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kysstar · 15 days ago

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RIGHT NEXT DOOR | SONG MINGI

pairing : : song mingi x fem!reader

synopsis : : you and mingi have been dancing around your feelings for far too long—neighbors, friends, something more. neither of you says it. but everything else does. Eventually, something has to give.

genre : : friends to lovers, next door neighbours, slow burn (?)

warnings : : reader and mingi being fools, alcohol consumption. (lmk if i missed smth!)

word count : : 7.9k

author's note : : thank you @bananananana26 for requesting this <3 i had such a fun time writing it! hope you like it 💕

—There’s a click, the familiar metal rattle of a key sliding into your front door, and the slow creak of it opening like the house itself is still deciding whether it’s awake yet. You groan and bury your face deeper into your pillow. The sun is barely bleeding through the curtains—definitely not an acceptable hour for social interaction.

“Mornin’,” Mingi’s voice floats in, warm and unbothered. Too chipper for this ungodly hour.

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. He’s already crossing the room like he owns the place, which, to be fair, he almost does. Mingi is that kind of neighbor. The kind that becomes a fixture in your space, slipping into your life through shared dinners and inside jokes, and eventually, the spare key you gave him for emergencies. Now he uses it like an open invitation. Like it’s his right.

“Where’s that black shirt I left here?” he asks, already rooting through your laundry basket like a man on a mission.

You crack one eye open and squint at him. “What?” Your voice is gravel, soft and uneven from sleep.

“My black shirt—the fitted one, short sleeves, buttons down the front?” He turns to you, holding it up triumphantly. The fabric clings to his fingers like it recognizes its rightful owner.

You blink. “Why do you need that? It’s like... seven in the morning.”

Mingi shrugs, slipping off his hoodie right there in the middle of your room like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Got a date. Brunch.”

That word cuts through the fog in your brain like cold water to the face. You sit up slowly, heart tapping against your ribs, alert now in a way that has nothing to do with caffeine.

“A date?” you echo, trying to sound curious, not concerned.

“Yeah.” He pulls on the shirt, and you hate how well it fits him. The fabric clings just right at the shoulders, tapering slightly at his waist. He runs a hand through his messy, copper-tinged hair, trying to tame it as he leans toward your mirror. His fingers smooth over his jaw, adjusting the necklace around his throat.

“She’s someone I met through Yeosang. Cute, funny. Likes jazz, apparently.” He says it like it’s a fun fact. Like he’s not casually rearranging the architecture of your mood.

You hum something noncommittal and flop back onto your pillow. You don’t want him to see your face.

Mingi laughs, amused. “Why do you sound like I told you I’m going to war?”

“Because waking someone up to brag about a date is not exactly delightful,” you mutter.

He throws a pillow at you, but it’s soft, and you smile into the mattress when he’s not looking.

—You spend the afternoon trying not to think about him.

It’s not easy.

The problem with Mingi is that he’s everywhere in your life now—without ever really meaning to be. He’s in the smell of your laundry detergent (because he ran out of his own and now uses yours). He’s in the playlist that’s still looping from last night’s wine-and-rant session. He’s in the extra mug on the dish rack and the way your living room couch always has a slight dent on the right cushion where he lounges.

You’re trying to work—trying being the operative word.

Emails stack up, deadlines hover like impatient clouds, and you’re still stuck thinking about how easily he said it. Date. Like it was nothing. Like it didn’t matter.

You picture him sitting across from some girl at a cozy café, laughing in that low, goofy way that always makes your chest warm. You picture her making him smile. Picture her reaching out to touch his hand across the table.

It makes something twist in your stomach—tight and jealous and stupid.

He’s allowed to date. Obviously. It’s not your business. You’re just neighbors. Friends.

And yet. You keep refreshing your inbox like it might distract you from the ache of wanting something that isn’t yours.

Evening slides in with a sky streaked in orange and lavender. You’re in sweats, finally letting yourself collapse onto the couch, when your door creaks open again.

Mingi walks in without ceremony, a frown tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You glance over. “So?”

He sighs and flops down beside you like he’s been holding in the weight of the world and just now decided to let it out in your living room.

“So, that was a bust.”

You try to school your face into sympathy. “Oh?”

“She talked about her ex for thirty minutes straight. No joke. I timed it after the first ten.” He scrubs a hand over his face, voice muffled. “I thought it was just nerves at first, but then I realized I was basically a placeholder for some dude named Jinwoo who cheated on her with her Pilates instructor.”

You wince. “Ouch.”

“And then she asked me if I thought it was weird she still texts him sometimes,” he adds, eyes wide. “Like, ma’am?”

Despite yourself, you start to laugh. “Okay, that’s... tragic.”

“I left before dessert. Just told her I had to feed my cat.”

“You don’t have a cat.”

“She doesn’t know that.”

He grins at you, eyes finally lighting up. That boyish kind of smile that you can't help but smile back.

You know you shouldn't feel happy. Not really. You should sympathize, offer comfort, maybe even suggest he give the girl another chance. But instead, your heart feels lighter. Like someone just cracked open a window in a stuffy room.

Mingi stretches, then stands. “Come on. I need to wash the disappointment off me. Let’s do a movie night. Your pick.”

“You mean your apartment, your couch, and my movie taste?”

“Exactly.”

The movie carries on in the background, its glow flickering across the room like a lazy pulse. You’re half-watching, half-daydreaming, legs tucked under a blanket and Mingi’s stretched across your lap like furniture. It’s quiet, comfortable. The kind of silence that doesn’t ask to be filled. Just as a chase scene starts up on screen, you glance over—and freeze a little.

He’s fast asleep.

His head’s tilted slightly toward you, hair falling messily over his forehead, one strand caught against his lashes. His lips are parted in a soft pout, like he fell asleep mid-thought. The bowl of popcorn still rests on his chest, absurdly balanced, the kernels slowly sliding with each steady rise and fall of his breathing. You stare for a moment, then smile, amused and maybe a little fond without meaning to be.

You reach for your phone as quietly as possible and snap a quick photo, biting your lip to keep from laughing. The angle’s perfect. He looks ridiculous in the best way. You open the group chat and send it without shame.

Satisfied, you set your phone down and try to shift out from under his legs, but they’re heavier now that he’s completely out. You wiggle gently, hoping he’ll roll off or stir just enough to let you slide free. Instead, he shifts the other way—an arm slipping down across the couch, his body turning just enough to press into your side, his leg now fully across your lap. A soft sigh escapes him, content and oblivious, like he’s settling in for the night.

You pause, blink at the ceiling, and exhale. He’s not moving. At all.

You stare down at him, then at the blanket, then at the barely touched popcorn. This is your life now, apparently. Trapped under a snoring six-foot-something man who smells faintly like your detergent and still has crumbs on his shirt. With no other option, you shift down slightly, tuck the blanket tighter around both of you, and get comfortable.

And honestly? You don’t mind.

—You stand in front of the mirror longer than you need to, checking your reflection for the fifth time. The party isn’t anything wild—just a casual get-together at Seonghwa’s place, mostly mutual friends, people you’ve known long enough to not stress about. But still. You’ve put more effort into getting ready than you care to admit.

You’re wearing a black satin slip dress that hugs in the right places and falls just below mid-thigh. It’s simple, easy, but elegant in that effortless way. You threw a cropped leather jacket over it for warmth and balance, paired it with ankle boots that give you just enough height to fake confidence. Your earrings catch the light when you move, and your lips are glossed, eyes soft with just a little liner.

As you adjust the strap of your purse and reach for your phone, the doorbell rings.

Right on time.

You already know who it is. Your hand closes around the doorknob. You take a breath that feels too deliberate, then open the door.

And there he is.

Mingi stands in the hallway like a scene out of a daydream—black dress shirt tucked neatly into fitted slacks, the sleeves rolled up just enough to show the curve of his forearms. The top two buttons are undone, revealing a hint of collarbone and a simple silver chain glinting against his skin. He’s wearing his usual beat-up boots that somehow don’t ruin the look—if anything, they make it more him. His hair is pushed back messily, like he tried to style it but gave up halfway, and it somehow works.

You blink, once, then again. Breathe out before you realize you’ve been holding it in.

Mingi’s eyes travel down, then back up, slower than he probably means to. His lips part slightly, but nothing comes out. For a second, it’s just the two of you standing there, saying nothing, doing nothing—just looking.

Like idiots.

You clear your throat, fingers tightening around your purse strap. “We should go.”

“Right,” he says quickly, nodding. You notice the faint blush creeping up his neck as he turns to head down the hall. “Yeah. Totally.”

Mingi’s car smells faintly like mint gum and that citrusy cologne he always pretends not to wear. You settle into the passenger seat while he starts the engine.

He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on the gearshift. There’s music playing low—some indie playlist he probably queued up for the ride. It’s chill. Familiar. You both sit in that silence that isn’t awkward, just... easy.

“Do you know if Wooyoung and Yeosang are going tonight?” you ask, adjusting the hem of your dress as you cross your legs.

Mingi nods without taking his eyes off the road. “Yeah. I think they’re already there. Wooyoung texted me like five times reminding me to bring that stupid portable speaker he left in my apartment.”

You laugh softly. “Of course he did.”

“Also said he has a new drink recipe and wants to test it out on people, so…” Mingi glances over at you with a smirk. “If we end up doing karaoke in Seonghwa’s backyard again, blame him.”

You roll your eyes. “That was your idea last time.”

“And you crushed a Beyoncé song, so clearly you didn’t hate it.”

The city lights smear across the windshield as he drives, flickering over his face in gold and white. You steal a glance—just a second too long—and wonder if he notices. If he ever notices.

He shifts gears at a red light, glancing at you quickly. “You look... nice, by the way.” He says it casually, like it’s nothing, like it didn’t just short-circuit your brain a little.

You glance at him, your voice quieter than you mean it to be. “So do you.”

And just like that, the silence stretches out again. The light turns green. The car rolls forward. And neither of you says another word.

The buzz of conversation hits as soon as you and Mingi step through the door—warm light spilling from the hallway into Seonghwa’s apartment, the sound of music underscored by clinking glasses, laughter echoing from the kitchen. The place is comfortably packed, full of familiar faces. People you haven’t seen in a while but fall back in with like no time’s passed.

Seonghwa spots you first. “Hey! You made it,” he says, pulling you in for a quick hug. He smells like aftershave and woodsy cologne, dressed in something sleek that probably shouldn’t work indoors but totally does on him. “Damn, you look good.”

“Right?” Hongjoong appears beside him, one hand holding a beer, the other casually tucked into his pocket. He gives you a once-over, then nods at Mingi. “You clean up well too, man.”

Mingi grins. “Tried.”

Seonghwa glances between you, a knowing smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “You guys come together?”

You nod without thinking, brushing a hand down your jacket. “Yeah, we carpooled. We live next-door, remember?”

There’s a flicker—too quick to clock unless you’re watching for it. Seonghwa and Hongjoong exchange a look, that subtle, shared language of people who know. But neither you nor Mingi catch it. You’re too busy scanning the room, looking for the next familiar face.

You find it in the form of Wooyoung crashing into you with the energy of a Labrador. “You’re here!” he says dramatically, like it’s some big surprise despite the fact that he texted you three times to make sure you were coming. He pulls you into a hug that rocks you on your heels. “And you look like a hot villainess. I love it.”

You laugh as Yeosang appears, slightly less chaotic, sipping something suspiciously bright green. “I tried to tell him not to make the drink neon,” he says, nodding toward Wooyoung, “but he’s impossible.”

The conversation rolls easily from there—catching up, teasing each other, talking about things you didn’t know you missed until they came back to you all at once. Mingi floats in and out of your orbit, sometimes close enough to feel the warmth from his shoulder when he leans in to say something, other times across the room laughing with San over something you can’t hear.

You get caught up in it—just the way people do when the right kind of music is playing and the drinks are cold and the conversations run just deep enough to matter but not so deep they get heavy.

At some point, Mingi notices you’ve disappeared.

He’s mid-laugh with San, hands animated in the air, when he glances to the side and doesn’t see you where you were just minutes ago. His smile falters, even if only slightly. It’s small, but San catches it. Mingi mumbles something vague about grabbing another drink, and San nods, too distracted to question it.

