#matt taylor smut

[l0relaii]

what do u think the ud men would be like with a reader who has an oral fixation? reader who just loveees to sit with their fingers or cock in their mouth. ouhhh i’m feral

my head HURTSS from a hangover rn but idc i'm still gonna write this

josh

nah you can't convince this mf doesn't have an oral fixation as well

he's always kissing, licking, nipping on your neck, hands, arms, thighs

and he loves when you do the same thing to him.

he also loves when you take his fingers into your mouth

he'd usually push them past your lips on his own so he can get them slick before fingering you

he likes going down on you, you like going down on him, why not do it simultaneously? so y'all are always 69ing

chris

at first he thinks your habit of sucking on his fingers is.. weird?

he never had someone do it to him SO OFTEN as you do it

but he doesn't complain when you move from his fingers down to his cock

he gets used to it eventually and lets you do your thing 🤷‍♀️

he might even start to enjoy feeling your mouth on his fingers, even though he'd never admit it because he likes teasing you about it

mike

ohh this dirty bastard enjoys it the most, he might even enjoy it more than you

he always pinches your cheeks teasing you while shoving his finger in your mouth

you love sucking his dick? great because he loves having it sucked too :D

he's down to do it everywhere if you're willing to

loves loves l o v e s making you stick out your tongue so he can tap it with his tip and tease you 😵‍💫

matt

he thinks it's a bit weird at first but gets used to it pretty quickly

i honestly think he's secretly soo dirty minded

he gets so hard when you put his fingers in your mouth and lightly suck on them

maybe he'd even like it if.. you bit his fingers..?👀

[z0mb1epuzzy]

What are the Until Dawn boys doing if someone walks in on them masturbating?

oohhh okay anon… i like ur brain…

includes: Josh, Chris, Mike, & Matt

Josh:

w him it’s very 50/50, i think it depends heavily on his mood + your relationship!

on one hand, i could see him being embarrassed but playing it off, giving you a casual "oh, haha..my bad." and a little smirk (but his cheeks would be all flushed ngh), on the other! i could see him actually expressing some embarrassment at it, looking all nervy and sputtering out some apology, being a little awkward after, a nervous little "look, man- i'm sorry, i just didn't expect you to uh... walk in like that."

Chris:

Chris is the only one I could see being genuinely flustered, his cheeks getting all red while he sputters out some frantic apology, still out of breath!?! "oh shit- i- i'm sorry- uh-" red faced, not able to meet your eyes, the works! it's worse if he was doing it to the mental image of you, but he's pent up! he had to get the frustration out somehow :(

Mike:

despite his libido, i couldn’t see him being a guy to masturbate often, but sometimes the frustration is too much and he doesn’t have an available hole (sorry he’s a man whore but i love him so bad), but he’d obviously be a little startled (and frustrated) when during one of the very few times he does you catch him. Now, depending on your relationship, he could be the type to give you that cocky little grin and say “you uh.. wanna help out?”.. but honestly! he’s just masking his embarrassment w his usual bravado….

Matt:

He’s embarrassed, instantly and violently embarrassed!! but he tries to go the “masking embarrassment with cockiness” route that mike does, which he doesn’t really do as well, but he’s trying. He’d try to brush it off, but you can still hear how ragged his breath is!!

chat i’m sorry if this is ass… ur girl(-ish thing) is tired! better content is coming, i hope y’all can forgive me till then 💔

[decaf-mother]

[Weakness]

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Matt Taylor x F!Reader

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Warnings: MDNI, Smut, Nipple Play, P in V, Unprotected Sex, Riding, Kinda Sub!Matt(?)

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Summary: It's not his fault he's so sensitive there.

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That warm feeling floods through you, rushing through your veins, his cock keeping you nice and stuffed as you slowly bounce on it, riding him at a leisurely pace - it'd be torture for the guy if it weren't for you also playing with his nipples, slowly rolling the sensitive buds as his mouth falls slack, sweet moans filling the room.

“This really is your weakness, huh?”

You tease but he's only half listening, his hands finding their way to your waist, urging you to go a little faster, nails tugging at his nipples just to hear his gasp. It reminds you of the first time you played with them, not even he knew how damn good it would feel till you two started experimenting… You're certainly the first person to ever return this kind of stimulation to him.

“There - There - don't stop!”

He pleads with you as though he doesn't have a death grip on your hips, as though your eyes aren't rolling back too, trying to keep a handle on yourself as he bumps that good spot - quickly bringing both of you to your ends, sticky liquid spilling between your legs.

“Oh, Christ…”

You slowly get off him, flopping down to catch your breath, letting him retrieve the towels he at least thought to keep nearby.

“Legs feel like jello?”

He grins down at you - earning a warning glance.

“Hush.”

[synnamon-hearts]

Metalhead!reader and Josh/Mike/Chris/Matt? maybe both NSFW hcs pls.. pllssss needddd them so baddd

They like weird girls.

Piercings, tattoos, body modifications, listen to heavier music, dresses in ripped tights and big t shirts and lots of belts and metal accessories uyghruhg

need them together frl!!

Let's fucking goooooo! I love this! This is similar to another request I just did so I will add some of the things I left out to here.

NSFW down below!

𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭

Josh ~ This is a man right here who is a god when it comes to concert tickets. Oh, your favorite band in town? Oh no! You can't get tickets? They are all sold out? BOOM! Josh has two for the front row. Don't ask. A magician never tells you his secrets. He loves your badass rocker style so much. He even let's you borrow some of his t-shirts sometimes since he knows you like them more baggy. He's always buying you CDs and accessories and would even buy you a tattoo for your birthday!

Okay, so he does enjoy the music at the concerts and he does enjoy that smile you get on your face when you're vibing to the music, but that's not the only reason why he takes you. Oh no, honey. It's the sex. Ughhh, the way you absolutely rail him in the car after a good concert drives him wild. He will take off one of your belts and wrap it around your neck, or your wrists to keep you in place, or even give you a few lashes with it when he turns you over in the backseat. And this man is such a slut for piercings and tattoos. Lick him, suck him, fuck him with piercings on any of those sensitive spots like your tongue or your clit and you'll have him by the balls for life. And he absolutely loves tracing your tattoos, especially with his tongue. He sees you as a walking work of art and likes to worship them every chance he gets.

𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭

Mike ~ Mike isn't the biggest metal head but he does listen to it on occasion. He would be lying if he said that he didn't get with you because he thought you would be an absolute wild ride in the sheets but he grows to love your crazy and badass nature as time goes on. He will take you shopping and take you to shows. He might even let you sit on his shoulders so you can get a better look.

Mmmmm, sex with a metal girl. Maybe it's the intensity or the change (since he is used to going for pretty girls), Mike doesn't know what it is. But something about you takes sex to a whole new level. Your red lip stick prints all over his face and chest while all smeared down your chin from intense kisses is a sight to behold. And keep. Those. Boots. On. For. The. Love. Of. God. You cannot tell me that this man does not have a boot kink! He enjoys bathroom sex at concerts more than he expected. Between the risk of getting caught, the music roaring in the background, and your tips bouncing in his face as you ride him, Mike couldn't be happier. Perhaps your wild ways tamed him just a tiny bit...

𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭

Chris ~ Chris is a metal nerd, okay? He loves all things metal and absolutely falls head over heels when he meets you. Finally someone to share his love of music with other than Josh? Sign him the fuck up! He will invite you over to his house on a regular basis to listen to music and talk about upcoming shows in the area. I also have a headcanon that he likes to toy with the studs on one of your belts or rub the skin revealed by your ripped jeans when he's not really paying attention. Such a cutie.

The way you dress is a huge turn on for him. Again with the belts, he would 110% let you use one of your belts to restrain his arms, especially above his head to the headboard. He loves watching you as you bounce on him to something wild and intense playing in his CD player. Pierced tits bouncing in his face is his favorite. And when you toy with those piercings while you do it, or even reach down between your thighs to play around with that one impaling your puffy clit? The man is putty in your hands.

𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭

Matt ~ Okay, hear me out, Matt doesn't listen to much metal. He strikes me as moreover a pop-ish or more chill music kind of guy. But nonetheless, he still supports your metal addiction to the fullest. He actually really appreciates your love for music. You just get this passionate twinkle in your eyes when discussing your favorite bands or songs and he finds it quite adorable.

It's no secret that Matt loves baddies. Hello? Emily? So stuff like bold makeup, tattoos all over, enough piercings to make a Trypophobic person run screaming, and genuinely anything that makes up look like a bad bitch has him feeling pathetically horny for you all the time. And when you finally let him dive in and finally take what he has been craving so badly, he. Is. In. Total heaven! This man worships the ground you walk on. You could practically do anything you wanted to him and he would merely respond with "Yes, ma'am" and comply like a needy little puppy. It is safe to say that he will go down on you like no other, flicking that piercing with the tip of his tongue like there is no tomorrow just to show you how special you are to him.

𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭~𖹭

[miamooooo]

matt needing validation from his partner constantly. even when he's trying to make them feel good.

(warnings): nsfw, car sex

although matt seems like a crazy confident jock to the public eye, deep down he's just an awkward and soft-hearted guy and he's only that vulnerable with you. he wants to have the constant validation from you that he's doing great, he wants to feel like he's doing everything right all the time. and yes you praise him all the time, but he just never thinks that it's enough.

so just imagine how he is when he's fucking you.

he's got you in his car, holding you in his lap and thrusting up into you. he's taking every little whimper and contortion of your face into examination, and god he's so turned on by how vocal you're being. "mph..! yeahyeah, keep going!"

matt feels so much pride that he's making you feel this good, and it only spurs him on. he has his lip caught in between his teeth, hands gripping your hips tighter as he helps you bounce on his cock harder and he swears he could cum on the spot just from your gasps and moans of 'mmh! thats so fucking good!'

he's groaning and softly cursing and completely immersed, but he still can't help but ask if what he's doing is okay. he doesn't even realize that he's asking you until it slips from his mouth because he's always asking.

"oh god- yeah? am i doing okay?"

"mhm, yeah! please don't stop!"

you're nodding your head, hands digging into the fabric of his letter jacket and he watches you breathlessly, straining out a 'are you sure-?' and all you can do is lean in and shut him up with a kiss because he won't be quiet if you don't.

yes it might be a little frustrating, but you're always making sure to be vocal because you know how much your boyfriend appreciates it. he just needs a little reassurance from you!

[admirationandromantics]

Matt "Matthew" Taylor Masterlist

Stories:

Headcanons:

Game-based Story:

++coming soon!

Features several characters:

Love Languages (all)

Character's piercings (all)

Supportive comments (all)

[therogueflame]

Through Storm and Silence

Hi my darlings,

I have decided to post my new Cregan x Reader fic a day early because I have started to hate it the more I look at it. I did change it since posting the teaser, so my apologies to everyone that is expecting that beginning. This fic is long, sad, and DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, READER'S DISCRETION IS ADVISED!! (Please let me know if this makes you feel things, my prozac stops me from knowing if this is Actually Sad)

Summary: The loss of your first pregnancy has you shattered in unspeakable ways, and Cregan does his best to comfort his Lady Wife.

✨My Masterlist✨

WC: 13.4k

Warnings: Pregnancy loss, depression, fem!reader, isolation, intimate care, just sad fluff (or hurt/comfort if you wanna get technical)

Cregan Stark x Wife!Reader

MDNI!!!

The fire in your chambers had long since burned out, leaving the hearth cold and lifeless. Its ashes, once bright with promise, were now a bleak monument to what had been lost. The flames that had warmed you, like the fragile spark of life that had stirred within you, were extinguished, leaving nothing but emptiness behind. Shadows sprawled across the stone walls, bending and twisting in the faint moonlight that filtered through the frost-covered window. The light was weak, just enough to sharpen the edges of the cold that seeped into the very bones of Winterfell—and into yours.

The chill wasn’t just in the air; it lived in you now, settling deep in your chest, pressing against the raw, hollow ache that had taken root there. This cold wasn’t the familiar bite of winter—it was sharper, crueler, born from the absence of the life you had carried. The fragile hope that had grown inside you, so small yet so powerful, was gone. Its absence left a void so vast it consumed you.

You couldn’t bring yourself to move from the high-backed chair by the window, where you sat motionless, staring into the dark expanse of night. The frost on the glass distorted the view beyond, transforming the swaying trees into ghostly silhouettes, their barren limbs stark against the sky. They reminded you of how you felt—stripped bare, fragile, and exposed to the harsh winds of grief.

The gown you wore clung to your body, its once-delicate fabric now feeling oppressive. Days ago, it had been chosen with care, a garment meant to hold the quiet anticipation of the life you carried. Now, its weight pressed against you like an accusation, its seams digging into your skin, sharp and unforgiving. It didn’t just hang on you—it felt as though it was marking you, reminding you of the absence that had replaced what you once held so dear.

You hadn’t changed out of it. The thought of doing so felt too heavy, too meaningless. To strip it away would be to acknowledge the finality of what had been lost, and you couldn’t face that yet. The woman who had smoothed its fabric with pride, who had worn it with a small but steady joy, was no longer there. All that remained was the crushing weight of who she had become—a shadow wearing the remnants of something she could no longer be.

Your trembling hands rested in your lap, fingers curling into the fabric as if trying to find something to hold on to. A faint breeze stirred from the window, its icy touch brushing against your skin like a cruel reminder of the emptiness inside you. You shivered, but still you remained frozen, the weight of Winterfell pressing down on you, heavy and unyielding.

The world outside went on, its voices and footsteps distant and indifferent. The quiet of the castle was unbearable, the oppressive stillness broken only by the occasional creak of wood or the faintest sigh of wind. It was as if the walls themselves conspired to remind you of your solitude, of the storm raging within you while the world beyond carried on, oblivious.

Tears slid silently down your cheeks, warm against the icy stillness of your skin. You made no effort to stop them, nor could you if you tried. They came endlessly, flowing in a slow, aching rhythm that mirrored the grief clawing at your chest.

You were alone with the memory of what had been—a fragile, fleeting spark of life that had slipped through your fingers. And now, with nothing but the cold to hold you, it felt as though you might never be whole again.

The rhythmic thud of boots against stone drifted faintly from the courtyard below, a distant murmur of life pressing onward. A horse’s whinny cut through the air, joined by the indistinct hum of voices carried on the wind. The world beyond was alive, indifferent, ceaseless. But none of it touched you. It all seemed unreal—muted fragments of a life you could no longer claim, slipping through your fingers like mist. You stood at the edge of it all, a silent shadow, severed from the world that churned on without you.

Time had abandoned you, or perhaps it had conspired against you, trapping you in this endless moment while everything else moved forward. The castle walls, so full of life, seemed oblivious to your sorrow. Their quiet betrayal, their unshaken permanence, was unbearable.

Inside the room, the silence pressed down on you, thick as the weight in your chest. It should have been a comfort, this room. Once it had been. But now its quiet corners and heavy drapes felt suffocating, its walls tightening around you with every passing hour.

You clenched your fists, the delicate fabric crumpling beneath your trembling hands. Tears welled, spilling before you could stop them, tracing hot, aching paths down your cheeks. You couldn’t stem the tide, nor did you try. The gown bore the stain of your despair, but it was nothing compared to the jagged wound that bled unseen within.

The whispers were always there, clinging to the edges of your thoughts no matter how desperately you tried to banish them. They were cruel and unyielding, slipping into every quiet moment, lurking in the shadows of your mind. Their voices were soft but sharp, cutting deeper with every repetition. You should have done more. You should have been stronger. You should have saved him. This is your fault.

They weren’t Cregan’s words, nor the maester’s, nor anyone else’s. They belonged to you, born from the hollow ache in your chest and the guilt that had taken root there. They poured through your mind like a poison, insidious and unrelenting, twisting everything they touched. You could almost hear them in the silence of the room, louder than the crackle of a distant hearth or the sigh of wind through Winterfell’s ancient walls.

No matter how tightly you closed your eyes, no matter how fiercely you tried to silence them, they persisted—a constant, merciless drumbeat. Each word struck like a blow, reverberating through your body, the weight of them pressing down on your chest until you could barely breathe. The air felt thinner with every beat, as though the whispers were siphoning it away, leaving you gasping in the darkness.

You tried to fight them, tried to find some small thread of reason to grasp onto, but they always returned, louder and sharper than before. And the worst part was, some part of you believed them. You clung to the guilt like a lifeline, as though holding yourself accountable might make the loss hurt less. It didn’t. It only sank you deeper into the suffocating pit that you couldn’t seem to climb out of.

They weren’t just whispers. They were chains, binding you to the pain, and no matter how much you struggled, you couldn’t make them let go.

The knock shattered the oppressive silence, a sharp, jarring sound that cut through you like a blade of winter air. For a moment, you froze, the sudden noise startling you out of the haze that had enveloped you for days. The weight in the room, in your chest, had been so heavy, so all-encompassing, that you’d almost forgotten the world outside existed. The knock was a cruel reminder that it did, and that it still demanded something of you.

You stiffened, every muscle tightening as though bracing for an unseen blow. Your breath hitched, thick and shallow, your throat closing as if even the act of breathing might betray you. You didn’t want to answer. You couldn’t. What could you say to him? What could you possibly offer, except more of this broken, hollow shell of yourself?

The knock came again, softer this time, a gentler plea that only seemed to make the silence more suffocating. And then his voice followed, threading through the stillness. The voice you had once found so reassuring, so unshakably warm, now felt like a ghost of itself—steady, deep, but laced with something unfamiliar. Fragility. Desperation.

