krystal

the glow of your laptop screen was the only light in your apartment, casting long, dancing shadows against the walls. curled up on the couch, you were half-watching a sitcom, but the canned laugh track felt hollow, an annoying buzz against the loud silence of your own thoughts. you’d been re-reading the texts for what felt like the hundredth time, your thumb scrolling up, up, up past the memes and the late-night ‘u up?’ messages to the one that mattered.

mi amor: gon show em what’s mine soon, baby. put you on the story so they know.

that was a week ago. a full seven days. and since then? nothing. not a hint of you on his feed, not a glimpse of your hand in his, not even a vague, cryptic post that you could pretend was about you. you knew it was stupid. you knew that in the grand, complicated, and completely undefined mess of your ‘situationship,’ a public post was the least of your worries. you were a talking stage. you were a late-night call. you were a convenience. you knew all of this.

but he had promised.

he’d said it with that low, gravelly voice of his, the one that always made your stomach do a slow, lazy flip. he’d said it while his fingers were tangled in your hair, his lips pressed to your temple, and for a moment, you’d let yourself believe it. you’d let the fantasy bloom in your chest—the idea of his millions of followers seeing a piece of you, a confirmation that you existed in his world outside the four walls of your apartment.

the feeling of being a secret was beginning to curdle, turning from something exciting and illicit into something sour and shameful. every time you saw him post a picture from the studio, a shot of a sold-out crowd, or a mirror selfie with his friends, a fresh wave of disappointment would wash over you. you weren’t in any of those pictures. you were the after-party, not the main event.

so when your doorbell buzzed, a sharp, insistent sound that cut through the sitcom noise, your first instinct was irritation. you weren’t expecting anyone. more specifically, you weren’t expecting him. he usually just texted ‘here’ and you’d unlock the door before he got there, the familiar routine a comfort in its own right. the formal ring of the bell felt like an intrusion.

you paused your show, swinging your legs off the couch and padding to the door in your oversized t-shirt and fuzzy socks, your mood a heavy blanket you couldn’t shake off. you peered through the peephole and your heart did a stupid, traitorous little leap.

it was chris.

and he wasn’t empty-handed.

you took a deep breath, schooling your features into something resembling neutrality, and unlocked the door. he stood there, a sheepish, handsome grin on his face, looking unfairly good in a simple black hoodie and baggy jeans. but it was what he was holding that made you pause. in one arm, he cradled a ridiculously cute, fluffy pink teddy bear with a bright red satin heart sewn onto its chest. in the other, he held a wicker basket, beautifully arranged with a bouquet of a dozen long-stemmed red roses and what looked like boxes of your favorite chocolates.

“happy valentine’s day, mamas,” he said, his voice a low hum.

for a split second, the anger and disappointment melted away, replaced by a warm, gooey feeling that spread through your chest. it was… thoughtful. it was more than thoughtful. it was the kind of grand, romantic gesture you saw in movies, the kind of thing you’d never, ever expected from him, the king of non-committal hookups.

but then the memory of his empty instagram story, of the promise he’d so casually broken, came rushing back in, dousing the warmth with icy resentment. this felt like a consolation prize. a shiny, pretty apology for something he didn’t even realize he’d done wrong.

“oh,” you said, your voice flat. you stepped back to let him in, your eyes fixed on the gifts. “thanks.”

you took the basket from him, the scent of the roses and chocolate filling the air. you didn’t meet his eyes. you didn’t lean in for the kiss he was clearly expecting. you just held the gifts, the silence stretching between you, thick and uncomfortable.

chris’s smile faltered. he stepped inside, his gaze flickering from your face to the gifts and back again. he was a master of reading a crowd, of feeling the energy of a room, and he could feel the temperature in your apartment drop by twenty degrees.

“that’s it?” he asked, a hint of confusion in his tone. “just ‘thanks’?”

“it’s lovely, chris. thank you,” you repeated, your voice still devoid of the affection he was clearly fishing for. you turned away from him and walked toward the kitchen, the teddy bear tucked awkwardly under your arm.

you heard him sigh, a heavy, frustrated sound. then, the sharp, violent slam of your front door echoed through the apartment, making you jump. the sound was so aggressive, so out of place, that it sent a shiver of both fear and something darker, something like excitement, down your spine. his heavy footsteps followed you into the kitchen, each one a deliberate, angry thud on the hardwood floor.

you ignored him, focusing on the task at hand. you carefully placed the pink bear on the counter, its stupidly cheerful face a stark contrast to the tension you were feeling. you unwrapped the cellophane from the roses, the crinkling sound deafeningly loud in the silence. you opened a cabinet, pulled out a tall glass vase, and filled it with water at the sink. one by one, you began to delicately place the roses into the vase, your movements slow and precise, a desperate attempt to maintain some semblance of control.

he stood behind you, his presence a physical weight in the small space. you could feel his eyes burning into your back. you could practically hear the gears turning in his head, the confusion morphing into anger.

