13 Works by offalheart
Listing Works
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and every time i see you in my dreams i see your face, you're haunting me by offalheart
Fandoms: ATEEZ (Band)
05 Dec 2025
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Summary
There is nothing romantic about death, and yet Mingi sews it like a love language.
Yunho’s dreams give him Mingi’s face; the morning takes it away.
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If Mingi wanted to take him apart, cell by cell, and leave nothing but bruises and memories—wouldn’t that be a kind of love, too?
Yunho didn’t know if it was sickness or sacrament. He just knew he would go back again.
Where hunger wore a name and dying was a kind of worship.
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There were cracks in Seonghwa, and Mingi wanted to fall into every single one.
Mingi maps the shape of want in every place his hands are allowed to touch.
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He isn’t sure Mingi isn’t a dream. A boy like him—with laugh like smoke, with eyes like he’s reading someone line by line—isn’t supposed to be real. If Yunho kisses him, the spell might break. Worst of all—if he kisses him, Mingi might kiss back.
There are ghosts in Yunho’s house and one of them wears Mingi’s smile.
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Those eyes held history. Not the kind bound in dates and disasters, but the kind carved into the ribs—quiet suffering, feral endurance, the practised emptiness of someone who had learned not to bleed unless it mattered. There was something tired in them, not weak, but sharpened from use. Eyes like bitten-down nails and half-healed scars: cynic eyes. Beautiful cynic eyes that had seen love used like a weapon, and still dared to look.
He comes in just before closing. Yunho doesn’t ask why he stays.
Series
- Part 1 of Cynicism, Compassion
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Mingi’s bare feet brushed against the floor, cool and rough under the pads of his toes, but it didn’t matter. Everything was warmth, everything was Yunho.
A hymn of salt and skin.
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He is full of so much love he could split down the middle, but he takes whatever Mingi gives him, every last morsel.
Love leaves, love lingers, love learns to stay.
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Yunho laughs, but it sounds like crying. He asks Mingi if they ever went to the plains, the ones where it rains sideways, biblical-like.
Mingi leans in, smooth as ever, and says, ”We never left.”
Love felt like a fever dream, and Mingi was the sweetest symptom.
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“You fuck like it’s a question.”
Mingi loves like a voyeur: from across the room, through half-closed doors, always almost touching.
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The streetlights cast a golden wash over Mingi’s face, and Yunho wonders if maybe that’s why he keeps looking.
A quiet rooftop, eight empty beers, and a love Yunho will never be allowed to name.
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Do you even realise what you have done to me? You did not touch me, Mingi. Not once. Not even in passing. But you breached through me anyway—not with hands or heat, but with a silence that gutted me slowly. You undid me in glances and in the absence of words.
Yunho was a boy who wished to rot beautifully in Mingi’s mouth.
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It is a little past midnight as I write to you. There are vestiges of a thunderstorm forming in the sky from where I can make out the outline of grey clouds from the bedroom, and I love you.
I love you, Seonghwa.
I love you, I love you, I love you. I wear my heart on my sleeve for you, I bleed for you to be drenched in the blood that you helped to create. Your name is carved on the valves of my ageing heart. Rip it free from my ribcage, wring it dry and you’ll find it continuing to beat, in your bare hands. You hold me in a vice grip, you bring me back to life, you make me alive.
Mingi and Seonghwa drink sunlight in through each other after a moment’s longing.
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Love to be entitled holy, when the Hyades of petrichor begins to flitter a man’s chest with the mere touch of another, the vermilion shade staining one’s cheeks when an adored one were to brush their knuckles against their own,
However, love to be entitled, vile, odious, and diabolical. A nefarious semblance of love that brings meteorite knees of humans; longing, yearning, insatiable starvation that lets it wreak havoc on either ephemeral being; to simply defile, destroy, and leave it corrupted in a sinuously, tantalizing way—only to shatter it once, and to beseech into a carnal, lascivious waltz into the twilight sky of lackadaisical consciousness.
A glimpse into a professor’s journal about where to draw the line between love and obsession.