“It’s me,” Cregan said, his words low, insistent. There was a trembling edge to his tone, a quiet urgency that twisted in your chest. “Please, my love. Let me in.”

The sound of his voice sent a fresh wave of pain coursing through you, tightening around your throat like a vice. You clenched your hands in your lap, your nails pressing into your palms, the sharp sting grounding you in the only way you could manage. The guilt, the grief, the weight of it all threatened to crack you open. If you could just keep still, hold yourself together for one more moment, perhaps the pieces wouldn’t scatter completely.

But the truth was, you didn’t know how to answer him. You didn’t know how to let him in—not into the room, not into the space where your grief lay raw and unguarded. He hadn’t come before. Or maybe he had, and you had been too lost to hear him, too consumed by the darkness to recognize the sound of his voice. You didn’t know which possibility was worse—that he had stayed away, honoring the space you had begged for, or that he had tried and failed to reach you.

Neither was kind. Neither was something you could bear.

His knock had stirred something inside you, but it wasn’t hope. It was the sharp, aching reminder of how much you had pushed him away—and how much you had wanted to. Because if he saw you like this, if he saw how fractured you had become, you weren’t sure you could survive it. And yet, even as you tried to steel yourself against the sound of his voice, it lingered, wrapping around you, pulling at the frayed edges of the wall you had built between you.

“I’ll wait as long as I need to,” Cregan’s voice broke through the silence, quiet yet unyielding, like the steady strength of the man you had once leaned on without hesitation. “I’m not leaving you alone in this.”

His words were meant to soothe, to offer comfort, but they only deepened the ache in your chest. The tenderness in his tone was unbearable, like a hand reaching out to touch a wound too raw to bear. The sting behind your eyes flared, tears threatening to spill over once more. But you refused to let them fall. Not again.

You had cried enough—alone, in the suffocating stillness of the night, when the walls of Winterfell seemed to close in and the weight of your loss crushed you in the darkness. You had let the tears fall in those moments when no one could see, when no one could judge you for the depth of your grief. What good had they done? They had left you feeling even emptier, as though each tear carried away a piece of yourself until there was nothing left.

What would tears accomplish now? They couldn’t undo the pain that had carved itself into your soul. They couldn’t bring back what you had lost, couldn’t fill the gaping void that echoed inside you. They wouldn’t erase the crushing guilt that clung to every breath you took, whispering that you should have been stronger, that you should have done more.

The words you longed to say lodged in your throat, trapped beneath the weight of your grief. Cregan’s steady presence was a balm, but it felt undeserved—a kindness you couldn’t allow yourself to accept. The part of you that ached to let him in warred with the part that wanted to push him away, to protect him from the broken, fractured pieces you had become.

But still, he waited. And still, you remained silent, the battle within you raging on.

The door remained closed, an unyielding barrier between you and Cregan, the space between you stretching into an insurmountable chasm. Your lips stayed pressed tightly together, as if the very act of speaking would shatter the fragile hold you had on yourself. Words felt dangerous, too revealing, too raw. So, you stayed still, frozen in the quiet, every part of you locked in place. You didn’t move. You didn’t breathe. You didn’t respond.

Maybe if you stayed silent, he would leave. Maybe if you sank deep enough into the well of your grief, the guilt would loosen its grip on your chest. Maybe if you let the silence consume you entirely, the pain would finally relent. But even as the thoughts flitted through your mind, you knew they were lies. The grief, the guilt, the unbearable ache in your chest—they weren’t things you could escape. They were woven into you now, so tightly that nothing—not time, not distance, not even silence—could unravel them.

Deep down, you knew nothing would ever be the same again. The fragile thread of hope that had once connected you to the world had snapped, leaving you untethered, adrift. No amount of hiding, no fortress of silence, could change that.

The silence stretched on, thick and suffocating, pressing against you like the cold that had seeped into your very bones. It wrapped itself around you, a crushing weight that left no room for breath or thought. It wasn’t just in the room—it was in you, winding through every broken part of yourself.

Cregan’s steps broke the stillness, each one deliberate, careful, as though he feared his presence might break you further. The sound of his boots against the stone was soft, almost hesitant, but it still felt too loud, too intrusive in the suffocating quiet. He was close now. You could feel his steady presence, warm and grounding, even through the chasm you had built between you.

But still, you didn’t move. You didn’t turn to meet his gaze, didn’t even lift your head. Your heart was too heavy, weighed down by guilt and sorrow so profound it felt like a physical ache. You couldn’t bear the thought of looking at him, of letting him see what you had become—shattered, broken, unrecognizable even to yourself.

You were afraid. Afraid of what he might say. Afraid of the gentleness you might hear in his voice, the love you might see in his eyes, when you felt you deserved neither. Afraid that if he saw you like this, saw the depth of your ruin, he might try to put you back together. And you weren’t sure you could survive being pieced back together only to fall apart again.

He paused, his boots just inside the door, hesitating as though waiting for you to make the decision he couldn’t. As though he wasn’t sure if crossing the distance you had carved between you would help—or only deepen the divide. The silence between you was palpable, stretching wide and unyielding, a vast chasm neither of you knew how to bridge. For a fleeting moment, it felt as though the entire world was holding its breath, caught in this fragile, suspended moment.

And then, after what felt like an eternity, he stepped forward. Just one step, careful and deliberate, the sound soft against the stone floor but carrying a weight that echoed in the quiet. His presence, once a comfort you had never thought to question, now felt too close and yet too far all at once. He moved with a kind of reverence, each step slow and measured, as though approaching something sacred—and fragile.

It was almost unbearable, the way he moved toward you as if you were still the woman he had once known. As if you hadn’t been hollowed out, stripped of the light you had carried, replaced by a grief so consuming it felt like you were drowning. You couldn’t look at him. You didn’t dare. But you felt him, his quiet strength radiating through the cold space, the air between you shifting, growing warmer as he drew closer.

“My love…” His voice was soft, a gentle murmur that carried through the silence like the brush of a hand against frayed fabric. There was a weight to his words, though—something raw and aching, unspoken but undeniable. His concern was threaded through every syllable, tangled with the love he couldn’t seem to put into words. It was the kind of love that refused to be turned away, no matter how fiercely you tried to shut it out.

Still, you didn’t answer. You didn’t even turn toward him. Your eyes stayed fixed on the floor, unblinking, unseeing, your breath shallow and uneven as if even acknowledging him might break the fragile hold you had on yourself.

But his presence pressed gently against the edges of your grief, like a tide brushing against jagged rocks, refusing to retreat. You couldn’t face him, couldn’t let him see the ruin you felt you had become. To turn to him would mean letting him see the cracks, the unbearable weight of your sorrow—and you didn’t know if you could survive his gaze.

Your gaze remained fixed on the frosted window, your eyes tracing the jagged, crystalline patterns of ice etched into the glass. They spread like fractures, distorting the world beyond into blurred shapes and muted shadows. The courtyard below lay buried beneath a thick blanket of snow, its stark silence mirroring the hollow stillness inside you. It looked untouched, serene, as though the world itself had withdrawn, retreating from the weight of your grief. But the chill that gripped you had nothing to do with the winter outside.

This cold was deeper, more insidious. It had rooted itself in your chest, in the fragile places you had once protected. No fire, no warmth, could touch it. It wasn’t a chill of the skin but of the soul, spreading through every part of you, leaving you numb yet unbearably aware of the ache it carried.

Your fingers moved restlessly, pale and trembling as they tugged at the fabric of your gown. The motion was small, unconscious, but relentless. You picked at loose threads and seams, tearing at the delicate material with a quiet desperation. It was all you could do. The stillness of your body demanded an outlet, something to echo the storm raging within you. Each thread pulled free, each tiny rip in the fabric, felt like a hollow attempt to give shape to the suffocating emotions you couldn’t put into words.

You couldn’t stop. You didn’t want to stop. The motion kept the grief from swallowing you whole, even as it frayed the edges of your gown. The tears in the fabric mirrored the fissures in your heart, small and splintering, growing with every passing moment.

Each movement, each tug, was a silent rebellion against the unbearable weight that threatened to crush you. The storm inside you had no outlet, no escape, and the restless motion of your hands was the only way to keep from falling apart completely. Rest felt impossible. Stillness only amplified the ache, the sharp-edged sorrow that had taken over every part of you. Rest would mean surrendering to it, drowning in the pain you weren’t sure you could survive. And so, you tore at the fabric, as though unraveling it might somehow loosen the tight grip of grief around your chest.

But deep down, you knew it wouldn’t. Nothing could.

Cregan didn’t press you, though his silence was as heavy as the grief that hung between you. He didn’t demand answers, didn’t push for words you weren’t ready to give. Instead, he moved closer, his footsteps slow and measured, each one deliberate, as though the air itself might break beneath the weight of his approach. It was as if he were walking through a fragile dream, afraid that one wrong step might shatter it entirely.

Each careful step spoke of his restraint, his quiet struggle to respect the space you had carved out for yourself, even as it tore at him to see you like this. To see the woman he loved, his steadfast, fierce-hearted wife, lost in a pain so profound that even the strength of his presence couldn’t seem to reach her.

He stopped a few paces away, his form solid and steady against the shadows that filled the room. For a moment, he said nothing, the silence stretching again between you, an invisible barrier neither of you knew how to cross. And then, his voice came again, softer this time, carrying a tenderness that wrapped around you like a quiet plea.

“I know you’re in pain,” he murmured, his words low, heavy with the weight of his own helplessness. The emotion in his voice twisted in your chest, each word landing with quiet precision, like drops of water against a stone worn thin. “But I can’t help you if you won’t let me in.”

The pause that followed was almost unbearable, his voice trembling just slightly as he added, “Please, look at me.”

The plea lingered in the air, hanging between you like a fragile bridge you weren’t sure you could cross. His words carried no demand, only a quiet yearning, a love so raw it pressed against the edges of your sorrow, threatening to unravel the fragile defenses you had built around yourself. But you stayed where you were, frozen, your gaze locked on the frost-covered window, as though the jagged patterns of ice could hold you together in a way that his love couldn’t.

You didn’t move. His words reached for you, a lifeline cast across the vast, aching distance between you, but you couldn’t take it. You couldn’t meet his gaze, couldn’t let him see the broken pieces of who you had once been. Not when those fragments felt so sharp, so jagged, that even you couldn’t bear to look at them. The woman who had once stood beside him, who had promised him a future filled with light and hope, was gone. In her place was this hollow shell, weighed down by grief so consuming it left no room for anything else.

Your hands fell still in your lap, the nervous fidgeting replaced by an unnatural rigidity, as though any movement might crack the fragile dam holding everything inside. You stared down at your trembling fingers, clutching at the fabric of your gown not to tear it, but to stop them from betraying you further. The storm within you churned violently, and the stillness felt like the only thing keeping you from falling apart entirely.

The ache in your chest grew sharper, a suffocating pressure that made it hard to breathe, hard to think. It wrapped around you like a vice, pulling you deeper into yourself, away from the voice that tried to reach you.

The air between you felt heavier with each passing second, thick with unspoken words and the weight of all you couldn’t bring yourself to say. It pressed down on you, isolating you further, trapping you in this cocoon of silence where your grief felt too vast to share, too all-encompassing to explain.

You could feel Cregan’s presence, his unwavering patience like a quiet flame, waiting for you to let him in. But that only made the guilt burrow deeper, sharper, as though it might carve you out completely. He was waiting for you to open the door you had closed so tightly, waiting to shoulder the pain you were too afraid to show. But you couldn’t.

You couldn’t let him see you like this—shattered, hollow, and drowning in the sharp edges of your grief. If you turned to him now, if you let him see the raw ruin of what you’d become, you weren’t sure you could survive it. And so, you sat there, silent and unmoving, unable to cross the distance that had grown between you.

Your shoulders trembled, the motion small at first, barely noticeable, before it grew into a tremor that rippled through your entire body. Without warning, your head dropped, your face cradled in your trembling hands. The tears that had lingered just beneath the surface for so long finally broke free, spilling over in a torrent that you couldn’t stop. They came hot and unrelenting, each one carving a path down your cheeks, a relentless reminder of just how much you had lost.

You tried to stifle them, swallowing sobs that clawed their way up your throat, desperate to hold onto some semblance of control. But the tears came anyway, unchecked and unforgiving, a flood that swept away the fragile walls you had tried so hard to build. The warmth of them against your skin felt like a cruel mockery, a vivid contrast to the hollow, icy ache in your chest. You resented them—resented how powerless they made you feel, how impossible it was to push them back, to push any of it away.

You couldn’t. The grief was too deep, too consuming. It wrapped around you like a tide, pulling you under, dragging you further and further away from everything you had once been.

Behind you, Cregan watched, his gaze softening as his heart broke for you in ways he could neither stop nor fully understand. He stood frozen, torn between the overwhelming need to comfort you and the fear that his touch might only deepen the chasm that stretched between you. The sight of your shoulders trembling, of your body folding in on itself as though the weight of your sorrow was too much to bear, left him helpless.

He had always been your shield, your steady foundation, but now he could do nothing but stand there, watching as the woman he loved was consumed by a pain he couldn’t ease. It was a kind of helplessness he hadn’t known before—a sharp, piercing ache that left him stranded on the other side of the distance you had placed between you.

He wanted to reach for you, to do anything to pull you from the storm that raged inside you. But every tear that fell, every breath that shuddered through your frame, seemed to widen the gulf between you both. It felt as vast as an ocean, deep and unbridgeable, leaving him stranded and uncertain, his love for you a light that couldn’t yet pierce the darkness of your grief.

He moved toward you, each step slow and deliberate, as though afraid that even the slightest misstep might shatter the fragile thread tethering you both. The air between you felt heavy, charged with unspoken words and the raw ache of your grief, but he pressed on, his presence steady and unyielding.

When he reached you, he didn’t speak. Words would have felt too small, too inadequate. Instead, he sank to his knees beside the chair, his movements careful, reverent, as though kneeling at an altar. His presence alone was a quiet comfort, a steady flame in the storm of emotions that had consumed you.

His hand reached out, large and calloused, yet impossibly gentle as his fingers brushed against the delicate skin of your trembling hand. His touch was grounding, warm, and steady—a reminder of the life that continued outside the walls of your sorrow. He didn’t force you to respond, didn’t demand anything from you. His hand simply rested over yours, offering a quiet strength that asked for nothing in return.

The restless motions of your hands stilled beneath his touch, the anxious picking at your gown coming to a halt as his warmth seeped into your skin. It wasn’t much—just the smallest of shifts—but it was enough. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the unbearable weight of your grief seemed to loosen, if only by the slightest degree.

It was as though his presence alone could hold some of the pieces of you that had fallen apart, his touch a silent promise that you didn’t have to bear the weight of your sorrow alone. But still, the distance between your heart and his felt vast, the walls of your grief too high to climb. And yet, his quiet persistence, his unwavering love, pressed gently against those walls, searching for a way in.

“Let me be here for you,” Cregan said quietly, his voice a low murmur that carried more weight than the loudest declaration ever could. There was a raw tenderness in his tone, so unguarded and sincere that it pierced straight through you, cutting past the walls you had so carefully constructed around your grief. His words were a balm, gentle against the fractured pieces of your heart, but they also undid you, unraveling the fragile composure you had clung to.

The echo of his voice lingered in the heavy silence, filling the space between you with a quiet plea that wrapped around you, impossible to ignore. Each word was steeped in a love so deep, so unshakable, that it made your chest ache with its enormity. A breath caught in your throat, sharp and jagged, as the storm inside you began to crack open.

Before you could stop it, a sob clawed its way out, raw and ragged, tearing through the stillness. You tried to fight it, to swallow the sound of your brokenness, to hold on to what little control you thought you had left. But it was too much. The weight of it all—the loss, the guilt, the unbearable isolation—pressed down on you with crushing force, and you were helpless against the tide.

Your chest constricted, each breath uneven and shallow as the cry escaped you, desperate and guttural. It shook you to your core, your entire body trembling under the force of the emotion that had been building, unrelenting, inside you. The sobs came like waves, relentless and consuming, each one pulling you deeper into the grief you had tried so hard to bury.

And yet, through it all, Cregan stayed. His presence didn’t waver, his quiet strength anchoring you even as you fell apart. His hand remained steady over yours, grounding you against the tempest within, silently reminding you that you weren’t alone—even when it felt like the weight of the world rested entirely on your shoulders.

“I’m here,” he repeated, his voice a balm against the deep, raw wound carved into your soul. The words were so simple, yet they carried a tenderness that made your heart ache even more. His free hand rose slowly, his fingers brushing the damp strands of hair from your face with the lightest touch. His fingertips grazed your skin like a soft whisper, gentle yet steady, a silent promise in every motion. He wasn’t going anywhere. He would stay, even as you unraveled before him.

“You don’t need to hide from me,” he said softly, his voice unwavering, even as the weight of your sorrow seemed to hang heavy in the air between you.

You didn’t respond. His words settled around you, warm and grounding, but you couldn’t bring yourself to speak. There were no words left, no explanations to give, no answers to offer. Only the tears that fell, unrelenting now, streaking down your face like a flood that had been held back for far too long.

The dam inside you had finally burst, and the grief poured out in waves, racking your frame with sobs so raw they felt as though they were tearing you apart. Each shuddering breath brought fresh pain, the ache you had buried beneath layers of guilt and restraint now laid bare. It was unbearable, and yet, in this moment, you didn’t try to stop it. For the first time, you let yourself feel the full weight of the loss, the overwhelming ache that had been clawing at you from the inside out.

