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pepsipoet · 2 days ago

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⌗ ROOMATE RULES

SUMMARY → Moving in with two men is an adjustment to say the least. A list of rules are made, but will they be broken?

WARNINGS → Read at your own risk. Series will contain mature themes. Smut, angst, and love triangle aspects.

NOTES → I suck at making descriptions but I swear this will be good. Comment if you wanna be added to the taglist and let me know your thoughts…

[ PARTS: ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN ]

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ 𓏵

The call doesn’t end so much as collapse.

Chris’s fingers are still on your phone screen, voice raw: “Don’t. If he sees me like this…” You understand what he means—mercy, not self-preservation. You hang up. The silence after is loud enough to knock the air out of you.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“That wasn’t for me,” he says, voice scraped clean. “I didn’t want him looking at you and seeing…this version of us.”

“What version is that?”

“The one we’re going to fix.” His tone makes it sound like a dare. “Tomorrow.”

He leaves you with your heartbeat, the shredded rule list, and the possibility that every mess you’ve made might still be something you’re brave enough to clean.

—

Nick shows up the next day with a duffel and four coffees like a man playing parent. He doesn’t rant. Doesn’t raise his voice. Just sits at the table and waits, letting the silence do the yelling.

You sit between his brothers like a defendant: Matt steady on your left, Chris storm-shaped on your right.

Nick unfolds a blank page and scrawls at the top:

THE OFFICIAL ROOMMATE RULEBOOK (REVISED).

“Okay,” he says. “Start with honesty.”

So you tell it. Ugly, messy, choking. The kitchen, the kiss, the hallway, the bed. How none of it was a triangle so much as collisions in the dark. How you didn’t mean to play anyone and still did.

Matt goes next. “I shouldn’t have let it go that far,” he says gently. “It was…a cushion. But I don’t think I’m in love with her. I think I wanted to be the safe place.” His eyes flick to you. “I still want both of you to survive each other.”

Nick scribbles, crosses something out. Looks at Chris.

Chris doesn’t give speeches. He taps Rule #5 on the old list. “I don’t want to flirt anymore.”

Nick blinks. “With who?”

“With lines,” Chris says. Finally looks at you. “I want to say what I mean.”

Something unclenches in your ribs so fast it almost hurts.

Together, you write new rules. Absurd and sacred.

Rule 1: Knock. Rule 2: Don’t set traps you don’t intend to spring. Rule 3: Don’t borrow what you plan to keep. Rule 4: Beds are not neutral ground. Rule 5: Say it plain. Rule 6: If it’s midnight and the truth is on your tongue, tell it. Rule 7: If you’re going to choose, choose out loud. Rule 8 (Chris): No kissing your roommates—unless you’re choosing them. Rule 9 (Nick): No weaponized flirting. Rule 10 (all): No lying to Nick.

When it’s done, Nick sets down the Sharpie like a gavel. “No more pretending you didn’t know. If this burns down, you can’t claim you didn’t smell smoke.”

Then he squeezes your shoulder, tells you not to set anything on fire, and leaves you to the silence.

Matt clears his throat. “I told him last night,” he says to Chris. “That I’m not in love with her. That if you are, you should try being gentle with it.”

Chris’s jaw flexes. Relief flashes through him quick and quiet. Then he looks at you like he’s memorizing your pulse.

“Come with me,” he says.

“Where?” you breathe.

“Out.”

You go.

—

The café is sunlit, plants half-dead in the window. He orders bitter coffee. You order sugar disguised as coffee. For a while you just sit in quiet that isn’t weaponized.

“I don’t know how to do this without breaking something,” you say.

“Me neither,” he admits. “But I’m tired of pretending I don’t want to try.”

You confess fears—running when things feel good, using him like a switch, wondering if he only wants you because it feels like rebellion.

He listens. Then, “Tell me not to kiss you.”

“What?”

“If I’m here for adrenaline, I’ll listen. If I’m not, I won’t.”

Your voice trembles: “Don’t kiss me.”

He leans across the table and kisses you anyway.

It isn’t reckless. It’s steady. Certain. A yes you both finally understand.

—

You leave the café with the napkin treaty in your pocket:

New Rules (Draft): Tell the truth when it’s midnight. Knock. Kiss like you mean it or not at all. Don’t borrow what you plan to keep (unless it’s each other). Choose out loud. Stop leaving before the conversation’s over.

At the crosswalk he takes your hand. You let him. It fits.

By the time you reach the apartment, Matt’s left a bowl of fruit on the table like a peace offering. Nick’s duffel waits by the door. The revised list is clipped to the fridge.

Chris slows in the hall. “One more.”

“Rule?”

“Promise.”

His fingers brush your wrist, not gripping, just asking. You turn. He presses his mouth to your forehead. “Don’t leave me alone with my worst version. If he shows up, say so. Loud.”

“Same to you,” you whisper.

“Deal.”

—

Later, when the house goes quiet, he knocks on your door. One soft rap.

“Knock,” he says, smiling faintly.

