my duty is to my heart

so, in the tradition my friends have set here on the dreamed width, here is my graveyard. it is a liminal space, and i can always play necromancer later if i want to revisit any of these concepts, but for now i simply need to let them lie, for my own sake. freeing up space in my brain and freeing myself from this obligation i have created to follow through will, i think, make me a stronger writer and allow me to trust myself a bit more going forward.

that said, here goes, in order of origin:

1. hansol/minghao “renaissance” au.

word count: ~400 words

first worked on: april 2019.

working title: this is almost touching (from the musical the light in the piazza)

premise: hansol from a rich art patron family, minghao essentially pauper prince, who protects those less fortunate

He doesn’t care if it sounds childish to say. It feels a little magical, the way the leaves sweep across the plaza along the breeze. Hansol spreads his fingers and lets the wind wash through them, closing his eyes and turning his face toward the sun, imagining that the air trailing along his skin is the source of his goosebumps instead of the face he sees every time he looks up at the marble statue in the center of the square.

“What are you waiting for?” a soft voice murmurs from behind him, and Hansol’s eyes snap open.

He grins and rummages in his satchel for a moment, turning to beam at Minghao. “I brought you something!” Hansol answers, and produces two leather-covered books, bound together with a length of red cord that may or may not be the tie for his bedroom curtains.

Minghao gives Hansol a searching gaze, something beyond gratitude in his eyes, and Hansol flushes under it, a little. It feels like the moments when he stands just so under the stained glass window in his parents’ bedroom, and the sun beams through it and it’s magnified, the heat almost burning through its color.

“It’s the law book I showed you,” he says.

Hansol presses the parcel into Minghao’s hands, closing Minghao’s fingers over the books.

“And the other one?” Minghao asks, toying with the tasseled edge of the cord, eyes big and pleased.

Hansol smiles. “A sketchbook.”

Minghao’s eyebrows knit together. “Whose?”

“Yours.”

•

As he works, Hansol’s hair is stuck to his brow, the wet-white plastering chestnut to skin, but he cannot stop. His thumbs smooth over the clay, touching the cheekbones he only ever feels the moments his eyelashes flutter shut before sleep, tracing the shape of a face he can’t seem to capture, no matter how hard he tries.

The squish of the water around the webs of his fingers as he sinks his hand into the mound on the platter does little to soothe Hansol. Usually it is the only thing that can. He feels so off-kilter. He runs his thumbnail into the brow of the clay staring back at him and lets out a long breath, staring into Minghao’s eyes.

•

How am I supposed to watch you talk about your passions and not fall more in love?

I see art and I think of you. I see you in every painting, every sculpture, everything.

2. seungcheol/jeonghan theme park au.

word count: ~530 words

first worked on: may 2019.

working title: why i do the things i do (from kimya dawson’s my rollercoaster)

premise: this was intended to join you know just where to jump off in a theme park au series, with jeonghan as a guest relations cm and seungcheol as an attractions lead.

“I’m your lead, I get paid premium to babysit you all,” Seungcheol laughs.

“You get paid for that, not to run a rollercoaster?” Wonwoo says slyly from the passenger seat, pushing up his glasses.

Soonyoung reaches up between the front seats to snatch Wonwoo’s glasses off his face and put them on, and Wonwoo just allows it with a little smile and a squint at the road signs they pass. Seungcheol is intimately acquainted with the endless patience Soonyoung necessitates, and somehow Wonwoo never runs out of it.

“Well, that too. And Jeonghan is a tour guide, you know what they make. He bought this car.” It may be a little tacky to discuss finances like this, but Seungcheol figures that a little openness will improve team morale. That’s why he wanted to take some of his hosts out in the first place, for bonding and brainstorming, because God knows their managers aren’t doing the legwork.

He feels the weight of responsibility on him a lot, actually. When he expressed this to Jeonghan after he first became lead at the attraction, Jeonghan looked at him like Seungcheol said that water is wet. (“Of course you feel that way. You have accountability running through your veins. You’re the wet dream poster boy for someone with a responsibility kink.”)

“A touchscreen in your car? You’re so annoying,” Soonyoung huffs enviously, no real heat in it, leaning way too far forward over the center console to tap on the screen indiscriminately.

“I know your seatbelt better be buckled, Soonyoung,” Seungcheol says warningly, and Wonwoo reaches back to push at Soonyoung’s arm.