And through it all, Cregan stayed. His presence didn’t falter, didn’t try to pull you from the depths of your grief. He didn’t offer empty reassurances or platitudes meant to fix what couldn’t be repaired. Instead, he stayed steady, his hand a constant anchor against the storm inside you, his touch firm yet gentle. He held you in your brokenness, without expectation, without judgment, simply letting you break.

For the first time, the room didn’t feel suffocating. The walls that had seemed to close in on you, threatening to crush you beneath their weight, now felt less oppressive. The silence wasn’t a void anymore; it was filled with something warm, something alive. His presence was like a steady flame in the cold, a quiet reassurance that you didn’t have to carry this alone—not in this moment, at least.

And for the first time, you felt the faintest flicker of relief. It wasn’t enough to banish the grief, not even close, but it made the unbearable weight just a little easier to carry. For this fleeting moment, you weren’t drowning alone.

Cregan watched you as you wept, his heart breaking with every sob that tore from your chest. Each tremor that shook you felt like a blow to him, a pain he couldn’t bear to see yet refused to turn away from. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t speak. He simply stayed, his presence steady and unwavering, a quiet anchor in the storm of your grief.

His hand remained gently over yours, grounding you without words, offering a silent reassurance that you hadn’t asked for but desperately needed. His touch, so steady and sure, was a lifeline in the chaos of your emotions, speaking the things he didn’t need to say aloud: I’m here. You’re not alone.

As your sobs began to slow, the tears that had flowed so freely now reduced to quiet streams, Cregan shifted slightly. His hand lifted from yours, the motion so soft it felt like a whisper. And yet, there was an undeniable strength in it, a quiet promise that he wasn’t leaving, that he wasn’t going to let you fall alone.

“Come on, love,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing, a balm against the raw ache in your chest. The words, though simple, carried a weight of their own—love, patience, and an unshakable tenderness that wrapped around you like a warm embrace.

He didn’t rush you. He didn’t pull you from the chair or try to force you to move before you were ready. Instead, he stayed close, his presence a steady flame against the cold emptiness that had consumed you. Every quiet movement, every gentle word, was filled with care. He was waiting—not for you to be whole, not for the grief to pass, but simply for you to take the next breath, the next small step forward.

Cregan felt it all—the weight of everything you had been carrying, the unbearable burden that had pressed down on you for days. He felt the tremble in your body, the exhaustion etched into every line of your frame, and the grief that seemed to radiate from you like a storm that refused to pass. It was heavy, but he bore it willingly, silently vowing to carry it with you, no matter how long it took, no matter how much of himself it demanded.

“Let’s get you to bed,” he murmured, his voice low and thick with concern, each word carrying the weight of the thousand unspoken emotions he didn’t know how to name. There was no rush in his tone, no expectation—only a gentle insistence, a quiet plea wrapped in love.

His hand stayed firm against your back as he guided you across the room, his movements slow and deliberate, each step careful, as though afraid that anything too sudden might undo the fragile calm that had begun to settle between you. His touch was steady, grounding, a tether to hold onto as the overwhelming weight of your grief threatened to pull you under again.

When you finally reached the bed, he guided you to sit, his movements steady yet hesitant, as though reluctant to step away. His hand brushed lightly over your shoulder, the touch brief but deliberate—a fleeting attempt to offer something words couldn’t convey. But as his eyes lingered on you, seated and so visibly burdened by your grief, something shifted in him. It wasn’t pity—it was a deep ache, an unspoken understanding that settled heavily in his chest.

He forced himself to take a step back, his instincts warring with his restraint. He wanted to stay close, but he knew this moment wasn’t about him. You needed space, even if only enough to draw a breath, to navigate the depths of what weighed on you without intrusion.

“I’ll be right back,” Cregan said softly, his voice low, a quiet murmur that carried more emotion than he could name. His gaze flickered to you, filled with a concern so raw it nearly stopped him in his tracks. “I’ll have a bath prepared. You need to rest—and take care of yourself.”

You didn’t answer. There were no words left, only the faint hum of your breath as you sat still, your hands resting in your lap. As he turned, the smallest movement caught his eye—a barely perceptible nod, as fragile as the first stirrings of a winter thaw.

It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it spoke volumes. It wasn’t permission, nor surrender, but something quieter. A thread of trust, unspoken but present. And though the gesture was small, it was enough for him to continue, his steps quiet but purposeful as he left the room to prepare what was needed.

As Cregan stepped toward the door, the soft click of the handle as it closed behind him seemed to echo through the room, sharp and final. The sound sliced through the oppressive stillness like a cold wind cutting across bare skin. For a fleeting moment, everything seemed to hold its breath. The door’s finality hung in the air, and with it, an even deeper silence settled around you.

The space he left behind felt vast, as though the room itself had stretched in his absence, a yawning chasm you couldn’t cross. You slumped against the headboard, your body sinking further into the mattress, drained of the strength to do anything but exist in the quiet. The exhaustion in your bones was total, a kind of weariness that no amount of sleep could touch.

You had hoped for peace in the quiet, but it wasn’t peace that came. It was weight—heavy, stifling, pressing down on your chest, pinning you to the bed. The room around you seemed to breathe with the creak of old wood beneath you, a low, familiar groan that filled the silence alongside the soft hum of your own breath. And yet, none of it filled the aching void that stretched endlessly inside you.

It wasn’t that you wanted Cregan to return. His presence couldn’t undo what had been broken, couldn’t turn back time or mend the wound that had hollowed you out. But his absence carried its own kind of pain, sharp and relentless, a reminder that life would never return to what it had once been.

Still, you stayed where you were, motionless, surrendering to the stillness that wrapped around you. The weight pulled you deeper, like a tide dragging you under, but you couldn’t summon the energy to fight it. Your body was too tired, your mind too spent, and so you simply let yourself sink into the waiting quiet, waiting for nothing in particular, only the endless passing of time.

Cregan’s footsteps echoed through the stone corridor, quick and determined. The chill of Winterfell’s air was sharp, seeping through the heavy walls, but he barely noticed it. His thoughts were focused elsewhere, running over what needed to be done and how little he could seem to do to ease the storm inside you. Each step carried the weight of his resolve, even as his chest tightened with the ache of seeing you as you were—exhausted, hollow, a shadow of the woman who had once met life with unshakable strength.

He reached the servants’ quarters, his broad frame filling the doorway as his voice broke the relative quiet of the space. “Prepare a bath,” he ordered, his tone low but firm, brooking no hesitation. “And make sure it’s hot. Bring fresh linens, too.” He paused for a moment, his hand pressing briefly against the rough stone wall beside him as he steadied himself. “And food,” he added, glancing between the startled faces of the servants. “Simple, but warm—and enough to sustain her.”

The urgency in his voice was tempered by the restraint he’d forced upon himself. He didn’t bark the commands, but the sharp edges of his words made it clear how quickly he expected them to act. The servants, accustomed to the steady, measured demeanor of their lord, exchanged quick glances before hurrying to carry out his instructions.

Cregan lingered for a moment as the scurry of footsteps and murmured acknowledgments faded down the hall. He stayed still, his hand curling into a loose fist at his side, his breathing measured but heavy. The weight of the past days bore down on him like the snowdrifts against Winterfell’s walls. He could feel the strain of it in his chest, in his shoulders, in the way his jaw ached from holding his emotions in check.

He replayed the image of you sitting on the edge of the bed, your shoulders slumped under a grief that seemed to consume you whole. The tremble in your hands, the distant look in your eyes—it was enough to twist something deep inside him, a pain he couldn’t name and couldn’t shake. But he couldn’t allow himself to falter. Not now.

Straightening, he turned on his heel, his boots striking the floor with purpose as he made his way back through the dimly lit corridors. His thoughts remained focused, calculating what else could be done to make this moment, this night, a little less unbearable for you. He couldn’t take away the grief or the pain, but he could ease the harsh edges of it, if only for a little while.

When he passed another servant, he stopped briefly, his voice softer but no less insistent. “Make sure there’s firewood brought to the hearth. I want the chamber warm.” The servant nodded quickly, moving to comply, and Cregan pressed forward, his steps quickening as the ache in his chest deepened.

As he neared the door to your chambers, his hand brushed the rough stone of the wall beside him, grounding himself in its cool solidity. He paused for the briefest of moments, drawing in a breath to steady the emotions that threatened to spill over. The bath would be ready soon, the food prepared and brought, but none of that felt like enough.

Nothing ever felt like enough.

With one final breath, he opened the door quietly, stepping back into the room where you waited, fragile and silent, the weight of your grief filling the air. He didn’t say a word as he crossed the threshold, his steps careful, his presence steady, bringing with him what little he could offer.

The servants were already hard at work preparing the bath, their quiet movements echoing softly in the background, but none of it mattered to Cregan. His eyes found you the moment he stepped into the room, and the sight of you—the broken posture, your head bowed, shoulders slumped—made his breath hitch in his chest.

You sat so still, as though the grief had hollowed you out and left only a fragile shell in its place. Your movements were barely there, faint and withdrawn, blending into the dim shadows that seemed to wrap around you like a second skin. To him, it felt as though you were slipping further away, piece by piece, retreating into a darkness he couldn’t fully reach.

Cregan didn’t speak right away. He didn’t ask you to move, didn’t press you for words or force you to acknowledge him. The silence in the room was heavy, thick with the weight of everything unsaid, but it was yours. It was the only thing you had chosen in days, and he would respect it, even as it clawed at his chest to see you like this.

But respect didn’t mean standing idly by.

He stepped toward the bed, his movements slow and deliberate, each one measured with a care that spoke of his understanding. Your pain was something fragile, delicate, and he approached as though the wrong move might fracture the brittle calm you had managed to hold onto. When he reached you, he knelt down beside the bed, lowering himself to your level.

His hand extended toward yours, palm up—a quiet offering, an invitation to let him in, to let him share some small part of the burden you carried. His fingers lingered, close enough to touch but not forcing contact, allowing you the choice to accept or reject the gesture.

“Let me help you,” he murmured, his voice low, filled with a quiet but unshakable determination. Each word was gentle but carried the full weight of his resolve. He wasn’t asking for much; he wasn’t asking for words or answers. He was simply offering himself.

“I’m not leaving, love,” he continued, his tone soft but firm, the steadiness of it cutting through the stillness. “Not until you’re taken care of.”

There was no flourish to his words, no attempt to dress them up. He had never been a man of many words, but the ones he chose always carried meaning, each syllable weighted with purpose. He couldn’t fix what had been broken, couldn’t mend the wound that had torn through you, but he could do this. He could stay. He could make sure you were cared for, even if you couldn’t bring yourself to do it alone.

His hand stayed where it was, steady and patient, waiting for you to decide.

His words lingered in the air, their quiet warmth brushing against the edges of your sorrow. Cregan didn’t press you, didn’t rush you to respond. Instead, he simply stayed where he was, his steady presence a quiet assurance that you wouldn’t be left adrift in this moment.

After a few breaths, he gently helped you to your feet, his hand firm at your back as he guided you toward the chair by the hearth. “Let’s sit here for a while,” he murmured, his tone calm and patient, as though the rest of the world could wait.

The flames in the hearth flickered faintly, their light casting soft shadows across the walls. You sank into the chair with a heaviness that seemed to seep into your very bones, your gaze falling to the fire as it crackled softly. The minutes stretched on in silence, broken only by the occasional creak of the old floorboards and the muffled sounds of the servants working quietly in the background.

The faint hum of their activity filtered through the stillness. Logs were added to the hearth, the fire growing brighter and stronger, its warmth beginning to fill the room. The linens on the bed were stripped and replaced with fresh ones, their crisp folds smoothed with precision. The rhythmic sound of water being poured into the bath drifted faintly from the adjoining room, mingling with the scent of lavender as steam curled softly into the air.

Time passed slowly, each moment marked by the subtle changes around you. The room grew warmer, the air lighter, as the servants completed their tasks and slipped out with quiet efficiency. Through it all, Cregan remained close, his movements purposeful but unhurried, his gaze flicking to you every so often to ensure you were still with him, still grounded.

When everything was ready, he returned to your side, crouching down beside you. His hand found yours again, his touch steady and sure as he said, “The bath is ready.”

With deliberate care, he helped you to your feet once more. Each step toward the steaming tub was slow, measured, and supported by his arm at your back, his presence grounding you as you moved forward. The weight of exhaustion still clung to you, but the quiet warmth of the room and the promise of rest seemed just within reach.

The room was a haven of comfort, a stark contrast to the cold, oppressive silence that had held you captive for so long. Flickering candlelight danced across the stone walls, casting soft, shifting shadows that softened the room’s edges. The gentle sound of water filling the bath added a steady rhythm to the quiet, a soothing backdrop that eased the weight pressing against your chest. The warmth of the room wrapped around you like a long-forgotten embrace, the promise of relief so close you could almost feel it seeping into your bones.

But it wasn’t just the room that brought this fragile sense of solace. What truly began to thaw the ice that had settled in your heart was Cregan. His presence, steady and grounding, was a force that anchored you without demand or expectation. His eyes, unwavering and filled with a tenderness you hadn’t thought yourself capable of receiving, never left you as he guided you forward. Every movement he made carried with it a quiet purpose, an unspoken promise that you were not alone in this moment.

When you reached the edge of the bath, Cregan’s hand was firm yet gentle against your back, steadying you as you lowered yourself into the water. He moved with the same deliberate care, as though the slightest misstep might shatter the fragile calm that had begun to form around you. The warmth of the water enveloped you immediately, wrapping around your tired body like a soft, tender embrace. The heat seeped into your aching muscles, melting away the tension that had clung to you for days, while the chill rooted in your skin seemed to dissolve into the bath.

Yet, even as the water soothed you, it was Cregan’s presence that truly began to untangle the knot in your chest. His quiet care, his unwavering devotion, and the unspoken promise in his every action brought with them a peace you hadn’t known in what felt like a lifetime.

As you soaked in the warm water, something deep within you began to shift. The tears you’d been holding at bay for so long finally began to fall again. But this time, they were different. They weren’t the sharp, jagged tears of grief that had torn through you in your solitude. These were softer, quieter—tears of relief, of release. They came hesitantly at first, as though testing the safety of the space around you, before flowing freely in an unbroken stream. It was as if the warmth of the water and the quiet strength of Cregan’s presence had unlocked something within you, giving you permission to let go of the pain you had carried for so long.

Cregan didn’t speak as you cried. He didn’t try to comfort you with words or fill the silence with empty platitudes. Instead, his hand rested gently on your shoulder, his touch warm and steady, an anchor amidst the wave of emotions overtaking you. His silence was filled with understanding, speaking louder than anything he could have said.

Cregan moved with deliberate care, his touch light but steady, as though the very act of tending to you required all the patience and gentleness he could muster. He reached for the soft cloth resting at the edge of the tub, dipping it into the warm water before wringing it out with precise, measured motions. His movements were purposeful, each one imbued with the quiet reverence he reserved for the things that mattered most to him—things that needed protecting, things that needed care. And in this moment, nothing mattered more to him than you.

You sat there, unmoving, as though the water had become an extension of the emptiness within you. It felt as though you had become hollow, a presence without weight, without purpose. Your eyes, distant and unfocused, stared into the space beyond the water, seeing nothing, feeling nothing. The grief had settled so deep within you that it had worn you down to a mere shadow of the woman you once were. The person who used to laugh freely, who found joy in the smallest of moments, felt so far removed from you now. It was as though the agony had stolen her away, leaving only an echo, faint and fragile, drifting somewhere beyond your reach.

Cregan’s movements didn’t falter, even as he watched the faint tremble in your hands, the distant look in your eyes. He began at your shoulders, the warm cloth brushing over your skin in soft, soothing strokes. His hand followed the curve of your neck, careful and unhurried, as though afraid that anything more abrupt might fracture the fragile calm around you. The heat of the water and the rhythm of his touch seemed to melt some of the tension in your body, loosening the weight that clung to you, though you still felt adrift.

The silence between you remained unbroken, filled only with the faint crackle of the fire and the soft ripple of water. It wasn’t oppressive; it was gentle, a quiet space where words weren’t needed. Cregan’s hands, rough from years of work yet impossibly tender now, moved down your arm, washing away not just the remnants of the day but the faint traces of neglect that marked your solitude.

When he reached your hands, he paused, his fingers brushing over the places where anxious picking had left their mark. His thumb lingered on those faint lines, his touch featherlight, as if trying to soothe both the physical signs of your grief and the deeper wounds that lay unseen.

He continued with the same deliberate attention, his focus unbroken. The cloth moved down your back, across your legs, each motion slow and purposeful, as though he understood that rushing would rob this moment of its meaning. This wasn’t just about cleansing your body—it was about showing you, without words, that you were still cared for, still seen, even in your most broken state.

As he finished, he set the cloth aside, his hand lingering at the edge of the tub for a moment. His gaze softened as he looked at you, his expression full of unspoken tenderness. “Take your time,” he said quietly, his voice low and steady, a quiet reminder that there was no need to rush, no expectation beyond this moment.

And as the warmth of the water embraced you and the quiet intimacy of his care settled around you, the faintest flicker of something stirred within. It wasn’t enough to mend the hollow ache or restore the woman you once were, but it was a start. For the first time in what felt like forever, the weight of your grief wasn’t all-consuming. In the stillness, in the warmth of the water and the strength of Cregan’s presence, you felt a fragile sense of being held—not by words, but by the simple, steadfast care of someone who refused to let you drift away.

