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dcxdpdabbles · 5 months ago

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Danny reincarnates as Tim's twin. The only problem is that his ghost powers act up in the womb from either the gross ecto in Gotham or an artifact that Janet handled while pregnant. Because of this only Tim is 'born', the Drake's either assume one was miscarried or never knew they were twins.

Tim meanwhile grows up with a brother his parents ignore more than him. It takes Danny an embarrassingly long time to realize what's going on and fix it but by then the twins are around 4 so can't really explain to the rest of Gotham.

When they become Robin, either Nightwing and Batman are almost convinced he's like Harvey with how many times they've found him talking and discussing plans with himself. Or with how bad their collective mental health was at that time think they're going crazy.

Only Alfred knows what's going on because he's Alfred.

Tim Drake is a strange child. Ever since he was little, he would point to empty air and interact with it as if someone was standing there and responding.

At first, his parents thought it was cute that he had an imaginary friend, and Mrs. Drake even shed a few tears when Tim proclaimed that it was the brother he had at birth. The second son of the Drakes had been growing healthy in her stomach until the very end of the first trimester when he simply vanished.

Not died, not stop growing- vanished as if he was never there.

The doctors and the Drakes had no idea what happened. Test after tests were done, but in the end, they could only conclude that the second baby was gone. It was theorized that Tim may have devoured his brother in the womb, though there had been no symptoms that Janet suffered from.

When Tim was born, Janet had nearly died with a false labor that happened only ten minutes after giving birth. The nurses and doctors had been panicking because they could not understand where the contractions originated. False labor was contractions during pregnancy, not after labor, so there was nothing the body could confuse for the urge to push.

They ruled it as a freak false labor since the only other match was Janet entering second labor. Still, as much as the nurses and doctors were ready for a monochorionic monoamniotic twin, nothing came out. Eventually, Janet passed out, and her body finally finished doing whatever it was doing.

It was no surprise that this experience ended up giving Janet postpartum depression. She tried to connect to Tim, but something in her just never clicked, and Jack was beside himself, trying to care for his child while his wife drifted further and further away.

A therapist suggested Janet return to work, which seemed to do wonders for her. She took part in multiple digs and went on many trips, but eventually, Jack felt like she was never home. Worried his wife wouldn't return to him, Jack jumped on a plane while leaving Tim in the capable hands of the housekeeper.

He said it would be a short trip just to get Janet to come back and get treatment.

Jack ended up helping at the dig site, extending his stay to his once again bright and loving wife. Seeing her back to her usual self led to him booking them another trip.

Then another, and another, and antoher. Before long, the Drakes rarely spent time in Gotham, and Tim grew bigger in their absence. Janet loved Tim, but seeing him only brought back guilt that she could not love him like other mothers could so quickly. She was so excited for their baby and had loved him with her whole heart while he was inside of her, but now, seeing those big blue eyes blink up at her, all Janet wanted to do was run.

She drowned in guilt, and sometimes, it felt that she was only breathing because Jack was there for her. He dragged her back to the surface only long enough to take a breath and be dragged under again.

She missed his first steps, his first words, and his first laugh. That's why hearing him call out to Danny was so jarring. She had stopped outside his room, carrying gifts in the form of toys, hoping they would make up for the fact that she had only seen him a handful of times for a solid year.

He was playing with blogs, babbling to "Danny." She had picked out the name of her other son when she found out she was having twins. The only person Tim could have heard that name from was the housekeeper.

Janet fired her after wiping her tears. She would hire a replacement that wouldn't mock her two-year-old son. She let Tim keep his imaginary friend, figuring he would outgrow it.

Tim didn't.

Over the years, Tim became increasingly convinced Danny was with him. He even started turning in classwork under the name Danny, and when a teacher would call him, he would respond with "I don't know. Tim is better at this than me."

Sometimes, when he acted out, Tim would be the one responsible. Tim was the one who got bored quickly in class, needed to be challenged more, and preferred to follow whatever hair-brain idea he had. Photography, skateboarding, and actual crime shows were what made Tim happy.

Then, he became Danny when he showed effort in school but struggled to keep his solid, slightly above-average results. This side of her son preferred astronomy and baking and seemed confused by their wealth. Almost as if he was new money instead of the old wealth the Drakes had. Janet also heard that Danny seemed to stick his nose in whenever a bully targeted a classmate, confronting them with a bravo she could not associate with Tim.

Tim was more like her. They dealt with their opponents through clever planning instead of confirmation, which Jack preferred. He talked to himself a lot, too. The Drakes weren't even in Gotham, but their family's whispers echoed through the gala halls anyway. As young Tim walked by, there were rumors and speculations.

The elites would gossip as Tim continued arguing that the decor was worth the money and that they couldn't steal it, no matter how much food it could buy people in their charities.

He whispers, yelling at the air as Janet watches from across the hall, her stomach turning with love and repulse.

Years after his birth, she could not bring herself to stand before him for too long. Jack followed because he worried she do something to herself if he didn't.

She could not deny it now that Tim was nine. Janet realized, after a while of reading reports involving her son, that he likely suffered from a split personality disorder. Seeing it in person was entirely different.

They'll likely have to have him instituted, and the thought almost has her throwing up. She wonders if she would have caught on faster had she been a better mother and been around.

She steels herself, crossing the room to speak to her son. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees that Jack has noticed and quickly tries to make an excuse to stop her. Fortunately, depending on who you asked, the men looking for an investor don't let their husbands go that easily, so she is clear.

"No, I won't ask him for an autograph!" Tim hisses, looking at the wall to his right as if someone were leaning against it with him. Janet's resolves wabble a little at Tim's pout. There is a short pause before Tim goes red. "I can't do that! Mr.Wayne is really protective of Richard."

Dread pools into her stomach as Tim's features shift, and a grin with a mad twist settles on his lips. "I already have all the pictures I want about him. My favorite is the one I took last night."

This can't wait. Janet loves her son; she does not care what anyone says that she doesn't, but she can't allow him to harm others. Stalking will eventually lead to harm; she knows it. Those are the early signs.

She opens her mouth, only for Tim to turn to her with a coldness she hadn't noticed he always regarded her with.

She had never seen joy on his face, so she had never had a chance to compare how he looked at her and Jack to how he looked at others. How he looked at Danny.

Janet feels everything in her freeze, and a tremble grows in her arms and hands. Trying to hide it, she drowns the glass of wine in her hand in one gulp but instantly regrets it.

The world become slightly hazy that alcoholic cause, and maybe it's been a long time since she last drank. She could have sworn she was seeing double for a moment, and an exact copy of her child was leaning on the wall behind Tim.

But that wouldn't make sense. Tim's eyes weren't green.

"Son." Jack's warm presence is behind her, placing a comforting hand on her back, and she can't bring herself to speak as her husband commands. He likely feels her trembles. "It's time to leave."

The second image of Tim flickers out of sight, and Janet walks out of the Wayne Gala, wondering if her son inherited his madness from her. Neither adult notices the soft thump of the backseat, nor do they pay much attention to Tim carefully buckling the air or how the blanket he keeps back there spreads itself across Tim's lap.

Janet falls into old habits, and instead of being up to what she realized that night, she convinces Jack to go to Guatemala. They are gone first thing the following day.

Tim watches them leave from the top of the grand stairway, his eyes glowing green in heavy judgment and ice that Janet would have felt in the coldest winter. Jack is chatting nonsense to fill the silence and keep Janet grounded, but when she peeks over her shoulder to the Manor, she spots Tim in the window of his room, watching them leave with a frown.

His green eyes are gone, and she feels a chill race down her spine. There is no way he could have run up the stairs, gone down four different hallways, and gotten to the window before they could get to the waiting car.

"Goodbye, Tim. Keep the house safe!" Jack says as he opens the car door for Janet, but he's talking in the doorway. Because that's where the grand stairway is. She hears her son respond but can't tell what he is saying.

She can only gaze upwards to where Tim waves at her while clutching the curtain. His mouth doesn't move. He isn't the one speaking to Jack.

Janet sits in the leather of the car, Jack beside her, holding her hand tenderly, and she rethinks about having Tim instituted. She should hire an exorcist instead.

When they get back, of course. The car pulls away from the driveway, and Janet does her best not to look back even as the door slams shut, as if the sound was meant to tell her never to return. She closes her eyes, holds her breath, and only lets it go when they are far away from Drake Manor and her son.

Maybe one day she can be a good mother.

#dcxdpdabbles #dcxdp crossover #The Twins #Janet's Pov #Tw: postpartum depression #tw: depression #tw: child neglect #Tim and Danny are twins but Danny is mentally older #He hates the drakes and Tim follows suit #Tim wishes his mom liked him like any other child though #Danny sometimes takes Tim's place #He chooses to stay invisible #Tim can see him though as a twin pwoer #Everyone thinks Tim is crazy and creepy

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dshseodelhi · 2 years ago

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pathologicalreid · 20 days ago

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i like it when you sleep for you are so beautiful yet so unaware of it | s.r.

in which Spencer Reid is a mosaic of every person he's ever known, and you are the only one who has ever been able to bring him back to the present

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff (flangst) content warnings: pregnant!reader, takes place following the believer storyline, abandonment issues, fear of being a parent, spencer reid is sooooo in love with his wife word count: 1.84k a/n: long ass fic title idk blame matty healy!!

His hand was growing sweaty in yours, but he couldn’t get himself to relax his grip. Slow breaths moved your chest while you slept peacefully next to him, the occasional whistle from your nostrils made the corner of his mouth quirk up.

Adjusting his head on the pillow, Spencer winced slightly at the way the pillowcase felt on his new wounds. Cuts and bruises littered his face, but nothing hurt him the way the tear tracks on your face had when he finally made it back to the BAU. It had been the only thing on his mind when that blade had been pressed to his throat—what it meant to be leaving you behind.

Spencer couldn’t take his eyes off of you, continuously studying your sleeping form to ensure you were undisturbed. He knew you hadn’t been sleeping well, a result of the wriggling baby that was growing in your womb, and yet, you’d still been up for the majority of the night, waiting for him to return to you and then making sure he was taken care of once he got home. You’d spent an hour trying to take care of the cut in his hairline while he tried to herd you to bed. The glorious symbiosis of marriage, he supposed, you being there to take care of him while he took care of you. You brought him to his knees.

Though you were past viability, he still worried about you and the baby, knowing you hadn’t closed your eyes until four in the morning did nothing to quell the anxiety thrumming through his body. It seemed that the only thing that was helping was seeing you sleep, having the physical representation of his life on the other side of his mattress was all he could do to stay calm.

His anxiety about becoming a father had manifested itself in stacks of parenting books littered throughout his life—piled up on his nightstand, the coffee table, and even his desk in the bullpen. Not only had he been collecting books on fatherhood, but motherhood as well, so he could help you adjust to your new role even better than he could adjust to his own. Though, none of that mattered if he never lived to see this dream come to fruition, and ever since he saw your positive pregnancy test, he found himself considering a life without the BAU.

Everyone considered him still young, still the kid of the team, but his future faced him square in the eyes everytime he looked at you. He was eye to eye with a decision to make, to choose which mentor he truly wished to emulate. Did he want to be the one who took on everything until it became too much? Tearing him apart limb from limb until he had to take off in the middle of the night to put himself back together, only to have the ghosts of his past come back to haunt him. He could be the one who nearly lost everything, sticking it out even when everyone would’ve understood taking the other path. Remaining a leader to the team because he was a hero to his son—until he wasn’t. Then, there was the one who had chosen ambition over everything else in his life, collecting beginnings of stories only to never experience the middle, only finding answers when the story had reached a resolution.

Maybe he placed too much stake in the men that he had once looked up to, previously too young to see the flaws in the way they forged their paths and too captivated to recognize the flaws in their process.

Lost, he opened his eyes again to find you, taking up the arduous task of committing your every trait to memory. Naturally, your likeness was branded to the backs of his eyelids, making you the first person he saw when he woke up in the morning and the last person he saw when he went to bed every night—even when you were miles away. He’d never had the privilege of seeing you in this exact moment before, how your nostrils flared with each exhale and your lips had parted slightly against the pressure of your pillow. Once every few minutes, your fingers would twitch from their place intertwined with his, and he’d just watch.

The way your hair fell across the champagne colored pillow case was nothing short of art, as if it had been precariously arranged on the sheets instead of mere happenstance. The way your sleep shirt had bunched up over your shoulder, pulling the side of the shirt up to expose the skin of your hip and, coincidentally, your bump, threatened to take his breath away.

There were moments, blips in his timeline, where he nearly forced himself to acquiesce the concept of becoming a father. Having a kid of his own, moving on from being the friend who was the designated godfather and allowing himself to endure everything that a child had to offer. Only, he worried he didn’t have enough to offer his child, if he’d lost too much of his own childhood to have empathy for the baby you were carrying. Everyone told him that the concern would wear off eventually, but there was no light at the end of this tunnel. There was no end for terror when the catalyst was right around the corner.

Shifting himself down the mattress, he held his arm over his head so your fingers could remain intertwined, shuffling until your belly was eye level. He sighed gently, silently admiring the work that your body was doing—changing, shifting—all to bring new life into this world. “I have to tell you something, Kit,” he murmured to the baby.

The nickname had been chosen by you, deciding that no matter the gender of the baby, their nickname would be Kit. You didn’t yet know if they’d be Christopher or Kathleen, but they would be Kit.

“When everyone asked, I told them I wasn’t scared of the Believers,” he explained to the fetus, who was just barely developed enough to hear what was going on outside of the womb. He’d spoken to them before, reading aloud from whatever book he happened to be reading at the time. Once, when you’d been upset, kept awake by a baby who was active at night, he’d even sung a lullaby to them, trying to console both of you at once.