A text alert flashes on the touchscreen on the dashboard, Wonwoo reading, “Message from heart-emoji-Jeonghan-heart-emoji.” His voice is deadpan.

Seungcheol laughs and presses the read aloud button on the dashboard, in the interest of safety.

Which is his greatest undoing, he finds out instantly, because the fucking robotic voice blares through the car, “Miss you so much Cheollie. Crying cat emoji. Come home soon. Wanna get my fingers in your mouth. Tongue emoji. I love you. Two hearts emoji.”

Mortified, Seungcheol’s eyes go wide and he stares at the road ahead of him, hands tight on the wheel in a death grip. His face feels like it’s being licked by flames as he makes the u-turn into the arcade parking lot, and the silence is deafening until Soonyoung barks out in a laugh, “I’m so glad you’re our role model.”

When Seungcheol throws the car into park, he glances in the rear-view mirror and thanks his lucky stars that Tzuyu was wearing her AirPods, though something in him makes him think that she was doing it out of courtesy, if the tight grimace-smile she gives him when she gets out of the car is any indication.

“This kind of shit humanizes you,” Wonwoo is saying sagely, clapping Seungcheol on the shoulder as they walk into the arcade. Which, fair.

“I need a drink,” Seungcheol mutters. He figures one beer and the amount of pizza they’re going to eat will balance out, especially if he has to watch Soonyoung try to play skee-ball with Wonwoo again, if last year’s team building activity taught him anything.

3. seungcheol/joshua vampire au.

word count: ~590 words

first worked on: july 2019.

working title: to taste devotion in an infinite sense (from ryan scott oliver’s 35mm song cycle)

premise: a prequel/accompaniment to me and my mister for the rest of our life. a hundred years of marriage, rife with angst and war and epistolary interludes. i did a lot of research for this but never got around to it.

More than anything, Seungcheol hates the guns.

The smell of the powder lingering, the sound of the ignition in every stage, the hiss and the spark and the inevitable explosion that still takes him by surprise sometimes. The way they shatter the bodies into unrecognizable shards, his mother’s handmirror when she had to flee.

The worst is the taste. Mineral-bitter, blood coating his mouth in a sickly chalkiness where it should be relieving, sweet, healing. But it’s not for him. Seungcheol is here to do work, to protect the dead from what has befallen the enemy, to drain them to unrecognizability.

So he sinks his fangs into their necks, sometimes their wrists when there’s less neck than there should be, and he drinks, and he does not cry. He thinks about praying. He thinks about someone praying for him, and he does not cry.

•

Joshua’s eyes are resolute, bold and bright as ever, even as his lashes cling together wetly. Seungcheol could never look away from those eyes, and he doesn’t, even as he feels the shape of what Joshua presses into his hand, closing his fingers around it.

“Shua,” Seungcheol murmurs, trying not to sound as broken and helpless as he feels.

“They can’t know,” Joshua says, low and sure and sad. “But I will know. I will always carry you with me.”

His fingertips trace Seungcheol’s face with the precision of a sculptor, memorizing the angle of every dip and slope. Seungcheol purses his lips, kissing Joshua’s ring finger when it crosses his mouth, feeling a phantom tendril of warmth curl around his jaw to the nape of his neck, the spread of a kiss into his memory.

“It must take you where you need to go. It’s beautiful, but it is not the most valuable thing you have given me.”

You are, Seungcheol finds he doesn’t need to hear. It rings through his mind, Joshua’s voice clear as spoken aloud. Seungcheol lets the gold band imprint a ring into the meat of his palm, and lets Joshua imprint a treasure map of tender kisses to his fang site, his jaw, his cheek, his lips. To guide him home.

•

The letter he receives is half blacked out, and Seungcheol feels anger ignite in the pit of his stomach about it, filling him up where his organs used to do work and setting him ablaze.

He’s so tired all the time, always touching the nape of his neck where Joshua made a home. He misses him, so much.

•••

“Soonyoung brought home a boy,” Seungcheol says casually, almost absentmindedly.

But Joshua knows better, a hundred years with Seungcheol, and he lets a lazy grin crawl over his face. “Okay, okay. Let me guess. Long hair, pretty face, one of those sarcastic types. God knows Soonyoung needs someone to spar with.”

