#i'm probably going to read this later and hate it but here it is!! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nereidprinc3ss · 7 months ago

Text

do you believe me now? | 8

it's the morning after. spencer reid suspects you’re left with some doubts after losing your virginity to him. he has to figure out why—which is hard when you're keeping secrets.

series masterlist

this series is 18+ warnings/tags: fem!reader, blood related to losing virginity (dramatized for the drama duh), super vague allusions to the BAU being hungover, mild blasphemy if anyone even cares, pondering god bc am I really a fanfic writer if I don’t get a little religious w it, emily AND hotch are here and nobody knows why pls don't pay attention to that bc we are imagining like season 11/12 spencer and I'm inconsistent w who is unit chief in this series apparently, spencer slut lore, spencer emotional wounds lore, Spencer is a traumatic situationship survivor a/n: DADDYS HOMEEEEE (me and dybmn not spencer) anyway missed these little guys and am happy to be writing for them again!! idk what my upload schedule will becoming back to this but pls lmk what u think of this part, I have no idea how you will respond but I'm being brave and ily

Friday morning Spencer comes into the office fifteen minutes late (he tried his best), in yesterday’s suit (everything in his go-bag had been too wrinkled), hair messy (no doubt from your fingers), coffee cold (he’s exhausted) and overall, in an excellent mood.

The rest of the team isn’t faring quite as well—Spencer gathers they stayed at the bar celebrating Derek’s birthday a lot later than he had. It shows through sallow skin and dark circles and the grimaces he receives on the way to his desk that are probably supposed to approximate good morning’s.

Honestly, he doesn’t mind the dull mood—he doesn’t need the teasing and the prying questions that would be sure to come if his co-workers were at peak performance and were able to put together his unusually perky demeanor and disheveled appearance. At least Prentiss doesn’t appear to be paying him any mind. She’s always the one who can read him like an open book and has no shame in doing so aloud. Echoes from years of, ‘so who was the lucky girl, last night, Reid?’ Still ring through his mind and it’s like he can feel her finger prodding at his side.

The Emily of it all makes him smile, though the rest of the memory leaves a metal tang in his mouth. Back in those days, there were sometimes a lot of girls, but even then he was consciously aware he wasn’t necessarily doing something he enjoyed. He spent a lot of time, actually, staring at his bedroom ceiling, psychoanalyzing himself. Repetition compulsion. The insatiable desire to repeat or reenact emotionally painful experiences. Maybe he thought if he could teach himself to subsist off of emotionless hookups, he could in some way heal from his experience with Elle. Though, he’s hesitant to think of it now as healing—it’s not like he didn’t know what he was doing when a few nights after she said I don’t feel the same I’m sorry he opened up his front door for her. It’s not like he didn’t know what he was doing every time after that. So, maybe heal isn’t the right word, when one doesn’t have the right to be injured. Or when the injuries are, in a manner of speaking, self-inflicted. At the very least he could tell himself that this time around, meaningless sex was a choice he was making for himself. Spencer hates when things just happen to him.

But you—you’re different. You were a complete surprise. At first, a cute and unexpected complication. After a few painful and short-lived attempts at real relationships, Spencer decided he was simply not to be trusted with emotional intimacy of any kind, including that which inevitably develops from physical intimacy, and would resign himself to a life of celibacy. He tried not to like you, but you were just so damn likable. Magnetic, to use a trite and perfectly honest turn of phrase. All that to say: he doesn’t regret you at all. There is no filter of putrid shame or anguish over his memories of last night.

Just you. Perfect. Starlit. Glowing softly around the edges like you’re not even real.

I love you I love you I love you. A hymn with no melody. You, always reminding him exactly why he is decidedly not a man of faith. At least, not in the typical sense of the word.

How God became the idol and not Mary is lost on him. That’s why, Spencer supposes, tapping an eraser on his desk, marriage and sex were forbidden for so many ecclesiastics. After all, if they knew what it was to love a woman, specifically to love you, he doubts they’d feel like spending much time in the pulpit. Love. Humans had that long before they had any gods. It’s primeval. It’s the most natural manifestation of devotion and worship. It will always have come first. Isn’t it a better kind of religion when a man realizes he can kneel in front of a woman rather than an altar?

A heavy hand falling on his shoulder jolts him from his theological musings—which are in all practicality useless. What’s that saying about blasphemous thinking on the FBI’s dime? Right. There isn’t one.

“I’m scared to ask,” Morgan says as Spencer jumps slightly in his chair.

“What?” He mumbles, looking up from the document he’d only sort of been reading.

Morgan just looks at him, strong brows furrowed and a ditch between them, angles his head and glances to the side as if Spencer is missing the obvious. He almost follows Derek’s eye-line. When that doesn’t work, Derek just says your name. Like your status is somehow in question.

“Did you two work things out, or not? It looked pretty bad when you guys were leaving last night.”

People often misunderstand an eidetic memory. It’s not like things can’t slip his mind—Spencer can actually be quite forgetful. It’s made worse by the fact that last night at the bar feels like months ago. For a moment, he has no idea what Derek is referring to.

“Oh. Oh! Right, we—right. Yeah, we, uh—we worked it out.” Before Derek has a chance to read his face, no doubt as incriminating as his fumbled speech and an ill-timed throat clearing, he turns back to his paperwork. “Thanks for keeping an eye on her at the bar. I appreciate that.”

It’s quiet for a moment, and Spencer’s lips twist as he can feel the incoming inappropriate comment.

“Is that the same suit you were wearing last night?” Morgan quips, his wide grin audible. Spencer can practically hear the cartoon gleam of his friend’s bleached teeth.

“No.”

“You dog.” Derek is still smiling as he claps Spencer’s shoulder again. “What did you say to her that worked so well?”

Spencer clears his throat again and tries to look extremely involved in logging onto his computer, speaking quickly as if he’s beyond disinterested and can’t wait for the exchange to be over.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m actually trying to work so if you wouldn’t mind going back to your desk that would be great.”

“Uh-huh. I’ll let you work. But I see you, pretty boy.”

Spencer tries not to blush like a teenager as he refuses to look up.

Naturally the rest of the day is a slow descent into dread and madness as all those good feelings with which Spencer had started his morning begin to harden into something much worse, chilled by your lack of response to the text he sent you earlier. Which was essentially a rehashing of the note he left on your bedside table.

Maybe it was too much. It should’ve been one or the other, but not both. He’s overwhelmed you.

Okay, so maybe this is what religion is for. A last ditch effort when you can’t talk to your girlfriend so you have to try talking to God.

But Spencer knows you, and he knows something is wrong. You wouldn’t just ice him out so blatantly if everything was okay. He catches himself glancing up toward Hotch’s window to see if the blinds are drawn, and considers faking an illness to get out of work early and go check on you. But he powers through the remaining hour and a half that he is obligated to stay at work, he bounces a pencil between his fingers, drums at his desk, and gets nothing else done. As soon as 4:59 rolls around, he’s out.

Spencer can hear shuffling on the other side of your door as he stands in the hallway. A pot clatters. The walls hum with the rush of water through the pipes to your sink. He knocks, relieved that you’re okay and at the same time struggling with that weight on his chest—something cold that leans over his shoulders and whispers into his ear—so she just didn’t want to talk to you.

Suddenly all sound from inside your unit ceases. For a few long seconds, Spencer’s confusion only grows exponentially.

“Who is it?” You finally call, voice wavering. Also odd. Usually you just open the door.

“Um… Spencer?”

“As in my boyfriend Spencer?”

He frowns, bottom lip jutting out ever so slightly as he tries to decipher your sudden paranoia. “I hope so?”

The click and jingle of several locks precipitates your much-anticipated reveal.

“Come in,” you say breathlessly, more harried than usual and not giving him the tender greeting he’s selfishly become accustomed to—barely even giving him a second to look at you. But he steps inside, watching on in concern as you do up every single lock—the one on the knob, the deadbolt, even the chain. Is this really all because of his little comment last night about anyone being able to get in? He certainly hopes not. He didn’t mean to terrify you.

When you finally turn, he takes stock of your appearance. Big hoodie, pajama pants patterned in little hearts. Hair pulled back hastily. Your skin is sort of dull where you normally glow. But you’re beautiful, like always. It always aches just a little bit to look at you. Spencer’s always been like that. Going breathless at a particularly good piece of art or pretty girl. Like yourself. Mostly you.

You quickly turn to hurry back into the kitchen. “I was trying to make dinner, I—”

“Hold on,” he interrupts, stopping you with a hand on your stomach that is so non-demanding it’s really mostly a suggestion. He tries to clear his head, though you make it hard. “You didn’t talk to me all day. Not that you have to, but… I was worried.”

You glance at the floor and mumble, “I lost my phone,” with so much embarrassment he believes you’re telling the truth. “Did you, um—did you text me?”

Insecurity. Spencer knows well what it looks like on you. He softens. You weren’t ignoring him—but you’d been left in a vulnerable state without any ability to contact him or anyone. That couldn’t have been comfortable.

“Of course I did.” He pauses to observe you. Still anxious. Still prepared to run at any second. Something, and he’s not sure what, did a number on you today. Maybe it’s sheer exhaustion, maybe it was the anxiety of not having your phone. But he has to figure out what it is so he can undo it. “What? What’s wrong?”

He watches your breathing pause—watches your eyes gloss over with tears and a frown contort your features. Oh, god. He’s done something terribly wrong. It’s been thirty seconds and he’s done something wrong.

“Can we sit down? I don’t feel very good.”

“Yeah. Yeah, we can. Whatever you need.”

You cast a baleful look at him and now he has to wonder what that means. Spencer sets his bag on a pulled out dining chair and follows you to the couch where you settle on opposite sides—you’re curled up in the far corner, hugging a pillow to your chest with your legs folded in front of you. Spencer’s heart is beating fast. He doesn’t know what’s going on with you and he can’t figure it out just by looking and you don’t seem eager to tell him.

He’s exhausted all his typical ways of collecting information, and now he’s at a loss.

Eventually, the anxiety comes bubbling up.

“Please talk to me,” he pleads. And you do. Almost instantly, like he stepped on some sort of landmine.

“I know it’s my own fault for not having my phone on me and not being able to see your texts, but it really sucks that I had to find out from my creepy neighbor that you snuck out in the middle of the night without saying goodbye.”

The whiplash is so strong it’s almost a broken neck. Spencer reels, frowning deeply as he tries to process your impromptu speech, the sudden confrontation. What creepy neighbor?

“I… didn’t. I went to grab my stuff from the car around one, but I came right back. I left at 7:30. You don’t remember me saying goodbye?”

Your brow furrows, and your eyes dart over the design on the rug like you’re watching memories go by. He sees it in your eyes when you recall some hazy image of him holding your face, kissing your cheek more times than was necessary and whispering sweet things against your lips before he had to go. You shrink into the couch, clearly struggling under the combined weight of relief and embarrassment.

“I forgot. I thought… he said…”

A moment passes and it’s clear you’ve abandoned the sentence. Spencer is concerned about this shadowy male figure who put malicious untruths into your head. He slides his hand under yours and twines your fingers together. Finally, finally you meet his gaze.

“Someone made you believe I left without saying goodbye.”

And he almost wishes you weren’t looking at him as more tears pool before falling down your cheeks. You nod, and don’t make a sound.

“No, honey. I didn’t do that. I’m sorry that’s what you’ve been thinking all day.”

“I was worried that you… or that I wasn’t…”

His chest aches. You’d woken up alone, no recollection of his goodbye, and without the comfort of even a text.

“You didn’t see my note?”

The way you look at him then is heartbreaking. Eyes wide and wet and sad, lip trembling.

“You left a note?”

Murphy’s Law. Anything that can go wrong, will.

It must’ve fallen off the bedside table, or maybe he just hadn’t positioned it obviously enough.

A lost phone, a missed note, and not even a memory of his departure. While none of these things are verifiably Spencer’s fault, he feels so, so guilty.

“I did,” Spencer says gently, scooting closer and pulling you into him, head pressed to his shoulder as you try not to cry, and he rubs your back slowly.

Your sulky words are muffled by his shirt. “I didn’t see it. What did it say?”

“A lot of very nice things about you,” he whispers. Spencer thought maybe he could get away with giving you all the sincere compliments you can’t accept face to face through a note you could read while he wasn’t around. That way you couldn’t refute them or stop him. It was a good plan.

He feels the sigh of relief leaving your body against his neck.

“I didn’t know.”

“I know. I’m sorry. That’s not… I should’ve just stayed. This is my fault.”

You keep your cheek pressed to his shoulder as you speak.

“It’s not. You have a job. A really important job. You can’t just call out whenever I want you around.”

Logically he knows you’re right, but he doesn’t always think logically around you.

“I could’ve made it work. I could’ve come in late, or the team could’ve called me if there was a case, which there wasn’t—”

“Spencer, it’s okay. It’s not your fault. Don’t worry about it.”

He pulls back slightly, frowning at your tone. You do look relieved, much less plagued than you’d been when he arrived minutes ago, but something heavy still weighs you down. The burden of it darkens your eyes and dulls your expression. When he cups your cheek, you glance up at him, and then away once more.

He speaks softly. “Is that all you wanted to tell me?”

Again he earns a moment of your eye contact, but it’s fleeting. He watches the words spin around your head as you try to figure out what to do with them—and then choose to remain silent.

There is in fact something you’re keeping from him.

Spencer hates to use work tactics on you, but he doesn’t speak either, hoping that you’ll feel compelled to fill the silence with the truth. Knowing how you’re not entirely comfortable with quiet.

And you try, lips parting and the sound delayed as you wrestle with something you clearly don’t know how to talk about.

“I… my neighbor,” you say, frowning like you don’t quite know why you’re speaking. “The one who told me he saw you leaving in the middle of the night. He also—he said…”

Spencer brushes hair away from your cheek with a thumb, stroking the high point in gentle passes as your words taper off. Now that he’s thinking about it, he did encounter a man in a dumpy robe standing in the courtyard and smoking a cigarette when he left you tangled in sheets and dozing contentedly to get his bag from the car. In fact, they rode back up to your floor in the elevator in mostly awkward silence. Spencer was sure his outfit told a story—shirt untucked and hastily buttoned only partway, no belt, shoes barely tied, duffel slung over his shoulder—he wasn’t really expecting to run into anyone at such an hour, to be honest, but he hadn’t particularly cared what this man thought of him, so it didn’t cross his mind again.

Now he remembers.

Long night, huh? I remember those days.

It was an inappropriate comment, but given his job he’s used to ignoring those. Mostly his mind had been preoccupied with the idea of returning to you, who gave him such a warm and sleepy welcome when he climbed carefully back into your arms several minutes later that it was like he’d never known anyone else at all.

Now he resents that he hadn’t said anything, he hates the idea that you spoke to this man and he said something to upset you and Spencer wasn’t there. Usually he tries not a judge a book by its cover (metaphorically, of course) but he’s been around enough bad men to know when he’s looking at one. Last night he hadn’t even been cognizant enough to realize they got off on the same floor.

“What did he say, angel?” Spencer whispers, incapable of being anything but soft with you at the moment. Even though he senses something a lot like a tide of preemptive anger rising in his chest, painted over with layers of anxiety and guilt. He should’ve found a way to stay with you this morning.

You sniffle and let your head fall again, forehead resting against his collar. Instinctively his hand slides to the back of your neck and even at the awkward angle he finds a way to press his lips to yours hair. “Can we talk about it later? I don’t feel good.”

If it’s making you this uncomfortable, Spencer really wants to know what passed between you and this neighbor. In fact, he’d be willing to bet a lot of your strange behavior this evening stems from something that occurred which you don’t feel comfortable telling him yet. But he manages to bite back anymore questions. He doesn’t want to make you feel interrogated.

“Yeah, you mentioned that,” he says eventually, kindly, hand tracing down the length of your back and up again. “Why don’t you feel good?”

He doesn’t miss the way you reach up to discreetly wipe your cheek. But he won’t make you talk about anything you don’t want to talk about until you’re ready, and it seems like you’re already having a rough day. Which is not what he wanted. This is so far from what he wanted for you. He’s cursing himself for how he handled this whole situation.

“Um, I just… I don’t know. I feel… bad. I’m sorry I’m being so weird.”

“You’re not being weird, honey. You had a hard day. You’re having a normal reaction to an abnormal set of circumstances.”

You sit up, sniffing and wiping your tears like you can just make the whole thing go away.

“No, I am. I am. It’s all okay now, right? So I don’t know why I feel like this. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

He watches helplessly. “Nothing is wrong with you. We’ve… it’s been a big couple of days. Mostly good, but I think you’re probably really tired. Emotionally and physically.”

You bury your face in your hands and nod silently. He still feels like he’s shooting in the dark, but you’re not entirely comforted yet, and it’s killing him.

“Whatever you’re feeling is okay. If this is… about last night, or this morning, or something entirely different—regardless of what it’s about, you’re not going to be… in trouble with me if you’re having complicated feelings. And you can talk to me. But it doesn’t have to be right now. We don’t have to figure it out all at once, okay?”

You press the heels of your palms into your eyes, and for a moment, his words sink into silence. When you do raise your head, nodding, the evidence of your discomfort is all over your face—reddened eyes, cheeks polished with wiped tears. But you take a deep breath and try to project whatever it is you think he wants to see.

The back of your hand is soft under his thumb as he sweeps it, as if he could draw forth more information that way. People speak when they’re ready.

“Is there anything I can do?” He tries, all ramped brow and soft spoken.

You’re looking at where he’s tracing swirls on your hand as you swallow and blink the last of your tears away.

“Um… you can say no, but—do you think it would be okay for you to maybe stay again tonight?”

Spencer sucks in a breath, painfully aware that he’s about to let you down.

“I… I haven’t been home in a week. I’ve been wearing this suit for two days straight and I don’t think I would want to share a bed with me again until I shower.” He watches you wilt and lifts a hand to stroke your hair. “But I do want to spend time with you… do you maybe want to come stay with me instead? No pressure—”

“Okay. Yes. Is that okay?”

Spencer’s brow knits. You seem even more enthused about the idea of going to his apartment, like now that the opportunity has presented itself you can’t wait to get out. Maybe you have some sort of black mold problem.

“Of course. Do you wanna grab a few things and then we can go?”

“Um—I also haven’t showered today. Do you mind waiting?”

“Sure. Or you could use mine. With supervision, this time.”

Spencer is attempting to make a joke about your unplanned (and unmoderated) stay at his apartment last week after he left—but looking at your face now he’s wondering if he touched a nerve.

“Like… one at a time? Or…”

He thought maybe you’d be more comfortable around him after last night—and it’s not like he hadn’t seen you naked before then, either.

“Do you wanna do it one at a time?” He asks gently.

There’s this sparkly sort of longing in your eyes that he’s seen before, but you tamp it down like always. You’re so cautious. About everything. Even the things you’re curious about. It’s sweet and a little sad.

