⤷ hey! i’m miri, and unfortunately i cannot be remotely normal about anything skz related. my bias is jisung but lee know and felix have me cheating sometimes.
⤷ if you would like to be added to any if my series taglist or my general taglist, send me a comment or an ask! <3
(masterlist under the cut)
masterlist
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⤷ BANG CHAN
⤷ nothing yet ;)
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⤷ LEE KNOW
⤷ oneshots:
don’t come crying 2.6k [lee know x reader] - a valentine’s day fic -
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⤷ CHANGBIN
⤷ nothing yet ;)
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⤷ HYUNJIN
⤷ nothing yet ;)
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⤷ HAN
⤷ oneshots:
umbrella 1.8k [ han x reader ]
lollipop 2.1k [ skater!han x reader ]
24 to 25 6.6k [ han x reader ] - a christmas fic -
⤷ drabbles/asks:
you are my sunshine .7k [ han x reader ]
there’s always tomorrow .5k [ han x reader ]
first date with jisung 1k [ han x reader ]
⤷ series:
catch me if you can [ streetracer!han x cop!reader ] - in progress -
Seungmin as your friend with benefits is the type to...
…call you up on a random week night because he's stressed about something again, and he's so wound up he can feel it in his neck. He never says what’s wrong. Just exhales deeply like he’s been holding his breath all day and asks casually, “Can I come over?” He asks you to let him use you for just one night, just one time. A friend helping a friend. He doesn't want to talk about it, and you don't make him. After all, you've thought about it before in passing too. Holding each other without calling it holding. Kissing each other without calling it romantic. He's your best friend, and while some may argue that you're crossing a line, you trust him. So, you let him come over for one night. And the next. And the next. And the next.
“What if we made this our thing? No questions. No expectations. Just whenever I need you, or you need me.”
…bring snacks and sweet treats like he’s showing up to a movie night instead of whatever this is supposed to be. He never asks what you want. He just remembers. Your favorite gummy candy. That specific brand of chocolate you like because you claim it tastes less fake. Pastries from that overpriced bakery you refuse to buy for yourself because it’s too expensive. He lets himself in like he lives there, toeing off his shoes by the door, jacket draped over the back of the couch (he'll forget it, and you'll wear it for a week before he realizes). He stays through two episodes. Then three. Never checking the time. And when you finally pause the show and turn toward him, there’s sugar on his lips from the candy and a softness in his eyes he doesn’t bother hiding in the darkness of midnight. He didn’t mean to settle into your daily life this easily. But he did. And now you don’t remember what your week used to look like without him.
"How come your couch so much more comfortable than mine? Don’t be surprised if I start living here."
…ask to do stupid or silly stuff in the bedroom like it’s the most normal request in the world. He doesn’t hesitate to push limits with you because he doesn't mind getting shot down. There's no point in being hesitant or embarrassed because there's no romantic standard to uphold. He’ll be halfway through kissing you and then pull back just enough to let you know he's had a crazy idea, and he doesn't care if it makes him look completely ridiculous. If anything, he enjoys it. Because he gets to see you laugh and loosens you up. Sometimes, he’ll suggest random things just to watch the expression on your face. He wants to see if you’ll break your own rules for him. And the best part is that sometimes you do. Because sex with him as a friend is fun, light, and not at all scary. There’s no pressure. No heavy expectations. No drama. He doesn’t treat the bedroom seriously. It’s just another place to explore, test, and laugh if something goes wrong. He's the type that likes discovering all the different, imperfect sides of you. The bold one. The shy one. The competitive one. And especially the soft one that only comes out when the lights and his voice are really low.
"You’re gonna roll your eyes, but I don’t care. Trust me, this will be worth it."
