#okay I think that’s most of my thoughts on it

[autumnscribbles]

come back | r.c

summary: you and rafe get into a fight on a night out, when you’re left to find your own way home, you find yourself in a bad position

warnings: drinking, creepy men, i think that’s about it

wc: 2k

a/n: my first official rafe fic!!! thank you so much to the person who sent in this request, i’m a little rusty but had so much fun writing this! pls send more :) enjoy

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You let out a loud laugh as JJ continued to tell you one of the most ridiculous stories you’ve ever heard. Between fits of laughter, you took small sips from your red solo cup. You were starting to feel tipsy, the alcohol coursing through you. It made everything funnier, and you found yourself leaning in towards JJ, unable to control your laughter. You clutched your stomach as he laughed along with you, his own laughter triggered by how much you were laughing. It was always an endless cycle with JJ, when one of you started to laugh, it was over.

“I’m gonna go get another drink,” you hiccuped, as you stared down at the empty cup in your hand.

JJ patted your leg and nodded at you before you stood up, making your way over to the table where the drinks were. The room spun slightly around you as you clumsily poured yourself another drink. You were mixing it yourself, and chuckled at how heavy handed your pour was. You tilted your head back as you took a sip, nodding to yourself in approval.

As you turned around to head back to the couch you were sitting on, you bumped into a familiar chest. You looked up at your boyfriend, smiling drunkenly at him.

“Hey! There you are!” you cheered, leaning your head on Rafe’s chest as you inhaled his familiar scent.

“Took you long enough,” he scoffed, stepping to the side and approaching the same table you were just walking away from.

“What does that mean?” you asked, furrowing your brows as you took another sip.

“It means you should probably lay off the liquor and maybe don’t hang all over JJ like an idiot,” he retorted, his eyes glued to the table in front of him.

You thought it was hypocritical, him telling you to stop drinking as he poured himself another rum and coke. He drank as much as he wanted, whenever he wanted and you never said a word to him about it. JJ had been your friend since childhood, your family taking him in when he had no one else. You grew up together. Your friendship would always be special.

“You should lay off the liquor,” you muttered under your breath as you walked away from him, going back towards JJ.

“Running back to him?” Rafe called out to you.

You turned around, seeing his bright blue eyes darken as he looked at you. His jaw twitched as he clenched it. You knew he was biting his tongue. Holding himself back from saying something he would really regret.

“You know what Rafe? You’re childish. JJ is my friend, and you know it. Maybe you should stop drinking and you wouldn’t be so fucking delusional,” you bit back.

Rafe rolled his eyes and you walked back over to JJ, plopping on the couch beside him again. He looked concerned as he asked you if everything was okay. You assured him you were perfect, and tapped your cup against his as a cheers.

You ignored Rafe as you saw him walk passed you, not even sparing you a glance. You knew you upset him, and that he was bothered. For once, you didn’t care enough to do anything until you got home. You didn’t want to cause a scene, and more importantly, wanted to have fun with your friends.

After a few rounds of pong with John B, Pope, JJ, and Kie, the alcohol was really getting to your head. You realized you hadn’t seen Rafe since your argument, anXd thought maybe you should look for him.

“I’m gonna get some air and look for Rafe,” you said to your friends, voice raised to be heard over the music. They nodded at you before setting up for another game.

You weaved through drunk, sweaty bodies before stepping outside. You breathed in the fresh air, closing your eyes as everything spun.

“You should lay off the liquor,” you muttered to yourself as you stumbled down the front steps.

You assumed Rafe would be outside. He usually stepped out for air when things were tense between you. He used it as a way to calm down. You were surprised when you didn’t find him.

You glanced down the street full of parked cars. You couldn’t spot Rafe’s truck. Did he leave? Would he? You felt tears springing to your eyes, suddenly feeling guilty for what you said to him. You pulled out your phone, calling him. It rang and rang, but eventually left you on voicemail. You shot him a quick text before sitting on the steps, spinning head in your hands.

“Hey…” you heard an unfamiliar voice behind you.

You looked over your shoulder to see someone you didn’t recognize. Obviously a kook, based on the polo shirt and khaki pants he had on. You had never seen him at one of these parties before. Or maybe, you just never recognized him.

“Hey,” you muttered, pulling out your phone to see if Rafe answered.

“Lost your boyfriend?” he asked, sitting down comfortably beside you. You felt yourself slide over, wanting distance from him.

“No,” you shook your head. “Just waiting for him.”

“Don’t think he’s coming back, sweetheart. I saw him get in his truck,” he chuckled. “I could drive you home though.”

“I’m good,” you answered shortly.

You stood up, taking a second to regain your balance. You had to go home. To find Rafe. You realized you didn’t have the keys to your place. Rafe had them. You came together and were going to leave together. You guessed you’d just knock until he answered once you got there.

You knew you should tell your friends you were leaving, but in a drunken haze you were too focused to go back inside. You’d just text them later.

The boy on the stairs was in a conversation with a clone of himself, so you started walking. The cool evening hair sent a slight chill down your spine, your shoulders exposed. You tried to walk as quickly as possible without falling.

When you heard footsteps behind you, you reluctantly decided to look behind you. You were surprised to find the boy from the stairs and his friend walking a few paces behind you.

You felt your heartbeat pick up a bit, your hand clutching your phone tightly, willing Rafe to call. You took a turn, and realized they were not too far behind you. Enough distance to try to make it seem like they weren’t following you, but you knew.

You decided you’d take the short cut. You had to go through the woods, but it wasn’t too far. The boys behind you wouldn’t know the path, even if they saw you turn off. You’d just run, you thought to yourself.

As you dashed quickly into the woods, your breath was loud in your ears. You were trying not to panic. You would be fine. You heard the footsteps behind you, branches cracking under their feet as their pace picked up. You’d run as far as you could.

Eventually, you slowed down, catching your breath. You squeezed your eyes shut as you tried to listen for the boys following you. Your heart beat hard in your ears as you took deep breaths. You didn’t hear them anymore. You were in the clear.

You pulled your phone out of your pocket and flashed the light, realizing you had no idea where you ended up. You were surrounded by trees, no path in sight.

“Fuck,” you whispered.

You started walking where you thought you had come from, hoping to end up back on the path. You’d tripped over something, landing harshly on the hard ground. You hissed in pain as tears started filling your eyes.

You dialled JJ, thinking maybe you had a better chance of reaching him. No answer. You tried Rafe again, and again, and again.

The third time, he picked up. His voice choppy on the other line because of the bad service.

“Rafe?” you cried, overjoyed that he answered. “I need help I-I was walking home and I cut through the woods to get home but I’m lost.”

“Y/N?” Rafe answered. “Where are you?”

“The woods, I-I don’t know where exactly. Please help me, baby,” you cried.

You couldn’t hear his reply as the call dropped. You cursed under your breath again as you began to cry. You didn’t even know if Rafe heard you. You felt yourself starting to crash, the adrenaline wearing off and the effects of the alcohol hitting you all at once. You felt your eyes flutter shut, and succumbed to the exhaustion.

You eyes opened again to a faint sound in the distance. You sat up, disoriented, your head pounding behind your eyes. You winced as you tried to figure out how much time had passed.

You heard a voice in the distance, and as it approached you realize they were calling your name.

Rafe.

He came.

“Rafe!” you screamed as loud as you could, trying to signal to him where you were.

You heard his footsteps pick up as they got closer, and you kept calling out. Eventually he was in front of you, crouch down as his hands cradled your face.

“Baby, oh my god,” he breathed. “I’ve been looking for you, are you okay?”

“I’m sorry I acted like a bitch,” you cried, falling into his chest. “I shouldn’t have talked to you like that.”

“Shhh I shouldn’t have left you there. I was a fucking asshole. I’m so sorry. What if something happened to you?” he rambled, holding you close.

“These guys were following me so I cut through the woods. I tried to get away,” you breathed. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“What? Who?” he asked angrily.

“Doesn’t matter,” you sighed. “I just wanna go home.”

*

Rafe brought you inside and into the bathroom, turning the light on.

“You’re hurt,” he whispered. There was a cut down your leg, bleeding from when you tripped. You were covered in dirt, leaves, and branches.

“It doesn’t hurt,” you told him.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “I’m so sorry baby, I can’t say it enough.”

He turned the shower on, the steam starting to fill the room. He helped you gently peel off your clothes and step in, where he joined behind you. He rinsed off all the dirt and blood, and gently massaged your head with shampoo to wash out the dirt. You began uncontrollably sobbing as the warm water fell down your body, and you were so worn out you didn’t even know why anymore.

Rafe dressed you into your favorite pyjamas and brought you to bed, tucking you in gently. All while whispering that you were okay, that he was sorry, and that he loved you. He set down a glass of water beside you, urging you to drink it.

“Do you need anything? Are you hungry? Cold?” he asked.

You shook your head, reaching your arms out to him. He fell on the bed beside you as you lay on his chest, his heart beat faster than normal.

“It’s okay, baby,” you whispered to him, your eyes beginning to close. “I’m okay.

“I don’t know how I can forgive myself,” he said. “What if those guys..” he stopped himself before continuing. He didn’t want to voice what he was thinking. It was unimaginable.

“I shouldn’t have ignored you, or walked away when you were clearly upset. It was stupid,” you muttered.

“It doesn’t matter,” he whispered. “I was just being jealous and stupid. I overreacted.”

“As always,” you chuckled, making the corners of his mouth turn up.

He watched as your eyes began closing, your previously stressed out facial expression smoothing out.

“Just rest, baby,” he cooed as he rubbed his hand along your back. “I won’t leave you again.”

You finally gave in to your exhaustion, just happy to be safe and warm in Rafe’s arms. You didn’t care about the fight anymore, or anything that happened. All that mattered was you were safe. You were okay.