“what the fuck is your problem?” he finally bit out, his voice low and dangerous.

you finished arranging the last rose, turning the vase slightly to make it look perfect. you turned off the tap and dried your hands with a kitchen towel, stalling. finally, you turned to face him, leaning back against the counter. you let your lower lip jut out in a pout you knew he hated, a childish expression of your discontent.

“what’s up?” he pressed, taking a step closer. his shadow fell over you. “i come here, on valentine’s day, with all this nice shit for you, and you’re acting like i just tracked mud on your carpet. talk to me, baby.”

you let out a humorless little laugh, shaking your head. “it’s stupid.”

“obviously,” he scoffed, and that one word, so dismissive, so condescending, was all it took for the dam of your restraint to break.

“you said you were going to post me, chris,” you blurted out, the words tasting petty and childish even to your own ears. “a week ago. you said you were going to post me on your story. so everyone would know.”

he stared at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. then, a look of disbelief crossed his face, followed by a short, sharp scoff that felt like a slap. “are you fucking serious? that’s what this is about? an instagram story?”

the way he said it, as if it was the most ridiculous, pathetic thing he’d ever heard, made shame and anger burn in your cheeks. he didn’t get it. he would never get it. to him, it was just a picture, a fleeting 24-hour blip on a social media app. to you, it was a symbol. it was validation. it was the one thing you’d dared to ask for, and he hadn’t even remembered.

“you know what? forget it,” you said, your voice shaking slightly. you rolled your eyes, pushing off the counter and walking back into the living room. “it’s dumb. you should just go home.”

you intended to retreat to the safety of your couch, but you didn’t get the chance. you turned your back on him, a clear dismissal, and that was your mistake.

a hand clamped down on your arm, his grip like iron. he spun you around with a force that knocked the air from your lungs. your eyes widened in shock as he looked down at you, his face a mask of cold fury. the playful, charming rapper was gone. this was someone else. this was the man who commanded stadiums, the man who didn't take disrespect from anyone.

“go home?” he repeated, his voice a menacing whisper. “i don’t fuckin’ think so.”

before you could process what was happening, he was shoving you. not hard enough to make you fall, but with enough force that you toppled forward. your hands and face met the soft cushions, the impact muffled by the fabric. the scent of your own apartment, now alien and threatening, filled your nose.

you gasped, your mind reeling. one of his hands shoved up the back of your oversized t-shirt, his calloused fingers finding the waistband of your underwear. he didn’t bother pulling them down. he hooked his fingers into the lace and ripped them, the sound of tearing fabric a sharp, definitive punctuation mark in the tense silence.

you heard the rasp of his zipper, the rustle of his jeans being pushed down. there was no preparation, no gentle touch, no whispered words. there was only the cold shock of the air on your exposed skin, and then the blunt, forceful pressure of him pushing against you. he lined himself up and with a single, powerful thrust, he was inside you.

a choked cry escaped your lips, a mixture of pain, shock, and a shameful, immediate pleasure. he was thick and unforgiving, stretching you, filling you completely. he didn’t give you a moment to adjust. he immediately began to pound into you, a relentless, punishing rhythm that was all anger and possession.

he was drilling into you. your face was pinned to the cushions, your world reduced to their texture and the overwhelming sensation of him inside you. your ass, slick with the precum he’d forced in with him, was lifted into the air, jiggling and bouncing with every brutal impact. his hips slammed against you with a force that bruised, the sound a wet, obscene series of plaps that echoed in the quiet room. it was the sound of ownership. the sound of him taking back control.

his hand clamped onto your hip, his strong fingers digging into the soft flesh, holding you in place, angling you to take every punishing inch.

“is this what you wanted?” he growled in your ear, his breath hot and ragged. “huh? you wanted attention? you got my fucking attention now.”

tears started to prick at the corners of your eyes, blurring the pattern of the couch fabric beneath you. it was too much. it was rough and degrading and exactly what you secretly craved when you felt this messy inside. he was punishing you, and every cell in your body was singing with the brutal, violent catharsis of it.

you tried to answer, but all that came out was a broken sob. “chris…”

“don’t,” he snarled, his pace quickening. he was fucking you with a furious energy, as if he was trying to erase your attitude, your disappointment, your entire being, and replace it with nothing but him. “you don’t get to disrespect me. not today. not after i come here trying to do something good for you.”

through the haze of sensation and humiliation, a harsh, bright light suddenly illuminated the cushions in front of your face. the flash. your blood ran cold. you knew instantly what it was. he was holding his phone. he was recording you. face down, ass up, being pounded into your couch. he was getting the content for his story after all.

the realization shattered something inside you. the fight, the anger, the last vestiges of your pride—it all crumbled into a pathetic, whiny mess.

