[sunfall] When the world is plunged into darkness, Minghao still sees you.
Perhaps he can reason that to the dim oil lamp you carry with you through the dense Morrigan forest, but that is neither here nor there.
He likes to think, instead, that his eyes will always find you, no matter the distance or darkness between. His heart will forever be drawn to you in ways that his torturously dull academia will never be able to explain. No matter the circumstance, the distance, the toiling rivalry between those born with everything and those born without, he will find you.
Of course, he would never tell you any of that. You'd never let him hear the end of it if he did.
At the sound of his footsteps on the forest floor, you turn to face him, your lamp held up close to your face.
"Your Highness," you greet with a smile he almost fears he will never grow tired of.
A small chuckle slips through him, and he glances down at his boots before meeting your eyes again. "Will you never stop calling me that?"
Your smile widens. "What would you rather?" you tease. "Most honourable Ice Prince?"
Minghao scoffs. He has said before how much he despises that title, given to him by those who call him cold, who say he has no heart, who say he is ruthless. Those who have never tried to meet the real him.
And yet, hearing it from you... he doesn't mind it so much.
You meet him -- the real him -- every week in the canopied darkness of the Morrigan forest, where time always seems to stand still just so Minghao will stay with you for longer than he plans.
Each night, he tells himself, just a little bit longer.
"Do you call for my company only to tease me?" Minghao counters. Each word he speaks on nights like these is a veiled request-- will you please smile again? He wants to see it the second it disappears.
Your smile persists, and he can't hide his own, even in the shadows of the trees.
"I believe you are the one who calls upon me, Your Highness." You step closer. He prays you cannot hear his rapid heartbeat. "And that aside, I am certain you enjoy my teasing. Why else should you wear a smile like this one?"
Extending your arm, you bring the lamp closer to Minghao than yourself, and you hold back a laugh at his shy smile.
He looks away, first to the expanse of forest behind you and then to his boots once more. His hands fumble to find home somewhere, failing to make him seem casual as he balances on his heels. "Perhaps I do enjoy our banter."
"I should hope so, Your Highness, lest I be wasting valuable sleep just to meet you out here in the Morrigan."
He ventures another glance at your face. Your eyes capture his.
"Must you call me that?"
You step closer yet again. Your free hand reaches towards his face, and for a fleeting moment, he thinks you will touch his cheek, cradle his face in your hand. He almost begs for it with his eyes, but he stops himself with a hitched breath when you continue past his face and up to his hair. You touch him for the briefest of seconds (he has to resist letting his eyes flutter shut) and pull back with a dried leaf between your fingers that must have been caught in his hair.
You smile.
"I don't know, Your Highness. If I call you Minghao, you just might fall for me."
“it's not like i'm in love with you or anything.” with our anti delulu king minghao for the prompt game! (def not spurred on by his recent fancalls he’s sleeping outside)
ⵌ minghao x reader.
ⵌ word count: 1.2k
ⵌ notes: minghao & reader are friends, feelings realization/denial. recent fan calls have also driven me insane. :)
"I need you to teach me how to flirt."
You glance up from your phone to fix Minghao with an unamused glare. He doesn't back down— just stands in your entryway with a mildly annoyed expression.
"You know how to flirt just fine," you say, one eyebrow rising to communicate your skepticism. "What do you need me for?"
"I'm not convincing enough," he gripes as he moves further into your apartment.
It takes him only a couple of strides to reach you at your dining table. With a disgruntled huff, he collapses onto the chair next to you. "At least that's what the company says," he grumbles. "I'm— what's the word? Too detached or something."
You lock your phone with a sigh. This was shaping up to be a whole thing, it seems. "Isn't that your charm?" you muse aloud. "The one member who's not flirtatious and all that."
An involuntary snort of laughter escapes you. "Got me there."
For a moment, neither of you say anything. You only eye Minghao with amusement as he flops his head on to your table, dramatic as ever in his griping.
"Why me, though?" you ask suddenly.
He peeks up at you. "Hm?"
"Why are you asking me for help?"
Minghao must have noticed the slight narrowing of your eyes, the upturn of your lips, because he quickly straightens up in his seat. "It's not like I'm in love with you or anything," he says hastily, putting up his hands in front of him. "Oh, God no. I'm not in love with you."
"No need to sound so disgusted at the prospect, Hao." Your tone is just a little bit dry, perhaps even a touch offended.
He shoots you a tight smile in return. "I just—" Even though it's only the two of you in your apartment, he lowers his voice into an almost conspiratorial tone, like he's sharing a secret. You have to strain your ears to hear his next words. "I just trust you, you know? Trust that you'd help."
