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supernatural-bias · 11 months ago

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐬 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐀 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐄𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐲 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐈𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞

↳ includes: billy butcher, hughie campbell, frenchie, mothers milk, kimiko, and soldier boy

↳ warnings: canon type violence and happenstances. hinted to take place during season three at some points.

↳ notes: sorry butcher is in here so much. he's the kind of guy that can't shut the fuck up, so i feel like he's always getting in everyone business no matter what

↳ song: rock me like a hurricane—scorpions

masterlist | commissions | carrd

𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐁𝐮𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫

• He has mixed feelings about you

• On one hand, you’re a great team player. Always making sure the job gets done, willing to put yourself on the line for the team, one of the most willing to kill a supe in a snap—second only to him—and always managing to make shit up on the fly whenever something inevitably goes wrong on a mission. Butcher has seen you fend off an entire team of armed Vought men before with nothing but a well timed lie and piece of pipe. That’s not something to scoff at, even if he does anyways

• But on the other hand, he has a feeling that you were just as much as an annoying shit as he acted sometimes

• “Sorry to say this guys—“ You said one night through the food in your mouth as Chinese takeout sat on a dirty table in front of you, curtesy of M.M and his pocketbook, “—but I think I’d betray you all for a fortune cookie. I’d betray my country for a fortune cookie.”

• "You say that like we ain’t already betrayin’ the cunts, sunshine.” Butcher eyed you from across the room as you nicked Frenchies own cookie from him while he was staring off at Kimiko for the tenth time that night

• “Too right, Butch.” You grinned like a shark at your idiotic nickname for him, and he ignored you as you did so; like he always did

• He definitely appreciates your enthusiasm behind his plans. Unlike Hughie or M.M, who despite working in the business of taking down supes seem to be hesitant about doing too much shit, you don’t seem to have a very strong moral code. That’s not necessarily a good thing in anyone’s eyes except for Butcher’s, who knows that he can always count on you to have his back in whatever situation he manages to squeeze himself into

• “Thanks for comin’.” He grunted at you while vomiting into a toilet, green bile spewing from his mouth. Butcher’s eyes burned with the urge to let out a laser beam, and he did so for a moment, splitting the porcelain throne we was leaning over in two

• “Want me to hold your hair back for you, honey?” You didn’t even miss a beat to start making fun of his situation, which made Butcher growl at you even from his current position. Despite your sarcastic demeanor in the moment, and the way he had just scorched an unexpected hole through the shitty bathroom, Butcher knew you’d help, no questions asked. And that’s exactly what you did, grabbing whatever he asked you to as he gave you a run down on the latest solo mission he had been attempting to get by with on his own

• “Jesus, poor Gunpowder huh?” You mused as you crossed your arms and leaned on the sink above him. For a moment Butcher thought you were granting the dead supe a bit of sympathy before he saw the glint in your eyes. “If the last thing I saw before I kicked it was your mug, I’d probably wanna get it over with yeah?”

• “Do me a favor. Go grab the toaster in the other room an’ take a nice bath with it, would ya?”

• “You first, Butcher.”

𝐇𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐢𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐥

• The two of you are like peas in a pod. Two very weird, very cautious peas in a pod

• Even if Butcher is beside himself with annoyance at having another, as he put it, “soft cunt with a morality complex,” join the team, Hughie couldn’t be happier that someone seems to share his values on supes, on Vought; on the world, really

• In the first season or so, the two of you would probably spend a lot of time in between working with everyone else in the field to come up with a way to take Vought down the right way. Eventually,as we all know, that later falls apart, but it exhilarates Hughie to know that there’s people out there like him that want to try and put in the effort for things like that

• “Yeah, so if we can get one more witness about the Termite incident to come forward and testify—“ You bit your pen between your teeth and nodded as Hughie waved his hands over a stack of papers and talked at a million miles an hour, somehow understanding each and every word.

• “—then we could finally take a supe down legally. And that would make way for a whole round of others; Hughie you’re a genius.” You finished his sentence for him, slapping a hand down on the table with a grin as Hughie smiled. Somewhere in the distance someone snorted wryly, no doubt having heard the entire conversation. You had no doubt it was Butcher, but that didn’t matter to the either of you with how happy you were at the revelation. No matter how temporary it would turn out to be

• Hughie finds himself trusting you quite a bit. He can get attached pretty easily, so he finds himself willing to do anything to back you up—within reason of course. He still has some semblance of sanity left

• Listens to Billy Joel with you! Doesn’t matter if you all are coming back from a mission covered in blood—once it was whale guts—he will stick one earbud in and leave the other out for you as he presses play on a mix. More than once the others have found both of you passed out and snoring as the faint sound of Billy Joel plays through the headphones

• “Think we should wake them up, mon amie?” Frenchie tilts his head as he looks down on the both of you. Hughie chest rises and falls with a softness he couldn’t afford on the regular. You were positioned far away from him to have your back to him, somehow keeping your end of the earbud in as you drooled

• “Nah, let em sleep. God knows they need it.” M.M shook his head with crossed arms, the sight reminding him of better times

• “Oi! Stop ogling at the knackered sods and come help me with this, would ya?”

• “Fuck you, Butcher.” M.M said with a sigh, leaving the room to go and help anyway

𝐅𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐞

• He fucks with you so hard

• I mean, come on, someone that’s as excited about making bombs as he is? Someone that is willing to understand French? To shit talk everyone else to their face—especially Butcher?? He might have to marry you on the spot

• Please learn French. He will literally beg you to start. Conjugates, vocabulary, even a simple ‘please’ and ‘thank you’. Anything at all. Will absolutely not judge you for your horrific accent or pronunciation if you have any

• Bomb lessons on the side, too. If you already know the basics, or are a pro, it’ll be a lot more breezy, but he’s willing to start from scratch. It’ll be nice to have a partner to help him with his creations on the team for once, and even better since he likes you

• The two of you, and Kimiko obviously, are practically joined at the hip. What I said about the shit talking earlier was real, too. All of you use different languages or sign to voice whatever you’re thinking. It’s nice to be able to speak your mind freely, and there’s the added bonus of not having M.M give you that sharp look of his, or Butcher calling you names. Anymore than usual, that is

• “What do you reckon the three of ‘em are always on about?” Butcher took a swig from his drink. He was sitting next to Hughie with a beer on one of their down days as the younger man typed away on a computer. He was watching you Frenchie and Kimiko from across the room as you all signed at each other with giant smiles on your face. Frenchie would speak occasionally, but all that came out was his mother tongue, and your face would pause for a moment as you let your brain process what he was saying. Then all of you would break out into another round of grins, something that Butcher had to deadpan at

• “Probably planning a coup.” Hughie answered Butcher without even looking up from his screen. He knew who he was talking about anyways. It wasn’t hard to guess thanks, to the occasional loud exclamation from Frenchie as you signed something particularly risqué or funny

• Butcher flitted his eyes away in annoyance from you all after he recognized the word ‘cunt’ in the passing conversation, along with a sign that was clearly supposed to represent him

• “I think at this poin’ I’d prefer tha’.” He grumbled into his cup, and all of you laughed

• “Cheer up, Butcher. At least Frenchie isn’t teaching them how to make homemade cherry bombs again.”

• “Shut up.”

𝐌𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐤

• Finally. Someone other than him can be the voice of reason in the group

• It’s tiring being the one to hold everyone together all of the time. It might help if Butcher wasn’t so much of an ass, or if Hughie didn’t feel the need to derail every plan with thoughts of his own, but M.M knew that wouldn’t be happening anytime soon. So he’d take any help he could get with reigning everyone in

• Definitely bonds with you over your shared habit of wearing band t-shirts to meetups or hideouts. I’d like to imagine that at one point the both of you show up wearing the exact same one, and it goes exactly how one would expect

• “Same shirt.” M.M notices one morning, pointing at your torso with the initials N.W.A written over it. He’s smiling, and so are you as what he’s wearing in turn dawns on you

• “Same shirt!! Hell yeah.”

• Fist bumps. Fist bumps galore, man. The two of you fist bump a lot. To punctuate sentences, drive a point home, agree on stuff—anything. It’s your own way of communicating with each other without having to bat an eye

• It’ll take M.M a while, but eventually he’ll start to really open up about missing his family to you. Beyond just showing you pictures of his daughter at soccer practice, I mean. If he trusts you enough to have his back in a shoot out, then he trusts you with this

• At one point, it goes farther than his (regrettably ex) wife and daughter, and eventually branches out into what he’s willing to tell about his dad and brothers. You feel like you know all of them by the time he’s done, and that only makes the typewriter story hit harder when he finally decides to reveal it

• Let’s just say you were pretty willing to jump Soldier Boy on M.M’s half the first time you were left in a room with them

• “Just one swing I swear—“

• “He will literally beat you into a pulp.” M.M deadpanned, doing his best to avoid looking at the other imposing figure in the room as he clasped two hands on either of your shoulders

• “Listen to your friend, sweetheart. Would hate to have to scrub my hands clean of any of your blood. Getting under the fingernails is always hard.”

• “See what I mean, just one punch that’s all—“

• “No.”

𝐊𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐤𝐨

• It’s honestly great for her to be able to hang around someone that feels the same way that she does. Maybe it’s how silent you are that really draws her attention at first, but Kimiko really grows to appreciate you as a member of the team

• Probably gets a lot of joy from having a friend like you. She constantly asks to do things like have you watch movies with her or to do ‘sleepovers,’ which are really just the two of you crashing on the main room couch together

• She never got a chance at a normal childhood or friends, so you and Frenchie are the closest she gets to a peace of mind

• Not even a question about it, she’s making you learn her sign language

• Will stare at you for days on end, saying nothing but everything at the same time until you agree to learn. Once you do, it’s all over. She gets the biggest most happiest look anyone ever seen, and there’s no turning back from that

• “Kimiko, what are you doing. It’s two in the morning.” You groan at her from under the thin covers of your bed, doing your best to ignore her hands as they fly about. It’s the childish equivalent of ‘if I can’t see you, you can’t see me’

• ‘No time to sleep. We have to go over stuff before the mission tomorrow. It will help us communicate.’ She was unnerved by your lack of enthusiasm. If anything it only spurred her on more, shaking your bed and pulling at your covers as you groaned. Even with the progress you had been making with signing over the past few weeks, your knowledge was still a bit shaky, and being half asleep didn’t help, so you only caught a few words. Enough to know what she wanted, however

• “Go away, Kimiko.” You whined. The shaking stopped, and for a moment you thought your request had worked. You were more than happy to fall back into whatever dream you had been having beforehand

• Then you heard the rushing of feet and a large weight slammed onto your legs

• “Goddamnit!—“

• Frenchie found the both of you the next morning; Kimiko looking bright eyed and bushy-tailed while you were practically falling asleep from where you sat. It was a teasing point for you over the next two weeks

• Between you, there’s moments like that where, despite Kimiko’s silence and your habit to keep your thoughts to yourself, nothing ever goes unseen or unsaid. The two of you know each other like the back of your hands, and sometimes you wonder if you’d even need her sign to communicate

𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐮𝐬: 𝐒𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐫 𝐁𝐨𝐲

• If the saying ‘this town ain't big enough for the both of us’ could apply here, it absolutely would

• It’s almost ironic how bad Soldier Boy handles another version of himself. You’ve got just as much snark and anger as him, and it pisses him the hell off. Constantly.

• Maybe it’s because you didn’t fan boy over him as soon as he flashed a few cheesy lines that keeps his disdain for you boiling, or that you didn’t keep your distance when he threatened to eradicate your entire bloodline if you didn’t stop running your mouth at him

• “Need help with that?” He cocks a brow at you one day, watching with poorly hidden annoyance as you struggle to tie a knot in your shoes for the fifth time in a minute. The offer isn’t serious, and even if it was, he has no doubt you wouldn’t hesitate to kick him in the face if he bent down to tie your shoe for you

• “Need help taking my dick down your throat?” You parroted back at him while raising your voice in a false-happy tone. Finally you get the shoestrings to cooperate, completely missing the way Soldier Boy glows in a harsh warning at your attitude

• “Ladies, ladies, you’re both pretty.” Butcher calls from the room over, no doubt tired of the bickering between the two of you that had been nonstop for the past few days. “Let’s get a move on before one of you decides to claw the others bloody eyes out, yeah?”

• The fact that you’re not even a supe just ticks him off more. Only a few people have ever pushed his buttons like this, most of them being supes, and they always ended up being nothing but red paste in the next few minutes

• You make sure to point it out to him several times that you’re just acting like he always does, making sure to don a shit eating grin when he clenches his fist at your comment

• Please for the love of everything that’s holy tone it the fuck down. Some people may say that Soldier Boy has no self-control, but it sure is taking a whole lot of it not to kick you in the crotch as hard as possible

• “The feelings mutual.” You deadpan at him when he eventually shares that fantasy out loud. He knew full well that if you even so much as tried that, you’d end up with a broken ankle and your front pinned to the closest brick wall, but he had no doubts that you would go for it anyway

• Seriously. How has he not murdered you in your sleep yet

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studioeisa · 5 months ago

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haven't we met? ♾️ minghao x reader.

“wherever you are in the world, i swear i'll find you again.”

★ kimi no nawa minghao x reader. ★ word count: 9k ★ day one of (the8) days of minghao. ★ genre/warnings: romance, light angst, friendship, hurt/comfort. mentions of death/calamities. soulmates, body swapping, time travel, delayed ripple effect, references to chinese mythology. inspired by & heavily references makoto shinkai's kimi no nawa/your name, but it's not required to have seen the film to understand the plot. annotations.

It’s a Wednesday when Minghao wakes up in a room that isn’t his.

He doesn’t immediately register it. His senses come to him slowly; the sun is warm on his face, supposedly streaking through the windows.

But then an alarm blares, and it’s an alarm that’s decisively not his. It’s loud and oppressive. The complete opposite of the gentle tinkling of bells that he sets for his mornings. Minghao peels his eyes open before blinking blearily up at a ceiling that’s in a shade of dark green.

Odd. His ceiling is supposed to be beige.

Minghao finally manages to sit up, to glance around. The room he’s in is not his. It’s much more disorganized and the furniture’s a bit more old-fashioned. He lets out a slight exhale.

A dream, he thinks wearily. I’m dreaming.

Minghao can’t help but think that it’s a particularly realistic dream as he unsteadily gets to feet. As he pulls aside the sheets that had covered him, he notices snatches of a body that isn’t his, either. Lithe legs, painted toenails.

I’m dreaming I’m someone else, he thinks. It happened, didn’t it? One might sometimes dream from the perspective of a stranger, a friend.