He starts scanning the apartment, weaving through clusters of people. He checks the kitchen, then the hallway near the bathroom. It’s not panic, exactly—just this pull in his chest that won’t relax until he knows where you went.

Then he sees you.

You’re by the window, a drink in your hand, laughing at something a tall guy is saying. Mingi recognizes him—Yunho. He remembers seeing him at a few other get-togethers. Friendly, always polite, the kind of guy people like instantly.

Apparently, you’re no exception.

You’re smiling wide, your eyes crinkling, one hand brushing against Yunho’s arm as you throw your head back laughing. Yunho leans in just slightly, saying something else that makes you laugh again.

Mingi’s stomach knots. It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid. You’re allowed to talk to whoever you want. But that doesn’t stop the irrational heat rising behind his collar. Doesn’t stop the way his jaw tenses when Yunho reaches out to tuck a loose strand of your hair behind your ear.

You feel it first—eyes prickling, that inexplicable awareness of being watched. You glance up, across the room, and meet Mingi’s eyes. He’s standing still, his expression unreadable at first glance, but there’s something in his posture. Tighter than usual. His hands shoved into his pockets like he’s trying too hard to look casual.

You excuse yourself from Yunho with a quick, polite smile. “I’ll be right back,” you say, though you know you won’t be.

As you cross the room, Mingi doesn’t move. He just watches you walk up to him, eyes flicking down your frame like he’s trying not to.

“Hey,” you say lightly, as if you didn’t just catch him staring.

“Hey.” His voice comes out lower than usual.

You grin, oblivious to the weight of his mood. “Guess what? Yunho just asked if I wanted to grab coffee tomorrow. Isn’t that cute?”

Mingi frowns before he can stop himself. It’s subtle, just the smallest dip of his brows, the barest twitch of his mouth.

You don’t miss it. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says too fast. Then shrugs, trying to play it off. “That’s cool.”

You tilt your head. “You sure?”

Mingi looks away for a beat, then back at you, and there’s something flickering in his eyes. Jealousy dressed up as indifference. “Yeah. Just didn’t know you were into that type.”

You raise a brow. “That type?”

He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish now. “I mean… tall. Smiley. Safe.”

You laugh. “Are you describing Yunho or a golden retriever?”

Mingi gives a half-smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He nods again, almost to himself. “Yeah. No, it’s cool.”

But it’s not cool.

Not even a little.

—It starts with your closet door wide open and half your wardrobe already strewn across the bed. Tops hang from your headboard, dresses are tossed over chairs, and there’s a growing pile of “maybes” gathering on the floor like fallen soldiers. The date with Yunho is in two hours, and you’ve tried on five outfits. None feel right.

Mingi is on your couch, sipping a drink like he didn’t just invite himself over after lunch and then refuse to leave once he heard the words “I don’t know what to wear.”

You walk out in the sixth outfit—an off-the-shoulder baby blue top, short skirt, boots—and strike a pose in the living room. “Okay. Thoughts?”

Mingi glances up from his phone. His eyes flick down, then narrow slightly. “Too much leg.”

You scoff. “It’s a skirt, not a scandal.”

“Exactly,” he says, deadpan.

You roll your eyes and disappear back into your room, already tugging the skirt off. The seventh outfit is a black cropped sweater and high-waisted jeans—safe, cute, not trying too hard. You step back out and do a lazy spin. “Better?”

Mingi tilts his head. “It’s fine.”

“Fine?” you repeat. “You sound like I asked you to rate my tax return.”

He shrugs. “Just feels... like you’re dressing down for him.”

You stop halfway to the mirror. “What does that even mean?”

Mingi takes a sip of his drink, eyes steady on yours. “I’ve just seen you wear better stuff when we get coffee. He should get at least that level.”

You squint at him. “So now the jeans aren’t enough?”

“You asked,” he mutters, hiding behind his cup.

Outfit eight is a fitted midi dress—wine-colored, sleeveless, square neckline. You kind of love it. It's flattering without being loud. You walk out again, expectant. “Okay. This one.”

Mingi doesn’t even blink. “No.”

Your hands drop to your sides. “What now?”

He gestures vaguely toward your chest. “That’s not even trying to pretend it’s subtle.”

“It’s literally not even low-cut!”

“Still.” He shifts on the couch, suddenly very interested in the stitching on his sweatpants. “You’re going to be sitting across from him in that, laughing at his jokes, leaning forward, doing that thing where you—just—no.”

You stare. “Didn’t realize you were dressing me for a convent.”

He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “It’s not about that.”

Outfit nine is an oversized graphic tee tucked into leather pants, the vibe a little chaotic but maybe weirdly sexy. You emerge, posing like a runway model.

“No,” Mingi says immediately.

You throw your hands up. “Okay, what is the vibe you’re looking for here, Mingi? Sack of potatoes?”

He looks up at you then, something sharp and quiet in his expression. “Something that doesn’t make other guys stare at you like you’re available.”

The room stills for a second. You blink at him. You try to laugh it off. “Mingi, that’s literally the point of a date.”

He doesn’t smile. You go quiet. Something strange shifts between you—just for a breath, barely there. Then it’s gone. He looks away, tapping his fingers against the rim of his cup.

“I’m just saying,” he adds, softer now, “if he can’t like you in something simple, he’s not worth the time.”

You look down at what you’re wearing, then back at him. “So what’s your vote?”

“Jeans and the white sweater,” he says without hesitation. “You look like you in that.”

You sigh, disappearing back into your room one last time, this time pulling on the outfit he picked without protest. You’re tired of trying to read into his words. Tired of guessing where the lines are.

You return a few minutes later, fully dressed and adjusting your earrings. “Well?”

Mingi looks up. His gaze softens instantly. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “That’s the one.”

You grab your purse, still catching glimpses of yourself in the mirror as you pass. You look fine. Better than fine. But a part of you still wants to ask him—Why did it matter so much what I wore?

And a louder part of you already knows the answer.

—Yunho is perfectly on time. He greets you with a smile that’s all teeth and warmth, holds the car door open, compliments your sweater. It’s smooth—thoughtful in that quiet, well-raised way. The restaurant is nice too. Not overly fancy, not a chain—something in between. Brick walls, soft lighting, a jazz playlist humming just under the hum of cutlery and conversation.

Objectively, everything is going well.

You know how these things are supposed to feel. There’s eye contact. The rhythm is easy. You laugh when he says something genuinely funny. He’s polite, attentive, says your name when he talks to you like it means something. But it’s strange how even when you’re here, present, smiling and nodding at all the right times—you’re somewhere else.

You’re with Mingi.

Not physically, but in the little corners of your brain that won’t shut up. Every time Yunho says something charming, you find yourself thinking, Mingi would've made a joke here instead. When Yunho talks about his love for hiking, you imagine Mingi groaning and calling him a “nature masochist.” You smile at that thought, then realize you’re smiling at someone who isn’t even in the room.

You nod along as Yunho tells you a story about a weird encounter at a subway station, and your first instinct is to think, Mingi would’ve absolutely dramatized this into a full two-act comedy skit. Your second instinct is to look over and catch Mingi’s expression reacting to it—except, of course, he’s not here.

You twirl your straw in your drink, pretending to listen, but your thoughts drift again.

Mingi would’ve ordered something off-menu just to see if the server could keep up. He would’ve slouched in his chair, gotten sauce on his shirt, made you laugh with his dramatic regret. He wouldn’t be this polished, this effortlessly perfect. He’s not the type to play dates cool. Mingi shows up with full heart and zero filter. It’s messy. Real.

But Yunho is here. Polite, calm, thoughtful.

There’s no reason you should be comparing them. And yet.

You catch yourself doing it again when Yunho leans in and compliments your laugh—says it’s “light.” You remember how Mingi once called your laugh “ridiculously loud” while laughing so hard he snorted. He said it like it was the best sound in the world.

At some point, Yunho asks if you want to go for a walk, and you say yes, mostly to clear your head. The air is crisp, the sidewalk quiet under your boots. He talks about music, then books, then something about a camping trip. You nod along, you even chime in—but nothing lands.

You should like this.

You do like it.

But it’s like watching a movie with subtitles slightly out of sync. Everything almost fits. But not quite.

He walks you to your door when the night ends. Says he had a great time. That he’d love to see you again. You smile politely and say, “Yeah, maybe,” even though you already know you’re going to lie awake tonight thinking about someone else entirely.

Because the truth is, Yunho is lovely.

But he isn’t Mingi.

—It starts with a group chat message from Wooyoung that reads:

"Emergency night out. Everyone shut up and show up."

You don’t argue. After the week you’ve had—awkward dates, annoying work calls, and whatever the hell is happening inside your chest when Mingi looks at you a second too long—you need the chaos.

You meet the guys at a cramped, slightly too-warm bar tucked into a side street, the kind with sticky tabletops, neon signs buzzing weakly above the liquor shelf, and a karaoke room in the back that’s barely soundproof. Wooyoung and Yeosang are already two drinks in when you arrive. Jongho shows up five minutes later with chips and something stronger than beer. Mingi slides in last, wearing a hoodie and a grin that makes your stomach flip even before he sits down next to you like he always does—without asking.

The drinks come quick. Rum, soju, a cocktail Wooyoung insists is “his signature” that tastes suspiciously like melted candy. The room warms up, volume rising with every song. You all start off ironic—bad 2000s pop, dramatic power ballads, Yeosang doing Beyoncé way too well, and Wooyoung trying to harmonize with literally everyone.

You’re laughing so hard your ribs hurt, pressed against Mingi’s side on the low couch. His leg brushes yours and stays there. You’re not sure when that started happening—these subtle, unspoken touches. But you don’t pull away. Neither does he.

Then Wooyoung throws his arm around Mingi dramatically. “Your turn. Go. Impress us.”

Mingi groans. “No one asked for this.”

“Do it,” you say, nudging him with your knee. “Unless you’re scared.”

His eyes flash as he looks at you. “Scared? Of you?” He’s grinning now. “Okay. Bet.”

He stumbles over to the screen, selects a song with the confidence of a man who’s made questionable karaoke decisions before. The first notes hit. You recognize it immediately.

It’s a love song. A dumb, sappy, overly sincere one—the kind people usually only pick if they’re trying to make a point or drunk enough to not care.

But he sings it. And he sings it well.

His voice is rough in places, but there’s something raw about it. Something real. His eyes scan the room, playful at first. Then they land on you. And they stay on you.

You feel it like heat against your skin.

The room fades a little. Wooyoung and Yeosang are still howling in the background, probably off-beat clapping. Jongho’s filming it, mouthing lyrics under his breath. But Mingi is still looking at you.

When he hits the chorus, there's something almost serious in his expression. Not like he’s just goofing around now—but like he’s saying something without really saying it.

You hold his gaze, something caught in your throat.

The last note fades into the room like a secret hanging in the air. There’s a beat of silence before Wooyoung yells something unintelligible and dramatic applause breaks the tension.

Mingi laughs and sits back down, a little breathless, cheeks flushed—not just from the alcohol, you think. He grabs his drink and takes a long sip, avoiding your eyes now.

You lean toward him, voice low. “You sang that like it was personal.”

He shrugs, still not looking at you. “Maybe it was.”

You’re not sure what to say to that. You want to ask for who, even though you think you know. But your tongue feels too heavy and the room too loud.

Later, a few more songs in, the others are busy fighting over mic control. You and Mingi are leaning into each other now, bodies drawn like magnets. You’re laughing at something stupid he whispered in your ear, and he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing worth focusing on in this chaotic little room.

There’s a lull. A quiet moment in the noise. He looks at your lips. You look at his.

It happens slowly. A lean. A breath. His hand brushing your knee, his face close enough now you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes. Your heart is beating in your throat.

And then—

“NEXT SONG, LOSERS!”

Wooyoung launches himself between you two, flopping dramatically across the couch with a mic in hand.

You jolt back. Mingi does too. The moment collapses like a wave that almost reached shore but never quite did.

You swallow hard. He clears his throat. Neither of you say anything.

