#hythlove

Joshua cooks for you all the time. You wish to repay the favour.

⋮ ⌗ joshua hong x gn!reader, established relationship, fluff, domestic fluff, slight hurt/comfort bc reader cant cook

⋮ ⌗ been struggling to continue the minghao series because my meds have fucked up my emotions LMFAO so i just wanted to pump out a lil piece to try and wean my way back into writing lovey dovey stuff lol… this was definitely not inspired by the time i tried to make a crepe cake

⋮ ⌗ 2.1k words

Joshua always cooks for you.

That’s the way it’s always been. That’s the way it always would be, if Joshua had his way. 

He told you, on your second date, that he loves to cook for the people he cares about. Inevitably, you ended up becoming one of those very people.

Therefore, more often than not, you spend your evenings with him in your kitchen, seated upon your tall bar stool and watching as he mixes all sorts of spices and seasonings you never would’ve thought to combine.

The wait is always worth it, everything about him is worth it; the way he patiently waits as you take the first bite of whatever new recipe he’s experimenting with, a hesitant glimmer in his eyes. He wouldn’t say it, but he’s often scared you won’t like it.

You always do. You always do.

He remembers what you like. He remembers what you don’t. And even if the chicken was a tad too salty, the rice slightly overcooked, the vegetables too plain, every meal is always perfect because he makes them for you. 

One night, while heating up the leftovers from the last night he made you dinner, you realised just how much he has treated and pampered you since the two of you became official. 

And what did you give in return, even? Some kisses and praise?

He’s the corny—albeit, dreamily romantic—type to tell you ‘your smile is payment enough’, but you know better! You’ll do better.

As you took the smoked beef dish out of the microwave, steam rushed over your face like some metaphoric symbol of becoming the perfectly generous partner you were about to be. Like he is to you.

You were going to repay him. With the best crepe cake he’s ever had, and ever will have.

You seen a recipe online, and he's been talking about wanting to try one. The thing is... you’ve never really made anything from scratch before.

Well, you have! With family—but you were always left to linger around the kitchen, maybe measuring a thing or two before being told to sit down. “We don’t trust you,” they said.

…God, you accidentally reheat butter too long and it bursts into flames in the microwave one time. An honest mistake, really! You were banned from the kitchen ever since. Talk about holding a grudge.

(Well, there was also that time you broke the kitchen ban and tried to make a red velvet cake. The night ended on your hands and knees, scraping chocolatey lumps off the oven walls. That was not your fault—you could’ve sworn on your life that the recipe said 2 tablespoons...)

But so what if you’ve developed a slightly worrying baking history? People change. You’re sure that your love for Joshua will power you through this journey.

You think. But what could go wrong?

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  You've been whisking the batter for 10 minutes, and it's still lumpy.

You're not too knowledgable about the expected consistency of crepe batter, but this is most definitely not it. You look back to the recipe on your flour-covered phone screen which explicitly reads 'mix until well combined and smooth'.

The batter in front of you is basically off-white, much lighter than the picture in the recipe, and not nearly half as smooth. You made a conscious effort not to repeat your butter-related mistakes of eld, and decided to toss in the butter unmelted. In your defence, it seemed smooth enough.

Maybe you should've melted the butter. Could you still melt the butter? Would it melt in the pan? You could just add more butter. But you've added so much already...

The clock beside your wall cabinet reads 4:55pm. Shit, wasn't Joshua supposed to meet you at 5:30?

Shit, you haven't even made the icing yet!

Swallowing your steadily rising panic, you sigh as you break the unspoken anti-butter-melting promise you made to yourself and slice a portion from the stick. You toss it into a bowl, then into the microwave, checking every 20 seconds for any signs of sparking into flames. A smart move, clearly, as the butter melts without any problem.

You're a goddamn chef. Your kitchen curse is finally over!

With the confidence of Gordon Ramsey himself, you boldly pour the whole bowl into the batter and mix. The batter finally softens, becoming almost... watery, and a dark yellow colour more akin to liquid sulfur than cake batter.

Whatever. It's better than before.

Looking over to your pan on the stove, you gasp. The whole butter fiasco took longer to resolve than you thought it would, and the pans been preheating at a high heat for almost 15 minutes now, with the oil you brushed over it basically non-existant.

You hover a hand over the pan, and the air itself hurts. You wince, grabbing half a spoonful of the rest of the butter and frenetically flicking the spoon until gravity does its job. The butter hits the pan with a harsh sizzle, melting immediately, and you jump back when the hot oil sprays onto your finger.

You look back to the clock: ten past five.

It's game time.

You pick up the mixing bowl with one hand, wincing at the weight, and hold your spatula in the other. You tilt it over the pan, pausing unsurely before the batter can spill out.

I've got this, you think. This is for Joshua. For every delicious meal he cooked for you. For every night not spent slurping shin ramyun alone.

You love him. So much. He knows this, but you want to scream it from the rooftops until all 8 billion people in this world know.

You can't do that, obviously, you'll get arrested for being a public nuisance. So you'll settle for baking your love into a cute little crepe cake.

Tilting the bowl, you automatically make a grave mistake. You misjudge the weight, batter flowing out faster than you expected, splashing in and around the pan.

"Shit—"

The batter immediately starts steaming and bubbling, with some splashes joining the puddle forming around the base of your poor pan. In a panic, you flick your eyes to the stove knobs and your heart sinks. Like an idiot, you forgot to turn down the heat.

You turn it down to a zero and push the pan to the side, but the damage is done; the pan has become a max-bronze tanning bed for the crepe, with the edges crisping into a shiny black ash. The smell of hot butter, usually indicative of a delicious dessert being baked, hits your nose oppressively. The gentle steam of the crepe has transformed into something more alarming, a grey smoke starting to make its way around your counters.

Your phone, rested on the counter, lights up with the most stomach-dropping message you could possibly receive in this situation.

I'm outside 💙  Got let out a little early :)

...

You’re in hell. You’re actually in hell. This is a demonic punishment.