Minghao’s attention is drawn to a half-full water carafe on the bedside table. Without much thought, he reaches for it— before smashing it onto the floor. Free will, baby.

Except—

He feels it. The wetness lapping up at his feet. The shards of broken glass flying in all directions. Something closes up in his throat. Did he usually feel things in his dreams? Had he eaten something weird, drank something the night before, to have him dreaming like this?

The door to the room swings open.

A silver-haired woman stands in front of him, now, her face pinched with worry. She says a name— a name that isn’t Minghao’s— and asks, panicked, “What happened?”

Minghao doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t trust himself to speak. He just stares and stares as this wrinkled woman chides him in a motherly way until he realizes, ah. This must be his mother. Not his mother, but his dream self’s mother.

He can work with that. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out. His voice is different. Not his, not his. He tries again— softer, this time— like it might change things. Like he might be able to coax his old voice to break through whatever sleepy haze he’s in. “I’m sorry. I knocked it over by accident.”

“You’re so clumsy,” his ‘mother’ chides, but she’s already getting to her knees to wipe at the puddle of water with her apron. That snaps Minghao into action; he stumbles across the room in search of a towel.

What a crazy dream, he thinks as he delicately gathers up the shards, as he wipes up the spilled water. I’ve never had a dream like this.

As his ‘mother’ heads back downstairs, Minghao figures he might as well play the part.

He follows her down for breakfast. He’s struck by how visceral, how tactile everything feels. The creeks of the old staircase. The smell of seaweed egg drop soup. The crick in Minghao’s neck.

Am I going insane? Minghao briefly wonders as he settles into the dining table, where there’s already a spread of food waiting for him. He notes that it’s a rather small table, made for only two people. It’s a stark contrast to the long tables he usually shares with twelve other boys, to the family tables he reserves with his own family.

“Why are you being so quiet?” his ‘mother’ asks as she sits across from him. “We’ll just get you a new carafe, kiddo.”

Right. That’s definitely why he was being quiet. Minghao picks up the chopsticks in front of him and goes to try some of the braised potatoes.

He can even taste it. This was probably the most detailed dream he’s ever had.

“Aren’t I always quiet, though?” Minghao manages to ask in the voice-that-is-not-his. It’s a higher pitched voice, one that has a distinct Seoul accent.

His ‘mother’ lets out a snort of laughter. “Yah, in what universe are you quiet?” she says with a snicker, reaching over to flick Minghao’s forehead.

He lets out a small sound of protest.

“That’s more like it,” his ‘mother’ notes. “Now, eat up. You’ll be late for work.”

Work. Something like unease begins to pool at the pit of his stomach at the thought of it. Not because he hates his job, no. Minghao loved being a dancer, an idol, an artist. But— he had a feeling that wasn’t the job he should be expecting this time around.

“I— I’m not really feeling well,” he mumbles, pushing around some seaweed at the bottom of his soup. When his ‘mother’ shoots him a scrutinizing glare, he forces out a cough to sell the act. “I’m not sure if I can go in today.”

His ‘mother’ goes from looking skeptical to concerned. She sets her own utensils down. “Do you need me to take care of you? I can take off, too—”

“It’s okay,” Minghao says hastily. “I think I just need to stay in bed.”

The woman across from him doesn’t look convinced, and so he presses on, “How is work, anyway?”

It’s a polite question, one meant to wheedle out more information. His ‘mother’ takes the bait, though, and goes on to rant about bad co-workers, about impatient patrons. She’s a grocery store bagger, Minghao gleams. And when she complains about other small things— the weather making it difficult to hang laundry, the lack of delivery shifts— Minghao realizes that his ‘mother’ has an array of other side hustles.

He listens intently. He nods in all the right places. He thinks he’s doing the right thing, but his ‘mother’ falters mid-sentence to fix him a worried look.

“You really are so quiet today,” she repeats, reaching over to put the back of her hand against Minghao’s forehead. He feels the touch, feels the warmth of concern wash over his skin, and it makes him shiver. “You really must not be feeling well, huh?”

Minghao thinks he’s only about to feel so much worse.

He heads back to ‘his’ bedroom, and it’s only then that he catches a glimpse of himself in a full-length mirror. It’s… the face of someone he’s never met before.

Minghao once heard that the people you see in your dreams are never strangers. They’re all faces you’ve seen at least once or twice, and in Minghao’s line of work— well, he’s seen a lot of faces. He raises a hand to pinch at his cheek, to pat at his hair.

It all feels so real. He doesn’t dwell on that.

Instead, he starts to explore. Walking around the cramped bedroom feels both like a museum visit and an intrusion. There’s posters peeling off the wall, shelves groaning under the weight of books, clothes that look a little worse for wear. It’s honestly such a mess that Minghao ends up killing a couple of hours just cleaning.

He lets out a snort of laughter as he does. Even in his dreams, he’s picking up over someone.

He doesn’t know how long he spends gathering hangers and sweeping the floor, but, at one point, the silence is broken by a high-pitched ringtone. He fumbles for the shabby cellphone on the bedside table.

It had been password-protected, which is why he couldn’t open it. Now, though, there’s an option to answer the incoming call.

BOSS MAN 👿, it says, and Minghao nearly cracks a smile. Yeah, he can relate to that, at least.

When he answers the call, though, any and all humor dissipates at the yelling that assaults Minghao’s ear. “WHERE ARE YOU?” ‘Boss Man’ screams on the other end. “I’VE BEEN TRYING TO CALL YOU ALL DAY! YOU’VE GOT SOME NERVE, PUNK—”

Minghao definitely sees now why the devil emoji was warranted. He has the urge to cut into the other man’s tirade, partly because it’s a dream where there’ll surely be little to no consequences. Something holds him back, though, as he puts some distance between his ear and the phone.

Once the other man pauses to breathe, Minghao manages to get a word in. “I… wasn’t feeling well,” he says lamely. “Could I maybe work from home or something?”

“WORK FROM HOME? ARE YOU CRAZY?! WHAT KIND OF BULLSHIT—”

At that point, Minghao just hangs up. When ‘Boss Man’ tries to call again, Minghao turns off the cellphone’s ringer and goes back to cleaning.

He cleans until there’s not a speck of dust in the bedroom. And when that’s done, he goes to work on the grout in the bathroom, the oil stains in the kitchen. He’s not really sure what he’s doing. Occasionally, he’ll stop in the middle of a chore, wondering if it’s finally time for him to be shaken out of this mundane, long-winded dream.

Night falls. His ‘mother’ texts about taking on an extra shift. She says something about food in the refrigerator, but Minghao can’t be bothered; he’s so exhausted that he blacks out the moment his head hits his pillow.

He doesn’t even have the energy to contemplate the mechanics of falling asleep in what’s supposed to be a dream.

On Thursday, Minghao wakes up back in his dorm.

When he hears the familiar chime of his morning alarm, when he opens his eyes and sees beige, he feels a wave of relief. It really had all been a dream. A very realistic one, sure. But a dream all the same. He was awake now, and he was ready to go about his Wednesday schedule—

Except, when he checks his phone, it says that it’s already Thursday.

Minghao blinks. How long was he out? Surely one of the boys would’ve dragged him out of bed if he’d been out of commission for twenty-four hours.

He unlocks his phone to a dozen unread messages. Eyebrows furrowed, he decides to first go with Seungcheol’s texts.

🍒: myungho 🍒: are you feeling better? 🐸: Hyung, hi. I think I just overslept a bit but I’m feeling ok.

Despite the early morning, the three dots indicating that Seungcheol is typing pop up.

🍒: are you sure??? 🍒: you had us worried 🐸: Did I really sleep that long? 🍒: i mean, i don’t know how long you slept 🍒: was that the problem? were you hysterical yesterday because of lack of sleep? ㅋㅋㅋ

Suddenly, Minghao’s room feels a lot colder than earlier. Hysterical. That was the word Seungcheol had used. And yesterday— Tuesday? Nothing out of the ordinary had happened to Minghao. It was all the usual; he had practiced, eaten dinner out with Soonyoung, then went home.

The dream had been the only unusual thing about the day prior. Minghao is jolted when Seungcheol sends another slew of texts.

🍒: seriously 🍒: i was worried i might have to bring you to the hospital or something 🍒: but you say you’re ok now?

Minghao can’t help it anymore. He dials Seungcheol’s number and puts the phone to his ear, his heart pounding in his chest all the while.

Seungcheol answers on the first ring. In lieu of a greeting, Minghao jumps straight into “Was I really— hysterical, yesterday?”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. When Seungcheol speaks, he still sounds a touch gruff, like he’s only half-awake. “I mean, kind of. What, are you worried about it? Do you need help apologizing to Mingyu?”

Apologizing to Mingyu? “What— is Mingyu mad at me?”

“Uh.” There’s some sounds of shuffling on the other end, as if Seungcheol is sitting up. It’s a pretty clear giveaway of his growing concern. “You might have to ask him that. But, Hao— you sure you’re better?”

Minghao swallows around the lump in his throat. He doesn’t know where to start without sounding insane.

“I think I’m still feeling a bit off,” Minghao says weakly. “Must be the flu or something.”

“I can come over.”

“No, no. I think I just need some rest.”

Seungcheol lets out a contemplative hum. “Alright,” he says, though he doesn’t sound all too convinced. “I’ll keep the boys off your back for the day. Text me if you need anything, and maybe text Mingyu when you can.”

“Text Mingyu,” Minghao repeats absentmindedly. “Yeah, got it.”

The call ends without anything more. Minghao stays seated in his bed for a long moment, just staring at the call log.

Seungcheol had called him hysterical. Mingyu was upset with him.

Something was definitely not right.

Minghao’s suspicion is only confirmed when he goes to check the texts he’d gotten from other members.

🐯: need to call u about choreo but preferably u dont yell at me this time 😒 let me know when’s a good time 🐱: Are u ok? Or did u actually ditch me for our dinner (bec if then, wtf) 🦖: i’ve been in the practice room for an hour now!!!!!! Where are you!!!

If Minghao wasn’t already sitting down, he might’ve collapsed.

He yelled at Soonyoung. He ditched Jun and Chan.

He had no memory of any of that.

But he remembers the shattered carafe, the seaweed soup, the shrill shrieks of ‘Boss Man’ in his ear.

For a moment, he’s convinced he’s just in another version of the same dream— except, this time, it looks a lot more like a nightmare. As Minghao finally musters up the energy to get to his feet, he notices something at the foot of his bed.

He unfurls the folded piece of paper. The handwriting isn’t anything he’s seen before. His eyes inadvertently skip to the very bottom, and his heart nearly stops in his damn chest. Minghao drops the paper like it had physically burnt him.

“What the fuck,” he mumbles to himself as he scrambles to his feet, as he puts distance between himself and the now-discarded paper. “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck.”

At the very end of the handwritten letter had been a name.

The name that had been uttered by his dreamself’s mother. The name that ‘Boss Man’ had shrieked. A name he hadn’t heard before yesterday, before his dream—

Minghao is finding it increasingly hard to believe that it had been a dream in the first place. Hell, he doesn’t even know what ‘yesterday’ is anymore.

He paces his room. He does breathing exercises. He brews half a pot of tea.

None of it helps. Hours later— with all his texts still unanswered and his tea depleted— Minghao stumbles back to the letter.

I don’t know who you are, it starts. But I can tell you who I am.

I’m from Umyeon-deong in Seocho. I live with my mother; my father hasn’t been in the picture for a long time. I work as an editorial assistant for a local newspaper. (It’s not exactly what I want to be doing, although that’s a story for another day.)

For a big part of today, I thought I was dreaming. I keep thinking I’m going to wake up back in my bedroom, but the hours have ticked by and I’m still here. Your friends keep contacting you. It’s driving me insane. I accidentally yelled at two of them because they wouldn’t stop calling. The Mingyu one got really upset about it, I think. Sorry.

I’m writing this because I don’t know what else to do. If this is nothing but a dream, then this shouldn’t matter. But in the 0.000000001% chance that something truly insane has happened to me and you? Well, at least now you know.

I’m going to try and go to sleep now, although I must admit: You have some pretty nice stuff. I ate some of your tea and snacks (sorry, again). This is crazy. None of this makes sense.

The letter unceremoniously ends there. Minghao’s eyes flick again to the signoff, to the name at the very bottom.

Your name.

His head is reeling. He feels like he’s going to be sick.

This is no coincidence, no practical joke. It’s— as you’ve said— truly something insane happening.

Minghao is struck with the realization that it just might happen again, and this time, he actually does get sick. He ends up hurling into a trash can.

After brushing his teeth, chugging some water, and running through one too many of the chips in his pantry, Minghao gets back to the letter.

It’s still there, in his hands. The stationary that was locked away in his drawer, bearing handwriting that is not his.

None of the boys would pull off a prank as elaborate as this. Minghao is fairly certain he would’ve noticed if any of them snuck in, too. So, now, the only logical explanation was the one that was left.

And Minghao really didn’t like that explanation.

For what feels like forever, he contemplates what to do. He considers calling up Seungcheol again. He debates the merits of apologizing to Mingyu and Soonyoung; he decides against it when he realizes he wouldn’t even know what he’s apologizing for. He knows what to say to Jun and Chan at least, but that doesn’t make it any easier. How would Minghao even begin to justify himself? Hey, sorry for ditching you; I think I body swapped with a complete stranger. Let’s grab dinner tonight instead?

There’s a headache blossoming behind Minghao’s eyes at the mere thought of putting the words out into existence.

In the end, he does what he deems to be the easiest thing to do. He picks up a pen and writes on the other side of your letter.

Hello, he begins. I’m The8 Myungho Minghao.

I’m an idol who’s part of a group called SEVENTEEN. They’re the friends who keep contacting me. Mingyu is a fellow member and good friend of mine. I’ll talk to him.

My family is in a different country.

As Minghao goes on to write the next parts, he feels a bit foolish. He doesn’t really know what to say, though he feels like he should say something. You had given him something to work with, after all. Slivers of context. He should be able to do the same for you.

I met your mother. She’s nice.

I talked to your boss. He wasn’t happy. He yelled at you (me?), and I may or may not have put down the phone. I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure what your work was so I ended up not going at all.

I hope you liked the tea. Feel free to have all the snacks you want.

And you’re right. This is crazy.

If I’m lucky, you’ll never need this letter.

Minghao wakes up on Friday to the realization that he is decidedly unlucky.

The loud alarm is back, and the ceiling is dark green again, and Minghao once again leans over to throw up. Luckily, there’s a bedside garbage bin that comes to the rescue.

There’s no sun this time. It’s fairly gloomy outside, the overcast skies peeking through the windows.

Minghao immediately notices that there’s a folded piece of paper on the pillow next to him. He unfurls it so fast that he almost tears it in half.