The night carries on like nothing happened.

—Your head is pounding. Not in a dramatic, movie-style way—just a dull, persistent throb behind your eyes, made worse by the fact that the sun seems personally offended by your existence today. You sit on your bed for a few minutes, staring into space, before finally pulling yourself up with a groan.

You know if you feel like this, Mingi probably feels worse.

So you do what you always do when he's hungover: you go into autopilot.

Within an hour, you're walking down the hall with a plastic bag full of hangover cures—the good kind. A container of hot soup, two greasy egg sandwiches, cold soda, painkillers, and something vaguely healthy to make it look like you tried. You knock once, but you’re already digging out the spare key he gave you when he first moved in.

The apartment is quiet when you let yourself in. Dim, a little stuffy, and still carrying the faint scent of cologne, leftover snacks, and last night’s choices.

Mingi’s sprawled across the couch, hood pulled over his head, blanket tangled around one leg. His arm is flopped over his eyes like he’s trying to disappear.

You walk into the room, drop the bag on the coffee table, and clear your throat. “I come bearing salvation.”

He doesn’t move for a beat. Then, in a voice wrecked by sleep and dehydration, he groans, “I knew you'd come. You're too good to me.”

You laugh, kicking his foot gently as you sit on the floor beside the couch. “You say that every time and still don’t drink water when I tell you to.”

Mingi lifts his arm just enough to peek at the food, eyes lighting up slightly. “Is that soup?”

“Obviously. And sandwiches. And soda. You’re welcome.”

He sits up slowly, wincing like it hurts, and leans forward to grab one of the containers. His hoodie is slipping off one shoulder, hair a mess, eyes bleary and soft. He looks like a half-drowned cat. You try not to find it endearing.

You both eat in silence for a few minutes, hunched around your food like hungover goblins, the clink of plastic containers and occasional sips the only sound in the room.

You steal glances at him between bites, the way he keeps rubbing the back of his neck, squinting slightly at the light, chewing like it’s taking his whole brain to coordinate. You wonder if he’s thinking about last night too.

Because you are.

You’ve been replaying it since you woke up. The music, the drinks, his voice. The way he looked at you like he meant every single lyric. The almost-kiss. The way your heart paused, then sped up, then did absolutely nothing, because nothing happened.

But the nothing is loud. Echoing through this quiet morning like it wants to be noticed.

You glance up. He’s already looking at you. Your eyes meet for a beat too long.

You look away, wiping your fingers on a napkin, trying to play it off. “You sang so seriously last night, by the way,” you mutter, reaching for your drink. “Didn’t know you were auditioning for a drama.”

Mingi grins, head dropping back onto the couch. “You dared me.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t have to look at me like that while doing it.”

The words are out before you realize how they sound. He turns to look at you again, slower this time. His smile softens, fades just a little. “Like what?”

You busy yourself with the drink. “Nothing.”

He doesn’t push it. You both go quiet again, finishing your food with the TV playing some muted weekend rerun in the background. The sun shifts through the windows.

When the food’s gone and the trash is gathered, you stay on the floor, leaning back against the couch. Mingi slides down until he’s sitting next to you, shoulder to shoulder, still silent.

It’s comfortable. It’s maddening.

You close your eyes, head leaning back, heart a little too aware of the space between you and the boy who almost kissed you last night.

—You’re half-asleep when the knock comes.

It’s light at first. Then louder. Then followed by an unmistakable voice slurring your name like a secret.

“Open the doooorrrr… I know you’re in there. I can hear the fridge humming.”

You blink, sit up on the couch, check the time. It’s nearly midnight. Thursday night. Correction: Thirsty Thursday, which you now realize must have meant a bar night for the boys.

You shuffle to the door, still in your old hoodie and bike shorts, and open it with a tired sigh.

Mingi is standing there, slightly swaying, cheeks flushed red, eyes shiny with poorly concealed mischief. His hoodie is unzipped, hair a tousled mess, and his lips are curled into that lopsided, too-proud grin that only shows up after two too many drinks.

“I was just thinking,” he says, dramatically pointing a finger at your face, “that you're my favorite person ever. So I came over.”

You blink at him. “You’re drunk.”

He gasps, like you’ve just accused him of something scandalous. You sigh, stepping aside. “Come in before you wake the neighbors.”

Mingi stumbles in, shedding his shoes with unnecessary force and immediately bee-lining to your speaker like he owns the place. Which, to be fair, he kind of does—he knows your playlists better than you do.

“I’m playing something,” he declares, squinting at his phone like the screen is doing him dirty. “We’re dancing.”

“No, you’re drunk, and I’m going back to my spot on the couch.”

“You love dancing,” he counters, turning to you with wide eyes. “You always dance when you’re cleaning. Or when you’re happy. Or when I bring you cake.”

“That doesn’t mean I want to dance right now.”

He ignores you entirely. The song starts—something upbeat, obnoxiously happy. He starts swaying, arms moving like he’s swimming through molasses.

You cross your arms. “Mingi.”

He grabs your hand. “Dance with me.”

“Mingi, you can’t even stand straight.”

“I’m very stable,” he says confidently, almost falling into your coffee table as he tries to spin. “See?”

Despite yourself, you laugh. He’s a mess. A very affectionate mess.

Eventually, you give in. Just a little.

You let him pull you into a slow, lazy half-dance in the middle of your living room. He hums off-key, his forehead resting against yours for a second too long, his arms slung loosely around your shoulders. His grip is warm, clumsy, loose like he trusts the gravity between you to do most of the work.

“You smell like soju,” you mutter, trying to sound annoyed, but you’re smiling, and he knows it.

“It's my cologne. Limited edition,” he slurs, head dropping to your shoulder.

You both laugh, and his breath hits your neck—warm and soft, closer than it probably should be. Your heart is doing something inconvenient in your chest, but you ignore it. This is Mingi. Drunk, clingy, harmless Mingi.

The song fades. He pulls back enough to look at you—eyes half-lidded, dazed and soft.

“You’re so pretty,” he says suddenly.

You blink. “Okay, bedtime.”

“No, wait, I’m serious. You’re like… glowing.”

“Mingi.”

“Like a really hot glow stick.”

You snort and start steering him toward the couch. “You’re cut off.”

He lets you guide him with no resistance, but just as you reach the couch, he trips slightly, and suddenly, you’re both falling—an awkward, clumsy tangle of limbs, landing with an oof as his full weight collapses on top of you.

“Get off,” you wheeze, laughing as you squirm under him.

He groans dramatically. “Can’t. Too tired. You’re comfy.”

“Mingi, I am not your mattress.”

“You are now.”

You try to push him off, but he’s deadweight—already melting into you, head tucked against your chest like it’s the most natural place in the world. One arm is flung across your waist, his breathing already starting to slow.

You stare at the ceiling, frozen. “Mingi…”

Nothing. He’s out. Fully, deeply asleep. Just like that. You should shove him off. You should throw a pillow at his head or wiggle out from under him. But you don’t. Not right away.

His hair is soft against your neck. His hand twitches slightly, fingers curling against your side. And something about it—all of it—feels dangerously nice.

You sigh, let your hand rest lightly on his back.

Just for a minute.

Just until your heart stops doing this stupid thing where it thinks maybe this could mean more.

—Mingi wakes slowly, like he’s being pulled up from somewhere warm and far away. His body is heavy, his mouth dry, head faintly buzzing from the remnants of cheap soju and sleep. It takes him a second to realize why his shoulder feels warm. Why something soft is pressed against his chest. Why everything smells faintly like your shampoo.

His eyes open, hazy and unfocused, and there you are.

Still beneath him.

His breath catches in his throat as he lifts his head just enough to see you—eyes closed, face relaxed in the kind of peace that only sleep allows. Your chest rises and falls beneath him, slow and steady, like your body is somehow calming his without trying. His arm is still draped over your waist, one leg tangled with yours, and your hand rests lightly against his back like it’s always belonged there. You’re holding him.

And he’s never wanted to stay in a moment more.

He blinks, slow and disoriented, brain sluggish from the hangover and the fog of sleep. He takes you in like he’s afraid you might vanish. Like maybe he dreamed this, and if he moves too fast, he’ll wake up to an empty couch and the hollow space where you used to be.

Without thinking, he reaches up and gently brushes your hair out of your face. His fingers barely graze your skin, but the touch feels seismic. He watches the way your nose scrunches slightly in response, the way your lips twitch at the corner like you’re dreaming something good.

This close, it’s impossible not to feel everything. The heaviness in his chest. The tenderness blooming quietly behind his ribs. That low, aching want to stay like this—not forever, not even for long, just for a while. Just long enough to memorize the feeling of your heartbeat against his cheek. Just long enough to believe you’re holding him not by accident, but because you wanted to.

You shift slightly beneath him, and your arm around his back tightens in your sleep—barely, instinctively. It’s nothing. A reflex. But to Mingi, it’s everything.

He lets his eyes close again, just for a minute. Just to savor it.

Later, he’ll get up. Later, he’ll go back to being your best friend and neighbor and whatever else he’s supposed to be.

But for now, he stays wrapped around you, your warmth anchoring him, your breath brushing against his shoulder.

And in that stillness, he thinks—

If this is all he ever gets, he’ll carry it with him anyway.

—The next date isn’t much different from the first, at least on paper.

You say yes to a guy you met through work—Taehyun. Clean-cut, smart, soft-spoken in that effortlessly confident way. He texts back quickly, plans the evening with ease, and picks a place that’s just the right kind of trendy without being pretentious. The type of guy you’d be stupid not to give a chance.

You get ready without telling Mingi. That’s new.

He’s been quieter around you lately, more fidgety. He still shows up with snacks, still flops onto your couch like gravity insists he belongs there, still makes you laugh without trying. But there’s something in the pauses now. A tension in the space between his glances, like he’s holding something back he’s not ready to let you see.

So tonight, you leave without mentioning it. You tell yourself it’s nothing.

But part of you is waiting for a text from him the whole time. It never comes.

Taehyun picks you up right on time. He compliments your earrings, opens the car door, makes easy conversation during the drive. At dinner, he asks thoughtful questions, makes you laugh more than once, and never interrupts when you speak. It’s easy. No red flags. No weird silences. No awkward fumbles.

And yet.

Every time he reaches across the table, your brain betrays you. Mingi’s hands are rougher. Warmer. When Taehyun leans in to tell a joke, you think, Mingi would’ve made a stupid pun instead. When Taehyun compliments your laugh, you hear Mingi saying “You sound like a cartoon character” with a grin on his face and fondness in his eyes.

You smile at Taehyun anyway. You nod, you laugh, you play the part.

But something inside you is quiet. Unsettled.

After dinner, he asks if you want to grab dessert somewhere nearby. You say yes, but you’re already picturing Mingi in your kitchen, raiding your freezer for ice cream you pretend not to keep stocked. You remember the way he always eats straight from the tub, standing barefoot, ranting about some dumb video he saw.

Taehyun suggests a walk before driving back, and you say yes again. The night is cool. The sidewalk is mostly empty. He offers you his jacket. You don’t take it.

He drops you off just after ten, walks you to your door. He doesn’t lean in, doesn’t try to kiss you. He just says, “I’d like to see you again,” and waits.

You smile. “Maybe.”

And you mean it. But not in the way he hopes.

Inside, your apartment is quiet. Still. You drop your purse, kick off your shoes, and wander into the kitchen without really knowing what you’re looking for.

And then you hear the knock. You open it, and there’s Mingi—hoodie on, hands in his pockets, hair messy like he’s been running his fingers through it all night. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at you.

You raise a brow. “Hey.”

He nods. “Hey.”

His eyes flick down—catch your outfit, the faint smudge of lipstick, the light perfume you never wear unless you’re going out. His jaw tenses, just for a second.

“You were out,” he says, like it’s a statement, not a question.

You shrug. “Just dinner.”

He nods again. “With a guy?”

You lean against the doorframe. “Yeah.”

Silence stretches between you, longer than it needs to be. You can hear the faint hum of your fridge behind you. The soft buzz of a streetlight outside.

Mingi shifts on his feet. “Was it good?”

“It was fine.”

