Aug 8
Leave it to me to have leos with birthdays right after the other as my biases 😂😂😂 my Virgo biases are the same too but Happy Birthday to the other pouty man in my life Princess Minki 🧡🩶
seen from United States
seen from T1
seen from United Kingdom
seen from France
seen from Türkiye
seen from Japan
seen from China
seen from Norway
seen from Russia
seen from Russia
seen from China
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Singapore
seen from Netherlands
seen from China
seen from Türkiye
seen from Türkiye
seen from Netherlands
seen from United States
seen from Russia
Leave it to me to have leos with birthdays right after the other as my biases 😂😂😂 my Virgo biases are the same too but Happy Birthday to the other pouty man in my life Princess Minki 🧡🩶
Instinct
Pairing: test subject!mingi x scientist’s daughter!black reader
Song Mingi (Subject 0809). A wonder in discovery of what happens when one drops a child into the jungle and watches him grow up alone for two decades, the only human contact being with men in white coats shouting and treating him like a wild animal.
Enter you.
Your father—the reason Subject 0809 is an experiment in the first place—had the brilliant idea of putting you in the jungle with him under the guise of observing how he reacts to human contact for a full week. Little did they know you would become someone Mingi doesn’t want taken away from him.
WARNINGS: slow burn, angst with a happy ending, emotional attachment through fascination, human experimentation and unethical scientific research, institutional abuse, forced isolation, emotional manipulation by authority figures, mild injuries, trauma and recovery, psychological distress, separation anxiety, abandonment, it gets super sad later
pt 2 pt 3
————
Deep within the facility, behind multiple layers of clearance, a wall of screens flickers in low light.
Each monitor shows a different angle of the same world: leaves shifting in wind, water moving over smooth stone, sunlight filtering through dense branches—and occasionally—movement.
“Zoom in on quadrant C4.”
The voice is calm. Precise.
A technician adjusts immediately, fingers moving across a console. One of the screens sharpens, focusing past overlapping branches until the image settles.
There.
A figure moves through the trees.
Barefoot.
Fast.
Silent.
He doesn’t walk so much as navigate—body adapting to the terrain like it was made for him. Muscles shift beneath sun-warmed skin, movements efficient, instinctive. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t second-guess.
He knows this place.
Better than anyone else ever could.
“Heart rate?”
“Elevated slightly—he’s been active for the last hour.”
“Behavioral pattern?”
“Routine variation. He circled the east water source twice. Send in a team.”
There’s a subtle shift in the room.
“Same protocol?” one of the researchers asks carefully.
The man at the center of the room doesn’t look away from the screen. Your father, lead researcher and architect of Project 0809. The one who built this place from theory into reality.
“Yes,” he says simply. “Introduce a new object and we’ll observe the subject’s reaction.”
“What object?”
A flicker of something almost thoughtful passes through his expression.
“Something reflective.”
The team enters at night as they always do.
Three men with sedated caution disguised as confidence. They follow a mapped route—one the subject already knows by heart, though they pretend otherwise.
One of them carries the object: a small mirror artificial in a way the forest cannot replicate. They place it carefully near the base of a tree before retreating to a monitored distance and wait. It doesn’t take long.
The forest changes before he appears.
The sensors pick it up: a shift in wildlife patterns, a sudden quiet in the canopy, the absence of smaller movement. And then—
him.
He emerges from behind a cluster of trees, shoulders tense, gaze sharp.
He knows they were here, he always knows. His eyes scan the area first—quick, calculating. He spots them almost instantly.
The men in white coats.
His posture changes as a warning. “Steady,” one of the researchers whispers under his breath. “He sees us.”
“Of course he does,” another replies quietly.
On the screens, his heart rate spikes but he steps forward anyway. Suddenly his attention shifts.
Not to the men.
To the object.
The mirror catches the last light of dusk, reflecting something fragmented and unfamiliar.
He stops a few feet away and tilts his head, watching it. Not childlike curiosity but assessment, recognition trying to form. Behind reinforced glass miles away, your father leans slightly forward.
“Watch his eyes,” he says.
The subject steps closer until he’s standing directly in front of it. He looks down and freezes. For a moment, there is no movement at all just him staring at something he has never seen before.
His reflection stares back.
Unfamiliar.
Too still.
Too direct.
His breathing shifts.
Slow.
Then sharp.
His hand lifts—hesitates—then reaches out.
Fingers hover just above the surface.
Then—
touch.
The reaction is immediate. He jerks back like it burned him. The mirror tilts slightly in the dirt. Behind him, one of the researchers shifts.
That’s all it takes.
His head snaps toward them and just like that, the moment is gone. He moves much faster than any of them are prepared for. One second he’s standing still—the next he’s across the clearing.
“Back—back!”
Too late.
He doesn’t strike immediately only driving them back, warning made physical.
“Retreat,” the lead researcher orders sharply.
They fall back, controlled but hurried, sticking to protocol. No direct engagement. He doesn’t follow far only close enough until they leave and until silence returns.
Minutes pass.
Then more.
Eventually, he comes back alone. The clearing is empty again except for the mirror. He approaches it more slowly this time now that there are no observers nearby. He crouches in front of it. This time—when he reaches out—he doesn’t pull away. His fingers press against the surface, firm and experimental. His reflection presses back.
His brows draw together.
Confusion.
Focus.
Something almost piecing together.
Behind the glass, someone exhales softly.
“He’s processing it.”
Your father doesn’t respond. He’s watching something else—not the confusion or curiosity—the awareness.
“Prepare the next phase,” he says quietly.
“Sir?”
