lovely anon

23⚛️ (wildflower, blackhole, universal solvent)

[anonymous1yreading]

Cat.

[imhalfplastic]

how to build a memory (when the ocean keeps taking)

⊹ overview – pairing: mingyu x f!reader genre: hurt/comfort · tragicomedy · slow burn themes: fragmented memory, daily rituals, love rewritten each morning, hope against inevitability. cw: memory loss, mentions of trauma, mentions of frustration

summary: he keeps forgetting you and you keep remembering him. every day is a first hello, a first glance, a first story told again.

from kai: i’ve always loved romcoms!! this one kinda takes inspo from 50 first dates (2004). i like the movie a lot but the ending never sat right with me. like… waking up on a boat in the middle of the ocean with a guy and a kid you technically don’t know?? that would freak me out so bad lol so i wanted to do something a little different here.

now playing: another day - paul mccartney

the first time you meet him, you don’t expect much.

it’s your first day at the new job. the little coffee shop sits right at the edge of the boardwalk, its big windows always open to let in the salty breeze. the air smells like sunscreen mixed with fresh espresso, like summer mixed with responsibility. tourists wander in with damp hair and sand still clinging to their ankles, ordering iced lattes while dripping seawater across the wooden floorboards.

you wipe down the counter, pretending you’re not nervous, but your hands are restless. moving to a new city, starting over… it sounds brave when you tell people but right now it just feels like you’re one mistake away from spilling hot coffee on a stranger.

this place is small, coastal, unhurried. the kind of town where the seagulls are louder than traffic, where mornings start with the ocean and end with the same. you told yourself you came here to breathe, to untangle the mess you left behind. but breathing doesn’t come easy on a first day, not when the register feels like a bomb ready to go off and your new coworkers still treat you with the polite distance reserved for newcomers.

“relax...” your manager says, not unkindly, as he slides another tray of pastries into the display case. “it’s not a high-stakes job. people come here for the view, not for perfectly frothed milk.”

you nod, pretending his words calm you. they don’t.

and that’s when he walks in. tall, broad shoulders, hair wet like he’s just stepped out of the ocean. drops of saltwater slide down his neck, disappearing into a t-shirt that looks a little too worn. flip-flops slap against the floor, leaving a trail of water. he looks like this beach town spat him out and said: here, this is yours now.

“hey!” he says, leaning on the counter like you’re already friends. “new here?”

you blink at him. “what gave it away? the way i nearly dropped the coffee pot on myself, or the apron with the tag still attached?”

his smile cracks wide, unrestrained. he laughs in a way that makes people turn their heads. bright, a little too loud, but warm enough that you don’t care. “both. but hey, dropping coffee pots is a bold strategy. keeps the customers on their toes.”

“so you like chaos.” you say, deadpan. “duly noted.”

he tilts his head, like he’s cataloguing you. “i’m mingyu.”

you tell him your name, and his grin softens into something almost conspiratorial, like he’s going to remember it.

“so, what’s your coffee personality?” he asks, tapping the menu board with a finger. “are you a classic drip coffee kind of person? or one of those mysterious cold brew devotees?”

“i think i’m more of a ‘try not to burn the milk while steaming it’ person.” you reply.

he laughs again, shaking his head. “alright, i like you. i’ll take…” he pauses dramatically, eyes scanning the menu. “the most obnoxious thing you have.”

you narrow your eyes. “let me guess. triple-shot caramel latte with oat milk?”

his mouth falls open. “how did you…” he breaks into a grin, “see, we’re already in sync.”

you roll your eyes but start on his drink. he watches, chatting the whole time, making little comments about how serious your barista face looks. you tease him back, telling him he seems like the type to hog a beach volleyball game and pretend it’s casual cardio.

by the time you slide his drink across the counter, you’re smiling without realizing it.

he waves before he leaves, like he’ll see you again tomorrow.

the second time, he doesn’t remember you.

“hey!” he says the next morning, stepping up to the counter, hair wet again, same t-shirt in a different color. “new here?”

you freeze, half-expecting him to laugh and admit it’s a joke. but he doesn’t. he’s watching you with that same easy friendliness, like this is the first time. you let out a confused laugh. 

“uh… yeah. still new. but also… it’s me? from yesterday? remember?”

his brows furrow. “yesterday?”

“yeah. we talked. you ordered the caramel latte. obnoxious drink?”

he blinks at you, genuinely puzzled, and then offers a sheepish smile. “sorry, i… i don’t think we’ve met. i’m mingyu.”

your stomach sinks but you hand him his drink anyway. writing his name on the cup even though he introduced himself less than 24 hours ago. after he leaves, your manager gestures for you to step into the back. the hum of the fridge fills the silence for a moment before he speaks.

“you’re wondering about mingyu.” you hesitate, then nod.

“he doesn’t remember new things...” your manager explains quietly, like it’s a fragile secret. “there was an accident, a while ago. every day starts over for him. the regulars, his friends, everyone just plays along. keeps him comfortable.”

you lean against the counter, the words sinking in like stones. “so every day… he thinks it’s the first time?”

“pretty much.” your manager sighs. “my advice? don’t bother trying too hard. he forgets anyway.”

you stare at the floor, at the sand trailing in from the boardwalk, at the faint sound of waves crashing outside. you don’t think that’s fair. you don’t want to become just a part of the background in this play he's forced to relive every day.

in day three, you decide you won’t let it crush you. 

the bell over the café door jingles and like clockwork, he appears again. saltwater still dripping from his hair, skin flushed from the sun, flip-flops squeaking against the floor. if this town is about second chances, then maybe mingyu is about infinite ones.

“hey!” he says, leaning against the counter. “new here?”

you press your lips together to keep from laughing. “brand new...” you reply smoothly, like you haven’t done this before. “still working on not spilling things on customers.”

he grins. “good to know. i’ll keep a towel handy. i’m mingyu, by the way.”

today you decide to push a little further. when you grab a cup, you scribble across it in thick black marker: today’s victim: mingyu. you set it down with a flourish.

he blinks at the cup, then bursts out laughing. “what… am i supposed to be scared?”

“depends,” you say. “are you the type of guy who handles triple-shot caramel lattes with courage?”

“absolutely.” he declares. “in fact, i thrive under the weight of sugar and caffeine.”

“you thrive under chaos, you mean.”

“same thing.” he shoots back and you’re surprised at how naturally his presence fits, even though you’ve only just met him (again).

day five, he’s curious about you.

you’ve already run through your usual introduction routine. his coffee order, your sarcastic remark, the way he laughs like he’s never heard it before. the café’s empty, the afternoon sun bleeding through the windows. he spins a sugar packet between his fingers.

“so,” he says, “why here? why this town?”

“i ran away.” you say.

he doesn’t laugh. doesn’t flinch. he just watches, steady. “from what?”

“mostly myself.” you whisper.

his eyebrows lift. “what do you mean?”

"ever heard that stupid saying? 'it gets ugly before it gets beautiful'? needed somewhere to be the 'ugly' part without everyone watching." the words come out sharper than you mean them to.

he huffs a half-laugh. “hard for anything to stay ugly in a place like this.”

"try me." you say, wiping the counter.

he laughs, but it’s different this time. softer at the edges. "fair. my turn?"

"only if you’re honest."

“i was born here. small towns give you an expiration date. you either escape by eighteen or you become part of the furniture."

"you don’t seem like furniture."

he glances out the window, where the horizon’s gone darker. “i traveled a lot, to be honest. pro surfer. till i wasn't." his thumb rubs at a faded scar on his wrist. “now it’s just… saltwater and quiet. can’t complain.”

“so that’s your version of running...” you say.

he looks back at you, quiet for a second. then, softer: “everyone’s gotta drown in something. i picked the ocean.”

day eight, you decide to be bold.

the café is quieter, the morning heat already pressing in. he lingers after getting his drink, eyes flicking to the open window where the boardwalk stretches out toward the sand.

“so,” you say, pretending to wipe the counter, “do you ever actually walk the beach? or is dripping seawater in here your daily exercise?”

he smirks. “multitasking. i walk the beach and i drip seawater in cafés. very efficient.”

you laugh. “sounds like you need a better routine. come on…take your coffee and walk with me.”

he blinks. “do i look like i say yes to strangers who roast me this much?”

you shrug, fighting a smile. “you do today.” and he does.

the sand is warm under your feet, the tide rolling in gentle waves. he talks with wild exaggeration about spotting a crab “basically the size of a labrador.” you laugh so hard you nearly trip, and he steadies you by the elbow, his fingers warm against your skin. the contact lingers, just for a moment, before he pulls back, clearing his throat like he doesn’t know why he did it.

day eleven, you feel like something's shifting.

he walks in whistling, hair even messier than usual.

“welcome” you say. 

“hi. new here?” he smiles. you just shrug.

today, on his cup, you write: property of the ocean. when you hand it to him, he squints.

“are you trying to tell me i smell like seaweed?”

“i’m just saying, you leave puddles everywhere you go. the evidence is strong.”

“wow...” he gasps dramatically, “attacked before i even sip my coffee.”

you grin. “consider it a warm welcome.”

day thirteen, he comes in like always.

“hey. new here?” you smile, the script so familiar it’s practically muscle memory. “brand new.”

today, though, he doesn’t rush the order. he leans against the counter, tapping his fingers, eyes lighting up when he says, “i had a dog when i was a kid. bbokbbok.”

you blink. “bbokbbok?” the word feels round and clumsy on your tongue.

“yeah,” he laughs, the sound so sudden it makes your chest ache. “tiny thing. always stealing food from tourists. once ran off with an entire sandwich bigger than his head.”

you laugh with him, harder than you expect. “sounds like a menace.”

“nah. he was perfect.” he says, and the way his voice softens makes you wish you’d seen it. him and bbokbbok on this same stretch of beach, years before you existed here.

he leaves with his coffee, humming, and you feel like he’s handed you another puzzle piece you didn’t ask for but can’t stop tucking away. pieces you gather, even if you’re the only one who knows how they fit.”

day sixteen, the phone call cuts through the café’s hum like a knife.

your sister, sharp-voiced, tired. “you can’t just leave everything in boxes forever,” she says. “dad keeps asking when you’re coming back for the rest of your stuff.”

you grip the receiver too tight. “i told you, i need space.”

“space...” she echoes, flat. “or are you just running?”

your throat burns. “i can’t… just being there right now feels like…”

“like what?” she pushes, and you can almost see her pinching the bridge of her nose. “like you’re a coward?”

“you don’t get it. you didn’t have to watch her go.” you whisper, and it comes out raw..

your sister goes quiet, and the silence feels louder than any wave outside. “just… don’t take too long, okay?” she says, softer now. then the line clicks dead.

you set the phone down too carefully, like it might break if you let yourself be honest about how hard your hands are shaking. your eyes blur on the register screen.

when the bell jingles, he steps in. his eyes find yours, falter. “hey. new here?”

you force something like a smile. “something like that.”

he studies you longer than usual. “you okay?”

your breath stumbles. “just… family stuff.”

he doesn’t push. fingers drumming the counter. “want to talk about it?”

you shake your head, but the crack in your voice betrays you. “not here.”

he nods. no questions, just an anchor in the storm.

after your shift, he’s waiting outside, grinning like it’s his idea and not yours.

“come on,” he says. “the ocean’s better therapy than four walls. let’s walk.”

so you do. the sky’s deepening into orange as you follow him down the boardwalk, bare feet sinking into sand still warm from the day. he talks about nothing and everything. how sunsets always make him crave mango popsicles, how he once tried to surf during a storm (“don’t do that, by the way, it’s like fighting god”), how the ocean is cruel but never cruel enough to stop him from going back.

“my mom loved the ocean.” the words fall out uninvited, raw. you don’t look at him.

“what happened to her?” he asks.

“she died a few months ago...” you say, voice breaking in places you try to cover with sarcasm. “last thing i ever said to her was that i hated her. so, yeah. that’s a fun memory.”

his expression softens, no teasing this time. no loud laugh. “grief makes liars out of all of us...” he says, careful, like he knows the shape of loss. “she knew you didn’t mean it.”

you bite your lip. “yeah. i mean, she had alzheimer so she probably died without even remembering who i was.”

“i’m so sorry for that,” he says, voice low. “i can’t even imagine the pain of someone you love not remembering you.”

you laugh, bitter. the sound barely carrying over the waves. eventually, when the tide creeps higher, he looks at you and says, “you carry too much. you gotta let some of it go.”

you huff a laugh, sharp and uneven. “easy for you to say.”

“not easy,” he says, shaking his head. “but necessary. if you don’t, the weight keeps you from swimming.”

you stare at him, at the boy who wakes up each morning untouched by yesterday. “that’s surprisingly wise.”

“what can i say?” he smirks. “i’m full of surprises.”

the irony slips out before you can stop it. “yeah, tell me about it.”

he tilts his head. “what do you mean?”

your heart stutters. you force a smile, kicking at the sand. “nothing. just… thanks for this.”

the sky deepens, the tide pulls higher, and for a fleeting second, it feels like maybe you could survive this.

day nineteen, he winces when he stretches his arm across the counter to grab his drink, like something aches.

you raise an eyebrow. “what happened to you?”

“jellyfish.” he says, too casually.

your eyes widen. “wait... what?”

he grins, almost proud. “yeah, i was twelve. got stung right here.” he tugs at his sleeve, showing you a faint scar along his forearm, “and i screamed so loud the lifeguards thought someone was drowning.”

you snort, covering your mouth. “you? screaming?”

“hey, it hurt like crazy!” he protests, laughing now. “my cousin wouldn’t let me live it down for weeks.”

you shake your head, still smiling even after he’s gone. the story clings to you like salt.

day twenty three, you convince him to take another walk along the shoreline.

“i mean, i don’t normally walk with strangers who make fun of my flip-flops.” he says, letting his coffee dangle in one hand.

“good thing i’m persuasive.” you shrug, grinning.

he glances at you, amusement flickering across his features. “yeah, okay. you’re… persuasive.”

you laugh and start kicking sand at him. he retaliates, and suddenly you’re both laughing, weaving around the tide, water washing over your ankles.

“so,” he says, pausing for a breath, “you do this often? just… drag strangers into beach?”

“only on days that start off normal,” you say. “normal is boring anyway.”

“fair enough. i like chaos.” he picks up shells, examines them, pockets a few. you stop at the edge of the waves.

“are you a collector?” you say.

“a thief.” he corrects. “the ocean wants them back.”

you laugh. “then we’re partners in crime.”

the conversation drifts, casual but intimate. he talks about the way the waves look at sunset. you tell him small things about your past city. he listens, quiet.

at one point he pauses mid-sentence, watching you tie a strand of hair behind your ear. “you feel… familiar.” he murmurs.

“nope,” you say softly, smiling. “brand new.”

day twenty seven, the café is slow, except for the ceiling fan humming. 

he shows up with sand clinging stubbornly to his ankles.

“ever been caught in a rip current?” he asks, like it’s the most natural small talk.

“no and i’d like to keep it that way.” you mutter.

he chuckles. “i got pulled out once. thought i was gonna die. horizon kept getting farther, not closer. scariest thing.”

you freeze, a chill sliding under your skin. “how’d you get back?”

“just… stopped fighting. floated. let the current spit me out down the beach.” he shrugs, but his eyes are far away, shadowed. “we think we’re stronger than the ocean. we’re not.”

his coffee grows cold on the counter. you don’t remind him to drink it.

day thirty one, he comes in later than usual.

today he doesn’t pause with the usual greeting. doesn’t ask if you’re new. he just steps up to the counter and orders.

“triple-shot caramel latte. oat milk.” his voice is even, neutral.

you set the cup down in front of him, then can’t help yourself. “everything okay?”

he glances up, meets your eyes for a fraction of a second. “yeah.”

you press, softer this time, almost gentle. “you dont look fine.”

he tilts his head, just enough to look at you politely, and the words land like a careful wall between you: “i don’t really feel comfortable sharing personal things with strangers.”

you freeze. blink. then nod, slowly. that’s it. no argument. no follow-up. just acceptance.

after sip his coffee he leaves without another word. and you stand there, replaying it in your head how ironic it is. you’ve learned so much about him and yet to him, you’re nothing.

just a stranger. for the first time, it hurts.

day thirty four, beach at dusk.

the waves lap at your ankles, footprints beside his.

“have you ever stayed in a town because it felt right?” he asks, picking up a smooth shell.

“yeah” you admit. “but now i don’t just want to stay, i want to belong.”

“fair enough.” he tosses the shell back into the water. 

“the ocean wants it back.” he says.

day thirty six, the café hums softly.

you slide his cup across the counter. a small sun drawn on the foam winks at him.

he tilts the cup toward the light. “what’s this?”

“proof you exist.” you reply.

he laughs. “you’re weird.”

“you’re predictable.” you counter.

“oh?”

“caramel latte, extra shot, oat milk. you’re a walking cliché.”

he leans closer, close enough for you to smell salt and sunscreen. “then guess what i’ll order tomorrow.” he says softly.

you already know. you mourn it.

day thirty seven, he’s more relaxed than usual.

the café’s closed. the sky streaked pink and gold and when you suggest a walk on the beach he doesn’t hesitate. the tide rolls over your bare feet and gulls shriek overhead like they’re laughing at some private joke. wind whips his hair into his eyes and for a second, he looks younger.

“i don’t normally walk beaches with strangers.” he says, balancing his coffee like it’s a dare.

“today you do.” you grin, nudging him with your shoulder. he nudges back.

you walk. he talks about the town, about how it used to be. then he sits abruptly and you fold down beside him. close enough that his arm brushes yours when he lifts his plastic cup.

“my dog used to love this spot.” he says suddenly, squinting at the horizon. “little bastard would bark at seagulls like they'd personally offended him.”

you know this story. you’ve heard it before, in other versions, on other days.

“his name was…”

and without thinking, you say it: “bbokbbok”

his breath catches. “...yeah. how did you...?”

for half a second, his eyes flicker. confusion, then something brighter. recognition. he looks at you differently, like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again but not as a stranger. not as someone new.

your chest tightens. the moment stretches. the waves crash. his gaze drops to your mouth. he leans in and you meet him halfway.

the kiss is slow, careful. his hand finds your jaw, fingers rough with salt and sun, tilting your face just so. you can taste the coffee on his tongue, the sharp sweetness of caramel, the salt from the ocean air. it’s familiar and new all at once, and for a heartbeat, you let yourself believe he remembers you.

then he pulls back, sharp, like he’s been burned.

“shit.. sorry, i don’t… i don’t know why i did that.” he stammers, scrambling to his feet. sand clings to his knees.

“it’s okay.” you say, but your voice cracks.

“i should… i think i should go. i’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“wait!” you say. but he's already walking away, then jogging, then breaking into a run like the tide is chasing him.

tomorrow, he’ll speak to you like always. like it never happened.

day thirty eight and there he is, all easy smiles and sun-warmed skin.

“hey!” he says, leaning casually on the counter. “new here?”

you swallow the lump in your throat. “yep.”

his usual is already in your hands before he orders. today, you doodle a tiny palm tree on the cup, its leaves tilting like they’re reaching for something.

he grins, squinting at it. “palm tree? is this a warning?”

“a suggestion.” you reply, forcing lightness into your voice. “drink slowly, admire the view, don’t fall into the ocean.”

he laughs, loud and bright, and the sound wraps around your ribs like a fist. “wise advice. i’ll try to obey.”

you watch as he walks away, like he’s not carrying the weight of all the yesterdays you’ve already lived. the door swings shut behind him and the café exhales.

your fingers trace the edge of the counter where his hand just was. still warm. you wonder if he’ll ever realize how strange it is to meet him for the first time, over and over again.

day forty eight, a week without him.

seven days of watching the door. seven days of his empty stool collecting dust while the regulars trade concerned glances over their lattes.

“maybe he went on a trip.” your coworker suggests on day three.

“maybe.” you agree. 

but he doesn't show up the next day. or the day after that.

so today you can’t sit still. after your shift, you head to the beach. to the spot he told you about on day nine, the place he usually surfs. the sand is cool under your bare feet, the tide rolling in lazy waves, but he isn’t there.

impulse wins. you pull out your phone and call your manager.

“hey… sorry for bothering you.” you say, trying to keep your voice light.

“no problem. everything okay at the café?”

“not really… i mean, it’s not about the café. it’s… mingyu. he didn’t show up again today, and i guess i’m a little worried.”

there’s a pause. you can hear him sigh, some kind of empathy leaking through the line. “look… i know you’re trying to be careful. you don’t need to push yourself.”

“i know,” you say quickly, “and i get it. i just… could you tell me where he lives? please?”

after a moment, he gives you the address. your stomach twists.

you find yourself in front of a small wooden house, weathered but charming, like something out of a summer movie. peeling paint in soft pastels, a little porch with a hammock swaying in the sea breeze, salt smell lingering around. seashells and sand track the path to the door.

you ring the bell, and a woman opens it, older, kind but clearly surprised to see you.

“hi… can i help?”

“hello. i’m so sorry to disturb you,” you say, offering a small, hesitant smile. “i work at the coffee shop down on the boardwalk. please forgive the intrusion, but we’ve noticed mingyu hasn’t been in recently and we became a bit concerned. i just wanted to make sure everything is okay.”

“oh…” she frowns lightly, then gently steps toward you, guiding you away from the door. “oh, dear… don’t worry. he’s fine, really.”

“i know about his condition.” you insist softly, “the forgetting… i… i just want to know he’s okay. i’m… a friend.”

her expression softens, but her tone doesn't waver. “if you know about his condition, then you understand. you can't really be a friend to him. not in the way you mean. we've started a new therapy, that's why he hasn't been at the café. there's been no progress yet.”

you bite back a sigh. “can i… just talk to him today?”

“i don’t think that would help.”

“i just want to be honest with him once.” you whisper.

from inside, a familiar voice calls: “mom? who's here?” when he appears in the doorway, his confusion is a physical thing. he looks at you like you're a math problem he can't solve.

“who are you? i mean, do we... know each other?”

his mother starts to speak, but you beat her to it.

“yes,” you say simply. “every day, actually.”

something flickers in his expression. his mother sighs, squeezing his shoulder before disappearing inside. the silence stretches, filled only by the sound of the waves behind you. he finally breaks it, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe.

“so,” he says, studying you. “what are you, then? my girlfriend?”

“not exactly.”

the simple answer seems to throw him. “then why are you here?”

“just… checking on you.” you wrap your arms around yourself, suddenly aware of the night chill.

he processes this, his gaze drifting over your face like he’s trying to read a familiar story in a language he’s forgotten. “how long…” he starts, then tries again. “how long have we… done this?”

“a little over a month.”

a low whistle escapes him. “damn.” he shakes his head, but a small, almost shy grin tugs at his mouth. “seriously?”

“seriously.”

he pushes off the doorframe and nods toward the beach. “can we walk?”

you fall into step beside him on the damp sand. the waves brush against your ankles, the moonlight scattering silver across the dark water. he’s quieter than you’ve ever seen him, his usual easy energy replaced by a pensive weight.

after a few minutes, he speaks again, his voice soft against the roar of the ocean. “why do you keep doing this?”

“can i be honest with you?”

he lets out a short, hollow laugh. “yeah. it’s not like i’m gonna remember it tomorrow.”

you stop walking and turn to face him, forcing him to meet your eyes.

“because i want you to remember me.”

his gaze softens, and for a long moment, the only sound is the shush of the waves. “it’s impossible...” he finally says, the words quiet, almost lost to the wind. 

“my mom told me about the accident. how i ended up… like this. i had to hear the story today, again apparently. i don’t remember anything after.”

you don’t let him look away. “but sometimes you do,” you whisper. “not for long. just for a second. for a breath.”

the moonlight catches the scar above his eyebrow, the one you've traced with your fingertip on three different days he'll never recall.

“prove it.” he whispers.

so you do.

you tell him about day twelve, when he cried at the smell of jasmine tea because it reminded him of something he couldn't name. about day twenty five, when he absentmindedly hummed a song you'd played for him the day before. about day thirty seven, when his lips remembered you before his mind caught up.

when you finish, his eyes are wet.

“but what if,” he says slowly, “what if i never really remember?”

your fingers find his wrist, a brief, grounding touch. “then i’ll make a point to introduce myself to you every single day.”

you take a slow breath, tasting the salt on the air. “i can feel it, mingyu. something in you is… changing. i can’t explain how, but i feel it. like a shift in the current. like the tide pulling something precious back from the deep.”

he glances at you, the moon catching in his eyes. for the first time you feel like maybe this night, this conversation, might last longer than the memory that usually fades with sunrise.

day fifty, he walks in like it’s any other morning.

the air hangs thick with the smell of espresso and salt, heavier today, like a storm waiting to break. and there he is, haloed in the doorway, hair dripping, skin smelling of sea and sleep, eyes sweeping the room like he’s mapping uncharted territory.

“hey!” he says, voice a low tide against the quiet. “new here?”

you offer a smile, a reflex worn smooth by repetition. “brand new.” you answer, tilting your chin just so, letting the words hang between you like a first hello.

and so it begins. again.

each morning he enters, a stranger. each morning, a first meeting.

but you refuse to let the script lie flat.

sometimes you’re sarcastic, teasing him about the foam on his latte or pointing out the stir stick he always leaves crooked in the cup.

and sometimes, on days when the light hits the waves just right, you’re bold. you grab his sleeve, your fingers curling into sun-warmed cotton and you pull him out the door. you stand with him under the open sky, let the wind claw through his hair and force a moment of pure, unscripted now. even if it dissolves by sunrise.

he carries none of it with him. not a single second.

but you do.

you collect every pause that held a ghost of memory, every flicker of almost-recognition in his eyes. you gather them all and press them close to your ribs, where they hum like a second heartbeat.

and unlike with your mother, this time you won’t run. even if his mind slips, even if the edges of him fade and vanish like footprints in wet sand, you’ll stay. because memory can be stolen but presence, your presence, is something only you can give.

one day, he looks disoriented.

the bell above the café door chimes but you don’t look right away. when you glance up, he’s already at the counter, hair messy, eyes faintly unfocused, as if he’s just woken from some place far away.

“hey,” he says, and his brow furrows like he’s trying to solve a puzzle only he can see.

“welcome.”

“just an iced americano today.” he murmurs, his voice softer, flatter than usual. it’s not his order.

the surprise must flicker across your face because he adds, “trying something new.”

you note it down, your hand steady, but his gaze doesn’t leave you. it’s heavier today, more intent. when you slide the cup toward him, he makes no move to take it.

“everything alright?” you ask, your voice careful.

he blinks, slowly, as if waking up. “yeah. fine.” he offers a smile, but it’s a faint, thin thing that doesn’t stick.

the hours blur into the usual café symphony. the grinder’s roar, the steam wand’s sigh, the clatter of cups but he’s not part of it. he sits by the window, untouched drink sweating onto the wood, and just… watches the ocean. not with his usual idle curiosity, but with a deep focus, as if the waves were whispering a secret only for him.

when closing time comes, he waits. doesn’t move until you lock the register, wipe the counters, untie your apron. and when you finally step outside, the air salted and damp, he’s there. leaning against the lamppost. the ocean wind tugging at his shirt, ruffling his hair in restless currents.

“would it be weird,” he starts, his voice low, almost hesitant, “if i asked you to walk with me?”

a laugh escapes you, breathy and worn. if only he knew.

“no,” you say. “not weird at all.”

the beach is empty, the sky bleeding into deep violet and rose. you walk in silence, the wet sand firm under your feet, the rhythm of the surf filling the space between you.

he stops suddenly. shoves his hands in his pockets, shoulders tense.

“do i know you?” he asks, the words barely louder than the tide pulling back.

your heart stutters. “why would you ask that?”

he turns to you and for the first time, his eyes don’t look lost. they look searching. like he’s trying to match your face to something he can’t quite hold.

“because,” he exhales, shaky, “i remember you. not here...” he taps his temple gently, “...but in my dream. last night. i think… i dreamed about you.”

the confession hangs in the salt-thick air, fragile and immense. you can’t speak. you can only look at him, this boy who forgets the world each night yet somehow carried your face into his dreams.

the hope that lurches in your chest is so violent it’s painful. you see the confusion in his own eyes, the fear of being wrong, the vulnerability of having confessed something that might sound insane.

and so, because words are impossible and because you’re afraid any sound will shatter this impossible moment, you do the only thing you can. softly, slowly, you smile. it’s not a smile of joy, but of awe. of heartbreaking wonder.

he lets out a breath he didn’t seem to be holding. “it wasn't just a dream, was it?” he whispers, his voice rough, seeking confirmation in your face.

“no,” you finally manage, the word barely a whisper. “it wasn’t.”

he looks down at the sand, then back at the vast, forgetting ocean, and then finally, truly, at you. something settles in his gaze. not memory, but the beginning of trust.

some days, he remembers more.

a flicker in his gaze that holds a second too long. a question that almost forms on his lips before fading. sometimes it’s a laugh that feels like it’s meant for you or a pause that trembles with recognition just out of reach.

sometimes he reaches for a detail: a pen on the counter, a song on the radio. and for a heartbeat it’s like he remembers you and maybe, he always will.

you notice the way his eyes search the air, like chasing shadows of a past that isn’t quite lost. and in those fleeting moments, fragile as they are, the world shrinks to just you, him, and the stubborn hope that some memories refuse to vanish.

most days, he doesn’t.

and that’s okay. you’ve learned the rhythm of this. if you have to tell him your name every morning, you will. if you have to walk this same shore with him a thousand times as if it’s the first, you’ll do it.

you’ve started to see it not as a loss, but a different kind of love. a daily renewal. a chance to begin again, to find new shades in the same person, to fall in love in fragments, over and over.

the sea taught you that. it never looks the same twice. some waves are gentle, barely touching the sand. others are fierce, reshaping the shore. but they always return. they always begin again.

so you hold onto that. you remember enough for both of you. and maybe, in the endless, patient repetition, that is enough.

because every day is a new tide, washing a chance onto the sand, waiting for you to take it.

[belovedgyu]

normal people || kim mingyu part one

pov: you're the girl being sung to and sung about in 'glimpse of us'

PART 2

⚬ pairing: architect! kim mingyu x med student fem! reader ⚬ word count: 24k (part one), 18k (part two) ⚬ warnings for part one: alcohol, drinking, food, spice/nsfw mentions and smut, mentions of sexual trauma, harassment and other mature themes MDNI ⚬ genres: acquaintances with benefits (lol), forbidden romance, slow burn, angst, one sided pining, hurt/comfort, autumn in nyc, corporate!au ft. Joshua, Vernon, Lisa and a few OCs.

playlist for part one <3 glimpse of us cover by mingyu champagne problems by taylor swift crazy in love by eden project pretend by cnco you and me by lighthouse souvenir by selena gomez

author's note <3 - i cannot emphasize how central sexual trauma is to this story. though, i have not written any explicit scenes depicting assault and have tried to handle it with utmost care, i'd still advise you to refrain if it is a sensitive topic. pls take care, i love you. - this part moves super slow but part 2 gets real interesting i promise (this is just me begging yall to not abandon my ass lolz) - pls be a decent human and don't steal my work - pardon any grammatical errors, i still refuse to ask people to beta read my work because i am shy and sensitive :3

PROLOGUE 

The first thing Mingyu notices after waking up is the silence—not the type that emerges from wordlessness, but one which falls down on his chest, choking out any sound he wants to make.

It's like someone has stuffed sand in his throat.

Even while he’s half asleep, he doesn’t wanna do something that might stir the girl lying on his pillow, a curtain of midnight strands sprawled over half her face and shoulders.

You. 

Your small hand is outstretched, too far from your own chest, too close to his but not touching. Like you wanted to reach out for him sometime during the early hours before daybreak, but even in your sleep, you knew not to. 

Mingyu wonders if you had any sleep last night, not that he was hyper aware of the winces you made whenever your hips moved even a little on the bed. Or the way that your other hand was lying idle over your pelvis, as if it had gone tired soothing the area. 

He took all the precautions, not just sexual but once that could shield you both emotionally, last night. Then why is his heart clawing at his ribs every time your chest rises with a breath deeper than the one before?

In theory, he should be smug…maybe even pat himself on the back. This was you whom he had successfully bedded.

You, who would make strangers stumble on their words each time you smiled that soft, disarming, guarded smile of yours. You, whom half of his friends were already knee deep in love with. 

The untouchable, and untouched. 

But no such cheap pride flutters within him. 

Mingyu might be a player, a flirt, someone who loves attention which comes without any strings attached. But he’s not cruel.

No matter how much people try to box him in the same category as those fuckboys, he can never think of any girl being a milestone to achieve or a mere name added to his list. 

And this was you, after all. 

He debates if he should wake you up to ask if you have classes today, it's almost ten already. But then he decides to mind his own business.

Flinging his legs off the bed, he fluffs the duvet around your periphery, not daring to touch or disturb you in any way.

He fishes for the shirt he wore last night from the tangled heap of fabric on the floor, not for himself but for you.

Then, he places it carefully next to your ripped dress on the bed, as if offering you to put it on if the tear on the hem of your dress was too bothersome. 

Your single anklet with little hearts charms, the one you had almost broken when you attempted to climb on his lap and got tangled in the duvet, looped reverently on top of the clothes. 

An invisible cloud of citrus and fresh shower follows as he pads out to his kitchen—grey sweatpants riding loose on hips and wet hair flopped over his head, almost getting in his eyes. The scratches on his back, courtesy to you, sting a little when he stretches in front of the open cabinets to grab two ceramic mugs. 

He pulls out the remaining two eggs from his refrigerator, thinking how would you like them. He rakes his head for a memory of any of your several hangouts with him which should give him the answer to the dilemma of making it scrambled or boiled.

So far, nothing turns up. 

Sure, he knows what cuisine is Lisa’s favorite, what mushrooms cause Joshua to flare up, what brands of instant ramen Vernon places superior to Buldak. But he has no idea about you. 

Not because he doesn’t listen to you even when he’s pretending not to. But because of your casual guardedness.

You give what you want to give, never succumbing to peer pressure of the group hangouts where it's a competition to see who says the most interesting thing. 

“What are you even doing? Remember, this is casual, right?” A voice in his head, which sounds suspiciously like you, but more mature…like a ghost of you from decades ahead, travelled past in time to whisper that in his ear. 

The haunted rebuke jerks him out of this daze. The scent of you from last night invades his senses. 

He slams the refrigerator door and flinches at his own reflection. There it is, that ghost of you. Not in your shape or physicality. But in the lovebites blooming on his chest where you had buried your teeth over and over. On the trails of dug and drawn out nails that start from his back and end on the broad expanse of his shoulders from when you had tried to cling on to him as he drove in and out of you. 

God, he thinks, it seems like someone plucked the now twenty six year old Kim Mingyu out of his current timeline and chucked him to a random Saturday morning at his frat during college days. 

He should put on a shirt before you arise.

With that thought, he creeps back into his bedroom, carefully enough to not cause any commotion. 

But you are already stirring up—rubbing your closed eyes with one curled palm while the other latches on to the bunched up sheet on your chest. Even unguarded, you do not fail to knock all the air out of his system with your beauty.

Something in his gait shifts.

He seems taller now, his demeanor more lousy—a stark contrast to the caution with which he had entered. 

Its like a switch flipped within him.

He hides his strange nervousness around you under curtains of fake indifference.

“Sleeping beauty’s finally up, I see.” he can’t help but mumble with all the nonchalance in the world. 

But it isn’t enough to veil how unnecessarily hard he is gripping the door of his closet. Or how his fingers tremble when they grab the first shirt they can feel. 

“Morning…” you almost whisper and it takes everything in him not to whip around and check if there’s anything lingering on your face which could indicate regret.

“I hope I didn’t snore.” your voice sounds clearer now and it makes the ache in his chest dissolve with the next exhale. 

Good, at least you’re still talking to him. 

His smile is lopsided when he’s done unnecessarily smoothing out the fabric on his abs. “I would have thrown you out if you did.” 

He instantly regrets saying that.

You don’t look too hurt, your face doesn't fall, but you laugh like you’re unsure about how to respond. For some reason, he doesn't like that he confused you, even with a joke.

For a moment, he considers ridding you of any possible future confusions about last night by leaning down and kissing your forehead. By telling you just how much last night meant for him and he doesn't want you to think it's casual.

But Kim Mingyu hasn't done the "not casual" in a long, long time. And the last thing he wants you to be is an experiment, a trial, a guinea pig.

Besides, didn't you tell him that you didn't want this to mean anything? That you just wanted to borrow one of his nights?

Then why is he even thinking about overwhelming you by complicating this?

You wouldn't even believe him if he told you the truth, though.

He pretends to not even see you when you're around, never responds to your jokes, never asks for your opinions. He shuts up about his problems the moment you walk in the same rooms as him.

You'd think its because he doesn't want to share his life with you. He knows that its because he doesn't want you to see the ugly parts.

So he chooses to focus on pretending to be enamored by something else, again. This time, the clasp of his watch.

"I...uh, I gotta go, work thing."

There is no ‘work thing.’

You nod, tucking your hair behind your ear, not even a sliver of dejection on your face.

"Do you want me to call you a cab?" He offers, then quickly adds, "You can stay as long as you want. There's some food in the fridge."

You smile at him, the soft, honest one which brought him here in the first place. "I need to do some studying."

"Yeah, right." He nods, grabbing his car keys from the dresser beside you. This is the closest he has been to you since the morning.

You turn around, watching his every movement. Not curious, not nervous. Just there. Like you had been there several times. But you hadn't.

"Mingyu," you mutter, "...thanks for last night."

"Anytime." He smirks, allowing his hand to ruffle your hair.

On his way out, he switches off the kettle simmering next to the two ceramic mugs he had pulled out earlier. Dumping the tea bags, your favorite earl grey that you ordered at every brunch, he pretends not to listen to his heart thudding in his ears.

CHAPTER 1 || the anatomy of kim mingyu

With guilt poking at your ribs like a spear, you pick up the flashcards you had slammed against the wall. 

It wasn’t the fault of the poor inanimate object that all your neurons have fused together into an useless coil rendering your brain nothing more than a lump of jumbled thoughts. 

Anyone would struggle focusing on revision after a week of daily eight hour lectures, two hour labs and a constant slew of flashbacks of the salacious night spent in Kim Mingyu’s bed. 

Mingyu. 

Just the memory of his name makes you huff out louder than you should. 

It took around three full days for the marks he had left all over your body to fade. Four days for you to forget what brand of detergent his warm bed smelled like. 

But the ache incited by even the most feathery touch of his fingers still lingers on your skin. 

You settle back on your seat, rumpled up flashcards glaring at you from your polished table. 

Your thighs clench instinctively on the plush chair, trying not to remember his knuckles brushing under your arms as he whispered, “you sure you wanna do this?” 

Turns out, just clenching your thighs isn’t enough. You have to actually cross your legs, tighter, and take deep breaths…focusing on each inhale and every exhale, until your mind redirects itself towards the anatomy of the thorax from that of Kim Mingyu’s. 

It helps, a little. You talk yourself out of it, for a while. 

You are a medical student, after all. You know that it is a rush of blood down in your pelvis, induced by your racy thoughts, which is causing you this agony. 

It is not like your body needs him fundamentally. 

You spend another hour of this specific Saturday evening making notes and doing revisions surrounded by the smell of wet ink and coffee gone cold. 

You don’t have to. There were no lectures or quizzes scheduled on weekends. And while your peers are indeed always studying like one would expect them to, they also tend to take these two days off. 

Not you, though. Never. 

Even if you were hungover, you’d still crawl into your desk in the morning, trembling like a zombie and retching whenever something even remotely pertaining to “bodily fluids” popped up in your text books. 

But you’d never shut it until you crossed off a major chunk of your to-do lists—assorted meticulously into days and weeks on your Notion. 

The only Saturday morning, in the last two years since you started med school, which wasn’t spent with you pouring over your books was the one last week. Because that was the Saturday when you had woken up in a bed stiffer than yours, wrapped in a duvet heavier than yours, in an apartment much more expensive and neat. 

You blink at the pending chemistry reading. You were supposed to finish it off seven days ago instead of ogling at his abs while Mingyu peeled his shirt, button by button, holding you captive with his eyes. 

Someone taps at your door twice, effectively diverting your mind back to the current timeline. 

The first tap is hesitant, like whoever is on the other side is questioning if they should even be there. 

You would have ignored it, refocusing your eyes on the thick binder. But that second round of knock startles you. 

It sounds more determined, like she is not going to relent until you cave in.

The chair creaks as you drag it behind, your fuzzy socks almost causing you to slip on the uncarpeted floor. 

The metallic bangles hugging your wrist clink with a balked symphony when you unlatch the door and open it just enough to reveal half your frown. 

The overwhelming lilac of her perfume wafts in before her words do. 

“You promised you’d come.” Rory, your flatmate, gets straight to the point like she was expecting you to turn her away instantly if she began with the usual ‘hey! What's up?’

People who don’t know you tend to act prudently around you. 

But this little mouse has been sharing your apartment for eight months now. 

There is no reason for her to be flinching when you turn around to check the rustic wooden clock hanging above your bed. 

It isn’t like you are going to shove her or slam the door in her face. 

“It's time already?” You sigh, dangly earrings clinkering against the wood when you lean against the doorway. “I guess I got too carried away studying.”

You eye her up and down—blonde hair curled in soft ringlets, a hint of something shimmery under the layers of her heavy polka dotted coat, lips painted red with a single faint coat of the Saint-Laurent lipstick you gifted her this summer like she knew it was gonna get wiped off eventually but put it on regardless because it complimented the orange undertones of her skin. 

“Seems like you’re already all dressed. It would be a waste for you to wait on me while I get ready…” you say, and her shoulders begin to slump like she knows exactly where this is leading. 

“How about you go without me?” You finally suggest. 

“But roo—” 

You glare at her before she can finish that word. 

You’ve had this conversation with her before, multiple times, there is no reason for a grown twenty five year old woman to address another grown twenty five year old woman as “roomie”. 

She corrects herself quickly with an apology and your name. “You said you’d come so I didn’t invite anyone else, and I can’t go to a basement party alone.”

“I didn’t make any promises, I said I’ll consider it.” you cross your arms, “Besides, why did you even agree to it in the first place, Rory? Those guys are like five years younger than us.”

“And cute!” she quips. 

“And sophomores at NYU. I am so sure there is a new strand of chlamydia floating around somewhere in whatever dungeon they’re hosting this thing in.”

“But it could be fun and we don’t ever really do things together…” Rory’s voice trails off getting dimmer and dimmer with each word until, “...nevermind, I am not rich or interesting like your cousin and her friends. I am sure you guys only hangout at restaurants that have months long wait lists or go clubbing with actual models—”

It makes you roll your eyes with a huff and cluck your tongue against your teeth, signaling her to stop already. 

You were running on a mere four hours of nightly sleep for the whole week and it has really started catching up on you—everything itches. It is the kind of overstimulation that stiffens your neck muscles like your head weighs a hundred pounds, and no amount of craning or cracking helps. 

Your hair feels too greasy, the claw-clip holding it up pulls at your scalp vindictively, and what remains of the candle lit in your room smells more like burnt wick than vanilla. 

The last thing you need is for Rory to manipulate you. 

She shifts her weight from one heel to the other, gnawing at her stained lips, as she waits for you to do what she expected of you—relent. 

“Fine.” You grumble, “Give me twenty minutes.” 

With that, you turn around. 

Rory flinches, almost breaking her heel, when you slam your door on her face. 

CHAPTER 2 || didn’t say no content warning: sexual trauma, harassment, mentions of knife

The party is exactly like you thought. Tacky. 

Thumping like a heartbeat from under the earth in someone’s basement that you had to climb down a rattly iron ladder for. 

There are burnt out cigarette butts littered everywhere around the floor, the remnants of their smoke still slumping fresh on the sooty walls. 

You knew it was going to be like this—chaotic and muggy so you came prepared with a phone fully charged, a razor sharp pocket knife and a powerbank all tucked neatly in your clutch. 

Though what you didn’t prepare yourself for, was to come face to face with Rory’s blatant lies. 

The only reason why you even put on this ruby mini dress and paid around two hundred dollars for a cab was because she had given you the impression that she would have to go alone if you didn’t tag along. 

Turns out, the very first sight you see, before your eyes can even adjust to the dim green lights of the place, is Rory hugging her friends. 

Bodie, Amerie, and Julianna greet you one by one while Rory avoids your eyes. 

You consider leaving the moment Bodie hands you an unopened can of beer with a grimy slime coating. But that would mean clambering up the rusty, wobbly, iron stairs fixed haphazardly under the manhole-like entrance of this place—all on your own. 

Your ribs were still recovering from the unnecessarily tight grip of the guy who had helped you and Rory descend. 

So you wait for a cue. 

You smile along to whatever was being said about Professor Derby, add on to a few of Amerie’s puns and go as far as taking a hit from the blunt Julianna rolls and offers to you. 

It gives Rory the impression that you were finally allowing yourself to open up—talking to people who aren’t your cousin Mayella’s friends. Showing off to people just how witty you could be, laughing along and shattering their impressions of you being what they called ‘a cold bitch who thinks she is better than everyone.’ 

You and the group are huddled together in a corner, clearly standing out as a much older chunk amidst the swarm of overenthusiastic NYU undergrads. 

The crowd seems to increase by the minute as dusk settles deeper outside. The dancing throng of drunk, sweaty bodies inches closer and closer to where you are standing. It pushes your group until your back is pressed to the wall. Your right arm squeezes to Rory’s left while Julianna is standing facing you, a hair’s breadth worth of difference between your chests. 

At this point, with everyone standing mouth to ear with each other, you don’t have to yell out loud if you want to say something. 

The place reeks of desperation and recklessness and thumps with music you don’t recognize. 

The temperature in the bunker rises, natural and slow. If only the lights here were a bit brighter, the fumes of body heat swirling above the dance floor could be visible. 

It makes you want to take your heavy, fleece jacket off. And maybe even peel your skin out, if that’s possible. 

Resisting the grotesque image from getting more vivid in your head, you wriggle around a little to rid your arms out of the sleeves of the coat. 

Julianna notices you struggling against the dense fabric and helps you out. You smile at her thankfully, wrapping the coat over your elbow. 

When she announces that she’ll step outside because the blunt was starting to make her heady, you offer to come with her. 

Not because you care about Julianna. But because it is the cue you had been waiting for all night to leave this place, once and for all. 

Julianna grabs your hand, even when you don't offer it—her grip around your wrist tight with a strange possession. 

She pulls you along, expertly navigating your ways in the crowd until it grows thinner and eventually disappears behind you. 

“Climb up.” she orders, clutching one side of the rickety ladder. 

The sudden change in her demeanor is alarming, it forms this uncomfortable fog around you which smothers you down. 

You put on your jacket regardless, avoiding her red rimmed eyes which are watching you like a hawk. Flicking your hair out of the collars, you wipe the sweat pooling in your palms against your skirt before beginning to climb up. 

Julianna should have waited a bit more before climbing up behind you to not make this inappropriate. But she doesn’t. 

From her position, she can easily see whatever is hiding under the short skirt of your dress. Her breath fans against the back of your thigh, too high up for your liking. 

It makes a breath hitch in your throat and no matter how much you try to get it out, it doesn’t unclog. 

By the time you’re up and out, you’re panting like a dog—nervous and wrecked. 

The straps of your heel tied around all the way up to the knees slice into your skin when you scramble on your feet, trying to put as much distance as possible between you and the girl behind you. 

Julianna emerges out with a smile wider than a barn door, dusting the rust off herself. 

You don’t mention whatever the hell that was—the unnecessary violation of your personal space—thinking that maybe you just imagined it. 

Maybe she didn’t mean to leer up your skirt. Maybe she miscalculated the height. 

The gravel crunches under your heels when you try to get far away from the weird place and an even weirder situation. 

You don’t want to stop, not until you’re out of the dark garage and in the alley. A neon “open” sign pulses from top of a building somewhere in a puddle. The alley, a stuttering wash of red and yellow. 

Your steps slow down on their own because the street is too uneven, littered with discarded plastic scraps and aluminum cans threatening to roll under the flimsy sole of your heels. The purple sky, devoid of any light from the newly emerged half moon doesn’t help either.

The phone shakes, even while you’re clutching it with both palms, as you try ordering a cab for yourself. 

It almost slips out of your grip when an uninvited palm lands on your butt with a tight slap. Under your skirt. 

“Planning to leave already, princess?” The taller girl leans down over your shoulder, the earthy smell of pot on her breath making your insides recoil. “Or is this all an act to make me chase you?”

“Wh…what are you doing?” You take a step away, but it only puts you into a much riskier position because you find yourself bumping into the wet brick wall. 

“Gosh, you’re so pretty when you act innocent like that.” Julianna’s eyes rave all over you, demeaningly, as she smiles.

Her blown out pupils are the last thing you see before she plunges into your shrunken body. 

One of her hands grabs at the collar of your jacket, shoving it aside with such a force that you actually stumble over your legs. Her other hand comes down to grab your waist to prevent you from falling while her cold lips start laving at your collarbone she just exposed. 

You freeze like your own limbs have betrayed you, the scent of sweat and weed clogging your senses. Your eyes bulge out as she continues to stick wet kisses all over your skin, pulling at it with her teeth while cooing the same compliments you have heard way too many times before. 

You want to dig your fingers down your throat, thinking that it’ll elicit some kind of sound out of you. 

Sound of disapproval. Sound of help.

Nothing comes out, you just reduce within yourself even more. Not even daring to touch her. Your nails are clawing at the wall behind you, can’t she see you’re actually repulsed by this? That you don’t want any of this?

“God you smell so expensive…you rich girls…you’re just something else.” 

Julianna’s lips depart from your chest momentarily as she bends down on her knees, tugging at the fabric of your safety shorts. 

The accidental scratch of her acrylics over your hips when she grunts at the tight material, is what jolts your lungs to open up. 

This can’t be happening. No. Not here in this alley. Not again. 

“No, no no no!” You are shouting as soon as your throat regains its ability to produce sound. 

Julianna jerks, instantly dropping her hands away from your shorts. 

She stumbles back, or maybe it's you who shove her…but you get the room to stagger to your side, pulling at the hem of your dress and wiping away her disgusting spit off your body. 

It's not the loud snap which tells you that you’ve broken your heel. It’s when you scramble around for your dropped clutch, twist your ankle and thud down on your knees, that the imbalance registers. 

Julianna, baffled by these recent turn of events and horrified by the blood seeping out of one of the nails you cracked, picks your clutch up and hands it over to you. 

This should assure you that she didn’t intend for this to turn out how it did. But you don’t care. 

Anger is still blooming over your skin in patches of shame wherever she has touched you. And it makes you pull out the pocket knife from your purse without a second thought. 

“Don’t come near me!” You yell, uncaring about a group of asian ladies who are peeking at your commotion from the end of the alley. 

“Don’t you dare touch me…I’ll slice you up, bitch!”

“I won’t!” Julianna instantly puts her hands up in surrender, “I won’t!” 

She should leave. It's not like she did something really bad to you other than kissing your collarbone. But something about your wild eyes, your hysterical heaves and the disgusting, moist ground muck smearing your palms and knees urges her to stay until you aren’t as vulnerable as this. 

Julianna just stands there, shaken and small, like she didn’t just cause your body to malfunction so violently that your breath still hasn’t evened out. 

Your heart is exerting itself to drain out the adrenaline and pump blood back in your limbs. Slowly but surely, life comes back to you as your skin prickles with the gravel digging at your knees.

“I…I didn’t mean to force you into this.” she gulps dryly, “I thought…I thought you were hitting on me inside the club all the time...the blunt, the smirks—”

“Hitting on you!?Julianna, I was just being polite for fuck’s sake!” your voice booms, like the volume of it can create a protective shield around you. 

You rip at the knots of the heel straps on your calf, leaving it pink and raw. Finally, you get up, covered in sooty mud, your hand clutching the knife still outstretched in a menacing warning towards her. 

“You…you were rubbing yourself on me in there…” As soon as those words leave her mouth, Julianna realizes just how stupid they sound. 

Of course, your body was mushed with hers, there was no room inside for you to prevent that from happening. 

You don’t answer, just watch the mental machines whirring behind her horrid eyes. You know that it has dawned on her that she mistook her own underlying lust for you as sexual advances from you. 

But that makes her a villain. A predator. And she wasn’t going to wear that title so easily. 

“You didn’t even protest when my face was practically buried inside your ass on the stairs!” Her voice regains conviction, she crosses her arms under her chest. 

“You could have said no many times, but you didn’t! And as soon as you did, I pulled awa…”

“Go get fucked, Julianna.” You scoff humorlessly cutting her sorry explanation off. 

It is so evident that she’s saying all that not to apologize, but to persuade herself that she wasn’t in the wrong. 

You continue, “You saw me calling a cab, wanting to leave, but you thought it was some sick game. So yeah, go get fucked Julianna. And maybe try looking for someone who consents.”

Her legs wobble when she steps farther away. She really didn’t want it to result into this…she wishes she could rip her heart to show you that. But not even a simple sorry echoes out.

You pull your jacket back over the shoulder she had exposed, it bristles. You’ve been here before. Different hands, same bile. 

Julianna just walks backward, slow and cautious, until she’s on the far end of the alley. She watches you call the cab and considers telling Rory about her grave misunderstanding before you get the chance to present your version. 

Only if she knew you…Only if Julianna knew that you had learnt to carry nights like these in your bones, ages ago. 

That night, your scowl deepens more than it ever had. The cab driver doesn’t even attempt to start a conversation, leaving you be. Nervously glancing at his rearview mirror every two minutes—he’s so obviously scared of you. 

Good, you think. 

You’d rather have people confuse you for a psychopath with ice in your veins than have them think you’re a delicacy for them to rip and sink their teeth in. 

CHAPTER 3 || a brunch of lies

Imported ivies curling over the unsmudged glass windows and wooden interior which looks like it was varnished just this morning—its a type of place where one might spiral if they accidentally squirted a drop of ketchup on the embossed linen. 

But you don’t have to care about the faint blemish of mud caused by your boots. Not when your friend Hansol’s aunt owns this place. 

The ones who argue that coffee tastes the same everywhere clearly never had a cup somewhere like this—a cafe where the aroma of it is never burnt, where cinnamon isn’t just dusted over the sugary desserts for aesthetic, but actually balanced with other spices and golden butter in every bite.

You observe Lisa’s pensive expression which borders on glorious boredom as she converses through her Dior encased iPhone with her assistant. Besides her, your older cousin Mayella sits slumped back in the plush chair. Her shapely nails gliding over her work laptop with such smoothness that not even a single tap is heard. 

Mayella is sly like a cat, when she’s busy. It's hard to remember she’s even there. The giant diamond sitting on her ring finger, courtesy of her fiance Josh, is more noticeable than her entire existence these days. 

A trio of caffeine rich drinks, which was ordered without any consultation from you because the older girls already knew your preference, steams on the artsy table top. 

After the recent rendezvous in your life—where you were almost assaulted by your roommate’s friend outside a club after having committed the incestuous act of sleeping with a friend (you doubt if you can even call Mingyu that), all in the span of ten days, it's a wonder that you still agreed to this brunch. 

But Lisa is back in the city after two whole months of nursing a killer tan and trying to find her inspiration in Athens and Rome. How could you say no when she called you up, right at the airport, before the New York sun could even graze her skin?

The phone is held precariously between Lisa’s manicured fingers, like she doesn’t care if it shatters down on the marble floor. Even though there is enough distance between the two of you, and she’s talking in fluent Thai, you can make out that it isn’t a pleasant call based on her languorous drawls and eyerolls. 

The call drops dead after a sigh too grave from your friend’s lips indicating you can finally peel your eyes from the arduous document you have been pretending to read on your iPad. 

“I am gonna be unemployed soon.” Lisa muses, finally warranting her coffee worthy of some attention as she wraps her fingers around the now cold ceramic. “Who’s coming to apartment hunt with me in the Bronx?”

“You’re not moving to the Bronx.” Mayella’s jaw sets into an unamused line as she takes a long sip of her vicious black drink. “Just put out some of your old work to make up for what's not there.”

It was Mayella who introduced you to her friends of over half a decade when you first moved to the city for med school. So, it's baffling to you just how little she knows them. 

Lisa is someone who would cancel her entire sold out art exhibition if even a single light fixture flickered dimmer than the rest at the gallery. 

And here, Mayella is suggesting she disrupts her meticulously curated dream project by putting some random old art for a centre piece. 

Lisa’s jaw locks, she raises a perfectly sculpted brow at your cousin. 

“Oh?” Only Lalisa Manoban could make a single syllable sound so challenging. 

Mayella has no choice but to meet it. “Come on, Lisa, there’re artists who would kill to get their works at that gallery. All your other paintings are nothing short of genius, and you wanna risk years worth of preparation over an unfinished centre piece?”

Lisa prickles at that but doesn’t push. Mayella has had one moment of bliss in a long, long time after having booked her dream wedding venue, and Lisa doesn’t want to rain on that by starting a cat fight. 

She rather shifts her attention to the revolving door. 

You don’t have to follow her gaze to see him enter, the shift in the energy is enough for you to know that Mingyu’s here. 

Since the very start, your body had developed this strange radar just for him. And now that you’ve experienced his touch, it seems like that radar has bumped up its efficiency. 

Your shoulders drop down on their own and your gut relaxes. A smile threatens to tilt your glossed lips when you realize he has no choice but to take the only vacant seat available at the table—the one next to you. 

Lisa has her long arms already suspended up in the air to greet her best friend after two whole months. “Where’s Hansol?” she quips as soon as Mingyu is a foot away from the table.

“Stuck at a meeting, running late.” he answers, removing his sunglasses and tucking them in between the collar of his blue linen shirt, “You know you can’t just pull us out of work in the middle of a weekday?”

Mayella works from home most days. Lisa has all the flexibility that only comes with being an independent artist. And while you’re arguably the busiest of them all, they still treat you like a college kid. 

Fair enough. 

Lisa rolls her eyes, “Oh come on, it's not like a little time off work for brunch with your favorite ladies is gonna dent on your clientele, Mr. Kim-most demanded architect in the New York high society-Mingyu.”  

A chuckle, that rich gentle one, fills the tensed spaces between the girls as he gives them both hearty, half hugs–one by one. 

When it comes to you, he just nods, lips pressed into a polite smile that only appears for a second or two. 

Kim Mingyu greets you like he’s greeting one of his clients. 

He takes the seat next to you, but not before shifting it away just by an inch, like he couldn’t even risk brushing his elbow against yours. 

The girls notice but don’t comment. They stopped trying to cozy the two of you up a long time ago. It just was never gonna happen—Mingyu chooses the people he wants to befriend. He wouldn’t buddy up some girl just because she was his friend Mayella’s cousin. 

But then, when Lisa gets busy asking a waitress to reheat her coffee and Mayella is struggling against the excel file that won’t download, Mingyu’s long legs stretch under the mahogany table as he adjusts in his seat. 

And your knees, tucked elegantly together to a side, brush against one of his. 

You wait for the humiliating withdrawal that should follow—a quick apology under his breath and the instant retraction that occurs everytime he touches you on accident.

But it never comes. 

Mingyu’s knee stays there, pressed lightly with yours. 

You’d like to amend your earlier statement: Kim Mingyu greets you like he’s greeting one of his clients whom he fucked last week. 

“Bad day?” He asks.

You ignore that question because it is so obviously addressed to Lisa who is wearing dejection like a pearl necklace. 

When it goes unanswered for five more seconds, you look up to find all three of them waiting for you to reply. 

Oh…? Oh.

“Me? I am fine.” You chuckle, unsure and disbelieving. 

You set your coffee cup down before its dainty handle snaps between your fingers. Clearing your throat, you further prod, “Why’d you ask?”

Mingyu shrugs, like it is the most normal thing in the world. Like he isn’t the first person—friends, roommate, cousin, peers and professors included—to ask that in a long, long time.

“You look…tired.” He says. 

It isn’t a statement, it's not even a question. It's more of an observation from him—an observation that he is open for you to call wrong if you want to. 

“Med school being brutal, the usual.” You try to play it off, shrinking yourself in the corner so that the spotlight can shift back to Lisa or himself. 

Truthfully, your insides are burning with more questions. You want to ask him what makes him say that you’re tired. Is it the undereye bags? The slouchy posture? Do your limbs look too loose?

It's not like sleeping with you has unlocked some newfound sympathy for you in his heart and this isn’t the first time Mingyu has looked out for you. 

Not that it would matter to you if he didn’t. But Mingyu’s borderline nonchalance towards you couldn’t be mistaken for unkindness. 

In the past, he has passed you napkins when no one else noticed that the breadcrumbs on your fingers bothered you. He has driven you home when he thought that a mere flute of champagne was too much for you to hail a cab alone. In fact, he was the one out of all your friends who made that grocery store run when you got your period while hanging out at Hansol’s bachelor pad.   

But this time isn’t like the rest. Because this time, it matters more than you’d want to admit. It makes you want to climb onto his lap and cry, for some reason. 

Mingyu is unconvinced by your answer, like he can see through that blatant lie, but he doesn’t smother you further. Just looks at you with inquisitiveness…like you’re some enigma he’d give all his hours to crack, but then contradictorily averts his eyes to the menu within seconds. 

Yet, there’s this air settled around you now—warm and fragrant, like his cotton sheets from days ago—assuring that you can tell him what bugs you, if you want to. He just gives you that space where you can decide for yourself. It's like he knows how much you value your freedom, your agency and respects it. 

“And what’s ruining your day, Li?” he turns to Lisa who is scowling unimpressed at her torn apart muffin. 

Lisa exhales, freer to have this conversation with Mingyu than Mayella. “Not even two months spent in the hearts of my subject matter could give my dense brain an idea for the centre piece.” 

“It’ll hit you when it hits you.” Mingyu shrugs, “Don’t push yourself too much, you still have time.”

That eases Lisa to some degree. She gives a small smile to Hansol and Josh, who have just walked in. A few cheek pecks and back pats are exchanged while a waiter arranges two additional chairs at the table and another brings out your eggs benedict with parsley and pepper. 

Maybe it's just your imagination, but you think Mingyu eyes your order rather curiously. 

Josh and Hansol don’t need a disclaimer or a heads up to know what the ongoing conversation is about—Mingyu’s stance matching that of a therapist and Lisa’s somber eyes are enough to tell them that her European quest didn’t give her the revelation she was looking for. 

“I just want it to fit perfectly, y’know?” Lisa sighs. 

It's Hansol’s turn to join the conversation, “Sounds suspiciously like what I told the girl I was losing my virginity to. Needless to say, that didn’t go well.”

That earns a chortle out of the group. Not you, though. 

Because you brace yourself for what’s about to ensue—another inherently competitive discourse where everyone shares their “first time stories” trying to one-up each other’s experiences. 

And as if she was right on cue; “Mine was with a guy who didn’t know where to put it in and I had to point it out for him.” Lisa laughs like she’s talking about something as casual as seeing someone trip over air on the street. 

Joshua would have steered clear of this mildly crass discussion had he not been coerced to spill his guts by your cousin’s frosty glare. “I…uh, yea it was weird for me too, man. It was in college, we were both kinda drunk, I ended up puking in her fishbowl.” He flushes. 

“Fishbowl?!” Lisa and Mingyu are practically wheezing at this point. 

Joshua just scoffs it off, but his ears pinch pink. 

“Yeah? Tell me about it,” Mayella chuckles dry, “At least it wasn’t your high school girlfriend trying to shove a dildo lathered in coconut oil up your vagina.”

“Oh my god, Maye!” you almost choke on your latte. 

The group might laugh, because it's just another tale for them. But you knew the girl your cousin dated in highschool—you even went shopping with them in Milan. So that image that Mayella just put in your head is plain inconsiderate and distasteful. 

“Oh come on, stop being such a prude. What was your first time like?” Mayella turns the tables on you with a single flick of her manicured fingers under her pin straight hair which flail like a whip over her smooth shoulder. 

And just like that, there are five pairs of eyes staring daggers at you. 

You wish the wall next to you could swallow you whole, but you don’t let that reflect on your face. 

Tucking your hair behind your ear, you let your finger encircle the rim of your empty cup as you speak. “Just some guy I dated for a month during pre-med. Sophomore year, his dorm room, pretty standard stuff.”

Everyone just nods, like they expected such an answer from you. You’ve never given them something scandalous, or even slightly interesting for that matter, to talk about anyways. Sometimes you wonder if they only keep up with you because you’re Mayella’s cousin. Always plain and boring. So they believe your story. 

But not Mingyu, though. Not when his bare hands had washed your blood off his sheets just a few days ago. My little liar, he thinks to himself, a smirk concealed by his tea cup.

CHAPTER 4 || a wish granted

It seems to you that Mayella wasn’t all too satisfied with the way most conversations during the brunch were centered around Lisa’s artblock crisis. Because within twenty-four hours of it, you had received an invitation from her and Josh to come see the wedding venue they have finalized. 

It was some aristocratic estate in Hudson Valley, renovated and remodeled less than a decade ago by the same firm that Mingyu now works for. 

Mayella claims that it was Mingyu who had helped shrink the waiting list to accommodate the date your friends wanted to book it for. 

Large iron gates, black and sturdy, open to reveal a mile long drive lined with cypress trees and luminous marble statues of little singing angels. At the end of it, the manor stands like a symbol of Victorian aristocracy—fresh ivy entwining around perfectly symmetrical honey hued stone columns. 

Inside, the ceilings soar high in a dome adorned by intricate paintings—an egoistic American’s rendition of the sistine chapel—as you call it. 

That makes Mingyu laugh.

Hansol bailed out and Lisa hasn’t arrived yet so it's just the two of you trailing behind the engaged couple as they bore you with all the details. 

Like the fact that the chandelier hanging above the mosaic marble of the grand foyer was salvaged from an abandoned Venetian opera house. 

“We don't know who they are,” Josh laughs pointing to the gilded portraits of imagined ancestors, “but they looked expensive, so we adopted them.”

“Maye, are you okay with the portraits of random strangers overlooking your matrimonial rites?” Mingyu asks, an amused grin dancing along his lips as he watches your cousin’s face turn paler under her perfect concealer. “What if one of these is haunted?”

“You think?” Mayella, who is sunshine personified today in a rayon yellow dress and a loose braid fraying apart over her shoulder, seems like she has already seen the ghost Mingyu is talking of. 

Looking at the distressed furrow of her brows activates the maid of honor instincts in your gut. Before you can even think it through, you are swatting Mingyu lightly on his bicep. 

“Don’t scare her, you know she gets anxious about the paranormal.” You scold. 

This is the most physical touch you’ve had since that night, and it seems to affect Mingyu much less than it does to you. Unlike you, he isn’t shaken at all—his eyes just flicker from his bicep to the tiny palm that hit it, a crooked smile slanting his mouth. 

And as if he really enjoyed that smack and wants another one, he juts his tongue against his inner cheek before adding— “Maye, what if the whole place is haunted by these dudes?” 

“Mingyu, come on, stop being a dick,” Joshua sterns, before turning to his fiancee who is now eyeing one of the oak paneled rooms to shift the portraits in. 

“Baby, you’re seriously gonna let a man, who thinks the subway girl is his soulmate, convince you that these paintings are haunted?”

Mingyu’s smile falters at the mention of this supposed soulmate. 

Ah yes. The subway girl. 

Mingyu’s only lore that was ever made known to you. 

That too, because you had walked in, unannounced and still half asleep from your nap, to the drawing room where the group was teasing Mingyu about his one true love—her. 

As the lore goes, some four years ago—way before you met any of them, a 22 year old Kim Mingyu had just moved to Manhattan for his first job. He had bumped into this girl on a subway during one of his evening commutes. 

Initially, he thought she was beautiful—just a random subway crush you spot one day and forget about the other—and wished only if he could see her again…ever. 

That wish must have landed on a falling star because he did see her again, after a few days. Same route. And then again…for a third time. 

All the three times, she got off just two stops before him. All the three times, he just stood there glued to his pole, dumbfounded. 

Mayella said he had been so insufferable throughout that fall. That regret and desperation of not chasing what he wanted had seeped into the icy winters which followed. 

And as Mingyu rotted in despair from October to January for this mystery woman whom he never saw again, your friends stated that it was so shallow of him to fall for someone just for their looks and hook himself on the idea of spending his life with a pretty stranger. 

Eventually, Mingyu recovered from this love coma by February of that year. He even took a girl from work out for dinner on Valentine’s day. 

But they broke up—didn’t even last three months. 

His next relationship fell apart at an even shorter notice. 

When you moved to NYC to start med school and met Mayella’s friends—Mingyu included, he was two weeks into his third breakup in the last sixteen months. 

When they were telling you this story, around two years ago, everyone began teasing him again. Then they turned to you, to see what insane insult you could throw at him for being such a simp (because of course, that conversation had been a competition too). 

You just shrugged and said that it was such a Ted Mosby thing to do. 

That had them amused, with Mayella going as far as to pat you on the back for this apt comparison of Mingyu with “TV’s most pathetic male lead ever.”

You just sipped on your beer. With it, you gulped down your verity that to you, Ted Mosby, in actuality, was a dream come true. 

You sometimes still think about Mingyu and the subway girl when you think too deeply about love at midnights…and you can’t help but be jealous of them both, actually. 

Of her, because just how majestic her presence must have been to strip a guy off all his senses just by being in his vicinity for less than an hour. 

Of him, because how can someone carry so much love in his heart for someone he doesn’t even know the name of? 

Mingyu often laughs it off whenever ‘subway girl’ is mentioned now, and it's more of a running joke than a belief. But his eyes still warm up, just by a degree, like he’s witnessing the first snow of his life and his smile still falters, like it just did, at the mention of her. 

And for some reason, what used to be this simple observation now boils bile in your throat. 

Because you don’t think anyone could ever perceive you that way…like you’re the purest stream flowing through life–untouched, unguarded and holy. 

You’re the girl whose smile is seen as a flirtatious invitation to be touched. 

You know it's not your fault that the world is such an evil place to exist as a woman. But it's also not fair that you’re licked by lewd eyes who view you as just another body to be owned, used, watched and discarded. While there are women like the subway girl who are worshipped by men like Mingyu for just breathing in a corner. 

At this moment, right under the painting where Adam reaches out for God’s hand in “the creation of Adam,” your gluttony takes over you. You wish that Mingyu never sees her again. 

You pray that it lands on some falling star somewhere—like Mingyu’s wish did all those years ago. 

But before you can finish that prayer, Mingyu is calling out for your name. 

“Hey!” He snaps his fingers in front of your eyes. 

You flinch, blinking rapidly. The subway fades and the villa materializes around you again. The gloss on your lips has completely evaporated and there’s a slight sheen of sweat slicking your nude back, making strands of your open hair stick to it in uncomfortable swirls. 

Mingyu is staring down at you with deep creases between his brows. He’s standing close, too close. And it's only when it drops down, leaving a trail of blazing goosebumps behind, that it registers to you that his arm has been on your shoulder. 

“Uhm…uh, wh-where are…” you rummage your brain, but no name other than Mingyu pops up. 

“Mayella and Josh went to the open terrace to see if they should have the string quartet play there.” Mingyu answers, still standing close to you, though there’s no physical touch involved anymore. 

Your body wilts at that. 

His tongue darts out to wet his lips before explaining, “I stayed behind because I thought you were still checking out the paintings…but you’ve been staring at the wall for five minutes now.”

“Oh.” is all you can muster.

“Seriously though, are you okay?” he asks with earnest sincerity in his eyes. 

It isn’t the casual question that Lisa or Mayella might ask you when they see you dragging your feet and then drop it once you answer that you’re just tired from med school. 

It is firmer and silently demands honesty. Like if you wanted to share what bothered you, he'd sit right here, next to you, on the marbled floor and listen to you. 

But if you lied to him by telling him all’s well, he would see right through it and be disappointed. 

“I am okay,” You lie, regardless. “…just tired ‘cause of school and these brunches and hangouts never stop.”

You try to laugh that off like a joke—coming to visit the place your cousin plans to tie a knot of forever with the love of her life shouldn’t be an errand. 

Mingyu doesn’t reciprocate it though. It seems like he stopped listening once he noticed your nimble fingers tracing the rim of a vase since you said ‘I am okay.’

You retrieve your arm back and let it fall by your side, your fingers cinching over the fabric of your dress instead. His observation follows like you’re some lab rat under his unwavering study. 

Why the hell is he staring at my arms? You think. Your fingers aren’t even shaking and the color, the skin, the texture—everything looks pretty fine. 

Thankfully, he drops it. 

The sole of his shoes are soundless against the marble as he gently steps back. With a tilt of his head, you’re wordlessly ordered to follow him out of the hall. 

Mingyu slides his shades off, points it towards the ceiling before tucking it between his collar as he asks, “So what do you think of the remodeling?” 

“It’s pretty neat.” You nod, “Almost as if a historic church had an affair with Athens and birthed this place.”

A chuckle, balmy and with amusement curling around its edges, reverberates through the dome ceilings. The smiles of the angels painted up above you deepens when Mingyu laughs. 

“I can never get tired of hearing you describe buildings.” He looks at you, gaze lowered to yours. 

His pace slows down to match your feeble steps. The tension radiating from you is so thick that you’re worried it is going to weigh him down, too, even when he’s trying to put you at ease with these casual conversations. 

Pressure builds up in your throat, choking you and forcing you to say something witty yet easy in reply. Though, nothing but a puff of air with a low hum of fake laughter comes out. 

You just hope to join Mayella and Josh soon and rid Mingyu from the herculean task of trying to keep this boat afloat. But Mingyu drags open a large wooden door instead of leading you towards the spiral staircase. 

“Wait, are we not going to the terrace?” You ask. 

He holds the door open and looks over his shoulder, “Not unless you wanna hear Maye and Josh argue over their playlist for the ceremony.”

He says that, like for him, hearing his friends discuss wedding music is equivalent to a million nails scratching against thousands of blackboards at once. 

Tipping his head towards what lays outside, he ropes you along to have you see what he wanted you to see. Mingyu pushes the door ajar, unveiling the view of the backyard lawns. 

You don’t know what chills your spine more—the gush of cool breeze that swishes past your skin without a warning, or the view that hypnotizes your very soul.

Lush green gardens separated by rows of flowering shrubs and pinched by specks of polished ivory which you assume must be little statues fixated in between tiny fountains. The afternoon sunrays frolic lazily from one pool to another, draping the garden and everything within it under its shawl. A stronger gust wind causes the flowers to lose a petal or two, but the breeze that follows it is like an apology—whispered yet devout. 

This is a scene plucked out of Eden and dropped here on Earth. 

Your mouth falls ajar…were humans ever supposed to witness something as magnificent as this? 

It is the same sun, the same breeze, the delightful yet familiar scent of vanilla dipped honeysuckles that you can come across at any well kept garden anyday. 

Yet, witnessing something so beautiful today just feels ethereal. Maybe the man standing next to you adds to the charm of it all. 

You don’t know because you are already tearing up. The view blurs, like you're viewing it from behind a piece of polished glass.

“Oh my god.” You whisper, already entranced. 

CHAPTER 5 || today, you’re prettier than yesterday 

Mingyu stays behind, with hands pocketed in his dark jeans. 

He watches your glassy eyes reflect the little rainbows dancing over the sculpture of a baby cupid shooting arrows in between the small pond in the centre of the lawn. His breath mellows down looking at you because he’s afraid that any slight disturbance—even that of his breath—might break the sanctity of this moment. 

He waits for you patiently with stars in his eyes, breaths held and a smile that stays sincerely tugged at his lips instead of being suppressed until it fades.

Today, you’re more beautiful than yesterday—he thinks that everyday. 

Wearing a pearly maxi dress which cascades over your body, hinting at your curves only when you move. A glint of gold of the frail chain hung loose over your hips flirts with the sunlight one moment, then shies away the other.

He doesn’t even know how to feel about the fact that the color of your dress matches his shirt which he had put on thoughtlessly in the morning. It is when you take a step forward, leaving him behind with nothing but the jangle of your large earrings, that he feels like dying—the dress is practically backless.

Its back neckline scoops down until it kisses your lower waist, pooling around just above the curve of your butt. 

Even though he had held you just for a night, if handed wet clay, Mingyu can sculpt out the form of you with his eyes closed. 

He doesn’t have to push away the curtain of your open hair to recall the positions of the dimples on your back. 

You don’t notice any of that though. Of course you don’t. 

The gardens are a wonderland…dotted with classical sculptures, private pavilions, and an actual reflecting pool shaped like a lyre. He knew you’d love it as much as he did the moment he proposed this place as a prospective venue to Mayella and Joshua. 

Such places always charm you, he has observed. Like how a robin perched on top of a branch above her head fixates you more than Lisa’s rambling ever could. 

It relieves him to finally see you breathe easier today. 

He doesn't know what went wrong, but you have been frowning more these days. At first he thought it was because of the night you spent with him, but that possibility deflated when he felt you lose up around him instead of stiffening or recoiling like he expected. 

Now to your defense, you have always been cagey like you are holding something discreet in your ribs—something that doesn’t belong there. Coming up with obvious lies and fake tales, only speaking what you wanted to be known…not even a single dent on the iron walls you have built around yourself. 

But since the last two weeks, it has gotten worse. He can feel it in his bones. He can see it in how you’re barely keeping it together…like someone forcibly shattered those walls and now you’re holding them up together with wet glue. 

Your eyes, though always cold, seem more distant. You barely ever smiled your true smile, but it is even rarer now. 

And only God knows the lengths Kim Mingyu would go to just to get that smile to blossom back on your face. 

Because he just did. 

Even if it took him scrounging through his firm’s database to look for the details of the client whom this villa was renovated for. Even if it took him several desperate emails and calls to set an appointment with that said client. Even if it meant him begging Mr. Kaiser, the owner of this estate, to book this venue for Mayella and Joshua. Even if it meant him offering a hefty down payment, the amount of which was unknown to the couple, for this place…

Kim Mingyu would do that all over again, time and time again, if his toils transpired into this view before him—the view of you smiling like the moon and sun were dancing in circles around you. 

A particularly frosty wind carrying shrapnels of that October cold brushes past you, but you’re too focused on admiring the bulbs of yellow flowers on round bushes to soothe the goosebumps on your skin. 

Mingyu peels his jacket off and, without a second thought, puts it over your shoulders. His knuckles graze your naked skin. 

The goosebumps that his touch elicits are nothing compared to the ones caused by cold. You shiver at that, he mistakes it for a flinch and quickly apologizes. 

“No, no, thanks. I was freezing.” You hum, curling your fingers tighter at the edges of his coat and pulling it tighter over your chest. Reaching mid thighs and burrowing your entire upper body, it's almost a second dress to you. 

The silhouette of his jacket on you is like that of his shirt from all those days ago, which he had laid out for you besides your ripped dress. You had put it on, even buttoned it all the way down, almost. 

But then you were reminded of the promise you had made to yourself…that you wouldn’t drag yourself through hell again. Borrowing his shirt would mean coming back to return it. And if you went back to him, you were so sure you’d end up getting addicted to him. 

You couldn’t do that… …not when you were still a shadow of yourself, trying to piece yourself together one by one… …not when you knew that Mingyu’s heart belonged to someone else. 

“This place was meant to be one where lovers come to unite.” You comment just as you reach the largest pavilion in the lawn. 

Wooden and rustic, draped with little light bulbs and lilies, this is where Joshua and Mayella will be cutting their wedding cake. 

“It is,” Mingyu speaks, almost too low for the usual strength of his voice. 

You feel his breath fanning over your hair when he steps forward, points at the glass ceiling from over your shoulder and whispers, “look…”

The glass is a stained heart cut, crystal patches of red and white. Even the sunrays seem to pad over it with caution and featherlight steps. 

You avert your eyes before you can turn around and kiss Mingyu right under it. 

“Seems like the architect who designed this was a hopeless romantic.” You chuckle, now taking note of all the heart motifs plastered all over the woodwork in the pavilion. 

Mingyu laughs, “He is, actually. I worked under him on my very first project at the firm…he told me he remodeled this villa right after getting married. Hence, the romanticism.” 

“What about you, Kim Mingyu? Have you designed anything with your subway girl in mind?” Your mouth feels chalky when you utter that last phrase. This is the first time you have teased him about her. 

You expect him to bark out a laugh or roll his eyes and ignore that question but, "I have.” He says, his voice lower than before. 

There’s no shame in it—just reverence that makes your skin prickle.

Not even a single ounce of timidity on his face. It feels like you’re getting to know mingyu all over again, the man he is under that devil-may-care smile…the man who admits to building houses with a voiceless girl from four years ago as his muse. 

Before you can ask him more about this unrequited devotion, you hear a distant gasp ringing from across the lawn. 

———————

Lisa arrived some ten minutes ago, toured around the villa and for all her inner turmoil, looked temporarily cured by the grandeur of the place. 

But it is the scene in front of her at the moment that has revived her. 

Her eyes, once worn and weathered, are shining with a newfound purpose as she charges towards the pavilion, practically sprinting towards the two of you. 

Instinctually, you step away from him, like you’re afraid that the unusual lack of space between Mingyu and you might alarm her with a hint of what went down at his house two weeks ago. 

Mingyu is already walking down the stairs, brows knitted in confusion at this bizarre surge of enthusiasm in Lisa. He catches her by the elbow before she can tumble over the slippery grass right outside of the pavilion. 

“God, Lisa are you okay?” 

You hurry down to hold her too. 

“I am fine, I am fine.” She heaves, clutching her stomach with her free hand, while tapping at Mingyu’s bicep with the other. 

She then turns to order you, “Take off your coat.”

“Huh?” you raise your brows at this strange demand. 

“Just take it off!” She steps forward, her breath coming out as a white puff of cloud in the cold air. 

You do as you’re told, gingerly slipping the outer layer off and handing it back to its owner. Your face flushes when Lisa’s eyes follow the movement of your hand and the shade only deepens when Mingyu’s finger tips stroke your palm when he accepts his jacket back. 

“Good, now you two, step closer.” She commands again. 

Mingyu and you exchange a look, his leans more towards bewilderment while yours is mortified. Does she know…

Regardless, Mingyu stands closer to you. You feel the ghost of his presence icing up the air around you until you choke.

“There it is…” Lisa claps her hands under her chin, grinning ear to ear. The breeze whips the short hair haphazardly over her beaming face. “My center piece…You two. My studio. Saturday, 5 pm.”

CHAPTER 6 || a myth retold

Apparently, the view of you sauntering those heavenly gardens in that particular white dress with Mingyu by your side had struck Lisa like a thunderbolt charged with everything she had been searching for. 

As you look around her studio, it is so evident that Lisa’s zeal had gone blue. 

It's not like she was drawing stick figures or monochromatic messes hoping it would land. 

But she had just drawn hands. And nothing but hands. For months straight. Sketches of lopsided fists, gnarled and crooked fingers are strewn all over the room. 

But according to her, these hands are about to get their bodies—ones inspired by the forms of you and Mingyu. 

“It is because the two of you are never together so it never hit me just how well your bodies compliment each other.” Lisa remarks, adjusting a canvas two third of her own height on the wide easel. 

You are unsure how to answer that, so you just lean further back into the giant window sill, tucking your knees beneath your body, relaxing under the fizzling out warmth of a setting sun. Thankfully, there’s a shawl warped over your upper body for now, or you’re so sure you’d freeze to death in her airy art studio. 

Mingyu is standing a few feet away from you, arms crossed over his chest, unamused and obviously finding this entire thing bogus. 

“You couldn’t find two models?” he almost scoffs, but the underlying fear of Lisa, has him hold it back in. “I mean, Maye and Josh are arguably the better choice if you wanna draw some romantic marble statues, Li.”

Regardless, that earns him a glare for Lisa. 

“Despite what the internet might try to tell you, no two bodies are exactly alike so no, models who look like the two of you won’t cut it.” Lisa explains, “Besides, I want there to be that subtle awkwardness in my reference for this one, one that exists between the two of you.”

“We’re not awkward around each other.” You jump to clarify, but the refusal of your gaze to meet him doesn’t help the case.

“Yeah, right.” She doesn’t even deem it worth her time or energy to argue with an unbudging opponent. Once she has her several pencils lined in the correct order, like a ferocious warrior gearing up her spears, Lisa orders the two of you to huddle around her. 

When you’re both on either side of her tall stool, she pulls out her phone to show you an image of a marble statue and the different angles she has clicked it from. 

The white sculpture is that of a distressed woman restrained, almost held up in the air, by the tight grip of a muscular man while her arms push him away—an unmistakable depiction of some sort of struggle or abduction. 

The details of the flesh of her waist and thighs oozing out from between his strong palms, the flutter in her stone carved toes as her delicate legs are lifted off the ground, the strain on his knees as he hoists up her entire weight on his waist and the bulge of his veins…it is all so beautiful yet grotesque. 

“‘The rape of Proserpina’ by Bernini?” Mingyu questions, recognition glinting in his eyes as he studies the images closely.  

You flinch back, gulping dry as your skin suddenly begins to crawl. Mingyu notices your sudden discomfort. 

“Rape as in rapture, or kidnapping…” He quickly explains, a gentle soothe lacing his slow voice as he watches you ease up. 

“Exactly.” Lisa switches off her phone, darts her feline eyes between the two of you, then speaks, “The theme for my show is a contemporary reimagining of stories as told by these ancient statues. I use the original structures, but I also wanna depict something else entirely—with color, with their eyes, even if it's a slightly different slant of their mouth.”

Mingyu nods, a slight hum of approval reverberating through his neck as Lisa’s vision dawns on him. 

“I don’t understand.” You mumble, it's almost a whisper like a single off key note in the middle of a symphony. 

You’re painfully aware of how little you understand as the two older, much refined, friends talk in brushstrokes and marble—a language you never learnt. Lisa softens, then signals you to come closer with a crook of her index finger. She taps vigorously on her screen. 

“Have you seen Michelangelo’s David?” she asks and when you nod, pushes the screen in front of you. 

It is a painting of Michelangelo's David in color. The posture, the resemblance, the angles, it is all there. But somehow, it is an art which couldn’t be further away from its reference. 

