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immaqulate · 23 hours ago

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introducing.. popstar! reader & youtuber! chris

┆ ⤿ 🎧 ⌗ NOW PLAYING... ⌞ say you love me — jessie ware ⌝

She went viral for her voice. He stayed quiet behind the camera. Now the internet wants to know—what happens when a pop star and a YouTuber fall in love under a spotlight neither of them asked for?

fame is loud. love is louder. viral meets vulnerable. glitter and grayscale. pink nails on his hoodie strings. silence between camera cuts. she bites back. he lets her. loud girl, soft boy. matching rings, mismatched lives. fans call it PR. it’s not. they don’t post much—but when they do? it breaks the internet. she sings about him. he never misses a show.

Part Nine: If You Still Want Me

⤑ will contain: makeup sex, emotional tension, soft dom!Chris, grinding, oral (fem receiving), lots of praise, slow build, desperate hands, whispered confessions, forehead kisses, mild overstimulation, unprotected sex (established intimacy)

The camera cuts, and so does Chris. Not dramatically. No door slam. No yelling. Just a quiet shift—the kind you wouldn’t notice unless you knew him. And Matt and Nick? They know him.

They’re parked outside an empty shopping plaza, front seats reclined, leftover fast food bags crinkling in the back. The energy’s muted. The kind of silence that only exists after you’ve spent twenty minutes pretending to be fine for an audience you can’t see.

Chris leans his forehead against the window, hoodie pulled low, the fog of his breath marking the glass. His phone’s in his lap, screen dark.

Matt breaks it first. “All right,” he says, dragging out the word as he unscrews the cap on his water bottle. “Video’s done. You gonna talk now?”

Chris doesn’t move. “You were off today,” Nick says, squinting at him through the rearview mirror. “I was fine.”

“Nah. You were performing,” Matt replies. “And not in the good ‘lights-camera-action’ way.” Chris exhales through his nose, slow and shallow, still watching the blurred streetlights through the passenger window.

He doesn’t blink. “I’m tired, all right?”

“That’s not tired,” Nick mutters. “That’s ‘I haven’t felt like myself since she walked out of that hotel room.’”

Matt shifts in his seat, twisting to face him. “You still haven’t talked to her?”

Chris shakes his head once. Eyes locked on nothing.

“You told her it was a mistake,” Matt says gently. “Did you mean it?”

Chris is quiet for a second. Then: “No.”

He laughs, bitter and dry. “I mean I was scared. I mean I thought if I ended it first, it wouldn’t feel like this.”

“And how does it feel now?” Nick asks, his voice softer.

Chris doesn’t answer, nor does he have to. The silence says enough. The hollow in his chest has been echoing since that night. He still hears the way her voice cracked.

“I told her it was a mistake,” he repeats, quieter this time. “She cried. And I left.”

Matt leans in a little more. “Do you still love her?” Chris doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.” Nick leans back against the seat, shaking his head like he’s known the answer all along.

Matt watches his brother carefully. “Then go tell her.”

Chris grips the steering wheel. Not to drive—just to hold something. His thumb hovers over his phone, her name already typed in his messages. But he doesn’t press send. Not yet.

The frenzy doesn’t last. Not in the way it did before. There are no follow-up interviews. No messy statements. Just silence. And silence, in Hollywood, is its own kind of headline.

Clips from the stairwell kiss still float around. Fan edits. Think pieces. TikToks dissecting every blink and breath and brush of hands. But now the questions are quieter. Hungrier.

Are Y/N and Chris still together? Was it PR?

He looks tired. She hasn’t posted anything in weeks.

Someone comments on Matt’s Instagram live asking if Chris is okay. Matt sees it. Pauses.

“Next question,” he says. But his face tightens just a little. No one talks about it, but everyone still wonders. The internet has a short memory. But not that short

The sun in LA is too bright. It reflects off car hoods and pavement and the smudged screen of your phone until your eyes ache. You’re sitting on the steps outside the recording studio, iced coffee sweating in your hand, wearing sunglasses you don’t need anymore. You’re not hiding. You’re just tired of being seen.

It’s been weeks, your career hasn’t slowed down. The gossip has. But the silence? That’s worse. The questions that hang in the air, unspoken. The fans who ask under their breath.

The way you’re still waiting for a text that never came, still sleeping on the left side of the bed like there’s someone to leave room for.

Your phone buzzes again. You don’t look. You haven’t heard his voice since Boston.

