haiii friends !!! it's me aoii (cortiins) ૮◞ ‸ ◟ ა notice the username change?? thats bcs im moving accounts!!!! show it some love @cortiins mwehehehe see u all there!
this acc will just serve as my archive and I'll finish a couple last requests here but other than that, I'll be officially posting on @cortiins <3
yearner cortis x nonchalant gn reader smau.....? (btw I love your account please give me any kind of suggestion on writing😭🙏)
── left on read
haaiii matt (˶>⩊<˶) aaaaaaa thank uuu !! for writing suggestions I'm not rlly sureeeuuhhhmm since we have diff writing styles....
(ᵕ—ᴗ—) for me, I like to keep my writing a little light with words that are easy to digest but still interesting !! I also like including inner monologues and what not specifically during comedic parts! I also try to write/cater to a specific age-group/range thats close to mine and it's relevancy (i.e situationships) aaaannndddd that's about it I think ૮´ ꒳ `ა just dont stress too much about wanting to write something super deep/wordy and if its perfect or not bc best believe people will still like your work ANDDDD most importantly you'll grow overtime ◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜
SYN. where-in keonho beats the shit out of your psycho ex and you realize that was the hottest thing he's ever done for you.
CONT. bffs (to possibly more), mentions of violence and blood, profanities, cuddling!!!!!!! feelings realization
“keonho..” your voice wobbles through the line, keonho’s eyebrows wrinkling in all kinds of worry “yn? what's wrong?” you heave a breath out, hitching unevenly, “come over please… he–”
“he's here”
and keonho quick to his feet, his phone pressed between his shoulder and ear, hands busy scrambling around for his keys and shoes “stay there. where is he right now?”
“outside my room, he's banging on my door”
keonho clenches his jaw, running out his door before he could even make sure he locked it. the speed of his steps enough to make his soles burn “I’m on the way, just breathe for me okay?”
ten minutes was all he needed to get to your place, slamming the front door open that it rattles the whole apartment. he grabs a handful of the guy’s hair, pulling him back enough to tumble to the ground.
he steps over the guy, knees on either sides of his torso, his left hand on his shirt's collar, his right fist landing square on his nose, blood slowly trickling down to his lip.
“who the fuck do you think you are,” he enunciates each word with a punch, “coming in here, banging on her door like a psycho”
keonho doesn’t relent despite the blood over his own knuckles, getting off of the man only to drag him up by the collar and shoving him out the front door and slamming it shut.
he takes several deep breaths facing the closed door, before turning to the direction of your room, heart leaping out of his chest when he sees you standing by the doorframe just watching.
you sniffle once, and keonho is by your side in an instant, arms wrapping around you, one hand cradling your head to his chest, the other stroking your back, “I’m here, you're okay”
“you didn't have to beat him up” you mumble agasint his chest, the rhythm of his heartbeat thudding against your cheek softly. he chuckles, guiding you back into the bedroom “you saw that?”
you make a face, head craning up to show him the displeasure, “it was hard not to” and he laughs at that, proud of his own doings. you push yourself away from him, beelining to the bathroom where you kept the first aid box.
keonho makes a confused sound, head tilting to the side as he sits down on your bed confused, eyeing the red box in your arms “did you get hurt?” he wonders, “I didn't accidentally hit you, did I?” more to himself than to you.
you shake your head, kneeling and sitting on your calves next to him on the bed, gently reaching out to his own bruised and bloodied fists, a soft ‘oh’ falling from his lips, cheeks rosy with embarrassment. he’d totally forgotten he was hurt too.