“Well, you’re two for sure,” Seungcheol says evasively, and Joshua is out of his chair in an instant, none of the four legs even scraping the floor for the speed.

That means— “Wait, you’re saying?”

Seungcheol’s eyes flick aside to meet Joshua’s, and a fang flashes infinitesimally when the corner of his mouth quirks up in his soft smile. “His name is apparently Jeonghan.” Seungcheol slides his hand down the inside of Joshua’s wrist and twines their fingers.

“Oh, wow,” Joshua exhales like a breath, and Seungcheol twinkles at him, and for a second there’s a beat like, it’s been thirty years since we did this last. Are we ready to do it again?

Yes, unequivocally.

4. seokmin/minghao friends to lovers au.

word count: ~960 words

first worked on: july 2019.

working title: the mood is like the weather here (from an english translation of SOME song. wish i had written it down!)

premise: just friends to lovers. this didn’t end up working for me and i scrapped a lot of it for parts that ended up in other fics. i know i am not going to touch this again.

Seokmin likes to play the ‘how did we get here’ game.

He’ll find himself in the middle of a conversation, pick himself up and drop himself back at the start of the pathway, the first yellow brick, and try to navigate his way back to now.

“Can you hand me a pen?” Mingyu asks from one corner of the room where he’s taping a box closed, gesturing vaguely to the mug of writing utensils on the table, and is promptly given a blue ballpoint. “No, the permanent one.”

Interest finally piqued amongst all the moving boxes, Seungkwan looks up from his phone and narrows his eyes suspiciously. “A marker?” he asks carefully, picking one up.

Mingyu shrugs and grins, syrup-lazy. “Sure. That one, please.”

With deliberate slowness, Seungkwan sets his phone face-down on the coffee table to gaze at Mingyu. “You asked for a pen, but you wanted a marker?”

Not fast enough to stop himself, Seokmin breaks the following silence with the loud rip of the packing tape on the dispenser. Minghao laughs in the kitchen, neck craned around the wall to look at them, and he meets Seokmin’s glance with a loose grin. They can all see what’s brewing, and most of the time can’t resist throwing a few more ingredients into the pot.

“What’s the difference?” Seokmin says with a smile, sitting down for a break atop a box marked LIVING ROOM BOOKS?! (“What is the punctuation for, Mingyu? Are you shocked that I can read?”)

“The difference, Minggoo-yah, is that this,” Seungkwan holds up another ballpoint, “is a pen, and this,” he holds the telltale black-and-ivory MonAmi in his other hand, “is a marker.”

“But they’re all pens, together,” Mingyu says with all the weight of someone who’s had this conversation before. “The category of them. They’re all pens. It’s like how a square is a rectangle but not all rectangles are squares.”

“But you asked for a pen. Soonyoung gave you a pen. And you said it was wrong. I’m just trying to get a feel for your process here.”

Soonyoung nods with sage understanding. “Riddle me this, then,” he starts, pausing for effect.

Minghao wanders out from the kitchen with water bottles in both hands, clearly invested now, and presses one to Seokmin’s neck suddenly. He squeals, and Minghao shoots him an apologetic smile, resting his elbows on Seokmin’s shoulders to spectate.

“Riddle me this,” Soonyoung repeats, louder, for effect, probably, but also because his volume is always sort of set on a reverse dimmer switch. “Is cereal soup?”

“No!” Seungkwan asserts confidently, at the same time Mingyu says, “Yes,” and the tension ratchets up to an all-time high, the fiery gaze they share becoming a palpable laser beam across the half-packed room.

Seungkwan is halfway across the room when Mingyu cries, “It’s solids in a liquid, of course it’s soup!”

“I’m going to strangle you,” Seungkwan says, low and deadly-even, and Seokmin feels Minghao bury his laughter in the back of his neck, feels the hairs on his nape bend with the choppy wind of it.

Mingyu bites his lip and bats his eyelashes, barely kidding. “But we have company, Kwannie.”

Seokmin watches and hardly stifles a laugh as Seungkwan starts vibrating on a different plane of existence, and Minghao’s hands find a home in Seokmin’s shirt, crossed like a mummy in a sarcophagus, thumbs touching his collarbones where the neck hem isn’t high enough.

“Is this just going to get worse once Seungkwan is all moved into Mingyu’s place?” Minghao murmurs, soft under Seungkwan’s voice, which sounds heated where he stands towering over Mingyu on the floor.

