scroll through all my work without distractions ☆ masterlist ↓
📵 before you text.
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✆ send to: group chat.
footnote › work done for milestones are linked to their respective masterlists.
second milestone event: svtflix ── ☏ ongoing
series: svt burner accounts ── ☏ ongoing
first milestone event: svt university ── ☏ completed
✆ send to: all members.
💬 text imagines and social media aus featuring all members of seventeen.
✆ send to: hyung line.
💬 individual stories for seungcheol, jeonghan, joshua, junhui, soonyoung, wonwoo, and jihoon.
✆ send to: maknae line.
💬 individual stories for seokmin, mingyu, minghao, seungkwan, vernon, and chan.
this was a long time coming. i talk about reasons why on my main blog @studioeisa, so i do want to take the opportunity to sing a different tune here.
xinganhao has been my love letter to SEVENTEEN, more than any of the fics i’ve written. thank you for letting me experiment with form, function, and style here. you would think there is little room to be inventive in this particular side of fandom, but you’ve all proven me wrong. this blog will stay up—because every little, silly story belongs to you as much as it is mine.
again, thank you. for everything. for all of it. love well, love fully.
and send the text. you don’t know where it might land.
your boyfriend has never given you a reason to doubt him. but, lately, things have just been a little bit... off? (commissioned!!!)
this was commissioned as part of donations made to philippine typhoon relief efforts!!! › scroll through all my work ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ my masterlist | @xinganhao
his voice is shy but steady. “i miss you deeply, unfathomably, senselessly, terribly.” ⸻ the lost in translation couple.
📖 pairing. xu minghao x interpreter/translator!reader.
📖 word count. 4k.
📖 genres/includes. romance. established & secret relationship, quotes & excerpts from letters to milena, hints of long distance, google translated mandarin & japanese. this is an offshoot from my longer fic, lost in translation, but it is not necessary to read that before this. title from the song umuwi (eng tr: 'to go home') by never the strangers.
📖 footnotes. turned twenty-something today and figured the best way to celebrate it with a soft hao fic ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ shoutout to viv for planting this idea in my head!!!
Dear Milena, I wish the world were ending tomorrow. Then I could take the next train, arrive at your doorstep in Vienna, and say: “Come with me, Milena. We are going to love each other without scruples or fear or restraint. Because the world is ending tomorrow.”
One night, you slipped a book into Minghao’s bag before he left for tour—a tender gesture that said more than any text could. When he returned it weeks later, you found the pages marked, underlined, little notes scrawled in the margins in his tight handwriting.
Since then, it’s become your ritual: a different book every month, passed back and forth between hotel rooms and airport lounges, sentences stitched with the weight of two voices instead of one.
This month, it’s Kafka’s Letters to Milena. The spine already softened by your hands, now passing through his. Minghao’s highlighter bleeds faint yellow across the thin pages, his neat characters slanting in Mandarin, sometimes Korean, sometimes both. He doesn’t always translate for you. You think he likes watching you puzzle it out.
Tonight, you’re curled against the window of the hotel room, the hum of traffic muffled by glass. Minghao’s in the shower, and you’re leafing through the book when a highlighted line catches your eye:
Perhaps we don’t love unreasonably because we think we have time, or have to reckon with time. But what if we don’t have time? Or what if time, as we know it, is irrelevant? Ah, if only the world were ending tomorrow. We could help each other very much.
You press your thumb against the words, rereading them until they blur. He had drawn a small star beside the passage, his unspoken way of saying look closer. It isn’t lost on you that he chose this line—this question about time, about endings.
When Minghao emerges, hair damp and curling at the ends, he finds you still staring at the page. He tilts his head, towel slung around his shoulders. “Found something?”
You nod, tapping the margin. “This one.”
He sits beside you, close enough that his knee brushes yours. The warmth of him seeps through the fabric of your pants, steady and grounding. His eyes flick down to the passage, then back up to yours, searching. “Too dramatic?”
“Too honest,” you answer softly.
For a moment, neither of you speak. The air is filled only with the distant city and the faint drip of water from his hair onto his collarbone. You wonder if he feels the weight of secrecy more than he lets on—every smile measured, every glance rehearsed. You’ve hidden this part of your life from his group, from the company, from everyone who might turn your closeness into a problem.
Sometimes, you think it’s easier for you. You’re used to working behind the curtain, unseen. But Minghao lives on stage, in cameras and spotlights. You wonder if keeping you a secret leaves him restless at night, if he ever regrets it in the stretches of travel.
He nudges your shoulder gently, pulling you back from thought. “Why that look?” he prompts.
You shake your head, but your voice betrays you. “Do you think it’s taking something from you? Hiding us like this.”
Minghao doesn’t answer immediately. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, fingers brushing yours where the book rests. His silence is not avoidance; it’s the pause he always takes, the one that makes you feel like his words are chosen as carefully as his brushstrokes.
Finally, he says, “I think it gives me something, too. These little spaces no one else sees. Our own book. Our own pages.”
You swallow, the line in Kafka’s letter echoing in your chest. If only the world were ending tomorrow.
Minghao closes the book, but keeps your hand under his. “Time is strange,” he muses. “Sometimes it feels like too much. Sometimes like none at all. But when I’m with you…” He trails off, then smiles faintly. “I don’t want to reckon with it. I just want it.”