…be surprised the first time he doesn't immediately leave after it's over. Usually there's some kind of routine, a teasing comment, a stretch, a slow detachment and separation. But this time he just…stays. Flat on his back, breathing, looking at the ceiling, waiting for the urge to leave to kick in. It doesn’t. As someone who's not very physically affectionate, he finds himself wanting to feel you wrapped around him in a totally not sexual way. He likes the weight of you sprawled over him like a blanket. Likes how your body settles against his like it belongs there. The curve of your hip fits perfectly under his palm as his fingers rest there naturally. Your legs tighten around his thigh when he shifts, holding him in place. And he doesn’t mind. He really, really doesn’t mind. For the first time, he’s not thinking about leaving, or even about keeping things light and detached. He’s simply thinking about how easy this feels with you. He settles deeper into the bed, pulling you slightly higher so your head rests against his chest properly. His hand drifts up your bare back in slow, gentle strokes. Just touching because he wants to.
"You're not going?"
"Do I have to?"
…refuse to accept his developing feelings for you. All of a sudden, he's getting flustered when you do domestic shit around him. Why are you cooking him dinner while wearing his oversized shirt? Why does it fall off one shoulder like that? Why does he know the exact way your waist curves under the fabric? Why are you folding laundry together, ranting about your coworker’s fucked up engagement like he’s your actual partner? Why are you brushing your teeth topless, catching his eyes in the mirror like it's casual? Like he isn’t standing frozen in the doorway trying to remember how to breathe? He tells himself he’s staring because he’s allowed to. That’s the arrangement, right? You don't seem to notice his heart beating out of his chest – or if you do, you're not confronting him about it. He panics internally the first time you don’t immediately reach for him afterwards. Not saying anything, but pulling you closer under the excuse that you’re hogging the blanket and he's cold without clothes. He tells himself he’s in complete control. And then he realizes one random Tuesday night, that he hasn’t wanted anyone else in months. He’s never wanted anyone as badly as he wants you. He hasn't been able to stop thinking about you for god knows how long. And it's all he can do not to crash out over how adorable you look laying on your back, reaching out for him, as if he's the only one you'll ever want.
"I'm fine. Not thinking about anything really. Just…I'll tell you later."
♡ genre: minho x reader, oneshot, friends to lovers, angst, fluff
♡ warnings: swearing, kissing, heartbreak
♡ wc: 2.7k
♡ a/n: HAPPY VALENTINES DAYY here’s a quick, bite-sized minho oneshot that i somehow wrote yesterday and today. it’s not proofread in any way so good luck reading (JK I HOPE YOU ENJOYY)
if you make it all the way through, please leave some feedback! i always love to hear other people’s thoughts!! your feedback is what keeps me writing stories like these <33
if you would like to be added to my series taglist or my general taglist, send me a comment or an ask! <3
―୨♡୧―
Objectively speaking, Minho is an asshole.
Said asshole is currently sprawled over your couch, eating your cookies, and he has the nerve to berate you about who you chose to go out with on Valentine's Day? He’s insufferable.
Your eye twitches as Minho scornfully regards the picture of your date— which you had only sent him after he had nagged you nonstop for ten minutes— pointing out that his hair color didn’t quite suit him, and also that he should probably shave more often.
Having had quite enough, you snatch the phone from his grasp, earning yourself a loud “Hey!” of protest. Shutting the screen off, you toss it on the ground and cross your arms, glaring at his form on the couch next to you. If you were a jerk like Minho, you definitely would have smacked him by now. But, since you’re not, you press your mouth into a straight line and blink widely at him.
“You done?” You ask thinly.
Minho stretches before responding, whole body quivering with the effort.
“No, but I suppose I should shut up now if I want any more of those cookies,” He examines a nail with apparent disintrest.
“Good choice,” It takes everything in you to not wipe that goddamn expression off his face. He just looks so… ugh. You can’t even look at him right now. The sight of his face incites a type of rage in you that should probably be studied. “Why do you care so much anyways, huh? It’s not like your date is any better,” then you gasp, tapping the side of your head in mock remembrance, “Oh, wait, that’s right! You don’t have a date, do you?”
The roll of his eyes and curl of his lip give you your answer before he can even speak.