For the first time, your father looks away from the screen. His expression is blank.
“It’s time,” he says, “we introduce a variable he cannot categorize.”
“…What kind of variable?”
His gaze turns briefly back to the screen—to the man crouched in the dirt, touching his own reflection like he’s trying to understand the shape of himself.
“A human one.”
“Human?”
“Something he won’t want to let go.”
—
The facility is quieter the deeper you go.
Not silent.
Never silent.
There is always something—low electrical hums behind the walls, the soft whir of systems regulating air and temperature, the distant echo of footsteps that never quite reach you.
But it is controlled quiet.
You’ve lived here long enough to know the difference.
You walk through the corridor with steady steps, sketchbook held loosely against your chest. The spine is worn, edges softened from use. It looks out of place against the sterile architecture—something lived-in in a place that isn’t.
The walls are smooth glass that interrupt the gray at measured intervals, revealing rooms you don’t look into.
You’ve learned not to.
Your eyes move once and catch a screen. A figure passing between trees too quickly to follow. You keep walking.
“Sweetheart.”
The voice stops you.
You turn around.
Your father stands at the far end of the hall, posture straight, hands clasped behind his back. He does not approach immediately. He rarely does. He prefers people to come to him.
You don’t rush either.
You close the distance at your own pace, stopping a few feet in front of him.
“Dad.”
Your tone is even. His eyes move over you briefly, taking in details the same way he does everything else.
“You’ve been isolating yourself.”
Not a question.
You adjust your grip on the sketchbook a tiny bit tighter.
“I’ve been working.”
“I have something I’d like to discuss with you.”
Of course he does.
You nod.
His office is as precise as he is.
Glass walls. Minimal furnishings. Clean lines. Everything placed with intention, nothing left to chance.
The only evidence that a life exists outside of this place is a single Polaroid photo pressed in glass: seven year old you on his shoulders at the aquarium, in awe of the school of fish gliding by.
You take a seat across from him, resting your sketchbook in your lap. He remains standing for a moment longer before sitting.
Even that feels deliberate.
“I’ve been reviewing your work.”
Your fingers freeze slightly against the cover.
“My sketches?”
“Yes.”
He taps the tablet on his desk, turning it toward you and your drawings fill the screen, catalogued and annotated.
He annotates everything.
“They’re precise,” he says. “You capture detail others miss. Subtle shifts in expression. Posture. Emotion.”
You study the screen for a moment then look away.
“Thank you.”
He leans back and without ceremony he says: “I want you to participate in the next phase of the project.”
The words drop into the room like something already decided. You don’t react immediately. “…What would that involve?”
“You will be entering the environment.”
“The jungle?”
“Essentially.”
The answer is immediate. You blink once, processing not the danger but his intent. “You’ve never asked me to do that before.”
“No.”
He doesn’t elaborate.
“So…why now?”
His gaze sharpens—not in emotion, but in focus.
“Because you are not like the others we’ve sent.”
Your brows draw together.
“They observe,” he continues. “They provoke. They record reactions. You do something else.”
Silence stretches between the two of you.
“You see,” he says.
You exhale slowly.
“And what exactly am I supposed to be seeing?”
“Development,” he replies. “Adaptation. Behavioral progression under sustained isolation.”
“That’s not all.”
It slips out before you can stop it.
Your father doesn’t deflect. “No.”
Your grip tightens slightly on the sketchbook.
“There is attachment potential we have not yet explored.”
Your stomach turns enough to register.
“…Attachment to what?”
“To you.”
“You want me to go live with him.”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“One week.”
“And when I leave?”
“We observe the outcome.”
You look down at your sketchbook. Your thumb presses lightly into the worn edge of the cover.
“Will he know why I’m there?”
“No.”
“Will he understand who I am?”
“We don’t know.”
That is the first time in a long time he’s allowed himself to be unsure.
“Okay” you say simply.
Your father studies you carefully as he does with everything.
“You’re agreeing.”
You look up and meet his eyes directly.
“When do I go?”
A subtle shift crosses his expression—approval, maybe or simply expectation fulfilled.
“Tomorrow.”
Your room feels smaller that night. You sit at the edge of your bed, sketchbook open in your lap. A blank page waits in front of you, pencil resting against it, unmoving.
For a moment, you consider drawing something familiar. The corridor. The glass. Anything predictable.
Instead—your hand moves.
The lines come slowly at first. Carefully.
A shoulder. The angle of a jaw. Posture that doesn’t belong to structured spaces. Something instinctive. You’ve only seen him in fragments, reflections in glass and blurs across screens you’ve tried not to study too closely.
And yet, your hand fills in the gaps line by line until a figure takes shape. Not perfect or complete—but undeniably him.
You pause, staring at the drawing.
“…Hi,” you say softly.
—
Morning comes without warmth.
The sky above the facility is pale, washed in early light that hasn’t quite decided what it wants to be.You stand at the edge of the access point, a few feet back from where the reinforced structure gives way to forest.
From here, it looks like nothing.
Just trees.
Just green.
But you know better.
Behind you, a small team moves with quiet efficiency. Not the same kind of presence as the researchers who enter the forest. These ones don’t provoke only prepare.
“Final check,” one of them says.
You don’t turn around. Instead, you adjust the strap of the small bag slung across your shoulder. Inside: medical supplies, a water container, basic tools and your sketchbook.
“Vitals stable,” another voice confirms.
“Audio link?”
“Active.”
There’s a pause.
“Remember,” the first voice says, stepping slightly closer—but not too close. “We won’t intervene unless absolutely necessary.”
Absolutely necessary.
