While Arthur F. is away participating in a ChrisMD soccer video, the reader can’t help but send him some teasing messages, getting him all worked up as he begins to miss every shot he takes. The boys can’t help but notice his pent up frustration as they know how devious the reader can be and tease him too, only making his frustration more visible. When he arrives back home he’s practically on his knees begging her to finish what she started, which she greatly does.
Playing Dirty
Atv x reader - smut
A/N: yall are EATING with these requests 😼🙏🏾😌hope the delay was worth it anon hehehe
My Masterlist
C/W: light edging, sexting, dirty talk, rough sex, public teasing, desperate arthur 🙇🏾♀️, unprotected boomboyah (stay safe yall)
Arthur was meant to be focusing.
The summer sun was sharp overhead, a glare off the turf that should've been enough to keep his head in the game. Chris was barking instructions at the lads for the next segment of the video, camera rolling, banter flying, everyone ready to take their penalty shots. But Arthur’s thumb was hovering over his phone like a man possessed, eyes scanning the last message you'd sent him—again.
You: Since you’re busy guess I’ll just touch myself while watching that video of you moaning in my ear
Hope you don’t mind 🥺
He nearly dropped the phone.
A choked sound left his throat, barely covered by a cough, and he stuffed the mobile deep in his pocket before he embarrassed himself fully. His joggers suddenly felt far too tight, his brain fogging over with heat that had nothing to do with the weather.
"Arthur," Chris called, squinting at him. "Did you forget how to act human again or?"
A couple of the boys snorted.
"Bet it’s his girl," Will grinned. "She's so funny. Remember last time she got in his head during the crossbar challenge?."
Arthur groaned. "I'm Fine-."
"That a yes then?" Chris raised a brow, smirking as Arthur stepped up to the penalty spot.
He tried to shake it off—deep breath, focus, shoot.
But all he could picture was you, sprawled across the bed in that little top he liked, hand sliding slowly beneath the waistband of your shorts, back arching at the thought of him. You'd said his name, you always said his name when you touched yourself—like it was only him you needed.
He shot wide.
"Wider than his eyes" Chris mumbled to the camera with a cheeky smirk.9
"Focus, mate! Contact the motherboard or something" Theo shouted.
Arthur huffed and rubbed the back of his neck. His whole body was buzzing. Not just from the teasing message—but the ones before it too.
You: Not wearing panties today. Felt wrong without you to take them off
You: Might send a video later. If you’re good <3
He was not being good. Not when his cock was stiff and aching, every inch of him screaming for relief, and all the boys were watching him like they knew.
"She’s got you wound up like a toy, hasn’t she?" Will chuckled.
"Can’t blame her. If I had Arthur like that, I’d torture him too," Chris teased, nudging him with his boot.
Arthur shoved him back weakly and missed the next shot even worse. The laughter around him just made it worse.
He barely survived the rest of filming. And when they wrapped up, all it took was one final text:
You: Are you coming home now?
Or should I send you another video of me thinking about you?
You barely had time to look up from your spot on the sofa before Arthur was on you—lips crashing against yours, hands everywhere, tugging at your clothes like a man gone mad.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered into your neck, “you ruined me today. Couldn’t think straight. Missed every bloody shot.”
You laughed breathlessly as he picked you up, hauling you toward the bedroom. “Aw. I thought you liked my little texts.”
Arthur dropped you onto the bed and crawled up over you, jaw tight with restraint. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”
You wrapped your legs around his waist, lips ghosting his ear. “You gonna punish me for it?”
He growled.
“I should,” he said darkly. “But right now I need you too badly.”
He was already rutting against you, hard cock pressing through his joggers into your core. You pulled at his hoodie and shirt, desperate to feel his skin. The heat of him, the scent of sweat and grass and arousal—it made you throb.
“Arthur,” you whispered, squirming as he pressed open-mouthed kisses down your throat. “Please…”
“Please what?” he taunted, fingers slipping under your shorts. “Please stop teasing you like you didn’t do that all day?”
His fingers found your clit, rubbing slow torturous circles.
“You gonna say sorry?” he murmured, lips brushing your nipple as he pulled your top up. “For being such a brat?”
You whimpered, bucking into his touch. “I’m not sorry.”
That snapped something in him.
He yanked your shorts off, threw them to the floor, and pulled his joggers down in one smooth motion—cock springing free, flushed and angry with neglect.
“I’ve been hard for hours,” he hissed, lining himself up, rubbing the tip along your folds. “Every time someone mentioned you I got worse. You did that.”
You smirked and opened your legs wider. “Then do something about it.”
He slammed into you.
Your back arched, a cry torn from your throat as he filled you in one brutal stroke. He didn’t wait. Didn’t give you a second to adjust before he was fucking you, raw and desperate, his hips slamming into yours with punishing force.
You clung to him, nails dragging down his back, moaning helplessly as he pounded into you. All the tension from the day was pouring out of him—into you—with every thrust.
“You think it’s funny?” he growled into your ear. “Think you’re clever? Teasing me while I’m with the boys?”
You gasped. “You liked it. Your cock was twitching the second I texted you.”
He groaned, hips stuttering. “Yeah? You like making me lose control?”