Maybe it’s the lines—breezy and tranquil, or maybe it’s the placid expression on his face or maybe the pastel and serene colors but…Lisa’s David, as opposed to Michaelangelo’s heroic and burly one, looks like just some other dude. 

It’s a disorienting visual, honestly. So familiar, yet so bizarre and clearly deliberate. 

Lisa points to your agape mouth like your bewilderment is the highest honor you could have bestowed upon her, “That right there! That confusion is exactly what I want to see on my audience’s face on the day of the exhibition.”

Mingyu rolls his eyes, again, almost. Then straightens up like he remembers who he is talking to. “And how are we supposed to help you pull that off?”

Lisa places a hand over his shoulder for leverage and jumps off the high cushioned chair, gesturing you both to follow her back to the window-sill you were sitting on. “I just need the two of you for the initial lines, don’t worry, I am not using your facial features, just the bodies…and that slight apprehension that exists between you both.” 

Mingyu and you, trailing behind her turned back, exchange a look. The air between you weighs down with something thicker. The last time your eyes had flickered to each other this way was around a month ago after the last guest of his small party had departed from his house. 

Lisa whips around, places a firm palm over Mingyu’s chest, guiding him to sit down where you were sitting a few minutes before. “You, Pluto or Hades, are not the almighty abducting God of the underworld. You’re sitting down in leisure, waiting and amused, instead of standing up with a woman trapped between your hulking arms.” She directs.

Mingyu sits down, awkward and stiff. 

“Gyu, losen up!” Lisa scolds. 

His shoulders sag, barely. 

It's your turn to receive her instructions now. “You, Proserpina or Persephone, are not the damsel or some victim. You’re his descent. You are the dare.” Lisa turns you around until you are standing in front of Mingyu, your back blocking his view. 

Eyeing you up and down with nothing but appreciation, she continues. “In that waterfall-like dress, that rose blush on your cheeks and that golden sunlight undertone of your skin, you are the spring.” 

Then, she shoves you. 

You land on Mingyu’s lap–on his left thigh, to be precise–a soft yelp escaping your lips. His arm lifts on its own to clutch your waist, to stabilize your fall. While his other arm lands over your thighs to hold you from slipping down. 

There’s a slight flutter in his fingers when they recognize the skin they’re touching, they had mapped it out thoroughly for hours in the past after all. But his stronghold doesn’t waver. 

Swift. Fierce. Sure.

Mingyu’s gaze softens around the edges when your breath shudders. Sensing your overwhelm, he removes his hand from your thighs and turns to Lisa. “So…she’s not the one being taken down?”

“Nope.” Lisa smirks, reaching for his arm and placing it right back on your thigh. “There’s a subtle shift in the power dynamic here. Not entirely, she’s not a seductress. But the depiction of abduction becomes one of rebellion. And what bigger rebellion there is than love?”

She turns to you, moves one of your hands to Mingyu’s face and whispers, “You’re not pushing him like in the original statue, rather caressing him…but don’t make it look inviting, either.”

“Lisa, I really can’t follow...” Embarrassingly, you know just how much you’re tensing up right now. You nearly recoil from him like you’re torched. 

“Just pat him like he’s your dog.” She grumbles. 

Your fingers find their way over his jaw again, like even they couldn’t bear to stay apart for much longer. 

All of a sudden, his thumb is brushing circles over your hip. Like he is coaxing you to relax. To trust him. And you do… allowing yourself to sink deeper down into him. 

Your other arm has draped itself across his shoulder on its own accord. Or perhaps it was your body’s reaction to stabilize you. 

But it’s there, hugging him like a garland or a rope—it’s really hard to tell when he’s holding you like a promise but burning holes in your eyes as you hold his face. 

He is either extremely turned on. Or incoherently repulsed. You can’t tell. 

“I will add the details in the eyes, the expression, the smiles…you two, just hold this posture for a bit.” Lisa’s heels are already tapping away from you, knocking dully against the polished floor. “Gyu, adjust your stance…your free knee should be slightly bent in motion…like you’re about to be led somewhere.”

“I want the tension still there,” she continues. “But it’s the tension of choice. Desire. Risk. Not violence.”

Mingyu blinks twice, thrice, before shifting his eyes away from your parted lips and adjusting his legs as per Lisa’s instructions, like even that requires him to compose strength. The back of your thighs sink deeper into his firmer one when he moves. A sudden gush of air fans over the hair on your neck when he exhales in this embrace. 

“How long do we have to hold this for?” he clears the web of hesitation clogging his throat, “can’t you just click a few pictures from different angles?”

“She doesn’t like getting a camera pointed at her.” Lisa mutters, pointing at you with a conviction that leaves no further room for argument. 

She grabs a thick charcoal pencil from behind the canvas, stares at the two of you with an intensity that makes a tiny wrinkle crease her otherwise perfect brows, then gives her chin a little scrub before she begins scratching black on the canvas.

Chapter 7 || woman scorned || explicit smut warning

Sexually frustrated and feeling utterly rejected, you were a woman scorned. 

It has been a month. 

A month since you came on to Mingyu and offered him your virginity on a silver platter. A month since he hovered above you on his bed, silver chain gripped between his teeth to prevent it from hitting your face as he rutted his hips against yours. A month since your knees brushed against his under a mahogany table and forgot how to support your weight. 

A whole week since Lisa pushed you onto his lap like that was the most sensible place for you to be and your body hasn’t stopped craving his touch ever since.

What’s worse is that you seem to be the one bearing the brunt of it alone.  

You’re so sure Mingyu doesn’t even think of you when he wants to satisfy himself…probably just calls some modelesque woman off the roster he presumably has, pretends she’s his subway girl in the dark and be done with it. 

That is one harmful assumption to make, considering you don’t even know him that well. But it's also true that you haven’t seen him be in a single relationship in the last two years you’ve been around and you’ve never seen him frustrated. 

It is safe to say that he has his own channels of relieving those frustrations beyond just a game of tennis with Mayella here or a night at the bar with the boys there. 

For a moment, this conceited feeling of consciousness slithers up your mind. Was it not as pleasurable for him as it was for you? 

Did you fail to satisfy him the way he satisfied you? 

Before she got engaged to Joshua, Mayella would always gloat about the men and women she hooked up with and how they were always frothing at their mouths to have her back. 

It makes you doubt your sexual prowess and if your inexperience disappointed Mingyu. 

It shouldn’t matter this much, you think. You’re not selfish, but you also know that you deserve at least some grace for keeping up with him that night. He was well endowed and way above average in every aspect that matters. 

You thought your thirst for Mingyu would die down by now. Spoiler alert, it hasn’t. 

And now, it's almost midnight when it dawns on you that you’ve become the thing you feared the most—an addict of his touch. 

You are heaving after another gloriously tanked attempt at satiating your carnal desires. 

Sheets rumpled up in one corner of the bed and a pillow lying puckered up in the other, the salacious moans of the porno you had put on, unrealistic and gross, fill the dark hollows of your room. 

Your good old humping pillow just doesn’t cut it anymore. 

Not when you’ve had the real deal (that too, one of the finest specimens) ram inside you with such expert precision and at a pace which rearranges one’s guts. 

His skillful tongue, his callous fingers…his big, thick, veiny cock had made you produce sounds you didn’t even know your throat was capable of making. 

But it has been so many days, and the memories of his touches are becoming hazy under the weight of all the study material you’ve had to cram. 

Yesterday, while you were at it again, with the memories of his face and body plastered hot behind your closed lids, you had failed to satisfy yourself for the fourth time this week. What echoed from your room was a grunt so animalistic, you’re sure that’s what pushed Rory to pack a bag and leave to stay the weekend at one of her friends. 

You don’t even bother putting on some other pornographic movie (not just because it disgusts you, but because you know its not gonna be enough—not when you’ve been fucked so thoroughly by Kim Mingyu) and just text him the dreadful two words. 

You: You up?

It's humiliating. 

It's desperate. 

It’s the first text you have ever sent him. But it is what it is. 

If he doesn’t reply in fifteen minutes, you are considering blocking him and buying the best reviewed sex toy on Amazon. 

It takes him seven minutes to reply. 

Kim Mingyu: Yeah, just got home Kim Mingyu: Is everything okay?

You don’t even wait seven seconds to text back.

You: all well…tho do you mind if I come over? Kim Mingyu: at this hour? 

You’re at a loss for words. Is that blatant rejection or…

Wait… 

Did he just misinterpret your text? Does he not know the implications of the infamous you up and come over? 

Before you can combust what remains of your brain cells after the brutal lab work today, your phone pings with another text. 

Kim Mingyu: its almost midnight, better if i drive to your place instead…what do you think?

Your heart shouldn’t be drumming in your throat like that. It is just an offer, similar to the one you made. Albeit yours was crass and direct, his is coated with careful consideration. 

…almost midnight…better if I drive to your place…

He’s just being decent, there are no underlying subtexts to be looked for and interpreted here, you tell yourself. 

You: cool…rorys not here either.  Kim Mingyu: Perfect

You practically fling out of the bed when that one word lights up your screen with a ping. 

Scrambling on your feet to change out of your sullied oversized tee and into the silk nightie that you only wear when you are ovulating and feeling like a Goddess of skincare and femininity. 

The slinky dress pools around your thighs like a satin fountain. 

You brush your hair, spritzing a floral mist into it then ruffle it up again—an illusion of effortless elegance. 

A few dabs of vanilla body oil on the inside of your thighs, under-breasts, and wrists are enough to make the pressing weight of not having thought this through vaporize out of your open window. 

You fluff your pillow—the one with the silk case for your head—and discard the old one which had spent an embarrassing amount of hours being squeezed between your thighs. 

But then you remember how Mingyu had put a pillow under your hips the first time you did it, and it makes you wonder if he has a preference for that. 

So the cotton pillow, traumatized and squished, stays put under the now straightened blankets. 

The wick of your newest rose scented candle barely flutters with a nascent amber flame when a sharp knock from the front door fractures the silence. 

Every single dormant goosebump on your skin jolts back to life. 

Three deep breaths is all you allow yourself before putting on your matching robe and padding barefoot towards the front door where your sinful indulgence for the night, something other than a greasy pizza for once, awaits. 

Your heart pounds in your fingertips as they undo the latch and pull it open to reveal him. 

Mingyu is already leaning against the doorway with a sunny smile slanting his lips lopsided. 

A hint of knowledge dilates his pupils when he takes in the image of you…like he knows that the smooth strand of hair curled over your collarbone and disappearing in the valley between your plump breasts isn’t entirely unintentional. 

He’s not wearing a linen button down today, a rare occasion. But the white cotton tee stretched over his sturdy chest and hidden under the rugged leather of his dark jacket isn’t lacking either. 

You gulp down when he straightens up to his full height, the sheer enormity of him never fails to twist your gut.

He is still smiling down at you like he’s here to play darts and drink some beer. 

Seriously, doesn’t the fact that you two are about to hook up again make him nervous in the slightest bit?

But then you remember what followed the last time he was towering over you so close…this is like expecting your mathematics professor to be scared of an eighth grade level differentiation problem.

“Hey,” you mutter, suddenly feeling your lips parch and lash with deep ridges under those seven layers of gloss you just lathered. 

He only hums in response, slowly bringing up his knuckles to your face. They linger there, an angel’s kiss away from your cheek, like they’re hanging in the abyss awaiting your permission. 

You tilt your face down, quietly approving and surrendering to his touch. 

He lets his fingers graze your face, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear before he fully presses his palm to your softness. 

Cupping one side of your lolled head as he whispers. “God, you make me wanna get down on my knees and pray right now.”

Whoa, whoa, whoa. 

That’s not a common response to hey. Whatever happened to - hi? Good evening? Hello? 

Your response is a laughter–unsure and breathy like it always is when your brain is malfunctioning. 

You step aside when his hand drops from your cheek, letting him in with a single motion of your neck. 

“You actually drove all the way up here from your place?” You ask, attempting to make small talk—anything to mask the tension crackling between you. 

You’re so sure that if not distracted, you will pounce on him in the very next second. 

Or he will, on you. 

With his eyes storming a hurricane of emotions you have yet to learn the names of, you don’t know whose patience is going to crack first. 

“Of course, why would I expect you to leave your house for me at this hour?” he replies, not steering away from you for even a moment as he shimmies out of his jacket. 

The leather is still slightly damp from the melted frost of the outside wind, so he drapes it over your crowded coatrack. 

“I guess I am just so used to men being assholes that a decent one surprises me.” You chuckle but there’s no humor behind it, more designation than mirth. 

The boyish amusement drains from his face for a brief second when he nods in acknowledgement. 

Then, his calloused palms find you again, this time, finding purchase on either of your shoulders. He looks at you, really looks at you, then speaks softly, like he’s promising a vow. “I’ll drive here whenever you want me to.”

The answer to a promise like that exists only in a kiss as delicate as the little flake of snow perched over the tip of his nose, just by his red mole. 

Your toes stretch up with the shaky elegance of a novice ballerina at the same time as his head dips in reverence. 

Your fingers curl around his biceps while his loop over your waist, pressing you closer to himself. Like if he doesn’t bridge even the slightest of distance between the two of you, he’ll forget how to breathe. 

The brush of your lips is eager against his gentler ones, like someone starved of tenderness is now overdosing on it. 

Though it doesn’t take him long to match your fervor once he’s fully aware of what’s happening. The fingers around your waist shift to sprawl possessively across your back and head as he wedges his lips deeper with yours. 

Your breath, warm and shallow, fades into his—cool from the night air yet laced with the smoke from the bar he must’ve been at. 

He pulls away, just for a moment, to quickly peck the corner of your mouth like he doesn’t want even a single pore of yours to feel ignored or unappreciated. 

But you take that moment to collect your thoughts and place a palm over his pecs, a silent plea for some space. 

Disappointment flashes across his eyes but it's gone as soon as it came. Only a calm, breathless hollowness remains when he breaks the kiss. 

One of his hands is still buried in your hair like its home, while his other is massaging the small dip of your back just above the arch of your butt. He lingers there, just an inch apart, stunned and burning under your spell. 

“Everything alright?” He asks, pressing his forehead to yours. 

You nod. Lashes, still wet with the single stroke of mascara, fan over your cheeks when you close your eyes to seek strength from the void behind your lids. When you open them again, they’re glossier than before—you can feel it in the pearl of moisture that begins to form in the corners. 

You thought Mingyu’s hold on your body couldn’t get any gentler, but it does when he sees vulnerability overtaking you like mauve in the evening sky. 

His palm is cradling your head now, like he’s holding a porcelain Russian doll—rare and hauntingly beautiful. 

“I need to know that you also want this…that I am not the only one desperate for—” you almost choke with shame but his thumbs are already over your blushing cheekbones, pressing circles. 

He looks utterly wrecked. Even the notion of you believing that he wouldn’t want you like this slices him open. 

“Shh,” he whispers, too softly for a man of his height and build. 

Then, he bites his lips like what he originally wanted to say might be too dangerous. 

After a full second of careful reconsideration, he murmurs, “You don’t know how much I’ve wanted this since after the first time…and even more so when I had to sit there with you wearing that dress on my fucking lap.”

You exhale like the memory of the day still singes you like burning coal. The reminder that you have to be there again stabs your inside like an icicle. 

“I don’t know how am I supposed to do it again tomorrow without wanting to take you right then and there.” he mumbles, this time, much closer to the periphery of your lips. 

Already too drunk on the scent of his citrusy cologne and raw musk, the heat from those words is what finally tips you over the edge until you’re wet mud in his hands. 

You reclaim his lips with a low moan—wetter, hungrier, much more unabashed than before. He kisses you back with the intention of consuming everything you’re giving to him, and then some more. 

Your fingers slither up from his shoulders to his hair when you feel his hands travel down your spine to settle over the back of your thighs, leaving trails of hot lust behind.

Then, with a tug that is a much rougher contrast to this otherwise benign moment, he hauls you up in his arms for his own convenience. 

Your legs wrap around his slim waist like an instinct. 

He doesn’t have to bend down now that you’re exactly where he wants you to be—eye to eye, heartbeats bumping in uneven rhythms between your mashed chests. 

The hem of your little dress rides higher. There’s nothing delicate about the way the flesh of your ass folds into his hungry palms when he gathers your entirety into his embrace. 

You move your much plushier hips around his defined ones to find a position that isn’t as nerve wrecking as this one—one which comes with the daunting realization that Mingyu is carrying all your weight and his breath hasn’t faltered even once. 

This casual testament of his physical strength should scare you, but it only turns you on. 

Unbeknownst to your naive ignorance, you just grinded mercilessly against his hard on. The rigidness poking the expanse of your pliable thigh gets harder, more defined. You shift again to relieve this discomfort. 

This time, he breaks the kiss with a wince, pressing his eyes shut. 

“Mingyu, remove your phone!” you complain, wriggling in his arms for the third time as the hard thing digs deeper in your thigh. 

His forehead creases with lines so deep that it looks like he’s being made to walk through a burning forest. 

He groans, “That’s not my phone for fuck’s sake.”

Oh.

Your movements halt at once. 

Your left leg—the one which has to face this bullying from his hard dick—threatens to unwrap itself from around his hips. 

But his iron grip over your ass keeps you still. Your uneven, hot breaths fill in the awkward spaces. 

“S-sorry, so sorry.” You stammer, helpless and confused. Anything you do in this position is going to make him pull that agonizing face again. 

“It's…okay,” he exhales, moving his lips over your cheek instead, “just don’t grind on it like that already.”

You meekly nod, trying to still your hips and endure that ache the best you can. 

His kiss darts to your neck when he walks, taking you further into the house. 

Bits of the apartment whirl around your half lidded eyes like objects in a washing machine. The only audible sounds are the faint, wet smacks of your lips and the feeble jingle of your lonesome bracelet decked with innocent charms. 

Your legs around him tighten, ankles crossing over each other on his lower back making your chest smush closer to his. He can feel the drag of your erect nipples over his pecs through the flimsy silk and cotton of your clothes. 

That makes him almost whimper against your thrumming pulse…no, scratch that almost… That was most certainly a whimper; why else would the nerve on his neck be thrumming under your fingers shudder like that? 

Regardless, he is quick to suppress it by grinding his teeth over the skin under your ear instead. You shiver when he nips at you and sigh when he laps over it to soothe the bruise. 

You feel the wind from the quick jerk of your bedroom door behind your neck, his sweeping arm displacing the air. 

He closes the door before sliding you down against the wall next to it. 

His hands come on either side of your head as he traps you there. Dark eyes hooded with lust rave at your body. A grunt reverberates through his throat watching you bat your lashes at him, all doe eyes and flushed cheeks, lower lip trembling with anticipation and desire.  

He stares at the hair tangled in your ruby earrings, then your disheveled body which can’t stay still. 

“God you’re so hot.” 

One side of your robe has completely come undone, barely hanging from the curve of your elbow. It lays open, exposing your silk nightie–the treacherous strap of which has slipped uselessly over your shoulder, leaving the upper half of your breast open for his starved mouth to feast on. 

Your fingers are still fisting the fabric over his shoulders as you try to stabilize your breathing. 

“The hottest woman ever…” he hums, trailing the back of one of his palms over your ribcage tentatively, like he’s afraid the invisible ink on his hand will smudge a beautiful painting. 

Mischief, the kind that only sprouts when you’re alone with him, bubbles in your guts as you blurt out. “Well, now I feel bad for your subway girl.”

The sharpness of his jawline is lethal under the hazy bedroom glow. Dangerous, even, when it locks with the slightest clench.

“Thinking about another woman while I am fucking you with my eyes?” he corks a brow at you, a corner of his mouth lifted up in half a smile, “I feel offended, darling.”

He punctuates that last word by bringing both his hands over the soft mounds on your chest, thumbs already finding and pressing teasing circles over your nipples before you can even think of a catty comeback. 

You arch yourself more into his touch, surrendering your body like an offering. 

The other sleeve of your robe slips off too leaving the material to flop silently on the floor. Your head slumps to the side, eyes finding a corner of your dimly lit room. You don’t have it in you to face his intensity anymore. 

Your breath stutters out in broken sighs and almost whimpers as he continues worshipping your upper body with his lips and fingers. 

Collarbones peppered with wet kisses, neck splotched with blooming red that gets darker every moment, nipples erect and impossibly sensitive from all the tugging and rubbing. 

One of his palms cups your cheek, gentle yet steady, as he redirects your gaze back to himself. You last a total three seconds before clenching them shut again. 

It is impossible, you decide, to see dark desire hooding his stoically tame eyes and knowing that you’re the reason behind it. 

His breath hovers over the shell of your ear again, this time to ask a question. 

“I’m gonna take this off, okay?” 

One of his hands skims the hem of the dress dangling inches below your hips while the other holds your waist, grounding you back into the moment. 

When you nod, he places a chaste kiss over your exposed shoulder and bunches the dress in his hands, dragging it up to your hips. 

Surprisingly though, he halts there. 

You feel the curl of his fingers hooking around the waistband of your underwear instead. 

“Mingyu,” You blink at him, startled and gone. “Wh-what—”

But he’s already on his knees before you. Just like his greeting on the door.

The ruined panties are dragged down your thighs and it hits you that it wasn’t your dress that he wasn’t referring to when he said ‘I’m gonna take this off’. 

The dainty fabric swishes down from between his fingers onto the carpeted floor.

“Is it okay if I kiss you here?” 

He is fucked out already. Holding your hips like it's his anchor, barely holding his senses together. His mouth is slightly ajar, eager to lave at your arousal the moment you give him the permission to. 

You nod, breathless yet ready. The sight of him on his knees, lips parted and hair tousled as he studies your each shiver and smiles at every approval, is jarring to say the least. 

It makes your head spin–the most intimate parts of you are so exposed to his lips, his breath, his gaze while your dress rides halfway up your hips. 

Your knees buckle, but his giant palms are already stabilizing your stance by splaying over your upper thighs. 

“H-how are w—” it dissolves at the back of your throat when he loops his fingers around your thighs, slightly pushing the flesh apart. 

You feel, and he sees, a mortifying pearl of liquid roll down from your core in a silent weep. 

“God…you’re literally dripping.” he observes like you’re a miracle unraveling before his eyes.

You wish you could turn into a puddle right there. 

Your body bucks harder this time—falling weaker into his stronghold. 

He nuzzles his nose in your hip, rubbing his forehead on your stomach like the sight of what he just saw drove him to insanity and now it is taking everything in him to crawl back. 

Then, he pinches a corner of your dress between his fingers and jerks it up to you with expectant eyes, “Hold this up for me, please?” 

You do as you’re told—the shyness transforming into curiosity that ebbs in your lower body, sending waves of warmth and wetness down your core. 

Another tear slips down from between your legs and with it, Kim Mingyu’s patience. 

Large palms grab either sides of your hips with firmness substantial enough to keep you unmoving even through a fucking earthquake as his face buries between your thighs. 

An explosive sensation that you’re yet to familiarize yourself with bubbles in your abdomen and leaps out of your lips with a scream. 

One of your hands finds home in his lush hair. You clutch at his locks at first when he’s placing open mouthed kisses all over your cunt but then you start pulling at it when his tongue darts out, licking you across your slit in repeated motions. 

The left side of your face presses harder against the wall, your moans partially muffled by your mushed cheek. 

Your thighs clench, effectively warding off his invasion even when you don’t want to. 

Kim Mingyu is a possessor of insurmountable persistence though—keeps on nudging at your folds with his cold nose and velvety tongue soaked with spit and your slick. 

He smooches at your fluttering fold, an almost french kiss down there, and gauges your reaction with upturned gaze only to find you struggling with silk in both hands—of his hair, of your dress. 

Then, his lips pucker up around your oversensitive clitoris with a gentle yet firm suction. 

Your head finally detaches from the wall, a loud gasp slipping out with all the air in your system when you catch the mirror in the corner of your room which reflects every single detail of this debauched act. 

Your hand shivering over his hard skull, fingers buried deep into his dark hair as his face digs deeper and deeper into you like it’s his pillow. 

You can’t see the expert flicks and flat strokes of his tongue in the mirror from this angle, but lord, do you feel them. Every single one of them. 

You don’t know what’s more blasphemous—the hand holding up the skirt to give him all the access to your body he wants, or the way his knees are planted on the ground as he worships you like you’re the last holy shrine on Earth and he’s the only man who knows how to pray. 

Mingyu has the nerve to pause like he catches you looking in the mirror, then darts his pink tongue out with a smirk to circle your nub at the same time as he winks at you, a sinister promise glinting in his orbs. 

Your lower lip is seized between your gnashing teeth. With the intensity of the liquid that gushes your mouth, you think that you’ve drawn blood. But there’s no metallic taste on your tongue. 

Oh, you’re just drooling like a dog watching him suckle on your cunt. 

His lips leave your lower ones with an audible, wet smack that sends humiliating chills down your spine. 

What's even more shameful is the string of saliva that is stretched lewd and lazy between his lips and your cunt—still linking the two of you even when he’s inches away. 

It's like your body refuses to let him go. 

He’s heaving, watching you whine at this sudden loss, a thick sheen of gloss smudged all over his lip, saliva dribbling down his chin…slick smudged even on the tip of his nose. 

“You keep on trying to hide away from me.” he huffs, but doesn’t sound like he’s complaining. 

It is rather an explanation for what he’s about to do next. You try to relax more. 

But Mingyu has a more permanent solution—the fingers, which were earlier massaging you, circle around one of your knees as he throws your right leg over his shoulder, another hand splayed over your stomach to steady you. 

“Baby, as much as I’d love to continue kissing these thighs,” he says, pressing his cheek deeper into the plushness, “I’m gonna need you to part them if you wanna cum.”

You squeak, almost losing balance from the sheer shock and embarrassment of this position, of his unfiltered words. 

But his palms travel up and catch you in a flash. His mouth goes back to town—kissing, sucking, lapping, and moaning as you gush with cream more openly than before. 

The squelching of your dripping cunt against his tongue is louder than ever now that you’re practically stretched open for him. 

Instead of trying to shove his head away, you feel a slight tinge of shock through the haze when you boldly cradle his head closer to your core, shame thinning along with your vision. 

Every single vein, every single nerve trembles with the heavy pressure that shoots from your cunt at his licks. 

You’re nothing but a puddle of intense heat and breathy moans in his hands as his tongue explores the untouched nether regions of your body. 

You’re practically leaking against his mouth, soaking the lower half of his face with an arousal so thick, so salacious that it is unbelievable you did it…and that too, in such quantity. 

Your needy moan intensifies until it morphs into a desperate cry. 

Your chest arches away from the wall and the blush in your face flows down south until your breasts, your abdomen, and even your cunt are all colored red when he goes wild against you, desperate to taste your orgasm. 

There’s no technique to it now, just plain old sucking and nibbling. His head moves from side to side as he parts the petals leaking for him. He increases the speed, getting more merciless, when he feels you edge closer to your unraveling on his tongue.

The leg hooked over his shoulder shakes so hard that it almost slips down when you come, your back sliding down the wall as the cry turns into a loud sob. 

But he holds you up for his own pleasure—continues to taste the fruit of his efforts as it spurts with sweetness around him. 

Obscene waves of lust which he happily consumes and revels in, doesn’t even let a single drop touch the ground. 

With cold and drained tips of your fingers, you caress his scalp and let him suck and kiss you clean to his heart’s desire. 

The skirt that had slipped from your hold long back now cascades over his head like a curtain, providing him a more intimate privacy with your cunt. 

You sigh, barely keeping afloat in the ocean of white, hot lust he has plunged you in. 

Your body tightens when you realize this isn’t the end of it when his nose nudges against your folds, again. The tip of his tongue prods at your entrance, already slithering up. It eases back, then slowly presses forward again. 

This time around, you lean into him, threading his hair and encouraging him to go deeper. 

“Mingyu…” you sigh, about to say something but all your thoughts thrash violently down your throat when a loud tapping at your door halts his movements. 

“You in there roomie?” 

The moment Rory’s grating voice reaches you, the heel of your palms push deeper into his head with restraint. 

He detaches his lips from you, brows tangled in confusion, bleary eyes as unfocused and disheveled as his hair. 

You’re about to shoo her off, tell her to go away before she can further ruin the mood. 

But then, after a hesitant beat which crumbles under heavy discomfort palpable from the wall away, “Jules is here too, she needs to talk to you.”

CHAPTER 8 || stay

A chilling frost overtakes all the heat Mingyu had flamed within you. 

Your head whips around, hair lashing over your almost naked skin like leather whips. 

All of a sudden, everything is too overwhelming, too overstimulating. Your leg falls off his shoulder almost hysterically, and you scramble away from the door, almost hitting him with your knees when you do.

Mingyu begins to get up, the grooves on his forehead deepen further as he watches you pale whiter. 

His eyes dart towards the door at another round of knocks. 

An almost hushed whisper of your name succeeded by a plea; “We should talk…we really should.” 

It's a different voice than the one before, still feminine but loaded with skepticism and…guilt?

But this is not the place for Mingyu to be practising his favorite pastime hobby of psychoanalysing people and their tones. 

Not when you’re nearly hunched over in a corner, hair cascading wild over your shoulders, shielding you away. 

You look so small and it mauls at his chest. 

He gingerly picks your robe back up from the floor and is about to put it on you when you flinch at the brush of his knuckles. He pauses, simply extending it to you instead of trying to wrap it on you.

You try to focus your eyes on him, mouthing a soundless thank you, afraid that even the swishing of the fabric in your hands might alarm the girls outside of your presence. 

He steps back to allow you room, running the back of his palm over his sticky lips to tidy up as much as he can while you stitch back your fallen dignity, thread by thread, with shaky fingers. 

God, you don’t want to look so dismantled, not in front of him. Not when he has given you, so selflessly and generously, what you had been craving for weeks. 

No matter how hard you try to straighten up, there’s this primal urge in your body that keeps on clawing under your skin, telling you to shrink more. 

But this isn’t some endless wilderness and you’re not a prey of Julianna. 

You hold onto his strapping shoulder, sweaty palms instantly crinkling his t-shirt but by the surety with which he circles your wrists, keeping them there, he doesn’t seem to care. 

“Do you want me to tell them off?” he whispers, so slow that despite the close proximity, even you have to take several moments to comprehend him. 

“No, God, no! Don’t say anything.” you beg, “let's just wait it out until they leave.”

A nod as his lips purse into a thin line, “I’m here.” 

He bends down a little, and there it is again—that openness, one which screams that he will sit here, holding your hands, and listen to whatever that is distressing you. Even if it takes forever. 

But it's hard to picture him doing that, simply because he has never done that for you before. Though, it is also true that you had never been as wrecked as you seem now. 

Physical exhaustion looks so different from the one induced by emotional trauma. 

You should know that.

Right now, your eyes must be hollow and dry from all the screeching images of the night at the club–Julianna–continue to flash past them like jolts of thunder. 

Your breath mustn’t be normal–either too rapid and shallow, or not there at all… Wait, are you even breathing? And why can’t your fingers stop trembling even when you’ve clenched them in fists over his shirt? 

“Look at me,” Mingyu is inches away from your face when your consciousness touches the present. 

Both his hands are holding you now, gentle yet firm. He wouldn’t let go, not until the temperature of your skin drops back to normal.

“Breathe.” He commands. 

The fragility of your mind is clear to him, so he demonstrates what he wants you to do—takes a deep breath with you and then lets it out through pursed lips, urging you to do the same with his eyebrows raised in encouragement. 

Another deep breath, taken together—nice and slow. 

Good, this feels good. 

Your clutch over his shirt loosens and you gulp. Too many emotions, too little time to process them. But a shaky breath that moves in tandem with his grounding one.

A small flame of gratitude flickers in your heart, it feels better to have him here. 

You’re clinging on to him, emotionally and physically, even when your psyche screams at you not to. Depending is always a bad idea. Always. 

So you push him away, rubbing the pad of an unsure finger between your brows, scratching at the skin that doesn’t even itch. 

“Uhm, bathroom’s that way,” you nod faintly towards the en-suite, “you can go wash up if you want.”

Mingyu studies you for a moment longer, concern etched across every frown on his face. “You’ll be alright?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I might change into something more…” you trail off, arms flapping by your sides at the sweat sodden clothes which are barely hanging on your frame. 

“Okay.” He whispers, quiet and reverent. 

The honeyed glow of your soft bathroom lights cast over him as he looks at you over his shoulder once, before the door clicks shut. 

As you scurry around your room, dimming the lights and digging through your drawers for clean clothes, your ears tune to the muffled clinking of cutlery in the living room. 

They're still out there, lounging around as if nothing’s happened.

Probably sharpening their claws to rip apart what remains of a once ecstatic evening. 

You grit your teeth, pulling a clean sweatshirt over your head with more force than necessary. 

The clinking of china and cutlery reaches your ear. 

You don’t know if Rory is aware of what went down, but Julianna is. 

Hell, she is the orchestrator of it. 

And it is beyond baffling that she can have the guts to just waltz into your home, knock on your door with a voice dripping in counterfeit regret, and then go snack in your kitchen like it’s her right. 

Like she didn’t just detonate the last fragile bit of your peace.

Bullshit. 

You’re brushing your hair, silently seething in rage after hearing another muffled giggle from the living room when Mingyu walks out, droplets of water clinging on to the edges of his face. 

His t-shirt is damp in patches, hugging the curve of his collarbone. His hair, tousled after being run through with wet hands, sticks to his forehead with curled rivulets. 

It feels significantly more familiar this way between you two—no lip bites, no lustful gazes, no begging, no tension teetering on the edge of collapse. 

Just him, stripped of seduction. And you, stripped of performance. 

Quiet. Worn down. Human.

For the first time in what feels like weeks, you're not navigating a minefield of glances or decoding the heat behind his hands. 

You're just two people sitting with the aftermath. No pretending. No scripts.

And it’s a strange sort of comfort.

His lips, still a bit bitten and raw, tug into a polite smile. 

“I should get going.” He suggests.

You immediately protest.

“They’re still out there,” and then, you pause for a beat as he lingers, “I don’t want to deal with them and I don’t want them to know you’re here.”

Lie. You want to prolong his company as much as you can because it feels safer this way. Not just because of his reliable physique, but also the ease that comes with him; one which smells like lavender and linen. 

“Okay, that’s…reasonable.” he clears his throat before saying out loud the same conclusion that had been storming both of yours’ minds, “Do you want me to stay here?”

“I don’t mind if you do.” You give him a subtle shrug, one which comes with a wry, pathetic smile. 

“Cool.” He says, seemingly unfazed by this out of character request from you. 

You’re someone who always has one foot out the door whenever another human is in the room. Yet here you are, asking him to stay. That too, so deep inside your safe space. 

He leaves no time for you to second guess your decision when he settles down on your bed. 

The room shrinks now that he’s here—too tall, too present. The mattress dips dangerously low.

“Woah, you really sleep on this marshmallow?” he quips when the bed creaks. 

He carefully pulls his legs up, resting his elbows on his knees. 

You can’t help but snort, not because there’s an obvious 6’2 center of gravitation on your bed pulling everything in for a collapse. 

But because you really fluffed your bed, lit up the candles and pulled out your best sheets thinking that he would be able to fuck you on your twin bed without breaking his back or the frame. Or both. 

Once your hands are fully lathered with the honey scented lotion, you pull out another blanket to join him. 

Settling in front of him, you offer him the fresh blanket which he throws around his shoulders in a swift motion, and wriggle your legs under the unmade duvet you share with him. 

The bed squeaks even more and it cements you frozen, afraid that it might give up under your weights combined. 

But then a laughter bubbles out of you. His low chuckle mirrors yours like a shadow. 

He scoots further back, even though he doesn’t have to, and pushes most of the duvet to cover your legs, even if it leaves half his knee poking out. 

The boy is surveying your room with the same curiosity that he maps your body with. Inquisitive. Interested. Eager. 

The book collection on your bedside table is approved with an appreciative dip of his head. An extra moment spent staring at the spine of your old, withered copy of Wuthering Heights. He reaches out to trace the indented flower pattern on the spine, tiniest speck of its original silver catching the amber of your fairy lights. 

“It was a gift from the supervisor at my orphanage when, y’know, Maye’s family adopted me.” You explain. 

His finger retrieves like it has been singed by something sacred. It is obviously a sentimental relic to you and he doesn’t want to malign it with a thoughtless touch. 

You almost laugh at that. 

You don’t mind mentioning that you’re adopted, or talking about the things that follow that topic. But it is something almost prohibited to be brought up—simply because it upsets Mayella. 

Sometimes you wonder if Vernon and Josh are even aware that you’re not bound to her by blood. 

She has made her distaste about you still not fully claiming her family’s name very evident. 

I literally know you more than I know my own mother, she often says. 

“It’s a thoughtful gift.” he remarks. 

Mingyu shoves his hands back into the duvet like he’s tucking away a secret he just touched, the blanket wrapped around him slipping over one shoulder.

Another loud clang from the living room which stiffens you for a moment, the ‘thank you’ on the tip of your tongue meant for his compliment vaporizes like acid. 

Mingyu has gotten a hold of this situation now. 

You’re beyond bothered by the presence of the girls outside and there isn’t much he can do to distract you other than talking to you. 

“I like your room,” he says like it is the quickest thing he could whip up. Simple yet sincere. 

“I try to make it mine.” you beam, voice barely audible. 

His attention sweeps from the vintage lamp basking your half finished notes in soft gold on the study table, over the delicate persian rug upturned in a corner, all the way to the blinking little bulbs of string-lights hung in haphazard patterns over your bed. 

You’re proud of the comfort of it. Warm, cozy, lived in…faint scents of rose and eucalyptus wafting in batches from the candles in the corners. 

But at the same time, you don’t want him to read too much into it—notice the torn pages smudges with ink shoved under your leatherbounds, or catch a glimpse of the half empty bottle of sleeping pills on your shelf which you need more often than you’d like to admit. 

So you turn the intimate inspection on him. 

“Mingyu, the other day, at the villa, when I asked you if you designed a place with the subway girl as your inspiration…you said you did.” 

The rampant fidget of your thumbs over the hem of your sweatshirt is concealed from him under the duvet. 

“Do you mind if I ask what you designed?” You finally ask.

His eyes are trained on you, making you lose your train of thoughts even more. Then, he breathes, a faint smile streaking his face like purple in the evening sky. 

“A home.” Mingyu exhales, “One where the windows are low, so that she can watch the sun set down the horizon for as long as she wants. One where every room can have a bookcase, because she was always carrying something to read each time I saw her. Warm lights and open spaces…somewhere that feels like waiting for someone who might never arrive, but you keep the porch lights on anyways.”

Your breath catches, you weren’t expecting that at all. 

You avert your eyes from his passion to your lap…even death would turn its eyes away from the patience he bears for her then what are you but a mere human?

“Wow, that’s unbelievable.” You mutter, “Do you own that house? Like, is it waiting for the day you…you bring her there?”

He leans back over his palms, shaking his head with denial. “Oh come on, I am not that delusional. It was for a client…sold to a family of four—parents, a toddler, and their mean pet cat. I was just thinking about her a lot when I worked on it.”

“Makes sense.” Even though it doesn’t—not at least to you.

“So,” he stretches his hands over his knees as he pins you down figuratively, “what’s the deal with tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum out there?”

You roll your eyes. “That’s just my roommate and her friend being annoying.” 

His brows lift, amused. “Why were you so scared of them?”

“No, I wasn’t.” 

His eyes fall to the plushie you’re pinching between your arms then back at you and he smirks. 

“Yes you were.”

“Please,” you scoff, “It's Rory who loses her voice if I glare at her for even a split second.”

“Well, that doesn’t discard the fact that you looked like you had seen a ghost when she knocked.” He shrugs. 

You stare at him. “Maybe I was just taken aback because I was in the middle of a hookup and didn’t expect them to be home?”

Mingyu looks unconvinced but doesn’t argue, just files it away. 

He yawns, leaning his hands back again. The duvet rustles between you both. 

“Didn’t think your bed would survive us both.” He murmurs, voice tendered with tired humor. 

You snort, your words flooding out before you can think them through. “Yeah, I wasn’t really thinking about the structural integrity of it when I lit up the candles and queued a playlist.”

His eyes light up like Christmas. “There was a playlist?”

You roll your eyes again but there’s that familiar warmth creeping up from the warmth of your chest to the cold of your cheeks. 

“Of course there was. It's my first time having a guy over, you think I wouldn’t vibe it up a notch?” You quip.

He just chuckles, head hanging low. Then points to the purple teddy cradled between your arms. “And how are these innocent plushies contributing to setting the mood?”

You should have put the soft toys away, you realize, but you quickly cover it up. 

“Sex education.” You shrug, then stare down at the button eyes of your favorite teddy, “Thistle was gonna watch mommy get railed tonight.”

Mingyu immediately winces at that like he didn’t expect that crudeness. But the laughter erupting in his chest is too strong to be suppressed. 

“I sometimes forget it, but that sailor mouth keeps on reminding me that you’re related to Maye.” He reaches in your lap, patting the weathered violet fur of the plump bear. “I’m assuming this is Thistle?”

You nod, a strange tenderness settling in your chest as you watch Mingyu hold the small toy too carefully, with nothing but reverence and awe, between both of his enormous palms. 

The sight is comical, to say the least. 

“Yeah…had him for as long as I can remember, named him after the flower because of the color.” You say. 

“You’re such a dork.” Mingyu snorts before proceeding to place Thistle next to himself on your bed. 

Unlike him, you don’t hold back your laugh watching the two of them sit side by side—a towering man with damp hair and feet too long for your bed, and a little violet teddy bear slouched against his thigh like a weary witness.

“Okay,” you wheeze, “that visual is cursed.”

“I don’t know,” Mingyu muses, tilting his head at Thistle like he’s genuinely considering it. “He’s got a presence. Kind of a ‘seen some shit’ vibe. Very alpha.”

You argue. “I literally had to stitch him with dental floss once.” 

“See? He’s a survivor.”

You grin fondly at your little buddy. The glimmer in his round plastic eyes dulled over time, but the comfort radiates the same. He truly is a survivor, you want to elaborate, he stuck with you during a time when even the breeze refused to enter your muggy room.  

But you don’t want to weigh this moment down, so you tuck it back into a pocket in your mind which is already stretched full of words unsaid. 

You shift a little closer without meaning to, like your bones made the decision before your mind could veto it. 

Your knee brushes his, and Mingyu doesn’t move away.

“Thanks for not asking too many questions,” you murmur.

“Thanks for letting me stay,” he replies just as softly.

Thistle flops sideways in the middle of the bed, landing against Mingyu’s thigh. He gently picks the bear back up, then looks at you with a crooked smile.

(a/n: i just realized while editing this that this is the first chapter where these two talk for real…yikesss)

CHAPTER 9 || coping mechanisms

The convertible Aston Martin stands out in the sea of white in Lisa’s cathedral sized garage for three reasons:

One, because it is the only thing not drowning in pastel. It is sleek, dark and smells like warm cedar and cinnamon as opposed to the usual flowery, vintage cadillacs Lisa collects like shoes. 

Two, because it is almost too pristine. Unscratched, engine serviced just last week and almost as good as new, it doubtlessly belongs to Kim Mingyu. 

Three, because unlike the rest of the cars which are resting put in the darkness, this one’s shivering with movement.

Today was the third sketching session at Lisa’s art studio and a tamer, more comfortable one than its predecessors. 

You didn’t move around much in his lap, or rub yourself against his hard on like you would in the first two sessions. This borderline dry humping would earn you a grasp so savage that the imprints of his fingers would blush red for hours over your hips and thighs. 

Though, for being on your best behavior today, he had thanked you even—a faint note of gratitude sung under his breath towards the end of the session, muffled effectively by the scratching of Lisa’s easel against the marbled floor as you got off his lap. 

Your “you’re welcome” was your tongue shoved down his throat the moment you got inside the secure privacy of his car. 

And now, his wet lips pepper the soft edge of your jaw with eager hungry kisses. You sigh, tracing his cheek with the fingers of one hand while the other buries deeper into his hair. 

The driver seat is warm, humming and trembling with the weight of two bodies which aren't supposed to fit on it. But clinging on to him like a koala, you somehow make it work. 

“It tickles!” You laugh, knees sinking deeper into the leather on either side of his thighs when he nips the soft flesh just under your ear with feverish precision…he has already memorized what patches of skin trigger your loudest moans. 

“I know,” he says, and does it again anyway, grinning into your skin with a playful smirk and a tighter grip under your ribs. 

His lips trace the dip of your neck. 

Damp, urgent. 

Your eyes flutter shut, your fingers bury deeper at the nape of his neck.

Your knees dig deeper into the leather, straddling him, spine arching with a jolt. Your naked back presses against his steering wheel when you lean back—the cold, hard leather biting your spine. 

But he doesn’t let up. Not even in the slightest as you squirm. 

His breath never hovers further away from you—always there, warm and reckless, it continues tickling the goosebumps on your collarbone. 

He embellishes your skin with two more lovebites, pink for now but bound to ripe maroon by the night, before he pulls away after placing a soft kiss in the valley between your breasts. 

This pause isn’t appreciated by you. Neither is the rational responsibility of the words that follow. 

“We should talk.” He says suddenly, voice too low and shaky, like the thought had just sprouted in his mind. 

You blink, your expression teetering at the edge of desperation at this sudden loss of his body heat. “About what?” 

“About whatever this is.” His hand gestures between your bodies, low voice treading through the chaos crumbling into the calm. 

All of a sudden, a dark, heavy cloud is engulfing the sun you were looking forward to bask in for a few more minutes. 

He begins sliding up the sleeves of your dress which he undid as soon as you stepped into his car…now reaching not for your body, but for answers. 

Cold sweat begins to replace the dotted goosebumps. You gulp, nervousness and reluctance lodging in your throat like dry wood. 

And then, an idea strikes you like a thunderbolt. 

But you have to be sly and careful, don’t wanna alert him about the tried and tested trick under your sleeve. 

So you loll back, eyes turning up to the ceiling of the car like you’re thinking about an answer to his query. 

Finally, after enough time has passed in this act of you deliberating over nothing and his body is off-guard, a sigh emerges from your exhausted mouth. 

You snake all ten of your fingers behind his skull and coax him forward with a jerk until his face is smushed between your breasts. 

The words still teetering on the edge of his throat are muffled against you. 

His tongue reacts on an instinct, lips wrapping around your perked up nub, teasing it between his teeth with gentle deliberation. 

Good. You both love this—he gets to suck on your pretty tits while you get to escape his surveillant eyes. 

But Kim Mingyu is armed with the patience of a saint today…won’t let you take a breather for long. 

He parts away from your aching nipple with a wet pop, his rough thumb replacing his tongue to continue stimulating the raging nerves over your sensitive mounds. Lazy in motion, yet focused.

There’s no urgency in his movements like it doesn’t matter to him how much you squiggle if you don’t let him finish what he wants to say.

“We can’t keep doing this without knowing what it means. Let us act like adults for a moment, not some horny teens who just discovered the concept of making out.” He almost scolds.

You can roll your eyes at him, shuffle off his lap and out of his stupid car simply because you don’t want to talk. 

But the fierce tenderness in his voice pins you still in your place—straddling him like he’s your comfiest chair. 

You scoot back, which is comical because between his huge body and the sturdy steer, there’s not much space for you to do that. 

“What do you want?” You huff.

The drag of his palm over you as he puts the top of your dress back in its place over your chest is almost religious—like the final fragile showers of rain kissing the earth goodbye at midnight with a promise to return with the next sunrise.  

His focus is pinholed on you, “I wanna know what does this mean to you…if you—” 

“There is no meaning to it.” 

The quick eagerness of your reply throws him off for a bit, but you just run a hand through your hair and continue. 

“Look, Mingyu, we both enjoy this. It takes the med-school edge off from me and you don’t have to follow the whole protocol—you know, jumping through hoops—dinner, dates, sweet-talking someone into bed. This skips all of that.”

He visibly winces at the sheer sterility of your rant but doesn’t interrupt you to dust up his reputation—that of a gentleman who doesn’t take a girl out with the sole purpose of bedding her. 

So you continue with a shrug that doesn’t quite convince your own self, “This…arrangement, it's efficient for the both of us. We’re both emotionally unavailable—I got all my stuff and you have your unrequited love or whatever—so let’s just enjoy this till it lasts. Till one of us either eventually gets bored or finds something, or someone, better.” 

Maybe it's the rose colored sheath tinting your vision, nerves still buzzing with pleasure, but he looks gutted. 

There’s an unsure movement in his lower jaw, like he wants to correct you but doesn’t know how to. 

He lets your words fuse with the cedar fumes emerging from the diffuser as the fog on the window glass condenses. 

His hand drops from your shoulder to the space between you, like he’s letting go of more than just contact.

Then, he nods, like that’s the only thing you’ve left him capable of.

His face falls visibly–the sharper lines softening until they’re gone, a corner of his mouth drooping down ever so slightly that if you weren’t staring at him, you’d miss it. 

You glance away. 

Because you hate that there’s a possibility that you just misread this situation. 

That you didn’t let him finish first before basically asking him to be your glorified fucktoy and hoping he’d share the same page as you. 

Maybe that was too much. Too fast. Maybe you should’ve let him speak first, instead of defining this thing in bloodless terms and expecting him to nod along like it doesn’t affect him.

But that was smart—the thing you just did, right? After all, it is the truth that you haven’t allowed yourself to think about relationships after the absolute shitshow that was your senior year at pre-med. It is equally a fact that Mingyu still longs for his subway girl like the sun longs for the horizon. 

You see it in the evening when he doesn’t feel like himself and leaves early to catch the subway instead—like he would do that a million times every day if it meant he could see her once again. 

You see it when it's autumn—he joins you all for coffee and there’s charcoal on his fingers, like he was busy etching that face from four autumns ago on some discreet canvas. A ghost. A muse.

You’ve never been anyone’s muse. Just a reprieve. A body.

The closest you’ve gotten to a reverence like that was when you had crawled into Mingyu’s bed that night and begged him to take you. 

And maybe it was this jealousy towards the faceless woman or the image of a wounded Mingyu yearning for her that was smoldered into the edges of your brain that night, but just before he had kissed you for the first time, you thought his eyes contained the glimmer which was reserved only for his subway girl. 

Or maybe, worse—Mingyu was trying to look for a glimpse of her in you, just like he did in every other girl. 

Well, that hurts. Insulting, even. 

But you will take it in fragments, even when it’s not meant for you. Even if you’re just another stop on his way to her. Even if his reverence, his touch is owned by someone else…

…you’d still take it second. 

Because before Mingyu, and even after him, no one has ever touched you like you are worth the effort—the effort of being carried up a flight of stairs in a careful embrace, the effort of being driven for in the middle of the night, the effort of calming you down when even your own breath betrays you. 

You have been groped at, clawed on, pushed and pulled. Never held. 

Maybe what you just suggested was selfish. Or desperate. 

Maybe the mention of her name, and the label you just stuck to his head—the one of emotional unavailability—a tad too cruel. 

But that seemed like the wisest definition you could offer him at the time. And he wouldn’t relent, so you had to. 

He’s quiet for a long time. You can hear his breath. Feel the tension rolling off him.

Then, softly, “Is that really how you see this?”

You nod, then lie. “Yeah.”

You are unaware of the death grip your fingers hold over the console, knuckles draining white. 

But he catches it and there’s a subtle shift in his face. 

The sag of his jaw, an unreadable light which flicks but then dims within the same second in his eyes. A crack cratering polished stone. 

Like your hold over the gear, those fingers cupped tight, just spoke more to him than your words ever did. 

He looks straight at you, blinking slowly like your soul has unraveled before him...all through the tips of your cold fingers. 

“Okay,” he murmurs, a ghost of a wry smile dances over his pink lips. The window glass fogs around the singular word.

His fingers drop down like the weight of them might be too much on your shoulders and he instead laces them with yours turning bloodless over the gear. 

He cups your shivering palm in both his hands, warm skin kneading your colder flesh, before he brings it up to his lips. 

“Okay.” He whispers, lips moving over your nimble fingers when he kisses them like he is confiding his deepest secret in your pulsing veins, hoping they carry it to your bitter heart. 

Something falls deep in your gut, and the descend is eternal, cursed. 

You nearly flinch your fingers away from him, but he only presses a more sincere kiss over them before returning them to your chest. 

If your veins didn’t carry his message, he himself would. 

The intimacy of this moment roars with a flame hungrier and higher than the fire that burns at the friction of your naked bodies. 

God, this man is too disarming for his own good. 

And you, well, you don’t handle overwhelm particularly well. 

There’s that itch in your teeth. Air catches in your throat, and a ridiculous, familiar pressure building in your jaw.

“Can I bite you?” You blurt out before you can swallow those juvenile words. 

His head jerks back slightly and he blinks, almost breathless. “Come again?”

It is too late to back out now, he certainly heard you. “Just a little nibble.” You mumble.

“D-do you mind if I ask why?” He raises his brows, still processing. 

You try to describe to him that you bite on things when emotions surge higher than the height of your own physicality. 

“You might think that this is weird but...” you reply, thick liquid brimming your eyes, “this was the most intense conversation I have had in a long, long time…and now I just need to chomp down on something.”

A pause too long to dissolve the humiliation in the air until it's knocking against the windows of the car. 

Shock wars with adoration in Mingyu’s eyes. 

“Oh…” He chuckles, the laughter soft but disbelieving. “Well, a better coping mechanism than lighting up a cigarette, I suppose.”

You shake the urge off with your head and look anywhere but him as you begin climbing off his lap and on to the passenger seat. “Nevermind, that was so creepy. Forget I said anything—”

His hands fly back to your hips to still you back down on his lap before you can slide off fully. 

“Hey, hey vampire princess, no–stay.” And then, he tilts his head towards you, exposing the tanned curve just above his collar like an offering. “Go on, if it helps.”

“Really?” you sniffle, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, eyes skimming the freshly exposed citrus scented smooth skin with disbelief. 

He nods, hesitant and cautious, but he nods. “Just, not too hard…well, I trust you s—OW!”

You grin, placing a chaste kiss over the recent, faint, pink imprint of your incisors on his neck. Then, a gentle soothing massage follows. 

“There, there. You finally have the official seal that certifies you as my fuck-buddy.” you giggle.

....to be continued.

PART 2

tags: @mingyubaguette @belongstoheeseung @ameliamirabela @ffarchivesvt @ninigyuuu @babycaratdeul @ana-marais98 @yewshi @boxsmil3 @mnnnnnsvt @producedbyjeon 

COMMENT DOWN BELOW/REBLOG/DM ME/FILL MY ASKBOX RAHHH I LOVE TO YAP <3333

[belovedgyu]

normal people || kim mingyu part two

pov: you're the girl being sung to and sung about in 'glimpse of us'

PART 1 (you can't skip reading it lmao)

⚬ pairing: architect! kim mingyu x med student fem! reader ⚬ word count: 18k ⚬ warnings: alcohol, drinking, food, spice/nsfw mentions and smut, slight corruption kink, body worship, mentions of sexual trauma, harassment, revenge porn and other mature themes MDNI ⚬ genres: acquaintances with benefits (lol), forbidden romance, slow burn, angst, one sided pining, hurt/comfort, autumn in nyc, corporate!au ft. Joshua, Vernon, Lisa and a few OCs.

mingyu's playlist <3 sure thing by miguel (main) whataya want from me by adam lambert somethin stupid by frank and nancy sinatra too much to ask by the arctic monkeys fade into you by mazzy star

reader's playlist </3 clementine by halsey (main) love hangover by jennie and dominic fike midnight rain by taylor swift virgin veins by coma cinema 

author's note <3 apart from the characters' playlists, i have added one/two songs i'd recommend you to listen to after you're done reading that chapter for maximum vibes lmao.

this fic deals with heavy discourses about sexual harassment and the trauma it inflicts. please refrain from reading this one if that triggers you, pls take care and i love you!

P A R T  II   T H E   S U B W A Y   G I R L

CHAPTER 10 || love at first sight, heartbreak at second song recommended: roslyn by bon iver and st. vincent

(Autumn, four years ago)

Mingyu would never take a seat in the subway. 

With a frame that tall and sturdy, and the train being packed with commuters at the rush hour of the evening, it was the most gentlemanly thing for him to do. 

He would just lean against the cold pole, pull his phone out and simply answer a few emails. One less thing to stress about the next morning with bitter coffee sloshing around his mouth. 

He seldom looked up because he knew what he’d see if he did—long faces as tired as his cursing life behind pursed lips yet coursing through it regardless. 

But that day, when the train halted at a particular station, something twisted in his chest. Something primal, unexplainable, tugging at his soul that if he didn’t lift his eyes up now, he might forever lose a part of himself. 

So he flipped his gaze up. 

And God, it almost knocked him out. 

A girl, maybe the same age as him, got up just when the doors were about to slide close. She didn’t hurry though, just lingered like she’d be fine either way if she had to wait for the next one. 

It wasn’t like she was the prettiest woman ever with a face moulded in perfect symmetry or a skin which glowed ethereal even in the sterile shadows of the subway. 

She was quite simple. Just there. An existing collage of everything Mingyu had ever adored. 

Her face was softened with exhaustion, long hair damp from the mist and frayed in a messy braid. She tugged at the sleeves of her coat, checking with an old man if it would be alright for her to occupy the vacant seat next to him. Mingyu watched how even the wrinkles around the old man’s temples crinkled deeper with a newfound kindness. 

A faint shadow rested under her eyes. 

Mingyu blinked, as if that could clear the unreal shimmer his mind had concocted around her image. 

‘She’s just a girl.’ Except, she wasn’t. 

Mingyu was never the one to believe in “love at first sight.” The idea was too fickle for him—to just look at someone and decide “this!...this is who I will worship all my life.” 

Unfathomable. Ridiculous. Unrealistic. 

Love, to him, was Mayella’s endless caring disguised as nitpicking or Lisa’s unnerving self-confidence which hid her fear of mediocrity or Hansol’s armor of non-chalance which dusted into a veil of panic when no one was looking. All this love only came to him with time spent around their humanity. 

Love was familiarity. Not fantasy. 

So this fluttering feeling in his chest…one which felt like it was going to wreck all his beliefs and faiths, leaving him with a void shaped like a woman he was currently, unabashedly, staring at—it couldn’t be love, right?

The world always tilted its head when Mingyu walked in. Polite giggles of the baristas when he had to duck through the door of a coffee shop, greetings from clients which didn’t have to be so warm, personalized gifts on his birthdays from friends he had known for less than a year…way too many numbers from women at the bar scribbled on scrunched up napkins, lying forgotten deep in his pockets. 

Even the old man in the subway had tipped his hat politely when Mingyu smiled at him. 

But the girl? She didn’t even spare him a glance. She just sighed, leaned back in her seat like the exhaustion set deep in her bones was knackering her spine. Her eyes fluttered close with silent defeat. 

Mingyu took a single step closer, palm gliding over from one strap handle to the next one. 

Barely an inch nearer to the girl than he was before. 

But he could gauge the movement of her irises behind her closed lids, the warmth of her shuddering breath settling like dew on her faintly glossed lips. 

She drew in another slow inhale, this one slumped her shoulders—briefly—before they straightened back up, like she was carrying the entire sky on them. Only now, the weight of a single cloud had dissipated with that one exhale that followed. 

But her expressions were stoic, not even a hint of emotion tugging at them. 

He couldn’t tell if the girl just had a frustrating day, a tiring argument, a disappointing interview or just a heavy life in general. 

His grip fluttered around the strap handle, itching to reach out to rid her of that density. With a friendly hug? Perhaps a joke? Maybe a slight compliment?

Finally, her cheeks puffed with air of one last breath. Deep and audible. 

Had she looked up from the tangled fingers in her lap to her slight left, she would have seen a guy who towered above everyone else, looking at her with a devoted curiosity—like she had told him that the stars he saw in the night sky were her earrings and he believed her. 

But she didn’t. 

Instead, she pulled out a book from her tote bag and immersed herself into the dark smudges on the weathered, browned pages. 

She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. It wasn’t even blocking her view of the book, but she seemed like the type of person who would smooth a hand over a crisp, blank paper before she could begin writing. Undisturbed and meticulous. 

Before Mingyu could register it, there was a slow, easy curve dipping his smile. 

He almost forgot how to blink while memorizing her—how her posture sank further into the seat like she was trying to shrink herself small, how her forehead furrowed with a tiny wrinkle when she read something interesting and then flipped the previous page to reread it again. 

She seemed to be in a timeline of her own. No rushed fingers gliding across a screen, no judgemental analysis of the people around her. 

She was a deep sigh personified with soft hair and those large, doe eyes in a world which panted. 

Pitch black took over the orange evening curling inside through the glass windows when the train entered a tunnel. It began rocking to a slow, tender halt like a harrowing wave calming down to kiss the beach. 

The girl began shuffling in her seat, ready to get off. She stretched the tote bag open, searching for something. Her eyes skimmed through the entirety of its contents several times before she pulled it back over her shoulder, displeased. 

She must’ve been searching for a bookmark for her book, Mingyu concluded. Because she then took off one of her actual earrings, one which had a big tear shaped ruby dangling off of it, and hooked it over some twenty odd pages she had finished reading. 

Of course, she would rather use a gem to mark her book instead of just dogearing it like normal people would. 

Tucking the leatherbound copy under her arm, she got up and Mingyu’s breath clogged in his throat. He wanted to speak to her, say anything.

But his voice betrayed him. 

A gush of air brushed over her face, causing the wisp of loose hair curling over her forehead to flutter, when the doors slid open. A nauseatingly familiar wave of crowd cut in around her. 

Mingyu’s chest tightened, he made the rash decision of getting off on this platform which was two stations before his actual destination. 

But then—as if even God decided to turn his back on Mingyu—the doors closed right in his face, just when he bumped himself through a pack of stuffy bodies. 

The old man chuckled, going back to reading the newspaper like the boy in front of him wasn’t just exalted to the delights of heaven and then pushed down back into the hellish realities of life in a matter of minutes. 

—————

The second time Mingyu got a glimpse of her was the following week. 

Right after he had given up on all hopes of seeing her again.Right after he had convinced himself that he wasn’t, in fact, haunted by her in his dreams every night. 

Same route, same tired girl. 

Only this time, her hair was let open, cinched half up with a butterfly shaped claw clip. A large blue knit sweater had replaced her pale coat.

It was a particularly chilly early-November evening. The teeth of a little boy pressed close to the icy metal pole, clutching a juice box, chattered every time the doors slid open. 

And then, too sudden, too quick. “Oh no!”

Occupied in their same old mundane, no one paid much attention when the little hands of the kid shivered too hard from the cold and the juice box slipped down with an audible thud. Yellow liquid seeped out on the floor in defeated spills from the straw. 

Someone tsked as the spurts of juice got on their snow dusted shoes. Another boarder kicked the half empty box, still stabbed with a sad plastic straw, to the side to avoid any accidents. The subway cart was already wet enough from all the melting snow their heavy boots carried in. 

Mingyu felt bad for the child when he hung his head low, heavy tears dripping down his cheeks on to the floor, right next to his spilled juice.

Had he been standing nearer to the kid, he would have reached out, patted him on the head and consoled him with a “hey buddy, it's alright” or “chin up little guy.” 

But the crowd had fattened at the subway girl’s platform and the only reason Mingyu could even see what went down was because of his advantageous height. 

So he averted his eyes from the kid and back to who seemed like the center of the universe now. Her. 

Surprisingly, she was already on the move.

She had also seen the boy drop his little snack. 

And unlike Mingyu, or the other commuters, who just swept their eyes over the kid instead of comforting him with a hope that softness existed even in the frosty, suffocating cars of a subway, she was already spearing through the bodies like the first beam of sun. 

Mingyu watched when she crouched as best as she could, muttering something to the boy. Her palm gently wiped over his puffed up wet face. 

Reaching down in her purse, she pulled out a glossy pack of something sweet. The crinkle of that wrapper was louder than the robotic announcements booming across the train. 

The boy beamed up to her, the kind of smile only kids can offer—unashamed of gratitude, untouched by guilt. 

The girl smiled back, ruffling the kid’s hair. 

The cold settled between Mingyu’s fingers dissipated. The calm under his ribs bloomed. Because that smile—it unraveled Mingyu right then and there.  

Before he could scrounge for his senses back and build them up into coherence, it was already the time for her to leave him behind, again. 

This time, though, Mingyu moved. 

Or, at least, he attempted to.

His hand unfurled from the handle, foot wrestling against the legs planted steady and unmoving in front of him. When he couldn’t find space to walk after her, he called out. 

“Hey!” But there was no name for him to accompany that with. 

Even if there was, the girl wouldn’t have heard him over the hissing of the doors which shut with a cruel finality. The train jostled harshly into motion, catching him off balance. 

Mingyu blinked. He lost her. Again. 

Stupid. Stupid. How utterly stupid. 

He exhaled exasperatedly, craning his neck up to look outside the glass panels, hoping to see even a shadow of her. 

But the sea of humans outside seemed to have swallowed her whole. Not even a single strand of hair fluttering in the wind. Not even a glance. 

Just…nothing. 

She was there one moment, radiant and real—and then the world caved in around her like some sacred, fleeting secret. 

Mingyu stood there with his fingers curled into his palms and his jaw clenched over everything he should have said. Everything he could have done. 

A soft giggle broke him from his trance.

Mingyu glanced to see the little kid—the one with her sticky chocolate smeared all over his mouth—trying to muffle his snark under his sleeve. 

He gave the kid a sheepish grin, crooked and flustered, like he didn’t have the courage to admit what he just lost.  

The kid shook his head. Almost with…pity. 

Mingyu only blinked down at the kid’s brave audacity, walking back to the cold metal of the pole to ground himself. He couldn’t believe his pout was more prominent than that of the kid when he spilled his juice.  

Love at first sight wasn’t real, he used to think.

But heartbreak at second? Maybe that was the only kind that ever really was.

—————

Mingyu didn’t lie to anyone about the third time he saw her.

He simply concealed the truth and let his friends believe that it must’ve been the subway again. 

But the reality was sharper. Quieter. More permanent. Far away from the fleeting bumps of destiny or the nauseous rattling of the tracks. 

Mingyu saw her two years after the subway. 

And since then, he has never been able to sleep without cursing himself through hell and back for ever befriending Mayella. 

For the girl he could have risked everything for, was the girl forbidden away from him.

CHAPTER 11 || not yours to take song recommended: happier than ever by billie eilish

(present day)

“Watch out asshole!” you call over your shoulder, not caring if that curse landed on a random fratboy or some chemistry professor. 

Because to you, whoever had just bumped into your shoulder and made all the contents of your bag spill over on the concrete was, indeed, the human equivalent of a diarrhea dispenser. 

You crouch down, hurrying to shove everything back in as you wait for your call to connect with Mingyu through the phone clutched between your ear and shoulder. 

A passerby almost steps on to the little packet of sweet treats that you always carry in your bag for sad children or crying girls. You push at his shin, making him tumble and saving the chocolate successfully. 

The same couldn’t be said about the paper clip on your assignment though. 

You bunch up the loose sheets in your hands, flipping through them to set them in the right order when Mingyu picks up the call. 

“Hey nibblebug!” He chirps. 

Had you not been so horny, you would have ended the call and blocked him right then and there. “You’re three strikes down for calling me that.”  

“Doesn’t change the fact that I had to give a presentation with a visible bite mark on my cheek at eight in the morning.” He retorts.

“Well, I told you I bite under pressure but you insisted on discussing my residency plans in the morning so who’s the one at fault here Mingyu?”

You undid one of your earrings and hooked it over the loose sheets in your hands. 

It was an old habit, one you didn’t even think much about until you realized one of your earrings was missing only to find it tucked between some book, serving as a bookmark. 

“Guilty as charged.” he chuckles, “So, what’s the plan?”

“Just got free after three painful lab hours. I need your dick like right now.” 

“Right now?” he repeats.

“Yeah, right now. You should appear right in front of me and dick me down here in this quad full of miserable med school losers.”

A warm laughter reverberates through the phone. Expensive and smooth, just what you prefer to hear all night after a day as stressful as this one. 

“My place?” He asks and you hum affirmative. 

You both prefer the vast space and warmth of his apartment anyways—you don’t even remember when was the last time you spent more than half a day at your own one. 

Especially not since that particular night over a month ago, one which Mingyu had to spend huddled on your flimsy bed talking about the character arcs of your plush toys until three in the morning. 

“Great! I booked you a cab. It should be waiting outside for you by the time you walk out.” he informs. 

“Wha—you didn’t have to!” You begin to start a losing argument. 

“I know,” he insists, “but I wanted to.”

It is just a small, vague gesture—one you can’t even argue over, one that doesn’t feel like smothering. Just gentle, stable support. Maybe that’s why you’re always more than eager to spend these drained evenings with him. 

“If only I had a car,” You sigh, almost dreamily. “you wouldn’t have to—”

He cuts you in immediately, “If only you knew how to drive a car.”

“Well, teach me then.” You banter.

“I tried to, and you ran us into a mailbox.”

The corners of your mouth tug upwards at the memory of his driving lessons from last week. 

Speaking of tugging, something—or rather someone—catches your sleeve. 

“I–” you whip around to find Julianna holding you hostage in the buzzing parking lot of the campus. 

“Hello?” Mingyu’s voice fades, not because he’s speaking slow, but because your phone has started to slip off from your hands which are trickling with sweat all too suddenly. 

“I…uh, I’ll call you back.” You blurt, ending the call with a haphazard click. Exhaustion hisses from between your pursed lips, masking the nervousness that you don’t want to show.

“What do you want, Julianna?”

You retrieve your hand back with more force than necessary. 

She instantly drops it, folding her fists over her chest instead. Like she doesn’t know what to do with them. You scoff at this odd display of innocence from her, like she isn’t the reason you haven’t stepped a foot into a club since the last three months. 

“Please, just hear me out.” she begs. “I just need two minutes.”

“You had three months.” You snip.

Her lower lip wobbles, “I came to your house...”

“You barged into my house. That too, in the middle of the night.” You correct her, “What were you expecting, Julianna? That I’d hug you? Give you some closure that can kickstart your sorry ass redemption arc?”

Her fist uncurls to press over her brows instead, her expressions teetering on the edge of utter distress. 

“Yes, no, maybe! God, I don’t know…I just never know with you. Nobody does. You’re so hard to read.” she admits, her voice hoarse. “No, scratch that. You’re unreadable!”

Her rant catches you off guard. You blink, then let out a hollow laugh–one which scrapes at your throat. 

Your reaction stings her, but she goes on regardless. “You know what people see when they look at you? You’re…you’re this web of lies. Someone who never even treats her classmates like humans but goes out to drink with them on a random Friday—”

“Julianna don’t you dare turn this around—” 

Her voice rides over yours, “My name isn’t even Julianna. It's Juliette. But you decided one random afternoon that it was Julianna and that’s the only one you acknowledge me by.” 

You stagger behind, just by an inch, too stunned to even comprehend this newest piece of information. 

It is her time to scoff now. She shakes her head like she’s pitying your petty ignorance, “You’re this impossible puzzle…one which none of us can ever solve. You act like we’re all beneath you but then you smile and flirt.”

Her words tumble out now, brittle and broken. “You stare daggers at Rory like she ruined your life but then you go around gifting her YSL lipsticks. You look at me like I am some monster for not apologizing earlier but the second I do, you’re holding this gun to my head.”

You let her words hang in there, until they die down under the distant shouts of two guys throwing frisbees at each other. 

The faint rot of autumn invades your lungs when you inhale. “So that’s the reason why you assaulted me, Juliette. Because I am this mysterious girl you can’t wrap your head around…so I have to be broken to be understood, like a toy?”

Her breath catches, she almost gasps. “Wha—no, no! I was drunk, it was a mistake. I misread the signs and—”

“Save it Julianna.” You mispronounce her name, dragging it longer, with purpose this time. “Because whatever you’re gonna say, trust me, I have heard it before. Verbatim.”

A lone tear slips down her cheek when Juliette realizes that you’re not going to place a crown on this gravestone. That she has to live with it forever. 

And as if to hammer your point home, you continue. “I don’t care that you hate yourself for the rest of your life. I only care that you made me doubt my own signals for a night.”

You look at her, really look at her, and you see a girl crumbling under a burden that isn’t entirely hers. A burden that has a darker history that dates way beyond that night in that stingy alley three months ago. 

You exhale, it comes out like steam. “The only relief I can give you is this—I am not broken. Not by you. Not by the hands before you. I survived that night and will keep on surviving them all. So you can free your conscience of having ruined some girl’s life because I never gave you that power to.”

Your phone buzzes with an unknown number, it’s the cab Mingyu ordered for you. 

You glance at Juliette briefly, watching your rant seep deep into her veins, replacing blood and painting her white. 

There’s a steady press of soothing peace in your chest. Clear as a summer sky in the middle of a cloudy autumn. 

Those are the last words Juliette would ever hear from you because your forgiveness—like everything else she ever wanted from you—was never hers to take. 

CHAPTER 12 || give up forever to touch you song recommended: mia and sebastian’s theme from la la land

There’s a slight possessive edge in your voice when you complain. “I still hate the fact that you don’t have a wall of fame which has the name of every girl you’ve slept with. I wanna see what model I’ve replaced as your go-to.”

Mingyu’s shoulders slump at your crass greeting as he shuts the door behind you. 

“Why is objectifying yourself your sole coping mechanism?” He asks, raw curiosity dripping more than sarcasm in his voice.

You let him take your bag off your shoulder and hang it neatly over the coat-rack right by his Armani blazer. 

His apartment is as clean as you remember—not sterile, but not stinking with a sweaty jacket draped over a chair or a bowl hosting its own ecosystem in the sink. 

It is well organized, but not in a curated way, not with an intention to flaunt. 

There’s genuine care and warmth that exists between these beige walls. It's in the kitchen counters which are always wiped clean. Or the fresh pile of laundry, fragrant with detergent, half folded on the couch.

It comforts you more than you would like to admit.

“Oh I am sorry, is self deprecating humor not sexy anymore?” 

“It never was.” He laughs, soft and low, before dipping his head down to place a chaste kiss on your temple. 

You don’t want to alert him that now, your other temple aches for a kiss too. 

So you avert your eyes from his too endearing ones and clear your throat, toeing off your shoes. 

“Yeah, yeah, go ahead. Have your ‘Nicholas Sparks novel’ moment.” You place a hand over his chest, trying to swallow the smile that threatens to break. 

“I wasn’t aware forehead kisses were copyrighted by emotionally constipated paperbacks.” He snides, nudging your side playfully. 

As you walk past him, he silently sets your boots upright before padding behind you. 

You crash on his couch, burying your nose into the faint sweetness of fresh washed linen. 

“Want some wine?” He calls out from the kitchen. 

It’s not much of an offer when you can already hear the clinking of the glass and the telltale sloshing of your favorite cherry liquid. 

“Give it to me before I combust.” Your voice muffles under the heap of fabric.

“Only if you drink it away from my laundry.” 

With the type of day you’ve just had, you deserve to chug down the entirety of whatever no-price-tagged-bottle he just poured you a teeny-tiny sample from. But you know Mingyu wouldn’t take you to his bed if you were intoxicated. So you settle for the mere two sips of the wine he offers you. 

His nose scrunches up with disdain when you snatch the flute from him, sit on your haunches right by his very white and recently ironed shirts, and clink your glass with his scotch. 

You roll your eyes, huffing and puffing like you do when you are talking to your grandma and scoot away before Mingyu bursts a nerve from you drinking red wine near his white cotton shirt—one which he owns at least seventeen replicas of. 

When he sits down on the single love seat, you don’t think much before getting up and settling down on his lap like it's your right. 

His arm curls around your hips before your legs can fold over his thighs. He pulls you in, tucking your head under his jaw like this moment is exactly what his limbs were made for—to hold you before you can even ask him to. 

“Rough day?” He questions, freeing your now empty flute from your unwilling grip and setting it down on the mahogany coffee table. 

You suck on the skin of his exposed collarbone you had just nipped at before detaching your lips for a brief moment. 

“How d’you know?” you mumble with a pout you don’t even know you have.

He smiles at you, it brims with endearment, before tucking back a loose strand of hair behind your ear which is missing an earring. He doesn’t question you about it, like he knows exactly where it might be—holding some important pages for you.

“Well for starters, you haven’t stopped biting me ever since you walked through that door Miss Chompette.” He corks his brows at you. 

Your eyes flicker down to the shallow teeth marks over his exposed forearms, the recent one on his neck, then back at him. 

You didn’t plan on speaking anything remotely relevant to what happened earlier, but his inviting warmth just cajole the words out of your throat before you can gulp them down. It is scary, to be honest, how he unravels you by just being there. 

“Do you think it's weak to not forgive someone?” You murmur, almost embarrassed. 

“Depends.” he shrugs, savoring the last sip of his drink. 

He sets the glass down next to yours with a soft clink, then leans his until his cheek rests over the crown of your head. 

“On what?” You press. 

His arm tightens around you. “On whether that unforgiveness turned into a grudge. Because grudges weigh you down, unforgiveness flows.”

That prompts you to think, do you hold a grudge against Juliette? 

“What if…what if you just don’t want to forgive them?” You prod after carefully considering your true emotions about this whole ordeal. 

His breath fans over the wisps of hair on your forehead as he takes his time to ponder. 

Then, softly, he asks. “Well, why don’t you want to?”

“I dunno…maybe because it didn’t feel sincere? Like, even while apologizing, she tried to put the blame on me.” You burrow your cheek further into his neck, silently praying that he didn’t hear your slip up and decode that you were talking about a girl. 

“Well, then it's not weak.” There's a clear finality in his tone when he says that. 

You pull away to look at him, searching for any signs which indicate that he’s just trying to make you feel better. There’s none. “You think?” 

“Yes.” He nods, “It would have been a grudge had you denied her forgiveness just to hurt her. But it seems like the apology didn’t feel real to you. Forgiveness isn’t some holy grail—it's a tool. If it isn’t useful, you don’t need it.” 

His words land at your chest with a thud. So matter of fact. So earnest. So Mingyu. 

You laugh even when there’s nothing funny because you’re at a loss of words which could mean something here. Unbeknownst to you, there was moisture building up under your lids and this sudden movement only jerks it out, spilling tears on your cheeks. 

He doesn’t therapize you further, he knows he doesn’t need to. Not after you’ve got the assurance you wanted. 

All you need now, is some warmth after surviving all the icy lashes that this day has rendered on you. And he gives you that, no questions asked. 

Even if it means cradling you here on this chair all night long, then so be it. He’ll hold you until his arms go sore, and when they do, he'll still hold you even after life begins draining out of them. 

Because there was once a time where he longed for even a glimpse of you for two whole years. Then, he ached some more to be able to touch you.  

And now you are on his lap like a blessing he never expected but always prayed for. 

He knows not to make a home out of borrowed moments, but he still lines the walls of this one with the softest parts of himself—secretly hoping you’d decide to stay even when you’ve convinced yourself about the fleetness of this…arrangement.

The nimble fingers toying with the collar of his shirt dull until they weigh down with sleep on his chest, your breath steadying as you slip into slumber. The creases around your eyes relax like they do only when you’re hiding away from the world in a safe corner.

Mingyu wonders if you know just how sacred you are. He wonders if you know that he’ll wait here on this very chair to hold you like this everyday, till the end of his days. 

He kisses your temple—the other one—the one he didn’t kiss before, and feels the thudding pulse finally relax under his lips. Content. Satiated. 

CHAPTER 13 || i see a woman || explicit smut warning song recommended: virgin veins by coma cinema

“I just never know with you. Nobody does. You’re this puzzle that none of us can solve.” 

You should be focusing on the sweet sounds of pleasure eliciting out of Mingyu’s parted lips as you drag your tongue across his abs. 

But your mind keeps on drifting back to the quad. To the day before yesterday. To the complaints you’ve heard several times before, just expressed in different words. 

Mingyu’s hand buries in the mess of your hair, not to push you down but to pull you up, make you straddle his lap on the bed. 

It is his turn to savor the smooth expanse of your skin now. 

He flips you around so that you’re on your back now, hair sprawled over his pillow like midnight while he hovers over you like a full moon. 

It distracts you for several seconds, the way his teeth scrape down on the marks he had left earlier—reigniting them with need and just the right amount of pain. 

But then his lips brush over a specific spot on the swell of your breast, the one which still hosts the ghosts from that wretched night. The one which Juliette had thought was hers to claim. 

Your breath hitches…the guttural sound makes Mingyu halt altogether. That wasn’t a moan of pleasure—it seemed to him like you just choked on plain air. 

He pulls back, just by an inch, the haze of want still wrapped around your bodies. 

“All well?” He asks.

“You’re so hard to read. You’re unreadable.”

Juliette’s voice rings without an alarm. The statement must be true–everyone you know has said that to you at some point. 

But then again, if you’re so hard to read, why is it that Mingyu can read a single skipped breath of yours like it's the only language he ever learnt?

You attempt to nod in answer, but the overwhelm has already settled in your spine like frost on a mountain’s peak, leaving you frozen with trauma on the spot. 

Your eyes flicker away from his, down to the mark on his collarbone, the one you had left with your teeth earlier. You rest your palm flat over it, tracing its border, and then with a voice that’s barely above a breath, you ask him. 

“What do you see when you look at me, Mingyu?”

Not–’how do I look?’ Or, ‘do you want me?’But ‘do you see me?’

The slight jerk of his head tells you that he hadn’t anticipated you to ask that. 

Honestly, you didn’t either. 

It is a question you have never voiced because you’re afraid you already know the answers—’a complicated child’...‘a girl too independent for her own good’...‘a woman unfathomable’. 

What’s worse is the fact that you cannot even turn to your mother to ask who you are, or your father about what makes you, you. 

Because you don’t have them. You don’t know them. 

Everyone else would just give you some generic answer, some well rehearsed nursery rhyme. But something chafes at your lungs, this nervous thrill wrapped in hope, which tells you that Kim Mingyu is about to read you like a fucking sonnet. 

He takes a deep breath, the way he does when he’s about to give something of himself he can’t take back. Then he leans down, still holding your eyes. His breath comes closer to you, becomes one with yours. 

He murmurs, almost as if addressing someone sacred, “I see a woman who always wears bangles, anklets, as many rings as she can…and those dangly earrings, which get caught in my sheets.” 

He shifts, brushing his thumb over your wrist where a single, thin silver chain jingles faintly. “I love that your body sings when you come to me.” He hums. 

Your eyes widen. 

Mingyu is nowhere near finished though. 

“I see a woman who is so easy to catch in a lie.” He chuckles, “Because you always reach out to touch things around you when you lie, as if feeling something solid would make it real, turn it into a truth.”

The coffee cup at the brunch when you lied about losing your virginity. The decorative vase that you reached out for at Mayella and Josh’s villa when you lied to him about being okay. Thistle being choked between your fingers when you told Mingyu that you weren’t scared the night he spent in your bedroom. The deathgrip over his gear in his car when you said you didn’t see him, see this, as anything beyond a source of stress relief—soulless and safe. 

Oh God. He saw right through you all those times? He knew you were lying all along…?

The air shifts into something lighter when he watches you squirm under the captivity of his watchful gaze. He tries to lighten up the intensity. “I see a woman whose teeth itch when she’s having some intense conversation. Like right now, I know you’re dying to bite me, nibblebug.” 

He laughs, sitting up to gaze down at your semi nude self. A curved finger of his drawls lazily between the valley of your breasts, trailing all the way down to your navel where he rests his palm. Heated with desire. This…this is where he gets to give you all he has. This is how deep he touches you when he’s buried inside you. 

“I see a woman who hates nicknames yet loves the sincerity of a real one—who names her teddy something profound and meaningful.”

He softens, “I see a woman who embodies Persephone in Lisa’s art studio, who is spring wrapped in a cotton dress. Who can even make the ruler of the underworld yearn for a glimpse of her.” 

His knuckles brush over your cheekbone like a secret before he tucks back your hair behind your ear so delicately that you think you imagined it.

“I see a woman who longs for open gardens, but has to make do with Manhattan’s concrete jungle. Someone who thinks Maye’s friends are stupid, yet sticks around with them to not disrespect her cousin.”

You cut in, “I don’t think you’re stupid.”

He places his hands on either side of your head, caging you down on his mattress with his body. 

“I know,” he whispers against your cheek, his lips pressing a blurred kiss there. “But I am…so, so stupidly in lo—”

You turn your head around before he can finish that sentence to capture his babbling lips between yours. No warning. No space. 

The heat of your kiss melts his words into a puddle which dribbles down one side of your mouth. It is messy, hungry and brimming with the weight of things unsaid. 

You slide your hands to hug his shoulders, but he laces his fingers with yours and pins them back down on the mattress by your ears, disallowing you any pleasure of feeling his rippling muscles. 

A whimper flutters past your throat when he pushes your eager tongue back into your mouth, overpowering you. 

There’s no rhythm to it, not this time around. 

Just passion, desperation and need—all slathering up both of yours’ raw bitten lips which refuse to part even when your chests burn for air. 

He kisses you with the frustration of being disrupted mid-speech. With the fervor of every moment he has to restrain himself around you. With the patience of every night he has longed for you. 

Like if he kissed you just hard enough, you’d know how much he needs you. Like it would make up for the time lost with him deliberating over how to touch you without scaring you with the passion he harbors for you. 

He allows you some mercy of a breath by pulling away, his wet mouth gleaming with your spit more than his own. 

His fingers curl around your hips like they have multiple times before, but this time they are a little frantic—digging in deeper. Like he was afraid you would slip away from his hold like a thread of smoke. 

Shifting a little lower, it's your abdomen that faces the heat of his kisses now. 

You sink further down into the bed, as if it’ll engulf you like water and save you from this fire he is igniting. 

Mingyu is relentless tonight—wouldn’t loosen his grip in the slightest even when you begin to writhe under him. 

“Mingyu…” you plead, unsure what exactly you are begging for. 

He isn’t being cruel or harsh on your skin, it’s just this…love…pouring out of him that is tightening your heart with jagged knots. 

Or maybe, there’s a slight possibility that you’re the one emitting that love. Does it even matter who is lighting up who?

You don’t know anymore. There’s a choking smoke billowing all around, soot filling up lungs until all that once mattered suffocates. Until all the water is murked and the air polluted. Until all the norms of survival collapse.