“What qualifies as necessary?” you ask quietly.
“…You’ll be monitored at all times,” the voice answers instead.
That isn’t what you asked.
The moment you cross the threshold, the air changes subtle—but undeniable. The temperature shifts first. The kind of heat that settles against skin instead of passing through it.
Then the sound.
The facility disappears behind you in an instant. Only leaves, wind and something small moving somewhere unseen.
You pause.
The ground beneath your feet isn’t uniform, dipping and rising unpredictably, softened by layers of soil and fallen leaves. The light filters through the canopy unevenly, breaking into shifting patterns that never stay still for long. It doesn’t feel like a place built for observation.
It feels like a place that resists it.
You take another step.
Then another.
Behind you, the entrance seals without sound. You don’t turn back as they watch you from a dozen different angles.
“Subject has entered the environment.”
“Maintain visual.”
“Tracking her position.”
On the screens, you move through the forest slowly—deliberately—looking. Not like the others did. Not scanning for threat or asserting presence.
Absorbing.
Your father says nothing but he notices.
You move deeper.
Branches shift as you pass, brushing lightly against your arms. The air smells different here—earthy, damp, alive in a way the filtered air of the facility never is.
You keep your movements measured.
Not because you’re afraid of being attacked but because you don’t want to interrupt something you don’t understand yet. A faint sound to your left—you stop. The sound fades and you continue.
He knows.
He knew before you crossed the threshold that something changed. It started as a disturbance subtle, almost ignorable. A shift in the rhythm of the forest but also something else.
Different.
Not the same as the others. He moves through the trees without sound. His body already knows what to do: stay downwind, stay above sightline, move where the ground won’t betray him.
He doesn’t rush blindly, he tracks but then he sees you and stops. Not because he has to but something in him does.
You stand in a clearing of filtered light, partially turned away, your head tilted slightly like you’re listening to something he can’t hear.
You don’t look like the others.
That’s the first thing.
The shape of you.
Softer, rounder lines, different proportions, darker shade. Not built for intrusion or force. You look… warm.
His gaze sharpens.
You aren’t looking for him.
That’s the second thing.
The others always look but you just… exist.
He shifts slightly in his position. A branch moves, barely. Your head turns and for the first time—your eyes meet.
You don’t react.
Not the way he expects you to.
No sudden movement or sharp inhale. You look. And for a brief, suspended moment—neither of you move.
He doesn’t understand.
Why isn’t she backing away? Why isn’t she afraid? Why isn’t she calling the others?
His body is tense—ready.
But you don’t do anything that requires a response.
You don’t approach but you don’t retreat either. You stand there—watching him the way he’s been watching you.
Something unfamiliar shifts in his chest, not threat but something else he can’t explain. He steps out of the shadows slowly, fully visible now.
His eyes never leave you, watching for the reaction. Waiting for it. It doesn’t come. Your fingers tighten slightly around the strap of your bag.
He’s closer now and way taller than you expected. There’s something unrefined in the way he holds himself—like every movement is guided by instinct instead of learned behavior. But his eyes—his eyes are understanding more than anyone has given him credit for. You don’t speak right away because something tells you that words might not be the first thing he needs. He watches your mouth.
Nothing.
No sound.
Why?
The others always make noise.
Too much noise.
His head tilts in confusion as he takes another step closer. You still don’t move.
“Hi,” you say softly.
The word lands between you.
He freezes.
Sound… but not like the others.
It was gentle.
Strange.
Something in the tone makes his brows draw together. He tries to place it.
The word.
He knows it. He’s heard it before but never like that—directed at him like that. His lips part slightly. The shape of the word forms slowly.
“…Hi.”
It comes out rough as if something pulled from a place it’s never been used before.Your expression shifts not in surprise but to something softer.
You smile warmly.
He doesn’t understand that either.
But he doesn’t look away for a second.
For a while, neither of you move.
The forest settles around you again, slowly reclaiming the space that had stilled at your meeting. Leaves shift overhead, something far away rustles and passes unseen but the tension between you doesn’t snap, it loosens.
He watches you.
Not like before, not like he watches everything else.
You don’t behave like the others. That thought circles again, stronger now. The others move too quickly, speak too loudly, and look at him like they’re waiting for something.
You haven’t done any of that.
You stay where you are, weight balanced, shoulders relaxed—not careless, but not braced for a fight either. You look at him like…
You’re trying to understand.
Not control.
His head tilts even more.
Why?
You notice the shift before he does. It’s small but the tension in his shoulders eases just a fraction. His stance widens—not defensive, but more confident.You let out a quiet breath.
“My name is Y/N. It’s nice to meet you.”
Not a word this time.
Two whole sentences.
Your voice doesn’t change—still soft, still even but it’s much more than the last time you spoke. He freezes again.
More sound.
More meaning.
He understands—not every word—enough.
Y/N.
A name.
He watches your mouth as you say it, committing the shape to memory. You don’t repeat it immediately. You just…
Wait.
He shifts his weight. He wants to respond but the words don’t come out the way they do in his head. His lips part, close, then open again.
Nothing.
Frustration flickers.
You see it, not as failure, as effort and that changes everything.
“You don’t have to rush,” you say gently like you mean it and there’s no expectation tied to it. He pauses.
Rush.
The others always rush and expect and push.
You don’t.
The tightness inside of him loosens and he breathes out slowly. And for the first time, he doesn’t feel like he’s being watched.
—
Miles away, the observation room is frozen.
“Is she… adjusting her speech pattern?” one researcher asks.
“She’s simplifying without condescension,” another replies, eyes fixed on the screen. “She’s… pacing him.”
