#madeforyu

Gotham City never really slept. It only shifted moods—from the daylight masquerade of polished shoes and business suits to the midnight crawl of whispers and sirens. For you, it was home. Chaotic, flawed, and yours. You weren’t a Bat. You weren’t even one of the shadows that trailed beside him. You were Bruce Wayne’s middle child—too independent to join the family business of nocturnal violence, too stubborn to be just another Wayne in the tabloids

But even from a distance, you were close with your siblings. You knew their secrets, covered their bruises, and made excuses when the press sniffed too close. You stayed out of the caves and gadgets, but the Bat-family’s world never truly left you alone.

Tonight proved just that.

The gala at Wayne Tower had been another exercise in pretending. You wore your mother’s old diamond earrings, your father’s polite smile, and your own brand of quiet rebellion—a sleek black dress that cut sharper than any Batarang. You’d just escaped a conversation with a snooty investor when you saw her.

Sophia Clark.

Supermans daughter.

You didn’t need the headlines to recognize her. She had that same impossible glow about her—the kind that made everyone else in the room fade to gray. Raven hair swept perfectly over her shoulder, deep eyes that looked carved out of a Kryptonian glacier, and a smile that seemed to mock you without even trying.

She wasn’t supposed to be here. Not in Gotham. Not in your city.

“Wayne,” she greeted, her voice warm and condescending all at once. “Didn’t expect to see you hiding out here. Thought you preferred the comfort of your father’s tower.”

You raised your glass, not bothering to hide the distaste in your tone. “Didn’t expect you here either, El. What’s the Metropolis golden girl doing in Gotham? Get bored saving cats from trees?”

Her lips twitched, almost smiling. “Cute. I’m actually here for work. But I guess you wouldn’t know what that’s like.”

You felt the jab land—a familiar sting. Everyone knew you weren’t part of the Bat-family’s hero club. It was a choice, but people like Sophia never saw it that way. To them, you were the privileged Wayne who watched from the sidelines.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t,” you said coolly, stepping closer. “Some of us don’t need to throw ourselves off rooftops to prove a point.”

Sophia tilted her head, eyes scanning you the way her father probably looked at villains. “Some of us don’t hide from what we are.”

The words hung there—heavy, deliberate, cruel. You stared at her, your pulse tightening. You hated the way she looked at you, like she already had you figured out. Like she’d decided you were fragile, useless, soft.

“Must be exhausting,” you said finally, forcing a smirk. “Being so perfect all the time.”

Her smile turned sharp. “You’d be surprised how easy it is when you actually are.”

You opened your mouth to fire back, but a sudden shift in the air made your skin prickle—a familiar weight settling over the room before you could place it. A presence you’d known all your life, sharp and steady, brushed against you. Then the heavy, controlled footsteps follow, each one deliberate, practiced, unmistakably belonging to someone who never needed to announce himself. And when he finally stepped into view, the presence solidified—Bruce Wayne entering the space like a shift in gravity itself. Even without looking, you could feel him—your father’s presence always arrived a second before he did.

He wasn’t loud, he didnt need to be. Power clung to him in every way. The tailored black suit, the subtle glint of his cufflinks, the sharpness in his eyes—he looked every bit the billionaire the city worshipped and the vigilante the criminals feared. And beneath it all, that familiar scent reached you: expensive cologne softened by warm leather and cool steel, a scent you’d known since childhood. A scent that meant safety, command, and warning all at once.

Bruce’s gaze flicked between you and Sophia, assessing, calculating, already three steps ahead of a conversation that hadn’t even begun yet. His voice didn’t need volume to take control.

Bruce’s gaze landed on Sophia first, his sternness easing by a fraction. “Sophia. I’m glad you made it.”

She straightened subtly—as if even Superman’s daughter felt the weight of his approval. “Thank you for inviting me, Mr. Wayne.”

Their exchange was smooth and polite. You watched it with a tightening jaw. They spoke briefly—formal pleasantries, mutual respect, nothing out of place—yet it felt like the floor was shifting under you.

Then Bruce turned to you.

And just like that, the softness vanished.

“I asked Sophia to be here tonight for a reason,” he said, voice low but final. “I need a favour from you.”

Your stomach dropped. “A favour?”

He nodded once. “She’ll be operating in Gotham for the next few months. Metropolis wants her exposed to our methods, and I want someone I trust to guide her. You.”

Your breath caught. “You want me to train her?”

“It’s not optional.” His tone left no room for argument. “We’ll discuss the details later. Not here.”

You couldn’t make a scene—not at a gala, not with hundreds waiting for a crack in the Wayne façade—so you swallowed your shock, your frustration, and your pride.

You nod meekly, “yes father” venom threatening to slip into your tone, but you knew better.

Bruce gave you one last firm look, then nodded to Sophia with that rare, respectful acknowledgement he reserved for people he saw potential in. And just like that, he walked off—leaving the two of you standing in the echo of the decision he’d made for you.