“you didn't even notice your own knuckles are hurt” you grumble, hands already moving back and forth cleaning his wounds and cuts, his face contorting in pain he refuses to show you “too busy beating your psycho ex up, my bad”
that effectively makes you laugh, the memory of watching keonho stradle the guy and punch him over and over again replaying in your head, a surge of heat creeping up your neck to your face despite yourself.
no way you’re finding your bestfriend beating up your ex hot.
by the time your done with his hands, keonho is already dragging you by the wrist, plopping himself on the your bed like he owns it, and then drags you to lay against him.
this was normal. regular best friend things. matter of fact, you two have been doing this since childhood. it wasn't different. it shouldn't be different.
but the way his hand combs through your hair and his thumb caresses your sides say otherwise.
was it because he was so unfairly attractive for doing that to your ex? or was it because of the proximity?
and then it clicks. who was there when you broke up with the guy four months ago? keonho.
actually, scratch that. who was there since you were a kid? keonho.
it's always been keonho.
something shifts inside your head and suddenly everything starts to make sense. the way he stayed, the way he cared. the way he came rushing to your place at the sound of your crying on the phone.
the realization makes your chest tight with emotion and your head swirl. you make a bold (and impulsive) decision to tell him.
basically confessing that you’ve kind of like your best friend since, like, forever, and only realized now because he was so hot beating another guy up. yeah.
“keon?” you look up from where your head rests on his arm. he hums, turning to look at you.
“I have something to tell you” he raised a brow, twisting his body to face you fully, his attention on you. there’s no backing out now.
he urged you to go on when you take a beat too long to speak, his hand never leaving your hair. “I uh..” and keonho makes a face like he already knows what's coming next “I like you.. I think”
keonho smiles, the kind so wide it probably hurts his cheeks, “I know”
huh. what the fuck does I know even mean?
“what?” you blurt out, nearly knocking into his chin when you push yourself up to get a good look at his face. he was smiling, the kind where you knew he wasn't lying “I said, I like you. like, I have feelings for you. romantically”
he tosses his head back laughing, the sound bouncing around the walls of your bedroom, “yeah, and I said, I know” he repeats it like it makes it any less confusing.
keonho seems to notice the confusion written all over your face, pushing himself to sit up against your headboard, arms reaching out to pull in his embrace again, “I knew. I was just waiting for you to realize it yourself”
you hit on his chest, no real heat behind it “why would you do that?” he shrugs, “wasn't it more fun that you realized it because I beat up your ex?”
the smug look on his face when he says so makes you gasp in betrayal, like he’d just spilled your deepest darkest secret to the world, “you're so annoying, actually”
“you love me anyways, don't you?” he chuckles, catching your wrist before it even lands anothet hit on your chest, bringing it close to his face to place a soft kiss on the back of your hand.
the gesture makes you sigh in defeat, because you do. head shaking in displease before rolling your eyes, “unfortunately” keonho laughs at that, burying his head in your hair with a content sigh, his arms tightening around you “it's okay, me too”
haaaaiii aoi here !!! first upload after moving accs wapeee (˶ˆᗜˆ˵) just a little cutesy keonho fic before I update my martin smau and finish off some other requests hehehe reqs are open <3 k babye mwaaaa
synopsis .ᐟ “opposites attract,” they said—that what one person lacks is completed by another. yin and yang, if you will. the balance through difference. but what happens when the universe gets it wrong? when instead of your opposite, you’re faced with your mirror? when the bassist of your rival band thinks like you, feels like you, moves through the world the same way you do? except, only he’s a boy. every competition feels like a confession you refuse to make. every argument sounds too much like honesty. when irritation turns into curiosity, suddenly the line between rivalry and something more becomes impossible to ignore.
author's note .ᐟ updated yaaayyyyyy!!! feel free to send an ask or comment here to be a part of the taglist >⩊<
hai friends I have made a realization this whole time this acc isnt independent from my solkver acc and whenever I follow you guys and like your blogs it appears as solkver ( ꩜ ᯅ ꩜;) so I might move accounts if I don't figure out this whole blog-migration-coding habaluba whatever
oneshot (1,573 words) + social media au
zhao james x gender neutral reader
SYN. it’s the university’s annual sports fest, and as your department’s digital journalist, you’re assigned to cover every event and capture the best stories. somehow, though, one athlete keeps appearing in all your articles— same name, same jersey number, every single time. what are the odds? you probably look suspicious and he definitely thinks you’re stalking him.