“no, no, please, chris,” you sobbed, the words muffled by the cushions. “i’m sorry, baby. i’m so sorry, please don’t.”

your apologies seemed to fuel him. a low, guttural groan rumbled in his chest. he leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear as he continued his relentless assault. “sorry for what? for being a brat? for needing a reminder of who you belong to?”

“yes, yes, i’m sorry,” you cried, your body starting to tremble as the overwhelming stimulation pushed you toward an edge you couldn't control. “i’m sorry, daddy, please.”

the honorific slipped out, a desperate plea, and it was like flipping a switch. his rhythm changed, becoming impossibly deeper, faster. he was close.

“that’s my good girl,” he praised, the words a dark caress against the storm of his movements. “begging for me. this is what you’re good for. not pouting over some stupid fucking picture.”

he was right. in that moment, he was absolutely right. this was your dynamic. this was the language you both understood. not roses and chocolates, but friction and force.

“you think i need a fucking holiday to spoil you?” he grunted, his voice tight as his own release began to build. “i don’t need a day to tell you i love everything about you. your pretty face, this ass, the way you whine for me. i love all of it. but you’re mine. and don’t you fuckin’ forget it.”

his words, so possessive, so toxic, were the most romantic thing he’d ever said to you. they broke you open completely. with a strangled cry, your orgasm ripped through you, a violent, shuddering wave of release that left you limp and boneless against the cushions.

your climax triggered his. with a final, deep groan that seemed to be torn from the very depths of his soul, he came deep inside you, his body going rigid before collapsing on top of you, his heavy weight a comforting, suffocating blanket.

for a long moment, the only sounds were your ragged sobs and his harsh, heavy breathing. the air was thick with the smell of sex and sweat and the faint, sweet scent of vanilla from your air freshener.

he stayed on top of you, not moving, until his breathing evened out. then, he slowly pushed himself up. you heard him adjust his clothes, the rasp of his zipper loud and final. you didn’t move, your face still pressed into the couch, shame and satisfaction warring within you.

he sat down beside you on the couch. you flinched when you saw his phone still in hand. he didn’t say anything. he just angled the screen so you could see it. he wasn’t recording anymore. he was on the ‘post to story’ page.

your eyes widened in horror. the video was there, a short, twenty second-second loop. the clip was in a stark black and white filter, the harsh light of the flash making your skin gleam as his hips pounded against you. you could see his hand clamped firmly on your hip, holding you steady. the video was muted, and one of his unreleased, slower tracks was playing over it, the bass a low thrum that you could feel even through the phone’s tiny speakers. he was actually going to do it.

he watched your reaction, a small, cruel smirk playing on his lips. he typed a caption, his thumb moving quickly.

‘my valentine’

he then tapped the emoji keyboard, adding a single red heart right beside the words.

he held his thumb over the ‘share’ button, letting you see it. letting you squirm. you looked from the phone to his face, your eyes pleading.

“chris, please,” you whispered, your voice raw.

he held your gaze for another long, torturous second. then, with a sigh, he tapped the ‘delete’ button and discarded the story. he slid his phone back into his pocket.

“see?” he said softly, his voice back to its normal, low timbre. he reached down, his touch surprisingly gentle as he brushed a strand of hair from your tear-stained cheek. “i’ll give you whatever you want. you just have to ask nicely.”

he stood up, towering over your form on the couch.

“now get your fine ass up and get all pretty,” he said, his tone casual, as if the last few minutes hadn’t happened. “i’m taking my girl out on a date.”

one of them playfully taps his chest. "you sure you're taken?"

chris just raises an eyebrow, tilting his head like it's the dumbest question he's heard all night. "very."

"what's her name?" the other one challenges.

that smug little smile spreads across his face, "wouldn't give it to you even if you asked nicely."

and then, like clockwork, his red eyes flick up, right over their heads and land on you.

his whole posture shifts. he stands straighter, subtly pushing off the counter, and without a word to the girls, starts walking straight towards you like gravity is dragging him.

you barely open your mouth before he's already in front of you, tall and unapologetically smug.

"hey," he says, voice smooth and low.