More silence. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t leave. Just stands there like he wants to say something but can’t figure out how to start.

You watch him, heart thudding somewhere between frustration and longing. You wish he’d just say it. Ask. Admit. Anything.

Instead, he glances at his shoes and mutters, “I brought the stupid ice cream you like. Figured you might want it.”

Your chest aches a little. You step aside.

“Come in.”

—The party’s already buzzing by the time you arrive.

It’s someone’s birthday—someone you don’t know well enough to hug, but well enough to show up for. The place is packed. Music is loud, lights are low, and the drinks are flowing too fast for how early it still is. You're not even halfway through your first cocktail when Taehyun shows up beside you, grinning like he’s already tipsy.

You smile back. Out of politeness. Out of habit. Out of something else you’re still pretending not to name.

At first, it’s nothing. Light flirting. A little too close when he leans in to talk over the music. A hand at your waist that lingers a second too long. You laugh—nervous, but letting it happen.

You don’t see Mingi watching.

He’s across the room, pretending to listen to Jongho tell a story, but his eyes are fixed on the way Taehyun’s thumb brushes against your arm. How you don’t pull away. How you tilt your head and smile like it doesn’t twist something sharp into his chest.

When he sees Taehyun lean in and whisper something that makes you laugh—really laugh—he snaps.

He’s moving before he can stop himself, cutting through the crowd, his heart slamming into his ribs like it’s trying to get out. You don’t see him until he’s already there.

“Can we talk?” His voice is low, clipped.

You blink. “What?”

He doesn’t wait for permission. Just jerks his head toward the balcony. “Now.”

There’s something in his tone you’ve never heard before. You follow.

The air outside is cooler, quieter. Distant bass thuds through the walls, but here it feels separate, suspended. Mingi paces once, then turns to face you, hands in his pockets, jaw tight.

“What the hell was that?”

You frown. “What are you talking about?”

“You and him,” he says, motioning back toward the party. “The hands. The way he was—you were letting him touch you like that.”

You cross your arms. “So?”

He scoffs, bitter. “So, nothing? Just a casual thing? Doesn’t matter?”

You straighten. “Why does it matter to you?”

His mouth opens, but no sound comes. You see him struggling—his fists clenching, his breath uneven.

“It’s not like you care who I date!” you throw at him. It’s defensive, sharp. You’re trying to hurt him before he can hurt you.

His voice rises, the words bursting out before he can stop them. “Maybe I do!”

Silence. The kind that doesn’t sit quietly. It rings.

He runs a hand over his face, frustration spilling from every movement. “God. I do. I care, okay? I’ve been trying so hard not to. Trying to be the friend, the neighbor, the idiot you vent to about your dates while pretending I’m fine. But I’m not.”

You stare at him, your heart thudding once—hard, loud, like a signal flare.

Mingi steps closer, eyes locked on yours now, chest heaving with everything he’s been holding back. “I hated watching him touch you. I hated how easy it was for you to smile at him like that. Because I’ve been right here this whole damn time, wanting you, and you never look—”

You don’t know you’re moving until you're already there—your hands in his hoodie, your mouth crashing into his mid-sentence.

His breath stutters, and then he’s kissing you back like he’s been waiting to—for months. Years, maybe. Like he’s been holding his breath every time you walked into a room, and now he finally gets to exhale.

His hands find your waist, your back, your face—like he can’t pick where to hold you first. You’re still pressed up against the balcony, and the city blurs behind you, lights spinning, heartbeat pounding in your ears.

You don’t stop. Not even when someone opens the door behind you, lets out a laugh, and goes back inside.

The world can wait.

Right now, this is everything.

505 notes · View notes

nelle-y · 1 month ago

Note

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE TELL ME YOU'RE GONNA DO A WRRIOTHESLEY ONE AFTER THE ALHAITHAM VOICELINES FIC IS COMPLETED!!!! I NEED IT PLEASE!!

A love story told trough voicelines (Wriothesley ver.) I

C/W: wriothesley x gn!reader, sun x moon, protective!wrio, himbo/bimbo!reader, fluff, slow-burn, not proofread

Note: okay, the Alhaitham fic isn’t really done yet, but I seriously couldn’t think of any good stuff to add there soooo here’s a Wrio version while waiting^^ (comments are very much appreciated!)

Part 2

—

(You) About Laws

I’m not even a Fontaine citizen! How was I supposed to know it was illegal to eat a pack of ketchup?! Are laws here even applicable for tourists? …Wait that was a dumb question. Anyway—I have to serve two months in the Fortress, now. Honestly, that long for ketchup?

Really?

(Wriothesley) About you

They’re a funny one, I’ll admit. When I saw their file, I thought someone was pulling a prank on me. Two months for… eating ketchup? But rules are rules. I have a feeling they’re going to make things a little more interesting around here.

(You) About jail food

Sooo… any chance I could get some ketchup with this? No? Right, okay. Thought I’d ask.

(Wriothesley) About your stay

They’re surprisingly good at making friends. The guards like them, the prisoners like them, even Sigewinne seems to have taken a liking to them. I should be concerned, but honestly? It’s kind of impressive.

(You) About Wriothesley

Did you know the Duke of Meropide has a soft spot for tea? I mean, I guess it’s obvious, but I caught him sneaking an extra cup the other day. “Oh, it helps me think,” he says. Yeah, yeah, whatever, tea boy.

(Wriothesley) About you: Nicknames

‘Tea boy’? They’re the one who came in here because of ketchup. If anything, I should be the one coming up with a nickname. Like… tomato. Ugh, I don’t have time for this—I have work to do.

(You) About Wriothesley: A few weeks in

Okay, so maybe the Duke isn’t as scary as I thought. Sure, he’s got the whole “I could probably knock someone out with one punch” thing going on, but he’s actually pretty nice. In a “grumbles but still helps” kind of way. Like, I asked for an extra pillow as a joke, and he actually got me one? Hello??

(Wriothesley) About You: A few weeks in

They’ve settled in way too well. Most prisoners would usually be miserable as they count their days left, but they? They’re treating this place like a weird vacation. They joke around, chat with everyone, even try to make me laugh— *chuckles* not that it works. …Okay, maybe once or twice.

(You) About Wriothesley: Casual encounters

I keep running into His Grace at the most random times. Like, I’ll be minding my business, trying to stack crackers into the tallest tower possible, and boom, there he is, watching me like I’m some kind of strange wildlife documentary. And then he just walks away without a word! Geez, Tea boy, at least say, “Wow, impressive architecture,” or something!

(Wriothesley) About You: Casual encounters

I caught them trying to balance a spoon on their nose in the cafeteria. I don’t know why I expected anything different. When they saw me watching, they just grinned and said, “Impressive, right?” I should’ve walked away, but instead, I sat down and watched. I think I’m losing it.

(You) About Wriothesley: Serious moments

You ever meet someone who acts all tough, but then you realize they care more than they let on? That’s him. He won’t say it outright, but it’s in the little things. Like how he notices when I’m quieter than usual. Or how he subtly checks if I’ve eaten. He’d probably deny it if I brought it up, though. Typical.

(Wriothesley) About You: Serious moments

They’re more than just jokes and sunshine, you know. The other night, they found me in my office, still working late. I expected them to tease me, but instead, they just sat down and said, “You should rest too, you know.” No jokes. No dramatic antics. Just… genuine concern. I didn’t know what to say.

(You) About making friends (or not)

Most people here are pretty cool! I mean, sure, some of them look like they could snap me in half, but they’re nice once you talk to them. …Okay, maybe not everyone. There’s a group that gives me the stink eye whenever I talk to the Duke. I think they think I’m his little sidekick or something. Imagine me being intimidating. Hah!

(Wriothesley) About prison politics

Not everyone is happy with how things work down here, and that includes how I run things. So when someone comes in and gets along with me too well, it’s bound to rub some people the wrong way. I’m not worried about them, but… I am keeping an eye on things.

(You) Character story: A not-so-friendly encounter

The underground fortress had its own rules—ones that weren’t always written in Fontaine’s legal codes. It was an unspoken truth that power moved differently down here. The way people looked at others, the way they spoke, even the way they stood in the cafeteria—it all meant something.

And apparently, the way they joked around with the Duke meant something too.

“You think you’re special, huh?”

The voice wasn’t friendly. Not the usual kind of gruff they’d hear from someone just messing around. No, this was different. It came with the sharp press of a shoulder against theirs, backing them into the stone wall of a dim corridor. They hadn’t meant to take this route alone—it just happened. Bad timing, bad luck.

They held up your hands in mock surrender. “Whoa, hey, if this is about the crackers I stole from the cafeteria, I promise it was for scientific—”

A hand slammed the wall beside their head, cutting them off. “Quit playing around,” the guy sneered. “You think being His Grace’s favorite means you can do whatever you want?”

Favorite? They blinked. What kind of wild rumors were people spreading?

“I don’t—”

Another guy stepped closer, arms crossed. “You talk too much.”

Okay. Yeah. This wasn’t looking great.

They considered their options. Fighting wasn’t exactly their strong suit—sure, they could throw a decent punch, but against multiple guys built like reinforced walls? Not ideal. Running wasn’t an option either; they had them boxed in. Which left them with… talking their way out.

“Look,” they started, voice light, “I get it. You guys are the big, scary veterans of the Fortress, and I’m just some random ketchup criminal. But I promise, I’m not plotting some evil scheme with the Duke. I’m here for the vibes, man.”

One of them scoffed. “Real funny.”

They grinned. “Thanks. I try.”

A fist clenched. For a second, they thought the guy was actually going to hit them. They braced themselves—

And then he spoke.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

The air in the corridor changed. The weight of the room shifted, a presence settling over the space like a cold snap.

The group turned, and there he was.

Wriothesley stood at the mouth of the corridor, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. But his eyes—his eyes—were sharp, colder than they’d ever seen.

The guy closest to them took half a step back. Just half. “We were just having a conversation,” he said, trying to sound casual.

The Duke’s gaze flicked to them. He didn’t say anything, but the question was clear. Are you hurt?

They shook their head. “Nope. All good. Just a friendly little chat about… social dynamics.”

A beat of silence. Then, Wriothesley let out a breath—something almost like a laugh, but not quite.

“You’ve made your point,” he said coolly, stepping closer. “So now I’ll make mine.”

The air got heavier. The authority in his voice left no room for argument.

“I don’t care what rumors you’ve heard,” he continued. “But if you think causing problems in my fortress is a good idea, then by all means—go ahead. Give me an excuse to personally escort you to solitary confinement.”

No one moved. No one spoke.

Then, just like that, the tension cracked. The group muttered something under their breaths and backed off, melting into the corridors like shadows.

They let out a breath they didn’t realize they held. “Wow. That was dramatic.”

Wriothesley gave them a look. “You should’ve told me.”

They shrugged. “I had it under control.”

His brow arched. He glanced at the wall they’d been backed against, then back at them.

“…Mostly under control.”

A pause. Then, with a shake of his head, he sighed. “You’re impossible.”

They grinned. “So I’ve been told.”

Wriothesley didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, just before turning to leave, he muttered—so quietly they almost missed it—

“Stay close next time.”

(Wriothesley) About you: Keeping an eye out

They say they’re fine, that it’s “not a big deal,” but I know how things work down here. Resentment brews fast. I told them to let me know if anyone gives them trouble. They laughed and said, “What, are you gonna throw them in jail? Oh, wait—” *sigh* They’re ridiculous. Honestly, I’m curious about what they’re gonna do once they’re out in the overworld.

(You) About time

You’d think I’d be marking off the days on my wall like some dramatic prisoner in a movie, right? At first, I kinda did—two months felt like forever. But now? I looked at the calendar this morning and realized I only have a few days left.

…And instead of being excited, I just stood there, staring at it like it personally offended me. Hm.

(Wriothesley) About time

Most inmates count down the days until they’re free. Some scratch it into their cell walls, some mark it on a calendar—always waiting, always watching the clock. I thought they were the same. But lately, they’ve been looking at the days left like they don’t know what to do with them.

…And if I’m being honest, I don’t know what to do with them either.