You opened your mouth, desperate to speak, to give voice to the storm tearing through you. But the words wouldn’t come. They caught in your throat, heavy and sharp, refusing to escape no matter how much you willed them to. Every syllable you might have spoken was swallowed by the weight of everything you carried inside—the guilt, the loss, the crushing sense that you had failed not just yourself, but everyone who had ever cared for you.

Your chest tightened, the pressure rising until it felt as though you might shatter under it. Your lips closed again, trembling as the turmoil inside you deepened, the ache in your heart becoming more unbearable with every passing second. The silence stretched on, not a reprieve, but an oppressive reminder of how the words remained out of reach, leaving you trapped, drowning in the depths of your own sorrow.

Cregan, kneeling beside you, felt the subtle shift in your body—the faint tremble of your shoulders, the way your breaths grew shallow and uneven, as though your grief threatened to tear you apart from the inside out. He paused, his hands still resting gently on your back, not pressing, not rushing, but simply waiting. He gave you the space to feel, to process the rawness of the emotions tearing through you, even if you couldn’t find the words to name them.

The room was still, save for the faint crackle of the fire and the soft rhythm of your breathing. The quiet wasn’t empty; it was filled with the weight of your sorrow, heavy and palpable in the air between you. Cregan’s gaze stayed fixed on you, his dark eyes steady and filled with a resolve that didn’t waver.

It was as though, in that silence, he was speaking to you without words, telling you that it was okay to feel this, okay to break. His presence didn’t demand anything of you—there was no impatience, no expectation. Only the quiet assurance that no matter how many tears you shed, no matter how fractured you felt, he would stay.

His hands, roughened from years of labor but impossibly gentle now, remained steady on your back, offering a constant, grounding support. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. He simply stayed, his warmth a quiet contrast to the storm raging within you.

Without a word, Cregan reached for the towel resting beside the tub. His movements were deliberate, his hands steady as he prepared to help you. He extended his hand, firm but careful, guiding you to stand. The water rippled softly as you rose, the warmth slipping away as cool air wrapped around you. Without hesitation, Cregan wrapped the towel around your shoulders, covering you fully before helping you step onto the soft rug beside the tub.

He led you to the nearby stool, lowering you gently into the seat. The towel stayed draped around you as he knelt and began drying you, his hands purposeful and precise. Starting at your shoulders, the soft cloth moved over your skin in slow, even strokes, absorbing the water that clung to you.

He worked silently, dabbing at your arms, your back, your legs, each movement unhurried. When he reached your hands, his touch was impossibly light, the towel brushing carefully over the faint marks left behind by your anxious picking. He dried your feet last, the warmth of the towel a small barrier against the cool air around you.

Once he finished, Cregan reached for the folded nightclothes he had set aside. He unfolded the soft fabric, his hands moving with the same deliberation as he slipped the robe from your shoulders. He held the nightgown open, guiding your arms into the sleeves with gentle care. The fabric fell over you, light and soft against your skin, as he carefully smoothed it into place.

Leaning closer, he adjusted the ties at the neckline, his fingers working deftly but without haste. He paused briefly, ensuring the gown fit comfortably, before retrieving the thicker robe that lay nearby. He draped it over your shoulders, its weight heavier and warmer, securing the belt loosely at your waist.

The room was silent save for the faint crackle of the fire and the rustling of fabric. His hands lingered briefly at the edges of the robe, tucking it into place, before he stepped back. He didn’t speak, his focus solely on ensuring you were fully dressed and shielded from the cold.

You sat still, your gaze fixed downward, the weight in your chest as heavy as ever. A tear slid down your cheek, but you didn’t move to wipe it away. Another followed, your breath hitching as the sobs that had been building broke free once more, shaking your frame.

Cregan knelt again, his hands steady as he adjusted the robe around you, the simple action wordless but full of purpose. When he was done, he rose quietly, leaving the space untouched by words, as if to respect the unspoken weight of the moment. The room held only the sounds of your breathing, uneven and raw, and the faint crackle of the fire as the night stretched on.

As Cregan helped you to the bed, his movements were slow and deliberate. One hand stayed steady at your back, the other guiding you by the arm, each gesture careful, as though ensuring you wouldn’t falter. When you were finally seated, he lingered, his hand resting against you for a moment longer than necessary. His gaze flickered briefly to your face, searching for something—perhaps assurance that you were steady, perhaps something unspoken. He didn’t rise, didn’t retreat. Instead, he knelt before you, his broad frame folding quietly to the floor, his presence grounding without intrusion.

His hands reached for yours, large and warm as they wrapped gently around your trembling fingers. His touch was firm but cautious, like cradling something that had already been cracked too many times. His thumb traced over your knuckles, the slow, deliberate rhythm neither asking nor expecting anything. It was a touch that seemed to say everything he didn’t—an offering without pressure, a steadiness that didn’t waver.

The silence between you was dense, weighted by everything that had been left unsaid, yet it didn’t press for answers. The faint crackle of the fire filled the air, mingling with the sound of your uneven breaths, each inhale and exhale catching on the edge of a sob. Your hands trembled beneath his, the effort of holding yourself together visible in every small movement, threatening to break apart at any moment.

When Cregan finally released your hands, it wasn’t to leave you. He moved quietly, rising to retrieve the small plate of food that had been left on the table beside the bed. Without a word, he brought it closer, setting it gently on the mattress within your reach. His movements were careful, unhurried, as though even this simple act demanded the same precision and attention as everything else he did.

Your gaze fell to the plate, and for a long moment, you simply stared at it. Its simplicity felt almost cruel, a stark contrast to the enormity of what weighed on you. Your hands trembled in your lap, the act of reaching for the plate feeling like an impossible task. When you finally lifted your hand, it hovered uncertainly, your fingers stiff and unfamiliar as they wrapped around the fork with halting movements.

The food sat heavy on your tongue, its taste muted and distant. The mechanical act of chewing felt disconnected, each motion foreign and wrong. When you swallowed, a sharp twist gripped your chest, the weight of the action pressing against you with suffocating force. It wasn’t just the food—it was the reminder that you were still here, still breathing, still alive, when everything inside you felt hollow and undone.

A sob tore from your throat, sudden and raw, breaking the fragile quiet of the room. It came without warning, jagged and unrestrained, and with it came the tears—hot and relentless, spilling down your cheeks in an unending torrent. Each one dragged something deeper, more painful, to the surface, leaving you trembling in their wake.

The plate sat untouched as your body folded in on itself, your hands gripping the edge of the bed as though it might keep you tethered to the ground. The sobs wracked through you, your breaths coming in uneven, shallow gasps, and then the words came—soft, broken, slipping from your lips before you could stop them.

“I failed him…”

The words lingered in the air, cutting and bitter. They twisted in your chest like a blade, the weight of them sharper now that they had been spoken aloud. Saying them didn’t ease the ache—it only made it heavier, more real. The truth of them pressed against you, unrelenting, as though it might suffocate you entirely.

Cregan knelt again, his movements measured as his hands returned to yours. His fingers curled around them, their warmth a quiet counterpoint to the trembling in your own. His grip was steady, firm without being constraining, and his thumb resumed its slow, deliberate strokes across your knuckles. The rhythm was calm, offering no pressure, no demand—only an unspoken reassurance that he wasn’t going anywhere.

“You didn’t fail him,” he said softly, his voice low and even, the words carrying the weight of his certainty. “You loved him. That’s all anyone could ask. And I will love you through this, no matter how long it takes.”

The words hung between you, unshaken and sure. But as they reached you, they didn’t sink into the places they needed to. They echoed faintly in your mind, the edges of them dulled by the roar of guilt that refused to be silenced.

Your gaze lifted to his, and his eyes reflected nothing but tenderness, a love that was steady and unflinching. But in their reflection, all you could see was your own brokenness, your own failings laid bare. The ache in your chest twisted sharper, the weight of your perceived failure pressing harder with every breath.

And in that moment, as your heart shattered once more beneath the unbearable weight of everything you had lost, it felt as though the grief might crush you entirely. It pressed against your chest, unrelenting, a force that hollowed you out further with every passing second. The ache seemed endless, a constant presence that had carved itself so deeply into you that it felt inseparable from who you had become.

But even within the depths of that pain, there was something else—something faint yet immovable. It wasn’t hope, not exactly, nor was it solace. It was Cregan. His hands on yours, his steady presence, the quiet certainty of his care—it didn’t lessen the weight of your sorrow, but it didn’t waver either. It was simply there, an unspoken truth that remained even as the grief threatened to consume you.

It didn’t ease the ache in your chest or silence the voice in your mind that told you you’d failed. But in the pit of your broken heart, you knew his love was unyielding, something that had existed long before this moment and would remain long after. It wasn’t a cure for the grief, but it was steady, something that wouldn’t falter, no matter how deep the sorrow ran. And though you couldn’t yet bear to hold it fully, it lingered, waiting in the quiet.

Cregan sensed the shift in you before you could fully grasp it yourself. His gaze softened, the faintest flicker of understanding reflected in his eyes. He didn’t push, didn’t demand anything from you. His hands remained steady, his touch gentle as his fingers brushed along the curve of your cheek in slow, deliberate strokes. The motion was rhythmic, unhurried, an unspoken promise that he would stay—not to fix you, not to pull you from the depths, but simply to be there, however long it took for the storm inside you to rage.

The plate of food sat nearly untouched on the bed, a quiet acknowledgment of his respect for what you needed in this moment. He made no move to bring it closer, no effort to coax you into eating before you were ready. Instead, he let it rest there, unobtrusive, as though understanding that the weight of even that small act might be too much to bear.

The silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t cold or empty. It was a silence that held no expectations, no pressure. It was gentle, patient—a space that allowed you to exist as you were, unfiltered and raw. In that quiet, there was no demand to explain, no urgency to heal. You could simply be.

And though the grief remained sharp, unyielding in its hold, there was a small comfort in that silence, in his steady presence. It didn’t take away the ache, but it gave you permission to feel it without pretense. To sit in the heaviness of your sorrow without the burden of pretending to carry it differently..

As you sat there, wrapped in the quiet warmth of the room, the rest of the world seemed so far away. Yet the overwhelming weight of everything began to creep back in—a steady, suffocating pressure that settled heavily in your chest. The plate of food that had once felt distant now sat in front of you, an unwelcome reminder of what you had lost, of everything you hadn’t been able to protect. It wasn’t hunger that repelled you—it was what the food represented. The simple act of eating felt trivial, almost offensive, in the face of the emptiness that consumed you. The ache within you was too vast, too deep, to be touched by something so mundane.

Your hand moved almost instinctively, pushing the plate away with a motion so gentle it was barely perceptible. It wasn’t defiance or rejection—it was an admission of what you couldn’t give yourself. You couldn’t force yourself to be whole, couldn’t pretend that eating would fill the void left inside you. The untouched plate sat between you and the world, its presence quietly mocking.

Cregan sat beside the bed, his broad frame still and his posture calm, as though any sudden movement might disturb the fragile balance of the moment. His hands rested lightly on his knees, his thumbs tracing slow circles against the rough fabric of his trousers, his gaze fixed on you. He didn’t try to convince you to eat, didn’t say a word. His silence wasn’t empty—it was full of quiet understanding. There was no expectation in his eyes, no disappointment, only a steady acceptance of what you couldn’t yet bring yourself to do.

He didn’t judge you for it. There was no reproach, no impatience. His gaze, steady and unflinching, carried only a gentle acknowledgment of your pain. In the quiet of that moment, his presence eased the sharp edges of your self-doubt, not by removing them, but by offering a space where you didn’t need to fight against them. He had seen you at your strongest, at your best, and now, as he looked at you, he saw you at your most vulnerable. Even here, raw and fractured, he looked at you with the same certainty, the same unwavering care.

He didn’t reach for you. He didn’t touch you beyond the occasional flicker of his thumb brushing against your hand where it rested near your knee. Yet even without words or gestures, his presence spoke volumes. It wasn’t a love that sought to fix you or erase the weight of your sorrow. It was a love that existed without expectation, without conditions—a love that offered itself freely, regardless of how broken or fragile you felt.

Cregan’s gaze didn’t falter, even as you pushed the plate away, even as your breaths grew uneven under the weight of it all. He sat beside you, offering nothing more than the certainty of his presence, the quiet assurance that you didn’t need to be anything other than what you were. In that silence, his love wrapped around you—not as a solution, but as a quiet anchor, holding you steady when everything else felt like it might slip away.

The tears that had once flowed relentlessly began to slow, though the ache in your chest remained—a constant, gnawing presence. It wasn’t something that could be banished or fixed with time or words. It felt woven into the very fabric of your being, an ache that refused to be soothed.

Cregan rose from his seat beside the bed, his movements deliberate as he reached for the plate that sat untouched. He lifted it gently, carrying it away and placing it back on the small table with care, as though even this small act deserved respect. When he returned, his attention shifted to you. He stood quietly for a moment, his gaze steady and unhurried, silently asking for permission as he helped you lie back against the bed.

He lingered as he pulled the blanket up over you, tucking it lightly against your shoulders before stepping back. Without a word, he began to undress, his movements slow and deliberate, as if the weight of the moment demanded nothing less. Once ready, he slipped beneath the covers beside you, the mattress dipping slightly as he settled into place.

At first, Cregan didn’t reach for you. He allowed the space between you to remain, as though giving you time to decide how close you wanted him to be. When you shifted toward him, seeking his warmth, he responded without hesitation. His arm wrapped carefully around your waist, drawing you closer with quiet purpose. His chest pressed against your back, solid and steady, a barrier between you and the cold emptiness that lingered at the edges of the night.

Though the ache in your chest didn’t fade, with him beside you, it felt a little less suffocating. His presence didn’t erase the grief that had hollowed you out, but it steadied you in a way you hadn’t expected. Slowly, you began to let yourself rest, the weight of his arm and the quiet rhythm of his breath coaxing you into a fragile kind of calm.

Your forehead came to rest gently against his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat grounding you. The rise and fall of his breathing guided your own, slowing the uneven rhythm that grief had imposed. His warmth surrounded you, cocooning you against the chill of sorrow that still lingered in your heart.

Cregan’s arm tightened slightly, his hand resting against your back as though shielding you from the weight of your pain. He didn’t speak or try to fill the silence with empty reassurances. He simply held you, his presence unshaken, offering quiet strength without demand or expectation.

He could feel the tension in your body, the stiffness that came from holding too much inside. The way you tensed against him spoke of the struggle to keep your grief contained, as though letting it spill out would unravel you completely. He wished he could take that weight from you, even for a moment, but he didn’t ask you to let it go. Instead, he held you tighter, his warmth enveloping you, a silent shield against the sorrow that pressed so heavily upon you.

After a long stretch of stillness, Cregan’s voice broke through the quiet. It was soft and low, almost as if he were speaking to himself. His words carried a thoughtfulness, the weight of a memory he had been holding close, now offered to you in the stillness of the night.

“I remember a time when I was a boy,” he began, his voice low and tinged with nostalgia. “It was a winter, much like this one. We were up in the mountains with my father. The cold was so sharp, so bitter, that even the wolves sought shelter in the trees.” He paused, his fingers gently tracing a slow, absent rhythm on your arm, as if anchoring himself in the memory. “We were hunting, tracking a stag, but my father—he always taught me that you don’t chase after something just because it’s there. You have to be patient. You wait for the right moment.”

His words hung in the air, deliberate and weighted, as though each one carried more than just a memory. It wasn’t about the hunt, or the bitter cold—it was about something deeper. About waiting. About endurance. About knowing that some things take time, even when the waiting feels unbearable, even when the pain seems endless.

You kept your gaze on him, watching as the memory unfolded in his eyes. It wasn’t just the words he spoke—it was the way he offered them, the quiet conviction in his tone. A simple story, yet it carried the quiet strength of patience and resilience, a lesson that reached beyond the moment. It wasn’t about fixing what was broken. It was about surviving. Enduring. And as you listened, you began to understand that this was a truth he had carried with him for a long time—a truth he was now sharing with you.

Cregan’s voice softened even further as he paused, the weight of his words settling into the quiet around you. His hand rested lightly against your back, steady and warm, as though trying to shield you from the storm of your thoughts. His gaze met yours for a moment, unflinching, before drifting away again as he spoke.

“I didn’t get it then, not fully,” he murmured, his tone thoughtful, each word carefully chosen. “But now… now, I think I do.” He exhaled softly, his breath brushing gently against your face, the realization in his words carrying the weight of years. “There are moments in life that feel like they’ll break us. Moments where we feel like we’re lost, as though nothing we do will ever be enough. And in those moments, it’s not what we do to fix it that matters most. It’s how we endure. How we wait through the pain, knowing that, eventually, it will pass. It’s about having the patience to let the hurt come—and the patience to let it leave when it’s ready.”

Cregan’s next words came slowly, each one deliberate, heavy with the weight of his love and the quiet strength he offered. It was as though he were trying to bridge the chasm between your pain and his desire to hold you together, even in the brokenness that surrounded you.

“I won’t pretend to understand the full depth of your sorrow, or the weight that rests in your heart,” he said, his voice low and steady, thick with meaning. The tenderness in his tone was undeniable, each word chosen with care. “But I do know this—you are not carrying it alone.”

He paused, letting the words settle between you. They hung in the air like a fragile thread, something so delicate yet so vital, connecting the raw edges of your grief to the steadfastness of his presence. His gaze remained fixed on yours, unwavering, as though willing you to believe him.

