𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 .

ᯓ★ he’s immediately protective the second he notices you’re uncomfortable, asking if you want chocolate, a hot water bottle, or literally anything else.

ᯓ★ lowkey freaks out if you try to do anything strenuous while cramping — “sit your arse down, love, i’ve got this.”

ᯓ★ will drag you onto the couch or bed, blanket and pillows included, just to make sure you’re comfy.

ᯓ★ massages your lower back without being asked, and he’s actually kind of good at it, despite pretending he’s clueless.

ᯓ★ knows your favorite comfort snacks by heart and will sneak them to you, even if he has to fight off the lads for it.

ᯓ★ soft kisses on your forehead, temples, or the tip of your nose — anything to make you feel cared for without demanding anything from you.

ᯓ★ if you’re emotional or snappy, he doesn’t take it personally. he just holds you and mutters dumb little jokes to make you giggle.

ᯓ★ sometimes he’ll get a little cheeky and tease you, but it’s playful — like, “oh so i’m the only thing making you grumpy today, huh?” — then he immediately apologizes with kisses.

ᯓ★ if you want space, he gives it without complaint but still checks in every few minutes, hovering nearby like a little anxious puppy.

ᯓ★ he’ll literally carry you to the bathroom or bedroom if you’re in too much pain, grumbling about how unfair it is that he can’t make it go away completely.

ᯓ★ falls asleep beside you if you’re exhausted from cramps, arm around you, gentle snores, the softest protector in the world.

ᯓ★ he insists on sneaking in tiny treats for you — chocolate, ice cream, whatever will make you smile — and sometimes hides them in your bag or pockets just to make you laugh when you find them.

ᯓ★ playful teasing like, “so these cramps finally made you soft and helpless, eh? someone finally gets to boss you around,” followed immediately by kisses to shut you up.

the party was in full swing, music pulsating through the walls, laughter echoing from every corner. you found solace in the bathroom, seeking a moment of respite from the chaos. as you adjusted your reflection in the mirror, the door creaked open.

katie stepped in, her eyes sharp and unwavering. “we need to talk,” she said, her voice steady but laced with tension.

you turned to face her, heart pounding. “about what?”

“don’t play dumb,” she snapped. “i know about you and hughie.”

the air thickened. “katie, i—”

“save it,” she interrupted. “i came here to confront you, not to listen to excuses.”

before the situation could escalate further, shannon burst in. “what’s going on here?”

katie scoffed. “ask your friend.”

shannon looked between the two of you, sensing the gravity of the moment. “maybe we should take this outside.”

katie shook her head. “no need. i’ve said my piece.” she turned on her heel and left.

shannon approached you, concern etched on her face. “are you okay?”

you nodded, though your mind was a whirlwind of emotions. “i just need some air.”

later that night, as you sat alone on your porch, the sound of footsteps approached. looking up, you saw hughie, his eyes filled with regret.

“i’m sorry,” he began. “i know i’ve hurt you.”

you remained silent, waiting.

“i ended things with katie,” he continued. “because i realized that it’s always been you. i know i don’t deserve a second chance, but i had to tell you.”

tears welled in your eyes as you whispered, “why now?”

“because i couldn’t keep lying to myself,” he said. “i love you.”

you stared at him under the porch light, your breath puffing white in the cool night air. hughie biggs looked utterly wrecked. eyes red, hair dishevelled, his big hands twisting nervously at the hem of his coat.

“i love you,” he repeated, voice breaking on the words. “jesus, i’m after makin’ a balls of it, i know that. but i swear — it’s you. it’s always been you.”

you blinked hard, trying to keep tears at bay. “ya can’t just say that now, hughie. not after all this. not after katie.”

he stepped closer, desperation all over his face. “i know i’m selfish askin’ ya to even listen to me. but i can’t keep pretendin’. i’m with her but thinkin’ about you. i’m lyin’ to myself every day.”

you laughed, bitter and trembling. “and what about her? katie deserves better than bein’ your second choice.”

his eyes went glassy. “she’s not my second choice. she’s just… she’s not you.”

the words hung between you, heavy as stone.

“hughie, this is so fucked up,” you whispered, wiping your eyes. “ya think you can just show up and say all this and it’ll fix everything?”

he shook his head violently. “no. i know it won’t. but i’d hate myself forever if i didn’t try.”

“ya should’ve thought about that before ya got with her!” you snapped, voice sharp with months of pent-up hurt. “before you let me stand there feelin’ like some dirty fuckin’ secret.”

he winced like you’d slapped him. “i know, love. i know. i swear to god, i never wanted ta hurt ya. i’m sorry.”

you folded your arms tight across your chest. “sorry doesn’t undo it, hughie. sorry doesn’t fix the way ya made me feel. like i wasn’t enough for you to choose.”

his shoulders sagged, and he ran a shaky hand through his hair. “ya are enough. you’re more than enough. i’m just an eejit who fucked up the only thing that ever mattered to me.”

silence stretched out, broken only by the distant hum of traffic.

“i need time,” you said finally, voice trembling. “i can’t just… jump back into this.”

“i’ll wait,” he said, quick and earnest. “i’ll wait as long as it takes. just… don’t tell me there’s no chance at all. please.”

tears spilled down your cheeks, hot and unstoppable. “i don’t know, hughie. i just don’t fuckin’ know.”

he reached out, but stopped short, hovering his hand near your face. “can i…?”

you hesitated… then nodded.

his palm cupped your cheek so gently it nearly undid you. and when he leaned in, pressing the softest kiss to your forehead, your chest cracked wide open.

“i love you,” he whispered. “even if ya can’t love me back right now.”

the door clicks shut behind you, barely muffling the roar of joey’s music playing in the sitting room downstairs. your heart’s pounding so hard you’re sure he can hear it.

“joey,” you gasp as he pushes you back against the wall, his hands already under your jumper, warm and rough against your skin.

“yeah?” he murmurs, nose brushing your cheek. “somethin’ wrong, love?”

you try to answer but his mouth crashes into yours, swallowing your words. it’s all teeth and tongue and the faint taste of spearmint gum. his hands slide higher, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra and making you whimper.

“fuckin’ gorgeous,” he mumbles against your lips. “ya know that?”

you shake your head, cheeks burning, but he just chuckles darkly.

“gonna have to prove it to ya, so.”

he spins you around, pressing your front against the wall, and you let out a shocked little noise when his hands slip down to unbutton your jeans.

“joey—”

“shh,” he soothes, kissing the side of your neck. “just let me, love.”

he tugs your jeans down over your hips, fingers skimming along your thighs, and you’re shaking so hard your knees nearly buckle.

“god, look at ya,” he rasps, running his fingers over the damp spot in your underwear. “already so fuckin’ wet for me.”

“joey, please—”

he pushes your knickers to the side and slides two fingers through your folds, groaning low in his throat.

“jesus christ,” he mutters. “ya feel fuckin’ unreal.”

you try to bite back a moan but it comes out anyway, echoing off the walls.

“quiet,” he says, grinning against your neck. “don’t want anyone hearin’, do we?”

you shake your head frantically, but then he curls his fingers just right and your hips jerk back into him.

“yeah,” he breathes, pressing closer. “just like that, love.”

he pulls his fingers out and you hear the soft jingle of his belt.

“joey—”

“shh, i’ve got ya,” he soothes, guiding himself between your thighs.

the stretch is dizzying, your forehead falling to the wall as he sinks into you, slow and deep.

“holy fuck,” he hisses. “ya take me so good every time.”

he sets a steady rhythm, one hand braced on the wall beside your head, the other gripping your hip so hard you’ll probably bruise.

“mine,” he growls, thrusting harder. “all fuckin’ mine.”

you’re gasping, fingers scrabbling at the plaster, already close to falling apart.

“please, joey—”

“yeah?” he pants. “ya gonna cum for me, baby?”

but before you can answer, there’s the faintest sound of footsteps on the landing outside the door—

the door creaks open a fraction.

“joey? ya in here—”

tadgh’s voice cuts off like someone’s slapped him.

joey freezes, buried deep inside you, chest heaving. your eyes fly open in horror as you twist your head over your shoulder.

tadgh lynch — sandy blond hair, big brown eyes practically popping out of his head — stands in the doorway. his mouth is hanging open, one hand still on the doorknob.

“jesus fucking christ!” tadgh yelps, stumbling back into the hallway. “i didn’t fuckin’ see anything, i swear!”

you bury your face in your arms against the wall, mortified beyond belief, your entire body burning hot enough to melt steel.

joey snaps, voice low and murderous: “tadgh, get the fuck outta my room!”

“i’m goin’, i’m goin’!” tadgh squeaks, voice cracking as he slams the door shut again.

for a second, it’s dead silent except for the harsh pant of your breath.

“oh my god,” you whisper, horrified. “oh my god.”

joey presses his forehead against the back of your shoulder, breathing hard, still inside you.