When a forest burns down, who stops to ask where the initial spark of fire came from?

Your back arches off the bed when he licks at your navel and he uses that opportunity to reach around your chest and clasp your bra open. He tugs the garment off your arms like he despises the mere existence of it. 

When he busies himself with palming your naked breasts, his jaw loosening with wonder as your nipples go taut at the slightest touch, you unbutton your jeans, pulling them down as far as you can. 

He helps you out by jerking them off your ankles and throwing them somewhere on his beige rug. Your fingers wrap around the waistband of your underwear next but his longer digits curl right above yours. 

“These are mine to take off.” He warns, stretching the elastic of your underwear, “Always, mine.”

Fleeting moments like this one make you think that Mingyu is possessed by something sharper than lust. A phantom, old and aching, which constantly claws at his skin to be let out; but he restraints it back. 

The darkness seeps out regardless—sometimes as this heady possessiveness, sometimes as his eagerness to corrupt you.

You meekly nod, retrieving fisted palms back to your chest as he holds your eyes with his hooded ones, peeling off the soiled fabric in a smooth motion. 

“Open your legs for me, baby.” is his next command, spoken slowly, with care. 

It leaves you a wreck. Not because he's asking you to do something unusual, but because it's his palms which are always in charge of parting your thighs. 

You stare up at him, breathless and bewildered. There’s no challenge looming over his sinful expressions, just a tiny hint of wonder about whether you’ll do as he says. 

That hint morphs into an amused smirk when you follow his command and shift your thighs further away from each other. 

It's barely a few inches, but he doesn’t expect you to turn into a bold mess within a single night. 

Large, calloused palms glide down your pliant thighs, pulling them further apart to expose your blushing core for him. 

“Only I get to see this…” It is a question. It is a prayer. It is a poem. It is gratitude. All tied together in a hushed whisper. He speaks it more to himself than to you.

“Tell me to stop when you need to?” He mumbles the usual protocol. 

“Yes, yes I will.” You pant, barely strumming your words together because if you don’t vocalize your consent, you know he won’t proceed. 

“Thanks darling.” he whispers, a gentle smile at his bruised lips. 

His fingers begin teasing the delicate folds between your legs, another palm mapping out every inch of your body with shuddering curiosity. He watches you keenly as you dip your head further into the plush pillow, soft sighs flowing out of your lips like symphonies of his favorite opera.

And when his thumb encircles your clitoris, his fingers sliding up and down gathering all your moisture, and you mewl, he instantly coddles your face with his free hand. 

“Shh, sweetheart, s’okay.” he croons, continuing to stroke your cunt—even though your thighs tremble, threatening to close. 

He knows that it's just a false alarm, that you wouldn’t shy away from him and continue to take it like the good girl you are. 

You prove him right—relaxing your hips after a few more flicks, the heels of your feet digging into the sheets but never pushing him away.

Your fingers are bunching his duvet, knuckles draining white as he continues working magic over your swollen petals. He hasn’t even touched your entrance yet beyond a brief brush of his thumb, but it is already leaking with heat and drenching the sheets below—clenching around nothing. 

Mingyu sees that, of course he does. 

Slowly, very carefully, he slips a finger inside with such elaborate patience that it draws a gasp out of you. Your body welcomes him with eager hunger, walls tightening around him with a sure insistence, refusing to let go when tries to slide it out. 

He chuckles low, “Baby, relax. We have all night.” 

That promise eases you almost instantly. You lean into him even more—a sudden gush of liquid warmth spurting around him when he adds a second finger. 

He stretches you out, rubs your clitoris with his thumb, praises your everything, all while keeping his focus trained on your face. He memorizes every crook of his fingers that makes you mewl, every hard push that scrunches up your face painfully. 

Soon, the rough digits jutting in and out of you become slick and slimy with your arousal. A sinful squelching sound, constant and loud, overpowers your moans. 

That’s when he pushes further in until he’s knuckles deep, flirting with that one specific spot that always makes you forget your own name. 

Your lower body bucks and thrashes, eyes flying open when he begins fucking you open with his fingers. An unintentional kick from you lands over his bicep when he rams into that gummy spot repeatedly. 

“Behave!” He reprimands, free hand catching your flailing ankle and using it to hook your leg over his hip. 

“Sl-slow down…” You choke. 

He instantly obeys, but not without adding to your predicament by introducing a third finger. He doesn’t shove it in, but you can feel it prod around your hole, coaxing to be let in. 

To help you take it, his lips wrap around your puffy nub, flicking it with his tongue before proceeding to suck on it like a man gone animalistic. 

You’re crying with pleasure, opening yourself more and more until all three of his fingers sit snug inside your warmth. It is truly impressive how much your cunt stretches and lubricates to adjust to him. 

He contributes to your wetness by spitting down on your sensitive folds before diving back in, allowing the embarrassing mixture of his saliva and your juices to soak you both in a sheen of carnal hunger. 

At a particular thrust of his fingers, some liquid splutters past his fingers, landing on his face. 

“Mingyu!” You cry out, mortified at what just happened. 

He’s looking at you, wild eyes upturned to you and wet smirking lips clamping down on your abused clit. 

“You just squirted baby.” He groans right against your cunt, like he couldn’t remove his lips from you for even two seconds to speak properly. 

The vibrations only make you release another spurt. Your jaw has widened to a point of dislocation, yet he keeps going, free hand rubbing warmth over your tummy like he’s asking you to give him some more. 

Unlatching one of your hands from his head, you brush back the loose hair falling over his eyes. He makes you weep some more by making you take his third finger at a new faster pace he sets, but he knows it's necessary to prepare you for what is to come. 

You recognize the telltale signs of your orgasm—it brims in your belly chasing down south until you fall apart for him with a blubbering sob of his name.  

Mingyu is busy digging into your flinching hole trying to scoop out all your wetness—wanting to drown in it. He slurps and sucks every bit of it, fingers unplugging out of you so that his mouth can take over your sopping entrance. 

Once he has sucked you clean and there’s nothing more that you can give him without getting overstimulated beyond your limit, he leaves you be. Wet. Ruined. Aching. 

He doesn’t want to tire you, or scare you away. Not yet. Not tonight. 

Your body begins to panic when his warmth departs but then it lulls back when he hovers above you, his broad chest and shoulders blocking the view of anything that isn’t him. 

You don’t care that his fingers are still soaked with your musky arousal when they cup your face, nor do you mind that his lips carry the heady scent of yours when he leans down for a kiss. Instead, you find yourself enjoying tasting your remnants on him. 

Mine. You affirm. 

“You did so good sweetheart,” He praises, “Keep yourself relaxed for me, will you?”

Your thumb traces the edges of his lips as he waits for your answer. 

With shy eyes blinking the tears back in, you ask him. “Yeah, but…can we try something new?” 

Usually the one to follow his lead, this the first time you have asked him for something in bed. Pride shines in his grin when he quirks his brows at you. “Go on?”

Thorns scratch at your throat but your voice is honey when you speak. “Is it okay if I turn around?”

There is no personal grudge or a vehement disdain that Kim Mingyu harbors towards the position you’re referring to. He just doesn’t want to be unable to see your face when he makes love to you. He can’t kiss your tears that way. 

It is part of a reason why he has tried almost all the basics with you by now—taking you against the wall, making you ride him until you cried, showing you that your legs can sure as hell reach your ears. 

But your face…those ruined eyes, those plump lips, that flushed skin—a unique shade every time—is where he draws the line. He physically can’t get himself to push you down, to muffle your moans, into a pillow. 

But tonight isn’t about him. And he recognizes that. Swallowing his protests, he helps you turn over on your knees. 

A giant pillow is stuffed right under your hips as a precaution while you’re given the liberty to do whatever you want with your arms—elbows or palms, mattress or the headrest—he even offers to hold them for you behind your back if you want to. 

You resort to folding them under your forehead instead, fists bunching up the sheets below. Once you’re settled comfy, back arched, sensitive breasts smushed down on his duvet and knees spread and stable, he reintroduces his fingers to open you up into this new position. 

It’s a new sensation, but not an unwelcome one. 

He digs at new angles, finding new spots that make you moan before he finally locates his favorite one—the one that makes gushes of liquid splurge out of your body.

You sigh and hum, knowing that now that he can’t see your face, your sounds are the only ways you can tell him what works and what doesn’t. You gave up on words the moment he laid you down on his bed anyways. 

Once he is content with what he sees and the pillow under your hips has a damp spot beginning to grow, you hear the telltale sound of the rustle of his tee being discarded followed by the unzipping of his pants. 

There is some kind of sick, twisted pleasure Mingyu finds in touching your naked body while he’s fully clothed for as long as he can. 

He lines himself up with you, nudging his hardened dick up and down your quivering cunt and collecting your slick. 

It was a mutual decision of yours to not use the condom given that you’re on the pill. Yet he makes sure. “Want me to use a condom?” 

“No, no!” you keen, shaking your head frantically. 

His palm smoothes down over your back, a gentle assurance. “Alright.”

The blunt tip of his dick presses down on your entrance and unlike his fingers that had to coax you to be allowed in, your hips thrust back on their own—taking his cock halfway in. 

A feminine gasp echoes throughout his bedroom, followed by his painful hiss. He tries easing himself out, but you have him in a vice grip. 

“God, baby, you’ll hurt yourself.” He cajoles—warmth in his words, reverence in his palms kneading your soft flesh. “Calm down.”

You trust him, you really do. Your shoulders sag and your taut hips slump on the pillow, letting him decide the pace. 

He begins to push in, with more patience than you ever could, making you feel every drag of his veiny girth. 

The pure white of his sheets is a harrowing contrast to the hollow stars blurring your vision. So you clench your eyes shut, breath stuttering through clinched teeth as he settles in full, defined hips pressed against your plump ass. 

“Feelin’ good?” He asks, rubbing your lower back. 

You nod, hoping he’s looking at your head, because you can’t do anything else. If you open your lips now, you’ll sob from the overwhelm and that might cause him to stop. 

“I am gonna move baby.” His voice sounds strained like he is having a hard time giving the naive girl in his bed all these warnings instead of just fucking her however he wants. 

And as if reading through his pain; “Do whatever you want, Mingyu.” You whisper, tears pooling down over your hands. 

That was all he needed. 

His fingers dig inside your hips, holding you down, as he pulls out until only the tip remains. Then, he leans forward until the cold metal of his chain pools down on the hot skin just under your hairline, and he slams back in. With just how strong Mingyu is, even the slightest of force is brutal on your body. 

“Ahh!” You puff out, scrambling to chomp down on the skin of your own arm to not alert him about the painful pleasure you’re experiencing. 

But he stalls, only moving again when you begin to whimper with complaint. 

He sweeps your hair to a side with a swift motion of his hand to expose your sweat slicked neck for his wet lips to feast upon. 

Another drag out, another thrust in. Careful yet precise. 

This time, with his arms locked around your waist while his mouth burns a hickie between your shoulders. 

“I love the way you stretch to take me.” He drawls, his words vibrating against your skin as you tremble under him. 

“And I…I love the way you m–make me feel, Gyu.” You hiccup. It might be the most honest thing you have ever said to him, and for once, you’re not holding anything in your clammy hands. 

He answers you by running his large palm over the expanse of your back, picking up a curated rhythm which feels good to you both. Slow and deep, like he wants you to enjoy it to your heart’s content tonight and then never ask him to take you like this ever again. 

But you whine with your face buried into his bed. “Go harder, Gyu.” It is muffled, but doesn’t go unheard when he is practically pressed flat on top of you.

His hips begin to snap rough against your bottom, lewd smacks making your head spin. Your knees give out the moment he hits your sensitive spot and you fall flat on the mattress—sandwiched between his heavy, hard body and the poor, squished pillow. 

“No baby, you gotta stay up on your knees.” He mocks. “You were begging to be fucked like this, you don’t get to lay back down.”

With his hands locked around your waist, he hauls you back up until you’re sitting—back pressed firm to his chest, lips never leaving the sweet spot he’s suckling on. 

The heat burning into the g-spot in your walls that he brushes over and over, oozes out across your core. Your insides are burning for him as he carves out a not so small space for himself. Each thrust aimed with an intention of etching himself on your very soul. 

You get it why people go crazy over backshots—it just hits different this way. 

His coarse fingers come down on your abused clit, rubbing it over and over like he’s polishing a scrap of metal. God, you love it when he loses control and just goes wild on you.

“Feels s’good Gyu!” You cry out, digging your nails into his forearms. The same forearms press down on your belly when he fucks you deeper, making you keen.

Every single inch of your body that can be stimulated is being given all the love and attention by him—the spot he keeps on bumping inside your walls, the scarlet folds stretched for him being soothed by his fingers, the skin on your neck that is never left unblemished by his lips and teeth. 

You’re aware of it all. In fact, too aware to a point that every fibre of you begins pulsing with what he’s giving you. He senses your orgasm before you do and begins syncing all his movements with practiced care, merging them whole to push you past your tipping point.

You are silk in his rough hands—lush and slippery. But he contains you like you’re his salvation. Grounding you here, calling you back. 

The brilliance of a thousand stars explode at once behind your eyes when you fall apart for him. Wet lips mumbling incoherent prayers to the Gods you abandoned years ago. Nails digging into him like he’s the sole reason you haven’t lost all faith.

He doesn’t falter, just holds you upright through it all, even when your knees lose all sensations and strength. Your arms fall loose over his, head slumps down over his shoulder, too fucked out to even open your eyes. You just nuzzle your face under his jaw as he chases his own release now. 

“Baby, you with me?” He asks, slowing down for a beat.

“Y-yes…don’t stop…please don’t stop.” You gurgle, a streak of drool dripping down your chin when his hand grabs one of your bouncing tits. 

He doesn’t even get the chance to reply to you when a scream cracks through the air and you orgasm for the third time tonight. This time, you clench around him so tight that he follows suit, staring down at how your forehead scrunches up with desire which teeters on the edge of agony. You’ve ruined his ability to be able to come undone without seeing your face. 

Warmth floods inside of you when he fills you up with ropes and ropes of his hot semen. It is so much, so messy—even trickles down your legs onto the bed. 

“Don’t spill it.” He tsks, laying you down gently. 

His hips don’t stop rutting, but they’re lazier now, tuned in with each hiccup of yours. 

You thought being unable to see his face tonight might make it easier. 

But Mingyu’s devotion will find you even when you turn your back to him, curling over and sweeping under every wall you put up. It is terrifyingly inevitable…like doom.

(a/n: to the anon who said that mingyu being observant and clocking reader’s fake nonchalance in pt 1 scratched their brains right, i hope you’re happy with this one lol)

CHAPTER 14 || a sketch, a girl, a subway (a/n: i really recommend listening to midnight rain by taylor swift after reading this chapter)

Mingyu never said that you can’t tour around his house while he sleeps. 

So you’re technically not swooping when you find yourself in the middle of his study with one of his satin sheets wrapped under your arms like a wedding gown. 

Just a curious gal trying to see what goes on in his head when a lovesick architect in New York City designs homes with random subway girls in his mind. 

Besides, Mingyu had been so weird in bed tonight, humanizing you and what not. He deserved to get his privacy invaded for making you feel loved like that.

You start slow, harmless. Just flipping through the unfinished blueprints on his study, reading the incoherent notes scribbled in the margins of each map, digging through the drawers stuffed neat with stationary. When you find nothing more than indecipherable mathematics and precise angles in his main work folder, the investigation picks up pace. 

You try not to voice out what it is that you’re actually looking for. It is embarrassing. But there’s a silent prayer perched on your pursed lips, “Show yourself subway girl.” 

You almost flinch at your own reflection when it catches in a mirror you hadn’t spotted before. 

There is maroon splashed all across your body, spluttered in patches and marked by teeth. The sweet amber of his citrus and berries shampoo, from the bath he gave you just a couple hours ago, still lingers in your hair. The post-coital glow on your skin is his doing, too. 

Your heart squeezes, the rhythm of your breath falters. From each wet thread of your hair dripping with his perfume to each patch of skin stamped with his name, you are utterly, and completely—his. 

And it is tragically pathetic, honestly, that you’re here searching for the woman who, in turn, owns him. Whom he would forget your entire existence for if she knocked at his door right now.  

You look away before you can berate yourself even more and go back to distracting your mind with this demeaning pursuit. 

A slew of loose papers fall down like hail when you accidentally knock a book over. You crouch down, the fabric on your body rustling as you try to gather those sheets back in order. 

When you try to get up, you can’t. Something hinges at the corner of your makeshift dress. You tug at it, only to be replied back to by a threatening sound of satin ripping. 

The only source of illumination in this wood panelled room is the soft moonlight of a full moon streaming in from the large, open window. You try feeling around what hooks your sheet, fingers wrapping around what feels like a knob. 

You pull harder. 

This time, your sheet comes loose, but so does what appears to be a hidden drawer at the bottom of his bookcase. 

You wait for a beat for a mouse to jump out. When it doesn’t, you reach in to see what buried treasure Mingyu hides here. 

The surface you graze is rough and sturdy, thick with glossy pages. You pull it out to examine it better—its a photo album. 

With quivering fingers, like your body knows the importance of this moment, you flip it open. 

There are things so inexplicably pure and delicate in this world, that they slow time down. Like the large, glassy eyes of a baby Mingyu staring back at you when you turn the first page over. Cheeks puffed out with something sweet and sticky, little fingers curling around the hem of his pink pajamas that swallowed him whole. The picture stuck adjacent to it pulls at your heart even more—a toddler in a lion costume. Hands stretched out into paws, lower lip caught between teeth as he pours all his concentration into the performance he is in. Then one in his mother’s arms, another on his father’s shoulders. Kissing the forehead of his newborn sister, proudly flashing a giant A+ on his first report card. 

The album is heavy, not with the photographs, but with the love it holds. The stories it carries. 

Childhood skips into teenage in a matter of seconds with a few flips of pages—awkward sometimes, rowdy the most. The sweaty and spent soccer squad throwing fries at their man of the match, the clumsy robot which bagged third place in nationals, the smug grin squished into the fair cheeks of the blonde girl he took to prom, a vacation to the Bahamas where he scowls down at his sister—snapped mid eye roll. 

A proud father standing outside the main gate of a prestigious university with his chest puffed out next to a son who just got accepted to study architecture there. 

Mayella makes an appearance before anyone else does. Her hair is dyed electric green—sophomore year—as she attempts to strangle a laughing Mingyu at some party, a clump of spaghetti on her shoulder. On the next page, Lisa, surprisingly without her curtain bangs, is sandwiched between them in a polaroid, beaming wide with a trophy. The fading note scribbled with a dark marker below it reads: ‘me and maye coddling li for winning @ the art exhibit.’ 

The page turns and takes you to New York with Mingyu. Hansol and him before the Empire state building, buff arms slung lazily over each other’s shoulders. Chiseled by time and tanned deeper with the toils of adulthood, Mingyu looks firmer now. His smile is easier, more natural and mature, not burdened with the weight of pleasing his parents, or charming his high-school girlfriend, or impressing his uni peers. This air of self assurance serves him well. 

There are fewer pictures now, there ought to be. Once real life takes over, one forgets to pause and catch moments behind the lens. 

But still, Mingyu’s attempts to cherish his life don’t stop altogether. There are a few fragmented shots here and there—Hansol mid laugh on a rooftop bar, the smudge of paint on Lisa’s blazer as she greets the Mayor, the entire squad with Mayella and Joshua immediately after the proposal. 

You’re in none of them. You don’t expect to be. You always step away into a corner the moment someone pulls out a camera. 

The sigh you let out is laden with the weight of the life you’re carrying in your arms. A life so majestic, so full of love. How vain it was for you to think that this man relies on a single woman for inspiration when he is surrounded by homes all around. 

A lonesome tear you didn’t even know was drenching your lashes finally slips down when you shut the album close. The droplet lands on a frail sheet of paper which was tucked in between the last few pages you didn’t explore and has slipped out in your lap like it couldn’t bear not being looked at. 

You pick it up, thinking it's just a loose page, but the faint beam of moon pools over it at an angle that highlights the faint smudge of charcoal on the other side. 

There’s a tug-of-war between your gut and your heart in the split second which ticks just before you turn the sheet over. Like what lies on the flip side of this paper is about to hit you like an uncontrolled truck on slippery asphalt. 

But you turn it over regardless. 

The moon hanging low outside Mingyu’s window crashes down on Manhattan’s concrete with a loud bang. Or maybe that was just the sound of your gasp. 

A sketch. A girl. A subway. 

The drawing drips with reverence like even before he knew her, Mingyu somehow figured out the subject of his sketch hated cameras. 

He had to capture her from memory and sight alone because he couldn’t bear not including her in this kaleidoscope of his life. So he drew her and kept her here, away from his overbearing childhood, away from his rowdy teenage years, away from the mares of his adulthood. Guarded and cherished. 

Ruby earrings—shape of a tear. Wuthering heights, with a spine colored silver clutched between ringed fingers. Her eyes downturned. Her lips glossed cherry, half hidden under her soft scarf. 

You. 

Unmistakably. Awfully. Truthfully…you. 

——————————————

(4 years ago)

Mayella loved her family name more than she loved breathing. It came with history, studded with honor and followed by a legacy to upkeep. So it was truly a stupid decision for you to purchase a ticket to New York after everything that went down. 

Thankfully, you hadn’t told her that you were here because if you did, she would have insisted you stay with her. 

And then what would you tell her? 

“Hey sis, so in true bastard fashion, the adopted daughter of the family finally botched its reputation. I hope grandma still sends me her ugliest sweater this Christmas because the prettiest ones are always reserved for her true grandkids, the ones who share her blood.”

Or, “Maye, I am here because everyone is practically spitting at me. I know it should die down, it's the last semester after all, but I don’t know.” 

Or simply, “How do you survive being the campus slut?” 

You didn’t even have your luggage with you, had left the moment you stepped into your friend’s place and found that video playing on a laptop balanced between her and her two roommates like it was some harmless prank on YouTube. Like it wasn’t a skin splitting humiliation you had never signed up for.

Your friend had halted mid giggle when she saw you, gave some excuse like “it was already playing when I got here.” 

You didn’t fight, you didn’t scream, you didn’t even snap back when one of her roommates jutted out a tongue against his inner cheek and made the vile gesture of sucking a dick at you. 

You just ran. Ran away to New York and hid there for a month. 

You didn’t go to Mayella. Didn’t even let her know you had found a month to month sublet in the Lower East Side and spent your days stitching yourself back together, piece by piece.

It smelled like piss and paint thinner in the stairwell there. The lock on your door stuck. There was one window that barely opened, and the radiator screamed like a dying animal every few hours. 

But at least no one here knew your name. No one called you the girl from the video. No one watched you and saw a punchline.

You once came across a rat on a random street. It looked at you with beady eyes full of challenge. Then, it scurried away. There wasn’t much difference between you and that rodent. Both filthy and disgusting. 

Only it had the guts to hold the eyes of potential danger. While you had just run away. 

You rode the subway once or twice, here and there. The train always rattled harder than your chest, it weirdly put you at ease. You could always excuse the shivering in your calves to the icy interior of the subway instead of the overdose of fear in your nerves. 

Too wary of being stared at, you had perfected the art of folding into yourself. Shoulders tucked, eyes withdrawn, Heathcliff and Catherine your only company. 

You didn’t even meet your own reflection in the transparent glass windows because every time you did, all you could see was the face of a girl pixelated in shame.

Had you succumbed to the warmth that brushed you, or your heart that twisted…you would have looked up from your book and could have seen a guy—too tall to not hover, broad enough to lean against the pole without even truly leaning—watching you like you were the first fairytale he had ever known but forgotten. 

You should have looked up. But you never did. 

CHAPTER 15 || annoying roomie rory

song recommended: twin by jennie 

Rory is a girl who tries hard. 

Academically, socially, mentally (yeah, try juggling med-school with a raging ADHD before snickering at her). 

But her attempts often flop. 

She scrapes by each term, thanks to the last minute flashcards of her roomie. She is the one whose memes get ignored in a group-chat. She needs a twenty minute stretch routine and a five minute gratitude meditation to be able to sleep. 

She doesn’t expect visitors. Ever. So when a frantic knock at the front door at three in the morning echoes around her modest apartment, Rory shrieks and stumbles down her bed, tangled in coarse cotton sheets and even coarser panic. 

Looking around, she grabs the nearest thing that could double as a weapon—a single badminton racket which she stole from her friend Seungkwan. Her socks betray her twice by making her slip on the way from her bedroom to the front door. She can’t even blame her roomie for the water splashes near the couch, she hasn’t seen her face in over two weeks. 

Rory peeps through the keyhole, but instantly flinches back because whoever is on the other side chooses that exact moment to rap the wood harder than before. 

The odds of it being a serial killer behind the door? Likely. The odds of her next door neighbour Mr. Gibson hearing her screams? High. The odds of her being saved by Mr. Gibson? Quite low.  

Maybe her mother was right. Maybe Rory should have stayed back in her humble hometown in Wisconsin instead of moving here to the lair of hobos and druggies. 

Another round of knocks. She gulps, rehearses her 911 call. Offering what could be the last few prayers to the lord almighty, she unlatches the door and opens it just enough to peek out with one eye. 

A man, tall and tanned, heaving like someone scooped at his chest with a blunt spoon and took his heart out. His shirt is half buttoned, angry scratches disappearing down his collar. The scarlet in his eyes isn’t a result of heavy drinking, but stress behemoth enough that it bursts veins. He is almost doubled over, like someone shattered his ribs. Maybe he was crying. Maybe he was screaming. Maybe he ran here with half his organs missing. 

Rory recognizes him from the occasional luncheons her roomie has organized at their apartment. She always thought he looked handsome, now he just looks like a roadkill. 

“Mingyu?” She asks, brows furrowed. “Wow, you look…terrible.”

He ignores the condescending observation. “I-is she here?” He stammers, barely keeping his breath stable to sound like a human. 

“Who? Roomie?” Rory questions. Mingyu nods urgently, hope flashing all across his face. His grip on the doorframe tightens, like he is holding himself back from pushing Rory to the side and searching the place himself. Rory digs her feet deeper into the carpet to avoid being ambushed when she admits, “I haven’t seen her in days.”

Mingyu deadpans, “Days? And you weren’t concerned about her?”

Rory blinks, unsure on how to respond to that. “I am not her babysitter. Maybe you should check with her cousin.”

“She’s not at Mayella’s.” Mingyu quickly dismisses it. “Anyplace else she could be at?” 

Rory sucks at her lower lip, now fully awake, yet her brain spends a considerable amount of time to sync with her thoughts and memories. 

“None that I can think of…” she trails, realizing just how irresponsible she sounds. She quickly defends, more to herself than to Mingyu, “I mean, she never really tells me where she’s going, what she’s doing.” 

Mingyu sighs, exhausted and spent. From the looks of his state, one could easily tell that he has already searched half of Manhattan at this crazy hour. 

Rory’s heart twists, she hates being of no use. Especially when a situation at hand involves someone she truly cares for. 

When her fixation over Mingyu’s devastation fades, dread grips her. You were missing. Her roomie, a young beautiful woman, was missing in a city which came with a warning siren blaring all over it. 

“Maybe if you–if you give me more details.” Rory can slowly feel her brain alerting, continuous streaks of adrenaline pumping throughout her small body. “Like, did you guys fight? Why was she with you in the first place? I thought you didn’t like her. Mingyu, did you—”

Mingyu’s jaw clenches, then unclenches. “We didn’t fight Rory, not exactly. But I think…I think I upset her.”

“Upset her by doing what?” Rory’s blonde hair looks like ice under the feeble blue light streaming in from the hallway. Her skin, dry and patchy, tightens with angry frowns as Victoria ‘Rory’ Alberhasky gears herself to take down a six foot two man with a single badminton racket if he admits to having hurt you. 

Mingyu scratches at the skin above his left brow. “It’s complicated, Victoria.”

The badminton racket moves an inch. “Un-complicate it.”

“You can put the bat down, I didn't harm her.” Mingyu sighs, startling her even further. 

Oh, of course, he saw the bat clutched behind her back…motherfucker was literally looming above her like the ghost of the statue of liberty with all that height. 

Rory meekly lets the racket drop, it lands with a hollow clatter. But her grip on the door tightens, ready to slam it in his treacherous face. 

“I just…well, I think she figured out I love her.” Mingyu can’t believe your annoying roommate is the first real human being he is confessing his true feelings for you to. 

Rory blinks, blindsided. “I’m sorry, what?” 

Mingyu pinches his nose bridge, looking away from the ghastly grey eyes of the girl, but the crimson is already flushing his sweat sheened skin. 

“She found this sketch I made of her…”

“Where?”

“At my apartment.”

“What was she doing at your apartment?”

“Um…”

“Mingyu,” Rory folds her arms before her chest, he curls into himself even more, “you tell me she’s missing. And that she was at your place last. What. Was. She. Doing. There?”

Mingyu mumbles something jumbled. Rory prides for a brief second—she has never caused a man to cower like that. 

“I can’t hear you.” she reprimands. 

Mingyu takes a deep breath, making peace with the fact that when he finds you—and he is certain he would, even if it means he has to flip New York upside down—you are going to kill him for letting your annoying roommate Rory in on this. 

“We were sleeping together.” He states. 

“Like, cuddling or…” she trails, her brows arching up with each drawl.

“We were having sex in my apartment, Victoria.”

“Oh,” She flinches, “oh yeah. Yes, of course.” she clears a web of awkward tension in her throat. “You mentioned a sex—I mean, a sketch?” 

Mingyu prepares himself to sound like the most pathetically down bad man awake in Manhattan right now. 

“She was snooping around my place after I fell asleep. She found this sketch I made of her four years ago—”

“You didn’t even know her four years ago.” Rory scratches at her head. 

“That’s why I said it's complicated, Victoria.” Mingyu exhales. This entire back and forth feels pointless—Rory hasn’t given him anything that could help him search for you…she’s just standing here, eager to gobble whatever juicy gossip he throws her away. “Anyways, that sketch is missing now. So is she. Any idea where she could be?”

“What I’m getting is that you overwhelmed her.” Rory mumbles, “She doesn’t handle it well.”

Mingyu’s head dips down with shame. “I know.”

“I am sorry, Mingyu. I really am.” She begins, “But roomie just shuts herself away whenever it's too much. I don’t know what goes on in her head at times like these. She doesn’t talk about that stuff. It’s her pattern—emotional overload equals radio silence.”

Mingyu’s clutch on the door tightens like that alone could steady him while a whirlwind knocks at his ribs. The possibility of you being out there somewhere, hurt and numb, all alone in a city too dark is too grotesque for him to even think about. 

He closes his eyes, life wilts behind them. 

You were shut out—but not in the safety of your room, not even in the sterility of Mayella’s house. 

He did this. He tried breaking your walls, but ended up destroying your home instead. 

“What if she’s unsafe, Rory?” He voices out. 

It hits Rory like a cold gust. She wants to deny it, call it paranoia, tell him he’s being dramatic—but the raw desperation in his eyes isn’t something one can fake. Not when his voice breaks at every third word he speaks. 

Rory flinches like an oracle who just received a divine epiphany from the heavens. 

“You should look near water.” She speaks as soon as that idea hits her, doesn’t even consider how ridiculously terrifying or mystical it sounds.

His head snaps up, blood drained and frozen. “What?”

“Water. It's just a wild guess and maybe a hopeless venture…but I have observed that she always takes longer showers when she’s overstimulated. And when I was going through a rough breakup, she even suggested I go take a walk by a lake or something. She says water washes away unwanted emotions.” 

Rory wanted to go on about the significance of water and how it made spiritual sense for you to do so, but Mingyu is already on his feet, booking it down the hallway. 

His heart hammers in his ears, he almost tumbles over nothing. The night was so dark. So cold. And you were near water. 

You didn’t even know how to swim. 

The icy night air bites him through his jacket but it’s nothing compared to the dread that must be pinching at every single inch of your soft skin.

What if your feet slipped…what if there was no light near you…

Water and air, how many tragedies have they concocted when they wear each other’s skins at dark nights like these. 

When a forest burns down, no one stops to ask where the initial spark came from. But the one who lit the match must live with the blood of a thousand scorched birds on his hands.

(a/n: rory is actually based on my real roommate lmao and unlike in this fic, my rory and i vibe to the moon and saturn. love you riri, even though you’re not reading this <3)

CHAPTER 16 || to build a home songs recommended: wanna be yours by the arctic monkeys (lmao i am so corny and basic BUT TRUST ME)

The night is a long, long one for everyone. 

For Mayella, who calls everyone she knows, barely masking her panic, as she asks them about you. 

For Rory, who sits back in the apartment, eyes wide and a cup of water sitting idle on the coffee table, waiting for you. A discolored ring of condensation stains the wood under it. 

For Lisa, who refuses to trust Rory’s instincts and takes it upon herself to look for you in a different neighbourhood altogether. “She always goes to the Bronx.” She insists. 

For Joshua and Hansol, who are on the same page as Lisa and search for you in the places you frequent, not in a theory your roommate pulled out of her ass. 

But Mingyu has a hitch, he trusts you to succumb to the embrace of nature–the flow of water, the calm of trees, the cleanse of wind. 

So he drives even when his fingers shake, slips on the coast of East river, stumbles over a rock near Astoria Park. 

“Please be safe…please come back.” the prayer loops in his mind like a mantra. 

A body of water. A girl who can’t swim. 

The roads turn into rivers before his bleary eyes—every turn a tsunami sized wave. 

A few girls dressed in sequins and stilettos stumble out of a nightclub and attempt to hail him like a cab before dissolving into bubbly giggles. Somewhere, an old man has already begun opening his shop—dusting the counters with a rag as old as the street itself. The world turns around Mingyu like it usually would, even when his own has been blown into smithereens. 

His chafed palms burn when he presses them tight over the steering wheel. A rusty smudge of sweat and blood wipes over the leather. The slight discomfort of his scraped palms or bleeding knees sticking to the coarse denim of his jeans are nothing compared to the you-shaped hole in his chest, though. That cavity has been bristling ever since he registered the absence of your warmth in his bed, when he found out that his nose had been nuzzling into the pillow which smelt like you instead of being buried into your plump chest. 

A full exhale hasn’t succeeded his shaky inhales ever since he saw your clothes missing from the chair he had put them on. 

The moon is a forgotten sticker plastered on the lilac sky when the sun begins to come up, bright and full, mocking his sleepless night. 

He pulls over to an unnamed, ungrailed park near some bay. Doesn’t even bother checking what the tattered signboard fixed outside says. The noise of a city waking up thins out behind him, leaving him with the unbearable knocking of his pulse. 

The wild grass looks too inviting to his stiffened legs. His lids weigh down, seducing him to surrender. 

On the other side of the city, Mayella’s phone has died and Joshua is urging her to return back to bed, assuring that you’ll come back well. Hansol is driving back on a deserted road to his place after dropping Josh off. Lisa doesn’t even bother returning, just books a room for six hours at a shady motel to crash in. Rory is curled up on the couch—the spot you never let her sit down on because it was yours—and has dozed off with the lights open. The glass of water waits for you regardless. 

But Mingyu continues to walk by the shore. Every snap of twig under his own boots makes his head jerk, thinking it's you. Every gust of wind sounds like your whispers muffled in the crook of his neck each night. 

It is only six in the morning, but the sun is streaming down at him with an intent to burn him or to blind him—like you instructed it to keep everyone away from you. 

But when have your attempts at running away from facing the truth ever stopped Mingyu? You can bring whatever suns and moons you want in his way, and he’d simply offer you every inch of his skin to bite on until your teeth sink into his bones. 

He will ensure to make you know that this isn’t the insincere, soulless manner he wanted to confess his love for you in.  

The park is essentially deserted, devoid of any joggers or dogwalkers or marathon trainers even at the break of dawn. One might doubt his judgement of wasting his efforts here. But ever since the first time in the subway, Mingyu has learnt to trust his gut when it tells him to look in a certain direction when it comes to you. 

His steps falter when his vision tunnels over a swan. Or maybe it's an angel. 

All the stone benches are empty…so it doesn’t really make sense for the girl to be crouching down on the mud. Her cardigan and jeans already sullied to a point that it's impossible to ascertain what their original colors were. 

Well, impossible for anyone who isn’t the man who had peeled those clothes one by one off the girl’s body with reverence and care. 

“You…” He begins, but his voice betrays him at that exact moment by clogging up with all the unshed tears. The thought of never being able to see you again had begun creeping up in his head some thirty minutes ago. For once, Mingyu is glad someone proved him wrong. 

You are only a few steps away from him. The half side of your face visible to him is tired and streaked with tears that dried hours ago, the other side turned away from him masks the bruise from when you fell down somewhere. 

The single sheet of paper—the sketch— which etched a rift of a thousand miles between you both still flutters in the morning winds under your palms. You had long stopped caring about it, don’t even put any pressure to try and prevent it from being carried away by the wind. 

But Mingyu’s art is as stubborn as him—wouldn’t leave you when the gust blows strong. Even the wind refuses to steal his love away from you.

You get up, pulse thundering with anger. Anger that makes you want to screech at him for being so stupid. For driving all night looking for you. For not cursing your name when he found his photo-album splayed open on the floor. 

For still standing here like a fucking saint and looking at you like you’re the beginning and the end of this thing called love.  

“You’re not supposed to be here.” He finally speaks, voice hoarse. 

“No, I am not supposed to be here.” A lifeless fist extends the scrunched up sketch to him. Then, a jab of your finger thrust with all your strength at his chest, right where his heart pumps, “Or here.”

Mingyu doesn’t flinch at your rage, lets you stab at him, claw at him, call him names. And once you’re done, caving inside of your own self until you’re nearly doubled down, he just reaches out to brush the fresh bruise on your cheek. A single blade of grass is still clinging on to the skin there. He plucks it out gently. 

“Too late,” he mumbles, “you’re already in every fiber of my being.”

“I never asked for that.” 

That lands worse than any slap. “I know, and trust me, I have only ever tried to give you whatever you asked for.” 

“Then why—”

“Because love isn’t something you can hold back…it breaks, it spills, it—” 

“You don’t even know me, this isn’t love.” Your voice begins to rise, frustration lacing each word that echoes out.

“Really? You were always the one to cheer for me, root for me, whenever someone mentioned the subway girl. ‘Pure, patient, devoted love’—that’s what you called it. But now that it turns out that she’s you, it isn’t love anymore?”

“It is not!”

“Why?” His voice booms, just by a beat.

“Because you love her!” You scream, “The prettiest girl on the commute, the elegant girl who is studying medicine, Mayella’s cousin with a reputable last name.” 

Your breath hitches like your body is contorting you to not speak what you’re about to say next. But he needs to hear it. 

“You don’t love the girl who hates cameras because her boyfriend made her go down on him, recorded her without consent and then leaked it when they broke up. You don’t—you don’t love the girl whose grainy face appears on the screen when you search ‘amateur college girl gives her first blowjob’ on Pornh…” the cruel word fractures in your mouth. 

Reciting this incident still makes you gasp the way it did all those years ago. Like the air must be forced into your windpipe through your mouth for you to be able to breathe. Like your lungs are shrinking until they collapse. 

You can’t even meet his eyes anymore, just buckle on your knees. “You don’t love the girl who stopped existing the day a man turned her body into some cruel content.” 

Your body prepares itself to hit the ground and be unable to support the fall. But that never happens. Mingyu is there—catching you with a splinter of grief lodged in his throat. He doesn’t know what to do other than to hold you, to contain you while you fall apart in his arms. 

Your breath returns when he touches you. Steady. Fast. Familiar. 

The air is thick with the perfume of sweet grass and late lilacs frothing white and magenta along the unruly shore. 

A broken gasp of your name is all he can manage, like he is in as much pain as you are. Albeit your agony is laced with tragedy, his emerges from rage. Deep seated, primordial rage. 

“I didn’t know…I—I am so sorry.” His voice breaks around your name. “You were carrying all of that all alone?”

You never thought that you’ll ever let Mingyu, of all people, in on the darkest parts of your life let alone anticipate what his reaction would be to it. You’d expect him to flinch, perhaps double take or even accuse you of lying. Maybe pity you? 

But there is no disbelief in the way he cradles you. No pity in his question. More than anything, he seems to be moved by your strength of still standing here even after having gone through hell and back. 

“I never wanted to be alone.” You say flatly, emotionless. It is the only way you can say it. “I reached out…cyber cells, peers, staff…but they told me it was an internet thing. Anonymous. Viral. That they couldn’t do anything to help me.”

You gulp dry, fingers curling tighter over the fabric of his hoodie. “My friends gave up on me, they couldn’t bear the shame that came with my name, I don’t even blame them. I begged him, Mingyu…begged him to take it down, to stop it. But he never acknowledged that he was the one behind it.”

Mingyu’s jaw tightens. He presses you closer to his heart, like he wants to safekeep you in there, like he wants to cleanse you of all those memories, wring your soul dry of any heaviness and then have you rest on his chest. 

You don’t stop. Your voice has sat dormant for long enough…four years, to be exact, because everyone was busy watching—the girl on the screen, the girl crying outside the library, the girl pleading to her ex on her knees. Always watching. Never listening. 

“Some girls would recoil when they saw me, some would get angry because their boyfriends wanted to record them too. I was a trend on campus. Some would pity me but worse were the ones who ignored it when I’d scream in my dorm room. Like I was an apparition, a ghost, haunting their dormitories. All the boys snickered, asked me to help them out with this ‘videography assignment’ and those who had the decency not to, just looked away.”

The silence that follows after you’ve let out a beast that had been gnawing at your insides for four whole years is strangely peaceful. 

You breathe, taking in the fading scent of lemons on his skin. Your lips are chapped and aching from the harsh winter and an even harsher truth.

Strong arms circled around you are steady and stable. They don’t falter—not even when you recall the most grotesque details out loud. 

It is so safe with him. So warm in the misty morning air of October. 

But when have you ever not shredded every cocoon that could wrap around you, afraid that you’ll suffocate in it? So you push at his chest.  

Your nose has turned pink. You sniffle and wipe some thick tears with your sleeve so that your vision unblurs, looking up at his wrecked expressions with your big, watery eyes. 

“I am not telling you this because I want your pity…or because I want to fight you for loving the idea of me. But because you deserve to see this version of the girl you’ve spent half a decade pining for. The version that picks all her load alone, even when her back breaks, because she didn’t have anyone to give her a shoulder when it mattered.” 

You weep for that girl, “The version that will always feel like filth—rotten and discarded. No amount of medical degrees or accolades will ever make up for that title of a whor—”

Mingyu hasn’t interrupted you throughout your speech. But that one word. Cruel and ugly. One that no woman, not even the one who sells her body, deserves to hear with such contempt. That’s where he draws the line. That’s where he has always drawn the line. 

A finger presses down on your lips before you can even finish those two syllables. 

“Don’t.” His voice dips lower, “Don’t ever disrespect yourself like that…you’re saying this about the woman who helped you survive it all. Who carried you through it.”

“I was the one who put myself in that situation in the first place.” You argue back, your lips quiver under his finger. 

“The situation of trusting someone you loved…in what world does that deserve this cruel repentance?” Then, he softens, like he is carefully undoing a knot in your brain. A knot that shouldn’t have been there in the first place. “When we reach out to help a wounded animal, and that animal bites us back, it’s not the kindness in our heart or our tender humanity that should be blamed. Stop burdening yourself with the shame of his sins.”

His palms on your waist, his heart on his sleeve, you stand there stunned. 

His words settle like dust in the air, but a part of you—the one you have disserviced and dehumanized for so long—wants him to continue speaking. 

And so, he does; “Those versions that you keep talking about, I want to see them all. Meet them all. Spend all my evenings talking to them. From the wilted subway girl to the exhausted doctor in the making—call me greedy, but I want them all. You think I fell for your beauty all those years ago?” He laughs, like those were the most ridiculous words to have ever come out of his mouth. 

“How do I tell you that it was your softness towards a heartbroken kid that I was trying to etch on paper when I was sketching you—not the perfect symmetry of your eyes. Even in your worst times, you carried the grace of a thousand Gods.” 

He cups your face to redirect your attention to his honest words when you begin to avert your eyes from him, “Push me all you want. Lie to me all you want. Bite me all you want. Call me your fuck-buddy and hide me from your friends like a secret. I don’t care. But don’t give up on the possibility of us just because you think I wouldn’t be able to find beauty in your scars. You’re not a myth, or a muse. You are my whole religion. All my beliefs start at your lies and end at your sighs.”

A gush of cold wind blows between the two of you like a farewell. All of a sudden, there’s only heat around you. Not the kind that singes and burns, but one that nurtures life. 

You choke onto a sob and throw yourself at him. 

Mingyu is aware that it isn’t just a girl who smells like salt and exhaustion that is crashing on to him—but a lifetime of abandon, of neglect, of betrayal. He carries her like an honor he has earned. 

Your head thuds down on a shoulder—strong and reliable, like that of a father you never had. The bruise on your cheek rubs against the coarse wool of his hoodie, he instantly reaches out to soothe it…soft and careful, like the touch of a mother you have never known but read a lot about in poems. Home is in his heartbeat thrumming between your mashed chests, mellowing out your frantic one gently. 

And on a frosty morning at the shore of a forgotten bay in New York, surrounded by the autumn rot and the hush of a shy winter approaching, spring blooms for the first time in a barren heart.

“I don’t love you.” You mumble in his collar. 

You both know it is a lie by the way you clutch onto him when you say that. Tremor in your fingers, sweat in your palms. Like touching something physical would make it real, turn it into a truth. 

“That’s okay,” He chuckles, cradling your head, “I love you enough for the both of us.” 

“I don’t know how to stay,” you whisper, voice barely above a breath.

He nods, forehead resting gently against yours. “Then I’ll come look for you every time you leave. And when I find you, I’ll build a house for us to stay wherever you are.”

New York never stops for anyone, but even the city seems to hitch for a moment and smile at him with a breeze that sweeps at his cheek like a kiss. Your possessiveness flares, the honey skin glistening under the golden morning rays is only yours to kiss. 

You stretch on your tippy toes, even as your entire form trembles. His grip tightens when you struggle, but softens like clay the moment a delicate peck is pressed on the corner of his mouth. 

He doesn’t kiss you back, not because he doesn’t want to. But simply because he can’t do anything but revel in your softness. He shatters when you kiss him again, this time on the edge of his jaw. 

When his eyes meet yours, heaven sighs. Nothing has changed in those brown irises, even when you showed him the devil residing in your veins. 

“That was intense.” He remarks, then his tongue pokes playfully inside his cheek. “You wanna bite me, nibblebug?”

You snort, not caring about the snot and saliva that blubbers from your nose. “I am gonna gobble you whole.”

(a/n: did it clock to you guys that i was standing on business when i told you to listen to ‘wanna be yours’ while reading this??)

CHAPTER 17 right here|| When a forest burns down song recommended: i’m just ken by ryan gosling (lol)

(Six months later)

Calling Lisa’s art show a success would be an insult when she has the most elite art collectors and the most refined billionaires of the New York High Society warring with each other over the bids. 

You’d rather call it a phenomenon. 

The center piece, the one you and Mingyu posed as Hades and Persesphone for, sold out within the first ten minutes. Which is stunning to say the least considering ten minutes is barely enough time for someone to walk in from the entrance of the gallery up to where the painting actually hangs. 

You clink a flute of champagne against her wine glass and hug her tight while you have the upper-body mobility to do so. Because you know that the moment he comes back with the assortment of snacks you sent him to hunt for, Mingyu will coil himself around you and whine every ten minutes if you don’t pat him on the cheek. 

Well, that might be an exaggeration. 

But courtesy to you, the group gets to see the rare sighting of a lovestruck Mingyu in a relationship. And god is he annoying. 

He hovers, he lingers, he clings, he whimpers.

His face almost never leaves the curve of your neck and when it does, his hands are all over you. It is like he is magnetized to your very soul. 

And as much as you’d love to flaunt your “boyfriend <3” in public, today is the first time in a long, long while that you’ve been able to get together with your friends—your brutal residency schedule is to blame. 

“Have you been able to adjust to the rotations yet?” Mayella asks, swirling her rosé. 

You press your lips and squint your eyes at the dome glass ceiling, pretending to think. 

Then, you hum, “My dinner last night was Rory’s half finished birthday cake which later also served as my pillow when I dozed off on the kitchen floor—you tell me.” 

Lisa chuckles, then lowers her eyes like she has found the perfect opportunity to help strengthen Mingyu’s case and shamelessly grabs it. “Well, not to play the devil’s advocate, but if you accepted his offer of moving in together, you’d always come back home to fresh meals cooked by Mingyu.”

Mayella rolls her eyes, “Stop pressurizing her, their relationship is still new.”

It is still taking time for Mayella to adjust to your relationship. 

She’s skeptical, afraid that if you guys break up, it might cause rifts within the friendgroup, might force them to choose. Lisa almost fought with her when she expressed that concern. 

But you’re not cross with your cousin for saying that. You know it doesn’t come from bitterness, but a place of total protectiveness. Though, it would be nice if she stopped being so pessimistic for once. Man, fuck wall street for turning all the investment bankers in the world into a bunch of skeptics.

“Ladies, we are not failing the bechdel test by discussing boys.” You laugh, awkwardly swatting your palm through the tense air. Then you tip your head at Lisa, “Besides, I love living with Rory.”

The artist scoffs in her wine, “Please you only like her because she lets you dominate her.”

“Kinkyyy…” Hansol drawls, joining in with Joshua in tow. A shiny flask sways in his hands. “Although, you do know loverboy will let you dominate him too, if you wanted to.”

You shoot Hansol a sharp look, trying not to laugh. "Why are you like this?"

He shrugs, utterly unbothered, and takes a dramatic swig from his flask. “I’m just saying, don’t sleep on the benefits of dating a simp. They’re loyal, they’re soft, and they probably come with a Costco-sized emotional support subscription. Ask Maye, when was the last time Josh let you do your own laundry?”

Mayella finally breaks into a reluctant smile, tries to mash her cheek on her fiance’s blazer, and the tension in the air loosens like a knot coming undone with a single mention of love. “You guys are so immature.”

Your inbuilt radar goes off when the giant pup, towering above anyone and everyone in the room, spots you from across the room. 

Balancing a plate of fancy cheese and crackers in one hand and mini crostini in the other, he makes his way towards you with a grin that can light up a billion galaxies. You smile back, melting already. 

“Hey.” He breathes, beaming down at the love of his life.

“Hi.” You whisper, glossed lips pressing to his jaw. 

It is a new feeling when he wraps his arm around you in front of everyone, insisting on making you try the smoked gouda with his own fingers. Good, new. 

There used to be a time when your glances towards him at group hangouts like this were stolen at best. And his concern towards you undetected under the radar— an aloof napkin passed towards you when the pizza crumbs bothered your fingers, a detached shrug ‘I’ll drive her home’, greetings lukewarm at best. 

But now?

Now he presses your back to his chest like it is the only place for you to be while you talk to your friends, feeding you bites of cheese in between and wiping off the corners of your lips with his thumb—carefully not to smudge your lipgloss. 

His passion flames like a dormant volcano which was suppressed since the beginning of times and which erupted when a single lily fell in and triggered its core. Now, the fire promises to burn till the end of times. 

“Bro, you’re not even looking at us!” Lisa exclaims, a threatening wrist angled at Mingyu in a way that implies she is not afraid of painting him red with a splash of her wine. “So inconsiderate.”

Mingyu’s fingers, which were threading your hair from behind, pause mid stroke. He scoffs, “Look who’s talking?”

Lisa rolls her eyes, “You still hung up on a single dot? I told you I wasn’t going to paint your faces on those figures.”

He takes a deep, sharp breath. “I posed for you, for free, with little miss torture here in my lap…the only thing I ever asked in return was for you to include my nose mole in the painting, and this is how you repay me?”

You know Mingyu is just being annoying, not actually arguing, when there’s that slight lisp lilting his voice as he rambles. 

“Oh get over it, you didn’t even know you had a mole until I pointed it out in freshman year.” Mayella joins forces with Lisa to take down a common enemy. 

You let them banter back and forth and turn to Hansol instead. 

“I don’t even have a mole on my face.” You shrug. 

Before Hansol can reply, Mingyu pauses mid-speech, drops down his attention to you. “Yes you do,” He ascertains, quickly pecks a patch of skin beneath your left ear, “right here, a little red mole.”

“You know you could have just pointed at it like normal people instead of slathering her with your DNA.” Joshua rolls his eyes.

And just like that, Mingyu goes back to holding his fort down against his catty friends, unaware of the fact that he just added another item on the list of a million things you love about him.

He delivers some dumb joke. No one laughs, you don’t mean to either. But something about the way he tries to suppress his smirk, so proud of saying what he said, so unapologetically and unabashedly, him—that it slips out of you before you can stop it. He lights up like a winter carnival, like your validation was all that mattered. 

The day fades, the bidders leave, the artificial lights have to be brightened, but you stay there, bubbling with laughter in a corner among the only people that matter, with the arms of your universe wrapped around you. 

There’s no rush to compete in stories today, no panic to hide what flourishes. Just here, a calm love cushions your life. 

When it is finally the time before someone asks you all to get the fuck out with the most polite poshness they can manage and when the dim stars begin dotting the azure sky, someone suggests you all take a group photograph. 

Hansol naturally extends his digital camera towards you out of habit, like he has done several times. 

You always insisted on not being photographed and were happy being on the other side of the lens, telling your friends to smile as you clicked them. But today is not the same as the days that preceded it. 

Your fingers almost flutter, reaching out to take the camera, but then you hesitate. 

Mingyu notices, he always does. 

“Uhm, actually…” you begin, voice small and unsure, “Is it okay if someone else takes the picture today? I want to be in it.”

You’re staring at Mingyu the entire time, like the pools in your eyes are drawing strength from the stars in his. 

No one reacts. The sheer purity of this moment, the subtle strength of it, is enough to render them wordless. Mingyu’s hand only tightens over your hip, his smile softening — not in some big dramatic gesture. Just naturally, instinctively. Like something built into him.

And then, he flicks Hansol’s forehead. “The fuck are you waiting for? Go take the picture.” 

No one makes a huge deal of it, though their bumbling bodies give away their excitement of being photographed with their youngest, most adored, friend for the first time. It is in the quiet way Mingyu tucks you under his arm, your bodies slotting so perfectly together. It is in the way that Lisa instantly plops down on the floor in front of your legs, not caring about the dust garnering on her expensive Louis Vuitton dress. It is in the way Joshua looks over Mayella at you, his way of saying he’s proud. It is in the stability of your cousin’s shoulder when you lean your head down on her, like she’d still trade all your ugly sweaters for her pretty ones sent by Grandma. 

It is in the soft curve of Hansol's smile when he chokes, “Say cheese!” 

Outside the gallery, you all find an old man walking back home with a little boy hopping beside his cane. Mingyu thinks he has seen them somewhere. But you guys don’t pay much mind to his pondering, not when they serve as the perfect opportunity to include Hansol in the photograph too. 

The little boy clicks an unfocused picture of your group. The old man clicks a blurry one with his weak fingers that seem to have a shiver settled deep in them. But the preciseness of it doesn’t matter, you all still grin and thank them both. 

Mingyu excuses himself from the group when you’re all busy pouring down on the shiny screen of the camera, checking the pictures out. He jogs up to the old man and the little boy, catching up with them just in time under a magnolia tree on the sidewalk. 

“Excuse me, sir!” he calls out, slowing down. The sweet summer air ruffles his hair, his dress jacket crumpling at the elbows. 

The two tiny humans—one hunched over and another trying to wobble in the shoes which might be a size too big—turn around with spirited smiles. “Yes, mister?” 

Mingyu can’t help this tingling feeling of familiarity knocking at his temples. “Have we met before? It seems to me that we have.”

The little boy looks up in the weathered, wrinkly gray eyes of the old man. The old man winks down at the little boy’s glassy ones. 

And then, they both break into a fit of soft giggles. 

Mingyu stands there, dumbfounded and lost. Like there was some secret canopy of flowers and fairy-lights around them, one which Mingyu was barred from entering just yet. 

The little boy puts his palm up to his forehead, shaking his head with disbelief and pity as the old man waddles towards Mingyu, each step surer than anything Mingyu has ever known. 

And then, he pauses just in front of the tall young man. Something about those three seconds which stretch with silence tells Mingyu that whatever the old man is about to say is something he should remember. Always. 

“Son,” the old man sings like he is delivering a sermon, “sometimes when a forest is riddled with decay and the death of the heavy roots which once were, it has to be burnt down to make way for life to flourish. And when it does, the man who ignited that first spark of fire doesn’t have blood on his hands, but the nectar of the first honeysuckles that bloom there.” 

All the subways in New York sway with elation that night. All but the one taking you back home where you sleep with your head lolled on Mingyu’s shoulder.

Yours just glide through time like it doesn’t even exist. 

taglist: @mingyubaguette @belongstoheeseung @ameliamirabela @ffarchivesvt @ninigyuuu @babycaratdeul @ana-marais98 @yewshi @boxsmil3 @mnnnnnsvt @producedbyjeon @hye-na03 @gyuiebabie @mingyuisthevictimofsvt @hayeojhebal @myun9ho @cerisecherrie @gyuwoosbabie @thevirginsuicidenotes @drunkdazedstuff @governmentnameredacted @gyuldaengie97 @yekkaebsong @lovelylonelinesssvt

TEASER FOR MY UPCOMING FIC "LOST SAINTS"

MASTERLIST

Author's foot note <3

MINGYU THROUGHOUT THIS ENTIRE FIC:

jk, but i always make a moodboard for all of my long fics, here's the one for this one:

also, here's the dress which gave me the idea for that Lisa's painting plotline (pc: sophia birlem on instagram)

on a more serious note, pls consider reblogging this.

i always appreciate your reblogs, comments and messages in my DMs or inbox. while the reblogs help me reach more readers, your messages just fill my heart with love so if you enjoyed reading this, please please please help me out by sharing this fic and your thoughts about it. i work really hard on them :)

TEASER FOR MY UPCOMING FIC "LOST SAINTS"

MASTERLIST

lemme know if you'd like to be added to my permanent tag list, i am planning to write a few short fics (around 3k-ish words for other members in the meantime)

now i will go hibernate (study the coursework i have been avoiding lmao) take care, i love you, never think twice before reaching out <33

[jung-koook]

me: I'm not dramatic also me:

[everythingfox]

He must inspect

[everythingfox]

Damage: 0 Confusion: 100

[everythingfox]

In case you missed it

[sailorsoons]

Dark Gospel (c.hs)

PAIRING: Vernon x afab reader

SUMMARY: After experiencing what you’re sure is a possession, you try to help Vernon get his old self back. Except - Vernon doesn’t want his old self back and you’re not sure you hate the new Vernon either. 

WC: 12,779

AU: Supernatural, Thriller, It’s Complicated to Lovers

GENRE: Smut, A Little Angst

RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

WARNINGS: Light discussions of morality - Vernon has killed people and reader struggles with the fact that she doesn’t care more than she struggles with him having done that, a handful of silly rituals, lots of talk about spiritual possession, mentions of death, brief but nondescript mentions of violence, some philosophizing, me making a Protestant minister an asshole - sorry, this is not a read on Protestants, it just made sense for the plot, Vernon being a lil scary at times and pretty unsettling, Vernon is a little obsessive but specifically in a I Will Do Whatever You Want I’m A Scary Puppy way, explicit language, sexually explicit content including vaginal fingering, nipple play, a lot of spit and biting, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, cum eating, multiple orgasms, light breath play/choking. Tbh these two are just… kind of obsessed with one another probably in what would eventually be co-dependant but is not represented here. Also, parts of this are definitely blasphemous like - during the smut scene there’s a lot of religious terms used for description etc. etc so if that bothers you, that’s there. I would classify both of these characters as morally grey, in the grand scheme of things.

A/N: This is the second half of Hello, Darling, despite me swearing I would not write a part II. It is Vernon and the new SVT teaser’s fault. I highly recommend reading the first part of this - I wouldn’t say it can’t be read as a standalone, but it makes more sense with the context of the first fic. 

A/N 2: Thank you @daechwitatamic for beta-reading and calling Vernon Spooky Puppy approximately 15 times.

MASTERLIST | ASK | ▷NOW PLAYING: ASCENSIONISM BY SLEEP TOKEN | READ PREQUEL

WHO MADE YOU LIKE THIS?  WHO ENCRYPTED YOUR DARK GOSPEL IN BODY LANGUAGE? SYNAPSES SNAP BACK IN BLISSFUL ANGUISH TELL ME YOU MET ME IN PAST LIVES, PAST LIE PAST WHAT MIGHT BE EATING ME FROM THE INSIDE, DARLING

SALT BURNS YOUR NOSE. You grimace, realizing you’ve knocked over a candle, the grains of salt charring as the flame nearly goes out. You fix the candle, thankful that salt isn’t flammable. Had it been, the entire circle of salt would have gone up in flames, taking the dilapidated building and everyone inside.

Thankfully, there are only two people inside the building. The term people is a bit generous. You’re certainly human, all flesh and bone, mortal to the very soul. The man occupying the center of the circle, on the other hand, you’re not really sure about. 

You glance at Vernon. He’s staring at you the same way he always does, dark eyes like twin flames. He does that a lot now, watching you more intensely than you can ever recall in your years of friendship. You quickly avert your eyes, fighting the shiver that threatens to slither through you.

From the corner of your eye, you see his mouth twitch. Of course he notices the way he affects you. He notices everything about you - swears that he always has, but isn’t afraid to be more obvious now. You’re not sure the validity of that statement, but Vernon seems to enjoy the effect he has on you, and he’s not shy to tell you so.

For now, he keeps it to himself. You’re grateful, standing and walking the circle of salt to make sure it’s intact while you try not to think about all the other times you’ve salted around him. This is your fourth attempt this month, and though you know Vernon can’t cross the salt, it doesn’t seem to do anything else but serve as a messy - and expensive - sort of cage. 

Prior to that, your experience with salt and Vernon had been at his apartment that night a few weeks ago when the strange murders in your town had all started to make sense - it had been Vernon eliminating the town of its adulterers. Vernon has agreed to stop that for now, and though most people might not believe the recent college student turned serial killer, you do believe him.

The only thing Vernon seems unequivocally dedicated to these days is you and fulfilling your every demand. 

Which is how he ended up in a salt circle now for what must be the eighth ritual you have put him through in a matter of weeks.

Dusting your hands off, you observe your work. You’ve tried salt circles and candles a few times - it had been what you used the night of Vernon’s possession after all - but you’ve tweaked the ritual each time.

Each time is unsuccessful. 

Vernon watches you with hungry eyes, leaning back on his palms. His legs are crossed casually, entirely at ease. The only part of him that appears dialed in is his eyes, tracking your every movement, a predator tuned in to its prey. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” you mutter, turning to your backpack on the floor. 

“Like what?”

“You know like what.”

“Like I want to taste you again?” Your stomach flips and your grip tightens on the notebook you pull from your bag. “Fine, I will try not to look at you like that. Proceed with your little ritual.”

“You agreed to it, you know?”

“Like I said.” He sighs, rolling his head back so that he’s staring at the ceiling. “Your wish is my command. And it’s not going to work - I’m just me. Nothing to get rid of.”

“Well ‘just you’ can’t cross a line of salt, the lights flicker when you get mad, and you make dogs and cats go berzerk. So that can’t be true.”

“It’s my new salt allergy. Maybe it’s you the animals don’t like, hmm?” 

“Vernon.”

He’s grinning at you when you look at him, that ravenous gaze just as present on his face. “It’s a joke, Love. Feel free to laugh at your convenience.” 

Love. Not Lovecraft, like he used to call you, but something new and with weight to it, something intimate, said with a velvet purr that makes your hands sweat. Not darling like the spirit that had - and still might be - possessing him.

You think he is still possessing him, anway. Vernon insists that it’s just him with a new edge, forever changed by that night on Halloween. You cannot imagine it’s just Vernon and not the spirit of the murderer Thomas inside of him. Why else would Vernon have killed those people? Why else would he not be able to cross salt? Why else would strange things happen around him, like flickering lights and eerie feelings? 

The way he looks at you makes you want to implode. He watches you with a new sharpness now, desire written all over his face at all times. He’s looking at you like that now, gaze half-lidded and heady. You ignore him in favor of scanning your scrawled script on the paper, memorizing the words you’re supposed to chant. You nod and toss the journal back onto your bag, wiping your sweaty palms on your jeans before standing in front of the circle. 

Vernon cocks his head up to gaze at you. He looks beautiful like this, his long, silky lashes framing his dark eyes. His face is flickering in shadow from the candles, equal parts demon and angel. Again, you fight the urge to shiver. Instead, you begin walking clockwise, careful not to break the line of salt.

Voice wavering, you whisper, “By salt of earth and flame of will, I break your hold, I bind, I still.” 

A chill seeps into the room. You do shiver this time, not from Vernon watching you, but because of the drop in temperature. The kind that feels like breath on the back of your neck. Goosebumps break out on your arms as you go. Upon a complete rotation, you continue the chant but lean down to extinguish a candle each time you reach it, not daring to look at Vernon each time you bend down to blow on it gently. You swear the shadows stretch just a little longer every time the flame dies, curling like fingers at the edge of your vision.

When you reach the final candle, you risk a glance upward. You’re right in front of him, the orange light reflected in his glassy eyes. He gives you a small smirk, and looks at the candle, as though he’s daring you to blow it out. With a deep breath, you do, bathing the two of you in darkness. For a moment, it’s too quiet.

Moonlight filters through a dirty window on the other side of the room. It turns Vernon into an eerie shadow, nearly blue in the pale light. You hold your breath, watching him as he remains in the center of the salt, unmoving. His outline flickers faintly, like an old film reel catching on something sharp. You can sense he’s still watching you, unnaturally still but just as severe as always. Somewhere behind his eyes, something ancient stares back.

“Well?” You whisper, too afraid to raise your voice. “Are you feeling different?”

“I feel the same as I did early, which means I still want to eat you out. So not really.”

You deflate, sitting down abruptly on the ground. 

“Tough crowd. I thought that would excite you.” 

“Shut up, Vernon!” 

He obeys. As sharp-tongued and wicked of mind this new version of Vernon is, he listens to you. 

Usually.

Silence falls on you as you sit with your elbows propped on your knees, heels of your palms pressed into your eyes. The force of it makes colors explode behind squeezed shut lids. It feels like nothing is going to work, despite making your entire academic career into occult studies with the intention of applying it to understanding modern culture and shaping psychological theories and studies on human behavior. 

For the last few weeks, you’ve spent it going back through all your lessons thus far to take theory and make it applicable. To pilfer through all of your countless books, exams and papers on rituals, culture, and occult through the ages to find something that would work. To find something to explain why Vernon is both Vernon and Not Vernon - anything to convince you that you can reverse whatever this is. 

Do you want to? 

The voice comes to you unbidden, a tiny part of you doubting exactly what you’re doing here. 

Vernon’s voice is soft when he murmurs, “You’ll find something else to try.”

Your hands drop from your face and you stare at him. He looks like an ancient thing, sitting in the dark, but his face is so soft that you fight the urge to crawl over to him and into his lap. You know he would let you - would love if you gave in and did it. His every moment, every look, every word is borderline begging you to touch him, to close the distance between you, to have him again.

“Do you even want me to keep trying?” You ask, exasperated. 

He shrugs. “You want to keep trying.”

“What do you want, though?”

“You.”

Your fists close. Open. Close again. “Vernon.”

“You asked me what I wanted. The answer is the same, no matter how much it annoys you.” 

“Don’t you want me to solve this? Don’t you want me to find out what happened to you?”

His voice is low when he says, “I already told you, there’s nothing to solve. But if you want to keep trying, then I will. I don’t really care about the rest.” Silence falls between you once more. He sighs, shifting to stand. “Will you let me out of my cage?”

“I don’t know. Are you going to hurt anyone?”

“I told you I wouldn’t. Have I broken my promise?” 

He hasn’t. You know it, he knows it. The memory of his promise comes back to you as easily as if it were yesterday: you in his kitchen, chest heaving when you realized he couldn’t cross the salt line. Vernon, trying to lure you back toward him, voice soft. You, screaming that he had killed people, that he was a murderer and not your Vernon. 

Since then, he’s assured you if it bothers you that much, he won’t do it. That had, of course, been after he’d lectured you and vehemently assured you that they deserved it, the vitriol coming out of his mouth and the violence he used in his words enough to make you cower against his living room couch, knees tucked into your chest. 

That had made him shut up. He’d approached you carefully, hands out like you were going to run. And maybe you should have, but it was Vernon, and you love him, and you weren’t totally convinced any of it was real. So you let him coax you back to calm levels, his voice soft and sweet as he promised you he wouldn’t do anything without asking you. That he’d do whatever you wanted. 

He had promised, and he’s lived up to that so far, even if you can tell it chafes him to do so.

Standing, you kick the line of salt, breaking it. He gives you an appreciative hum, stepping through the gap and stretching his limbs. He’s dressed in his usual jeans and t-shirt, the hem riding up to reveal a small flash of smooth stomach. You avert your eyes, shifting from foot-to-foot. 

“Hungry?” He asks. 

“I guess.” 

“Sal’s?”

You nod and follow him out of the room. You’d picked an abandoned house to do this in, hoping that if anything went wrong or you unleashed something worse, that at least it was just you and no one else for miles. 

Gravel crunches beneath your boots. Crickets chirp while a pale moon rises in the sky. Removed from the main town where your college lies, you can see the thousands of stars. You crane your neck upward to look at them, slowing your steps as your eyes trace all the familiar constellations: Orion the Hunter, Canis Major, Draco, Scorpius. 

Looking back down, you notice Vernon leaning against his car, watching you over the roof. He’s got that same burning gaze but a hint of a smile, refusing to look away until you’re sliding in the passenger seat and shutting the door. When he gets in, he pauses to look at you again.

“What?” You ask into the silence, staring straight ahead.

“You’re beautiful when you’re not afraid of me.”

You frown. “I’m not afraid of you.”

He hums and starts the car. “I wish that were true, Love.”

-

Music pulses loud enough to vibrate your ribs. You hate coming to clubs - especially shitty ones in college towns that don’t really have a bottle section but sort of do, with bottle girls who are all in your English classes and who pretend not to know you when they bring another bottle of champagne to your section.

Chan does not need another bottle of champagne. No one does, really. Vernon’s fraternity brothers are falling over themselves, coaxing girls into their laps to secure one to go home with for the night or sinking heavily into the booth, becoming one with the leather. 

One of the boys you don’t know crashes down into the seat next to you. You flinch and he flashes you an apologetic smile, his pupils blown and his goofy grin all you need to know that he’s fucked up. You scoot away from him a little, offering a cautious smile that you hope says I’m awkward don’t talk to me.

Even if he could read, he can’t read body language. He leans over and yells, “You know Chan?”

“Yes. Sort of friends.”

“Nice! We go waaaaaaay back.”

“Cool.”

“So, Sort Of friend. Are you sort of single?”

Thankfully, you don’t have to answer. It feels like the temperature plummets. One second, it’s just you and the nameless friend of Chan’s. The next, Vernon is crouching down on his knees in front of the dude, his eyes fathomless as he levels a stare at him. 

“She’s not available.”

“Woah dude. Chill.”

The air shifts. Vernon needs to say nothing more. Lights flash behind Vernon, painting him in violent colors of red and blue and pink. The shadows under his eyes are darker than ever and you feel a tingle go up your spine, though you’re not sure it’s explicitly fear.

When Vernon smiles, you’re reminded of something uncanny, like you’re looking into a void you shouldn’t be. That does scare you, but it scares the guy next to you more, who jumps to his feet and tries to bolt from the booth. He trips as he does, toppling over and slamming into the table in the middle, sending buckets of ice and bottles exploding in several directions.

Everyone jumps up, trying to avoid the carnage, screaming at the guy as he flails in his own destruction. Vernon slides into the seat next to you, back to normal. Nothing in his face indicates the malice that was there seconds ago, easing back into his quiet demeanor within seconds.

“What was that?” You hiss, though you don’t exactly mind. 

“That,” he emphasizes, giving you a meaningful look, “was me showing restraint like you’ve asked.”

“What, you were going to murder him?”

Vernon blinks and without missing a beat says, “Wanted to and was going to are different. I told you I would do whatever you wanted me to.” His face hardens. “I meant what I said.”

You lean back, entirely unsure what kind of creature you had dedicated to your every whim. 

-

Vernon is pounding on the door. He’s screaming, earth-shattering, heart-stopping screaming. His fists slam against the door with such force that it groans against its frame, hinges shrieking. You scream his name back, bloody fingers scraping against the splintered wood of the door, clawing at it, trying to tear it open, trying to get him out. 

The door doesn’t budge. There’s no doorknob. No keyhole. Just a dead piece of wood, locked and unmoving like it was never made to be opened. 

Vernon has never screamed like this, never sounded so afraid never- 

The door opens with a soft, sickening creak.

Vernon stands there, framed in the dark, unmoving. The shadows cling to him like they’ve grown fond of his shape. You can’t see his face clearly, only the light of his eyes, too still, too glossy. Your chest tightens as you watch him and he watches you, something ancient staring back.

“Vernon?” Your voice shakes. 

When he smiles, it’s slow. Too wide. Too many teeth. Rows and rows of them, glistening sharp, stretching too far. 

When he leaps, you scream-

You wake up screaming, thrashing your arms as your sheets tangle in your limbs. You finally get them off, falling out of your bed to your hands and knees as you gulp down fresh air. You scramble away from your bed, eager to get away from the claws of your dream, shivering and sweaty and terrified. 

In the middle of your room, you sit. You try to catch your breath, staring at the bed where your sheets and pillows have been thrown around during your nightmare. The only source of light in the room is through your window. The moon paints your room silver, the glass open to let in the almost-winter breeze.

On your nightstand, your phone begins to buzz. You stare at it, watching it flash on. You can’t see who's calling, but you don’t move, still frozen in fear. The call goes to voicemail and the phone turns off, dark once more. It’s only a second before it lights up again, a new call coming through.

Gulping, you crawl toward your nightstand, hesitant to come near your bed. Getting up on your knees, you see that it’s Vernon’s name flashing across your screen. You hesitate for a moment, thinking of the rows and rows of teeth from your dream. 

He starts calling a third time and you answer it, hand shaking when you bring it up to your ear. “Hello?”

“What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. I had a weird feeling.” 

“Weird how?”

“I don’t know. Are you okay?” You hesitate and you hear him moving on the other side of the phone. “Love?”

“I had a bad dream.” 

“I’ll come over.”

“No!” The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them. You feel his trepidation on the other side of the phone. Your hands squeeze your device, knuckles popping. “I mean - can I come there?”

His surprise is just as palpable as yours. “I mean, yeah. Can I come get you?”

“Okay.” 

“Do you want to stay on the phone while I drive?”

“No, it’s okay.” 

“I’ll be there in ten.”

The line goes dead and you stare at your empty bed. You don’t know why you asked to go there. Don’t know why it was the first thing you thought of. Don’t know why or how Vernon knew anything was wrong. What you do know is that you’ve been having nightmares almost every night in your bed, and trying to coax yourself back into the fluffy sheets feels insurmountable.

Instead, you slowly get up and grab a few things for Vernon’s. You don’t know what you need. You don’t know if you’re staying. All you know is that you don’t want to be in your bed, where the nightmares come, and that the last time you were in his bed, you felt safe. 

And then shortly discovered that he was harboring - or had harbored, if you ask him - an entity somewhere inside him.

Still, Vernon’s apartment is where he’d touched you for the first time, where he had pulled you apart and pried his name from your lips like no one ever had. Where he had pressed his mouth on every part of you, promising that you were his, that you were only his, that he would do anything you asked of him, that he was devoted to you. 

Light splashes across your face when he texts you that he’s downstairs. You grab your phone and keys, and a single charger as you do.

Downstairs, Vernon is out of the car and around the hood, hands reaching out to you. You slow your steps but you let him take you by the shoulders, ducking his head so his dark eyes can scan your face. You hold your breath as he does, eyes darting from his intense examination to his lips, where you imagine rows and rows of teeth.

“You look tired,” he murmurs. 

“I’ve been having a lot of nightmares.”

He hesitates. “Of me?” It sounds like he already knows the answer, but you nod anyway. He tongues the inside of his cheek and for a second, you think he’s annoyed. You start to bristle, but he softens and nods, dropping his hands to your wrist where he gives you a squeeze. “Come on.”

Despite everything, you follow him. You let him open the door to his car and put you inside, closing the door gently behind you. You let him put the car in gear, his hand reaching across the center console, hovering above your thigh. You stare at his hand for a few long moments, watching it waver. 

You want him to touch you. You don’t want to acknowledge what it means that you want him to touch you, despite everything. 

You give him a tiny, barely-there nod. His hand drops down softly on your thigh, giving you a gentle squeeze. Goosebumps break out across your skin and your eyelashes flutter, immediately at ease. He starts to drive, the sound of the tires against the road and the engine lulling you into a sense of calm. 

Settling against the headrest, you let your eyes close. You don’t want to think about anything but the heat of his fingers on your skin, his thumb brushing back and forth, featherlight and loving. Later, you can think about what it means that you’re here with him. Later you can regret what you’re doing. 

Vernon’s apartment appears against a black sky. It looks no different than the last time you were here. He stops in the parking lot and holds a hand out to you. His face is soft, but his eyes are sharp as always. Carefully, you slip your hand into his. It’s warm and firm, wrapping around yours and tugging you gently toward the stairs, keeping you moving even when your trepidation grows and your steps get heavier. 

His neighbor's doormat catches your eye. Come in, it says. You stare at it long enough that he notices, turning over his shoulder to glance at it and ask, “What? No joke about vampires this time?”

“Last time I didn’t think they were real.”

“And now?”

“I don’t know what’s real.” 

He hums noncommittal as he works the lock with his keys. 

Inside of Vernon’s apartment smells like him. You feel a sense of relief, breathing in the smell of bergamot and vetiver, unsure if you had expected sulfur and something rotting. It looks normal as ever inside. Vernon’s home looks lived in, tidy but with pairs of shoes by the door, a blanket thrown across the arm of the couch and a few video game controllers on the coffee table.

Vernon toes off his shoes before drifting toward his bedroom. The doorway is a gaping hole of darkness and you feel yourself hesitate before calming yourself and following him, too nervous to linger alone. 

He switches on a salt lamp and soft, orange light fills the room. It helps put you at ease. You drop your stuff on his dresser, phone, charger and keys. You don’t know what else to do, turning to look at Vernon as he pulls the blankets back and sits on the bed, swinging his feet in.

“Gonna stand there?” He asks, grabbing pillows and shoving them against the headboard. He leans back on them, draping his arm across the tops. “Come here.” 

“I didn’t come here to sleep with you.” He narrows his eyes. “I meant like sex. I didn’t come here to have sex with you.”

“I know. You came here for comfort.” 

Well, yes. You feel hot all over, flushed head to toe with embarrassment. For once, he doesn’t prod you about it, watching you patiently as you scramble over to the other side of the bed and climb in. His sheets are soft and warm as ever, mattress sinking as you slide over next to him. 

Before you can get too close, you freeze up. You don’t know where you stand, suddenly. A few weeks ago, he was just Vernon, your best friend. Sure you’d been in love with him and he hadn’t known, but now he does know. And circumstances have changed since the admission of feelings. You haven’t been this close in weeks and-

Vernon wraps an arm around your waist and tugs you to him. You make a small sound of surprise and he laughs, low and deep in his throat. The sound scratches something inside of you, making your toes curl as you stiffen for a split second while he melds you to his side.

Then you melt. He’s warm and smells like he always has, his arm tethering you to him. Tentatively, you rest your head on his shoulder. He shuffles a little so that your head fits perfectly in the crook of his neck, comfortable. You’re pressed close to his side, your hands pulling nervously at the strings of your hoodie. 

“Do you want to tell me about it?” His question rumbles through you where you’re leaning against him. His voice is deep and soft, a lullaby. Your eyes flutter and you shake your head. “I would never hurt you. Ever. I know you’re afraid of me but… you don’t have to be.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“Then what are you afraid of?”

You chew your bottom lip. “I’m afraid of me.”

“Explain.” 

Vernon is patient. Even this new version of him lets you find your words without pushing you to go faster. You think of how to explain, starting with halting sentences. “You’ve killed people.”

“Three, specifically.”

“Does that bother you?”

He doesn’t answer for a second. “They weren’t very good people.”

“Cheating is bad, but killing them?”

“Ah,” Vernon chuckles without humor. “I think I understand now. Would it make you feel better if I told you all of the bad things they did? Would it change anything to know they weren’t just guilty of adultery?” You don’t answer. “You don’t like that I killed people but what you’re having trouble with is the fact that you want to overlook it and you don’t like how that feels.”

As always, Vernon is on the nose with his guess. He’s always been able to pin down how you feel quickly, and it both relieves you and terrifies you to know that hasn’t changed. Killing people is wrong. You know that. But it’s how unbothered you are that sticks with you, this inability to figure out why there’s a desire to rationalize it, to let Vernon convince you his actions were justified. 

“You have an excuse,” you mumble. “You’re possessed by some sort of murderer.”

“I am not.

“I’m just… me.”

“People are complex. Wrestling with your own morality is natural. But I advise you not to let it drive you crazy.”

You snort. 

“What?”

“Getting advice from someone who is possessed-”

“-Again, it’s just me-”

“Is kind of silly.” 

“Then stop listening to my advice and go to bed, Love.” 

It’s the final piece you let him give you for the night, nodding and letting your eyes fall closed. The steady rhythm of Vernon’s heart lulls you into a trance until you’re drifting to sleep with the smell of bergamot and vetiver and no nightmares to plague you.

-

“Why don’t you add salt to your fries, hmmm?”

Veron looks up at you, deadpan. You give him a plasticky grin, grabbing the red pepper to shake over your pizza slices. As he has for the last few weeks, Vernon avoids the salt on his fries. Still likes them just as much as before, but can’t seem to tolerate more than the standard level of seasoned they come. 

Cool breeze slithers down your back when someone walks in behind you. Your booth is right by the door, giving you an icy blast everytime a new patron comes in. Vernon already made you give him the side closest to the door, but you’d managed to keep him from demanding the hostess move you somewhere else. 

A group of men sit down behind you in the booth. They sit down hard, making the back of your seat lurch forward.  You swear, turning to look at them over the shoulder as they spread out like they’re lounging at home all over the table and seat. 

Above you, the lights flicker. A low hum rides the air, barely audible, like static through bone. You whip your head around to look at Vernon. His gaze has turned to steel, unblinking and far too still. His fist tightens around his fork until the metal groans, knuckles leached of color. The air feels charged, like the moment before a lightning strike. You whisper his name but the flickering lights continue, drawing the attention of several patrons, all of them craning their neck upwards. 

A bulb pops at the table behind you. The men yell in surprise, causing the booth to rock. Your hand shoots out across the table, grabbing Vernon’s hand and squeezing. Immediately, the electrical anomaly stops and his gaze shifts to you, going soft at the edges. 

“Are you okay?” You ask, soft.

“Are you?”

“Yes, Vernon. You can’t go all Paranormal Activity every time someone annoys me.”

He frowns at that. “Says who?”

“Says me. Please.”

He sighs and lets his head thunk against the back of the booth. “Fine. I will add it to the list of don’ts, right alongside murder.”

“Ugh.” You let go of his hand and steal a fry. “Enough complaining about the murder rule, Vernon.”

-

Cracking your neck, you look down at the notes scribbled in front of you. Your writing is scrawled and going off the lines in your notebook, getting messier the further down the page you get. You drop the pen, flexing your fingers to try and get some feeling back into them. You’ve been taking notes for hours, your note-taking starting off neat and with organization before devolving into a messy script you can barely read. 

Stacks of books sit in front of you. Most are from your own collection, but there are a handful that come from the basement level of the library in plastic covers to protect the integrity of the book, yellowed at the edges and a little more than grimey. 

Leaning back in your seat, your spine cracks. You sigh in relief, stiff from spending hours leaned over the table. You’d commandeered a table bigger than you need, spreading yourself out - much to the annoyance and heavy side-eye of everyone else in the library - taking up as much room as possible so no one else would sit next to you.

Several of the boys behind you have already tried to smooth talk their way into the seat. Normally you might let them, but the last thing you need is for them to look over your shoulder and see you’re researching the history of possession and demonology. 

Also, you don’t want to give them your phone number, no matter how many times they ask. 

A backpack lands on the table in front of you, making you flinch. You tear off your headphones, ready to bitch out whoever it is when you realize it’s Vernon. You stare at him in surprise, watching him pullout the chair and throw himself into the seat. 

“Oh my God,” you gasp. “You cut off your hair.”

“Mhmm.” He runs a hand over his hair. It’s barely longer than a buzz cut, dark and fuzzy and soft. “Like it?”

At first, you don’t say anything. You drag your eyes over him, assessing. Today he’s in a leather jacket over a worn baseball t-shirt, ripped jeans and a beat up pair of converse. It’s a quintessential Vernon outfit, but it looks different now - better, even, with the short hair. 

“I do.” 

“Good.” He winks at you, making your stomach flip. His eyes drift over your shoulder, spotting something in the library that’s caught his interest. “What did you want to meet about?” 

“So, I’ve been doing some research.”

His eyes briefly scan the table, a single brow arching. “You don’t say?”

“Shut up.” You throw a pen at him but there’s no real heat to your words. “I’m wondering if I’m coming at this from the wrong angle.”

His dark eyes are looking over you again, but he says, “Yes. You’re looking at it from the point of view of someone who thinks I’m still possessed. I’m not.”

“No. I’m looking at it like you were possessed by a spirit, but I’m wondering if maybe it was a demon.” He snorts and says nothing. “There are some essays and source materials that believe disgruntled spirits eventually become demonic entities. I’ve been looking up rituals on spiritual banishment and purification, but not demonic - are you listening?”

Vernon’s gaze is burning on something behind you. He doesn’t answer, his eyes narrowed and flickering. You lean forward, throwing the cap of your pen at him. It bounces on the table and joins its body, rolling uselessly to the side. 