"No, no, no, no, fuck..." you curse out loud, with no-one to listen.

Your kitchen feels overwhelmingly warmer every second, growing thick with the miasma of burning eggs and failure. With a floury hand, you crank open a window, coughing on the smoke spreading throughout your apartment like a virus. It's futile. The fire alarm erupts.

You jump back, spatula tossing itself out of your hands and splattering crepe batter all over your hardwood floor. You nearly slip on the mixture as you stumble around your kitchen, yanking open as many windows as you can reach. Grabbing a towel off the oven handle, you flap it around wildy, eyes squinting from the sting of the smoke.

The alarm doesn't give up. You fan harder and harder, but it keeps shrieking, violent and relentless.

Your neighbours are gonna kill you. Only if this crepe smoke doesn't eliminate you first. You kind of wish it would, at this point. It would save you some embarassment.

Tears threaten to form at the corners of your eyes, and it's unclear whether it's still from the smoke or the sheer humiliation of it all. At this point, you're certain that the universe itself is watching your demise, giggling with a bucket of popcorn and said 'hey, you know what would make this better?'

Because to top it all off, the icing on the fucking crepe cake is the sound of the door opening.

"What—"

You don't even see him at first. The thick smoke rushes out of the open door like a guest who overstayed its welcome. Like a guardian angel (one you really don't want to see right now) Joshua rushes in, wafting the air with his scarf as he sets his eyes on you.

"A-Are you okay? What happened?" He exclaims over the alarm, voice trembling with concern.

You're sure you look pathetic. You definitely feel like it right now; standing in the middle of your smoke-riddled kitchen, flour encompassing every centimetre of skin, hair tousled, and eyes wide with guilt.

"I messed up..."

Upon realising that—despite your wishes—you are very much alive and physically unharmed, he drags a stool across the crepe mix-riddled floor and reaches up to the fire alarm on the ceiling, disabling it with a single button press. Frozen, you just watch.

He takes a deep breath, he stays stood on the stool as his eyes drift over to yours. It's silent in your apartment now, almost devastatingly so, and the smoke has ushered its way out through the windows, leaving nothing but you and Joshua.

He glances behind you at the ingredients crowding the counters, a mixing bowl of beige slim, a pan steaming with an unidentifiable brown mass stuck to its centre.

To your embarassment, his lips curl into a smile. It's gentle, unbearably tender, but you're too far gone to feel anything but stress, shock, and mortification right now.

"Darling... what happened?" His voice is too sweet.

"I..." your voice, on the other hand, threatens to crack, "I tried to bake you something..."

His eyebrows curve upwards, and he steps off the stool, face melting into a tender, almost unbelieving smile. "You tried to bake for me?"

"Tried," you frown, miserable, "I messed up."

He coos, reaching forward in a flash to envelop you in his arms. Without needing to think twice, you naturally soften into his touch, eyes welling up as he pats your back. You feel like a child who spilled their glass of milk.

"You... you always cook for me..." you whisper, throat tight, "I thought that... maybe I could do the same for you..." He tugs you tighter with an 'aw', kissing the top of your head.

"My darling..." he drags out the vowels, something in between softly scolding and doting on you, "You know I don't expect anything, yeah?"

"I want to give you something back," you insist, whimpering in frustration, "I wanted to treat you, for you to come home to a nice treat like how you always do for me. Instead you see... this."

Joshua wordlessly caresses your cheek, thumb brushing away the flour there. His touch is intimate, loving, and not at all what you feel like you deserve. He grants you space to tearfully ramble on.

"You're so good to me, all the time, and I can't even do this one simple thing for you. I'm so sorry, Shua... you deserve so much and I want to give you everything. But I..."

You can't voice the insecurities that are rising in your head, a tear just drops down your face and soaks into his coat. He doesn't say anything, for a second. He just continues to affectionately rub your back.

"Please don't say those things. Don't cry, okay?" he nods, "You'll make me cry, we can't both be crying if we're going to fix this."

"We?" you repeat, "No, this is my mess. And my apartment."

He pulls back, cupping your face into his hands, "And you are my partner. Your 'messes' are mine too."

You immediately give in, bumping your head into his chest, muffling an 'okay' from within his coat. You reaches for your hand, letting it lace together with yours as he slowly lifts your knuckles to his lips.

"Just put the ingredients away, and I'll do the rest, okay? We can go to a cafe and get whatever it is you were making."

He's sickeningly sweet.

With a reluctant smile, you look up to his gentle smile and refuse to resist pressing a kiss to his soft lips. "...I love you so, so, so much. I'm really, really sorry."

"Don't be. I love you too."

Minghao meets with you for coffee and a discussion. Things don’t go quite how you planned.

ONE | TWO | THREE | FOUR

⋮ ⌗ art student!minghao x business student!reader, non-idol au, university au, bsf!vernon and bsf!joshua, slight academic rivals 2 lovers, business major slander (from an ex business student, unrealistically generous extra credit assignments, gender neutral reader, light angst, fluff

⋮ ⌗ im kinda mean to fancy cafes here but if u have ever been to THAT type of strangely way TOO fancy cafes then yk the vibe… its on the other side of the same coin those expensive hipster burger places are on

⋮ ⌗ 2.4k words

You woke up an hour later than you were supposed to.

It’s a Saturday, 10AM. The sun was out, but it wasn’t blinding or overbearing. Clouds were still scattered, floating overhead, and the sweet spring smell of pollen and freshly cut grass wafted through your open window.

Minghao, like some sort of psychopath, asked to meet at 10:30 (this being his only period of free time, apparently) at a coffee shop twenty minutes away from campus. Upon reading that message two nights ago, you wondered if this was the reason he had no friends.

Well, who were you to judge? You only had two close friends here.

Upon realising your tardiness, you had to rush through your morning routine like it was an Olympic sport. Skincare, outfit, hair, finishing touches. Thankfully for you—and this possibly singlehandedly saved you from leaving a terrible impression on your cute project partner—you had decided on your outfit the night before.