"you're drunk? and high?"

he shrugs, "and you're late."

he then leans in, no hesitation, hands finding your waist as he bends down just enough to nuzzle your cheek. his breath smells like lemon-lime soda and something sharper underneath.

"took you long enough."

you roll your eyes, pretending your not melting, "You've got groupies tonight?"

he hums lazily against your skin. "didn't even look at them. waste of time." his fingers slide just under the hem of your hoodie, settling at your hips like it's the most casual thing in the world. "why would I entertain that when I've got you?"

you glare at him, weakly. "you're really drunk."

"im really high," he corrects. "and a little drunk, which makes me honest."

matt walks past with two red solo cups and mutters, "he's been like this for hours."

you sigh, looping an arm around chris's waist to guide him toward the door. He didn't protest, just presses in closer, fingers tapping slow patterns against your side like he can't stop touching you now that your here.

he holds the door open for you, drunkenly bumping into the frame in the process. He then wraps both arms around you from behind as you step into the cool night air.

"i like my hoodie on you," he says into your neck. "even from across the room you looked hot. still do."

you scoff, "you're such a child."

he smirks, lips brushing your ear. "you love it."

and God, maybe you do. especially when he's this warm, this soft, this gentle, even when he smells like cheap vodka and weed.

he doesn't let go of you the entire walk to the car.

not even a little.

one arm wrapped around your waist, the other playing with the strings of your hoodie.

trailing up and down your side like he's memorizing the texture. he's humming under his breath, some random tune you don't recognize, and every couple of steps, he pulls you closer like he's making sure you don't disappear.

you open the passenger door for him and he grins, cocky and loose.

"you're so nice to me, ma," he drawls, leaning in close before getting in. "How'd I land you again?"

"years of being tolerable..and pre-rolls" you deadpan.

he just laughs, low and gravelly, head tilted back as he settles into the seat.

his hand immediately finds your thigh as you start the car— fingers warm through the fabric of your sweats, palm heavy, and claiming. you shoot him a glance.

"you good?"

"mhm," he says, turning his head to stare at you.

"you're so hot when you drive, ma. like—distractingly hot."

you let out a slow breath, "chris,"

"no, no, hear me out," he says, already sliding his hand higher. "you're doing the whole one-hand-on-the-wheel thing? absolute cinema."

you reach over to shove his hand back down—not too hard, but firm. he groans dramatically, flopping his head against the seat.

"rude."

"you're going to forget all of this in the morning."

"nope." he looks at you again, smiling. "burning it into my brain. my girlfriend. my uber driver. my soulmate."

you shake your head. soulmate? well that's a new one.

-

The moment you unlock the apartment door, he's on you again.

shoes kicked off haphazardly, jacket halfway unzipped, cheeks still flushed from the party. he closes the door behind you, then cages you against it without saying a word.

he leans in, lips barely brushing your temple. "you gonna tuck me in, sweetheart?"

"you're a big boy, you can handle yourself," you mutter, trying to breathe normally.

"you're so mean to me," he says, but he's smiling. his hands find your hips again, thumbs slipping under your shirt to press into your bare skin. "s'like you want me to beg."

"you are insufferable when you're drunk."

"but I'm still cute, right?" he asks, dipping down to kiss your neck, slow and lazy. "i love you so much, ma."

you open your mouth to respond, but he's already pulling you toward the couch, still touchy, still attached. he collapses onto it and drags you into his lap like he expected you to follow.

you don't even get a chance to adjust before he's wrapped around you like a human blanket, arms around your waist, face tucked into the crook of your neck, legs tangled with yours.

he exhales deeply.

you snort, "you're ridiculous."

"im in love," he mumbles into your shoulder, tightening his grip just slightly. "with the smartest, hottest, most patient girl in the world. and she came to pick me up like a knight in shining armor. you should get a sword."

"you're gonna be mortified tomorrow."

he grins, eyes closed, completely unbothered, "only if you don't stay here all night."

you go still for a second, then glance down at him, brushing the hair from his forehead.

"...you're already falling asleep."

he hums. "only 'cause you're warm, and pretty, and my spine is melting."

you stay there for a while--him clingy and drunk and too high for his own good. his fingers play with the hem of your shirt, drifting over your sides every so often like he can't help it. even as his breathing slows and his words blur, he doesn't let go.

you run your hands through his hair, take out the pre-rolled blunts and lighter from his pocket and drift off into a comfortable sleep.

-

you wake up to weight.

warm, heavy weight. long limbs tangled with yours, a lazy hand splayed over your stomach, and a slow, groggy breath against the back of your neck.

chris.

you shift slightly and feel him stir behind you, groaning into your shoulder, his voice scratchy and wrecked.