The moment he was out of earshot, Sophia exhaled sharply. “Well. That could’ve gone worse.”

You snapped your head toward her. “Really? Because from my view, it went perfectly awfully”

Sophia raised an eyebrow. “It’s not that dramatic.”

“Not that—?” You nearly scoffed. “You’re getting forced into my city, into my space, and I’m apparently your new babysitter. I think ‘dramatic’ is appropriate.”

She folded her arms and tilted her head with that familiar scowl she reserved for you only. “For the record, I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Great,” you shot back. “Tell that to my dad.”

Sophia rolled her eyes. “Look, I didn’t ask for this either.”

“Oh, I’m sure you hate being assigned to Gotham, the one city that doesn’t swoon the second a Kryptonian shows up.”

Her jaw tightened. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You’re infuriating.”

Sophia stepped closer, lowering her voice. “I’m here to do actual work. I don’t know what you’re here to do besides glare at me and complain.”

You scoffed. “I was here to enjoy one night not dealing with hero nonsense, but clearly that was too much to ask.”

Sophia’s lips curved into a slow, irritating smirk. “You know… for someone who’s not in the field, you make an impressive amount of noise.”

Your eyes narrowed. “And for someone who thinks she’s perfect, you talk an impressive amount of crap.”

For a moment, the two of you just glared—heat simmering, irritation sparking, the kind of tension that could topple buildings if either of you pushed hard enough.

Sophia finally sighed. “Look. We should at least try not to kill each other before training starts.”

You forced a tight smile. “Sure. I’ll pencil that in—right between ‘scream internally’ and ‘move to a different planet.’”

Despite herself, Sophia snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re in my way,” you muttered, brushing past her.

She didn’t move. “See you tomorrow, Wayne.”

The way she said your name made your pulse spike—for reasons you refused to examine.

You kept walking.

You signed up to be a lawyer and Wayne successor not a supesitter. But you knew going against your father wouldn’t be smart, especially when you knew he owned everything you aspired to uphold

You really needed that rooftop run.

Later that night, you were out on a rooftop run with Dick and Jason—your usual escape whenever the world felt too heavy to swallow.

The Gotham skyline stretched around you, sharp and cold against the midnight air. Dick ran ahead in that obnoxious, graceful way he always did, flipping over a vent like it was nothing. Jason jogged beside you, mask off, helmet clipped to his belt, cigarette tucked behind his ear because he promised he “wasn’t smoking tonight.”

You didn’t even get two rooftops in before Jason groaned.

“Alright,” he said, hands on his hips. “Spit it out. You’ve been stomping like you want the roof to file a complaint.” The sass in his tone would usually agitate you, but you had worse things that poked at you tonight.

Dick glanced back with a knowing grin. “Let me guess—Dad did something?”

You scoffed loudly. “Oh, did he ever.”

Jason snorted. “Called it.”

You launched into it before the irritation could fester any deeper and before their pestering and teasing led to an inevitable fist fight.

“He invited Sophia to the gala.”

Dick blinked. “Superman’s kid?”

Jason made a face of pure disgust mixed with a tinge of joy at your annoyance. “The dark haired one who looks like she judges people for breathing too loud?”

“YES,” you snapped, throwing your arms up. “Her.”

Jason doubled over laughing so hard he nearly tripped. “Oh, this is already good.”

Dick leaned in like he was settling in for a bedtime story. Atleast he had some manners to read the room “What happened?”

You clenched your jaw. “He wants me to train her.”

Both men froze mid-step, almost giving themselves whiplash from turning at such speed.

Jason actually choked. “He WHAT?”

Dick slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide in utter disbelief. “You? Train Sophia, THE LITTLE MISS PERFECT SUPERSUCCESOR?”

You groaned, dragging your hands down your face. “YES. Apparently Metropolis wants her exposed to ‘Gotham methods,’ and Dad wants someone he ‘trusts’ to guide her.” You mimicked Bruce’s voice with extra gravel. “It’s not optional.”

Jason doubled over laughing. “This is the funniest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Jay,” Dick warned through a laugh of his own, “be nice.”

“Why?!” Jason wheezed. “Our sister is being forced to babysit a Kryptonian princess with an ego problem! This is poetic justice.”

You shoved him lightly. “I hate all of you.”

Dick slung an arm around your shoulders. “It’s not that bad. She can’t be that annoying.” His attempt to lighten your mood faltered as you hear Jason continuing his assault on your ears with his absurd laughter.

You looked at him dead in the eyes. “Dick. She breathes like she owns oxygen.”

Jason made a strangled noise- now almost lying on the dirty rooftop. “I’m dying—keep going.”

“And she said I ‘wouldn’t know what work was like.’”

Both brothers stopped again. This time looking at you with the kind of seriousness you’d have to beat out of them during batfam meetings.