(You) About goodbyes

So, uh… last night in the Fortress. Crazy, huh? Feels like just yesterday I was getting sentenced for my heinous ketchup crimes. Time flies when you’re… illegally detained, I guess.

…Hey, weird question. You ever get so used to something that it’s just… there, and then when it’s gone, you don’t know what to do with yourself? Like, I dunno, a leaky faucet or a creaky floorboard—annoying at first, but then it’s kinda comforting? Familiar?

…Never mind. Forget I said anything.

(Wriothesley) About goodbyes

I knew this was coming, but… it’s different now that it’s actually here.

They were just supposed to be another name on a file. Someone who’d serve their time and leave, like all the rest. But now? The idea of this place without them feels… odd.

Last night, they said something about getting used to things—to noises, habits, people. I didn’t say anything then, but I knew exactly what they meant.

Because now, when I sit down for tea, I’ll catch myself waiting for some ridiculous comment that won’t come. And when I walk through the halls, I’ll expect them to be there, up to some new nonsense.

…Hah. They really are impossible.

—

(You) About freedom

I thought I’d be excited to leave. Two months ago, I was counting down the days. But now that I’m out, everything just feels… off. Food tastes bland. The city is too quiet. My chest feels weird—like I forgot something important, but I don’t know what. Maybe I’m just not used to soft beds again? Or maybe I caught a weird underground sickness. …Yeah, that’s probably it.

(Wriothesley) About your absence

It’s quieter without them. Not peaceful, just… quiet. No one is pestering me about my tea habits, no one is trying to balance silverware on their face at lunch, and no one is calling me ridiculous nicknames. It should be a relief, right? That’s what I keep telling myself.

(You) About adjusting

I keep waking up expecting to hear guards talking outside. Instead, it’s just… silence. I must’ve gotten too used to the noise. Or maybe my sleep schedule is messed up. Or maybe—oh no. Is this withdrawal? Am I actually addicted to prison?!

(Wriothesley) About moving on

They’re out. They should be living their life, enjoying their freedom. And I should be focusing on my work. But every now and then, I’ll look at the cafeteria and half-expect them to be there, making some ridiculous comment about prison food. It’s a strange thing, getting used to someone’s presence—only to realize, too late, how much you actually miss it.

(You) About dumb ideas

Okay, so, hypothetically, if someone accidentally committed the same crime twice—purely by coincidence, obviously—would that be, like, really bad? Like, a longer sentence, perchance? …No reason. Just curious.

—

(Wriothesley) Character story: Sun

It was a slow day at the fortress, colder than usual, dimmer than what the Duke was used to. Since their release, he spent his time signing away some papers—names and files that came in a blur, none of them particularly interesting. The days felt longer, the usual routine dragging on without the usual interruptions.

Sigewinne checked in from time to time, making sure he was eating well and getting enough rest. And as much as he appreciated it, it just felt… different when it came from them. They had a way of making even the dullest moments feel lighter, like slipping bits of warmth into a place that wasn’t supposed to have any. He never realized how much he’d gotten used to it until it was gone.

He exhaled, shaking his head. Get a grip.

The door creaked as a guard stepped in, handing him the next batch of intake files. He took them without much thought, flipping through page after page of familiar offenses—smuggling, theft, fraud. Nothing unusual. Nothing worth a second glance.

And then he saw their name.

His movements stilled. At first, he thought he mixed up their old papers with the recent ones, but no—this was a fresh intake. The details stared back at him, just as ridiculous as the first time. He read the reason for their second sentence, and—

“Again?”

A laugh rumbled from his chest, caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement. He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair as a grin tugged at his lips.

“Are you obsessed with ketchup or what?”

Before he could think too much about it, a knock echoed through his office.

“Come in,” he called.

The door cracked open just enough for him to catch a glimpse of familiar, mischievous eyes peeking through.

He sighed, shaking his head, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him, curling into a smirk.

“Welcome back, sunshine.”

—

#genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin fanfic #genshin impact x reader #wriothesley #wriothesley x reader #wriothesley fluff #sun x moon

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kingdom-of-sins · 5 months ago

Text

Lando Norris x Girlfriend!Reader

University AU. Lando despises libraries, but missing you drives him to the one place he swore to avoid.

The library is quiet, except for the faint sound of pages turning and pens scratching against paper. It's your favorite place on campus, especially during exam season. The tall shelves are packed with books, the air smells faintly of old paper, and the warm lighting creates a cozy atmosphere. You’re at your usual corner, surrounded by an intimidating stack of textbooks, your laptop, and your trusty sketchpad and notebook.

Your hair is tucked back behind your ears, and you’ve barely touched the iced coffee sitting on your table. Architecture exams are brutal, and your mind is buried in blueprints and calculations.

Meanwhile, Lando is pacing in his dorm, looking at his phone every five minutes. He hasn’t seen you all day, and it’s driving him insane. He’s texted you twice—no response. Called you once—you declined. You told him you were studying for your exams, but he misses you too much to stay away.

So, for the first time in his university life, Lando decides to do the unthinkable. He heads to the library.

The moment he steps inside, the quiet buzz of the room shifts. Heads turn, whispers ripple across the space, and people glance at him with wide eyes. Lando Norris? In the library? It’s practically campus legend that he’s never set foot in here.

But Lando doesn’t care. His eyes scan the room until they land on you, sitting at your usual spot, completely absorbed in your work. A soft smile spreads across his face. You’re beautiful, even in your stressed-out, focused state.

He walks toward you, his sneakers squeaking slightly on the polished floor. The sound draws even more attention, and now people are openly staring. Lando Norris, campus joker, actually in the library? It’s like a solar eclipse—rare and impossible to ignore.

You don’t even notice him. Your pencil moves furiously over the paper, your brow furrowed in concentration. Lando stops right beside you, watching you with an affectionate grin. He sits down quietly, resting his chin on his hand as he admires you.

For a few seconds, he just looks at you, soaking in the sight of you biting your lip in concentration. It’s adorable.

You turn the page of your notebook and finally notice him sitting there. You let out a small scream, your eyes wide with surprise.

“Lando!” you hiss, your voice a mix of shock and confusion. “What are you doing here?”

“I missed you,” he says simply, his voice soft but with a playful edge. “And honestly, this place isn’t too bad. Quiet, cozy... I think it’s a great spot for a date.”

You stare at him, still processing the fact that he’s here. In the library. You glance around and immediately notice the other students staring, some whispering to each other.

“Everyone’s looking at you,” you whisper, leaning closer to him.

He shrugs, completely unbothered. “Let them. They’re probably just jealous I’m sitting next to the prettiest girl in here.”

You roll your eyes, your cheeks flushing slightly. He’s ridiculous. “Seriously, Lando. What are you doing here?”

“Told you, I missed you,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve been ignoring me all day. How could I not come find you?”

You shake your head, but there’s a small smile tugging at your lips. You get up, heading to a nearby shelf, and return with a thick textbook. You place it in front of him.

“Since you’re here, you might as well study,” you say firmly.

Lando stares at the book like it’s a foreign object. “Study?” he echoes, looking at you like you’ve just suggested he run a marathon. “I didn’t come here to study. I came to watch you.”

“If you want to stay, you’re studying,” you insist, crossing your arms.

He groans, flopping dramatically in his chair. “You’re so mean to me,” he whines, but there’s a teasing glint in his eyes.

“Start reading,” you say, pointing at the book.

With a dramatic sigh, he flips it open, but within seconds, his eyes drift back to you. He drags his chair closer to yours, the legs scraping softly against the floor.

“You’re so cute when you’re serious,” he whispers, his tone low and teasing.

“Lando,” you warn, trying to keep your face stern, but your cheeks are already warm.

“I can’t help it,” he says, smirking. “You’re irresistible.”

You shake your head, biting back a smile. The students around you are still sneaking glances, some clearly entertained by the scene.

“Focus, Lando,” you say, turning back to your work.

“I am focusing,” he retorts, resting his chin on his hand. “On you.”

Despite his protests, Lando eventually starts flipping through the book, though it’s clear he’s not actually reading. Every now and then, he leans closer to whisper another ridiculous compliment, making your face heat up even more.

After about an hour, the teasing stops. You glance over and see Lando slumped over the book, his head resting on his folded arms. He’s fast asleep, his messy curls falling across his forehead.

A soft smile spreads across your face as you watch him. You shift closer, leaning gently against his shoulder while you continue studying. The library feels a little warmer, a little cozier with him there.

459 notes · View notes

occamstfs · 8 months ago

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Marichismo

Allen, a smug engineering student, finds himself seeking shelter from the storm in a museum for Latin American art. By the time it clears up it's safe to say he'll have a more than healthy appreciation for the arts.

Might've gotten away from me a tad but I think it turned out quite well! Latino Race and Cultural change, MG and language change ahead. Also a couple more people have hopped onto my Challenge since I last mentioned it! Otherwise, espero que disfrutes! -Occam

Allen was on a side of the campus he’s never quite made it a point to explore. In undergrad and in his Masters of Engineering program so far there has simply never been a need for him to venture too far from the engineering building or the architecture library. That is until his partner on a superfluous project requested he venture into the no man’s land that holds the campus’ main library, one that runs absolutely rampant with students he sees as far beneath him.

Even worse than simply venturing beyond his comfort zone, as soon as the pair have wrapped up their progress for the day, heading off on their less than merry ways, it begins to rain. As the first raindrops begin to fall, Allen scoffs at himself for being anything less than optimally prepared. Before he’s able to reflect too deeply, the snobbish student clenches his tech-filled book bag to his chest and sprints into the nearest building, apathetic to whatever space he noisily barges into.

Before his eyes can adjust to the dim light of the new space he finds himself in, Allen hears a crack of thunder as the heavens open up behind him. Sighing in relief at successfully staying dry, Allen keeps his guard up, eying the lobby of whatever building this is that he’s never deigned to step into before now. He grimaces as he finds himself in an art museum. He does not like art museums. It’s not so much that Allen sees himself as above fine art, it’s- well no it is that. Immediately, he begins scanning the lobby for a power outlet so he may continue working while he waits out the downpour.

Head shoved under a lobby bench Allen ignores a caution sign as he forces his charger in, causing an inevitable shock that forces out a less than respectful expletive in this place of introspection. He eyes the empty room around him, slightly grinning at just how barren the lobby is. Clearly he’s not the only one apathetic to this nonsense. Shaking his hand to reawaken its nerves, he hears the clicking of footsteps against the gallery floor as a small woman walks around the corner carrying a stack of books that block her view. Allen eyes a handful of escape routes to hide from the older woman before lightning strikes once more and she trips over in shock, dropping her small stack of books, “¡Dios Mio!”

Judgemental asshole Allen may be but heartless he is not. Setting down his bag with a sigh and a roll of the eyes, the student walks over to help the older woman gather herself. Barely avoiding reflexively chiding his elder as he offers her a hand, he helps her up. The attendant pushes a large pair of glasses up her nose and squints at him with a kind smile, “Ah! Gracias, gracias mijo.” She pulls herself up on Allen’s hand and he cringes back as some kind of aftershock of static goes up his arm. Thankfully it doesn’t seem to affect her. Dusting herself off, she does a double take at Allen and adjusts her glasses, “¿Qué te trae aqui hoy, mijo? (What brings you in today dear?)

Allen hesitates, blowing air as he tries to understand why this woman thinks he knows spanish. Scratching the back of his head he finally looks to see the text blazoned across the front desk, El Gustavo Ramirez Museo De Arte Latinoamericano. Putting two and two together as he is ever so proud of doing, Allen immediately apologizes for intruding. “So sorry uh, Ma’am. I didn’t mean to wander into your, uh, space.” gesturing to the woman and the building around him in a manner to distinguish it not so much as beneath him but as an other. Something that is simply a bridge too far for him to gap. “This place isn’t for me so I think I’ll go ahead and step out.” Thunder peels before he can start to gather his things, immediately reminding him why he is in here at all.

The older woman also relents, switching to English since, despite some instinct saying otherwise, the man before her clearly speaks only english. “Ah don’t you worry yourself mijo. The museum is for all, para todos. Free with your student ID,” she tacks on with a wink. Allen smiles uncomfortably, baring teeth enough that it could be mistaken as a grimace.