—
He steps closer, testing, and you stay where you are. He circles you once, not threatening just… observing from different angles. You don’t turn to follow him or track him as if he were prey. You let him move.
Trust.
The concept is unfamiliar but something about it settles into him anyway.
“…Y/N.”
It comes out carefully, uneven, but it’s there. Your face softens immediately.
“Yes,” you say, a small smile forming. “That’s my name.” You don’t use exaggerated praise—only confirmation.
Good.
That felt… good.
He doesn’t know why.
Without warning, he turns and moves away. You don’t call after him—you wait. He glances back once, checking to see if you’re still there. He moves again, slower this time.
An invitation.
You understand, adjusting your bag and following a medium distance behind. Not too close, not too far.
The forest changes as you move.
The ground rises and falls steeper, the trees grow denser, the light filters differently—dimmer, more enclosed. He navigates without hesitation. You watch how he moves, how naturally he belongs here. You reach it gradually, an elevated structure woven into the trees. Not artificial—but not entirely natural either.
A home.
He climbs first with practiced ease, then pauses at the top, looking down at you—waiting. You step forward, testing your footing. He shifts closer, not touching, but ready.
Just in case.
When you make it up, he watches you.
Inside, it’s… his.
That’s the only word for it.
Objects are scattered throughout: smoothed stones, woven pieces of fiber, things the scientists left behind that he repurposed into something else. Organized—not randomly—intentionally. You look around, taking everything in slowly.
“…You made this,” you say quietly. Again, confirmation. He straightens.
Yes.
That one, he understands fully.
“This is beautiful.”
He stops.
Beautiful.
He knows that word but… not like this. Not directed here, not at something that is his. Something warm moves through him that he doesn’t know the word for. He watches you as you kneel, examining something he has made, not touching immediately. You look first.
“You’re really good at this,” you add softly. He shifts, unsure of what to do with the information.
—
“Do you see that?” someone whispers. “He’s—”
“His posture,” another cuts in. “He’s responding. Communicating.”
Your father leans forward.
“Huh,” he says, almost proud you made the discovery.
—
You glance back up at him.
“May I sit here?”
Another full sentence. Not assumed—asked. He nods quickly. And just like that, the space changes. You open up your sketchbook and his attention snaps to it instantly, familiar.
Paper.
Marking.
He steps closer. You look up briefly.
“I draw,” you explain simply. Then—without hesitation—you begin. He watches your hand, the movement, the way the lines form something from nothing. Slowly he realizes… it’s the person he saw in the mirror.
It’s him.
Not broken or fragmented.
Whole.
After a while, you tilt your head up at him again.
“I never asked… What's your name?”
The question lands differently.
Name.
He has one, he knows he does. He’s heard it from them—from the voices in the distance. But it’s not used. His brows pull together, searching for it, but it feels just out of reach. You don’t move; you just wait like you have all the time in the world. So he tries again, pushing past the frustration and finding the sound.
“…Min…”
It slips and he clenches his jaw.
Again.
“…Ming…”
Closer this time.
Your eyes stay on him, encouraging but not forcing. He exhales sharply and tries one more time.
“…Mingi.”
Silence.
Then you smile warmly.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mingi.”
And in the observation room, no one speaks. Because for the first time, Subject 0809 has said his own name without force.
It was… given.
—
The forest feels different with two people in it.
More aware.
You notice it first.
It’s in the way the air seems to settle differently when you move now—not resisting you, not closing in as tightly as before. It’s in the way small sounds return more quickly when you pass.
It’s in him.
Mingi doesn’t leave, not once.
At first, he keeps his distance—never too far—just far enough that he can move without brushing against you. Enough that he can watch without being in the way.
He tracks everything you do.
The way you sit. The way you shift yourself when you’ve been still for too long. The way your hands move as you draw—steady, precise, like each line matters before it even exists.
You don’t acknowledge it and somehow that makes it… easier.
You pretend not to notice at first because you understand what it is: observation. The same thing that’s been done to him his entire life. The difference is, you don’t want to take it away from him.
So you let him have it.
By the second day, he’s closer.
Not something he consciously decides. It just… happens.
You sit near the base of the treehouse that morning, sketchbook balanced against your knees, the filtered light catching in the pages as you work.
He starts where he always does: across from you, half shadowed. But at some point, he shifts a bit. Then closer until he’s beside you, close enough that he can see.
You don’t look up but your pencil slows.
He leans forward carefully, as if the space between you is fragile. His gaze drops to the page. Lines. Shapes. Meaning.
He recognizes it faster this time.
It’s him again but different—softer. The sharp edges of his posture aren’t as rigid. The tension in his shoulders is… less. He tilts his head, confused. That’s not—
“You sit like that when you’re thinking,” you say quietly.
He knows that word.
Thinking.
You said it like it belonged to him, unfamiliar but not unpleasant. He watches your hand move again, in awe of how he takes shape through your eyes.
“… Good,” he says. The word is quiet and a bit rough but still intentional.
Your lips curve slightly. “It is,” you agree.
Mingi gets that warm feeling again, stronger this time. He shifts closer absentmindedly, shoulders almost touching. He notices your hands again. He’s noticed them before, but not like this. Not this close.
The way your fingers hold the pencil. The way your wrist moves. The way your skin looks… different. The others had lighter, rougher skin.
You’re a bit darker. More brown.
Softer.
Pretty.
He hesitates then slowly, he reaches out.
You feel it before you see it. The shift in the air. You pause but don’t pull away. You just… wait. His fingers hover just above your hand, not touching yet. He looks at you, a silent question.
