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Description: The life you and Colby shared behind the scenes of the XPLR brand wasn't just a career; it was a slow-motion collision. From the high-pressure, late-night origins in Kansas to the toxic, performative spiral of the LA house, the tension between you was always a wildfire waiting for a spark. When the team tore apart, it left only wreckage. 122 days later, a mandatory investigation into the horrors of Blackwood Asylum serves as the stage for a violent, desperate reclamation of everything that was lost, buried, and broken between you two.
If your names Elena then imagine another name.
The Kansas Kitchen: The Catalyst
It started in that cramped, dimly lit Kansas kitchen—the birthplace of the brand. It was 3:00 AM, the air thick with the smell of stale pizza and the hum of overclocked hardware. Sam was pacing, manic with the dream of moving to LA.
"We go vertical," Sam said, his voice hitting a sharp, excited pitch. "We take the channel, we grind. Y/N, you’re the brains, the backbone. I’m not doing this without you."
Colby was hunched over a CPU case, thermal paste staining his fingers. He went dead still, his jaw locking. He didn't look up, but his voice was a low, strained rasp. "Yeah. Y/N is coming. We don't function as a unit without them." In his head: She’s only saying yes for the work. She’s already looking for a way out, and this is just the easiest way to keep her in sight until she realizes I’m not worth the effort.
Your hand moved to the mouse at the same time his did. Your fingers locked—a pulse of heat that traveled straight to your spine. You turned, and his pupils were blown wide, black voids in the dim light. He was looking at your mouth, his breath hitching, the sound audible over the PC fans.
"Colby," you whispered, a plea for him to finally see you.
He ripped his hand away, his chair screeching against the linoleum. "We’re losing time on the render," he snapped, his voice tight, bordering on a growl. "Finish the project, Y/N. Don't look at me like that. I know you think I'm a mess—you don't have to pity me."
II. The LA Cycle: The Theater of Cruelty
The LA house was a sprawling, hollow monument to the brand, but for you, it was a pressure cooker of unsaid things. Colby used every woman he brought home as a barricade, a way to convince himself that he was unreachable, and therefore, un-losable.
The Elena Incident:
Elena was walking through the kitchen, laughing a little too loudly, her hand draped possessively over Colby’s arm. Colby didn't look at you, but the way he pulled her closer—fingers digging into her shoulder—was an obvious, performative display. When he cornered you in the pantry, he didn't say a word. He stood so close his chest almost brushed your back, forcing you into the corner against the shelves. He slammed his palm against the wood right next to your head, the vibration rattling the pasta boxes. He just stood there, breathing in ragged, uneven hitches, smelling of stale tequila and that desperate, jagged scent of a panic attack held at bay. He didn't look at you, just glared at the wall until his knuckles turned bloodless and white.
You didn't acknowledge him. You didn't even flinch. You squeezed past him, the contact of his arm against your shoulder feeling like a live wire.
Later, from the couch, you heard the low, tense murmur of the guys. Corey was sitting on the edge of his seat, his gaze flicking between you and Colby. "Jesus, man," Corey whispered to Elton, shaking his head. "Look at them. It’s like they’re two magnets forced to repel each other. Colby’s brings Elena in, acting like a complete, arrogant prick just to see if Y/N breaks, and Y/N just... nothing. Y/N acts like the guy doesn't exist. It’s a fucking powder keg."
The David Incident:
When you brought David to the house, the mood shifted from toxic to volcanic. You were standing in the den, David’s arm around your waist. Across the room, at the kitchen island, Colby was standing motionless, his eyes tracking you like a predator watching a deer. He was gripping a tumbler of whiskey so hard his knuckles were bulging, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like the bone might snap. He didn't come over. He didn't confront you. He just stood there, radiating pure, unadulterated, black-hearted rage, his eyes locked onto David’s hand on your waist with enough intensity to burn a hole through the fabric of your shirt.
Elton stood up, noticing the way Colby’s breathing had become shallow and labored. He walked over and placed a firm, steadying hand on Colby’s shoulder, trying to physically pull him out of the spiral. "Colby, man, listen to me. Take a fucking breath. You’re scaring everyone, and David is just a guest. Just walk away before you lose it."
Colby jerked his shoulder away with a violent, jarring shove that nearly sent Elton stumbling into the fridge. He didn't yell at you—he yelled at the room, his eyes wild and bloodshot. "Don't tell me to breathe!" he roared, his voice cracking with a mix of fury and pathetic, raw desperation. "They’re trying to erase me from the equation! You’re all just standing there, watching this like it's a fucking show, waiting for me to be the villain! You're waiting for me to hit rock bottom so you can write me off as the bad guy! Fine! If that’s what you want, keep watching. I'm not going to be the one to blink first!"
He stomped out of the kitchen, slamming the door so hard the framed photos in the hallway rattled off the walls. You stayed in the den, frozen, your heart hammering against your ribs. You hadn't exchanged a single word with him, but the entire room was thick with his misery, the silence screaming louder than any argument ever could.
The Final Argument: Why You Left
The breaking point came on a Tuesday night in the office. You were surrounded by drive arrays, trying to finish a cut. Colby walked in, three drinks deep, his face flushed with a volatile mix of self-loathing and aggression. He didn't say a word, just stood behind you, watching the screen.
"You're cutting it wrong," he snapped, his voice a jagged blade.
"I'm cutting it for the story, Colby. Not for your ego," you replied, your hands not stopping.
He slammed his hands onto the desk, leaning over you, his hot, whiskey-tainted breath hitting your neck. "My ego? You want to talk about ego? You sit there in the dark, judging every move I make, acting like you’re the only person in this house with a soul. You think you're better than me, don't you?"
"I think you’re a coward!" you shouted, finally spinning the chair around to face him. "I think you’re so terrified that someone might actually see you for who you are that you push everyone away before they have the chance to leave you! You don't want a team, Colby! You want an audience that’s too scared to tell you you’re losing your mind!"
"I'm losing my mind because of you!" he roared, grabbing your shoulders, his grip bruising. "Everything I do, every girl I bring home, every fucking risk I take in these houses—it’s all to see if you’ll finally blink! To see if you’ll finally tell me to stop! But you just watch me! You just sit there with that blank, pathetic look on your face like I'm some fucking science experiment!"
"I don't blink because I'm heartbroken, you idiot!" you shrieked, shoving him back. "I watch you because I’m waiting for the person I fell in love with to come back! But he’s not there! You killed him with every lie and every ego trip! I'm not leaving because you're a mess, Colby. I'm leaving because you're destroying the only thing I have left—my respect for you!"
He looked like he’d been struck. His face went ghostly pale, the rage draining out and leaving only a hollow, vibrating desperation. "If you walk out that door," he whispered, his voice cracking, "don't you dare think about coming back. Because I won't be here. I'll be exactly what you think I am."
"Then consider it done," you said, your voice cold as ice. You packed your bags while he stood in the doorway, trembling, unable to look you in the eye.
The Fallout & The 122 Days
Ten minutes after you drove away, the kitchen exploded.
"Are you happy, Colby?" Sam shouted, throwing a piece of equipment onto the table. "They’re gone! Because you couldn't keep your ego in check for five minutes!"
"I don't need them!" Colby screamed, hurling his whiskey glass against the wall. It shattered. "They were just waiting for a reason to leave! I did us a favor!"
"You did yourself a favor!" Sam roared, stepping into his space. "You’ve spent months pushing them, tormenting them, and for what? You’re too much of a coward to say a single word, so you just act like a prick instead? You’ve ruined the dynamic, Colby. You’ve ruined the channel, and you’ve ruined the only person in this house who actually gave a damn about you!"
Corey stepped in, his voice low and dangerous. "He's right, man. Everyone saw you pushing them. You were desperate for them to notice you, and now you’ve just pushed them right out the door. You’re pathetic."
Colby stared at them, chest heaving, eyes wild. "I didn't ruin anything!" he sobbed. "They never cared! They were just waiting for me to be the mess they could finally write off!"
The silence stretched for 122 days. You spent every night in the quiet, the void of the house echoing in your own. Then, at 3:00 AM, your phone lit up. It was Sam.
"Y/N," Sam’s voice was weary, strained. "Look, we’re doing Blackwood Asylum. It’s been months, but we’re at a breaking point. Colby... he’s not the same. He’s a shell of himself. He hasn't left his room in a week, and I don't know how else to get him out. We need you. Just this one, please. For the sake of the team."
Blackwood Asylum: The Reckoning
The air in the Blackwood infirmary was a graveyard of cold, heavy silence, broken only by the erratic clicking of your K-II meter. You and Colby were circling each other like wounded animals, the space between you crackling with the kind of static that usually precedes a lightning strike.
The Investigation
Sam was halfway down the hall, his flashlight beam cutting through the gloom, but you were locked in the infirmary with Colby. Every time you moved to adjust the tripod, he was there—an intrusive, looming presence.
"You're doing it wrong," Colby growled, his voice vibrating through the cramped room. He didn't look at you, but he stood close enough that you could smell the sharp, clean scent of his soap battling the musty, metallic rot of the asylum.
"I’m getting the baseline, Colby," you retorted, refusing to flinch. "If you’re so desperate to play director, go find Sam."
"I don't want Sam!" he exploded, finally turning on you. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and frantic. He slammed his hand against the rusted metal cart, the clang echoing like a gunshot. "I want you to stop acting like I’m a ghost! I’ve been living in a house full of people, and I haven't heard a single word from you in four months. Are you trying to kill me, or just torture me?"
"You killed us, Colby!" you screamed, spinning to face him. "You built a wall of bodies and lies, and you expected me to climb over it?"
"I was drowning!" he roared. He shoved the cart aside, the metal screeching across the floor, and backed you against the heavy iron door of the infirmary. That was when it happened—the latch, long corroded, finally gave up. The door swung shut with a violent, final thud, sealing you into the darkness.
The Reckoning
The silence that followed was suffocating. You were trapped in a space no bigger than a closet, the air thick with the smell of mold and pure, unadulterated desperation.
"Open the door," you breathed, though your heart was hammering against your ribs.
Colby didn't move. He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, his breath hitching. "No. Not until you hear me. Not until you feel how much I've been suffering."
He didn't wait for a response. He seized you, his hands tangling into your hair, his grip tight enough to pull your head back. He kissed you—a violent, bruising collision of teeth and tongue that tasted of salt and absolute, bone-deep need. It was a kiss that demanded everything: an apology, a claim, a plea.
He lifted you effortlessly, your back slamming into the iron door as he hauled you up, your legs locking around his waist. His hands were everywhere—frantic, clumsy with desperation—tearing at your clothes, his palms burning against your skin.
"You think you’re the only one who hurt?" he groaned into your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there, his tongue tracing the pulse that was fluttering wildly. He dragged your shirt up, his calloused thumbs digging into your hips, dragging you flush against him. You could feel the rigid, aching line of him against your stomach, the friction of his jeans against your own damp, throbbing heat.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark, drowning in a mix of fury and adoration. "I want you to feel every second of what you did to me," he rasped.
He didn't bother with foreplay. He pushed inside you in one brutal, agonizingly sweet thrust that made you scream into the dark. It was a collision of skin and sweat, the sound of your bodies slapping against the iron door echoing in the small space. He drove into you, his movements primal and punishing, every stroke a testament to the 122 days of silence he had endured.
You wrapped your arms around his neck, your nails digging into the muscles of his back, your body arching into him with every heavy, rhythmic lunge. He was relentless, his hands gripping your thighs so hard he left vivid bruises, his gaze locked onto yours, forcing you to bear witness to his shattering.
"Look at me!" he growled, his voice cracking as he hit a rhythm that made your vision blur. "You're not leaving. You're never leaving again!"
He reached his peak with a guttural, primal roar that vibrated through your chest, his body shuddering against yours in powerful, wave-like contractions. You climaxed moments later, your body bowing, your voice raw, as you clung to him, the only thing keeping you tethered in the dark.
Slumped against the iron door, the cold seeped into your skin, but you were still burning. Colby’s arms were wrapped around you, his forehead pressed into the crook of your shoulder, his heart hammering against yours like a trapped bird.
"I thought I was going to lose my mind," he whispered, his voice shattered, his lips brushing against your sweat-slicked skin. "Every time I closed my eyes, I saw you walking away. I thought I deserved it. I thought I was just the guy who ruined everything because I was too broken to love you right."
"You were a nightmare," you whispered, stroking the back of his neck, your hands still trembling.
"I know," he choked out, pulling back to look at you, his eyes wet in the dim moonlight filtering through the high window. "I know. But I’m done. No more cameras, no more games. If you want to keep hating me, that’s fine, but you’re going to do it while I’m holding you."
"I don't hate you," you admitted, the words finally breaking free. "I never did. That was the problem."
He pressed his forehead to yours, a shaky, relieved laugh escaping him. "Then let me fix this. Let me spend the rest of my life proving that you were right to stay."
The silence that followed wasn't the heavy, suffocating static of the last four months; it was the quiet of an ending, and a terrifyingly new beginning.
Outside that rusted iron door, the muffled, concerned voice of Sam called out. "Colby? Y/N? You guys okay in there? We heard a bang."
Colby didn't move. He kept you pressed against him, his chest still heaving, his fingers splayed possessively across your back. He rested his forehead against yours, his eyes shut tight, as if he were trying to memorize the feeling of you against him. The smell of the decaying asylum seemed to fade, replaced by the warmth of his skin and the lingering, frantic energy of what you’d just shared.
"Colby?" Sam’s voice grew tighter, more insistent. "We’re going to force the latch if you don't answer."
Colby finally pulled back, just an inch, his eyes focusing on your face with a terrifying, raw intensity. He reached up, his thumb tracing the line of your lower lip, which was swollen and bitten. "They want the show, Y/N," he rasped, his voice barely audible. "They want the footage, the drama, the 'XPLR' brand. Are you ready to tell them?"
You felt the lingering phantom of his touch on your skin, a map of every bruise he’d left behind. You knew what he meant. Walking out of that room meant ending the act. It meant the end of the performative distance, the end of the women brought home like trophies, and the end of the "dynamic" that had kept everyone walking on eggshells for a year.
"Tell them what?" you whispered, your heart still struggling to find its rhythm.
"That I’m not a villain," he said, a jagged edge of insecurity cutting through his calm. "And that you’re not a guest. That we’re not a 'brand' anymore. That we’re just... us."
He didn't wait for your answer. He reached over your shoulder, his hand shaking slightly as he grabbed the rusted latch. With a sharp, sudden movement, he shoved the door open.
The light from Sam’s heavy-duty flashlight flooded the small space, blinding and harsh. Sam and Corey stood there, frozen, their expressions shifting from concern to stunned realization. They didn't have to ask. They saw the way your clothes were disheveled, the way you were still clinging to Colby’s hoodie, and the way Colby was standing—not as a rival, but as a shield, his arm firmly around your waist, pulling you into his side.
"Whoa," Corey breathed, stepping back, his hand falling from the door frame.
Sam’s flashlight beam dipped, scanning the two of you with a mixture of shock and, surprisingly, an immense, weary relief. He looked at the wreckage of the cart Colby had shoved, then back to Colby’s defiant, unwavering glare.
"The infirmary is compromised," Colby said, his voice hard, leaving no room for argument. "We’re done here. We’re heading to the van."
"Colby, man—" Sam started, taking a step forward.
"I said we're done," Colby snapped, but his grip on you tightened, his thumb stroking your hip in a silent, grounding motion. He looked at you, a silent plea for support, for partnership. "We're going home. Not the office. Not the house. Home."
As you walked past Sam and Corey, you felt the eyes of the crew on you. You didn't look back. You didn't care about the footage, or the edit, or the narrative they had spent months building.
Outside, the night air was biting and cold, a sharp contrast to the furnace of the infirmary. You climbed into the backseat of the van, the leather cool against your skin. Colby slid in right behind you, shutting the door with a final, echoing thud that cut off the sounds of the asylum.
