer, his face following yours. he cocked his head to the side to try and read your face that avoided him so persistently. your cheeks were now visibly red, feeling unbelievably warm from his close proximity.

“no? but you always look nice.” his pretty lips were molded into a pout when you finally faced him again. his body was now extremely close to yours, his leg only a hairs length away from pressing against yours.

you tried to look into his eyes again, you truly did, but his lips look much more enticing in your buzzed state. despite minho’s clouded mind, he was certainly alert to where your lidded eyes settled on his face. you merely whined in response to his compliment, the only form of reply you could manage, before he took your cheek in his palm. “you know you always look good, right?” he practically purred, forcing you to finally make eye contact.

his fingers trailed from your cheek and down to your chin, and now it was his turn to stare at your pretty lips. electricity ran through your body under his intense gaze. your lips subconsciously fell into a pout, presenting them deliciously to minho’s view.

it felt like forever before he finally leaned in with a hum, kissing your lips slowly and tenderly.

the way he kissed you was a contrast to his feisty personality. his lips moved against yours in a steady rhythm, taking his time as if it was the last time he’d ever lay his lips on another human. for how riled up he had you, you weren’t expecting him to pace you like this. his hand that wasn’t resting on your chin rubbed at your thigh, pulling small noises from your mouth that vibrated through the passionate kiss.

you could taste the alcohol lingering on his tongue when he finally welcomed it into your mouth. you took initiative in intensifying the kiss, an unexpected bout of courage leading you to bite down softly on his bottom lip. his eyes opened momentarily, catching yours as you mentally panicked that you may have crossed a line. you didn’t have a lot of time to overthink it, because minho eagerly returned the gesture after a moment’s time, pulling at your bottom lip between his teeth as he groped your thigh with a little more fervor. the man was practically straddling you at this point.

you had to stop yourself from moaning out, nearly forgetting about changbin in the front seat of the car. as if on cue, you heard a loud gasp of your names coming from the front of the car.

“yah! what are y- in my car???” changbin cried as he met your eyes in the rear view mirror. your face flushed and you hid yourself in minho’s neck.

“we’re just kissing, relax!” minho scoffed in response, settling back into his seat.

“i don’t care! it starts as kissing, then kissing turns to fucking in the back of my car!”

in the midst of changbin’s complaints, you watched minho’s fingers lift up to his lips in the corner of your eye. his digits slid past his bow-shaped lips momentarily, returning to your view coated in a thick layer of saliva. your wide eyes followed his slender fingers as they drew closer to your face, your mouth unwillingly gaped open. he tapped two fingers on your bottom lip, an unspoken request that you gladly obeyed.

your lips captured his spit-covered fingertips, little by little taking in the whole length of his digits. your lidded eyes maintained contact with his steady gaze. if it wasn’t for the prominent tent in his pants that twitched at each swirl of your tongue, you wouldn’t think he was phased by your actions at all. it felt messy, you felt like taking everything he would give you, and he was absolutely dominating your mind.

his fingers curled down your throat, triggering a small gag that had changbin whipping his head around and losing control of the car.

“what the f- can you guys NOT?”

to that, minho practically lunged at you, instantaneously replacing his fingers with his mouth and pressing a sloppy kiss against your lips. the kiss sounded as messy as it felt. his tongue danced around yours in a lustful exchange of saliva that drooled down your own chin.

it was over as soon as it started though, or at least it felt like it. minho pulled his whole body away from you and once again sat back in his designated seat under harsh glares from the irritated driver.

changbin sighed out, visibly aggravated at the two of you. “minho if you’re not in the front seat in ten seconds, i’m calling the cops and asking them to pull me over.”

you peeked over at minho who exchanged an amused glance with you. he leaned over to level his lips with your ear. “stay at mine tonight?” he practically purred, his fingers ghosting over your thigh and his breath tickling your neck. you nodded a little too quickly, to which minho smirked and patted your leg. he then stood up and crawled across the body of the car, taking his place next to changbin in the passengers seat and muttering a small “cockblocker” under his breath.

in a clouded state of drunk and horny, you didn’t care much about the sober consequences that the next day would bring. you missed his presence next to you, but you knew he’d make up for it once you were both finally out of this damned car.

[90sbee]

Dying is not an option (when you're by my side)

Leon S. Kennedy x Gn!reader

1k words. Also on a03

Soft fingers caress his lips, keep his body warm, his belly full and his back massaged.

“I’ll always have a home,” Leon finally manages to get out, a complete sentence, voice without hesitation.

He closes his eyes, kisses the skin of your shoulder.

Hell, he is trying.

When his mind seems to get too clouded by the visions of monsters, you pull him out of the depths of his trauma. He does his best to love you. He tries.

Or the fic in which you make Leon repeat comforting phrases so it finally gets in his head that he is loved.

Just a very soft idea that wouldn't leave my head and that's been too long in the wip folder. The warnings make it seem worse than it is, but happy ending I promise!!! Had re4r in mind for this one but can be read with other older versions of him. (Though the older the Leon, the angstier it gets lmao)

Content: No use of y/n, very very soft love, hurt/comfort, some angst, established relationship, living together, sitting on his lap, a tiny bit of possessive Leon (yay!)

Warnings: +18 ONLY. No smut but some suggestive lines. Mentions of blood, suicide, guns and overall (some brief) gore. Leon's mental struggles (depression, anxiety). I'm not a native English speaker but I (lazily) proofread and edited this one.

You lean forward, just a little closer to his body. Leon groans, his face unreadable still.

“Don’t want to,” he muses, kind of annoyed at your proposal.

“Just trust me.”

He reluctantly nods, as you get comfortable on his lap. His firm thighs under you, the warmest and comfiest seat you could ever ask for.

You worry about him, worry so much.

You know now: know what he does, what he works as. At first it was hard to believe it, the stories about human turned monsters, about creatures that linger between heaven and hell. But you had to believe him, you were forced to the first time Leon crumbled down in your arms, sobbing the entirety of the night, the immensity of his body reduced to shivering and tears.

“I love you,” you had told him that time. “I’m not letting you go. I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

You whisper the same things again now, your voice reverberating close to his ear. Leon eases the grip on your hips, replaces it with a soft touch. He tries to calm down, closes his eyes for a moment too long.

“You love me,” he seems to ask, as if trying to convince himself of it, as if trying to find himself worthy of such a feeling from someone like you.

“I do,” you confirm, cupping his cheeks.

He nods, though his heart is thumping in his chest still. Your hands move to his shoulders, then to his arms, caressing the skin with soft strokes.

“I love you… Look at me.”

He obliges, eyes like the ocean, marked by the heavy and dark eyebags.

It breaks your heart to see him like this. Your lip trembles as you lean closer, shortening the distance.

It is entirely possible —as you’re so much aware of— that one day you’ll come home to an unlocked gun and his body in the bathtub. Or maybe it would be the rifle, the carpet stained with blood and pieces of what used to be his jaw.

A jaw that you love so much, that you kiss now.

Leon sighs, seems content with such affection, his hands getting lost down your thighs.

“Listen to me. You’re gonna repeat as I say, okay?” an attempt to get him out of his head, to remind him of who he is.

“ …‘Kay,” he mumbles, seemingly distracted.

“I’m… good.”

He scrunches his nose, pinkish lips downturned. Naturally, he doesn’t dare to say those words. He doesn’t want to trick his brain.

“C’mon,” you egg him, patting his shoulder gently.

The action seems to at least make his lips curve slightly.

“I’m good,” he whispers, his voice insecure.

He tries. You can see how hard he does it: coming home as much possible, the dirty laundry now clean and with a soft cinnamon scent. A sunflower in the kitchen vase next to the window, the coffee mug always clean even when you leave it in the sink, ready to be washed in the morning.

“I’m a good partner,” you resume, reminiscing.

That does stops him in his tracks, a gentle blush rooting on his cheeks, the smile more pronounced now. Leon presses his face against your neck.

“… Do I really have to say it?”

“Yep.”

He breathes on your neck, as if trying to take in a bit of your kindness, a bit of your peace. He closes his eyes, tries to control his breathing. But his hands grip your hips harder.

He fucking loves you.

Leon is not sure he deserves this yet, the warm body on the bed, the pretty smile that kisses him goodbye, lets him go away even in the middle of the night.

“I love you,” he backtracks, pressing a kiss on your neck.

You chuckle, and allow him that admission.

“Very cute but that’s not what you had to repeat.”

Leon raises his eyebrows, feigning annoyance. He keeps his fingers on your hips, dancing on your skin, drawing patterns as he keeps you close. He wishes he could sign his name there, mark you forever so you’d never get too far away from him… So he’d always have a right to come back to you.

“But I love you…” he pouts.

You grab his face with utmost care, force his cheeks to look upwards at your face.

“I love you too. Lots.”

You kiss his forehead. His body melts under that touch.

“ ‘m a good partner” he mumbles, quickly.

“My baby loves me.”

Now Leon chuckles.

“My baby loves me,” he hides again on your neck, his smile etched constantly on his face now. You hug him closer, kiss his forehead once more, as if sheltering a lost angel in your arms.

“I’ll always have a home.”

Oh, that one seems to break him a little. Leon immediately whines, his hands gripping your body with ferocity against his. He can’t say… He shouldn’t. He… he can’t and…

His heart starts beating faster and he gulps.

“You can do it…” you encourage him and he wants to try. He knows, deep inside, that is true and that he is now safe. It takes him several minutes until his anxiety dissipates and he can look up at you, your eyes encapsulating warmth that he had never experienced with anyone else.

Soft fingers caress his lips, keep his body warm, his belly full and his back massaged.

“I’ll always have a home,” Leon finally manages to get out, a complete sentence, voice without hesitation.

He closes his eyes, kisses the skin of your shoulder.

Hell, he is trying. It is seen not only in how much he makes time for you, but also in the way he follows along with your little silly ideas, suggestions to try to build himself up again.

And though he wouldn’t directly admit it, since you two are together he has promised himself to fight his hardest in every mission. He spits his own blood, wipes off the exhaustion from his face and keeps pushing forward. Because, he’ll be damned, he wants to see you once more. And once more. And again and again… And when he comes home, to you, Leon immediately checks —for the tenth time— the safety on each gun and leaves them in locked boxes, his fingers slowly forgetting what it’s like to toy with weapons in the sanctuary that you’ve built for the two of you. The cold of the metal is now replaced by the warmth between your thighs, the flesh on your hips, the softness of your hands.

Hell, he is definitely trying.

And it’s fucking working.