You nod.
His fingers make contact, light and careful, like he’s expecting you to disappear.
He freezes immediately, watching your reaction, awaiting rejection. Resistance.
Anything.
Instead, your fingers shift under his—not to escape—to meet him. His breath catches.nThe contact lasts longer than he expects, longer than he understands.
Miles away, in the observation room, the researchers are silent. The only sound is the light whirring of the cooling fans and the soft rustle of leaves coming through the speakers.
“Physical contact,” someone breathes. “Unprompted. And she didn’t withdraw.”
“Which would reinforce the behavior—”
“Continue observation” your father cuts in. “My daughter knows exactly what she’s doing. She always does.”
Back in the forest, you gently pull your hand back after a moment. Mingi watches the space where your hand was as you flip the page and start a new drawing.
“…Do you want to see?”you ask quietly.
He looks at you, then the sketchbook, then back at you.
Yes.
He nods.
You turn it more towards him. It’s the treehouse—the branches, the way everything curves together, the way it holds. He stares at it, recognizing the resemblance.
“…Home,” he says, the word coming out so clearly that it surprises him. Your expression softens.
“Yes,” you say with a tiny nod. “It is.”
When you finally lean back against the tree to rest, he mirrors it without thinking. Your shoulders touch but this time, neither of you pull away.
The forest breathes around you, alive and unbothered—unknowing of the fact that something gentle took root.
————
Hey guys! Let me know if you want me to continue this (I know this trope is an acquired taste but I just wanted to try writing it out!)
taglist: @baw-sixteen
Ok everyone so I rarely see an ateez x black reader insert so of course I had to fix that for my fellow girlies anyways prepare for a new Mingi angst series starting tonight! I hope you guys will like it☺️
men be like: girls are obsessed with shirtless pics
meanwhile my obsession:
can i request something for Mingi’s recent photoshoot pls??!!!
Please do😈
fight or flight | s.mg
synopsis: Well, fight or flight, I'd rather die than have to cry in front of you, fight or flight, I'd rather lie than tell you I'm in love with you, my eyes are welling up as you admit there's someone new, it's my move, fight or flight
genre: fwb; idiots in love; angst
wc: 4.1k
cw: fem!reader; suggestive but fade to black; they’re messy (bc when is fwb not messy?); illusions to cheating?? but not really cause they aren’t a couple???; jealousy, jealousy; dealing with a broken heart; avoidance!; like complete ghosting pretty much; sasaeng and sasaeng activities; these two have the communication skills of jellyfish
Fight or Flight by Conan Gray
Something's gotten into you, you don't really look at me the way you used to
Breathing heavily, you stared at the ceiling of Mingi’s room with his duvet pulled up to cover your chest. You watched as his ceiling fan spun in circles, the only noises in the room being your shared panting.
It was normal, the silence after. You’d never over thought it before, found comfort in it even. But then he sat up, and he started to get dressed without even looking your way, and suddenly that silence was more suffocating than it had ever been.
“Hey, are you alright?” You asked, your voice still a little husky.
“Yeah. Just gonna go get some water.”
“Okay.”
You watched as he left his room, never having rushed to get re-dressed but feeling like whatever conversation may be had wasn’t one you wanted to be naked for.
Song Mingi was your friend, one of your closest. And at some point in college, he’d become the person you went to when you were stressed and needed a carnal release, and vice versa. It’d been established early on it was strictly physical, the both of you agreeing that your friendship wasn’t to be affected.
But if you were being honest with yourself, it was already affected long before the first time you slept with him.
You were already fully dressed and halfway into a rabbit hole when he returned, two glasses of water in hand. He raised a brow at your clothed figure but made no mention of it as he offered you a glass of water and joined you on his bed.
The rest of the evening went on in familiar comfort, but you had to be pulled back to reality a few times as your mind kept straying to his odd behavior.
And I'm hoping it ain't true, every single rumor that I've heard of you
“Mingi of Ateez seen with mystery girl. Could he possibly be fixing on to settle down?”
You rolled your eyes at the headline, but you read the whole post. And then the next three.
Before you knew it you were deep in the social media tags. Reading through Atiny’s thoughts, sifting through photos of the two, and wanting to crawl into a hole the more time spent reading about it.
A part of your mind was trying to remind yourself that, fuck buddy or not, you and Mingi were friends. That if he truly was in a relationship, you would've possibly been the first to hear about it. He would’ve already distanced himself from you to respect her.
Wouldn’t he?
Say you were off with someone that I don't know, calling other people on your telephone
“Hey boys!” You smiled, pulling Wooyoung into a hug as you walked through their kitchen.
“Y/n! It’s so nice to see your face!” Wooyoung kissed your forehead dramatically as he hugged you closer to him, “I’d say it’s nice to hear your voice, but we hear that plenty.” He giggles as you elbowed him and swatted him away from you.
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stave off the blush creeping up your neck.
“Where is Mingi anyway?” You mumbled.
“Don’t know, thought he went out with you.”
You looked at Jongho, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
“Why would you think that?”
“Cause he took a call, sounded like a woman’s voice, and then rushed out of here. I’m suddenly sensing I was wrong.”
You couldn’t stand the pitying looks being passed around the room. It wasn’t like the two of you were a couple.
Shrugging, you simply stole a piece of chicken off San’s plate, trying to act completely unbothered.
“Good for him. I mean I wasn’t gonna be around forever. ‘Bout time he meets a girl.” You tried to say it jokingly but the pitying looks only turned to deep concern.
Kinda wish I didn't know.