“Say it plain,” you answer.

“I like you.”

“I know,” you say, and mean it. “Me too.”

“Midnight truth?” he asks.

“It’s barely nine.”

“Practice.”

You cross the room. He kisses you once, twice, punctuation at the end of the sentence you’ve been writing all week.

But this time, he doesn’t pull away.

—

His room smells like him—sharp, warm, familiar. He doesn’t pin you to the door like last time. Doesn’t smirk, doesn’t dare. He cups your face instead, thumb brushing your cheek.

“I want to do this right,” he murmurs. “No hiding. No pretending it was an accident.”

You answer by kissing him harder, pulling him with you until the backs of your knees hit the mattress. Clothes peel away slow, unhurried—his shirt, your hoodie, tangled jeans kicked to the floor.

When he lays you back, his mouth traces every mark he once left in anger, kissing them soft as if rewriting them.

“You okay?” he asks against your skin.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Don’t stop.”

He slowly pushes his dick inside of you. The stretch of him inside you steals your breath. He groans, forehead pressed to yours, holding still until you nod. Only then does he move—slow, deep, steady, like he’s teaching you a rhythm that belongs to both of you.

His hands cradle your hips, not to control but to keep you close. His mouth keeps finding yours, kissing you through every motion—your lips, your jaw, your temple—as if he’s promising you’re worth more than just rebellion.

“You’re mine if you want to be,” he says roughly.

“I want to,” you breathe. “God, I want to.”

The orgasm builds differently than before—less reckless, more inevitable. It breaks over you in waves, your nails digging into his back, his name breaking from your throat. He follows, hips stuttering, burying himself deep with a groan that sounds like surrender.

When the room goes quiet, he doesn’t move away. He stays pressed to you, chest heaving, arms tight like he’s terrified you’ll vanish.

“Rules or not,” he whispers into your hair, “I was always going to choose you.”

For the first time, there’s no guilt in your chest. Just warmth where fear used to sit.

You let it in.

—

The End.

NAV - More works, taglist, etc.

Paige’s Notes . . . Thank you for reading my series !! Let me know your thoughts…more coming soon 😗✌️

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adorechris · 8 hours ago

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chris jerking off when he’s not supposed to…

it’s been three days since you’ve last seen chris.

but to him—it feels like three months.

you’ve been so busy recently. both of you know how life can get—but still, it sucked not being able to see each other everyday.

though you two usually do see each other everyday.

you and chris had a rule in your guys’ relationship—you aren’t allowed to touch yourself without the other one’s permission. but chris was feeling so horny. and he couldn’t help himself.

you posted a picture of yourself on instagram. it was a sweet picture—a mirror picture of yourself in a new dress you bought, one that hugged your curves perfectly.

you didn’t think much when you posted it. but chris—when he saw it—his dick practically jumped in his sweatpants.

he was playing fortnite on his playstation when the notification popped up. that you added to your story.

and that’s how he got to where he is now.

his boxers and sweatpants are pulled down to his thighs, his dick hard and flushed.

he scrolls through your instagram and pictures of you and him together.

he slowly wraps his right hand around the base of his dick, his eyes never leaving his phone screen. he gives it one slow stroke from the base to the tip, squeezing lightly. he shudders as the pad of his thumb smears the precum over his tip, the sensation almost overwhelming. he lets out a quiet, pleasurable groan.

he switches apps to his camera roll. he finds one of his favorite photos of you. and oh, fuck.

his dick twitches in his hand, his jaw falling agape and he begins to stroke his length faster. his breathing deepens as he gets lost in the moment.

“f-fuckk—“ he whines breathlessly as his hand speeds up on his dick. soft squelching noises from his hand can be faintly heard from outside of his room—it’s obvious what he’s doing.

his eyes roll into the back of his head as he quickly gets closer to his orgasm. he lets out a loud whimper, his hips bucking into his fist, practically fucking it.

he couldn’t control it. not really. he’s always loud in bed. whether it was moaning or begging—he was loud. he can’t hide his sounds of pleasure even if he tried.

precum drips consistently, dripping down his length, making it twitch. he shudders again, his muscles clenching in his lower stomach.

he gets to the tip of his dick, teasing his tip. he clenches his jaw, teeth gritted.

he hasn’t came in days. he’s tried to hard not to. the poor boy is so desperate; so needy. he puts his phone on the mattress, the picture of you still on it. more so engraved in his mind.

“o-oh my—“ he moans, his eyes squeezing shut. he throws his head back in ecstasy, his hand a blur over his dick. his free hand grips the sheets as if he’s trying to ground himself.

“mommy—m’so close,” he warns as if you’re actually there. he says it more out of habit if anything.

the bands in his stomach are taut, his hips thrusting into his fist, chasing more pleasure.