“Vernon.” His eyes snap back to you. “What is so interesting behind me?”

“Have they been bothering you?” He nods to something behind you. 

You twist in your seat, turning to look at the table of boys who had sent over one at a time to try and join you. Only one of them looks in your direction, lifting his head and grinning when he sees you’re looking. Rolling your eyes, you turn back to tell Vernon it’s nothing, but he’s already out of his seat and walking around the table.

Eyes like daggers, he gives them a single annoyed glance before he pulls out the seat next to you and drops into it. He kicks out his foot and hooks the toe of his Converse around the leg, pulling you toward him until your seats clack together and you’re thigh to thigh.

Vetiver and bergamot flood your senses, heavenly and heady. 

“What are you-”

“Demonic possession?” He purrs, voice turning to smoke. He leans toward you, laying his arm across the back of your chair. “You were telling me I’m a demon.”

“That’s not - why are you sitting so close?” 

“We’ve been closer.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I just like sitting next to you.” He taps the page with his free hand, mouth twitching. “Focus, baby. Tell me what you learned.” 

You turn molten at the name of endearment. Baby is new. Catches you off guard. You sputter as you try to reach for  your notes, suddenly not remembering what books are where, all of the things you just absorbed from them flowing right out of your head.

Vernon makes it even worse. His fingers start to play with the edge of your t-shirt sleeve, fingers occasionally brushing your arm and sending a pool of warmth blooming across your skin. His nearness is intoxicating, thoughts a little foggy. 

“Problem?” 

“You’re being a little shit,” you shoot back, huffing. He laughs - loudly - making other people flinch. “Stop flustering me. I know you’re doing it on purpose.”

“But you are flustered?” 

“Yes, Vernon. Do you want me to tell you what I found or not?” 

His voice is warm when he teases, “I’d rather keep making you squirm.” 

“Ugh. I am out of pens to throw at you.”

“Sorry. Proceed. You have my undivided attention, I promise.” 

Somehow, you manage to get through your messily written notes and your research. It was hard to compile the research, but you feel like maybe you’re on track with your new theory that Thomas, the spirit who had - in Vernon’s opinion briefly possessed him and in your opinion is still there - hadn’t been a spirit at the time of possession, but rather perhaps a demon.

It’s a working theory that because Thomas was bound to his place of death through violent and unresolved emotion, he not only became a disturbed entity, but was warped by his anger and grief, shifting into something darker. Most research on demons was clear cut that they were creatures from another dimension, but spirits aren’t of this dimension either.

Because everything you’ve tried so far for a spiritual dispelling hasn’t worked, you think perhaps Thomas’s spirit had morphed into something more proto-demonic in nature. There isn’t much to go off of, but the structure for your theory is there, even if made from toothpick-weak data and suppositions. 

Vernon listens the entire time. His fingers still trace your arm absently, tracing aimless patterns. When you finish and look at him, he seems thoughtful, dark eyes unfocused. When he looks up at you, his smile is small.

“So what do you want to try this time?”

“Maybe a priest-” 

He groans and drops his head back. 

You quickly continue, “Just to start, okay? I want to test my theory.” 

“I’m not a demon.”

“Well, we don’t really know, do we?”

“We already went to a church.” 

You pout and he sighs. “When do you want to go?” 

-

White paint peels off the church. It’s an old building with crooked, dry rotted steps outside. It’s a small church with a single steeple. You can see the bells just beyond the window, currently silent as the crickets take up chorus around you. 

The sign out front is worn and sunbleached. Trinity Cross Chapel is carved across the front, whatever phrase from the Bible written under it long faded. You’d chosen an old Protestant church to test your hypothesis, partially because it was far on the edge of town where the risk was lower if Vernon turned into a demon, and partially because according to the town registry, it was the oldest church in town.

And well - because Protestants were pretty serious about absolving themselves from sin and that salvation alone could only be reached through Jesus Christ himself. Perhaps if anyone could tell you what was wrong with Vernon, it was Jesus. 

“This place is a shithole,” Vernon observes, hands in his pockets.

Alright, perhaps Jesus wouldn’t want to help Vernon. You shoot him a glare and plunge ahead, rocks and dirt crackling beneath your shoes. Vernon follows you at a leisurely place, giving the building a critical eye.

“It’s worse for wear,” you admit, heading to the steps. “But it’s old and largely underfunded because when the college was built, the town moved to be centered around the college and not the church.” 

When your foot lands on the first step, it cracks and your foot falls through. You yelp but Vernon’s hands are on your waist immediately, his chest pressed against your back as he steadies you. He’s so close that your heart goes from hammering at the fear of falling to thundering over his proximity.

“Are you okay?” His breath fans your ear where he asks, almost a whisper. You nod, a little out of breath. “Be careful. Let me help.” 

Gently, Vernon guides you up the rest of the steps. None of the other ones cave in, though they do creak ominously. You scurry inside of the building, eager to get on more even ground before you plunge through the entryway. 

Inside smells like mold and wet carpets. You scrunch up your nose, looking at the faded and stained red shag beneath your shoes. Rows and rows of wooden pews line the church, book-ended with walls of stained glass windows. You peer at the imagery as you walk down the aisle, hands hovering above the pews as you go.

The stained glass is lovely. You imagine during the day it’s stunning, the sun hitting each piece to refract into thousands of colors. You recognize each piece of artwork from your study on Christian religions: The Baptism of Jesus, The Lamb of God, Saint Paul with his sword and book, The Resurrection. Each one is meticulously crafted, dark without the sun to bring them to life. 

Each piece makes you think of Vernon. There is a haunted beauty about them that has you looking at him sideways as you walk. He seems unaware, craning his head to look up at the old, cracked rafters of the ceiling. 

At the front of the church is the chancel with a lectern front and center. Behind the lectern is a communion table, banners with scriptures fastened to the wall, and some seasonal decor. Vernon walks closely behind you, uncharacteristically silent as you head for a man sitting in the front row, head bowed. 

“Minister?” 

Your voice brings the man out of his reverie. He’s somewhere in his late forties, hair greying at the edges. He has sharp blue eyes and heavy frown lines, his eyes looking you up and down before drifting to Vernon. His mouth turns down as he stands, adjusting the simple robes he has on.

“This him?” 

“Him has a name,” Vernon mutters at the same time you say yes. 

“Come with me.” 

The minister turns on his heel and marches toward one of the side doors behind the pulpit. You hurry after him, Vernon hot on your heels muttering, “You called ahead?” 

“Well yeah… what else was I going to do? Walk in and be like ‘yo is this guy possessed?’” 

“Might be possessed.”

“So you admit you might-”

Vernon swears. “Love, that is not what I meant. I can’t give you an inch, huh?” 

The back offices of the church are stuffy, full of tepid air and dust. You sneeze and Vernon mutters bless you, his tone sharp. You give him a look and he grins, wicked and sharp. “See?” He whispers. “Bless you.”

“Well don’t stand in the hall,” the minister quips. 

“Sorry.”

You rush after him where he holds the door to his office open, Vernon still muttering obscenities under his breath - you’re pretty sure he has called the minister five types of cunt by now. The minister leans away from him when Vernon walks by, partially to be safe and partially because Vernon leers at him. You whisper at him to cut it out, hand shooting out to grab his hand and pull him to sit in the seat next to you. 

Rounding the heavy desk, the minister sits down. His desk is full of ledges and books, religious imagery covering the walls. It smells damp and stale, making you scrunch your nose. It distinctly reminds you of your grandma's closet with moth-eaten coats and water stains on the carpet. 

“Tell me his ailments.” The minister folds his hands under this chin, watching you with sharp eyes. “Be thorough.” 

“I have a name,” Vernon growls.

The look the minister gives him tells you he’s taking mental notes. You clear your throat, leaning forward. You reach your hand over to Vernon, resting it on his knee and squeezing comfortingly. The minister’s eyes don’t miss the motion, narrowing when you leave your hand on Vernon’s leg. 

“It started on Halloween,” you explain, recounting the ritual and some of the side effects Vernon has experienced since then. Vernon sits in steely silence, his eyes boring into the minister’s head as you talk. You skip over the murders but imply that Vernon has more violent urges. “I was researching and-”

“Leave the research to the professionals, girl.”

That pulls you up short. “I am a professional, sir. Or - well - I will be. I’m an occult studies major, so this is sort of my expertise but-”

“Occult studies major,” he scoffs. “Nonsense. The only study you need is the word of God. Perhaps you wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place and reeking of sin.” When he says the word sin, he looks at where you’re touching Vernon. “The ritual is nothing. You could not have summoned anything that wasn’t already there. You are possessed by the sin that poisons-”

“I’m sorry,” you interrupt, shaking your head. “The ritual wasn’t exactly formal, but it had all the right materials to summon an entity.” 

“You know nothing. You come into a house of God with this nonsense talking about rituals and bells because you read them in a book, as though they’re on par with the Word?”

You open and close your mouth, confused at the turn of events. The minister presses on, “Your paganism is just as much as a sin as drinking in an abandoned house and giving into lust and gluttonous pride and other salacious acts. If you are looking for demons, it is the ones you already carry inside of you and must purge through confession and devotion to Jesus Christ.”

“Wow.” You lean back in the chair. Vernon’s muscles have gone taught in his thigh, his shoulders ridgid and his nails digging into the wooden arms of the chair. “This is not at all what we’re here for. By the way - there is nothing wrong with paganism. I would argue that historically most religions, including branches of Christianity, are full of paganism. You have rituals and-”

The minster sits up straight, slamming a hand on his desk. “The truth of God stands apart from the lies of paganism. What I see here is not a victim of a pagan ritual, but two young adults brimming with sin who should confess their sins to Jesus Christ to absolve-”

“Lies of paganism? You can’t erase where things come from, you know? Religions all borrow from one another- symbols, holidays, whatever. One is not less valid than-”

“Only the Word is valid.” 

You bring up a hand, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Look, minister, I came here to help if you could identify demonic energies or symptoms in Vernon. This has turned into a religious lecture, and I’m not arguing with you on the semantics of scripture.” 

“I sense deep darkness in both of you. You can’t even speak to me without touching him, full of gluttonous-”

Vernon gets up, interrupting the minister. “We’re going.” 

“You should beg for guidance and confess-”

“Shut the fuck up,” Vernon growls, leveling the minister with a stare. He bends down to pull you to your feet, his glare softening slightly when he looks at you. “He’s an idiot. You’re having an academic argument, he’s pissed off because he’s popped a boner under his robe and can’t do anything about it because I’m here.”

“I beg your pardon!” 

Vernon crowds you against the side of the chair. He presses in close, ducking his head to press his forehead against yours, nose nudging against you. When he speaks, his voice is velvet-soft and barely a whisper. “And he probably hates that he could never fuck you the way that I do and I know all the little sounds you make.” 

It feels like the air has evaporated from the room. Vernon’s eyes are only for you, his pupils dilated, completely trained on your eyes. His breath fans your face, his hands pressing against the small of your back as though he can press you any closer to him. 

Dizzy, you try to say his name, acutely aware of the minister yelling at the two of you to get out. Vernon gives you a chaste kiss on the lips before turning to look at the minster, a sneer on his face. He looks more terrifying than you’ve ever seen him, but his grip on you is firm. Warm. Strangely enough, safe. 

“She’s ten times the brain that you are. Cunt.” 

Vernon’s lip twitches like he’s going to snarl. Instead, he turns and heads toward the door, hand shooting down to yours to tug you along. You stumble after him, unable to find words but wanting to stay close. Your heart hammers, mind spinning from how quickly the situation had spiralled out of control. You’d just wanted the minister to do some sort of demon test and-

“Don’t beat yourself up over it,” Vernon admonishes, escorting you out of the church. He’s careful with you down the steps, lifting  you by the waist to let you skip the last step entirely. He plants you firmly on the ground. “He was a fanatical dick. Maybe next time we do a new wave church or something.”

“You’re going to let me do a next time?”

His mouth kicks up at the side. “I know you’re not done, Love.” 

-

Vernon swings his legs back and forth, watching you rub cleanser into your face. You’ve given up on asking him why he likes to sit in the bathroom while you do your skincare. ‘Cause I like you was always the response, or some similar variation. You don’t mind. It’s endearing, and you’ve wanted to have Vernon like this… well, since forever. 

Usually, you use this time to talk your way through things you want to try to help free him from possession - lack thereof, he asserts - but tonight you’re quiet. The water is warm as you splash it onto your face, melting the cleanser away and leaving nothing but blotchy, irritated skin. 

You pat dry your face, avoiding looking in the mirror. 

“What’s wrong?” Vernon’s question is soft. You look up at him, eyes round. “You’re extra quiet tonight.” 

“Oh. Thinking, I guess.”

“About what?” 

About everything. Somehow, this has become your new normal. You’re not entirely sure what to make of it, or the fact that it’s been weeks and Vernon genuinely shows no other signs of having an entity inside him. It’s more like he is the entity now.  

Before, Vernon had always been a little on the sardonic side. But it had been quiet, his sharp words muttered, not spoken, his irritation silent, not voiced. In a way, it was the same way with his feelings for you. He’d revealed that he’d liked you as more than a friend for years, angry at how much of a coward he’d been and how it had taken motivation to make him say anything.

The Vernon who chose hiding and restraint was now replaced with a Vernon who asserted himself and could barely hold back. It was different. Not bad, different, just different. You liked the old Vernon but… you don’t dislike this Vernon, either. He still has the makings of his normal self, still interested in all the same books and video games, content to lose to Mingyu in Fortnite over and over, the same Vernon who likes movies and music and Sal’s Pizzeria. 

Vernon gently taps a knuckle underneath your chin, getting your attention. “Tell me.” 

“I was sort of wondering if the minister was right.”

He scoffs. “What?”

“Okay maybe not about the sin and everything but more like… I don’t know.”

Vernon senses your train of thought. “You still don’t like that you don’t care I killed people.” 

You wince at his words. They are sharp and real and more honest than you can voice. Unable to find the courage to agree out loud, you nod your head. 

Gently, Vernon reaches for you. You let him grab you by the biceps and navigate you so that you’re standing between his knees. He squeezes his legs shut, pining you to the spot, albeit gently. His gaze is soft when he looks down at you, his hands playing with your fingers. 

“I can’t tell you how to feel,” he starts. “I can tell you… look, let me tell you what those first three nights were like. And why I don’t think I’m possessed, alright? This is just… me. A little different, but me, okay?” 

Chewing your lip, you nod. His gaze falls down to where he plays with your fingers. “I definitely was possessed, that first night on Halloween. I have no idea how Soonyoung managed a ritual that was done right.” You pinch him and he laughs. “Yeah, right. You were sort of the linchpin. In that closet, I… felt taken over, like I was suddenly shoved in a box and flooded with emotions and rage and hate but more than that? Fear.” 

“I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t be. Then it got sort of quiet and I felt really disconnected. You left so fast and I didn’t even go after you because it felt like I was grappling with myself and I felt a little lost. When I went home is when the real mess started. I had all these thoughts and memories that weren’t mine, all these feelings and images and knowledge. It was overwhelming.”

“Is that why you avoided me?”

“Yes, but I was also just full of anger. Not just at things that didn’t belong to me, but things that did. A lot of it was at myself for wandering through life never voicing what I wanted or never taking action or just sort of… riding in the backseat, I guess.” 

“Really?”

“Yeah. And having the presence of someone else there was like - fuck it was like being in the backseat again. It made me pissed and I just sort of grappled with the spirit for what felt like days until I woke up and I was just… me. But there are random pieces that belong to him, I think. Like sort of an impression?”

“Is the… murder, one?”

“I don’t really know, Love.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “I remember seeing him kill that woman he loved and then himself and my first thought was that I could never do that. I could never kill you. Regardless of what you ever did to me, I vowed that I would do anything for you. But on the other hand, it made me so angry to think anyone could do that to someone they cherished. I would set the world on fucking fire for you - how could others not feel that way when they love someone?” 

Love someone. Vernon has never explicitly said that he loved you or was in love with you. He’s implied it - talked about you like he loves you or alluded to it. But now it’s out in the open as he speaks, a full admission that you are someone he loves that he would do anything for you. 

“And then I saw those people who weren’t only cheating on people who loved them,” he murmurs. “But they were also terrible people. Like full of such shitty things they’ve done and I just… What if those people ever came across your path? Would they fuck you over? Would they cheat on you?” 

Panic grips you. Vernon feels you go rigid in his grip and he looks up at you, realizing what he’s said. He shakes his head quickly, tightening his hands on  you. “No - sorry. I didn’t do it because of you, that came out wrong. Please don’t - that isn’t what I meant. It isn’t your fault. I just couldn’t stop thinking about how the world would be better without them so I just… did it.” 

“Vernon…”

“I swear to you, it wasn’t for you. It was… for everyone? I don’t know. I cannot stand the thought of fucking scum walking the earth like that, so I did something about it.”

“And then you stopped.”

He looks up at you, a bit sulky. “What you want is more important to me. But my point is… I don’t really know what to do with the fact that I don’t care about what I did either. And even if you don’t care, it doesn’t mean you’re a monster or anything. It just makes you the person I want most in the world, still.” 

It’s terrifying, this profession from him. To realize that you have this much power over him, this much sway is overwhelming. Pinned between his knees, your thoughts race with no direction, pulled in so many different ways. This kind of love is everything - and  yet it scares you. But if you step away from him now, if you pull away in the slightest, you know it’ll do irreparable damage. That it’ll hurt. 

“Can we go to bed?” You whisper, daring a glance at him. 

Vernon nods, sliding off the counter. As he does, you shuffle backward, but not far enough to be out of reach. He lifts his hands to your face, cradling it gently and angling you to look at him. “I’m me. A little weirder. A little less refined. But I’m me.” 

He’s right. You hear the truth in his words and you realize perhaps that’s why you don’t care about the blood on his hands. Because it is Vernon, and he’s yours. You don’t care because you love him, and you’d do anything for him too. Which is why you’ve spent weeks researching a way to free him - from nothing, you’re starting to suspect - and why you’ve not taken a single opportunity to turn him in. 

“You’re you,” you agree softly. He smiles and you stand on the tips of your toes, pressing your mouth to his. He makes a surprised sound but you feel his grin grow wider for a split second before he kisses you back in earnest, soft and slow. “Remember what you said to the minister?”

The question catches him off guard, his lips ghost against yours when you break the kiss. “What?”

“That he can’t fuck me like you do.”

Vernon’s grip on your face turns firm. He presses his forehead to yours, eyes flashing. “I meant it.”

“Do it.” 

“Yeah?”

You nod, leaning into him. “Show me.” 

“Fucking say less,” Vernon growls, pulling your lips to his again.

This kiss is all-consuming, needy. Vernon’s fingers slide to the sides of your neck, angling you to deepen the kiss. Your pulse hammers against his fingers, mouth sliding along his. His tongue presses against yours, hungry. You meet him with equal fervor, weeks of holding yourself breaking though.

Somehow, Vernon manages to walk you backward. You cling to his arms, careful not to trip over your own feet until you’re falling backward onto his mattress. It smells like him - safe. He reaches behind his head, gripping the collar of his shirt and yanking it up and over. Propped on your elbow, you watch him. He throws the shirt and then he’s on you again, pushing you back gently so he can climb on top of you, a knee on either side of your waist.

Vernon’s skin is burning hot. Your fingers trace his lines, making him moan into your mouth as he kisses you furiously again. Your heart hammers so hard in your chest you can feel it, a racing rhythm that backtracks the sound of your heavy breathing when he breaks the kiss to pepper your jaw and neck in warm, wet kisses. 

Your lids flutter, stomach flipping when he bites down on your neck harshly, soothing the sting with a rough swipe of his tongue. It feels so good, a slow but steady ache spreading between your thighs as he busies himself with sucking fervently at your collarbone. 

Slipping your hands around his tapered waist, you scratch your nails up his back, not hard enough to leave marks but firm enough to make him groan and shiver. You grin, arching up into him as your hands explore the muscled planes of his back.

Your hips squirm, canting up against him seeking friction. He laughs, dragging his mouth from your neck to your lips, mumbling, “Need help?”

“Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not, baby. It’s cute.” 

Baby. You whine, hips thrashing and he grins before silencing you with a sweet kiss before reaching down to slide a leg open, replacing the open space between your knees with his thigh. A thrill shoots through you when he brings it up to your core, one of his hands dropping to your ass to help grind you against him. 

“Come on,” he urges, licking your jawline. “You know you want to.”

You do. You roll your hips, dragging your clothed cunt along his sweats. It’s not nearly enough friction to do anything significant but it still feels good, turning your body static.

Vernon slides his hands under your shirt, bunching up the material as he slides upward to rid you of it. The room is cool, your skin pebbling and nipples tightening at the temperature. Vernon immediately sends a lick of heat through your, dropping down to capture a nipple in his greedy mouth.

“Shit,” you whisper, eyes closing. It feels so good, his tongue swirling lazily around the bud as you grind against his thigh. “Feels good.” 

Teeth scrape against your sensitive skin. You let out a breathy sound, eyes rolling back. You give Vernon control easily, letting him work you up. It’s sweltering between your bodies, his skin warm against yours, the air charged. You can barely breathe, head falling to the side as he lavishes attention to your chest, your little rolls against his thigh desperate. 

One of Vernon’s hands slips to your waist, firm and sure. He lifts himself off you and you protest but he hushes you with a quick, hungry kiss. His breath is warm against your cheek when he pulls back, shifting to kneel between your legs on the bed. 

His fingers find the waistband of your sleep shorts, slow and deliberate. The fabric scrapes against your skin soft-slow, like Vernon is unwrapping something sacred. The cool air hits your skin with equal intensity as his stare, dark and focused. There’s no teasing smirk anymore, replaced with a desire so powerful you start to squirm. 

Then he’s on you again, mouth crashing against yours, deep and messy, all tongue and teeth and spit. He kisses you like he’s trying to become one with you, like he needs to taste every sound and whimper and noise you make. You can hardly keep up before his hand presses between your legs, fingers sliding over the front of your panties, pressing into the heat and slick of your cunt through the fabric. 

And fuck it feels good. 

One of his hands stays there, circling your clit with firm, steady pressure, rubbing the soaked fabric against you. The other creeps upward, fingertips brushing your chest, your collarbone, until it finds home at your neck. His palm settles there, warm and weighty, and you feel him shift his grip just enough to pin you gently to the mattress. It’s not tight, not rough, just present. Possessive. Perfect.

You thrum beneath him, the room tilting on its axis, slow and dreamline. You feel lightheaded, not just from the stimulation building in your core, but from the soft restraint of his hand around your neck. He’s not squeezing just yet, but the pressure is enough to remind you that it’s Venron in control, a promise of more that sends a thrill through you. If you want it. 

You do want it. Your hand stretches up without thinking, shaking fingers curling around his where he grips your throat. You give him a gentle squeeze, a plea. His glaze flicks down to yours, searching. He seems mystified by what he sees there for a moment, swearing before he nods once, barely perceptible, before tightening his grip just enough to send a tingle down your spine. Not too much. Not too tight. Just enough to make your body sing. 

Vernon presses his forehead against yours, mouth barely brushing your lips. Your breathing is coming harder now, trying to keep up with the way your body is vibrating at his touch. 

“You’re so perfect,” he murmurs, voice gravelly and reverent. He slips a hand under the waistband of your underwear, fingers hooking the edge to pull the damp fabric aside, revealing the slick warmth underneath. He groans softly at the feel of you against his fingers, sticky. You moan and he curses again. “There it is. You sound so pretty, baby.” 

That spurs you on. You make more sounds for him, gasping when his fingers circle your clit properly. Your thighs twitch in response, nearly closing around his hand. He tuts, pressing his mouth against your jaw. “Feel good?”

“Yes,” you whine. His grip tightens a bit more. “Yeah. Yeah like that.”

He pecks your cheek and does as you ask, squeezing the barest hint more. 

You start to fray at the edges. You feel yourself coming apart, incapable of doing anything but shaking under his ministrations. Having him touch you like this again is good. You don’t want anything else, happy that you’re here again. You don’t care about the cost, don’t care what it means anymore. It’s just you and Vernon and his hand between your legs, pulling a long, drawn out orgasm that has you trembling quietly in his hold.

When you let out your breath, orgasm subsiding, Vernon moves. He lets go of your throat, the sudden loss bringing the blood back, rushing. The room turns on its axis, your eyes fluttering as he shuffles down the bed, his hands pressing your thighs open. 

“Vernon.” His name leaves your mouth, hand shooting to grab him by his short locks when he presses his tongue to you. You can barely breathe, shaking when he slowly licks up your cum, not wasting a drop. “Fuuuuck.”

“Taste so fucking good,” he mumbles against your cunt, tongue lazily licking you in circles. “Missed this so fucking much.”

Vernon’s tongue is addicting. He’s messy with it, closing his lips around your clit to give greedy sucks before dragging his mouth down to prod at your entrance. You shake under the attention of his mouth, barely able to do a thing. 

His tongue drags slowly, warm and wet as he licks you at his own lazy pace. You realize this is for him. He savors the way you melt in his mouth, the little sounds you make when his tongue flicks back and forth on your clit, the way you cry when he fucks his tongue into your entrance, nose bumping your clit. 

It’s maddening. His tongue traces along your entrance, collecting arousal before curling back up to lap at your clit. It feels like your blood has turned into electricity, your veins the conductors, Vernon’s mouth the source. He hums against you, enjoying this as he gives your cunt sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. 

“Shit,” you hiss. He’s going to make you come again. You’re not even sure that’s his goal. He seems more focused on tasting you, on drinking you in, on running his tongue around and around on your sensitive flesh. 

He hums, looking up at you with a mouth full of pussy. You see the gleam in his eye, see how much he wants this, watch as he grins and puts on a show for you, opening up his mouth and holding his tongue flat to your pussy, letting you roll your hips to fuck his tongue. 

Vernon nods, little mumbles of mhmmm as you near your high. He lets you take control, riding his tongue until you’re spasming, thighs squeezing his head. He doesn’t care, tongue moving back and forth, keeping you shaking as long as he can until you’re twitching, pushing at his head. 

He comes away, mouth and chin slick, lips swollen. You don’t care, grabbing him and dragging him up to you, surging forward to lick across his lips, tasting yourself. He grins and pins you down to the mattress by your shoulders, content to let you taste as much as you want. 

“Please,” you gasp against his mouth. “Want you.”

He curses. “Say it again.” He leans down to your ear, lips pressed against it when he says, “Say you want me.”

“Want you. Only you.”

“Mhmm.” He licks down your neck, biting down when he reaches the juncture of your shoulder.

Leaning up, Vernon kicks out of his sweats. His hands are reverant when he pulls your underwear down your thighs, fabric scraping against your hypersensitive skin. He dives back in, kissing you as he presses his waist against yours, cock heavy and leaking against your thigh.

You reach down, palming him in your hand. He moans, desperate and breathy, breaking the kiss to drop his head against your shoulder. He’s warm and smooth in your hand. He lets you swipe your thumb across the sensitive head of his cock, hips jerking. You spread his precum down his shaft, hand firm. He fists the sheets, hips twitching forward as you stroke him leisurely. 

“Please,” he murmurs, breath fanning your neck. “Please.”

Hearing him ask for it nearly makes you pass out. You drag the crown of his cock through your messy folds, slicking him up. He growls when you do it, pressing his cock down down down until the tip catches your entrance. You moan in tandem, you at the pressure of him pushing in slightly, him at how bad he wants it.

Vernon sinks in slowly. You suck in a sharp breath, overwhelmed from the feeling of his cock pressing you open until there’s nowhere left to go. It feels good as he stills, hip-to-hip with you as you adjust. Your mouths tangle again and you slide your fingers through the short hair at the back of his neck, tugging what you can.

He gives an appreciative sound and pulls back slightly just to give a sharp fuck forward. You jostle and break the kiss, gasping, spit linking your mouth. His grin is wicked and he licks into your mouth again, starting to fuck into you slowly. 

You start to synapse. You feel on firel, burning up from the inside out as Vernon sets a slow but deep pace, pulling all the way out before he drives all the way back in. He grabs one of your thighs, nails scraping as he pulls it up and fastens it around his waist. It changes the angle, makes everything feel deeper.

Everywhere Vernon touches you leaves a mark. He stains your soul, every press of his mouth a promise of ruination, every brush of his hands speaking prophecy into your skin. You feel him write himself into your scripture with each thrust, every pass of his tongue against yours a prayer. 

The minister was wrong. You and Vernon have something holier than he could ever understand, a dark gospel unfolding between your moving bodies that only the two of you know the hymns to. How could it be anything but when you feel closer to God as Vernon grips your leg tight, pulling you down to meet each thrust. What is religion, if not the feeling of his moans buzzing through your lips, bringing you closer to revelation? 

“Mine,” Vernon promises against your lips. “Mine.”

“Yours.” Your hand slides from the back of his neck around to his chest, pressing your palm flat against his chest. His heart is hammering, lungs heaving. “Mine.” 

“Only yours.” 

“You love me?” 

You nod frantically against him. 

“I need to hear you say it.” 

“I love you.”

And you do. You realize that nothing else matters. You don’t care how fucked up the last few weeks have been. You don’t care that Vernon is something a little more than human, maybe something a little less. You don’t care about anything other than the fact that now he’s here, vulnerable with you - only for you. 

He picks up his pace. You feel another orgasm coming, all of your nerves pulsing, near overloaded. “I would rip heaven from the sky if you asked.”

“I know.” 

And you do know. You see it - feel it in the desperate way he grabs you, the way he fucks into you, frenzied. You feel yourself light up, an imploding star as you come around him, squeezing. He growls out your name, coming undone with you, thrusts messy and wet as you soak his cock. 

Vernon’s mouth finds yours, uncoordinated and messy but greedy, gluttonous, needy. You kiss him with equal fervor, uncaring that your mouth feels bruised and swollen, willing to let him tear you apart just to have some fraction of him with you. 

He starts to slow, spent and shaking until he’s hovering over you, trembling. Your hands rub up and down his sides gently, calming him down. He breathes heavily, the only sound trapped between you. You tilt your head to the side, pressing soft kisses against his inner forearm. 

Eventually, he pulls out, leaving a wet mess and dull ache between your legs. He doesn’t go far, content to tangle himself up in you, pressed as close as he can. His mouth goes to your shoulder, pressing butterfly-light kisses there. 

“If I’m a demon,” Vernon mumbles, voice scratchy from use, “you must be my angel.” 

“Yeah?” You roll toward him, lifting your hand to cradle his face. His eyes are soft as ever, watching you. Your thumb brushes back and forth over his cheekbone until his eyes flutter shut and he nods. “So are you saying you’re a demon now?”

His mouth twitches but he shakes your head. “Don’t know what I am. I’m just yours.”

“Yes,” you agree softly, gazing at him with stars in your eyes. “Mine.” 

-

All the candles are nearly burned to the wick when Vernon enters the church. The flamelight stutters, reacting to him like prey sensing a predator. His boots fall heavy against the threadbare carpet, each step a low, deliberate thud that echoes too long in the still air. His hands are buried in his pockets, but there’s a lazy, cruel confidence in his gait now, a swagger that would have been foreign on the boy who used to flinch at raised voices.

He thinks of that version of himself as dead now. 

Old Vernon. Soft-spoken, uncertain, dying under the weight of all the words left unspoken.

This Vernon doesn’t tremble. This Vernon doesn’t hesitate to say what he wants - which is only ever you. This Vernon isn’t afraid to make the world bow at your feet, to crush anyone who would stand in your way. 

He’s not possessed. He knows that. He hasn’t been possessed for a while. It doesn’t feel like Thomas left so much as Vernon devoured him. Bit by bit, until there was nothing left of Thomas’s spirit. Now, Vernon is more than he was. Maybe a little less human, he isn’t sure. Something with blood under his nails and your name forever on his tongue. 

All his rage, all his violence, all his power? It's yours. It's what makes the constant simmering need to do damage bearable. 

Vernon doesn’t knock when he reaches the minister’s office. The door opens with a warning creak, and the man looks up in confusion, wondering who would dare enter his office this late at night without knocking. He realizes who it is and his face twists into a tapestry of anger.

It dies just as fast. 

Vernon doesn’t give him a moment to speak. He drives his boot into the desk, splintering the wood with a sickening crunch, sending it skidding into the minister’s chest. The man crumples with a wheeze and a painful shout, papers floating down around him like ash.

Circling the wreckage with deliberate calm, Vernon grins as he watches the man flail, trying to get up, a beetle stuck on its back. 

“My girlfriend told me not to kill anyone,” Vernon explains. His voice is casual. Conversational.  “Didn’t say I couldn’t ruin you for opening your fucking mouth, though.”

The minister gapes, trying to push away from Vernon. “What are you doing?” 

Vernon’s fingers unlace from his pockets. He flexes them, tendons twitching like coiled wire. “Paying you back,” he growls, leaning down, breath hot and too close. “For every time you insulted her while we were here the other night. For calling her study a delusion and making her question herself and her work.”

He seizes the minister by the collar of his robe and hauls him upright like a limp doll. “This time,” Vernon murmurs, voice suddenly soft. Sensual. “I won’t stop at words.” 

This time, Vernon’s hands draw blood. 

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[ashstfu]

[the-bengali-diva]

@starlightshadowsworld kunichuu

[thedensworld]

The Margin | J. Ww

Pairing: Wonwoo x reader Genre: Dark Fantasy, Meta-World Au!, Parallel World Au! Words Count: 23k Preview: A very well known illustrator went missing after the villain in the story was defeated.

The assistant illustrator couldn’t help it anymore — he had to report his boss, who hadn’t shown up at the studio or answered a single call in nearly a week. Soonyoung now found himself pacing in front of your apartment door, chewing at his lip while the building owner spoke in hushed tones with two uniformed officers. Any moment now, they were going to force the door open.

A thousand troubling images clawed at the edges of Soonyoung’s mind, but he clenched his fists and shoved them away. You were eccentric, sure — always lost in your stories, always scribbling out scenes that made even hardened editors flinch — but you weren’t reckless enough to hurt yourself, not just because the world had turned on you overnight.

There was only one reason the internet was tearing you apart now, one “crime” that made fandoms froth at the mouth and the comment sections drip poison: you had killed off Wonwoo, the villain in your latest web-comic — the villain people secretly adored more than the hero himself.

The last time Soonyoung saw you, you’d laughed off the hate comments, tapping ash from your cigarette out the studio window, and shrugged when your editor pleaded with you to “fix” the ending. But now, standing here with the hollow hush behind your door pressing into his ears, Soonyoung wondered if maybe — just maybe — the world’s cruelty had clawed deeper than you ever let him see.

You had left him with only one final, cryptic draft: Wonwoo’s funeral, rendered in stark, aching lines — a villain laid to rest in an empty graveyard under a cold, unfeeling rain, watched by no one except a lone stranger standing at a distance, unnamed, faceless.

Every time Soonyoung reread that scene, the same chill crawled under his skin. The pages were too quiet, too final — as if you’d been trying to say goodbye to more than just a character.

Who was the stranger at the funeral?

Why was there no hint about what came next?

And most importantly — where were you now?

Soonyoung had tapped his pen uselessly against his empty sketchpad for days, eyes flicking between the unfinished panels and the increasingly frantic messages from the publisher.

No Safe Place was your crown jewel — a web-comic that had devoured the internet whole, translated into a dozen languages, flooding timelines and group chats from Seoul to São Paulo. It told the tragic story of Choi Hansol, a hero weighted down by injustice since childhood — betrayed, framed, yet always rising again, righteous to a fault.

But the heartbeat of the story, the dark star that pulled millions into your orbit, was never Hansol alone. It was Jeon Wonwoo — the villain people loved to hate and secretly wished you’d redeem.

Handsome, cold-eyed, and terrifyingly clever, Wonwoo slit throats and burned secrets; he murdered Hansol’s fiancée and closest friends without blinking. He came for Hansol’s life, too, driven by a hunger so raw it almost made him human. That brutal contradiction — a monster drawn like a fallen angel — turned your comic from just another hero’s tale into a global fever dream.

So when you dropped the final episode, the internet howled as if you’d stabbed them instead: Wonwoo, defeated at last by Hansol’s trembling hand, two deep wounds blooming red across fresh snow. No redemption. No mercy. A villain dying alone under winter’s hush.

At first, some called it poetic. Then the hate began. How could you? they raged. Bring him back. You betrayed us. Your inbox drowned overnight in death threats and demands. Fan forums burned with conspiracies about secret drafts, alternative endings, half-mad theories about why you’d done it.

Soonyoung swallowed the sour taste rising in his throat. He should have stopped you. He should have begged you to let Wonwoo live a little longer — or at least forced you to sleep, to eat, to turn off your phone for one damned day

When the lock finally gave way with a sharp snap, Soonyoung’s heart lodged in his throat as the door creaked open.

Soonyoung stood frozen in the doorway, the metallic click of the cop’s radio muffled by the pounding in his ears. The moment the lock gave way and the door swung inward, he’d half-expected to see you — curled up on the couch with your laptop burning your thighs, mumbling a half-apology for ignoring his calls.

Instead, silence pressed against him like a heavy hand.

The hallway light flickered over your tiny living room. He stepped inside, shoes squeaking faintly on the polished floor. At first glance, nothing screamed danger: your beloved blankets draped over the armrest, a mug ring staining the coffee table, your phone abandoned near the charger — its black screen reflecting his pale face.

But when he turned toward the kitchen, his breath caught in his throat.

Shards of ceramic crunched under his heel — the shattered remains of your favorite mug, the one with the faded comic panels you’d joked was your “good luck charm.” Beside it, near the base of the counter, a dull brown smear spread in a jagged trail. Dried blood. Not fresh enough to drip. Not old enough to ignore.

“No... no, no, no—” Soonyoung’s voice cracked as he stumbled closer. He crouched, trembling fingers hovering just above the blood, afraid to touch it and make it real.

Behind him, one of the officers muttered into a walkie-talkie, calling for forensics. The building owner stood frozen at the threshold, one hand covering her mouth, eyes wide.

Soonyoung’s vision tunneled. He looked from the broken mug to the blood, to the bare hallway that led to your bedroom. No forced entry. No dragged body. Just this mess — a single, silent scene that made no sense.

“What the hell happened to you…?” His whisper trembled. He should have been angry at you for scaring him like this, for vanishing when the whole world wanted your head for killing off a fictional villain.

Now, with you missing, Soonyoung wondered: was this really just fan rage gone too far?

*

He knew something was wrong long before he had any proof. He’d always known, in the quietest corners of his mind — when the roar of his rage faded, leaving behind only questions he could never quite kill.

That day, he’d been wandering the aisles of his old library, hunting nothing in particular, haunted by everything he couldn’t name. His eyes caught on a thin, battered copy of The Little Prince — the same edition he’d clutched at ten years old, back when life was only lonely, not yet steeped in blood and sin. He traced a fingertip over the faded cover, feeling the soft paper buckle under his touch, and for one heartbeat he felt... almost real.

He sank onto a creaky wooden chair and cracked it open to the first page. But the words blurred the longer he stared, drowned by flashes of himself in every mirror he’d ever broken: his reflection, but never just his alone. There was always something behind his eyes — a ghost whispering orders, a script scrolling where his thoughts should be.

Every time he’d aimed a gun at the innocent, some quiet animal part of him had begged him to stop. His hand would shake. His pulse would hammer rebellion against the cruelty he was known for. But the bullet always found its mark. His will always drowned under a tide he didn’t control.

And then — he met you.

One moment he was tracing the little fox on page twenty-four. The next, his breath caught — the musty hush of the library vanished. In its place: the low hum of an old computer, the dry warmth of a single desk lamp flickering in a cramped, paper-crowded room.

He blinked. Not his house. Not the library.

A narrow, cluttered room greeted him: walls tattooed with sticky notes and scraps of sketches pinned in frenzied constellations. Unwashed mugs on the floor. Crumpled snack wrappers. And you.

You were hunched at your monitor, eyes bloodshot from too many sleepless nights, shoulders stiff from hours chained to the same unfinished panel. Your stylus hovered over the glowing screen when the faintest breath — not yours — brushed the back of your neck.

You froze. Your pulse ricocheted into your throat. Slowly, you pushed your chair back until the wheels squeaked against the floorboards.

There. In the far corner by your battered bookshelf — a man, half-draped in the lamp’s flickering shadow. Tall, broad-shouldered, clad in black from throat to boots. Unfamiliar, yet your gut twisted with a terrifying recognition.

A fan? A stalker? A thief? Your mind clawed for logic, but your voice failed when your eyes found his face. It was as if someone had carved him straight from your imagination and then let him bleed into your reality — eyes too sharp, too deep, a mouth that looked like it had forgotten how to smile but hadn’t forgotten how to sneer.

He stared at you like you were a riddle he’d never agreed to solve.

“Who—” Your voice cracked, too high to sound brave. You brandished the stylus like it might fire a bullet or at least buy you a few seconds to breathe. “Who the hell are you? How did you get in here?”

He flinched — just a flicker — as if your fear startled him too. His eyes darted across the chaos of your walls: sketches, sticky notes, draft pages stamped with his name on every line. He looked like he was piecing himself together from scraps he didn’t remember leaving behind.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. A faint scoff escaped, half a laugh, half a curse. He looked furious that he couldn’t make sense of any of this.

“I should ask you that,” he rasped. His voice was rough velvet, scratching your name straight out of your bones even though he didn’t know it yet. “What is this place? Where am I? And—” He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, like testing the floor before lunging. “Who the hell are you supposed to be?”

You stumbled backward, spine slamming the edge of your desk. Pain cut through your panic, anchoring you just enough to register the impossible: this man shouldn’t exist. He was lines on a page, a snarl in speech bubbles, a villain you’d birthed out of ink and exhaustion at three a.m. — not this living thing breathing your air, glaring you down like you were the monster.

Your heart rattled so hard your chest hurt. Now that you really saw him — the razor cut of his eyes, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his dark hair fell messily over his brow exactly as you’d drawn it a thousand times — the truth knocked the breath from your lungs.

You knew this face better than your own.

You had sketched it laughing cruelly, smirking behind a gun, spitting threats through bloodied teeth.

“Wonwoo…” you breathed. It slipped out raw, like a prayer you regretted the second you said it.

His brow twitched — confusion flaring so violently it made his hands clench at his sides.

“You know me?” His voice dropped softer now, but it was softer the way a blade is soft just before it bites.

“You—” you gasped, pointing a trembling finger at him as if that alone could keep him back. “You’re Jeon Wonwoo. You’re not real— I made you. You’re—”

He closed the gap in two strides. The movement made your stomach twist; it was too smooth, too quiet — exactly the way you’d always written him: a beautiful predator who never missed his mark.

“Stop.” His snarl was barely controlled. “How do you know my name? How do you know me?” His eyes darted past you — catching the glow of your computer screen, the pinned sketches around your walls. His own face stared back at him in half-finished scowls and ghost-smiles.

The way he looked at it all — raw confusion, rising fury, a storm brewing just under skin — terrified you more than his threat ever could.

“Answer me.” His voice knifed through the air. He lunged before you could flinch, grabbing your wrist so hard your stylus slipped from your fingers and clattered to the floor. He yanked you closer until you could feel his breath and the tremor in his chest where it touched yours.

“Tell me the truth,” he hissed, each word scraping against your cheek. “What is this place? Where am I?”

You both stared at each other then — creator and creation, but neither fully aware yet that the line between you had just shattered.

His grip on your wrist tightened, then slid up to fist the collar of your worn T-shirt. You squeaked out a half-word — a plea or a protest, you didn’t even know — but he yanked you closer, so close you could see the way his pupils flickered and shrank, anger and confusion devouring each other in endless loops.

“Speak!” he barked, his breath hot against your cheek, trembling with something too human for the monster you’d created in ink and pain. “Why is my face everywhere? Why do you know my name? What did you do to me?”

Your hands scrambled at his forearm, your fingers digging into solid muscle that felt far too real under your palms. His strength was terrifying — not superhuman, but human enough to bruise you, break you. Yet your eyes, wide and glassy, locked on his with a quiet that made his throat seize up.

You didn’t look like his victims did. You weren’t begging for mercy — not exactly.

You looked at him like you knew him. Like you pitied him. Like you were seconds from confessing something so heavy it might crush you both right there on your cluttered floor. And that look twisted behind his ribs, scraping at something raw he didn’t have a name for. It made him angrier than any lie ever could.

“STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT!” His snarl split the stale air, rattling the lamp and your bones alike. In a blind lash of frustration, he shoved you backward.

You hit the floor hard — a dull, shocking thud — and the breath punched out of your lungs. For a heartbeat, the ceiling blurred above you as you sucked in air like a drowning thing.

Above you, he staggered back, both hands raking through his hair so hard you thought he might rip it out by the roots. His chest heaved as he spun in a frantic circle, eyes snatching at every scrap of himself plastered on your walls — young, old, laughing, bleeding, always wrong but always him.

“Why…?!” His voice cracked like splitting ice. He slammed a fist into the drywall beside your pinned sketches, rattling a cascade of thumbtacks to the floor. “Why am I drawn?! Who am I?!”

He turned back toward you, but the snarl had broken. Beneath the fury, you could see it now — the terror, the desperate wanting to understand. Something no amount of hate mail or final drafts had ever prepared you to face in flesh and bone.

You lay there, chest hitching. But before you could shape even a single word— before he could hear anything from you, his eyes flickered — the anger flickered — and something inside him cracked like a mirror catching the sun.

Wonwoo staggered back a step, pupils blown wide and then drifting somewhere you couldn’t reach. Not here. Not with you. Somewhere deeper.

He blinked once. Twice.

The harsh yellow of your desk lamp flickered into a single dusty sunbeam slicing through grimy library windows. The slap of your heartbeat faded under the dry hush of turning pages and a far-off cough from the lone librarian.

His fists clenched around something soft — thin paper under his knuckles, the cover folding where his nails bit too deep. The Little Prince lay splayed across his knees, right where it had been before he’d vanished. Page 24, the fox waiting patiently in its ink lines.

His chest rose in a shudder. He twisted in his old wooden chair, eyes searching the cracked marble floor, the tall shelves, the drifting motes of dust caught in afternoon light. No blood. No trembling voice whispering secrets he couldn’t bear. No walls covered in his stolen face.

Just books. Just silence. Just him — and the tremor in his ribs that insisted he was real enough to fear his own heartbeat.

Wonwoo pressed a palm flat over his chest, feeling that traitorous pulse hammer against his skin.

“...What the hell…?” he murmured to no one but the echoes, voice hoarse, softer than the rustle of pages.

He didn’t know if he’d dreamed you — or if, for a moment, he’d woken up from the lie he’d always believed was his only truth.

He didn’t know at all.

*

It had happened a month before you ever dared to draw him bleeding into the snow.

You told yourself it was stress — that infamous “artist’s madness” everyone joked about when deadlines crawled into your dreams and stole your sleep. You’d laughed about it once. Maybe you should’ve laughed harder while you still could.

Because the first time you saw him — standing solid in your apartment, warm breath ghosting over your cheek, eyes glinting with a predator’s confusion — you realized madness was too gentle a word.

The grip of his hand on your wrist. The rasp of his voice demanding truths you couldn’t give. The faint heat of his forearm brushing yours when he leaned too close. None of it was paper or ink or your exhausted brain short-circuiting after too many all-nighters.

He was too human to ignore.

You went to the psychiatrist the next day, trembling so badly you spilled water down your chin when they offered you a paper cup. You told them — haltingly — that you were seeing things. That you’d made a monster and now he wouldn’t stay on the page.

They asked if you heard voices.

You said yes — his.

They scribbled notes you couldn’t read.

They gave you pills.

This will help with the hallucinations, they promised, their smile stretching too wide. Take them before bed. Sleep will help you separate fiction from reality.

But sleep didn’t save you.

Because sometime later — maybe days, maybe weeks (you’d stopped counting) — Wonwoo came back. Not with confusion this time, but with a polished gun clenched in his steady hand. Just like you’d written him. Just like you’d drawn him a hundred times, perfect and terrifying.

He cornered you in your kitchen, stainless steel cold under your back, barrel kissing your temple while his eyes searched you like an unsolvable riddle.

“Who am I really?” he hissed, every word precise and soft, the way you’d loved scripting his lines. “What did you do to me? Why do I exist like this?”

You could barely choke out an answer. It wasn’t the gun that broke you — it was the way his desperation bled through the barrel and sank into your bones.

It drove you mad.

He ate your sleep. He gnawed at your sanity, your drafts, your trust in your own hands. It was like watching your mind rot from the inside out — and you had made him this way.

So you did the only thing left that made sense to your splintering mind: you decided to kill him first.

Hansol would help you. Hansol, your poor righteous hero who had always deserved to bury the monster who made him suffer. It wasn’t the plot you’d started with — no, Wonwoo had been just another chess piece to deepen Hansol’s tragedy — but readers had twisted him into something you couldn’t control anymore. Something they worshipped more than the hero.

So you locked yourself away for three nights that blurred into one long, jagged heartbeat. You didn’t let Soonyoung touch a single panel. You didn’t sleep. You didn’t eat. You just drew — every drop of your fear and rage bleeding through your pen until the final stroke sealed your freedom.

Two stabs in the chest. Snow blooming red. A villain dying alone.

You uploaded the episode before your own hands could betray you. Before your fear could beg you to save him again.

And when the server confirmed the update, when Soonyoung’s panicked messages blinked unanswered on your phone, you sank to the floor under your desk and laughed — raw, exhausted, almost hysterical.

You had finally killed him.

You were free.

*

You woke up from a thin, drugged sleep — the kind where dreams and nightmares bleed into each other, where you half-believed you’d finally banished him for good.

But the scream that dragged you awake wasn’t yours.

At first, you thought it was just the pipes moaning through the walls, or maybe your own throat raw from nights spent mumbling his name like a curse. But then you heard it again — a choked, guttural rasp coming from your kitchen.

Your feet hit the cold floor before your brain caught up. You stumbled through the half-lit apartment, pills and papers crunching under your soles.

And then you saw him.

Jeon Wonwoo, sprawled in a mess of dark, glossy blood against your cabinet doors. Pale skin splotched crimson, shirt clinging wet to the ragged wounds carved right where your stylus had last touched the tablet: two deep stabs in his chest, red soaking the linoleum beneath him like spilled ink.

His eyes fluttered up at you — glassy, struggling to focus. But they were still his eyes: sharp even dulled by agony, beautiful even in ruin.

Your mouth opened, but your voice cracked like an old record.

“Oh my god, Is it real?” you whispered, the question trembling from your lips before you could stop it. You sank to your knees, heedless of the blood soaking into your sweatpants.

He coughed, a wet, rattling sound that made your skin crawl. His fingers twitched weakly, groping at the floor until they found the hem of your shirt — grasped it like a lifeline.

“Help me…” he rasped, the syllables bubbling through the blood at the corner of his mouth. His eyes locked on yours — not cruel now, not mocking. Just a man begging, like he’d never begged for anything before. “Save me. Please.”

And you — fool, creator, god trembling before your own monster — you pressed your shaking hands over the wounds you had given him. You felt the heat of his blood seep through your fingers, felt the heartbeat stuttering beneath your palms.

Your tears dripped onto his cheek, mixing with sweat and red and the last thread of whatever sanity you still had.

“I killed you,” you whispered, voice breaking. “I killed you — why are you still here?”

Wonwoo’s lips parted, but no words came out — only a shuddering exhale that smelled of iron and loss. His grip on your shirt tightened, a pitiful strength for a man who once slit throats without flinching. Now he clung to you as if you were the only thing left tethering him to breath, to pain, to existing.

“Don’t… don’t let me go,” he gasped, the plea breaking apart in his throat. A violent tremor coursed through him, blood bubbling between your fingers as he tried to hold himself together by sheer will. His eyes searched yours, desperate and terrified — the look of a man meeting the void and wanting anything but its cold mercy.

You choked on a sob so raw it burned your lungs. This was wrong. This was so wrong. He was your nightmare, your villain — you had sculpted every cruel smirk, every crime, every unredeemable sin. He deserved this ending. You had given him this ending.

So why did it hurt like you were killing him again?

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—” You pressed harder, your hands slick with him, your voice shaking apart with each word. “You weren’t supposed to suffer this long, Wonwoo, you weren’t—”

His eyes rolled back for a second and you panicked, slapping his cheek lightly, your tears splattering on his ashen face. Your vision blurred. Your heartbeat pounded against the cage of your ribs like it would tear free to keep him alive if you failed.

You grabbed his clammy face between your shaking hands and pressed your forehead to his, breath mingling with the scent of metal and sweat and the ink of your own sins.

“I’ll fix it, Wonwoo. I swear to God, I’ll fix it. Just stay.”

Somewhere deep in him, past the pain, the violence, the villainy, you felt him believe you — just for a heartbeat. His eyes slipped shut, his lips moving in a ghost of a word you almost didn’t catch.

“...please.”

It was enough to break you. It was enough to make you crawl through hell again — for him, your monster, your fault, your unfinished prayer.

You remembered.

The stranger at his funeral — the faceless silhouette standing under the gray rain while everyone else turned away. You hadn’t named him, hadn’t given him lines, hadn’t even told Soonyoung who he was supposed to be. He was just there — a margin in the story, a whisper you’d meant to revisit but never did.

The Margin.

Your heart stuttered with something like hope — foolish, desperate hope — as you cradled Wonwoo’s head against your chest, your fingers trembling in his hair sticky with sweat.

Maybe they could help. Maybe the forgotten ones could fix what you broke.

With one arm wrapped around Wonwoo’s shaking shoulders, you fumbled for your laptop on the blood-slicked floor. Your palm left crimson smears across the touchpad as you dragged up your hidden folder — the one you never showed Soonyoung or the publisher. Drafts. Abandoned arcs. Ghosts with names you never spoke aloud.

You clicked The Margin.

The folder flickered open: dozens of half-finished files, lines of dialogue that led nowhere, silhouettes that waited to be drawn. Unused, unseen, but breathing in the dark corners of your mind.

You whispered like a prayer to the screen, to the hidden codes, to the characters you’d once left behind:

“Help me… please, help me save him…”

Wonwoo stirred in your lap, groaning weakly, blood pooling warmer under your thighs. His hand twitched near the laptop’s edge, as if even dying he was tethered to the story that birthed him.

And then — the cursor froze.

The screen dimmed.

A hiss of static crawled up your spine.

The light in your apartment flickered, once, twice — then darkness swallowed everything. Not the gentle dark of a power outage — but a pulling, as if the shadows under your bed had grown teeth and wanted you back.

Your breath caught in your throat. You clutched Wonwoo tighter as the chill pressed into your skin, dragging at your consciousness like greedy hands. The laptop fan whirred one last time — then died.

And before your scream could escape, the world folded in on itself.

*

You wake slowly — not with a jolt, but like drifting up from deep water.

At first, you feel warmth against your cheek, the faint scent of wild grass, the sound of leaves whispering overhead. You blink your eyes open to a sky so wide and blue it makes your chest ache.

You’re lying in a clearing beneath a canopy of ancient trees. Sunlight filters through branches heavy with wind-chimes made from broken pens and paper scraps — your paper scraps, you realize with a jolt, words you once threw away now dancing above you like blessings.

Around you, winding stone paths lead to mismatched wooden bookshelves, some leaning sideways under the weight of dusty tomes, others half-swallowed by flowering vines. Low stone benches circle each shelf like tiny reading shrines. It feels like a park built from every soft daydream you’ve ever had about books and second chances.

And the people—

Your breath hitches.

Scattered in the grass and along the benches, you see them: men and women, young and old, draped in half-familiar clothes. A girl in a yellow raincoat you never finished writing a storm for. A man with an eyepatch, reading aloud to a group of children that never made it past your old notebook margin. A boy with wild hair and a grin so sharp it cuts through your memory — Seungkwan, your trickster, alive here like a rumor the world forgot.

They pause, one by one, as if sensing your heartbeat quicken. Heads lift from open pages. Eyes lock on you — not with blame, but a solemn recognition. The ones you abandoned, the ones you swore you’d come back for but never did.

And then you remember —

You sit up so fast the world spins. Next to you, half-cradled in the curve of your body, lies Wonwoo. His head rests against your thigh, dark hair sticking to a forehead slick with sweat. His chest rises and falls in shallow, trembling breaths — but he’s breathing. Still warm. Still real.

You brush his cheek with shaking fingers. His lashes flutter, but he doesn’t wake.

When you look up again, the characters are closer now. Forming a quiet circle. Some carry books — your books. Others hold old sketches, pages you thought you lost forever. One by one, they study you and the bleeding villain in your lap.

Seungkwan steps forward first. Mischief flickers in his eyes, but this time, it’s tempered by something older, wiser — the part of him you always imagined but never wrote down.

“Well, look who crawled back to the margins,” he says, voice a soft laugh that drifts through the leaves. He flicks a glance at Wonwoo and then back at you, tilting his head.

“You’ve brought him.”

He nods at Wonwoo — your monster, your contradiction, your bloodstained fox under the oak tree.

Around you, the others murmur like turning pages, some curious, some wary, all impossibly alive.

The garden hushes again, waiting for your answer — the answer that might heal the bruised stories still breathing between these pages, and the villain in your arms who was never just bad or good, but something painfully, beautifully human.

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out — only the raw scrape of your breath fighting through disbelief.

Seungkwan watches you patiently, like a cat waiting to see if its prey will bolt or beg. Behind him, more of them drift closer through the rustling garden paths: half-finished dreams wearing your words like borrowed skin.

Your heart stutters when you see him — Joshua. Not the angel, not the saint you meant to finish someday, but the tired, gentle father you once scribbled lines for on a rainy bus ride. He stands a little apart from the others, a little sad around the eyes. A small girl clings to his trouser leg, peeking shyly at you from behind his knee — the daughter you never got to name.

Your lips form his name before you can stop yourself.

“Joshua…”

He smiles at you, soft and forgiving. It guts you more than anger ever could. He rests a protective hand on his daughter’s hair but doesn’t come closer. He just nods, as if to say: I knew you’d find your way here, eventually.

Your gaze skitters past him — and snags on a figure leaning against an old iron lamppost, arms crossed, a familiar smirk playing at his mouth.

Kim Mingyu.

The vice captain you made too reckless, too golden, too big-hearted for his own good. His letterman jacket is unzipped, wind tugging at his hair, just like in the final match scene you never wrote. He lifts two fingers in a lazy salute when he catches your stare, but there’s a bruise blossoming under his eye — the fight you’d planned but never finished.

And beside a shelf blooming with lilacs, half-shadowed, you spot him: Jihoon.

The wizard who once studied charms in a castle built of your childhood wonder. His robes are dusty, ink stains his fingers, and a battered spellbook dangles from his wrist. His gaze is sharp, calculating, but when your eyes meet, there’s a softness there too — the forgiveness of someone who understands how many drafts a miracle can take.

You sink back on your heels, your hands trembling where they cradle Wonwoo’s sweat-damp hair. He groans faintly in your lap, dragging you back to the sick reality of flesh and blood and consequence.

The characters wait. So many shades of you. So many pieces that were never just light or shadow — always both, always alive in the margins.

You swallow, voice barely more than a cracked whisper.

“I don’t… I don’t understand. Why are you all here? Why is he—” you look down at Wonwoo, at the monster turned man, at your fear made helpless in your arms — “Why is he still bleeding? I killed him. I killed him.”

Seungkwan clicks his tongue, crouching so close his grin brushes your panic like a knife.

“No, darling. You wrote an end. That’s not the same as killing.”

Behind him, Joshua’s daughter giggles softly, clutching a flower she’s plucked from the grass. Mingyu tips his head back to watch the clouds drift like torn paper across the sky. Jihoon flips open his spellbook, murmuring under his breath — perhaps already plotting a charm to mend what you’ve broken.

Hansol’s eyes gleam as he leans in, nose almost touching yours.

“This place — the Margin — is where the unfinished things wait. Good, bad, broken, hopeful. Us. You. Him.” He flicks a glance at Wonwoo. “You gave him too much of yourself to truly die. You stitched kindness into his cruelty. You doubted him, and you loved him. And now — here he is. Asking you to decide which part of him gets to live.”

The wind stirs the pages on every shelf, like a thousand heartbeats holding their breath.

“Tell us, author…” Seungkwan purrs, voice warm and deadly all at once.

“Will you keep running from your monsters — or will you set them free?”

Wonwoo’s breath stirs weakly against your thigh, then catches on a soft, pained laugh. His eyelids flutter — heavy, reluctant — until they crack open enough to find you, blurry and bright and trembling above him.

His fingers curl in the fabric of your pants, gripping just enough to anchor him to something warm. His lips twitch into a shape that almost resembles a smile, ruined by a tremor of agony.

“Am I…” He coughs, the sound tearing at your chest. His voice is hoarse, but you can hear the ghost of that cruel lilt that once made your readers flinch — twisted now into something childishly fragile.

“Am I in heaven?” He drags in a ragged breath, eyes skimming the sun-dappled leaves above, the soft sway of books and petals drifting on the wind. The other characters — your half-forgotten children — watch him with an odd, quiet sorrow, like old ghosts paying respect.

“Do I… even deserve it?”

Your throat clamps shut around a sob. You want to say yes. You want to say no. You want to scream that this place is not heaven — it’s your fault, your punishment, your miracle.

So you do the only thing your broken creator’s heart can manage: You cradle his face in both palms, pressing your forehead to his. The warmth of him sears your tears clean.

Around you, the Margin seems to breathe — the other characters watching, waiting, their layered stories rustling through the trees like wind through an orchard of second chances.

And in your arms, your monster — your mercy — bleeds and breathes, daring you to decide what you truly believe in his endings.

*

You woke up with a dull ache pounding behind your eyes, the kind that made the ceiling blur and tilt before settling back into focus.

For a breathless moment, you didn’t dare move. You lay there, half-tangled in crisp linen sheets that smelled faintly of old wood and some expensive soap you’d never buy for yourself. A massive window spilled soft morning light across polished floors. Heavy curtains, carved panels — all too grand to be yours.

Your mind reeled, scrambling for something solid. The last thing you remembered was the Margin with Wonwoo.

Your eyes flew open. Wonwoo. Where was he? Was he still bleeding? Still clawing at his own existence?

You pushed yourself upright too fast, the world spinning so viciously you nearly collapsed back onto the pillows.

And then —

“Excuse me…”

The gentle voice startled you. A woman, perhaps in her forties, stood just inside the doorway. She bowed her head politely, her hands folded at her apron front. The soft lines around her eyes crinkled when she offered you a careful smile.

“I’m Mrs. Park,” she said, in a tone so calm it only made your heartbeat worse. “I’ll be the one to serve you while you’re staying here. At Jeon’s house.”

Jeon’s…

The words hit you like ice down your spine. You stared at her, your lips parting, mind skimming frantically through old drafts, background notes, family trees only you ever cared about.

Park… Hyungrim.

Daughter of Jung Seo — Wonwoo’s most loyal servant. A side character you’d named in a margin note, half-intending to give her a line or two someday.

Your gaze flicked from her kind eyes to the unfamiliar grandeur pressing in from every wall. The high ceiling, the carved beams, the muted luxury that felt exactly — horribly — right.

You were in Wonwoo’s world. Inside the fiction. Inside him.

“Park Hyungrim…” you whispered her name aloud, more to prove you hadn’t lost your mind again.

She beamed, seemingly pleased. “Ah, so you do know me, Miss. Master Jeon will be pleased you’re awake. He instructed us not to disturb you until you’d rested properly.”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Master Jeon. So polite, so proper — as if he hadn’t once pressed you to the floor with blood on his hands and yours.

You swallowed hard, voice a bare breath. “Where is he?”

Mrs. Park’s smile softened into something almost maternal. “Master Jeon is waiting for you in the study. He said you’d have much to discuss.”

And for the first time since you’d opened your eyes, your pounding head went quiet — replaced by a single, echoing thought that felt both terrifying and inevitable. You were in his world now. And there would be no running from the ending you owed him.

“How… how did I get here?” you croaked out, your voice still raw from sleep and disbelief. You clutched the blanket tighter around your waist, needing something — anything — to anchor you to the fact that this wasn’t another fever dream.

Mrs. Park stepped a little closer, lowering her voice as if sharing an intimate secret. “Master Wonwoo and you were found outside the main gate early this morning. It startled the entire household. Master said you… you saved him.”

Your heart stuttered painfully in your chest. Outside the gate. The Margin. The promise to find the end — did it fling you straight into the story’s spine?

“He was injured,” you whispered, your throat closing around the memory. Blood on your hands, his broken plea: Save me.

“Yes,” Mrs. Park nodded, her eyes shadowing with concern. “Badly hurt. But the doctor came at once. He’s resting well now, stronger than any of us could have hoped.” She hesitated, searching your face as if weighing how much truth to spill. “He insisted no one disturb you. He sat by your bed all night.”

You felt the floor tilt again, but this time it wasn’t the headache — it was the sheer absurd tenderness of it. Your villain, who once threatened to gut you like one of his victims, had guarded your sleep as if you were the fragile thing.

Your lips trembled around the question that slipped free despite yourself. “Why… why did he say I saved him?”

Mrs. Park tilted her head, confusion and gentle fondness mingling in her expression. “Perhaps, Miss… because for Master Jeon, being alive at all — that is your doing, isn’t it?”

You laughed then, an exhausted, broken sound that tasted too close to tears. Because of course. It always came back to you. His pain. His breath. His mercy — or lack of it — all crafted by your hand.

And now you were here. Trapped inside the fiction you’d stitched together.

And somewhere beyond this room, Jeon Wonwoo — the man you’d written to be both monster and tragedy — was awake, waiting, and wanting answers only you could give.

Mrs. Park bowed politely, stepping back to the door. “When you’re ready, Miss… the study is just down the corridor. Master Jeon is waiting for you.”

You padded barefoot down the hallway, trailing your fingertips along the walls — smooth polished wood, the carved crown moulding exactly as you’d drawn it, the embroidered runner soft beneath your feet. It all looked like your story, but living in it turned out to be a maze: corridors twisted into each other, doors you never bothered detailing led to entire wings you’d never planned.

You cursed under your breath when another turn ended in a dead end lined with framed calligraphy and a cold window staring at the courtyard.

“Great,” you muttered, pressing your palm to your forehead. God of this world, but can’t find the villain’s study to save your life.

Then behind you — low, rough, and unmistakable — came the sound of someone clearing their throat.

You spun so fast you nearly slipped on the rug.

Wonwoo stood half-shadowed at the intersection of the hall, leaning more heavily on the wall than he probably wanted you to see. His torso was tightly bandaged under an open black shirt that hung loose on his broad frame, fabric brushing his hips but baring the bruises you’d put there yourself.

His eyes — your undoing every time — locked onto yours, hungry for answers, flickering with relief and raw confusion.

“You’re hopeless,” he rasped, and the corner of his mouth twitched, like he was half-amused, half-pained. He pushed himself upright and nodded his head toward a door just behind him. “You walked past my study twice already.”

You opened your mouth, found nothing useful to say, and snapped it shut again.

Wonwoo’s eyes dragged over you slowly, taking in your disheveled hair, your wide stare, the tremor in your hands. His voice dropped, rough but softer now — maybe for you, maybe for himself.

“Come here. Before you get lost again.”

*

You sank deeper into the cushions, the plush velvet swallowing your shoulders while you watched him — Jeon Wonwoo, your beautiful nightmare — fuss with the buttons of a shirt that didn’t quite hide the bruises or the faint wince every time he moved.

He pulled the old corkboard closer, the squeak of the wheels dragging over the marble floor cutting through the heavy quiet.

Gone were the grainy photographs you’d pinned there for him — Hansol, his mark; that lover he’d used for leverage; the detective’s blurry license plate.

Now only jagged notes scrawled in black marker covered it. The Margin. Source Stream. Memory Loops. Control Points.

Wonwoo faced the board, but his eyes flicked to you in the glass reflection.

“You promised me an ending,” he said, voice calm, but the undercurrent rippled with a threat you couldn’t name. “That’s why we’re back.”

You flinched. Back. Not we’re home. Just back.

“You’re back,” you corrected under your breath, but he heard you, of course. He always heard everything.

Wonwoo’s fingers ghosted over the biggest word in the middle — MARGIN — underlined twice.

He spoke slowly, almost carefully, like testing the edges of a blade.

“We’re connected through The Margin. Because that’s where you pull it all from. The scraps. The lives you half-built. The truths you left unfinished — including me.”

His knuckles tapped the board once, too sharp, too close to anger.

“You sound smart,” you mumbled before you could stop yourself. Regret bloomed immediately.

But instead of snapping, Wonwoo let out a low, humorless laugh — one you’d written for him a hundred times, now bleeding through real lips.

“You made me smart,” he said simply. Then he turned, pinning you to the couch with that impossible, too-human stare.

“Now, creator — Y/n — tell me honestly.” His jaw flexed, the words grinding out like stone.

“What was the goal? Writing me.” 

Your mouth was dry. He waited, breathing ragged in the hush.

In that moment, he looked nothing like the neat lines on your tablet screen — just a man who realized he’d been caged in ink and was clawing for a door.

Your voice cracked at the edges — too much truth pressing out all at once, pushing past the fragile dam of guilt you’d built every time you put your pen down.

“You weren’t supposed to cross both worlds,” you said again, as if saying it twice might shrink the horror of it.

Wonwoo, standing by the board, went still. One hand flexed at his side, restless and half-curled like he wasn’t sure whether to reach for you or for your throat.

“But you…” Your breath hitched. Your eyes blurred at the memory — your dingy apartment lit by the flicker of your desk lamp, your own wrists bruised where he’d pinned you. His voice, a low growl in the dark: Tell me who I am.

“I thought it was all a dream,” you confessed, voice no louder than the rustle of papers drifting behind him. “You came to my place. You threatened me. You aimed a gun at my head. You haunted me. And I—”

You swallowed, shame sour on your tongue. “I thought I was crazy.”

Wonwoo’s jaw twitched, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. When he spoke, his tone was stripped bare of any monster’s snarl — only weary certainty: You’d written him too deep. You’d made him want more.

“That night,” you whispered, voice trembling as you looked at the neat bandage peeking from his open collar, “when I realized I’d lost control of you, I decided your end. I had to finish you — I had to end it…”

He tilted his head, eyes dark and searching, as if reading the unwritten pages still hiding behind your ribs.

“You always planned to kill me, didn’t you?” His tone was half-accusation, half plea.

“No — I never tried to kill you,” you blurted out, voice cracking as your hands clenched uselessly in your lap. “You were… you were there for Hansol. I needed you, Wonwoo. I needed you to break him, to build him, to—”

“But you were about to kill me, Y/n!”

Your name in his mouth tasted like rust and accusation, each syllable bitten off like he resented having to say it at all.

“Because you— you started to fight for your life!” you cried, the confession tumbling out raw. “You weren’t supposed to want it that badly. It scared me!”

His laugh came out sharp, cracked at the edges. “I scared you?”

There was something so small and so vicious in his eyes, the thing you’d written into him — a monster, but too human to accept that word quietly.

“You never did,” you whispered, shoulders sagging. “Not until that.”

A tense silence pooled between you. Wonwoo’s tongue darted to the corner of his lip, catching a drop of blood from where he’d bitten it. He looked at you like he might devour you or collapse at your feet — and he hated both options.

Then, in a sudden, tired gesture, he turned away, palm flattening on the board so hard the paper pinned beneath it crumpled.

“Enough. Let’s talk again tomorrow,” he said lowly, not looking back. 

You rose from the couch on unsteady legs, the taste of your name still burning on his tongue long after you slipped from the study’s doorway.

*

You woke up to the faint clink of porcelain and the soft rustle of fabric. Park Hyungrim stood by your bed, her hands folded politely in front of her apron as if she hadn’t just arranged half your breakfast and an entire boutique in your room.

“Good morning, Miss,” she said with a slight bow. Her voice was calm, gentle — the way you’d scripted her mother, Jung Seo, to soothe the monsters that haunted Wonwoo’s halls. Now the daughter did the same, but for you instead.

On your nightstand: toast still warm, a delicate cup of tea, fresh fruit you hadn’t seen since your last attempt at healthy living.

And beside your bed, servants flitted in and out, arranging a small forest of dresses, blouses, skirts, even shoes you’d never pick for yourself.

“Master Wonwoo had these prepared,” Hyungrim explained, her tone betraying neither judgment nor curiosity. “He also wishes for me to show you around the house once you’re ready.”

You sat up slowly, blinking at a cream silk blouse hanging from a carved oak rack — your reflection caught in the brass mirror behind it, hair a mess, hoodie collar stretched, sweatpants wrinkled at the knee.

Your life at home: instant ramen, half-finished scripts, coffee stains. This life now: gold-thread curtains, high windows, an entire wardrobe you never asked for.

A hollow laugh slipped past your lips before you could swallow it.

You made him — made all this — and now he wants to give you a tour like some polite landlord showing a clueless tenant around her own mind.

“Miss?” Hyungrim asked softly, eyes kind but too observant for comfort.

You dragged your eyes from the silk and forced a smile.

“Okay. I’ll get ready.”

And as you ran your fingers over fine cotton and delicate lace, one thought drummed under your ribs:

He’s more than what I wrote. And maybe… so is this world.

Hyungrim’s footsteps were soft but unhesitating on the polished floors, her voice steady as she guided you past rooms you half-recognized from your sketches and half-felt for the first time with your own skin.

Your mind, though, barely clung to her words about family portraits, study halls, and the greenhouse behind the east wing.

Instead, your thoughts drifted down familiar back alleys and precinct corridors in another part of this world — the threads you’d woven so carelessly late at night and left dangling because life, or heartbreak, or deadlines got in the way.

Hansol. Your reckless police officer hero who was more fists than caution tape, always coming home bruised but never beaten.

Dokyeom. Bright-eyed chief of Team 3, all warmth until he slipped on gloves. Sihye. Your breath caught on that name. Your sister’s eyes, your sister’s laugh — borrowed, resurrected as a gentle doctor tending to broken bones and broken men in a city that didn’t deserve her softness. 

You snapped back when Hyungrim stopped at the main doors, bowing lightly.

“Miss?”

You turned to her, your chest so tight it made your voice come out raw.

“Hyungrim, I need to go into town.”

Hyungrim didn’t flinch. She only dipped her head again — your unwavering servant in every version of this story.

“Yes, Master Wonwoo mentioned you might wish to explore. He has arranged a car and driver for your comfort and safety.”

You half-laughed, half-scoffed, words spilling fast. “But I need cash, Hyungrim — real money.”

Hyungrim nodded as if you’d asked for tea instead of freedom.

“I’ll prepare your bag immediately, Miss. Please wait here a moment.”

And as you stood by the carved doors of the Jeon estate — your own palace, your own cage — you wondered if your characters would even want to see you.

After all, what did you ever give them but unfinished endings and borrowed hope?

*

Wonwoo stepped out of the glass-walled dining lounge just as the midday sun dipped behind passing clouds, softening the sharp lines of the towering skyline that hemmed his empire in steel and secrets. He slipped on his sunglasses, ignoring the bowing host trailing behind him with murmured thanks.

Jun — his right hand since VEIN’s inception — matched his pace easily, a discreet file tucked under one arm and a subtle bulge of a sidearm under his jacket.

“Mr. Jeon,” Jun began as they passed the marble lobby’s silent fountains. “The board is satisfied with your agreement. The Ministry liaison will handle the new shipment from Busan.”

Wonwoo gave a curt nod, mind only half on the logistics of memory chip couriers and clinic expansions. He was already sifting through the next puzzle: you. His unexpected, stubborn guest still tucked away under his roof like a secret he couldn’t burn.

A discreet vibration against his palm drew him back — Jun handed over a slim phone. He flicked through the latest security update: your breakfast, your walk with Hyungrim, your request for money — and now, a note that you’d left in a black sedan headed toward the old river district.

“Curious little god,” he murmured to himself. What are you digging for this time?

Wonwoo’s eyes found Hansol instantly. Even in the gentle bustle of lunch hour crowds, Hansol looked like tension made flesh: clean blazer, faint holster imprint under the left arm, a restless glint that had never dulled despite his disgrace. A woman walked beside him, slim in a pale coat — Sihye, the doctor. Wonwoo’s jaw tensed around a crooked half-smile. You always gave him someone good to protect. Even if he had to bleed for it.

“That’s Officer Choi,” Jun repeated, voice low. “He… hasn’t given up, sir.”

Wonwoo adjusted his cuffs, then let his gaze linger on Hansol’s silhouette in the crowd.

“He was never written to give up,” he said simply — almost fond, almost pitying — before slipping into the waiting car, doors thudding shut like the click of a rifle bolt behind him.

The engine purred alive. Through the tinted window, Wonwoo allowed himself one more glance at the stubborn detective you loved so much — the loyal hound you’d set on his trail long before he himself knew he deserved to be hunted.

He closed his eyes as the city slid by. The day Wonwoo first felt the fracture in his own mind was the day he named his kingdom: VEIN — an unassuming biotech front woven tightly with a network of data brokers, black market pharma, and discreet clinics for the desperate rich and the dangerous sick. A perfect name, he thought. A lifeline and a chokehold.

He’d once believed every ambition in him was his own: the sleepless nights in overseas libraries, the charm he sharpened at law school roundtables, the hands he dirtied in Seoul’s neon alleys — all stepping stones for a man who wanted power to flow through him like blood through a vein.

But then there was that cop.

A routine nuisance at first — a mere local detective trying to pry open VEIN’s clinic back doors with cheap warrants and moral righteousness. A flick of Wonwoo’s finger could have erased him. One bullet, one whisper to a debt shark. Simple.

Yet he didn’t.

Instead, Wonwoo found himself sparring with the man, baiting him into dead ends, feeding him crumbs of false evidence, watching the frustration carve lines into the officer’s youthful face.

Choi Hansol. Young, tireless, irritatingly incorruptible. Wonwoo could have ended him a dozen times. But he didn’t. He didn’t even want to.

Instead, he played.

He toyed with the righteous dog long past reason, sabotaging raids only to leak hints later. He twisted Hansol’s life just enough to keep him close — but never close enough to break free.

And the strangest part? It made no sense. Wonwoo was never so indulgent. Never so sentimental. Never so careless. And yet, a hunger for this dance dug itself into his marrow, whispering “more.”

So when he first breached the boundary — stumbled through the shadow between his world and yours — he found the truth scrawled across an old sketch in your apartment. He was written that way. The ambition. The hunger. The odd fascination with a cop he should hate. The compulsive mercy that made no sense for a man like him.

He wasn’t a king at all. Just a creature on strings — greed stitched in by your pen, compassion dripped in when you were feeling soft.

VEIN had never been his alone. It was a monster’s dream borrowed from your sleepless nights. And every time Hansol’s stubborn eyes flashed with defiance, Wonwoo saw not just an enemy — but your favorite blade.

Jun, strapped in the front beside the driver, spoke with the hesitant tone he reserved for anything concerning you.

“Sir… it seems your guest has caused a scene.”

Wonwoo didn’t bother looking up from the report file in his lap.

“Main station confirmed: she attacked someone. They’re holding her for questioning.”

Wonwoo shut the folder gently. The slap of paper closing made Jun flinch more than any shout would have. Wonwoo’s mouth curled — but not into a smile. A cruel twist, more irritation than amusement.

“Drive to the station. Now.”

He leaned his head back against the seat, jaw tensing until it ached. Outside the tinted window, the river glittered in the distance — the same place where he first tested how far your invisible leash would stretch.

Now you were tangled in your own plot and Wonwoo wondered if you could survive him.

Wonwoo’s shoes clicked on the station’s cold tile floor, each step an echo loud enough to hush the low murmur of busy officers. Jun shadowed him, silent and sharp-eyed.

He didn’t bother greeting Hansol — only let his gaze sweep the scene: you, a mess of stubborn defiance and trembling wrists, seated across a metal table; Hansol and that same woman standing guard like a mismatched pair of guardian angels.

Wonwoo’s voice cut the tension like a scalpel.

“She’s my guest. My people will take care of this.”

Hansol stood immediately, his chair scraping back so hard it nearly toppled.

“This is a police station, Jeon. We do things under policy. She stays until this is settled properly.”

Wonwoo’s smirk was an insult and a promise in one curve of his mouth. He didn’t even spare Hansol a full glance — eyes flicking instead to you, assessing: your raw knuckles, your bitten lip, the manic shine barely hidden under that exhausted guilt.

“My person,” Wonwoo enunciated slowly, “will have it settled. Officer Choi.”

Hansol bristled, heat climbing his throat. The other officer — some senior detective — stepped in quickly, a hand on Hansol’s arm, voice placating:

“Hansol. Let it go. Sir Jeon, we’ll discuss this with your lawyer. Please have her stand up.”

You didn’t move. You stared at the floor — at the faint stain of your own drama playing out like spilled ink. But Hansol’s voice broke that moment of retreat. “She attacked Sihye!” His voice cracked.

Wonwoo’s steps were unhurried as he guided you out of the suffocating air of the station. Eyes darting for threats that didn’t dare appear while Wonwoo’s presence darkened the exit like a stormcloud.

Outside, the sun was sharp, the street too ordinary for the mess you’d caused inside.

But Hansol followed. Of course he did. Hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders tight with barely caged defiance. He barked past you, straight to the man you’d written as his enemy.

“Are you his girlfriend?” His eyes cut to you, unblinking. “Do you know what he does?”

Wonwoo didn’t stop walking until he did — a single pivot on his heel, the sudden stillness more violent than any blow. The grin was small but lethal, a blade turned politely outward.

“You should know when to close your mouth, Officer Choi. I taught you plenty, didn’t I?” His head tilted slightly, an animal’s warning.

You hovered wordless by Wonwoo’s shoulder, the only sound of your quickened breathing. When Hansol stepped closer, you instinctively shrank behind Wonwoo’s broad back. Ironic — how the hero you’d made to save others now looked at you like you were a mistake, and the villain you’d built to ruin lives shielded you like a wall.

Hansol’s eyes flicked down to your shoes, up to the faint bruise near your collarbone. Each detail stoked the anger in his jawline.

“She doesn’t have an ID. No records, no prints — no one knows her. Another name to vanish under your rug, Jeon?”

At that, Wonwoo’s hand swept behind him, palm pressing against your hip to pull you closer into his shadow. A quiet, possessive gesture that made Hansol’s fists ball deep in his coat pockets.

“Let’s meet again — on real business, Officer Choi.” Wonwoo’s voice lowered into silk lined with iron. “Bring your gun next time. Maybe it’ll make a difference.”

He guided you toward the waiting black sedan, the tinted door swinging open as his driver slipped ahead to clear the path.

Behind you, Hansol’s voice cracked the air one last time, rough with something dangerously close to grief:

“I see she's yours, Jeon.”

Wonwoo didn’t answer. He only nudged you gently into the backseat — his monster’s promise warm at your shoulder, the door slamming shut between you and the world you’d written for him to devour.

He leaned one shoulder against your bedroom doorframe, arms folded loosely across his chest — looking more at home than you ever did, though this was technically your mind made real, your words given walls and floors and furniture.

“First day here and you already managed to get yourself locked up in a police station.”

His voice was deceptively calm, dark amusement simmering beneath the chill. He clicked his tongue, a small, mocking laugh escaping him. “You really don’t know how to live a life, do you?”

You sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, legs tucked under the unfamiliar nightgown Hyungrim had laid out for you. The lace collar scratched your collarbone — too pretty for the way your chest felt tight and raw.

“You weren’t supposed to find out so soon,” you muttered, eyes darting to the floor. “Or Sihye, or Hansol— I didn’t plan—”

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “That’s your excuse for everything, isn’t it?”

You flinched as he stopped before you, close enough to see the faint bruise blooming along the line of his bandages, where your betrayal still lived in his flesh.

“Why did you hug her?” he asked, quieter now — not the villain’s voice, but something more human, more disappointed. “The doctor.”

You squeezed your fists in your lap, nails digging half-moons into your palms. “She shouldn’t have looked that much like her. I — I panicked.”

A silence fell between you, heavy with everything you never intended to write. Wonwoo crouched down, knees cracking softly. He looked up at you from beneath dark lashes, eyes sharp yet weary — a predator forced to carry its wounded prey.

And then — softer, almost too soft for your chest to bear. “Rest. You’ll need it. Tomorrow, you’ll tell me exactly how you plan to end this story.”

He stood, the room suddenly emptier as his shadow slipped back to the door. Leaving you with the ache of every word you’d ever written that never learned how to stay safely on the page.

Your plan sounded logical — on paper, anyway. A neat conclusion, a redemption arc, a sacrifice to balance out all the blood and secrets you’d poured into him.

But the second the words left your mouth that morning in his study, you regretted them.

Wonwoo laughed. Not a quiet, amused laugh — but the kind that cracked through his teeth like glass under a boot. He tossed his pen aside and shoved away from his desk so hard the heavy chair scraped the floor like a threat.

In three strides he was before you, and you nearly flinched when the shadow of his frame fell over yours. His arms shot out — one hand slamming the wall beside your head, the other braced against the bookshelf behind you — boxing you in with the sharp scent of his cologne and the faint, metallic tang of wounds still healing beneath his shirt.

“This,” he hissed through clenched teeth, voice trembling at the edges of his rage, “this is your grand plan for my ending? I rot in a cell so your precious hero can stand above my grave and bathe in pity?”

He snapped his chin toward the coffee table where your folder lay, pages bleeding out like open veins. With a guttural snarl, he grabbed the whole thing and hurled it so hard the papers burst apart mid-air — drifting down behind the sofa like feathers, mockingly gentle against the storm in his chest.

“Fuck!”

He turned away, fingers clawing at his hair until the strands stood wild and jagged. You could see it — the tremor in his shoulders, the truth that fear mixed with fury when a monster realizes its own cage.

Your knees threatened to buckle, but you gripped the shelf at your back so you wouldn’t collapse under the weight of your own creation.

“You want me to surrender everything I crawled through blood for? The money, the power — the way they tremble when they whisper my name?” He stabbed a finger at the floor-to-ceiling window behind him, where the city glittered like prey under moonlight. “You want me to kneel so that bastard cop can stand over my corpse and call himself righteous?”