Despite your attempts to avoid Song Mingi, you found yourself once again catching your breath, staring at his ceiling fan.
He was an addiction you couldn’t quite break.
Rolling over, you propped your head up on your hand, smiling when his eyes met yours.
“I feel like I haven’t seen you a whole lot recently.”
He rolled onto his side, mirroring your position.
“Yeah, sorry about that. Our schedules have been really full with the upcoming comeback.”
You fake pouted. “So you just ignore me now?”
He growled, leaning forward to steal a kiss. “You know I could never do that.” He said as he rolled you back onto your back, peppering your face and neck in kisses.
You squealed, giggles filling the room and quickly turning to moans as you struggled to force away the thought of not being the only girl seeing this side of him.
You tell me it ain't what it seems but baby, this is looking like a crime scene
“Have you seen the rumors?”
You tensed up. There you were, lying in his arms, his hand playing with your hair, and he wants to talk about his alleged relationship.
You just nodded.
He squeezed you gently, releasing a breath. “I want you to ignore everything you see.”
There were a million thoughts and questions floating through your head, but you settled on, “Why?”
“It’s not what they think it is.”
You stiffened, “Okay, then what is it?”
He stilled, “You don’t need to worry about that.”
Turning, you laid your head on his chest so you could look at him.
“You’re sounding suspicious there, Mingi.”
He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.
“Not suspicious, just really tired of nosey people who don’t know anything.” He grumbled.
You rolled your eyes, smiling at him as you pecked his lips once before getting up to get dressed.
“Can I steal a shirt?” You were already heading to his closet before he hummed his approval.
You’d stolen his clothes numerous times before, but never before had you walked into his closet to see a woman’s entire outfit, lingerie and all, folded up on a shelf. Your heart dropped.
Quickly backpedaling out, you started grabbing up your clothes and putting them on, ignoring the alarm in Mingi’s voice as he asked what’s going on.
“I just remembered I have plans. I gotta go.”
There's clothes thrown on the balcony and you smell like perfume out a magazine
You were halfway to the front door, intent on not even looking at Mingi’s bandmates in lieu of escaping before your heart could be seen on the floor.
“Y/n, wait!”
His hand clasped around your wrist, far gentler than most times it’d been there. He pulled so that you’d turn to look at him.
“I don’t know what’s going on in that head of yours right now, but I’d really appreciate it if you’d talk to me.”
“Mingi, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“This isn’t like you.”
Your breath caught in your throat, tears trying to well up against your every attempt to remain neutral.
No. It wasn’t like you. Not at all. You were rational, the calming one in times of stress or confusion. You didn’t like jumping to conclusions, always being the one ready to offer alternative explanations.
But what alternative explanation could there be? There’s some woman’s lingerie sitting in his closet. You’re assuming it belongs to the same woman that has been spotted outside venues, in restaurants, and on walks.
The woman you could only imagine being his girlfriend.
Which makes you the other woman if he hasn’t told her about your relationship.
“I love you,” you ignored the shine of excitement in his eyes, “You’re literally one of my best friends ever,” and you ignored the immediate dull, “But friends with benefits always end with the beginning of real relationships. I’m just saving you some trouble. I do have somewhere to be so I have to scoot.”
You smiled, slipping your hand out of his grasp, ignoring the confusion written all over his face, and all but running for the front door, ignoring him trying to call out to you.
I'm throwing all your shit out of my window telling you I wish that we had never spoke
Heartbreak isn't something you’d ever expected out of a friends with benefits situation. It’s actually exactly why you and Mingi chose this path. So there would never have to be heartbreak.
Funny how the heart works.
You didn’t know who to call, you wanted to talk about how you were feeling but it wasn’t like you were dating. Did you even have the right to be this upset?
You didn’t want to think at the moment. A part of you just wanted to pretend Mingi has been your boyfriend the whole time. Pretend that the future was planned out, pretend that he cheated, so that your heart shattering into a million bits and pieces was a rightful reaction.
Your music could probably be heard from the hallway and by your neighbors as you blared songs that sounded nothing like Ateez, drank some wine, and waltzed around your apartment collecting anything of his, from him, or for him and throwing it into a box.
Cleaning out your living room, you froze as you picked up a framed picture of you and Mingi. It was one of the only pictures the two of you have alone and San’s girlfriend had gotten it printed and framed for you. She was always talking about how cute the two of you were, and while you’d always denied being Mingi’s girlfriend to her, you couldn’t bring yourself to reject the gift.
“I wish we’d never strayed from just being friends.”
Baby, I already know
The next time you ended up at the boys dorms, you tried to grab as much of your stuff as you possibly could.
You now knew from personal experience how much it hurt to see another girl's stuff mixed in with the belongings of the guy you’re seeing. You didn’t want to put Mingi’s girlfriend through that kind of confusion and pain.
Personal feelings aside entirely, Mingi was your friend, and you’d hoped to befriend his girl whenever he decided to finally introduce her. If and when you could handle seeing him again.
“What are you doing?” Wooyoung, always the meddler, leaned against the doorframe of Mingi’s room, watching you pick pieces up out of the perfectly orchestrated mess.
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
“It looks like you’re trying to get your stuff and get out when you know Mingi isn’t here. You do know he wants to talk to you, right?”
“Keep missing his calls.”
It was less you were missing his calls and more avoiding them, and the unimpressed look Wooyoung gave you told you he knew it too.
“Sure. And why do you keep missing his calls?”
You pinned him with a glare, to which he simply held his hands up in surrender. “I’m probably on your side, Y/n, but you gotta give me something to work with.”
