#seventeen x marvel
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incorrectquotesmcu · 2 years ago
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Pietro: My sister? Seriously?
Y/N: I can’t help how I feel.
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spy-battle · 2 years ago
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The spy tournament is here!
Please welcome our contenders, and voting will start tomorrow!
May the best spy win.
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seventhcallisto · 1 year ago
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Things I write for.
(Characters, people, shows, etc.) —Possible minor spoilers ahead.
〗If there is something you enjoy and don't see here, there is no harm in asking. It is likely I will know them/it.
〗There are certain characters I do not know well, but I will try my best to write for.
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〖 VIDEO GAMES 〗
Stardew Valley. Call Of Duty.
〖 SHOWS + MOVIES 〗
Bridgerton. Marvel. Sweet Home. The Umbrella Academy. AVATAR (AWOW). Stranger Things. Alice In Borderland. Star Wars.
〖 KPOP GROUPS 〗
SEVENTEEN. ATEEZ. BTS. TXT. ENHYPEN. GOT7. EXO. NCT. STRAY KIDS. P1HARMONY. ITZY. (G)-IDLE. TWICE. BLACKPINK. —ETC.
〖 ANIMES 〗
Demon Slayer. Attack On Titan. Jujitsu Kaisen.
〖 COMICS/WEBTOONS 〗
Lookism. (Haven't made it past ep. 190). How To Fight/Viral Hit.
(Revamped dec. 2023.)
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inlovewithgaycouples · 2 years ago
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close enough???
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onedumbho3 · 10 months ago
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I love looking at my reblogs from the very beginning bc I get to see all the phases I’ve been through
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toastybuggy · 2 years ago
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good morrow my good friends! my long awaited (probably not) special news is that i have created a patreon! i start college in january and doing this would be easier for me to do than balance a job, classes, and esports. if you would like to join, here is the link. thank you for continuing to support me! mwah
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1eehi · 1 year ago
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Hello!! I'm recently active again after over a year and looking for accounts to follow! Please like or interact if you post about or just like anything in the tags so I can follow♡♡♡
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snowbuxnyhoejo · 2 years ago
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Search by Fandom
Notes:
*I am going to say this AGAIN, there are very very VERY controversial ships/acts written about in some of these fics. If you continue to browse beyond this point after this warning you've dug your own grave so lie in it.
*This is a self-indulgent project that I have been wanting to do for a few years. I wanted somewhere I could go that had all my favorite fanfics.
*I'm not going to only include my favorite fics, but also ones that I think others will enjoy.
*I pretty much exclusively read my fanfics on AO3, I have very limited experience with Wattpad and/or other platforms but there are some on those platforms as well.
*This is going to take me and eternity to update but I'm dedicated :)
Anime:
Jujutsu Kaisen Trigun Haikyuu!!! Demon Slayer Naruto My Hero Academia JoJo's Bizarre Adventure
Idol-Verse
Seventeen Monsta X GOT7 BTS Pentagon NCT
TV/Movies
The 100 Voltron Stranger Things Supernatural Criminal Minds Marvel Teen Wolf
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mintgii · 2 years ago
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# ZINEB !! <3
hii !! i'm zineb ! i write oneshots (characters and reader-not y/n), i write for SOME kpop groups and some marvel, harry potter, percy jackson etc characters. feel free to request in my profile !!
kpop groups/ state which members- BTS, straykids, txt, seventeen, enhypen, kingdom,nct, xdinary heroes, le sserafim, stayc + feel free to ask other groups i could give an exception !
marvel character/actors- basically all except for the guardians
harry potter characters ONLY- all characters (including marauders)
percy jackson characters ONLY- all except for luke castallan (includes minor characters eg, nico (?) ethan nakamura alabaster etc)
++ more
HOW TO REQUEST: please state which character/member you would like, pronouns, sexuality, baseline/theme of oneshot, social media/normal, faceclaim, any background/other characters you wnt to see.
EXAMPLE: i would like a social media oneshot, J HOPE of BTS, she/her straight. theme: she's an actress + really big BTS fan and JHOPE comments on her post. face claim: cho yihyun
DISCLAIMER: I ONLY WRITE SFW AND FLUFF OR ANGST I WILL NOT WRITE ANY NSFW SO PLEASE REFRAIN FROM ASKING !!
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k-p0p-4ever · 7 months ago
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It’s sad how many unfinished fics I have
all the fics in my drafts watching me start a new one
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starkwlkr · 4 months ago
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teenagers | hugh jackman
an: i love y’all thanks for supporting my delusions about a 55 year old man (are y’all tired of me posting hugh/logan fics yet?? lol)
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Your seventeen year old daughter, Olivia, leaned her phone against the paper tower holder. You and Hugh were getting breakfast ready while Olivia did god knows what. You would see her film tiktoks and take selfies for her instagram often so you assumed she was doing that. You were proven right when music started playing from her phone.
“I think the apple’s rotten right to the core. . . “
You watched as Olivia danced to the song. You weren’t even sure what the dance was, but you found it fun. Hugh just stood there completely confused.
Olivia finished the dance the turned her phone to record yours and Hugh’s reaction. She obviously posted it to tiktok where marvel fans found it funny that you and Hugh didn’t know what was going on.
oliviaaajckmn: 1 million dollars and I’ll make mum and dad do the apple dance in their costumes
wandasmagic wolverine is so brat coded
peter3stan PLS MAKE THEM DO THE DANCE
gwenpool “thank you olivia jackman” we all say in unison
buckysarm MAKE THEM DO THE DANCE AND MY LIFE IS YOURS
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Hugh was a family man, it was no secret. Something he always loved doing was bringing his kids to work. Your two boys practically grew up on the x-men and avengers set. When Olivia was on set, Hugh was basically her assistant.
“Dad, I want a smoothie!”
“Dad! You’re not holding the umbrella right!”
But that was baby Olivia. Teenage Olivia spent most of her time in Hugh’s trailer or annoying her father while he rested in his trailer.