Haven’t stopped hearing it in your head. And then—there he is. You know that car. You know the dent in the side and the sticker on the back window.

You know the way he parks like he’s apologizing for taking up space. He gets out slowly. No sunglasses. No hoodie. Just him.

His curls are tucked under a faded baseball cap. He walks toward you like he’s not sure he’s allowed to. Like this could still go wrong.

“Hi,” he says, voice soft but steady.

You look up. “Hi.” He stands there a beat too long, then clears his throat. “Can we talk?”

You nod. He sits beside you on the concrete steps. His thigh brushes yours. You don’t move. Neither of you says anything at first.

Then: “I didn’t mean what I said,” he starts, voice low. “In Boston. When I told you it was a mistake.”

You stare down at your coffee. The ice inside has already melted. “Then why’d you say it?” Chris exhales hard, like the truth has been rotting in his chest.

“Because I thought you were about to leave,” he says. “And I thought if I burned it down first, it wouldn’t hurt so much.”

He pauses. “But it did. It does.” Your fingers twitch against the cup. You swallow hard. “I missed you,” you whisper. “Even when I tried to convince myself I didn’t.”

His breath catches. His eyes finally meet yours. “I missed you so bad.”

You glance sideways, afraid to look too long. But he’s already staring like you’re still the answer.

“What do we even want from this, Chris?” you ask, voice cracking. “Because I can’t do almosts. I can’t be your secret or your accident. I need to know this is real. That we’re choosing it. Every time.”

He shifts toward you. “I want real,” he says. “I want you.”

You hold his gaze. “I don’t care about the press or the comments,” he goes on. “I care about you calling me after press. About sleeping next to you instead of just being in your bed. About waking up to your voice instead of a notification.”

You blink fast. “I want to be in this with you,” he says, quieter now. “For real. If you still want me.” That’s the part that breaks something inside you. Because you do. You always have.

“I don’t know if this can be perfect,” you whisper. “But I want it to be honest.” He nods slowly. “Then come with me. Let me start over.”

You glance down at his hand, resting between you. Then back up at his eyes. “I don’t want to start over,” you say. “I want to continue.”

You reach for his hand. Let your fingers thread into his. “Take me home, Chris,” you murmur.

“And don’t ever let go of me this time.” His thumb brushes over your knuckles, reverent. His voice is a breath:

“I don’t plan to.” And when he leans in, when your lips meet—soft, slow, certain—it doesn’t feel like fixing what broke. It feels like choosing each other again, with eyes open.

The kiss doesn’t break. Not when he helps you stand. Not when he opens the car door, still holding your hand. Not even when you step into his apartment and he closes the door like he’s afraid the wind might carry you away again.

Your lips are swollen. Your chest’s tight. And your heart? It’s racing like it knows what’s coming. He sets your coffee down on the counter, gently—like it might break. But when he turns to you, it’s not the drink he’s craving.

His voice is low and wrecked. “Come here.” You don’t hesitate.

He meets you halfway, hands finding your waist like he’s been dying to remember how you feel. Your arms wrap around his neck and he exhales like he can finally breathe again.

“God, I missed you,” he whispers, kissing your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.

You grip his hoodie tighter. “Then show me.”

His lips are back on yours before you finish the sentence—deeper this time, hungrier. The kind of kiss that makes you forget where you are. His hands roam over your back, under your shirt, like he’s checking to make sure you’re real.

He pulls back just enough to whisper against your mouth,

“Tell me if it’s too much. Tell me to stop and I will.” You shake your head instantly. “Don’t stop.”

His voice drops. “I won’t. Not this time.” He lifts you with ease, carrying you toward the bedroom like it’s instinct. His nose grazes your temple, his breath shaky.

“I thought I ruined this,” he says. You thread your fingers through his curls. “You didn’t.”

“I wanted to call you every day,” he confesses as he sets you down gently on the bed. “I kept thinking of that night. The way you looked at me before I left. Like you already knew I’d break your heart.”

You reach up and cradle his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones. “I didn’t want to believe you meant it. But I couldn’t make myself forget the way you said it.”

He leans into your touch like it hurts. “Let me fix it.” You nod. “Then touch me like you still love me.”

That’s all it takes. He kisses you again—slower now, deeper. His hand slides under your shirt, palm warm against your stomach. When he feels you tremble, he whispers: “You’re okay. I got you.”

