#flouvmai

emotional!reader x player!chris

You met Chris when everything still felt simple.

Senior year. Fluorescent hallways, backpacks slung over one shoulder, him pretending he didn’t care about anything when he actually cared too much. He used to lean against your locker and hum nonsense songs while you tried to focus on your homework. You’d roll your eyes, but you loved it. You loved him.

He was softer with you than he was with anyone else. Matt noticed first. Said Chris looked stupidly in love. Nick never shut up about how whipped he was. And his mom, God, his mom adored you. The first girl she ever pulled into a real hug and whispered, I hope you stay.

You did.

You stayed through graduation. Through his first big fights with his brothers. Through the nights he felt small and insecure and you’d sit on his bedroom floor with him, telling him he was more than his worst thoughts. You memorized the way he looked when he was vulnerable. The way his voice dropped when he said he loved you like it scared him how much he meant it.

You built your whole future around him without even realizing you were doing it.

The first time he cheated, he swore it was a mistake. He cried in your lap like a child. Said he didn’t know why he did it. Said he hated himself. You believed him because you loved him. Because you were eighteen and thought love meant enduring.

The second time, it hurt worse. The third time, something inside you started going quiet.

But you stayed.

You told yourself people grow. You told yourself he would wake up one day and realize you were the only one who never left. You told yourself that if you just loved him hard enough, he’d stop chasing whatever emptiness he kept trying to fill with other girls.

Meanwhile, your own emptiness started growing.

You didn’t tell him about the nights your chest felt too tight to breathe. You didn’t tell him how the anxiety started to hum under your skin constantly, how every time his phone buzzed your stomach dropped. You didn’t tell him how the depression felt like a shadow stretching longer and longer behind you.

You just kept smiling at family dinners. Kept laughing at Nick’s jokes. Kept sitting next to Chris on the couch while his mom looked at you like you were already her daughter.

You became very good at pretending you were okay.

Tonight isn’t dramatic at first. It’s quiet. Too quiet. You’re sitting on the edge of his bed, the same one you used to curl up on after school. The same one where he used to kiss your forehead and promise you forever.

You found the messages an hour ago.

He hasn’t even denied it. He just keeps saying it wasn’t what it looked like. Like that’s supposed to make it better.

You don’t start screaming right away. You just ask him why.

He shrugs at first. Shrugs. Like this isn’t the same wound reopening for the hundredth time. Like your heart isn’t visibly fraying.

You remind him you’ve been here since the beginning. Since before anyone cared about him. You remind him you defended him when your friends told you to leave. You remind him you forgave him when you probably shouldn’t have.

His jaw tightens. He says you’re acting like he’s a monster.

You laugh, but it sounds hollow. You tell him you don’t think he’s a monster. You think he’s selfish. You think he’s addicted to attention. You think he keeps breaking the one person who never fucking broke him.

His voice rises. He says you’re not perfect either. That you’re always sad lately. Always anxious. That it’s hard to deal with.

That’s when something inside you splits open.

You tell him you’re sad because you never feel safe. You’re anxious because the person you love keeps proving he can’t be trusted. You tell him you’ve been fighting your own head for years and still choosing him every single time.

Your voice starts shaking. You try to steady it but you can’t.

You tell him you wake up every day already tired. That loving him feels like dragging something heavy behind you. That you keep waiting for the version of him who swore he’d protect you, but he’s the one hurting you instead.

He swears under his breath. Says you’re twisting it. Says he’s human. Says he makes mistakes.

You finally snap.

You tell him a mistake doesn’t happen over and over again. A mistake isn’t texting someone behind your girlfriend’s back while she’s at home convincing herself she’s crazy for feeling insecure. A mistake isn’t looking someone in the eye and saying I love you after you just betrayed them.

You’re crying now, and you hate that he can see it.

You tell him you thought he was the one. That you pictured marrying him. That you defended him to Matt when even his own brother was disappointed. That you stood there while Nick avoided eye contact because he knew you deserved better.

You tell him you gave him every fucking chance.