Ah.
Minghao always did know how to get you.
That's how the two of you end up sitting across from each other in some obscure, middle-of-nowhere café, as per Minghao's choice. He had sent you a Google Calendar invitation for this little escapade, and its title remains apt: Operation: Teach Minghao How to Flirt.
At least he has the decency to treat you to coffee. You toy with the paper wrapping of your straw as you eye Minghao with mild apprehension.
"Alright," you say. "Let's do this."
He squares his shoulders like a man heading to war. "Let's do this," he echoes.
A beat.
Then, he asks— "How are we supposed to do this?"
You resist the urge to faceplant on to the table between you. "Maybe— we can pretend that you're on a fan call," you offer.
"Okay, yeah. Yeah. That works."
A part of you finds it adorable, how dedicated Minghao is to the bit. He pulls himself to his full height in his seat before putting on a practiced smile, the type that you've seen him sport dozens of times.
"How was your day?" he acts coolly, putting on what you've dubbed to be his 'idol voice'. A specific tone and inflection that he takes on when doing fanservice.
You sip at your drink before answering. "Better now that I'm talking to Minghao gege," you respond, and it immediately looks like all the color has drained from Minghao's face.
"Yah," he chokes out. "Why are you—"
"What? Your fans are going to flirt back. You have to build resistance to it," you shoot back.
Minghao lets out a low 'tsk' of annoyance before briefly running his hand through his face. The absentminded action seems to ease some of his initial shock because he takes a deep breath, pulls the smile right back on, and proceeds to hit you with, "Is that so? Well, this is my favorite part of the day, too."
You give a small nod of your head, indicating some approval to his improved response.
"What else did you do today, gege?" you ask casually, intentionally giving Minghao an opening.
He goes right for it. "Waited impatiently until I could meet with you."
A corner of your mouth twitches upward. 'Good,' you mouth at Minghao, and he relaxes a little in his seat.
"I'm so happy to be here," you go on. "You're my bias."
"And you're my…"
Minghao trails off. He hesitates for a moment too long, and you can't help but chuckle slightly.
"Not every sentence has to be a flirtation," you tell him. "Just— time it, I guess. Go for the jugular when they least expect it."
"You make it sound so violent," he complains, but his eyebrows are drawn together in a way that shows he's committing your words to memory.
You backtrack a bit for his sake. "So, gege—" There's still a flicker of an expression on Minghao's face, like the term genuinely affects him. It's gone as fast as it came, leaving you wondering if you had imagined it. "— can you tell me you love me?"
"Must I?"
"Minghao."
"Right, sorry."
Minghao clears his throat and schools his expression into something more acceptable. "I love you," he says, though it's evident from the look in his eyes that he's saying it out of pure indulgence.
You knock his knee with yours under the table. He returns the gesture good-naturedly.
"How much do you love me?" you insist, leaning forward slightly.
Panic briefly crosses Minghao's face. You bite down on your lower lip to keep yourself from laughing out loud, and the sight of you holding down giggles only seems to spur him on.
He casts a quick glance around the table, as if looking for the answer to your question in the straws or the cups.
"I love you like coffee," he decides.
Minghao's gaze moves from the iced americano in his hand up to your face. When your eyes meet, he doesn't look away, instead going on in a quiet, earnest tone, "Bitter or sweet, cold or lukewarm— you're the reason I get up in the morning."
You blink once, then twice.
You hadn't expected to be stunned by the sheer sincerity in his tone. The open ways he's gazing at you. You can't tell if his 'idol voice' has slipped or if you're simply caught off-guard by the rarity that is Xu Minghao flirting, but for a foolish moment, you feel a pang of jealousy.
Jealousy for fans that will reap the benefits of this little escapade. Jealousy for those who will receive his practiced charm.
You snap out of your reverie with a breathless sort of laugh.
"See?" you say, your hands gripping your cup a little tighter to your chest. "You got it."
There it is again. That fleeting look on Minghao's face, the one you can't quite place.
"Yeah," he eventually mumbles, his eyes never leaving yours. "Only because you make it easy."
you're back in minghao's orbit for the third time. he's done letting you slip through his fingers.
✩ feelings realization, confessions, mandarin courtesy of google translate, just one big ode to the man that is xu minghao. partly inspired by the legendary minghao fansign. more content under the cut.
✉︎ user xinganhao writing after stardust? likely place for them to be. stream orbit (轨道)!