This is a precaution, you start. Maybe, come tomorrow, I can just chuck this out and chalk it all up to a one-off freak incident.

The thought of this phenomenon not being a one-off nearly has bile rising up in Minghao’s throat all over again, but he forces himself to read the rest of your words.

First off, I guess I should thank you. My room has never been this clean in my life! And you should have seen the look on my mother’s face when she saw that ‘I’ cleaned the entire apartment. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I was possessed, for the lack of better term, by someone who is a much better person than me.

That almost makes Minghao smile. Almost, because the next part sends a pang of guilt through him.

Secondly, though, you almost cost me my job. I can’t believe you hung up on my boss, Donghyuk. I had to do some serious damage control. I managed to get today off, just in case.

Minghao is struck by your foresight and, adversely, his absolute lack of it. The most he had to do was appease a sulky Mingyu and message back the rest of the boys. His brain races to figure out if he has any schedules for— Friday, was it? A practice, maybe. Or a recording.

Either way, he’s screwed. You’re screwed.

Minghao his face in one hand and quietly prays that you know how to dance.

He skims over the rest of your letter.

I don’t know why this is a thing. I don’t know if it is meant to be a thing. I’m going to try and look for some answers, whether or not I wake up as you/myself.

Wish me luck.

A small part of Minghao feels a tug at the thought of both of you ending your letters with the concept of luck. That feeling is quickly replaced by something akin to dread, because he’s fairly convinced that this is no longer a dream.

Minghao has woken up in a body that isn’t his. Minghao has woken up in your body— the body of a person he’s sure he’s never met.

He has to live a day in your life with nothing to go by but the notes you’ve left and a handful of context clues.

For a moment, Minghao contemplates just going back to sleep. Maybe if the both of you just slept right now, the switch would trigger. Maybe he could just spend the whole day in bed until you have to swap again.

The latter seems like the best idea until knuckles rap against the bedroom door.

Your mother pops her head through the crack in the door. “I’m going to leave early today. The rain isn’t looking so good,” she says with a slight grimace.

Minghao glances out the window. It’s all he can do, really, to keep himself from not going insane then and there.

“Take care,” he says.

He’s suddenly acutely aware of your voice— the cadence and timbre of it. He knows what you sound like, how you write, and he wonders how the two might combine. What might be the right thing to say in this situation.

Because your mother has that look again, that openly dubious expression.

“Are you alright?” she asks cautiously, not quite stepping into the bedroom just yet.

A flash of panic rises up in Minghao. What would you say? What would you do?

“Why wouldn’t I be?” His tone’s just a little haughty now. It’s so uncharacteristic of him that Minghao nearly winces, but he persists. “Go on, don’t get caught in the rain.”

Your mother lets out a huff of a laugh, mumbling something like ‘ungrateful kid’ as she retreats. Despite that, it seems to work; she takes her leave without another protest. Minghao lets out a shaky breath.

His— your stomach, really— lets out a low grumble. A part of him wonders if you’ve been just on edge as he’s been. Unable to eat properly, losing sleep over this whole thing.

Regardless, the least he can do is take care of you. He pads over to the kitchen and rummages through the refrigerator for some leftovers. All the while, he’s thinking of what he has in his own kitchen.

Will you be hungry? You did say you liked his snacks. Would that be enough?

The questions rattling in his head turn into considerably more stressful ones.

Is this going to happen forever? Will he have to spend the rest of his life swapping bodies with you on a day-to-day basis?

He thinks of the group, thinks of your mother. Thinks of his demanding job and your terrible boss.

Minghao nearly panics again. He manages to keep it together enough to make a sandwich and sip some coffee.

He tries to meditate, even, but it’s like your body knows that it’s not a practice that you frequent. Your hands twitch in the stillness; your heart only slams harder instead of calming. You need to catch a goddamn break, Minghao thinks as he grits his teeth and tries to relax.

Something good comes out of his attempt, at least. It comes as an epiphany of some sorts— how he suddenly remembers a portion of your letter.

I’m going to try and look for some answers, you had written.

He might as well do the same.

Once he’s changed into outerwear that’s slightly more acceptable for the rainy weather, he spends a good amount of time searching for your wallet. When he goes to check it, he inadvertently lets out a grumbled “damn.”

Your wallet has nothing but a couple of loose bills.

Minghao can’t blame you, not really, but you’re certainly giving him very little to work with. A part of him even feels kind of bad for you. Not only did you have a demon for a boss; you were also severely underpaid. He makes a mental note to bring that up in his next letter to you.

He can’t go far with the lack of funds, though that’s not the only thing hindering his quest for answers. It’s pouring outside, the rain coming in heavy droplets.

Minghao braves it with a raincoat and an umbrella, hoping against hope to find something. Anything.

As luck would have it, your neighborhood has a local library.

When he steps in, the librarian doesn’t pay him much heed. Minghao is momentarily amused by the thought. Did you not come here often?

It’s a quaint place with a scarce collection. A lot of the novels are on the older end— published nearly a decade ago— but they remain in pristine condition. Minghao skips over the best-sellers and the manga serieses, instead opting to sift through the psychology textbooks.

He’s not surprised when he doesn’t find anything of use there, when he spends nearly four hours reading and reading to no avail. The lack of non-fiction about a body swapping phenomenon is to be expected. This wasn’t something that just happened, after all.

And yet it’s happening to me, Minghao thinks with frustration as he grabs at his sixth book of the afternoon. The unexpected force knocks some of the surrounding books onto the floor.

The librarian gives him a vicious side eye.

“Sorry, sorry,” Minghao mumbles as he immediately gets to his knees.

His hands close around one of the books he knocked over. It’s a heavy hardbound with a gorgeous deep red cover and metallic gold lettering. There’s a dragon featured on the front and the familiar iconography of it nearly bowls Minghao over.

While still crouched down on the floor, Minghao flips through the pages. The images that go flashing by are not strangers to him, but there’s one in particular that he’s looking for.

He finds it on the thirtieth page. Almost out of instinct, his fingers trace over the characters.

月老. Yue Lao.

Suddenly, Minghao is a child again, listening to his mother’s stories. He had been young and wide-eyed, sprawled on her lap as she talked soothingly about the god who presented himself as an old man under the moon.

The god of marriage and love. He’s the reason why your bàba and I met, his mother would say amusedly. Yue Lao made it possible.

How? His younger self had demanded. How did he make sure?

His mother had laughed, then. Had stroked Minghao’s hair out of his face as she told him about the myth. The magical cord may stretch or tangle, but it will never break.

And, oh, how Minghao had prayed back then. He prayed to Yue Lao the hardest— his eyes squeezed shut, his hands clasped to his chest.

I hope I find love.

It doesn’t matter when, or where, or how.

Qǐng, Yue Lao. Please, please, please.

“Are you going to check that out or what?”

Minghao is dragged out of his memories at the sound of the librarian’s sharp tone. “I—”

The words stick in his throat. Eventually, he manages a meek, “I’ll put it back.”

It’s still pouring as he leaves the library and makes the short walk back to your apartment. The rainwater pooling in the gutters has muck and grime sticking to the bottom of his— technically your— rain boots. Another thing to apologize for, Minghao thinks wryly.

He seeks temporary shelter underneath the corner store near your apartment block. The vendor looks up expectantly.

“The usual?” the woman croaks, and it takes a moment for Minghao to register that he’s being addressed.

“Not today,” he responds with a tight smile.

The vendor lets out a bark of laughter. “When have you ever said ‘no’ to me?” she says with a tut of disapproval. Before Minghao can protest, the stranger is already shuffling over to her cooking station.

Minghao watches in silence when he realizes what’s being made. Some fruit is speared onto a bamboo skewer, then dipped into a simmering syrup. It emerges coated like a clear gemstone before it’s shoved into a bowl of ice.

Tanghulu, Minghao thinks dazedly as he accepts the snack. “Thank you,” he says softly.

The vendor smiles. She’s already missing a couple of teeth.

Minghao takes a tentative bite. Tanghulu was a familiar enough delicacy, but the fruit he'd been given— your ‘usual’— is something he hasn't seen in quite some time.

The date-plum persimmon is soft and glutinous, wrapped in a thin layer of crisp sweetness. Minghao can't remember the last time he had black jujube this way.

“You’re still the only one who likes that stuff.” There’s an edge of fondness to the vendor’s tone. A clear indicator that you have some sort of camaraderie with her, something that Minghao isn’t entirely privy to. “Do you know how hard it is to find stock of that darn fruit?”

It seems like a rhetorical question, like something that you’d probably take in stride. But Minghao can’t bring himself to joke. His free hand is already fishing for your wallet, where he’s prepared to blow the last of your money on this dessert.

The vendor shakes her head. “Not today,” she chirps, echoing Minghao’s words from earlier. Her gaze is fixed over his shoulder, where the downpour is relentless.

Minghao is not quite sure what the norm is supposed to be. Do the two of you talk? Do you leave right after you’ve made your purchase?

He doesn’t want to be rude, so he mumbles his gratitude and decides to stick around for a moment. The vendor thankfully chooses not to make conversation.

Minghao spends a long time just standing there, making slow work of the sticky date-plum. He watches the rain that never lets up. He watches the lights of your apartment building flicker on as night falls. He watches, and he tries to commit it to memory as he finishes off his tanghulu.

For what it’s worth, he’s glad to ‘share’ this with you— something sweet to get the both of you by.

Come Saturday, Minghao wakes up with more questions than answers.

Your letter is within reach, resting atop his bedside table. He goes to read it despite the fact that he’s barely lucid.

It’s shorter this time. If he strained, he could almost hear the words in your voice. A distant echo.

I can’t believe you’re actually an idol. Have you met BIGBANG?

That draws a surprised laugh out of him. It’s been years since he last heard of his industry seniors. The thought of you being a second gen fan is a little endearing to him.

Anyway, I told everyone who contacted you that you were really sick. Like, throwing up levels of sick. ‘Coups-hyung’ said he would send a manager, but I assured him that you already had one on the way. You might want to corroborate that lie.

I know I said I would look for answers, but I couldn’t really go far. I was scared of getting lost. And, man, your neighborhood is overwhelming. I’ve lived in Seoul my whole life and I don’t think I’ve ever been in this part of the city.

I ended up spending most of my day just reading your books. Good taste.

The compliment puts the smallest grin on his face.

I promise to do better research when I’m back in my own body. ‘Till then.

As curt as your letter is, it gives him an idea he probably wouldn’t have had otherwise. Better research. Back in his own body.

He fishes for your first letter, which he had kept tucked in his drawer. It’s still there, which means the past couple of days have not been a bout of psychosis. He doesn’t know if he’s relieved or horrified.

Minghao focuses instead on scanning your introduction, where you had mentioned your neighborhood. Umyeon-deong.

While he’s in the back of the cab, Minghao texts back his members. He’s vague, still, but it’s not anything particularly new. Feeling a little better. Getting a check-up, just in case. Stop worrying. I’ll let you know how it goes.

The heat is oppressive for July, almost beating down on Minghao’s back as he finally makes it to the district. It’s a full 180 from yesterday’s rain. He regrets the baseball cap and the hoodie, but both are necessary evils.

He’s not entirely sure where to drop off, so he settles for one of the corners at the mouth of the neighborhood. Once he’s there, he just— begins to walk in a general direction.

Later, he realizes he probably could have pulled up Google Maps. He would have benefited from asking around, would have cut his time in half if he deigned to admit that he was lost. But, at the moment, he’s just taking it all in.

The apartment complexes. The children’s park. The liquor store.

Briefly, he wonders if he’ll run into you. Would you recognize him?

Would he even want you to?

Minghao is so busy mulling it over that he almost misses it. The streetside food stand advertising fresh tanghulu. It feels like yesterday— well, it was yesterday. His mouth is already watering at the thought of the candied date-plums as he wanders over to the stand.

A rasping voice addresses him. He looks up from scanning the selection, realizing with a jolt that it’s the same vendor.

But it’s also— not.

Something is off.

Something he can’t quite place.

It almost steals the breath out of Minghao. He probably looks dumbstruck, looks stupid with his mouth hanging slightly agape, but the vendor asks again, “What do you want?”

Minghao forces an answer out of his chest. “Do you have— black jujube?”

A myriad of micro expressions flash across the seller’s face. It starts with recognition, but ends with something closer to tightness. She gives a labored grunt in response before going to make the snack.

When she hands it over to Minghao, there’s a slight quiver in her fingers. She nearly drops it, even, but Minghao catches it just in time.

“Sorry,” she grouses. “It’s an order that a regular of mine used to have.”

There’s a low ringing in Minghao’s ears as he says “ah,” as he hands over his payment. The vendor busies herself with cleaning her workstation, and Minghao tries to enjoy the date-plums, but it’s not as good as he remembers it.

Was it perhaps a difference in taste buds?

No, he thinks. It’s the lump in his throat. It’s the seller’s words nagging at the back of his mind.

An order that a regular of mine used to have. Used to.

He saw her yesterday. You were supposed to have seen her yesterday.

As he munches on the fruit, he asks almost too casually, “Is it your first time selling in this area?”

The vendor shoots him a suspicious glare. Minghao knows he’s being a little odd with the line of his small talk so he fields his question, tries to make it come out more naturally. “I remember you used to have a spot somewhere else,” he offers. “In front of an apartment building.”

This time, it’s the seller’s turn to mumble “ah.”

“That’s why you had that order,” she says with a humorless laugh. “You knew them, huh?”

“Them?”

The vendor says your name. The ringing in Minghao’s ear gets louder; his fingers, tightening around the skewer of his tanghulu. It’s the first time he’s hearing your name in his own body and it sends a shiver down his spine.

The question is even harder to answer. Does he know you? Was he allowed to say that?—

No. No, wait. The vendor had said knew.

The ringing reaches an almost feverish pitch. It’s a miracle that Minghao hears anything else, that he picks up the murmured words that the seller says next.

“It’s a real shame,” she says with a voice so soft, so solemn, so small. “It’s been nine years, hasn’t it?”

Nine years.

Since what? Since you?

A lot of things haven’t made sense to Minghao in the past couple of days, but this— this is the one that baffles him the most. He saw you— he was you— yesterday.

When Minghao finally finds his voice, it’s to ask for a favor.

The vendor complies, albeit skeptically. She hangs a ‘be right back’ sign over her stall. It’s a short walk, not more than seven minutes.

If Minghao’s ears had been ringing earlier, now, it’s just dead silence. A dreadful sort of quiet as he stares at the ruins of the apartment building he was staring at just the day before.

The seller is watching his face carefully. “You didn’t know?” she prompts gently.

