➸ (2)
genre: fake texts
warnings: warnings: slightly suggestive, mentions of sexting (no sexting occurs), academic stress, brief kinky stuff, mentions of sex
➸ (3)
genre: fake texts
warnings: suggestive
➸ (4)
genre: fake texts
warnings: suggestive, mingyu is a boob person, he’s also horny
➸ (5)
genre: fake texts
warnings: suggestive (seriously), mingyu loves sending nudes, he’s also effortlessly funny idc, mention of starving bc reader is lazy, poop and fart (nothing related to any type of fetish)
➸ (6)
genre: fake texts
warnings: SUGGESTIVE as always; mentions of breeding, masturbation, sex, shaving
celebrity!mingyu and small business owner!reader. check out 🛒 not for sale's masterlist. final installation for the main verse, so it bears repeating: this is always & forever @maplegyu's! 💍 official not for sale playlist
FIRST DAY ONE-COIL 18KT WHITE GOLD BRACELET
DETAILS
Ref.: 01020221
Material: White Gold
Color: White
DESCRIPTION
After the first magazine shoot where you wore my jewelry, we went out for dinner. I think that's one of the first meals we shared. There was a lull in conversation that could have been awkward, but then you suddenly blurted out, "Hey, remember the 'Snake' game on the old Nokia?" It was so out of pocket, so out of the blue, I laughed so hard that I nearly snorted my drink out of my nose. It got us talking about games and our childhood, though. Later that night, I realized you just wanted to keep the conversation going.
A VALIANT ATTEMPT 18KT WHITE GOLD BAND
DETAILS
Ref.: 11110221
Material: White Gold
Size: 59
Resizable: Not Resizable
DESCRIPTION
When I invited you to a one-on-one jewelry making workshop, I honestly didn't think you'd show up. But you did. You looked adorably frustrated for the most part. You could've given up, but you persevered despite it taking several tries. I think a lot about the look on your face when you finally succeeded at making a couple of rings. After walking you out, I gathered all your rejects and smelted them down in to one ring. This is it.
JUST MY LUCK WHITE GOLD BRACELET SET
DETAILS
Ref.: 3330221
Material: White Gold
Size: Large
Diamonds (Carats): 2.25
DESCRIPTION
In "MINGYU opens up on being named Rising Star of the Year", you talk about consistency, dedication, and passion. I whole-heartedly agree with what you've said, though there is a thing or two I'd love to add.
Here's the thing: I used to not really believe in luck. I believe in hard work and perseverance, in reaping what we sow. If I have to get my hands dirty to get something done, I'll do it.
You said in your interview that you found my page after absentmindedly scrolling through SNS. I'm sure everything that followed is a product of our own personalities, our own interactions, but that initial algorithmic push? We have to chalk it up to something.
And so maybe— just maybe— I'm a little bit lucky after all.
› scroll through all my work ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ my masterlist | @xinganhao
🫶 svt reacts to you saying 'i love you' on accident.
★ prompt: Ot13 reaction to you saying I love you for the first time (possibly kind of by accident) 🥰 c/o anon
ⓘ friends to lovers vibes, flirting, pet names. headcanons under the cut.
🫶 read more?
seungcheol tries to take it in stride. really, he does. he's convinced he can be very normal about this, even though it will probably have him preening the whole day. he's always thrived most on words of affirmation, and what's more affirming than the truth?
jeonghan's joking, of course. he knows deep down that your little slip doesn't immediately entail a relationship, but he's definitely intent on going out swinging. the light teasing is an attempt to get you to think about a time where you can freely say 'i love you' to him every day.
there's a fair amount of sincerity in joshua's reaction. his first thought is to make sure that you're okay with it, since he has some idea that you've probably tripped on the words. but give him that leeway and he'll take it in a heartbeat. you've started saying it; he'll never let you hear the end of it.
if junhui manages to feign nonchalance, it's because of his acting prowess. he's smug and giddy, though he's not about to let you know that. he's the type to pull the rug underneath you a couple of days later, right when you've probably forgotten it. "so…" he'll drawl. "how much do you love me, hm?"
to no one's surprise, soonyoung is decisively not chill about it. this is A Big Deal to him! an 'i love you'? something he's wanted to hear for ages? he needs to make sure he's not dreaming. there's the dopiest smile on his face, because you love him. it's the best thing he's heard.
wonwoo's hands are shaking. his throat is suddenly dry, and he's relatively sure his brain has short-circuited. it's— just an offhand thing. at least that's what he tries to convince himself. the reality: he's going to be replaying the words in his head for weeks on end.
it doesn't strike jihoon immediately. maybe it hits him once you're gone; maybe it occurs to him when the moment has already passed. one thing's for sure: he's not going to let it go unanswered. he's a little late, not on time, but that doesn't mean he doesn't mean it. you know that, right?
the words make something bloom and blossom in seokmin's chest. they take root like a promise, and even though he tries not to get ahead of itself, it's hard. he's so, so happy to hear it from you that he'll be walking on clouds for the days to come.
mingyu doesn't hate you. that much is certain. he just hates the power you have over him— how you can upend his entire day with a couple of choice words. he had thought he'd be stronger than this, but here he is. panicking because of 'ily'? god, he can't afford to be in shambles like this.
ever the rational type, minghao will be the type to press, "how do you love me?" he can't afford any missteps, needs to know you're on the same page. if you love him as a friend, then so be it. but if there's a prospect for anything more, even just a minute worth of it… well. he would like to know.
joking about it is a coping mechanism. that's something seungkwan subscribes to, at the very least. it gives him time to gather his wits, this whole keeping-up-a-facade thing. (ask anyone: he had been smiling a little too hard at his phone when your text came in. the eyes never lie.)
rarely is vernon thrown off his game like this. he's not supposed to be melting over a flippant 'ily', and yet here he is— trying (and failing) to be cool about your slip-up. can you blame him? he's wanted you for so long, and the words can be as good as a promise if he really wanted them to be.
you're not playing fair. chan has half a mind to make you suffer, to not give you the satisfaction of a reaction. alas, he's always had a soft spot for you. that extends to unquestioning forgiveness, and reciprocity where it matters. yes, even in accidental confessions.
› scroll through all my work ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ my masterlist | @xinganhao
summary: mingyu, president of the photography club, and you, leader of the art club, are forced to collaborate when your organisations are granted a shared—and pitifully small—budget for the semester. every meeting turns into a battle: over ideas, over funding, over who cares more about their craft. until you start noticing the way mingyu’s eyes light up when he captures the perfect picture, and his presence in your life leaves you feeling more inspired than irritated.
⇢ pairing: photography student!kim mingyu x art student!fem!reader
⇢ contains: fluff, mild angst, enemies/rivals to lovers au, college au, debatable attempts at comedy, profanity, inaccurate depictions of both art & photography since i am good at neither, raccoons
⇢ word count: 4.8k
⇢ playlist: stardust by zayn; blue by yung kai
⇢ note: for the person who requested this; i hope you enjoy!
There’s a miserable amount of zeroes next to the number printed on the budget distribution sheet that Mingyu hands you. You stare at it, incredulous, then back at him, the paper crumpling slightly under your grip.
“This can’t be right,” you say, voice tight with disbelief and mounting anger. “This is… This is a joke. It has to be.”
Mingyu shifts, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Yeah, well, it’s not. This is all we’ve got for the semester.”
“You’re saying that like it’s okay!” Your eyes snap up to his face. “Like this is something we can work with.”
“I’m not saying it’s okay! But I don’t see what yelling at me is going to solve.”
You scoff, holding up the paper between you both like it’s the evidence of a crime. “This amount isn’t even enough for one club to function, let alone two. And yet you expect us to split it? How is that fair?”
Mingyu clenches his jaw and crosses his arms. He looks bigger, now—more intimidating, sort of. You cross your arms as well, eyebrows knit into a frown. “It’s not fair,” he says. “None of this is. But unless you’re ready to, I don’t know, rob a bank or something, this is what we’ve got to work with.”
“And what?” you snap. “Your solution is just to divide it down the middle and call it a day? You can’t honestly believe that’s fair. Your expenses aren’t nearly as high as ours—”
“Excuse me?” Mingyu cuts in, his voice rising, sharp enough to make you pause. “Do you even know what we need? Do you have any idea how much equipment costs? Or printing? Or—”
“You don’t have an entire exhibition to put together,” you interrupt, your frustration boiling over. “We’ve got installations, workshops, materials—”
“And you think we’re just screwing around, taking selfies? You think what we’re doing doesn’t matter?”
“That’s not what I’m saying!”
“It sure as Hell sounds like it is,” he bites out, glaring at you.
The hallway is silent except for the sound of your breathing. You’re standing close to him, you realise belatedly—too close. Mingyu’s face is flushed, dark brown eyes locked on yours, and for the first time, you notice just how tired he looks. There are faint shadows beneath his eyes, and the line of his shoulders is stiff with what you suddenly recognise as exhaustion, not just irritation. It’s easy enough to spot these signs because you mirror them, too.
It’s always been like this between the art club and the photography club. The rivalry was created during the clubs’ inception, long before you joined your university. You remember the former head—and your senior—telling you about how the former photography club head charmed Dean Park, the head of the art department, into giving them a higher budget, resulting in the art club being unable to hold their annual art exhibition. The year before that, the art club managed to win him over by listing out all the pros and cons of “art in the cultivation of a cultural mindset in students” using a PowerPoint presentation complete with sparkly animations.
It’s always, always about money.
This semester, however, the budget is infinitely worse—chiefly because you have to share it with the photography club. As the current presidents, you and Mingyu must shoulder the burden together, and that’s a lot easier said than done, really. Maybe it’s because you’ve spent all your college years feuding on opposing sides of the art scene, but you and Kim Mingyu haven’t been able to get along.
The fact that the amount Dean Park allotted for you both is abysmally small doesn’t make this entire situation any easier.
You look away, gaze dropping to the crumpled paper in your hands. “I’m not saying your work doesn’t matter,” you say quietly, the fight dissipating from your tone. “I’m just… This whole thing sucks, okay? I’m frustrated, too.”
Mingyu lets out a slow breath, scratching his cheek tiredly. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I know.”
It catches you off-guard, the way his voice lowers—not softening, exactly, but losing some of its earlier bite. When you glance back at him, his shoulders are still tense, his forehead pinched, though not with resignation. It’s more like simmering irritation, held at bay simply because he can’t get angry in the middle of the administrative building’s hallway.