Clothes come off in pieces. His hoodie. Your jeans. His shirt. Your bra. But it’s not rushed. It’s unwrapping, rediscovering, reclaiming. His hands explore like they’re remembering every inch of you. Every curve, every scar, every place he knows makes you gasp.

“You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he murmurs, mouth trailing down your chest. You arch under him. “Chris…” He slides down your body, eyes never leaving yours, and kisses the inside of your thigh like a prayer.

“Can I?” You nod, already breathless. “Please.”

He kisses you once more before diving in—tongue soft and slow, licking up your center like it’s sacred. One hand on your hip, the other gripping your thigh, grounding you.

You moan, fingers curling in his hair.

“That’s it,” he whispers, lips brushing against you.

“Let me make it up to you.”

You can barely breathe, legs shaking, hips grinding into his face like you’re chasing relief that’s finally here. When he slides a finger inside you, your whole body arches.

“You taste the same,” he murmurs. “Feel the same. But this time, I’m not letting go.”

You cry out as he adds a second finger, curling just right, tongue flicking in time with the rhythm.

It doesn’t take long. You’re too wound up, too emotional, too close to him again.

“Chris—Chris I’m gonna—”

“Come for me, baby,” he begs.

“Come back to me.”

And you do. Hard. You shake through it, thighs trembling around his head, breath stuttering. He doesn’t stop until you’re whining, tugging on his hair, gasping his name over and over.

He crawls back up, eyes wild and full of love. He kisses you through it, gently. “You okay?” You nod, dazed. “I need you inside me.”

He swallows hard. “I’m right here. I’m yours.” You help him out of his boxers, and when he lines up, you wrap your legs around him and whisper, “Don’t ever let go of me again.”

“Never,” he promises. He pushes in slowly, forehead pressed to yours, both of you groaning at the stretch, the warmth, the overwhelming rightness of it.

He doesn’t fuck you. He makes love to you. Like he means every slow, desperate thrust. Like he’s been dreaming of this for weeks.

Like he’ll never get tired of the way you fall apart under him. “You feel so good,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “So fucking good.”

You grip his shoulders, nails digging in. “I love you.”His breath catches. His hips stutter.

He opens his eyes. “Say it again.”

“I love you.”

“God, I love you too.”

You come again when he kisses your neck and thrusts deep and slow, whispering it into your skin like a vow. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

When it’s over, he stays on top of you, face buried in your neck, your legs still wrapped around his waist. Neither of you moves. You just breathe each other in. Skin to skin. Heart to heart.

Finally, he whispers, hoarse: “This time, I’m staying.” You smile, kiss his shoulder. “This time, we both are.”

immaqulate's notes ✎ᝰ.ᐟ .. i love them so muchhhhh AHHHH

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immaqulate · 2 days ago

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bad girls bend over | m.s & c.s

⤑ contains: smut, poly! chratt x fem! reader, established relationship, p in v, oral (f receiving), face-fucking, spanking, fingering, sleepy consent (pre-established), overstimulation, soreness/soreness kink, hand pinning, soft domination, praise + degradation, filthy talk, double team dynamic, creampie, tears (from pleasure), soft aftercare, cuddles/snuggles, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK

⤑ synopsis: you teased them at dinner, knowing exactly what you were doing. Now they’re going to make sure you remember who you belong to, all night and into the morning.

You should’ve known better. Chris had been quiet since dinner, not the sulky kind. Not the kind where you worry you’ve said something wrong.

No—this was the Chris who clenched his jaw when you leaned too far across the table, who answered in clipped words while his eyes stayed locked on the hem of your skirt. Who sipped his drink too slow, too calm, just to cool off.

Matt had picked up on it halfway through dessert.

“You’re doing it again,” he’d murmured behind his wine glass, glancing between you and Chris. He didn’t look upset—more amused than anything. Intrigued.

“I’m not doing anything,” you said, smiling too sweet, crossing your legs slow enough to make a point.

Chris hadn’t said a word. He just patted his thigh.

“Come here, baby.”

That should’ve been your warning. That low tone, the way he slouched deeper into the couch like he was settling in for a show. But instead, you’d padded over in those fuzzy socks and curled into his side like the innocent girl you knew damn well you weren’t.

You’re giggling when it starts. That kind of drunk-on-attention, lips-stained-red, thighs-crossed-tight kind of giggle. Chris is already watching you from the couch—one hand draped lazily over the backrest, the other palming the bulge in his jeans every time you lean too far forward in that skirt.

Matt’s perched on the arm beside him, eyes hooded, mouth twitching like he’s already planning something dangerous.

“You done teasing, sweetheart?” Chris asks, voice low.

You tilt your head. “Teasing?”

He stands, slowly and purposefully. “Bend over the table.” Matt exhales—half laugh, half disbelief. “Oh, you’re really in for it now.”

The wood beneath your hands is cool. Your palms press flat as Chris steps behind you, slow and deliberate. He lifts the hem of your skirt like he’s unveiling something sacred.

Then—smack. A sharp sting across your ass makes you jolt. You gasp, biting your lip, but Chris only leans forward, one hand possessive against your lower back.

“Such a bad girl, hm?”

Another smack. Harder. Your breath hitches.

“Wore this little thing to drive us crazy?” he growls. “Didn’t think we’d actually do something about it?”

“Ch—Chris—” you pant. Matt crouches in front of you now, nose to nose. His palm cradles your chin, thumb brushing your lip.

“You okay, pretty girl?” You nod.

“Words, baby.”

“I—I’m okay.” He kisses you—soft, coaxing. “Good. Then keep your hands right here for me, yeah?”

He pins your wrists to the table gently, grounding you.

Behind you, Chris sinks to his knees. He mouths along your thighs, biting, sucking. “Always so wet when we get strict with you.”

Your panties are dragged down and discarded. His fingers slide inside—two at once, slow and curling—until your knees tremble and your core flutters around him.

“She’s falling apart already,” Matt murmurs, watching your face.

Chris chuckles. “She’ll beg soon.”

And you do, because when he replaces his fingers with his tongue—slow, filthy, deliberate—you arch off the table with a cry. He licks a long stripe up your folds, then sucks your clit until your vision goes spotty.

Matt climbs onto the table beside you, letting your face bury against his thigh. His fingers card through your hair. “You take us so good,” he murmurs. “Such a good girl, even when you’re being bad.”

Chris pauses, breath hot against your core. “Think she deserves to come?”

Matt hums. “Only if she begs for it.”

And you do. Whimpering, pleading. Hips rocking back, thighs shaking. Chris doesn’t stop until you’re teetering on the edge, moaning against Matt’s leg, tears slipping down your cheek.

“I—I can’t—Chris—”

“Go ahead, baby,” Matt whispers, kissing your temple. “Let him have it.”

You come hard. It’s too much—his mouth relentless, his grip bruising, your wrists still pinned. You shatter with a sob, body trembling. Chris holds you through it. Tongue softening just enough as he guides you down from the high.

But they’re not done. Not even close.

Matt flips you gently onto your back on the table, eyes dark, already tugging his sweats down. Chris stands behind him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, gaze never leaving your face.

“She’s not gonna last much longer,” Chris mutters. “You wanna take care of her?” Matt strokes himself once. “Yeah. Wanna feel her squeeze around me.”

He leans down, kissing you with aching slowness. “Condom’s in my wallet, yeah?” Chris tosses it over. “Make it good, baby. She earned it.”

Matt slides in slow. The stretch is delicious, overwhelming. You gasp, hands gripping his biceps. He kisses your neck, your cheek, your jaw—murmuring between thrusts.

“So fucking perfect,” he groans. “So tight—fuck.” Chris appears behind you, brushing your hair off your cheek. He cradles your head in one hand, the other stroking over your breast.

You reach for him blindly, whining softly. “You want it?” he asks, voice hoarse.

You nod, eyes glassy. Chris groans. He presses the tip of his cock to your lips and you open instantly, needy.

“Open up, baby. Let us ruin you.”

You take Chris deep while Matt fucks into you slow and hard, dragging cries from your throat that are half-muffled by Chris’s length. Your legs wrap tighter around Matt’s waist, hands still pinned by his grip.

Every thrust has your body rocking between them—Chris filling your mouth, Matt filling your core.

Their names fall from your lips like worship. “Taking us so good,” Matt pants, forehead pressed to yours.

Chris hisses, fingers tightening in your hair. “Look at you—our perfect little toy.” The coil tightens again—faster this time, sharper. Your moans are wrecked, your body frantic with need.

When it hits, it explodes. Your body arches, trembling, your mouth falling open around Chris’s cock as Matt curses into your neck.

“That’s it,” he gasps. “Good girl. Take it—take all of me—fuck—”

Chris pulls out before he finishes, stroking himself until he comes hot across your chest with a groan. Matt follows with a broken sound, burying himself deep inside you and shaking with release.