CONT. profanities (cussing), james in multiple sports, stalking allegations, juhoon mentioned multiple times, smau in between written parts, strangers to friends to (implied) more, fluff + crack, full of silly!!!! not proofread so pliz read w kindness ^^;;
university’s annual sportsfest and you’re running. no, not because you're in a sport, but you're running, a camera slinged around your neck, notebook in your right hand, your phone in the other. a tote over your shoulder with your laptop.
there are students running equally as fast as you, some in the same direction, some the opposite. by the time you reach the double doors of the gymnasium, there were already people piling up, waiting to be allowed inside.
thank god for student council privileges, you mutter under your breath, pushing through the crowd, protecting your camera more than yourself. you were let in easily, the campus journalist's I.D. clipped on the front of your shirt serving as enough identification.
inside the gymnasium was cold. like, skin crawling, spine chillingly cold. what on earth do these basketball players need the gym to be so cold for?
you make your way to the side of the players, a bench labeled ‘journalist’ two seats away from the benches for the players. you go over your little notebook, skimming over the other sports you needed to cover for this morning.
soon enough, the double doors are being opened and the buzzers are blaring through the speakers, students fill the venue and the players are warming up. you look around the players, all new, before landing on a familiar face.
same guy last year on the team, perfect! that was the perfect journalism material, past mvp’s playing again for the same sport.
by the time the game comes to an end, the sports science department wins again. when did they ever lose anyway? you’re already making your way out of the gym, double checking your phone for the schedule and sighing in defeat when you read over needing to be at the open field, capturing the football game.
you make your way across the campus, godforbid they make the venues closer. with all the running you're doing, you might as well be playing in a sport, sigh.
there on the field were players warming up, some stretching and some running laps. you settle yourself somewhere lower, needing close up shots of the players.
and just as you were preparing a shot, camera pressed to your face, hands fiddling with the focus, the glimpse of a familiar guy sporting the same surname and jersey number catches your attention. basketball’s mvp?
how odd. you snap a couple pictures of him and his teammates, needing shots of all the players. as you bring your camera down, your eye catches the same guy from basketball looking at you. it was fleeting, almost only two seconds short but still.
It would be less weird if he wasn't practically everywhere.
the blare of the buzzer rings one last time. you slump down on your seat, sighing in relief that your next game isn’t until later that evening. you take advantage of this free time, pulling your laptop out to export the rest of the pictures you took.
it was relatively peaceful until, “do you follow all athletes like this? or just me?” what the fuck.
you crane your head up to look at the voice, your heart dropping to your ass when you see the same guy from the basketball game standing in front of you, hand on his hip with a playful smirk on his lips, “what?”
he bends down to a crouch, making himself eye level with you from where you sat on the bleachers, “I said, do you follow all–”
“I know what you said!” you cut him off with a frustrated groan, “I’m saying, what?”
he chuckled at that, pushing himself to stand up again, “I saw you taking pictures of me last game and this game”
the insinuation makes you raise a brow at him, shutting your laptop close and tucking it back inside your tote, “that's literally my job” you say with a bite of irritation in your voice, because genuinely who the fuck even is he?
the boy in front of you hums, raising a finger to his chin, a mock of pondering, “which? to follow me or to take pictures of me?”
and that alone makes your brows knit together, rising from your seat and opting to leave instead, “I am leaving” stomping your way out of the field.
evening comes faster than you’d like. your reminder app buzzes your phone with a notification ‘ice hockey - outside rink @ 7pm’ at 6:30pm and a series of things to make sure you have inside your bag.
the rink is too far out the campus, easily a ten minute walk if you're taking your time. the air at this hour makes the still of night not too bad, never too humid but neither bitingly cold.
but of course, your whole romanticizing-night-walks shatters when you reach the rink and open the double doors, the cold air hitting you right smack in your face.
apparently two layers wasn't even close to shielding yourself from the icy air. bad luck.
you situate yourself at the lower bleachers, your laminated I.D. clipped right where your heart sits. the tote on your shoulder goes on the chair and the camera is pulled out of your bag.
“let me guess” the voice makes you violently flinch, nearly dropping the camera in your hands. holy shit. you twist your head to the source, an annoyed expression taking over your face. no way it was him again.