The hotel room feels smaller for it, but safer too. You don’t say what’s knotted in your throat—that secrecy may be its own kind of ending. Instead, you tilt your head onto his shoulder, letting silence stand in for the answer you don’t know how to give.
Minghao’s arm comes around you. His hair still smells faintly of shampoo, his skin warm against your temple. In that heartbeat, time doesn’t matter. Not the flights, not the rehearsals, not the lies by omission. There is only the margin notes between you; the book closed but still breathing with your words.
I long for you; I who usually long without longing, as though I am unconscious and absorbed in neutrality and apathy, really, utterly long for every bit of you.
You aren’t there for every stop. It depends on who the company sends, who’s available, who draws the short straw. Sometimes, weeks pass without your name appearing on the list, and you make do with texts and late-night calls, with his annotations waiting like crumbs across pages.
But you’re lucky tonight. Lucky that it’s you, loitering backstage with your headset dangling around your neck, your job for the first half of the concert already done. Safety reminders doled out. Ments transposed to the best of your ability.
The stage lights are a dull roar from where you stand, muffled by the walls, the crowd’s energy bleeding through like static. Technicians pass by in a flurry of headsets and clipboards, and you tuck yourself into a corner with the monitor, half-watching Minghao move like smoke, sharp lines dissolving into fluidity. He is all precision on stage, but you know how easily that polish dissolves once the curtains close.
You’ve opened the book again. Kafka feels almost inappropriate here, his letters trembling in your hands while bass shakes the floor and cheers rise like waves. You trace his words with the tip of your pen, underlining slowly as if you could anchor them: I long for you; I who usually long without longing, as though I am unconscious and absorbed in neutrality and apathy, really, utterly long for every bit of you. The words thrum in your chest, oddly in sync with the rhythm leaking through the walls.
“Working hard?” His voice startles you before his presence does.
Minghao slips in through the curtain, already halfway out of his jacket, a stagehand trailing with another in hand. He smells a bit of sweat and cologne, and there’s a streak of glitter caught on his jawline, catching the dim backstage light.
You snap the book closed too fast, clutching it to your chest. “Shouldn’t you be focusing on your quick change?”
“Multitasking,” he says lightly, eyes flicking to the book still in your grip. His smile is a little breathless, but it’s warm around the edges. “Did you underline me?”
You raise an eyebrow. “Kafka. Not you.”
“Same thing.” He takes the fresh jacket, shrugs it on with practiced efficiency, but his gaze doesn’t leave you. The corners of his mouth tug upward, like he’s savoring the private joke no one else will ever catch. You can feel the tether of it pulling tight between you, even as people dart around, too busy to notice.
You roll your pen between your fingers, willing your pulse to even out. “He says he longs without longing,” you say, reaching for a joke. “Don’t think that’s you.”
Minghao pauses, hands busy with fastening buttons. “No?”
“No. You’re terrible at pretending you don’t care.”
That earns you a quiet laugh, breathy and quick, the kind he only ever gives when he’s off stage. He steps closer, just enough that the book is trapped between you and him. His fingers brush yours as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, careful, fleeting. The gesture is nothing to anyone else, but to you it feels like a line drawn across the page. Another annotation only you will understand.
“Then maybe I’ll underline it too,” he murmurs, his tone more intimate than the rush of seconds should allow. “So you don’t forget.”
You’re caught between answering and not, torn by the proximity of his voice and the sound of the crowd screaming his name. A heartbeat later, the stage manager calls it too, sharp and urgent, breaking the spell.
He pulls back, already turning, the mask of performer sliding neatly back into place. The jacket straightens on his shoulders, his posture resetting into something larger than life. But before he slips away, his hand lingers for a second on the back of yours, grounding and gone all at once, like he’s leaving you with the same highlighted star he leaves in the margins.
You look down at the underlined words again, the pen still resting where his fingers brushed yours. On the monitor, Minghao bursts back onto the stage in his new costume, a perfect illusion of poise and sharp edges. You’re still holding onto the warmth of him, tucked between paper margins and fleeting touches, the memory of his voice humming beneath Kafka’s lines. Even with the crowd’s roar vibrating through the walls, the longing has a certain gravity on its own; something deliberate, something you carry alone in the wings.
I am constantly trying to communicate something incommunicable, to explain something inexplicable, to tell about something I only feel in my bones and which can only be experienced in those bones.
The book arrives by post in a padded envelope, its corners softened by travel, the adhesive tape dulled with fingerprints. His handwriting is scrawled across the return label, small and neat, the way he always writes when he wants to leave no trace.
You sit at your desk with a pair of scissors, cutting carefully along the edge so as not to harm what’s inside. When Letters to Milena slides into your hands, it feels heavier than when you last held it, as if the distance between you has seeped into the paper.
You leaf through the pages with anticipation that edges toward unease. The ink of your own notes greets you first, familiar in your hand. But then you see the fresh streaks of highlighter that aren’t yours, the color bright against the fragile page. Your stomach churns when your eyes catch on the newest passage:
Basically it is nothing other than this fear we have so often talked about, but fear spread to everything, fear of the greatest as of the smallest, fear, paralyzing fear of pronouncing a word, although this fear may not only be fear but also a longing for something greater than all that is fearful.