He pulled you into his arms, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing finally beginning to steady. For the first time in 122 days, the static in your head stopped. There was no brand, no audience, and no performance. There was just the steady hum of the van engine and the man who had burned his own world down just to see if you were still waiting in the ashes.
"You're not going anywhere," he whispered, his voice vibrating against your skin. It wasn't a demand anymore. It was a promise.
You closed your eyes, leaning into him, and for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe it.
The drive back was a blur of shifting shadows and the monotonous hum of tires on asphalt. The tension that had defined your existence for months had evaporated, replaced by a heavy, profound exhaustion. Colby didn't let go of you for a single second; his hand remained firmly laced through yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles with a rhythmic, hypnotic pressure.
When you pulled into the drive of the house—not the sprawling, hollow set of the LA mansion, but the smaller, quieter place you had retreated to after the breakup—Colby killed the engine. The silence that followed was heavy with the weight of everything that had been said and left unsaid.
He turned to look at you, his eyes searching your face in the dim cabin light. He looked older, the lines around his mouth deeper, the bravado completely stripped away.
"I don't know how to do this," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "I don't know how to be the person you need me to be without falling back into the toxic patterns. I’ve spent so long equating 'passion' with 'destruction' that I’m terrified I’ll wake up tomorrow and try to ruin this, too."
You reached out, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. The vulnerability in his expression was more terrifying than any ghost you’d hunted in the asylum. "Then stop trying to be who you think I need," you said softly. "Just be the person who walked into that Kansas kitchen with a dream and a heart that was actually capable of caring. That’s the version I’ve been waiting for."
He let out a shaky, jagged breath, leaning his forehead against yours. "I’m never letting you walk away again. I meant what I said in there. I’ll burn the brand down if it’s the only way to keep us from becoming... that."
"We don't have to burn anything down, Colby," you replied, though your own voice caught. "We just have to stop letting the cameras decide who we are."
He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours—not the desperate, bruising kiss of the infirmary, but a slow, reverent reclamation. It was a promise of a future that hadn't been scripted or edited for a thumbnail.
As you walked into the house, the atmosphere felt different. The air wasn't thick with the volatile static of the past year. It was just quiet. He led you to the living room, not turning on any lights, just letting the moonlight filter through the windows. He sank onto the sofa, pulling you down into his lap, and simply held you, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his breathing syncing with yours.
"I’m sorry," he mumbled into your skin, his voice muffled. "For all of it. For the girls, for the ego, for the silence. I was a coward."
"You were," you agreed, but there was no bite in it now. You carded your fingers through his hair, feeling the tension drain out of his shoulders. "But you’re here now."
"I'm here," he repeated, gripping your waist as if he were afraid you might dissolve into mist. "I’m not going anywhere."
For a long time, neither of you spoke. You just sat there, listening to the house settle around you, feeling the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart against your chest. The trauma of the last few months—the 122 days of void, the public fallout, the isolation—began to feel like a fever dream you were finally waking up from.
Outside, the world continued to spin, the XPLR brand continued to churn in the digital ether, and the fans continued to speculate. But in that room, in the quiet, you weren't the "brains" or the "backbone" or the "narrative device." You were just Y/N, and he was just Colby.
He lifted his head, his eyes dark and solemn, reflecting the moonlight. "Tomorrow," he said, his voice firm, "we figure out what comes next. We handle Sam, we handle the channel, and we handle the reality of us. But tonight..." He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your pulse point. "Tonight, I just want to know you’re real."
You pulled him closer, the final embers of the long-standing fire between you finally settling into a warm, sustainable glow. You were done with the theater. You were ready for the life that came after the final edit.
The peace lasted exactly until the sun began to bleed over the horizon.
You were stirred awake by the sharp, rhythmic vibration of Colby’s phone on the glass coffee table. He was still dead to the world, his arm a dead-weight across your waist, his breathing deep and even. You didn't mean to look, but the screen flared with a harsh, bright light, illuminating the living room.
SAM: We’ve got a problem. The footage from the infirmary just uploaded to the server automatically. If we don’t get a statement out, or a cut ready, the internet is going to tear us apart by noon. Colby, pick up. We're on our way to your place.
Your heart plummeted. Automatically uploaded.
Colby stirred, his eyes snapping open. He saw the tension in your face, the way you were staring at his phone, and he followed your gaze. When he read the text, the warmth that had softened his features all night vanished, replaced by that cold, sharp-edged hardness you knew so well.
"They're coming here?" you whispered, the reality of the situation hitting you like a physical blow. The "brand" wasn't just going to let you walk away. It was an entity, hungry and relentless.
Colby reached for the phone, his jaw tightening. "Let them come," he hissed, his voice dangerous. "I’m not cutting that footage. I’m destroying the drives."
"Colby, you can't just delete it," you said, sitting up, panic rising in your chest. "If it's already on the server, Sam has access. If you destroy the local drives, you’re just proving to them that there’s something in that footage worth hiding. You’re giving them the narrative."
He stood up, pacing the small living room, his fingers running through his messy hair. He looked like a cornered animal again, the vulnerability of the night before evaporating under the pressure of the looming deadline. "I don't care about the narrative! I care about us! They want to exploit what happened in that room for views? I’ll sue the channel into the ground before I let them turn us into content."
A heavy knock rattled the front door—fast, aggressive, and impatient.
"Colby! Open up!" Sam’s voice boomed from the porch, followed by the sound of tires crunching on the gravel. Corey was with him; you could hear the low, urgent murmur of their voices.
Colby turned toward the door, his hands balled into fists. He looked at you, a flicker of that old, volatile fire in his eyes. "Go to the bedroom," he ordered, his voice low. "Don't let them see you. I’ll handle them."
"You're not 'handling' them alone," you snapped, standing your ground. "If you act like the villain, they’ll treat you like one. Let me talk to them."
"They don't want to hear from you, Y/N! They want to hear that I'm back on board, that the 'dynamic' is fixed, and that we're ready to spin this into a three-part series on the 'Blackwood Asylum Incident'!" He strode toward the door, but you grabbed his arm, spinning him around.
"Is that what you think?" you challenged, your voice trembling with frustration. "That everyone is out to get you? That’s what started this whole mess! If you shut them out again, you’re proving them right. You’re proving that you are the guy who ruins everything. Is that what you want? To be the guy who hides, or the guy who stands up and tells them it's over?"
The pounding on the door intensified.
"Colby! We know you're in there!" Corey shouted. "Sam’s got the lawyers on the phone. We need to know if you're quitting or if we're dealing with a PR nightmare!"
Colby’s face went white. He looked at the door, then back at you. For a second, you saw the fight in him—the urge to lash out, to break something, to push everyone away just to protect the fragile peace you’d found.
He took a jagged breath, his hands shaking as he reached for the deadbolt. "If I open this door," he whispered to you, his voice thick with emotion, "everything changes. There’s no going back to the way it was."
"Good," you said, stepping up beside him. "Open it."
He twisted the lock, and the door swung wide. Sam and Corey stood on the porch, looking haggard, their faces etched with stress. Sam held a laptop, his eyes darting from Colby to you, his jaw dropping as he took in the scene—the disheveled room, the tension, and the look of cold, hard defiance on your faces.
"Well," Sam said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, icy calm. "I see you've decided to quit the team. But you forgot one thing, Colby. You don't own the footage. And right now? The world is already starting to watch."
The air on the porch turned frigid. Sam’s thumb hovered over the screen of his laptop, his expression a volatile mixture of betrayal and cold, calculated desperation. Behind him, Corey looked between the two of you, his face a mask of weary realization.
"The world is watching?" Colby repeated, his voice dangerously low. He didn't move, but the sheer predatory stillness of his posture made Sam flinch. "You leaked it, didn't you, Sam? You didn't just 'upload it to the server.' You pushed it to the public channel."
Sam didn't blink. "I had to. The rumors were already swirling, and the engagement metrics were bottoming out. I’m saving the brand, Colby. I’m saving us."
"Don't you dare say 'us'," you stepped forward, your voice slicing through the tension like a blade. "You didn't save anything. You just sold a private moment for a spike in subscribers."
"I sold a product!" Sam snapped, finally losing his composure. He gestured wildly with the laptop. "That’s what this is! It’s what you signed up for, it’s what you built! You think you can just disappear for four months, walk back into a haunt, and then act like the 'content' doesn't belong to the audience? You’re delusional."
Colby’s hand moved—not toward Sam, but toward the doorframe, gripping it so hard the wood groaned. "It’s over, Sam. The brand, the channel, the 'dynamic'—it’s done. Take the footage, take the ad revenue, take whatever the hell you want. But we’re out."
"You can't just quit!" Corey interjected, his voice rising in panic. "We have contracts, sponsorships, a full production schedule! If you walk now, you’re looking at a breach of contract that will strip everything you own."
"Then let them take it," Colby said, his voice terrifyingly calm. He turned his head to look at you, his eyes softening for just a fleeting second before snapping back to his team. "Everything I own is standing right here. That’s more than enough."
Sam stared at you, his eyes narrowing with a flash of genuine malice. "You think you’re winning, don't you? You think you can just ride off into the sunset? Look at the comments, Colby. Look at what they’re already saying."
He flipped the laptop screen around. It was a live feed of the comment section on the leaked footage. It was a wildfire of toxicity: accusations of staging the tension, rumors about your relationship being a PR stunt, and thousands of fans picking apart every frame of the infirmary scene, turning your most vulnerable moment into a grotesque, voyeuristic spectacle.
"They aren't looking for the truth," Sam sneered. "They want the blood. And you just gave them a feast."
The silence that followed was suffocating. You could feel the walls of the house closing in. Colby looked at the screen, his face draining of color as he saw the public dissecting your private agony. His composure shattered—not into anger, but into a haunting, hollow realization.
"They're right," he whispered, his eyes unfocused. "I am the villain. I’m the reason this is happening."
"Colby, no," you reached for him, but he pulled away, his hands shaking violently.
"I did this," he rasped, his voice breaking. He backed away into the hallway, his eyes wide and panicked. "I let it go this far. I thought I could control it, but I’m the one who turned us into a spectacle."
He turned and bolted toward the stairs, leaving you alone on the porch with Sam and Corey. The screen of the laptop continued to glow, a strobe light of insults and intrusive questions.
"Well," Sam said, his voice devoid of any warmth. "That’s the Colby we know. Let’s see how long it takes for him to break completely, shall we?"
He turned to walk away, but you didn't move. You stared at the back of the house, where Colby had just disappeared. The drama wasn't just about the brand anymore—it was about whether or not he would ever forgive himself for what he had let become of you both.
You left Sam and Corey on the porch and turned toward the stairs, your pulse hammering. You weren't going to let the internet or the brand destroy him. Even if you had to drag him through the wreckage of his own mind, you were going to pull him out of the fire.
You sprinted up the stairs, the sound of your own frantic breathing echoing in the hallway. You didn't care about Sam, you didn't care about the breach of contract, and you certainly didn't care about the toxic, scrolling feed of public vitriol. You only cared about the man who had just looked at you with eyes that seemed to be collapsing inward.
You found the bedroom door locked.
"Colby," you said, your voice steady despite the adrenaline surging through your veins. "Open the door."
Silence. Just the muffled sound of him pacing—short, uneven steps that suggested he was tearing the room apart.
"Colby, if you don't open this door, I’m kicking it in," you warned. You didn't hesitate. You drew back and slammed your heel into the wood right next to the latch. The frame splintered with a sharp crack, and the door swung open.
The room was a disaster. He had ripped the sheets off the bed, and his camera gear—the expensive, high-end lenses he treated like children—was scattered across the floor, some of them shattered. He was standing in the center of the room, his hands pressed hard against his forehead, his hair standing up in wild, frantic tufts.
"Get out!" he roared, without looking at you. "Don't look at me! I’m the monster they think I am, Y/N! I’m the guy who monetized our fucking misery! I’m the guy who let them strip-mine every single second of what we had left!"
"Look at me!" you shouted, crossing the room in two strides. You grabbed his wrists and jerked his hands away from his face.
His eyes were bloodshot, pupils dilated with a terrifying mix of self-loathing and hysteria. He tried to yank his arms away, but you held fast, forcing him to meet your gaze.
"You think you’re the monster?" you hissed, your voice vibrating with an intensity that made him blink. "You are the guy who made a mistake. You are the guy who lost his way. But you are not the product, and you are not the comments section. If you give up now, then you’re the villain they want. If you sit here and let them define you, then you’re just as shallow as they say."
"It’s not that simple!" he choked out, his voice cracking. "They’re destroying you too! Because of me!"
"Then let them try!" you challenged, slamming your hand against his chest, right over his heart. "Let them talk! Let them post! They don't know us. They only know the brand. And I’m telling you, right now, the brand is dead. You killed it, I killed it, Sam killed it. It doesn't exist anymore."
He slumped, his knees hitting the floor with a dull thud. You went down with him, your arms wrapping around his neck, pulling his head into your chest. He was shaking, a deep, bone-rattling tremor that spoke to the months of suppression he’d been living through.
"I’m so tired," he whispered into your sweater, his voice muffled and broken. "I’m just so tired of performing."
"Then stop," you said, stroking his hair, your touch gentle but firm. "We’re going to walk out of this house. We’re going to leave the gear. We’re going to leave the accounts. We’re going to go somewhere where nobody knows the name XPLR."
He looked up, his expression guarded, still haunted. "You’d really leave it all? All the work, all the years?"
"I’d leave it all to keep you sane," you promised.
He stared at you for a long time, the silence in the room finally shifting from destructive to heavy and contemplative. Then, he did something you hadn't seen him do in years: he exhaled a long, shuddering breath and leaned into you, letting his guard drop completely.
"Okay," he whispered, a faint, fragile spark of hope returning to his eyes. "Okay. But first, we have to deal with what's downstairs."
He stood up, pulling you with him, and walked toward the bedroom door. But just as he reached for the handle, his phone buzzed again—a continuous, jarring sound. He didn't look at it. He looked at you, his grip on your hand firm and unshakable.
"Whatever they say," he said, his voice hardening, "don't let go of me."
You squeezed his hand back. "I’m not going anywhere."
Together, you walked out of the room and toward the top of the stairs, ready to face the wreckage of the life you’d built, and the uncertain, beautiful silence of the one you were about to start.
The stairs felt longer than usual, each step down a descent back into a reality that was actively trying to consume you. Sam and Corey were still in the living room, their silhouettes framed by the harsh morning light bleeding through the curtains. Sam was pacing, his phone pressed to his ear, his voice a frantic, low-pitched drone of legal jargon and PR crisis management.
As you and Colby reached the landing, the conversation abruptly died.
Sam stopped, his eyes fixed on your joined hands. He looked up at Colby, his face a mask of disappointment that curdled into something much darker. "You’re still here," Sam said, as if he’d expected Colby to have fled or collapsed by now. "The lawyers are drafting the statements. We need you to sign off on the narrative, Colby. We’re framing this as a 'creative breakdown' during an intense haunt. It justifies the behavior, it saves the ad sense, and it keeps the audience invested in the recovery arc."
Colby didn't even flinch. He tightened his grip on your hand, pulling you down the final steps until you were standing in the center of the room, effectively cutting Sam off from the exit.
"There is no 'recovery arc'," Colby said, his voice terrifyingly steady. "And there isn't going to be a statement. You’re done, Sam. The brand is done."
Corey let out a dry, humorless laugh, pacing away toward the kitchen. "You’re living in a fantasy, man. You think you can just walk away? You have liabilities, debts, obligations—not just to us, but to the people who funded this 'Blackwood' series. You walk, they don’t just come after the channel, they come after you."
"Let them come," Colby replied. He looked at Sam, really looked at him, with a cold clarity that seemed to unsettle the other man. "You’ve spent years turning my trauma into content, Sam. You’ve spent years turning my love for this person into a strategic narrative for the views. Every 'prank,' every 'challenge,' every time you pushed me into a dark room and told me to get a reaction—you were eating me alive."