He can’t just tell this old lady that he hasn’t a thought to spare, in his mind: waste, on the collections behind her. Still he doesn’t want to make conversation indefinitely waiting for the storm to clear either. Fearful of the outlet he’s used thus far he convinces himself there must be one hiding somewhere in the exhibition hall. He’ll just pacify her with entry and go find some place in between ostentatious paintings and droll statues to insert himself and get some actual work done.

Producing his ID wordlessly, he hands it to the elderly woman and she quickly shuffles behind her desk to type his name into some registry. Handing it back with a smile she leaves her hand hanging for a shake, “Wonderful to meet you Allan! Soy Lupe Carvajal. But you can call me abuelita, mijo!” Pocketing his ID with a dismissive laugh he notices not that his name is apparently misspelled on his ID card, instead he packs his charger up and shakes Lupe’s hand. “Hah. Uhm, whatever you say Mrs. Carvajal.” Her hand is wrinkled and frail but surprisingly warm, as if his hand were receiving the full body experience of a hug in but a single shake.

“You know Allan, I must have thought you know spanish because you look quite like my nieto, my grandson.” Allan puffs his cheeks to bite his tongue, holding a picture in his mind of what this granny’s descendants must look like and knowing there’s simply no permutation that lands at himself. She continues, “Es un joven fuerte! Haha!” She does a little bicep pose which allows Allan to understand exactly what she means without her translating. He shyly smiles looking down at his own thin arms and wondering why this lady seems to be mocking him. After doing her bit, Lupe moves to sit at the desk and pulls a book off her stack, “You just let me know if you need anything mijo, si?” Allan nods and reflexively responds, “Si ab- Mrs. Carvajal.”

Odd taste in his mouth at almost calling this random woman grandmas she asked, he shakes it off and wanders into the exhibit hall, decidedly less worried about using her museum’s resources to his own ends. It has probably been over a decade since anyone was able to drag him into an art museum. Even then was he vehemently against wasting his time visiting. He just didn’t get art, and not for not trying. It’s just, aggravating that some people can get so much from some splotches of paint and he just sees a picture on some paper. Feeling himself get riled up he turns to the exhibit hoping for some distraction, which he finds in an elaborate statue of some dog. himself.

Allan stands beside a huichol coyote covered in beads about two feet high. Spotlighted in the dim gallery he circles it like a predator, inspecting the bright beaded beast from every angle. See this he gets. This took time, this took care. Leaning in close the warmth of the overhead light pleasantly burns the top of his head. Absorbed by the shimmering light off the beads, Allan is unaware as his hair suddenly begins to lengthen. The buzz he has always kept short for sheer manageability begins to curl over his ears, growing warm even quicker as it tints darker. Not quite black but certainly not the blonde shade he was always happy to keep despite his spending as few hours outside as possible.

Before curls can begin to crest over his forehead, his face is not spared the glare of the spotlight. Immediately as his olive eyes glaze over, absorbed into the intricate stitched patterns they begin to stain darker. The jade he has always seen in his own reflection shades darker ever so slightly. Not brown. No he doesn’t have brown eyes, they’re just hazel? His eyebrows match the suddenly darkened hair on his head as he stands staring at the beast. Not expanding to cover more of his face but growing thicker, denser. Almost as if to shade his eyes from the light. His lips thicken as a grin begins to tinge his face. Reaching up Allan feels stubble begin to prickle his chin and upper lip, as if he spent time shaving this morning.

Allan moans contentedly as he gives in and reaches fully into the spotlight to touch the coyote. Rules and codes of propriety fall to the wayside as he reaches beyond the realm of rationality to touch the statue of the trickster. His hands burn as they tint ever so slightly darker under the glare of the spotlight. As soon as his middle finger feels the warmth of the first bead he recoils in shock. “Q- What?!” He falls onto his ass, no time to inspect his decidedly browner hands as the commotion made immediately summons Abuelita Lupe. The elderly attendant meanders as quickly as she can into the showroom, “¿Qué pasó Alan?” Alan flexes his hand in shock. Whatever just happened it can’t be his fault. Surely he didn’t just unprompted mess with some artifact on display. “I, um? No sé?” He pauses, unsure of what he just said, nonsense he thinks. “I mean um, I’m not sure?”

Lupe goes to help him up with what little strength she can muster only for him to wave her off, sure that she would only get in the way. He finds standing takes more effort than usual as he does so with a grunt. Nervously patting him on the back, Lupe asks him if he’s alright after the spill, buzzing around him with concerned pleasantries. Alan doesn't quite hear her as he instead inspects his own body. His clothes are tighter. He stretches and pulls at them, presuming them to just be falling weird on him after the fall. But close inspection shows otherwise. Looking at his cardigan it is clearly strained by his chest and stomach. Blushing at the idea he’s put on weight, Alan crosses his arms and notices how snugly his arms fill the sleeves, how his wrists hang out further than they should, not only that but they are unmistakably darker. Not brown, but without a doubt a few shades darker than his usual porcelain tone.

Recovering from being lost in his thoughts he looks to find Lupe staring, “Oh! Lo, uh sorry. Did you uh, ask me something Senora Carvajal?” Looking down at a sharper angle than he did earlier, he sees the abuela looking at his head with a tilt. “Did you do something different with your hair mijo?” eyes narrowing with concern and suspicion he thrusts his hair into his new curls. He immediately gasps in shock before reconsidering. This is how he’s always looked right?

Thank god his hair is naturally curly so he can just leave them as they fall without much ado. He smiles and shakes his head at Lupe and she nods happily in return. Reaching up she puts her small hand on his bicep and squeezes it, Alan can barely hear her as he is struck with just how powerful his arm seems next to her small hand as she continues, “Well I like it mijo.” With that she aways and leaves Alan be. Having the floor to himself his expression grims as he pulls out his phone to look for a picture of himself. Something is off. His mind tells him everything is normal. When he looks at his hands he sees them as they have always been right? Why would he have a buzz cut when his hair is so naturally nice? Something in his gut screams out that something unnatural is going on. His camera roll should hold proof. Going through his phone he barely holds back a gasp that would surely summon the docent back as he is immediately greeted by a folder of his own nudes.

“Que chingado…” He whispers under his breath as his face burns redder than the scarlet beads on the coyote. He didn’t take these did he? Zooming in he is once more floored to see tattoos on his body. Looking down at his arm he sharply inhales as there's a sting and suddenly his wrist matches the image on his phone. Or no. He’s had that tattoo for years?

Aghast at himself he still feels he wouldn’t have taken these photos of himself. Vain in many ways, his appearance is not one of them. He wonders if he’s been set up or hacked or something before he reminds himself no one would be able to do so without his knowledge. He’s a pro after all. Mind going to his technical skills, his chest puffs with pride as it grows to match the one he finds in the nudes soft-core and otherwise on his phone. Alan quickly shoves it in his pocket, finding it a much tighter fit than when he retrieved it.

Looking around nervously, he walks close to the coyote once more. Narrowing his eyes he feels new memories come to mind from his childhood. Memories of hearing story after story of the trickster, he tilts his head as the slightest whiff of something amiss hides behind them. Staring into the eyes of the beast with suspicion the image of reading Greek mythologies by himself fades away to be replaced by his mother telling him stories from her own childhood. The coyote playing tricks and la Llorona terrorizing their little town just to make sure he stays in line. Alan smiles as he shakes out of the reverie, my mom wasn't morena was she? Headache rising as seconds pass standing near the beast he wanders away, muttering to himself without awareness, “didn’t want him in the main hall anyway.”

His hair continues to thicken and curl darker as he moves deeper into the exhibition space. Scratching at his stubble lost in thought he finds it defining itself into a goatee with a matching mustache. His phone still unlocked in his pocket shifts displays his form as he continues to change unawares. He feels himself begin to sweat intensely as his cardigan grows even tighter. His body decides to ramp up his masculinity as he starts to outright swell with muscle. His whole body twitches larger as he briefly recalls Lupe playfully flexing, “un joven fuerte!” He clicks his tongue and grins as he sees his biceps strain his sweater, almost enough to see his button up through the threads. He fights back a smirk feeling his shirt underneath hug the sides of his chest as his soldiers expand. Feeling his thicker pits start to sweat through said shirt and into the jacket he resolves to remove the cardigan.

His struggled grunts echo through the museum space as he struggles to get the cardigan off over his chest. The sound of fabric tearing rips through the room as stitches finally give way down the whole front of the garment, his pecs bursting larger into the open air. The top few buttons of his dress shirt also explode open as he is finally freed from the constricting sweater, “ayy dios- fuck…” He whispers to himself as he appreciates the ice cold air of the museum on his sweaty skin. The white dress shirt may as well be sheer with his sweat soaking it, allowing any gawkers to easily see tattoos running down his arm and the nipples almost poking through the shirt.

Only briefly does he wonder why he’s not self conscious about being exposed in the gallery before he notices a side-exhibition hall. “Ah si, uh. The temporary exhibit,” he whispers dreamily. Keeping quiet as any respectful museum-goer does. Though he doesn’t quite have the bodily awareness to mute his increasingly loud footsteps, each one growing louder as his upper body expands. He looks up to read the title of the exhibit as the sound of his shoulders widen enough to tear the back of his button up. Marichismo: Taking Back Latino Masculinity. He smirks as he finds the idea compelling, he’s uh, not hispanic of course. Nor has he ever been intrigued by ‘art’ in the slightest, he thinks. But something draws him deeper. Something pulls him further. Something in him begs for more.

His pants creak as he crosses the threshold into the new space, his ass expanding beyond the pale. Similarly does his crotch demand both more room and his attention as Arlad is immediately face to face with a deliberately provocative statue. The blush burning his face is just as soon hidden as his tan grows darker as he’s overwhelmed by everything in front of him. It’s as if Tom of Finland were Chicano. Bulges beyond belief force their way out at every angle. Rigid thick mustaches hang stoic on every face as Arlad feels his own stubble grow darker, thicker, itchier.

The student is torn between instincts, just as he feels increasingly torn between two worlds. His body continues ballooning and his shirt bursts clean off, buttons scatter to the floor and sharp tears launch down his arms. He can’t help but hungrily scan the floorspace as the bright lights bore into him, exposing him as if he were a piece of art on display. He looks down just in time to see his cock burst large enough to blow his zipper out which only addles his mind further, “Tal vez, just a minute…” He wanders into the exhibit hall proper as his eyes finally make the jump into a rich chocolate brown. He trips over his feet, gasping as he feels them stuffed uncomfortably tight in his oxfords before kicking off the shoes altogether. Just as soon do his pants rip off and he is left almost entirely nude in this exhibit hall.

His mouth hangs open as his cock acts almost like a dowsing rod in between pieces. The language in which Arcad thinks rapidly begins to change altogether, already a bilingual medley, with each starved look at photographed vaqueros or bulge forward paintings does English drift farther away. Maintaining fluency in both of course, the man would never let that tongue take predominance over that of his madre y su madre before her. His pecs pump even larger with pride as thick curls begin itching up from his crotch. He scratches at his stomach as he smirks at his body finally getting on brand. This whole show is about displaying masculinity and he needs to be the apex. He needs…

Arcad twitches as these definitive thoughts cut through the fog in which he has been going about. Why does he care so much about this place? He doesn’t like art. Certainly not this uh smut. He twitches as he argues that being provocative is the point, sexualization of the male form is the point. Why could he know that? How does he know anything about this exhibit? Looking around at the photographs he sees men who are almost a parody of masculinity. Fighting back the overwhelming pervasive horniness issuing forth from balls bulging larger he takes a deep breath and ignores the temple to the male form around him.

It’s impossible for him to notice as his thoughts crest fully into español. After all it simply is the language in which he has always thought, no matter what his teachers demand of him. Back to the matter at hand he is struck with the urge to create. Mierda- this exhibition really inspired him, he should really write an essay about this. Or, no. He moans and clutches at his temples as the shining lights out of sight gleam even brighter, sparkling off his sweaty muscled form as he’s racked with the pain of opposing realities. No, that isn’t right. He doesn’t do essays anymore. That’s not how he creates.

