Tryst x Reader (i had too i love him)
Your phone buzzed just as you were mid-shampoo-serenade, like you were on tour. You cursed under your breath, stepped out,wet, naked, mildly annoyed,and grabbed your phone, water dripping onto the floor.
Of course it was Tryst. Who else texts you at 2 a.m.
"In the shower. Why, you wanna join me?" you typed back, towel clinging to your body.
"You know me too well. Be there in 10."
You smirked. Oh, we know where this is going.
"Make it 5. I’m impatient."
You snapped a towel-wrapped selfie that screamed accidentally hot, but very on purpose.
"Don’t do that. I almost tripped and broke my spine. Jesus. Hot tho."
You tossed your phone on the bed, towel trailing slightly, damp hair dripping as you padded to the door. You’d missed him. Even if he was your drug dealer-slash-neighbor, you maybe-just maybe-liked him more than was legally advisable.
Ever since you moved into this cursed apartment building a year ago, fate had been throwing your lives together like horny Sims. You met Tryst in the shared garden, where he was chain-smoking and crying like a rejected contestant on The Bachelor.
You almost turned around-comforting crying men wasn’t your specialty. But something about his messy blond hair made you snort out a laugh.
"Great. I'm sobbing like a little bitch and now my hot neighbor shows up outta nowhere. Fucking phenomenal." He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie .
"You good, dude?" you asked, sliding onto the bench beside him, sparking up your cigarette .
"Just found out the baby I thought was mine… wasn’t. I tried so damn hard to be a good dad. Bought little shoes. Held tiny socks like they were sacred. All for nothing. Turns out, it was one big fat lie. So, no-I’m fucking not good. But thanks for asking."
He took a drag that screamed “I’ve seen some shit,” and you nodded solemnly.
"Damn. That’s rough. I once thought a guy gave me crabs. Turned out it was chlamydia. Not the same, but being lied to sucks." You stared into the middle distance, haunted by flashbacks of The Itchening™️.
Tryst stared at you. Then he laughed. Like, full-body, teary-eyed, unhinged-laugh-laughed.
You giggled, flicked your cig, and said:
"Tryst," he replied, still wheezing. "You’re absolutely unhinged."
"And hot," you added with a smug little smirk.
"Why’d your fake baby mama lie, anyway?"
He leaned back, exhaling like he was releasing two years of pain .
"Guess she wanted my money. Kept me on visitation lockdown,three times a month, ten minutes at a time. I thought I was a shit dad. Turns out, I wasn’t a dad at all. Just a dumbass with good intentions and a shitty taste in women."
"Well… consider it a free trial of Hell-level parenthood," you said with a shrug. "I don’t know you, but I’ve got a feeling you’ll be a great dad someday."
His shoulders dropped a little. Your words, apparently, massaged some hidden muscle called hope.
"Besides," you said with a shrug, "who says you need a baby to be a dad? The world’s full of 20-something girls with daddy issues. Be the man who brings the milk back home, Tryst."
"Jesus Christ," he laughed. "You're weirdly comforting."
"And you're weirdly hot for someone who's been ugly-crying for 30 minutes straight."
Since then, you and Tryst had practically been glued together,watching horror movies on your couch teens, cooking while high in his kitchen (read: burning things creatively), and spending countless nights on the roof pretending you weren’t two seconds away from jumping each other’s bones.
You shared pasta at your favorite place so often the waitress started calling you “the young married couple,” and somehow got addicted to the same playlist of tragic '80s songs he insisted on crying to. It was weirdly romantic.
You only found out he was a full-blown drug dealer when you casually asked if he “knew someone local” who could hook you up with your anxiety meds, and he just walked to the cupboard, flung it open and said:
“Serve yourself, princess.”
You just wanted your prescription cheaper. He offered you the entire pharmaceutical black market.
Your daydreaming snapped like a rubber band at the sound of a loud knock. You opened the door and there he was: Tryst, bloodied, bruised, and still somehow hot.
Your brain short-circuited. Instant flight-or-fight mode. Or in your case: fight-whoever-did-this-and-then-fix-him mode.
“Jesus, T, what the hell happened?”
You dragged him inside like a dramatic ER scene, already speed-walking to the bathroom for your emergency sewing kit.
Maybe med school wasn’t a complete waste of money after all.
When you got back, he was casually raiding your fridge .
“Antiseptic! Ha-there you are.” He chugged your half-full bottle of vodka like it was Gatorade.
“Easy, tiger. Save some for the wounds.” You grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the couch.
“Some assholes tried to rob an old lady outside 7-Eleven,” he muttered, wincing. “You know I had to jump in.”
You sighed in relief. At least it wasn’t cartel drama.
“You absolute idiot,” you muttered, running your fingers through his hair and inspecting his face .
“Can’t believe people still use knives these days. I was low-key hoping for a bullet. Way cooler to sew.”
“You’re literally pinching through my skin and you’re making jokes?” he groaned, clutching the couch cushion.
“Field training, baby.” You grinned. “Done. Any dizziness? Nausea? Did they hit you anywhere else?”