“That’s what I thought. Now you can shut up and eat the fucking cookie,” You snap, pushing yourself up from the couch. Minho’s voice trails after you as you storm off to your room.
“Just don’t come crying to me when he stands you up tomorrow!”
Your door slams shut before you have to hear another word from his mouth.
This is dumb. He’s a perfectly fine guy! Minho’s just being overdramatic for absolutely no reason whatsoever. Have you been wrong about guys before? Yes. Has Minho been right the majority of the time? Also yes. But that doesn’t mean he’s right this time.
You sigh dreamily just thinking about it. Just last week, he had asked you to be his valentine with a huge bouquet of crimson roses and box of chocolates. Call it childish, but you have been absolutely giddy ever since. The world seems three shades brighter, and you walk with an extra skip in your step. That is, until a certain someone had to go and open his big, opinionated, mouth.
His words circle in your mind, but you shake your head quickly to clear it. Minho’s probably just in a foul mood because you have a date and he doesn’t. Why he’s taking it out on you though is beyond you, but you try not to take it to heart too much.
You have a good feeling about this one. You just know it will go well tomorrow, and you can’t wait to rub your success in Minho’s smug face.
જ⁀➴
You have a bad feeling about this.
Your date-to-be is sitting across from you, leaning back and listening to you talk. You two had decided to touch base at a cafe before tomorrow, just to go over plans. As you are reviewing the meetup time, you swear you can sense a hint of annoyance in the curve of his lip. His knee taps up and down, as if impatient. No, that can’t be right. Minho’s words had just gotten to you, that’s all. Nevertheless, your stomach sinks a bit as your date finishes off his coffee and stands up.
“Yup, sounds good.” He tosses his empty cup in the trash, “I gotta go, but i’ll see you tomorrow,”
Without so much as a wave goodbye, you watch him head out. The door announces his departure with a pleaseant ring.
There you sit, half-finished latte in hand. He didn’t even offer to pay.
You hate to admit it, but Minho might be right. You don’t understand. What did you do wrong? Did you come off as too eager? Minho does always tell you that you’re too clingy, you guess. But it just doesn’t make sense, you had seen your date just the other day and he was all smiles, holding your hand as you walked and wrapping his jacket around your shoulders when you shivered. You must have done something wrong for him to be acting like this, there’s no other explanation. Unless he’s just had a particularly bad day.
You nod as you push out your chair and stand. That might just be it. Still, Minho’s words of warning run rampant in your mind, despite your efforts to push them to the back of your mind.
Everything will be fine, Minho’s just a hater.
જ⁀➴
Just because he’s not here yet doesn’t mean he’s not showing up.
This morning you had put on the cute little dress you had planned with a hum on your lips, a good nights sleep having managed to put some pep back into your step. When you had finished touching up your hair, you were not at all surprised to find Minho spread across your couch, watching a show and eating a bowl of cereal like he owned the place. You’re quite used to it at this point, he doesn’t know how to stay at his own house for the life of him. No words were exchanged, Minho merely glancing in your direction in greeting before returning his attention to the show.
Good. You like him better when that big mouth of his is shut.
You tap a heel nervously, the inside of your cheeks sore and raw from how much you had been chewing on them. How long has it been now? Half an hour? It might even be more, it feels like you have been standing beside this bus stop for ages. Countlesss couples had passed by, fingers intertwined as they tuck their partners hair behind their ear, or stifling giggles as whispered jokes are exchanged.
He’s not coming, is he?
Of course he’s not, you were a fool for thinking he would. Your unanswered text stares up at you, the read receipt sitting gut-droppingly below it. Hot tears prick at your eyes as you hunch your shoulders into yourself. What do you even do now? Just… go home?
Your feet move on their own, carrying you in the direction you came. When you started running, you’re not sure, but the chilly breeze stings your flushed face as you push your way through the busy sidewalk.
You pull out your phone as you run, tapping on Minho’s contact. Your blurred vision makes it nearly impossible to type a sentence. A simple, ‘you were right’ is all it reads.