He glanced up at you, ensuring that his tender whispers weren’t prohibiting your sleep before continuing. “I wasn’t. I knew that the team would get to me, but at the same time… I was petrified. Scared,” he pointlessly simplified his phrasing as if he were speaking to a child sitting on his lap.

There had only been one word cycling through his head while a knife was held to his throat—baby. “I was scared I wouldn’t be able to meet you.”

If he committed himself to ignoring his work and the interpersonal relationships that he’d curated at work, Spencer would find that there was little else in his life that held significance—save for you and the baby. He had his mother, but even the simplest of memories were continuing to fall from her mind like the petals of a flower. The inner beauty of you was that this life was just beginning, a newly sowed garden of his own to share—to cultivate and protect.

Every moment of his life had been forcibly seared on himself by his memory, even the terror that burned his chest earlier tonight would remain in a locked box for years to come, but sometimes, when he closed his eyes and searched for you, he discovered gratitude. There was a blessing beneath what he previously would’ve sworn was a curse, he could travel with the team and see memories of you and the family that the two of you created.

But would that ever be enough?

What was the true value of a glimpse of his own child when he knew you’d be at home, facing all of the late nights and diaper changes alone? Would he feel content in being a part of his child’s life when what he truly craved was being a whole of their life? He’d never truly had that, his own father perpetually had one foot out the door for his entire childhood before he finally left. He’d experienced loss of that caliber time and time again until he met you, the one person who took his breath away. You had stayed, and he felt as though he belonged beneath you. On his knees before you while you took on responsibilities that couldn’t fit into his own schedule—menial tasks like laundry and grocery shopping and taxes. This wasn’t fair to you. This wasn’t fair to your baby, being mistreated by the world before they took their first sobbing breath.

The night before your wedding, he’d confessed to you that he was scared he’d given up the best years of his life to the BAU, and you’d assured him that was impossible. That didn’t stop the doubt from creeping in at times like these, moments where the job got a little too scary, when there had to be a call home and a protective detail placed. Those were the moments when he looked to you and knew if you told him it was too much, he’d throw in the towel, but you never did. You’d never ask that of him, and part of him has always known that it needed to be a decision he made for himself.

Next to him, you shifted slightly on the bed, your nose wrinkling in distaste as the sun rose, resulting in rays of light beaming in through the blinds. As always, you brought him back, returning his thoughts to the present tense because he was here now, in bed next to you. The sun was walking up his wife, the mother of his child, and after everything he had put her through the night before, he couldn’t tolerate the actions of the celestial being.

Spencer got out of bed, precariously placing his feet on boards that wouldn’t creak while he made his way to the window, tugging the string of the blinds until light had been completely forbidden from the bedroom. When he turned around, he saw your hand reaching out, flexing your fingers like you were trying to grab something—trying to grab him. “Come back,” your sleep-muddled voice called out for him.

The smile that bloomed on his face was unavoidable, everything that’s grown in his garden before him in plain view. He made his way back to bed, climbing under the covers with you and opening his arms for you to slide into. You rested your head gently on his chest, falling back to sleep to the beat of his heart, leaving him with nothing left to concern himself with but the gentle way your eyelashes curled over your cheeks.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fluff #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fic #spencer reid x fem!reader #written by margot #spencer reid dilf agenda

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agilus098 · 2 months ago

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sonarspace · 4 months ago

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✩ content. 18+, coworker! nanami x fem! reader, protected sex, office sex.

coworker!nanami wasn’t the type to rush things. he was careful, thoughtful in every move he made—like he had all the time in the world. you noticed it the first time he held the elevator door open for you, stepping aside to let you in first with that soft nod he always gave.

he wasn’t flashy or loud like some of the others in the office. no lingering stares or playful flirting. just small gestures—offering you the last coffee pod in the break room, pulling your chair out during meetings, and always walking you to your car when you worked late.

when he asked you out, it wasn’t over text or with some elaborate gesture. it was simple, catching you by surprise at the end of a long day. you were gathering your things, half-distracted, when his voice cut through the soft hum of the empty office.

“would you like to have dinner with me this weekend?”

the words hung in the air, calm but sure, making your heart stutter unexpectedly. you blinked up at him, thrown by how casual he made it sound, as if it wasn’t making your pulse flutter faster.

“i’d like that,” you answered, tucking your hair behind your ear.

he nodded, a faint pull at the corner of his mouth. “i’ll pick you up at seven.”

and he did—right on time, standing at your door with a bouquet of fresh flowers, not the kind you grab last minute at the store, but ones carefully picked out like he’d put thought into it.

dinner was easy. the conversation flowed, soft and unrushed, as if he was content just being there with you. he listened more than he spoke, asking questions in a way that made you feel like he really wanted to know you, not just pass the time.

when he walked you back to your apartment, he didn’t ask to come inside. instead, he paused at the door, leaning in to press a kiss to your cheek, soft and warm but not lingering.

“thank you for tonight,” he said, the weight of his hand brushing lightly against your arm before he stepped back.

the second date mirrored the first—calm, unhurried. but this time, when he kissed you, it was on the lips, soft and gentle, like he was testing the waters but not diving in. his lips lingered just enough to make you chase the taste of him with your tongue, even after he pulled away.

it left you touching your lips as you unlocked your door, feeling the ghost of his mouth long after he was gone.

what you didn’t know was how he spent the rest of that night thinking about it too—replaying the softness of your kiss, wondering if he should’ve stayed just a little longer.

it wasn’t until the third date that the pace shifted.

when he invited you over for dinner, his apartment was exactly what you expected—minimal, clean, but still warm, like the person who lived there took care to make it feel like home.

there was a faint smell of coffee lingering in the air, rich and earthy, as if he brewed it often enough for it to soak into the walls. a small stack of books sat neatly on his coffee table, their covers worn but well-loved. near the corner of the room was a collection of vinyl records, carefully arranged alongside a vintage turntable.

as he moved through the kitchen, pouring you a glass of wine, he pulled one of the records from the stack, setting it onto the turntable with the same careful ease he seemed to apply to everything he did.

the room filled with the low hum of music—something old, sensual and smooth, the kind of love song that felt like it belonged to another time. the soft crackle of the vinyl filled the spaces between your words as you ate, the melody winding around the edges of the room like a quiet invitation.

when his hand brushed your thigh, it felt natural, like the warmth of the song had melted the space between you.

later, when his lips pressed against yours, he left the record spinning, the music still drifting softly in the background as he kissed his way down your body.

as he sank between your legs, the song shifted to something slower—french, maybe, the words breathy and delicate, curling through the air like smoke.

he moved with the same rhythm, slow and unhurried, his mouth warm against you, every flick of his tongue drawing out the softest gasps as he held you down, savoring every sound you made.

when he finally slid inside you, the music swelled, the deep hum of the singer’s voice threading through the haze of your breathless moans, filling the room with something tender and electric.

nanami’s pace matched the song—steady, sensual, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered your name, his hands cradling your hips as if he didn’t want to miss a single moment.

the vinyl spun on, crackling softly beneath the weight of your shared breaths, grounding you both in the quiet intimacy that stretched between each note.

by the time monday came, the memory lingered, warm and heavy between you. the space between your desks felt smaller somehow, the air charged with something unspoken but understood.

nanami never acted any differently—still the epitome of professionalism, his touch light and fleeting whenever it crossed yours. but there were small moments where his gaze dipped lower, lingering a second too long on the way your skirt hugged your legs, the faintest twitch of his jaw when you brushed too close.

the tension simmered beneath the surface, winding tighter each day, like the faint static hum of a record waiting to skip.

you felt it most when his hand slid lightly against the small of your back as you leaned over the printer, his palm warm through the thin fabric of your blouse.

“you’ve been distracting me,” he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear, his lips hovering by your ear.

the words were calm, but the weight behind them made your stomach twist, heat coiling low in your abdomen.

you swallowed, straightening under his gaze as your eyes flickered to the glass walls of his office, thankful for the empty hallway.

it wasn’t until later, when the office thinned out and the sun dipped low behind the skyline, that the tension snapped.

you’d been passing by his office when his hand caught your wrist, thumb brushing lazily over your pulse.

“come in,” nanami said softly, guiding you into his office with that same steady calm that never seemed to waver.

the door clicked behind you, but you barely had a second to register it before he was pressing you back against the solid edge of his desk, his mouth hot and insistent against yours.

the kiss was slow, controlled—but there was something heavier beneath it, the faint groan vibrating in his chest as his hands skimmed the length of your thighs, pushing your skirt up until it bunched around your waist.

“you’ve been driving me insane all week,” he whispered, lips trailing along your jaw as his fingers slid beneath the lace of your panties, pulling them aside with ease.

your breath hitched as his hands gripped your hips, guiding you to bend over the desk with a softness that didn’t match the heat pooling in his gaze.

nanami took his time, as he always did—his touch careful, even as he freed himself from his slacks, the thick weight of him pressing hot against your entrance.

the stretch of him was dizzying, a soft gasp spilling from your lips as he pushed inside inch by inch, his hand steadying against the small of your back as he bottomed out.

“fuck—” the word rasped against your skin, his forehead dropping to the curve of your shoulder, his hips pulling back just enough to snap forward again.

the desk creaked beneath the weight of his movements, his pace unrelenting, the quiet hum of the empty office amplifying every soft moan that slipped from your mouth.

by the time he pulled out, breath ragged and forehead damp, nanami was already tugging your skirt back down, smoothing out the creases with careful hands.

he helped you clean up, his thumb brushing against your cheek as he pressed a soft kiss to your temple, tucking you beneath his arm as he led you to the door.

as the elevator doors slid open, nanami’s thumb traced the inside of your wrist, grounding but teasing.

“i should soundproof my office,” he murmured, voice low and amused.

your breath hitched, heat blooming in your cheeks. “i wasn’t that loud.”

nanami’s brow arched, lips ghosting your ear. “you were.”

the elevator chimed softly. he lingered close, smirking as he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes.

“i didn’t mind,” he added, his palm warm against the small of your back. “but let’s see how much louder you can get next time.”

#luna✮lover #nanami smut #nanami fluff #nanami x reader #jjk x reader #jjk x you #nanami x you #jjk drabbles #anime smut #jjk #nanami #jjk smut #jjk nanami #nanami kento x you #nanami kento x reader #nanami drabbles #kento nanami #nanami kento #divider by strangergraphics

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mariasont · 11 months ago

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They Think I'm Pregnant - A.H

a/n: i feel like this is kind of shitty but alas here we are!

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x fem!reader

summary: the team thinks you're pregnant and you decide to have a little fun with it

warnings: reader is not preggers promise!, honestly the team gossiping is so lol, suggestive content per usual

wc: 1.3k

"I mean she has been kind of moody lately."

The gasp that rose in your surprise was quickly smothered as you pressed yourself against the wall, pushing into it as if that would make you invisible somehow.

"Well, interestingly enough, there has been considerable growth in her chest area. It's due to elevated levels of estrogen and progesterone, which I've noticed with her." Spencer stopped abruptly, the sound of Morgan's muffled laughter in the background. "I'm not saying I make a habit of such observations. Okay, um, don't tell Hotch I said that."

Casting a skeptical eye down your shirt, your frown deepened. Sure, your boobs had grown, but that was a testament to a little happy relationship weight, not the fodder of their theories.

"Nice one, kid," came Rossi's voice, and you could almost see the smirk on his face.

"Oh my gosh, guys, this is like, the best news ever! A mini-agent in the making! Can you imagine how cute she's going to be? I'm going to get her the cutest outfits!"

"Garcia, how do you know it's going to be a girl? Did the baby send you a text?"

The baby? Was rational thought absent among them? It must be. You crossed your arms defensively.

"Okay, maybe we should pump the breaks everyone. Why do we even think she's pregnant in the first place?"

JJ—your voice of reason. You could kiss the ground she walked on.

"I'm just putting two and two together. She walked out, and there was a pregnancy test in the trash that wasn't there before."

Your eyebrows drew down, and the increasing shuffle from the room prompted you to make a beeline for Hotch's office before anyone saw you snooping. But in your defense, Emily snooped first.

The moment the door clicked shut, you lunged for the blinds, bypassing any attempt at a greeting with Aaron. The blinds clattered shut, so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash.

"Honey, what are you—?"

His words hung unfinished as you whirled around, pressing your pointer finger to your lips as if he were a kindergartner about to walk down the hall.

"They think I'm pregnant!" you hissed indignantly, jabbing a finger toward the door as if it were a portal to the rumor mill itself.

His face drained of color as his eyes darted from your face, down to your stomach, and finally rested on your tits. "Are you?"

You slapped his shoulder. "No!"

"Then why do they think that?"

You recounted every piece of evidence they had collected, giving special attention to Spencer's bodily hypothesis as a subtle form of retaliation.

"He said what?"

You laughed, draping your arms around his neck as you made yourself at home on his lap. He leaned back in his chair, arranging you so your legs were stretched out across his lap.

"Focus," you said desperately. "They think I'm pregnant."

"Sweetheart," he chuckled, his hands finding their way to your waist. "Does it really matter what they're assuming?"

Your lower lip jutted out, fingers threading through your hair as you mulled it over.

"You're a genius." Your arms were around him in an instant once again, leaving a big, messy kiss on his cheek as you hopped down from his lap and strode towards the door.

Who cares if that's what they think?

So, you devoted your day to your greatest talent: stirring the pot. If they were set on believing you were pregnant, why should you interfere? Better yet, why not enjoy their theories and have some fun along the way?

You pulled every trick in the book.

In the morning, you bolted from the briefing room with a hand clamped over your mouth, you later reappeared, ginger ale and crackers in tow--which you knew JJ would understand. No one said a word.