Orbit (轨道)
it's almost laughable, how obvious minghao is being. at least he thinks he's being obvious. he's literally crooning about wanting you, about missing you, about running to you. and you're there, off by the side, barking silent orders to the production team on what to do with the set.
damn it. he's 26 years old, and one line in the song says it best: longing is the soundtrack to this film. how else to explain this years-long affection that he's harbored, this feeling that has only grown every time the two of you cross paths?
a foolish part of him hopes that it might end here. that with this music video, he might finally be able to move on, let go.
only— on the first day of filming, you wordlessly pass him a bottle of water after a particularly rigorous dance break. he mumbles his thanks and shoots it back in one go.
"easy," you say with a chuckle.
for a moment, neither of you speak. and then, your voice goes uncharacteristically soft. like you're telling him a secret.
"proud of you, eisa."
it feels like a shock to his system. he's grateful you didn't say those words while he was drinking; he might've spit out his water.
"don't," he croaks, and you only laugh a little more. don't do this to me. not now, not here, he's pleading. you cut him some slack by wandering off to go terrorize some intern.
he watches and watches and watches you leave. he decides, then, that maybe he can give himself one more day.
just one more day of wanting you shouldn't hurt.
海城 (Hai Cheng)
minghao is 24 years old, and yet you're manhandling him like he's a teenager. it goes without saying that he could simply push you off, could easily dig his feet into the sand and keep the two of you from moving. but you're one of the few people who can get him to do anything, and the staff have learned to abuse that little chink in his armor.
still, he's not one to go down with a fight. he heaves out a dramatic sigh as you position him somewhere you claim to be the perfect spot. "this is going to be exactly the same as the last four takes," he complains.
"it's not," you insist, and he fights back a smile.
the drone flies up. minghao stays absolutely still as per your request. he kills the time by staring at you in the distance. it's a tremendous grace that you're off-camera, that the shot is not about to capture the look on his face.
when everybody goes to crowd around the playback, it's the scene. minghao by the shore, the crystal waves crashing into him after he's danced around them the entire video.
"see?" you prod, your hand resting on the small of his back. it's a friendly, harmless touch, but minghao still feels like some sort of metaphorical wave has washed over him, threatening to drown him.
"yeah," he manages. "it's definitely different this time."
나란히 (Side By Side)
"they're your age, you know."
minghao looks up from his lyric sheet. his eyes land on you— the fresh-faced associate art director. you move with purpose, with intention. he recognizes it instantly: the restless itch to prove oneself.
"that's nice," he says absentmindedly, for the lack of better thing to say. his manager doesn't hold it against him. everybody presumes that he's nervous and on edge for his first proper music video. he's... alright, really. more excited than anything.
it's another one of those things he can't really put into words, not until you come up to introduce yourself to him. "i'm honored to work with you, eisa," you say, your hand thrust out and your eyes sparkling. several things strike minghao at once.
your choice of word— 'honored', you say. a complete contrast to your informal usage of the nickname eisa. not the8, not minghao, not myungho. your starry-eyed look. your calloused palm that shakes his own a little too firmly.
minghao is 23 years old. he's a smart man, a rational man. he doesn't believe in love at first sight.
but he supposes there are some exceptions.
a peek in to minghao's phone. headcanons under the cut.
# day six of (the)8 days of minghao.
📱 headcanons .ᐟ
it should come as no surprise that mingyu and soonyoung are dedicated to blowing up minghao's phone at any given chance. minghao is your average tiktok user, but mingyu always seems to be one step ahead. the latter is the type to beg minghao to do certain trends with him. some make it on to the group's account; most are filmed for their own personal enjoyment. he'll groan and grumble about it, but minghao is secretly happy to indulge mingyu every single time.
soonyoung's a lot more in-his-face about it. the two have a snap streak that's over a year long (don't ask how they managed it), and soonyoung will bother minghao about it until they're both fighting. outsiders might think minghao doesn't care about something so childish, but there have been one or two instances where he's snatched up soonyoung's phone himself to keep the damn streak alive. something about getting this far and making sure it doesn't go to waste, etc.
like everyone in the group, minghao also has a 'burner' account. the group generally agrees not to talk about the spaces they carve out on the internet for themselves— a space where they can unapologetically be themselves away from the group. but minghao's choice for his second identity is a little... unconventional. yet also entirely expected, in some ways. he runs a tea review account.
it's not something he strives to curate. minghao just posts about new cups of tea that he gets to try. his captions range from something as simple as "4/10. the malty flavor kinda sucked" to something as poetic as "this tea, like a breath of autumn, unfurls with a warmth that settles into the soul." there's no clear indication that he's the person behind it. (except maybe for the svt-themed username and THEpalee.)