You had a feeling Minghao cared about fashion.

You whipped out your phone, tempted to call Joshua and beg for a lift to this cafe you had never even heard the name of before. Once you discerned that it would probably take significantly longer waiting for him to pick up the phone than it would to just sprint there and hope for the best, you reached for your bag and bolted out the door.

Vernon chuckled watching you rush out of the apartment without so much as a goodbye. He had seen this sight many times before, believing now that it's impossible for you to arrive to anything on time. This 'habit' of yours has pissed off many dates before.

Fortunately, this isn't a date. It's a purely professional meeting between two partners. Project partners, that is.

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You've never seen this place before, and you're sort of surprised you haven't. It's undeniably beautiful, nustled away within a larger, beige stone building, giving the cafe a feeling of both safety and secrecy. The door is lined with wood painted with a black polish, windows so clear it takes a moment to even realise they're there, allowing the warm lighting to shine through forcibly, even on the brightest of days. Every detail is curated for a autumn Pinterest board.

A Pinterest board you'd never make, because despite its beauty, it’s… intimidating. Unwelcoming. Tables are scattered inside and outside the cafe, but they're mostly empty, like this is some private club and the only people that enter are those who know they belong there. You can't even see a menu!

When you eventually muster up the courage to open the front door, it doesn't take you long to find Minghao. You believe he could stick out in any crowd; models, fashion designers, anyone. The stylish man in question is seated at a four-person table in the back, far away from every other person in the cafe. Wirebound sketchbooks and notebooks are scattered around the ornate table, with a grey ceramic mug in the centre. His slender hands ghost over the keyboard of his laptop, fingers decorated with silver rings, matching the thin-framed glasses adorning his face.

It's almost like the air around him is shimmering. He looks like he's posed for a photoshoot—but he's not, he’s effortless, acting like it's completely normal to look this good all the time.

When he sees you, the illusion breaks. It takes him a second to realise your presence with his laptop owning his attention, but when he does, your breath hitches. He looks up, and the emotion in his eyes (or rather, lack thereof) is unnerving.

You feel wrong. You want to walk back out. You want to magically brandish a pocket watch and hypnotise him into forgetting your existence.

You want to apologise.

"I'm sorry," you stagger, "I woke up—"

"Late?" he finishes, low voice scarily calm. Any sense of confidence you would've normally felt in this situation has worn thin.

"Sit," he gestures to the empty seat across from him, "I already ordered."

Confused, your gaze falls upon another mug, noticably empty, behind his pile of notebooks. The full mug is completely untouched, and the lack of steam reveals its cold state.

He ordered for you. And you came late.

Cleverly deciding not to irritate him further, you smile with a simple 'thank you' as you settle into your chair, setting down your bag in silence, taking out your phone and a notebook, making a conscious choice not to open it as to not expose the fact that you came here without a plan.

His gaze refuses to leave yours, and you feel like he sees right through the composed facade. Silence falls over the table, the only other noise in the vicinity being the whirrs of coffee machines and the whispered conversation of an old couple a few tables over.

You cautiously pull the mug to your lips, grimacing at the lukewarm taste.

He tilts his head, amused, "I didn't know what you liked, so I just ordered you a latte."

"Thank you, it's..."

"Cold?" he finishes your sentence again, to which you nod. "It's a special blend. For those who arrive to meetings fifteen minutes late."

His deadpan delivery renders you seconds away from getting on your hands and knees to beg forgiveness, but all goes quiet when you look up from the cup and a slight smile is tugging at the corners of his mouth. You smile back, allowing yourself to comfortably breathe for the first time since arriving.

Minghao tears his gaze away from yours, a flicker of disappointment surfacing in your head. He turns the laptop towards you, screen showing a set of slides. A title slide dominates the screen, accompanied by bullet points you skim over. It's arranged in an purple and blue colour palette, too adventurous for a business presentation but befitting an art student.

"You started? I thought we were supposed to plan together," you comment.

"I did," he replies, "With my previous partner. I had to change some things, obviously."

"So," you take a deep breath, grabbing a pen from your bag and opening the notebook sat in front of you, "You've got your part planned. Where do I fit into this?

Minghao briefs you on his current idea for the assignment: making paintings to enhance workplace environments.

He describes it more articulately than how you’d later summarise it to Vernon and Joshua, with a gentle confidence you've never really seen from someone before. He's not coming across like he's trying to influence you into agreeing with his ideas, instead voicing his thoughts without apprehension, without fear over whether anyone would care or not.

You don't care about this assignment, not really. You also suspect the sponsors who'll be in attendance to the exhibition don't really care either, just signing up to improve their company image and advertise how much they 'care' about local universities. They won't care what innovative ideas will emerge at this exhibition, even if it'd singlehandedly achieve world peace. They're just looking for future employees.

"Our goal will be to demonstrate how art is valuable for more purposes than just decoration," He describes, gesturing like he's giving a class speech, "Creativity, culture, morale. It's been proven that in mundane environments, people are more likely to suffer from mental health issues, namely stress and depression."

It's not crazy, what he's peddling, but it's... unrealistic. You know from your past internships that HR will never truly care about the mental health of their employees. Well, they do care—in the sense that poor mental health leads to less employees, leading to less people to do the monotonous everyday work that keeps businesses alive. And if the business loses profit? Less money funnelled into the CEO's pockets. That's what business owners care about.

Plus, employees won't care if there's an extra painting in the break room. The only motivation to them is a good wage and friendly co-workers.

"So, we're just making paintings to uplift people's... mood?" you question, dubiously.

"Yes? I'll make an abstract, more emotional piece, something to uplift people and encourage creativity." he continues, firmly, "Explaining the appeal to businesses will be your job."

...Right.

"Art has immeasurable effects on human behaviour and the attendees will see that," he concludes, "The work will speak for itself."

A small laugh escapes out your mouth before you can even attempt at suppressing it. Minghao looks up from his laptop, eyebrows furrowed in offense. "Is something wrong?"