“Liv, go annoy Ryan or Shawn. Let me take a quick nap.” Hugh mumbled. He was still in his wolverine costume using a jacket as a blanket.
“I just want to know why Thor was crying? And don’t say who’s Thor! I saw the footage old man!”
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“Oh my god! Is that Loki?”
No, the god of mischief wasn’t on set of the new avengers movie. Olivia had named her puppy after her favorite marvel character. The internet found it funny that wolverine or your character wasn’t the favorite.
Olivia was currently paying you a visit on the new avengers movie. To her, it did feel weird seeing you behind the camera instead of in front, but at least you were still part of the new marvel phase.
Pedro Pascal, the new Mr. Fantastic, asked for permission to pet the miniature dachshund. Olivia nodded and smiled when Loki the dog immediately took a liking to the older man.
“This is so beautiful I think I might cry.” Olivia fake sobbed as Loki started exploring the avengers set, he almost tripped over several wires, but Olivia saved the pup from getting tangled. It reminded her of all the times she almost tripped on the camera wires when she was younger.
“Hey, mother,” Olivia greeted you with a kiss on the cheek. She wasn’t the only one giving you a kiss, Loki had jumped into yours arms ready to give you kisses. “Loki missed you too.”
“Only Loki?” You teased. “Or are you just here to get a picture with Pedro?”
“You know me so well, mom.”
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marvyu · 6 months ago
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TINY HANDS, BIG HEARTS
pairings. all seventeen members x female reader genre(s). pure fluff
summary. seventeen members meet their mini-me's and melt into fatherhood for the first time.
warnings. emotional, tenderness, detailed character reactions, lowercase intended, rewritten -- if i missed anything lmk!
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choi seungcheol
as soon as you place your newborn in seungcheol’s arms, he’s instantly overwhelmed with joy. tears well up in his eyes, and he holds the baby close, his protective instincts immediately kicking in. “look at you,” he whispers, voice trembling with emotion. you’ve never seen him so vulnerable yet so strong at the same time. he cradles the baby gently, his large hands careful and tender. every few seconds, he glances at you, eyes filled with gratitude and love. seungcheol promises right then and there that he’ll protect and cherish your baby with all his heart. he’s in awe of this tiny life you both created, and the reality of being a father hits him in the best way possible.
yoon jeonghan
jeonghan can’t stop smiling as he gazes at your baby. he gently touches their tiny hands, marveling at how small and delicate they are. “hey there, little one,” he whispers sweetly, his voice soothing and gentle. he leans in closer, eyes filled with warmth and adoration. you can see how natural he is with the baby, as if he was born to be a father. every little movement or sound your baby makes brings a new wave of joy to his face. he’s in his element, already planning all the sweet moments and gentle guidance he’ll give as they grow. jeonghan’s heart is full, and it’s clear he’s ready to pour all his love into this new chapter of your lives.
hong jisoo
jisoo softly sings a lullaby to your newborn, his voice calm and melodic. as he holds the baby close, he gazes down with a look of pure love and pride. “you’re so precious,” he murmurs, a gentle smile playing on his lips. you can see the contentment in his eyes, knowing that he’s holding the best part of both of you. every note he sings seems to weave a spell of calm around your little family. jisoo is proud and content, feeling an immense sense of fulfillment. he’s already imagining the future filled with music and love, teaching your child the beauty of song and the importance of kindness. he’s never felt more complete.
wen junhui
junhui laughs with excitement the moment he sees your baby. he talks to them in a playful manner, his voice filled with energy and joy. “hey there, tiny one! i’m your dad,” he says, eyes twinkling with delight. he’s full of enthusiasm, his laughter infectious. every little coo or wiggle from your baby sends him into fits of giggles. junhui is already planning all the fun and playful moments he’ll share with them, from silly faces to playful games. his heart is bursting with happiness, and you can tell he’s going to be the kind of dad who fills your child’s life with endless joy and laughter.
kwon soonyoung
soonyoung beams with happiness as he holds your newborn. he can’t help but make playful faces to get them to smile, his affection evident in every gesture. “you’re my little star,” he coos, his grin wide and bright. his happiness is contagious, filling the room with warmth. soonyoung’s playful nature shines through, but there’s also a deep tenderness in the way he cradles your baby. he’s already imagining all the dance routines he’ll teach them, all the ways he’ll encourage their creativity and joy. his heart is full of love, and he’s ready to shower your child with all the affection and fun he has to give.
jeon wonwoo
wonwoo quietly admires your baby, a gentle smile playing on his lips. he holds them carefully, his touch light and tender. “you’re amazing,” he whispers, eyes filled with awe. you can see how deeply moved he is, his usual calm demeanor softened by this incredible moment. he’s content to just watch the baby’s tiny movements, memorizing every detail. wonwoo’s love is quiet but profound, and he’s ready to be the steady, reliable presence in your child’s life. he may not be the loudest or most expressive, but his love is deep and unwavering. he’s already planning all the ways he’ll support and nurture your baby as they grow.
lee jihoon
jihoon looks at your baby with awe, a mix of shyness and tenderness in his expression. he’s a bit hesitant at first, but as soon as he holds them, you can see the love in his eyes. “hello there,” he says softly, his voice almost a whisper. he’s incredibly gentle, as if afraid to disturb their peaceful sleep. jihoon’s heart swells with emotion, and he’s already thinking about all the lullabies and songs he’ll write for them. his shyness melts away as he starts to bond with your baby, his natural tenderness coming to the fore. he’s ready to be the most caring and dedicated father, pouring all his love into this tiny new life.
lee seokmin
seokmin is full of joy, his smile so wide it looks like it might split his face. he can’t stop grinning as he holds your baby, eyes sparkling with happiness. “you’re perfect,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. he sings softly to them, his voice a gentle lullaby. every note is filled with love, and you can see how deeply he’s already bonded with your child. seokmin’s joy is infectious, and you can’t help but smile along with him. he’s ready to be the most loving and joyful father, filling your baby’s life with music and laughter. his heart is so full, and he can’t wait to share every moment of this new journey with you.
