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envy-of-the-apple · 9 months ago

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Earth Kills Moon

Dark!Gojo Satoru x reader

Word count: 6.3k

Part one: Sun Eats Moon

Part three: Moon Starves Sun

Synopsis: A retelling of Sun Eats Moon in Suguru's perspective

(Warnings: forced relationships, bullying, non con touching, non con kissing)

Suguru liked you.

It wasn't even a crush. A passing interest, maybe. You were pretty. You had a nice smile. Though, he'd never directly spoken to you, he could tell that you were kind. Not in the artificial cherry most people were. Natural, like honey, never spoiling. You share the same homeroom as Satoru, and he'd always tended to be observant, unlike his friend. One thing he liked about you was how observant you were. You were constantly looking out for your friends, mere acquaintances, and everyone in your vicinity. Often, Suguru wondered if being a people-pleaser was natural or from a fear of not fitting in.

Suguru is observant. He notices the lingering gaze Satoru gives you when you walk away, hurrying to catch up with the rest of your friends. Satoru then turns back to the carton of chocolate milk you'd left him.

"Cute," Satoru says after a minute. It's more of an afterthought than anything. He pops the carton open. Suguru hears the fabric tear. He hums in agreement. The topic switches to something else, a hot celebrity maybe? Suguru can't remember. That day had been so insignificant to him. It hadn’t mattered to him for Suguru to remember anything further.

A few days later, Suguru noticed Satoru was spending a lot more time with you.

It was hard not to notice, actually. His friend attached himself to you like he'd die if he couldn’t. Satoru went everywhere with you now. Suguru caught him walking you from school, offering you rides in his new car, following you to the lunch hall. And if he couldn’t go to where you were, he’d drag you back to him. Watching you and Satoru was a bit like watching two magnets. North pole and South pole. So different, yet constantly finding the other.

“Tryna’ run away from me, now?” Satoru asks, a teasing lilt in his voice as he watches you fiddle with your bag.

You laugh, continuing to fish out your lunch box. “Just grabbing lunch.”

“Eat with us,” Satoru insists, “we found a great spot up at the rooftop.”

You meet Suguru’s gaze just then. He’d been silently lounging on a nearby desk, observing the two of you. He gives a smile. You return it. Polite. He wonders if your mother taught you to smile like that.

“I thought students weren’t allowed up there?” You ask Satoru.

The boy rolls his eyes. “So, who cares? It’ll be fun.”

You pause, right then. The tiniest of hesitation. Suguru wonders if you’re noticing just how different you and Satoru were. You, the people pleaser, meek, always more than willing to bend towards authority. Satoru was rougher, more resilient, uncaring of signs and rules. The gap between the two of you is astronomical. Could you feel it as well?

Whatever you’re thinking, it’s gone in a moment. You rise, giving Satoru another laugh. To Suguru, it sounds pretty.

“Well, have fun for me. Besides, I can’t ditch my friends. They’re waiting for me.”

With that, you give both him and Satoru a tiny wave, before disappearing out of the classroom. Suguru waves back. Satoru doesn’t. Instead, he keeps his eyes on your back until he can’t see you anymore.

“Got ditched again, hm?” Suguru teases. Satoru only groans, tossing his head back as he leans dangerously on the chair.

“Always leavin’ me for ‘em, too,” he complains, “so fuckin’ annoyin’.”

Suguru can only smile, getting up to follow his friend out the door. He can barely count how many times he’d seen this before, each with a different person. It starts the same. Satoru will cling onto you for a couple more days, and then ask you out. When you say yes, he’d date you for a few weeks before eventually getting bored and dumping you.

It’s a cruel cycle, something that’s just an inevitability with Gojo Satoru. The boy can’t stay in one place, he’s constantly moving around, never one to stop. For Satoru, Suguru was the most permanent thing in his life. Which made sense, they were pretty similar in terms of ideals.

A cruel cycle, and Suguru feels a tiny bit of sympathy for you. You were sweet, unlike the type Satoru typically went for. Honey. Natural. Truthfully, Suguru was a little disappointed as well. The type of disappointment he’d feel when someone took the last crab stick before he could. A fleeting feeling, one that ultimately wouldn’t matter.

◉

From the day they first met, Suguru knew one thing: Gojo Satoru has never been told no before.

It made sense. He was the only child to one of the most powerful families in the country. Spoiled from day one, some could say. Satoru grew up knowing nothing but wealth and prosperity. They met when they were both still in elementary school, still with high-pitched voices and large eyes. Suguru’s family was fairly affluent as well. Now that Suguru thinks back, perhaps their meeting had been orchestrated by meddling parents in order to form more connected. It didn’t matter, either way. It had benefitted all three parties, after all.

Yes, Suguru knew from the moment Satoru pointed at him and declared him his ‘best friend’, that Satoru had never been told no before.

Satoru was the Sun. The universe revolved around him, catered to him. Suguru supposed he wasn't much better considering he too spoiled his best friend in that sense. They were different. They'd been born different, coming from families who cherish them with wealth and power. Suguru supposes it was natural for them to be so intertwined. Like calls for like.

Suguru isn’t aware of the exact details, but he knows you rejected Satoru.

The boy doesn’t have to tell him. His friend is uncharacteristically quiet during that weekend. He has no interest in the arcade, or the next basketball tournament his team is going to compete in. Satoru just sits on top of Suguru’s bed, casually sucking on a carton of chocolate milk. Suguru glanced down at the abandoned PlayStation remote. He’d lost yet another game against his dark-haired friend with no complaints. Satoru didn’t even play

You’d really done a number on him, Suguru thinks to himself. Suguru would assume it’s heartbreak, but he knows his friend better than that. Something burns in his chest, but he’s pushing it away before he can figure out why. Nipping it in the bud. It was a cruel thought. A bad one. He should ignore it.

Well, it’s done. It doesn’t matter anyway. Satoru would eventually get over it. He’s not known to sulk.

He’s not there to see what Satoru tells them, but he’s there to see the effects.

It starts out small. Or perhaps just not noticeable enough. Gojo Satoru has always attracted attention, whether it was satisfactory or not. Lackeys, Satoru often calls them because they're too far beneath him to even be called equals.

Suguru notices their sudden interest in you before even you can. A harsh word here and there. Giggling at the word 'easy'. You peacefully trek on, not noticing the abuse until it turns physical. That starts at the end of Monday.

By Tuesday, they're already shoving you down each chance they get. You get surprised when it happens the first time, then the second, then the third. You have soft skin, plushy, Suguru could tell. He wondered if it was getting marked now. He wonders if you go home, peeling of your uniform, staring at the bruises of hands on your skin because you’re so fragile.

(They never go too far, not enough to completely injure. Suguru knows this because one time, one of the idiots had pushed you too hard. You’d stumbled, nearly hitting the back of your head with a metal locker. Satoru had seen. Suguru doesn’t know what Satoru did, but that particular one was gone the next time and the rest got the memo to scare, not injure.)

Satoru never takes part in this, but he keeps an eye on you sometimes. Tuesday evening comes and they both silently watch you through a window. You move through an empty hall, before they arrive again, slapping your binders out of your hands, chortling with each other. They're too far away to hear, but Suguru could bet it would sound like nails scraping against a chalkboard.

Out of the corner of his eye, Suguru watches his best friend. Satoru looks impassive, face blank as he stares down at your figure. Akin to a child watching ants burning through a magnifying glass, instilled with that innate desire to see them explode into ash.

When the lackeys leave, you bend down on the floor, collecting your stuff. Your hair covers your eyes, so he can't see your expression, but he can see your shoulders tremble. Were you-

A corral of people run to you. They lean down, picking up the stuff you had missed. You look up, your eyes are shiny but you're laughing when they say something. You wipe at your eyes, standing up as they lead you out of the hallway. Suguru had seen them hanging out with you before. They all seemed like they supported each other, supported you.

Suguru feels his frown deepen, conflicted. He doesn’t like it.

"It's not nice to pick on the weak, Satoru," he quietly says.

Satoru's eyes trail your figure out the door. He gives a small hum.

By Wednesday, your friends disappear from your side.

The abuse is getting worse, noticeable to the point where the rest of the student body is heavily avoiding you. Teachers won't raise a finger at what's happening. As much as they like to preach about their 'zero tolerance for bullying', Suguru knows they'll willingly turn a blind eye when matters involve Gojo Satoru. No teacher wants to deal with the wrath the Gojo family is more than willing to unlease for the sake of their heir.

Yet, you aren't getting it. You don't break, don't bend. He can feel the humiliation roll off of you in waves, yet you don't react. Which was strange because he knew your archetype. A people-pleaser, constantly bending over backward for other's sake. You want nothing more than to become part of the crowd again, completely invisible. You’re community-oriented. You thrive off of companionship. This ostracization must be killing you. Suguru doesn't get it until he spots your face, just once, narrowed eyes, anger.

Pride. He'd forgotten other people had that too. Though, Suguru admires it, a part of him knows it shouldn’t last.

Suguru thinks he does it because he pities you. You're a little naive. Suguru has your thought process figured out. You think if you take the torment long enough, Satoru would eventually just forget about you all together. Once he's done with you, you'd focus on picking up the pieces that used to be your life. It's not a bad plan, if you weren't dealing with Gojo Satoru.

The boy is a hurricane. Fast, unrelenting, unforgiving. Satoru won't stop. He won't stop until you're ruined and broken. Turned into a mere asteroid of what you once were.

So, Suguru decides to give you a push in the right direction.

The students have already created a wide circle for you by the time he steps in, bending down, picking up the stuff you had dropped. You're silent until he hands you his pieces. He doesn't bother responding to your timid thanks.

"Give in," he tells you, watching the way your eyes widen as you look up at him.

You're weak. Physically, emotionally. He could easily pick you up with one hand, crush your body with his fist. Satoru could eviscerate your body from existence. You don't stand a chance with him. With either of them.

His advice to you is good. Reasonable. And yet, he sees the face you make, the way you slowly get up. You won’t listen. That same burning feeling in his chest starts. It's gotten more painful.

You don't listen to him until you lose nearly everything. Just as he warned you. Friday comes. You become Satoru's. And it's a little too late for everything.

◉

Suguru doesn't think you ever learn that Satoru loves messing with you.

Or, perhaps you do, but you can't help it. You're too honest, too open. He often wonders if that's how you were raised. To be honest, open, vulnerable. Your parents must have filled your thoughts with delusions, coddling you with words of cheap motivation. The world is your oyster. You just had to reach out and take it.

Maybe now you're finally realizing, sitting on Satoru's lap, that all men aren't created equal.

Clearly, you weren't happy about it. Yet, you aren't complaining, sitting there pliantly legs firmly crossed, hands curled into tiny fists, staring rigidly on the floor. The first few times Satoru had done this in public, you were always biting your lip, tears threatening to fall. Now, Suguru thinks you just dissociate, coming back when Satoru laughs at something, jostling you in his arms.

It's a bit like watching a helpless bird on the ground, twitching and spasming after it had just collided with a glass window. Pitiful, but there was nothing that could be done. It's the inevitability of it all that makes him pity you more than anything else, really.

Every so often, your eyes would catch his. It's a quick glance, as though you were wondering if he was watching. He can barely catch it, but Suguru is observant. Much like you. It's meaningless, and your gaze returns to the floor. Your fists tighten.

Granting you mercy, Suguru stops looking at you during those times.

He's not sure how Satoru sees you. Perhaps, you're akin to a dog for him. Though, that might not be very good for you. Satoru hadn't been very good with animals when he was younger. Satoru had always been rough with any pets he came into contact with, pushing and tugging. Suguru doubted that had changed.

Satoru's is your official title. It isn't a relationship. It's an ownership. Unequal from the start. The one who holds the leash in the end, will always be Satoru.

It took a while for you to fully learn that.

Suguru didn't mean to catch the two of you. Looking back, it was probably because Satoru couldn't care less if someone was watching. Maybe Satoru was being obvious on purpose. It was a little while after school had officially ended. Suguru knew your usual routine would place you right at the library, scrolling through books. Satoru would most likely be there too, pestering you about this and that. It's the scene Suguru prepares himself to walk into.

Instead, you're wedged in between the white-haired boy and the wall, there's no space for you to do anything but sink. You're already crying (when was the last time you smiled?), trying to pull away but Satoru isn't letting you. He's gripping you by the chin, forcing eye contact. His sunglasses are off, tucked on his collar.

Suguru's close enough to hear. You're begging. Apology after apology. It's barely a whisper, but they're spilling out of you like a prayer. He can't discern the context, but he knows enough.

You made Satoru angry.

He's still smiling, but it isn't sincere. Almost bordering on mania as he tightens his grip on you, forcing you further into the wall. Suguru doesn't think Satoru has ever hit you before, but now he's wondering if quick violence was preferable to this.

"Don't be like that," Satoru chides as another squeak leaves your lips, "Where was that smile you were givin' him, hm? C'mon, pretty girl. You were wearin' it just a second ago."

"It-it wasn't like that, I swear," you continue to plead, still not realizing that it's too late, "he was giving me his notes. Please-please Satoru-"

"Wrong answer," he cuts you off, you flinch at his harshness but Suguru decides Satoru's being nice to you. He's been known to do worse, "we've been over this before, haven't we? Or did your stupid brain forget?"

You're choking down another hiccup. It takes a minute for you to calm down enough to speak clearly. Ever impatient, Satoru's hand digs into your shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Satoru," you say, "it won't happen again."

He tilts his head, waiting. You wilt under his gaze.

"I'm sorry...’Toru."

Satoru gives a satisfied hum, pulling back and Suguru can practically see your lungs sag with relief. His mania is gone, replaced by something much more lighthearted and carefree. Suguru'd seen it before, but it was certainly something watching Satoru go from one high to the next. Even to Suguru, it's terrifying to witness.

Suguru decides to make himself known right then. He comes out of the shadows, acting as though he'd just arrived. His friend lazily gives him a wave, curling an arm around your waist. You try to scrub away your tears with your forearms, unaware of how much Suguru had seen. Another mercy Suguru grants you. He doesn't acknowledge it.

The three of you sit in the library for half an hour until you're done pretending that you're studying. When Satoru walks you home, Suguru follows. He notes that you barely hesitate to give Satoru a chaste kiss on the lips, and he wonders how often his friend has demanded one from you for you to be so casual about it.

He thinks he gets it when he and Satoru are walking on the street without you. To Satoru, you aren't a dog. You aren't a pet, something that he keeps to see bark.

No, you are just Satoru's.

◉

Towards the end of the year, Suguru realizes that Satoru loves you.

He's nicer to you, now. Suguru doesn't think you've realized how softer Satoru's gotten, but the change is there. He spots less marks on you now. The biggest evidence he has is that stolen moment of you and Satoru. You'd accidentally fallen asleep during lunch break, dozing off on your desk. Satoru was right next to you, gently pushing your hair out of your face. Satoru loves you.

You've changed too. Adapted, he should say. You cry less, now. Each time he sees you, you look more and more put together. As though, you're done mourning. The final stage of grief. Acceptance.

Despite how much nicer Satoru is to you, he's still just as clingy. Suguru notices that even now, none of your former friends speak to you. No one at school does. It's an unspoken rule to not mess with Satoru's things.

Suguru can still remember the last guy who hadn't gotten the memo. A new student. Freshly transferred. Suguru had heard the conversation. The guy was hardly interested in you. It was nothing more than small talk. The pat on your shoulder had been thoughtless at least, friendly at most.

Satoru beat him until the boy was bloody and had a broken nose. A week later, he'd transferred again.

You're off limits. To everyone but Suguru.

The Earth is the only planet capable of sustaining life within this cold solar system. It's close enough to the sun to feel the warmth, yet far enough so it doesn't burn. It's strong, too. A powerful magnetic forcefield, capable of shutting down the sun's cosmic radiation. Thus, the Earth spins happily around the Sun, surrounded by a sea of dead planets.

So, sometimes when Satoru can't walk you home. Suguru does.

It was just the beginning of spring. The school year was starting to end. The school itself was starting to slow down. Teachers were getting less and less strict, less work was given out. It didn't matter. Colleges had already been picked. They were all close to the end.

You don't say much when the two of you are alone. Suguru understands. It's hard to say much of anything when you're crushed by the weight of Gojo Satoru. But Suguru could have sworn he'd seen a flicker of relief when he came to pick you up and not his friend. You're clearly happier when it's him. Suguru decides he likes how that feels. It's a quick feeling of superiority. Something that quickly disappears when your eyes flick down.

He knows where your house is, but he lets you take the lead anyway. Suguru figures it's the least he can do, give you that sense of control when nothing you do ever really does anymore.

You and him have forged a shaky companionship. He's not sure what he is to you entirely, but you seem reliant on him in some way. it’s his fault, he thinks. He wonders if it has to do with the contraception he'd given you. He can still remember the trembling hands as you took it from him, curling the packet into your grip. That day he went home and his fingers felt strangely itchy.

Does the Earth ever wonder if it can turn the Sun?

When he asks you a question, you answer. At least you aren't mute, though Suguru doesn't think he'd blame you if you ignored him. Your voice is stilted, with enough words to answer the question, but still not enough to fully sate him.

And then, you break.

Just a bit.

A tiny piece of you shatters, and you show yourself to him.

He'd been talking about something insignificant, college, his plans. Just ramblings. Somehow, Satoru comes into the conversation and he's talking about the area of his friend's college campus, how Satoru mentioned that he's looking for apartments for the two of you to stay in. And then, you're uncharacteristically scoffing.

"Right," you say, head faced down on the sidewalk as you kick a rock, "because I'm following him there."

Suguru can't help but place the sarcasm in your voice. The bitterness. He's heard it before, but it's a fascinating thing hearing it come from you. And then Suguru realizes that you accidentally gave something away.

You were leaving.

Somehow, it never crossed Suguru's mind that you were still rebelling, even now. And yet, he can't shake off the heat in your voice, your words.

You seem to realize this too, freezing.

He lets you falter for a few more moments before giving you a reprieve.

"Satoru's idealistic like that," he let out.