In the afternoon, you turned up your nose when Emily offered you coffee, which in turn caused her eyes to bulge out of her head, but still she said nothing.

In the evening, you staged a sudden craving for the strangest of snacks, convincing Spencer of your dire need for pickles dipped in peanut butter. You sent him on a wild goose chase for it, and he did it, no questions asked.

All of these, as some would say--childish antics, lead to a big pile of nothing because no one was brave enough to just ask you.

So now that you were all gathered around Rossi's living room, with the day's efforts in vain, you were forced to drastic measures.

The wine glass was mere inches from your lips when the whole lot of them were up in arms--a blabbering, spiraling mess.

Garcia, her mouth a perfect 'o' of scandalized red, was quick to wrestle it from your grasp, hoisting it just beyond reach as Morgan promptly confiscated it, placing it atop the tallest bookshelf, as if you were a child meddling with contraband.

"What are you thinking?"

"Are you crazy?"

"What are you doing?"

"Hotch, do you see this?"

Their words bombarded you all at once, a rapid-fire of overlapping sentences that was impossible to decipher. A giggle escaped you, hand instinctively rising to your lips. Sure, you had braced for a reaction, but this was beyond anything you had imagined.

You played dumb, your head canting to one side as your brows contracted. "What?"

You basked in Aaron's exasperated eye roll, his hands coming together as if in prayer while he let you revel in the moment. He was a good man.

"What do you mean what? I love you so much, but you have to be out of your mind," Garcia probed, her hands clutching on to her necklace as she looked side to side at the others.

You opened your mouth, ready to provoke her further, but Spencer beat you to it.

"Given the potential impact on blood volume and plasma osmolality, it's really not advised to drink alcohol, considering your condition," he said, fidgeting with his tie while nodding to your belly.

"What condition?"

"Oh, come on! We found your pregnancy test in the trash today!" This time it was Emily speaking, her hands on her hips as she gave you a knowing glance. She quickly muffled her exclamation. "Hold on, you've told Hotch, right? If not, I'm prepared to get on my hands and knees and beg for your forgiveness if necessary."

"You all are ridiculous!" you declared, rising from the couch and moving toward your abandoned wine. Aaron was quicker, offering the glass to you. "I'm not pregnant, and if you nosy nellies had bothered to ask rather than speculate, you'd know that.”

You took a large gulp of your wine. For emphasis. Your colleagues' mouth hung agape, all but Rossi, who smirked and toasted to the absurdity with his whiskey.

"You heard us?"

"Reid, let's just say, I'd appreciate if you would reserve those observational talents for the case files, not on my girlfriend's anatomy," Hotch suggested, the warmth of his hand seeping through the fabric at your back as he casually sipped his scotch.

You watched Reid's complexion turn a spectrum of pink hues, his apology barely above a whisper as laughter bubbled around us.

"Wait so then whose pregnancy test did I find?" Emily's words caused a collective breath to catch, glances shifting suspiciously around the room.

JJ's hand shot up, laughing as Garcia barreled into her side, arms wrapping around her before she could even get the admittance out. The room buzzed with congratulatory cheers, everyone sharing hugs and kisses as JJ told the story.

Aaron chose that instant to lift his hand to his neck, his lips meeting yours in a kiss so gentle it turned your insides to jelly. He eased back, his breath mingling with yours as he mumbled, "you know, the idea of you pregnant...it's not something I'm opposed to."

You let out a soft giggle, nestling your head against his chest, the steady beat of his heart bleeding into your ear. Your gaze drifted to your friends, toasting with raised glasses--minus JJ--with laughter and chatter filling the air.

"Is that so? Cravings, mood, boobs and all?"

You felt the rumble of his chuckle through his chest, the sensation tingling against your cheek. "All of it."

Rising onto your toes, you reached up to cradle his ear, lips grazing lightly against it. "How about we head home and practice? And then if you put a ring on it, I’ll consider it.”

That was the first time you had Irish goodbye-d a party.

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x fem reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotcher fic #criminal minds #criminal minds fluff

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whatsupsonnyboy · 13 days ago

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the first time || Joseph Quinn

PAIRING: Joseph Quinn x fem!Reader

SUMMARY: The first time you and Joe meet, something clicks—quiet but unmistakable. Like the start of something that doesn’t need to be explained. And really, who were you trying to fool?

wc: 7.3K

warning: smut (mdni!!), p in v sex, protected and unprotected sex, fluff, midly slow burn (but not really lol), there's just lots of sweet boy joe and amazing sex

a/n: hey, so as i've already post about, i've been writing a bunch of one shots of how it might feel (in my mind ofc) to be in a relationship with this golden boy... so here it is, the first one. I'll post more eventually, it’s not really a story with parts but more like a collection of scenes that pop into my head. They’re not directly connected, but they all belong in the same universe. Hope you enjoy it! 🫶🏾

Feedback is welcomed <3

request are open | masterlist

You hadn’t planned to stay long.

Just a drink or two. Say hi to Wes. Smile politely, maybe sneak out before midnight with the excuse of a fake early morning.

But then he was there.

You didn’t even notice him at first—just another face in the mix, half-shadowed by the glow of string lights and the low thrum of music. But then he laughed. God, that laugh. Low and rough and golden around the edges. And when you turned to look, really look, he was already looking at you.

That was the first hit. The first crackle of something electric and new.

Wes introduced you. Casual. Effortless. And suddenly you were standing closer than necessary, drinks in hand, eyes locked, trading names like they meant something more.

He was funny. Way funnier than he had any right to be. And warm. Charming in a way that wasn’t performative, but lived-in. Like he didn’t need to impress anyone but couldn’t help doing it anyway.

You asked about his work—half curious, half testing. He didn’t dodge, didn’t show off. Just smiled, scratched the back of his neck, and said, “I love it. Even when it’s a mess. Maybe especially then.”

You nodded, because you got it. Because you were already thinking the same thing about him.

Time blurred after that. Drinks refilled. Conversations spiraled—music, books, worst dates ever, the best breakfast food after 2 a.m. You laughed so hard at one of his stories you had to cover your mouth with your hand, and he just grinned at you like you were his new favorite thing.

When people started leaving, neither of you moved. You were leaned into each other now, shoulders brushing. His fingers drummed absently on his glass. Yours curled around the edge of the sofa like they wanted to close the space.

So when he offered to walk you home, it didn’t feel like a decision.

It felt like the natural next breath.

You walked through the quiet streets, city humming softly around you, your conversation dipping into silences that weren’t awkward, just charged. Your arms bumped once. Then again. And neither of you apologized.

By the time you reached your building, the air felt thicker somehow. Like it knew.

You paused outside the door, keys in hand, heartbeat tapping like a warning or a dare.

“Do you wanna come up?” you asked.

And he—of course he did.

The elevator was quiet, slow, and small enough that your shoulder brushed his again. This time, he didn’t pretend it was an accident.

He looked at you—really looked at you—and that was it.

You kissed him.

There was no hesitation. No awkward pause. Just the sharp inhale before your mouths collided, hot and eager, like you’d both been waiting for permission all night.

His hand cupped the back of your neck. Yours slid into his hair. You kissed like the elevator could betray you at any moment, like you only had seconds, and every one of them mattered.

When the doors slid open on your floor, your lips were still touching, your breath caught between kisses.

And you have no idea what you were doing, but it felt so right that questioning yourself about it wasn’t even an option.

The door clicked shut behind him, but he barely registered the sound. Your hand was still in his, and your smile—soft, a little crooked—was the only thing anchoring him.

You tugged him gently into the apartment, fingers laced with his like it had been that way for years.

No small talk. No tour. No hesitation.

Just the unspoken hum that had been building all night, finally breaking the surface.

When you turned to face him, your lips already parted, he didn’t wait. He kissed you like he needed to. Like the moment he’d felt your mouth in the elevator hadn’t been nearly enough.

You tasted like wine and something sweeter he couldn’t name. Your arms circled his neck, pulling him closer, and he groaned into your mouth when your hips pressed into his.

It hit him all at once—how good this felt. How easy. The way your bodies seemed to move in sync, like instinct, like muscle memory from a dream he hadn’t realized he’d been having.

You gasped into his mouth, and that sound—sharp and breathless—lit him up like a live wire.

His hands found your waist, then your back, then slid lower, gripping your ass as he pulled you closer. He was hard already, pressed up against you through his jeans, and when you shifted just right, grinding into him with a little roll of your hips, he swore under his breath.

“Fuck, okay,” he muttered, eyes half-lidded, mouth dragging down to your neck. “You—god, you feel insane.”

You laughed, but it caught in your throat when he bit gently just beneath your ear.

Then everything sped up.

Your jacket hit the floor. Then his. His fingers were under your shirt, warm and demanding, tracing up your spine as if memorizing you. You didn’t hesitate—you lifted your arms, let him peel the fabric off you like a second skin.

He stared.

Because shit.

You stood there in a bra that barely held you in, chest rising fast, eyes blown wide. You looked wrecked already—and he hadn’t even touched you properly yet.

“You’re...” He exhaled hard. “Jesus, you’re unreal.”

And when he kissed you this time, it wasn’t sweet. It was starving.

He backed you into the couch, hands everywhere—pushing, pulling, gripping, needing. You tugged at his shirt until it was gone too, and your hands ran across his chest like you couldn’t decide where to touch first. He loved that. The urgency. The want in you.

When your mouth landed on his jaw, then slid lower, biting down on the edge of his collarbone, he groaned—loud, filthy.

“You’re driving me fucking insane,” he panted, rutting against your thigh without even meaning to.

Your hand dropped to his waistband, teasing. “Yeah?” you whispered, voice wrecked and dangerous.

He nodded, helpless.

“Then let me.”

The way you said it—it wasn’t a question.

You palmed him through his jeans, slow and confident, watching the way his breath hitched, the way his eyelids fluttered. He wasn’t used to being this undone this fast. But you had him—already.

His hands slid behind your back, unclasped your bra with practiced fingers, and when the straps slipped off your shoulders, he barely gave you time to react before his mouth was on you. Tongue and teeth and lips, worshipping, making you moan—fuck, that sound, he’d chase it forever.

The way you arched under him, like every touch was too much and not enough.

The way you gasped his name like it was the only word you remembered.

It was pure heat. Messy and fast and real.

And when you whispered, breathless, “Come to bed,” your lips swollen, pupils blown wide, he didn’t even hesitate.

He didn’t care about tomorrow. Or what this was. Or where it might lead.

All he knew was that he needed to feel your body under his. Needed to hear you fall apart.

And if he was lucky, he’d get to wake up beside you.

You led him by the hand, your steps quick, your breath even quicker. The apartment wasn’t big, but every second it took to reach the bedroom felt like an eternity stretched tight with want.

The moment you were through the door, you turned to face him, pulling him in again like you couldn’t stand the distance. Your back hit the edge of the bed and you kissed him like you meant to steal the air from his lungs.

He smiled against your lips when you fumbled with the button of his jeans, your fingers slightly clumsy in your rush. You cursed softly, laughed under your breath.

“Sorry,” you murmured.

“Don’t be.” His voice was low, rough. “It’s perfect.”

And it was.

Every little misstep, every shaky inhale, every wide-eyed second of wonder—it was perfect.

His jeans hit the floor. Then yours. You tugged at each other’s underwear with a mix of eagerness and surprise, and when he finally kicked his off and you stood in front of him completely bare, his breath caught in his throat.

You were stunning. Not just beautiful—though, fuck, you were—but alive. Lit up from within. Chest rising fast, lips parted, looking at him like he was something you couldn’t wait to taste.

And god, he wanted to be tasted.

You lay back on the bed, pulling him with you, and he followed without hesitation, settling between your legs, both of you skin-to-skin for the first time. It was overwhelming. It was right.

Your hands roamed his back, his shoulders, your mouth brushing along his jaw, and he felt everything. Every inch of contact. Every trembling breath.

And when he dipped his head to kiss your chest again, slower this time, your fingers tangled in his hair, your hips lifted into his without thinking.

“I don’t have—” he began, breath hitching.

“In the drawer,” you whispered.

He reached blindly, found the condom, tore the wrapper with shaking fingers. You helped him roll it on, your touch so tender it nearly broke him.

He looked at you once more, one hand cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

“You good?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded. “Yeah. I want this.”

Fuck. So did he. More than he could admit out loud.

The second he pushed into you, slow and deep, your mouth fell open with a gasp that echoed straight through his chest.

“Fuck—” he groaned, breath catching, head dropping against your neck. You were tight, so wet around him it was almost unbearable. His fingers dug into your hips, like anchoring himself was the only way not to lose it too fast.

And you—you arched into him, legs curling higher around his waist, nails dragging down his back.

“You feel so good,” you whispered, voice already wrecked. “So fucking good.”

Joe swore under his breath. He could barely think. Could barely hold back. The heat between you was blinding, raw, something feral clawing at his insides.

He pulled back, thrust in again, and your body met his with such perfect rhythm that his control slipped a little—hips snapping harder, breath rough in your ear.

Your hands roamed down his back, fingers brushing the dip of his spine, then slipping between your bodies until they were there—on your clit, teasing yourself as he fucked into you.

“Oh fuck, yes,” you moaned, back arching, head thrown back. “Right there, just like that—”

Joe looked down at you, eyes dark and hungry, and the sight of your hand moving against yourself while he was buried deep inside you… it undid him.

“Jesus, you’re gonna kill me,” he growled, grabbing your wrist, replacing your fingers with his own. “Let me.”

You whimpered, hips jerking as he rubbed slow circles, watching you unravel for him. Your face. Your breath. The way you bit your lip to muffle the sounds that wanted to break free.

“Let them hear you,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Don’t hold it in. I want every fucking sound.”