Memories of long hours at the lab and in dark rooms sitting at a keyboard dissipate. Haughty superiority over fields and forms he deems insignificant thankfully blast away as images of the photographs and artworks around him come to mind with an ease that makes him uneasy. Creeping in from the edges of his lived memory are other exhibits, many that he has visited, some that he has put on of his own accord.

Tattoos continue to drip down his arm as his treasure trail rushes onto his chest, blooming out to cover his pecs. The space in between his mustache and goatee is quickly filled, as are the entirety of his cheeks as his eyes shut even tighter. Independent muscle groups twitch as his body struggles to forge him even larger, to be more. The lengthy curls on his head fall away as his head returns to a buzz cut, this time black as the night. This time impossibly deliberate.

Arcadio buzzed it himself, he loved his curls. But he knew for this exhibition he had to sacrifice. Anything for his art. The phrase burns across his mind, Marichismo. It, it was his exhibition. Arcadio opens his eyes to find himself standing across from an oppressive statue staring down at him in disdain. His blood boils as his fight or flight activates. Though staying strong he just clenches his fist as his body bulges larger one last time. “Papa.” He made that statue, he isn’t about to be shoved around by his own art. The feeling of confidence filling him at standing up against the domineering statue is more than he could have held within him as Allan. Reverbs of confidence go through his psyche as he finally gets it. Turning around the confidence that fills him rapidly dissipates as he sees a man posing like a dog.

He exercised complete creative control of the exhibition, but did he take this? Memories of being behind the lens of the camera dance through his mind for most of the images, this one seems obscured. He ignores the cold sudden sting of a nose ring as he leans in close to inspect it, smirking all the while. Who’d he get to model this? Looking at the jockstrap he nods approvingly, mierda it is certainly hot though. His underwear stretches to its absolute limit as he forces his large hand down to paw his cock at the image. Looking down at his hairy forearm he gasps as he sees the tattoo on his forearm perfectly matches that of the model.

At that moment his underwear burst free from his body and he suddenly realizes that being nude in this space is far worse a breach of etiquette than touching that coyote. Arcadio sprints to his bag and digs around for anything he could possibly use to hide his still bulging cock at half mast. “¡Gracias a dios!” he whispers under his breath as he wraps a towel around his waist, perfectly mimicking a photograph behind him. He smirks at the man thinking how proud Jose will be when he gets to see himself on a gallery wall. Arcadio grunts and clenches his head as memories of the man ahead of him fill his mind. Lightheaded he leans against the wall grimacing as he leads a sweaty handprint on the pristine white wall.

Turning around seeing the exhibit hall as a whole he almost falls over with a rush of memories. Advanced math and the life he once lived as Allan are dust in the wind as his childhood growing up the son of first generation immigrants in San Antonio rises to take their place. Living alone with his mother before his abuela moved up from Mexico to help raise him as if he were her son. Understanding himself and the world around him as he discovered who he was and what he had to do. Finally achieving success, winning grants, booking galleries as an artist. Not too bad for a maricon eh? He winks at the statue of his father, smirking as he feels his power as a man and artist grow.

Looking down at some engineering homework scattered from his bag the last pangs of a headache buzzes through him before he shakes his head and the work is gone. The last shreds of a life he once lived dissipate. Walking out into the lobby he sees his abuelita. She smiles at the massive man before adjusting her glasses and shouting out, “¡Ay! ¿Qué estás haciendo? ¡Ponte algo de ropa! (What are you doing! Put some clothes on!)” Arcadio laughs and waves her off, knowing the museum is closed while he preps his exhibition for opening tomorrow.

His new voice is rich on his tongue as he speaks up, “Espero que les guste. La universidad no sabe lo que pagaron ¡ja! (Hope they like it. The uni doesn’t know what they paid for ha!)” His abuelita clicks her tongue, she loves her grandson more than the world but boy if he hasn’t made her old beyond her years. She digs through the lost and found next to her for something that might fit her larger than life grandson and throws it at him. The man laughs and his abuelita can’t help but join in the reverie. She wouldn’t dream of going through his exhibit- que obsceno, que cachondo! But he could do no real wrong in her eyes. So far he’s blown her expectations out of the water with his success and she can’t wait to see what Arcadio gets up to next.

#male tf #racial change #mental change #masculinization #hair growth #muscle tf #reality change #cultural change #male transformation

604 notes · View notes

fujoshirat · 18 days ago

Text

𝓢𝓹𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓼

"𝐼𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒻𝑒𝑒𝓁 𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓁𝓎, 𝐼 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒷𝑒 𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓁𝓎 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓎𝑜𝓊. 𝒯𝑒𝓁𝓁 𝓂𝑒 𝒷𝒶𝒷𝓎, 𝓌𝒽𝓎 𝒹𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓈𝑒𝑒𝓂 𝓈𝑜 𝒷𝓁𝓊𝑒? 𝒲𝒽𝓎 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓌𝑒 𝓈𝑜 𝒸𝑜𝓂𝓅𝓁𝒾𝒸𝒶𝓉𝑒𝒹? 𝑀𝒶𝓎𝒷𝑒 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓇𝒶𝓉𝑒𝒹."

Pairing: Todoroki Shouto x female reader

Warnings: slightly OOC!Shouto, DONT READ IF YOU DONT LIKE CHUBBY OR SHY READER 👹👹👹 (that’s the premise of the fic but ok), mentions of bullying, mentions unhealthy beauty standards, user has a quirk good enough to get her into the hero course at U.A. :), angst with a happy ending, inspired by "Sports" by Beach Bunny

Word Count: 2,393

A/N: Ouch, this one hurt :,) ; if you don't want female reader then use your imagination; I DO NOT CONDONE BULLYING OR BODY SHAMING, YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL JUST THE WAY YOU ARE♡

Junior high girls are mean, especially the rich kind at your school.

You’ll walk through the halls, just trying to get to class, and they’ll all greet you with their bitter honey voices and long, skinny legs. They’ll walk next to you, asking about your morning while flaunting their long, skinny legs through rolled up skirts. They won’t stop even when you reach class, and only when the teacher walks in and yells at them to get to their seats and roll down those skirts will they disperse and leave you alone.

It was a vicious cycle, the only relief being the quiet of your home—your new home.

It had been a week since you officially moved into your new neighborhood in Kawagoe City. Your father’s new position at his architectural firm had uprooted the family to the bustling city, meaning a new life for you. There wasn’t anything particularly special about the house that your family had moved into. It was located in a safe neighborhood, a ten minute walk from school, and was big enough.

The most interesting aspect of your house was, ironically the neighboring house: a grand, obviously expensive, traditional Japanese home. With two stories and marbled walls, whomever lived there obviously had a salary thrice your father’s. You found out that part was true on your second day of school, when, as you left your house, a boy your age walked out of that house, wearing the boys’ uniform for your school. His red and white hair made it obvious as to who he was: Shouto Todoroki.

Everyone knew about the mysterious son of Endeavor. The girls at your school loved to talk about him too. They loved to talk about his aloof personality, his ice-prince aura, his fascinating height, his clear skin, his flawless grades, his overwhelming strength, his father’s money. But most of all, their favorite topic to talk about was his scar. The blatant, angry red-almost maroon scar, “staining his face” as they loved to put it.

You didn’t see anything wrong with the scar, nor did you agree that it ruined his face. But you never said it out loud, a girl shy and incongruous with the others. You just kept your mouth shut, keeping to yourself and only yourself unless spoken to (but even then, keeping social interaction to a minimum).

Shouto Todoroki isn’t mean, even though he looks like he is.

It happened all by coincidence, after all, both you and him weren’t the social type. It was a stupid paper bag that ripped on your way home from your impromptu trip to the grocery store. As the flimsy material ripped in half, its contents tumbled out.

You gasped and scrambled to pick up the spilt cans of various meats and mixed vegetables, immediately dropping to your knees and gathering what you could. As you do so, your navy blue hoodie bunches up at the sides, your fingers fumbling to hold everything against your chest.

And just as you’re about to reach for the last few cans of tuna, a pair of large, calloused hands reach out and pick them up from the ground. You glance up in surprise, but then your breath hitches in your throat.

Shouto Todoroki is crouched in front of you, silently stacking the cans of tuna and wearing what seems to be his gym clothes. He’s perfectly pristine and poised, like always, except for the small cuts along his forearm. Were those from training? Blood rushes to your cheeks, and you don’t know whether it’s from embarrassment or admiration.

“Y-you don’t have to-! U-uhm-! You know…” You silently curse at yourself for stammering, only choppy phrases able to escape your mouth. The taller boy shakes his head and stands up. “It’s alright, I’m sorry for startling you.” The Shouto Todoroki is right in front of you, the strongest in your year, probably salutatorian, and practically untouchable—yet helping someone like you pick up dropped cans of tuna.

“Thank you,” you whisper, trying not to draw attention to yourself. He watches you stand up, but his gaze doesn’t focus on the obvious weight around your midsection. His eyes don’t burn into it like everyone else your age and at school, as if you don’t belong here. Instead, he even takes some of the vegetables in your hands and looks at you in the eyes.

“You live next door to me, right? Let me walk you home.” Your eyes widen, clearly not expecting such a kind gesture from anyone, especially from him. “Y-Yes, but it’s okay, you don’t have to if you’re going somewhere else. I mean, if you’re busy—” Before you can continue, the heterochromatic boy shakes his head. “I insist, and I’ll be heading home anyways.” You blink again, waiting quietly for him to say that he’s changed his mind or that he was messing with you. But when he doesn’t respond and just waits patiently with you, you sigh and murmur quietly.

“…Okay.”

And so, he walks with you. His eyes fixated on the sidewalk in front of you two, his silence mirrors your own. Once the two of you reach your house, you take the groceries from him. Right before he leaves, you dig through your small purse and pull out three small bandages. You always carry extra, just in case your clumsy mistakes lead to injury. Without a word, you hold them up to him and bow your head.

“Thank you, Todoroki-san.”

And Shouto takes it, firmly, like it means something.

“Thank you.”

And so, it began. Your shared practice of walking to school together, in the rain, in the snow, in the summer heat, and back home. It didn’t matter that you two were in different homerooms. Whomever got to the school gates first waited for the other to walk home together. Only on days when he had training immediately after school did you walk home alone, and it gradually increased as the school year progressed.

You never asked about his scar and stared at it shamelessly, and Shouto never made you feel like you were worth less because your body wasn’t skinny and lanky like the other girls in your school. You gave him bandages when he came home all bruised from training, and he shared his umbrella with you in the rain. You were both outsiders in the same world, not knowing where to belong but in the comfort of each other.

Good things never last, that was a lesson you learned in your childhood, and it seemed as if life wanted to teach you it again.

It was just going to be a mini vacation with your family to a popular camping spot in Chiba. You were only going to be gone for two day.

And when you came back, he was gone.

The Todoroki residence had a sign in front of it that preached “FOR SALE,” and seeing it made your heart break. You had gotten attached to your only friend, just to find out that he had moved without a word. When you went back to school, you learned that was that it was official: the Todorokis had moved out of town. And, according to every heartbroken girl at school, because his father wanted him to go to a different private school to prep for his high school path.

The universe had taken the one person who understood you, and it destroyed you.

You weren’t thinking about it when it happened. You were just walking through the halls of U.A., your first day of high school, looking for your homeroom with your new, self-proclaimed best friend. Setsuna Tokage keeps her arm looped around yours, her extrovert energy almost overloading you.

But it was okay, because Setsuna Tokage didn’t judge you for how your body looked and didn’t care if you were naturally shy. She saw you head towards the hero course classrooms and declared you her favorite person and hadn’t let go of your arm since.

You were smiling at something pleasant she had said, how you and her were going to make so many friends in Class 1B and have the best year ever, when you rounded the corner—

and bumped into him.

Not just anyone, not just a student.

Shouto Todoroki.

The same two-toned hair. The same scar, the same sharp gaze—only taller now, more composed. He looked so much like the boy you used to know, but different in ways that made your chest ache.

Your breath hitched. The world seemed to stop, and you held your breath.

