Can you write anton Lee fic where they break up and still have nasty sex🤤 please pls make it longgg
how to un-know you? — l.anton
pairings: nonidol!anton × fem!reader
genre: angst, smut (18+), lovers to exes, exes to ?
w.c: 6.4k
warnings: messy relationship, toxic relationship, explicit sexual content, rough angry sex, unprotected sex, pull-out method, breeding kink talk (said in anger, not literal), emotional manipulation vibes, post-breakup hook-up, ghosting, messy communication, possessiveness, dirty talk. no happy resolution yet
synopsis. the apartment has become a museum of silences. you and anton have been together since high school, but now the space you share feels smaller than it ever has. the arguments have shifted from forgotten dates to something heavier, something that makes you both avoid looking directly at the worn couch where you used to fall asleep watching bad reality tv. the breakup didn't happen in a screaming match. it happened on a thursday afternoon, quiet and sudden, like a lightbulb burning out.
🌸 "i know how she smells when she's stressed, when she's just woken up. i know the sound of her breathing when she's about to fall asleep. i don't know how to un-know that. i don't think i can learn it again for someone else.”
a/n — hope u like this one, its kinda rushed, im sorryy. thanku for suggesting love ^^
week 1:
the door clicks shut behind you with that specific sound it makes when the humidity is high and the wood swells in the frame. you don't say anything at first, just drop your keys in the ceramic bowl on the entryway table. the bowl you two bought at a thrift store three years ago because anton said it looked like a melted jellyfish and you laughed so hard the cashier asked if you were okay. you haven't thought about that in months. the apartment smells like the ramen he probably made three hours ago, the broth having settled into that stale, salty air that sticks to the curtains.
you see his back first. he's sitting on the floor in front of the couch, knees pulled up, laptop balanced on the coffee table. he's wearing that gray hoodie with the frayed cuff. you know the one. you used to steal it. now you just notice that the string is missing from the hood because it came out in the wash and neither of you has bothered to thread it back in. that's the thing about living together for this long. you stop fixing the small things because the energy required to thread a hoodie string feels monumental when you're already carrying the weight of a forgotten reservation.
he doesn't turn around. he knows it's you. the lock is distinct, and you both know the rhythm of each other's footsteps in the hallway. the weight of your walk, the way you pause to check the mail slot even though it's always just flyers for pizza places you don't order from anymore. you stand in the kitchen archway and watch the back of his head, the way his hair curls a little at the nape where he needs a haircut. three weeks ago you would have walked over and run your fingers through it just to annoy him. now your hands stay at your sides, and you realize you're gripping the edge of your own sleeve. it's a tic you've developed recently, this holding onto yourself because holding onto him feels like asking for something you're not sure you deserve.
this all started the way water starts boiling. you don't notice it until it's already rolling, until it's too hot to touch the pot. the first thing was the restaurant. thai place on fifth. he'd been talking about their khao soi for two weeks because his roommate from freshman year said it was "life-altering" and anton, being anton, decided he needed to have a life-altering soup experience with you. he made a reservation. he told you twice, maybe three times. he even sent you a calendar invite with a stupid subject line that said "soup acquisition mission" and a little rocket emoji. you accepted it on your phone while walking to your 2 p.m. lecture and then your brain immediately filed it away in the same drawer where you keep your student id number from sophomore year and the name of your neighbor's cat.
the day of, you were in the studio. you'd been working on a project that was eating you alive, the kind of deadline that makes you forget to eat or blink or check the time. by the time you looked up, it was 9:47 p.m. and your phone had seven messages from him. the first one, sent at 7:02 p.m., just said "got the table by the window :)". the last one, sent at 8:34 p.m., was just "okay." no emoji. no punctuation. just the word sitting there like a stone dropped into still water. you called him immediately, your hands shaking from caffeine and guilt, and he answered on the fourth ring. he wasn't yelling. anton almost never yells. that's what makes it worse. he just said, "they gave the table away at 8:15. i'm in the car now." and you heard the sound of his turn signal clicking in the background. a small, steady, mechanical sound that felt louder than any fight you'd ever had.
you tried to apologize. you said it was work, you said you lost track of time, you said all the things that are technically true but don't actually matter when someone has been sitting alone at a table for two for over an hour, picking at the condensation on a water glass and telling the server "she's probably just running late." he accepted the apology. or at least, he said the words "it's fine." but "it's fine" is never fine. "it's fine" is what you say when you're too tired to explain why it's not, when the math of expressing the hurt doesn't add up to the energy you have left. he came home that night with a paper bag from the bodega, a sad looking sandwich and a bottle of green tea. he ate it standing at the counter, not at the table. you sat on the couch and watched him out of the corner of your eye, and you felt the first hairline crack form in whatever foundation you'd built since junior year of high school.
week 2:
then there was the parking lot. that was a week later, maybe five weeks. you'd both been at a friend's gathering off-campus, one of those parties where the music is just loud enough that you have to lean in to talk but quiet enough that you can still hear the awkward silences. you'd been off all night. he'd been talking to someone about a film restoration project, his face doing that thing it does when he's genuinely interested, and you'd been standing next to him scrolling through your phone. not because you were bored, but because you didn't know how to insert yourself into the conversation without feeling like you were interrupting. you felt like a plus-one at a party you'd both been invited to. on the walk back to his car, the air was cold and wet, the kind of early spring night that makes your joints ache. he was walking slightly ahead of you. not fast, just not beside you.
in the car, the windows fogged up immediately. he turned the defroster on high and the fan made that rattling sound it always makes when it's on the third setting. you sat in the passenger seat and stared at the dashboard. the clock read 12:04 a.m. he asked if you were coming back to the apartment. you said you didn't know. you said maybe you'd sleep in your own dorm room. it was a lie, or maybe a test. you haven't actually slept in your dorm room in six months. your pillow is on his bed. your charger is plugged in on your side of the mattress. but in that moment, the thought of lying next to him in the dark, the both of you breathing but not speaking, felt like a punishment you wanted to avoid.
he didn't start the car. he just sat there with his hands on the wheel, thumbs tapping against the leather in a rhythm that wasn't a song. it was just nerves. "why do you do that?" he asked. his voice was low, the way it gets when he's trying really hard to keep it level. "why do you always run back to your own space when things feel off?" and you didn't have a good answer.
you just had the truth, which was that sometimes being in a room with someone you love while you're both hurting feels like being in a room with the volume turned up too high. the parking lot was empty except for a few cars with student parking decals and a single streetlamp that buzzed like it was full of bees. you told him you just needed air. you got out of the car and stood by the trunk for four minutes. he waited inside. neither of you moved toward the other. you got back in, and you drove home in a silence that was only broken by the gps voice saying "turn left in five hundred feet."
the worst one, the one that sits in your stomach like a rock even now, was the night you called him selfish. you can't even remember what started it. it was a tuesday. something about the dishes. something about how he'd left his shoes in the hallway and you'd tripped on them. it was so small, so unbearably domestic and petty. but the argument bloomed fast, like mold in a dark corner. it grew from shoes to "you never listen" to "you always think your stress is the only stress that exists." and in the heat of it, standing in the kitchen with the faucet dripping because he'd been about to wash a pan but stopped mid-action, you said it. "you're being so selfish right now."
his face changed. not dramatically. anton's face is like a calm lake, you have to watch the edges to see the disturbance. his jaw tightened. he put the sponge down on the counter very carefully, like it was made of glass. "i waited for you for an hour and forty-five minutes," he said. his voice was quiet. "i didn't say anything mean when you forgot. i didn't bring it up again. i didn't guilt you. i let it go because i know how hard your semester is. but i'm selfish." he didn't say it like a question. he said it like he was reading a fact off a page. and then he walked into the bedroom and closed the door. not a slam. just a soft, firm click. the sound of the wood swollen in the frame.