Sent.
જ⁀➴
Minho had graciously not blessed you with his presence when you stumble through your front door, cheeks stained with tears and nose running. You don’t even know if he read the message, but you’re sure once he does, he’s going to be a smug little shit about it, as per usual.
It’s all you can do to not hurl yourself onto your bed and just sleep for the next three days. Maybe you’ll wake up and this will all be some bad dream.
Your disheveled appearance in the mirror stares back at you dully, assuring you that this is not a dream, and you did indeed just get stood up on Valentine's Day.
The cold of the mirror chills your hand as you lean forward on it, breaking eye contact with yourself. Your mind still can’t comprehend it. Why? Why are you always second best? Every single time you open your stitched up heart up to someone, they rip out the seams and leave you with the pieces. Frustrated tears sear behind your eyes, but you purse your lips and shove them back down. There’s no point in crying.
A single knock. Your front door opens before you can take a breath to answer it. Only one person would be so bold as to enter your place without so much as waiting for a response. The one and only, Lee fucking Minho.
You can hear him shuffling around the front door, most likely kicking off his shoes. There is absolutely no way you are going out to greet him, he’s only here to rub it in your face that he was right the whole time. And while yes, that is in fact true, it’s really the last thing you need to be hearing right now. Your fist unintentionally curls in on itself as you hear his footsteps approaching your door.
You cross from your mirror to your bed, flopping down and burying your face in the pillow. Maybe it will block out his voice when he comes in and starts yapping.
A long moment passes. You don’t hear his movements anymore. Then, softly, three knocks sound against the wood of your door.
You decidedly do not answer. He really can’t take a hint, huh?
Instead of opening the door immediately like usual, Minho waits a moment before knocking again. The knocks are just as soft and careful as before. The switch in mannerisms has your eyebrows furrowed. What’s the matter with him?
“What do you want, Minho.” Your voice is muffled, face still stuffed in the pillow.
This time, your door opens. The soft padding of his footsteps cross your room, but you don’t raise your head. You’re not sure what keeps you hidden. Embarrassment? Anger? Both? Nevertheless, you won’t be showing your face anytime soon.
The edge of your bed dips as he sits on the edge of it, not a word uttered. Yet. You tense as he takes a breath in, preparing your heart and mind for whatever he’s going to spew at you.
And yet, no such thing happens. A hand lightly sets itself on your shoulder, making you jump slightly in surprise. As he draws his hand soothingly across your back, your shoulders drop and you let out a shaky sigh.
When you finally gather the courage to look up at him, you find his gaze fixed on his lap. There, he holds a small handful of assorted wildflowers. You look from Minho, to the flowers, then back to him. Since when were his lashes this… pretty?
“It hurts, you know.”
His voice, nearly a whisper, cuts through the silence. He keeps his eyes locked on the flowers as he fiddles with one of the petals.
“Seeing you give some loser a chance,” he continues, “And you get hurt. Every. Time.” He searches your face, that little wrinkle between his eyebrows visible. “When are you going to decide you’ve had enough?”
You’re trapped in those big brown eyes of his, filled with a mixture of concern and genuine confusion. Despite his efforts to be the biggest nuisance in your life, he cares about you, even if he rarely shows it.
At your lack of response, Minho sighs and drops his hand from your shoulder, bringing it to his little bouquet of flowers. His little bouquet that suspiciously resembles the flowers planted outside of your building, along the sidewalk.
You flip over, facing the ceiling. It’s easier than facing him.
“I don’t know. I really don’t. I just… I just want to be loved, y’know? Every single time, I think: ‘this one’s different’,” You let out a rueful laugh, “guess you were right, huh, genius?” You prod him in the side with one finger.
Not even a witty retort falls from Minho’s lips. In favor of an answer, he offers to you the bunch of flowers.
You turn your head, watching as a pink petal flutters from the bouquet and lands gracefully on your sheets. Your eyes never leave his face as you reach out slowly and accept his gift.