jun's poison of choice in bugging minghao is instagram reels. he's the type to send a dozen in a row, and minghao is likely to leave most of them on read. jun knows it's a good reel when he draws a reaction from minghao, be it an emoji react or a full-on reply. another one of jun's guilty pleasures is sending minghao reels of him/the group, because that always, without fail, gets minghao to say something.
finally: there's a lot of the group's pictures that minghao doesn't always get to see. the boys' group chat moves rather quickly on most days, making it difficult to keep up with the messages being sent; the same can be said for the posts on sns. and so minghao relies heavily on what is admittedly one of his favorite apps— pinterest.
minghao has a secret board dedicated to pins of the boys throughout the years. there's thousands of pins on it now, and he likes to scroll through it every so often. it's always such a humbling reminder to him of how much they've changed and what has stayed the same. he hasn't changed the board's title since he first made it years ago because it still rings true. 青年. youth. his youth, through and through.
“would you call me a saint or a sinner? would you love me, a loser or a winner?”
# day five of (the)8 days of minghao.
aspiring olympian!minghao is five years old when he starts practicing wushu. his parents coo at him, calling him an adorable little thing, as he stumbles over his stubby legs in an attempt to pull off the bow stance. in this universe, it is not dance that sets his body aflame; it is the lead foot pointed straight ahead, the squat on one leg before he lunges.
aspiring olympian!minghao shows potential. enough potential for his coaches to pull aside his mother and father, to tell them, your son is good. he can be good. his parents share a look because they do not know yet what it means, to have a miracle on their hands. what to do with that when it comes their way.
aspiring olympian!minghao is seven years old when he begins to train more regularly. he's nearing the age where he can compete in the children's martial arts competitions. he has parents who believe in him and a coach in his corner. he cannot lose, he thinks, for more reasons than one.
aspiring olympian!minghao is eight years old when he experiences a plethora of firsts. it's the year of his first real wushu competition, where he clinches second place with a score of 9.19. five points shy of gold. but the silver medal pales in comparison to the more important first— the first time he meets you.
aspiring olympian!minghao who watches wide-eyed from the bleachers as you compete in a different category. he is mesmerized as you glide across the mat with your bo staff, every single one of your movements perfectly controlled. your footwork is immaculate. your demeanor is unflappable. minghao nearly boos when you don't get a score high enough to finish on the podium.
aspiring olympian!minghao finds you afterwards. his coaches will tell you that he's more quiet and restrained than the rest of his peers, but there's none of that now as he shoulders past athletes and trainers to seek you out. when he does, he's slightly out of breath and his eyes are a little wild. his first words are blurted without much preamble. "we have to be friends," he'll insist, and you are helpless to deny him.
aspiring olympian!minghao, your confidante, your rival, your friend. throughout your childhood, the two of you share that world. the life of competitive martial arts. of training sessions after school, of watching and rewatching tournaments in a constant bid to compare and improve.
aspiring olympian!minghao becomes a constant presence of yours at these local events. the two of you cheer each other on when you aren't on the same mat. you sit by the bleachers and talk shit about everyone else because the two of you are young and arrogant. when you run out of other people to talk about, there's your lives outside of wushu to discuss. minghao's gripe with his teachers. your yearning for the newest cellphone. whenever you two part ways, it is with the promise to see each other again next time.
aspiring olympian!minghao is thirteen years old when you just... disappear. he thinks it's a one-off, one of those competitions where you've opted to prioritize school instead of sport. but then you're not at the next one. or the next one. he's thrown off his game; he doesn't even finish podium at a certain point. his parents are concerned. his coaches, baffled. he doesn't know how to explain himself.
aspiring olympian!minghao decides to do what he does best. he looks for you. he hunts you down, asks around, until he's at your front door with a look of utter frustration on his sharp features. "what gives?" he asks in lieu of 'hello'. there's no point in playing it cool. he's upset. he's hurt. he misses you. "where the hell did you go?" he demands, because it's easier to be angry than it is to be sad.
aspiring olympian!minghao is speechless when you tell him you've quit. quit. the word doesn't make sense to him. he's been in this game for nearly a decade now. you had done it for just as long. and now you were just— giving it up? "but you're so good," he stammers, his hands quivering around the glass of water you've poured him. "you can't quit!"
aspiring olympian!minghao is scandalized, sure, but you realize very quickly that his distress has less to do about the sport and everything to do about something else. and so you apologize for leaving without warning. you explain the reasons why you're doing it. and then. and then, you reassure him. you assuage his worries. "just because i'm quitting wushu," you say, an edge of tentative hope in your tone. "it doesn't mean we have to quit being friends."