Dick blinked slowly- trying to ensure he heard you correctly. “She said what?” His tone was now rid of its playfulness.

Jason added onto the tense atmosphere cracking his knuckles. “Okay. I take it back. We’re jumping her.” The movement made you cringe, but you appreciated the thought behind it at least.

You groaned again. “No one is jumping anyone. I just… I can’t believe I’m stuck with her for months.”

Dick squeezed your shoulders reassuringly, his tone softening. “Who knows? Maybe it’ll go better than you think.”

Jason smirked. “Or maybe you’ll kill her.”

“little wing.”

“What? I’m being supportive.” He scoffed- shoving dick halfway off the rooftop “and stop fucking calling me that shit”

“WHAT? You took up my place as robin so be proud, little bitch” The chaos erupting right beside you faded into the distance as you continued your feet's assault on the Gotham rooftops in thought.

You sighed, staring out at the city—your city. The place you loved, the place she was about to invade.

This was going to be hell. It wouldn’t be long before the rest of the batcave or wayne siblings found out about the personal hell Bruce set out for you.

And your brothers? They were going to enjoy every second of it.

An :I know this was really short but it's just a little intro yk. Sorry it wasn't that focused on sophia and y/n.

When the digital lock on the front door chimed, your breath hitched. You didn't move from the sofa immediately; you were almost afraid that if you stood up too fast, the vision would shatter.

Then she walked in.

Yu Jimin—known to the world as Karina, the untouchable, ethereal leader of one of the world’s biggest girl groups—looking remarkably human. She was draped in an oversized black hoodie, her hair tucked under a baseball cap, and her shoulders slumped with a weariness that went bone-deep. She dropped her bags by the door with a heavy thud, the sound of a woman finally letting go of a burden she had carried across continents for months.

She looked up, and her eyes found yours. The exhaustion didn't vanish, but it shifted, replaced by a dark, hungry intensity that made the hair on your arms stand up.

"Jimin," you breathed, the name finally tasting real on your tongue.

"Oh, thank god", She didn't wait for you to come to her; she stumbled forward, meeting you halfway across the rug. When she collided with you, it wasn't calculated like shes been all tour. She buried her face in the crook of your neck, her arms winding around you so tightly it stole your breath.

"Don't," she rasped, her voice wrecked from weeks of belting notes and midnight recording sessions. She kicked off her shoes and moved toward you with a predatory grace that belied her fatigue. "If you say my name like that, I’m going to lose it."

she was on you. Her hands, cold from the night air, cupped your face with a desperation that felt like a plea. She kissed you—not the soft, cinematic kiss of a homecoming, but something jagged and starving. It tasted like coffee, mint, and the sheer, unadulterated need of a woman who had been denied her only source of peace for a third of a year.

"I missed you," you whispered against her lips, your hands sliding under the hem of her hoodie to find the familiar, velvet skin of her waist.

You held her back just as fiercely. You could feel her heart hammering against your chest, a frantic rhythm that matched your own. For a long moment, there was no lust, no performance, just the overwhelming joy of two people who had survived the distance. She pulled back to cup your face, her thumbs wiping away your tears even as her own fell.

"You look so beautiful," she laughed softly, a sound of pure, unadulterated happiness. "I missed your face. I missed the way you look at me like I’m just Jimin."

She kissed you then—a sweet, lingering press of lips that tasted of salt and home. But as the seconds ticked by, the sweetness began to sharpen. The relief of being home started to transform into the desperation of being denied. The soft touch turned possessive, her hands sliding from your cheeks down to the familiar, velvet skin of your waist.

Jimin groaned into your mouth, a low, vibration-heavy sound. "I’m so tired of being 'Karina,' baby. I’m so tired of being watched. I just want to be here. I want to feel something that isn't a schedule or a script."

The idol persona was completely gone; in its place was the girl who was pent up, overstimulated by the world, and undernourished in the only way that mattered. You could feel the tension radiating off her—the twitch in her jaw, the way her fingers dug into your hips.

She pulled back just enough to look at you, her dark eyes scanning your face as if she were memorizing a map she’d been forced to travel without.

"The bedroom," she commanded, her voice dropping an octave.

The walk to the bedroom was a frantic blur of discarded clothing. Her hoodie hit the floor in the hallway; your shirt followed. By the time the door clicked shut behind you, Jimin had you pinned against the mattress. The moonlight filtered through the sheer curtains, casting her in silver and shadow.

She was different tonight. Usually, Jimin was the one who wanted to be held, the one who sought comfort after the world had drained her. But months of being told where to stand, how to smile, and what to say had created a reservoir of redirected energy. She didn't want to be handled with care; she wanted to take.

"I've been thinking about this every night in those damn hotels," she whispered, her nose brushing against yours. Her hands moved down your body, possessive and sure. "Every time I had to get on a stage, every time I had to look at a camera... I was just thinking about how much I wanted to be the only one looking at you."