“I don’t want to meet his new girlfriend yet. I already know about her, and I just don’t think I’m ready to be normal around him again.”
“You caught feelings?”
You know the face you made was one that screamed ‘duh’ and the fact that he didn’t deny Mingi’s girlfriend did not go unnoticed, but only further confirmed your suspicions.
“You should tell him.”
“Are you crazy? Wooyoung, he has a girlfriend and we were no strings attached. Even if I did tell him, it was meaningless sex to him and now it’s nothing. Null and void.”
“I don’t know about this ‘girlfriend’ you keep talking about, but I highly doubt anything between you two can be genuinely called meaningless.”
Now there's someone at my door, someone I've not met before
The sound of knocking had you groaning to yourself. After your earlier conversation with Wooyoung, you were done with people for the day.
Opening your door, you were greeted by a girl you’d never seen before.
“Can I help you?”
She smiled gently. “No. You’re Y/n, right?”
You just nodded and the girls smile faded into something sad.
“I’m afraid I have something I need to tell you.”
“And who are you exactly?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Areum, may I come inside? This might take a little while.”
“What is this about?”
“Song Mingi.”
You felt your heart plummet.
They've got eyes like mine, a pretty smile and they've been crying for a while
“Can I get you anything?”
“No, I’m fine. Thank you.” Areum looked around your apartment before finally taking a seat on your couch. You gave her a glass of water and curled up on the other half of the couch.
“So what did you need to tell me?”
Taking a deep breath, she looked straight at you. You took in her soft eyes, and the slight exhaustion in them.
“Mingi has been cheating on you. With me.”
You felt your mouth try to quirk up into a smile but had to keep your face neutral.
“Could you explain?”
“Oh yes! Of course. Mingi and I have been seeing each other for quite a while now, and I thought we were happy together. I thought he was going to ask me to be his girlfriend. But then he started canceling dates, and not responding to texts as frequently. Then I found some of your stuff at his apartment. I had assumed he was cheating on me, but then I heard some of the other boys talking and realized I was the other woman.”
'Cause they also didn't know that our lover loved us both
“Are you the one the tabloids are going crazy over?”
Her eyes widened in shock. “That wasn’t you?”
“No.” You said dryly.
Your heart was screaming at you that Mingi had more lovers than you thought. That you weren’t special and never had been. But your brain was suspicious of her story.
“Then who was it? I’d only heard about you.”
Areum looked like she was spiraling. Like her heart and her brain had come to a conclusion she wasn’t ready to accept. Your heart went out for her, but after having already come to terms with not being Mingi’s, this was a surprisingly easy conversation for you.
You just shifted so that you could pat her back as she went through all the stages of grief on your couch.
This girl seemed to be so hurt by a man you thought of as the gentlest and sweetest human being to exist. You’d mourn the Mingi that was yours eventually, but in that moment you just offered her company as she mourned hers.
Well, fight or flight, I'd rather die than have to cry in front of you
You hadn’t checked your phone in days, scared to see the bombard of texts and calls from Mingi and maybe even some of the others. You weren’t trying to lose them all as friends, you just needed some time to get over Mingi.
You went about your days as normal, deciding it’d be the best way to move on. The only new things being Areum dropping by to hang out, and you not dropping by Mingi’s.
A knock at your door in the middle of the day had become a frequent occurrence.
“It’s open!” You shouted, not bothering to move away from your lunch on the stove.
Silence following the front door opening was not a part of your new normal.
“I’m in the kitchen!”
“I know.” A deep, very much not Areum, voice said from the doorway. You jumped, whipping around with your spoon in hand, ready to fling it or swat the intruder with it.
“Holy shit, Mingi. You scared me.”
“You invited me in?”
Closing your eyes, you took a deep breath to slow down your heart rate and will down the tears at seeing him, before turning back to your pot.
“I thought you were someone else.”
You heard him moving behind you and getting comfortable at your table.
“So, I no longer have an open invitation?”
“You know you’re always welcome here. I was just expecting someone else.”
“Another man?”
You scoffed before you could hold it in. You could feel his eyes on you but refused to turn and look at him.
“What’s it to you?”
“A lot actually. The last time I saw you, you ran out pretty abruptly, saying you were saving me the trouble of ending things? I think. You’ve been avoiding me since; don’t try to deny it,” he rushed out as your mouth opened, causing you to shut it. “You haven’t picked up the phone or texted me back in days. What happened, Y/n?”
You got into a relationship. Didn’t tell me. Kept our situation exactly the same despite seeing someone else. Let me believe there was more to our story.
“I’ve just been dealing with some personal stuff.”
“You usually tell me about that kind of thing.”
“Not this time, Mingi. I have to deal with this alone.”
You felt his hands grab your shoulders, gently spinning you to look at him.
“Talk to me, Y/n. Please.”
“You don’t want to hear what I have to say to you right now, Mingi.”
“Whatever it is, it’ll be better than silence.”
Fight or flight, I'd rather lie than tell you I'm in love with you
Taking a deep breath, you turned off your stove and moved your pan off the heat. Your heart was in your throat, but you knew you had to talk to him if you wanted to move on.
Meeting his eyes, you reminded yourself of the facts. He isn’t yours. He never was. What you had was never meant to be permanent.
“In case I haven’t made it clear enough, I’m ending things between us. I still want to be friends, but I don’t want to be anything else anymore, Mingi.”
“Will you tell me why?”
You laughed, slightly incredulously, to which he just raised a brow at you.
“It was never meant to last, Mingi. What we had was no strings attached sex to fight the stress of life. I don’t want that anymore, so we’re done.”