Your shoulders lower, and for the sake of both you and him, he doesn't press any further.

He doesn't let himself let it go, even when he drops you home, arriving to his own house. Always cold. The mansion's lights are always off. No one's ever home. And Satoru's out of town.

It's better this way, Suguru thinks as he lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling. No distractions, he can think better, as he replays your words over and over again. You were leaving. You were leaving. You were leaving Satoru.

The night passes. When Satoru comes back to town, he's joyful as always, an arm slung around your shoulders. Suguru watches the way he coos at you, saying how much he missed you. You take his affections the way you always do, with a strained smile and wavering eyes.

You glance at Suguru. Suguru stares right back.

For a moment, Suguru thinks he understands why people are so enthralled with solar eclipses. The moon is seen as an underdog in most instances. It must be thrilling when a weak satellite can cover the sun's rays. Even for just a little bit.

Suguru doesn't tell Satoru. He pushes the burning in his chest, ignoring the itchiness in his fingers. Things are better this way, right? After all, the two of you come from completely different worlds. It's nonsensical to think otherwise.

Two weeks before graduation, you disappear without a trace.

And Satoru breaks.

It's a slow dissent. It comes in stages. The boy is angry at first, searching for you at school, when he can't find you there he loses his facade and demands where you are from your parents. They can't give him a clear answer because you're an adult now and you barely told them a thing before moving out. Suguru doesn’t think they knew what Satoru was to you. He doesn’t think they ever will.

The heat fades day by day, Week by week. Satoru starts to deflate the longer you aren't in his hold, his to mangle, and grab, and keep. He stops taking care of himself. His skin became paler, cracked lips, hollow cheeks. His eyes turn into this grayish blue that Suguru can't bring himself to look at for too long. He loses weight day by day.

Suguru had never seen him react this way before. Satoru was always shining. He was the sun. Now, the center of the solar system was dying. He can feel himself dying with it.

Satoru hadn't just loved you. Satoru had been obsessed with you. He breathed you in, inhaled your essence like oxygen. You'd been a part of him; a necessity. And then, you tore yourself away, leaving him bleeding on the concrete.

Guilt. Suguru feels it in his stomach, rising to his throat, threatening to stain his clothes. It's too late to say anything now, so he keeps it huddled deep inside of him. Suguru hopes it'll never come out. He helps the best he can, being there for his friend, his best friend.

It takes a month for Satoru to start eating properly again. A few months later he starts regaining his usual physique. The gray in his eyes stays for a bit longer than Suguru likes. Suguru supposes he should take what he can get.

A year passes like that. The evidence of what you left behind fades, like bruises disappearing on skin. Suguru and Satoru become college students. Then, they graduate.

When Satoru joins the business, Suguru, his right-hand man, his second, his best friend, is right next to him. They’ve always worked well together, but that doesn’t change as they shift into adulthood. Despite how different Suguru and Satoru were, Suguru liked to think that their personalities were stagnant; unchanging even to the times.

What Satoru feels about you remains stagnant as well.

Suguru doesn’t think about you often, these days. Barely a few times a year, when he feels nostalgic enough to get out his old high school yearbook. He’d page through, spot your smiling portrait face. He’d find himself staring at you far longer than he liked too.

At first, Suguru thought Satoru was the same. Much like how one thinks about a lost toy they cherished when they were younger. The resentment would fade with time. Satoru didn’t speak about you for years.

Suguru hadn’t expected the girls, however.

He doesn’t notice the first one. He sees her, but he doesn’t internalize it. She’s hurriedly putting on her clothes after a clearly exciting night, so Suguru respectfully averts his gaze. He’s more focused on his exasperation at how Satoru had missed yet another meeting with the board. They would be less than pleased if they discovered Satoru didn’t show up because he was hungover.

The second time it happens, Suguru has a passing thought of how familiar the girl looked, despite being sure he’d never seen her in his life.

The third time it happens, Suguru realizes all the recent girls Satoru’s been bringing strike an uncanny resemblance towards you.

It’s not anything too obvious, but all of them would look a bit like you. Most would have your skin tone, your hair. One had your eyes, not the color, rather the shape of it. Satoru had kept her around the longest.

Suguru doesn’t say anything about it. Part of him wonders if Satoru is even doing it on purpose.

Suguru loves Satoru like he would his own brother, but his recent hobby was starting to get on his nerves a bit.

“So much work,” the man complains, “Why can’t we just send all this off to Ijichi?”

“He has his own work to complete,” Suguru reprimands, “the sooner you stop complaining, the sooner we can finish.”

Satoru rolls his eyes but moves to another page of meaningless paperwork; Something that would be scanned into their system and then tucked away into a random file cabinet. They currently sat in Satoru’s grand kitchen, lounging on the barstools after Suguru had pounded Satoru’s door in. Satoru had let him in with an irritated look, complaining that it was the weekend and he had ‘stuff’ to do.

“He’s my assistant,” Satoru retorts, “my work is his work.”

“The reason why we’re in this mess in the first place is because you kept pawning off your job to the poor man in the first place. You’ve given him wrinkles from just the stress of being in your vicinity.”

“That’s insulting,” Satoru counters, “my presence is nothing but calming.”

“You do the exact opposite, actually. A black hole that sucks the soul out of everyone who hangs around you.”

“You hang around me all the time and you don’t have wrinkles.”

Suguru smiles. “It’s because I don’t respect you enough to listen to anything you’re saying.”

Satoru’s about to respond, when another voice interrupts him. Alluring, feminine.

“Satoru,” she coos, “When are you getting back here?”

From his seat, Suguru has a clear view of Satoru’s bedroom. Only her head is peeked out, and Suguru notes her bare shoulders. Your eyes, and your lips this time. She’s tilting her head, mouth curved in a coy smile.

Of course. Suguru can only roll his eyes. There’s that same burning feeling in his chest. During the years, it hasn’t really gotten any better.

“Coming, coming,” Satoru calls back, “just a minute, babe.”

“Stuff to do, hm?” Suguru drawls with amusement. Satoru flips him off.

"Worry 'bout yourself," Satoru says, "when's the last time you got any, huh? Honestly, when's the last time you've taken a break? A vacation?"

"I can't," Suguru replies, "I'm always stuck babysitting you."

“I’ve been waiting for half an hour, ‘Toru." The woman interrupts. "Can’t you just do it later?”

Suguru hadn’t even noticed it. He brushed it off, barely hearing their conversation as he shuffled around the papers.

Satoru had.

He hums. Straightening his back.

“Yeah, I’ve changed my mind. You should head on home.”

At first, he thought Satoru was talking to him. Then, he hears the woman’s annoyed huff.

“Hold on, you’re kicking me out?” She asks.

“Yeah, sorry,” Satoru says, not sounding very apologetic, “I got a lotta’ stuff to do and you’re not gonna wanna stick around.”

His tone is light, but Suguru can’t help but place a sense of annoyance in them. The anger. His posture is stiff, almost like he’s primed for a fight.

‘Toru. She called him ‘Toru.

You used to call him ‘Toru.

“Seriously, I-”

“I hate repeating myself: Get the fuck out.”

There’s silence, and then Suguru can hear her mutter to herself as she shuffles inside the room. She comes out minutes later, not quite dressed, but presentable. She shoots Satoru a glare, to which he only waves off. The door shuts with a noticable thud.

“Back to work,” Satoru says, “do you feel hot? The AC has been acting up, lately.”

He carries on like that, back to normal, as though he wasn’t about to snap just a few minutes ago. Suguru follows suit, not aknowledging the outburst, much like he doesn’t aknowledge most things regarding you.

Later, Suguru laughs about the hypocrisy of it all. Satoru brings home physical reminders of you, but he refuses the remnants of you. The most intimate parts, he’d kept hidden away from his life, yet he still wishes to touch, to feel. He wonders how you’d feel if you knew that Gojo Satoru is wrapped around your finger, even now.

◉

Satoru had done something yet again. It's always something with Gojo Satoru. Suguru should have left him to deal with the legal team himself, but here he was, trailing beside the firm’s directors as the man droned on and on how well Mr.Gojo would be well taken care of how here our clients are family. He forces himself to push away that feeling in his chest, scorching his throat. He was getting sick of the constant blabbering. He’d glanced away for just a second.

And then he saw you.

You, not some remnant, not some picture, not someone similar. You. He knew it was you. A little older, a little taller. You’d switched the high school uniform for a blouse and a pencil skirt. Suguru stares. He’s tempted to say your name, seek you out, as though you’re old friends-

He reels himself back in.

You disappear through a frosted glass door, completely unaware of his gawking. You hadn’t seen him. Good. The firm’s director didn’t notice his pause, carrying on as though nothing happened. Suguru smiles and laughs at the horrible ice breakers, but he also steals a glance at the name of the door you went through.

Later, Suguru looks up Higuruma Hiromi. A well-established lawyer. Worked at the firm for nearly a decade.

You are his sole paralegal.

Law. He had never considered it for you. Now, he thinks it’s a little fitting. He can’t help it. He looks you up. You have no social media, most likely from a remnant fear, but he finds where you went to college, what your area of study was, where else you’d worked, your life. Questions he’d had for nearly a decade he finally has an answer.

Honestly, Suguru was a little mad it was all so easy.

He can’t see the entire scope of your life, but he knows you were happy after high school, away from Satoru. You seemed happy when he caught that glimpse of you. There was a slight smile on your face, you never did that with Satoru around.

Satoru’s a little pathetic, a thought he has to concede to. He’s still hung over you, while you clearly hadn’t thought of him in years.

Suguru stares at your picture a little more.

The burning feeling comes back again. Hotter, melting.

Oh.

Suguru is disgusted by you.

You, that bitch loitering in Satoru’s bedroom, that greedy firm director. Disgust, that sick feeling crawling down his stomach, seeping into his bones. He’s disgusted by the weak.

He’s even more disgusted when they think they can defeat the strong. Decieve them.

You always thought you were better than Satoru, better than Suguru, even from the beginning. Even when you rejected him. Even when Satoru’s goons were torturing you, you still thought you could get out of it somehow. Even when Satoru had his hand on your shoulder, claws sinking into your flesh, you were still looking for a way out. It was like watching a rat trapped in a cage, pathetically sniffing around for an exit.

The weak could never escape the whims of the strong. It was a truth of the world, something he’d always known and yet it’d take a decade for him to put the words together. The weak could never make a fool of the strong.

You are weak. A mere satellite floating along, before getting trapped in the Earth’s gravitational force. Suguru could crush you with one fist. Satoru could evisirate you to atoms.

Does the Earth ever wonder if it can turn the Sun?

“I’ve put together a legal team that will represent you.”

Suguru places the neat stack of documents onto Satoru’s desk. The white-haired man barely gives them a glance. Suguru knows Satoru won’t ever look at them, even when your name is hidden somewhere within the sheets, along with Higuruma’s. Suguru wonders how long it’d take for Satoru to figure it out. It’s a shame he won’t be there to see it unfold in real-time, but perhaps, once Satoru puts the pieces together, he’ll thank him.

Here, in the present, Satoru types away at his computer, barely paying attention to Suguru’s words.

“Oh, great,” Satoru says off handedly, “thanks, man.”

Suguru sighs.

“Uh, I love you?” Satoru tries again.

“Never repeat those words to me ever again,” Suguru responds, “I wish you’d be a bit more interested in this, considering it’s your fault the company is in this mess in the first place.”

Satoru gives a hushed hum of agreement. Suguru smiles.

“In other news: I won’t be here next week.”

That catches his best friend’s attention. Satoru gapes at him.

“You’re quitting?”

“No, idiot. I’m taking your advice. I’m taking a few weeks off. I already put it in the calendar that you never check so why did I even bother.”

“A vacation? You never take vacations, even when I beg you to,” Satoru squints at him, “What’s the occasion?”

Eventually, Satoru will figure it out. For now, Suguru wants to enjoy this.

“I worked hard this year. I should reward myself, shouldn’t I?” He reasons, “oh, and I have a surprise for you showing up in a week or so. Let me know what you think of it.”

“A gift? For me?” Satoru beams. “You really do love me.”

“Don’t push it.”

If Satoru was the Sun, then Suguru supposed he would be the Earth. Close enough to receive the star's radiance, but with a strong enough magnetitic field to shield from solar winds.

If Suguru was the Earth, then Suguru supposed you would be the Moon. A tiny cratered satellite he tugs along with him, forever in sight of the burning sun.

#yandere #yandere jjk #dark content #dark gojo satoru #dark jjk #non con touching #gojo satoru #yandere gojo satoru #x reader #bullying #harrassment #non con kissing #geto suguru

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readwritealldayallnight · 1 month ago

Text

Learning

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Reader

wc: 1k words

warnings/tags: fluff

“Said it would’ve made too much of a mess. Waste o’ his money.” Simon says, slopping another spoonful of pumpkin guts into the large bowl in the middle of the kitchen table. Your usual table cloth has been switched out with an array of this weeks newspaper, the black and white print covered in the sticky remnants of your idea of fun on a Friday before Halloween.

“Not even one?” You attempt to pose the question casually, hoping to disguise the sadness in your tone, concealing the way your heart breaks at the thought of a young Simon Riley having never carved a pumpkin, his father not even allowing him to partake in that simple tradition so many others enjoy.

“S’alright, lovie.” He says, seeing right through you and recognizing the hurt you hold for him, an indication of your longing to only see love and joy in his life. If only you knew that’s everything you give him. “Did watch a mate o’ mine shoot his pellet gun at some pumpkins one year, if that makes you feel any better.”

You roll your eyes at his attempt to make you laugh, digging your spoon a little harder into the sides of your own gourd as if it were the one to have wronged you.

“Well then I’m glad I ignored you and got them anyways.” You declare, giving each pumpkin a loving little pat on its side. Simon had told you outside the grocery store, seeing your eyes land on the bright orange displays outside the shop, that they weren’t necessary.

But the both of you knew he would never deny you anything you wanted, and so he ended up carrying the two large pumpkins under each bicep and to the car himself, not letting you lift a finger.

“How’s the inside of yours looking?” You ask him, coming around to his side of the table, affectionately running a hand through the strands of hair at the base of his skull, glancing into the pumpkin he tilts in your direction for you to see. You can feel a shiver go through him at your touch, a soft sigh leaving his lips.

You’re glad he’s home with you, where he can relax, allow his biggest stresses to be his girlfriend ogling his arms as he carved open the tops of pumpkins and gutted them with efficiency.

“You’d have to tell me, love, but I think that’s as empty as it’s gettin’.” He emphasizes by tapping his spoon on the side of the sphere, listening to the dull, hollow echo it gives.

“Looks perfect. Nice work, Simon.” You tell him, planting a quick kiss to his cheek before hopping back over to your seat, leaving him looking a few shades redder than before. “Know what you’re gonna carve?”

“It’s- it’s just a face, innit?” At your question, Simon finds himself pausing. He might have had a different childhood than most, but he wasn’t daft, he knew what a jack o lantern was supposed to look like. Carved eyes, a wicked grin or large frown, sometimes even a nose in between them both.

He didn’t consider himself to be a crafty person, but he’d been a butcher for crying out loud, he could carve some shapes into a pumpkin until it resembled a face, no problem. So why are you asking him about what he’s going to carve.

“Well yeah, that’s the go to, for sure. A classic.” You reassure him, noticing the slight tension returning to his shoulders. “You can carve a face, my love. Some people just do different, they get creative with it.” Shrugging, you grab the marker you’d set aside, beginning to map out the lines for where you plan on carving your own design. You’re distracted, eyes darting between your sketching and your phone where you’ve got the inspiration photo pulled up for reference.

You don’t notice Simon’s eyes squinting ever so slightly at you before darting to the pumpkin in front of him. ‘Get creative with it’? Is that what you’re doing? Is that what you’re expecting him to do? Hoping he’ll do? He glances over at you again and notices you’ve got a bloody reference photo and everything??

He finds his cheeks beginning to burn for a different reason now, feeling stupid over not realizing you could carve more than the standard jack o lantern faces as a tradition. Obviously, you can carve anything you want into a fuckin’ pumpkin, he just didn’t know, he hasn’t done this before, and now he’s gone from feeling almost confident to worried he’s about to make a fool out of himself over something as childish as this.

“Simon.” You say, always more in tune with him than he realizes. “It’s okay, carve anything you want. I’m excited to see what you make.” You smile warmly at him across the table, a small socked foot going to nudge his ankle as well. “Believe it or not, this is supposed to be fun.”

He scoffs at your joke but doesn’t fight the smile that etches onto his face in return. He accepts your distraction when you ask if you should put on some music in the background, walking towards the record player. As he flips through the stack of vinyls, he thinks about just that, what he could possibly carve into that bloody orange sphere sat on his kitchen table, that would be fun.

Searching through any memories he considers as being ‘fun’, he finds a common factor: you. And there’s one more reoccurring element sewn into the fabric of those treasured memories as well: your laughter.

With that in mind, it’s actually quite easy for Simon to decide on what he’ll do finally. And almost an hour later, after you’ve put your blood, sweat and tears into your own pumpkin carving and deciding that the results ended up being just meh, Simon has decided that he’s undeniably the winner of the evening when he spins his creation around and has you nearly crying with laughter, insisting between wheezed breaths that he’s going to make you pee your pants, only leading to Simon’s own laughter bellowing out.