“Oh, without a doubt,” Seokmin responds, turning his head a little to stage-whisper it into Minghao’s cheek, closer to his ear. He’s wearing silver earrings in all the holes today, the lengths of them all different, but they don’t move under Seokmin’s breath. Silent wind chimes.

“So, that bears the question, is bungeoppang a sandwich?” Soonyoung asks the room, wry smile spread across his face like he’s positioning the last nail above a coffin.

Mingyu gives Soonyoung a long-suffering look. “Of course it is,” he says, easy and patient and friendly and honest, and that, of course, is ultimately his undoing.

“You’re so fucking stupid, I love you so much,” Seungkwan mutters, throwing one leg over Mingyu’s lap and pressing him reckless and desperate against the tower of packed boxes, kissing him hard and messy like the night they agreed to move in together.

Seokmin can’t stifle it anymore, and his laugh bursts out of him, into the middle of the pre-moving-day chaos where it meets Soonyoung and Minghao’s laughter in the center of the room.

Now, where Minghao is giggling wildly while Seungkwan and Mingyu argue back and forth between kisses, Soonyoung switching allegiance and contributing kindling whenever he feels like it, Seokmin fights the smile on his face as he lifts an imaginary hand to pluck himself by the scruff of his neck to deposit himself at the starting line.

•

The yarn has somehow become his favorite art project, where the longer you look at it, the more tangled it gets. Like in the headphones-in-your-pocket, how-did-I-get-here kind of way. Seokmin tries to play the game, picks himself up and drops himself at the starting line, but finds himself floundering at one crucial, devastating fact:

He wonders how long it took him to fall in love with Minghao. He wonders if it was the first thing he did.

•

Something in Seokmin alights at the phrase. At the very thought of getting to wear something of Minghao’s. There’s some sort of feeling that sweeps through the pit of his stomach, some fond happy fire that sparks at the idea of Minghao having even a little possessiveness over him.

5. minghao/joshua magic au.

word count: ~375 words

first worked on: november 2019.

working title: n/a

premise: i just wanted witch minghao falling for faerie joshua. no ideas past that.

“Would it kill him to use a scale? Or a godsdamned measuring spoon?” Minghao mutters under his breath.

Jun furrows his eyebrows, defending quietly, “Soonyoung is still training! You wouldn’t say that to me!”

Turning his head to look at Jun, Minghao pulls a face, deadpanning, “I did. Several times. While I was training you in animancy.”

Jun knocks his temple gently against Minghao’s, drawing a grumpy sigh from him. Jun says kindly, “Because after I was the one who helped cultivate your skills in the first place you had to show me up and go into another aspect.”

“It wasn’t about showing you up – oh, you know that, asshole,” Minghao laughs at the pointed look on Jun’s face. “I’m just saying that there’s success in measurement.”

A plume of orange smoke rises with a spark in front of Soonyoung’s workspace, and when the billowing cloud clears, a golden-colored tiger butterfly rests on the incorporated cinnamon sticks. Soonyoung whoops and beams proudly at Jun, who grins back, lopsided and fond. The butterfly takes wing, fluttering to rest on Jun’s nose. He goes cross-eyed trying to look at it, and Minghao rolls his eyes goodnaturedly.

“Not everything can be measured, Haohao,” Jun says through pursed lips, trying to nudge the butterfly up to his brow.

Minghao supposes he’s right, but he won’t admit it so readily.

•

The only giveaway is when he turns his head to look at the prebottled potions, too quick, revealing the point of his ears. Faefolk. Minghao could sigh with relief, and his vise grip on the smooth handle of his broom loosens. The fluttery feeling in his stomach isn’t this boy, it’s because of his features. Nǎinai’s husband was faefolk, Minghao thinks, and resolutely does not move his hand up to touch his own ears. They’re hot enough without the additional help.

Joshua is rolling his eyes with a twinkle, Jun and Soonyoung’s sharp-eyed flattery practically palpable, but he looks up and—

“Ah, shit,” Minghao mutters, his elbow catching his mortar and pestle, sending them clattering to the floor. He waves a hand to reconstitute it, the pieces pulling together on the ground as if of their own volition. If his ears weren’t red before, they are now.