“i’m gonna kill him,” he mutters. “i’m actually gonna fuckin’ kill him.”

you’re trembling, torn between wanting to crawl into a hole and burst out laughing. “joey… we can’t… he saw…”

joey growls low in his throat, teeth grazing your skin. “d’you really think i fuckin’ care right now?”

he pulls out just enough to thrust back in, hard enough to make your breath catch.

“joey—!”

“nah, not stoppin’ now,” he rasps. “he can fuckin’ deal with it.”

he resumes his pace, each thrust sharp and angry, and you’re gasping, half mortified and half delirious.

“gonna have to remind ya who ya belong to,” he growls. “and remind him never to walk in on us again.”

you can barely think, stars bursting behind your eyes, as he drives into you faster.

“say you’re mine,” he pants.

“i’m yours,” you cry, voice shaking.

“good fuckin’ girl.”

your walls flutter around him, and he groans deep, burying his face in your neck as he keeps moving, relentless and possessive.

outside the door, there’s the distant sound of tadgh’s voice yelling down the stairs:

“shan! i fucking need bleach for me eyes!”

it’s barely after ten on a saturday night, and you’re standing outside biddies with your back pressed to the cool brick wall, trying to hide how much your hands are shaking.

johnny’s in front of you, leaning in close, all bright eyes and crooked grin. he’s taller than you by a good bit, broad shoulders blocking out half the streetlights, and it makes your chest squeeze painfully tight.

“why’re ya lookin’ at me like i’m after growin’ two heads?” he teases, voice soft and laced with that easy laugh that makes your stomach flutter.

you drop your gaze, cheeks burning. “i’m not,” you mumble, picking at the hem of your cardigan. “just… ya know. you’re… close.”

“’course i’m close,” he says, nudging his nose against yours. “been tryin’ to get this close all fuckin’ week.”

he says it so casually, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, but your pulse roars in your ears.

because johnny kavanagh is your first boyfriend. first everything, really. and even though he’s been sweet and patient and hasn’t pushed you for anything you’re not ready for — he’s still him. loud, confident, big rugby fella who somehow decided he wanted you.

you try to step back, but the wall’s right there, and he just smirks.

“where d’ya think you’re goin’, love?”

“i dunno,” you squeak. “i just… i’ve never… with anyone before—”

“never what?” he interrupts, leaning even closer.

you can’t say it. can’t form the words “kissed anyone,” because it sounds so childish and embarrassing.

but johnny’s eyes soften as he studies you, and one of his big hands comes up to gently cradle your cheek.

“ya think i don’t know that?” he murmurs. “it’s grand, love. we’ll take it slow.”

you swallow hard. “but… what if i’m shite at it?”

he huffs a laugh, brushing his thumb over your cheekbone. “you won’t be. reckon i’ll like it no matter what.”

your eyes flutter shut when he leans in. you feel his breath first — warm and sweet from the mints he’d been chewing — and then the soft press of his lips against yours. it’s gentle, barely more than a brush, but it sends a shiver racing down your spine.

he pulls back an inch, eyes dark and glittering under the glow of the streetlights. “see? easy.”

but you’re so flustered you bury your face in his chest.

“aw, look at ya,” he teases, voice going low. “can’t handle one little kiss?”

you open your mouth to protest, but he suddenly scoops you up, arms sliding under your thighs, lifting you off your feet like you weigh nothing at all.

“johnny—!” you squeal, gripping his shoulders in shock.

“hold onto me,” he laughs, kissing you again, deeper this time.

your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, and his mouth moves against yours with a confidence that makes your head spin. one of his hands presses firmly against your back, the other gripping your thigh, holding you steady like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

he pulls back just enough to whisper, “ya doin’ alright?”

you nod, breathless, cheeks blazing. “yeah… just… jesus christ.”

“atta girl,” he says, pressing another lingering kiss to your lips. “ya’ve nothin’ to be embarrassed about. reckon i’m the luckiest bastard in cork.”

he’s still got you in his arms, back pressed to the wall and legs wrapped around his waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

your face is burning. your whole body’s buzzing. and johnny’s looking at you like you hung the bloody stars.

“didn’t think you were so shy,” he murmurs, brushing his nose along your jaw. “all quiet and cute… makes me wanna ruin ya a bit.”

“johnny,” you whisper, scandalised.

he just grins, all teeth and mischief. “what? i didn’t say i would. just that i want to.”

you bury your face in his neck, whining softly, but he doesn’t let you hide for long. he tilts his head, lips brushing against your temple.

“you’re not shite at it, by the way,” he says, and it takes you a second to realise he’s talking about the kiss. “you’re actually really fuckin’ good.”

“you don’t have to say that just to make me feel better,” you mumble.

his grip tightens slightly, keeping you close. “i’m not,” he says, and there’s no teasing this time — just sincerity, quiet and firm. “i wouldn’t lie to ya.”

you glance up at him, heart thudding. “you really mean that?”

“swear on me ma’s life.”

you let out a shaky little breath and press your forehead to his.

he kisses you again — slower this time. deeper. like he’s giving you time to sink into it. and you do.

you kiss him back properly now, arms wrapping around his neck, chest pressed to his. your lips move with his like you’re finally catching the rhythm, letting yourself stop overthinking.

“there she is,” he whispers, smiling against your mouth. “fuck, that’s nice.”

you hum in response, head going a bit foggy from the way he smells — like cologne and wind and something warm and familiar.

his hand slides under the hem of your jumper, not pushing anything, just resting warm on your lower back, fingers splayed.

“d’you wanna come back to mine for a bit?” he asks, voice soft and low. “just to hang out. nothin’ mad.”

“your parents—”

“won’t even know we’re there,” he grins, leaning in to kiss your jaw. “you can wear one of my jerseys if ya want. i know girls love that shite.”

you giggle before you can stop yourself. “you’re full of yourself.”

“only cause i’ve got you wrapped around me,” he mutters, giving your thighs a playful squeeze. “literally.”

you bite back a smile, nodding shyly. “alright then.”

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

he presses one last, lingering kiss to your lips before finally letting you down — and your knees almost buckle from how warm and wobbly you feel.

“jesus,” you whisper. “you should come with a fuckin’ warning sign.”

he throws his head back laughing, then slings an arm over your shoulder, pulling you close as you both start walking.

“too late for that now, love. you’re already in it.”

you’re stretched out on feely’s bed, flicking through one of his rugby magazines while he’s down at the end of the room, pulling his jersey over his head.

“ya know, you’re not supposed to read those,” he teases, voice warm and low, hair sticking up in every direction. “they’re sacred.”

you grin, eyes sliding slowly down the planes of his chest. “right, because reading about fellas smashing each other on a pitch is deadly important information.”

“fuck off,” he laughs, tossing a rolled-up pair of socks at your face. “cheeky.”

he crawls onto the bed beside you, bracing his weight on his elbows, grin softening as his eyes drop to your mouth.

“ya look fuckin’ gorgeous,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb across your lower lip.

“do i?” you ask, voice small suddenly under the weight of his stare.

“yeah. ya do.”

he leans in, kissing you gently at first — slow, sweet, all warm lips and soft exhales. but you’re arching closer, fingers twisting in his hair, and he lets out a low groan.

“god, i missed ya,” he mutters against your mouth, pressing closer so your chest is flush to his.

“i was gone for two hours, pat.”

“too long.”

he kisses you again, rougher this time, hands slipping under your shirt. his fingers are warm and a little calloused from rugby, gliding over your skin like he can’t get enough.

“ya sure ya wanna…?” he mumbles, eyes searching yours, breath coming quicker.

you nod, swallowing hard. “yeah. i want you.”

“fuckin’ hell,” he groans, dropping his forehead to yours. “you’ll be the death of me.”

his hands are already tugging at the hem of your shirt, and your pulse stutters in your throat.

feely’s fingers slip under your shirt, warm and a little rough as they skim over your ribs. his breath hitches as he lifts the fabric higher, eyes darting up to yours like he’s checking a thousand times if this is still okay.

“tell me to stop if ya want, yeah?” he murmurs, voice gone husky.

“don’t stop,” you whisper, chest rising and falling so fast it’s dizzying.

he lets out a low groan, pressing a soft kiss under your jaw before pulling your shirt off entirely. his eyes go wide, cheeks flushing pink as he takes you in.

“fuckin’ beautiful,” he breathes, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

you’re about to tease him, but then his mouth is on your chest, kissing and sucking gently at your skin. you gasp, fingers threading through his messy hair as he works his way lower.

he pauses, looking up with that boyish grin. “ya know i love makin’ ya feel good, right?”

“i know,” you gasp, squirming as his thumbs brush over your nipples.

“good,” he says, voice rougher now. “’cause i’m not stoppin’ ’til ya can’t even remember your own name.”

his hands slide down your waist, tugging your jeans open, and you lift your hips to help him peel them off. his mouth drops open slightly when he sees the wet patch already darkening your underwear.