You obeyed.

You moaned like the world was ending. Like no one had ever touched you right until now. His name on your tongue, over and over, like a spell that made you shake.

He was losing it.

You clenched around him, again and again, dragging him deeper, and he couldn’t stop the filth that poured out of him.

“You’re so fucking wet for me,” he muttered, voice shaking. “So perfect. Taking me like you were made for it.”

You whimpered beneath him, hips rolling in rhythm with his, and then your hand was on him, cupping the back of his neck, pulling him down to kiss you like it was the only way to stay grounded.

You kissed him open-mouthed, messy, tongues sliding together, both of you panting, slick with sweat, chasing something neither of you could name.

When you broke away, your voice was hoarse, breathless.

“Harder, Joe. Please—fuck, don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He couldn’t.

He grabbed your thigh, lifted your leg higher over his hip and started thrusting harder, deeper, until the sound of skin against skin filled the room.

You cried out, high-pitched and desperate, and your walls tightened so suddenly around him he swore.

“Oh my god—” you gasped, and then you were falling apart, shaking, clenching around him so tight it pulled a raw, broken moan from his chest.

Your orgasm hit you like a wave, and he felt it—watched it—his fingers still working your clit through it all, not letting up.

“Fuck, you’re so—so fucking perfect—” he stuttered, barely holding on. “I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna come—”

Your mouth brushed his ear, breath hot. “Come inside me, baby. Come for me.”

And that was it.

He came with a groan, hips stuttering, pulse racing, holding you so close he thought he might crush you. You took every second of it—his shaking, his panting, the broken way he whispered your name like it was salvation.

Then silence.

Then breath. Tangled limbs. Sweat. Skin against skin.

And the most beautiful fucking quiet.

He stayed inside you, forehead resting against yours, both of you trembling.

You exhaled a shaky laugh. “Holy shit.”

He smiled, dizzy and wrecked. “Yeah. Holy fucking shit.”

Your breathing was still uneven when he collapsed beside you, chest rising and falling in erratic waves. His skin was warm and damp, and yours probably wasn’t any better. But when his arm instinctively reached for your waist and pulled you closer, it didn’t matter. Nothing did.

There were no words. Just the soft rustle of sheets and your fingertips drawing lazy, invisible patterns over the curve of his bicep. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head—gentle, almost reverent—and you let out a quiet sigh, one of those that come not from tiredness, but from fullness. Overwhelmed in the best possible way.

And you stayed like that. Breathing together. Letting your bodies cool down but your connection settle in deeper. There was nothing awkward. No pressure. Just warmth. Familiarity. His thumb brushing your side. Your knee nudging his softly under the sheets.

You didn't mean to fall asleep. But you did.

And somehow, when your eyes blinked open hours later, he was still there.

The light was pale and golden, sneaking in through your curtains. Your bedroom looked dreamlike, still hazy with sleep and the remnants of the night before. You turned slightly and found him already looking at you, face resting on the pillow, eyes still heavy-lidded, hair a mess of curls flattened on one side.

And it didn’t feel weird. Not at all.

“Hi,” you whispered, voice still raw from sleep.

He smiled, lazy and crooked, and it made your stomach do something ridiculous.

“Hi,” he echoed, voice low and warm and sleepy. “You drool a little, you know.”

You gasped, pushing at his chest with the back of your hand, laughing despite yourself. “You liar.”

“Swear on my life.” He grinned. “Just a little. Cute though.”

You groaned and buried your face in the pillow, but he only laughed, that soft, raspy morning laugh that already felt too intimate. Too familiar.

Like you’d heard it a hundred times before.

When you peeked out again, he was still watching you, eyes scanning your face like he was trying to memorize something.

“I usually hate sleeping next to someone,” he murmured.

Your heart skipped.

“But with you…” He shrugged slightly. “Didn’t even notice. Slept like a baby.”

You smiled then—slow, genuine, a little unsure. Because what were you supposed to say to that?

He shifted closer, his forehead gently bumping yours, and you felt his hand stroke slowly up and down your arm. His thumb brushed over a spot on your shoulder, then traced lazy circles on your skin.

Neither of you said anything else. There was no need.

Eventually, you turned, slow and careful, until your back was pressed to his chest and his arm slipped around you without hesitation. His hand settled on your stomach, warm and still.

You let out a soft sigh and nestled into him, your legs tangling under the covers. For a moment, everything was quiet—breath and body, shared warmth, the steady thud of his heart against your spine. Then his fingers shifted, just slightly. Slid lower.

The first thing you felt was heat—his chest pressed against your back, the slow roll of his hips, still half-asleep but already there, already hard. Your breath caught as his hand skimmed your stomach, fingers brushing lower, exploring like he hadn’t had his fill last night. Like he’d only just begun.

“Fuck,” he murmured, voice thick, scratchy with sleep. “You’re already—”

“Yeah,” you whispered, shifting your hips back against him, shameless.

He groaned, the sound low and desperate, and you could feel it vibrate through your spine. His lips found the spot behind your ear, open-mouthed, warm, lazy like everything about that morning, but hungry in a way that made your pulse spike.

“You sure?” he murmured, fingers sliding between your thighs now, stroking through the wetness he found there, drawing a sound out of you that was all need.

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes, and he looked wrecked already—his curls a mess, his gaze still soft with sleep but blown wide with want.

“Yeah,” you breathed, not hesitating. “Just finish outside.”

He stilled for a moment. Just a beat. Long enough for the gravity of it to flicker in his eyes. But then you reached back, guided him to you, and that flicker turned to fire.

“Fuck—okay. Okay.”

The first push inside was slow, careful, but deep—achingly so. You both gasped, your body stretching to take him, his hand gripping your hip like it was the only thing anchoring him to the planet.

“Jesus… you feel amazing” he whispered, half in awe, half in disbelief.

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, forehead dropping to the pillow as he began to move, drawing back, then pressing in again with that maddening control. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

And he didn’t. He couldn’t have even if he tried.

It wasn’t frantic—this wasn’t a race. But it wasn’t slow either. It was deep. Focused. Like he was trying to memorize every inch of you from the inside. His hand slid under you, fingers finding your clit, stroking in tight circles as he thrust, eyes fixed on the spot where your bodies met like it might disappear if he blinked.

“You take me so fucking well,” he muttered, voice shaking. “So good like this. So—shit—warm. Wet. Fuck.”

Your mouth dropped open, hands gripping the sheets as the pressure built, deep and consuming. Every snap of his hips sent sparks up your spine, every stroke of his fingers wound you tighter.

“Joe—”

“Say it again.”

“Joe—oh my God—”

He bent over you, his chest flush to your back, lips brushing your shoulder, your neck, your ear.

“Feel how deep I am?” he murmured, cock pulsing inside you. “I can feel you gripping me, baby, fuck—don’t stop, don’t you dare stop.”

You came with a strangled cry, your body locking around his, muscles fluttering, your whole self unraveling in waves. He thrust once, twice more, desperate now, but then pulled out with a groan—messy, hot, and helpless as he came on your lower back, one hand braced on the mattress, the other gripping your hip like it might keep him from flying apart.

His breath was ragged, your name half-formed on his tongue, and for a second, all you could hear was the rush of blood in your ears and the high-pitched whine of satisfaction in your bones.

You lay there, both of you trembling, panting, your bodies still joined, sweat cooling between your skins.

There were no words. Just the beat of your hearts, too fast and completely in sync.

He kissed your shoulder, once, twice. You reached back to touch his thigh, his hip—anything to anchor him to you. To keep him right there.

And for a moment, neither of you moved. No guilt. No fear.

Just skin. Breath. Fire. Somehow, trust.

You lay there, breathing together, warm and safe beneath the quiet weight of morning. Your legs tangled again. His hand resting on your hip. His thumb started drawing circles along your arm as he could memorize you by touch.

And when you finally started drifting off again, lulled by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, he pressed one last kiss to your temple.

Soft. Unthinking. Like second nature.

You smiled against his chest.

Neither of you meant to fall asleep again. But you did.

And somehow, that felt like the most intimate part of all.

The second time you woke up, it was to the scent of coffee and the quiet sound of someone humming off-key in your kitchen.

For a moment, you thought you’d dreamt the whole thing—until you stretched, and the ache between your thighs reminded you vividly that you hadn’t.

You reached for a hoodie, padded barefoot into the living room, and there he was—standing by the stove in nothing but his boxers and one of your oversized mugs in hand. His curls were still a mess. His back was turned, but when he heard your footsteps, he glanced over his shoulder and grinned.

“Morning, again,” he said, handing you the mug without missing a beat.

You took it, fingers brushing his for a second too long. “You made coffee?”

He shrugged, modest and smug all at once. “Well, I didn’t burn anything, so technically I made magic.”

You laughed, shaking your head, and sat on the edge of the couch as he poured his own cup.

It was easy. Too easy.

The kind of morning where you both felt like you’d skipped a few steps. Like you were already past the awkward stage. You talked about nothing in particular—your mutual distaste for early mornings, how Wes never mentioned either of you to the other (the bastard), the fact that you both hated people who didn’t rinse their dishes before putting them in the sink.

He made you laugh. A lot.

And at some point, still barefoot, hair wild and shirtless, he leaned against the counter and said, “Last night was… not what I expected.”

You looked up from your coffee, raising an eyebrow. “Disappointed?”

“God, no,” he said immediately, then softened. “It was just—better. More. You know?”

You nodded. Because you did know.

There was something about it. About him. About this. And you could both feel it pulsing under the skin, but neither of you tried to name it.

Eventually, the time came. He went to grab his things—shoes, phone, jacket—and you trailed after him, not quite ready to say goodbye, but not wanting to be that person either.

He stood by the door, pulling his jacket on, one arm still half out of the sleeve, when he turned to you with a smirk.

“So… am I allowed to ask for your number, or is this one of those magical one-night-stand rules where I disappear like a gentleman and we pretend we don’t exist?”

You blinked, then laughed, genuinely caught off guard. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Flattering,” he replied. “But I’ll take it as a yes?”

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your phone. “Give me yours. I’ll text you.”

He rattled off the digits, and you sent a simple “Hi” before he even finished spelling out his last name.

He looked at his screen, smiled, then looked back at you like he was about to say something else—but didn’t.

Instead, he leaned in and kissed your cheek. Soft. Warm. Familiar, again. Like he’d done it a hundred times before.

“See you around,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over the edge of your jaw.

And then he was gone.

The door clicked shut, and the silence he left behind was anything but empty.

It was full.

Full of something unnamed but very, very real.

You never had the talk.

No labels, no declarations, no drawn-out conversations about what this was or where it was going. It just was.

He texted you that same afternoon. Something dumb and funny. A meme you still had saved in your camera roll. You answered. And he answered back. And suddenly, you were talking every day. Not constantly, but consistently. Steadily. Like the kind of tide that always comes back to shore.

The first time you met up again, it was spontaneous. He was nearby. You had an hour to kill. You grabbed coffee and sat in the park. He stole your cookie. You punched his arm. He kissed you mid-laughter, with your cup still in hand, and just like that—there it was again.

That thing.

And then came the nights. The way his hand would slide against the small of your back as you opened the door. The way he’d kiss you like he’d been waiting for days, even if it’d only been hours.

You’d fuck on the couch. In your kitchen. Sometimes barely making it to the bedroom.

It was intense. Messy. Addictive.

But never rushed.

He made you laugh mid-moan. You pulled his curls just to hear the sound he made when you did. He always made sure you came first—sometimes second—and then held you like he couldn’t stand the idea of leaving. Sometimes he stayed. Sometimes you did.

You shared breakfast. Showers. Bad TV. Inside jokes. His hoodie. Your leftovers.

Somehow, he learned how you liked your tea. You learned what cologne he wore. He kept a spare toothbrush in your bathroom. You found one of your scrunchies on his nightstand once.

And none of it felt like a big deal.

It was just natural.

You’d text him something random at 1AM. He’d reply with a voice note that made you laugh out loud in bed. You'd call him when your day sucked. He'd show up at your door with snacks and that face that made everything easier.

You never talked about exclusivity. You never needed to.

Because even if no one had said it aloud, you both already knew.

It wasn’t casual. Not really.

And still, neither of you used the word "relationship."

But it didn’t matter.

Because every time he kissed your forehead before leaving, every time he whispered “sleep tight” like a secret, every time you caught him staring like he was still surprised you were real—something in your chest softened.

Something in you knew.

And maybe you weren’t officially together.

But your hearts hadn’t gotten the memo.

He didn’t really notice when it started to change. Maybe that was the point.

There was no sudden shift, no dramatic realisation. Just a quiet accumulation of small things that began to matter more than he expected.

Like the way his phone would light up and he already knew it was you. The way your name on the screen felt like a hit of dopamine—something in his chest unclenching without him even realizing it. The way the days stretched a little too long when he didn’t hear from you.

He started keeping snacks you liked in his apartment without thinking. He started recognizing your routines—how you stole his hoodie when it got cold, how you took your coffee with oat milk and exactly one sugar, how you always asked if he’d eaten after a long shoot. He noticed the way you hummed softly when brushing your hair, and how your laughter lingered in his apartment long after you'd gone.

He hadn’t planned to stop seeing other people. It just happened. Not out of obligation. Out of instinct.

You stopped replying to those flirty messages. He stopped swiping right out of boredom.

It wasn’t something you ever discussed. There was no awkward conversation, no labels. Just a quiet understanding—like turning down the volume on a song that didn’t hit the same anymore.

One night, Wes texted him asking if he was going out to their usual bar, and Joe found himself replying, “With her tonight.” He didn’t even think twice.

“You seeing her now?” Wes asked.