“We are here together,” he continued, his voice softer now but no less certain. “And I’ll stay beside you through it all—no matter how long it takes, no matter how much time you need.”

As he spoke, his arm tightened around you, just enough to make his promise tangible, to emphasize the truth of his words. It wasn’t a solution, wasn’t meant to erase the pain that clung to you so fiercely. But it was constant, unyielding—his presence a silent vow to remain with you, no matter the weight of the sorrow that bound you both to this moment.

You could feel the steadiness in his voice, the raw honesty behind each word. It wasn’t just a story he told—it was a promise, woven into the quiet strength of his presence. It was a reminder that grief, with all its weight and anguish, was not something you had to face alone. And though the journey through it would be long—perhaps longer than you could imagine right now—he would wait with you. Just as he had waited patiently that day in the mountains, not rushing the hunt but trusting that, in time, the right moment would come. Cregan understood the power of patience, the way it shaped everything, even in the darkest of times.

The warmth of his body and the quiet strength of his words began to settle in your chest, providing a fragile comfort amidst the storm of your grief. The ache didn’t vanish—it gnawed at you still, sharp and relentless, pulling at the edges of your heart. But his presence offered something more, something small yet significant: a sense that you didn’t have to face this alone. You were still broken, still lost in the enormity of everything you had endured, but in his arms, there was a flicker of solace. Not hope—not yet. But the smallest inkling that, with time, the pieces might begin to mend.

Cregan wouldn’t ask you to hurry through this pain. He wouldn’t demand anything you couldn’t give. He would wait beside you, steady and unwavering, until the day came when the ache didn’t feel so suffocating. He would wait for you to heal, not by rushing you forward but by standing with you through every difficult step.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself rest. You loosened the tight grip you’d kept on your grief, just enough to lean into him, to let his arms hold the weight you no longer could. In this moment, with him, you didn’t have to be strong. You didn’t have to understand what came next. You only had to exist, to breathe, and to trust that in the silence between you, the promise of healing was waiting, just like the moment Cregan had waited for in the mountains.

[rafeskiss]

imgonnagetyouback ! ᥫ᭡

pairing: matt sturniolo x popstar! reader

word count: 2.1k (holy shit)

summary: you are a world renowned popstar, and after a very public breakup with youtuber matt sturniolo, he can’t bare to watch you look hot on stage and know you’re no longer his. he’s determined to get you back.

warnings: smut obvi, p in v, fingering, swearing, use of ‘y/n’, nicknames (baby), overstimulation, unprotected sex (don’t be fucking stupid), matt calling reader ‘slutty’, probably more i can’t think of

authors note: I HAVE RETURNED!! i have come back from like a two month long hiatus (HIATUS??? DONT USE BIG WORDS MATTTT) to bring you guys the much requested imgonnagetyouback inspired fic featuring popstar! reader! in my mind i see popstar! reader as sabrina carpenter/madison beer type, not necessarily looks wise just their presence. anyways i love ya and thank u for all the kind words on pretty voice :(((

you walked around stage with more confidence then ever. you questioned if fake confidence still counts as confidence, but nobody seemed to know that you’re faking it. it had been 2 weeks since your breakup with matt, and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t wreck you. but you don’t want to ruin the fans experience while you’re on tour, so you maintained your confident-happy-seductive-popstar act.

you were considered the new it girl of pop music. even though you were at your worst, you were getting a lot of attention. most questions fans asked you were about the breakup, but you were trending on twitter for a week straight. fans were making sad breakup edits and update accounts were notifying everyone about the latest stuff regarding the breakup.

because of those update accounts, you knew that matt and his brothers were at your show tonight. you didn’t know why, and even though it made you sick, you got up on the stage and shook your ass and sang your little heart out.

you wore a short lilac skirt, the one that fits you like skin. it drive matt crazy; the way it matched your skin tone so perfectly and accentuated your curves. you were a humble girl, but there were times you knew just how hot you were.

you felt bittersweet about this being the last stop of your tour. you were excited you could rest and grieve and mourn your ended relationship. but you were sad because of the happiness you did feel at one point performing to your fans and the family you created with your band.

with it being the last stop of tour, your team is throwing a little party at some club nearby the venue in seattle. it was planned for weeks now, and at the time you planned it, you added matt and his brothers name to the guest list. and you didn’t have the guts to remove it after the breakup, you didn’t even think you needed to because why would he show up? you regret it as you look at him from your spot on stage. he’s standing on the balcony with his brothers, and he looks guilty and mad at the same time. you quickly look away before you became sick, like how you normally feel seeing his face anywhere.

you say your goodbyes to the crowd and walk off stage as confetti shoots from the ceiling. you make your way backstage where your team awaits you, showering you with compliments and praises. the usual ‘you did so great tonight’ shit. matt used to be the first one to compliment you after a show, whispering sweet things in your ear; odd compliments that nobody else would tell you but that’s why they meant so much. you shake the thought of him from your mind as you pray that he won’t attend the party later tonight.

standing at the bar like somethings funny, bubbly.

God didn’t answer your prayers, unfortunately. you stood talking to one of your best friends, madison beer, but instead of keeping eye contact with her as she talks to you, your eyes are on matt. he’s on the other corner of the room by the bar, with his brothers. chris is sipping on a pepsi, nick with a dr. pepper, and matt has nothing in his hands. he glances over to you and goes back to his conversation with chris. he laughs and you wonder what he’s laughing at, you brush it off and engage in your conversation with madison.

fuck. fuck fuck fuck. an endless stream of curse words run through your mind because knowing he’s in the same room as you, at your party, is driving you insane. you wander through the crowds, making small talk but never staying with the same people for long. you sneak a quick look at matt who seems oddly bubbly while he’s talking to some blonde girl. as if he can feel your stare, he looks at you and makes a face. not a disgusted face, but one that reads ‘i see you too.’

an hour or two passes and i see some blonde girl approach him, and i know he wouldn’t *dare*. while we technically can see other people, we were never *not* each others. the blonde girl, who had to have been someone’s plus one cause i know damn well i didn’t invite her, is so obviously flirting with him. how bold of her! he seems uninterested but he’s still talking to her, which makes me feel sick. i hate he still has that effect on me.

say you got somebody, i’ll say i got someone too.

i know it’s petty, but i just want him to know that i can have someone too. i walk up to the first boy that i see, making small talk and his eyes almost pop out of his head when he realizes who i am. i can feel matt’s stare from across the room. i have zero interest in this guy i’m talking to, i just want to piss matt off. i don’t know what the fuck i’m doing. i tell all of my friends that i hate him, but i go fucking crazy when i see him or hear anything about him.

part of me wants to yell at him and curse him out, and the other half wants to take him back to my hotel. your phone is tucked into the neckline of your dress, feeling it vibrate. you smile at the stranger and pull your phone out, matt’s name on your lockscreen. you look over and see him staring at you. it definitely worked, this man is furious.

ten minutes later, you wait in the gender neutral bathroom. you apply more lipgloss in the mirror when matt walks in, quickly locking the door behind him.

“you hate parties,” you mutter as you layer on more mauve lipgloss, looking at his reflection in the mirror.

he shrugs, “yeah, but i don’t hate you.”

you roll your eyes, “well, i hate you.”

he laughs dryly, “yeah? how come you’re here then? in this bathroom with me, with the door locked?” he says, walking up behind you. you can feel his bulge against your ass.

you sigh and turn around, less than an inch of distance between you. “i hate you.”

he nods, “for sure.” he brings his thumb to your glossed lips, smirking. “so pretty.”

before you could even think twice, you’re sitting on the sink, wrapping your legs around matt’s waist, making out. maybe if you were sober you wouldn’t be in this situation, but if you were sober you probably would have wanted it more.

“hate you so much,” you mumble in between sloppy kisses.

“i know,” he mutters. he taps your thighs, signaling for you to spread them more. and of course, you do. he reaches his hand under your dress, pulling your panties to the side. he does all of this without breaking your kiss, too. and to no one’s surprise, you’re soaked.

he looks up at you, “you hate me so much but you’re soaking wet? doesn’t make sense.” he says.

“stop talking,” you whine.

he plunges two fingers into your cunt, and your hand immediately flies to your mouth. while it isn’t out of the ordinary to have sex in a bathroom at a club, you don’t want people to know it’s you.

he uses his other hand and pulls your hand away from your mouth. “let ‘em hear you.”

he continues fingering you until he feels your walls clench down on his fingers, and he pulls them out.

“matt!” you whine.

he nods, “i know, baby.” matt loves to edge you, and it pisses you off.

you roll your eyes and push him away, hopping off the sink. “no, i really do hate you.”

matt rolls his eyes, “oh, here we go again with that bullshit.”

you’re about to unlock the door and walk out of it before matt stops you. he swats your hand away from the door knob and walks closer to you until you’re up against the door.

“off,” he says, tugging at the fabric of your dress. and even though you said you hated him 5 seconds ago, you obey him.

he helps you wiggle out of your dress, you step out of it and slide it across the bathroom.

matt takes his belt off and unbuttons his jeans, you slide his boxers down to his ankles along with his jeans.

you’re still against the door when matt says, “jump.” you quickly obey, wrapping your legs around his hips. he uses the door to help not drop you, and you’re sure your back will hurt and have some bruises after this.

his dick is firmly pressing against your clit, and matt uses one arm to support you and the other to slide his dick inside your entrance. you hadn’t had his cock in a couple months, and it’s like it’s the first time again.

“oh fuck,” he groans. “still so tight. none of the other guys can stretch you like i do, huh?” he whispers into your ear.

“shut up and fuck me already, matt.” you reply bitterly.

“if you say so,” he whispers before bucking his hips into you so hard you think you might have a bruise.

“oh!” you gasp.

matt maintains eye contact with you, “you miss this dick?”

you nod as he continues to fuck into you, the door rattling against you.

“i don’t believe that, use your words, y/n.” he teases.

“i missed— oh fuck, missed your dick,” you whimper.

he pushed you harder against the door behind you so he could use his other hand to rub circles on your clit.

“well, i missed this pussy too. know it missed me back.”

your hole fluttered at his words which made him let out a soft groan. you felt his dick everywhere, in your soul.

he moved his hand away from your clit, leaving you trembling.

“m’back hurts,” you whined as he slid his dick in and out of you.

matt looked at you with sympathy, “i know baby… but we’re in a bathroom cause you’re jus’ so needy, so there’s not much room for me to fuck you like i want.”

this was true.

he rammed into you harder and faster, causing you to let out an almost pornographic shriek.

matt dryly laughed, “sound so pretty. such a pretty voice.”

you knew how much matt loved your career. the most famous pop girl at the moment wrapped around his finger. he loved watching your shows and seeing how all your female fans would bring their boyfriends to a concert and he’d watch their intense stares as you pranced around on stage in nothing but a tiny dress and heels. everyone wanted to fuck you or be you, and he loved that you were his in every way. but after the breakup, he’s gotten angry so of course he has to make up for lost time with a very intense fuck.

he slammed into you and pulled out just as quick, repeating this until he can feel your walls tightening against his lengthy cock.

“c’mon, baby. know your close, give it to me.” he whispered in your ear.

“oh god,” you moaned.

matt stopped fucking you, “s’not my name, baby.”

you whined, “fuck me, matt.” you said, putting emphasis on his name.

he smiled and started pounding into you again. “good job, baby. love when you use that pretty lil voice of yours.”

your nails scratched artwork onto his back, maybe breaking skin but matt didn’t mind at all.

“you gonna cum?” he taunted.

you nodded, “matt!”

“cum for me baby,” he demanded.

“oh god! oh, oh matt!” you said it correctly this time as your orgasm ripped through you. the first genuinely good one in two weeks.

matt didn’t slow down, he stayed fucking you through your orgasm.

“can’t!” you yelled.

matt shook his head, “you can. jus’ gimme one more. one more.”

you shut your eyes tightly gripping onto his back as tight as you can. you start squirming as your next orgasm approaches.

“m’cumming! oh! matt, i’m cumming!”

he nods, “i know baby.”

after you come down from your orgasm high, matt helps you adjust yourself so you look presentable to go back out into your party.

you reapply your lip gloss and run your fingers through your hair, combing them out. you fix your dress while matt hands you your panties.

“well, it was nice seeing you.” you say sweetly, looking at his reflection in the mirror.

“very nice.” he says with a smirk on his face. he adjusts his hair too before unlocking the door and holding it open for you. you’re greeted by a long line of upset faces waiting to use the bathroom.

you and matt make side eye each other as you walk away from the crowd, giggling.

you and matt both know you were never not each others.

[lefteagleblizzard]

ℑ𝔱 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔧𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔞 𝔭𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔨 Mike munroe x male reader

Summary: Emily and Jess sent Mike as a charm offensive to lure you in, a prank to laugh about later. It was supposed to be simple. But somewhere between his teasing words and the way your eyes lit up when you laughed, the lines blurred. Now, with guilt gnawing at his chest and feelings he didn’t anticipate clouding his judgment, Mike faces a choice he’s never had to make.

Tags: Male reader. He/him pronouns are used towards the reader. No use of Y/N. Friends to lovers. Love confession. Lots of angst. Gay smut. Top Mike munroe. Dom Mike Munroe. Bottom male reader. Hate sex. Anal sex.

Words count: 6000

You adjusted the blanket you had draped over Chris, snickering as you admired the crude doodles scrawled across his face. Mustaches, poorly drawn glasses, a pair of devilish horns. With a quick swipe of the marker on the ground, you added your initials near his temple.

You stepped back, biting back a laugh at the masterpiece you contributed to create, before deciding to clean up the empty bottles littered around him and Josh.

Quietly gathering them, you carried the clinking glass to the counter, tossing them in the trash with a satisfying clatter. Just as you turned around, ready to grab the last few items, you bumped into a wall of muscles.

Startled, you took a step back as a hand grabbed your arm to steady you. "Easy there," Mike Munroe said, his voice dripping with amusement. His lips curved into that signature grin of his. "Falling for me already?"

Your initial shock faded, replaced by an eyeroll as you lightly swatted his chest. "In your dreams," you retorted, his hand lingered a moment longer on your arm than necessary.

You crossed your arms as you tilted your head. "What are you even doing down here? I thought you were upstairs with everyone else, not lurking around like a stalker."

Mike chuckled, leaning against the counter again, his arms crossing casually. "I got bored. Figured I'd find better company down here."

You raised an eyebrow, your lips twitching into a smirk. "Better company? You sure you didn't just get lost?"

He laughed, the sound low and warm. "Touché. Guess I deserved that one." His gaze swept over you, noting the way your eyes held a mix of amusement and curiosity. "But seriously, why are you always off by yourself? Not much of a party person?"

His words caught you off guard and for a moment, you didn't know how to respond. It felt like he was really trying to see you.

You tried to play it cool, shrugging lightly. "I'm fine keeping to myself. I just don't really do the whole 'center of attention' thing. Let everyone else have the spotlight."

Mike tilted his head, his smirk softening into something more contemplative. "Must be nice, not caring what people think."

"Who says I don't care?" you countered, raising an eyebrow at him. "I just don't think their approval is worth the effort. That's different."

His grin faltered for a moment, and he gave you a small nod. "Fair point. I guess I could learn a thing or two from you."

You narrowed your eyes at him, studying his expression. "You, learn something? From me? Now that's a first."

"You gotta admit, though, being around people's not all bad. You might even like it if you give it a shot." He laughed while taking a seat right next to you, his knee bumped yours lightly as he leaned in closer, his voice dropping just a notch. "Or maybe you just need the right kind of company."

His tone was teasing, but there was something in his gaze that made your breath catch.

You blinked, the faint blush creeping up your neck betraying the calm expression you tried to maintain.

"You really don't give up, do you?" you muttered, trying to keep your voice steady. The corner of your mouth twitched into a faint smile despite yourself.

"Not when it's worth it," he replied smoothly, his grin softening just slightly. "And I think you're worth it."

You weren't sure what to say, your mind racing as you tried to process the sudden shift in his demeanor.

Mike tilted his head, his grin softening as he studied you. "How has it been this far? Surprised yet?"

You shrugged, letting your eyes wander around the room before returning to him. "Some parts have been better than I expected."

He chuckled, but there was a curious edge to his expression, like he wasn't entirely sure what you meant. "Oh yeah? Like what?"

You hesitated, feeling the weight of his attention settle over you. Right now, he seemed… present, like he was actually listening, waiting for your answer.

"Like this," you said finally, gesturing between the two of you. "Just… talking. Hanging out. I didn't expect anyone to actually care enough to notice me sitting off on my own. Let alone come and bug me about it."

Mike laughed, a short, warm sound. "Hey, I don't bug. I charm. Big difference."

You rolled your eyes, but your smile lingered. "Sure. Whatever you say."

"I mean it, though," you added after a beat, your voice softer now. "I didn't think anyone would bother. Most people just don't pay attention like that."

Mike blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in your tone. He found himself watching you, really watching you, as though he was only now starting to see you clearly.

"They're just idiots." He said finally, his voice quieter than usual.

You laughed, shaking your head. "I don't think it's that. Most people don't really look past what's easy to see. The surface stuff. You're either loud enough or wild enough to keep their attention, or you're invisible."

Mike's chest tightened at that, though he wasn't sure why. He shifted uncomfortably, running a hand through his hair. "What, you think I'm loud and wild?"

You looked at him then, really looked, and something in your gaze made his breath catch. "I think that's what people expect from you," you said evenly. "And you're good at giving them what they want."