“jesus christ,” he mutters, pressing a kiss just above the waistband. “ya this worked up for me?”

you whimper, biting your lip as he drags your underwear down and tosses them aside.

“look at ya,” he breathes, eyes glued between your thighs. “fuckin’ perfect.”

he settles between your legs, shoulders pressing your thighs apart as he leans in and licks a slow, deliberate stripe through your folds.

your whole body jolts, a broken moan spilling out of you.

“oh my god, pat—”

“that’s it,” he mumbles, voice muffled as he dives back in. “just let me take care of ya.”

his tongue flicks and circles your clit, switching between gentle licks and firmer pressure that makes your toes curl. one of his hands comes up to hold your stomach steady, keeping you pinned as your hips try to buck.

“feely, please—”

“please what, love?” he teases, pulling back just enough to smirk at you. his lips and chin are shiny, flushed pink. “tell me what ya want.”

“i— fuck, don’t stop,” you gasp, reaching for his hair.

“wasn’t plannin’ on it.”

he dives back in, faster now, sucking lightly until your thighs clamp around his head. he hums in satisfaction, like he’s proud of himself, and the vibration sends you spinning.

“that’s my girl,” he rasps, pulling back to press wet kisses along your thigh. “gonna make ya cum so hard, yeah?”

you nod frantically, too far gone to speak, as he slips two fingers inside you, curling them just right while his mouth finds your clit again.

your vision blurs as you tumble over the edge, crying out his name, and he doesn’t let up until you’re trembling all over.

you’re still shaking a little when he finally crawls up beside you, lips swollen, cheeks flushed, hair a mess. he brushes a damp strand from your forehead and leans down to kiss you — soft, like he’s scared you might break.

“ya alright?” he murmurs, voice rough but sweet.

you nod, a little dazed, your fingers finding the hem of his shirt and tugging him closer.

“c’mere,” you whisper, and he obeys instantly, wrapping you in his arms like he’s afraid someone’ll come in and try to take you away.

“ya were unreal,” he says, pressing his face into your neck. “like… actually unreal.”

you laugh softly, fingers curling around his bicep. “you weren’t so bad yourself, pat.”

“i better not be,” he mumbles, tightening his hold. “gave it everything i had.”

he nudges your nose with his, brushing soft kisses across your cheek, jaw, the tip of your nose.

“d’you need water?” he asks suddenly. “or somethin’? i can run down and get—”

you shake your head quickly. “just stay. please.”

he exhales slow, relieved, and tucks your head under his chin.

“ya know i’d do anything for ya, right?”

your throat catches a bit at that — because he says it so easily, like it’s obvious.

“i know,” you whisper, burying your face into his chest. “and i’d do anything for you too.”

his hand rubs soothing circles on your back, slow and warm. he’s still a little breathless, body soft and boneless against yours, but his voice is steady.

“ya ever need anything,” he says, “you just tell me. i mean it. even if it’s three in the mornin’ and i’ve a match the next day. i’ll be there.”

your heart swells painfully at the sincerity in his voice. you pull back just enough to kiss him again, slow and sleepy, and he hums contentedly into your mouth.

“stay here tonight?” you ask, already half-asleep.

“of course i will,” he says, voice quiet and certain. “m’not goin’ anywhere.”

you fall asleep in his arms not long after, wrapped in the soft, steady warmth of him, his heartbeat keeping rhythm against your cheek like a promise.

ᯓ★ aftercare

aftercare king. won’t let you lift a finger after, even if he’s exhausted. cleans you up, gets you water, strokes your hair, kisses your forehead like you’re priceless. always checking, “you alright, love?” until he’s sure you’re okay.

ᯓ★ body part (favorite)

your hips. loves how they move under his hands, how they fit perfectly when he’s pulling you closer. also obsessed with your neck, loves leaving faint red marks where only he can see.

ᯓ★ cum

prefers finishing inside if he knows it’s safe. finds it intimate and grounding. otherwise loves pulling out and finishing on your stomach or thighs, panting your name.

ᯓ★ dirty secret

lowkey possessive. loves the idea of people knowing you’re his without saying it out loud. might slip a hand under your shirt at a party, just enough to make you squirm.

ᯓ★ experience

not wildly experienced but picks things up fast. eager to please, listens intently to what you like and tries to deliver every time. surprisingly skilled with his mouth.

ᯓ★ favorite position

missionary but rough, so he can look into your eyes and kiss you while fucking you hard. also likes spooning because he can bury his face in your neck and keep you close.

ᯓ★ goofy

sometimes giggles if he accidentally bumps heads or knocks you into the wall. blushes like mad and apologizes between laughs.

ᯓ★ hair

keeps it trimmed but natural. doesn’t obsess over grooming, just likes to keep it tidy.

ᯓ★ intimacy

extremely intimate. even when it’s rough, he’s holding your face, murmuring soft words, making sure you know he loves you. loves forehead kisses and holding hands during sex.

ᯓ★ jerking off

definitely does it, especially when stressed. thinks about you every time, no exceptions.

ᯓ★ kinks

praise kink for sure. wants to hear you tell him how good he’s making you feel. has a possessive streak, loves gripping your wrists or holding you down gently.

ᯓ★ location

prefers privacy, but the idea of sneaking off somewhere quiet at a party drives him a bit wild. not reckless enough for full public, but he loves the thrill of possibly being caught.

ᯓ★ motivation

your soft sounds, the way you look at him with wide eyes. seeing you in his clothes, knowing he’s the only one who gets to see you like this.

ᯓ★ no

nothing degrading or humiliating. he’s protective of you and won’t cross boundaries that make you uncomfortable.

ᯓ★ oral (giving/receiving)

loves giving. takes his time, always determined to make you fall apart. loves watching you squirm. enjoys receiving but sometimes gets shy about asking for it.

ᯓ★ pace

starts slow and deep, then picks up speed once he’s lost in the moment. likes fucking you hard enough to hear the bed frame knock the wall.

ᯓ★ quickie

down for it if you’re both worked up, but he’s the type to apologize after because he wishes he could’ve taken his time with you.

ᯓ★ risk

more daring than people expect. likes the idea of getting caught, but keeps it subtle enough to avoid real trouble.

ᯓ★ stamina

good stamina, especially for his age. can go a couple rounds if you rile him up enough, though he ends up flushed and breathless.

ᯓ★ toys

curious but hasn’t experimented much. would absolutely try things if you suggested them.

ᯓ★ unfair

a tease if he’s in a playful mood. loves edging you until you’re begging.

ᯓ★ volume

not super loud but definitely vocal. lots of low groans, breathy curses, your name over and over.

ᯓ★ wild card

once ducked into a back stairwell to jerk off because he couldn’t stop thinking about you. felt embarrassed for days after.

ᯓ★ x-ray

solidly above average. not huge, but thick enough to stretch you just right.

ᯓ★ yearning

always craving you. sometimes tries to play it cool, but the second you touch him, he’s undone.

ᯓ★ zzz (sleep)

needs you close afterward. pulls you to his chest, buries his face in your hair, and won’t let go until he’s certain you’re asleep. murmurs soft confessions as he drifts off.

it’s late evening when you finally get to the lynch house, heart hammering in your chest. rain’s been falling on and off all day, leaving the streets slick and shining under the streetlights.

joey’s waiting for you at the top of the steps, arms folded tight across his chest, expression stormy.

“where the fuck were you?”

your throat tightens. “i was just out, joey. i needed air.”

“you could’ve told me.” his voice is low, dangerous, like he’s trying not to shout. “you can’t just disappear like that.”

you roll your eyes, though you can’t quite hide the tremor in your voice. “i’m not a kid. i can handle myself.”

“don’t fuckin’ start,” he snaps, stepping closer. “you think i don’t know what goes on around here? you think i’m lettin’ you walk home alone in the dark, when there’s lads out there lookin’ for a scrap or worse?”

your eyes sting with sudden tears. you hate how small his words make you feel. “i’m not your responsibility.”

“yeah, well, someone’s gotta look out for ya, ‘cause clearly you won’t do it yourself.”

you try to shove past him, but he catches your arm, grip firm but careful. “hey. don’t. i’m not—” he breaks off, swallowing hard. “i’m not mad ‘cause i want to control you. i’m mad ‘cause i can’t fuckin’ breathe thinkin’ somethin’ could happen to you.”

you look up at him, chest tight, and for a second, all the fight drains out of you.

“i’m fine,” you whisper.

joey shakes his head, eyes softening. “you say that every time, and i’m sick of hearin’ it. i’m not losin’ you. not to this fuckin’ place. not to anyone.”

there’s a pause, thick and heavy between you. and then, in a softer voice: “come inside, yeah? da’s been gone for days so there’s no one here to bother you. i’ll make you tea. just… stay where i can see you.”

you hesitate on the steps, rain dripping from your hair, soaking into the shoulders of your jacket. joey’s still holding your arm, not tight anymore, just enough that you know he’s there.