“f-feels so—“ he begins but interrupts himself with a choked moan, his orgasm crashing over him suddenly—and it’s intense.

he lets out a loud cry, his jaw falling agape. his eyes roll into the back of his head, his hips studdering once, twice, and that’s when his dick twitches and pulses in the air. thick ropes of cum spurt out of his length.

after a few moments, he falls limp on the bed. he pants as he tries to catch his breath. he takes his hand off of his dick—the post-orgasm bliss he felt was almost heavenly.

he opens his eyes, looking at the mess he made. he groans quietly.

he shakily grabs his phone, exhaling as he unlocks it. he goes to your contact, snapping a picture of the mess he made.

mommy i’m sorry

i got horny and i made a mess :(

he types out shakily with his thumb. he presses send then lets his phone fall as he shuts his eyes, his chest still heaving.

a.n. - this is rlly bad cuz i haven’t wrote in over like a month lmfao but hii i’m back !

🏷️ @cayleeuhithinknott , @izzylovesmatt , @sturnlovematt22 , @urfavvbilliemunch , @awesomesauce12345 , @sturkneeohloww , @nessasfavorite , @chrisssiren , @rriverscuomo , @courta13 , @sturniolonationsblog, @conspiracy-ash

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mattsmirrorpics · 2 days ago

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Fucked Up

cw: toxic relationship dynamic, sub!chris x dom!reader, drug use (coke and weed), mentions of cheating, rough sex, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, creampies, degradation, dacryphilia, scratching, blood, mention of safe word (not used), overstimulation, chris is desperate as fuck

credit: gif by @hotelstares

You don’t plan it. You never do. It happens the same way every time: a restless evening that tastes like spoiled sugar, a playlist you shouldn’t have pressed play on, and a text you swore you’d never send again. Your thumb hovers, then betrays you.

bring me some coke. and a little weed.

if you're close by.

Three dots bloom and disappear like they’re ashamed of themselves. When his reply finally lands, 'on my way', you feel the tiny, traitorous flare of satisfaction you always hate yourself for.

While you wait, the apartment hums like a partially remembered song. The AC rattles. A cracked mug sweats on the coffee table. You sit cross-legged on the rug, sweatshirt sleeves shoved over your fists the way you used to when you’d steal his hoodies and he’d whine about never getting them back. You tell yourself you’re calm and in control. And you are, for the most part. Still, the old film reel flickers when you close your eyes. First night, first joke, first kiss in the back stairwell when the party was too loud and he kept looking at your mouth like you were the only real thing left in the building. After that, it was all gasoline. Fast, bright, and too much oxygen. You were ridiculous together, dizzy and mean with how hard you wanted. He called you ‘his problem' and you laughed because he was right.

The end was ugly in that ordinary way heartbreak always is. No screaming, just the sound of something trusted collapsing. A photo you weren’t meant to see. A girl you didn’t know in a bathroom you’d recognize by the ugly tile alone. He stammered excuses that sounded like static. ‘I was— I was messed up. I know you gave me just one chance, and I—‘ He swallowed hard, eyes glassy. ‘I had one chance and I fucked it up. I was fucked up.’ He said it like an incantation might undo itself if he said it softly enough.

You didn’t forgive him. And you still don’t. But there he is, every time you call, your ex-boyfriend like a stray orbiting your doorstep, gravity and guilt braided tight. You don’t have to offer anything. You don’t even have to try and be nice. He comes anyway, like a penance he can carry in paper bags and folded bills.

Headlights rake across the ceiling. You stand, smoothing your sweatshirt, and feel that familiar click somewhere behind your ribs, the place where power sits when you decide to keep it.

He knocks once and then doesn’t come in until you say, “Door’s open.”

Chris steps inside with a little plastic bag in one hand, a brown paper sack in the other. He’s wearing a plain black tee you want to wrinkle and a jacket you want to make him take off just to prove you can. The air shifts, an old ache, a new rule.

“Hi,” he says, voice small around the edges. He doesn’t look at the couch. He looks at your face like there’s a test written on it.

You let your eyes drag over him, slow and uninterested on purpose. “Put it on the table.”

He obeys immediately, sets the baggies down next to your mug. His fingers linger, then draw back like you burn. He smells like nights you don’t talk about. Cologne and rain and the inside of an Uber with the windows down.

“I can get more if you—” He catches himself, rubs the back of his neck. “If you needed more. I can get it for free.” The words come out in a rush, apologetic and proud at once, like he’s offering proof he still knows how to be useful.

“Mm.” You make a noncommittal sound and watch him squirm.

He hates that you’re good at silence. He always did. You used to weaponize it in fights, now you use it like a leash. He fidgets, glances at your mouth, then away. You lean your hip against the table, the picture of calm, and tear the top corner of the bag open just because you know he’ll feel it.

Chris swallows. “You, uh—you doing okay?”

You lift an eyebrow. “We’re doing wellness checks now?”

“No, I just—” He exhales. “You look…you look good.”

“You look nervous.”

A miserable smile. “Yeah.” He nods once, honest to the bone in the ways that don’t matter. “You got me fucked up.”

You let the line hang there, thick and sweet. It’s unfair how much you like hearing it. “I know.”

