#FORGOT I NEVER POSTED THIS THESE ARE LIKE A MONTH OLD | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

theonottsbxtch · 13 days ago

Text

I LOVED YOU FIRST | FC43

an: guys i’m so sorry for the atrocities i’m about to cause by posting this, i’m especially tagging @obxstiles to make sure they don’t miss it and that they cry muahaha there MAY be a part two to this

summary: for as long as she’s remembered she’s loved franco, wether those feelings were ever reciprocated she doesn’t know.

wc: 4.4k

She remembered the sound of wheels against gravel. Even as a kid, Franco was fast—kicking up dust and stones as he went, all edges and adrenaline. They grew up on the same street, a road that was more dust than pavement, cutting through a small town nobody had ever heard of, deep in the countryside of Argentina. Back then, he raced down that road on a beat-up go-kart that rattled and threatened to fall apart with every turn. But he didn’t care. Even at eight years old, Franco could talk of nothing but cars and speed and the shimmering, impossible promise of a life far from here.

She was the one who stood at the end of the road, cheering him on as he came barreling toward her, heart in her throat every time he cut it too close. She told herself that’s just what friends did—waited around to see the other one make it back in one piece. But there was more to it, even then. She’d never told him, of course. Franco had always been too focused on the next race, the next finish line, to notice much about her that wasn’t familiar. It was easier that way. They were friends. That was enough.

Years passed, and with them, his childhood kart became a racing simulator, then an actual car, then a series of wins that only proved what she’d always known—that Franco was going somewhere.

Last year, his parents sold their house so he could go further, could reach another level she couldn’t quite see. He moved in with her and her family when he wasn’t racing, and for a few months, it was as if they were kids again, laughing late at night, plotting his future as he spilled out every dream he’d ever had. That was the year she started imagining he might finally see her the way she saw him.

But he didn’t.

Instead, Franco saw everything she wasn’t: the girl from another world, polished and magnetic, with a face and laugh that gleamed like the trophies he’d already started to collect. She caught him, snared him in a way that didn’t even seem real.

It was this girl—her name slipped off his tongue so easily when he let it—who went to the big events with him, who stood beside him when photographers crowded around after his races, a reminder that he’d already begun to belong somewhere else. She wanted to hate her, this stranger who was everything she wasn’t, but what good would it do?

It was easy to tell herself she was Franco’s friend. His best friend. The one who’d been there since the beginning, the one who stayed up with him on those late nights when all his dreams felt heavy enough to drown him. She’d learned to wear it like armour—the friend, the constant, the steady hand on his shoulder when his voice cracked and his confidence faltered.

No one else knew the small things about him, the things that made him human. Like how he had a superstition about not putting on his helmet until the very last second before a race. Or that his favorite thing in the world was the sound of tires on wet pavement, a soft hiss of rain and speed. Or that he used to dream of buying back the house his parents sold and giving them something better.

The nights she couldn’t sleep, she’d replay those memories to herself, like scenes from a film she’d seen too many times. They were pieces of a person she’d built up in her mind so completely, so painstakingly, that she sometimes forgot he wasn’t hers. Not really.

Now, Franco was leaving again, but this time it was different. The call had come last night, and she’d been there when he answered it, watching the way his face shifted, lit up with something she hadn’t seen since they were kids. He’d been invited to join a Formula 1 team��a chance to race against the best, a dream finally realised.

And she’d been the first person he told. “I’m in,” Franco had whispered to her after he hung up, his voice hoarse with disbelief. “I’m actually in.”

He’d pulled her into a hug, and for a fleeting moment, she let herself believe this moment was for her too—that she was a part of the dream. But when he finally let go, she could already feel him slipping away, his mind racing miles ahead, far beyond anything she could reach.

And now here they were, standing on the same dusty road they’d grown up on, only this time the road was empty. She could almost see his silhouette against the horizon, an outline that belonged to no one, not even her.

“So… this is it, huh?” she murmured, trying to keep her voice steady, her hands stuffed deep into her jacket pockets. She knew this was her job now: to be strong, supportive, even as she felt her chest tightening with everything she’d left unsaid.

Franco glanced over at her and smiled, that careless, easy grin she’d fallen in love with a thousand times. “Yeah. This is it.”

There was a part of her that wanted to say something, to tell him what it felt like to lose him, to have spent all these years beside him only to watch him walk away. But she didn’t, couldn’t. Because he needed her to be his friend, his rock. And that’s exactly what she would be, until the moment he disappeared from sight.

“You’ll be amazing out there,” she said softly, swallowing hard against the ache in her throat.

“Thanks,” Franco replied, his gaze drifting to the horizon, to whatever was waiting for him. He didn’t see her watching him, didn’t notice the way she tried to memorise every detail of his face, the way she gripped the fabric of her jacket so tightly her knuckles turned white.

Because that’s what she was: the person who stayed behind, the person who would cheer for him no matter how far he went, even if it took him far beyond her reach.

His first race was in Monza.

And Franco had made sure she’d be there.

The roar of engines echoed across Monza, the air thick with the metallic scent of fuel and adrenaline. She stood just outside the paddock, watching the mechanics scurry between cars, drivers in their fireproof suits weaving through a sea of engineers and cameras. It was Franco’s first Formula 1 race, the one he’d been chasing since the days they’d spent on that dusty street back home. He’d called her a week ago, saying he’d arranged for her ticket, that she had to be there, that it wouldn’t feel right without her.

She glanced down at her pass, fumbling with it between her fingers, her eyes darting over the crowds, wondering if she’d see him. But instead, she saw her—Franco’s girlfriend, standing just a few paces away, a beacon in the busy paddock with her polished, perfect smile.

She thought about turning around, slipping into the crowd where she could cheer Franco on from a distance, as she’d always done. But then Franco’s girlfriend caught her eye, waved her over with an easy, welcoming smile, and suddenly it was too late.

“Hi! You’re Franco’s best friend, no?” she said brightly, as if she’d been waiting for this meeting. “Franco’s told me all about you.”

She managed a smile, trying not to let her surprise show. “Nice to meet you,” she replied, her voice steady but her heart churning. This girl looked so effortlessly perfect—too perfect, really. She wanted to find something in her to resent, a crack, a flaw, some hint that would make her presence easier to bear. But the girl’s smile was warm, even gentle, and there wasn’t a hint of cruelty behind her eyes.

“You know,” she continued, turning to look at the track where the cars were being readied. “Franco always talks about how you’ve been there from the start. He says he wouldn’t be here without you.”

It was a sentiment she’d waited years to hear, but hearing it now, coming from someone else, made it feel empty, hollow. She nodded politely. “He’s worked so hard for this. I just… wanted to support him however I could.”