Mike froze, the playful smirk sliding off his face as your words hit him like a cold splash of water. He wasn't used to being seen like that, wasn't used to someone actually peeling back the layers instead of just enjoying the show.

"You make it sound like a bad thing," he said eventually, leaning closer to your seated position. His voice lacked its usual confidence and was mostly curious.

"It's not bad," you said, your tone careful, measured. "I just don't think it's all there is to you."

His stomach twisted and he didn't like how much it got to him. He wasn't supposed to care about this, wasn't supposed to let someone dig their way under his skin like this.

You definitely weren’t like the people who laughed at his jokes without really hearing them, or flirted back without getting to know him better.

Mike leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the counter as he searched your face. "You've got me all figured out, huh?" he asked, his voice low, teasing.

You smiled faintly, your gaze steady. "Not all of you. But I see enough."

“And what do you see?” His voice was rough, his throat dry as his heart pounded harder than it should. Tilting his head, he let his grin return—pearly white, handsome, and this time, unmistakably genuine.

You hesitated, as if weighing your words, and he hated how much he cared about what you were going to say next.

"I see someone who works too hard to make people like him," you said softly. "Someone who's always 'on,' like if you stop for a second, someone might see something you don't want them to."

Mike stared at you, his breath catching in his chest. He wanted to laugh it off, to crack a joke, to shift the focus back to you—but he couldn't.

"And I see someone who's better than they think they are," you continued, your voice steady despite the way your eyes softened. "Someone who doesn't have to try so hard to make people like him, because… he's already amazing on his own."

The words hit him like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, he couldn't breathe.

He swallowed hard, trying to find anything to say, but all he could manage was a faint, breathless laugh. "You're full of shit, you know that?"

You Laughed, your eyes crinkling at the corners. "Maybe. But I mean it."

Mike's chest ached in a way that felt almost unbearable and he had to look away, had to glance down at his hands.

When he finally looked back at you, his grin was gone, replaced by a soft smile.

His hand reached out on instinct, brushing against yours where it rested on the counter. The touch was brief, barely there, but it sent a jolt through both of you. You froze, your eyes darting to his and he could see the way your breath caught, the way your lips parted just slightly in surprise.

And then he knew.

He'd been right. You liked him. The signs were all there, subtle but unmistakable. The slight flush creeping up your neck. The nervous energy radiating off you in waves.

He'd seen it a hundred times before.

Emily had pointed it out earlier, half-joking, half-jealous. She called you his little admirer, tone sharp and annoyed.

Mike hadn't responded at the time, brushing it off with a laugh and a shrug.

But now, the idea didn't bother him. If anything, it made him feel that warm, satisfying feeling creep into his veins.

Without thinking, Mike took a step closer, his body shifting into your space like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hand, warm and steady, came up to cradle your cheek, his fingers brushing against your skin with a gentleness that caught even him off guard. Your eyes widened slightly, your breath hitching.

His thumb moved against your cheek, slow and deliberate, as his gaze flickered down to your lips. They looked soft, inviting. All he could see, all he could think about, was you.

He hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest as the weight of what he was about to do hit him. This wasn't part of the plan. He wasn't supposed to feel this way. You weren't supposed to matter. He was just supposed to lure you into the room to let everything unfold.

But then you looked at him, your eyes wide and vulnerable, and all of that he was supposed to care about melted away.

When his lips met yours, it was softer than you expected, tentative in a way that belied the confidence he so often exuded. His lips moved against yours with a warmth that melted the space between you and when you didn't pull away, his hesitation crumbled.

You leaned into him, your hands brushing against his chest before gripping the fabric of his shirt. The quiet, almost nervous gesture sent a spark of heat through him and suddenly the kiss wasn't soft anymore. His other hand moved to your waist, pulling you closer with a sense of urgency.

Mike tilted his head, deepening the kiss, his tongue sliding against your bottom lip before you parted for him.

A low, guttural sound escaped his throat, a sound he didn't realize he could make but that only spurred him on. His grip on you tightened slightly, his fingers pressing into your waist as his lips moved with more fervor, more need. He kissed you like he was trying to consume you, his teeth grazing your bottom lip before soothing it with another deep, heated kiss. You gasped softly against him and he groaned at the sound, his chest tightening with something he couldn't name.

Mike's hand moved from your cheek, his fingers sliding down the side of your neck and across your jawline. He tilted your head slightly, giving himself better access to your mouth and kissed you with a hunger that bordered on desperation.

Your fingers slipped into his hair, tugging lightly, and he broke the kiss, his forehead resting against yours as his breaths came in heavy, uneven bursts.

He pulled away not because he wanted to. It was because he had to. His chest heaved with the effort of catching his breath, his lips red and swollen as he stared at you with wide, conflicted eyes. His hand lingered on your waist, his fingers twitching slightly as though reluctant to let go.

"Meet me later," he said, his voice low and husky, the words practically a purr. A sly grin tugging at his lips. "We can… pick up where we left off. All night long, if you're up for it."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, the heat rising in your cheeks as you nodded, unable to form a coherent response.

Mike stood frozen in place, his lips twitching into a grin that felt more like a reflex than anything real. Your reaction to his words was almost too much for him to handle. He didn't know why he found it so captivating, but he couldn't deny the way his chest tightened at the sight.

He leaned back casually, trying to shake off the unfamiliar weight in his chest, convincing himself it was just the alcohol coursing through him, mixing with the buzz of the evening.

With a quick peck on his cheek, you turned and hurried toward the stairs, your pulse racing as you disappeared from sight.

Mike watched you go, his grin fading as soon as you were out of view, his grip on the counter tightening. Chest rising and falling as he struggled to process what had just happened. The kiss, the way your lips had felt against his was still imprinted in his mind, replaying in vivid, maddening detail.

The guilt clawed at the edges of his thoughts, pulling him back to the reality of the situation. The prank. The stupid, cruel plan he'd agreed to without a second thought.

What the hell was he doing? This wasn't part of the plan. You weren't supposed to be anything more than a target, a prank to laugh about later. But now… now he wasn't so sure. It wasn't just attraction. It was something purer, something he hadn't seen in a long time.

You trusted him.

And God, that made the guilt so much worse.

He sighed, leaning back against the counter as he tried to shake off the nagging guilt tugging at his chest. His cheek still tingled from where your lips had been, and he couldn't help but lift a hand to touch the spot, as if trying to confirm that it had actually happened.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath, his fingers curling into a fist as he dropped his hand back to his side.

The chair he'd been sitting in creaked slightly as he shifted on it, his foot catching on the edge. He cursed under his breath, his nerves shot in a way that he didn't quite understand.

When the door creaked open and you stepped inside, Mike froze. The sight of you made his chest tighten unexpectedly. You looked nervous, hands fidgeting slightly at your sides as you closed the door behind you. You called his name softly, your voice hesitant but warm, and something in him twisted painfully.

"Hey," he said, stepping forward before he could stop himself. His hands reached out, wrapping around yours, and he held them gently, his thumbs brushing over your knuckles.

“I was hoping you'd come," he said, his voice low and sincere and for once, it wasn’t an act.

You smiled at him, that same shy, trusting smile that had been chipping away at his defermes since the moment you bumped into him downstairs.

His hand rested softly against your cheek, and you pressed into it, craving the connection. His thumb brushed lightly over your skin, and the way you closed your eyes for just a moment made his heart ache.

You hesitated, your lips parting as you tried to find the words.

Mike tilted his head slightly, his brows furrowing as his thumb brushed lightly over your skin. "Hey," he murmured softly, his voice low and coaxing. "What is it? You're nervous?"

The tenderness in his voice was enough to push you over the edge. You took a shaky breath, talking in a voice so soft it was almost a whisper.

"I don't know how to explain it, Mike, but I’m glad of being with you."

You glanced away, embarrassed by the weight of your own confession.

Mike's breath hitched and his grip on your cheek faltered. His heart pounded in his chest, guilt clawing at him.

Your gaze lifted to meet his again, your eyes wide and sincere, and it broke something inside him. "You make me feel like I can just… be myself," you said, barely above a whisper now. "Like I'm not invisible for once. And I just wanted you to know that."

You were laying yourself bare, offering him a piece of your heart without hesitation. And all he could think about was how undeserving he was of it.

A broken whisper left his lips that only you managed to catch.

"Get out."

The words were hurried, desperate, and the moment they left his lips, he saw the confusion flicker across your face. He couldn't let you stay, not after you just handed him your trust so freely, so openly. Because he knew what was about to happen, and it would ruin everything.

"Turn around and go," he whispered again too lowly, his voice trembling now.

You stepped back slightly, your brows furrowing as you tried to make sense of his sudden change in demeanor. But before you could say anything, the door swung open and Sam stepped in.

"It’s just a stupid prank," she said, her voice sharp and cutting through the tension as she flickers the lights on and suddenly, the room was filled with laughter and movement as Jess, Emily and the others stepped out from their hiding spots.

Mike watched as your face crumbled, the hurt and humiliation flooding your features. It hit him like a knife to the chest, the raw betrayal in your eyes cutting deeper than he thought possible.

You didn't say anything. You just turned and bolted from the room.

The storm howled outside, the windows rattling against the force of the wind. You blinked awake, your heart racing from the sound of a branch scraping against the glass. The room was dark save for the faint glow of the clock on the nightstand. It read 4:03 AM.

Your chest felt hollow, but your eyes still burned, raw and swollen from the tears that had refused to stop. All night, you'd replayed it in your mind. You'd never felt smaller, more humiliated, more betrayed in your life. You couldn't stay here. Not with them.

Not with him.

Dragging yourself out of bed, every movement felt like wading through quicksand. Your limbs were heavy, weighed down by exhaustion and the emotional toll of the night. Quietly, you packed your bag, stuffing your belongings inside and pulling on your jacket, fumbling with the zipper. Your breath came in shallow bursts as you stood in front of the door, willing yourself to move.

You padded down the stairs, the cabin eerily quiet in the early morning hours. Reaching the bottom step, you spotted the front door, your escape, and quickened your pace. But then, you froze.

There he was.

Mike was slumped over at the kitchen counter, his head resting on one hand, the other loosely holding an empty beer bottle. His clothes were the same ones he'd worn last night, wrinkled and disheveled, his shirt unbuttoned slightly at the collar. Even in sleep, his brow was furrowed, tension radiating from his hunched posture.

Had he stayed up all night? The thought flickered briefly, unbidden, but you shook it away. The floor creaked beneath your foot, and Mike's snores stopped abruptly. His head shot up, bleary eyes locking onto you.

For a moment, neither of you moved. His expression shifted almost immediately, body tensing as realization dawned. He straightened up, setting the bottle down on the counter with a soft clink. "Hey," he said, his voice rough and thick with exhaustion.

You ignored him, your face hard and emotionless as you walked to the door, hands trembling slightly as you pulled on your gloves. Mike shifted awkwardly, running a hand through his hair as his mind scrambled for something to say.

When he noticed you pulling on your gloves, realization hit him like a punch to the gut. "Wait—you're not seriously thinking about going out in this weather, are you?" His voice was sharper than he intended, laced with worry and frustration.

You stiffened, but you didn't stop, your back still turned to him. "I didn't know you cared that much," you said curtly, your tone cold and biting. The words were meant to hurt, and they did.

Mike winced, his jaw tightening as guilt twisted in his chest. He opened his mouth to argue, but the words stuck in his throat. Instead, he stepped closer, lowering his voice as he tried again. "Look, I get it, okay? I screwed up. I shouldn't have—" He stopped, running a hand down his face, visibly frustrated. "I shouldn't have done any of it. It was stupid."

Your breath hitched at his confession, and you squeezed your eyes shut, willing yourself to stay strong. Tears blurred your vision, and you gritted your teeth, hating how vulnerable you felt. Without a word, you grabbed the door handle and yanked it open, the icy wind cutting through the room like a blade.

The cold outside was brutal, an unrelenting force that immediately wrapped itself around you the second you stepped out of the cabin. The icy wind cut against your cheeks, stinging your skin and making your eyes water even more than they already were. Your jacket barely felt like a barrier against the blizzard's ferocity, but you didn't care. You just needed to get away from him, away from the cabin.

Your fists clenched at your sides as you pushed forward, the snow crunching beneath your boots in a steady, determined rhythm.

"Wait!" Mike shouted, panic lacing his voice as he jogged outside. "Holy frosty snowballs, this is an illegal level of cold!" Mike cursed under his breath.

You didn't stop. You didn't even turn around.

"Are you seriously doing this right now? Stop!" He shouted again, louder this time, his voice hoarse as he tried to compete with the howling wind.

His words fell on deaf ears as you marched forward and he groaned audibly, his frustration spilling out as he turned back to grab his jacket. Muttering curses under his breath, he shrugged it on quickly and bolted after you, the icy wind hitting him like a slap to the face.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, squinting against the blizzard as he spotted your figure. You were barely visible now, a dark silhouette against the endless swirl of white. His chest tightened, both from the cold and the fear that he wouldn't reach you in time.

"Hey!" he shouted, his voice cracking as he ran after you. His boots slipped slightly on the snow, but he caught himself. "Stop! Just stop for one damn second!"

You kept moving, your pace quickening as his voice grew closer. The sound of him calling after you only fueled your determination to get as far away as possible. Your breathing was ragged, each exhale visible in the frigid air, but you didn't slow down.

"You're seriously just gonna walk out into a goddamn blizzard because you're mad? You think this is smart? It’s not gonna fix anything!" Mike yelled, his tone rising with frustration.

Still, you didn't respond.

Mike let out a low, guttural groan, frustration and worry tangling together until they made his voice tremble. “For God’s sake, you’re so damn stubborn!” he snapped, his strides lengthening as he hurried to close the gap between you. “Don’t want to talk? Fine. Have it your way. But if you think I’m letting you freeze your ass off out here, think again. You’re not shaking me off that easily!”

You faltered slightly at his words, your steps slowing.

Mike seized on the brief hesitation, his frustration boiling over. "Why can't you just stop for two seconds and let me talk? You think this is easy for me? You think I don't hate myself for what happened?" He yelled again, and this time, his voice cracked as the wind carried his words toward you.

He let out a harsh breath, his boots crunching against the snow as he finally closed the distance between you. "You're not the only one hurting here, alright? But I can't fix it if you won't let me! I can't—" His voice broke completely, and he stopped in his tracks, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath.

Finally, you stopped.

His breath got caught in your throat as you slowly turned around to face him. Your cheeks streaked with tears and your eyes burned with anger and pain.

"What do you want from me, Michael?" you demanded, your voice trembling with emotion. "Forgiveness? Do you have any idea how much you hurt me? You made me feel like I was just some joke to you!"

Mike's chest tightened painfully as your words washed over him. He opened his mouth to respond, but you didn't give him a chance.

"I thought you were different," you continued, your voice breaking as tears streamed down your face. "I was so stupid to think you actually cared."

Mike's heart shattered as he stepped closer, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "No," he said, his voice desperate. "No, that's not—that's not what it was. I didn't mean—fuck, I didn't mean for it to go that far. I was stupid, okay? I was a complete jerk. I care about you so much it scares the shit out of me."

Mike took another step closer, his voice breaking as he said, "I was too busy trying to be the guy everyone expects me to be. I hate myself for it. I hate that I hurt you."

Mike hesitated for a moment before stepping forward, his hands trembling as they cupped your face, his gaze searching yours with a mixture of desperation and guilt that only fueled your anger.

You hated him so much for what he'd done. For how he'd made you feel. But you hated yourself even more for how much you still wanted him, even after everything.

You pushed him hard against his chest, the impact barely moving him but satisfying some small part of your anger, your fists pounding weakly against his chest as fresh tears streamed down your face.

He didn't try to stop you as you hit him again, your blows growing weaker and more frantic. "I hate you," you choked out, your fists still pressed against his chest. "I hate you so much."

"I know," Mike whispered, his voice cracking. When your legs buckled slightly and you leaned into him, he made his choice. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close despite your protests and your body collapsed against him, fists weakly pounding against his chest.

You blinked up at him through a haze of tears, his face impossibly close, every raw emotion laid bare in his expression. It struck you like a blow to the chest. So open, so unguarded it made your heart clench. And then, without warning, he closed the remaining distance and captured your lips in a kiss.

The kiss was sudden, desperate, and completely overwhelming. His lips moved against yours with a fervor that took your breath away.

Instinctively, you pushed against his chest, trying to pull away, trying to cling to the anger and hurt that had protected you.

But he didn't let go.

His hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing away the tears on your cheeks as he deepened the kiss.

And just like that, the walls you'd tried so hard to hold up crumbled. Your hands gripped the fabric of his jacket, pulling him closer as you kissed him back with equal intensity. Every ounce of anger, hurt, and longing you'd felt poured into the kiss, the emotions too strong to keep bottled up any longer.

Mike's arms wrapped around you tightly, his body pressing against yours as the kiss deepened even further.

The kiss deepened, his lips were demanding, bruising, yet reverent. Contradictions that mirrored the knot of fury and desire tangling in your chest. His tongue swept against your lower lip, a plea that demanded no permission but instead undid you entirely. You parted for him and the moment his tongue slipped inside, the fury within you exploded into something hotter, darker, and so much hungrier.

His mouth was intoxicating, his taste faintly smoky from whatever drink had numbed him earlier. You hated it, you hated him—but God, did your body crave him. He tilted your face up, angling himself deeper as his tongue curled against yours in a dance that was equal parts battle and surrender.

You gasped, finally breaking the kiss to pull in a ragged breath. His lips chased yours as he whispered brokenly, "Please. Let me. Let me make this right."