He tries to step closer and you step back.

You tell him every time he cheated, it felt like you swallowed something toxic. Like you kept ingesting poison and pretending it didn’t burn. You kept thinking if you just held it down long enough, it wouldn’t kill you.

But it did.

It’s killing you.

Your voice cracks so violently you have to grab the dresser to steady yourself. You tell him you’re exhausted from loving someone who treats your loyalty like it’s guaranteed. You tell him you’ve been drowning quietly for years and he never noticed because you were too busy keeping him afloat.

He finally looks scared.

He says he didn’t think you’d actually leave.

That breaks something fundamental inside you.

So he kept pushing. Because he thought you’d stay no matter how much it hurt.

You’re sobbing now, full-body shaking, the kind of crying that makes it hard to breathe. You tell him you’re not dramatic. You’re not crazy. You’re just tired of being the only one fighting for this relationship.

You tell him you loved him in a way that ruined you.

He starts crying too, apologizing without the usual excuses this time. Saying he’s fucked up. Saying he didn’t realize how deep it went. Saying he never meant to make your mental health worse.

You look at him through blurred vision and whisper that intent doesn’t erase damage.

You tell him you can’t keep sacrificing yourself for someone who keeps choosing temporary validation over permanent love. You tell him you feel like you’ve been rotting from the inside while pretending everything was fine.

The room feels suffocating. Years of history pressing down on both of you.

You say you love him. Because you do. And that’s what makes it unbearable.

But you can’t survive him anymore.

There’s a long silence. His breathing is uneven. Yours is worse.

And then, bitter and defensive and wounded, he shakes his head and mutters that you’re impossible to please. That nothing he does is ever enough. That maybe you just like being miserable.

You stare at him, stunned.

And then he says it…

You’re sick y/n, you’re fucking sick.

Not worried. Not gentle. Not concerned.

The word hangs in the air between you like a final betrayal.

And for the first time since high school, since lockers and humming and promises, you feel something colder than heartbreak.

avoidant!reader ex!chris

𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴! kissing, mentions of sh, anxiety,

The carpet presses against your cheek, rough and grounding, while you lie on your bedroom floor. Your phone rests just out of reach, but you know it’s only a matter of time before you grab it. Your thumb hovers over the screen, hesitating, because you already know what you’re going to do. Chris.

You’ve been avoiding him. Pretending the ache in your chest isn’t real, pretending the memories that keep replaying in your mind are just echoes of a past you don’t need to revisit. You’ve told yourself you’re fine, that you’re moving on, that the hole he left isn’t there anymore. But it is. Every laugh you hear that reminds you of him, every image of him with Matt and Nick that pops up online—it twists something in your chest, something sharp and relentless.

Your thumb hovers over the screen again. “I need to see you,” you type, almost involuntarily. The words feel foreign on your tongue, and yet they taste like honesty. You know it’s reckless. You know you’re letting yourself step too close to the edge; too close to letting him in again. But you can’t stop. Not really.

The phone buzzes almost immediately. It’s Chris.

“I’ve been waiting for this,” he writes.

You roll your eyes even though you’re smiling to yourself. That’s Chris—always blunt, always direct. Even now, his presence, even through words, manages to make your chest tighten. You type slowly, carefully, trying to keep your distance even in your messages.

“You’re with her now,” you write.

“I know,” he replies, brief, but you catch the tremor beneath it. “I don’t care.”

Something twists inside you. Relief? Fear? Both? You want to tell him no. You want to close the screen and pretend it never happened. And yet, something in you—the part of you that’s been avoiding, hiding, pretending—can’t. You type again, careful this time, keeping yourself distant.

“This isn’t fair.”

“It’s never been fair,” he writes back. You can almost hear him, imagine the weight in his chest, the tension in his shoulders. “I’ve been wanting you this whole time, even when you were avoiding me, even when I pretended it didn’t hurt that you pushed me away. But I can’t anymore.”