The girl looked at her, a spark of admiration in her eyes. “That’s really special. I think it means a lot to him, having someone who’s known him for so long.” She hesitated, her fingers twisting a ring on her hand. “I think he’s planning to introduce me to his family soon.”

A prickle of something sharp and painful settled in her chest. She managed to keep her face composed, even as the words sank in. “That’s great,” she said, injecting her voice with encouragement. “That sounds really important to him.”

The girl smiled, her gaze drifting as if she could see the future taking shape right in front of her. “Yeah… he said he wanted to wait until we’d been together for a year. He’s so thoughtful like that, you know? He really wants things to be right before introducing me to his family.” She looked at her, a touch of gratitude in her expression. “I think he got that from you—from seeing how much his family means to you.”

It was a kind thing to say, too kind. She wanted to hate her for it, but she couldn’t. There was nothing false about the way this girl looked at her, no jealousy or possessiveness. She was just… nice. The kind of nice that made her ache with the unfairness of it all, because it made it impossible to hate her, even though she desperately wanted to.

“Well, his family will love you,” she said, meaning it even as the words felt like they were tearing something fragile inside her. “He deserves to be happy.”

The girl gave her a soft, almost sympathetic smile, a smile that made her wonder if maybe she already knew—if she could see right through her, if she understood the look in her eyes, the one she tried so hard to hide.

As the engines started up in the distance, the girl reached out and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Thank you,” she said, her voice warm. “For being there for him, for being his friend. I can tell he’s lucky to have you in his life.”

She returned the smile, feeling a heaviness settle deep within her. Franco was lucky, that was true—but not in the way she’d once dreamed he might be. He had everything now: the career, the future, the love of a woman who deserved him in ways she never could.

And as the cars roared to life on the track, she stood there beside his girlfriend, feeling like a silent ghost on the edges of his new world. She would cheer for him, just as she always had, but now she knew exactly where she stood—at a distance, a quiet fixture in his past, cheering him on from the shadows as he sped toward a future that had no place for her.

The race had ended hours ago, and the hotel was hushed, the lights dimmed in the halls. She was alone in her room, her suitcase half-packed, clothes folded neatly on the bed. She’d changed her flight back to Argentina; she would be gone by morning.

The evening had been a whirlwind—Franco finishing in P12 on his debut race, his crew and his girlfriend embracing him, his face beaming in a way she’d only ever dreamed of seeing up close. She’d stood in the background, clapping politely, just another face in the crowd, happy for him but feeling her heart splinter with each cheer.

A quiet knock broke her thoughts. She looked up, heart catching in her throat. Franco was standing in the doorway, his face lit with a warm smile.

“Hey,” he said, stepping inside, his hands in his pockets. “I was hoping you’d still be up.”

“Yeah, just… packing,” she murmured, glancing at the clothes on her bed. “I’ve got an early flight back.”

He frowned, like he hadn’t expected her to be leaving so soon. “I thought you’d stay a bit longer,” he said, a hint of disappointment in his voice. “It meant a lot to me that you were here, you know. I’m not sure I could have done it without you.”

She swallowed, trying to muster up a smile. “I’m proud of you, Fran. Really. You deserve all of this.”

He gave a modest shrug, his usual humility shining through. “It’s crazy, right? Like, it still doesn’t feel real.”

She nodded, unsure of what to say next, her hands clenching as she watched him, the words fighting to break free. But before she could speak, he went on, his face lighting up with excitement.

“Oh—and I wanted to tell you. Over the summer break, I’m planning to bring my girlfriend—” he gestured to the wall, where his girlfriend was probably just sitting in their shared room—“back to Argentina. She’s going to meet my family. I think they’ll love her.”

The words hit her like a punch to the gut. She felt herself unraveling, her heart breaking open. She couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“Why her?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Franco blinked, looking at her, startled. “What do you mean?”

“Why her, Franco?” She repeated, her voice trembling, louder this time. “Why not me? What is it about me that you don’t find appealing? Am I too loud? Too… different? Do I not fit into your world somehow?” Her voice cracked, the weight of her words finally spilling out. “What is it about me that you don’t love, that you love about her?”

For a moment, he just stared, taken aback, as if he was seeing her for the first time, really seeing her. But his eyes were filled with confusion, like he was trying to make sense of what she was saying.

“Wait—” he started, his voice halting, uncertain. “I… I didn’t know you felt—”

She cut him off, her voice fierce, raw. “I loved you first, Franco.”

He went silent, the words settling between them like stones in water, sinking deeper and deeper.

“What?” he whispered, his voice almost as quiet as hers had been.

“I loved you first,” she repeated, her voice shaking. She could feel the tears gathering, but she didn’t want to cry, not now, not here. “Since we were kids, since you were that crazy kid racing down dirt roads, I loved you. I’ve been there every step, every race, every victory, every failure. I was the one who held your dreams when they felt too heavy to carry. I loved you first.”

She watched him, waiting, hoping for some sign of understanding, some glimmer of the love she’d imagined so many times. But his eyes were wide with shock, his face torn between pity and discomfort.

He shook his head slowly, the words seeming to catch in his throat before he finally managed to say them. “But… I love her.”

The words were a knife, sharp and relentless, cutting through the last fragments of hope she’d held on to.

She let out a hollow, broken laugh, her vision blurring as she looked away, unable to meet his eyes. “I know,” she whispered. “I know you do.” She took a shaky breath, her voice trembling with a rawness she couldn’t contain. “But it doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

For a moment, they stood there in silence, the weight of years pressing down between them. She could see the guilt etched into his expression, his mouth opening as if he wanted to say something to make it better. But there was nothing he could say—nothing that could change the reality that he had chosen someone else, someone who wasn’t her.

“I never meant to… I didn’t want to hurt you,” he said softly, reaching out as if to comfort her, but she stepped back, her arms wrapping around herself protectively.

“It’s fine,” she said, forcing the words out, feeling them scrape against her throat. “I… I just needed you to know. I needed you to know that I was here, that I’ve always been here. But now…” She trailed off, her voice breaking, the words she’d held for so long finally running dry.

She looked at him one last time, memorising the shape of his face, the boy she had loved and lost long before he ever realised. Then sat back down on the floor and continued packing, folding each piece of clothing and putting it away in silence, each one a silent goodbye.

When she noticed he still hadn’t left, that he was just watching him, she looked up at him. “I hope she makes you happy, Franco,” she whispered, her voice barely a breath. “Really. I hope she gives you everything you’ve ever dreamed of.”

She looked back down not wanting to catch Franco’s look of pity and closed her suitcase as he walked out of her room.