“please,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “just… come inside.”

you finally nod, too tired to fight. he releases a shaky breath and guides you through the door into the warmth of the lynch house.

inside, it smells like damp wood and milky tea.

joey steers you into the kitchen, flicking the kettle on without a word.

“sit down,” he mutters.

you drop into one of the battered chairs, arms wrapped around yourself. joey glances over his shoulder at you as he rummages for two mugs.

“you’re shiverin’. why the fuck didn’t you bring a coat?”

you huff out a tired laugh. “i did. it’s just… wet.”

he slams the mugs down, trying to look angry, but there’s worry all over his face.

“you drive me up the fuckin’ wall, y’know that?” he mutters, pouring boiling water into mugs. “always runnin’ off, actin’ like you’re grand, meanwhile i’m outta my fuckin’ mind thinkin’ somethin’ happened to ya.”

you stare at the swirling tea, guilt biting at your chest.

“i’m sorry,” you say, voice small. “i just… needed space.”

he exhales through his nose, leaning both hands on the table. “i get it. i do. but don’t leave me guessin’, yeah? i can’t… i can’t handle that.”

his eyes meet yours then, and all the anger has melted into something softer.

“you’re… fuckin’ important to me. whether you like it or not.”

heat blooms in your chest at the sincerity in his voice.

“i know,” you whisper. “you’re important to me too.”

joey clears his throat, looking away like he’s embarrassed. he shoves the mug toward you, then slides into the chair beside you instead of across.

you sip the tea, letting the warmth seep through your frozen fingers.

joey nudges your knee under the table, voice quiet. “next time you need space… take me with ya, yeah?”

you laugh, watery but real, and bump your knee back against his.

“yeah. okay.”

and joey finally smiles — small, but there — as the storm outside rattles harmlessly against the windows.

the rain slammed against the windows like it was trying to drown out everything inside the tiny flat — but it wasn’t loud enough to cover the sound of your shouting.

“i’m sick of you always tryin’ to fix me, hughie!” you snapped, voice cracking with the weight of everything you’d been holding in. “like i’m some broken thing you have to keep patchin’ up!”

he blinked, stunned. “i’m not tryin’ to fix you. i just want to be here for you.”

“well it doesn’t feel like it,” you spat, arms crossed tight over your chest. “all you do is run around like some bloody golden boy, doin’ everything for me, like that’s gonna make me suddenly stop feeling like this.”

“like what?” his voice dropped, a mixture of confusion and pain bleeding through.

you hesitated, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat. “like i’m drowning, hughie. like no matter how much you do, it’s never enough.”

he took a step closer, voice low but desperate. “why didn’t you say any of this?”

“because i’m supposed to be strong, aren’t i? the girl who keeps it together,” you scoffed, eyes flashing with tears you refused to let fall. “but i’m not. and i’m tired of pretending.”

“y/n…” his hands reached out, trembling, wanting to touch you but afraid he’d break whatever fragile thing was left.

“don’t,” you whispered harshly, stepping back. “don’t come near me right now.”

his face fell, but he didn’t move. “i’m not going anywhere.”

you laughed bitterly, voice shaking. “you don’t get it. none of you do. i’m messin’ this up every day and you just keep acting like if you do enough, i’ll be okay.”

“i’m not gonna let you fall apart alone,” he said quietly, eyes searching yours for some sign.

“then stop,” you pleaded, voice barely a whisper. “stop tryin’ to fix me and just be with me. even when it’s ugly.”

there was silence. heavy and thick.

and then he stepped forward, closing the distance until you could feel his breath.

“i’m here,” he said, voice rough.

your heart hammered — part relief, part panic.

before you could stop him, his lips were on yours, soft but urgent, pressing against your mouth like he needed to quiet the storm raging between you.

you froze, eyes wide, shocked by the suddenness, but the tension in your chest loosened just a little.

he pulled back slightly, forehead resting against yours.

“shh,” he whispered. “you don’t have to say anything.”

you swallowed the lump in your throat and closed your eyes, letting the moment stretch, fragile and aching.

the rain had slowed, but the tension between you still crackled like electricity. hughie’s hands trembled slightly as they settled on your waist, fingers splayed wide like he was afraid you’d break if he gripped too tight — but he didn’t want to let go.

his lips crashed against yours suddenly, rough and urgent, teeth grazing your bottom lip before slipping inside your mouth. the kiss was fierce, desperate, but beneath all that heat was an unmistakable tenderness, like he was trying to show you how much he needed you — how much he loved you — without words.

your breath hitched, fingers digging into his shirt as you clung to him, trying to ground yourself in the storm of feeling. his hands tightened on your hips, pulling you impossibly closer, molding you to him like you were the most fragile thing in the world.

he broke the kiss for a moment, forehead resting against yours, voice low and raw.

“you’re not alone. not ever.”

then he was kissing you again, slow and bruising — like every press of his mouth was a promise and an apology all at once.

his hands slid up your back, fingertips tracing the tense muscles beneath your skin, soothing and scorching all at once.

“i love you,” he murmured between kisses, voice barely audible but fierce with feeling.

you whispered it back, trembling, “i love you too.”

his grip remained tight but careful, holding you like glass, like if he lost you, the whole world would shatter.

the kiss deepened, more demanding now, his tongue exploring, his hands roaming, but always gentle enough to remind you he was yours and you were safe.

when he finally pulled back, his breath was ragged, and his eyes searched yours like he needed to make sure you were still there — still with him.

“please,” he whispered, voice cracking, “don’t shut me out again.”

you nodded, heart pounding, as the rain outside faded to a whisper, and in that moment, the world felt like it was only the two of you — broken and desperate, but somehow still holding on.

ᯓ★ he’s confident as hell. he’s been with older girls, he’s not shy, and he loves to show you a good time. he’s got that cocky grin and raspy voice in your ear, whispering filthy things no matter where you are.

ᯓ★ neck kisses are his signature move. biting, sucking, leaving bruises right where your shirt won’t hide them. he wants people to know who you belong to.

ᯓ★ he’s so into control. not in a scary way—but in a “hands gripping your hips so you move how he wants” way. he’s the type to murmur, “good girl, just like that,” when you listen.

ᯓ★ dirty talk king. thick dub accent, voice dropping lower when he’s worked up. he’s constantly praising you and swearing under his breath about how gorgeous you look coming undone for him.

ᯓ★ spontaneous as fuck (anyone disagreeing be fr). he’d fuck you anywhere depending on his mood: car, alley, stairwell at Biddies, rugby showers if he can get away with it. the thrill does it for him. but if you aren’t as experienced i’m picturing him being gentle with the location— bedrooms (yours and his) and is very private locations.

ᯓ★ a bit possessive. if someone looks at you too long, he’ll have his arm around you, pressing a kiss to your temple, or flat-out dragging you away so he can remind you who you belong to.

ᯓ★ loves you on top. not because he’s lazy—because he likes watching you move. his hands grip your thighs, eyes fixed on the way you take him, and he’s so vocal about how fucking stunning you look riding him.

ᯓ★ big into aftercare, secretly. wipes you down, pulls you into his chest, strokes your hair. might chirp a teasing “reckon i wore you out, yeah?” but he’s gentle, checking if you’re okay.

ᯓ★ loves seeing your tears. not in a cruel way—he just loves the sight of you overwhelmed. he’ll kiss them away and tell you how beautiful you look crying on his cock.

ᯓ★ likes a bit of hair-pulling. especially if you’re fighting him for control. he’ll wrap your hair around his fist and tilt your head up so you’re forced to look him in the eyes.

ᯓ★ can get rough, but he’s never cruel. you say the word, he stops. no questions. he wants you to love every second of it.

ᯓ★ insanely horny after rugby matches. adrenaline running high, sweaty, keyed up and wanting to bury himself inside you the minute he’s alone with you.

ᯓ★ his hands never stay still. gripping your waist, sneaking under your shirt, trailing over your thighs. even outside the bedroom, he’s always touching you.

ᯓ★ bit of a show-off. loves making you cum loudly, especially if he knows someone might hear. your moans are a badge of honour for him.

ᯓ★ he’s obsessed with your taste. he’ll go down on you for ages, rough tongue, strong hands pinning your hips. and he loves finishing in his mouth.