“I’ve never… showered with anyone.”

The corner of Spencer’s mouth twitches as he pushes hair over your shoulder. “I know. You don’t have to. We could save like 100 gallons of water depending on how long your showers typically last, but—”

“Spencer—”

“Sorry, sorry—I didn’t—I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not trying to pressure you. You absolutely can take your own shower. You can go first so you get the hot water.”

“No,” you laugh, and it’s like a sparkling cloud of gold has settled around you, fractals bouncing off the shine of your cheeks and eyes—the sound of your laughter, the look of it, is such beautiful relief he can’t believe how good it feels, but it fades from you quickly. “It sounds… I think I want to, I just… I don’t wanna, like… do… anything.”

For a split second your veiled language mystifies him and then he realizes what you’re trying to say without saying. Something has changed since yesterday, when you brazenly referred to it as fucking, and today, when you can’t even say sex. He’s gotten as far as it being something your creepy neighbor said. Maybe. He needs to know what.

But that’s not the topic at hand.

“We don’t have to. I didn’t mean to imply that we would do anything like that. I don’t expect anything from you.”

You swallow.

“Okay. I wasn’t sure.”

About what?

He says your name. No response.

“Can you look at me, please?”

It takes you a moment, and your head raises like you might need some oil in your hinges, but eventually you manage. Spencer hopes the way he’s rubbing your leg is comforting.

“You know I’m never, ever going to make you do anything you don’t want to do, right?”

To his horror, your answer isn’t an immediate and resounding yes. Instead you look back down and cover his hand with your own, fiddling nervously with his fingers.

Eventually, you reply, “Yeah… I know. I just thought… I’m not sure. Maybe it’s supposed to be different now.”

“It doesn’t have to be. Nothing has to be different. We’re still doing everything on your schedule, okay? And as for the next few days, at least—I think it might be a good idea to take sex off the table altogether.”

Your eyes narrow and you hesitate. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want you worrying about it. And I don’t think it would feel good for you right now. I think there are things we need to talk about, but… we’ve probably tried enough for a while, hm?”

You give him a shy nod and hum your agreement. For a moment he lets his hand linger on your leg and then pulls it back.

“Okay. Do you want my help packing a bag, or should I wait out here?”

“You can wait. It should only take a minute.” You pause, halfway up to look pensive. “Um, Spencer—do you think it would be okay if maybe I… if I stayed tonight and tomorrow? I just—I wanna get out of here, for a bit.”

He frowns but doesn’t hesitate. “Of course. Can I ask why?”

“It’s just… suffocating sometimes,” you call as you turn and hurry down the hallway to the bedroom. “Feels like my neighbors are on top of me, like they’re… breathing down my neck, half the time.”

Sure, bigger apartments exist—but it’s not like you’re in a studio. And you’ve never mentioned feeling that way before. That bad feeling is starting to come back—like you’re not telling him something he needs to know. But is it worse to let you deal with it yourself until you’re ready to talk or to force it from you?

A few minutes later you return, a duffel of your own over your shoulder and full to bursting.

“So I’m an idiot. My phone was literally in the pocket of my jeans on the floor.” You drop the bag as you bend down by the door to pull on your favorite slippers. “Oh—I think I forgot my charger, can you grab it? It’s by my bed.”

Spencer of course obliges, and is secretly pleased to be in your room again, in the light this time, so he can see better. It’s sweet. The pictures on the walls, the plants and the knickknacks and the sticky notes scrawled with messy reminders on every surface and the sweater hanging over the back of a chair—the one you’d been wearing at the cafe all those months ago—it all feels so you. He wonders why the two of you don’t spend more time here.

He lets himself linger for only a minute before remembering his task, but as he reaches down to unplug your charger, whatever dopey smile he’d been wearing evaporates. The sheets have been stripped from your bed, and he can see why—there’s a striking stain of dried blood, and several surrounding dots, soaked into the mattress. Not much, but enough to make him feel horrendously guilty. He cringes, imagining what it must’ve been like to wake up all alone to nothing but your own blood. Poor girl. Of course he’d noticed some, last night when he was doing his best at cleaning you up, but it had been dark, and he was exhausted, and he hadn’t done enough.

“Where’d your sheets go, baby?” He asks once back by the front door with his own bag on his shoulder, setting a gentle hand on your lower back and holding out your charger for you. You jump slightly, and he makes circles on your back, wishing there was something he could do to settle you.

“Oh! They—they got ruined. I threw them out. It’s fine. I have others.”

So you didn’t have enough energy this morning to walk a few feet to your shower, but stripping your bed, getting dressed, and walking down to the trash chute at the end of the hall had been top of your priority list.

You swallow as he undoes the locks and holds the door open for you, and pretend like you’re not doing surveillance to either side as you stand in the hallway, locking your door again like you can’t get out of here fast enough.

Spencer casts a sidelong glance at you and wonders if you’re intentionally avoiding eye contact. He tries not to think like a profiler. He tries not to assign meaning to your actions, but he can’t help it. He can’t not notice.

He can’t not worry.

And he can’t not wonder what you’re not telling him.

part nine

#spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fic #criminal minds smut #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fanfic

1K notes · View notes

svnriseblvdd · 2 months ago

Text

neighbour! clark kent x new girl! reader

SYNOPSIS: with a new problem in smallville ridding people of their inhibitions and exacerbating urges, clark finds himself confronted with a dilemma as his neighbour arrives in his loft, afflicted by the same epidemic

WARNINGS: where to start?, slight dubcon (purely because reader's emotions are being exaggerated by an outside force (not a person though, it's unspecified)) but consent is verbalised later between both parties, clark is kind of pathetic (what did you expect from me?), kissing, palming(?), he's a sensitive guy, clark reacts to seeing reader's bare skin like a victorian man seeing a woman's ankle, kind of dirty talk, clark in that white t-shirt (i KNOW you know what i mean), blowjob, handjob, clark compares every sexual experience to ascending to a new plane of existence and finding paradise, he's a loud boy, couch sex, semi-public sex? (in the loft in the barn, but literally no one is around and they're alone for hours), fingering, clark using his super speed for illicit activities, cowgirl, missionary, it's not said whether or not clark is a virgin, but he's definitely inexperienced, clark being scared of his strength being a danger to reader, praise kink (neither of them react to the praise in any particular way, it's just that there's a lot of praise so if anything i'm just showing off my praise kink), mention of sex against a wall, creampie

this is inspired by the episode of smallville in season one where there's that flower that makes people make poor decisions and behave rashly, and also by this scene that i saw on tiktok with clark and lana (if anyone finds this i need them to send me the link... for research purposes) (EDIT: someone found it so here's the link) where he just folds the moment she kisses his neck. i also borrowed a few lines of dialogue from my clark jacking off headcanons.

also for someone who rarely spells the word rhythm right first try, i use it a lot in this. fair warning there may be accidental tense changes and pronoun changes but i've tried to go through and eliminate that.

this will probably be the last instalment of the neighbour clark series, although i'll probably return to this idea eventually to add thoughts, but they won't be tied directly to this series, just to neighbour clark as an au. thank you to everyone who has enjoyed and supported this series and been so patient with me (i had no idea it had been over a month since part four).

part one! part two! part three! part four! part five!

Clark can’t seem to escape you over the next week, not that he really minds much. But it’s become almost impossible to make it through an encounter with you where he doesn’t feel like he’s at risk of coming undone.

You’re always hanging out with Lana and Chloe in school and out of it, you’re at the Torch whenever he is, same with the Talon. He’s even come home to find you baking with his mother! What divine power hates him so much that you have to be everywhere he turns?