Walking out of her life for what felt like forever.

It was the peak of summer, the air heavy with heat and the scents of wildflowers and sun-baked earth drifting through the open kitchen window. She was sitting at the table, picking absently at a bowl of sliced fruit, half-listening as her mother hummed while tidying up, when her mother paused and gave her a look she couldn’t quite decipher.

“I almost forgot to mention,” her mother said, wiping her hands on a towel, “Franco’s coming back to town soon. Said he’ll be here next week with his girlfriend, so they can meet his family.”

She looked down, letting the words sink in, feeling a familiar tightness bloom in her chest. She hadn’t spoken to Franco in weeks. Not since that night in Monza. Not since she’d finally let herself say all the things she’d bottled up for years, only to walk away feeling like she’d left a part of herself behind.

“Oh,” she murmured, keeping her tone as light as she could. “That’s… that’s good. His parents will be thrilled to meet her.”

Her mother looked at her carefully, her gaze soft but probing, as if she could sense the ache that lingered beneath her daughter’s casual words. “I thought maybe you’d be excited too,” her mother ventured, her voice gentle. “It’s been a long time since you’ve seen him.”

She forced a small smile, looking down at her hands as she fiddled with her napkin. “Actually, I was thinking about going to Buenos Aires for a bit. Just a week or two with Tía Blanca. I’ve been meaning to go see her.”

Her mother tilted her head, her expression somewhere between sympathy and exasperation. “You can’t keep running from this, mi amor,” she said, her voice tender but firm.

Her shoulders tensed, and for a moment, she didn’t know what to say. She knew her mother was right; every time she thought about seeing Franco, the old wound seemed to ache again, still raw, still fresh, no matter how many miles or weeks lay between them. But she wasn’t ready to face him yet. Not when the sight of him with someone else would only reopen everything she’d been trying so hard to let go of.

“I know I can’t keep running,” she said finally, her voice barely a whisper, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. “But I can now. And I can cope with that.”

Her mother sighed softly, reaching out to place a warm hand over hers. “Mi amor, one day, you’re going to have to stop protecting yourself from the things that hurt you. It’s the only way to truly move forward.”

She nodded, her throat tight, unable to meet her mother’s eyes. She knew her mother was right. But all she could think of was that moment in Monza, the echo of Franco’s words—But I love her. Words that still stung like salt on an open wound, even now.

“Maybe one day,” she whispered, more to herself than to her mother. But for now, Buenos Aires felt like the safest place to be—far from the memories, far from the impossible hope she still carried in her heart.

Her mother squeezed her hand gently before letting go, her silence filled with understanding. “Then go,” she said, with a small, knowing smile. “But you’ll know when it’s time to come home.”

And as she sat there, her heart heavy with everything she couldn’t say, she only hoped her mother was right.

A few days later, everything was sorted and she was ready to go to her aunt’s place.

She swung her bag over her shoulder, taking a deep breath as she stepped out of the house, the warm morning sun casting long shadows across the familiar dirt road. She was just two steps away from the car when she spotted it—Franco’s car, parked at the edge of the drive.

Her heart lurched, her mind scrambling, and she muttered under her breath, “No, no, no… please, not now.” She moved quickly toward her own car, fumbling for her keys as if speed alone could make her invisible. But before she could open the door, she heard his voice behind her.

“Oye, there you are!” he called, a wide, relieved smile on his face as he jogged over, his voice bright with the kind of joy she hadn’t heard from him in years. “I was hoping I’d run into you before you left. It’s been too long.”

She barely managed to keep her face neutral, clutching her bag as if it could shield her. “Yeah, well, I’ve got to get on the road. Don’t want to get stuck in traffic,” she said, opening the boot to toss her bag inside. She avoided looking at him, focusing on the small tasks—closing the boot, brushing off her hands, reaching for the door.

He took a step closer, his hand resting on the car door as if to keep her from leaving. “I’ve missed you,” he said, his tone softening. “You… you didn’t answer my calls after Monza. I didn’t know if… I just wanted to see you.”

She swallowed hard, glancing away as she forced herself to stay calm, the last words she wanted to hear sitting heavy between them. “That’s great, Franco,” she said, barely meeting his gaze, her words quick and mechanical. “But I really should get going.”

“Wait—” He looked at her, his expression slipping from surprise to concern. “Can we talk? Please?”

But she was already climbing into the car, her hands gripping the steering wheel as she turned the ignition. She couldn’t bear to stay, couldn’t bear to let him see her break again. “Take care, Franco,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper as she closed the door.

Before he could say another word, she pulled out, the tires kicking up dust as she drove away. In the rearview mirror, she saw him standing in the drive, watching her go, his face a mix of confusion and something close to sadness. She looked away, swallowing the lump in her throat as she focused on the road ahead.

But the further she drove, the harder it became to ignore the weight of all the memories tied to each familiar street and turn. Every signpost, every curve of the road reminded her of him—their childhood spent racing bikes and kicking up dust, lazy afternoons wandering these streets, dreaming of the future he was now living.

Tears blurred her vision as she drove, the memories rushing in like floodwaters, filling her mind with images she’d tried so hard to push aside: Franco at fourteen, laughing as he beat her in yet another race down the hill; Franco, younger still, sharing a quiet moment in the field just beyond town, his eyes bright with the dreams they’d both carried.

She wiped at her eyes, her heart aching as each memory pulled her further into the past, a past where they’d been inseparable, a past where she hadn’t yet realised what loving him truly meant. She could almost hear his laughter, feel his presence beside her, as if he were still the boy she’d known, before life had pulled them down different paths.

By the time she reached her aunt’s building in Buenos Aires, the weight of the drive had started to lift, the city’s pulse a welcome distraction from the quiet countryside. She parked and took a moment to gather herself, feeling the ache from earlier settle into something softer, something that no longer felt as urgent or raw.

Just as she opened the car door, a familiar voice called out.

“¡Mira! Is that really you?”

She looked up, startled, and felt her heart lift slightly. Standing by the curb was Angelo, an old friend from summers in the city. He had the same easy smile, his hair a little longer, his build a little broader, but his presence felt exactly as she remembered—warm and solid.

“Angelo!” She smiled, the weight on her shoulders easing just a little more.

He walked over, giving her a friendly hug before reaching into the car to help with her bag. “Let me help. You’re here for a visit?”

“Just two weeks,” she replied, trying to keep her voice steady as she glanced up at the familiar apartment building, a place that held a lifetime of summers, laughter, and memories untouched by the pain she’d left behind.