Not too bad for his first time learning.

~~~~~~~~~~

(The kind of pumpkin I’ve decided Ghost would carve 😂)

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uluvjay · 7 months ago

Text

So sweet- O. Piastri & L. Norris

Oscar Piastri x fem! Reader x Lando Norris x fem! Reader

In which you and Lando celebrate your boyfriend’s birthday your own way..

Warnings?; smut, poly! Relationship, p in v, penetrative sex, unprotected sex( a big no no), handjob (m receiving), switch Lando!, switch reader!, sub Oscar!, kissing, talks of spanking, suggestion of m x m, cursing, pet names, bratty lando, teasing, edging, good boy Oscar, slight food play?, sorry for any errors I missed!

This was supposed to be out weeks ago but writers block is a bitch and I didn’t want it going to waste!

You didn’t even notice what you were doing to your boys, to indulged in the sweetness of the cupcake Jon handed you you failed to notice the way both of your boyfriends eyes had locked on the way your tongue poked out to take a lick of the icing, or how their breaths hitched at the sound of your soft moan at how sweet the taste was.

“You boys should really go get one, these are delicious.” You spoke, eyes still trained on the cupcake in your hand.

You frowned noticing some of the papaya icing on your finger, not thinking twice before popping the digit into your mouth to clean it off.

A soft fuck coming from the British driver had you looking up, freezing the second you caught the looks in both drivers eyes.

Both sets of their eyes darker than their natural color, watching intently as you removed your finger from your mouth.

“What?..” you trailed looking between both men.

“Baby..c-can you eat it normally please?” Oscar spoke up first.

“I am eating it normally?” You defended

Lando groaned at your words, his large hands wasting no time as they pulled you closer by your hips, dipping his head so he could whisper in your ear.

“No, you’re being a fucking tease..sucking your fingers and moaning for everyone to see and hear.”

Your breath hitched at his words, a soft blush covering your cheeks as he pulled back looking down at you with a stern and frustrated expression.

Your eyes dropped down to their black jeans, bulges evident through the dark material everything finally clicked in your mind.

They were getting turned on by watching you eat a cupcake..

Neither of the men liked the smirk that tugged at your lips, their stomachs fluttering as your tongue poked back out this time licking the icing much more seductively.

“I don’t know what you mean, I’m just enjoying my cupcake.” You shrugged turning on your heels to head off towards Lando’s divers room, giggling as you heard both sets of their feet quickly following behind you.

You walked into the room and took a seat on the small couch, not bothering to shut the door as their two large bodies filed in right after you.

You looked up at them innocently, both men standing in front of you- Lando with his arms crossed impatiently and your sweet Aussie with his hands crossed in front of him.

“Can I help you boys with something?” You raised an eyebrow, tongue poking out for another taste of the icing.

“I-we..” Oscar stammered, always having trouble announcing what it was that he truly wanted when it came to sex, his nerves always taking over.

“Oh fuck this.” Lando grumbled, surging forward he snatched the cupcake from your hands, throwing it into the bin next to you before quickly moving to sit beside you and pull you onto his lap.

You didn’t have time to react to his rushed movements before he was pulling you into a heavy kiss, one of his large hands tangling in your hair while the other held your waist.

the mix of your natural taste plus added sweetness of the icing had him him moaning against you.

Feeling the couch shift and added weight you pulled away from the Brit, leaning over to pull Oscar into a kiss, his hands much more hesitant as they pulled you onto his lap.

“You taste so sweet.” He whined as you both pulled away for air.

“Not as sweet as you birthday boy.” You smirked, running a finger along his reddening cheek, basking in the way he leaned into you with a soft sigh.

“This is cute and all but can we fuck already? We only have an hour before practice.” Lando grumbled from beside you two.

Lando’s stomach twisted at the way your lips tugged up into a smirk at your lips, eyes switching between him and the brunette sat below you.

“Why don’t we let the birthday boy pick?” You spoke up, “What do you think Osc? Should I fuck you while Lando watches or does he deserve a little something too?”

Oscar whimpered at your words, eyes looking over at his now pouting boyfriend whose hard cock was pushing against the tight material of his jeans and he couldn’t help but feel his mouth water at the thought of Lando’s thick cock.

“W-want you to ride me while i touch lan..” he mumbled with a quick please following close behind.

You hummed happily at his words, moving back slightly to pull him from the restraints of his jeans and boxers, basking in his small moan as his cock sprung free.

“Always such a good boy for me Osc, so polite and patient.” You praised however your eyes were trained on the pouting Brit beside you, his arms crossed as he watched you slowly stroke Oscar’s length.

“Take your cock out lan, don’t leave our good boy waiting.” You instructed, both you and Oscar watching intently as he grumbled under his breath but still did as you said.

The sight of his thick and needy cock causing Oscar to whimper and immediately reach out for his boyfriend, stroking his cock at the same pace your hand moved on his.

You watched on as the pleasure took over Lando’s once bratty demeanor, his eyes fluttering shut as his head tipped back and his nails dug into the arm of the couch.

“Fuck.” He whimpered as Oscar flexed his wrist, his thumb running over Lando’s dripping tip.

You did the same to the Aussie causing small whines of his own to escape the back of his throat as his eyes moved back to you.

It was his and Lando’s turn to watch as you pushed your panties to the side under your dress and moved to hover over Oscar’s cock, air getting stuck in your throat as you sunk down on him.

Both men watched in awe as you took all of Oscar’s length, sharing a mutual moan of need at the way your body shook once you reached the base of his cock.

“So good.” You hissed as you got used to his size, it didn’t matter how many times you had either of them, you always needed time to adjust.

You soon began to rock your hips, hands resting on the back of the couch as you kept eye contact with the sweet boy below you, enjoying the way his face contorted into different signs of pleasure.

Lando watched from the side as your cunt greedily took Oscar, your tits slowly starting to spill over the top of your dress as your bounces began to pick up pace, causing the boy to whine with want.

Your smirk returned at the way Lando’s pretty eyes were locked in your breasts and you couldn’t help yourself when you pulled the top down allowing them to spill free.

Oscar wasted no time in dipping forward and taking one into his mouth, a cry leaving you as his lips wrapped around one of your buds, his teeth lightly nipping before he calmed the stinging with a roll of his tongue, his left hand still working your boyfriends cock.

“C-can I please have a taste? Please.” Lando finally spoke after a minute of watching Oscar devour your breasts, fresh marks now littering your skin.

“You think he deserves a taste Oscar?”

“Mhm, been good for me.” Oscar mumbled into your skin, his lips returning right after he finished his sentence.

You gave Lando a curt nod and soon he was on the other breast like a starved man, sloppy wet kisses all over your skin, his tongue tracing the shape of your nipple before he took the bud between his teeth lightly.

“Oh god” you moaned at the mixed sensation of Oscar’s cock hitting you so deep and having both of their mouths on you, your hands coming up to cup the back of their heads.

“M’ getting close boys, fuck!” You cried.

You pushed both of them back as the feeling in your lower stomach began to increase, grinding down on Oscar’s length as you desperately chased your release, body shaking as you tipped over the edge.

Oscar wasn’t far behind, the clenching of your cunt brining him to the edge as he cried out, filling you to the brim with his release.

You zoned out for a moment until a familiar whine sounded from beside you, looking over you found Lando with a swollen and throbbing cock.

With a teasing pout you wrapped your hand around his cock replacing Oscar’s much larger one that now rested on the Brits thigh.

“Oscar leave you hanging baby?” You smirked at the boy.

He nodded in reply, the pleasure becoming to strong for him to form anything more than a few mumbles and breathless moans.

You knew he was close when he started thrusting into your hand, his moans raising in volume as his hips began to stutter and soon your hand was covered in his warm release.

He dropped back against the couch, his chest heaving as he recovered from his powerful orgasm after two denied ones from Oscar.

You smiled at your boyfriend before bringing your hand to your mouth, making sure to clean it of Lando’s release before pulling Oscar into a breathless kiss.

It was silent for a while after you two pulled away, a comfortable silence filling the room as everyone regained their strength.

“That was fun.” Lando broke the silence, “But you two will most definitely be paying for that later.” He sat up eyes locking with yours, a dark look swirling in them before he moved onto Oscar.

The Brit went to open his mouth but a knock sounding on the door cut him off before he could.

“Thirty minutes till practice, get dressed please.” Jon announced waiting for a ‘okay’ from Lando before he retreated back to the garage.

The boy below you whimpered as you moved to get off of his softening cock, you whispered small apologies as you slid off moving to stand in front of him as you fixed yourself.

Oscar tucked himself away before standing on shaky legs of his own, his hands pulling you into his embrace as he held you close.

Lando didn’t bother putting himself away, instead stripping down completely and pulling on his fireproofs before his racing suit.

“You gotta go get ready osc.” You cooed in the boys ear, hand running up and down his back.

Oscar frowned at your words a small grumbled escaping him as he held you tighter.

“Just go get your things and get ready in here baby, we’ll be right here when you come back.” Lando spoke up.

With a bit more pushing Oscar finally separated from you, giving Lando a small kiss as he passed on his way to go get his things.

You made your way to sit on Lando’s massage table, the boy coming to stand between your spread legs as you wrapped them around his back.

“As hot as your little stunt was, your ass will be sorry for it later.” He smirked into your neck as he left wet kisses against the skin.

“Don’t tease me now baby.” You smirked earning you a giggle from Lando as he pulled back with a shake of his head.

“What am I gonna do with you huh?”

“Spank me.” You shrugged hands sliding around his neck.

“Who’s getting spanked?” Oscar questioned curiously as he walked back into the room, door shutting quickly behind him.

“Me” you smirked looking up at Lando with nothing but amusement in your eyes.

“Maybe it shouldn’t be a punishment anymore if you like it that much.” The Brit tutted with a shake of his head.

“What do you think osc? should I edge her instead, maybe make her watch me fuck you silly like she made me watch?” He continued looking over at your boyfriend.

“Wait! That’s no-“ you tried but Lando once again spoke up.

“You’re the birthday boy baby, you get to pick.”

Oscar looked at your reddened face, a pout similar to Lando’s earlier one now present as your thighs began to rub together.

“Can I think about it? Get back to you after practice?”

Your eyes almost bulged out of your head at his words, watching as they both zipped up their suits and made way for the door.

“Take as long as you need baby.” Lando smiled, leaning in to give the boy a kiss.

“Wait, boys, can we talk about this now..please?” You questioned as you shoved yourself between them in the hallway, body now squeezed between their frames.

“Sorry baby, duty calls but we’ll see you after Kay?” Lando smirked leaning down to press his lips against yours before moving forward to where Jon was.

“Love you pretty girl.” Oscar spoke, giving you a kiss as well before going to his side of the garage.

“What did I get myself into”

Happy very late birthday Oscar! Sorry my writers block was a pain in the ass

#lando norris x you #lando norris x y/n #lando norris smut #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #lando x oscar #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri #oscar piastri smut #oscar piastri x reader #landoscar #landoscar smut #poly! f1 #poly!f1

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fillinforlater · 8 months ago

Text

Eleven to One: Hotel Roommating

Male Reader x Ahn Yujin, Choi Yena, Kim Minju, Kim Chaewon

Length: 2014 words

Tags: Daddy kink, thigh kink, thigh fucking, pit licking, teasing, a slap, edging, cumming on skin, pet play, an offer you definitely should refuse but kinda can't, cum eating, missionary, fingering, orgy

TW: the usual, but I would consider this mostly tame... okay, maybe also not LOL

Inspiration: Yujin's outfit (check below (HOLY COW))

(A/N: Sex in the hotel continues... though it might not be the best or longest piece, I promise the ending will make it worth while ;) Have fun!)

“Room Service!"

For a second there, she got you. Fear runs down your back, ice cold, as you grab the door handle. No room service could ever be allowed to see or smell the absolute mess you made here. Especially Chaewon, who leaks down the phallic plastic onto the table, while watching a teary eyed Minju follow you to the door, your cock in her hand.

Fortunately, you do recognize the voice behind the door. It’s familiar, not some room service lady that could ruin your life and the reputation of at least one popular girl group. You turn the knob and reach for the woman behind the door in the blink of an eye.

“You scared me for a second, you fucking brat,” you yell at Yujin, but that was before you took a look at her outfit. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood right now.”

“Oh, I’m in a good mood too, Daddy,” Yujin teases and gets ready to kick off her shoes, open up her dress and offer herself to you (you know she is in heat; she has been for a while most likely), but you stop her.

“You keep that outfit on,” you order and spin her around. “My cock needs to be in between your thighs while you still look like a Goddess of fertility with that shiny, stupid fucking outfit.”

“Oh Daddy,” Yujin giggles and watches your tip glide in her tight gap. “Wasn’t Minju enough for you? And what happened to Chaewon-unnie?”

“Care to guess?”

“She is one of us now?”

You smirk and lean in to bite your girlfriend’s neck. “One hundred points.” You begin to slowly thrust in between the sweaty trunks that are Yujin’s legs, perfect sculptures of smooth marble, but a lot softer and infinitely more valuable. Yujin hums in pleasure and lifts her arms to reach around your neck while you continue to place marks on hers. There is no concert the next few days, so no one will notice the love bites you place on her.

“Minju, mind helping me out here?” you suddenly ask and Minju jumps in surprise. You know she is still needy, unsatisfied, but would never touch herself without your permission, so you want to give her a bit of a reward. “Lick our Daeng-Daeng’s pits clean. I promise you, she tastes wonderful.”

“O-okay, Daddy.”

You can see in her eyes that Minju has never done this before. It’s a waste though, so you pull at her strings (she is a good girl after all) and take into view how incredible she looks. Minju sticks out her tongue and drags it across the entire pit. Yujin trembles, her thighs gently swaying around your shaft. An incredible feeling, but what makes it exceptionally great is the lewd sounds the two produce. Tender moans, wet licks, soft bodies rubbing one another to the point where nothing could be more intimate.

“D-does it tickle, Yujinie?” Minju asks when she switches sides, her hands secretly placed on your own. You both have a hold on the young woman’s hips and Minju’s question goes unanswered when she goes straight to sucking on the opposite sensitive, hairless, sweaty spot.

Holding back would be offensive. There are the two best thighs wrapped around you, while Minju’s soft belly becomes a home for your tip. With every thrust you poke her and she seems to really enjoy it. Maybe she is—no, she definitely is—thinking that you are pointing at her fertile womb, ready to be filled and bred. That’s why her orbs sparkle the way they do, that’s why she pulls you two into a threeway hug where Yujin gets squeezed and overstimulated at spots she didn’t think could be this sensitive.

“D-Daddy, I thought you were teasing,” Yujin mumbles. “But I feel so good, so hot. Please, cum on me, paint my milky thighs, it would fit them so well.”

“I can feel you melting, baby girl.” You lean in to give her ear a love bite, with all your love and sufficient force to make her dizzy with pleasure. “Since you asked so nicely, I will cover you, claim you with my seed.”

“Thank you, Daddy.” A sudden make-out session ensues after Yujin lowers her arms, leaving Minju jobless and needy as ever. There is salty sweat around her lips and in her mouth while she watches you and Yujin trade sweat saliva in heated passion. Your cock is buried in her gap, then quickly peaks out again as you begin to rapidly fuck it. “I can’t believe you got Chaewon-unnie already. Was it really that easy?”

You both turn your head to the shivering, squeaking but not (yet) dildo-riding Chaewon, whose head might be in even more heat than Yujin. Her face is red like the ball gag in her mouth and the only thing cooling her off are a few tears from her unfocused eyes. You love that she looks so obedient and pathetic, far away from what she dreamed off. Yet you decide to be more than merciful.

“Minju, how about you put your hands on Chaewon’s hips? Maybe let some of Yujin’s sweat run down her cheeks? I think that should cool her off.”

“Okay, Daddy~”

With a sight like that—Minju behind Chaewon, who desperately looks up to the taller girl, hips in a firm, loving hold; then, Minju drools all over her face and you know that Chaewon is on cloud six, maybe seven, more pleasure yet to come—your orgasm is rapidly approaching. You bend Yujin over a bit, press her thighs back to you to meet your pistoning hips. The swollen cockhead peeks out a few more times before—

A knock at the door.

—you become an artist. Trapped in heavenly softness, you release all of your load on the inside of Yujin’s thighs. You use your throbbing cock like a brush to smear the white goo over more parts of her skin. It has to stick on her and not fall to the carpet floor. With a strained voice, you call out: “Minju, get our new pet in here. And don’t forget to close the door!”

“W-what? Pet?” Yujin tries to catch her breath, but her jaw drops the second she sees Yena run through the door and fall on her knees. “Yena-unnie, what, what is happening?”

“No need to call her Unnie, she is our new pet,” you announce and reach for Yena’s collar. “Isn’t she a beautiful kitten? Kitten, what did I say about clothes, hm?”

“Meow,” Yena responds, very apologetic. You kind of admire her for wearing just this thin, way too short crop top and hot pants that barely cover her small ass, but no kitten would wear those, so she quickly kicks them off, now just as nude as the other girls—most of the other girls.

“Ye-Yena, is this true, you are with Daddy too?” Minju asks, just as perplexed as Yujin is. Yena nods in excitement, while you get a leash for her beautiful pink collar. “But why a kitten?”

“Well, don’t we all like different things?” you ask Minju with a big grin. You secure Yena on the leash and walk her across the room for a couple of steps. “As long as Yena likes it, I think this would be a great addition to our… arrangement.”

“A family pet,” Yujin whispers, all eyes on her. Now it’s out there, this crazy idea. No sane person could say yes to it. Everyone at some point returns to their level-headed, not horny self. The mere suggestion of living together as a quasi-family where sex is boundless and the concept of patriarchy is pushed to ridiculous extremes should push them all away.

“When I’m the family cat,” Yena suddenly speaks into the tense silence, her voice filled with wonder. “I have to move in with you two. Would that be a problem?”

“No, we have enough space and money,” Yujin quickly responds. “In fact, I think we can cover all your expenses.”

“Sounds good, I’m in. Meow!”

Yena smirks and crawls towards Yujin who stares down at her with love and lust. Suddenly, Yena’s face dives in between Yujin’s thighs and she starts to lick off your cum like it’s ice cream on a hot August day. Yujin mewls, opens her legs a bit more so Yena can get every last drop.

“Well, I already live with Daddy and Yujin.” Minju looks at the floor, a little embarrassed. She scratches the back of her neck and then shares glances with you and Yujin. “If it’s okay, I will stay with your family, maybe as a sister?”

“That sounds great,” you tell Minju, as your eyes betray you. They are so fixated on Yena’s hunger for your cum, for Yujin’s scent, God, she is devouring your girlfriend. If it weren’t for the stage outfit, Yena surely would’ve pushed her tongue into Yujin’s cunt—who can blame her? IVE’s leader is irresistible. “Your presence is always welcome, Minju.”

“I think Chaewon c-can’t join,” Yujin murmurs, her hand in Yena’s pink strands, sweaty from all the hard cleaning she does to her thighs. Seriously, she starts to leave hickeys there now. You pull at the chain to signal her stop. “She has to stay at the LE SSERAFIM dorm.”

“Well, Chaewon is my best friend and best friend’s usually don’t live with another family,” Minju explains. You put Chaewon’s jaw into your hand and look at her begging eyes. Before you pull out the ballgag, you give her face a quick slap, one that stings for a bit.

“I bet you think we are all crazy, I get that, but—”

“Don’t defend yourself, Daddy,” Chaewon says, gasps, somehow she gets these words passed her pursed lips while the dildo is deep in her cunt. “As Minju’s friend, I sh-should come over every now a-and then…”

“I’ll make sure to reward you then, my little slut~”

“Thank you, Daddy.” You push the ball gag back into Chaewon’s mouth and give Minju a wink. It’s a sign she thankfully understands and suddenly, Minju makes Chaewon ride the dildo with all her power. A creaming pussy starts to cover the glass table, screams almost make it past the restriction in between her teeth and you can feel her bliss fill the air.

You step close to Yujin. She laughs weakly and shakes her head.

“You’re insane, a madman!”

“Oh yeah?” You reach for the back of her dress and a zip later, Yujin’s excellent body is free. Yena mewls at this first sight and if she had a tail (still on the list of items you have to get her) she would wag it like crazy. “You are probably right, I lost my sanity the first time I met you.”

Yujin giggles and removes the leather end of Yena’s chain from your hand. She puts it in her mouth and with doe, puppy eyes slowly kneels next to her kitten friend. Your cock twitches, obviously. Somewhere in this hotel room filled with the smell and sound of unbridled sex, your phone vibrates. You don’t care. They can leave a message. You have better things to do.

“Looks to me like you’re the insane one, the madwoman.”

You push her over, on her back. Yujin’s legs wrap around you like Yena’s pussy wraps around your fingers. You push your rehardened cock into that tight, tight little cunt of your girlfriend and fuck her into the carpet with no thoughts. There is nothing but blankness in your head and there will be for the next week or so. Just you and Yujin. And Yena, who sucks on Yujin’s tits and fucks herself on your hand. And Minju, who is thrilled about Chaewon riding that cock through multiple orgasms. Well, maybe Chaewon will be here too.

Text messages pop up on your phone. They are from Hyewon.

“Hey Daddy, my final day before maternity leave is next week. I need you here earlier though, because someone important wants to do an internship here.

“The one and only

“Jang Wonyoung.”

#kpop smut #female idol smut #girl group smut #male reader insert #izone smut #male reader smut #ive smut #minju smut #yujin smut #chaewon smut #yena smut #lesserafim smut #le sserafim smut

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ylangelegy · 20 days ago

Text

lost in translation ♾️ minghao x reader.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hm.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“In Korean or in Mandarin?” you prod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit.

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

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

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

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

And just like that, he’s breathless again.

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

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

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

“I’ll say it more, then,” you muse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The way you'd need him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm coming. Don't cheat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit, he's so gone for you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Alright, xīngān," you say softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I do."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Like making it work," you concede.

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

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

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

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

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

"Ah. Destiny."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile softly.

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

He just wishes he could have been more specific.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joshua gives you a warm smile. Chan waves exaggeratedly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You look tired."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Minghao."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hao—"

"It’s not a sign of weakness—"

"You keep treating me like—"

"I’m not—"

"Minghao!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah," he says. "That’s all."

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

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

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

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

"Idiot," he murmurs quietly to himself.

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

How are you? Are you okay?

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

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

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

A beat.

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

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

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