6. NSFW: space au, feat. mingyu/minghao/seungcheol

word count: ~990 words

first worked on: december 2019.

working title: directive

premise: my star wars-inspired space opera. i had an idea for engineer hao and his pilots cheolgyu, but i got too attached to the side characters and couldn’t focus on an idea enough to pursue one thing alone. if i can focus this i’d love to follow through.

“I thought the point of shooting from the hip was the literality of it!” Mingyu says, throwing his hands in the air as if to shift responsibility to the universes. He can hardly be held accountable for this, anyway, Wonwoo said this refurbished weaponry could be unpredictable. That’s not Mingyu’s fault.

“Holster that fucking thing before you start waving your hands around!” Seungkwan hisses, prodding Mingyu’s arm with an accusatory finger.

Rubbing a hand over his forehead, Seungcheol sighs defeatedly, eyeing the smoking blaster-hole and making eye contact with Wonwoo, peeking tentatively through the layers of peeled-back sheet metal and alloy two rooms down.

Mingyu tilts his head to look through the opening and grins sheepishly. “Sorry, hyung!”

Seungcheol reaches for his comms, leaning his face into his lapel. “Red 8, come in.”

“Red 8 on chat.”

“Red 8, can you 10-87 Bay 17?”

“10-4, stand by.”

There are a few beats of silence before Mingyu’s own comms start beeping, and he presses the button to transmit the signal. Minghao’s voice curls around his ear through the speaker, low and almost amused. “Mingyu-yah, what did you do?”

Mingyu can feel his face flush pink as Seungkwan and Seungcheol’s heads turn to face him, eyebrows raised. At least Seungcheol’s ears look a little warm himself at the tone of voice Minghao takes, where Seungkwan seems to relish the promise of discipline in it, in the half-chastened, defensive way Mingyu responds with a pout, “It was an accident!”

“Mm, maybe it was, but even accidents have consequences,” Minghao’s voice cuts from behind him, and something tingles at the base of Mingyu’s spine, a solar flare when Minghao’s fingertips skim the back of his thigh, just under the crease where his pants hug his ass. At the touch, Mingyu stands up rod-straight, but Seungkwan catches it and snickers. Mingyu pulls a face at him, to which Seungkwan rolls his eyes and sticks out his tongue.

Seungcheol’s face is radiating heat, much as he tries to disguise it, and Mingyu catches his eye, giving him what he hopes is a warm smile and not too heavy a hint that Minghao’s hand is sliding into his back pocket.

“We’ll handle repairs later,” Seungcheol says, clearing his throat when Wonwoo enters the bay last.

The shoulder of Wonwoo’s black maintenance jacket is singed, and Mingyu frowns with a wince at the look of it. Next system he’ll pick up a patch for that, apologize properly.

Seungcheol continues, “Incidents aside, we have a meeting, so smarten up a little. Ship comms set to receive in five.”

•

“After all this marauding,” Chan says wryly, something knowing flickering in his eyes, “wouldn’t you like to go straight?”

“Oh, god, no,” Seungkwan says with thinly veiled disgust, and Mingyu turns his head into Minghao’s shoulder before he offends their… guests? if he can call them that – with the force of his giggle.

To Mingyu’s other side Seungcheol tries not to laugh himself, letting out a strangled cough to try and mask it. “I think what they’re offering is a job proposition, aboveboard,” he says slowly, sounding it out as if to understand.

“Precisely,” Seokmin replies, looking pleased. His eyes sparkle more than the gold swiped across his eyelids, and amusement plays on the corner of his mouth like his smile is threatening to burst off his face. Are all people from their planet this radiant? If Chan beside him is any indication, there’s an innate warmth to them. Born under a lucky multisun system, Mingyu supposes.

“We have an… affiliate, I suppose you could say,” Chan states, “who needs secure escort to the next system, to deliver precious goods.”

Listening intently, Seokmin nods, adding, “It is our hope you can assist our cause and smuggle Joshua and his cargo to the secure dropzone.” Seokmin uses one delicate hand to expand a holoscreen on their side of the comms, pulling up coordinates, somewhere in the Outer Rim territories.

•

Flanking on either side, Chan, Hansol, and Seokmin all have gold smeared across their faces, around their eyes and over their cheekbones, but Joshua’s face is bare when he turns to face the crew of the [STARSHIP], which is so much worse. He looks tired, but his eyes are lively, and the fond way he addresses his affiliates makes faint trustworthiness glimmer around him. He’s beautiful.