He came back. He would always come back.

[peachesofteal]

"This can't be happening."

"C'mere." He tries to drag you into his arms, but you dodge him.

"No. I can't... I don't want to be touched right now." Your hands are shaking, prickle of tears starting to burn at the back of your eyes. How can this be happening? "Oh my god, my family. They live-"

"They'll be alright."

"No!" You shriek. He's too nonchalant, unaffected. He doesn't understand. "Look at that red spot. That's where they live, right there. In a state that doesn't view most of them as human beings. The only one who would qualify in their eyes is my father, because he's a man. I left them all behind, in a country that hates them." Your stomach flips. "We're the minority. My sister just had a daughter-" your voice dies as you grapple with the reality. The country you used to call home, the one you watched elect a black man to the presidency not once, but twice, is nowhere to be found. It's dead. Fallen to extremism like so many others.

"Shhh, hey-"

"How could they do this? How could the majority of the country choose this? I don't understand. I mean, I do. The answer is plain as day but fuck..." You go to him now, burying your face in his chest and taking a deep breath. It helps. Here, you're safe, at least in this moment. "I'm sorry, I'm freaking out."

"It's okay," he murmurs, kissing your forehead, "it's normal. You're grieving where you've come from, you're worried and scared for your loved ones. That's okay."

"He's going to start so many wars," you moan, and he chuckles, sweeping his palm over the back of your head and holding you tighter.

"Don't worry about that so much, it's not that simple... and there are a lot of things that happen behind the scenes. Trust me." He holds you tighter, and another wave of despair crests.

"It's never going to end. The states are always going to be lost to this... this bigotry, this extremism. I thought there was change happening but... it's so deeply ingrained... there's no hope for them."

"You have to believe there is, love. Hope is the most powerful thing on this planet. It changes the course of the future all the time. Trust me, I've seen it."

"I just..." You trail off, lump forming in your throat. He rubs your back, squeezing your shoulders before taking a half step back to tilt your face up to his.

"Listen to me sweetheart," he cups your face, thumbs moving back and forth in a soothing rhythm, "these things happen. Governments ebb and flow. In two years, there will be another election, right? For state and local representatives?" You sniffle and nod. "There will be a massive overcorrection. The scales will tip." It relieves the ache in your chest, a little bit, to know that there will at least be another chance to right the ship, somewhat. "Want us to assassinate him for you?" He murmurs, kissing your temple, and you give him a watery smile.

"I think that's asking a little much." He shrugs.

"Wouldn't be the worst thing we've done."

[saikenakoego]

Said I was gonna do this later so here I am!!

I know nobody asked me but I'm gonna do it anyway. Because who's gonna stop me? Someone asking?

Hah!!

Im gonna do this with ALL my OC's. Because I can, and because I love all my little creations!

Starting with my currently favorite vampire gal!

Samantha Morales, a.k.a. Sammy Moors

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvv This gal vvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

With direct answers from the girl herself, for extra cringe roleplay. My favorite.

1. Do you sleep with a stuffed animal? If you have multiple, who's your favorite?

SM: I do sometimes. To try and remember what it felt to be human.

...

My favorite is my little green bunny. His name is Jacques.

2. Can you take care of a plant? What about a pet? Or a child?

SM: I can. But how well I'd do, can't tell. Being undead messes with your head a lot...

3. Can you describe your love interest?

SM: I could if I had one. Or if I could feel love. Or anything at all.

4. Do you look good in red?

SM: ...

SM: I prefer pink.

5. Speech, speech, speech! Will you give one? And what about?

SM: No. That kind of self-centered talk is for bloodsucker scum. You wouldn't catch me dead doing something as pretentious as that. They think they're so high and mighty, that they're superior to everything else. That they can take what they want and we'd never do anything about it. But they're nothing but insects, hiding away like cowards in the shadows while feeding off others like leeches. Disgusting and pathetic, weak little creatures unable to keep living by themselves. Parasites. Just the sight of them makes me want to rip them apart limb by limb, making them scream in agony as the life they've stolen leaves their body drop by drop, scurrying away and pleading for mercy as I crush their every bone to--

6. Who will you take advice from? And who WOULDN'T you take it from?

SM: I don't think anyone can really give me any advice that matters, but if I had to choose... Maybe Johnny. Kid's got a good head on his shoulders when it comes to the supernatural. Not like I need it though.

SM: But I'd never take advice from Silver. Too impulsive, and I already have me to worry about.

7. Describe yourself in three words

SM: Monster. Disgusting. Unsightly.

8. Do complex puzzles intrigue or frustrate you?

SM: I hate puzzles. Wastes of time.

9. Do you empathize with non-sentient things?

SM: More than empathize, I envy them. I'm already unable to feel anything, at least they get to not think about it either.

10. What age do you want to be the most right now?

SM: I wanna be 13 again. Go back to when everything was okay...

11. You won the lottery. Spend, or save?

SM: I dunno. Maybe spend? We do need more silver rounds...

12. Do you like romance in the books you read?

SM: I... I think I used to like it? I can't recall...

13. Name one thing your parents taught you.

SM: Family is everything.

14. Would you agree with the term 'guilty pleasure? Do you have any?

SM: I won't give in to it. I won't, no matter how good it smells. How delicious its crimson gleam looks. How it makes my mouth water at the mere thought of it, I won't. I won't. I won't I--

15. What would you consider a waste of time, other than school and work?

SM: Anything that's too complicated. I have all the time in the world, but every second I waste is another second they live.

16. If money wasn't a limit, what would you wear?

SM: I'n fine with my outfit. I think Silver would be someone better to ask this to.

17. Do you like children?

SM: No. They wound too frequently.

18. Kissing: Tongue or no tongue?

SM: No kissing. That's disgusting.

19. Do you study before tests?

SM: I haven't done any tests in 2 years.

20. What do you like that nobody else does?

SM: Rare meat in burgers isn't too bad... Don't tell Johnny I said that.

21. What would it take for you to break up with someone? What would be the last straw?

SM: Being a bloodsucker. Even if I can't feel anything, that's an immediate deal breaker.

22. Do you like being called pet names? Do you call others pet names? What's your go-to?

SM: I don't, but people have been calling me Sammy or Moors for so long that it feels weird when they don't do it. Old habits die hard, I guess. The only person I have a nickname for is Silver, and that's because he insists on being called Silver.

23. Stability or novelty?

SM: I've had my fill of novelty for a lifetime...

24. Honesty or charity?

SM: Honesty.

25. Safety or possibility?

SM: Safety.

26. Talent or effort?

SM: Effort.

27. Forgiveness or vengeance?

SM: VENGEANCE.

28. Would you date a fixer-upper?

SM: I'd rather not date anyone right now.

29. What recurring dreams do you have?

SM: The blood, it's everywhere... I'd rather not talk about it.

30. What would you do if you knew it would be forgiven?

SM: I... I'm not gonna answer that.

oc asks that reveal more than you think

Do they sleep with a stuffed animal? If they have multiple, who’s the favorite?

Can they take care of a plant? What about a pet? What about a child?

Ask them to describe their love interest.

Do they look good in red?

Speech! Speech! Speech! Speech! Will they give one, and what about?

Who will they take advice from, no matter what it is? Who won’t they take advice from, no matter what it is?

Describe them in three words. Now let them describe themself in three words.

Do complex puzzles intrigue or frustrate them?

Do they empathize with non-sentient things (dolls, plants, books…)?

What age do they most want to be right now?

They’ve won the lottery. Spend, or save?

Do they like romance in the books they read (or in the book they’re in)?

Name one thing their parents taught them.

Would they agree with the term ‘guilty pleasure’? Do they have any?

What would they consider a waste of time– other than school or work?

If money wasn’t a limit, what would they wear?

Do they like children?

Kissing: tongue or no tongue?

Do they study before tests? Practice before job interviews?

What do they like that nobody else does?

What would it take for them to break up with someone? What would be the last straw?

Do they like being called pet names? Do they call other people pet names? What’s their go-to?

Stability or novelty?

Honesty or charity?

Safety or possibility?

Talent or effort?

Forgiveness or vengeance (or…)?

Would they date a fixer-upper?

What recurring dreams do they have?

What would they do if they knew it would be forgiven?

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[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. 

[erensfeed]

content: boyfriends who would flash their headlights before leaving through the driveway, as their way of saying they love you.

note: i really love the concept & idea of a bf so i wrote this.

ps. i still can’t believe that men aren’t real :c

It’d become your ritual by now, this endless loop of ‘I love you more’—something you both say especially when you know you’ll miss each other, even if it’s just for a few hours.

And today, was no different.

You leaned against the doorway, still wrapped in the warmth of his last hug, and watched him shoot you that mischievous grin that always made your heart flutter as he walked backwards away from you.

“I’m gonna miss you,” he said, his voice softer than his grin suggested as he took another few steps back.

Laughing, you said his name fondly. “We’re literally seeing each other again soon in like… five hours.”

“Yeah, but that's like…” he gently shook his head like you didn’t understand. “…forever.” he added, a small feigned frown forming on his face after.

You rolled your eyes playfully, but with a soft smile, you reminded him, “What matters is that at the end of the day, you’ll be back in my arms.”

And just like that, his expression softened, eyes warm as he took in those words.

“Fine… I love you.” he said as he was taking another step back, and by now, it’s instinctive — so with a sly smile, you fired it right back at him, no hesitation. “Mmm, I love you more.”

He let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head once more as he started toward his car, already knowing where this was headed. “Okay, you know I’m not gonna let you win this one, right?”

“Oh, you just keep telling yourself that babe,” you teased lightly, a warm laugh slipping out.