A beat of silence falls as you bring the petals to your nose. The quiet is unusual. With Minho, the bickering is practically non-stop, a quick response always on the tip of both of your tongues. But now, only the quiet whistle of his breath fills the room.
“Is this..?” You tilt your head at him as you draw yourself into a seated position.
He blinks a couple times. You wonder if he’s ever asked anyone to be his valentine before.
“It’s- yeah.” He states simply, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth.
Minho’s demeanor is somewhat relaxed, but the way he keeps twisting his ring to the tip of his finger and back gives tell to his nervousness. His lips are pursed a bit at the corners, his little dimples making an appearance.
This is a side of him you rarely see. In fact, he’s never acted this way before. His blunt quips replaced with a type of openness that seems foreign even to himself.
You know what. Fuck it.
Grabbing his chin, you draw close to him. His eyes widen and he freezes in place. You take in his features with a squint. The angle of his brow, the fullness of his lips, that little beauty mark at the end of his nose. Instead of making your stomach twist in annoyance, his face ignites a little flame in your chest. You’ve always known Minho as an attractive man, you’d have to be blind to think otherwise, but you’ve never seen him quite in this light.
This whole time, he’s been trying to protect you. In his own, strange, Minho way.
His throat bobs as he swallows, lips parting. The sight of his bunny teeth peeking from beneath his lip is the final straw. You close the distance, capturing his lips in a swift kiss.
The moment is brief, and you pull away just as quickly as you had leaned in, his chin still grasped between your fingers.
He blinks rapidly for a couple of seconds, a habit of his you’ve picked up.
You break into a smile at his reaction, giddy at finally having the upper hand.
“You know, you could at least— oof!” Halfway through your sentence, you are interrupted by Minho’s grip on your arm as he yanks you towards him.
He catches you as you fall backwards over his lap, his arm supporting your back. You’re at a loss for words, your mouth opening and closing dumbly a couple of times. Minho lets out a huff of laughter and rolls his eyes.
“You’re actually an idiot, hope you realize that,” he observes.
“Just kiss me, you asshole,”
Grabbing the collar of his shirt, you drag him down to you. You can feel him smile against your lips as he tightens his grip around you, one hand drifting through your hair while the other holds you steady.
This. It feels right. More right than any of those other guys had made you feel, despite their fancy gifts and extravagant shows of so-called ‘love’. Maybe the reason none of them had worked out was because deep down, you truly only want one person. And that person is here, holding you between his own two arms, quenching the thirst for him that you didn’t even realize you had until you tried a sip. His lips move in harmony with yours. He’s firm, but not desperate. Gentle, but confident. Your body melts under his every touch, until you can't imagine being anywhere else but here.
He pulls away first, cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink that matches the flowers sitting forgotten on the mattress. He quirks an eyebrow wryly at you.
“So much for not coming crying,”
Your eyes widen in disbelief, “Excuse me? I did not!”
I know it's past Valentine's Day and this is probably not what I should be reading right now (when I'm supposed to be working) but this fic came to my mind randomly and I wanted to reread the masterpiece....
Yep. Still stuck in these feelings. Still hopelessly falling.
that link might not work now that imm thinking abt it so here
I'm just thankful beyond words you thought of me to bestow this blessing upon. My day is exponentially better now that my eyes and ears have seen and heard this edit. Hyunjin freaking blows my mind 😍🩷
…tease you until you break and then push just a little more, purely for his own amusement. That smirk of his is your warning sign: the curve of his mouth that tells you he’s in the mood to watch you fall apart. It’s always the little things that undo you. The way he hooks two fingers under your chin and tilts your face up. The way he crowds you against a wall just to hear the shaky breath you try to hide. He thrives on knowing you're obsessed with him, and every one of his calculated teases is his way of feeding his own fucked up ego. He’s a menace with physical touch, but his words? Somehow worse. His verbal jabs are sharp enough to make you blush, squirm, and snap all at once, especially when he delivers them with that lazy confidence that makes you hate how much you want him. Every time you walk away, you go through withdrawals, restless and irritated, until you inevitably end up right back where he wants you. And he knows it too. And every time you crawl back, he greets you with that same smug little smirk that says, “I knew you’d come back, baby.”