Mingyu can feel Minghao tense beside him before he drops into a bow, and Mingyu does the same.

•

“God, I can’t believe you wear these under your flight suit,” Mingyu whines, reaching for the nearer of Seungcheol’s thighs. The shorts hugging his body have piping down the side, the thick jersey of it shifting over his legs temptingly.

Seungcheol sidesteps Mingyu’s hand and groans, all shy and flushed.

•

“Oh, oh, oh,” Mingyu whimpers, the weight of Minghao’s arms wrapped around his shoulders, around his chest, that should feel restrictive but instead grounds him. He’s not running evasive maneuvers anymore, not throwing ailerons into a roll and gunning down dogfighters. He’s got a soft place to land, somewhere that feels like Minghao’s fingers combing gently through his hair and like Seungcheol’s thumbs rubbing over the delicate skin on the backs of his thighs and like Minghao’s murmured praise and Seungcheol driving into him.

Minghao does this devastating thing where he buries his face into the crown of Mingyu’s head, presses a smiling kiss to the mess there, and murmurs, “You’re doing so well,” that makes Mingyu’s eyes screw shut. He will never understand how Minghao can be achingly hard against the small of Mingyu’s back, but still doesn’t buck up. His wrists cross behind his back, and he can feel Minghao’s abdominal muscles tense under the meat of his palm.

Seungcheol’s hands are callused, a tan on his wrists from flying in a multisun system, and Minghao’s fingerprints are all but gone, but Mingyu needs them on his body more than he needs stars in his eyes and filtered oxygen in his lungs.

7. minghao/joshua kidfic.

word count: ~250 words

first worked on: january 2020.

working title: “big hands small baby” (placeholder title)

premise: working at a theme park and seeing families all day every day kind of got me in my feelings. let haoshua take their baby to disneyland /:

Every time Minghao thinks his husband can’t get more handsome, he does something like step off the shuttle bus and deftly unfold the stroller with one hand in one swift move. Minghao watches appreciatively as his arm flexes in his white t-shirt, the stroller locking together quickly. When he looks up, it’s half-surprised and pleased, and he smiles sunnily at Minghao, Jihae’s little hand tugging at his pant leg.

His smile quickly falls, though: “Did I remember to pack sunscreen for Jiji?”

Minghao rummages through the brown satchel slung over his shoulder, fingers brushing the bottle. “You did.”

In an instant, Joshua’s face is painted with relief. Minghao gets his hands under Jihae’s arms to bounce her up against his chest so Joshua can situate himself and the other two bags.

“Your mother said this wouldn’t be easy,” Minghao laughs, and Jihae laughs too, her tiny voice sweet in his ear.

•

“Shua, is her shoe there?” Minghao asks, peeking around where they were sitting just moments before.

Joshua sweeps the area and laughs. “What? Where is her shoe?”

One tiny socked foot wiggles inside the stroller from under the cover, and Jihae kicks her legs at the mention of shoes; the force of it causes her other little princess shoe to fly off unceremoniously. Shooting out a hand reflexively, Joshua catches it, barely, and Minghao’s eyes widen with surprise. Joshua gives him a smug little look, like he planned it, and Minghao grins at his husband.

All of this is worth the trouble.

8. hansol/minghao long distance reunion au.

word count: ~180 words

first worked on: august 2020.

working title: n/a

premise: verhao meet as teens when one or both of them is on a trip, whirlwind romance that neither of them are able to forget. they reunite as adults and rekindle their relationship.

“Vernon.”

Every syllable is perfect, each sound settling exactly where it ought to be. Glass-shatteringly pitch-perfect, the rumble of tectonic plates shifting. It shouldn’t sing right through Hansol’s chest like a tuning note but it does, the way it sits low in the midtones.

It sounds practiced.

Hansol isn’t expecting to hear it. He thinks vaguely that something got screwed up, that he’s able to hear the thunder before the lightning strikes, that his seismograph nails are scratching marks onto his thighs in his jeans before he even turns his head to greet the swaying buildings. It almost feels like he’s imagining it. Pohang. San Francisco. The Ring of Fire.

But Hansol turns his head and a foundation is slipping, and it’s like—

He’s smiling, he can feel it, because of course he is, how can he not be, but Hansol begs his tongue not to trip when it curls around his response, even though he’s been thinking about the way it tastes for the better part of a decade.