"Only ‘cause it’s true,” his grin widened as he opened the car door. But before getting in, he lifted his hand to draw a quick heart over his chest, then pointed back at you as his way of saying—it’s all yours. And just to make sure you knew, he added, “That means I love you more."

He got you there, you couldn’t lie. Shaking your head, you decided to let him think he had the last word by nodding and even giving him a little wave as he climbed into the car. Once he settled in, you made a quick and small ‘buckle up’ gesture to remind him to, and he caught it right away. Through the windshield, you could see him mouth a ‘oh oops—yes, ma'am’ before that. And you noticed he never took his eyes off you as he clicked it in place, giving you a double thumbs-up with a boyish grin after.

Still smiling, you lifted your hand, making a little phone gesture by your ear—another silent reminder for him as you also mouthed a, ‘Call me when you get there, okay?’

He laughed, nodding exaggeratedly, as if he had no intention of forgetting as he started the engine. Already, you could feel that warm tug in your chest, the one that happens when you start missing him.

As he starts backing out onto the road, you couldn’t help it — you thought it softly, adding his name with those three words.

And then, as if he somehow heard you, his headlights flashed one—two—three—four times at you with a smile and a wave, just before he fully backed out from the driveway to the road. A quick, unmistakable, quiet message of:

‘I love you too.’

As you stood there waving back to him, your heart grew full when you processed it, a peaceful, quiet joy filling you as you watched him go.

The moment was so tender, because he was pretty much saying, ‘I’ll always find a way to say it back.’

And honestly, you wouldn’t have had it any other way.

After his car had disappeared down the road, you headed back inside the house, settling onto the couch—that same small panging feeling of missing him coming back again. When suddenly, an impulse struck, and with a smirk, you whipped out your phone to quickly type out:

⊹ don’t think i’m letting you off that easily tho babe 🤑 i still love you the most 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨

Seeing your text at the next stoplight, he smiled to himself like a fool.

eren. gojo. rafayel. caleb. jean. + your favs !

[pipsyy]

caught...

sub!hamzah x f!reader smut (lowkey perv!hamzah if you squint)

hi everyone! i thought of this idea at like 3am a couple nights ago and it has been plaguing my mind ever since. please enjoy! message me requests please! i am desperate for prompts.

summary: after losing a few of your panties, you begin to suspect your shy roommate Hamzah. but, coming home early one night, you are met with a sight that would change things for good.

warnings: smut under cut! DON'T read if you are under the age of 18.

word count: 2575

For weeks, you had been losing your underwear. You would put your clothes in the washer, then the dryer, but by the time you got back to your room and folded your clothes, one, or sometimes two, pairs of your panties were missing. It was concerning, to say the least. However, when you lost your favorite pair (pink cotton with white lace and bows), you began to get frustrated.

“Hamzah?” you ask your roommate while he’s in the kitchen getting snacks.

“Mmh?” he responds, mouth full with doritos.

“Kind of a weird question—I mean, you probably have no fucking clue—but have you seen my panties anywhere? I can’t find them.”

At the mention of panties, Hamzah’s cheeks flush a light shade of pink. “Panties?!” he asks, mouth still full. He swallows thickly. “No, I mean, I don’t think so. What do they look like?”

“Um-” you felt yourself blush a light shade of pink, thinking about how embarrassing it was talking about your panties with your hella attractive roommate. “They’re pink and white—bows too.”

If possible, Hamzah flushed an even deeper shade of red. “O-oh, no. No. I haven’t seen them anywhere,” he huffed out an awkward laugh, looking anywhere else in the room but your eyes.

“That’s okay,” you say, giggling awkwardly. The tension palpable in the room. “Just…you know, if you do see them, let me know.”

—

Later that week, after getting home early from a party, you were met with the most surprising of circumstances. You entered your apartment and kicked off your shoes; the 4-inch heels had killed your feet. Every light in the apartment was off—save for the small light emanating from the clocks on the oven and microwave—and it was dead silent. Eerily silent. You knew that Hamzah was home, I mean, he never left. But it was only 11pm, which was way too early for him to go to bed. You at least expected to hear him typing on his computer, or hear the faint sound of his laptop playing a show, or hear him yelling at whatever stupid game he was playing with Martin. But no. Absolutely nothing.

Just then you heard it. Although you weren’t exactly sure what “it” was. A faint, but deep, groan, as if someone was crying out in pain. You strained your ears, listening for that noise again. There! There it was again, the exact same noise, although this time you could hear a faint squeaking following the groan.

“Hamzah,” you hesitantly call out. You creeped forwards in the direction of his bedroom. The deep sounds followed by squeaking got louder as you neared his room. The door was ajar and you peeked through the crack. You almost let out a loud gasp at the sight before you, clapping your hands over your mouth to prevent any noise from escaping your lips. Hamzah was stretched out on his bed, head tilted back as he thrust his cock into his hand. You shot back from the door, face reddening. You felt embarrassed for staring so unabashedly at the dark-haired man in such an intimate situation. Even so, you felt a throbbing deep in your core and you knew that if you reached down to touch your panties beneath your dress, you would be soaking wet. Slowly, mentally slapping yourself, you peered through the crack in the door again. Hamzah’s head was tilted back in pure ecstasy, pretty lips spilling whines and groans as the bed squeaked with every thrust into his hand. You watched, panties growing wetter by the second, as he reached next to him and brought a piece of fabric up to his nose, inhaling deeply and letting out a heady whine. Your eyes widened as you recognized the slip of fabric as your favorite pair of panties. The pink ones with the white lace. 

Your name spills from his lips, eyes rolling back into his head. Holy fuck. You sat on your knees, rolling your wet folds against the palm of your hand. You couldn’t believe the sight before your eyes. Your roommate—who you’ve had a crush on since moving in with him—was jerking off to you, your underwear pressed deeply into his nose. Hamzah’s hips stuttered, edging dangerously close to release.

“F-fuck, y/n,” he whimpered. “S-so good. So fucking pretty. G-gonna, gonna cum, shit.” At this desperate confession, a high-pitched whine escaped your parted lips and your eyes widened, clapping your hands over your mouth. Hamzah abruptly stopped his motions, whipping his head in the direction of the unprecedented sound. His glossy eyes met yours, fucked-out expression directly mirroring your own.

“S-shit,” he said breathlessly, stumbling out of bed and covering his erection with the sheets around his legs. You shot backwards from the door, tumbling directly into the wall. Hamzah fumbled to get pants on, and ran towards you, a pleading look in his eyes.

“Holy shit, y/n. I-I, um, I had no idea that you were home. I wouldn’t…I wouldn’t do that. Not if I knew that you were here.”

You were still sat on the floor, pink blush fast-spreading across your cheeks. You felt a coy smile tickling your lips. “Were you—” you looked up at Hamzah, feeling a dangerous rush of confidence flood your mind, “Were you jerking off to me?”

Hamzah’s eyes widened impossibly large. “I–no. I mean…no,” he said. “Definitely not.”

“Really,” you said seductively, rising up from your position and stepping closer to the trembling man. “Because…” you leaned in to whisper in his ear. “I swear I heard you say my name.” A deep red blush spread across Hamzah’s cheekbones and he swallowed audibly.

His voice lowered a decibel. “No,” he whispered. “No, I wasn’t.”

You smirked at how flustered you made him. “I didn’t take you for a liar, you know.” You pushed past the taller man into his room. The moment you enter, you felt your core throb, the smell of sweat and sex and and something purely Hamzah penetrating your nostrils. You made your way to his bed, sheets strewn carelessly, and picked up the pink underwear that had fallen to the floor in Hamzah’s rushed attempt at maintaining his dignity. You dangled the fabric from your extended pointer finger.

“So what are these then?” The panties sway from your finger, and Hamzah’s puppy-like eyes follow the cloth to and fro like a tennis match. 

“I–,” he gulped. “I don’t know how those got there.”

You stepped toward him. “So you’re really just gonna play dumb with me then, huh?” You took careful step after careful step until you were inches away from the timid, trembling man. “You’re not dumb, Hamzah.” You reached up until his glossy eyes came face-to-face with your panties. “Take them.”

Hamzah’s dumbfounded expression stared back at your own. You shifted the fabric forward, directly into his big nose, and he shakily inhaled, eyes almost rolling back into his own head. “F-fuck,” he whimpered out. Swiftly, as if they were never there in the first place, you removed the outstretched panties from his prying nostrils. The look he gave you, as his eyes slowly opened, made your legs weak and your core throb. He looked as though he would give you the world, or anything you asked, as long as he could be face-to-face with that stupid piece of cloth again.

“Tell me what you want,” you asked, voice low and seductive.

“You,” he whispered, eyes darting from your own, to the wall, to the panties still clutched in your hand, and back to your own.

You smile at his bashfulness. “A little louder,” you said, feeling cocky. You reach up to push back his dark, messy curls from his sweaty forehead.

Hamzah’s dark eyes met your own and you melted. “You…I want you. I want you so fucking bad it hurts.” You felt your core tighten. Hamzah looked at you with glossy, pleading eyes. You looked down and noticed the erection still straining in his pants. You turn around and walk to his bed, sitting on the edge. You pat the soft bedding next to you.

“Come here.” Hamzah moved at the speed of light, by the time you blinked he was sitting down next to you, hands politely together in his lap. You lean over to straddle Hamzah’s thick thighs, dress riding up, the thin cloth of your panties doing nothing to stop you from feeling his erection pressing against your wet folds. You intertwine your hands behind his neck while he looks up at you with intense adoration and devotion. Your hands cup his cheeks.

“What do you want, baby?” you ask. You reach down, beneath the waistband of his gym shorts, and grasp his hard length. Hamzah’s parted red lips elicit a whiny gasp as his large hands firmly grasp your waist. 