God to be on his lap honestly!!! A dream. And if you've made it to the end, thank you!! Mwah, sweet soul 💙

[aemondsbabe]

Two Souls, Entwined

summary: dreams & dirty talk || helaena has been plagued with visions; things between her and her lady in waiting finally reach a boiling point

pairing: helaena targaryen x f!reader

warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni!), no use of y/n, afab reader, wlw, mutual pining, angst but happy ending, dry humping, breast/nipple play, dirty talk but make it poetic and loving, slight aegon slander i broke my own heart, i love helaena sm, there needs to be more content for her i love her, let me know if i missed anything!!

word count: 4.1k

a/n: happy day ten of 12 days of smuff!! i'm actually very excited/proud of this one, it got a lot more personal than i was expecting! really feeding that scared bi girl i was in middle school idk. i hope y'all enjoy it!!!

12 days of smuff masterlist!

gif creds to @merrypembertons

likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!

🌟add yourself to my taglist to be notified when i post new fics!

Helaena sighs when she opens her eyes and blinks, disoriented by the early morning light, her head still clouded with sleep. 

“Your friend is not a friend yet not your foe…” She whispers to the emptiness of her chambers, the cryptic phrase a familiar one now as it had been making its home in her head for the past few weeks. 

Sitting up with a groan, she pauses at the edge of her bed, staring blankly ahead as the cloudy figures from her dream seem to swirl around her still. She was growing frustrated with the shadowy shapes, as much as she hated to admit it – she did not often enjoy her dreams, they often brought news of unpleasant tidings, secrets that she alone seemed expected to bear, but for the past few weeks her dreams had been… pleasant. Joyous, in fact. Yet they seemed much further away than the others, only revealing small slivers of information to her night after night. 

She smiles softly as she gives one last glance out the window before padding over to the vanity in her chambers, determined to brush out her hair before the maids have the chance, they were always too rushed and hurried. Her mind drifts back to her dream as she runs a comb through her fair hair; lately, this mysterious dream seemed to be the only thing she could focus on for very long. 

The figure in it seemed so familiar, moving around her as if it was an old friend, someone safe. She sighed again as she thought, blushing despite herself as she recalled her latest vision, remembering how the shadow had moved about her, as if in a courting dance, before it leaned in closely, though if it were for a kiss or to whisper a secret she didn’t know. 

“Your friend is not a friend yet not your foe.” She repeats, as if the repeating will somehow reveal more. 

It puzzles her greatly, the feelings of safety mixed with distinct romantic desire, a deep wanting from somewhere within her. There aren’t many people she even feels safe around, and even less so those she’d ever felt romantic longing for, and a much shorter list followed of people who had ever felt romantic longing for her. She feels secure around her mother, of course, and grandsire and her precious younger brothers, but she cannot help but wrinkle her nose with disgust at the thought of romantic intent with any of them.

She blinks, setting her hairbrush down and biting her lip as she thinks. I feel safe with Aegon, she ponders, brows knitting together, He’s never given me a reason to not feel safe but… She sighs, not bothering to finish the thought. She was well aware her marriage was one of politics, not of love. She remembers there had been whispers of many suitors when she’d finally come of age; everyone from Aegon and Aemond to her half-sister’s bastard sons had been considered, and though Helaena appreciated some more than others… she didn’t desire any of them. 

Before she can help herself, her blue eyes flit over her own curves as she gazes at herself in the mirror, wishing, as she had so many times before, that she could reach out and feel her own reflection – feel a mirrored twin with similar soft skin and supple flesh. She wishes that soft, delicate fingers could touch her as well; she had grown tired of rough, battle worn touches long ago. 

Someone I feel safe with and feel romantic longing for, she thinks again, blinking rapidly as a familiar face immediately springs to mind yet again, just as it had every time she’d pondered this mystery for the last few weeks, only growing more frustrated. It can’t be, she’d decided that long ago, long before this vision began. 

But...

The Gods only ever seemed to show her visions that were assured, that would come to fruition, one way or another. Maybe… maybe that meant that y–

No, she thought, locking eyes with her reflection, Don’t be ridiculous. 

She smiles as she hears her chamber doors opening, at the same time they do every morning, and turns around on the ornate, cushioned chair at her vanity, her eyes locking with your familiar ones as you waltz it. 

“Good morning, Princess,” her heart beats a mite faster at the sound of your voice, at the bright smile that graces your lips as you stride to her, “I trust you slept well?”

“Good morning, sweet friend,” she greets you brightly, standing and pulling you into a hug as she did every day, “I did, quite peacefully, actually. And you?” She asked, trying to ignore the small voice that longed to hold you more closely, as she did everyday. 

“I did as well,” your hand lingers in hers for a moment as she steps away, sitting back at her vanity as the maids arrive, instantly fluttering around the two of you like a kaleidoscope of butterflies, “After we break fast, would you like to come to the gardens with me?”

Helaena merely nods, though inside she buzzes, her heart fluttering like a bird’s wings. 

I would follow you into the Seven Hells, she longs to say. 

You wake with a small start, your hand instantly flying to your lips. You could swear they still tingle for a second from when she’d kissed you, just before you’d woken up. Blushing, you glance around your chambers, as if there would be anyone else there, and finding them empty leaves you both relieved and disappointed all at once. 

Sighing, you slide off of your plush bed and walk over to your small vanity and use the small wash basin to splash water on your face. A small thrill shoots up your spine as you glance over your shoulder in the mirror, knowing from the position of the light filtering through your windows that it’s nearly time to go find your friend. 

Friend.

It’s a funny word, you think, not one you would have imagined assigning to the princess all the many years ago when you’d arrived at King’s Landing, young and eager to be a lady in waiting for Helaena. You can’t help the smile that blooms on your lips each time you think of her, your quiet, captivating princess. You meet your own gaze in the mirror and frown, looking at yourself in the way a disappointed parent would look at a child. 

Not yours, you chide, like repeating it over and over would make it hurt any less, Not yours, not yours, not yours. 

Sighing yet again, you rise from your spot at the vanity and quickly grab your robes, eager to escape your own thoughts. 

“This one is the iphiclides podalirius,” Helaena says, her voice soft as she marvels at the delicate butterfly perched on the back of her hand, “More commonly called the scarce swallowtail, I believe. It’s truly remarkable, normally they don’t travel this far north, though I’m told they’re a common sight in the gardens of Sunspear.”

“Then we are quite lucky to see it,” you smile, setting your embroidery hoop on the bench beside you as you study the yellow and black striped insect, though your eyes seem to drift to the princess on their own; you can’t help but smile as you see the way her beautiful sapphire eyes light up as she examines the small creature, “It’s very beautiful.”

Like you, you think, swallowing down the words. 

“Would you like to hold her?” Helaena asks, looking at you hopefully. 

As always, you nod, aware that you were the only one who seemed to entertain her fascination with insects and plants. Selfishly, you liked that. 

Slowly and carefully, Helaena guides the butterfly onto the back of your hand; the two of you sitting close together, close enough for your shoulders to press together. A giggle leaves you at the feel of the insect's feet on your skin, so small and light, like tiny, faint kisses.  

“Perhaps she was drawn to the hydrangeas,” the princess muses, “Those are new this year, though I suppose any of the other very colorful plants would spark her fancy as well, like the lilac or poppies or…”

It takes you a second to notice that she’s gone quiet next to you and you finally tear your gaze away from the butterfly, frowning slightly when you see the look on her face, her blue eyes hazy and unfocused as they flit back and forth like she’s watching figures you cannot see. 

“Princess?” You ask softly, reaching out to take her hand, only halfway aware of the butterfly fluttering away, “Helaena?” You ask again, a bit louder, gripping her hand tighter. 

“Your friend is not a friend yet not your foe…” She whispers, so faintly that the words scarcely leave her lips. Your frown only deepens, your eyebrows knitting together as you shake your head, trying to make sense of her words. 

“What?” You ask softly, used to hearing her mutter odd phrases but seeing her in a trance was something altogether different, “Helaena? Should I go fetch the maester?” You don’t know why you ask her, not expecting a response. 

The figure danced in front of her again, clouded in darkness, though instead of feeling cold and empty like the dark so often did to her, these shadows hugged Helaena like a blanket. 

She blinked, and suddenly everything changed, becoming clear as if she’d blinked away tears. The clarity was startling for a second as the edges of the figure sharpened before her, still leaning toward her as if it meant to whisper an amorous secret.

Finally, her eyes focused and in that moment, she felt as if she could be knocked over by the air current made from the flittery wings of a butterfly. 

You. 

It was you, just as she’d always suspected, standing before her as if you’d always been there. 

Your friend is not a friend yet not your foe. The phrase repeats in her mind like a mantra as she stares at you, marveling at the way you stare at her. 

Like she’s precious, something to be fawned over. Something to be… loved? 

Her heart hammers wildly in her chest as she reaches out, her fingers finally skimming over your cheek. 

She could cry, perhaps she is crying, she doesn’t know. The only thing she’s sure of is that this feels so right, like a puzzle piece within her has finally shifted and slotted into place. 

Just as it crosses her mind to lean in and kiss you, the vision falls away, words echoing in her mind as the gardens come back into focus.

Not a friend. 

Not a friend.

Not a friend.

Yet...

Not a foe. 

“Helaena, please!” You beg, urgency coating your voice as you lean in closer, closer than you’d ever dared before, praying to see some spark of recognition in the princess’s eyes. 

Suddenly, she seems to come back to herself, gasping as you jump back away from her, startled. 

“Oh!” She breathes, blinking a couple times before her blue eyes finally fix themselves on you, “I’m so sorry, I don’t… I don’t know what came over me.”

You shake your head quickly, moving back toward her and taking her hands in yours once more, your heart twisting as you notice them trembling slightly. “There’s no need to apologize, I’m just happy you’re alright.” 

The two of you sit in silence for a moment, Helaena staring at you in a way that makes your cheeks heat up, as if she’s seeing you for the first time, before she seems to catch herself and look away, much to your disappointment. 

“Was that one of your dreams?” You ask softly, looking down to where her hand rests within yours. 

“Yes.” She says simply, her eyes locked on the way your fingers overlap hers as she desperately tries to ignore the voice in her head telling her to enterwine them. 

“What did you see?” You ask, catching her gaze again. There’s a fire in her eyes now that makes you shiver. 

She’s quiet for a moment, neither of you so much as breathing as you stare at each other – the princess looking at you so intently you wonder if she’s trying to hear your thoughts. You pray she can’t. 

“Nothing of importance,” she says finally, pulling her hands away and standing from the bench suddenly, “They’re just shapes, really. Fuzzy things.”

“Alright,” you smile as you stand with her, picking up your embroidery hoop from where it had been abandoned at your side, “If you ever wish to discuss them, I would be more than happy to listen.” You tell her, desperately wanting to hold on to whatever moment you had just shared with her. 