He stared at the screen for a while. Not officially. Not technically. But yeah. Yeah, he was.

And maybe the most surprising part was that none of it scared him. Not like it used to.

There was this night—you were curled up on his couch in his shirt, eating cereal at midnight, laughing at something stupid he’d said. And he watched you, spoon halfway to his mouth, thinking, Fuck. I really like her.

He didn’t say it. Of course not. But it was there. In the way he touched your back without thinking, or the way he waited for your laugh to fade before kissing you.

He got used to you without realizing.To the way your shoes sat by the door when you stayed over. To the way you wrapped yourself around him in your sleep, like his body was where yours belonged. To the way the silence between you didn’t press down—it settled around you both, warm and easy, like a shared blanket.

He hadn’t realised how much space you'd taken up in his life until he was scrolling through his photos one night and found more of you than anything else. Pictures you didn’t even know he’d taken—your head thrown back in laughter, curled up with a book, sleeping against his chest.

He remembered waking up before you one morning, the light slipping through the blinds, your arm thrown across his stomach, your hair a mess, your face half-buried in the pillow. He just laid there, watching. Not because he was having some big epiphany. Just because it felt nice.

Then came that Tuesday. You were in the bathroom, hair up in a messy knot, brushing your teeth with one hand and scrolling on your phone with the other, wrapped in his old t-shirt like it belonged more to you than him. Joe sat on the edge of the bed and watched.

Not in a creepy way. In a shit, this feels good kind of way. In a please don’t let this go anywhere kind of way.

You caught him staring—of course you did. You always did. Mouth full of toothpaste, you raised an eyebrow. “What?”

He just grinned. “Nothing.”

But he meant everything.

Because it wasn’t just the way you looked in the morning, or how you always denied stealing the blanket.It was the way you’d become his soft place to land. It was the cardigan draped over his chair. The mugs in the sink with your lipstick on the rim. The playlist on his Spotify titled hers.

The lines between you and him had blurred so gently, it didn’t even feel like change.

It just felt right.

And no, he hadn’t said it out loud yet. But when you fell asleep with your head on his chest and his arm pulled you closer like instinct, he didn’t need to.

You probably already knew.

He’d been pacing around the apartment for most of the afternoon, fingers stained with ink from scribbled notes, corners of scripts folded and dog-eared, empty mugs lining the coffee table like some modern art installation of a man losing his grip. The flat smelled faintly of coffee, highlighters, and the Thai food box he had grabbed in that small local in front of his gym and barely touched.

His phone buzzed earlier—your name lighting up the screen like a small calm in the storm.

“hey, out for a bit but I’ll swing by around eight?”

He’d smiled when he read it. A quiet kind of smile, the kind that tugged at the corners of his mouth even as his eyes were half-glued to a page of dialogue he couldn’t get right.

“Perfect. I’ll order pizza.”

And then he forgot about it. Not you, exactly. Just the time. The waiting. The worrying about whether you’d show or not. You’d said you’d come, and that was enough. You’d always done what you said so far. He trusted that. Trusted you. It was himself he didn’t quite trust lately.

The new script was a minefield. The director intimidating. The pressure building behind his temples like a storm he couldn’t quite outrun. Somewhere between scene fourteen and seventeen, he pulled his hair back into a tie and rubbed his face with both hands, muttering something half-human under his breath.

He hadn’t even realized the sun was already setting when Wes’s name lit up on his screen.

“you bailing on us tonight?”

He blinked, thumb hovering over the keyboard. “Had plans. Next time i swear”

A beat. Then another buzz. Wes had sent a photo.

Dim pub lighting. Clinking glasses. And you—laughing. Head tilted toward someone familiar. Keith. A friend of a friend. All easy charm and textbook good looks. The kind of guy who always had too much confidence and not enough shame. His arm wasn’t touching you, not exactly. But it was close.

“well… maybe you should reconsider”

And that—that—was when it hit.

A flash of something ugly and electric shot straight through his gut. Not quite anger. Not quite panic. Just that instinctive, animal sting of I don’t want anyone else that close to her.

He tossed the phone onto the couch, harder than necessary.

Fuck. He didn’t want to care. Hadn’t planned on caring. You weren’t his girlfriend. You hadn’t talked about exclusivity, or commitment, or any of that. You were just… seeing each other. Spending time together. Sleeping together.

But still.

He ran a hand over his mouth and stared at the photo again.

Just a few hours ago, he hadn’t had a single thought like this about you. You were the one thing not stressing him out.

Now, you were burning a hole in his brain.

He flipped his phone face down. Then face up. Then picked it up again. He’d stared at the photo so long it had burned itself into his vision. The way you were laughing, the exact curve of your shoulder leaning toward Keith. The lighting didn’t help. It could’ve been a casual moment, an ordinary conversation. But in his head, it had already become something else. A whole story.

Keith. That charming asshole with an ego bigger than his biceps. The kind of guy who calls waitresses “princess” and still manages to get dates. It wasn’t jealousy—at least, not exactly. It was a sharp, nagging sting of insecurity. Of fear. Fear that you were out there realizing you could be with someone easier. Less complicated. Someone who didn’t have their brain split between you and a script that read like ancient code.

He stared at a fixed point on the floor, leaning back on the couch, arms crossed, legs tense. The script beside him felt more like a threat than an opportunity. The notes he’d taken—now scattered across the table—looked like pieces of a mind that didn’t know where to begin.

He went to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, stared at himself in the mirror. Didn’t like what he saw. Came back to the living room. Sat down. Stood up. Turned on the TV. Turned it off. Checked the time: 8:04 p.m.

Not late. Not really. Four minutes was nothing. But to Joe, it felt like a century.

He walked to the kitchen, opened the fridge without knowing what he was looking for, then closed it again. The pizza he’d ordered—maybe a little too early—was already getting cold. Like him. Like everything.

He forced himself to sit back on the couch. Put on an old record—one of those he used when he needed to focus. But the needle barely hit the first chords before he got up again, restless. He went to the window. Pulled back the curtain. You weren’t there. Closed it. Opened it again. Closed it once more.

8:11.

“Fuck,” he muttered, dragging his hands down his face. He didn’t want to be that guy. The one spinning drama in his own head. The one building stories before the movie even started.

But there he was.

And the knot in his chest was pulling tighter by the minute.

Everything about the new film was overwhelming him. He wanted to scream at the ceiling. Throw the script against the wall. Nothing made sense. And the only thing that did—was you. It was you, goddammit. The one thing that didn’t need decoding. That felt simple, and somehow, impossibly huge at the same time.

That’s why it hurt. Because exactly for that reason, the idea of losing you—or worse, realizing you weren’t as in it as he was—felt unbearable.

And then, at 8:16, the doorbell rang.

His heart did this stupid little jump. He got up too fast. Felt that ridiculous urge to pull himself together, to act normal, to pretend he hadn’t been falling apart on the inside.

He wanted the sound of your arrival to reset everything.

But it wasn’t enough to quiet the noise. Not when the doubt was already echoing in his throat.

And when he opened the door… he didn’t know if he wanted to pull you into his arms or put you on the spot. If he wanted to kiss you or yell.

And that—exactly that—was what pissed him off the most.

You knew something was wrong the moment you saw his face.

It wasn't the kind of wrong you could smooth over with a kiss or a joke about the pizza going cold. It was the kind of wrong that sat heavy in the air, thick in your throat.

"Hey," you said, stepping inside. Smiling, out of instinct, even when your gut already knew better. "Sorry I’m late. I stopped by the pub for a bit, lost track—"

"Yeah," Joe said. Short. Sharp. Already turning away.

You shut the door behind you, heart picking up speed. The living room was a mess hunched over, papers scattered around him like a small, personal storm.

He laughed, low and humorless. "I didn’t know if you were still coming."

You blinked. "I told you I was."

"Right," he muttered. "But maybe you were grabbing pizza with Keith instead"

You stared at him. "What?"

He grabbed his phone from the couch, tossed it onto the table. The screen still lit up with the photo: you, standing close to Keith, laughing over something stupid, a drink in your hand. Frozen mid-smile.

"Are you checking up on me now?" you said, a little sharper than you meant.

"Wes sent it." He raked a hand through his hair. "He was concerned."

Your stomach twisted. "No. You were concerned."

He laughed, but it was hollow. Bitter. "Yeah, well maybe I was, especially when I saw you smiling at him like that."

You stared at him, anger flickering up, hot and defensive. "You don't get to say that. You don't get to throw that at me when we never—"

"I know!" he cut you off, standing up suddenly, voice breaking. "I know we never said anything, okay? I know we were both just... assuming things and pretending it was all casual and cool and whatever the fuck, but it's not. Not for me."

The words hung there, raw and electric.

You stepped back, heart hammering, because it was true for you too. You just hadn’t said it. Hadn't dared.

"I’m not seeing anyone else," you said, almost without thinking. "I haven’t even thought about it since you."

He stared at you like you’d just said something unbelievable. Like maybe he didn’t deserve to hear it.

You swallowed hard. "And yeah, I was talking to Keith. Didn’t realize that’d be a fucking crime”.

Joe closed his eyes for a second, like the weight of it physically hit him. When he opened them, he looked wrecked. And beautiful.

"I’m sorry," he said, hoarse. "I’m fucking scared, alright? I’ve got this project that’s swallowing me whole and half the time I think I’m gonna fail, and you’re the only thing that makes me feel like maybe I won't. Like maybe I’m not a complete fuck-up."

You felt your chest tighten, emotions crashing all over you.

"Then don't push me away," you said, stepping closer. "Don’t look for reasons to doubt this when I’m standing right in front of you."

He shook his head, almost helpless. "I don't want anyone else," he said, voice rough. "I don't even see anyone else anymore. It's just you."

You could feel your throat tightening, that sting behind your eyes, but you forced yourself to stay steady.

"It's you for me too," you whispered.

The silence felt thick and heavy and full of everything you hadn't said before tonight.

Then Joe moved — fast, almost clumsy — closing the space between you, pulling you into him like he couldn't bear the distance for a second longer. His mouth found yours in a kiss that wasn’t soft or careful — it was desperate, claiming, full of everything that had been burning between you for weeks.

And you let him. You let yourself fall into it, finally, completely. Because you knew. He knew. It was real.

You didn’t make it to the bedroom. You barely made it past the couch.

Joe kissed you like he meant it now. Like every inch of his mouth on yours came with a promise. No more holding back, no more ifs. Just you and him, here and now, and whatever the hell this was that had already swallowed you whole.

He pressed you against the wall, hands threading into your hair, breath hot and ragged against your cheek. "Fuck, I missed you," he groaned, like the hours apart had been unbearable.

"You had me yesterday," you gasped, tugging at the hem of his shirt, needing him bare, needing him now.

"Not like this." He pulled it over his head and dropped it to the floor, eyes hungry and tender all at once. "Not after hearing you say it."

You stilled for a second, chest rising too fast. "Say what?"

He leaned in, mouth brushing your jaw, your cheek, your ear. "That you wanted me. That you weren’t going anywhere."

You cupped his face in your hands, staring into those stupidly beautiful, frantic eyes. “I didn’t say it tonight, Joe.”

He blinked.

“I’ve been saying it every time I’ve come back.”

And then he lost it.

He picked you up, hands under your thighs, your legs wrapped tight around him, and carried you blindly through the apartment until you crashed into the edge of the bed. He didn’t even bother pulling the covers down.

Clothes disappeared like they were on fire.

His mouth was on your neck, then your chest, then lower—devouring, tasting, worshipping. You were already shaking by the time he slid inside you, both of you gasping like it hurt, like it healed.

“Jesus—fuck—you feel like home,” he choked out, burying his face in the crook of your neck, thrusting deep, slow, relentless.

You grabbed at his back, his hair, anything to ground yourself. “Don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop.”

He didn’t.

He moved like you were the only thing keeping him together. Like if he stopped touching you, he’d fall apart entirely. The rhythm grew rougher, faster, but still so full. Not desperate. Claiming.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping down his temple. “Tell me you’re mine.”

You gasped, eyes wide and wild. “I’m yours, Joe—fuck—I’ve been yours.”

He groaned into your mouth and slammed into you harder, and it wasn’t careful. It wasn’t sweet. It was real. It was raw and feral and exactly what both of you needed.

Your orgasm hit like a wave you didn’t see coming—hot and electric and blinding. And he followed almost instantly, moaning your name like it was a sacred word, collapsing on top of you, chest heaving, heart pounding against yours.

Silence.

Just the sound of breath and skin and the world finally slowing down.

You felt him shift, just enough to look at you. His eyes—open, vulnerable, like he’d just been cracked wide.

And then, softly, so softly—

“I love you.”

You blinked, breath still uneven.

And smiled.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I love you too.”

And just like that, there were no more questions.

Only answers written on skin, on sighs, on mouths still swollen from too much kissing.

449 notes · View notes

azen13 · 8 months ago

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CW: Yandere Themes, Kidnapping, Drugging

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Yandere!Alhaitham x Reader, but Reader had a former crush on Alhaitham in their Akademiya years.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

It's just a meeting. That's what you tell yourself, at least. Just a meeting between colleagues; just a meeting between what never was and what could have been; just a meeting between the sun and the moon, the sea and the stars.

That's all it is, but there's still a small, painful part of you that can't seem to stop ruminating on what might happen in the next hour. The still-searing brand of love that had been etched on your heart still aches. You hoped that this meeting would lay it to rest.

Knocking on the plain wooden door, his muffled voice responds a second later.

"Come in."

With one final moment to collect yourself, you push open the door. His office is unsurprisingly, very plain and orderly. There's a shelf of books behind him, a few manila files on his desk as well as a hefty stack of paperwork. Glancing over your shoulder, you spy a small ceramic pot resting on the windowsill, a single Sumeru Rose planted inside.