“I love it,” you breathed. “You’re so fucking hot when you’re desperate for me.”
He kissed you hard, messy and feral, as his thrusts grew sloppy. The room was full of your sounds—skin slapping, gasps, the creak of the bed, the wet, obscene noises of him sliding in and out of you.
He reached between you to rub your clit, eyes wild as he watched you fall apart.
“Shitshitshit—Arthur—”
He leaned down and kissed you hard, rhythm faltering just slightly as your walls clenched tight around him.
“You close again?” he whispered against your mouth. “Come for me. Soak my cock, baby. I wanna feel it.”
Your orgasm hit you like a freight train—body arching, muscles clenching, loud moans spilling from your lips as you pulsed around him. Arthur groaned as he thrust through it, chasing his own high now.
“Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—”
He pulled out fast, fisting his cock and coming hard all over your stomach with a loud, broken moan. Thick ropes of cum painted your skin as he shuddered, head falling forward onto your shoulder.
You lay there panting together—your body trembling, his weight warm and heavy above you.
After a minute, he pressed a kiss to your temple.
“I fucking missed you.”
You laughed, breathless. “You missed my pussy.”
“That too,” he mumbled, already reaching for tissues to clean you. “But mostly you.”
Once he wiped you down and kissed your inner thighs gently—like an apology for ruining you—he curled up behind you, arms wrapping around your waist as he nestled his face into your hair.
For a few moments, neither of you moved—just tangled limbs, sticky skin, hearts pounding against each other.
“…Better?” you murmured, cheek against his damp chest.
“Much,” he sighed. “You’re evil.”
You grinned. “You like that I’m evil.”
“I do,” he admitted.
He kissed your forehead and rolled you gently onto your side, arms wrapping around you protectively. His voice was soft now, no trace of the earlier edge—just warm, worn-out affection.
“I missed you so fucking much.”
You snuggled in closer, satisfied and sore. “I missed you too, baby.”
He paused.
“…Did you really touch yourself to that video of me?”
You smirked.
“Guess you’ll just have to be good if you want to see it.”
He groaned into your shoulder.
“You’re the worst.”
You kissed his temple. “And you’re obsessed with me.”
“Tragically.”
A/N: UGH I LOVED THIS, anyways requests are open as hell like like legs for atv and lmk if you wanna be in the taglist <3
꣑ৎrequest: hello wifey, could u please do something with alfie buttle, he’s like head over heels for her but he doesn’t want to admit it. like total denial but then he just rambled about his feelings to like chip or george (anyone) and the reader overhears?? idk if that made sense lol. please and thank yew x
from my lovely wife @chlomdtvv!!
tws - slight slow burn, tension, overwhelmed feelings, fluff, emotional vulnerability, slight sexual scene (making out / kissing)
꣑ৎa/n: i have never wrote for ab im so sorry if this is lowkey dookie
It started like any other night at Chip’s flat. The low hum of background chatter threading through the room, the soft fizz and drinks of opened cans punctuating the air, the pale flicker of the tv casting a lazy glow as some football match played on, but no one was really watching. The familiar musk of worn sofas mixed with the stale scent of sweat and beer. The room was warm; not just temperature wise, but warm with the kind of easy comfort that only comes from months of routine, from too many nights spent exactly like this, from the easy bond of people who knew each others rhythms without needing to speak.
Alfie was louder than usual though. The usual grumbles and complaints were now sharper, more pointed, more on edge. His voice cut through the murmur, dragging attention even from the distracted.
“She’s not my type,” he blurted suddenly, the words rushing out clumsy and jagged, a little defensive as if he’d been caught mid-thought and was trying to convince himself more than anyone else. He shoved a crisp into his mouth and bit down harder than needed, the loud crunch sounding almost aggressive ─── like it was supposed to bolster the truth of his statement, to prove it real by sheer force.
George’s brow lifted slowly, one arch heavy with knowing amusement. His eyes locked on Alfie, calm but sharp. “You literally just brought her up. Again.”
Alfie’s scowl dropped like a shutter, teh sudden guilt flickering behind his eyes betraying how little he’d realized how obvious he’d been. His mouth tightened, and his hands moved restlessly, flicking a loose thread on his jumper, tapping on his knee, anything to fill the sudden silence he’d created.
“Yeah, well, ‘cause she said the stupidest thing earlier,” Alfie shot back quickly, his voice sharper now, defensive and rushed, like he was desperate to steer the conversation away from himself. His hands waved, emphasizing his point, but also jittery. Like he was trying to shove down the feelings bubbling under the surface. “Said crisps aren’t a proper dinner. Like, fuckin’ hell, what d’you think a pub meal is?!”
Chip snorted quietly behind his bottle, shaking his head with a smirk, eyes flicking between Alfie and George. “You’re obsessed. You know that, right?”
“Obsessed?” Alfie let out a laugh that was too loud, a little forced, and shoved off the back of the sofa, standing up suddenly as if height might lend him more authority or at least distract from the heat rising to his face. He ran a hand through his hair, then looked away for a moment, voice softer but still trying to sound casual. “Nah. I just think she’s─── I dunno. She’s alright. Funny sometimes. Bit annoying. Cute, maybe. I dunno. Not like I’ve noticed or anything.” His words stumbled over themselves, a fragile attempt at denial that only made it clearer how much he had noticed. More than once.