You hold your breath. The words hit you harder than you expected. You want to run. You want to retreat into yourself. And yet, another part of you—the part that’s been yearning all this time—types:

“I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Then don’t,” he replies, immediately. “Not yet. Just let me be here. Let me sit in the same room as you. Let me try. You don’t have to say anything else.”

Your chest tightens so fast it feels like it might crush you. You want to retreat, to flee from the weight of his words, but your body moves before your mind does. “I’m coming over,” you type.

When you arrive, he’s sitting on the couch, shoulders tense, jaw tight. He doesn’t look at you right away, doesn’t smile. You can see the restraint in him, the careful way he holds himself, and it makes something twist in your chest. You want to run. You want to tell him you’re sorry for everything, for the months you avoided him, for the nights you cried alone instead of letting him in. But you stay where you are.

You sink onto the couch beside him, careful not to touch, careful not to let yourself fully lean in. He doesn’t reach for you right away either. He just lets you sit there, letting the quiet stretch between you.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says finally, soft, measured. “And I… I’ve been avoiding you too. Pretending it didn’t hurt when you pushed me away, pretending I didn’t notice that you were struggling, that you were hurting. But I can’t anymore.”

Your chest tightens. You try to pull back, to shrink into yourself, but the words wrap around you. You whisper, almost to yourself, “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

“I know,” he says, voice low, raw. “I feel it too. Every day. Every time you cross my mind, every memory, every little thing I see reminds me of you. Even when I pretended not to care, I did. I always did.”

You hug yourself closer, the avoidance still there, a shield you’re not ready to drop. But even as you do, even as you keep your distance, you let yourself feel the faint warmth of his presence. His hand hovers near yours, almost touching, almost saying everything without words.

“I know you’ve been hurting,” he says, soft. “I know about… everything. Your anxiety, the nights when it felt like the world was too much, the scars you try to hide. And I… I’ve always wanted to be here. Even when you pushed me away. Even when you didn’t want me close. I’ve always wanted you.”

The tightness in your chest grows, a mixture of relief and fear. You swallow, unable to voice the words you want to say. You’re still avoidant. You’re still scared. But a part of you—the part that’s been yearning, that’s been longing for this—is letting him in, if only a fraction.

“And I…” you start, then stop. You can’t say it. You can’t say how much you’re still not over him, how much you’ve been thinking about him, how much you wanted this moment even though it terrifies you. You bury yourself closer to him instead, hoping he’ll understand without needing you to admit it.

Chris doesn’t pull away. He holds you anyway, brushing hair from your face, grounding you with his touch. His words come again, quiet, almost a whisper:

“I can’t stop wanting you, Y/n. I know I shouldn’t. I know it won’t work. But I can’t hide it anymore. Even if it’s wrong, even if it hurts, even if everything in the world says we shouldn’t—I need you.”

You shiver, feeling the ache in your chest, the yearning you’ve been ignoring. You’re still distant, still holding yourself back, but you can’t stop letting yourself feel it.

“I need you too,” you whisper, voice small, fragile. “Even if it’s wrong. Even if it’s messy. Even if I shouldn’t.”

Chris leans just slightly closer, reading your eyes, gauging your hesitance. And even though you’re still avoidant, still hesitant, still terrified of letting yourself fully fall, you don’t pull away. Not yet.

And when his lips brush against yours, tentative at first, the weight of months, maybe years of longing, avoidance, and unspoken words presses into that kiss. It’s soft, desperate, a release of everything neither of you has said aloud. You cling to him, your hands clutching his shirt, feeling the warmth and the familiar feeling of his touch, the honesty in every second of it.

angel wings | c.s

heartbroken!reader yearning!chris

You notice him before you want to.

You’re halfway through the living room, drink sweating in your hand, laughing at something your friend says when your eyes drift toward the kitchen without permission. And there he is. Chris. Leaning against the counter like he belongs there. Like he hasn’t haunted your thoughts for months. Like he didn’t blow your entire life apart and then keep breathing.

Same posture. Same stupid calm energy.

Your stomach drops.

