Minghao Comfort - Tumblr Posts

This concept, i need this, this kinda love, where loving the other person is as simple as breathing like it's second nature.

minghao loves you, and it comes as easily as breathing most days.

however, when he wakes up at 4:43 in the morning because you’ve stolen the duvet in your sleep, he has to remind himself of that a little bit.

everyone has flaws, and yours is duvet-hogging. leaving him practically shivering on the other side of the bed — yes, he’s being dramatic, but he’s cold, and it’s some sort of ungodly hour, and so he sighs, and tries his best to pry the ends of the duvet from you.

you barely even stir when he tugs you closer, brushing a hand over your face and kissing your forehead; it’s practically an unconscious movement, it’s so automatic for him. one arm loops around your waist, the other manoeuvres him back under the duvet, and he sighs with relief at the warmth that settles over him.

that’s when you decide to wake up, your eyes barely even opening. “hao?” you whisper sleepily, syllables running into each other. “did i steal the blanket again?”

minghao rubs a soothing hand over your back. “no,” he lies, just a little one to coax you back to sleep. he’ll complain to you in the morning, over coffee and breakfast and a little bit of nagging.

“okay,” you say hoarsely, and curl even closer to him. “i’m going back to sleep now.”

he smiles, just barely, at your sudden announcement, and brushes his lips over your forehead again. “okay,” he agrees, but you’re already gone — looking so peaceful that even when he wakes later in the morning to discover you’ve stolen the duvet a second time, he can’t be mad; because despite your blanket-hogging tendencies, loving you still comes as easy as breathing.

an / I HATE WRITINGGG (lie)

taglist: @n4mj00nvq @eoieopda @som1ig @glowunderthemoon @wondering-out-loud @graybaeismytae @hannyoontify @sahazzy @dokyeomin @icyminghao @smilehui @nicholasluvbot @lvlystars @immabecreepin @hanniehaee @kokoiinuts @astrozuya

Stars & Butterflies

Summary: Minghao, an art student, has a secret identity, and you’re the only one who knows.

Content: fluff, friends to lovers, college au

I don’t think there’s any warnings needed for this one!

At the shrill sound of a whistle, the kudo athletes spring into motion. You wince as their helmets collide, imagining the sensation. After a few seconds and another whistle, the team relaxes once more, and gather around their head coach. You can’t hear what he says, but a few moments later the team shouts an unintelligible syllable and breaks apart.

You stand up, gathering your things from your seat on the bleachers. Spotting number 8 making his lone way across the field toward you, you skip down the stairs and wait by the fence. “How do you do that?” you ask Minghao as he pulls his helmet off, shaking his shaggy hair and grinning. Even right after a hard practice, he’s infuriatingly beautiful with his half-up man-bun and his caramel skin that shines with sweat.

“It’s easy,” he says, brushing the back of his hand against his forehead. “You get used to it after years of practice.”

“Well, speaking of practice,” you say, “do I finally get to see your magnum opus today?”

He gives a shy grin. “No,” he admits. “She’s not finished yet.”

You are one of the few people who knows the identity of TikTok famous “MoonMuse”, a talented artist who built an almost Banksy-like cult following through mysterious social media posts of beautifully framed art. He’d been commissioned by celebrities, politicians, millionaires and other personalities for his incredible gift with oil paint, harking back to impressionists like Van Gogh and Monet in his style.

It is, in fact, this tall, muscular young college kudo champion standing before you who is behind these art pieces. You only found out because you, a photography student with a penchant for procrastination, fell asleep in the lab, and when you woke up, you had to exit through the painting studio. He had been there at 2:30 in the morning, working on a piece, and you had instantly recognized his style.

He had gone on to explain to you how only you and one of the art professors knew the face of MoonMuse, and begged you to keep his secret. Something in his eyes — the passion, the desperation maybe — had convinced you to agree. Plus, there was nothing to gain from exposing him. It would just be mean. Then, you had asked him if you could watch.

“I can’t paint to save my life,” you had told him, “so there’s no way I could copy you.”

He gave you a half smile before nodding at the chair next to his. Turning back to the canvas, he began adding strokes to a magnificent flowered garden scene.

You had stayed there almost all night. Watching Minghao work had moved you — it was both soothing to watch and inspiring to witness the care he took with even the smallest details of the painting. Through his eyes, the world looked more colorful, more romantic, more beautiful than it really was. You found yourself wanting to live in the world he saw.

Minghao had insisted on walking you home, because you lived across campus and there was a particularly dark and dangerous street you’d needed to cross to get back to your apartment. The walk back had been full of awestruck questions from you. He seemed flattered by the attention, even remarking that since he never saw his clients in person, he never got to witness their reactions to his work.

“So why do you do it?” You’d asked, thinking about the way artistic work often relies on validation. “If not to make them happy, why paint at all?”

He looked at you, then, and laughed. “I don’t ever paint for anyone else. I paint to keep myself sane.”

This struck you as odd. It lingered with you as you worked on your own art, so much that you found yourself waiting for him every night at the painting studio. Most nights he never showed. Finally, though, he had. And, surprisingly, he seemed genuinely excited that you had met again.