ᯓ★ low growls when he’s close. not quite words—just that deep, guttural sound in his chest when he’s losing control.

the bruises came and went.

same as always.

they’d bloom on your arms, sometimes your ribs, when he was angry enough. when the drink sank in and the walls rattled from his shouting, you always knew where to hide. knew how to breathe quieter, to take the hit if it meant shannon didn’t.

and it was always fine.

you made it fine.

because the only thing worse than living in that house was gibs finding out about it.

gerard had soft hands. hard voice, sometimes, and a mouth that didn’t know when to quit, but when it came to you—god, he was gentle. kissed your fingertips like they were sacred. listened when no one else ever had.

you didn’t tell him.

you couldn’t.

you knew he’d hate your da.

you knew he’d kill him.

it started raining halfway through the night. heavy, angry rain that pelted the roof and made everything inside feel colder than it should’ve.

you heard the door slam.

you knew the weight of his footsteps.

you didn’t have time to run.

—

you woke up in a hospital bed.

the light was too bright. your mouth was dry.

and shannon was sitting by the window, curled into herself like a kid.

you winced when you sat up. your lip split again, pain flashing through your jaw.

“shan?”

she turned fast, eyes red.

her voice cracked. “you need to sleep.”

“he—he brought me here?”

she shook her head.

“then who—”

“johnny found you.”

your heart slammed. “johnny?”

“yeah. i—I called him. he was the only one answerin’ his phone, and i didn’t know what to do, and you weren’t wakin’ up, and he just—” her breath hitched. “he’s gettin’ you some food now. he’s gonna kill ‘im. i think he really might.”

your stomach dropped. “shan, did you tell him?”

“i had to.”

you buried your face in your hands.

you didn’t hear the door open.

but you heard the voice.

“she didn’t tell me anything, though, did she?”

johnny’s voice was low. colder than you’d ever heard it.

and behind him—

gibs.

his eyes locked on you.

on the bruises, the blood, the bandage along your temple.

he didn’t speak.

not for a while.

just stared.

“gibs,” you whispered, throat dry. “i didn’t want—”

“how long?”

you hesitated.

his jaw clenched. “how long, y/n?”

“years.”

your voice broke.

“since before i met you.”

his mouth twitched. he looked like he might be sick.

“jesus christ.”

you tried to reach for him. “i didn’t want you to worry. i didn’t want—”

he stepped back.

and that hurt more than anything.

“didn’t want me to what? help you? protect you? know you?” he bit the words. “i’ve been in love with you for nearly two fuckin’ years, and you—you thought i wouldn’t want to know?”

you were crying now. you didn’t realise it until your vision blurred.

“i thought it’d ruin everything.”

gibs looked at you, then at shannon, then at the door like he didn’t know where to go.

johnny finally spoke.

quiet, like an afterthought.

“she didn’t want anyone to know. not even me. you gonna be angry or you gonna be there for her?”

gibs swallowed.

once. hard.

then he sat down.

he didn’t say anything.

he just took your hand.

held it like it was the only solid thing left.

you cried harder.

you notice it before he even says a word.

his shoulders are tense the way they get when something’s weighing on him, head down, jaw set, pacing the room like he’s not sure what to do with his hands. you’ve been here before, in moments like this with hughie—when the world is pressing down and he doesn’t know how to let you in without biting you first.

“you’re quiet,” you say softly, from your spot on his bed, legs curled underneath you, hoodie sleeves tugged down over your hands. “want to talk about it?”

“not really.”

his voice is clipped.

you swallow that. you’re not surprised.

but it still stings a little.

“okay,” you murmur, “we can just sit, then.”

you give it a beat, then two, watching the way he keeps tossing his phone from hand to hand like he’s barely stopping himself from launching it at the wall.

“is it the game?” you try gently. “or school?”

“jesus christ.” he spins around, voice sharp. “can you stop?”

the words hit you harder than they should. your body goes still.

“stop what?”

“this—hovering. asking a million questions like you’re my mam.”

your lips part, shocked. “i’m worried about you.”

“i don’t need you to be.”

you feel the air leave your lungs.

you don’t say anything for a moment, just blink and look down at your lap. the room feels cold now.

“you’re being a dick,” you say finally, quietly.

he runs a hand through his hair, pacing again. “i don’t need this right now.”

“you don’t need me, you mean.”

he laughs bitterly. “don’t turn this into some drama, jesus.”

your throat tightens, that horrible pressure building. he’s doing it again—pushing you out, freezing you off when all you want is to be close.

“you never tell me anything,” you say, voice rising slightly. “you just shut down and act like i’m the enemy.”

“maybe i just don’t want to be looked after like a fucking child every time i have a bad day.”

you blink at him, stunned. “i’m your girlfriend, hugh.”

“yeah, well, sometimes it doesn’t feel like that. it feels like i’ve got another person waiting for me to screw something up so they can swoop in and fix it.”

you go still. the words cut, deep and unkind.

“is that really what you think of me?”

he doesn’t answer. doesn’t look at you.

and you can’t take it. not the silence, not the distance, not the way he’s turning you into someone you’re not just to protect himself.

“fine,” you say, getting up. “if that’s what you want, i’ll go. i’ll stop hovering. i’ll leave you alone.”

“that’s not what i—”

“you don’t get to pull this and then backtrack, hugh. not tonight.”

your voice cracks at the end, but you don’t let the tears fall. not here. not in front of him.

you reach the door.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t call your name.

you wait a second longer than you should, hoping for something—anything.

it never comes.

the door clicks shut behind you.

—

two days.

that’s how long it’s been.

no texts, no calls—course there wouldn’t be. not like either of ye have mobiles anyway. it’s been two full days of not seeing him at school, not bumping into him in town, not even hearing his name mentioned by the others.

you’ve stopped scanning the footy pitch for his curls. stopped walking past the chipper just in case he might be there. not ‘cause you’re over it—just ‘cause it’s starting to hurt more than it helps.

claire’s been watching you. not saying much, but she’s got those big eyes that seem to clock everything. she’d nudged your shoulder in english, whispered something like, “still not talkin’ to ya?” but you only shook your head, lips tight.

you told her it wasn’t a big deal.

you’re not sure if you believe that anymore.

you keep thinking back to the way he looked at you.

cold.

like you were in his way. like you were the enemy.

and that…

that doesn’t feel like hughie.

—

he’s not been sleeping. not properly.

he’s been walking to school alone. keeping his head down in class. the lads’ve started noticing, making comments that don’t quite land—johnny elbowed him in the side yesterday and said something like, “what’s got your knickers in a twist then, hugh?”—but hughie just muttered something about a headache and left it there.

truth is—

he misses you.

but more than that, he’s ashamed.

ashamed of how he’d raised his voice. of how he’d twisted your softness into something weak.

he knew, even as the words left his mouth, that he was being unfair.

but when he gets in that head, when the pressure’s tight in his chest, when rugby feels more like a noose than a lifeline—he lashes out.

and it’s always the people he loves most.

you’d only been trying to help.

he sees that now. clear as day.

and still—he’d looked at you like you were the problem.

he’s a gobshite.

he knows it.

but he doesn’t know how to fix it.

doesn’t know how to look you in the eye and say, i’m sorry for not being the boy you deserve.

doesn’t know if you’d even want him to try.

still—

saturday afternoon, hands deep in his hoodie pocket, he finds himself walking to your door.

every step feels heavier than the last.

by the time he reaches your stoop, his throat’s dry and his heart’s rattling round his ribs.

he knocks.

twice.

you open the door, hair a little messy, jumper sleeves hanging over your hands. your eyes widen the second you see him—like maybe you didn’t expect he’d ever bother to show.

for a second, he thinks you’ll slam it shut.

but you don’t.

you just wait.

his voice is scratchy.

“i’ve been a feckin’ eejit.”

you cross your arms, expression unreadable.

“i know.”

he nods, jaw clenched.

“didn’t mean any of it. none of what i said was right. i just… i panicked. i’ve not been—myself, lately. and you were tryin’ to help, and i made you feel like you were doin’ wrong for carin’.”

you swallow. hard.

he keeps going.

“i’m not great at this stuff. never have been. but i miss you. i hate that i made you feel small.”

you breathe in, shaky and slow.

“you really hurt me, hugh.”

he nods again, eyes shining.

“i know. i hate that i did. and i swear to god, i’ll never let it happen again.”

you hesitate—because it’d be easier to stay mad, maybe even fairer—but the way he’s looking at you now, like he’d crumble if you turned him away…

you let the door open wider.

step aside.

he doesn’t say anything else.

he just walks in, brushing your hand with his as he passes.

his fingers find yours.

and they hold on.

—

so there you two are, sitting on your bedroom floor, knees pressed to your chest, arms looped round them like you’re bracing yourself for something.

he’s sitting opposite, legs stretched out, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms. he hasn’t looked away from you once.

it’s quiet. thick, almost. like if either of you spoke too loud it’d break.

but it doesn’t stay like that forever.

you sigh, eyes flicking up.

“you always do this.”

hughie’s brow furrows.

“do what?”

“you shut down. and then you shut me out.” your voice is gentler than your words. “and then you come back with this… this sadness in your eyes like i’m supposed to forget everything.”

he blinks.

“i don’t want you to forget it.”

you press your lips together.

“then what do you want?”

he leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice rough.