Sam’s jaw tightened. "I made you a star, Colby."
"No," you interjected, stepping forward, your voice ringing clear and sharp in the quiet room. "You made him a product. And you used me as the packaging. It’s over."
Sam looked at the two of you, searching for the crack, for the moment where one of you would cave. He flicked his gaze to the laptop, still open on the counter, where the comments were now moving so fast they were a blur of digital noise. "You’re going to be destroyed," he whispered, almost kindly. "You’ll have nothing left. No platform, no money, no identity. You won't even be able to rent an apartment without some fan stalking you or some tabloid digging up the 'truth' about your 'breakdown'."
Colby finally stepped forward, moving into Sam's personal space. He didn't look angry anymore; he looked completely, utterly free. "The truth is," Colby murmured, his voice low and intimate, "I haven't felt alive in three years. I’d rather have nothing left than one more day of pretending that any of this was real."
He reached out, not to strike Sam, but to take the laptop. Sam didn't resist; he seemed stunned by Colby’s absolute lack of volatility. Colby closed the lid with a slow, deliberate click.
"Corey, Sam," Colby said, gesturing toward the door. "Leave the keys to the studio. Leave the hard drives. If you try to take the server logs, I’ll file the police report for digital extortion myself. And believe me, with the footage you just leaked, a judge will be very interested in exactly how you treat your employees."
Corey hesitated, glancing at Sam. Sam stood there for a long moment, the silence stretching until it felt like the very foundation of the house was straining under the weight of it. Then, Sam sighed, a sound of profound, exhausted defeat. He didn't argue. He didn't threaten. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a master keycard for the studio, and dropped it onto the coffee table with a hollow thud.
"You're making a mistake," Sam said, his voice flat. "But it's your funeral."
They walked out. The screen door creaked, then slammed shut. The sound of their footsteps on the gravel faded, leaving you in a silence so profound it felt like a ringing in your ears.
Colby turned to you. He looked exhausted, his shoulders sagging, but there was a light in his eyes that hadn't been there in years. He leaned his forehead against yours, his hands trembling as they moved to cup your face.
"We have nothing," he whispered, his voice thick with a mixture of terror and exhilaration. "No plan, no future, no idea where we’re going."
"We have the morning," you said, looking out the window as the sun finally climbed over the horizon, painting the world in shades of pale, honest gold. "And that's a start."
He kissed you—a simple, quiet kiss that felt more like a vow than anything he’d ever said to you. "Where do you want to go?"
"Anywhere," you promised. "As long as it's not on camera."
The house felt different in the absolute quiet that followed. It wasn't the heavy, suffocating silence of the past year, nor the jagged, brittle silence of the breakup; it was the empty, peaceful quiet of a clean slate.
Colby let go of your hand only to walk to the kitchen window, watching as Sam’s car disappeared down the long, winding road toward the highway. He didn't look back until the last tail-light vanished. When he turned around, he didn't look like the man who had been pacing the floorboards in a fit of hysteria hours ago. He looked hollowed out, stripped to the studs, but solid.
"They're going to scrub the channel," he said, his voice devoid of any lingering rage. "They'll rebrand, they'll find a new narrative, and in a month, the algorithm will bury us. We’ll be a cautionary tale. A 'where are they now' video that gets three million views before everyone forgets."
You walked over to him, leaning against the counter. "Is that what you're afraid of? Being forgotten?"
Colby laughed—a short, genuine sound that seemed to surprise him. "No. I'm afraid of being remembered as the guy who lost everything. But then I look at you, and I realize I didn't lose anything. I just stopped pretending."
He reached out, his hand hovering over the laptop Sam had left behind. He didn't open it. Instead, he slid it across the counter, letting it drop into the trash bin with a heavy, final clatter.
"What now?" you asked, though you already knew.
"Now," he said, moving to pull you into his arms, "we become nobodies. We pack the essentials. We drive until we hit a town where nobody knows what an 'XPLR' is, where the internet is slow, and where the only thing we have to record is the sound of our own lives."
He looked around the living room, at the cameras and microphones that had been the architecture of your existence for so long. "I'm leaving it all here," he decided. "Let Sam deal with the inventory. It’s all tainted anyway."
He led you to the bedroom. You didn't pack your life into boxes; you packed a single duffel bag with clothes, a few books, and the things that actually belonged to you—not the brand, not the fans, not the digital archive of your shared misery. As you zipped the bag shut, the house felt less like a home and more like a set that was being struck after a long, grueling play.
When you walked out the front door for the last time, the air was crisp, smelling of pine and early morning dampness. You didn't look back at the windows, didn't wonder if there were hidden cameras, didn't care if the neighbors were watching.
Colby started the engine of his personal car—the one that wasn't used for stunts or filming—and the roar of it was the only sound in the driveway. He looked at you in the passenger seat, his hand resting on the gear shift. There was no producer to check the lighting, no sound guy to level the audio, no audience to perform for.
"Are you scared?" he asked, his voice low.
"Terrified," you admitted, and for the first time, the word felt honest. "But for the first time in years, I’m not scared of you."
He nodded, a small, tired smile touching his lips. He put the car in gear, and as you pulled away from the house, the sun hit the windshield, blinding and bright. You didn't check the rearview mirror. You just kept your eyes on the road ahead, watching the miles tick by, finally, beautifully, unscripted.
For the first time in your life, you didn't know what the next scene was going to be, and as you looked over at Colby, watching the tension finally leave his shoulders, you knew that was exactly how it was meant to be. The story of "The Ghost of Us" had ended in that asylum; the story of you—just you and him, in the quiet, unrecorded dark—was just beginning.
Two years later. A small, rugged cabin in the Pacific Northwest, tucked away where the trees are so dense they swallow the sound of the wind.
You are sitting on the porch, a sketchbook in your lap, watching the light hit the mountains. There are no cameras, no rigs, no production schedules. Colby walks out of the cabin, no longer wearing the tight, performative armor of the LA years. He looks healthy, his eyes clear, his hair grown out. He carries two mugs of coffee and sets one down beside you, his hand lingering on your shoulder.
"The new edit is done," he says, a small, proud smile touching his lips.
It’s been six months since you both quietly launched your own platform—a subscription-based narrative project called The Archive. It wasn’t about cheap thrills or manufactured drama; it was about high-concept, grounded, character-driven horror that respected the intelligence of its audience. There were no "pranks," no screaming for the algorithm. Just stories that felt human, haunting, and deeply, viscerally real.
It had grown slow, but with a ferocity that defied all logic. You had achieved the one thing Sam never could: a community that didn't just consume, but cared.
Colby pulls out his phone, his thumb hovering over the dashboard. "We hit three million subscribers today. No marketing. No hype. Just the work."
You smile, leaning back against him. "They’re listening because we finally stopped shouting."
Meanwhile, back in the sprawling, sterile halls of the XPLR studio in LA, the atmosphere is dead.
Sam sits at his desk, staring at a monitor that displays the "New XPLR" analytics. The numbers are abysmal. The recent series—a chaotic, hollow mess of forced reactions and scripted 'ghost encounters'—has been torn apart by the very audience they fought to keep. The comments aren't just angry anymore; they’re bored. The brand, once a juggernaut, has become a punchline.
Corey walks in, looking tired and gray. He drops a folder on the desk. "The sponsors are pulling out, Sam. They say the engagement is fake. They’re all moving their budgets to The Archive."
Sam doesn't speak for a long time. He pulls up The Archive’s latest feature—a masterfully crafted investigation into a local legend, devoid of jump scares, filled with genuine atmosphere and heart. He watches a clip of you and Colby working, and for the first time, he sees the difference. They aren't acting. They aren't fighting the room. They are connected.
He looks at his own studio, filled with unused equipment and paid actors, and then back at the screen. The realization hits him with a physical force: he didn't lose Colby and you because you were "broken." He lost you because he had turned a human connection into a commodity, and he had forgotten that people eventually stop buying what feels hollow.
"We tried to manufacture what they have," Sam whispers, his voice thick with a sudden, crushing regret. "And we ended up with nothing."
Back at the cabin, the sun is setting, casting long shadows across the deck. Colby’s phone pings—a notification from his former manager, followed by an email from Sam. You don't read them. You don't have to. You know what they say.
Colby taps the screen, selects 'Block,' and sets the phone face down on the table. He takes your hand, his grip firm, grounded, and entirely his own.
"Let them figure it out," he says, turning his back on the digital world to look out at the mountains. "We have a story to finish."
He pulls you up, and you head inside, leaving the ghosts of the past exactly where they belong: in the dark, behind you, never to be recorded again.
The transition from the digital world to the reality you built was quiet, but it was profound. The cabin wasn't just a home; it was a sanctuary where the air didn't feel thin or manufactured. Every morning, the only thing you had to report to was the horizon.
Back in Los Angeles, the silence in the old office was becoming a physical weight. Sam had tried to force a pivot—hiring new "personalities," drafting new "formats"—but without you and Colby, the heart of the channel was gone. It had become a hollow echo of its former self, and the audience, once rabid for content, had become an unforgiving critic.
One evening, a notification popped up on the shared tablet you and Colby kept for The Archive’s administrative updates. It was an email from Sam, forwarded through a legal intermediary. It wasn't the usual aggressive demand for contracts or threats of litigation.
Subject: I saw the new series.
I watched the Blackwood retrospective you posted last week. I didn't watch it to critique it. I watched it because it was the first thing in years that felt like the work we set out to do in Kansas.
I’ve spent the last six months looking at the metrics, the comments, and the hollowed-out mess this place has become. I thought if I just adjusted the lighting, or pushed the narrative harder, or brought in more talent, I could recapture the energy. But it was never about the production value, was it? You two were the lightning, and I was just the guy holding the rod, hoping to catch the strike.
I see you now. Not as assets, but as the only people who actually understood what we were building. I regret the way I handled the end. I regret thinking that I could own a legacy that you were actually living.
The studio is closing at the end of the quarter. The investors are out. I’m moving back home to figure out if there’s anything left of the person I was before the LA cycle. I’m sorry I couldn't be the friend you needed when you were both drowning.
Colby read the email over your shoulder, his hands resting on your hips. He didn't gloat. He didn't offer a sarcastic remark. He just exhaled, the sound trembling with the release of a ghost he’d been carrying for years.
"He finally gets it," Colby whispered. "But he’s a few years too late."
"Do you want to reply?" you asked, leaning back against him.
Colby reached out, his fingers hovering over the delete icon. He looked at the cabin around you—the wood-burning stove, the stacks of books, the maps of locations you’d actually wanted to visit for the sake of the story, not for the sake of a thumbnail.
"No," Colby said, his voice firm. "We don't owe him a bridge back. We just owe it to ourselves to keep moving forward."
He deleted the email, leaving no trace, and stepped out onto the porch. You followed him, the cool evening air wrapping around you. Out there, the stars were so bright they looked like they were within reach.
He took your hand, leading you toward the trail that headed deeper into the woods—a place where you were currently scouting for a new, self-produced narrative. It wasn't about the views, and it wasn't about the legacy of XPLR. It was about the silence you had earned, and the stories you were finally telling on your own terms.
As you walked into the shadows of the pines, the last flicker of the "brand" died, leaving only the sound of your footsteps on the earth. You were done with the theater, done with the ghosts, and finally, for the first time in your life, you were exactly where you belonged.
The forest behind the cabin had become your own private laboratory of narrative, a place where the only thing at stake was the integrity of the story.
You and Colby were halfway up the ridge, checking the framing on a portable, non-intrusive camera setup you’d designed together. It wasn't about high-octane gear; it was about capturing a mood that felt honest. Colby was adjusting the aperture, his movements fluid and precise, entirely devoid of the frantic, performative energy that had defined his earlier career.
"The lighting is perfect," he remarked, standing back to look at the clearing. "It feels... empty. In a good way. The kind of empty that makes the audience project their own fears into it, rather than us forcing them to be scared."
You nodded, checking the audio levels. "It’s quiet enough that they’ll actually hear the story, not just the music swells."
"I think that’s what we missed for so long," Colby said, turning to look at you. The late afternoon light caught his profile, softening the edges of a face that had once been plastered across millions of screens, perpetually braced for the next headline. "We were so loud. We were so busy screaming to be heard that we forgot that the best way to get someone’s attention is to whisper."
As you worked, the silence of the woods was broken by the distant, rhythmic crunch of gravel. You both froze, the reflex of the brand instantly sparking—that old, ingrained instinct that visitors meant disruption, cameras, or content.
But when you reached the edge of the clearing, you saw only a lone car parked at the trailhead. It wasn't a studio van or a sleek PR vehicle. It was an old, beaten-up truck that looked like it had driven across the entire country just to get here.
Elton climbed out. He didn't look like the high-energy manager or the frantic mediator of the LA days. He looked tired, his shoulders carrying the weight of a year spent picking up the pieces of a collapsed empire.
Colby stood his ground, his hands steady at his sides. "Elton," he said, his voice neutral.
Elton stopped ten feet away, keeping his hands visible, his expression apologetic. "I’m not here to bring you back, Colby. I’m not here to represent anyone. I just... I was passing through, heading back to the Midwest, and I had to see if it was real. If you were actually okay."
He looked at the small, professional, minimalist gear you were using, then back at the woods. "I watched the latest upload. The Archive. It’s beautiful."
"It’s just us," you said, stepping up beside Colby.
"It’s what we always promised ourselves we’d do," Elton replied, his voice cracking slightly. "Before the houses. Before the stress. You guys won, you know that? You got out, and you built something that actually lasts. Sam? He’s still trying to chase the ghost of what you left behind. He doesn't get it yet. He still thinks the magic was in the equipment."
Colby stepped forward, his posture losing its last vestiges of defensive tension. He looked at Elton, seeing the man who had once been his closest friend, not just his employee. "The magic was never in the equipment, Elton. It was in the fact that we used to actually like each other."
Elton nodded, a slow, sad smile forming. "Yeah. We did."
He didn't stay long. He didn't ask for a feature, didn't ask for a shoutout, and didn't mention the channel. He just brought a sense of closure—the final, lingering thread of the old life being clipped away. As he drove off, he didn't even look back, disappearing into the dust of the road.
"He’s the last of them," Colby said softly as the sound of the truck faded into the trees.
"Does it bother you?" you asked, leaning into his side.
Colby shook his head, his eyes fixed on the path ahead—the path that led deeper into the woods, deeper into your own story. "No. It makes it real. We aren't being watched anymore. We aren't being followed. We're just living."
He took your hand, his grip warm and absolute. You turned away from the trailhead, away from the world that was still trying to figure out how to exist without you, and walked into the dark, quiet sanctuary of the pines. The story of the past was finally, completely, closed—and the future, entirely unrecorded, lay waiting in the quiet.
The cabin had long since ceased to be just a project; it was the foundation of a life built on absolute, unscripted truth. Three years had passed since you left the wreckage of LA, and the woods had witnessed a transformation. You weren't the people who had been hollowed out by the XPLR brand anymore; you were something sturdier, something grown from the quiet.
The wedding didn't happen in a venue, or a chapel, or under the scrutiny of a lens. It happened in the clearing where you’d filmed your first successful piece for The Archive.
There were no guests, no PR coordinators, and no "content plan." Just the two of you, under the sprawling canopy of ancient pines, the air smelling of damp earth and coming rain. Colby wore a simple white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the forearms that had held you through every jagged, messy night of the transition. He looked at you with a reverence that made your breath hitch—a look that held no performance, only the raw, exposed truth of a man who had finally found his home.
"I don't have a script," he whispered, his hands steady as he took yours. His palms were warm, grounding. "I don't have a pitch, and I don't have a closing hook. I just have me. And I want all of you."
You didn't need a script either. You spoke your vows into the quiet of the woods, a promise of a life that would never be edited, never be monetized, and never be shared with anyone but the two of you. When he kissed you, it wasn't a shot for a highlight reel; it was a reclamation. It was the feeling of everything finally locking into place.