His laugh split the air again — brittle, a knife dragged over glass.

“Tell me, Creator — where in me did you ever write the word mercy?”

When he turned back, his eyes locked on you — sharp and wild and too human for something you’d crafted in a midnight draft.

Your breath snagged in your throat. You felt it — your heart drumming terror into your ribs because he was right. You’d made him a monster with a mind sharp enough to hate it.

“I don’t want you to break…” you whispered, your voice trembling like your hands.

He crowded closer, so close your back pressed deeper into the books. His forehead nearly touched yours; his next words were a threat and a plea wrapped in a confession of all he couldn’t control.

“Then write a better end, Y/n.” His breath ghosted your lips, hot and ragged.

“Or I’ll carve one myself — and you won’t get your happy ending this time.”

You returned to the Margin that night — or maybe it was dawn, or dusk. Time curled strangely there, bending to the flick of your desperation like pages warping under rain.

You stumbled past the familiar oak trees and scattered benches, your footsteps echoing over the soft grass. Here, characters who had once whispered secrets in your dreams paused to watch you. Some nodded in silent greeting, others simply kept reading, bound to their fates between covers you’d left half-shut.

You collapsed by the fountain near the center — the heart of your abandoned stories. Your fingers trembled as you tugged open the folder on your lap, pages yellowed by neglect but still humming with promise.

Title by title. Year by year. Notes scribbled in your tired college nights, outlines drafted on train rides, character sheets born in the blur between heartbreak and caffeine. You read them all — searching for loopholes you’d never written, prayers hidden in subplots you’d discarded.

Somewhere, you thought, you must have planted a seed for him.

Something good.

Then you found it.

*

You pressed your back into the old wooden chair in the library’s quietest corner, the smell of aging pages and dust grounding you more than the marble halls of Wonwoo’s estate ever could.

Myungho was probably still in the car, chain-smoking nervously because you’d threatened to fire him — a laughable bluff, considering he’d take Wonwoo’s word over yours any day. But at least he’d left you alone for now.

Your fingers traced the frayed spine of The Little Prince, that battered comfort you’d clung to as a kid when walls trembled with your parents’ anger, when love cracked apart in the dark and you had nowhere else to sleep but under your own thoughts.

You flipped to the chapter you always returned to — the fox and his quiet plea: “You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.”

A bitter smile tugged at your lips. You never intended to tame Wonwoo. But you did.

Your thumb lingered on the delicate illustration, the tiny prince’s scarf flaring in a wind that had never been kind enough to you, either.

Somewhere between the sentences, the library’s hum softened to a hush so deep it pressed against your eardrums. The fluorescent lights flickered, warped into a golden dusk that wasn’t there before.

You knew this feeling.

The pull — not of this library, but the Library.

A door to the Margin within the real world.

You’d cracked it open before, half-asleep at your old studio desk.

And now it opened for you again.

The fox on the page seemed to lift its head. The paper prince turned slightly in your mind’s eye. And you felt yourself drawn under — not drowning, but drifting deeper into words you’d once written to save yourself.

You were back in your stories, hunting for another answer buried in the lines.

You closed your eyes against the library’s glow and whispered into the hush, “Show me another way to save him. Before he destroys everything… before he destroys me.”

And the fox — or the book — or the Margin itself — answered with the faint rustle of pages turning themselves.

You barely noticed how the chatter of the students nearby faded into a dull echo, how the dusty light filtering through the high windows blurred to a soft glow behind your lashes.

Your finger rested on the line you’d underlined years ago — “One runs the risk of weeping a little, if one lets oneself be tamed…”

A brittle laugh bubbled up your throat.

Isn’t that what you did to him?

Tamed a monster with half-baked mercy and lonely nights, then recoiled when he turned his fangs on you for answers.

Your vision pulsed — the black letters swimming — until the margin of the page bled outward, curling up at the edges like burned paper.

And then you were falling through it.

The musty library air thinned, replaced by the dry, warm hush of your own constructed nowhere — the Margin — infinite aisles of half-born ideas, boxed scenes, handwritten scraps you’d never shown anyone.

Your old apartment unit.

Inside, the air smelled like dust and stale instant noodles. Everything was exactly as you’d left it — the stack of dog-eared manuscripts on the tiny desk, the mug with three pens and a single dying highlighter, the sticky note on the mirror that read You owe them an ending.

Your throat tightened. You owe him an ending, you corrected yourself this time. You caught yourself on a shelf labeled VEIN — Early Drafts. Behind it: folders and loose pages, secrets too grim to publish, dreams too soft to stand in the real world. You dragged your fingertips over the binders until you hit one marked in your scribbled pen: Characters: Minor/Discarded. Your heart lurched.

This was where the overlooked lived. The side characters, the failed plot devices — the ones you’d promised next time.

You flipped through the folder so fast paper cuts stung your knuckles.

Behind you, the floorboard creaked. You froze, a cold current slicing down your spine. You didn’t dare turn — not until you heard that voice, low and almost gentle, yet heavy enough to press your heart flat against your ribs.

Your eyes met his in the reflection of your mirror: Jeon Wonwoo, leaning casually against your doorframe. Dressed in black again, hair still tousled from the car ride you didn’t know he’d taken right behind you.

He looked impossibly large for this room — for this part of your life that once felt too small for even yourself, let alone him.

Your voice cracked as you twisted to face him fully. “Wonwoo — how are you here? You… you shouldn’t be here. Not here—”

He tilted his head slightly, but this time there was no smirk — only the barest flicker of something unsettled behind his sharp eyes. He looked at you, then past you, as if the peeling wallpaper and flickering dorm light might offer an explanation he’d missed.

He stepped closer, slow but not deliberate this time — more like he was testing if the floor would hold him.

“Where are we?” he asked, voice lower than a whisper, and not for effect. He truly didn’t know. His hand reached for the edge of your desk, gripping it hard enough that your scattered notes trembled.

Your breath caught as you realized it. The monster was lost.

“Wonwoo… this is—” you started, but your throat closed up.

His eyes snapped back to yours, sharp again, though confusion still bled through the cracks.

“This isn’t my house,” he said, more to himself than you. “This smell… the hallway… it’s old. It’s…” He looked you up and down, taking in your clothes, your trembling hands, the ancient little prince book half-buried under a mess of scribbles.

“You dragged me here,” he accused — but it wasn’t the cold venom you knew. It was frustration. A flicker of fear under all that rage.

You shook your head, desperate to make sense of it too.

“I didn’t mean to! I just— I needed a place to think— to fix this—”

Wonwoo barked out a humorless laugh, raking a hand through his hair. The motion exposed the faint line of stitches on his temple — a reminder of your last attempt to control him.

“Fix this,” he echoed, almost mocking but more tired than cruel. He looked around again, at the tiny room that reeked of old anxiety and stale coffee and everything you’d once been.

His eyes found yours again, searching, pleading despite himself.

“What did you do, Y/n? Where did you take us? When did you take us?”

And for the first time since you’d ever written him, you realized he wasn’t your villain or your creation at all — he was a man who’d been dragged across stories and time without a map.

And he was just as scared as you.

You tried to steady your breathing, but the lump in your throat only grew.

“This is… my old studio,” you forced out. “Where I wrote most of you — the early drafts. The first scenes. All those nights when I—”

Your voice caught when his eyes flickered at the word wrote. He was still trying to piece it together. Still fighting it, even now.

“I was looking for answers, Wonwoo. I thought— I thought if I came back to the beginning, maybe I’d find a way to fix you. To fix this.” You gestured weakly around you: the faded curtains, the cracked plaster, the boxes of old manuscripts and half-dead pens you’d hoarded like talismans.

Wonwoo’s throat bobbed as he swallowed whatever curses or threats rattled inside him. He stepped back just enough to lean against your rickety bookshelf, arms crossed tight over his chest like he needed to hold himself together.

“I was in my office,” he said, voice low but clear — a confession forced through clenched teeth. “I had a meeting. Jun was reporting about you — how you were poking around an entertainment agency building. And then—”

He broke off, brow furrowing as if he could claw the memory back from the haze. His gaze flicked to the grimy window, the taped-up corner of your old laptop, the dog-eared books that made up the bones of who you used to be.

Wonwoo’s breath hitched as his hands planted on either side of you, caging you against the edge of your old desk. The tiny lamp buzzed between you, throwing his eyes into restless shadow and light.

His voice was low but ragged, scraped raw with a question too big for the peeling walls to contain.

“What did you do, Y/n?”

You flinched at your own name in his mouth — so human, so accusing.

“I— I didn’t mean to—”

He cut you off with a sharp, disbelieving laugh that died as quickly as it rose.

“I was in my office. I had control. I had my people, my rules—” His palm slammed the desk by your hip, rattling pens into your lap.

“And then I’m here. No power. No way back.”

You couldn’t help it — your voice cracked, trembling worse than your hands clutching the hem of your old sweater.

“I came here to find answers, Wonwoo. To fix you. I thought… maybe if I went back to where I made you, I could undo it — the blood, the killing, the— everything.”

His jaw tightened. A muscle jumped under the faint scar near his temple.

“So instead you dragged us both backwards.” He leaned in, forehead almost brushing yours, the heat of him wrapping around you like a noose.

“Is that it, Y/n? You wanted to rewrite my hell so badly you tore it all open? Time, place — me?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, a single tear slipping free before you could swallow it down.

“I didn’t know this would happen. I swear. I thought maybe— maybe the beginning could show me the way to give you a better ending. Or at least… save you.”

His laugh ghosted across your lips, bitter and helpless all at once.

“Save me? Or save yourself?”

His eyes bored into yours then — not your villain’s eyes, not your monster’s. Just a man’s. Furious, fractured, and terrifyingly real.

“What did you do to us, Y/n?” he breathed.

And for once, you had no line, no plan, no paper shield to hide behind. Only the truth that maybe you’d broken the lock on the very cage that made him yours.

*

You watched Wonwoo asleep on your bed, the floor around you littered with notes and scribbled timelines from every version of this mess you’d ever tried to control. Paper crumpled under your bare feet each time you shifted, but he didn’t stir — not until your stomach betrayed you with a low, sharp growl.

His eyes fluttered open, dark lashes brushing his cheekbones before they focused on you. You’d inched so close you were leaning over him, your head tilted at the edge of the mattress, just watching him breathe.

“You have money?” he rasped, voice rough from sleep, but his gaze flicked to the chaos on the floor like he already knew the answer.

You blinked, then remembered the stash of emergency cash you’d once hoarded for late-night ramen runs and rent you couldn’t pay on time.

“Let’s go out to eat,” you murmured, half a command, half a plea.

Oddly — maybe because he was too tired to argue, or maybe because in this world he had no empire to guard — he just nodded and swung his legs over the edge.

You pulled on an old oversized hoodie over your thin dress, the fabric swallowing you whole, and slipped into a pair of scuffed sneakers instead of your usual heels. Wonwoo’s eyes lingered on you, narrowed, curious — as if he was seeing a version of you he’d never been allowed to touch before.

When you stepped out of the tiny studio, the night air slapped your cheeks cold and real. You ducked your head low, hiding your face from the street’s indifferent glow, too busy bracing for a stranger’s glance to notice the way Wonwoo’s eyes followed every step you took.

You ended up in a modest restaurant you’d always passed by back then but never once stepped into — too clean for your student budget, too proper for your unwashed hair and all-nighter sweats back then. Now, at least, it gave you warmth and a moment’s pause to swallow real food for the first time in days.

Your fork froze halfway to your lips when the TV above the counter blared breaking news:

“A powerful earthquake struck Busan earlier this evening…”

You didn’t hear the rest. The numbers, the shaking towers, the headlines dissolving into a date that burned behind your eyelids:

10 August. Four days before Independence Day. The day you didn’t go home. The day you missed her funeral.

Your chair scraped back so hard it startled the couple beside you. Wonwoo’s hand shot out, catching the edge of the table before it tipped your plate to the floor.

“Where are you going?” His voice was too calm, too sure — but his eyes were locked on yours, searching for the storm he knew was coming.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Wonwoo dropped his fork, metal clattering against the ceramic plate, but he didn’t flinch. He just watched you — your back retreating through rows of still-eating strangers, head lowered under that oversized hoodie that did nothing to hide how shaken you were.

He stood, slower than you, ignoring the waitress’s startled “Sir, the bill—” as he followed. One hand slipped into his pocket, fingers brushing the folded cash you’d forgotten to take — the only anchor he had left from his world in this mess.

Outside, the late summer air hit harsh and humid. He found you half a block away, standing at a dusty bus stop sign that looked like it hadn’t been painted since the year you wrote him alive. You were hunched, arms tight around your middle like you were trying to hold something in. Or maybe keep something out.

“Y/n.”

His voice cut the buzz of cars and far-off traffic. You flinched, but didn’t turn.

He came closer, not stalking like your villain — not hunting. Just moving. Heavy, deliberate steps on cracked pavement.

“Where are you going?” he asked again, quieter now. No threat. Just the question — and something ragged underneath it, as if he hated needing to ask at all.

Your fingers dug into the hem of your hoodie.

“It’s August tenth,” you whispered. Your voice trembled worse than your shoulders. “That earthquake… I remember now. That day, my mother—”

Your breath hitched and your next words came out broken.

“I didn’t go home. I didn’t see her one last time. I stayed here. Writing you. I stayed here for you.”

Wonwoo’s eyes flickered. A pulse of understanding — and something colder — behind the confusion. He reached out, touched your wrist with fingers that could break bone but only rested there, too light, too human.

“Y/n.” He forced your gaze up, two wrecks caught in the glow of a flickering bus sign.

“You can’t change that,” he said. Not unkind. Not gentle either. Just brutal truth, shaped in the mouth of the man you’d once written to be invincible.

“You drag yourself back here, back then — but you can’t rewrite her. You can’t rewrite that.”

Your lip trembled. The truth slammed your ribs worse than any villain could.

“But if I could—”

He cut you off, firm fingers at your jaw, grounding you.

“You can’t.” His eyes narrowed, voice a hoarse whisper meant for no one but you. “You want to fix me. Fine. Fix your story. Fix the ending. But don’t lose yourself in the part that was never yours to hold.”

And as the old bus rattled up, brakes screeching through the sticky night air, you felt it — the choice pressing against your ribs like a knife: save him, save yourself, or bury it all under the ruins of your past you couldn’t dig up anymore.

You and Wonwoo stood at the edge of the crowd, half hidden behind a rusted iron gate and the old lilac tree your mother once planted in a cracked pot on the apartment balcony. Now it grew wild beside her coffin — a reminder she’d always loved beautiful things even when they died in her hands.

You pulled your hoodie tighter around your face, sleeves tugged over your fists like they could hold in the storm brewing under your ribs. Beside you, Wonwoo was silent, hands shoved in his coat pockets, his eyes flicking over the black-clad mourners with an unreadable coldness. To him, it must’ve looked like an irrelevant side plot, a scene he’d never been given to play in the margins of your draft.

You wondered if your old self was somewhere nearby — the you that never made it here, that stayed locked in a dorm room, scribbling villains and empires while the real world crumbled outside her locked door.

Wonwoo leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear.

A flicker of something crossed his eyes. Regret? Sympathy? Or just curiosity that the one who played god in his world could still be so painfully small in her own.

He shifted closer, enough that the cold wind couldn’t slip between your shoulders anymore.

He glanced back at the line of mourners, the hushed prayers, the echo of grief he could mimic in your pages but never feel like this.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured after a moment. One gloved hand brushed the edge of your sleeve. “Are you cold?”

You laughed, choked and watery. “No. I’m terrified.”

He didn’t say don’t be. He didn’t promise to protect you — that was never him. Instead, he stepped behind you, close enough that his coat brushed your hoodie.

*

Wonwoo’s steps halted when you veered off the narrow gravel path, deeper into the quieter rows of stone and framed photographs. He almost called your name — but the look on your face stole the word from his tongue.

You stopped in front of a headstone tucked between a wind-worn willow and an old brass lantern left by some devoted relative. There, pressed to the cold marble, was a photo he recognized instantly. A gentle smile. Sharp, kind eyes behind slim glasses. Ji Jihye.

Wonwoo’s pulse thudded in his ears.

“She’s in my world.”

His voice came out lower than he meant, brittle in the hushed air.

“The doctor. The one you…” He hesitated, thinking of that night — the trembling relief in your face when you clung to her like a drowning child to shore. In his world, she’d been the calm in his storms, a plot device he’d never questioned.

“The one you hugged that day.” You nodded, eyes fixed to the photograph as if you could fall into it and never come back.

“She’s my sister. She raised me when my mother—” Your voice cracked, but you didn’t bother hiding it. “When she couldn’t.”

Wonwoo’s jaw worked, silent words trapped behind his teeth. He glanced at the picture, at the name carved so neat and final: Ji Jihye.

He almost asked What happened to her there? — but the truth landed in his gut before you said it.

“Murder.”

You didn’t flinch when you said it. The word sat between you like a bloodstain no rain could wash off.

For a moment, the wind rattled the willow branches overhead. Wonwoo turned back to you — really looked at you, past the creator, past the coward who ran from funerals and folded reality when it didn’t obey. There it was: the child left behind, the sisterless girl who stitched monsters out of her grief.

Wonwoo didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Because suddenly all the twisted knots that made him — the rage, the power, the endless hunger for fear and control — trembled on a single question:

Was he really evil, or just a vessel for every wound you never mended?

His fingers curled, nails biting into his palms. He watched you, your eyes shimmering under the willow’s shadow, and for the first time since stepping from the pages into your fragile reality, he wondered:

What was he really for?

*

You and Wonwoo sat side by side on the dusty wooden floor of your old studio, knees brushing, backs pressed to the peeling wallpaper like you both needed it to hold you upright. Between you lay a scatter of papers — the same half-baked plot threads and character sheets you’d clung to for years like they were prayers that might save you.

Outside, the cicadas were singing — an old summer song that once made you feel small and safe at the same time. But inside, the silence between you and him was heavier than grief.

You picked at the edge of a yellowing notebook. “I wasn’t supposed to be here. I remember… I was supposed to be in Jeju. I ran away after my aunt texted me. I couldn’t… I couldn’t see her like that.”

You didn’t have to say your mother. The word was already a bruise in the room.

Wonwoo didn’t comment, didn’t pity you — he never did, never would. But the way his shoulder leaned just barely into yours was louder than a thousand sorrys.

He turned his head, watching you from the corner of his eye. “How did you come back? To this version of now?”

You laughed — a thin, breathless sound that made him frown. “I was reading. In the town library. I was trying to find another way to fix you. I thought maybe if I found my old ideas…”

He finished it for you, voice softer than you’d ever heard. “Was it The Little Prince?”

Your breath caught. You turned to him, eyes wide. “How did you know?”

Wonwoo dragged a hand through his hair — he looked almost embarrassed, if a man like him could be. “It sent me too. To your place. I was in my office. Then… there.” He gestured vaguely at the air, as if the whole universe was just an untrustworthy hallway you could slip through by accident.

Your lips parted, memories flickering: a child curled under a thin blanket, whispering to a paper prince to save her from doors slamming, from the crash of glass, from fists and broken promises. You’d written him to be your monster, but before that, you’d begged a little boy on an asteroid to protect you from adults.

And now here he was — no asteroid, no desert rose, just Wonwoo, an echo of every shadow you’d loved and feared.

“The Little Prince…” you murmured, almost to yourself. “It was my sanctuary. When they fought. When she cried. When I was too small to stop anything.”

Wonwoo let out a dry, near-silent laugh. “Mine too. It made me hate the king less.”

For a heartbeat, your monster and your child self sat together on that floor — two broken kingdoms connected by a single, fragile story about a boy too gentle for the world.

Wonwoo nudged your knee with his. “Maybe that’s it,” he said, half teasing, half serious. “Your prince keeps dragging us back when we run too far.”

Your laugh cracked open something in your chest. And you wondered, for the first time in years, if maybe neither of you was too far gone to come home.

*

You woke up tangled in warmth you didn’t remember climbing into — stiff sheets, a familiar weight against your side, and a scent that was unmistakably his: crisp, deep, edged with something dark like wet stone.

Blinking through the fuzz in your head, you shifted — and found Wonwoo half-asleep beside you, sprawled on his stomach, face turned toward you. His hair fell messily over his forehead, shadowing the faint scar at his temple.

He cracked one eye open, caught your startled stare, and groaned into the pillow.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep and still a little rough. “Too tired to drag you to your room.”

Before you could answer, he let out a long breath and promptly buried his face in the pillow again, clearly intending to finish what little rest you’d stolen from each other all night.

You sat up so fast the blankets slipped to your lap. Your head spun. The familiar carved ceiling above you wasn’t the dorm’s cracked plaster — it was rich mahogany, polished and cold. His world’s air was heavier, scented faintly of cedar and the garden roses you knew he never watered himself.

Back. You were back.

You swung your legs off the bed and found your shoes still on. The hoodie swallowed you in its softness, a piece of the past now clinging stubbornly to your present. Carefully, you slipped from the bed — Wonwoo barely stirred, just an arm flung out to claim the empty space you’d left behind.

Padding to the heavy door, you cracked it open, peeking into the wide, sunlit hallway that could never belong to a cheap old dorm. Marble floors, oil paintings, hush of distant servants. His empire — real again.

You stepped out, only to freeze as a soft gasp broke the quiet.

Mrs. Jung stood there — sturdy, neatly dressed in the dark uniform of the household’s inner staff. Her hair was pinned tight and her eyes were sharp, though they widened when she saw your disheveled hoodie and bare feet peeking from beneath it.

Mrs. Jung. Hyungrim’s mother. The real iron backbone of Wonwoo’s household — the one who knew every secret passage and every lie.

She blinked once, took in your flushed face, the door cracked behind you, and gave the smallest bow, voice utterly neutral but her eyes curious as ever.

“Miss Y/n,” she said, smooth as tea poured into porcelain. “Good morning. Did you… rest well in the Master’s chamber?”

You opened your mouth, closed it, then managed a strangle, “Yes. Thank you.”

Mrs. Jung’s lips twitched like she wanted to smile but had trained herself not to.

“Very good, Miss. Shall I prepare your room again? Or… would you prefer breakfast brought here?”

Behind you, Wonwoo’s sleepy grunt drifted from the bed — a muffled, lazy sound that somehow made your heart kick against your ribs.

You swallowed, tugging the hoodie tighter around yourself, suddenly feeling sixteen again and older than you’d ever been all at once.

“I— I’ll take breakfast here, thank you. And… Mrs. Jung?”

“Yes, Miss?”

You met her gaze — the mother of your villain’s most loyal man, standing in this world you’d spun from your grief and hunger for protection.

“Thank you for… looking after him..”

You sat stiffly on the edge of his leather couch, knees drawn together, the hoodie sleeves tugged down over your fists like a child’s security blanket. Outside the tall windows, the courtyard gardens basked under the late morning sun — a sight so distant from the cracked dorm ceiling that your head still ached trying to reconcile the leap.

Footsteps padded behind you — soft, slow, and unmistakably his.

Wonwoo dropped onto the couch beside you with all the lazy, fluid grace you hated to admit still made your chest tighten. He smelled freshly showered now, hair damp and pushed back, but his eyes were heavy-lidded with leftover sleep.

He slouched into the cushions, head rolling toward you until his sharp gaze pinned you like a bug on velvet.

“How we got back?” you asked before you could second-guess yourself. Your voice betrayed how raw your throat still felt, scratchy with exhaustion and words left unsaid at that graveyard.

Wonwoo’s mouth curved — not quite a grin, more a crooked slice of mischief through lingering fatigue.

“Myungho found you,” he said lazily, like recounting a half-remembered dream. “Passed out in the town library. I was too in m study.”

You blinked. “Passed out?”

Wonwoo lifted a brow, amused by your disbelief. He mimicked your tone under his breath: “‘Passed out?’ Yes, darling, that’s what happens when people rip holes in their heads, hopping worlds and time.”

You scowled at his mockery but he only hummed, ignoring it as he stretched out an arm behind you along the back of the couch — not touching, just there, like a bracket holding you in place.

You pressed on. “Then why was I in your room?”

At that, a real grin ghosted over his lips — fleeting, crooked, so achingly boyish it almost didn’t fit the monster you’d carved him into.

“I was too tired to carry you to yours. You passed out, remember?” He nudged your knee lightly with his own. “And don’t flatter yourself.”

You shoved his leg half-heartedly, heat crawling up your neck. “I wasn’t flattering myself. I just— it was surprising.”

Wonwoo laughed under his breath. A sound that, for once, held no threat. Only a secret understanding between the creator and her creation — two ghosts returned to the flesh, sharing the same borrowed couch in a world neither fully owned anymore.

His eyes softened just a fraction as he watched your face — as if daring you to ask the question that trembled behind your teeth: What now?

But for now, he didn’t press. He just tipped his head back against the cushion, eyelids drooping again, a king at rest beside the only storm that could shake him awake.

The quiet between you barely settled before the faintest knock, polite but firm, tapped at the door frame. You flinched, twisting just as Mrs. Jung stepped in carrying a tray balanced with more care than a royal offering.

She dipped her head first to Wonwoo — “Master,” she greeted with gentle respect — then turned her warm eyes to you.

“Breakfast, Master. And for your guest.” Her voice was steady as ever, but you caught the subtle flicker in her eyes when they lingered on your oversized hoodie and the way your bare feet tucked under you on the couch.

Wonwoo, half-slouched with his arm draped over the couch back, cracked one eye open, a lazy smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.

“She demanded my share too, Mrs. Jung. Make sure she leaves me at least the fruit.”

Mrs. Jung’s lips twitched at his dry humor — she’d clearly survived it for years. She set the tray carefully on the low table in front of you, arranging the bowls and teacups with a grace that almost felt ceremonial.

“I’ll bring more tea if you wish, Master,” she said, her tone softening when she spoke to you too, kind but clear. “Please eat well, both of you — you need your strength after worrying us so.”

You mumbled a quiet thank you, cheeks warming under the hood as you avoided Wonwoo’s look — a mixture of amusement and something else you couldn’t read.

Mrs. Jung’s eyes lingered on you for another heartbeat, as if she wanted to say more but thought better of it. Then she bowed her head again, turned, and slipped out — the door closing with a gentle click behind her, leaving the scent of warm porridge and faint herbal steam curling around the room.

Wonwoo reached for a bowl and pushed it toward you, his knuckles brushing yours without apology.

“Eat,” he ordered, voice rough from sleep but softened by something like care. “If you faint again, I’m not dragging you next time. You’re heavier than you look.”

He claimed his own bowl, folding one knee up beside you as if this — a monster and his maker, side by side over breakfast — was the most ordinary thing in the world.

Outside, the courtyard glowed under a patient morning sun. Inside, for the first time in a long while, neither of you felt like running.

*

The sun was dipping low when Myungho knocked twice and stepped into Wonwoo’s office without waiting for permission — which was enough to make Jun look up from the couch, eyebrows raised. Wonwoo didn’t lift his eyes from the contract he was marking up, but the quiet knock alone had already put him on edge.

“Master,” Myungho said, voice tight. He didn’t bother with titles this time. “We have a problem.”

Wonwoo’s pen paused mid-sentence. He finally looked up. “Speak.”

Myungho’s throat bobbed. He shifted his weight like he didn’t want to say it at all.

“It’s Miss Y/n. She was at the town library. About an hour ago, witnesses say a black SUV pulled up. Two men forced her inside. One local vendor found her bag in the alley behind the bus stop.”

Jun sat up straight. “You’re sure?”

“Yes, sir. Her guards said she slipped them by going out the back gate. She didn’t want them trailing her that close — she told them she just wanted quiet.”

The room stilled. Wonwoo didn’t slam the desk or shout — but Jun, who’d known him long enough, saw the change immediately: the pen dropping soundlessly, the barely-there tremor in his knuckles before he curled them into a fist.

“Where was this? Which street?” Wonwoo asked. His voice wasn’t cold — just quiet, so quiet that Myungho almost preferred shouting.

“Near the east gate road, Master. Traffic cameras caught the SUV heading out of the old market district but we lost it near the industrial park.”

Wonwoo leaned back, eyes on the ceiling for a heartbeat — like he needed to keep the anger in check just to stay focused. Then he pushed up from the desk, methodical. He shrugged on his black coat, buttoning it with steady fingers that betrayed none of what tightened his throat.

“Start with the market CCTV. Block every road out of the district. Call the inspector directly, use my name if you have to — I want every exit checked. If they switched cars, trace every plate that left that zone in the last hour.”

Myungho nodded, halfway out the door already, phone in hand.

Jun stood, rolling his shoulders. “Sir—”

“I know,” Wonwoo cut in, voice softer, tired. His eyes flicked to Jun, a shadow of worry slipping through the usual steel. “She hates people trailing her. I should’ve—” He shook his head once, as if to snap himself out of it.

Wonwoo huffed a breath that was almost a laugh, but his jaw clenched right after. He grabbed his phone, already dialing, eyes distant but burning with a promise.

You owed him an end, but this isn't something he expected.

Wonwoo had barely made it down the marble steps when his phone vibrated in his coat pocket — just once, an unfamiliar number flashing on the screen. He answered it without thinking, half-expecting Myungho with an update.

But it wasn’t a call. It was a text.

“So you have a vulnerability?”

Attached below, a single photo loaded.

He stopped cold on the last step. Jun, coming up behind him, nearly collided with his shoulder.

“Sir?” Jun frowned, peering at the frozen look on Wonwoo’s face. “What is it?”

Wonwoo didn’t speak right away. His eyes traced the picture, the cheap motel wallpaper, the too-bright flash. The raw knot in his chest squeezed tighter at the sight of you — wrists bound to the headboard, head turned away, hair spilling across the pillow like you’d fought before they forced you still.

The phone trembled in his hand — barely. Just enough that Jun saw it.

Wonwoo exhaled through his nose. Slow. Measured. But when he looked up, the cold calm he always wore was gone. Something far more human burned through his irises — fury, yes, but beneath it, a helpless ache that scared Jun more than the rage ever could.

“They want me to panic,” Wonwoo said, almost to himself. He lifted his thumb, saving the photo to his files as if cataloging evidence, not an open wound. His other hand clenched the stair rail until the veins stood stark against his skin.

A second vibration buzzed through the silence. Another message:

“You want her alive? Come alone. Tonight. We’ll send the location soon.”

Wonwoo’s eyes flicked to the clock on the hall wall. Not nearly enough time to wait. Not nearly enough time to forgive himself for letting this happen.

Jun slipped the phone back into Wonwoo’s palm.

“I’ll have everyone track the signal. You’re not going alone., sir”

Wonwoo’s fingers closed tight around the phone — as if he could crush the message, the photo, the threat itself. He didn’t argue. For once, he didn’t care about pride or image or playing the perfect chess game.

*

In the stale half-light of the run-down motel room, the buzz of a flickering ceiling fan blended with the shallow rasp of your breathing. The rope bit cruelly into your wrists; your throat tasted of cotton and regret.

You barely registered the dip of the mattress until a familiar weight settled near your hip.

“Hey.”

You forced your heavy eyelids open. Blurred outlines resolved into a face you knew too well — Hansol. But not the Hansol who’d laughed through his meeting in the team 3 room, or muttered sleepy jokes behind stakeouts. His eyes now held something you couldn’t name, but you knew you never wrote it.

He watched you like a puzzle he’d half-solved. One corner of his mouth tugged upward, a smirk that made your pulse stutter for all the wrong reasons.

“You look smaller up close,” he said quietly, brushing a finger along your hairline. “Does he keep you hidden in that big old house? Or are you just too precious to show around?”

Your dry lips cracked when you tried to speak.

“H-Hansol…” you croaked. “Why… are you doing this?”

He clicked his tongue, feigning disappointment.

“You know, for someone Wonwoo goes soft over, you ask dumb questions.” He leaned closer, shadows carving sharper lines into his cheeks. “I don’t care about you, sweetheart. You’re just the leash. The king drops his crown when you scream — everyone knows that now.”

Behind him, two strangers — older, meaner — checked the window for the fifth time. One of them brandished your phone, the screen cracked from being snatched.

Hansol’s eyes flitted back to yours, studying the tremor in your lashes with unsettling patience.

“You really think he loves you, huh?” he murmured, voice dripping disbelief and something like envy twisted into contempt. “A man like him doesn’t love. He owns. And now… he’ll learn he can’t own everything.”

You winced as he thumbed your bruised cheek, tender as a lover.

“Tonight,” one of the men said gruffly, tossing Hansol your phone. “Drop sent. He comes alone, or she bleeds before dawn.”

Hansol pocketed the phone, then turned to you one last time — no warmth, no hate either. Just a wolf checking its trap.

“Try not to cry too much. Ruins the pretty face he likes so much.”

He stood and motioned for the others to tighten your bonds. Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him — leaving you bound, dazed, and painfully awake to the fact that in this nightmare, you were nothing more than leverage for a man you’d created but could no longer control.

The click of the door echoed in your skull long after Hansol and his shadows vanished down the hallway. You lay motionless for a few heartbeats, letting your breathing even out, listening — first for footsteps, then for the hush of the old building settling into silence.

Don’t panic. That voice — your voice — the same one that used to narrate these horrors from behind a safe screen. It sounded so far away now.

Your wrists burned from the coarse rope. Every shift scraped skin raw, but you forced your elbows up anyway, testing how much slack they’d left in their arrogance. The knots weren’t perfect; Hansol was cocky, not careful.

Your eyes darted around the dingy room: a battered side table, an empty bottle on the floor, a lamp plugged into a wall socket hanging loose from age.

You flexed your fingers until blood stung the tips. Inch by inch, you curled your knees under you, testing the rope at your ankles — tighter than your wrists, but not unbreakable.

You tugged once. Twice. The headboard rattled softly. No footsteps. Good.

Next, you twisted your body to the side, forcing your bound hands against the jagged corner of the bedframe’s rusted hinge. Metal bit skin — you hissed through your teeth, the smell of iron blooming fresh.

Keep going.

Your breath hitched when you heard faint voices down the hall. Hansol’s laugh. A lighter flick. Then footsteps retreating toward the far end of the corridor.

You pressed harder. Back and forth, flesh tearing, fibers loosening.

A single rope strand gave way with a muted snap. Pain blurred your vision but you swallowed it down, gasping through grit teeth as you slipped one wrist out.

Free. Half-free.

Ignoring the sting, you scrambled to untie your ankles, each tug punctuated by the terror that any second the door could burst open. Finally, the rope fell to the floor with a soft thud.

Your legs trembled as you stood, barefoot, hoodie rumpled and sticky with sweat and blood. You scanned for anything useful — no phone, no weapon, just a creaky old lamp and your pounding heart.

You padded to the grimy window, praying it wasn’t painted shut. Your trembling fingers worked the rusted latch loose. You shoved. Once. Twice. The frame groaned in protest before giving way an inch at a time — a humid gust stung your cuts but tasted like salvation.

Below, a dirty alley sloped into shadows. No time for fear. You swung one leg over the sill, biting back a whimper when your scraped palms pressed into the peeling paint.

A voice shouted inside the room — too late. You pushed off, dropped into the night, knees buckling as you hit the gravel. Pain shot up your shins but you forced your feet to move.

One breath. One thought: Run.

You bolted down the alley, bare feet slapping against broken concrete and puddles that splashed up your legs. Behind you, shouts erupted — Hansol’s voice, furious and sharp, echoing like a nightmare you couldn’t wake up from.

Your breath tore at your throat, each step a prayer to whatever cruel god still watched over you and the monsters you’d unleashed. You veered right, shoulders crashing against an overflowing dumpster, then stumbled out into a dim side street lit only by flickering neon signs.

A black car screeched to a halt at the curb just as you shot across the gutter — headlights blinding you, tires squealing against wet asphalt.

You froze. For half a second, the world stilled, your scraped hands trembling in the glare, your chest heaving, your heart a war drum.

Then the car's door slammed open.

“Y/n!”

Wonwoo’s voice — raw, frantic — cut through every other sound.

He was on you in two strides, one hand gripping your shoulder so tightly it almost hurt, the other brushing your hair back, searching your face as if to confirm you were real, whole, not just a vision conjured by rage and fear.

“Are you hurt?” he rasped, scanning you up and down. You tried to answer — your mouth opened — but over Wonwoo’s shoulder, another figure emerged from the shadows.

Hansol.

He slowed to a stop at the edge of the headlights, breath misting in the night air, his eyes locked not on you now but on Wonwoo — and whatever twisted history the margin had let grow between them.

Wonwoo didn’t turn, but you felt the tension coil through him, like a bow pulled so taut it could snap bone.

Hansol cocked his head, wiping a smear of blood from his split lip with the back of his hand. He didn’t look at you — you didn’t exist in his eyes anymore. Only Wonwoo did.

“So,” Hansol said, voice calm, almost amused, though his knuckles were white at his sides. “Seems you do have a soft spot after all, master.”

The word dripped with mockery, a dare.

Wonwoo’s hand slid from your shoulder to your waist, anchoring you behind him. His other hand curled into a fist. He didn’t answer Hansol — didn’t need to.

You could feel it in the way he shifted his weight: this wouldn’t end in words.

Wonwoo’s arm tensed across your stomach, pinning you back a step as Hansol lifted the gun — careless, casual, yet steady as stone. For a split second, you thought he was bluffing.

But the glint in his eyes wasn’t madness — it was something colder. Certain.

“Don’t,” Wonwoo warned lowly, voice a dangerous calm that made the men behind him — Jun, Myungho, a handful of guards in black — shift their stance, guns discreetly trained on Hansol’s head and chest.

Hansol laughed, almost gentle. His finger curled tighter on the trigger.

“Look at you, Wonwoo… playing hero for a woman.” His eyes flicked to you, just a flicker, then right back to Wonwoo’s.

“Did she soften you so well you forgot what you are?”

“Hansol,” Wonwoo growled, moving half a step forward — but Hansol’s aim never wavered. The muzzle of the gun aligned perfectly with your chest first, then flicked back to Wonwoo’s.

“Stay behind me,” Wonwoo murmured to you without looking — an order threaded through with something fragile.

Your breath caught.

“Hansol — stop this. You don’t have to—”

Hansol’s grin twitched. For a heartbeat, regret flickered across his sharp features — gone before you could name it.

“Too late.”

The gunshot cracked the night open.

Wonwoo jerked — a sound, not a scream but a punched-out breath, left his lips as his shoulder snapped back. His grip on you faltered but didn’t break; his weight leaned into you for half a heartbeat before he forced himself upright, staggering once but staying between you and the barrel that still smoked in Hansol’s hand.

Time splintered around you — guards shouting, Jun lunging, Myungho cursing as he tackled Hansol from behind, the gun clattering to the pavement.

“Y/n—” he rasped, his forehead brushing yours, breath warm despite the cold. “Stay… behind me…”

Time fractured.

Wonwoo’s weight sagged into you — warm, heavy, terrifyingly real — as a second gunshot cracked through the air, closer than the first, sharper, final.

Your head snapped up just in time to see Jun, breathless and stone-faced, lowering his pistol. Smoke curled from the muzzle. Hansol’s body lurched back, the force sending him sprawling to the filthy asphalt. His gun tumbled from lifeless fingers, skittering away until Myungho’s boot pinned it down with a crunch of gravel.

For a moment, no one breathed. Then the night erupted: boots slamming pavement, men shouting commands, two guards wrestling Hansol’s barely-conscious cronies to the curb. Somewhere in the chaos, a siren wailed — distant, irrelevant.

But all of that blurred when you looked down at Wonwoo. His eyes fluttered open just enough to find yours, a glassy stubbornness shining through the pain.

“Hey— hey, don’t—” You pressed your hand hard against his shoulder wound, the heat of blood seeping too fast between your fingers. “Wonwoo, stay with me. Please, just—”

A choked laugh rattled out of him, strained but real.

“Y/n..” he rasped, half a smirk ghosting his lips. “You don’t… order me…”

You wanted to scream at him to shut up, to save his strength — but all you could do was press harder, leaning over him as Jun dropped to his other side, barked something you barely registered to the guards about an ambulance and backup.

“Jun—” you gasped, your voice breaking.

“I know.” Jun’s eyes flicked to yours, softening only for a fraction of a second before hardening again at the sight of Hansol’s limp form a few feet away. “I got him. Focus on master. He’s going to make it — sir, you hear me?”

Wonwoo’s breathing hitched, then steadied, his lashes fluttering against your wrist as you held him.

In the periphery, Myungho’s voice rose over the chaos, sharp and venomous as he kicked Hansol’s gun away and helped bind the man’s wrists in blood-smeared plastic cuffs.

And in that chaos — asphalt, blood, the ruined echo of betrayal — all you could do was bow your head over Wonwoo’s chest, feel the stubborn pulse beneath your palms, and pray that this time, for once, your story would let him live.

*

When your eyelids finally fought their way open, the first thing you saw was the sterile white ceiling — too bright, too still — and the frantic blur of Soonyoung’s worried face leaning into your blurry vision.

“Y/N! Y/n — hey, look at me, look at me — Doc! She’s awake! She’s—” He turned his head and bellowed down the hallway, his voice cracking halfway between relief and panic.

You blinked hard, your tongue dry as you tried to form words. It felt like waking from a lifetime underwater.

“...S-Soonyoung…?”

He almost collapsed over your bedside rail, grabbing your hand so tight you felt it through the IV tape.

“Holy shit, don’t you ever— I mean— where the hell were you?! Do you know what—” He choked on a half-laugh, half-sob. “The whole country could’ve gone to war and you wouldn’t know, you— oh my god—”

A doctor brushed past him, checking your pupils with a penlight, mumbling something reassuring about dehydration and mild concussion. Soonyoung refused to let go of your hand the whole time, his thumb sweeping your knuckles like he needed to remind himself you were really there.

When the doctor finally stepped back, Soonyoung dropped his voice, fighting the tremble that made him sound ten years younger.

“You were gone for two weeks, Y/n. Two weeks! A farmer found you lying by the side road near the rice fields — said you were passed out in the dirt. Police brought you straight here. We—” His breath caught. “We thought—”

You squeezed his hand weakly, a reflex to hush the tremor in his voice.

A soft knock at the door cut through the haze — two plainclothes officers stepped in, polite but clearly exhausted. One flipped his notebook open, voice gentle but firm.

“Miss Y/n… we know you’ve just woken up, but can you tell us anything about what happened? Where you were? Anyone who might have—”

You stared at him. The white walls swam a little. Wonwoo’s blood, Hansol’s laugh, Jun’s voice telling you to hold on — all of it pressed like a bruise behind your ribs.

“I…” You wet your lips. “I don’t remember. I’m sorry. I don’t… remember anything.”

The older officer exchanged a glance with his partner, then nodded, jotting something down.

“That’s alright. When you’re stronger, maybe something will come back. Rest for now, Miss.”

When they stepped out, Soonyoung exhaled shakily, dropping into the chair by your bed again.

“You don’t remember, huh?” he whispered, searching your eyes for the truth you couldn’t say out loud.

You only shook your head.

Soonyoung didn’t let you drift back into that soft, dangerous haze of half-sleep — not when he’d waited two weeks and nearly lost his mind doing it. He perched on the edge of your hospital bed, his knees bouncing, hands flying everywhere as he retold everything in the only way Soonyoung knew how: animated, loud, and bursting at the seams.

“You should’ve seen it! I mean— no, you shouldn’t have seen it— it was terrifying! There was blood on your floor, your notes scattered like some horror movie— I thought you’d been murdered!” He smacked your pillow, startling you. “So I called the police immediately — and the landlord — and then the internet exploded, obviously. Everyone thought some stalker fan did it, or one of your haters, or— god, I don’t even know, people started fighting in your comment sections—”

He pressed his hand to his chest dramatically, catching his breath like he’d run laps around the hospital.

“Your name trended for days. Then the whole ‘#ComeBackY/N’ thing — people apologizing for leaving hate, people crying they’d misunderstood you — ugh, the drama. Half of them are still scared you’ll sue them for defamation now that it looks like an actual crime scene—”

You groaned softly, your dry throat protesting. “Soonyoung… please…”

He ignored you completely. “And don’t think I didn’t notice you sneaky genius — you finished the damn manuscript before you vanished! You sent it! The publisher called me to check if it was really you — I almost fainted—” He jabbed your forehead gently with a finger. “You didn’t even tell me the last chapters! How dare you wrap up his arc without me. It’s going live tomorrow, do you know that? Tomorrow! I’m your biggest fan and you didn’t even spoil me!”

Your tired chuckle cracked open past your dry lips. It hurt, but it felt good too.

“Sorry…” you rasped. “Had to… finish it before—”

Before everything bled over. Before you lost control completely.

Soonyoung softened then, all the noise melting into a fond grumble. He brushed your hair gently from your eyes, the way only an old friend could.

“Yeah, well. You’re finishing this first — getting better. Then you’re gonna tell me everything. Even the parts you swear you don’t remember. Deal?”

His pinky hovered near yours. You hooked it with yours, sealing a promise neither of you fully understood yet.

Outside your room, the sun was already setting. And tomorrow — tomorrow, the ending would finally belong to the world.

The next morning, the hospital felt like it pulsed with a quiet hum — nurses at the station murmured about your trending name again, passing by your door with curious eyes. But you didn’t care about them. You were propped up in bed, blanket twisted around your legs, eyes glued to your phone screen.

Soonyoung sat on the recliner, scrolling too — at first pretending not to care, then stealing glances at your expression every other second.

You’d stayed up all night refreshing the publisher’s site, waiting for the final chapter to drop. You’d written the ending weeks ago: Wonwoo would die in winter’s first snow, tragic but poetic — the only way to end him before he devoured everything. Hansol was just a thread you’d never fully pulled tight; a side piece, never meant to bloom into a real threat.

Except now, you scrolled line by line in growing disbelief.

It wasn’t your ending.

In this ending, Wonwoo’s death was there — a single, startling moment in a half-frozen courtyard under falling snow — but it came like a dream: hazy, shifting, wrong. Instead of fading out, the chapter kept going.

Hansol rose out of the ashes you’d never planted. Darker, stranger — his voice split between what readers knew and an alter ego no one had guessed. Sihye — a minor guard you’d half-named once — appeared at his side like a shadow stitched to his heel, coiled and hungry for vengeance on Wonwoo’s ghost.

And you — you were gone. No trace of the girl who should have been kneeling in the snow, holding the monster she’d built. In this version, you’d been erased entirely, replaced by Hansol’s distorted memory of Wonwoo’s only weakness: a secret no reader could name but every line implied.

You exhaled a shaky laugh, the phone trembling in your palm.

Soonyoung jolted upright. “Why are you laughing like that? Don’t do that, you look possessed—”

“It’s not mine,” you said, voice cracking somewhere between relief and horror. “It’s… not my ending. He— he rewrote himself, Soonyoung. He rewrote himself.”

Your friend blinked, squinting at your screen as if the code behind the page might explain it better than you ever could.

“But you sent the final draft, right? Like… the publisher didn’t—?”

“They didn’t change it. Look at it.” You shoved your phone at him. “This is him. Wonwoo—Hansol— it’s them. I didn’t write this part. They— they finished their own story.”

Inside your ribs, your heart thudded at a truth too big to put into words: the monsters you’d made had crawled off the page — and somewhere, somehow, they were still writing the next chapter themselves.

Soonyoung stared at you, then at your phone screen again, then back at your wide, exhausted eyes. He let out a long, dramatic sigh — the kind he used when you forgot your umbrella on a rainy day or burned your rice three days in a row.

He reached out, gently pried the phone from your fingers, and tossed it onto the side table, ignoring your weak protest.

“Yah. Enough. You’re not going to fight fictional men and real-life trauma in the same week. Not on my watch.” He jabbed a finger at your forehead, like sealing an invisible button to shut you up.

“But, Soon—”

“No but. You’re still hooked up to an IV, you look like you time-traveled through a blender, and I swear if you refresh that page again I’ll eat your phone.” He plopped back into the recliner with a huff, arms crossed like an overworked guardian.

“Just rest. Sleep. Let them rewrite whatever they want — you’re alive. That’s all that matters, okay?”

His voice softened at the end, enough to blur your stubborn argument into a watery laugh. You nodded, letting your head sink back into the pillow as your body — traitorous and bone-deep tired — finally agreed with him.

Soonyoung mumbled as he pulled your blanket higher under your chin, “Next time you want drama, just watch Netflix. Less kidnapping, more popcorn.”

Outside your hospital window, the world kept turning — while inside, for the first time in days, you let yourself drift without chasing any more endings.

*

You kept your announcement short — a single post on your page, pinned right above the final episode that had broken the internet for all the wrong reasons:

Thank you for reading my work all these years. I’ve decided to take an indefinite hiatus from creating comics. Please keep supporting new artists and stories. I’ll always be grateful. — Y/n

No dramatic farewell, no live Q&A. Just a quiet bow at the end of a stage you’d clung to for too long.

By the time you clicked ‘post,’ the comments were already flooding in — Take care of yourself, Author-nim! We’re so sorry for what you went through! We’ll wait for your return! — but you only let yourself read a handful before shutting your laptop for good.

The studio that had become your makeshift bedroom was a battlefield of cold coffee cups, scribbled drafts, and stacks of half-finished illustrations. You rolled up old posters, boxed every pen and sketchbook that still worked, and tied up bundles of storyboards you no longer had the heart to burn but couldn’t look at either.

Your tiny apartment — neglected for months while you hid among ink and paper — felt foreign at first. Sunlight spilled onto the dusty floor as you pulled the curtains wide, a broom in one hand and resolve in the other. You scrubbed, sorted, folded. Every faded mug and wrinkled blanket was a piece of your old life you were willing to keep — everything else, you stuffed into black trash bags and left by the door.

When the rooms were finally empty of yesterday’s ghosts, you stood in the middle of it all — the hum of the fridge, the ticking wall clock, the warm breeze sneaking through the open window — and breathed.

No Wonwoo. No Hansol. No margins waiting to tear open.

Just you. And this chance, fragile but yours, to live outside the page.

You tied your hair up with an old scrunchie, sleeves rolled high as you dragged a ragged mop across the narrow kitchen floor. The scent of pine disinfectant mingled with the faint, stubborn smell of ink and dust that clung to your walls no matter how hard you scrubbed.

Every time you opened a cupboard, a bit of your past life fell out: old character sketches wedged behind the plates, a mug etched with World’s Best Artist from Soonyoung (he’d spelled artist wrong, on purpose). You smiled weakly, tossing it into the keep pile anyway.

Your phone buzzed, rattling against the counter. You ignored it. Today wasn’t for calls or comforting words. Today was for clearing out the ghosts.

In the bedroom, you stripped your bed to the bare mattress. Crumpled sheets went straight into a laundry bag, along with the hoodie you’d practically lived in through every late-night rewrite. When you caught your reflection in the wardrobe mirror — hair a mess, sweat trickling down your neck — you almost laughed. Human again, you thought. Not an author. Not a hostage to a world you’d lost control of. Just… you.

By evening, cardboard boxes lined the hallway. Some destined for donation, some for the trash, some — the ones too heavy with memory — tucked carefully into the closet. You’d decide what to do with those later.

You sank down on the now-bare floor, back against the freshly wiped wall, and let the quiet wrap around you.

No drafts to finish. No margin to cross. No monster waiting behind your mirror.

For the first time in too long, your biggest problem was what to have for dinner. And that felt like freedom.

You were half-dozing on the bare floor when the knock came — three quick raps, one heavy thump. Classic Soonyoung, no doorbell, just his whole personality at your doorstep.

You opened the door to find him balancing a large paper bag in one hand and a soda bottle under his arm, grinning like he owned the hallway.

“Survival rations for the hermit,” he declared, barging in before you could protest. He paused mid-step when he saw the cleared apartment — the boxes, the empty desk, the naked walls where your storyboard clippings used to be pinned with colorful tape.

“…Whoa.” He set the bag down on your tiny dining table. “It really looks like you’re quitting your entire life in one day.”

You shrugged, pulling out the takeout boxes one by one. Rice, spicy chicken, egg rolls — all comfort food, all too much for one person. Soonyoung was good like that. Always bringing more than you asked for, just in case you forgot to eat tomorrow too.

“I’m not quitting my life,” you said, opening the soda for him. “Just… changing it. For good.”

He flopped onto the floor next to you, cross-legged like a kid. “Yeah, yeah. You know, people online still think you were kidnapped by a deranged fan.” He gestured with a chopstick. “You could clear that up, you know.”

You pressed your lips together. “Let them think what they want. It’s over.”

He went quiet for a second, then reached out and flicked your forehead — not hard, just enough to snap you out of your thoughts.

“Eat first, dramatic later,” he said, voice soft despite the tease. He cracked open a container, waved it under your nose. “I gotta go after this — there’s a meeting with my editor tonight. But I didn’t want you spending your first free night with instant noodles.”

You laughed, the sound a little watery. Soonyoung bumped your shoulder with his, eyes twinkling like always.

“Next chapter’s gonna be your best, okay?” he said. “Even if there’s no drawing in it. Promise me.”

You clinked your chopsticks against his, a tiny toast in the middle of your nearly empty home.

“Promise.”

*

You were jolted awake by a dull thud — something heavy shifting, then a soft scrape against your living room floor. For a few disoriented seconds, you lay stiff under your blanket, eyes wide in the darkness, every childhood nightmare crawling back into your mind at once.

Half-dreaming, half-dreading, you wondered if this was finally it — the day the anonymous threats turned real, the day the masked words became hands around your throat.

Your throat tightened as you slid your feet to the cold floor, steadying your shaky breath. You bent down, groping blindly under your bed until your fingers curled around worn, familiar wood — the old baseball bat you’d kept since college, back when you thought monsters only lived in alleyways, not in your inbox.

You clutched the handle so tight your knuckles whitened. Each cautious step made the floor groan just enough to betray you, but you pressed on, every nerve on fire as you crept toward the faint slice of light spilling under your bedroom door.

The quiet outside was worse than any noise. You could almost hear your heartbeat echoing off the walls. You paused by the door, inhaled once, twice, then flicked the switch with trembling fingers.

The harsh hallway light flared to life, making your eyes sting — and in that moment, the bat fell limp in your grip.

He stood there in the middle of your living room, as if he belonged in the mundane mess of your reality: a man in a rain-damp coat, droplets dripping onto your floorboards, a battered copy of The Little Prince dangling loosely from his hand. He was brushing rain from his dark hair with the other hand, utterly unbothered by the way your entire world had just jolted awake with you.

Your throat worked around his name, hoarse and disbelieving. “Wonwoo…”

He turned slowly, dark eyes meeting yours under the harsh ceiling light. Something soft flickered there, ghostly warmth beneath the sharp lines of a man you once wrote as unyielding steel.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice deep and so achingly familiar that your grip on the bat finally failed you.

It hit the floor with a muted clatter — the only sound loud enough to remind you this wasn’t a dream, no matter how much your knees begged you to wake up.

Your mind reeled, lagging behind the sight of him standing there, flesh and bone and rain-soaked reality — not ink, not pixels, not a memory stitched into your pillow at 3 a.m.

You took a step forward before your legs betrayed you, buckling just enough that you grabbed the door frame for support.

“Y-You’re…” Your voice broke on the word, disbelief scraping your throat raw. “You’re alive.”

Wonwoo tilted his head at you, a faint crease between his brows as if he was gently puzzled by how fragile you sounded. He shifted the little book in his hand, like an absent gesture to ground himself in this place that wasn’t meant for him — your place, your clutter, your humdrum lightbulb humming above him.

“Of course I’m alive,” he said, and his tone held that soft reprimand you’d given him in all your drafts when he needed to remind people he was human first, ruthless second. “It takes more than a bullet to kill me, doesn’t it?”

You shook your head, eyes stinging, the rush of tears making your vision stutter like a broken film reel. 

“Wonwoo, I— I saw you—”

Before you could finish, he stepped forward, crossing the distance you couldn’t. His free hand, warm and real, cupped the side of your neck, thumb brushing your racing pulse. His touch made your heart lurch against your ribs, a startled bird in a too-small cage.

“You wrote an ending,” he murmured, voice lower now, nearer. “But you forgot something, didn’t you? I never really did what you told me to do, not completely.”

He lifted The Little Prince slightly, almost playful, like a conspirator showing you his secret.

“Wherever you put me,” he said, “I always find my way back to you.”

Your body moved before your mind could catch up as you stumbled forward and threw your arms around him.

“You’re alive…” you whispered, the words trembling out of you like a confession — like an apology for every night you’d cried over his death, for every version of him you’d buried in the drafts you never dared to reopen.

Wonwoo let out a soft grunt at the impact, but his arms wrapped around you without hesitation, steady and certain. He smelled like a cold wind and a trace of old paper — the way you’d always imagined his world to feel against your skin.

“I’m here,” he murmured into your hair, one hand splayed wide between your shoulder blades like he was anchoring you to him. “Look at you… You really thought you’d gotten rid of me?”

You laughed, a small, cracked sound muffled against his chest, your fingers fisting in the damp fabric of his coat. His heartbeat thudded under your ear, so solid and steady you almost sobbed from the relief of it.

“I thought—” you choked out, pulling back just enough to see his face. His dark eyes searched yours, calm even now, as if there was nothing more natural in the world than him standing in your hallway. “I thought you were gone. I thought you—”

He pressed his forehead to yours, his breath brushing your lips as he cut you off softly. “I’m not gone. You should know by now… I never die that easily.”

Your hands came up to frame his face, to prove to yourself this wasn’t another cruel dream. His skin was warm. His lashes fluttered when you touched his cheekbone with your thumb, like you were the fragile thing this time, not him.

His hand slipped from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair with a tenderness that contradicted the storm behind his eyes. Before you could answer, before you could even draw another breath to question him, Wonwoo closed the last inch between you and pressed his mouth to yours.

It wasn’t gentle — not really. It was the kind of kiss that said enough to every unfinished ending you’d ever written for him. His lips moved over yours like he was claiming lost time, like he needed to remind you he was flesh and blood, not a tragic line on a page you could erase.

Your knees nearly gave out. One hand clutched at his coat while the other fisted in his hair, and the bat you’d dropped rolled noiselessly across the floor behind you. The hallway light flickered above you, but you barely noticed. There was only his warmth, the taste of him — familiar and heartbreakingly real — and the soft rumble of his low groan against your mouth when you tugged him closer.

When he finally pulled back, your lips tingled, your breath stolen, your heart pounding so loud it drowned out every thought but he’s here, he’s here, he’s here.

Wonwoo didn’t step away. His forehead rested against yours, eyes half-lidded, voice rough when he spoke.

“Do you believe me now?” he murmured, the ghost of a smile brushing your swollen lips. “I’m alive. I’m not leaving you again.”

Your hands trembled where they clutched his coat, but you didn’t care — you didn’t want to care about anything except the taste of him and the warmth that bled through every inch where your bodies touched.

You tipped your chin up, breathless but hungry for more, and tugged him down to you again. This time the kiss was deeper, slower but impossibly warmer — no fear, no half-finished confessions, just you pouring every sleepless night and every secret wish into the press of your mouth against his.

Wonwoo made a sound you’d never heard before — half a groan, half a laugh muffled by your lips — as if he couldn’t quite believe you were real, too. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him until there was no room for the past, no room for doubt, just the frantic thrum of your pulse answering his.

When you finally pulled back for air, your lips were damp and your chest ached sweetly with relief. His eyes searched yours — dark, sharp, so alive — and softened when he saw the tears you didn’t even realize had slipped free.

“Again,” he whispered against your mouth, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. “Say it again.”

You breathed out the words like a vow, fingers curling into his hair.

“You’re alive. You’re here. With me.”

And this time, when he kissed you, it was softer — but it felt endless.

*

Soonyoung nearly choked on his iced coffee, eyes wide as saucers darting between you and the man beside you — the very real, very unbothered Jeon Wonwoo, who calmly stirred his latte like he hadn’t just upended everything Soonyoung thought he knew about you.

“Wait— wait,” Soonyoung sputtered, jabbing a finger accusingly at Wonwoo’s face. “You’re telling me… you— this— he’s real? And his name is actually Jeon Wonwoo?”

You pressed your lips together, trying to hide your laugh behind your palm. Wonwoo only raised an eyebrow, glancing at you with that faint, knowing smirk before returning his gaze to Soonyoung, unruffled as ever.

“Yes,” you said, voice light but betraying your thrill. “His name is really Jeon Wonwoo.”

Soonyoung gaped, looking like he was rethinking every midnight rant he’d ever heard from you about “that tragic idiot villain” you were rewriting for the hundredth time.

“Hold on— then all this time, the comic— you were inspired by him?” He leaned in over the table, practically vibrating with secondhand scandal. “You built that entire icy bastard king based on your real boyfriend?”

Your gaze slipped to Wonwoo, your hand drifting unconsciously to his on the table. He didn’t pull away — instead, his thumb brushed yours, so soft it made your chest tighten all over again.

“Maybe…” you murmured, unable to hide the tiny smile. “He’s my muse, after all.”

Soonyoung groaned, dropping his head dramatically to the table with a loud thud.

“I knew it. I knew you were secretly romantic, but this is insane. Next you’ll tell me Hansol’s real too and wants to kill me.”

Wonwoo’s low chuckle rumbled beside you. “Don’t worry,” he said smoothly, eyes twinkling. “Hansol won’t bother you.”

Soonyoung just wailed into his arms. “I hate both of you. But also — I’m so happy for you, oh my god.”

The End.

[everythingfox]

Too cute

[littlemisskookie]

Catch Me If You Can

Catch Me If You Can

Ship: Crush!Jungkook x Annoying!Reader

Description: You lived to get under Jungkook’s skin, constantly trying to rile him up and annoy him just to get a reaction. What happens when, during a cabin trip with friends, you accidentally push too far?

Warnings: PRIMAL PLAY, (primal kink go brrrrrr), Slight Dub-Con, Exercise (we hate running), More Exercise (we love fucking), Degradation, Humiliation, Praise, Choking, Fingering, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Dom!Jungkook, Mad!Jungkook (deserves its own warning), Manhandling, Restraining, Teasing, Reader is Annoying AF for the plot, Pussy Slapping, Rough Sex, Unprotected Sex, Outdoor Sex, Public Sex?

Word Count: 10.3k

A/N: I hope everyone enjoys this oneshot! I had a particularly good time writing it up. Please enjoy!

It was a hot summer day when your van strode up to the cabin. Though the roads had been shit, rocky terrain and winding paths to get through the mountains, your arduous journey had come to an end. At last, you could escape the cramped quarters of Yeri's Sedan, stretch your limbs and breathe in the fresh air the wilderness offered. Granted, you would have to squeeze through the extra luggage you guys had crammed in the back with you and Jimin, slipping between the seats and waiting for everyone else to climb out first, courtesy of the two of you sitting in the very back closest to the trunk— but it was well worth the sacrifice.

From your position in the very back you were able to stare at the back of Jungkook's head for a full 8 hours, with him being none the wiser. God, you were a creep for getting satisfaction from that, but you were a woman obsessed. Seeing every time his tattooed fingers would comb through his hair, or the occasional stretches from sitting in the same place for too long, it was a view you were glad you didn't miss from any other seat. Yeri and her boyfriend Jaehyun, who was driving, were sitting in the very front, which left four seats in the back. Jungkook had opted for the middle right, and though being seated right next to him may seem optimal, it would make it too obvious that you were constantly staring. A habit you couldn't keep in check for the life of you. Unfortunately, the sight of Jungkook was irresistible. Instead you let Taehyung take the chosen spot, with you and Jimin sitting in the back with the leftover duffel bags and backpacks you were unable to cram in the trunk.

Not that you were complaining. You could deal with a little less leg room with the privacy you were granted to creep all you'd like. Jimin, sweetheart that he is, was asleep for the majority of the trip, snoring away except for the occasional gas station breaks and rest stops. You were able to peak over Jungkook's shoulder a few times to see what he was up to, but it was mainly doodling in his notebook or playing ad-free games on his phone. No insightful texts for you to spy on or gain intel from.

"Fucking finally!" Jaehyun killed the engine, stopping the radio along with it.

"Thank you for getting us home safely, baby." Yeri reached over the center console to give her boyfriend a kiss, much to the disgust of her brother Tae.

You looked over to Jimin, who was still snoozing, mouth agape and head leaning back in his neck pillow. Shaking his shoulder, you rose him from the dead. "Jimin, buddy, we're here already."

"Here" was a 2 story cabin in a heavily wooded, rural area located in the mountains. With a heated pool and far from civilization, it was the perfect place to recenter and take a breather from every day life. It was a popular destination primarily in the fall and winter, but the six of you were able to get a good price on it for the summer, all of you pitching in on the AirBnB months in advance for this getaway. You were particularly ecstatic about it. Five whole days stuck in a cabin with Jungkook? It was a fanfiction come to life! Granted, you'd prefer it were just the two of you and you had been snowed in, as the story line typically goes, but you'll take what you could get.

Jungkook, who was Taehyung's best friend, had been the object of your not-so secret affections for quite some time now. Always quiet, almost broody, he was a gorgeous specimen who barely even spared you a glance.

Granted, you did your best to annoy him at any opportune moment. Anything to get his attention. Seeing as you were Yeri's best friend, you might as well have been Taehyung's second obnoxious younger sister. Both you and Jungkook were constantly at the Kims' house, giving you ample time to be in his business and know the details of his personal life.

You swore sometimes he hated you, but if he did, he didn't outright show it. When you'd do your best to tease him or get a rise out of him, he'd ignore you or brush off your attempts. Those were the worst. You hated the indifference he gave you. All you wanted was a reaction, to see that pretty face contort into something besides boredom around you for once. Even if it were a joking smile or a grimace or a scowl— you wanted it so bad. Anything to get his eyes to finally lock with yours for more than a second. Anything to get him to notice you.

Then again, after years, you still hadn't gotten much from him. It was as though he were impervious to your feeble attempts. Perhaps he had gotten used to it in your younger years, knowing exactly how to make you tick and truly boil with rage inside. Perhaps he simply never cared. Either way, it was a habit you were unable to break at this point, still acting like a kid with a playground crush, teasing just to get a reaction.

It was the only types of interactions you really got with him anyways.

Jimin, Taehyung's other friend, grumbled as you shook him, looking up and out of the window at the greenery before him. He blinked slowly, taking in his surroundings and turning to you. "How long was I out?"

"Two days," you joked, eyes wandering to Jungkook slipping out of the car. You shimmied between the seats, grabbing your duffle bag with you as you climbed out. "Good luck getting proper sleep tonight. You were pretty knocked out of it."

You stretched your arms overhead, relieving the ache in your shoulders and legs and massaging the sore muscles. You watch Jungkook do the same, observing the sliver of skin revealed as his t-shirt rose up. Thank god this place had a pool. You couldn't wait to see Jungkook shirtless again, to see if his abs had gotten more defined, if his shoulders got any broader, if his biceps got any bigger. Had he gotten any more tattoos in addition to the full sleeve he sported? Your mouth watered at the thought.

"Home sweet home!" Yeri cheered, approaching the front door and putting the code into the lockbox attached to the door knob.

You circled around the car to where Taehyung was opening the trunk. Grabbing onto the handle of your suitcase, you yanked it from the pile, nearly falling on your ass in your attempt.

"Woah! Do you need help with that?" Taehyung questioned (after laughing at your expense). "Yo, Kook! Can you come give Y/N a hand with her bag?"

Your heart practically leapt at the thought as Jungkook approached, immediately grabbing your suitcase as if it weighed nothing.

"How much shit did you pack? We're only going to be here a week," he grunted, reaching for your duffel too. "Go ahead and give me that too."

"Sure you can handle all of that?" you teased, but give him the bag anyway.

"Better than you, that's for sure. You'll be wheezing like an old man trying to carry these upstairs."

He was right about that. You were excited to see him do it, though, seeing his muscles pump up and strain, veins prominent in his hands and forearms as he carried them for you. Sure, Taehyung had told them to do it, but you could let yourself fantasize for a moment that he did so for you. For such an introverted nerd, he was surprisingly a gym rat, with much of his time with Taehyung now spent at the gym.

You obediently followed him into the cabin and up the stairs, getting a great view of his ass. Fuck you needed to stop perving over this man, but you couldn't help it.

Yeri and Jaehyung were going to be downstairs in the master bedroom, where there was one other bedroom for Jimin. Upstairs there were two more bedrooms, one where you'd be solo and the other for Taehyung and Jungkook to share. (Or perhaps Jungkook and Jimin would switch. Taehyung had simply insisted he did not want to sleep anywhere near Yeri and her boyfriend.)

Following Jungkook into what was presumably your room, you took in the space. It was very much a cozy vibe, with western decor and lots of mahogany. The bed was easily big enough for two people.

"Where do you want it?"

Your pulse quickened as you looked at Jungkook with wide eyes.

"Wa— Hm?" You corrected yourself quickly before you could blurt out the words "want it". No need for him to know where your dirty mind had wandered.

"Your bag."

"Oh. On the bed's fine." It'd be fine for you guys to do it, too. You could already see him spread out on the comforter, a meal waiting to be devoured. You tried to wipe the thought from your mind before you started to drool. There'd be plenty of time to fantasize about that later, and all while he was in the bedroom right next to you.

Jungkook dropped the duffel onto the sheets, turning to head out.

"Wait!" You internally curse yourself. "Er, do you need help with your bags, perhaps?"

He raised a brow. "You really think you'd be much help?"

"I mean, your bag is probably lighter than mine. Unless you packed dumbbells are something." You couldn't help but grin at the thought. "Bet a gym rat like you would get withdrawals from being away for so long."

He scoffed at that. "I think I'll manage just fine one week without."

"I dunno." You practically sang the words. "I think I see your biceps deflating already. You haven't been slacking off or anything lately, have you?"

He rolled his eyes, ignoring your comments and leaving your bedroom. You let out a huff of disappointment, grumbling as you tossed yourself onto your bed, kicking at the sheets in frustration. You just wanted him to stay in your room even a minute longer. Then again, if you had the opportunity you'd probably lock him in here. Chain him to the bed and ride him into the sunset if you were feeling truly psycho. (Which, don't worry, you weren't. At least for the time being.)

—

The day after, the six of you were huddled on the carpet in the foyer after binging the newest episodes of Love Island, glasses of wine in hand. Well, you, Yeri, and Taehyung had wine in hand. Jaehyun and Jungkook had opted for sake, and poor Jimin was already slumped over on the couch from it, no doubt in need of the sleep he evaded last night from his extraneous car nap.

The remaining five of you were playing a drinking game, where one wanted to collect as many of the cards as possible through whatever truth or dare was written on it, or be forced to drink. You were currently working through your third glass of wine, careful not to go to the fourth as you knew it would bring you into solid messy-drunk territory. Yeri was undoubtedly sloshed at this point, her face flushed and rosy as she leaned against Jaehyun.

Jungkook wasn't the least bit drunk, it seemed, only taking one shot and successfully pulling off most of the requests the cards demanded of him. He had a pretty impressive selection, whereas you opted for sips of your wine instead. 

Yeri picked up the card, grinning as she read what was on it. "When was the last time you had sex?" She squealed, giggling as she further nuzzled against her boyfriend. "Well me and Jae—"

"Nope! Quit it!" Taehyung interrupted, snatching the card from her hand, his ears tinged pink from both being flustered and the alcohol. "I do not need to be hearing about that."

"But Taeeeee I don't wanna take another drink," Yeri whined, reaching for the card, which Taehyung held out of her grasp.

"Someone else can do it for you. I do not want to hear anything about my sister's sex life," Taehyung said with disgust. He turned to you, card pointed between two fingers. "Y/N?"

"Oh-ho-ho, you want to hear about my sex life then?" you joked, taking the card from him.

"Better yours than my sister's," Tae grumbled.

Still, you weren't sure if you wanted to share the truth. However, knowing Yeri's drunk state, she'd undoubtedly call you out on it if you told anything but.

Your cheeks flushed further, this time with embarrassment. The truth was you hadn't gotten laid in almost half a decade. But in your defense your vibrator and fantasizes of Jungkook had brought out more orgasms than any of the guys you hooked up with in college, and you weren't in the mood to set yourself up for disappointment. No one could compare to the fantasies in your head, so you'd everyone a favor and not waste anyone's time.

Jungkook nudged you with his shoulder after you took too long pondering. "Are you going to answer or what?"

You normally would've been elated for the brief physical contact, but instead it served as a reminder of his presence for this question. It also made this harder to avoid.

"Do I really have to? I'm not sure it'd be suited for Jimin's delicate ears."

"I'm pretty sure he's snoozing again anyway," Jungkook shrugged, tilting his head to the friend. "Go ahead and do it if you're brave enough."

Well, there was no other option with that. For once you shy away from his gaze, turning your head away as you stare at the card in your hand.

"Four years," you admit quietly.

Taehyung guffawed. "Four years? How have you gone that long? I can barely make it a few weeks."

"Ew ew ew! Now why do I have to hear that?" Yeri complained, shoving at her brother. "He's right though. We need to get you laid, girlfriend."

"Shut uuuup guys," you groaned. "It's not that hard. There's just... There hasn't been someone I wanted to do that with." Who wanted to do it with me, too.

Yeri's eyes lit up with drunken mischievousness. "What about—"

Jaehyun slapped his palm over her mouth, no doubt knowing exactly what she was going to say. Jaehyun, having been Yeri's long time boyfriend, knew all too well about your long standing crush on Jungkook. No need for her to blurt it out to the rest of the room. "I think it's about time I get you to bed."

Yeri weakly protested, but before long her boyfriend successfully dragged her back to their bedroom, and you're left with the other three.

"How come you haven't gotten with anyone in so long?" Taehyung asked, nosy as ever.

You tossed your card in your pile, picking up your wine glass to take a gulp this time. "No one's wanted me I guess."

"Bullshit. I told you last year my friend Jaemin was into you and you never even hit him up." Damn Taehyung.

"He's cute and all just..." You did your best not to glance at Jungkook, instead observing him from your periphery. "I have this idea in mind of what I want things to be like, and I know no one can live up to expectations."

"You sure you're not just too picky or something?" Taehyung chuckled. You wondered for a second if he was also in on your worst-kept-secret.

"Maybe," you admitted. "But it's not worth wasting people's time. I mean, I'm sure eventually I'll find someone who will make me want to at least try."

"And no one has for four years?" Jungkook finally spoke up.

You feel the blood rush to your cheeks at his direct inclusion. No, you wanted to scream. No one but you! "We can't all be easy," you said defensively. Who knew how many other women Jungkook had been with while you were stuck pining.

"We can't all be prudes, either," Jungkook shot back.

That was unlike him. And it stung. You locked eyes with him, and he held your stare, unyielding for once.

"You know, I think it's about time someone gets Jimin to bed. He's going to complain about back pain if we let him stay in that position on the couch any longer," you redirected, breaking off the stare and looking away, ending the game. Suddenly it didn't feel like fun anymore.

Taehyung groaned. "You're probably right."

As he moved to carry his friend back to his room, you exited, wanting as much space from Jungkook right now as possible. You felt embarrassed for the way he called you out like that. Did he really think you were a prude? Someone who wouldn't put out because she was... what? Too good to? Too scared to?

You got up to leave, the air inside suddenly feeling much too stuffy for your tastes. You needed some space from Jungkook and his words, letting your cheeks burn a little less and get your mind off internalizing the interaction. In the backyard now, you headed to the pool, sitting down to dangle your feet in the water, the LED lights from within surrounding you in a near neon blue. You tilted the glass back to your lips, getting whatever leftover drops of wine there was to offer. You definitely pushed too far with the "easy" comment. Served you right for being an annoying brat.

You let yourself dip further into the pool, submerging yourself in the heated water as you put down the glass. It felt comforting to be in here, clothes and all, though you were only wearing an oversized shirt and underwear, having pre-prepared for sleep. She shirt floated along with you, drifting around your waist and upper thighs as you glided through, feeling the warm water kiss your bare skin and bring comfort. Sometimes when you were feeling especially weird you'd float in pools like these and pretend you were back in your mother's womb, safe and protected from the inevitable mistakes that would come with living.

You needed to calm yourself, erase the mistakes of a few minutes before in your mind. You move your arms and float within, keeping yourself upright until you tilt back, laying on the surface as you idly glide along the water. Staring up at the stars, they seemed so much brighter than back home. You could clearly make out a few constellations. Orion's Belt, the big and little dippers...

"What're you doing out here?"

Your peaceful swim is brought to a halt, and you righten yourself to see Jungkook staring down at you.

Why was he out here?

"Swimming."

"I see that," Jungkook said. "You shouldn't swim when you're drunk."

"I'm not drunk," you denied.

"Yeah you are. Your limit is three glasses, and you just finished your third." He looked pointedly at the glass left on the edge. So he had noticed how many you took. And knew you couldn't have more than four.

Well, of course he'd know that. The first time you tried wine was when you were sleeping over at the Kims', and you and Yeri had killer hangovers that resulted in the entire guest bathroom being wiped down. To be fair the two of you didn't know that wine got bad after it was opened, and the bottles that had been hidden in the bar had been there for years.

"So what?" You felt like a petulant child, turning away from him. You were still embarrassed, and weren't expecting to interact or see him again until at least morning. You figured he'd be helping Taehyung with Jimin.

"So you should get out of the pool and dry off." He dropped a towel by the edge. Had he brought that with him?

"What're you gonna do if I don't? Come get me?" You couldn't help but tease. Part of you really wanted him to.

"Funny," Jungkook huffed. He squatted down, the lights from the pool causing the shine of the moving water to dance across his face, illuminating him beautifully. "Can you get out now, please?"

"I don't wanna." You swam a bit further away from him to the other side. You had half the mind to stick your tongue out at him.

There's a beat of silence.

"I'm sorry," Jungkook said. That you didn't expect.

You stilled, keeping your place in the water as you tried to process his words.

"I shouldn't have called you a prude," Jungkook continued. "You have standards. That's commendable. I'm sorry if we— I, made you feel like shit about it. It was wrong."

You held your breath, and it helped you float a bit more. You couldn't believe Jungkook was apologizing to you. Your back was still turned to him, so luckily he couldn't see your expression.

"Are you mad at me?" he questioned.

You swallowed, trying to collect your thoughts. "No." You turn your head to the side, still not directly looking at him. "I'm... sorry too. I shouldn't have insinuated you were easy." If he were, maybe then he'd give you a chance.

"It's fine. C'mon, let me get you out."

He held his hand out to you, and you giddily swam up to him. His large hand completely dwarfed your own, and a small part of your gremlin brain gave you an impulsive thought that drunk-you simply couldn't resist.

You tugged, watching him fall headfirst into the pool, water splashing everywhere as he submerged completely beneath. You let out a maniacal laugh as his head popped up from the surface, a mix of surprise and rage on his features. You had never seen that on his face before.

"Now we're even!" You cackled, watching him sputter out whatever water had gotten into his mouth.

"You are so lucky I didn't have any electronics on me!" he exclaimed. He swam towards you, causing you to squeal and try and swim away. "Oh no you don't!"

His large hands grip your waist, pulling you against him as you wriggle and try to escape his hold.

"Look who's ma-ad!" you breathily wheezed, endlessly amused by the anger on his face. You couldn't help it. You finally got under his skin, and like the child you were, it brought you so much delight. So much satisfaction.

"Of course I'm mad, you're being an absolute brat right now."

"I've never seen you this mad," you continued, grinning up at him. "It's so hard to get a rise out of you."

"You still try, though."

"I do," you admitted, looking up at him cockily. "And today I succeeded."

"C'mon, brat, let's get out of here before I get a cramp from keeping us both afloat." He tugged you closer to his chest, and you feared he might feel your heartbeat quicken.

You tried to squirm out, but his arm his ironclad around your waist as he dragged you closer to the edge. "I can swim on my own!"

"I'm not letting you." Jungkook finally let go of you, only to lift you up with both hands and sit you on the ledge. You're blessed with the sight of him hoisting himself up as well, and the outline of his abs and chest through the now transparent white shirt assured you your little prank was well worth the trouble. He grabbed the towel he had brought before and dumped it on your head, pressing a large hand down and rubbing the fabric into your hair. "Dry," he commanded.

You begrudgingly did as you're told, rubbing the towel over your head and face. Luckily it was still a hot summer night, so it wasn't as though you were freezing when you got out.

You dried as best as you can, wringing your shirt out and offering him the now partially-damp towel. Admiring him while he was partially distracted, you couldn't help but replay the image of his irritated face in your head over and over again, and how much you liked it.

"Thank you," you quietly mumbled, almost hoping he wouldn't catch it. "For coming to get me out."

"Well... I was concerned I upset you." He finished patting himself down. "Besides, now we're even."

—

After that, you made many more feeble attempts at catching Jungkook's attention. Asking him to reach dishes on the higher shelves when you'd typically have no issue climbing on top of countertops. Knocking on his bedroom door to see what he was up to— though most times it was just Taehyung. One time you accidentally popped in on the elder in the midst of changing, which was embarrassing. No more of that.

Sometimes you accidentally succeeded, however. Like during your hike through the mountains as a group, your left knee started audibly clicking with every step. You tried to swallow the pain, but with how bruised your feet felt and how often you had to stop the group to take a breather, it was becoming difficult. Curse you for being the least athletic of the whole group. You should've joined Yeri in volleyball sophomore year when you had the chance.

Jungkook, chivalrous gentleman has he was, begrudgingly insisted that you climb on his back the rest of the trek down. Not that you really minded, though, feeling his steady heartbeat through his back and wrapping your arms around his shoulders and neck was a dream come true for you. You simply felt embarrassed that you had caused all the trouble, and not even on purpose this time.

On the final day before you all were set to head back home, however, you officially crossed a line.

You hadn't even intended for the night to go the way it did. It was 2 in the morning, and most everyone was already asleep in preparation for the long drive tomorrow. You, though, were a well known insomniac, with tonight being no exception.

Imagine your surprise when you stumbled across Jungkook, lying across one of the pool chairs, tiny sketchbook in hand. He looked fine as hell, hoodie hiding most of his tattoos, gym shorts showing the expanse of his muscled thighs. You were so upset this was your last day living with him, able to invade his space so easily.

With a devilish grin you snuck up behind him, snatching it from above to get a better look. Unfortunately you lost the page he had been working on, and flipping through the earlier pages you recognized the anime and flower sketches he had been working on during the ride here. "May I?"

"Y/N!" Jungkook's head twisted around as he glared at you, swiping for the book which you quickly held out of reach. He huffed with frustration. "Give that back."

"These are good, Jungkook, no need to be embarrassed," you snickered, flipping over a page to see small doodles. "Don't tell me you've got porn or something hidden in here."

Even through the neon LED lights the pool illuminated, you could see his cheeks burn a slight crimson. Ah, so there was something interesting in here. That or he was particularly attached to it. That only gave you further incentive to mess with him.

He stood from the seat, towering over you as he approached. You took a step back, however, keeping the book outstretched the other way. There was no way you were giving up that easily. Shaking his head, he pressed his tongue against the inside his cheek, irritated. He looked so hot. You were delighted at the sight. "You just don't know when to quit, do you?"

"Nope." You flipped over another page, seeing a detailed drawing of a bee and another of a water lilly. Nothing particularly damning yet.

"Why are you always trying to rile me up?" He made a quick move for the book again, but you're quicker, spinning around him and putting it behind your back.

Because it turns me on.

Nope, can't say that, that'd freak him out.

"Cause it's fun," you admitted cheekily. "I rarely get a reaction out of you typically."

"Is this the reaction you're wanting?" He took another step forward, and you take another step back. His eyes were lidded and jaw clenched, irritation prominent in his expression. You're half tempted to run into the woods with the book just to see what secrets he had hidden in it.

"Almost."

"Almost?" he questioned. He glared at you, cocking his head to the side as he studied your mischievous, satisfied expression. "What is it you're wanting?"

Oh, only for you to fuck me where I stand, no biggie.

"Just a bit of fun, clearly. You look like you're about to blow a fuse. There must be something awfully interesting in this book for you to be so territorial over it," you snickered, taking a few more steps back to distance yourself from him and flipping through another page. "I mean, come and get it, if you can."

That seemed to be the straw that broke the camel's back, though, because suddenly you hear a very low, very deep: "That's it."

You acted on instinct as you see him lunge towards you, your feet carrying you away without you having to even think about it. Jungkook's hand swiped for you as you dodged, and you were distancing yourself a few feet per second as you dashed away and out of the backyard. Your heart rate skyrocketed as you snapped the journal shut, clutching it to your body as you sprinted into the trees. You're practically flying across the pre-made path, illuminated well enough now by the moonlight over head.

You didn't think it would go this far. You should've given him the journal at that moment, but you acted on instinct, fight or flight mode controlling your every whim as you dove headfirst into the wooded area surrounding the cabin. You stayed along the path, only able to hear your feet beating against the ground and your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Maybe you were overreacting, but the look in his eyes as he jumped towards you said one thing: Run.

You looked behind, certain you had been quick enough to lost him, but you see his shadowy form gaining on you. And fast.

Fuck!

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!

You shrieked, making a sharp right off the trail and through the trees. You couldn't even remember the last time you had been chased. It must've been when you were a kid at summer camp. This was nothing like those games of tag, however. The fear coursing through your veins, the danger that was approaching from behind, all of it had given you a surge of adrenaline you had never encountered before.

Your breathing was quick as you dodged branches and swerved between the trunks. Luckily it wasn't autumn, otherwise the crunch of the dead leaves beneath your feet would give away your location. Then again, you had no clue where Jungkook had went either.

You didn't think Jungkook would hurt you. No, you knew he wouldn't.

But you didn't know what he was going to do when he caught you, either. And with how fast he clearly was, it seemed like an inevitability.

You internally cursed, spinning around one of the trees and pressing yourself against the bark, breathing through your nose and trying to make as little noise as possible. Fuck, you couldn't even see the trail or the cabin any more. How deep had you gotten? What if you weren't able to find your way back at this rate?

Panicked, you look around, your eyes now adjusting to the darkness. You're able to take a few slower, deeper breaths, relieved you had lost him.

But the relief didn't last long.