Sometimes you’re not even doing anything particularly scandalous. The only remotely salacious thing you did while baking was licking the batter off your fingers, and that definitely did send Clark through the loop. Your pure existence anywhere nearby just threw him off.

~~~

You have one thought and one thought only as you walk towards the barn that contains Clark’s little hideaway. The farm is empty besides him - Mr and Mrs Kent are in town at the market, so they’ll be gone for a while. You’ll have plenty of alone time with Clark.

“Clark?” You call as you enter the barn.

“Hey!” He greets, voice a little breathy.

“Can I come up?”

“Yeah, no problem.” You make your way upstairs, finding Clark reading through some book when you reach the top. “Hey, what’s-”

He turns, and the sight he’s met with has him pausing. You’re in a pair of teeny denim shorts, a black cropped tank top with thin straps, and an open button-up. It’s a warm summer’s day and your skin is practically glowing in the light that filters through into the barn. The cute little brown cowboy boots on your feet really tie it together. There’s nothing particularly out of the ordinary about your outfit, but something about it feels different. It feels… he can’t place it. Although maybe it’s just to do with the air you have about you as you stand there.

“What are- what are you doing here?” He asks.

You shrug. “Well, it’s just been such a long, hard day, and I missed you. Kept thinking about you. Thought we could hang out. We haven’t hung out together in ages, you know? Just the two of us.” You’re moving towards him as you speak. Well, it looks like you’re just moving further into the space - pacing, perhaps - but he’s sort of backing away the entire time, keeping equal distance, and you’re turning to match his direction the entire time. “It’s been so long, Clark.”

Your hand grazes over the telescope, but you don’t move it, don’t look in it (which he’s more than thankful for, because it’s currently aimed towards your house).

“Y-yeah, we can hang out.”

“What have you been doing?” You ask, looking around, then at him.

You take off the shirt, and it feels like he’s watching it in slow motion. The way your head turns, the way the material just gently, slowly glides down your smooth skin, and then it’s draped over the back of a chair. You stretch, arms reaching into the air above your head and showing off more bare skin. And as you reach the peak of your stretch, fighting the tension in your muscles and bones, you let out a purposeful moan.

Clark is going to die.

“Uh, just homework,” he says, swallowing to combat the dryness in his mouth as you turn towards him and begin to approach him.

You smile a little. “So smart. You’re so good, Clark.” Well, you and he both know exactly where that comment’s going.

“Uh- hm. Not- I’m not…” He’s backing away from you to keep some distance as you keep walking towards him. His foot hits a metal bucket, a loud clang! ringing around the barn as he stumbles a little.

“Not what, Clark? Not smart? Not good?” Clark glances behind him to make sure that he’s not going to trip over something else or fall down the stairs, and when he turns his head back to face you, he’s shocked to find you directly in front of him.

Your fingers hook onto his belt loops, tugging him closer to you by his hips. His eyes go wide as he looks down, then at you, multiple times in very quick succession, his face the epitome of bewilderment.

“We both know that’s not true, Clark. You’re good. And smart. And strong. You’re amazing.”

“Wh-what are you doing?” He manages.

“Come on, Clark, I know.”

“What?”

“I know how you feel. I get it now. I’ve been totally blind to it because you’re too polite to look. But I want you to. I want you to look. I want you to touch-” His eyes turn wider still, and he’s still looking confused beyond anything. “I want you to taste. I want you to do whatever you want.”

He sees then how dilated your pupils are, how heat radiates off you. You’re not yourself. Whatever’s been going around and getting to people the past few days has reached you. This isn’t you.

But everything he knows points to this thing, whatever it is, exacerbating existing feelings, not creating new ones. So maybe you do really want him. It doesn’t make it any better, though. It’s still taking advantage.

“Y-you’re sick,” he tells you as you lean in and begin to mouth at his neck.

His eyelids flutter and a smile begins to pull at the corners of his lips. No. No, he needs to be responsible. He can’t do this now. Even though you’re handing yourself to him on a silver platter, telling him you want him to. Even though his heightened senses are letting him know the way your heart begins to beat a little faster, the way your breath turns shallow and gaspy, the way you smell as arousal begins to form a little patch in your underwear.

“This isn’t really you. You’re sick.”

“Oh, trust me, Clark, I’ve wanted this for a while.”

“N-no, you’re not yourself. You can’t - ah!” He’s cut off by his own high whine when one hand releases his belt loop and instead directly palms him. His hips buck into your touch involuntarily. “Oh my God.” You apply the slightest bit of pressure, and watch proudly as his eyes roll back momentarily. Oh, he’s pent up. “N-no, no you- you’re sick. This is wrong.”

“Don’t you want me?” You ask.

“Baby, I’ve never wanted anything more than this, but-”

“Then take me!” You whine. “Fuck me!”

“Please,” he tries, although with your hand still on his clothed cock and his neck still tingling with the lasting effect of your kisses, it comes out more like a whine.

You lean up, kissing at his jaw. “What if it makes me feel better? What if it cures me?”

“I-I don’t think-”

“Don’t think, Clark. Please. Just- just let go. Just be with me.”

His eyes shut for a moment. “Fuck,” he breathes out as he reaches his verdict. He turns his head, meeting your lips. It’s a messy clash of tongues, desperate for one another.

You back him towards a desk that’s been set up against a wall, and push at his shoulders to make him sit down. He looks up at you with those angel eyes, pupils blown and eyebrows raised a little, lips pouting and all coming together to create a look that just begs you to ravish him.

You meet his lips with yours again, hands reaching blindly to find the hem of his sweater. You find it, pulling it up and over his head with as much speed as possible, finding that tight white t-shirt underneath.

“Fuckin’ love this shirt,” you mumble, kissing him again. “But I need it gone.”

Clark nods, eagerly reaching to pull the t-shirt over his head. His desperation means it gets stuck a little on the way up, and you have to help him get it off, but you don’t mind. You’re quick to get your hands on him, as he begins to kiss down your neck, you trail your hands over every muscled inch of him.

He sucks a mark into the skin of your neck, kissing over it when he’s done, like a finishing touch. “Oh, Clark,” you breathe out, nails lightly scratching over his stomach. He shivers a little, breath shaking.

Your fingers find his chin, tilting his face up to give him another kiss, before you’re getting to your knees in front of him. He watches with wide, adoring eyes as you begin to undo his jeans, kissing down his stomach as you do.

You make quick work of his jeans, bringing them halfway down his thighs, then pulling his boxers down far enough to free his cock. He looks painfully hard. Clark knows that this is his body’s standard reaction to you. You don’t. You’re also not aware of the way Clark’s thoughts run wild when he fists his cock to the image of you at night. Granted none of his fantasies have ever played out quite like today has, but he’s going to be thinking of this for a very long time.

Your hand wraps around his thick base, and he lets out a precious little gasp. You smile up at him, and from this angle, you look like a fucking enchantress. He swears you’ve got him under some kind of spell.

You move your hand. Clark is ascending to a new plane.

And then, with your hand still pumping him, and as Clark watches, you lean your head closer to his tip. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

You lick over his slit, and his head tilts back against his wishes. He doesn’t want to look away. Doesn’t want to miss a single moment. He wants to bask in the glory of this image forever.

And then your lips wrap around his tip, a sensation like no other, and you press forward, taking him as far as you can. “Oh, baby, please-” he moans, wrangling the urge to flex his hips forward. “Y-yeah, that’s it, honey.”

His head tilts back, eyes fluttering shut as your hand pumps what you can’t fit in your mouth. You watch him through your lashes, waiting for him to look back at you. But he doesn’t.

So you pull off.

Clark just about suppresses the whine that threatens to escape at the loss of the wet heat of your mouth, and instead a rather disappointed sigh leaves him. The world outside your mouth feels cold and lonely.

But you fix it by leaning forwards and beginning to kiss around his pelvis, smirking a little against his skin as he shudders. Your hand is still moving to a steady rhythm, and even though Clark misses the feeling of your mouth, the combined sensation of your slick hand and your kisses on his hips is too good. “Clark, honey,” you mumble, nipping at the skin over his hip bone. He gasps. “Would you look at me?”

“C-can’t,” he denies, shaking his head.

“Why not?”

“Because - oh, God-” You suck his skin just a couple of inches away from his base, disappointed to find no mark when you pull away. “Because if I look at you, I think I might cum.”

You give him a sympathetic look. “What would be so bad about that?”

“I can’t. Not yet. Have to - have to last.”

“Oh, Clark,” you hum with a pout. “It’s okay if you cum. I want you to. We’ll go as long as you can. We’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for.” You reach a hand up, smoothing it over the planes of his chest. “Look at me? Please?” Clark nods, looking down and meeting your eyes. “There’re those pretty eyes.”

You plant a final kiss on his hip before taking him in your mouth again. “Oh, please,” he whimpers, his hips twitching.

His hands rest against the desk beneath him, but not gripping it, instead clenching his fists until his knuckles turn white. You reach for one of his hands, guiding it towards you, but Clark shakes his head and pulls it back, placing it firmly on the desk again.

“Keep going, baby, please. I’m almost there.”

You pull away to breathe, jerking him off with newfound speed, and Clark’s breaths turn into panting moans. This time, when he feels the urge to throw his head back, he fights it. He holds the eye contact you’re giving him, just like you’d asked.

“Let go for me, Clark. Wanna see it. Wanna taste it.” Your tongue meets his tip as you wrap your mouth around the blushing tip of his cock, and you drag along his slit.

“Yeah. Right there. Yes, yes, fuck!”

Clark crumbles as he cums, shooting spurts onto your tongue and moaning through it, your hand and mouth working him through the pleasure and milking him for all he’s worth.

You grin up at him, kissing the head of his cock, and standing. He lifts a hand, cupping your face and shifting some fallen hair, smiling at you, blissed-out and awe-struck.

He leans forwards, catching your lips in a sweet kiss. “Couch?” You mumble, and he nods, taking your hands in his as he walks towards the couch. He sits down on it, an old and worn piece of furniture - but it’ll do. It looks sturdy enough.

You sink into his lap, knees either side of his hips, kissing him. You blindly find his hands, pulling them to the button of your shorts. The way his fingers move to get you out of those shorts is nothing short of eager, quick and fumbling in his desperation to become impossibly closer to you.

He finally gets the button undone and the zipper down, and you clamber off him, pushing the shorts down till they hit the floor, and you step out of them. Clark sits forward, pretty green eyes gazing up at you, flickering down to the hem of your tank top.

His nose nudges at the skin revealed beneath the bottom, and he takes a long breath in, eyes closed, as though he’s savouring a sweet smell. Through all this, though, his hands remain balled into fists at his sides. He doesn’t grip the couch cushions like you’d expect, doesn’t dare touch you, for whatever reason.

You toy with the hem of your tank top for a moment, Clark watching with hopeful eyes, and then you pull it up and over your head. You hook a finger into the band of your underwear - another light blue set Clark remembers fantasising about, silk and lace and matching the bra - and pause. “You wanna help me take these off, Clark?” He nods, lifting his hands and hooking his fingers into the material on your hips, tugging them down gently.

“Oh-” he breathes out. You push him back softly with a hand on his chest, straddling him again. His eyes trail down from yours, landing on your clothed chest.

You laugh a little. “Touch me, Clark. Then I’ll take it off and you can get a look.”

“Y-yeah. Yeah. Okay.”

You smile, grabbing one of his hands and guiding it to your core, fingers gently stroking over your folds. One finger slips through, and Clark almost gasps.

He’s slow with it at first, tentative, until you kiss him and whisper, “Clark, please.”

He adds a finger, finds a rhythm, faster, but still so gentle, like he’s afraid he’ll hurt you. He curls his fingers just right, prompting a moan from you.

“Oh, God,” he whispers to himself at the feel of how wet you are. Because of him.

You reach a hand between you, middle and index finger on your clit, and you begin to rub tight circles, gasping at the spike in pleasure.

Clark is watching every response to every bit of stimulation, and he looks down at your moving fingers. “Does it- does it feel good when you do that?” He asks. You nod. He meets your eyes, innocent as can be for someone who’s got two fingers buried inside you. “I want- can I?” He asks.

“Uh-huh.” Clark replaces your fingers with the thumb of his free hand. His hands are huge. You’ve thought about it before, plenty, about Clark’s large hands on you, on your chest or cupping your ass, but now that you’re actually with him in this setting, the thought turns you on even more. If only he didn’t seem scared to touch you.

“Am I-” Clark begins, looking up at you with hopeful eyes.

“You’re doing so good Clark,” you praise. “So good. Please.”

He leans forwards, kissing your neck, collarbone, down until he finds the tops of your breasts. He kisses you there too, while his fingers below speed up in their rhythm, driving you closer and closer to the edge.

“Clark- Clark, oh, please.”

“Good?” He questions.

“Yes. Yes. Don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, breathless.

Your hips begin to move with the rhythm of his fingers, and Clark watches in awe as you do, adding pressure to your clit and practically doubling his speed. Your eyes go wide at the feeling, intense but so, so good. He’s so fast, you think it’s inhuman. In fact you’re pretty sure it has to be.

“Hhhmmmm, Clark, how are - fuck, oh, God - how are you doing that?”

Clark doesn’t respond, and you don’t get the chance to ask again because all of a sudden, your orgasm crashes over you in a heavy wave that feels like it’ll never end.

You collapse onto him, legs trembling and chest heaving. You bite into his shoulder, hard enough to break skin possibly, which you feel bad for, but he doesn’t seem hurt by it.

“Oh my God, Clark. That was incredible.” You lean back, cupping Clark’s jaw and tilting his head so he meets your eyes.

“Can I- can you, uh…?” His gaze lowers to your chest momentarily, and you smile. Your hands reach for his wrists, lifting them up, pushing his fingers towards his mouth. He knows what you want, and he complies wordlessly, sticking his fingers in his mouth and licking them clean of your slick.

“That’s it,” you hum, guiding his hands to your back, to the clasp of the bra.

He unhooks it, dragging the straps down your arms, and discards it to the side. He stares at your bare chest in complete awe, green eyes shining.

You reach down, pumping his cock to get him good and ready, and Clark still struggles to shift his gaze. “You ready?” You ask, and he nods.

You push yourself up on your knees, and Clark’s eyes widen a little suddenly. “Wait, wait, what about protection?”

“I’m on the pill,” you say. “And I’m clean. Are you?”

“Yeah.”

“And do you still want to do this?”

“More than anything.”

“Good.” You line him up with your entrance, and sink down onto him.

If Clark thought anything before was good, this was a whole new level of ecstasy. “Fuck, oh my God,” he gasps.

His hands clench into fists at his sides again. You ignore it for now, even though you want nothing more than to feel his hands on you.

You begin to move, starting with a slow rhythm to ease Clark into it, and hooking your arms around his neck, kissing him. “You feel so good,” he whispers. “You’re tight, and wet, and warm.” He kisses you softly. “Baby, please.”

“I know.” You pick up your pace, bouncing on his lap, smiling at the way he moans. Your ass meets his thighs with a rhythmic plap! plap! plap! sound, your hands clinging to his shoulders for some stability, because he’s still not touching you, and more than confused, you’re starting to feel even a little insulted.

You kiss his pulse point, just beneath his jaw, and bite at his earlobe. Your hands slide up to his hair, giving a tug, and he moans. You notice his hands twitch, but he doesn’t touch you.

“Why won’t you touch me, Clark?” You ask, leaning back and slowing your hips.

He meets your eyes, guilt flashing through. “I-I just… I’m really strong.”

“I know,” you say, one hand squeezing at his bicep.

“N-no. I mean… like, really strong. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I’m not fragile, Clark.”

“I know, but - I’m inhumanly strong. And if something goes wrong…”

“I don’t care. It’s a minor risk. You know what I do care about? The fact that I have an insanely hot guy under me who refuses to touch me. And my legs feel like they’re gonna give out. So unless you want this to stop right now, you’re gonna have to take the risk.”

He nods. “Are you sure? I don’t want-”

“You won’t hurt me, Clark. I trust you.”

He nods again, hands finally finding your hips, and with the aforementioned inhuman strength lifts you up and lays you down on the couch, crawling on top of you.

“There we go,” you say, grinning and looping your arms behind his neck.

Clark slips back into you, beginning to thrust slowly. “You look so pretty under me,” he muses.

“Clark, you can’t just say that to a girl,” you giggle. He laughs a little, kissing you softly. He’s still keeping a slow pace, which you presume comes from the fear of hurting you accidentally by using too much force, but you’re impatient. “Clark, can you go faster?”

“Y-yeah. Yeah.” He speeds up, and props himself up with one arm above your head, while the other heads south, fingers finding your clit and beginning to rub circles onto it, just like before.

“That’s good. That’s good.”

He nods, and more sounds begin to flood from his mouth, matching your moans. “Oh, God, baby. You feel so good. You’re so good. So pretty.”

“You’re doing so well Clark,” you tell him. You wonder about his strength, about what he means by inhuman. Certainly, there was something inhuman about his speed earlier as he worked your clit. “Do I get to see this inhuman strength later?”

“Uh- I probably-”

“Please?” You clench around him for a moment.

He falters, hips stuttering a little as a whimper escapes him. “If you do that, I think I’d give you anything you wanted.”

“So I can see?”

“Yeah, you can see. I’ll show you. Promise, baby.”

Clark lets out a breathy moan, head falling into the crook of your neck as his hips gain speed, and he adjusts his thrusts to match it. “Are you close, Clark?”

He nods. He hardly trusts his voice. “Just need a moment.”

“It’s okay. You can cum.”

He shakes his head. “Not before you.” God, you’d think his invulnerability would give him some advantage in holding out, but poor Clark’s so sensitive that every stroke feels like absolute heaven and it feels like he’s barrelling full-force to what will no doubt be the most incredible finish of his life.

And then his fingers are moving against your clit just as fast as before, if not faster, desperate to get you to finish before he does. “Oh my God, Clark, what the fuck? How are you doing that?” A loud moan escapes you. “Fuck-”

“You like that?” He asks.

“Fuck, yes. What other inhuman abilities are you hiding from me?”

“I’ll tell you later?”

“You better.”

He leans down, kisses everywhere he can reach, your jaw, your neck, your chest, your lips, even drags your earlobe between his teeth and gives it a gentle bite. You really don’t care about Clark hurting you, because it doesn’t exist as a thought in your mind that he could. He wouldn’t ever lay a hand on you, and you know that. In fact, at this point you’d willingly let him throw you against a wall and take you there.

“Clark, I - I’m close. Please.”

“I’ve got you. It’s okay, baby.” He adjusts himself to grab your hand, holding it by your head and intertwining his fingers with yours.

You lift your head, searching for his lips, and he’s more than happy to gift you a kiss, soft in comparison to the speed and desperation of his thrusts. You moan into his mouth as you reach your climax, body twitching as Clark carries you through it, your walls clenching around him like a vice, drawing a particularly loud moan from him.

“That’s it,” he hums as you come down from your high. “You okay?”

You nod, a blissed smile on your face. “So okay.”

You card your fingers through his hair, pulling lightly, and Clark moans. “I’m close, baby. Please, I need it. Need it so bad. Can I - where do you want me to-”

“Inside,” you say. “Want to feel it.”

“Okay.”

His eyes meet yours properly, finding your dilated pupils, hazy eyes, and the utter joy in them, and that’s all it takes for him to be thrown headfirst into his own climax. He presses his forehead to yours, gasping your name as he spills his load inside of you. “God, you feel so good. Oh, fuck.”

“There you go. That’s so good, Clark,” you praise, kissing him and swallowing his whimper. “You’re so good, honey.”

Clark pants as he slows to a stop, giving you a soft kiss before he pulls out. He watches in awe at the way his cum drips out of you and onto the couch beneath you.

“You were amazing, Clark.”

“You were incredible,” he says, smiling at you.

You pull him onto you and wrap your arms around him, smiling when he does the same to you.

Needless to say, when Clark later demonstrates his inhuman strength by lifting a literal tractor above his head (not forgetting the joke you made when you met him about him benching a tractor), you’re quick to drag him up to his room before he can show you all the other superpowers he possesses. Although he does a damn good job of showing you that super strength.

taglist;

@mariswxt @blueeweeb @ssnapsaurus @i-got-a-bad-feeling-about-this @milestellerismybf @purple-1995 @writergiih @elysianrosie @glennussy @rainwaterxx @brinascorpio @withthistreaserisummon @babble28 @mollymal @alexcole1326 @mizzfizz @jiminie1028

#muse: clark #clark kent imagine #clark kent smut #clark kent x reader #smallville clark kent #smallville clark kent x reader

862 notes · View notes

letorip · 11 months ago

Text

kiss with a fist

“you hit me once, i hit you back, you gave a kick, i gave a slap”

===+++===

pairing: tara carpenter x reader

summary: tara needs a favour from perhaps the person she hates most on earth, but it just ends up drawing the both of you closer together.

warnings: explicit sexual content, fake dating 🤯, enemies to lovers, contrived plot because ha ha ha

word count: 4.8k

A/N: kinda had a lot of fun with this one. might do a part two, might just leave it as is, but let me know. inspired by kiss with a fist by florence + the machine (duh), lovely night from la la land, and various other inspirations.

===+++===

The moment your front door opened on its hinges, Tara Carpenter was pushing past you and barging straight into your apartment, stepping right over the threshold and checking you with her shoulder. You barely had a chance to process it, before she had wandered down the hall and into your kitchen in a blur.

You rolled your eyes, knowing you were in for an annoying ass conversation and slamming the door shut. “What do you want?” You called into your own apartment loud enough for her to hear you in the other room.

“Don’t be a prick about it. This is the last place I wanted to go,” she shot back, and you sighed to yourself in your dark hallway before fixing your hair in the mirror and following her inside. There was only about an hour of her bullshit you could put up with and then you’d be saved by the bell anyhow.