Your fingers curled into his hair, yanking sharply and he groaned into your mouth. The sound hit you low in your stomach, heat pooling where you'd sworn you'd never want him again. Your voice was hoarse, tinged with bitterness and something dangerously close to surrender. "You think a kiss fixes this? That I'll just—"

Mike growled low, cutting you off with another kiss that silenced your protests. His teeth nipped at your bottom lip, sharp enough to sting, before he pulled back just enough to rasp against your mouth, "No. But I'm not stopping until I make you see how sorry I am."

His words made you shudder, the ache of betrayal warring with the raw need coursing through you. You hated him. You loved him. And when his strong hands slid down your sides to grip your waist and pull you flush against him, your body gave up the fight even if your mind hadn't.

The storm raged around you as he dragged you back toward the cabin, each hurried step a clumsy clash of limbs and desperate kisses. Snow clung to your clothes, cold seeping through layers, but the furnace of Mike's body against yours burned away every icy sting. He muttered against your lips, his breath fogging between kisses, "Inside… I swear I'll… fuck, I’m gonna lose a limb out here."

Your lips twitched, an involuntary reaction to the pathetic little joke. He caught the flicker of amusement, his gaze softening and you hated how it warmed you despite everything.

As soon as the cabin door slammed shut behind you, you shoved him hard, slamming him against the door, your hands curling into his jacket as you kissed him with a fury that bordered on violence. He met you with equal intensity, his hands finding your hips and yanking you against him. The solid heat of him, his growing hardness pressing insistently against yours only fueled your anger and your desire.

A groan rumbled in his chest as your teeth scraped against the stubble on his jaw, marking him as he had marked you.

One of your hands tangled in his messy hair, tugging sharply, while the other slipped under his jacket, feeling the taut lines of his body. He was hot, impossibly warm and solid beneath your touch.

When his hands slid to your ass, kneading roughly before lifting you against the door, a sharp gasp escaped your lips. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, the hard press of his length against your clothed entrance making you shiver. His lips found your neck, sucking and biting down the column of your throat until you were arching into him despite yourself.

"You drive me fucking insane." He groaned again, pressing his hips forward as if to prove a point.

His hands were impatient as they worked to undo your belt, his breath ragged and hot against your ear. "Tell me to stop," he murmured, his voice barely audible but shaking with restrained need. "Tell me to stop and I swear I will."

You didn't. The words tangled on your tongue, caught somewhere between defiance and desire. Instead, you let out a choked moan as his hand slipped beneath your waistband.

His touch impatient and unrelenting as he found your entrance, his fingers pressing against you with a sense of urgency. You bit your lip hard, trying to keep quiet, but a small sound escaped as he pushed one finger inside, the stretch sharp and sudden.

"So tight," he muttered, his voice low and wrecked. He added another finger almost immediately, scissoring them quickly, his other hand wrapping around your length and stroking you in time with his movements.

Your head fell back against the wall, a shaky moan escaping before you could stop it, your neck in full display for him and he kissed and bit down every inch of skin he had access to.

You hated how easily he unraveled you, how your body betrayed you with every gasp and shiver.

You didn't respond, couldn't respond. Your hands found his shoulders, gripping tight as he prepped you with a frantic kind of precision, his fingers stretching you faster. He wasn't being gentle, and you didn't want him to be, not right now.

When he finally pulled his fingers away, you felt the loss acutely, but it didn't last long.

Mike cursed under his breath, his fingers moving with a precision that belied the trembling urgency in his touch. His other hand slipped between you, fumbling with his own belt before freeing himself.

He shifted, pressing his hips against yours and you felt the thick length of him brushing against your entrance.

"Say you're mine," he growled, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear as he began to press inside. The stretch was sharp, burning, and you couldn't stop the gasp that escaped you.

"I hate you," you gasped again, your nails digging into his shoulders.

His thrusts were shallow at first, teasing you open, but when you clenched around him, he lost all sense of control. His hips snapped forward, burying himself inside you with a rough, shuddering groan. The sensation was overwhelming, the thick heat of him dragging against your walls in a way that made your breath hitch and your toes curl.

"You hate me?" Mike rasped, his voice a mix of amusement and need as he began to move, each thrust deliberate and punishing. "Then why do you feel so good around me? Why are you squeezing me so tight?"

Your answer was a broken cry, his name fell from your lips, shaky and desperate and the sound drove him even wilder. His hand slid down to grip your thigh, pulling your leg higher around his waist to angle himself deeper, hitting a spot inside you that sent stars exploding behind your eyelids.

"Tell me," he demanded, his voice hoarse as his movements became frantic. "Tell me you're mine."

Your resolve crumbled, your body trembling as his words pushed you closer to the edge. "I'm yours," you gasped, your voice barely audible over the sound of your bodies colliding.

It was all he needed to hear.

Mike's forehead rested against yours as his hips rolled into you, each thrust deep and deliberate, leaving you gasping for air. The stretch of him was overwhelming, his cock filling you so completely it was almost too much to bear, yet not nearly enough.

"Fuck," he hissed, his voice low and guttural as his hands gripped your thighs, spreading you wider beneath him. "You're so goddamn tight. Every time I move, you just—" He groaned, his sentence trailing off into a growl as he thrust harder.

You couldn't speak. The words were trapped somewhere in your throat, tangled with the moans and gasps spilling from your lips.

Mike leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, "I don't deserve you, but fuck if I'm ever letting you go." His voice was hoarse, tinged with awe

You captured his lips in a kiss that was more teeth and tongue than finesse. He groaned into your mouth, his pace faltering for just a moment before he picked it back up, his thrusts growing harder, faster.

"Mike," you gasped, your voice breaking as he hit that perfect spot inside you, the one that made your vision blur and your toes curl. "God, Mike—"

"Yeah?" he panted, his breath hot against your skin as he trailed kisses down your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh. "Tell me. Tell me what you need, babe."

His hand slid between your bodies, his fingers finding your cock and wrapping around it with a firm, practiced grip.

The sensation was almost too much. His hand moved in time with his thrusts. Every pump of his fist, every roll of his hips sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through you, and you could feel yourself hurtling toward the edge.

"Look at me," Mike demanded, his voice rough but commanding. "I want to see you when you come. I want to see how good I make you feel." He murmured, his thumb swiping over the head of your cock and making you cry out.

You forced your eyes open, meeting his gaze, and the intensity there nearly undid you. His pupils were blown wide, his face flushed and his expression was a mix of concentration and raw, unfiltered desire. He looked wrecked, and the knowledge that you were the reason for it sent a thrill through you.

A strangled cry left your mouth as you came, your back arching as your release spilled over Mike's hand and your stomach. The world around you blurred, your vision going white as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you, leaving you trembling and gasping for air.

Mike didn't stop. His movements grew erratic, his thrusts harder and deeper as he chased his own release. The feeling of you tightening around him, your walls fluttering and pulsing, seemed to drive him wild and he let out a low, guttural grunt as he buried himself inside you one last time.

His body tensing as he came, his cock throbbing as he spilled inside you. The heat of him filling you was overwhelming.

His face was buried in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin, and you could feel the rapid beat of his heart against your own.

"Holy shit," he finally muttered, his voice muffled but full of awe. He lifted his head just enough to look at you, a quick peck on your lips before he slowly lowered you down, his hands never leaving your waist.

Your fingers curled around the collar of his jacket, pulling him closer until you could feel the heat of his breath against your lips. The weight of his hand settled on your waist. His other hand cradled your neck, his thumb brushing lightly over the sensitive skin just below your jaw, where a deep, angry bruise bloomed from where his lips had claimed you earlier.

Mike's gaze flickered to the mark, his fingers tracing the edge of it with a tenderness that made your chest tighten. His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to say something, but the words didn't come. Instead, he frowned, his brows knitting together in confusion as you pulled him, guiding him forward in slow, deliberate steps.

"Where are we going?" He said, his voice low and rough, laced with a mix of curiosity and growing desire. His eyes darted between yours and your lips, dark with lust but softened by a flicker of uncertainty.

You smirked, your hand sliding up to cradle the back of his neck, your fingers threading through his hair as you tilted your head. "What, scared I'm leading you into a trap?" you teased, your tone light but edged with challenge.

His lips twitched into a grin, that signature cocky smirk creeping back onto his face.

You leaned in closer, until your noses nearly brushed, your voice dropping to a whisper. "If I wanted to humiliate you, I'd just tell everyone about how you practically begged me to forgive you."

His laugh was breathless, but the sound warmed something deep in your chest. "Yeah, yeah. You got me,” he muttered, stepping closer, his hand finding your waist again like it belonged there.

The tension between you easing just enough for the banter to feel natural again. But the fire in his eyes didn't dim; if anything, it burned hotter, especially as you reached up, your hands cradling his face.

The change in your touch caught him off guard, and his breath hitched slightly as you pulled him closer. He followed your lead without question, his head dipping down as his lips hovered just inches from yours. The warmth of his breath ghosted over your skin.

"I'm still up for what you proposed earlier," you murmured, your voice soft but steady.

Mike's eyes widened briefly, the weight of your words sinking in. His pupils dilated further, his grip on your waist tightening as though to ground himself. "Yeah?" he rasped, his voice husky barely more than a whisper. "You mean—"

"All night long," you interrupted, echoing his earlier words with a sly smile.

The reaction was immediate. A low groan escaped his throat, his lips crashing against yours in a kiss that was as desperate as it was passionate. He didn't hold back this time, his hands roaming your body with urgency.

As you pulled him toward your room, his lips never left yours, his kisses messy and insistent, a tangle of teeth and tongue that made your head spin. He broke the kiss just long enough to rasp, "Lead the way, babe, or I swear I'm just gonna take you right here again."

His hand was so warm as you gripped it, pulling him toward the stairs and he followed without hesitation, his eyes locked on you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

By the time you reached your room and shut the door behind you, he was on you, pressing you back against it as his lips found yours again, his teeth grazing your bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue.

Your fingers tugging at his shirt to yank it over his head. "Don't make me wait any longer." You whispered against his mouth, your voice steady despite the rapid pounding of your heart.

He pushed you down on the bed as he positioned himself above you.

The smirk that tugged at his lips was pure Mike Munroe—cocky, confident, and utterly irresistible. "Wouldn't dream of it," he said, his voice low and rough.

There was something unspoken between you, a fragile truce that held for now. The anger was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but so was the love.

For now, it felt like maybe, you could find your way back to each other.

And maybe that was enough. For now.

Note: if you liked this, please leave a comment. I love reading them <3

[lovingchrissposts]

mama

Warnings: slight swearing, angst? Use of y/n, crying, babies. (Warning to me.) stress, anxiety

Requested: yes but lost the ss

Summary: y/n had a bad day and her kid Destiny isn’t listening so she gets upset and starts to cry in her husbands arm and then her baby starts crying for her, proving her bad feelings wrong.

Dad chris x fem reader

I was sitting on the cold marble tile floor of the bathroom next to our toddler Destiny. She had tan skin, caramel brown curly hair that bounced right above her shoulders with golden brown eyes beaming up at me.

“Baby please just let me put you in the bath? You can play with ducky.” I beg grabbing her rubber duck from the Luke warm bath water and squeezing it making a squeak noise.

“I no no wanna mama.” Destiny yells and sits on the floor starting to have a tantrum. “Destiny, please sweetie. Mommy’s had a long day.” I sigh running my hands through my brown hair down my shoulders.

Destiny looks at me with a sad expression and i take a deep breath trying not to snap at her. “Honey.” I say putting my hands under her arms and lifting her up but she just kicks her arms and legs at me making me set her back down.

She starts to scream and cry before I hear the front door open and it’s my husband Chris coming home from work. “Okay, okay, shhh..” I whisper starting to feel tears prick at my eyes.

She’s never been like this.

I hear the door open and I look up to see my husband standing in the door frame, still in his work suit his hair a little messy. “Hey mama, hey destiny how’s my baby?” Chris whispers bending down and kisses my cheek.

I look up at him and he sees the tears in my eyes knowing I’m exhausted and need a break.

Chris swooped up destiny into his arms flying her around. “Is this my favorite little girl?” Chris asks smiling at destiny and looks at me and moves his head to the side motioning for me thst it’s okay for me to go.

“Dada!” Destiny yells giggling and holding onto Chris.

Her giggles echo through my head as I walk into me and Chris’s bed room and into our master bathroom. I walk up to the mirror and reach for my cotton pads and micellar water to remove my makeup.

I finish taking off my makeup and get a quick shower. I couldnt stop over thinking and stressing over everything that was going on. I just feel like I wasn’t fit for taking care of a fucking child.

I get out of the shower and put on a satin spaghetti sleeve night gown before leaving the bathroom and getting in on the right side of me and Chris’s shared bed.

I pull the covers up to the dip in mh waist and laying on my side. A few minutes go by and the door quietly opens and Chris walks in straight to the closet to change.

He walks out s few minutes later in just a pair of boxers and no shirt. Without either of us saying a word he gets in bed behind me and spoons me from behind.

“Im right here. It’s okay,” he whispers into my ear resting his head on my shoulder with his lips right next to my cheek.

I feel my emotions start to get the best of my and my throat tightens as my warm tears spill out of my eyes making me sniffle gently and grab Chris’s hand.

“Oh y/n.” Chris gently whispers and rolls me over so I’m facing him. He takes my face in his hands.

“I-I don’t-“ I start to stay but he shushes me and presses his finger to my lips. “Shhh.. ma, it’s okay. I’m right here.”

I nod and sniffle shutting my eyes. “Look at me y/n” Chris states in a gentle tone so i look up at him. “You’re okay, just relax. I’m right here.” He whispers kissing my forehead and i sniffle dipping my head into his chest and closing my eyes.

I feel his fingers rub my waist and the small of my back through my loose night gown.

After a few minutes I’m calmed down and Chris pulls back to look at me. “Alright, why don’t you tell me what’s wrong baby.” He says reaching onto my bed side table to grab a hair tie because I always get hot after crying.

“Thanks,” I whisper and tie my hair back looking up at him. He just smiles down at me and rubs my waist waiting for me to talk.

“I just feel like Destiny prefers you over me all the time. I wouldn’t care but it’s getting to the point she won’t listen to me, let me hold her, or anything. She just starts to cry..” I admit looking up at him and he nods his head and wipes the loose tears on my face.

“I understand baby, but she’s 2 and they always go through a phase like this. She still loves you and I do too okay? Don’t forget that.” Chris whispers and kisses my forehead making me smile.

“But what else is wrong, it seems like more than just that.” He says trying to get me to open up. I sigh and look down.

“Im just really stressed.. and I haven’t felt good all day and I’m tired and destiny not listening isn’t helping my case at all.” I admit and sniffle again.

“Y/n,” Chris starts to whisper pulling me on top of him to rest on his chest stroking my back and the ends of my hair.

The water works start again as Destiny starts to cry and I look over at the baby monitor and she’s crying ‘mama..’

Chris sits up with me still laying against him and he looks at the monitor and then smiles back at me.

“Looks like she needs you mama.” Chris whispers into my ear making me sniff away my tears and get off his lap to check on Destiny.

“I’ll be right back” I say with confidence walking out the door as chris chuckles.

I open the door slightly seeing Destiny cuddled up in the corner of her crib wailing and screaming ‘mama’

“Baby, baby im right here.” I whisper walking over and picking her up out of her crib, bouncing her in my arms.

“mama.” Destiny says through tears into my shoulder wrapping her arms around my neck. I take a seat in the chair in her room and look at her

“What’s wrong baby?” I whisper stroking her cheeks to remove the tears off her small pink cheeks.

“why mama crying in bath..?” Destiny asks me with her small baby voice and I laugh softly kissing her cheek.

“Oh don’t worry about mama, i was really tired.” I say exaggerating not wanting her to worry.

“Oh otay.” she whispers back to me and pointing back to her crib.

I smile softly and lay her down. “Get some good sleep for mama okag baby? Me and daddy are right down the hall.” I say making her feel comforted.

“Otay.” She whispers and cuddles her stuffed animal that’s a monkey Chris gave her from when he was a kid.

“Love you, little monkey. Get some good rest. Holler if you need me.” I whisper closing her door as I walk out gently.

I make my way back to me and Chris’s room seeing Chris fully awake on the bed on his side. I crawl back into bed next to him and he puts his arm on my waist and looks down at me with his signature smirk.

“You look pretty tonight.” He whispers to me making me get butterflies

“Christoper. Not tonight I’m too tired I’m sorry.” I say turning him down softly and he sighs. “Fine, shoulda saw that coming.” He says chuckling, leaning down to kiss me and I gently kiss his lips before cuddling into his arms falling asleep.

I love my family.

Taglist (request to be on!!): @b2cute @luverboychris @st7rnioioss @i-tothe-d-tothe-k

[blackdollette]

calling all mgg fans:

i just watched 68 kill and it's safe to say that i want chip's dick so far down my throat that it leaves bruises (aesthetically ofc).

the point is, i really want to start writing for him but just want to know how many ppl have watched the film and love chip as much as I do.

xoxo, olivia.

[l0relaii]

🏈! Back at it again!!!

What if after a disappointing game Matt comes home totally livid. He has funny ways dealing with stress. It could've been a nap, a quiet stroll to the park with you, or vent out his problems

No, no! It's actually stuffing his face between your thighs, his biceps tense each time you tug on his curls and fights back with determination. He'll keep going until he's pussy drunk !