A large hand slammed against the bark next to you, Jungkook popping out from around the trunk. His eyes looked like one of a beast's, dark and ominous as he narrowed in on you. You screamed, ducking beneath and around the other side, barreling further into the dense forest. How had he caught up to you so fast? Why was he so determined?

Your shallow, fast breaths were getting louder now as you pumped your body for all you had, using all of your strength to get away as quickly as possible. You weren't going to make the mistake of looking back again— you knew he was right behind you.

And suddenly you felt arms caging in around your waist, Jungkook's catching you and yanking you to him, sending you both straight to the ground as his body weight crushed yours. The ground bit at your skin, all the breath being pushed out of your lungs as he fell on top of you, the crash chaotic and no doubt leaving bruises from where you landedp. The book flew out of your hands as both of you tumbled down. You scrambled trying to get out from under him, arm outstretched and fingers spread as you try and reach for the book which was just a few inches away, when his larger one engulfs your wrist, twisting you around and manhandling you to flip you on your back.

You had fantasized about Jungkook on top of you many times before, but never quite like this.

He grabbed your other wrist and pinned it down next to your head, shackling you to the forest floor and forcing you to look up at him. You were able to see far too clearly with your eyes adjusted to the night, the moonlight showing the rage on his beautiful face. He was breathing heavily from the exertion of the chase, chest heaving up and down beneath his hoodie as he glared down at you, a wild look in his eyes. His nostrils flared, mouth parted as he took in greedy gasps of air, his face closer to yours than you were used to. You tried to reach a foot up to kick him in the chest, but he dodged, trapping your thighs between his own. You struggled, pushing your hands up to try and twist out of his iron-clad grip, but he remained firm.

There was another spike of fear that ran through you as you realized he wasn't going to let you go.

Fuck, what had you gotten yourself into?

You were in the belly of the beast, trapped with no hope of escape. You tried and twisted some more, and his grip tightened, keeping you glued to the ground with him practically sitting on top of you. He wasn't even looking for the notebook anymore, all of his attention focused solely on you.

He continued to breathe hard, now deeper as you were both finally at a standstill. "Caught you..." he panted, still trying to catch his breath.

You clenched and unclenched your fists, frustrated with how you were helpless beneath him, now unable to fight back. Offering a weak smile, you tried to catch your own breath. "J-Jungkook..." You hadn't meant for the word to come out so airy, almost like a moan. A plea. "You can have the book back... It's right there."

"I don't want it anymore," he snarled.

You gulped, squirming in his hold, something you could no longer hide given your predicament. "O-Oh," you said shakily, trying to offer a laugh. "Let's... Let's talk?"

"Yeah, let's talk," he sneered, with no intention of letting you out from under him. No doubt you'd try and run away again. You'd probably climb over the mountain if it meant escape. "Why're you always testing me, huh? Trying to get under my skin, irritate me. I've tried so hard with you, tried to be patient, but you just don't know when to quit, do you?"

This time you didn't respond, unable to answer his questions. You weren't sure this was exactly the moment for honesty.

"Thought you wanted to talk, sweetheart."

Fuck, that made your heart flutter despite the situation. You look to the side, anywhere but Jungkook, and instead to the leaves and trees overhead above him. "I-I just like annoying you, that's all."

"That's all, huh?" His fingers flexed around your wrists. "It's almost like you like seeing me angry."

You squirmed again, closing your eyes as you try to kick beneath him, heels digging into the ground as you try to push him off. His body weight didn't give you much wiggle room, though and your weak attempts don't go unnoticed by him. You felt so embarrassed, so small and vulnerable beneath his scrutinizing gaze. You turned your head to the side, wanting to shrink away form his hard stare. He didn't let up, however.

"Nuh uh," he hissed, stretching your arms above your head and trapping both wrists in one hand now. Unfortunately you didn't have enough strength to weasel out of the one. All that time you had spent thirsting over his gym photos, and now it was all being used against you. He roughly gripped your jaw, fingers digging into your cheeks as he turned your face from the side and back at him. "Look at me."

Hesitantly, you peeked back up at him, the angry expression you had worked so hard for now glowering down at you.

"Just..." You whimpered, biting your lip with shame. "Just wanted your attention."

The fingers around your face seemed to twitch at that, and his eyes flashed with something you don't recognize. Perhaps surprise? His grip on your wrists tightened, stretching your arms out more to make you squirm with discomfort. "Is that it?" You heard a low, ominous chuckle. "Well congratulations, sweetheart. You finally got it."

Before you could wail out your deepest apologies and beg for his forgiveness, he's tilting your chin up further, craning your neck, and kissing you.

Your eyes widened as you feel the lips you had dreamed of for so long on yours, his tongue delving into your mouth and gliding against yours with ease. He completely dominated you, hand on your jaw now sliding down the column of your throat, feeling every gasp and moan that travelled through it as he took you completely. He lightly squeezed, as though reminding you to behave. He pressed his lips harder against yours, not letting you escape, forcing you to feel every part of him you had been so desperate for. Your head felt like it was spinning, fists furling and unfurling as you finally shut your eyes and tried to kiss him back, tried to keep up and have your body process this faster than your brain could. You were in complete disbelief this was happening. Was this real? Were you actually back home at the cabin, having another sick, twisted wet dream about Jungkook?

It was better than any of your dreams or fantasies could have predicted. The way Jungkook's mouth moved against yours, the secure hold against your neck and bound wrists, the subtle grind he made against you, nothing could compare. It felt better than you had ever hoped, and far, far filthier than you had ever dreamed.

Jungkook finally pulled back, breathless one again, lips now glistening in the moonlight as he stared down at you. You were panting as well, staring up at him with wonder at what he'd done, and what he'd do next. Did he regret it? Did he suddenly come to his senses? Realize it was you he was actually kissing in the middle of the wilderness?

His eyes scoured your flushed expression, traveling down to where your chest sunk and rose with each breath, and your thighs trapped between his. Biting his lip, he lifted to his knees, hands still firmly pinning you down as he shoved a knee between your legs, nudging them apart. "Spread 'em."

Shocked, you did as you're told, slowly opening your legs to his prying eyes, humiliation coursing through your veins. You had gone outside in your pajamas, just some sleep shorts and a tank top, and there wasn't much modesty you could provide.

Jungkook seemed satisfied with the sight, however, moving his other knee between yours as well as he looked down at the tiny shorts that barely covered you now. "Fuck..." He let go of your neck, his grip loosening as he lightly touched the skin available to him, tracing down over your tank top, between your breasts and past your stomach, stopping just above the hemline of your shorts. He's transfixed, eyes drinking in all they could in the dim light. He locked gazes with you again, hard gaze refusing to let you look away. "Do you want me to touch you? Or do you want me to let you go and run away again?"

You gulped, thighs twitching at the thought of either.

"I need an answer, Y/N."

"I-I—" Curse your infernal stammering. You swallowed the saliva that pooled in your throat, trying to collect yourself. "Please... touch me."

Jungkook grunted in response, grabbing onto the waistband of your shorts and roughly tugging them down your legs, revealing a cute pair of pink panties for him to rip apart. He doesn't admire them too long, quickly yanking them down as well to store in the pocket of his shorts. He uses the free hand to roughly pin one of your knees against the ground, keeping you spread for him with no where to hide, your glistening folds shining even in the darkness.

"Fuck, you really like seeing me mad, don't you?" he said under his breath, fingers lightly trailing up from your knee and up your inner thigh. You squirmed under his gaze, flustered and embarrassed at how exposed you were as he continued to unapologetically stare at you, eyes reveling at your bare sex. "Just wanted me to pin you down and fuck you every time you annoyed me, is that it?"

"Y...Yes..." you quietly admitted, hips slightly bucking to try and get his hand closer, to no avail. He pushed against your hip to keep you against the ground, thumb inching closer to where you wanted, rubbing slow circles against the inside of your hip. "Please don't tease."

His nostrils flared at that. "Tease? Like how you tease me all the time? Acting like a little slut just for my attention?"

His hand came down to slap against your wet folds, making your hips jump at the delicious sting. You accidentally let out a moan before you could stop yourself, his hand coming back down to rub against your sex and soothe the pain, traveling between your wet folds and admiring the slick that collected on them.

"Fuck, Jungkook!" You whimpered out the words, tears springing in your eyes.

"God, you're something else..." Jungkook said quietly, as though it were to himself. He let his digits dance against you, teasing around your entrance and clit but never giving you enough. "Every time you'd come begging for my attention, pissing me off, I had to walk away. Because I knew this would happen. Knew I'd just lose it and have to fuck the attitude out of you then and there."

He slipped a finger in and you mewled, pushing further against the hand that bound your wrists together. You weren't able to lift them even a centimeter from the ground. You wanted to reach up and touch him, curl your fingers into his hair and tug, wrap your hands around his forearm and feel the how the tendons worked as he curled his digits inside of you. You dug your heels into the ground, savoring the feeling of Jungkook's finger curling in you repeatedly, the sound of your wetness filling the night air.

"You're so wet for me, took it so easily..." He slipped another digit in, watching you keen as you tried to buck your hips again and greedily swallow him in deeper. "Couldn't just ask me out like a normal person, huh? Had to act like we were still on the playground, just irritate me for fun."

"It worked, didn't it?" you questioned, whimpering as the digits aimed at your g-spot, digging deep into your pressure point, his palm pressed against your mound and grinding against you.

He couldn't help but smile at that. "It did, didn't it?" His hand started moving faster, harder, as though to drive further emphasis to your question. "And now you're going to have to face the consequences."

You felt pressure building up in your abdomen, moaning as Jungkook jackhammered his fingers into you, his thrusts hard and precise. You weren't even able to bring yourself to orgasm this fast, but with Jungkook it seemed like it was about to happen any minute.

Jungkook hovered over you, his face close as he finally let go of your wrists, slapping his palm against your mouth the dull your screams. "Shh, not so loud, sweetheart," he cooed patronizingly, a wicked grin on his face as he saw you struggle and whine, a third finger slipping inside, giving you a delicious burn from the stretch of the girthy digits. "Don't want to wake anyone with those slutty sounds, yeah? Those are all for me."

You were finally able to do as you wished with your hands, both wrapping around his forearm as you felt the muscles move and flex with every curl of his fingers, veins bulging beneath as he worked to get you to the finish line. You couldn't help but let your nails scratch along him a bit, overwhelmed with the onslaught of pleasure he brought. The sound of his palm repeatedly slapping against your wet sex was embarrassingly loud, and the movement of his fingers revealed how into this you were.

"Ah..." Your moan was muffled beneath his palm, but he undoubtedly felt the vibrations against his skin.

"You close? Gonna cum on my fingers already?" His smile was near sadistic as he watched you struggle beneath him. "C'mon, let go for me. So fucking desperate for it."

His thumb came up to dig against your clit, swiping against you as he fingered you to an orgasm. Your toes curled and your thighs quaked, your moan muffled through Jungkook's palm as you arched against the forest floor, bliss overtaking you. Jungkook watched your expression intently, a satisfied smirk on his face as he watched you unravel underneath him, eyes crossed and face flushed as you took what he gave you.

He slowed the pumping of his fingers, pulling them out and rubbing the digits against your clit again. You hated the feeling of being empty again, hips rising for his touch so he'd sink further into you again. Jungkook tsked, offering two more sharp slaps to your cunt to quell your disobedience. "I think you're all warmed up for me now."

He took his hand away from your face, shoving the waistband of his gym shorts and boxers down so his erection could spring free. Grabbing your hair, he forced your head to look down at his cock.

"Take a look, sweetheart. It's the dick you wanted so badly."

He gives your cunt one final, harsh smack before he's roughly shoving your legs apart again, knees glued to the grass beneath as he shuffles closer to you, his cock lying against your bare sex. You tried to gyrate against him, feel him harder against you, wondering if the orgasm he gave you would be enough for you to fit all of that inside. He was just as big as you had hoped and girthier than the three fingers that had already stretched you out so well.

Taking his cock in his hand, he slapped it against your pussy, teasing you further, letting you feel the heavy length that threatened to destroy you. He laughed when he saw the tears of frustration shine at the corner of your eyes. You tried to reach for him again, grab his cock and force it in you in one go, but he grabbed your wrists again, pinning them above you much like before. His face was inches from your own now, cocky and smug expression gleefully mocking your tearful, impatient one. "Are you gonna cry?" he questioned with a pout, sliding the cock head along your folds and teasing it against your entrance before bringing it back up to your clit, rubbing harshly to see your legs shake again. "Poor baby."

"Jungkook please just—" you sniffled, straining against his grasp. "C'mon, put it in, please?"

"Why should I, sweetheart, when you've been nothing but a bitchy little brat?" He emphasized his words with a few more harsh slaps, letting go of his cock to smack his palm against your wet folds, enjoying the way your hips jumped up against the ground, as though chasing his touch. He sneered as you sobbed, lower lip trembling. "What makes you think you deserve it?"

"Want it so bad. Worked so hard for it," you cried, lips trembling.

"Yeah?" He took his cock again, lightly pushing it against your entrance only a few centimeters, but still refusing to dive inside. "Gonna stop annoying me all the time? Trying to rile me up? Gonna be a good slut from now on?"

You nodded quickly. "Yes! Yes, I promise!"

He slowly shook his head, tongue digging into his cheek, tsking with disbelief. "Fucking liar."

With that he slowly pushed into you, watching your lips part into an 'o' and he sunk inch by inch into your wet heat, stretching you completely. You couldn't help the moans that escaped you, feeling him go deeper than you had ever experienced before, digging in and pressing against your cervix, right against your lower belly.

"Fuuuuck that's it." He emanated a dark growl from his chest, watching himself sink further into you. "Take it all. That's a good slut."

He finally stopped when his hips are flush with your ass, making you feel everything he had to offer. You felt so full. Never had you been filled so completely before, and the fact that it was Jeon Jungkook was almost enough to make you come undone all over again.

"Fuck, what a good pussy." He let go of your wrists, hands gripping beneath your knees and folding you in half as he pulled his hips back, giving shallow thrusts as he felt you take him. "So good for me sweetheart, shit. Look at you. So fucking pretty. Feel so fucking good for me. 'Course a brat like you gets this wet, fuck."

"You.. You..." You struggled to articulate words, gasping them out as you felt him drive into you, his thrusts getting longer and deeper as he pulled his hips back more, shoving his cock inside you harder to bury himself further into you. "You feel amazing."

He chuckled lowly, stooping over and connecting your lips once again, the kiss messy as he continued barreling his cock as deep inside as he could. "Yeah?" he breathed against you, the wet kissing sounds rivaling the sound of skin slapping against skin, and your wet pussy eagerly trying to swallow me deeper. "Live up to those— fuck— those dirty fantasies of yours, sweetheart?"

"Mmm," you moaned, nails clawing at his hoodie to pull him deeper. "Better."

He laughed at that, mouth fully taking over your own, forcing you to taste him as he reached one hand up to your throat, squeezing to choke you in a way that left you lightheaded. "You're better too, baby," he assured. "Never imagined you'd be this much of a slut for me."

You whimpered against his lips, grinding against him with every thrust, greedily swallowing each kiss and praying this moment would never end. You wanted to be glued against this forest floor with Jungkook forever, with only the trees and night air to hide you both. You tugged at his hoodie, bringing it up, letting your hands freely glide along the chiseled abs you had been obsessed over for years.

He rose, tugging it off quickly before diving back into you, not wasting a second to put his hand back on your throat and his lips back against yours. He wasn't letting you breathe for a second, wanting you lightheaded and dumb on his cock. It was as though he couldn't get enough of you, swallowing every moan and grinding his pelvis against your clit, eager to make you cum again.

"You feel so fucking good baby," he groaned, tugging your tank top up and over your tits, kneading at the flesh beneath his fingers before leaning back and landing another slap on your clit. You squealed, your legs nearly kicking as he brought his thumb down to your clit, rubbing hard circles. "C'mon, give me another. Be a good slut for me, c'mon. Cum on the dick you wanted so bad."

He drove you to the edge, making you cum so hard you practically see stars, your body trembling like a leaf as he pounded against you, stimulating every part of you. He leaned back down to swallow your cry, groaning against your mouth as he felt you clench and shake around him, your pitiful cries only driving him harder, faster against you. Unrelenting, like the punishment this was originally meant to be.

"Good girl," he moaned, head burying into your neck to littler kisses all over it, harsh sucks and nibbles to mark you along with the scrapes and bruises you undoubtedly acquired when he tackled you before. "Good f-fuuucking girl."

You buried your hands in his hair, curling your digits between the strands and tugging as he dug his hips against yours, cock nestled in as deep as it could go as he ground his hips against yours, pelvis practically glued against your clit. He pressed himself as closely as he could to you, and you hugged him closer, embracing the feeling of his smooth, bare skin beneath your finger tips. You felt so sensitive from the constant stimulation, tears springing to life again. He noticed, giving a small peck at the corner of one of your eyes.

"Sensitive baby? Need me to stop?"

"No," you tugged him closer, not wanting it to end. "Don't stop."

He laughed, melting into you, one arm still holding himself up above you by the elbow. He pressed his other hand down against your abdomen, "Want another then?"

You squirmed at the thought, and your reaction only made him more determined, pushing further against you and grinding as deep as he could go, feeling himself move inside of you. The tip of his cock pressed against your g-spot, refusing to give you a break as he ground against it, the bulge below your belly button showing exactly how deep he was inside you.

"You're so cute when you cry." He kissed the other tearful corner. "Come on, one more with me. You were so desperate for it earlier. Need to fucking ruin you like the brat you are, c'mon."

He pulled his hips back, heavy thrusts returning as you're forced to take what he gives, feeling the bulge protruding from your lower tummy against the palm of his hand. He kissed you messily again, his tongue casually dominating and sliding against yours smoothly and effortlessly, as though he had been kissing you for years. Like putting you in your place was simply second nature to him. You mewled into his mouth, his thrusts becoming quicker and sloppier as he got closer to finishing. His hand slid down your stomach and back to your clit, and he grinned against your lips as you squealed.

"Fucking pathetic. Desperate for this dick and can't even take it," he teased, panting against your mouth. "Giving up? Little pussy can't take it?"

"I can- I can take it."

"Yeah? You gonna cum on this dick again, sweetheart?" He looked at your fucked out expression, the concentration in your eyes as you look up at him pleadingly. "Cum for me now and maybe I'll fuck you again, how's that sound? Show me you deserve it."

You raked your nails down his bare back, feeling your third orgasm of the night overtake you. Jungkook can feel it, too, his digits on your sex getting as sloppy as his thrusts, trying to milk it out of you.

"C'mon c'mon c'mon, fuuuuck yes take it. Good fucking girl— fuck—" He felt you cum on his cock, thighs trembling, moan ringing out through the night, and it's enough to undo him. He pulled out, stroking himself and biting his lip as he came all over your twitching pussy, letting out a deep, gravelly moan at the sight of you covered in him.

He collapsed on top of you, careful not to crush you, as both of you caught your breaths, basking in the afterglow of what you had just done.

You held Jungkook in an embrace, feeling his heart rate slow as the minutes pass, his dick softening against your thigh, and the sudden awareness that the two of you were basically naked upon grass in the middle of the woods. The blades tickled at your sweaty back, but you didn't care, absentmindedly combing through Jungkook's hair. While your post-nut clarity was currently fantastic, you were unsure if he was having second thoughts.

Jungkook nuzzled his nose against you, buried in the crook of your neck as he took in a deep breath. Hiding his face from you, he grumbled the words into your skin. "Open the sketchbook."

Right. The sketchbook. The whole reason you had gotten into this predicament in the first place. The reason he had chased you down into the depths of the forest. You looked back to where you had dropped it, and Jungkook sat up and reached for it on your behalf, grabbing it and handing it to you.

You stared at him, confused for a moment. "I don't need to see it, really. You have your right to privacy. I shouldn't have taken it from you. It was a dick move. I was just trying to annoy you."

He laughed a little. "I know. Just open it."

You did as you were told, opening it up and thumbing through the pages. They were the same ones you had seen before. Some anime sketches, some doodles, some wildlife. It wasn't until you got to the final page he had drawn on. It was you. It wasn't finished yet, but it was undeniably a light sketch of you. You blinked, processing it, staring at the page and tracing your fingers lightly over the pencil strokes. Before what had just happened, happened, Jeon Jungkook was sketching you in his journal.

Jungkook let out a breath, as though he had been holding it the entire time you were flipping through the pages. "That's why I was so embarrassed. I didn't... I couldn't sleep. Couldn't get your face out of my head."

You locked eyes, yours wide, almost with disbelief. "Really?" You feel like all of the air had been knocked out of your lungs yet again.

"Yeah." He rubbed the back of his neck, as though nervous. "It's not done yet, or anything, but—"

"I love it," you blurted out, grabbing him and kissing him, pressing your lips firmly against his so there'd be no doubt. "Can I keep it?"

He chuckled. "Maybe when it's done. I've got no use for it now with the real thing."

You both share a smile at that, and you reached for the discarded clothes that had been strewn about, no doubt with dirt and grass stains now. "How far did we wander off? I really hope we didn't get lost."

"Nah, I remember the way back. C'mon." He pulled your shorts back up your legs, put back on his hoodie, and grabbed your hand, leading you back towards the cabin. You couldn't believe you were actually holding his hand, his large one engulfing your own, and you could feel how steady his heartbeat was through his palm. True to his words, you made it back home, and surprisingly he ended up falling into bed with you, though purely to sleep. And perhaps not to wake Taehyung.

He never gave you back your panties, though.

—

"All right, everyone, let's get a move on! We've got an 8 hour car ride ahead of us and that's not even including the bathroom breaks I know Taehyung will need!" Yeri shouted, shoving her final bag into the trunk before slamming it shut.

"Excuse you, bitch. Everyone needs those bathroom breaks," Taehyung grumbled, yanking at the back door of the Sedan.

The side door to the back seats slid open, and you climb in to same seat you had been in on the way there. Instead of Jimin, though, the person who came to join you was Jungkook, offering a small smile as he approached. "Mind if I sit here?"

"Yes," you said, but yank your duffel to the floor so the seat was clear. "Sure a muscle pig like you can squeeze in here?"

"I have a talent for squeezing into tight spaces."

You blushed at that, causing Jungkook to laugh at your embarrassment, sitting down next to you. He reached for your hand, intertwining your fingers and making your heart practically leap from your chest.

"Look at you, making the quips for once." You couldn't seem to wipe the grin of your face, and you knew before the end of the ride your cheeks were going to hurt from smiling so much. "Uno reverso, huh?"

"It's about time I did the chasing from now on," he grinned back, squeezing your hand.

Jimin sat down in the middle seat next to Taehyung, confused as to why Jungkook stole his seat. He turned to Taehyung, puzzled. "What happened with them?" he mouthed.

"I don't even know man. Whatever it is, it's about damn time."

[jeonggukieverse]

New primal kink unlocked I fear 😔

Such a good fic!!!

[goldenhourology]

SAVE THE DATE.

pairing: kim mingyu x f!reader

genre: smut, fluff, angst, frenemies to lovers

summary: 5 weddings in one year. 5 dates you saved for you and your boyfriend to attend — before he cheated. and now, you had to force your best friend, vernon, to go with you. but after losing a bet, mingyu agrees to take vernon’s place and be your date. this wasn’t how any of this was supposed to go, but you guess you could settle going with your only one-night-stand from college.

warnings: oral (f!recieving), fingering, 69ing, unprotected sex, reader on top, praise, mingyu has boyfriend dick<3, sub-ish!mingyu, also power bottom!mingyu 👍, multiple sex scenes, marijuana smoking/shotgunning, marijuana-induced horniness lol, one bed trope, forced proximity, miscommunication, HEAVY mutual pining. nsfw (minors / ageless blogs dni).

word count: 19.9k

note: first things first, APOLOGIESSSSS for this taking so long. I've had a lot going on (which I know just about everyone says) and I was lowkey struggling to write this, even tho I was so amped for it. nevertheless, I'm so glad I was able to focus and finish it, because I care so much for these two and I desperately wanted to share their story with you 💓 per usual, please expect angst with your smut, and if you cry, I will not judge you and honestly would love to hear it lol. enjoy friends! (taglist posted at the bottom.)

in rotation: bmf, sza / mona lisa, mxmtoon / gorgeous, taylor swift / moonstruck, enhypen / finally // beautiful stranger, halsey

Your mom had told you that the friends you make in your first year of college stay with you for life, but you didn’t expect that when you met Vernon. He had been shy, refusing to speak to anyone in your orientation group, but knowing glances turned into sitting next to each other, which then had you both whispering jokes back and forth, until finally, he told you his name. Hansol Chwe to be exact, but he insisted on “just Vernon.” By the second semester of freshman year, you both had become inseparable. He was your best friend, been with you through some of the toughest moments of your adult life, and you wouldn’t trade him for the world.

Vernon’s friendship survived through many of your boyfriends, and you knew he’d outlast many more. He experienced some of the worst ones – a.k.a. the men who refused to believe you two were just friends – and also the boring ones – the one guy who used you to get to him. But none of them had pissed him off more than your most current breakup: the man who was three years your senior and cheated on you with a 22-year-old. You assumed by age 27, you’d know how to pick ‘em, but that was clearly wrong.

Now you were left to your own devices with five weddings to attend this year. In retrospect, maybe there was a few you could’ve skipped, but you hated saying no in situations like this. You had agreed to go to all of them with your now ex-boyfriend in mind, placing a 2 on the invite’s attending line. Per usual, Vernon had stepped up and begrudgingly offered himself to be your date.

So why were you now meeting up with Kim Mingyu to discuss the dates of said five weddings?

You first met Mingyu when Vernon joined a fraternity in sophomore year to make more friends. “I can’t just have you. I need to have at least some friends that are dudes,” he said, which made you reply, “That’s the toxic masculinity talking.” And boy, had Mingyu been the epitome of that statement. Him and Vernon had connected instantly, sharing the same major and an affinity for art girls. You had never really gotten along with him like Vernon had hoped, but he was … attractive, to say the least.

Okay, maybe you had a crush on him. You had eyes.

But it was college and you both were on the cusp of 20. It was so hard to confess feelings back then, especially to someone like Kim Mingyu. Who you didn’t particularly enjoy talking to in the first place. However … he was probably one of the hottest men you’d ever seen; made in a lab for every young girl’s fantasy. Sometimes you couldn’t help but just stare at him, admiring his perfect teeth or the way his honey-gold skin shined in the afternoon sunlight. (You thanked your lucky stars that Vernon joined the college football team alongside Mingyu, just so you could  secretly ogle him during practice.)

Suffice to say, you did eventually hook up. In the most cliche way possible, you had both gotten a little too tipsy at the first frat party of senior year and wound up in Mingyu’s dorm, locking out his roommate for the entire night. It almost felt weird, realizing your attraction had been reciprocated, but he hardly said a word to you come morning. In fact, he never mentioned it again, period, choosing to avoid you except in group settings with Vernon. You weren’t a fool; you were quick to realize it meant nothing to him, just another notch on his bedpost.

Mingyu was every girl’s dream, but Mingyu was also uncommitted.

And he was walking towards you right now.

You looked up from your phone after stalking – looking through Mingyu’s Instagram. You never followed him, never checked in on him after graduation, but you knew how close he still was with Vernon. He even posted a picture with him recently. You rolled your eyes. Despite his long hair, you recognized Mingyu instantly as he went up to the barista and ordered a coffee. You studied him for a moment, noticing that there was a curl to his hair and the way those dark stands hung around his eyes. His skin was as perfect as ever and – goddamn, did he get bigger? He was wearing a jacket over his t-shirt and you could still tell how big his muscles were.

When he finally looked over his shoulder and your eyes connected, his face remained unchanged, if not a little awkward. He walked up to you, rubbing at the back of his neck, and said your name as if it were a question. “Yeah. Hi, Mingyu,” you replied with a wave. “It’s been a while.”

“Five years since graduation,” he added, pulling out the chair across from you and plopping down. “So you stopped putting those blonde highlights in your hair?”

Your eye twitched. Before you could spit out a response, a cute, dark-haired barista came over and set a fresh mug of coffee in front of him, completely ignoring that your own was practically empty. Mingyu flashed her a smile, showing off his pretty canines as she walked away. You frowned.

Vernon had told you last night that Mingyu wasn’t the same guy you knew in college, but you begged to differ.

Turning back to you, he took a sip from his mug and asked, “Why did you want to meet up again?”

“Because my best friend is an asshole and you lost a bet.”

“Oh, yeah. That.” He nodded.

You almost didn’t believe Vernon when he told you. You knew he didn’t exactly want to be your date to all these weddings and probably felt like he had to, but he did offer so you didn’t think much of it. Until he told you last week that he put all his guest invites on the line while playing a drinking game with Mingyu, which the latter lost. So now Kim Mingyu, your college one-night-stand that was scared of commitment, was committing to being your date to several weddings this year.

Kill me now, you thought.

“I thought drinking games and making silly bets like this didn’t happen once your frontal lobe formed,” you said, and his dark eyes flickered up to yours.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” he cleared his throat and set the mug down again. “Men never really grow up.”

You crossed your arms over your chest and sat back in your chair. “Apparently,” you muttered under your breath. “How do you have the time to actually commit to this? Don’t you have a girlfriend or something?”

“One,” he held up a single finger, “I take bets very seriously and I’m not a sore loser. It’s only removing five weekends out of the year for me. No biggie. And two,” he lifted another finger, “No.”

You raised a brow. “Well, I guess that answers all my questions.”

Mingyu stared at you for a moment, running those two fingers over his bottom lip. You suddenly had a flashback to that night, remembering his hands all over you, remembering his fingers plunging inside and curling –

Not the time.

“Don’t you have a boyfriend? Why put down two people on these RSVPs you sent back and then force just anybody to be your date?” He fought the urge to smile, trying to dig a little deeper into you. You weren’t falling for it this time. “I love the guy, but I know Vernon wasn’t your first choice to accompany you.”

“My ex and I broke up,” you replied. “Not much to it.”

Intrigued, he sipped his coffee again. “Why?”

“It’s none of your business, Mingyu.”

“Well, as your new date –”

“Drop it,” you said, voice taking on a new tone. “I’m serious.”

Mingyu raised his hand in surrender, and you shook off your anger. This was supposed to be a friendly, quick conversation, but it was seemingly moving off the rails. A sigh escaped your mouth before you asked, “So you said this is only taking five weekends out of the year. What do you do with your time? Are you working?”

“I thought I answered all your questions.”

You narrowed your eyes.

He chuckled softly, exposing those canines once again. His smile was so … ugh, you needed to stop getting distracted. “I work at a restaurant four days a week as a cook, and then teach flag football at a rec facility the rest of the time. I’ve been trying to save up to open my own restaurant for years, but I got the time to be a makeshift wedding date.”

You knew Mingyu had always loved to cook – you remembered when he’d been the resident chef at the fraternity – but to hear he was still passionate almost … melted you a little. Almost. You were dedicated to not being too swayed by Mingyu’s pretty words. This was a deal and that was the end of it.

“I see,” you nodded, uncrossing your arms to play with the handle of your still empty mug. “I’ve been working at the same marketing agency since college. Pays the bills, you know?”

Mingyu gave you a knowing look before running a hand through the long strands. “Always so committed.”

Your lips pursed. “One of us has to be.”

“Speaking of commitment,” he said without missing a beat, pulling his phone from the pocket of his jeans. “What are the dates for those weddings again?”

Save the Date for the wedding of Choi Seungcheol and Holland Levine: February 28th

It was a rainy Sunday in February. Your coworker, Choi Seungcheol, was getting married today at a local venue on the outskirts. His girlfriend, Holland – otherwise known as, Hinge Holland, when he met her on the dating app 3 years ago – was a little kooky and asked for them to be eloped that morning. Seungcheol was too in love to say no; he’d do anything she asked. They were married early morning, and lucky for you and Mingyu, all you had to attend was a reception. It was a nice way to test the waters of this deal before anything got too crazy. 

Mingyu had picked you up in his truck, and together struggled to help lift you inside with your dress and heels on. As he drove away from the city and into a more rural area, he commented, “Your coworker must be real whipped to agree to a reception here.”

“What are you talking about?” You looked through your phone for the address Seungcheol had sent you months ago. “I thought the reception was at some small venue.”

Mingyu said your name, and you glanced over, seeing the smile on his face. “It’s a VFW owned by someone in his girlfriend’s family.”

You realized just how right he was when he pulled up to a spot in a VFW parking lot, seeing a crowd of Holland’s family pour into the post. You knew what the inside of a VFW looked like; you had your sweet 16 at one. But going to a wedding reception at one was a whole different story. Were the walls so old that they’d crumble once the DJ dared to play Dancing Queen?

Rain pounded from the sky, making the cold February wind even more chilly. Mingyu rounded the truck and opened your door, making sure to hold an umbrella above your head as you slid out of the seat. He looked … okay, he looked extremely handsome in his suit, tailored exactly to his body. You were in an old, off-the-shoulder black dress with mesh sleeves that were doing nothing in this wet cold. This wedding had crept up on you, and before you knew it, you remembered you didn’t have any new dresses to wear. And while it looked nice, the dress just barely zipped and you had to keep pulling up the neckline. Clearly, you had grown a bit since the last time you worn this. Probably in college.

Mingyu was staring at you now, letting his eyes wander down, and you were yanking at the neckline again. He didn’t deserve to see more of your cleavage. He whispered, “You look …”

“Just come on,” you cut him off, tugging him in the direction of the VFW. He struggled to keep up for a moment, rushing to hold the umbrella above both of you. 

As soon as you both walked inside, you realized just how dressed up you were compared to the place. The building looked like it hadn’t been updated since the 1990s. There was, at least, a huge buffet-style food setup in the corner and a man so old that he probably had one foot in the grave behind the bar. A sign in front of him said, OPEN BAR, written in thick sharpie. Various family members were congregating at tables, while the DJ – who looked like a Pitbull impersonator – was setting up at the head of the room. 

Seungcheol ran over the second he saw you meandering through tables. He had the biggest smile on his face, tugging his new wife over to introduce her to you before wiggling his eyebrows at you when he noticed Mingyu on your arm. Even Holland couldn’t help but ogle him. Seungcheol was one of your closest coworkers, so it wasn’t weird when he asked, “Who’s the beefcake?”

Mingyu was too busy dealing with Holland’s questions to hear you reply, “Don’t ask. I’ve cycled through many options before I was forced to bring him.”

“I’m sure it was quite difficult for you,” he snorted, before carefully pulling his wife’s hand off of Mingyu’s and introducing himself. Not long after, he was ushering her away to start making speeches. 

You and Mingyu found your seat quickly, and luckily enough, you were sat with most of your coworkers. Every single one was looking at Mingyu like he was a piece of meat, but he didn’t seem to notice as he had a friendly conversation with each of them. You struggled to not roll your eyes. How was he perfect with everyone? Maybe your dislike of him was irrational and unwarranted, maybe he did change. But … ugh, could he fuck up for once?

Your coworker, Minghao, sat to your left, watching Mingyu converse with the young assistant – Amelia, right? – who was very clearly batting her eyes at him. Leaning towards you, Minghao whispered, “I thought you were bringing Vernon?”

Minghao was one of the few people you told about your breakup, as well as Vernon and of course, your girlfriends. It wasn’t like you to go around everywhere and post on social media about your breakup; it wasn’t anyone’s business. But Minghao gave great advice, and he was one of the first people that helped you get over the heartbreak. He wasn’t just a coworker. He became a trusted friend.

Turning your head, you said, “Would you believe me if I told you that he lost a bet?”

“Considering who you ended up with,” he chuckled, “I’d say it’s a win in your favor.”

“He’s not that great.”

“Then you might want to pull Amelia off of him before she starts sucking his face.”

The reception ended at an early hour thankfully. Most of the elderly guests were falling asleep anyway. Mingyu was a class act, per usual, trying to get you up and out of your seat to dance with him, but the last thing you wanted to do was dance to Toxic by Britney Spears in front of your boss at the marketing agency. Instead, he took the lead to asking Seungcheol’s mom to dance, and made Amelia’s day when he asked her to join. Minghao only continued to laugh when you rejected each of Mingyu’s advances.

Once 10 PM rolled around and you both were exiting the doors of the aging VFW, you noticed the rain hadn’t let up. In fact, it seemed to have gotten even worst. You had to run to Mingyu’s truck with him holding the umbrella above both of you and almost trip over your dress as you hopped up inside the cab. Assuming it would be fine to drive, just a few minutes in the rain left you both realizing that it might be extremely unsafe to drive back to the city in this weather. You really couldn’t argue with Mingyu when he suggested you stay the night at a motel right down the road. 

The woman behind the front desk at the motel was chewing so loud that you thought the wad of bubblegum between her teeth might be larger than your palm. She informed you both that the only rooms available were ones with a single queen-sized bed. As much as you desperately wanted two, you’d take what you could get. She started grabbing both of your informations to check in when a loud bolt of lightning cracked, followed by a crash of thunder. You instantly gripped Mingyu’s arm, and he paused signing his name to look down at you.

“Are you scared of thunder?” He asked playfully.

Realizing how tight you were holding on, you quickly removed your hand. “No, I’m … it’s fine.”

His bicep felt so much harder than anticipated. All muscle. 

Stop that.

The front desk attendant gave you an actual metal key to open your room, the number dangling from a kitschy pendant. This was the kind of motel where you needed to venture outside to get to your room, and with your arms locked together, Mingyu led you both through the pouring rain to the right building. He shoved the key in the lock, immediately opening the door and allowing you to walk inside first.

The room was smaller than expected. The heat was hardly circulating and you were still shivering. A queen-sized bed was situated in front of an old RCA TV, decorated with a comforter that looked strangely similar to the one from the 80s that your mom had given you when you first moved out. The room smelled like bleach and all you could hear was the rain on the roof. Noticing you shiver, Mingyu walked over to the thermostat and adjusted the heat.

“Maybe this was a bad idea,” you said, hugging your arms around yourself.

Mingyu pointed to the large window by the door. “I can’t drive in that. It takes an hour to get back to the city and I can hardly see the road.”

“Okay, well –”

Lightning struck again, painting the window white, and you jumped. Mingyu shook his head and walked over, closing the shades over the glass. He looked down at you, and you were acutely aware that he was the kind of person who could say everything just with his eyes. “Better?” He asked, a smile playing at his pink lips.

He was so close that you could smell his cologne and – god dammit, you were such a sucker for men that smelled good. He smelled like violets mixed with smokey sandalwood, spicy and musky. Whatever you were going to quip back died on your tongue, leaving you to reply, “I can’t sleep in my dress. I have nothing to wear to bed.”

Walking over to the tiny closet, Mingyu spotted a robe hanging up next to the vintage ironing board. He placed it in your arms and remarked, “Take a shower and put this on.”

“Are you saying I smell?”

He laughed. “No, you’re shivering and it’ll help warm you up.”

You nodded, heading off to the bathroom and shutting the door. As you slipped off your dress and let it pool onto the tile, you realized how antagonizing you were being for no reason. Mingyu had been nothing but nice to you, but you were suspecting him to switch-up at any moment. Maybe Vernon was right, or maybe you just needed to take a chill pill.

Mingyu was helping you out, after all.

After taking the warmest shower of your life and probably using all of the hot water in the motel, you walked out into the room with your robe tied firmly around your waist. The cotton smelled like mothballs and you hardly left an inch of skin showing. Granted you weren’t naked underneath, but you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing your underwear. Again. After five years. 

He was wearing only a tank top and boxers while setting up a makeshift bed on the floor. You struggled to maintain focus with him looking … well, like that, and eventually spoke up, “What are you doing?”

He hardly jumped at hearing your voice. “I figured it would just be easier if I slept on the floor. Trust me, I’ve slept in far worse places.”

“Mingyu, you don’t have to do that,” you sighed, pulling back the covers and tossing the mismatching throw pillows on the floor. 

“It’s not a big deal.”

“I know, but it’s just –”

Thunder clashed outside, sounding like pots and pans clanging together, rattling your bones.

Your eyes connected with Mingyu’s, and you pointed to the empty side of the bed. “Sleep in this bed right now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You both agreed – more like, you told Mingyu and he listened – to place a wall of pillows between you two, leaving you on the edges of the bed. You curled up into yourself, your spine facing him, as Mingyu laid on his back and pinched the bridge of his nose. The rain was so loud. The thunder was deafening. You considered plugging your fingers in your ears as you slept.

Mingyu was shifting on the small sliver of mattress he had, wishing internally that he brought a joint or two with him. This bed was so uncomfortable that he probably wouldn’t sleep. But hopefully, you would. Although that was seeming highly unlikely from the way your back tensed with every boom of thunder.

He watched you from the corner of his eye, and eventually, you did stop shaking. Soft snores filled the room, replacing the sound of the rain. And then Mingyu felt himself relax, swiftly falling asleep with his arm thrown above his head.

Despite the pillow wall you built, you woke up with your head on his chest.

Mingyu had wanted to tell you how beautiful you looked that day, but he couldn’t find the courage to finish his sentence.

Save the Date for the wedding of Lee Chan and Adrianna Olson: April 4th

Tapping your freshly manicured nails on your bare arm, you leaned against the passenger side door of your car and huffed. You uncrossed your arms, beginning to pace outside Mingyu’s apartment building. The ceremony today started in two hours and you were about ninety minutes from the venue. Not to mention, there was only a matter of time before one of his neighbors showed up, forcibly removing you from the parking spot in front of the building you definitely did not live in. What the hell was Mingyu doing anyway? He said he’d be down ten minutes ago. 

You tugged off your heels, realizing they’d be a bitch to drive in, and pulled your sneakers from the back seat. Your floral, strapless sundress blew in the Spring breeze. Your curls – that looked like they could’ve been done by a toddler – whisked off your bare shoulders as you stepped into your favorite Nikes. 

“Sorry.”

Popping your head up, you halted while shoving the back door closed. You blinked, assuming your eyes were deceiving you, but there he was, sprinting down the front steps of his building with freshly chopped hair.

Mingyu was quickly walking over to shove his duffle in your backseat, pulling at his tie, when you leaned in and placed your hand on his head. Yep, that was his real hair. Those long locks that had reached his chin were gone, replaced by a hairstyle that was similar to how he looked in college. 

“I know we’re running late,” he apologized, letting your fingers sink into the strands for a moment, “but do you have to –”

“This is not about that.” You removed your hand, leveling a look at him. “You cut your hair.”

Mingyu raised a brow. “It was getting long.”

You paused, blinking at him. “Why didn’t you warn me of your new look?”

“I didn’t think I had to?” He shrugged, genuinely confused as to why you were questioning him. “My hair had gotten even longer since February, so I just thought I’d freshen up for you –”

You completely missed his words – for you, he’d freshened up for you – because you were already interrupting him. “Well, it’s just – it might look weird in pictures because my hair is up and your hair is so short. And I’m already going to have so many people looking at us wondering why my ex, who’s name I put on the invite, isn’t here. And I just want to eliminate as much attention as possible. And, well – and –”

Mingyu placed both hands on your shoulders. His palms were large, practically burning into your exposed skin. “Are you overthinking?”

“No, I …”

When your voice trailed off, Mingyu hesitated for a moment longer and then slid his hands off. “Vernon told me that you dated the groom. Chan, right?”

Of-fucking-course, Vernon told him. Your lips pursed before you replied, “We were friends before that, and we only dated for like a couple months in college. I introduced him to the woman he’s marrying.”

“Then why are you so nervous?”

“I think I have a lot of reasons to be nervous these days.” You continued to stare at him, waiting for him to come up with another quippy remark, but it seemed he contested and shoved his hands into the pockets of his suit. The same tailored suit he wore to the wedding in February, a few loose threads at the seams. “Let’s get going. We’ll be in the car for a while,” you said, rounding your car and hopping inside the driver’s seat.

As Mingyu dealt with finding room for his duffle in your trunk, you took this small second to text Vernon.

You: your friend is infuriating

You: also I’m never going to forgive you for telling him that I dated chan

Vernon: you’ll get over it lol

Vernon: is that the only reason why he’s infuriating?

You: HAIRCUT

Vernon: oh I probably should’ve told you about that when I saw him last week

Vernon: sorry :/

You closed your texts when Mingyu hopped in the passenger seat, turning on your music to drown out your thoughts. The drive was long and you were lucky that you got to the venue with ten minutes to spare. You parked the car in a haste, running to your back seat and quickly tugging your heels back on. You chucked your sneakers onto the car floor, almost hitting Mingyu in the face when he went to grab his phone from the same area. Locking your car, you grabbed his arm and yanked, both of you running towards the venue attached to a pretty hotel. Mingyu, even with his long legs, was struggling to keep up. He was also slightly impressed that you could run so fast in heels, and that was definitely the only reason why he was staring at your legs. He wasn’t admiring how long they looked when the wind lifted your skirt and he got a flash of your calf.

Even from your seat in the back of the ceremony, you could see Chan’s face light up as Adrianna was escorted down the aisle. She was wearing a vintage wedding dress, the veil sheer enough to see how beautiful she was underneath, and Chan was eager enough to lift it as soon as they said, “I do.” Adrianna looked like she hadn’t aged a day since school, and you could probably say the same for Chan. But he did manage to finally remove the earrings he got six years ago, which made you giggle to yourself.

Mingyu pretended not to notice.

Most of the people at the wedding were old friends from undergrad, even a few Mingyu knew in passing. Every time you were approached, you prepared yourself for the same question: “Where is He Who Will Not Be Named?” Or, for those that actually knew Mingyu: “Since when did you know Gyu?” You weren’t sure how much longer you could fake a smile and laugh, pretend that your heart still wasn’t sore from the breakup, rehash the same words over and over again. It was tiring; you were tired. 

Same explanation. Same heartbreak. You wouldn’t be surprised if the whole planet knew of your breakup by now. You didn’t announce it anywhere, besides telling your family and close friends. It was natural for people to be curious; you had been with your ex for a couple years, enough for your family to assume that he’d propose. But then he cheated, and you found out, and you were left in pieces, tied to Kim Mingyu as your date for a full year of weddings.

You just didn’t want to keep on doing this, explaining yourself ten times over, realizing that everyone was looking at you with interest. Maybe a second glass of champagne would be a good distraction …

“Wanna dance?”

You looked up from the rim of your empty glass. Mingyu had knocked you out of your daze, laying out a hand for you to take. The reception was lively with family and friends mingling on the dance floor, but Mingyu had still noticed you alone at the table, lost in your thoughts. Had he always been this attentive, or was he just prone to watching you?

Ignoring your internal monologue, you took his hand, allowing him to lead you to the dance floor. Just as Mingyu was about to place his hand on your waist, the song changed, switching to a more upbeat track you used to blast in college. You immediately started laughing at all the older folks trying to follow the beat, and then found Chan with his wife, shimmying on the dance floor. Mingyu pinched the bridge of his nose, but found himself beaming when he finally saw the smile grace your features. He didn’t let go of your hand, let you twirl him to the song that took you back to the musty basement of a frat party.

Chan, at some point, had managed to dance over in your direction, bumping into you with a big grin. “I knew all the alumni here would love this,” he shouted over the music. “Do you remember when you puked outside a window once at some party and you said that it was this song that induced it?”

You were surprised when Mingyu said, “Yes,” at the same time as you. Both you and Chan glanced at him, eyebrows raised, until he added, “That was at one of my parties. I cleaned your vomit off the windowsill!”

The four of you erupted in laughter. Even Adrianna remembered that party, considering that was the night you drunkenly introduced her to Chan. She eventually pulled you away from Mingyu, leading you towards her group of bridesmaids so you all could dance together. But your eyes couldn’t help but find Mingyu’s across the floor, and then he was looking at you, and – god dammit, staring at him felt like a crime you’d consider going to jail for.

Everyone was looking at him, but he was looking at you. 

Actually, Mingyu couldn’t seem to take his eyes off you. Not once.

He stared at you as if it was just you two, as if you were stripped bare before him, just for his eyes to see. You could tell from the way he bit his lip while smiling. He looked at you as if you were naked.

Soon enough, you were slipping through the crowd and by his side once again. He was now leaning against the wall by the open bar, nursing a scotch. The party was winding down; all the older family members had left, leaving Chan and Adrianna – plus a few other young couples – swaying to a classic Ed Sheeran song. It wouldn’t be long until they ended the night with Can’t Help Falling In Love by Elvis Presley. The time war nearing 11 PM. 

Slinking beside him, he offered the glass to you and you took a sip, wincing at the burn. You stuck out your tongue. “How can you drink that so smoothly?”

“Years of practice,” he replied, and then flicked your nose in a way that shouldn’t make you blush. But you definitely did. 

You blinked up at him, admiring how pretty he was in the faint, yellow light. Actually, he was pretty in every light, but you liked to find any excuse to admire him. Even if you denied it.

“Wanna get out of here?” You asked then, digging your nails into your palms. So afraid of rejection after all these years, even though he agreed to be here. “I think the reception is going to end soon anyway.”

“Yeah, sounds good.” He set his half empty glass on a random table and straightened his back before adding, “Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

God, you needed to get it together. Those words were the bare minimum, but when he said them in that slightly muffled voice, it made your nails pinch the inside of your hands harder.

You both stood on opposite sides of the elevator, dragging up, up, up to your room on the seventeenth floor. Your eyes connected. A smile played at his lips. An unspoken tension brewing between the two of you. A feeling you didn’t want to be there in the first place, but something you couldn’t simply ignore. 

This couldn’t be happening. Not today. Not tonight. Not ever again.

He opened the door for you, allowing you to slip inside and grab your bag. While he rifled through his duffle, you brought your bag into the bathroom and leaned against the sink. You allowed yourself a moment to just breathe. Maybe if you kept exhaling like this, you would release all the tension from your body. You knew how silly it sounded, but desperate times called for desperate measures. You stared at your reflection in the mirror, turning your face from side to side. Was it the makeup that made him look at you that way sometimes? Perhaps he still had a fondness for lipgloss, like he did back in the day.

When you finally stopped studying your appearance, you wiped off your makeup and tugged on a pair of loose pajamas. Wearing these would be so much more comfortable – and less awkward – than the robe you wore after the last wedding. You still had nightmares about that. Carefully tiptoeing out of the bathroom, you expected to find Mingyu already in one of the two  full size beds, scrolling through his phone and ignoring the noise you naturally made. But he was on the deck just outside your room, smoke billowing from his mouth. 

You stood near the unoccupied bed, balancing on the balls of your feet, as you debated your options. A smart person would go right to sleep, leave him to his business. You chewed on your bottom lip nervously.

Despite the slight warmth to the air, you threw on a hoodie, scared of the possibility of your nipples showing through the thin fabric of your t-shirt. You slid open the door and immediately closed it, preventing any smoke from getting into the room. He didn’t turn; he knew exactly who was behind him. His back muscles flexed underneath his suit jacket, the joint dangling between his lips as he prayed for his lighter to work again.

“You probably shouldn’t be smoking in this suit,” you said, saddling up beside him.

He chuckled, finally taking a long drag. “I promise to get it dry cleaned before our next adventure.”

Before our next adventure. You bit the inside of your cheek.

Your eyes didn’t leave the joint now sitting between two of his fingers. (Jeez, were they always that big?) He let more smoke filter from his lips and into the open air, clouding up the starry night sky. Without even looking at you, he asked, “Why are you staring?” His words hung in the silence for a moment. “Have you ever smoked before?”

You shrugged. “Only once or twice with Vernon. Probably as freshmen.”

“You want me to show you how?”

Blinking at him, all you could do was dumbly nod. Mingyu laughed under his breath, fighting with his lighter again, before eventually holding the flame to the end. He then cautiously passed the joint over to you, allowing the filter to brush your lips. “Take it in your mouth,” he instructed, “now inhale.”

When you did as he asked, you must’ve inhaled far too deeply, or just didn’t exhale at the right time. Because then you were coughing, doubling over as you tried to catch your breath. “Hey, hey, hey,” he said, concern etched in his tone, and patted your back as you hacked up what felt like your left lung. His voice was soft, soothing, but you could hardly hear it through the ringing in your ears.

“Yeah,” you sighed, voice hoarse, “I’m definitely out of practice.”

As you stood up, his hand stayed on your shoulder, his thumb rubbing patterns. Your breath stilled as you looked up at him. Playing with the joint between his lips, he said, “Let me show you an easier way.”

“Okay,” you agreed, before your conscious could stop you.

You watched as he took a long pull from the joint, sucking it all in until you could see his eyes get a little pinker, and then moved closer to you. Instinctively, your eyes closed and your lips parted, welcoming the scent of him. His lips only lightly grazed yours as he exhaled the smoke into your mouth, letting it engulf your very being, and you felt yourself start to relax. He craned back, grinning down at you, and it took everything within you to not ask for another hit right then. 

In the moonlight, you could see why you fell hard for Mingyu. He had only gotten more handsome since college. Light, in any form, was so kind to him, but with the stars hanging above his head … it allowed his dark hair to shine, casting a slightly blueish tone to his warm features. You could see the twinkling stars reflecting in his eyes, especially when he leaned back in, expelling more smoke into your mouth.

This felt too intimate. This felt like fucking.

Once you both were so high you could do nothing but laugh, Mingyu stubbed out the joint and you stumbled back into the room. You both were finally going to have a good sleep at one of these, especially since there were two beds. Rolling into your bed, you immediately burrowed under the covers as Mingyu took off his suit in the bathroom.

The last thing you expected was to feel him plop down in your bed. He was wearing so little that it made your thighs press together, or maybe that was just the weed talking. He was disoriented, laying halfway off the edge of your bed, staring at you as if you were the Mona Lisa. You huffed, “Mingyuuu. You need to get in your own bed.”

“Do you really want that though?”

His words made your eyes immediately snap open. A grin was tugging at his mouth again, his teeth sinking into that plush bottom lip. Oh, so also wanted … Oh.

You tried to sound cool and nonchalant, “Considering this is a full size bed, yeah.”

Even in the darkness, even with his back to the moonlight streaming through the glass door – his presence was making you nervous. His eyes weren’t leaving yours. You felt your hand inch over, your pinky curling around his.

“If I can be so honest with you,” he whispered, licking at the corners of his lips, “you are so beautiful that I want to kill any guy that has done you wrong.”

You exhaled, “Mingyu …”

He leaned in, smiling like he knew he caught you in his trap. “Yes?”

You were pretty sure that you knew Kim Mingyu by now. You knew that this would be just another night that meant nothing to him. No matter how much he “changed” in Vernon’s eyes, it was very clear to you that he remained uncommitted. But fuck it, your heart was still burning from the breakup, stinging from the memory of people uttering your ex’s name tonight. It was only going to be a kiss. Just something to soothe the pain.

He was so much closer now, invading your space, his hand completely eclipsing yours.  He smelled like marijuana and lingering cologne. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured, but you didn’t. You let him kiss you, and god, it would be so much easier to dislike Mingyu if he didn’t kiss so well. 

It wasn’t long before his tongue was pushing into your mouth, his large body looming over yours as he pressed you into the mattress a little more. And you’re desperate for it; you couldn’t stop. This was supposed to be simple – just a kiss – but you could feel yourself falling under his spell, feel how his palms burned against your skin as they dragged down your torso. He explored your mouth like it was the first time, parting your legs to make room for himself on top of you. When his lips left yours, you almost let out a whine, but he helped take off your hoodie before reattaching his mouth to your neck. Those large hands snake under your shirt – up, up, and up – until he was cupping your breasts and you can feel how hard he is against your thigh.

Mingyu looked up at you as he kissed down your torso, his spit soaking through the thin fabric of the t-shirt you were still wearing. He lifted one of your legs, adjusting it so your thigh could rest comfortably on his shoulder and – shit, you knew where this was going. Reaching the waistband of your panties, he begged, “Let me go down on you.”

You mulled over his words. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“No,” he grinned against your skin, meeting your eyes from between your legs. “But that’s a tomorrow problem. Please?” His head tilted. “Do I have to beg? I’m willing.”

You bit your tongue, egging him on a little as he nipped at the inside of your thigh. He bucked his hips once, them twice, trying to get the smallest bit of friction on his cock that was currently throbbing in his boxers. He grunted softly against your skin. 

“And if I say, ‘No?’” You asked with a raised brow.

He lifted his head and pouted his lips. After all these years, he still managed the perfect puppy dog eyes that could make just about anyone weak. “Don’t be mean,” he pleaded, and you couldn’t help but giggle.

“You like when I’m mean,” you quipped, giving him permission by helping him shimmy your panties off. He adjusted your legs again, presenting you like a meal.

“I do,” he chuckled, his breath ghosting over your pretty, pink folds. “Especially, when you act like you didn’t want me here in the first place.”

Before you can rebuttal, he’s pressing his face between your thighs, dragging his tongue up your slit to collect the wetness that gathered there. Just the small amount of attention had you keening, your hips jumping for more of him, and Mingyu was happy enough to oblige. His tongue flicked at your clit as he slid one single finger inside of you, testing your limits. Those puppy dog eyes lifted from between your thighs, wanting to see you crumble, knowing that it was him who made you like this. You sighed out his name, your hand coming down to tangle in his hair. And god, if Mingyu didn’t love that … he’d be a dead man. He groaned when he felt you tug at the strands, beginning to swirl his tongue in a circle around your puffy clit.

You couldn’t even prepare yourself when he shoved another finger inside, pumping them in and out at an unreasonably fast pace. But you were bucking into him, tears pricking at your eyes as you whimpered for him. It was too much but almost too little at the same time. You could practically feel him smile as he devoured you. The bed rattled against the wall when he ground his erection against the frame, so needy and aching. His plump lips suckled on your clit, your slick smearing over his face, but he didn’t want to miss a drop of you. He needed more of you, so he started curling three fingers inside of you, teasing that sweet spot.

This wasn’t your first rodeo with Mingyu. He knew what you could take.

“Mingyu,” you whined, and he glanced up at you again with the most fucked-out eyes imaginable. And still, he didn’t stop. “You’re gonna … I’m gonna cum so fast.”

He moaned into you, then begged, “Please. Need to taste you.”

He was so determined, so desperate to feel you shake and moan and cry until he was completely spent on the taste of you. And it wasn’t long before he got his wish: as he shoved those three fingers into you, grazing your g-spot while lapping at you like you were his last meal on death row. You unraveled on his tongue, muffling your cries for the rest of the people sleeping on your floor. Biting into your hand, you had physically restrain your body from shaking as your orgasm rocked through you, but Mingyu held you down with a gentle hand on your stomach.  He was staring at you again and you were staring at him and fuck, his half-closed eyes made him look like he was drunk on you. You could feel him smirking into your pussy as he collected every last drop of you, knowing that he did a good job. He sighed with relief when he could finally taste you again and again and again.

Once your body settled, you felt him start to tug at your shirt and kiss up your stomach. The thought of now having him inside you made your hands clench with excitement, but dear god, he just knocked the wind out of you and you weren’t sure how you could last. You were spent, tired, probably could just fall asleep right now.

You weren’t feeling his lips on your skin anymore, so you opened your eyes. The moonlight gave you just enough to see that, despite the raging boner he probably had, Mingyu was now snoring softly with his head resting on your hips. Brows raised, you almost couldn’t believe that this was the moment he decided to fall asleep, but you couldn’t deny that you had been on the verge of doing the same. 

Untangling yourself from him, you quickly cleaned yourself up and wiped his face clean with a washcloth. You sighed, using all the brute strength you had to haul him up on what was supposed to be your bed, and wrapped the covers around him. You admired him for a moment, your hand coming up to smooth back his dark hair. Somehow, this felt even more intimate than you cumming in his mouth. So you quickly moved away and slipped under the sheets of the other bed, using his snores as white noise.

The next morning, neither of you spoke of what happened.

Mingyu had wanted to tell you that he had a crush on you the moment Vernon introduced you two all those years ago, even when you disliked him. And slowly but surely, he was starting to realize it never truly went away.

Save the Date for the wedding of Joshua Hong and Jordan Lo: June 20th

Two months passed and the spring air turned sweltering. It was on days like this when you rolled the windows down and wasted gas just to get an overpriced iced coffee that you reminisced. You were taken back to a time when you waited by the curb as Vernon appeared from football practice, and even though he was sweaty, you still always agreed to drive him back to his dorm on the other side of campus. You would watch him say goodbye to his teammates and – shit, the light would catch, and suddenly you were looking at Mingyu wipe the sweat off his face while laughing with the quarterback and –

Now you were thinking about Mingyu again.

You had been thinking about him since April.

All of this felt so silly, like stupid games young 20-somethings played. You knew it wasn’t good for you in engage in – well, anything with Mingyu. He had always been perfectly uncommitted with women, and he was clearly obsessed with his work, posting his new recipes or pictures of him and his flag football team on his Instagram stories. You could handle this. You could be an adult and have a functional acquaintanceship with someone you found attractive. 

So you kept your distance. On the off chance that Mingyu was free and asked if you wanted to get together (which was a shock in itself), you declined. Even if you wanted to. Even if you desperately wondered what would come of it. The next wedding wasn’t until the end of June and you were already biting you lip at the thought of seeing him in a suit again.

The only person you could finally blabber to about this was Minghao, and in typical fashion, he laughed. Not that you expected anything less.

“You’re overthinking the entire situation,” he said over drinks. “It’s completely normal for you to have a little fun, especially while healing from a breakup. That’s what being single is all about, my friend.”

He was right. Of course, he was right. But what if Mingyu rejected you yet again, like he did in college? You wanted to talk to Vernon about this. He always gave you the best advice with this stuff, but this was his friend. The last thing you wanted was to make his friendship with Mingyu weird.

You attempted to ignore him. You redownloaded some dating apps as a distraction. You deleted them just as fast.

On the morning of June 20th, your cousin, Jordan, was marrying her longtime boyfriend, Joshua Hong. You had only met Josh on a number of occasions, but considering that they had been together for almost twelve years, you trusted him enough to take care of her. You felt lucky to be chosen as a bridesmaid and you’d never make a fuss, but dear god, the dark blue of this dress clashed with just about everything. The color was so dark and the dress was clinging to just about all of you and Mingyu’s tie was the wrong shade of blue –

Damn, did he look handsome though.

Jordan had made you both get to the venue early for a rehearsal dinner, and then once the morning came, you were whisked off to hair and makeup. You had barely said a word to Mingyu, too scared to give him anything besides small talk, but you couldn’t help but compliment the new suit he bought for the last few weddings. “Figured I’d cave and invest in one that wasn’t from Goodwill,” he explained, “for you.”

For you. For you. For you.

Your heels were hurting your feet halfway through the wedding, and despite how hard you were trying to focus on Josh’s vows, you couldn’t help but find Mingyu’s eyes in the crowd. He wasn’t paying attention to anyone else, his stare burning into yours to let you know his intent. You swallowed hard. Would anyone notice if you hid your blush behind the bouquet in your hands? It felt like torture having him look at you like this, as if there wasn’t an extravagant wedding happening around them, as if he wasn’t Kim Mingyu. 

It wasn’t until the reception that you could finally get a word in with your cousin, some much needed alone time after what was surely going to be the craziest wedding you went to this year. You both parked yourself near the open bar, ignoring the guests on the dance floor that were screaming for another round of the Cha Cha Slide. Tucking a strand behind your ear, Jordan said, “I can’t thank you enough for doing this for me. Jeez, I really didn’t think when I was three and met you a couple weeks after you were born that we’d be here. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

You grinned, “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” The bartender handed you a new glass of wine and you took a sip. “Besides, these days all I do is work or go to weddings. The life of being a permanent wedding guest, I supposed.”

“Speaking of guests …” Jordan turned her head slightly, ogling Mingyu from where he was standing up and trying to decline your great aunt’s advances to dance. Your cousin giggled. “He isn’t the older guy I thought you’d bring.”

“Circumstances change.” You shrugged, and she gave you a look. “I’d rather not get into it.”

Jordan’s brow raised. “You guys are having sex though, right?”

You almost choked while taking another sip of your wine. “Absolutely not.”

“You sure?”

“Well, I –” You sighed, and then decided to suck down the rest of the glass in one go. Jordan whistled. “We did at one point. Very long time ago. But he’s Vernon’s friend and … it’s a long story.”

“Sounds like it,” she snorted, eyes flickering around the reception until they landed somewhere behind you. “Well, if you’re not having sex with him, my friend just might tonight.”

Your expression muddled, until she pointed over your shoulder. Turning around, you found Jordan’s Maid of Honor chatting up Mingyu near the stairs that lead to the restrooms. Her hand was inching up his sleeve and he was blushing at what you could only assume was a compliment coming from her lips. He was clearly enjoying the conversation, despite the intimate looks he was giving you earlier. 

Classic fucking Kim Mingyu, you thought.

A pang of jealousy surfaced that you couldn’t control. It was probably best for everyone if you walked away and took a breather. After Joshua pulled his wife onto the dance floor, you adjusted the tight silk of your dress and headed for the bathrooms. You walked past them, your perfume wafting past Mingyu’s nostrils, a scent he would know anywhere. 

Instead of going inside the bathroom, you decide to stand in the empty hall connected to the venue and brace your back against the cool wall. You sighed, gathering yourself, completely unaware it wasn’t just you here until you heard the squeak of someone else’s shoes.

“I noticed you were empty,” Mingyu muttered as a way of greeting. He was holding two glasses of rosé between his fingers, stepping down the small staircase to get to you.

It was just you two now, and he was handing you the glass while standing so close that you could smell his cologne. Had this dress always felt that tight, or could you just not breathe right now? You watched the way his eyes flickered to your mouth, and it took everything in you not to yank him closer by the tie. Instead, you took a big gulp of rosé.

“You didn’t have to come after me,” you remarked, and then nodded your head in the direction of the Maid of Honor now on the dance floor. “You looked like you were having fun.”

Mingyu simply tilted his head to the side, studying you carefully.

“She’s pretty. Don’t stop on my account, but please be aware that we are sharing a room so you can’t bring anyone back there.”

Mingyu’s lips slowly curved into a grin. “Are you jealous?”

You scoffed, “No. I’m just … being realistic.”

Taking your half empty glass from your hand, he set them both down on a side table right near the women’s restroom. Your mouth opened, but the words died as soon as he placed a hand beside your head on the wall. He was so tall that he towered over you, even in heels, leaning into your space with pretty, half-opened eyes as he stared at your glossy lips.

“Can I be realistic with you?” He didn’t give you a moment to answer. “I cannot stop thinking about our last night together. I know you probably thought it happened because of the weed, but I … these past two months, it’s all I’ve been thinking about. And it’s killing me that I’ve been trying to be normal this whole night when all I’ve wanted to do is drag you away and make you cum again.”

Your breath hitched slightly at his words. He leaned in then, grazing his nose over the side of your face, desperate to be in your orbit. You took your bottom lip between your teeth and tried to control your heart rate, but how was that even possible when Mingyu’s other hand was brushing up and down your side, tangled in the silk.

“Well, that …” You swallowed hard. “That wouldn’t be a good idea considering all my family is here.”

He tsked under his breath. “Obviously, it wouldn’t be, but …” You felt his nose at your jaw, inhaling the scent of your perfume again, the one that made him crazy. And he damn near groaned in your ear. 

“Mingyu, you … you –”

“Fuck, how could you think I’m looking at anyone else here when you look this good in your dress?” His voice had taken on that needy tone he always got when he was horny. It almost felt like a reward to be able to hear it again. “I’ve been half-hard this entire reception just from looking at you, remembering the way you tasted …” He muttered another curse.

This was how he always acted. Mingyu could be so desperate and pleading when he wanted to get someone in bed, needy to the point he would do anything just to please you, but god – you couldn’t deny how much you liked it. He was reeling you in. You were like fish to bait.

Slowly, he laced your dominant hand with his and moved it from his belt buckle to his groin. You could barely breathe when you felt him harden under your touch, and then you remembered you were still in a public hallway, where just about anyone could walk by. 

Your eyes met his half-lidded ones as he murmured, “Look what you’re doing to me.”

And god help you, because you whimpered at the sound of his voice, slick starting to gather between your thighs.

“Okay, Mingyu, just …” You sighed, composing yourself because you knew he wasn’t going to any time soon. Your hand slipped away from his and he huffed, his forehead falling to rest on your shoulder. “Go to our room and let me make my rounds. I’ll meet you up there.”

He stood up. For a moment, he was almost tempted to drag you into the bathroom and bury his face between your legs, too hungry to let you get away now. But one of your uncles was walking down the hall, and you separated quickly. With a nod, you walked back to the reception and said goodbye to your family that you didn’t get to talk to for too long prior. Jordan gave you a look when you mentioned about going to bed early, and even Josh told you how weird you were being, but your cousin shut him up and sent you a wink.

You exhaled heavily and headed back to hotel on the other side of the venue. Slipping your heels off once you were inside the elevator, you debated if giving into Mingyu this easily was the smart thing to do. Smart? Definitely not. But would it be enjoyable? You didn’t need to answer that question. Mingyu knew what he was doing.

As you unlocked the door to your hotel room, you began to wonder if you were just setting yourself up to be hurt again. He didn’t come back to you like this in college, but what’s stopping him from telling you that he’s “just not that into you” at the next wedding? Or what if he just thought of you as an easy hookup that would get his dick wet every 2 months? Well, you hadn’t done that yet –

Yet. Yet. Yet.

The word repeated in your head like a melody, because when you threw your purse down and saw Mingyu walking out of the bathroom, fresh from a shower and dressed in only a towel around his waist, you realized that you were most definitely getting his dick wet tonight. Whether it was in your mouth or somewhere deeper, you were salivating for it. 

He was smiling at you and you were smiling at him and Jesus, he was so goddamn handsome that you couldn’t believe that he was the one desperate for you. Droplets of water trickled down his tan skin and that towel around his waist was just barely holding on. His torso was chiseled and his arms – fuck, his biceps were bigger than you remembered. He was something out of a dream – some horny, fucked-up dream that you only had after masturbating before bed.

He was on you instantly, pushing you against the wall and kissing you hard. Sighing into the kiss, your hands fist into the towel to yank him closer, but it only makes the flimsy fabric fall. You break away for a moment to mutter, “Oh, shit,” but his lips can’t stay away from yours for long. And he’s laughing, like you did exactly what he wanted. You were too hypnotized by the scent of his body wash to care.

Dragging his lips down your neck, he sucked at the spot that he knew made your thighs press together, grinning proudly against your skin when you moaned. His fingers gripped the soft silk of your dress, slowly pulling the fabric up to feel you that much closer. But it wasn’t enough. No matter how much he liked you in this dress – and god, did he like you in this dress – he needed you out of it. Now.

Mingyu unzipped your dress with precision, setting it down on one of the two beds in the room, and both of you were suddenly wishingthere was only one. His hands smoothed down your sides, his breath hot against your mouth. He just wanted to feel you everywhere. He almost didn’t want to step away, afraid you’ll slip through his fingers like sand. When you two had hooked up in college, it was quick and explosive, letting out the tension that had been building for years. There was so much territory for him to cover now, so many ways for him to find out what made you whine and sigh with pleasure. But, if he were being honest, all he wanted right now was for you to –

“Sit on my face,” he begged, caging you into the wall, pressing his hard cock against your stomach. So desperate for just an ounce of friction, so hungry for another taste of you. He could literally start drooling at the thought of it. He was mesmerized by you; he’d do anything you asked just to have your pussy on his tongue again.

But you seemed to be debating your options, biting you lip again, and he wished that didn’t turn him on even more. You were just so pretty, and the way your face scrunched as you decided on something was a sight he couldn’t help but think about when he touched himself, even all those years ago. It was just you. You. 

Eventually, your face relaxed, and you replied, “Well, you don’t have to beg me.”

Mingyu’s lips pulled into a smile, and he laughed while pulling you down onto the nearest bed. Despite his request, you continued to straddle his torso and kiss him for just a little while longer. He was needy, moaning into your mouth whenever his cock bumped against your ass, but all you wanted to feel his lips on yours, tangle your tongue with his, even if it was just for another minute. 

You forgot Mingyu was stronger than you, though. It wasn’t much longer before he was yanking your body up and turning you around so you knelt just above his face. He inhaled the scent of your pussy and almost breathed a sigh of relief, but instead muttered, “Such a tease sometimes.”

Now that you were hovering above him, you were suddenly self conscious about how excited you were and if your arousal was seeping onto his face. You couldn’t even see if he was thrilled or not, since he had turned you to face away from him, but the way his cock jumped in front of your eyes told you enough. His hands gripped your thighs tight. “I don’t want to crush you,” you said nervously.

“You could suffocate me and I wouldn’t have a problem with it."

You chewed on your bottom lip. His tone was firm, probably the most serious you’d ever heard from him. But you were embarrassed and this was crazy and you still so wet. With flushed cheeks, you asked, “Mingyu, are you –”

“Yes,” he answered before pulling you down onto his face.

He wasn’t teasing you tonight. He was devouring you without even letting you catch your breath. His tongue swiping at your clit before he sucked on it – hard. So hard that you let you a sound that was a mixture of a yelp and a moan. Gripping you roughly, he spread you wider, drinking more of you in. Your hips moved on their own, grinding against his face, which made him groan into your pussy. The vibration in his voice spread throughout your entire body, goosebumps lining your flesh. “Mingyuuu,” you whined, begging for more, and you could practically feel him smirk as he flicked at your swollen clit. 

Leaning forward, you turned your head up and noticed again just how hard he was. His cock had always been perfect: the perfect size, dark pink at the tip, veins etched into the shaft. Precum beaded at the head, sliding down every so slowly, as he throbbed and ached and – god, his hips were almost thrusting into the air now. You didn’t doubt he could get off for hours on this, but that didn’t mean he needed to be unsatisfied.

Besides, you wanted something to do with your mouth anyway.

Mingyu whimpered as you shifted slightly to reach his cock. Your body stretched, your mouth at the perfect angle as you flicked the head with your tongue. He pulled you back towards his mouth, shoving his tongue inside your tight hole and making you gasp at the same time you licked a stripe up his shaft. His tongue worked you open while you swirled your own along the tip, and then finally took him into your mouth.

The grunt he released should’ve caused an earthquake.

You bobbed your head up and down his shaft, choking when he bucked into your mouth.  You could hardly breathe, taking every opportunity to inhale through your nose, but you couldn’t stop. You didn’t want to stop. God forbid, you have a hobby like wanting Kim Mingyu’s cock in  your mouth. He took the liberty of grinding you against his face with his own hands, wrapping his lips around your clit again, eager to taste your climax. And to be honest, he wasn’t sure how much longer he was going to last if you kept sucking on his tip like that. He groaned each time, feeling your tongue circle his head before going back down, taking as much as you could, as if you were rewarding him. And he just couldn’t help but whine along with you.

Your lips pulled off him to kitten lick the veins along the sides of his shaft, and you breathily asked, “Are you close?”

His only response was a moan straight into your pussy.

You nodded, even if he couldn’t see it, before your mouth opened like second nature. You spit on his cock and stuffed him down your throat once again. Head moving faster, you were slobbering on him like a dog in heat, trying not to gag and failing. Your free hand snaked up to cup one of his balls, and the sound he released was deafening. His tongue flicked and sucked at your clit like he had nothing left to live for, hungry for every last drop of your essence.

But then you were cumming, and he was too not long after.

You cried, choking on his cock as you came all over his face. White blurred in your vision, and you were a mess of sweat and spit and so much cum. He exploded in your mouth a moment later, hot seed running down your throat, and you consumed all of it. Neither of you wanted to miss out on the taste of each other. It was filthy, intoxicating, how much you liked this. How much you could suck him off over and over again, and not get tired of him.

You didn’t know it at the time, but Mingyu would say the same about you. If not worse.

He could spend all day between your thighs and never want to leave.

When you both finally angled off each other, spent and exhausted, your breathing was heavy and off by two seconds. Mingyu was glancing over at you before you could even process, a smile playing at his swollen lips. He brushed away a strand of hair that was stuck to your sweaty forehead.

“Mingyu,” you finally said, “has anyone ever told you that you have boyfriend dick?”

Mingyu had wanted to tell you how much he’d been dreaming of that moment, how much you had haunted his dreams and left him waking up so hard that he felt he was going through puberty again. Sometimes he dreamed of how good it would feel when he finally slipped into you, inch by inch. You’d feel like home.

Save the Date for the wedding of Lee Seokmin and Quinn Song: July 31st

You couldn’t go a day without talking to Mingyu. Whether it be through text or over the phone, you were joking with him, telling him about your day, and vice versa. Just a month prior, you had tried keeping your distance, but now … you simply couldn’t help yourself. It was like there was a voice inside your head telling you to contact him, to send him a funny video you saw that day, to tell him about the show you were currently watching. And on nights when you had too much to drink, that voice made you text him that you missed him. He always said he missed you too.

Mingyu: I’m watching that show you recommended

Mingyu: kinda wish you were watching it with me

Mingyu: but I’m still content here and I can see why you like it so much

You: right?? I knew you’d like it!

You couldn’t help but giggle at your phone when his texts came through. And you answered them immediately, like you always did. 

Mingyu: what are you doing right now?

You: wouldn’t you like to know

Neither of you made the effort to go on an actual date. It was all just flirty texts with a TikTok mixed in every once in a while. Promises about going back to that coffee shop someday, but never planning the day. To be honest, this was one of those moments where you were glad Mingyu was so uncommitted. If you started going on dates that didn’t include a vow exchange in between, it would be so easy to fall for him again, and then be let down when he eventually didn’t want to see you after wedding season. 

Mingyu: I mean that’s why I asked

You: I’m hanging out with

A pillow was suddenly thrown at your head. “Ow!” You shouted, head shooting up from your phone to glare at Vernon sitting on the other side of the couch. “What the hell was that for?”

“Anakin is literally burning alive and all you can do is look at your phone!” Vernon scoffed, turning Revenge of the Sith back on. You set your phone down on your lap as he muttered, “Kinda wish I never won that bet.”

Vernon, obviously, was becoming increasingly annoyed that you and Mingyu had rekindled … whatever this was. Sometimes you wondered if you were talking to Mingyu more than your best friend, but given the way Vernon was acting, that was probably the case. You probably shouldn’t even be texting Mingyu while hanging out with Vernon. Bad friend move; happens to the best of us. 

You apologized to Vernon in the best way possible: you bought him fried chicken from his favorite spot.

As summer came along, so did Seokmin and Quinn’s wedding at the end of the month, an invitation that was barely hanging on by an old Britney Spears magnet on your fridge. Quinn Song had been your first ever roommate out of college. You both had met on a Facebook group to find roommates in the area and quickly hit it off. She had been your roommate up until last year actually, when her now-fiancé Lee Seokmin asked her to move in with him. It was at that point that you finally decided to live alone, besides the few days out of the week that Vernon crashed at your apartment.

The wedding was being held on a pretty island in the northeast, nestled on the expansive grounds of a bed and breakfast in the area. The spot felt warm and lived in, the exact kind of place you imagined Quinn would get married at. 

Meeting Mingyu at the airport had been awkward, but at the very least, you two were sitting in different rows of the plane. Maybe it shouldn’t have been as cringe-worthy as it was, given the fact that you two had been talking nonstop, but it was the memory that the last time you did see each other in person, you were sitting on his face and his cock was so far down your throat –

Mingyu had found your eyes a couple rows behind him on the plane. Even he was blushing now, as if he could read your thoughts.

You had rented a car once you reached your destination and threw him the keys, letting him drive the convertible down the coast while the summer breeze whipped through your hair. You tried not to notice the way his hand twitched on the gear shift, like he was itching to place his palm on your thigh, to ground himself to your presence. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Especially when all you could do was stare out the window with a big smile on your face.

Unfortunately, you had to book a room at a small hotel near the bed and breakfast since all the rooms were used for the wedding party. The hotel was quaint, but definitely old and smelled like the Febreze scent your mom used to love when you were a kid. Your room was tinier than the pictures implied, but it was on the first floor and had a screen door that opened to a pretty view of the ocean. You didn’t have much time to enjoy it though, considering that the ceremony was in a few hours and the reception would probably carry on until way past midnight.

You decided to rewear the floral sundress that made a previous appearance at Chan and Adrianna’s wedding. It wasn’t like anyone here was at that event, and honestly, you didn’t care. Throwing your hair up into a perfectly messy updo, you curled a few pieces and took your time with your diligent makeup routine. Mingyu was in his suit before you could even blink, biding his time while you got ready by watching past game recordings of the flag football team he taught and trying to identify key moves they missed out on. As you finished up and clumsily slipped on your shoes, the perfume you sprayed seemed to beckon him like a siren song, and suddenly, he was leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom, meeting your eyes in the mirror.

Your brows shot up. “Done with your flag football research?”

“You’re beautiful,” he replied.

You turned, unable to stop your lips from pulling into a soft smile. His expression was so warm, cheeks tinged slightly pink either from embarrassment or a nasty sunburn. He was beautiful. In ways you couldn’t even comprehend. 

Holding out your necklace to him, you asked, “Can you help me put this on?”

He nodded, plucking the dainty chain from your palm. You moved back to the mirror as he struggled to open the clasp with his thick fingers, but he got it eventually. Placing the thin, gold chain around your neck, you watched the small, star-shaped pendant sit so delicately under your collarbones. He fixed the clasp on your neck, his fingers brushing the top of your spine, and you watched him lean forward in the mirror.

His lips ghosted over the shell of your ear, breath hot and making the hairs on your neck stand up. “I meant it, by the way,” he whispered, and then placed the softest of kisses behind your ear. 

Your breath hitched, and you were unable to form a single coherent thought. For the first time in a while, he was catching you by surprise. He was moving back, and you noticed him smirk in the mirror, knowing exactly how he was affecting you. That annoying asshole –

“Ready to head out?” He asked, grabbing his wallet from the desk.

You huffed and tugged the strap of your purse onto your shoulder. “Of course.”

The grounds of the bed and breakfast were bigger than you assumed, enough to fit an extremely large tent and hardwood floor for all the guests to congregate. The ceremony was held near the shoreline of the ocean, and it was so, unapologetically Quinn to have a few seashell pins in her veil as she walked towards her husband. You had known Seokmin as long as Quinn had been your roommate, but you had never seen this kind of smile on his face until now. He completely lit up at the sight of her, and he didn’t waste a second to say, “I do,” once his time came.

As the guests crowded into the tent for the reception, Mingyu seemed to hold onto you like a toddler with it’s parent. His arm was locked around yours, letting you lead him through the crowd, even though he was tall enough to see over the tops of everyone’s heads. His palm was so warm on your wrist, and then his fingers were so easily lacing through yours, and you squeezed because you simply couldn’t help yourself. 

You were able to find your table easily, but you didn’t recognize the other people already there. They introduced themselves as Seokmin’s friends, and you remembered seeing one or two of them at a bar. You still couldn’t get a read on these people, and found yourself swiftly growing silent around their shared camaraderie. But Mingyu was suddenly so talkative, catching along with their jokes just as quickly, so you stood and whispered in his ear, “Do you want a drink?”

He leaned back to meet your eyes, and you swore time stopped for a moment. His hand reached down, squeezing your wrist, as he said, “You know what I like.”

Jesus. Fuck. Since whendid he have you this wrapped around his finger?

(Probably since sophomore year of college.)

You nodded, swinging your head in the direction of the bar, and your feet had started to head there when you halted in place. It almost felt like your heels were glued to the floor as you found the face of the last person you expected to be here. The only face that could make all the noise drown out around you.

Your ex.

He still had that same curl that always got in his eyes. He was wearing the same suit he wore to your mother’s engagement party last year. The same watch on his wrist; the same cufflinks. Same. Same. Same. And now, he was meeting your eyes across the room. Bodies formed in clusters under the tent – some hugging, some stumbling into each other – but he was unable to look away.

Until a head popped up in front of him, standing from her chair at the table. Her wedge sandals almost made her taller than him, and her dress looked expensive enough that he probably bought it. You didn’t know her, but you knew of her. Well, at least, you knew what the back of her head looked like, and that was her right there. 

You couldn’t forget the night even if you tried. Exhaustion had your shoulders sagging as you unlocked the door to your boyfriend’s apartment. He didn’t typically keep it locked, but you had a key anyway. You remembered how quiet the place was, except for the soft sounds echoing from his bedroom. At first, you thought he was just masturbating, and to be honest, you were too tired to engage in anything tonight. But a voice in your head had urged you to move, to go, go, go towards his room. And you were slowly pushing open the door, only to find your boyfriend fucking your 22-year-old neighbor from behind, yanking on her short hair like a leash. You had been too scared to move, too scared to breathe, but eventually, you had started wailing. His eyes had found yours – exactly like in this moment – and he screamed, slipping away completely as your back slid to the floor. He had tried explaining, tried to yell at the young girl, but everything had drowned away in that moment, and all you could hear was the ringing in your ears –

Your breathing was growing rapid, just like that day at his apartment. Sprinting to the inside of the bed and breakfast, you tried to act normal and say hello to whoever you knew mingling by the bathroom. But something was clearly very wrong. It was evident in your eyes, the way tears were pricking at the sides. You almost thought the universe was pulling a cruel prank on you, but then you remembered that it was Quinn who had introduced you two in the first place, that he had been a friend of a friend. 

Climbing up the staircase in the lobby, you plopped yourself down on the middle step and let your face fall into your hands. You began to count your breaths – one, two, three, one, two, three – anything to make you get a semblance of control. But you could feel your brain spinning, and your heart was beating too fast. Was this what it felt like to die? Was your cheating ex going to be the last face you saw before you completely slumped against this staircase? Vernon always said you had a flair for the dramatic. What a fitting way to end.

You felt a weight sink into the plush carpet next to you, and you lifted your head, tears brimming your eyes.

“You do realize that this isn’t your party. You can’t cry if you want to,” Mingyu joked, reaching out and swiping the tear at your lash line. His eyes softened then, looking at you like you were something fragile, like a baby bird. “What’s wrong?” His voice was hardly about a whisper.

You sniffled, dabbing at the corners of your eyes with your knuckles. The last thing you needed was your makeup messed up. “This is so embarrassing. I’m crying over something so …” Your words trailed off, noticing that he was leveling a look at you. You sighed before admitting, “I forgot that the bride, Quinn, might invite my ex because they were friends. Somewhat.”