“Well, then,” he said, grinning as he hefted her bag easily, “we’ve got time to catch up.” His tone was light, but there was something else in his eyes, a quiet warmth that made her feel unexpectedly hopeful.

She followed him up the steps, comforted by his familiarity and the steady, unhurried way he moved, like he knew every corner of this building as well as she did. As they reached her aunt’s door, she felt her pulse slow, steadied by his presence.

The door opened before they could knock, her aunt’s familiar face breaking into a radiant smile. “There you are, mi niña!” She hugged her tightly, then turned to Angelo with a knowing smile. “And look who brought you all the way to the door! Angelo, you’re a sweetheart.”

He grinned, shrugging. “Anything for your family, señora.”

They all laughed, and for the first time in months, she felt a genuine ease settle over her, as if she’d left more than just a town behind—she’d left the weight of everything she’d been carrying.

As she glanced between her aunt and Angelo, the ache that had gripped her chest all day faded. The streets of Buenos Aires were bright outside the door, warm and humming with life. She breathed it in, feeling herself begin to let go of everything that had haunted her on that long drive.

Because maybe now that she was here, she could forget Franco.

to be continued…?

944 notes · View notes

moonieandi · 4 months ago

Text

snapshots pt. 3 | stanley pines x f!reader

summary: a quick look through concerning the early months of your life “married” to stanley pines, particularly centered around moments on the couch

warnings (TW): mdni, contains mature/suggestive content, swearing, alcohol consumption, mentions of drug use

tags: mature/suggestive content (in act iii), fluff, early relationship described, pining, affection

notes: please note that there is heavily implied/suggestive/mature content in act iii of this posting (after the second break)- if you do not wish to interact with this type of content i swear to you you can completely skip it if you like, i attempt to not tie TOO much significance to the written scene- and if you would prefer that the postings stray away from this kind of content i will attempt to better balance it in the future! i am in no shape or form a very “smutty” writer (mainly bc i have never written it), so i hope the scene isnt like… terrible ya know lol (also i don’t consider it much for “smut”- i am def using said word very loosly). annnnyyywayyys hope you enjoy and as always my dms are open for suggestions in the future and general conversation and encouragement! enjoy!

also to note! I believe the story is best read in order- i put certain dependences on certain words and bring descriptions back to really solidify the importance of certain scenes/interactions ! but completely up to you, lol

edit 8/27/24: hello! below i have linked the up to date masterlist for this series- thank you for reading, hope you enjoy!

word count: 4.5k

| masterlist | part iv |

She had caught him sleeping on the couch in the early heat of June.

They had a late night on the couch, discussing Ford’s margin notes and rewatching The Price is Wrong. Stan had a certain affinity for price matching, and she was more than a little stunned to learn of it the first couple of months they resided in the shack together.

She just didn’t expect this 30-year-old man to know the price of most common household appliances.

After his divulgence last month, in which he had confided a little bit of his background in sales, she began to piece together that although Stan considered himself a conman in every way but words, she considered it pure brilliance.

So she quickly got used to late-night T.V. shows, as they discussed next steps back and forth, with Stan interrupting conversations to yell out extremely accurate prices at the small box T.V. in front of the couch. It had grown on her, actually, and had turned rather… endearing.

If not also incredibly hilarious, as he was so passionate about his own accuracy he usually forgot his volume, and sometimes took to ranting at her.

“Hun! Hun! This is a load of malarkey I tell ya! That vacuum price is way too high! It don’t even come with added nozzle attachments!”

She would laugh, and he would revel in making her do so.

They had concluded the night in a similar fashion, and she had stumbled up to her bedroom. The first one on the right from the stairs. But he had lingered in the living room, muttering about tidying up some soda cans and taking the trash out quickly.

She had shrugged it off, giving her goodnight, and made her way up the stairs. She had fallen asleep so quickly, she hadn’t heard the usual meandering steps of Stan as he made for his own room across the hall from her.

She almost never woke up before him, another thing that surprised her. She figured he was the type to doze in and out in the early morning, but he seemed to be quick to rise and even quicker to make a pot of coffee, usually stumbling down the stairs thirty minutes before she could manage to roll out of bed.

So she thought it odd to look down the stairs and not see the usual kitchen light on, and the usual grumble of the shitty coffee machine either.

She found him snoring on his back, the throw blanket she had brought with her half on half off him. It had grown a little muggy in the shack, due to the distinct lack of central air, but Stan’s solution seemed to be very simple.

Just wear less clothes.

Something that wouldn’t disturb her in the slightest, if it were not for, well… Stan.

She was a scientist, a usual logical thinker, and only slightly prude (due to her upbringing), but she was no idiot, and she knew the man she was cohabitating with was attractive.

I mean, he was also funny- made her laugh more times than she could count. He was oddly sincere for his age and even more oddly protective. He was flippantly affectionate and even more flippantly kind to her.

And he was also shirtless.

Something she takes note of instantly, instinctually. Whipping her head to make for the kitchen, and trying to forget the curve of his broad shoulders and the slight swell of his stomach. The smattering of dark hair on his chest all the way down to the crisp edge of the boxers she had folded two days ago.

Coffee, coffee coffee!

She didn’t make as good of a cup as he did, she had never had to before. Something he scoffed at, but quickly took to doing himself. He made it every morning, now. Always up before her, with her mug waiting for her by her worn kitchen chair.

She turned to the stove instead, moving pans and turning on the burner. She’d make breakfast for them instead of her shitty burnt coffee special. Pulling eggs and bacon out of the small fridge she went to work.

The smell woke him up, and she noted his groggy fumbling to redress himself. Glancing out the archway from kitchen to living room she watched him pass to the stairs, still shirtless. He takes the stairs two at a time, back up to his room to retrieve new clothes she presumed.

He returns in minutes, in typical fashion it took him not too long to get ready in the morning.

He walks in, still stretching, with hair muddled from sleep. A pair of work jeans that had seen a lot of love in the past month, and a shirt that was quickly growing too tight around his arms and shoulders. She decided to ignore that sliver of stomach that peaked out when he raised his arms a little too high, otherwise, the bacon would burn.

He made his way to the coffee machine, beginning the usual morning routine as it spurred to life. Moving to the sink he began washing their shared mugs.

Breakfast was always a little quiet like they both couldn’t be bothered to open their mouths beyond sating their appetite. They still moved the same, instinctually and without words. Falling into their unassigned assigned seats, Stan moving to grab her feet and drag them across his lap, while she moved the salt and pepper between them both. She always reached across to his plate, grabbing his toast to butter first and then moving to her own.

She had decided to interrupt their usual silence this morning, looking across to Stan as he fumbled with the morning paper. He always went straight to the comics in the morning, hoping to pick up on a joke to read to her that day, hoping to make her laugh first before anything else in the morning.