Something loosens in his shoulders, like acknowledgment is the only mercy he was hoping for. You don’t give him more. You don’t give him anything he didn’t earn.

He digs in the paper bag and pulls out a lighter without being asked. You take it from him, your fingers not touching his on purpose. The joint you roll is muscle memory. Your hands didn’t forget how to do any of it. Smoke curls up like a question.

He stands there with his jacket still on, waiting for instruction. That’s new, kind of. That’s not who he was when you were together. Then, he was loud and thoughtless and the center of every room. Now, he’s a cautionary tale with a heartbeat.

You tilt your chin toward the hook by the door. “Jacket.”

He moves fast, shrugs it off, hangs it neatly, like if he’s careful enough the past won’t clatter to the floor. When he turns back, you’re looking at him the way he once begged you to. Openly, unkindly, like he’s yours to appraise. The attention hits him like a touch. He shivers.

“Why do you keep coming when I call?” Your voice is soft, but you’re not kind. “You don’t even ask what it’s for.”

“I don’t—” He stops, searching for an answer that won’t embarrass him. Fails. “I don’t wanna tell you how I feel.” He laughs at himself, a breathy, broken sound. “But you know.”

“Say it anyway.”

He licks his lips. The truth wobbles. “I…I could be whatever you want me to be.” He meets your gaze and doesn’t look away. “I could do whatever that you wanted from me.”

Heat prickles under your skin. Not lust, but power. The memory of what it felt like when you didn’t have to wonder if he’d listen, because he never did. You take another drag, slow enough to make him watch your mouth, then thumb ash into the tray.

“You think that fixes what you did?” You don’t raise your voice. You don’t have to. “You think doing tricks earns you back a seat at my table?”

He flinches. “No…no. I just—I want to make it right. However you’ll let me.”

You study him for a long second, long enough that the nervous twitch in his jaw starts and stops twice. The truth is ugly. The want is still there, mean and undeniable. It always lived in the quiet moments anyway. The ride home with the windows down, the way he’d hold your thigh under restaurant tables, the rasp of his voice when he’d lean in and tell you to come here. You smother that memory under your heel like a spark in dry grass.

“Take off your shoes,” you say.

It’s a simple thing. It shouldn’t mean anything. But it does, because he does it without a sound. He tows them neatly to the mat, folds himself smaller in a way that makes the room feel bigger around you. When he straightens, he doesn’t step closer. He waits.

“This isn’t a date.” You flick your gaze from his mouth back to his eyes. “You come when I need something. You leave when I’m done. That’s it.”

He nods, throat working. “Okay.”

“You don’t touch me unless I say.”

Another nod. “Okay.”

“And you don’t look at me like that unless you can afford it.”

That takes him a second. The corner of his mouth lifts, helpless. “What’s the price?”

“You don’t get to ask that.” You tip your head toward the couch. “Sit.”

He does, hands on his knees like he’s afraid to wrinkle your cushions. You set the joint down, pick up the baggie, and tap a neat line onto a coaster just to make him watch. You’re aware of the performance you’re putting on, the way slow movements read like promises. You’re not promising anything. You’re proving a point. He watches, breathing a little loud in the quiet. When you lean over the coffee table, he instinctively leans back to give you space. You could laugh, but you don’t. You drag a knuckle under your nose and breathe in. There are a dozen lines you don’t cross sober. You intend to keep them.

He wets his lips. “Do you want—I can—” He gestures, offering to cut, to line, to serve, to be the pair of hands that always shake a little less than yours.

“No.” You slice the word thin. “You can sit there and be good.”

Color climbs his cheekbones. He’s beautiful when he’s humiliated. You hate that you remember that. He stares at your fingers until you tuck your hand back into your sleeve.

He breaks first, voice quiet. “Can I say something without you…without you taking it as me trying to—” He flails for the word. “Get something?”

You narrow your eyes. “Try.”

He takes a breath that shakes. “I know I don’t deserve to be here. I know that.” His hands flex on his knees. “But I’m—I’m better at being near you than I am at being away from you. Even like this.” He swallows. “Especially like this.”

There it is. The soft center of him, messy and unguarded. The part that makes you meaner because it makes you weak.

“You’re not here for you,” you say.

“I know.” He nods quickly, relief and dread shivering together. “I’m here for you. However you need.”

You step closer then, just enough that he has to tip his chin up to keep your eyes. You look down at him the way you’ve taught him to love, measured and merciless. His lashes flicker. His breath hitches. Your shadow cuts his collarbone in half.

“Good,” you murmur. “You’re learning.”

You don’t touch him. You don’t have to. The room knows who’s holding the leash. Behind your ribs, something warm and ugly purrs. It sounds like victory. It sounds like an old door opening on rusted hinges. You’ll decide how far to let him go. For now, you let him sit there and want, and you let yourself like the wanting.

He looks up again, not quite managing bravery. “If you…if you wanted more—”

You tilt your head, slow as smoke. “You’ll do whatever I want.”