"No," you defend, "It's just that... isn't the point of this project to convince people who don't care about art that art matters?"

He shrugs, indifferent, "If they don't care, that's not the fault of the artist. Nor the art."

"You're entitled to that viewpoint, but that won't sell to anyone."

He rolls his eyes, "I'm not trying to sell anything. I do what I do to express myself and make an impact on likeminded people."

"Good for you," you shoot back, more assertive than you truly mean to sound, "But we'll be advertising to businesses. I know how they think. They won't commission art to make an emotional impact. They do it to make the lobby look fancier and attract 'cultured' clients. If anything, that's what we should be marketing; a way to make brands look 'cultured'."

"That's... a shallow way of thinking," he says, and you're unsure whether he's commenting on your words or you yourself, "I understand that companies have graphic designers for branding, and they have their own talent—but that's not what I do. My art is not just branding. I want it to have a proper purpose."

"Branding is the only purpose art has to companies. There's no CEO that would stand in front of some abstract piece and think hmm, yes, let's cut 10% from staff wages to pay for this, they'll definitely be happier now—"

He cuts you off, "Small businesses care about art. What about—"

"There's a reason small businesses stay small, their owners don't realise they can't afford to care about everyone," you cut back in, "You really think some random person's Etsy jewellery page will be there?"

"You want me to paint for funding?" he leans forward, voice lowered, passing the invisible unspoken boundary between you two, "I'm not going to drag myself down to that perspective."

You pause, unsure how the conversation lead even led to here. Minghao stares, looking progressively more bored with every word you say, but quite not fed up. Something in the way he sits so still in his certainty, it tells you he isn't the type to compromise amicably.

You... are that type of person. The main example being the fact that you only took up studying business because your parents have been pushing you towards this future since you first came out the womb. It's been ingrained in you to bend around others' will so long as it keeps you in a position of financial stability. The only way to climb the corporate ladder is by being flexible. By being 'understanding'.

By never being the problem.

"Okay," you exhale, defeatedly, "Okay! But the sponsors will glance at our stall, not understand it, and keep moving. When we can't raise any substantial funds for your department, don't blame me."

He sighs, mouth open like he wants to say more but can't quite find the words. 

"You're so cynical."

You rub your temples, "Are we going to agree on something, or just start calling each other names?"

"I'm not calling you names. I'm stating what I see."

"I'm not cynical, I'm being realistic!" You start to feel heat rise within you, and not to your cheeks like earlier. Who is he to say such things to you? Does he think that just because he's pursuing a creative career, he's... what? More human than you are?

It's not like you even chose this career!

You start to feel eyes on you, and turning around, the four or so other people in this pretentious cafe have tuned in to your most passionate conversation. The barista is pretending not to listen, but they've been cleaning the same table for the past five minutes. You shrink into your seat, not eager to cause a scene, but Minghao doesn't seem that keen on de-escalating the situation.

He dares to scold you.

"You're making this more complicated than it should be. Forgive me, but I didn't get the impression that you cared about this project at all—I don't know why you're defending this so heavily."

Because somebody has to. Because careers aren't made or saved over of a pretty painting.

You don't say this. You just grip the side of your seat harder and swallow.

"You're right. I don't care about this."

Whatever image you had of Minghao before has been completely shattered. The rose-coloured glasses have been ripped off, tossed into an heavy-duty shredder and the fragments burned in an industrial waste incinerator. He's not cool or mysterious, he's judgemental. He's not passionately dedicated to his work, he's pretentious. He's not admirably confident in his way of thinking, he's ignorant.

There have been many silences between the two of you since you arrived, but none like this. None that feels this... final. Like tossing a book into the trash before finishing the first chapter. You're at a point now where you just want to give up and go.

Neither of you move. 

You look away first, jaw clenched. It feels demeaning.

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After awkwardly ending the discussion and saying tense goodbyes, Minghao leaves before you do. You don't watch him as he goes. Instead, you rush to the bathroom, ignoring the stares of the other cafe patrons. With eyes threatening to soak up with hot tears, you text Joshua.

are u free? pls picj me up

Nearly instantly (to your surprise), he replies.

Okay. On my way Is something wrong? 

You don't reply. You'll explain it all in the car, if you can regain your composure in time.

You don't feel as confident as you did when you first walked through that cafe door (not that you were feeling that confident in the first place). Maybe it was shock from the suddenness of your first introduction, but his quiet confidence and curious allure has thinned into something uncomfortable. Whatever you thought he was, what you thought you could be around him, has folded inward, tangled with doubt. The version of Minghao you were faintly infatuated with feels distant, replaced with the image of a man who is so certain in himself, a man completely uninterested in meeting you where you stand.

Despite the quarrels between you and the person you initially believed you could fall for, your assignment is clear. Finish the powerpoint, fill it with random statistics, write your half-assed speech, done and dusted. 

Then after that? Forget about Minghao.

You really should've just retaken this goddamn class.

You were open to the possibility of meeting the love of your life at university. You just never thought it’d happen in your least favourite professor’s office.

ONE | TWO | THREE | FOUR

⋮ ⌗ art student!minghao x business student!reader, non-idol au, university au, bsf!vernon and bsf!joshua, slight academic rivals 2 lovers, business major slander (from an ex business student, unrealistically generous extra credit assignments, gender neutral reader, light angst, fluff

⋮ ⌗ coping with uni by imagining minghao saving my grade… (ᵕ᷄≀ ̠ᵕ᷅ ) i only have knowledge of universities in my country but this can take place wherever u want if u kindly overlook a couple details <3

⋮ ⌗ 1.8k words

You were open to the possibility of meeting the love of your life at university. You just never thought it’d happen in your least favourite professor’s office.

You, like many others in your course, were failing hard in your Global Economics class. It was your professor’s fault, mainly… at least, that’s what everyone told themselves. Half of the blame went to your professor, who seemed to only speak at 10% volume in murmured tangents, and the rest went to the fact that the class started at 8am on a Monday. Who in their right mind could attend that even if they tried? Seriously, you vowed the curse the bloodline of whoever scheduled this semester’s timetable.