Minghao realizes he has to come up with something. “We were friends. Me and—” He chokes around your name. When he finally says it out loud for the first time, he feels guilty. It feels so wrong to be saying it in this context. To have it be part of a lie. “But then—”

He trails off. The vendor supplies, “You lost touch?”

Sure. Minghao gives a jerky nod in response. That’s one way to put it.

He’s not even looking for an explanation, but the seller gives him one. “The typhoon was so bad that it triggered landslides,” she says gruffly. She nods towards the direction of the mountain towering over the neighborhood. “I think the death toll was around eighteen people.”

Minghao resists the urge to scream. If he were a lesser man, he might have fainted. Instead, he quietly says, “Nine years ago.”

“Nine years ago,” the vendor confirms. She pauses before adding, her voice just a little sadder, “A tragedy.”

“Tragedy,” Minghao repeats. That doesn’t even begin to cover it, he thinks.

Neither of them say anything for a long time. He can feel the pity rolling off the seller in waves; still, he can’t bring himself to turn away. He stares, and he stares, and he stares at the rubble, at the derelict building. At the mere echo of what had been so loud and alive to him just yesterday.

After what feels like forever, he asks another question. “Is— is the library still around?”

The vendor leads the way. At the door of the library, she attempts to give Minghao a reassuring smile. It’s all just gums, now. No teeth. There’s an endless refrain of nine years, nine years, nine years screeching through Minghao’s head as the seller bids him goodbye with “I’m sorry you lost your friend.”

“I’m sorry, too,” he responds with a solemnity that doesn’t need to be feigned.

The librarian isn’t the same one.

This one has a calmer demeanor, a more restrained smile. Somehow, that only makes Minghao feel much worse. He knows what he’s looking for this time; he goes straight to the neighborhood records and scrolls all the way back to nine years ago. 2015.

It’s a lot of information to digest all at once. There’s the newspaper clippings about the heavy rainfall. The flash floods, the landslides. Class action lawsuits. Landmine threats. Government incompetence.

Minghao feels like he’s drowning in news, but it’s still not what he’s looking for.

He finds it in a directory. There’s two people with the same last name and Minghao nearly loses it then and there, at the thought of your mother, too—

He focuses on you for now. His quivering finger traces the cell that contains your name, your date of birth. 1997. The same year as him. A couple of months younger, though.

Nine years ago, Minghao had been 18. Just about to debut.

Nine years ago, you had been an editorial assistant. Not exactly what I want to be doing, you had written in your first letter to him. There was no way for you to know that you would never have the chance to be anything more.

Minghao’s eyes fall on the date of death.

Except—

It’s not nine years ago yesterday, not nine years ago today. It’s tomorrow.

In that very moment, he understands what he’s meant to do.

When Minghao wakes up in your body on Sunday, he knows he has only one chance.

He had read up all about it the ‘day’ prior but the details were vague. None of the news reports mentioned when exactly the landslide would happen. The most he gleamed was that it would be due to an unstable slope from the nearby Mount Umyeon.

A wall of mud three storeys high hit the building, one article had said. It’s the only information that Minghao has to go by as he drags himself out of bed, ignoring the blare of your obnoxious alarm.

He goes straight for your mother’s room. She’s already awake, standing by the window.

Outside, the storm rages on. Your mother turns to face Minghao. “It’s not looking good out there,” she says disapprovingly. “The news said it’s the heaviest rainfall in nearly a century.”

Back in his body, Minghao had contemplated how he would go about this. He thought he might try to coax your mother, might be logical and rational in urging her to evacuate.

In that very moment, though, he instead finds himself blurting out, “We’re going to die.”

A beat. Your mother looks unfazed.

“You’re always so dramatic.”

The panic simmers in the pit of Minghao’s stomach. “We’re going to die,” he repeats, his tone on the shriller end now.

It wasn’t like him to give in to hysteria; he was you, though, and your mother seemed nonchalant enough about it. He’s not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse. “It’s just a little bit of rain,” your mother says dismissively as she squeezes past Minghao and heads towards the kitchen.

Minghao is on her heels, his hands wringing together. “We can’t stay here,” he pleads. “We have to leave.”

Your mother shoots Minghao— you— an exasperated look. “Where are we going to go in this weather?”

“No. No, no. We have to go somewhere safe.”

“We’re safe here—”

“We’re not—”

It’s almost like a crack of thunder, the way your mother says your name. The sound shuts Minghao up immediately. It’s a familiar warning, an intonation that all mothers seem to wield over their children.

“What’s going on with you, really?” your mother questions, her hands at her hips. She’s eyeing Minghao with mild annoyance but he sees it for what it is. Concern. “You’ve been so odd these past few days. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

And how is Minghao supposed to answer that?

I’m not actually your child. I’ve swapped bodies with a man who lives nine years in the future. Our survival hinges on whether or not you’ll hear me out.

When Minghao stays silent for a little too long, your mother shakes her head. “Get it together,” she says sternly.

Maybe it’s that. Maybe that’s what finally gets Minghao to say—

“Please.”

Your mother pauses in the middle of rifling through the refrigerator. For a long, terrible moment, the only sound is the rain.

Minghao’s hands are shaking at his side. “Please,” he repeats. He knows he sounds more like himself than you. He knows he’s being out of character, being obvious.

But he needs your mother to understand. She’s looking at him now like he’s a stranger.

Like you’re a stranger. And you are— at least in that moment.

The words tumble out of Minghao before he can contain them. “I want to live.”

He doesn’t know where it’s all coming from, this rush of emotion. Your voice wavers; he pushes on. “I want to live,” he gasps out. “I want to move us to an apartment that’s not next to a damn mountain. I want to not work in this damn job. I want to live until I’m your age, until I’m even older than that, dammit—”

Your mother crosses the room, the refrigerator long forgotten. When she raises a hand to Minghao’s face, he doesn’t even realize that some tears had escaped.

These are all things he wants for you, he realizes.

He wants you to have a good job. He wants you and your mother to be out of harm’s way. He wants you to live a long, full life.

“Please,” Minghao says a third time, his voice cracking around the word.

There’s a softness to your mother’s gaze; this time, her worry is undeniable. She holds Minghao’s face— no, he thinks. She’s holding your face. Her child’s face. Her child, who’s crying, who’s begging.

That’s likely the reason why she acquiesces. “Alright,” she exhales, using her thumb to wipe away some of Minghao’s tears. “We’ll leave. We’ll go.”

That’s only half the battle, though.

Minghao mutters something below his breath. Your mother raises her eyebrows in a silent question, and so he clears his throat before speaking louder.

“We have to evacuate the entire building,” he mumbles.

It takes time to convince your mother, which stresses Minghao out beyond belief. Time isn’t a luxury that he has. Not when he has no idea when the landslide will hit. Not when the rain is only worsening, making it less likely to persuade people to leave the comfort of their homes.

By some grace, he manages to get your mother on board. Sure, he had to spew odd specifics and statistics about the dangers of landslides, but it works. The two go door to door.

They’re met with initial resistance. Minghao doesn’t care.

He badgers the elderly. He negotiates with the children. He almost gets to his knees when a family with a baby refuses to budge.

The entire apartment complex is bewildered.

But when somebody is batting so hard for safety, when somebody is so desperate in what seems to be just a little more than paranoia— you listen.

The landslide hits just as Minghao is helping the last resident out of the building.

He’s never felt anything quite like it. He’s experienced earthquakes and their aftershocks. He’s been in stadiums that have shook with the sheer amount of people, the pulse of their music.

This one starts with a rumble. Low and deep, like it’s coming from the very ground. He hears the trees crack, the boulders knock together. And then—

Your mother is grabbing him by the arm. She’s screaming, screaming, screaming, the sound drowned out by the storm, by the shrieks of all the other evacuated residents, by the mud that suddenly crashes down on the complex in one fell swoop. It’s everything, everywhere, all at once.

Minghao is soaked from head to toe. Some of the mud flies and sticks to his hair, his clothes. He can almost taste it, too. The earth. The rain. He feels the chill to his very bones.

Despite that, he laughs. Your mother is dragging him, you, away from the calamity, the tragedy, and all that Minghao can do is laugh.

Because he made sure that no one was left in the building.

Because he’s alive.

You’re alive.

Later, when everyone is gathered in an evacuation center— shivering underneath blankets, talking about how it was all such a close call— Minghao falls asleep at your mother’s side. He feels like a kid again, with his hair being stroked, with soft words being uttered to him.

He drifts off and dreams.

Minghao is sure that this is a dream because his surroundings take on the hazy quality of one.

It’s just a little too bright to be real, the setting bathed in a light that feels almost like a bulb had exploded. Minghao has to put one hand over his eyes—

It’s his hand, he realizes. He’s dreaming as himself.

His sight adjusts. He’s at a dining table. It’s a two-person dining table. Much smaller than he’s used to.

“It’s you.”

He drops his hand and braces it against the edge of the table, because your voice— he should be used to it, shouldn’t he? He had used it for a bit, formed words like sorry and thank you with a lilting tone.

When he responds, his own words are imperceptibly soft.

“It’s me,” he confirms.

You’re seated across from him. He had caught glimpses of your features in reflections, in photographs, but it’s something entirely new. To be taking you in from an outsider’s perspective. He sees how you would control your body, how you were inclined to react. It makes him dizzy, just how much he had gotten wrong about your mannerisms.

The first proper words you speak are, “You have some good friends, you know?”

A corner of Minghao’s lip twitches upward. The thought of the boys constantly checking in on him seems about right.

“And you have a good mother.” Minghao pauses. He did say he would mention the next part. “Terrible job, though. You should quit.”

“Easy for you to say, Mr. Idol,” you shoot right back.

He winces; you laugh. The sound has the edges of his vision growing fuzzy. A sepia of the past, the present, and whatever this moment is, all blurring into one. Minghao doesn’t want to wake up.

“What happens now?” you ask, your own fingers tap, tap, tapping on the table between you two.

“I’m not sure.”

“Why—?”

“— Did this happen in the first place?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve wondered the same thing.”

The edges are closing in a little more now. Minghao can feel it— the familiar warmth of his bed at home, the tug of his own time. He’s already asked so much from his mother’s old gods but he lets his eyes flutter close so he can make a final plea.

Just one more minute. Give me one more minute, please.

“I think…” he starts slowly. His voice already sounds so distant. “It’s my fault.”

“Your fault.” Skepticism undercuts your tone, enough to prompt Minghao to open his eyes again.

He looks down at his hands, the ones that had folded atop the table. “I prayed for you,” he admits quietly. “Every day, back when I was a kid.”

Confusion drips from your every word. “For me specifically?”

He laughs. “Okay, maybe not you specifically,” he amends. “But—”

It’s getting unbearably bright now, so much that he can only really make out the silhouette of your form. He itches to reach, to touch, just to see if you’re real. He doesn’t want to push it, though.

Minghao settles with holding up his hand. If you squinted, if you really, really tried, you might see it, too.

The faint glimmer of a red cord— looped around his thumb, tied to your pinky.

Every day, back when I was a kid.

“I prayed for this,” he repeats.

And so, in some way, he supposes you’re right.

He had prayed for you.

The chime of bells.

The beige ceiling.

Minghao is fairly sure he had dreamt, but it’s the kind of dream you forget the moment you wake up.

He blinks once, then twice. Odd. It felt like a good dream, too.

There’s a warm, fuzzy feeling blossoming in his chest, though it fades just as quickly as it blooms.

Minghao never wakes up as you again.

The universe takes, and takes, and takes. It takes away Minghao’s memory. He’s not entirely sure what happened to him those couple of days. Seungcheol says he went to the hospital. Mingyu laments that they fought.

Minghao borrows one of Soonyoung’s favorite words. Funk. He had been in a funk, probably. An off couple of days.

He’s back to regular programming so seamlessly that the others are forced to believe him.

Still—

Minghao goes about the next couple of weeks feeling like something is missing.

It annoys him to no end. It’s not any of his valuables, he’s sure. He double, triple checked everything. He turns his entire apartment upside down and puts it back together again. He goes for meals with all of his members, hoping to find the answers there.

Nothing.

He falls into dreamless sleep every night, and wakes up every morning with that empty feeling in his chest.

It’s an unassuming Wednesday evening— one that he spends driving around with Vernon and Wonwoo— when it hits him.

“Hey,” he says, throwing them a glance through the rearview mirror. “I could go for some dessert.”

Vernon perks up at that. “Should we head to Myeongdeong?”

“Sounds good.”

Vernon throws out directions. Wonwoo queues the music.

Minghao keeps his eyes on the road ahead.

The night market is an assault on the senses but it’s also a good cover for the three idols. They set out with their matching hoodies and half-face masks, in search of something to fulfill their cravings.

Vernon goes to get some dragon’s beard candy.

Wonwoo wanders off to purchase some hotteok.

Minghao… He isn’t sure, really, which is a bit ironic. He had been the one to make the call, after all. He weaves through the crowds, his hands in his jacket pockets, as he scrutinizes the stalls.

Kkwabaegi. Bungeoppang. Tanghulu. Dalgona. Bing—

He backs up a bit.

“Hi,” he greets the seller. “This is a bit weird, but do you have black jujube?”

The tanghulu vendor lets out a grunt of approval. “I think I’ve got one more stick,” she notes as he ducks to check her stock.

What a weird craving, Minghao thinks to himself. But it’s the first thing that came to mind.

A voice at his side addresses the seller by name.

“Got my date-plum persimmon, ajumma?”

It’s not a voice that Minghao has heard before, and yet—

Frantically, he tries to sort through the hundreds of fansigns and fan meetings he’s had in the past decade. Could it be that? Could that be the reason why the lilt was so damn familiar?

As he turns to look at the source, he knows in his heart of hearts that it’s not the case.

You’re already turning away, though, grumbling about the lack of the tanghulu that you want. Minghao hadn’t even heard the vendor respond.

There’s a ringing in his ears.

“Excuse me,” he manages.

You falter in your steps. When you look up at him, he sees the same flash of confusion. One that’s borne out of recognition.

The ringing has gotten louder. Despite that, he pushes out three words.

He thinks he’s yelling them; in reality, they’re barely audible over the din of the night market.

“Haven’t we met?” he breathes.

For one dreadful, dragging moment, he’s convinced he’ll die if you say no, even though his mind is being terribly uncooperative. He can’t place when, or where, or how he met you. He can’t say if you’re familiar because he knows you or someone like you.

All he knows is that he can’t, won’t let you walk away.

Your response makes everything in Minghao’s head go quiet.

“I thought so, too,” you say, and something in his chest thrums.

It feels a lot like an answered prayer.

