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wheeboo · 2 hours ago

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SKYE MY BUB!!! THANK U SO SO MUCH FOR READING i'm so happy to hear u enjoyed it 🥺 ALL THE REACTION PICS PLS I😭😭😭 IM SO HAPPY TO EVOKE SUCH EMOTIONS FROM IT ADBHASHD

superman!mingyu has surpassed all my standards. if my partner is not like him, i don't want them /hj no but seriously. i absolutely loved and had sm fun writing his character and bringing this concept to life!!! it's still stuck with me like i need to write more of him and this couple ugh,, they have a special place in my heart

THANK YOU SO SO MUCH ONCE AGAIN 😭 i'm glad to have captured a perfect pace for the fic and created a truly immersive world!! i'm happy u think i nailed the suspense and mystery as well cuz those were truly the hardest parts of the fic to write BASDHSAHD

i love those little details as well! and you explained it so so well i'm so happy someone was able to notice it 😭 because at the end of the day, he may be an alien, but he's honestly more human than anyone else. he gets vulnerable, feels conflicted, and most importantly feels LOVE !!!! yn is just that perfect balance between his two lives. she compliments both sides of his identity. she grounds his humanity, yet challenges him as superman. in other words, yn is his equal which what makes them so so perfect

U EXPLAINED IT SO SO WELL. just to quote something from the new superman movie - "They've always been wrong about me. I love, I get scared, but that is being human. And that's my greatest strength" and i wanted to encapsulate this in the fic so so much!!! i'm happy i was able to portray him that way 🥺 because there is nothing wrong with being vulnerable and being human

I KNOW LIKE HIS POWERS ARE INSANE FR 😭 i wish i could've used his ice breath in this but honestly it went over my head i lowkey forgot abt it BSDHASD but.... if part 2 actually happens.... then i want to explore his powers more hehe AND YES GOD i cannot imagine any other person to fit this role more than mingyu

skye what if i just sobbed and died rn . PART 2 IS IN THE WORKS... SLOWLY.... DONT WORRY BASDHSA

you're so so sweet bub :(( i swear ur compliments make me so so happy u have no idea 😭 emotions are always something i love to describe and adding in those extra details that the character does. a character is nervous? their fingers twitch and a shiver runs up their spine. a character is happy? a painful grin stretches across their face enough to make their cheeks burn. a character is in love? their heart is doing leaps and they're completely awestruck. it's just so so important to me that readers are also able to feel these same emotions as well!! i'm glad i am able to portray that in my stories 🥺

BEST WRITERS ARE CARATBLR RAHHH 😭 thats it i'm crawling on the floor sobbing in my puddle of tears SKYE FMLLL

thank u so so much for reading bub <3 i love uuuu

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.”

taglist (open) ʚɞ @haowrld @icyminghao @slytherinshua @jeonride @eternalgyu

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#SKYEEEE #TYSM FOR UR ESSAY BASDHADSJ #it was a joy to read and brough me so much happiness <3 #fav notes!#skye!#etherealyoungk #friends ༊

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straykidsnerd255 · 1 day ago

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Agsjshwusjsh

I am very satisfied with the results of the request that you made for your followers (as usual your results never disappoint) so, thats why....~ i want to make request , please....~

saja boys x sexy, elegant s/o ( separately ) , who have been dating them for a long time, like when they first appeared, only saja boys like them first (like Fem s/o have a strong aura for them)

You are so sweet anon! I’m so happy you like my writing! Thank you so much for requesting and I hope that you enjoy these little drabbles for our Saja Boys! <3

Jinu:

Dating a gorgeous movie star had its perks but it also had its down side. The perks, Jinu could cuddle you non-stop when you had days off. He could make you breakfast in bed. He could even sit on the couch and admire you as you moved around. The down side, lots and lots of people wanted to date you. You and Jinu were a secret to the rest of the world. To the world, you were still single. That you didn’t have a boyfriend or husband and Jinu was annoyed with that stupid rule. Jinu wanted to show you off to the world, show you off to the fans that thought they even had a chance with you.

Waking up one Saturday morning, Jinu made his way into the kitchen, yawning as he made his way towards the pantry to make breakfast. It was your day off and he wanted to make sure your day off was special. Jinu pulled out the pancake mix, eggs, sausage, and bacon and began to make your favorite breakfast. As he was flipping the bacon, he felt your arms wrap around his waist, your forehead pressed into his back. He chuckled before finishing up the last of the bacon and turning around so he could see your face properly and hold you in his arms. Your eyes were still closed, your body still trying to wake up.

“You know, you can still be asleep in bed right now. I would have brought you breakfast in bed.” He said, his heart thundering in his chest as you snuggled closer. Your hair was messing and you were so tired but Jinu didn’t care. You were his, and he was yours. That's all that mattered to him. You had put Jinu in a trance the moment he saw you in your first movie ever. Now, he was cuddling you into his chest, littering kisses across your face, and melting into your body when you held him against you, pressing kisses to his jaw and face. He was totally gone when it came to you. You were the only one that could make Gwi-Ma’s voice disappear from his mind. Jinu leaned forward and pressed his lips to yours, smiling when you pressed closer to him.

Abby Saja:

You and Abby Saja were currently cuddling on the couch, watching a movie you had starred in a few months ago. Abs was absentmindedly running his fingers over your arm while you both watched. You were nearly falling asleep only to jolt awake when Abs grunted. You turned your head towards the tv and saw the makeout scene you and your co-star had to create. You turned towards your boyfriend, your eyes staring into his as his lips formed a thin line and he looked away from you. “Abs, my hunk, love of my life, it was for the movie. He didn’t enjoy it and I didn’t enjoy it. He has a girlfriend, and I have you. Not to mention, you are a better kisser.” You said, smiling when he finally looked at you.

You were currently standing in front of the massive body mirror, sighing in annoyance when the black dress didn’t sit nicely on your body. Abs walked into the room and nearly dropped his phone when he saw you. You looked elegant, with your hair pulled up into a beautifully done bun, your makeup making you look like a goddess. He made his way over to you, grabbing the pearl necklace from the desk, he walked over to you, carefully placing the necklace around your neck, placing his hands on your shoulders before running them down your arms. You closed your eyes and smiled softly.

“Does this dress look ok on me?” You asked, turning around so Abs could see it completely. He placed his hand to his jaw as he pretended to think. In his eyes, you were so sexy that he didn’t even want to go to this stupid movie premiere but he knew how much it meant to you and decided to go along with you. “You look absolutely beautiful my dear.” He said, moving closer and pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, smiling when you got flustered. “Let’s head to the premiere of your new movie. I can’t wait to see those suckers when you walk in.” Abs said, smiling when you laughed at his joke. Abs smiled when you finally showed off that beautiful smile after pouting at your appearance for the last hour and a half while you both were getting ready. He hated seeing you upset. Abs smiled, holding his hand out to you, his heart fluttering when he felt your hand in his.

Mystery Saja:

You were an upcoming artist when Mystery Saja met you for the first time. He was immediately drawn to you and immediately asked you out on a date thinking you would deny him and say no but to his surprise, you agreed and he couldn’t be happier. A few years have passed and you and Mystery are currently chilling in your shared apartment, him singing one of his latest songs that he and his group were practicing, while you were in the corner, bathed in sunlight as your paint brush swirled around on the paper. You both were content, happy in the sound of singing and scribbling on paper. “Mystery, do you want anything for dinner? I can make something or we can order something? Maybe watch a movie as well?” You asked, watching as his voice slowly disappeared before he turned towards you and nodded his head.

You smiled, standing from the stool and taking off your apron. You placed everything away and walked towards the kitchen to grab your phone and move over to the couch where Mystery was sitting. His arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you into his lap, a soft smile appeared on his face as he watched you go through the different restaurants that sat around the apartment. After figuring out what you both wanted, you ordered the food and asked Mystery what movie he would like to watch. Standing up, Mystery gently moved you to the side and walked towards the movie case. He flipped through before pulling one out that he knew you loved and placed it on the dvd tray.

With your bellies full, and the movie half way done, you curled into Mystery’s side, a content smile on your lips. Mystery knew that this was something you both couldn’t do as often with your job and his job but when you could, he took every moment he could get. He couldn’t help but turn to look at you. The way your hair fell gracefully over your face even in a messy bun. Or the way your clothes always sat nice on you. In his eyes, you were so beautiful that he couldn’t bear to see you with anyone else but himself. Mystery Saja remembered the first art show that he had gone to when you both started dating and to say that he couldn’t keep his eyes off you would be a lie. You looked elegant, so regal as you stood in front of the crowd and cameras, happily smiling as you showed them your newest art piece.

Romance Saja:

You and Romance Saja have been dating since they sang Soda Pop in the plaza a few days ago and to be honest, Romance Saja was in love with you. He refused to steal your soul when you showered him with so much love that even Gwi-Ma’s voice couldn’t even reach him. When it's just you and him lounging in your shared apartment, Romance is laying on your lap, eyes closed, with your fingers running through his hair. It puts him right to sleep every time. His favorite thing to do when the both of you are out shopping, is showing off your intertwined fingers. Romance is a sucker for showing you off to the world.

When you told him you had a dinner date with the modeling company you worked for, Romance was begging to go with. Good thing you could bring a plus one. Romance groaned as he fought with the tie he was supposed to wear to the dinner when he saw you appear in front of him, a smile on your face as you gracefully fixed his tie. Romance leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, his hands resting on your hips while your hands pressed against his chest. Pulling away, you smile up at Romance Saja. “Shall we leave and head to the dinner hall?” You asked.

Entering the massive building, Romance Saja stuck to your side like glue. He didn’t like the way that every male in that building was staring you down like you were single and they had a chance. Rolling his eyes, he pulled you close and pressed his lips to your cheek, smiling when you giggled. You gently smack his chest before rushing over to your friend, squealing and giggling as you hadn’t seen her in years. You motioned for Romance to come and meet your friend when a random male model appeared, flashing you a smile and taking your hand in his. You made a move to pull your hand away but the male didn’t get the idea. Your friend's boyfriend moved towards you, ready to help when Romance Saja jumped in. He had moved so he was behind you and appeared behind you, leaning down and kissing the side of your head. “Hi love, just wanted to ask…What are you doing holding my girlfriend's hand?” Romance Saja snapped, his eyes narrowing.

The male model immediately backed off and rushed to a different side of the party. You turned towards Romance Saja and thanked him. “He has been like that ever since she joined the model agency. My boyfriend has been keeping an eye on him since I have been in a different area.” Your friend said, smiling at you and then at her boyfriend who nodded his head and held his hand out to Romance Saja. You looked at Romance Saja, a smile on your lips as you introduced your friend's boyfriend to Romance Saja. The rest of the night consisted of your boyfriend and your friend’s boyfriend chatting away as they stood behind you and your friend as you both chatted away with each other.

Baby Saja:

Currently laying on the couch in your shared apartment, Baby was flipping through the channels when he saw you. He sat up and became immersed in the tv screen as you walked along a stage, a black dress hugging your figure. Your hair was pulled back in an expertly done bun, makeup that made you look like a goddess. Baby couldn’t take his eyes off you as you gracefully walked across the stage, hand on your hip as you reached the end, flashing cameras filled the room. Baby was simply entranced. After a few hours, Baby Saja heard your keys jingle outside the door and he quickly changed the channel.

He turned to face the door right as you opened the door and walked into the house. “Hi my love.” you said, closing and locking the door and walking towards the kitchen. You began emptying the bags into the cupboards and fridge all while Baby Saja watched you, his eyes never leaving the graceful movements as you moved around the kitchen. “I saw you on the tv today. You looked absolutely beautiful.” Baby Saja said, standing from the couch and walking over to you. You smiled when you felt his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you against his chest.

(Few Days Later)

Baby Saja sat with you during an event that you were invited to, his eyes moving across the crowded dining hall. Baby Saja rolled his eyes as people got close to you, holding your hand for way too long. Narrowing his eyes when a young man got too close to you, wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you against his side. You were looking very uncomfortable and shot Baby Saja a look, begging him to help you. Standing from where he was sitting, Baby Saja snapped your outstretched hand and pulled you towards him, glaring harshly at the man when he tried reaching for you again.

“Quite touching my girlfriend like she is yours. I have been dating her for the past 5 years.” Baby Saja growled, watching the man quiver a bit before rushing away from them. Baby Saja refused to leave your side after that. His hand was permanently wrapped around your waist when you were talking with others, and you were sitting on his lap when you were sitting at the table waiting for the main dish to be served. Baby Saja knows that you have the ability to attract any man within the vicinity, but he wasn’t going to lose you to some no buddy.

#kpop demon hunters #requested #Jinu x Reader #Abby Saja x Reader #Mystery Saja x Reader #Romance x Reader #Baby Saja x Reader #Female Reader

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gay-dorito-dust · 2 days ago

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OK NOW WRITE FOR ZOEY AND MIRA

With Zoey you found it easy to be yourself with her becuase she was more then welcoming to it within immedite affect. She's always making life alot more fun in her own way, time flies by when you were with Zoey and you couldn't have lived life in any other fashion then the fun way.

The sky is the limit with Zoey and she makes you feel as though you were soaring alongside her as her viberant grins and her occasional acts of cutness agression towards you, such as squishing your cheeks together and or hugging you tightly from behind and cheering when you retun her tight hug with your own. It was hard to feel anything other then overwheliming happiness and feel that you were capable of doing absolutely eveything when you were with Zoey and you love it more then anything and didn't want it to end.

Zoey may or may not have multiple books with lyrics based on you like how she had volumes of books filled with insults towards every demon imaginable. She is a creative idivisual and needs an outlet for that creativity and so the mountain of notebooks within her room was to be expected sight, most of which were filled with drafts of rap lyrics regarding to how she felt about you. You'll be able to catch her going over them under her breath and making the apropriate changes to them, something you loved to see as you got a glimpse of her hardworking mind, of her ability to create seemingly lyrical perfection.

Zoey would drag you to have movie marathons with her, wearing cute pyjamas and making a pillow fort out of bordom, strining up fairy lighs within it as you both lay upon every cushion you both could snag possible; enjoying the simplicities of life however they may come and whenever they come and knowing they were all the more sweeter with Zoey by your side. She was your light in the dark, the one you listen to to get out of a spot of trouble when it comes to your self worth, she was the one that would encourage any habit of yours as long as it wasn't going to do any damaged to you in the long run.

Zoey is under the believe that she's too much sometimes, or that she's never enough or was too suffocating. You don't see that at all, not one bit and you never could and would do your best to make this well known, mainly by giving her the affection -both verbal and physcial- that she never once failed to give you desite not being in the best of spirits herself. 'You're the best you know that.' You'd say as you squeeze her from behind, kissing just under her ear just the way she liked as her cheeks warmed up.

With Mira it was almost as if it was impossible to hide what was wrong and or annoying you, as though she could see through you and right into the root of your problem. She wouldn't leave you alone to deal with it, she pratically refuses to if she can help it, but wouldn't go as far as to constantly pester you into telling her either as Mira knew that things would only get better if you made the first step into doing so.

'The absolute best at everything you do.' You reitierate as you kiss the back of her neck before burrying your face in it, breathing her in, acting as though you were still trying to accept that being with her was your reality now. 'You're never too much, you're just enough. You're not suffocating, You're comforting and act like my weighted blanket, always grounding me and bringing me back when my mind feels like it's elsewhere.' You add on, caressing her sides as you felt her hands grip over yours, making you smile as you continued to speak words into existence in hopes of getting rid of those voices that tricks your girlfriend into beliving what she's not.

Zoey is everything you dreampt of in a partner and you were going to treasure her as such, whether it'd be spoiling her with affection or gifts and sweet treats, for she deserved to keep smiling as it's beautiful aspect of her that you love and will forever love.

'Something is wrong and i know you might not feel the need to let me know now, but know that i'm by your side no matter what, you shouldn't have to feel as though you are beyond help or are too late to being given help becuase that's not true.' She would say to you as rests a reassuring hand on your knee, letting you rest your head on her shoulder as she reminds you that help was just beyond your doorstep, and how it's whether or not you take that step beyond that doorstep to get it.

Mira is a person you found reassurance within and your relationship was one that had strong foundations of trust and acceptance of one another in you're entirity, but also a relationship that has bouts of playful teasing and moments where all either of you wanted to do was cuddle on the couch in your matching couple pyjamas. Something she enjoys to do with you when she's given the oppertunity as it meant she didn't need to travel far to be where she wanted to be the most after a tiresome day; you looking cute and like an absolute snack in your nightwear.

Truely a divine sight if anyone were to ask her.

'couch?' You ask.

Mira smirks as she shows you the armful of snacks she had. 'couch.' she replied.

You both feel asleep on the couch, but it's okay you were cuddling each other as well, so the aches in your necks was more then worth it.

Mira isn't vocal with her affection to you. It's something that she needs to warm up to, but that doesn't mean she didn't have other ways to remind you that she deeply cared for you, whether it'd be resting a hand on the small of your back or giving you small smiles that were reserved for you that never failed to make you feel warm and fuzzy within your chest. Relationships while being an idol was tricky buissness as there were a specific breed of fans that couldn't understand that what they were participating is an parasocial relationship, not an actual relationship, and thus dangerous situations arising where one or both of you could get potentially hurt.

So Mira makes sure to keep you from the public eye, yet also making sure that you knew it was never out of shame but saftey and security, from both demons and weird people in particular. She wants to keep you safe by whatever means necessary as the idea of you being hurt in any capacity is a fear she didn't wish to become true one day, so she takes measures to make sure it doesn't.

Mira often wonders in moments of vulnerability if her bluntness and straightforward nature would one day push you away, but you were more then ready to tell her that you wouldn't be with her if you did feel that way. You would let her put her head on your shoulder as you rub her back, telling her eveything that you love and admired about her, especially her blunt and straightforwardness. 'Alot of people are concious of what they say and often times it leads to being hurt anyway becuase they were so fearful of telling it how it is,' you tell her as you kissed her forehead, 'you do and it's the most refreshing thing i've ever had in my life as i don't have to unpack a lot of shit to understand whether you meant what you said becuase you always do mean what you say.' You finished.

#kpop demon hunters #kpop demon hunters x reader #kpop demon hunters x you #kpop demon hunters imagines #kpop demon hunters imagine #mira x reader #zoey x reader #kpdh #kpdh x reader #kpdh x you #kpdh x y/n #kpdh imagine #kpdh imagines

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orellazalonia · 1 day ago

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Ella,

I have a request and was wondering about a bucky x reader Wandavision au where the reader was lost to Bucky during WWII (as a nurse or something) and Wanda finds out and conjures a life for Bucky and the reader the same time she conjures the hex for her and vision?

Thank you so much and I love your writing so much!!!! It's so good it makes me feel all the feels ❤️

Greetings, dear! Thank you for the kind words and the request. This was such an interesting idea. Since I’ve never really watched the entirety of Wandavision, I took a lot of creative liberty for how Bucky’s life would be like. So, I hope you enjoy! Happy reading!!!

In Another Life

Summary: Bucky Barnes lost you during WWII, and for decades, he buried the grief deep beneath war, silence, and survival. When Wanda creates her new life in Westview, her overwhelming sorrow unknowingly taps into his own, conjuring a second pocket reality where you’re alive and waiting for him untouched by pain or time. (Wandavision AU | Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 2.5k+

Main Masterlist

The first time he saw you, there was blood on your hands and a scowl on your face.

Not your blood. Someone else’s, specifically one of the soldiers who’d been hit by some sharp metal near the ribs and kept insisting he was fine. You snapped at him to shut up and stay still or “you’ll be meeting God with your lungs in your lap.”

That got his attention.

Bucky lingered near the entrance of the makeshift field tent, helmet tucked under one arm, fingers still smeared with gunpowder. He should’ve been looking for Steve, or checking in with his unit, but something about your voice cut through the smoke and chaos. You were sharp, focused, and completely unimpressed.

You looked up, brushing a strand of hair out of your eyes. You gave him a once-over.

“Unless you’re dying, get out of my tent.”

He grinned. “That how you talk to all the boys trying to flirt with you?”

You didn’t miss a beat. “Only the ones who bleed ego instead of plasma.”

He laughed. Actually laughed, right there, in the middle of a damn war zone. And you just went back to working, hands steady, and movements practiced. Efficient and fearless. You weren’t there to play nurse for medals or glory. You were there to keep people alive.

That stuck with him.

He found out your name later, after asking around and bribing one of the other medics with cigarettes. They had you’d been transferred a month prior, said you didn’t take nonsense from anyone, that you’d been patching up soldiers like it was your personal war to win.

Bucky wasn’t sure when it became routine though to visit you. Maybe the third or fourth time he brought in an injured man and lingered too long near your table. Maybe when he started showing up with a scraped knuckle just so he had a reason to sit while you cleaned it. Maybe when you stopped pretending he was annoying.

You had this way of looking at him, like you could see right through the swagger, the charm, the carefully built confidence. Like you knew it was all armor.

And for some reason, that didn’t scare him. It grounded him.

One night, after a rough mission, he sat beside you while you stitched up a person’s leg and asked if you’d let him take you dancing when the war was over.

You looked up, tired eyes soft for once. “If you survive this mess, Barnes, I’ll let you take me wherever you want.”

That was the night he promised himself he’d come back.

That was the night he realized you were the only good thing in a world falling apart.

War made time blurry.

Some days felt like they stretched for years, others vanished in seconds. But somehow, between smoke and silence, you became the thing Bucky looked forward to. A constant.

He’d come back from patrol caked in mud and pain, and there you’d be with your sleeves rolled up, always too busy to rest. But when he showed up, your eyes always flicked to him. Just for a second. Just long enough to anchor him.

There were no labels, no declarations. Just little moments sewn into the madness.

The way your fingers lingered a little too long when wrapping his wrist. The way he brought you extra rations–chocolate, mostly–because he noticed you never took enough for yourself. The way you’d talk to him when things went quiet late at night, when the hum of generators and distant gunfire felt like thunder in his chest.

One night, crouched beside a campfire with a thin blanket thrown around your shoulders, you admitted you were tired. Not physically. Not from stitching wounds or working eighteen-hour shifts.

“I’m tired of losing them,” You whispered, not looking at him.

He wanted to tell you he’d never leave, that he’d make it back. But he’d seen too much and lost too many.

So instead, he just reached for your hand and held it in silence. That was how love felt, back then. It was quiet, earned, and unspoken.

He never told you how much you meant to him, not with words. But you knew. He saw it in the way you looked at him when you thought he wasn’t watching. In the way your fingers moved slightly toward his when you passed. In the way you let yourself rest near him, like you finally felt safe.

It wasn’t a fairytale. It wasn’t even a promise.

It was something like peace. And that was all either of you could afford.

Around three weeks later of each other’s steady company, you scrawled a note on a piece of torn map paper and slipped it into his vest. “After dinner by the medical truck.”

There was a smug little smile drawn in the corner.

He kept the paper. Still had it in his hands when the world split open.

He was supposed to meet you that night.

But the blast came from nowhere, one of the younger soldiers stepped on a mine outside the perimeter. And from there on, it was a chain reaction. Ammunition depot went next.

Bucky hit the dirt, ears ringing. Fire bloomed in every direction. There were screams, metal flung, smoke rising, blood elsewhere. He didn’t think. He just ran toward the smoke, toward the med tent.

Toward you.

But the tent wasn’t there anymore.

It was wreckage of twisted poles, scorched linens fluttering like flags.

He found your ID tag in the mud, bent and blackened.

They told him later that you’d been running out to help. That you’d grabbed your kit before anyone else moved. That you were only a few feet from the blast.

But there wasn’t a body to bury. No goodbye.

Just fire and silence.

He didn’t speak for three days.

Steve sat beside him once, tried to get him to eat. Bucky didn’t even look up. Just kept his fingers curled around that half-crumpled map scrap with your handwriting still faint beneath the soot.

“After dinner by the medical truck.”

He would’ve gone. If it had been five minutes earlier. If he’d run faster. If–

He spent years trying to forget that night.

Decades more pretending he never loved you. Because remembering you meant remembering who he was before he became something else. Something sharp, hollow, and used.

And he couldn’t survive that. Not again.

The world kept spinning long after you were gone. After the Snap, after the Blip, anfter everything.

Bucky wasn’t sure if he’d come back whole.

He tried, though. Therapy, missions, staying grounded. Sam helped. Steve… well, Steve left, and that hurt in ways Bucky didn’t talk about. But mostly, he kept his head down and tried not to listen to the ghosts.

He still dreamed of you sometimes. Not every night, but enough.

Your laugh echoing in that tent. The careful way you used to tuck gauze and other things into your pocket in a specific way.

But other times, at night, he’d sit on the floor of his apartment and try to remember your face.

Not just the way you looked in a hospital tent, or the half-grin you gave when he made a stupid joke, but the way it felt to exist beside you. The ease. The warmth. The rare, steady rhythm of something real during a time when nothing made sense.

He hadn't spoken your name in years. Not even in therapy. It felt like betraying you to say it aloud, like naming a ghost would send it back to the grave.

But Wanda… Wanda knew.

Maybe not the details. But she felt it. She saw the hollowness in him mirrored in herself.

The two of them never talked about it. Not directly. But after Tony’s funeral, they’d stood together in silence. Both of them staring at the lake. Both of them holding on to names they couldn’t say anymore.

She'd lost Vision. He’d lost you.

And grief, real raw grief, is an unstable thing when paired with power.

So when Wanda broke, so did the world.

Her fantasy was immediate, cinematic, precise. Westview bloomed like a wound. A house, a husband, children; it was grief rewritten into control, loss repainted in pastels.

But it didn’t stop there.

Because even as she reshaped her own life, something inside her reached. It searched out pain like her own. Hearts cracked in the same place.

And it found Bucky.

Not the soldier. Not the killer. Not the man who was rebuilt piece by piece after seventy years of war.

But the boy who’d once promised a nurse a dance.

The boy who kept a charred old scrap of paper folded in his wallet, even after decades of memory-wiping, reprogramming, and silence.

Wanda’s abilities was powerful. But her grief didn’t want to be alone.

So while she created a world for herself in Westview… the magic spilled.

And a second pocket formed. Quieter, smaller. Not television, laugh tracks, or retro kitchens. Just a modest street, a white house with a creaky porch, wind chimes, and the scent of fresh coffee.

Bucky had been sitting alone in his apartment in Brooklyn when it happened.

One second he was staring at the floor, half-lost in memory. The next, he blinked and the world was different. Brighter, softer.

His fingers curled around a mug he didn’t remember making. His shoulders weren’t tense anymore. His mind was quiet.

Then he heard your voice from the kitchen.

“Did you remember to grab eggs this time, or am I walking to town again?”

He turned slowly, his heart pounding.

You stood there in a yellow dress, brushing your hair back with one hand and looking every bit like a dream he’d forced himself to forget.

And the part that broke him?

You didn’t look shocked to see him. You looked like you’d been waiting all morning.

At first, he didn’t question it.

How could he? You were alive and breathing. Soft and real. You curled into his side at night like you never left. You would kiss him in the kitchen and call him "James" when you were annoyed and "Buck" when you were tired.

You even laughed. God, he’d missed your laugh.

The world around you was perfect in the way only fiction could be. The mornings were always slow. The sun was always gentle. The neighbors always waved. The town smelled like fresh rain and honeysuckle. And you?