Its flourishing beauty makes you wilt. Years ago, when you were soon to embark to Fontaine to conduct some field research for your thesis, you had confessed to Alhaitham with a Sumeru Rose.

"Are you alright?" Alhaitham's voice snaps you back to the present.

You nod, shuffling over to the chair, its wooden legs scraping across the floor. You're so close to Alhaitham now, that you can see a stray hair on his shoulder. The sight of it makes you wonder what would happen if you were to pluck it off.

No, you remind yourself. You're not in love with him anymore, and he never loved you anyways.

If Alhaitham notices that your eyes are searing a hole into his shoulder, he doesn't say anything. "I'm assuming you understand why I asked to see you, correct?"

"The position of Acting Sage of Rtawahist, correct?"

The room feels humid, likely due to both your anxiety and the warm weather. Looking around, you notice two glasses and a pitcher of water resting off to the side of the desk. As Alhaitham lectures about the position, you reach for the pitcher and fill up a glass of water.

"...position will likely not be necessary after around two weeks," Alhaitham finishes, eyes still boring into yours. You take a sip of water.

It's bitter.

You can't help but furrow your eyebrows. Alhaitham picks up on your expression quickly. "The Akademiya has been testing out new water filtration methods. It produces cleaner water, though some say that it may taste slightly strange," he explains.

The two of you launch back into discussing the details of your new position, but as time begins to pass, you feel off. Not just the kind of off where you need a break, but the kind of off where you feel like you're about to pass out.

"A-ah...haitham," you slur. You don't feel any pain, just tingles running through your veins, spreading throughout your body before rendering your muscles limp.

The man stands up calmly and walks around the desk, supporting your shoulders. "You're okay, just breathe."

You try to, but find yourself unable to do anything.

Everything is blanketed in blackness soon after.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

You wake up to the morning sun's long, lovely fingers caressing the curve of your jaw, as well as the sweet hymns of birds and the breeze echoing through trees. It's almost picturesque, really.

Everything feels so right, that for a moment, you're prepared to close your eyes and go back to bed. But then you notice the walls are a lighter green than your bedroom, the sheets you're curled up in are not your own, and the furniture arrangement is completely different from that of your home's.

Oh, and then there's the person sitting in the chair on the opposite side of the room, staring at you unblinkingly.

It takes a moment for you to realize that the figure is Alhaitham, whose analytical eyes are reading you like you're a textbook on some convoluted subject only smart alecks like him would bother to study.

The look in his eyes almost scares you for a moment. You try to move your arms to push yourself up, but find that your wrists have been bound together.

"Alhaitham, what are you doing?"

The man takes a moment to stand and walk towards your bedside, gaze focused and unreadable. "I'm correcting a grave mistake," he says, a hand reaching out to clasp yours, gently stroking your palm with his thumb. "I was foolish to reject your love, but now I understand. I want you."

His words nearly make you pass out again. "That's not how it works, Alhaitham," you protest, "I don't...I don't love you any-"

"Why did you hesitate?"

"Because I just woke up. I'm not exactly thinking straight."

"Or maybe it's because you know you're lying." Alhaitham's words are tinged with condescension, his stare cold and unyielding. "Given enough time, you'll learn to love me again," he says. His hand leaves yours and moves up to your face, brushing up against your jaw. His touch should be warm, but you only feel cold.

You glare. "I doubt it."

For a moment, the corners of Alhaitham's lips quirk up in a semi-smile. It amuses him that you think you have a choice—a chance, really. After all, nothing's coming to save you.

He's got all the time in the world to make you fall in love with him.

873 notes · View notes

xomakara · 6 days ago

Text

Back To Me

SUMMARY | Mingyu or Hansol? You finally decide who you want to be with.

PAIRINGS | Mingyu (SVT) x Reader

RATING | Mature, NSFW, EXPLICIT, MDNI, 18+, Any Minors and Ageless Blogs will be blocked

GENRE | smut, just pure unadulterated smut, friends with benefits, angst

CONTENT/WARNINGS | profanity, lovemaking, unprotective sex, fingering, breast fondling, creampies, dirty talk, kissing, sucking, biting, hair gripping/pulling, praising, hair gripping, oral sex (f.receiving), pet names

LENGTH | 7,662 words

TAGLIST | –

NETWORKS | @k-vanity @ksmutsociety @keopihaus @cosyhomenet @winerys-collection

AUTHOR’S NOTE | Thank you @lovetaroandtaemin as usual for beta-reading these fics that I churn out. I really appreciate it, bestie 💚 Here is the last part of this fwb!Mingyu series. I hope you all like it! Likes, comments, and reblogs (mainly reblogs) are appreciated~

If you haven't read the other parts, you can find them here: What Are We? (Mingyu x Reader) If We… (Vernon x Reader)

Seventeen Masterlist

Mingyu feels like shit.

Not literally though. Physically, he's perfectly healthy. It's emotionally, his mind feels like absolute shit. It's no surprise that his mental health is a tad bit fragile these days. This has got to be the most stressful time in his entire life so far.

He can't concentrate properly in class or do his school work at home properly without his eyes blurring and his hand cramping up from the constant movement of his wrist. The stupid test coming up next week that is due for 20 percent of the entire course grade is already freaking him out so much that it is the first thing to pop into his mind whenever he awakes. Not even the hot piece of ass beside him the past few nights.

She isn’t you and will never be you.

It has been two weeks and three days since Hansol has started dating you. Not that Mingyu was keeping count or anything. Absolutely not. His free hand that isn’t holding his phone squeezes his forehead in annoyance. For the past fifteen minutes Mingyu has been trying so hard to focus and study.

But everything fucking hurt. And every time he flips through the pages of his books, the words keep swimming in front of him. So now here he lay on his back, on top of his unmade bed with a head filled with nothing but you and you. And the fact that it's only Monday is adding to his aggravation.

When he sees the text he received from you, he swears his vision has become fogged by the words he's reading over and over.

'Yes.'

An ache pierces his heart like a dagger stabbing at his very chest. How could this happen to him? This isn't how he imagined things would happen. How has it gotten this far and this complicated? Sure he's asked you a million times to be his girlfriend. Sure, you always turn him down, but still, you keep finding yourself back in his bed almost every night of the week. Sure you'd refused and protested countless times, but did he force you to do any of these things?

Is this just an endless cycle?

He squeezes his eyes shut. A sigh. Then another.

Who is he kidding?

Of course he’s being delusional. How could he have just presumed that because the both of you continued sleeping together and occasionally saw each other throughout the day for food or just to hangout together—no matter who they were with—means that things would go his way. But Mingyu guessed it was his fault for never pursuing a real, emotional relationship with you. Maybe if he hadn't set those boundaries from the start of your no-strings relationship, then none of these things would be happening right now.

Sure it might've taken longer than it should for him to realize how he's actually developed feelings. Why can't you realize that he knows what the two of you have is real, and it’s strong? You two are perfect for each other.

Can't you see that?

All those times you and he have kissed, the times he’s touched you intimately, the amount of nights and mornings the both of you have fucked, the number of times the two of you cuddled afterwards, the numerous conversations the two of you have had duringall that time. How could you not see what Mingyu sees?

Has he ever expressed it properly? Or are you just choosing to not see what's directly in front of you? Is there someone else? Does Hansol take you in and give you more tender loving care than he can provide for you? Is he better to you than Mingyu ever could?

Is he not enough?

Maybe. Just maybe.

Perhaps Mingyu hasn't done enough.

Hasn't shown or proven himself to be a suitable partner and be worthy of being able to love you the way you ought to be loved.

And it pisses him off.

He’s fucking jealous. So fucking enraged.

Because all these years, it was only him. Your attention. Your affection. Your time. All for Mingyu alone. Only him. But now? Now things were getting out of his control. Things have changed. And it pisses him the fuck off.

Out of sight, out of mind, was what Mingyu told himself. But in this situation, where it concerns you, it’s different. Seeing you and him together hurts, yet the more he sees, the more the desire to rip Hansol's arms away from you, snatch you away and hide you from his gaze gets stronger.

He needs you. Badly.

Then maybe... he’ll see and stop denying the fact that he's absolutely in love with you.

He tried to see other women after he found out you were dating Hansol, hoping it would do him good. But there was no use. Even while on a date, he would think of you and wish you were the girl in front of him instead.

Mingyu doesn't know when, how or why exactly, but somewhere in the middle of your little 'friends with benefits' thing, he began having feelings for you, and he had no one but himself to blame.

Because while Mingyu knows that he was the one that set that clear boundary between the both of you, it had to be his heart, the one foolishly going ahead and falling for you. It’s only in his fantasies where Mingyu is able to say whatever and do whatever he'd want to you, as many times as he wants and whenever he'd like to. That isn’t what’s actually happening. Because, if it were his choice, no one else would be touching or holding your pretty hands, no one else would see that sleepy smile of yours, or hear you laugh the way he did. No one would be able to wake up next to you, or hold you at night and hear you talk and cry about how the things of your life were weighing too heavy. Only him.

"Dude, you okay?" his best friend's voice interrupts and brings his attention back to reality. Wonwoo sits there, a book open on his lap and a pencil tucked behind his ear.

Mingyu lowers his phone with a sigh, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. "Honestly, I feel like shit, man. I just..."

"If you had only confessed to her before, things would be different," he gives Mingyu a serious look. Wonwoo sighs and leans back, tilting his chair with his foot and rolling backwards on the wheels, facing Mingyu from across the room. "Out of all the other girls you fucked with, Y/N is the longest one you've had yet. Most of the girls that you get involved with never last longer than two weeks, yet for two years she's been stuck by your side," he pauses with a nod, glancing upwards before returning back. "Either she's incredibly loyal to you and tolerates your bullshit, or the two of you really have something special," his deep eyes scrutinize, studying and contemplating.

"I don't know man, but lately, it just hasn't been the same," Mingyu props his arm on his forehead, resting on the pillows. "She keeps ignoring me and hanging out with him," he pouts. "It feels like I did something wrong when I didn't do shit."

Wonwoo sighs, setting his book and notebook down on his desk before standing and walks towards the bathroom. "Honestly I feel like it's both of your faults," his low voice mumbles, staring at his reflection in the mirror and fixing his hair. He glanced towards Mingyu from the cracked door. "We're heading out for dinner tonight."

"Who's coming?" Mingyu asked.

"Everyone."

"Y/N and Hansol too?" Wonwoo nods, and Mingyu lets out a groan.

"Don't be such a child. How are you going to even handle seeing your girlfriend around when we all share the same mutual friends?" Wonwoo takes off his shirt, walking into the closet and fishing out a clean shirt from the hanger.

"She's not my girlfriend," the tall man mutters. "Also, not so great that you'll all be laughing and having a good time and all while I'm moping on the side."

"Not really our fault dude. Maybe next time, try being honest and not fucking up." Wonwoo takes the comb in his hand, styles his hair and looks at himself once more. He takes off the reading glasses on his face, adjusts his round-framed eyeglasses, then grabs a denim jacket. "Hurry up and get ready."

"How the fuck are you supposed to help if you don't even understand," Mingyu stands and mutters the curse to himself. Wonwoo is already walking out the room and closing the door.

"Mingyu hurry your big ass up, or we'll be leaving without you," Seungcheol yells through the door and knocks a few times before walking away.

"Alright I'm coming," Mingyu calls out, moving quickly and picking the first outfit his hands caught. He quickly gets dressed, the stress of the finals wearing on him and adding to his anxiety, not knowing what he might run into next.

You. With your boyfriend.

Just fucking great.

Dinner that night was weird.

For you. Not everyone else.

When your mutual friends decide to get together at a restaurant for dinner and fun. Hansol, who you had been hooking up with for awhile now, clings to your arm. With every laugh or chuckle, he hugs you tight to him. Mingyu sits next to you, silent and glum. You've known him long enough to know his signs. Something is eating at him.

Your heart aches at seeing how crestfallen he seems. And despite being here with Hansol, the fake boyfriend of yours, you keep thinking back and forth between the two men.

Dinner is awkward, to say the least, sitting between Hansol and Mingyu, whose own plate lay abandoned as he sips his alcohol and sighs heavily to himself. He would talk to the others, but not to you, and it hurt more than it should've. Hansol seems a little concerned too, not that Mingyu is outwardly acting odd or hostile towards him or anything. He even goes so far as to squeeze Hansol's shoulders and slap his shoulder, laughing.

When it comes to talking to you or making contact, Mingyu is absolutely avoiding you. He does everything in his power, even ignoring you at times. Mingyu's pained expression is nearly impossible to deal with. His sad and distressed gaze is nearly ripping your insides to shreds, so much you wanted to reach and rub the frown and lines in his face away.

“Mingyu,” you place a hand on his thigh, “you okay?”

"Yeah," his voice comes out quieter and subdued. Mingyu turns his head away quickly, only to find Hansol's worried gaze searching him, noticing the subtle behavior.

"Something wrong man?" he frowns a little, brows knit together in question.

"Don't worry about me. The real question is are you guys doing okay?" Mingyu coughs slightly, and you both feel the tension of the atmosphere building. Mingyu seems off today.

"What makes you think we're not alright?" Hansol smiles lightly and glances over at you with an innocent stare, pressing a chaste kiss upon your lips, and you smile softly.

You don’t have much time to think before Hansol's soft mouth captures yours, the tenderness of the kiss distracting you momentarily. However, it does the exact opposite for Mingyu, whose mood becomes foul. You can tell Mingyu is looking on with his hands clenched. "Just asking, is all," he downs the drink in his cup, sighing as his eyes land on the both of you, stealing a glance that doesn’t go unnoticed. But you don't have the time to register the slight hurt, jealousy and rage that flashes in his orbs. Or how his smile disappears almost instantaneously at seeing Hansol kissing you.