“Yes.” He doesn’t blink. “Whatever you want.”

“Good,” you say again, tasting the word. You pick up the lighter, flick it just to hear the sound. His eyes follow the flame like it’s a star.

“Stay,” you tell him, finally turning away to fetch a glass of water you don’t need. The command is casual as a shrug. It makes his shoulders drop like you’ve just given him air.

“Okay,” he whispers, like a vow he’s relieved to keep. Then, softer, as if he forgot he wasn’t allowed words like this, “you got me fucked up.”

You smile where he can’t see it, small and cruel and yours alone. The night stretches ahead, long and pliant. You decide you’ll shape it when you’re ready.

You sip your water slow, throat working while Chris sits perfectly still on the couch like a dog waiting for the next command. When you set the glass down, his eyes dart to your hands, then away again like he’s ashamed of being caught watching.

You lean against the counter. “So that’s it? You just bring me whatever I want, don’t even ask what it’s for?”

Chris shifts. “You don’t owe me an explanation.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

His jaw flexes. He doesn’t meet your eyes. “I’d rather not know. I just—” His voice hitches, low and rough. “I could do whatever you want me to do. Doesn’t matter what it is. No questions asked.”

The way he says it makes your stomach flip, but you won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing it. Instead, you push off the counter, pace a few steps closer. He watches your feet like they’re dangerous.

“You don’t even ask for money,” you remind him. “Not even gas money. Not even for this—” you nudge the little baggie with your knuckle, “and you expect me to believe you’re not still trying to buy me back?”

His throat bobs. “I’m not—I’m not expecting anything. I don’t want you to think—” He breaks off, rubs a hand over his mouth, voice muffled. “I just want to be here. However you’ll let me,” he repeats.

The ache behind his words is real, raw. You hate that it cuts through you, sharp as glass under bare feet. You can’t let him see that, though. You smirk instead, cruel and practiced. “Pathetic.”

His head bows. He doesn’t argue.

The silence hums, heavy. You move closer until you’re standing right over him, forcing his chin up to meet your gaze. His pupils are blown wide, breath unsteady.

“Do you remember,” you murmur, tilting your head, “the night you fucked it all up?”

He flinches, like you’ve struck him. “Yes.”

“You should,” you say. “Because that’s the night you decided a bathroom quickie with some stranger was worth more than everything we built.”

“I was—” His voice cracks, desperate. “I was fucked up. You don't know how fucked up I really was. I wasn't in the right state of mind. I know I fucked it up, okay?” The same words he says anytime you mention that night. His words spill out like confession, like prayer. He stares at you as if absolution might slip from your mouth if he begs hard enough.

You take a slow breath, reach down, and fist the front of his shirt. Tug just hard enough to pull him forward, to make him stumble to his knees at your feet. He doesn’t resist. He never does anymore. You look down at him, savoring the view, Chris kneeling, jaw tight, eyes wide with shame and want.

“That’s right,” you say softly. “You fucked it up. And now you get to live with whatever I give you.”

Your words send chills down his spine.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes.” The word rushes out of him, breathless.

The corner of your mouth lifts, slow and dangerous. You tug his shirt harder, seams straining under your grip. “Good. Because I haven’t even started yet.”

You pause, eyes locked on his, grip unrelenting. “You remember your safe word?”

His throat bobs as he nods quickly, voice wrecked already. “Yeah.”

“Tell me,” you demand.

“Yes. I remember.” His voice cracks, but the certainty in it is clear.

The fabric gives with a satisfying rip, a jagged sound that splits the quiet room. His shirt hangs loose at the collar now, threads frayed where your fist tore through. Chris gasps, eyes darting up to yours, caught between shock and hunger.

“You’re going to ruin me,” he whispers.

“You already ruined yourself,” you remind him, and hook two fingers under the torn edge, yanking again. The neckline splits wider, exposing the slope of his shoulder, pale skin begging for your teeth.

He swallows hard, hands flexing against his thighs. He doesn’t move. You haven’t told him to.

“Take it off,” you say finally, low and sharp.

Chris obeys instantly, tugging the shirt over his head and balling it in his fists before realizing he doesn’t know where you want it. He hesitates. That hesitation is its own kind of gift.

“Floor,” you instruct.

He drops it, fabric pooling at your feet. His chest rises and falls quick, nerves and anticipation carving lines down his torso. You let your gaze linger deliberately, dragging your eyes over him.

“You’re still so eager,” you murmur, stepping closer until your knees nearly brush his shoulders. “After everything, you still kneel here like you’re waiting for scraps.”

Chris shudders, looking up at you through his lashes. His voice is ragged. “I could be whatever you want me to be. Anything you want.”

The words are almost pitiful. Almost. You reach down, grip his jaw, tilting his head back until he’s forced to hold your gaze. His breath comes faster under your touch, mouth parted.

“You’ll be what I make you,” you tell him. “That’s the only thing you’re good for now.”

A broken sound slips out of him, half whimper, half laugh, like it’s exactly what he wanted to hear.