She merely nods with a small, soft smile and holds her arm out for you to take, “Let’s go, we don’t want to be late for supper.” 

The fire warming your skin from the hearth in Helaena’s chambers normally felt cozy and inviting, but tonight the heat of it was stifling as the two of you sit in silence. Each of you is presumably working on an embroidery piece, although the atmosphere feels more like that of a stalemate with each passing moment. 

You can feel her looking at you, sneaking glances every minute or so. You imagine she can probably feel the same, perhaps that’s why she keeps looking your way, because you can’t seem to keep your eyes off her either. 

Finally, the tension in the room seems to boil over and you can’t take it anymore; your fingers dig into the wood of your embroidery hoop as you gather the courage to speak. 

“Have I… Are you cross with me?” 

“Pardon?” The princess asks, jumping a bit before laying her hoop at her side, her eyes wide as she looks at you unabashedly now. 

“You, well, you keep looking at me. I just, I’m hoping I haven’t offended you in some way.” You chance a glance at Helaena and quickly do a double take, heart clenching in your chest when you see that she looks as if she’s about to cry. 

“You haven’t,” she breathes, shaking her head emphatically, locks of pale hair cascading down her shoulders as she does, “I simply… I was considering the dreams I’ve been having, the one I had earlier today.” 

“But what does that have to do with me?” 

“You’ve been in them!” She says suddenly, loudly, like she has to force out the words. 

“What?” You blink. 

She sighs heavily and swallows, wringing her hands on her lap. “You were in them. You have been for weeks.” 

You wonder if the princess can hear your heart beating rapidly in your chest as you blink, silently praying to whichever of the Gods may be listening that Helaena’s dreams and your dreams were not somehow intertwined. In the back of your mind, you knew your pleas were useless. 

Your mouth opens and closes a few times like a fish that’s been plucked from the water before you finally find your voice, “What… what am I doing in them?” Your whole body buzzes, fearing the answer and desperately needing it all at once. 

The princess hesitates, you want to scream as you can all but see her weighing her options in her mind before she finally, finally speaks. 

“Courting me, kissing me.” 

A small withering, wounded noise passes your lips at her words. You feel dizzy, the room spinning as you feel as though the entire world is crashing down around you while at the same time, it’s as if a mountain’s worth of weight has been lifted from your shoulders. 

“And your visions… they only show things already fated to occur?” You feel frozen as you ask, not a muscle in your body moving. You know the answer even as the question leaves your lips, but you need to hear her say it. 

Helaena sighs and shakes her head, a frown cutting across her pretty face, “That’s why it’s frustrating,” she bites, spitting the words like the mere act of explaining is painful, “This one cannot come to pass, I do not understand why I see it…”

She keeps speaking, talking through her annoyance, but the sound of your own blood pumping wildly through your veins blocks out her words. 

No, your head pounds as you silently scream, No, no, no! Please, just let me explain, give me a chance, I’ll do any—

A loud sob cuts through your thoughts; the world seems to wrench its way back to you as you look at the princess, eyes widening when you see the tears flowing down her flushed cheeks. 

“You could never truly wish to…” She says slowly, brokenly, words fading like she can’t even bear to say them. 

“I do.” The words feel punched from your chest like you’re holding your heart out to the open air.

Helaena’s ocean eyes cut to yours as her breath hitches, the both of you not daring to move a muscle as you sit together on the small sofa in her chambers; the fire crackling in the hearth is the only indication that time has not ceased to exist. 

You aren’t sure who moves first, maybe the Gods have threaded the two of you together so tightly that you move as one, you can’t be sure. 

But her lips are on yours. 

And her hands cup your cheeks as yours scramble to fit around her waist, four hands poised on a knife’s edge. 

You sigh against each other, pulled together like a knot in a thread, and you gasp as you find yourselves pressed together, chest to chest.

Finally, you part for air, panting together as you stare, foreheads pressed together. 

“Princess—“

“You love me?” She asks, swiping a thumb over your cheek; it’s only then you realize you’re crying. 

“Yes,” you breathe, your hands grip her tighter, pulling her impossibly closer to you, “And you?” 

“Yes,” she echos, her thighs slotting over one of yours as she climbs atop your lap, “You are my heart beating out of my body.” 

Her words zap through you and your heart twists in your chest as your hands clamber against her, your lips press against hers again urgently. Twin moans, muffled into each other's mouths, sound between you as your hands cup her rear, pressing her more urgently against you. 

“You are beautiful,” you sigh, hands grabbing at her plush curves through the silk fabric of her skirts, “You’re so soft and —“ 

“Warm,” she breathes, moaning into the column of your neck as her lips move against your skin, “You’re so warm, my love, like the sun.” 

My love. The pet name sends a shiver down your spine as the two of you move together, pressing kisses against whatever patches of skin you can find, rocking together instinctually. The firmness of her thigh presses deliciously against your center, your skirts rucked up enough to bare your smallclothes, which press welty against your core. 

You gasp, pressing a kiss to the princess’s collarbone as her hips move tantalizingly on your thigh, the warmth between her legs nearly suffocating as you whimper and sign against each other’s soft skin. 

“I have always loved you,” you confess, nearly coming undone as she begins tugging at the ties at the bosom of your gown, her hands shaking as she pulls them loose, “Always, from the first moment I saw you.”

She makes a noise between a moan and sob as she finally tugs your bodice loose, and you whimper as her lithe fingers ghost over your breasts, causing your back to arch into her touch. “I’ve always loved you too,” she sighs as her soft hands cup your chest, kneading the flesh in her palms, “I always wanted to court you, marry you, I,” her voice breaks off in a faint, high-pitched whine as you finally manage to unbutton the bodice of her gown, she savors the feel of your lips and hands against her breasts for a moment more before continuing, “Gods, I wished to bed you, I’ve always longed to know what you would feel like, how sweet you’d taste.”

Her confessions nearly make you weep as you kiss over the fat of her breasts, keening into her supple skin as she delicately pinches at your nipples, “I have only ever thought of you, my sweet princess,” your chest heaves as you speak, your words muffled as you lick over her nipple, “When I sleep, when I wake, when I–” The words stick in your throat as you freeze, peering up at her through your lashes, somehow still impossibly afraid of going too far, or too fast, or too anything. 

“When you what?” She asks, her voice so soft and sweet as she stares down at you, her fingers digging into your breast and side as her sapphire eyes flit between yours, “Tell me, my love, when you what?” She urges, her hips moving somehow more desperately against yours, only serving to fuel the fire slowly building within you. 

“Gods, when I touch myself,” you whisper, shuddering as she lets out a breathy moan above you, “When I peak, sweet princess, I think only of you.” Your confession ends in a sharp gasp as she angles you backwards, anchoring you to her with an arm wrapped tightly around your waist. Her lips trail down your neck and collarbone before finally, she presses firm, fiery kisses to your breast, panting as she wraps her petal pink lips around your nipple and sucks, pressing her thigh more firmly against your center as she does. 

“I think only of you too,” she breathes, blue eyes fluttering up to yours as your hands tangle in her pale locks, “Every time I touch myself, I dream of you,” she mumbles around your breast, her touch all but burning into you as she kisses across your chest before mouthing at the other side, “When my brother beds me, it is you I see, my precious lady.”

You practically sob as her admission sends you reeling, each cell in your body bursting like lightning from a stormcloud as you peak. You’re useless to do much else other than tremble in her hold as shivers travel in currents down your spine, your smallclothes no doubt ruined as your center clenches frantically at nothing, your pearl so taut and achy as it twitches against the princess’s thigh. 

You don’t waste a second when your high subsides, moving frantically as you push Helaena back, slotting yourself perfectly atop her, pressing your thigh between her legs like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do. Your skirts fan out around your bodies, blanketing your forms in a soft sea of silk, your bare chests pressed tightly together as you rut against her, needing to see her awash with pleasure more than you need breath in your lungs. 

“My love, my sweet princess,” you sigh into her mouth, your tongues swirling together as she all but cries beneath you, her hands digging possessively into your waist, “I am yours, my love, until the end of my days.” You swear, pressing your thigh tightly against her center, and your heart soars as she finally shatters in your grasp.

You watch, enraptured, as she peaks; mesmerized at the blush that blooms on her skin, at the way her blue eyes roll back as her eyes flutter closed, at how her breasts heave as she sucks in desperate breaths. The sounds she makes seem to pierce into your soul, each whimper and moan and cry ripping away parts of you until your heart is stripped bare, beating only for her. 

The two of you lay in a heady silence for many moments, the only sounds being your soft, panting breaths as you each come down and the ever-present crackle sounding from the hearth. 

“Your friend is not a friend yet not your foe.” Helaena whispers, her voice raspy as she speaks.

“Pardon?” You ask, pulling back from her embrace just enough to meet her gaze.

“That phrase,” she explains, her eyes glimmering in the firelight as a smile steadily blossoms on her pink lips, “I kept hearing it, in my dreams about you.”

You stay silent, tracing soft circles on her soft skin, leaving room for her to continue.

“I wasn’t sure at first, but now I see.”

“Hm?”

You aren’t my friend, the Gods spoke truthfully,” she beams, radiating joy as she studies your face, “You’re my love.”

Her statement is simple, but it makes you smile all the same as you press a sweet kiss to her lips.

“Yes,” you nod, pulling back to meet her eyes as you lay a hand over her heart, “Always.”

tagged lovelies: @helloworldiamnotarobot @drakonflames @marysucks-blog @watercolorskyy @valeskafics @iamaegontargaryenwife0 @aemshaircare @1997babyyyy @lovellies @little-moonbeam-666 @blackswxnn @alerisc @fan-goddess @wickedfrsgrl @moonriseoverkyoto @echos-muses @schniiipsel @avidreader73 @marvelescvpe @imawhorecrux @grsveeth0m

(tags are based on your answers to my google form; if you were mistakenly tagged, please contact me & update your answers on the form! thank you!)