She moved to capture your lips again, her mouth moving with a hungry, desperate heat that made your head spin. It was an messy, uncoordinated make-out session, fueled by months of deprivation. Her tongue teased yours, demanding entry, and as you complied, a jolt of pure electricity shot straight to your core. You were agonizingly aware of the friction of her skin against yours; even the slight calluses on her fingertips felt like branding irons against your ribs. Every time her thigh brushed between yours, your entire body jumped, a soft, involuntary sound escaping your throat. You were so oversensitised from the months of touch-starvation that even her breath against your ear sent a violent shiver down your spine.

She pushed you back onto the pillows, her weight following you down. As you reached up to pull her closer, your fingers tangling in the dark silk of her hair, she stayed focused on your expression. She wanted to see every flicker of pleasure, every bit of the longing you’d been harboring.

She noticed the way you were trembling, the way your skin flushed deep red wherever she touched you. She pulled back just enough to see the glazed look in your eyes, her hands sliding up to pin your wrists against the pillows.

"You're so sensitive," she noted, her thumb brushing over your bottom lip as your breath came in short, jagged bursts. "Did you wait for me? Were you good for me while I was gone?"

"Jimin, please," you whimpered, your hips arching instinctively against hers. "It’s been so long."

"I know," she murmured, a smirk finally playing on her lips—a sharp, dangerous thing. "And I’m going to make sure you remember exactly who you belong to before the sun comes up."

She moved with a focused aggression, her kisses migrating from your lips to the sensitive column of your throat, leaving marks that would surely need concealer tomorrow—a silent claim that no stylist could erase. She handled you with a frantic sort of worship, her touch alternating between bruisingly firm and agonizingly light.

When she finally moved between your legs, the air in the room felt heavy, charged with the electricity of a coming storm. Jimin looked up at you from the foot of the bed, her hair messy, her eyes burning. She was pent up, yes, but she was also in total control.She spread your legs wide, her gaze fixed on you with a devastating intensity that made you want to hide and beg all at once.

As she leaned forward, her intent clear, you reached down to guide her, your heart hammering against your ribs. But Jimin didn't need guidance. She moved with the confidence of someone reclaiming stolen property.

This was where the shift happened. Jimin had always been assertive, but tonight there was a specific edge to her dominance. As you began to drift into that hazy space where only feeling existed, your head lolling back against the headboard, you felt her hand come up.

It wasn't a soft caress. Her palm settled firmly on the top of your head, her fingers lacing through your hair.

The first time she pushed, it was a subtle command—a physical manifestation of her need to be the one directing the flow. You gasped, your eyes snapping open to find her watching you. She wasn't looking at what she was doing; she was looking at you, monitoring the way your pupils dilated as her tongue made contact, swirling with a precision that was meant to ruin you.

"Stay right there," she muttered, her grip tightening slightly.

Every time you tried to pull back, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of her tongue and the wet, rhythmic, friction she was creating, her hand was there. It was a firm, unyielding weight on the crown of your head, pushing you back down, forcing you to endure the pleasure she was giving. It was a dynamic you’d seen flashes of before, but never with this much raw, unfiltered intent.

She was relentless, her tongue flicking and pressing against you with a hunger that matched the months of her absence. You could feel the heat of her breath against your thighs, the dampness of her hair brushing your skin, but it was the heavy, constant pressure of her palm on your head that truly broke you

She liked the resistance. She liked the way you fought against the sensation for a second before melting under her palm. The more you whimpered, the more she pushed, her hand acting as an anchor that kept you grounded in the peak of the storm. She was using you to vent every frustration of her tour—every flight delay, every grueling rehearsal, every moment of loneliness was channeled into the way she held you down and took what she wanted. Her tongue was working faster now, deep and insistent, finding the sensitive bundle of nerves and staying there until you were sobbing.

"Don't move," she growled when you tried to curl away from the mounting pressure, your fingers clawing at the sheets. Her hand pressed harder, a blunt force of affection that demanded your total presence. "You're not going anywhere."

The friction was perfect, a rhythmic torture that had you sobbing her name into the quiet of the room. Jimin was relentless. She knew your body better than you knew it yourself, and she used that knowledge to push you to the very edge and hold you there. Her thumb found the perfect spot, working in tandem with the insistent weight of her hand on your head, trapping you in a cycle of escalating heat.

"Jimin—Jimin, I'm—"

"I know," she whispered, her voice a vibration against your skin. "Do it for me. Right now."

She gave one final, forceful push of her hand, lacing her fingers deep into your roots and holding you steady as the world finally tilted on its axis. You broke apart under her, your body convulsing in a release that felt like it had been building since the day she left. Through the white noise of your climax, you felt her stay with you, her hand never wavering, keeping you pinned to the bed until the last tremor faded.