"ugh. what time is it?"

you check the phone beside you. "ten."

he groans louder, "that's disgusting."

"then go back to sleep."

you expect him to roll away, maybe throw the blanket over his face dramatically, but instead he tightens his hold on your waist, pulling you flush against him.

his hand skims beneath your shirt with a kind of sleepy confidence, palm warm on your bare skin. "mmm, no. this is fine. im good right here."

you snort, "you remember anything from last night, or did it all blur out around the second shot of vodka?"

he hums, "i remember..being amazing. rejecting two girls. saying some very romantic things."

you twist in his arms to face him. he looks like a mess, bed hair, puffy eyes, and a light hicky blooming beneath his jaw, probably your fault.

he blinks slowly at you, then smirks.

"and i remember thinking, very clearly, that my girlfriend is stupidly hot when she's mad at me."

you raise an eyebrow, "you literally climbed me like a tree in the hallway. i had to hold you up while unlocking the door."

"efficient," he mumbles, eyes dropping to your lips. "i was multitasking, admiring you and keeping you warm."

"you made out with my hoodie sleeve,"

he grins, unapologetic. "you were wearing it, that counts."

you press your fingers into his ribs. "chris, you're shameless."

he leans in closer, voice low and unbothered, "i told you i love you last night, didn't i?"

you pause, heart skipping once.

"...you did,"

he hums again, sleepy but smug. "then i meant it."

you blink, "you remember that?"

he nods against your pillow, brushing his nose against yours. "why wouldn't i remember telling you that?"

"because you were drunk,"

"yeah, but i wasn't lying." his voice softens a little, "i don't say stuff like that unless i mean it, you know that."

your heart twists. he's still warm, still a little sleepy and clingy, but there's something steady behind the lazy smile this time.

you push a hand through his hair and he leans into the touch automatically, eyelids fluttering shut like you're the cure to his hangover.

"i love you too," you whisper.

he smirks without opening his eyes. "i know."

he grumbles, burying his face in your chest. "still not moving, though." you give up trying to move at all.

as the day progressed you honestly thought he'd be more flustered.

you expected groaning, maybe hiding under your sheets for two hours, muttering things like "don't look at me" and "i didn't really say soulmate, right?"

but no.

chris rolls out of bed like he didn't practically confess his entire soul twelve hours ago, brushes his teeth, rolls a blunt, and steals a kiss before you can stop him.

-

it's noon now and he's been... weirdly calm.

too calm.

you're on the couch scrolling through your phone when he casually walks by, pretends like he's just going to the kitchen, then backpedals, bends down, and kisses the top of your head.

"what was that for?"

“felt like it,”

ten minutes later, he "accidentally" drops his phone beside you and leans over to grab it, with both arms beside your head, before kissing your cheek like it's nothing.

you narrow your eyes.

"chris,”

"what?" he says, blank-faced.

"you've kissed me three times in the past twenty minutes."

"correction," he says, pressing one to your jaw now. "four."

you blink.

"are you okay?"

"im great," he shrugs, now leaning against the couch like he doesn't have plans at all.

"my girlfriend picked me up from a party, let me fall asleep on her, and told me she loved me. i think im allowed to be annoying for at least twenty-four hours."

"you're being clingy."

he raises a brow. "if i was clingy i'd be-"

he cuts himself off by literally crawling into your lap.

"—doing this."

you laugh. "you're unbelievable."

"mhm." his arms wrap loosely around your waist, his head fitting under your chin as he sighs, all smug and sleepy and completely satisfied. "so you're saying i shouldn't keep kissing you every time I walk past?"

"im saying you're being obvious."

"so?"

he pulls back just enough to look at you. his eyes are sharp now, but soft around the edges in that way he only ever is with you.

"I like you," he says, quietly. "a lot."

"i know," you tease, brushing his hair back. "you said it last night, loudly. in front of two girls who were definitely flirting with you."

"yeah." he grins, unrepentant. "that was kind of fun."

you're about to reply when he cuts you off, again, with a kiss. this time slower, deeper, hands cradling your jaw like he's not letting you go for anything.

you melt a little, maybe a lot.

when he pulls you back, he's annoyingly smug.

"you weren't complaining then either,"

you stare at him, dazed. "chris."

he tilts his head, already leaning back in. "just one more,"

you roll your eyes but let him kiss you again anyway. he knows exactly what he's doing, and he's gonna keep doing it all day.

hellooo?? I finally wrote something?? yayayayyayay!! big ol' thank you to my dearest rose @bernardsbendystraws for giving me a second opinion, love ya!!

xoxo, truly