“I want–” he starts, barely able to string a sentence together as you begin to move your hand up and down his length. “I want to be inside you.” 

You chuckled coyly, moving your hand faster. “And what makes you think you have the right to be inside me.” Groans and gasps tumbled from Hamzah’s wet lips. His head was tilted back, a purely fucked-out expression bedazzling his beautiful face. 

“I just—,” he blissfully moaned out. “I just want to feel you.” His hands snaked up your dress, reaching up to grasp at your covered tits. His big hands connected with your sensitive nipples that were poking out through the fabric. A dirty, stupid idea shot into your head. You pull away from Hamzah, untangling yourself from his roaming hands. “W-what?” he said, confusion written all over his pretty face. 

“I don’t know,” you respond. “I’m kinda pissed at you right now. Do you know how fucking gross it is to come home to your roommate touching himself to you? Desperately jerking off, my favorite fucking pair of panties in your grimy hands. You’re a disgusting little slut, aren’t you?” Hamzah’s covered cock visibly twitched in his gym shorts. He let out a heady whimper at your vile tone and words. “Oh…” you said, a dark and naughty gleam twinkling in your eyes. “Do you like that shit? Do you like it when I call you a stupid fucking whore?” Hamzah’s hips grinded against the air, desperate for any sort of friction against his aching cock.

“I think,” you say, reaching down to pick up the pink panties you had discarded to the side, “That I don’t want a disgusting slut like you to touch me, not with those filthy fucking hands of yours.” Using the elastic of your lacy panties, you tie Hamzah’s hands together behind his back. He whimpered at your touch, the light graze of your fingers shooting electricity down his spine and into his desperate member. Once Hamzah was fully tied up, unable to move his hands to touch your body, you flung your current pair of panties off and sat back on his lap again. You reached into his pants once more, pulling his weeping cock from within his shorts. You rubbed his erection up and down your wet folds, looking down to see the soaking, wet mess you were making of his cock. You line his tip up with your hole, sliding him into your wet cunt. The stretch was unbearably pleasurable and Hamzah let out an unfiltered groan.

“Shut up,” you told him, placing your hand over his mouth. “I don’t want to hear a fucking word from you.” You began bouncing up and down on his cock, whines and moans escaping your parted lips at the fulfilling sensation deep within your cunt. Hamzah looked completely pathetic beneath you, eyes filled with desperation as he clumsily attempted to thrust up into you. You grab onto his curls, yanking as his cock hits a particularly sensitive spot deep within your cunt. Hamzah lets out another whine at the tugging sensation. Immediately, you stop your motions and slap him across the face.

“I told you to shut up,” you said roughly, voice rattling with an emotion you had never thought could possess you: dominance. And you were enjoying it. You enjoyed seeing this tall, muscular man writhe beneath your smaller body, pathetically attempting to engage and make you feel good. An idea flitted through your head. You reached down to the floor and grabbed your discarded panties. Squeezing his cheeks together in your hands, you opened up his mouth and shoved your panties in, effectively gagging him. Hamzah let out a muffled groan at the feeling of the used cloth being shoved between his lips. Hips jerking into you now at a frenzied pace. The increased speed of his cock inside you felt like heaven, and you let out a high-pitched moan, collapsing into his shoulders. You rode his cock violently, Hamzah’s pathetic face reflecting your own shining pleasure. Hamzah’s hips began to stutter, his gagged moans becoming increasingly frequent as his eyes fluttered closed, and you knew he was close. You reached down to touch your clit, hoping to reach your climax at the same time. The combined pleasure of touching your clit and the sweet stretch of Hamzah’s cock hitting that delicious spot deep inside you made your head tip back in ecstasy. Hamzah’s eyes widened and you felt his cock twitch inside of you.

“Do you want to cum, baby?” you asked sweetly, rocking your hips softly against his. He nodded his head aggressively. Your walls fluttered around his cock, and Hamzah looked in pain, nose scrunched and eyes squeezed shut. You realized, as you continued to rock your hips, that he was waiting for your permission to cum.

“Oh,” you say sweetly. “You want my permission, hmm?” You giggle softly as Hamzah tries to talk, the soft fabric in his mouth preventing him from doing so. “You can cum, baby, I want you to.” At this admission, Hamzah’s face tightens and his hips stutter and begin to shake. The feeling of his cock twitching inside you, spurting cum against your tight walls, sent you over the edge. Hamzah’s chest was heaving as he watched you writhe on top of him, your pleasure furthering his own. You let out a high-pitched whine as you come down from your high. Hamzah’s eyes were wide, glossy, and pathetic as they met your own. You pulled the pair of panties out of his mouth and he sucked in a deep breath. You slid off his length and reached behind him, untying your panties from around his wrists. He let out a sigh as his hands became free, rubbing them together to recirculate the blood flow.

“Are you okay?” you ask him, suddenly feeling a deep sense of embarrassment. “I’m sorry! That was fucking crazy! I didn’t at all mean to take it that far.”

Hamzah looked up at you, a playful smile spreading across his face. “Are you kidding me? You have no idea how bad I’ve wanted to do that with you.”

“Yeah! But…like that?” you respond. “I-I mean…I slapped you. I feel like I took it too far.” You move to leave the room, embarrassment bleeding all over your face in a deep red color. Hamzah reached you in an instant, arms wrapping around your waist from behind, head resting on your shoulder. He placed a sweet kiss on your neck.

“Trust me,” he said. “That was exactly what I wanted.”

[the-mad-stone]

SKILL ISSUE. LOOK. WE CAN FIX THIS

The solution is to remember what is and what is not within your control. I tortured myself with this for years because hearing [well i can't do anything about it] made me want to howl in despair even more. I thought that by giving up caring I'd be giving up my drive/duty to fix things. Doesn't being catastrophically worried mean I care? I used to have a partner who smoked and i worried myself into panic attacks over the possible risks of that. and now I see that the problem was. thinking that my lack of power there was a moral failing on my part. like. it wasn't. I had it backwards. My “caring” wasn't making me a better or worse person. All it did was make me feel certain emotions, from simmering anxiety to righteous fury - but feeling emotions/being aware isn't the same as changing the actual situation in real life. They're completely different dimensions of reality.

I think what we can do here gently untangle the following:

emotions (they're valid. if you're "catastrophically worried and miserably horrified then that sounds horrible and sucks. OP said they miss being regular sad - I miss that for them too, it really sounds overwhelming. The post is light-hearted but the emotions in it are very real and it would be okay to really let yourself feel this despair without trivialising it. At the same time, let's wait before letting our emotions dictate our actions.)

worries (OP is upset about something. What about? Something they value must be threatened. What is it? Climate, human rights? It's good to have values. It's good to care about something. It fucking sucks that it's facing problems, but for now, let's appreciate that this person cares about something instead of being consumed by apathy. Let's put a pin in that.)

actions (It's not that you can't single-handedly fix climate change - stoic texts say we actually can't control anything in this world but ourselves, hell, we can't control our own bodies and thoughts half the time. most of the time, maybe. Look at that post - "I miss being regular sad". Well, who's in charge of your head? You are. You can be regular sad about the world. It's easier said than done, but it can be done.)

We can let go of worrying about the things beyond our control - not to let ourselves off the hook, but because it makes sense in our material reality. What we can do instead is 1. feel that terror (MANDATORY STEP. DON'T DISMISS YOURSELF), 2. find out where it's coming from, 3. redirect our efforts. That's all we can do, and that's all we need to do. Is it the perfect solution? No. But that's exactly the point. Perfection is beyond our control. This isn't.

[hanjiwuver]

Could you maybe do one of seungmin getting mad at you in public for wearing revealing clothes, ty!

Seungmin Drabble #1

*~Disobeying Dom Seungmin~*

pairing: hard dom!seungmin x sub!reader

warnings: MEANIE PANTS SEUNG! no smut but very suggestive, lots of degredation, reader is called a bitch, i think thats it.

note: personally…i could never disobey him but thats just me🐶 good luck with that tho!

heres ur order!! smut under the cut!!!!!!!!!!!

it was going to be a perfect night. your boyfriend seungmin finally got reservations for that fancy, expensive diner you’ve been dying to go to.

the only problem was..you were running a little late.

you took a nice, long shower beforehand, using all the scents you know he loves on you. laying out three different dresses on your bed, you quickly tried to decide which one would be the best fit for tonight’s important date.

one was grey, and wrapped your body elegantly with silk fabric. the second was light pink, with a high cut waist and a frilly bottom, seungmin loves that one. and the third…oh.

seungmin hates this dress. he specifically told you not to wear it in public anymore. its was a black, hollow out dress with sheer fabric and strings where there wasn’t your boobs or your ass showing. nothing different than a stripper dress.

now, you know seungmin better than anyone. and when he says he hates that dress, its not because its ugly in any way, shape, or form. no. the way you look in that dress could make even him fall to his knees for you.

it’s because of the attention it brings to HIS precious girl. seungmin isn’t an insecure man either, he obviously wants to show you off on his arm when you get all dolled up for him, but with THAT dress? you couldn’t even get a few feet away from him without being approached or even made a pass at.

he knows you would never leave him for another guy, he just can’t stand people sizing up his pretty little prey like wild beasts. so, you aren’t allowed to wear it per his rules, fine. but honestly, you’ve always wondered what would happen if you disobeyed him.

so..maybe you wore the dress anyway..how bad could this go, right? now the problem was, how to get there.

normally he would pick you up in his car, but you know for a fact he would make you change immediately. so that was out. maybe you could just text him?

minnieeee?

hi, sweet baby🩷 you ready to be picked up?

uhhh

hm?

actually min, can i drive myself and meet you there? i have a suprise for you.

uh oh.

WDYM UH OH

that can’t be good. you’re scaring me💀

ITS JUST A SUPRISE OKAY

…its the dress isn’t it?