#minghao x reader #xu minghao x reader #the8 x reader #seventeen x reader #svt x reader #minghao fic #the8 fic #minghao imagines #the8 imagines #ylangelegy the8 days of minghao #minghao fanfiction #the8 fanfiction #minghao x you #the8 x you #( publishing this at 4am on my end of the world. good lord please just take this off my hands )#( i have Some gripes for what it's worth <3 haaapppy start of the series )#(💎) page: svt #(🥡) notebook

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asiantransformations · 2 months ago

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Prologue - A Deal with the Devil

Mr. Chen sat at his grand mahogany desk, the faint glow of his jade desk lamp casting sharp shadows across his angular features. In one hand, he swirled a glass of aged whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light as he leaned back in his chair. Before him lay a file marked Confidential—a dossier on JunHao, the man who had once been an untouchable icon of success, strength, and masculinity.

“JunHao,” Mr. Chen murmured, savoring the name like a delicacy. “You had it all, didn’t you? A thriving business, a loving girl, and a body that could make even gods envious.”

He glanced at the photo pinned to the top of the file. There JunHao stood, shirtless on a magazine cover, his sculpted physique the picture of perfection. The biceps that could stretch the seams of any suit, the chiseled abs, the confident smile—it all reeked of success, of invincibility. But Mr. Chen saw something else. Ambition. Greed. A man who had soared so high he never bothered to look down.

And that was where Mr. Chen came in.

He had orchestrated the entire downfall with surgical precision. Junhao’s business, a chain of high-end fitness centers, had been booming. But like many businessmen who thought themselves untouchable, JunHao had been careless with his partnerships. He hadn’t noticed when a shell company, quietly owned by Mr. Chen, began acquiring shares in his supply chain. He hadn’t realized when critical shipments of equipment were delayed or canceled, choking his operations.

Then came the financial strain, and with it, the loans.

“Desperate men make desperate decisions,” Mr. Chen muttered to himself, taking a sip of whiskey. He remembered the day JunHao had walked into his office, his broad shoulders weighed down by stress, his usual aura of confidence cracked.

“I need a loan,” JunHao had said, his deep voice betraying a hint of desperation.

Mr. Chen had leaned back in his chair, feigning concern. “A loan, you say? From me? The terms would have to be… unconventional.”

JunHao had hesitated, but he was a man with his back against the wall. He had signed the contract without reading the fine print. It was a devil’s bargain, one that Mr. Chen had designed with a very specific clause: in the event of the business fails, all of JunHao’s assets—all of them—would transfer to Mr. Chen.

It wasn’t just the gyms. Not just the properties or the accounts. It was everything JunHao had. Without him realizing, it included his body and the ownership to it.

————————————————————————

The collapse had been swift. Within months, Junhao’s business was in shambles. The loans he had taken to save it became an anchor, dragging him further into the abyss. And when the inevitable happened—when Junhao defaulted—Mr. Chen made his move.

He had summoned Junhao to his private estate, the contract in hand. Junhao, now a shadow of his former self, stood in the opulent office, his powerful frame visibly worn by stress. "Guess your business failed and everything of yours is now mine!"

“You can’t do this,” Junhao had growled, his fists clenched.

“Oh, but I can,” Mr. Chen had replied, his tone calm and cold. “You signed the contract. You agreed to the terms.”

“I’ll fight this in court!”

Mr. Chen had chuckled darkly. “You won’t get the chance. The clause is binding, immediate, and irrevocable. I don’t just own your business, Junhao. I own you.”

Before Junhao could react, Mr. Chen had signaled to his guards. They restrained the struggling man as Mr. Chen retrieved a small vial from his desk—a blend of ancient Chinese alchemy and cutting-edge bioengineering.

“This,” Mr. Chen said, holding the vial up to the light, “is your key to freedom—or, rather, mine.”

Junhao’s eyes had widened as the liquid was injected into his neck. He had thrashed against the guards’ grip, but it was no use. The process was instantaneous. A searing pain had coursed through his veins as his consciousness was pulled away from his body, drawn into a swirling void.

When Junhao woke, he found himself in a frail, elderly body, his once-pristine physique now a distant memory. Across the room, Mr. Chen stood in front of a mirror, marveling at his new form.

“This… is perfection,” Mr. Chen had said, flexing his biceps and running his hands over his chiseled abs. He turned to face Junhao, a smirk playing on his lips. “You should be proud, Junhao. Your body will be put to far better use in my hands.”

Junhao had screamed, lunging at Mr. Chen, but his new, weakened body betrayed him. The guards dragged him away as Mr. Chen laughed, his deep, commanding voice echoing through the halls.

“You should have read the fine print, Junhao,” Mr. Chen had called after him. “You’ve given me everything. And I do mean everything.”

Mr. Chen stepped out of the private chambers in only his underwear, feeling the weight of JunHao's powerful form. His every movement felt fluid, controlled, and effortless. It was a far cry from the frail, aging shell he had once inhabited. As he walked down the hallway, he marveled at the strength that now surged through his limbs, the sensation of each muscle flexing with the slightest movement.

He flexed his biceps—massive, round, and hard as stone—and let out a deep, satisfied breath. It was like a drug, this power. His former body, though fit, had never compared to the raw might he now commanded. These arms—these biceps—could easily crush anyone who dared to oppose him. The veins that snaked across his skin pulsed with vitality, evidence of his newfound strength. Every push, every pull, every lift was easier now, as if the world itself bent to his will.

He grinned, eyes tracing the contours of his new physique in the mirror as he walked past. The chest—wide, firm, and densely packed with muscle—caught his attention. His pecs were like slabs of stone, firm and unyielding, pressing against the tight shirt he had chosen to wear. When he flexed, the movement was hypnotic, a showcase of sheer power. The depth of his ribcage felt more pronounced, the muscles more pronounced, each fiber finely sculpted to perfection. He could feel the strength of his lungs, the way they expanded and contracted with ease, fueling his movements.

His mind raced with the possibilities. In this body, he was capable of feats that would’ve been impossible in his former, weaker form. There was no limit to what he could do, no obstacle he couldn’t crush beneath his new strength. He felt like a god, a man whose very presence commanded the room. Every glance from a passerby, every flicker of acknowledgment from those around him—he could see the admiration, the envy, the lust in their eyes.

But it wasn’t just the physicality that set this body apart. It was the knowledge embedded in every fiber, every cell of this machine.

Now, Mr. Chen stood in front of the mirror in JunHao's—his— gym, his reflection a living testament to his triumph. He flexed his biceps, marveling at their sheer size and power, and smirked as he ran his fingers down the ridges of his abs. His servants were in awe of what he attained.

“This body,” he said to himself, his voice rich and resonant, “isn’t just a vessel. It’s a weapon. A masterpiece.”

Mr. Chen lifted the weight, a staggering amount, effortlessly. As the barbell rose and fell in perfect rhythm, he couldn’t help but feel a rush of excitement. Every inch of JunHao’s body was designed for optimal performance. His shoulders were broad and thick, built for lifting, carrying, and crushing. His legs were powerful pillars of strength, veins and tendons twisting beneath the skin as they absorbed the pressure with ease. His calves were muscular and solid, able to sprint for miles without tiring, propelling him forward with each step.

He was a walking weapon—a machine capable of destruction.

The gift of virility was perhaps the most intoxicating. Mr. Chen had always been a man who desired control over everything, and now, he had control over the most primal part of his new form. He could feel the sheer force of Junhao’s masculinity coursing through him, the power in his loins that seemed to radiate outward, a constant hum of energy that never faded. His once-feeble self had known nothing of this.

This was a different kind of strength.

It wasn’t just about physical satisfaction. It was about dominance—asserting control over the very essence of another person. The body’s virility wasn’t a mere function of attraction; it was a weapon, a means of asserting his superiority, of owning and controlling.

The mind that came with this body was just as powerful as its physical form. Junhao’s intelligence had been sharp—business savvy, ruthless in his own right. But now, those instincts and ideas had become Mr. Chen’s. He could feel it—the knowledge embedded deep within the muscle, the experience that came from years of competition, of pushing himself to the limits. Every decision Junhao had made, every business deal, every negotiation—it was all there, like an archive waiting to be unlocked.

Mr. Chen felt as though he were walking in the footsteps of a man who had already laid the path for success. Every strategy, every move he needed to make, was now at his fingertips. JunHao’s thoughts, his methodical and strategic way of thinking, now surged through Mr. Chen’s mind as though they had always been his own.

He could feel the instinctual knowledge of how to read people, how to control a room, how to exploit weaknesses. His ability to manipulate, to strategize, to make others bow to his will—it was second nature now.

Every touch felt electric, as if JunHao's body was awakening to its new owner, recalibrating itself to fit Mr. Chen like a finely tailored suit. Every nerve ending seemed to buzz, hyperaware of his movements, responding to his commands with an eagerness that was both exhilarating and addictive.

Running his hands over his chest, Mr. Chen marveled at the power beneath his fingertips. The solid ridges of muscle, the soft yet firm hairs brushing against his palms-it was all so alive. His previous body had been stiff, sluggish, and unresponsive, a constant reminder of his age. But this? This was perfection incarnate, and it responded to him like a finely tuned instrument.

He progressed to his bedroom and then on the full-length mirror that dominated the corner of his suite, captivated by the sight before him. Mr. Chen wanted to explore this new opportunity in private. As he flexed, his reflection seemed to shimmer with vitality, every muscle rippling beneath his skin in perfect harmony. The sheer control he had over this body was intoxicating.

But then, something unexpected happened.

A faint warmth began to build, spreading through him like a slow burn. It started in his chest, radiating downward with an intensity that took his breath away. By the time he noticed the faint wet spot forming on his underwear, it was too late to deny it-this body wasn't just alive; it was thriving, responding to his every whim with an energy that left him breathless.

"This... this is something else," he murmured, a grin spreading across his face as he pressed his palm against the damp patch, feeling the heat beneath. "You've really outdone yourself, JunHao."

Rather than being embarrassed, Mr. Chen reveled in the sensation. He let the feeling wash over him, leaning into the raw vitality that coursed through his veins. He flexed again, harder this time, watching in awe as his biceps bulged, veins snaking across his forearms like rivers of power. Mr. Chen moaned every so loudly as he groped his new cock. The wet patch grew slightly, and he couldn't help but laugh -a deep, resonant sound that echoed through the room.

"This is what it means to feel alive," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "This is what I've been missing."

He sat on the edge of the bed, letting his hands roam freely, exploring every inch of his new form. The hard planes of his chest, the taut curve of his thighs, the firmness of his calves-each touch sent a jolt of pleasure through him. It was as if the body itself was rejoicing, celebrating its new owner with a symphony of sensations.

After a few minutes of indulgence, Mr. Chen was covered in JunHao's precious juices which reeked of testosterone, a testament to the new virility. A taste of it sent shockwaves of energy and flavors to his tongue as he forced himself to stand, steadying his breathing as he wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. He wasn't going to let this body overwhelm him-not yet, anyway. There was so much to explore, so much to discover, and he wanted to savor every moment.

He changed into fresh clothes, opting for a tight-fitting shirt that showcased his physique and a pair of jeans that accentuated his powerful legs. As he left the room, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror one last time and couldn't help but to pose what he had.

"Let's see what else this body can do," he said to himself, stepping out into the night, ready to test the limits of his newfound strength and charm.

Next Part

#asiantransformations #asianmuscle #racialtransformations #asianbodybuilder #asiantoasian #buff asian #buffasian #bodyswap

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achocosun · 1 year ago

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all I need is the air that I breathe, and to love you ft. lee mark !

𖹭⠀࣭⠀⋆ genre ; non-idol!mark × fem reader. fluff, pure unadulterated fluff. established relationship au. use of pet names (for her: baby, pretty girl / for him: lovie). just a short drabble to get used to posting on tumblr. ugh this turned tooth-rottingly sweet.

𖹭⠀࣭⠀⋆ word count ; 1.4k (this was supposed to be shorter but well, i got carried away haha)

𖹭⠀࣭⠀⋆ warning(s) ; none that i see ^^

𖹭⠀࣭⠀⋆ notes ; divider by @mewryn (it's so pretty oml)

laughter. the sound of laughter had to be your favorite music that drifted leisurely throughout the apartment.

be it hushed chuckles over a movie or a funny tiktok your boyfriend sent over to you, the rambunctious cackling that tailed your group of friends when they'd indulged a little too much in drinks after dinners that often than not happened in the home you shared with mark–you cherished them all the very same.

before you moved into the flat on the tenth floor, the highest any residential building went in the street equidistant to both of your workplaces, you had some doubts. mostly concerning how eerily quiet it tended to get even with the faint honks of traffic in the heart of seoul.

you could owe it to your upbringing in the city, never once truly alone despite how easily it was slipping into a faraway headspace. you still did that sometimes but after meeting mark, the use of your headphones that'd found purchase against your ears got lesser and lesser. until you could go days just listening to his little tangents.

of course, it was more because of the fact that you adored how his whole face brightened as he shared with you something, anything he held dear. the way his soft brown eyes twinkled as he animatedly explained his point made you lose all sense of reality.

once in sophmore year of college, he had stopped for half a minute and then chuckled at you staring at him in awe. it had taken him waving his hand before you and a "hello, earth to _______? do i have something on my face?" for you to realize your embarrassing predicament.

only mark didn't seem to find it odd. no, on the contrary he found the gesture endearing. he had that tendency to ramble, everyone told him as much. but for you to listen to every word and hang onto it infused a swell in his heart, a giddy feeling he honestly did not want to suppress.

with mark, everything came in it's most simple form. relationships were not supposed to be easy, each one had it's own complications as did yours. but with him you knew you would always try to work through every rough patch because your boyfriend was willing just as much.

you had put an official label on your relationship in junior year, and not being strangers to the amount of teasing that would ensue from your rather large circle of friends, you had decided to keep it lowkey, letting them find out on their own and ease into it.

but with your streak of not keeping your hands–or lips for that matter—off each other, it took them two weeks flat to figure it out. but that's on johnny and his inability to knock on doors as he strutted into mark's dorm as if it was his own, oblivious to you both tangled in each other's arms on the small sofa pushed against the wall beside the balcony.

to your surprise, no noticeably grand change came with the reveal. in johnny's words, you and mark had always been sort of touchy with each other even as friends. he told you to keep the make-outs to a minimum and nobody else would know for sure.

after graduation, mark had mustered up the courage to ask you to move in with him. he had put a lot of thought into it—scoured for decently sized apartments, looked for help from his older friends and even went as far as to ask your parents for their opinion.

of course, the one answer that mattered was yours but even the fact that he asked your parents made you feel elated. and it definitely earned him their seal of approval.

the hesitant question had followed a meal of chinese takeout for dinner as you leaned your head on his shoulder, watching the movie playing in the living room of his childhood home, an arm wrapped around his waist. you had noticed his skittishness all night and it all came to a head as he played with the ends of your hair.