You wore those little dresses he’d only ever imagined you in, floral things with buttons and pockets. You danced barefoot while you cooked. You hummed songs that hadn’t been played on the radio since the forties.

And Bucky let it happen.

He let himself believe it was real. Because this time, you didn’t die in fire. This time, there was no minefield. No screaming. No ID tag in the mud.

Just the quiet thrum of safety and peace.

You poured coffee into his favorite mug every morning and kissed him like it was routine.

But then–

The first crack came. It was small, harmless really. You were cutting fruit when you asked, “How’s Steve doing these days?”

Bucky froze. You didn’t notice.

You kept slicing, humming that same soft melody. Like you hadn’t just mentioned someone who, in this fantasy world, shouldn’t exist.

“How’s–what did you say?”

You blinked at him, like confused by your own question. “Sorry?” You tilted your head. “I was asking if we needed sugar.”

He stared. The room suddenly felt colder.

Later that night, he found a crack in the wall behind the bookshelf. Just a tiny fracture, pulsing red. He didn’t touch it. He didn’t tell you.

But then came the next crack, lying beside you one day. He moved to trace his finger across the scar on your wrist. The one you got in the real world before everything. The one he remembered patching up himself.

But it wasn’t there.

Your skin was smooth, perfect. Like it had never been broken.

He stared at the spot for a long time.

“Something wrong?” You mumbled against his shoulder.

“No,” He whispered. “Just tired.”

But his fingers didn’t move away. He didn’t ask questions. He couldn’t.

Because this world had you in it and the real one didn’t.

More cracks followed. Radios that spoke in static. Time loops in the neighbors’ behavior. Days repeating with only minor differences. The smell of burning even when nothing was cooking.

And your eyes.

You always looked at him with so much love. But sometimes, just for a moment, your expression would go blank. Like a paused VHS. Like a string had snapped, and you were waiting to be rewound.

Then you’d blink, smile, and say something sweet like, “You look tired, honey. Want me to draw a bath?”

And he’d nod. Because of course he did.

He wanted to sit in hot water and pretend the world outside didn’t exist. That you’d never died. That this wasn’t a dream stitched together by something or someone else.

Because this was the kind of lie you could live in. Not because it fooled him, it never would, but because it asked nothing of him. No blood, no battles, no nightmares clawing at the edges of his mind.

Just you.

And eventually, the cracks softened and smoothed out. While they never went away, they stabilized enough to live in.

And Bucky… stopped fighting it.

He started marking time by your voice. Your laugh in the morning. Your quiet humming while folding laundry. The soft way you said “sweetheart” when he forgot what year it was.

You’d touch his cheek when he looked too far away.

“Come back,” You’d whisper, like a tether. “Stay with me.”

And he would.

Even when the mirror glitched. Even when his metal arm showed through the illusion and you didn’t react, you held it as it turned back into warm flesh with soft hands and a smile too calm to be real.

Even when he walked into the backyard once and saw red static pulsing like veins across the garden fence, just for a moment, before the roses bloomed and hid it again.

He stopped asking questions.

Because here, in this place:

He came home to the smell of stew on the stove. He kissed you goodbye before walking to the corner store. You sat in his lap at night and read from a book you’d read a hundred times, but it didn’t matter. You always fell asleep with your head tucked under his chin.

And sometimes, when the world shimmered wrong and your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes, he let the silence stretch long enough to feel the ache in his chest.

Just long enough to remember this wasn’t yours. That this wasn’t real.

But neither was war, anymore. Neither was pain.

And he’d look at you, hands curled around his, and think: If this is a prison, it’s the kind with sunlight and soft smiles. I’ve lived in worse places.

So he stayed.

Even though he knew, even though he remembered, and even though it hurt.

He stayed.

Because even a false life with you… was better than surviving without you again.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #marvel x reader #marvel fic #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fic #bucky x you #angst #request fulfilled #thank you for the request!#wandavision au

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hongjoongspoetry · 11 hours ago

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ajhbdajhsbfjahdfja this was absolutely amazing, gosh the emotions I went through reading this, I hope though all my thoughts and comments makes sense cuz I'm dead tired from work as I'm writing this (apologies in advance if some of it doesn't make sense😅)

Girl you have nothing to apologise for. Never did I once expect someone to write a bible-lengthy "review" on one of my fics, but im so fucking here for it!!

First of all what a cool but also kinda scary concept of having a metal chip in your arm which showcases how much in danger your soulmate is in!! And the name?! Soulometer!! That's such a good name for it!!

Now that I think about it, I could easily have made it into a horror story instead- Thank you for the lovely comment, imo, I thought "soulometer" sounded silly but I couldn't come up with anything better 😭🩷

Not the mc having Hongjoongs laugh as her ring tone💀 but also lowkey iconic of her to just let it be and own it even if it means she might be put in some awkward situations from time to time when her phone rings.

AHAHAHAHAAH personally, id never do that. considering we both are from sweden, imagine if you were on the bus and hongjoong's maniac laugh just rings out during rush hour- I swear on my cat, I'd make the bus stop and then throw myself in front of it 😭🤭

The light bickering between her and Hongjoong as they speak while she's on her way home made me chuckle because it feels so natural and fun. They kinda sound like me and my friends when we text each other😅

Sidenote: Reading your reblog made me realize just how much value I put in creating "a good" friendship for my characters. BUT DUDE IM SO HAPPY TO HEAR MY DIALOGUES ARE SOUNDING SOMEWHAT NATURAL AND REAL. Creating a good and realistic dialogue has been one of my biggest "weaknesses" when it comes to writing, as I tend to want everything to be perfect. and we all know real life dialogues are far from perfect, considering incorrect grammar, usage of words and flow is being used in a convo. so thank you so much for saying that 🥹

Another thing, I literally live for your reaction memes 😭 They fit so well into every scenario you wanna comment or thought you wanna share 🙂‍↕️

"[...] A lot in his appearance changed, but the cuts and bruises remained, pouring acid on your tongue." The last sentence🥺😭 it's like the both of them can't believe that the other one is there. I think it's clear from the way Mingi is reacting to her being in front of him that this was not something he had planned. Not even sure he knew it was her place he was in front of... Oh I also get the vibe that despite her not wanting to see him her feelings are conflicting with each other, like a raging storm within which cannot decide which way to go.

I love that your vibe/gut feeling is correct! Fate (literally) and the magic sprinkle of the soulmate bond brought them together 😈 Like they can't avoid each other forever, and Mingi knows that, obviously, but the MC thinks everything is just a coincidence 🤭

I do believe a part of her is relieved to see him hence why she invites him in to her home. Because even when you're sometimes furious at someone who hurt you in the past you might still be yearning to know they're okay, thoughts floating to them from time to time as you might reminisce on the past. I do believe both of them have been doing that from time to time even if one of them might not admit to doing it.

YES! And pair that off with the fact that they are soulmates. They are literally born to be together (whether it's romantic or platonic). They are the one song stuck in their minds that they can't stop hearing in their heads, no matter what. Their meetings are inevitable and all of their choices would lead up to them meeting again. So the MC inviting Mingi to her apartment, was both her own doing but also an invincible pull from the soulmate bond.

HAHAHAHAH I CANT GET OVER THE BLUSHY MEME PICTURES- WHY DOES THE POKEMON LOOK SO FREAKING MISCHEVIOUS AFKHAEKF

And the thumb on his lips moment!! Excuse me while I go giggle a bit to myself before composing myself lol🤭💓

The thumb on the lip moment is an event that lives rent free in my mind. Like it can either be a perfectly good move or a disatser 😭 But I love to use it 😈

I also am getting the vibes here that Mingi is not over her at all, mc might be closer to letting him go but Mingi is giving me the vibes that he truly never forgot about her and wants a relationship again but is unsure of how to proceed or how to even mend what has been broken in the past, you know.

Yeah, Mingi never really forgot about her. Like she was the one that got away and he has literally no one to blame but himself. And it takes so much on him because he knows they are destined for each other. As much as it hurts him to be selfless, it also hurts him to be selfish and "keep" her with him... my mingi 😔

Not Jongho and Wooyoung distracting her with all kinds of antics💀😭 but also those two are like the best combination of distraction because Jongho tries at first to gauge and see if she wants to talk and when the answer is no he immediately goes on to distract her in different ways together with Wooyoung. Like what do you mean Wooyoung slid her a package of gummies before sprinting out of her office?!😭 that's adorable and would get anyone in a better mood🥺💕

Wooyoung would literally KILL for his friends, so I just had to include him here. And Jongho, even if hes the youngest in the group, I feel like hed go over and beyond to help his members/other people he keeps close to his heart. And if that's not enough, what better combo than two menaces 😭 I also feel like we don't get to see Jongho be included, even if hes a "side character", and I really enjoy writing Jongho whether its his fic or not.

*sniff* he cares so much about her, he even got her tangerines😭 and PEELED ONES AT THAT?! 😩💓 he loves her so much like that's true love right there, even as a teen the fact that he took his time to get her her favorite fruit cuz she didn't eat lunch and then go on and peel it and make sure it's completely "naked" with no white parts and all of that jazz. It's acts of service like this that imo shows how much someone really cares and in this instant I feel like Mingi cares so much about her, probably memorizing small details like this one. Eg. he could have just given her the tangerine and not done anything more than that but no he knew her preferences and decided to make sure it was the way she liked it before giving it to her to eat.

"HE NEVER FORGOT ABOUT THE TANGERINES!!!!" I scream as they drag me to the dungeon. No, but fr, that would be my sign to return to my ex, boxing or no boxing. Listen, everyone, get yourself a partner like Mingi who pays attention to the smallest of details and who actually listens to you.

That must have been so terrifying, realizing that first of all your ex boyfriend and potentially first love is your soulmate and then realizing if you don't do anything now you'll potentially loose him forever if the soulometer is anything to go by. Sprinting as fast as you can as the world is probably moving in slow-motion as you hope you won't be too late in body slamming your soulmate so the car won't hit him. What a scary feeling that must be and oh so overwhelming with everything hitting you at once.

Literally imagine you find your soulmate and are on the brink of losing them in the same SECOND. Bro, I fear I'd never recover mentally. Like id be gone- And if it wasn't a fluff event, believe me Mingi would've died then and there. Just because im a menace who loves angst. But that's not related to this rn AHAHAHH. but yes, I really tried to explain the panic and fear the MC was in while trying to save her soulmate, and I hope I did at least convey some of it :3

And Mingi making sure to protect her with his hand protecting her head and the other one going around her waist to make sure she won't hit the ground too hard🥺

One thing about me I will always write gentleman!teez. I believe in gentleman!teez supremacy til the day I die and no one can convince me otherwise.

I'M GOING THROUGH IT HERE😭😭 Mina how can you do this to me😭 I need them both to never get into a single bad situation ever again I don't think my heart could take it💔

IM SO SORRY ESTHER!!! 😭 (muhahahahehehhehehe😈😈😈)

SO HE DID KNOW😭

HE KNEW ALL THIS TIME!!!! DOESNT THAT MAKE EVERYTHING HURT TEN TIMES MORE

oh boy... mc is so valid in her anger but I'm so conflicted because Mingi obviously loves her so much so he must have a good reason as to why he didn't tell her. Perhaps he felt as if he was only hurting her and that she didn't deserve to be with someone who only made her worry and get upset but at the same time that's not something he gets to decide all on his own without telling her first...

bro... did you like hack into my google documents planner? because why the hell have u been correct in every theory?? What is this sorcery????

asking shyly for permission to kiss someone is one of the best tropes to ever exist😌💕✨

On god, I don't even want a kiss if the other party doesn't ask like a lil nerd... LIKE YES OFC KISS ME DAMMIT KHFWKEJF

I'm in shambles at the ending😭 what a perfect ending to their story Minaaa😭😭💓💓 this was so good, so amazing the tension, the past coming back, the love between them and the way they care so deeply even if there is anger between them. ughhhh just everything 💗 Honestly just amazing spectacular and just everything you'd need in a soulmate au🥰

Thank you so much Esther. For reading and taking the time to write everything down. From your thoughts to the amazing pictures. I honestly can't thank you enough and I don't even deserve you 🩷🥹

Sparks and Bruises | Song Mingi

🥊 Summary: In a world where everyone at the age of eighteen gets a metal meter implanted on their wrist that shows the amount of danger your soulmate is in. You and Mingi have known each other since high school, but went through a nasty fallout after his love for boxing turned into a dangerous gamble with his life as the price. Years later, you stumble over his injured form on the doorstep of your apartment building. Not having the heart to turn him away like all those years ago, you invite him inside with the intention to clean his wounds, but get a lot more than you bargained for.

🥊 Pairing(s): Underground boxer!Mingi x Real estate agent!Reader, brief Hongjoong x Seonghwa

🥊 Genres/Tropes: Soulmate AU, non-idol AU, second chance AU, fluff, exes to friends to lovers, angst (more than what I planned on)

🥊 Warnings/Tags: female reader, no use of (Y/N), reader is allergic to peanuts so go with it for the plot, brief description of bruises and cuts, explicit language, crying, kissing, car accident, pet names (love, sugar, sweets), mentioned hospital, flashbacks, not beta read

🥊 Wordcount: 12.5K

🥊 Author's Note: Click the image for a better resolution (Tumblr I hate you). I just got off work (it's like 10 pm here), so I'm super tired and can barely keep my eyes open. Anyway, this is the last instalment of the Cherry Blossom March Event and while I'm sad it's over, I'm also happy because now I can focus on finishing my other stories!! A big thank you to everyone who took the time out of their day to read, leave notes and comments on my works <3 Btw I am no real estate agent and everything you read in this fic is based on excessive research (which could very well be wrong).

This is all fiction and not meant to represent any idols involved in any way or form. This work is rated SFW, however it contains explicit scenes, not sexual content but descriptions of minor injuries as well as matures themes. Minors, please, read at your own risk and refrain from interacting or following my blog!

AO3 Masterpost Moodboard

The arrow inside the plate on your wrist, no bigger than a lighter, irregularly traveled back and forth, going from one end of the meter to the other. For some, it would be worrisome and concerning, but for you, it was the opposite. You had yet to meet your soulmate. The person responsible for the occasional spike in your soulometer — the metal chip showing how much danger your soulmate was in. A mandatory procedure ordered by the government a couple of decades ago, probably one of the dumbest things the rulers of the world ever implemented into society.

“We have thought it over and… We’ll sign the contract!”

You were startled as the couple attending your showing returned from their not-so-private discussion on the other side of the kitchen. The faceless person you were supposedly destined to be with — as much as a machine could decide your destiny — occupied your thoughts more often than not, even while at work.

You put on your million-dollar smile and clasped your hands together. “Perfect. Shall we set a date for you to sign the papers then?”

The couple was expecting and in need of a bigger place than their flat, which could barely fit the two of them. After many buts and ifs, the newly wed pair eagerly agreed and a date was set. You didn’t usually have showings late into the night, but considering the husband worked early mornings until late evenings, and the wife wanted him to be present, you made an exception. Money was money, after all, and you were always in need of it.

Declining their offer to drive you home, you bid the happy couple goodbye and locked up after yourself. The apartment wasn’t too far from your place and you didn't think it would be necessary to order a cab for a ten minute walk despite it being quite late. The stiletto heels you decided to wear that morning made it feel like thirty instead and you quickly regretted being a cheapskate. Why did you have to make your life more insufferable than it already was? You only needed the sky to open up and let a waterfall of rain seep down on Seoul. At least you were smart enough to wear pants and a turtleneck instead of a dress or skirt. Despite it being late March where flowers decorated the bland parks and the trees grew out their long-awaited hair again, it felt like the start of winter.

“This is what you get for listening to Iggy Azalea,” you hissed to yourself as a familiar burn spread through your pinky toes and the back of your feet.

A crazed laughter cut through the chilly air and you automatically reached for the phone in your purse. Setting the ringtone as your best friend’s giggle was a good idea when you were still in high school and just recently turned eighteen. It wasn’t as fun when you were a woman of twenty-something-something years old with an image to uphold and your face plastered on a few boards all through town with your phone number scribbled beneath in big, bold font followed by a text literally begging people to reach out. You swore to change it every time someone called, but the thought always got lost in the shuffle of your other hundred tasks waiting to be done.

You braced yourself for it to be another client calling in the dead of night, but it turned out to be one of your saved contacts. Swiping right and putting the phone up to your ear, you answered with a tired, “Hello.”

“Finally! She answers!”

“Some of us still have work, Hongjoong. Do you know how many times I had to apologize for my ringtone?”

The identical maniac laugh recorded into your phone years ago, erupted from the device and you rolled your eyes.

“And yet you never change it. After all these years, you still have my voice as your ringtone… That’s quite romantic.”

“Watch it or I’ll have a wild Park come for my head.”

“Seonghwa would never do that.” You let the line fall silent and Hongjoong could hear your pointed look on the other side. “Okay, he probably would. Where are you anyways?! I can hear cars in the background.”

So the bass boosted headphones hadn’t ruined his hearing yet. All those times he ignored you were on purpose then. Good to know.

“I’m on my way home from work. Had a showing a few minutes ago and it went well actually.”

Another voice accompanied Hongjoong on the other line, but you couldn’t quite make out the words.

“Seonghwa is scolding you for not calling one of us to drive you home and I have to agree with him, sprout. It’s not safe to be out this late.”

The nickname sent you down memory lane dating all the way back to middle school, when you and Hongjoong were the shortest kids in class but didn’t let that hinder you from showing off your talents and wits. Hongjoong a smart kid who excelled in everything from math to musical history while you burned everyone in debates, presentations, speeches, basically anything relate to public speaking. Hence your choice of profession.

“I know, but it really slipped my mind and it’s not even that far from my flat, I promise. Like I’m almost there, just a few more minutes. I can practically see the building lights from here.”

“Good. Stay with me on the call until you enter though. Now, let me tell you about this guy who tried to steal my laptop…”

If he could, Hongjoong would have talked for hours which was quite rare. The man was usually drained from being cooped up in his studio all day, running on zero sleep and five iced coffees. It was in fact how you became friends.

The kid with round chipmunk cheeks and a menacing smile approached the girl sitting in the back of the class, not making a peep. Hongjoong kicked up a conversation by complimenting the pink bows in your hair — a little detail none of your other classmates had noticed, let alone found them pretty — and offering you a peanut butter cookie that you sadly had to decline because of your allergies. Instead of ending the interaction at your meek thank you, Hongjoong took it as an official proposition of becoming friends. Seven year old Hongjong refused to go back to his seat and even nearly threw a tantrum in class, leaving the homeroom teacher with no other choice than to make you seatmates.

You and Hongjoong quickly became a duo. Wherever you went, he followed. It marked the start of a long lasting friendship you wouldn’t trade for the world.

“...Can you imagine that?! He grabbed my stuff and proceeded to lie straight to my face!”

You hummed into the phone at his rambling. A smile graced your face as you neared your apartment building, but disappeared quickly. Hongjoong’s voice became background noise as you slowed down. A figure dressed in all black and a hood thrown over their head sat at the doorsteps. Both arms planted on their knees and head shoved into the palms of their hands. The person was on the taller side and looked quite buff beneath the baggy clothes. You didn’t recognize them as one of your neighbours, but the swooping feeling in your stomach hinted on something else.

Not heeding Hongjoong’s previous warning of being cautious, you decided to approach the stranger. The clicking of your heels interrupted the peaceful silence of the night and the person immediately looked in your direction. Sharp and angry eyes met yours, and the furious spark swirling in them morphed into surprise. Your heart jumped in your throat as you recognized the person. Of all the people in the world, you certainly didn’t expect to find him at your doorstep.

“Hongjoong? I’ll have to call you back.”

“What? Why? What happened?”

“Nothing– Or well, something, but nothing dangerous– I’ll just call you back okay?”

“...You sure?”

“Yes, one hundred percent.”

“Okay. Talk to you later then.”

You quickly pressed the red button and lowered your phone. The man was still staring at you, the fear that his imagination was playing a trick on him lingering. That if he looked away, you’d disappear from his line of sight.

Sweat spread along your palms and your pulse was loud in your ears as you walked up to the man.

“Mingi?”

He scrambled up to his feet and took hold of the railing with one hand while the other pressed against his left rib and a surprised wince slipped through his lips.

“Long time no see, huh?”

Your eyes darted all over him. Red and blue blemishes covered almost the entire surface of his face and trickles of sweat ran down the side of his face. You didn’t want to think what hid beneath his clothes.

The last time you saw him was all the way back in high school. A scrawny boy with legs for days, but the coordination of a newborn foal and a smile that lit up your world. The man before you grew into his big features and lost the youthful look. The pointy nose and plump lips were still there, but accompanied by prominent cheekbones, a sharp jaw, a piercing gaze and a chiseled face that wasn’t the shape of a triangle. His hair, once black and short, was now a dark shade of brown and longer than ever, reaching below his nape and bangs falling over his brows. A lot in his appearance changed, but the cuts and bruises remained, pouring acid on your tongue.

Ignoring the bitterness pooling in your stomach, you decided to keep the conversation civil. A stark contrast to how your last encounter went.

”Are you… alright?”

“Yeah, no, I was on my way home, but just needed to sit down…”

You weren’t going to pry despite clearly seeing he was anything but alright. If he didn’t want to tell you, who were you to force him?

Offering him a light smile, you tried keeping the tone light. “What are the odds of you sitting on my doorstep, huh?”

“Yeah… How long has it been since…”

“Four? Five? Five years.”

Mingi whistled lowly and a silence occupied the street. Everyone decided to stay in as no cars or other people lingered around. You wouldn’t say it was uncomfortable, but it wasn’t pleasant either and you didn’t know what to do. Leaving him out in the cold wasn’t an option, but inviting him didn’t sound right either. After a long fight between your brain and heart, you decided to listen to the beating organ in your chest.

“Wanna… come up? To my apartment.”

Mingi looked up at you through his fringe and the soft roundness to his eyes teleported you back to high school. Keeping your composure, you hastily added on to the sentence.

“T-To, to clean up and maybe have something to eat?”

Had someone asked you five years ago what you’d say to Mingi if the opportunity presented itself, you surely wouldn’t have invited him to your home or offered him a free meal. The most he’d get out of you would be a one-finger salute. Fast forward one thousand eight hundred and twenty five days and Mingi was lent a helping hand instead. It was enough time for you to mature into a more rational woman who could, for better or for worse, put her feelings aside and think with her brain.

Mirrors surrounded the entire inside of the elevator, even on the doors, and you held back from laughing at the reflection. There couldn’t have been an odder pair than you two. Mingi, dressed in all black with colorful blotches decorating his intimidating face, and you, wearing designer from head to toe. Even your bags were opposites — his a dingy gym bag that was a thread away from falling apart and yours from the recent Louis Vuitton collection. It was quite a funny look, but not a bone in your body vibrated with glee.

As the elevator doors closed and the mechanism carried you up the many flights of stairs, the reality dawned upon you. A multitude of questions you hadn’t thought of before inviting Mingi inside popped up like mosquitoes during summer nights — annoying, but unavoidable. The poor attempt of convincing yourself it was just a kind gesture, a friend helping a friend, you couldn’t shoo away the nagging fact that nothing of your and Mingi’s past was platonic. Shame and guilt curled in the pit of your stomach. Knowing your soulmate was out there somewhere, probably waiting for you, while you were cozying up to a man who wasn’t meant to be yours in the first place was sickening.

The ding of your arrival sounded through the speakers and you quickly went first with Mingi hot on your heels. Unlocking your front door, you threw the keys in a bowl the shape of a fish — a housewarming gift from Hongjoong — and stripped your outerwear. It was first when you put your stuff aside that you realized Mingi was still standing by the door and hadn’t moved since crossing the threshold. The man was shamelessly taking in his surroundings and you wondered what he thought of your apartment. Was it to his liking? Did it suit you? Did he like it? Why did you care?

“Uhm, you can just hang your stuff here,” you gestured to the coat rack mounted to the wall, “while I get dinner ready.”

You didn’t wait around to see him subtly nod, instead you made an escape to the safety of your kitchen. It was weird having Mingi over. It was weird being civil to one another. The tension was still there since your last encounter, like static in the air that wouldn’t really go away. The soft pad of feet grew louder and you threw a look over your shoulder to see Mingi in the doorway, his bottom lip caught between his teeth and eyes darting all over the place. Aside from his appearance, it seemed that his habits hadn’t changed — good as bad — but it wasn’t your place to pry. Not anymore.

“Is it alright if I… wash up now?”

A heat crawled up your neck and attacked your cheeks. “Y–Yeah, of course!” You cleared your throat and continued, “The bathroom is on the left of the hallway and there are towels in the cupboard above the washing machine.”

Mingi nodded, but didn’t budge from his spot. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants and leaned against the doorframe to take on a relaxed posture, yet he looked anything but relaxed.

“I… I– Uhm, don’t… I kinda don’t have a spare set of clothes to change into…”

“Oh… Oh!”

“Yeah,” he inhaled sharply through his teeth, a low hiss escaping as he tried to ignore the stiff atmosphere.

“That’s alright! I think I have something you can use. Uhm, you can start washing up while I see what I can do.”

Rummaging through your closet for your brother’s clothes to lend Mingi wasn’t something you ever imagined doing in all your years of living, but here you were. Hunched over, searching like a madwoman for an extra hoodie and some basketball shorts or a pair of sweatpants that wouldn’t be too small on the giant currently occupying your bathroom. Your brother had been in your apartment a grand total of three times and by some stroke of luck, he’d left behind clothes he thought might come in handy for his next visit. Who knew they’d be useful for more than just that?

You didn’t find a hoodie, but you did spot a black compression shirt and a pair of matching sweatpants that would have to do. You just hoped they wouldn’t be too tight. To be on the safe side, you even snagged one of your brother’s boxers. It was one thing to share clothes and another thing to share underwear, but if you got to choose, you’d happily accept the fresh pair instead of reusing your sweaty undies. The choice was up to Mingi in the end. With the clothes neatly folded in your hands, you marched toward the bathroom and triple knocked on the door.

“Uh, I found some clothes you can use!”

The harsh drops of the shower abruptly stopped and you patiently waited for a response, but nothing came. You raised your hand, fingers balled into a fist, and as you swung it forward to knock again, the door suddenly opened. A cloud of steam escaped from the hot bathroom and Mingi’s very naked body appeared in the slight opening. His stomach was a perfect display of muscle, each of the six abs sculpted like marble. You would’ve ogled longer hadn’t the raspberry and plum colored blemishes covered a huge part of his toned skin. His hair dripped on the tiled floor and a white towel hung dangerously low on his hips. The warmth tickling your whole body evaporated into a numbing cold at the bruises. Swallowing nervously, you forced your eyes back up.

Mingi flicked his head sideways to move the wet strands from his face and his tongue darted out to lap at his dry lips, a motion you followed attentively. The raise of his brow, a silent question urging you to speak up, had you stumbling over your words.

“S–So, I... I, uh, found something you can… change into!”

The clothes were thrust harshly into his bare chest, and Mingi nearly dropped the towel in order to catch them. Before he could utter so much as a "thanks," you bolted back to the kitchen and whipped out leftovers from last night. Anything to keep you busy and distracted from the jaw-dropping image that refused to leave you alone. Mingi eventually joined you in the kitchen. He leaned against the counter beside the stove, where you guarded the kimchi stew from overheating, and crossed his arms over his chest. The already prominent muscles grew more defined beneath the tight fabric. It was difficult to ignore his gaze peering down at you, and you couldn’t decide if your cheeks flared from a natural bodily reaction or from the heat of the stove.

The circular table behind you was already set, with a pair of utensils and plates aligned opposite each other. You removed the pot and placed it in the center of the table, silently beckoning Mingi to take a seat. His hair was still wet, but not dripping and despite wearing clothes, you couldn’t muster up the courage to look him in the eyes. The late dinner was done in a deafening silence interrupted by the clink of utensils and lip smacking. Not able to bear the thickness in the air, you cleared your throat and asked the first thing to pop up in your mind.

“Um… do you... want me to treat your bruises?”

The confidence you spent years mastering and using in your daily life deflated like a dramatic balloon flying around the room until it fell limply on the floor. Mingi was mid shoving food into his mouth and froze as soon as the words reached his ears. His lips were parted enough for you to catch a glimpse of his slightly crooked front tooth and a wave of nostalgia hit you square in the nose. The man before you had changed so much, yet not at all.

Mingi took a bite of the kimchi and rice to buy himself time to think your proposal over. It wasn’t a bad shout as you did have experience treating his wounds considering you were the one tending to him back in high school. He slowly chewed and swallowed, and you were starting to regret ever opening your mouth.

“Sure,” he answered while giving his full attention to the bowl of stew before him and you couldn’t have been more relieved. He didn’t have to see the way you bit the inside of your cheek, tightly gripped your spoon or raised your brows to your hairline.

The rest of the meal was eaten in silence and for once, you didn’t care if it wrapped around your throat and suppressed the air from entering your lungs. This was all so surreal. There wasn’t a day where you thought you’d be eating left-over kimchi stew with your ex-boyfriend and then agree to treat his wounds — the thing that drove you apart all those years ago. The universe worked in a funny way. Instead of bringing you closer to your soulmate, it led you straight to the past.

Putting the bowls in the sink, you gestured for Mingi to return to the bathroom while you put away the dishes. It hadn’t dawned on you that by helping Mingi treat his wounds, you’d have to merge your personal bubbles into one and actually touch him, even if it was as much as a graze of your fingertips along his skin.

Rounding the corner of the hallway and stopping before the entrance to the bathroom with a medkit in your hands, you were caught off guard by the image before you. Mingi was seated on the toilet lid, hunched over with his forearms resting on his thighs. You could see the top of his head — something you rarely did back in high school — as he faced the tiled floor. A swoop in your stomach urged you to run your fingers through his strands, but the impulse was quickly shut down. You stepped into the bathroom with feigned confidence. Mingi looked up as your sock-clad feet came into view, your big toes wiggling nervously. You placed the kit on the sink and grabbed the things you needed, starting with alcohol wipes. There wasn’t much you could do about the colored bruises already turning an ugly shade of yellow and purple, but the few cuts — like the one on his bottom lip and around his eyebrows — were easier to treat.

“This may sting,” you whispered, shuffling closer to him.

Mingi parted his legs to give you better access to his face. You put a finger beneath his chin and tilted it upward before gently dabbing the wipe against his brow ridge. A hiss filled the bathroom, but you didn’t stop cleaning the wound. Despite not being in this situation since high school, when Mingi would get his ass beat in the boxing ring and show up at your door with new cuts adorning his face every other weekend, you still remembered all the steps of the treatment. They were etched into your spine and controlled your limbs without a strain.

Your lips were pressed into a thin line, your brows almost touching from how deeply furrowed they were and Mingi wanted to smooth out the skin between them, but did no such thing. Instead, he diverted his attention elsewhere and focused on your lips, which he’d argue was the worse choice of the two. Scooping a generous amount of ointment on a Q-tip, you dabbed it on the cut and finished it off with a small band-aid that smoothly blended in with his hue. You tried to put off treating his lips, but apparently even Mingi had a limit to how many punches to the face he could take, and you eventually had to bite the sour apple and just get it over with.

It had been silent since you warned him about the sting from the alcohol wipes, broken only by a few of his grunts and hisses. Yet, the silence never felt as loud as it did in that moment when you cupped his chin in your left hand and stared intently at his plump lips. A determined heat swirled in your eyes and Mingi couldn’t look away. It took everything in him not to instinctively bite down on his bottom lip or run his tongue over it.

“Relax your lips,” you said, brushing your thumb along the bottom row.

You didn’t realize what you had done until a second later and Mingi couldn’t chuckle at your appalled expression, as he was equally frozen in place. Both of you were left wide-eyed, mouths hanging open and brains going haywire. A pleading sparkle glimmered in his dark eyes, but you refused to give in, keeping your focus on his lips — lips that were so kissable. Warmth washed over you and there was nothing you wanted more than for the ground to swallow you whole. The weight of his burning eyes was too heavy for you to bear, so you tried to redirect the attention by doing the one thing you did best — talking.

“Are you still fighting?”

It seemed to do the trick as Mingi broke out of the captivating spell. In an exhausted tone, the one you’d hear between a couple constantly bickering and reaching their end, he breathed out your name.

“I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”

You hastily applied the ointment and retracted your hand, but Mingi was faster. He grabbed your wrist, his thumb landing on the soulometer in the quick act and an electric crackle burst where your skin connected. A beat or two passed before he decided to speak up.

“I am fighting, just not as much… I kinda feel bad for my soulmate.” The corner of his mouth pulled up in a faint smirk and a chuckle followed at his poor attempt of easing the awkward air.

Your heart dropped into your stomach and you didn’t think it was possible for it to go any further from there, but hearing the rest of his sentence proved you wrong. Before the hollow feeling could reflect on your face, you forced the corners of your lips up in a fabricated smile. An identical smile to the one caught in a multiple of billboards all over Seoul.

“I wish mine would do the same. They always seem to find themselves in some trouble.”

A thick gulp ventured down his throat and the shaking panic in his eyes morphed into a forced calm. “I’m sure if they knew you were this worried, they’d stop running headfirst into danger.”

Five years had passed since the soulometer was injected into your wrist, enough time for your soulmate to change their ways, to stop giving their other half constant fear every night. Yet, it wasn’t the distance or the lack of knowledge about each other’s lives that weighed on your heart. The true reason lay deeper — your soulmate simply didn’t care enough to stop or perhaps they lacked the means to break free from the dangerous path they’d chosen. It was never about being physically apart, but about the emotional distance — the helplessness of knowing that, despite everything, they continued to surround themselves with danger. You didn’t have the heart to confide in Mingi about it, to express the quiet ache you carried, because saying it aloud would mean admitting that the person you loved was still caught in a cycle they couldn’t escape, or didn’t want to.

Truthfully, Mingi was also the last person you wanted to confide in about the matter.

“I guess so.”

The brief and accidental encounter with Mingi was supposed to stay a long lost media in your brain, cluttered together with other minor memories. That was what you told yourself as Mingi left your apartment, sweaty clothes in a trash bag and belly full of warm leftovers. The version of him you remembered from all those years ago still lived on in your imagination, the bitter note of how everything ended, a constant reminder as to why the encounter should just be that — short, consistent and insignificant. As the morning sun peeked from between the high buildings and the dark sky bleed out to a baby blue hue, you’d return to your everyday life of selling apartments while the dishwasher rinsed the memory of what occurred in the space of your four walls.

The open PDF on the computer screen illuminated your face and the bazillion numbers would’ve been overwhelming if your mind wasn’t occupied by the thoughts of a certain man with feline-shaped eyes and annoyingly juicy lips. Whatever you did — drown yourself in work, spend time with Hongjoong and Seonghwa, try out the new restaurant in town — nothing was good enough to forget Song Mingi and that night. The situation just felt so right. A domestic reality you yearned for since you graduated high school and moved into your own flat. The wish to have someone by your side, to stuff your face in greasy food, stay up late at night and watch a plethora of rom-coms while cuddled up to them, and sleep until the sun was high in the sky. Mingi re-awakened those feelings you locked away in a chamber behind your heart.

A stack of papers fell on your desk with a thud and pulled you out of your wishful thinking. Jongho, your freakishly strong colleague, plopped down on a vacant plush sofa that was mainly there for clients to use while discussing potential deals.

“You excited to get drinks after work?” He asked, tugging on his perfectly made necktie.

You massaged your forehead, completely having forgotten about the collective outing you and your co-workers had every month. “Is that today?”

“Whoa, don’t tell me you, the most unforgettable person I know, forgot about our end-of-the-month-party!? Woo is gonna have a blast when I tell him!”

Jongho didn’t question your sudden loss of memory at first. The younger agent found the situation perfect for a round of teasing or perhaps even as future blackmail material. Concern flashed in his eyes when you made no attempt to defend your honor and instead buried the rest of your face in the palms of your hands.

“Hey… is everything… alright?”

“Yeah… No? I don’t know.”

Something was really wrong because you were never tired. In fact, Jongho had never seen you without a smile or a spring in your step. You were always collected, whether it was your clothes, hair or mood. Fire alarms went off in his head and plans be damned if he didn’t at least try to figure out what was going on. It was easier said than done, though, because he didn’t know how to approach the topic and ended up sitting there with his mouth parted like a fish out of water. The overthinking was starting to trigger a headache, so he settled on the simplest, but hopefully, most effective question he could think of.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“No.” Your reply was instantaneous. “I need to not think about it.”

A mischievous gummy smile spread across his face. “You just signed yourself up for regret, my dear friend.”

As you were about to ask to elaborate, he cupped his hands around his mouth and called out for the biggest menace in the company.

“Wooyoung-ya!”

Albeit curious, the pair didn’t try to fish out context clues or the story behind your emotional state. Wooyoung lived up to Jongho’s promise of making you regret joining them for drinks and it didn't stop there. They both continuously visited your office throughout the rest of the shift. Wooyoung would nonchalantly enter the room as if he didn’t have anything up his sleeve, step up to the window and inspect the wilted plant burning up from being in the sunlight for too long, when he was actually throwing you curious glances from the corner of his eye. Then, before quickly taking his leave, he’d subtly slide you a packet of gummies and run as if his life depended on it. One would believe you were engaging in some shady transaction that would definitely make you both lose your real estate license.

Jongho was a different story. The youngest of the trio wasn’t good with his words, but the affection could be read through his actions. Although they were questionable. He, too, invaded your room in subtle fashion and touched everything that didn’t require human contact — your Sanrio figurines, picture frames, ornaments still up from Christmas. While it was annoying in the moment, their antics kept you from circling back to the one person who had made his grand return after five years of radio silence. Good thing you hadn’t planned on rekindling that flame ever again. But what was written in your calendar didn’t align with the universe.

The happy hour had ended a while ago, and while Jongho and Wooyoung made sure to get you home first, your stomach rumbled the second you stepped foot into the apartment. What better meal to have in a tipsy state than some ramen?

The trip to the corner shop was supposed to be quick and relaxing — a weak attempt to distract yourself from the headache blooming at the back of your head. Perhaps that was why you weren’t fully aware of your surroundings, stumbling into racks displaying different flavors of chips and accidentally knocking things out of place. You purposefully ignored the scorching gaze of the cashier and hastily moved to hide between the aisles. But what you didn’t expect was for another figure to round the opposite corner, causing you to bump headfirst into them. The ramen cups and energy drinks piled up in their basket tumbled to the floor, and you quickly crouched down to gather as many things as your arms would allow.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!”

The person didn’t say anything and you expected them to be very annoyed, but that wasn’t the case. The familiar face looking down at you with a tight-lipped smile caused you to freeze on the spot.

“Hey.” Mingi flared his fingers in what was supposed to resemble a wave, but it came off more awkward than intended.

A painful cramp fluttered at the back of your neck as the position wasn’t the most comfortable, your head craned uncomfortably as you looked up at him, the strain making it feel like it might snap at any moment. Yeah, the university wasn’t on your side.

“Here.”

He knelt down to be at your level, though it would never really match, and urged you to place the belongings in the basket. It was impossible to tear your eyes from him, but Mingi didn’t notice your stare as he gathered the unscattered snacks and drinks in the carrier. Once was a coincidence, twice is a pattern, you thought and swallowed thickly.

“Alright, let’s stand up.”

He rested his arm on his propped-up knee, while the other hand was held out for you to take. On a count of three, you both stood up simultaneously and your hand immediately returned to your side.

“What are you doing here?”

The question came off more like an interrogation than a casual inquiry and you winced at your loose tongue. Mingi didn’t seem to care though.

“Nothing much, just wanted a late night snack.” As if you didn’t understand, he grabbed one of the ten ramen cups in his basket and gently shook it. The contents rattling together and overpowering the whirring sound of the freezers. “What about you?”

“Ah, same here…”

Mingi glanced down at your empty hands and smacked his lips together, “Cool.”

“Yeah…”

The young cashier who couldn’t be older than a high school graduate nearly suffocated from the sudden thickness in the convenience store.

“Uhm, you gonna get anything?”

“What? Oh! Right! Let me just…” You trailed off and darted over to the refrigerators, grabbing the first thing that came into view.

You snagged a bag of shrimp chips on your way back too. Banana milk and shrimp chips, what a combination! The reasons for your late-night adventure had started with the craving for ramen, but somewhere between the aisle mishap and the distraction of other snacks, the noodles had been completely forgotten. In the meantime, Mingi moved over to the cashier register and patiently waited for the kid to scan his items.

You shuffled behind him and Mingi turned sideways, one of his brows cocked up. “Here, give me that.”

Before you could protest or dodge his advances, the items in your hands were stolen from beneath your nose and placed on the counter.

“Hey, no, I can pay for that.”

“Don’t worry.”

“Mingi–”

“I said don’t worry about it.” There was a certain finality to his tone that told you there was no point in further arguing. Mingi swiped his card as the cashier packed your things in two separate plastic bags.

Standing outside the Seven-Eleven, you stuffed your hands into the pockets of your coat, the handles of the bag clinging to your wrist. “You didn’t have to do that. I can pay for myself.”

Mingi’s breath escaped in a cloud of vapor, lingering in the cold air before it dissolved into the sky. The corner of his mouth lifted into a one-sided grin.

“I know.”

Never letting you pay for anything was just another addition to the long list of habits he still clung to since high school. Mingi really hadn’t changed, and you couldn’t deny the disappointment that settled in as you witnessed it.

“Good. Then I’m leaving now. Good night.” You turned on your heel and began walking in the direction of your home.

“W–Wait! Let me walk you home.”

You didn’t spare him a glance. “No need for that. This is one of the safest neighborhoods in Seoul, actually.”

Another ‘I know’ died on his lips. If anyone on this earth knew how out of danger you were, it would be Mingi.

“T–That’s good, but... it would help me sleep at night if I knew you got home safely.”

After all this time, you still had a hard time telling him no. Sighing, you shrugged your shoulders in defeat, your resistance crumbling despite yourself. “Fine, you can walk me home.”

The walk was short, but lasted longer than ever and you were regretting your choices of not standing your ground against him. You would never admit it out loud, but his dimpled smile and two moles were your greatest weakness and there was no way you’d ever win against them.

Mingi cleared his throat. “What have you been up to? You know, since high school.”

“Have you thought about what college to apply for?” Mingi asked and intertwined his fingers across his abdomen.

“I don’t know,” you told him truthfully.

You lay on the grass, staring up at the night sky. The black canvas was dotted with a million, billion stars, leaving no space untouched. It had been Mingi’s idea to go stargazing, but considering neither of you had a driver’s license or the energy to trek up a mountain in the middle of the night, you figured the view wouldn’t be any different from your backyard.

He turned to you and followed the outline of your profile. God, you were beautiful. “Really? How come?”

“I don’t know. I feel like there are so many options, like how will I know what’s good for me.”

“Whatever you choose, sugar, you’ll figure it out. You always do.” Now it was your turn to face him and he flashed you a reassuring smile.“Sometimes, the best choice is the one that feels right in the moment.”

“...Being with you feels right.”

Nothing could compare to back then. Sure, you experienced fleeting moments of happiness, but they didn’t last longer than the life of a snowflake. Did Mingi ask that to see if you were still stuck in the past? If your time together was the peak of your happiness? He didn’t get to do that. To slither his way into your heart and admire everything you had been through without him by your side.

“Nothing special. I’m a real estate agent, so I’ve been busy selling houses and apartments.”

“Nothing special my ass. That’s amazing. But what is expected of the smartest girl in our high school, huh? I always knew you’d achieve great things.”

Blood pooled beneath your cheeks, burning hotter than a fever of thirty-nine degrees, and you hated how, despite everything, he still turned you into a giddy high school girl who made eye contact with her crush. To be fair, it wasn’t too far from the truth and that was a scary realization on its own. All it took was a measly compliment and you turned to mush.

“What about you? What are you doing these days?”

A silence stretched between you far heavier than anything you had ever felt before. It was as if the question had torn through some fragile barrier, leaving him exposed. His eyes, once sharp and filled with glee, now seemed distant, as though searching for something lost. You could feel the weight of the pause, like a storm brewing in the space between you. What was he really doing these days? More importantly, what had he been doing all this time out of your reach?

“A little bit of everything. Anything I can get my hands on, really.”

“You didn’t study after high school?”

“You know school wasn’t my strongest suit. Stuffy classrooms and obnoxious teachers talking my ear off never got me anywhere, I mean, I barely passed high school. I was more comfortable with my hands in motion and figuring things out as I went. School was ever it for me. It always felt like I was waiting for something that never came.”

Mingi wasn’t wrong. Although he was a smart kid, staying awake studying until the dead of night and then working an underpaid nine-to-five job wasn’t for him. But you couldn’t shake away the bitterness of how he threw away the opportunity of a normal life with you for a bloody ring and a life of unpredictability. The punches he took in that world weren’t just physical — they hit somewhere deeper, somewhere you couldn’t reach. You had always wanted something more stable, something real to hold on to, but Mingi had chosen the chaos, the fight, over everything else. Perhaps that was why the universe decided not to tie your red string to his pinky, knowing it would hurt you more than his decision.

Coming to a stop outside your apartment, the memory of your first encounter after a few years still fresh in your mind.

“Like boxing?”

Mingi’s eyes softened, but he didn’t speak, his mouth pressing into a thin line. The silence between you both was heavy, filled with things unsaid. It was the kind of silence that made your heart ache, knowing that there was so much left unresolved between you, yet you couldn’t find the words to fix it.

“Good night, Mingi,” you finally said, taking a shaky breath as you turned back to your door again.

The finality in your tone hung in the air like a weight neither of you could lift. You didn’t look back as you reached for the door handle, but you knew Mingi was still there, standing in the same place, holding onto the same regrets.

Reaching your apartment, you flicked on the lights and quickly discarded your outerwear. You turned on the switches in every room and placed the bag of goods on the kitchen table.

Disappointment fueled every movement. Grabbing a pot from the lower cupboard, you filled it with water, not caring as it splashed everywhere. When you set it down on the stove, you didn’t bother being careful, letting it thud onto the surface. You waited — oh-so-patiently — for the water to reach its boiling point and shoved a hand into the plastic bag. The expected rustling of plastic and cold drinks didn’t come. Instead, you felt the hard, smooth texture of something else. Knitting your brows together, you took hold of the square object, no bigger than a container of pudding.

In your palm was a plastic box of peeled and cut oranges.

Your head rested on your folded arms, eyes cast on the baby-blue sky taunting you from behind the windows. It was a beautiful day. What a shame you were stuck in a room with thirty other kids and no air conditioning. Your homeroom teacher was late — an uncanny occurrence, considering she always emphasized the importance of being on time and never failed to follow through. Until today.

The door to the classroom slid open with a thud, but the class had yet to quiet down, and by that single reaction, you knew it wasn’t Ms. Choi who had entered. The previously loud chatter of your friend group turned into hushed whispers and skittish snickers that reached your ears, but you didn’t bother to see what had gotten them so giggly. It was probably Jihoon, the new boy in class, who effortlessly managed to twirl every girl around his finger with just a look. He wasn’t your type — you preferred them tall, lanky, and clumsy. Jihoon was on the shorter side and had muscles that seemed unnatural for a sixteen-year-old. Plus, you weren’t into soccer boys. No, your style was more martial arts.

A hand, twice the size of yours, appeared out of nowhere and placed a clementine — your favorite fruit — on your desk, just inches from your face. Your eyes widened, staring at the bright fruit in disbelief. Groggily, you pushed away from the comfortable spot against the desk, only to quickly notice the figure looming over you.

Song Mingi.

“You skipped lunch,” he stated nonchalantly, offering an explanation for the sudden appearance of the fruit.

The muffled squeals of your friends, combined with Mingi’s unexpected act of chivalry, sent heat rushing to your cheeks, leaving you flustered and unsure of how to react. Gift-giving and small acts of service weren’t foreign between you and Mingi. He always seemed to know your cravings, bringing you peeled fruit and sugary snacks without you ever having to ask. In return, you tended to his cuts, massaged the tension from his neck and shoulders after heavy training, and always seemed to find ways to care for him without words. But that was done in private, never in public. Especially not in front of your friends who were having a field day with his new revelation.

“Ah,” Mingi breathed out, picking up the orange once more.

Silently, he peeled off the thin skin, revealing the vibrant fruit hidden beneath. But he wasn’t done yet. With a casual movement, he stuffed the citrus-scented rind into the pocket of his school uniform before carefully removing the white pith wedged between the clementine’s segments. You didn’t like the white parts. His towering form caught the attention of the rest of the class and by now everyone intently watched the exchange.

The clementine looked bare now. He held out the fruit again, waiting for you to extend your hand, careful not to let it touch the surface of your desk. A yellowish stain colored his nails, a discoloration that wouldn't fade with just one wash, and the acidic smell lingered, even stronger now. It was the main reason you didn’t like peeling them in the first place.

Mingi, having heard your confession a few weeks ago, made it his mission to always give you peeled oranges. It warmed your chest to know he was keeping that promise.

Apparently, the universe wasn’t satisfied with your first and second encounters because the third one happened just a little less than a week later. You were meeting up with Hongjoong and Seonghwa at a nearby cafe to catch up on the hecticness of your lives — also known as gossip about your workplaces and bonding over the latest episode of When Life Gives You Tangerines. The name of the drama threw you down a steep hill of memories, but you stood up, dusted off your knees and trekked back up. You didn’t want to associate him with the family of fruit anymore.

The clock had just passed five-thirty AM and you were supposed to be there ten minutes ago. It didn’t help that you hit every red light possible. At least the weather was nice. Not a single cloud occupied the baby-blue sky and the spring breeze scattered butterfly kisses along your body. It could’ve been worse. You thought of gloomy clouds and cold rain, and immediately shuddered. Yeah, it definitely could’ve been worse.

The breath caught in your throat as a bus sped by, just a little over the limit. You exhaled in relief as it passed, but that relief was short-lived when you locked eyes with none other than Mingi on the other end of the sidewalk. It felt as if the universe were laughing in your face, throwing everything you didn’t want right at you. You’d take gloomy clouds and rainy weather over seeing Mingi again. The worst part was that it was a lie because even in the stormiest times, he managed to light up your surroundings, and the erratically beating heart in your chest served as your witness.

A black hoodie swallowed his towering frame and a pair of chunky headphones covered his head. You couldn’t see him that well, but you assumed the shining reflection around his collar was from his stacked necklaces. The cuts along his face had healed nicely — in fact, they were completely gone — and you wondered if your last encounter had anything to do with it or if he had just gotten better at dodging flying fists.

You always seemed to end things on a bitter note, yet you ignored the sourness on your taste buds and raised your hand in a small wave. He returned it with a tight-lipped smile and a subtle tug of his headphones, letting them rest around his neck instead. Mingi bit down on his bottom lip, seemingly contemplating something. Coming to terms with his thoughts, he raised a finger, wordlessly telling you to wait and threw a quick glance at the red light as if it would hurry up from a single look. Although you had every right to ignore him, you just couldn’t. You had always been weak when it came to him, never really able to tell him no and it appeared some things just never changed.

Mingi’s face lit up as the light turned to green. The man was so eager to cross the street — to get to you — that he didn’t bother checking both sides before walking out. Unlike the others, he missed the speeding vehicle heading zooming through multiple red lights and showing no signs of stopping. You felt it before you saw it. The spike in your left wrist, the rush of the arrow sky rocketing from zero to a hundred. Your legs moved on their own before you could form the first letter of his name. One moment you were rooted to the ground, eyes wide and mouth parted, and in the next you harshly collided with Mingi, hoping your spurt of strength was enough to knock him off balance and away from the dangerous metal chunk on wheels.

The world didn’t stop spinning, but time slowed down as Mingi fell backward. His hand came up to cradle your head, while the other slithered around your waist. Your own arms were pressed against his chest from the push you gave him. The landing was harsh, but Mingi took most of it as his back slammed against the pavement and your face became buried in the crook of his neck and shoulder. The passersby approached you with questions of worry and concern, their faces etched with confusion and anxiety at the entire situation. Everyone was a bit shaken up at the tragedy that could’ve been. Your body refused to cooperate and the only thing you could do was tangle your fingers into the material of his hoodie, clinging to it for dear life, trying to distinguish reality from imagination. How cruel — he had just returned to your life, only to almost be taken out of it again, permanently.

“Are you okay?” he whispered, his fingers massaging your scalp as the other hand scrunched up the back of your shirt.

A stutter of words slipped out, none of which Mingi could make sense of. He sat up, trying to get a better look at you, but you refused to part from the comfort of his chest. You didn’t need to see it to know your soulometer had calmed down — you felt it in every fiber of your being. Your soulmate was safe, and you were too, now that you were in the arms of a living, breathing Mingi.

“Please, sweets, I need to know if you’re alright.”

Desperation dripped from his voice like sticky honey falling from a dipper and it struck sharply in your core, bringing you back to the present.

“Okay,” you mumbled against his clothes, just loud enough for it to reach his ears and Mingi exhaled in relief. He pressed a kiss on your hairline and your heart fluttered at the domestic gesture.

A couple of strangers offered to call an ambulance, but Mingi waved them off, saying it wasn’t necessary and that no one was harmed — just a bit shaken up. He thanked them nonetheless and it did the trick as the crowd dissolved, the people returning to their everyday life, but with a story to slap down on the dinner table.

Mingi placed a palm beneath your left thigh as the other went around your waist to keep you sturdy as he got up from the pavement. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”

It didn’t matter how much you wanted to tell him to let you down, that you could walk on your own and didn’t need a chaperone — the words wouldn’t roll off your paralyzed tongue. Feeling the stares of strangers burn into you, you hid your face in the crook of his neck and didn’t pull away until you were safely in your apartment. The entire journey home, you tried to wrap your head around the event: the near-death experience, your body taking over while your mind went slack, the sudden spike in your soulometer. You didn’t dare think about what would’ve happened if you hadn’t reached Mingi in time — if you were just a second too late, if you hadn’t noticed the car. A shiver ran down your spine, and you pressed your lips together to distract yourself from the tears threatening to soak Mingi’s hoodie.

You needed a distraction from the what-ifs, and you needed one pronto. Trying to focus on something other than Mingi being flattened by that stupid car, you racked your brain for something, anything else, when it suddenly hit you. In all the seven years you had your soulometer, it had never even grazed, let alone pushed hard against the other end of the scale.

Back inside your apartment, you plopped down on the sofa and dropped your head into your hands. A throbbing ache pulsed through every part of your head, and the constant buzzing of your phone wasn’t helping. You had an inkling of who it could’ve been, and as you fished it out of your bag, the hundreds of messages and missed calls from both Seonghwa and Hongjoong confirmed your suspicion. You sent them a reassuring text, apologizing for bailing on them and blaming it on your headache. Mingi was leaning against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed over his chest, and his feet crossed at the ankles. His eyes never left your hunched form. He was waiting — for a call, a sign, something that would tell him when to reach your side and offer his help.

In another life, you’d be flustered — happy, ecstatic that he was there, worried for your well-being, wanting to make you feel better. But the nagging thought of the situation — too perfect to be a coincidence — wouldn’t let you go. What were the odds of your soulmate and Mingi both being exposed to danger at the same time? How was it that Mingi’s body was void of bruises just as your soulometer stopped acting up?

Licking your lips, you inhaled shakily and found Mingi’s gaze. The pull to be wrapped in his arms was strong, almost unbearable and you wondered if he felt it too. The need to run your fingers through his hair, to rest your forehead at the junction of his neck and shoulder while he soothingly rubbed circles in your back. The feelings were more intense than back in high school, now full of want and need that you couldn’t satisfy by being in his mere presence. However, you were willing to put it aside in exchange for your question marks to disappear and there was only one person who could give it to you.

Your voice was raspy and weak, breaking mid-sentence as the words struggled to escape. With every ounce of vulnerability, you asked him, “Are we soulmates?”

Mingi didn’t move for a moment. He looked to the side, his jaw clenching as he uncrossed his arms and gripped the edge of the counter. It was inevitable, really. The question was bound to come up sooner or later, and he wasn’t a fool. Mingi didn’t live in a bubble separate from his worries. They were woven into his everyday life, especially since you’d crossed paths again after all these years, with you at the center of them. The anxiety hovered around you like planets orbiting the sun — always there, needing you to survive, but never able to get too close. Mingi never stopped thinking about you. Since your high school graduation, he’d found himself more often than not lying awake in the dead of night, thoughts circling back to you — wondering how you were, what you were doing, if you were happy. You had to be. Mingi only ever brought you pain and hurt, something he loathed himself for. The lies and secrets were the main reason behind it all, but the icing on the cake was his devotion to boxing, which had long surpassed his love for you. At least, in your eyes, because that was what he had allowed you to see — what he wanted you to think. It would make the end of your relationship easier, giving him a lie to hold onto instead of the truth.

But Mingi was tired of lying. He didn’t plan to re-enter your life to keep the same pattern in motion. He wanted to start a-new and whether he deserved it or not was up for debate, but he was going to try. For you. For himself. For your relationship.

“Yes.”

Then it all just stopped. The beat of your heart filled the silence of the world. The flicker of emotions was instant and irregular — shifting from relief and happiness to disbelief and anger. You couldn’t form a single thought, much less say anything. What could one say in such a moment? Realising your first and only love was more than that and had slipped away. The never ending fear and regret of losing the sole good thing in your life washing out to nothing, leaving you empty. It was good and bad. A war broke out in your head, scrambling to come to an understanding, but the tear between the two sides was so grave it was starting to hurt. The relief of finding your soulmate clashed with the idea that he was right beneath your nose this entire time, purposefully avoiding you for who knows how long.

A sting burned behind your eyes followed by a heavy pressure. Your throat closed up and yet you managed to get your question out.

“How… How long have you known?”

Mingi heaved in a breath. The weight of the situation pressed harshly against his chest as he realized the bear trap he set up years ago was beneath his foot.

“A little after the start of our third year in high school… When you were rushed to the hospital.”

You remembered it like it was yesterday. Someone thought it would be a funny prank to leave an opened peanut-chocolate bar in your locker, completely disregarding the gravity of the situation. That was almost a month after his eighteenth birthday — the day his soulometer was permanently injected into his body. Out of those three years, you dated for one and a half, and the last stretch of your relationship was apparently built on secrets and lies because he knew.

He knew and didn’t tell you.

You rose from your seat, your expression shifting from disbelief to frustration. Your brows furrowed, and your lips were pressed tightly together in fury. Mingi had never seen you so angry — not even when some older kids were making fun of Hongjoong for his height or liking boys.

“Why? Why wouldn’t you tell me about it? Mingi, we broke up and you didn’t think to tell me we were, are soulmates?!”

Your voice jumped from a whisper to full-out yelling, loud enough for your neighbors above and below to indulge in the dramatics, and Mingi flinched at the sudden rise in volume. A fire spread from his core to the rest of his body, growing hotter and more intense with each passing second. Despite how familiar the sensation was, it wasn’t his. You were angry beyond salvaging and no amount of water could douse the flames.

Mingi’s chest tightened as the answer to your long-awaited question tumbled out of him. “Because you deserved a better soulmate!”

Like that, a weight lifted off his shoulders. There was a very long pause where you just stared at each other, both waiting for the other to speak.

“Excuse me?” It was meek, barely above a whisper as you spoke and a sharp, breaking sound echoed in Mingi’s heart, like porcelain shattering. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Mingi hesitated, his lips parting as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the right words. You seized the opportunity to step in front of him. Unshed tears lined your waterline, one blink away from spilling over and kissing your burning cheeks. Mingi wasn’t any better. His eyes were glossed over and throat was dry. His fingers turned an alarming shade of white from gripping the counter, the veins in his hands more defined than ever.

“Why?”

“You weren’t happy with me…” Mingi’s voice cracked, tears welling in his eyes as he struggled to continue. “W–with me boxing… and I�� I wasn’t ready to give up on that. I thought you d–deserved some happiness before you realized you were stuck with me f–forever.” His words came out choked, his chest heaving as the tears finally spilled over.

The salty tears extinguished the fire that had been brewing in you. What had felt like flames of hell now shrunk to nothing more than a spark, ready to fade. You reached out, your hands trembling slightly as you cupped his face, gently wiping away the tears that had fallen.

“You thought I wouldn’t choose you? Mingi, I was never asking you to give up on what you love. I just couldn’t stand seeing you put yourself in danger, not knowing if you’d come back to me… alive.” Your heart ached as the soulometer inside you throbbed painfully, a constant reminder of how deeply connected you two were.

Mingi had grown up in a boxing family. His father was a boxer, and his grandfathers on both sides were boxers too. It was only natural for the only child of the Song family to step into his relatives’ shoes and fall in love with the gruesome sport. However, it wasn’t the officiated matches or light sparring during training that had you worrying for Mingi. A little after Mingi turned eighteen, he realized that his talent could not only bring him medals, but money. A great sum of money, actually.

As the fortune started to come his way, you began to notice the change in him. He wasn’t just fighting for the thrill or the legacy anymore — it had become a business. The sport he had once loved, the sport that had connected him to his family, was now something more — something dangerous, something that had started to consume him. You watched as he took on bigger opponents, harsher training regimens and increasingly dangerous matches, all in pursuit of a prize that was slowly tearing away at the person you once knew.

You didn’t mean to put him in a tight spot, to choose between his first serious girlfriend and the illegal business that kept him independent. You also didn’t expect him to choose the latter. The decision stung more than you anticipated, the weight of it sinking in as you realized what it said about his priorities.

You were both young and foolish back then, believing the world was beneath your feet and that one wrong decision could crumble it all. Had you known you were bonded, tied together for all eternity, you would’ve approached him differently and you certainly never would’ve let him go.

“I didn’t know about the soulmate bond. I didn’t know you knew... and you still let me walk away. You were willing to let me go without telling me the truth? How could you think I’d leave you forever, knowing we were meant to be?”

“I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry,” he said, his voice breaking. “I–I swear, I wanted to tell you. So many times. Every time I’d walk past your posters or hear about you from our mutual friends, I’d be one click away from calling you, but…”

The apology hung in the air like a weight, thick with guilt and regret. His voice trembled, each word choked back by the raw emotion clawing at him. The tears streamed down his face, unchecked. He turned his face slightly, the side of his cheek brushing against your palm, as if trying to hide from the pain, but your touch remained steady. You held him there, gently, as his sorrow poured out.

“Don’t hold back, Mingi. I’m not going anywhere, not now, not tomorrow, not ever… So please, talk to me.”

His chest hitched as he struggled to breathe, the weight of the words, the silence and the years of unsaid things crashing over him. Mingi knew he owed you this. An explanation, a reason for his sudden pull back all those years ago. He heaved in a breath and allowed the truth to spill.

“I just… I couldn’t,” he whispered. “Every time, I’d think about it and then–then I’d back out. I thought it was better this way. I thought maybe you’d be better off without knowing… that I wasn’t good enough, that I’d only mess things up. Jongho said you were ha–happy and I didn’t want to ruh–ruin that. ”

“You could never–”

“But I would!” He didn’t mean to shout, but the frustration and sadness, locked up for so long, didn’t hesitate to seize the first opening it saw. “I was still fighting… I never stopped. It only got worse after… after we broke up. The money was good, but the loneliness,” his voice wavered, “the loneliness was unbearable. The only time I ever felt anything was when I saw your face... or when I got beaten to hell.”

Your eyes darted around his face. Jumping from his eyes and lips to his nose and cheeks as if seeking a pressure point that would make all of his suffering evaporate into thin air. Mingi avoided your gaze and you massaged the apple of his cheek to catch his attention again. You never intended for the downfall of your relationship to put its claws in his back and leave a wound so grave it couldn’t heal on its own. In fact, you were so caught up in your own emotions that you didn’t think to take a moment and wonder how it would affect him. The guilt festered in your bones like a leech refusing to let go.

“I never realized how much you were carrying… I thought I was the one who was struggling, but maybe we both were. I’m sorry, Mings.”

“No.”

He shook his head in disagreement and your hand fell from his face. The loss of warmth was close to painful and Mingi, not wanting to be apart from you any more than necessary, grabbed your hand and guided it down to his chest, placing your palm above his beating heart — the organ that pulsed in rhythm to your own. Your fingers twitch to grab his shirt, to claw out his heart and keep it in the safety of your hands. To shield it from hurt and pain and agony. You never wanted him to feel such anguish again and you certainly didn’t want to be the reason behind it either. It tore you from within and the emotion wasn’t even yours to begin with.

“It’s not your fault. It was never your fault.”

“Mingi–”

“Stop it. You know if I’d just listened to you, if I’d stopped getting involved in stupid shit, none of this would’ve happened. There’s no one to blame but me.”

Tears still rolled down his cheeks and clung onto his lashes, though his eyes were sharp and firm as if daring you to challenge his words. If there was one thing you’d learned during the few years you dated Mingi, it was that once his mind was made up, nothing could change it.

“We are both at fault, love.”

The pinched expression on his face crumbled at the familiar call of endearment. His mouth parted slightly, and a constellation twinkled in his eyes — a sight you had missed incredibly. A twinge of hope flickered to life — hope that you could once be again, despite his careless acts of selflessness. His focus shifted between your eyes and with shaking hands he gently cradled your face, his touch not lighter than a ticklish flutter of a butterfly’s wings. Your own hands found purchase on his waist, fingers looping through the pouch of his hoodie as you instinctively leaned into the gentle pressure of his caress.

Mingi wetted his lips and brows scrunched together in a pleading demeanor. Something was plaguing his mind again and you could feel the train of thought reach out and graze your own, as if wanting you to get a glimpse. It didn’t hurt, but it wasn’t pleasant either. It felt full, crowded.

“What’s going on in that head of yours, Mings?”

“…You.” He took another breath, steadying himself, his voice barely above a whisper. “Can I… May I… I want to kiss you.”

Perhaps you should’ve said no. Perhaps you should’ve ignored him sitting on the steps of your apartment. Perhaps you shouldn’t have let him back into your life at all. But the thought of telling him no — robbing yourself of the feel of Mingi’s lips against yours — burned like hot acid in your stomach. So you did the one thing you were best at when it came to him, you gave in to your heart's desire.

“Then kiss me.”

Mingi didn’t need to hear you say it twice before he pulled your face up to his, lips smashing together as a flood of emotions erupted with the kiss — the kind of feeling only a romantic gesture like this could bring. You rose onto your toes, your hands gripping his wrists as if to anchor yourself in the moment. A low rumble vibrated from the back of his throat and you pushed harder against him. The kiss was intoxicating, yet liberating at the same time. You swiped your tongue along his bottom lip and he wasted no time parting them for you. The heat between you both deepened and each moment felt like it stretched on forever, the world around you fading into the background. His fingers grazing the side of your face, pulled you impossibly closer, as if there was no space left for anything but this shared intimacy.

The pounding of your heart filled your ears, a frantic rhythm that matched the urgency of his touch. You were caught in the gravity of the moment, caught between the need for air and the undeniable pull to stay, to keep kissing him like nothing else mattered and nothing mattered. Just you and him.

You felt one of his hands slither down your spine, a trail of firecrackers following the wake of his fingertips and sending shivers down your body. You couldn’t pull away — not yet. Not when everything inside you was screaming for more. Mingi pushed you closer to him, chests touching and hips meeting in a delicious press, that radiated between you both, causing every nerve in your body to hum with anticipation.

It was the need for oxygen that eventually broke you apart before the heated situation could be taken to the bedroom, with you pushed against the soft sheets and your legs tangling together. Your chests rose and fell in synchrony, trying to steady the breath that had been stolen in the heat of the moment. A crackle of electricity snapped around the room, the atmosphere still charged with the energy of your kiss, but both of you knew you couldn’t rush past this — there was so much more to say, the fact that you were soulmates, for one.

Mingi rested his forehead against yours, his breath was warm against your skin, quick and shallow, mirroring your own racing pulse. His eyes searched yours with a mix of intensity and vulnerability. He whispered your name, as if unsure how to bridge the distance between the desire in his chest and the emotions that were beginning to surface.

“We are soulmates,” you whispered before he could say anything else. It was more of a statement, a wake-up call for you than a fact. Your gaze dropped to the strings of his hoodie, the intensity of his stare made your knees feel weak.

Mingi didn’t reply. He rubbed gentle circles over your blouse on your lower back, a relaxing motion. You didn’t need to hear him say the two worded apology, you felt it in his soft touches.

“It was you… every time my meter went up… it was you fighting.”

He nodded, a solemn smile gracing his swollen lips. “Yes.”

“...But it hasn’t… gone up since–”

“Since you found me outside your apartment,” he finished for you. “I stopped shortly after that. I– uh, I realized that I wanted you. Or, well, I always knew, but that… that confirmed it. Mmm, I knew, though, that if I wanted us to be together, I’d have to change– stop! I’d have to stop doing the thing that made me lose you in the first place.”

“So… what does that mean for us?”

“It means… that if you want me to, I’ll peel your oranges for the rest of our lives.”

You wiped a stray tear from his cheek. “Even the white bits?”

The corner of his lips curled up in a grin, giving a glimpse of his crooked front teeth, and his eyes lit up like the night sky in the countryside.

“Especially the white bits.”

#feedback: sparks and bruises #song mingi x reader #song mingi #ateez #ateez x reader

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keii-8 · 14 hours ago

Text

fidgety hands | chance x m!reader

pairing: chance (date everything) x m!reader

summary: chance has never been so entirely focused on your hands before, but he loves it. he was absolutley smitten. he hopes that you feel the same.

warnings: slightly suggestive(?), yearning, gay panic, a pair of dorks. grammatical errors, english is not my first language.

a/n: my first time posting a fic in tumblr to improve my writing because i suck at it and romance in general. so i thought i'd give it a shot. all because of a game that lets you goon to objects. i love this silly nerd sm <3

Chance really loved your hands.

Right before you received the dateviators, he always considers himself lucky when he has your undivided attention even if it takes place in your office. It's been a while since you've played G&G with others and became more focused on your work. And he was kinda left out when he sits there on your desk and watches you type away on the keyboard with a bored look on your face.

But, that's where it would start.

From the moment something was bothering you, he would often watch you lean back on your chair and let your hands fidget. Whether it would be your own fingers or the other objects around you. Sometimes the ghostly touch of your fingertips would hover above the keyboard that Mac loves so much, or your fingernails tapping on Dasha until it created a calm rhythm.

Most of the time it was him. The die rolls under your touch once you extend your hand absentmindedly to reach for the small object. The warmth as you rolled him on your palm and fingers engulfed him to no end.

You both didn't know when it started, but it immediately became a habit of yours and Chance was embarrassed to admit out loud that he loved it. It has become a perk when you're working. It felt like you sought out for him when something frustrates you, and worst of all, he can feel it.

Embarrassingly so.

The way your hand would always find him just to trace your thumb onto the engraved numbers, one by one while you sorted out your files. Often placing him in between your index and ring finger, or shaking him under the curve of your hand. As if you were rolling for nothing but luck to get through this.

He can feel the shivers running through his spine whenever you do that, and would always savor the moment. Your hands alone make him smitten. It's as if your hands caressed his face, softly squishing his cheeks together. Tracing them to every crevice on his head; it could be his jaw, his scalp, his nape, and the back of his ear.

Oh. Chance can always feel himself flush just from your touch.

Time skipped to now, and the dateviators can finally grant you access to talk to anything in the house. Mac was talking to you about the serious amount of self-insert fanfic to delete to upgrade the computer's system. Again.

While Chance was uninterested in the other things you both discussed, he couldn't help but overhear your conversation. Especially when the computer would mention your boxer purchases and many other things that make you flush to no end.

Heat would blossom on his cheeks. He couldn't even exit the room when he was waiting patiently for you to finish up. That's why he occupied himself to write an extended scene for the oneshot you both played last week while the die waited. He was supposed to write, but now all he wanted was for you to reach out to him. He thinks you'll pass out from the computer's advances of how beet red you've gotten and Mac was completely enjoying it.

Chance was fully aware of how the inanimate people in this house found you endearing. He has an equal share of jealousy whenever you're with someone other than him and now he can only look at you sympathetically. He watches you fidget your hand and immediately knew it was time for him to step up.

He pushed himself in his unmoving state and rolled until your hand picked him up as he was engulfed with warmth once more. Your discussion with Mac continues and Chance knew you could never say no to them. After all, you're trying your best to help around the house and its problems due to the ability to speak to them, hearing them out the best you can.

It didn't take long for Mac to upgrade, and with Chance in your hand, the die discovered a new perk of yours while you fidget. Tossing him in the air was clearly new despite how he liked the breeze brush against him and fell safely onto your hand. Even if your conversation with Mac ended, you kept tossing him while you were lost in your thoughts.

With your self-insert fanfics gone, of course you would be distressed. You're devoted when it comes to it and you would resort to seeking comfort writing it. Especially with your job taken from you. But he knew you were always glad to help others.

He snapped out of his thoughts when he noticed he was high up in the air for the nth time. It was concerning since you've never done this before. Chance’s moment to stop you was cut short when he slipped from your touch. That’s when you realize your mistake, you can't reach him in this distance.

“Shit. Chance-!”

Your office chair swerved harshly and you immediately felt the tingling pain knocking the air out of your lungs. You found yourself on the floor, with your side and arm tensing from the fall. Putting yourself in an uncomfortable position whilst your eyes trailed over to your extended fist.

You were so engrossed on the sight of it by a bated breath that you didn't notice the shadow looming above you, or even the dateviators still on the bridge of your nose. The pain had subsided to worry when you noticed subtle movement and you turned to face where.

There he was, Chance, looming over you with such incomprehensible eyes as his brows furrowed in worry. You didn't waste any time when the warmth of your hands slowly returned to his face. Shifting it to the side to see if he was hurt as your thumb traced to his cheekbones.

“Dude… Are you okay? I didn't mean to space out, I'm sorry...” You muttered with such guilt in your eyes.

Chance didn't respond which worries you, and instead he sunk in your touch and let himself be bathed with it. Somewhat entranced the way your hands trailed to his jaw. Calloused but gentle. Is it wrong for him to crave more? He didn't even realize how starved he was of your touch when his hands trailed to cup your wrists.

“Chance…?”

You felt the edge of your breath hitch when your pupils shook from the sight in front of you. Chance held your wrists in a gentle grip and leaned into your hands, caressing himself with it. It felt too hot, his face burned and slowly but surely, yours too. You tumbled over your words and internally cursed at yourself when words betrayed you.

How can you even form the right sentences when his hands took yours and began to pepper kisses? Every peck felt electrifying, from your fingers to your palms. You didn't even imagine him being this bold. You always perceived him as an adorable person who wanted to make friends easier and has a firm love of G&G.

You don’t know anymore, but one thing you do know was everything just felt right. He couldn't help it. From the moment you became his friend through your first meeting, the campaigns, and hang-outs, Chance couldn't help but become putty in your hands.

And he knows he wasn't the only one. His ruby eyes would watch you stare at his hands that was thicker than yours and if he looked closely enough, you would squirm under him due to the rapid beating of your ribcage. And him in-between your legs wasn't helping the both of you either.

He chuckled under his breath and you snapped out of your blushing stupor.

You meekly raised a brow under him. Grumbling softly. “What are you laughing at?”

“Nothing.” He says but it didn't look like it was nothing when he intertwined his hand through yours. Your face blew a fuse once more when he planted a firm kiss on your knuckle. He didn't waste any second and looked at you so tenderly.

“Do you love my hands that much?” He asks tenderly.

Chance fought a laugh when you short-circuited. Stuttering words that were difficult to make out. You don't have to say it. He already knows by the way your teeth chewed the flesh on your bottom lip. It was a rare sight to behold as the homeowner. A rare sight indeed just for him.

You really loved his hands too.

a/n: i have a habit fidgeting my dices especially my d20 and thought i'll make a short out of it. i'm already regretting my decision posting this while i was editing stuff in. but i'll do it for the m!readers (and kinda for myself). i'll try to do dorian next if my writer's block isn't out to get me!

#date everything #chance the d20 #chance x reader #x male reader #date everything fanfic #date everything x reader #date everything game #chance date everything

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imnotjustreadingg · 2 days ago

Text

the list pt.1

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Novelist!Fem!Reader (y/n) Genre: Established relationship, hurt (a little), Self-Doubt, fluff Word count: 1160 Summary: Bucky and Y/N are dating, and have an established relationship. She's a novelist, and currently the Avengers's roommate, he's the hero with a terrible past

Mornings with Bucky Barnes were simple, safe and quiet even. No noises around her except for the soft humming of the coffee machine and the occasional creak of wooden floorboards under his weight. Life with him wasn’t perfect, but to you, it felt like peace after a lifetime of war. The apartment near the Avengers Facility had become your sanctuary.

Bucky woke before you did, as he always did. Muscle memory, he’d said once. It didn’t matter how comfortable the bed was or how late he’d gone to sleep, his body just remembered.

The morning sun spilled over the bed like honey when he leaned in, brushing his lips against your bare shoulder.

“Still sleeping, doll?” he murmured, voice rough with sleep but laced with affection. You made a vague sound, a half-sigh, half-grumble, and he smiled.

He slipped out from under the covers and padded toward the kitchen. Within minutes, the aroma of coffee filled the apartment. He worked quietly, setting out the pastries you’d bought the day before from the little bakery two blocks down, your favourite. You’d been working so hard on your next manuscript that he thought you deserved the treat.

By the time you realized the bed beside you had gone cold, you blinked awake and instinctively reached toward the empty space. A second later, you caught the scent of Colombian roast and melted sugar.

“Hey,” you greeted as you appeared in the kitchen, still in his T-shirt, rubbing your eyes.

Bucky turned, holding a mug toward you like an offering. “Hey, sweetheart. Figured I’d let you sleep in.” You smiled, grateful. After a few lazy bites of pastry and sleepy kisses over coffee, he pulled on his gear and strapped on his gloves.

“I should be back for dinner,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“Sam said it’s nothing major. Just training the new recruits.”

“Alright. I might go write at that bar I like you know, the one with the annoying neon sign and those awful stools that kill my back but somehow make me feel creative?”

He laughed. “I know the one.”

You kissed him again, lingering just long enough to make him consider staying. But he eventually left, murmuring promises to pick up dinner on the way home.

Once the door closed behind him, you stretched your arms above your head, took a shower, and started prepping your workbag. Before leaving you sat down at your laptop to scribble something from a napkin you use the day before, when the idea suddenly come into your mind.

“Reasons to Leave Him”

It wasn’t real, and it wasn’t about Bucky. The idea came to you while thinking about your relationship with Bucky. Of course, he had in common with the protagonist the fact that he hadn't yet fully opened, but who could blame him with everything he'd been through? Having taken all the strengths and best characteristics of Bucky, you wrote down that list with everything opposite of him.

Your female main character, a woman who’d been too blind for too long, clinging to a man who didn’t see her needed to understand about leaving the male main character that you create.

You typed them quickly, like ripping off a band-aid:

Doesn’t talk about his feelings a lot

Inconsistent effort

Jealousy and control

Only love an idealized version of you

You saved it to your project folder and left, completely forgetting it existed

▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️

Bucky came home earlier than he’d expected, and the apartment was quiet when Bucky got home.

There’d been a change of plans, one of the recruits had broken an ankle during training, so they’d wrapped up the day early. He picked up takeout anyway, stopping at your favourite place, thinking maybe he’d surprise you. You might already be home, sprawled on the couch, working in that weird way you did, one sock on and hair up staring at your screen like you were reading someone’s mind.

But the place was still. Empty. Like the apartment itself was holding its breath. He set his keys down and toed off his boots, trying to shake the strange weight in his chest. He told himself you were probably just out at the bar you liked, scribbling notes on napkins again like you always did when inspiration struck, and your hands couldn't wait for your laptop.

Then, he walked toward your desk, half-thinking of leaving you a sticky note like you always did for him.

That’s when he saw the napkin on the desk.

“Reasons to Leave Him.”

His gut dropped before his heart could catch up. He read every word. Then read it again. And again.

He stood there for what felt like an hour, the food going cold on the counter, his breath uneven.

You had written it. And even if it was just for yourself, you’d written it.

There were only four lines. Written in your handwriting. Sharp. Rushed. Like something you had to get out before it ate you alive.

Doesn’t talk about his feelings a lot

Inconsistent effort

Jealousy and control

Only love an idealized version of you

Bucky stared. At first, he didn’t even breathe. Just stared. It was a list. He knew what kind of list it was. He wasn’t stupid. It was about him. He ran a hand down his face, exhaling slow. Heavy.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath. His eyes kept drifting back to the words like they had teeth.

Doesn’t talk about his feelings? he tried. God, he tried. But sometimes his thoughts were so loud in his own head, and silence was the only way to survive them.

Inconsistent effort? maybe he hadn’t been showing up the way he thought he was. Maybe the coffee in the mornings and holding your hand at night wasn’t enough when he spent whole days avoiding eye contact and brushing off your questions with grunts.

Jealousy and control? his jaw clenched at that one. He hated that you might feel watched, like he didn’t trust you. That wasn’t what he meant. But maybe the way he bristled when strangers talked to you too long had started to feel like something darker. But then he thought about that bastard who allowed himself to whistle after you in the street, and five people including you had to stop him

Only love an idealized version of you? that one hurt the most. Because you knew him. Not the soldier. Not the mask. Him. The broken parts and the buried shame and the haunted quiet. And if you thought he only loved a version of you...

Then what had he done to make you feel like that? He folded the napkin carefully, like it was something fragile. Then he sat on the couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. And waited for you to come home. Because something had shifted. And he couldn’t let you keep carrying the weight of this story alone.

part 2 coming soon...

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes fluff #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky x y/n #bucky x female reader #bucky x oc

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boopboopedoop · 2 days ago

Note

hi love!! omg your message made me emotional fr 😭 thank you so much for taking the time to say that —you have no idea how much it means to me. i’m so honored to know anything i wrote inspired you to start your own stories... like?? what do i even say to that except thank you times a million. i’m genuinely so excited for you 𖹭𖹭

i took a look at your rules and i was wondering if you’d be up for writing a yoongi x reader one-shot where he lets them play with his hands while he’s rambling about something he loves—and he starts stumbling on his words or getting distracted bc of the physical affection GOD I’M SOFT RN

Track 03: You

Pairing: Idol Min Yoongi x gn! Reader

Genre: Fluff, slice of life, gentle intimacy.

Word count: 1,479

| Summary: Yoongi can’t help but fluster when you touch him so gently.

CONY’S note: I know my writings not there yet. I’m still learning and trying to find a style that fits for me. But I can’t deny the joy I felt writing this for my fav fic author so I really hope she enjoys this!

Masterlist

There’s a routine the universe complies to. One that we overlook daily, like the birds flying high in the sky or the mourning leaves crushed under our boots. When the sun rises in the morning, and the moon beckons us goodnight. A farewell meant to recognize the end of the day, a whisper of goodwill meant to help us slumber.

There’s a gentle routine to Yoongi's life too. One that escapes his notice when you appear before him. The stutter of his breath when you're close enough and he catches your scent. The way his eyes follow the curve of your lips when you smile. It’s a routine he follows unknowingly. One that his body accepts as if it was made personally to deliver such commands. Yoongi thinks his body was meant for loving you. Like how the moon was made to whisper us goodnight.

The early mornings stick in his head as he writes lyrics dedicated to the curve of your shoulder, hidden between sheets that hang off your curves. Yoongi makes music to the flutter of your eyes when you eventually wake up to the careful hand he lays on your back.

Yoongi does not solely exist for you.

But there are times when he feels that if you weren’t here on this earth, he would live the rest of his life in search of a piece of his soul that does not feed off his melodies alone.

Yoongi mumbles a curse of frustration as he stares at the monitor in front of him. The hook of the song he's writing feels weak — like it’s clutching its thin fingers to the edge of a seriously high mountain of stability. The beat is something he's proud of. Its simplicity feels deserved; it doesn't need much to sound appealing. He worries if he's overdoing it. What if the lyrics are too corny? What if metaphorical memories are too difficult to understand?

He sighs as he leans back into his chair. The cold coffee that sits on his desk is almost empty, and the ice has started to separate, creating an unpleasant sight. He was thirsty a second ago — now he's just trying to figure out how he’s ever going to fall asleep tonight.

The sound of a soft knock interrupts his thoughts, and he hums a low,

“Come in.”

before turning toward the door.

It’s you. A takeout bag in your hand and a sheepish smile on your face.

“Thought you’d be hungry by now. You’ve been in here for a while.”

Yoongi's small frown dissipates immediately at the sight of you coming closer to sit on the small couch a few feet away from his desk. The scent of his favorite lamb skewers fills the makeshift studio in his apartment.

“Thank you. Could actually use a break right now. I don't think I’m making any progress.”

You make a soft sound of acknowledgment before beckoning him over to sit next to you — and he does.

“I’m sure you're just overthinking it, like you always do, Yoongs,” you say before reaching over to grasp his hand, running your thumb over the back of it. Yoongi’s breath stutters slightly at the simple gesture of your affection.

“I know, but I feel like anything I write just doesn't feel real enough. I want people to understand where I’m coming from, you know?”

You smile at Yoongi softly, your hand still grasping his. You take care to massage his sore fingers from what must have been hours of running over a keyboard again and again.

“You’ll get there, honey. I know you will — you always do.”

Yoongi blushes slightly at your gentle reassurance, his hands warming under your careful attention to his palm. He exhales slightly before nodding at you, eyes fixed on the way your hand meets his.

“What are you working on that’s got you all cooped up in here, anyway?”

You question Yoongi, an eyebrow slightly raised in curiosity.

You rarely ask — out of respect for his privacy. Music is Yoongi's first love. He breathes life into lyrical messages that force people to listen to what he has to say. Some are meant to hide away after a particular stroke of genius, and others are meant to be shared with the world.

Yoongi's music is deeply shaped into his character. There are times when he leaves his studio with red-rimmed eyes and tears threatening to spill over. You always wonder what kind of music he makes in those moments, but you never dare to ask. Sometimes, music is made just to build an escape — and that escape can be just as temporary as any sandcastle. Even with all the love and care that goes into making it.

Yoongi takes a second to think before replying.

“It’s just some side thing I’m working on. Nothing concrete. I doubt the label will let me put it on an album or anything.

It’s just— I feel like I need to make it perfect. Like there's no going back after it’s done, and I need to keep pushing forward before the words escape me. I know it sounds stupid—”

“It doesn’t sound stupid, Yoongs.”

You cradle his other hand.

“I get what you mean. It means a lot to you, right? That you express yourself clearly.”

Yoongi blushes harder involuntarily before nodding.

“I promise you’ll get there. I’ll try to offer advice too, if you’re willing to let me hear it — even though I don’t really know what I’m doing. But I have ears, and I’m willing to help in any way I can.”

Maybe it’s the way you're gripping his hands slightly harder to show how willing you are to help him. Or maybe it’s because of that look in your eyes — that both gentle and stern look you give him when he expresses any doubt in himself.

But Yoongi can’t help but be flustered by you.

You’re still holding his other hand, but now you’re giving attention to the one you haven’t massaged yet — and Yoongi’s heart melts a little further into his chest. He’s sure that if someone peeked inside his chest cavity right now, all they’d see is the way his body has formed into an unattractive pile of goo, barely managing to keep him afloat and attentive in your presence.

You notice his sudden silence — and of course you do. You always notice the little things about Yoongi. Like the little nose scrunch he does when he’s trying not to laugh. Or the awkward way he stands when he’s not sure he’s welcome in a group setting. You always notice the things no one really seems to care to dissect about him. And maybe that’s part of why Yoongi loves you so much.

“You okay, Yoongs?”

You smile and giggle lightly as you question him, noticing the red tips of his ears that almost always appear whenever he’s flustered.

He grumbles stubbornly, averting his gaze to the window in his studio.

“I-I’m fine,” he mumbles.

You start to laugh — not unkindly, but unbearably fond of the way he tries to look at everything else but you in this moment. Your shoulders shake as you lean back into the couch, your eyes lined with tears of mirth as he dramatically pulls his hands away from your lap.

Yoongi eventually starts laughing with you when he sees you nearly fall off the seat in your haze of laughter. The loud screech you let out as you almost hit the floor. The studio soon fills with the sound of your embarrassed cough and his cackle of pure joy at seeing you in his shoes.

Eventually, the laughter dies down and you lean back into the sofa again — this time with the remnants of happiness across your face. Smiles painted across both of you.

“Are we going to eat those lamb skewers now?”

Yoongi questions with a raised brow.

You scoff, but you’re still fighting the smile off your face.

“Of course.”

Yoongi eventually forgets his troubles as you sit side by side on the old, worn couch he’s been meaning to replace for years now. The light sounds of chewing fill the room. He hums gently when he’s done eating. Words begin to work themselves into his head for that new hook.

This time, he thinks he knows what he’s going to say.

There’s a routine that Yoongi’s universe complies to. Like the way your eyes flutter open to the careful hand he lays on your back in the mornings. Or the way you never fail to spark creativity into the dark cloud that can be his mind if he’s not paying too much attention. Sometimes Yoongi can’t help but think his best music is written when it’s you that he has in mind.

And maybe the universe made it so.

Like how the sun rises in the morning, and the moon beckons us goodnight.

When you silently give me a light smile / Only then, I feel a little relieved

SNOOZE - AUGST D

#bts #bts x male reader #bts headcannons #bts x reader #bts x fem!reader #bts oneshot #min yoongi fanfic #min yoongi #min yoongi x reader #min yoongi x you #min yoongi x y/n #fluff #bts fluff #request

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beomiracles · 3 days ago

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Cracks knuckles I said I was gonna read this like a month ago, but here we are. Deadlines aren’t really my thing but i digress.

First off all, the way you write, is so captivating. I would even go as far as calling it its own language. I could list hundreds of metaphors that you use throughout this ‘short’ introduction to what i can already tell is going to be a gutwrenching fic – and each metaphor hit just as hard.

The beginning paragraphs are so important and they really set the mood for the entirety of the fic. It’s harsh and cruel, depicting a reality no child should ever have to endure. We’re first introduced to the MC/reader, whatever you wanna call her,, and i’m just like… she’s so esoteric, that’s probably the best way to describe her. She’s not made to be understood and you portray that so well with how people thus far have treated her. And the promise she makes to herself, to never be taken or broken. The way she’s so in tune with both herself and nature around her gives both her and the story in itself such a fairytale setting and feeling. It feels almost like a book i can pick up with a deep green or blue cover, with hand drawn pictures in the corners as you follow on her journey.

And the cut to beomgyu?? I love that man so much im going to feel for him no matter the fic. Not being the king’s actual son is such a heavy burden on him because he feels as though no matter how hard he tries he can never compensate for being someone he wasn’t supposed to. It’s not the queen’s fault, nor is it his brother’s – but he’s allowed to feel a certain hollowness, even toward the people he should love. Still, i really love that you chose to go the opposite way when it comes to his brother, i love that he has love for him and vice versa. The mention of Kai coming into his room at night???? Do you know i have a glock.

Anyway, continuing on the fairytale theme – you really amplify this by building this chapter in 3s. Three nights of beomgyu coming outside to watch the reader, and it is not until the third night he is found out. I love the spellbound metaphors, in such a magical world they fit perfectly. And adding on even further to the reader’s esoteric persona is when beomgyu sees her and is immediately in awe. For someone grown up around things magical, HER magic is still something truly captivating, something foreign that pulls him in.

Kai follows him on the third night, and it’s the first time we get a proper feel of his character. You’ve beautifully portrayed their differences — kai feels warm, like the sun, bright yet deep and bold colors. He’s confident, he speaks and acts like a prince because he feels in every part of himself that he is. Beomgyu is not, he’s quiet, blue and purple, the moon and not the sun, you even say it yourself “But then again, Kai had always been the gentler one, the one who wore his heart on his sleeve like a badge of honor. Beomgyu, with all his jagged edges and quiet ache, had never known how to offer such kindness so easily.” spectacular. Beomgyu doesn’t act and speak like a prince because he does not feel he is, him and kai are so similar but so different. — Even as they walk back, it’s kai who’s holding our hand, gently guiding us through the dark forest as beomgyu quietly observes, just like he has been for three nights.

Now I don't want to get ahead of myself because there is still so much to learn about all of these characters, but right now it feels as though beomgyu and reader are similar, perhaps a little too similar. Whereas kai is this strong and almost dependent force. Kai is someone the reader can rely on, beomgyu is wary, their energies will likely bounce off of each other rather than blending together to create one.

And as a biased bamtori i will always be rooting for him, not to mention that so far he’s been portrayed as somewhat of an outcast, never enough for anyone – perhaps not even for you. And that’s like what i crave in a fic between the love interests… BUT there’s so much we don’t know about kai, maybe he’s not what ha makes himself out to be, he feels pain too, i feel like there could be so much hidden under his gentleness and im like itching to know what it could be.

Yeth anyways,, post the next part its been over a month

A FLOWER GROWN IN MOONLIGHT.... ( PT. 1 ) ; a perfect stranger

೨౿ ⠀ ׅ ⠀ ̇ 7K ⸝⸝ . ‌ ׅ ⸺ word count.

pairings 𝜗𝜚 fae prince .ᐟ beomgyu ៹ moonskin .ᐟ reader , fae prince .ᐟ kai ៹ moonskin .ᐟ reader ᧁ ; fantasy ˒ fae ˒ smut ˒ series

warnings ⊹₊ ⋆ mentions of abuse toxic traditional ideologies mentions of death reader has long dark hair kinda stalker-ish vibes from beomgyu (he's just fascinated ok...)

synopsis ୨୧ In the twilight hush of the world, there are strange and wondrous things — shimmering beneath the silver moon, curling their fingers through the soft soil of reality. Like flowers that bloom from the skin of a girl with a secret garden in her veins, these marvels are born from the quiet ache of longing and the fierce defiance of wonder.

The forest swallowed her in a single, silent breath, as though the ancient trees themselves had conspired to hide her from the world’s ruthless gaze. She ran, feet slick with blood and dirt, each desperate stride echoing in the cathedral hush of moonlight and shadow. The night clung to her skin, damp and trembling, as if it too feared the fire and steel that had burned her past to ash. She had no name to call herself, no echo of who she had been to anchor her in the darkness; only the wild, unbroken rhythm of her heartbeat and the magic that bloomed in quiet defiance across her skin.

She was but a girl of twelve or thirteen summers, and yet her world had already been reduced to a single thread of survival. She had seen the ruin of her family; the house that had once held laughter and warm bread now a silent grave of splintered wood and broken bodies. Their faces flickered behind her eyelids with every breath: her mother’s gentle hands turned still and cold, her father’s fierce laughter replaced by the rattle of dying breath. They had been her world, and now they were echoes, ghosts of warmth fading into the frost of memory. All because of the flowers she bore, the blossoms that stirred and unfurled with each racing beat of her heart. Flowers that were both curse and promise, beauty and burden, shimmering with a magic that the world had deemed too precious to be left unclaimed. The men who had come for her were strangers, eyes hard as iron, voices like the crack of breaking ice. She could not remember their faces, only the glint of cold steel and the smell of smoke as they tore her world apart. They had come for the gift that grew upon her skin, but she would not let them take her. She would not let them claim what was hers, what was a part of her soul. She watched as her mother and father begged for mercy, begged to be left alone. She had been an enigma to them but still loved the same as any other child was. A parents' love was unconditional no matter their faults.

So she ran, deeper into the forest’s waiting arms, her breath ragged and sharp as winter air. Each footfall was a defiance of the darkness that stalked her, each stumble a vow she would not yield.

The forest was alive around her; a symphony of ancient whispers and sighing leaves, the hush of roots burrowing deep into the earth. Branches reached for her like the gnarled hands of old spirits, tangling in her hair and tearing at her tunic, but she pressed on, driven by the wild thrum of fear and something older still, hope, perhaps, or the raw, unbreakable will to endure. The flowers on her skin pulsed with a soft glow, petals trembling as they opened to the night. Their perfume wove around her like a spell, the scent of summer rain and the promise of life in the midst of ruin. She ran until her legs gave way, until the night became a blur of tears and silver light, until the world narrowed to the raw ache of her lungs and the cold bite of the earth beneath her feet. She fell in a hollow where the moss was soft as a mother’s touch, the ground damp and cool against her fevered skin. Around her, the forest held its breath, and for a moment, she let the darkness cradle her, let the grief and terror spill from her in shivering gasps. She had no name, no home, no memory of safety left to her, but she had her breath, and the flowers that unfurled with every exhale. She had the pulse of life beneath her skin, a quiet rebellion in every bloom.

The petals glowed faintly in the darkness, delicate as moonlight, fragile as a child’s dream. They were her only inheritance, the only proof that she was still here, still breathing, still hers. She pressed her hands to the mossy earth, feeling the slow, steady heartbeat of the forest beneath her palms. In that moment, she made a promise, not to the memory of the family she had lost, nor to the kingdom that would never claim her. She promised herself, in the hush between heartbeats, that she would not be taken. That she would not be broken. That she would rise from the ruin, root herself in the quiet strength of the earth, and grow. And so she lay there, nameless and alone, while the forest wrapped its green heart around her, weaving her into its endless song of shadow and life. In the hush of ancient trees and the sigh of wind through hollow branches, she let herself rest; just for a breath, just for a heartbeat. Tomorrow, the world would hunt her still. But tonight, she was alive. And the flowers on her skin bloomed brighter than the stars above.

Beomgyu lay awake, staring at the vaulted ceiling of his bedchamber, where moonlight spilled in pale rivers through the glass. Sleep had fled from him, as it so often did, leaving him adrift in the quiet hours of the night. Outside, winter sang softly against the windows, snow falling in delicate flurries, each flake a fleeting marvel. He welcomed the cold that pressed against the ancient stones of Silvertheed, the way it crept into his bones and made him feel more alive. There was a purity to the cold, a sharpness that cut through the murk of dreams and memory.

Unable to bear the restlessness any longer, Beomgyu rose from his bed and dressed in silence, his movements swift and sure. He slipped from his chamber with the stealth of a shadow, the marble halls of the palace echoing beneath his boots. Silvertheed was a kingdom of silver light and ancient enchantments, where the fae blood that ran in his veins sang to the moon and the stars. But tonight, the stone corridors felt too close, too heavy with secrets. He needed the breath of the forest, the hush of snow-laden branches to soothe the storm within him. He stepped into the cold with a sigh of relief, the winter air biting at his skin and turning his breath to mist. The forest at the palace’s edge was a cathedral of white and shadow, branches heavy with snow and moonlight pooling in icy hollows. Beomgyu walked slowly, savoring the hush of the night, the way the world seemed to pause in reverence for the quiet majesty of winter. His thoughts drifted like snowflakes, half-formed and shimmering, until he heard it; a sound that did not belong to the forest’s ancient hush.

A song, soft and lilting, like the echo of a forgotten lullaby. It wove through the air, pulling at something deep in his chest, something that felt both fragile and unbreakable. Beomgyu stilled, his breath caught in his throat, and followed the sound through the hush of snow and the sigh of wind. There, in a small clearing where moonlight pooled like quicksilver, he saw you. A girl, no older than twenty summers, your hair dark as the midnight sky. You sat upon a fallen log, weaving flowers into your hair with a careful, almost reverent touch. The flowers glowed faintly in the moonlight, petals of lavender and rose, pale blue and the soft blush of dawn. But it was not the flowers themselves that held Beomgyu spellbound — it was the way they grew from your skin, each bloom unfurling in delicate wonder before you plucked it free and wove it into your braid.

His breath stilled, the cold forgotten as he watched you. In Silvertheed, magic was woven into every stone and stream, but he had never seen anything like this. Your humming was soft, the notes unfamiliar yet haunting in their beauty, as if you sang to the forest itself and the forest bent to listen. you seemed a part of the night, your presence both fragile and eternal, as though you had stepped from a dream spun of moonlight and memory. Beomgyu pressed his back against the rough bark of a pine, heart pounding with wonder and something else; an ache he could not name. He watched your fingers move with delicate precision, each flower a promise of something unspoken, something ancient and aching. The snow fell around you, each flake a benediction, and you moved as if the world itself was a secret you alone could read.

For a long moment, he simply watched, caught between the world he knew and the wonder of the girl before him. You were weaving flowers of your own skin, and he could not look away. The cold pressed closer, sharp as glass, but he welcomed it — it made the moment feel real, made him feel real. In that clearing of moonlight and snow, Beomgyu felt as though he had stepped beyond the edge of the world, into a story that had waited centuries to be told. He did not yet know your name, or what fate had led you here, but he knew this: he would remember this moment forever. The girl with flowers on her skin, humming to the night as if she had always belonged to it.

Beomgyu lingered in the shadows, the snow beneath his boots a muffled echo of your soft, secret song. He watched you through the hush of ancient pines, heart caught in the quiet reverence of the night. Your voice, a low hum that seemed to draw the moon closer, drifted across the clearing in a language he did not know. You sat upon a fallen log, weaving flowers — no, not flowers, but pieces of yourself, into your dark hair, petals pale as dawnlight against the night’s dark silk. Each bloom you plucked from your skin was a quiet rebellion against the cold, a testament to the magic that pulsed beneath your breath. Beomgyu watched with the rapture of a child who has seen a miracle; each unfurling petal a spell, each sigh of wind a promise. He watched you until the night was no longer night, until the stars began to fade and the cold blue hush of dawn bled into the sky. The snow fell softer as the world began to wake, and he felt the pull of duty of the life he could not leave behind, gnawing at the edges of this stolen moment. He could not be caught here, a prince hidden among the roots and shadows, watching you like a pilgrim before an altar.

With a final, lingering glance, he turned and slipped away, his cloak a whisper of darkness against the snow. You did not see him go, lost in your quiet ritual, your voice still weaving ancient secrets into the hush of the forest. The memory of your song clung to him like a heartbeat as he made his way back to Silvertheed, the cold burning against his skin, each breath a promise that he would return. And though the sun rose over the kingdom in a blaze of gold and winter fire, for Beomgyu, the world remained moonlit and trembling with the wonder of you; the girl who grew flowers from her skin and sang to the night as though it alone could understand.

The next night, sleep eluded Beomgyu once again, as if it were a fickle spirit dancing just beyond his grasp. He lay in the hush of his bedchamber, the cold seeping through the stones and into his bones. His mind was a restless sea, every thought a wave breaking against the memory of you; the girl who sang to the night and wove flowers from her skin as if she were born of the forest’s breath. All day he had carried the wonder of you like a fragile bloom, tucked close to his chest where no one could see.

He rose at last, drawn again to the forest’s quiet promise. But before he could slip out into the snow, his thoughts turned inward, to the echoes of a past that still clung to him like winter’s frost. The memories of his childhood in Silvertheed’s halls were etched in the marrow of his bones, a tapestry of bruises and hollow silences. His father; the king in name and name only, had never looked upon him with anything but disdain. Beomgyu was not his son, not truly. He was a relic of the queen’s past, a living reminder of a love that had bloomed before the king’s shadow fell upon her. The king’s cruelty had been a quiet poison, administered in cold words and cold hands, each blow an echo of a truth Beomgyu had always known: that he did not belong. Yet in the darkness of those years, there was always Kai; his brother, his solace. Kai was the balm to every wound, the soft light in the kingdom’s cold embrace. Sweet and nurturing, Kai held his brother’s hand when the world grew too dark, his presence a soft murmur of safety in the night.

Kai did not carry the king’s venom in his veins; he was all gentleness and soft-spoken wonder, a soul untainted by their father’s bitterness. He would sit with Beomgyu by the fireside, weaving stories from the smoke and the shadows, their laughter a quiet rebellion against the kingdom’s chill. It was not Kai’s fault that the king’s love was a blade turned inward, a wound that never healed. And Beomgyu, despite the ache of it all, loved his brother with a devotion that could not be broken. But tonight, as he slipped from his chamber and into the forest’s embrace, it was not his father’s cruelty that consumed his thoughts; it was you. The memory of your humming, the way your flowers bloomed in the cold, unfurling with the soft sigh of winter’s breath. The forest seemed to remember you, each tree a silent witness to the magic you carried in your skin. Beomgyu walked deeper into the hush of snow and moonlight, his breath a pale ghost in the night, his heart a restless flame.

He did not know what he would find when he reached that clearing, only that he could not stay away. In the quiet ache of the night, with the stars as his only guide, Beomgyu let himself hope that he would see you again, that you would be there, humming to the cold and weaving your secret blooms beneath the gaze of the moon. This time, the forest was a cathedral of silence, the snow beneath Beomgyu’s boots a muffled prayer to the moon. Each step was a deliberate hush, a reverent pause in the symphony of winter. He felt the cold in his bones, but he welcomed it — it was a sharp, clarifying thing, a promise that he was awake and alive in this moment. The ache of the cold was nothing compared to the pull that guided him through the dark, a quiet gravity that led him back to you.

He followed the thread of your song, a gentle melody that wound through the pines like a silver river. The night itself seemed to lean in to listen, each branch heavy with snow, each shadow holding its breath. And then he saw you, the clearing opening up before him like a secret. You were a small, wild flame against the hush of winter, your dark hair a river of shadows that caught the light of the fire you had kindled. The pot above the flames glowed faintly, steam rising in soft curls that vanished into the frozen air. You moved with a surety that spoke of ancient rituals, of secrets whispered by the forest’s oldest trees.

One by one, you plucked the flowers from your skin, each bloom trembling with a quiet reverence as it gave itself over to your hands. Beomgyu watched as the petals slipped from your fingertips into the boiling water, the surface of the potion shimmering like moonlight caught in a pool. The fragrance was delicate and strange, a mingling of snow and something sweet, something that made him think of distant summers he had never known. He could not look away. You poured the shimmering liquid into a small metal mug, your hands steady as though you had done this a thousand times before. The way you cradled the cup was almost tender, like a lover’s touch or the gentle promise of dawn. And then, without hesitation, you lifted it to your lips and drank.

The effect was immediate, a soft bloom of light that spread across your skin in a sigh of blue. It was a color he had never seen before, the deep, pulsing blue of glaciers and ancient seas, a color that seemed to hold the memory of every winter that had ever been. You laughed, a sound like bells, like the first breath of spring, and began to dance. Beomgyu’s breath caught in his throat as he watched you. You moved with a grace that defied the cold, your feet barely stirring the snow as you spun and twirled, arms lifted to the moon’s soft gaze. The glow of your skin lit the clearing, a quiet miracle that made the whole world seem to hold its breath. He laughed too, the sound slipping from him like a confession, soft and awed and full of wonder.

It was not a laugh of mockery — no, never that. It was the laugh of a man who had stumbled upon something so beautiful, so impossibly bright, that he could not help but be humbled by it. You were a secret the forest had been keeping from him, a miracle that had bloomed in the snow and laughter that made the cold seem soft. You did not see him. Or if you did, you gave no sign, lost in the music only you could hear. The firelight painted your face in shades of gold and shadow, the blue glow of your skin a quiet defiance of winter’s hush. Beomgyu watched as you lifted your arms to the sky, fingers splayed wide, as if you were trying to hold the stars in your palms.

For a moment, he imagined what it would be like to step from the shadows and into the circle of your dance. To feel the glow of your skin beneath his fingers, to share in the secret you carried like a promise. But he stayed hidden, content to watch and let the memory of your laughter etch itself into the deepest parts of him. The night stretched on, a quiet river of stars and snow. Beomgyu leaned against the rough bark of a pine, his breath a pale mist in the cold, and let himself be consumed by the wonder of you. And in the quiet spaces of his mind, memories began to rise, memories of another fire, another cold night, long before he had known your name.

He remembered the hush of the royal halls, the stone walls that had never felt like home. He remembered his father’s voice, sharp and cold as the winter wind, each word a blade that cut deeper than any frost. He had always known he was not the king’s son. It was a truth that lived in the hush of the servants’ footsteps, in the way his father’s gaze slid past him as though he were nothing but a shadow. The way his hand would rise to strike Beomgyu’s cheek when he would say the wrong thing. Beomgyu was a reminder of another man’s love, a love the queen had known before she had been bound to the king’s cold hand. But there had always been Kai.

Kai, with his gentle smile and quiet strength. Kai, who had never let the chill of the kingdom seep into his soul. When the nights were at their coldest, it was Kai who would slip into Beomgyu’s room, his hands warm and steady, his voice a soft murmur of comfort. “It is not your fault,” Kai would whisper, each word a promise, a shield against the darkness. “You are loved, brother. You are loved.” And in those moments, Beomgyu could almost believe it.

But tonight, as he watched you dance in the snow, the memory of his brother’s voice felt like a distant echo. You were a new kind of warmth, a light that had nothing to do with the cold halls of Silvertheed or the shadows that had always haunted him. You were laughter and magic, a song that belonged to the moon and the snow and the quiet ache of his own heart. He did not understand you — not even a little. But he did not need to. The forest seemed to hold its breath around you, each tree a silent witness to the miracle you wove with every step. And Beomgyu, hidden among the shadows, felt something inside him begin to thaw.