[bnecaz]

Girlfriend privileges

Lottie Matthews x F!reader

Summary: After Jackie passes the lead to Lottie for a few weeks, the rest of the team isn't so happy

It felt more like a nightmare to be honest

while the girls were spending the last of their energy every day training all day and arriving at their respective homes only in the early hours of the morning, some getting scolded by their parents but in the end it would pay off, it probably couldn't get any worse

Jackie Taylor was in charge of being the leader this year, but she didn't have the golden patience to be the leader, you and Shauna had a little fight a while ago for a silly reason, and in training you had to train together forcibly, and Jackie didn't know deal with that

" Don't you look where you are, you idiot?" Shauna shouts from the other side of the lawn, attracting the attention of Laura Lee and Natalie who sighs "Fuck you shauna" you retaliate rolling your eyes" Are you too busy looking at your girlfriend or some shit?" "Stop!" Jackie screams when she sees how close you and Shauna are, her screams making no difference

"Maybe you should go and have sex with the boys your best friend looks for you, that way your mouth will be too busy for you to talk shit" you retort "Randy, his name isn't he?" You step back when you see Jackie running to at least try to alleviate the situation that seemed like it couldn't get any worse

Shauna approaches you and for a second it looks like she's going to hit you, then dramatically Jackie jumps in front of you and lands embarrassingly on the ground before Shauna can take it out on you, a loud scream echoing out and making everyone on the lawn look at Jackie, damn it. she looked destroyed there

"You are an idiot Jackie?" natalie screams

and this caused a lot of problems, since the beginning of the year, the team wouldn't stop fighting, every time they got together and it became a law, not to put you or taissa with shauna, or it could turn into a murder, and jackie was the only person who put order there

Jackie's leg seemed to be twisted, it was a real horror, on one side Laura Lee was praying, on the other Misty was trying to touch Jackie's leg and the coach was roughly pushing her away, the rest of the girls looked like statues as they looked at you and Shauna

Jackie made all the girls gather at her hospital bed, receiving sighs and low curses over her, it looked like a wake and no one even knew what they were doing there

And it was worse than some thought, she started giving a speech about you and shauna having to be friends and some shit like that, and started saying that she would probably never walk again that it showed she cared about the team "That doesn't even make sense" Taissa says and is interrupted "Please let me finish"

"I'm going to choose someone to be the leader" "For just a while of course, no one can replace me" Mari closes her eyes and rubs her temples when she sees laura lee raise her hand

"And the chosen person is the most trustworthy here, I would choose Laura Lee but...I think she is too good for that?" Jackie gives Laura Lee a smile when she sees her frown with a disappointed expression

"Lottie"

" You have got to be kidding"

𐂂

"Mari, you're not catching the ball, try again now with Gen"

That was the phrase that Lottie kept repeating over and over for the last 2 hours of training that seemed to turn into 10 hours, the team formation being extremely confused without Jackie, which was to be expected.

"I swear if I hear that word again I'll have wished I was Jackie" Van says, leaning on the goal rail

"We can't go on like this, I know Jackie was too important to lead us, but nationals are coming up" Lottie murmurs breathlessly "I'm going to have to be tough with you guys"

"What the fuck is this lottie?" nat starts to protest running over to lottie and rolling her eyes " You think you're fucking Tommy Shelby?" Natalie says raising an eyebrow

"Who is this" "It doesn't matter"

" The next person who loses the ball will have to walk the length of the pitch 3 times" Lottie says firmly

All the girls sigh but Lottie is unfazed by the curses, insults and even things almost being thrown in her face directly by Van "Are you kidding me?" Taissa snorts and looks at you "Your girlfriend is crazy! We should do some ritual to get Jackie back"

"Nothing to complain about, let's see if Mari doesn't lose the ball now" lottie and mari exchange looks and mari gives an arrogant smile and rolls her eyes, positioning herself while lottie returns to her seat

Training continues and the ball passes from Natalie to Mari, for the first time in the game, and Lottie raises an eyebrow, analyzing

You run to the other side and try to pull the ball from mari, who was already close to your goal, putting strength in your legs that you swear are going to roll over. Now you get closer to mari's legs and are about to turn the ball over when mari gives you One final push and the ball lands in the goal easily, damn it.

The whistle blows and you whimper looking at the girls running to the water fountain, you run to Lottie "I don't want to do this shit" you mumble, shaking your head in denial repeatedly "You are not going" Your eyes widen in genuine surprise and you raise an eyebrow

While the rest of the girls enter, some talking and others panting drinking water, Laura Lee is the first to arrive and sits on the floor "Why isn't she running yet" Shauna's voice resonates "She doesn't need to run" silence

"What!" Mari shouts entering "But would I have to run?" she snorts, crossing her arms "I changed my mind, let's start with who lost the ball for the first time" Lottie says firmly

"If that's so then, she should start in the last training she let Laura Lee fall" they all nod and look at you "It's been a long time, just accept it, besides, Laura Lee is always in the front getting in the way"

Laura Lee widens her eyes and looks away "No offense" she looks at Laura Lee and raises her thumb which is ignored

" That was 4 days ago" Taisa argues to Lottie and she just denies it "That doesn't justify it"

"You're only doing this because she's your girlfriend"

"No, she has this privilege because she's my girlfriend, it's different" Lottie says bluntly

"lottie!"

[prettybean]

TOXIC BEHAVIOR (COD +18)

* just for fun, don’t take it too seriously 🍌

I DO NOT SUPPORT THIS KIND OF RELATIONSHIP, if you find yourself in these situations, ask for help

If these topics make you uncomfortable, please avoid reading further.

ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE

Ghost

He just can't accept the fact that you ended things with him. It's been three months since the breakup, but Simon has completely lost it, especially when he found out that you're engaged again.

He keeps calling you persistently, and out of habit, you always answer. You hear him say the same old phrases: "I'm better than him" or "Come back to me, you know you can't be happy without me."

Despite the breakup, you've agreed to have sex with him several times. The way he pleases you makes your heart race faster and faster. Deep down, you know it's not fair to your new boyfriend, but when Simon touches you, you forget about everything else.

After years of being together, he knows your body inside out. He knows exactly how to make you moan, and he's not afraid to remind you of that. "I bet you don't scream like that with him." And as he says it, he fucks you like only he can.

"Do I have to kill him to win you back? You know I would." And as he says those words, he takes you to new heights of pleasure.

Soap

He has an unhealthy fixation on exerting control over you. John wants to demonstrate to others just how much you are under his command and how obediently you follow his every instruction.

"I've got something special for you," he informed you, as he fasten a collar around your neck, tightening it to the point where it became difficult to breathe. He didn't care about your discomfort; the tighter the collar, the more possession he felt over you.

"Do you like it, sweetie?" he asked, gazing at his name engraved on the collar, emphasizing how much he had invested in you. "If you ever remove it, it would truly break my heart."

You had no choice but to comply; it was the only option available to you. You kept the collar on, and he took advantage of it more and more, forcing you to go out in public with fewer and fewer clothes, showcasing you as his prized possession.

"No panties today, baby," he forcefully rip them off, leaving you to walk around without them. You belonged solely to him, and you had to face the consequences by fulfilling his every desire.

Price

His protectiveness quickly transformed into possessiveness. He never bothers to inquire about your dating life, your activities, or your whereabouts. Your outings are solely determined by his decisions.

If he doesn't suit your preferences, he might even tie you up to acknowledge his authority.

"Darling, it's all about your safety. I don't want anyone to harm you."

He accompanies you everywhere, and you must remain by his side. When you walk, he clings possessively to your arm. "Stay close to me, sweetheart."

If you attempt to engage in conversation with someone else, he tightens his grip on your waist, glaring at you. "What did I tell you?" he growls before promptly escorting you home.

Nevertheless, you adore his way of expressing love. You have always obeyed his commands because, after all, he is your boyfriend.

Gaz

You never truly loved him and he couldn't accept that fact. For months, he persistently tried to flirt with you, but you rejected him in every possible way. However, he refused to give up.

You couldn't help but notice his strange attempts to manipulate you. Strangely enough, you found yourself enjoying the attention and the way he tried to make you fall for him.

Every day, he would tell you, "You're the reason I'm so miserable, don't you see? It's all because of you." With a disappointed expression, he would repeat this over and over, gazing into your eyes.

He started writing you letters, each one becoming more explicit, expressing how he would pleasure you if only you would accept his love. He even went as far as to say he would eliminate any competition just to have you.

Slowly, you found yourself giving in to the temptation and his relentless manipulations. In the end, he succeeded in making you fall in love with him.

Graves

He's consumed by jealousy, and he doesn't even try to hide it. He repeatedly tells you how jealous he is and how wrong you are in your relationship. "If you could just stop thinking about other people, then maybe we wouldn't fight so much."

He wants to have complete control over your every move, to the point where he even took your phone to read all your messages, from the very first to the very last. If he finds anything he doesn't like, he doesn't hesitate to delete the contact of the person involved. "I'm sick of you and your damn friends."

You want to tell him that he's a psychopath and that he needs to respect your privacy, but you simply can't. He keeps blaming you, saying, "It's because of you that I'm like this."

There have been multiple instances where he's punched walls out of anger or broken your phone to cut off your contact with others.

But in the end, he always comes back to you with open arms, apologizing. And every time, you forgive him.

König

He's been tailing you nonstop. It's been ages since you two called it quits, yet every time you step out, you can't shake off the feeling of being watched.

He's always there, meticulously tracking your every move, whether you're alone or with your friends.

König watches you from a distance, careful not to get too close and blow his cover. He even went as far as snapping some pictures of you, which he proudly displayed on his wall, among others.

He used to keep you company during those long nights, lurking in your backyard, peering through your window just to catch you changing or totally naked.

You were well aware of it, and to make things easier for him, you purposely left the curtains open. König was undeniably creepy, but deep down, you still harbored a hint of affection for him.

Keegan

He’s in love with you. Keegan expresses his love through the most unexpected gestures, but only when you're alone together. When there are other people around, he transforms into the perfect gentleman - kind and flawless. Your friends have even praised you for choosing such a great guy.

But when you return home, everything changes. It's happened multiple times that he's embraced you from behind, gently caressing your hips and leaving a trail of wet kisses along your neck. You tilt your head back, giving him more space, only to feel something cold against your skin.

"The only way I can make you do what I want is by holding a knife to your throat?" he says, his words making you flinch. Every time he threatens you like this, it feels as if it's the first time.

"I know you enjoy provoking me, otherwise you wouldn't do it so often," he claims. You haven't done anything wrong, he just likes making you believe that. He enjoys seeing the fear in your eyes as he grabs your wrists and forces you to your knees.

You beg him to continue, knowing that he doesn't appreciate it when you oppose him. You have no reason to resist. He controls you, able to do whatever he pleases with you, especially when he lets the knife glide across your body.

"Tell me you'd die for me”.

[hitoshiyoshi]

save me, cupid ! | midoriya izuku

synopsis ↬ having a cupid quirk is proven to be a curse

warnings ↬ angst(?) but not too bad, honestly i don't know what to label this exactly lol, the reader acts like a yandere, unrequited love, love-starved reader, just an idea of what it would be like to have a cupid quirk, mentions of red string, mentions of violence, my apologies if it sounds bad, it's just an idea, obsessive reader

pairings ↬ crush!midoriya izuku x gn!yandere!reader

word count ↬ 4.7k

Since you first discovered your quirk at the tender age of four years old, you've always hated it. It had no purpose; no ability to defend or protect yourself, much less others. You might as well have been born quirkless. Whenever you told anyone about it, you always heard the same words. They would either reaffirm how pointless your quirk was or talk about how powerful it was, but never good enough for you to become a hero. Of course, you didn’t mind their ignorant comments. Until you noticed the behavior of your friends change upon telling them, always leading to the same outcome.