She crawled back up the bed then, breathing hard, her face flushed and beautiful. She didn't say anything at first; she just collapsed against you, tucking her head into the crook of your neck. The tension that had been coiled in her spine for months finally seemed to snap, leaving her limp and warm.

"Better?" you whispered, your hand shaking as you stroked her hair.

Jimin shifted, propping herself up on her elbows to look at you. The dark hunger was sated, replaced by a soft, glowing vulnerability that she only ever showed you.

"I feel like I’m finally home," she said, her voice small. She leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead—right where her palm had been pressing so firmly moments ago. "I’m sorry I was... aggressive. I just couldn't hold it in anymore."

"Don't be sorry," you said, pulling her down so your bodies were fused from chest to toe. "I think we both needed that."

Jimin hummed, closing her eyes as she settled into your embrace. The schedules, the fans, the cameras—they were all thousands of miles away. Here, in the quiet dark, she wasn't the leader of anything. She was just a girl who had missed her person, finally finding the release she’d been craving in the only arms that mattered.

As she drifted toward a well-earned sleep, her hand stayed tangled in yours, her thumb tracing the back of your knuckles. You knew that when she woke up, the world would demand her back, but for now, she was yours, and the silence of the penthouse was no longer empty. It was full.

You had been curled into the corner of the couch, the late afternoon sun stretching gold across your shared apartment floors. Mina had been sitting cross-legged on the rug in front of you, still in rehearsal clothes, hair loosely tied back. Only the Myoui could still look so effortlessly elegant in just a sweatpants and basic tee. There had always been a softness to her that only existed there — not the polished idol the world knew, not the ambassador draped in couture — just Mina.

"There’s an event next month," she had said, tracing invisible shapes along your knee. "I want you to come with me."

The words had settled heavily between you.

You had known what that meant. Cameras. Headlines. Other celebrities. Industry eyes that scanned and calculated.

You had also known what it didn’t mean.

It didn’t mean walking in hand-in-hand as her girlfriend.

It didn’t mean introductions that lingered.

It didn’t mean the freedom to look at her the way you always did.

You hesitated- avoiding her eyes. “Are you sure,” you questioned. This was more than just showing up, Mina had never brought any of her friends into public eye, especially not the ones that weren’t in her industry. . To the world, Myoui Mina was the face of the brand—the "Human Fendi," poised and ethereal. To you, she was the woman who stole your hoodies and liked her tea with exactly two drops of honey.

She hummed nodding assuringly, she’d already made up her mind, you knew there was no escaping it now. Once Mina set her mind to something there was no chance to debate.

"As what?" you had asked quietly.

Mina’s fingers had paused.

That fraction of hesitation had felt louder than any answer.

"As my guest," she had said finally, meeting your eyes. There had been something vulnerable there — something rarely visible to anyone else. "I know it’s not… everything. But I don’t want to keep you away from parts of my life anymore."

For four years, your relationship had existed in the quiet spaces: darkened cinemas, secluded villas, and late-night FaceTime calls while she traveled the world. But for the Fendi Fall/Winter collection in Rome, Mina had decided she wanted you there. Not as a secret tucked away in a hotel room, but as her "guest"—a mysterious, elegant companion who would share the air she breathed

Your chest had tightened. Because loving Mina had always meant understanding the invisible lines drawn around her. There were places you didn’t go. Roles you didn’t play. Photos you didn’t exist in.

You had told yourself it didn’t hurt.

But it had, sometimes.

Still — she had asked. And that was more than enough to you.

"Okay," you had said.

The relief that flooded her expression had been subtle, but you had seen it. You always see it. And you’d agree a million time just to see it again.

Once the invitation arrived just a week later, it all finally seemed to settle in. The invitation was heavy, a cream-colored cardstock embossed with the iconic double-F logo. You were really doing this.

Yes, it wasn’t a confession or loud exclamation to the world, but it was something.

The Fendi showroom had felt like stepping into a different atmosphere — one scented with polished leather and expensive perfume, where every surface gleamed and every voice carried quiet authority.

You had walked half a step behind Mina at first, instinctively letting her lead. Staff had greeted her with familiarity, admiration carefully balanced with professionalism.

She had belonged there.

You hadn’t.

At least, that was how it had felt.

When Mina had announced she wanted a custom piece made for you, the room had shifted almost imperceptibly. Assistants had glanced at each other. Clipboards had tilted.

You had stiffened. "Mina, that’s not necessary—"

Her hand had tightened around yours.

"It is," she had said simply.

Her tone had left no room for argument.

They had measured you carefully. The tape had glided around your shoulders, your waist, your hips. Designers had murmured about silhouettes and balance — something that complemented Mina’s structured black gown without overpowering it.

"I want it to be an extension of me," Mina had whispered as the tailor took your measurements. She stood behind you, her chin resting on your shoulder, her eyes meeting yours in the mirror. "When people see you, they should feel like they're seeing the other half of a secret."