For so long, he had carried the weight of his father’s hatred, the cold truth of his own blood like a stone in his chest. But here, in the hush of snow and moonlight, he felt that weight begin to lift, if only for a moment. He did not know what you were, or what magic you had wrapped around yourself like a second skin. But he knew this: you were something bright in a world that had always felt too dark.

The night grew old around him, the stars a pale river above the trees. Beomgyu watched until the last embers of your fire died down, until the glow of your skin faded into the hush of dawn. You sat then, quiet and still, your head bowed as though in prayer. The blue glow had ebbed from your skin, leaving only the pale curve of your shoulders and the soft spill of your hair. For a moment, he wondered what you were thinking. If you knew he was there, a shadow among the shadows, watching with a reverence he could not name. Then, before the first light of day could slip through the trees, he turned and fled.

The snow swallowed the sound of his footsteps, and the forest closed around him like a secret. The cold bit at his skin. It was a promise that he was still here, still alive, and that this moment had been real. As he walked back to the castle, the memory of your laughter clung to him like a breath of summer, a warmth he carried into the cold stone halls. And though he did not know what magic burned in your blood, he knew one thing for certain: he would return. He would return to the forest, to the hush of snow and the glow of your skin. He would return to the place where the world seemed to breathe in color and light, and where he, too, could be something more than the king’s unwanted son. He would return, again and again, until he could name the magic that had bloomed in his heart the first time he heard you sing.

The next night, the cold was even sharper, the moon a pale blade that cut through the darkness and laid the forest bare. Beomgyu moved through the snow with a quiet purpose, each step a prayer to the mystery that had taken root in his heart. The memory of your laughter was a ghost at his shoulder, a warmth that had no place in the winter’s chill. He did not know what it was that drew him to you; whether it was the way your magic bloomed beneath your skin or the simple wonder of seeing something so bright and wild in a world that had always felt too sharp. But he knew this: he had to see you again.

So he went back, moving through the dark like a promise, the hush of snow beneath his boots a secret shared only with the night. The forest opened around him, the pines heavy with frost, each branch a quiet sentinel that watched his passing with a patience that had no end. He did not know that he was not alone. In the hush of his thoughts, in the quiet ache of wonder that pulled him forward, he did not hear the faint rustle of footsteps behind him. He did not see the flicker of movement, the shadow that slipped between the trees like a wraith.

Kai was there, his brother’s steps as silent as snowfall, his gaze a quiet flame that burned with questions he did not yet have the words to ask. He had watched Beomgyu all day, had seen the way his brother’s thoughts had drifted far from the stone walls of the castle and the weight of the king’s cold gaze. Kai had seen the wonder in Beomgyu’s eyes, the soft light that had never belonged to the kingdom of Silvertheed. And so he followed, silent and unseen, the bond of blood and brotherhood a thread that pulled him through the night.

Beomgyu moved as though the forest itself was a dream, each breath a hush of wonder that quickened in his chest. He thought only of you, of the way the light had danced across your skin and the laughter that had made even the snow seem warm. He reached the clearing just as the first flicker of firelight began to bloom in the dark. You were there, as he had known you would be, your hair a dark river that spilled over your shoulders, your hands gentle as you plucked the flowers from your skin. The ritual was the same; petals and fire and the soft hush of your song, but tonight, there was something different in the way you moved.

Your eyes were distant, your fingers trembling just slightly as you fed the fire with the blooms that grew like a promise beneath your skin. The potion simmered in the small metal pot, the steam rising in slow, lazy curls that vanished into the cold. Beomgyu’s breath caught in his throat. He had thought he was prepared for this, for the quiet wonder of your magic and the wild grace of your dance. But tonight, there was something else, a shadow in your gaze, a weight in the way you held the cup to your lips.

You drank, as you had before, the glow of blue light blooming across your skin in a sigh of wonder. But tonight, your laughter was softer, almost sad, the dance you wove around the fire a quiet defiance of some sorrow he could not name. He watched, his heart a silent drum in his chest, each beat a question he could not ask. And in the hush of snow and moonlight, he did not see the shadow that watched with him, Kai’s breath a soft mist in the cold, his eyes dark with worry.

Kai saw the way Beomgyu’s gaze followed you, saw the wonder and the ache that lived in the spaces between each breath. He saw the way his brother’s hands clenched at his sides, as though he was fighting the urge to step forward, to break the hush of the forest and let the world know he was there. He understood, though Beomgyu had not said a word. He understood the pull of magic and mystery, the quiet ache of wanting something so bright it hurt to even look at it. And he felt the first flicker of something else — something that lived in the quiet spaces of his own heart, something that made him wonder what it would be like to feel the warmth of your laughter, the soft glow of your magic against his own skin.

But he said nothing. He stayed hidden, a shadow among the pines, his breath a silent promise that he would watch and wait, even if he did not yet understand what he was waiting for. In the clearing, you danced with the fire, your blue-lit skin a miracle that made the night itself seem to hold its breath. And Beomgyu watched, his heart a quiet bloom of wonder and fear, each beat a prayer that this moment would never end.

The forest was a cathedral of silence, the snow beneath their feet a quiet hymn to the cold. And in that hush, two brothers stood in the shadows, bound by blood and the quiet ache of a magic they could not yet name. And you, in the center of it all, were a song that had no words, a promise that the world was still full of wonder, even in the hush of winter’s breath.

Beomgyu once again found himself hidden behind a great pine, his breath a silver mist in the winter night, his heart thrumming a hymn of wonder and ache. You sat across from him, your small frame hunched over a log, the crackling fire’s glow painting your skin with flickers of gold and shadow. Your hut loomed behind you, a shape of secrets and solitude that rose like a phantom in the snow’s hush. Your shoulders trembled with quiet sobs, the sound of your tears lost to the hiss and crackle of the flames. Beomgyu watched, each tear that slid down your cheek a glimmer of sorrow that caught the moonlight like dew. He did not know why it hurt him so, to see you cry. You were a stranger, your name a mystery, your story written in a language of petals and magic he could not yet read. And yet, something in him ached to bridge the distance between you, to cradle your sorrow in his hands as though it were a fragile bloom that needed only the sun to open.

He did not know what it was that drew him to you; whether it was the quiet glow of your skin, the flowers that bloomed like whispers of beauty beneath your touch, or simply the hush of your song that still lingered in his thoughts like a memory of something long lost. All he knew was that he wanted to be close to you, to offer the warmth of his presence against the cold hush of your tears. He stepped forward, just a breath, just enough to taste the promise of closeness. But before his foot could find purchase in the snow, a sharp crack split the air, a branch breaking under weight not his own. Beomgyu froze, his breath catching in his throat like a secret. In the same heartbeat, your head lifted, your eyes wide and searching in the darkness.

He turned, and his breath left him in a rush of frost. Kai stood there, his brother’s face pale in the moonlight, his dark eyes wide with surprise and apology. Beomgyu’s heart stumbled at the sight—he had been so sure he was alone, so lost in the pull of your sorrow that he had not noticed the presence of the one who had always been his shadow, his silent witness. You stood, your body taut as a bowstring, the tears still fresh on your cheeks but your gaze sharp and wary. The fire crackled between you all, the hiss and pop of burning wood a chorus to the sudden hush that had fallen over the clearing.

For a moment, none of you moved; three hearts caught in the hush of winter, three souls bound by secrets and the quiet ache of what had just been revealed. Beomgyu’s mouth opened, words a tangle in his throat that he could not find the courage to speak. His brother’s eyes met his, dark with a thousand questions that neither of them knew how to ask. And then your voice, soft as the hush of snow falling in the dark. “Who are you?” you said, your words trembling like the branches that shivered beneath the weight of frost.

Beomgyu stepped forward, his hands half-raised in a silent plea. “I—my name is Beomgyu,” he said, the words a sigh of truth in the cold night. “And this is my brother, Kai.” His voice faltered, the weight of your gaze a quiet thunder in his chest. “We…we didn’t mean to startle you.” Kai moved beside him, his presence a quiet anchor in the storm of uncertainty. “Forgive us,” he said, his voice a low warmth that contrasted the chill of the night. “We didn’t mean to intrude. We…we were only curious.”

The hush that followed was heavy with possibility, each breath a question that waited to be answered. You looked between them, your eyes dark with the shadows of things you did not yet trust to share. And Beomgyu, his heart a quiet storm, found himself caught between the wonder of your magic and the silent echo of his brother’s presence at his side.

The quiet of the forest seemed to cradle you all in a hush, a sanctuary of frost and shadows, the fire��s glow a heartbeat between you. Beomgyu and Kai stood close together, two figures cut from moonlight and winter breath, their princely faces made softer by the hush of the night and the wonder of your presence. You stood across from them, your hair a dark halo of wildness, stray flower petals tangled in its knots, your skin glistening with the tears you had not yet wiped away. The question in Beomgyu’s eyes was a soft ache, a quiet pull he could not name, but it was Kai who gave it voice.

“What are you?” Kai asked, his tone gentle, like a child asking the forest to tell its secrets. His eyes, so like Beomgyu’s but calmer, steadier, shone with a wonder that made your heart tremble. Your shoulders hunched slightly, as if the question itself weighed upon you. “I don’t know,” you said softly, the words tasting of truth and sadness. “All I know is that I’ve always been…like this.” You raised a hand, and from your palm bloomed a small flower; blue as the night sky, fragile as a sigh. “At night, they come. From my skin. They have…power.” Your voice faltered, and your eyes turned down to the flickering fire. “Sometimes they change how I feel. Sometimes…how others feel.”

Beomgyu watched, his breath caught in the hush of your confession. The way you spoke; soft and careful, as if every word was a petal you had to coax to bloom. He wanted to reach out, to take your hand and tell you that it was alright, that your strangeness was a wonder and not a curse. But he stayed still, his heart a quiet storm in his chest. “Please,” you whispered, your gaze darting between them, your voice suddenly urgent. “Don’t tell anyone. They’ll come for me. They always do. They’ll say I’m cursed, or that I’m a witch. I don’t want… I don’t want to be hunted again.” Your words cracked like ice underfoot, and the memory of your tears glistened in the glow of the fire.

Kai stepped closer, his hand lifting as if to touch your shoulder, but he hesitated. “We won’t tell anyone,” he said, his voice the gentle hush of a promise. “We swear it.” Beomgyu nodded, his throat tight with the weight of your fear. “You’re safe with us,” he said, and he meant it. Even if he didn’t yet understand why, even if he didn’t know what the pull in his heart meant, he knew he would not let harm come to you.

For a moment, the three of you stood in a hush of snow and breath, the fire’s crackle the only sound in the world. Beomgyu’s gaze drifted to your clothes; threadbare and dirt-smudged, a cloak of tattered wool that did little to shield you from the cold. Your skin, though glowing softly in the firelight, was streaked with the dust of the forest, your nails rimmed with soil as if you had clawed your way from the earth itself. He wondered, suddenly, how long you had lived like this, alone in the woods, your hut no more than a shadowy refuge, your days marked by the hush of fear and the gentle bloom of your strange magic. His heart twisted, the ache of it a quiet song he could not ignore.

It was Kai who spoke the words that would change everything, his voice soft but sure. “Would you like to come with us?” he asked, the question simple and gentle, like a hand offered in the dark. Beomgyu’s eyes widened, surprise flickering like a flame in his chest. He had not expected it, this sudden kindness from his brother. But then again, Kai had always been the gentler one, the one who wore his heart on his sleeve like a badge of honor. Beomgyu, with all his jagged edges and quiet ache, had never known how to offer such kindness so easily.

You looked up at Kai, your eyes wide and uncertain, the firelight turning them to pools of shadow and wonder. “I… I couldn’t,” you said, your voice trembling. “I don’t belong in a place like that. And I have nothing to give you in return. No gold, no… no power that could be of use to you.” Kai’s lips curved into a small, tender smile. “We don’t need anything from you,” he said. “We’re princes. We have enough gold to last a hundred lifetimes. We only ask because… no one should have to live alone in the cold. You deserve warmth, and a place to belong.”

Your breath caught, a soft hitch of disbelief. Beomgyu watched the wonder and confusion that flickered across your face, the way you bit your lip as if you were afraid to hope. He understood that feeling all too well; the ache of wanting something so badly that you were afraid to reach for it. He found himself stepping closer, his voice low but sure. “My brother means it,” he said, his eyes meeting yours with a quiet intensity. “If you come with us… we will keep you safe. We won’t ask you for anything you can’t give.”

You looked between them, your gaze lingering on Beomgyu’s face for a breath longer than it lingered on Kai’s. In that moment, he felt something shift in the hush of the night, an invisible thread binding the three of you together, woven from the hush of snow and the crackle of fire and the quiet wonder of a girl who could grow flowers from her skin. For a moment, you looked as though you might refuse. Your shoulders tensed, your eyes shuttered like the closing of a door. But then your breath left you in a soft sigh, and you nodded, just once, the motion small and delicate as the unfurling of a petal.

“Alright,” you said, your voice a whisper. “I will come with you.” Relief flickered across Kai’s face, a gentle warmth that softened the angles of his jaw. Beomgyu felt it too, a quiet loosening of the ache in his chest, though he did not know why. He only knew that the sight of your soft, uncertain smile in the glow of the fire felt like the first bloom of spring after a winter that had seemed endless.

Kai stepped forward, his hand outstretched. “Come,” he said, his voice a soft beacon in the hush of the night. “We’ll bring you home.” You hesitated only a moment before you took his hand, your fingers cold and small in his. Beomgyu watched as Kai’s thumb brushed gently across your knuckles, a quiet promise in the softness of his touch. And then the three of you turned away from the clearing, the fire’s glow fading behind you as you stepped into the hush of the forest.

The snow fell in slow, lazy drifts, the moon’s light painting the world in a hush of silver and shadow. Beomgyu fell in step beside you, his eyes tracing the curve of your cheek, the small smile that lingered there like a fragile bloom. He did not speak, but in the quiet of the night, he let his presence be its own kind of promise, silent, but sure. Beside him, Kai’s hand still held yours, his warmth a gentle anchor in the cold hush of the world. And though Beomgyu did not yet know what lay ahead, what this night had set in motion, what magic and ache and wonder would bloom from the meeting of three hearts in the winter’s dark, he knew that something had shifted. Something had begun.

In the distance, the castle of Silvertheed rose like a dream against the horizon, its spires dark and glistening with frost. Beomgyu felt a quiet thrill in his chest as they approached it — an ache of wonder and uncertainty, a hush of possibility that felt as bright and fragile as the flowers that bloomed on your skin. And in the hush of that winter night, as you walked between the two brothers, your breath a soft fog in the cold air, the first threads of a story began to weave themselves into the world; threads of magic and mystery, of sorrow and wonder, of love that would not be denied.

(♬) - @beomiracles @biteyoubiteme @hyukascampfire @dawngyu @izzyy-stuff @1-800-jewon @xylatox

#I approve this message

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wonsfav · 7 hours ago

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hiiii!!! is there a chance you can write a one-shot about any member that has a fixation with bulge kink hehe

i was thinking about heeseung or jake, even sunoo because i feel that although he could be sub, he might have that fixation, but any member you want hehe

For sure!! I haven't written a lot of bulge kink content before but I'll do my best. ~

lee heeseung ☼ nsfw content (mdni) ☼ bulge kink!heeseung

It wasn't like it took a whole lot to get Heeseung excited when it came to sex. He wasn't opposed to many things other than a few that genuinely threw him off a tad bit - but, like everyone else, he did have his favorites.

He seemed to love putting you in so many different positions; Folding you in half against the bedsheets until your knees pressed at your shoulders, your eyes teary with the stretch and drag of his cock against your pretty pink walls; Pressing his weight above you while you curled up on your side, tugging a thigh over his shoulder so he had a clear view of you still and could see the way you gasped as his tip prodded and kissed at your folds; Even taking you against the bathroom counter with your hips pressed into the edge of the polished marble. He'd press his forearm over your collarbone to make your back arch, your weight leaning away from him in a way that made his mouth water as he kissed over every inch of exposed skin.

These positions - They were fine, they were nice - They allowed him to fuck you so deep it made you cry sometimes, so of course he liked them. But the true reason he was so obsessed with folding you up underneath him or making you stretch your back as far as possible wasn't just because of the feeling -

No; It allowed him to see just how deep he hit inside of your gummy walls clenching around him and sucking him in.

"Shit - Look at that, pretty girl."

Holding your hips as close to him as possible so he can look down and lift you a little higher, angling his hips so his cock created a soft bulge beneath your tummy every time he pushed into you harder. Pushing you to arch your back while you face him so his eyes can drag down and catch a glimpse of it all over again.

"God, fuck. Feels like 'm gonna break you in half."

It always leaves him breathless, his jaw slack as hair clings to his forehead in a thin layer of sweat. The only downside is how quickly he comes after a few pumps while watching his cock prod and press at your guts - Knowing he's burying his cock in you as much as possible just does something to him.

That's not too much of a hinderance, though - Him coming quick after he sees it the first time.

Not like you'll only be going one round, anyways.

#enha x reader #enhypen x reader #enha x you #enhypen x you #heeseung smut #heeseung x readeren #enhypen smut #enhypen imagines #enhypen scenarios

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vxnillabxn · 8 hours ago

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𐙚˙⋆.˚ mainfive! x puppy gn!reader ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ fluffy fluff! ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ sfw! ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ do not translate/copy/repost! ꒰੭

﹙♡﹚SO, based on my last post, i was requested to write the reader as the doggo and puppy hybrid this time! i hope you enjoy this one as well. ♡

𐙚˙⋆.˚ caleb! ꒰੭

﹙♡﹚caleb is a dog person, i just know he is. he saw the cutest puppy —you— and decided it was time for him to have someone else in his tiny family of one.

﹙♡﹚he adores you, 100%. he takes you out like… four times a day, or at least every time you only glance towards the door and whine softly. and he's more than happy to play and run around until you're worn out and fall asleep in his arms for the whole afternoon.

﹙♡﹚he takes you everywhere, and i mean it. he bought this baby vest thing, and he just… takes you with him. you're his puppy, after all, and he likes knowing you're always safe, so what better than staying right next to him?

﹙♡﹚he won't feed you kibble. no way. he'll cook healthy and dog-friendly foods for you, with protein, veggies, nutrients and everything the cutest puppy ever needs. and when i tell you your coat shines? it really does shine.

﹙♡﹚he bought you a harness for when he takes you out, and it's the cutest thing ever. it has lots of cute apples and little hearts, and his gallery is full of pictures just of you.

﹙♡﹚now, if you were a puppy hybrid, i'm sure you two met when you were little, when other kids were making fun of your fluffy ears and tail. he defended you and promised to take care of you for the rest of his life.

﹙♡﹚but… now that you're both grown, he teases you a lot. when you're mad, he'll just… pat your head and make your tail wag like crazy. it's not fair at all, but he always gets you to smile. after all, you're his pretty and cheerful pips!

﹙♡﹚this man will hold things out of your reach just to make you jump or whine like a puppy would. however, you just have to flatten your ears and tug your tail between your thighs, and he's frantically apologizing and giving you anything you ask for.

﹙♡﹚he takes you out, too. i mean, you are half-human half-puppy, you need to walk and burn energy! though, he sees them as tiny dates, and he'll always make sure to walk you to the prettiest places, or to the nicest cafés, just to share a cute time together.

﹙♡﹚and that said, he won't let you go anywhere by yourself. sure, you're capable and strong, but you're also his biggest treasure. he's scared other people will stare, or that other puppy hybrids might be bigger or aggressive and try something weird, so… yeah, no. he has to go with you.

﹙♡﹚he'll cuddle you a lot. he likes how your ears feel against his neck when he hugs you close, and he loves the way your tail hits the soft mattress with happy thuds. he'll tell you how good you are just to see that soft, dumb smile on your lips.

﹙♡﹚after getting the robotic prosthetic on his arm, you two get quite a lot of stares when you go out, especially because of the odd pair you make. however, when you look up at him with that soft gaze, tail wagging excitedly as you hug his metallic arm and smile so warmly… he doesn't care about anything else.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ rafayel! ꒰੭

﹙♡﹚you appeared out of nowhere. he was painting peacefully, when he suddenly saw tiny paw prints trailing from his studio to his bedroom. of course, the main door of his mansion was unlocked, and the fluffiest puppy —you— casually barged in and decided to explore.

﹙♡﹚upon finding you trying to jump on his bed, he quickly picks you up. you've created such a messy masterpiece on his floor, and now you want to ruin his bed? fantastic! he loves it. he keeps you instantly.

﹙♡﹚the first thing he does is get you a pearl collar. he makes sure it's not too tight… and you look absolutely adorable in his eyes.

﹙♡﹚you're his inspiration now. sure, many art critics were confused when his new exhibition had dozens of paintings signed with paw prints, and they were even more dumbfounded upon seeing a whole portrait of a puppy sitting proud and mighty against a colorful marine background. if they don't get it, that's their problem.

﹙♡﹚his studio is literally full of sketches and paintings of you in silly poses. you asked for belly scratches? stay still, he'll sketch you. you curled up in his lap to nap? he's sketching you. you accidentally got your head stuck in a bag of snacks? you guessed it… sketch!

﹙♡﹚he refuses to get a leash. absolutely not. and a harness? no way! you should run free! well… only at the empty beach, and only while he's close next to you. he lets you roam to your heart's content, though your tiny paws never lead you too far.

﹙♡﹚if you were a puppy hybrid, i feel things wouldn't change much. you'd still be his muse, his inspiration, his everything, because you're so damn adorable.

﹙♡﹚you two would bicker a lot. and i mean… every day. he whines and puts on a dramatic show, and you counter with your puppy eyes, both of you trying to outdo each other, eventually arguing about who's cuter. you always win.

﹙♡﹚he'll take you to the beach just to see you swimming “doggy style.” you don't find it funny, that's literally how you swim! but he finds it absolutely hilarious and adorable, and makes sure to record it whenever he can.

﹙♡﹚he will make sure your ears and tail are perfectly groomed before you go out. he takes his time, delicate fingers combing through the soft fur, whispering how cute you are and how pretty you'll look.

﹙♡﹚he makes you paint with your tail. he asked once, you refused. but then, you accidentally got paint on your tail, and he just so happened to praise you until you were a giddy mess, wagging your tail and hitting the blank canvas he —very conveniently— placed behind you. “ah, aren't you a natural, cutie?”

﹙♡﹚he'll proudly take you to his art exhibitions, and he'll make sure everyone knows who his muse is. “yeah, see that highlight over there? caused by this magnificent tail,” or “ah! this 270 cm x 380 cm painting? that's my cutie right there, in their full glory! too big of a canvas? no, my cutie deserves the biggest one ever.” he adores you.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ sylus! ꒰੭

﹙♡﹚okay, sylus is a cat person, but when the twins brought back a tiny and defenseless pup, claiming they would take care of it, he knew that was not ideal. they would kill you accidentally, or play too rough with you, so he took you under his wing.

﹙♡﹚once you were able to walk and see the world around you, you would bark at the twins like a little angry thing. you'd also bark at mephisto, your whole body shaking and tiny barks echoing in the room. ah, you were feisty. sylus liked that a lot. it made him smitten with you.

﹙♡﹚now, he takes you everywhere. he carries you in one arm, even when making business. you're his good luck charm, and his decisions are based on whether you wag your tail or, on the contrary, bark.

﹙♡﹚he gets you the best food. he wants you to grow up strong, fierce, and with the most luscious coat ever. he gives you tons of toys, lots of warm blankets for you to sleep in —if you're not sleeping in his bed— and he even got you an expensive collar with a chip in it. he needs to ensure your safety.

﹙♡﹚he takes you out at night, which is good because there are no other dogs around, and you can run free. he's taught you lots of commands, too, but he prefers when you don't listen. he knows you're smart and understand him perfectly, and he likes it when you defy him. it's adorable.

﹙♡﹚he has a very specific list of who to trust when it comes to your care. said list has two names: his, and your vet's. he absolutely brings the twins fully armed to every visit, ensuring the vet doesn't make any mistake or make you feel uncomfortable. it's a life-or-death situation for the poor doctor, but he earns quite the sum, so he doesn't complain.

﹙♡﹚now, if you were a puppy hybrid, he wouldn't let you rest at all. he'd always be caressing your hair, scratching behind your ears, under your chin… and even when you remind him you are NOT a cat, he knows you like it. your wagging tail gives you away.

﹙♡﹚he loves how expressive you are, even when you try to hide it. your ears go up or down, your tail shows how you feel, so truly, nothing gets past this man.

﹙♡﹚he'll praise you. when you feel overwhelmed by the amount of energy you have to spare, or when you're bored and restless, he'll lift you up, place you in his lap and kiss between your ears, listing all the things he has in mind just for you. after all, he wants you to be as happy as possible.

﹙♡﹚he'll groom your fur. you already know he has to. when you step out of the shower, he pats his bed and makes you sit with your back pressed to his chest.

﹙♡﹚he dries and brushes your ears, your tail, your hair… making sure it's fluffy enough and that you're not shedding too much. when it comes to you, he only buys the best, though you keep telling him your shampoo is fine and you can just shake your head dry. naturally, he refuses. not under his watch.

﹙♡﹚he's so proud of you. even if you ever feel self-conscious about being a puppy hybrid, he'll reassure you. you're his to love, his to protect, and his to keep safe. he'll proudly show you off at galas and important events, and no one dares comment on it —because they wouldn't get to breathe the next day.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ xavier! ꒰੭

﹙♡﹚xav found you hidden behind a bush deep inside the forest. you were happily munching on berries, your puppy belly full and your snout stained purple. he immediately picked you up and brought you home.

﹙♡﹚now, it's safe to say xavier is a puppy himself. he literally naps with you, and you both sleep for… twelve hours straight. he'll cuddle you against his neck, and together you drift off under a warm blanket cocoon.

﹙♡﹚he usually puts his hoodie on backwards, so he can tuck you inside the hood and carry you around. he also loves taking you to his balcony at night, just to watch the city lights sparkle together.

﹙♡﹚he's very protective. if anyone stops to admire how cute you are, he'll quietly cover you and walk away, afraid someone might snatch you away from him —like a hawk stealing a tiny chick. he's a mother hen, ready to hiss or bite if he has to.

﹙♡﹚this poor boy does feed you kibble, but he tries his best to add nutritious things too! if you don't eat what he serves, he'll sulk for days. he just wants you to be healthy and happy.

﹙♡﹚he takes you on walks wearing the prettiest harness —it even glows in the dark, because he can't stand the idea of losing sight of you, even for a moment.

﹙♡﹚as a puppy hybrid, if you were left solely under his “protection,” you probably wouldn't last a week. thankfully, you at least know how to boil veggies and cook rice, so you end up feeding both of you.

﹙♡﹚he loves playing catch with your tail. when you wag it gently, he can't help but try to catch it, completely captivated by such a silly game. aren't you supposed to be the cute one, though?

﹙♡﹚he teaches you tricks. yes —even as a puppy hybrid. “hand,” “talk,” “jump,” “spin.” at first, you just raise an eyebrow at him… but when you see that dreamy, adoring look in his eyes, you always give in.

