This Isnt Fucking Funny Anymore Mingyu

this isnt fucking funny anymore mingyu☹️

loving hao is colorful.

status: ongoing pairing: minghao x reader about: a series of you and minghao in different au’s and genres. cover credit: xu minghao for his beautiful artwork! notes: f (fluff) / a (angst)

i — [粉色 | pink] / school au (f)

ii — [紫色 | purple] / idol-fan au ; mini-series pt. 1 (f)

iii — [红色 | red] / idol-fan au ; mini-series pt. 2 (f)

iv — [蓝色 | blue] / idol-fan au ; mini-series pt. 3 (f, slight!a)

do you have any soft domestic hao thoughts? 🥺

OH BOY

domestic!hao who'd get pouty whenever you forget to wake him up before you have to go to work

domestic!hao who'd look up houses out of your price range with you, just to imagine what your shared potential future could look like

domestic!hao who'd buy you matching sunglasses or scarves or rings because he thinks it's endlessly romantic - it'd feel like you'd have a piece of the other with you wherever you'd go

domestic!hao who'd link his arm with yours wherever you'd go, pressing soft kisses to the back of your hand from time to time

domestic!hao who'd love to just watch other people with you - making up stories of what their lifes are like

domestic!hao who'd doodle little hearts or stars on your skin, because the thought of you looking at his little masterpiece and thinking of him makes his heart swell in his chest

✶ seventeen when you take your promise ring off during a fight

ft. performance unit

-> vocal unit | hip hop unit

junhui: he only notices it when you start to walk away. there's a lull in the kitchen, the type of weighted silence that lies thick and suffocating in the air, waiting for someone to make the first move. junhui takes the knife and slices. ("we can talk about it tomorrow," he says.) it gives you both time to be angry about it, sleep it off, then apologize. except, he sees the glint of metal rolling around in your fingers, and your still-empty ring finger when you turn around to leave. junhui has always given you time, given you the space to cool off and talk about it next morning, but he feels if he lets you and the ring go to sleep like that—("your ring," junhui calls quietly, his voice almost fragile with the way he speaks it. he hopes it's just a reminder, not a plea.) the band freezes in your fingers before you silently slip it back on.

soonyoung: he goes quiet. arguments with soonyoung are agitated, barely contained words exchanged like the beginning spark of a lit match; it's never loud, always tense, but soonyoung sees the fidgeting slide of your ring on and off your finger and his match snuffs out. his words trail off into nothing but a wisp of smoke, argument dying with it as he silently walks over to you, a careful yet gentle hand on yours. ("stop." it's the ash that falls from the top of burned incense, the soaking of a matchstick in water.) if you held your breath, you'd notice the slight tremble in his hands before your fingers left your ring and entwined with his instead.

minghao: the second you touch the band on your finger, he stops. ("let's talk about it later," he amends, eyes flickering to your hand before looking up at you as a sort of silent mutual understanding, only to find a hard stubborness in your eyes.) to him, the small gesture is a sign that you need time to cool down, to talk about it civily when the fight isn't so fresh in both your minds; to you, the postponing is something he just says. when is later? when will you talk it over again? when will his words mean something more than just pacifying platitudes? ("no," you declare, firmly planted, metal burning. "we need to talk about this now." you need him to understand this, to understand that it's worth it.) and to him, nothing was worth more than you. so he sits down, and you talk it through, and you apologize.

chan: you see the panic fly through his eyes. the ring has always been a comforting presence to you, grounding you when you need it most. but in the midst of a fight, the metal feels too tight around your finger. you needed to feel the skin beneath it again. chan stops mid-speech the moment he sees you pull it off your finger, alarm in his voice when you move to put it on the table. chan says your name like a fraying thread, as if wide eyes and closing distance were the only things he could do to keep it together, to keep you with him. (he looks between you and the ring, panic barely kept within its confines as chan tries not to spiral. "what...what are you..." is all he can manage to get out, words buzzing as they leave his tongue. you pause, startled, following his shaky gaze to the ring between your fingertips, and you breathe out a single noise. "oh.") you're not, you assure him, metal band warm in your palm. you would never. chan doesn't stop looking at you with trembling eyes until he can slide it on your finger himself.

it’s sunday thank god because you woke up feeling completely hopeless, staying in bed like there’s no safer place to be, not bothered to make breakfast, lunch, or a cup of tea. 

soonyoung always comes over for dinner on sunday nights, and the two of you cook together and watch a childhood movie that’s nearly escaped your memories completely. today, he hasn’t heard anything from you. his morning was hectic, and he checked his phone periodically, but figured you were busy. maybe caught up in something, told himself you saw a friend or went to the market. but by 2:30pm, he’s worried after sending a text nearly an hour ago, having no idea you fell back asleep.

your apartment is so quiet when he arrives. the blinds are closed, and the usual aroma of vanilla and chamomile is missing.

Keep reading

his arms are big but his smile is bigger 😊