Aftercare is quiet. Chris wipes you down with a warm towel, careful, tender. Matt holds you on the couch, arms wrapped around your waist, your legs tangled together.

Chris tucks in beside you, hand resting on your thigh, lips brushing your cheek.

“You’re never allowed to wear that skirt in public again,” he mutters, eyes closed. You grin. “Or what?”

He opens one eye. “I’ll bend you over the dinner table next time.”

Matt snorts sleepily. “She’d love that.” You do. You really, really do.

The following morning, you're warm. Fuzzy. Floating in that soft, post-sin haze where the room still smells like sex and skin and safety. You shift slightly, buried between familiar bodies—Chris’s chest pressed to your back, Matt curled around your front.

And then you feel it. A slow, deep curl of Matt’s fingers already inside you.

You whimper before you even open your eyes. “Ohhh, there she is,” Matt murmurs, voice still gravel-rough from sleep. “Thought I’d have to wake you properly.”

Your thighs twitch. You’re sore. Tender. But the heat sparks back to life like your body wants to be used again.

Chris’s hand wraps around your waist, sliding up under your sleep shirt to cup your breast. “You’re soaked, baby,” he groans, voice low in your ear. “You really missed us that bad?”

“I—” You squirm, blinking into the morning light. “Thought I was dreaming.”

Matt grins lazily, his fingers stroking deeper. “You were. Then I made it real.”

You moan as Matt’s fingers scissor gently, opening you up again like he knows exactly how you like it—because he does. Chris kisses the spot just beneath your ear, thumb brushing your nipple until it’s pebble-hard under his palm.

“She’s already so fuckin’ wet,” Matt murmurs. “Like her body knows what we’re about to do.”

Chris hums, eyes dark. “She’s our pretty little toy, why wouldn’t she be ready?”

You whine, hips bucking into Matt’s hand, already trembling. “Feels so good—”

Matt cuts you off with a kiss, slow and possessive. “Think you can take more, sweetheart?”

You nod, biting your lip.

He withdraws his fingers and brings them to your lips, letting you taste yourself before sliding off the bed to grab a condom.

Chris rolls you onto your stomach slowly, pulling your hips up until you’re face-down, ass arched perfectly, pillow under your chest. He bends low over your back and whispers:

“Gonna fuck you slow, baby. Gonna make that pretty pussy cry for us again.”

Matt slides in from behind, groaning as he sinks all the way in. The stretch burns beautifully—your cunt still sensitive, but greedy. Your hands claw at the sheets.

“F-Fuck, Matty—”

“You love it,” he pants. “You fucking love how sore we make you, huh?” Chris kneels in front of you, thumb brushing your lower lip. “Open, baby.”

You take him without hesitation, your lips wrapping around the head of his cock as Matt thrusts from behind, slow and deep and unrelenting.

It’s filthy. Intimate. Possessive. “Look at her,” Chris groans, thrusting shallowly into your mouth. “Can’t even talk, and she’s still our perfect little thing.”

“She’s clenching so tight,” Matt growls. “Gonna make me come already—fuck.”

Your tears are back, spilling onto the pillow as you gag slightly around Chris’s cock. You want to sob. Want to be ruined all over again. And they know it.

“You wanna come, baby?” Matt asks, fingers digging into your hips.

You moan around Chris, nodding fast.

“Good,” Chris purrs. “Then come all over Matt’s cock while I fuck your throat.”

You come hard, clenching around Matt with a cry that vibrates against Chris’s cock. Matt’s thrusts turn erratic, his moans broken and desperate.

“Fuuuck, I’m—fuck—” He buries himself deep as he finishes, then stills. Chris pulls out, stroking himself quickly, and finishes across your tongue with a groan.

You collapse into the sheets, panting, trembling, wrecked.

Matt presses kisses to your spine, whispering praise like a mantra. Chris wipes you down with the towel he always keeps by the nightstand.

“Still with us, angel?” Chris murmurs, climbing in beside you. You nod, face dazed, lips swollen, eyes glazed. “I love you.”

Matt smirks, brushing sweaty hair from your cheek. “Yeah, you better.” Chris grins and pulls the blanket up over all three of you, tucking you in close.

“No more teasing us at dinner,” he whispers. “Or we’ll wake you up even filthier next time.”

You smile into Matt’s chest, exhausted and euphoric. You hope you tease them every night for the rest of your life.

immaqulate's notes ✎ᝰ.ᐟ .. does this out beat my other chratt fics? or is this in it's own leauge 😋

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