You press the book shut too quickly, the words still rattling in your head. Fear. The word echoes again and again until it almost loses shape.
Fear of everything, even of speaking. Kafka turns it into poetry, but still it unsettles you. You stare at the closed book for a long while as if its cover might offer clarity. Instead it lingers, a weight at the edge of your desk and your thoughts. You find yourself drifting through the day with half your attention pulled elsewhere, glancing at your phone as if the device could bridge time zones faster than they allow.
By evening, your patience has worn thin. You keep checking the clock, waiting for that overlap when it’s late enough in Europe, early enough in Korea. When the screen finally brightens with his name, you answer too quickly, the book already lying open beside you.
Minghao’s image flickers into view: hotel lamplight soft behind him, his hair pulled back loosely, his face carrying the faint exhaustion of travel. Still, his eyes brighten the moment they meet yours. “You got it?”
“I got it,” you say, lifting the book to the camera. “But I also got this.” You tap the margin of the highlighted section, unable to hide the note of worry in your voice. “You’ve been marking fear. Over and over. What are you trying to tell me, Hao?”
His brows lift, a small crease forming as he leans back in the stiff hotel chair. The wallpaper behind him looks muted and impersonal, a space not meant to hold anyone’s secrets. He runs his hand slowly through his hair, a gesture you recognize as stalling. “You always read too closely.”
“That was the agreement,” you remind him gently. “We promised to read closely. To listen, even in the margins.”
A silence follows, long enough that you think the connection might have faltered. Then he exhales, and his words come thoughtful, unhurried. “I do feel fear. More often than I say. Before I step on stage. After. In the quiet moments when I wonder if we’ll be found out, or if I’ll slip during an interview. Sometimes I fear I’m losing time, or wasting it. Sometimes I wonder if I’m… enough for you.” The last line is hushed, fragile, nearly consumed by static.
Your protest is immediate. “Xīngān, don’t—”
He interrupts, his mouth curving into the faintest smile, one that doesn’t erase his seriousness. “It isn’t only fear. Kafka had it right. Fear and longing are woven together. Fear is what happens when you want something so badly you can’t bear to lose it.” His eyes drop for a moment, then rise again, slower, braver. His voice is shy but steady. “I miss you deeply, unfathomably, senselessly, terribly.”
The words stop you. Not because they belong to Kafka, but because they come from him, spoken into the distance that separates you. They rest in your chest heavier than any annotation.
You bring the phone closer to your face instinctively, as though narrowing the frame might collapse the distance. “Say it again.”
Minghao laughs, embarrassed, but the sound is warm. He dips his head, and when he speaks, the words come softer, like a secret. “I miss you.”
He says it in all the languages he knows. I miss you. Wǒ xiǎng nǐ. Aitai. Na—(he stutters, laughs again)—namimiss kita.
The litany of fear feels smaller now, shadowed by the longing that fills its place.
Written kisses don't reach their destination, rather they are drunk on the way by the ghosts.
You admit, in quieter hours, that you miss him more often than you say. It’s a dull ache threaded into your days, but you don’t want to press it into him when you know how thinly he’s stretched. His work comes first, and you remind yourself of that each time you hesitate before typing something too heavy into your phone. Instead, you cling to the subtler things: the covert book exchanges, the hidden messages between Kafka’s lines, the way a highlighted phrase becomes its own kind of confession.
Tonight, you’re curled on the couch with Letters to Milena open across your knees. The apartment is still, only the trill of the refrigerator in the background. Your highlighter pauses over a line that is simple, almost plain, but it lodges itself in your chest:
I’m tired, can’t think of anything and want only to lay my face in your lap, feel your hand on my head and remain like that through all eternity.
You underline it slowly, the neon ink bleeding slightly into the page, as if to make sure the words will not vanish. Then, you angle the book beneath the lamp and take a photo. Your thumb hovers for a moment, but you send it anyway. A small risk. A small ache disguised as literature.
The reply comes quicker than you expect, your screen lighting up in your hand. His text is short, the sort of promise that steals your breath: I can make that possible.
You frown in confusion, already typing back a question, when the sound of your doorbell cuts through the apartment. The sharp chime echoes once, twice. Your heart stutters. For a split second, you think it’s impossible. You’re still holding your phone when you cross the room.
When you open the door, he’s standing there.
Minghao, hair tucked under a cap, mask pulled down around his chin, suitcase at his side. His eyes crease at the corners when he smiles, soft and sure, like he’s been waiting for this moment as long as you have. Home from their tour two days earlier than expected.
You don’t speak at first. You only reach, pulling him into the doorway, into the apartment, into you. His laugh is muffled against your shoulder as the door clicks shut behind him, and you feel the words you’d just underlined still pressed into your chest—him, his weight, his nearness—an answer in real time.
The door is barely shut before you’re kissing him. It’s clumsy at first, teeth knocking, your breath catching from how quickly you’ve pulled him in. The suitcase tips over in the entryway, forgotten, and all you know is the press of his mouth against yours, warm and insistent. You taste the faint trace of mint on his lips, the kind he always chews when he’s nervous.
Your fingers twist into the fabric of his jacket, tugging him closer, and suddenly you’re aware of how frantic you must seem. The realization makes heat rush up your neck. You break away, just barely, whispering against his mouth, “Sorry, I’m—I’m acting too much like I missed you.”
Minghao’s laugh is low, and he leans in again before you can step back. “Good,” he says simply, the word brushing your lips. His hand comes up to the side of your face, thumb tracing along your cheekbone. “Because I missed you more.”
Your protest dies as he kisses you again, slower now but deeper, his body angled into yours until your back finds the wall. You shiver at the press of his weight, the steadiness of his touch. He murmurs between kisses, “Do you know how many times I thought about this? About you opening the door like that?”
You shake your head, eyes closing as his lips graze your jaw. “Tell me.”
“Every night on tour,” he admits, his voice hushed but steady. “Every city, every hotel, I wanted this more than sleep. More than anything.”
His hands slip beneath your sweater, fingertips brushing your waist. The touch makes you gasp, your own hands curling at his shoulders. You try again to apologize, to laugh it off, but he silences you with another kiss, gentler this time, lingering.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. “Don’t hide how much you want me,” he whispers. “It only makes me want you more.”
The apartment feels smaller now, warmer, as if the book you left open on the couch has come alive in the room. The highlighted words are no longer an ache on paper, but a promise made real in his arms.
Yours, (now I'm even losing my name - it was getting shorter and shorter all the time and is now: Yours)
Your bedroom is quiet except for the slow rhythm of your breathing, bodies still pressed close in the warmth you’ve built together. Minghao’s fingertips trace idle patterns across your arm, absentminded yet full of intent. You’re tucked into him, half-drifting, when his voice breaks the silence.
“I have something for you.”
You tilt your head, eyes narrowing with a sleepy smile. “We had a rule. No gifts.”
His lips twitch, not quite a grin but close. “You’ll like this one,” he insists.
“Minghao,” you warn softly, already knowing you’ll lose. “Rules exist for a reason.”
He pouts, exaggerating it just enough to make you laugh, the sound catching in your throat. “So you’ll break one for me?”
You groan, burying your face against his shoulder before sighing. “Fine. But only because you look ridiculous right now.”
Satisfied, he slips out of the sheets and crouches by his bag. You sit up slowly, pulling the covers around you, still wrapped in the languid ease of afterglow. From where you’re perched, you watch him rummage through his things until he returns with what looks like a mess clutched in his hands.
You raise a brow. “This is your big surprise? Trash?”
He climbs back onto the bed, depositing the stack into your lap. “Look closer.”
The pile is uneven, papers of every kind: receipts with ink smudged from being folded too long, hotel stationery with tidy lines of Mandarin, napkins with hurried scribbles, boarding passes with notes scrawled between the numbers. Each slip carries his handwriting, sometimes neat, sometimes rushed, but always undeniably him.
Your chest tightens as you pick one up, smoothing the creases. The words are simple: a thought he had in between shows, a memory of you sparked by something small, an I miss you crammed into the corner of a page.
“Minghao…” Your voice is brittle now, ringing with disbelief. “You wrote all of these?”
He leans back against the headboard, watching you carefully. “Everywhere I went,” he says slowly. “Whenever I thought of you. I didn’t always have time for long messages, so I wrote them here. Figured they’d get to you eventually.”
You flip through the stack again, the weight of them heavier than any gift he could have bought. Your throat feels tight, but your smile is soft. “You know this breaks the rule worse than anything,” you tease.
He shrugs, a small, boyish smile finally breaking through. “Then I’ll break it again if it means giving you this.”
Minghao falls asleep quickly, his head sinking into the pillow the moment his breathing evens out.
You linger in the dark, sheets tangled around your legs. The small stack of papers rests in your lap, flimsy and uneven, but heavy with meaning. His letters, if you can call them that. It feels like a trail of breadcrumbs, a secret map charting every place he has carried you with him.
Some lines are simple, almost offhand, written in hurried Korean as though he was afraid the thought would slip away before it reached the page: 오늘도 네 생각만 했어.
(Today, I thought of nothing but you.)
Another, scratched on the back of a café receipt, reads: 너 없이 공연 끝나도 완벽하지 않아.
(Without you, even after the performance, it doesn’t feel complete.)
Others are playful, designed to make you roll your eyes and laugh, written in Mandarin with crooked smiley faces or little hearts: 你是我见过最美的麻烦。
(You are the most beautiful trouble I’ve ever met.)
On hotel stationery, his handwriting drifts, tired but warm: 我希望你在这里, 我想靠着你睡觉。
(I wish you were here. I want to fall asleep leaning against you.)
There are the English ones, blunt and almost childlike in their candor. “If you were here I wouldn’t even care about the jetlag.” Or, “Do you know you’re the only reason hotels feel lonely?” Another one trails off into half a sentence, as if he was interrupted: “Sometimes I think I’ll run out of ways to say I miss you, but then—” and it ends abruptly, just ink pressed too hard into the paper.
You turn page after page, each one a different version of him. Restless, playful, poetic, exhausted, ridiculous. There are lines that read like journal entries, lines that sound like prayers. The kind of words that aren’t rehearsed for interviews, aren’t polished for public view. They’re raw, unguarded, as if he trusted the page with the versions of himself he can’t show anyone else.
