#and the world is saved (it was never at risk)

[wheeboo]

off the record | kim mingyu {part two}

SYNOPSIS. Kim Mingyu lives a double life. On one end, he’s the perfectly charming yet clumsy coworker at the Daily Planet. On the other, he’s saving the world. But when you–a guarded yet sharp-witted journalist–are paired up with him on solving a mysterious case of kryptonite trafficking, Mingyu finds it harder and harder to keep his secret at bay. And falling for you only makes it worse, when he’s only given two choices: protect his identity, or risk everything by letting you in.  PAIRING. superman!kim mingyu x journalist!fem!reader (ft. editor-in-chief!seungcheol, photojournalist!wonwoo, editor!minghao, barista!seulgi) GENRE. superman au, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, humour, slow burn, suggestive WARNINGS. cursing, suggestive themes (kissing, making out, lil grinding, vague nudity, implied sex, shirtless mingyu ofc), violence, blood, illegal crimes (kryptonite trafficking, robbery, theft, hijacking, bombing, kidnapping), drinking, mention of tobacco, mingyu has hella plot armour, idk how to write a whole crime case for the life of me i was struggling w that whole part so it prob makes no sense lol WORD COUNT. 18.2k (for part two); 43k (in total)

notes: welcome to the final part of off the record!! honestly after rereading this fic a million times i swear there are plot holes and parts i could do better on. but hey, i've never written an action-crime fic like this before so i had fun writing with all the knowledge i had and wtv my pea brain could handle heh. if you've read this far, i hope you've enjoyed 🫶 once again, pls do reblog or comment/send an ask i would love to know your thoughts!

part one | part two

Mingyu finds himself clumsily stumbling through the doors of the Daily Planet. He’s ten minutes late than he was supposed to clock in. One of the buttons on his shirt is unknowingly misaligned, though he covers it up with his jacket. He brushes through his windswept hair, adjusts his crooked tie, and itches a tiny spot at his nose before fixing the glasses on his face while speed-walking through the lobby. 

There was an attempted robbery at one of the local laundromats this morning. Luckily, it wasn’t too bad𑁋just a bunch of high school teenagers attempting to snoop through the laundry machines and steal the coins. Mingyu had handled it quickly, gently scolding the teenagers then reprimanding them, and flying them straight to the nearest police station. But it still cost him precious time, as he barely was able to finish his breakfast before being called in. 

Mingyu sighs under his breath, muttering an apology as he dodges a passing janitor and an intern jogging towards the ground floor coffee shop. His mind races ahead of him, knowing he was going to see you today. You’re probably already here, sipping on your cup of coffee that he should’ve probably gotten for you if he wasn’t late.

Warmth blooms in his chest at the thought of you briefly, but the fondness is quickly shoved away by guilt. He can’t help but think about your conversation with him the other night as he adjusts the strap of his bag over his shoulder.

Your words keep replaying over and over in his mind. You make it hard, you know, to stay detached. 

God, he wanted to tell you everything. Wanted to stand in front of you𑁋not as Superman, but as Mingyu. As your dazed, cowardice coworker and science journalist who has always wanted to ask you out on a proper date but doesn’t have the guts to. 

It’s an odd situation, really. When he’s Superman, he has the confidence to kiss you, but when he’s Mingyu, he can barely look at you in the eyes for more than five seconds before feeling like he’ll spontaneously combust. 

He exhales sharply through his nose, dragging a hand down his face as he nears the elevators. His steps quicken with determination. He dashes around the corner of the lobby𑁋

𑁋and crashes straight into another man. 

“Ah, sorry, sir!” Mingyu blurts out in apology, already reaching out a hand to steady the man before stumbling back himself. 

The man barely looks up from where he stands, clutching a sleek black briefcase at his side as he brushes off his dark coat, muttering something under his breath. He’s tall, seemingly close to Mingyu’s height, and his face is half-hidden by a black fedora.

The familiarity of the man hits Mingyu all at once. 

Mingyu feigns a guilty look. “Sorry again, sir. Is there anything I can𑁋”

And then it hits him. A wave of nausea slams into Mingyu’s gut.

He falters for a second, trying to control the way his knees nearly buckle beneath him. His vision swims for a second, his skin burning underneath his clothes, sweat beginning to bead at his forehead despite being in a completely air-conditioned lobby.

“You good, kid?” the man asks lowly, voice rough and gravelly; it even sends an uncomfortable shiver up Mingyu’s spine.

No.

He is not good. 

“Yeah, just…” He lets out a few fake coughs, clenching his jaw. “Skipped breakfast, little stomachache. Happens more often than you think.”

“Mm,” the man hums, and Mingyu swears he sees his lips curl underneath the shadow from his fedora. His stomach twists violently as his attention flits to the man’s briefcase momentarily, and there’s a faint, sickly green glow pulsing from its seams, so subtle no ordinary human eye could possibly notice. “Take care of yourself, kid.” 

Before Mingyu can say anything more, he watches as the man disappears within the bustling, crowded lobby. Then he finds himself leaning against the wall for support, breathing unsteady, feeling the poison dissipating from his bloodstream the farther the man walks away. 

Kryptonite. The word echoes through his mind as if he was cursed, leaving his limbs heavy and his thoughts spiraling. The pain is faint now𑁋whatever the hell was in that briefcase is out of proximity𑁋but that encounter was close. Too close. This wasn’t just some low level crook or common thief. It wasn’t an accident. It was intentional. 

And if it’s in the Daily Planet, it was meant for him. 

Mingyu forces himself upright, brushes away invisible dust on his clothes, and readjusts his crooked glasses. He can’t afford to make a scene. Not here. Not now.

Especially not when you’re here. 

He pastes on a smile when the elevator dings and he steps out onto the floor, yet it’s swift to fade as he breezes past passing colleagues trying to greet him and cubicles, scanning the room to find you. But he doesn’t see you, not even at your desk.

Panicking, he strides towards around the corner to where the conference room is, heart thudding, vision narrowed. 

Finally, he spots you through the glass of one of them. You’re seated near the end of the table surrounded by other journalists in your field, dressed in some semi-formal attire, jotting down notes on your notepad as a woman speaks at the front. You’re so focused, so in your element, completely unaware of the possible danger lingering inside the building. 

A wave of relief washes over him for a fleeting moment as he nears the door. He hesitates. He shouldn’t disturb you. You’d probably even try to kill him for interrupting a meeting like this. 

But he can’t shake the feeling crawling up his spine𑁋the warning courses through his veins, the way every nerve in his body is rigid with apprehension. The image of that briefcase and its poisonous glow flashes through his eyes. 

Without thinking, he knocks on the door, and it’s firm enough to turn a few heads in his direction. The woman at the front pauses mid-sentence. You look up as well, eyes widening and brows furrowing to the sight of Mingyu in the doorway. He gestures toward you with a subtle tilt of his head, mouthing something you can’t quite decipher from where you’re sitting. 

“Hi, um… Sorry to interrupt.” Mingyu pushes the door open a little more, trying to contain the urgency in his voice, shooting apologetic looks to everyone in the room. “Can I borrow Y/N for a second?”

You frown at him, glancing briefly at your other colleagues who are all mumbling amongst each other. “I𑁋Mingyu, can it wait? I’m in the middle of a𑁋”

“Please.” His lips part; for a brief second, his façade falters, and you catch something like worry in his eyes. “It won’t take long. I promise.”

Your shoulders tense instinctively, but you cover it up with a polite smile to the people beside you, mumbling apologies under your breath. You tuck your notepad under your arm and stuff your pen inside the pocket of your suit jacket and quietly excuse yourself from the meeting. 

Mingyu opens the door a little farther for you to step out, before closing it behind and reaching for your hand without a second thought. 

His fingers wrap around your hands with a kind of urgency you’ve never felt from him before, struggling to keep up with his fast pace. He drags you through the crowded newsroom and towards the entrance to the stairwell, the buzz of nearby conversations fading away. 

“Mingyu,” You breathe out the second the two of you stop. “You can’t just take me out of my meeting𑁋what’s going on?”

He doesn’t answer at first. His hand still hasn’t let go of yours, and you catch the way his eyes seem to be darting around as if expecting someone𑁋or someone𑁋to appear around the corner any moment. His jaw tightens, and you swear if you listen hard enough, you might be able to hear his teeth grind. 

Mingyu swallows hard before looking down at you, his firm grip on your hand loosening slightly. 

“I… I just needed to see you,” he confesses, though you can tell he’s holding something back. 

Your breath hitches at his words. “What’s𑁋”

“You trust me, right?” he asks quietly, words fragile as if it’s going to break. 

Your lips part to speak, but the words take a few seconds to form. “I… Of course, I do.”

He exhales shakily at your words, something flickering over his eyes𑁋relief, perhaps. Or guilt. Or regret. But before you can dwell on it, before you can ask him what’s wrong, a shrill, piercing sound cuts thunderously through the air.

The alarm.

It blares overhead, bouncing off the walls, swallowing every other sound in its wake. Flashing red lights cloud your vision and illuminate the halls. You could only freeze in place, stomach sinking down to the ground, unable to move. 

“Attention, all personnel,” a calm, but firm voice speaks through the intercom system. “We have received a breach in security. Please remain calm and await further instruction. There has been a potential bomb threat reported in the building. All personnel are ordered to evacuate immediately. Emergency services are on their way. This is not a drill. I repeat: this is not a drill.”

You feel your blood run cold. Gasps and shouts erupt all across the newsroom. Chairs scrape against the floor. People around you are scrambling for their belongings and pouring out into the hallway. 

You whip your head back around to Mingyu. He’s grown paler, yet his grip on your hand only tightens, like he’s trying to anchor himself to you𑁋and maybe he is. Maybe you’re the only thing holding him together right now. 

“Mingyu,” You utter, panic creeping into your voice. “A bomb? Is this𑁋should we𑁋”

“We need to get out of here,” he interrupts, already pulling you toward the stairwell door. “Come on.”

You hastily stumble after him as he pushes the door open and leads you down the flights of stairs. You can hear the stampede of steps right behind you of people flooding their way through the stairwell, trying to get out as well. His steps are faster, more purposeful, but every few seconds he glances over his shoulder to check on you, making sure you’re keeping up. 

At the bottom of the stairs, the doors are wide open, people from all directions rushing outside, some shouting into phones, others helping each other along. The sirens of the emergency services grow deafening the second you and him burst outside. 

Mingyu pulls you a little farther away from the growing crowd, his hand still clasped around yours like he’s terrified to let go. His chest heaves unsteadily, gaze flicking wildly over the scene𑁋police cars, reporters scrambling to get footage, people crying or calling their loved ones on the phone. 

When he comes to a halt, he turns back to look at you. “Don’t move from here. Don’t follow me. Do you understand?”

“What?” You gasp, trying to catch your breath. “No𑁋Mingyu, you are not fucking going back, I am not letting you𑁋”

“Promise me.” One of his hands finds your shoulder, gripping tight but not too harshly. The other reaches up to hesitantly cup your face, and for a brief moment, the chaos seems to fade away. “Please.” 

Your throat constricts, and you barely manage a nod. With that, you feel him pull away from you. There’s a small hint of hesitation as he doesn’t let his eyes leave yours. But then he purses his lips together and turns on his heel, running back into the crowd and disappearing behind all the rows of screaming police cars. 

Every instinct in you is fighting to follow him, a wobble in your step as you place one foot forward. 

But you promised him to stay, and so you do.

Mingyu rounds a corner and ducks into a nearby alleyway. He fumbles with the buttons to his shirt, tearing it open to reveal the unmistakable emblem hidden underneath. He kicks off his shoes and throws his glasses aside, shrugging off the rest of his clothes as his red cape flares out behind him like a banner. 

The building of the Daily Planet shrinks beneath him as he launches himself up into the air, letting his mind focus to narrow in on the threat. His eyes glow as he scans through the building’s interior, and then𑁋there. 

A soft, beep-beep-beep reverberates in his ear, coming from beneath the layers of concrete and steel. He forces himself to focus even more, his vision lasering through the walls of the building, until he sees it. 

17th floor. Administrative area. Armed men surrounding the bomb like vultures. 

With a singular breath, he dives down, merely a blur of red and blue to witnesses below as he crashes through the window, shattering glass exploding like diamonds. The force is enough to send a few of the armed men crashing down the ground before even realising what hit them.

In an instant, he feels the white-hot searing pain of kryptonite nearby enter his body, but he has to push through. He has to. 

Alarms wail in his ears as he lands on the floor with a thunderous impact. But he tunes them out, eyes narrowing to the sounds of weapons being drawn and commands being shouted from all kinds of directions𑁋but he’s faster, way too fast. 

Mingyu moves before any of them can properly aim. A sharp whoosh penetrates through the air with every punch, every tackle, every bullet that harmlessly ricochets off his chest and into the walls. He lifts one man into the air and flings him into a nearby desk with enough restraint to incapacitate, but not to kill. Another one tries to foolishly sprint at him with a knife, but fails miserably as Mingyu grabs him by the wrist, twisting hard enough to make the man yelp and the knife crumpling down to the floor. With a clean punch, he sends the man flying across the room. 

The click of a gun heightens Mingyu’s senses, and he turns around to lunge forward into another armed man aiming directly at him, grabbing the barrel of the gun and bending it like it’s made of tinfoil. A swift punch to the gut is enough to send the man buckling down to the ground before having any time to react. 

At the corner of his eye, Mingyu spots another one of the men attempting to escape through the stairwell. He dashes forward, slamming the man straight into the wall, watching as his unconscious body slumps down the stairs. 

When the last attacker is down and the room finally stills, Mingyu turns his attention back to the bomb. It sits perched on a standing desk, ominous and pulsing faintly with a green glow.

Kryptonite. 

A wave of nausea claws up his throat as he nears it. It’s still ticking down.

00:00:40.

00:00:39.

00:00:38…

He has no time.

As a groan bubbles deep in his chest, Mingyu reaches out and encases the bomb in his arms, sweltering pain crawling up his arm as he tightens a grip around the cold metal, but he doesn’t let go. 

“Shit, come on, come on…” he hisses through his teeth, his cape dragging against the floor below.

He bends his knees and tries to push off the ground, but he barely lifts off.

The kryptonite’s grip tightens around his chest like a suffocating weight. His flight sputters like a broken engine, lifting him only a few feet off the ground before his strength falters. He slams back onto the floor with a harsh grunt, sweat beading over his forehead. 

The clock keeps ticking down. He squeezes his eyes shut. Focus, focus, focus.

He won’t fail. He can’t. 

Mingyu forces himself upright again, wrapping both arms around the bomb. His muscles turns into knots under the strain, but he wills his body to rise, fighting to cover every agonising inch off the ground.

Then with a sudden burst of energy, he rockets through the ceiling, debris exploding through the air as his cape snaps behind him through the wind. He flies higher and higher, struggling to not succumb to the kryptonite’s poison crawling through his veins.

00:00:17.

00:00:16.

00:00:15…

He breaks through the clouds and rears close to the stratosphere, the city below him stretching like a blanket. The bomb feels heavier than the entire world itself. His chest tightens even more; black spots dancing through his vision. 

00:00:06.

00:00:05.

00:00:04…

With one final roar, Mingyu hurls the bomb out of his grasp and straight up into the sky with every last ounce of his strength he could muster. It sails upwards like a shooting star, and as the seconds dial to zero, it explodes in a brilliant, blinding supernova of green light far above the Earth that sends him barreling back to the ground, though he manages to catch himself mid-air, hovering for a few seconds to catch his breath.

Back on the ground, a sudden shockwave nearly has you slipping on your feet, rumbling the ground like distant thunder. Gasps ripple through the air as you and everyone else’s eyes peer up to the skies, the explosion illuminating the heavens above before being swallowed by the clouds. 

And then… silence. Peace. But it isn’t as comforting as you hoped for. 

You scan the crowd desperately, spotting coworkers hugging each other, cameras aimed at the skies with reporters frantically speaking. But there’s no sign of the face you’re looking for𑁋where the hell is Mingyu?

He promised you. He promised. 

Your feet take a few staggering steps forward, continuing to skim every face in your peripheral vision, yet you still don’t see any sight of him. Worry swarms through every limb in your body as you clench your fists at your side, ready to defy his word if it means finding him. 

But then, suddenly, a cloth clamps over your mouth from behind. 

Your scream is muffled as your body jerks backward, and whatever the hell is laced in the cloth immediately burns down your throat the second you inhale its bitter, chemical smell. You try to thrash your legs, wildly flail your arms, but then an arm grips around your torso, leaving your efforts to no avail. 

Your vision spins. The world starts to tilt. Your limbs begin to grow weak, sluggish, your strength slipping away. 

“Shh, shh,” a low voice whispers eerily in your ear. “Don’t make this harder, sweetheart.”

The last thing you see and hear before the darkness consumes you is the blurry outline of the crowd cheering and the streaking colour of red and blue crossing the sky. 