“coincidence?” he muses, not even looking at you but at the rink. you opt not to respond, biting back a quip far too sharp and mean for his easy tone.
somewhere between taking pictures and making frustrated stomps at the game, the corner of your eyes catch a glimpse of juhoon smirking at you from across the rink, behind the acrylic barrier.
you make a mental note to text him about it.
and when the game ends, you're rushing to get the fuck out of there. running into the same guy was horrible on its own. but with juhoon into the mix its hell.
much to your awful luck, you just to had bump into him. like, literally bump into him. head to his chest, nearly falling your ass kind of bump “aw, leaving already?”
literally just kill me now. is what the voice in your head supplies. you’ve learned from juhoon alone that keeping quiet is the best fix to his friends being assholes.
you glare up at james, momentarily getting distracted at the way his hair is sticking to his forehead and the fluorescent lights casting shadows from his sharp features.
god was he so attractive. focus!
“what are you covering tomorrow?” he asks, seeming genuinely curious that you can't help but respond “why?” and then the smirk is back on his face. great. “just checking if I should be worried”
yeah okay you're leaving. the was your cue to push past him and walk out. no way were you dealing with that at this late hour and the lack of rest you've had. somewhere on the way out you hear james’ voice and what sounded like juhoon’s too yelling see you tomorrow!
tomorrow comes and you are not excited. at the last basketball game, he was there. at the championships of soccer, he was there. back at the rink, of course he was there.
hell, even during your lunch break he was there. it was like the universe was playing some kind of gag on you.
surely enough, at the awarding ceremony the next day he was there too. all athletes were, actually. but that doesn't eradicate the fact that he was also there.
he goes up the podium exactly three times. once for getting the best stats in basketball, twice for getting the most goals in soccer, and thrice, for receiving the trophy on behalf of the hockey team because apparently none of them had the energy to show up.
in all those three times he received an award, you were the one taking the picture by the front of the stage. reluctantly so. the smirk on his face never leaving.
by the time the ceremony ends and your packing away your equipment, you deliberately ignore the figure approaching ypu.
“so,” james says once he's in front of you, getting a whiff of his perfume. he smelled nice.
what? what the hell am I saying?
“you weren't stalking me” he says matter of fact, on his neck were three medals dangling and a trophy on his arm. you deadpan at him “I’ve said that”
“yeah, but this is less fun, isn't it?” annoyingly enough, he was right. it was fun. the banter, the adrenaline of whether he’d be there or not. you don't answer him, though. the silence being enough without giving him the satisfaction of admitting it out loud.
he waits for you to finish up, standing patiently still. so when you turn back with all your equipment packed, it was a surprise to you when he wears a medal on you “for your hard work”
you shake your head at him, rolling your eyes but the flush in your ears gives you away.
“come, I’ll walk you back”
and meet him at halftime you did. you talked. and talked. and talked again. and maybe even ate out after the game. whatever. juhoon is going to have a field day when he finds out. matter of fact, his whole gang would. but that's a problem for another day.
haiiilooww!!!! aoi here !! procrastinated this fic for long (as I have in all my fics) and wasn't rlly planning on finishing it since it wasnt a request anyway but I literally had the worse day ever (mark left nct, gradball was cancelled, my nail broke) and was in dire need of a distraction, thus, this fic !!!! first time trying out a little mixing w written fic and smau inserts (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶) I hope u guys like it as much as I do mwehehehe k babye
hihihi im new at tumblr and i honestly love ur page ngl 🫶 i saw u had requests open andddd i was wondering if u could do smau(?) i think thats the name of the chat thing srry mybad😭where quiet m!reader (friend of cortis) has a huge crush on juhoon, but juhoon assumes he just dont gaf abt him since reader even quieter around him
(im so sorry if theres any grammar problem, english is not my first language😓)
haaiiii anon !!! posted ur req hereuuhhhh <3 hope u enjoy!