..no actually! its a secret so you’ll know when i get there so i actually have to go now and walk my fish see you soon love you bye-

we’ll see.

your nerves are alight as you pull into the parking lot, biting your lip in fear and arousal at how seungmin will deal with you. you’ve never disobeyed him before, always wanting to recieve his sparing praise and not cause a fuss.

your heels click against the floor as you step into the new diner, looking like the most expensive thing there. the confidence you’re radiating is only surface level though, the truth is, if you had a tail right now it would be tightly tucked between your legs.

when the host tells you where seungmin is sitting, you hesitantly make your way over. he is indeed there, he smiles at you sweetly before looking down at that dress. that stupid fucking dress.

he looks back up into your eyes with a dissapointed, mean glare in his. if you were at home, that look would have you begging for forgiveness. you immediately look down, shying away from his gaze as you put your purse down and bow slightly at him.

“hey, seungmin..”

“sit down.”

the demand has you plopping down in your seat without hesitation. his tone is clear and calm, but equally cold.

“i thought i told you not to wear that dress. hm? or are you just too dumb and slutty to remember my rules?

oh. his harsh words make your thighs rub together, still refusing to meet his eyes.

“m’sorry..”

“sorry what.”

“so..so sorry, sir.”

“look at you. i do all these nice things for you, give you all my attention and look where it gets me. is my attention not enough? need it from the other manwhores here? i think you’re just too much of a slut to be thankful.”

his words have bite, making you equally feel bad for disobeying and almost drool from the degradation.

“yes sir, im a slut, sir.”

“i know you are.”

“just..wanted to see what you’d do..”

“want a punishment? is that what the dumb whore wants? hm?”

“um..depends what it is?”

“you don’t get to choose, stupid.”

“…well, what are you gonna do then?”

seungmin leans forward, resting his elbows on the table and looking at you with an amused expression. only this time do you meet his gaze, looking up at him through your lashes expectantly. seungmin scoffs.

“don’t fucking look at me.”

your eyes shoot down, just listening to him obediently. he leans forward to whisper in your ear.

“..when we get home, im ripping that slutty stripper dress off of you for good this time. then, im gonna muzzle you and make you beg for me to pound that slutty pussy like a good bitch. then lastly..you’re writing lines, sweetheart.”

sorry for ending it there..u just look so cute when ur teased<3 order again soon!🐶

[tanjamikaelson]

BEST FRIEND'S BROTHER - CHAPTER 3

MASTERLIST

CHAPTER 3: | RUMOUR |

You sat cross-legged on your bed, earbuds in, music playing softly as you replayed the events of last night in your mind. Every time you thought about Rafe, a heat crept up your cheeks. The memory of his touch lingered, the way his fingers had moved against you, sending shivers through your body. It was intoxicating, the way he made you feel—wanted, desired. You had never felt anything like it before. The thought of it stirred something inside you, something you hadn’t been able to shake all day.

You were so lost in the memory that you didn’t hear the door burst open until Sarah’s voice cut through the air like a knife. “Y/N, is it true?”

Startled, you pulled out your earbuds, eyes snapping up to meet hers. “What?” you asked, still caught between your thoughts and the sudden reality of her presence. The look on her face—disappointment, anger—hit you like a punch to the gut.

“You slept with Rafe?!” The words exploded out of her, each syllable laced with betrayal.

Your heart dropped. “No, I didn’t,” you said quickly, shaking your head, but the hurt in her eyes didn’t waver.

“Then why is everybody talking about it?” Sarah’s arms were crossed tightly over her chest, her posture defensive and hurt. She wasn’t just your best friend—she was like a sister. And now, standing there, she looked at you like she didn’t know you at all.

You took a deep breath, trying to gather your thoughts. “My ex showed up at the party,” you began, your voice steady but laced with frustration. “I told everyone what he did to me... how he cheated. And Rafe—he stepped in to protect me. My ex was jealous and started spreading rumors.”

Sarah’s expression softened, the anger fading just a bit as she processed your words. “And Rafe broke his nose,” she said, piecing together the bits of information she must have heard throughout the day.

“Yeah, he did,” you confirmed. “He didn’t let him disrespect me like that, in front of everyone.”

You could see the tension leaving her shoulders, the rigidness of her posture easing. “I guess it’s nice of Rafe to do that,” she muttered, almost begrudgingly.

A laugh bubbled up from your chest, unexpected and light. “Oh wow, I never thought I’d hear you say something nice about your brother.”

Sarah rolled her eyes but smiled, the last of the anger melting away. She sank onto the bed beside you, a sigh escaping her lips. “Hey, I didn’t say he was nice, just that what he did was.” Her tone was playful, but you could hear the undercurrent of relief.

You nodded, smiling at her. “Yeah, okay.”

But even as you joked, a small knot of guilt tightened in your chest. You hadn’t lied to Sarah, not completely. You and Rafe hadn’t slept together, but what had happened between you was still real, still intimate. And you couldn’t tell her, not yet. Maybe one day you’d find the words to explain, to make her understand, but not now. Now, the truth would only hurt her more.

“So, you want to go dress shopping tomorrow for midsummers?” Sarah asked, her voice casual, as if she was trying to push past the tension that had filled the room moments ago.

“Yeah, of course,” you replied, grateful for the change in subject, and for the opportunity to move forward.

Sarah smiled, the kind of smile that lit up her whole face, and for a moment, everything felt normal again. “Can’t wait.”

•°•°•°•°•°•

The next day, you arrived at Sarah’s house, excited for a day of dress shopping and distractions. You had spent most of the morning thinking about what you wanted to wear for the midsummer event, picturing yourself in all sorts of dresses, each one more beautiful than the last. But when you reached Sarah’s room, she wasn’t there. You called out her name, but the house was unusually quiet.

Confused, you made your way back downstairs, pausing when you saw Rafe lounging on the couch, his expression unreadable. “Hey, where’s Sarah?” you asked, trying to keep your voice light, though the disappointment of not finding your friend was creeping in.

Rafe shrugged, looking genuinely clueless. “I have no idea.”

“She told me yesterday to come so we could go shopping...” You trailed off, glancing around, wondering where she could be.

“Well, I haven’t seen her either,” Rafe said, then paused, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that made your stomach flip. “Can we talk? Privately?”

Your heart rate picked up, but you nodded. “Yeah, what’s up?”

Without another word, Rafe stood and grabbed your hand, pulling you gently but firmly up the stairs and into his room. The door clicked shut behind you, the sound somehow final, sealing you both in. He turned to face you, his eyes searching yours, his expression serious.

“About the other night...” Rafe began, his voice careful, as if he was testing the waters. “If I made you feel uncomfortable...”

You shook your head quickly, the words tumbling out before he could finish. “No, Rafe. You didn’t.” You took a breath, trying to find the right words. “I just don’t want Sarah to know. She almost found out the truth after my ex spread that rumor.”

Rafe’s jaw tightened, his expression hardening. “I know. He got what he deserved.”

You smiled, the memory of your ex writhing on the floor, blood streaming from his nose, bringing a dark satisfaction. “He did. I loved seeing him like that.”

Rafe’s lips curved into a smirk, his eyes lighting up. He was glad you felt the same way, glad that he hadn’t overstepped. Your gaze drifted around his room, and you noticed a baby blue suit hanging on the closet door, pristine and elegant.

“Nice suit,” you remarked, nodding towards it. “Are you wearing that to midsummers?”

Rafe glanced at the suit, then back at you, nodding. “Yeah. What are you wearing?”

You shrugged, the truth still hanging in the air between you. “I don’t know yet. I was supposed to go dress shopping with Sarah...” But as you said the words, an idea sparked in your mind, a way to match, to be connected without anyone knowing.

Before you could finish the thought, Rafe closed the space between you, his presence overwhelming. You felt the door press against your back, his body inches from yours. His gaze was intense, his voice low and steady as he spoke. “So... I would like that to happen again...” His words hung in the air, charged with the memory of what had transpired between you both at Kelce’s party.

Your heart skipped a beat. You knew exactly what he was referring to, and the thought of it made heat pool in your belly. You swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “But not right now.”

Rafe cocked his head to the side, his eyes darkening with something that made your pulse quicken. “When?”

You shook your head, feeling the frustration build. “I don’t know. When Sarah’s not around.”

Rafe’s hand brushed against your arm, his touch featherlight, sending shivers down your spine. “She’s not here right now,” he reminded you, his smirk almost teasing.

“But she could come back any minute,” you countered, your voice a whisper, but filled with urgency.

Rafe sighed, the sound heavy with disappointment. “So you want us completely alone? We’re never completely alone.”

You sighed too, mirroring his frustration, feeling it thrum between you like a live wire. “I know, but we can figure something out.”

Rafe stepped back, his eyes narrowing slightly, his voice laced with annoyance. “Well, let me know when you do.” He turned away, his shoulders tense, his disappointment palpable.

You stood there, your back still pressed against the door, your heart racing. The tension between you was almost unbearable, and as he turned his back on you, a mix of emotions swirled inside you—desire, frustration, and the nagging guilt that came from keeping this secret from Sarah. You had to find a way to make this right, to figure out what you really wanted before everything spiraled out of control.

You fled from his room, your heart pounding, the walls feeling like they were closing in on you. You needed air, space—anything to clear your head. The intensity of Rafe’s gaze, the weight of his words, and the way your body responded to him had all been overwhelming. You could barely think straight as you made your way down the hallway, your mind racing with a thousand thoughts.