You push him back, firm, until he topples onto the couch. He sprawls there, caught off guard, hair mussed, lips swollen from biting them. Before he can catch his breath, you straddle his lap, pinning him with your weight. His hands twitch like they want to grab your hips, but you slap them down against the cushions.

“Did I tell you to touch?”

“N-no.” His voice cracks.

“Then keep them there.” You grind down once, slow and punishing, watching his head tip back against the couch. He lets out a strangled groan, thighs trembling under you.

Chris whines low in his throat, nodding frantically. His chest rises and falls under you, breath catching every time you grind your hips down, slow, deliberate, punishing.

“You want this that bad?” you press, leaning in until your lips ghost his throat. His pulse hammers beneath your mouth, desperate. You bite down just enough to make him flinch, then soothe the mark with your tongue.

He shudders under you, his head tipping back against the couch, a broken groan spilling free.

“Every time you come here,” you whisper against his skin, “you hand yourself over like you’re nothing. Like you’d rather bleed than let me go.”

His nails dig into the couch cushions, knuckles white. You drag your nails down his chest, this time sharp enough to leave angry lines in your wake. He arches beneath you, breath catching, a sound of both pain and relief tearing out of him. You smirk, pulling back just enough to watch his face. His cheeks are flushed, lips parted, pupils blown wide. He’s wrecked already, and you haven’t even decided how far you’ll take him tonight.

“Good boy,” you say softly, cruelly.

You keep him pinned beneath you, straddling his hips, watching the tension ripple through his chest as he struggles to stay still. His wrists twitch against your grip, instinct begging him to touch you, but he doesn’t dare. You can feel it, the way he’s straining not to disobey.

“Look at you,” you murmur, voice heavy with disdain. “I barely touched you and you’re already shaking.”

His jaw clenches. He tries to swallow down a sound, but it leaks out anyway, low and needy. You smirk, rolling your hips slow against his lap. His breath stutters, lashes fluttering, and you know he feels how deliberate you are, how cruel you can be. You drag your hips once more, the pressure sharp enough to make him gasp.

“Please…” he manages, voice ragged.

“Please what?” You tilt your head, pretending not to understand. “Be specific.”

His mouth opens and closes, embarrassment burning across his face. His eyes flick up to yours, glassy, pleading. “Please—just let me—”

You grind down harder, cutting him off with a sharp gasp of his own. His whole body arches beneath you, desperate for relief he isn’t allowed to chase.

“Pathetic,” you breathe against his ear. “All it takes is a little pressure and you fall apart.”

He shudders. “I’m sorry—”

The apology makes you laugh, cruel and sharp. “Sorry doesn’t fix anything. You think saying that word erases what you did?”

His eyes squeeze shut, shame written across his face. “No.”

“Exactly.” You release his wrists and immediately tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging his head back so he has no choice but to look at you. “But maybe,” you add, slow and deliberate, “I’ll let you make yourself useful.”

Hope flickers in his eyes, fragile and bright.

“Back on your knees.”

Chris scrambles to obey, sliding off the couch until he’s kneeling in front of you, chest rising and falling like he’s been starved. His hands hover uncertainly at his sides, trembling with restraint. You spread your knees, lean back against the cushions, and watch his breath catch when he realizes what you’re offering.

“Go on,” you murmur, threading your fingers through his hair. “Earn it.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He pulls your cotton shorts to the side, his mouth on you instantly, hot and eager. You let your head fall back against the couch with a sigh. His tongue moves frantically at first, desperate to please, until you yank his hair hard enough to make him still.

“Slow down,” you snap. “You don’t get to rush this. You’ll take your time, exactly how I want.”

Chris whimpers against you, muffled and raw, but he obeys. His tongue drags slow now, deliberate, and you reward him with a sharp tug of his hair that makes him moan into you.

“That’s better,” you breathe, eyes half-lidded as you watch him. His face is flushed, jaw tense with effort, hands fisted tight against his thighs as if he’s holding himself back from grabbing you.

Every few moments, he looks up at you, desperate for approval. You give him nothing but silence, forcing him to work harder, to keep guessing. When his tongue finally hits the right rhythm, you let out a soft moan that makes his whole body jolt like he’s been shocked.

“Yes,” you murmur, grinding against his mouth. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”

He groans, the sound vibrating through you, and it makes your toes curl. You pull his hair harder, forcing him closer, until he’s choking on the pressure but refusing to pull away. He’d suffocate before he’d disappoint you, and the thought makes heat flare through your chest.

When you’re close, closer than you mean to be, you yank him back abruptly, ignoring his muffled protest. His lips are swollen, chin slick, and he looks wrecked already.

“You think you deserve my cum?” you snap.

He shakes his head instantly, panting. “No.”

“Exactly.” You wipe your thumb across his mouth, slow and mocking. “You don’t get that yet.”