kim mingyu
mingyu is very emotional as he holds your baby for the first time. tears well up in his eyes, and he can’t help but smile through them. “i can’t believe you’re here,” he whispers, his voice full of awe. he cradles the baby gently, his large hands surprisingly delicate. every little movement or sound from your baby brings a fresh wave of emotion. mingyu’s heart is overflowing with love, and he’s already imagining all the ways he’ll protect and care for your child. his emotions are raw and powerful, and he’s not afraid to show them. he’s ready to be the most dedicated and loving father, cherishing every moment with your baby.
xu minghao
minghao is calm and serene as he holds your baby, his touch gentle and reassuring. “hello, little one,” he says softly, his voice a soothing balm. he strokes their head softly, eyes filled with a deep, quiet love. minghao’s presence is calming, and you can see how naturally he takes to being a father. he talks to the baby in a gentle, melodic tone, his words full of love and promise. minghao is ready to be a calm and steady presence in your child’s life, guiding them with love and wisdom. his heart is full, and he’s already planning all the ways he’ll nurture and support your baby as they grow.
boo seungkwan
seungkwan is excited and lively, his energy filling the room as he holds your baby. “look at you! you’re amazing!” he exclaims, eyes wide with wonder. he talks to the baby with enthusiasm, his voice full of love and excitement. seungkwan’s reactions are so spirited that he makes everyone around him laugh. he’s already planning all the fun and lively moments he’ll share with your child, from games to songs to endless laughter. his heart is bursting with joy, and he’s ready to be the most fun and loving father. seungkwan’s energy is infectious, and you know your baby will always feel loved and cherished.
chwe hansol
hansol is amazed and a bit speechless as he holds your baby for the first time. he smiles gently, eyes wide with wonder. “wow, you’re really here,” he murmurs, voice filled with awe. he holds the baby close, careful and tender. hansol’s usual cool demeanor melts away in the presence of your newborn, revealing a softer, more vulnerable side. he’s ready to be the kind of father who’s always there, offering quiet support and endless love. his heart is full, and he’s already imagining all the ways he’ll share his passions and interests with your child. hansol’s love is deep and steady, and he’s ready to pour it all into this new journey.
lee chan
chan is overjoyed as he holds your baby, his smile wide and bright. he can’t help but dance around a bit, his excitement palpable. “you’re incredible!” he exclaims, eyes shining with happiness. he keeps looking at the baby in wonder, his heart full of love. chan’s joy is infectious, and you can see how deeply he’s already bonded with your child. he’s ready to be the most enthusiastic and loving father, sharing his energy and joy with your baby. chan’s heart is bursting with happiness, and he can’t wait to fill your child’s life with love, laughter, and endless fun.
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‎‎‎‎‎© marvyu 2k24 — please do not copy, repost or translate any of my works on other platforms: i do not tolerate them at all.
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ylangelegy · 18 days ago
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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!
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☆ 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.)
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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.
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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.
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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. 
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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."
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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."
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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. 
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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.
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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.
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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. 
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sxnnimoon · 2 months ago
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reblogging to see if this catches anyone 😫
i took a huge break from here but am back !!
i’ll be updating some works i have here, uploading new work and taking requests!!!
when sending a request refer to my pinned post to see where i have who i write for !
it’s good to be back and i hope to create more content for you all
-saturn
s m || m l
╭・🕸️𓂃❨˖ ₊ ⊹
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queenshelby · 7 months ago
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AMERICAN GIRL (PART ONE)
Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Grace's Stepdaughter!Reader
Warning: Grace is a bully, infidelity, taboo
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On a brisk autumn day, you and your younger sibling Emma sailed into Liverpool harbor. You each carried a large, old-fashioned cart filled with towering brown suitcases, with a satchel casually slung over your shoulders.
The journey had left Emma exhausted, clinging to you as she marvelled at the unfamiliar sights of the port with wide eyes.
"I'm afraid," she confided in you, her words barely audible as they grazed your ear.
"I understand Em, but we have each other, and I will always look after you," you comforted her, putting on a smile. You promised to always take care of Emma, and true to your word, you have been her guardian angel since the day she arrived in this world.
Shortly after Emma was born, your mother sadly passed away due to unexpected complications during the pregnancy at her age.
It was a shock to everyone and left you to step into the roles of both mother and sister to Emma at the young age of 12.
Even in your youth, you held onto the hope that your father would one day find love again. Little did you expect that it would come in the form of Grace Burgess who was a young Irish woman with no money to her name after fleeing England in a haste. Grace had cleverly leveraged his wealth and power to her benefit despite their significant age difference.
Your father fell head over heels for her the moment he laid eyes on her at the corner grocery store in New York, just after your 13th birthday.
Their romance blossomed quickly, leading to marriage in less than a year.
At the tender age of seventeen, your father's love for her tragically transformed into heartbreak as she started a romantic relationship with a man from England - the very same man you were about to start living with.
Thomas Shelby was a name that sent shivers down the spine of those who knew of him - an enigmatic and formidable figure who held significant sway in the depths of England.
In the streets of Birmingham, he controlled his own illicit kingdom, bending the rules to his liking. And yet, your stepmother Grace couldn't help but be drawn to him, just as she had been to your father all those years ago when they first crossed paths.
Just before ending his life due to a broken heart, your wealthy father decided to cut ties with his second wife, leaving all his possessions to you and your sister for your 21st birthdays. This decision left Grace boiling with rage.
Soon after, she vanished to be with her lover in England and the two of you were forced to reside with a cruel family member instead as you had not yet turned 21, being the age of adulthood in America.
Within less than a year of living with this man however, you brought about his demise with a single bullet to the head, all because he dared to touch your sister Emma. It was in that moment that your entire world began to shift.