You have a type of mind-control quirk, called ‘Cupid’. Your quirk allows you to see whether two people are soulmates; when you concentrate long enough, a red string appears on the ring finger of your target connecting them to their soulmate. You can also make two people fall in love by locking eyes with your target, repeating their name, the name of another target, and a simple phrase: “loves you”. The same is true with the reverse phrase, “loves you not”.

After numerous attempts on yourself, you concluded that your quirk could not work on you. Despite this, you still explored the idea. Ever so often, you would come up with ideas but each failed.

You weren’t immune to crushes. When you tried to make them love you, your quirk would never activate on them. It was hard for you to understand why at first.

At first, it began when you noticed thin red strings attached to the fingers of some classmates in school. Some connected students that were in the same class while others stretched far outside the building, until they were out of view. When asking your friends about the strings, they seemed confused and looked around but couldn’t see the strings attaching them together. Only you could see the red string. It was like this for a couple years, a thin rope connecting two people.

There was no red string on your ring finger. Concentrating on your hands and trying to find one only brought you head splitting migraines.

You could vaguely remember when you learned about the other powers of your quirk. School ended early that day and one of your best friends insisted on going to the nearby park before heading home. As you sat close to a field of buttercup flowers, they picked one of the stems. Your friend professed their deep affections for another classmate. You two were young and it was nothing but puppy love. Plucking the yellow petals from the growing bud, they repeated the name of their crush followed by "...loves me," and then another petal, "...loves me not".

Staring at their ring finger, you noticed the string trail off in the distance. A sudden, innocent, thought came to your mind. Tapping your friend on the shoulder and giggling, you tore off one of the petals before locking eyes. They seemed to lose focus as they watched your actions and peered down at the flower in curiosity. You called their name, making eye-contact again, and repeated the name of their crush, "...loves you".

It was only meant to be a harmless joke, but as you watched your friend's eyes go into a cloudy gaze, you panicked. Shaking their shoulders and calling them again, they seem to regain consciousness. Your friend's eyes quickly darted across their surroundings until they finally noticed your presence. Except, they began to act abnormal.

Rambling about their crush in a feverish manner; how they wanted to touch, feel, kiss, and caress them. Eyes glowing pink with lovestruck passion and a deep red blush warmed their cheeks. You tried to speak to them and ask them what was wrong. Until they scowled at you, slapping your hands away when you tried to reach out to them. Screaming nonsense about how you weren't their beloved, only their true love could touch them!

Soon, they ran off — searching desperately for their sweetheart.

The next day, you saw your two best friends holding hands and whispering sweet nothings without a care in the world. You tried to speak to them, but you were always ignored. When lunchtime came, you tried sitting next to them, only for them to immediately stand and move to another table. Eventually, they refused to acknowledge you. You had no use for them, only a burden and a distraction from their beloved. They left you alone...

Alone.

It took you some time to realize — you thought the world was being cruel when you noticed other classmates begin to avoid you as well — it was more than matchmaking. It was based on attraction. The stronger the target's love was for their partner, the higher the chance of success. The disgusted stares of your classmates became a repetitive occurrence; you only used your quirk once yet they became naturally repulsed by you.

Your friend's love deflected a force onto you that repelled everyone away, an unfortunate weakness and downside of your quirk. Soon, you were abandoned. The small acquaintances you had, dropped like flies.

As your new friend Ochaco approaches you in the lobby after school, you wonder how you managed to defy the negative effect of your quirk usage. Everyone in your previous school either hated you or had some type of unjustifiable prejudice against you; if people already disliked you, might as well have fun with your quirk, right? Creating short relationships with nearly all of your ex-classmates, it was pure enjoyment.

Receiving the acceptance letter from U.A. was a pure miracle. You didn't bother trying to get into the hero course, letting the words of your peers control you. Instead, you opted for the General Studies course once deciding that the business and support courses were not the most ideal option for you. You managed to befriend a boy named Shinsou Hitoshi who didn't seem too bothered by your quirk.

Although some of your classmates blatantly ignored you, he was unaffected. You didn't find a threat in his mind-control quirk; you found solace in the similarity of your quirks. He accompanied you to your classes and was a shoulder to lean on when you were feeling down.

Ochaco waves at you and urges you to come closer, a pleasant smile spreads across her lips. In the distance you see her friend, Midoriya Izuku speaking to a tall, blue-haired boy with glasses. Izuku... You can't remember where you first heard his name or noticed him, but your unnatural infatuation with him had grown surplus since then. Was it at the Sports Festival? Or perhaps when you noticed him walking in the halls one day and felt your heart-pounding in your chest as you stared. Izuku felt your eyes on him and peered back at you with a soft gaze, blushing and smiling before continuing his walk.

Maybe it was his gentle nature towards you that made you feel at peace. Although Shinsou was nice to you, there was something about Izuku. You already knew it had to be a crush; the feeling was so familiar to you. Perhaps it wasn't the healthiest infatuation, though. Every time he was in your vicinity, you could feel your heart threaten to rip out of your rib cage and leap into his arms. He was one of the few that didn't seem too bothered by your quirk or see you as a nuisance.

There was a need, no, a desperation for him to be with you. Always having a watchful eye on him, you studied nearly all of his movements. Feeling someone's gaze on him, Izuku would glance around and search for your eyes. Only for you to quickly shift away, but he wasn't an idiot. He caught your glance a few times and once thought about approaching you, but he never did.

It was impossible to have him reciprocate your feelings, you were positive. He didn't know you despite recognizing your face and eyes. Of course, you knew so many things about him; sneakily following him home after classes, overhearing him and All Might talk about their association — how cute! You were the first to know about his secret, a good lover should know these things, right? It was truly amazing how after all these months, he hadn't noticed you.

Thank goodness his mother wasn't home when you broke into their apartment and went through his bedroom. The All Might memorabilia was nauseating, but if he loved it then you should too! A little shrine of his possessions and unmentionables started to build quickly in the corner of your room. How devoted you are... it's only fair that he should be the same. You desperately wanted him to act as such, but he never did.

Using your quirk was not an option. Even if it was, his attraction to you wasn't strong enough... yet.

There was also another problem: the girl approaching you right now, Ochaco. It was clear as day that she shared the same affections as you. Anyone could notice the two students shyly flirting and blushing around each other. How his face would light up whenever she entered the room or how her cheeks would turn a dark shade of pink around him. You were familiar with their actions because you witnessed them on others in the past. A sharp sting of jealousy arose as you watched them.

You seethed with envy around her, befriending her was a fine way to keep her in your proximity at all times. She was another one who didn't mind your quirk. So, you decided to wait until the perfect moment came.

Only God knows how many times you needed to stop yourself from intertwining your fingers into her brunette hair and bashing her head into the concrete — she'd become so unsightly. Blood staining the ground with purple and black bruises spreading across her swollen face. But if you did that, the teachers would surely have you expelled. Perhaps, her parents would press charges on you. Then, you could never see Izuku again. And the poor look on his face from watching would surely traumatize him... there wasn't any possibility you would dare.

You watched their interactions through gritted teeth every time they spoke to each other. You've had this quirk since the day you were born. The expressions of true love and light touches your victims would share with their beloved was all the same. Their love had blossomed like a field of tulips once spring comes.

"Hey, (Y/N)! Are you alright?" Ochaco asks as she stands in front of you. She waves her hand in your face after a few seconds to gain your attention.

"Oh... H- Hey, Ochaco... Sorry, I wasn't paying attention." Giving her your best smile as reassurance but she doesn't seem to believe you.

"You weren't...? But you were staring right at me?" Fuck. She turns her head and looks behind her, searching around. His shy green eyes meet her gaze before quickly looking away. "Were you looking behind me...? Is it Deku?" You want to leave the conversation, but you know how persistent she would become.

"No," Her head quickly snaps back towards you, intrigued but calm. "Don't worry about it. I guess I'm just tired."

"Ah, okay..." She peers down at the ground as her rosy cheeks begin to deepen their color. "Well... I actually wanted to ask you a favor."

"What is it?"

"I know you don't like using your quirk often..." You've told her your quirk numerous times and always mentioned your reluctance to use it. You realize now that was a mistake. Not want to repeat your years at your previous school all over again. "...and it's OK if you don't want to do it. I won't force you." She's still staring down, too embarrassed to continue but she still attempts.

"It's fine, don't worry."

"Could you... Could you use your quirk to make Deku like me back? I really like him but... I'm not sure if he feels the same way about me... I'm kinda scared, you know?"

You pause at the girl standing in front of you, still hiding her face as her eyes cast towards the ground. Make him like her back...? Why would you ever do that? As if it wasn't obvious to nearly everyone in their class and, even some random students, that they had feelings for each other. Why would she need you to do something she could do herself? She's lucky her eyes are fixed towards the ground or else she would've noticed your clenched fist landing somewhere painful.

Truthfully, she didn't know how envious you were of her position. You weren't even sure of the extremes you would endure just to have him notice you. Alas, perhaps now is not the time. You knew it would end in the same outcome as all your other attempts.

"Just confess to him. I'm sure he'll accept it." You never wanted to use your quirk to find the string on Ochaco's fingers, you were too afraid. You began to walk away from her after unsuccessfully hiding your scorned voice, but she tightly held onto the sleeve of your gray blazer.

"W- Wait!" Refusing to turn around, you let her finish. "Can't you at least tell me if we're soulmates?"

"I won't." The girl seems to sulk at your rejection, her grip on your blazer loosens before she pulls away.

"Well, I guess it's wrong to want to know. I'm sorry for pressuring you..." As you begin to forgive her, she interrupts you. "I hope this isn't too personal for you, but is it true that you like him too?"

"Where did you hear that?" You snap your head and see her nervously scratching her neck, glaring up at you.

"I always see you staring at him! Don't you think it's kinda weird?"

"What do you mean?"

"He has no idea who you are and the way you look at him can be kinda creepy sometimes…” Ochaco straightens her back, stiffening her posture in an uncomfortable way while smiling at you tauntingly. Her brows furrowed as she peers around the room.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Ochaco.”

“But it’s true!” She twirls her brown hair between her fingertips, thinking once again before asking. “Is that why you won’t tell me if we’re soulmates?”