"i was thinking", mark started, taking your hum as approval to continue while you lowered the volume of the tv. "and seriously you can take as much time to think or even say no, i won't force you."

this time you turned to face him fully, a frown creeping up to your face. "what is it, markie? is something wrong?"

"i– well..." he took a sharp breath, eyes never once meeting your own. "i was thinking maybe you can move in with me?"

the silence that followed only plummeted his heart further down his stomach. mark moved an inch away from you, grabbing the remote from your grasp while shaking his head. "never mind. it's way too soon to think of that stuff, right? that's was a sudden, stupid ques—"

"don't say that. nothing you said is stupid." regaining your voice, you shifted closer to him, your grip sliding up his arm and towards nape as you rubbed the area. his shoulders slouched visibly, irrate heartbeat slowing just a little.

you smiled up at him, deft fingers smoothing across his across his brow and finally resting against his cheeks. it took a little tug for him to finally face you, mouth opening and closing as he wracked his brain for the appropriate words to find him when you spoke again.

"i would love to move in with you, mark."

as much as you loved mark when he's talking, sometimes you took great pleasure in rendering him speechless.

as quick as lightning he held your wrists with widened eyes, stopping the advances of your hands down his perfectly sculpted face. you brushed his knee softly as his adam's apple bobbed with a dry gulp.

mark found it hard to even formulate a thought, let alone speak. just when he'd started believing all of this was a bad idea, horrendous really, your admission nearly made his brain short-circuit.

"woah, wait— no. what?" he stumbled over the words eliciting a giggle out of you. "run that by me again, baby. i don't think i heard you correctly."

swatting his shoulder playfully, you took liberty to throw a leg over his, straddling his lap. "you heard me just right the first time, lovie. i think we should do it, move in together. i mean, we have somewhat stable jobs and it would stop us from inconveniencing your parents or mine. honestly, i love your mother but i got goosebumps when she winked at me on the way out."

mark managed a chuckle, rubbing up and down the sides on your legs on either side of him. this had been your arrangement after college. date nights in either of your houses meant the parents always had to leave unless they wanted to walk in on their not-so-little-anymore kids doing anything reserved for behind closed doors.

suddenly, you found yourself being pulled forwards into his chest as his ecstasy evolved into child-like laughter–carefree and unbound. his arms tightened around your form as you succumbed to your own joy.

mark whispered against your hair between pressing kisses to the crown of your head, "i love you, you know that?"

you peeked up at him, cheeks starting to hurt from the wide smile that nothing in the world could dampen. "do you?"

"mhmm. and now that we will live together, i'll remind you everyday, pretty girl. over and over."

sometimes, it scared you how dependent you had gotten on this one single person. finding your chest surging with pride in his every minute success, just as it ached when he hurted.

mark looked at you like you had hung the stars in the sky. then again, you were sure you'd visit every length to do just that if he so much as asked.

and that night had brought you to this one, sitting against the armrest of the loveseat surrounded by your friends, legs thrown over your boyfriend's as he held you close. you knew he would never let you fall but every fiber in your being appreciated the closeness regardless.

you smiled at haechan's dramatic recounting of some incident in the pub last night, finding comfort in the fingers thrumming to an unknown beat against your hips.

as your eyes wandered to every occupant of the cozy living room of your apartment—yours and mark's—you couldn't help but thank your lucky stars for this chance.

because until you have this little life, this warm, lived-in home, your friends, family and most importantly him by your side, nothing could make you a stranger to the sense of contentment.

#𝐬𝐨𝐥's menu ᵎ #mark lee x reader #lee mark x reader #nct dream #mark lee #nct dream x reader #mark lee imagines #mark lee fluff #mark lee drabble #nct 127 x reader #nct x reader

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glassrowboat · 1 year ago

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Daydream in a Nightmare.

Authors note: I read a soulmate au where with dream sharing. Every time you fall asleep you and your SM would meet in a world that would reflect your consciousness and who you were. So down below are the boys and what I think the places their dreams would depict.

Mondstadt

Diluc: The cathedral. His mom, back when she was alive, used to play during service and afterwards Diluc ran over greeting her with the biggest smile, asking her to play him one more song. She never failed to. Maybe that's why there's always a gentle melody playing whenever you see him as he rests his fingers over the same white tiles, simply trying to remember how to play.

Kaeya: The Dawn Winery. Or at least parts of it. Behind closed doors there's the scent of grass, of dirt, and the faintest smell of ash. He says it's simply the vineyard that in the real world would be right outside, but he knows well as he pulls your hand from the doorknob that it's ruins of a fallen nation haunting him right on the other side.

Albedo: Glass walls. A maze of mirrors and reflections. If you ever have stopped to bother to count between Albedo’s musings as he shares with you the secrets of the world, you'd notice that for some reason he always has more reflections in the walls around you than of your own figure. Like there's more of him than there is of you.

Venti: Old Mondstadt. Back before the revolution, back when there were people in the streets wishing their God weren't so unjust, but in his dreams that wall of spiraling wind is never there. A warped perception of a life he wished to have lived as he sits in your lap not as Venti the bard, but a wind sprite trying to bury into your clothes for warmth. Just don't call him pipsqueek or he'll try and bite your fingers. Playfully. You think.

Liyue

Zhongli: A place that no longer exists, one torn away by this world during the archon war. It's unlike him not to comment on a place, a trinket, an item, as you pick something up and fiddle with it, but this place he never goes into full detail on. However, he will tell you all about the artisanship of the table you two are sharing tea over.

Baizhu: His home back in Chenyu Vale, back before the illness hit his village, back before his parents passed away. Just a modest home that shows signs of being truly well lived in and loved. Mindlessly while you two talk he'll be cleaning the place, just the way he always does at the pharmacy. Though it does help give him something to fill the silence. It turns out he's a lot more used to Changsheng chiming in with comments than he thought. He just hopes you two get along when the time to meet in person finally comes about.

Ga ming: A festival. There's water kicking up at everyone's feet, up to everyones ankles as people with their face covered in all manner of masks walk you both by. Ga ming would pull you along from booth to booth, trying his best to win prizes despite the fact you both know they'll be gone by the time you wake.

Xiao: A Chinese pavilion in the sky. You walk among the clouds as you follow the path of the street, looking over the accents that seem somehow both rich in color and dull, muddied all at the same time. Something you've noticed from his dreams compared to yours, his always have a lingering black fog creeping in at the corner of your eyes. It makes you feel like someone else is in this world with you, like there's eyes waiting to do more than just watch.

Inazuma

Kazooha: A meadow. The wind passes you both by, stirring up pages of books you two sit reading in silence. You can't help but wonder if these are all books he's read before, especially the ones that wax poetry or something else. His thoughts, perhaps? Maybe Kazuha's very own writings? But that matters little as his head is resting on your shoulder as you try to catch words between the fluttering sheets of paper.

Itto: A kabuki play. It always ends up in you two hiding away in the back room where the performers would get ready before getting back out on stage for the next act. You would see the brightest of colors, richest of fabrics, and practiced movements so fine tuned that you can't understand why Itto is so focused on taking the makeup on the vanity in the back simply so he can paint your face with red marks just like his. To each their own you suppose, and who are you to complain when it means drawing hearts on his arm when Itto isn't paying attention?

Gorou: A tea house. It's a small place, simple, but certainly not lacking charm as Gorou pours you a cup. At first the fact you could actually taste the rich herbs on your tongue in this dreamscape threw you off, but now it's just another part of this odd reality. But saying that, the first time you spat out the drink he offered as soon as the bitter taste hit you. Apparently he never expected you to not already be used to green tea. The poor fella was apologizing for the rest of the night, ears laid flat on his head and tail tucked between his legs. It's okay though, you made it even by trying to give him dog treats. It was you having to beg for forgiveness then.

Thoma: It was different this time. No glowing blue flowers and a forest that you two would stroll through mindlessly while chatting for hours. No, this time Thoma was sitting on a wooden platform below a giant stone statue. Intriguing, yes, but mattered little compared to the rope burns around his wrist. He tried to tell you not to worry about it. That it was an accident. But that mattered little as your lips pressed to the red, irritated skin and he gave you a strained smile. You knew better than to ask about it more from there.

Ayato: It's ever changing. It's like he is constantly thinking of something whenever He falls asleep and it reflects in his dreams. Once it was a Japanese styled room the next it was some room in Fontaine's architecture. But it's always a bedroom. A place of relaxation as Ayato buries his head in your lap like it was a pillow. He'll whine about being overworked until you're tempted to pull on his hair just to make the man shut up for once, but last time you did that it led to the bed being used for a lot more than just rest. For now just pat his head and let him vent, the man needs it.

Sumeru

Kaveh: A sketch brought to life from his mothers blueprints. One he saw his mother sketching back when Kaveh was a boy and she would let him sit on her lap, let him comment on the drawings. She would always find some way to incorporate his addictions into the sketch. Nowadays he knows the building that was actually constructed in the end to be simpler, duller than the one his mother wanted, but in his dreams with you it stands tall and proud.

Al Haitham: An attic. It's dusty and it clearly had a hole in the roof that was covered over by some wooden planks and nails. A patch work job that needs to be fixed but if you ever take the time to bother with it while Al Haitham sits in an old rocking chair covered by a quilt reading the night away it will only be there the next dream cycle. It pisses you off. He pisses you off. All nonchalance and an apathetic look even as you plop yourself in his lap and take that book away. And what pisses you off even more? How he dares to call you needy as he holds you close. It's best to ignore the fact he started reading over your shoulder.

Tighnari: Pardis Dhyai. He'll sit on the walkway watching you kick the water of the ponds around, paying no mind to when you splash at him. Not anymore at least. He's learned quickly if he makes a snarky comment you'll give one back and it'll go on and on until somehow it ends in him getting dragged into the pond with you. Both dripping algae filled water as he wondered what gods made this numbskull his mate.

Cyno: Lambad's Tavern. Everytime he would come back from treks in the desert he would go there, get a drink, and play a round of cards with whoever was willing. It was a pattern. Work, work, rest, and more work. But now he didn't have to constantly be on work mode as he sat with you in the old booth shuffling cards as he tried to explain to you how TCG works. So far everytime you lose you've thrown those elemental dice and him, and with a smile he lets them hit him in the head despite being fully able to dodge them. His soulmate is such a sore loser.

Wanderer: Shakkei Pavilion. He hates it. Hates that this is the place his unconscious has chosen to sink onto so stubbornly. His wooden fingers would slide over the paintings depicting Scaramouche’s past that has now been severed from him in everyone's eyes but Nahida and the Traveler. If you knew, would you still hold his hand? Would you still trace the details of his joints and comment that you find his pretty face such a stark contrast to his sharp words? He's afraid to find out, the idea that you might be his fourth betrayal always lingering in the back of his mind.

Fontaine

Neuvillette: Under the water where the currents would carry stray bits of seaweed and fish swimming past. The first time you shared a dream with him here he had to calm you down as instinctively you held your breath, taking your hands in his and assuring you if he can talk like this, you can suck in air just as well. It took some time getting used to, but now he watches as you grab starfish off the ocean floor and bring them over to him like a prize to be presented. This is what humans must be like Neuvillette tells himself as you braid them into his hair.

Worcestershire sauce: A home. A nice one at that. Big, had decent furnishings, pictures of kids hung up on the wall. If you listened closely enough you could even hear children playing outside from the cracked open windows that showed the brightest sky outside. Wriothesly would walk behind you as you would watch the grass blowing in the wind, not saying a word as he rested his chin on top of your head. He never thought he'd be back here again. The very place made him feel sick to his stomach, but with you? It was bearable. Even as you tried to grab his handcuffs from him.

Snezhnaya

Childe: His childhood home. Back before the renovations he bought for the place with his money as a harbinger, back before the redecorating of rooms to fit more children, and back to what the house was like when he was just a boy yet to fall into the abyss. Back when everything was simpler. He would pick up toys that have gone missing, never to be seen again and stare in wonder how it all is exactly how he remembers it. It makes it so much easier to be Ajax with you, rather than Tartaglia.

Dottore: The hospital he was working in when trying to help Eleazar patients. For the life of him does he hate it, being back in the desert always having to tip his shoes out of sand that never seems to fully clear off. It doesn't help you try and pour sand down his shirt, but in a way he supposes it's better you two stay out here under that blistering sun than you going inside to be met with the smell of death. No, you don't need to know about that side of him just yet.

Pantalone: His office. It always makes it hard to tell at first if he's awake, not when the same scene greets him either way. You always joke about him being married to his work and you're the mistress in this relationship. At this point he counts on the comment as soon as his eyes flutter open and he's greeted with the sight of you sitting on the desk he's been using as a pillow. Still, he can never help the genuine smile at seeing you once again.

Captain: A flower field. The snowdrops peek out from under the fluffy blanket of white powder, crunching under every step he takes. Even in his dreams the cold of Snezhnaya is ever present, ever biting. It only makes sense you are shivering behind him even as he lets you steal his cloak that is more of a blanket on you than anything. This field, he knows it well, knows that what waters these flowers is more blood than anything else, but that matters little as he wraps his arms around you. Maybe he can find a way to dream you a proper jacket.

Pierro: A grand hall. It reminds you of the way ballrooms are described in romance stories as the couple depicted would dance the night away. Columns so high you have to tilt your head back just to see where they meet the ceiling covered in paintings you've never seen before. That is until Pierro steps into your view. He always offered his hand to you before you could ask, and as your fingers interlocked he would tell you about them. Always ready to answer your questions. It meant someone was curious about a part of his long lost nation. So, of course, he was always happy to share.

Scaramouche: A never ending fire. It's a small shack, engulfed by flames that never seem to dwindle or burn out the wood it feeds on. Like this place was stuck in time in his mind. He doesn't talk to you, not any more than a sharp shut up. The only time that glare he showed you disappeared is when you pulled your hand back from the curious fire with a hiss, not expecting it to actually hurt in this fake reality. For a moment you could have sworn he took a step towards you, but he never came any closer than that as he hissed at you to be careful. Dumb mortals should at least know not to burn themselves.

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dangerous-disposition · 2 years ago

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would you find me in the stars?

Something soft I wrote for my dear friend @scarcrossdlvrs who wanted a hug but, cruelly, we're separated by two time zones and an international border 💕 Posting for anyone else who needs a hug.