aspiring olympian!minghao decides he'll take that. he thinks it's still a mighty shame, a waste of someone who could have had it all. it's your life, he convinces himself, and if your life isn't this sport, then he can't blame you. he grieves the loss of what you once shared, but he'd rather be your friend than not have you at all.
aspiring olympian!minghao picks up the slack. he wins gold in his next competition. then the next one. then the next. his coaches smirk amongst themselves. his parents once again share amused looks. the reason for his drive is back in the stands, scrutinizing his every move like they're one of his trainers themselves.
aspiring olympian!minghao still talks to you about all the other people he's competing against, about the rigorous routines and the classes he enjoys. you trade him stories of the life you're building away from these gymnasiums. sometimes, he feels a tinge of jealousy. he wants in. he wants to be part of your stories, too; wants to be more than just a guy you come to watch every couple of months.
aspiring olympian!minghao is sixteen years old when he announces that he wants to compete in the olympics. go big or go home, he says, with that smirk of his that borderlines on cocky. except that grin is wiped out when his coaches inform him that wushu isn't an olympic sport. it is in the southeast asian games, they tell him, but a part of minghao knows that isn't enough.
aspiring olympian!minghao asks, "okay, so what martial art is in the olympics?" his coaches hesitate but they answer him anyway. there's judo and taekwondo. minghao weighs the options for a long moment before decisively saying, "i'm going to start training for taekwondo."
aspiring olympian!minghao is unfazed as you cuss him out, as you rain punches down his back. "are you insane?" you're screeching, your eyes flashing with indignation. "what are you thinking, just switching up like that?" in his head, his explanation is bulletproof. wushu and takewondo are sister combat sports, with similar forms and acrobatic movements. he feels very much like that girl in that one american movie you made him watch, the one where the blonde said what, like it's hard?
aspiring olympian!minghao is a little exasperated when you get so annoyed that you freeze him out. he's called a lovesick fool and a door mat as he chases after you, but he's been on the receiving end of those assumptions for the better half of his teenage years. they no longer have any effect on him. in the end, he manages to convince you that it's just something he wants to try. he'll just try, he tells you, and he'll go back to wushu if it doesn't work out.
except aspiring olympian!minghao has never done anything half-heartedly. he spends the next four years training his body to get used to the forms, kicks, and punches of taekwondo. he practices new sparring techniques. he leverages his agility and flexibility; he fails more than he has in his entire sports career, but he pushes on.
aspiring olympian!minghao finds solace in your friendship. you're there when you can be, with your diet-friendly snacks and heat packs and sanrio band-aids. you still seem skeptical about his transition, about his relentless drive to be an olympian, but your hesitant support still means the world to him. he laps it all up and holds it all to his chest as he vies for qualifiers.
aspiring olympian!minghao doesn't qualify in the first year he tries. you think that's it, he's done; he'll go back to wushu. but he's twenty years old and raring to go. he got this far, didn't he? that's what he tells you as he gets back in to his dobok, as he negotiates to be put in a different weight class. "there will be more olympics," he tells you, that self-assuring grin still very much in place. "i'll be at the next one."
aspiring olympian!minghao clinches gold at a national taekwondo competition. not enough, he thinks, so he goes on to smash records at the world taekwondo championship. his pathway for qualification is paved. he fields all his bets in the -58kg weight class. he is twenty four years old. he makes it. you are one of the first people to find out.
olympian!minghao trains, and trains, and trains. for months, he is just a rotation of ailments. sore thighs, busted lips, bruised knuckles. he feels alive, though. he is bruised and battered, but he is also heading to paris for the goddamn olympics. he can deal with the scrapes and the aches.
olympian!minghao gets a little more clingy with you in the weeks leading up to his scheduled departure. he plans dinners and blocks off weekends. he pouts when you miss some of his exhibitions. he steals away from training to pick you up from work. you try to reason that this is a manifestation of his nerves; how he is seeking out one of his oldest friends for support.
but olympian!minghao isn't doing this solely because you're his pillar when it comes to sports. you realize this, one evening, when you tease him about finding some nice olympian to date while he's in the city of love and he looks at you like you're crazy. "why would you say that?" he asks. "i'm courting you, aren't i?" (he may have forgotten to inform you, he realizes. oh, well. at least now you know.)
olympian!minghao doesn't play around with courtship. he strives to balance it with his rigorous training schedule even as you insist that he should focus on practice, that this is a discussion the two of you can have once he's back from paris. he only shakes his head and asks what you want for lunch. in his head, he has already waited long enough.