After a series of run-ins with the law leading to stints in juvenile detention, your father's lawyer came to the rescue, securing your freedom at the age of nineteen, albeit with the catch that you had to leave the country for good.
Of course, you gave your consent, but you were taken aback when it was revealed that your grandparents had struck a deal with Grace, out of all people, to care for you and Emma until you turned 21 and inherited half of your father's wealth.
What also came as a shock was the discovery that for the past two years, your family had been colluding with the Shelby Family, smuggling liquor into the United States without your knowledge and you knew that this must have been Grace's doing.
Grace had always been fascinated by the concept of wealth, much like your grandparents and uncle who shared her passion. Therefore, it didn't come as a shock to you when you recently stumbled upon the name 'Shelby Company Limited' in multiple transaction records within your grandfather's office.
While you understood the reasons behind everything relating to the business deals between your family and the Shelbys, the mystery still lingered as to why Grace decided to take you and Emma in after all the turmoil she had caused. After all, she had found herself entwined with a man of considerable wealth, so she had no need for the money that your family would have been willing to pay her for looking after you and your sister unless, of course, she was worried it wouldn’t last.
After two years had passed, this man still hadn't made her his wife, leaving you to ponder whether she harboured any doubts about his commitment to ever tying the knot.
Your stepmother may have been anxious about her partner abandoning her once the business arrangement in the US came to an end, a deal that she likely orchestrated and this, in itself, made you think that, perhaps, you would now finally have the upper hand.
As any young woman in your situation would, you nurtured a deep-seated anger towards Grace. She was the last person you wanted to rely on, let alone live with.
But you shoved those emotions down as you and Emma disembarked the large ship, weaving through the bustling crowd, ready for what lay ahead.
Just as instructed, outside the dock, you were greeted by a young man named Finn.
Finn, in his early twenties, extended his hand to take your luggage with a friendly smile as you approached.
"I am Finn, and you must be Y/N and Emma, right? Tommy has sent me to pick you up," he told you and Emma clung to you tightly, before peering at Finn suspiciously.
"Nice to meet you, Finn," you replied, offering a warm, polite smile.
Once your luggage was stored securely in the back of the Bentley, the three of you set off on the two-hour journey from Liverpool to Birmingham.
Emma's head rested on your shoulder as she slowly drifted off to sleep, her energy depleted from the journey, while Finn was attempting to make small talk with you while, occasionally, looking back through the rear-view mirror.
It was obvious to you that he had already taken a liking in you, but his youthful charm and charisma was not enough to sway you, not after everything that had happened in the past.
You acknowledged his attempts with brief responses, unable to fully engage in the conversation until he brought up the fact that you had killed a man.
"So, my brother mentioned that you had to leave New York because you killed someone. Is it true?" Finn questioned earnestly and without any filter whatsoever.
Your heart raced as you contemplated the best way to respond to his question.
"Yes, it's true," you finally admitted bluntly, looking straight ahead, not wanting to engage in a detailed conversation about it.
Finn, seemingly surprised by your response, paused before shifting the Bentley into a higher gear.
"Did you shoot him?" he asked, curiosity piqued.
You nodded, your jaw set.
Finn didn't press for more details, for which you were grateful. But you could sense his intrigue as he glanced at you through the rearview mirror.
Emma stirred in her sleep, mumbling softly, drawing your attention back to her peaceful face. You smoothed her unruly hair back, your heart swelling with protectiveness.
You would do anything to keep her safe. After all, you had already lost so much in your life already, so you could not lose her as well. 
***
Eventually, the streets of Birmingham came into view, appearing as a striking contrast to the glamour and elegance of your hometown. 
"Wow, this is different," you murmured to yourself, your gaze locked on the sprawling slums that lay outside the car window. There were workers fighting each other and whores selling themselves on the cobblestone streets, while children ran in all directions, many of them ragged and filthy.
"Don't worry. I am taking you somewhere nice," Finn assured you, seeing the look on your face and you could only hope that he was right, because if this was what Birmingham looked like everywhere, you wondered how you could possibly survive here for the next two years.
Despite Finn's enthusiasm, something about the place left you feeling uneasy, like a predator lurked in the shadows and you could see the appeal for criminals to operate here.
Before long, the Bentley turned into the private road of a luxurious home outside of Birmingham  .
The driveway was long, shielded by trees, and it wasn't until the last bend that you caught a glimpse of the mansion at the end.
The house was stunning, with intricately carved mahogany furnishings, rich velvet curtains framing large bay windows, and marble floors polished to a high sheen.
The structure exuded opulence while maintaining a cozy air with its plush décor.
Upon arrival, Finn hopped out of the driver's seat and opened the back door for you and Emma.
You carefully stepped out onto the cobblestone driveway, feeling the weight of this new world pressing down upon you. Emma rubbed her eyes and slowly emerged from her drowsy state, taking in the splendor of the ornate mansion with fascination and open admiration.
Finn led you through the imposing oak door, which creaked slightly as he pulled it open. As soon as you entered, you were met with a grand foyer adorned with chandeliers that cast an amber glow upon the walls.
"You made it," Grace 's stern voice eventually echoed off the marble tiles, causing you to turn around.
She stood there in a long-sleeved maroon blouse and black pencil skirt, her piercing blue eyes sizing you up like some sort of puzzle she couldn't wait to solve.
Emma, seemingly intimidated by her appearance, slowly retreated behind you as Grace approached with determination.
"You look well, given the circumstances," she then said to you, her voice laced with a noticeable hint of sarcasm, causing you to roll your eyes.
"I was hoping not to see you again, but here we are," you murmured under your breath, drawing Grace's ire as she narrowed her bright blue eyes infinitesimally.
"You should be grateful that I took you in," she snarled sharply, causing you to chuckle.
"How much are my grandparents paying you to have us?" you said, unflinching, watching Grace's face for a reaction.
Grace's expression barely changed, merely raising an eyebrow as if amused before replying scathingly, "Nothing. At least not until you make it to 21, so you better behave," she warned.