His voice cracks slightly on the word “cute,” but he quickly covers it with a cough, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck as if the word had slipped out too honestly, too close to the surface.
“You talk about her every time we hang out,” George says flatly, eyes never leaving his phone. The casual way he states it somehow makes the truth sting sharper. “You even brought her up last stream when someone asked your favourite food.”
Alfie fidgets. A quick shrug, shifting back into his seat, then scratching at the label on the bottle in his hand as if the motion could distract him from what was being said. “Yeah, and?” he mumbles, voice barely above the room’s background noise. “She likes pasta, innit? S’why it came to mind.”
“You bought her pasta after she said that,” George points out, still doomscrolling, unfazed.
A tight, almost defensive smile quirks at Alfie’s lips. “I like to provide, George.”
The words come sharp, heavy with forced bravado, but his hand twitches just a fraction around the bottle ─── a tiny flicker of nerves betraying the act.
“Alfie,” Chip says slowly, dragging out the name like he’s reading Alfie’s thoughts before he’s even spoken them aloud. He leans back against the couch, calm amusement playing on his lips, quiet certainty in his eyes. “You’re in love with her.”
“Piss off,” Alfie mutters, jaw tightening as the words fall low and clipped. His gaze darts away, anywhere but theirs, swallowing hard as if the accusation has lodged itself deep in his throat.
But something shifts, subtle and uneasy. The spark of defensiveness flickers out, replaced by something far more fragile. His shoulders stiffen, and hes up again, pacing, slow, aimless steps across the room, like movement might drown out the noise churning in his chest. He shakes his head quickly, restless, like trying to shake loose the thoughts, to unchain the truth that’s settling heavy inside him.
“Nah,” he says again, but this time his voice is quieter; softer, almost worn out. There’s a flicker of uncertainty in the way the word falls, like he’s trying to convince himself more than anyone else. “I’m not. She’s just... her, you know?”
His voice catches on something lodged too deep inside him, a hitch that betrays the tightness in his chest. The words stumble out unevenly, weighted with more meaning than he wants to admit.
“She’s─── she’s in my life all the time.” He swallows hard, eyes flickering away for a second, like the truth is too bright to face directly. “She talks shit, always does, makes me laugh more than anyone else. And she steals my hoodies, even when she doesn’t ask, just raids my stuff like it’s hers.” His mouth quirks into a half-smile, but there’s a sharp edge to it, like it’s both endearing and infuriating at once. “And somehow she looks good in them. Like, actually good. Which is the worst part ─── because it’s annoyin’ as fuck.” His voice is betraying his words, though.
His hands twitch at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling like they want to grab onto something solid. His breath catches in his throat, words starting to trip over themselves as if they can’t keep pace with what’s rushing out.
“..she’s got this habit of, like───” He breaks off, cheeks flushing, eyes downcast. The room feels smaller all of a sudden, like the weight of what he’s saying is pressing down on him. “───of playin’ with my hair when I’m knackered, and I always pretend I hate it, but I don’t. Not really.” His voice softens, vulnerable in a way that doesn’t suit his usual loud bravado.
He pauses again, like he might stop, like maybe this is too much. But the words keep spilling, uncontrolled now, raw and unfiltered.
“...and it’s not like I care, but I carry her heels when she gets pissed, ‘cause no one else’ll do it proper. Like, she gets too drunk and just leaves them lying around and I’m the one who ends up lugging the stupid things home. And yeah, maybe I mention her on stream sometimes, but that’s ‘cause───fuckin’ hell, I dunno───‘cause she’s there. In my head. All the time.”
His voice trails off, breath uneven, and for a long moment the only sound is the quiet shuffle of his feet as he stops pacing, the faint scrape of his shoes against the floor.
George and Chip sit still, watching him with expressions that balance between quiet amusement and something softer, something like understanding, or sympathy. The room feels heavier now, like the easy, familiar buzz of earlier has slipped away and left behind a fragile silence. It’s raw, exposed. Like they’re all holding their breath around the weight of the words Alfie didn’t mean to say, but needed to.
“I’m not in love,” Alfie insists, the words spilling out too fast, too forced, as if he’s desperately trying to push them past the lump lodged in his throat. His voice cracks slightly, uneven and rough around the edges, betraying how far from truth they really are, not even to himself. The denial feels fragile, a thin mask stretched tight over something he barely wants to admit. “I just care if she’s safe. And happy. And if anyone gives her shit, I’ll break their nose. Y'know?”
George doesn’t even blink. His gaze stays locked on his phone screen, fingers idly scrolling. His voice is flat, laced with dry sarcasm that cuts right through Alfie’s defences. “Sure,” he deadpans, not bothering to look up. “Totally normal mate behaviour.”
Alfie’s jaw flexes tightly, a quick, sharp movement that’s almost a tic. His knee starts bouncing uncontrollably, tapping rhythmically against the floor in nervous impatience. There’s a heat rising inside him now ─── thick, burning, coiled tight beneath his ribs like a restless animal clawing to get out. It twists in his chest, making his breath catch and falter. His fingers clench briefly on the edge of the couch, gripping as if to ground himself.