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

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

"Found you," he murmurs.

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

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

He was looking at you, and that was enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We do," he replies quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

can i call?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joshua offers the next best thing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hello," he says weakly, his hand tightening almost protectively around yours in a silent gesture of support before he finally rises to greet her. He bows respectfully, clearing his throat to greet your mother appropriately.

Your mother's scrutinizing gaze flickers over Minghao— everything from his polite bow to the way he had just been holding your hand, moments prior. When she speaks, it's in garbled Korean; there's a hint of a French accent, one that doesn't quite match her Seoul dialect.

"There's no need for that," your mother tells Minghao, referring to his bow. She's aiming for kindness but comes off, still, as cold. It must come with the nature of her profession; you had once mentioned that your parents were diplomats.

Minghao forces himself to stay calm and composed, even as the fear of how your mother may react to him sets in the pit of his stomach. He nods his head, but he doesn't quite dare to look her in the eye

"I'm Xu Minghao, ma'am. I'm here to offer some company," Minghao tries to explain, though he's not sure he's doing the best job of it.

There's a flicker of recognition on your mother's composed expression. The look of recognition in your mother's eyes puts Minghao slightly at ease, but that doesn't quite erase the nervous tension, the anxiety that thrums against the underside of his very skin.

"Xu Minghao," she repeats, and you let out a groan when she sounds just a little amused despite her stoic demeanor.

He waits, just about holding his breath as your mother comes further into the room, stopping in front of the two of you. Minghao shifts awkwardly in his spot, glancing over to you just about nervously, as if waiting for you to take charge of the situation.

"Eomma," you repeat. This time your voice is a lot more level. You try to ignore the way Minghao seems absolutely scared shitless at your side. "When did you fly in?"

There's a detached casualness to your mother's response, almost more like you're colleagues than family. "Just this morning," she says. "I'm staying at your grandparents’ for now."

You dip your head into a nod. There's a pause.

"Minghao is a member of SEVENTEEN," you say, sounding just slightly resigned at having to remind your mother.

The older woman turns her gaze back to Minghao, her eyebrows raised slightly. "I'm aware," she says coolly, an edge of amusement in her tone. When she refers to you, she sticks to your full name instead of your nickname. "How is it working with my child, Minghao?"

"They’re wonderful," Minghao answers without hesitation, his answer almost coming out a little too fast.

He doesn't bother to temper it back, because that's how he feels— and because he believes that your mother needs to know how he feels about working with you, about being around you.

"Kind," he adds after a moment of pause, looking back over to you, just about begging to be given permission to continue, to gush about you.

You look straight back at Minghao, barely resisting the urge to vehemently shake your head. You know him. You know how he wants to say more, would probably talk hours and hours about your role as an interpreter if you gave him the green light.

As you attempt to wordlessly communicate with him through your pointed glare, your mother watches the exchange with growing amusement. Then, just as you always have whenever you wanted to get Minghao talking more—

"I would hope they were kind," your mother says, though she says the words in Mandarin.

When your mother speaks in Mandarin, Minghao can't help the rush of gratitude that floods through him, because that only means one thing— that it was okay, that he was encouraged to say more. And so, he does, a small smile on his lips.

"Kind, thoughtful, patient," he says softly, almost like a litany. "Always on top of things. Brilliant."

There was something about talking about you in his own language that made everything come so much easier to Minghao. "They make us all look bad," he adds with a soft laugh, though there's a hint of truth behind the words. He means it.

You made him want to be better to you, more worthy of you, and not just as a person, either. As a man, too.

You stare up at Minghao, exasperated at how a simple change in language had suddenly gotten him so honest. "You shouldn't say all that—" you hiss at him.

As you go on to tell off Minghao under your breath and he only looks down at you with that completely smitten expression, your mother puts two and two together. One doesn't have to be in the same room as the two of you for too long to recognize it.

Ah, the older woman thinks to herself. They're in love with each other, and they don't even know it.

The expression on Minghao's face as you scold him would be better described as that of a puppy who doesn't quite understand what he'd done wrong. His eyebrows furrow, and as you continue to hiss under your breath, he looks like he simply wants to reach out and pull you into a hug because he can't stand it when you fuss over him.

But he settles for squeezing your fingers once more, his grip tightening, just enough to ground himself when you don't seem to relent in your quiet berating.

After a moment, your mother clears her throat again. It's a habit of hers that immediately gets you to shut up.

"I just wanted to drop by," she says vaguely, switching back to Korean. "But I really must get going. Duty calls."

"Duty calls," you echo quietly, and your mother's gaze softens imperceptibly.

"I'll be back later tonight," she reassures you. Her gaze flickers to Minghao for a moment before returning to you. "I trust that you'll be in good hands until then."

"Eomma," you huff, and your mother looks like she almost might laugh.

Minghao stays still as he watches you interact with your mother, as he watches her gaze flicker back and forth between the both of you. He can't help the slight smile on his face at the look in your mother's eyes, however, because it's almost like approval.

She turns to Minghao, this time. Gives him a once-over. He's jolted when your mother suddenly speaks French. It's not anything Minghao will understand— just a brief sentence that is meant for you and you alone. It's almost impertinent; the words are anything but.

Your smile widens and you respond in the same language.

Your mother gives Minghao a nod. "Goodbye, Minghao," she says in Korean as she takes her leave. "It was a pleasure to meet you."

Minghao is left looking at you, still holding on to your hand. His eyes flicker down to your smile, a grin of his own blossoming on his lips. "What did you say to each other?" he asks, almost immediately pouting.

He won't admit it, but he feels almost jealous. The feeling tides over when you absentmindedly note, "It was nothing."

The smile on Minghao's face turns soft and he squeezes your hand for good measure, still watching your face even as you slump back against your bed.

"You're a terrible liar, y'know." He raises your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss against your knuckles. "You know I can read you, right?"

"She asked me if I agreed with the meaning of your name," you say point blank. "And I said yes. Of course."

Minghao pauses, his lips still at your knuckles as he absorbs your words.

He knows what his name means. He's heard it enough in his lifetime. As far as names were concerned, he always considered himself lucky for the fact that he's got a pretty decent one.

Ming, 明, which meant bright and brilliant. Hao, 浩, which meant grand and vast. Minghao— someone bright, brilliant, vast like the sky.

But to hear you say it back to him like this? It feels like a revelation. Like you're giving him a gift, something that he can hold on to.

"Of course," he repeats reverently, his heart a steady thump, thump, thump in his chest.

The subsequent recovery period is a slow crawl. Minghao fusses more often than not. He ensures you're on top of things— physical therapy, check-ups— and is extra careful about anything that might involve your back.

Even as you're given the go-ahead to return to work, he frets, having read through one too many articles about the risks of having a discectomy. How strenuous labor and contact sports are still off the table for the foreseeable future. How, now, four weeks after the surgery, you still ought to be careful with routine activities.

It's as endearing as it is vaguely irksome, especially on instances such as these. The rest of the staff avert their gazes and try not to laugh. The boys look like they're most definitely going to give you grief later on.

Because Minghao is still adamantly carrying your things as you all head to a shooting location for the newest Going Seventeen episode.

"Hao," you say through gritted teeth, right at Minghao's heels as he lugs around your duffel bag. "I told you, I can carry that!"

Despite the slight exasperation in your voice, Minghao can't hide the way the corners of his lips tug into a smile.

He knows exactly what he's doing and he knows how it makes you feel. But he can't help himself; it's too easy to wind you up. "It's heavy," Minghao insists, despite the fact that it's not that heavy, or that he doesn't actually believe that it is.

He’s just being a slight nuisance on purpose, something he does often to get your attention.

"It's not heavy," you seethe, taking extra steps to keep up with Minghao's lithe strides. He’s leading you to one of the company buses that would take all the members and the staff to today's shooting location— some beachside AirBnB along Sokcho.

"I packed it, for Christ's sake. I know it's not heavy," you insist helplessly, reaching out one hand to tug at the back of Minghao's shirt.

He's always like this, pushing and prodding and annoying you to get reactions out of you because he finds it amusing. It's been such a long time since you last properly scolded him, and oh, how he wants you to do it again.

He stops in his tracks, forcing you to either halt in yours or bump into him. When he pauses, your feet keep moving on their own accord. Your face smashes right into Minghao's back.

Immediately, your hand that had been grasping his shirt flies to your face. You clutch the bridge of your nose— feeling a slight sting there, following the impact— as you mumble a low chorus of "ow, ow, ow, what the hell..."

The moment your face smashes into his back, Minghao finds himself doubling over in laughter, his frame shaking as he braces against his knees. The look of pure disbelief on your face is probably one of the funniest things he's seen all week, and the laughter that bubbles up out of his chest is unrestrained and free.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" he apologizes, his voice wavering in between laughter as he slowly tries to regain his composure. "Are you... are you alright? Does it hurt? Is it broken?"

"You're insufferable," you huff before stomping ahead of him, making it a point to bump your shoulders against his as you make a beeline for the bus.

Minghao only continues to chuckle, shaking his head as he follows after you, his laughter never once dissipating. By the time he reaches the bus, he's still smiling, completely unable to hide the way he keeps grinning.

Much to Minghao's chagrin, however, you exact your revenge in the smallest way possible: By settling into a seat next to Mingyu, who's always more than a little willing to jump on Minghao's nerves when given the chance.

"Sorry, Hao," Mingyu sing-songs, his eyes sparkling with mirth. "But I'm calling dibs for the next two hours. There's an empty seat next to Jun, though!"

Minghao only rolls his eyes, clearly slightly miffed at the way you'd just abandoned him for Mingyu in a heartbeat.

He finds his way to Jun's side, plopping down on the seat next to the other boy with an overdramatic, exaggerated sigh. "He snatched her away from me, ge," he whines, glancing back over to you with that same pout still on his face.

"You made her bump into you, Haohao," Jun points out with another roll of his eyes, shaking his head, though there was still a slight curl on the corners of his lip.

"I'm just having fun! You could at least sympathize with me.” There's no seriousness behind Minghao's complaint. It's a tone of complete and utter playfulness, and that only deepens Minghao's smile as he leans back in his chair.

The bus ride drags on, slow and careful, with Mingyu and you chatting about menial things. At one point, he slumps against your side to fall asleep on your shoulder, and you doze off with your cheek pressed to the top of his head. Seokmin takes a photo for posterity purposes.

Jun and Minghao watch from a couple of seats behind, and for a moment, Jun is contemplative.

It's a conscious choice for Jun to slide into Mandarin. The only other person in the bus who might understand it would be you, and you’re knocked out cold. That means the words are for Minghao alone.

"How much do you like them, Haohao?"

The switch in language catches Minghao's attention, especially when he hears the seriousness in Jun's voice. It's enough for him to pause, lifting his head up from where he'd had his chin resting against his knees.

"Too much, I think," he finally answers, with just a slight hint of hesitation.

It's not because he's ashamed, but because he's never been the kind of person to be so open about these type of feelings before. He's not even sure he knows how, sometimes.

"There's no going back now," Jun says, reaching out to lightly nudge Minghao's hip with his own. There's a slight look of concern in his eyes, but he speaks carefully, keeping his voice low as he continues.

"You might be in too deep," Jun continues, his voice a low murmur as he adds. "But I think... if the way they look at you is any indication, they’re right there with you."

The smile that spreads across Minghao's face is blinding, despite the way he turns his gaze down to his shoes. He can't help it— not when his heart is beating fast against his chest, at the idea of you feeling the same way that he does.

He wants it to be true, more than he's ever wanted something to be true in his entire life.

"I should hope so," he says, in an attempt at being flippant, but the way his voice sounds? It would give him away instantly.

When the company bus eventually rolls up onto a gravelly parking lot, the sight beyond the vehicle is one to behold. Sprawling, white sand beaches with glittering waters. The boys are still supposed to film some content, do some challenges, but the prospect of being in somewhere so pretty has significantly boosted everyone's spirits.

Wonwoo rouses Mingyu and you from your sleep. Mingyu chatters aimlessly at your side, only pausing when Minghao comes up to you; of course, the older boy can't resist one last jab.

In full view of Minghao, Mingyu does an infuriating shaka sign in front of his face and mouths 'call me, jagiya', completely unwarranted. It draws a proper snort of laughter out of you.

"Stop it," Minghao whines as he reaches out to pinch Mingyu, though there's no real heat behind his voice. He doesn't even try to hide that smile on his face, not when he catches the way you laugh.

He can't look away from you once he sets his eyes on you. He's never been able to.

He just hopes that you can't tell exactly how in love he is. Because how is he supposed to tell you he's fallen hard?

The day at the shore flies by faster than any of them expect it to, but in the end, the filming is finally over.

By the time the staff tells them they're finished, the sky is painted in beautiful shades of orange, pink, and purple. It only adds to Minghao's already good mood, especially when he gets the chance to steal you back from Mingyu and get you all to himself.

When filming wraps up and the cameramen all begin to pack their material, the boys take it as a go-ahead to treat the rest of the late afternoon as a beach day.

You smile, mostly to yourself, as they break off— to take photos, to go for a swim, to explore the private beach. All the while, you try to maintain your focus on your laptop, your practiced fingers moving across your keyboard.

It's why you're initially oblivious to Minghao's stealthy approach.

Minghao lingers behind for a moment, watching you work. He's already gotten changed, his clothes swapped with swim trunks and a simple black tank top.

He knows better than to bother you while you're working, and so— to your oblivious self— he's content to stand by and simply watch until you're done. After another moment, his expression softness as he sees how your brow furrows in concentration. Minghao steps in a little closer, one hand coming up to gently ruffle your hair.

He almost doesn't want you to get back to work and instead considers pulling you up so you can go for a swim with him. He does no such thing, though, settling for patting your cheek once before pulling his hand away.

You briefly glance up from your laptop so you can flash him a ghost of a smile. There's something to be said about the ways you often communicate without words, how easy it is to just understand.

You dip your head, give a wave of your hand, turn your gaze back to your laptop. A silent, speechless Go ahead, I'll follow.

It's like there's nothing he's not feeling right then— just happiness at seeing a smile, and the way that it feels like there's no secrets between the two of you.

He reaches out to gently pat your cheek once more, his hand lingering for a moment before he pulls away again, turning to make his way out of the tent, the grin on his face still ever-present.

By the time you're done with your work and changed into some proper swimwear, most of the boys and the staff are already in the water. It's in moments like these when you're reminded why you've stayed with PLEDIS for so long— the ways you're allowed to interact, to just be, when there's no cameras on, no job to do.

You linger by the shoreline for a beat too long. Before you know it, you're being swept off your feet. Your shriek of surprise pierces across the beach as Jun easily throws you over one shoulder, his hand respectfully bracing the part of your back where there's still marks from your surgery.

"Sorry, tàiyáng," Jun cheekily says in Mandarin as he rushes the two of you into the water, eliciting laughs from everyone else. He sends you hurtling into the ocean as you scream bloody murder, but you're laughing, still, as you go down.

Minghao is laughing from where he's standing near the shore, still waist-deep in the water. He'd heard you scream, but the second he hears the sound of your laugh he knows you're fine. Instead of rushing to his feet and out of the ocean, he just stays where he is, the smile on his face never faltering.

The sound of your laughter is only made better by the way the sunlight dances off the water, reflecting off its shimmering surface like diamonds.

He watches as you resurface, your wet hair in your face as you gasp for breath, your face bright with a smile, and he can't help the way he feels himself falling, falling, falling.

He wants to swim over and make sure you're alright, but he knows that Jun won't let anything happen to you. All Minghao does is watch, his grin wide and bright, his eyes never leaving you. He's completely smitten, and right now, the others are just going to have to deal with him being even more of an insufferable, lovestruck fool.

The next couple of moments drag on with light-hearted rough housing, with idle splashing and lazy swimming, until Jun has somehow maneuvered you and him towards where Minghao is in the water.

Jun, behind your back, throws his best friend a conspiratorial wink.

Minghao knows that he can be obvious to an almost comical degree when he's in over his head in his feelings for you, but Jun winking is an entirely different story, and he's already a little wary as Jun brings the two of you over in his direction.

Even still, nothing could prepare him for the sight of you soaked from head to toe, the water shimmering on your skin in the sunlight as you near him.

Oh, he's screwed, and he's pretty sure Jun and the others know that.

So he does the only thing he can think of.

Minghao dips under the surface of the water and disappears, ducking under the water for a few seconds before he comes back up just behind you, and reaches out to tickle your sides. If he's going to be an idiot and fall all over you, he might as well try and cover it up with a little bit of playfulness.

"Yah, don't do that!" you cry, already rounding in a futile attempt to stop Minghao. You weren't particularly ticklish, but something about the cool water and the warm breeze has you feeling more sensitive than necessary. Breathless laughter escapes you as you try to capture Minghao's wrists, to stop him from his actions.

Jun quietly pads away with the pleased air of someone having done his job well. Some of the other boys share knowing glances— like they know they ought to intervene— but it's Seungcheol who shakes his head, who wordlessly calls everyone off.

The leader, telling his members in the most subtle way, Let Minghao have this.

There are words Minghao wants to say when you reach for his wrists to stop his actions, to ask if you want to join him in diving under the water with him, but words have never been his strong suit.

No, it's actions that are his strength. And so, instead of asking if you'd like to join him, Minghao does just that, wrapping his arms around your waist and ducking the both of you under the water, the salt in the water stinging his eyes a bit as he opens them briefly beneath the surface.

And then he brings you back up for air, the look on his face almost triumphant as he laughs, shaking his head to rid himself of the water that's plastered all over his hair and face.

When you emerge, you laugh in between gasps for air, and instinctively reach up to push aside the wet strands of hair sticking to Minghao's face. "Look at you," you say disapprovingly, but you're betrayed by the pure, unadulterated adoration in your tone.

"You love this look on me, xīngān," he insists, with that same wide grin on his face.

And, well, he's not wrong. He can see the way your gaze lingers on his face, even as you scold him and ruffle his wet hair teasingly.

It makes him wonder what it'd be like if all the what-ifs were real, if this was a relationship rather than an almost. He's almost afraid to wish for it. As if wanting it too much might break it.

Minghao likes the way that you press close to him, and he keeps his arm wrapped snugly around your waist as you talk and laugh and joke with the others.

It almost feels right, the way you're there next to him. Even though this isn't a relationship, the way that you slot right next to him is comforting because it almost makes what isn't feel more like what it could be.

He wants the taste of you to be something more than just a taste. He wants more than a simple bite.

And so, that's how he finds himself suggesting that the two of you go on a walk together once the sun starts to set. There's a slight flush to his cheeks as he asks the question, a shy little smile on his face as he murmurs it.

He wants a chance to be alone with you. He thinks he deserves that much, especially now, after spending the rest of the day having been teased and prodded and jabbed at by the others about his feelings for you.

"Sure," you say coolly, somehow managing to keep your voice level. "Let me just grab my stuff."

That's how you and Minghao end up breaking off from everyone else, kicking up the sand underneath your feet as you go. There's a couple of jeers here and there; Seungcheol warns you both to be back before dark.

You take it in stride as you go on ahead, your shoulders just barely brushing. Like you're absolutely helpless to the pull of gravity that tries to keep you together.

Once the other boys are out of sight, out of earshot, Minghao finds himself growing slightly less shy as you walk side by side, the two of you headed for a small cliffside pathway.

His gaze is drawn to you rather quickly— to the way the ocean breeze makes your hair blow about, the way you almost shine when the sunlight hits you. The way your hand is so tantalizingly close. His own almost aches to reach out and take yours.

"You know," he says instead, his lips quirking up into a little cheeky grin that makes his dimple show when he sees the path lined with flowers. Some of them blooming, some small clusters of white blooms scattered around the cliffside.

Minghao plucks one of the blooms from its plant and tucks it into your hair so it's just behind your ear. He has to focus to not notice the way his fingers skim your cheek, and God, you're so close.

"I think you look pretty like this," he says, and the words are whispered out like a confession. He picks another of the blooms, and offers it to you, his smile bright, genuine. "Take it. For good luck, maybe."

When he extends to you one of the white blooms with that gorgeous, dimpled grin, you chuckle quietly. You take the flower. You hold it in your fingers for just a beat.

And then you stand on your tiptoes to mimic Minghao's action— tucking the bloom right above his ear.

"You're all the good luck that I need, xīngān," you say laughingly, in Minghao's mother tongue.

Minghao melts, his lips parting in the slightest as he stares at you like you're a vision, like you're something to worship. He's already far too gone on. The moment he feels your fingertips against his skin, he decides he'll never be able to get over you, not if it takes him years to try to do it.

There, the two of you stand, looking at each other with an unspoken, shared admiration, standing in front of a cliffside that overlooks the ocean with the sun setting against it, the horizon all burning shades of amber and orange and red.

This is a moment that Minghao won't forget, and he takes your hand in his, slowly interlacing your fingers together to see if you'll let him.

Just to know that there's a little bit of a chance that his dreams could come true, someday.

Your fingers find purchase in the spaces between Minghao's, slotting there as if it was something meant to be. As if the two of you might have the right.

For a beat, neither of you really say anything as you look out to the glittering expanse of ocean, the sun setting right beneath the horizon. It's a little too picture perfect.

Exactly the reason why neither Minghao nor you dare to verbalize whatever this is, whatever you've been dancing around for years and years. Minghao wants to tell you everything, tell you that he loves you, maybe get down on his knees and kiss your hands, ask you to be his and to let him be yours.

But he stays there. Silent. Holding your hand by your side.

When you head back to everyone— where food is being served for the members and the staff— there's a bit of an exaggerated welcome from all sides. The boys all jeer, and the staff give you side-eyes, but you only shake your head slightly as you peel away from Minghao's side.

The words stay unspoken. The red thread of fate, the one that Minghao so firmly believes in, draws out for another moment more.

As you go to shoot back some drinks with your team, Mingyu sidles up to Minghao's side. The older man presses a sweating bottle of beer into Minghao's hand.