“Whatever happened to ‘hello,’ Tara?” You said, crossing your arms and coming in to against the doorframe. She had jumped up onto your counter, legs swinging and fingers gripping the edge of the blue ice glass tiles. In her left hand she picked up the bottle of wine you had left out next to some glasses and began to read the label.

"Lecture me later,” she said, not looking up at you, You were about to reply, or more aptly, tell her to get the hell out of your apartment, but she put the bottle down and narrowed her eyes at you, clearly struggling to say what she was really there for.

“Look, (Y/n), I need your help.” Ah. There it was.

"Hah," you scoffed without hesitation. "No."

She threw up her hands. "I didn’t even say what I was asking for.”

“Still, no. I’m not helping you.”

“Could you just not be an asshat for five minutes and listen to me? Like, is that too hard for you? Are you medically incapable?" She shot back.

"You're sitting on my counter. I didn't bust into your house and start making demands but here you are in mine,” you said.

"I'm asking for a favour," said Tara, raising her voice. "Asking."

"Wasn't much of a question though, was it," you replied. Maybe being a dick back to her would make her leave. She had always been able to dish it but never able to take it, and you wanted to make her. "You said 'I need a favour.' There's no question in that."

"No, I actually said I need your help, now would you shut up and listen?"

You scowled. "Y'know, I'm not really in a helpful mood tonight."

"Like you have something better to do,” Tara scoffed, raising her eyebrows at you.

"And what if I do?"

"Then I'd say you're lying. What, you don’t want to help me because you’re watching your stupid show, or reading or something?” she challenged back, getting up off your counter and walking towards you. You straightened up, glaring down at her. She only came up to about your chest, but the short girl still did her best to seem intimidating.

With you she always frustratingly failed to even make the smallest dent, though that probably stemmed from the fact you could pick her up and punt her like a football if you wanted to. On the days she managed to really piss you off, the thought grew more enticing.

"For your information, I was supposed to have a date," you said. Tara blinked at this, looking down from your stupid face. You wore a thick black turtleneck and some pleated black pants that hung stylishly from your waist. The wine made sense now, and Tara felt like an idiot.

“What’d you pay them?” she clapped back, covering for the feeling of intense heat rising to her cheeks. This was humiliating. She had come begging for your help of all people- you, and now she had nothing to show for it but the stupid, smug look on your stupid, smug face.

“Ha ha,” you said, dryly. “Get out.”

“No.”

“Yes,” you insisted.

"So you're busy then…” she trailed off.

“Yes.”

“Nooo,” she groaned, throwing up her hands in frustration.

You weren't sure what it was, maybe the pout of her lip or the shining of her eyes, but you shut your own for a second and let out a sigh. "Why? What's the favour?"

Tara shook her head in a generally amusing display of defeat. "It's whatever. Have fun on your date," she said, heading for the door and trying to brush past you, but you reached your arm across the doorway, stopping her from going.

"No, what's-" you stopped, rolling your eyes upon realising you were about to help Tara Carpenter of all people- "What's the favour, Tara?" Her face instantly lit up with a bright, beaming smile, the exact opposite of what it had been before, and it suddenly occurred to you she had been playing you like a fiddle.

"Oh my god, you're actually helping for once! Did you finally wake up on the right side of the bed?”

"Don't push it," you muttered. "I don't even know what I'm agreeing to, yet."

"See, about that..." she trailed off.

"What.”

“We have to make Sam really, really mad.”

"What?”

"Yeah..."

You shook your head at her. "Never mind. I'm not helping you anymore."

"What!?"

"You're trying to get me murdered," you said. "I don't have a death wish."

Tara was fully frustrated now, dark eyes fiery and staring up at you in the candle lighting. “You don’t even know what it is you’re doing to make her mad yet!”

“Doesn’t matter, if it’s Sam I don’t want to do it.”

“It would be a big help!” Tara said, clasping her hands in front of her like a prayer. You narrowed your eyes at her, more upset her expression and clear desperation was actually working on you, and that you felt compelled to help this idiot with an undoubtedly idiotic plan.

“What are you trying to do?”

Tara jumped up and down in excitement, smiling widely in a way you had rarely seen her. “Okay! Okay, so Sam said last month that she didn’t want me going to parties and meeting people because she was worried they were murderers.”

“Uh huh,” you said.

“Buuut, she said I could go if I had someone always with me. Like, someone with me that she approved of. So I didn’t wander off to hook up or drink, which is, y’know, the actual fun ‘college party’ stuff.”

“Uh huh.”

“The thing is though, that if I had a ‘partner,’” she raised her fingers to put quotes around it, “then Sam wouldn’t need to worry about me doing that, because she’d assume I’d be with them, hanging out, or even if we did go to a party, it would be together. Buddy system style.”

You raised your eyebrows, realising where this was probably going. “Uh huh?”

“Which is where you’d come in. Sam wouldn’t trust just anybody, if I told her I was seeing someone. But she would trust someone from our group, who she knows for sure isn’t going to murder me. And you- as fucking annoying as you are- are exactly that.” She had a twinkle in her eyes when she explained it to you, and you realised Tara had probably been plotting this- or at least considering it- for a while now, the little devil.

“You really expect Sam to believe we can tolerate each other?” You asked, squeezing your arms tighter against your chest. “She knows how much I hate you, and only person I hate more is her.”

“Trust me, I’ve complained about you to her too,” she rolled her eyes. “But you were literally my only option. Call it a romance of passion. We only ‘hated’ other to cover up for our real feelings or whatever. Sam doesn’t have to like you but she definitely trusts you.”

“How romantic,” you wrinkled your nose, disgusted by the suggestion. “Wait, why am I your only option? Chad is right there, he’s already in love with you and everything. He’s like the built-in boyfriend.”

She winced. “See, I thought about that. But I just know it would probably hurt him, with the hooking up and it not being real. He probably wouldn’t feel too great about me ‘cheating’ on him.” Tara did the finger quotes around it again and you let out a whistle.

“Wow, so you do have a heart.”

She scoffed. “More than you do. Besides, we only need to pretend to be together until I find someone actually tolerable. After that, you’re free again.”

“I had a date tonight,” you narrowed your eyes at her.

“But you’re still here talking to me for some reason?” She raised her eyebrows at you. “And the way you said ‘had’ I’m thinking you don’t anymore.” Tara could be annoyingly perceptive sometimes. She always seemed to zero in on the way you spoke or what you said.

“I wasn’t too excited for it anyways,” you grumbled, and Tara laughed, realising she had been correct and being all too pleased with herself. She clasped her hands together.

“Well then. Are you going to help me, or are you going to glare at me some more?”

“The second one sounds really appealing right now,” you shot back.

“Oh, come on. Don’t be too proud of an asshole to admit this is a great plan.”

“It’s a terrible plan, and it’s absolutely going to fail when Sam tries to murder me.”

“But you didn’t say no.”

You looked at her for a long minute, contemplating if this was really the path you were going to go down. You let out a sigh, shaking your head. “I’ll do it. But you’ll sure as hell owe me.”

“Yeah yeah,” Tara waved you off, beaming from ear to ear. “Great! We’re going on a double date with her and Danny this Friday.”

“What?!” Your mouth dropped open.

“Yep,” she said, annoyingly skipping down your hallway. “I’ll text you the address and time!” she said.

“Now wait a minute-” you called after her, but she had already latched open your door and left, leaving you to watch her go. Fuck, this would end terribly. You sighed again, taking out your phone to cancel your date.

===+++===

This was so unbelievably stupid. The longer you stood outside the Italian restaurant, the more you regretted agreeing to help her.

The restaurant was nice at least, with giant marble stones and dark red accents, and you could see through the massive float glass windows that the lighting mostly featured romantic candles and potted floribunda roses against dark wood. It would ironically be the most expensive date you ever had, and you realised that with bitter sentimentality.

Tara was late, like always, and you had begun to pace along the sidewalk, tracing the cracks with the centre of your shoe while you waited for her. It was boring, out on the street, and the more couples that passed you and walked right inside, the more nauseous you felt. You grabbed your phone out of your pocket, thumbing over the cracked display.

She was ten minutes late. You swiped open your text messages, still seeing nothing from her.

are you here yet???

You sent the message hastily, waiting for the typing icon to pop up or even show that she read it, but nothing. Suddenly the screen lit up and your phone started vibrating it, and you almost dropped it in surprise. “Fuck,” you cussed quietly, seeing the call incoming screen and Little Shit (do not pick up) appear at the top. You frowned, hitting the green button and accepting the call.

“Where the hell are you??? I don’t know if you noticed but we’re late,” you immediately said into the phone, aware of just how annoyed you sounded.

“Relax,” replied Tara on the other end of the line, and you could hear her eye roll from here. “Danny is a late guy too, Sam gets on him all the time for it.”

“Yeah well, I’m standing outside waiting for your late ass.” You felt someone awkwardly push past you and you winced, spinning around to usher them an apology.

“I’ll be there in a minute, I had to pick something up,” she dismissed you. “Just don’t let Sam and Danny see you. I told them we were showing up together.”

“Well how the hell am I supposed to do that?” You frowned, looking around. There was a row of bushes off to the side but you were too tall and not at all willing to crouch behind them like an idiot.

“I don’t know. Figure. It. Out.” Tara spoke slowly like you were a child and you narrowed your eyes.

“Y’know, I’m doing you a favour?”

“Ha!” Tara exclaimed, and you hissed, pulling your ear away from the phone’s speaker at the loud noise. “So you admit, it was a favour!”

“Shut up and get your ass over here," you grumbled before hanging up shortly, looking around and wandering down a side alley. It smelled disgusting back there, in the ironic, almost-dark of sunset, and it would've been a lovely night to take a walk on, had it not been for wasting it on Tara of all people.

You pulled out a box of cigarettes from your pocket, fumbling one out and sticking it between your lips. You stuck the box back in your pocket and pulled out your fancy lighter that had your name engraved on the side, thumbing over the lettering for a moment before lighting the cigarette and sticking it between your two fingers.

It felt stupid, to standing there next to the dumpster and watching some rats scurry by, but you let out a huff of smoke, remembering how much Tara had seemed excited for the parties and having fun. You didn't like her very much, nor could you really claim to be much of a saint, but you weren't a monster either.

"What are you doing??" called a voice from the end of the alley, and you spun to see Tara near the line of bushes with a bouquet of flowers in her hands. She had her eyes narrowed at the cigarette, looking frustrated.

"Having a smoke. Why, want one?"

She let out a sigh of exasperation, marching straight up to you. "You can't go on a double date with my sister smelling like cigarette smoke. You know she hates that kind of stuff."

"I've smoked with her, before. Her and Mindy," you argued, pulling it from your lips to take a breath in. "I've literally given her cigarettes."

Tara glared at you, taking it from your hand and crushing it under her heel. "Yeah, well, she still hates you, and now that we're allegedly 'dating' it's different. We can't give her any reason not to trust us, and you smoking cigarettes is going to make her think I'm going to start smoking cigarettes."

You shrugged. "If she hates me so much, then she's never gonna let us 'hang out' alone or go to parties anyway."

"No, she-" Tara rolled her eyes. "She hates you, but she sure as hell trusts you. Enough to babysit me."

"Fine. What's with the flowers?" you asked, crossing your arms.

"You got them for me," Tara shrugged. "Pinnacle of romance."

You whistled to be funny, but it was a little bit impressive that she had planned that out. The plan wasn't especially well thought out, but she at least had her moments of surprising intelligence, which you couldn't begrudge her.

"Well then," she frowned. "Let's go, lover." She clutched the flowers in one hand and slid her arm to interlock with yours. You narrowed your eyes but started to walk her in.

"Don't call me that. It's weird," you muttered.

"Get used to it. Tonight we're the happiest couple on planet Earth."

The restaurant was somehow even nicer on the inside than it had been on the outside. Tara gripped your hand, tugging you along with her as she headed towards Sam and Danny's table and followed the waiter, but you were looking a little dumbfounded at the marble columns and Italian frescos painted to the walls and roof.

You made your way back, led into a giant room with a lot of people. Danny sent you a welcoming wave when they saw you; Sam looked like she was about ready to blow a gasket. She stared at you, eyeing you up and down and then lasering in on the bouquet in Tara's hands with a frown.

"Did you tell her your secret partner was me???" you whispered to Tara as you approached.

She smirked evilly. "Nope."

Fucking amazing. "Hey guys!" Danny said, friendly and open. He seemed just thrilled to be there, while Sam seethed right next to him. Tara smiled right at her sister, gesturing for you to sit next to her.

"Sorry we were late," Tara says, a little awkward but trying to seem comfortable. "We were, um..." she looked at you for help.

You blanked, throwing out the first thing you could think of. "Kissing!"

Sam nearly spit out her water, eyes widening at staring at you. Tara whipped to you, jaw slack and you sent her a sorry glance. Improv was not your thing by any means.

"Um," Danny blinked at you. "No worries. You're here now," he said with an awkward smile. His hand went to Sam's, trying to give it a comforting squeeze, but she looked like she wanted to jump over the table and then jump you. She was glowering.

"So," she said, eyes narrowed. "How long has 'this,'" she gestured between you and Tara, "been a thing?" She looked at you intensely, and you looked to Tara, trying to shrug it off. You both laughed, playing the part of the happy couple.

"Oh, a month," you said.

"Two months," Tara said, at the exact same time. Fuck.

You tried not to glare at each other. "Well, which is it?" Sam squinted at her sister, and Tara sent a kick at your leg under the table. Your knee hit the bottom of the table with a painful 'thud,' and it took everything in you to not yell out in pain from your knee cap hitting the wood.

You tried to smile it off. "Tara just said two months, because we went on a few study dates, but it wasn't official until a month ago."

"So two months then," Sam said, crossing her arms on the table.

"I get it," Danny said, nodding. "I'm bad at dates and stuff too," he laughed a bit. "I almost forgot how long Sam and I had been together after our four month anniversary." You nodded, sending him your best grin. Sam didn’t look too happy about that either, though.

"Yeah, long day, I guess." Tara said next to you, sending you her best smile, her hand coming up to rub your back. It was weird, having her this close, but you put on your best face, as if she touched you all the time.

"You go to Blackmore too, right?" he asked, and you nodded. "What do you study?"

"I'm in architecture," you replied. Finally, something you could talk about without feeling like you were crossing a minefield. From the corner of your eye, you could still see Sam staring you down with suspicion.

"Oh! That's awesome!" Danny replied, taking a sip of wine from his glass. "I love architecture, it's interesting."

"Mhm," you nodded, looking over at Tara and smirking with just a hint of malicious glee. "I tease her- my degree is actually useful. People don't really like film majors. They usually smell bad."

"Do they?" he asked, genuinely curious, and you turned back, nodding.

"Yeah, it's an unfortunately common stereotype. Film majors are annoying, smelly-," your words were cut off, feeling Tara's nail dig into your back for revenge and trying to stifle a wince. She gave the table a fake giggle.

"Okay, that's enough out of you," she said, and you grinned, cursing her out in your head.

"Why didn't you tell me it was (Y/n), Tara?" Sam asked, leaning forwards and studying you both. She seemed a bit miffed with the whole situation. You sent each other fake smiles, as if you were about to share a secret.

"Well," she said, trying to seem excited. "We just didn't want anyone ruining it, really. It was kind of a secret, and we didn't know what it would turn into. But it's just...it's been so fucking magic."

"Magic. Mhm," you hummed in agreement, looking off into the distance and pulling out the menu. You were just a bit too hungry to keep up with the game for the moment. Seriously? she shot you a glare, and you snapped to attention. "It is genuinely one of the happiest times of my life," you rushed, quickly smiling and then dropping your attention back down to the menu to look at some pasta.

“Does Chad know?” Sam asked, sitting back and staring at you both. Tara shook her head.

“Not yet. I don’t want to hurt him, but really, (Y/n)’s the one for me.” This was also a little bit impressive. Tara seemed to be a far better actor than you were, and Sam just nodded, suspicious but trusting her sister’s words.

===+++===

The moment you walked down the block and out of Sam and Danny's eyesight, your hand dropped from Tara's. The sun was just about setting in the distance, and city traffic was starting to slow down a little.

"Oh. My. God. Her face!" Tara said, laughing. She keeled over, and you smiled a little, remembering Sam's look of disgust, but quiet monitoring of your hand clutching onto Tara's. She looked like a very conservative nun, witnessing a sin being performed in real time. It was a little funny, you had to admit, not that you'd ever be caught laughing along with her.

"Danny seems nice," you said, after you walked a little farther.

Tara nodded. "He's surprisingly not a douchebag. I thought he would be, like you or something, but he's not that bad for Sam."

You scoffed. "I'm not a douchebag."

"You definitely are," Tara said, shaking her head. "One month because it wasn't official? You said we were going on dates before then. That's definitely douchebag behaviour. Sam probably thought that meant you were seeing other people."

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh," Tara said, rolling her eyes. "And 'kissing'??? Literally anything would've been better."

"I'm trying to help you, it's either this or nothing," you huffed in annoyance. "I'm not an on-the-spot person."

"Clearly," Tara said, shaking her head in overdramatic emphasis. She stopped suddenly and you jerked backwards, seeing her mess with her shoes.

"You good?" you asked, shoving your hands into your pockets.

"These damn shoes- making me walk home- god dammit," she grumbled, messing with the straps and the buckle on the side. You waited patiently, leaning against a stone wall as you waited for her to finish.

The sky above you had turned a deep purple, small hues of orange and pink in the form of clouds sitting at the edges. It was really something, and you stopped to watch it, whistling. Tara jerked upwards, planting her foot down to stomp her shoe into place.

"What is it?" she asked.

"The sky," you said, and she craned her neck up to watch it with you. "It's just really beautiful tonight."

She hummed for a moment before looking back to you. "It's a shame I'm spending it with you, of all people," Tara snorted. "I'm sure this would be romantic to any other couple."

"It would probably really be something," you said absentmindedly, looking up in thought. "A real waste on you and me though."

"Glad we agree," she said, leading the way. You and her had taken a separate path from Danny and Sam under the guise of getting some ice cream, but neither of you were willing to pay for it. Instead, you had to figure out what you would do with ten extra minutes.

"Do you want to cross?" you asked, gesturing to the other street, she nodded and you walked up, pressing the button. When you turned back to her, her nose was wrinkled.

"What?"

She shrugged. "Nothing. You just hit the button weird."

"What?" you blinked at her. "How can someone 'hit the button weird'?"

"I don't know, but you, like, pushed it weird. With your fingers."

You rolled your eyes. "Do you have a problem with everything I do?"

“Yep,” she nodded back. “It’s annoying.”

You guys kept walking in silence for the next block or two, making a square so that you could return to Sam and Tara’s apartment together. The sun had disappeared now and faded into night, and when you turned the corner to split off, she tugged on your arm.

“Hey wait, you have to walk me home.”

“What?” you raised your eyebrows at her.

Tara shrugged. “You have to, to make Sam think we’re dating.”

You blinked at her. “But we live on opposite sides of the city.”

“Still.”

“Tara if I walk you home I’ll miss the last train,” you grumbled. “That’s a long ass walk.”

“Cmon, we have to or she won’t believe it.”

You frowned. “You’re paying for my cab then.”

She sighed. “Fine, but come on.”

She tugged you down the long strip by the hand, stopping suddenly, a block from her apartment. “Here wait,” she said, turning to you. “Give me your jacket.”

“What?” you raised your eyebrows at her. “Why would I want to do that?”

“Oh just do it, do you have to argue about everything?”

You took it off with a glare, handing it to Tara. She tried to slide it on but it was massive on her, so she bunched up the sleeves. With the flowers in her hand and your jacket, it definitely looked like you two had gone on a date.

She grabbed your hand again, pulling you forwards along the street and smiling brightly in case anyone looked out the window and saw you both. It felt a bit odd to be playing dress up, but it was helping someone out, so you didn’t begrudge her on getting you to smile either.

“Wait wait wait,” Tara said, stopping abruptly.

You groaned. “Now what.”

She pulled you to the side, near a row of shrubs that sat next to the red brick of her apartment building. “Sam’s watching us through the window.”

You turned your head, trying to see for yourself, and there she was, hanging right out the window and watching you with intense suspicion.

"Don't look at her!" Tara snapped at you, whispering with a glare. You rolled your eyes.

"What do you want me to do then, Tara?"

She frowned, biting her lip while she thought. She gave you a grimace. "We need to do, like, a goodnight kiss or something."

You glared at the suggestion. "I think I'd rather die."

"Trust me, I don't want to either," she said, glowering right back at you. "But if we do this now, we won't have to ever again."

You thought for a moment. She'd probably taste disgusting anyways, and then it would just confirm what you already knew- you hated Tara Carpenter. "Fine. Just convincing enough though."

"Okay," she nodded. When neither of you made a move to close the distance, she frowned. "Do like, a countdown or something?"

"A fucking countdown," you repeated. "We're not five."

"Just do it!" she demanded, glaring again.

"Okay, fine, Jesus Christ. Three...," your face moved a bit closer to hers. "Two," you muttered quietly, still leaning in. "One," you said, and then Tara pushed her face onto yours.