oneshot (social media au)
kim juhoon x male reader
SYN/REQ. i was wondering if u could do smau(?) i think thats the name of the chat thing srry mybad😭where quiet m!reader (friend of cortis) has a huge crush on juhoon, but juhoon assumes he just dont gaf abt him since reader even quieter around him
CONT. profanities, friendly banter, juhoon n reader both dumb asf, misundersting, suggestive themes (kissing meme idk how to explain), nonchalant x nonchalant
aoi here !!! had sm fun doing this silly lil request (˶˃𐃷˂˶) hope u guys enjoy this as much as I did making it mwehehe also !! if u wna be a part of my perm taglist go to this post (˶ˆᗜˆ˵) k bye mwa
oneshot (3,073 words)
situationship, martin edwards x gn!reader
SYN. rapper x rapper (soon to be) gf situationship of the century. nobody believes it'll go anywhere, forever an on and off thing. what no one expected was for martin to make a song just to ask you out and use your voice as a producer tag.
CONT. unclear relationship status (situationship final boss) to more, angst if you squint, implications of fighting, both martin and reader are lowkenuinely avoidant but it gets better, not proof read plz read w kindness !!
the first time someone called it a situationship, you laughed.
now, you just let them.
“again?” someone says when you walk in. not quiet enough to be polite. “thought they were done this time.”
you don’t react. you’ve learned not to.
the studio is dim. it always is this late. low lights, equipment humming softly in the background. familiar enough that you don’t have to think about where anything is.
he’s already there.
martin doesn’t look up when you step in. headphones half on, fingers tapping against the desk, counting. he does that when he’s thinking.
you close the door behind you with a click. he notices. of course he does. “didn’t think you’d come,” he says.
you shrug, setting your bag down. “you said you needed a verse.”
he hums, “I did.”
silence settles. not awkward, just there. “you're still ignoring me,” he adds, like it’s nothing. you glance at him over your shoulder, “you stopped calling.”
“after you said we should.” his response makes you quirk a brow up, “that was two weeks ago.”
“and?”
“you listened?” he never does. you say more of a statement than it was a question.
you walk past him close enough that your shoulder almost brushes his. it doesn’t. it could have. you don’t miss the way he shifts, just slightly, like he felt it too.
he exhales through his nose, half a laugh, half something else, “right.”
the track starts playing before either of you say anything else. heavy bass, unfinished, but you can already hear where you’d fit. where he expects you to fit.
you step up to the mic. he moves behind you without asking. he always does that, not asking before doing. “come in after the second bar,” he says, adjusting the levels. his voice is closer now, low and steady in a way that makes it hard to focus on anything else.
you nod, even though he can’t see it properly from where he’s standing. the beat loops and you miss your cue. “you're distracted,” he says, the truth out loud makes you wince.
“maybe your timing’s off” it wasn’t. you knew it wasn't and it never will be off. the corners of his lips curl up just the slightest, not noticeable if you weren't staring, “no it's not”
the sureness in his tone makes you roll your eyes, “you sure about that?”
“I'm always sure about timing” and something in the way he says it makes your chest tighten. like he isn’t just talking about the track.
you turn fully this time. that was your first mistake. he was already looking at you, not like this is work. not like this is nothing.
the air shifts to something heavy. or worse, familiar. like you’ve toed this line before. “you gonna record,” he asks, quieter now, “or just stand there?”
“depends,” you say, leaning back against the console. “you planning on hovering the whole time?” a small smile pulls at his mouth. “does it bother you?”
you shrug, “should it?”
he steps closer anyway. close enough that it’s noticeable. close enough that it isn’t. the track continues playing in the background, for a second, neither of you move.
it’s quiet again. not empty, just full of things neither of you can ever say out loud. you speak before you can stop yourself, “this is still casual, right?” it comes out lighter than it feels.
that was your second mistake.
he takes a second. long enough that it was an answer in itself. but you wait anyway, needing to hear it from him. then, finally, he nods, “yeah.”
casual. you nod too, like that settles it.
it doesn’t.
it never does. in fact, it makes it ten times worse. but it was never enough to dwell on, never enough to make a difference. it happened far too often for it to do so.
and maybe it was meant to stay that way. because when he gets too close, you pull away first, always hesitating. when he gets busy, you stop showing up. stop coming by his studio to bring him meals, stop staying until he's done tweaking beats for the night.
and then he stops reaching out. no ‘just because’ calls, no texts to come over and record verses for him. no voicemail snippets of his songs. and really, it's always been like that. a cycle you've both grown accustomed to, comfortable to.
the first time he brought it up caused a messy back and forth.