Eddie sat on the steps of the porch on his and Wayne’s new trailer, arms propped on his knees with a cigarette pinched between two fingers, largely forgotten. The trailer park and the forest surrounding it were silent, something that was rare and usually welcome, but it just made Eddie itch. His head was swimming with thoughts he knew weren’t true—that no one cared about him, he was a burden, everyone wished he’d died in the Upside Down and spared them the trouble.

At least if there was an argument happening in one of the other trailers, or animals making a ruckus, Eddie’s spinning mind would have something to latch onto and he could break out of the spiral in his mind.

But no, the world was silent while his head was loud, and he never felt more like a speck than he did right then. Insignificant, unnoticeable, forgettable, dirty. The world was silent, empty, devoid of life, affirming his lonely fears.

“—Eds?”

Eddie startled as a hand waved in front of his face, dropping his cigarette into the dirt between his feet as he looked up with wide eyes, meeting a concerned, hazel gaze.

“Harrington?” Eddie asked, glancing around the still silent trailer park. Steve’s car was parked just a few feet away, which meant the man drove up, parked, got out, and even spoke to him and Eddie didn’t snap out of his swirling thoughts.

Steve’s mouth tensed at the corners for a second before he asked, “You okay, Eddie? You were pretty far away.”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Eddie lied weakly, grimacing at how obvious the lie was. “What’s—what’re you doing here?”

Steve looked around then back at Eddie. “I just got off work,” he said as if it explained everything.

“I’m not exactly on your way home, Steve,” Eddie pressed when Steve didn’t elaborate further and Steve snorted, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yeah, I got off work and wanted to come over and see you, to check on you, y’know?” Steve admitted, shocking Eddie to his core before he held up a plastic bag. “I brought some take-out from that new Chinese place that opened right by Family Video.”

Seeing the bag of food had Eddie’s stomach rumbling loud enough that Steve could hear it. “Shit, I’m starved, c’mon in,” Eddie said with a forced smile, and he carefully got up off the steps, gesturing for Steve to go inside ahead of him.

The two of them make quick work of eating the food, the conversation limited between them, but it was a nice sort of quiet. It was a shared quiet, and slowly Eddie felt himself lifting out of that mood from earlier. When Steve dropped one of the empty cartons he was scraping out with his fork with a sigh, Eddie looked at the clock on the wall. He wasn’t ready for Steve the head out, but he also couldn’t justify asking him to stay.

“Well, I guess I’ll let you get to the rest of your rounds?” Eddie said, rubbing his hands on his thighs.

Steve looked up at Eddie with a perplexed expression. “Rounds? What rounds?”” he asked.

Eddie floundered at his confusion. “You—you’re not checking up on everybody?” he asked, his voice a bit quiet.

“No, man, I mean sometimes I do, but usually I’m good with using the radios,” Steve replied, shrugging.

“Then why’re you here?” Eddie asked, his head a bit hazy as he tried to understand what Steve was saying.

Steve’s face got a bit pinched with his own confusion before it softened, unbearably so. “I came to check on you and hang out. If you want me to leave—”

“Why, though?” Eddie asked, a bit more forcefully, his eyes stinging with the emotion that was welling up.

“I was thinking about you while I was at work, then I realized I hadn’t seen you in a couple days,” Steve explained, reaching across to wrap a hand loosely around Eddie’s wrist. “What’s going on, Eds?”

It was the little nickname that did it, the cute little name that only Steve called him these days, and Eddie couldn’t blow Steve off when he was being earnest like this, even if he wanted to.

“You ever feel like you’re just… completely fucking alone? That no one gives a shit about you? That you survived one too many near-death experiences to be worth the trouble?” Eddie asked quietly, and the whole world seemed to settle just a little bit more when Steve’s grip on his wrist tightened a bit.

“All the time, Eds,” Steve admitted a bit breathlessly, and that honestly took Eddie by surprise. Meeting Steve’s eyes again, he could see just how sincerely Steve had meant it.

“Yeah,” Eddie sighed, chuckling humorlessly. “Just been feeling a helluva lot like that, lately.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Steve asked and Eddie smiled, the expression real this time.

“Could use a hug, but you’re already doing plent—oof!”

It took several moments for Eddie to realize that they were standing, Steve’s arms wrapped around his waist and chin resting on Eddie’s shoulder, squeezing Eddie around the middle firmly. Perfectly.

With a happy, teary sigh, Eddie wrapped his arms around Steve’s shoulders and held on desperately. Steve melted against his front with a sigh of his own before turning his face to rest his cheek on Eddie’s shoulder, his breath puffing across Eddie’s throat.

“Damn, Stevie, if I knew you’d just give me what I asked for, I would’ve asked for something better,” Eddie teased, dropping his own chin onto Steve’s shoulder.

“Anything you want, Eds,” Steve promised, and Eddie shivered. That was a dangerous promise.

“Careful, pretty boy, what if I asked for a kiss to make the hurt go away, huh?” Eddie asked, acutely aware of how close to his throat Steve’s lips were.

“I’d ask where you wanted that kiss, where it hurt the most,” Steve hummed, and Eddie felt a pang of want surge through him. It wasn’t even the desperate, horny want he was used to. It was yearning.

Eddie was feeling better, enough so that the vulnerability was getting difficult to keep rolling. “And if I said my dick…?” Eddie deflected, trailing off and laughing when Steve snorted and pinched his side.

“I’d say…” Steve started, pulling back enough to meet Eddie’s eyes and cup his cheek with one hand. Steve’s eyes met Eddie’s before looking down at his lips, not looking away as he said, “I’d take a raincheck on that, just for tonight. Then I’d ask if a kiss on the lips would be a good enough substitute.”

“I’d say yes—mmph!”

Eddie blinked, wide-eyed and actually giddy as Steve’s lips slotted perfectly against his own. The kiss was chaste, sweet, perfect. Even if Eddie started crying, especially as Steve brought his other hand up to determinedly wipe the tears on his cheeks away. And Steve, bless him, didn’t stop kissing him no matter how many more tears fell, or the way Eddie’s breathing turned into hiccupping sobs.

Steve just held him tight, kissed him sweetly, and brought him back to a world where he was allowed to be, wanted even, and Eddie knew the man wouldn’t let him forget it.

#steddie #steve/eddie #steve x eddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #gerry writes

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marieshyperf1xations · 8 months ago

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Oh wow, I had this idea in, like, April this year and it's been sitting in my drafts ever since. I figured the crossover between former One Direction fans to now F1 fangirls is so big, that I might as well share my thoughts on which 1D song I associate with each driver, with a little explanation. So here we go

F1 x 1D - Drivers as 1D songs

Max - Drag Me Down ("All these lights, they can't blind me // With your love, Nobody can drag me down -> he's basically been unbeatable the past few years and the love between him and his orange army is something else)

Checo - What A Feeling (“What a feeling to be a king beside you, somehow” -> next to Max kings of the top team) I made this post a while ago, so apologies for it not aging too well

Charles - You And I ("no nothing can come between you and I // not even the gods above can separate the two of us" -> his love for Ferrari) and Stockholm Syndrome (he gets two because goddamnit the relationship that boy has with his team is a tale of two hearts)

Carlos - Tell Me A Lie ("If he's the reason that you're leaving me tonight // Spare me what you think and tell me a lie" -> the entire painful divorce between him and Ferrari and them basically ditching him for Lewis, need I say more?)

Lando - Midnight Memories ("Now I'm at zhr age when I know what I need" -> it really feels like he's in the best place in his career (in and outside of the car) so far. Also DJ Lando anyone?)

Oscar - Ready To Run ("This time I'm ready to run // Escape from the city and follow the sun" -> he ran away from Alpine and towards his place in the sunshine at McLaren)

Fernando - Act My Age (this connection inspired this entire post, do I need to give any more context?)

Lance - I Want (sorry for the dig, but c'mon)

George - Diana (both are painfully English)

Lewis - Never Enough (the man has 7 WDCs, is 39 years old, still going, just signed with Ferrari for at least a few more years and keeps breaking his own records of which he has a shit ton, no more notes)

Daniel - Night Changes (all the teams he's been with over the years and the rollercoaster of results he's had)

Valtteri - Walking in the Wind (“We had some good times didn’t we?” -> his time as teammates with Lewis back in the days)

Zhou - Once in a Lifetime ("Once in a lifetime, it's just right [...] // Not even a landslide or riptide // Could take it all away" -> his moment as the first Chinese driver to race at his home race, no one can take that away from him no matter what)

Pierre - Spaces ("Who's gonna be the first to say goodbye?" -> leaving Yuki behind at AlphaTauri; yeah I kinda broke my own heart with that)

Yuki - Half a Heart (the Yukierre breakup again)

Esteban - Love You Goodbye (“It's inevitable, everything that's good comes to an end // It's impossible to know if after this we can still be friends, yeah”) -> the falling out with Pierre

Kevin - No Control (because at times this season it felt like Haas just let him loose on the track and he was a bit of an uncontrollable missile)

Nico - One Thing (his thing being a podium, finally)

Alex - End Of The Day (“All I know at the end of the day is you want what you want and you say what you say // And you follow your heart even though it’ll break sometimes”) -> he wants his seat in F1, he got heartbroken when he was dropped by Red Bull etc.

Logan - I Would (Galex and Landoscar, he's basically caught between two considerably popular ships)

Also shoutout to @blueberry-obsessed for encouraging me to actually post this, ilyyyy 🫶

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googleitlol · 6 months ago

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Two questions! Well, one’s more like a prompt/scenario, but I’m still saying it!

Do you have any plans on getting back to your “The Memory of You” fanfic in the future? Because I’m a certified Macaque wimp (right there with Wukong) and I’m dying to know everything that happened between him and Lian!😭

And second:

I just got myself Black Myth Wukong brainrot and I randomly thought of a situation where Dove would wake up from a nightmare about Wukong’s death, and she instinctively places a hand over the Destined One’s heart to hear it beating because of his resemblance and everything. And the Destined One just helps hold her hand to his chest and resting his own hand over hers until she calms down🥲💘💞

1) Omg tbh I didn't realise ppl were still reading that one! I'm focusing on PoM rn so I don't think I'll be getting to it anytime soon unfortunately. I do wanna continue it tho, and rewrite some stuff too! My google doc is so big for TMoY that if you wanted, I could totally answer some asks about it. Since I'm focusing on Dove and Wukong rn, I wouldn't mind sharing some secrets about Lian and Macaque's past (I will yap so much abt them, I love Lian she's my sweetheart).

I also took a break from writing that fic because, uhhhhh… I had only seen part of season 4 when I started writing the backstory for Lian, did some research into chinese mythology and legends I could pull from… then after posting a bunch of chapters, I watched the rest and realised I accidentally made her backstory/creation extremely similar to someone else (if you're caught up on the show, you'll know who I'm talking about). They both involve, uh… similar people?? So I got spooked and decided to wait a bit to see if that character's backstory would be like what I'd written for Lian and… it's starts out very similar 💀

But honestly, I think I'm gonna keep it the same cuz I love Lian, and I love the story I've made for her and Macaque. So if you've got any questions abt them, I'd be happy to answer until I shift my focus back onto TMoY.

2) Oh, and… my god. I love this idea of yours. That dream. Hoo boy, that dream. I love it when people understand the sort of angst I wanna put Dove under. Running to her love, knowing what's about to happen but too far to stop it. Maybe if he saw her, if he knew she was coming, maybe he'd still be there. But no matter how much her throat scratches as she screams, no sound is made. No matter how fast she runs, how far she pushes herself, nothing changes.

The Destined One frowns, he's seen her like this on so many nights. There's something that's plaguing her… he just doesn't know what. She shuts him down at any and all moments he has to inquire about her night-terrors. Still, he's found a subtle way to help in the best way he can. After one night where she reached out for him and he let her hand press against his chest, he noticed how she calmed a bit.

That becomes their nightly ritual. Whenever he notices how she starts to mumble in her sleep, shout and cry, he'll cuddle up next to her and hold her in his arms. He'll keep her head pressed against his chest so she can hear his heart– that always calms her down. As long as she has something, her hand or even an ear pressed to his heart, she'll calm down. Maybe the first few nights he started doing this, she'd cuddle up to him a bit. He'd be awkward about it at first, but eventually grow used to it. After a while, he'd find that he actually really enjoys spending those nights with Dove in his arms.

#black myth wukong #sun wukong x reader #macaque x oc #lego monkie kid #the memory of you #peace of mind #pom #little dove asks

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ariundercovers · 1 year ago

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Traffic Jam (When Paths Cross Pt. VII, Javier Peña x Reader)

Pairing: Javier Peña x Afab!Reader (No use of y/n!)

Length: ~3.5k words

Series Summary: Chucho's been like a father figure to you since he helped you out of a sticky situation on your second day in Laredo. What happens when you finally meet his son, the former-DEA agent, who just happens to ignite you in a way that you haven't felt before?

Chapter Summary: A loaded question and some heated conversations.

Chapter Warnings: no porn only plot, ANGST, spanish nicknames, idiots in love, Chucho being a Dad to two idiots in love (the poor man omg).

A/N: I know this series is moving FAST but I'm so determined to actually finish this one that I'm writing quickly and just rolling with it! I hope the time gaps that are written in aren't too bothersome.

If you're so inclined, please drop a like and a reply/reblog! I live for your feeback, and it keeps me going and keeps me writing. Did you like it? love it? hate it? I want to hear all of your thoughts!

PREVIOUS PART (VI) HERE

You walk into work the next morning with a bright smile on your face, lost in the dreaminess that is Javier Peña. Your head is stuck in the clouds, still giddy from his admission to you last evening.

He loves you.

Javier Peña loves you.

You’re not sure you’ve ever felt this high. Sure, you’ve felt you were in love before, but it’s never been like this. Never this intense, sudden, unexpected. It’s both exhilarating and terrifying all at once.

One of your coworkers notices your giddy mood and you end up gushing everything out to her, a stupid smile on your face when you tell her what he said about the necklace, and how he made you panic when he didn’t say “I love you” back right away. She smiles at you, tells you he sounds like a good man, and that she’s happy for you - happy to see you so excited and happy. She says love looks good on you.

And that’s how it goes for the next few weeks. It’s all love and butterflies and perfection and heart eyes and everything else gooey and good. But something keeps nagging at you - a question left unasked, unanswered. You need to know, and eventually, you can’t keep yourself from putting it out there.

When it happens, you’re at the mall of all places, looking for some jeans for Javi and a new suitcase for an upcoming work trip for you, given that you broke one of the wheels on your old one on the last trip. Eventually, you decide to take a rest with some overly sweet Chinese bourbon chicken in the food court. It’s pleasant and simple, but your mind can’t stop whirring, won’t stop thinking about all the possibilities, trying to piece together what your future might look like, what your future could look like.