The thought of you two having the same crush makes Ochaco sick to her stomach. She doesn't know the reason why. It was an uneasy feeling that remained throughout your entire interaction.

“I’ve told you countless times before, I don’t use my quirk as much as I did in the past…” Ochaco holds her head down in defeat again, on the brink of giving up. “But since you keep pushing me, fine. Give me your hand. Let me check for the string first.”

She beams up at you, eagerly passing her ring finger to you. Filled with a new found excitement — Oh, she can’t wait! Ochaco’s eyes lit up with the same expression as every other person who has asked you. Each hand you’ve held has prayed for the same outcome. The warm, yet sweaty palms feel common. Occasionally twitching their fingers with anticipation.

You gaze at her ring finger, ignoring the distractions around you. Your eyes squint until you can see the familiar red string appearing on her skin. It’s looped perfectly where a wedding ring will be in the future. The string trails down her arm, falling to the floor and continuing behind her. It cuts through a group of students loitering around nearby and past chairs scattered through the room.

Your heart pounds in your chest, beating heavy like a drum with each second that is drawn out. It ends with a girl throwing away her trash. You want to breathe out a sigh of relief, but she walks towards one of her friends. And of course, there he was. Completely oblivious to the scene happening a few feet away from him.

Ochaco, moving restlessly on her feet, turns behind once more.

“It’s Izuku, isn’t it? It’s him, right?” She grins, ear to ear. It’s unknown if she’s ecstatic about being soulmates or if she can no longer worry about other competition — including you.

"Of course, it's him."

"So, can you use your quirk on him?" She hops around excitedly on the tips of her toes. Her face is as red as a cherry, but she's more confident than before. "For me? Please?"

"I don't even need to do that, Ochaco. Everyone in your class knows that he has feelings for you. You don't need me."

"Are you jealous? Is that why? Come on, (Y/N). There's nothing about you that he would want, anyways." She stares up at the ceiling, tapping her finger against her chin. "Use your quirk to find someone else, it shouldn't be hard."

But… But it’s just not fair, you tell yourself. In all honesty, you should’ve known. There were too many signs that you chose to ignore. This was the reason you hesitated for so long. As Cupid, you already knew. Now you were destined to have the same fate once again. Should you tell her? Even now, you aren’t sure why you agreed. Should your spirit to find clarity and let go?

Maybe you will stop caring about Izuku. Forget about the burning passion that flourishes through your body with every glance you give to him.

But you don’t want to do that right now.

“Uraraka Ochaco,” Surely, you still have a chance. Your eyes are locked on each other. “Midoriya Izuku, loves you not. Forget him.”

Her breath stops, her eyes become dilated and watery. You’ve never seen someone react in that way before. She stares at you with a vacant expression while you examine her face. Ochaco’s mouth is slightly agape, like she’s frozen in place. You feel her pulse start to slow down gently. Grasping her shoulder, you shake the girl out of her trance — you can’t have her passing out in front of everyone!

“Wha… What happened?” Ochaco returns to normal — well mostly.

“You were asking about Izuku, don’t you remember?”

Her cheeks turn a dark rosy color and for a second, you wonder if you’ve finally lost your quirk. Until she responds:

“Izuku… Izuku…” She glances around the room, trying to search for an answer in her mind. It sounds familiar, that name. “I don’t know who that is,” She tries to sound confident, but you can tell that she doubts herself.

“He’s your classmate.” Did she respond to your ‘forget him’ command? Has your quirk evolved since you last tried to use it? All that time you’ve spent with Shinsou must have rubbed off. She seems lost for a moment; She blushes, yet a frown is worn on her face.

“Oh, a classmate. Then why can’t I..?” Her head is empty with every attempt at trying to remember him. In the few chances that she can, his existence and the thought of him makes her sour. Barely knowing his face, yet she cannot stop the disgust that emerges.

“Ochaco? Isn’t there somewhere you should be right now?”

“Right! Gosh… My head feels like it’s spinning.” You release her hand, she gathers her belongings and tidies up. “I’ve got to go home and help my parents with some stuff. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow!”

Ochaco runs off to the exit, hopping away like a rabbit fleeing from a predator. It was for the best; you try to tell yourself. But the guilt of it all eats away at your soul. You wait for a few minutes before you step outside into the warm air, you aren’t sure of the feelings erupting inside. You should’ve been relieved; no need to worry about Ochaco or any other person in the way. If you needed to, you knew how to handle it.

By now, Izuku and his classmates have left the building. Ochaco stands by the entrance of the school. You see two of her friends nearby, chatting away and completely oblivious to the spell you’ve cast on her. The separate groups don’t seem to notice each other yet; they stand on opposite ends with their backs turned.

The time was perfect, you clutched the envelope in your pocket tightly.

Your legs move on their own at first, running to the fluffy haired boy. He smiled at his friends, unaware of your heavy steps to him. You bump into a few students who gave you annoyed glances. There’s no time to apologize to them, you move with a mission.

He doesn’t notice you behind him at first. Izuku was only alerted from the expressions of his friends surrounding him and the softest tap on his shoulder.

“Izuku?” You say quietly while he turns his body to face you.

“Yeah, what’s up?” The others around him paused their conversation.

“Oh, I just wanna have a chat with you… I hope you’re not busy.” You replied while pointing to his friends behind him. “By the way, I’m (Y/N)…”

“Ah, I’ve seen you around the school before.” Izuku waves goodbye to his friends and pulls you aside to talk.

"Really...?” He knows who you are! You reach into your pocket and pull out the letter. It’s pink and decorated with colorful hearts on the outside. Your hands tremble with the paper; shyly and with your head focused on the ground, you slip the letter in his hands.

“What’s this?” Izuku asks and peers up at you, your fingertips graze his hand ever so slightly — the tingling against his skin draws him closer.

“Midoriya Izuku,” With the command of your voice, his mind becomes a fog. The same unaware expression as Ochaco was written over his face. “Uraraka Ochaco loves you not.”

“I… I…” Unlike Ochaco, Izuku tries to fight the spell as he did at the sports festival against Shinsou — except your quirk was far stronger than his. His eyes become vacant; things were working nicely in your favor. You just needed to make sure.

“Izuku?”

“What...? Oh,” Izuku regains consciousness and focuses his eyes on the pink envelope in his hand. Outstretching some of your fingers, you gesture for him to open it.

"It's for you. I wrote it..."

He sloppily tears the letter open - all that effort you put into folding it, you cringe a bit as you watch. Izuku's eyes scan your writing, widening with every word. His cheeks tint into a light pink color, a soft grin adorns his lips:

"Izuku, from the day I saw you at the Sports Festival, I truly experienced a love that I've never known before,"

But of course, it's short-lived.

Clinching onto the paper tightly, he begins to tremble.

"And that love is one that I want to be kept near to me, have you ever felt this before?"

. . .

"My dearest, Izuku. My nights have been endless with thoughts of you. I can hear it, your footsteps in the night. I feel as if I'm going insane,"

. . .

"It's shameful of me to admit. How pretty and soft your skin looks; I've fantasized about this — dragging my sharpest knife across your every vein and marking you,"

. . .

"I want to rip your heart out of your chest with my own hands and keep it to myself, blood and all. I'll give you mine in return. I will surrender myself to you,"

. . .

"I wonder what it feels like to be inside you, inside your mind. I want to touch you, I want to feel you,"

. . .

"My dearest, Izuku. Will you let me do that? Will you give yourself to me?"

Izuku's mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water; he becomes completely at a loss for exactly what to say. At first, you thought it must've been side effects from your quirk, until...

"Well? I put a lot of thought into it. I know we haven't spoken before, and I might not be your type, but..."

"I appreciate the- the letter..." He fumbles out, unwilling to face you. His eyes travel from the paper to the orange-magenta sky. Anywhere besides you. "But I'm in the hero course, you know. It's ve- very tiring. I can't manage a relationship n- now. I'm sorry..."

Yet, deep down, Izuku can't help but pity you. He would've at least considered if you hadn't written about wanting to stab him.

"I see," Your words are barely audible, even with the close space between you two. "So, that's your excuse. Well, don't worry," The only thing you could do was smile, trying to balance out the tears welling up in your eyes.

"Excuse...?" What a funny word to use. The vacancy in his heart is profound; a force is stopping him. He knows, you must've done something to him.

"Never mind."

Izuku passes the letter back to you and takes a few steps back. Slowly and with a step at a time. He waits for the perfect opening and retreats to the safety of his friends. They all cheer him on, seeing him chat up someone for the first time — unaware of the contents of your 'love letter'.

A stream of tears falls from your eyes, traveling from your damp cheeks to the paper in your hands. It ruins your perfectly crafted letter that you spent months preparing. What a waste. Izuku can hear your sniffles as his friends quiet down. He was such a good-natured boy, that was what you loved him for. Deep down, he wanted to calm you, but he refuses to move from his spot.

It's not fair.

Cupid. It's a useless quirk that you will forever hate. The love you truly want will never come to you — it's your karma, anyways. Well, it wouldn't be too big of a deal. All the hearts you've meddled with will find new loves eventually. Once they learn to overcome the emptiness where their soulmates should be, they wouldn't need to worry.

Why can't these feelings just disappear?

You had a plan. Should you try it? One last chance to see if you quirk could work on yourself. How often do quirks work on their users? It was a rarity, and you were willing to take that risk.

Opening your phone, you place your earbuds in your ears.

"(Y/N) (L/N), Midoriya Izuku loves you not." A recording of your voice plays. Only an experiment to see if it would actually work on you. The thought came to you after a period of frustration.

Eagerly, you waited for your mind to become foggy. No thoughts and a blank expression; the curse of all your victims before you took them out of a trance. The phrase replays multiple times in your ears, and you march off the campus back home. Although you tried, deep down in your heart, you refused to let go. You clasped your eyes shut and prayed, by some miracle that it stops.

"Midoriya Izuku loves you not." "Midoriya Izuku loves you not." "Midoriya Izuku loves you not." It continued, soon sounding like a chant with the way your voice rings.

With the last echo of the sentence in your ears, the pain in your heart travels straight to your head. Crying out in distress, a wave of pressure flooded to every inch above your neck. You stopped in your tracks, nearly ripping out locks of hair trying to suppress it. With every movement, your head ached and throbbed to the rhythm of your pulse.

And like a true hero, he ran to you at the first yelp that left your lips.

"(Y/N)! Are you OK?" A fluffy, green-haired boy asked. He placed his hand on your shoulder, trying to lift your head up to get a better look at you.

What a good-natured boy he was. You'd be fawning over his actions on a normal evening. But unfortunately for him, you weren't in the mood.

"Get the fuck off me." Your body reacted before anything else. With a strong shove, he let go of his hold on you. The paper you were holding slipped out of your hands, and the boy with the familiar face stared at you in disbelief.