…weaponize pet names. And not in an affectionate way. They’re his tools. He uses them when he wants something from you, when he’s irritated and needs to feel in control, or when he’s craving your reactions but can’t be bothered to work for them. He only says your real name when he’s serious, pissed, or bored. Everything else? That’s where the pet names come in. He calls you princess when you’re being stuck-up. He calls you sweetheart when he’s about to ruin you. He calls you his good girl when he thinks you need to earn whatever reward he’s offering. And then he calls you brat when you’re acting like one. Don't worry, he knows exactly how to shut you up.
…give mixed signals on purpose. He calls you his when around someone else, ghosts you all day, and then asks you come over at 2am because he can't sleep. As if you'll come running (you do). He'll flirt with some random girl, eye for your reaction, and then tell you off when you get upset. Sometimes you think there's something else under his fuck boy persona – something sincere or at least empathetic – but then he pulls shit like that, and you feel like an idiot for thinking he feels anything for you other than sexual desire. He's not the good guy, so you should stop pretending as if he's going to wake up tomorrow and suddenly have turned over a new leaf. He's the bad guy, and that's all there is to him, just like he wants you to think.
…get jealous when he sees you going home with some other douchebag, even when he has absolutely no right to be. It's not the chill kind of jealousy he feels when someone rides up on the 1960’s styled Café Racer he's been wanting since forever. No, this is the kind of jealousy he hides for fear you might notice just how absolutely carnal he gets thinking about you being under some other guy. It shows in the way his jaw pops when he clenches his teeth too hard, and the way he suddenly inserts himself into conversations he wasn't part of. But confront him about it? Nah, he goes straight into defense mode. He’ll scoff, roll his eyes, throw out some dismissive comment like, “Me, jealous? Of that dick? Don’t be stupid.” He’ll call you dramatic and act like you’re the one making a big deal out of nothing. Meanwhile, he’s been tense ever since he saw you feeling up some other guy's bicep. And the irony is that he knows he doesn’t have the right to claim you, knows he’s the one who keeps things undefined, knows he’s the one who pushes you away. But the moment someone else even looks at you? He acts like you’re betraying him.
…ruin the moment the second it feels like it might mean something real. It’s not that he doesn’t feel anything, he just doesn’t know what to do with feelings when they get too loud. And he's not the type to encourage anything that might change the good things he's got. He’s not the sentimental type either, even as you’re lying on his bare chest, your legs tangled together, with evidence of everything you just did all over the room in the form of your clothes thrown across the floor, papers scattered in chaos over the desk, and the wall behind the headboard marked with numerous dents. His fingertips drift slowly across the skin of your bare back, soft and steady, soothing you after he spent hours pushing you past your limits. It’s one of the few times he’s gentle and lets himself enjoy the quiet with you. But the moment your conversation switches to something real, vulnerable, something that might actually mean things, he panics. You feel it in the way his hand pauses, the way his body stiffens beneath you. And then he does what he always does. He deflects. He jokes. He twists the topic into something shallow or sexual just so he doesn’t have to acknowledge the weight of what you’re saying. You try to get him to open up, and he throws out a childish joke. You try to ask what this really is, and he kisses you to shut you up. You try to touch the inner parts of him he keeps locked away, and he ruins the moment because he’s terrified of what letting you in might do to his carefully walled heart.
…he's the type to never admit it, but the only thing he's more afraid of than truly falling for you, is losing you.