For a second, you consider pretending you didn’t see him. Turning around. Leaving. But you’re so fucking tired of running. Tired of letting one person dictate how you exist in rooms.

So you stay.

Chris notices you a beat later. You can tell by the way his shoulders stiffen just slightly before he smooths it out. Matt and Nick are there too, and the moment shifts. Nick goes quiet. Matt looks between you like he already knows this is about to go to shit.

Your friend squeezes your arm. “You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

You’re lying. But you walk toward him anyway.

“Hey,” you say when you’re close enough.

Chris turns fully now. “Hey…y/n”

The word feels too small for everything between you.

Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he adds, trying for casual.

You give a tight smile. “Yeah, well. I’m allowed to exist in the same spaces as you.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s always what you mean,” you say flatly.

There’s an awkward pause. The music pounds behind you, too loud, like it’s trying to drown something out.

“So,” you say, folding your arms. “Is this the part where we pretend nothing happened?”

Chris exhales. “I don’t want to do this here.”

You scoff. “Of course you don’t.”

he scoffs. “why are you being like this?”

that does it.

“Because you cheated on me,” you say, voice sharp and unfiltered. “After three fucking years.”

His jaw tightens immediately. “I told you, it wasn’t—”

“Don’t,” you snap. “Don’t you dare minimize it.”

People nearby start paying attention. You don’t care anymore.

“You fucked someone else while we were together,” you continue. “You lied to my face. You came home to me like nothing happened and let me feel safe with you.”

Chris looks uncomfortable now, defensive. “I made a mistake.”

You laugh, bitter and disbelieving. “A mistake? Fuck off.”

Your chest tightens, pressure building with every word.

“I trusted you,” you say, voice steady but strained. “I trusted you in a way I don’t trust anyone. And you treated it like it was nothing.”

“I didn’t think—”

“No shit,” you interrupt. “You never fucking think.”

The tension snaps.

“I thought you were it,” you say suddenly.

Chris freezes. “What?”

“I thought you were the one,” you repeat, and this time your voice wavers. “I don’t do commitment. I don’t do forever. And I did it with you, you asshole.”

Your breathing starts to falter now.

“I defended you,” you say. “Every time someone said you weren’t shit, every time someone told me to leave, I stood there like a fucking idiot because I believed in you.”

Your chest aches.

“I pictured a whole life with you,” you continue, words spilling faster. “Marriage. A future. I thought I was finally safe with someone.”

That’s when the tears finally come.

One slips down your cheek before you can stop it. You wipe it away angrily, like that might undo it. Another follows anyway.

“And you cheated,” you whisper, voice breaking. “You threw all of that away for something meaningless.”

Chris’s eyes go glossy. He swallows hard. “I never meant to hurt you like this.”

“But you did,” you snap. “So don’t stand there acting like this is just awkward for you.”

Your hands shake as you gesture between you. “I had to grieve you like you fucking died. Do you get that? I lost the person I thought you were.”

Silence crashes between you.

Chris opens his mouth, then closes it again. That hesitation hurts more than anything else.

You nod slowly, tears streaking freely now. “Wow.”

You take a step back. “Fuck you. Fuck you for making me believe in something you weren’t strong enough to protect.”

You wipe your face again, breath uneven. “You’re dead to me, Chris. You really are.”

You turn and walk away before he can respond, before he can pull you back into something that already broke you once.

Behind you, you hear him inhale sharply.

And this time, the sound follows you out the door.

You barely make it out the front door before the air hits you like a wave. The cool night feels like a relief and a punishment at the same time. Your breath is shaky. Your heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might break through your ribs.

You don’t stop walking.

Not because you’re scared of him catching up, but because you’re scared of what happens if he doesn’t.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, but you ignore it. You don’t want anyone interrupting this. You don’t want anyone to see the mess you are right now.

You keep moving until the party noise fades behind you, until you’re standing on the sidewalk alone.

Then you hear his voice.

“Y/n.”

It’s not loud. It’s not dramatic.