"Still not tonight, huh?" Mingyu asks with no shortage of amusement.

The beer in his hand is cold enough that it would be a little uncomfortable to hold onto if Minghao weren't so used to it, but he simply wraps his fingers around the bottle and takes a half-hearted sip from it.

His lips purse as he hears Mingyu's question, a frown crossing his face.

"No. We didn't talk about anything," he says, somewhat regretfully, because tonight just felt like it could have been the right night to say something. To finally admit how he feels, to finally ask what he wants to ask.

And maybe you would deny him, tell him that you just wanted to be his friend, but he'd take it. He'd take anything if it meant he could stay in your life—

Or maybe you'd even say yes, and he could finally have a chance to prove himself to you.

"Are you going to try again tomorrow?" Mingyu asks, taking a sip of his own beer, his eyebrows raising a little.

Another sigh falls from Minghao's lips and he nods, his gaze softening as he looks in your direction, watching you smile in spite of the way he aches to be by your side.

"Of course I'm going to try again tomorrow," he whispers, and he'll do that for the rest of his life if he has to.

The night drags on with everyone getting progressively more drunk. Soonyoung is reduced to tears at one point, while Seungkwan puts on an enthusiastic, one-man performance of Aju Nice.

And maybe Minghao drinks a little more than he usually does, partly because Mingyu and Jun take advantage of the fact that it's a rare thing for them to be drinking with you within the vicinity.

Minghao's best friends are menaces who want to see what type of drunk he is, who want to see how it will affect the way he approaches you. He's always been quiet when he's drunk— the type of drunk with a slight permanent blush to his cheeks, with a lazy grin on his face, with thoughts too slurred or in Mandarin for most of the boys to understand.

And tonight was no different, with his face flushed from alcohol and his words so slurred that all Mingyu and Jun can pick up is the word pretty over and over, along with a couple of other words in Mandarin. But he's always been honest when he's drunk— almost too much so.

Jun is a bit stressed having to play interpreter for Minghao's drunken ramblings, but it's all worth it when Mingyu tosses his head back with raucous laughter at every word spilling from Minghao's lips, interpreted by Jun.

"This is too much," Jun whines once the three of them have worked through a significant amount of soju. A glassy-eyed Mingyu nods in agreement, though neither of them are as bad as the notoriously lightweight Minghao.

"Haohao, are you going to go up to her or what?" Mingyu teases.

Another slurred word in Mandarin falls from Minghao's lips upon hearing that, his eyebrows knitting together for a moment as he pouts at Mingyu.

It's almost comical to see, to hear Minghao's usually soft and lilting voice falter, all while his cheeks stay a soft pink and his hair is a mess from how he's been running his hand through it.

The thought of approaching you makes his stomach churn, but he knows that he will. After this next shot. Just one more drink.

"Ge, you said you'd only drink one," Jun murmurs, a bit of concern seeping in his tone as he sees Minghao grab shakily yet another shot glass of soju.

Of course, he ignores their warnings for the moment as he downs the shot, his face growing pinker as he shakes his head and pushes himself to his feet.

It takes him a moment to gain his footing, his legs a little wobbly from alcohol, but he gets it. Mingyu laughs so hard that tears come out of his eyes. Jun, distressed, shoots back some more alcohol.

Minghao's vision is a little blurry, but you're just within his sight. And so, with Jun and Mingyu watching from behind, he makes his way towards you.

He's got a lopsided grin on his face, his cheeks a little pink, and he thinks he must be in love in a moment like this.

"Xīngān," he slurs, a slight hiccup following the word as he stops in front of you, his vision still a little fuzzy. He raises his hand to gently rub the back of his neck, his tone a little softer— and a bit more earnest— as he murmurs his invitation. “Can we talk for a minute?”

"Hey, you," you greet, readjusting the flower that he'd placed behind your ear. "Having fun?"

Minghao shakes his head, his lips parting to say no only to dissolve back into soft little hiccupping giggles instead. Of course he's having fun— how could he not, when his love is right there, and he gets to see you smiling and laughing and tipsy yourself?

He stumbles forward, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and pulling you in, his free hand coming up to your face as he squishes your cheeks and gives you a bright, gummy smile. "Are you having fun, xīngān?" he asks.

"I'm having fun, Hao," you concede laughingly, resting your other hand at his waist to keep yourself steady. It's— once again— a position that implicates you a little more than it should, but everyone's varying levels of drunk anyway.

This isn't the drunk Minghao, exactly, that everyone has seen. This is the one he so rarely allows anyone to witness, the one who gets clingy and a little emotional. He's usually much more capable of keeping his composure, even with alcohol loosening his tongue and his inhibitions, but he just can't manage to focus on anything but you tonight.

"Come run away with me," he murmurs. He tugs you against his side again, a little less carefully this time. He wants the closeness, tonight, as he leads the two of you over to the chairs loosely surrounding a warm bonfire.

It's mostly the other boys here— Joshua and Vernon practicing an acoustic guitar, Jihoon chatting with the co-producer everyone knew he had a bit of a thing for. They all watch with mild amusement as Minghao drunkenly stumbles over to one of the chairs, single-minded in his ambition of sharing a single seat.

He plops down onto the chair, tugging you right into his lap. He's so close to you then, his lips next to your ear as he wraps his arms snug around your waist, his legs on either side of you, pressing you close against him.

"I missed you," he murmurs, and the words are slurred, warm on the shell of your ear as he presses his face into the crook of your neck and exhales softly for a moment.

He's drunk. And in love. And that's a dangerous combination.

You press your fingers into Minghao's knee, your shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. "How could you miss me?" you whisper back. "I was right there the whole night, xīngān."

He shakes his head, burying his face into the crook of your neck, mumbling softly. "You were far," he pouts, his words a little more garbled than before. He has no sense of personal space right now, with you pressed so close against him, and he's more prone to whine to get his way.

He wants this. He wants you close. He wants you.

"Is that so?" you say sympathetically, the words coming out almost like a coo. "You have me now, though."

"I'm never letting you go," he responds.

There's still an almost childish part of him that thinks if he says it, like this, with you wrapped up in his arms, with your face flushed from alcohol, that maybe you'll stay by his side.

He just has one question that he wants an answer for.

"Will you hold my hand," his words are slurred, his fingers tracing along the small of your back, up, down, back up again, "and look at the moon with me?"

Wordlessly, you reach for his hand at the small of your back and you thread your fingers together. You keep your intertwined hands over your thigh as you lean just a little further into Minghao until he's pressed against the back of the chair and you're practically lying on top of him.

It's easier, this way, for you to tilt your head back and do exactly as he asked. "Moon," you point out with your free hand, the word coming out in Mandarin. Yuèliàng. "It's a crescent moon tonight, see?"

With his arm securely around your waist, he presses closer still to look at the moon together, his words still a stammer as he murmurs, "Yeah. Just like us."

The words have no logic, not when he's drunk and soft and clingy like this. But he's still happy with it.

"Just like us?" you echo, and you briefly wonder if you're just a little too tipsy; if you'd missed a chapter or two about how you could be compared to the waxing crescent. Your eyebrows furrow in mild confusion, though you quickly realize there's no point in worrying your head when you could just ask.

"I'm the moon, and you're the flower," he declares, with all the confidence of his own drunken logic, his eyes falling to look at the flower still tucked behind your ear. He reaches up a hand to brush his fingers against the side of your face.

If not for the alcohol, he might be too shy to admit how pretty you are to him.

"We're a matched set, xīngān," he says.

The smile that breaks out on your face, then, is bright and wide and warm, rivaled only by the bonfire raging a couple of feet away. Your friends are still chattering amongst themselves, completely oblivious to Minghao's bold declaration.

A matched set. And you're just a little out of it, just a little drunk yourself, as you mindlessly link Minghao and your pinkies together. It's a quiet promise on its own. An assurance that this was something that could happen, would happen, at the right time.

"My moon," you concede, calling Minghao with a breathless sort of giggle. "My moon, my xīngān, my Hao."

"I love it when you speak Mandarin," he admits, his words warm against your temple as he presses closer still, his lips a few centimeters from your skin.

He has too much alcohol in his system, too little a filter for his thoughts, and right now, Minghao's world consists only of you and how you look in the moonlight— like some kind of vision, like something he'd write about in a song.

"Say it again," he instructs, his tone gentle. A request. Never a command.

"Which part do you want me to say again?" you ask in Mandarin, because Minghao had said he loved it when you spoke in it and you'd be damned not to give in.

It's all the same to him. The gentle words that come tumbling from your lips— he doesn't need to understand the meaning, he just wants to hear you speak.

Because how you sound when you speak Mandarin is lovely, and Minghao can't help but lean in just a little to drink in the sound of it, his fingers tracing along the exposed skin of your upper back.

He's never cared or loved the way he does when he's speaking Mandarin. But you, when you speak to him, it sounds like poetry.

"Anything," he murmurs. "Just say anything."

You tilt your head back up to the sky, where none of the usual Seoul light pollution is barring you from seeing the stars. When you see the expanse of the Big Dipper, you stick to what you know.

A Korean myth from your yesteryears, one that he hadn’t heard of in his own childhood.

"Once upon a time, deep in the mountains, lived a mother and her seven sons," you start softly, in Mandarin, as per Minghao's request. You tell the story almost in a whisper— the cold winter, the seven brothers, the Jade Emperor of Heaven.

A part of you, in the language that was a part of Minghao.

As you tell the fable, the alcohol settles comfortably in Minghao’s system. He feels sobered by the fact that you’re so close, that you’re indulging him in the way that you always do. So much, he thinks again. You give me so much.

And yet it’s not enough, still. He thinks back to the Korean phrase he once sought you out for. Intuition. Zhíjué.

Your story is winding to a close when he decides to trust his gut, this time. His arms tighten around your waist and he buries his face into the back of your shoulder.

"I love you," he says. Wǒ ài nǐ.

You pause. He can hear the smile in your tone as you respond, "I love you, too." Wǒ yě ài nǐ.

But, no. Minghao is done.

He won’t let this pass, won’t let miscommunication take this away from him. He has spent the better half of his twenties grasping at straws, bridging gaps in languages; this will not be another one of those things that he can’t say. He takes a fortifying breath.

He doesn’t care if you don’t believe in soulmates. If he’s the only one who thinks there’s a red string tied between you two. He’ll subscribe to your credo of destiny. He’ll do all the work.

"I’m in love with you," he amends. Wǒ ài shàngle nǐ.

He says it in his language, because it feels right, but then he repeats it in yours so there’s no room for you to misunderstand. It doesn’t change, anyway. Korean, Mandarin. English, Japanese.

Minghao is helplessly, hopelessly in love with you.

It feels like forever before you respond.

When you do, it’s in Mandarin. "Me, too," you admit, and he peeks at you enough just to see the way you’re gazing up at the night sky. He catches the hint of the smile on your face; the sincerity of which threatens to bowl him over.

You repeat his words— I’m in love with you— in Mandarin, then Korean, then English, then Japanese. Then all the other languages you know.

Minghao resists the urge to tell you to stop, to tell you it’s okay. He holds you tight, laughing quietly, as he basks in what feels a lot like the beginning of something.

It’s okay, he wants to say as you confess to him in Spanish, in Portuguese, in Italian.

I hear you.

I hear you loud and clear.

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redr0sewrites · 10 days ago

Text

⚠️A/n: short, filthy, and self indulgent. literally no plot just straight up smut. also happy late birthday Aizawa !

⚠️Cw: smut, riding, semi-public sex (in his office), degradation + praise, pwnp, orgasm denial, overstimulation, dacryphilia, afab!reader

⚠️dividers

"yea? s'that feel good?" your voice is hushed against his warm skin, and his cock twitches at your tone.

Aizawa lets out a strangled groan beneath you, hips jerking up to meet yours. firm hands dig into your hips, struggling to pacify himself as you bounce up and down on his cock. the chair beneath you creaks from your shared weight, and your thighs squeeze tight around his waist.

"you should get back to work, sir," you tease, leaning in to whisper in his ear. "wouldn't want your students to see you like this, hm? getting fucked in your own workplace.. who would've known that Eraserhead was such a slut.."

"shut it," he hisses, burying his head in your neck, inhaling your scent. "you were the one who suggested this.. if anyones the slut its you, not me. now quiet down. fuck, i could lose my job over this..."

"that just makes it- hngh,,, all the more fun, hm?" you whisper, pressing sloppy kissess to his neck as you rock back and forth on his dick.

"fun, huh?" Aizawa purrs, pulling away and leaning back in his chair to watch you squirm in his lap.

"y-yeah, fun. you do know what that is, right old man?"

"ffuck, you've got a filthy mouth, y'know that?" Aizawa sneers, and his hands immediately grip your waist tight enough to bruise. in one swift motion, he lifts you up almost entirely off his cock- before slamming you back down and watching you moan. he keeps up the brutal pace, his hips snapping against yours until soft uh uh uh's from between your lips and the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room.

"someone ought to teach you some manners," he hisses, admiring the way your cunt swallows his cock with every thrust. your juices gush around him as you clench, arousal overcoming you with each roll of his hips. a calloused hand reaches between your two bodies to rub circles on your clit, and Aizawa watches with practiced composure as you begin to crumble above him.

"feels s'good sir," you slur, leaning down to bury your head in his neck as your cunt squeezes around him. "m's'close," you shiver, and Aizawa nods before pressing a kiss to your temple.

"i know baby, i know. you can last a little longer f'me, can't you?"

you nod, breathless and teary eyed as he increases his pace, hips snapping against yours impossibly harder than before. the pleasure is mind numbing, and you arch into him as your clit pulses beneath his thumb. nimble fingers continue to stroke your pearl as his free hand crawls up between your shirt to palm your bouncing breasts. he squeezes a nipple between two fingers, watching as your brow furrows in pleasure.

"p-please, 'm gonna cum, i can't hold it any longer-"

"you're going to wait, or i'll stop," his voice is threatening, and you shiver at the thought of him pulling away. Aizawa notices, he always does, and leans in to capture your lips in a filthy kiss. his demeanor switches to be more comforting, almost confescendingly so, as tears begin to form at your waterline, the pleasure becoming all too much to handle.

"c'mon, baby, doing so good f'me, just last a little longer, hm?"

you whimper, and Aizawa's cock twitches inside you. he lets out a low string of curses and his pace picks up, signifying that he's just as desperate as you are.

"c'mon, honey, we'll cum together, okay? you still with me?"

you nod, moaning desperately as he continues drilling his hard cock into your cunt. the burning pleasure in your gut is practically unbearable, and his fingers, which had momentarily paused, return to circling your clit. his ministrations push you over the edge, and he nearly growls in your ear as you cum undone.

you tighten around him like a vice as your orgasm washes over you, and Aizawa twitches inside you once, twice, three times before his own orgasm overtakes him.

"shit, fffuuck honey," his hips jerk up against yours involuntarily, and he continues thrusting for a few more seconds, prolonging both of your orgasms' until overstimulation begins to creep up on you.

"A-aizawa, s'too much!"

"you can take it," he grits his teeth, pressing you down harder against his length. his pace is unrelenting, and your eyes roll back as every nerve in your body seems to light on fire.

"hngh! can't!" you mewl, tears now streaming down your face. Aizawa groans at the sight, his cock still impossibly hard. he can't deny that your tears only turn him on more, and he thrusts into you with a new purpose- he wants to see you sobbing. of course, Aizawa wants nothing more than to comfort you and keep you safe... but your whiny voice and tear stained cheeks make his cock throb.

"aw, don't cry," he murmurs, voice low and husky. "just give me one more, yea? you can do that f'me?"

"o-okay," you mewl, already feeling the coil in your stomach tightening again.

"yea, look at you, s'good f'me, my pretty little darling," he whispers, leaning in to kiss your tear stained cheeks. "you close already?"

"mhm!" you nod frantically, nuzzling into him as he chuckles.

"go on baby, you can cum," he grunts, and you do just that. you fall apart on his cock, mewling and sobbing as pure orgasmic bliss consumes you. Aizawa comes undone at the sight of your pleasure, spurting his release deep inside you. the feeling of him filling you up only turns you on more, and you give a few more exhausted rolls of your hips before collapsing against his chest, purely exhausted.

"are you okay?" he mumbles, voice dry. he gently lifts you up from your position slumped against his chest to slowly pull out of your aching cunt. you whine at the loss, thighs trembling from overstimulation as his fat cock rests against your thighs.

"mhm, jus' tired... do you have any more shit to do?" you grumble, and Aizawa chuckles.

"i think the grading can wait for tomorrow."

you blink, looking up at him with a tired smile.

"so can we go home now?"

"i thought you'd never ask."

GRAHHHHHHHHHH HES SO FINE I NEED TO CHEW ON HIM

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prael · 2 months ago

Text

Oranges And Flowers

Kinktember Day 18: Romance

IU (Lee Jieun) x male reader smut

words: 10,517 Kinktember Masterlist

"Can I be honest with you all?" A question for a question, and they all turn their heads, and finally you offer them a real answer. "I didn't really know what I was getting myself into—when I applied to stay here, that is—I just needed a place to stay for the week."

The evening air is humid and still, the sky a flat obsidian black with shining constellations, and underneath it, surrounding a fire, is a circle of maybe the most mismatched group of people ever assembled. There are the stars of course, Hyori and Sangsoon, owners of the house and the famous couple hosting you all—then, Lee Jieun; you know the one, probably the single most famous person in the country, just casually sitting there in her summer dress as if she was nothing special at all. And then there's the guests, an assortment of people you still don't really know. The old couple, the young couple, and the sisters.

And, finally: you.

"So you applied to the TV show, just for somewhere to stay?" Hyori's laughter carries and is as contagious as it is clear and pleasant.

"Honestly," you look around the circle. "I didn't read a lot of the info, and even now I'm not too sure what's actually going on in the show."

This earns a laugh from the group, they're all looking at you, and not in that 'you-fucking-moron' sort of way, no, their faces are full of smiles. Though, one stands out above the rest.

"And you?" Hyori turns her attention to the next person in the circle, one of the sisters who is sitting on your left. All the stares move along with the questions, switching focus to the girl—all except one. Jieun sits directly across from you and her gaze rests stoically upon your face, an unreadable smile painting her delicate lips a plush and radiant pink. Between you, the fire burns. It sends spiralling embers shooting into the night and, behind it, the orange light dances over her skin. It would be so easy to get the wrong idea here. This place is just so beautiful, everything is picture-perfect, and all these postcard-worthy scenes feel even better when Lee Jieun is a part of the composition.

Laughter breaks out in the group again for some joke you never paid attention to. It steals the attention of you both, however, turning to the girl and joining in the laughter with a meek half-hearted chuckle, looking around at them all awkwardly before returning your eyes to Lee Jieun. She returns the look and lifts her drink, taking a long sip through a straw.

You weren't too sure about all this the first day you arrived. On paper it seems like such an obvious idea, you didn't have to pay a penny and the producers even picked you up from the airport, all in exchange for being a bit-part background character that no one who watches will ever really remember or care about. In reality, it has changed the whole holiday. The requirements for guests were rather simple. You just need to be around for a few set activities by the producer, all worked around your schedule, and then you're free to enjoy your time however you like.

That first morning, you were greeted at the house by Hyori and Sangsoon. Introductions were made and then a short tour began, all under the camera's watchful eye.

It was okay, you could handle it, right up until you were taken into the kitchen and standing there was Lee fucking Jieun. Apparently, you skipped over the part that said IU was going to be here. It was like staring into the sun. Of course, Hyori was quick to joke as you stood there stunned and silent with an open mouth that could catch a mosquito or two.

"Why am I being outshone in my own house? Jieun, you need to leave." Hyori playfully poked her friend in the arm, and Jieun just giggled along. And like the world's biggest idiot, you couldn't even muster a simple 'Hello'. Great first impression there.

From then on you were shown where you would sleep and you bumped into some of the other guests. They seemed normal enough. One was nice, one seemed grumpy, and the others—well, you really didn't know yet. When you settled into your room, you yearned to just do something normal, to not get overwhelmed. Making some tea seemed like the perfect grounding activity.

When you got there, the kitchen was empty. The teapot was already out, but everything else was decidedly harder to find. Then came that soft and gentle voice from behind you. "You won't find anything to steal in there; it's all baking supplies." It made you jump, and you snapped around to see Jieun leaning against a fridge door, smiling over a glass of something clear and carbonated.

You pointed at your chest like an idiot. "I'm... not looking to steal."

"Too bad." She took a long and dramatic sip. "It would have made for good television. Plus, you look like a kleptomaniac to me. Brooding and mysterious, travelling alone, all that sort of thing."

"I'm actually just trying to make some tea."

"Oh perfect, let me. Here," She took the cup from the kitchen counter, placed it in front of you, and then moved beside you to open the correct cupboard to pull out some tea leaves. It was funny the kind of thing that can go into making a good impression and the pressure you put on yourself to do so. How many would kill for this chance, to stand close to Jieun in an otherwise empty room? Yet, your mind was swimming, you were trying desperately to not think about the very famous, attractive, woman who stood shoulder-to-shoulder with you—trying desperately and failing horribly as the thoughts of something funny to say slipped out of reach entirely.

She leant in towards you—well, towards your cup—and you jumped back, trying to play it off as a simple 'making way' manoeuvre, but her little side-eye glance and smile told you how stupid you looked.

"This is one of the few things I know what to do. Tea. I can make tea," she was saying as she filled up the teapot. "They asked me to try and bake some bread this morning, but..."

"Where is it now?"

"It's in here," she pointed at the rubbish bin with a free hand.

"I think it bakes better in the oven. Can't tell you much more than that though." Boy did this woman laugh. Like, a lot. As if it was the funniest thing she had heard all week. Her shoulders shook and her whole body swayed, and when the teapot whistled it made her jump, which sent her spiralling back into another fit.

And suddenly, she looked so... normal.

You know it's unfair to say celebrities are anything other than just normal people, because of course they are normal people, it's not like fame and money change them on a fundamental level. That being said, they can't help but not be normal in the eyes of many. Celebrities are celebrities, like how someone with blue hair is always blue-haired. But, at the end of the day, Jieun, whether she is IU the singer and TV star or Jieun the disaster of a breadmaker, is just a regular, normal, though very gorgeous, woman.

And she looks that way now, too, across the campfire. Sure, the cameras are rolling and she puts a little extra emphasis and playfulness on her expressions and movements—who wouldn't for the sake of good television—but in this moment, right here, right now, she's a completely normal and likeable human being, one you think you might enjoy being around. Hyori continues to lead the discussion around the fire pit, asking a few probing questions about the guest's hobbies and home lives, then posing riddles to the group and comparing their answers with her husband Sangsoon's.

For you, her questions are answered quickly, giving them a quick thought and little else before letting them fall from your lips.

When Hyori moves her focus along, she doesn't fail to pick up on the way you and Jieun spend the remaining half hour or so, looking at each other, smiling every so often, then quickly pulling your gaze away as if caught red-handed doing something sinful.