But she had thrown a wrench in his usual plan (that she still hadn’t picked up on yet).

“Why were you on the couch?” She asked, biting around her toast.

“It’s cooler down here hun.”

“I know heat rises Stan, but the sun rises on my side of the house in the morning. It ain’t that hot upstairs yet. Is there something wrong with your bed?”

When first rearranging rooms he had resolved to take Stanford's old one. He didn’t want her to have to live in the shell his brother had left behind. His more intimate nick-nacks and sticky notes had been scattered around what is now Stan’s room. Along with his random mismatched socks and sweater vests, and his cologne. And he didn’t want to think about having her live around the last remnants of Stanford, because she got this weird look in her eyes already when she retraced his brother's writings and he couldn’t stand it. He had lived with Stanford for eighteen years, and sometimes entering the room was at least therapeutic.

Except Stanford always had a weird affinity for sleeping on the ground.

It’s the main reason Stanley even had the top bunk during their preteen years to begin with, because Stanford would find himself stiff on the floor most mornings. His brother had a tendency to doze away on any hard surface he could rest his head on, starting at his desk most nights, moving to his bed, but usually rolling off it in favor of the floor. Stanford was… not one for restful sleep. And his hard ass mattress showed it.

“Ya.” Stan muttered behind the newspaper. “‘Ford trying to fuck my back up from another dimension.”

“You can have my bed?” She offered up her own mattress, one she had splurged on with her own money. He still remembers her playing Goldilocks that day at the flash mattress sale she had circled in the classifieds the week before.

He shook his head at the memory, them both laying side by side on each bed as she had discussed odds and ends. She had argued that she needed approximately 5 minutes on each mattress to sink into each, and that she couldn’t be intrinsically thinking about her comfort when doing so. So she had him lay beside her and talk to her, as she flipped from her back to her side testing out her comfort and considered the gravelness of his voice. Until she had landed on the right bed, the tenth one, declaring it her perfect match as she looked over at him beside her.

“Nah, I can’t take your perfect match, hun, your one true love.” He joked, folding up the newspaper with the comics up, setting it aside in favor of looking at her. “Besides my bed is fine for now. I just… sometimes I like being close to the door.”

She hummed. “I can rearrange the living room today? Do you want to move your bed downstairs?” She hadn’t even questioned it, still searching for something to sate his comfort.

He laughed at this, he would never let her rearrange things without him and she knew it. He had hovered something harsh those first three months, moving around most things for her as she pointed from object to object.

“No, no.” He shook his head. “I just, I ain’t used to sleeping in a room without a straight way out of it yet.” He admits, munching on his bacon, shrugging like he was discussing the weather. “So sometimes I just, sleep on the couch. No big deal.”

She sits back in her seat, shock marring her face. He had spent so long hopping from place to place she had forgotten he hadn’t had a place to call home in a decade- besides his car. Something that may have four walls, but had no heart.

Hotels, to cars, to floors of shelters, he had slept in questionable places for far too long, and in some cases Stanford’s room sometimes felt like a new prison, or at least reminded him of a certain Colombian one. Except this one contained taunting memories and a stupid amount of sweaters.

It hurt more, to open his door to find hers closed, for some reason. He didn’t like the thought of her trapped either, nestled in a part of the house he couldn’t get to. But he didn’t know how to voice this to her without sounding mad in a way. Or obsessive maybe.

She digs her toes into the junction of his ribs, grabbing his attention. She’s smiling across from him, and standing before he can ask why. Grabbing his hand, she pulls him up the stairs to their own parallel doors, not even hesitating to walk through the door Stanford used to call his own.

She’s muttering under her breath as he stands in the doorway, landlocked by witnessing her in this exact space for some reason. She moves to the window, opening it all the way and fumbling with the screen. She gets it off and makes to climb out the window before he can protest.

“If you want a way out, you got it right here!” She grunts, footing her way through to the shingled roof, his protests falling on deaf ears.

“Get the fuck back in here!” He leans out, making to grab her. “Ain’t no way this shack's roof is any good!”

She prances around, slightly mocking him by moving away from his waving arm. “Stan! It’s fine!” She laughs, the sun shining on her figure. Suddenly serious she stops, hands on her hips. “Seriously, if you need a way out, keep the window open, okay?”

She crawls back through the window a moment later, using Stan’s hand as a weight as she balances back on the wooden floor.

Still serious, she continues, “Stan if you need to keep the window open, you can keep the door open also if you feel like it.”

She smiles like she has a brilliant idea, moving across the hall she opens her own room to display her own mess of things. “I can keep mine open also if it helps.”

How the fuck had she read his mind? He was continually dumbfounded by her unquantifiable amounts of patience she had for him. Like it was a reserve she tapped into, to specifically deal with all his dumb bullshit. He would let it pile in the back of his head, but she’d reach back in and shake him awake, present him with a solution, and he forgets himself in his need to question “why?”.

He had taken too long to respond, and she stands in the hall, hands wringing her too large t-shirt and looking surprisingly bashful. “Is this okay?” She asks, is this what you need? Vying for his approval as she continues. “Because really I don’t mind you sleeping on the couch, I really don’t, you can keep doing it if you like! Really! I just… I just…”

Unspoken between them, he already knew. She meant well, she meant the best actually. She wanted him to be comfortable, here, with her. Wanted him to stop moving from place to place in the house because no where felt right because it all felt like a trap. Wanted him to know the four walls they shared could never be a prison, and that she didn’t want him to hop around anymore searching and clawing his way out of it. To not have to Goldilocks around the house, because across the hall from her had to be just right.

And it was. Because she had read his mind as usual, and he was almost tired of being absolutely astounded by it.

He nodded, smiling across from her, his confirmation in the squeeze he gave her hand as he reached for her again, and in the ruffling of her hair he gave her as he slipped from the house later. Making his way outside to his work, somehow lighter than usual.

They ended up on the couch most weekends, or at least most Saturday nights.

She had insisted, against his better nature, that it was not appropriate to drink yourself into a stupor on a weekday. So he had gotten used to the shared moments on the weekend, routinely looking forward to shitty VHS movies and even shittier boxed wine and beer.

She laughed at fucking everything when she was drunk. He almost wondered if she had ever been high, or if she even needed to be. He might as well be a stand up comedian most weekends, because if he thought he had a great audience Monday through Friday, well he had an even more endearing one on the weekends.

It was a hot July night, and she had scoffed at his light beer that resided in the back of the fridge. Tisking at him as she danced around the kitchen, pouring sweet red wine into mugs (their only cups), and shooing him back to the couch. Only wine in the summer, only wine when it was this hot.