The desperation in his eyes is intoxicating. He’s trembling, every inch of him begging, but he won’t move without permission. You lean forward, dragging your nails down his chest, watching pretty red lines bloom across his skin. His breath catches, a whimper spilling free, and you smirk.

“Get back up here,” you order.

Chris scrambles onto the couch again, hovering nervously, waiting for instruction. His hands twitch like he doesn’t know where to put them. You straddle him once more, pressing your mouth to his neck, sucking hard until a bruise blossoms under your lips. He moans, hips bucking helplessly against you, but you press down harder to keep him pinned.

“You don’t move,” you hiss into his ear. “Not unless I tell you.”

“I—I won’t,” he promises, voice trembling.

“You better not.” You drag your nails down his back, sharp enough to make him arch. “Because if you do…I’ll leave you like this.”

The threat makes him whine, pathetic yet sweet, his breath hot against your shoulder. And you smile, because you know he’d let you ruin him and come crawling back for more.

You drag your nails down his chest once again, harder this time, watching him twitch beneath you. His breath hitches as more lines rise red on his skin. His hips jerk up instinctively, seeking friction, and you slam your palm against his shoulder to pin him flat.

“I said, don’t move.”

“I—I’m sorry,” he gasps, shame and arousal tangled in every word. His hands go back to clenching the cushions, desperate to hold on.

You grind down against him deliberately, rolling your hips with punishing slowness. The friction makes him choke out a groan, head tipping back, throat bared. You nip at it, hard enough to make him gasp again, then soothe the sting with your tongue.

“You’re already so close,” you murmur against his skin, cruel and mocking. “Pathetic. I could make you come in your jeans if I wanted.”

He whimpers, face flushed, thighs trembling beneath you. “Please…please don’t—”

“Don’t what?” You sit up, tugging at the waistband of his jeans. “Don’t ruin you yet? Don’t make you humiliate yourself before I even let you inside me?”

He shudders, words stumbling. “I’ll be good. Please. I’ll be good.”

“Prove it.” You yank his jeans down rough, shoving them past his hips. He groans in relief, already straining, leaking, pathetic. You climb off him only long enough to strip yourself down, deliberate and unhurried, making him watch. His eyes devour you, wide and reverent, and you smirk.

“You don’t get to touch,” you remind him as you climb back onto his lap, your hand wrapping around him once, just enough to make his whole body shudder. “You sit there and take it.”

“Yes,” he chokes out. “Yes, anything.”

You line him up, dragging the head of his cock against you slow, teasing, and his breath stutters like he’s about to break. “Please,” he begs, voice ragged, “I need—I need you.”

You sink down in one smooth, brutal motion, taking him all the way in at once. His cry tears through the room, raw and desperate, his nails clawing into the couch cushions as his hips buck up against your weight.

“Fuck,” he gasps, voice breaking. “Oh my god—”

“Stay still,” you hiss, gripping his shoulders hard. “Don’t you dare move.”

He bites his lip so hard you’re sure it’ll bleed, trembling violently under you as you grind down slow, making him feel every inch. His eyes roll back, chest heaving, sweat shining at his hairline. You ride him deliberately, pace slow, drawing it out until he’s sobbing with the effort of holding still. Every roll of your hips makes him gasp, every squeeze makes him whimper.

“You feel that?” you taunt, leaning in close, your mouth hot against his ear. “That’s what you ruined. This is what you threw away.”

His whole body jerks under you, broken moans spilling out. “I’m sorry,” he babbles. “I’m so sorry—please, I can’t—”

“You don’t get to cum until I say.” You rake your nails down his back, even harder this time, leaving fresh welts. He cries out, the sound shattering, but his hips stay pinned, obedient despite the shaking.

“Good boy,” you breathe, mocking and sharp. “Maybe you’re not completely useless.”

The praise breaks him further. He keens, eyes glassy, begging incoherently. You grind harder, faster now, feeling the tension coil tight between your thighs. Your fingers dig into his hair, yanking his head back so you can bite at his throat again, marking him as yours.

“Say it,” you order, breathless. “Say what you are.”

“I’m—” His voice cracks, tears spilling into the corners of his eyes. “I’m yours. I’m nothing without you. Please—”

The confession makes you clench around him, dragging a sob from his chest. You ride him harder, using his body, taking what you want. He writhes beneath you, wrecked and pliant, every sound pouring out like worship.

When you finally allow yourself to tip over, it’s with your nails sinking deep into his shoulders, your body trembling as waves crash through you. You ride it out mercilessly, grinding down on him as he sobs under the force of it, begging for release.

You pull back just enough to look at him, flushed, shaking, tears on his cheeks, mouth open in broken pleas. You decide to grant him mercy. “Come for me,” you command, sharp as a whip.

He doesn’t last a second. His whole body arches off the couch, hips jerking helplessly as he spills inside you with a cry that sounds like both agony and salvation. You ride him through it, squeezing every drop from him until he collapses, boneless and shaking beneath you. His eyes stay fixed on you, glassy and adoring, like you’re both the executioner and the only thing keeping him alive. You lean back, catch your breath, and smirk down at him. “Pathetic,” you whisper again, just to watch him flinch and melt at once.