The reception was just as private. Back inside the cabin, the fire was roaring, casting flickering, amber shadows against the log walls. The rain finally began to fall, a steady, rhythmic drumming against the roof that insulated you from the rest of the world.
Colby backed you against the heavy oak table, his hands sliding up your thighs, his touch burning even through the layers of your wedding dress. The intimacy was overwhelming—a stark, beautiful contrast to the public degradation you’d once endured. Here, there were no cameras in the corners, no producers waiting for a reaction. There was only the heat of his skin and the absolute, terrifying freedom of being completely owned by the one person who knew exactly what you were worth.
He lifted you onto the table, his movements urgent but impossibly gentle. He kissed the sensitive skin of your neck, his stubble grazing your pulse, his breath hitching in his throat. "Finally," he groaned, his voice rough with a hunger that had been building for three years. "Finally, I don't have to share you with anyone. Not even a lens."
He pushed your dress up, his fingers tracing the lace of your lingerie with agonizing slowness, his eyes locked onto yours, demanding you bear witness to his adoration. You arched into him, your nails dragging down the muscles of his back, the friction of his clothes against your skin heightening the electric current running between you.
He thrust into you in one smooth, driving motion, a guttural sound of pure, unadulterated release ripping from his throat. It was a collision of skin, sweat, and a love that had been forged in the fire of everything you’d destroyed. He moved with a rhythm that was purely primal, his hands gripping your hips, his thumbs pressing into your skin until he left marks—a map of his possession that no one else would ever see.
"You're mine," he gasped, his voice cracking as he reached his peak, his body shuddering against yours. "Only mine. No more brand, no more noise. Just this. Just us."
You clung to him, your body bowing, your voice raw, as you found your own shattering release in the quiet of the cabin. The storm outside raged, but it was nothing compared to the quiet, steady fire you’d built inside.
Later, as the rain subsided and the embers in the fireplace cast a dying, orange glow across the room, you lay tangled together in the sheets. Colby rested his head against your chest, his hand splayed over your heart, feeling its steady, rhythmic beat.
"We made it," he whispered, his eyes closing, a look of profound peace on his face.
"We did," you agreed, stroking his hair.
He drifted off, his breath deepening into sleep, a man who no longer had to fear the dark because he was finally, truly, in the light. You looked out the window, past the trees, knowing that out there, the world was still chasing the ghost of the brand you’d abandoned. But here, in the silence, you were finally free. The edit was done. The story was yours. And it was perfect.
The morning after the wedding broke with a clarity that felt almost surreal. The air in the bedroom was still, scented with woodsmoke and the lingering, musk-heavy sweetness of the night before. You shifted, the movement dragging the heavy wool blanket with you, and felt the weight of Colby’s arm across your waist.
He was already awake, lying on his side, watching you with an expression so vulnerable and unguarded that it felt like looking at a secret. The harsh, erratic light of the camera strobes from your past lives seemed a thousand years away, replaced by the soft, filtering glow of dawn through the pines.
"You're real," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep and an underlying thread of wonder. He reached out, his calloused thumb tracing the line of your collarbone, his touch light, reverent. "I keep waiting for someone to yell 'cut,' or for the feed to glitch. I keep waiting for the fantasy to end."
You turned to face him, drawing a breath that finally, truly, felt like it belonged to you. "There’s no director here, Colby. Just us."
He smiled—a slow, genuine movement that reached his eyes. He pulled you flush against him, the friction of his skin against yours a reminder of the night that had solidified everything. He pressed a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, and finally, his lips lingered against the corner of your mouth.
"I have a confession," he whispered against your skin.
You traced the outline of his tattoo, feeling the hum of his pulse beneath your fingers. "What is it?"
"I kept the drives," he admitted, his voice quiet. "The ones from Blackwood. The ones I said I’d destroy."
Your heart did a small, sharp jump. You pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. "Why? I thought we were done with that."
He shifted, propping himself up on an elbow, his expression solemn. "I didn't keep them to look at them. I kept them to remember who we were before we became the people the internet wanted us to be. I kept them as a reminder of the exact moment I stopped being the villain and started being the man who deserved to wake up next to you."
He reached over to the nightstand, sliding out a small, unassuming hard drive from the drawer. He didn't plug it in. He just held it in his palm for a second, feeling the weight of it, and then set it aside—not as a weapon, not as leverage, but as a relic.
"I’m done with the archives," he said. "I’m done with the past."
He leaned down, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was slow, deep, and tasted of promise. It wasn't the frantic, desperate need of the infirmary, nor the raw, unpolished hunger of the wedding night. It was the quiet, confident intimacy of two people who had finally reached the shore after a long, dark swim.
As he pulled you under the covers, the world outside—the critics, the broken analytics, the ghosts of the XPLR brand—ceased to exist. There were no metrics for this, no way to measure the depth of the peace you had found in the mountains.
Later, you walked out onto the porch together, coffee in hand, watching the mist rise off the valley floor. The forest was waking up, the birds beginning their morning chorus, the world moving forward in its own unscripted, beautiful way.
Colby leaned against the railing, his arm hooked around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. He didn't reach for his phone. He didn't check for a signal. He just looked at the horizon, his face open and calm.
"What do you want to do today?" he asked.
You looked at the woods, then up at the clear, expansive sky, and realized that for the first time in your life, the answer didn't have to be a 'bit' or a 'concept.'
"Whatever we want," you said.
He grinned, the sound of his laughter blending perfectly with the morning air. "Yeah. I like the sound of that."
He turned, taking your hand, and led you back inside. The door clicked shut, the sound final and absolute, sealing away the last echoes of the life you’d left behind, and leaving you finally, completely, at home in the silence.
The silence of the cabin was no longer an escape; it was a foundation. Over the next two years, the woods became a place of healing, the kind of quiet that allowed for things to finally grow. You and Colby had built a life that functioned on a rhythm entirely your own, far from the frantic hum of the industry.
But history has a way of circling back, usually when you’ve finally stopped looking for it.
It started with a knock on the cabin door on a rainy Tuesday. It wasn't the aggressive, demanding rhythm of the past; it was tentative, almost shy. When you opened the door, you found Sam and Corey standing on the porch, drenched in the downpour. They looked older—the bravado of the LA studio days stripped away, replaced by the weary lines of men who had spent years chasing a shadow that never caught up.
Colby stepped up behind you, his hand resting firmly on your waist. He didn't tense, he didn't reach for a camera, and he didn't hide. He simply looked at them.
"We saw the news," Sam said, his voice quiet, lacking its old, sharp-edged command. He wasn't looking at the cabin like a set; he was looking at it like a home. "About The Archive ending its run. We heard you were... settling down."
"We are," Colby said, his voice steady. "What do you want, Sam?"
"Nothing," Corey spoke up, his gaze dropping to the floor. "We just wanted to apologize. Properly. Not on a stream, not through a lawyer. We spent two years trying to recreate what you two had, and all we did was burn out every person who worked with us. We realized... it was never the content. It was the fact that we treated you like products instead of people."
Sam looked up, his eyes searching Colby’s, then lingering on the slight, unmistakable swell of your stomach beneath your oversized sweater. He froze, his expression shifting from regret to a profound, softening realization.
"You're having a baby," Sam whispered, the vanity of his past life seemingly cracking.
Colby’s hand moved instinctively to your waist, his fingers splaying protectively over your stomach. A small, genuine smile touched his lips—not the practiced grin of a thumbnail, but a look of overwhelming, private joy. "Yeah," Colby said softly. "We are."
The tension that had defined your past relationships shattered. There was no more "brand" to argue over, no more ego to manage.
"I'm sorry," Sam said, and for the first time, he actually sounded like the guy you’d met in that cramped Kansas kitchen years ago. "I hope they have a better childhood than the one we tried to sell them."
You stepped forward, the anger that had defined your departure long since replaced by a weary sort of peace. "They will," you said firmly. "Because they’ll never know a camera lens as a parent."
They didn't stay long. They didn't ask for a follow-up, or a comeback, or a collaboration. They simply stood there in the rain for a moment, two ghosts of a life you had outgrown, and then they turned back to their car. As they drove away, leaving behind the dust of the driveway, the sense of finality was absolute.
Back inside, the cabin felt warmer, tighter. Colby pulled you into the kitchen, his hands trembling slightly as he touched your stomach. He pressed his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his breathing slow and rhythmic.
"Everything we wanted," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Everything we fought for."
You leaned into him, feeling the life inside you and the man who had burned down the world just to build this one with you.
"The edit is finally perfect," you murmured, closing your eyes.
Colby laughed, a soft, rich sound that filled the room. "No more edits, Y/N. Just the story. From here on out, it’s just the story."
He leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips, and for the first time in years, the future didn't feel like a cliff you were jumping off—it felt like a sunrise you were finally, truly, waking up to see.
Five years after that rainy afternoon, the cabin had expanded, both in space and in soul. The forest was no longer just a backdrop; it was a playground.
Their daughter, Maya, was a wild, laughing force of nature with Colby’s piercing eyes and your stubborn spirit. The cameras were long gone, replaced by worn-out sketchbooks, mud-caked boots, and the chaotic, beautiful debris of a life actually being lived.
It was a summer evening, the air thick with the scent of pine needles and the distant rumble of a coming storm. Maya was finally asleep, the house settling into that delicious, heavy quiet that only comes after a day spent running through the woods.
You were in the kitchen, clearing the dinner dishes, when Colby came up behind you. He didn't speak; he just wrapped his arms around you, his chin resting on your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin. You were older now, the sharp, jagged edges of your twenties smoothed over by the steady, unbreakable foundation of the life you’d built.
"She’s finally out," he murmured, his voice a low vibration against your back. His hands slid down, tracing the curve of your hips, his touch familiar, possessive, and electric.
"She’s exhausted," you laughed softly, leaning back into him. "That hike took it out of her."
"She gets her energy from you," he replied, his lips grazing the sensitive spot behind your ear. "Which is lucky for me, because you still have plenty left."
He turned you around, his eyes dark, heavy with a hunger that hadn't faded—if anything, it had only deepened, tempered by the absolute security of the years between you. He lifted you easily onto the counter, his palms burning against your skin even through the fabric of your shirt.
The kitchen, once a place of late-night renders and volatile arguments, was now a sanctuary. He pulled your shirt up, his calloused fingers grazing your skin, and you shivered as his mouth found your pulse point. Every touch was an act of devotion, a slow, deliberate reclamation of every inch of you.
"I still can't believe this is ours," he rasped, his eyes locking onto yours as he eased your jeans down, his touch worshipful. "No crew, no schedule, no audience. Just us."
"Just us," you breathed, your head falling back as his tongue traced a path down your throat, his teeth grazing your collarbone.
He moved between your legs, his body a familiar, grounding weight. When he pushed inside you, the sensation was a profound echo of the first time you’d finally felt safe with him—a slow, deep, agonizingly sweet slide that made you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders.
He set a rhythm that was steady and unhurried, a testament to the thousands of nights you’d spent learning each other's bodies in the dark. He watched your face, his gaze searching, tender, and intensely focused, as if he were trying to memorize your pleasure for the hundredth time. The way he moved—with such profound, knowing intimacy—was a sharp contrast to the brutal, desperate encounters of the past. This wasn't a reclamation or an apology; it was an affirmation.
"Look at me," he whispered, his voice thick with adoration.
You opened your eyes, meeting his. He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, his movements deepening, pulling a raw, ragged sound from your throat. The pleasure was a mounting, tidal wave, pulling you under until there was nothing left but the friction of his skin against yours and the absolute knowledge that you were exactly where you were supposed to be.
When you climaxed, he groaned your name, his body shuddering against yours in a powerful, synchronous wave, holding you as if you were the only thing tethering him to the earth.
Afterward, the house was silent save for the rain beginning to tap against the glass. You lay tangled together on the kitchen rug, the cool wood beneath you, his arms wrapped tight around your waist. He pulled a blanket over the both of you, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his breathing slow and satisfied.
"I remember the kitchen in Kansas," he whispered, his voice barely audible in the dark. "I remember being so terrified that I was going to ruin everything."
"You did," you teased gently, running your fingers through his hair. "For a while."
He let out a soft, contented hum, shifting so he could press a kiss to your chest, right over your heart. "Yeah. I did. But I think I got the ending right."
You looked up at the ceiling, at the life you’d built in the silence, and smiled. Outside, the world was still spinning, still chasing the digital ghosts of people you used to be. But in here, in the warm, dark quiet, the story was finished. And it was perfect.
"Everything I dreamt it would be" - Conniebbyscandycane
WARNING: This content is for 18+ ONLY. Minors DNI.
Other warnings: Kissing, First-time, ConradxVirgin Reader, Use of Swear words, Descriptive language, Light choking.
Prompt: can u maybe do a Conrad fic where it’s the readers first time (inexperienced reader) and he’s being super sweet about and talking her through it.
You and Conrad have been dating for a year and you have been anticipating this for a while. Tensions have been high for the two of you and you really want this with him, but you two get into it and then you back out. Conrad is always reassuring and lets you know that he is not trying to push you into it which is so comforting but now you are ready. You get off of work and go home to your apartment to shower and change for your date with your sweet boyfriend Conrad. You get out of the shower and decide to put on your new green lingerie set you bought for the occasion. A confidence boost for you to get through this. You put on Conrad's favorite dress of yours and your new shoes that he bought you for your birthday. You hear a buzz at your door and buzz Conrad up while you are putting on the finishing touches. Conrad walks in...
"Hey bab-" He is cut off by the sight of you clad in your dress. "Wow, you are stunning as always" He smiles as you turn to look at him.
"Thank you baby" you say as you turn to kiss him as he pulls you into a strong hug. He smiles and looks you up and down. You shy away as you blush and smile at him.
"You about ready?" he asks as he sits on the end of the bed watching you spray yourself.
"Yes, I just have to grab my coat" you say as you finish up. Conrad follows you down the stairs and like the gentleman he is grabs your coat and holds the door open for you. In the car you hold his hand as he is driving and felt like this was the time to let him know.
"Hey Con, I wanted to talk to you about something…" You trail off nervously looking at your hand in his. "I want to take our relationship to the next level. Tonight." you blurt out.
"Whoa, I don't want you think I want that if you aren't-" he says hesitantly.
"I am ready Conrad. I want all of it, with you" you say looking at him. He does his signature blink and searches your eyes.
"I don't doubt that, I just want you to be comfortable and sure. If that is what you want, I am here for all of it" He says reassuringly.
This is why you chose him. He is single handedly the sweetest guy you have ever met or been with. He is so caring and loving and He is for sure the one.
The two of you go to dinner and the date is no less than amazing. He takes you on a walk for ice cream after and while the two of you are on the bench you share your new flavor with him. You feed him and he looks into your eyes. Those gorgeous green eyes bore into yours and you couldn't look away. He's the one. You put your spoon back in your ice cream and look back to him and pull his face to yours. He deepens the chocolate butter pecan kiss and you are spinning. You pull away smiling at Conrad and his beautiful eyes peer into yours.
"Lets get out of here." you say sweetly. Conrad grabs your hand and walks you to his car opening the door for you and helping you climb in. The drive to his apartment was fun, the pair of you singing along to Sweet Caroline. You make it to his place and he walks around to open the door for you and you lean out to kiss him again. He grips your hand to help you out and the two of you kiss all the way to the door. The pair of you stopping at the threshold to bask in each other. Conrad unlocks his door without breaking the kiss and walks you backward through the door with his hand on your lower back. You two make it to his room and he sits you on the bed and finally breaks the kiss.
"Are you sure?" He asks holding your hands, and in this moment you have never been more sure of something in your life. Its Conrad, only Conrad. You smile at him giving him the go ahead and he gives you an assuring smile in return. He pecks your lips first and then slowly starts kissing down to your neck. The smell of his Yves Saint Laurent Cologne hitting your nose, your favorite cologne on him. He begins to pull your dress straps off of your shoulders to reveal your set that you wore for him. He continues to place delicate kisses on your collar bones and looks up at you. You pull him back up to help him take off his shirt, his beautifully tanned body on display under his button up. You stand to kiss his collar bones as you are unzipping your dress and he's finishing off his shirt. When he pulls off his shirt he steps back to look at you. The look of surprise on his face says it all.