“And I buy her stuff,” he continues, voice gaining volume and urgency with every word, “because she never asks for anything, right? She just gets all shy and awkward about it, like I won’t drop a fuckin’ fortune on her if she just looked at something and said she liked it───”
Suddenly he cuts himself off, breath hitching sharply in his throat. Hhis heart pounds hard, hammering like it’s trying to escape from behind his sternum, echoing painfully in his ears. His eyes flicker away from George and Chip, darting around the room as if searching for somewhere safe to hide from his own confession.
“..fuck,” he mutters, voice low and thick with exasperation, “I sound like a simp.”
Chip can’t hold back the smile anymore. It’s warm, teasing but gentle, the kind of grin that’s meant to ease the tension, not mock. “You sound like a man deeply in denial,” he says, voice soft but knowing.
Alfie slumps back onto the couch with a defeated thud, the impact rattling the cushions beneath him. His palms come up quickly to drag down over his face, fingertips pressing hard against his forehead as if trying to wipe away the raw honesty he’s just spilled. For a moment, his hands stay there, hiding the tangled mess he’s unravelled into, the vulnerability he didn’t expect to feel or show.
“I’m so fucked,” he groans, voice muffled behind his hands, thick with frustration and dread. The words tumble out in a ragged sigh. “This is your fault. Both of you.”
“Mate,” George replies smoothly without missing a beat, eyes still glued to his phone, “this is entirely on you.”
From behind the slightly-ajar door, a quiet breath slips out. Barely more than a whisper.
Because what Alfie doesn’t know, what he hasn’t even noticed, is that you’re standing there, just outside in the hallway.
You came with a bag of snacks for the group, the familiar rustle of plastic in your hand as you made your way down the corridor. Then you heard your name, soft but unmistakable, carried through the wall. Curiosity stopped you cold.
You hadn’t expected this.
Your fingers grip the bag of crisps a little too tightly, the plastic crinkling softly under your frozen hand, forgotten now. Your mind scrambles to catch up, heart hammering wildly in your ears with a sharp, uneven beat. The air feels suddenly thick, heavy against your chest ─── like gravity itself pressing in, loaded with everything you weren’t meant to overhear.
He’s rambling. Unfiltered. Vulnerable in a way he never lets himself be when you’re actually there. You can still catch the disbelief in his voice, the tremor of quiet panic beneath the surface, and that sharp crack when he says “fuck,” as if the word escaped before he could stop it.
You blink, staring at the thin gap of the door. One step closer and they’d see you. Hear the telltale creak of the floor beneath your feet, the subtle shift of your presence. One step back and this moment slips away, gone forever.
Fuck it.
The door creaks softly as you push it open just a fraction, the worn hinges betraying your gentle intrusion.
Alfie’s head snaps up so fast it’s like he’s been caught in the headlights, wide eyes flickering between shock and panic. The colour drains from his face in an instant, as if every thought, every word he’d just spilled, has vanished from his mind like smoke in the air.
You blink, voice soft and steady, “hey.”
He stays silent. Completely still, frozen in place except for a faint twitch at the corner of his jaw, like he’s holding his breath and wishing, somehow, the universe could rewind itself ten minutes, erase this moment entirely.
George can’t quite hide his grin; his lips twitch with barely contained amusement. Chip stands up abruptly, shaking his head with a wry smirk. “Right, I’m grabbing a drink. Alfie, mate, enjoy the consequences of your actions.”
They both slip away, disappearing like the traitors they are, leaving behind the unmistakable aura of men who know they’ve just witnessed something devastatingly real and unfiltered.
Now it’s just you. And Alfie. And the silence that settles thick between you ─── so heavy it almost feels suffocating, dense with the aftershock of everything said, everything that can’t be taken back.
“...You heard that?” Alfie finally asks, voice tight and raw, like forcing the words out is a kind of ache.
You nod slowly, the weight of the moment grounding you. “Most of it.”
He sinks deeper into the couch, shoulders slumping forward, as if the cushions might swallow him whole and hide him away. “Brilliant. Kill me now.”
You set the crisps down carefully on the table, hands deliberate and steady despite the tension humming between you.
“You could’ve just said something, y’know.”
He looks at you. Truly looks at you. For the first time in a way that strips away everything he usually uses as a barrier. No lazy smirk curling his lips, no sarcastic glint hiding his feelings. Instead, his eyes are wide and vulnerable, flickering with a raw, unsteady emotion that makes him look almost younger than you know him to be. It’s like hes standing suddenly bare in the center of a spotlight, exposed and uncertain, unsure how to carry himself without the usual bravado shielding him.
“..'Didn’t wanna ruin it,” he mutters, voice low and fragile, barely loud enough to break the silence between you.
You take a slow, steady step forward, feeling the pulse pounding fiercely in your chest. Each beat like a drum echoing against your ribs, a frantic rhythm that makes your breath hitch. Your gaze locks on his, drawing you closer with a magnetic pull that’s impossible to resist.
“Ruin what?” you ask softly, your voice gentle but certain, folding around him like a quiet promise.