You took a deep breath, realizing that this was not the time to engage in a war of words with your stepmother. You turned to Emma and noticed that she was trembling slightly and you could see the worry etched into her delicate features. You slipped your arm around her shoulders, pulling her close and offering what you hoped was a reassuring smile.
"Let's get you settled in," you said softly to Emma, who managed a weak nod in response as Grace turned and led the way down the grand hallway.
"The maids will show you to your rooms. You will be staying in the staffing quarters,"  Grace snapped as she pivoted and strode through an arched doorway, leaving you and Emma with two young women wearing crisp white aprons who appeared in your line of vision.
You watched silently as Grace disappeared before you turned to Emma, smiling despite the tension thickening in the air, and whispered gently, "She can't hurt us, Em. She needs us. So just ignore her." 
Emma nodded slowly, but it was clear that she wasn't entirely convinced.
You couldn't blame her - the past few years had been nothing but a series of harsh lessons for both of you, leaving you both vulnerable and wary. But deep down, you knew that things would be different here. This was a new beginning for the two of you, away from the cold-hearted family members who had mistreated you, and into the care of someone who, while intimidating and unpredictable, was bound to follow your father's final wishes for financial reasons.
You were determined to make the best of this opportunity, no matter how difficult that might be considering your complicated history with Grace and, with that in mind, you unpacked your suitcases and settled in.
The rooms were modest but comfortable, with the staff quarters being clean and well looked after, much to your surprise.
Soon enough, your first day in Birmingham was drawing to a close and after you put Emma to bed, you decided to have a warm bath before venturing out to explore this somewhat opulent mansion. 
You put on the satin robe which once belonged to your mother and strolled towards the grand staircase with bare feet, looking at all of the incredible paintings that lined the walls, showcasing various landscapes and portraits of people whose names you did not yet know.
As you reached the second floor, you came across a door which seemed slightly ajar and upon pushing it open, you discovered a library.
Your eyes widened at the sight of thousands of books neatly arranged on wooden bookshelves that stretched from floor to ceiling before, in the room next to it, finding a large piano.
You walked over to the piano and gently touched its surface, marveling at the intricate carvings before looking back at the books surrounding you.
The library was quiet, save for the occasional creak of the old wooden floorboards settling. You moved further into the room, running your fingers along the spines of various titles.
There were novels from authors you recognized like Charles Dickens, Jane Austen and the Bronte sisters but there was also an array of non-fiction texts ranging from science, philosophy to mathematics and history.
There was also a section dedicated to poetry where you spotted a few works by Lord Byron, Samuel Taylor Coleridge and William Wordsworth which intrigued you.
Despite the vast quantities of books in this room, the smell of old leather-bound volumes filled the air as if it was just yesterday when they were placed on these mahogany shelves.
Just as you were about to pick up a book of poetry, the door creaked open, and you heard a dark voice behind you.
"It's quite sad, really," the man said, his tone heavy with contempt. "The book, I mean," he clarified as you turned around, meeting the stranger's gaze.
"I am Thomas Shelby and you must be Y/N,"  he introduced himself, approaching you with a confident stride.
Your eyes widened as you took in the sight of the man who stood before you. He was handsome, there was no denying that, but it wasn't just his chiseled features or his magnetic blue eyes that caught your attention. No, it was the air of danger that surrounded him, like a cloud that warned others not to get too close.
You composed yourself, extending your hand towards him. "Yes, I am Y/N. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr Shelby," you greeted him with a polite smile, determined to maintain your composure.
"Please, call me Tommy, eh,"  Thomas replied, his cockney accent more pronounced than you'd expected.
He took your offered hand, giving it a firm shake before letting go and stepping back to study you with his intense gaze which lingered a little longer on your bare legs than it probably should.
"Thank you for letting me and my sister stay here, with you," you said almost professionally , breaking the silence. You had to admit, Thomas was an intimidating man but you held your ground without flinching under his scrutiny.
"Well, it wasn't my choice," he chuckled. "Grace practically begged me and I find it rather difficult to say no to her these days,"  he admitted, his tone softening.
You couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at his candidness. "Well, my stepmother can be persuasive, I give her that," you told him while putting the book back into the shelf. 
"You could say that," he replied, offering little insight into their relationship. "Do you drink?" Thomas asked in a manner so casual that the question caught you off guard, but your curiosity was sparked, and you wanted to know more about him. Despite his intimidating presence, he struck you as an intriguing puzzle you couldn't wait to solve.
"I wouldn't say no," you responded with a slight tilt of your head, smiling coyly.
Thomas chuckled at your response before turning around to pour two glasses of whiskey from a crystal decanter on the leather-topped table nearby. With an elegant grace, he handed one to you.
You took it with a slight nod, allowing your fingers to graze his before taking hold of the glass. The warmth spread from your fingertips and up your arm, causing a pleasant shiver to run down your spine.
"There you go, now you can keep me some company," Tommy said with a sly grin as he took a sip of his whiskey and sat down.
"Why don't you get Grace to keep you company?" you asked as you followed suit, feeling the alcohol burn your throat and spread through your body, warming you from the inside out. 
"Because, by now, I would assume that she is sound asleep," Thomas replied, chuckling wryly.
"Well, it is midnight already, which brings me to the question of why you are still up," you asked, raising an eyebrow at him.
"Because I can't fucking sleep, Love," he replied in a tone of voice that made your heart race, "there is always business on my mind, day and night." 
You stared at him for a moment, contemplating whether or not to ask more about his life. After all, you had heard stories about Thomas Shelby and his criminal empire. 
"Well, the booze doesn't export itself to New York now, does it?"  you replied, a small smirk playing on your lips.
Thomas chuckled at your response, finding amusement in your wit. He appreciated a challenge - it was something he hadn't encountered in a while. Grace had always been so timid around him, obedient almost. But you, on the other hand, didn't cower in the face of his daunting presence.