"You are so beautiful. The prettiest girl I have ever seen" He says leaning back in for a kiss, as he lays you down on the bed. He loosens his belt and lets his pants fall as he kisses down your body again. He gets to the rim of your panties and kisses right above the little black bow. You are already writhing beneath him, his kisses hot and flustering, your body betraying you by following his lips. His thumbs trace just inside the line of your panties from your legs and your hips buck into his touch.
"Conrad" you whisper gasping his name like a prayer. He smiles as he hooks his fingers on the rim of your panties and slowly pulls them down. He takes them off and comes back to trace his fingers over your thighs. Conrad pulls your knees apart and you lean up to look at him.
"Relax baby, I want to do something for you. Okay?" he says sweetly. You nod, and lay yourself back down to let Conrad do what he wanted. Conrad kisses back up to your face and his fingers begin to rub you gently. You gasp at the feeling and he looks in your eyes while you are writhing beneath him.
"I'm going to take it slow with you okay baby, if you want to stop we can whenever you want to." He says, you nod with your mouth slightly ajar, in bliss from the feeling of his fingers working you. He starts rubbing in circles on your clit and you can feel how slick you are.
"Do you want me to go faster baby?" He says, his voice low and calming. All you could do was nod, his fingers begin to speed up as a familiar feeling starts to pool in you abdomen. Conrad speeds it up and your eyes roll back instantly. You begin to pant and all you can hear is Conrad…
"Baby, look at me okay." your eyes meet his and your head begins to haze. You can't think or even breathe and all you can see is him.
"Breathe baby, breathe. Is it too much?" He asks sweetly, still violating your folds. Your mouth hanging open and you shaking your head no. Conrad continues and right when you begin to reach your peak, he puts the palm of his hand on your stomach and applies light pressure to it.
"Okay baby, come on, come for me." He says his fingers bringing you to the edge. He looks in your eyes as they start rolling to the back of your head and your back arches off the bed and into him. Your are gasping as he brings you through your first orgasm with him. He slows his fingers and lets you come down from your peak. You lay back flat on the bed, panting.
"How was that, love?" he asks smiling at you.
"Fucking phenomenal" you respond. He leans over you to kiss you again and you can feel him through his boxers. Conrad kisses you back to earth and you look at him with all the love in the world. Your hands start to coast over his body and you reach the top of his boxers and begin to pull them down. Conrad reaches to help and his member springs to hit his stomach standing at full attention. He slips a condom on and leans over you once again to kiss you. His member poking at your entrance. Conrad looks to you for assurance once again and you just nod and kiss him again. Conrad guides himself in while you are kissing. He moans into the kiss as he is thrusting slowly. He looks to you to make sure you are okay and places kisses on your cheeks and in the crook of your neck. His moans muffled into your neck.
"Oh fuck baby you are so tight." He says, his muffled moans sounding like music to your ears. Conrad speeds up and hikes your leg up onto his shoulder kissing at your ankle. You can feel every inch of him and the two of you are staring right into each others eyes as your moans collide.
"Mmm baby you feel so good." he moans and kisses your ankle again.
"Conrad, keep fucking me please" You beg and plead with him to not stop. It feels so good you're getting light headed again. Conrad leans down and kisses you again moaning into your mouth.
"You are taking me so well baby. So-so beautiful, mm-fuck" he says as his hips buck into yours. Your peak is coming is so is Conrad's. He takes his hand and lightly places it on your throat squeezing just enough to send you into pure bliss. Your release hits you like a brick wall and you are a moaning mess beneath him. Conrad's hand slides up to cup your cheek and rub his thumb along your ajar bottom lip as he continues to fuck you through your peak. His hits right after and he leans down moaning and kissing straight through all of it. The sounds from the pair of you no less than pornographic and blissful. He collapses and places kisses on your neck again as he pulls out of you. Both of you trying to catch your breath. He rolls to your side holding onto you. You turn to him smiling.
"How was it?" You ask him. He smiles in reassurance.
"I should be asking you, how was your first time?"
You smile and say.
It was everything I dreamt it could be.
The End.
I hope you all like it, send me some more requests!!!
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haii! i wasn't sure if your requests were open, but I was wondering if we could do a conrad fisher x fem!reader where reader is belly's younger sister or twin, and her and conrad kinda developed a hatred towards each other when they were kids bcuz of how bratty she was and this goes on up until their teenage/young adult years where he eventually puts her in her place and they have the craziest rough hatefuck smut. i've been reading your work this past week and i LOVELOVELOVE your conrad fanfics. If you feel uncomfortable writing it and what not, I'll appreciate your response either way. have a good day queen, love ya xx
Hi queen! Thanks for reading and following! I am currently working on another request at the moment but as soon as I have that one completed I will start this one! I appreciate your support so much! 💙💙💙
summary: you’ve tried anything and everything to get conrad to notice you. it’s until you start losing yourself that you finally speak up.
conrad fisher x reader
a/n: y/n is lowkey giving me in this, leave some conrad requests ;)
it started off with the way she wore her hair. it was naturally down, cascading down her head with nothing new to it. she always noticed how conrad would eye girls with luxurious hair, always looking perfect even when it looked normal.
it progressed to daily trips to the gym. she bought a membership and began going every day. she saw all the other girls in the gym with their friends, boyfriends. they looked amazing, having the ideal body for a girl and the ideal bodies that conrad and his friends look at. conrad goes to the gym, too. maybe he’d notice a theme with her.
then it was the clothes. she’d change into tighter clothes. crop tops, shorts, jewelry, anything uncomfortable for one glance from conrad.
she’d loved him for years. ever since her first summer at cousins and staying next door to the fishers and conklins. conrad had been so nice all the time. he was strikingly handsome, and she just wanted him to look at her. she hated to say she was desperate, but she was. she was changing herself to be more like conrad, and less and less like herself. anything that happened to her, she pushed away because conrad was on her mind. she put herself on a pedestal for him. she observed his every move, and every person he darted his eyes at.
her makeup, her interests, her personality had become a whole new person that she couldn’t even recognize. somehow, she was still proud of herself. everyone knew something was off. belly tried to talk to her and see if something was going on. however, it was partially her.
she saw the way conrad glanced at her with affection. she saw the way he saw nicole. she saw the way he noticed girls at the bonfires. she wanted it to be her turn, but every time was shut down by someone better and new.
she ‘fixed’ herself until there was literally nothing left to fix. her entire closet had been changed along with the makeup in her bag. her daily activities had changed and she watched herself to make sure anything she was doing wasn’t contradicting conrad. the only place she was herself, was her room. and she couldn’t even accept herself anymore.
when she looked in the mirror, she picked at things on herself that she never used to. every part of her face and every part of her body had become an inconvenience. things other girls might not have. she wanted to recognize herself but the old, happy version was just a ghost at this point. as much as she wanted the old y/n, she couldn’t stop herself from preventing her from coming back.
she watched her mood deteriorate every day. it wasn’t just conrad, it had grown into something bigger. hating her reflection and just wishing she was someone else. someone he looked at, someone that everyone wanted. she tries to show off a confident front, but it all disintegrates when she disappears in front of a bathroom mirror. it’s not even alarming at this point that she doesn’t know who she is or what she wants.
her bank account had been drained of money from products and clothes that would make her more like someone else. things that were never her.
it started out as a slight obsession with a boy, and it progressed into self hatred. she wanted so badly to be enough for conrad, but she wanted to be enough for herself. she felt like that would never come. she can’t win this battle with herself.
she resorted to drinks with her friends all the time to try and forget some of the pity she had for herself. smoking pot and doing anything that takes her mind off of herself and conrad. every time she came over, she thought maybe this is it. maybe he’ll look at me and realize that i’m great. maybe he can find the old self in me.
the debutante ball was coming up shortly. she had been practicing her dances with a boy she barely knew, one her mother set her up with. this boy had nothing for her, but she had nothing for him. she still wanted him to want her because it was just more approval that came her way. she’d picked out an bewitching dress, one that transformed her into a queen. she picked one out in hopes that conrad would like it, but also so it covered all the things she can’t fix. it snatched her waist, it brought in her ribs, it made her boobs look good, it made everything better than natural. that’s exactly what y/n wanted.
even watching y/n pick out the dresses, suzannah and laurel noticed the switch in her behavior. she dodged every single dress that fit her perfectly, and ran toward every one that sucked her in perfectly. y/n would usually go for the simple, casually-fitting dresses, but now she wanted ones that turned her into a barbie doll.
she was thrilled with her choice, getting it fitted and getting her makeup done exactly how everyone else would like it. her body looked exactly how everyone else would like it. her hair looked exactly how everyone else would like it.
she looked pleased with herself, but she still saw someone else in the mirror. nonetheless, she walked out on the stage, linking arms with the boy at her side. she put on a fake smile, one that people would find enchanting to see. she tried not to look at conrad, but failed in the end.
on the other hand, conrad had to pretend that he wasn’t completely staring at her. her beauty was poisoning the whole room. he had to pretend like everything was fine when he didn’t have her. she was the only one who truly had his eye for the longest time. even conrad was slightly disappointed in seeing the change, oblivious to the fact that it all started for him. however, he wasn’t able to peel his eyes off of her with a small grin.
y/n’s heart raced in ecstasy when she saw his eyes on her. his smile was for her. she swore she could run off the floor and into his arms, but she tried to keep her cool as she was in front of almost the entire town. she pranced around in her white dress, looking happier than ever because conrad finally noticed her. all the changing must have paid off, or at least she thought so. it wasn’t until she saw him dancing with belly in the corner of her eye.
all of her positive thoughts about herself quickly vanished. she thought she finally had him, but she was so clearly wrong. all of her optimism from earlier had left her with watery eyes. she could not cry here, her makeup would be ruined in front of everyone and she couldn’t look bad in front of anyone, not even herself. again, she forced another fake smile on her face until the dance was over, and she scurried out of the room.
she stood outside, right by the entrance with a small bottle of alcohol in her hand. she’d snuck it in her purse, being able to bring it outside. she took a massive gulp of it, not being able to face her own thoughts. she wanted to give up, but it was too late. the damage to herself was already done and it would be a burnout to have to reverse it. she was a failure. she failed conrad, her family, and herself. even in the reflection of the stupid fucking glass bottle she saw a complete disaster of a girl.
she was picking at her freshly done nails when the footsteps came echoing behind her. she didn’t give a shit about who it was. no one could change her mind about anything, and there was no comforting to do. she swipes the tears off her cheeks before conrad steps into her peripherals vision.
“i thought i’d find you here,” he says.
“i just needed some air, conrad. go back inside.”
“i’d believe you if you didn’t have that bottle in your hand,” she looks down at the liquid in her hands, tempted to take another gulp of it. “what is going on with you? i’ve known you for so long and i just don’t remember this side of you, so who is she?”
“conrad, don’t start.”
“no, y/n,” he argues. “i have to know you’re ok, i barely know the y/n i love anymore.”
“well, i wish i could answer that for you, but i don’t know who she is!”
“what?” he asks sadly. she begins to laugh, almost bending over in hysterics.
“i literally changed myself so much for you,” she replies. “and you just proved that i made it even worse. i don’t recognize myself anymore, got it? i flipped myself inside out for you to just look at me.”
her words are slurred together and she’s speaking with her hands, which worried conrad even more.
“i’ve had my eye on you for years, y/n. why would you do that to yourself?”
“i ask myself that question in the mirror every. fucking. day. i just want my old self back and i barely remember who she is!”
conrad realizes the severity of her emotions. he debated whether to step closer, and he acts on it when he sees even more violent tears running down her face. “i’m not even myself anymore, i’m everyone else.”
“shh, it’s ok,” he says, pulling her into an embrace and running a hand across her back. “it’s gonna be ok. i remember you every single day. i could never forget.”
“you don’t have to-“
“no, listen to me. you were the sweetest person ever, and i was ashamed of my excitement whenever you walked into a room. i didn’t wanna freak you out or anything. you were brave, you never once gave into other peoples shit. and you still are all these things. and i’ll spend every day proving it to you.”
she cries harder into his shoulder. the last thing she expected was the boy she loved comforting her outside of the building.
“i miss not giving a shit,” she peeps out, making conrad’s heart shred a bit.
“let’s stop giving one,” he looks her, cupping her face in his hands. “you and me, we’ll do it together, yeah?”
y/n creeps out a small smile at him, a genuine one for the first time in months. “you and i.”
can you do a story where conrad gets jealous because cam cameron is getting a little too touchy with y/n and she’s entertaining it. but little does he know it was all planned, y/n asked cam to do that to make conrad jealous. (they’re fwb and y/n got bored and planned this so she could see what conrad would do) well y/n ended up kissing cam and it got heated and conrad pushed them apart and took y/n upstairs to his room and made sure she wouldn’t do that again.
He's going to kill me
parings: Conrad Fisher x reader
warnings: unprotected rough smut
"If keep touching you like this, he's going to kill me." Cam glancing nervously towards Conrad before wrapping his arms around your waist.
You can't help the smirk on your face as you lean into Cam's touch, nuzzling your face against his neck before whispering in his ear. "He won't kill you, I promise. I guess that means my plan is working?"
Cam hums in response before he looks at Conrad once again from the corner of his eye, still not fully convinced. Conrad's hands were clenched tightly and the old saying "If looks could kill, you'd be dead" had never been more accurate as Conrad continues to send daggers in yours and Cams direction.
Despite Cam's fear that tonight may be his last, you can't help the way feeling of excitement that's oozing through you over Conrad's jealously. The two of you are friends with benefits, both of you agreeing to have no feelings involved, but there were moments when you wondered if there was more between you two than you both let on. Longing glances across the room, lingering touches after the two of you had finished having sex. He even asked you to stay the night on multiple occasions so he could hold you all night which was against the rules the two of you had made. Which is why once you were told Conrad was throwing a party that you'd use it to your advantage to see if your suspicions about Conrad liking you were true.
"Do you want to dance before you're impending doom?" You tease Cam playfully as you pull away from his neck to look up at him. Cam laughs at your joke before grabbing your hand and walking you both to the middle of the living room where everyone was dancing.
For the first time all night, you make eye contact with Conrad as you dance with Cam. He's still glaring at you both and now worse than ever as your ass is pressed against Cam, moving your hips against him as you both dance together. You've never seen Conrad this pissed before. It makes you breath hitch and your heart skip a beat, but you don't crack yet. Wanting to see if he would act upon what his face was showing. You can see how badly Conrad is fighting with himself. Wanting to grab you and show you who you're supposed to be with. But Conrad does the opposite. Instead of walking up to you and Cam, he starts to dance with another girl. Now you're the one pissed. The same glare Conrad had on his face is now on yours. You pull your eyes away from Conrad and the blonde you don't know the name of and look at Cam.
"Kiss me."
Cam's eyes widen a bit as you ask him to kiss you. He didn't expect you to want to go that far with this plan. He almost says no before he notices Conrad and the blonde. Cam nods and then he kisses you softly on the lips. The kiss doesn't stay soft though as you pull Cam closer to you, kissing him hard knowing Conrad is still watching. This kiss becomes heated. Although it isn't the same as all the kisses you've shared with Conrad, you're pleasantly surprised to find Cam is a quite the good kisser. You could get lost in the kiss, forgetting Conrad even if just for a short while, if it wasn't for a pair of hands pushing you and Cam apart.
"My room. Now." Conrad demands, frustration evident in the way he speaks. He doesn't even glance at Cam which is probably for the best because Cam's worries may not be so far from the truth with the amount of anger Conrad is feeling.
Your body reacts before your mind can process anything, you immediately head to the staircase and walk up the stairs into his room that you've been in so many times before. You can hear him shut the door before locking it and then you feel him, shoving you down on his bed before climbing on top of you.