﹙♡﹚he takes baths with you. he'll hug you softly from behind in the tub, careful not to wet your puppy ears. always gentle, always patient, even when you squirm or splash unconsciously.

﹙♡﹚he would 100% buy dog ears and an attachable tail to match you when you go out together. he knows he can't be as cute as you, but seeing your shy smile makes it completely worth it.

﹙♡﹚most of the time, he's more chaotic than you. even if you feel like you're the one looking after him, the truth is he silently protects you: making sure you're never cold, hungry, or anxious —whether at home or outside.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ zayne! ꒰੭

﹙♡﹚he didn't plan to adopt —not even close. but yvonne found a box outside the hospital, and they all convinced zayne to take care of the sickly puppy, since he was the only one taking a week off.

﹙♡﹚safe to say, he kept you. during that week, he realized having you around kept him company, and you were the only tiny creature that willingly approached him, cuddling against his cold skin without hesitation.

﹙♡﹚your health is far beyond his expertise, so he definitely pulled some strings to find the best veterinarians and groomers. if he can't care for you himself, he'll make sure you're under the safest, most trusted hands.

﹙♡﹚this man did his research, okay? your breed, your ideal diet, possible genetic diseases —anything he might need to know to guarantee you a happy, long life.

﹙♡﹚he feeds you the best. raw diet? if the vets recommend it, done. premium kibble mixed with broth and veggies? you got it. only homemade food? absolutely. and if you beg for something he's eating, he'll usually give in —unless it's chocolate. in that case, he'll literally lock himself away until he finishes, because your puppy eyes are too much for him.

﹙♡﹚he takes you on his research trips. at first, he thought it wasn't prudent —someone else could watch you, right? but the first time he left, he had to come back the same day because you wouldn't eat, wouldn't leave the door, just waiting for him to return. never again.

﹙♡﹚if you were a puppy hybrid, he'd look up everything about your care, especially things that might not be fully human. he prefers to know for certain, just to keep you safe and happy.

﹙♡﹚he'd always keep you close when he isn't busy. if you visit his office, he'll absentmindedly scratch behind your ears or pat your head —relieving his stress and making you the happiest pup in the world.

﹙♡﹚he'd even fix his clothes for you. when he noticed you liked wearing his shirts, he discreetly cut holes for your tail. not that anyone notices —and even if they did, he wouldn't care.

﹙♡﹚he's extra attentive when you're feeling unwell. sure, you're mostly human, but he knows there could be things he doesn't fully understand. so this sweet man will literally refuse to let you go, calling anyone he can to ask every important question.

﹙♡﹚he knows you need enrichment, so he'll get creative: letting you chase your own tail around the living room, or hiding little sweet treats all over the house for you to find on a treasure hunt.

﹙♡﹚and he teases you. a lot. every soft whine, little bark, or innocent head tilt makes him smile. he never thought he'd want something like this in his life, but now that you're here… he loves it more than he could ever admit.

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seronamin · 58 minutes ago

Text

in a gentle lullaby

Falling asleep next to a demon has to be a risky gamble, but you're too tired to even question the chance they'll take your soul and feed it Gwi-Ma (or whatever that Demon King is called).

cw fluff, sleepy reader, unedited

The sound of JINU's awkward shuffling and muttering lyrics under his breath lulled you to sleep, along with the buildup of sleep deprivation from pulling all-nighters during the week. He'd been stressing the importance of the next song the boy band had to perform, urging you for choreography that had to be flawless with his lyrics. By the time he noticed you were asleep—when he really turned around to inquire about a part of the song he kept messing up on when dancing—he was too late to even bother waking you up; instead, he just strolled over to the desk you were hunched over.

At first glance, you looked comfortable despite your cheek pressed against a small spiral notebook, leaving indents in your face. But it was easy to notice the small discomfort from the object. There was a slight crease between your eyebrows, almost like you were squinting at something in your dream.

JINU could only sigh, gently lifting your head up to slip the notebook out of the way, laying your head back on the desk. His fingers drummed against the ink-stained paper, peering at your face again. The discomfort doesn't disappear from your face like he hoped.

He opts to move you again when he realizes that your pain was only growing from the position, coaxing your frame to sit up so he can gracefully pick you up. As he transfers you to his bed, you nuzzle your face into his neck.

Warm air fans his skin, leaving a red flame in its wake.

JINU only wished you knew what crazy things you did to him, his arms trembling as he forced himself to lie you down on his bed with a burning face.

If there's one thing to know about ABBY, is that he loves to flex his abs to anyone and everyone in sight. So when he asks (correction: demands) you lie on his back so he can prove that his muscles are all that, you simply just do as he asks. At the same time, you eye his phone that he barely knew how to use up until a week ago, which was already recording.

With the realization that this was most definitely going on his socials, you face your head the other direction from the pointing lens and scroll away on your phone with heavy eyes.

The magenta-haired demon only angles a smirk to the camera and begins his demonstration of aggressive pushups. The cool air produced by how swiftly ABBY does his pushups feels nice against your skin. A yawn slipped past your lips, feeling your eyes fluttered close to soak in the quick breezes of cold air.

The moment you closed your eyes was the when you slipped out of consciousness.

It took ABBY 57 more pushups later to realize you were asleep, soundless snoring catching his sensitive demon ears. He lowered his body to the floor, blinking in mock confusion at what was happening above him.

Looking back at the camera, he smugly smiled and mouthed a few words at his phone, which faltered when he felt you stir and nearly fall off of him. He scrambled to keep you steady so you wouldn't hurt yourself.

Aren't they so cute?

When night hits, the stars are the first thing ROMANCE notices. So whenever Gwi-Ma doesn't call forth him to be at his beckon, he lies on the rooftop of the suite his boy band owns, staring up into the midnight sky.

And when he meets you, he forces you to join him on his nighttime endeavors.

When night falls once more, your nighttime ritual begins, but you're without ROMANCE this time. You wait a good 30 minutes for him to join you before realizing it was one of those nights. A night when he wouldn't be back until a couple of hours.

The stars don't shine as brightly when you watch them alone, you think. When you're with him, he tells you stories he creates based on the patterns he connects with the stars. He forms his own constellations, writing their own stories to tell.

Your favorite to listen to was the one about who liked to sing, with the stars forming a jagged treble clef. But you never seemed to remember what happened next without ROMANCE telling you the story.

So you wait on the roof for him to return from his summoning.

ROMANCE returns 4 hours later after his rehearsal, rushing to the roof to see if his stars were waiting for him.

There, littering the sky, were the glowing balls of gas in the distance, making him smile. He tilts his head down to see you sprawled out on the roof, a small pillow resting beneath your head.

He sits next to you, tucking you into his side, rubbing your cheek with his thumb.

And his favorite star is just in arm's reach.

MYSTERY didn't like going outside; in fact, he dreaded it. So when you forced him onto the sheltered balcony, he couldn't help but hiss at you. It reeked outside, but you pouted and sat outside under the covered balcony as rain poured aggressively.

He watched from a window. You inched your chair closer to the railing, sticking a hand out to feel the cold water against your skin.

A scowl takes over his covered features, the fringe of his hair hiding the glare. Upset that you choose to remain outside over staying dry inside with him. But he refused to argue with you or drag you back inside. You looked peaceful out there that he couldn't help but let the scowl collapse a few minutes after making the face.

Still, he can't help but intently watch you, just in case anything were to happen to you. MYSTERY stays close by always, just in case.

So he notices when you begin to lean against the railing. He watches as your eyes flutter closed contentedly, drawing closer to the sound of the patter of the rain. Most importantly, he watches your chest slows down, breathing becoming lighter and less present.

He can't help but frown at watching you drift off into sleep.

The closer you lean into the railing to slumber, the more the rainwater redirects and dampens your clothes and skin. MYSTERY remembers reading somewhere that humans get sick because of the rain.

And he doesn't want you to get sick.

With much reluctance, he leaves the comfort of his place at the window seal. He moves to the door of the balcony, hit with the moist air and sick smell of rainwater.

He wrinkles his nose from the feeling and smell, like dirt at the bottom of his shoe.

He inches closer to you, pulling you gently but quickly away from the railing and bringing you inside to his spot at the window.

He retrieves new clothes for you and lets you sleep on his chest as he watches the rain from behind the glass protection.

In exchange for letting BABY mess around on your phone, he graciously allows you to lie on his chest while he doomscrolls through every form of social media you have. Although you complained at the beginning, he had his own phone to mess around with, you gave in fairly quickly without much coercion needed.

Together, you both watched as he scrolled through your Instagram first, going through your reels, then over to your followers. You peer at his face carefully, noting every twitch in his face that appears when he scrolls downwards to read the next caption or username. At one point, BABY finds himself watching a guy pretending to be a vampire, going around and biting random people on the streets of America.

His eyes squint at the absurdity of the reel, looking at you as if to ask 'WTF is this??' but says nothing. Not because he doesn't have anything to say, but because he decides to stay quiet for the sake of your sleeping face.

He doesn't even notice that you fell asleep hours ago amidst his doomscrolling journey. Your breathing was so steady and soft that it sounded the same when you were awake and asleep.

The most polite thing he does all day, for you specifically, is lower the volume of the reels. Your face noticeably softens much more, a small smile tugging at your face as you bury yourself deeper into his sweater.

BABY feels his lips tug upwards.

That doesn't stop him from pressing the plus button at the bottom of the screen and snapping a picture of your sleeping form with him smirking at the camera with his other hand threaded in your hair.

By the time you wake up a few hours later, with BABY still awake and still going through every app on your phone, the post reaches 300K likes alone.

Captioned: All yours, all mine.

#kpop demon hunters #kpop demon hunters x reader #saja boys #saja boys x reader #jinu x reader #jinu saja x reader #abby x reader #abby saja x reader #romance x reader #romance saja x reader #mystery x reader #mystery saja x reader #baby x reader #baby saja x reader #seronamindoodles

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meanbossart · 1 day ago

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Kind of piggybacking off of the anon who asked about DU Drow's "birth" and your answer to that: A kind of fun and terrible thing about the majority of Forgotten Realms gods is that they're essentially physically incapable of acting on or understanding anything outside of their representative portfolios. So like. For example: Bhaal, who's portfolio of Murder also generally includes -cruelty- and -suffering-, is going to be motivated permanently towards creating those things in everything he does, even against himself directly. Nobody is exempt, even the gods, and it causes a lot of conflict between them. Ao (FR's "God of God's") designed them that way to achieve what he perceives as a sense of balance. So like...there's no "reasoning" with them ever. It's not stubbornness or willful disagreement. They literally CAN'T see outside of the traits they represent. Actually, I lied: There are a FEW of them who can. A small handful of current canon gods were allowed to keep their "mortal perspective" (which ALSO causes a lot of problems!) and so can see outside of the boundaries of their portfolios and reason or loophole around that. Mystra for example is one of those, but not the one we see in BG3. Larian retconned her to a different earlier version of her because the current one is a totally different person who wouldn't have facilitated Gale's plotline. But I'm derailing myself! :I Anyway, all that to say that I absolutely LOVE the way you handle Drow's birth. We can all write whatever we want forever, it's just fiction, but it does tickle my brain in all the right places when I see an artist really embracing all the ugly, gross, foolish, and unflattering elements of the canon gods. Especially Bhaal, since he is in fact such a blindly cruel disastrous moron actually, and not some dark brooding sexy criminal mastermind. Thank you for embracing the nastiness and gifting us with DU Drow in this world, and I'm so glad he survived the conditions of his birth! XD

(This is in reference to this ask!)

YEAH, I really like the very much fallible aspect of the gods in DnD! Whether one would like to ascribe it to stubbornness or a much more cut and dry absence of perspective, I very much enjoy that pretty much all of them (regardless of alignment) have these glaring logical pitfalls. I go back and forth between interpreting it as a reflection of human failure or, again, as an obvious consequence of the narrow roles they're obligated to play, but either way it leaves you with a really fun space to play in.

It's clearly inspired by greek/roman mythos where the cosmos may as well have been a really raunchy and unbelievably violent soap-opera - and as one of many kids who was obsessed with those legends, it really tickles my brain to have that incorporated here.

Also, don't get me wrong, I love to moan and complain about how Shar makes absolutely no sense to me - but that's the thing, every single day we are exposed to people who've bought into the most inscrutable of beliefs, so I wouldn't want every god in the realms' actions to make sense or for their dogma to be an "easy sell" - that's not how people or faith works, after all!

#ask

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jungkoode · 3 days ago

Text

CODE : EPITAPH | 02

"valis core"

"The blade finds his throat before he finds your weakness. His fingers find one of your triplet markers before you can process the threat. And somewhere along the city walk, you confirm all Consortium pricks are, indeed, pricks."

next | index

— chapter details

word count: 5.5k

content: immediate violence as foreplay, combat assessment that becomes something else, forced proximity in public spaces, linguistic warfare via altsprek, namjoon's pov is cold calculation with cracks showing, biological profiling discussions, & the specific humiliation of being systematically excluded from your own mission briefing

|| veyrah sectors || consortium territories || the verge wastes ||

— author's note

SOOOOO welcome to my alien world monster, or as I like to call it: Code : Epitaph. Chapter 2, by the way. In case you didn’t notice. In case you stumbled in here by accident. In case you somehow read Chapter 1 and thought, “oh wow I bet this gets less intense now” — no it does not. It gets worse. I am so sorry. I’m also lying. I’m not sorry at all ( ◡‿◡✿ )

First of all—the POV shift. Did you catch that? We start in Namjoon's head. Cold. Clinical. Calculating escape routes and threat assessments like he's running some kind of biological Excel spreadsheet. I wanted you to feel what it's like inside the mind of someone who has systematically murdered their own emotional responses in favor of "optimization." The way he catalogs Y/N's every micro-movement, the way he processes her defiance as a puzzle to solve rather than a person to understand. It's chilling, right? It should be. Because here's the thing about Namjoon—he's not evil in the traditional sense. He's something worse. He's someone who has convinced himself that viewing people as data points is actually the moral high ground.

Now. This chapter… okay the first scene, sue me, it’s hot. I’m allowed one little war-crime-y sexual tension beatdown per chapter. It’s called balance. I really wanted to lean into actual antagonism and not that watered down “oh no we’re enemies but he’s soooo handsome” trope. No. These two look at each other and it’s like: ‘the moment I see an opening I will slit your fucking throat and smile doing it’ energy. And yes, it’s giving. I love writing fights where the tension is physical and psychological and primal and terrifyingly competent. Sue me (again).

And the fact that he wins? That he pins her against the wall with her own knife? That's not about his superiority—it's about the system that created him. He's been trained since childhood to be a weapon. She's had to teach herself in the margins, in the spaces between survival and rebellion. The power imbalance isn't just physical; it's institutional. It's generational trauma made manifest in the way he can so easily turn her own weapon against her.

Then we get the Boulevard scene, and this is where I'm really proud of the world-building weaving through character development. Y/N experiencing Valis Core's casual wealth for the first time, but through the lens of being stared at, being othered. And Namjoon just... not getting it. Not understanding why she's bothered by curiosity that he classifies as biological interest. The man really stood there and explained her own genetic heritage to her like he's giving a TED talk, completely missing the violent dehumanization inherent in that level of cataloging.

Which brings me to the offspring conversation. *nervous laughter* Yeah. I went there. Because here's what's so deeply fucked about Namjoon's worldview—he can discuss their hypothetical children with the same detached interest as analyzing crop yields, while she's standing there having a visceral trauma response to the idea of forced reproduction. The fact that he's genuinely confused by her reaction? That he has to clarify that the Consortium doesn't practice forced breeding? It tells you everything about how different their worlds are. He lives in a place where bodily autonomy is assumed (for certain things). She lives in a reality where every system is designed to use her body against her will.

This section was crucial because I needed them to finally… you know… talk. Actual talking. Not knife-to-the-throat foreplay, but proper verbal sparring. And since both Namjoon and the reader are from this world, I didn’t want to do the “hello and welcome to my alien TED talk on how Authority Levels work!!” info-dump garbage. Ew. No. We’re grown. We’re nuanced. We build the world through perspective and action, not exposition. So yes, there’s worldbuilding here — but you earn it through dialogue, through friction, through character perception. This is how we do it in this house.

Also. I’d like to formally say: Namjoon being Authority Level 7 is absolutely intentional. I’m so bored of main characters being max-level ultra-bosses with unlimited power and godlike status. That’s not compelling. That’s not tense. That’s a power fantasy. My stories are psychological realism in a bottle of sci-fi, and that means no leader-of-the-mafia/king-of-the-world/god-of-sex as the male lead. Jungkook in Kkangpae isn’t the boss, and here, Namjoon is not top of the food chain either. He has absolute control over Epitaph, yes — but not over everything. And I wanted to show how that creates interesting tension. Especially when someone mocks him for not being higher and he’s like “I am not bothered 😐” when clearly? Clearly he is. We love a composed man with ego microfractures. Yessss sir. Suffer sexily for us.

Also. His threatening non-threats?? Am I okay?? Why is it so hot when he says things like “perhaps you require further conditioning” without blinking?? WHO GAVE HIM THE RIGHT. Anyway. I’m opening my legs respectfully (metaphorically). Let’s move on.

The consent/rut cycle convo was something I’ve been meaning to include for a while—I actually got an ask weeks ago about how consent works during heats/ruts in this world, and I took it to heart. ABO tropes often lean into “no rational thought, must fuck,” but personally that never sat right with me. So I made my own rules. In Veyrah, enhanced biological states amplify want, they don’t invent it. Which means consent gets tricky—not impossible, not erased—just more complicated. You still have agency. You still have to choose. And I like that nuance. I like the tension of “I hate you, but right now I want you, and I hate that I want you.” Because I’m a hate-fucking apologist. Sorry not sorry.

But the masterstroke—if I can call my own writing that without sounding like a complete asshole—is the Altsprek scene. I’ve been WAITING to drop this linguistic little freak of nature into the story. Is it German? Kind of. Is it not? Absolutely. I don’t speak fluent German so I just butchered structure and phonetics until it sounded cool and scary and mildly fascist and now we have a made-up language that exists for science, for precision, and for exclusion (so if grammar is not consistent... well, suck it up; I'm a writer, not a linguist.) That’s the point. It’s the language of the Consortium. It’s how power speaks. And I loved showing how it’s used deliberately to shut the reader out. The way the higher-ups deliberately switch to a language she can't understand, discussing her like she's not even there. It's such a perfect microcosm of systemic oppression. They need her knowledge, her skills, her regional expertise—but they won't give her the dignity of understanding what she's being asked to do. She's simultaneously essential and expendable, necessary and excluded.

And Namjoon. My problematic son. He KNOWS what they're doing. He sees her frustration, understands the power play happening, and does... the bare minimum. Advocates for "basic operational parameters" like he's doing her a favor. Because in his world, that IS generous. He cannot conceive of a reality where she should have full access to information about a mission that could kill her. The paternalism is so deeply embedded in his worldview that he probably thinks he's being kind.

Thank you for coming to my TED talk about my own character choices. I'm very normal about this story. Clearly. (NOT).

— read on

read on ao3

read on wattpad

tumblr/twitter: @jungkoode

Namjoon arrives at Sub-Level Seven at 0800 hours, punctual as he ever is.

You're awake. Standing. Waiting.

He catalogs this.

Most subjects require forty-eight hours minimum to adapt to containment rhythms.

Proximity sensors logged seven hours of movement—pacing patterns, tactical assessment sweeps, stress sequences.

But you're not cowering. Not pleading. Not broken.

You're measuring kill zones.

The stance is familiar. Weight distributed, hands loose but ready. You're calculating distance between his position and the exit. Mapping strike angles. Finding escape routes that don't exist.

He recognizes the assessment protocol because it mirrors his own.

Interesting.

The Algorithm chose efficiently.

"Good morning," he says, voice calibrated to establish dominance without triggering immediate violence. "I trust your accommodations proved adequate."

Your eyes narrow. Displeased, then.

"Adequate." You test the word like poison. "Is that your diplomatic way of asking if I slept well in my fucking cage?"

Crude emotional outlet. Designed to provoke reaction.

He, of course, doesn't provide one.

"Sleep quality affects operational performance. The monitoring period requires optimal efficiency from both participants."

Both participants. Partnership terminology. Deliberately deployed.

You tilt your head. Mimicking his own assessment gesture. Learning his patterns while displaying your own.

Clever.

"Optimal performance." Your mockery is accurate. "For what, exactly? Planning to lecture me to death?"

"Joint field operations commence immediately. Your infiltration capabilities require practical evaluation under controlled parameters."

He watches the information process. Surprise flickers across your features—quickly suppressed, but visible. You weren't expecting active deployment.

Good. Predictability breeds complacency.

"Field operations," you repeat. "Leaving this place."

"Temporarily. Under supervision."

Your posture shifts. Subtle. Professional.

Left foot angling slightly outward. Weight redistributing. Hands dropping to a more natural position that conceals preparation.

You're not just angry anymore. You're hunting. Most likely searching for an opportunity of escape.

How terribly mundane of you.

"What kind of operations?"

Your voice carries false curiosity. Buying time. Setting distance.

He should recognize the setup. Should anticipate—

The attack comes from nowhere.

No telegraph. No warning.

One moment you're standing three meters away, the next you're inside his guard with a blade materialized from absolute nothing.

Fast.

Faster than his file suggested.

The knife slices air where his throat was a split second before. He twists back, feeling steel part the air millimeters from his carotid. Close. Too close.

You don't pause. Don't recover. You flow into the next strike like water, blade spinning in your grip to reverse the angle, coming up toward his ribs in a motion that speaks of training far beyond rebel desperation.

Professional. Military grade.

Where did you learn this?

He blocks with his forearm, deflecting the strike but not stopping your momentum. You use the contact to pivot, already spinning into a leg sweep that would take him down if he hadn't—

Jumped. Minimal elevation. Just enough to let your leg pass underneath.

You're good. Better than good.

But not better than him.

You recover from the failed sweep by converting the spin into momentum for another knife strike. This one aimed at his kidney.

Lethal intent. No hesitation.

He catches your wrist mid-swing.

Your eyes widen. Not in surprise at being stopped—surprise at the speed of his counter.

Now he moves.

Still holding your knife hand, he uses your forward momentum against you. One step to the side, pulling you past your balance point.

You try to compensate with that twisting leg kick—beautiful technique, would have taken his knee out—

He blocks with his shin. Absorbs the impact. Redirects your energy.

Your other hand comes up, clawing for his eyes. He catches that wrist too.

For a moment you're locked together. Face to face. Close enough that he can see the gold flecks in your eyes. Close enough to smell the combat pheromones starting to flood the air between you.

Sharp. Electric. Dangerous.

Your pupils dilate. Not fear. Not fury.

Something else.

"Impressive," he says, voice steady despite the proximity, despite the scent spike. "But slow. The aurora cycles must be affecting your movements."

His expression doesn't change. Blank. Clinical.

But your eyes widen, and that tells him you caught the condescension.

"Fuck you," you snarl, trying to knee him in the groin.

He turns his hip, deflecting the strike. Uses the motion to redirect your momentum completely.

Forward.

Hard.

"Skaisse," the curse escapes him—rough, guttural—as he drives you into the wall with enough force to rattle your teeth.

The impact is immediate. Brutal.

Your chest slams against stone, breath driven from your lungs in a sharp exhale. Before you can recover, before you can even process the collision, steel presses against your throat.

The knife. Your knife. Now his.

Cold metal bites into heated skin.

His body brackets yours completely—legs on either side of your thighs, chest pressed to your back, one arm braced against the wall beside your head.

Trapped. Dominated.

His free hand hooks your jaw. Fingers spread along your cheek and neck, tilting your head back just enough to meet his gaze over your shoulder.

His eyes scan your face. Your pupils. Still dilated. Breathing pattern—rapid, shallow. Pulse visible at your throat, hammering against skin.

Fascinating physiological responses.

His thumb shifts slightly along your jawline. Just a millimeter. Nothing significant.

Except you react.

A sharp intake of breath. Involuntary. Your pulse spikes visibly where his fingers rest near your ear.

Interesting.

His gaze drops to where his hand cradles your jaw. The pressure point behind your right ear—completely exposed, practically throbbing under his fingertips.

The way you flinched when he moved. The immediate tension that followed.

Recognition flickers in his mind.

A triplet marker.

One of three neurological weak points every trained operative learns to identify and protect.

You've left at least one completely unguarded.

"For such an excellent fighter," he murmurs, voice low and measured, "you seem remarkably careless with your defensive positioning."

Your breath catches.

Understanding flashes across your features.

He doesn't know your full configuration. But he knows enough.

Amateur.

You jerk your head away from his grip, trying to break the contact. But his fingers tighten immediately. Not painful. Just inescapable, as intended. Steel wrapped in flesh.

"Impressive technique," he continues, pressing the blade more firmly against your throat. "But exploitable vulnerabilities. Any competent operative would have noticed by now."

You struggle against his hold. Test the restraint. Search for weakness.

There isn't any.

"Lesson one," he says, bringing the blade up to rest more firmly against your throat. "I've been trained in combat since before you were even alive."

The knife doesn't waver. Neither does his grip.

"Let me go," you breathe, but there's no plea in it.

Just calculation. You're still looking for an angle.

"No."

His chest presses against your back. He can feel your heart hammering. Can smell the spike in your scent—that sharp, electric combination of adrenaline and—

Combat pheromones. Standard stress response.

"You fight well," he observes. "Better than your file indicated. Where did you receive training?"

You don't answer. Just breathe hard against the wall, muscles tense but not panicked.

Interesting. Most people would be breaking down by now.

"No response?" He adjusts his grip on your jaw. "Perhaps you need time to consider cooperation."

"Perhaps you need to get fucked."

The profanity vibrates against the blade. Defiant to the end.

He finds this… stimulating.

Your refusal to submit creates an optimization problem. A puzzle requiring solution.

How peculiar.

"Cooperation would be more efficient," he says. "Resistance only prolongs inevitable outcomes."

"Inevitable." You test the word. "Like you getting shanked in your sleep?"

"Unlikely. You'll be monitored continuously."

"Continuously?"

Something in your voice shifts. Not fear. Recognition, perhaps finally understanding the scope of your situation. The complete loss of privacy. The knowledge that every breath, every heartbeat, every moment of weakness will be documented.

"Welcome to the Epitaph Program," he says. "Sixty days of comprehensive observation. Cooperation ensures… comfort levels remain tolerable."

The threat hangs between you. Implicit but clear.

He releases your jaw but keeps the knife steady. Tests your reaction.

You don't move. Don't try to escape.

Smart.

"Are you prepared to proceed with mission briefing," he asks, "or do you require additional conditioning?"

Silence. Then:

"Mission briefing."

Good. Progress.

He steps back, lowering the blade but maintaining defensive positioning.

You turn around slowly, back against the wall, watching him with new wariness.

The air still carries that charge. That scent. Combat pheromones that haven't dissipated despite the conclusion of violence.

Curious.

Most stress responses fade quickly once threat neutralization occurs. But yours seems to be… intensifying.

As does his own.

Purely physiological. Adrenaline requires time to metabolize. Nothing more complex than biochemistry.

"Follow me," he says, returning your knife to his belt.

A confiscation that doubles as a reminder of capability differential.

You push off from the wall, rolling your shoulders. Testing for damage. Finding none.