Lectures mattered, yes, but not that much, right?

In reality, you actually were doing significantly worse than your peers. While everyone else wailing about how little they studied for the exam, it was basically fact that they all either lied or already had knowledge of the curriculum hardwired into their DNA. While most others who swore they’d fail managed to stay within the average, you were one of the very unlucky few who seem to have genuinely flunked. You could hear Joshua’s half-smug half-empathetic ‘I told you so’ already. He didn’t make it to a lot of the 8am lectures either, but his attendance did stay above 50% while yours was at a cute and gentle 30.

But yes, lectures didn’t matter that much, right?

This became an affirmation you recited from midnight until dawn the night before the exam. Plus, accounting was your specialty, not global economics! In truth, there was only so much that cramming could do to save your grade. Clearly not much, considering the ominously worded e-mail sent by your professor a fortnight later:

‘Please meet me in my office in H-33 ASAP, my available periods are attached below. This is regarding the latest examination.’

The latter detail wasn’t necessary. You knew it wasn’t your best work the second you turned the paper in, considering the number of unfinished paragraphs and run-on sentences that barely passed as legible. You open your messaging app and text Joshua, the only other person doing business you could stand to have a conversation with, a straightforward:

‘i might be screwed lmfao’.

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Out of breath and 10 minutes late, you reach towards the doorknob of room H-34. You have a feeling you won’t be leaving this room with dry eyes. Nevertheless, you swallow down the growing lump in your throat and step inside.

“There you are,” the professor’s voice barely reaches your ears over the pounding of your heart, “You’re a bit late, so we’ll have to rush through this.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” you puff out in one breath, to which he replies with a simple hum.

He averts his gaze towards the old-looking computer on his desk, typing something out as you situate yourself into the seat facing him. Awkward silence passes as the middle aged man in front of you clicks on what you can only assume to be unflattering files about you, grades, attendance sheets, the like. You take this moment to anxiously wring your hands and glance around the poorly lit room and depressing furniture choices when the professor leans back in his leather chair and clears his throat.

“Right..! Well, I’m sure you’ve noticed that you haven’t received your grade on the last test.” you nod, though you hadn’t even realised you were supposed to get your grade by now. he continues, “I’ve liaised with the other instructors, and at the stage you’re at right now, it’s likely you may have to retake the class.”

You should’ve seen this coming. you should’ve, but you didn’t want to. Those late nights spent binging movies with your roommate Vernon, or gaming with online friends, then staring at your assignments before closing the tab and promising to Joshua that you’d start them the next day. You’re not good at keeping promises, you’ve come to realise. Honestly? You’re not even good at business. Accounting is easy, the calculator does all the heavy lifting, but every other aspect? It’s not even a case of business being a difficult subject to learn, it’s just… boring. You may as well be learning techniques on how to watch paint dry.

So why are you failing?

‘A lack of motivation’ says Vernon—damn easy for him to say, cinematography has been his biggest obsession since birth, probably. You like movies too, but he knows them, analysing lighting choices in every film scene and passionately explaining camera angles like his life genuinely depended on it.

What could you even say about business management? That you worked a couple part-time corporate internships your parents organised? But then you’d have to omit that you’d often cry in the bathrooms and count down the days until you could quit. You didn’t want to do this stupid subject anymore, but you’ve gone this far, it’s too late, and your parents…

“But… you’re a good student. I know you have the capacity to do so much better.”

Instinct nearly makes you scoff and roll your eyes right in front of your professor. You’ve heard many different alterations of this line over many of these past months.

“Thankfully for you,” the professor takes his hand off the computer mouse and leans forward, elbows resting on the mahogany desk, hands clasped together as his gaze meets yours, “We’ve come across a golden opportunity. I’m not sure whether you’ve heard of this… upcoming… cross-subject collaboration project the art faculty are doing?”

“No… I don’t think I have.”

He sighs and sifts through the pile of documents within the stacked black letter trays on the corner of the desk, eventually fishing out a purple flyer with the title ‘Arts in Action’ displayed in large, bold bubble writing.

As he explains the project in the most roundabout manner—dropping the word ‘interdisciplinary’ more times in one speech than what should humanly possible—you zone out, only mentally returning when he states that participation alone could grant you enough credit to completely bump up your grade. Before you can have a single critical thought, you vehemently agree.

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“What do you mean you’ve never heard of it? I’ve literally been talking about it all the time.”

Vernon takes the pizza you’re both sharing out of the oven, cursing under his breath at the heat of the tray. The shared flat between you two is quiet tonight, the only background sound being the clanking of the oven tray and the creaking of the chair you keep readjusting yourself in.

“Wait—is that why you always have that super tall guy over?” you audibly gasp, “I genuinely thought you two were dating or something. I think I literally told him I’m surprised you could pull him.”

Vernon shoots you an incredulous look, “Fuck you, first of all. Secondly, his name is Mingyu, and he’s my partner for Arts in Action. He’s majoring in some travel thing, geography or whatever?“

“So that’s why you’re making a travel doc! I just assumed you suddenly became interested in the local tourist industry.” You giggle to yourself, leaning over to grab a pizza slice before he’s even finished slicing it.

“You assume a lot of things, apparently…” He walks over, not bothering to plate the food, proceeding to explain the gist of this Arts in Action project.

You don't fully listen, more preoccupied with the cheesy delicacy begging you to devour it. From what you do manage to pick up, it seems that the university's arts department is short on money, and decided to run some pseudo-charity event to raise funds and improve the employability of their students. To do so, they had the grand idea of collaborating with the other departments to highlight the importance of art in every aspect of life.

One can only wonder how they got the business department to agree to this. The corporate world is definitely wanting for more artistic flourish and creativity, but were you planning to be the one to promote this change? Hell no. You have cheese pizza to eat and an extensive movie list to finish.

Vernon switches the focus to you, “But how and why on earth did you join? I thought applications closed.”