~~~

"We're going to pick oranges this morning." Hyori is explaining over breakfast. "I know, it's not the most exciting but it's the Jeju staple activity, so we have to do it. All guests are welcome to join us."

The young couple sat to your right immediately volunteered their services, followed soon after by the older man and his wife. Once their attendance was secure, the rest seemed significantly less interested and all excused themselves for other tasks. As the only person yet to respond, Jieun turned the spotlight on you, "How about you? Are you going to join us?"

You shrugged. "Uh, I was going to meet a friend, actually."

Hyori is quick to follow up, "You could see them in the afternoon right? Come with us, it will be fun." There are a few puzzled looks around the table. See, Hyori didn't push anyone else to go, no, only you. "Your friend won't mind right?"

In all honesty, your friend might very well be livid, though he might very well lighten up if you told him who you were spending your morning with instead. You run a hand through your hair and admit defeat, looking towards her. "Okay, I'll come along."

An answer that produces an immediate, but brief shared glance between Hyori and Jieun.

~~~

The journey there was lacklustre, a short ride, with the other guest, separated from the stars who rode ahead. The staff member with you gave you a basic run down, they are only planning to use the guests in some overhead shots and some background shots, everything else would be focused on the three of them.

But, after climbing the stone steps and passing through the orchard gate, Hyori takes charge of the situation. "We'll split up into pairs. Our two older lovebirds can go together, and our younger couple too. Sangsoon is with me and..." She stops. Hyori gives you a devious grin, one that speaks louder than words. "That leaves you two." She gives a final affirming nod before striding over to join Sangsoon.

And just like that, you find yourself walking through the grove alongside a girl you've only ever seen on TV before. This morning she wore a cute ensemble that accentuated her long legs. Another flowing sundress with a belt tied tight at the waist to show off that lithe, feminine shape. It's a silent first few steps, walking off down between two rows of trees, both waiting for the other to initiate the conversation.

Jieun speaks first, breaking through the tension. "So, you said you know someone on the island?"

"Uh," you brush a loose strand of hair from your eye. "A couple of them actually, old friends. One lives in Jeju and another's been here for work and he said I should visit when I'm in the area."

"What are they like?" Jieun stops, so do you, and then she steps across you, before crouching down to take an orange from the low-hanging fruit. "The friends."

"Uhm..." What are they like? Good friends, obviously, otherwise you wouldn't be making this trip. Where's the drama, where are the fun anecdotes, or the moments of soul searching. Nothing comes to mind. "They're fine?"

It earns a chuckle from Jieun. "Fine?" She stands facing you, dropping the fruit into the basket you're carrying. "Is that all?" She flashes you the sweetest smile, an endearing smile, one that begs you to open up a little more.

"I met them recently, actually, it's been mostly online, to tell the truth." Jieun ducks down to get the next fruit, you bend down too and pluck at another on the opposite side, rotating to turn to her and handing her the basket, standing back up and following beside her once more. "They're funny, one of them is a big foodie. Always posts pictures of stuff like the best bibimbap in Busan or whatever. Has a whole food blog that's fairly popular."

Jieun nods, pondering and popping a new piece of fruit into the basket. "Do you like food?"

"Can't live without it," you joke.

Jieun chuckles, and you laugh with her. It is hard not to, her laughter is so cute. "So can you cook?" she follows.

"Instant noodles is about all I know."

"Somehow I even manage to ruin those," she admits with a fake frown and a laugh. "I think that's part of the reason I'm on this show."

"What's that?" you ask as Jieun reaches for another ripe fruit, she pulls it from the branch and then somehow manages to drop it on the floor, a gesture you couldn't help but find positively adorable. She runs a few steps after it as it begins to roll on the hard dirt ground, and bends over to scoop it up, presenting it to you victoriously with her smile.

"What's what?"

"You said it's why you're on the show."

"Oh, because I'm kind of, useless? Clumsy, not very domesticated, really."

"Those things don't make you useless, you're anything but useless." Is that flirting? A line you spout before the weight of the words and the loaded tone settle in your own mind. Jieun turns to you, eyes sparkling, cheeks rising as she smiles wider than you had seen before.

"And why is that?" There's no escaping her questioning, and maybe she enjoys it a little.

"Well." A fruit, any fruit, grab another fruit. Look away and look at the tree. Breathe. Turn to her again. You can do it. "You just put all your talents into singing and performing and acting and whatever else you do right? You put all your skill points into one tree so to speak, instead of scattering them to fill multiple."

She stops. Frowns. "What?" Her face twists in a confused mess. "Skill points?"

"Oh. It's like, in games, when you earn skill points to improve something and choose what you want to..." You realise how utterly ridiculous you sound. "Never mind."

Her face is one of wonder, there's this mixture of confusion, curiosity, and her clearly fighting back laughter. "No," she laughs. "Continue, please, you were doing a whole thing there."

"I embarrassed myself enough for one day. Thank you."

"Are you a bit of a nerd?" She asks with this teasing smirk before spinning away, her floral dress flowing in the wind, and walking further ahead.

"Hey! No! Not a nerd!" you call after her, following in her wake.

"Look like a nerd to me" She twirls around just before the turn in the row, leaning on the trunk of one of the few taller trees, smirking and playfully twirling a few strands of her dark hair around her delicate fingers.

From then on, the conversation flows far easier and quicker than it probably should. A playful back and forth as she questions your hobbies and quirks, you fire back asking for her own. Things range from the kinds of books she likes to her telling you how she always sings into her toothbrush every morning when she is brushing her teeth. You promised not to tell a soul, as her secret was safely in your hands. She has a quick wit and a slightly goofy sense of humour, the kind of things a magazine spread or a soju advertisement could never communicate or capture.

Despite her charm and charisma though, the thing that shines through the most is the way she listens to you. With genuine care and fascination, and not just for the cameras, no, it felt genuine. Honest. True.

"No. You can not be serious!"

"One hundred percent true." You pull out your phone and show her the photos on the screen. A blurry mess at first before you flip to another.

"That's you? And that's... is that..." She doesn't need to finish, she takes hold of the phone and holds it directly up against her face. "Why did you think that was a good idea?"

"I never thought it was a good idea, I lost a bet, and we had been drinking. Bad decisions were inevitable."

"This might well be the single worst tattoo I have ever seen." She doesn't stop squinting at the photo. "Why is it upside down?"

"I don't think the orientation would make it any better."

"Wait," Jieun says, looking away from your phone and into your eyes. "You have to show me it, I want to see it with my own eyes."

"Absolutely not."

Jieun slaps at your arm, pretending to be upset. "Come on!"

"Jieun, even if I wanted to show you my ass, there would be no point, I had it lasered off like 2 months later."

Jieun's laughter could ring for a day. It's infectious, it's a laughter that communicates how light, happy and free-spirited she feels—and it makes you feel exactly the same. You talk a bit about travelling, too. Places you've been, places you would still like to go. For Jieun, it became a bit of a flex. A concert here and a concert there, movie filming there and a photoshoot here.

"You've seen the world, and met everyone, but here you are picking oranges with me."

"Here I am." Jieun stepped aside as you passed, looking around at the beautiful weather and the swaying tree branches. "I like this more, I think." She stops. You turn, seeing her suddenly shift a bit shy. "It's nice, this..."

"Oranges are nice and all..."

Jieun giggles. "No, silly," Jieun purses her lips. "This. Me and—"

"Hey, you two! Having a nice time!?" Sangsoon calls out to the pair of you from a few rows down. In unison, the two of you turn to him, to his big, smiling face, and then watch as Hyori hits him on the shoulder and admonishes him for interrupting. For a second it looks as though Jieun is blushing as she looks away from his gaze and towards the ground, scratching her brow, hand almost acting as a shield.

"We should get back."

"Yeah, I'm all orange'd out," you say, holding up the full basket.