“Look,” he continues when you don’t say anything, “this is what we’ve got. Yelling at each other about it isn’t going to magically double the budget, no matter how much we want it to.”
“I’m not yelling—I’m trying to get you to see reason. If you’d just acknowledge that the art club actually needs—”
“Maybe if you’d stop acting like your club is the only one that matters—”
You hold up a hand, cutting him off before he can get going again. “We’re going in circles,” you say, sighing. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.”
“Right,” Mingyu mutters, stepping back to lean against the wall. He crosses his arms tightly over his chest again, and for a moment, the two of you stand in tense silence, glaring at each other like it’ll somehow fix the problem.
The corridor feels oppressively small, the fluorescent lights casting shadows over his face. You take a slow breath, trying to tamp down the irritation clawing at your chest and push it down to your stomach instead where you can, at least, work around it. “Fine,” you grit out. “We’ll figure something out, but don’t think for a second that I’m going to let the art club get shortchanged because of your supposed equipment costs.”
Mingyu’s lips twitch into something that’s almost a smile but too bitter to qualify. “Of course. Don’t expect me to give up the gallery showcase just so you can buy more paint.”
You press your lips together and bite back your retort. You’re too tired to keep this up, and it’s clear that he’s just as stubborn as you are.
Instead, you turn on your heel, the budget sheet still clutched tightly in your hand. “Next meeting,” you call over your shoulder, “come with actual numbers. Maybe then we’ll actually get somewhere.”
“Sure,” Mingyu says flatly, though when you glance back, he’s still watching you, expression unreadable.
“Just combine both your events,” Jiyeon—Dean Park’s student representative—says curtly, like she’s trying to wrap up a tedious chore. She taps her manicured nails on the desk impatiently. “That was the reason why we announced the budget earlier this semester compared to last time.”
You blink at her. Combine? As in merge the art club’s carefully curated exhibition with Mingyu’s glossy photography showcase?
“That’s not happening,” you say, sharper than you intended. “These are completely different events. We’d lose the point of both if we mashed them together.”
Mingyu, seated across from you, leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “For once, we agree on something.”
Jiyeon exhales, clearly unimpressed with your united front. “Neither of you have the budget to do these separately. You’re either combining or presenting Dean Park with a shared cancellation notice. Your choice.”
Her words sink into your brain, leaving no room for argument. The table between you and Mingyu feels like a battlefield, and you’re not sure if you want to continue glaring daggers at him or redirect your frustration towards Jiyeon.
“This is ridiculous,” Mingyu says, dragging a hand through his hair. “You can’t just lump two completely different creative visions together. A photography showcase is about cohesion. You don’t just slap a bunch of things together and call it cohesive.”
You bristle. “And what, you think an art exhibition is just some chaotic mess of colour and whimsy? There’s intention behind every piece. We’re not staging this in a dorm hallway; it’s a professional-level gallery. My members have been working on this for months.”
“And so have mine,” he snaps back. “This showcase isn’t just about displaying photos. It’s about showing people what photography is capable of. Combining that with whatever you’re doing? It’s going to dilute both.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have spent your entire summer hyping up an event you clearly couldn’t afford,” you say, unable to help yourself.
His eyes narrow. “It’s not like I knew—”
“Enough,” Jiyeon cuts in, her voice slicing clean through your argument. She stands, gathering her papers and closing her laptop briskly. It’s clear she’s done with the conversation. “You two have until next week to draft a combined proposal. If I don’t have something workable on my desk by then, I’ll assume you’re forfeiting your budget entirely. Good luck.”
With that, she walks out, the door shutting behind her with a firm click that echoes in the suddenly quiet room.
“This is such bullshit,” Mingyu mutters after a pause.
You glance at him, agreement on the tip of your tongue, but the irritation on his face sparks something petty in you instead. “You seem confident for someone whose entire event hinges on this bullshit.”
He glares at you and for a moment, you think he’s going to bite back. But he sighs and leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Since we’re stuck with this,” he says grudgingly, “we might as well figure something out.”
“You mean like a theme? Something broad enough to tie everything together?”
“Sure,” Mingyu says. “What do you suggest? Rainbows and friendship?”
“Don’t be an asshole,” you snap.
“I’m serious. If you’ve got a brilliant idea, then let’s hear it.”
You take a deep breath, your mind running through various possible ideas. Something broad, something versatile. But every idea either feels too generic, or too forced, and Mingyu’s expectant stare doesn’t help.
“What about… perspectives?” you finally say, hesitant.
He frowns. “Perspectives?”
“Yeah,” you say, gaining a little confidence. “Different ways of seeing the same thing. Photography is about capturing moments from unique angles, and art is about interpreting the world in your own way. It’s broad, but it connects.”
Mingyu leans back in his chair, brows furrowed in thought. He admits, slowly, “It’s… not bad.”
The faint approval in his voice surprises you, but you don’t let it show. “I know,” you say instead, crossing your ankles. “It’s a good starting point.”
“But it’s still vague,” he muses. “If we’re going to pitch this, we need to make it concrete. How are we actually going to combine everything? Are we splitting the space? Alternating pieces? Blending them somehow?”
Your stomach twists at the thought of compromising the layout, but you push the discomfort down. “We could structure it around the theme. Pair photos and artworks that complement each other—contrast them, even. It could be a dialogue between the two mediums.”