“we keep ending it like it means something,” martin pushes himself off the mixing board, “then starting again like it doesn’t.”
it sets something off inside you, “you said we were done, martin” you point at him, accusing “but you still called first”
“why would you answer?!” he yells, the soundproof walls of his studio rattling, emphasizing the anger brewing in your chest.
“why wouldn't I?!” you yell back, his mouth falling shut. exactly, why wouldn't you?
you grab your bag and swing it over your shoulder aggressively, heading for the door, stopping just as you held the knob “we only work when we’re not trying to define it” you mumble loud enough for him to hear, “so you don’t have the right to miss me, martin”
and you haven't touched that topic since.
was it because it was easier that way? keeping you close enough to stay but never enough for it to have a label.
the next time you're making your way to his studio, you’ve already pep-talked yourself to not think about it, don't mention it like a desperate dumbass.
the building in front of you is humongous, but you know your way around, coming by way too often that you’ve memorized your steps to the familiar frosted door locked with a fingerprint. yours and his.
for easy access, he said. so you don't always have to knock and wait for me to open it for you. whether he meant that just as it is and nothing else. whatever.
after pressing your finger against it, the lock clicks open softly, making your way inside only to find martin hunched over his computer, both ears of his headphones on, your presence going unnoticed.
you sit on the sofa waiting, looking around his studio for the first time. you notice the posters on the walls, radiohead, paramore, chet baker, and a bunch of others you could no longer name.
then his desk, an array of picture frames, him and his childhood best friend, his family, his dog, then it catches you off guard. he had a picture of you framed next to his monitor, so close that you're sure it catches his peripheral whenever he's working.
was that meant to mean anything? probably not, a voice in your head answers.
you choose not to dwell, just sitting there, staring a second too long before looking away like it might mean something if you don’t. it shouldn’t.
he shifts behind you, chair scraping lightly. you hear the click of something pausing, “when did you get here?” you glance up, “a while ago”
martin pulls his headphones down around his neck, eyes flicking to you, then briefly to where you were just looking. you don’t point it out, and he doesn’t either.
“you didn’t say anything” he says like a matter of fact, “you looked busy” smiling small and genuine, martin returned it just a tad bit more playful “I’m always busy”
“exactly” you scoff.
a small pause settles between you, thinner this time. he leans back in his chair, studying you in that quiet way he does. not intrusive, just, there. observing. like he's studying a track he can't complete.
“you eat?” he asks, a curious brow quirking up. you blink, “what?”
“you usually bring food,” he says, like it’s obvious. “didn’t see anything”
“oh” you glance down at your hands “I didn’t” he looks at you with eyes that yelled duh, “why not?”
you shrug, a little too quick. “didn’t feel like it.”
he hums, unconvinced, but he doesn’t push either. instead, he turns back to his screen, clicking through something until the speakers crackle softly and the track starts again. you recognize it immediately.
the same one from a week or two ago, the one you missed your cue on.
“come here,” he says, not even looking at you.
you hesitate for half a second before getting up anyway. force of habit. you stop beside him, close enough to see the timeline on his screen. layers of sound, your name typed on one of the tracks like it belongs there.
he taps the spacebar and the beat fills the room, “you hear that?” he asks, his work tone slipping on the edges of his words, “yeah” you hum, “you’re late” he comments casually.
you had to physically stop yourself from rolling your eyes, biting back a retaliation laying heavy on your tongue, “I know”
“you’re always late on this part”
you cross your arms, leaning slightly against the desk “then fix it”
“I can’t fix your timing” lie. he easily could, dragging your recording to where he really needed it to be, “you just said you’re always sure about it”
he smiles without looking your way, the sides of his cheeks rising from where you stand next to him “I am.”
and who would you be if not challenge martin in his own element? “then help me” that gets him to look at you. like, really look this time.
there’s something quieter in his expression now, less teasing, more focused. he studies you for a second before turning back to the track, “count it out,” he murmurs.
was he fucking joking right now? “I know how to count”
“then do it” he glances at you over his shoulder, serious but never unkind. you hold his gaze for a second longer before looking back at the screen. the track loops again.