Summarising the situation in between chewing, you explain that some fine arts student’s partner dropped out of the project to prepare for some acting gig overseas. What you didn’texplain is that the fine arts student was fine art himself. This ‘Minghao’, was tall, hair dyed such a beautiful brown that it may as well have been his natural hair colour, decked out head-to-toe in expensive name-brand clothing. He was waiting outside your professors room—to the latter man’s request—waiting to introduce himself and exchange contact details.

From the first impression, everything about his appearance, stature, and communication felt unique and purposeful. In other words, the opposite of you, always eager to comply and scared of not fitting in as you are. You were attracted to him, there was no use in denying that, but you were also sure you’d never be able to get his number if he weren’t desperate for a last-minute project partner.

What really solidified that assumption was Vernon’s reaction to name-dropping him.

“Minghao… as in Xu Minghao?”

You nod, “Is there another?”

He raises his eyebrows, “No it’s just… Damn, I heard he’s pretty popular. Even people in my course keep talking about him.”

“For his art, or..?” you question, innocently.

“Yeah. I mean, I’ve seen some of his stuff around the walls of the art building. It’s seriously impressive.”

“Seriously impressive, huh?” It’s high praise, coming from Vernon.

“Well, that’s what people are saying,” he leans back, offering the last slice to you which you graciously accept.

“What else are they saying?”

He half smirks, and you nearly think he’s about to address what you’re trying really hard to not address. You blurt out an excuse, trying your hardest to stay straight-faced, “I mean, I don’t wanna be stuck in a project with some asshole.”

“That’s the thing, though,” Vernon sighs, “I don’t really know anything else about him, nobody really does. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him walking around campus with another person.”

Ominous.

“Whatever,” You abruptly stand up, picking up the pizza box to toss into the bin, “My professor said I’d get enough credit through participation alone. I don’t really need to care about this project nor my partner.”

Vernon smiles softly, “Sure. But I don’t know, this could be good for you. I keep telling you to try out new things.”

You fail to think of a smart enough response and walk out the kitchen door, leaving Vernon to his own devices while you head for your room.

Well, shit. Taking stock of the situation, not only did you blindly sign up for a huge project you were unwilling and completely unenthusiastic about participating in, your partner is some super attractive, insanely talented, mysterious guy? Is this a cliché teen rom-com?

Your phone buzzes and lights up. Your stomach drops ever so slightly when you reluctantly read it.

‘This is Minghao. When are you free this week?’

You should’ve chosen to retake the class.

An unexpected visit changes things between you and Minghao.

ONE | TWO | THREE | FOUR

⋮ ⌗ art student!minghao x business student!reader, non-idol au, university au, bsf!vernon and bsf!joshua, slight academic rivals 2 lovers, business major slander (from an ex business student, unrealistically generous extra credit assignments, gender neutral reader, light angst, fluff, light drinking

⋮ ⌗ so….. i wrote this in one night powered by a single redbull so suffice it to say this may not be written the best… i just wanted it posted lowkey

⋮ ⌗ 2.7k words

“And then he had the audacity to call me cynical!”

Your hands gesture around wildly. Joshua, turning around to check his blind spot, exhales in disbelief.

You were so enthralled in your summary (well, rant is a more appropriate descriptor, Joshua thinks) of the nightmare meeting with Minghao you just had, that you didn’t even realise you already reached your dorm. Has Joshua even had a chance to say a word yet?

Nevertheless, you go on.

“Can you believe that? I mean, jeez, I don’t care what people think about my degree, but who talks to another person like that? Unbelievable… I’ve never met a person with such an insane superiority complex before.”

Joshua is finally offered an opportunity to speak as he pulls into the closest parking space to your door, “Sounds like it was a disaster, to say the least.”

“That’s definitely saying the least.”

“Are you planning to pull out of this project then? Or see it through?”

“I don’t know,” you groan, “I kind of need this.”

Joshua turns off the engine and turns to face you, “It’ll be okay. I’m sure of it. It’ll be over in a week and then you’ll be able to ignore Xu Minghao all you like.”

You hum, “I guess so… God, I don’t even wanna hear his name.”

Joshua chuckles, “Alright, well, I’ve gotta head off now. Good luck with he-who-will-not-be-named.”

You thank him, heading off to your room with a wave and a promise of owing him a favour. Vernon will be the next victim to your anti-Minghao propaganda train.

✦•·································•✦•·································•✦

By the time a couple days pass, you’ve lightened up about the whole situation.

Kind of.

Everyone you know—besides your parents, God knows you’d never contact them willingly—has heard about your ‘enemy’ Minghao and how far up his ass he is. Okay, maybe you were being a bit dramatic, but who could blame you? You basically retold the events verbatim to everyone, and they all agreed that he was an asshole. You were almost one second away from going on Reddit with a post titled ‘AITA for providing my college project partner with honest feedback?’

Vernon had to wrangle your phone out of your hands to delete the draft himself. Killjoy.

Today was spent finishing up the final touches on the PowerPoint. Researching the use of art in business was a harrowing ordeal; you found it exceptionally difficult to present the benefits of integrating art into anything after the damned café meeting. It’s not like you disagree, anyone would prefer to work in an aesthetically pleasing environment—you just can’t deal with the concept of agreeing with Minghao.

Despite having to fight your petty biases, the PowerPoint came out pretty well. You changed the colours and layout to something more ‘professional’, and even found time to finish writing up speaker notes for both you and Minghao.

You wanted to be the bigger person. That’s all! He has to write his own description for whatever his painting will be anyway!

By 9 o’clock, you’re comfortably wrapped up in your bed; freshly showered, vitamin C face mask on, bowl of fruit salad in hand. It’s going to be a real good night, you think.

Keyword 'think'. Because what ‘enemy’ who lives up to their name would let you have a good night, right?

You’re scouring a free film site (because you’d never pay for a streaming service under a student’s budget) when your phone vibrates. Assuming it’s Vernon passive aggressively reminding you to wash your dishes, or maybe just an advert from the 10 random games you downloaded while bored out of your mind in lectures, you pick up the phone without second thought.