Mingyu’s eyes narrow slightly, like he’s contemplating. He nods, once, reluctantly. “It could work.”
“Okay,” you say. “Then we’ll need to draft a detailed proposal—layout, schedule, costs. Dean Park isn’t going to approve of something half-baked.”
“Obviously.”
You glare at him, but there’s no real heat behind it. “We’ll have to inform our members as soon as possible.”
“Done. I’ll text you, ‘kay?”
You hum in response, watching him gather his things. It’s not exactly a truce, and it’s definitely not teamwork—not yet, at least. But for the first time, you feel like both of you are pushing against the same problem, rather than each other.
“See you around, I guess,” you say tentatively, reaching for your bag.
Mingyu slings his camera bag over his shoulder and lets his lips curve upwards by the slightest. “See you.”
When Kim Mingyu said he would text you, you expected him to send you a message some time during the day, like a normal person would. Of course, the mistake you made was assuming that anything Kim Mingyu does is normal, so, really, why are you even surprised?
You don’t know for sure, but you’re certain it has everything to do with the fact that you were startled out of sleep minutes ago because of the incessant ringing of your phone, a week after your proposal was approved by Dean Park. The caller ID says Kim Mingyu (Photography President) and the time on your phone screen reads 1:01 A.M.
Someday, you will find a way to strangle him and get away with it.
You squint at your phone, half-tempted to let it ring out, but you know he’s stubborn enough to keep calling until your phone dies. You swipe to answer with more force than necessary.
“What?” you snap, voice rough with sleep.
“Get dressed,” he says, sounding way more chipper than anyone in their right mind would at one in the morning. “I’m outside.”
You sit up in bed, your blankets falling into a heap around you. “Outside where?”
“Your building.”
There’s a pause while you blink, trying to process his words. “My what?”
“Look, there’s no time to argue,” he says, as if he’s not the one calling you at an ungodly hour. “I need to show you something. It’s about the exhibition. Plus, I have hot chocolate.”
“Couldn’t this have waited until daylight?” you ask—but curiosity, and the mention of free hot chocolate, gets the better of you. You rub the sleep out of your eyes and slide out of bed.
“Nope, it’s time-sensitive,” says Mingyu, while you’re busy shoving your head through the nearest hoodie you could find.
When you step outside, the cool night air pricks at your skin, and you spot him almost instantly. Mingyu is leaning against the lamppost by the entrance to your building, a steaming styrofoam cup in each hand and his camera slung around his neck. His tall frame and disheveled hair, illuminated by the soft glow of the light, would almost make him look charming—were you not keen on murdering him for disrupting your sleep.
“What took you so long?” he says, holding out one of the cups as you approach.
“You’re insane,” you reply, snatching the cup from him. The warmth seeps into your fingers, and despite your irritation, you take a grateful sip. It’s sweet, just the way you like it. “This better be worth it.”
“It will be,” he promises, already turning towards the path the winds through your campus.
The night air is cool and crisp, laced with the faint scent of damp earth and fallen leaves. You clutch the cup of hot chocolate like it’s a lifeline, savouring its warmth, though it does little to thaw your irritation. Mingyu walks ahead of you, long strides confident; you trail behind him, muttering under your breath about insufferable photography club presidents and their questionable priorities.
The campus feels different at night—quieter, softer—as if the world has taken a deep breath and is holding it. Shadows stretch long and wide under the sporadic lampposts, and the buildings loom taller, their windows dark. The only sounds are the soft crunch of gravel underfoot. You don’t want to admit it, but there’s something peaceful about this moment, despite your company.
“Here,” Mingyu says suddenly, veering off the path toward a patch of bushes near the edge of the quad.
You hesitate, watching as he crouches low. His movements are surprisingly careful for someone normally so clumsy. He motions for you to follow, his fingers pressed to his lips in a gesture for silence.
“What are you—”
“Shh,” he whispers, pointing ahead.
At first, you don’t see anything. But as you squint, you catch a movement—a small shape darting across the grass. And then another.
A family of raccoons.
There are four of them, their sleek bodies silver in the moonlight. The largest one—presumably the mother—nudges a smaller one forward, while the other two rummage through a pile of leaves nearby.
You crouch next to Mingyu, your knees pressing into the damp grass, and watch the raccoon family scurry about under the pale silver glow of the moon. The mother raccoon joins her two kits and noses through the leaves, while the smallest one tumbles clumsily after her, clearly still learning the ways of the world.
“They’re cute,” you whisper.
“Hm,” Mingyu hums, lifting his camera to his eye. The soft click of the shutter sounds through the quiet. “I’ve been tracking them for weeks. This seems to be their favourite hideout for the night.”
You glance at him sideways, watching the way his brows furrow in concentration, the way he adjusts the angle ever-so slightly before clicking another picture. He’s good at this, you think—finding something ordinary and turning it into something else.
“You dragged me out of bed for raccoons?” you ask, without any real malice in your voice.
“They’re more interesting than you give them credit for,” he says, not looking up from his viewfinder. “Most people don’t even notice them. And if they do, it’s just to call them pests.”
The soft, almost wistful tone of his voice surprises you. You shift your gaze back to the raccoons, watching as one of the smaller ones climbs onto a low branch, wobbling slightly before regaining its balance.