Rafe stood there, stunned, watching as you hurried out. He hadn’t expected you to leave like that, so abruptly, without a second glance. He felt a sharp pang in his chest, a strange mixture of frustration and confusion that he couldn’t quite place. His hands clenched into fists at his sides as he tried to process what had just happened. He hadn’t meant to push you away. Hell, he hadn’t even realized how much he wanted you to stay until he watched you walk out the door, leaving him alone with nothing but the echo of your presence. A bitter taste settled in his mouth as he replayed the last few moments over and over in his mind.

Why did you leave?

Rafe felt a surge of anger—at himself, mostly. He had been so close, so close to having you again, to feeling your warmth, to experiencing the high of being near you. The memory of the other night, the way your body had responded to his touch, was still fresh in his mind, burning like a brand against his skin. And now, standing alone in his room, he felt that heat turning into a gnawing ache. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply, trying to shake off the tension that coiled tightly in his chest. His thoughts were a chaotic mess—part of him wanted to chase after you, to drag you back into the room and make you stay until you understood how much he needed you. But another part, the one that knew he had already pushed too hard, told him to let you go, to give you the space you were clearly asking for.

Rafe’s jaw clenched as he replayed the conversation in his mind. He knew he could be intense—too intense, sometimes—but he couldn’t help it. Not when it came to you. There was something about you that drove him crazy, made him feel things he didn’t understand, things he didn’t want to admit even to himself.

He turned and punched the wall beside him, the sharp pain in his knuckles a welcome distraction from the turmoil inside his head. He didn’t know what to do with all the emotions swirling inside him—frustration, desire, a strange sense of vulnerability that he wasn’t used to feeling. You had gotten under his skin, and he didn’t know how to handle it.

Rafe let out a low, bitter laugh. He was angry—angry at himself for scaring you off, angry at the situation, angry at everything that kept him from having what he wanted. And what he wanted was you. Completely, without hesitation, without hiding.

He knew you were scared—scared of what being with him would mean, scared of how Sarah would react, scared of how this would change things between all of you. But he was scared, too, even if he’d never say it out loud. Scared of wanting you this much, scared of what it meant if you didn’t want him the same way.

Rafe stared at the door for a long moment, his chest heaving as he tried to rein in the storm of emotions crashing through him. He wanted to run after you, to pull you into his arms and tell you that he’d wait, that he’d do whatever it took to make this work. But he knew that right now, that wasn’t what you needed.

With a deep, shuddering breath, he turned away from the door, the frustration simmering under his skin like a live wire. He needed to cool off, to clear his head, to figure out how to fix this. Because he wasn’t ready to give up—not on you, not on what you could be together.

But for now, he’d have to let you go.

For now.

•°•°•°•°•°•

The warmth of sunset had started to settle over the open field, casting long shadows and soft light over everyone who had come out for the outdoor movie night. You found a spot on the grass with some friends, surrounded by laughter and the quiet hum of conversation as the film began. But as the movie dragged on, you found yourself losing interest, your thoughts drifting.

A glance around the crowd was all it took to pull you from your thoughts—you spotted Rafe a few feet away, sitting with Topper and Kelce. He didn’t look like he was enjoying the movie either, his elbow propped up on his knee, his cheek resting in his hand as he pouted at the screen. His presence seemed to fill the air around you, sending a small thrill through your chest.

You couldn’t help but notice when he eventually got up, his broad shoulders and confident stance drawing your attention like a magnet. Without really thinking, you rose to your feet and decided to follow him, weaving through the crowd.

Rafe led you around the back of the movie screen, and it didn’t take long to see what was happening. Rafe, Topper, and Kelce had cornered JJ and Pope, the tension crackling in the air. Before you could even process what was happening, punches were being thrown, and a brutal fight erupted between the kooks and pogues.

“Don’t do this, guys!” you yelled, but your voice was lost in the chaos, falling on deaf ears.

Suddenly, a flash of movement caught your eye. Kie appeared from nowhere, gripping JJ’s backpack with both hands as she swung it at Topper, landing a blow square against his back. “Let go of him, Topper! Fascist asshole!” she shouted, her voice carrying a mixture of fear and fury. Topper, unfazed, turned on her, yanking the bag out of her hands and tossing it aside as he tightened his grip on Pope.

Your gaze shifted to Rafe, who was busy landing a punch on JJ, while Kelce held him firmly, keeping him from fighting back. Kie, seeing this, leaped onto Topper’s back, clawing at him, trying desperately to pull him away from Pope.

The sight must have caught Rafe’s attention because he turned and immediately moved towards them. He grabbed Kie around the waist, pulling her off Topper effortlessly, her legs kicking out as she fought against him.

“Let go of me, Rafe!” she screamed, writhing in his grip.

“Stay out of this, Kiara. Okay?” Rafe’s voice was low, and cold, as he tossed her aside, sending her stumbling to the ground.

Your heart pounded as you watched Kie rummage through the backpack, her fingers closing around something. Your eyes widened as you realized it was a gun.

“Kie!” you called out, rushing over to grab her hand, panic filling your voice.

She looked up at you, her expression wild and unyielding, yanking her hand away. “Don’t!” she snapped, her tone sharp with desperation and anger. Then, without missing a beat, she stuffed the gun back into the bag, her hand now pulling out a lighter.

“Kie, stop!” you pleaded, but she pushed you back, her eyes blazing with a resolve you hadn’t seen in her before.

“Stop being on their side!” she shouted, her voice echoing over the scene. Without another word, she flicked the lighter and held it to the screen, setting it ablaze.

The next thing you knew, flames erupted, consuming the movie screen and casting an orange glow over the chaotic scene. It was a bold, desperate attempt to end the fight, and it worked.

The sudden blaze shocked everyone. For a moment, all movement stopped, the fire commanding everyone’s attention as it leaped and crackled against the night sky. The Kooks froze, stunned by the unexpected turn, their faces illuminated by the flames.

Rafe let out a dark laugh, the flicker of fire reflecting in his eyes. “Let’s go, Kelce,” he muttered, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. His gaze landed on you, still crouched on the ground, and his expression hardened slightly. Without hesitation, he strode over, reaching down to grab your arm, and pulling you up to your feet.

“You shouldn’t have tried to stop us,” he said, his voice laced with annoyance, though a flicker of something softer lay behind it.

“I don’t like it when there’s a fight,” you replied, brushing the dirt and grass off your clothes, but he wasn’t listening.

“They sank Topper’s boat and held a gun to his head,” Rafe explained his tone a mix of frustration and something darker. "We’re supposed to just let it slide?”

You stayed silent, knowing that arguing with him now would only make things worse. He nudged you forward, a light push urging you to start walking with him. As you moved forward, you felt his hand smack against your backside, making you stumble slightly in surprise.

When you glanced over your shoulder, he smirked, feigning innocence. "Your butt had dirt on it," he chuckled, but there was a gleam in his eye that suggested otherwise.

You rolled your eyes, but before you could respond, Rafe’s hand shot out, grabbing your arm and pulling you aside, away from prying eyes. You barely had a second to process before your back was pressed against a wall, his face inches from yours.

"Don’t roll your eyes at me," he warned, his voice low and dangerous.

"You’re annoying," you shot back, trying to mask the thrill that raced through you at his closeness.

A smirk spread across his face, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Oh, am I?” he murmured, his voice dripping with a playful edge. “Was I also annoying when I gave you an orgasm without asking for anything in return?”

Your pulse quickened, and you struggled to keep your composure. "No. You’re just annoying now," you muttered, trying to ignore the heat pooling inside you.

Rafe’s eyes darkened, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You’re annoying too, you know that?"

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “How so?”

His face darkened slightly, the playfulness turning into something more intense. “You rejected me earlier today when I wanted something more to happen,” he said, his tone holding a hint of frustration.

“It wasn’t like that—” you started to explain, but he cut you off, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke.

“But I bet you’d want another orgasm. wouldn’t you?” he whispered, his voice rough, sending a shiver down your spine.

Your breath caught in your throat, and for a moment, you were speechless. Unable to hold back, you nodded slightly, the admission causing a flicker of amusement in his gaze. His hand slid along your thigh, pressing just enough to make you part your legs in response. He chuckled softly, his fingers skimming over the edge of your short dress, teasing you with a touch that was both gentle and maddeningly slow.

“Is that why you’re wearing this short dress?” he murmured, his fingers brushing along the edge of your panties. “You knew I would be here.”

“Rafe—” you breathed out, your voice shaky as his touch ignited a fire inside you.

He grinned, a smug glint in his eyes as he continued teasing you, his fingers brushing against the damp fabric of your panties. “Shit. Does this turn you on?” he asked, his voice low and amused.

You bit your lip, trying to stifle the moan building in your throat. His hand shifted, moving your panties to the side, his fingers slipping through your wet folds, making you whimper.

“Are you turned on because anyone could catch us?” he questioned, his voice rough, “Or do I just have that effect on you?”

“Both,” you answered quickly, barely able to contain yourself.

Rafe let out a quiet laugh, pleased by your neediness. His fingers moved with more purpose, sliding over your sensitive skin, his touch driving you closer to the edge. You clutched at his hand, desperate for him to keep going.

“This is the last time I’m giving you an orgasm without getting one in return,” he warned, his tone dark and possessive.

Rafe’s lips found your neck, and he began to leave a trail of heated kisses, making sure to leave a mark. You clung to him, your need for him overpowering any sense of caution. His hand moved expertly, and you felt yourself melting under his touch, gasping as he continued.

"Do you ever touch yourself while thinking of me?" he murmured, his breath sending shivers down your spine.

"Yes," you admitted, barely able to form the word.

He groaned softly, his own desire evident in the way he pressed against you, his breath hot against your skin. “I’d like to see that,” he murmured, his fingers speeding up, the pressure driving you closer to the brink.