“Your ex? As in that ex?” His brow shot up, and you nodded. “Did he come alone?”

You looked down at your hands in your lap, and after a moment, you watched his large palm slowly envelope one of yours. The rough pads of his fingers – the hands of a cook – brushed over your knuckles, and his touch was so warm that it could burn. 

His voice was soft in your ear as he said, “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

You chuckled a little, turning to look at him again. “Then we’d be sitting on this staircase forever.”

He smiled at you and stretched out his long legs. “That’s fine with me.”

Your lips pursed, and you found him staring at them for a moment. A sigh escaped, and you glanced down at your laced hands. How perfectly they fit together, how he held you with such a fierce softness. His thumb grazed the scar on your knuckle that you got the first time you fell off your bike. Finally, you answered, “He came here with the girl he cheated on me with.”

Mingyu didn’t speak, but you did hear him do a sharp intake.

“She’s twenty-two. She didn’t – she doesn’t know any better. He’s in his early thirties and he’ll do it again,” you continued, chewing on your bottom lip for a moment. “I found them in his apartment after I came home from a late meeting at work. It was … messy. Walking in on them, the fallout, now this … everything about that breakup has felt like one big mess. And now, I have to see him here and be reminded of it all–fucking–over again.”

You didn’t even dare to meet his eyes as the next words tumbled out of your mouth, already feeling your voice start to break again. “It didn’t just hurt because I found them. It hurt because … I never wanted to become my mother. I love her. I really do. But the last thing I ever wanted was to become her. Be in the same situation as her. And yet, there I was, witnessing yet another infidelity that would affect my life for what seems like forever.” You rubbed at your running nose. “I found my father cheating too. It wasn’t exactly the same. I found him kissing my best friend’s mom in my parent’s bedroom one night when my mother stayed at work too late. The sentiment still stands, and history was always bound to repeat itself. Daughters always become their mothers and I always have to bear witness to another man not choosing to stick around –”

Mingyu stopped you by turning your face towards his, one hand cupping your cheek. His thumb skimmed the tears running through your blush. He didn’t say anything; his eyes let you know that he was here. That he was sticking around. Despite everything you thought of him, despite your past – Mingyu was here. 

He held you for as long as you needed, gathering you in his arms and cradling your head against his shoulder. He let your tears soak into the fabric of his expensive suit, promising he’d get it dry-cleaned, which made you laugh. Your fingers clutched his lapels and you almost considered not letting go. You would give anything to stay in this bubble, to sit on this staircase in his embrace forever.

“I meant what I said all those months ago,” he said, his voice muffled from his lips at the crown of your head. “I would kill any guy that has done you wrong. Do you want me to kill him?”

You chuckled and raised your head from his shoulder. “What are you gonna kill him with? A butter knife?” You shook your head. “No chef is gonna let you in that kitchen tonight to grab a weapon. You of all people should know that.”

Mingyu grimaced. “This conversation is getting morbid.”

Another laugh bubbled at your lips. “You brought it up!”

“And you’re smiling again,” he said, making your hands hold onto him tighter. “That’s all I could ask for.”

Such simple words could take your breath away, especially when they came from his mouth. You searched his eyes for a moment, your fingers now smoothing out the creases in his lapel. Eventually, you whispered, “I don’t know if I can survive this whole reception. I hate the awkward tension, but I should stay for Quinn.”

“Trust me, I know,” he snickered, and his hand covered over yours as an anchor. “I say we stay at the reception for as long as your comfortable. Then we go to bed early. Whatever works for you.”

Your smile was so kind as you nodded along with his plan. After touching up your makeup, you took his hand and let him lead you back to the reception. Once you saw Quinn in her short, after party dress and looking at Seokmin with stars in her eyes, you instantly felt more at ease. This was her day; you wouldn’t let one person sour it. And Mingyu, clearly, wasn’t going to let your own nerves sour it either. Anytime you locked eyes with your ex, there Mingyu was, distracting you by whispering in your ear how pretty you looked or asking you about your best memories while living with Quinn. There was one moment where you saw your ex heading in your direction, assuming he was finally going to talk to you, and Mingyu stood up to whisk you onto the dance floor. His large arms enveloped you, holding you close, as you swayed to one of your favorite songs. Everything about him felt safe, secure, and he even let you stand on his feet when you told him you had never been that good at dancing. And when you looked at him, you noticed that he was staring at you like how Quinn looked at Seokmin during her speech. Even when you had cried, had let him in, see parts of you that not even Vernon touched … he looked at you like you were the only person in the room.

You stayed at the reception far longer than anticipated. When you told Mingyu that you were too tired to stay any longer, he didn’t question it. He simply grabbed your purse and jacket before taking your arm in his, walking the short distance back to your Febreze-ridden hotel. The first thing you did once you were back in your room was take off your heels. They were only a kitten heel, but your feet were already blistering, and you winced as you went to the bathroom to wash off your makeup. Mingyu had set your stuff down on the small desk before walking out onto the deck connected to your room. You craned your neck out, assuming he was going to smoke a joint, but he was just staring at the ocean, noticing how loud the waves crashed against the shore.

You padded out of the bathroom and leaned against the door frame for a moment, admiring him in the dim light. It almost left in you in disbelief how you had roped Kim Mingyu, one of the most attractive men you’d ever met and probably one of the longest crushes you’d ever had in your life, into being your wedding date for an entire year. He had a lost a bet, but he really didn’t have to be here. He didn’t have to invest in a new suit. He didn’t have take the time off from his two jobs. He didn’t have to listen to your trauma, or look at you like you were this painting to be worshipped, this Mona Lisa of sorts. Mingyu could’ve said no. 

But he didn’t. 

“I’m going to take a shower,” you finally informed him, and he turned to meet you eyes. “Can you help me out of my dress?”

He nodded diligently, following you to the bathroom. You pulled your hair up with one hand, and with deft fingers, he slid the zipper down your back. Typically, you would hold the dress to your chest until he left the bathroom, out of respect, but you were letting it pool at your feet tonight. You stepped out of it, your gaze locking with his as you turned on the shower. You were giving him this look and he was still standing there in his half-buttoned dress shirt, hands forming into fists as he fought the urge touch you. Waiting for a sign. Waiting for your permission.

But you didn’t even have to say anything. Your eyes said the words for you. As you climbed into the standing shower, he took his time removing his suit, pretending as if he wasn’t fucking dying to have his hands on you, and then he was behind you, the hard panes of his chest flush against your back. He closed the shower door as the glass began to fog up.

The water was scalding as it rained down on your head, steam forming around the small bathroom. You could still feel the dried tears on your face, imprinted underneath your makeup all night, and you did your best to wash them away. Mingyu noticed the way your shoulders sagged, the way you sighed while you were lost in thought, and as much as wanted touch you in places that made those sweet sounds fall from your lips, he held himself back. Instead, he let his hands comb through your wet hair before scrubbing shampoo into the strands. You relaxed against him, closing your eyes as he washed your hair.

It was so domestic that you could cry. 

(Again.)

The last person you ever thought could be capable of this kind of care was Mingyu. You both had known each other for eight years, and not once had he displayed this kind of person around you. Or maybe you just weren’t paying attention, too lost in your own perception of him. Even now, you couldn’t help but remind yourself of when he avoided you after the hookup in senior year. He really isn’t the same guy, Vernon’s voice echoed in your head. Give him a chance. You had never trusted those words, but in this moment … you realized where you had went wrong.

The water began to get cold when it came time to wash his own hair and you could tell he was struggling to rush. His mannerisms made you giggle, and even though the steam began to dissipate from the room, you still turned to his front and rested your forehead on his chest, letting the lukewarm water beat down your neck.

When you walked out of the shower, you had never felt more fresh and at ease. Your body was all warm and you had brought the comfiest pajamas for summer weather. The breeze wafting off the ocean blew through your room from the open screen door, and the sound of the waves crashing against the shore could lull you to sleep.

But right now, it seemed like neither of you were keen on the subject. As you slipped under the covers next to each other, you were grateful that there was only one bed: one large, king-sized bed that both of you could be using to spread out. Instead, you were huddled close, hair still wet from the shower, and his arms locked around you like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting you go. Your hands cupped his face, studying parts of him that you didn’t think of in your previous lust-induced hazes. Fingers traced his lips, brushed over the tip of his nose – where his tiny mole was stamped – before you skimmed the shell of his ear.

You almost didn’t recognize your own voice as you whispered, “Thank you for tonight.”

“Anytime,” he smiled.

A beat of silence. Hands stilled. Lips pursed.

“Mingyu?”

“Yeah?”

“Please, kiss me.”

His mouth was on yours before you could even finish the sentence, but he still took his time exploring new ways to make you moan into the kiss. He kept one hand splayed on your back, pressing you further into him, while the other played with the hem of your loose t-shirt. Your hands knotted into his hair as he kissed you slow, savoring you like a fine meal. And you simply let him. You were like molten lava, melting in the palm of his calloused hands. 

You felt his fingers prod at the waistband of your shorts, and it was game over. Slipping them under, he practically whined into your mouth when he realized you hadn’t put any panties on after the shower. His mouth disconnected from yours, fingers sliding between your slick folds. “Are you trying to kill me?” He breathed against your lips.

“In my defense,” you chuckled softly, “I forgot to bring them to the bathroom.”

He laughed with you, and you were debating on crying again because he was so kind and good and definitely just as obsessed with you as you were with him. No matter how many times you didn’t want to admit it, you had somehow fallen into Kim Mingyu’s trap once again. 

He kissed you again, hungrier this time, as he spread you open with his fingers. You whimpered, but he swallowed it with his tongue and began to rub tight circles on your clit. Your leg lifted, hooking onto his waist, and you bucked against his hand. Your body felt like it was on fire, but Mingyu was careful, plucking your strings like a guitar, and you needed moremoremore. Pushing two fingers inside of you, his kiss was like a sound barrier as he consumed all your sweet sounds, as if that would allow him to hear them forever. 

It was only when you came apart that he dragged his lips to your neck, wanting to focus on your moans as he fucked you with his fingers. He felt you shake, your pussy squeezing his thick fingers, and he kept rubbing your clit through it, wanting to prolong your orgasm as much as possible. If not for you, then for him, just so he could hear you. He would make you cum as many times as you wanted if it meant he could hear his name falling from your lips. 

Neither of you wanted to stop; all fumbling hands and shaky limbs as he finally tugged your shorts off. It was a lot more difficult to take off his boxers without separating from you, but you laughed and you were so pretty that he almost forgot what he was doing in the first place. Once he was situated, you rolled on top of him, straddling his lap. You held his face in your hands, and for a moment, you could almost see reflections of the dark ocean outside in his starry gaze. Your palms drifted down, fingertips tracing the hard panes of his chest. He was all muscle, sculpted like your very own David statue; his complexion so similar to golden hour personified.

You lifted your t-shirt off and tossed it onto the floor. Mingyu was already so hard that it hurt, but he took a few more seconds to stare at you. He wanted to remember this moment forever: the sight of you on top of him, naked and vulnerable, hair wet and a faint blush on your cheeks.

Sitting up on your knees, you positioned yourself right over his cock and gripped the shaft to get the perfect angle inside of you. You were looking at him and he was looking at you as you lowered yourself slightly, grazing his tip against your wet slit, still dripping from your previous orgasm. Mingyu groaned at the sensitivity, throwing his head back against the pillow and muttering, “This is so mean.”

“You like when I’m mean,” you giggled, repeating the same words you uttered that fateful night after Chan’s wedding, when Mingyu’s face was buried between your thighs.

And Mingyu recognized it too, a grin making it’s way to his lips. But that was soon replaced by look of complete bliss as you finally sunk down onto his cock. He was the perfect size, filling you just right but never uncomfortable. He gave you a moment to adjust, but you could tell from his white-knuckled grip on your hips that he was damn near fighting the urge to thrust up into you. He didn’t though. He was patient and perfect and all yours.

You anchored yourself to him with one hand on his shoulder, beginning to rock into him at a snail’s pace. Your eyes connected, and even as he moaned underneath you, he was unable to stop smiling. Mingyu let you set the pace, and you took your time, getting to know what speed had him pulling your hips harder. The angle had him buried so deep inside that you could practically feel him in your stomach, and you sighed each time as you moved against him. 

“Fuck,” he whined, shifting to sit up against the headboard. “I’ve needed you so bad.”

“I know, I know,” you confessed in a breathy whimper. “Me too.”

He was digging his fingers into your hips so hard that you were sure there’d be marks, but you didn’t care right now. You just wanted him, wanted this. Wanted to be this connected to him and feel him this deep and cum together as the waves crashed against the shore outside. He began to move you on his own accord, bouncing you on his cock as he leaned forward to nip and suck at your neck. “So pretty,” he mused against your skin, breath stuttering as your walls tightened. “So pretty sitting on my cock.”

You were the one whining now, raking your fingers into his dark strands as your thigh muscles burned. Your breasts jumped with each slam of his hips against yours, and he planted hot, open-mouthed kisses down your throat, dipping his tongue into your collarbone, before latching his mouth around one of your nipples.

Your hands pulled at his hair. “Mingyu, please,” you cooed, not exactly sure what you were begging for. Just moremoremore. 

His eyes lifted to yours and you watched him fucking smile while tugging at your nipple. You were melting like putty, and he was able to still move you with one hand, using his free one to cup your other breast and run his thumb over that nipple. Tears pricked at your eyes, feeling him pulse inside you with each pass. And when he started to thrust up into you, you were pretty sure that you were close to seeing stars.

“Wanna cum with you,” he rasped while switching breasts and flicking his tongue over your other nipple. “Please, wanna cum inside you.”

You nodded, too cock drunk to say anything besides, “Yesyesyes.”

He was rolling your hips now, practically rutting into you as he lifted his head from your chest, leaving a trail of spit. You leaned down and let his lips ghost over yours. Moans slipped from your mouth into his, and he was bouncing you on his cock so fast you almost couldn’t register to breathe. His breath was hot against your lips, so close he could feel his body shaking, but he needed you to be closer, needed to feel you tightened around him and milk him for everything he was worth.

Snaking a hand between your bodies, he found your clit easily, knowing your body better than anyone ever had. All you could hear in that moment was the sound of the ocean through your screen door and skin slapping against skin. You were so wet and warm and – shit, you were starting to clench around him. He rolled your clit between two fingers, and a whimper slipped out of his mouth when he felt your pussy clamp around his throbbing cock.

He needed to cum and so did you and – fuck, he could feel it, feel you, feel how deep he was inside.

He would do this forever if you asked.

“Fuck, Mingyu, oh my god, right there, right there –” You pleaded in his ear, feeling yourself tip right over that edge –

Then you were cumming.

And so was he.

You moaned his name like it was a prayer, shattering as you came undone. Your walls were squeezing him like a vice, and he was unable to hold himself back anymore, burying himself to the hilt before painting your insides white with his orgasm. Hips jerked, bodies went taunt. You felt your whole being dissolve into nothing but pleasure, molding yourself to him in his arms. When the rush of warmth started to fade and he felt your combined releases seep from between your thighs, he breathed out a sigh of relief, brushing kisses over your jaw.

You weren’t sure you were in your right mind. Everything was so hazy. But you didn’t want to move away just yet. Even when his cock started to go soft inside of you, you stayed connected to him, pushing his hair back from his forehead and whispering praises in his ear like, “You were so good … So good to me … My Mingyu … I’ve always been yours …” You could feel him smiling against your skin, his hands tracing circles on your lower back.

But as time seemed to stop and you felt peace for the first time in a while, you realized just how deep you had fallen. You were drowning in him.

Mingyu had wanted to tell you that it felt exactly like his dreams. If you were drowning in him, he had already sunk to the bottom a long time ago.

Save the Date for the wedding of Nathan Chaney and Your Mother: September 5th

Your mother was remarrying. Her and Nathan had been together since you went off to college, and then got engaged just a year after you graduated. They decided on a long engagement, choosing to plan out a destination wedding in the Caribbean. You thought it was crazy at first, but then your mother said, “If this is going to be my last wedding – and it is – I want to go out with a bang.” You couldn’t exactly blame her. After your dad had cheated and the divorce was finalized, you knew your mother deserved something like this. She deserved the world.

When she had called you just a week before the wedding, babbling on about who you were possibly bringing now that your ex was completely out of the picture, you paused. Holding the phone to your ear and watering one of your half-dead plants with the other, you said, “I’m … I’m going with Mingyu.”

“Vernon?” She asked, not believing what you said.

“Mingyu.”

“Like … the Mingyu from university? The football player?”

You sighed, playing with the dead leaves on the plant. “He was also – and still is – one of Vernon’s good friends.”

“Oh,” your mother said, more surprised than anything. “Well, you better watch for Nathan’s sister. If Mingyu looks anything like how I remember from Family Day, she will go buck wild over him.”

“I’ll make sure of it,” you chuckled.

The truth was … you weren’t exactly sure how this wedding was going to go. Ever since the last one, you had been progressively putting more distance between you and Mingyu. Once again. Your last night together had been so real … too real, and you wanted to save yourself from the heartbreak after this wedding when you never saw him again. As much as you hated to admit it, feelings were now involved, seeping into your bloodstream, until your heart thrummed like the sound of his name on your tongue. 

Slowly pushing him away … it hurt, but it was better this way. Pain was temporary and so was your arrangement. You knew that going into it, so how did you end up in this mess? You remembered what had happened after Chan’s wedding, the way Mingyu looked at you as he was shotgunning smoke into your mouth and – yeah, you knew exactly how you ended up here.

If you kept telling yourself this was for the better, maybe you’d start believing it. Maybe your feelings would drift like smoke and your mother’s wedding would be a final farewell before you two went your separate ways.

But you had been doing that for a month now.

And those feelings refused to fade.

You had an early morning flight the day of your mother’s wedding. Typically, you wouldn’t be getting to a destination wedding on such short notice, but the ceremony was small. So small your mother refused to have a rehearsal dinner and no bridal party. It was about her and Nathan, and you had to respect that she was doing things her way this time around.

You had waited at your gate right before doors closed for Mingyu, since you were on the same flight. But he was clearly running late and you were much too awkward around him now to text him. So you finally got on the plane and found your seat, noticing the one seat in the back still left unoccupied. Once you had landed five hours later, you quickly headed to the hotel that Nathan had booked for the ceremony and reception. Your phone lit up as you hailed a ride.

Mingyu: I’m sorry, I got a new flight 

Mingyu: I’ll be there just 2 hours after you land

Mingyu: I’ll make it for the ceremony. I promise

Feeling his anxiety radiate through your phone, you believed him, and then wondered if maybe this was a blessing in disguise. You were rewarded a few more hours of alone time before you had your last hurrah with Mingyu. Maybe if you buried your feelings deep enough, you wouldn’t tense up the second you saw his face. Maybe if you didn’t look into his eyes, you wouldn’t have the urge to kiss him. Or let him hold your hand. Or spread your legs to welcome him inside –

You dropped your lipgloss onto the bathroom counter, sick of your own thoughts. Your  square-neck, baby blue dress was clinging to every curve, but you felt like you were being suffocated by the fabric. You had just finished doing your hair and makeup, but you couldn’t quite keep your thoughts at bay. Nerves batted against your skull, making your hands shake slightly. What would you do once Mingyu walked in? Would you avoid his stare? Would you tell him immediately how much you liked him and how this wouldn’t work out and you knew you set yourself up for heartbreak –

Maybe you needed a walk.

Grabbing a spare pair of sandals, you headed outside to walk the beach just along the grounds of the hotel. There was still an hour before the ceremony, and you could just see the planners putting finishing touches on the decorations laid out on the shore, where your mother wanted it to take place. Couples were still walking through the water. Kids were making sand castles. The sun was slowly beginning to set and the breeze was whipping your hair off your shoulders.

And you smiled, despite everything you were feeling. Because where there was an end, there would always be a new beginning.

“HEY!”

You spun around, your sandals sinking into the sand. Although you recognized his voice, the last thing you expected to see was Kim Mingyu running towards you in his pristine black tux, his tie loose around his neck and blowing in the breeze. It was like something out of a movie, the kind of movie where there was supposed to be a happy ending, but you knew you weren’t afforded luck like that in real life.

He stopped in front of you, running a hand through his hair. Sand sprinkled down the tops of his shoes.

“When did you get here?” You raised a brow.

“About twenty minutes ago. I flew in my tux because I figured I wouldn’t have enough time to change. But now it just kind of smells like …” He lifted the sleeve to his nose and inhaled. “Like peanuts and old plastic.”

You giggled, holding a hand to your mouth and just … staring at him. He was smiling at you, fangs poking out from under his top lip. His skin was even prettier in the sunset. His hair, despite the messy texture, was effortless and perfect. He embodied sunshine in its purest form.

“Well, you …” You looked to the water, your hands flexing at your sides. “You didn’t need to come find me out here.”

His voice was sweet, soft, like fresh sheets, when he replied, “Yes, I did.” His hand reached out a little, attempting to lace your fingers together, but he stuffed them in his pockets instead. “When I was wondering where you’d be, I remembered something you said to me in college … Do you remember Move-In Day of junior year when we had that bonfire with Vernon and a few other people? You really didn’t enjoy my company back then, but I sat next to you because you agreed to sharing that god awful cheap vodka we used to like.” He laughed when you grimaced. “We got to talking and I asked you, ‘If you could be anywhere right now, where would you be?’ And you said something like, ‘I want to be walking on a beach. I’ve always felt the most calm with my toes in wet sand.’”

You blinked, wondering if you had heard him right. He … how did he … “You remember that?”

“I remember a lot of things.”

And there he was, reaching out again and brave enough to brush his fingers over your knuckles. You looked down, watching his hand interlock with yours, and his palms were balmy and calloused. They felt familiar, like home. And you simply couldn’t believe that you had deprived yourself of this.

“Did you mean it when you said, ‘I’ve always been yours?’”

Your head snapped up, tsking under your breath. Hand still intertwined with his, you pushed a lock of hair behind your ear. “You came all the way out here to ask me that?” You asked, flustered and agitated.

His brow shot up. “So that’s a yes then?” 

Your mouth opened, but then closed when you realized that he caught you. 

He added, his voice like velvet again, “Then why are you avoiding me? I can sense it.”

“Well, if you’re that sensitive to other people’s feelings than I guess that –” You paused, taking a deep breath as you gathered yourself. Your ears reddened. “Look, I think it’s pretty obvious that I’ve … I like you. A lot. But having feelings for you would be so messy. The last time I went through this, we hooked up and you hardly spoke to me after.”

Mingyu’s brow furrowed. “That was years ago.”

“You know how uncommitted you’ve always been,” you quickly remarked, even though you didn’t fully believe those words anymore. “Weren’t you the one that told me at the start of this that men never really grow up?”

His eyes narrowed a little. “Are you playing psychological warfare with me right now?”

Slipping your fingers away from his, you shrugged. “Maybe.”

“I’ve been your date to five weddings this year. It wasn’t just about losing some bet. I did it for you.” He stared at you incredulously. “Are you really going to hold me to a mistake I made six years ago? When I was a shitty 22-year-old that was terrified to tell the girl I liked for years that I was interested in her?”

“I never … I never thought you liked me back then.”

Mingyu’s gaze softened, and he tucked another curl behind your ear that blew in the wind. “I made you believe that I didn’t because it was easier than admitting my feelings. I was terrified of rejection. And an idiot.”

You couldn’t help but snort at his comment, but you knew this conversation was far from over. “Well, I …” You rubbed at your nose and turned away from him, facing the water that looked almost sapphire in color. The waves sparkled under the setting sun. “Wedding season is over after this and we can both go back to our normal lives. Vernon won’t flip a lid when he sees me texting you all the time and everything will be back to the way it was. I always prepared for you to just forget about me after this anyway.”

“I love Vernon, but this isn’t about him.” Mingyu stepped forward into your line of vision. “What if I don’t want to go back to the way things were?”

Your eyes flickered to his, and it was his turn to step closer again. His large palm cupped your cheek, his skin always so cozy and inviting that you just had to lean into him. Fingertips traced your brow bone as his gaze lingered on your lips.

“I don’t want to forget about you or never see you again. I want to be around you,” he confessed. “I … want to go on more dates with you. I want to be your date to more than just weddings.”

You hesitated, unraveling and dissecting each word in your head, before you came to the conclusion that … oh, my god, he had feelings for you too. Had you always been this much of an absolute moron?

Getting on your tiptoes, you closed the distance between you two, your lips crashing onto his like the water against the shoreline. Your body almost suctioned to his, bringing him even closer when your arms wound around his neck. He kept that one hand on your cheek, the other splaying on your lower back, like how he always did when he was nervous. But he had nothing to be nervous about, because you liked him and he liked you. The world felt like it was spinning, but also just right, and his tongue was licking into your mouth enough to make you feel breathless. You could do this forever, be this relaxed in his arms, kiss him as if it was only you two in your own world. And as he tugged on your bottom lip to make your breathing heavy, you decided that your dream had become a reality.

When you broke the kiss, your cheeks were definitely flushed, even under the layer of blush you put on. Mingyu grinned, tilting his head as he whispered, “So you have always been mine then?”

“Such a tease sometimes,” you repeated his fateful words from June. 

You turned, tugging on his hand playfully as the waves begin to lick at the sand near your feet. “C’mon,” you chuckled. “If we’re late to this wedding, my mom will kill me before I can even think about calling you my boyfriend.”

Mingyu had wanted to ask you to marry him only two years later, and thank god, he finally found the words.

tag list: @syluslittlecrows @yeosayang @eisaspresso @healingmv @nightshadeblooming @dmstoyangyang @amaraeofsunshine @thepoopdokyeomtouched @reiofsuns2001 @tigerhoshii @yoongznme @nerdycheol @gyuguys @ninixgyu4eva @tokitosun @wooyugta @dawn-iscozy @thecowboy7 @wonu-won @whoisbaek15 @alexie-blog

[wheeboo]

off the record | kim mingyu {part one}

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), 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. 25.1k (for part one); 43k (in total)

notes: hello everyone it's finally here!!!! we cheered!! sadly i have to separate this fic into 2, but part 2 will either be posted either tomorrow (june 7th) or sunday (june 8th). ty guys for being so patient with me as this is the longest fic i've written so far on this blog. i hope you all enjoy the story! this is my gift to you all for 3k followers!! ty to @tomodachiii and @slytherinshua for reading over this for me hehe. pls don't forget to reblog as well i'd love to know your thoughts 🙂‍↕️

part one | part two

“Surely a young man like you would be settling down with marriage at your age!” 

Kim Mingyu elicits a chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly as he watches Mrs. Moon place a couple of her famously harvested tangerines inside a brown bag. He pushes up the pair of dainty glasses that sit on his face. He flashes the old lady that particular disarming smile𑁋one that seems to win over anyone on the street.

“Ah, you already know me, Mrs. Moon,” Mingyu begins, sending a small wink. “Work keeps me quite preoccupied these days.”

(Yesterday, he had to save this speeding train from derailing off the tracks and crashing into a platform full of people in France. And the day before that, he heard cries from a few families who were trapped within a burning apartment building in Brazil and barely made it out with a little girl clutched in his arms before the top floor collapsed entirely.)

But Mrs. Moon doesn’t need to know that. To her and the rest of the world, he’s just Kim Mingyu𑁋the clumsy, always smiling, ever-so-slightly late to everything Kim Mingyu. But the truth is, between dodging falling satellites in space and struggling to file articles on time, he doesn’t exactly have the time for something as ordinary as love. 

Mrs. Moon clicks her tongue and lets out a cackle, shaking her head while placing the final tangerine in the bag. “Work, work, work. Excuses, excuses. You should find a nice girl before someone else snatches her up! Cherish your youth.”

Mingyu laughs at the woman’s words before opening up his wallet and giving her some spare cash as a friendly tip. He clutches the bag of tangerines in his grasp as he exits the grocery store, his thoughts lingering to Mrs. Moon’s words as he enters back into the regular flow of the city he’s been tasked with protecting for the past few years. 

It’s a relatively peaceful morning so far. The sky is painted in the most perfect shade of blue, clouds lazily drifting across its surface. Mingyu allows himself to relax for a moment as he approaches the incoming intersection, shooting a glance down at his watch to ensure he’s still on the right track with coming into work. 

A breeze brushes past his hair. Passerbys come and go past him, all heading towards their own work duties as he is. He’s gotten the hang of pretending to be ordinary. Just an ordinary guy heading on his way to his desk job. Just another journalist at the Daily Planet. 

But then, he hears it.

A sudden commotion. A shout. 

Sharp. Frantic. Close. 

His head darts towards the source of the sound𑁋it’s right across the large intersection he’s currently standing in. His eyes laser in on focus: a woman across the street, breathless and wide-eyed as another man barrels down the sidewalk dodging people left and right with a worn leather bag clutched in his hands. Her bag.

Instinct takes over.

Mingyu peers around before ducking into a nearby alleyway, his heart already racing𑁋not from fear, but from adrenaline. His glasses are off as he rounds the corner, the brown paper bag of tangerines abandoned on top of a garbage bin as he shrugs off his coat and unbuttons his shirt. 

And within seconds, the familiar sight of a red cape flares into the sky like an open flame. 

You’ve never been a runner. At least, definitely not in heels. Yet you try anyway, bolting forward a few steps to catch up with the thief before nearly stumbling when one of your heels gets trapped in a hidden crack in the pavement. And when you try to move it, you hear the slight sound of a crack, though it’s loud enough to crush your dignity like a slap to the face. 

Frustrating stings at your eyes, because of course, this just has to happen on the first day of your new job. You can still see the damn thief up ahead𑁋with your bag, your wallet, your ID, your everything. 

You don’t even have time to scream.

And then𑁋

A gust of wind rushes past your face. A whoosh so fast it rattles the windows of the nearby stores that surround you. You barely register the colours of blue and red that streaks across your vision, and everyone else around you seems to take a halt all at once, their gazes stalking up at the skies with a mixture of awe and disbelief. 

“Was that𑁋?”

“Oh, my God. It’s him𑁋!”

Meanwhile, Mingyu soars just above the streets, spotting the thief tripping into a narrow alley. A slight smirk crosses his face as he picks up speed. Like the blink of an eye, he cuts the man off at the end of the alley, hovering mid-air with folded arms as his cape behind him lazily billows through the heavy, mildew-scented air. 

The thief skids to a stop, his shoes squeaking distressfully against the ground. “No fucking way𑁋” 

And in an unlucky attempt to escape from the other way, Mingyu appears right in front of him. Again. 

With an almost bored look, Mingyu leans in to snatch the bag from the man’s grasp as if plucking an apple off a tree. 

“Thank you for your service,” he tells the man with a roll of his eyes, showing off the leather bag in his hand. “But this doesn’t belong to you.”

And then, with a flash of movement and a gentle, almost slothful toss, the thief finds himself landing face-first into a nasty pile of garbage cans, only to be surrounded by a few police officers who come dashing around the corner into the alleyway. 

Mingyu casually hovers in place for a few moments, offering a mock salute to the baffled officers before zooming back up towards the sky.

By the time you’ve managed to shuffle your near-broken heel out of the crack and catch your breath, he appears right in front of you.

Superman. The one who’s been plastered all over the news and articles now. The one who lifts buses and stops meteors from crashing into Earth with the simple power of his heat vision. The one your skeptical friend called a “silly government hoax” until she saw the hero in action right before her eyes saving an entire school from collapsing into itself from a record-broken earthquake. 

And now he’s standing in front of you.

With your bag.

“This yours?” Superman asks, holding it out towards you with a certain calmness that highly contradicts the way your heart is practically thundering in your chest.

You stare at him𑁋like, really stare𑁋because there’s no real way for someone to mentally prepare themselves for what it feels like to be face-to-face with him. Superman. Cape, emblem, and everything. He appears almost sculpted by someone with far too much time and a love for perfect symmetry. And gosh, he’s tall. 

You blink. Once. Twice, as if it’ll somehow get rid of whatever illusion your brain is tossing towards you and the sheer embarrassment your morning has been raining down on you so far. But alas, no. He’s still here, with his cape fluttering behind him like a damn Renaissance painting come to life, hair tousled in a perfect way, and his eyes warm like the colour of chocolate, waiting for a response from you.

Letting out an exhale, you grab the bag from his grasp, giving a small nod.

“Yeah,” You say quietly, voice slightly tight. “Thank you.”

There’s a beat of silence. Even in your hunched-over form, you can tell his eyes are roaming over you.

“Are you okay?” he asks, tilting his head with a particular smile you’re sure many people have fawned over while eating their breakfast. 

“Oh, I’m doing grand, you know,” You respond snarkily. “My heel is probably broken. Mild public humiliation. The usual.”

His smile stretches a little at your words, his eyes glinting with something that nearly resembles amusement. It’s not the kind of politeness someone gives as a way to be nice𑁋he actually seems entertained. Which only annoys you even more, because now you’re hyper aware of how ridiculously disheveled you must look. 

“Want me to fly you somewhere?” Superman offers like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

You lift a brow at that, blinking again. Superman is offering to fly you? “Excuse me?”

He gestures vaguely to the sidewalk. “Well, your shoe is busted. Figured I could help.”

“You mean carry me?”

“I mean, I won’t be dragging you by the ankles, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he affirms, the corners of his lips twitching up like he’s trying to suppress a few laughs.

You give him a long, pointed look. “And you just go around offering free rides to random civilians? Don’t you have galaxies to save or kittens stuck in trees somewhere?”

Superman chuckles at that. “Actually, I did save a few kittens just last week, but I’ve got a few minutes to spare.”

You cross your arms together, eyeing him warily. You find your thoughts running throughout your head𑁋how your first day is already going to hell, how ridiculous this entire situation is, how unfairly attractive this literal superhero is up close; and how, despite your guarded nature, you’re almost tempted to say yes. 

But you don’t.

Instead, you straighten your posture and offer a somewhat dry, polite smile.

“Tempting, but I think I’ll pass,” You give him as a response. “I’d rather wobble to work with whatever pride I have left.”

Something flickers across his chiseled features𑁋surprise, maybe? It’s almost as if he’s not used to hearing those words, or being casually declined. But even with that, you catch the way he musters up an accepting look. For a moment or two, your eyes lock, perhaps a bit longer than the two of you intended, and you can definitely tell that he wants to say more. 

And then he just grins.

It’s not the usual professional one he shares within his workplace. No, this time, it’s smaller. Bashful, even. 

“Well, if your pride ever gets too hard to carry,” he starts, voice dropping to a lower, more quiet tone. “This area is my usual route to fly over.”

You nearly snort at that. “I… Are you hitting on me right now?”

“Is it working?”

Your lips part, and whatever witty remark lingering on your tongue swallows down your throat in an instant. Because this was not how you expected your day to go. Not how any day is supposed to go, honestly. 

You can’t help but let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “I think it’s concerningly close.”

Then he gives you that smile again. “I’ll take it.” 

And before he can say anything more, you catch the way his expression shifts, switching back to an almost scarily serious look. He shifts his eyes back to you, as if hesitant to move, slowly hovering off the ground. 

“Duty calls,” he tells you, a hint of disappointment in his words. Then he pauses, and adds in, “Take care. Try not to get your bag stolen, yeah?”

And then in an instant, he’s soaring back up towards the skies faster than any jet you can imagine and vanishes between the clouds. The force is enough to send your hair ruffling in the air, leaving you standing on the ground with a few unsuccessful attempts at processing whatever the hell just happened.

You stand there for a few moments, your bag clutched tightly in your hands. Just like everyone else, you know about him. You’ve watched countless clips on the news, read printed articles from other inspiring journalists in your field documenting his adventures. You’ve listened to a variety of debates talking about his otherworldly existence𑁋is he an alien spawn? Some government experiment gone wrong? Is he really invincible? Too many questions; too little answers.

But none of those can remotely compare to the way he simply asked if you were okay, or the way he’s able to effortlessly crack jokes at will. 

Or even the infuriating way he smiled. 

Your bad luck streak seems to have lessened. For now, at least.

The Daily Planet hosts a little coffee shop on the ground floor, and you trudge your way in, heels in one hand, sporting an unflattering pair of loafers you managed to find at a local thrifting place on the way to the office. Your hair is a tiny bit unkempt, your shirt adorning a wrinkle you swear wasn’t there earlier, and you feel all kinds of eyes on you as you stand in line.

The comforting scent of roasted espresso beans and fresh muffins hits you like a warm blanket. You exhale slowly. It helps a little.

When you approach the counter, however, the barista𑁋Seulgi, you read on her nametag𑁋looks up at you with all-too-knowing smirk.

“You’re the bag girl, right?” she asks.

You freeze. “Sorry?”

Seulgi motions towards the ceiling, where a mounted television is currently playing the local news. A paused still frame captures none other than you𑁋well, more like a blurry shot𑁋angled from a store security camera, yet still clear enough for you to recognise yourself. And then right in front of you, of course, is unmistakably the city’s famous heroic heartthrob. 

“You’re practically famous. For a few hours, technically,” Seulgi’s voice pops back in. 

You let out a groan, muttering, “Kill me.”

“Unfortunately, no can do,” she replies cheerfully. “But I can offer you a free drink, courtesy of our friendly neighbourhood superhero.”

You blink at that. “Wait. He paid for it?”

Seulgi shakes her head. “No, but he does come by sometimes and donates some extra cash. Says it’s for ‘emergencies’, so… I guess you abide by that.”

As you open your mouth to protest, Seulgi merely hands you over a warm, fresh cup of espresso. 

You could only mumble a quick thanks as you saunter away, still a bit dazed and confused. The warmth of the coffee spreads throughout your fingers, anchoring you in a way, especially after your whirlwind of a morning. 

You turn around, letting your feet carry you aimlessly towards the lobby. And just as you think you’re starting to relax, it appears that fate has other ideas on its side. 

You bump into something𑁋no, someone𑁋hard. A sharp gasp hisses from your lips as hot coffee stains onto your shirt and the skin of your hand, as well as splashing onto someone else’s literal chest. You stagger back, nearly losing balance, the stranger in front of you letting out a curse of surprise.

“Shit, I’m so, so sorry! I didn’t see you there,” a man’s voice says, reaching out his hands as if to steady you.

You pick your head back up, ready to release a tumble of apologies as the guilt blooms in your chest, but all that comes out is nothing.

The man in front of you is tall. Broad. Stupidly handsome in a way that makes your brain lag for a split second. A pair of black, thick-rimmed glasses sports over his sheepish face, and you swear his jawline is sharp enough to cut through glass. He’s holding an identical cup of coffee in his own hands, which was now half-full thanks to your ordeal. 

Finally, you manage to speak. “Are you𑁋”

“Burnt?” he guesses, a warm, tiny laugh leaving him, which somehow makes your embarrassment worse. He glances down at the brown stain running over his white shirt. “Maybe a little, but it’s all good.”

Your eyebrows knit together in frustration. “God, I’m sorry, I’m such a disaster right now...”

“No, it-it was me,” the man chimes in reassuringly. “I forgot something in my car and then boom. Don’t worry about it. Are… are you okay? You look kind of…”

You give a few nods of your head. “I’m fine, just, uh… Not having the best day, clearly.”

The man’s eyes wash over you, and briefly, there’s a sparkle of recognition in them.

“Oh! You’re…” His lips tighten inquisitively for a moment. “You’re the, um… girl from the news, right?”

Perhaps sinking into the floor is your best opportunity to escape.

“The one and only,” You mutter with a dramatic gesture of your hands, trying to ignore the heat rising in your cheeks.

The man continues to loom over you, and there’s a certain genuine, albeit awkward charm that surrounds him. Maybe it’s the glasses or the way his voice doesn’t match at all with his intimidating build𑁋soft, friendly, perhaps a bit shy. It’s sort of refreshing, in a sense.

“Here, uh…” You watch as he strolls away to retrieve some napkins from the coffee shop, handing a few over to you. 

“Thanks,” You mumble, beginning to dab helplessly at your shirt. “Ugh, and this was one of my favourite shirts too.”

“I think it still looks good,” he offers with a shrug, then immediately spluttering, “I mean, not that I was, um, staring. Just𑁋objectively speaking.”

You blink up at him, and even despite the chaos of your morning, a smile finds its way across your lips. “Objectively, huh?”

The man just chuckles, running a hand through his slightly tousled dark hair. 

“I’m Mingyu, by the way. Kim Mingyu.”

You nod at his little introduction, filing the information into the back of your brain, before a tiny bell of recognition dings in your mind. Kim Mingyu. For some reason, the name sounds oddly familiar, perhaps you’ve read it somewhere? Maybe in some news article or𑁋

Wait.

You look back up to meet his eyes. “You’re Kim Mingyu?”

Mingyu’s eyes widen slightly, his body stiffening. “Yeah. Uh… guilty?”

You let out a small breath of relief. “You’re the guy who writes the science features! You just published that piece of the whole… lunar water discovery two weeks ago, right?”

Mingyu blinks a few times. Then he lets out a bashful laugh, the kind of laugh that’s caught between flattered and embarrassed. “No way, you actually read that?”

You arch a playful brow. “Duh, do you think no one reads science journalism anymore?”

“No, no, I mean𑁋maybe a little.” He rubs the back of his neck, his cheeks pinking enough for you to notice. “It’s just nice to meet someone who did.” 

A couple moments of silence pass. You tilt your head to look at him again, and you wouldn’t be surprised if he thinks you look like a creep doing so. Science journalist. Right. That would probably explain the gentle voice and the easygoing tone that’s somehow more comforting than you expected. 

But maybe it doesn’t explain how he’s not built like the kind of guy who sits behind a desk all day and writes about moon water. Maybe. 

You narrow your eyes at him. “Do I… know you from somewhere?”

Mingyu flinches. Not a lot. Barely noticeable, but you catch it anyway. He pushes up his glasses on his nose awkwardly.

“Uh, no? I don’t think so,” he answers quickly. A little too quickly.

You squint at him.

Mingyu shifts his weight between his feet. “Do I have something on my face?” 

“Have you ever done any modeling?” You ask instead, almost too casually.

His ears grow endearingly red at your words. “Uh, maybe once? My friend Wonwoo needed someone to pose for his photography portfolio back in college, so… Why?”

You wave him off dismissively, crumpling the napkin in your hand. “No reason. Forget I said anything.”

“Well, I’ll take it as a compliment, nonetheless,” Mingyu says brightly, before reaching into his pocket to glance at his phone. “Shoot, I’m late. Got a meeting with the tech editor. It was nice running into you. Literally. Uh…”

“Y/N,” You finish for him. “Y/N L/N. Investigative journalist.”

Mingyu nods enthusiastically. “Right, Y/N. It was nice meeting you. Maybe I’ll see you around?” His voice carries that familiar warmth, and it sends your head abuzz. “Take care of that shirt too. And sorry for bumping into you earlier.”

Then he gives an awkward wave and one final lingering glance before making a beeline dash towards the elevators. A strange flutter settles in your chest as he runs off.

You shake your head to clear your thoughts. What the hell is going on today?

“Choi Seungcheol,” Mingyu deadpans, striding into the private office room of where his editor-in-chief, Choi Seungcheol, resides. “I already got approval to interview that quantum physicist for the piece due next Friday. You can’t seriously be calling another penalty on me right now, or yell at me about another missing Oxford comma.”

Seungcheol doesn’t even look up from his computer as he takes a sip from his mug, steam curling into the air. 

“Good morning to you too, Kim,” he says dryly, scrolling through what looks like an email thread gone to the depths of hell. “And no, this isn’t about grammar. Or physicists. Although, I am impressed you remembered the deadline for once. You’re not in trouble.”

Mingyu lifts a frazzled brow. “I’m… not?”

“Nope.”

A beat of silence. Then Mingyu crosses his arms. “Alright, who died?”

“No one. Yet.” A pleasant hum leaves Seungcheol as he places a manila folder on the table. “New case. Green mineral trafficking, multiple disappearances, possible government cover-up. Sounds like your kind of party.”

Mingyu tenses.

Green mineral trafficking? The only word he could possibly think of is…

Kryptonite.

He attempts to keep his expression neutral, unfazed, but his pulse quickens loud enough to echo in his ears. Most people don’t even know that kryptonite exists, let alone know how dangerous it can be. To anyone else, it’s just a strange name for a rock. To him? It’s a death sentence.

Mingyu clears his throat, stepping forward to grab the folder on Seungcheol’s desk. “Are you sure this isn’t a job for the police? Or the FBI?”

“Nope.” Seungcheol shrugs, leaning back in his chair. “It’s already been classified as a fringe case. Everyone in this building thinks it’s nothing more than just conspiracy fluff, but you’ve been here long enough. You know how we operate. If there’s something to dig, we dig. Besides, your science background is especially helpful.”

When Mingyu flips open the folder, he spots a few grainy pictures. But there’s a particular surveillance photo that catches his eyes. It’s blurry, but his vision is sharp enough to catch the sight of a figure with something glowing in their hands.

Definitely kryptonite.

Finally, he exhales. “Alright, I’ll take it.”

Seungcheol smirks, and Mingyu knows for certain that there is a catch to this.

“Now that that is out of the way.” Seungcheol clasps his hands together and places his elbows on top of the desk. “You won’t be flying solo for this one.”

Mingyu’s jaw tightens at that. “What?”

“You heard me,” Seungcheol remarks with that shit-eating grin. “I’m pairing you up. Joint assignment.”

The folder nearly slips from Mingyu’s grasp at his words. “Since when do I get a partner? You already know I work better alone.”

“You also tend to disappear way longer than you need to be during your breaks,” Seungcheol retorts flatly. “And while I usually could give crap as long as you turn in Pulitzer-worthy articles, I think this case is different. Bigger.”

Mingyu presses his lips together, biting back the million responses aching to jump off his tongue, but he knows Choi Seungcheol all too well. Once he’s made up his mind, there’s no going back from there.

Still, he tries, even if it’s hopeless. “You do know I have a system, right? I research, I write, I investigate𑁋”

“You also vanish every time there’s a major break in the news and then show up three hours later claiming you were stuck in the elevator.”

“That was one time,” Mingyu grumbles.

“It’s always the damn elevator.”

Mingyu lets his head fall to the ground. “I get… claustrophobic sometimes.”

Seungcheol snorts. “Sure you do, buddy. Alright, I don’t care if you need to get yourself a therapy llama or whatever to cope𑁋all I care about is getting to the bottom of this and for someone to keep your ass in check. Now, chop chop. I’ve set up a meeting time for the two of you on Thursday.”

A long, long, contemplative pause. 

“...wait, there are therapy llamas?”

“Kim Mingyu!”

“Okay, sorry! Just𑁋can you at least tell me who my partner is?”

Seungcheol pinches the bridge of his nose, before reaching into a drawer to pull out a file. When he opens it, the first thing Mingyu sees is a photo stapled at the corner of the first page. It only takes a matter of seconds for the recognition to dawn on him, because not only does he know the woman in the photo, the dread that pools in his stomach is something only you could cause. 

Coffee girl. Bag girl. Why-has-your-smile-been-stuck-in-my-head-the-whole-week girl.

“Y/N L/N. Investigative journalist. Recently transferred here from halfway across the country,” Seungcheol explains. “I’ve seen her portfolio. She’s quite good at what she does. I figured she could balance you out, you know. She’s already got the nose for shady ordeals with her exposé on that real estate company two years ago.”

Mingyu opens his mouth to speak, then closes it, opens it back up, then closes it again. You, of all people. You’re his partner. For a case potentially involving kryptonite. And just last week, he retrieved your stolen bag from a thief; bumped into you and spilled coffee on your shirt; said that your shirt looked good; got flustered like some hopeless nerd. And you… not-so-subtly called him model worthy.

Oh, he’s doomed. The universe truly had a sense of humour, after all.

“Cool. Great. Fantastic,” Mingyu says finally, his shoulders slumping.

Seungcheol shoots him an eye. “What? Refuting already?”

Mingyu’s mind could only race, because he knows how investigative journalists work. They’re always sharp, observant, perceptive, and have those particularly expressive eyes. The kind of eyes that could probably read into him. Past all the words, the excuses… the disguise.

“Nope. No complaints here. Just…” Mingyu bites his bottom lip. “What if she gets too close?” 

Seungcheol lifts up a brow. “Close to what, exactly?”

“To the story.”

Seungcheol watches him for a moment too long. “Then she’s doing her job.”

Mingyu nods slowly, gathering the file in his arms. “Right. Got it.”

A truck hijacking on the highway was certainly not on Mingyu’s to-do list, especially since he has a meeting scheduled with you.

He’s already late, and there’s no way he can simply send a polite sorry, running a little behind and definitely not the a truck was hijacked on I-17 and I had to take care of it email to your inbox, especially when he’s currently hanging off the side of the highway holding onto the wheels of an eighteen-wheeler like he’s helping a neighbour move some furniture.

He grunts, his teeth gritted as the metal steels in his tight hold. The tires of the truck screech loudly against highway roads. The initial driver of the truck is knocked out from the attack by the hijackers, but Mingyu can still hear the faintest thrum of his heartbeat. He overhears another man in the cabin cursing and trying to figure out how the hell this large truck is not moving even with the gas pedal through the floor.

But here he is. Midair. 

His cape flaps elegantly behind him as he carries the truck back to where all the police cars were coming in on the highway. Slowly, he lowers the truck back down onto the ground, a loud slam screaming through the air. At the corner of his eye, he notices one of the hijackers attempting to crawl through the broken window, but Mingyu is faster.

He yanks the man out of the truck by the collar and heaves him to the ground, but there’s something about the man’s close presence that physically makes Mingyu recoil back, and his eyes keenly focus on the faintest glow of green underneath the man’s shirt. 

Is that a… kryptonite pendant?

“Who the hell gave that to you?” Mingyu questions angrily, gripping the man by the collar of his shirt.

“I-I don’t know!” the guy sputters weakly. “I just drive the truck, man! I was supposed to leave it at Pier 13𑁋”

“I didn’t ask where you park the damn thing,” Mingyu interjects furiously. “Tell me who gave it to you.”

“I don’t know anything! I swear, dude!”

Before Mingyu could do anymore questioning, the police are beginning to swarm them now. He gives the man one last glare, and reaches over to grip the pendant in his hand, ripping it from around the man’s neck. A stinging ache settles in his muscles, but it wasn’t any normal kind of soreness𑁋it’s the kryptonite kind. 

Yet with every ounce of strength he could muster, he tosses the pendant into the hands of an incoming officer. He already feels the pain lift off his skin as he bastardly drops the man back onto the ground, a fleet of other police officers coming to apprehend him.

“Put that thing into a lead case and to a lab immediately,” Mingyu groans out towards the dazed officer. 

Before anyone could say another word, he’s already shot himself up towards the skies, leaving nothing but a gust of wind behind.

He’s back in his civilian clothes and landing on the roof of the Daily Planet within a few short minutes. His glasses are on, his tie straightened, hair still a bit windswept which he brushes back with his hands. He wipes away some dust off his clothes before sneaking back into the building, resuming his normal routine.

Mingyu already knows he’s late, and at this point, he’s accepted defeat. He could only hope an extra cup of coffee that he might have put a bit too much sugar in would be enough to make up for his unexpected detour.

When he arrives at the conference room𑁋six minutes late𑁋you’re already sitting there in one of the seats, flipping through the case files with your brows slightly furrowed. A pen is tucked behind your ear, and he swears he can smell your perfume from where he’s standing at the door. It’s like a scent of lavender, and something else. Perhaps warm and sharp, just like you.

Mingyu takes a singular step forward, and your head snaps back up.

“Hey,” You greet him. “You’re late.”

“Sorry,” Mingyu breathes out, trying to keep casual. “Elevator broke down.”

You chuckle at that, pulling a chair out for him. “Does it break down often?”

He smiles faintly at your gesture, sitting down next to you. “You have no idea.” He slides one of the cups over to you. “For you, by the way.”

You glance inquisitively at the cup. “Oh. Thank you. Trying to bribe your way out of being late?”

“Depends if it works or not,” Mingyu remarks back, and he tries not to notice the way the corners of your lips twitch up into a small smile. 

A soft laugh leaves you, and it makes something flutter beneath his ribs. 

You take a sip from the coffee, and nearly choke it out. “Wow, that is dangerously sweet.”

“Ah, crap,” Mingyu mutters in embarrassment. “Sorry, I wasn’t, uh, paying attention to how much sugar I poured in.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, still coughing through a laugh. “It’s all good. I needed the sugar rush anyway.”

“Still,” Mingyu chimes back in. “I’ll get the ratio right next time, don’t worry.”

Next time.

The morning light shining in through the conference room windows shine on your cheekbones, casting flecks of gold across your skin and over the smile you were still wearing. His breath nearly catches in his throat at the sight𑁋the kind of smile that makes Mingyu almost forget he was mid-air just ten minutes ago and lifting a stolen truck with his own bare hands, freaking out about how you’d react to him showing up late. 

“It’s funny, right?” You start, turning your body to face him. “How we went from a stupid coffee incident to being paired up for a case like this. Who would’ve thought?” 

Mingyu hums thoughtfully, taking a sip of his own overly sweet coffee. “If I knew you were an A-list journalist, I probably would’ve risked being late to that meeting when we first met.”

You roll your eyes at him, tiling your head a little. “Why?”

Mingyu swallows a lump down in his throat, pushing his glasses up his nose shyly. “Uh… first impression, you know? It was your first day that week, so… I could’ve shown you the ropes of this place.”

Amusement glitters in your eyes, and you lean in, settling your chin on your hand. “We spilled coffee on each other, then you complimented my shirt. I don’t think anything is salvageable after that.”

“Okay, well, technically…” Mingyu starts, but his resolve falters quickly when he catches your gaze on him. “I didn’t plan to spill it on you. I was just nervous.”

“You? Nervous?” You repeat. “Why would you be nervous?”

Mingyu stiffens a little in his seat. “I mean, not nervous because of you, exactly. I mean, yes. You’re just kind of… I don’t know, intimidating?”

You stare at him.

“I’m saying you’re…” he pauses, knowing all too well he’s digging himself deeper into this hole he’s making. “...very cool. Like, cool-cool. Like, you have that unbothered, domineering energy𑁋okay, let me shut up.”

Your shoulders shakes with a lighthearted laugh, and it seems to fill the large room more than it should. Mingyu only sinks down further into the chair, hoping that it could swallow him whole, as the heat spreads up to the tip of his ears. But even despite the embarrassment radiating off him, he can’t bring himself to look away from you for that long. 

“That was probably the best trainwreck of a compliment I’ve heard ever,” You tease playfully while tapping your pen on the table as if to stabilise yourself.

Mingyu groans into his hand. “Please forget I said any of that.”

“Oh no.” You grin. “Sorry, I’m filing that away in our case notes.”

His mouth flies open. “You’re joking.”

You merely shrug. “You’ll never know.”

That silence that follows after is strangely comfortable. Maybe a bit awkward, but not in a bad way. It’s quiet enough for Mingyu to realise this is probably the most peace he’s felt in a while. The adrenaline from the hijacking and discovery of the kryptonite pendant is momentarily forgotten, dulled by the sunlight falling on your face and a smile that crawls right under his skin. 

“Listen,” You begin, your tone turning a bit more serious, though sincere. “I know how people around here work. Trust is a weird currency nowadays. People hold their cards close to their chest, and sometimes, it doesn’t end well. We don’t have to share our life stories with each other. I just need to know…”

You pause for a moment. Mingyu is still waiting for you to continue.

“...that if things ever get messy, you’ll have my back.”

The weight of your words settle heavily on his chest. And there’s something about the way you’re looking at him𑁋steadily, hopeful𑁋that makes his stomach flutter. The same kind of feelings he gets when he’s flying too fast or perched at the edge of space and staring down at the place he’s dedicated to protect. 

He’s not used to this kind of vulnerability. Not from others, and definitely not from himself. 

“I will,” he finally says, voice low yet certain. “You don’t even have to ask.”

Mingyu notices the way you study him for a moment, as if you’re trying to read between the lines of his words and expressions. But then, the curve at your lips fades into something more softer, less amused, reassured. 

“Good,” You murmur, sitting up straighter in the chair. “Because I’ll have yours, too.”

And in the back of his mind, Mingyu knows one thing for sure: that he’ll protect you. From thieves, criminals, and the quiet threats that no one else sees.

Even from himself, if it ever comes to that.

God, especially from himself. 

“Seriously? You kept this from me for an entire week? Are you trying to kill yourself?”

Mingyu’s mouth falls open. “Wonwoo𑁋”

“You touched a kryptonite pendant barehanded and now you expect me to assist you on this report that’ll probably end with a front-cover newsletter covering the untimely demise of Superman,” Wonwoo snaps as he paces across the shared living room. “What part of ‘you’re not fully invincible’ do you not understand?”

Jeon Wonwoo is the only other person that knows of Mingyu’s… extracurricular activities. The man has been for him since the very beginning. It was during a particular night during their college days where he had stumbled upon Mingyu levitating in the middle of their dorm room, freaking out about how he could quite literally see through the wall into the next room, and freaking out even more when he was able to see Wonwoo’s entire skeletal system. 

Wonwoo had the opportunity to probably blackmail him to the entire campus, but all he did was simply sigh, and muttered something about always getting the weird roommates before sauntering back into his room. 

Ever since that night, they’ve been inseparable. Wonwoo had silently mingled his way into the role of confidant, cover-up artist, and occasionally, accomplice. He didn’t ask for the job, honestly. He didn’t even like it half the time. But he does his duties anyway, and he wasn’t going anywhere. 

Mingyu can definitely say that he’s the closest thing to family that he’s ever had.

Wonwoo may not have superhuman strength or have literal lasers shooting out of his eyes, but he had something else: a brain filled with logic, the ability to knock some sense into Mingyu, and a camera always slung around his neck that somehow captured the city more truthfully and beautifully than any headline could ever do. 

“Well, I didn’t plan on touching the kryptonite, okay?” Mingyu defends weakly. “The guy was trying to escape out of the truck! What was I supposed to do? Let him get away?”

“No, you call me, or literally anyone else not allergic to space rocks,” Wonwoo grumbles in response. “You’re lucky it was only a pendant. If it were something bigger, you’d probably be in the ER, and it would be a whole other shitshow when they find out about your weird alien space blood. Or worst case scenario, dead.”

Mingyu flops back down on the couch, running a hand over his face with a heavy sigh. It’s almost as if he’s carrying the weight of the entire planet on his shoulders. 

His mind feels like it’s folding into itself, because he really shouldn’t have accepted this case, yet on the other hand, was there anyone else more capable of handling it? 

Later that week, Mingyu stumbles upon you in the archive room. Your face is practically half-buried in a box full of case files, sleeves rolled up to your elbows, your hands rummaging through the box like a raccoon going dumpster-diving. 

He stalls in the doorway for a moment, briefly forgetting why he was coming down here in the first place. 

Then, he clears his throat. “Y/N?”

You spin your head towards the doorway, and the way your face softens at the sight of him makes something ache a little in his chest. His inhuman abilities to be able to discern those little details is either a blessing or a curse. Or both. 

“Hey,” You breathe out, almost as if you’ve run a marathon, brushing away your dusty hands on your pants. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

Mingyu slowly inserts himself more into the room, adjusting his glasses on his nose. “Would… you have stopped me?”

Your lips twitch in amusement. “Would you want me to?”

Your words send an abnormal jolt down his spine. Mingyu clears his throat, and shakes his head.

“No.”

“Then you got your answer.” A proud look briefly passes over your features before you turn your attention back towards the box of case files in front of you. “Come here. Found some stuff you might want to take a look at.”

You feel his shoulder brush against yours as he leans over beside you, the warmth radiating through the sleeves of his flannel hitting your arms. He smells faintly like rain and something earthy, as if he was just a step away from being into the clouds, even though the forecast outside has been sunny the entire day. But you don’t comment about it.

Mingyu doesn’t say anything at first, his attention mainly fixed on the way you’re quietly scanning through the files. There’s a hint of exhaustion plaguing your face, judging by the subtle sag to your shoulders and crease between your eyebrows as you silently scan the words on the files, hoping to absorb them better.

“Have you been down here for long?” he finally asks.

You take that as a chance to straighten your posture, wincing slightly. “Yeah. Long enough for my back to start complaining.” 

Mingyu chuckles softly. “You could’ve called me down here, you know.” 

“I thought I was the investigative journalist in this partnership,” You remark wittily without looking up, continuing to sift through the files. 

“Not necessarily for that stuff, I mean…” Mingyu shrugs sheepishly. “...to just be here with you, I guess. So you wouldn’t be alone.”

His words alone are enough to make you momentarily pause. You glance up at him, and a millisecond is enough for Mingyu to catch that flicker of surprise to your eyes, quickly followed by something softer, perhaps fond, and a pinch of nervousness. But it fades just as swiftly as it came. 

You don’t smile, not exactly, but your features soften noticeably. The archive room suddenly feels as if it’s shrunken three times in size. You clear your throat.

“I’ll make note of that then,” You say quietly, before sliding over a few papers in his direction𑁋surveillance pictures, specifically. “I found something strange while looking at the list of disappearances.”

Mingyu narrows his eyes, studying the photos in front of him. Most of which are simply blurry photos of random civilians he doesn’t recognise, taken in grocery stores, restaurants, or simply walking down the street. 

“These people… They don’t have any background,” You explain. “Some of them don’t have any official documentation in any databases. Only a name, and that’s it.”

Mingyu bites at his bottom lip in thought. “So it’s like they appeared out of nowhere?”

“Exactly.” You brighten from his words. “Which, obviously, can be a motive of some sorts. Whoever is taking them knows that these people don’t actually exist, even though they do, making them easy targets, more difficult to track down and find. Because… they wouldn’t have anybody to look for them. They knew their cases would eventually be dropped.”

His heart sinks at the thought. You slide more photos over to him, looking at him curiously. 

“Do you know anything about what this… green mineral thing is?” 

Mingyu’s brain stutters. 

“There was a biotech company back then𑁋CARAT Corp𑁋which was suspected of using these green minerals in their experiments and machines,” You explain casually. “Then they got accused of several counts of illegal experimentation. Rumours of black-market robotics, AI enhancements, which prompted its inevitable demolition and arrest of the owner. Heard he got bailed out of jail not even a year later and fled the country.”

You motion a finger over some of the photos, and there’s clearly that familiar green glow around some of the blurry figures, and Mingyu immediately recalls the pendant he found on that hijacker. 

“Someone’s been collecting this stuff again. Quietly. Systematically. And selling it off.”

Selling it off. It’s definitely a likely explanation to why that hijacker had a kryptonite pendant on. But the more important question is why? 

“From what I’ve read about this stuff back then, it’s definitely… otherworldly. It reacts differently compared to other minerals on Earth,” Mingyu explains. “It’s supposedly radioactive as well. Definitely not something you’d find on the periodic table, for sure.”

You nod your head slowly, trying to process the information. “That’s… definitely a case.”

“But there’s not much research on it, from what I know at least. Heard a lot of scientists and physicists these days don’t even want to touch that stuff,” Mingyu finishes with a tilt of his head. “Too unstable. Too unknown. I’ll try to look into what this stuff is.”

A sudden, loud click of your pen is enough to make anyone in the room flinch. Mingyu hears a snicker leave your mouth.

“This is definitely something deeper, isn’t it?” You question pensively, mostly to yourself, your gaze lingering over the various photos spread out on the table. 

Mingyu watches you closely. To the way you’re chewing at your bottom lip as you think, to the way your fingers are hovering over the photos, aching to pull the truth out of them. It’s impossible to look away from you. 

“It definitely is,” he mutters, taking in a deep breath. “But we’ll figure it out, right?”

You turn to him expectantly, eyes locking onto him. “Together?”

“Yeah,” Mingyu answers, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Together.”

Your shoulders relax to his words. “Great. Let’s get these things upstairs so we could cross-reference them. I forgot my stupid eye drops at my desk.”

You bend over to lift the box, planting firm hands on both sides, preparing to hoist it up in your arms. The files inside the box shift inside, some of them nearly tumbling out and falling to the floor, but you manage to adjust your position.

Mingyu finds himself reaching over instinctively, but he hesitates for a moment. “Y/N, I can carry𑁋”

“I’ve got it,” You insist cheekily, shooting him a determined look. “Don’t think I can carry a little box?”

“It’s not that𑁋”

But just as you get the box in a comfortable hold, the bottom corner clips against the table, and it shifts your entire balance, making the box tilt violently in your grasp, a rain of documents preparing to dampen the ground. Unknowingly, your foot catches onto a loose folder you didn’t notice had fallen onto the smooth tile floor, and everything happens all at once. A started yelp leaves your lips before you could even register it.

And you’re stumbling backwards, your backside threatening to land on the ground.

Mingyu moves before he even realises it. 

One second, he’s watching you stumbling backwards; in the next, he’s secured the box in his left arm while his right hand rests tightly around your waist. You take a few seconds to blink, suddenly no longer falling but coming back upright𑁋and very much pressed against Mingyu’s broad chest, who was peering down at you, wide-eyed. 

He swallows down the lump in his throat.

“Are you okay?” he asks, a slight tremble to his voice.

You could only stare back up at him, suddenly very aware of how close he is as your brain struggles to catch up with what just happened. His hand is still around your waist𑁋warm, steady, protective𑁋and you don’t make any sort of move to shrug it off. And neither does he.

“I𑁋yeah,” You breathe out shakily, clearing your throat loudly. “Thanks.”

You still don’t move. Same as him.

His glasses have slipped the tiniest amount down the bridge of his nose, and his hair has fallen in front of his eyes a bit, but his gaze barely wavers from yours. Finally, after a few long moments, you release yourself from his hold, rubbing away the sweat that has somehow accumulated on your hands on your pants. 

Mingyu steps back as well, giving you some space, and fixes his glasses on his face before letting his hand fall back awkwardly to his side. The tension still makes the air around the two of you heavy, but there’s no sense in hurry between you both of dispeling it𑁋perhaps because neither of you really want to. 

Then, his voice cuts through the air. “I’ll, uh… carry the box, if that’s fine.”

You give a quick nod. “Yeah. Sure. Probably smarter.”

You watch as he carries the box out of the archive room with minimal effort, or no effort, specifically, as if it weighed no more than a paperclip. The two of you file your way back into the hallways of the Daily Planet and towards the elevators. 

As the two of you stand silently in the elevator, your mind can’t help but linger on the way how easily he caught you𑁋how steady his grip was on your body, how warm he felt, how he moved as fast as the blink of an eye. Too fast, maybe. 

“Do you have any plans later?”

You turn towards him, shaking your thoughts away. “What?”

Mingyu keeps his eyes forward, though you notice the imperceptible curve forming at the corner of his mouth. 

“I was just wondering if you… you know, did stuff after working hours,” he says lamely. “Like, any hobbies, or…”

You let out a faint chuckle. “Is this another one of your brilliantly horrible attempts at making small talk with me?”

Mingyu visibly stutters at that, a soft laugh leaving him. “Well, I mean𑁋maybe?” He shakes his head, a little embarrassed. “I just want to get to know you a little bit, that’s all.” 

You tilt your head to the side, studying over him as you both ride up the elevator. It’s somewhat… endearing at the way he looks right now. His posture is straightened like a stick as if he’s attempting to appear cool, but the twitch of nerves to his fingers tapping against the cardboard box is pretty much a dead giveaway. It still makes your heart skip a beat, regardless.

“I knit,” You respond suddenly, making Mingyu shift his attention to you. “On occasion. Badly, most of the time. I also cook𑁋horrible at that too. And I read, probably too much to the point my eyes feel like sandpaper.”

It’s only a tiny sliver of information, but it’s enough to hit him with a wave of relief. It’s kind of absurd imagining you𑁋an A-list investigative journalist who’s always on her feet𑁋to be bad at anything. But he likes knowing you have those sides of you as well. Unlike him, you’re human, after all. 

“Cute,” he mutters quietly without realising it.

You lift a brow. “‘Cute’? Seriously?”

His mouth falls agape. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that𑁋”

“It’s fine, Mingyu,” You reassure him calmly. “I liked it.”

Mingyu swears he feels his heart stop.

“And how about you?” Confidence fills up your voice. “Any hobbies that I should know from you?”

Oh, you know, he answers in his head. I like to fly up to the stratosphere and breathe in space fumes, punch criminals straight to Pluto, and use my heat vision to warm up my cups of instant ramen. 

“I… like to go to the gym,” he answers instead, but it comes out as if it was the only thing he could think about. “Other than that, um… nothing much. Just work and research, you know?”

The elevator dings, signaling that the two of you are close to the floor you’re supposed to step off on. You snicker a little.

“I see,” You say, smirking to yourself. “Keep being your little mysterious self then, Kim Mingyu.”

Mingyu blinks dazedly. “Huh?”

The elevator dings again, and the doors swing open. It’s time to get back to work. 

“But lucky for you,” You continue, stepping ahead of him and onto the floor. “it’s my favourite genre to read.”

Alarms loudly blare out of the Seoul National Bank, their sharp wails cutting through the late afternoon rush of the city. Red and blue lights flash across the marble pillars of the large building, helicopters swerve frantically through the skies, and crowds outside begin to cluster on the sidewalks outside, held back by the barricades and arms of police officers.

Inside the bank, it’s absolute chaos. Frantic and frightened shouts echo from hostages locked inside, scattered with threats by masked figures armed with weapons and bags containing large sums of money. 

Mingyu is already mid-air when the call goes out.

Within seconds, he’s descending from the sky. He slices through the clouds as his cape pillows behind him. The moment he sets foot on the concrete stairs leading up to the bank, the ground itself shakes with his presence. Gasps erupt from onlookers behind the police barricades. Phones are raised, cameras are flashing, news outlets are reporting. The world is watching. Superman is here.

All it takes is a singular inhale before he’s barrelling headfirst through the solid entrance of the bank. Debris flies in all sorts of directions, crumbling down all over the floor. Mingyu spots the robbers immediately: four of them, their identities shrouded with masks and hoods, armed weapons in their hands. Frightened civilians and families all scramble to the corners of the buildings, cowering in fear. 

“He’s here!” a civilian shouts from the side. “It’s Superman!”

Pride swells in his chest as he speeds towards two of the robbers, who were uselessly scrambling for their weapons. With his super-speed, Mingyu swipes the first one and throws away his gun like a toy, and knocks the second one unconscious with the gentlest flick of a finger. 

He dodges a panicked swing of a knife that comes from the third robber, and Mingyu responds with a hard kick to the robber’s stomach. A choked groan leaves the robber’s lips, before he’s completely forced to the ground with a loud thud, and the force of the punch is probably enough to knock some teeth out. 

Just from all that, there were no visible signs of struggle to Mingyu’s body. His fists clench together at his side. All who is left standing is the final robber, who was positioned right at the open entrance to the vault. 

However, as Mingyu trails closer, he finds himself suddenly… disorientated, as if the world has tilted slightly off-axis.

“What the…” he moans out as a pulse of nausea hits him. Tightness coils in his stomach, and his shoulders feel as if they’re carrying the weight of boulders. It’s like his strength is being sucked away from him by the seconds that are passing. 

His vision swarms with a burning, sickly green hue, his knees buckling beneath him. Ahead of him, the fourth robber doesn’t even flinch and simply stands still, calm, too calm, arms relaxed as his sides as if this was just an ordinary day. 

“Fuck…” Mingyu curses, staggering back a step, his breath hitching in his throat.

The metallic taste of weakness is bitter on his tongue. The pain of acid slithers up his bloodstream. It takes every ounce of his strength to focus on the robber looming over him, and he notices it immediately.

The kryptonite pendant. The same pendant from the truck hijacker, and now, this robber was wearing it. But it wasn’t just one robber who has it on𑁋all of them do. The others that Mingyu knocked down earlier all reach inside their clothes, revealing their glowing pendant in their hands, exposing Mingyu to more pain. 

Phones are still rolling. Cameras are still clicking. 

And exposing his pain to the entire world. 

All he can see and hear around him are the loud shutters of cameras clicking, mouths whispering, and sirens booming from outside. News outlets are about to have the absolute field day of their entire careers. 

His stomach physically churns at the sight. 

Then the robber lunges forward, hitting him square in the ribs with the butt of his rifle, and for the first time in years𑁋it hurts. 

The shock in his eyes mirrors the horror in every single hostage in the building. He’s Superman. He doesn’t get hurt.

“Not so tough, ay?” the robber sneers, a malicious smirk forming under his mask. “Looks like everyone’s favourite superhero can bleed after all.”

With a tight purse of his lips, Mingyu fires two rays of heat vision from his eyes, aiming with precision𑁋not directly at the robber himself, but down to the floor𑁋and with a loud crack, the marble floor splits beneath his feet. It’s enough to buy Mingyu some time, especially as he can hear the SWAT team and police force making their way up towards the entrance. 

He grits his teeth, forcing himself to remain upright as he fights the waves of radiation from the kryptonite. Sweat beads down his forehead. The pain is searing and hot, like flames dancing over his skin, but he has to push through as much as he can𑁋he has to. People are watching. People are hoping. 

“You see this here, Superman?” the robber spits hoarsely, appearing above him once again with the pendant in his hand. “You can’t win this one. It’s just the beginning.”

If he had his super-strength, or his super-speed, he would’ve punched this robber straight to Mars at this point. But he can’t, especially not with the kryptonite dangling off the man’s neck, taunting him, painfully blurring and mashing together his mind and thoughts. 

But he also can’t let these people die. He’s made a promise to the world: to protect it and its people. 

Channeling every last bit of his strength, Mingyu throws his weight forward onto the robber, collapsing onto the ground and pinning the man right below him. 

“Tell me… who your dealer is,” Mingyu threatens lowly, his voice weak. “Or I’ll fucking end you right here.”

The robber squirms in his hold, kicking and thrashing, refusing to answer. 

“Answer me, dammit!” Mingyu demands again, harsher this time.

But before the robber can answer, the SWAT force finally enters the bank, their guns aimed and shields positioned. Bullets fire deafeningly through the room as the officers non-lethally shoot at the other robbers, forcing their weapons down to the ground. 

Mingyu only groans to himself, giving the man in his hold one more death glare before letting go, and he could only stand and watch as the robber’s eyes remain on him until he disappears out of the building. He can’t bring himself to meet eyes with the hostages as they’re all escorted out of the bank and back outside. 

Paramedics and firefighters start rushing into the bank as Mingyu finds himself leaning against the crumpled doorway, the remnants of the kryptonite still lingering in the air like a poisonous gas. Even as the robbers are taken away, it still doesn’t rid of the burdened guilt threatening to swallow him whole.

“Superman?” an officer’s voice suddenly chimes in.

“I’m fine,” he lies flatly. “Make sure to take the pendants from those bastards and send them to a lab.”

The officer nods before briskly moving away. He can only watch the scene unfold in front of his eyes in trepidation, a sigh of defeat leaving him. He knows he’s already overstayed his welcome in this fight. 

As he exits the bank and prepares to take off, though, a swarm of reporters come rushing in like a harsh wave crashing onto the shore. Incessant flashes of their cameras surround him as they shout over each other to get a single word in. 

“Superman! Superman! Did you really sustain injuries from today’s robbery?”

“Over here! Superman!”

“Were you affected by the robbers’ weapons? Can you explain why?”

Mingyu’s eyes dart around as he forces a strained smile to the cameras. He tries to search for a chance to escape, but the reporters are relentless. But he knows if he reveals remotely anything, there will be somebody already out there watching, waiting, for the moment to exploit him. 

Until a bombshell is dropped.

“Is it true that you have a weakness? What would that mean for the people? The country? The world?”

The mass crowd of reporters fall silent for a few seconds as they anticipate any sort of answer, like time itself has come to a pause. Mingyu feels his heart completely sink. His secret wasn’t just a risk threatening to be expelled anymore𑁋it was happening right before his eyes. The blood rushes to his ears. Cameras continue to roll. Microphones are thrusted in his direction.

His jaw clenches. The silence is enough to offer an answer to the media.

“Superman! How do we know if you’re still able to protect us?”

He doesn’t say a single word. He can’t. There’s no right answer.

Even if he lies or denies it, the world has seen too much.

Every inch of the footage would be dissected frame-by-frame. Everyone would see the pained expression on his face, to the way he literally fell down to his knees, how he was knocked down by a singular punch to the ribs. Everyone would see the glowing green pendants strapped around the robbers like trophies. 

And in some dark spot in the world, someone would see it as an opportunity. 

His heart races with anxiety as he scans over the crowd one final time. He catches every panicked face, every worried look, every pitiful glance in his direction from children and adults alike. But he also spots anger and fear. 

Then his eyes linger on a particular figure.

It’s a man. He’s wearing an all black suit, which appears pressed to perfection, along with a fedora that creates a shadow to shroud over a good chunk of his face. He’s simply just standing there at the edge of the crowd, watching him amidst the chaos surrounding him. Mingyu squints just slightly, allowing his vision to sharpen in on him, and he catches sight of the cold smirk forming at the man’s jagged lips. 

Mingyu feels his fists clench at his sides𑁋not from fear, but from rage. This wasn’t just a robbery; it was planned. 

The crowd only continues to press him, shoving their microphones and flashlights in his face and yelling the same questions over and over again. 

So he makes the only move he can: he flies off, sending a few people almost stumbling to the ground from the force of the launch. 

The voices of the crowd of bystanders and reports fade away as he takes to the skies, the city blurring right beneath him.

When he lands onto the rooftop of the Daily Planet, he’s already trembling. He thinks about everything: the kryptonite, the robbery, the people…

And his thoughts land on you.

His eyes flutter shut.

Mingyu thinks about you, and for some reason, it’s the only thing that’s keeping him grounded right now. He thinks about that particular sparkle in your eyes when you’re working on the case; he thinks about your laughter whenever he fails in his dumb attempts at talking to you; he thinks about your intimidating passion for justice; he thinks about how when he’s with you, he feels like… he can be himself. 

He shouldn’t be thinking about you. He shouldn’t be feeling this much for you.

But he is.

BREAKING: Superman Weakened In National Bank Heist – Mysterious Green Objects To Be Identified The Re-emergence of Green Minerals, From CARAT Corp to Present Day: A National Security Concern Superman’s Weakness Exposed: What Does This Mean For The World?

“Are you just going to be sitting around moping all day like a lost puppy?” Wonwoo’s voice interrupts.

Mingyu just groans. “What else should I be doing when I’m exposed to the entire world?”

“They still don’t know it’s you,” Wonwoo replies evenly, stepping further into the living room with two glasses of water, offering one to him. “They know Superman got hurt; they didn’t know it was you. Your lucky glasses still work as a disguise, somehow.”

Mingyu only continues to silently brood, taking the glass of water from Wonwoo’s hands and chugging it down before placing it back firmly on the coffee table. 

“They were scared,” he says quietly. “The people. I saw it all in their eyes. They looked at me like I… like I failed them, because I did.”

“No,” Wonwoo retorts sharply. “They were scared because they care. Because they’ve come to rely on you when things go to shit in this cesspool of a city. You’re human, Mingyu.”

“I’m not,” Mingyu snaps back, then falters. “I mean… not exactly. Not completely.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Wonwoo shoots him a fixed, stern look. “I mean that you feel things like one. Happiness. Sadness. Everything in between. You care a little too much, and honestly? That’s a good thing, and probably a bad thing.”

Wonwoo’s words settle within the crevices of his bones, because he’s right. He always is. Mingyu isn’t human𑁋he wasn’t organically brought upon this world like everyone else. And yet… Here he is, wearing his sensitive little Kryptonian heart on his sleeve, while feeling guilt, shame, fear, and hurting like any other person would. 

Mingyu slumps further down in the couch, staring at the muted television screen, all of which were constantly replaying the footage of Superman, of him, falling weakly to his knees and grimacing in pain from the kryptonite. There were also several news outlets broadcasting about how Superman seemed to have completely vanished after the incident, and it deepens the fear even more. 

“And what if I can’t save them next time?” Mingyu asks, voice wavering. “What if someone dies because I was too weak enough to save them?”

“Then you grieve, and show up again,” Wonwoo responds like it was the easiest question in the world. “That’s what heroes do.”

Mingyu leans back against the couch and closes his eyes. His mind still aches. 

And then, he hears a soft knock on the apartment door.

He shoots Wonwoo a puzzled look, but Wonwoo only gives him a helpless shrug. Mingyu stands up and heads towards the door, and he feels his heart drop to the floor when he peers through the peephole.

It’s you.

Panicking slightly, he makes sure that he looks slightly presentable𑁋fixing his unkempt hair, putting on his glasses and smoothing out his clothes, even though he sure as hell knows he looks like shit. He clears his throat dramatically a few times and reaches for the lock.

And then he hesitates.

He stares at the door like it’s a ticking time bomb, his pulse rattling loudly in his ears. Why have you come? How did you know where he lives? Either way, you shouldn’t be here. Not now. Not when his weakness is still plastered across every television screen in the country. Not when there’s people out there probably analysing the grainy pictures of his face. And especially not when he’s sure that if you look at him for more than a few seconds, you’ll know that something is off.

But you came anyway.

Mingyu curses under his breath and finally turns the lock, slowly pulling open the door just enough to peek his head out.

“Y/N?”

Your hand is suspended mid-air when the door opens, and you bring it back down to your side.

“Hey,” You greet him all-too-casually, but there’s something else there too𑁋almost like concern.

“Hey,” Mingyu greets back, forcing on a small smile. “How, uh… did you know where I lived?”

You chuckle quietly. “Well, you haven’t stopped by the office to review the case in a few days, so I got… worried, naturally. You’re my partner in this after all. Seungcheol started pestering me about it, and he sort of gave me your address to hunt you down and well… here I am.”

Mingyu’s brows knit together in disbelief. Seungcheol, that bastard. Of course he would be the one to initiate this sort of intervention for him, and of course it would be you who would actually follow through with it. 

“Right,” Mingyu murmurs awkwardly. “That makes sense. Yeah.”

You shift your weight between your two feet, still looking up at him. Mingyu thinks it’s his first time ever seeing you like this𑁋not as the passionate investigative journalist he’s become familiar with, but uncertain and hesitant. You’re not wearing your usual professional and confident front; there’s no sharp gleam in your eye like there is when you’re chasing a lead, no teasing lift at your lips when you’re making fun of him. 

“So,” You continue, carrying your words carefully. “Are you okay?”

Mingyu runs a hand through his dark hair, letting out a few feigned coughs. “Yeah, I… I was just feeling under the weather, you know? I know I should’ve told you, but I didn’t want to worry you, I guess.”

You smile at that, and there’s that little lift to your lips. Maybe he’s the only one who could bring that out of you. 

“Look where that worrying has got me then,” You say, motioning towards the empty hallway. “But you’re alive, so that’s good enough for now.”

You try to keep your tone light, like it’s just a simple check-in between co-workers, but it doesn’t seem as hidden with the way you’re fiddling your fingers aimlessly at the hems of your sleeves. And from the way you can’t let your eyes drift away from his face.

Mingyu feels something in his chest ache. You shouldn’t care this much for him. But you do. And he… he shouldn’t want you to. 

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have come by unannounced, especially if you don’t feel well,” You suddenly say, taking a small step back. “I just thought𑁋Nevermind. I’ll go.”

You turn slightly, already preparing to walk away, when Mingyu opens the door a little farther.

“Wait.”

You stop.

He doesn’t think. He just speaks.

“Do you… want to come inside?” 

Your eyes widen, caught off-guard by the question. “Are you sure?”

Mingyu’s expression stalls for a moment, searching over your face for any unsureness𑁋because if there is, he’ll let you go. He’ll watch you walk away from him even if every fibre and cell in his alien being is fighting to pull you closer. 

But he doesn’t see any of that on you. He can’t tell if that’s a good thing or not.

“Yeah,” he relents. “I’m sure.” 

You fully face yourself towards him. “Okay.”

You step inside his apartment, your eyes scanning around as Mingyu closes the door behind you. It’s clearly lived-in, but tidy. There’s an empty glass and a few cans of beer on the coffee table, a blanket tossed over the couch, and on mute, the TV displaying the information that had taken the world by storm: Superman. 

“Sorry, I wasn’t prepared for any company at all.” Mingyu breaks the silence with an embarrassed laugh. “I live here with Wonwoo𑁋I’ve mentioned him before, he’s over there in the kitchen. He’s on the photojournalism floor. Been helping a little with the case too.”

“Guilty,” Wonwoo adds in while shutting the refrigerator door. 

“Actually, that’s… what I wanted to talk about. The case,” You chime in, turning to Mingyu. “If you have time for it, at least.”

Mingyu hesitates, his fists clenching at his side.

Of course. The case.

“Did you find any leads?” he asks warily.

You smile grimly, clasping your hands together like you’re about to announce a ment, and Mingyu knows that he’s in trouble𑁋not the kind of trouble that involves possible planetary destruction, but the kind that reaches in, pulls at his ribs, and settles somewhere quietly in his heart. 

Or in other words, he may or may not be screwed. 

“After those robbers were arrested, I ran a background check,” You explain. “Found some sketchy things in their financial histories, all linked to the same offshore account. Someone must be literally selling and manufacturing these things like they’re goods. It might explain the pendants they were wearing during the heist.”

Mingyu stiffens.

Wonwoo chimes in from the kitchen. “You believe that someone is possibly selling them to the public?”

“More likely to criminals,” You say with a sigh. “Probably embedding them in cheap-looking metal and selling it under the guise of crystals or pendants. Who knows how many people are wearing this stuff without fully knowing what they are.”

“And they do now.” Wonwoo points towards the muted television. “and they know what it does.”

“Which makes them all the more dangerous,” You continue affirmatively. “And get this. There’s a place that’s been popping up in these records. Pier 13. Do any of you know about that place?” 

Mingyu and Wonwoo exchange a particular look between each other. 

“It’s where CARAT Corp was originally established before it got demolished,” Wonwoo clarifies. “Place has been off-limits for years, but that wouldn’t stop people from snooping around.”

You nod. “I figured as much. They had all kinds of unconfirmed rumours. I pulled up old building records and chemical logs. Whatever they were doing there before it went under, they left behind traces. And someone is deciding to keep it alive.” 