“i want to be better. not just for you. but because you make me want to be.”

you don’t move for a while. you just stare at him.

and he lets you.

and then—soft as anything—

you reach out, thumb brushing under his eye.

“you scared me,” you whisper. “when you raised your voice like that. it wasn’t you. and for a second, i thought maybe i didn’t really know you at all.”

his hand catches yours. he holds it gently, like it’s made of glass.

“you do,” he says. “you do know me. the best out of anyone. but i think that’s why it scared me, too.”

your brows pull in.

“why would that scare you?”

he shrugs, slow.

“‘cause if you know me, really know me, and you still choose to stay… then that means you love me. and if you love me, i’ve got more to lose.”

your throat gets tight.

not just at the words.

but the way he says them—like they’ve been sitting on his tongue for months.

you slide off your bed and into his lap. you feel the way his arms tighten round your waist like instinct.

he leans his forehead to yours.

and when he breathes your name, you know.

he’s never loved anything more.

not rugby. not winning. not even being loved back.

just you.

he kisses you slow.

not with urgency, not with need.

just softness. promise.

his hands move under your jumper, resting on your waist like he’s anchoring himself there. your fingers weave into his curls, tugging just enough to make him smile against your mouth.

he mumbles something against your skin.

“i’ll spend the rest of my life makin’ it up to you.”

you kiss the corner of his mouth.

“don’t need all that. just don’t do it again.”

“i won’t,” he says. “swear on feely’s mam.”

you laugh—quiet, nose brushing his.

and then you kiss him again.

and again.

his hands slide lower, his mouth drops to your throat, your fingers are bunching his jumper in fists.

but it’s not about sex.

not really.

it’s about closeness.

making sure you still fit.

making sure this still feels like home.

and it does.

it starts slow. always does with hughie. even when the air’s thick with want, even when your hands are in his hair and his mouth is at your neck, even when your thighs are already squeezing round his waist—he takes his time.

his hands are under your shirt, cold palms against warm skin, fingers curling like he’s scared you might slip away again.

you look down at him from where you’re straddling him on your bedroom floor, light from the hallway slanting across his face, and he looks like he’s never seen anything more important.

“i’ve got you,” he says. it’s barely a whisper.

you nod, but your voice breaks anyway.

“yeah.”

his mouth meets yours again, hotter this time. teeth grazing. lips dragging.

his hands slide up your back, unclipping your bra in a practiced motion that somehow still feels like worship. he doesn’t look down when you toss it aside—he keeps his eyes on you, like if he looks away, you might vanish.

he lays you back slowly, letting you pull him down with you. your legs wrap around his hips, heels pressing into the backs of his thighs.

his hand cradles your face as he kisses down your jaw, your throat, across your collarbones.

and then he stops.

just looks at you.

his voice is rough.

“you sure?”

“hughs,” you whisper, breath catching, “you’re all i’m sure about.”

you see it in his eyes—that split second where his whole chest cracks open with love for you.

and then his hand dips between your thighs.

he doesn’t tease—not tonight. he’s gentle, warm, steady. fingers finding where you’re already aching for him, stroking through slick like he’s trying to memorise every sound you make.

your hips rock up into his hand, quiet moans slipping from your lips. he watches you, drinking it in like it’s his first and last chance.

“fuck,” he mutters, kissing your cheek. “you’re so good. you always are.”

you arch your back when he slides two fingers in. he doesn’t speed up. just keeps the same rhythm, kissing your jaw and whispering into your skin.

“didn’t mean to scare you,” he breathes. “never again. you’re everything. d’you know that?”

you nod, too overwhelmed to speak. your hands are gripping his shoulders like you’ll fall apart if you let go.

he kisses you through it—mouth never leaving yours when you cum, gasping into him, walls pulsing around his fingers.

and even when you’re still trembling, even when your thighs are slick and your skin’s glowing, he’s still got that look on his face like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

“can i—” he starts, but you’re already reaching for him, already nodding.

he pulls himself free of his jeans, cock flushed and hard and aching. he presses his forehead to yours again.

and when he slides into you, both of you gasp.

he’s slow. deeper than usual. not a single thrust wasted. every grind of his hips says i’m sorry. i love you. you’re mine.

you claw at his jumper, hips lifting to meet him, chasing the drag of him inside.

your voice cracks when you moan his name.

“hughs—”

his mouth catches yours before the sob can break through.

“i’ve got you. i’ve got you.”

and when you both come—shaking, holding each other like the world might split in two—it feels like being stitched back together.

after, he doesn’t move. just holds you, breathless, sweaty, legs tangled.

he kisses the top of your head and murmurs, “you’re it for me. always have been.”

you hum against his chest, and for the first time in days, you feel steady again.

ᯓ★ it starts with popcorn kernels exploding in the microwave and claire screaming that hughie’s going to set the kitchen on fire. he’s got his arms around your waist from behind, chin on your shoulder like you’re in a romcom, and he mumbles a lazy “worth it.”

ᯓ★ claire makes you both sleep downstairs. she drags all the duvets and blankets from the airing cupboard like a woman on a mission, muttering something about how “she’s not gonna be responsible for whatever goes down upstairs.” hughie tries to argue that he’s a gentleman and claire practically chokes on her tea.

ᯓ★ you’re curled into hughie’s side on the couch while a horror movie plays—he’s barely paying attention, just running his fingers along your arm like you’re a puzzle he’s trying to memorize. claire’s watching you both with an expression that can only be described as deeply traumatised.

“you’re disgusting,” she mutters when hughie kisses the top of your head.

“you’re just jealous no one loves you like this,” he fires back, smug.

“i’d rather die.”

ᯓ★ hughie feeds you m&ms one by one from a bowl on his chest. he does it dramatically, like you’re royalty, and every time you giggle, claire throws a cushion at his head.

ᯓ★ at some point, you end up lying across hughie’s lap, feet in claire’s direction. she tries to ignore it. she really does. but when hughie starts playing with your hair and you let out this soft sigh that’s way too dreamy for 1am, claire sits up, glares at both of you, and announces she’s going to bed.

“i hope you trip on your way up,” hughie calls sweetly after her.

“i hope you choke on your own tongue,” she replies, not missing a beat.

ᯓ★ once she’s gone, hughie turns to you, voice suddenly lower, softer. “you comfy, love?”

you just hum and bury your face in his hoodie. it smells like his cologne and clean laundry and something warm you can’t name.

ᯓ★ he doesn’t say anything for a while. just strokes your back, kisses your knuckles. you fall asleep like that, safe and squished into the corner of the couch, with hughie whispering “i like you too much, y’know that?” when he thinks you’re already gone.

ᯓ★ claire wakes up first because of course she does—she’s always been an early riser and she hates it. she drags herself down the stairs, planning to make tea and steal the good biscuits before either of you wake up.

ᯓ★ but then she steps into the sitting room and sees you in hughie’s hoodie, curled into his chest, blanket wrapped around you both like a human burrito.

and claire’s just like— “jesus fucking christ.”

ᯓ★ hughie’s eyes are still closed, one hand resting on your lower back, the other gently tangled in your hair. you’re dead asleep too, lips pressed to his collarbone like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

ᯓ★ claire stares. she considers waking you both up with a scream. she considers taking a photo and sending it to literally everyone. she even considers leaving and pretending she never saw any of this.

ᯓ★ instead, she clears her throat loudly.

ᯓ★ neither of you flinch. you just groan and nuzzle closer. hughie pulls you in tighter and mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like “mine.”

“oh my god,” claire says, louder now, “you’re actually gross.”

ᯓ★ hughie cracks one eye open, sleepy and smug. “you’re jealous again.”

“jealous of what?” claire snaps, “the co-dependency? the fact that you’re drooling on her?”

ᯓ★ you groan and throw an arm over your face. hughie kisses your forehead and smiles like he’s won the lottery. claire looks like she wants to kick him in the shins.

ᯓ★ “you didn’t even last twelve hours,” she mutters, going to make tea like she’s just survived battle. “i need stronger friends.”

ᯓ★ hughie leans down, whispering into your hair, “she’s only mad ‘cause she doesn’t have someone to fall asleep on top of.”

you snort. “you’re ridiculous.”

he kisses your jaw. “yeah, but you love it.”

ᯓ★ claire returns with her tea, sees you both giggling under the blanket, and immediately starts gagging.