His hand lifts vaguely between you, fingers twitching as his eyes dart up briefly to meet yours before flitting away, like the air itself has thickened too much for sustained eye contact. “Us,” he says, voice tight with a mix of hope and fear. “I like how we are. I like takin’ the piss outta you and you threatening to slap me. I like you in my life.”
You stop just a breath away from him, close enough to see the subtle warmth blooming up his neck, the faint flush that colors his skin, delicate and alive beneath the low light. The heat in the room seems to shift, gathering in the space between you.
“Alf. You idiot.” Your words are quiet but firm, dripping with affection and a touch of teasing. “You’re in love with me.”
His head falls back against the couch cushion with a soft groan, as if the weight of your words settles heavily on his shoulders all at once. “Don’t say it like that, girl, I’m barely hangin’ on───”
Without hesitation, you reach out, your fingers trembling just slightly as they weave through the thick strands of his hair. The touch is slow and deliberate, feather-light at first, like you’re trying to memorize the texture of him, the way his scalp yields beneath your palm.
He freezes instantly ─── breath catching sharp and sudden in his throat, body tensing so tightly it’s as if every muscle is holding its breath alongside him. His skin prickles where your fingers thread through the roots, soft strands slipping between your digits, and for a moment the room shrinks until it’s just the two of you suspended in that fragile bubble of heat and unspoken longing.
His eyes flutter closed briefly, lashes resting against his cheeks as if the simple touch grounds him and unravels something inside all at once. The faintest sigh escapes him, a breath of surrender and surprise mingled together.
You don’t pull away. Instead, your hand lingers, fingers gently curling, fingertips grazing the sensitive skin just behind his ears. The slow rhythm of your touch is a silent confession, an unspoken ‘I’m here’ that fills the space left raw by words.
He remains still, taut but no longer stiff, the tension in his body softening just enough to hint at the vulnerability he’s been hiding. And in that moment, everything feels suspended; fragile, electric, and utterly real.
“You like this, don’t you?” you murmur, your voice low and teasing, fingers sliding slowly through the soft strands of his hair. The touch is deliberate ─── slow, warm strokes that leave a trail of heat beneath your skin and send subtle shivers through him. Your fingers curl lightly, knuckles brushing gently against his scalp as you playfully tug just enough to draw a breath.
His breath catches, ragged and uneven. “Fuckin’ hell,” he breathes, voice rough around the edges, a mixture of frustration and something utterly undone beneath your touch. His jaw clenches like he’s trying to hold himself together, but it’s a losing battle. “That’s below the belt.”
A smirk quirks at the corner of your lips. Small but victorious, like you’ve just caught him off guard and scored a secret win. Your eyes sparkle with quiet amusement, watching him unravel.
“You’re the worst at hiding things,” you say softly, your gaze locking with his. The weight of those words lingers, warm and intimate. “You know that?”
His eyes meet yours fully, wide and open, glimmering with a softness that makes your chest tighten. There’s no pretense here, no shields. Just him, honest and unguarded. “Yeah,” he admits, voice low and steady. “But you’re still here.”
Your heart stutters, a thrill shooting through your veins. “I am.”
For a moment, the world narrows down to just the two of you. Breath mingling, the faintest scent of his shampoo curling around you, the steady beat of his pulse under your fingers.
Then, breaking the silence, his voice drops even softer, hesitant but hopeful.
“..You wanna, like.. come over? After this thing is over?”
You raise an eyebrow, playful and sharp, testing the waters, your voice teasing but gentle. “Go and do what, Alf?”
His cheeks flare crimson, the flush spreading from the tips of his ears down to the base of his neck, warm and unmistakable. The way his gaze flickers away before snapping back to yours makes your pulse race.
“Just.. I dunno,” he stammers, fumbling for words. “Talk. Or don’t talk. Sit around and pretend I’m not a total melt. No big deal, we’ve hung out a lot of times, ya’know, gir───”
Without warning, you close the gap between you, leaning in slowly at first, breath mingling with his. Your lips brush against his, soft and tentative, testing, asking.
Then your mouth presses more firmly, hunger surfacing in the way your lips part, inviting, demanding. Your fingers tighten gently in his hair, warm and steady, as if anchoring yourself to the moment, to him.
His body stiffens at first, breaht hitching sharply, eyes fluttering closed as he surrenders. His hands reach up, trembling slightly, fingers curling around your arms like he’s afraid to lose you, afraid this moment might slip away.
The kiss deepens, slow and consuming. You can feel the subtle rise and fall of his chest beneath your hands, the quickening of his heartbeat echoing in your own ears. His lips are warm, soft, and urgent, moving with a nervous desperation that makes your own heart ache.
If he’s going to keep choking on the words, stumbling, fumbling, unable to say what’s clearly there, then you’ll say it for him. With your mouth.
You lean in, slow and deliberate, the soft warmth of your breath brushing his skin before your lips press lightly against his once again. The world narrows until there’s nothing but the quiet press of your mouth against his, the subtle, electric hum of contact sparking through your nerves. Your lips move just enough to speak without words, to promise without saying anything aloud.
You feel it. The exact moment he melts fully.
