#you should take this obsession serious… it’s like my mirror obsession… I can’t contour it… I need help

[spill-to-t]

I have so many good pics for a face reveal… but these eye pictures are taking over me 🫠

[cottonblush]

promise me | lmh

❧ word count: 3,403 maybe?

❧ genre: fluff, one mention of a cut so like gore i guess

❧ notes: installment one of the skz powers au!! this one is kinda a drabble series?? also i’ve discovered i love the whole “i hate u” “u love me” thing a little too much but it’s not hurting anyone so yee to the haw my guys!

The first time Minho realizes he’s a gifted one, he’s on the rooftop of his apartment building, unclipping some extra laundry from the clothes line. The wind picks up all of a sudden and the large bed sheet he just unclipped comes flying at his face. He’s trapped, a tangled mass of fabric and limbs, the opaque sheets doing nothing to aid his vision.

The sheets seem to act as a pair of wings, lifting the young boy into the air. It’s just a couple of feet at first, but then he keeps going higher and higher, and Minho can’t get rid of the sinking feeling in his stomach.

When he finally manages to untangle himself and take in a deep breath, he makes the biggest mistake. He pries open his eyes and looks down. There’s no building below him now, just the apartment complex’s playground and park. It doesn’t help that he’s afraid of heights. In that moment, he feels like a cloud, yet he feels like the weight of the world is pressing down on his shoulders.

The fear overwhelms him, clouding his mind, and Minho starts to freefall out of the sky. He tries to scream but can’t seem to find his voice. All that’s left is the seemingly infinite supply of salty tears welling in his eyes and streaming down his cheeks.

In the few seconds it takes to fall, the world seems to slow down. Minho sees flashes of his past, though there’s not much since he’s only at the ripe age of eight years old. He sees his mom making him ramen with an egg on top for the first time; he sees himself in the mirror, small hands running over the scar on his stomach from a surgery he needed; he sees his friends gathering around him to show him the stray cat they found behind a dumpster; he sees you, his next door neighbor and best friend, on the first day that you two met, eyes wide and curious about all the world could offer.

He won’t get to say goodbye to you or anyone else, Minho realizes. He screws his eyes shut and hopes everyone will at least remember him in a good light.

And then everything goes dark.

“Minho,” comes your high pitched voice after what seems like an eternity, “what are you doing hanging from Mrs. Yang’s terrace? Hammocks are meant to be set up close to the ground, silly! And you can’t use a bedsheet. My daddy says you have to buy a special thingy for it.”

Thankfully, the universe has decided it just isn’t Minho’s time yet, and when he realizes this, the boy scrambles to try and get to the terrace.

“Y/n! Please, help! I don’t wanna be in here anymore.”

You run off, causing Minho’s heartbeat to skyrocket, but you return moments later with Mrs. Yang. The woman quickly sees how serious the situation is and cautions Minho not to move.

“I’ll come get you so stay put,” she says, moving quickly.

Once the boy is safely back on the ground, he can’t stop crying, snot and tears turning his once pristine face into a soppy mess. You take the boy into your arms and the two of you fall to the ground, remaining in a tight embrace. Even though Minho is a couple of months older than you, you know it’s no time to point it out and make fun of him.

Instead, you hold him tighter and hope that only good thoughts can reach him, tiny arms doing the best they can to support the taller and larger boy.

Mrs. Yang calls Minho’s mom and she rushes downstairs to get her son, worried expression softening when she sees him safe and sound. She starts to pry him away from you and pick him up in her arms.

Before he can get away from you, you stick out your pinky finger.

“Promise you’ll tell me what happened?”

“I promise,” comes the reply, a matching pinky finger hastily wrapping around your own to seal the deal.

When Minho comes to terms with the fact that he has powers, specifically the power of flight, the first thing you do is urge him to start training to become a super. It’s your latest obsession, the name ‘Megaman’ leaving your mouth at least a billion times a day.

You tell Minho that you want to marry the famous super one day, regardless of the fact that there’s more than a decade between you two. That’s when the boy starts to think that maybe if he becomes a super, you’ll want to talk only about him instead.