“Minghao.”

•

Hansol is fourteen and the world is enormous.

9. minghao/chan fantasy au.

word count: ~200 words

first worked on: august 2020.

working title: n/a

premise: rivals to lovers. knowing your opponent better than you know yourself. competition and physicality.

Chan’s jaw is set tight, the close crop of his hair on the sides exposing the line of his neck, and Minghao is focused singularly on it.

Three sensations hit Minghao’s chest at once.

The first, the tip of a sword, catching in the linen. The second, the press of knuckles to his sternum.

The third, the wind knocked out of him from the inside out, a lit match dropped in a barrel of gunpowder. Explosive.

Wrapped around Chan’s fist are the cords of Minghao’s shirt, pulled tight into his determined grip as he yanks Minghao down the few centimeters to look into his eyes. Breath fans over Minghao’s face, short and hot over his parted lips. The look in Chan’s eyes is like fire, like forged steel, more cutting than his blade.

“Look at me,” Chan says, low and insistent. Heated.

Minghao lets a quick rush of air out of his nose, watching rivulets of sweat roll down Chan’s temples in his periphery. All he can see is Chan.

He can’t possibly say I always am.

“Look at me!” Chan growls, teeth bared, and Minghao’s sword clatters to the ground. “I’m better than you. Say it. Fucking—fucking say it, Myeongho.”

Minghao drops to his knees.

10. NSFW: lee chan/mark lee/wong yukhei summer au.

word count: ~260 words

first worked on: august 2020.

working title: n/a

premise: lucas and chan public pool lifeguards, lucas’ college classmate mark works at [insert fast casual dining location] adjacent. flirting leads to more.

“Wow,” Mark exhales, and Chan allows something like smugness to fill his chest, puff it up as he arches his back a little and smooths a hand down the dip of Yukhei’s spine. Tries to paint a pretty picture for Mark, a tableau he’ll never forget.

Everything goes humid — the sweat on Yukhei’s back fogging up Chan’s glasses, the long, low breath he lets out as he bottoms out, the shallow little pants Mark is calling breathing as he scrambles up onto his knees to look closer, to watch, his hands curled up into tight little fists on his thighs, soft under his cute little briefs.

Yukhei groans when Chan draws his hips back, one hand still splayed flat between Yukhei’s shoulderblades, the other tapping at his thigh to get him to kick his knees further apart. He grinds in slow and deep just to feel Yukhei clench around him, sinking his teeth into his lower lip when Yukhei lets out a low whine.

“Oh, fuck,” Yukhei says, laughing through the end of it. “S’good.”

“I know,” Chan says, and watches the pink flush migrate over Mark’s skin as he laughs, too, beside them.

“What—what does it feel like?” Mark’s eyes are glued to the sight of his fingertips pressing indentations into Yukhei’s thigh.

Chan raises an eyebrow and slows to a stuttering grind. Yukhei whines, but Chan leans forward, runs a soothing hand through his hair.

“You just need a little confidence,” Chan says, smile melting slow over his face. “What do you say, Xuxi? We give Mark a turn?”

11. NSFW: lee chan/chou tzuyu/wong yukhei.

word count: ~230 words

first worked on: august 2020.

working title: n/a

premise: i got attached to them after hinting at their polyamory in hold me closer/lock it away (star trek au). i could neither configure this into a star trek pwp nor lose enough embarrassment writing this to make it work.

“Oh, come here,” Tzuyu sighs, running her tongue over her teeth before letting her mouth twist up into a grin. “I don’t like fingers,” Tzuyu warns, Yukhei eagerly promising I won’t before she’s even done saying it. Her little acknowledging grunt shakes into a closed-mouth groan as his head ducks down, and Chan’s heart shoots up into his throat.

From here he can see Yukhei’s eyelashes fluttering, big hands gentle on the insides of Tzuyu’s thighs, thumbs still on the crease. Yukhei is gazing up at her, gauging her reaction, and when she huffs out a breath he grins. A flash of pink, and suddenly it’s like Tzuyu’s body can’t decide what to do, arch away or curl up into the feeling, so she swears, loudly.

Yukhei is laughing, bolstered by her reaction, and lets his tongue trace over her again. Her breath is coming hard and fast as he explores, tongue gentle on her folds. He pulls back a little to look up at them, and his face is already shiny, glistening like his eyes.