The first thing you feel is a pulsating throb against your skull. Your eyelids flutter open slowly, vision swimming in and out of focus, but the world around you is completely disorientating. 

Harsh fluorescent lights glare down on you from above, and the sharp smell of something faintly chemical, acrid, metallic fill your lungs. It feels like weights are holding down all your limbs, only for you to realise you’re completely bound up𑁋both legs and wrists.

You tug helplessly at the bindings, but they don’t budge. Cold metal cuffs bite uncomfortably into your skin, anchoring you to the chair you’re sitting on. Your heart pounds anxiously against your ribcage as your vision starts to finally sharpen𑁋and that’s when you realise where you are. Or where you think you are.

A warehouse. Or something like that. Grey, windowless walls surround you on every side, illuminated by the few flickering light bulbs above. Stacks of crates line the walls containing serial numbers you don’t recognise, but you could only guess the one thing that may be housed in there.

Kryptonite. 

Dread gnaws at your core.

Somewhere, a low snicker taunts you from the shadows. 

“Sleeping Beauty is finally awake.”

You flinch as footsteps start to approach, a pair of heavy boots pounding against the concrete. Slowly, a man steps into your view𑁋middle-aged, a black fedora on his head, a jagged scar running from his temple and down to his jaw. A pistol is grasped in his hand, but what chills you more is the cutthroat glint to his eyes. Behind him stood a few men, rifles casually slung over their shoulders, their faces covered with masks. 

“Comfortable?” He crouches down to your level, close enough you literally taste the pungent smell of tobacco off him. ��Apologies for the rude awakening, darling. Was concerned they put too much chloroform in you.” 

You spit at the ground near his boot. “Go to hell, prick.”

A dark grin spreads across the man’s scarred face. “Oh, honey, I’ve been living there for years.” The gun in his hand clicks loudly, raising the hairs on the back of your neck, pointing the barrel of the gun at your knee. “But don’t worry. You’ll be joining me soon enough.”

A ripple of chuckles dance around you mockingly. Scarface eventually stands up, pacing around you tauntingly. 

“Let’s cut to the chase, yeah?” he starts. “You’re probably wondering why you’re here, aren’t you?”

He stops directly behind you, and you feel the barrel of his gun knock against the back of your head. 

“Here’s the thing,” Scarface continues coldly. “This ain’t personal, sweetheart. Though, between you and me, it’s a hell of a bonus that you happen to be his plaything.”

Your blood runs cold. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

He simply laughs, a bitter bark that makes your stomach twist uncomfortably. “Come on, princess, don’t play dumb. You and Superman. Or whatever the hell he calls himself these days. We’ve seen you two.” 

You swallow hard, lips pressing into a thin line. “You’re delusional.”

His grin widens, teeth yellow in the dim light. “Am I? Or did you think no one else would notice? Cameras are everywhere in this shithole city, darling. Tell me, doll𑁋does he fly straight to your apartment after a rescue? Whisper sweet nothings in your ear? Fuck you silly in the sky?”

You jerk frantically against the cuffs, wincing as the metal digs deeper into your skin. “You’re sick, you𑁋”

The sound of the gun cocking immediately makes you zip your mouth. 

“You wrote that little article, huh? Though you were some big hero exposing our kryptonite trade, eh?” He lets out a low whistle. “You’ve pissed off the wrong people with that one, princess. It almost makes me feel bad for you, honestly. But alas, you’ve signed your own death warrant with that.”

“If you want to kill me so badly, just do it,” You urge lowly.

“Now, where would be the fun in that?” Scarface spits hoarsely. “As much as it would be fun to put a bullet through your head, there are far more important things than that. Superman.”

“He’s not your enemy,” You attempt to reason, even though deep down you know it’s useless. “He’s saved this city more times than𑁋”

“I’ve heard all the PR bullshit,” he cuts you off sharply. “He’s a threat. A freak. An alien bastard. A ticking time bomb. You think this world is safe with him flying around? He can lift mountains and destroy an entire city with a fucking sneeze. And threats like that need to be neutralised.” 

Scarface looms above you once again, pointing the gun right between your eyes. 

“And what better way to lure him out by using the thing he loves most?” 

You battle the fear grappling at your chest, forcing your defiant gaze to shoot a dagger right through him. 

“Fuck you.”

What comes next is a loud slap that echoes across the room. Pain immediately burns through your cheek from the force, your vision momentarily blurring, the taste of copper falling on your tongue. Your teeth scrape against each other in your mouth as you hold back the heat sprouting in the corners of your eyes. 

“Tough girl, huh?” Scarface sneers amusedly, pulling away from you. “Makes things more fun.”

Before you can retort, you hear shots ringing out in the distance𑁋somewhere outside from wherever you are. It stuns the room in a brief, rigid silence, making the armed men in the room hoister their rifles. There’s a momentary wave of relief that hits you, a beat of hope that reverberates in your heart. 

Scarface curses lowly under his breath, his grip hardening around his pistol, signaling to the men in the room. You watch as they all give a nod before marching out the door, before Scarface flickers his gaze back to you. 

“You stay right here, yeah?” He gives you a forceful flick on the forehead. “Enjoy the show, princess.”

The rattling sound of keys jerks your attention upright. You watch with hazy eyes as two armed men stroll inside the room with heavy footsteps. Both of their faces are obscured and hidden by hats and masks, rifles slung across their shoulders as they approach you. They come to either side of you𑁋the man on the right reaches for a tight grip around your waist.

“Get up,” he orders gruffly. “Orders changed. We’re taking you outside.”

The man on the left is noticeably silent as you’re yanked off your chair and onto your feet. Your knees wobble from having been sitting for God knows how long, blood and adrenaline rushing throughout your body. 

You find yourself being forced towards the exit, entering into a shallow hallway. Exposed pipes and the heavy, unappealing scent of oil and gunpowder fill your lungs. You stumble against the uneven floor as you’re guided forward, their grips firm on your wrists.

The silence of the hallway feels deafening, seemingly endless before your eyes with no visible signs of escape. You overhear the man on the right mumbling something over what you assume to be a radio, then you allow your gaze to flit over to the man on the left. 

He’s stoic, composed, the low brim of his cap hiding his eyes. His grip on your wrist is not as bruising as the other man; in fact, it’s almost gentle, somewhat hesitant. It doesn’t feel like the kind of grip of someone dragging you down to your execution. Or maybe you’re just holding onto the end of some fragile thread of hope, because at this point, it’s slipping from your grasp way faster than you’re able to catch up with.

“Get moving.” The man on the right shoves you with the barrel of his gun.

You stumble forward with a sharp hiss, and you hardly realise that the grip on your left wrist tightens ever so slightly, preventing you from falling down to the ground.

“Watch it,” the man on the left grumbles.

“Shut your mouth.” The other man gives you another harsher push. 

And then, suddenly, the air shifts.

It happens like the blink of an eye𑁋a blur of movement catches you off-guard and before your brain could fully process what’s happening, the man on the left snaps into action.

With one fluid, impossible movement, he lets go of your wrist before swinging a hand directly into the other man’s gut. A sickening crunch echoes through the empty hallway as you watch the armed guard crumple down to the ground. Before he has any chance to recover, the man on your left knocks the rifle clean out of his hands, and in another flash of motion, slams him hard into the wall.

The impact leaves a deep dent in the drywall. 

You instinctively shield yourself with your cuffed hands, fear slithering up your shaky legs as the man turns directly towards you. For a moment, your heart nearly stops.

And then, you see it.

Though his face is still obscured, you catch a glimpse𑁋just a tiny glimpse𑁋of his eyes.

There’s no anger in them.

Or rage.

But warmth. 

Your lips part in disbelief as you scan him from head to toe. The brim of his hat is slightly askew from earlier, dark hair peeking out from underneath. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, his frame sending an unmistakable spark of recognition through your mind, and it takes everything in you not to cry or collapse from relief. 

Superman is here. He found you.

He steps up to you carefully while removing his mask, reaching an arm behind to snap the cuffs off your wrists like they’re made of tinfoil. They fall down the ground with a clank, and you find yourself instinctively leaning into him, feeling his arms immediately catch you. His warmth is enough to wash away more of the fear and adrenaline coursing within you. 

“Are you okay?” His voice is low, almost hoarse𑁋like it physically hurts to see you like this.

You give a subtle, vulnerable shake of your head. He doesn’t press you more about it. 

“There’s kryptonite here,” You tell him worriedly. “They talked about it𑁋said they were going to use it on you. To trap you. Kill you.”

You feel his body stiffen for a moment. Not out of fear, though. He’s not afraid, you think.

“I know,” he says quietly. 

He releases you a little, giving him room to slide one of his gloves off. Your eyes widen at the sight of blood on his knuckles. The imminent danger of kryptonite is fully shown right in front of you. Just like the heist at the National Bank, it’s enough to even make the Man of Steel bleed. 

You take his hand in yours. It tremors from your touch. “No, you can’t𑁋” You purse your lips together urgently. “They want you to walk into their trap. Into their goddamn execution chamber.”

He doesn’t pull his hand away. He lets you hold it, allowing your gaze to wash over the blooming scrape as if it’ll be enough to make it fade away. You feel the restraint in his body, as if he’s trying to hold in the imperceptible signs of pain he may be feeling. He’s breathing harder than he should, and still holding your hand like he doesn’t want to let go. 

Then he looks at you, really looks at you, for the first time since stepping into this hellhole. And it nearly destroys him to see worry carved in your features. He’s never seen this look on you before, never seen you𑁋the Daily Planet’s most passionate and sharp-witted journalist𑁋this scared before. For him. 

His jaw tics.

“I have to stop them,” he mutters. “It’s what I have to do.”

He’s about to move. You can feel it in the way his body shifts. You still refuse to let him go. 

“There’s a vent, northside of the building,” he informs you softly. “It’s a tight squeeze, but it’ll take you outside. Reinforcements are already on their way. I’ll hold them off so you can get out.”

“No,” You insist desperately, clinging to his sleeve. “You’re hurt, you’re bleeding. They’ll𑁋”

“Please.”

His voice cracks from the singular word alone. God, you want to argue. To cry. To kiss him hoping that this entire thing was just a figment of your imagination. But you can’t. This nightmare is real. 

The realisation settles in your bones like ice. 

He bends down a little to press his forehead against yours. You relish the closeness, allowing your eyes to fall to a close. While the world has gone mad outside, there’s a brief period of stillness that makes standing in this quiet, grimy hallway less suffocating. Slowly, your fingers release his sleeve, one-by-one. 

“If you die in there, I swear to God, I’ll kill you myself.” You whisper shakily, trying to summon any semblance of strength in your voice𑁋yet, it wavers anyway. 

The barest twitch of his lips is the closest thing to a smile you get. “Deal.”

You open your eyes to look at him again𑁋just in case. Just in case this is the last time you get to. He doesn’t say anything, only leaning in to press the gentlest of kisses to your forehead which makes your heart squeeze tightly. It burns. Not from heat, but from the pain of goodbye disguised as tenderness. 

“Go. Run,” he demands. “Don’t look back.” 

You hesitate. Just for a second. And then you turn on your heel and bolt. 

Your footsteps echo down the corridor, fading faster than he’s ready for. You don’t look back. You can’t. Because you know that if you do, you’ll turn around and never leave. And he needs you to leave. Staying might only hurt him even more. 

Maybe that’s what love is sometimes: letting go of something, even when one piece of you is begging to stay. 

Superman𑁋no, Mingyu𑁋watches as your figure disappears around the corner. The softness in his gaze hardens back to steel. He brings his eyes down to the unconscious guard slumped down the wall, stepping over to crouch down. 

He begins to rifle through the man’s pockets swiftly. There’s no time to waste. At the corner of his eye, he spots one of the kryptonite pendants hidden underneath the man’s jacket. Other things that he finds are pretty standard: extra rounds of ammo, a pistol, a radio muttering purely static, a tactical knife. All of it is completely useless to him. But then, his hand brushes against something cold and metallic in one of the inner pockets.

He pulls it out𑁋a small, lead-lined case, which alone is already a red flag, and an access card. 

Mingyu pockets the card before flipping open the tiny hatch, bracing for what he already suspects. Inside, there’s kryptonite, but it seems to be purposely melted into a liquid, metallic state, pulsing green like a heartbeat. The buzz from the radiation itches at the edges of his strength. He digs a little deeper into the man’s pockets, and he flinches when something sharp caresses his skin. 

A syringe. It’s sleek, probably custom-made, the kind you don’t find in a standard military-grade medical kit. No, this was made for a purpose. They’d planned to get close to him, inject him. That’s why they needed you. You were the bait𑁋the knife they’d twist into his gut the moment his guard drops. 

And it nearly worked. 

Mingyu crushes the syringe in his hand without a second thought, the material melting inwardly before crumpling to the ground like a pile of dust. They used you. They took you from him. Toyed with your life and hurt you, left bruises on your wrists that he can still feel under his fingers.  

It’s not rage that powers him now. 

It’s you. 

A bullet barely grazes his cheek, flying past him and hitting the wall right behind him. 

He doesn’t flinch. He’s bleeding, but he hardly lets it phase him. 

Mingyu’s body moves before he could even think, instincts sharpened by fury. He lunges forward, grabbing the armed man by the collar and slamming him into the floor hard enough to knock the wind out of his lungs. The rifle clatters uselessly to the floor, and Mingyu crushes it with his foot. 

Another soldier comes up at Mingyu from behind𑁋the soft click of the safety being released heightens his senses𑁋and he spins, sweeping the attacker’s legs out from under him. Before the man could hit the ground, a loud crack bounces off the walls as Mingyu’s fists meets his jaw with a forceful punch. 

Pain rattles through his bones. He’s getting weaker by the minute, as if there’s some invisible noose tightening with every breath he takes. But he has to keep going. He has to. 

He limps past the carnage of unconscious bodies, his breath ragged, shoulders rising and falling heavily with the effort to stay upright. The hallway ahead of him stretches before his eyes, flickering lights buzzing overhead. He makes one turn. Then another. And another. 

He stops in his path.

A dead end, but it doesn’t forgo any sort of hope; in fact, quite the opposite. A steel, reforged door looms in front of him. Unlike the other doors in the place, there’s no handle for this one. A keypad glows faintly on the side𑁋red, locked tight. But he remembers the access card he pocketed earlier from the guard.

Taking it out of his pocket, he swipes it.

A soft beep. Then a hiss.

A gust of cold air meets his face as the door slides open slowly. For a moment, he doesn’t move𑁋his instincts scream at him that something is off, that something is wrong. But he steps forward anyway, walking inside the room as another wave of nausea courses through him. 

His eyes squeeze shut, and he takes a minute to labour his breathing. One exhale. Two exhales. Three exhales. It’s relieving, even for a little while.

Then he opens his eyes.

And his heart drops.

The room is vast and eerily silent. The walls are lined with what appear to be glass chambers, some sort of stasis pods. They’re large, cylindrical-shaped, condensation brewing through them so he’s unable to fully see inside. He makes his way over to one of the pods, running a bloodied hand over its icy surface. 

Mingyu nearly collapses down on his knees.

There’s a body inside. A woman, probably around his age. Her eyes are closed, lips slightly parted, her skin pale. Yet as he gazes over her still form, his mind suddenly racks with memories, recognition. This woman was on the list of people who were reported as a missing cold case at the very beginning. She was here all along, and the thought makes frustration blaze through him.

Then, another feeling slithers up his spine. He can feel it right down to his core, and it makes him stagger a few steps backwards. The same physiology. The same dormant power thrumming beneath her skin𑁋except, it’s lifeless now. Pulseless. 

The people who were reported missing weren’t humans.

They’re Kryptonians. 

Kryptonians who had survived the fallout of the planet, just like him. Mingyu thought he was the only survivor, but he wasn’t. They were here this entire time, and he couldn’t save them. 

God, he had hoped. Somewhere, deep down, he had hoped that he wasn’t entirely alone, even if the loneliness was a fact he’d come to accept over the years. He had hoped that maybe one day, he’d find another Kryptonian out there who could tell him stories, or even what the stars looked like from his home planet because he was way too young to even remember. 

He anguishly dashes from one pod to another, spotting more familiar faces from the missing person photos. Faces that look like his𑁋that feel like home. Some older, some younger. All stolen from the world and stripped of the chance to live like him. They all contain the same lifeless visage as the others, the same fading look of longing that there was freedom out there, but he was too late. 

What had happened to them? Were they tortured? Experimented and researched on? Anger courses through him, and he shrugs off the disguise that had kept him alive this far. His cape unfurls behind him, and the crest on his suit is no longer hidden by grime and blood. 

The symbol of hope.

He stands in the middle of the room, surrounded by the shattered remains of his people. He feels the guilt eat away at his resolve as he kneels down to the ground. There’s a dreadful stillness in the room that follows, before he clenches his bare fists and slams harshly into the ground, the floor cracking slightly beneath him. 

It fucking hurts. 

The rage that rises in his chest is no longer a flame. It’s blazing, devouring. 