~~~

You had spent the afternoon away from the house, which was probably for the best, spending some time in reality instead of this strange new world where you're suddenly hanging out with IU. The friend, your old university colleague and Jeju local was eager to catch up. Despite a minor disagreement—or two, or ten—he took it in good sport. Before nightfall though, you had returned and had just taken a shower.

There's a knock at the door, so you quickly pull on a shirt and open it to find Hyori on the other side. "Hey stranger," she follows your gesture and walks into the room before perching on your bed. "How was your time today?"

You close the door behind you. "Fun. I spent some time catching up with some friends."

"And making a new friend?"

A small nod. "I enjoyed myself today, it was all quite... different than what I had been doing. It was..." You weren't really sure how to follow up.

"I get it." Hyori leaned back on her hands. "But Jieun really seemed to have a lot of fun today."

You're stuck in this awkward silence, not wanting to say anything stupid but also refusing the play it down.

Hyori takes mercy on you. "Anyway," she pushes herself to her feet. "We're eating outside again, barbecue, come join us."

A smile appears, an acceptance of the invitation. She watches it come out and nods at it, as if pleased with your decision. And with a brief smile, she leaves the room and you're left alone. You leave the room.

You arrive on the back porch and watch the scene from a distance. Jieun sits by the fire in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, looking so naturally good it could take the breath of anyone who stared long enough. Her legs look spectacular in shorts, her chest looks perfect through a white t-shirt, and she looks breathtaking right now—in this light and under these circumstances. The fire-pit burns again and as it does, Hyori and Sangsoon stand near the grill, their backs turned and talking among themselves. By Jieun's feet rests one of Hyori's dogs, sound asleep.

As soon as your foot hits the grass to start walking over, Jieun turns to see you approaching and a radiant smile cuts right through your defences, punching into your heart and embedding a spear made entirely out of a whole array of butterflies. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't join us," she teased with a flick of her hand.

"Good to know I'm missed when not around."

Jieun is about to say something but appears to bite her tongue and look back at the fire. There's a space next to her on the little log chair she sits on, though you think it too presumptuous to sit right by her so soon, and take the little wooden armchair opposite instead, crossing your legs and stretching, pulling your phone from your pocket, to check for notifications. None. You stare at it anyway.

There's a solemn silence for a while, the cooking of meat and the playful bickering of the couple by the grill and the occasional chatter amongst the other guests. This leaves you and Jieun, slowly drinking from your glasses, separated by the fire.

After some time, the food begins to come in batches, and you eat with everyone else. The group shares the tale of their expedition to the oranges this morning, like how Hyori claims she found the largest orange of the day only for the young couple to later find and present a larger specimen. Some of the others share how they went into town and saw some old houses, or an old shrine, visited the beach and splashed around in the water and a few others sit and listen quietly, nursing their drinks.

Eventually, you begin to grow drowsy and stifled by the warm heat of the fire, a blanket that draws everyone closer, too close.

You stand, pat yourself off and let your gaze rest on the fire, then speak to no one in particular. "I'm going for a walk, thank you for the food," you say as you bow your head to your hosts.

"So late at night?" Jieun asks from her perch.

"Got a bit too warm is all, fresh air would be nice."

Jieun glanced down at the fire and her eyes shot up at you. "Let me join you, keep you company."

Hyori and Sangsoon share an understanding glance, before Hyori says, "Be careful you two."

Jieun stands up. "Soonshim can come with us, can't you Soonshim? You'll keep us safe." She bends down to stroke her behind the ears, and she lazily raises her head and grumbles in that cute way that animals do. She happily climbs to his feet and yawns.

Off you went, walking the stone path. Up a gentle incline before cutting left towards a quiet path cutting through some trees. For a while, the night is filled with the sound of rustling trees and the snapping of fallen sticks underfoot. That's all until Soonshim leads your party off onto an even more remote dirt track.

"Now where are you going?" Jieun coos playfully, not expecting much of a response.

"She probably knows this area better than we do," you suggest with a smile and Jieun returns it. You seem to bring a lot of smiles out in each other. Soonshim appears to have a destination in mind, the dog bounds along the track and you follow, the path becomes more and more unstable, and the darkness of the evening isn't doing either of you any favours.

Jieun steps up onto a stone in the path and she slips, wobbling from the momentum of the step with a small yelp and you catch her immediately in your arms.

"Careful," you chuckle nervously. She doesn't move, but relaxes into your chest, closing her eyes. You have her. You keep her steady, her breathing is fast and short. It slows and slows, her fingers lightly clasping at your arms. She relaxes and her voice comes at near a whisper.

"Thank you."

And then, slowly, she lifts herself away without looking you in the eye and lets out a small cough. She starts to walk again, this time holding onto your hand—for safety. You smile at the touch and gently squeeze back, taking care as you descend and traverse the difficult ground. Soonshim still leads onward, barking and jumping in her bounding little way and occasionally waiting for the slow, careless, humans to catch up as she heads uphill.

Before long you come to a clearing at the top which blesses you with a view of the rolling countryside, bathed in moonlight, and a peaceful soundscape, far removed from anything but the sounds of nature. Back down the hill, over the trees, you can see the roof of the house, and the glowing of the fire out front.

Soonshim finds a nice place for a rest, and the Jieun leans her head into your shoulder and says quietly, "Tell me something that no one knows."

Soonshim rests. Jieun looks expectant, and suddenly, you're struggling. There must be something interesting. No. Something cute or funny? No, nothing seems quite right. And yet her eyes are searching for answers. The seconds pass and you rack your brain trying to remember, going into the darkest of dungeons in your memories, hoping something would come.

"Something that no one knows," you mutter to yourself. Jieun leans closer. Something that no one knows. Soonshim yawns, laying her chin on her paws as her tail softly hits the grass beside her. "I had this girlfriend, a few years ago. She was kind and sweet and loving."

"What's not to love about that?"

"Ah well." You snickered, a chuckle under your breath. "When she's doing the same thing with another guy it kind of takes the shine off a little."

"Ah... I'm sorry," Jieun reaches out, resting a consoling hand on your forearm. Her grasp is delicate. "It must have been tough. How did you find out?"

"They were bad at hiding it. When I did confront her, she didn't deny it."

Jieun lets out a small breath, something between a gasp of surprise and a grunt of disbelief. "Wow. So did it end, like, there and then?"

"Yep. Walked out and have been free ever since. Never looked back." You smile, looking out across the plains below.

"Do you prefer to be free? Not tied down and always going after adventure?"

"If I wasn't free, I wouldn't be here. If I was tied down I would never make this trip."

"Doesn't answer my question," Jieun jokes then pokes you in the ribs.

"No. Not really." A period of silence follows as you take in the fresh air and the scenery before you. The sound of crickets rings out and the breeze swirls its way through the brush. Jieun seems to ponder on what you had just told her. Maybe it doesn't make much sense, or maybe you just came off a little weird. You can't be sure what she is thinking.

But speaking so plainly is a freeing feeling, and telling her feels right. As though the idea that she may judge you is, not unthinkable, but far more remote of a possibility.

"I broke up with someone too. Not long ago,. It wasn't anything as tragic as yours, but, we just didn't have the time to be together." She brushed at a stray hair, caught by the wind.

"I'm sorry." You turn to face her and she meets your eyes for only a moment before she turns to Soonshim who lifts her head and tilts it with the look that only a dog's can express. "She's beautiful," Jieun mutters softly, nodding her head to the sleeping canine, which wagged its tail at the acknowledgement.

"Yeah. She is beautiful." You say, not taking your eyes off of Jieun.

She draws back her gaze, and looks up, with a little confusion, eyes glimmering like gemstones, searching your own as she draws nearer and nearer to you. "Are you talking about Soonshim, or—"

"You."

Lee Jieun steps into the kiss, onto her tiptoes and lifts herself as high as she can to press her soft lips on yours. Your heart seemed to miss a beat, or five, as you leant into it, capturing her lips with your own. You pull your arms around her, in a tight embrace and her heartbeat thunders against you.

And when Jieun pulls her lips away from yours, you lean in again, capturing her lips once more. You cradle the back of her head and guide the kiss, ever so slightly. Just to be closer to her, only a little closer. But enough. When the kiss ends this time, you sigh.

"We shouldn't," Jieun's whisper sounds so vulnerable, her mouth, too lonely for the words. "We should—" kiss again? "go back."

"I'm sorry, I—" Jieun cuts you off with a small kiss, a peck.

"Don't be." She keeps hold of your hand, leading you towards the path and pulling you gently downhill. "We should just get back."

~~~

It's on the porch of the house, where you stood just a couple of hours ago, staring at her, that she says, "Good night." And there's this look in her eye that screams the words 'I want to kiss you again'. Though you both know that this isn't the time or the place.

"Good night," you give her a smile. "Sleep well."

"You too." And then she's gone, Jieun and Soonshim slip in through the back door and you head to the front to get into your room. The emptiness of the room is a strange departure from the warmth of company you've felt all evening. And as you drop onto the bed, sleep does not come quick—it refuses.

Instead, as you toss and turn in the cool, crisp linen, you imagine Jieun's lips meeting your own again, and again. Soft and pliable, sweet and willing, as inviting as can be. Then you argue with yourself that it was an accident, just a product of the moment rather than anything deeper, but... not really. Not when it happens like this, not with her so eager, as eager as you were, in equal measure. And that has a price. The whole night, turning endlessly.

You wonder if she struggles just the same.

The morning rolls around and so does the bad news. There's someone completely unrecognisable helping prepare breakfast, a change that goes unaddressed by your hosts for what seems like the longest time. It's only when they join you at the table that they make the announcement, "Jieun has a concert, back in Seoul, she'll be returning tomorrow evening." Hyori pulls a chair and sits down at the table, pulling a full plate closer to her.

Sangsoon helps himself and settles next to Hyori, asking casually, "Did you and Jieun go for a walk yesterday?"

You pause, trying not to sound like a blushing teenager. "Uh, yes. Yes we did, it's very pretty out there, with some really nice views. Soonshim led us up a hill."

"Didn't see much of you afterwards," Hyori teases, "did we?"

"I was tired after we got back so I just crashed. Tough work walking those hills."

The two hosts glance at each other and chuckle. "Well, Soonshim will be happy, she loves walks. Thanks for looking after her."

You give a small, simple nod. "Of course."

For the next ten minutes, you pick at some of your food but feel so restless the entire time. By the time you stand up from the table, Sangsoon looks a bit surprised. "Somewhere to be?"

"Just want to use the bathroom," you say, with a hasty smile.

There, you stare in the mirror. And it hits you. Hard, right in the stomach, like a heavyweight boxer throwing a right hook, or a hammer kick from a martial artist. A surge of feeling that cuts through you and shatters any façade of composure. Of control. You're flustered. Nervous, even. Like an anxious teen in a school hall during prom.

It's an alien, almost nauseating, feeling, something like vertigo.

~~~

"Can I get you anything else?"

"No, that's everything." Jieun answers, before pulling closed the divider of her first-class pod, shielding herself from the prying eyes of those seated nearby. She places her headphones on and peels into her orange, holding a large section up to the light, before gently placing it in her mouth.

The flight is short to Seoul, but it's a lonely one—without him. She can still feel him though, the kiss that happened at the hilltop. And all the dread that comes with it. Jieun knows full well just how wrong it was, and yet she also knows just how right it felt. Normally, by now, all of her thoughts are on the performance ahead. All her little anxieties arise from the finer details and how she strives to perfect them. Now, though, is the exception.

The ride from the airport to Yonsei is a little different. Though she had to put on her best actress face in the airport, for all the fans and the cameras, but here, alone and safe, she's given the time and the space she needs, but it doesn't bring the relief she expected. Now her thoughts are just swirling, again. Swirling and storming and churning.

Her manager is talking, about this and that, all probably important—but she'll never know.

'It's just going to go down the same road again, another relationship that takes a backseat to my career.'

Jieun groans internally. 'He's such a nice person though.'

"Jieun?"

It catches her off guard. Her heart pounds in her chest, startled, not so much because she was called upon, but the direction it was in. "Huh?"

"So, what do you think?" the manager asks. "Are you even listening? This is what you wanted right?"