It was a chaste kiss, probably sprouting from the fact that neither of you especially wanted to do it. Her lips were softer than you expected them to be and her breath nowhere as near as it would be in your head. You pulled away quickly, and there she was, smiling up at you in the fake way she had been at the restaurant.

"Party next Friday?" she asked. "Now that Sam thinks we're together she won't care if I go. Just pick me up and we can go 'together.' Plus there's a cute kid from my film class who said she would be there."

You nodded. "Whatever."

"Great," she said with similar shortness, and she brushed right past you, heading into her building. You watched her walk off, making sure she got in the door safe. Sam was still looking at you from overhead, even when Tara had gone, and you could see Quinn standing behind her, looking with morbid curiosity.

It had never even crossed your mind to kiss Tara, just because of how annoying her personality was, and you would have rather died than admit it had been nice- that she had been nice for a night. Instead you turned around, walking off. You were sure Sam was still watching you, as you went.

===+++===

part two??? it shouldn't be too long before the next one, i had to split this up because it was getting insanely long and there's another half to the story. i didn't want this one to be like 8k words long, i'll just probably have another one that's 4-5k soon.

#jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega x you #tara carpenter x reader #tara carpenter #jenna ortega #scream #jenna ortega imagine #tara carpenter x y/n #tara carpenter x you

2K notes · View notes

xnalux · 4 months ago

Text

streamer!vi hcs

part 2 part 3

my first time writing hcs so

warnings: none, fem!reader

pictures are from pinterest and they're not mine

streamervi: her streamer name is @/vistandsforviolence

streamervi: her rooms is a fucking mess, the walls are filled with mishmash of posters, stickers and colorful doodles jinx drawn on the wall herself. The floor is a sea of tangled cables, snaking around piles of discarded energy drink cans, scattered notebooks filled with doodles and half-written to-do lists. Her bed is a disheveled mountain of blankets and pillows with one corner serving as a laundry basket for her favorite band tees and worn-out jeans. It 100% stinks in there.

streamervi: set up is even worse, her streaming equipment is scattered across every available surface: a webcam held together by duct tape and hope, a ring light that flickers with an eerie glow, and a microphone that's seen better days. The desk is a minefield of controllers, half-eaten snacks, and sticky notes with hastily scribbled gaming strategies.

streamervi: has the wors wifii, she would probably stream better from a cave in the middle of nowhere.

streamervi: if jinx is home when she is streaming, everytime vi leaves the stream to go to the bathroom or get some snacks, jinx run in her room and takes her place ''hello guys it's jinx again, the cooler sister here to reveal all the dark secrets of vi'' and it would end up with vi wrestling a screaming jinx out of her room ''SHE WET HER BED TILL MIDDLE SCHOOL''

streamervi: she plays dark souls sice she started streaming ad still hasn't finished it (probably destroyed 25 controllers playing it). Everytime she dies, which happens more often than she'd like to admit, she slams the controller down on the desk screaming ''I'm done with this shit man'' but dives back in the game thirthy seconds later with a "alright, Dark Souls, you think you've seen anger? you ain't seen nothin' yet!"

streamervi: she totally cried all her tears playing the last of us and has a crush on ellie always making comments throughout the gameplay ''man she is so hot'' ''look at those arms'' ''if she is not ellie i don't want her''. She giggled watching the dina and ellie couch scene ''get that girl ellie!'' and a second after when she got in a chasing part of the game she bacame an anxious mess ''i want to go back to banging on the couch, i want to go back to banging on the couch''

streamervi: hates horror games but the chat is always requesting them because her reaction are hilarious. Everytime she plays an horror game her hands get sweaty and she secretly lowers her headphones's volume because the soundtrack makes he anxious. She suddendly start reading the chat every two second just for an excuse to pause the game and end up bickering with them

@pinksmasherz ''guys she is scared shitless, she alredy paused 10 time and it's only been 15 minutes lmao''

''you know who was scared? your mom when she gave birth to you'' before literally jumping from her seat ten seconds after and close the game.

streamervi: totally posts thirst traps in her ig stories and brags about the numbers of girls who liked it during her streams. She shows the pictures to the chat and smirks ''bet you losers want to be me so bad''

@sapphicnightmare: ''delulu is the solulu''

@zaunfinest: ''bet she never had a girlfriend in her entire life #vstandsforvirgin''

@getjinxed: ''I'm her sister and i can confirm she is a loser and a virgin #vstandsforvirgin

''Powder get the fuck out of my stream or I'll tell vander you blew up the mcrowave again''

@getjinxed: ''#worstvirginsister

streamervi: who totally has a crush on you since you two got matched up playing valorant. vi was being her usual self, she started talking a mile a minute and cursing at the enemy team as she got more and more worked up. you found her endering so when she complimented you about a skilled heal ''Nice one!" you decied to turn on your mic ''thanks'' she suddendly got into gay panic as she heard your voice and ended up dying

Her chat went wild

@piltiegoth: "very smooth"

@Ekk0:"Looks like she's finally found someone who can shut her up!"

@zaunfinest: "she is totally blushing, what a loser"

@getjinxed: ''#vstandsforvirgin''

''not that hashtag again''

streamervi: who silently sends you a friend request as the game ended. You became a constant in her lives, she always askied you if you were up for a game together even tho her cheeks turned a lovely shade of pink, visible even through the webcam's glow every time you said something and she stumbled over her words, calling you "dude" one second and then switching to "bro" the next, as if trying to find the perfect term of endearment.

streamervi: when you two finally exchanged ig she was having dinner with powder and vander and almost choked staring at your picture. powder peeked to her screen from where she was seated next to her.

''who is @pixelprincess? wait isn't she that girl you always play valorant with during your streams? the one you've got a crush on?''

powder asked her munching over a chicked wing as vi got red faced

''i don't have a crush on her''

vi said but the words came out high pitched and totally fake

''yeah right, you always try to act cool when she is playing with you lowering your voice and shit, loser''

powder snikered as vi just got even more red and glared at her

''she is totally out of your league sis''

streamervi: who after months of pining after you (even the chat was tired of her loser crush on you) and powder threatening to reveal her baby naked pictures on the internet, finally asked you on a date. you met in a cafe downtown, she was so nervous she ended up talking the whole time and spilling her coffe all over the table. By the end of it she was sure you were going to block her as soon as you got home and never talk to her again. After she insisted to walk you home and you were standing in front of your home she took a deep breath.

''Listen I'm so sorry about the coffee. And the talking. And just… everything. I promise i'm usually not such a mess but i'll understand if you if you'll never want to see me again...''

she started rambling and only shut herself up when you planted a quick kiss in the middle of her cheek

''I liked it''

you smiled at her as her cheeks flushed and she brought a hand over the skin you just brushed with your lips.

''you liked it''

vi repeated as she stood stunned watching you nod your head, your pretty smile never leaving your face. And in that moment she knew she was a goner

streamervi: who the night after she kissed you for the first time, not a kiss on the cheek, not a peck but a proper kiss turned on her stream still high on dopamin from your date just to scream

''LESBIAN WON AGAIN!''

as she stood in front of her screen with her fist raised in the air and a stupid grin on her face.

''are u hearing this guys? sorry to break the news like this but i'm oficcially off the market ladies''

@sevikunt: ''she probably kidnapped her''

@viktorious: ''trolling''

@chadjayce: ''I refuse to live in a world where she actually get laid and i'm still single''

@pixelprincess: cute ♡

@getjinxed: FUCKING FINALLY

vi was staring at your message in the chat with a stupid lovesick grin on her face

@getjinxed: oh no she is even worse than before

#vi x you #vi x reader #arcane vi #vi arcane #vi league of legends #vi x caitlyn #arcane au #arcane s2

983 notes · View notes

cosmosluckycharms · 1 month ago

Text

Bug like angel incorrect quotes yet again

miguel version

honestly could also be read as non bug like angel idk

Kidnapper: We have your daughter

miguel: I don’t have a daughter?

Kidnapper: Then who just asked for warm milk and made us cut the crusts off her sandwich?

miguel: Oh god, you have spider!reader

spider!reader: This is miguel, he's… not my assistant, some other word.

miguel: I’m her carer.

spider!reader: Yeah, my carer. he cares so I don’t have to.

spider!reader, trying her first ever cup of coffee: I am ENERGY!

miguel, an avid coffee drinker, on his twelfth cup of the day: Someone slap me awake or I am literally going to fall into a coma in ten seconds.

miguel: spider!reader, can you help me? All of my clothes keep disappearing for some reason.

spider!reader, wearing a hoodie that's 5 times bigger than her size: Spooky.

spider!reader, very tired: Can I sleep in your bed?

miguel: *half asleep* spider!reader, this is a queen-sized bed. That means it’s for *gestures vaguely to himself* the Queen.

spider!reader: School sucks.

miguel: I know, but you have to do it so you can get a job.

spider!reader: What are jobs like?

miguel: They suck.

spider!reader: Holy shit, miguel, do you know what this means?!

miguel: Kid, whenever you start doing this, nobody knows what you mean.

miguel: Are you ever going to listen to me?

spider!reader: Yes. Absolutely.

miguel: When?

spider!reader: When you're right.

miguel: Why are you like this??

spider!reader: I used too much "No More Tears" shampoo as a kid and I haven't felt a single emotion since.

spider!reader: You believe me?

miguel: spider!reader, you’re the last good person on this planet. I‘d believe cartoon birds braided your hair this morning.

miguel: What are you doing here?

spider!reader: I could ask you the same question.

miguel: I live here. This is my house.

spider!reader: I should probably ask you a different question.

miguel: I'm going the fight the next person who insults spider!reader.

spider!reader: I hate myself.

miguel: Alright, square up.

spider!reader: Bitch.

miguel: Blocked.

spider!reader: Wait unblock me I need to tell you something.

miguel: Unblocked.

spider!reader: Bitch.

miguel: I can never give spider!reader shit because I’m jealous of them. They look at their life and say, “Sweet! This is perfect!”

miguel: I look at my life and say, “Welp. Time to get drunk.”

spider!reader: I want a trip down memory lane.

miguel: *proceeds to grab every warrior cats book they have and sets them in spider!reader's lap*

miguel: I heard you needed these?

spider!reader: YES! ALL OF THEM!

miguel: In the past year you have managed to piss off the LAPD, ATF, CIA, FBI-

spider!reader: NBA.

miguel: …?

spider!reader: Snuck into a Cliffords game.

spider!reader: I got grounded for a whole week just because I came home late.

miguel: Well, you deserved it. I mean, getting everyone's hopes up like that and then showing up again.

miguel: You’re alive.

spider!reader: No need to sound so disappointed.

spider!reader: Why does my arm shake and turn bright red when I’m eating dirt?

miguel: Why are you eating dirt?

spider!reader: Did I ask you if I should eat dirt? No, so answer my question.

miguel: spider!reader, no.

spider!reader: spider!reader, yes.

spider!reader: Here comes the lightning!

spider!reader, whispering: You've got to imagine it coming out my fingertips, wherein I am an almighty wizard.

miguel: Ok, currently imagining that. Hmm, not bad. Not bad at all.

spider!reader: Am I in trouble?

miguel: Take a guess.

spider!reader: No? miguel:

Take another guess.

spider!reader: So what’s for dinner?

miguel: I can’t tell you, it’s a soup-prise!

spider!reader: …

spider!reader: Is it soup?

miguel: I soup-pose it could be! *winks*

spider!reader: Please, enough with the soup puns!

miguel: Wow, you’re soup-per mean.

spider!reader: STOP! *one hour later*

spider!reader: It’s fucking tacos?!?!?!

miguel: spider!reader, are you drinking… drinking hydrogen peroxide?!

spider!reader: It says H2O2! That means it’s the sequel to water!

miguel: spider!reader, I beg of you. Please, PLEASE go to the doctor.

spider!reader Hey, I'm sorry. Is this OUR stab wound?

miguel: *Turns on the kitchen light*

spider!reader: *Sitting at the table, eating bread*

miguel: It’s four in the morning.

spider!reader: Turn the light back off.

spider!reader: I’m the smartest, wisest person in this group.

miguel: Really? Then why is your hand stuck in a vending machine?

spider!reader: I paid for my Mars Bar, I’m getting my Mars Bar.

spider!reader: *is throwing stones at miguel's window*

miguel: You have a phone for a reason, spider!reader!

*THUD*

miguel: DID YOU JUST THROW YOUR PHONE AT MY WINDOW?!

miguel: *very seriously* You need to stop doing weird things to cope with the stress. Going outside might help.

spider!reader: I went to the park today.

miguel: There you go! I hope you got something from that.

spider!reader: *opening their coat* This duck.

pt 1 cause theres gonna be more i js ran out of image space

#spider bat!reader #miguel x reader #miguel spiderverse #miguel o'hara #atsv miguel #miguel spiderman #spiderman 2099 #platonic #x teen!reader #x child reader #miguel ohara #spider reader #spider!reader #father figure #father figure miguel

268 notes · View notes

ghostly-bat · 2 months ago

Text

I live for Damian and Lois similarities that I wrote a whole thing about it

This is now posted on AO3 by the way!

────────────────

Clark watched. He simply watched as his son was getting yelled at by the tiny creature known as Damian Wayne.

The boys were what? Both in their 20s now? He thought, and it never ceased to amaze him just how long Jon and Damian had been in each other's lives. If he was being honest with himself, he didn't think they would have lasted this long at first. He remembered them absolutely hating each other when they first met. How Damian had basically kidnapped his own son and how Jon would go on complaining about Damian being arrogant and bossy, only for that to turn into Jon talking about how Damian was probably the strongest, most loyal, and caring person he knew, and Damian basically declaring how he'd protect Jon with his own life. It surprised him to say the least, but it was very much welcomed.

At some point, those admirations turned into affection. Clark remembered very vividly the day when a 14-year-old Jon bashfully admitted that he thought Damian was pretty; Clark nearly choked on his coffee, and Lois just smiled.

"Since... Since when was Damian pretty???" Clark was very confused, because sure, Jon would go on about how he admired Damian from time to time, but pretty!? Where was this going?

"Look, objectively speaking, Damian is a very pretty child. Look at his parents, his mom."

Lois said that last part with emphasis in her tone.

"I think it's pretty normal for Jon to start finding some of his friends attractive at this age. He's 14, and it's not Damian's fault that he takes mostly after his mom."

And it really wasn't, and perhaps Lois was right. Jon was 14, and so was Damian; it didn't have to mean anything other than an observation.

Clark relaxed a bit. Just because his son had said one little thing about his best friend's appearance didn't mean he was developing a crush on Damian Wayne...

Bruce Wayne's son...

Talia Al Ghul's son...

A bat...

"Oh my god..."

Clark was only relaxed for a good three minutes before he started spiraling again.

And Clark was right to spiral because, come two years later, at the ripe age of 16, Lois had the unfortunate luck of walking in on Jon defiling Bruce Wayne's youngest son on their family couch.

Jon froze, his eyes making contact with Lois's own, the sternness in her gaze basically reading 'Really? You should know better.' And he really should have. Jon should have heard her from miles away, should have heard his mom the second her car pulled into their apartment complex, but no, he was a bit distracted with his hands traveling up Damian's shirt and being straddled by the smaller teen as they made out.

And now here he was, staring at his mom with her arms crossed in the middle of their living room, with Damian still on top of him.

He should really move him.

"Mom... You're home early..."

"I texted you that I was coming home early."

"... Maybe call next time?" Jon said with an awkward smile, hoping that he could maybe charm his way out of this one.

"Oh, you are bold for thinking there is going to be a next time."

And with that, both boys were subjected to sitting at least five feet apart from each other, supervised until it was time for Damian to go home.

From that day on, Jon was not allowed to have Damian in his room with the door closed anymore.

And so here was Clark, staring at his 20-something-year-old son being yelled at by his significant other of at least eight years.

"I told you you didn't have to come for me! It was dangerous!! I'm not worth you getting hurt when I'm basically indestructible! How many times do we have to have this argument?!"

Jon was frustrated, if it wasn't obvious enough. Something about their mission going off track, and of course, Damian was willing to risk his life just to make sure that Jon was okay. Though Clark didn't understand why Jon was frustrated, because he was pretty sure, without a doubt, that Jon would do the exact same thing if it was Damian.

"We will have this argument as many times as it takes for you to understand that I don't care. I don't care that you're indestructible. I don't care that you can fly and have super strength and can shoot lasers from your eyes. I. Do. Not. Care. Because you, Jonathan Kent, are worth everything to me, and for you to say that you're not is the most idiotic thing you can say to me. And trust me, you've said a lot of idiotic things to me."

Clark thought that for someone so short, Damian sure had a lot to yell about. All valid, though; Damian was definitely keeping his word when it came to protecting Jon no matter what. In fact, Clark was pretty sure if this had been him and Lois, she'd yell at him all the same.

And then that's when it hit him.

Clark watched his son make his way towards him, still frustrated. Damian had already walked away after saying what he needed to say.

"Tell me, please, am I in the wrong here? Like I get where he's coming from, but does he understand that I don't think I can live with myself knowing that he'd get hurt because of me..." Jon looked at his dad with genuine concern and worry.

"You know... Damian reminds me a lot of your mom."

Jon's expression quickly went from worry to confusion.

"What?"

"Pretty sure your mom would have yelled at me the exact same way. I think she would have yelled at you the exact same way too."

"I'm so confused..."

"I'm saying that right there was your mom."

Jon watched as his dad said that last part with a bright smile on his face.

And then it hit Jon.

It had always been there, and Jon knew; he'd always known that Damian reminded him of someone. The way that they both were so independent and strong-willed, determined and persistent, intellectually curious, instinctual, and intuitive. Both so passionate about making the world a better place. And their unconditional love for him. Damian was so much like his mom, and Jon couldn't believe he didn't recognize it sooner.

"Looks like you and I have the same type."

Clark chuckled, putting an arm around his son.

"Dad, please, I really don't want to hear this right now."

"Like father, like son!"

"Daaad..."

Jon groaned into his hands.

#told myself I was going to go to sleep early but no! because this hit me randomly and I couldn't let it go #damian wayne #jonathan kent #Jondami #damijon #clark kent #superman #bruce wayne #batfam #batman #dc comics #jondami #batfamily #batman fanfiction #Writing #ghosttalk

299 notes · View notes

nikamuhlsrealwife777 · 2 months ago

Note

Anything Juju Watkins, she’s seriously underrated 🙏🏻

FOREVER YOURS - J.W.

First juju fic....kinda scared....but let me know if I should keep writing for her

"Juju...i already told you," I could feel my frustration bubbling up. Catching her in the act of kissing another girl was not on my bingo card of the year. "It's a no. I don't care what you have to say, we're done."

"baby....please...its not what it looked like," following like a lost puppy, Juju begged. I couldn't care less in the moment.

Her hand wraps around my wrist, trying to stop me from walking further away. I stopped, looking down at the contact. The calmness of her tone, it further the irritation that was brewing.

I ripped my arm from her grip, "I said I don't want to hear what you have to say. Leave me the f-"

"Y/n....calm down...okay."

"No! If you weren't sucking someone's else face...i wouldn't be acting like this!" I spun around, our eyes meeting. The hurt in her eyes made me want to calm down, but nothing was stopping the hurt that I felt. "I really thought I could trust you...and you walked all over me. My trust...my ego...my love for you. I just need some space...please."

Tears swelled in my eyes. Juju's seemed to mirror. "Okay. I can give you space," she looked down, wiping her eyes before looking back at me, "I love you."

I nod. I had nothing else to say. My legs turned me around, walking me out of the packed party. The party, that if I stayed would have burned something within me, was for the women's team defeating the undefeated UCLA. Maybe she got too cocky. But that cockiness just ruined our whole relationship.

2 weeks later....

It's been hard. I missed her more than I would like to admit. Her sarcasm used to fill the awkward moments with friends. Her jokes flowing in conversation resulting in fits of laughter. Then, her presence. It was grounding, calming, and I needed all of that in my life. But Juju was that....and she wasn't here.

I struggled to pull myself out of bed, groaning with the motion. Hating myself and the world had become a more common thing for me these days. I hated myself for not listening to the girl cause what if she really hadn't done anything. Maybe I jumped to conclusions, maybe I was a jerk, maybe I was the one who didn't deserve her. Not the other way around.

Throwing on whatever was near, I made my way out of the sloppy dorm room. Opening the door, to my surprise, I was welcomed with many holding flowers.

"uh...excuse me," he looked down at the small paper attached to the bouquet of roses, "Y/n? These are for you."

"I think you might have the wrong y/n. Nobody is gonna send me anything," I closed my door, locking before turning back around to face the guy.

"Y/n l/n....from Juju Watkins? Does that sound right?"

Shock washed over me. Why would Juju send me flowers? "Um...yeah...yeah that sounds right."

"well," he held them out, "here you go. Have a nice day, ma'am."

"than-thank you." I stood there, flowers in hand, dumbfounded. I couldn't piece together why, the woman I yelled at and refused to say 'i love you' back too, would send flowers to me.

Quickly, I read the small note attached to the stem. Hoping that it would tell me why she would.

'I know your probably not happy with me...but I wanted to send you flowers (even tho Valentine's day was a little while ago...) for V' day. I would never not get you something....but I figured it would have been stupid to send something right after everything went down. Just know, I'm sorry that what happened happened. I'm always ready to talk whenever you are. I love you too much to not wait. Love, Juju'

"it's not too much is it?" Her voice rang through my ears, my head snapping up to meet the girl I've been missing tremendously.

Juju.