"What the fuck was that bullshit?" Conrad asks, his breath hot and heavy against your neck as his fingers trail under your dress. You think he's about to touch you where you've been aching for him to touch all night, but he surprises you when he flips you over onto your stomach and slaps your ass roughly making you shriek in both pleasure and pain. "What makes you think you can bring someone into my house and dance with him like that?" Another harsh slap lands on your ass. "To kiss him with the same lips you use to suck my cock?"
Your eyes widen when he says that, but you don't say anything. You feel him slap your ass once more before he slides his hand under his dress and takes off your underwear in one quick, swift movement. Your breath is uneven as you hear him undo the zipper of his pants and then he slides himself into you. You moan loudly as he starts to move inside you.
"Did you wear this dress for him?" Conrad asks, his thrust quickening as he slaps your ass again before he yanks down one of the straps to your dress and squeezes your tit before flicking your nipple with his finger.
"N-no! I wore it.. I wore it for you." You moan out before burying your face against his pillow. He seems pleased with your response, but he doesn't let you bury your face in his pillow. Instead, he grabs you, wrapping his arms around your waist as he continues to thrust inside of you.
"And you're going to cum for me in it too, sweet girl. Gonna let this whole god damn party hear you, let them know who's fucking you this good" Conrad groans into your ear before kissing your neck, leaving a trail of love bites all over it. Needing to mark you up more than he's ever needed it before.
And just like he wants from you, you start to moan his name. You do it louder and louder with each thrust he gives you. His pace is so fast, so rough that the only thing keeping you up is his arms that are still wrapped firmly around you, wanting you to feel every inch of him.
"That's right, baby. I'm the one making you feel this good. Not fucking Cam Cameron." Conrad smirks against your neck as his free hand cups your face, pulling you into a passionate, needy kiss. His tongue exploring your mouth as you cum all over him. You cry out in pleasure as he keeps going, sensitive from the orgasm he just gave you before he finally cums deep inside you.
Conrad gently releases you, letting you rest against his pillow now before he pulls out of you and holds you in his arms. He kisses you again but this time it isn't rough. It's soft and sweet with a hint of desperation behind it. All he wants is you. Fuck the rules you two made.
"Are you okay? I wasn't too rough on you, was I?" Conrad asks, his voice much softer now as he strokes your hair with his fingers. You smile and shake your head before you kiss him once more.
"I liked how rough you were, Con." you say blushing. Your ass was sore and you could still feel yourself coming down from the orgasm he gave you and you absolutely loved it. Loved that it was him that did it.
"I don't want to ever see you with another guy that isn't me." Conrad admits staring so intently at you. Your heart flutters and you nod your head. You feel his arms pull you even closer as he waits, still nervous that you'll reject him. It's a fear he's had the moment you two started being friends with benefits. He had always liked you.
"And I don't want to be with any guy that isn't you." You smile at Conrad as you watch his worries fade away before he pulls you in for another kiss. He cups your face, holding you close to his body. You kiss him happy that your plan had worked and that he's finally yours.
"I'm going to kill Cam by the way." Conrad says as you two pull away. His lips are still against yours and you can't help but to laugh when he says this.
"It's okay, he's expecting it."
-
The way i wrote this in less than an hour lmao sorry if there's any errors, I haven't proofread it yet!
warnings: p in v, manhandling, conrad is a little bit of a softy towards the end, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), language, mention of y/n, shitty writing, overstimulation (female), light spanking
this isn’t how you expected to be spending your friday night; with conrad tossing you around and fucking your brains out. he missed you so much because of college and he wasn’t afraid to show it.
his dick sliding in and out of your soaked pussy, veiny hands gripping onto your hips pulling you back every time you tried to squirm away, letting out a deep and quick, “stay still baby, fuck.” he needed your pussy and would give anything to keep feeling you wrapped around him even if that did mean going until you were sobbing and shaking from how many times you’ve orgasmed.
his hand began to creep down to your red and puffy neglected clit, toying with the bud as you screamed and whined trying to move his hips away from yours, only to receive a light smack of the bottom. “b—ooh—but con i can’t take it anymore!” blabbering out a jumbled up sentence, attempting to get him off of your poor pussy. but it was no use, he couldn’t stop, it felt so good.
the burning ache you were feeling began to disintegrate as you felt your orgasm approach, gripping onto the sheets, his hands, anything that could stabilize you. your hips raising against his, trying to fight the feeling but he had a tight grip on you forcing your orgasm to continue. you moaned and screamed for him to stop. “wa—wait, connie i—oh my god! conrad i can’t do it!” tears flowing down your red cheeks, drool leaking from the edges of your mouth as you felt yourself release the pent up pleasure. your pussy gushing all over his abs and dick. but his movements continued. “cmon, just one more.” he grunted out, his hips starting to move slightly sloppily as his own orgasm began to form in the pits of his abdomen.
his eyes penetrating your tearful ones while he reached down to wipe your salty cheeks. “deeper. need to be deeper..” he groaned out to himself over top of your loud moans. his hands reaching for you ankles as he propped them on top of his shoulders releasing a loud whine from the figure below him. “too deep con..! s’ too much!” you screamed, convulsing on his dick for the 5th time. his release beginning to approach while his white salty liquid flooded the walls of your pussy, his cock acting as a plug to keep them all inside.
his hips pulling away from yours while his index and middle finger pushed his cum back inside of your quivering hole, his two fingers basking in the aftermath as they reached your swollen kiss bitten lips. your tongue instinctively sticking out and wrapping around them as they went inside your mouth, receiving a deep “fuck..” from the muscular figure. “we gotta clean this mess up, huh?” conrad asked with a smirk playing about his features.
please don’t be afraid to request works you would like me to try <33 thank you guys so much for the love on my last fics i didn’t expect that for my first time writing haha. thank you lovelies!!
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warnings: oral (make receiving), language, dacryphilia, hair gripping, throat fucking, gagging, deep throating, no matter how mean he seems conrad is a sweetie pie <3
word count: 0.4k
imagine the way conrad would go insane when you give him a blow job. he’s received them before but the way you do it is incomparable; tongue lapping at his tip and tracing the vein on the right side of his cock.
his absolute favorite part is when he can hear the light gagging sounds releasing from your throat when you dive your head down; your lips coating his length in drool.
like the gentleman he is, he used his hand to hold your hair in a makeshift ponytail, but went feral when you pulled yourself away from his cock—hand still jerking him off—when you told him to fuck your throat. you knew what you said did something to him but you didn’t think it would end with your mascara streaming down your face while he moved your head up and down in a fast motion.
the vibrations of your own moans shooting straight into his core, his tip leaking pre cum into your mouth while his hand released the back of your head, allowing you to take control again. a deep groan erupting from conrad’s kiss bitten and swollen lips when your tongue flattened against the bottom of his length and trailed it’s way up, reaching his red tip and kitten licking the area. “fuck..quit teasing me shit.” he chuckled ending with a gasp as you took all of him into your mouth at once. his orgasm producing in his lower abdomen as you continued to deep throat his cock.
you could feel his tip hitting the back of your mouth but you kept pushing him deeper down your throat until your gag reflex would appear and then you’d bring yourself back up, moving into the same position as before, until you felt his release coat the inside of your mouth and dribble down your throat. you swallow every drop, sticking your tongue out to show him as you jerked him off to help outride his orgasm. “damn that was good, baby.” he groaned as he guided you into his lap pampering kisses all over your face.
summary: you take a drive to cousins, but your boyfriend can’t keep his hands to himself and you do something about it CHARACTERS ARE 18+
warning: SMUT!! male receiving, road head
wc: 300ish (very short)
i’m sorry this took forever to get out. i also changed it to just conrad receiving to get this out faster. i may re write it later on. i’m sorry. i will also be taking a small break from posting trying my best to get stuff out NOT EDITED
It was one of those spontaneous drives. Conrad texted you telling you he was pulling up to your house in exactly 10 minutes to take you somewhere. It wasn’t normal for him just to show up when Brown was almost a 3 hour drive from you to him. He has surprised you a few times and drove to come see you but it was never a secret of where you were going.
You have been dating conrad for about 9 months now. It was just a new relationship but you knew him you’re whole life so it didn’t seem weird at all to be with him 24/7 when you could be. It took you some time to catch up to conrad’s hornyness (is that a word). He knew how to do a lot of things and well you knew most of it but maybe not enough. When you we’re together he could keep his hands to himself but as you entered his black car, he kissed you deeply even before you could shut the door.
“conrad.” you said into the kiss smiling as he held your head close to him
“i know i’m sorry.” he paused “i just missed you so much.” he kisses you again and you let yourself sink into the kiss as your body was over the console of the car and you pushed back into the front seat
“let’s go to cousins.” you grinned at him and he had his stupid smile on his face before putting the car in drive
It was about thirty minutes into the drive when his hand rested on your thigh started to move higher up on your thigh and you just stared at him and he acted as if anything was happening. So you decided to do the same to him moving your hand to his thigh and moving it higher
“y/n, i’m driving.” he quickly glanced at you
“just keep driving don’t worry about me.” you moved his hand from your thigh to the wheel and slowly took your seatbelt off from across of you and leaned over the console
“fuck.” you zipped his pants down and he lifted his hips so you could pull them to his mid thigh and through his boxers you teased him a little bit by putting pressure over the hard part forming between his legs “y/n”
“calm down.” you lifted the boxers next and net his erection come out and he let out a breath but kept his focus on the road “just drive”
Conrad let out a groan as you wrapped your hand around him and slowly stroked him. He lifted your hips to get more friction from your hands and you laughed at his state. You used your thumb to wipe some pre-cum off the tip and he hit it head on the headrest keeping his eyes on the road
“just relax.” you looked up at him
“i can’t relax when you’re doing this to me.” he sighed and his hands tightened on the steering wheel.
You leaned down to lick the side of his erection starting from the bottom to the tip. Conrad’s hips were trying to add more friction but he stopped himself trying to enjoy the moment. Before you put him into your mouth you licked the tip and then put your mouth around him.
“fuck.” conrad let out through closed teeth
You continued his movements up and down and each time the boy above you let out multiple groans and moans at your actions. He moved one of his hands to wrap around your ponytail to help you move up and down to his speed.
“that’s it.” he glanced down quickly “mhm”
You moved to his movements trying to help him get to his speed going up and down hollowing your cheeks to help. He was a mess above you trying his hardest to pay attention to the road when your were below him and doing the best work ever.
“just let me.” he sighed “please” you nodded and he lifted his hips up and slammed into your mouth and controlling your ponytail at the speed. you were letting him take all the control just how he liked it “yeah, yeah.” he moved faster and you knew he was close “cumming-“ you were cut off by his load moan and his hips lifted off the seat cummings into your mouth and you tried to swallow as much as you could before he pulled you off of him and he went limp “fuck, that was good.” he looked down at you resting your head on his thigh and he moved some lose strands away from sticking to your forehead “good job, baby.”
“of course.” you smiled
“when we get to the house, you’re the main attraction.”
After getting into an argument with his brother, Conrad seeks out the comfort of a close friend.
8k (18+)
Warnings: smut, oral sex (fem receiving), p in v, strong language, and slight angst.
-
For every girl in Cousins, there was something about Conrad Fisher that made them go a little crazy. And for Y/N, a girl who grew up with the Fishers and Conklins next door every summer, it was the fact that he decided to choose her of all people to be with. Even if Belly had him first, it was all worth it to her.
With Conrad, it's all soft-spoken praises, feather light brushes off his fingertips against forbidden places, and sensual kisses. It's all she can see when she closes her eyes to sleep at night or merely blinks during the day. It's hard to keep it a secret when her mind refuses to stop recalling the memories at a constant rate. Still, she has to be on her best behavior seeing that it is the last night they have together before the house is officially sold by Aunt Julia. And to honor their summer house, they collectively decided to throw a goodbye party.
The vibration of the bass thumping within the walls of the house is strong enough to rattle her eardrums as she takes a shot with her arm interlinked with Cam Cameron's. He, of course, is drinking a can of soda, but she was quick to assuage his insecurity when he mentioned it. It was the thought that counted.
She and Cam have been friends since they were in middle school, so, when he joined their circle of friends through Belly last year, it made her happy to have him around in the way Jere, Steven, Conrad, and Belly always were. When he and Belly ended their fling, she was there for both of them. She hugged Cam for a minute straight before letting go and offering to cheer him up with ice cream. For Belly, she told her she did the right thing by not leading him on and told her to follow her heart, wherever it may lead her, as they swam in the pool.
How was Y/N supposed to know it would lead her straight into the arms of the boy she's always loved?
"Okay," Cam rips her from her thoughts as he speaks, shoving his hydroflask filled with ice water into her hands, "You are officially cut off for the night until I see you drink some of this. I think your blood may be fifty percent tequila at this point."
She frowns at him.
"You're no fun, but I appreciate you looking out," she says.
She stays with him to swallow a few generous mouthfuls of water before handing the bottle back to him with a quiet, "Thank you. M'gonna go find Connie and Steven."
The last she checked, the two of them were taking pictures with the Polaroid camera they bought at the store earlier. They called her and Belly over to take turns taking pictures together. One of them all together, one of Y/N and Steven, then Belly and Conrad, and, finally Y/N and Conrad.
It was hard to watch Belly pose with him considering their extensive history together, but he knew that, and when it was her turn to pose with him, he wrapped his hand around her waist and entwined his fingers in hers to give it a reassuring squeeze. This made it extremely difficult for her not to smile too hard as she looked at the camera lens.
After the flash went off, Steven, the only person to know the details of their recent, days-old affair, says, "Wait, one more! One more! You'll thank me later, I swear."
With Belly having skated off, Taylor doing God knows what, and Jere lingering not far from wherever Belly went, they didn't feel too worried when they were directed to hug for the camera. Her cheek squished against his, their chests rising and falling to meet one another like matching puzzle pieces, and the scent of his body wash—the proximity to him was intoxicating.
"Okay, smileee—"
The flash off went off, and they stayed together for a few seconds longer than necessary before reluctantly pulling apart.
Steven handed each of them one of the pictures with a wink before saying, "Alright, Taylor wants me to do shots with her. I'll probably be back soon."
Conrad got the first one and she got the second. They couldn't help how they smiled as they stood side by side to admire them. His was carefully placed in the back pocket of his pants, which then made her realize that she did not have any pockets herself.
"Can you keep it safe for me?" she asked with a bright, moony-eyed expression. Her hands then slid down the front of her dress to feel for any place to store the photograph only to come up empty. "It's my own fault. Shouldn't have worn a dress."
His eyes softened as they looked up and down the length of her body, then settled back on her eyes.
"No," he said before he could stop himself, "it's perfect."
Her breath hitched in her throat, and she was about to open her mouth to speak when Cam and Skye called her name from across the room.
After a second, he spoke again, "I'll catch up with you later, Padme."
When he turned to walk away, he heard her giggle from behind his back at the inside joke shared between the two of them.
As she searches through the house for him now, she smiles to herself at the thought of it. It originated when they were mere children. After finishing a marathon of the Star Wars franchise in release order—the only correct way to watch it according to Susannah and Laurel—one summer, they all became obsessed with playing pretend with sticks as lightsabers. A week later, once it became apparent that it wasn't a fleeting phase, Susannah surprised them with toy lightsabers.
Somehow, they decided amongst themselves who was who, and it just so happened that Y/N was Padme and Conrad was Anakin. Jere and Steven made a deal to take turns playing Obi-Wan Kenobi since they originally both wanted to be him, and Belly, the youngest of the bunch, was so happy to be included that she would play whatever character they wanted her to for the day. The only roles that never changed were Anakin and Padme. Even when they got to the main trilogy in their game of pretend, Conrad played Darth Vader, and Y/N let Belly be Princess Leia while she played as Darth Sidious. One way or another, they were always paired in some way. Fated.