And it was hot, and humid, unsurprising for Oregon really. So hot in fact, that she had decided pjs were appropriate attire for the night, luckily for him. So he shed his jeans in favor of loose boxers and a well worn shirt. Unluckily for him, she had decided upon much the same wardrobe, which was odd for her and only uncomfortable for sober him.

But he wasn’t sober anymore, and he had to admit she was rather enchanting hunched over on the couch, laughing at his shitty jokes with one of his old band t-shirts on, shorts that she made no indication of even owning, bagging up around the tops of her thighs.

He had been intoxicated on numerous amounts of things, nothing, of course, too hard or addictive per say, but it’d be the first time he was this drunk on wine.

And it was… different.

He had scoffed at the movie she chose originally tonight. She always chose the second movie, and he chose the first. They had a habit of in depth discussing during films, especially when more intoxicated.

But he had never been so incredibly invested in a romantic comedy in his entire life, he blamed his company and the alcohol.

“I can’t believe that he thinks he stands a chance with the likes of her! She’s sacrificed so much! Her jobs on the line here and he won’t even consider marrying her for a green card!” He yelled, just about jumping at the screen. This man in the movie was ridiculous, demanding things from his assistant and throwing her away the next.

She ran back into the room, mugs full with their next round. She had become the bartender tonight, waiting on him and grabbing snacks when he’d ask in exchange for rubbing her aching shoulders.

“What did I miss!” She rushed back, handing him his mug and taking her seat back in front of him on the floor, her throw blanket being used as a cushion.

He takes a sip, setting the mug aside her own on the floor and moving back to place his hands on her tense shoulders.

“She’s being kicked out of the country right in front of her boss and he ain’t gonna do anything about it! She basically does everything for this man, why doesn’t he see he needs her?”

She groans below him, her head rocking back as she takes her own drink. “Are we gonna discuss the intricates of them having a relationship though? I love marriage of convenience, don’t get me wrong, but that’s her boss! Isn’t there a weird power dynamic here?”

“Oh ya!” He agrees, nodding along as his fingers began to dig into her muscles. “We gotta talk about that because if this gets creepy we gotta pick out a different one. He’s already pissing me off!”

She looks up at him, eyes glowing with an idea. Enchanted, she moves away from him, crawling to the cabinet beside the T.V., and he really swears that he tries to look away. But he also reasons that it’ll be a while before he gets the chance to see her in shorts again. And fuck.

She turns back, a new VHS in hand. “This!” She exclaims. “Now this is my favorite rom-com!”

A shitty picture is well worn on the front of the movie sleeve, a VHS he doesn’t recognize from the donation bin sitting in her hands. She must have brought it with her, and she must have had it for a while.

She crawls forward, movie in hand and a bright, flushed smile on her face.

“Please, please, please Stanley! This one!” She all but yelled as she leaned up into him. His legs had already been parted to accommodate her sitting in front of him, but now were warm with her torso between them, as she crawled into his lap, movie still in hand and smile still on her face. She leaned up onto his chest, a fake pout on her lips as she looked up at him.

He forgot himself for a minute, excusing her silently for calling him Stanley in her drunken plee. His hand finding her waist as he answered.

“Okay, okay!” He snorted. “Better be a better love interest because this guy sucks.”

He missed her as soon as she left, but his heart still felt something sick when she yelled victoriously on the ground, hand raised in celebration, movie clutched to her chest. Rolling from her current position to the VHS player and popping out the current horrendous movie. All the while she giggled, and he followed in much the same manner. Laughing while running his hand through his hair, trying to soothe himself to forget her warmth.

She crawled back to him (fuck) settling back into his knees from her position on the ground. The title screen flashed, but he was much too busy watching it illuminate her face. Heart sick again when she leaned her head all the way back, hair across his knees and thighs, she smiles up at him, a thank you on her lips. Clutching his mug in her hands, bringing it to her lips for a sip before passing it up to him too.

And when he carried her to bed that night he wondered when the tight sickness would leave him. He never closed either of their doors.

It didn’t happen like this, that night.

Not from what he could remember anyway, but he felt too groggy to care about accuracy and too intoxicated by the image of her to care much for what was right.

Her hands had continued up his thighs from her place knelt in front of him, his back hot against the living room couch. She had climbed up on top of him, creeping up to sit on his knees and thighs like she had been there before. Her smile turned sweet into something twisted as she leaned in close to his face, the closest she had ever gotten to it. Whispering something between the heat between the two of them, something lost on him, as he tried to lean closer, tried to bridge the gap between their chests, aching to feel her against the very front of him.

He knew it was different because she had never worn this in front of him before, at least willingly. He had caught her in the middle of the night, stumbling from her open bedroom door to the bathroom down the hall, panties striped and endearing on her ass. He had seen them in the washer, had seen her fold them and tuck them away. And she was in them, sitting on his fucking lap.

His hands made for her, reaching behind her and dragging her close, his fingers edging the back of the band of her striped panties.

She gasps like she does when she’s happy for him, always jumping from her position on the couch cheering along with him when he gets a stupid fucking The Price is Wrong answer right.

And it’s how he imagined it, fuck, how he was currently dreaming of her noises. In bits and pieces he could remember, his brain scrambling to paint an image of her wanting him.

Her hands edge along the back of his head, running through his long hair, and tracing to the front along his jaw. Mouth open, her fingers glide along the bottom of his lip, teasing.

She whispers again, closer now. Her chest heaving against his own, her ass waits precariously positioned above right where he dreamt of her being. Right along the space he places her feet every morning, right where he thought she may kill him.

He catches it this time, between them. Her voice wavering like it had that day in the car when she had apologized for calling him him. He thought of begging for it, allowing her to say his name, but she had read his mind like she always fucking managed to do.

“Please, Stanley.”

He had surged forward like his own tidal wave, meeting her in the hot space between them. But he could only imagine a kiss with her, dream of it here.

He imagined it slow, and building. Imagined her hesitation and the pout of her lip between his fucking teeth, imagined her moan when he eventually came back for more.

Her hands pulled at his fucking hair, the only time she had placed them there to harm, and he groaned as she pulled him forward, meeting again in the middle of the heat they shared there on the couch. She moaned, her hips rushing to his own, making a new heat between them.

The friction between them was the same as the kiss, slow and building. Grinding herself in the curve of his lap, right where they both needed each other. Every pass slightly faster, every groan from her more imagined, more unreal.

The pressure felt real though, and her fingers in his hair felt even more so. His head thrown back on the couch, he looked down his nose at her, a groan leaving his throat as she makes a home in his shoulder, as her hips cause waves against his fucking lap.