“Back of my neck,” he said. “But I’m fine. Don’t worry… thanks, love.”
And just like that, your soul briefly exited your body.
“You’re welcome dumbass.” You kissed his temple. His ears went red immediately. Weak spot: located.
“Now turn around, let me see.”
Too late. Hoodie: off. Neck: exposed. Vulnerability: triggered.
You gently touched the bruise. “Does it hurt here? What about here?”
Your fingers grazed the tender skin and before you could stop yourself, you leaned in and pressed a kiss to the back of his neck.
“Kiss it better?” he asked, eyes fluttered shut, head tilted forward like he wanted more.
“Doctor’s orders,” you whispered, peppering kisses along his jaw, your mouth getting dangerously close to his lips.
“You scared the shit out of me,” you breathed, and gave him a soft, quick kiss.
His eyes locked onto yours, something dark and unspoken behind them.
But the second Tryst pulled you into his lap and your towel slipped, logic packed its bags and left the building..
Just looked at you like he was starving. Like you were something to survive on.
His hand gripped your thigh, fingers digging in slightly, not possessive but desperate.
"You’re still bleeding, dumbass," you muttered, trying to keep your voice steady as your towel betrayed you completely and hit the floor.
"Yeah, well," he whispered, lips grazing your cheek, "I think I’m about to pass out, so we might as well make it worth it."
That was it. Switch flipped.
You kissed him hard, fast,like you needed him to breathe, to forget the blood and bruises and late-night trauma.
He hissed a little when your hand brushed his side, but didn’t stop. If anything, it lit something up in him,something wild, reckless, hot.
Your fingers tangled in his hoodie, yanking it the rest of the way off, leaving him shirtless and bruised. You ran your hands over his chest like you were memorizing it,every scar, every mark, every shaky breath.
"Careful," he groaned, teeth grazing your jaw. "You’re gonna break me."
"Good," you growled, kissing down his neck, where you’d patched him up minutes ago. "That’s what you get for playing superhero at 7-Eleven."
His hands found your hips, slid down, gripped hard enough to leave bruises of his own. You rolled your hips once and that was all it took,he swore under his breath like a man who just saw heaven, hell, and everything in between.
"Fuck, Peach," he gasped, voice low and cracked. "You’re gonna kill me."
"Then die pretty," you whispered.
He laughed,then choked on it when you ground down again. His head hit the back of the couch. Eyes closed. Breathing uneven. Lips parted like he wanted to beg but didn’t know for what.
You leaned in, lips brushing his ear.
"Next time you get stabbed, I’m charging a fee," you said. "No more free patch-ups with bonus makeouts."
"That was not a makeout," he said, breathless, eyes now wide open and locked on yours. "That was a fuckin’ CPR revival with tongue."
You laughed,sharp and breathless,then grabbed his jaw and kissed him again, slow this time. Deep. The kind of kiss that says I’ve been wanting this since the moment you cried in the garden and called me hot through snot bubbles.
And he kissed you back like he knew it. Like he’d been holding it in for a year.
Clothes were being yanked, tossed,his jeans halfway off, your towel long dead on the floor like a fallen soldier. He pulled you against him, skin on skin, and it was all heat and ache and something stupidly close to need.
There was no more talking after that. Just mouths and hands and tangled limbs and the sound of the couch protesting its life choices.
His fingers slipped between your legs, and your back arched instantly. He didn’t go slow, didn’t tease,just knew. Like his hands had memorized you .
You grabbed his hair, pulled hard, and that made him hiss. His eyes darkened, pupils blown wide.
"You like it rough, Sweets?"
"I like it filthy," you whispered. "I want your hands shaking when you try to zip up your jeans after this."
He lifted you with bruised strength and laid you back on the couch.His lips trailed down your chest, kisses turning wet and open-mouthed, until he made you cry out.
And when he looked at you, mouth slick, grin cocky?
"You look like one," you panted.
Then he was inside you, fast, deep, and you both gasped,like a punch to the soul.
No soft rhythm. No holding back. Just raw, punishing thrusts that said you’re mine with every snap of his hips. The couch creaked in protest. So did you.
He kissed you like he needed to stay alive. You clawed down his back like you didn’t care if he bled more.
"Don’t hide your voice baby" he growled against your throat.
And when you came undone beneath him, shaking, nails in his skin, eyes rolling back,you knew you weren’t just fucked.
He followed right after you, groaning your name like a curse and a prayer, collapsing onto you with the full weight of every repressed emotion neither of you ever said out loud.
You both lay there. Sweaty. Wrecked. Breathing like you’d run a marathon through hell.
"That was... supposed to be stitches and antiseptic," you said, voice hoarse, lips swollen.
"My bad," he murmured, eyes shut, face against your chest. "Guess I needed something stronger."
You smiled, fingers in his hair.
"You're bleeding on my couch."
Later, when the adrenaline faded and he was half-asleep on your chest, bruised and bandaged and quietly snoring, you kissed his hair.
You didn’t say it, but it burned in your throat like a secret:
I love you, you chaotic, broken, beautiful bastard.
But for now, you just whispered:
