Even When I’m Mad, You’re Still Mine
conrad x reader
WARNINGS: fighting (not reader and conrad), slightest bit of smut (should I finish it..??)
just conrad getting protective over you after a week of not seeing you and seeing a guy making you uncomfortable
edit!: I did finish it so here’s the smut: STILL MAD, STILL MINE
You hadn’t spoken to Conrad in a week.
It wasn’t a breakup — not technically. No one had said the words. But after that fight, the silence had felt thick enough to swallow you both whole. He’d walked out, jaw clenched and eyes unreadable, and you hadn’t followed. Maybe that was the worst part.
Now, here you were, at some party you hadn’t wanted to go to, drinking something too sweet and too sour from a plastic cup and pretending to laugh at jokes that didn’t land. Anything to feel normal. Anything to not look at your phone again.
Then came the guy who’d been hovering all night. At first, it was harmless small talk. But he didn’t take the hint. Every time you tried to step away, he mirrored it. His smile got more confident. His hand brushed yours a little too long.
“Seriously,” you said with a laugh, trying to stay polite, “I’m not really interested ”
But he smirked. “You’ve been flirting all night. Don’t get shy now.”
You didn’t even get a chance to respond.
“I think she said no.”
The voice sliced through the music. And even before you turned, your heart dropped — and rose — all at once.
Conrad.
He stepped forward, hands clenched at his sides, eyes locked on the guy in front of you like he was daring him to say another word.
The guy snorted. “What are you, her boyfriend?”
Conrad’s jaw ticked. “Yeah. I am.”
It was the first time he’d said that out loud in over a week.
“Didn’t see you around. Thought she was free game,” the guy shrugged. “You don’t show up, someone else will.”
That’s when Conrad shoved him.
Not a push to start a fight — not at first. Just enough to put space between you and the guy, to say back the fuck off without words.
But the guy shoved back, and that was it.
Fists flew.
You tried to step in, but Conrad was already grabbing the guy by the collar, slamming him against one of the beach fence posts. The other guy swung once — missed — before people rushed in to break them apart.
“Conrad, stop!” you said, grabbing his arm, your voice sharp and panicked.
But his eyes were still locked on the guy like he wasn’t in his body anymore.
“He touched you,” Conrad spat. “He put his fucking hands on you.”
“I’m fine,” you said, softer this time, hand sliding down to grip his. “I’m fine now.“
His breathing was heavy. His knuckles red. But he looked at you and then looked away.
You crossed your arms, partly from the breeze, partly from instinct. “You ignore me for a week, and now you get to play hero?”
That got his attention.
“I didn’t ignore you,” he said, voice tight. “I just… I didn’t know what to say after that fight.”
“Then say anything now.”
His eyes flickered down, like he was bracing himself. Then back to yours.
“I’ve been scared I messed everything up,” he said. “That I said too little, and you’d finally be done waiting for me to figure it out.”
“You don’t get to act like you still care,” you said, eyes blazing, “if you’re just gonna disappear when things get hard.”
His voice was raw. “I never stopped caring. I just didn’t know how to stop fucking up.”
You exhaled. A full week of tension cracked open in your chest.
You stared at each other, hearts hammering in your throats.
Then he stepped forward.
Not cautiously. Not gently.
His hand slid to the side of your neck, thumb brushing your jaw as he leaned in. His mouth ghosted over yours, not kissing yet — just close enough to feel.
“I haven’t touched you in a week,” he whispered against your lips . “And it’s driving me insane.”
Your lips parted — to speak, maybe. Or to let him in.
He didn’t wait.
His mouth crashed into yours with all the tension he hadn’t let out during the fight. Hot, desperate, angry with himself. His hands gripped your waist like he needed to be sure you were real. Your finger grabbed his belt loop, pulling him closer.
When he pulled back, just an inch, your foreheads touched. His voice dropped, rough and low.
“Still mad at me?”
You nodded. “So mad.”
His lips brushed your neck. “Good.”
And then he kissed you again — harder this time — like he’d waited all week to say every apology with his mouth instead of words.
Your lips were swollen from his, and his hands were still clutching your waist like he hadn’t realized he’d let go of you in the first place.
You should’ve walked away. Told him it wasn’t enough. That a fight and a kiss and a broken stare weren’t going to fix anything.
But when he leaned in again — mouth brushing your jaw, breath hot against your ear — your body reacted before your mind caught up.
“We’re not done fighting,” you whispered.
He nodded against your skin. “I know.”
And then he grabbed your hand.
You didn’t ask where you were going. You already knew.
The house closest to the bonfire still had people inside — music, chatter, drinks. No one noticed when he pulled you through the back door, no one cared when the bathroom door slammed shut behind you.
His lips were on you again instantly — no hesitation, no sweet apology. Just teeth, breath, heat. You pushed him back against the door, and he let you — but only for a second before reversing it, pinning you with his hips and kissing you like he needed to remind himself he hadn’t lost you.
Clothes came off in angry, hungry movements — his hoodie over his head, your shirt dragged off, fingers fumbling at buttons, belt buckles, whatever fabric stood in the way. His hands were rough from the fight, and they shook when he touched your skin.
He kissed down your neck like he was trying to erase the last week with his mouth. Your fingers curled in his hair, tugging, and he groaned into your throat.
You pulled back just enough to breathe. Just enough to glare at him with half-lidded eyes and say:
“I’m still pissed at you.”
His thumb dragged along the waistband of your underwear.
“Good,” he murmured. “So am I.”
The last thing you heard before he sat you on the bathroom sink was the door lock clicking into place — and the sound of his voice, low and wrecked:
“Let me make it worse before I make it better.”
stop I don’t why I’m so nervous posting this probably because I’ve been inactive for a year but should I actually try writing my first smut and finish this story?
taglist: @lindsaynathi0n, @wearemadeofstardust0, @v4mqvs, @aariahnaa, @congratsloserr