“You’re so wet,” Chan murmurs.

“You going to—to take responsibility?” Tzuyu says tightly. “More, Xuxi.”

Chan smirks. “That’s the idea.”

Tzuyu’s mouth is open to retort, letting out an unfiltered moan when Yukhei licks at her again. “Shit! There, there, there,” she hisses.

Jealousy isn’t the word Chan is looking for, the longing to be in either of their places,

12. minghao/yanan/jun inkigayo hookup.

word count: ~290 words

first worked on: october 2020.

working title: n/a

premise: my original ibhcu idea that got too angsty for me to want to continue. seemingly one-sided minghao/yanan where jun had more or less “called dibs” on yanan. how do you let yourself have even an iota of what you want when you can’t have it all—you hurt yourself to spare the people you care about.

Minghao sends a brief mental apology into the vent overhead as the door of the handicap stall bangs shut heavily, Yanan’s wide thumb sliding the latch into place before Junhui gets both hands on the silky little tie around his neck, tugging him down for a kiss.

“They always apply your foundation lighter than mine,” Junhui complains. He rubs his cheek against Yanan’s, smearing the color between them. He didn’t mean it this way, but it really is three shades too light, looking especially cool-toned in the bathroom fluorescents.

“You and Minghao are always touching your face, that’s why,” Yanan laughs. He’s right, but he doesn’t have to say it.

Minghao thinks there’s probably less kissing than this among other idols. With what limited time they often have, between their intro ments and their performances and anything else, any minute spent not in pursuit of orgasm is a minute wasted.

But Yanan is here. There’s no such thing as a minute wasted.

Junhui kisses Yanan hot and heavy, with purpose. There’s so much he wants to say, Minghao can tell, but this is a better use of his mouth, probably.

“Missed me?” Yanan teases against Junhui’s lips, using Junhui’s responding sigh to lick into his mouth like he can pull all the breathmint and halfheartedly-applied whitening strips out of it.

Minghao drops to his knees. “We always miss you.”

Soonyoung is just outside the door, booming voice bragging that he managed to get off twice in one session before someone got sent to find him, though Minghao’s not sure that’s a testament to Soonyoung’s own prowess as much as it is to Doyoung’s. But the volume is a signal,

Minghao honors commitments, knows extremely well how to make them. He can honor Junhui’s claim.

13. joshua/minghao/mingyu polyamory.

word count: ~225 words

first worked on: november 2020.

working title: in with the breeze (from no doubt’s sunday morning. i’m funny)

premise: established haoshua with mingyu. a pixieachoo brainworm that got to this point and no further. a soft little introspective pwp. you know how it is. i stole a line from this for starving/faithful because she was too good to wait for.

When the alarm goes off, Joshua is alone in bed.

He stretches and scrubs at his face, lifting his head only to discover that his neck aches from having slept between the pillows instead of on them again. One of the pillows is on the floor, he blearily recognizes, hanging over the edge of the bed for the squished blue of it.

“Is it eight already?” Minghao asks from somewhere behind him. His hand comes to rest on Joshua’s ankle where his foot sticks out of the bedcovers. Minghao’s fingers are just-washed warm, and his thumb fits into the divot of Joshua’s anklebone like he was the one who put it there.

Joshua uses the resistance to push himself back up into bed, sheets tangling around his stomach in a pool of bright white. When he says, “Must be, my alarm went off,” Minghao nods and lets his fingertips trace absently up the side of Joshua’s calf.

Any other Sunday, Minghao would be just waking up with him, one arm slung over his waist and lips to his neck. But while Joshua might be alone in bed, they aren’t alone at home.

“He got up at six forty-five,” Minghao says, in this low voice like he’s saying something else.

Joshua groans and picks up one of Minghao’s pillows to smother himself. Minghao’s laugh permeates through it anyway.

if you remember me posting or discussing anything else in progress besides these, take that as a hint that i am ACTUALLY actively working on it and hope to finish it sometime in the near future. (there is one more idea that i didn’t include here because i have upward of 2-3k on it and think that merits its own post in the future, whether or not i deign to finish it.)

i would love to hear feedback on any of this!!!
thank you so much for reading and supporting me!! love you!!!!! 🌈🎪🎨💕✨