The dress was a masterpiece: a floor-length slip silhouette with a dramatic low back and a subtle slit that revealed a glimpse of leg. It was understated yet dangerously sophisticated.

Mina had watched every second.

Like someone memorizing you.

When you had finally been alone in the fitting room together, the quiet had felt almost sacred. The sample fabric had brushed cool against your skin as Mina had stepped behind you.

She had rested her hands on your waist, chin hovering near your shoulder.

The dress was a masterpiece: a floor-length slip silhouette with a dramatic low back and a subtle slit that revealed a glimpse of leg. It was understated yet dangerously sophisticated.

"You don’t look out of place," she had murmured, as if she could hear your thoughts. "You look exactly where you’re supposed to be."

Your reflection in the mirror had shown the two of you standing close — intimate, natural.

But only in private.

"It still won’t be real," you had whispered.

Her eyes softened.

"It’s real to me."

And somehow, that had been enough.

The night of the event had arrived wrapped in flash photography.

Rome was bathed in a golden, dusty sunset. The Palazzo, Fendi’s headquarters, was illuminated by thousands of lights. As the black sedan pulled up, the roar of the crowd and the strobe-light flash of cameras became a physical wall of sound.

The venue had glowed beneath city lights, the Fendi emblem illuminated against sleek architecture. Mina took your hand inside the car, her thumb stroking your knuckles. Her own outfit was a structured, cream leather ensemble—sharp, cold, and beautiful.

"Stay close," she murmured. "If it gets too much, look at me. Just me."

 The black car door had opened, and Mina had stepped out first.

The transformation had been immediate.

Her posture had straightened. Her expression had settled into that composed, elegant calm the world adored. The black satin gown had hugged her perfectly, gold detailing catching the light with every step.

Then you had followed.

For half a second, the cameras had stuttered.

The silk of your dress had flowed like liquid light, delicate crystal embroidery scattering flashes across your figure. It had fit flawlessly — not loud, not excessive, but impossible to ignore.

Mina had offered her hand.

Professionally.

But her thumb had pressed lightly against your knuckles, grounding you.

The red carpet was a blur. Mina moved with the grace of a swan, pausing for photos with an effortless tilt of her head. You walked a few paces behind, as per the plan, appearing as part of her "entourage" to the prying eyes of Dispatch, but the way her eyes constantly sought yours out told a different story.

Inside, the atmosphere had hummed. Low music. Clinking glasses. Conversations layered over one another like fabric.

You had stayed near Mina at first, your proximity subtle but deliberate. When she had been pulled into discussions with executives and photographers, you had drifted slightly aside — close enough to be associated, far enough to avoid suspicion.

You had perfected that dance.

Smile. Nod. Step back.

But that night, something had felt different.

Maybe it had been the way people looked at you — curious, assessing.

Or maybe it had been the way Mina’s gaze had kept returning to you, checking, anchoring.

The after-party was held at a private rooftop overlooking the Colosseum. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and aged wine.

The after party unfolded in warmer tones — dim lighting, velvet seating, champagne that burned a little smoother than it should have.

Mina was pulled away for a mandatory photo-op with the brand's creative directors. "I’ll be ten minutes," she promised, squeezing your hand before disappearing into a circle of elite fashion moguls. . You had watched her laugh softly, poised and magnetic. You loved her like that.

Even when she wasn’t looking at you.

You retreated to a balcony, leaning against the cold stone and watching the Roman skyline.

"The view is breathtaking, but I think the dress is doing most of the work."

You turned to find a tall, striking woman leaning against the railing a few feet away. It was Ahn Yujin. The IVE leader looked incredible in a sheer Fendi top and tailored trousers. She held a glass of champagne, her smile bright and predatory in the way only a top-tier idol’s can be.

"You’re a guest, right?" Her charm radiating effortlessly even on those normal innocent words.

She had been dressed in tailored perfection, confidence stitched into every line.

"Yeah," you had replied, offering a polite smile.

"I haven't seen you at these events before," Yujin continued, stepping closer. You weren’t sure if she knew who you were—Mina’s management had been very careful to keep your identity vague. To Yujin, you were just a stunning stranger who looked like you belonged on a runway.

"A guest with impeccable taste," Yujin countered. She leaned in, her voice dropping an octave, a playful, flirtatious glint in her eyes. "You know, the VIP lounge is a bit more private if you're tired of the noise. I could use someone interesting to talk to. Rome is lonely when you're only surrounded by cameras."

She reached out, her fingers grazing your forearm as she gestured toward the lounge. It was a classic move—charming, confident, and entirely unaware of the fire she was playing with.

However, you were bored and oblivious. Mina was busy anyway so what bad could some conversation with a charming, interesting stranger be? So, you obliged and followed her toward the empty lounge.

"I don’t think we’ve met before," she had said, stepping slightly closer so she wouldn’t have to raise her voice over the music. "You’re not in the industry?"

