ikyklkiykyk
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There’s history in the air, heavy and electric. Nights spent tangled in sheets, mornings filled with arguments too loud for Hyunjin’s thin walls, apologies whispered into each other’s skin. They had been a storm—beautiful and destructive, and never meant to last. If they hadn’t fizzled out, there’s no telling what kind of disaster would have been left in the wake of them.
“I didn’t want to die without seeing you again,” Hyunjin breathes, voice breaking somewhere in the middle. He doesn’t mean for it to sound like a confession, but it does, and it hangs between them like a thread—too fragile, too easily severed, a lifeline that could never last. But—he thinks fragile doesn’t matter when there’s nothing left to lose.
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or: they say the first thing you reach for in a disaster is what matters most in your life. when the world is ending, Hyunjin reaches for someone he thought he'd never see again.
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“Hey, I think maybe you got the wrong—”
“Idea?!” the voice yells, cutting him off, and Minho opens his mouth to correct the assumption, to say he thinks they got the wrong number, but it's no use. “I didn't get the wrong idea, okay? You just got sick of me — you knew I had feelings so you USED them, used ME!”
The yelling ends in gasping and then the voice comes back much quieter, eerily calm, and that’s — somehow worse.
“But that's okay, right, what else is Jisung good for anyway? Too messed up to love, too emotional for something casual, so why not just pretend one to get the other. Makes perfect sense, actually. You're a fucking genius and I'm fucking worthless.”
or: minho receives a call from an unknown number in the middle of the night, and he's a little annoyed but also a little worried because the caller is talking about some heavy shit
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“What’s that?” It’s more grumbled out than spoken, and he keeps his hands to his sides instead of reaching for the proffered cup.
Looking pleased as anything, Jisung brightens immediately. It has an unnerving effect when paired with his borderline disheveled appearance — no one who seems to have just barely rolled out of bed should look so bright at this hour of the day.
“Iced Americano,” Jisung says, like it’s obvious, like he has any reason to know exactly what Minho would have ordered for himself if he’d had the time. He gets a narrowed-eyed expression in response, suspicion clear on the dancer’s face.
“Oh! I—I’m not stalking you or anything,” he jumps to defend with an awkward laugh. “I was the one who volunteered to pick up breakfast during that orientation for the new choreographer last month.” A shrug, like this explains it all, like it’s completely normal for him to remember Minho’s order specifically.
Minho dances for the best company in Seoul, but has a secret life by night that he's desperate to keep hidden.
Jisung works for the ballet company, and he's been asking way too many questions.
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It feels like Jisung is an open book baring all of his secrets with the way Minho reads him so well. Like he’d been the one to write the user manual, the how-to guide of Han Jisung ( it probably talks a lot about patience, about comforting touches, about space when he needs it and strong arms around him when he doesn’t ). It’s a little terrifying.
or: 8 friends embark upon their university years ( and other post-high school plans ), exploring different kinds of relationships in the process amidst the uncertainty of their futures and the tensions of their past
minsung centric, jisung POV
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He has to remind himself they’re not alone when he finally goes too far, finally crosses that invisible line that he’s usually so aware of ( even Jisung had shot him a look a few minutes into their dinner, a quiet warning, a why are you doing that, you know better ), because he can feel the growl rumble up in Changbin’s chest when he reaches an arm to wrap around his neck.
Recent series
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“Oh? What prompted the need for your ‘fresh start’?” asks Jisung. He pops one of the transmission bolts free and scurries after it as it rolls across the ground.
Minho quirks a brow at the clumsy display, stuffs his hands in his pockets. The cute little mechanic is amusing, he’ll admit. Makes him want to say something completely out-of-left-field just to see his reaction; he imagines big round eyes, a disconcerted pout. Adorable.
Minho shrugs. “I fumbled one too many romantic prospects east of the Continental Divide, and I have too much of a pariah complex to handle it maturely.”
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Or: Following another catastrophic end to a long list of failed relationships, Minho decides to pack up and start his life anew, but his plans are thwarted when his car breaks down on his drive across the Rocky Mountains. He’s then forced to take up temporary residence in the nearby lakeside town while he waits for his car to be repaired by the cute local mechanic.
Bookmarked by ikyklkiykyk
03 Jan 2025
Bookmarker's Notes
absolutely breathtakingly beautiful and emotional in the best of ways
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Minho ignores him. Pointedly. His tongue runs over his bottom lip. He takes his glasses off, sets them on his desk. “Daddy issues? Mommy issues? A bit of both?”
Yes. That much is obvious. It seems redundant to bring it up when they both already know. “I want to be wanted.”
“And you think sex will do that for you?” Minho sighs. A long, drawn thing that blows up the hair at his brow. “Or are you chasing a false flag?”
“What do you mean?”
“Love.”
“That sounds much too serious,” Jisung swallows. His eyes feel wet at the edges, a wafer dipped in wine. “Permanent.”
“So, a bit of both, then.”
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How could someone this handsome guard anyone? Wouldn’t he be more of a distraction than a threat? Maybe that’s his secret weapon—maybe he uses his face to hypnotize people into leaving the person he's protecting alone. It sounds like the plot of an anime. There should be an anime like that out there; Jisung makes a note to search bodyguard anime when he’s home for the evening.
Jisung hires a human anti-anxiety pill.