It’s like the invisible weight he’s carried for months, that heaviness in his shoulders and tightness in his chest, simply slides off and crashes down, leaving him suddenly light and unguarded. His body softens beneath you, muscles uncoiling like a spring finally released. There’s no resistance, no fight, just a quiet surrender, a letting go he didn’t know he needed.
His hand finds your hip with urgent certainty, fingers gripping like you’re the only thing tethering him to reality. You can feel the subtle pulse of his heartbeat beneath his palm, quick and uneven, as if he’s still not quite sure this is real, like any second he’ll wake up on that couch, mid-ramble to Chip, still pretending you’re just “alright” and “funny sometimes.”
Your breath catches when you finally pull back, eyes locking with his wide, stunned ones. He’s breathless, as if the air itself was stolen from his lungs, and his lashes flutter slowly in a dazed, rebooting kind of way. His lips are bitten raw, swollen slightly from the kiss, parted just enough that you can almost see the words struggling to find their way out.
“Fuck me, girl,” he breathes, voice ragged and hoarse, trembling with something close to awe. “You can’t just do that.”
You grin. Slow, smug, absolutely certain. “Why not?”
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard, eyes dark and heavy with want. “’Cause now I’m gonna want you to do it again.”
Your smirk deepens, the satisfaction blooming warm and fierce in your chest. “Good.”
He blinks at you, disbelief and something softer swirling in his gaze. Like he’s still trying to convince himself you’re not a dream he stumbled into by accident. “So we’re doing this?”
“We are very much doing this.”
And then, that grin ─── the one that’s boyish and crooked and full of everything he can’t say out loud ─── blooms wide and unstoppable. You’ve seen it a hundred times, but never like this. Never like it’s meant just for you.
“Fuckin’ hell.”
And then, without hesitation, he kisses you back.
The kiss crashes over you both like a wave, fierce and desperate, slow and searing. His lips move against yours with an urgency that sets your skin ablaze, hands tangling in your hair, fingers pressing into the curve of your back as if to anchor himself to you. Your own hands find his face, tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the rough stubble that’s barely there, the softness behind his ears.
Every sense sharpens. The faint taste of him on your tongue, the warmth of his body pressed close, the steady thump of his heartbeat pounding in sync with your own. The room disappears until there’s only you and him, caught in the raw, messy, beauty of this moment.
when you two first meet at the restaurant, he'll get up immediately and give you a little hug.
is very awkward at first but when you realise you have a bit on common, he eases into the conversation a bit more and relaxes. he smiles wide when you laugh at his jokes and you two definitely hit it off well. he did pay for the dinner of course
after a longer night than expected, he will insist on walking you home, before you get back to your gaff, he'll give you a hug - wrapping his arms around your waist.
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➜𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐒 𝐃𝐈𝐗𝐎𝐍 ❤︎︎
— we all know this short king.
is super sweet and generous – opens the door for you, pulls your seat out so you can sit.
he knows how to carry a conversation at he tries to make the date not awkward - but when he realises that he doesn't need to try at all, he definitely leans back and let's you talk.
if you're a yapper - you both yap away and have your little giggles
if you're a listener, he'll happily waffle away to you about anything and everything. yes he pays for everything.
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➜𝐆𝐄𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐄❤︎︎
—we all know how cocky george is and he uses it very well for dates i must say.
very charming and funny, compliments you as soon as he sees you. as soon as you both sit down, he has your full attention.
is not much of a talker - more of a listener unless he wants to crack jokes.
he did indeed pay for dinner.
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➜𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐄 𝐁𝐔𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 ❤︎︎
—he's slightly intimidating at the start but is the sweetest man ever. greets you with a little hug before pulling your chair out for you to sit.
again, he seems like more a listener – a bit awkward at first but then tthe more you two talk, he sort of realised that you matched his interests and he immediately was attracted to you more.
you insisted on splitting the bill but he said no straight away and paid for everything himself.
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➜𝐖𝟐𝐒 ❤︎︎
—socially awkward motherfucker.
but the cute kind.
when he sees you, his eyes light up and he smiles wide. taking the jacket off your shoulders and putting on your chair.
you both chat about anything and everything, he likes to talk about his hobbies for a good while and then he thinks he's talking to much, when you assure him he's not – smiles wider than before. of course he pays for the dinner and happily offered to walk you home.
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➜𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐔𝐑 𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐋 ❤︎︎
—kindest man from start to end of the date. he compliments you after saying hello, he smiled warmly as you broh talk
"so tell me about yourself" he said while scanning through the menu, but when you start talking he focuses all his attention onto you.
he asks very good icebreakers when the date started but your date wasn't awkward whatsoever, it was like you two known each other for years
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a/n: since the head cannons did so well on my first post, i decided to make another one + thank u for all the follows and comments – you’re all the sweetest 🥹❤️🩹
꣑ৎa/n: i dont actually write angst often so this probably sucks sorry !
The first time you warned him, you were sitting on the edge of his bed, legs folded tightly beneath you like you were trying to disappear into yourself. Your fingers trembled as they toyed with a loose thread on your jumper, tugging at it over and over, like if you just kept pulling, you’d unravel the part of you that felt so impossibly knotted up inside. You couldn’t bring yourself to meet his eyes. Couldnt risk seeing the way they always softened when they looked at you, like you were something precious. It made it harder. Made the guilt press down harder.