Once his little frenzy is over, it's like every sense of compassion returns in Matt's eyes. Totally oblivious as if he didn't had a whole feast. "So movie?" He delivered one heartfelt kiss on your cilt

you always went to his games. well, almost always

and today was one of those days. you needed to study and finish a project with some friends so you couldn't go with him

you had expected at least a text from your boyfriend telling you how the game went after you knew it was over

but that text never came, so you decided to call him, but he didn't pick up

that evening you paced nervously around the living room waiting for him worried that something had happened to him

what if he got injured?

then the sound of the door opening and closing loudly startled you

matt came in through the door, his expression blank

"oh my god matt, what the fuck happened? why didn't answer any of my texts or calls?? i was so worried!!"

he doesn't respond to you, instead he throws his jacket on the floor strolling towards you

you step back until the back of your knees hit the edge of the couch and you fall back on it

matt doesn't waste any second getting down on his knees between your legs dragging your shorts and underwear down your thighs

your hand shoots up to his cheek urging him to look up at you. he avoids eye contact at first but when your gazes do lock you see it.

the disappointment. the sadness. the anger

"donchu wanna talk about what happened first..?"

"i- no, please- please i need this-"

"okay"

that's all the confirmation he needs to lift your knees on his shoulders and dive his head down onto your heat

his pace is fast, rough, he nibbles softly of your skin making you hiss and munches down on your swollen nub

everything is so different from his usual gentle movements

your hand tugs at his curls trying to push his head away a bit but all you do instead is elicit a low growl from him, his grip on your thighs tightening

it was rare that you got to see him like this.

the only times he would act this way was when he was angry or frustrated

then it all clicked. he lost the game

his pace becomes more and more frantic as he feels you getting closer, your thighs tightening around his head being a clear indication of your orgasm approaching

after you are done you feel his tense muscles relaxing like he's melting into you.

he leans his head down on your lower belly closing his eyes for a moment trying to slow down his breathing, the feeling of your own rapid breaths soothing him

after he seems to snap out of whatever trance he was in he starts trailing kisses all over your lower body, on every inch of skin he nipped in his frenzy, on your puffy clit that he munched on, on your thighs which were covered in some bite marks

he lifts his head up and you can see all the anger is gone, replaced by a relaxed soft look

"wanna watch a movie?"

"only if you tell me what happened first"

he sits up from the floor disappearing into the bathroom for a moment, coming back with a damp washcloth that he cleans you up with

after you get dressed he cuddles close into your side sighing deeply before giving you your long awaited explanation, which you already suspected, his team had lost the game

but it didn't matter now, not anymore, because he was here with you

[z0mb1epuzzy]

stumbled upon your blog and im obsessed to say the least. ur hcs awakened something in me.

OK so OBVIOUSLY all the ud guys are fairly muscular, but imagine the lodge during the summer & everyone was swimming, honestly just enjoying the heat n water n booze (lawl)

how do u think they’d react if they saw you staring? like just enamored with them n their body glistening in the sun

sorry if i sound insane but i need to see your opinion on this :3

HII ANON!! i’m so happy u like my blog omg!!!!! also love 2 see another :3 user in the year of our lord(markiplier), 2024

my thoughts on this…. mmnghh sweaty drunk buff boys hngh. sorry that was so vile BUT I’ll address them all individually…

contains: Chris, Josh, Mike, & Matt

.✭..✭..✭..✭. .✭..✭..✭..✭.

.✭ Chris Hartley

starting w chris bc he is in fact my everything… it would depend on how drunk he is, he’d either get super embarrassed or start fake flexing at you.. like a “you enjoying the gun show?” with that stupid smile i need him.. it would also depend on if you’ve ever previously seen chris without his usual layers, or if the pool was the first time…he’d be a bit embarrassed, but kinda “cocky” about it, (insert the “i could bench like… two hundred!” deleted voice line.)

(def check out my sleeper build! chris hcs!!! if ur into that!!!)

.✭ Josh Washington

next josh!! he’s more generally confident imo, controversial take, but i see him as MORE confident than mike in a way, but if he saw you staring, he’d give you a flirty little grin regardless of if he was drunk or not.. but drunk josh would totally tease you a little more, it’s half-coherent and slurred, but you can get the gist?? maybe??

“hey gorgeous, you can look aaallll you want..” type shit

.✭ Mike Munroe

mike… we all know mike is hot, he is canonically hot, i too would commit atrocities for a chance to hop on his cream canon… but dear god him in the pool… oh my… oh me oh my… his big arms flexing DEAR GOD.

that being said, if he catches you staring, i don’t think he’d make it obvious that he knows, but he’d definitely flex his arms a lil just to watch your reactions.. and tease you about it later, obviously

mike is one of those dudes to throw someone in the pool to flirt btw

I NEED TO SEE THIS MAN SHIRTLESS BC HIM IN HIS TANKTOP IS ALREADY DOINF THINGS TI ME.

anyway….

.✭ Matt Taylor

now Matt..…

he’s a little more of a difficult case because he’s less cocky than mike or even chris (jokingly), but he’s attractive!

it’s hard to tell if he’d be the macho guy, threatening to throw you into the pool to mess with you, or if he’d actually be really respectful about it?

that being said, if he caught you staring, he’d be a little flustered!!! but he’d def try to play it off, not WELL but the effort is there!? “Hey, you make a habit of staring? uh.. look all you want, i’m flattered.” (his personality is so hard for me to write i am so sorry 😖)

.✭..✭..✭..✭. .✭..✭..✭..✭.

chat can we pretend that this isn’t another one that i wrote a month ago and it went to drafts instead of posting… 🤨

also how do we feel about the formatting on this one!?? i thought the little stars would be cutie…

[liiixsturniolos]

Drunk Matt confesses his love for you after being friends for years

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ three summers ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ { short }

'MATT STURNIOLO X READER

warnings: fluff, mentions of alcohol,

'I've loved you three summers now, honey, but I want 'em all'

You wander into the party. Usually you wouldn't even be at a party, you hated to leave the house, but since it was your best friends birthday you were happy to be there.

"Hey malia! Happy birthday, darlin!" You say to your best friend and hand her a gift and walk over to the drinks table, taking a shot.

Over in the corner, you can see Matt. He's slumped on the couch with a cup in his hand. You stroll over to him,

"Hi Matt." You say

He smiles to you. "Hey.." he says in a drunk, slow voice.

You giggle at him, "Are you drunk?" Matt rarely ever got drunk,

"Noooo..." he lies.

"Hahah, yes you are." You say to him.

"Oh my god! I love this song!" You scream out, as lover - taylor swift plays. "Come dance with me, Matt!"

"I'm good thanks." He chuckles

"Nooo! Matt, please come on! You've never danced with me." You beg him

He sighs, "Okay.." getting up and sipping his drink.

You walk into the middle of the room and start to dance together. Matt holds you by your waist and looks deeply into your eyes. You start to blush and get scared, he's never looked at you like that before.

You both sway to the song, and he reaches for your hand, holding it gently.

He leans in and kisses you softly, running his hand up your thigh. You kiss him back without thinking.

"Matt, what was that?" You ask him when he finally breaks away from the kiss.

"I love you." He tells you.

"What?" You say in disbelief.

"I do, I've loved you for three summers now." He insists.

"You're drunk." That has to be the only explanation you could think of.

"Besides the point, I love you, and I have for a long time." He mutters into your ear.

You froze up, this was real, he meant It, you never knew he'd felt the same all this time.

"I love you too." You whisper.

I hope u enjoyed! please request anything u want me to write in my inbox ty! comment + like if you liked this!!

[baileysturnz]

𓂸𝘣𝘧!𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵 𝘹 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳!𝘨𝘧 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘺 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘰𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳❥

𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌: 𝖥𝖫𝖴𝖥𝖥, 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗉𝖾𝗍 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌 (𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒, 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍, 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗒 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅...), 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍!𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋!𝗀𝖿, 𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖸/𝖭, 𝗌𝗎𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌

𝖺/𝗇: 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗒 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿! 𝗆𝗒 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝗋𝖻 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖸/𝖭 𝗂 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾. english is not my first language

have a good read!

ꨄ𑁍シ

y/n and matt found themselves on a rainy day in y/n’s apartment. their limbs intertwined on y/n’s couch. they were watching a tv show, those old sitcoms from the 2000s.

“we should do something” matt suggested. y/n got up from her spot on matt’s chest. “what would you like?” she asked with bright eyes looking at matt. “well i know you’re pretty damn sure about what i wanna do”. matt teased with a grin. “matt!” y/n hits him in the arm.

matt sits up. “no but really what could we do?” Y/n asks. “bake something?” matt suggests. “yes! ive been wanting to bake some cinnamon rolls”. “yeah, lets do it sweetheart”.

matt and y/n got up from the couch and went into the kitchen. they gathered all the ingredients and y/n started putting all of the ingredients for the batter in a bowl.

“matt”. y/n says not looking away from the recipe. “can you get me some vanilla extract please?”. “ofcourse baby” matt says as he goes to search for it.

y/n is still stiring and reading the recipe while matt sneaks up behind her and puts his arms around her waist.

“hows that looking, pretty girl?”. he asks kissing her neck. “really delicious” “here”. y/n says as she puts flour on her finger and pokes matts nose. “hey!”. matt exclaims stepping away from her laughing. y/n giggles. “really funny right”. matt grabs a handfull of flour and throws it at her face. she gasps and laughs. “oh youre so done”. she grabs another handfull and chases him through the kitchen. matts stops her and kisses y/n

after a little while the y/n and matt finished the cinnamon rolls and put them in the oven.

“i think we need to have a little time in the bedroom”. matt suggested. “matt!” she giggled as he picked her up and placed on the counter. he placed a trail off kisses from her jawline to her neck and chest.

safe to say the cinnamons came out a little burnt..

ꨄ𑁍シ

a/n: OMFG my first fic! if yall have any request id be honored to do them and if you guys have feedback on my fic pls tell me. im kinda proud of how this turned out to be my first fic. thank you for 21 followers!

𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘦𝘯𝘴

𝖻𝖺𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗒 シ♥

[nerd-space]

The first time the characters have sex I imagine is quite different from the 'normal way' or what they usually do. Like, I think Josh is not the "romantic" type in that setting (maybe after), but just brutal. I think Mike doesn't really do well the first time (a little awkward, don't come after me), but this is just the first time, right? Chris is SUPER romantic, but also quite awkward the first time, not really knowing what you like and stuff. In that section, I think Mike and Chris is quite alike. I'll put Matt in that category too.

I just think Josh will go all the way, and learn everything about you SOOOOOO fast compared to the others.

THIS IS SO CUTE SO LIKE FIRST TIME HAVING SEX THING?? HEHEHEH I LOVE THIS IDEA

i'm going to be writting this as in they are virgins and they lose their virginity to you, someone with a little more experience since it would definitely make the boys that awkward like you said and because writting from my point of view ( non virgin ) is quite difficult lol.

Virgin!UTD men with experienced reader!

( Mike might be a bit ooc cuz he is a plaaaaayboy 🥲 )

Josh

- i think he is going to be the freakiest virgin known to man, he watches porn and makes it very obvious and talks about it. He hypes himself up so much about it no one thinks he's a virgin for god sake

- But then you come along telling him he could put his hype to the test with you and he agrees without hesitation- despite his tone seeming mildly nervous. He takes the lead with pushing you against the door of your room after you close it, hot and heavy making out. It's actually pretty good first time around, his hands resting on your throat while his tongue is down your throat.

- his hand traveling down to unbutton your jeans and slip a hand down to trail two fingers through your core, the wetness from just making out makes Josh moean breathily into your throat while he marks and kisses down it Not overly romantic but not completely uncaring about his actions either, he tugs your jeans down and picks you up with ease as he throws you onto the edge of the bed- forcefully spreading your legs apart to get a good view of the damp spot on your underwear :')

- once you're actually getting to the fucking part he is surpisingly good with his hips, he leans in by your head and in a very deep tone tells you "You..you..know.. i... kinda.. practiced for you.. with a fleshlight?... held it down like i would hold.. you down.. and just fucked it until i couldnt?..." moaning the words into your neck with the filthies voice. Making sure you know just how much he wants you by speaking filthy incoherent nonsense while he fucks you at an unbelievably deep angle

- afterwards he looks at you and laughs and goes "You know what's hilarious...that was the first time i've ever fucked someone-" and you're looking at him completely baffled and amazed.. then leading to another round of you showing him what you can do.

Chris

- I'm gonna be real i think Chris would be awkward and be fine admitting he's a virgin at the start but i think he's a secret freak like.. Josh or more levels of freak i thinm he watches porn way too much 😭😭 like him and Josh probably send eachother porn they think the other would be into

- Chris is so fucking shakey and nervous when you ask him if he wants some experience, but noticing how nervous he is you assure him its fine if he doesn't but he immediately retorts with "No!no.. well.. yes- i-... please?..." you look at him with a surpised grin, taking his hand and leading him to your room and pushing him to sit on the edge of your bed slinging a leg over his hip with your thigh between his legs you lean down to kiss him, but stopping beforehand and asking him if you can and without hesitation he grabs your face with two hands and kisses you, its messy and rough but it's so hot. his hand leads down to your hips as he falls back onto the bed, dragging you down with him, now straddling his hips as your clothed core rests over his very prominent boner.

- ( CHRIS LOVES DRY HUMPING IDC!! ) You try to move forward to climbs over him but his strong hands keep you placed over his hard-on, slightly guiding your hips to grind down on him as he ruts upwards, making the friction dull and needy. you place your hands on his chest and roll your hips down onto his without his help Chris' voice cutting off with heavy breaths and soft sounds. once he gets too needy and too pent up he finally grabs you and flips you onto your back, slotting himself between your legs. Very slowly and deliberately taking your pants and underwear off, but frantically and quickly taking his own off out of desperation. he 100% will rub himself against you in a teasing manner before he slides himself in.

- Chris grabbing a pillow to slot under your hips- finding yourself amazed that this man is a virgin with so much knowledge. he finds that spot so fucking fast and knows he needs to also tend to your clit or else it wont be as fun for you. Finding that he feels close he pulls out, completely put of breath as he whimpers at the sensation- but props himself onto his knees and eats you out just to make sure you finish at least once before he does. groaning and moaning as you pull his hair roughly while he gets you over the edge, finding yourself begging for him to fuck you- his own restraint at an all time low. He fucks you and he fucks you rough, you end up finishing again on his cock while he also finishes, the overstimulation from him eating you out sending you into another orgasm faster than the first, then leading to Chris cumming the hardest he ever has.

Matt

- Awkward virgin with little to no knowledge. Definitely would be more of a submissive guy for his first time, finding he would prefer for someone to inform and lead him, he finds himself insecure over being a virgin but when you propose to help him out he nervously obliges to your question.

- You have to make the first moves, poor boy is so nervous :(. But thinking about having him sit down with his thigh spread while you tease and suck him off, his legs trembling after just a few seconds, embarrassingly close from just a few twists of his cock and some slobber, he whimpers that he's close but when you keep going his voice skyrockets in octave as he grips your hair/head roughly, finishing in under 5 mins :( he feels so bad so he has you lay down so he can take care of you to redeem himself. His fingers softly trailing from your core to your clit, rubbing softly and slowly- almost painfully teasing you, finding your squirming so fucking hot.

- He's quick to learn with his tongue and how to position his fingers, he has a habit of moaning into your pussy bcus he cant get enough of your little sounds and he feels so fucking accomplished. he makes you finish and sucks his fingers while you watch bcus he thinks thats hot lol, and then licks a fat fucking stripe up your stomach and to your nipples, while he slides himself in, gasping into your chest with an iron grip

- he fucks you slow, but sadly cums under a minute :( he will tale a rest and go again though.. many times..

Mike

- Oh poor Mike. oh god where do i start LMFAO, pre-playboy Mike is... by far the most awkward, not exposed to any sexual stuff prior and you cannot beat around the bush when asking him if you can take his virginity, and at first he's like "WHAT?!" and then you coax him into it and maybe you tease the poor boy with some pornos omg.. corrupting him would be so fucking fun.this is my own evil thought that i'll probably write in a different fic thing but.. getting Mike a little tipsy so he's easier to persuade but not pushing him into anything he doesn't want or seems overly nervous to do? yes. god i love thinking of Mike as actually being a loser at heart and not actually being as big of a Playboy as he seems..

- back to the teasing him with pornos but like imagine showing Mike like hardcore porn? like choking kink and its rough and loud and he's just sat staring mouth open with a huge fucking boner he is failing terribly at hiding, tossing your phone and straddling his hips on your bed, grinding against his crotch while he breathes heavy and weakly explains "I-i've never.. um.. i've never actually.. done this before.." and you pushing him onto his back while you dry hump him into cumming in his fucking pants 😵‍💫

- sucking him off and he finishes in under 30 seconds and is embarrassed and acting all cranky and mad about it, lightly pushing you off while he sulks, you quietly undressing behind him on the bed and tapping his shoulder for him to turn around, seeing you naked and splayed making all his anger and frustration with himself dissipate as he slots himself between, i dont see him as someone who would be comfortable eating someone out first time he has sex :') he's a lik stingy alright.

- you ride him, he is guilty of being too inexperienced to feel comfortable on top, but.. he does use his hands on your throat while you ride him, finding your breathless face and voice to be the hottest thing know to man, hence unlocking his choking kink from then on. You take his other hand and show him how to thumb at your clit, he quickly learns that and helps you cum on his cock, himself following quick after

THIS TOOK SO LONG MY APOLOGIES i hope it's as good as you wished if not pls dm with what else you would like in another fic!!