Sniffling, I pulled her into a tight embrace, "I've missed you so much." The words mumbled into my shoulder. Her arms tighten their hold on around me, pulling me impossibly closer.

"I've missed you too," a broken chuckle fell from my lips, "even if I don't necessarily like you right now."

Juju's body tensed, "can we talk about...what happened, please?"

I nodded, escaping her hold to unlock the door. Opening it, I step in allowing Juju to follow.

"I'm so sorry you saw me kiss another girl....but I didn't kiss her. She kissed me. I was drunk...she was drunk....she thought I was into her....so she took her shot. I pushed her off of me, but she latched back on as you walked in. I wish I could've been able to stop you from seeing it. I would have told you what happened....i just wish everything would have went down another way. I'm sorry baby." Juju was almost begging for forgiveness. Her words sinking in, my brain deciding whether to trust her or not. Something in the way she let everything just crash through whatever dam was holding it in convinced me, convinced me that she was telling the truth.

"okay."

"okay?"

"I accept your apology and now I want kisses to make up for it," I held my arms out, hoping the girl would just go with it. To my liking, she did.

"God I've wanted to kiss you for weeks," a smirk settled on her lips, well, before her lips crashed onto mine.

My arms snaked around her neck as her hands fell to my waist. Her grip tight and dominant, almost like she would never let me go. Our lips moved against each other like they were made to be kissed by the other. A feeling of familiarity settled within me. Thoughts seemed to not form properly, other than one thought. We were meant to be, and nothing was going to get in the way of that again.

Once we were both on the verge of not breathing, we broke apart. Smiles stretched across both of our faces as the realization set in.

"I love you more than anything," I whispered, resting my head on her shoulder. Juju's arms pulling me into a hug, the warmth of her embrace calming me. The grounding feeling I had been missing not even an hour ago.

"I love you too, Y/n. More than my own life," the words seemed to effect me more than they had ever before. I felt like she truly meant it.

Nothing would ever break my trust in her again.

------------

A/n : ha...ha....if this is trash, let me know and I won't ever write for juju again.

But if y'all like....let me know and I'll definitely write for her again.

(I'm truly in love with this woman....shes another one of my wives.)

#wbb #wnba basketball #wcbb #womens basketball #wbb x reader #juju watkins x reader #juju watkins

226 notes · View notes

hongjoongspoetry · 29 days ago

Text

Sparks and Bruises | Song Mingi

🥊 Summary: In a world where everyone at the age of eighteen gets a metal meter implanted on their wrist that shows the amount of danger your soulmate is in. You and Mingi have known each other since high school, but went through a nasty fallout after his love for boxing turned into a dangerous gamble with his life as the price. Years later, you stumble over his injured form on the doorstep of your apartment building. Not having the heart to turn him away like all those years ago, you invite him inside with the intention to clean his wounds, but get a lot more than you bargained for.

🥊 Pairing(s): Underground boxer!Mingi x Real estate agent!Reader, brief Hongjoong x Seonghwa

🥊 Genres/Tropes: Soulmate AU, non-idol AU, second chance AU, fluff, exes to friends to lovers, angst (more than what I planned on)

🥊 Warnings/Tags: female reader, no use of (Y/N), reader is allergic to peanuts so go with it for the plot, brief description of bruises and cuts, explicit language, crying, kissing, car accident, pet names (love, sugar, sweets), mentioned hospital, flashbacks, not beta read

🥊 Wordcount: 12.5K

🥊 Author's Note: Click the image for a better resolution (Tumblr I hate you). I just got off work (it's like 10 pm here), so I'm super tired and can barely keep my eyes open. Anyway, this is the last instalment of the Cherry Blossom March Event and while I'm sad it's over, I'm also happy because now I can focus on finishing my other stories!! A big thank you to everyone who took the time out of their day to read, leave notes and comments on my works <3 Btw I am no real estate agent and everything you read in this fic is based on excessive research (which could very well be wrong).

This is all fiction and not meant to represent any idols involved in any way or form. This work is rated SFW, however it contains explicit scenes, not sexual content but descriptions of minor injuries as well as matures themes. Minors, please, read at your own risk and refrain from interacting or following my blog!

AO3 Masterpost Moodboard

The arrow inside the plate on your wrist, no bigger than a lighter, irregularly traveled back and forth, going from one end of the meter to the other. For some, it would be worrisome and concerning, but for you, it was the opposite. You had yet to meet your soulmate. The person responsible for the occasional spike in your soulometer — the metal chip showing how much danger your soulmate was in. A mandatory procedure ordered by the government a couple of decades ago, probably one of the dumbest things the rulers of the world ever implemented into society.

“We have thought it over and… We’ll sign the contract!”

You were startled as the couple attending your showing returned from their not-so-private discussion on the other side of the kitchen. The faceless person you were supposedly destined to be with — as much as a machine could decide your destiny — occupied your thoughts more often than not, even while at work.

You put on your million-dollar smile and clasped your hands together. “Perfect. Shall we set a date for you to sign the papers then?”

The couple was expecting and in need of a bigger place than their flat, which could barely fit the two of them. After many buts and ifs, the newly wed pair eagerly agreed and a date was set. You didn’t usually have showings late into the night, but considering the husband worked early mornings until late evenings, and the wife wanted him to be present, you made an exception. Money was money, after all, and you were always in need of it.

Declining their offer to drive you home, you bid the happy couple goodbye and locked up after yourself. The apartment wasn’t too far from your place and you didn't think it would be necessary to order a cab for a ten minute walk despite it being quite late. The stiletto heels you decided to wear that morning made it feel like thirty instead and you quickly regretted being a cheapskate. Why did you have to make your life more insufferable than it already was? You only needed the sky to open up and let a waterfall of rain seep down on Seoul. At least you were smart enough to wear pants and a turtleneck instead of a dress or skirt. Despite it being late March where flowers decorated the bland parks and the trees grew out their long-awaited hair again, it felt like the start of winter.

“This is what you get for listening to Iggy Azalea,” you hissed to yourself as a familiar burn spread through your pinky toes and the back of your feet.

A crazed laughter cut through the chilly air and you automatically reached for the phone in your purse. Setting the ringtone as your best friend’s giggle was a good idea when you were still in high school and just recently turned eighteen. It wasn’t as fun when you were a woman of twenty-something-something years old with an image to uphold and your face plastered on a few boards all through town with your phone number scribbled beneath in big, bold font followed by a text literally begging people to reach out. You swore to change it every time someone called, but the thought always got lost in the shuffle of your other hundred tasks waiting to be done.

You braced yourself for it to be another client calling in the dead of night, but it turned out to be one of your saved contacts. Swiping right and putting the phone up to your ear, you answered with a tired, “Hello.”

“Finally! She answers!”

“Some of us still have work, Hongjoong. Do you know how many times I had to apologize for my ringtone?”

The identical maniac laugh recorded into your phone years ago, erupted from the device and you rolled your eyes.

“And yet you never change it. After all these years, you still have my voice as your ringtone… That’s quite romantic.”

“Watch it or I’ll have a wild Park come for my head.”

“Seonghwa would never do that.” You let the line fall silent and Hongjoong could hear your pointed look on the other side. “Okay, he probably would. Where are you anyways?! I can hear cars in the background.”

So the bass boosted headphones hadn’t ruined his hearing yet. All those times he ignored you were on purpose then. Good to know.

“I’m on my way home from work. Had a showing a few minutes ago and it went well actually.”

Another voice accompanied Hongjoong on the other line, but you couldn’t quite make out the words.

“Seonghwa is scolding you for not calling one of us to drive you home and I have to agree with him, sprout. It’s not safe to be out this late.”

The nickname sent you down memory lane dating all the way back to middle school, when you and Hongjoong were the shortest kids in class but didn’t let that hinder you from showing off your talents and wits. Hongjoong a smart kid who excelled in everything from math to musical history while you burned everyone in debates, presentations, speeches, basically anything relate to public speaking. Hence your choice of profession.

“I know, but it really slipped my mind and it’s not even that far from my flat, I promise. Like I’m almost there, just a few more minutes. I can practically see the building lights from here.”

“Good. Stay with me on the call until you enter though. Now, let me tell you about this guy who tried to steal my laptop…”

If he could, Hongjoong would have talked for hours which was quite rare. The man was usually drained from being cooped up in his studio all day, running on zero sleep and five iced coffees. It was in fact how you became friends.

The kid with round chipmunk cheeks and a menacing smile approached the girl sitting in the back of the class, not making a peep. Hongjoong kicked up a conversation by complimenting the pink bows in your hair — a little detail none of your other classmates had noticed, let alone found them pretty — and offering you a peanut butter cookie that you sadly had to decline because of your allergies. Instead of ending the interaction at your meek thank you, Hongjoong took it as an official proposition of becoming friends. Seven year old Hongjong refused to go back to his seat and even nearly threw a tantrum in class, leaving the homeroom teacher with no other choice than to make you seatmates.

You and Hongjoong quickly became a duo. Wherever you went, he followed. It marked the start of a long lasting friendship you wouldn’t trade for the world.

“...Can you imagine that?! He grabbed my stuff and proceeded to lie straight to my face!”

You hummed into the phone at his rambling. A smile graced your face as you neared your apartment building, but disappeared quickly. Hongjoong’s voice became background noise as you slowed down. A figure dressed in all black and a hood thrown over their head sat at the doorsteps. Both arms planted on their knees and head shoved into the palms of their hands. The person was on the taller side and looked quite buff beneath the baggy clothes. You didn’t recognize them as one of your neighbours, but the swooping feeling in your stomach hinted on something else.

Not heeding Hongjoong’s previous warning of being cautious, you decided to approach the stranger. The clicking of your heels interrupted the peaceful silence of the night and the person immediately looked in your direction. Sharp and angry eyes met yours, and the furious spark swirling in them morphed into surprise. Your heart jumped in your throat as you recognized the person. Of all the people in the world, you certainly didn’t expect to find him at your doorstep.

“Hongjoong? I’ll have to call you back.”

“What? Why? What happened?”

“Nothing– Or well, something, but nothing dangerous– I’ll just call you back okay?”

“...You sure?”

“Yes, one hundred percent.”

“Okay. Talk to you later then.”

You quickly pressed the red button and lowered your phone. The man was still staring at you, the fear that his imagination was playing a trick on him lingering. That if he looked away, you’d disappear from his line of sight.

Sweat spread along your palms and your pulse was loud in your ears as you walked up to the man.

“Mingi?”

He scrambled up to his feet and took hold of the railing with one hand while the other pressed against his left rib and a surprised wince slipped through his lips.

“Long time no see, huh?”

Your eyes darted all over him. Red and blue blemishes covered almost the entire surface of his face and trickles of sweat ran down the side of his face. You didn’t want to think what hid beneath his clothes.

The last time you saw him was all the way back in high school. A scrawny boy with legs for days, but the coordination of a newborn foal and a smile that lit up your world. The man before you grew into his big features and lost the youthful look. The pointy nose and plump lips were still there, but accompanied by prominent cheekbones, a sharp jaw, a piercing gaze and a chiseled face that wasn’t the shape of a triangle. His hair, once black and short, was now a dark shade of brown and longer than ever, reaching below his nape and bangs falling over his brows. A lot in his appearance changed, but the cuts and bruises remained, pouring acid on your tongue.

Ignoring the bitterness pooling in your stomach, you decided to keep the conversation civil. A stark contrast to how your last encounter went.

”Are you… alright?”

“Yeah, no, I was on my way home, but just needed to sit down…”

You weren’t going to pry despite clearly seeing he was anything but alright. If he didn’t want to tell you, who were you to force him?

Offering him a light smile, you tried keeping the tone light. “What are the odds of you sitting on my doorstep, huh?”

“Yeah… How long has it been since…”

“Four? Five? Five years.”

Mingi whistled lowly and a silence occupied the street. Everyone decided to stay in as no cars or other people lingered around. You wouldn’t say it was uncomfortable, but it wasn’t pleasant either and you didn’t know what to do. Leaving him out in the cold wasn’t an option, but inviting him didn’t sound right either. After a long fight between your brain and heart, you decided to listen to the beating organ in your chest.

“Wanna… come up? To my apartment.”

Mingi looked up at you through his fringe and the soft roundness to his eyes teleported you back to high school. Keeping your composure, you hastily added on to the sentence.

“T-To, to clean up and maybe have something to eat?”

Had someone asked you five years ago what you’d say to Mingi if the opportunity presented itself, you surely wouldn’t have invited him to your home or offered him a free meal. The most he’d get out of you would be a one-finger salute. Fast forward one thousand eight hundred and twenty five days and Mingi was lent a helping hand instead. It was enough time for you to mature into a more rational woman who could, for better or for worse, put her feelings aside and think with her brain.

Mirrors surrounded the entire inside of the elevator, even on the doors, and you held back from laughing at the reflection. There couldn’t have been an odder pair than you two. Mingi, dressed in all black with colorful blotches decorating his intimidating face, and you, wearing designer from head to toe. Even your bags were opposites — his a dingy gym bag that was a thread away from falling apart and yours from the recent Louis Vuitton collection. It was quite a funny look, but not a bone in your body vibrated with glee.

As the elevator doors closed and the mechanism carried you up the many flights of stairs, the reality dawned upon you. A multitude of questions you hadn’t thought of before inviting Mingi inside popped up like mosquitoes during summer nights — annoying, but unavoidable. The poor attempt of convincing yourself it was just a kind gesture, a friend helping a friend, you couldn’t shoo away the nagging fact that nothing of your and Mingi’s past was platonic. Shame and guilt curled in the pit of your stomach. Knowing your soulmate was out there somewhere, probably waiting for you, while you were cozying up to a man who wasn’t meant to be yours in the first place was sickening.

The ding of your arrival sounded through the speakers and you quickly went first with Mingi hot on your heels. Unlocking your front door, you threw the keys in a bowl the shape of a fish — a housewarming gift from Hongjoong — and stripped your outerwear. It was first when you put your stuff aside that you realized Mingi was still standing by the door and hadn’t moved since crossing the threshold. The man was shamelessly taking in his surroundings and you wondered what he thought of your apartment. Was it to his liking? Did it suit you? Did he like it? Why did you care?

“Uhm, you can just hang your stuff here,” you gestured to the coat rack mounted to the wall, “while I get dinner ready.”

You didn’t wait around to see him subtly nod, instead you made an escape to the safety of your kitchen. It was weird having Mingi over. It was weird being civil to one another. The tension was still there since your last encounter, like static in the air that wouldn’t really go away. The soft pad of feet grew louder and you threw a look over your shoulder to see Mingi in the doorway, his bottom lip caught between his teeth and eyes darting all over the place. Aside from his appearance, it seemed that his habits hadn’t changed — good as bad — but it wasn’t your place to pry. Not anymore.

“Is it alright if I… wash up now?”

A heat crawled up your neck and attacked your cheeks. “Y–Yeah, of course!” You cleared your throat and continued, “The bathroom is on the left of the hallway and there are towels in the cupboard above the washing machine.”

Mingi nodded, but didn’t budge from his spot. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants and leaned against the doorframe to take on a relaxed posture, yet he looked anything but relaxed.

“I… I– Uhm, don’t… I kinda don’t have a spare set of clothes to change into…”

“Oh… Oh!”

“Yeah,” he inhaled sharply through his teeth, a low hiss escaping as he tried to ignore the stiff atmosphere.

“That’s alright! I think I have something you can use. Uhm, you can start washing up while I see what I can do.”

Rummaging through your closet for your brother’s clothes to lend Mingi wasn’t something you ever imagined doing in all your years of living, but here you were. Hunched over, searching like a madwoman for an extra hoodie and some basketball shorts or a pair of sweatpants that wouldn’t be too small on the giant currently occupying your bathroom. Your brother had been in your apartment a grand total of three times and by some stroke of luck, he’d left behind clothes he thought might come in handy for his next visit. Who knew they’d be useful for more than just that?

You didn’t find a hoodie, but you did spot a black compression shirt and a pair of matching sweatpants that would have to do. You just hoped they wouldn’t be too tight. To be on the safe side, you even snagged one of your brother’s boxers. It was one thing to share clothes and another thing to share underwear, but if you got to choose, you’d happily accept the fresh pair instead of reusing your sweaty undies. The choice was up to Mingi in the end. With the clothes neatly folded in your hands, you marched toward the bathroom and triple knocked on the door.

“Uh, I found some clothes you can use!”

The harsh drops of the shower abruptly stopped and you patiently waited for a response, but nothing came. You raised your hand, fingers balled into a fist, and as you swung it forward to knock again, the door suddenly opened. A cloud of steam escaped from the hot bathroom and Mingi’s very naked body appeared in the slight opening. His stomach was a perfect display of muscle, each of the six abs sculpted like marble. You would’ve ogled longer hadn’t the raspberry and plum colored blemishes covered a huge part of his toned skin. His hair dripped on the tiled floor and a white towel hung dangerously low on his hips. The warmth tickling your whole body evaporated into a numbing cold at the bruises. Swallowing nervously, you forced your eyes back up.

Mingi flicked his head sideways to move the wet strands from his face and his tongue darted out to lap at his dry lips, a motion you followed attentively. The raise of his brow, a silent question urging you to speak up, had you stumbling over your words.

“S–So, I... I, uh, found something you can… change into!”

The clothes were thrust harshly into his bare chest, and Mingi nearly dropped the towel in order to catch them. Before he could utter so much as a "thanks," you bolted back to the kitchen and whipped out leftovers from last night. Anything to keep you busy and distracted from the jaw-dropping image that refused to leave you alone. Mingi eventually joined you in the kitchen. He leaned against the counter beside the stove, where you guarded the kimchi stew from overheating, and crossed his arms over his chest. The already prominent muscles grew more defined beneath the tight fabric. It was difficult to ignore his gaze peering down at you, and you couldn’t decide if your cheeks flared from a natural bodily reaction or from the heat of the stove.

The circular table behind you was already set, with a pair of utensils and plates aligned opposite each other. You removed the pot and placed it in the center of the table, silently beckoning Mingi to take a seat. His hair was still wet, but not dripping and despite wearing clothes, you couldn’t muster up the courage to look him in the eyes. The late dinner was done in a deafening silence interrupted by the clink of utensils and lip smacking. Not able to bear the thickness in the air, you cleared your throat and asked the first thing to pop up in your mind.

“Um… do you... want me to treat your bruises?”

The confidence you spent years mastering and using in your daily life deflated like a dramatic balloon flying around the room until it fell limply on the floor. Mingi was mid shoving food into his mouth and froze as soon as the words reached his ears. His lips were parted enough for you to catch a glimpse of his slightly crooked front tooth and a wave of nostalgia hit you square in the nose. The man before you had changed so much, yet not at all.

Mingi took a bite of the kimchi and rice to buy himself time to think your proposal over. It wasn’t a bad shout as you did have experience treating his wounds considering you were the one tending to him back in high school. He slowly chewed and swallowed, and you were starting to regret ever opening your mouth.

“Sure,” he answered while giving his full attention to the bowl of stew before him and you couldn’t have been more relieved. He didn’t have to see the way you bit the inside of your cheek, tightly gripped your spoon or raised your brows to your hairline.

The rest of the meal was eaten in silence and for once, you didn’t care if it wrapped around your throat and suppressed the air from entering your lungs. This was all so surreal. There wasn’t a day where you thought you’d be eating left-over kimchi stew with your ex-boyfriend and then agree to treat his wounds — the thing that drove you apart all those years ago. The universe worked in a funny way. Instead of bringing you closer to your soulmate, it led you straight to the past.

Putting the bowls in the sink, you gestured for Mingi to return to the bathroom while you put away the dishes. It hadn’t dawned on you that by helping Mingi treat his wounds, you’d have to merge your personal bubbles into one and actually touch him, even if it was as much as a graze of your fingertips along his skin.

Rounding the corner of the hallway and stopping before the entrance to the bathroom with a medkit in your hands, you were caught off guard by the image before you. Mingi was seated on the toilet lid, hunched over with his forearms resting on his thighs. You could see the top of his head — something you rarely did back in high school — as he faced the tiled floor. A swoop in your stomach urged you to run your fingers through his strands, but the impulse was quickly shut down. You stepped into the bathroom with feigned confidence. Mingi looked up as your sock-clad feet came into view, your big toes wiggling nervously. You placed the kit on the sink and grabbed the things you needed, starting with alcohol wipes. There wasn’t much you could do about the colored bruises already turning an ugly shade of yellow and purple, but the few cuts — like the one on his bottom lip and around his eyebrows — were easier to treat.