olympian!minghao begs you to hold back on your answer, though, until he comes home. the night before his flight, he tells you why. "it will motivate me," he admits quietly. "i want you to be with a winner." you attempt to protest, to tell him that it doesn't matter, but he asks you to indulge him. "let me have this. it's stupid, i know— but it keeps the fire burning."
olympian!minghao is stunned when you give him a parting gift. at first, he's confused by the neon orange plastic ring hanging from the silver chain until you shyly tell him where it came from. it's from the wushu competition where you were both eight years old. where he'd zeroed in on you and decided, that is somebody i need in my life. you'd been wearing it during your exhibition. he takes it from you, now, like it's made of gold.
olympian!minghao heads to the olympics. he is called a rising star in his weight class. he gains a small cult following for his looks and his skill. his parents laugh; his coaches shake their heads. the modicum of social media fame and the adoring fangirls have nothing on who is waiting for minghao. who he is waiting for, in turn.
olympian!minghao makes that abundantly clear as early as his first round. you are watching back home when the cameras focus on him. the announcers read it aloud— his accolades, his background— but you are distracted by what he chooses to do, instead, with his few minutes of screen time.
olympian!minghao catches the camera and gives the smallest of smiles. he tugs at his dobok until he's pulling out the chain around his neck. then, like the fool that he'll always be for you— he presses the plastic ring to his lips. after all: he has never done anything half-heartedly, and that includes loving you.
“perhaps in slytherin, you'll make your real friends! those cunning folks use any means to achieve their ends.”
# day three of (the)8 days of minghao.
slytherin!minghao comes as a surprise to everybody. not only is it a rarity for muggle-borns to be sorted in to the house, but he just— doesn't look like the type, if anything. not at first. you'd think this boy would belong somewhere in ravenclaw; maybe gryffindor, even. but slytherin? what an odd one, some of the older kids think.
slytherin!minghao actually gets considered for ravenclaw. the sorting hat spends a good couple of moments, only to finally come to a decision because of a thought that flits through minghao's mind. while seated for his sorting, the eleven-year-old minghao screams in his head, please, let me prove myself.
slytherin!minghao isn't surprised when the hat gives him slytherin. his steps are certain as he walks up to the table clad in green and silver. immediately, a handful of his housemates recognize a familiar spark. ah, they think amusedly. this should be fun.
slytherin!minghao soaks up everything that hogwarts has to offer. he's not about to take any of this for granted. he's teased for it, called a nerd and bookworm and know-it-all. that doesn't matter. not when minghao learns to mumble hexes that are two years advance his supposed skill set.
slytherin!minghao becomes a force to be reckoned with. people learn not to mess with him. he's sharp— in the intelligent sort of way, yes, but in the way that's wounding as well. his words cut. his gaze pierces. at this point, nobody doubts that xu minghao belongs in slytherin.
slytherin!minghao has to fight for every scrap of status that comes his way. it doesn't matter if he's the epitome of a slytherin student; blood prejudice is still very much alive in hogwarts, even after the war. he is a muggle-born in a snake's din full of purebloods. they do not let him forget that.
slytherin!minghao keeps to himself in his first two years. he's not unfriendly but he's not warm, either. he's wise beyond his years. he could do a little better in potions, though that's neither here nor there. as he watches his peers go on to join the qudditich team, to soar academically, he only feels that itch to do more, more, more.
slytherin!minghao is asked, one day, "isn't it lonely at the top?" he jolts at the suddenness of the accusation. he has half the mind to jinx this meddling hufflepuff— jun, his name might've been?— but the latter remains undeterred. "you need some friends," jun presses. "c'mon."
slytherin!minghao almost says that he has friends, thank you very much. his housemate, jeonghan, has already taken him under his wing. that was more than enough. but jun is adamant, and jun is pushy, and minghao doesn't want to get in to trouble for doling out too many curses in one go.
slytherin!minghao is introduced to jun's housemate. "this is the guy i was telling you about," jun tells mingyu and seokmin conspiratorially. mingyu lets out a small 'ahhh'. seokmin sits up a little straighter in his chair. minghao, for his part, is horrified. "what have you said about me?" he demands to jun.
slytherin!minghao can't decide between a blush or a glower when jun casually says, "oh, i've been telling them about how smart you are." for a moment, minghao waits to see if jun is messing with him. the hufflepuff boy doesn't buck. minghao is forced to accept it as a truth, as a new reality. he had friends now, it seemed.
slytherin!minghao readily tutors seokmin when he asks for help in defense against the dark arts. minghao reluctantly cheers on mingyu during quidditch games. minghao bickers with jun more often than not, the two often going back and forth about arguments centering the muggle part of their lives.