“how?” you knew how. of course you do, you’ve done it more times both your hands could count. but where's the fun in that?
he doesn’t answer right away. instead, he presses pause and stands, the movement slow enough that you notice it. you don’t step back, giving him the permission to move closer.
“like this,” he says, softer now. his hand comes up, hovering near yours on the edge of the desk. not touching, just close enough that you feel it anyway. the heat radiating off of his skin enough to burn yours “don’t rush it”
“I’m not–” you protest immediately, but somehow martin knew you would, “you are”
you swallow, eyes flickering briefly to his hand before forcing them back up. whatever.
“just listen first” he presses play again. the beat fills the room, slower when you actually pay attention to it, more deliberate than it felt before. you nod faintly, counting in your head this time.
he watches you so intently you can feel it.
“you feel that?” he asks. no shit, “yeah”
“then come in when it makes sense, not when you think you should” you glance at him, a scoff of disbelief mixed with a laugh falling from your lips, “that doesn’t really help”
“it does”
“it doesn’t”
he huffs out a quiet laugh, “you overthink it” and really, it's beyond you how he could read you like an open book, because you do. you always do, “I don’t.”
“you do” and damn him for knowing.
you turn fully toward him again, closer now than you meant to be “maybe I wouldn’t if you weren’t standing this close”
“then tell me to move” he challenges. you don’t. you never did. he notices. of course he does, taking full advantage of how much effect he has on you.
the space between you feels different now. not smaller, just heavier. more aware. like you could count the air dusts floating around and feel his breath fanning your face “you always do that,” he says.
“do what?”
“act like it bothers you” he points at himself, then at you, “it does” martin laughs at that, teeth and all “but you don’t do anything about it”
what the hell is funny? you hold his gaze, “neither do you” that lands heavier than it should, the smile on martin’s face fading just a little bit, subtle but there. the track loops again in the background, neither of you paying attention to it anymore.
“you could’ve stopped coming,” he finally says after a moment, “you could've stopped calling”
so much for not talking about it.
another pause settles in, quieter this time. then, softer, “we keep doing this” you don’t ask what he means. you already know, “yeah”
“we stop,” martin takes a step back, finding his way back to his chair, “then we don’t” you look away first this time, “it works.”
“for who?” you don’t answer, because you don’t have one. the beat cuts off when he pauses it again, and the silence that follows feels louder than before. you step back, just enough to put space between you.
“I should record,” you finally say, his eyes watching you for a second longer before nodding “yeah”
you move back to the mic, adjusting the headphones slowly, buying yourself a second. the track starts again, filtered through the speakers, “one, two–”
you come in on time this time. clean, easy. you don’t look at him, but you can feel it when he notices “better”
you nod, focusing forward as the verse flows smoother, less forced. like you stopped trying to control it. like you stopped thinking so much. when the track ends, you pull the headphones down, turning slightly toward him.
“see,” he says, quieter now, “you just had to stop overthinking” you meet his gaze for a second before looking away again, “whatever”
he smiles, small and brief. this time, when you look away, it lingers.
but that was days ago. you haven't seen or spoken to him since. the usual. he had texted you a message that went something along the lines of ‘gonna be busy this week’ like it matters what reason he has for disappearing.
so the shock your body felt when a song came on the radio of your car on the way home and by the middle of it you heard your own voice.
and it would've been fine if it was the song you had recorded a verse for, but no. it was a totally different song with totally different lyrics. did martin just use my voice as his producer tag?