“It’s about time you showed up,” a voice says from behind, low and coiling around his nerves like the poison it is. “I was starting to think you’d turn on your tail and run away like your little girlfriend.”

Mingyu doesn’t turn around right away. His jaw tightens as he forces himself to rise to full height, pulling through the pain with gritted teeth. He doesn’t need strength to recognise the bastard standing behind him. 

He spins his head slowly, red-rimmed eyes meeting the smug, scarred face grinning at him from across the room.

Scarface is leaning against the doorframe, twirling a pistol between his fingertips. That ugly scar draws down his features like someone had tried to carve the smugness off his face and failed. Mingyu watches as he approaches him at a leisure pace, walking into the room like he’s the goddamn messiah of this butcher’s cathedral. 

“You piece of shit,” Mingyu rasps, chest heaving. “You killed them. You killed my people.”

Scarface clicks his tongue. “Killed? No, no.” He shakes his head amusedly. “We liberated them, sunshine. Gave them a purpose before their little brains shut down. You wouldn’t believe how much their bones would go for on the black market. Oh, you should’ve seen them, Kryptonian. Some of them lit up like fucking fireworks the second they got poked.”

Mingyu surges forward.

Or, he tries to.

But his knees buckle the moment he shifts his weight, a strangled noise escaping out of his throat as his legs give out beneath him. The green haze he’s been fighting since he stepped foot in this hellhole is suffocating him in. The very air is probably saturated in it. As he tries to lift himself again, it’s no use. His strength is barely there. The fire is there𑁋God, it’s there𑁋but his body is failing him. 

“Kryptonite’s a bitch, ain’t it?” Scarface squats down just a few feet away. “You know what’s really funny? I didn’t even need to do much. All I had to do was grab your girl, and you folded like a fucking piece of paper.”

Mingyu jerks his head up from that. “Don’t fucking talk about her.”

Scarface slams the butt of his pistol into Mingyu’s ribs, causing him to crumple down on the floor with a groan. 

“Struck a nerve, huh?” he sneers. “She’s a pretty little thing, isn’t she? So feisty too. All that attitude. It’s a shame, though. I can’t wait to see the sparkle leave her eyes when I’m finally done with you.”

That makes Mingyu snap again.

Mustering whatever strength he has, he manages to land a punch right at Scarface’s jaw. It catches the man off-guard, and Scarface stumbles back, momentarily stunned. But Mingyu watches as he recovers quickly, wiping the blood off his lips with a mocking smile. 

“That’s all you can do, eh?” Scarface spits angrily. “What a pity.”

“Why?” Mingyu pants heavily. “Why did you do this? To my people?” 

Scarface straightens his stance, letting out a dark, low chuckle. “Because you freaks don’t belong here.”

He gestures broadly to all the pods in the room, to all the still, frozen remnants of what Mingyu had once hoped were kin. 

“We let one of you walk among us𑁋fly above us𑁋and what do we get in return?” Scarface motions back to Mingyu. “We get broken cities, dead citizens, and a god playing dress-up in a cape thinking he knows what’s best for us.” 

“You slaughtered them,” Mingyu growls in frustration. God, he wants nothing more than to rip this man apart. “They were just trying to live. Trying to survive.” 

Scarface cocks his head to the side in amusement. “And look where that got them. Look where that got you. We took care of them before they had the chance to get power and control. You don’t get it, do you, alien? You think just because you can bleed and cry and kiss like the rest of us makes you human?”

The man steps closer to Mingyu, looming over him now, his footsteps brooding with each step. Scarface whistles annoyingly as he lowers his gun away, before pulling something out from his vest. Heat boils through Mingyu’s as another familiar syringe is summoned, the sickly glowing green of kryptonite reflecting on his skin. It’s almost as if the kryptonite itself is alive, hungry.

Mingyu doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. The veins in his neck pop from the pressure, but his eyes are made of steel. Unyielding. 

Scarface’s cracked lips twitch up into a smirk, taunting the fang of the needle closer and closer to his neck. 

“Finally! I can use this. Saved it for a special occasion, you see,” the man croons goadingly, letting the emerald fire of the kryptonite inside the syringe swirl. “Bullets and bombs are messy, but this? You’ll feel every second of it. And when it’s done, well… maybe I’ll put your corpse on display for the world to see that the perfect Superman can bleed. Can die. Can be humiliated.”

The tip of the syringe caresses over Mingyu’s carotid artery, just a whisper away from being injected into his body. If Scarface pressed a little harder, it would all be over. 

And then𑁋

A loud BOOM bursts through the room like thunder. 

A gun fires. 

But it doesn’t come from Scarface.

It comes from behind him, echoing like thunder across the room, the bullet lodging into the wall behind Mingyu.

“Get away from him,” a voice rings out shakily𑁋your voice. “Now.”

Scarface freezes, his entire body jerking as the bullet whooshes past him. His expression contorts from surprise to disbelieving amusement, the scar on his face contorting into a smirk. 

He turns his head slowly and spots you. You’re standing by the threshold, trembling hands gripping tightly onto a pistol that you snatched from one of his fallen minions. There’s a bruise to your cheek and your clothes and ID badge are covered with dirt, dried blood, and grime. Your chest is heaving with a mix of horror and fury, your body braced like the hells have cracked open beneath your feet and you’re struggling to stay above the surface. 

You’re terrified out of your mind, but you’re here.

And Superman𑁋no, Mingyu𑁋feels his heart stutter painfully in his chest, because damn, he’s never seen anything more braver in his life. 

Scarface’s eyes rake over you incredulously. “Well, look who decided to come and play the hero, hm?”

He places a singular foot in front of the other, and you aim your gun again.

“I wouldn’t move if I were you,” You threaten, trying to power through your sweaty palms and unsteady grip. 

Scarface raises his hands mockingly. “Sweetheart, I’m so scared. Look at you𑁋you’re trembling like a leaf.” He raises his gun back to you, which makes you stagger slightly. “Aren’t you just a journalist? Thinking you can play in the big leagues ‘cause you got a piece on the Daily Planet front page?” 

He stalks a little closer to you like a vulture, testing your nerves.

“Aliens like him don’t belong on this planet,” Scarface hisses. “And you? You think someone like him could ever really love someone like you? Come on, darling. Be honest with yourself. He’s a walking extinction event. One wrong move, and he burns you. He’s a threat to humanity.” 

The pistol in your grasp wavers. You feel it𑁋hesitation creeping through you like a dense, thick fog. The words prickle like the heat of a hot poker getting jabbed into your skin.

Scarface sees it. 

That tiny flicker of doubt. It’s all he needs to latch onto like a leech. His words seep through your body like venom. One wrong move, and he burns you. He’s a threat to humanity.

And on the side, Superman sees it as well.

The gun lowers in your hand. For a fraction of a second, you allow your thoughts to believe his words.

You’ve heard the rumours, watched the news, read the bylines that were initially published when Superman first came to light. The public loved him. Then feared him. Then loved him again. You always tried to remain neutral, like a good journalist always does. But somewhere between the time he had rescued your bag and to the kiss he gave you in the sky after the interview, your objectivity crumpled along with your heart. 

Wait. A bell rings in your head. The interview. 

“I’ve found my home here with people I care about,” he had said. “There’s something about this city that makes it hard not to love, you know?”

“Is that what you consider yourself?” You had asked him. “A symbol of hope?”

“Not exactly,” he had responded. “I think people deserve hope. I just want to remind them it’s still there.”

You remember it all𑁋the look of quiet sincerity in his eyes when he said it. The ache behind his words like he was carrying a galaxy of burdens, yet still managed to smile at you. 

“But here’s what I believe,” he had told you. “Even though I can’t save everyone, I know I saved someone. And maybe that person goes on to save others, and those others save more. That’s how hope survives𑁋it spreads, even in the places I can’t reach. And that… that’s worth the burden.”

Your gaze falls towards Superman, who is crumpled on the floor, veins bulging out of his neck, blood dripping at the corners of his mouth. He’s clutching his side with gritted teeth, practically at the verge of passing out; yet despite everything, despite how close death is wrapped around his ribs, his eyes𑁋God, his eyes𑁋are watching you like you’re the only other person in the room, like you’re the only goddamn star left in the sky. There’s no fear there. No regret. 

He’s still there. He’s still fighting.

“He’ll outlive you, sweetheart,” Scarface says with a chuckle. “He’ll outlive all of us. This stupid world is going to grow old and die, and he’ll be floating above the ashes looking down on us. And when you’re gone𑁋just another speck of dust in the wind𑁋he won’t even remember your name.”

You falter again. Just a blink. The words scratch at old insecurities like fingernails on scars. 

Your vision clouds, not from tears, but from uncertainty.

Scarface sees it like it’s his golden ticket. 

But then, there’s a cough. A weak one, yet it’s enough to break through the fog clouding your mind. Your gaze whips towards the source, and you’re met with an expression so heartbreakingly soft.

“Don’t listen to him,” Superman groans out, coughing hoarsely, and the utter familiarity of his voice sends a shiver down your spine. “Please. Don’t… let him in your head. I lo𑁋”

A gun fires. It happens in a blur: one second you’re frozen in place, the next your ears are ringing from the force of the shot, and there’s a pool of blood forming at your feet. The pistol clatters to the floor from your shaky hands as your steps stagger back slightly𑁋you don’t even recall pulling the trigger.

Scarface blinks.

He doesn’t fall. Not at first.

He just stares at you, stunned, as if you’ve grown a pair of wings or another head he hadn’t reckoned with before. Then there’s a twitch to his bloody mouth𑁋somewhere along the lines between a smirk or like he’s about to say one last vile, witty remark𑁋but his knees buckle beneath him, the kryptonite syringe falling from his hands and clattering to the ground. You watch in horror as his body collapses to the ground with a sickening thud. You’ve never seen blood pool faster than now, spreading throughout the steer floor below. 

You’re still holding your breath. You can’t even move, even breathe, your arms trembling at your sides 

The silence that follows is deafening. 

You stare at Scarface’s body, your mind completely blank, as if trying to reject the impossible deed you just committed. You just shot him. You killed someone. With the hands you used to type articles until dusk𑁋you used it to end a life. 

For some uneasy reason, you don’t feel heroic. You don’t feel strong. Gosh, you feel like you’re going to be sick. 

Then a low, pained grunt startles you out of your head. Superman. 

“You saved me.”

Your legs act before you could even catch up with it, finding yourself kneeling down to the ground, scrambling to pick him up on his feet, but you struggle. He’s heavier than he looks𑁋well, of course he is𑁋so you let your arms wrap around him instinctively, attempting to hoist him upright again. 

His body lurches in your hold as you’re barely able to drag him by a few feet to the door. It doesn’t take long for your effort to fail as he slumps back down to the floor again, dragging you down with him. Somewhere down the corridor, you can hear the rapid sounds of footsteps and radio chatter of emergency responders that you met when you escaped initially. You just need to hold him tighter for another minute. 

“Hey, hey, don’t do that𑁋shit, don’t close your eyes,” You plead desperately when you notice his eyes falling, brushing away the sweaty strands of hair sticking to his forehead. “Backup is coming. Stay with me. Please.”

“Fuck…” he croaks out weakly, and you feel his hand lace into yours. A weak grasp, but it’s there. It’s something. “Y/N, I…”

“Don’t talk,” You tell him softly, letting your free hand cradle his face to bring him into your chest. “You’re okay, you’re okay. I’ve got you, Superman, you hear me?”

Superman breathes raggedly against your chest. You feel the way he’s burning up, see the way his eyelids are fluttering as he tries so goddamn hard to focus on your presence around him, hear the way he’s literally struggling to get his lungs to fucking work. But you still don’t let go. 

“He killed my… my people…” he rasps, a few dry coughs jolting out of him. “The missing people… they’re…”

If it was possible for your heart to physically break, you swear it does now. He doesn’t even need to finish the sentence for you to know exactly what he’s talking about. The room was entirely a blur when you stepped in initially, but with the quietness now and Scarface’s lifeless body on the floor, you can see it all. 

You remember all the photos in the files, all the reports about the missing people whose cases all went cold, unsolved, and discarded. They were never just missing people. They were survivors. And the two of you were too late to realise that. 

“I’m sorry.” You shelter him even closer to you, because you know there’s not much you can do except to hold him together as tightly as you can, even if he’s completely falling apart on the inside. “I’m so, so sorry…” 

You know that apologising could never bring his people back, yet Superman inhales your words even if it’s painful to do so, holding onto you even tighter, his warmth seeping into your skin. Blood and grime stains your shirt as he leans into you through the pain, his quiet sobs muffled as he buries his face in your chest. 

You press a warm, trembling kiss to the temple of his head. He doesn’t speak; no, he closes his eyes, dipping in and out of consciousness, and lets himself be held. 

“You’re safe now, Superman, okay? You’re safe with me.”

Above the two of you, the crest on Superman’s chest catches the overhead light, flickering weakly, but it never dims. Hope had barely survived. 

Beneath your feet, the city is peaceful. 

It’s been two weeks since the ordeal. Two weeks since Scarface’s body hit the floor. Two weeks since the sounds of gunfire etched itself permanently into your bones. Two weeks since the awful stench of sweat, blood, and gunpowder had stuck to your clothes no matter how many showers you took.

Two weeks since you saw Superman’s near-lifeless body being hauled through the hospital as the doctors and medical experts struggled to make sense of his alien biology𑁋every needle they poked through him broke on impact from his skin, but still, they didn’t give up on him. Refused to give up on him.  

Two weeks, and the city has begun to breathe again mostly. 

You haven’t slept much since.

The DOD have been working on reprimanding other criminals who had access to the kryptonite trade, and the kryptonite shipments that were found within the sketchy warehouses in Pier 13 had been confiscated as well. Details were still being poured in, but all you know is that the kryptonite is finally out of harm’s way. At least, for now.

People have been calling you a hero, a survivor. Some of your colleagues have written a little tribute column in you and Superman’s honour. You didn’t ask for it. You didn’t exactly want it. The attention has been overwhelming, to say the least.

You had just gotten through your first day back after requesting some time off to recalibrate. Now, you find yourself sitting near the edge of the rooftop at the Daily Planet. You pull your cardigan tighter around you as the evening breeze rustles through your hair. You take a sip from a can of beer𑁋a second one at your feet for good measure. 

“Y/N?”

You turn around to the voice, a faint smile when you catch Mingyu walking up to you. The glasses on his face catch the faintest sparkle from the moonlight. He’s clad in his usual attire𑁋a denim jacket, a white shirt, and a pair of baggy denim jeans𑁋and his hands in his pockets as if he’s unsure of his own presence right now. You had sent him an email a few hours again telling him that you’d be staying late tonight.

It seems that showing up is his response. 

“Hey,” You greet him quietly.

Mingyu slowly saunters over to where you are. He doesn’t sit down at first, but then you nudge towards the second can of beer by your feet.

“Peace offering,” You say with a light chuckle. “It’s probably warm now, but whatever.”

A small laugh escapes him as he sits down beside you, the tip of his knee touching yours when he crosses his legs together. He takes the can of beer and opens it with a sharp click, taking a quick sip of his own. 

Mingyu shoots a quick glance at you, watching the way your gaze is lingering out to the mellow, peaceful, blissfully unaware city. He allows himself to look out to the world as well, with the stars hanging low in the sky as if they’re curiously eavesdropping on this strange little moment. The two of you take another sip from your cans, letting the silence stretch in the air. It’s not uncomfortable𑁋not entirely, anyway. It’s quiet, calm, like the city has exhaled for the first time in a long while. 

“Did you know I spent the night in juvie once?” You suddenly pop in.

Mingyu’s brow furrows in surprise. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” You confirm, shaking your head to the memory. “I was fourteen. Dumb, broke, and angry at the world like any other teenager. Stole some makeup from the local pharmacy. Got caught before I even stepped through the door.” 

Mingyu huffs a soft laugh beside you. It wasn’t mocking, just simple disbelief about this little detail of your life. “That’s hard to imagine.”

“Well, I also had purple hair. Oh, and a lip piercing. Did it with a safety pen,” You add in with a dry laugh. “Wouldn’t recommend it at all.”

He grins softly at that. He tries to imagine it𑁋he really does𑁋but all he can see is you. Even with your past little rebel phase, you’re still the same person with a fire-lit soul he first saw when you were tackling this entire case, scribbling away in the depths of your cubicle and rummaging through endless files in the archive room with a sharp tongue and a guarded heart. 

You haven’t changed, not really. Just a little older, a little stronger. Maybe a little more tired. 

“I grew up in a place that never really felt like home,” You continue, cradling the can of beer in your hands. “Parents were always busy trying to keep the lights on. I bounced between schools and hardly stuck around enough to make proper friends.”

You feel Mingyu’s eyes on you. He’s listening, steady and patient as always. 

“Then I started writing to keep myself sane,” You confess. “Started with dumb teenage poetry, angsty blog posts, then… it sort of turned into something more real. I stole a newspaper from the library, read this piece about corruption with the mayor at the time. Something about it just clicked for me.”