It’s just him, calling your name like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You turn slowly.

Chris is standing a few feet away, hands shoved in his pockets like he’s trying to keep himself from reaching for you again. His face looks raw. Not angry. Not proud. Just… broken.

“You’re not walking away from me,” he says quietly.

You swallow. “I already did.”

“No,” he says, stepping closer. “Not like that.”

You feel your chest tighten. “You don’t get to chase me.”

He stops right in front of you, close enough that you can see the little details you used to memorize—how his lips curve when he’s nervous, the way his eyes soften when he looks at you. You hate that you still know him this well.

“I know what I did,” he says, voice low. “I know I fucked up.”

Your eyes sting. “You don’t know how much you hurt me.”

“I do,” he says. “And I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, anger flaring again. “Sorry doesn’t fix anything.”

His gaze drops to your lips for a second. Not in a hungry way. In a way that makes you feel like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

“You’re still here,” he whispers. “You didn’t leave.”

“I’m here because I’m stubborn,” you snap, but your voice cracks at the end.

Chris’s eyes flash, and for the first time, you see the yearning you’ve been denying. He looks like he wants to say something, to apologize again, to beg. But instead he just leans in.

His hand comes up to your cheek, thumb brushing your skin like he’s trying to make sure you’re real. The touch is gentle, almost reverent, and it makes your stomach twist.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs.

Then his lips meet yours.

It’s not soft.

It’s not gentle.

It’s like a match striking—instant heat, sudden flare. His kiss is fierce and familiar, like your body remembers what your brain is trying to forget. His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, pulling you closer until you’re pressed against him like you’re trying to melt into his body.

Your hands move on instinct, one wrapping around his waist, the other tangling in his hair. Your fingers pull, not hard, just desperate. You don’t want to admit how much you still want him.

Chris kisses you harder.

It’s not just a kiss. It’s a statement. A confession. A challenge.

Your breath comes in quick, shallow bursts. Your heart is racing so fast you feel like you might pass out. The world blurs around you—streetlights, passing cars, the distant sound of the party.

You pull back for air, forehead resting against his.

He’s breathing hard too. His eyes are dark, and he looks like he’s been holding himself together for months and just now snapped.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again, but this time it’s different. It’s not an apology. It’s like he’s admitting something to himself.

You stare at him for a second, your chest shaking.

“You don’t get to do this,” you whisper, voice hoarse. “You don’t get to kiss me and act like it fixes anything.”

Chris’s thumb brushes your lips, like he’s still tasting you. “I know.”

Your eyes flutter shut.

And he kisses you again.

It’s slower this time, but more intense. Like he’s trying to memorize you. Like he’s trying to make this moment last forever.

For a moment, you forget everything else.

The betrayal. The heartbreak. The months of pain.

You only feel him.

Then, just as suddenly as it started, the kiss ends.

Chris’s eyes meet yours. Full of regret, and sorrow.

he wraps his arms around your head and back. you wrap yours around him in almost an instinct.

“I didn’t stop wanting you,” he whispers, fingers playing with your hair.

Your chest tightens.

You can’t deny it.

Because even if you want to hate him, even if you know you should, the way he’s holding you feels like coming home.

You don’t move away.

And you realize you’re not sure if you’re ready to let him go again.

dior savauge, fresh love, weed, money lover, funny, party animal, deer, passionate, player, orange, drake, mindset. influencer, never serious.

best paired w model!reader

heyyy sweets, i’m sorry for not being as active but i feel like it’s time for me to take a little break. this account has meant so much to me and every little interaction never went unnoticed, you all made this space feel soft and safe in a way i can’t really explain. but lately i’ve been needing to step back and focus on myself and where i’m going, and i think this is the right moment to let flouvmai go. i’m so grateful for everything we built together and i’ll always carry that with me, but for now this is goodbye. take care of yourselves and keep being as lovely as you are!!

side note: thank you all for everything especially my baby @greywysk, for always being there and making me feel special and i’ll miss you guys, but until then.. see you later bbys !