But Shouto? Shouto didn’t react, not at first. As you were about to apologize, to ask how he was doing, he simply nodded and muttered an apology before walking away.

Was it how you looked? Though you never became the skinny supermodel that your former junior high classmates flaunted, you had lost a significant amount of weight. Was it your height? You definitely grew a few inches since you last saw him. Questions raced through your mind as you saw him walk away and silently enter the door to Class 1A.

Maybe you were too foolish to think that he would bother to remember you, let alone even think that he was as attached to you as you were to him. You forced yourself to keep walking, your new friend inspecting your arms to see if you were okay or hurt in any way. You masked the sorrow on your face with a smile, desperate not to cry, not on your first day at your prestigious high school in front of your new best friend.

And in that moment, he was gone again.

By the time that the sun had dipped low over U.A., casting golden streaks across the clean courtyard, you finally had a moment to yourself.

No extroverted friends who had “adopted” you clinging to your arm (who knew that extroverts Kendo and Pony would “adopt” you too!?!), no more boisterous male laughter, and no more overly cheerful teachers. Just you, your aching legs, and your small tote bag seated on a bench underneath a cherry tree. Sitting on the bench, you sigh and let the introvert in you heal.

You were so tired, unbelievably tired, yet the process of becoming tired was so fun. The girls in your class were so sweet and made the best jokes. You weren’t last like usual in the physical examination in hero training, in fact, you weren’t half bad. Setsuna pushing you into the seat between her and Kinoko during lunch was perhaps one of the best parts of your day.

Though it wasn’t perfect, your first day of high school was better than you had expected. People were honestly kind and welcoming. They looked past physical looks and treated people like people.

Having collected your thoughts and ready to go home, you stand up and start heading towards the school gate. You weren’t going to let Shouto’s failure to remember you ruin your entire evening (even though it hurt like hell).

But right before you even step onto the main sidewalk, fast footsteps pound against the concrete. Your name is called out, almost in desperation, and it floats in the air.

You turn around.

And there he was.

Todoroki Shouto, standing in front of you, chest rising and falling like he had just run halfway across campus. His eyes—so different from the cold detachment you had seen earlier—were wide now, searching, knowing.

“It’s you,” he says breathlessly, almost in disbelief. You could feel the raw emotion and vulnerability in his voice, and you had to blink back tears. “L/N…”

You swallow dryly and nod. “It’s me.”

For a moment, both of you just stared at each other, not knowing what to do. Silence stretched between you two, thick with everything left unsaid. Two years is indeed a long time.

Finally, he exhaled. “I didn’t want to leave.”

Your breath hitched, caught in your throat.

“I tried to convince my father to let me stay for another day, to at least say goodbye to you. But…” He didn’t need to finish his sentence, because the story’s missing pieces were filled in.

He wanted to say goodbye.

You felt your chest tighten like it did all those years ago when you realized the burning feeling in your heart. Still not speaking, the taller boy took it as his sign to continue.

“You… you changed,” he murmured quietly. You weren’t sure if he meant the way you looked or something deeper. Confused, you gave him the same truthful yet ambiguous answer.

“So did you,” you whispered back.

After pausing for what seemed like hours, Shouto drops his bag and hugs you. It was light, as if he was afraid that you would shatter, yet warm and too tempting to slip out of.

And when you reciprocated by wrapping your arms around him, his grip tightened, and the walls that you had built up in those two years had crumbled. Without warning at all, you sobbed into his embrace, releasing bottled up sadness and grief. Shouto remained quiet, his right hand gently stroking your hair to soothe you. He didn’t judge your tears, your crying face. Like how he always did, he stood there for you, a silent support that you appreciated greatly.

When you finally pulled back after shedding the last of your tears, his thumb gently rubbed against your cheek. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you right away,” he said. “I saw you when we bumped into each other, but I didn’t let myself hope. You looked so confident and strong and…” You interrupt him with a weak laugh. “I’m still me, Todoroki-san.” His chapped lips quirk up into a small smile. “I’m glad.”

A pause, and then…

“Can… can we start over?”

His question caught you off guard, but it provided you with a happiness that rivaled the joy that your new friends from Class 1B gave you.

“I’d like that,” you nodded.

And so, Shouto picked up his bag and escorted you to the station. The walk reminded you of your old routine, the station included because of the far proximity between U.A. and your home. Neither of you spoke, comfortable in the familiar silence reminiscent of the one during your junior high routine.

The new part of this new routine? Todoroki’s hand holding yours.

154 notes · View notes

lloveboo · 3 months ago

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ALL THE WAYS WE BURN - a Kim Mingyu fanfic

pairing: kim mingyu x f!reader, ceo!mingyu x employee!reader

genre: office romance, sexual tension, yearning, heavy angst, slow burn

next chapter: Under His Gaze

Chapter One – A New Beginning

The glass facade of Kim Architecture stretched high into the clear sky with it's sleek panels reflecting the soft morning sun. I stood at the entrance, gripping onto the strap of my bag, my stomach was twisting with nerves.

This was it. The first step toward everything I had worked for.

My phone buzzed in my hand.

Charlotte: Good luck today, sis! You’re going to be amazing. I’m so proud of you. Love you!

A small, grateful smile tugged at my lips.

Me: Love you too, Char. I’ll tell you all about it later.

Charlotte, my little sister had always believed in me—even when I struggled to have faith in myself. This job wasn’t just about me; it was about us, about finally moving forward.

I took a steadying breath and stepped inside.

The cool air of the lobby hit me first, followed by the quiet hum of conversation and the sharp clicks of heels against marble. The employees moved with such purpose that exuded such confidence which made me feel like I was an outsider in their world.

“Miss Nova?”

I turned at the sound of my name, coming face-to-face with a woman who carried herself with effortless authority. She was strikingly tall, with dark eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. Her heels clicked with each step while her chestnut hair fell in perfect waves over her shoulders.

I recognized her instantly.

“Miss Lila,” I said, straightening.

“You remember me,” she noted, her lips curving into a soft smile. “Good. I interviewed so many candidates I almost lost track.”

I let out a nervous laugh. “Hard to forget an interview that made me this anxious.”

Lila chuckled, then gestured for me to follow. “Come on, let me show you around.”

As we walked, she explained the office layout, the different departments, key people to remember, and where to get the best coffee. Which was not from the break room, apparently.

We reached an open workspace where rows of desks stretched before us, occupied by employees engrossed in their screens or engaged in quiet discussions.

“This is you,” Lila said, stopping at a desk near the floor-to-ceiling windows. “It’s not much now, but trust me, once you get into the rhythm of things, this place will feel like home.”

I slid my bag onto the desk, taking it all in. It was a simple setup, a sleek computer, a keyboard, a neatly stacked pile of documents —but to me, it was everything.

Lila glanced at me, her expression softening slightly. “You’ll be fine. Just do the work, pay attention, and don’t be afraid to ask questions. You’re here for a reason.”

I let those words settle deep in my chest.

I hoped she was right.

The next few days blurred together as I adjusted to my new role.

I spent mornings navigating spreadsheets and reports, gradually learning the unspoken rules of corporate life. The break room quickly became a familiar retreat, where I found myself easing into casual conversations with colleagues.

“First-day horror stories, go,” Lila prompted one afternoon, stirring her coffee.

“I spilled tea on my manager’s desk,” one coworker admitted.

“I called the CEO by the wrong name,” another groaned.

I raised a brow. “You’re still here?”

“He found it funny,” they replied.

Lila smirked. “Mr Kim doesn’t care about stuff like that. As long as you’re competent, he barely notices you exist.”

I blinked at the name. Mr Kim.

I had seen him around.

Noticing him.

I mean it was impossible not to notice him.

Kim Mingyu moves through the office with an air of quiet authority, that his presence commands even when he wasn’t speaking. Tall, broad-shouldered, always dressed in sleek, in perfectly tailored suits. His expression always unreadable, his focus being razor-sharp.

I had watched him in passing—discussing figures with the finance team, reviewing blueprints with the senior architects. He never lingered, never wasted words.

I saw him laugh once, a brief chuckle at something a senior manager had said, and even that felt rare, like catching a glimpse of something not meant to be seen.

But he never looked my way.

And that was fine.

Three days in, as I was finishing up my work for the evening, Lila appeared at my desk and dropped a thick stack of documents in front of me.

“Can you do me a favor?”

I glanced up, already wary. “Depends.”

Lila chucked. “I need you to sit in for me at tomorrow’s project meeting. I’ll try to make it, but if I’m late, just take notes.”

I stiffened. “Wait—you want me to cover for you?”

“You’ll be fine,” Lila said breezily. “Just observe, stay sharp, and who knows? Maybe you’ll learn something useful.”

I swallowed unsure but still nodded.

That night, I sat at my tiny table desk at mine and Charlotte's apartment, surrounded by documents and notes, highlighting key points and scribbling in the margins.

I didn’t know it yet, but tomorrow would change everything.

The next morning, smells of toasted bread and coffee filled our tiny apartment as I flipped through my notes again, my pen tapping against the page. My eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. It was almost time to go. My stomach twisted in nerves.

“You’re going to burn a hole through that paper,” Charlotte teased, sliding two plates of scrambled eggs and toast onto the table.

I sighed, rubbing my temple. “I just want to be prepared. This is my first big meeting, and I’m filling in for someone way more experienced than me. What if I screw up?”

“You won’t.” Charlotte sat across from me, propping her chin in her hand. “You always do this. Overthink, stress, then absolutely crush it.”

I rolled my eyes, but a small smile tugged at my lips. “I hope you’re right.”

She pointed her fork at me. “I am right. And if you impress your boss, maybe you’ll get promoted faster, and then we can finally move into one of those fancy high-rise apartments you’re always obsessing over.”

I huffed a small laugh. “One step at a time, Char.”

Charlotte shrugged. “I’m just saying, you’re kind of a genius, and they’d be stupid not to see that.”

Something in my chest warmed.

“Thanks,” I murmured, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand. “I’ll do my best.”

Charlotte smiled. “You always do.”

The tube rattled as I gripped the pole, running through everything I had memorised the night before. The key points, the numbers, the small details that could set my idea apart.

This was my chance.

A high-stakes meeting. Executives. A vice CEO. And—of course—him.

Mingyu.

I’d seen him around the office. Heard the way people spoke about him. Respected, ambitious, incredibly intelligent. But cold. Calculated.

We hadn’t spoken yet.

He hadn’t even acknowledged me.

But maybe that was about to change.

The conference room was sleek and modern, floor-to-ceiling windows stretching across the far wall giving a breathtaking view of the city. But I had barely noticed. My hands rested neatly in my lap, my mind sharply focused.

The room filled quickly, conversations buzzing—high-ranking executives taking their seats, the vice CEO flipping through his notes.

Then, everything shifted.

The door opened, and the air grew heavier.

I felt it before I even saw him.

Mingyu walked in, his dark suit fitting him perfectly, exuding power without even trying. He didn’t say a word, yet the room responded to him instantly. Loud conversations quieted. People straightened in their seats.

I kept my posture composed, but my pulse quickened.

For the next few minutes, discussions passed over my head. Numbers, projections—until we reached the project I had spent hours studying last night.

Mingyu’s voice was smooth, deep. “There are inefficiencies in the current layout. We need a solution that maximizes space without increasing costs.”

Silence stretched across the table.

I swallowed.

I wasn’t supposed to speak. This wasn’t my place.

But the answer was right there. Clear as day.

I took a breath.

“If we modify the structural framework to incorporate more lightweight materials,” I said, keeping my voice steady, “we can maintain durability while cutting down on costs. It would also allow for a more open design, which aligns with the project’s vision.”

The room turned to me.

My throat went dry.

Then, finally—finally—he looked at me.

His gaze was unreadable. Dark. Sharp.

Assessing.

A heartbeat passed. Then another.

“Explain,” he said.

It wasn’t a dismissal.

It was a challenge.

I met his eyes and pushed forward, breaking down my reasoning, referencing research, calculations, every fact I had spent hours memorizing.

I didn’t hesitate. Didn’t stutter one bit.

By the time I finished, silence settled over the table.