you stood in the kitchen for a long time. the faucet dripped. the pan sat on the drying rack, still dirty. you could hear him moving around in the bedroom, the creak of the floorboard by the closet. and you realized with a sick clarity that you had just taken the thing you both were supposed to be holding carefully and you'd thrown it on the ground just to see if it would bounce. the word "selfish" hung in the air of the apartment like smoke. it was still there the next morning, and the morning after that. it's the kind of word that doesn't wash out of the curtains easily.
now, standing in the kitchen archway watching him sit on the floor in front of the couch, you can feel that word between you. he still hasn't turned around. his laptop screen glows blue against his face, and you can see the reflection of his eyes moving as he reads something. he's wearing earbuds. you know he can't hear you, but you also know he knows you're standing there. the air in the apartment is thick with everything you haven't said. the ramen smell. the dripping faucet. the gray hoodie without the string. you take a step forward, your sock catching slightly on a rough patch in the floorboards. he still doesn't move. you don't know if you're going to touch his shoulder or just walk past him to the bedroom. you don't know which one is the right move anymore. that's the thing about building something since high school. eventually, the blueprint you started with doesn't match the house you're standing in, and you're both too scared to open a wall and see if the foundation is still holding.
week 3:
it came on a thursday. not a dramatic night with rain against the window or a public scene at a party. it was 3:14 p.m. and you were both in the living room, him on the floor with his laptop, you on the couch with a textbook open to a page you hadn't read in twenty minutes. the sun was coming through the blinds in those thin strips that make dust motes look like floating gold. you'd been sitting there for almost an hour without either of you saying a word, and the quiet wasn't the comfortable kind. it was the kind that feels like holding your breath underwater, waiting for someone to come up first.
you don't remember exactly what triggered it. maybe he sighed. maybe you shifted and the couch cushion made a sound. but suddenly you were looking at the back of his head and thinking about the restaurant reservation, the parking lot, the word "selfish" that had been living in the walls of this apartment for weeks now. and something in your chest just gave way. not like a snap, more like a rope that had been fraying thread by thread finally parting under its own weight. you said his name. your voice sounded foreign to you, like it belonged to someone braver or more tired.
he turned around. he took out one earbud and let it dangle against his hoodie. his face was blank in that way it gets when he's bracing for something. he knew. you could see it in the way his shoulders were already set, the way his eyes didn't quite meet yours but fixed on a point just over your left shoulder. he'd known this was coming for weeks. maybe months. but knowing a wave is coming doesn't make it easier to stand in the surf. "i don't think i can do this anymore," you said. the words came out flatter than you expected, like you were reading a line you'd rehearsed without realizing.
"this," you continued, and you gestured vaguely at the space between you two, at the apartment, at the air itself. "i feel heavy all the time. even when we're not fighting. i feel like i'm waiting for it to get bad again. that's not... healthy. for either of us." you said healthy like it was a foreign concept you'd just learned in a textbook. he didn't flinch. he just sat there with one earbud hanging and looked at you. the sun stripe moved across his cheek and you watched it catch the faint stubble he hadn't shaved because he'd barely left the apartment in three days to study for midterms. you wanted to reach out and touch his face. you didn't.
he nodded. just once. a small, mechanical movement of his chin. "okay," he said. it was the same "okay" he'd sent you in that text message from the restaurant. flat. a stone dropped into water. he didn't ask why. he didn't ask if you were sure. he didn't ask if there was someone else or if you needed time to think. he just said okay and turned back to his laptop. his fingers hovered over the keyboard but didn't type anything. you sat there for another thirty seconds, waiting for something. a question. a protest. a plea. anything to show that the last four years had actually happened. but he just sat there, still as a photograph, and eventually you got up and walked to the bedroom and closed the door with that same soft, swollen click.
the first three days were a kind of purgatory you didn't know existed. you were both still living in the same apartment because the lease didn't end for another two months and neither of you had anywhere else to go on short notice. he slept on the couch. you didn't ask him to. he just came out of the bedroom on the first night with his pillow under his arm and a blanket you'd bought together at ikea two years ago. he didn't look at you. he just set up on the couch like it was the most normal thing in the world, and you stood in the hallway in your pajamas and watched the light from the living room go off.
you could hear him at night. not crying. anton doesn't cry easy. but you could hear him shifting on the couch, that creak of the old springs every ten or fifteen minutes. you'd lie in the bed that still smelled like both of you and listen to him not sleeping, and you'd press your face into the pillow to keep from making any sound yourself. the first morning, you came out to make coffee and found him sitting at the kitchen counter with his head in his hands. his laptop was open to a study guide for his film theory midterm, but the screen had gone dark from inactivity. the coffee maker was beeping because he'd started it and then forgotten. he looked up when you walked in and his eyes were red-rimmed but dry, like he'd been staring at something bright for too long.
wonbin noticed on day two. anton showed up to their shared study session in the library basement, the one they'd had scheduled for weeks, and he just sat there. didn't open his notebook. didn't make a single dry comment about the guy two tables over who always ate tuna sandwiches. wonbin said his name twice before anton blinked and looked at him like he'd just remembered where he was. "we broke up," anton said. he said it the same way someone might say "i missed the bus." flat. factual. and then he went back to staring at the wood grain of the table.
wonbin didn't push. he's good like that. he just closed his own textbook and sat there with him for forty minutes in silence. eventually he said, "you want to get out of here?" and anton shook his head. "i just need to sit somewhere that isn't the apartment," he said. his voice was hoarse, like he hadn't used it all day. wonbin told you this later, not as a way to make you feel guilty, but because you asked. you'd run into him outside the humanities building and the question just fell out of you before you could stop it. "is he okay?" and wonbin looked at you with something that wasn't pity but was adjacent to it. "he will be," he said. "he just doesn't know how to do this. four years is a long time to learn a person's scent and then try to forget it."
you cried for a week straight. not the pretty kind of crying you see in movies where a single tear slides down a perfect cheek. this was the kind where your face gets swollen and your nose runs and you make sounds that you didn't know you were capable of making. minji came over on the second night with takeout containers of jjajangmyeon and two bottles of soju. she didn't say anything at first. she just sat on your bedroom floor with you while you sobbed into a pillow that still had a faint trace of his shampoo on it. "i hate this," you kept saying. "i hate this so much. i regret everything. i regret saying it. i regret meaning it. i don't know what i want."
minji let you spiral. she's the kind of friend who knows that sometimes you just need to let the words fall out in whatever order they come, even if they contradict each other. "you said it because you meant it," she said finally, picking at the edge of the soju label with her thumbnail. "you wouldn't have said it if it wasn't true, at least a little bit. that doesn't mean you don't love him. it just means love isn't enough to fix what was broken." you wanted to argue with her. you wanted to tell her she was wrong, that love should be enough, that you'd made a terrible mistake. but the words wouldn't come because somewhere underneath the grief, you knew she was right.
the apartment feels cavernous now. you've started noticing things you never noticed before. the way the bathroom faucet drips if you don't turn it off at a specific angle. the fact that he always bought the orange juice with extra pulp even though you complained about it every single time. you found one of his hoodies balled up in the back of the closet, the gray one with the frayed cuff and the missing hood string. you held it for a long time without putting it on. it still smelled like him, but fainter now, like a candle that's almost burned out. you folded it carefully and put it back where you found it. you don't know if you're keeping it for him or for yourself.
he still moves around the apartment like a ghost. you hear him in the kitchen at odd hours, the soft clink of a spoon against a mug. he's been drinking tea instead of coffee, which you know means his stomach is upset because he only switches to tea when he's anxious. you've caught yourself making enough coffee for two in the morning out of muscle memory, standing there with a full carafe and nowhere for the second cup to go. the two of you orbit each other in the small space, careful not to collide, careful not to touch, careful not to look too long. it's the most present you've both been in the same space in months, and it's only happening now that you're no longer together.
he doesn't think he can learn another scent. wonbin told you that too, or maybe you overheard it through a friend of a friend. the way anton said it, apparently, was like he was admitting something shameful. "i know how she smells when she's stressed, when she's just woken up. i know the sound of her breathing when she's about to fall asleep. i don't know how to un-know that. i don't think i can learn it again for someone else." you heard this and you had to sit down on the edge of the bathtub with the door locked for twenty minutes because it made your chest feel like it was caving in.
you haven't spoken about the breakup. not really. there was no closure conversation, no "this is why it happened" discussion. it just happened, sudden and natural like a tree branch finally giving way under too much snow. one moment you were a unit, however fractured, and the next you were two people who used to be in love, sharing a lease and a fridge and the unbearable weight of four years of memories. you don't know what comes next. neither does he. all you know is that tonight you'll go to sleep in the bed that used to be both of yours, and he'll lie on the couch with the ikea blanket, and you'll both listen to the sound of the other not sleeping through the thin apartment walls. and maybe that's just what the beginning of the end looks like. quiet. swollen. full of things you're both too tired to say.
week 4:
you said you’d move out. you weren’t ready. he was too, but he didn’t say it. but seeing you pack up your things while he’s still there. he stares at your back. quietly. you didn’t know he was still there.
“you’re leaving.”
you pause, fingers tightening around the strap of your duffel. “i am.”
he looks away, jaw working like he’s swallowing words. he stayed like he didn’t want you to go.
“can we at least try to talk about it?”
“maybe,” you said. but then you left.
the whole trimester felt hollow. for both of you trying to start over.
week 5:
not until friday came. it was fourth sem, wonbin’s birthday. you both bumped into each other again. and this time he refused to let you go.
it was just supposed to be a soft kiss. pls come back, im sorry the dorm feels hollow without you. and you’d just nod and kiss back. but your back pressed against an empty room door. you thought he’d stop but he even pushed you further. tf.
he was hungry. kissing, biting, tongue inside your mouth. you felt his fingers and he’s already apologizing. he fucks you standing, your front pressed against the wall. he’ll pull out. he keeps apologizing, kissing, etc.
the hallway smelled like spilled beer and the faint burn of someone’s vape. wonbin’s door was cracked open, bass leaking out with bursts of laughter. you’d stepped out just to breathe, the party inside feeling too loud after three drinks and too many forced smiles. your phone was in your hand, thumb hovering over the ride app, when anton appeared at the end of the hall.
he looked the same — tall, shoulders a little hunched like he was carrying the same weight you were. his eyes found yours immediately. no smile, just that quiet recognition that used to feel like home.
neither of you planned it. you tried to keep walking. he stepped in front of you, not blocking, just there.
“hey,” he said, voice low enough that it almost got lost under the music.
“hey.”
silence stretched for a second. then he nodded toward the end of the hallway. “there’s an empty room down there. can we talk? just for a minute.”
you should’ve said no. the trimester had been hard enough — classes blurring together, nights spent staring at the ceiling in your new place, wondering if you’d made the right call. but you followed him anyway. the door at the end was unlocked, probably someone’s temporary storage or a friend crashing elsewhere. it clicked shut behind you and the noise from the party dulled to a distant hum.
anton turned to face you. the room was dim, only the light from the hallway window spilling in. he looked tired. you probably did too.
“i’ve been thinking about what you said,” he started. “about maybe talking.”
you leaned against the door, arms crossed. “yeah.”
he took a step closer. then another. “the dorm feels hollow without you. everything does. i keep expecting to hear your keys or see your stuff on the counter.”
his hand came up, hesitant, brushing a strand of hair from your face. the touch was soft. familiar. you didn’t pull away. when he leaned in, the kiss started gentle — lips meeting like they were scared to break something. you kissed back, slow, the kind of kiss that carried months of missing someone without admitting it.
“i’m sorry,” he whispered against your mouth. “for how it ended. for not saying anything when you were packing.”
you nodded, fingers curling into the front of his shirt. that was supposed to be enough. a quiet moment, a soft apology, then back to the party or back to your separate lives.
but the kiss deepened. his hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer until your back pressed fully against the door. his tongue slipped in, tasting like the beer he’d been drinking, and something shifted. the hunger was sudden, raw. he bit your bottom lip, not hard enough to hurt but enough to make your breath catch. you felt his body press in, solid and warm, the way it used to when nights got long and words ran out.
“anton,” you breathed, but it came out more like a question.
“i know,” he said, already apologizing as his fingers worked the button of your jeans open. “i shouldn’t. fuck, i know.”
your jeans slid down just enough, along with your panties. his hand was between your legs before you could think straight, two fingers sliding through the slick heat. you were wet — had been since the kiss turned heavy — and he groaned quietly when he felt it.
“shit… you’re soaked,” he muttered, forehead dropping to your shoulder. his fingers pushed inside, curling in that way he knew you liked. “i’m sorry. i just missed you. missed this.”
the stretch felt good, too good. your head tipped back against the door with a soft thud. his mouth found your neck, sucking lightly, then biting down as his fingers moved faster. the sounds were quiet but filthy — the wet slide, your uneven breathing, his low curses.
he pulled his hand away only to free himself. you heard the belt, the zipper. then he was lifting your leg, hooking it over his hip, turning you slightly so your front pressed to the wall beside the door. the cool surface met your cheek as he lined up and pushed in.
no condom. just the raw heat of him sliding inside, slow at first, then deeper. you gasped at the fullness, the familiar way he filled you. anton’s hand braced beside your head on the wall, the other gripping your hip to hold you steady.
“i’ll pull out,” he promised, voice strained as he started to move. “i swear.”
he fucked you like that — standing, your body trapped between him and the wall. the thrusts started measured but quickly turned harder, hips snapping forward. each push pressed you tighter against the surface, your palms flat on the wall for balance. it wasn’t gentle. it was needy, desperate, like he was trying to erase the months apart in one go.
“fuck,” he groaned against your ear. “you feel so good. i’m sorry — i know this is messed up.”
he kept apologizing even as his pace picked up. his mouth stayed on you — kissing your shoulder, your neck, the spot behind your ear. every thrust dragged a quiet sound from your throat. the angle hit deep, making your toes curl in your shoes. you could feel the tension building fast, the way your body remembered him too well.
his hand slipped around to your front, fingers finding your clit and rubbing in tight circles. that pushed you over. you came with a choked moan, clenching around him, legs shaking. anton followed seconds later, pulling out with a harsh breath. you felt the warm spurts hit your lower back and ass, his body shuddering behind yours as he stroked himself through it.
for a long moment, the only sound was your breathing. heavy, uneven. his forehead rested against your shoulder, arms loosely wrapped around your waist now that the urgency had faded.
“i’m sorry,” he said again, softer this time. “i didn’t plan for that. it just… happened.”
you stayed still, trying to catch your breath. your jeans were still halfway down your legs, his cum cooling on your skin. the party noise filtered back in — someone shouting a happy birthday, glass clinking. reality settled slowly, heavy and awkward.
anton reached for some tissues from a nearby desk, cleaning you up as best he could in the dim light. his touch was careful now, almost shy. he helped pull your jeans back up, fingers lingering a second too long on your hips.
“you okay?” he asked quietly.
you nodded, turning to face him. his hair was messy, lips a little swollen. he looked like the anton you knew — the one who used to make you coffee in the mornings and steal your hoodies.
“yeah,” you said. your voice came out hoarse. “you?”
he shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. “i don’t know. i meant what i said about the dorm. it’s been shit without you.”
the silence stretched again. not the angry kind from before the breakup, but the uncertain one. the kind that came after crossing a line you couldn’t uncross.
“we should probably get back,” you said eventually, smoothing your shirt down.
he nodded, but didn’t move right away. “can we still talk? for real this time. not like this.”
you looked at him, really looked. the trimester had left marks on both of you — tired eyes, the weight of starting over alone. maybe that was why it felt so easy to fall back into old patterns.
“maybe,” you said. it was the same word you’d given him when you left the apartment. but this time it felt a little less final.
anton opened the door first, letting the hallway light spill in. you followed him out, the noise of the party swallowing you both again. your bodies didn’t touch as you walked back toward wonbin’s room, but the air between you felt different now. charged. unfinished.
inside, someone handed you a new drink. anton stayed nearby, not crowding but not leaving either. you caught his eye across the room once, and he gave a small, tired smile.
the night wasn’t fixed. the hollow feeling in your chest wasn’t gone. but for the first time in months, it felt like there might be something after the silences. not a guarantee. just a maybe that didn’t hurt as much as before.
week 6:
but you’ve ghosted him again. because you were unsure. scared to go back to that. your phone had been lighting up for four days straight.
anton [tue 11:47pm]: you home safe?
anton [wed 9:12am]: can we talk today? i meant what i said about the dorm feeling empty
anton [thu 2:34pm]: you’re really doing this again? just disappearing after we fucked?
anton [fri 7:05pm]: i’m coming over tomorrow if you don’t answer. don’t ghost me again.
you read every single one. you just didn’t reply. the fear sat heavy — going back meant risking the same quiet fights, the same silences that had grown too loud in the apartment. so you left the messages on read and tried to focus on lectures and takeout dinners alone.
saturday night the knock came hard on your dorm door. you opened it still in your hoodie and sleep shorts, surprised to see anton standing there with his hood up, rain spotting the fabric. his eyes were dark, jaw set.
“anton? what are you—”
he cut you off by stepping inside, pushing the door shut behind him with his foot. before you could finish the sentence his hands were on your face, mouth crashing into yours in a messy, angry kiss. teeth bumped, tongues sliding wet and desperate. he tasted like rain and the faint mint from gum he’d probably chewed on the walk over.
you pulled back just enough to breathe. “we said we’d talk. not this.”
“talk?” he laughed once, short and bitter, walking you backward until your legs hit the bed. “you said we’d talk after the party and then you left me on read for three fucking days. again. you always do this.”
his hoodie came off in one rough pull. you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his chest rose and fell too fast. he pushed you down onto the mattress, crawling over you, knees bracketing your hips.
“i was scared,” you said, hands coming up to his chest, not pushing him away but not pulling him closer either. “that night felt too good and too fast. i didn’t know how to face you after. what if we just end up back in the same place? avoiding each other on the couch, not talking about the real shit?”
he leaned down, mouth brushing your jaw, then biting down on your neck hard enough to make you hiss. “you left me again. packed your shit, said maybe we could talk, and walked out. then at the party you let me fuck you against the wall and still disappeared. how many times do i have to watch you leave?”
his hands shoved your hoodie up and off, tossing it somewhere on the floor. your shorts followed quickly, his fingers hooking into the waistband and yanking them down with your panties in one go. you were already wet — the angry kiss and the weight of him over you doing more than you wanted to admit.
“anton, slow down,” you tried, even as your legs spread for him anyway. “we can talk now. i’m here.”
“yeah, you’re here now,” he muttered, shoving his own sweats and boxers down just enough to free his cock. it was hard, flushed dark at the tip, already leaking. he rubbed the head against your slick folds, teasing your entrance. “but for how long? till you get scared and ghost me again?”
you moaned softly when he pushed in the first inch, stretching you open. no condom, just raw heat. he didn’t go slow. he sank in deep in one thrust, bottoming out with a groan that vibrated against your chest.