"Can I ask what's eating you then?" Hansol raises a brow, concern filling his stare.

"I just had a stressful week, that's all," his eyes harden, masking the hurt. A pause and a momentary stillness comes.

"Nothing too bad, right?" Hansol shifts closer, slapping his back hard.

"Just exams," Mingyu responds, shrugging him off. "Don't worry too much."

The night wears on, and finally, Mingyu leaves before the rest of you do. The other friends depart before them, leaving you and Hansol to stand and finish your drinks.

"Well that was really something else," he chuckles dryly and breathes deeply, swallowing the cold beverage down, and you sit silently on his right side, leaning your arm against the surface of the table, head propped on the palm of your hand. "Feel free to give me a heads up if I should back down and let him win."

You sigh softly and turn to meet Hansol's eyes, deep and warm pools. But despite his attractive face and the fact that he’s a great guy, he’s no Kim Mingyu. "I just...don't know." You admit, pursing your lips. Hansol has been nothing short of great and a generous lover and guy.

But he isn't Kim fucking Mingyu, you reasoned with yourself.

"It's a complicated situation, I won't rush you," he nods and slips on his jacket. Hansol offers a hand to you with an endearing and honest smile, one that brings butterflies to your stomach. "Why don't you see him tonight? Then decide? I think it's time."

"Really?" you’re surprised, taking his offered hand. You bite your lip and squeeze his hand once.

"Go," he lets out a sigh and kisses the back of your hand, smiling. "Before he's gone, and there is no chance left."

It doesn’t take long for Mingyu to return home, unlocking and swinging his door open. He drops his keys in the basket and drags a hand along the wall as he shuts the door, then drops his leather jacket down on the sofa.

He’s exhausted; too drained mentally, physically and emotionally for this shit.

He lets out a frustrated growl, one so powerful it startles even himself when it comes out.

There are more reasons for Mingyu to not want to be around the others anymore, and it’s frustrating, knowing he’ll have to do a hell lot of pretending that he’s fine. In front of them. When it is in fact far from that. He takes out his phone, the screen bright and a picture of the both of you was the wallpaper, smiling so cutely, so happily that the frustration and irritation within Mingyu only builds higher and higher.

Hansol is treating you well, isn't he? He must be, judging the way you stare up at him with loving orbs and that fucking grin. How could he ever do better and love you more than that fucker is?

It pisses him off to no end.

"Mingyu," a voice speaks.

He jerks his gaze up and notices you standing by the door..

He sighs, sitting down on the couch and groaning in his hand. "Y/N what are you doing here? How'd you get in?" He mumbles.

"I still have the spare, remember?" your voice comes softly and hesitantly. Mingyu inhales deeply, a shiver racking throughout his frame.

"Shouldn't you be with Hansol?" his eyes meet yours, cold. "I thought you guys are in love and stuff," the tone has bite, and he refuses to break contact. His fist clenches and unclenches, eyes narrowing, staring.

"Mingyu, please," you whisper brokenly. "Don't."

"Why not Y/N? Am I just some sort of fool to play around with? Is that all you saw me as, as some stupid person that wouldn't mind being made a fool of?" Mingyu's head is filled with all sorts of images, thoughts and feelings.

"That’s not—"

"Then what?" he interrupts, jaw ticking in anger. "What is it exactly you saw in me? For two whole years, is this all we were worth? Sexual companions and nothing more?" Mingyu snaps, brows pinched and his jawline taut. "Or maybe for the longest time, I was a joke to you. Or a convenient person to spend your lonely nights with," he doesn’t intend for his words to cut so deep, but they do, and when you cringe visibly and flinch, his chest tightens in regret and guilt.

"You think I don't know how badly I messed up, Mingyu? You don't think I regret not giving a proper answer when you kept asking me to be your girlfriend?" tears cloud your vision. "You don't think I keep feeling the pangs of pain and confusion, with so many what-if's and maybe's whenever I am near you?" you approach slowly, standing in front of Mingyu. His expression remains hardened, refusing to express any emotion and let himself feel weak. "I'm scared, Mingyu," your voice lowers, whispering and afraid to meet his gaze, as the truth will probably get spilled at a moment's notice.

"Don't do that," his tone softens a fraction. "Please, don't pull that bullshit," he looks away.

"Mingyu, I'm scared that if we take things further, and we inevitably drift apart, then what do I have left?" the ache in your heart twists and pierces sharply. "What will I do if I get addicted to you, and everything that has happened up to this point falls away?" the air shifts, as silence weighs between. Tears fill the rims of your eyes, and you finally look up, locking your gaze on Mingyu's brown irises. "What will I do if you grow bored of me like all the others you've been with before?" your voice cracks slightly, swallowing the lump in your throat.

His features relax, hardened gaze becoming vulnerable. He stands, reaching out. You watch as his large hand reaches and cups your cheek gently, carefully. He steps closer, holding your face delicately and pulling you in towards him, soft gaze fixated on your orbs, filled with nothing but sincerity. The back of his fingers caress you, trailing along your jawline.

"Y/N," your name falls off his lips so effortlessly, a hush from his lips. You press forward, wrapping your arms around Mingyu's middle. And for the first time in a long time, the both of you let things go naturally, simply standing, embracing each other. He holds you tighter, burrowing his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling the faint scent of the shampoo he knows you use every morning, memorizing it in case you become nothing but a memory. Mingyu's larger frame dwarfs yours, shielding you, embracing you tightly against his muscular torso.

"Mingyu, I'm sorry, I really am," the whisper is quiet, and yet it cracks in the silence between, almost as if it has never existed. "I should've talked to you, communicated and been truthful. I was just so scared and I felt like, ‘this might end’." The admission is tender.

His lips are set on your forehead, lingering for a few seconds, and then Mingyu pulls away, taking hold of your face in his large, steady palms. The dark depths of his brown eyes hold your gaze, reflecting the slight hint of emotion behind it. Your fingers come and grasp hold of his wrists. You almost allow yourself to melt when Mingyu brushes your hair, fixing the strand out of your face and running a finger along the skin below your ear. The tips of his fingers stay there for the next seconds.

"Y/N, I need an honest answer from you, and a direct one," a moment passes, and Mingyu's words still hang in the air. You pull away and glance back with teary eyes. "Do you really and honestly have feelings for me?" his orbs flicker downward, lips pressed in a thin line. He won't speak until you do.

"Yes," it takes you less than a second to utter the one word, yet it feels like an eternity has passed. "Please..." the word leaves your lips. "I need you."

"What about Hansol?" his jaw clenches briefly.

"No, Mingyu," your teeth nibble your bottom lip. "Right now, it's just you and me. Just us," you begin, and he presses you back, pushing you slowly into the wall. Mingyu leans his head back and takes a moment to collect his thoughts before swooping down to claim your soft lips.

Your arms move swiftly, holding onto his shoulders, clawing at the fabric of his shirt, the contact sending electricity through him. He continues the desperate action, deepening and molding, matching your actions. He makes no attempt to stop or pull away. And despite the strength and intensity behind the kiss, his tenderness isstill there, coming through in every sense of the word.

For so many nights, you've dreamed of and reminisced upon these past experiences of Mingyu kissing you, just like he is. Inhaling the smell and fragrance which was utterly his own. Of the sweet taste, of the taste that never seems to diminish nor fade away despite how long it's been.

Like it's his very first kiss, and he's desperate to never lose such an unforgettable taste. It’s the urge to say, “Fuck everything else, who cares.” You had never wanted to get so lost in him. The heat of his hands burns on your skin, even after the touch is gone. He moves, unable to stay still while kissing you. A small groan from the back of your throat elicits from the pressure against the wall, and he hoists you up, forcing your legs around his waist. He's immediately hard for you.

His arousal thickens, his body stiff. Mingyu pants, eyes closing, groaning softly as you roll your hips. His hand lowers and squeezes the flesh of your ass, grinding and thrusting his lower half with desperate movement, making sure to match your rhythm.

When it's time, you want to savor it. To commit everything into memory, every curve, slope and dip of his muscular figure.

"Say my name," he purrs into your ear. "I want to hear it."

"Mingyu," it falls from you softly, an echo in his ears and an unadulterated moan of a prayer.

He carries you to the couch and sits, bringing your bodies as close as humanly possible. He runs his lips up your neck, making his way back to the lips he loves so desperately, tongues fighting for dominance. "Again, baby girl. Please," he whispers against your lips. His hot breath mingles with yours as his fingers trace every crevice of your figure, his lips hungry and demanding.

Mingyu wants to taste you in ways you could only ever imagine. In ways you want, no, need so badly.

"Again," he growls, eyes trained on you, hunger clear in his eyes as he stares into you. "Say it."

"Mingyu," you’re practically pleading, staring deep into his eyes. "Mingyu," you whisper into the kiss and feel the vibrations in his throat. He smiles against your mouth and pushes back your hair, continuing to move in the most intimate position, to match his every rock against you.

"It sounds so good when you call my name like that." The growl is deep from his throat, and his words slur from intoxication, from being drunk off the very essence of you and only you. "Did you and Hansol fuck a lot like we did?" The thought and mention of someone else brings his desire down temporarily, but the satisfaction to be one with you is far stronger.

"Why? What are you going to do if we did?" The daring tone in your voice is unexpected.

“Gonna fuck you so good so that you forget any name but mine, and any guy but me. So fucking good you can only scream my name and remember that you were made for me," he groans and pants, hips bucking. "So good that you won't even think of another cock but mine." His hands draw your shirt above your head, and his lips leave yours, moving down to your throat. He latches onto the sensitive spots and sucks, tongue dipping into the crevices, tasting and savoring every part of your body he has the pleasure of reaching. Mingyu sucks, tongue swirling patterns, and he presses into the bite, his hips raised. "And so good that you'll be satisfied by nobody but me and only me."

He rips his own shirt off before proceeding, mouthing down and nipping at the valley in-between your breasts, sucking a small hickey at the spot.

“What if Wonwoo and Seungcheol come back early? What happens if they see what's going on between us, Mingyu?" You gasp.

"Let them watch. What I do with you doesn't concern them, or anybody for that matter," he growls, looking into your eyes. "We've fucked at all those parties, in dark alleys and dark bedrooms when everyone's around. What's one more show for them to see?"

His audacity is almost unbelievable. Mingyu never did mind putting on a show in the most extreme and risky manner. It was a clear sign of his adrenaline and recklessness. Or he’s gone so crazy for you that nobody matters at this point in time.

"Can’t we fuck in a bed for once? Please? I can't count on all of my fingers how many times you’ve fucked me against walls, and desks and tables," you argue, lightly shoving Mingyu back. He laughs and nods, following suit and backing away. He lifts you effortlessly, allowing you to wrap your arms around his neck and wrap your legs securely around his waist. You nuzzle the spot under his jaw, whispering "Good boy."

He groans softly in response.

The moment his bedroom door opens, Mingyu practically throws you on the mattress and hovers. He's quick to pull off the rest of your clothes and toss them elsewhere, not worrying where they may end up.

You tug on his belt and throw it to the ground. Mingyu kicks off his pants and boxers next, quickly. Once he's stripped and bare for you, he parts your legs further and moves between them, caging your smaller frame in as he reaches up to hold the headboard with his fist. You run your hands up his toned torso, all the way up, and your fingers graze and tickle the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Tell me what you want, and it's yours," his gaze holds an unfamiliar edge. Something foreign and different, dark and dangerous. It awakens a part of you that makes your muscles tighten.

"Anything?"

"Anything," he answers quickly.

Your fingers card through the silky black strands on Mingyu's scalp. "Want you to eat me out, Gyu. Wanna fuck myself on your face."

With a smirk and a roll of his eyes, he starts his way south on your body. He pecks down your chest, between the valley of your breasts and lower. Leaving light marks and red patches, the slight pain brings out the need and want within.

"Missed me, baby?" a smug grin stretches as his nose bumps your clit, leaning down to leave feathery kisses along the inside of your inner thigh. "How badly did you miss this?"

"So fucking much," you grit, hands curling into his hair.

"Tell me about it," Mingyu kisses the sensitive spots and teases, adding in light nips every now and then. The vibrations from his throat shoot all the way up to his tongue, and you moan at the contact. "Felt so empty and incomplete when you couldn't have me?" The tease is clearly evident as his large hands spread your thighs, a pleased and smug hum leaving his mouth as he pushes his tongue flat.

"Fuck," you grip tighter, tugging on the dark strands and throwing your head back into the pillow. Your feet dig into his back and shoulders for leverage, attempting to gain back control, but Mingyu won’t budge and seems perfectly content staying where he is and letting his mouth and tongue do the work. Mingyu continues to press against your folds and lap along them slowly, eyes trained on your expression, on your lips parted in ecstasy and the hazed look of bliss that coats your orbs.

"Look at that," Mingyu says, flicking your clit with his finger before replacing his fingers with his tongue, "That's my good girl."

He continues, tongue tracing all the right places, stimulating each part, pressing and circling your bundle of nerves over and over. You whimper, holding tighter onto the mattress, digging in your nails.

"Who," Mingyu pauses, smirking wickedly up at you. "Who is making you feel this way?"

"You, only you," the cry leaves you before you know it.

"My name, baby. Say my name," he licks across once, causing you to shake, before a shudder shoots down your spine.

"Oh fuck, please," a desperate sob comes out, and a broken moan follows.

"My name, Y/N," He punctuates every syllable with a torturously slow drag of his tongue. He knows just how to break you. How to leave you at his mercy, so that you’ll be nothing but his. Only his.

"Mingyu," you whine, and he groans in response, a satisfied sound.