This had been the night you had asked him about why he needed to paint to stay sane. Between strokes of his brush, he told you about how he had a painful tendency to give too much of himself. He rarely got to feel or process his own feelings, especially hard or negative ones. That was where painting came in. “When I paint, I get to make these painful things into something that I can look at. I get to make it beautiful so I can process it.”

He had laughed when he’d caught the expression on your face — in awe was probably the best way to put it. “I’m sorry,” You had stuttered, blushing.

“It’s okay,” he had reassured. “I…actually really enjoy how amazed you get about things like this.”

He bumped you with his shoulder comfortingly. You had looked up at him, and his gentle, open, happy smile had actually reached his eyes for the first time.

He’d walked you back again, and this had become your ritual. At the entrance to your apartment building, he’d stopped you with a gentle hand on your arm before you walked away. He’d asked for your phone number.

He’d texted you right as you’d arrived home — just to say goodnight, but also to tell you he wouldn’t be in the studio again til Friday. You had smiled at the butterfly emoji he’d used to close the text. Appropriate — since there were a flock of them in your stomach.

Today marked your 100th meeting. You’d fallen in love with him somewhere around the 33rd — you had invited him to come with you while you practiced astral photography. He had watched you set up your tripod and camera and asked a couple quiet questions, looking absolutely huggable in his puffy coat and beanie at the top of a rugged mountain. The light finally faded, and Minghao had turned his face toward the sky. “Whoa,” he’d whispered.

The sky was full of tiny pinpricks of light, never visible from the city, but here in this mountainous landscape they were clear. It was why you came here -- and part of why you'd invited him. For a moment, he stared, entirely dumbfounded.

Then he looked at you, and you had been shocked to see his eyes filled with tears.

"I've never seen stars like this before," he said, his voice almost reverent. "I couldn't have even imagined that they existed."

You watched as a tear slid down his cheek and fought back an urge to cup his face in your hands. A telltale burn behind your eyes alerted you that you might join him in crying, and you quickly hid your face behind your camera. But he looked back up at the sky, wearing the most peaceful and contented smile you'd ever seen in your life. It was hard not to stare at him. It was hard not to want to protect him from everything bad in the world. And it turned out that it was absolutely impossible not to be in love with him.

On the way back down the mountain, after the moon had risen and ruined any chance for pictures, he'd asked if he could come watch while you developed the photos. Surprised, you had told him that of course he could. There in the dark room, he told you about his life. He told you about leaving his family in China and coming to school to study art on a kudo scholarship. He told you about the bitter homesickness he felt, about how sometimes he felt so anxious about his choice that he couldn't sleep. He told you how desperately afraid he was to reveal himself to the world -- how much his peace meant to him, and how difficult it would be if he lost it.

At this, you felt your eyebrows raise. He noticed. "What?" he asked, a hint of teasing in his tone. "Am I getting a bit too moody for you?"

"No, it's not that," you reassured him. "I get feeling anxious about something that important." Then, choosing your words carefully, you said, "It's just that I don't get that last part. I don't know if you can lose peace."

Now he was the one looking at you with raised eyebrows. "Why do you say that?"

"Because," you said, looking at your hands, "peace is internal. It doesn't come from anyone but you." You forced yourself to look into his eyes. "Why aren't you at peace with yourself?" you had asked him, quietly.

"I don't know," he'd replied.

You had walked home that night in complete silence together. You had worried he was mad at you -- so worried that you turned to face him before you went inside. "Minghao, I --"

But he had stopped your apology by bringing you into a big hug. He smelled like clean laundry and the pine woods you'd left only a few hours earlier. "Don't you dare," he said with a laugh in his voice. "I'm just thinking about what you said. I'm not upset." He seemed a little quiet the next few days, but then he got better.

Indeed, today he seemed to smile much easier than he had when you'd first met him. Right now, with the fresh springtime air on his skin as you walked to his apartment next to the painting studio, he almost had a spring in his step. "You're chipper," you say to him, laughing as he grins widely at you.

"I am," he replies, opening the apartment door for you. "I'll shower and then I have something to give you."

You nod, pulling out your laptop and working on some homework while he gets cleaned off. He comes out from the bathroom looking a little flushed, his hair still wet, and you can hardly take your eyes off him. He smiles at you, patting the side of his hair with a towel. "It's at the studio," he says.

He grabs your hand, whirling you around and pulling you down the stairs to the studio. Placing both hands over your eyes, he guides you through the studio until you come to a stop. Then he lifts his hands from your eyes, placing them instead on your shoulders.

You stare at a medium-sized canvas on which he's painted the most stunningly beautiful picture you've ever seen. It's a mountaintop at night, the stars enchantingly close and vibrantly colored in shades of orange and yellow, beaming down at two small shadowy figures who seem to be gazing up at them in awe. The painting is full of priceless wonder and joy. "This...is amazing," you say, trying not to choke up.

"It's that night," he says, watching your face eagerly, almost hungrily, to discern how you're feeling. "You remember?"