The intensity in his gaze made your cheeks flush, and you could barely meet his eyes as he looked at you, his own filled with a fierce longing. You felt your resolve crumble as he kissed your neck again, his fingers working faster. The familiar tension built in your core, your breaths coming quicker as he guided you toward the edge. When your orgasm hit, you bit down on your lip to muffle your moans, your body going limp as the pleasure overtook you.

Rafe held you steady, his grip strong, and as your legs threatened to give out, he kept you from crumpling to the ground.

TAGS: @wearemadeofstardust0 @hotch-meeeeeuppppp

[for-those-who-wait]

Hey I think I asked you about your Detroit become human au before a bit ago but I love the idea so much! I know you’re super busy but if you can I would love to see more about it!

Sorry for asking about it again I’m just really interested in it. 😭🙏

No please don't be sorry I love to talk about it whenever I'm not creatively bankrupt!! I'm just sorry it took so long for me to actually think of new stuff to add

I had some of these doodles already prepared but never really finished them up until I came up with a cute little idea

I didn't think of where to put in Flapjack until I remembered that android animals existed, and then I had a brain blast moment where I realized that Hunter can still talk to Flapjack! They are little android buddies, they can interface and talk and be friends!! I think it would also help to make him feel a bit more comfortable with his identity as an android to be able to have his little buddy to have fun private conversations with. Camila introduces them (maybe he had gotten hurt by a previous owner and she found him and let Gus fix him up) and Hunter is a bit tentative about it at first, but Flapjack is adorable and sweet and quickly wins him over

I just now had the idea that Gus, since he's super into android stuff, would probably be a big resource for software and hardware difficulties. Oh, you fell and your arm is working kinda wonky? Call up Gus, he'll crack you open and take a look. The dude doesn't mind in the least, he freaking LOVES going down mechanical and coding rabbit holes to better understand how androids work. I like to think that if Hunter ever got hurt and chose not to accept help because of body/species dysphoria, Gus would be a really good resource for him to try and feel as normal as possible while he's getting fixed. Gus is his brother and he loves him and they're just good to each other okay? Gus would probably crack some jokes or something to get Hunter's mind off it, or infodump about android organs or something (and Hunter would be begrudgingly interested because they are nerds, and Hunter is interested in androids too underneath all the problems he has with deviancy. Like dude they're robots, what's not to love?)

Also some Gus being so over Hunter's "androids can't feel love" phase featuring Vee and Masha being very adorable and very obviously in love :) Hunter is a very silly stupid man. He will find any way to make literally everyone exempt from the terrible rules Philip fed him, except for himself

I'm trying to think of a potential situation that would parallel Hunter's possession, and I think it would probably be basically the same thing that happens in Connor's deviant path (when he deviates and joins the revolution as an ally) where Amanda (a separate AI in his programming that's basically how CyberLife keeps him in check) takes over Connor's programming last minute to try and put a stop to the revolution.

So my current thought is that Philip is basically using Hunter as a trojan horse. His main programming is to act and believe like he's a normal human but similar to Connor, he's basically a sleeper agent without knowing. I imagine that once Hunter gains access to his software (thanks to Vee and Gus), he starts finding programs and files that are labeled as pretty scary things. He shouldn't have to know the most efficient way to shut an android down or incapacitate a human.

If and when Philip finally goes looking for Hunter and sees the first android he's seen in Gravesfield besides Hunter (aka Vee), he's not going to take that well.

I haven't drawn anything for it but so far I'm thinking that he takes control of Hunter's programming, maybe through some taking advantage of his interfacing system, and locks him in his own head a la Connor and Amanda to sic him after Vee and Flapjack (assuming that Philip's main goal, similar to both canons, is to eradicate deviants). It's likely that his friends will try to apprehend him, Vee or Gus will try (and maybe fail a couple times) to delete the programming while Camila deals with Philip. The guy is old and decrepit and Camila would absolutely whoop his ass with the ease of swatting a fly.

Things will be fine; Vee is all good and they manage to delete whatever programming screwed with Hunter's control, but that kid is going to be HELLA anxious about interfacing again from then on since he's afraid of 1) losing his own control and 2) potentially passing the virus onto someone else. It could go two ways at that point: Hunter could either kill Flapjack since Flapjack is technically a deviant android and therefore a target, or we can be nice and let Flapjack live to help him heal from this brand-new trauma.

So yeah hopefully that sates some curiosity! I'm glad you're interested in it because I honestly really love to think of new stuff whenever my brain decides to work hahaha

[great-now-im-confused]

Look shit is going to get bad. It's always going to get bad. But with that it means it'll get better too. What's good and bad is different for everyone. Many things that are bad for you know might stay that way. But many of them will also progress and change and actually get better. Beyond that thought, if you stay and you fight, you will get better. Maybe it is your family that'll always be crazy, maybe the political world will be beyond bleak for the foreseeable future, but if you stay you'll be able to see the things that will improve and will be good. I know so many of us have so much on our plates right now and the results of yesterday and dreadful. But please stay. I promise it'll be worth it.

Sure everything you hope for might not happen but you'll never get to know the things that WILL if you stay. I know the point of this post is mostly to address the dread many of us feel after the election. And I fully get it trust me I do. But as someone who has made that choice before and I am so grateful it didn't work for me to be able to still be here I want to share a few things.

"it gets better" is both right and wrong in my opinion. Yes sometimes the things that have you down so bad that you walk that path can absolutely get better. Sometimes they don't though and while that sucks it's okay. Because as I said before, YOU get better. (Not to run into "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger" stuff because I get it, why do we have to be strong) You grow, you learn, you change. And with that growth and change your state of mind often changes too. Admittedly my life isn't too different from when I reached that point, but it's also so much better in so many ways. I'll use my family for an example. My family is so chaotic it's overwhelming and that hasn't changed, what has changed though is my ability to cope with it. I am still the one everyone runs to to fix problems. I still try to fix those problems more than I probably should, but I have started to learn to say no and to put up boundaries with them. So while yes it hasn't changed for the most part the growth I've had within myself has allowed me some space from all the chaos and it's truly helped me.

Then there's things like medication and therapy that's has helped immensely along the way. And I fully understand that not everyone has the same access to things I have been lucky enough to have along the way as the journey is different for everyone. And especially given the outcome of yesterday those things may become even harder to obtain for others. But I will say I also thought a lot of those things were out of my reach and I started asking the right questions and made it a little father (again this won't be true for everyone but hopefully will be able to at least a few)

I reached a standstill with progressing in my career because I didn't know what to do next. One day I got super lucky and met a new person who gave me so much guidance (more than I think they know) and it reignited my passion for my goals (again I know I am super lucky to find myself in that situation). My point with that is we have to be able to reach each other because you never know who you can help (with something that may be simple to you) and who can help you. You don't get to experience that if you're gone.

I'm not trying to get into my whole story or journey but I'm trying to share enough that it makes sense and is understood when I say I know what it feels like to be that low and I know what it feels like to overcome it. So please trust me on that.

I know things are scary right now. So much is uncertain and on the line. But you won't fix it by overly stressing about it and you won't fix anything is you don't stay. Times are going to get challenging and it's going to get hard and rough, but we will always be able to do something about it, especially together. So I can't help you if I leave and you can't help me if you go.

So take some time to process you frustration, your grief, and your fears. Then when you're ready take a deep breath and be prepared. Be prepared to take action. Figure out what is most important to you that you fear will change with the coming times. It could be your number 1 thing it could be a top 3-10 depending on what you have the energy for. And. Then start to learn. What can you do to help, what can you do to make a change, how can you make a difference. Then make a plan. When we all taken action things will start to be okay again.

But we can't inform each other if we're not here. We can't help if we're not here. Like OP said times have been bad before throughout history and humans have survived and we'll survive this. If you need a reminder and it won't mess you up too much look into the things people have preserved through (try not to focus too much on those tragically lost to those times because that won't help in this situation)

I know this is long and has gone all over the place but I needed to get this out because it's just part of everything swirling in my mind lately. So, sorry is it's a little hard to understand my points, if you'd like to reach out to discuss any of it with me if gladly try to be more clear on some of it I just was trying to not fully take over OP's post with my response (which I know I more than likely have by now, SORRY OP) this post just resonated with me and everything started flowing. So please just stay even if it means me typing all of this out was worth it and because you are worth it and we will work together to make it better

I hope none of you disappear in the coming days. Seriously don't do anything that can't be undone.

[error-dream-was-found]

I just saw your idea about Quackity sucking at torture and I am SO intrigued 👀 Please do tell

(Also I absolutely love love love your writing <3)

Hiii, thank you for asking :)

And I'm happy to hear that you enjoy my writing <3

It's been a while since I came up with that idea and I can't seem to find my notes on it (I found like 15 other half forgotten AUs instead oops) but I'm pretty sure it came from some discussion with Flora.

The basic idea is that everything happens just as it does in canon and Quackity goes to torture Dream. This is where things get sketchy because as I said, this is a 100 % crack idea so ... what if Quackity just somehow managed to fuck up every single torture attempt?

I really wish I could find my notes on this because I know I had some specific ideas written down but let's go with what I remember. During the first visit I think he might've just underestimated Dream who in spite of being in the prison for a while now was still able to dodge Quackity and maybe even disarm him or something just it ends up with Sam having to interfere.

But it's okay! Quackity's got it! It was just a ... a minor inconvenience, nothing more. But ... things are just not working out during his second visit either, nor during the third one or the fourth one.

Dream is totally not giving fuck about what Quackity wants and for the sake of crack Quackity just miserably fails in all his attempts to torture Dream in the most ridiculous ways possible.

Like, he will get his axe stuck in the obsidian and can't pull it out, he drops a harming potion and hits himself instead of Dream, he sets himself on fire on accident (that lava wall had no business being over there!), he fails to realize that Dream is actually good in strategic games and his plan to hurt Dream for losing a game fails when the game drags on for way too long (bonus points if he loses somehow). Just some very weird (and hopefully somewhat funny) stuff happens.