"Good job, baby girl," a deep whisper into your thigh. His hands pin your legs apart, preventing them from trapping his head or slowing him down. Mingyu closes his mouth around you and sucks, tongue darting to lick inside. You arch your back off of the sheets, unable to speak coherently or think straight. "Keep talking," Mingyu breathes. "Tell me how fucking great my mouth feels."

"Holy shit, oh shit," the string of curses falls from your lips.

"Give me more; don't hold out. I want to hear all of it. Give it all to me," the fire of his words is fuelled when he returns to circle the flat of his tongue against your clit, and you let go, free falling into the abyss.

Your orgasm rocks through you, and you whine at the overwhelming sensation, arching your spine and gripping his hair. Mingyu moans, continuing his movements.

He holds himself up on both of his elbows, tucking his head and grinning, satisfied with his actions. Your breathing remains heavy as he pulls himself up, closer. He braces himself on his forearms, hovering, looking down at you, a small smile and contentment settling on his features.

Mingyu's right hand moves to cup the side of your neck, his thumb stroking across your collarbone. You turned, opening your eyes slowly to gaze up at his handsome face. The soft lighting washes over his bare shoulders, accentuating the outline, the dips and crevices of his body. "Hey," he leans down, nose bumping gently.

"Hey yourself," the giggle bubbles out, and you run a hand across the back of Mingyu's neck and down his back. "So..." you hum, shuffling in your spot to meet his gaze head-on.

"So..." Mingyu imitates playfully, a twinkle and glint reflecting the faintness of the light in his orbs.

You laugh, hooking a leg over his waist. His nose comes down and trails across your neck and shoulder, his warm lips grazing skin. "Are you going to keep staring? Or..." you lift a brow, smirk evident.

"Someone's eager," Mingyu's fingers dig into the sheets, his length brushing your skin. The familiar throb of desire begins to grow as his length drags.

"And someone's taking their precious sweet time," you pout.

"Let me savor this," he whispers into the column of your throat. "I missed you and your body, everything about you." He kisses, tongue sliding against flesh.

"You know how to make a woman swoon, don't you?" you hum, letting out a soft gasp when the pad of his thumb begins circling your entrance, lightly stroking.

"I only do that when the woman's you, so I'll take it as a compliment." His fingers sink into you with no warning, filling you entirely and curling immediately in all the ways you need and want.

"Shit," you let out a moan.

Mingyu kisses along your neck as his fingers thrust, withdrawing them slowly. His head is bent forward so his lips can find the pulse-point along your throat, and his body is flush against yours as he resumes kissing and sucking and nibbling there, allowing the warmth of your body, the sound of your whimpers to guide him.

"Does that feel good, baby girl?" His thumb curls upwards with his last few thrusts. He nibbles and kisses around the column of your throat before nips just under your chin. His breath washes over your neck, down your neckline, and across your jaw before returning to your earlobe. Your hands scrape lightly at the muscles of his back as he bites the skin behind your ear.

"Ah fuck. Need you, Mingyu," Your words fall out so effortlessly, not holding a care in the world.

He withdraws his fingers and settles his cock against your folds, coating it thoroughly. Slowly, Mingyu rocks his hips and allows his length to slip into you. Once he is fully buried into you, he pauses. You run your hands down his chest and to his shoulders before grasping the taut flesh of his bicep and drawing him down and on top of you. His lips capture yours again, and he shifts his weight onto his arms again. He rolls his hips against you and slides slowly and firmly in and out of you.

God, he fills you so well. Nothing compares. No man compares to the sensations and sparks, not in the same way, nor to the extreme lengths, which he causes in you. Mingyu's nose trails along the skin of your neck, and when his lips press a tender kiss to your throat, you know you wouldn't be able to survive if you were ever without his touches and affection once again.

"Mingyu," a near silent whisper, so light that the smallest breath would send it away, "I... I love you."

His thrusts slow.

His eyes shoot up at the same instant.

Mingyu stares, gazing at you intently. Your hand cups the back of his neck, and you use the other one to brush back his fringe. Mingyu leans his head into your touch, staring, gazing. He breathes slowly, heavily, "Say it again."

He wants to hear it. His large, warm hand slides up and down your cheek, just watching.

"I love you," you turn your lips into his palm, eyes closing. "I love you, Mingyu." You whisper against his palm, the heat and warmth radiating off his skin. "So, so much."

There’s a shift. Something in the air changes when the words fall from your lips and lands onto his.

Mingyu groans, his hand finding yours. He entwines his fingers with yours and pins the limb by the side of your head. "Shit, shit baby, I love you too."

You pull his head forward and kiss him, and as his body is pressed against your naked flesh, all you know is Mingyu's heart pounding hard against you as he buries his face into your neck.

His eyes screw shut tight before repositioning and sitting upright, and you follow, straddling and moving to wrap your arms and legs around him as he grabs onto you, clinging tightly, skin against skin, bare, vulnerable and open. Your breasts press against his torso, and his strong arms wrap around your upper back as he nestles his face into the crook of your neck.

His scent overwhelms and surrounds you, leaving you to only focus on Mingyu. And as he begins rolling his hips in a smooth and gentle rhythm, you focus solely on him, letting your senses be completely captivated by Kim Mingyu and his warmth and being.

Everything feels different.

"I love you," he punctuates. Mingyu keeps repeating the sentence, and as you kiss him, his lips are all over the place, and you’re gasping out the very same words, arching your neck and revealing his name. "I love you. I love you so much, Y/N," his thrusts pick up tempo. The warmth of him surrounds you and wraps and tightens around you.

The angle intensifies the sensation. It increases everything, and his cock hits the spot deep in you. "Fuck," you whisper. "Please, Mingyu, I-"

You're not quite sure exactly what it is you're asking him, but you know, instinctively, you're not the only one who needs more, wants more. He clutches harder, brings you impossibly closer. Your fingers dig into his back. Your head rests on his chest, ear pressed above his heart, hearing its thump against your ears. The noises you make are unadulterated now as Mingyu rocks, grinds and presses into your core, brushing sensitive nerve bundles and sending bursts of pleasure into your nerves.

"I'm yours," Mingyu mutters, gripping you tighter, "and only yours."

He spills deep inside you as he has done numerous times before, but the experience feels different this time, a step taken far greater than the usual sex the two of you engage in. The fact of the matter that the two of you had admitted to the feelings you've been carrying out over these past two years means a lot, everything, to the both of you. You can feel it in the depths of your hearts as he fills and spends himself inside you.

"Stay," Mingyu whispers, placing a delicate, soft and careful peck along the curve of your jaw. His hands slide along your back, the act sensual.The way his fingers dance along your spine is feather-light.

"Do you really think I'd want to go anywhere?" your lips connect with the place just beside his ear. He shifts, shuffling the two of you slowly so that you're on your backs once more, and his large form is still towering over yours and above you.

"Still," Mingyu burrows, face nuzzling and brushing. "I like that you're here. I want you to always be here." His eyes remain half-lidded and heavy when he peeks down and meets your gaze. He takes a long and hard look at you before speaking once more, "Please," a pleading and desperate beg. "Stay, and please stay for good."

"What? You want me to live here?" You raise a brow.

"Would be the easiest solution," Mingyu says, burying his face once more in the crook of your neck. He takes a deep inhale, nostrils expanding. The fingers continue drawing along your skin, never stopping.

"What about Wonwoo and Seungcheol? Won't they say something?" You let out a small laugh, shifting and wiggling to get comfortable under his weight.

"Let me take care of that," he doesn't budge, only stays put. "What about Hansol? Should I be concerned about him? Or others?"

"There's nobody," you brush your hand through his dark locks and chuckle softly, "Never was. We never really dated. It was fake, just hookups. Promise," you grip and hold him as close as possible, never wanting to let him go.

"Sooooo... this is real?" he asks carefully and curiously, almost unsure.

"What do you think?" a laugh, snort, and scoff combined.

"Hmmm, sounds fake." You pinch the muscle, and Mingyu recoils in surprise and shoots you a look before grinning.

"Sounds super real," You snort and shove at his chest, looking into his orbs, and smile.

"Yeah?" the sparkle of his eyes widens, shining.

"Yes, you handsome himbo," your grin matches his.

"Fuck off," his grin only widens more, and the widening spreads to the apples of his cheeks.

"Nah," you sigh, draw the hand across the expanse of the skin, and reach up to cup and caress the side of his face. "I'm sticking around for a long time."

"So you're saying that you finally want to be my girlfriend?" The question is smug, and his words drip with all forms of confidence.

"Only after two years and after a lot of pestering and whining," you mutter the answer.

Mingyu doesn't stop the stupid, lovesick grin plastered on his face from widening any more as he peppers kisses up and along your jaw, pecks scattered all over. His broad, strong arms circle your waist and pull you closer, hold tighter and hug. It's so much. Far too much, and you melt into the embrace, reciprocating and winding your arms around his neck. "About time."

"Shut up."

Mingyu hugs you closer and sighs in contentment and utter joy. It feels as if the weight on his shoulders is lifted, and you wonder why it took so long for the both of you to end up in this moment, being able to freely enjoy and love one another as you truly wish, feeling free for once after hiding it for the past two years.

Hansol sits at the cafe table, spinning his coffee cup around with a bored and unamused expression and gaze. The buzz and bustle is not entertaining in the slightest, but the vibe, people-watching and atmosphere of a cafe is something Hansol is fond of.

You arrive at the location at 1pm on the dot and spot him almost immediately, walking over, shooting a nervous and guilty smile as the seat across him becomes occupied by your frame.

"Hansol," the greeting is quiet and timid.

"You know you don't have to feel bad for choosing Mingyu instead of me. That guy was right for you all along." He sips his hot beverage. "We were never going to work, not when your feelings for Mingyu were, and still are, stronger."

You chew at your bottom lip nervously and stare. "But... I..." your voice dies off in the middle of the sentence, struggling with the right words to speak.

"There's nothing to worry about," Hansol shakes his head with a smile, laughing slightly. "You two belong together, and it was always obvious from day one."

"But we..."

"I'm not saying that I'm giving you up," he grins. "If he ever breaks your heart, you can come running back to me." Hansol winks and raises a suggestive brow.

You roll your eyes, a smile on your lips. "Thanks. Glad I can count on you as a back-up plan."

"If he ever hurts you or anything, he has me and the boys to worry about," he shoots a grin once more.

"Yeah, sure," You laugh and shake your head. "Thanks Hansol," the smile and your gaze soften. "For understanding and everything else."

"Well," he pauses and sighs softly. "We had a great time together, didn't we?" He grins once more, and you laugh along with him.

"One helluva' good ride," you agree.

"Hey, what can I say, I'm the best," he winks and waggles his brows.

You giggle, amused. "Shut up, you big dork."

Hansol laughs. "And I'm guessing now that you've finally pulled the bandage off and are officially dating the idiot, I'm free to get back to actually doing what I want?"

You nod with a laugh. "Yeah. Yes, totally. Go on a rampage. I won't judge. Besides, there's a lot of fish in the sea."

Hansol lets out a laugh, breathless and leaning back in his chair. "That is the damn truth."

"Woah," an all too familiar voice calls your attention, and your head snaps up to see Mingyu approaching the two of you. A huff and breath later, he plops down onto the free chair. "If it isn't two of the greatest pains in my ass."

Hansol smirks. "Hey Mingyu," he greets with a laugh.

Mingyu pulls you onto his lap, his nose nuzzling the crook of your neck and sighing contentedly. You roll your eyes, lips pulled into a smile. Hansol raises a brow in question, lifting the coffee mug to his lips and hiding an amused grin.

"Yo, I’m still here," Hansol laughs.

"Go away," the response leaves Mingyu's lips as he pouts, nipping at the exposed skin along the column of your throat.

Hansol laughs once again and smiles. "Nah, this is a free public area," he grins teasingly, pointing towards the rest of the establishment.

"Who the hell cares," Mingyu mumbles against your skin.

"Stop it," you giggle, poking at his bicep.

"Shuddup, you guys are gross," Minghao drops down into a seat at the table, glaring at the two of you and sipping on his iced drink.

Mingyu sits upright and holds you firmly, arm secure around your middle.

"Knew he'd catch up and join," Hansol hums, sitting up and kicking his feet. He adjusts in his chair and gestures toward the empty fourth one.

"It's been awhile since we've hung out," Soonyoung mutters as he takes a seat.

"Ah, we can't exactly hang with them much anymore since they're attached at the damn hip,," Hansol snorts, casting a sideways glance.

"What’s wrong with me being with my boyfriend?” you purse your lips and make an attempt to keep the amused grin off your face.

Mingyu pulls you against his chest even tighter and chuckles as Minghao gives him a look, with Soonyoung snorting next to him.

"Disgusting," Minghao rolls his eyes.

"Glad you both sorted your shit out, though," Soonyoung says.

"You're not even a little disgusted by them being this clingy?" Hansol gestures dramatically toward Mingyu, who's pulling you deeper into his embrace. You wrap your arms around his neck, face buried, breathing in and enjoying his scent.

"Meh," Minghao shrugs noncommittally as he waves a dismissive hand. "Been around them way too fucking often," his expression shows minor discomfort and revulsion as Mingyu runs his nose and mouth across your neck.

“Okay lovebirds, go home and do all that shit in the comfort and privacy of the apartment," Hansol barks, amused.

"Wait until they have the wedding and honeymoon," Soonyoung bites down on a shit-eating smirk.

"Cute," Hansol coos sarcastically, kicking lightly at Mingyu's shin as the older man stops his movement for a split second, giving him a look, before returning to his activity of cuddling and loving and embracing.

"Love you," the sound is muffled.

"Love you too," you answer.

And you really do mean it. Every word of it.

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