“i hope your next couple fight is public and humiliating.”

it started small—like most things with joey lynch.

just a flicker of something in the background, quiet and simmering. barely there.

you were always soft. too soft, maybe. always too polite, too quick to smile, too unwilling to shut someone down outright. it wasn’t because you liked the attention—it just felt mean to ignore people. especially when they weren’t doing anything outright wrong.

joey noticed it long before he said anything. the way guys at school gravitated to you. harmless, at first—asking for help on assignments, offering you gum, lingering at your locker just a bit too long. he’d watch from the other side of the hallway, pretending not to care, earbuds in and hood up. pretending he was the type of boy who didn’t get jealous. pretending he wasn’t already in way too deep.

he hated it. hated how obvious he was starting to feel. hated how he couldn’t look away.

but you? you were clueless. not stupid—not by any means—but soft-hearted in a way that made it hard to see how close he was to coming undone over you.

and that week, it got worse. some new lad in your english class started sitting beside you, laughing a little too loud at your jokes, bumping your knee with his under the desk. you thought nothing of it. you were trying to focus on the poetry analysis.

joey was watching from two rows back, eyes flicking between his book and the way your head tilted when you smiled. he didn’t hear a single thing mr. daly said. he was too busy gripping his pen hard enough to snap it in two.

you didn’t see the storm brewing—not until after class, when you found joey at your locker. hoodie on, shoulders tense, not looking at you.

“hey,” you greeted carefully, sensing the shift in his energy. “you good?”

he shrugged. “brilliant.”

“…right.”

the silence stretched. students filtered out around you, laughing and shoving. and just when you were about to ask again, he snapped.

“what’s with the new lad?” he asked bluntly, eyes still not meeting yours.

you blinked. “what?”

“the guy who’s practically sitting in your lap every english class,” joey muttered, voice low and sharp. “you like him or something?”

“no,” you said, confused. “he’s just—he’s in my group for the assignment. he was asking about—”

“sure he was.” the words were bitter. “you always that friendly with every guy who smiles at you?”

your face fell. “joey, what the fuck?”

he finally looked at you then—and his expression gutted you. because underneath the sharpness, there was something else. something wounded.

“you think it’s funny?” he asked, quieter now. “watching them fall all over you like that? while i’m just—”

he stopped himself. jaw tight. fists clenched.

“while you’re just what?” you asked, voice trembling.

but he shook his head, stepping back. “never mind.”

and then he was gone. just like that. no explanation. no time to follow.

you stood there, heart pounding, breath catching. replaying his words over and over again. not knowing what you did wrong, only knowing that somehow, you’d hurt him.

and you couldn’t fix it. not yet.

—

the silence that followed was deafening.

joey didn’t show up to lunch. didn’t answer your texts. and when you passed him in the corridor, he barely spared you a glance—just kept walking, jaw tight, eyes forward, hoodie up like it was some kind of armour.

you hated it. hated how your chest ached when he didn’t look at you. hated how heavy your steps felt, like every hallway in school was a reminder that you’d lost him, and you didn’t even know what you’d done.

so when friday rolled around and you saw him posted up outside the school gates after class, cigarette hanging from his fingers, jaw working as he stared at the pavement, you didn’t hesitate. you walked straight up to him, heart in your throat.

“joey.”

he didn’t look at you. just pulled in a slow drag, then blew it out through his nose.

“you’ve been ignoring me,” you said gently.

he gave a humourless snort. “didn’t know you noticed. figured you were too busy with your new little boyfriend.”

you flinched. “stop.”

he finally looked at you—and his eyes were sharper than you’d ever seen. darker.

“why?” he asked, bitter. “am i not allowed to be pissed off anymore? can’t even say anything without you getting all innocent and confused.”

“because i am confused, joey,” you shot back, the frustration finally spilling over. “you’re acting like i did something wrong when i’ve done nothing.”

“that’s the problem,” he snapped, voice rising. “you never do anything. you just sit there and smile and let every guy in school crawl over you like it’s nothing.”

“you think i like that?” you asked, voice cracking. “you think i want to deal with that every day? i don’t even know how to say no without sounding like a bitch—”

“but you never say no, do you?” he muttered. “you let them talk to you like that. laugh with them. touch you.”

“i didn’t ask for it!” you snapped, eyes suddenly brimming. “and it’s not my fault they don’t know boundaries!”

joey opened his mouth—then closed it again. his throat bobbed.

“i didn’t mean to make you feel like you weren’t enough,” you whispered. “i didn’t even know you felt that way.”

he looked at you like you’d just smacked him across the face.

“…i didn’t think i did either,” he admitted finally, voice quiet. “not until i saw you laughing with someone else. and i know it’s not fair, alright? i know i’m being a dick. i just—” he trailed off, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“i just felt like i was losing you before i ever really had you.”

the silence between you stretched thin.

your voice was soft. “joey… you never told me you wanted me like that.”

his eyes met yours again. everything raw and exposed.

“because i didn’t think you’d want me back.”

you stepped closer. close enough that you could smell the faint smoke on his hoodie. close enough that he couldn’t look anywhere else.

“i do,” you whispered. “but you can’t take it out on me. i’m not the enemy.”

joey looked like he was about to cry or punch a wall—or both.

but he didn’t do either. he just breathed out, broken and shaky, and nodded.

“okay,” he whispered. “i’m sorry.”

—

you didn’t expect him to show up at your door that night.

but he did.

it was just after ten. your mam was watching telly in the front room, the house mostly dark except for the soft flicker of the screen. you were curled up in bed, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, still replaying the argument in your head when the knock came—quiet, unsure.

you opened your window first, just in case it was one of your brothers being an arsehole. but it was joey.

hood up, eyes red-rimmed, hands stuffed into the pockets of his windbreaker like he had no idea what to do with them.

“can i come in?” he asked softly, looking up at you from the garden.

you didn’t speak. just nodded, heart jumping, and slipped downstairs barefoot to let him in through the back door.

he looked smaller than usual somehow. like the weight of everything was finally catching up to him. like he hadn’t slept since the last time you talked.

you brought him up to your room without a word. closed the door. sat on the edge of the bed while he stood there, shifting from foot to foot like he didn’t know if he deserved to sit.

“i was such a prick,” he said eventually. voice quiet, but shaking.

you swallowed. “yeah.”

joey gave a soft, choked laugh. “deserved that.”

“why’d you come?”

“to say sorry. properly.”

you looked up at him. “okay.”

he sat down beside you, careful, like he was scared to get too close.

“i don’t get jealous,” he said. “not usually. but with you, it’s like—fuck, it’s like i’m not in control of it. and it scared the shit out of me.”

you stayed quiet, listening.

“i’ve never really had someone who made me feel like… home,” he added, eyes fixed on the floor. “but you do. and i think i panicked. thought i was gonna ruin it before it even started.”

you blinked, throat tight. “joey…”

“i’m sorry for everything i said,” he whispered. “you didn’t deserve that. none of it. i don’t want to be the reason you feel small.”

your hand brushed his. tentative.

“i want you,” you said, barely louder than a breath. “but you have to talkto me, not blow up at me.”

he nodded. fast, like he’d say yes to anything you asked. “i know. i promise.”

he looked at you then, really looked at you, and you could feel the shift. the soft ache in his chest radiating outward.

you leaned in. and he met you halfway.

the kiss was slow, different than any you’d ever shared. it wasn’t rushed or breathless—it was him saying thank you, and i’m sorry, and i’m yours if you’ll still have me.

when you pulled away, you tucked your head against his shoulder, breathing him in.

he held you like you were something precious. something fragile and irreplaceable.

and maybe you were.

because in that moment, joey lynch—guarded, reckless, deeply adored—looked at you like you were the safest place he’d ever known.

ᯓ★ aftercare

he’s the gold standard. you don’t even have to ask—he’s already tucking you into his chest, murmuring little praises into your hair, cleaning you up gently like it’s second nature. he won’t leave your side until you’re fully relaxed and smiling again. if you’re quiet, he’ll press a kiss to your forehead and whisper, “you with me, yeah?”

ᯓ★ body part (his & theirs)

on him: his forearms. he knows how they look when he’s holding himself above you, veins flexing, muscles tight—it makes you feral and he knows it. 

on you: your back. loves placing his hand there when he’s guiding you around, arching it when you’re on your hands and knees, or running his fingers up your spine when he’s teasing.

ᯓ★ cum

he’s quiet but intense about it—buried deep inside you, hand fisting the sheets, growling your name under his breath. prefers finishing inside, always. presses your hips down into the mattress when he’s doing it too, like he needs to stay there.

ᯓ★ dirty secret

has 100% jerked off in the locker room thinking about you wearing his jersey and nothing else. also might have a bit of a thing for the thought of someone hearing you beg for him but not being able to do a thing about it.

ᯓ★ experience

he’s not the loudest, not the flashiest, but he knows what he’s doing. not cocky—just quietly confident. he’s had his fair share of flings, but he’s never been more focused or tuned in with someone the way he is with you.

ᯓ★ favorite position

loves anything where he can be close. missionary with your legs around his waist, your hands in his hair, his forehead pressed to yours. but when he’s desperate? you on all fours, one hand around your waist, the other gripping your hair. doesn’t let up until you’re breathless.

ᯓ★ goofy

not really. he’s tender, sure, but not goofy. maybe the occasional low chuckle when you’re being shy or teasing—but during? he’s locked in. eyes never leave you.