Some time he doesn't even get to try his hand at torture because he gets carried away with wedding preparation and all (just imagine him forcing Dream help with choosing the decorations or something lol)

After his fight with Karl Dream is forced to be the therapist (he has no escape while Quackity cries about the state of his relationship), least to say Dream is very confused why Quackity thought he is the right person to ask about the relationship problems (srsly Q have you seen the state of his relationships???)

At this point Dream himself might try to give him tips, look he is not a fan of getting tortured but this is just sad, okay?

Perhaps he will manage to actually hurt Dream at some point but by then I think he would be too used to failing that it actually freaks him out more than it freaks out Dream himself. Least to say the rest of the "session" was spend fretting over Dream because god man you're bleeding! Dream is just there like ... isn't this what you wanted? And well yeah but also no! (Q has some very mixed feelings)

Overall though I think Q would maim himself in that cell more than he ever did to Dream. On accident of course. I never figured out the logistics of this one but it'd be hella funny if Q somehow managed to idk cut of his own finger or something of the sort which would just end up with him freaking out and Dream having to try to calm him down while also calling for Sam to bring a healing potion

I know that it's supper cannon inaccurate but it's really just a crack idea without any real plot behind it 😅

[outersyourwilds]

Outertober Day 30 - Home (2/2)

@outer-wilds-inktober

When you enter the Eye of the Universe, entering the Unknown... It's frightening, you don't understand what's going on or what'll happen to you. In that moment, you've got so many thoughts running through your mind. Fear, mostly. A lot of it.

You're scared. The universe is dying, and you're scared. Your friends and loved ones are dying and you're scared. You are dying, and your scared.

You push on anyway despite the fear, despite everything you went through.

Then you see a campfire. And you see Esker.

You think of home.

Anyway, I had a ton of fun with this! For this one, I thought about how when you enter the Eye, Hatchy probably had a million thoughts going through their head. But I imagine that the most important thought was that they just wanted to go home.

-------

WOOOO Okay! That concludes my Outer Wilds Inktober stuff!! It was a journey drawing for most of these, and honestly? My new personal best record! Usually with these things, I give up a week into it bc I can't keep up. So allowing myself to be casual and even combining some prompts helped quite a lot hehe

So the Eye gives you the observatory. At the Glade, Esker is the first traveller to greet you. Esker is home to Hatchling...

[still-searching-for-something]

What gets me is not that Donald Trump won. It's that he won the popular vote. It's that a majority of American voters said, "Yes, I want this guy as my president."

They deliberately, knowingly decided the fascist, felonious, antidemocratic candidate who'd organized a coup attempt and got away with it needed the presidency. No American voter doesn't know who Trump is. They have no excuse. They knew he stood for antidemocracy.

But he also stood for a stronger economy! Lower gas prices! Cheaper groceries! Lower taxes!

And most Americans decided those things were more important to them than democracy. They've, as a majority, decided democracy < convenience.

"But the real problem was voter turnout and apathy!"

Okay, so then most Americans--85.7 million--either voted for the fascist or couldn't be assed to lift a finger to save democracy, compared to 68 million. 55% of Americans either deliberately chose cheaper groceries over democracy or were too pathetically lazy to give a fuck either way. Much better. It's a human choice to make, to vote for their wallet than their grand abstract ideology, but it's one that hurts all of us, including them, including Ukraine and the EU (and Palestine, for the record!) and all future generations to come. It's a selfish, short-sighted decision that betrays a deep rot in our priorities.

I thought we understood that sometimes, we have to take a hit as a nation to preserve our democracy and our freedoms. Is the same nation that took rationing during the Second World War to defeat the Nazis and the Japanese Empire? That lost hundreds of thousands of men to put down an illegal, treasonous rebellion?

And today, we've decided our rights can be exchanged for cheaper eggs, milk, and butter?

"Oh, Harris ran a bad campaign. She tried to appease everyone which pleased no one. She didn't appeal to the right demographics on the right issues. She dodged questions, she was entitled, she was--"

Yeah, I don't care.

In fact, I agree with you, but frankly, the economic policies and foreign policies and immigration policies and social policies of either candidate are completely fucking irrelevant if one of them doesn't adhere to the basic democratic rule of accepting that democracy's validity and existence. If a vote for one candidate threatens the democratic health of that nation, and a vote for the other--regardless of what other consequences it may have--doesn't, then morally, you have to vote for democratic one.

Is that unreasonable? Maybe. Yeah, Democrats should have run a better campaign more focused on the bread and butter issues people care about. Like Clinton said, 'It's the economy, stupid!' Democrats had a responsibility to run the best campaign they could have, given the stakes.

But that still doesn't justify a vote for antidemocracy. Call me crazy, but I think a vote for authoritarianism is unreasonable. "They were a little patronizing and I want to shave a few bucks off my grocery bill, so I'll vote for the fascist!" is still an unhinged and indefensible conclusion to arrive at, regardless of how valid your claims of being hurt at the cash register or being patronized are.

I've lost any and all faith in Americans. I honestly thought we were better than this. I really did. And I don't know how or if a democracy can function if a majority of its electorate are willing to sacrifice democratic norms for short-term benefits.

Fuck Republicans and every single person who voted against democracy because their grocery bill was too high. May you get exactly the kind of government you deserve and voted for.

[crazyw3irdo]

[Image ID: A UQuiz results screen. The result is Benvolio. The description reads “it may be different from the others, but you were still doomed from the start. the horror of being the most reasonable one in the group is that means everyone else makes mistakes. everyone else must face the consequences. everyone else gets hurt while you stand there unharmed. no matter the warnings you give, they are still punished. you can’t help someone who the universe decided must be destroyed. i admire that you still try. if only the game hadn’t been rigged from the start.” /End ID]

op here, i’ve been trying my best to do “death of the author” n stuff with this, but i just wanna say that imo that’s not the philosophy of the quiz. i posted this in march so yknow pretty different emotional vibe at the time compared to right now, nor did i think this would blow up on the scale it did. from my pov i was doing like, a twilight zone episode. a “hey wouldn’t it be fucked up if this happened?” type thing.

when i was making it my number one priority was “make people realize romeo and juliet isn’t a love story” which informed the tone, and another high priority was “make people want to read/watch/understand romeo and juliet” which to an audience of tumblr users also informed the tone. (if you go back far enough to when this post was first getting big you can see i said multiple times i personally thought the quiz was funny)

also, because i was using the medium of “personality quiz” i was able to put the quiz taker directly into the characters’ shoes. (realizing just now a medium full of seemingly branching pathways & choices that all end up in predetermined places ties really nicely into it) in order to be a character from romeo and juliet, you have to be beholden to fate.

the quiz intentionally blurs the line between the fictional and real so i don’t blame you for interpreting it that way, and hell, if you continue to see it that way then i won’t stop you, this is just my personal interpretation of it and that’s yours. i won’t deny that if i made this quiz today i wouldn’t’ve made it so bleak, and that when i saw my notes spike in activity from this back on the sixth my immediate reaction was “oh no, i hope everyone’s okay and this doesn’t ruin their day further”

anyway long story short (too late) i also believe there’s hope in the world. there’s the possibility to change. we, as real people and not fictional characters, are not beholden to the strings of fate or the writing of an author. stay strong everyone.

made a uquiz

[gingersnapwolves]

so I had some thoughts on the burnout post but didn't want to hijack it so this is just my own rambling attempt to process the feelings I've been struggling with for two days which obviously not everyone wants to read, thus my putting a read more

I've been crying off and on for the past couple days which is really no surprise, and I've been trying to avoid political news and political posts. In fact, after this I plan to hide the political tags for a while, heavily curate my Reddit experience, and then do I don't even know what with all my new free time

because I don't talk about it a lot here, this is my fandom space, my casual space, and I'll sometimes post about personal stuff but almost never politics, but I am actually very political. 'member of multiple political mailing lists, have marched in many protests, write postcards to swing state voters' political. and I want to talk a little about why this defeat feels different. because this crushed me in a way that 2016 did not.

the thing is. over the past few days I've seen a lot of people talking about how if you didn't realize Trump was going to win, you live in a bubble. and I think to a certain extent that's true. we all have our little echo chambers. but for me, at least, and a lot of the people I know, it wasn't just that. it was this core certainty that Trump would not win, could not win, because surely our country wasn't like that. surely our fellow Americans were not like that. it wasn't about competency or about policy. it was about basic human decency. and that's what I feel like we lost. not an election. but any remaining belief we had that people are basically good.

because it seems they're not. at least not around here. the cold hard fact at the end of the day is that the majority of our country looked at a senile, racist, fascist criminal grifter [eta: how could I forget rapist in that description?] and either actively wanted him to hold the highest office in the land, or just didn't care whether or not he did. they know exactly what he's going to do, and they're fine with it. and that hurts so much that it is nearly unbearable.

how do you move on from that? how do you cope with the fact that there's something so deeply rotten at the core of your fellow man? how do you deal with that? how do you fight back?

I am full of so much grief that I literally don't know where to put it.

so I don't want to fight anymore. I'm tired. I'm nauseated. I'm angry. But most of all, I'm sad. I can't do it right now. and I think that's probably okay. I think in six weeks or six months I'll feel differently. but right now I just can't do it. and I think the most important thing really can be to take a step back and focus on something else. because I know these feelings are not productive. I know that there are still good people out there and there are still things worth fighting for. but right now, all I feel is this aching chasm where my faith in humanity used to be.

so I'm unplugging - not from fandom or tumblr, but from politics and news - for at least a little while. sometimes that's the most important thing to do if you want to still be able to get out of bed in the morning.