By the time you reach the end of the pile, your throat feels tight, and your eyes blur with tears you blink away too late. These aren’t Kafka’s words, or Milena’s, or any poet you’ve ever underlined together. They’re his. And somehow, impossibly, they’re yours too.
Behind you, Minghao snores softly, the sound uneven but gentle, already claimed by sleep. You glance back at him, hair falling across his cheek, lips parted in exhaustion, his whole body surrendered to rest. The sight makes you ache with something that feels too big for a single word. You slip out carefully, trying not to disturb him, and settle at your desk. The lamp casts a muted golden glow over the scattered letters, the inked fragments of him spread wide before you like constellations waiting to be named. The pen feels heavy in your hand, the highlighter uncapped and poised beside it.
You take a deep breath, the quiet of the apartment pressing close around you. Then you lean forward, ready to begin, ready to answer him.
To underline what matters most, to annotate where his words meet your heart, to write into the margins everything you couldn’t say over the phone. To respond in full, piece by piece, to the love he has laid out for you.
it looks like your brother, joshua, is trying to set you up with his best friend: yoon jeonghan. (commissioned!!!)
ᯓ★ YOU KNOW I’M SUCH A FOOL FOR YOU… DO YOU HAVE TO LET IT LINGER?
joshua isn’t subtle.
he thinks he is. thinks he’s sly when he leans against the kitchen counter like that, as if this is all casual, no ulterior motives, no grand plan.
his “hey, what are you doing later?” comes out just a little too rehearsed, like he’s been practicing it in the mirror.
“why?” you ask, pouring yourself a glass of water. the morning sun catches the rim, makes it sparkle like you’re in a toothpaste commercial. you take a slow sip just to make him wait for your answer.
“no reason,” he says, too fast. “well. jeonghan’s dropping by. we’re gonna play that new board game i told you about. you should join.”
you blink at him, resting your glass on the counter. “you invited jeonghan over without telling me?”
“‘cause you like him,” joshua says, with the smugness of someone who thinks they’ve just uncovered a great mystery. “he’s funny. good at games. you’ll get along.”
there’s a laugh bubbling in your chest that you have to swallow down. “hm,” you say instead, leaning on the counter across from him, mirroring his posture. “and this is totally not you trying to set me up with your best friend?”
he scoffs, looking anywhere but your face, like he’s afraid you might see right through him. “don’t be ridiculous.”
“right.” you nod slowly. “ridiculous.”
joshua shrugs, pretending to be absorbed in his phone. “so you’re in?”
“i guess,” you say, as if you weren’t already planning to see jeonghan tonight anyway. the corner of your mouth threatens to curl upward, but you hide it by sipping your water again.
later, when jeonghan shows up, the front door creaks open and he steps in with a smile meant just for you. warm hand on your shoulder, the tiniest squeeze, before he moves on to greet joshua.
as joshua rambles about the board game rules, jeonghan meets your gaze across the room. the smirk that tugs at his lips is for you alone.
you don’t have the heart to tell your brother he’s just a little late to the party.
--
joshua’s been at it all morning.
he’s pacing between the couch and the kitchen, dropping not-so-subtle hints about how “you should really help jeonghan with that thing later.” no context. no explanation. only that loaded sentence and a look that screams i’m doing you a favor.
every time he passes by, he glances at jeonghan as if they’re co-conspirators. in reality, joshua’s the only one convinced this is all his idea.
jeonghan plays along, because why not? it’s harmless. and it’s amusing to see how hard your brother is working for something that’s already long in motion. besides, it’s the perfect excuse to spend time with you.
when you finally wander into the living room, hair still a little mussed from sleep, hoodie sleeves covering half your hands, joshua perks up like a golden retriever who has heard a squirrel.
“perfect timing,” he says, a little too triumphant. “jeonghan needs your help with—” he falters, clearly realizing he has no idea what to insert there. “—uh, that thing.”
“right,” jeonghan says easily, “that thing.”
his gaze flickers to you, catching the sleepy curve of your smile as you settle into the seat beside him, close enough that your knee brushes the cushion near his thigh.
joshua hovers for a moment, shifting his weight like he’s waiting for something magical to happen, he then disappears into the kitchen, probably patting himself on the back for his matchmaking genius.
jeonghan doesn’t waste the opportunity. his knee nudges yours—lightly enough to pass as accidental, but lingering long enough to send a quiet pulse of awareness up his leg. his hand drapes casually over the back of the couch, fingertips grazing your shoulder in a way that makes his pulse skip. he catches the brief glance you shoot him, the twitch of your lips, the silent acknowledgment that you know exactly what he’s doing.
jeonghan likes this game. the pretense.
the stolen inches of space. the warmth of your thigh against his. the way he can make you shiver from a single touch and still pretend it’s nothing.
he’s enamored—has been for a while—and there’s a thrill in knowing he can indulge in small, quiet touches right under your brother’s nose.
joshua calls something from the kitchen, breaking the moment. jeonghan answers without looking away from you, his voice perfectly even.
he’s not in a hurry to end this charade. not when he’s winning, and not when every round feels like this.
--
joshua picks the restaurant on purpose.
somewhere casual, good food, big enough that you can sit three to a table without feeling cramped. but not so big that he can’t watch the two of you from where he sits across. he thinks he’s subtle, blending into the background with his straw in hand, though the small, satisfied smirk tugging at his lips probably says otherwise.
he pokes at the ice in his drink, pretending to read the menu while you and jeonghan fall into your usual rhythm. banter that’s half-bickering, half-flirting, threaded with the kind of ease you can’t fake.