ᯓ★ hair

neatly trimmed but natural. doesn’t obsess over it. cares more about how you respond to him than what he looks like.

ᯓ★ intimacy

everything he does is intimate. every touch, every thrust, every whispered “you’re so fuckin’ perfect for me” like he means it more than anything. makes you feel worshipped without even trying.

ᯓ★ jerking off

does it more than he’d ever admit. especially if he’s had a long game and hasn’t seen you in a few days. always closes his eyes and pictures the exact way you sound when you come for him.

ᯓ★ kinks:

praise—he lives to praise you. “you’re takin’ me so good, sweetheart.”

possessiveness—not in a controlling way, but he loves hearing you say you’re his.

light roughness—gripping your hips too tight, pinning your wrists, soft choking

clothing kink—seeing you in his kit or his hoodie drives him insane

body worship—he’ll spend forever kissing every inch of you before even touching himself

ᯓ★ location

he’ll take you anywhere he can get you—his room, the locker room, his car parked in some quiet field. but he’s also lowkey sentimental—his favourite place is your bed, with the soft sheets and that scent of you everywhere.

ᯓ★ motivation

you in his clothes. your little laugh when you’re flustered. the way you cling to him after a kiss like you don’t wanna let go. he melts for it every time.

ᯓ★ no

anything that makes you feel unsafe or small in a bad way. he’d never degrade you, never make you feel used. and he’s not into anything too risky—if there’s even a chance someone could see or hurt you? he’s out.

ᯓ★ oral (giving & receiving)

a goddamn menace. loves going down on you—loves how you lose control under his mouth, how your fingers clutch at his hair, how you beg. doesn’t stop until you’re shaking. receiving? he’ll groan low in his throat when you do it, muttering soft, breathless praises the whole time.

ᯓ★ pace

steady, deep, devastating. he knows exactly what you need and gives it to you slow and meaningful until you’re writhing. but if he’s jealous or needy? he’ll ruin you.

ᯓ★ quickie

yeah. especially if it’s after a game and you’re wearing his jersey. he’ll pull you into a bathroom stall or the backseat, one hand clamped over your mouth to muffle your moans while he grinds into you like he hasn’t seen you in months.

ᯓ★ risk

way riskier than he lets on. he gets off on the thought of getting caught—pulling you behind the bleachers, pushing you up against the cold tiles in the locker room after a match, sneaking into your house and fucking you with a hand over your mouth while your parents are asleep upstairs. the risk adds to the rush—he’ll whisper, “quiet, baby. you don’t want them to hear, do you?” with a smirk like he wants to get caught.

ᯓ★ stamina

insane. especially after a win—he’s running off adrenaline and the high of it all, and you’ll get at least two full rounds out of him, maybe more if you keep teasing him after.

ᯓ★ toys

not huge on them but curious. would definitely buy a bullet vibe just to use on you while you’re stretched out underneath him, watching your face while you come undone.

ᯓ★ unfair

he’s not cruel but he loves to edge you. will get you so close and then stop, just to see you pout and squirm and beg for him with those teary eyes.

ᯓ★ volume

groany, raspy, breathless. curses under his breath when you tighten around him. might moan your name when he’s close, face buried in your neck, hands gripping your hips like he’ll fall apart without you.

ᯓ★ wild card

has definitely practiced restraint more than once—like holding himself back when you’re sitting on his lap all innocent at a party, whispering in his ear, grinding ever so slightly, and he just takes it, eyes dark, waiting till you’re alone to absolutely destroy you.

ᯓ★ x-ray

long and thick. you felt it before you even saw it. hits deep and knows how to use it, and always checks in if he’s hurting you too much.

ᯓ★ yearning

he aches for you. he’s a quiet romantic—wants you in his bed every night, wants to take care of you in every way, wants to show you over and over again how much you mean to him. sex isn’t just sex—it’s love every time.

ᯓ★ zzz

passes out with you curled into his chest, your leg over his hip, his fingers lazily tracing circles on your thigh. won’t even think about moving until the morning.

ᯓ★ aftercare

shockingly gentle. he doesn’t talk much right after, just touches—his hand sliding over your waist, his mouth pressed to your shoulder, running you a bath if he feels like he pushed you too far. always asks, “you good?” in that low voice, like he means it more than anything.

ᯓ★ body part (his & theirs)

on him: his hands. he uses them like he knows they’re his best asset—whether it’s pinning yours down, guiding your hips, or brushing knuckles over your lips. on you: your thighs. loves pulling them apart, holding them open, watching them tremble under him. also lowkey obsessed with your mouth.

ᯓ★ cum

he’s so visual. always wants to see where it lands—your stomach, your chest, your thighs. but if he’s inside you? he’ll growl it into your ear, like, “gonna fuckin’ fill you up, yeah?” and then watch it drip out with his lip between his teeth.

ᯓ★ dirty secret

he gets off on the idea of you watching him. he hasn’t said it out loud yet, but he wants you to walk in on him one day—wants you to see how bad he wants you when you’re not even there.

ᯓ★ experience

you already know he’s no angel. he’s been around, had his flings, especially with older women. but nothing’s been serious—until you. and it shows. he’s confident but careful with you. a little more patient. a little more obsessed.

ᯓ★ favorite position

he’s a face-riding demon. swears it’s his favourite thing on earth. other than that? either backshots with your face buried in his pillow, or missionary with your legs over his shoulders so he can see everything.

ᯓ★ goofy

not often. maybe right before or after. during? he’s intense. serious. might smirk, but it’s not funny—it’s because he knows what he’s doing to you.

ᯓ★ hair

he keeps things natural but clean. doesn’t overthink it. doesn’t care what you’ve got going on either—he’s into all of it, full stop.

ᯓ★ intimacy

it’s overwhelming. he doesn’t always say it, but he shows it in every single touch. presses his forehead to yours. kisses your eyelids. worships you like you hung the stars.

ᯓ★ jerking off

does it a lot when he’s away from you. thinks about that one exact moan you made last time, the scratch marks on his back. sometimes he’ll call you after—voice hoarse, saying “fuck, baby, missed you.”

ᯓ★ kinks

* control/power play

* light choking

* thigh riding

* degradation + praise mix (“such a good girl for me, look at you.”)

* overstimulation (on you)

* possessiveness—“mine,” said over and over again

ᯓ★ location

bedroom is his go-to, but he’s had you in the backseat of his car, up against the shower wall, and once in the school gym when no one else was around.

ᯓ★ motivation

you in his clothes. your bare legs. your voice when it drops a little lower. the way you look at him when you’re pretending you’re not needy. he can always tell.

ᯓ★ no

nothing degrading in a real way. he can be rough, sure, but he’ll never do anything that makes you actually uncomfortable or insecure.

ᯓ★ oral (giving & receiving)

he’s obsessed with giving. says it’s his favourite part of sex. will have you squirming under his mouth in minutes, gripping his hair, and he loves when you try to pull away and he just growls, “nah, love, we’re not done.” receiving? smug bastard about it, but still lets you take your time. rests his hand behind your head like he’s petting you, then bites his fist to keep quiet.

ᯓ★ pace

varies. sometimes it’s slow and cruel, just to see you beg. other times it’s brutal—fast and rough, like he’s chasing something. always, always deep.

ᯓ★ quickie

yes. after school, during a smoke break, in the changing rooms. especially if he’s in a mood and you’re being too tempting.

ᯓ★ risk

a bit of a reckless streak. not stupid, but definitely doesn’t mind pushing it. loves knowing you’ll let him have you even if there’s a chance someone might hear.

ᯓ★ stamina

ridiculous. he could go again right after. sometimes does. especially if you’re being teasing about it. he’ll just roll you back over like, “nah, you’re not done yet.”

ᯓ★ toys

not yet, but he’s intrigued. would use a vibrator on you and lose his mind watching you squirm under it.

ᯓ★ unfair

teases a lot. touches you just enough to drive you insane and then pulls away. makes you ask for it. and if you don’t? he’ll smirk and say, “didn’t hear a please, love.”

ᯓ★ volume

he grunts, groans, curses. breathes hard in your ear. mutters your name over and over, especially when he’s close.

ᯓ★ wild card

he fantasizes about you watching one of his hurling matches after he’s already fucked you that day—like limping a little, legs sore, knowing exactly why. and he’d wink at you from the field like he’s the cockiest bastard alive.

ᯓ★ x-ray

he’s hung. you know this. thick more than long, veiny, curves a bit to the left. knows how to use it too.

ᯓ★ yearning

he’s feral. pretends he’s laid back but the second you’re near him, his whole body hums with need. craves you all the time. can barely keep his hands to himself.

ᯓ★ zzz

clings to you after. one arm thrown over your waist, breathing against your neck, murmuring dumb sleepy praise like, “you’re mine, y’know that?” until he drifts off.