"So you know what I do, eh?" Thomas agreed, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "Did Grace tell you?" Thomas questioned, a slight glint in his eyes as he studied you intently. His gaze was unwavering, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of discomfort at his scrutiny. However, you refused to let him intimidate you, meeting his gaze head-on.
"Oh god no. My stepmother would not discuss matters like this, not with me anyway. She very much dislikes me," you told Tommy as he lid himself a cigarette, his gaze never wavering. "But I know more about my family's business interests than one might think," you admitted, reluctant to speak ill of Grace.
Tommy's lips quirked upwards before he exhaled a cloud of smoke. "That doesn't surprise me, Love. A little birdie has told me that you had some run ins with the law recently, which is why you are here now, in fucking Birmingham of all places,"  Thomas said, his tone laced with an underlying hint of mischief.
He leaned back against the leather armchair, his eyes never leaving yours as he took a long drag from his cigarette.
"Well, it's safe to say that I had made some mistakes in the past," you admitted, holding his gaze firmly. "But I had my reasons for doing what I did," you explained, and  Thomas chuckled at your response, finding your confidence endearing. He had always admired a strong-willed woman - and you were undoubtedly that.
"We all have our reasons, Love,"  Tommy agreed, his tone softening.
You took another sip of your whiskey, the fire in your throat becoming increasingly comforting, and you let out a sigh. The truth was that you had always been impulsive, driven by emotion rather than reason.
You took a moment to gather your thoughts before speaking. "I suppose you're right," you admitted, swirling the amber liquid around your glass before raising from your seat.
"It's getting late and I should probably get some sleep," you said before thanking Tommy for the drink.
Your gaze lingered on him for a moment, studying his features as he did the same with you. There was a spark of curiosity between the two of you, but you quickly tried to push your intrusive thoughts away. 
"Good night, Y/N,"  Thomas murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fleeting moment before you turned around and walked towards the door, hiding your body's reaction to his intense gaze.
"Goodnight," you replied softly, taking one last look at the library before stepping out and closing the door behind you.
You couldn't shake off the feeling of uneasiness that clung to you like a second skin. You shook your head slightly as if to clear the thoughts away, telling yourself that you were only imagining things.
But the way he had looked at you, the slight hint of something deeply sensual in his gaze, lingered and left you with a curious sensation.
You made your way to your guest room, undressing slowly before slipping between the smooth sheets. Emma was already fast asleep, her gentle snores barely audible as you switched off the bedside lamp. The room plunged into darkness, leaving only the faintest gleam of moonlight to cut through the curtains and cast thin stripes of silver upon the walls.
You stared up at the ceiling, the alcohol swimming lazily in your veins and causing your thoughts to swirl with unclear notions.
As much as you tried to fight against the growing allure, Thomas Shelby had intrigued you. There was no denying it. He possessed an air of mystery and darkness that called out to that impulsive part of you like a siren's song which was a part of you which you knew you had to suppress. 
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alexsnerdycorner · 3 months ago
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Touchy-Feely
Title: Touchy Feely
Word Count: 3011
Warning: Smut, Swearing, Unprotected sex, a bit of an age gap, talk of attempted incestuous rape (one sentence).  Bisexual Charles and logan. AFAB reader, dirty talk (so sorry for horrible it is), Oral sex, P in V sex, Anal (Male receiving), Praise kink, multiple female orgasms,
Fandom: X-Men movies / Marvel
Pairing: Charles Xavier X Fem!Reader X Logan
Rating: Mature
Summary: This is based on a request I got from my old fandom blog. I’ve rewritten it, added smut, and edited it. The reader (F) has the ability to make people aroused on contact (much like Alisha from Misfits) and to manipulate others emotions, memories, and more. This is post Days of Future Past, but Charles still has hair and ability to use his lower body because it made sense for the story.
A/N: I had a difficult time rewriting this as I had an ex named Chaz, which is short for Charles/Charlie and he graped me. I’ve always loved Charles Xavier and I’m trying not to let the grapist get to me, but sometimes I am unsuccessful. I hate myself for letting things go so far as to “allow” him to do this to me. But I kinda flinch every time I hear his name or variations of it. Also, this is my first time writing a threesome. Please don’t judge it that harshly.
You discovered your powers five years ago when you turned seventeen and went on a date to prom and your boyfriend’s best friend asked for a dance. This led to him trying to drag you to the bathroom to fuck you. That was when you found out that you could make anyone feel aroused just by touching them. Your boyfriend of the time broke up with you because there was no way he’d be seen dating a mutant freak. You knew for sure you were a mutant when your father tried to comfort you that night and wiped the tears from your eyes and tried to undress you. Luckily your mother was home to drag him off.
You were angry, and wished that he knew better. Better yet, you wished that he would try to burn his hand off. A moment later your father turned on the stove and stuck his hand over the burner, catching his hand on fire. That was when you found out you also had the ability to influence people’s actions and thoughts.
After that, your parents sent you away to Charles Xavier’s school for mutants, or, the nicer way to put it, gifted individuals. Charles took you in out of the goodness of his heart, as he would with any other mutant. You never told him of the embarrassing powers of eroticism, only of your ability to manipulate other’s emotions, actions, and memories. Your first week at his school after Bobby Drake pushed past you and accidentally touched your hand, you had to forcibly push him off you. He didn’t know any better so you altered his memory of the situation. But you were still so visibly upset that the professor, who was ten years older than you, tried to comfort you, you stumbled back to avoid his touch. But were unsuccessful, able to tell how aroused he was by the look in his eyes.
You then confided in him about your true powers and afterward made sure that the other students knew not to touch you, claiming you had a power similar to Rogue’s. Charles always took special interest in you and allowed you to stay at the mansion over the holidays and summers when all the other students went home. You grew to like and desire him, but were too scared to say anything because he was your mentor, but suspected he to had feelings for you. Eventually, you had graduated and became a full-fledged member of the X-Men.