“fuck,” he breathed, forehead dropping to yours. “you feel too good. always do. that’s the problem.”
he started moving right away — hard, deep strokes that made the bed creak. your hands gripped his back, nails digging in as he fucked into you. skin slapped against skin, wet and loud in the small dorm room.
“tell me why you ghosted,” he demanded between thrusts, one hand sliding under your knee to push your leg higher, opening you up more. “say it while i’m inside you.”
you gasped, hips rocking up to meet him. “because i’m scared we’ll keep hurting each other. we’ve been together since high school. i know how you smell when you’re stressed, how you breathe when you’re falling asleep. i don’t know how to unlearn that if this falls apart again.”
he groaned, pace turning rougher, hips snapping harder. “then stop running. every time it gets real you leave. you left the apartment. you left after the party. i’m tired of it.”
his mouth found yours again, kissing messy and deep, tongues sliding together while he fucked you harder. you could feel every inch of him dragging inside, hitting that spot that made your toes curl.
“what do you want me to do?” he asked against your lips, voice strained and angry. “keep waiting around while you decide if you want me or not?”
you clenched around him, close already from the intensity. “i want us to actually talk. not just fuck and then disappear.”
“talk?” he thrust deep and stayed there for a second, grinding against you. “fine. here’s me talking. if you keep leaving like this, maybe i should just knock you up so you won’t leave.”
the words hit heavy. he didn’t soften them, didn’t take them back. his eyes stayed locked on yours, angry and desperate, hips still moving in slow, punishing rolls.
“you don’t mean that,” you whispered, even as another moan slipped out when he hit deeper.
“right now i do,” he said, voice rough. “i’m so fucking tired of watching you walk away. you think i want to learn how someone else smells or sounds? no. i want you. here. not running every time shit gets hard.”
he picked up speed again, fucking you harder, the angle making your back arch off the bed. his hand slipped between your bodies, fingers rubbing your clit in tight, fast circles.
“come on,” he growled. “cum for me. show me you’re still mine even when you’re scared.”
you came hard, thighs shaking, a broken moan tearing from your throat as you clenched tight around his cock. he followed right after, pulling out at the last second with a curse. hot stripes of cum landed across your stomach and tits, his hand stroking himself through it until he was spent.
both of you stayed there panting, bodies slick with sweat. anton grabbed tissues from your nightstand, cleaning you up with surprisingly gentle hands despite the anger still simmering in his eyes. he wiped his own mess off your skin, then tossed the tissues and collapsed beside you, pulling you against his chest.
the rain tapped against the window. your leg draped over his, his arm heavy around your waist.
“i meant what i said,” he said quietly after a minute, no apology in his tone. “if you keep ghosting and leaving, maybe knocking you up is the only way you’ll stay. i’m not joking about being done watching you go.”
you traced a finger over his chest, feeling his heartbeat slowly calm down. “that’s fucked up to say.”
“yeah, it is,” he admitted. “but it’s how i feel right now. you know me too well. i know you too well. we’ve been doing this since high school. i don’t want the dorm to feel hollow. i don’t want your bed to feel temporary. i want you to stop running.”
you stayed silent for a moment, listening to the rain and his breathing. the fear was still there, but so was the warmth of his body, the familiar way he held you.
“i won’t ghost again,” you said finally. “we’ll talk. every day if we have to. no more disappearing.”
he turned his head, kissing your forehead. “good. because next time you try to leave without talking, i’m not letting you out that door so easy.”
the room felt smaller now, but not in the bad way. the silences weren’t empty anymore. they were filled with heavy breathing, rain on glass, and two people who had known each other too long to pretend they could just walk away clean.
you didn’t know if the angry words about knocking you up would come up again sober. you didn’t know if this fixed everything. but for tonight the museum of silences had one less exhibit. just tangled sheets, quiet rain, and the steady beat of his heart under your cheek.