The farther you walk away from him, the more the pain of your headaches soothes. Who was that?

You try to remember along your journey to the train station, but after a while, you lose interest.

[multi-fandom-imagines8]

A Song of Ice & Shadow

Part 4

You can read previous chapters here.

Summary: Y/n is intrigued by a certain illyrian. They open up to one another one night, but she stops it from getting out of control. With Feyre’s return, things get more tense.

Warnings: some angst.

Word count: 2.95K

Like every day, today was no different. Y/n would wake up, stand in front of the mirror for five minutes, bottle up her feelings and go on about her day. 

“How’s Elain?” She asked Nesta, who was sitting in the same armchair as always, a book in her hand.

“Same as she’s been since she got turned” Nesta replied.

“How are you?” she asked, her tone serious and low.

“Never better. I’m free to do whatever I want”.

“Are you? All I’ve seen you do is sit in that armchair, reading books every day since we’ve gotten here”.

“I’m immortal now, what difference does it make if I sit here for one or twenty years? Not everyone wants to venture into the world like you”.

“You’re upset with me” Y/n observed.

“With you, with everyone” Nesta sighed.

“I understand. What can I do to help you?”.

“Nothing. No one can do anything about this”.

Y/n closed her hands into fists, clenching so hard she almost broke her bones “at least we’re all together” she tried to find words to comfort her sister, knowing she's suffered as much as she did, but these were the only words she found, the one she’d tell herself every time she’s about to break down “we’re all together, we made it” she repeated, to which Nesta only nodded.

Taking a deep breath to compose herself, Y/n plastered on a smile, masking the turmoil beneath before entering Elain’s room.

“Elain? How are you feeling today?”.

“I want to go home” Elain repeated, as she had been for the past couple of weeks.

“I know. I want to go home too. Let’s just wait until Feyre gets back” she stroked her sister’s hair and kissed the top of her head before leaving.

Luckily, no one was in the dining room when she entered. The house offered her food, which she ate very slowly.

“Are you alright?” a voice interrupting her trail of thoughts, catching her off guard.

“What?”.

“Are you alright?” Azriel repeated, concern evident in his voice.

“Yes, why?”.

“You’re holding your fork midair” he shifted his eyes to her hand, where was holding the fork.

“Oh, I was just lost in my thoughts” she explained, lowering the fork back onto her plate.

He slid a chair two seats away from her and sat down, a plate full of food appeared in front of him as he dug right in. Her eyes trailed him all the way.

She took another bite of her food, but with a lot on her mind, she had no appetite. She wanted to stand up and leave, but seeing he just got here, she didn’t want him to think she’s leaving because of him and she did not want to be rude. Since when do I care about what other people think? she thought to herself.

“You’re doing it again” Azriel remarked, emitting a soft chuckle.

She placed her fork back down “how’s spying going?” She inquired, distracting herself from her thoughts, but also out of curiosity, not that she’d admit it.

“‘The spying’ is going slow, but we’re making progress” a smile remained plastered on his face.

“Why are you smiling?”.

“No one has phrased that question like that before”.

“Well, there’s a first time for everything”.

As they sat in silence, Azriel hesitated before speaking again “how are you coping? I can only imagine how you must feel, it’s not easy becoming fae when you hate our kind” it wasn’t a confrontation, but acknowledgment of what he’d observed.

“No, it’s not. But as you can see, I’m doing well” she lied. Not wanting to push her further, he only nodded.

“Do you sleep upside down like bats?” she spontaneously asked, making him choke on his drink from the peculiar question.

“No. No, I do not. I sleep like normal people” his eyes furrowed with curiosity as he turned to face her.

“How would I know” she shrugged “you do have wings of a bat… I just thought you had other characteristics of a bat as well” she added.

“Like what?”.

“Do you bite- or drink blood?”.

“Only when asked to” a smile tugged at his lips “and no, I don’t drink blood. Any other clarification I can assist you with?.

“No, not at the moment” she struggled to hide her amusement.

“Oh, you poor thing! But don’t worry, I’ve come to rescue you” Cassian said to his brother, as he strode in, noticing the two of them sitting alone.

She rolled her eyes at him “I was just leaving”. “And just for the future, when you want to rescue someone, maybe do it before the end” she advised before walking out

Azriel kept a stern expression before standing up himself.

“Where are you going?” Cassian asked.

“I finished eating”.

“You’re just gonna leave me alone?”.

“You’ll do fine on your own” he patted his brother’s shoulders.

—-

Y/n had always had trouble sleeping at night, but ever since her new life at the Night Court, her nightmares increased. Unable to sleep, she went upstairs to the roof. This space had become her comfort place when she needed to escape the things that plagued her sleep. Seeing as Cassian trained in the morning and Azriel being away most of the time, she thought no one would be here at night time. Reaching the training ground, occupied by her thoughts, she paid no attention to who was there. Fiddling with the blue celestite necklace around her neck, she reached the edge and looked up at the sky. Three bright stars decorating the visibly huge mountain, Ramiel.

“What’s on your mind?” sleek like the shadows, Azriel approached, snapping her back to reality.

Blinking rapidly, she muttered “don’t you ever sleep? Even bats do” Y/n quipped, attempting to deflect.

“In the morning”.

“Are you referring to the bats or yourself?”.

“Both” he let out a soft chuckle.

“As I recall, you’re awake in the early mornings, so how many hours do you sleep?”.

“Enough to keep me going. What about you? You’re awake”.

“But I do sleep in the morning. In case you haven't noticed, I eat breakfast when you’re all having lunch or dinner” Y/n reminded.

“I have noticed... You still haven’t answered my question” Azriel persisted.

“What question?”.

“What’s on your mind?”.

“Nothing”.

“If that were true, you wouldn’t be staring into nothingness all day” he pointed out.

“I’m fine. It does not concern you”.

“Alright, how about I share something personal about me, and you can tell me what’s bothering you?” Azriel offered.

“And why would I want that?”.

“Out of curiosity. I’ve also noticed you like knowing things, especially when it concerns your sisters and yourself. So, go ahead, ask me anything you want? Anything you want to know”.

She contemplated for a while. “What happened to your hands?” she blurted out, one of her hands remained fiddling with the necklace.

He did not anticipate her question, but still, he answered “my brothers” he cleared his throat “my half-brothers thought it would be fun to see what’d happen when you mix oil and fire with our quick healing gifts” he explained, and shadows wrapped tighter around him.

“How old were you then?” she asked, her voice low and soft.

“Eight” a hint of darkness gleamed in his eyes.

“Were they punished?”.

“Eventually”.

“So, your father did nothing, as his flesh and blood was set on fire?” her tone shifted, her face contorted with anger.

“I am a bastard, while my half-brothers are his legitimate sons. In his eyes, they are his flesh and blood” he clarified.

“It makes no difference. You’re his son, nonetheless” she shook her head, tightening her grip on her necklace.

“It did to him”.

“What about your mother? Is she-”.

“That’s another personal question. We agreed on one. Now, it’s your turn”.

“What do you want to know?”.

“What’s been bothering you? And don’t say transitioning, you’re more concerned today”.

“I went to see Elain today. I know it takes time to heal, and I know I shouldn’t interfere with her healing process, but it- it ‘s so hard to just stand by and do nothing. I want to help her, and she doesn’t want my help. Even if she did, I don’t know what to do and how to help her. Her wedding was supposed to be in a few weeks” she sighed “ I worry about Nesta, too. Although she seems fine, I know she’s not. She used to tell me everything, and now she’s hiding from me” she opened up for the first time. Realizing that, she regretted it immediately and didn’t know why she agreed to that stupid deal. With the shadows whispering into his ears, Azriel discerned her discomfort “that necklace, do you always hold it when you’re feeling… a strong emotion?” Azriel asked, attempting to change the subject.

“I-” she looked down at her hand wrapped around the necklace ”I suppose. I never gave it a thought” she lowered her hand,releasing her grip on the necklace.

“That necklace, where did you get it from?” his eyes narrowed as he recognized the stone. She never took off that necklace, but today was the first time he'd spotted it. After all, it’s not polite to stare down at a lady’s chest, and being the gentleman he is, he never looked.

“It was a gift from my mother, why?”.

“It’s a rare stone, only found in certain places” he explained.

“You recognize it?”.

“I’ve seen something similar once or twice, but I could be mistaken”.

“I don’t think it’s from anywhere in Prythian. My mother hated your- our kind. She’d never take or gift me anything related to us” Y/n stated and his shadows danced around her.

“Why do you hate our kind so much?”.

“That is another personal question. We agreed on one” she repeated his words to him “and I’m not making another deal with you. I’ve already said way too much” Y/n retorted.

“What are you so afraid of?”.

“More questions” an amused smile crept onto her face.

“Fair enough” he raised his hands in surrender “don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone about tonight”.

“Good night, shadowsinger” Y/n said, heading swiftly towards the stairs and his shadows slowly retracted.

“Good night, Y/n” he murmured in a subdued tone as he watched her leave. That night, for the first time in a very long time, Azriel slept peacefully. 

The following day, Y/n didn’t go out to eat breakfast or lunch but she went out for dinner. Upon arrival. She found Cassian seated in his usual spot. Ignoring his presence, she took a seat, hoping for a peaceful meal.

“No mean comments tonight?” Cassian quipped.

“I was literally minding my own business. What do you want, you brute bastard?” Y/n replied sharply.

“There we go” he smirked.

“Your brother won't be joining us?”.

“Which one?”.

“The somewhat civilized decent one”.

“I’m assuming you mean Az. He left early this morning. He’ll be gone for a while. Why do you ask?... Aw, don’t tell me you have a thing for my handsome brother” Cassian teased.

She huffed “you wish…without him here, a war would start and I’d rather not get my hands dirty” she retorted, taking her plate and heading for the exit.

“It’s cute that you think you can take me. Perhaps if you trained with me long enough, you’d be a worthy opponent, but still, even then I doubt you’d defeat me” he taunted, his smugness evident.

“Piss off” Y/n snapped.

“Did I hurt your feelings?” he mocked.

“It would take much more than that to do so, especially coming from you” Y/n replied dismissively.

“And why is that?”.

“You simply don’t matter enough to me, to even consider anything you say, good or bad” she shrugged before leaving.

“Ouch” he murmured.

—

Being aware that Feyre was returning today, Y/n went to check on Elain before her arrival. However, what she found when she got to her sister’s room left her in shock.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” Y/n spat out, her voice seething with anger. Lucien was standing in the doorway as Feyre left Elain’s room and closed the door behind her.

“Y/n, wait. I can explain” Feyre interjected.