slytherin!minghao manages to convince himself that he's just doing all this out of politeness up until he catches one of his housemates messing with jun. choice words are exchanged. a long-forgotten slur is thrown. minghao sees red.
slytherin!minghao has never landed himself in detention before, has never done anything that would lose his house points. but now he's scrubbing trophies and bearing the shame that he's set slytherin back by twenty points.
slytherin!minghao is called a traitor, is called the very name that had him hexing his own housemates in the first place. he doesn't mind them. he keeps his head high despite the whispers and the glares. he only snaps when some idiot tries to drag in seokmin and mingyu's names in to the mix— leaving minghao with another week's worth of detention.
slytherin!minghao has nothing to say when his hufflepuff friends corner him. "enough," seokmin reprimands gently, his hands on minghao's shoulders. "you don't have to fight for us, hao." hao. it's a nickname that only seokmin can get away with. anyone else gets a dirty look.
slytherin!minghao sighs, then, because seokmin is right, and jun is standing some paces away with his arms over his chest, and mingyu is absentmindedly playing with a quaffle, as if to keep his busy. and then, mingyu— the world's most unberable thirteen-year-old, sometimes— starts to laugh.
slytherin!minghao is baffled because jun is laughing now, too, and seokmin looks exasperated. "what?" minghao demands; there's nothing more he hates than being on the outside of an inside joke. "it's just—" mingyu tries to say in between laughter. he fails miserably. jun supplies, "ready to call us your friends, now, hao-hao?"
slytherin!minghao threatens up and down to give jun and mingyu a piece of his mind. seokmin tries to appease him, though the third hufflepuff boy also has the ghost of a smile on his face. by the end of it, seokmin is chuckling a bit, too. minghao wants to jinx them all in to the next century. (if you squinted, you might see the slightest upward turn of his lip.)
slytherin!minghao is undeniably brilliant, still, despite the cowards who spread rumors and the housemates who turn their noses up at him. he tops his classes. he's nice to first-years. he secures the most O.W.Ls in his fifth year, then takes an absurd amount of N.E.W.T-level classes just for the sake of it.
slytherin!minghao is an outcast in his own house, though. those his age don't respect him. the younger ones are scared of him. he doesn't have as much house pride as one might expect from a slytherin, which is ironic for a boy who could've easily been the image of the house.
slytherin!minghao is a bit of an odd-one-out in the group wearing black and yellow scarves. he's often made the butt of the joke; jun, mingyu, and seokmin being the only ones brave enough to poke and prod the bear. one christmas, they chip in to get him a hufflepuff jumper. he turns their hair green in retaliation.
slytherin!minghao learns that proving himself doesn't always mean being in good graces with the affluent and the powerful. sometimes, proving himself is as simple as letting seokmin drag him quill-shopping in hogsmeade. sometimes, proving himself entails matching mingyu butterbeer for butterbeer. and, sometimes, proving himself comes in the shape of begrudgingly admitting that jun had been right to tease him way back when.
slytherin!minghao had needed some friends, and he got them.
a/n: tried to write some minghao fluff for a change. despite being the most adorable little thing, he does not get enough love. also, i wanted needed to make this extra soft and sappy, so this is just a comforting feelgood piece for struggling minghao guys, gals and nonbinary pals.
tags: a day in life, minghao x you, minghao x reader, gn reader, very self-indulgent ngl, reader has depression, mentions of food, display of affection and body parts.
word count: 1.29k
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Good morning, love. I had to leave early, but I prepared breakfast for you too. Text me when you wake up. Cannot wait to come home to you! M
You reread the note, allowing a smile light up your face for a second. You go to the bathroom and head back to bed after. Fishing your phone out from under the pillow, you start writing a text to Minghao.
you 11:17 just woke up. thanks for the note babe
hao 👑 11:20 morning again love <3
hao 👑 11:21 any plans for today?
hao 👑 11:21 i will be home around 4 i guess
you 11:24 nothing much, i'll try to get the dishes and laundry done
hao 👑 11:32 okay, don't forget to do something fun as well!
hao 👑 11:34 have a good day, i will text you later
hao 👑 11:35 love you <3
you 11:38 you too <3
You pause the video you are watching and drag yourself out of bed again. There is a nasty sting in your back as you sit up, and you do a few stretches to relieve it. You walk to the bathroom, again, and sigh at your reflection in the mirror. Anyone could see the dark circles under your eyes. Your hair is a mess after sleeping, and you have been wearing the same t-shirt since two days ago.
Reluctantly, you grab your toothbrush and sit on the toilet seat to brush your teeth. Sometimes you time yourself to make sure you do it long enough, but today, you cannot be bothered.