Then you follow him toward the briefing room. Maintaining careful distance. Close enough for communication. Far enough to avoid sudden contact.

But the strange entry remains, humming low like the beasts on the Verge Wastes. That resonance pattern his sensors can't classify.

Further investigation required. Document the phenomenon. Understand tactical implications.

For the Algorithm's analysis, naturally.

Nothing personal.

The transport to the Central Efficiency Boulevard takes twelve minutes through the Citadel's internal transit system.

Sealed corridors, regulated atmosphere, no external views.

You sit across from him in the passenger compartment, cataloging everything. Emergency releases. Ventilation systems. Structural weak points.

Still planning escape routes even while compliance appears complete.

Predictable. But admirable in its consistency.

The transport halts smoothly, and the passenger door slides open to reveal Valis Core's beating commercial heart.

The sight hits you immediately.

Sound first—thousands of voices creating a low hum of regulated conversation; the rhythmic pulse of scanning stations and allocation terminals processing endless queues of citizens.

Then the scale.

The Central Efficiency Boulevard stretches ahead like a canyon of black stone and gleaming metal, rising in terraced levels that disappear into aurora-filtered light. Suspended walkways create layers of foot traffic moving in perfectly regulated streams.

He watches your reaction. Measures the way your eyes widen despite obvious attempts at control.

"Welcome to functional society," he says, stepping onto the Boulevard.

In here, citizens move in predictable patterns—efficient foot traffic, minimal congestion.

Absolute standard procedure.

What isn't standard is the way conversations pause when you pass.

Namjoon catalogs the disruption. Valis Core citizens glancing sideways. Merchants hesitating mid-transaction. Children stopping to stare before their parents pull them along.

Curiosity. Or threat assessment. Both, perhaps.

You notice too. Shoulders tensing incrementally. Defensive posture activating despite the absence of immediate danger.

"They're staring," you mutter, voice low but audible.

He processes your discomfort. Files it.

"They are observing," he corrects. "Curiosity regarding your presence here."

Your laugh carries no humor. "Curiosity. Right. Nice way of saying they're side-eyeing me like I'm contaminated."

Side-eyeing. Another colloquialism absent from his linguistic databases.

Your phrasing patterns continue demonstrating gaps in his understanding of rebel vernacular.

Problematic. Communication efficiency requires comprehensive language mapping.

He turns slightly, studying your expression. "Clarification required."

"What?"

"The term. Side-eyeing."

You stop walking. Actually stop. Citizens flow around you both like water around stones, maintaining distance from his authority radius.

"Are you serious right now?"

He waits. Blinks slowly. Explanation pending.

"Side-eye means…" You gesture vaguely. "Looking at someone with suspicion. Judgment. Like they're doing something wrong just by existing."

Interesting. Facial expression terminology with embedded social context. He files the definition for future reference.

"The great Commander doesn't know basic slang," you continue, something sharp creeping into your voice. "Does that bother you?"

Bother. Emotional terminology suggesting personal investment in knowledge gaps.

"I require comprehensive communication protocols," he says. "Unknown variables reduce operational efficiency."

"So yes, it bothers you."

"Incorrect. I am identifying areas requiring data acquisition."

"Which means it bothers you."

"It means I am optimizing communication parameters."

"Same thing."

"It is not the same thing."

You tilt your head, mimicking his own assessment gesture. "You're getting defensive about being bothered by not knowing something. So, essentially, you're bothered."

"I am not defensive nor bothered."

"You just corrected me twice in thirty seconds."

He processes this. Reviews the conversation log. Identifies the pattern.

"Precision in communication serves tactical purposes."

"Tactical purposes." Your voice carries mockery now. "Right. Because God forbid the great Commander admits something annoys him."

Annoys. Another emotional designation he doesn't—

"It doesn't annoy me."

The words emerge too quickly. Too sharp.

You smile.

"There it is."

"There is nothing."

"You're bothered that you don't know rebel slang. You're bothered that I know something you don't."

"Your linguistic knowledge represents data I require for operational efficiency. Nothing more."

"Which bothers you."

Circular logic. Deliberately deployed to elicit emotional response.

He will not provide one.

"Irrelevant," he states. "Continue walking."

But you don't move. Just stand there with that sharp smile, cataloging his reaction patterns.

Learning his weaknesses.

A merchant nearby—Valis Core, purple hair indicating metallurgy specialist—drops a tool when Namjoon's gaze passes over their stall. The clatter echoes.

Your attention follows his. "See? Side-eye."

He observes the merchant more carefully. Elevated heartrate visible in neck pulse. Hands trembling slightly. Eyes avoiding direct contact.

"They are not expressing suspicion," he says. "They are demonstrating deference to authority. Standard protocol when Authority Level 7 personnel are present."

"Level 7?" Your voice shifts. Interest replacing mockery. "I thought you'd be higher."

The observation lands precisely where it was aimed.

Level 7 isn't low. It represents significant achievement within Consortium hierarchy.

"Level 7 is quite high," he states, voice flattening.

"Quite low for someone with your reputation."

Your tone carries calculated dismissal. Designed to provoke.

"I am Level 7 with supreme authority over the Epitaph System," he corrects, something sharp threading through his tone. "My clearance supersedes standard hierarchical limitations regarding species survival protocols."

"If you say so."

The casual dismissal triggers something deeper. Irritation crystallizing into something colder.

"Level 10 Council members cannot override my decisions regarding Transference procedures," he continues, voice dropping. "The Epitaph Program operates under my exclusive jurisdiction."

"Sure. Very impressive."

Your mockery remains unchanged. As if his specialized authority means nothing. As if the power structure he's carved out through years of strategic positioning is irrelevant.

Which, clearly, means you simply don't understand the implications of what you're dismissing.

So he will educate you.

"My authority regarding the Algorithm is absolute," he states. "Council oversight is limited to resource allocation. Operational control belongs to me."

"Are you trying to convince me or yourself?"

Now he processes the tactical objective differently.

You're testing his authority. Measuring the extent of his control.

Smart. You need to understand the parameters of your situation.

"I am clarifying the scope of authority you will be operating under for the next sixty days."

Your posture shifts. Subtle recognition of threat.

"Perhaps proximity will improve your attitude regarding appropriate deference protocols."

The words emerge as a statement of fact rather than threat.

But your reaction suggests you understand the implication.

Sixty days of his direct oversight. His rules. His authority.

Your choices: cooperation or consequences.

You stay silent after that. Walk behind him as he moves through the Boulevard, and he is most certain you are still attempting to find ways to turn this to your advantage.

Foolish, but admirable.

The primary Distribution Hub processes a constant stream of individuals receiving their assigned goods—scanning biometric chips, dispensing ration cubes, efficiency tools, and personal items based on productivity metrics.

Children move in supervised groups between educational facilities. Authority Level 4 supervisors guide them past the Productivity Reward Stations where higher-performing citizens access luxury items—actual flavored foods, personal decoration allowances, recreational materials.

The Equipment Dispensaries have workers receiving tool updates and uniform modifications. Allocation Supervisors stand behind scanning stations, their enhanced eyes analyzing each citizen's productivity metrics before dispensing goods.

It does not escape him, how your trained eye identifies the underground commerce.

Information traders lingering near public terminals. Favor brokers—mid-level officials discreetly arranging better allocations in exchange for services. Memory merchants operating from building alcoves, offering illegal identity modifications.

"Authority fear isn't the same as curiosity," you observe after several minutes of movement through the crowds.

He glances back at you. Notes you are circling back to the conversation about the so-called 'side-eyes' you were receiving.

Valid point. He recalculates.

The stares aren't uniform. Younger citizens show genuine fascination. Older ones display wariness. Children exhibit undisguised interest before parental intervention.

"Multiple response patterns," he replies after a few seconds. "But the primary driver is genetic variance recognition."

"Meaning?"

"Citadel populations are predominantly Valis Core. Interspecies contact remains limited despite policy allowances."

A pause. Processing.

"You're saying they're staring because I'm different."

"Because you represent genetic diversity they rarely encounter in this sector."

Your stride shortens. Subtle defensive behavior.

"Valis Core citizens aren't accustomed to observing mixed heritage individuals," he says. "Your parameters differ from sector norms."

You stop again. Completely.

Citizens adjust their paths, creating a small clearance zone.

"What do you mean by 'mixed heritage'?"

He blinks, a tad startled at your direct questioning. Odd questioning.

Is it not obvious?

"Your genetic markers indicate partial Valis Core ancestry. Approximately fifty percent. The remaining heritage appears Hollow Crest based on dermal characteristics and bone density indicators."

Your face changes. Guarded becomes hostile.

"How would you know that?"

"Standard biological assessment protocols. Skin reflectivity patterns, facial structure analysis, movement efficiency calculations. The hybrid characteristics are evident to trained observation."

"Trained observation." Your voice flattens dangerously. "You mean profiling."

"I mean accurate genetic classification."

A child—perhaps eight years old—breaks away from their parent to approach. Valis Core features but with curiosity overriding social conditioning.

"Are you from the outer sectors?" they ask you directly.

Before you can respond, the parent appears. Face flushed, clearly horrified by the breach of protocol.

"Commander, forgive the interruption—"

Namjoon raises a hand. Minimal gesture. Maximum authority.

"No breach of protocol occurred."

The parent relaxes incrementally. The child continues staring at you with open fascination.

"Your skin changes colors," the child observes. "Are those markings functional?"

You glance down at your forearms where subtle chromatophore patterns shift under stress. Barely visible, but the child's observation skills are acute.

"They're adaptive," you say carefully.

"Environmental adaptation," Namjoon clarifies for the child's benefit. "Beneficial genetic trait from Hollow Crest heritage."

The parent's eyes widen. Not disapproval—interest.

"How fascinating. Hybrid genetics are quite rare in the Core. The adaptive capabilities must be remarkable."

"We have appointments to maintain," Namjoon interrupts.

Social interaction efficiency has limits.

The parent nods, collecting their child. But the expression remains intrigued rather than dismissive.

After they leave, you stare at him.

"They weren't horrified."

"As I said."

The stares seem to make more sense to you now. Not suspicion. Genuine curiosity about biological variance they rarely encounter.

"But if they knew I was rebel—"

"They would respond differently," he acknowledges. "Rebellion represents ideological contamination. Genetic diversity represents biological advancement."

He observes how you process this distinction. The way hybrid status grants curiosity while political status would generate hostility.

"Convenient that they don't know."

"Indeed."

"And what exactly does my 'genetic classification' matter to anyone?"

The question contains multiple layers.

Surface inquiry about social relevance. Deeper concern about discrimination protocols. Underlying anger about genetic monitoring systems.

He addresses the practical component.

"Valis Core social structures don't discriminate against interspecies heritage. Hybrid genetics are considered beneficial for population stability."

"Beneficial how?"

"Genetic diversity reduces mutation accumulation. Cross-species reproduction produces offspring with enhanced adaptive capabilities. Improved disease resistance. Broader environmental tolerance ranges."

Your expression shifts. Surprise replacing hostility.

"You're saying mixing species is good."

"Scientifically optimal, yes. The Consortium actively encourages genetic diversification through managed reproduction programs."

"Then why don't more Valis Core people marry outside their species?"

Valid observation. He considers the behavioral patterns.

"Cultural preference for familiar social frameworks. Valis Core social structures emphasize systematic approaches to relationship formation. Most find comfort in predictable partner compatibility."

"Rigid thinking."

"Efficient compatibility assessment."

You snort. "Same thing."

It isn't.

But the distinction appears irrelevant to your worldview.

"The fact remains unchanged. Hybridness is viewed as positive amongst Valis. Our offspring would represent particularly advantageous genetic combinations. Enhanced cognitive function from Valis Core heritage combined with environmental resilience from Hollow Crest adaptation. The theoretical capabilities would be—"

"Our what?"

Your voice cuts through his analysis. Sharp. Dangerous.

He processes your tone. Elevated stress markers. Aggressive posture shift.

"Our hypothetical offspring," he clarifies. "Based on genetic compatibility analysis."

"Our offspring." You repeat the words like they taste poisonous. "You're talking about us. Having children. Together."

"I am explaining theoretical genetic optimization outcomes based on—"

"I would rather slit your throat and then throw myself off the Citadel than have your children."

The vehemence surprises him. Most citizens express enthusiasm about contributing to genetic optimization programs.

"Your personal preferences are irrelevant," he states. "The genetic benefits to society would be considerable regardless of individual opinion."

Something shifts in your posture. Coiling. Dangerous.

"Individual opinion."

"Optimal reproductive outcomes serve collective survival priorities."

Your hand drops toward where your knife was. Still reaching for confiscated weapons.

"Is that the plan?" Your voice drops to something lethal. "Sixty days of observation and then they strap me down and—"

"No."

The word is immediate.

He sees you freeze. Hand still positioned for a weapon draw that won't succeed.

He processes your reaction pattern. The immediate jump to coercion. The assumption of bodily violation.

What experiences shaped such expectations?

"Reproductive autonomy remains absolute under Consortium law," he clarifies. "No individual is required to participate in biological reproduction against their will."

You stare at him. "What?"

"The Consortium maintains advanced reproductive technologies. Genetic material can be combined through laboratory processes without requiring physical reproduction."

Your shoulders drop slightly. Combat readiness decreasing.

"Body autonomy remains inviolate," he continues. "Valis Core social development prioritizes consent in all intimate contexts."

Relief flickers across your features. Then hardens again.

"Except where the Epitaph Algorithm is concerned."

Accurate assessment.

The Algorithm does override individual choice regarding Transference participation.

"That serves species survival. Different parameters."

"How convenient." Your voice carries acid. "And what about the aurora bands? The heat cycles?"

He processes the shift. Unexpected tactical pivot.

"Clarification required."

"Don't play stupid with me, Commander. You know exactly what happens when the violet bands hit and biology takes over—where's the consent then?"

Aurora-induced heat cycles. Reproductive imperative overrides.

Hm.

A valid concern regarding Consortium control mechanisms.

"Heat cycles represent biological intensification, not autonomy elimination."

"Bullshit." You step closer, aggressive posture returning. "Rut cycles. Heat cycles. When biology kicks in and rational thought gets complicated."

"Biological intensification does not equate to consent elimination," he states. "Enhanced drive does not remove choice."

"Enhanced drive." Your laugh cuts sharp. "That what you call it when people fuck strangers because they can't think past the need?"

"I call it temporary prioritization of reproductive impulses while maintaining agency over partner selection and participation parameters."

You stare at him. "You're really going to stand there and tell me people consent during heat cycles?"

"I am stating that biological imperative amplifies existing desire without removing the capacity for decision-making. Individuals retain choice regarding participation, partners, and boundaries."

He processes his own experiences.

The elevated aggression. The singular focus on breeding compatibility. The way rational analysis shifted to accommodate reproductive priorities.

But never absent. Never eliminated.

"The neurochemical changes intensify specific responses," he continues. "They do not override cognitive function. Enhanced want does not constitute absence of will."

"Even when they're desperate enough to make choices they'd normally never consider?"

"Especially then. Desperation requires conscious acknowledgment of need and deliberate action to address it."

"You sound like you've given this considerable thought."

He has. Clinical analysis of his own rutting behaviors. Documentation of decision-making processes during biological peak periods.

"Personal experience provides relevant data."

"Personal experience." Something shifts in your expression. "Right. How many people have you fucked during rut cycles, Commander?"

The question contains tactical probing. Seeking vulnerability data through intimate details.

"Partner quantity is irrelevant to the consent framework discussion."

"But you have. Had partners during cycles."

"Yes."

"And you maintained perfect rational decision-making the entire time?"

"Rational frameworks adapt to biological priorities. Decision-making remains functional within modified parameters."

"Modified parameters." You test the phrase. "Meaning you wanted to fuck so badly you'd have taken anyone available."

"Negative. Biological enhancement cannot create attraction where none exists. It can only amplify existing compatibility markers."

You cross your arms again. "And if someone's compatibility markers are… inconvenient?"

"Then enhanced biological states create discomfort, not compulsion. The science is clear."

"How convenient that your science supports your moral boundaries."

"Accurate science reflects observable reality. Biological drives amplify potential. They do not manufacture it."

He sees you are about to respond when a priority communication activates through his neural interface.

Command-level authorization. Immediate briefing required.

"Change of plans," he says, altering course toward the administrative transit station. "Priority briefing requires immediate attention."

"What kind of priority?"

"The kind that determines our first joint operation parameters."

Your expression shifts. Recognition that the abstract concept of shared missions is about to become concrete reality.

As you move through the crowds toward the transport station, citizens continue their subtle observations. Curiosity about genetic diversity mixed with deference to his authority.

But you're no longer paying attention to their stares. Your focus has shifted to tactical assessment—processing the environment, cataloging resources, identifying potential advantages.

The transition from civilian observation to operational preparation.

Smart.

Because whatever briefing awaits will likely determine whether your first mission together becomes cooperation or warfare.

He suspects the latter.

The briefing chamber operates under Level 8 security protocols. Reinforced walls. Signal dampening. Personnel restricted to essential command staff only.

You enter behind him, positioning yourself near the exit.

Strategic placement.

He catalogs this behavior—always mapping escape routes, even in seemingly secure environments.

The intelligence officer approaches. Valis Core, specialized reconnaissance division. Stress markers visible in posture, elevated respiratory rate.

Bad news, then.

"Commander," the officer begins, then hesitates, glancing toward you.

"Proceed," Namjoon states. "She has clearance for this briefing."

Not entirely accurate. But operational parameters require your presence for proximity monitoring. Security concerns secondary to Algorithm requirements.

"Sir, Priority Target J-7 has vanished."

Namjoon processes this. Reviews available data. Priority Target designation suggests high-value asset.

Classification level: restricted.

"Clarification required. Vanished how?"

"Subject was being transported from containment to advanced research facility. Armored convoy, triple security protocols. When the transport arrived at destination, the containment unit was empty."

You shift behind him. Subtle positioning change. Intelligence gathering through observation.

"Sealed?" Namjoon inquires.

"Completely sealed, sir. Undamaged. Biometric locks intact. Life-sign monitoring showed no anomalies during transit. But when the unit opened…" The officer spreads empty hands. "Nothing."

Impossible. Transport containers operate under continuous surveillance. Molecular-level breach detection. Emergency beacon activation for any system compromise.

"Describe the containment specifications."

"Triple-hull construction. Quantum lock mechanisms. Atmospheric control independent of external systems. Subject would require specialized tools and external assistance to achieve breach."

The officer pauses. Glances toward you again.

Security concern. Your presence during classified briefing creates operational complications.

The chamber door slides open. Two figures enter—Authority insignia indicating higher command presence.

Namjoon straightens. Recognition protocols activate.

Director Kang Yura. Level 8 Authority. Research Division oversight. Sharp features, silver-streaked black hair, cybernetic enhancement visible along her left temple.

Behind her: Marshal Choi Daesung. Level 9 Authority. Strategic Operations Command. Massive frame, scarred hands, patched eye.

The intelligence officer steps back. Deference to superior authority.

"Commander Kim," Director Kang states. "Your presence is required for Priority Classification briefing."

Marshal Choi's gaze settles on you.

Assessment. Threat evaluation.

"The proximity asset," he observes, then switches immediately. "Interessanter Tzeitpunkt" (Interesting timing.)

Proximity asset.

Clinical designation that reduces you to operational utility.

You don't react visibly to the language shift. But Namjoon catches the subtle tension—you understand you're being discussed in a language deliberately excluding you.

"Sirs," Namjoon acknowledges. "Briefing in progress regarding Priority Target J-7 containment failure."

"Nikt Aindemmungswersagen," Director Kang corrects sharply. "Evolutionere Veiterentviklung iber ervartete Parameter hinaus." (Not containment failure. Evolutionary advancement beyond anticipated parameters.)

Altsprek it is, then.

"Prätzisirung erforderlik." (Clarification required.)

Marshal Choi steps forward. "Subjekt J-7 nahm vor seks Monaten an freivilligem Werbesserungsprogramm teil. Mournwell Basin Herkunft. Agrarvissenskaftler Betzeikhnung wor Modifikation." (Subject J-7 participated in voluntary enhancement program six months ago. Mournwell Basin origins. Agricultural scientist designation before modification.)

You shift. Mournwell Basin mentioned. But the rest remains incomprehensible.

"Werbesserungsspetzifikationen?" (Enhancement specifications?)

"Klassifitzirt Level 9," Marshal Choi states. "Aber relewante Details umfassen: tzellulare Anpassungsfehikkeiten, Umveltresistenz-Optimirung, werbesserte Iberlebensparameter." (Classified Level 9. But relevant details include: cellular adaptation capabilities, environmental resistance optimization, enhanced survival parameters.)

He glances at you deliberately. "Subjekt demonstrirt Fehikkeiten, di bestimte… Rebellenfraktionen interessiren kennten." (Subject demonstrates capabilities that may interest certain… rebel factions.)

Your posture tightens.

Understanding the tone if not the words.

Perceptive.

"Di Modifikationen varen erfolglaiker als prognostitzirt," Director Kang continues. "Subjekts Biologi begann sik auf Vaisen antzupassen, di nikt in urspringliken Werbesserungsprotokollen enthalten varen." (The modifications succeeded beyond projected parameters. Subject's biology began adapting in ways not included in original enhancement protocols.)

"Anpassung vi?" (Adapting how?)

"Strukturelle Werenederungen. Sensoriske Werbesserung. Stoffvekseleffitzienz-Werbesserungen." (Structural alterations. Sensory enhancement. Metabolic efficiency improvements.)

The intelligence officer clears his throat. "Sirs, di tzelluleren Scans des Subjekts aus der letzten Aindemmung tzaikten Anomalien. Gevebeproben enthillten molekulare Strukturen ausserhalb bekannter biologisker Rahmen." (Sirs, subject's cellular scans from final containment showed anomalies. Tissue samples revealed molecular structures outside known biological frameworks.)

"Ausserhalb vi?" (Outside how?)

"Kvantenebene Organisationsmuster. Tzellulare Netzverke kommunitziren durk Mekanismen, di bekannte Physik werletzen." (Quantum-level organizational patterns. Cellular networks communicating through mechanisms that violate known physics.)

Namjoon processes this.

Enhancement programs typically improve existing capabilities. They don't create impossible biological functions.

"Vas var das Werbesserungsziel?" (What was the enhancement objective?)

Marshal Choi exchanges a glance with Director Kang. "Adaptive Iberlebensoptimirung fir faindselige Umgebungen. Spetzifisk: Verge-Territorium-Navigationsfehikkeiten." (Adaptive survival optimization for hostile environments. Specifically: Verge territory navigation capabilities.)

"Varum?" (Why?)

"Klassifitzirt." (Classified.)

"Aktuelle Fehikkaiten des Subjekts?" (Subject's current capabilities?)

"Unbekannt. Abskliessende Bewertung doitete auf Potenzial fir Materi-Phasen-Manipulation hin. Molekulare Diktewerenederung. Meglikervaise Raum-Tzeit-Interaktionsmodifikationen." (Unknown. Final assessment indicated potential for matter-phase manipulation. Molecular density alteration. Possibly space-time interaction modifications.)

Director Kang activates a holographic display. Security footage appears—transport container interior.

The recording shows a figure. Humanoid. Standard proportions. Sitting calmly in the containment unit.

Then the figure begins… shifting.

Edges becoming less defined. Molecular coherence appearing to fluctuate.

The image distorts. Static interference.

When clarity returns, the container is empty.

"Skaisse," Namjoon breathes.

You catch that.

Curse words have a tendency to transcend language barriers.

"Tatseklik," Marshal Choi states. "ubjekt skainet in der Lage tzu sain, fundamentale molekulare Kohesion tzu werendern." (Indeed. Subject appears capable of altering fundamental molecular cohesion.)

"Vo ist er jetzt?" (Where is he now?)

"Unbekannt. Aber Aufklerung doitet auf Bevegung in Riktung Hollow Crest Territorien hin." (Unknown. But intelligence suggests movement toward Hollow Crest territories.)

Director Kang deactivates the holographic display, then turns to address you directly in Consensus.

"Your familiarity with regional territories may prove tactically relevant."

The sudden shift back to your language feels jarring.

Intentional exclusion followed by intentional inclusion.

"Relevant how?"

Marshal Choi studies you. "Enhanced assets seeking sanctuary typically utilize known safe passage routes."

"You think someone escaped."

"We know someone escaped. Question is whether certain factions provided assistance."

Your expression hardens. "And you want me to help track them down."

"We want you to provide regional intelligence," Director Kang corrects.

"Mission parameters," she continues to Namjoon. "Gemainsame Aufklerungsoperation. Si biten strategiske Aufsikt. Nehe-Asset bitet regionale Aufklerung." (Joint reconnaissance operation. You provide strategic oversight. Proximity asset provides regional intelligence.)

Back to Altsprek. Excluding you again.

"Tzeitplan?" (Timeline?)

"Sofortiger Ainsatz. Di Fehikkeiten von Subjekt J-7 maken ervaiterte Fraiheit unadvisable." (Immediate deployment. Subject J-7's capabilities make extended freedom inadvisable.)

"Bedrohungsainsketzung?" (Threat assessment?)

"Unbekannte Wariablen," Marshal Choi admits. "Werbesserungsprogramme skaffen unworsagbare Ergebnisse, venn Subjekte projitzirte Parameter iberskreiten." (Unknown variables. Enhancement programs create unpredictable outcomes when subjects exceed projected parameters.)

"Vas var sain urspringliker Name?" (What was his original name?)

You step forward suddenly. "What are you discussing?"

The question cuts through their Altsprek conversation.

Direct challenge to the exclusion.

Marshal Choi switches back to Consensus. "Operational parameters."

"I'm part of this operation. I should understand what I'm walking into."

Director Kang's cybernetic implant flickers. Processing. "You will receive necessary tactical information during deployment preparation."

"Necessary according to who?"

"According to authority classification."

Your jaw tightens. Understanding the power dynamic.

Information as control mechanism.

Namjoon observes this exchange. Your frustration at exclusion. Their deliberate information restriction.

"She requires basic operational parameters," he states carefully.

Marshal Choi nods. "Recovery mission. High-value target. Regional reconnaissance required."

Minimal information. Sufficient for cooperation without revealing classified details.

"And if the target doesn't want to be recovered?"

"Target cooperation is not required."

Cold, brutal statement. Standard Consortium approach.

"Follow me," Namjoon states, reading the room.

Time to extract you before additional complications develop.

You don't move immediately, however.

"When do I get full briefing details?"

"Si verden si nikt," Marshal Choi states quietly. (You won't.)

The Altsprek comment wasn't meant for you to understand.

But he knows you recognize the tone, the exclusion, the dismissal.

"What exactly am I walking into?" you ask again.

"Recovery operation," Namjoon repeats. "Subject escaped transport. Regional knowledge required for location assessment."

Minimal truth.

"Follow," he states more urgently.

This time you comply. But tension radiates from your posture.

As you exit the briefing chamber, Marshal Choi's voice follows in Altsprek.

"Kommandant. Wersagen ist nikt aktzeptabel. Werbesserte Assets kennen nikt unibervakt blaiben." (Commander. Failure is not acceptable. Enhanced assets cannot remain unsupervised.)

Understanding. Success required. Or consequences would extend beyond mission parameters.

Field deployment begins in one hour.

Time to discover what happens when your knowledge becomes essential to Consortium operations. While being systematically excluded from understanding why.

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