“you’re holding the menu upside down,” you point out.
“maybe i can read upside down,” jeonghan counters without missing a beat. “can you?”
“maybe i don’t need to,” you shoot back, raising an eyebrow.
“sounds like someone doesn’t know how,” he teases, and you roll your eyes in a way that makes him cackle.
joshua hides a grin behind his straw.
to anyone else, it probably looks like harmless teasing. to him, it looks like progress. the way your eyes spark when jeonghan says something ridiculous, the way jeonghan’s smile softens when you push back. it’s exactly what he’s been hoping to see.
he waits until the food arrives before standing. “i’m gonna hit the restroom,” he says casually, and neither of you look up for more than a second. perfect.
he steps away from the table, weaving through other diners. instead of heading toward the bathrooms, he makes a detour toward the front windows. he pauses to check his phone, pretends to read a dessert menu, and linger near the display case. he takes his time.
this is part of the plan. give you two space. let the conversation breathe without him sitting there like a referee. let the little moments happen when no one else is watching.
because that’s the real reason behind all of this. the careful invitations, the little nudges, the conveniently timed errands. joshua likes seeing his two favorite people happy.
separately, sure, but especially together. you bring out a gentler side in jeonghan; jeonghan makes you laugh in a way few people can. and if it takes a little gentle orchestration to make sure you both realize that, well… joshua’s happy to keep playing the long game.
when he finally wanders back to the table, you’re leaning in, fingers brushing jeonghan’s as you slide him a dipping sauce. you’re laughing at something he’s just said, shoulders relaxed, faces a little too close.
“what’d i miss?” joshua asks, sliding back into his seat with an air of nonchalance.
“nothing important,” jeonghan says with a smile that’s far too knowing.
“just proving i’m better at reading menus,” you add.
joshua chuckles, picking up his fork. he takes a sip of water, still smiling to himself as the conversation between you two picks back up.
yeah, joshua thinks. sooo worth it.
this was commissioned; i’m currently taking comms for donations made to philippine typhoon relief efforts!!! read more on where to donate & how to request. | › scroll through all my work ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ my masterlist | @xinganhao
xinganhao 🌟 shared a moment with you: "wonwoo x reader"
boyfriend!wonwoo texts except you're his chronically online girlfriend, part two. part one here. in filo terms: nonchalant, 'pogi typings' wonwoo x oa!reader. suggestive + 'kms' jokes + headcanons under the cut. for one of my first friends on this site, @wonustars. <3
a day in the life of chronically offline!wonwoo and his girlfriend.
you’re on his lap, mid-rant about a fictional character’s downfall arc, waving your phone. wonwoo isn’t even pretending to understand. he just lets you use his chest as a podium while he hums in response, occasionally muttering, “that does sound tragic,” like a therapist indulging your latest mental illness. you pause, point a dramatic finger in his face. “you’d get it if you watched the edits i send you.” he presses a kiss to your knuckle. “i’d rather just watch you.”
once, you made a meme of him. full-on impact-font-level stupid. it was a blurry screenshot from a video call, wonwoo mid-blink, captioned, when she says she’s gonna sleep but you see her still liking tiktoks at 3am. it went semi-viral in your niche circle. he found out. he sent you a voice note with an unamused “mnnh.” but when you apologized, laughing, he just said, “keep it up, and i'm charging licensing fees.”
he likes words. you like emojis that are vaguely threatening. he sends you a poem; you send him 🔪💕💥🩸. wonwoo asks, “was that a response?” you say, “it's interpretive.” he saves the message anyway.
he doesn’t get why you need to narrate everything you do like a youtube vlog, but he lets you. you’ll be brushing your teeth, half-foam, going “today we’re gonna gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss our way to productivity,” and wonwoo will be leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching you like you’re his favorite anomaly. doesn’t say much. just smiles a little when you nearly choke on your toothpaste from laughing at yourself.
wonwoo reads with glasses on. it does things to you. things that are unspeakable. once you saw him half-sprawled on the couch, legs long and messy, copy of ‘the unbearable lightness of being’ in hand, and you just... climbed him like a tree. no warning. running purely on thirst and impulse. he blinked, said, “do you mind?” but his hands were already steadying your hips.
you told him you had a parasocial crush on him before you got together. it slipped out one night when you were tipsy and emotional, rambling something like, “i used to look at fancams of you and think: no way he’s real.” wonwoo had blinked slow, cheeks red, voice soft. “i thought the same thing. about you. just not with fancams. with... you being you.”
when you sleep over, wonwoo always turns off the wifi for your own good. “i’m saving you from another four-hour deep dive into love island lore,” he says, confiscating your phone. you glare. he grins. you wrestle for it like gremlins. you lose. he throws it across the room and pulls you under the sheets like a jail warden. you sulk into his chest until he rubs your back and calls you his “terminally online menace.”
you gave wonwoo a custom keyboard with purple switches and cat paw keycaps. he gave you a first edition of your favorite manga, annotated with his thoughts in the margins. you cried. he panicked. you said, “they were happy tears!” he said, “that’s worse. now i have expectations.”