You’re met with the devil himself plaguing your lockscreen.

‘There’s a problem. Call me asap’

You freeze, only moving after 30 seconds or so to finish chewing the strawberry in your mouth. You had this whole thing planned out: at most, the two of you may exchange a couple texts to confirm you finished your part of the project, then you’ll do the stupid presentation and never talk again.

So what problem is dire enough for him to need you to help? Surely he’d be too proud to even admit he has one?

A sadistic part of you wants to ignore the message and let him fuck up the presentation. A slightly less sadistic part wants to ignore the message until the morning, letting panic eat him up for the rest of the night while you spend yours in self-care bliss.

But there’s a smaller part of you, a louder one, that wants to know. It takes over, and after a few minutes of inner turmoil, you betray your morals to commit a grand gesture of self-sabotage by opening up Minghao’s contact, and pressing ‘call’.

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‘im here’

You shove your phone back into your pocket. You’re stood outside a small apartment complex, debating on whether or not to just turn tail and run while you can.

But you can’t. Because you’re an idiot.

An idiot who told Xu Minghao they’d help him finish his fucking painting.

He sounded frustrated, when you called him last night—not at you, believe it or not, but at his fourth discarded canvas. He described his ideas as lacking inspiration, no true portrayals of the artwork’s potential, as well as his own.

You said he’s just out of his element, that he jumped to criticising what he didn’t understand and that you were right all along. He said he’s just lacking a muse, and that your ‘particular perspective’ might help push things along.

You told him to just admit that he was wrong. He wouldn’t, but he had already lost enough dignity to ask you to come over. So, here you are, shifting around outside his apartment building like a dog tied to a fence, waiting for its owner to come out of the store.

An elderly woman appears around the corner, donning a pink puffer coat and a deep smile. Her smile brightens further upon meeting your eye, “Forgotten your key? Happens to me weekly!”

You giggle shyly, “Ah, no—I’m waiting for someone.”

“Oh!” she leans back, eyebrow raised in lighthearted confusion, “Mister Boo, I assume? A popular one, he is.”

“Oh, no, I’m waiting for Xu Minghao, if you know him...?”

She pauses, squinting her eyes before slowly nodding.

“Well! Is that so?” she exclaims, as she punches in the code to open the door, “How silly of him to leave you out here in the cold. Come on in love, you can bang on his door yourself.”

A bit naïve, you think, for her to just let a stranger in like that, but maybe you just have a friendly, do-gooder face.

“You do know him then?” you ask, holding open the door for her to walk in through first.

“Of course! He’s in the one across from me. Sweet boy, just quiet…” She heads towards the hallway stairs, motioning for you to follow. “Forgive me for assuming, but you two are lovers, yes?”

Huh?

“I—er…”

She lets out a slow, hearty laugh, “No, no, ignore me…  I’m prying. I’m just happy to see him with friends.”

You don’t say anything for the rest of the hike up the staircase, rendered completely speechless from the woman’s comments. Lovers? Really? And why didn’t you deny it?!

The two of you eventually reach Minghao’s apartment after some short small talk, wishing each other well before she heads into her own. With a deep sight and sweaty palms, you knock on the door.

Nothing.

You knock again. This time, you hear movement from within. The grey door swings wide open, knocking something out of view over with a clank.

Minghao swears under his breath, “It’s like everything’s going wrong…”

He looks… interesting. His glasses have been discarded (they were just for decoration before, then), his hair is a tad messier, brushed away from his eyes. What you unconsciously fixate on first, though, is the specks and marks of paint scattered across his skin. The apron he’s donning seems have failed at keeping its wearer clean, but he doesn’t look… too terrible. Objectively speaking, he at least looks like the textbook definition of a romanticised tortured artist.

Not that you’re romanticising him or anything! You’re just giving him credit where credit’s due!

“Well,” you shrug, “I’m here in your apartment. It can’t really get worse from here.”

“Hm.”

You step in, taking off your shoes. You steal a couple glances as he leans down, picking up what looks to be a bottle of wine. He brings it up towards the window, its foil cap shimmering in the sunlight before sighing.

“Looks fancy.” You comment, unsure whether you meant it as a dig or a genuine observation. Regardless, he replies in earnest.

“You can have some, if you want.”

“Oh, um,” you pause, suddenly self-conscious, “No, it’s fine. Looks expensive.”

He doesn’t listen, grabbing two glasses off the counter, “I’ll need to use it up anyway, the bottle cracked. Unless you don’t drink?”

You rub your arm. “No, I do.”

“Perfect.” He hands you a glass while taking a sip of his own. You expect him to pretentiously ramble about the wine’s texture, aroma, aftertaste, flavour notes, then chastise you for not knowing wine-tasting terminology—but he doesn’t. He just sighs again, sounding more tired than the last, and turns around to face the back corner of the room.

You turn to match his gaze and finally take a moment to look around his home. You wonder if it looks like this on most days, with heavily frayed brushes and bottles of paint in every colour obstructing 70% of the floor, canvases of various sizes piled up around a large easel.

A silence passes over the room, calm and uncertain. Minghao rubs his temple.

“I’ve gone through four different drafts, and none of them work.”

You blink, thinking carefully about what to say, for once. Minghao pisses you off, it’s true, but you’re not evil. You have enough emotional intelligence to discern that he’s stressed, one more discarded draft away from being at the end of his tether. You don’t like him, but you don’t feel a need to treat him like he killed your family.

“Show me.” you say, softly but without condescension.

“They’re not good.”

“Anyone would think that after sweating over them for half a week.”

He bites the inside of his cheek. He seems also be struggling with his own internal dialogue, and the only assumption that comes to mind is that he may be unsure about whether you’d make fun of him or not. Nervous about it, even.

Yet you try to pull your mind away from this narrative, there’s no way he’d actually care about what you think anyway.

But if that were the case, why would he invite you over?