Her breath is hot on his neck, something real, and her echoing noises move up his shoulder to his ear and it makes him hotter than he could imagine. Her groans come to a precipice, getting higher in octave and volume and she thinks to fucking bite him there, right on his shoulder.

The image she makes shakes him, his hands remembering where they are on her ass and hips, as he makes to work them harder, to somehow bring her closer and harder to the crook of his boxers. Her teeth nestle into him, and it makes him groan more, her hot breath and aching moans reverb off his skin back to him.

It sends him reeling forward, his own head rushing off the back of the couch, groaning in heat, moving in blind passion. His head rests against the top of her own, his big hands digging into the fat of her behind, finger creeping in through the top of her panties.

“Fuck.” He groans between them. “Fuck, honey.” His hips canting up, her moans echoing again, her teeth unlaching, like she can’t ground herself to him anymore, because all the movement is him now. He’s fucking using her, the pressure hot, and she peels back to look at him, a heat in her eyes he can’t have imagined. He must have seen it before, marring her face. He had, he swears, seen her with this heat in her eyes before.

He was using her.

It stops just as abruptly as it began, and he wakes to his discomfort. His room is cool despite the morning sun, the curtains by his windows billowing out with September wind. His door wide open, and his hand curled around something that no longer needed relief.

His other hand, clutching his hair in a fist. The back of his head tender from the pressure, and his fingers heavy from sleep.

He got up quicker than usual, his heart still pounding oddly in his chest as he attempted to catch a breath he didn’t remember losing. On his way out of his room, dresssed for the day, he peaks into her parallel room, her door wide open like it was every day now.

He groans low, she’s wearing the fucking stripes.

He tries not to think about it the rest of the day, tries not to be disgusted with himself, but his chest aches something odd and his stride is somehow uneven for the rest of the day. His heart carries something sickly when he sees her that day, and she pretends it doesn’t hurt he’s oddly quiet that day, or that he doesn’t read her the morning comics like usual.

She thinks it has something to do with how flushed he is, when she catches his staring that evening, as they sit beside each other on the couch, T.V. echoing in the background.

#gravity falls #gravity falls fanfiction #stanley pines x reader #stan pines x reader #stanford pines #stan pines #grunkle stan #gravity falls imagine #smut

502 notes · View notes

sugrhigh · 5 months ago

Text

CANT SLEEP - ( c.s )

REQUESTED**

summary- chris stumbles across your instagram late at night, unable to contain himself from participating in some self pleasure. but when he accidentally likes an old post, things get even steamier.

warnings- onlyfans!reader x subby-ish!chris, phone (?) sex, pretty much smut with a little plot don’t say i didn’t warn you

a/n: say you can’t sleep, baby i know! she’s working late but she’s definitely not a singer! anyways i hope you guys didn’t forget about me and enjoy this little fic. and thank you to the non who requested! (if you hate it im so sorry)

fucking instagram.

chris has a love-hate relationship with social media; it feels annoyingly formal considering the fame, but he’s also mutuals with lots of beautiful women because of it.

so it’s admittedly fun to scroll through the app once he’s alone in his room for the night, just like he is now, tapping his thumb to leave a like on the posts that really catch his eye.

and then a suggestion pops up on his feed, a tempting picture from someone completely different: you.

it’s a newer photo, from a day ago. you’re on the beach somewhere in the caribbean, trendy sunglasses perched on your head, covered only by a skimpy orange bikini.

all dressed up in his favorite color, just by coincidence.

he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, exhaling a long breath out his nose as he analyzes further.

you’re laid out on your stomach by the ocean, ass fully on display as you prop yourself up on your elbows. it only presses your cleavage further together, an entirely mouthwatering sight. the lighting makes your eyes light up, mysterious smile frozen on your face.

call me on my shellphone.

chris smirks slightly at your caption, mainly because he actually does want to hit you up. but instead he clicks on your profile, intent on learning more.

his eyes widen slightly at your following; he can’t believe he’s never seen or heard of you before this. your email is in your bio, along with the pleasant surprise that you’re based in LA. then he sees the only fans link pasted underneath.

and as much as chris wants to click it, he won’t. at least, not yet. so he returns to your public posts, scrolling to find even more enticing photos.

there’s one of you in bed, hair fanned out around you, a suggestive finger between your teeth. you’re promoting a lingerie website, dressed in a sexy red set that leaves very little to the imagination.

then a picture of you leaning over the side of a pool, water beading on the slope of your back as you look down the lense, plush lips parted in faux-surprise.

he’s getting far too excited, and before he knows it he’s palming himself through his pants, admiring all of the revealing angles and outfits. chris finds himself thanking all of the companies sponsoring you.

a moment later he lands on a photo that quite literally leaves him breathless. you’re on your knees, bent over a little vanity stool with your legs spread wide apart. you’re glancing back at the camera, clothed pussy practically begging to escape the tiny blue thong covering it.

he’s applying pressure to his shaft in bursts now, teasing himself as his hips chase his fingers. it’s only when he glances back at his phone that he realizes he’s accidentally liked the post, from over four months ago. he was too focused on the movement of one hand that he forgot about the other.

his cheeks redden immediately, frozen in embarrassment as he yanks his hand away from his lap. he’s not sure what to do, and (un)luckily enough, you’ve already seen that he’s stalking.

when you check the notification you’re surprised, in the middle of your regular scroll now that you’re back in your room for the night. you’re still at a resort in the bahamas, enjoying a much-needed vacation (though you’re still occasionally working).

but looking at chris sturniolo’s big verified account in your likes, on a post from a while ago nonetheless, gets you a little excited. it surprises you, him being on your page, though you’ve always been a bit of a fan.

you click on his profile, going right to his messages since you already follow him. you’re mostly motivated by the fact that you’re buzzing off a few fruity drinks, so you type out two letters and hit send.

the dm comes through his phone a second later. it’s just a simple little word, but chris grows even more sheepish at the fact that you did in fact see his little slip up.

he bites down on the inside of his cheek, unsure of whether or not he should respond. but he’s already in too deep, and he doesn’t want to act like a complete loser to you. so he uses he taps the keyboard.

hey

when you see that he’s answered, you feel yourself get a little bit giddy. you were really hoping you wouldn’t scare him away, and the fact that he’s rising to the challenge impresses you.

nice to see you in my likes

i’m quite the fan

chris’s heart quite literally skips a beat. you’re toying with him, but he also gets the sense that you like it, that you want more. he’s still ridiculously horny, and actually talking to you isn’t helping, but he doesn’t care.