“This may sting,” you whispered, shuffling closer to him.

Mingi parted his legs to give you better access to his face. You put a finger beneath his chin and tilted it upward before gently dabbing the wipe against his brow ridge. A hiss filled the bathroom, but you didn’t stop cleaning the wound. Despite not being in this situation since high school, when Mingi would get his ass beat in the boxing ring and show up at your door with new cuts adorning his face every other weekend, you still remembered all the steps of the treatment. They were etched into your spine and controlled your limbs without a strain.

Your lips were pressed into a thin line, your brows almost touching from how deeply furrowed they were and Mingi wanted to smooth out the skin between them, but did no such thing. Instead, he diverted his attention elsewhere and focused on your lips, which he’d argue was the worse choice of the two. Scooping a generous amount of ointment on a Q-tip, you dabbed it on the cut and finished it off with a small band-aid that smoothly blended in with his hue. You tried to put off treating his lips, but apparently even Mingi had a limit to how many punches to the face he could take, and you eventually had to bite the sour apple and just get it over with.

It had been silent since you warned him about the sting from the alcohol wipes, broken only by a few of his grunts and hisses. Yet, the silence never felt as loud as it did in that moment when you cupped his chin in your left hand and stared intently at his plump lips. A determined heat swirled in your eyes and Mingi couldn’t look away. It took everything in him not to instinctively bite down on his bottom lip or run his tongue over it.

“Relax your lips,” you said, brushing your thumb along the bottom row.

You didn’t realize what you had done until a second later and Mingi couldn’t chuckle at your appalled expression, as he was equally frozen in place. Both of you were left wide-eyed, mouths hanging open and brains going haywire. A pleading sparkle glimmered in his dark eyes, but you refused to give in, keeping your focus on his lips — lips that were so kissable. Warmth washed over you and there was nothing you wanted more than for the ground to swallow you whole. The weight of his burning eyes was too heavy for you to bear, so you tried to redirect the attention by doing the one thing you did best — talking.

“Are you still fighting?”

It seemed to do the trick as Mingi broke out of the captivating spell. In an exhausted tone, the one you’d hear between a couple constantly bickering and reaching their end, he breathed out your name.

“I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”

You hastily applied the ointment and retracted your hand, but Mingi was faster. He grabbed your wrist, his thumb landing on the soulometer in the quick act and an electric crackle burst where your skin connected. A beat or two passed before he decided to speak up.

“I am fighting, just not as much… I kinda feel bad for my soulmate.” The corner of his mouth pulled up in a faint smirk and a chuckle followed at his poor attempt of easing the awkward air.

Your heart dropped into your stomach and you didn’t think it was possible for it to go any further from there, but hearing the rest of his sentence proved you wrong. Before the hollow feeling could reflect on your face, you forced the corners of your lips up in a fabricated smile. An identical smile to the one caught in a multiple of billboards all over Seoul.

“I wish mine would do the same. They always seem to find themselves in some trouble.”

A thick gulp ventured down his throat and the shaking panic in his eyes morphed into a forced calm. “I’m sure if they knew you were this worried, they’d stop running headfirst into danger.”

Five years had passed since the soulometer was injected into your wrist, enough time for your soulmate to change their ways, to stop giving their other half constant fear every night. Yet, it wasn’t the distance or the lack of knowledge about each other’s lives that weighed on your heart. The true reason lay deeper — your soulmate simply didn’t care enough to stop or perhaps they lacked the means to break free from the dangerous path they’d chosen. It was never about being physically apart, but about the emotional distance — the helplessness of knowing that, despite everything, they continued to surround themselves with danger. You didn’t have the heart to confide in Mingi about it, to express the quiet ache you carried, because saying it aloud would mean admitting that the person you loved was still caught in a cycle they couldn’t escape, or didn’t want to.

Truthfully, Mingi was also the last person you wanted to confide in about the matter.

“I guess so.”

The brief and accidental encounter with Mingi was supposed to stay a long lost media in your brain, cluttered together with other minor memories. That was what you told yourself as Mingi left your apartment, sweaty clothes in a trash bag and belly full of warm leftovers. The version of him you remembered from all those years ago still lived on in your imagination, the bitter note of how everything ended, a constant reminder as to why the encounter should just be that — short, consistent and insignificant. As the morning sun peeked from between the high buildings and the dark sky bleed out to a baby blue hue, you’d return to your everyday life of selling apartments while the dishwasher rinsed the memory of what occurred in the space of your four walls.

The open PDF on the computer screen illuminated your face and the bazillion numbers would’ve been overwhelming if your mind wasn’t occupied by the thoughts of a certain man with feline-shaped eyes and annoyingly juicy lips. Whatever you did — drown yourself in work, spend time with Hongjoong and Seonghwa, try out the new restaurant in town — nothing was good enough to forget Song Mingi and that night. The situation just felt so right. A domestic reality you yearned for since you graduated high school and moved into your own flat. The wish to have someone by your side, to stuff your face in greasy food, stay up late at night and watch a plethora of rom-coms while cuddled up to them, and sleep until the sun was high in the sky. Mingi re-awakened those feelings you locked away in a chamber behind your heart.

A stack of papers fell on your desk with a thud and pulled you out of your wishful thinking. Jongho, your freakishly strong colleague, plopped down on a vacant plush sofa that was mainly there for clients to use while discussing potential deals.

“You excited to get drinks after work?” He asked, tugging on his perfectly made necktie.

You massaged your forehead, completely having forgotten about the collective outing you and your co-workers had every month. “Is that today?”

“Whoa, don’t tell me you, the most unforgettable person I know, forgot about our end-of-the-month-party!? Woo is gonna have a blast when I tell him!”

Jongho didn’t question your sudden loss of memory at first. The younger agent found the situation perfect for a round of teasing or perhaps even as future blackmail material. Concern flashed in his eyes when you made no attempt to defend your honor and instead buried the rest of your face in the palms of your hands.

“Hey… is everything… alright?”

“Yeah… No? I don’t know.”

Something was really wrong because you were never tired. In fact, Jongho had never seen you without a smile or a spring in your step. You were always collected, whether it was your clothes, hair or mood. Fire alarms went off in his head and plans be damned if he didn’t at least try to figure out what was going on. It was easier said than done, though, because he didn’t know how to approach the topic and ended up sitting there with his mouth parted like a fish out of water. The overthinking was starting to trigger a headache, so he settled on the simplest, but hopefully, most effective question he could think of.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“No.” Your reply was instantaneous. “I need to not think about it.”

A mischievous gummy smile spread across his face. “You just signed yourself up for regret, my dear friend.”

As you were about to ask to elaborate, he cupped his hands around his mouth and called out for the biggest menace in the company.

“Wooyoung-ya!”

Albeit curious, the pair didn’t try to fish out context clues or the story behind your emotional state. Wooyoung lived up to Jongho’s promise of making you regret joining them for drinks and it didn't stop there. They both continuously visited your office throughout the rest of the shift. Wooyoung would nonchalantly enter the room as if he didn’t have anything up his sleeve, step up to the window and inspect the wilted plant burning up from being in the sunlight for too long, when he was actually throwing you curious glances from the corner of his eye. Then, before quickly taking his leave, he’d subtly slide you a packet of gummies and run as if his life depended on it. One would believe you were engaging in some shady transaction that would definitely make you both lose your real estate license.

Jongho was a different story. The youngest of the trio wasn’t good with his words, but the affection could be read through his actions. Although they were questionable. He, too, invaded your room in subtle fashion and touched everything that didn’t require human contact — your Sanrio figurines, picture frames, ornaments still up from Christmas. While it was annoying in the moment, their antics kept you from circling back to the one person who had made his grand return after five years of radio silence. Good thing you hadn’t planned on rekindling that flame ever again. But what was written in your calendar didn’t align with the universe.

The happy hour had ended a while ago, and while Jongho and Wooyoung made sure to get you home first, your stomach rumbled the second you stepped foot into the apartment. What better meal to have in a tipsy state than some ramen?

The trip to the corner shop was supposed to be quick and relaxing — a weak attempt to distract yourself from the headache blooming at the back of your head. Perhaps that was why you weren’t fully aware of your surroundings, stumbling into racks displaying different flavors of chips and accidentally knocking things out of place. You purposefully ignored the scorching gaze of the cashier and hastily moved to hide between the aisles. But what you didn’t expect was for another figure to round the opposite corner, causing you to bump headfirst into them. The ramen cups and energy drinks piled up in their basket tumbled to the floor, and you quickly crouched down to gather as many things as your arms would allow.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!”

The person didn’t say anything and you expected them to be very annoyed, but that wasn’t the case. The familiar face looking down at you with a tight-lipped smile caused you to freeze on the spot.

“Hey.” Mingi flared his fingers in what was supposed to resemble a wave, but it came off more awkward than intended.

A painful cramp fluttered at the back of your neck as the position wasn’t the most comfortable, your head craned uncomfortably as you looked up at him, the strain making it feel like it might snap at any moment. Yeah, the university wasn’t on your side.

“Here.”

He knelt down to be at your level, though it would never really match, and urged you to place the belongings in the basket. It was impossible to tear your eyes from him, but Mingi didn’t notice your stare as he gathered the unscattered snacks and drinks in the carrier. Once was a coincidence, twice is a pattern, you thought and swallowed thickly.

“Alright, let’s stand up.”

He rested his arm on his propped-up knee, while the other hand was held out for you to take. On a count of three, you both stood up simultaneously and your hand immediately returned to your side.

“What are you doing here?”

The question came off more like an interrogation than a casual inquiry and you winced at your loose tongue. Mingi didn’t seem to care though.

“Nothing much, just wanted a late night snack.” As if you didn’t understand, he grabbed one of the ten ramen cups in his basket and gently shook it. The contents rattling together and overpowering the whirring sound of the freezers. “What about you?”

“Ah, same here…”

Mingi glanced down at your empty hands and smacked his lips together, “Cool.”

“Yeah…”

The young cashier who couldn’t be older than a high school graduate nearly suffocated from the sudden thickness in the convenience store.

“Uhm, you gonna get anything?”

“What? Oh! Right! Let me just…” You trailed off and darted over to the refrigerators, grabbing the first thing that came into view.

You snagged a bag of shrimp chips on your way back too. Banana milk and shrimp chips, what a combination! The reasons for your late-night adventure had started with the craving for ramen, but somewhere between the aisle mishap and the distraction of other snacks, the noodles had been completely forgotten. In the meantime, Mingi moved over to the cashier register and patiently waited for the kid to scan his items.

You shuffled behind him and Mingi turned sideways, one of his brows cocked up. “Here, give me that.”

Before you could protest or dodge his advances, the items in your hands were stolen from beneath your nose and placed on the counter.

“Hey, no, I can pay for that.”

“Don’t worry.”

“Mingi–”

“I said don’t worry about it.” There was a certain finality to his tone that told you there was no point in further arguing. Mingi swiped his card as the cashier packed your things in two separate plastic bags.

Standing outside the Seven-Eleven, you stuffed your hands into the pockets of your coat, the handles of the bag clinging to your wrist. “You didn’t have to do that. I can pay for myself.”

Mingi’s breath escaped in a cloud of vapor, lingering in the cold air before it dissolved into the sky. The corner of his mouth lifted into a one-sided grin.

“I know.”

Never letting you pay for anything was just another addition to the long list of habits he still clung to since high school. Mingi really hadn’t changed, and you couldn’t deny the disappointment that settled in as you witnessed it.

“Good. Then I’m leaving now. Good night.” You turned on your heel and began walking in the direction of your home.

“W–Wait! Let me walk you home.”

You didn’t spare him a glance. “No need for that. This is one of the safest neighborhoods in Seoul, actually.”

Another ‘I know’ died on his lips. If anyone on this earth knew how out of danger you were, it would be Mingi.

“T–That’s good, but... it would help me sleep at night if I knew you got home safely.”

After all this time, you still had a hard time telling him no. Sighing, you shrugged your shoulders in defeat, your resistance crumbling despite yourself. “Fine, you can walk me home.”

The walk was short, but lasted longer than ever and you were regretting your choices of not standing your ground against him. You would never admit it out loud, but his dimpled smile and two moles were your greatest weakness and there was no way you’d ever win against them.

Mingi cleared his throat. “What have you been up to? You know, since high school.”

“Have you thought about what college to apply for?” Mingi asked and intertwined his fingers across his abdomen.

“I don’t know,” you told him truthfully.

You lay on the grass, staring up at the night sky. The black canvas was dotted with a million, billion stars, leaving no space untouched. It had been Mingi’s idea to go stargazing, but considering neither of you had a driver’s license or the energy to trek up a mountain in the middle of the night, you figured the view wouldn’t be any different from your backyard.

He turned to you and followed the outline of your profile. God, you were beautiful. “Really? How come?”

“I don’t know. I feel like there are so many options, like how will I know what’s good for me.”

“Whatever you choose, sugar, you’ll figure it out. You always do.” Now it was your turn to face him and he flashed you a reassuring smile.“Sometimes, the best choice is the one that feels right in the moment.”

“...Being with you feels right.”

Nothing could compare to back then. Sure, you experienced fleeting moments of happiness, but they didn’t last longer than the life of a snowflake. Did Mingi ask that to see if you were still stuck in the past? If your time together was the peak of your happiness? He didn’t get to do that. To slither his way into your heart and admire everything you had been through without him by your side.

“Nothing special. I’m a real estate agent, so I’ve been busy selling houses and apartments.”

“Nothing special my ass. That’s amazing. But what is expected of the smartest girl in our high school, huh? I always knew you’d achieve great things.”

Blood pooled beneath your cheeks, burning hotter than a fever of thirty-nine degrees, and you hated how, despite everything, he still turned you into a giddy high school girl who made eye contact with her crush. To be fair, it wasn’t too far from the truth and that was a scary realization on its own. All it took was a measly compliment and you turned to mush.

“What about you? What are you doing these days?”

A silence stretched between you far heavier than anything you had ever felt before. It was as if the question had torn through some fragile barrier, leaving him exposed. His eyes, once sharp and filled with glee, now seemed distant, as though searching for something lost. You could feel the weight of the pause, like a storm brewing in the space between you. What was he really doing these days? More importantly, what had he been doing all this time out of your reach?

“A little bit of everything. Anything I can get my hands on, really.”

“You didn’t study after high school?”

“You know school wasn’t my strongest suit. Stuffy classrooms and obnoxious teachers talking my ear off never got me anywhere, I mean, I barely passed high school. I was more comfortable with my hands in motion and figuring things out as I went. School was ever it for me. It always felt like I was waiting for something that never came.”

Mingi wasn’t wrong. Although he was a smart kid, staying awake studying until the dead of night and then working an underpaid nine-to-five job wasn’t for him. But you couldn’t shake away the bitterness of how he threw away the opportunity of a normal life with you for a bloody ring and a life of unpredictability. The punches he took in that world weren’t just physical — they hit somewhere deeper, somewhere you couldn’t reach. You had always wanted something more stable, something real to hold on to, but Mingi had chosen the chaos, the fight, over everything else. Perhaps that was why the universe decided not to tie your red string to his pinky, knowing it would hurt you more than his decision.

Coming to a stop outside your apartment, the memory of your first encounter after a few years still fresh in your mind.

“Like boxing?”

Mingi’s eyes softened, but he didn’t speak, his mouth pressing into a thin line. The silence between you both was heavy, filled with things unsaid. It was the kind of silence that made your heart ache, knowing that there was so much left unresolved between you, yet you couldn’t find the words to fix it.

“Good night, Mingi,” you finally said, taking a shaky breath as you turned back to your door again.

The finality in your tone hung in the air like a weight neither of you could lift. You didn’t look back as you reached for the door handle, but you knew Mingi was still there, standing in the same place, holding onto the same regrets.

Reaching your apartment, you flicked on the lights and quickly discarded your outerwear. You turned on the switches in every room and placed the bag of goods on the kitchen table.

Disappointment fueled every movement. Grabbing a pot from the lower cupboard, you filled it with water, not caring as it splashed everywhere. When you set it down on the stove, you didn’t bother being careful, letting it thud onto the surface. You waited — oh-so-patiently — for the water to reach its boiling point and shoved a hand into the plastic bag. The expected rustling of plastic and cold drinks didn’t come. Instead, you felt the hard, smooth texture of something else. Knitting your brows together, you took hold of the square object, no bigger than a container of pudding.

In your palm was a plastic box of peeled and cut oranges.

Your head rested on your folded arms, eyes cast on the baby-blue sky taunting you from behind the windows. It was a beautiful day. What a shame you were stuck in a room with thirty other kids and no air conditioning. Your homeroom teacher was late — an uncanny occurrence, considering she always emphasized the importance of being on time and never failed to follow through. Until today.

The door to the classroom slid open with a thud, but the class had yet to quiet down, and by that single reaction, you knew it wasn’t Ms. Choi who had entered. The previously loud chatter of your friend group turned into hushed whispers and skittish snickers that reached your ears, but you didn’t bother to see what had gotten them so giggly. It was probably Jihoon, the new boy in class, who effortlessly managed to twirl every girl around his finger with just a look. He wasn’t your type — you preferred them tall, lanky, and clumsy. Jihoon was on the shorter side and had muscles that seemed unnatural for a sixteen-year-old. Plus, you weren’t into soccer boys. No, your style was more martial arts.

A hand, twice the size of yours, appeared out of nowhere and placed a clementine — your favorite fruit — on your desk, just inches from your face. Your eyes widened, staring at the bright fruit in disbelief. Groggily, you pushed away from the comfortable spot against the desk, only to quickly notice the figure looming over you.

Song Mingi.

“You skipped lunch,” he stated nonchalantly, offering an explanation for the sudden appearance of the fruit.

The muffled squeals of your friends, combined with Mingi’s unexpected act of chivalry, sent heat rushing to your cheeks, leaving you flustered and unsure of how to react. Gift-giving and small acts of service weren’t foreign between you and Mingi. He always seemed to know your cravings, bringing you peeled fruit and sugary snacks without you ever having to ask. In return, you tended to his cuts, massaged the tension from his neck and shoulders after heavy training, and always seemed to find ways to care for him without words. But that was done in private, never in public. Especially not in front of your friends who were having a field day with his new revelation.

“Ah,” Mingi breathed out, picking up the orange once more.

Silently, he peeled off the thin skin, revealing the vibrant fruit hidden beneath. But he wasn’t done yet. With a casual movement, he stuffed the citrus-scented rind into the pocket of his school uniform before carefully removing the white pith wedged between the clementine’s segments. You didn’t like the white parts. His towering form caught the attention of the rest of the class and by now everyone intently watched the exchange.

The clementine looked bare now. He held out the fruit again, waiting for you to extend your hand, careful not to let it touch the surface of your desk. A yellowish stain colored his nails, a discoloration that wouldn't fade with just one wash, and the acidic smell lingered, even stronger now. It was the main reason you didn’t like peeling them in the first place.

Mingi, having heard your confession a few weeks ago, made it his mission to always give you peeled oranges. It warmed your chest to know he was keeping that promise.

Apparently, the universe wasn’t satisfied with your first and second encounters because the third one happened just a little less than a week later. You were meeting up with Hongjoong and Seonghwa at a nearby cafe to catch up on the hecticness of your lives — also known as gossip about your workplaces and bonding over the latest episode of When Life Gives You Tangerines. The name of the drama threw you down a steep hill of memories, but you stood up, dusted off your knees and trekked back up. You didn’t want to associate him with the family of fruit anymore.

The clock had just passed five-thirty AM and you were supposed to be there ten minutes ago. It didn’t help that you hit every red light possible. At least the weather was nice. Not a single cloud occupied the baby-blue sky and the spring breeze scattered butterfly kisses along your body. It could’ve been worse. You thought of gloomy clouds and cold rain, and immediately shuddered. Yeah, it definitely could’ve been worse.