“Truthfully… I’ve never painted before, so I’m probably not the best person for you to ask.”

“Seriously? Never?” he turns to face you, eyes peering through his fringe.

“Well, of course I've tried to, but that was when I was a kid...”

“Why did you stop? You can always pick it back up again.”

“I don’t really have time,” you brush his advice off, “Plus, I’d hardly be good at it.”

“You have time,” he insists, shaking his head, “And art is subjective, I don’t agree with the idea that art can be graded based on technicalities. A talented artist is one who can make others feel something from their work, whatever it may be. You could find a hyperrealisic portrait and it might still have no soul.”

He’s rambling, sounding as ostentatious as usual again. You feel a small urge to roll your eyes but decide against it.

"Well, if art is so subjective, let me have my own subjective opinion on your drafts, then."

He sighs in defeat, kneeling in front of one of the haphazardly placed piles of canvases, and you do the same. They’re all set face-down, like he didn't ever want to look at them, and you watch as he reveals each canvas, one by one.

All the pieces are obviously unfinished, but the idea behind it is still evident. The first is of geometric shapes, in muted blues, greys, and whites, like something you’d see in Silicon Valley. The second is bolder, with brighter colours and more abstract, pure sensation for the sake of it. He seemed to have tried taking a different approach with the third, a realistic scene of an open field promoting freedom but coming off more like a carrot being dangled in front of a horse—out of reach.

They’re not anywhere near as bad as he made them out to be. You actually think they’re really good. You’re no expert on paintings—or art at all, on that matter—but you don’t have to be a chef to know if you like the food.

The fourth one is also very different, but enough to make your breath hitch. It’s the least finished looking out of all of them, but that’s not what makes you stop. Its primarily empty, the whole canvas swallowed in dark blue and black. There are outlines of what looks to be office furniture, messily sketched with no real sense of depth.

“Minghao…” his name slips from your tongue by accident, but you’re too stunned to care, “This one is beautiful…”

“What are you saying? This is easily the worst one, it’s not even finished. Look at the—"

For the next five minutes he rants frustratedly, calling it “meaningless” when to you... it’s anything but.

To you, it looks like a memory, or even your future. Looking at it, you feel a sense of familiarity; you have felt just as small and unfinished as this painting, when your parents would emphasise again and again that this is where you’re supposed to be, leaving you with nothing else left to show.

After Minghao's monologue of self-criticism, something dawns on you—you’ve both been thinking about this all wrong.

“This… This is what I meant back at the café.” you declare, pointing at the last painting.

His head tilts, mouth opening to say something, but the words don’t come out. You don’t know it yet, but he’s scared that the moment of authenticity being shared between you two means nothing. The quarrel at the café was stupid, and he was hoping to patch things up by inviting you over in a time of vulnerability, but if you’re still so intent on winning the argument then this was all for naught.

“I… didn’t mean to insinuate that art has no place in a business setting,” you begin, “I wasn’t asking you to make art that loses itself to what businesses want.”

His anxiety settles upon hearing your words. He doesn’t say anything, no snarky rebuttals, no attempts at cutting you off. Rather, he continues to fully face you, listening intently.

“You proved your own point, too,” you gesture towards the fourth painting, “At the café, you said if people didn’t get it, that wasn’t the work’s fault. And maybe that’s true. But what was it you said earlier? That artistic talent comes from the viewer feeling something?”

You shuffle towards the fourth painting, “The first thing I thought about this one was not the colour choices or the adaptability. The only thing I could think about was how it made me feel.”

He looks away from you, slowly averting his gaze towards the painting he hated so passionately but you loved. He doesn’t ask how you feel—not because he doesn’t want to know, he definitely does; he wants to climb into your mind and see the beauty he’s struggling to find.

“You got in my head a bit, at the café,” he murmurs, voice quiet and hesitant as he contemplates his words, “I tried to make something I’m used to, and when that didn’t feel right, I tried making something I thought would be more adaptable to you told me a business would want.”

“And…?” you grin, teasingly.

“You were right.”

He smiles back—a beautiful sight, you think, in this atmosphere. He doesn’t grace you with it for long, turning away from your proud eyes, embarrassed.

To your surprise, you don’t feel triumphant, or like you’ve finally won the argument. You just feel… relieved. Like a new leaf has been turned over between the two of you.

“I guess we were both being a little dramatic,” you purse your lips, “I thought petty fights like this would end in high school.”

He looks you up and down, slowly, then at the paintings lined up beside you two.

“I… think I have an idea for the final painting.”

welcome to my blog !!! info below ↓

hello! my name is cher ◡̈ this is my sfw writing blog for seventeen (and possibly txt in the future) im an 18 year old college student (studying psychology 🧠 woop) i ult seventeen and my bias is shua ꒰ᐡ⸝ɞ̴̶̷ ·̮ ɞ̴̶̷⸝ᐡ꒱❤︎

here are my rules / guidelines ↓

1 ) dni if you are racist / misogynistic / xenophobic / homophobic / transphobic etc etc

2 ) i swear in and outside of my fics, i will not write smut, or anything to do with pregnancy/children

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disclaimer : i do not write smut ! all fics are not representative of the members’ personalities or my view on them, everything is purely fiction

guide : oneshot [♡] series [꩜] reaction/headcanon [☆]

SEVENTEEN

𑣲 joshua hong┆홍지수

unfortunate change ♡

↳ established relationship, domestic fluff

𑣲 xu minghao┆徐明浩

draw me like one of your corporate girls ꩜

↳ art student!minghao x business student! reader, university au, in progress !

/ᐠ. ｡.ᐟ\ navigation ! ˎˊ˗

when i see only you, my heart even gets jealous of my eyes, oh baby

cher ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꒰ঌ ໒꒱ she her ⌗ ˚. ᵎᵎ

ᯓ★ 8teen ᓚ₍ ^. .^₎ intp ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ao3

info ゛masterlist ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

you know there’s something more important between us than words i don’t understand but i ♡, but i ❤︎ u