"No."

Her eyes had flickered with interest.

"That explains it," she had said lightly. "You look… refreshingly unpolished. In a good way."

You had laughed softly, unsure whether to take that as a compliment.

Yujin had asked about your work, your interests. She had listened closely, her focus undivided in a way that had felt intentional.

Her hand had settled briefly at the small of your back when someone brushed past.

It had lingered a fraction too long.

Across the room, Mina had seen it.

She hadn’t interrupted.

She hadn’t called you over.

She had simply watched.

She didn't storm over. That wasn't her style. Instead, she finished her conversation with a sharp, polite nod and began to walk. Her pace was slow, but her aura shifted instantly. The "Human Fendi" was gone, replaced by the protective, possessive woman who had spent four years hiding her most precious treasure from the world.

Her expression hadn’t changed — but her shoulders had gone rigid.

You hadn’t noticed at first. You had been too busy navigating Yujin’s easy charisma, the way she leaned in when you spoke, the teasing edge in her voice.

She moved closer toward you, leaning in to ask whats been on her mind since the beginning of the after-party, “so… who is the lucky person that got to bring you to the event today?”

You had been talking to her all night, and there was no harm in telling her. So you leaned toward her and whispered over “Mina, im here as her friend”

"Careful," she had murmured playfully. "If Mina keeps bringing guests like you, she’ll outshine the rest of us ambassadors."

Your heart had skipped — not because of Yujin.

Mina appeared beside you like a ghost. She didn't look at Yujin first. She looked at your arm where Yujin’s fingers had been.

"Yujin-ssi," Mina said, her voice like velvet-covered ice.

Yujin straightened up, looking surprised. "Mina-sunbaenim! I was just getting to know your... friend."

Mina stepped into your space, her shoulder brushing yours, her hand sliding firmly around your waist—a gesture that was far too intimate for "just friends."

"She’s tired," Mina said, her eyes locking onto Yujin’s with a cold intensity that made the younger idol blink. "And we were just leaving. Enjoy your night."

Without waiting for a response, Mina led you away. She didn't say a word as you navigated the crowd. Her grip on your waist was tight, her knuckles probably turning white.

When you had finally glancedup from the firm hand on your waist, your eyes had met hers.

There had been something darker there.

Not anger.

Possession.

You definitely fucked up.

The car had been quiet-deafening. Mina stared out the window, her jaw set.

City lights had blurred past the window in streaks of gold and white.

Mina’s hand had rested on your thigh. It felt tense, not like the usual soothing tracing of her thumb your car rides usually involved.

She still hadn’t looked at you since you exited the venue.

"You seemed comfortable," she had said finally, her voice calm — too calm. You could feel the sarcasm that was threatening to drip from her tone.

You turned toward her. "I was just being polite." You weren’t lying, yet the drumming in your chest only grew louder.

"She was flirting with you, you know?”

It wasn’t a question.

You hesitated. "Maybe-" You didn’t even attempt to explain or justify yourself further when her jaw clenched tighter than before.

Her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly.

Silence had stretched the rest of the ride.

The suite door had clicked shut behind you.

The quiet had felt charged.

Mina had turned slowly.

The composure she had worn all evening had slipped, revealing something rawer beneath. The moment the door to the penthouse suite finally clicked shut, the tension snapped. You barely had time to kick off your heels before Mina turned, pinning you against the mahogany door.

"Did you enjoy it?" she had asked.

You had stepped closer. "The event?"

She scoffed at the audacity of your answer, “you must be joking with me right? You know what im talking about,” Her eyes were staring daggers into yours, “so, you did you enjoy it huh”

"Her attention."

There it had been.

You had reached for her face gently. "I only went because you asked me to."

"She was touching you," Mina whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of exhaustion and jealousy. She buried her face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent as if to reclaim you. "She was looking at you like she could just have you."

Her jaw tightened. "I didn’t like the way she touched you."

The honesty in her voice had stolen your breath.

For so long, you had been the one swallowing jealousy — watching fans scream her name, seeing other idols cling to her arm for photos.

You had never asked her to choose you publicly.

And yet that night, she had looked like she might.

"You don’t get jealous," you had murmured softly. “Whats going on with you tonight?”

Her eyes had met yours.

"I do," she had admitted. "I just don’t show it."

The air between you had thickened.

She had stepped closer, hands sliding around your waist — not aggressive, not rushed — but deliberate.

"I didn't even know who she was at first, Minari. I was waiting for you."

Mina pulled back, her dark eyes searching yours. The polished idol was gone. Her hair was slightly mussed, her lipstick faded. "I hate it," she confessed, her voice cracking. "I hate that I have to share the room with people who think they have a chance. I hate that I can't tell the world you're mine."

She dropped her gaze to the custom-made dress, the one she had designed to make you look like her other half. Her hands traced the silk down to your hips.