Although it doesn’t take much convincing, actually getting Minho up in the air is the difficult part. You have to take it slow, holding his hand even if he’s only a couple of inches off the ground.

After weeks of the same results, it doesn’t seem that Minho will be able to make any improvements, so you do the only thing your ten year old brain can think of.

You unclasp the silver chain that rests around your neck, pendant shaped the same as the first letter of your name, and put it around his. Your hands come to rest on his shoulders, face serious as you try to pretend you’re like a sergeant from your dad’s favorite war-time movie series.

Minho scrunches his brows and tilts his head as he asks, “What’s this for?”

You giggle, serious façade immediately breaking, “It’s a good luck charm! This way, I can be with you whenever you’re flying and you don’t have to be scared.”

“For real? I can actually keep this? You’re awesome, Y/n! I’ll never feel scared if I have this with me!”

You give the boy a tight hug, a giant smile contouring your lips. Minho mumbles something into the crook of your neck, but you don’t quite catch it, so you pull back, hands still grabbing his shoulders and keeping him at an arm’s width away.

He looks unsurely down at the ground for a moment, contemplating if he should voice what he’s thinking or not. However, when he sees your that your encouraging smile hasn’t faltered one bit, it’s just the boost of confidence he needs.

He places his hands atop your own and says, “The necklace sure is great and all, but do you know what’s even luckier?”

You get pouty for a second, thinking your best friend might dispose of your precious gift. With a frown on your face, you grumble out, “No. And I don’t really care either.”

“It’s you, dummy!”

“Hey! Don’t call me a dummy when you’re the dummy, dummy!”

Minho resists the urge to roll his eyes because of course you’d find it in you to argue in a moment like this.

“Ugh, fine, I’m the dummy,” he concedes. “Anyway, I was thinking you can be my lucky charm! As long as you promise to never leave me, of course. And then we can be best friends forever!”

“Really? That’d be perfect, Minho!”

“Promise? That you’ll be by my side forever?”

“I promise.”

Flash forward a couple years and the two of you are sixteen. You’ve become on of the top students in school, balancing grades and your responsibilities as student council secretary. Minho has made a name for himself as a super, dedicating most of his time to saving lives and counting on you to catch him up when he returns home late at night.

However, with people on the streets becoming more aware of him, it also means bad people are better equipped to deal with him.

It’s one fateful night, the wind is howling in his ears and lightning flashes every couple seconds. He’s managed to sneak his way into a gang meeting, trying his best to calm his heartbeat and memorize every detail about the scheme that’s supposed to occur in the coming weeks.

The lightning ends up being a dangerous adversary, its light illuminating Minho’s crouched figure from his place beneath one of the windows on the second floor. One of the grunts notices something is amiss and whispers a command for the building to go into lockdown. He also alerts a guy who appears to be an interim boss of Minho’s location.

The other grunts have him in no time, using their familiarity of the layout to their advantage and sneaking up on him. They grab his arms, forcefully pressing them against his back, and drag him downstairs to the boss.

Minho finds himself seated in a chair. It feels like an investigation scene from the popular crime show on TV, the nearest source of light being an old lamp shining directly in the teen’s face. He gulps, knowing if whatever he says doesn’t please the boss—and it likely won't—he could end up in big trouble.

However, there’s one more mistake Minho makes, and that is overestimating the amount of leniency he would receive. He doesn’t even get a chance to speak before the breath is knocked out of his lungs. Next comes a sharp punch to the face and he knows that’ll leave a mark that won’t be so easy to cover up.

The gang members are relentless, each taking their turn punching or kicking the poor guy, until it’s finally the leader’s turn.

The bulky old man whips out a switchblade and slowly stalks forward. He places the tip of the cold blade on Minho’s forehead, applying enough pressure to draw blood. Minho’s eyes widen in recognition when he realizes what’s about to happen: the man is going to cut off his mask.