wonwoo likes slow mornings. you wake up like a cracked egg, chaotic and leaking everywhere. wonwoo doesn’t mind. he just pulls you into his lap, tucks your head under his chin while you scroll your cursed meme feed aloud. he doesn’t laugh at most of them, but his chest occasionally shakes and he might sometimes even snort. for the most part, he presses kisses to the top of your head as if it’s the most normal way to say i love you.
you sexted him a poorly-drawn ms paint diagram of your thighs with “wonwoo parking only” scribbled across them. wonwoo left you on read. came home early. didn’t say a word. just dropped his bag, walked over, and knelt between your legs with reverence. then, deadpan: “i saw the sign. i’m obeying traffic laws."
sometimes, wonwoo doubts himself. thinks he’s not enough, too quiet, too strange. you shut it down every time. “you’re my favorite human-shaped wikipedia tab,” you say. “you’re my proof that love can be gentle.”
wonwoo has a folder of screenshots titled “stupidly cute.” it includes everything from your cursed selfies to your half-thought texts at 2am (“do you think bugs have dreams”). you find it once and try to tease him. he just shrugs. “you document the world. i document you.”
Hi, this may sound a little a lot insane, but Ii'm very passionate about all things xinganhao. I know you're not 100% back like you said in one post or the other and that's ok because life!!, I just want to say: thank you for coming back to show us all how it's DONE. That might sound weird, hear me out, it's just that there are so many creators who have come and gone in the fandom, and truly nobody tops you. Your creativity in your prompts, your serieses, the way you format social media aus in a way that nobody else has in this fandom? I've seen a lot of people try it in your absence but I can just say that the throne rightfully belongs to you. Xinganhao, you make it so good to be a CARAT. Thank you for always characterizing the members so well and for givign us these stories that always blow our minds. Like I've said, there can be many creators who try, but no one will ever come close to you. English is not my first language so I hope you this still made some sense and did not come off as too aggresive Hahaha take care!
HELLOOO, this message?! first off, anon, please don't worry about your english. it's perfect!!! secondly: i am so grateful to have your incredibly enthusiastic support .·°՞(っ-ᯅ-ς)՞°·. i've always been surrounded by such amazing creators myself, so if there's a reason why i manage to write/produce so well, it's because of them. i was a bit worried if i would still have anything to come back to after my hiatus, but it's asks like these that remind me: as long as there's at least one person reading my silly stories, then i'm happy 💞 take care, love!
oh my god OH MY GOD. ABSOLUTELY OBSESSED WITH LIFE IS STRANGE AND I ONLY JUST READ THE FIRST PART NOW (≧▽≦) i want to Protect Hoshi SO BAD I'm sobbing 😭😭😭😭 i just want to preserve all your works in a museum like every one of your works means so much to me aaaah ❤️❤️
also, hope you're doing well and taking care of yourself <333 thank you for always making my dayyy
-🐼
my 🐼, i missed you!!! 〔´∇｀〕 i'm so glad you liked the first installment of life is strange,, what did you vote for *eyes emoji* HEHE please make sure you're taking care of yourself!!! don't be a stranger ♥
hi kae!! i know it’s been forever [and then some] but i saw you pop up on my dash and couldn’t not say something. we only caught each other for the briefest second on discord, but even that made me smile. i miss you. i hope you’ve been doing okay, really. i hope you’ve had good mornings and joy and things that make you feel like yourself. and if you ever want to ramble about life or fics or literally nothing at all, you know where to find me 🫶🏼 you’re very loved here. don’t forget that. miss you, take your time here!!!
cel, thank you for always being so kind to me ❤️ i'm not around these spaces as often as i probably want to be, but i'm grateful to always be met with your goodness wherever we may meet (e.g. collabs, on the dash, etc.) i adore you!!! mwah!!!
the southwest monsoon has affected over 420,000 people in my country. with a rising death toll and the possibility of further weather disturbances, there is an urgent call for aid/assistance. IF YOU ARE ABLE TO SEND ME PROOF THAT YOU DONATED TO ANY OF THE BELOW CHANNELS, I WILL WRITE FOR YOU.
i write mostly female!reader, primarily for seventeen, stray kids, and tomorrow x together. i can do any prompt/genre that you request. all i ask is that you 1) screenshot your proof of donation (no amount is too small), and 2) send me an ask/chat me with your proof + your prompt. in return, i will write you a fic of min. 3k words (or an smau, if that's something you prefer).
the below channels have been chosen for their credibility. thank you, everybody, and stay safe!
video game character!soonyoung x reader. (part one. your favorite video game character appears in your living room, blissfully unaware of who he is and what story has been written for him. masterlist.)
Too little, too late
Games are all about winning. Save the world, get the girl, score all the goals, become the champion. As players, we're conditioned to expect success. And we get it most of the time. See, there are rare moments when defeat is snatched from the jaws of victory; when we're denied the happily-ever-after. It can often be quite shocking because it flies in the face of expectations.
This is a different beast. These are the times that—no matter how hard you fight, no matter how quick or skilled you are—you simply can't save your friend. Or your lover. Or that guy/girl you don't really like that much, but they're still integral to the plot anyway. Needless to say spoilers, lie ahead. Spoilers with massive, pointy teeth.