"You’re mine, right?" she had whispered, her forehead resting against yours.

Her voice wasn’t laced with a sense of ownership.

Just Devotion.

You had exhaled shakily. "Then don’t look at me like I’m something you have to hide."

That had hit.

Her expression had faltered.

"I’m trying," she had said quietly. "Tonight was… me trying."

"You looked too beautiful tonight," she murmured, a possessive smirk finally tugging at her lips. "I think for the rest of the trip, you’re staying in the room. With me."

And suddenly, the jealousy had faded into something softer.

She kissed you then—— slow at first, careful, like she was grounding herself in something real after hours of performance, the soft, tentative kisses that lingered in comfort, but then it turned into something deep, demanding, and full of the fire she’d been holding back all night. The lights of Rome twinkled outside the window, but inside the room, the world was narrowed down to just the two of you, the scent of expensive silk, and the quiet promise that no matter who looked, you only ever belonged to her.

Her hands had traced the curve of the dress she chose for you, fingertips reverent.

Not claiming.

Appreciating.

When she pulled back, her voice was barely steady.

"One day, I won’t have to pretend you’re just a guest."

You had rested your forehead against hers.

"Until then," you had whispered, "I’ll stand wherever you need me."

The city had glowed beyond the curtains.

Inside the suite, there had been no cameras.

No ambassadors.

No pretending.

And then she kissed you again.

Not the careful kiss from moments before.

This one was deeper. Slower. Intentional.

Her hands slid from your waist to your hips, fingers pressing just firmly enough to make you feel how steady she was — how certain. The silk of your dress shifted beneath her

Her mouth moved against yours like she was memorizing you all over again, like she needed to replace every second she had watched someone else stand too close. Every breath she exhaled felt warm and controlled, but beneath it you could feel the jealousy still lingering — not sharp, not angry.

Protective.

"I hated it," she murmured against your lips, her voice softer now. "The way she looked at you like she could have you."

Your fingers slid into her hair, tilting her face back just enough to meet her eyes.

"She couldn’t," you whispered. "No one could."

Something in her expression shifted — tension easing into something darker and more tender at the same time.

Her hands, usually so gentle when they held your face, now moved with a quiet urgency, tangling in your hair to keep you exactly where she wanted you.

Mina’s lips left yours to trail down your jawline, her breath hot against your skin. "Mine," she whispered, the word vibrating against your pulse point. Her fingers found the zipper of the midnight silk dress, a slow, deliberate slide that echoed in the quiet suite. As the fabric pooled around your feet, she didn't let you move away. She kept you anchored to her, her hands roaming over the curves of your waist with a firm, territorial pressure that left no room for doubt.

She guided you toward the bed, never breaking the heavy, dark gaze that seemed to want to memorize every inch of you. When you were beneath her, the expensive leather of her Fendi jacket felt cool against your skin, but the heat radiating from Mina was overwhelming. She moved with a feline grace, pinning your wrists gently but firmly above your head.

"I spent all night watching everyone look at you," she murmured, her thumbs stroking the sensitive skin of your inner wrists. Her voice was soft, but the possessive edge remained. "Now you only look at me."

Every touch was a claim—the way her teeth grazed your shoulder, leaving faint marks she would later kiss with a bruising tenderness. Her weight settled over you, and you could feel the rhythmic thud of her heart against your chest, matching your own. the way her weight settled over you, the way her eyes darkened as she watched your reaction to her. She was thorough and slow, as if she were rewriting the memories of the night, replacing the flashes of cameras and the wandering eyes of strangers with the singular, intense reality of her touch. Her hands moved lower, tracing the arch of your back, pulling you flush against her until there was no space left for anything but the heat between you.

As the night deepened, the jealousy that had fueled her earlier softened into a desperate, aching need to be close. Her movements became more fluid, more tender, but no less demanding. She worshiped your body with a quiet, focused intensity, her lips finding every spot that left you gasping for more of her.her fingers mapping out  and tracing of your pleasure as if it were a masterpiece she had personally commissioned

 Between the tangled sheets and the lingering scent of her perfume, Mina ensured that by the time the sun began to peek over the Roman horizon, the only thing you could feel, think, or remember was her. The world outside could have the "Human Fendi," but in this room, shrouded in the blue light of dawn you were the only one who truly had Myoui Mina. And she made sure you felt exactly how much she belonged to you, just as much as you belonged to her.

Just you — and the girl who had chosen you. One day it might even be In a room full of flashing lights.

A/n: very short and rushed and BUMS, but i know if i let this sit any longer I'd loose interest or feel guilty for being inactive too long

ALSO YAAY I had to feed my own mina delusions since I've already scowerd the universe and read them all

a/n: the image limit is an ass so ill post the rest of these soon.

a/n: thank you guyyys for all the notes in the previous one. I sped through the last 5 and made alot of mistakes im too lazy to fix. I hope you like this one as well tho!