He can’t allow that to happen so he wills his body with all his might to break out of the death grip that the grunts have him in. He flies up into the air, shooting through one of the windows and making his escape. Although he does manage to make it out without anyone seeing his true identity, he flies home with a large cut on his forehead, gash slightly tearing into the edge of his mask.

Minho knows that if he goes home and his parents happen to see him in his current state, they’ll find out he’s a super and even worse, they may forbid him from doing the job he’s come to love so much.

Instead, he lands haphazardly on your bedroom’s balcony. He gives the sliding glass door a weak tap, hoping you’ll hear him over the sound of the raging storm above.

Like an angel sent from above, you do hear his call for help and crack open the door.

“Minho,” you call out, voice laced with drowsiness as it’s almost the middle of the night, “what are you doing? Come inside.”

You slide the door open even more, allowing his drenched body to weasel its way inside. You tiptoe across the room and turn the lights to the lowest setting that the dimmer can possibly allow. When you turn around, you resist the urge to yelp, instead rushing forward as Minho’s body collapses.

“Oh my god, Minho! What happened to you? Look at your face. It's…”

You can’t even finish your sentence, your thumb tracing over the delicate skin on his forehead, not ignoring the way his temperature is rapidly falling.

“We need to get you warmed up first,” you urge.

First, you plug in your space heater and position it in front of your bed. You then grab some spare clothes of Minho’s from your closet and turn, ready to hand them off when you see that his form is too exhausted to move on its own. Carefully, you peel off his suit, embarrassment not even close to being present in your mind due to the severity of the situation. You dress him as quickly as possible, making sure to avoid his open wound when sliding on his shirt.

Lugging his body onto your bed, you cover him with your blanket as well as the winter comforter you usually keep tucked away beneath the bed.

Thankfully, the wound is not as deep as it first appeared, and you hope that you can get away with treating it with ointment and wrapping it in bandages, at least until you can get Minho to a doctor.

You lean over his weakened body as you dab the cut with the necessary ointments and creams. Minho doesn’t make it easy for you. His right hand refuses to let go of its grip on your left wrist, skin never losing contact with your own. However, you let it be, knowing that just like that fateful day years ago, the best thing to calm him down is a nurturing touch.

He falls asleep like that and you can only hope for the best, refusing to sleep until you hear his breath even out.

When the sun rises the next morning and Minho comes to, you practically pounce on him, arms winding tightly around his neck.

“Can’t breathe,” the young man chokes out.

You instantly jump back, worry plaguing your features and tears threatening to spill onto your skin.

“S-Sorry,” you say, voice warbling and hands self consciously coming to rest at your side.

Minho softens upon seeing you so concerned, hands reaching out to grab your own.

“I’m fine,” he tries to assure you.

He tells you that he feels much better; he can’t even feel the cut on his head anymore, and that causes you to laugh, telling him he’s being absurd.

“I was so worried, you know? I really thought you were gone for a second there.”

“Don’t you remember our promise? I’m never leaving you and you’re not getting away from me anytime soon.”

“Of course, I remember. But I want us to make a new promise. I want you to promise me to always be careful on missions and always, always, always make sure to come back home safe to me.”

“I promise. I love you, Y/n. I hope you know that.”

“I love you more. And I’ve always known, dummy!”

“Hey!”

“You can’t even argue this time. You literally have a giant cut on your head. You are officially the dummy.”

“Oh god… Do you think my mom will notice?”

“It’s impossible not to. But maybe we can tell her you tripped on the way to school? She must’ve already left for work by now so at least you won’t have to worry about that for now.”

“Ah, what would I do without you?”

“Don’t know. Probably something dumb, dummy.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me!”

“…I hate when you’re right.”

You’re seventeen, not quite a dancing queen, when you’re first asked out to a school event: the winter formal dance. You’re giddy with excitement, chatting with your girl friends about the insta-worthy proposal all day. A classmate who’d recently been in a group project with you, Younghoon, asked you by stopping you at your locker with a bouquet of roses and a box of chocolates.