“I’m not ready for anything serious,” you said, barely louder than a breath, your voice fragile and uneven, like it might break in your throat if you said too much. And then the silence came; thick, aching, and unbearable. It settled in the room like grief. Like truth. Chris didn’t flinch. He just nodded. No sharp inhale. No flash of hurt across his face. No anger. Just something heartbreakingly quiet in the way he looked at you, like he’d already prepared for this answer. Like he’d known all along.
“I know,” he said. And there was no resentment in his voice. No sadness. Just a kind of unwavering gentleness that only made your chest tighten more. “I’m not asking for anything you can’t give.”
You think that might’ve been the moment he made the decision. The quiet, devastating choice to love you anyway. To take what you could give, even if it was only fragments. To be patient. To stay soft, hoping that if he was careful enough with you, if he never pushed, never asked for more, maybe you’d find your way to him in the end.
Maybe someday, you’d be ready.
But you weren’t. Not then. Not when he needed you most. Not even at the end, when all he wanted was for you to choose him back. And that’s what haunts you now. That he loved you in whole, while you only ever gave him pieces.
And still, he stayed.
Until he couldn’t anymore.
He loved you quietly. Steadily. Without expectation. Like loving you was something he did instinctively, not because he hoped for anything in return, but because it was simply the most natural thing in the world to him. He never asked how you liked your coffee, he just remembered. Always placed gently beside you before you'd even spoken a word. On the days when your chest felt too tight and your hands wouldn’t stop shaking, he never told you to breathe, never tried to fix it, he just sat there, grounding you with soft words and softer eyes, anchoring you back to yourself with a hand that never gripped too tight. When the world became too loud, too cruel, too much, he didn’t try to drown it out, he just sat beside you, shoulder to shoulder, wordless, present. And somehow, that silence said more than anything else couldve.
And still, you kept your walls up. Carefully constructed. Reinforced with fear and old wounds and a quiet voice in your head that whispered you didn’t deserve something this gentle.
Every time he touched you, it was with permission. A brush of his fingers against yours, a hesitant arm around your shoulders. He never assumed. Never pushed. Every kiss he gave you felt like a question. Soft, searching, waiting for an answer you never quite knew how to give. You let him hold your hand, yes. But never your heart. Not fully. Not freely. You always held something back, like you were trying to protect him from the part of you that was still broken. Or maybe, trying to protect yourself from the way he made you feel too much.But he waited anyway. Patient. Unmoving. As if some part of him truly believed that one day, you’d choose him back. That maybe love, if offered gently enough, could teach you how to stay.
The decline wasn’t obvious at first.
It didn’t come in shouting matches or dramatic exits. It came quietly. Softly. The slow, creeping kind of heartbreak that slips in unnoticed, like a draft through a cracked window, until suddenly everything feels colder, and you can’t remember when the warmth left.
It lived in the pauses. In the messages that went hours, tgen days, without replies. In the plans you cancelled last minute with half-formed apologies and vague excuses about being tired or busy or just not in the right headspace. You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal. That he understood. That he’d always understand.
And he never said otherwise. Never snapped. Never accused you of pulling away. But you noticed the difference in his silences. The way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes anymore. How the lightness in his voice dimmed, little by little, until it sounded like he was just going through the motions. How he stopped reaching out first. How he started waiting for you to call. To text. To care.
You kept telling yourself it was fine. That you hadn’t promised him anything. That he knew what this was, what it wasn’t. That he’d agreed to the unspoken terms, you never said forever. You never said love.
But the truth sat heavy in your chest, even then. Because he had known. And he had stayed anyway. Not out of ignorance. Not because he misunderstood you. But because he hoped. Quietly. Hopelessly. That one day, you might change your mind. You saw the shift in him long before he ever found the words to say it.
He stopped lingering after your kisses, no longer letting his lips linger against your skin like he couldn’t bear to pull away. The gentle, familiar brush of his hand tucking your hair behind your ear, the one that used to feel like home, became rare, hesitant, as if he was teaching himself not to reach for you anymore. Instead, he began pulling away first, before you had the chance to, retreating quietly into himself like a wounded animal.
And still, he never said a word. Not a single complaint. No desperate questions. No bitter confessions. Just silence.
Until the night it rained.
You knocked on his door, soaked through to the bone, the rain running down your hair and dripping from your sleeves. You didn’t even know why you’d come. Maybe you thought you could outrun the ache twisting in your chest, or maybe you just knew there was only one person who’d ever come close to making it stop.
When he opened the door and saw you standing there, shivering and soaked, he didn’t say a word at first. Just stepped back quietly, like your presence was both a weight and a relief, and wordlessly let you in. The door closed behind you with a soft click, like a barrier locking out the world. But also like something invisible was closing inside him, too.
You stood there in the middle of his flat, rainwater pooling around your feet, arms wrapped tightly around yourself like you were trying to hold together what was falling apart. The words tangled in your throat; fear, regret, want. All desperate and raw, but you couldn’t find any of them. You just stood, broken and silent.
He was quiet. Too quiet.
After a long pause, he asked, almost like you were strangers, “You okay?”