It’s been long enough, right? You can ask. You can have an adult conversation.

You shared ‘I love you’s, for fuck’s sake. You can ask him this question.

You do your best to settle your nerves before speaking up, finishing up a bite of chicken before setting down your fork and looking up at Javi with a curious glance.

“What do you think about, when you think about the future?” Javi’s brow furrows as he regards you, head ticking to the side as he tries to wrap his mind around the question.

“What do you mean?”

You shrug slightly, thinking nothing of it. “I mean… the usual stuff, you know? Do you want to be in Laredo? Married? Kids? A House of your own? Still on the Ranch? That stuff.”

Javi blinks back at you for a long moment before he shakes his head and averts his eyes back down to where he’s picking at a pile of fried rice. “Yeah… I don’t think any of that is for me.”

You’re taken aback. That’s not the answer you were expecting, and not by a long shot. “Oh… I, uh… what part of it?”

He shakes his head again, looking up at you this time as he sets down his fork. The expression on his face is unreadable to you - like he’s suddenly a different person altogether. “All of it. I don’t… want that. Any of that.”

The two of you are completely silent for a long, long moment. You’re not sure how to phrase the miserable thought and emotion that’s bubbling up inside of you, but you eventually manage to put a few words to at least part of it.

“Does that mean you don’t want me, either?”

Javi looks taken aback as he answers, “No, that’s not what I said.”

“But… if you don’t want to get married, or kids, or a house, or any of it… ever, what’s the point of this? What are we doing?”

He grunts, frustrated as he reaches up to pinch at his brow with his finger tips. “Isn’t this enough?”

You sigh, shrugging. You’re not sure how to answer him. “I mean… for now, but…”

“But what?” He cuts you off before you can even finish the thought. You’re taken aback, again, and you lean forward as you try to muster up a coherent response.

“I’m not a child anymore, Javi. I want to be thinking about the future, I don’t want to keep wasting time with people and situations that don’t want anything to do with me in the long run. You really don’t ever want to get married? Or any of it? Nothing?” He sighs and rolls his eyes at you a little bit, the frustration in his face wildly apparent.

“No. I really don’t.”

It’s hard not to have a horrible expression glued to your face. This is not how you expected this conversation to go. In fact, it’s quite possibly the furthest thing from it.

“Ever?”

Javi slams his hand down on the table, and you’re taken aback by the frustration and power he puts into it. He’s never lashed out at you like this before, and you’re just not sure what to make of it. It startles you at best, maybe scares or frightens you at worst.

“No. Never. Can we move on, now?” You try to blink back the fear and frustration you’re feeling, because you know if you dwell on it much longer, you’ll end up crying. You can feel it brimming quickly behind your eyes.

“O-okay.”

You finish your meals in a terse silence that feels very uncomfortable and out of place for the two of you. You’ve never had this tense of a moment between you before, and you’re not sure how to get out of it. Eventually, you wait long enough without speaking that you just settle back into a relative normal as you’re shopping through the mall, looking for the right style and brand of jeans Javi wants.

It’s stuck in the back of your mind the entire time, however, so much so that you can barely focus on the questions Javi is asking you. You’re so fixated that you walk past several stores with luggage in the front window without even registering it, and Javi has to keep pulling you back to go in and look. Eventually, you give up.

“Javi, can we go home? Maybe we can look another day.” He looks at you quizzically, confused.

“Are you alright, muñeca?”

“Yeah, I’m just not feeling it. I’d like to go home.” He nods and takes your hand, turning around to head back to the exit where he parked the car. Nerves are bubbling up inside of you in a way that you haven’t felt since your final interview for the job at the arts center. Few things have made you freak out this badly, but you just can’t help repeating it in your brain, over and over again.

I don’t… want that. Any of that.

He didn’t want you long-term, either, that much was clear to you. You wondered what he was doing in all of this if he had no plans for longevity. Why keep leading you along like this? Why get you so attached that it’ll just hurt worse the longer he waits to end things? The feelings quickly turn to panic, and turn the contents of your stomach rancid.

You felt hopeless.

Javi leads you to the car, closing the door for you before getting into the driver’s seat and heading out, driving off in the direction of the ranch. The usually lovely winding roads that lead you back to the Peña farm house make you feel sickly and near-ill the entire ride there. It takes everything in you not to vomit in Javi’s passenger seat, holding it in as best as you can until he finally parks in front of the ranch. You hurry inside, past Chucho laid up in his recliner chair in the living room and lock yourself in the bathroom down the hall. You lean over the sink, forcing yourself to take deep breaths. After a few minutes of steady breathing, your stomach settles, and you look in the mirror to be confronted by red-rimmed eyes. You might as well have been crying the entire ride back to the house with how awful you looked.

You turn on the tap and splash some cold water on your face, the chill helping you feel a bit more settled and present in the moment than you had been. You’re still unnerved, your stomach unsettled, but you feel more like a human than you did on the road, certainly. It hits you suddenly that you’re going to need to bring this back up with Javi again to get some clarity. You wouldn’t be able to sleep or hardly even think without it.

Strolling back into Javi’s room, you find him pulling his new jeans out of the bag and removing the tags before tossing them in his hamper to wash. He turns to you with a half smile and a tilt of his head.

“Cariño. You feeling alright?” You nod somberly and have a seat at the end of his bed, waiting for him to finish. He wraps you up in his arms, pulling you down into the bed so he can tuck you in properly. “A nap, perhaps?”

You nod, curling into his arms with relative ease as he strokes your shoulder gently.

It’s keeping you wide awake, so you turn in his arms and look up at his face, sighing as you realize how awful this conversation might be.

“Javi?”

He doesn’t respond at first and you worry he might be asleep already. Eventually, he groans and asks, “What is it, muñeca?”

You sigh, taking a deep breath before you continue. “Javi… can you please talk to me about this no marriage and no kids thing?”

You can feel his body go rigid beneath the sheets - soft arms turn to violent blades wrapped around you as he stiffens. “What is there to talk about? I don’t want it.”

“What if I do? Can’t we just talk about it?” You roll onto your back, hoping a little bit of distance might help the tension you’re feeling between you. He turns and looks at you seriously, blinking a few times before he sighs and drops his head.

“I guess… you’ll just have to figure out how to deal with that disappointment.”

You scoff, his words grating at you. “What? Disappointment? We can’t even have a discussion about it? About the possibility, even?”

He shakes his head, looking back at you for a moment before he responds. “I don’t want it, cariño. I’m sorry.”

You huff, sitting up in the bed and crossing your arms over your chest. The anger inside of you is threatening to bubble up and lash out, so you do your best to temper it before you speak. The last thing you need to do is make all of this worse than it already is. But, the anger is bubbling up too quickly to be able to temper yourself fully. Your words still come out like a knife, sharp and targeted in a way that you’ve never spoken to him before. “So that means you get to make universal decisions for us now, too, huh?”

He’s taken aback as he sits up, as well, looking at you with a confused scowl. “What?”

You inch away from him, eyes boring holes into his skill. “I thought this was supposed to be a partnership.”

“What? Why are you getting like this? Things have been easy, good. I don’t know why you have to complicate it with this.” He shifts, reaching toward you, but you shirk away, his words seeding themselves deeply into your chest.

“Complicate? Is that what I am? A complication? Fuck. That’s not… that’s not what I’m in this for, Javier. I want to be more than a good fuck. I deserve to be more than that.”

“Cariño, that’s not what I said-”

You don’t let him finish his thought before you’re lashing out again. “Isn’t it? You’re not interested in anything more than what we have right now. And what we have right now is a lot of sex and casual conversations. We might as well be friends with benefits if that’s all you want out of this.”

He glares at you, frustrated, and shakes his head before standing up and pacing the room, from door to headboard, back and forth. “That’s… No, fuck. What the hell? You don’t know anything. You don’t fucking know anything.”

“And why is that? Because you won’t talk to me, Javier.”

He throws his hands up in frustration, his voice elevating as he responds. “It’s my business. I’m entitled to not talk about it if I don’t want to.”

You shake your head in disbelief at his obstinance and sigh. This wasn’t going anywhere. Shifting in the bed, you swing your legs over the side of it and stand, looking back at him briefly to respond. “Sure. Whatever. Screw this, Javi. I’m going home.”

Home.

There’s that stupid word again. You were starting to feel like it was more here, more with Javi and with Chucho, than it was anywhere else.

You suppose you were wrong.

Javi’s voice shifts as he starts to plead with you, “Wait, cariño, hold on-”

His begging falls on deaf ears as you collect your things from around the room and head out as quickly as you can, slamming his bedroom door behind you as you rush out, flustered. By the time you get to the front door, you remember you don’t even have your car. Javi drove you here earlier this afternoon. You pause, hand hovering over the doorknob, and you hear someone clearing their throat behind you.

Fuck. Chucho.

You turn around to see him sitting up in the recliner, head tilted to the side as he regards you. His rough voice soothes you after the piercing tones of Javi’s frustration.

“Heading out, mija?” You sigh, visibly deflating at the kind and caring tone he always offers you.

“I was going to, but-”

He cuts you off so you don’t even need to say it yourself. “You need a ride?” As you nod in response, he starts to stand, slowly, knees creaking as he rises. “Come on. I’ll take you.”

You’re grateful beyond belief that he doesn’t push further, doesn’t ask why Javi isn’t out in the living room, or why you need a ride from someone not his son. He just gets up and silently throws on his boots, grabbing his keys from a hook behind the door as he pushes outside, holding the door for you. You climb into the passenger seat of his pickup truck, fastening your seatbelt as he starts it up and pulls around the driveway, heading back onto those same winding roads you had come to love.

A few minutes into the drive, he clears his throat, his wide-brimmed hat tipping in your direction. “I’m not going to ask you if you want to talk about it, because I’m sure you don’t. But I have a few things I’d like to say, if that’s okay.” You turn toward him, eyes trained on the side of his face as he clears his throat again, reaching down to take a sip of the water bottle sitting in the cupholder between you two.

You nod with a small, under-your-breath ‘okay’, and fold your hands in your lap, waiting for him to begin.

“First, I hope he hasn’t scared you away from me and from the house. I’d be lost if you stopped coming by.” You shake your head vehemently, floored by the suggestion.

“No, never, Chucho. Nothing’s gonna keep me away. I’ll figure out how to deal with this.”

He nods somberly, fingers tapping on the large steering wheel. “Good. That’s good. Now… in the case of my son, I know he can be a lot for many reasons. He’s quite the stupid boy when he wants to be. But he’s been through the wringer since he was young. There’s a lot I’m sure he hasn’t told you, and it’s not my place to say, but just know that he comes to you with a lot of baggage. He’s misguided sometimes, and I can only set him so far in the right direction. He’s been lost for a long time.”

You blink back at him, not shocked by the news nearly as much as you think you should be. It makes sense, given his reaction to you today, and especially given the horrible things that came out of his mouth. They didn’t feel like your Javier.

“Now I know that I’m an old man, and it’s been a long time since I fell in love, but I can see when two people are right for each other. You two… you are right for each other. You’re good together, and you make each other better. I’ve seen it firsthand, especially these last few weeks. Javi is much more pleasant to be around these days.”

You smile at the compliment and lean over to squeeze his shoulder lightly in gratitude.

“Just… give him a chance. Please. I know he can be good for you, too, if he can just get his act together.”

You nod and sigh, shoulders dropping as you take in his words. “I want to. I want to so badly. But I’m afraid that I’m scaring him away, Chucho. I’m not what he wants… he doesn’t want someone this serious, this willing to move things along.”

“Ask him about it, mija. Make him talk to you. There’s so much there. You can help him, I know it. You’re only the second woman he’s ever brought home.” You’re shocked by that admission, to say the least. It was easy to tell that Javi was more into flings than serious relationships given his highly flirtatious personality, but in almost 40 years… only one other person? It surprises you, makes you start trying to rethink the experiences you’ve had with him so far, rethink every comment and frustration. You’re vaguely curious who that other person was, what happened with them.

“I’ll try, Chucho. He just makes it so difficult, sometimes.”

“I know. Believe me, I know he does. But he loves you - I can see it in the way his eyes light up when you arrive, and in the way he pines over you when you’re away. And you do, too. That’s something real - when you have it, don’t let it go. Fight for it. You’re lucky if you find something like that even once in your life.”

Is it really that obvious to Chucho?

You’re more than shocked - you’re amazed by the suggestion. Here you’ve been thinking the whole thing has been one-sided, all stuck on you and your overly ambitious heart.

“Then why does he make it so hard for me to be able to love him back? The right way? Why does he have to make it so difficult?”

Chucho sighs and shrugs, glancing over at you briefly. “That’s Javi’s story to tell, mija, but he’s a fool if he’s trying to write you off completely.”

You thump your head back against the bench seat, arms crossing over your chest. “I just don’t know how to make him see me. See any of this. It’s like he has blinders on or something.”

Chucho nods along and answers, “he does, mija. Installed by a host of events that I can’t disclose on his behalf. But he does have blinders on, absolutely. He’s not seeing straight, not thinking clearly. He’s running on fear and anxiety if anything.”

You’re shocked by that suggestion. “Fear? He’s afraid of me?”

“No, mija. He’s afraid of putting himself out there.” He pulls onto your street, finding a place to pull over next to the sidewalk in front of your apartment and putting the truck in park.

“I don’t think he’s going to listen to me, Chucho. He’s dead set on destroying things all on his own.” He sighs, turning and placing a hand gently on your thigh.

“Just give him a chance, mija. Please. I’m begging you. If anyone can do it, it’s you. Just give him another chance.” You nod back at him and offer him an uneasy smile.

“I will. If he’ll let me. I don’t know if he’s going to let me, though, Chucho.”

He looks at you very seriously at first, but then the serious look morphs quickly into a smirk. He winks at you. “Trust me on this one, if you can.”

You chuckle nervously but smile and respond before getting out of the car and heading up the stairs, back to your lonely apartment.

“Alright. I will.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A/N: And here be the angst. I promise it doesn't linger for too long, but Javi's been through too much to just have things go easy the entire time! These two still have lots ahead of them!

Let me know what you think! Your interactions and comments and criticisms and all of it are so so so very appreciated!

xoxoxo

Taglist: @amyispxnk @picketniffler @kirsteng42 @vee-bees-blog (lmk if you'd like to be added!)

NEXT PART (VIII) HERE

#writing #javi peña smut #javi peña fanfiction #javier peña x reader #javi peña x reader #javier peña #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal #fanfic #javier peña smut #narcos fanfiction #narcos smut #javier peña fanfiction #javier pena fanfiction #no beta we die like men

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