“They’re just trying to survive,” Mingyu continues, lowering his camera. “Finding food, looking after their family. They’re not pests. They’re— Resourceful. Resilient.”
You blink, caught off guard by the thoughtfulness in his words. “And this connects to the exhibition how?”
He smiles slightly, finally turning to look at you. “Think about it. How many things go unnoticed every day? How many stories don’t get told ‘cause people are too busy looking at what’s shiny and obvious?”
You frown, considering his words. The raccoon mother pulls out a discarded chocolate wrapper from the leaves, sniffing it before passing it to one of her kits. It’s nothing extraordinary, but there is something undeniably tender about the way she moves, the quiet care in her actions.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about our exhibition theme,” says Mingyu, “and—”
“It’s a matter of perspective,” you finish softly, the words slipping out before you can contain them.
Mingyu nods. “Exactly. Everyone’s always so focused on the big picture that they forget the small details. The stuff that seems insignificant but isn’t.” He gestures towards the raccoons. “This is the kind of thing I want to highlight—the unnoticed, the overlooked. The beauty in things people usually ignore.”
He has a point. The raccoons, with their clever little hands and determined movements, have a strange sort of grace to them. You wonder how many times you’ve walked past this very spot without noticing them, without realising there was a whole world quietly unfolding in the shadows.
“You think we can tie this to the exhibition?” you ask, your skepticism only half-hearted now.
“Why not?” he replies, enthusiasm bleeding into his tone. “Your art pieces are all about interpretation, right? How people see the world in their own way. And photography is about showing people something they didn't notice before. It fits.”
You chew on the inside of your cheek, annoyed by how much sense he’s making. Grudgingly, you mutter, “You’re not as stupid as you look.”
Mingyu laughs softly, the sound low and warm in the night air. “Thanks, I think.”
You both fall silent again, watching as the raccoons scurry off to another tree nearby. Mingyu raises his camera one last time, snapping a shot of their retreating forms before lowering his camera with a small, satisfied sigh.
“They’ll be gone by morning,” he says, almost to himself, “and no one will know they were here.”
There’s something oddly poetic about the thought, and you’re struck by the realisation that, for all his infuriating habits, Kim Mingyu has an eye for seeing things differently. Maybe that’s why he’s so good at what he does—and, maybe, that’s why you think he’s not so different from you, after all.
The walk back to your building is quiet. Mingyu keeps his camera slung over his shoulder. You sip the last of your hot chocolate. Lukewarm as it is, it’s sweet and nice and provides a shred of warmth against the cool air nipping at your cheeks.
“Don’t get used to this,” you say, as the two of you near your building.
Mingyu blinks innocently. “Used to what?”
“Me being nice to you.”
He grins, a boyish, lopsided thing that makes your heart rabbit about, just a little. “Noted. I’ll savour it while it lasts.”
You pull out your sketchbook and your charcoal pencils the next day, after classes, and settle down on a bench that offers a clear view of the quad. The winter sun is a gentle wash of gold, spilling over the campus like honey, pooling in the dips of the cobblestones, and casting long, soft-edged shadows. It’s a contrast to the silvery quiet of last night, but somehow, the same tranquility lingers, a memory etched into the air.
The spot where the raccoons had been feels empty now, but not barren. Students drift through the quad in loose clusters. A girl sprawls on the grass with a textbook splayed open beside her. Two boys toss a frisbee near the far end, their laughter bright and contagious. Someone sits cross-legged under a tree, earbuds in, bobbing their head to music only they can hear.
Your pencil touches the paper, instinctive. Lines emerge, at first hesitant and light, but quickly growing in confidence. You sketch the arch of the bushes, the curve of their leaves. The grass flows beneath your hand, strokes that whisper of its softness, of its endless spread.
The students begin to take form next, their figures caught mid-motion—an outstretched hand here, a tilted head there. You don’t draw their faces; they’re not meant to be individuals, but simply a part of the quad in daylight.
You don’t think about composition or technique; your hand moves as though it has a will of its own, tracing shapes and shadows. For the first time in what feels like forever, there’s no pressure, no self-imposed critique weighing you down. The sunlight dapples the page, shifting as the leaves above you sway in the breeze. Your strokes grow bolder, the charcoal smudging against your fingertips as you shade in the deeper shadows, the play of the light on the cobblestones.
You pause, leaning back slightly, your eyes flicking between the quad and your sketch. It’s not perfect—nothing ever is—but it feels right.
Then, out of nowhere, you think of Mingyu.
It’s a small thought at first, barely noticeable—a stray memory of him crouched low in the grass last night, his camera poised. But it grows, and before you realise what’s happening, you’re imagining what he’d think of the sketch. Would he point out the uneven shading, the hasty lines where you’d been too impatient to linger? Or would he see what you see?
You close the sketchbook. The thought of showing it to him surprises you, an idea you’re not sure you understand. You’re not friends—not really—and the very idea of seeking his approval feels strange.
But you’ll trust your instincts, you suppose. They haven’t led you astray so far. You tuck your sketchbook under your arm and set out to find Kim Mingyu.
You find Kim Mingyu in the photography clubroom, hunched over a cluttered table, sorting through a stack of pictures. The room smells faintly of ink and chemicals, the soft hum of a printer filling the silence. The light streaming through the windows bathes everything in warm, golden hues, catching on the strands of his hair every time he shifts.
For some inexplicable reason, you feel shy.
You linger by the doorway for a moment, fingers tightening around the edges of your sketchbook. It’s ridiculous, really—he’s the same infuriating person who called you at one in the morning and dragged you across campus to look at raccoons. But now, with the sketchbook in your hands and a strange weight in your chest, the thought of stepping into the room feels monumental.
You clear your throat, and he glances up. His hair is slightly messy, like he’s been running his hands through it in frustration, and the sleeves of his hoodie are pushed up to his elbows. For a split second, he looks surprised to see you. Then his expression shifts into something closer to curiosity.
“Hi,” he says, holding out a photograph like it’s a peace offering. “Are you lost? Or are you here to chew me out over something about the exhibition?”
You roll your eyes, stepping further into the room. “Neither. I wanted to—” You hesitate, the words tangling on your tongue. His gaze flickers to the sketchbook under your arm. Thankfully, he doesn’t push.
“Come in,” he says instead. “Since you’re here anyway—” he gestures toward the stack of pictures— “help me decide. I’m narrowing down shots for the exhibition.”
You step closer, drawn despite yourself. The photographs are stunning—a leaf caught mid-fall, a cluster of streetlights glowing through the fog, the silhouette of a child through a bus window.
“They’re good,” you say, and you mean it.
“Just good?” he teases, leaning against the table. But there’s something gentler in his expression now, a quiet kind of pride that softens the edges of his grin. “Coming from you, that’s basically a standing ovation.”
You glance away, suddenly self-conscious. Your fingers tighten around the sketchbook again, and before you can overthink it, you thrust it at him. “Here.”
Mingyu blinks. “What’s this?”
“Just—look at it,” you mumble, heat rising to your cheeks.
He takes the sketchbook carefully and flips it open to the page you’d drawn earlier. His eyes trace the lines etched into the paper with charcoal, widening slightly.
“It’s the quad,” he murmurs, quieter than you expected.
“Obviously.”
“No, I mean—” Mingyu looks up at you, and there’s something thoughtful in his gaze. “It’s the quad, but it—it feels… alive, you know?”
You suck in a breath sharply, eyes darting to him. “Alive?”
“Yeah.” He gestures at the sketch, fingers hovering just above the page. “Like here,” he says, pointing to a student mid-step, laughing at something the person next to them says. “And this.” He moves his finger and circles the pair of boys tossing a frisbee about. “I can actually imagine it happening. In real time. Does that make sense?”
The way Mingyu looks at your hastily-drawn sketch—as though it’s something extraordinary—makes your chest feel tight, like you’re holding your breath without even realising.
“I don’t know how you did this,” he continues, almost to himself, eyes roving over the page like he’s trying to decode a secret. “It’s not just the quad—it’s everything about it. It’s like you froze something no one else would notice.” The corners of his mouth lift in a small, disarming smile. “It’s kind of amazing.”
Your mind scrambles for something to say. “It’s… not that big of a deal,” you say lamely. “Just a sketch.”
“Not to me.”
Your eyes settle on the stack of photographs on the table, anything to distract yourself from the heat crawling up your neck. “So, um, what does this mean for the exhibition?”
“Everything,” he says simply—knowingly, almost. Mingyu flips the sketchbook shut and hands it back to you.
You hug the sketchbook to your chest. “You think so?”
“Yeah,” says Mingyu. “You’re really talented, you know that? Not just technically. You see things—details most people miss. That’s really rare.”
You see them, too, you want to say. Because he does. You’ve witnessed it firsthand, and your sketch feels like a paltry attempt at recreating the same thing. Mingyu’s compliment sends a strange ripple through you—half pride, half unease. It’s not that you haven’t been praised for your work before, but coming from him, it feels… different.
“I just drew what I saw.”
“Yeah, but you saw it,” Mingyu presses. “Not everyone would.”
The sincerity in his tone makes your heart stutter. You glance at him, unsure of what to say, and find him watching you with an expression that’s entirely too open. You’re not sure when the shift happened, but you feel it—a softening, an ease you hadn’t expected to find with him.
The confusion in your chest settles into something quieter, something that almost makes sense.
Maybe you don’t dislike Kim Mingyu. Maybe you never disliked him at all.
There is something to be said about having a crush on the person you thought you would never get along with.
It creeps in during moments you don’t realise are important until later. You find yourself seeking him out more often, not because the exhibition needs it—it’s practically done—but because you enjoy being in his presence. The barbs you once threw at each other have become something like banter; his toothy grin makes your heart flutter in your chest. You don’t know when it started, but it’s there now, a quiet and persistent little thing that is difficult to ignore.
The day of the exhibition dawns quicker than you expect, and ends just as quickly.
Kim Mingyu kisses you at the end of it, when the lights are dim and the skies are tinged with twilight. His lips are featherlight at first, and his hands cradle your face. He is soft, warm, and your fingers find their way to the collar of his shirt, gripping tightly.
There is much to be said about having a crush on the person you thought you would never get along with. The most important is this: it’s simply a matter of perspective.
⇢ a/n: thank you thank you thank you to @etherealyoungk for helping me out with all the design/art aspects of this fic & essentially brainstorming this entire thing with me; skye lifesaver fr (the theme behind combining the art and photography club events was all her idea). thanks for reading & i hope you have a wonderful day!
Genre: fluff, neighbor!au, Nightwing! mingyu based off this, bartender reader
warnings: very dumb people (mingyu x reader), suggestive but no explicit smut
Length: ~2k
Note: merry gyumas!!!!! this is revenge for spider woo from @gyuswhore if you hate it, it's bc i wrote it in like 3 hours. thank u @the-boy-meets-evil i will be enacting my revenge on you soon. MWAH!
summary: On nights when you close the bar late, a friendly hero always happens to be around to walk you home and share his woes about the crush on his neighbor.
m.list
This blog is intended for 18+ only! Minors/blank blogs will be blocked.
With the rain pounding down in thick sheets, you rush home. On nights like these, when you're the last one out of the bar, completely alone, are always the worst. The bus doesn’t run this late but at least you’re only a few blocks from your apartment. A ten minute run if you don’t stop.
The rain abruptly halts. Not that you’re lucky enough for the storm to pass but because someone falls into step beside you. “Need an umbrella?”
You don’t even need to look to know who it is. He always shows up when you have the closing shift. The man who runs around the city in a spandex suit and calls himself Nightwing.
The first time, some creep had been trailing you from a distance. Thankfully, most of the businesses on the way back to your apartment stayed open later, the nice apartments have doormen so you could run into one at a moment's notice. But as soon as you noticed the weight of a gaze on your back it vanished with a short scuffle. When you turned to find the source of noise, Nightwing stood guard as the creep spirited away.
From that night on, if you got off after midnight, he was there to escort you home.
The first few times he followed from a distance. A couple yards, then ten feet and then one night you waited for him to walk beside you like a normal person. Most nights you were too exhausted to make conversation but he kept you both entertained, asking easy questions or staying silent if you were particularly irritated. But usually, on those nights you felt his eyes on you from one of the alleys you passed, or from the rooftops. He gave you space but kept you safe. Even when you insisted there were far better things for him to do in a city that never sleeped. People who needed him more. But Nightwing shook you off each time.
“This storm came out of nowhere,” you say, huddling closer. He’s big, taking up most of the space by default. You try not to touch him but the heat of his body is pleasant considering your soaked clothes, chilled straight to the bone.
“Yeah, downtown is already flooded.”
“Already walked all the other girls home there?”
“Ha-ha,” he huffs. “I actually work in an office there.”
Oh. In all the nights he’s chaperoned you home, he’s been careful not to reveal too much about himself but some things naturally slip out. He wants a dog but is never home enough to take care of it. One of his friends burnt a fish in his apartment and wasn’t allowed to come back. He tried reading some of the books you talked about but wasn’t a big reader. This is the first time he’s offered information so personal.
“So even superheroes have day jobs?”
“Gotta pay rent somehow.”
“Maybe take up being a security guard. Or Uber but walking women home late at night.”
“Nah,” he smiles, a flash of white teeth between pink lips. “I do that for free. Part of the job.”
You hum in acknowledgement. Sometimes you think maybe he likes walking with you. But as he said, it’s a part of his job. His civic responsibilities to protect the street from creeps and weirdos. Besides, the only other personal information you know about him is the fat crush he has on the girl in the apartment next to him.
“How's your neighbor?” you ask.
“She’s okay. Still acts like I don’t exist.”
“I doubt that’s true.”
“You said she’d like it if I gave her something I cooked, I did.”
“And?”
“Nothing.”
“Damn.”
You think of your own neighbor and how grateful you are that he does something similar. Mingyu was overall, a great neighbor. Grabbed your packages from the mailroom and left them on your doormat when he could, shared food if he made too much which was frequently, and managed to keep his rowdy friends quiet when they were over. But you typically only spoke to him in passing. Strictly neighborly. How are you? They didn’t pick up the trash today? Can I borrow some salt? By the way, I made an entire pot of spaghetti and I cannot eat it alone. Want some?
Recently he offered more and more. A blessing really because by the time you got off work you were too exhausted to cook and too broke to justify paying for the fees for delivery. Everytime he offered you food though you weren’t sure what to do with the tupperware. He was rarely home when you were; conflicting schedules. Last time he brought you the extra brownies from his office party. The tote bag full of clean containers sat next to your door for whenever you saw him but lately he’d been MIA.
Maybe Nightwing’s neighbor felt the same way. If he had a job and ran around town at all hours it was unlikely there was a good time for them to talk.
“Have you tried asking her out?”
“Yes.”
“And?” Your shoulder brushes his arm but you ignore the contact. Not like you can feel much with the numbness from the freezing rain.
“No luck.”
“Maybe she’s shy.”
He levels you with a look meaning that clearly isn’t the problem. For a second you wonder what he looks like without the mask. The tiny scrap of blue, black, and white obscuring so much. Obviously, he’s handsome. Maybe she’s a little intimidated. You would be. Even if his neighbor didn’t know who he really was, he had an aura around him.
And even if he wore baggy clothes, they wouldn’t hide his physique or height.
But you can’t dwell on those thoughts because then you think of your neighbor who is also tall and muscular, and somehow reminds you of a golden retriever.
“Well, you seem normal enough. Even though you wear a weird amount of spandex for a grown man.”
He laughs, the edges of the umbrella shaking with him and exposing you back to the elements but you don’t mind. The sound is rich and warm, forcing the chill away. “What is a normal amount of spandex?”