When the taste in your mouth is fresh again, you peel off your clothes and toss them straight in the laundry. You let the shower run for a while to make sure the water is warm before grabbing your shampoo. You lose some five minutes just by standing under the water flow, when your arms seem too heavy to move.
After making it through the shower, you change into a fresh set of clothes. Before you know it, you are crawling back to bed, but stop yourself before pulling the blanket over your body. You push yourself up again and drag your feet to the kitchen.
In the fridge, there is a glass container with a sticky note on top. Minghao has drawn a delicate flower for you, and you put the note in your pocket for safekeeping. You grab the container, take a seat and open the lid. Under it, there is a sandwitch cut into two triangles, accompanied by apple and pear slices.
You snap a picture of the meal and text it to Minghao. He replies with two heart emojis. When he does, you still have not touched the food, though. You are not even looking at it, anymore. Your zoned out eyes burn, your back aches and your shoulders are heavy. With a deep sigh, you close the container, put it back in the fridge and walk to the bedroom.
hao 👑 15:12 wrapping up here. i'll be home in an hour or so
hao 👑 15:13 did you eat?
you 15:38 no
you 15:40 sorry
hao 👑 15:43 it's okay baby
hao 👑 15:45 i'll grab something on the way if that's ok?
hao 👑 15:45 what would you like?
you 15:47 sounds good
you 15:48 idk you choose
you 15:48 i'm not that hungry
hao 👑 15:52 ok i'll surprise you
hao 👑 15:53 see you soon <3
you 15:55 i'll set the table <3
"Baby?" Minghao calls out after closing the front door and discarding his coat. His voice is low, not much above a whisper.
"Living room", you reply, letting him know you are not sleeping.
"Hi", Minghao greets you happily, sitting beside you and kissing your cheek. "I got food from the place we went to last weekend", he says, "I got the same thing for you, I was not sure what you would like. I hope that's okay?" You nod as an answer and rest your head on Minghao's shoulder. He hugs you with one arm, placing a kiss on your cheek.
"Did you take a shower?" he asks, playing with your hair, and you nod again.
"Amazing!" he compliments, "How do you feel?"
"Better", you say, "I always do after a shower."
Minghao squeezes you a little closer. "I know baby", he whispers and kisses your temple, "I'm so proud of you."
You open your mouth to say something, but Minghao pulls away from you, his eyes big and sparkly.
"How about", he begins, "we change the sheets? It would be so nice to get into a freshly made bed after taking a shower!"
You nod, and Minghao jumps up to find two matching sets of linens.
When the bed is made, Minghao does not let you crawl straight into the sheets, but takes your hands and walks you to the kitchen. As promised, you did set the table for dinner. The plates do not match and you used paper towels for napkins, but that is okay. It is not like a different place will make the food taste bad or something.
When Minghao takes the takeout containers out of the bag, he tells you about his day. He opens the containers, sets them in the middle of the table and pulls out a chair for you.
"Sorry I did not eat the breakfast", you say, when both of you have had first bites of your dinner. "It is not that I do not appreciate it, I know you worked hard on -"
"It's okay", Minghao's sweet voice interrupts you. He reaches over the table to boop your nose. "It will be ready for tomorrow then."
When you are done with dinner, Minghao suggests you go rest while he takes care of the dishes. As tempting as the thought is, you want to stay and help him. So, Minghao gathers the dishes and you put them in the washer. Every time Minghao brings you an item, he either caresses your hair, touches your waist or places a quick kiss on the back of your neck. (He may or may not take the utensils one by one to be able to give you some extra love.)
Finally, it is time to dim the lights and get ready for bed. Minghao suggests you take a bath together, but since you already had a shower and – to be honest – are exhausted, you agree to do it tomorrow morning. So, Minghao hops in the shower by himself while you change into a comfy pajama set and settle in bed, scrolling your phone for a while.
When Minghao comes back to you, his makeup is gone and his hair soft and curly. The smell of perfume and hairspray is replaced by a lingering citrus scent.
Minghao crawls in bed, settles under the blankets and pulls you close.
"How do you feel, baby?" Minghao asks, his voice low.
"Just fine", you reply, "Thanks for getting dinner, it was great."
"And thank you for setting the table and cleaning up with me", Minghao says. You let out a small chuckle to say it was not much, but he ignores it and runs his hands on your back, arms and sides. His touch seems to relax any tense muscles in your body, and you cannot hold back a yawn.
"Sleepy?" Minghao asks.
"Yeah", you reply.
"Is it okay if I hold you?" Minghao asks, "You can fall asleep in my arms."
"Sounds perferct", you reply, giving him a gentle kiss.