Mingyu notices the way your features soften with relief. 

“So, I cleaned myself up,” You continue with a smile. “Wrote shit for the newsletter in high school, got a few internships in college. One thing led to another and well… Here I am. I don’t know if Seungcheol even looked at my resume.”

“He did,” Mingyu chimes in playfully. “Well, not exactly. More like flaunted about you.”

You snort at that, clearly amused. “That so?”

“Clearly you’re good at what you do, or else he would’ve been accused of nepotism by now,” Mingyu says with a teasing grin, before it eases into something more bashful. “And… you are, um, good. Amazing, even. I admire you. I’m sure the rest of the world would agree, too.”

Your chest tightens at his words. It’s crazy how he’s able to disarm you just like that. Kim Mingyu, the guy who spilled coffee on your shirt the first day you met. Kim Mingyu, who brings you over sweetened coffee when he knows you’ve had a rough morning. Kim Mingyu, who caught you in his arms in the archive room when you nearly slipped on some fallen files. 

Kim Mingyu, who tried to protect you from publishing the exposé on the kryptonite trade. Who stupidly ran back into the Daily Planet even with the bomb threatening the entire building. Who promised to come back, but he didn’t, and then he did𑁋

Kim Mingyu, who… may or may not be Superman.

And Superman, who you’ve kissed.

“What were you like?” You suddenly ask, turning to Mingyu slightly. “Growing up?” 

Mingyu takes another sip of his beer, and you catch the way his shoulders stiffen before relaxing quickly. His eyes flicker𑁋not toward you, not toward the city𑁋to somewhere far away. There’s the faintest hint of hesitation when the can leaves his mouth. You don’t rush him. You know how to wait.

“I grew up on a farm,” he finally answers, a wistful look to his face. “I was, um… adopted when I was younger. It was just me, my parents, my sister, and our dog. They were good people. And it was nice living out in the countryside. Peaceful, even.” 

“You? On a farm?” 

Mingyu turns to you. “What? You don’t believe me?”

“No, of course I do. It’s just…” Your voice trails off, fondness glazing over your features. “Just trying to imagine it, you know. Little Kim Mingyu running around in the cornfields with mud on his knees and a head too big for his body.”

A genuine laugh bubbles out of him. “Well, you aren’t that far off, I guess. Used to trip over my own feet all the time.”  

You hum against the rim of the can. “Explains the permanent clumsiness.”

Mingyu huffs in mock offense at that, wearing that familiar, warm, boyish grin to his lips. 

“And science journalism?” You question curiously. “What made you want to get into that?”

“Always had this sort of… curiosity about the world.” He gives a small shrug, fingers tapping against the can. “I was, uh… really into astronomy too. I used to stay up all night looking through this janky telescope my dad snagged from a yard sale. Guess I just wanted to know what’s out there, how things worked and whatnot.”

What Mingyu doesn’t tell you is that he used to look through the telescope in the hopes of finding any remnants of his origins, of his home. Not the little farmhouse with the creaky porch swing or the kind faces who raised him with warm hands and warmer hearts. No, he means the kind of home that stretched light years away, a place that echoed in his bones with a certain ache he couldn’t name. A home he had never truly seen, but felt nonetheless. 

He doesn’t say any of it; instead, he tucks it away with a remorseful sip of beer. When he glances back to you, you seem almost lost in thought again.

“Are you okay?” he asks. 

You can’t tell if it’s the alcohol buzzing through your veins or something else. “Yeah. Just… rough couple of weeks.”

Mingyu lets his eyes trail over you. The bruise to your cheek has almost entirely faded𑁋a clear reminder of the hell you’ve been through𑁋but the memory of everything hasn’t. Though to him, you still look stronger and more beautiful than ever. 

“We survived a bombing, I got fucking kidnapped, then I shot a horrible man in cold blood and it just𑁋” Your lips form a tight line. “And yet, despite all of that, I… The only thing that’s been making me stay up these nights is the fact that I fell in love with two different men.”

Mingyu freezes beside you. You don’t even have to look at him to know that he’s panicking. The breezes seem to pick up a little harder, tucking and sending strands of your hair flying that you don’t bother to fix. 

“God, I-I sound like an absolute homewrecker,” You mutter in disbelief, clicking your tongue, before fully turning to face him. “Because how is it possible that I’m able to fall for you, and him𑁋Superman𑁋at the same time?”

The words hang in the air like lightning preparing to strike. And suddenly, Mingyu forgets how to breathe. 

“I kissed him𑁋he kissed me after the interview.” Your voice grows louder now, more certain. “It wasn’t just a quick peck. It was real. Then I looked at him, and maybe it was the adrenaline, or that I’ve gone insane. But for a split second, I swear to God, I saw you, Mingyu.” 

Mingyu’s lips part as if he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t. You watch the way his fingers tighten around the can, the soft crinkle of aluminum breaking under his grip. He doesn’t even realise he’s doing it. His gaze only lingers straight ahead. 

You keep going. 

“I thought I was going crazy,” You go on, powering through your shaky voice. “That maybe this stupid crush I’ve had on you since the day we met was getting to me. But then I thought more𑁋how you showed up late for meetings, how you disappeared after the heist, how you caught me in the archive room, how you tried to stop me from publishing the exposé… how you look at me.” 

The silence between you both is probably more deafening and terrifying then when you shot Scarface, but this silence is filled with revelation. It means everything. 

“You’re him, aren’t you?”

He still doesn’t say anything. The only sound you hear is the crumple of the beer can from his tight grip. 

“Mingyu.” The way his name rolls out of your mouth hits Mingyu more painful than anything else. “Say something, please. Tell me I’m just projecting, or that I’m drunk or delusional or traumatised𑁋just something.” 

Mingyu’s throat bobs. His jaw clenches. His eyes close and reopen slowly, and he exhales a breath as if it hurts. 

“I’m not him, Y/N,” he admits finally, voice careful𑁋too careful.

But it doesn’t sound convincing. Not even a little.

And he knows it.

You know it, too.

A part of you wants to laugh, or cry. Or to shake him, kiss him, and hold him all at once. You barely even register standing up, your near-empty beer can forgotten on the floor.

“You’re a terrible liar, you know that?” You retort back bitterly.

He stands up as well. “I’m not lying.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m not𑁋”

“I’m a goddamn journalist, Mingyu.” You throw your arms out dramatically. “I live off of facts, off truths. I know when I’m being lied to.”

You hate how your voice cracks at the end. You’re not even mad, not in the way you thought you’d be. You’re hurt. You’re exhausted. And still, you love him. Even if you can’t provide definitive proof that the guy you kissed in the sky felt exactly like the man you love on the ground, your heart knows. It knows, and it’s pounding so damn hard it may as well crack through your ribs and scream it all out. 

Mingyu feels so torn, like he’s standing between two burning buildings collapsing in on him. This awful lump is lodged in his throat, his fists clenched at his side, but his feet won’t move, even if his own heart is telling him to. He’s still trying to protect something𑁋maybe you, maybe himself, maybe from this paper-thin illusion that he can still tape up, even with the tears showing.

Then, he watches in shock when you take a step backwards, near the edge of the rooftop. The rush of air from being thirty stories up teases up and down your back. 

“Y/N,” he warns in panic, his body tensing. “Don’t you dare.”

You don’t know what kind of madness is possessing you right now. Perhaps it’s from the lack of sleep the past two weeks, the fact you drank an entire can of warm beer, or from the sheer desperation of needing him to tell you the truth. The real truth that has been digging in the crevices of your bones ever since you looked into Superman’s eyes and saw Kim Mingyu staring back at you. 

Your heel bumps the ledge.

“I trust you, Mingyu,” You mutter shakily. “I always have.”

You take a breath.

And then you do the most stupidest, bravest thing you’ve ever done in your entire life: you fall.

The world tilts before your eyes, the rush of wind overpowering the scream of your name that Mingyu yells out. 

The city below rushes up to meet you, the air roaring like a wind turbine through your ears, the gravity tearing your stomach inside out. You can’t breathe and can hardly think; hell, you don’t even scream. Time slows just enough for a single thought to push through: This is how I die. This is how I find out I’m wrong.

The windows of the Daily Planet all become a kaleidoscope of blurred lights as you plummet past them. The rooftop disappears into the tiniest speck in your vision, the ledge you just stood on now impossibly far away. You’re starting to feel the inevitable cold claw of death latching around you.

You feel weightless and heavy all at once.

Your heart clenches in your chest, your eyelids fluttering to a close. Your limbs are flailing around on instinct to reach for something, anything. Then, you brace yourself to hit the ground because you’re falling, fuck, you’re actually falling, and there’s no going back now𑁋that maybe this was all just delusion disguised as hope, that maybe𑁋

The world suddenly halts.

A gasp flies out of your mouth, ripping out of your lungs like they’ve just remembered how to function. You find your chest pressed against another body. Firm. Familiar. Powerful. Your eyes fly open as your entire form jolts against the abrupt stop, the wind rushing around you more calmly as you realise you’re ascending, not descending. 

Then you finally look at him. His glasses are still on somehow, dark hair messed up from the force of the wind, his eyes wide with fear and panic𑁋but unmistakably Kim Mingyu. Superman.

Warmth radiates off his skin as he clings onto you, his arms tightened like a lock around your waist. You feel the way his chest rises and falls with each panicked, shallow breath he takes. There’s a tremble to his body𑁋not from exertion or the flight𑁋but from the sheer terror that he nearly lost you. 

You let your arms circle around his neck, pressing closer to him. 

“Are you insane?!” Mingyu chokes out, the clouds around the two of you billowing as he slows to a hover, away from the city, the noise, the doubt. “What the hell was that?!”

You don’t answer at first. You simply just stare up at him, the high from your adrenaline receding into something more softer, tender, raw. The city is practically swallowed by the clouds underneath you as the two of you hover in the air, existing in this space between heaven and earth, between truth and lie. 

“You caught me,” You whisper. 

“Of course, I did𑁋Jesus Christ, you almost gave me a heart attack,” Mingyu rasps breathlessly. “If I was just a second too late, you could’ve𑁋fuck𑁋”

“But I didn’t,” You cut him off gently. “Because I was right. I knew you’d catch me.”

Mingyu swallows hard. His eyes search yours like he’s trying to find some other outcome, still hoping that in some way, you don’t see the truth and that he can walk away from all of this. But it’s over. You know, and he knows you know. You’ve always dug deeper, looked harder than anyone else𑁋hell, it’s your job.

And maybe in some twisted, beautiful way, you were meant to find him.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs quietly. “I… I wanted to tell you so many times, but I couldn’t. Because if I told you, you’d see me differently. I would’ve put you in danger. God, I just wanted to be normal for you. To be Mingyu for you. Not the guy who can fly or lift buildings for a living.”

“We already lived through the danger, and survived,” You tell him desperately, your fingers digging into the fabric of his clothes. “And I’m still here. I never left and I don’t plan to. You don’t have to be so brave around me, you know.”

His body goes rigid from your words as if someone had punched him in the gut with a force that could rival a hundred bullets being shot at him. His grip on you never eases; if anything, he holds you even tighter, fingers tracing aimlessly circles at your waist as if trying to remind himself that you’re here. You’re real.

Mingyu hears your heartbeat thundering your chest, and he swears to himself it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.

“You terrify me.” His lips twitch upwards. “And dammit, I love you for it.”

Your breath hitches at that. The air around you grows silent, like the world itself is holding its breath as well. You reach up to trail a finger down his cheek, before tenderly cupping his face in your hand. Mingyu leans into your warmth as if he’s waited a hundred lifetimes to be allowed this. 

His eyes fall to a close before reopening again to look at you. But it isn’t just a glance𑁋no, he’s looking like he’s trying to memorise you, like he’s afraid to even blink. 

“I love you too,” You confess quietly.

Then you kiss him.

It’s soft, almost uncertain at first𑁋just a tentative brush of your mouth against his. Mingyu’s breath catches the second your lips meet his, his eyes widening for a split moment as he peers down at you with nothing but longing.

Then he simply just chuckles, low and breathless. His hands slowly trail their way up your spine, his other hand wrapping around more protectively around your waist. He tilts his head adoringly, pauses to blink, before leaning to press his mouth back to yours. This time, the kiss is deeper. Slower. And so impossibly gentle it nearly breaks you.

He’s kissing you like Kim Mingyu, and holding you like Superman.

Your hand reaches up to cradle the nape of his neck, fingers lightly threading through his hair. A sigh leaves him from your touch𑁋a breath of surrender, of relief, of finally, sending trembles all the way down to your toes. His nose barely brushes against yours as the angle shifts slightly, his chapped lips molding more fully into yours, coaxing your mouth open with a sweetness that sets your skin ablaze in the softest, most devastating way. 

The clouds hug dreamily around the two of you as you part away for air. You find your foreheads pressed against one another, your hand drifting to rest on his chest. You feel the way his heart is pounding, as if it’s overfilled to the brim with nothing but love. He’s holding you like you’re something fragile, precious, his. 

“You make me feel human,” Mingyu whispers shakily. “Like I belong somewhere.”

You tenderly brush the tip of your finger over his cheekbone. 

“You are human, Mingyu,” You tell him reassuringly. “Because only someone truly human would love the way you do.”

He stares at you like he doesn’t deserve to be looked this way. All his life he’s always been… different. He was the third grader who’d run away into the janitor’s closet crying because he accidentally broke the swing set at recess. The teenager who couldn’t join any sports due to the fear he’d break someone’s ribs. The adult who could save the world but never fully belong in it. 

But here, in your arms and under your gaze, he’s never felt more safe, wanted, and loved. 

Mingyu leans in again, littering tiny kisses over your skin𑁋from your forehead, to your nose, your cheek, a lingering one to your lips, each one eliciting a low giggle out of you. The sound makes his heart swell.

When he pulls back, there’s a breath of hesitation in the air. His gaze silently flickers between your eyes, to your mouth, and back up to your eyes again.

“Can I, uh…” He swallows thickly. “Can I… take you home?”

You blink dazedly at that, but as the words register, the corners of your lips twitch upwards. 

“Take me home?” You echo teasingly. “Is this your way of seducing me?” 

Mingyu’s ears instantly grow red.

“What? No𑁋I mean, yes𑁋wait, shit, that’s not what I𑁋” He fumbles over his words like he’s completely short-circuiting. And honestly, he really is. “I didn’t mean it like that𑁋okay, maybe I did, but𑁋fuck.”

You can’t help but laugh. Like really laugh. The kind of laugh that bubbles from deep within your chest and makes you throw your head back at his sheer adorableness. He’s literally stammering like a teenage boy trying to ask out his crush to prom. The sound of your laughter curls around Mingyu like sunlight, the tips of ears growing warmer from embarrassment. 

“Mingyu,” You call his name after taking a minute to recover. “Relax. I’m just teasing.”

A sheepish pout crosses his features. “You’re evil, you know that? You’re gonna kill me one day.”

“You’re literally invincible.”

“Not to you.”

His words make your smile falter𑁋just for a second, your heartbeat thudding unevenly in your chest.

“I just… I want to be real with you,” Mingyu continues bashfully. “I want to hold you when I fall asleep and wake up to you in the morning. I want to take you on a thousand dates and argue about who left the dishes in the sink. I want… more than just saving the world. I want to do everything with you.”

Then his voice dips just slightly lower, still plagued with that certain shyness.

“And yeah, I want to kiss you. A lot. Probably for the rest of my life,” he adds in with a smile, before it softens. “And maybe more than that. If… if you want that, too.”

Your lips part slowly, warmth blooming throughout your body. You simply stare at him. Not because you’re surprised𑁋as you literally fell off a building just to prove your stupid heart right𑁋but because of how goddamn earnestly, nervously, hopefully he says it. Like the thought of having you is still something he doesn’t deserve.

You want it all with him, too.

“Okay,” is all you say.

His eyes widen. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” You cup his face again, caressing a finger over the corner of his lip. “Take me home, Superman.”

Mingyu’s arms only tighten around you, and he presses one last kiss to your temple.

“Hold on tight.”

And then, the two of you are soaring through the skies.

Mingyu lands you back at your apartment.

It’s quiet inside. Your feet brush against the old wooden flooring, which is scruffed and faded in some spots. The walls are pretty much bare of any childhood relics except for an old photograph or two. Mingyu spots shelves of old case files, stacked notebooks, and a tiny little succulent plant. The couch appears second-hand, a little sunken in the middle, with a blanket on the arm that’s seen better days. 

There’s a kind of loneliness in the walls that Mingyu picks up immediately. It’s lived in, but barely. You’ve never really let anyone in here.

Still, Mingyu doesn’t say a word.

You watch the way his gaze trails over every crevice of your apartment, as if he’s stepping into a secret, into your own heart. And in a way, he is. He’s been to the edges of space and seen the worst humanity has to offer𑁋yet being in your little half-empty apartment is what feels the most real.

You find yourself pouring a glass of water in the kitchen as Mingyu’s fingers curiously trail over some of your old investigative journalism textbooks on the shelf.