"Of course," you say, nodding. You let out a big gust of air. "I honestly can't understand how you plan on topping this. This isn't your magnum opus?"

He looks at the ground shyly. "Honestly, this is a kid's crayon drawing compared to that one."

Your jaw drops. "I'm not trying to doubt your skill," you say, "but I can't imagine anything more beautiful than this." You approach the painting, almost wanting to touch it, but thinking better of it.

"I can," he says quietly behind you. You look over your shoulder to see him beaming at you. "You can touch it," he adds. "It's yours."

"Mine?" you gasp. "Minghao, I can't. I mean, this should be in an art museum."

"Crazy how it's gonna hang in your house, huh?" he says stubbornly. "Seriously, it's yours."

"What if someone asks where I got it from?"

"Tell the truth," he says. "MoonMuse."

"Then they'll know I know who you are."

He shrugs. "That's okay with me."

You grow desperate. "This is seriously too much. I wish I had somewhere beautiful to put this up, but I don't! It deserves to be seen."

"It will be seen by the eyes that matter," he insists. You blush, but then a noise at the door makes you jump.

"Hey," says a girl at the door. "What is that?"

"A painting," Minghao says tersely. "Who are you?"

But she ignores him. "Whoa," she says, pushing past you to stand right in front of the painting. You wince as she touches it with a greasy finger. "I heard MoonMuse goes to school here, but I never thought..."

"How did you hear that?" you ask, your voice sharp.

She pulls out her phone and shows you a video. It's a sneakily filmed video of Minghao painting. You are sitting in the corner watching in the video, and he says something that makes you laugh. You suddenly feel dizzy as the video cuts to a headline about MoonMuse's identity being revealed. The video says that the person filming realized it was Minghao after he saw what he was painting in his room.

The room painting flashes onto the screen, and you cover your mouth with your hands.

It's a poor-quality image of what looks like a masterpiece. The painting looks familiar. The hair, the eyes, even the nose...

It's you.

Given Minghao's impressionistic style, it's more colorful and more beautiful than you, but it's unmistakeable. He perfectly captured you caught in a laugh, with your hair blowing off your shoulder. You look at him, and he's staring at you with his mouth open in horror.

Unable to bear it, you run out of the studio, into the golden sunset, as tears sting your eyes. You haven't made it four steps before you hear him calling your name.

You whirl around to see Minghao following you. "Why did you run away?" he asks you.

"They found out," you say, panicked, as a tear splashes onto your cheek. "I'm so sorry -- I think it's my fault, Minghao."

He actually takes a step forward to brush the tear off your face. "I mean, it was kind of inevitable. I had to come forward at some point, right?" He keeps his hand on your face. "But I need to ask you something."

"What?" you ask, looking up at him.

He puts his other hand on your other cheek, cradling your face in his hands. "What did you think of the painting?" he says, looking into your eyes with an intensity that makes your stomach turn over.

You suddenly remember. "Oh," you say, and blush.

He swallows hard before continuing. "I painted my whole heart into that painting. That picture really didn't do it justice, and it really isn't finished, and I'm not thrilled that you saw it before I really figured out what to say to you."

"It was beautiful," you tell him honestly. "More beautiful than I deserve, honestly."

He tsks in disapproval. "It's you," he insists. “It’s exactly what I see when I see you.”

You are speechless. He laughs a little at your expression before continuing. “That day on the mountain, and after in the dark room, I saw that you had been healing something you didn’t hurt. I don’t remember ever feeling this cared for, and that means a lot to me.” He pulls you in so your noses are almost touching. “Please stay with me.”

You feel yourself trembling at the closeness of him - surprised that although you’ve spent a stupid amount of time daydreaming about having him hold you like this, it still feels so new and crazy and wonderful. You nod. “Okay.”

He smiles - brilliant, blinding. You can no longer resist reaching for him — feeling the warmth of his cheek against your fingers, brushing his soft hair from his temple, just like you’d imagined but better, and Minghao spins you around in giddy joy.

He sets you down, your faces still close together. You both look at each other with huge smiles, and he uses a finger to tilt your chin up. His eyes drop to your lips and then back to your eyes — a question.

You answer without speaking, just smiling into his eyes. He moves in, slowly, giving a brief but impossibly sweet kiss. His arms tighten around your waist as the kiss deepens. You feel a knot of tension in your chest dissolve, and you melt into him, kissing him back with gusto. Throwing your arms around his neck, you let him kiss you into oblivion.

It seems like several days before you finally stop, standing with foreheads together, breathing each other in. “I love you,” he whispers.

“I love you back,” you whisper in return.

紫色.

(pt. 1)

pairing: minghao x gn!reader, side character!mingyu genre: fluff; idol-fan au words: 1.9k a/n: thank you chau & ina for helping & proofreading this for me! i’d also like to dedicate this to all the carats (esp. 8stars) and our idol-fan fantasies <3

“i’m wonderstruck, blushing all the way home. i’ll spend forever wondering if you knew, i was enchanted to meet you.”

— loving hao is purple.

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