The breath caught in your throat as a bus sped by, just a little over the limit. You exhaled in relief as it passed, but that relief was short-lived when you locked eyes with none other than Mingi on the other end of the sidewalk. It felt as if the universe were laughing in your face, throwing everything you didn’t want right at you. You’d take gloomy clouds and rainy weather over seeing Mingi again. The worst part was that it was a lie because even in the stormiest times, he managed to light up your surroundings, and the erratically beating heart in your chest served as your witness.

A black hoodie swallowed his towering frame and a pair of chunky headphones covered his head. You couldn’t see him that well, but you assumed the shining reflection around his collar was from his stacked necklaces. The cuts along his face had healed nicely — in fact, they were completely gone — and you wondered if your last encounter had anything to do with it or if he had just gotten better at dodging flying fists.

You always seemed to end things on a bitter note, yet you ignored the sourness on your taste buds and raised your hand in a small wave. He returned it with a tight-lipped smile and a subtle tug of his headphones, letting them rest around his neck instead. Mingi bit down on his bottom lip, seemingly contemplating something. Coming to terms with his thoughts, he raised a finger, wordlessly telling you to wait and threw a quick glance at the red light as if it would hurry up from a single look. Although you had every right to ignore him, you just couldn’t. You had always been weak when it came to him, never really able to tell him no and it appeared some things just never changed.

Mingi’s face lit up as the light turned to green. The man was so eager to cross the street — to get to you — that he didn’t bother checking both sides before walking out. Unlike the others, he missed the speeding vehicle zooming through multiple red lights and showing no signs of stopping. You felt it before you saw it. The spike in your left wrist, the rush of the arrow sky rocketing from zero to a hundred. Your legs moved on their own before you could form the first letter of his name. One moment you were rooted to the ground, eyes wide and mouth parted, and in the next you harshly collided with Mingi, hoping your spurt of strength was enough to knock him off balance and away from the dangerous metal chunk on wheels.

The world didn’t stop spinning, but time slowed down as Mingi fell backward. His hand came up to cradle your head, while the other slithered around your waist. Your own arms were pressed against his chest from the push you gave him. The landing was harsh, but Mingi took most of it as his back slammed against the pavement and your face became buried in the crook of his neck and shoulder. The passersby approached you with questions of worry and concern, their faces etched with confusion and anxiety at the entire situation. Everyone was a bit shaken up at the tragedy that could’ve been. Your body refused to cooperate and the only thing you could do was tangle your fingers into the material of his hoodie, clinging to it for dear life, trying to distinguish reality from imagination. How cruel — he had just returned to your life, only to almost be taken out of it again, permanently.

“Are you okay?” he whispered, his fingers massaging your scalp as the other hand scrunched up the back of your shirt.

A stutter of words slipped out, none of which Mingi could make sense of. He sat up, trying to get a better look at you, but you refused to part from the comfort of his chest. You didn’t need to see it to know your soulometer had calmed down — you felt it in every fiber of your being. Your soulmate was safe, and you were too, now that you were in the arms of a living, breathing Mingi.

“Please, sweets, I need to know if you’re alright.”

Desperation dripped from his voice like sticky honey falling from a dipper and it struck sharply in your core, bringing you back to the present.

“Okay,” you mumbled against his clothes, just loud enough for it to reach his ears and Mingi exhaled in relief. He pressed a kiss on your hairline and your heart fluttered at the domestic gesture.

A couple of strangers offered to call an ambulance, but Mingi waved them off, saying it wasn’t necessary and that no one was harmed — just a bit shaken up. He thanked them nonetheless and it did the trick as the crowd dissolved, the people returning to their everyday life, but with a story to slap down on the dinner table.

Mingi placed a palm beneath your left thigh as the other went around your waist to keep you sturdy as he got up from the pavement. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”

It didn’t matter how much you wanted to tell him to let you down, that you could walk on your own and didn’t need a chaperone — the words wouldn’t roll off your paralyzed tongue. Feeling the stares of strangers burn into you, you hid your face in the crook of his neck and didn’t pull away until you were safely in your apartment. The entire journey home, you tried to wrap your head around the event: the near-death experience, your body taking over while your mind went slack, the sudden spike in your soulometer. You didn’t dare think about what would’ve happened if you hadn’t reached Mingi in time — if you were just a second too late, if you hadn’t noticed the car. A shiver ran down your spine, and you pressed your lips together to distract yourself from the tears threatening to soak Mingi’s hoodie.

You needed a distraction from the what-ifs, and you needed one pronto. Trying to focus on something other than Mingi being flattened by that stupid car, you racked your brain for something, anything else, when it suddenly hit you. In all the seven years you had your soulometer, it had never even grazed, let alone pushed hard against the other end of the scale.

Back inside your apartment, you plopped down on the sofa and dropped your head into your hands. A throbbing ache pulsed through every part of your head, and the constant buzzing of your phone wasn’t helping. You had an inkling of who it could’ve been, and as you fished it out of your bag, the hundreds of messages and missed calls from both Seonghwa and Hongjoong confirmed your suspicion. You sent them a reassuring text, apologizing for bailing on them and blaming it on your headache. Mingi was leaning against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed over his chest, and his feet crossed at the ankles. His eyes never left your hunched form. He was waiting — for a call, a sign, something that would tell him when to reach your side and offer his help.

In another life, you’d be flustered — happy, ecstatic that he was there, worried for your well-being, wanting to make you feel better. But the nagging thought of the situation — too perfect to be a coincidence — wouldn’t let you go. What were the odds of your soulmate and Mingi both being exposed to danger at the same time? How was it that Mingi’s body was void of bruises just as your soulometer stopped acting up?

Licking your lips, you inhaled shakily and found Mingi’s gaze. The pull to be wrapped in his arms was strong, almost unbearable and you wondered if he felt it too. The need to run your fingers through his hair, to rest your forehead at the junction of his neck and shoulder while he soothingly rubbed circles in your back. The feelings were more intense than back in high school, now full of want and need that you couldn’t satisfy by being in his mere presence. However, you were willing to put it aside in exchange for your question marks to disappear and there was only one person who could give it to you.

Your voice was raspy and weak, breaking mid-sentence as the words struggled to escape. With every ounce of vulnerability, you asked him, “Are we soulmates?”

Mingi didn’t move for a moment. He looked to the side, his jaw clenching as he uncrossed his arms and gripped the edge of the counter. It was inevitable, really. The question was bound to come up sooner or later, and he wasn’t a fool. Mingi didn’t live in a bubble separate from his worries. They were woven into his everyday life, especially since you’d crossed paths again after all these years, with you at the center of them. The anxiety hovered around you like planets orbiting the sun — always there, needing you to survive, but never able to get too close. Mingi never stopped thinking about you. Since your high school graduation, he’d found himself more often than not lying awake in the dead of night, thoughts circling back to you — wondering how you were, what you were doing, if you were happy. You had to be. Mingi only ever brought you pain and hurt, something he loathed himself for. The lies and secrets were the main reason behind it all, but the icing on the cake was his devotion to boxing, which had long surpassed his love for you. At least, in your eyes, because that was what he had allowed you to see — what he wanted you to think. It would make the end of your relationship easier, giving him a lie to hold onto instead of the truth.

But Mingi was tired of lying. He didn’t plan to re-enter your life to keep the same pattern in motion. He wanted to start a-new and whether he deserved it or not was up for debate, but he was going to try. For you. For himself. For your relationship.

“Yes.”

Then it all just stopped. The beat of your heart filled the silence of the world. The flicker of emotions was instant and irregular — shifting from relief and happiness to disbelief and anger. You couldn’t form a single thought, much less say anything. What could one say in such a moment? Realising your first and only love was more than that and had slipped away. The never ending fear and regret of losing the sole good thing in your life washing out to nothing, leaving you empty. It was good and bad. A war broke out in your head, scrambling to come to an understanding, but the tear between the two sides was so grave it was starting to hurt. The relief of finding your soulmate clashed with the idea that he was right beneath your nose this entire time, purposefully avoiding you for who knows how long.

A sting burned behind your eyes followed by a heavy pressure. Your throat closed up and yet you managed to get your question out.

“How… How long have you known?”

Mingi heaved in a breath. The weight of the situation pressed harshly against his chest as he realized the bear trap he set up years ago was beneath his foot.

“A little after the start of our third year in high school… When you were rushed to the hospital.”

You remembered it like it was yesterday. Someone thought it would be a funny prank to leave an opened peanut-chocolate bar in your locker, completely disregarding the gravity of the situation. That was almost a month after his eighteenth birthday — the day his soulometer was permanently injected into his body. Out of those three years, you dated for one and a half, and the last stretch of your relationship was apparently built on secrets and lies because he knew.

He knew and didn’t tell you.

You rose from your seat, your expression shifting from disbelief to frustration. Your brows furrowed, and your lips were pressed tightly together in fury. Mingi had never seen you so angry — not even when some older kids were making fun of Hongjoong for his height or liking boys.

“Why? Why wouldn’t you tell me about it? Mingi, we broke up and you didn’t think to tell me we were, are soulmates?!”

Your voice jumped from a whisper to full-out yelling, loud enough for your neighbors above and below to indulge in the dramatics, and Mingi flinched at the sudden rise in volume. A fire spread from his core to the rest of his body, growing hotter and more intense with each passing second. Despite how familiar the sensation was, it wasn’t his. You were angry beyond salvaging and no amount of water could douse the flames.

Mingi’s chest tightened as the answer to your long-awaited question tumbled out of him. “Because you deserved a better soulmate!”

Like that, a weight lifted off his shoulders. There was a very long pause where you just stared at each other, both waiting for the other to speak.

“Excuse me?” It was meek, barely above a whisper as you spoke and a sharp, breaking sound echoed in Mingi’s heart, like porcelain shattering. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Mingi hesitated, his lips parting as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the right words. You seized the opportunity to step in front of him. Unshed tears lined your waterline, one blink away from spilling over and kissing your burning cheeks. Mingi wasn’t any better. His eyes were glossed over and throat was dry. His fingers turned an alarming shade of white from gripping the counter, the veins in his hands more defined than ever.

“Why?”

“You weren’t happy with me…” Mingi’s voice cracked, tears welling in his eyes as he struggled to continue. “W–with me boxing… and I… I wasn’t ready to give up on that. I thought you d–deserved some happiness before you realized you were stuck with me f–forever.” His words came out choked, his chest heaving as the tears finally spilled over.

The salty tears extinguished the fire that had been brewing in you. What had felt like flames of hell now shrunk to nothing more than a spark, ready to fade. You reached out, your hands trembling slightly as you cupped his face, gently wiping away the tears that had fallen.

“You thought I wouldn’t choose you? Mingi, I was never asking you to give up on what you love. I just couldn’t stand seeing you put yourself in danger, not knowing if you’d come back to me… alive.” Your heart ached as the soulometer inside you throbbed painfully, a constant reminder of how deeply connected you two were.

Mingi had grown up in a boxing family. His father was a boxer, and his grandfathers on both sides were boxers too. It was only natural for the only child of the Song family to step into his relatives’ shoes and fall in love with the gruesome sport. However, it wasn’t the officiated matches or light sparring during training that had you worrying for Mingi. A little after Mingi turned eighteen, he realized that his talent could not only bring him medals, but money. A great sum of money, actually.

As the fortune started to come his way, you began to notice the change in him. He wasn’t just fighting for the thrill or the legacy anymore — it had become a business. The sport he had once loved, the sport that had connected him to his family, was now something more — something dangerous, something that had started to consume him. You watched as he took on bigger opponents, harsher training regimens and increasingly dangerous matches, all in pursuit of a prize that was slowly tearing away at the person you once knew.

You didn’t mean to put him in a tight spot, to choose between his first serious girlfriend and the illegal business that kept him independent. You also didn’t expect him to choose the latter. The decision stung more than you anticipated, the weight of it sinking in as you realized what it said about his priorities.

You were both young and foolish back then, believing the world was beneath your feet and that one wrong decision could crumble it all. Had you known you were bonded, tied together for all eternity, you would’ve approached him differently and you certainly never would’ve let him go.

“I didn’t know about the soulmate bond. I didn’t know you knew... and you still let me walk away. You were willing to let me go without telling me the truth? How could you think I’d leave you forever, knowing we were meant to be?”

“I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry,” he said, his voice breaking. “I–I swear, I wanted to tell you. So many times. Every time I’d walk past your posters or hear about you from our mutual friends, I’d be one click away from calling you, but…”

The apology hung in the air like a weight, thick with guilt and regret. His voice trembled, each word choked back by the raw emotion clawing at him. The tears streamed down his face, unchecked. He turned his face slightly, the side of his cheek brushing against your palm, as if trying to hide from the pain, but your touch remained steady. You held him there, gently, as his sorrow poured out.

“Don’t hold back, Mingi. I’m not going anywhere, not now, not tomorrow, not ever… So please, talk to me.”

His chest hitched as he struggled to breathe, the weight of the words, the silence and the years of unsaid things crashing over him. Mingi knew he owed you this. An explanation, a reason for his sudden pull back all those years ago. He heaved in a breath and allowed the truth to spill.

“I just… I couldn’t,” he whispered. “Every time, I’d think about it and then–then I’d back out. I thought it was better this way. I thought maybe you’d be better off without knowing… that I wasn’t good enough, that I’d only mess things up. Jongho said you were ha–happy and I didn’t want to ruh–ruin that. ”

“You could never–”

“But I would!” He didn’t mean to shout, but the frustration and sadness, locked up for so long, didn’t hesitate to seize the first opening it saw. “I was still fighting… I never stopped. It only got worse after… after we broke up. The money was good, but the loneliness,” his voice wavered, “the loneliness was unbearable. The only time I ever felt anything was when I saw your face... or when I got beaten to hell.”

Your eyes darted around his face. Jumping from his eyes and lips to his nose and cheeks as if seeking a pressure point that would make all of his suffering evaporate into thin air. Mingi avoided your gaze and you massaged the apple of his cheek to catch his attention again. You never intended for the downfall of your relationship to put its claws in his back and leave a wound so grave it couldn’t heal on its own. In fact, you were so caught up in your own emotions that you didn’t think to take a moment and wonder how it would affect him. The guilt festered in your bones like a leech refusing to let go.

“I never realized how much you were carrying… I thought I was the one who was struggling, but maybe we both were. I’m sorry, Mings.”

“No.”

He shook his head in disagreement and your hand fell from his face. The loss of warmth was close to painful and Mingi, not wanting to be apart from you any more than necessary, grabbed your hand and guided it down to his chest, placing your palm above his beating heart — the organ that pulsed in rhythm to your own. Your fingers twitch to grab his shirt, to claw out his heart and keep it in the safety of your hands. To shield it from hurt and pain and agony. You never wanted him to feel such anguish again and you certainly didn’t want to be the reason behind it either. It tore you from within and the emotion wasn’t even yours to begin with.

“It’s not your fault. It was never your fault.”

“Mingi–”

“Stop it. You know if I’d just listened to you, if I’d stopped getting involved in stupid shit, none of this would’ve happened. There’s no one to blame but me.”

Tears still rolled down his cheeks and clung onto his lashes, though his eyes were sharp and firm as if daring you to challenge his words. If there was one thing you’d learned during the few years you dated Mingi, it was that once his mind was made up, nothing could change it.

“We are both at fault, love.”

The pinched expression on his face crumbled at the familiar call of endearment. His mouth parted slightly, and a constellation twinkled in his eyes — a sight you had missed incredibly. A twinge of hope flickered to life — hope that you could once be again, despite his careless acts of selflessness. His focus shifted between your eyes and with shaking hands he gently cradled your face, his touch not lighter than a ticklish flutter of a butterfly’s wings. Your own hands found purchase on his waist, fingers looping through the pouch of his hoodie as you instinctively leaned into the gentle pressure of his caress.

Mingi wetted his lips and brows scrunched together in a pleading demeanor. Something was plaguing his mind again and you could feel the train of thought reach out and graze your own, as if wanting you to get a glimpse. It didn’t hurt, but it wasn’t pleasant either. It felt full, crowded.

“What’s going on in that head of yours, Mings?”

“…You.” He took another breath, steadying himself, his voice barely above a whisper. “Can I… May I… I want to kiss you.”

Perhaps you should’ve said no. Perhaps you should’ve ignored him sitting on the steps of your apartment. Perhaps you shouldn’t have let him back into your life at all. But the thought of telling him no — robbing yourself of the feel of Mingi’s lips against yours — burned like hot acid in your stomach. So you did the one thing you were best at when it came to him, you gave in to your heart's desire.

“Then kiss me.”

Mingi didn’t need to hear you say it twice before he pulled your face up to his, lips smashing together as a flood of emotions erupted with the kiss — the kind of feeling only a romantic gesture like this could bring. You rose onto your toes, your hands gripping his wrists as if to anchor yourself in the moment. A low rumble vibrated from the back of his throat and you pushed harder against him. The kiss was intoxicating, yet liberating at the same time. You swiped your tongue along his bottom lip and he wasted no time parting them for you. The heat between you both deepened and each moment felt like it stretched on forever, the world around you fading into the background. His fingers grazing the side of your face, pulled you impossibly closer, as if there was no space left for anything but this shared intimacy.

The pounding of your heart filled your ears, a frantic rhythm that matched the urgency of his touch. You were caught in the gravity of the moment, caught between the need for air and the undeniable pull to stay, to keep kissing him like nothing else mattered and nothing mattered. Just you and him.

You felt one of his hands slither down your spine, a trail of firecrackers following the wake of his fingertips and sending shivers down your body. You couldn’t pull away — not yet. Not when everything inside you was screaming for more. Mingi pushed you closer to him, chests touching and hips meeting in a delicious press, that radiated between you both, causing every nerve in your body to hum with anticipation.

It was the need for oxygen that eventually broke you apart before the heated situation could be taken to the bedroom, with you pushed against the soft sheets and your legs tangling together. Your chests rose and fell in synchrony, trying to steady the breath that had been stolen in the heat of the moment. A crackle of electricity snapped around the room, the atmosphere still charged with the energy of your kiss, but both of you knew you couldn’t rush past this — there was so much more to say, the fact that you were soulmates, for one.

Mingi rested his forehead against yours, his breath was warm against your skin, quick and shallow, mirroring your own racing pulse. His eyes searched yours with a mix of intensity and vulnerability. He whispered your name, as if unsure how to bridge the distance between the desire in his chest and the emotions that were beginning to surface.

“We are soulmates,” you whispered before he could say anything else. It was more of a statement, a wake-up call for you than a fact. Your gaze dropped to the strings of his hoodie, the intensity of his stare made your knees feel weak.

Mingi didn’t reply. He rubbed gentle circles over your blouse on your lower back, a relaxing motion. You didn’t need to hear him say the two worded apology, you felt it in his soft touches.

“It was you… every time my meter went up… it was you fighting.”

He nodded, a solemn smile gracing his swollen lips. “Yes.”

“...But it hasn’t… gone up since–”

“Since you found me outside your apartment,” he finished for you. “I stopped shortly after that. I– uh, I realized that I wanted you. Or, well, I always knew, but that… that confirmed it. Mmm, I knew, though, that if I wanted us to be together, I’d have to change– stop! I’d have to stop doing the thing that made me lose you in the first place.”

“So… what does that mean for us?”

“It means… that if you want me to, I’ll peel your oranges for the rest of our lives.”

You wiped a stray tear from his cheek. “Even the white bits?”

The corner of his lips curled up in a grin, giving a glimpse of his crooked front teeth, and his eyes lit up like the night sky in the countryside.

“Especially the white bits.”

#[🌸] cherry blossom march event #cromernet #song mingi x reader #song mingi #ateez x reader #ateez #song mingi fluff #song mingi fanfic #ateez fluff #ateez fanfic #soulmates #soulmate au #boxer mingi #fluff #romance #angst

348 notes · View notes