right as you reach your house, you stepped out of your car and there stood martin in all his glory, one hand holding a bouquet of flowers, the other holding his phone. just then, before you could walk over, your phone rings, watching martin’s contact name on your screen.
the whole thing makes you giggle, he's calling you and you're quite literally ten steps away. you answer anyway, “hey”
“uh, hey?” martin stutters, watching him pace around in front of your house from where you're leaning against your car “it's been days” you hum, sure enough the smile on your face is heard through the phone
you watch martin stop dead in his tracks, his hand with the bouquet coming up to face, staring at it before answering back “yeah, I know, sorry”
then there was silence. martin chewing on his bottom lip, another habit he has when he's nervous, looking at the flowers then at your front door and then back at the flowers, “are you home?”
that was your cue to push yourself off of your car, “hm, no. why?”
“oh” you hear martin on the phone and watch his shoulders drop to a comical level of disappointment, a hand flying to cover your mouth from giggling, “nothing. where are you?”
you take a few steps closer, far enough he doesn't hear you, but closer than where you stood with your car, “I don’t know” and you have to physically stop yourself from doubling over in laughter from the way martin’s face contorts in both confusion and worry so quick “what do you mean you don't know? are you safe? where–”
you stop his worried rambles with a giggle, “look to your left, by the front porch” martin flicks his head to the direction, gasping and nearly tumbling over himself rushing over to you.
the call ends and you meet him halfway, afraid if he walked any closer he’d fall face flat, “hey” martin breathes, standing tall and panting in front of you, “hi”
he fumbles over his words, a mess of uh’s and uhm’s, before he purses his lips in a straight line, taking a deep breath through his nose and exhaling the same, “the song,” he smiles crooked, teeth and all, “have you heard?”
you raise a teasing eyebrow at him, “yeah, heard you using my voice as your tag” and something about the way martin is flushed down to his neck compels you to tease him further, “I could sue you, you know. we had no contract for that” the way martin’s face falls is absolutely hilarious.
godforbid a boy try and impress his year long situationship, damn.
martin raises the flowers up to your chest, not quite pushing but offering nonetheless “please don't” he pouts, a shy hand coming up to scratch at his nape the moment you take the bouquet, “uhm…. so–”
“just ask, martin, you're overthinking this” you reassure, his words from back then now echoing back at him. that visibly helps him relax, ears a little less flushed, “go out on a date with me, please?”
you stare at him dead in the eyes trying to read him, date like the usual? or a real date? martin seemed to have understood the silence, always better at reading you than you were to him “a real one, where I can properly ask you out”
and sigh of relief that you exhale felt like a huge weight lifted off of your chest, your arms reaching out to engulf martin in a bone crushing hug, “yeah, I’d like that”
the thought of finally being more than just something with martin brings tears to your eyes, hugging him even tighter it makes him chuckle. was it worth the year of constant on and off’s with him? hell no.
but sometimes you’ll meet a boy who thinks casual is enough until he doesn't and that's fine as long as it was martin.
omdddd haii aoi here >< super duper belated happy birthday martin !!! ≽^•⩊•^≼ this took so long to finish bc I kept getting interrupted and busy in between writing this auuuuehhhh (｡•́︿•̀｡) also !!!! if you want to be a part of my perm taglist you cant go this post !! (✿◠ᴗ◠) k bye mwaaaa
oneshot (smau)
situationship, kim juhoon x f!reader
──── AHN KEONHO VER. MARTIN EDWARDS VER.
CONT. cussing, juhoon nonchalant idgaf final boss, reader a tad bit meaaannnnn, unclear relationship status (situationship) to more, mild mild blood, pic of snake!
haaiiii aoi hereee /•᷅•᷄\੭ long awaited jju ver of sk8er boi mweheheh sorry it took sooo long, I'm doing requests in order of which req came firsttt 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 the comedic timing of jealous by nick jonas playing while doing the parts where jju is jelly >_< lmk if I should make a hyeon jjami ver too !!
also m doing a lil interest check for a permanent taglist so if you wanna be a part of that go to this post ꉂ(˵˃ ᗜ ˂˵) k bye mwa