They much preferred playing as the star-crossed lovers as opposed to the pair of evil Sith Lords. It pleased her more than she ever let on that she and Conrad were together, even if it was just pretend. They've always teasingly called each other by those names ever since.
She peeks into every entryway when she walks by in hopes that she'll spot Conrad or Steven, but neither of them appears. It isn't until she steps out onto the front porch after searching the whole lower level of the house that she finds one of them. Well, actually, she hears one of them. Conrad.
"Jere, you know for a fact that I came home every second I could—"
"But it wasn't every day!"
Jeremiah, she notes as she stands with her back against the front door. Neither of them sees her.
"Okay, okay," Conrad retorts. "What do you want? A medal?"
What Jere says next makes her have to look away in the direction of the neighbor's yard, not wanting to see the heartbreak written across his brother's face as he calls him a coward. Her jaw tightens with every vitriolic word spewed at him. It isn't her place to interrupt, but it kills her to stand by and listen.
"You're not someone to look up to. You're not even someone I wanna know."
The universe must have a cruel sense of humor, because the second these words are said, someone trying to swing the door open against her back sends her stumbling forward into their line of vision. The sound of her falling to her hands and knees brings their attention away from one another instantly.
Her eyes meet Jeremiah's first, then they immediately switch to lock eyes with Conrad, and the first thing out of her mouth is, "I wasn't trying to eavesdrop or anything. I just came out here cause I couldn't find you guys. I'll go back inside." Despite her anger at what she overheard, she makes sure to look at both of them when she says, "I'm sorry."
She's already on her feet and facing the front door, abandoned by the guy who tried to walk out only to be greeted with this shit-show, when Jeremiah says, his tone harsh, "Don't. I was already leaving."
This makes her stop in her tracks, her hand frozen in place where it grabs the door handle, and, after she listens to Jere's footsteps gradually disappear, she turns back around.
Conrad is closer now than he was a second ago. Rather than remain in the driveway where he and his brother argued, he stands on the porch with his hands in his pockets. The look on his face...it's heartbreaking. His eyes are glassy, his lips downturned into a slight frown he tries to keep at bay, and knows based on the look he gives her alone that he will never forget what Jere said to him tonight.
She says softly, "Connie," unsure of what else to say to him, but that's all it takes to open the floodgates.
Silent tears start to fall down his cheeks as she closes the distance between them to take him into her arms in a comforting embrace. He bends down a little to allow his head to rest on her shoulder. Her hand cups the back of it to cradle his face into the soft crook of her neck, giving him the shelter he needs from the rest of the party to cry it out. The arms wrapped around her waist squeeze tightly enough to push the air from her lungs, but she never complains. To be in his arms is a blessing regardless of the reason and circumstances behind it.
They remain this way for the better half of a minute before he has the courage to break the silence. The hand on the back of his head brushes through his hair in a repetitive motion in hopes that it will soothe him.
"Do you wanna get out of here?" he asks. "I just"—he shakes his head—"I can't think straight right now..."
She nods.
"We can go to my house."
The Fishers and Conklins aren't nearly as familiar with her family's summer house as she is with theirs, but they have been inside a few times. On days when he didn't feel like being around everyone last summer, Conrad would come over and sit in the chair in the corner of her room, blowing the smoke from his joint out of the window while she cleaned, folded laundry, or read whatever book Laurel had recommended to her at the time. It was domestic in a way that made her heart skip a beat. It made her imagine how it would be in the future if they were together. If they truly ended up getting married as they pretended to when they were children while playing as Anakin and Padme.
She reaches down and entwines their fingers in order to lead him away in the direction of the house next door. It's a short walk over the fence gate that connects their yards. That was Susannah's doing. Five years into her friendship with the kids in her house, she and Y/N's parents agreed to install a new fence with a gate between their two properties to allow their children to play without having to leave the yard.
With everyone busy partying, no one should come back to sleep until way later. It wasn't until after they arrived back from their night at the country club that she remembered where her mom kept the spare key, so the others may forget their plans to sleep there. If they do, she'll shoot them a text in the group chat to remind them rather than allow them to sleep on the floor.
The door is already unlocked from when she went inside to shower and get ready with Taylor and Belly before the party, so all it takes is her turning the handle to allow them access.
She drops his hand once the door is kicked shut behind them and looks over her shoulder to say, "I think there's frozen food in the garage freezer if you're hungry," as she walks toward the kitchen. "And there's still my mom's Diet Coke in the fridge. We could always mix it with my dad's whiskey if you wanna keep drinking."
From behind, she can hear his footsteps on the freaking hardwood floor, getting closer and closer until his hand wraps around her arm to spin her around to face him.
"What—"
The question is cut short by his lips crashing against hers.
Kissing Conrad is something she doesn't think she will ever get used to or grow tired of. No matter how many times it happens, which, so far, has been at least three times since the night they spent at the country club, it takes her breath away the same as it had the first time when they were just children playing pretend.
Her arms are thrown around his neck in less than a second to pull him closer, and she doesn't hesitate to kiss him back. Not even for a second. At first, she is too intoxicated with the thrill of having him touching her to remember why they came here in the first place. Every thought revolves around him—the taste of the alcohol on his tongue, the feeling of his chest pressing against hers, and how confidently his hands find their place on her waist.
A second later, the memory of the fight he and Jere had comes back to her, and she forces herself to push him away.
"Wait," she says with her hands flattened against his chest to create some distance between them. "Wait, Connie."
When he opens his eyes, they're overflowing with concern for her. She already knows that he is assuming he made a mistake or that she doesn't truly want to do this with him, but that couldn't be farther from the truth. In fact, she is the one who is concerned for him.
"Are you okay? You and Jere just..." Her expression softens a little. "I don't wanna do this unless I know you're sure you're alright."
The confusion evident on his face disappears by the time she's finished speaking. In his mind, he anticipated something much worse than her wanting to check in on him to make sure he was okay. As the seconds passed between her telling him to wait and him looking at her, he feared she'd take back everything they shared in the past few days. All the secret kisses, gentle touches, and giggles. He wasn't sure he could take losing another one of the girls he grew up with in that way.
He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and stares at her without saying a word. If it were anyone else, it would be uncomfortable, but it never is with them. That's part of what keeps bringing him back to her. Of course, it can't end well seeing that he dated Belly, she's friends with her, and they had such a messy break-up, but what is he supposed to do? Ignore his feelings? Pretend not to want her when he clearly does? He can't do it. He won't. Now that he's already had a taste of her, he can't resist any it longer.
His chest rises with a deep inhale, then—
"I fucked everything up, and I knew Jere must have resented me for it, but I didn't think it was that bad," Conrad says. "I'm sad and angry, of course, but that doesn't mean you'd be taking advantage." He lets the tip of his nose brush hers with how close he comes. His voice is hardly a push of air when he speaks again. "You make everything feel better. You always have."
She doesn't allow him to kiss her again. Instead, she plays with the hair at the nape of his neck and keeps her eyes on his, not giving in even when their noses bump together and the heat of his exhales cloud on her skin. The kitchen table he has her pressed up against digs into her back, keeping her pinned in place exactly where he needs her.
"So, that's what you want?" she asks in a hushed tone even though they have the house to themselves. Every breath they take is pulled from the little pocket of air between their faces, and they can both smell the liquor on each other's breath every time they exhale. The hands on her waist slowly descend until they settle on her hips. "You want me to make it better?"
The moment she says the words, Conrad seems to melt into her touch. That is all it takes to turn him to putty in her hands, and he nods in response with his face pressed against hers.
"Is that okay?"
In other words, is that what you want? Have you been dying to get your hands on me the way I have been dying to get mine on you? It feels like a lifetime since they first hooked up in a secluded room at the country club, but it hasn't been more than a day.
In lieu of a verbal answer, she closes the inch of distance between them and connects their lips in a tender kiss.
He reciprocates with a passion that ramps up the intensity in a matter of seconds, quickly turning it from its initially timid and gentle nature into something more desperate and needy. Those hands on her hips squeeze hard to keep control and steady her body as he presses her further into the table, making her back arch a little. Her hands wander to explore every part of him now that she knows he wants this again, and she slips them up underneath his shirt to feel his bare skin beneath her palms. But when her hands make contact with his nipples, he shivers.
Their lips disconnect, shining from the saliva they share, for him to murmur, "Cold hands," as explanation before reaching down for the hem of her dress. She helps him shimmy the tight material up from where it gets stuck around her breasts until it is pulled free and tossed somewhere on the kitchen floor behind her, leaving her in only her undergarments. And he is quick to dispose of those too. Nimble fingers fumble with the clasp of her bra for a few seconds, then it finally comes loose around her back.
But, that's the last thing she lets him take off of her before she puts a hand on his chest to stop him.
Without saying a word, she grasps the bottom of his shirt and starts lifting it up to reveal his bare chest to her. He takes the hint without a second of confusion, pulling it the rest of the way off. It drops from his grasp the second it's off his head and abandoned in favor of aiding her in her attempt to undo his pants with those soft, trembling hands.
In a way, it feels similar to their first time. It was against a wall at the country club the other night after they became bored looking for a place to sleep. All they knew was that they needed to make it quick, so they did. His hand disappeared down the front of her panties to help her along, the pressure of his fingertips rubbing her clit bringing a wetness that soaked the cotton fabric concealing her from view, and that was all the preparation they took before it happened. He asked, voice quiet and low, if she'd done it before when she began tugging on his shirt as they made out, so once she said she had, all bets were off.
The thought of it slows him down for a second.
That time, they had to get it over with quickly. If they hadn't, the others likely would have gone looking for them and found out what was going on in the office room they snuck into. It was rough and quick and passionate, and he liked that, he truly did, but recalling that now makes him want to do it differently this time. Especially considering what happened before they came into this house.
"Slower, slower," he murmurs into her mouth.
The adjustment is made instantly, and she allows him to take back full control of the kiss. With his hands pulling her hips flush against his, he surrenders to the urge to rut against her to relieve the aching of his hard cock through the material of his boxer briefs and unzipped pants. He invades her open mouth with his tongue and kisses her slower, deeper than he had the last time. His teeth nip playfully at her lower lip in the second he takes to pull back for air.
His hands cup her face on either side to keep her in place as he dips down to kiss the underside of her jaw. He doesn't dare to leave any marks behind where anyone could see them, but he does take his time and suck gently on the sweet spot on the gentle slope where her shoulder and neck bridge together. Faintly, they can both hear the music from his house next door over the wet sound of his lips on her neck.
The other day, they didn't have the time to do everything he wanted to with her, but tonight they do. Tonight, he has her to himself for the first time in months, and he isn't going to take that opportunity for granted. Everything with her happened too fast for him to process. Last week, he'd been caught up on Belly, and part of him still is, but, then, Y/N came into the picture in a way he never expected. Despite the fear of ruining their lifelong friendship, to be with her felt as natural a process as breathing.
The hands on her face slip down the sides of her neck and down the front of her body until they find the band of the thin little thong she chose tonight for the sake of not having panty lines through her dress. Part of it also had to do with the possibility of this happening again, but she'd never give him the satisfaction of knowing that.
It appears, however, that he already knows when she finds the end of his mouth tipping upwards in a slight smirk as his fingers hook around the fabric. Seeing that they just hooked up yesterday and that these are a decent step up from the boy-short panties patterned with flowers he saw her in before, it isn't too difficult to put together.
Conrad sinks down onto his knees to tug it down her legs, and before her cheeks can begin to burn with embarrassment, she warns him, "Don't even."
This draws a giggle from him, his head tilting back to let him look up at her. Even in the midst of their playfulness and laughter, the sight of him kneeling before her makes her go weak in the knees. The strands of hair hanging in his eyes frame his face with an effortlessness she has envied him for her whole life. His beauty is classic, statuesque, even. He is the specific type of attractive that never falls out of trend or becomes less shocking over time. At least, not for her.
"I didn't say anything."
She counters, still laughing, "You didn't have to!"
At this point, she is grinning from ear to ear, and it's difficult to be self-conscious about being laid bare in his presence when he's looking at her like that. Her left leg is lifted off of the ground for her underwear to slide off of her ankle, but he doesn't put it back down. Instead, he turns his head to kiss her sensitive inner thigh, leaving her with nothing to do except watch while the anticipation of what he plans on doing eats her alive.
Unlike her neck, he has no qualms about marking up her thighs. It may be mildly uncomfortable to forgo wearing shorts in the summer heat, but it's doable. She can wear some of the bottoms she has stored in the dresser upstairs to keep the others from seeing if need be. His other hand grips her right hip to keep her steady while his other has her bent leg propped over his shoulder. Soon, his kisses have made a path up the length of her thigh, and she can't help but breathe heavier when she feels the heat of his exhales at the apex of her thighs.
"Connie..." she breathes out.
This brings his attention up, eyes fluttering open from where they'd been closed as he inched closer and closer to where she wants him most. And when she finds him looking up at her, pupils dilated and lips swollen from kissing, she can hardly breathe.
He asks, "You nervous?"
Words fail her. All she can do is nod.
"Don't be," Conrad whispers, the hand on her hip reaching to take hers in it for the sake of comforting her. "It's just me."
To this, she chuckles a little and tries not to shift in place with the sheer discomfort of the need she feels for him in this moment. No one has ever done this specific sexual act with her before, so the nerves are strong, but not quite as strong as her curiosity or desire.
"That's exactly why I'm nervous."
Her free hand comes down to brush the hair out of his face, and he leans into the touch like a cat brushing up between your legs. His eyes shut again for a second to appreciate the sweet gesture before looking up at her again, a slight grin begging to come to fruition on his face.
"Let me make it better, then," he says softly, in that charming, distinctly Conrad way that could take any girl's breath away with ease.
The first flick of his tongue against her is gentle, a mere glimpse of what's to come, but it stuns her all the same. Never having experienced this before, she is extremely sensitive to anything he does to her, and she finds that she's far more sensitive when it's his mouth pleasuring her as opposed to his fingers. Every soft brush of his lips against her in teasing kisses makes her hips press forward into his face in a silent command to continue without her noticing that she's doing it. He is quick to notice it, though, and he doesn't continue to tease her any longer.
This time, when he spread her open on his tongue, he gives her what she wants.
Sparks of pleasure shoot through her the second she feels him lapping at her aching clit, soft and gentle at first until he feels her grinding herself forward against his face for more. With her soft sighs and stifled moans as encouragement, he dips his head between her legs and eats her like a man starved. The remaining leg she stands on is quickly guided over his other shoulder, and his hand slips out of hers in favor of taking hold of her hips. The supple flesh of her ass is soft where it is squeezed beneath his fingertips and used as leverage to bring her as close as possible.
"Mm," she whines, "Fuck..."
The ability to speak evades her in the heat of the moment, but they both know how much she's enjoying this without her having to come out and say it. If the sounds she's making weren't enough, the hand she has gripping the back of his head to keep his mouth on her would prove it.
She knew from conversations overheard between the boys that Conrad was no stranger to this kind of thing. It may have made her heart sink into the pit of her stomach to hear it back then, but, right now, she's thankful for his experience. Every lick, kiss, and caress is placed exactly where she needs it as though he's able to read her body without having to open his eyes. The pleasure he's giving her far outweighs the jealousy she feels when she remembers that he's done this with other girls, one of them possibly being Belly.
The taste of her arousal, slick on his lips and tongue, has him humming in contentment into her as though he is the one being pleasured by this. In a way, he is. There's something intoxicating about being surrounded by her in every sense like this—her weight on his shoulders, her hands in his hair, and her thighs clamped shut on either side of his face. His dick strains against the fabric of his underwear as well as his unzipped pants, pulsing with the desire to sink into her and find his release.
She cants her hips to grind down on his face in pursuit of something closer, something deeper that they can't manage like this. And it isn't long before she starts to pull gently at his hair, reaching down and trying to pull on his arm to get the message across.