“That’s what you think of us?”
No. “Yes.”
Mingi raked a hand through his hair, words forming in his mouth but being left unspoken. You watched as he seemed to reach for ways to say what he was thinking, but failed every time.
“It’s okay Mingi. I’m not mad. What we had was great, trust me it’s not you.”
“Then what is it?”
“What?”
“If it’s not me then what is it?”
“Oh for the love of- I’m done. It’s that simple.”
“But it’s not.”
“If it’s not that simple, Mingi, then please, enlighten me.”
“If it was that simple, Y/n, it wouldn’t feel like I have to fight for every inch to just get an explanation. The Y/n I know has always been completely open with me. So, please, just tell me what’s really going on.”
“I’m just not interested anymore-”
“Stop lying to me! Please, just, stop lying. If there’s ever been any trust between us, I need you to be truthful with me right now.”
His eyes were wide with desperation. And though he never reached out to you, or made a move to get closer to you, he couldn’t stop fidgeting. Like every ounce of him wanted to reach out for even a sliver of you.
“Fine.” Because if there’s one thing you both deserve from this, it’s to end it off without bad blood. “The truth is our situation isn’t fair to the girl who has your heart. I’m not going to pretend I don’t know about her. I’m not going to pretend I’m not mad that you kept seeing me. For whatever reason you may have, you didn’t end things with me so now I’m doing it because what we’re doing isn’t fair to her, or you, or me.”
My eyes are welling up as you admit there's someone new
“You’re right. Our situation is not fair to her.”
You had to ignore the stab in your heart.
“It’s not fair to the most incredible woman I know that she might be confused. That she doesn’t see that she is the best thing to have happened to me, because what we’ve been doing makes it all seem fake.
“That when I’ve had a stressful day, seeing her smile is all it takes to make it better. That her kiss is like breathing for the first time. That she might feel like she doesn’t matter because of how we got here. So you’re right, our situation as it stands needs to change. We can’t keep doing this. It’s not fair to us.”
You knew your eyes were probably shining, everything in you screaming to let the tears flow.
“Then that’s the end of that.” You said, trying to smile. Trying to pretend you didn’t want to cry, or throw up, or maybe even both simultaneously.
“I guess it is.” His voice was strained, as if he were in pain.
“In that case, you should go tell her what she means to you.”
“I guess I should.”
And before you knew what was happening, his hands were on your waist, your feet were off the ground. Your butt was planted firmly on your counter and his lips were on yours as if they held the key to all the answers in life. He kissed you like he’d been drowning, and you were oxygen.
His hands were holding you so tightly you were confident it’d leave marks, but yours were in his hair, and you were clinging to him just as desperately. He kissed you as if he never had before and never would again, as if every emotion he’d ever felt could be shared through that one kiss.
Mingi didn’t pull away until his head was fuzzy with the need to breathe.
The room was filled with your shared gasps for breath, foreheads and noses pressed together, his hand gently cupping your neck as if he were afraid you’d pull away.
“Please don’t ever ignore me for this long again.” He finally said.
“I don’t understand.”
“What don’t you understand, gorgeous?”
“What about Areum?”
Mingi stiffened in your arms, the energy of the whole room shifting from soft to anxious almost immediately.
“How do you know about Areum?”
It's my move,
You pulled away, as if his touch burned you. Pushing him to create distance.
“You’ve got to be joking.”
“Y/n, how do you know about Areum?” He asked again, pleading, grabbing for your hand as if he needed it to center himself.
You debated, but you didn’t want to be wrapped up in lies anymore.
“She came by, told me everything. We’ve kind of become friends.”
“What did she tell you?”
“Why does it matter, Mingi?”
“Because she lied. Whatever she told you was as far from the truth as possible, because I know you and you wouldn’t be friends with someone like her.”
You scoffed a laugh. “Oh okay, so I can’t be friends with her but you can date her while fucking me?”
“Date her? What- no. Y/n, Areum is a sasaeng. She’s been following me for weeks, taking pictures, sending them to media outlets with fraudulent stories. Are you telling me she’s been to your place?”
You just stared at him. Every conversation, hang out, moment that seemed like a blossoming friendship, running on repeat in your head.
“Y/n, has she been to your home?”
“She’s been in it.”
“Okay.” And while your mind was still reeling, Mingi ducked out of your kitchen and returned shortly with a packed duffel bag.
“What are you doing?”
“You’re gonna come stay at the dorm.” He said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “She knows where you live, she probably knows your schedule, and she’s been inside of this apartment. She could have cameras planted, who knows.”
“Mingi, I’m not scared of Areum.”
“I am. And I want to keep you safe. Please let me.”
You hesitated, but deep down you already knew your answer.
“Fine. But we have a lot to talk about.”
“Can’t wait.” He gave you a quick kiss on your cheek before moving to grab a container. “Pack up dinner, we’ll eat and talk.” Mingi gave your butt a light tap before leaving the kitchen to finish packing you up.
You knew it was going to be a long night and probably a tiring few weeks as the two of you worked through this, but your heart was soaring at the prospect of every imagined future with him finally becoming reality.
Fight or flight.
Ateez ft. Conan Gray Songfics Masterlist
Had a dream I swapped bodies with Mingi on some freaky Friday type shit and dude didn’t pick up my calls for a week because
1. he didn’t know his own number by heart
2. “first time being a girl,kinda nervous” lemme enjoy this
Yall I am unable to can because wtf was that shit 😂 I can’t remember much else but good lord I just know that man was causing chaos and being a menace in my body like he didn’t even question it just went with the flow
cuties being cuties
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