[...]
5. HOSHI (Life is Strange)
For an indie game that was marketed as a 'slice of life dating sim', you wouldn't think Life is Strange would have the balls to kill off one of its love interests. It's easy to lose track of all the potential romanceables in the game (seriously, thirteen?!), but HOSHI was the bachelor that you just couldn't miss. Love him or hate him, he was larger than life—until he didn't have much life left in him at all. (Too soon?) There isn't a single playthrough where anybody has been able to 'save' HOSHI. The game's publisher has also stayed mum as to whether it's an option at all, giving a sliver of hope that HOSHI might still be in the running in the game's upcoming sequel, Life is Strange: Shohikigen. Personally, I've always been a THE8 guy myself—but I, too, think that HOSHI deserves to be somebody's happy ending.
Fans of the critically acclaimed indie title Life is Strange will have to wait longer than expected for its sequel. Today, publisher STUDIO EISA announced that the release of Life is Strange: Shohikigen has been delayed indefinitely due to the "health concerns" of its sole developer and artist, the reclusive creator known only as XINGANHAO.
The announcement came as a shock to the gaming community, as Life is Strange’s 2015 release was one of the most celebrated indie successes of the decade. Known for its narrative-driven gameplay, emotional depth, and unique art style, Life is Strange garnered a dedicated fanbase, earning accolades for its bold exploration of time travel, trauma, and personal choice. The anticipation surrounding Shohikigen, the follow-up to the original, had already reached fever pitch following an enigmatic teaser released last year.
However, in a brief statement issued today, STUDIO EISA revealed the delay, adding an air of mystery to the situation that only seems to deepen the intrigue around the project.
"Due to ongoing health concerns of XINGANHAO, the development of Life is Strange: Shohikigen will be postponed indefinitely. We understand this is disappointing for fans, but we must prioritize the well-being of the artist and creator behind this beloved series. XINGANHAO’s health and recovery are of utmost importance. We ask for your understanding and support during this difficult time," the publisher's statement reads.
STUDIO EISA also promised to keep the community updated with any new developments but did not provide further details on XINGANHAO’s condition. Given the secrecy that has surrounded the game’s production, this statement adds another layer to the already elusive nature of its development.
everybody in the gaming community knows that HOSHI is an unsavable character, but that doesn’t mean you won’t try. you jokingly say that you’ll do anything to give him the happy ending he deserves—maybe next time, you’ll be careful what you wish for.
⤿ a four-part series featuring video game character!soonyoung x reader.
𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄 —
🎮 SAVE FILE ONE. USER: FIRST_DAY_OF_MY_LIFE.
your favorite video game character appears in your living room, blissfully unaware of who he is and what story has been written for him.
🎮 SAVE FILE TWO. LOADING...
THIS SAVE FILE IS EMPTY!
🎮 SAVE FILE THREE. LOADING...
THIS SAVE FILE IS EMPTY!
🎮 SAVE FILE FOUR. LOADING...
THIS SAVE FILE IS EMPTY!
𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐑 —
each chapter will end with a poll of two choices; voting will be open for one week. there is a total of sixteen possible endings. like any good video game, your choices will dictate soonyoung’s fate.
with love, kae ✎ it’s been a while, hasn’t it? :’) i figured that if i were going to come back, might as well do it in style! i must admit: this is a smau plot i once did for a day6 member a long, long time ago. the terrific @purple-eustoma then pitched something similar to me a couple of months ago, and i haven’t been able to let it go since. my love, this one is for you and your brilliant mind. fingers crossed that i can execute and do this justice.
thank you for playing life is strange with me! <3
› scroll through all my work ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ my masterlist | @xinganhao
i couldn't emphasise it enough how i wish i could read vernon x rockstar yn again for the first time!!! i have always loved your smaus but this one. THIS ONE. it got me on a chokehold fr TT. well ok maybe i'm a little bit biased because i just love vernon so much, but thisss is the best one yet. if my ask ever make it out on your feed... EVERYONE READ THAT SERIES AGAIN. IDC PLS GO REREAD THEM AND TELL ME YOU DON'T WANT A LOVE LIKE THAT. well anyway what i was trying to say is that i love you so much, thank you for creating that series it definitely didn't change my trajectory of life at all i promise (even if it did i'm not even one bit mad and i'm glad it happened)
CRYING?! oh my god thank you thank you thank you for such enthusiastic feedback on catch you when i can 🫶 that series was where it all started for me, and for you to have such kind thing to say about it makes me incredibly soft. i adore you with my whole heart,,
hi there my love, i know i absolutely suck at being consistent but i saw on my notifs that you’re somewhat back now ! hiii ! i know i haven’t been on here for a hot minute, but know that i truly miss you for every second i’ve been away :,) i really hope once i’m done with my internship in july, it’s also the comeback for sara telling how the world how much she adores kae and their works !! 🥹🥹🫶🏻 if i have the time, i’ll be sure to pop in your messages because i miss our little talks :(
my loveee!!! somewhat back is such a relative term but i am trying to crawl my way thru again 😭 i miss you lots and i hope you're well!!! so proud of you for finishing your internship omg i remember us talking about that ahhh. my dms are always open for you (you know ittt) and i'll be waiting eagerly for your life updates 🩵 take care and never ever be a stranger x
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