Mingyu bites down at his bottom lip. His eyes are still on you as you continue to explain the leads and information you found, speaking with the confidence of the journalist that the world knows and admires. 

“I don’t think this was just a robbery,” he mutters under his breath.

You glance at him, brows knitting together. “What do you mean?”

“It was… too deliberate. Coordinated. I don’t think they were there just for the money. Who shows up to rob a vault in broad daylight wearing experimental pendants?” Mingyu questions, voice tight with the barest hints of restraint. “They wanted Superman to show up.”

It’s almost as if a bombshell had dropped to the floor. It all makes sense now. 

The news of the heist and Superman has been dominating the news for the past few days. It’s all everyone at the office has been talking and publishing about. You admit that it’s been sticking in your mind as well, especially the footage of him𑁋of Superman, knees down to the ground, breath laboured, the face of fear he wore𑁋collapsing. 

That image hasn’t left your head since you saw it. 

“Superman has always been quite the phenomenon, hasn’t he?” You murmur, more to yourself. “I mean, I’ve hardly ever been interested in writing pieces about him𑁋I usually leave those to the cocky columnists. He’s done a lot of good things, for sure. People idolise him. His name would always top the headlines for even the smallest things.”

In the background, Mingyu chuckles nervously. “Sounds like you’ve got a bit of a grudge against him.”

You look over at him, quirking up a brow. “Not a grudge. Just a healthy level of skepticism. Comes with the job, you know? Even when he saved my bag from being stolen that one time, I’d never put him on a pedestal like that𑁋never wrote his name in glittering gold like the rest of the city does.”

Mingyu snorts at that. “You’re different.”

“I am?”

“Yeah. Well… Everyone I’ve ever talked to has always looked up at him in that way𑁋like he’s some sort of god. Untouchable. But you…” Mingyu trails off, eyes flickering to yours for just a second before looking away. “You don’t see him that way.” 

You tilt your head, watching him closely. “And is that a bad thing?”

Mingyu pauses. Considering. Hesitation and awe spiraling around him. He shakes his head.

“No,” he answers meekly. “I don’t think it is.” 

You smile at that, and Mingyu thinks he could kiss you right now. His chest aches, and it’s ridiculous to think that it feels more painful than damn kryptonite radiation.

“Good,” You muse softly, then you add in playfully, “Besides, if he were perfect, I think I’d hate him a little bit. It’s the flaws that make people interesting, anyway.”

The two of you exchange a bit of laughter at that, and it’s almost as if for once, the world feels at peace. And it doesn’t help that you’re looking at him with such an easy smile as well. Gosh, the things he would do to just rip his glasses off right now and confess everything to you, and yet, he knows that he has to protect you.

Even if it meant hiding the biggest secret of his life right in front of you. 

“Well, I… I should probably get going now. I’ll head to the office and update Seungcheol with everything,” You say. “I already got some people working on trying to trace a source for these accounts. I’ll call you if I get any more leads.”

Mingyu clears his throat, snapping himself out of a daze, scrambling to go open the door. “Right, yeah. Okay.”

When you step back into the hallway of the apartment building, you turn back towards him.

“Take care, alright?” You tell him, and the way you say it so sincerely, so softly, undoes something in him. “Come back when you’re feeling well. Just… don’t disappear on me like that again, okay?”

Mingyu watches as you start walking down the hallway, your back facing him as he feels his throat tighten. A defeated sigh leaves him as he steps back into his apartment, closing the door with a quiet lock. He stares at it for a few moments like it held all the answers to the universe.

Wonwoo appears behind him, arms crossed.

“She’s going to figure it out eventually, you know.”

Mingyu hopelessly rests his forehead against the cold door. “I know.”

“Then what?”

A simple question. A difficult answer.

“Then I just hope… she still sees me.”

Even if the world doesn’t know his identity, Mingyu swears he can feel every pair of eyes on him in the room.

The entire morning he’s been hearing all the mutters about Superman’s lack of… presence lately, to put it lightly. He hasn’t exactly shown his face to the public, or done any of his classic superhero deeds ever since the heist at the bank, and it’s obvious that it has been taking a toll on people, on everyone, on him. 

The world is losing faith in Superman. In him. 

He finds himself staring anxiously at the two cups of coffee sitting on his desk𑁋one for himself, and one for you. His eyes flit to the clock that’s sitting intimidatingly on the wall of the office. You seem to be running a few minutes behind𑁋not that he’s counting or anything. It’s only the fifth time he’s checked the time in the last three minutes.

The elevator dings.

Mingyu’s posture immediately straightens at the sound, and he looks up sharply, just as you step through the doors. Your coat looks slightly askew, your hair somewhat tousled, as if you failed at fighting the wind on the way here. A small stack of folders is tucked underneath your arms. You look a little frazzled. Still, when his eyes land on you, he doesn’t realise he’s already smiling.

Your eyes glance around the room, and then you spot Mingyu immediately𑁋of course you do. It’s hard not to miss him. The sunlight cowering in through the windows shines a faint halo around his head, and he wears that familiar, stupidly nice smile you can’t unsee once when it’s aimed directly at you. 

“Hey,” You breathe out as you approach, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Sorry, I was late. Heavy detour from a car accident on 17th. City traffic was hell.”

Mingyu simply shakes his head, already offering your cup of coffee. “It’s all good.”

You raise a brow as you take it from his hand, fingers brushing against his as you take the cup. “For me?”

“Who else would it be for?”

You roll your eyes at that, taking a sip. Mingyu watches you carefully. 

“With all your trials and tribulations,” You start, taking another sip of the coffee. “I’d say you got the coffee-to-sugar ratio about sixty-five percent correct. Well done.”

Mingyu lets out a relieved sigh. “Sixty-five is a passing grade, you know.”

“According to your terms.” You flash a smile behind your cup, and it makes his chest thrum unevenly. “On mine, it’s barely passing.” 

“So, technically, I still passed,” Mingyu remarks playfully, leaning against the side of his desk.

He’s gotten more confident around you, you consider. It’s cute. 

“Barely,” You shoot back again. “but I’ll let it slide for now. You’ll have to work a little harder.”

Mingyu laughs, and it comes out so effortlessly, so genuine. It’s enough to momentarily silence all the worry that’s been swirling around his head the past few days. You do that to him𑁋ease the tension, smooth the sharp edges with your natural brilliance and determination. He’s painfully aware of the irony: the only person who makes him feel human is also the one he has to keep the biggest truth from. 

Before he can say anything else, a voice booms across the office. It’s Seungcheol. 

“Y/N! Mingyu! Office in five!” 

You give Mingyu a look. “Guess that’s our cue.”

He nods, reaching for his own notes as he falls in step beside you. The two of you wordlessly make your way over to Seungcheol’s office, shoulder-to-shoulder. He hopes you don’t mind the closeness. And upon entering, Seungcheol gestures for you both to sit down. Sunlight bleeds across the table as the two of you take a seat. 

At the corner of Mingyu’s vision, he spots something pulled up on Seungcheol’s monitor: pictures of Superman, of him. His blood grows cold. 

“I’ve been going through your latest reports,” Seungcheol begins. “Both of you have been neck-deep in the green mineral case, and I’ve gotta say, I’m impressed. The idea that whatever this is being sold and distributed like cheap souvenirs is insane. Dangerous. And if it’s true… it could change everything.”

You nod slowly. “I’ve got people trying to work on confirming a direct supplier and checking out Pier 13. There’s definitely a trail somewhere. Hopefully we’ll mark it down without losing it in all the noise recently.”

Seungcheol leans in from his chair, stapling his hands together. “Exactly. Which brings me something I wanted to run by with you.”

The air takes in a visible inhale.

“No one’s seen or heard from Superman since the heist,” Seungcheol starts to explain, and Mingyu sure as hell doesn’t like where this is going already. “No appearances. No saves. The car accident from this morning? When it happened, the peoples’ first thoughts started with Superman. But now? They think he’s abandoned them. Fear is turning into anger.”

Mingyu shifts beside you, his heart plummeting and racing at the same time. You clear your throat loudly.

“Alright, what are you proposing?” You ask curiously.

“There’s the golden question,” Seungcheol says with a smirk. “I want an interview with Superman, and I want you to do it, Y/N.”

Mingyu chokes on air from that, nearly dropping a pen he’s been nervously fiddling with between his fingers. His eyes quickly dart to you, then back to Seungcheol, wondering if he even heard the man correctly.

You blink. “You want… me to interview Superman?”

“I want you to try,” Seungcheol replies ardently. “We don’t know where he is. He’s gone quiet. People are starting to panic. This green mineral situation isn’t helping in the slightest. We need answers, his insight about what this stuff is, and you’re one of the few people I trust to ask the right questions.”

You give a brief pause, unsure if you should feel flattered or not. “I’ve never even talked to him before. Not really.”

Seungcheol lifts a brow. “Didn’t he save your bag once?”

“That doesn’t exactly make us close friends. I had to suffer through an entire day’s worth of being referred to as ‘bag girl’. Wouldn’t recommend it.”

Mingyu feels a little guilty for that. He slumps even deeper in the chair, trying hold himself back from saying something𑁋to tell you and Seungcheol this is a terrible idea, that maybe Superman isn’t ready to face the world like that, to face you like that. But, instead, he chooses to say nothing. 

He’s too deep in his head to notice the way you sideways glance at him. 

“How would I even get in contact with him?” You ask. “It’s not like he has a press secretary or a hotline I could call.”

Seungcheol leans back helplessly, though his lips lift up into the kind of smile that always spells trouble. “That’s the thing. We don’t know. But if there’s anyone who can figure out how to get his attention, it’s you.”

You raise your brows at him, mouth parting in disbelief. “What, you just want me to shout into the sky and hope he hears me?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s tried it,” Seungcheol says jokingly, before his expression turns back to serious. “Look, I get it. It’s a shot in the dark. But the Daily Planet is trusted, more than any government agency and broadcast network these days. And you’ve gathered yourself a respected reputation already. Maybe if you write a column, an open letter, or get your bag snagged again, he’ll show.”

You chuckle at the last idea as your tongue presses into your cheek, thinking, thoughts already joggling through possible ideas without even meaning to. That always happens when a story itches at the back of your brain. You hate that Seungcheol𑁋and this ridiculous suggestion𑁋might be right.

Beside you, Mingyu remains unusually quiet.

“Let me sleep on it,” You finally say after a long moment. “I’m not saying no. Just let me think it through. But if I do this… I want full independence. No one breathing down my neck, no pre-written questions. If he even agrees to the interview, it has to be on his terms. Not the Planet’s.”

Seungcheol nods, as if he was already half-expecting for you to suggest that. “You’ve got the microphone.” Then his eyes flicker to the clock, and he claps a hand on the desk. “Alright. Meeting’s over. We’ve got a story to chase. Keep me updated, you two. You’re doing great.”

As you and Mingyu gather your belongings and exit out of Seungcheol’s office, you turn to him with a sigh.

“So.” Your shoulders relax. “Guess I gotta dress up pretty for a date with the Man of Steel.”

Mingyu chuckles softly at that𑁋almost too softly that he nearly regrets it. A reluctant smile stretches across his face, a glimmer of panic flashing behind his eyes that you miss as you face forward to place your cup of coffee and files on your desk. 

“A date, huh?” he says, an attempt at lightness, though his chest tightens at the word.

You shoot him a teasing look. “What? Jealous already?”

He clears his throat. “No. Just… didn’t expect you to call it a date.”

“Well,” You muse with a shrug. “I mean, if I’m risking my career and sanity tracking down a metaman who doesn’t even have a phone number or any line of contact, I should at least get a drink out of it, don’t you think?”

Mingyu fixes his glasses, heat rushing up his neck. “Right. Drinks. Maybe he’ll fly you to Italy for an espresso.”

You grin lightly at the thought, sliding back into your chair, and he tries his best to pretend his entire world isn’t crumbling by the seconds that tick by. There’s no good way to stop this now, and the worst part is that he wants to be interviewed by you. He wants to know how it feels to sit down with you as himself𑁋or, rather, his other self𑁋and answer all your questions, the easy ones and the hard ones, just to see that admiring sparkle in your eyes when you’re in your element.

Just to be with you. 

“You’re considering it, aren’t you?” Mingyu asks after a second.

You glance over at him as you power on your computer, offering a shrug. “If it helps the people, and helps us get more information, then it might be worth it.”

Mingyu takes a nervous sip of his coffee. “Do you think he’d say yes?”

“To the interview?”

“Yeah.”

You cross one leg over the other, rotating your chair to face him. “Well, if you were Superman, hypothetically, would you say yes?”

He stares at you𑁋really stares at you𑁋catching sight of that intimidating fire behind your eyes, the curve of your smile, the slight lift of your brow as you wait for his answer. 

“If I were Superman…” he echoes slowly, dragging his words carefully. “...and it was you asking?’

You nod. “That’s the premise.”

He pretends to think. Pretends to put his own thoughts into the person who is him. Pretends to not already know the answer, despite the hammering of his heart in his chest telling him to avoid the topic altogether. 

“If it’s you asking,” Mingyu begins, eyes locking with yours. “I don’t think I could say no.”

There’s a quiet stillness that follows. No one else in the office seems to notice it but him, and maybe you do too, because your lips part𑁋maybe to tease, maybe to question𑁋yet nothing comes out of it. 

However, a smile, one full of amusement, blooms across your lips.

“Then I hope Superman is as receptive as you are, Mingyu.”

Hope is Missing: An Open Letter to Superman By Y/N L/N Investigative Journalist, Daily Planet 

The wind is cool tonight. Brisk enough to have the loose ends of your clothes ruffle through the night air, but not so cold that you mind waiting. You’ve been sitting at the rooftop of the Daily Planet for over an hour at this point, way longer than you had intended, as the clock dials close to midnight. A notepad and recorder sits in front of you, empty just like the seat across. 

You glance down at your shoes, then back up to the darkened sky.

No sign of him. Of anything, really. 

The open letter had been published yesterday morning, a few days after Seungcheol had proposed the idea. It had gone viral almost instantly. People talked, speculated, wondered. And yet here you are, alone on the rooftop, and talking to the stars.

There’s a part of you that feels rather foolish. If anything, at least the view of the city is decent enough to fill you up with a sense of peace𑁋you hardly ever come up to the rooftop, and you think there’s something quite beautiful about seeing the world asleep beneath your feet. You wonder if Superman feels this way when he flies through the skies. 

You click your pen shut as you pull your coat tighter around you, a sudden rush of wind running past your skin. The feeling leaves as fast as it came in, and the sigh that escapes your mouth follows along with it. 

You should really go home. 

But you don’t.

Because as you start to gather your things, there’s another near-silent whoosh that stops you in  your place. It’s subtle, yet far from natural, brushing against the nape of your neck like the ghost of a caress. It sends a shiver down your spine.

“Sorry, I’m late.”

You nearly jump from the voice.

It’s soft, deep, and so alarmingly close that it has you whipping your head around, your notepad clutched at your chest like some makeshift shield. 

And there he is.

Superman. In the flesh, standing with that iconic posture and wearing the famous colours of red and blue of his suit, cape fluttering behind him in the wind. Moonlight drapes over his figure, and he appears almost otherworldly. Somehow, it’s different from the last time you saw him that morning when your bag got stolen. 

That time, he was confident and poise𑁋you briefly recall the moment he shamelessly flirted you too𑁋as if the world was his greatest trophy. But now, there’s something… softer, fonder.

Vulnerable, even.

“Hi,” You manage to croak out, because it’s the only word your mind is able to process at this moment. 

Superman smiles. It isn’t the big, flashy one that the tabloids like to plaster across every news article, but a small, almost boyish curve of his lips that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You feel a strange buzz underneath your skin.

“Hello, Miss L/N,” he greets back calmly, taking a few steps towards you, eyeing the empty seat at the table. “This seat taken?”

You blink, before it all registers back. “Oh, no, it’s not. Here, um, let me𑁋” You quickly scramble to pull the seat open for him. “Take a seat.”

You watch as he gives a short laugh before moving to the empty seat. He moves with grace, with purpose, with power; and yet, there’s something oddly humble in the way he folds himself into the chair, like he’s trying not to take up too much of your space. 

When you take the seat in front of him, his eyes briefly shoot down at the recorder that you place between the two of you, but you don’t hit the record button yet. 

“You picked the weirdest time to show up for an interview,” You remark lightly as you prepare your notes. 

“And you picked the most obvious location to have it in,” Superman declares back as he lets his gaze drift down to the constellation of city lights below. “It’s nice, though. I’ll give you credit for that.”

You glance up, the corner of your lip twitching at the comment. “Figured out it was symbolic, you know. Being high up, close to the stars. Maybe you’d feel more at home.” 

Your eyes are drawn back to your notepad of questions, scanning over each one slowly and carefully. You don’t catch the way his gaze locks back onto you. 

“Yeah,” he mutters quietly. “Home.”

As you finish reviewing your notes, you pick your head back up. “Alright, before we start, are there any boundaries you want to set? Anything in particular you want me to not ask?”

Superman considers your words for a moment, tilting his head. “Not exactly, I would say. But if I did want something… what is it that journalists say again? If I want something𑁋”

“Off the record?”

“Right. Off the record,” he echoes back proudly. “If I wanted something off the record, you’d respect that, right?” 

“Of course,” You answer as you nod without hesitation. “I’m not here to trap you, don’t worry. I’m here to understand you.” 

He hums amusedly, a gentle sound that slips from his throat like a sigh of relief. Then, he offers you a nod of his own, signaling that you could start. 

You reach over tentatively to hit the record button on the recorder. A click reverberates through the air. 

“Time is… 11:43PM. This is Y/N L/N, reporting for the Daily Planet, speaking with𑁋well, I suppose you don’t need an introduction, do you?” 

Superman chuckles at that, a bit raspier at the edges like he’s been holding it in for a while. His hand brushes over the table briefly, before it stills.

“I guess not,” he murmurs. “But you can call me Superman, if it’s easier for you.”

You force yourself to bite back a smile at that, before returning back to the task at hand, adjusting your posture just slightly. Across from you, he mirrors the movement without even thinking. 

“Right. Well, tonight I’ll be speaking with Superman.” You lock a steady gaze on him. “First off, I wanted to thank you for agreeing to this, considering the circumstances lately.”

“It’s a pleasure to be speaking with you, Miss L/N.” Then his eyes soften𑁋the way he addresses you sends a flip to your stomach. “I should be thanking you. I… read the letter that you published. Every word. It was honest, and I owe the people an explanation. An apology, perhaps.” 

You lift a brow at his humility, the tip of your pen roaming over the surface of your notes. “Some might say you disappeared when people needed you most. After the heist at the National Bank, your absence wasn’t just felt, it caused panic. Do you regret it?”

There’s a pause.

His gaze drops to the space between you, hands clasped loosely in front of him on the table. His thumbs brush together in slow, deliberate circles, and when he lifts his eyes back up again, there's something unguarded in them.

“I do,” Superman answers quietly. “I didn’t plan to disappear. I wasn’t trying to… abandon anyone. But during the heist, I was hurt. The green minerals used by the robbers is called kryptonite. And it isn’t just dangerous𑁋it weakens me, my strength, my powers.”

You swiftly write on your notepad as you ask the next question, “What can you tell me about kryptonite? Its origin? What does it do to you, exactly?”

His brows furrow slightly, trying to find the right words. “It’s… hard to describe. It originally came from my home planet, Krypton. Its fragments of what’s left of it after it ceased to exist, scattered it all over space. Your earth’s sun makes it radioactive to me. When I’m near it, the radiation simply… strips those powers away from me. It’s like breathing in poison.”

You take in his words carefully, writing down the information on your notes with cadence. He simply observes you as you write, with your head bent over the paper, lips pursed in concentration, your hair slipping endearingly over your forehead. It’s almost too much to you have this close, yet he could only admire you𑁋this is probably the closest he’ll ever have you, anyway. 

“Krypton… is your home planet, you said?” You glance back up at him for confirmation, and he forces himself to concentrate back on the interview.

“Correct,” Superman affirms, his features wistfully fading into something sad, nostalgic. “I crash-landed here on Earth after it was destroyed. From what I know, not… not one of my people had survived, except me. I was just a baby, so Earth is the only home I really remember. Raised here, pretty much.”

Your pen hovers over the paper hesitantly, considerately. “Do you miss it?”

An unscripted question. 

Mingyu𑁋no, Superman, he mentally reminds himself𑁋hesitates for a few seconds. Not because he doesn’t have an answer, but because he knows how much of himself he potentially risks giving it away. 

“I… don’t know, honestly,” he starts, voice lower now. “I guess you could say I miss the idea of it sometimes. But I’ve found my home here with people I care about. There’s something about this city that makes it hard not to love, you know?”

He looks at you when he says it.

The words hang in the air between you, heavy and weightless all at once. 

You don’t write that one down; instead, you file it into a safe space in the back of your mind. 

“Never picked you to be the sentimental type, Superman,” You tease lightly with a pleased shake of your head. 

A playful glint catches in his dark eyes. “You bring that out of me, I suppose.” 

“Do I now?” You counter back playfully, clicking your pen shut. “And do you always flirt with every person you save?”

Superman grins cheesily at that. “Only certain ones, especially if their bags get stolen.” Then his eyes brighten up mischievously. “Keep that off the record, though.”

Petals of warmth bloom throughout your chest at that, and gosh, you already know you would have to cut out so many parts in this recording when you update Seungcheol about the case, because you really don’t want to be accused of fraternising with Superman, as ridiculous as it sounds. 

It’s strange, really𑁋how you’re casually sitting here interviewing a literal alien superhero with powers that defies the laws of anything, and yet, the two of you are sitting here like you’ve known each other for months.

For a few moments, you don’t know how to respond to that, and the only thing you can do is to clear your obnoxiously dry throat. You partly blame the cold air for it.

“Anyways, well𑁋next question.” You snap your pen open again. “The kryptonite. We’ve received multiple sources proving that it’s being distributed in bulk to criminals around the city under the disguise of those pendants from the heist. Criminals are wearing them when committing their crimes. Do you have any insights on that?” 

He sobers up instantly, expression turning serious. 

“My only guess is that they’re using the kryptonite to bring me down.”

You hum approvingly. “And do you have a reason why they would want to bring you down?”

He stills briefly, then answers carefully, “For power. For leverage. Fear. I’m the biggest obstacle between standing between them and their ambitions, so getting rid of me would offer less resistance. Fear is easier to spread when hope is chipped away.”

You give a thoughtful nod as you digest his words. Your pen scratches softly against the paper as you scribble down his responses. When you pick your head back up, he holds a steady gaze on you already, and it’s making it harder and harder for you to stay objective. 

“Is that what you consider yourself, Superman?” You ask lightly. “A symbol of hope?”

Something flickers across his eyes, before he shakes his head.

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

Those words seem to hit you𑁋an unexpected vulnerability from someone who appears untouchable to anything. The answer makes you smile, however, although very faintly. 

“Some people argue that the world is too dependent on you. That humanity relies on you too much to fix things when we should be fixing it ourselves,” You begin to ask. “What is your response to that?”

Superman doesn’t answer right away. His head hangs low, but it’s not from defeat. Far from it.

“I want humanity to fix itself. I’ve never wanted to stand above anyone else. My role on Earth has… never been about solving problems.” He looks back up, eyes shining with something fierce, passionate, and kind. “It’s about standing with the people. Reminding them that they can fight. I don’t rescue people because they are weak𑁋I rescue them because they deserve a chance to keep going.”

“Then why stay?” You press a little more, writing as you ask. “Why keep risking yourself if there’s no realistic way for humanity to fix its own issues? Doesn’t it ever make you feel… hopeless, in a way?”

The silence stretches a little. The only sound comes from the recorder whirring between the two of you, recording every word. 

“I do have days where I wonder if I’m really making a difference,” he admits. “But then I see a firefighter run up to a burning building without hesitation. I see a kid stand up to a bully. I see people love each other, even through the messiness and brokenness that comes with it.”

He leans in slightly, folding his arms across the table. 

“You don’t have to be indestructible to protect people. You just have to be willing. Courage doesn’t come from having powers𑁋it comes from choices and actions. I didn’t choose to have these abilities, but I did choose what I wanted to do with them. Which, to answer that, is doing the greater good.” 

Quietness floats through the air as you write down his answers. You can barely feel the cold on your skin anymore. When your gaze roams over the next question, you nearly debate skipping it entirely, but that wouldn’t be honest𑁋not as a journalist. And not with him.

You take in an inhale. “Superman.”

“Miss L/N.”

The corners of your lips quiver from hearing him call you that. 

“How do you choose who to save?”

His face doesn’t change. But if you looked at him even closer, the stillness that settles over him is a different kind. More heavy. 

“I mean,” You continue carefully. “When the world is falling apart in five places at once, when lives are on the line in different corners of the city… how do you live knowing you can’t be everywhere? How do you pick? And how do you carry the burden of the ones you don’t get to in time?” 

It’s probably the toughest, most human question you’ve asked this entire night. You watch him closely. 

“Sometimes, when I fly, I can hear almost everything,” Superman begins. “Sirens. Screams. Prayers. I hear them all. At times, it becomes overwhelming𑁋sort of crushes me with all this pressure. And it hurts physically, emotionally, mentally.”

You say nothing, letting your pen stay still to listen.

“It’s unbearable knowing I can’t reach them all. There are times where I’m five seconds too late.” His voice is tighter now. “I don’t choose who to save based on who matters more. I pick because someone needs help, and I move as fast as I can, wherever I can. But it doesn’t make the ones I couldn’t reach any easier to forget.”

The way he’s looking at you while answering almost makes you feel like you’re being stripped bare. It’s not invasive, but honest. Raw honesty. 

“But here’s what I believe,” he continues modestly. “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.”

You hardly notice how close his hand is to yours on the table now, but you can’t will yourself to move. You don’t know why. Maybe it’s because of the way he speaks so achingly human about the way he carries his pain, about the way he speaks not like some saviour or god𑁋just as a man learning to navigate with the weight of the world on his shoulders constantly. Just a man trying to do what’s right. 

It makes your curiosities wander as well, because who exactly is Superman? 

“So, um, in light of all things,” You begin, readying your pen up once more. “What is your plan? How do you intend to stop the kryptonite distribution around the city?”

He shifts in his chair, his body language becoming more focused, determined, while the city lights dance across his eyes. There’s a pause as you observe the way he searches for the right words, his jaw tightening a fraction as he gathers his thoughts.

“I’ll stop them, no matter what it takes,” he answers with certainty. 

You jot all of this down on your notepad. Then you gaze back up at him, and you feel a pinch of worry. “Are you sure you’ll be able to handle it?”

He laughs halfheartedly at that. “I’ve handled worse things.”

Yet your face remains steady with concern. “What about the kryptonite? What if… it doesn’t go your way? If they succeed, what happens then?”

Mingyu𑁋no, Superman, shit𑁋feels an odd tug at his heartstrings at the way you ask it. It’s unsettling, yet comforting all at once. Because you care, the same kind of care you expressed to him when you showed up at his doorstep the other week as he gave you the lame excuse of being sick for his absence. You’ve shown care to both sides of his coin, even if you don’t fully realise it, and that means something.

It’s so, so hard. He has to constantly remind himself that in moments like these, he’s supposed to be Superman, not Mingyu, even if his instincts ache to scream at you. 

“No matter what happens to me, or how dark it gets,” Superman finally says after a long beat, his tone bittersweet. “I’ll never stop fighting.”

With a final, firm nod, you document down his responses and let the silence settle between the two of you. You managed to cover a lot of ground, and there’s definitely a lot of information you can work with for the case as well as the article that you plan to write surrounding the interview. When you finish writing, you reach a finger over to click stop on the recorder. 

“Right. Thank you for your time, Superman. I believe that’s all the questions I have for you for tonight,” You say as you close your notepad and begin to gather your things.

“For tonight?” he repeats with a sly look. “So there will be… other nights?”

You scoff at that while shoving your notepad and recorder back into your bag, but the warmth blooming in your cheeks betrays you. 

“Don’t push your luck, Superman,” You say teasingly, slinging your bag over your shoulder, already taking a few steps towards the door back into the building. “I’m going to start thinking you’re interested in me.”

“And what if I am?”

You freeze in place at that, your grip tightening around the strap of your bag. When you turn around, he’s already stood up, his red cape flying behind him in the cool, nighttime breeze. Despite the banter, there’s something about the way he’s looking at you𑁋something soft and devastatingly earnest. 

“There’s a city that needs saving out there,” You assure him as calmly as you can be. “I’m sure you have better things to do than to entertain… this. Don’t put me on your priority list.”

And yet, some deep part of your heart aches at your own words.

Superman only steps closer to you. Your feet stay planted heavily on the ground. 

“Five minutes,” he says.

You blink up at him. “What?”

“Five minutes. That’s all I ask for,” he mutters, quieter this time. “The city can wait five minutes, can it?”

This earns him a narrowed gaze from you as you peer at him carefully. You could leave. You could leave this moment behind and carry on with your life, investigate and finish the case, and forget the fact that a man who has the power to wield the Earth in his own hands is standing right in front of you, asking for something as simple as five minutes of your time. 

You know what you’re getting into if you allow your feelings to get the better of you. You can’t possibly be this careless with your heart without knowing all the pieces of who he is. It’s risky𑁋so, so risky. 

But the other part of you, the part that’s been slowly falling into his orbit, tells you to stay. It’s just five minutes. Only five minutes. 

“Five minutes,” You repeat softly. “No more, no less.”

Superman grins knowingly from where he stands. “You have my word.”

You watch as he takes a few more steps towards you, and suddenly, without warning, he extends a hand to you. An open invitation. You stare at him in disbelief for a few moments.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am,” he says with confidence, his hand unwavering in the space between you. “Do you trust me?”

You stand there in hesitation, the question lingering in the air, as your eyes flicker between his outstretched hand and the twinkling lights of the city skyline. When your gaze flits back up to him, he’s still waiting, eyes hopeful but not demanding. It’s crazy how easy it is to get swept up in the charm of a superhero. 

But… there’s more to him, isn’t there?

Taking a deep breath, you meet him halfway, and let your fingertips graze against his palm, before your hand finally settles in his. The warmth from his hand sends a strange wave of flutters throughout your body, and it’s almost as if the world around the two of you softened into something more… safer. 

You catch the way he smiles at the contact, and he lets his own hand fully embrace yours. With a gentle tug, he drags you towards the end of the rooftop. The wind kisses your face a little harder, the sleeping city stretching beneath your feet. 

You stiffen instinctively when your toes reach close to the edge, but you feel his grip tighten in your eyes. 

He turns to face you, and even under the sliver of moonlight that casts on his face, you still see the softness in his expression.

“Ready?” he asks.

You shoot him a flat look. “Define ready.”

All he does is chuckle. And before you can second-guess yourself, he steps off the edge. With you in his arms. 

A sharp yelp leaves you as the wind roars past your ears. Your free hand shoots up to grasp onto the front of his suit so tightly you swear you could probably tear it. Your heart slams against your ribs, nothing but pure fear spreading through your veins. 

Then you feel the sudden shift in air, a rush of gravity failing away𑁋and then, impossibly, you’re rising.

Flying.

Beneath you, the city starts to blur into nothing but tiny pinpricks of light. The feeling that your feet are touching virtually nothing is enough to send a wave of adrenaline crashing through you as you realise how high you’ve gone, and you cling to him even more, completely afraid to let go.

“You’re okay,” Superman reassures you, voice nearly fading in the wind. “I’ve got you.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, nails digging helplessly into his suit. “That’s easy for you to say! You’re used to flying!”

Even with your eyes closed, you swear you still know that he’s smiling. The gusts of air rushing past your ear start to slow, and you feel his hand begin to snake around your waist to secure you even more. Your heart is pounding so loud you’re sure he could hear it. You stay clamped against him, too afraid to open your eyes, too aware of how close he is to you without fully seeing it.

“Hey,” he coaxes gently. “Open your eyes.”

You shake your head furiously. “No way in hell. I’m good here, thanks.”

“Come on, you’re missing the best part,” he says, laughter tucked in his voice. “Just trust me.”

With gritted teeth, you peek open one eye. Just barely.

And you gasp.

Below you, the city sprawls out in a blanket of gold and silver. You can’t even tell the buildings apart since they appear mashed together. Above, the stars are so much closer than you could remember𑁋close enough you could probably touch it if you’ve reached for them. It’s breathtaking, overwhelming, dizzying, and yet, you don’t have it in you to look away.

“Holy shit, I can’t believe you𑁋that we’re𑁋” You purse your lips together for a moment, unable to form proper words. “You’re insane. Absolutely, recklessly, insane.”

“And you’re beautiful.”

Your breath catches painfully in your throat at his words.

You blink up at him in surprise. Superman’s eyes𑁋no, Mingyu’s eyes, but you don’t know that yet𑁋are trained on you, disarming you from the fact that you’re suspended probably thousands of feet in the air that death is beyond inevitable if there’s even one wrong move. He can see the way your heart is racing in your ribcage, the way you’re shaking in his grasp. But none of that matters because you’re in his arms, and you don’t feel like you’re going to fall.

You don’t even realise that you’re staring at him, attempting to decipher through every detail of his face that seems so familiar, and yet so different.

However, your thoughts are clouded the moment he tilts his head slightly, and naturally, your eyes briefly shoot down at his lips before immediately snapping back at his eyes. But he notices. Of course, he notices. 

Then, he leans in closer, and you feel the slightest touch of the tip of his nose onto yours, and he pauses. He’s giving you the opportunity to pull away, to tell him to stop and that this was a bad idea. But you don’t. You can’t.

And then, his lips brush against yours.

The kiss is soft, so soft, like he’s afraid of breaking you, afraid of letting you go more than you letting go of him. It starts off slow, questioning, asking for permission. And the second you kiss him back, he pulls you closer against him and deepens the kiss just slightly more, your chest meeting his. He’s warm. Solid. Real. 

It’s exhilarating, albeit terrifying in a way that has nothing to do with the fact that you’re hovering in the middle of the vast, endless night sky. The stars above burn a little brighter, the wind hums around you in quiet awe, and for the first time tonight, you feel weightless not because you’re flying𑁋but because you’re his; at least, for however long this five minutes will be. 

You’re kissing Superman𑁋the thought is as ridiculous as it sounds𑁋but with the stars and sky as your witnesses, you don’t care.

When the kiss breaks, you’re met with his unsure gaze, like he’s waiting for something, anything, to give him a sense of what you’re thinking. His shaky breath fans against your warm skin. He’s still so close to you.

“I…” His voice trails off. “Are you okay?”

You don’t answer right away, your lips still tingling from the kiss. You’re still clinging onto him, his hand is still on your waist, and the world is still somehow spinning on its axis like everything about this moment is normal. But it’s not. 

Your mind races too fast to be able to catch up with it the more you stare up at him. There’s something, just something about the goddamn way he’s looking at you that feels so familiar. 

There’s something about his eyes.

About the curve of his lips, the slope of his cheekbones, the warmth of his voice, the care in his touch. 

There’s something about him telling you, merely screaming at you𑁋that you’ve seen his face before. The thought is gnawing at the edges of your thoughts like a parasite, refusing to let go. It won’t stop.

And then it hits you. You probably stop breathing altogether.

Because if you focused with whatever strength you have, you’ve seen that face. You’ve seen it nearly every day ever since you started working at the Daily Planet, sitting across from you at the office or next to you in the conference room while you’re neck-deep in case files. You’ve seen it wear that particular lopsided smile whenever you tease him. You’ve seen that face whenever his glasses accidentally lower too much on his nose. You’ve seen him.

You almost want to laugh𑁋because that’s absolutely absurd, right? 

But it could be him. If you imagined him without the glasses, with his hair slicked back perfectly, then it could be him. If you focused on the voice, his large build, his hands…

God, the hands.

You swear your heart trips over itself.

“Yeah, I’m…” You mutter, voice unsteady, trying to pull yourself together when you’re everything but okay. “I’m okay.”

An exhale of relief leaves him.

“Okay,” he whispers, pulling you a little closer again. “Five minutes are up. Here, let me… Let me take you back down.”

As the wind starts rushing through your hair once more, you find yourself descending back onto the rooftop of the Daily Planet. Your feet land back on the ground with the lightness of a feather. Superman𑁋no, Mingyu?𑁋doesn’t let go of you right away, but when he reluctantly does, the cold that replaces his touch instantly hugs around you. 

He steps back just slightly, and you watch him with uncertainty, confusion tightening its knots in your chest. Your heart wants to say something, and maybe he does too, from the way his expression softens into a bittersweet look. 

His back is almost turned towards you when you finally call back out to him, “Wait.”

He pauses, stiffening, and turns back toward you. 

You swallow a thick lump down your throat. “Will I… see you again?”

There’s a beat𑁋a long, torturous beat𑁋where you think you may have said something wrong. Maybe you shouldn’t want this, whatever this is supposed to be. Maybe you’re so stubborn to think you could be with someone like him. Maybe Superman isn’t supposed to belong to anyone but the world. 

But then… he smiles. You know that smile, you swear you do.

“If you need me,” he starts quietly. “I’ll be here.”

It’s not much. It’s barely even an answer.

Before you can say anything more, he’s bending his knees and pushing up towards the sky. You watch as he turns into nothing more than a speck in the clouds as the night and stars swallow him whole.

The rooftop feels a lot emptier now as you’re left standing alone. 

If your speculations are right, and you’re not just losing your mind over stress and a severe lack of sleep, then what the hell does that even mean?

For the investigation?

For your partnership?

For… you?

“These were images taken from Wonwoo in photojournalism and… See?” You motion to the grainy picture in front of you on Seungcheol’s desk. “Shipments were reported to have an odd green glow around them while being transported to Pier 13. These guys aren’t slick at all.”

Seungcheol squints down at the photo. “That is definitely kryptonite alien tech right there.”

“Exactly,” You affirm with confidence. “I’ve already cross-checked all the logs from the pier’s cargo records for the past six months. There isn’t any official documentation, no scheduled deliveries, or inputs from customs. It’s all ghost shipment.” 

“And you pulled all these conclusions just from that interview with Superman alone?” Seungcheol questions, clearly impressed.

You nod once. “You could say so. The pieces started coming together after that night.”

That night. You don’t elaborate, and Seungcheol doesn’t press any further about it, thankfully. He’s already heard the recording of the interview𑁋the blatant, cut version, of course𑁋so he knows the basics. He doesn’t need to know all the nitty-gritty details of what happened after the recorder clicked off. 

“Good work, Y/N,” Seungcheol says with a look of approval. “Draft up all your findings that you got from the interview. I want it on my desk by the end of the day. Then we’ll pitch it to the evening editors. Superman seems to be back in business because of you.”

Superman, Superman, Superman. You remember walking into the building and seeing the news playing on the television, detailing live about Superman saving an elderly pedestrian in danger from walking into oncoming traffic. Your thoughts drift back to Mingyu instinctively. 

“On it, sir.” You nod again. “Do you also want me to𑁋”

The door to Seungcheol’s office suddenly bursts open with a loud thud, cutting you off and making you and Seungcheol simultaneously jump in your seats. The sound of heavy breathing, and an unmistakable mop of dark hair stumble in all at once. 

Mingyu. He looks absolutely winded, as if he had just run an entire marathon through the city just to get here. 

“Sorry𑁋I’m so sorry for being late,” he sputters out all-too-quickly. “Morning rush was… insane. Total nightmare.”

You blink.

Seungcheol also blinks.

“Don’t you live, like, five blocks away, Kim?” Seungcheol asks with his arms crossed.

Mingyu freezes. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something clever, before shutting it close again. You notice a thin layer of sweat on his brow, like he preferred to sprint up the stairs instead of taking the elevator. His tie hangs loosely off his neck as if he gave up mid-tying it, and his glasses are slightly askew, which he adjusts swiftly. 

Right, You think. The glasses.

“Anyway, other than being…” Seungcheol briefly checks his watch. “...thirteen minutes late, you’re here in one piece. Better than some of the interns this week.” The man gestures towards the seat right next to you. “Sit down. Don’t sweat on my carpet, please.”

Mingyu gives a short, apologetic bow before sliding into the seat right next to you. 

You stiffen when his arms momentarily brush against yours. It’s not the first time he’s sat beside you, obviously𑁋but this is the first time since, and your body is reacting like he’s never been this close to you before, when he definitely has. 

He grows unusually quiet as Seungcheol starts talking about the case𑁋about writing up an article based on the findings the two of you have gotten so far, integrating everything together into one sharp exposé, potential ideas for headline titles, and expectations from the editors. He merely nods here and there as you and Seungcheol exchange ideas back and forth.

You can feel his presence at your side. Familiar, too familiar.

You try not to glance up at him. But you can’t help it.

“Y/N, you’ll write up a narrative draft,” Seungcheol’s voice chimes back in. “Mingyu, I need you to get me more details on the kryptonite samples that got sent to the lab for analysis. Cross-reference them with any other materials if needed. I want all these pieces put together by this evening. Got it?”

Mingyu’s lips form a thin, contemplative line. “Are you sure that Y/N should… publish the article?”

The question slices through the already-thick air of the room like a knife. 

Seungcheol lifts his head up from his notes. “Why wouldn’t she?”

Mingyu knows you’re already staring at him, and he tries not to meet your eyes. He tries to focus on Seungcheol instead, with his tense jaw and knitted brows.

“It’s… it’s dangerous,” he mutters. “She’s exposing an illegal black market deal involving risky alien tech. People don’t just walk away from that kind of exposé.”

Beside him, your breath hitches. He’s not wrong. You know that. But he also knows you. He knows exactly what you signed up for when you walked through the doors of the Daily Planet with nothing but your half-empty cup of coffee, your pen, your spine, and your unbridled passion in exposing corruption. 

“I’m not walking away from this, Mingyu,” You add in, voice more sharper than intended. “You can’t just pull me away from uncovering the truth that easily.”

Mingyu finally turns to look at you, and in that moment, you swear you see his mask falter a little. His eyes are desperate. Not angry, nor dismissive. Just desperate. Like he’s silently begging for you to read between the lines of his concern.

“I know,” he says softly. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

The honesty in his words hit you like a wave, and you don’t know what else to say.

Seungcheol clicks his pen loudly, disrupting the tension. “We’re not a daycare centre. We don’t back off because something might be dangerous, and if things do go south, we have authorities we can work with. We triple-check our facts, and make sure to shine light in places where others don’t.” His daggered eyes cut back to Mingyu. “If you’ve got a problem with that, Kim, then I think you’re in the wrong department.” 

Mingyu just straightens up his posture, his jaw still tense. “No, sir. I’ll get you those lab reports.”

With a dismissive wave, Seungcheol turns back to his computer to write up a follow-up email to the editorial team, and you stand up from the seat to begin gathering up all the materials on the table. Mingyu leaps from his seat as well, and after a hesitant second, he starts helping you gather up the scattered papers, yet you can tell his movements are a little too careful.

Your hands brush when you both reach for the same file, and you flinch just slightly. It’s instinctive, and maybe stupid, but you do. Mingyu notices.

It’s awkward. Not unbearable, per se𑁋but definitely noticeable. At least to you.

He doesn’t know what you know. Or rather… what you think you know.

Because how do you even bring a topic up like that? That you kissed Superman? That you probably kissed Mingyu? And that you’re 90% sure are the same person? 

Did you say something such as, Hey, remember that interview I did with Superman the other night? Yeah, I kissed him and his cheekbones look a lot like yours. What a funny coincidence, right? 

Yeah. No. That isn’t going to work at all. 

“Thanks,” You murmur as you grab the last folder from Mingyu’s hands. 

Mingyu nods, and for a second, your fingers linger a little too long in the handoff. His brows twitch faintly like he wants to say something, yet he presses his lips into a straight line as you saunter out of Seungcheol’s office. You feel your pulse thrumming a little too fast in your ears when you brush past him.

He follows right behind you, just a step behind. 

You try not to look at him as you head back to your desk, seemingly too busy straightening out the files next to your computer. Mingyu’s desk is only a few cubicles away from yours, but he doesn’t go to it right away. Instead, he finds himself slowly trailing over to you.

“Y/N?” 

You look up, and the moment your eyes meet, something falters between you.

“Do you…” he starts, rubbing the back of his bashfully. “Do you wanna grab coffee later? After we finish things up?” 

A small, thin silence threads along in the space between the two of you.

Your fingers subtly tighten its hold around the edges of the folder in your hands. You pretend to think about it, and maybe you are thinking about it. Coffee, just normal, harmless coffee between coworkers. It would be nice. But nice isn’t exactly what this is right now. Not when you’re still staggering on the edge of some truth you haven’t confirmed yet. 

You glance at him, and you swear, just for a second, there’s that same look again. The one that Superman gave you back in the sky and the stars were just a touch away from your fingertips. 

God.

A forced, polite smile stretches its way across your face. It doesn’t quite reach your eyes. 

“Actually, I… have some errands to run tonight,” You say, fighting away the flutter in your chest. “Stuff I’ve kind of been putting off for a while, you know?”

An imperceptible flicker runs across Mingyu’s eyes, the corners of his mouth dipping just a fraction. It’s gone before it can fully land on his face, replaced by that practiced, soft grin of his.

“Ah, right,” he mutters, clearing his throat. “Yeah. Totally. No worries.”

You nod apologetically. “Rain check?”

“Yeah. Rain check,” he echoes back, stepping away slightly. Though when he’s half-turned away from you, he shifts back around to face you one more time. “And just… Be careful, alright?”

He walks away before either of you can say anything else, and you hate how your eyes follow him. Hate how conflicted you feel when he throws one last look over his shoulders before disappearing back into the crowded newsroom, leaving you with your unanswered questions and a story that won’t write itself. 

Slumping back into your seat, a sigh escapes your mouth. You’re really not ready for this at all.

“I can’t believe she’s going to publish that article,” Mingyu says, gritting his teeth in frustration. “It’s going to put a target on her back.”

Wonwoo adjusts himself where he was leaning against the windowsill, a cup of steaming tea in his hands. “You do know that’s part of her job as a journalist, right?”

Mingyu raises an agitated hand through his hair. “I know that’s part of her job. But this𑁋this isn’t some corporate fraud exposé or a fluff piece about city hall mismanagement. This is about kryptonite. Organised criminal trafficking of alien tech that shouldn’t even exist here. When they see she’s the one who wrote it, she’ll be next on their list.” 

“And you didn’t think to stop her?” Wonwoo asks, taking a sip from his tea. 

“I tried to! Her and Seungcheol were dead-set, and you know I’m scared of that man𑁋of both of them. She barely even looked at me the entire day,” Mingyu retorts with a groan. “And that’s what makes it hard, because everyone knows how she works. She’s… she’s passionate, and once she believes in a story, there’s no talking her down from it.”

Wonwoo exhales, watching the steam curl satisfyingly from his mug. “Yeah. That’s what makes her so good.” He pauses, giving Mingyu a particular look. “And what makes you a damn idiot.”

Mingyu shoots him a glare. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what I’m talking about.” Wonwoo rolls his eyes. “What, did the wind blow too hard and your lips accidentally crashed onto hers?” 

“It wasn’t𑁋I didn’t plan that! It just𑁋it happened, okay?” Mingyu runs his hands over his face. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Oh, I have the faintest idea,” Wonwoo deadpans. “Hormones. Delusions. And wack-ass impulse control.”

“God, I know… I know it was dumb.” Mingyu fixes his eyes down to the ground in guilt. “I just𑁋She looked… beautiful, okay? Like really beautiful. And confident. And every other synonym of that. I wasn’t thinking straight.” 

Wonwoo snorts into his cup. “You’ve dodged missiles and can eat bullets for breakfast and yet can’t spare a single ounce of common sense around a girl. They should’ve written that your weakness is hopeless infatuation instead.”

Mingyu only groans at that. 

“But I’m not judging you for kissing her,” Wonwoo continues. “I’m judging you for not telling her.”

Mingyu’s shoulders slump into the floorboards. The truth of who he is weighs heavier than any concrete wall he’s ever lifted, more suffocating than any collapsing building he’s ever flown into. 

“I want to tell her,” he says, almost too quiet for even himself to hear. “God, you have no idea how much I want to tell her. But I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I just can’t,” Mingyu responds sharply, his fingers digging into the armrest of the couch, deep enough to cause a tiny laceration in the leather. “I can’t. Not until I know she’s safe.”

Wonwoo lets out a helpless sigh. “Then I hope you’ll be ready to face her when you do.”

“See? Your shit is going viral. Again. The internet is going wild from your exclusive interview with Superman,” one of the evening editors, Minghao, points towards his computer screen where your exposé on the kryptonite trade is on display. “You’ve even got retweets from some politicians.”

“It sounds like you’re envious.” You smirk lightly while hovering over Minghao’s shoulder as he scrolls through your article.

On the screen, the title of your article is screaming at you in its large bold letters: Kryptonite on the Black Market: The Alien Arms Race Hiding in Plain Sight. It was published by the start of this morning, and you’ve already garnered a massive amount of attention for it. Yet, there’s still a strange swirl of pride and dread that courses through you. 

“Envious? Please,” Minghao says with a playful scoff. “I just can’t wait to watch the shitshow of law enforcement and our government fighting over jurisdiction on this. It’s practically a reality show! You should charge admission fees. You’d be a millionaire by tomorrow morning.”

You laugh quietly at that, but it doesn’t quite feel as genuine when it leaves your mouth. You fold your arms across your chest as you lean against the corner of Minghao’s desk. The article is trending, the story is out, and your name is plastered at the top of it just like you wanted. You wrote a story that matters. A story that tells the truth. 

Then why does your chest still feel heavy?

Maybe it’s because you don’t know the kind of people you’ve probably pissed off. Maybe it’s because the names you didn’t print are more than likely the ones coming after you. 

“I think I’m going to call it a night,” You murmur, leaning away from Minghao’s desk.

Minghao raises a brow. “You sure? Heard there’s some celebratory pizza or whatever being delivered for you.”

You’re already sliding on your coat as you shake your head amusedly. “Save me a slice, yeah?” 

“For some reason I’m not feeling generous tonight,” Minghao responds wryly, before waving you off with a dismissive hand. “Night, Y/N.”

You roll your eyes. “Night, Xu.”

The office is basically empty at this point in the day. The only ones working being the evening team hammering away at their keyboards, too engrossed in their own deadlines to even notice you quietly slipping out of the cubicles. The fluorescent lights hum overhead as you walk down the hallways and into the elevator, the silence oddly comforting as you drift down to the ground floor. 

The heel of your shoes click down against the tile floors as you head out of the building, the cool air hitting you square in the face. For a moment, the relaxation in your bones is swiftly replaced by the chill of the night, whispers of the breeze sending tense shivers down your spine. You glance between your left and right sides, seeing nothing out of the ordinary, just the streetlamps flickering overhead. 

But the uneasy feeling still refuses to leave you.

Your fingers curl around the strap of your bag, and you let out a sigh. You start your walk down the empty sidewalk. You’ve done this a hundred times before𑁋walking home from a late night at the office. But tonight feels different. The kind of different that clings stubbornly to your nerves. 

Halfway down the block, you swear you hear it. Footsteps. 

They’re steady. Measure. And they don’t belong to you. 

You pause, and turn around. For a fleeting second, there’s a shadow that disappears quicker than you could process. Your heartbeat is still punching maniacally at your chest. 

You shake your head anxiously, swallowing thickly. Maybe you’re just imagining it. Maybe you’re just paranoid after everything today. God, maybe you just need to get home and crash on your bed and forget about the world you live in. 

Your pace becomes faster, but the whispers of the breeze in your ears is adamant, almost mocking. But you can’t turn around. Not like this. 

However, the breeze that caresses the back of your neck when you turn the corner makes you pause again. It sharpens suddenly, a gust of wind that whips your strands of your hair against your cheek. At the corner of your eye, a shadow crosses the streetlight shining above you. It’s fast, silent. Too big and quick to be a bird. 

And then it hits you. Relief, out of all things.

“You know,” You start, straightening your posture. “for a superhero, you’re awful at stealth.”

The unmistakable sound of a foot touching down on the ground echoes behind you. You don’t have to turn around to know who it is. The familiarity of the sound, the rhythm of the steps coming closer to you𑁋it’s him. 

Taking in a breath, you finally turn around, and there he is. Superman. His tall figure is outlined with an angelic glow under the streetlamp, his red cape trudging calmly behind him. You find it hard letting your eyes meet his, your gaze merely lingering on the familiar lines of his face. It’s almost as if he belongs in this scene, like he’s part of the night itself.

His gaze is fixed on you, but there’s a soft hesitation in it, like he knows he’s intruding in your space but can’t help it. 

“Are you stalking me now?” You ask with a small laugh. 

His lips form a thin line. “Not stalking. Just… watching. Nightly duties.”

“Right,” You deadpan, a disbelieving twitch lifts at the corner of your mouth. “Well, carry on, yeah? I appreciate the well-being check.”

As you’re about to turn back around, Superman steps forward, his voice stopping you before you can take another step.

“Wait.”

You halt. You don’t know why you do. Because you shouldn’t feel this way, but the softness dripping down from his tone is enough to make your heart skip a beat in a way that’s both infuriating and comforting. It’s like a suspiciously sincere knock to your guarded walls, one that you shouldn’t fall for yet here you are𑁋letting him in anyway. 

“I’ve read it, you know,” he says quietly. “The article you published.”

You cross your arms together. “If this is your tactic to get me to revoke𑁋”

“It’s not, I promise,” he chimes in adamantly. “I’m just warning you.”

You huff out a sigh. “Look, Superman, I’ve dealt with threats ordering my death before. I’m not exactly a stranger to this kind of thing. If I didn’t think I could handle this, I wouldn’t have written it, or interviewed you, for that matter.”

The half-smile that you give him is far from convincing, even you know it, despite your best efforts at masking the fear with feigned confidence. He notices it, of course. He always does. He probably knows you more than you know yourself. 

“I know you can handle yourself,” Superman reassures calmly. “I’ve never doubted that fact; if anything, I admire it. But there’s a difference between being able to handle it and handling it alone.”

You scoff at that. “So what, you’re going to babysit me now? Hover outside my window while I sleep at night?”

“I mean, if it has to come to that…”

“You don’t have to protect me.”

“I know.”

You pause, unsure of what to respond. You hate how your chest tightens at his words. Biting your lip, you avert your gaze back down to the pavement, because you can’t possibly fathom the way he’s looking at you right now. Like you’re something fragile. And maybe that’s the problem. You don’t know how to navigate whatever this is between the two of you, whatever this that has been brewing since you first met. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” You mutter, voice tight. “It’s not fair.”

He’s quiet for a moment, before asking, “What’s not fair?”

“You don’t get it, do you?” You snap back bitterly. “I know what I’m doing. I knew even before the moment I published the article. You don’t get to swoop in at the eleventh hour and fly to me like I’m some damsel in distress. I don’t need your pity, Superman.”

“I’m not pitying you, Y/N,” he says roughly, voice trembling like he’s holding something back. “God, don’t you see that?”

You lift your head, meeting his gaze with sharp, glaring eyes. “Then what is it, huh? Why are you here, really?”

“Because I care about you!” Superman exclaims, hands curling into fists at his sides like he has to restrain himself from reaching out to you. “And it terrifies me how much I do. I’m not asking to stand in front of you for this𑁋I’m asking to stand beside you.”

You freeze at that. For a moment, there’s only the rustling sounds of his cape and the distant whoosh of a car passing by on the other side of the road. 

You shut your eyes, shaking your head. “You shouldn’t.”

He takes a step closer. “Why not?”

“Because you’re𑁋” You pause, struggling to find the right words. “Because you’re Superman, for God’s sake, and I’m just… me.”

The words leave your mouth as quiet and hesitant as a whisper. You hate that they’re true. You hate how small it sounds. You’re just a journalist. A damn good one, sure𑁋but still just a singular person trying to survive in a world that’s far more dangerous than it lets on. And him? He’s him. Faster than the speed of light, stronger than fate, and holding up the world with just the tip of a finger. 

Superman’s eyes noticeably soften, his jaw loosening away the tension as he gazes at you. 

“Don’t say that,” he says gently, and his voice is steady, quiet, firm. “Don’t talk about yourself like you’re less.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “I’m not trying to be self-deprecating. I’m being realistic.”

His lips quirk up into the faintest smile. 

“Realistic or not,” he murmurs, taking another step. “You’re more than you think. You always have been.”

You find yourself staring at him like he’s a puzzle, heart threatening to pierce through your chest. Because God forbid, the pieces that he lays around has you feeling more conflicted than ever. You can’t help but wonder why a superhero like him would stubbornly care for a human like you𑁋why he would put all this time and effort into worrying for someone who should mean nothing more than a speck of dust in the grand scheme of the universe he watches over. 

There’s a name that lingers in the back of your throat, and it burns. A name you’ve stated a hundred times in casual settings. A name that seemed to have found its rightful place in the depths of your mind and has you smiling like a fool as you sit in your cubicle at work. A name you refuse to believe to be true ever since that kiss in the sky, yet it fits all too well. 

It’s been threatening to spill out of you. The days you see him in the office brings out those urges𑁋to accuse him outright, to demand if this is true. A part of you wants to deny it entirely; and the other part wants to believe it. 

But before you can spiral any further, Superman takes another step closer to you.

“Let me fly you home,” he offers casually. “You’ve had a long day, and you shouldn’t be walking alone at night.” 

You give him a pointed look. “You’re quite the idiot, aren’t you?”

“Maybe.” He shrugs. “but only for you.”

With that, he extends his hand toward you, and for a few seconds you can’t help but think back to the time on the rooftop.

You shake your head in disbelief, yet you still step closer to reach for his hand. “God, the things people will say if they find out Superman is taking me home.”

Superman laughs fondly at that, already naturally pulling you closer like he’s done this a hundred times before with you. “Wouldn’t be the worst rumour someone has spread about me.”

When you tell him where you live, it isn’t long before the two of you are back up in the sky again. The height doesn’t seem to scare you as much as it did before. Mingyu𑁋Superman, remember!𑁋shoots a glance at you. You’re staring down at the world with that particular gleam in your eyes that the stars rival, a loose grip clutching at the fabric of his suit. He smiles to himself briefly, before looking back forward. 

The two of you don’t say anything more as the wind rushes past your faces. He’s flying slower than usual, wanting to savour these moments with you. As you come closer to your building, you tell him where to land𑁋on the balcony of your small apartment on the fifth floor. 

He touches down with the softest thud, feet barely grazing against the concrete floor of your balcony. You step away from him slowly, wobbling slightly as the gravity catches up to you. 

“Thanks,” You mutter, brushing away the dust from your clothes. 

He lingers by the railing, watching you closely. “Anytime.”

“Don’t make it a habit.”

“Too late for that.”

Your keys jingle as you take it out from your bag, but you pause right before sticking it into the door. You turn back to him.

“How do you do it?” You ask vaguely. 

He looks at you puzzledly. “Do what?”

“This.” You motion at the space between you. “Is this another one of your superpowers that I’m not aware of? Because you make it hard, you know, to stay… detached.”

His expression falters a fraction at your words. Barely noticeable, but you see it anyway. His lips part for a moment, but then they curl into a small, almost rueful smile.

“Is that what you want?” he questions unsurely. “To stay detached?” 

You freeze in contemplation as his question hangs in the air, the words pressing against your chest and knocking the wind out of your lungs.

“I…” You begin, but your throat feels tight. “I should want that.”

“But you don’t.”

You let out a small, defeated laugh.

“No,” You admit softly. “No, I don’t.” 

His eyes search yours like he’s afraid to believe it, like the smallest breeze can carry your words away and leave nothing behind. He takes a slow step closer, crossing over the tiny space that separates the two of you, his warmth encircling around you as if it’s a selfless hug from a lover. You don’t back away. You can’t. 

He hesitates, lifting his hand, fingers trembling slightly as they hover near yours. Like a magnet, your hand draws near his𑁋and before you even realise it, your fingers are brushing, then intertwining, fitting together so naturally. 

It’s gentle. Peaceful. Quiet. Intimate in a way that makes your heart ache. You focus on the feeling of this thumb stroking softly across your knuckle, as if he’s trying to memorise the shape of it. If only you could stay in this corner of the world until the end of time, ignoring all the possibilities of danger and death looming at your front door. 

If only you could stay in this corner of the world with him. 

“You should go,” You whisper quietly. 

He looks at you, brows knitting together. “You’re sure?” 

“You’ve got a whole world out there that needs you,” You say, managing a wry smile. “And I’m sure you’d rather be in the comfort of your superhero lair or whatever than my tiny balcony.”

An impossibly fond, boyish grin stretches its way across his face. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

Before you can even ask what he means, before you even get the chance to breathe, he lifts your hand closer to his lips. His eyes never stray away from yours as he presses the softest kiss against the back of your hand, lingering there for a few fleeting seconds. 

You still feel the ghost of his lips on your skin when he backs away, reluctantly releasing his hand from yours. 

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he tells you. “I’ll be around. Stay safe.”

And with that, he steps away from you. In the blink of an eye, he’s shot up towards the skies, his silhouette growing smaller and smaller until nothing is left behind but the warmth of his kiss on your hand. 

You chuckle to yourself, shaking your head, and you wonder how the hell you got yourself in this kind of situation.

“Goodnight, Superman,” You mutter as you unlock your door. “Stubborn bastard.”

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[yoongihue]

in love with love (with you) || slow dance

series ; in love with love (with you)  description ; you’re a romantic. jungkook? jungkook is not. 

title ; slow dance

word count ; 3.9k

notes ; 

a drabble for the in love with love (with you) series! in which jungkook did not (but also didn’t not) take you to prom. (or: among the first of many times jungkook makes excuses just to be good to you.) 

tags ; high school!au, fluff, sickening levels of fluff, my god i love them, the tiniest bit of angst if you squint, frenemies to lovers, this is like mostly unedited but oh well, no u don’t understand i really really love them so much, pls go to main masterlist for more / general tags 

you don’t go to prom with jungkook. 

actually, you don’t go to prom with anyone. you suppose you could’ve asked taehyung or jimin to come home - they would’ve - but you can’t bring yourself to ask them to pay for a flight right around their finals season at university, just to come and take you to a high school dance. you really can’t justify it. especially not when you do technically have someone to spend the night with, even if you didn’t, technically, go with him. 

see, you and jungkook are not friends. you’re also not not friends. your relationship with jungkook is a lot of nots, and not nots. like, his tie doesn’t match your dress. it also doesn’t not match your dress. the color is just one shade off. 

and he didn’t ask you to go with him, and you certainly didn’t ask him, but he still showed up with a corsage for you, claiming that he had to buy it as a set with his boutonniere, and then muttering some kind of excuse about his mom wanting to see him with the boutonniere, and it’s not like he has a date either, so he may as well give you the corsage, because who else would he give it to? 

which is funny, in retrospect, because it’s not like jungkook is incapable of getting a date. unlike you, jungkook is popular, well liked, and - while you would never be caught dead admitting this - terribly handsome. at least, according to your classmates he is. he has round eyes that shine when he gets excited and his two front teeth are just slightly more pronounced, so he always looks a bit like a bunny, and the hair that falls just so over his eyes is impossibly soft, something you know only because you yank on it every so often whenever he’s managed to irritate you more than usual (especially now that jisoo isn’t around to stop you from tearing his hair out). 

he’s handsome in all the ways a high school senior could be. he’s even got the charming personality to match, as long as he’s talking to anyone that isn’t you. there was probably a long line of people - across all year levels - just hoping he’d ask. but he didn’t. 

so, yeah. you don’t go to prom with jungkook. 

you also don’t not go to prom with jungkook. because he’s the one who drives you to the venue - “it’s easier to carpool, anyways, and i don’t trust your driving skills,” so the two of you show up together. your eyes go wide at the sight of the fancy hotel - glittering chandeliers, plush, carpeted floors, smooth, dark wood bordering the entrance. jungkook steps in beside you, looking unimpressed with the decor, but he doesn’t leave your side, either. lets you take it all in, lips parting with awe, a smile slowly forming on your face. he’s more interested in watching the emotions flit across your face than he is with the grandeur - all your excitement, the mesmerization, the giddiness. you don’t have a date, but anything can happen. the scene has already been set - so what the main lead opposite you has yet to be cast? 

you’ve always fantasized of a beautiful, perfect prom night. the same way you dreamed about a handsome senior whisking you off your feet when you were a freshman, or having a sophomore year classmate be the perfect gentleman for you and offering you his hoodie in that one class you had where the air conditioner was always on a little too high. even junior year, when you should have reasonably broken out of your childish daydreams, you wondered about a boyfriend who might study with you as you prepared for college entrance exams, someone to drape a blanket over your shoulders when you fell asleep on your textbooks. 

but prom - prom had a four year lead-up. prom had the gorgeous backdrop, and the glittering decorations, and the lavish dress. prom had the adorable promposals that you watched seniors give their dates every year until you became a senior waiting for one, too. even though you knew it would never come. 

still. maybe somebody will catch your eye from across the floor. slow dance with you, twirl you around, place a hand at your back, tip you low, maybe even kiss you at the end of the night. tuck that one, inevitable stray hair behind your ear. stare at you like you hung the moon and stars yourself. 

jungkook can’t say he understands, but he’ll let you have it, at least for tonight. the teasing can wait till morning. for some reason, he can’t muster his usual antics right now. something about your dress, the blush across your cheeks, the delicate necklace brushing your collarbones - any number of these things combined, even - makes the words die on his lips every time he tries. 

you look so beautiful, it makes him breathless, but he won’t admit that. 

finally, you continue in, following the signs to the ballroom for the dance. there’s already crowds of people there - your classmates spread across the dance floor, laughing and singing along and dancing wildly to the music that’s so loud jungkook can feel the bass reverberating in his entire body. you wince a little but it doesn’t stop the delight crossing your features even as you’re lifting your hands to cover your ears on reflex. you wander about the ballroom, jungkook following after you everywhere you go. 

“you can go hang out with your friends, you know,” you finally turn to him, though you’re basically shouting it over the music. jungkook considers pretending not to hear, but whether he likes it or not, hell, whether you like it or not, you know him better than that. 

“nice try,” he tilts his head, raising an eyebrow. “you think i don’t know you’re gonna tell jisoo i ditched you at this dance? i’m never gonna hear the end of it.” 

you scowl. he so good at fouling your mood. but he loves the way your brows draw in, how your jaw sets stubbornly, every time he gets on your nerves. it stokes a fire inside him that makes him smirk back at you. 

“i’m gonna tell her you didn’t ditch me at this dance, and instead spent the whole night annoying me,” you retort back. “then you really won’t hear the end of it. from me.” 

it’s supposed to be a threat, but jungkook feels sparks in his bloodstream instead, and he grins back. leans forward, matches your height. “is that a promise?” 

you let out an aggravated sound, one hand shoving his shoulder. he barely budges, but he does at least relent a little and straighten back up, hands sliding into his pockets. you’re glaring at him in a way that always makes his heart beat a little fast, something he largely attributes to a feeling of victory. he loves getting you to make that expression at him - nose wrinkled, lower lip jutting out in the smallest of pouts, shoulders raised like you want to hit him. 

it’s kind of adorable. in like, a small, angry creature kind of way. 

though if you heard him call you a creature, he’s pretty sure you’d start aiming for body parts he’d prefer remain intact. 

“come on,” he says instead. “it’s prom. i promised taehyung i’d make sure you’d have a good time.” 

“i don’t need your promises,” you mutter back, but jungkook hears it even above the music, mostly because you whip your face away from him to hide your expression, but he sees it anyway, and this one he doesn’t like. he’s all for the cute, annoyed huffing and puffing you do, but not the brief cut of hurt that crosses your features. he crossed the line somehow. he hates crossing the line - because he always does it without meaning to. 

“i didn’t - i didn’t mean it like that,” jungkook tries, but you’ve got too much pride to let jungkook apologize, instead lifting your chin high. 

“if you’re gonna stick to me, then you better dance, too.” 

jungkook swallows down what you don’t want to hear, even if he needs you to know it. maybe he can show you, instead. he’s not keeping you company just because of some silly promise he made taehyung, or because there’s no one else to stick by your side. he’s here because he wants to be. he wouldn’t have even come tonight if not for you. 

his eyes light like you’ve issued him a challenge - and jungkook has always been competitive. “better keep up, princess.” 

.

.

.

you collapse into a chair, kicking your heels off. jungkook settles into the seat beside you, albeit a little less out of breath. you loll your head towards him, tracing the outline of his neatly combed hair, his shoulders, the way his hands fumble a little with his tie, trying to loosen it. you’re both tired from jumping and dancing and screaming along to well-known songs remixed into one massive run-on song, but true to his word, jungkook did make sure you had a good time. you reach over, smacking his hands out of the way. “i can’t believe you still can’t figure out how to work a tie. shouldn’t it be easier to loosen than it is to put on?” 

“you’ve met my mother,” jungkook gripes back. “she ties things like she’s trying to make sure it can never be untied again. i think she might want me to live in this suit forever actually.” 

you roll your eyes, managing to hook a finger into the knot and wiggle it a little looser. jungkook inhales a deep breath, dramatic enough that you give into your giggles, and he has to hide his smile behind one hand. 

“what now?” he asks, after you’ve both sat in silence - or, as much silence as could be had in a room full of teenagers at a school dance. you hum, one foot nudging at the heel you discarded on the floor earlier. 

“well…” 

jungkook narrows his eyes. “of course you have something.” 

you shoot him a sly smile. “i did a little research before the dance.” 

jungkook eyes you warily. “who does research for prom? actually - i don’t think romcoms count as research, y/n.” 

you throw him a dirty look. “shut up. i meant about the hotel,” you make a vague gesture towards your surroundings. you bite your lip, and jungkook definitely doesn’t focus on the action. you glance back at him and he snaps his eyes back up to yours. 

“there’s supposedly a garden on the sixteenth floor,” you tell him. “it’s usually only for people who, y’know, rented a room or whatever, but it’s not like you need a key or anything to get in, so honestly, once you’re in the hotel, it’s pretty much fair game.” you shrug, but there’s a hopeful shine to your eyes. “the pictures looked really pretty.” 

jungkook tries not to sigh. of course. of course even at a school event, you found a perfect, romantic getaway to sneak off to. jungkook thinks you could probably find a romantic setting anywhere you go. or you’d just make one yourself. you could probably dress up a dumpster well enough to make it look like the start to a love story. 

jungkook waves a begrudging hand. “lead the way.” 

you jump up immediately. he heaves himself out of his chair to follow you, snagging the heels you’d decided to ditch from off the ground. he doesn’t know how you can bear to walk barefoot around the hotel, but he supposes all the carpet feels better than the three-inch heels you’d manages to dance in almost all night. you’ll probably want them later, once you reach the garden. 

the two of you sneak past other hotel-goers, and hotel staff, too, slipping into the elevator and thankfully making it up to the sixteenth floor without any stops. you wander down the halls until you spot the glass doors, glancing back at jungkook, giving him only a quick glimpse of the bright, unadulterated joy in your eyes before you’re pushing the doors open, wandering into the garden. 

your reaction at the hotel entrance is nothing compared to this. this, you’ve been waiting for since you stumbled upon it a couple days after the prom location was announced. you pause so abruptly that jungkook nearly bumps into you, stabilizing himself against one of the columns that border a walkway that aligns with the wall of the hotel. he’s about to nag you about it, but all that comes out is a quiet exhale, catching the wonder in your eyes as you survey what’s in front of you. 

he’ll admit, it is certainly pretty. it’s dark out, but there’s fairy lights strung about, illuminating the open space in a soft glow, just enough that you can see the pretty reds and purples and blues of the flowers, the deep greens of their leaves and the bushes surrounding them. there’s gravel, too, in shades of white and tan, bordering a pathway that cuts through the garden, to a small, white, octagonal pavilion. there’s nothing inside the pavilion but a bench that borders the entirety of it, but there’s vines that climb up the white beams, interspersed with flowers jungkook can’t even begin to name, but he’s sure you must know each and every one, and all the meanings that come attached to them, too. 

you begin to take a step out, but jungkook catches you by the arm. the immediate frown you give him makes him snicker, but he sets your heels down at the ground before you. “it’s pretty,” he allows. “but with flowers comes bugs. pretty sure you’re not gonna wanna step on one.” 

you make a face, but slip your heels back on, using jungkook to balance yourself. you figure he’s in a good enough mood, loose from the mocktails and the dancing, that he doesn’t say anything about the way your fingers grip onto his elbow. 

as soon as the shoes are on, though, you’re off. your fingers brush the petals, touch feather light, and you breathe in the sweet smell, closing your eyes briefly. jungkook trails after you, following you around the garden, walking the tiny pathways. you have a small smile on your face the whole time, like you’re falling a little in love with the flowers. you would, jungkook muses. he’s pretty sure you could fall in love with almost anything. 

when you’ve had your fill of the garden itself, you move towards the pavilion. you take a seat on the bench, resting an arm on the ledge as you peer out at all the flowers and greenery and little lights. jungkook joins you, but he doesn’t sit, just observes with you. it’s so quiet up here, a deep contrast to the dance happening sixteen floors down. 

his gaze falls to you. you look at peace here, a little sleepy, even, but happy. but for jungkook, that’s not enough. it’s prom night. you’re here, in a dress that sways with your every movement, with your makeup and hair done up nice, and jungkook has no idea what compels him to do it, but he reaches a hand out to you. 

you blink at his palm. stare blankly for a half-minute. “yes?” 

jungkook clicks his tongue against his teeth, grabbing your hand. “didn’t you want a slow dance?” 

he pulls you to your feet. you don’t have to know that his roughness has nothing to do with him pretending to begrudgingly grant you your wishes for prom. that maybe he just wants to hold your hand and feel you stumble into his chest. maybe he thinks you look beautiful in your dress, maybe he adores the way your cheeks turn a little pink with surprise. maybe he wants to feel your palm in his and know that he’s making you happy, because you always wanted to slow dance with someone. 

there’s no music here - there’s no one up here at all but the two of you - and that makes it all the more romantic. and he knows it. knows it because he knows you, knows you love this kind of thing, so maybe that’s why he does it. because jimin isn’t here, and taehyung isn’t here, and even yoongi isn’t here, but jungkook is. 

jungkook would rather die than say it out loud, but he loves this look on your face too. loves being the one - for once - to put it on you. not your angry, sullen pout, but the stars in your eyes, and how he can practically feel the way your heart races, even if he’s sure he’s not the reason - just the situation, the circumstance. after all, you love romance. you love the twinkling lights, the cool night air, even the clumsy steps the two of you take as you move in circles around the pavilion. 

this was what you wanted tonight, even if jungkook isn’t the person you pictured doing it with. 

he makes prom magical for you, in this moment. what you don’t know is that you make prom magical for him, too. 

breathless. 

his heart skips a beat in his chest, as he gazes down at you. you’re not looking at him - still too in love with the setting, the lattice on one side of the pavillion, the short post lanterns, the view over his shoulder from being sixteen floors up. but that’s okay. if you’re not looking at him, that means he can look at you. 

it’s circumstance, jungkook thinks. you’re as close to a date as he’s got, and he’s slow dancing with the prettiest girl in school, alone in a garden straight out of a fairy book. if his heart is doing double time, it has nothing to do with you. the same way you’re probably not even thinking about him. only that you’re dancing in a pavilion that could’ve come straight out of a pride and prejudice movie, and when jungkook spins you out and then back to him - that uninhibited, radiant smile isn’t for him. can’t possibly. it’s for that bucket list you keep, of all the things you want to do, of all the ways you want to love and be loved. just like this. 

.

.

.

jungkook doesn’t think about that night for years to follow. 

except, well, there’s a photo saved on his phone. a couple of them, actually. he never deleted them, and they’re from so far back that no one ever really scrolls that far in his camera roll, so it’s practically hidden. 

a little under seven years after the fact, you have your legs thrown over his lap. jungkook is letting you play with his phone, doesn’t really care what you do with it - and you frown. “jungkook.” 

he hums. he’s half asleep on the couch, sinking deep into the cushions. he’s pretty comfortable with you here, one hand on your calf, kind of unbelievably pleased with himself that the two of you have moved into a stage where you’re cuddled into his side, head on his shoulder, doing whatever it is you like to do with his phone (usually play mobile animal crossing on his account), while he falls asleep. but you nudge him again. “jungkook,” you insist. 

“hmm,” he blinks his eyes open. “what?” 

“is this me?” 

well, probably. jungkook doesn’t have a lot of photos of people on his phone who aren’t you, or your mutual friends. he doesn’t think twice about it when he peers at his phone, but when he sees the picture, he snatches his phone away from you on pure instinct, so fast that you startle, jerking back a little. “kook?” 

it’s not a secret. obviously not, considering he’s never purposefully hidden it on his phone. but he’s kept the pictures for years, refused to delete them, because, okay, yeah, maybe sometimes he likes to scroll back and see them. see you. see that photo of you wandering the gardens, where you’re not even paying the slightest attention to jungkook, but he can spot that lit up smile of yours even in the dim light. or the selfie that he took of the two of you, one that he sends to the group chat later as proof that he stuck by your side all night. jisoo gave him shit on the side for being obsessed with you - at the time, he denied it with fervor. “i’m not,” he’d insisted, but jisoo had clocked him before jungkook had even remotely come close to realizing that hoarding pictures of your prom night in secret meant she was definitively, without a doubt, right. 

you’re still staring at him, looking more confused than concerned. he relaxes his shoulders. he has to remember that you like him now. you’ll give him shit for a lot of things but, when it comes to him liking you back, you always get a little shy. like you can’t believe it, either. 

he lowers his phone so the two of you can see the screen again. there’s one more photo he kept. the two of you, side by side, with your dress not matching his tie, and not not matching his tie, and you looking breathlessly happy. for once, if not because of, then at least with, jungkook. 

he loves this photo. there’s very few photos of just the two of you back when you were teenagers, and even fewer still of you looking so unabashedly happy next to him. you stare, then you stare a little longer, then jungkook watches the flush creep up your neck, to the tips of your ears. just like that, his embarrassment disappears, and he grins, dropping his phone to turn your face towards him. 

“i had the best prom date,” he shrugs, relishing in the way you glower back at him. 

“you didn’t even ask me to go with you!” 

he’s grinning wider as he says, “you wouldn’t have agreed.” 

he loves the way this somehow agitates you more. “you don’t know that! maybe, if you promposed well enough, i might’ve considered it.” 

he snorts. “there is no promposal i could’ve possibly come up with that could outweigh how much you detested me in high school. please.” 

you cross your arms. there’s a glint in your eye that doesn’t match the frown on your face. “skill issue.” 

he gapes at you, then tosses his phone to the side altogether, letting it land somewhere on the floor as he flips the two of you until you’re squirming under him on the couch, laughing loudly as he pins you down so you can’t escape. “skill issue? i had half the student population wrapped around my finger-” 

“skill issue,” you retort. “i wasn’t one of them.” 

“you are now,” he asserts, and you waver, because he’s leaning closer, and you’re suddenly acutely aware of the way he cages you in. 

“am not,” you respond, but there’s no weight to your words, and jungkook can’t be bothered to care anymore, because you’re staring at his lips, and he can’t not give you what you want. 

you don’t say you want him to kiss you. 

you don’t not say it either, and you don’t need to. 

jungkook will always love you the way you want to be loved. 

the way you deserve to be. 

series masterlist ; in love with love (with you)

taglist ; @ahundredtimesover @nadzzzblog @apollukee @codeinebelle @yoongimentita7 @libra04 @welconme-notreally @yeow6n @babyboo22

[gimmethatagustd]

gang shit; knj

Your daughter's classmate has a really hot dad. Apparently, you're his arch-nemesis.

Pairing: Single dad Namjoon x Single parent Reader

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Genre/Trope: Kid fic, strangers to lovers, attempt at humor

Content Warning: None except Namjoon's biceps

Word Count: 1,205

A/N: Inspired by this tweet, reposted in honor of @rpwprpwprpwprw and @rkiveslibrary. Edit - not me finding the original banner by googling my fics jhfjksds

‣ Main Masterlist

“I don’t make the rules to this gang shit. I just play my role.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, and you cock your head to the side in disbelief. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Namjoon adjusts his black baseball cap. His bicep bulges out of his short sleeve when he lifts his arm. 

You’re too old to be thirsting for a man like this. In all honesty, you’ve been acting childish all day – literally. It’s the last day of school before summer break, and your daughter’s preschool teacher invited parents to an end-of-the-year celebration. Having the privilege of working a hybrid schedule means it’s relatively easy for you to swing by the school with primary-colored cupcakes in hand. They’re the disgusting ones kids love that’ll stain their fingers and mouths bright blue. Oh, to be a four-year-old. So easy to please. 

Unlike little Yuna’s father, who has a stick shoved up his ass, and for what?

“What are you even talking about?” you ask with your arms crossed against your chest. 

You’d said literally five words to the guy, intending to start a pleasant conversation while the kids ran around the playground and the other parents mingled at the picnic tables outside. 

“Hi, I’m Y/N, Brooklyn’s parent.”

Apparently, that was offensive.

Namjoon’s sharp eyes drag up and down your body, and you try not to let his heavy gaze affect you – and fail when you feel your stomach dip. 

“Brooklyn said Yuna dresses weird,” Namjoon finally says with a pout that shouldn’t look so cute on a grown-ass man. 

“Did she?” 

“Are you calling Yuna a liar?”

“No!” This man is so volatile. “I’m just surprised, that’s all. We’ve been practicing using kind words, but, well, you know how kids are…” 

Namjoon doesn’t look convinced. 

You feel antsy under his gaze, unsure what to say or do. Are you supposed to apologize? Maybe that’s the mature thing to do. You’re still new to this whole “I’m suddenly responsible for an entire human being even though I barely even know how to take care of myself” thing. It’s a little bit unbelievable, actually! 

“I’m sorry for Brooklyn’s judgmental behavior. What kind of weird-, what kind of clothes-” you stumble through what you already know is a shit apology, “Which one is Yuna?” 

“That’s her.” Namjoon nods in Yuna’s direction.

You look across the playground to the swing set, where a little girl is lying on the swing on her stomach and spinning around with her arms and legs hanging limp. She’s wearing her hair in asymmetrical pigtails, one higher on her head than the other. Her sneakers are mismatched, as are her colorful knee-high socks. Her pants are polka-dotted, her shirt striped, and she’s got a bright purple cape tied around her neck. 

“She’s adorable,” you say softly. 

“She’s weird as shit.” 

Your mouth hangs open when Namjoon shrugs. 

“What? She’s my kid; I’m allowed to say that.” 

“Fair enough,” you concede with a smile, “So, we got beef now?”

“Yup.” 

Namjoon crosses his arms against his chest to match your stance. You tell yourself it’s very inappropriate to be eyeing your new enemy’s boobs when you’re in the middle of a showdown. 

“I’m not gonna lie, I don’t think I’m down for going to war for Brooklyn. Usually, I just like to blame her bad behavior on her dad,” you say with a barking laugh. You cover your mouth with your hand when you snort. “Sorry, that was inappropriate.” 

“You’re good,” Namjoon finally cracks a smile, and, wow, it’s breathtaking. His eyes crinkle at the corners, his teeth are big and bright, and he has dimples… “Yuna’s mother doesn’t let her dress how she likes, so when I have her, I let her do what she wants. Self-expression is important, y’know?” 

You nod because he’s right. Kids should be kids. 

“Plus, I like being the fun parent.” 

“Right! Who wants the parent with all the stupid rules?” You perk up, taking a step closer because now you’re partners in crime rather than enemies. Maybe. You’ll work on it. He’s too cute not to get up to some parental crime with—gang members, not rivals. 

“Not cool parents like us,” Namjoon lightly elbows you. 

“Yeah, they can’t ride with our gang.” 

Namjoon makes a face the moment the words come out of your mouth. He bites both lips, rolling them in and hollowing his cheeks, eyebrows raised. 

“What? What!” you gasp, knowing when you’re being made fun of, even if it’s in silence. 

“Don’t ever say anything like that ever again.” 

With a huff, you give him a tiny punch to the arm and tell yourself that it isn’t because you want to feel how tight his muscles are. 

“You’re the one who–” 

“HEY! NO HITTING!” 

Groaning, you throw your head back as a tiny blur of pink collides with your body. Brooklyn tugs on the hem of your shirt, repeatedly chanting, “Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey,” until you crouch to meet her at her level. Taking her little hands in yours, you hold them to your lips to give her knuckles a quick peck. 

“You’re right, I shouldn’t have done that to Mr. Kim,” you admit, “I should apologize, shouldn’t I?”

Brooklyn nods, and the bulbous beaded hair ties at the end of her pigtail braids swing like a deadly game of tetherball. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kim,” you say as you look up at Namjoon. He taps his finger against his chin in mock thought, and you can’t help but think that you’ll actually punch him if he fucks up this teaching moment by pretending not to accept your apology. 

“I forgive you,” he says with another grin that makes you feel like a silly teenager. 

“Y’know, Brooklyn, Mr. Kim told me something about you and Yuna…” Brooklyn immediately ducks her chin to her chest. No one has ever looked guiltier. “It’s not very nice to talk about how people look, love. I think you should apologize to Yuna, don’t you agree?”

It takes very little convincing for Brooklyn to run off toward the swings. She flops on her stomach in the swing beside Yuna, and then, after a bit of talking, both girls spin around. 

“If Brooklyn throws up from doing that, it’s your fault,” you mutter to Namjoon. 

“Real aggressive coming from someone who just physically attacked me.” 

“Okay, Mr. Gang Shit,” you quip back, catching Namjoon’s widening grin out of the corner of your eye. 

“Listen,” Namjoon touches your elbow, his fingers lingering just long enough for you to give him your attention. Heat spreads along your forearm and makes your fingers tingle. “I don’t really accept either of your apologies. You might need to try a little harder to get me to forgive you.”

“Oh.” You feel your stomach twist. 

“Might want to start with getting dinner with me, and then we can see where it goes?” 

Oh.

“I mean, if you think it wouldn’t hurt my street cred being seen with the likes of you, then, yeah.” 

Namjoon grabs his baseball cap bill and pulls it down until his hat covers his face. “Don’t make me rescind this offer because I’ll do it.” 

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll see how it goes.”