“I’m sorry, I know it’s not much,” You mutter, placing the glass back on the counter. “Never really felt the need to decorate, honestly.”

The emptiness of your apartment doesn’t bother him𑁋it never could. Mingyu crosses the room without a word, and you hardly have time to process his presence as his arms wrap around you from behind. You melt into him naturally, his warmth seeping through the layers of your clothes and caressing over your skin. 

As his breath hits the shell of your ear, tingles run up and down your spine.

“It’s perfect,” he mutters. “You let me in. That’s more than enough.” 

Before you have a chance to respond, he kisses you.

Not on the lips, not yet𑁋he presses his mouth to the nape of your neck, then another one to your shoulder, tracing his little constellations on your skin along the way. You shudder from his touch, knees almost buckling, and you feel the smile on his face as he chuckles into your neck. 

“Mingyu…”

Mingyu hums against your skin. “Mhm?”

You nearly combust when his kiss lands near your collarbone.

“Do you, uh…” You start, already breathless. “...want to go to my bedroom?”

Mingyu lifts his head at your question. You don’t even have to turn to know he’s already smiling.

Before you can say anything more, he’s spinning you around and scooping you up in his arms effortlessly like you weigh literally nothing. Your legs instinctively wrap around his torso, a surprised yelp leaving your lips.

“Jeez! Warn a girl first!” You gasp, half-panicked, half-excited.

“Sorry, baby,” he mutters with a grin, arms wrapped securely around your thighs. “Perks of the job.”

He carries you through your little apartment with confidence. Your head rests on his shoulder, your giggles mingling in the heavy air together as he strides down a small hallway. When he arrives in front of a door, he nudges it open with his foot𑁋before realising it’s your bathroom.

“Mingyu! That’s the bathroom!”

“Shit, sorry!” He backtracks quickly, embarrassment flooding his cheeks as he tightens his hold on you. “My glasses don’t let me use my x-ray vision here! I’m working with human eyes right now.” 

You practically die of laughter in his arms, hearing him grumble something under his breath before arriving at the correct door. He gives the door a little poke with his shoulder, and as he steps over the threshold into your bedroom, the air seems to thicken even more.

Just like the rest of your apartment, there’s nothing much here either. Just a bed, with disheveled mismatched sheets that you didn’t bother to fix in the morning, and a singular lamp flickering right next to it. Under the window, moonlight pours all over a small desk that has a bunch of scattered papers and an unopened laptop. A few pieces of clothing are sprawled out on the floor, and you silently curse at yourself for not being more prepared for this. 

Even then, Mingyu treats it as if it’s your palace, and that you’re the queen within it. 

He sits down on the edge of the bed, bringing you snugly into his lap. His arms don’t let go of your waist, and his eyes never leave your face. 

You’re straddling him now, knees pressing into the bed on either side of his thighs. Your hands rest lightly on his shadows, and he looks up at you with half-lidded eyes as if he’s in complete awe of you. As if he can’t believe you’re real, and you’re here, and you’re his. 

“You’re shaking.”

“I know,” he breathes out. “I just… don’t want to hurt you.”

You shake your head at that. “You won’t. I trust you.”

That makes Mingyu pause for a moment, as if your words hit him square in the goddamn chest. Mingyu hardly trusts his own strength, and especially in a situation like this, he would never forgive himself if he were to hurt you. Whether it’s intimately, emotionally, anything, he’s never been more afraid of breaking something so precious as you. 

But you said you trust him, and that makes him want to be better, softer, stronger all at once. Just for you.

He leans in to kiss you again. This time, it’s a lot less playful, less teasing. Just slow, deliberate, and so goddamn soft you might as well spontaneously combust. Your hands instinctively wrap around him, his denim jacket falling off his shoulders and landing somewhere on the floor. You barely even register it coming off𑁋too lost in the way his lips mold sweetly and perfectly against yours. 

When he pulls back, his eyes remain peering up at you through those dorky glasses, at the way your lips are kiss-swollen and body heaving with shallow breaths. You don’t even have to hear him say anything, but you understand what he’s trying to convey: I want this, but only if you want it too. There’s a flicker of hesitation, before he reaches down to grab the hem of his white shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside.

You immediately freeze up.

Because holy shit.

He’s sculpted like a statue. Like Michelangelo said fuck this, let’s sculpt Mingyu. Even in your shitty apartment lighting, his golden skin radiates. You know that he’s strong𑁋you’ve seen the way his suit hugs his figure and how he walks around at work not realising he’s built like a Calvin Klein supermodel𑁋but nothing could’ve prepared you for this. 

Your eyes trace over the smooth lines of muscle over his body, over his chiseled torso and abs that look as if they’re carved from literal stone, over his stupidly kissable collarbones. You’re not even sure what to do with your hands. Or your lungs, at this point. 

When Mingyu notices how stunned you are, he blushes. Blushes.  

“I𑁋was that too fast?” he questions bashfully. “Sorry, I just thought𑁋”

“No,” You respond too quickly, still practically gawking at him like a Victorian woman seeing an ankle for the first time. “It’s okay. You’re just… a lot to take in.”

“Do you want me to put it back on?” he asks sheepishly.

A scandalised look crosses your face. “No. God, no. Don’t you dare.” You lean in to press a kiss over the skin covering his heart, one of your hands caressing down his stomach. You hear the sharp inhale that escapes him, and you smirk against his skin. “I love seeing you like this.”

You meet him back eye-level, reaching to grab the frames of his glasses, pausing for a moment to ask permission with your eyes. When he gives you the faintest of nods, you slide the glasses off his face and set them aside, and you’re met with the most beautiful, warmest, honey-brown eyes ever. 

You’ve seen his eyes before, obviously. But without the glasses, without the disguise, they’re more piercing than ever. You feel as if you’re staring into a pair of galaxies, and you could pinpoint all the stars within them. He isn’t just Superman. He’s also Mingyu. Your Mingyu.

“Hi,” You whisper.

He smiles bashfully. “Hi.”

You almost want to laugh. You’re both ridiculous. Because here you are, nervous like two hormonal teenagers and blushing like you weren’t close to dying not that long ago. 

“Are you okay?” You ask him, thumb brushing over his cheekbone.

Mingyu kisses the inside of your palm. “I think I’m freaking out. In a good way, of course.”

You smile at that, leaning in to press your forehead against his. You hear the shaky exhale that leaves him, before his head tilts to meet your lips again. You feel his fingers trail up your waist, pushing off the cardigan you’re wearing off your shoulders, as his mouth moves down even further.

Your breath hitches when you feel his lips meet the corner of your jaw, then down to the curve of your neck, his fingertips hesitantly slipping underneath the hem of your top like he’s asking for permission to keep going. He’s giving you time to stop this if you want, but you don’t. You don’t want him to stop. 

You answer by lifting your arms up, letting him pull your shirt off to join the other clothes on the floor. You’re left in just your bra now, and Mingyu just stares.

He doesn’t pounce on you𑁋just lets his gaze roam over your form like he’s trying to commit every inch of you to memory. His jaw tightens with restraint as he drinks you in, taking in even the tiniest imperfections that dot all over you, his hands adoring every sight of new skin being revealed to him. You barely have any sort of chance to feel self-conscious when he kisses you again.

“You’re so beautiful,” he mumbles against your neck, pressing a line of kisses over your collarbone, the curve above your breast, and one above your heart. “Every part of you.”

“You’re just saying that because I’m half-naked on top of you,” You retort playfully.

His brows draw together at that as he glances up at you mischievously. “I’m saying it because it’s true, sweetheart. The half-naked part is just a bonus.” 

Your laughter dissolves into a breathy sigh as his thumbs tread tenderly over your ribcage. You move your hips again𑁋just a subtle, completely unintentional grind on his lap, enough to have a sound that nearly resembles a whimper tumbling out of his throat, and his hands gripping onto your hips a little more tighter. 

“Sorry,” You murmur breathlessly, though there’s a sparkle of mischief in your eyes. “Didn’t mean to do that.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he breathes out, voice low and wrecked. “Never be sorry𑁋fuck, angel, you’re driving me crazy…”

It’s so hard to take in the fact that someone so powerful𑁋someone who literally has the power to lift up a tank on his shoulders as if it’s light as a feather𑁋is trying so hard to be so gentle with you. Like he’s terrified that one wrong move shatters you, when all you want him to do is pull you closer. 

Your fingers comb through his hair as he nuzzles his face in your shoulder, taking in the way you feel, smell, and taste. 

“Superman always takes care of everybody,” You start when it’s your turn to be littering kisses at the skin of his neck. “Saves the world, the city, strangers, me𑁋but… who takes care of you?”

He stills. Just for a second. His grip on your waist loosens imperceptibly, before tightening back. You see the way the question runs around his head as if it’s his first time ever being asked something so vulnerable. 

“I… I don’t know,” he answers unsurely. 

Your heart breaks and comes back together all at once.

“Then let me,” You insist softly. “From now on, from however long you want me, let me.”

Mingyu looks up at you with hopeful, puppy eyes. 

“And if I want forever?”

You give him a smile.

“I can do forever.”

You don’t know who leans in first. You don’t exactly know how the straps of your bra have fallen over your shoulder either. All you do know is that you’re suddenly underneath him this time, and he’s still kissing you. Hungrier. Needier. 

The bed dips slightly as Mingyu fully climbs on top now, one leg slotted between yours as you find yourself practically melting into the mattress. His body is the personification of a living furnace as his chest presses against yours, skin against skin, heartbeat to heartbeat.

You roll your hips against him once more to chase that particular friction over the hardness of his jeans, and he has to muffle away a groan into your shoulder. He rocks himself up to meet you halfway with a low sigh into your neck, the two of you finding a rhythm that has heat spiraling down both of your bodies and for your brains to grow foggy. 

“You’re so𑁋shit, you’re so perfect,” he rasps, voice barely audible from the needy sighs spilling out of your mouth. “You feel so good, baby.”

The muscles on his back tense when he feels your hands explore themselves over them, breath hitching against your throat. Your fingertips caress over the ridges of his spine, tracing the slope of his shoulder blades, curling into the soft messiness of his hair. Mingyu swears that perhaps you have your own kind of superpower𑁋of making him so undeniably, fondly, helpless for you. 

Bullets break in half when they hit him, he’s prevented literal buildings from falling over, and could bend steel with the singular twirl of his fingers. But when you’re here, underneath him, kissing him and making noises he’ll replay in his mind for the rest of his days, he turns into literal mush. Kryptonite isn’t the only thing that weakens him.

It’s you. 

“I think I understand it now,” he mutters against your skin.

Your body buzzes with heat as you look at him. “What?”

Mingyu pulls back to look at you, a lump bobbing in his throat. 

“Desire.”

He says the word like it’s some otherworldly discovery. As if he’s heard it from somewhere, maybe read about it, seen it when lovers skip down the streets with their hands clasped together. But he’s never felt it like this. Not until now. Not until you. 

“I never knew it could feel like this,” he says quietly. “This need to… touch you. Be close with you. Not just physically, but gosh, hearing your heartbeat makes me go insane.”

You giggle at that, and it sends a cheeky, silly smile crawling over Mingyu’s face. He watches the way your face lights up when you laugh. You’re always so scarily serious all the time when you’re in your zone, but now? Now you’re all soft and radiant and so unfairly sexy in a way that makes him ache to know what other things he can make you feel. 

“Mingyu?”

Mingyu hovers above you, one hand propping him up beside your head and the other drawing circles near the waistband of your pants. “Yeah?”

“I want you,” You confess. It doesn’t come off shy, not anymore. “You… don’t have to hold back with me, okay? You can let go𑁋I want you to.”

That’s what undoes him right there. He gives you the most affectionate grin known to mankind. 

“Okay,” Mingyu breathes, a singular breath away from your lips. “Okay. Letting go. I… I can do that.”

This time, when he kisses you, it feels like you’re flying again.

Mingyu makes love to you just like how he fights𑁋with the same passionate fire in his veins and the protectiveness of someone willing to break himself before he ever lets harm touch you. And it isn’t just about pleasure; no, it’s about safety. It’s about surrender. Vulnerability. 

It’s about loving you with the same unrelenting force he uses to save the world𑁋this time, only softer. Sweeter. And only a certain type of love that belongs to you.

The second you check the time on your watch, the elevator dings in front of you. 

Your heels clack against the floor as you step inside with a sigh, pressing a button to your desired floor. Your bag is slung loosely over your shoulder, the strap threatening to fall off from the weight of your laptop and whatever the hell you have inside is. You’re too busy scrolling through your upcoming meeting agenda on your phone. The Daily Planet is as alive as ever for a Monday morning, but here, you’re lucky you can breathe for once. 

You catch sight of your reflection on the mirrored walls on the elevator before leaning back against the cold metal with a sigh, letting your eyes flicker close for a moment as the door starts to close. 

But before the doors are able to seal shut, there’s a sudden clang, and the metal shudders as if it’s been crushed with some kind of forceful pressure. 

You jolt in surprise as the elevator doors groan back open, revealing none other than Kim Mingyu clambering clumsily inside wearing an extremely apologetic expression on his face. He takes his hand off the elevator door, where you notice a visible dent had formed from what you assume to be how hard he grabbed the damn thing. 

“Shit,” Mingyu mutters, staring at the dent like a guilty puppy as the elevators struggle to close back again. “I didn’t mean to do that, I swear.”

You roll your eyes. “Gyu, that is literally government property.”

He winces at that. “I got too excited!”

“For what?”

“...seeing you.”

Your expression softens despite yourself, struggling to bite back a smile as Mingyu places himself right next to you, your shoulders momentarily brushing. His hair is a tad bit windswept from probably flying here, and his glasses slightly askew on his nose. Half of his dress shirt is tucked into a pair of dark slacks, his tie half-done, and yet, he still looks like the most kissable man on Earth right now.

As the elevator begins to rise slowly, Mingyu glances over at you too. 

“You look nice today,” he points out casually.

You blink, peering down at your own outfit. It wasn’t too much out of the ordinary𑁋just a more structured blazer, a formal blouse, a bit more effort in your makeup, and your hair styled in a way when you actually want to appear like you have your shit together.

“Thank you.” You clear your throat, warmth sprouting in your cheeks. “Got a meeting later in the afternoon with out-of-town journalists. Thought looking intimidating would make it go by faster.”

A grin crosses Mingyu’s face as his eyes roam over you once more. “Well, you do look intimidatingly hot, if I do say so myself.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Mingyu.”

“What?” His grin only widens. “Is flirting with my girlfriend a crime now?”

You try to glare at him, but it’s not effective at all with the way you’re suppressing a stupidly fond smile. “Flattery won’t fix this elevator door.”

“That’s totally unrelated.”

“It looks like a rhino charged head first into it.”

Mingyu chuckles sheepishly. “I’ll… fix it tomorrow, maybe. After hours. No one will know. Or I can bribe maintenance with cookies again.”

You could only scoff. He’s such a dork.

The elevator hums as it continues its ascent into the upper floors of the building. Right next to you, Mingyu’s hand brushes against yours. First by complete accident, second on purpose. You don’t pull away when his pinky nudges against yours. Instead, you allow your fingers to lace around his, and you immediately feel the way he relaxes. 

It’s quiet in the moments that follow, yet your heart is completely betraying you and you know he can hear it.

The two of you have been together for almost five months at this point, and yet, it feels like it’s only ever been day one. The hardest part was keeping your relationship a secret at first, especially from the newsroom, but then Minghao told you that you both have been fairly obvious ever since the kryptonite case. You didn’t even try to deny it because there was no point.

Especially not when Mingyu would sometimes hover outside your bedroom window, tapping gently on the glass to say hi before flying off on another rescue mission. Or when your coworkers always noticed the two of you walking in and out of the building together. Or when you’d randomly go missing for lunch and return all flushed, hair tousled, and somehow in a better mood. 

You turn to face him, letting go of his hand momentarily to fix his tie, tugging gently at the silk resting at the base of his throat. You feel his hands trail down your waist as he stands still while you tighten it. When your fingers brush over his collarbones, he tenses naturally, though he still wears that boyish smile to his face.

“Still meeting me for dinner tonight?” he asks.

You smooth out his dress shirt over his chest. “Depends. Are you flying me to Paris or Italy this time?” 

Mingyu hums contemplatively, his fingers tightening a little more around your waist. “Hm, I was thinking more like Greece. Or Japan, maybe. I know you’ve always wanted to go there. Heard it’s cherry blossom season over there.”

You tilt your head as you pretend to think. “Tough choice. Greek sunsets or Japanese cherry blossoms?”

“Baby, I could take you to both, you know.”

You snort, adjusting the collar of his shirt. “Clearly you forgot we have actual jobs that require us to, I don’t know, show up.”

Mingyu sighs dramatically, pushing back some loose strands of hair behind your ear. “Right. Damn capitalism.” He lets his eyes roam over you adoringly. “Okay, how about just my place tonight?”

“Isn’t Wonwoo going to be there?”