“Probably zero,” you joke. “Maybe you should just ask her out. Honesty is the best policy or whatever.”
“Or whatever. I’ll remember that.”
“Well,” you sigh. The front of your apartment is in view. Nightwing will wait until you’re inside to leave, tucked safely behind the glass door and up the stairs out of sight. He hands you the umbrella for the last fifteen feet he always refuses to accompany you, and disappears out of sight.
You don’t tell anyone who walks you home at night. It’s a nice little secret between you and the city’s hero. But sometimes you wished you could. If only to explain how confusing it is that Nightwing reminds you of Mingyu. A bizarre thought. Mingyu is an architect and hardly has the time for a pet, let alone to save the city every night. You leave the thought at the threshold of the stairwell.
The trek upstairs takes longer than you’d like. Five flights of stairs down is a lot easier than five flights up and with your limbs just now warming up, it's a process to rally enough energy to climb even the first few. Good thing is with it being so late, you aren’t at risk of holding up a line to the top.
By the time you reach the third floor, the sensation returns to your extremities. By the fifth, the only thought in your head is a shower and the cozy warmth of your bed.
As you reach the final steps, shuffling like a zombie, the universe decides your night isn’t over yet.
Your neighbor, hair washed from a shower, white shirt and pajama pants wrapped around his figure, emerges from the opposite staircase, where the trash chute is. Maybe you have a crush on Mingyu but half the building does too. He’s a good neighbor, he’s nice, and he’s handsome.
Okay, maybe it’s a big crush and you can’t figure out if he’s just nice or if all the nice things he does mean a little bit more. You should probably ask Nightwing what he thinks the next time he walks you home. He’s a guy, he’d know.
But right now, Mingyu gets to see your best impression of a drowned rat.
Lovely.
“Hey,” he says. His door is at the top of the stairs you just climbed, and yours at the top of the stairs he just climbed. When you pass by, you can’t help but get a whiff of his body wash. Cedar, citrus, and soap mingling pleasantly.
You grunt in response. “Hey, Mingyu.”
“Late night?”
“Something like that.”
You both stand in the hallway, waiting for something else to say but nothing comes up. Somewhere below a door slams and the patter of feet echoes through the stairwell.
Mingyu turns away first. “Well, good night.”
“Wait!” you call, cringing at the harsh reverb of your voice.
He whips around, eyes wide, cheeks rosy. Like a little kid with their hand stuck in the cookie jar.
“I have your containers! I’ve been meaning to give them back.”
“Oh.” He deflates slightly but you pay no mind.
You shove the metal of your apartment door open and rummage through your kitchen for the tote full of plastic containers. When you exit, Mingyu is waiting on your doormat, hands in his pockets.
Racking your brain for something – anything – to say, you blurt. “Um, the brownies you made were great.”
That pleases him. Behind the thick rim of his glasses his eyes soften, cheeks lifting from a shy smile. “Thanks. It’s my mom’s recipe.”
“That’s nice.”
Neither of you move. Content rather than awkward. At your back, the rain pounds against the windows, thunder clapping, an occasional streak of lighting. A dull lullaby.
“Hey,” he starts. “Would you ever wanna hangout? Like a date?”
You couldn’t have heard that right.
“A date?” you parrot.
“Or not! It doesn’t have to be a date if you’re not interested or…”
“A date sounds nice,” you grin, cheeks bursting. “What are you doing in thirty minutes?”
“Watching Survivor.”
“I’ll bring the popcorn. I just need to shower really quick.”
Mingyu blinks like he can’t believe any of it. Like you agreeing to hangout with him was never an actual option or that this entire thing is a fever dream. It’s cute.
“Ugh—” he swallows. “Yeah! Okay. Just…knock wherever!”
Tucked away in the steam of the shower, you scrub and shave and scrub again. Feeling a little more human with each minute. You don’t bother with make up or anything fancy. Mingyu asked you out with mascara running down your cheeks in the hideous shirt the bar makes you wear. The bar is incredibly low.
Settling on some sweats and a hoodie, you make the trip down the hall to 6F and knock just like Mingyu said. You sit a safe distance away on the couch but like two magnets you and Mingyu draw closer and closer until his arm is over your shoulder with a pretend stretch and you’re nodding off against his chest.
At some point, you both move to his bed. Or Mingyu asks and carries you across his apartment when you nod. His bed sounds like a great idea. The storm clears by the time you wake up. The first thing you do when Mingyu blinks awake, arm curled around your back like you considered leaving, is leave a gentle kiss on his jaw.
You give him a better one as a thank you for coffee, and another when he makes pancakes. He lifts you onto the counter, taking place between your knees as thanks for the perfect whip cream smiley face decorating said pancakes.
Next time you see your spandex clad friend, you’ll have to let him know honesty really is the best policy.
on the inevitable and loving despite, despite // a revisitation of this
various wikipedia pages / carl sagan / why the sun chases the moon / war of the foxes - richard siken / drunk drivers, killer whales - car seat headrest / saturn - sleeping at last / pale blue dot, photo from voyager / lighthousekeeping - jeanette winterson / ann druyan / new york times / neil degrasse tyson / david jones
tangentwithtanner
2087
discoholicmusic
germansingergirl
yousharknotpass
kianamaiart