i think i might be a bigger fan of you

it’s far bolder than he normally gets, especially online, and he kind of likes it way more than expected. you can feel your body heating up at his response, rolling over onto your stomach on top of the plush comforter.

your teeth clamp down on your bottom lip, gnawing on it as you consider what you want to say. you don’t want to be too forward, but it’s also the name of the game.

cute :)

what were you doing on my account this late at night christopher

he swears his face can’t get any more red. he instinctively looks at his lap, at his still-hard dick, and he decides that honesty might be the best policy.

lurking

because you turn me on

you fully smile now, happy that he’s continuing to match your energy. it’s impossible to ignore the way you’re throbbing now, imagining all of the dirty ways this conversation could go, so you keep it up.

oh really now

what’re you thinking about hmm

you, in my bed

in my hands

wish i could feel them right now

View Photo

here, specifically ;)

the photo notification sends his heart beating out of control, and his curious finger taps it open without hesitation. it’s a photo of your bare chest, perky tits exposed to the camera, shirt bunched up by your collarbone. your mouth is parted just a bit, and chris audibly sucks in a breath.

he’s already slipped his hand back into his sweats, really stroking his dick this time. he’s so fucking hot and bothered at this point that he’s sensitive as hell, and spreading his own wetness only adds to the effect.

holy shit

want my tongue all over you

chris is fumbling around with the keyboard, toying with himself as he continues the conversation because he never wants it to end.

you don’t want it to either, considering nobody has ever really piqued your interest like chris has. you’re practically dripping from the conversation, already soaking your thin silk shorts.

but at the end of the day this is still your job, and you can’t give everything away for free.

you should video chat me rn

link is in my bio x

and perhaps you underestimated him, because you get a notification a minute later that someone has requested a private video chat, which is insanely expensive to do because of your recent growth.

you know it’s chris, even though his username was definitely randomly generated. but people don’t pay frequently enough for it to be anyone else, so you open the app and initiate the call.

chris nearly crawls out of his skin when his phone starts buzzing, even though he was expecting it. he has no idea why he did this because he’s absolutely terrified, but the need took over and he had to really see you.

and now he is.

the call connects and you pop up, laid back against your pillows with your phone propped up on something he can’t see. you’re already topless, and a moan slips past his lips before he can help it.

“hey there.” you purr, smiling slightly from his little noise.

“fuck, even your voice is sexy.” he groans, bucking into his hand without a second thought.

it just feels so good, and having you on the phone is making it harder and harder for him to slow down. he doesn’t even care how obvious he’s being; why hide it now?

“aw, touching yourself already? how needy, i was hoping you’d wait for me.” you tease, one hand trailing from your neck to your breasts as you speak.

chris takes note of this, breath hitching as he watches you slide your fingers lower. you toy with the waistband of your tiny pajama pants, pulling them down so slowly that it makes him weak.

and then you spread your legs, fully revealing yourself now in the dim lighting from a lamp that’s somewhere out of sight. his mouth hangs open, pupils blown out in pure lust.

“god, i wish i could taste that pretty pussy right now.”

it slips out naturally, which amazes him because he’s never been very confident when it comes to dirty talk. but you bring it out of him.

and the least you can say is that you fucking love it. a sigh passes your lips as your fingers slide over your slit, enjoying his facial expressions as he strokes his own cock.

“mm, i just know your mouth would feel so good,” you praise, yearning for more of him in a way that forces you to continue, “let me see you, baby. wanna watch you get off with me.”

chris’s cheeks flush slightly at the request, but he would do just about anything you asked at this point, so he blindly adjusts his camera angle. now you can see that he’s got his sweats pushed down, shirt resting above his happy trail, dick in one hand while he holds his phone in the other.

“fuck, you’d fill me up perfectly too.” you tell him truthfully, applying more pressure to your clit in fast circles at the sight.

he whimpers as he pumps even faster, spurred on by your words and your actions. he ogles as one hand teases your nipples, simultaneously plunging the other into your cunt.

that’s when chris finally hears a moan slip past your lips, and he swears he’s in heaven.

“shittt.” you slur, driving your two fingers deep into your entrance over and over, wishing they were chris’s instead.

“so fuckin sexy, m’not gonna be able to last much longer.” he compliments, even though he’s barely able to string the sentence together.

not that there would be any right words to describe the way he’s feeling. this is not at all how he thought his day was going to turn out, but it has to be the best turn it could’ve taken. his muscles are tightening, and the familiar pit in his stomach is growing.

“keep going. want you to come for me, pretty boy.” your voice is sultry and strained as you build your own orgasm up, clenching around your own hand as you curl them inside yourself expertly.

chris throws his head back, biting down hard on his lip to contain the primal growl crawling up his throat.

the pet name is just the nail in the coffin. his dick twitches and he knows he’s only a few strokes away from finishing, so he draws it out of himself in a way that allows him to relish the feeling.

the sight of him unraveling makes your head spin, and the rubber band in your own stomach suddenly snaps. you’re a shuddering mess, riding your orgasm out as you whine his name.

usually you’re careful to not let yourself get too into it, never falling deep enough in the fantasy. but then again, it’s not every day that a guy like chris ends up in your likes.

it’s unfamiliar territory for each of you in different way, but at the same time neither of you want this to be the last time you interact. his chest heaves, and you take a brief moment of silence to catch your breath.

“wow, that was…” he trails off, because he has no idea what to say now.

“yeah,” you nod, sly smile lighting your features up, “i think you’re my new favorite customer.”

@fawnchives @l9vesick @55sturn @luverboychris @teapartyprincess4two @pinksturniolo @mattinside @stonermattsgf @inkyray @impureals @chrisactualwife @snowysosturn @fikefries @riasturns @beccaluvschris @realuvrrr @mattstromboli @pepsiboyy @gdsvhtwa @ginswife @ivonchetooo1239 @julescameronmf @autsturni @beach4life @mattspolitank @cupidsword @mattssturnz @anonymouslyachrisgirl @aflairforthedramattic @literallyjustrue @p1nkm6tter @vschrissturn @mattsturniolox @bigbeefybitch @tpwktahlz @goldengrapejuice @cherrybombpopcs @hrtz4alex2211 @sturnsjtop @slutformeganfox @katw4shereee @lizzy7777 @st4niolos @bigdic7821 @justalittle47 @mattsdirtylittlehoe @iihrtsturniol0 @bellasashylegs @xoxo4chrisss @miloisdone1

#chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #chris sturniolo fanfic #christopher sturniolo x reader #chris sturniolo x reader #chris sturniolo smut #chris sturniolo x you #sturniolo fanfic #fanfic #onlyfans reader #Spotify

537 notes · View notes