“Don’t worry. He’s grown into the art of minding his own business.”

You grin at that. 

The ding of the elevator interrupts your banter, the doors𑁋still dented from his overly enthusiastic entrance𑁋sliding open to reveal the classic chaotic routines of the bullpen. Mingyu retracts his hand from your waist, straightening his posture in the hopes of masking away his besotted features. You flip back into your professional stance too, fixing your blazer and flicking a glance to the time on your watch.

The two of you step out onto the floor together. The frantic morning bustle of the newsroom quickly fills your senses: interns rushing by, the clattering of keyboards, a printer breaking down somewhere in the corner, and people yelling out deadlines in your ears. When you stop at your desk, you watch for a few seconds as Mingyu sidles past you to head to his own cubicle just a few steps down. 

However, just as you’re about to sit, a loud voice booms through the newsroom: Seungcheol.

“Mingyu! Y/N! Office now!” 

You freeze halfway in the seat, meeting Mingyu’s equally startled gaze across the room, his hand gripped around his rolling chair. Letting out an exhale, you set your bag down on your desk with Mingyu following behind you over to Seungcheol’s office.

The blinds of Seungcheol’s office are halfway drawn as the two of you step inside, the door clicking shut behind you. Seungcheol is sitting at his desk, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a pragmatic look to his face. He doesn’t even have to glance up as he cracks a manila folder open on the desk. 

“Alright, Bonnie and Clyde,” he starts as you and Mingyu sit down. “I’m pairing you up again.”

You raise a suspicious eyebrow, shooting a side-glance toward Mingyu, who looks just as curious and baffled as you are. It hasn’t even been long since the two of you were paired up on the kryptonite trafficking and Scarface incident, where near-death was just a slip away from your fingers.

Seungcheol opens the folder, revealing a cluster of surveillance photos from what look to be press conferences, a particular figure standing out in every single one.

“Recently, the President-elect has been appearing in places he shouldn’t be,” Seungcheol states, sliding the photos over the two of you.

“The President-elect?” You repeat, staring down at the images. “As in, President-elect Yoon Jeonghan?”

“Precisely,” Seungcheol responds eagerly. “He’s been spotted here in Seoul, then Metropolis, Gotham, Beijing, nearly everywhere.”

You lean in closer to photos, feeling Mingyu beside you do the same. Sure enough, there he is𑁋President-elect Yoon Jeonghan wearing his signature dark suit, waving gracefully at crowds, shaking hands with sick children in a hospital, all with that perfect charming smile on his face. He appears undeniably poised, pristine, and politically untouchable. There’s something quite eerie about it. 

However, there are also some photos taken from security cameras in the middle of inconspicuous dark alleyways, military divisions, and unregistered facilities. All the photos were taken in different locations around the world. But what catches your eyes are the timestamps on the photos.

They’re all merely hours or even minutes apart.

“That’s not humanly possible,” You remark incredulously. “Any information on travel records?”

Seungcheol shakes his head grimly. “Nope. His press team claims he’s been prepping for his inauguration in Seoul and only travelled three times the past five months. The intelligence team is pretty divided on digging even more about this. But I know when something isn’t right, and clearly this𑁋” He motions over the photos. “𑁋isn’t just normal presidential shenanigans. I need to know if the man who is about to lead this country is actually who he says he is.”

You and Mingyu exchange another look. He’s frowning now, jaw tense. You can practically see the gears turning in your head. It’s clear he’s thinking the same thing you are. 

This isn’t just a scandal, or a simple case of political corruption. It’s a threat waiting to detonate.

“Alright,” You say, clasping your hands together. “We’ll take it.”

“Good.” Seungcheol leans back in his chair. “But keep this off the record for now. We don’t want to cause a nationwide panic. Whatever you plan to write, take it up with me first. He’s still the goddamn President-elect, so watch your backs. Both of you.” 

“Yes, sir,” Mingyu states solemnly, already gathering back the photos in the folder.

“And look, I don’t care what the hell is going on between the two of you,” Seungcheol starts, eyes flitting between the two of you. “But I do know the last time I partnered you two, we broke the damn site’s traffic record and scored a Pulizter nomination in the process. So don’t disappoint me, alright? Meeting’s over.”

The two of you start to saunter your way out of Seungcheol’s office with materials gathered under both of your arms. However, just as Mingyu is about to close the door, Seungcheol calls out to him again.

“Kim! One more thing.”

Mingyu pauses with his hand still on the doorframe, poking a head back in the office. “Yes, sir?”

Seungcheol doesn’t look up from his papers he’s scavenging through, but his voice cuts through the room like a knife. 

“Try not to die this time, yeah?” 

It comes off way too casual for Mingyu’s liking, laced with that familiar gruff Seungcheol charm that’s gotten him through years of leading the newsroom and dealing with incorrigible employees. The man basically implied that he knows in some way, somehow. Mingyu’s jaw twitches from nerves, before easing into a tight-lipped smile. 

“Noted… uh, sir.”

Seungcheol waves him off curtly. “Amazing. Now get back to work.”

And so he does. Mingyu quietly shuts the door before sheepishly meandering his way over to where you’re already perched at your desk and setting the files down. You smile when you catch him coming up to you, and the look on your pretty face is quick to dissolve any lingering nerves he has.

“So, partner.” You place a hand on your hip. “Guess we’re working together again.”

“That seems to be the case, Cronkite,” Mingyu retorts teasingly. 

You tilt your head fondly at the nickname, peering up at him curiously.

“Are you ready for this?” 

Mingyu glances down at you. He doesn’t answer, not at first𑁋just takes you in with warm eyes as if you’re the centre of the damn universe, noticing every flicker of excitement and hint of worry that paints your features. He may be Superman, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel scared sometimes. 

Especially when it comes to you𑁋someone who he doesn’t just love, but someone who he would quite literally move through heaven and hell for. Someone who makes every mission worth surviving. Someone who he chooses again and again every damn day. 

You’re standing there in front of him with your lips pressed in that determined line he knows all too well. Brave. Brilliant. Unafraid to chase the truth even if it kills you. And God, he swears he falls in love with you all over again.

“With you by my side?” Mingyu starts, lips quirked up as he steps up closer to you. “I’m ready to take on anything, my love.” 

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[ghostedgwen]

i had this idea for a while so here you go!!

angsty remus x reader (established relationship). remus saw some girl and her boyfriend holding her books. and remus has a bad hip/cane so carrying books for his girlfriend is impossible for him. i feel like itd be in character for him to compare himself and fall deeper into self loathing.

idk if that’s good enough but i really want some comfort in the end please🫶 i love your work

it's always you | r.lupin

note : my heart clenched reading this request omggg and I love established relationship fics so much! thank you for requesting this! Sorry if it's too short, it was pretty simple and I didn't want to unnecessarily drag out the angst

warnings : angst with comfort, mentions of disabilities, Remus and his self-deprecation as always, pain but I get you band-aids

The courtyard was still slushy from last night’s snow, sludgy puddles glistening under weak winter sunlight. Students trudged between classes, scarves wrapped tightly, laughter puffing white in the air.

Remus Lupin stood near the old stone archway, leaning subtly on his cane, trying not to feel like the air was too cold for late January, like it was creeping under his skin.

You were inside, probably waiting for him at the library, already buried in Ancient Runes. He should be with you. But his eyes, traitorous, bitter things, were locked on a pair across the quad.

A girl giggling, half-tumbling through the slush, and a boy beside her. Her boyfriend, apparently. He had her stack of books in his arms, teasing her as she slipped on the wet cobblestones, steadying her with one hand. She laughed, bright and easy, and kissed his cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Remus didn’t know her. Didn’t know him, either.

But something about the image stuck in his chest like a splinter.

He shifted his weight, his hip flaring with dull, familiar pain. The cane felt heavier today, and the old scar down his thigh throbbed in the cold. He flexed his fingers around the handle.

He couldn’t carry your books.

Not without hurting. Not without risking a fall or stiffening up halfway to class. He’d tried, once, a few months into dating you - insisted on taking your bag, and you’d let him, though he knew you noticed the way he bit down on the pain. You never asked him to again. You just started walking closer. Offering your arm. Always touching, but never pushing.

And yet. And yet.

He wasn’t like that boy.

Wasn’t someone you could lean on in that way. Not without it becoming something extra you had to think about. Something inconvenient.

And hadn’t he always been a little too much? Too scarred, too tired, too broken?

He didn’t notice you approach until your voice sliced through his thoughts like warm light through mist.

“Hey, stranger.”

Remus blinked and turned. You stood beside him now, you seemed flushed from the cold, smile small and soft.

“Hi,” he said, trying to sound normal.

You tilted your head. “You okay?”

He forced a smile. “Yeah. Just… cold.”

You didn’t buy it. You never did. But you didn’t press, not yet. Instead, you reached out and gently laced your fingers through his free hand.

“Come on. I saved us a spot by the fire.”

He followed, cane tapping rhythmically beside you, each step measured and careful. You didn’t rush him. You never did, that's why you worked so well.

You could read him like a very open book, and you have memorized the tabs of his every page. How to handle his moods, the full moons, the angst, the pain - he could swear he'd never deserve you in any lifetime.

It wasn’t until the library was quiet again, after an hour of pretending to study, that it all spilled over.

You looked up from your notes, sensing him drift again. His knee was bouncing. His jaw tight. He often fidgeted like that when deep in some depressing thought.

You leaned in. “Talk to me.”

Remus blinked. “I’m fine.”

“Liar,” you said gently.

His mouth opened. Closed, then opened again : “Do you ever wish I was… easier?”

The question hit like a slap. You knew it was another one of those but that was too direct and sudden.

“Easier?” you repeated, the word tasted bitter in you mouth.

He wouldn’t look at you. Just stared at his hands, scarred and his eyes traced them. “Like someone who could carry your books. Who could run to class with you. Someone who doesn’t need to stop and sit after fifteen minutes. Someone who doesn’t need a cane at 17.”

Your heart broke in slow motion.

“Remus,” you said carefully, setting your quill down. “Where is this coming from?”

He gave a bitter laugh. “Some guy in the courtyard. Had his girlfriend’s books. She looked so happy. And I just… I can’t do that for you.”

You reached across the table and covered his hand with yours. “So you thought I’d want to trade you for some guy with exceptional knees and biceps?”

He flinched. “I just thought… maybe I’m a little too much.”

You stood, walked around the table, and knelt beside his chair. He looked shocked. You didn’t care.

“Listen to me,” you said, quiet but firm. “You are 'too much', yes. Too kind, too thoughtful, too self-deprecating, too worried, too loving, too cute even when you're brooding and all that.”

He opened his mouth, but you cut him off.

“And I don’t love you despite the hard parts, Remus. I love you, full stop. Books or no books. Cane or no cane. You’re not broken. You’re just you. And that’s who I choose, every time.”

His eyes filled, lashes fluttering.

“I don’t care if you can’t carry my books,” you added, softer now. “You carry my heart around like it’s the most precious thing in the world. That’s more than I’ve ever asked for.”

Remus let out a shaky breath. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, and his arms came around you in a hesitant, fragile way, like he didn’t believe he was allowed.

But you held him tighter. Like your arms around him could say everything else that remained unsaid.

“You don’t have to compare yourself,” you whispered. “Not to anyone.”

“I just want to be enough.”

“You are. So much more than enough.”

He pulled back, eyes glassy, but clearer than they’d been in days. “I love you,” he said.

“I know,” you said with a small smile. “Now let’s get you out of this library before your hip seizes up, old man.”

He laughed and let you help him to his feet. Your hand stayed in his all the way back to the common room.

And if he leaned into you a little more than usual that night, you didn’t mind. Not at all.

end. masterlist

[ooooo-mcyt]

Scott's constant need to present himself as unshakable makes me insane.

Scott to me is fundamentally such an optimistic and hopeful person, someone who believes there's always a way forward, always something he can do to make things better, always a silver lining, always a light at the end of the tunnel, and so Scott is endlessly proactive. He's resourceful, he's adaptable, he thinks quickly, he's calm and collected, he's social, he's determined. Scott believes that things can work out- that the world can be kind if he fights for it to be- and he always works to make sure things turn out for him and the people he loves. Scott believes in agency, that he always has a choice, and that those choices can solve anything.

These are positive traits! These are admirable things about Scott! I greatly admire Scott's worldview for how kind it is, I greatly admire how proactive and determined Scott is, I greatly admire how much emotional control and adaptability he has, I greatly admire his belief in personal agency and making things better.

But I also think in some ways Scott's worldview limits how much Scott lets himself be vulnerable. Fear, anger, hurt- these things are often shoved down and repressed, never shown to other people, or even himself. Scott's resolve to always move forward and get the best possible outcome out of any situation is admirable, but it's a double edged sword. As much as Scott believes he can solve anything by being calm and adaptable and determined, Scott also believes that everything will come crashing down if he ever fails to be those things. In his mind, if Scott ever fails to be charming or resourceful or in control of himself, the world ends. Scott puts so much value into his own capacity for choice, for better and for worse.

And it's hard to say he's entirely wrong. Scott has saved himself and the people around him a million times by being in control of himself, and I can't promise everything would work out if he let go a little. Vulnerability is a hard risk to justify in a death game, especially when Scott is never only fighting for himself, always has other people relying on him, people he loves. But I can say that a lot of the people closest to Scott- Cleo, Pearl, etc- are competent and capable people who he can rely on and who would want to be there for him, and I can say that Scott deserves that support.

[darkdesangue]

Seriously, I never get people who think of Aziraphale as helpless or dumb. Ffs he averted the apocalypse on a technicality. He is quick on the uptake, extremely intelligent, resourceful (how he possessed a human after getting discorporated so he could reach Tadfield) also, how he figured out who the Antichrist was within no time at all once it became clear that Warlock wasn't the one.

He protected Gabriel at the risk of his own destruction because Gabriel came to him for help.

He walked into HELL with his head held high and tricked every single one of them into believing Crowley was invincible.

He tricked all the angels in the Job minisode to help save three children.

He regularly tricked his entire office by doing temptations and blessings alike under his Arrangement with Crowley.

He did the magic bullet catch without any miracles.

He saved himself and Crowley from Furfur's agenda with a sleight of hand.

He gave Crowley Holy Water because he couldn't bear the thought of Crowley getting himself hurt in a heist. Even though he knew it would land him in a world of trouble if anyone found out.

He fucking gave his flaming sword away and LIED TO GOD about it because he believed it was the right thing to do.

Shall I go on?

Aziraphale is one crazy BAMF and I love him in all his various moods.

I Said I Will Protect You

And I will.

Aziraphale is no helpless bumbling idiot. He enjoys being soft and silly and joyful and all that, sure. But he also downplays just how much he knows and anticipates and understands. How strong and brave and resolute he is in his beliefs and choices.

[deusvervewrites]

Ask Game:

The reason why the staff call Nezu rat god is because underneath his mammalian skinsuit, Nezu is actually an Eldritch abomination

Let me be clear that the word 'inspired' will be doing some heavy fucking lifting in that sentence.

Should one's dreams cross the howling shore, one may find oneself in betwixt, where reality becomes thought. This is probably unrelated to Midoriya's reoccurring nightmares of a twisted city comprised of multiple places stitched together. Shit's spooky in there. He'd much rather spend those nightmares hanging out in the old library outside the city where the horrors never enter. The books make his head hurt, but what else does he have to do?

The Grand Archive is a small space in betwixt that Nedzu maintains as a haven for humans lost beyond the howling shore. He notices Midoriya taking refuge there right away, but pays this little mind, until Midoriya accidentally makes a friend. Literally. Yeah, uh, reading those books may have been a bad call.

Most people who end up lost in betwixt awaken from the nightmare and return to the waking world, never again venturing beyond the howling shore. Midoriya doing so somewhat regularly has had some... effects. Reading the books in the Archive didn't help, but, to be fair, no one told him that. Anyway long story short, he accidentally gave form to his thoughts, creating someone who would protect him from the nightmare. A Hero.

Sentinel is not an idealized version of Midoriya himself, but rather, who he wants with him in the nightmare. As such, she takes after Inko quite a lot, but with unshakable confidence (like he sees in All Might and Bakugou) and a sort of honorable warrior theme, because let's be real who wouldn't want a brave knight to save them from this shit. She also trains Midoriya to defend himself.

Nedzu is extremely intrigued by this turn of events. Humans don't normally have the necessary will to create something in the dream as stable as her. He approaches them in the nightmare and asks for their help cleaning out the nightmare of some of the other outer/elder/whatever gods so that it won't risk spilling over into earth.

+1. Speaking of spilling over, as Midoriya grows stronger in the nightmare, eventually Sentinel will be able to follow him out of the Betwixt and into the real world. You might think that it would be difficult for a Pro Hero to do Hero work given that they have no license or documentation of existence. That would be correct if not for Nedzu. The HPSC are pulling their hair out but, like, she's not doing anything wrong, so it's fine, they guess.

[ickbite]

OFF THE RECORD SIM JAEYUN

PAIRING: superman!Jake x Reporter!reader, no romance but lowkey leading into it... click here for part 2 :) (currently not written)

AUTHORS NOTE: 3.4k words, getting back into writing so it's not beautiful but its something...

-----------------------------------

     When working as a news reporter, you’ve learned a thing or two about the world. Mostly that you are never safe… ever. In a world with superheroes and villains, civilians are the next target, getting involved with affairs that are far above them. It’s difficult to do anything nowadays, you couldn’t even go to the gas station without the fear of a villain blowing it up! 

     It’s important for you to stay neutral no matter what, writing articles about supers and villains and questioning if it's possible to love them despite the law breaking and dangers to society. You don’t write puff pieces, your articles are sharp, sometimes cynical. “Who’s protecting us from our protectors?” had been your most-shared headline last year. You still get death threats in the comments section… 

     “Guess what Y/N,” a brunette man walks in, glasses sitting perfectly on his face with a smug look. 

     “What do you want, Jake?” You ask. Jake Sim is one of the most brilliant and irritating people you’ve ever met. While you try to stay neutral in your articles, Jake dismisses them. He’s Pro-Hero, especially when it comes to the hero of your town, Superman. 

     Superman has made himself known to the public a year before, when an alien tried to make Earth the new Krypton with ships that drilled the Earth’s core. Superman happened to show up and save the day and you almost got a death sentence when the floor of your building collapsed (thank god you called in sick that day). 

     Jake put a file down on your desk, “New Superman sighting, he saved a jet midair with no casualties. Honestly, he deserves a national holiday… Superman day, what do you think?” 

     You sigh, “or… I could write about how air traffic control failed and a flying man had to fix it.”

     “You’re allergic to giving him credit,” he teases, dropping into his chair next to yours. “It’s okay. One day, you’ll admit you’re secretly in love with him.”

     “I’m not in love with anyone who can punch through a mountain,” you mutter, turning to your screen. “Too much risk. It makes for a great article, but a terrible relationship.”

     “I think Superman is more important to you than you lead on.” 

     And before he can retort, your boss walked out of his office, looking at the both of you and sighing, “L/N, Sim, I sent you a case file. You’re covering a media safety seminar downtown — Channel 7’s rooftop studio. Live taping, a few influencers, city PR, maybe a politician if we’re lucky. Nothing glamorous, just smile-and-wave coverage.”

     “Media safety?” you echo flatly.

     “Irony Isn't lost on me,” your boss says, already walking back inside.

     Jake’s grinning again, “bet Superman shows up. Wouldn’t miss a rooftop photo op with his favorite reporter.”

     “Bet he’s smart enough to avoid a clickbait trap,” you mutter, standing and grabbing your coat.

———

     The rooftop of Channel 7 glistens with sunlight, too clean for what’s about to happen.

     You and Jake stand shoulder to shoulder near the back, covering a press event about media safety. The backdrop is the skyline of Metropolis, with a few local news anchors droning on into microphones about “trust” and “responsibility.”

     Jake shifts beside you, bored out of his mind, “we could’ve just emailed in a quote and skipped the rooftop sunburn.”

     “And missed this riveting speech?” you deadpan, watching a pigeon land on the teleprompter.

     He smirks, “let me guess, you’re going to write about how this was a metaphor for the false sense of security in hero-worship culture?”

     “Don’t tempt me.”

     But then, the monitors blink.

     The lights flicker. The mic squeals. Then the air changes. You feel it, like pressure pushing into your ears, the metallic tang of a coming storm. 

     “Smile, Metropolis.”

     Her voice.

     Livewire.

     The LED screens burst into static, then show her glowing face, eyes wild and electric-blue. She floats across the rooftop’s giant display like a phantom made of lightning.

     “Time for your scheduled broadcast: an explosion. Featuring me, and maybe that walking lightbulb you call Superman.”

A pulse hits the rooftop, and the next thing You know all the power goes out.

     Cameras melt. Mics explode. A light fixture falls, nearly crushing a cameraman. Jake grabs your wrist and pulls you backward instinctively as the rooftop devolves into chaos.

     “What the hell—”

     “She’s using the grid,” you shout. “She’s inside it!”

     Livewire drops from the sky like a thunderbolt. She lands hard enough to crack the tiles beneath her boots. A cyclone of wires twist behind her like robotic snakes.

     “Oh look,” she purrs, stalking across the floor. “Reporters. My favorite critics.”

     Screens around the rooftop flicker to life again, showing your face. Your headlines.

     “‘Who’s Protecting Us From Our Protectors?’” she quotes with a sneer. “God, you’re dramatic.”

     Your blood runs cold.

     She raises a hand, crackling with white-blue electricity. A bolt forms in her palm, aimed directly at you.

     You can’t move fast enough, but someone else does.

     A blur of color, red, blue, gold, slams into you, tackling you to the floor just as the lightning hits. You land hard, dazed, the world spinning. Your head’s in someone’s chest, strong, unbreakable.

      Superman.

     “Stay down,” he says, voice low, urgent.

     And then he’s standing. Rising. Facing Livewire with fists clenched.

     She sneers.

     “Took you long enough.”

     Their fight is explosive.

     Livewire is faster than you thought. She zips between cables, surging through lights and wires, firing bolts with sniper precision. She launches them at civilians. At the structural beams. At the edge of the roof.

     Superman intercepts every single one, but he’s slowing down. You see it, the singed edges of his cape, the way his shoulder rolls like it hurts. He’s tired. One of her hits lands, and he stumbles. Blood drips from his mouth.

     This makes you gasp. You’re pretty sure no one has ever seen Superman bleed.

     Livewire pulls energy from the rooftop’s emergency generators, a swirling orb above her head, glowing like a miniature sun.

     “Let’s end this with a bang,” she snarls, her hair floating upward like static. “One rooftop barbecue, coming up.”

     She hurls the orb toward the center of the platform.

     You barely have time to scream when

Superman flies straight through it.

     He crashes into her midair, redirecting the blast upward. The sound is like thunder cracking open the sky. The rooftop shakes. The explosion lights the skyline for miles.

     When it’s over, Superman crashes back to the floor, cape torn, shoulders heaving. But he’s still standing.

     Livewire is gone, unconscious, tangled in a melted antenna.

——-

      Silence stretches over the rooftop.

     You sit up slowly, your heart racing. Superman turns, meeting your eyes.

     He’s bleeding, his knuckles are raw, and one eye is swelling.

     And yet

     “Are you alright, Miss L/N?” he asks softly.

     Your breath catches. The way he says your name. Not as a god, not as a symbol, but like someone who knows you.

     Still, you don’t dwell on it.

     You nod, “I… I think so.”

     He nods once. And then, still limping slightly, he launches into the sky.

     You watch him vanish into the clouds, heart pounding. Something inside you shifts.

     You’ve written so many articles about Superman — about power, risk, fear. But at that moment… he didn’t look like a threat.

     He looked like a person.

⸻

     Back at your desk, still shaken, you write without thinking.

     He bleeds, he flinches, he protects without asking for applause.

     Maybe Superman isn’t a god. Maybe that’s exactly why he matters.

     Jake walks in twenty minutes later with two iced coffees, “so… heard the Channel 7 rooftop is toast.”

     “It was Livewire,” you say absently. “She nearly killed me.”

     Jake leans against your desk, brow furrowed, “seriously? Are you okay?”

     You nod, glancing at his face. There’s a faint bruise on his jaw, like he bumped into something during the panic.

     “I didn’t see you after the first lightning hit,” you say.

     He shrugs, “I, uh… got stuck in the stairwell. Total system failure.”

     You don’t question it, you’re too tired and spun out.

     “Superman showed up,” you say softly.

     Jake smiles like it’s obvious, “obviously he did.”

All you feel is your own confusion. Your own surprise that maybe, just maybe… you don’t hate Superman after all.

———

     The newsroom was still buzzing after the Livewire attack, every screen flashing images of the rooftop chaos, sparks flying, screams echoing, and then the miraculous figure of Superman swooping in to save a passenger jet midair. The city was alive with chatter, but you were drained, your fingers aching from typing out the breaking news article titled “When Power Strikes: Civilian Voices on the Livewire Rooftop.”

     Your editor slid a thick folder across your desk with a sharp glance.

     “L/N, You’re interviewing him.”

     You blinked, nearly spilling your coffee.

     “Interviewing who?” you asked, already guessing but hoping you misheard.

     “Superman. He’s doing a rare press appearance, he specifically asked for you.”

     Your heart skipped a beat. You looked over at Jake, who was leaning against a desk, pretending to read something but clearly eavesdropping.

     He gave a small smirk, “guess they want the real take, huh?”

     You swallowed hard. Interviewing Superman was a huge opportunity, but you weren’t about to write a glowing fan piece.

⸻

      Later, you were led into a conference room atop one of the city’s tallest skyscrapers. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the panoramic city skyline, peaceful, glowing under the afternoon sun, fragile beneath the calm.

     The room was quiet except for the soft hum of security guards stationed outside. Inside, a table stood empty except for a pitcher of water and a single chair facing the window.

     Then, suddenly, the air shifted.

     A soft whoosh filled the room.

     And there he was.

     Superman.

     He entered with effortless grace. His cape billowed softly behind him, his blue suit gleaming despite the faint bruise darkening the skin beneath his eye. There was exhaustion in his face, but his posture remained commanding.

     When his gaze met yours, it felt like he already knew you like he’d read every article you’d ever written, even the critical ones.

     “Miss L/N,” he said, voice low and warm. “It’s good to finally meet you.”

     You struggled not to let your breath hitch.

     “You… you asked for me?” you managed.

     “I read your work,” he said simply. “You ask the hard questions. You don’t sugarcoat things, I respect that.”

     You felt an unexpected warmth, almost an invitation, as he gestured toward the chair.

     “This won’t be fluff, I promise.”

     He smiled, “Good. I don’t do fluff.”

     The interview began cautiously, questions about his origins, his mission to protect the city, his views on justice. But as the minutes passed, the tone softened, and the conversation deepened.

     “You put yourself in danger every day for strangers who might not even want your help. Why?” you asked.

     His eyes darkened, a flicker of vulnerability surfacing beneath the strength.

     “Because they can’t fight back. But I can.”

     “Even if they turn on you? Even if they question your motives?”

     “Especially then,” he said quietly.

     You swallowed and leaned in.

     “Are you lonely? I mean, someone with this kind of responsibility, it must be isolating.”

     He hesitated, a shadow crossing his face.

     “Sometimes. But then I remember moments like this. When someone writes the truth, even if it’s harsh, it reminds me there’s still honesty in the world.”

     Your heart clenched. For the first time, the invincible superhero seemed human, real. You looked down at your recorder, voice barely above a whisper.

     “Do you ever wish you were… just normal?”

     He met your eyes, and something unspoken passed between you.

     “Every day,” he confessed. “But then I probably wouldn’t get to talk to you.”

     Your chest tightened as your breath caught in your throat.

⸻

You stormed back into the newsroom with your press badge still clipped crookedly to your shirt and the interview recorder clutched in your hand like it might vanish if you let go.

“Where have you been?” Jake asked, spinning lazily in his chair, only to stop and do a double take. “Whoa. You look like you saw a ghost.”

“I interviewed Superman,” you muttered.

Jake blinked. “And?”

You dumped your bag on your desk, flopping into your chair.

“And he’s… weirdly thoughtful.”

Jake raised a brow, amused. “Thoughtful?”

You glared at him. “He quoted my article. Said I write ‘honestly.’ I didn’t know Superman had time to sit down and read op-eds between saving planes and punching lightning girls in the face.”

Jake leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest with a smirk. “So what you’re saying is… you’re blushing over Superman.”

“I’m not blushing,” you snapped, trying (and failing) to stop the heat rising to your cheeks. “It’s just surprising. He was… not what I expected.”

Jake grinned. “Let me guess. You thought he’d be a meathead in spandex, but instead he was charming, articulate, and told you your opinions mattered.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Exactly. Which is suspicious.”

Jake just laughed under his breath. “Or maybe he just thinks you’re cute.”

You threw a crumpled sticky note at his head.

⸻

A few days later, you found yourself on assignment outside the Metropolis Energy Sector’s main building — a newly built LexCorp branch with rumors of shady tech being tested underground. You didn’t want to be here. It was too quiet. Too perfect.

And in your world, perfect was a warning sign.

You were half-listening to a PR drone talk about solar conversion rates when the ground trembled beneath your heels. Just once. Then again. Then harder.

Screams erupted. Concrete cracked. The street outside split open like a zipper and a massive hunk of machinery — all gears, pulsing green lights, and hydraulic legs — crawled up from below.

“Prototype AI Defense Unit gone rogue,” someone shouted.

LexCorp security scrambled, ushering civilians away as the mech aimed something that looked suspiciously like a cannon. You ducked behind a news van, heart racing, every alarm in your body blaring at once.

“Of course it’s today,” you muttered.

The mech charged the cannon.

Then—

A streak of red.

A sonic boom.

And him.

Superman slammed into the machine like a meteor, bending its arm backward before lifting it clean off the ground. The mech fought back, spewing blasts of kryptonite-charged energy. He flinched—actually flinched—but didn’t back down.

You stared. He was struggling. He could lose.

Before you could move, debris fell from above—ripping loose from a nearby building. You heard your name being shouted, but didn’t have time to react.

Then arms. Strong, warm, impossibly fast.

And you were flying.

Your hands clutched at fabric — red cape, blue suit — as he pulled you out of the collapse and landed gently several blocks away.

For a second, it was just the two of you on a rooftop. Heart hammering. His face closed.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice steadier than yours.

“…Why do you always catch me?” you asked breathlessly.

He smiled, gently setting you down.

“Because you don’t look where you’re standing.”

You half-laughed, shaking. “You’re bleeding.”

He wiped the corner of his mouth, looking surprised to find blood there. “It’ll heal.”

You looked up at him, really looked. Tired. Bruised. Still standing.

“Why don’t you just let people think you’re invincible?” you whispered. “Wouldn’t it be easier?”

He met your gaze. “I don’t want people to think I’m a god. Just someone trying.”

Your throat tightened.

“You’re… not what I expected,” you admitted. “Again.”

“And yet, you keep showing up.”

You didn’t answer. Not at first. But your voice was soft when it came:

“Because every time I think I’ve figured you out… you say something like that.”

He paused. “You still don’t trust me, do you?”

“I don’t trust anyone,” you said. “But I think I want to.”

A long silence.

Then:

“That’s enough for me.”

He took off into the sky.

And you stayed on the rooftop long after he was gone, hand still clenched around the edge of your notebook, heart still racing.

⸻

Scene 5 – Night Talk: “Superman’s Not That Great”

You stayed late at the office again, typing up your notes from the incident. Jake strolled in from the break room with a cup of something that wasn’t coffee.

“Let me guess,” he said. “Another Superman moment?”

You didn’t look up. “He saved me again.”

Jake flopped into the chair next to yours and threw his feet onto the desk. “You really know how to get in trouble.”

You smirked, but your eyes stayed on the screen. “I don’t know what to do with him.”

Jake tilted his head. “With Superman?”

You nodded. “He’s—ugh. He’s too good. It’s annoying. He makes me feel like the world might actually be okay for five seconds. And I hate that.”

Jake was quiet.

You glanced up, suspicious. “What?”

He stared into his cup.

“That’s dangerous,” he said.

You frowned. “Why?”

He looked at you. A little too long. Then shrugged.

“Because guys like that don’t exist. Not really.”

You scoffed. “So what, you think I’m being naïve?”

“I think… Maybe you’re starting to want to believe in someone. And that scares you more than any villain could.”

You sat in silence for a beat, his words unsettlingly accurate.

Jake stood, walking past your desk. But before he disappeared down the hallway, he added:

“Just be careful, Y/N. Even Superman has secrets.”

You didn’t see the faint flicker of guilt in his eyes as he left.

You didn’t mean to be on the rooftop again.

Not consciously.

You told yourself it was for the article, the follow-up piece to the Metallo incident. You needed quotes. Details. Verification.

But a small, traitorous part of you had noticed that this rooftop, the one overlooking the LexCorp building, was quiet at night. And more importantly…

He always showed up.

“You’re here late.”

His voice cut through the stillness behind you, low and unmistakable. You didn’t even flinch. Your heart did, though.

You turned slowly. He stood a few feet away, cape fluttering gently in the warm night breeze. City lights painted gold across his suit. His expression—calm, curious, almost… fond.

“Didn’t realize you did rooftop drop-ins,” you said. “Thought you were busy bench-pressing satellites.”

“You were thinking about me,” he said.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You were writing about me. I can hear your keyboard from five blocks away.”

You laughed despite yourself, “that’s invasive.”

“It’s a gift,” he said, tilting his head. “But I try to use it wisely. I don’t read minds. Just… vibrations.”

“Convenient.”

“Also helpful when journalists wander into dangerous locations at night.”

You folded your arms, cocking a brow. “So what, you watch me now?”

“Not always,” he said. “Just when I’m worried.”

Your heart flipped.

“You’re worried about me?”

“I saw you fall through a ceiling last month. I think it’s warranted.”

He stepped closer, but you weren’t backing up. Superhero or not, your pride was stronger than anything else. 

“You’re hard to write about,” you admitted softly.

He raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

“I can’t figure you out. You say things like… ‘I’m not a god’ and then fly off like one.”

“And what would make me less confusing?” he asked.

“If you were more flawed.”

He chuckled. “I have flaws.”

“Like what?”

He hesitated. Then:

“I fall for people I shouldn’t.”

The breath caught in your throat.

“Like journalists?”

“Especially journalists,” he murmured.

There was a pause. A thick one. Charged.

You glanced down at your feet. Then back at him. “I’m not the kind of person heroes fall for.”

“Maybe you’re not the kind of person who lets people fall for you.”

You swallowed hard.

“You don’t even tell me your name.”

“If I told you, I think you’d look at me differently.”

“Would that be a bad thing?”

He stepped closer. Close enough for you to feel the warmth radiating off his skin.

His gloved hand brushed your cheek—gentle, barely there. Your heartbeat ricocheted in your ears.

“I think about you more than I should,” he said. “Even when I shouldn’t.”

You didn’t say anything, you only moved closer to him. How close could you get to him before his tough exterior was back up?

Apparently close, because if it had not been for the explosion that lit up the city behind you,making your body lurched forward, something would have happened between you.

“Go,” you said, breathless. “It’s okay. Go.”

His jaw tensed. “Be careful.”

Then he was gone.

Gone before your lips could touch. Before the question in your chest could be asked.

You were left staring into the smoke-streaked night, lips still parted, breath still caught.

And your heart?

It was no longer neutral.

[hellonexrth]

When the blade sunk into Hope's chest instead, her first instinct was to laugh. Something deep inside of her broke free for a moment, and tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. Not an act. The feelings were not present, but the tears came nonetheless. A girl mourning for her friend despite all that had been lost, despite the aching nothingness reaching shaking hands out from the center of that dead, dark heart. She didn't wipe them away. Didn't bother. Let her see them. "I saved you a seat," Kaya said as she dropped to one knee next to her mirror, the other side of her being, always and forever in some sick way, the family she wanted so badly to be a part of mocking her even now.

She grabbed hold of the hilt, looking at Hope with big, dark eyes tears that must have seemed so entirely out of place, as much as they felt. A testament to the sad little girl still inside her somewhere. They were tears of deception, whether she meant them to be or not. For they showcased something worth saving, made it look as if the girl within could be freed when that would never be the case, when she could never go back. Not even if she wanted to. Touching the hilt sent a strange sensation through her body, and her mind reeled as if watching a film, the scenes out of order.

Them, racing around the block and Hope ⸺ always winning. Her bothering Klaus, telling him she'd kick his ass one day. Her mother, looking at her with clear brown eyes, shaking her head. And her father too, that horrified look on his face in the moment before his death, looking at the girl that became a monster, the girl that would never be just a girl again. They all looked at her, the past versions of the people she loved, some alive, some deceased. The disappointment on Ingrid's face in that coffee shop only days ago, the shock on Theo's, and all the hypothetical disappointment from the people who could not see her now but would think her lost and beyond repair. Theo's mother. Even Laurie. All the people who ever thought her once, liked her, loved her, were a part of her family ⸺ real or found.

The worst part, was that it meant absolutely nothing. The faces could have been anyone's, their disappointment reaching no last left behind warmth in her chest. She could only smile, a bit of a laugh coming out at the thought of someone, something sending her a message. Even her subconscious. She laughed. I am beyond saving. "Say hi to Klaus for me," Kaya said, leaning down to whisper the words as she put the second hand on the hilt and turned hard and fast, digging it deeper into her chest.

It had been meant for him. That was the only thing he could think as he watched the dagger go through his wife's chest. He reached a hand up to his own, hoping to find it there instead, like the whole thing had been some sick trick devised in the dark trenches of the demon girl's mind. But he found no dagger, no blood. He dropped to the ground next to Hope, across from Kaya, holding Hope's hand tight and searching her face for something, anything that would tell him this would all be okay.

"It's okay, it's okay," he whispered, ignoring the demon's cruel words and the desire to rip her apart ⸺ a desire that would only get them into more trouble. He was not all powerful, not like Hope. And even now, Hope lay broken on the floor and he could only feel like an idiot, the grief washing over him, overlaid by ancient memories of another death he'd finally started to heal from. The scene too similar, the blood seeping out of her wound too fresh. He tried to say something but a choked gasp only came out and he was convinced, fucking convinced that this would be where he lost her and everything, fucking everything would be on his shoulders. Because there was no world where this was not his fault, where he had not led the both of them here even after hearing about the risks. He'd done this. He'd harmed her.

He placed one hand on the side of her face, turned it toward him as the demon girl stood up and paced away, as if letting them have their moment. He found her eyes, ones he had memorized, ones he could describe at the drop of a hat, every hint of color and light and darkness, and everything about her ingrained so deeply in his brain. Even this moment, too, would find a home there. "I'm so sorry," he said, unable to stop the tears that started and poured down his face. He reached for the dagger, and the hope that everything would be okay. A hand around it resulted in immediate agony and he looked up to find the demon, only for her to be out of sight. He pounded a fist into the concrete ground and didn't care that his knuckles bloodied then healed. "It's going to be okay. I'm going to get you out of here and everything is going to be okay." He swallowed thickly. "Don't close your eyes, okay? Just keep looking at me."

heartbreak topped itself with grief, as strong arms wrapped around her best friend’s frame. the hellhound tribrid looked so SMALL for a moment in her eyes, and guilt began to creep into her pores ⸺ she should have known better, should have been BETTER, did they not grow up together? how could anything truly sever that bond? and so she shook her head, squeezing the brunette tight, she held back tears, because she knew what came next. eating yourself alive for everything you did, when that pesky HUMANITY switch was off was never ending, and the guilt of all the atrocities the original tribrid had committed still felt soul crushing, but she’d had laurie to hold her up, now it was turn, she would make damn sure to be who her friend leaned on.

“hey, it’s okay.. it’s going to be… “ what it would be died as soon as the soft doe eyes, that had so quickly disarmed became pitch black again, the view making her want to pull away but she’d lowered her guard, and like a fly she’d fallen for the honey. “ what.. “ she began to say, willing herself to power up, but completely FORGETTING to and then it came, a sharp, pain in the middle of her chest, accompanied with release for the girl’s arms. that sound that ripped every illusion of finding herself at home, in her BED, with her husband.. that mixed in with the vampire’s return to the land of the LIVING, and it was then that shocked filled baby blue’s met his dark eyes.

“ It’s… “ she struggled, but refused to give into the pain coursing through her. the feeling of floating away invading her, she shook her head “it’s okay, i ⸺ i love you. “ she managed to breathe out, before the hellhound demanded her attention once again. clumsy steps were taken back as her knees buckled, but she did her best to stand upright. her PRIDE was still intact, she was hope mikaelson, that would never change.

was she afraid? absolutely, but she also looked down, the pain it felt far away. hmm dying surely didn’t suck as much as she thought it would. “ it doesn’t hurt…. not physically anyway, the BETRAYAL did however weigh on her heart, but maybe she’d see her mom again and find her dad. her eyes fluttered again and once again she buckled. her family would find a way to go on, they’d take care of laurie, of ingrid ⸺ caroline wouldn’t leave their side, and he’d have the salvatores, her sister would have their aunts and uncles. in other words the world could keep spinning without her, just like maybe it always should have.

“ you’ll still lose.. “ because of course they’d avenge her. “ i’ll save a seat for you in HELL..” quippy till the end, that was the hope way, she coughed blood pooling in her mouth, and a hand lamely came up to try and touch the knife, but one graze of her finger and it burned again. okay maybe it did hurt… and once again her thoughts went back to her husband. the life she promised him, everything they wouldn’t get to do, oh how she would MISS him, wherever she went. being separated wasn’t what she wanted, not when she had promised him she’d fight ⸺ but she was tired.. and she felt it now, so irrevocably. so she looked back in his direction again, and uttered more i love you’s.. because he had to know, surely he did know.. right? “ always and forever..” she mouthed in his direction… and she nodded again. “ you and me. “ words they’d said to each other and only each other. “ i love you. “

[statisticalcats2]

One of these days I'll finally learn my lesson about the trap of thinking I can tell my mom stuff about what I'm doing in the little independence I have in my life. Today was not that day.

[larkwinged]

the thing is, as much as i always dreamt of having kids one day (my views have changed drastically since yk who is back in office), i dont think any of my selfships would have kids. it’s a hard no for wildfire, clockwork, fyreflower, roar of dawn, and all the others.

the only ones i can see actually settling down and thinking about it would be dawn and chiori or artemis and eula. other than them, none of the others would have kids

[landonkirbyappreciation]

It’s so absurd how they had golem Landon telling Hope that she needed to worry about Landon less and everyone else more. When Landon had literally melted, been trapped in Malivore, been trapped alone in a prison world full of monsters with no help or powers, for how many weeks, all while everyone else was safely living their lives at the school. But no, don’t worry about Landon, worry about everyone else. That sort of mentality really sums up the show though, like… Landon is in grave danger, Landon is trapped in another dimension, Landon’s body has been taken over, Landon died, Landon is trapped in purgatory, Landon lost a piece of his soul, every bad thing ever is happening to Landon but let’s not worry about any of that and focus on other irrelevant things instead. And care about anyone and anything else but him while he suffers. That was basically the show in a nutshell.

[chirpsythismorning]

🎨 🖼️ 🌈 🩹 🧍🏽💡 🔮⚡️☄️

Blue Moon by Ella Fitzgerald

previous ⏪︎ now playing ⏩ next back to playlist

[antoncrane]

Random TOW question: When visiting Phineas, do you go alone or take companions with you? (I ask because I realised that I’ve always gone to see him solo. Legit’ never once dragged anyone along.) Also I know this could have been a poll, but I genuinely enjoy hearing everyone’s reasons for doing things.

[theood]

Sorry to beat the dead horse I live in lately but I'm so tired. A break from social media probably could help. If I figure out how else to occupy my time doing absolutely nothing. It's what I say every fucking day. Just wish I had friends. People my age around here to talk too. Even younger. Anything. I'm so fucking lonely. I love everyone I talk to online, I have meaningful connections with so many of you but I also haven't had meaningful conversation IRL in idk. Years probably. I haven't seen any of my old friends because we moved and I had to isolate myself because no one really wanted to hang out with me or could get here. And I really don't do anything, I can't be stressed. I can't be depressed I can't. I can't. I can't. Just like every adult in my life says. I don't know. I just wish I could actually see it's going to get better. Be better for me

[theskyexists]

You know what I think is so....there's such a pseudo respect for science on this website specifically but - just like in many societies generally - only when it speaks with authority. And yeah, the scientific method is how we're trying to find out truth about things, so we can base our decisions on this truth. At one point - you're gonna have to speak with some authority based on the research that has been done. But. So many people - in society and on this website - have not studied to become scientists. They have not learned about the scientific method. So all they see is apparently - science as authority. But science as authority is a consensus. 'Consensus' reached by multiple individual scientists who are no longer in major disagreement because so much research has been done that it SEEMS LIKE we're on to something. And yet, even then, everything may turn out to be wrong. Because people have been fabricating results for example (happened really seriously within the field of psychology) or because it turned out that most studies' methods or assumptions were less rigorous or accurate than desirable (lookin askance at economics) or the classic paradigm shift in physics where some whole new set of ideas topples earlier ones. It seems like we've reached a pretty solid idea of things. But when is that point? Very few people have been taught to recognise it. Which requires actually reading/scanning studies. Or at least good summaries. Getting a sense of what the landscape of ideas is. What are major theories and assumptions and results? (In uni, you get handed this in a course). More importantly, what is missing?? Once you go digging into any subject it generally turns out there's more gaps in understanding and especially empirical results WITH good methods than what's actually known. In uni, you're taught to recognise how researchers might have fucked up (at least, they attempt to teach this). What's solid stuff? What's rigorous research? What is valid and reliable? When is something TRUE? Here comes my personal opinion: if there's not 3- 10 citations behind a statement then you're knitting a web of maybes together. Actually it's NOT just my personal opinion, it's a major problem in scholarship and science that scientists are NOT reproducing studies because they are not rewarded for it - when the scientific method REQUIRES reproduction of results for any kind of robust 'truth' to emerge.

But most people are simply 100% not taught about HOW our societies make truth (emerge) - or rather how scientists should be doing this. They are delivered truth by the authority: science. But the nature of the scientific process delivers differing narratives, theories, hypotheses, especially until a kind of consensus is reached. So people take one study and run with it. Or 7 wildly differing studies which seem to be about the same thing but really aren't. And that's not even non-uni-educated people only, I've seen plenty of paper-publishing people knit their stuff together that way. Sometimes that's all the information there is! But though scientists are taught to point to the sources of information for statements they make - that doesn't mean that everything published is Fact. Most discussions of results would acknowledge this strenuously. Still, they're often cited that way if it suits the narrative of the paper pointing at them.

My point? Wish people would be MORE skeptical of 'science'. What? I hear you ask? More crazies who don't listen to reason? No - I just wish more people would have access to and the means to and the desire to and have respect for doing one's own research with the scientific method as FALLIBLE BUT ENDLESSLY SELF- ADJUSTING TRUTH-SEEKING MECHANISM in the backs of their minds. Which means reading. Literally just means reading, and staying critical, and recognising when things are not nearly ready to be called TRUTH yet at all and when things ARE ready to be called TRUTH (looking at climate change and its human causes and the major consensus on this).

What I mean is - again - wish people would actually read studies. Wish this was a thing taught to every child in secondary school. Otherwise you get people pointing at 30 studies about completely different arguments / completely different scope that lead back to about three studies of actual results eventually which didn't have amazing methods. And that's TRUTH and anyone who denied this Substantiated Common Sense is a moral idiot. Maybe let's do some rigorous testing first and then some pilots.

[nazmazh]

You refused to let the world refuse to change.

///

Less succinctly:

Turns out, you actually can do something about the world-ending crisis that will make the planet uninhabitable for future generations but not yourselves, instead of just leaving it for them to solve.

(If only solving climate change actually was as easy as just beating it up)

A mirror breaks

[prisonhannibal]

!! DONT SKIP !! donations urgently needed They are only at €5,561 out of €50,000 goal

I was contacted by Nader to draw pictures for and help spread his brother Abdulsalam Al-Anqar’s fundraiser to save their family. Nader is a 17 year old boy who lives in Gaza with his family: parents Ahmed (54) and mother Iman (49), brothers Abdulsalam (26), Mohammed (14), and Omar (21) and Abdulsalam’s wife and their one year old daughter Iman. Imagine it was your sibling, your friend, your son, who should be in school or with his friends, who instead has to hide from bombs and ask for help online to save his family. His family have suffered through one year of genocide. All of you are their hope to get to safety.

This fundraiser is vetted by @gazavetters, number four on the spreadsheet here

Abdulsalams daughter Iman is only one year old and has lived most her life in a war zone. She is suffering from malnutrition. It’s every fathers worst nightmare to see their child starve and not be able to feed her. Please help him feed his daughter and get her to safety. No child should grow up hearing the sound of bombs. Every child has the right to food and safety. You can help give Iman the childhood she should have, where she can sleep in a safe bed at night with a full stomach.

Their father Ahmed has cancer and needs surgery and medication. It is not possible to get the treatment he needs in Gaza. every day his illness is left untreated, the cancer will continue to spread through his body, so he very urgently needs money for treatment and travel. If you help them get to their goal, you are saving their fathers life. Don’t let this family who have already lost so much lose their father, husband, and grandfather

Nader has showed me pictures of this explosion close to them, thankfully they were able to get away. Every day they stay in Gaza their lives are at risk from israeli bombs. Every day and hour counts. I know there are compassionate and kind people who are willing to help. every euro helps, YOUR donation will bring them one moment closer to safety. With love and hope I’m asking you to give what you can, I believe in the kind people of the world and I beg you to not let them die. If you can’t donate, please share so it may reach people who can.

Never forget that palestinians are not numbers on a list of deaths. Please think of each of them, think of their names and faces and know that you can help them. I think of them every day. I think of the hopes and dreams they should achieve, I think of their education, their future, and the love they show when they work hard every day to get help. You may feel powerless to stop this genocide, but you have the power to save Abdulsalam and his family. I dream that the day will come soon where they may use their days to rest and recover from what they’ve been through, where they can share a meal and laugh and the children will play, instead of having to use their time to beg the world to listen and help them. We can make this possible.

50 000 euros is a lot of money for one person to give, but for all of us together, it can be done. Please don’t look away.

(drawing above by @neechees)

Thank you for reading their story. Please don’t keep scrolling without sharing

here is the link again to their fundraiser

tagging for reach:

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