Because you’re so caught up in the excitement, Minho has to learn of this event through social media, grip turning his knuckles white when he sees that a picture of you and Younghoon in a side hug is your most recent post. He thinks bitterly to himself that you would’ve liked lilies or snapdragons instead and would’ve much rather preferred Haribo sour gummy bears to a cheesy box of chocolates.

He doesn’t know why he’s so irked, to be honest. He thinks maybe it’s because you’ve always attended school functions together as a tradition and you could’ve at least given him a heads up.

However, on the day of the dance, when Minho sees you leaving your apartment through the tiny peephole on his front door, he swears his heart stops. Even through the distorted view of the glass, you look stunning. Your hair is styled and you’re wearing a beautiful floor length gown, but the only thing Minho can think is how you seem to glow. You’re not wearing any makeup but it looks like a fairy came and sprinkled you with glitter and fairy dust. Your million watt smile is just as bright as any other day, but it has Minho’s heart going a mile a minute like he’s seeing it for the first time.

While you spend the night dancing with your supposed prince charming, Minho spends his night at a table sulking. His close friend, Jisung, tries to get him to dance with one of the many girls who are head over heels for him, but he doesn’t have the heart to, telling his friend that he’s just not feeling well.

As Minho downs his sixth glass of punch and crushes the flimsy plastic cup between his fingers, he makes a promise to himself. He promises that from now on, he’ll try his best to make you see him as someone you can spend the rest of your life with. Because maybe all of the 'I love you’s that he’s said to you weren’t a way to express platonic appreciation, but actually are his way of showing how he wants to be able to call you his own and vice versa.

Nothing seems to be catching your attention. You’re quite dense for an eighteen year old. Even his famed flirting and aegyo tactics breeze right by you. Minho swears if he could use one word to describe the whole situation, it would be the infamous r/woosh.

Everyone in your friend group knows about his not-so-little crush, but they’re waiting for him to make a big move. However, Minho’s used all the moves he knows. He’s about to give up hope when a friend suggests a last ditch idea: the silent treatment. That’ll have to get you to notice him.

He never predicted it would be so hard, though. Seeing you in the halls and living right next door to you but not saying a word isn’t as easy as it first sounded. You’re the first person he wants to speak to when he gets a good grade. His finger hovers over your number when he sees anything he thinks you would enjoy doing together (which is pretty often since he basically thinks about you 24/7). You’re the first thing on his mind when he wakes up and the last thing his mind remembers before he goes to sleep.

It’s taking a toll on you too because after a long week, you corner him at his favorite dinner.

Sliding into the booth across from him with a serious expression adorning your face, you inquire, “Did I do something wrong? I swear I haven’t and there was probably just a misunderstanding.”

“No,” Minho denies. “There was no misunderstanding. I just needed some time to clear my head, I guess. Something my friend said really got to me.”

It’s not a complete lie, but Minho would rather be swallowed by a black hole than admit he resorted to something as petty as the silent treatment, especially when it comes to wooing a girl.

“Next time, give me a heads up, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

You change the subject, offering to split a milkshake with him, eyes turning their focus from his face to the menu in front of him. You use your fingers to maneuver the menu around to face you, calling over a waitress. You order a vanilla milkshake with two straws and no maraschino cherry on top: the classic order for the two of you.

Minho hesitantly asks after taking a sip of the cold and sweet milkshake, “Hey, I know we’ve made a lot of promises, but I want you to make me one more.”

When you don’t reply but look at him with attentive eyes and an open heart, encouraging him to feel comfortable and speak his mind, he gets the extra boost of confidence he needs.

“Promise me you’ll give me a chance.”

“What? Wait, a chance at what?”

“I guess I should’ve said, 'give us a chance.’ Go out with me?”

The smile on your face is so bright and full of joy that Minho swears he’ll go blind if he sees it again, but the thought is dismissed when you jump up and reach across the table to pull him into a tight embrace.

Placing a light kiss on the tip of Minho’s nose, causing it to scrunch up in an adorable manner, you whisper, “I promise.”