Your throat clenched so tight it hurt. The lie caught in your mouth and shattered. “No.”
He nodded slowly, like he’d been bracing himself for that answer all along, like he wasn’t surprised to see you like this. Like the cracks had been widening between you both for a long time.
“I warned you,” your breath hitched, trembling uncontrollably as the silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating. The rawness of the moment clung to your skin, every word a shard piercing deeper than the last. “From the beginning. I told you I wasn’t ready.”
His eyes held something fierce but tired. “I know.”
“And you stayed,” you breathed, the words barely more than a broken confession, soaked through with pain.
Because staying had been the cruelest kind of love.
The kind that slowly burns you from the inside out.
And now, you both knew it wasn’t enough.
Chris looked at you for what felt like an eternity. There was no anger in his eyes, only a raw, aching grief that cut deeper than anything else. The kind of grief that belongs to someone who has loved with every piece of their heart, only to realize that the person they love can never meet them halfway, never give back the love they need.
“Because I thought maybe, just maybe, one day you would be,” he said quietly, his voice trembling with the weight of that hope.
Your breath hitched, fragile and uneven. “I wanted to.”
“But you didn’t,” he whispered, the words like a knife twisting in the silence.
You shook your head, tears slipping unchecked down your cheeks, blurring your vision. “I didn’t know how,” you admitted, your voice breaking under the weight of your own failures.
And then, so quietly it barely felt like sound, like a confession whispered into the dark after months of holding it inside, he said the words that would never leave you.
“I would’ve loved you forever, if you’d let me.”
The words hung in the air between you, raw and aching. His voice was low and trembling, but every syllable was laced with a fierce sincerity that cut through the quiet like a knife. You could hear the weight behind them. That hope and patience, all condensed into that single, heart-wrenching confession. There was no pretense. Just pure, desperate truth.
His eyes held yours, wide and unguarded, as if pleading for a chance that you couldn’t give. The faintest tremor flickered across his jaw, betraying the strength it took to say what he did. You wanted to reach out, to catch that fragile moment before it shattered, but your limbs felt like stone, and your heart was a knot of something too heavy to unravel.
And the cruelest part was this:
You didn’t deserve it.
You didn’t deserve him.
Without another glance, he turned and walked to the door. His footsteps were heavy but steady. He opened it and stood there, waiting silently for you to leave, waiting for you to close the door on whatever was left between you. You didn’t stop him.
Your throat was too tight, words lodged too deep to surface. You couldn’t meet his gaze again. You couldn’t face the part of yourself that was breaking in his absence.
You genuinely couldn’t. So, you fled.
Because running away was the only thing you ever really knew how to do.
You thought about him for weeks afterward. Every time you caught a trace of his cologne on someone walking past, your heart twisted in a familiar, hollow way, like a ghost brushing past your skin, reminding you of everything you lost. Every time you laughed at something stupid, something small, your hand instinctively reached for your phone, only to remember, with a sinking ache, that he wasn’t yours anymore. That he never really had been.
You replayed those moments endlessly. Almost like a broken record stuck on all the almosts and might-have-beens. Every silence you filled with fear instead of honesty. Every choice you made that pushed him further away. Every time you didn’t choose him, even when your heart knew you should have.
You found yourself wondering if someone else would. Someone braver. Someone who wouldn’t flinch at the gentleness he gave so freely, who could hold him without breaking, who could meet his love with a certainty you never had.
And, through the dull ache that never quite faded, you hoped, against hope, that he’d let them. That he’d find the love you couldn’t give.
Because he deserved that.
He deserved someone who would stay.
Someone who would not run from the softness he offered.
Someone who wouldn’t waste it.
hey girly!! i loveeee ur writing x not sure if ur taking requests but
could u do chrismd x reader — maybe something like love at first sight typa ting where george introduced you to him and he’s immediately kinda flirty and builds up the courage to ask her out ?? (she says yes obviously)
please and thank you !!! ❤️
hiya angel 🫶 thank you for the love! i actually adore this and i just need to edit the fic and read over it and it should be ready to post !! also, please know that unless i specifically say my requests are closed, then they are always open❤️❤️
Also kind of off topic but do you like Rory(Or LuvDixon)? I don't know it just seems to me that you are very close with the ukyt writers in the community (or what ive seen from comment sections and things) but you and Rory dont seem to interact as much. Do you just not like her or?
umm ?? lol
i didnt realise it came across like i disliked her at all, especially on tumblr?
i would never just dislike someone over something so little like that, it takes alot for me to actually dislike someone
im also just an introverted person, and ive sort of clicked with everyone else in the ukyt community more than rory considering she joined a few months after i guess
I've seen a few UKYT writers admit they don't watch the sidemen/ like the sidemen. Do you? if you do, do you have a favourite? What do you think about the people who don't like sidemen
i do watch the sidemen, yes!
my favourite is ethan (which is considered surprising apparently as hes one of the most hated)
as for ukytwriters who dont watch the sidemen, i dont really have much of an opinion on it? everyones got different tastes, its totally up to them whether theyre into that side of youtube or not. no big deal, really
vaporwave
dailybridgerton
yousharknotpass
annaxmalina
romaincrisis