While there, another man also took interest in you, Logan. He was a good-looking man with large muscles and claws made of adamantium. You could feel a lapse in his memories and tried to work with him to get them back. All attempts made were unsuccessful.
Today, you had pretty good control over your powers and it was a few days until your twenty-first birthday. Everyone was on vacation for the start of the holidays leaving you, Charles, and Logan alone in the mansion. You woke happy to get some peace and quiet for once instead of having to deal with students and teaching. You spent the whole day reading for your leisure in the library, but not long before dinner time, you went back to your room to change as Charles requested that you join him for dinner. You put on an alarmingly short dress for your taste that hugged all the right curves.
When you arrived in the dining room Charles sat at the table with your favorite meal in front of the two set seats. You wondered why logan wasn’t joining the two of you.
“Logan is out for the night,” Charles said, looking up through his scraggly brown hair. He paused a moment as you tried to hide a frown, “Good evening, Y/N”
“Hi, Charles,” you smiled at him and sat next to him. You made small talk as you ate dinner.
“Oh, Y/N, I have something for you on the kitchen counter. Would you be a doll and go get it.”
“Really?” your eyes glowed with excitement as you stood and walked to the kitchen. On the island counter sat a small cake iced with the words Happy Birthday Y/N and next to it was a small black velvet box with a white ribbon tied neatly around it. Below your breath, you gasped, “What?”
“Open it,” Charles whispered in your mind.
You smiled and shook your head, “Charles, get out of my head.”
You walked back out into the dining room with the box in your hand.
He had a big stupid grin on his face that you just wanted to kiss away, “Just open it.”
You carefully untied the bow and pulled the top back a bit roughly because the hinges on it stuck. You gasped when you saw what was on the inside of the box. With a huge smile, you took the small necklace into your fingers and examined it. It was in the shape of an infinity sign but with hearts on each end. Beautiful red crystals lined the pendant.
“Oh my god, Charles, it is so beautiful!” you looked up at him, “Thank you so much!” you walked over to him, “would you put it on me?”
He smiled, “of course.”
You handed him the necklace and pulled your hair out of the way. He put the necklace over your head and as he clasped it in the back, his fingers ran across the top of your back. He jerked his hands away and cleared his throat, “I’m so sorry, y/n”
You forgot how much you longed for human contact until now. You turned around and shaking your head, you looked him in the eye, “No, it...it felt good.” You could tell it felt good to him too, his face was beet red and he was taking deep breaths, trying to cover up how aroused he was from your powers. “I forgot how nice the human touch could be.”
You could see that he felt embarrassed for touching you, he had the same face as he did in his office that day he first touched you.
“You know, I am an adult. I’m not that young girl whose hand you touched in your office years ago. I’m different. I have more control.”
He smiled, “I know. You have, uh,” he cleared his throat, “definitely changed. In more ways than one.”
Your desire for him grew with every passing second. You could tell his was too.
“Do it again.”
“What?” Charles asked.
“Do it again. Touch me. I want you to touch me. It feels nice.”
“Y/N, I... I don’t want to take advantage of you like that...I-”
“Charles!” You interrupted. He stopped rambling and looked at you. “I like you a lot. I’m old enough to make my own choices. I know you like me too.”
“But, Y/N…”
“Charles, shut up,” you leaned forward and kissed him on the lips.
He put his hand on the back of your head and kissed you back harder. You straddled him in his chair.
Charles broke the kiss, “Logan’s going to be here any minute.”
“I don’t care,” you kissed him hungrily.
“He’s going to walk in on us,” Charles said between kisses.
“Good, let him. Maybe he’ll join us.”
Charles laughed into your lips and pulled your body closer to his, “God, you are so beautiful.”
“So are you,” you rubbed against him, humping his lap. He stood up, pushed his plate across the table, and set you on the dining room table and stood between your legs. You could feel him hard against you as he kissed you back harder, pushing his body against your own and let his hands wander.
“You have no clue how long I’ve waited for this. How much I’ve dreamed of this” Charles said as you trailed kisses down his neck. He let out a soft grunt.
“I do know. Who do you think put those dreams there to begin with” you slid his tweed jacket off him and tossed it onto the floor.
He let out a breathy laugh, “You sly little minx” and smiled into your kiss.
He traveled his hands up the skirt of your dress as you loosened his tie and unbuttoned his dress shirt. You could feel the heat between you and Charles. His tongue danced with yours. His hand slid on the inside of your upper thigh. You let out a soft moan of ecstasy. He grabbed at the hem of your dress and slid it over your head and threw it behind him. In your bra and panties, you slid his shirt off his lean and slightly muscular body as he marveled at the sight of you.
Charles made out with you some more before you moved your hands from his chest to his belt. You fiddled with the belt blindly as you were too enthralled in Charles to look down. As he slid his hand over the small of you back to the hem of your panties, you slid the belt off him, tossed it aside, and went back to his zipper and button.
Charles’ hand was at the clasp of your bra when you heard a deep and growling throat being cleared from the doorway.
“Come on, we eat on that table!” you pulled away from Charles’ lips, a small trail of saliva still hooking your lips together, and leaned your head on his shoulder. You saw Logan leaning on the door frame, trying to overt his eyes. But you saw what was truly in his eyes. Lust.
Charles looked up and saw Logan as well. You felt his hands travel down to button his pants back up, but you stopped him with one hand and announced, “We will take it to the bedroom. Under one condition”
“What’s that?” Logan asked, mostly to humor you.
“Join us,” You hopped off the table and stood in front of him. His throat bobbed as he tried to show restraint. You reach out to touch him, forgetting about your powers for a moment but caught yourself before you make contact. You drop your hand, “Please”
“He wants to, I can hear his thoughts. He wants it bad. Nearly as bad as you want him.” Charles interrupted, trying to make you feel better about almost touching Logan without consent.
“Stay outta my head, Charles,” Logan did not break eye contact with you.
“Is it true?” You whisper.