“You brought him here? To see Elain? The fucking monster who sold us out to Hybern” her words were laced with deep-seated hatred.

“It’s more complicated than that, and he is her mate” Feyre reminded.

“He’s no such thing to her”.

“I just wanted to see her” Lucien tried to clarify.

“You don’t get to speak” Y/n pointed her finger at him.

“Y/n, he’s our guest. He will be staying with us” Feyre declared.

“You would let the man who ruined our lives, who ruined our sister’s marriage stay here with us?” she took a deep breath, trying to control her rage.

“If you would calm down and let me explain, you’ll understand-” Feyre urged.

“I’ll calm down when he’s gone. Do not let him near Elain, if you want him to stay in one piece” she warned, shooting Lucien with a glare before storming out.

“I take it you weren’t thrilled to see your sister?” Cassian smirked as Y/n passed him.

“Not in the mood today for your bullshit, brute”.

—-

The next time Y/n saw Feyre was at dinner, attended by Rhy’s inner circle, her sisters if they desired, and Lucien. She was reluctant to go, but fearing Elain might attend and be in the same room as that monster, with no one seemingly having a problem with him, she decided to go. She had arrived slightly later than everyone else. Feyre was sat next to Nesta, Rhys on her other side, Amren across from her, Cassian next to Amren, Azriel beside him, Mor opposite of him and Lucien across from Nesta, leaving two seats vacant, one next to Az and the other next to Mor. They were talking about flying lessons when she entered, dressed in a long-sleeved black gown with silver glitter that exposed her collar bones and back. Only the metal part of her necklace was visible. The upper part of the dress embraced her curves, while the lower part flowed like liquid silk as it draped over her figure. Knowing her temper, everyone stopped talking, if only to see what she’s about to say or do or who she’d pick a fight with. To their surprise, she did neither as she glanced at Azriel and took a seat beside Mor.

“What happened to you?” Y/n asked Azriel, gesturing to the wine splattered across his chest and neck. He looked down, only noticing it when she pointed it out.

“Mor spewed her wine when she heard Feyre wanted to learn how to fly” Cassian explained with a  grin.

“You have wings?” a question directed at her sister.

“Yes, I can shape-shift”. At that, the conversation continued.

“I can teach you” Azriel offered, elaborating that the other two Illyrians had been trained at such a young age that they barely remember it. To which Cassian countered they still teach the younglings the basics, which ended with Azriel explaining that it’s not the same for older individuals, and that there are fears and mental blocks. Everyone fell silent and something inside of Y/n stirred. She wondered if he was talking about his experience, not forgetting the conversation they had where he told her about his past. She did not know a lot, but seeing as his own brothers burned his hands, they probably restricted him from flying or participating in anything that would give him any kind of power.

Feyre proceeded to ask her sisters for help against the king of Hybern. Explaining that with training they could potentially close the holes expanded by the cauldron. Amren offered to train the sisters, which Y/n refused, unwilling to take part in any of this. Despite the growing frustration among the others, Feyre was grateful that at least one of her sisters was willing to help. She explained that they might need their assistance during the meeting with the high lords and this time, both sisters rejected.

“People’s lives might depend on your accounts of it. The success of this meeting might depend upon it” Feyre clarified.

“Don’t talk down to me. My answer is no” Nesta asserted, while Y/n remained silent, watching the exchange between her sisters before Nesta stormed out. Now all eyes were on her.

“Y/n, please. We need your help” Feyre begged.

“Do you know what you're asking of me?” Y/n narrowed her eyes.

“I do. And I understand your hatred of our kind, but we-”.

“You understand nothing. All my life, I have helped you. I have dedicated my life to you, to Nesta, to Elain, and never have I once asked for anything in return. But helping you and your new found family is what got us into this mess. And now what? You expect us to go to that meeting that is full of entitled bastards who did nothing all these years, who don’t care about us, about mortals and beg them for help? I would rather see them all burn and their kingdoms or courts reduced to ashes” Y/n delivered the chilling words with an unsettling calmness, her voice devoid of any hint of emotion “and just as Nesta said, if you dare bring Elain into this, I’ll be the one delivering your throat to her” she glared at everyone in the room before leaving and slamming the door shut behind her.

Taglist: @st4r-girl-official @judig92 @5onedirection5 @nayaniasworld @blackgirlmagicforever @stained-glass-eyes0708 @slytherintaco @aehllitas-blog

[7ndipity]

Take a Chance on Me

Yoongi x Plus Size Reader

Summary: You and Yoongi met during his enlistment and quickly became friends, but what happens when your friendship begins to grow into something more?

Word Count: 1.3k

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of insecurities and anxieties

A/N: A massive thanks to @bethanysnow for requesting this idea and for obsessing over it with me!😘 I’m so excited to work on this as a drabble series, I hope you’ll all enjoy it!

Masterlist

Requests are open

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‘Okay, you can do this, it’ll be fine.’ Yoongi repeated to himself, fingers drumming anxiously against the steering wheel as he waited to pick you up from work, trying to quell his nerves before he spotted you jogging across the parking lot towards his car.

“Hey, Min.” You greeted him as you slid into the passenger seat.

“Hey, Y/n.” He said, feeling a smile tug at the corners of his mouth in spite of himself, your presence alone managing to calm him, if only a little bit.

It was remarkable almost, how in just a few short months, you’d come to be such an important part of his life.

When you’d first met following his public service assignment, he’d been a bit hesitant of getting too close with anyone around him too quickly, but you’d managed to worm your way into his heart almost instantly.

He still remembered the first time he realized how much he liked you; he’d made some dry, sarcastic remark that no one else had really reacted to, unsure if he was being serious or not, but you had let out a quiet burst of laughter that had immediately set everyone else at ease. It was just a little thing, but it had played over in his head for the rest of the day.

He hadn't even known that much about you at the time, except your name, your department, and that the sound of your laugh was one of the best things he’d ever heard.

Before long, he had started finding more and more excuses to come by to see and talk to you, even if it was just for a minute as he brought some forms for somebody else to sign, eventually asking if you wanted to hang out together outside of work as well.

You’d known who he was of course, in your own words it was impossible not to, but you’d never treated him differently because of it, something he’d come to appreciate more and more as you’d gotten to know each other.

You were so bright and warm and funny, and had a way of putting him at ease that few others had ever managed, he found himself easily charmed by you, and it was honestly your friendship that had made the rather jarring shift between his lifestyles bearable, if not almost pleasant.

But more recently, he’d begun to realize that his feelings towards you had grown beyond those of purely a friend.

Yoongi craved you, he wished there was a better word or phrase to convey his feelings for you, but that was the best he could come up with. He craved your presence, your comfort, the sound of your laugh when you found something he did cute or funny. He found himself missing you constantly, even if he’d just seen you, wanting to wrap his arms around your plush figure and keep you close at all times. It was like he was addicted, and frankly, it scared the shit out of him.

“You okay?” You finally asked, pulling him out of his thoughts. You’d noticed he’d been quieter than usual, having barely spoken the entire car ride to your place, stirring up your concern for him.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I-uh, wanted to ask you something.” He started, scratching at his palms nervously.

“Okay.” You said, eyeing him curiously, making him fidget even more.

Fuck, it would be easier if you weren’t staring at him with those fucking eyes, he thought. They’d been one of the first things he’d noticed about you, one of the first things to put a chink in his armor.

He had spent the previous night laying in bed, trying unsuccessfully to come up with a more eloquent way to put his feelings into words, but as soon as he looked up at you, everything seemed to shrivel up and drift away, like leaves on the wind, leaving him with only the simplest of thoughts and question in his mind.

“Would you… go out with me?” He asked softly.

Your eyes went wide. “What?!”

“Will you go out with me?” He repeated.

“But, w-why?” You asked, flabbergasted.

“Why do you think? I like you, a lot.” He let out a huff of laughter, running a shaky hand through his hair. “Fuck, honestly? I think I might even love you, but I know that’s way too much out of the blue. I just know that I want to be with you, as more than friends, if you’ll have me.” He finished, glancing down at his feet awkwardly.

It was quiet for a long moment as you stared at him, stunned, letting his words sink in.

“I don’t… get it.” You said slowly.

He blinked, “What do you mean?”

“I mean, why me? I’m not exactly your type.”

“You don’t know that.” He interjected.

You scoffed. “C’mon, Yoongi, be serious,” You said, skepticism clear in your voice.

“I am being serious.” He said, looking at you with utmost sincerity. “You’re one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met.”

You shook your head in confusion. You’d seen the type of people that Yoongi spent time around in his line of work, and they were very different from you; thin, beautiful, perfect. Not that you didn’t think you were pretty in your own way, but compared to the idols that he was typically around, the idea of you and Yoongi just didn’t make sense to you.

“But I’m just… me.” You said, the last part coming out almost as a question, not understanding his logic.

He smiled. “That's why I like you. You're open and honest and kind, you don’t hide behind some front or mask, and you don’t put up with anyone’s shit. You’re smart, and funny, and beautiful-”

“But I’m-” Your hand went as if to gesture to yourself, but he was quick to catch it in his own.

“Hey.” The sudden sharpness in his tone caught you off guard. “Don’t you dare try to sell yourself short, you hear me? When I say you’re beautiful, I mean it.”

You bit your lip, mind racing. You wanted to believe him, but there was that nagging voice in the back of your head that kept saying it wouldn’t work, something was going to go wrong.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to date though?” You pointed out. “What if someone finds out?”

“They’ll say ‘good for them’, otherwise I don’t give a fuck.” He said firmly. “What I do outside of that building is none of the company’s damn business.”

You smiled at that, but said nothing, still thinking.

“Look,” He spoke again, this time much softer. “I realize that this is a lot all of a sudden, and you don’t even have to answer today, you can take however much time you want to think about it, I’m just asking for a chance.”

It was quiet for a moment before you spoke again, softly. “Okay.”

He looked up at you. “Okay?”

“I’ll go out with you.” You clarified.

“You will?” His eyes lit up.

“Yeah,” You nodded, grinning at him.

He beamed, letting out a relieved sigh before leaning across the center console and pulling you into a hug. “Thank you.” He mumbled against your hair, wrapping his arms around you tightly.

“I like you too, by the way.” You said.

“I was kinda hoping, given your answer, but thanks.” He chuckled, smirking at you.

“Ugh,” You shoved against his chest lightly, but he was giving you no room for escape. “You could’ve just said it back.”

“I’m sorry, I’ll do better next time, okay?” He asked, grinning at you.

“Fine.” You grumbled, feigning annoyance.

“Can I make it up to you?” He asked.

“Maybe. What did you have in mind?”

Instead of answering, he leaned closer, pressing his lips softly against yours.