Jieun closes her eyes, bringing her index finger up and pinching the bridge of her nose, running her hands down the contours of her face, then forcing a small, tired grin on her lips, she mutters, "Yeah, sorry, I'm listening."

~~~

It's been a strange couple of days. You spent as much of it as you could away from the house. Out in Jeju doing the most random of things to take your mind away from her. Though that's pretty tough when you're walking the street and she's on poster after poster and then you dip into a convenience store only for it to be playing her music.

Coming back for lunch wasn't any better, with Sangsoon and Hyori often teasing or giving the odd hint here and there. You sat down, not able to enjoy the food properly and excused yourself when your appetite gave out on you.

That afternoon, Hyori sat on the porch and invited you to join her—quiet and away from everyone else.

"You must know it's not easy for someone in Jieun's position to do, to go around kissing anyone like that," she starts and she reaches for the drink, pouring it and handing the glass out to you, and you reach for it, staring down at the liquid and watching the ice cubes swim and then sink.

"She told you?"

"In a sense," Hyori laughs softly and pours the other glass, putting the jug aside and taking up her glass. She leans back on one hand against the wooden board and says, "So, what now, what do you intend to do?"

"Uh, about what?"

Hyori offers a smirk and says, "About her."

"I..." What can you really say here, apart from that you just want her, like probably a hundred thousand other men and women have wanted her since they've first laid their eyes on her. Instead, you sip at your glass.

"Nothing wrong with liking her," Hyori says casually, as if the statement itself isn't fraught with consequence.

"Doesn't matter," is what you offer. "I shouldn't, we're from different worlds."

"Mmmm, yes and no," Hyori sips on her drink. "Listen. People like Jieun, like me, the reality we live in isn't the reality we want. Well, it is, but it also isn't. Because we get what we want but never quite get all we want."

You narrow your gaze in confusion. "Sounds like a riddle."

"Think of it like this. When we're on TV or we're on a stage or at a photoshoot or whatever, it's like we're living in the clouds, are you with me?"

"I think so."

"Well being up in the clouds is amazing, you get to do great stuff, fun stuff. But there's always a danger of floating away. So there's the other half of our life, on the ground. It's what keeps us sane. Balanced."

"So you have this double life," you offer as an interpretation.

"It's not that drastic but, yes." Hyori swirls the contents of her glass, taking a quick sip to wet her mouth. "Don't mistake it though, the ground is the more important half, because, in that part, we meet the people who mean the most to us. But, listen to me, when you date someone like Jieun, you're dating that half of her life. The ground. The clouds are for her alone."

"So you have to let her live up in those clouds without you?"

"Did she tell you about her ex?"

"She said they didn't have the time to be together."

Hyori nods. "If she told you that, then you've confirmed it for me. She likes you. But, now you have to think, this past twenty-four hours, there's going to be a lot more of this. Sitting at home while she's performing in front of thousands, living in the clouds. You have to ask yourself, can you handle it? Are you willing to accept it? All the pros and cons."

There's nothing for a few moments, the pair of you sit there silently, before you mutter, "That's kind of hard," and Hyori laughs under her breath as she tilts her head and agrees.

"Yeah. That's why not every relationship survives. Not in this business. But I'm doing you the favour of warning you in advance."

"Thank you."

"Speak of the devil." The sound of a car draws closer until it stops. Some commotion arises and then slowly, she appears. In all her beauty and grace. Hair blowing softly in the breeze, her yellow jumper and skinny jeans hugging her hips perfectly, her beauty as sharp and clear and as immediate as ever. There's no way to take it all in with just one look, especially with the sun low on the horizon behind her. You're mesmerised, to say the least, and even more so as her shy smile reveals itself.

"Evening," Hyori stands, opening her arms for Jieun and wrapping her in a hug, kissing her on the cheek. They exchange some words you can't hear but you watch the movement of the mouths, the way the body moves. Then you turn back to your drink, pretending to watch the dregs swim at the bottom of the glass. You can feel her now, or at least smell the light fragrance, you don't need to turn, as a shadow descends on the side of your head.

"Hi."

"Hey," you say as you draw your eyes slowly up her body. "How was the concert?"

"Good, thank you." Her smile widens.

"You must be tired after all that," you follow, and she nods in agreement and glances to the far end of the veranda.

"And hungry. Will you come inside for dinner with me?" She's smiling now, an infectious, radiant smile, that grows.

"Of course."

You move indoors, you and her at the table. You use the conversation over dinner to ask her about the concert, and her life as a celebrity. From asking her how it feels to be up there singing to hearing stories about some of the craziest fans, the sorts of weird things they do and the lengths they'll go to.

"Some even claim to know me," she laughed, "and try and ask me questions or say certain things and act as though we've known each other for years."

"It sounds surreal," you say and Jieun leans in with a curious look.

"It's been days and you haven't asked about this before now, not at all, so what's got you so interested?" she teases.

"Well, I guess I just wondered what life is like up in the clouds."

Jieun narrows her eyes at you for a moment before chuckling a bit, and leaning in further and muttering, "Hyori. She spoke to you about this didn't she?"

"Just a little, yes. While you were gone."

"I knew it, she likes this little analogy." Jieun folds her arms, rests them on the table and stares right into your eyes, asking "What else did she say...?"

"Not a lot."

"Oh god." Jieun throws herself back against her chair, she brings her hands up to her mouth, with the sleeves of her jumper over her hands and looking like she wants to bury herself into the palms of her hands. "Ugh, that girl. What else did she say?"

"Really, not much else," you answer.

"Right." She sits forward again, not raising her eyes. "Listen, while I was away, I was thinking about what happened."

"And..."

"And," Jieun lets out a huge exhale, the stresses and fears seem to leave along with that breath. "She told you, and you haven't run away. Or at least, not yet. You're still here, we're here. Now. Just sitting, having a chat and eating some noodles."

"The noodles are really nice," you say and Jieun laughs.

"See, you make me laugh, and it makes me all confused, in the best way possible. And I know this isn't the time or place, but—"

"Yes, Jieun."

"You don't even know what I was going to say."

"I'd really love to see where this takes us," you say as you rise from your seat, rounding the table without breaking eye contact. You gently take her hand.

Jieun looks a bit hesitant, stares at the ground and mutters under her breath, "Where does that road end, you know? Look at everything I'm asking, of you, I don't want you to get hurt because I may not be able to give enough."

"I get it Jieun, the ground and the clouds," you whisper as you guide her up from her seat to stand in front of you. "I'll be on the ground. Sometimes you'll be in the clouds."

Jieun collapses her cheek against your shoulder and releases a deep sigh. "Why are you so nice to me?" Jieun sniffles.

"Because you deserve it Jieun."

Her heart thumped so hard, so rapidly, and tears flooded her eyes, making the world wavy and foggy. She fights the tears. And she finds the warmth of you, she pushes her face hard into your chest, inhaling deeply, and feeling an inexhaustible source of strength flow through her, bolstering her. She presses her body into yours.

She reaches her head up and kisses you deeply. Your hands cup her cheeks and your tongues meet for the first time. She leans in, slipping her hands to your neck, and curling her fingers tightly. Her lips are so warm and soft, her whole body melts, and the two of you press against one another. A fire burns and every nerve thrills in anticipation. Her breathing increases as a raging fire churns within.

When the kiss breaks, you murmur against her lips, "Should we, go somewhere that isn't the kitchen?"

Jieun nods, her hands still firmly clutching the collar of your shirt. "The food can wait."

As the door to your room closes, you begin unbuttoning your shirt, the last of them dropping open as she leaps at you, her lips attacking your neck with soft, wet, urgent kisses as she clutches you like her life depends on it. And you have her back, reaching around and holding her, carrying her, stumbling through the dark and onto the bed. You hit the mattress, and your grip relaxes as she leans back and grabs the hem of her sweatshirt. Jieun lifts it, dragging it up her body until the garment is sent to the floor and there it lay, forgotten.

For a moment she seems hesitant, sitting above you. It's a strange mix of tension and passion, the way her fingers trace lines on your chest, and you sit in awe of this beauty above you. The urge to reach for her, to take her, becomes overwhelming, as your gaze trails up her tight, toned stomach, and lingering over her small chest, clothed in black and wrapped snug. You stare and she shivers at the intensity of that look and bites at the corner of her lip.

"This is okay?" Jieun asks softly.

"I'm here for it if you are," you tell her, reaching and cupping her breast in your hand, as though it belonged there. That sends a new chill through her.

"Okay." Jieun nods her head a little. The word shakes a little with a quiver of breath and she lowers her head to meet her lips on yours, softly brushing at first but gradually more insistent. Her tongue prods and finds yours, and she pushes you down by the shoulders, forcing herself to lie on top of you and hold you there. And the kiss seems endless.

You run a hand up the soft skin of her back, up the divot of her spine until your fingers come to her bra strap, and with a small break in the kiss, you murmur against her lips. "Can I?"

She kisses you while she nods. Your fingers search a little, finding the clasp, you tug, letting the bra slip. And, with one small gentle tug on her shoulders, the strap of the bra slips off and it's only her hand rushing up to cover her modesty that keeps it in place.

You wrap your arm around her and roll her over onto her back, and as she lay against the covers, you're over her, looking down at how she still holds her arm over her tits. "I want you to see all of me," she whispers.

"I want to see all of you."

And with that admission, her arm, drops slowly away, pulling the black bra with it and exposing those two perfect, beautifully formed tits. With the lightest, most delicate touch, you brush your thumb across one and feel it spring a little at your touch. The nipples are erect, Jieun leans and looks to the side as you bend down, taking one nipple into your mouth. You flit your tongue across the little pink pebble of flesh and watch Jieun's face.

The muscles around her eyes tighten, and she lets out the sexiest little whimper. The reaction makes you want her more and you begin swirling and caressing her tit with the soft, flat of your tongue, and sucking her nipple into the warm recesses of your mouth.

She cries out and gasps. "God that feels good..." her hands clawing through your hair and her fingernails scraping through. Her moan spurs you onwards as you plant a trail of kisses, switching between which sensitive nub you suck, tug and tease. "Don't stop," she pleads.

"Not when you taste so good."

"I can't believe we're... that you're here, with me."

Your hand finds hers, lacing the fingers into hers you smile, push her hand into the bedsheets and stare up into her glimmering eyes as you run your tongue once more around her nipple. "You're perfect Jieun, I can't believe I'm so lucky."

Jieun arches her back a little, closing her eyes and exhaling a breath. "Stop it, that's not true," she giggles in between whimpers, "stop it, you know it's not— oh g-god..."

You're moving your kisses up over her collarbone and to her neck, and settling your body down between her legs, resting between her thighs. Jieun clamps her legs tightly around you as you keep sucking and biting at her neck, nibbling ever so lightly on her ear. "And now," you whisper huskily, into her ear, "I have you pinned beneath me..."

"Oh, fuck, yes," Jieun squirms. She desperately pushes your shirt off your shoulders and then runs her hands over your body. "I like this feeling." She's pushing her hands between your stomachs, pulling open your jeans and pushing them down off your ass.

You return the favour, bringing her into a kiss and reaching to pull her tight jeans open. She lifts her hips to aid you, allowing you to slip them off her hips. You don't have a chance to pull them all the way off, too heavy in your kiss and grinding yourself between her legs.

You reach and pull at her and she breaks the kiss with a soft moan as she grabs your shoulder and shifts her hips. The movements press you into her a little more, and her head goes to the pillows behind her head, tilting back. The angle reveals the beautiful soft and slender curve of her neck and you go at it again, kissing and biting, nibbling and licking, running the tip of your tongue over the hot, smooth expanse and smiling as she wraps her arms and legs around you as tightly as her lips when you kissed her.

"I want you," she gasps. "I want you. Now."

You put an arm under her and pull her up until you're on your knees and she's straddling you. She reaches down, hands into your pants and takes your thick cock in her fist. That first touch. Her soft fingers are on your hardness. It's a rush that hits both of you and suddenly you're kissing again as Jieun awkwardly strokes your length, trying to tease you out.

You decide to make it easier and sit her on the bed, still kissing her intermittently as you stand and push your clothes to your ankles. Standing before Jieun, the most desirable woman you've ever been fortunate enough to touch, you suddenly feel a primal sense of arousal hit.

You lay her back again, and peel those jeans off her slender legs. Slowly down her thighs as they spill out of the denim, then all the way off, until she's in nothing but a pair of black panties, and you're stood over her, naked to the air. Jieun sits up to you and brushes your chest, feeling the shape of the muscles and kneeling back on her haunches, you take her mouth again, sliding your hands up her hips and feeling those supple breasts once more. "Jieun, you're so hot."

Jieun bites your lip, and throws her leg around you, drawing you down and gasps sharply as you find your cock grazing across the smooth expanse of her panties and press at her entrance, almost bursting with desire. Jieun pulls at your hips, urging you between them. She grunts with effort, biting at your neck. "You're everything I have ever wanted."

There's a pause that's filled only by your shared, short panting. This is where it happens. It's more than want and need. The quiet acknowledgement, the long silence, you stare into Jieun's eyes, and both of you nod your heads a fraction, agreeing without speaking a word. You push her panties to the side. Then the contact, the softness and the wetness of her opening as the tip of your cock pushes her apart.

"Oh, shit!" Jieun lets out the involuntary profanity as she claws at your back and moans into the crook of your neck.

It's amazing. Unbelievably, spectacularly, amazing. Her tightness stretches with only minimal effort, and you let out a strained breath.

"Oh my god," Jieun has her fingers clasping tightly to your shoulder and mouth open with pleasure. Her chest rises and falls rapidly as she writhes under you. "You feel amazing... holy shit," she curses.

"Jesus Jieun," you grunt as you sink down just that extra inch, enveloping your full length inside her. "You feel perfect, I could stay here forever."

Jieun does the best she can with that compliment, grinning through clenched teeth. "Thank you. I'm—" She cuts her own sentence short by gasping and reaching higher and taking a handful of your hair in her palm, her nails digging into your skull. "Do it." She orders you and the tone is coated in lust. "Please."

And so you do. Pull out to the sound of her sharp expectant inhale, and back in as she moans her lungs empty, the noises making it impossible to remain idle. Soon enough you have a rhythm of slow, measured thrusts, and are gasping in tune to her beautiful mews.

"God, you feel so damn good," Jieun manages, and she follows by adding, "A little harder, I love it."

It's like that for a few minutes. Jieun's pleasure is palpable with every movement of the bed springs and groans. Though it can't be any louder than the voice in your mind. This is actually happening. Fucking IU, of all people, is on her back beneath you, her beautiful body reacting to your every movement. She reaches for her breasts, rubbing them and pinching at the hardened points and begging, "More, please more," and you give.

Jieun brings her leg higher, arching her back and urging you further into her pussy, driving herself into you with equal force. This time her cry is louder, less controlled and broken by the beat of your bodies against each other, the sound of sex becoming a background harmony. Her feet stretch out behind you, her heels dig at the small of your back and her head falls back on the bed.

"I don't know how... how long I can..." Jieun breathes out. Her leg suddenly jerks and her entire body tenses. "Oh, shit."

You know what's coming, that doesn't make the feeling of her tightening around you any less shocking. She's shivering, gasping for breath and squeezing her eyes tightly, her body growing taut like a string pulled between fists.

"Fuck, Jieun, are you gonna—"

"Yes. Yes." Her entire body convulses. Her fingernails ripping lines up your back, Jieun arches from the bed, a sharp keening whimper from between her lips, followed by a series of high-pitched, short cries.

You're falling into the sheets beside her and pulling her on top of you. Seamlessly you move together, and she's riding you now, throwing her head back. You're lying there and she's a sight to behold. Her petite frame rolls and her toned, lithe muscles shift beneath her smooth skin. Every motion carries her hips as she fucks you.

Her breasts rise and fall, her hands flatten themselves on your chest as she holds herself up, bouncing herself on your cock with insistent determination. Jieun slides her palms upward, bringing them to your shoulders and lowering her chest, you reach to cup her tits, squeezing firmly and a sparkle glimmers in her eyes.

"You're so hard," Jieun purrs.

"You look so good on me, feel it too."

A smile flashes across her lips and the muscles clench,. You drag your hands across the perfect curves, feeling her sides, her ass, sliding back to take two, firm handfuls, pulling her into every movement. Your arms and legs beginning to tingle with your release, and you're losing all feeling other than her silken embrace.

Then you see her grimace and twist her body, breaking again for you. She falls against you and grinds out her orgasm. She quivers over you like a leaf in the wind. You hold her hips steady and stroke her skin as she returns from her high.

"Sorry," she moans a drawn-out apology. "Wanted you to cum, but, I can't..."

You hold her, rising from the bed, "Don't worry, Jieun, I've got this." You lift her and place her onto her side, thighs together, knees together, you push them up to meet her chest. Her perfect ass and thighs are on show, begging for you to slip back inside. She twists her body to watch you lean over her and push her knees into the bed.

You thrust into her, slipping under that one ass cheek, past those moist panties and into her pussy again. Jieun moans aloud again, and the sight of your cock slipping into her, the feel, is mesmerising. Jieun squeals a note.

The feeling, after only a few short thrusts, builds rapidly. And while a part of you wishes to hold back for her, make her cum over and over, she's far too sexy to deny yourself your sole need. Jieun moans and clenches again then cries out, "Please!" Her eyes watching you drive in deeper. And you lose it. The pressure breaks within, you bask in the sights, sounds, and feelings, and let it overwhelm you. "Inside, it's safe."

You spasm and with a deep thrust into her, your cum pours. Thick. Heavy, plentiful spurts as you cling to her trembling body. A final, ragged cry slips past your lips. Energy drained from you, into her, and you near-collapse against her sweat-kissed body.

You slip out of her, collapsing behind her and spooning her trembling body close, you drop kisses across the soft surface of her bare shoulder and take a tight grip on her small, perky tits. She whispers, "That was amazing."

"Tell me about it. The best."

She rolls her head and glances at you. "No, I mean, really, thank you. You were..." she sighs dreamily. "I didn't think it was possible to feel like that."

"We fit well, Jieun," you tell her softly. "There's no need to ever thank me. You really are special."

"Saying things like that," she sobs lightly. "You better be careful or you're going to mean a lot to me."

Your breathing seems loud in the sudden quiet, and you say, "I'd like that Jieun, to matter to you. Being important to you. It'd make me happy."

She is silent for a long moment, staring straight ahead. A single, happy tear rolls from her eye, onto the bed, and then sleep takes over. It is like a force sweeping you into the deepest darkness. It seems to happen between one breath and the next. One moment you're lying next to the most beautiful woman in the world, in the most euphoric, blissful post-coital state. In the next, your eyes blink open, and you're sprawled on your back, alone in the bed.

Her perfume hangs faintly in the air. Like a half-forgotten dream. An unintelligible whisper in the corner of your ear. "Goodnight," she had murmured at some point, in that instant between slumber and consciousness. But as your eyes scan around, her absence, her presence, seems like a dream. Like a mirage. As if she's always been this transient figure in your life. You fall into the pillow.

Then, just as sleep begins its second embrace, there's a knock at the door. There's a pause before a quiet voice speaks, "You awake?"

You sit up in a rush. "Come in," you reply, and Hyori enters.

She cuts right to the chase, as seems to be her way. "Last night, did you two? Wait, don't answer. I can feel it. You did."

"We did."

She walks closes the door firmly behind her, ensuring privacy. "I knew it as soon as she started acting shy this morning. I swear sex is the only thing that makes her shy. Funny little mannerism." Hyori takes a deep breath. "But listen, and listen close, okay?"

You nod for her to go ahead, but instead of going on, she sits down, gathering her thoughts.

She looks at you for a long time and says, "If this, whatever this is, is going to continue, you need to be prepared. It's going to be a mess. You need to hide it, and I mean really hide it, from everyone. Think how nuts the press will go."

You open your mouth to talk but she raises a finger.

"Hear me out. You have to remember that. This can't be normal, it will probably never be normal. That girl is special and this whole country knows it. There will always be cameras. And there will be times when you miss her because she's away. Sometimes for days or weeks and it's not the end of the world, because she has her job, and her fans depend on it. And as I'm sure you saw at dinner the other night, she does too, she loves her career."

Hyori sighs and rubs her forehead. "I know this seems a lot. You have known each other barely a week and I'm piling this onto you, but you need to know what you're getting into."

You smile. "I get it."

"You don't. Trust me. Not until you've lived it. Look, Jieun's an amazing girl. I like you, she likes you, a lot. I think you can make this work." She takes a big breath and says, "Welcome to this weird fucking world."

You chuckle quietly and nod in thanks.

"Now, if you're wondering where she has gone, she's out picking some flowers for the side dishes for later. They're recording something for the show right now but you can go out and join her in ten minutes, if you like?"

"That'd be great."

Hyori leaves and true to her word, when you venture downstairs and out onto the garden. Jieun's knelt along the rows. Her hair blows in a gentle breeze, and with the flowerbeds just in front, she is a blessed sight for tired eyes.

You go to her and ask, "Working hard?"

"Hey, you woke up," she beams at you.

"Had a chat with Hyori, too."

"Was it alright?" Jieun's face turns pale and worried, and her voice drops to a whisper. "She didn't try to get in your head, right?"

"It was fine, Jieun, she did give me the talk, though. A warning and a blessing, I think."

"Any regrets?" Jieun asks, timidly.

"What? No. God no. None at all. Actually, the only thought I had was if you would like to eat alone tonight? Just you and me, and then maybe we can go on another walk together, I enjoyed that."

"I'd love that," she says, her voice shaky, before a warm smile grows on her face.

"So, can I help you with the flowers?"

#kinktember #kpop smut #IU smut #Lee Jieun smut #kpop fanfic #male reader #m reader #smut #IU x reader #mirror

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