…tease you until you break and then push just a little more, purely for his own amusement. That smirk of his is your warning sign: the curve of his mouth that tells you he’s in the mood to watch you fall apart. It’s always the little things that undo you. The way he hooks two fingers under your chin and tilts your face up. The way he crowds you against a wall just to hear the shaky breath you try to hide. He thrives on knowing you're obsessed with him, and every one of his calculated teases is his way of feeding his own fucked up ego. He’s a menace with physical touch, but his words? Somehow worse. His verbal jabs are sharp enough to make you blush, squirm, and snap all at once, especially when he delivers them with that lazy confidence that makes you hate how much you want him. Every time you walk away, you go through withdrawals, restless and irritated, until you inevitably end up right back where he wants you. And he knows it too. And every time you crawl back, he greets you with that same smug little smirk that says, “I knew you’d come back, baby.”
…weaponize pet names. And not in an affectionate way. They’re his tools. He uses them when he wants something from you, when he’s irritated and needs to feel in control, or when he’s craving your reactions but can’t be bothered to work for them. He only says your real name when he’s serious, pissed, or bored. Everything else? That’s where the pet names come in. He calls you princess when you’re being stuck-up. He calls you sweetheart when he’s about to ruin you. He calls you his good girl when he thinks you need to earn whatever reward he’s offering. And then he calls you brat when you’re acting like one. Don't worry, he knows exactly how to shut you up.
…give mixed signals on purpose. He calls you his when around someone else, ghosts you all day, and then asks you come over at 2am because he can't sleep. As if you'll come running (you do). He'll flirt with some random girl, eye for your reaction, and then tell you off when you get upset. Sometimes you think there's something else under his fuck boy persona – something sincere or at least empathetic – but then he pulls shit like that, and you feel like an idiot for thinking he feels anything for you other than sexual desire. He's not the good guy, so you should stop pretending as if he's going to wake up tomorrow and suddenly have turned over a new leaf. He's the bad guy, and that's all there is to him, just like he wants you to think.
…get jealous when he sees you going home with some other douchebag, even when he has absolutely no right to be. It's not the chill kind of jealousy he feels when someone rides up on the 1960’s styled Café Racer he's been wanting since forever. No, this is the kind of jealousy he hides for fear you might notice just how absolutely carnal he gets thinking about you being under some other guy. It shows in the way his jaw pops when he clenches his teeth too hard, and the way he suddenly inserts himself into conversations he wasn't part of. But confront him about it? Nah, he goes straight into defense mode. He’ll scoff, roll his eyes, throw out some dismissive comment like, “Me, jealous? Of that dick? Don’t be stupid.” He’ll call you dramatic and act like you’re the one making a big deal out of nothing. Meanwhile, he’s been tense ever since he saw you feeling up some other guy's bicep. And the irony is that he knows he doesn’t have the right to claim you, knows he’s the one who keeps things undefined, knows he’s the one who pushes you away. But the moment someone else even looks at you? He acts like you’re betraying him.
…ruin the moment the second it feels like it might mean something real. It’s not that he doesn’t feel anything, he just doesn’t know what to do with feelings when they get too loud. And he's not the type to encourage anything that might change the good things he's got. He’s not the sentimental type either, even as you’re lying on his bare chest, your legs tangled together, with evidence of everything you just did all over the room in the form of your clothes thrown across the floor, papers scattered in chaos over the desk, and the wall behind the headboard marked with numerous dents. His fingertips drift slowly across the skin of your bare back, soft and steady, soothing you after he spent hours pushing you past your limits. It’s one of the few times he’s gentle and lets himself enjoy the quiet with you. But the moment your conversation switches to something real, vulnerable, something that might actually mean things, he panics. You feel it in the way his hand pauses, the way his body stiffens beneath you. And then he does what he always does. He deflects. He jokes. He twists the topic into something shallow or sexual just so he doesn’t have to acknowledge the weight of what you’re saying. You try to get him to open up, and he throws out a childish joke. You try to ask what this really is, and he kisses you to shut you up. You try to touch the inner parts of him he keeps locked away, and he ruins the moment because he’s terrified of what letting you in might do to his carefully walled heart.
…he's the type to never admit it, but the only thing he's more afraid of than truly falling for you, is losing you.