Conrad's lips part from her soaked pussy with a wet sound. When he looks up at her from between her thighs, she can see how his lips and chin are smeared with her arousal. It glistens under the moonlight coming in through the kitchen window. In seconds, the moment is already gone. The hands gripping her hips slide down to take hold of her thighs in order to guide them off of his shoulders, and when he sets her back down onto the ground, her muscles are trembling.
He's standing back up at his full height with his body slotted perfectly between her legs in the time it takes her to blink. Their next kiss is hungrier, much more aggressive in nature, than the last they shared, and she can taste herself on his lips.
In the gaps between their fervent kisses, she says, breathless, "I know you wanted to go slower this time, but I can't." His tongue invades her mouth again, pushing past her soft lips to allow the taste of her lip balm to blend with the semi-sweet taste of her pussy. It's only when his tongue retreats to give him the chance to bite down on her bottom lip that she can speak again. "Please," she whines and juts her hips out until she feels him hard against her. "We can go again after, I just want you now."
This sends him into a bit of a frenzy.
He has had his fair share of hook-ups—not nearly as many as Jere but plenty—yet there's something about her that thrills him in a way few others ever could. No girl has ever said anything like that to him. With Belly, it was her first time, so everything was tender and experimental due to the nature of the situation. With Y/N, it's different in the sense that they cannot be fairly compared. How could anyone compare a gentle, sweet first time with what may end up being the best fuck of his life, surpassing the quickie at the country club that left them both breathless and weary.
Conrad is panting for air when their lips part, their mouths hanging open and brushing as he hefts her up onto the table with little effort. Beneath her hands, she can feel his biceps flex with the quick lift. Taut muscle contracts and pushes back against her fingers before relaxing again once her ass is planted on the tabletop, but if it weren't for her hands gripping his arms for support, she wouldn't have noticed it had any effect on him. It's strangely arousing. She never gave his casual strength much thought until he utilized it in this context for the first time. A thin sheen of sweat coated his forehead when he had to keep her lifted against the wall at the country club as he thrust into her, but he didn't struggle.
Please. He hears her whining the word on a loop in his mind as he aids her in shoving his pants and underwear down his lean thighs. We can go again after. She wraps her hand around his length and pumps a few times despite the fact that he's already hard enough for it to ache. All the while, he's still stuck on the things she said. We can go again after. Not only does she want him now, she already knows she'll want him again. I just want you now. That crucial part gave him the answers he'd been seeking for the past twenty-four hours since he pinned her to the wall at the country club and fucked her hard enough to make the framed paintings shake on their hooks. I just want you now. It was life-altering for her too.
As he angles his hips just right to guide the broad tip of his cock into her, his fingers dig into her hips so hard, she'll be shocked if it doesn't bruise by tomorrow.
She uses the legs wrapped around his hips to push him further into her, and they both gasp at the sensation it brings them. Her heels press into the backs of his thighs, urging him to take whatever he wants from her whenever he wants it. It doesn't matter that the stretch she feels the further she urges him inside of her almost makes her have to bite down on her lip to contain a wince. Nothing matters to her except for getting as close to him as physically possible.
He lets out a low, drawn-out, "Oh fuckkk," under his breath as he sinks the rest of the way into her.
Their noses bump with every slight movement made or breath taken in, and she refuses to look away from his eyes. There's something inherently vulnerable about holding unwavering eye contact with him while he is buried in her to the hilt. The hands on his biceps slide up slowly until both of her arms are wrapped behind his neck to keep him from shying away from her at any point. This is the closeness she craved more than anything. Nothing else would do, not even having him on his knees for her.
It's a wonder that he doesn't come right away with how tightly the soft, warm walls of her pussy are squeezing around him. And when she bucks her hips up in a wordless request for him to move, he shakes his head.
Eyes clenched shut, Conrad murmurs, "I just need a second."
He feels her nod against his face, her nose nudging his cheek. For the next thirty or so seconds, he remains as still as possible. It's torture for him to stay this way and resist doing what comes naturally. Although it's for his sake, not hers, he struggles to keep a firm enough hold on his self-control. He keeps his eyes shut because he knows that if he looks at her, he won't stand a chance.
It isn't until the fire that blazed in the pit of his abdomen has calmed that he allows himself to look at her again. When he opens his eyes, she's already watching him. Her fingers twirl strands of his hair absentmindedly, and when she sees him open his eyes again, she closes the gap between their lips again.
This time, as his lips slot against hers, he draws away from her, pulling out until it's only his tip inside of her.
"You don't have to be gentle," she murmurs. "I can take it. I won't break."
His response comes in the form of him snapping his hips into her until he's gone as deep as she can take him. Despite her urging him to get rougher with her, she still gasps at the sudden intrusion and looks up at him with a wide-eyed stare of disbelief. Her past hook-ups were meaningless and unfulfilling. It happened during her freshman year at Trinity College while Conrad and Belly were dating. Considering what was going on at the time, she didn't plan to talk to either of them about it afterward, and, once it was as over, she didn't want to.
It was horrible.
It was the polar opposite of her first time with Conrad. Not only was it with an uncaring frat boy she met at a party her roommate dragged her to, it was uncomfortable. He didn't do anything other than get himself hard and stick it in, and with her nerves being so bad, it was already hard for her to get aroused. But it couldn't be any more different now. It couldn't be any more different with him.
It's rougher than it was initially, yet still slow and sensual. The hands on her hips guide her into a cadence to match his movements each time he thrusts into her, stifling the sound of his own low moans by smearing his mouth against hers. It's a messy, open-mouthed kiss. Their tongues brush, saliva coating their lips, and he makes sure there isn't a single part of her left un-worshiped tonight. Whether it be her neck, her collarbone, or her jaw, he pays every part of her the attention it deserves, partly for her sake and partly because he cannot help himself.
Their lips pull apart with a loud smacking sound, and he keeps his forehead pressed to hers as he looks into her eyes, head tilting just slightly to the side. One of his hands abandons its place at her hip to slide up the length of her torso. Her stomach flinches inward at the contact of his knuckles brushing her skin on the way past, but it's when he lets his hand flatten over her breast that she lets out a shaky exhale, He doesn't spend too much time there, though. After teasing her with a gentle squeeze, his hand wraps around the back of her neck for the sake of having control of where she looks, and, right now, he wants her to look at him as he admits something to her.
"I've dreamt about this," Conrad whispers.
He delights in her slack-mouthed expression when he ruts into her a touch faster and harder for the sake of seeing the expression on her face shift.
Somehow, she finds her voice and manages to stammer out, "I"—she is interrupted by the need to take in a sharp breath of air—"I thought..."
The hand on the back of her neck squeezes harder at the implication of her unfinished statement. It isn't necessary for her to continue the thought, he already knows what it means. I thought you dreamt about Belly. He did. He dreamt of Belly every night last summer, but it was Y/N who he dreamt of first.
She was the one who awakened these feelings within him for the first time. Being the oldest alongside him, she was the first to develop, and he didn't know what to do with the feelings that surfaced the summer she came back looking less like a girl and more like a woman. She was the first person he kissed, albeit for a game they played together, not Belly. Surely, he thought she had to know that it meant something to him too, but when he looks at her now, it's clear that he thought wrong.
His brows pinch together at the sensation of her tightening up around him, but his eyes are soft. Tender. Honest. He shakes his head. Just once.
"You were first," he says it so quickly, she almost misses it. "It was you."
That doesn't mean what he had with Belly meant nothing. In fact, it means the opposite. What he had with Belly was unlike anything he experienced before, but so is this. There is no way for Conrad to compare the two because what he feels for them is so solid yet different.
With Belly, he knew what he meant to her. He knew she put him on a pedestal her whole life and believed every word he said, so it was difficult not to feel an added pressure to live up to that standard. His heart broke when he ruined prom for her, but he did it because he thought he didn't deserve her.
With Y/N, they've always mirrored one another. Both the eldest in their respective families, gifted children, and sensitive in a way that troubled them more than most of their siblings and friends. Where everyone else misunderstood Conrad, she understood him. And it was never something that had to be acknowledged out loud or spoken of. It was a law of existence.
The summer before last, when Conrad got into reading as a result of Laurel gifting him a few of her favorite classics, he ended up insisting that Y/N read Wuthering Heights shortly after he finished it. Never having read for pleasure before, she thought she'd find it difficult to devote herself to it, but she should have known. She should have known that if he wanted her to read it, there were good reasons for it. Belly and the boys were having dinner with their moms when she finally got to his favorite line.
It was underlined in red ink, she noted, not pencil. Never to be erased or undone in any way. When she read it, she knew immediately that he'd done it for her. On the page, it read, "He's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same," and that was the moment she knew she loved him.
Right now, as he kisses her and reaches down with the same hand that held her neck to rub her clit, it's all she can think of. So, she says it. She takes the vulnerable confession and offers one of her own in return.
"You were first for me too," she says breathlessly.
The contact of his fingertips brushing her most sensitive spot has her jolting against him in equal parts shock and pleasure. It instantly makes the feeling of him rocking into her at a steady pace all the more gratifying. What she said is fuel to the fire for him. It urges him on, chasing the weightless, stirring feeling inside of him with reckless abandon. He decides to trust what she said about being able to handle him not being gentle, because, truth be told, he can't control himself.
Conrad, lost in the haze, starts sucking at her neck after he leans down to kiss it. Everything outside of this house no longer exists to either of them, so it doesn't occur to them that they'll have to answer for the marks left behind on her come morning. No, all he can think of is what he feels for her and how he can possibly show her the full extent of it without telling her. This is the only way, he thinks. When he talks, he fucks everything up, but she has to know how he feels through this. After all, she's always had a sixth sense when it comes to him. Why should it be any different now?
Her fingers card through his hair and tug gently on the soft strands as she tips back her head and arches her body into him, gasping into the dark, empty kitchen. Even when he kisses his way back up to her lips, he remains trapped in the trance she put him under, taking every part of her for himself. It takes her crying out in bliss at the combined sensations of his fingers on her clit and the smooth, wet drag of his cock inside of her for him to meet her gaze again. This time, he doesn't dare look away. Neither does she.
Their eye contact never wavers as she murmurs, face twisted in pleasure, "Fuck, I think—"
Her sentence can't even be finished before she's coming undone from the next caress of his fingers against her.
The arms wrapped around the back of his neck pull him in as her body tenses up with the onset of her climax. Not only does he watch and listen as the euphoria washes over her, he feels it. He can feel her spasming around him, clenching and unclenching, through every powerful wave.
Her jaw has fallen open in a gape that allows every beautiful moan, gasp, and whine to escape into the space between their lips. And it's the sensation of her coming around him that threatens to send him over the edge, but he holds out for as long as he can. Both for the sake of helping her ride it out and prolonging his own orgasm.
He pulls out quickly out of fear of finishing inside and withdraws the fingers that were rubbing her clit to wrap them around his cock, stroking himself once, twice, three times until he comes with a breathy moan. Watching it drip down her trembling stomach heightens the swift pulses of pleasure, and when his body jerks involuntarily from how good it feels, the next rope of cum lands across the hickeys on her inner thighs. It's downright filthy, but he'll be damned if it isn't the most erotic thing he's ever seen in real life.
For a second, time is suspended to allow them both the chance to catch their breath and enjoy the comfort of each other's embrace. Her arms are still linked around him, trapping him in, and he lets his face fall forward onto her shoulder with a tired sigh. It's impossible for either of them to find words in the midst of their post-orgasmic bliss, so they don't bother trying. Much like how it has been for their lives preceding this moment, the silence is comfortable. There is no misunderstanding, awkwardness, or trying to fill the space with meaningless small talk.
Once the rapid rise and fall of their chests have evened out, Conrad pulls away from his cherished spot in the crook of her neck and kisses her one last time before coming back down to earth.
He's already pulling his pants back up before moving to get a few paper towels from the kitchen counter, telling her, "Stay there, I got it."
The sound of the tap turning on reaches her ears, then vanishes as quickly as it appeared, and it isn't long before Conrad is back in front of her. Every swipe of the damp wad of paper towel is gentle on his skin, carefully minding where she's particularly sensitive in the aftermath of what they did. As he wipes his release up from her stomach and thighs, he folds the towel in half to clean her again, then, once he's finished, he leans down with one hand cupped underneath her thigh and presses a kiss to one of the marks he left behind.
Her face burns hot at this, but she tries not to let it rattle her brave face.
"You're lucky I like you so much," she says, tilting her head to show him her neck, "cause this is gonna be impossible to hide."
He can't even stop the smirk from crossing his face at the sight of her freshly bruised skin. Yet, he doesn't answer right away. He simply continues to smile to himself and walks around the island she's perched on, digging in the freezer for something for the next moment or so. When he returns, he's holding up a bag of frozen peas as though it is a coveted trophy.
"This will help," he says and gently presses the cold bag over the spot on her neck. "Thank you, by the way."
She blinks at him.
"For what?"
His shoulders pull up in a shrug as he tries to find the right way to word it without it sounding like he's only talking about the sex.
"For everything." He says softly, rubbing the edge of her jaw with his thumb. "Sometimes, I feel like you don't know what you mean to me."
The room has been plunged into silence since they stopped moaning, panting, and joining their bodies together. All that can be heard over their voices is the music next door, as well as loud voices speaking in the back and front yard. In here, though, it's just them, and he can hear how her breath hitches in her throat at what he said.
"It was confusing last summer, but ever since you underlined that part in the book you gave me, I've known. At least to some extent," she admits. "I knew you did that for me."
He nods.
"I did."
There's a long pause, then—
She breaks her gaze with him and looks down at the floor, smiling like an idiot at the thought of what has transpired in the last forty-eight hours. Seeing her clothes in a pile on the floor prompts her to take the frozen peas from him and jump down from her seat on the counter.
As explanation, she says, holding the bag to her neck, "We should probably get back to the party before anyone notices we're gone."
He casts a quick glance to the counter where they fucked for a second before looking at her again.
"And probably clean that."
A giggle escapes her when he says this.
"Yeah, we definitely should."
-
Hello! Finally wrote a Conrad fic! If you enjoyed it, I'd love to hear your thoughts. If you want to be added to a tag list for future Conrad fics, let me know as well. Thank you.
❥ “you just might be the single most gorgeous being i have ever seen.”
❥ “i want to be yours, and i’m trying to be deserving of it.”
❥ “a string has tangled itself around my heart, and it is pulling me to you.”
❥ “to say that being without you meant i would stop breathing would be an exaggeration, but to say that my life would end if you left, would be true to my heart.”
❥ “my heart aches with the knowledge that you are not mine.”
❥ “you have become subject of my prayer. your soul guides my religion.”
❥ “be careful with my heart, will you?”
❥ “my life has become moments spent with you, and waiting to reunite.”
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SUBTLE: giving looks, brushing hands, little comments that could be mistaken for an innocent compliment
PLAYFUL: lighthearted teasing & banter, exaggerated reaction, poking fun at behaviours, playful shoves, feigned offense, "Oh, you think you're funny, do you?"
SUGGESTIVE: straightforward, complimenting looks, casual physical touch, dirty jokes, expressing desire, "We could always sneak out somewhere quieter."
ROMANTIC: head over heals, thoughtful gestures, blushing, classically romantic gestures (holding doors, holding an umbrella, bringing coffee in the morning), "My soul knows yours from another lifetime and calls for yours in this one too."
ANXIOUS: freaking out over every text and interaction, discussing every move with their friends,
BOLD: direct, no subtly, relationships always labelled, "I've really liked being around you. Could I maybe take you on a date sometime?"
SHY: nervous, insecure, showing no interest until they are sure the other is interested, fidgeting, daydreaming about what could be if they had the courage to confess, using excuses to be close to them, "Um... you look really good today."
CARETAKING: acts of service, protectiveness, checking in, bringing snacks, offering jacket, fixing things, walking them home, "Brought you coffee; it's still warm."
CASUAL & INTENSE: platonic flirting with no further intentions, way over the top at times, effortless, fun, teasing, maybe eventually leading to more, "You look great, please break my back and reshape my inner organs."
[Prompt Calender: February 9th, International Flirting Week]
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