Logan growled again, but this time it was a different type of growl. It was a growl filled with want and desire. He reached out his hand and grabbed yours, he took your open hand and placed it on his hardening bulge, “Princess, I’ve wanted you from the first moment I laid eyes on you.”
Your lustful smile grew and you kissed him with a hard, deep, passionate kiss, “Then join us in the bedroom”
He swept you off your feet and turned to Charles, “Comin’ handsome?”  
Charles’ eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. And he followed Logan who led them to Charles’ bedroom. Once the door was shut behind the three of you, Logan lightly tossed you onto the bed and gave you one last kiss before taking his shirt off his body in one swoop.
Logan turned to Charles, “What’re ya waiting for? An invitation? The lady wants us naked. I don’t need to be a mind reader to tell you that.”
Charles stood there for a second too long for Logan’s liking so he stalked over to a stammering Charles, kissed him, and started to undo his zipper to his pants. Logan pushed down Charles’ pants and Charles stepped out of them, leaving him in his underwear. Charles closed his eyes and kissed Logan back as Logan backed them both up to where you sat on Charles’ bed. They pulled apart and looked at you. Heat rushed to your face and to your core.
“See something you like?” Charles spoke up while maintaining eye contact with you.
“I see two things,” You sat up in the bed and drew the both of them close to you. First you kissed Charles, then you kissed Logan. Your hands moved down to Logan’s jeans and unbuttoned and unzipped them. Charles took his pants and yanked them down revealing a large growing bulge in Logan’s underwear.
“Charles, I think Logan sees something he likes as well.” You smirked up at the men.
“I see two things,” Logan said. And pulled you so you were sitting on the edge of the bed. He knelt down in front of you and hooked a finger around your panties. While maintaining eye contact with you, he said, “I can smell how wet you are,”
Charles leaned down to kiss you while Logan slid off your panties and tossed them aside. Logan removed your bra with one hand. You took Charles’ boxers and pulled them down and then took his cock into your hand. You started to jerk him off. With your other hand you reached down to Logan’s head which found its way between your legs. His hands were on your thighs and he began licking your clit in a circular motion.
“Oh fuck, Logan,” you swore, lowering your head to Charles’ cock. You took Carles into your mouth and ran your tongue over the head. This elicited a groan from Charles. You moaned against his cock in approval.
Logan continued to suck at your clit as Charles took one of his hands and placed it behind your head to stoke your hair. You saw Logan reach down, remove his boxers, and pump his cock twice before returning one hand to your thigh and the other to your slit. He slowly worked one finger into your dripping cunt. You mewled with Charles’ cock still in your mouth.  You pulled at Logan’s hair as he added another finger. You felt a building tightness in your core.
You took Charles out of your mouth and moaned for both men to hear, “I’m close. I’m so fucking close.”
“Come for him darling,” Charles moaned as you continued to stroke his cock, “Come for him like the good girl I know you are”
With that you let out a loud moan that reverberated throughout the room. Logan added one last finger to your pussy and you came undone, clenching his head between your thighs.
“Oh, fuck, Logan!” You shouted. Logan removed his head from your thighs and looked up at Charles.
“Come down here and taste her on my lips,” he commanded. Charles followed the orders given to him and pulled his cock from your hands to kneel next to Logan. He took Logan’s member into his hands and kissed him on the lips. Logan’s hand rested on your knee while the other held the back of Charles’ head. Still recovering from your first orgasm, you watched for a moment as Charles and Logan made out.
Charles pulled away from Logan and turned to you, “You want a taste?” he asked.
You slowly nodded your head and leaned forward to meet his lips. You tasted your sweet juices on his lips and groaned, “I need you inside me, now.”
Charles looked to Logan.
“Give the princess what she wants, bub.” Logan broke their connection and stood up. Charles followed suit and stared while Logan commanded you go on your knees.
“All yours, Charles,” Logan whispered, “Get on the bed.”
Charles followed the instructions and knelt on the bed behind you. He guided his cock into your still wet cunt and drove all the way into you, causing you gasp. Charles bent over and kissed your back.
Logan moved from his place in front of you to behind Charles, “God, you two are so beautiful.”
While Charles moved in an out of you at an agonizingly slow pace, Logan worked on getting Charles’ ass ready for him. Both men were well endowed and Logan especially had girth to his cock. When Logan’s first finger made its way into Charles’ ass, Charles jumped a bit, not expecting it. But gasped in pleasure when he added a second finger.
“Y/N, You’re so fucking good. You are taking me so well, love.” Charles whimpered.
You moaned as he nipped the back of your neck. He picked up the pace and began slamming into you all the way down to his balls.  You felt the bed sink down behind the two of you and logan was undoubtedly lining himself up at Charles’ entrance. When you didn’t think that Charles could go any deeper, you let out a ragged breath when Logan pushed into Charles which made Charles push further into you.
The three of you moved in unison. You could hear Logan and Charles moan and groan and kiss. You felt yourself approaching climax. The knot in your stomach grew and grew.
“Fuck, Charles, I’m gonna cum,” You sputtered.
“Come for us, princess” Logan ground out.
You felt your walls clenching onto Charles’ cock and you moaned out, “Oh fuck, you feel so good!”
With the next few thrusts into you, you felt the knot burst and you came undone. With a grunt, Charles’ thrusts were becoming erratic and uneven.
“I’m close,” he panted and was next to come. He stayed, pushing his cum further into your pussy and moaning with pleasure. The bed creaked with Logan’s thrusting.
“I’m almost there,” Logan cried out. And with a few more thrusts he came into Charles’ ass with a howl.
Logan pulled out of Charles who then pulled out of you. The two men then situated themselves on the bed so that you were between them. You could feel sleep calling your name.
***
You woke up in the morning lodged between a hairy Logan and a snoring Charles. Neither of your companions were wearing shirts while their lower half remained covered by the sheet. You were wearing nothing but the sheet. You dared not wake them, so you stayed put, staring up at the ceiling with the sun shining in on your face.  
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