His head falls back against the couch, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his temples. He looks ruined, glassy-eyed, lips swollen, trembling under your weight. But you don’t climb off. Instead, you shift your hips and start moving again.

His eyes fly open, panic and pleasure colliding all at once. “W–wait—” he gasps, voice wrecked. His hands twitch against the cushions like he doesn’t know if he should fight or surrender. “I— I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” you cut him off, your tone sharp enough to slice through the air. You roll your hips deliberately, grinding down on him until his whole body jerks with a strangled moan. “You’ll take it. You’ll give me what I want.”

He whimpers, head tipping back, exposing his throat. “It’s too much—”

“Good.” Your nails bite into his shoulders for balance as you ride him harder, chasing your own pleasure now. His whines turn broken, incoherent, every thrust pulling him apart a little more. His cock twitches inside you, oversensitive, and you smile at the sound of his voice breaking.

“Please,” he begs, voice hoarse. “Please, I can’t—”

“Shut up,” you snap. His cry fills the room, raw and guttural, and the noise only spurs you on.

You grind down harder, pace unrelenting, your own climax building fast. You cling to him, pressing your mouth against his neck, biting down hard enough to bruise as the heat coils in your belly.

“I’m not done,” you pant against his skin. “I want to come again. You’re going to make me.”

His eyes roll back, tears slipping free, his chest heaving with each ragged breath. He nods frantically even as his body trembles under the relentless pace. “Anything,” he chokes. “Anything you want—”

Your nails dig in deeper, sharper, until you feel the thin skin of his shoulders break under your grip. Hot blood beads beneath your fingertips, streaking red down his back. His whole body seizes at the sting, a sob tearing out of him, and then he’s gone. He convulses under you, crying out as his second orgasm rips through him, messy and uncontrolled. His release pulses inside you again, thick and hot, his body twitching violently as the overstimulation drags him to pieces.

The sight of him undone, the tears on his cheeks, blood under your nails, his body jerking helplessly, pushes you over the edge. Your climax crashes down, raw and brutal, your nails digging deeper into his torn skin as your hips grind hard against him. You ride out every wave, using him, taking what you want while he sobs beneath you.

When you finally slow, breathless, you stay seated on him, your nails still pressed into the welts you carved. He’s a wreck. His chest soaked with sweat, hair plastered to his forehead, lips parted around broken whimpers. Blood smears across your fingertips, bright against your skin, and you trail them down his chest just to watch him shudder.

“Look at you,” you murmur, cruel and satisfied. “Bleeding for me. Falling apart for me. Twice.”

Chris blinks up at you, pupils blown wide, tears still clinging to his lashes. He looks wrecked. He looks worshipful. He looks like he’d let you do it all over again if you asked. You smirk, leaning down until your lips graze his ear. “Pathetic,” you whisper, and feel him shiver under the word like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

You stay on him until the twitching stops, until every last pulse of his release fades into trembling silence. Then you climb off slowly, deliberately, ignoring the way his body sags in relief under you.

Chris collapses against the couch, a boneless wreck. His chest heaves, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead, red lines slashed across his back, chest, and shoulders where your nails left him open. He’s still hard, still leaking, but too spent to move. You don’t look at him. Instead, you bend to grab the paper bag he brought, pluck a preroll from the bottom, and light it with the cheap lighter. The first drag fills your lungs, smoke curling out of your lips like a sigh. When you finally glance at him, he’s watching you like you hung the moon, wrecked and worshipful, blood streaked down his spine, tears drying at the corners of his eyes. He looks ruined. He looks addicted.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you say flatly, exhaling smoke in his direction.

He flinches, but he doesn’t look away. His voice is a whisper, hoarse and cracked. “I can’t help it.”

You snort, leaning back against the arm of the couch, joint balanced between your fingers. “Pathetic.”

He takes the word like a knife to the gut and a kiss on the mouth at the same time. His lips part, trembling, and then he says it again, the thing he always says, the thing you’ll never let him forget. “You gave me one chance, and I fucked it up.” His voice breaks, chest rising fast. “I was fucked up. I ruined it. I ruined us.”

You take another drag, hold the smoke in your lungs until it burns. When you blow it out, the cloud drifts between you like a wall. “You’re right.”

His breath stutters. He swallows hard, looks down at his ruined hands, fisting the couch cushions. “I’d do anything,” he whispers. “Whatever you want. However you want it. Just to stay here.”

The desperation in his voice grates against something soft inside you, and you crush it quick. You stub the joint out in the ashtray, lean forward, and press your palm against his chest. He startles at the touch, eyes darting up, but you shove him back down into the cushions with a smirk.

“You don’t get to stay,” you tell him. “Not unless I say. You come when I want something. You leave when I’m done. That’s all this is.”

Chris nods quickly, frantic, even as his eyes shine with something heavier. “Okay,” he whispers. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is.” You stand, tugging on your sweatshirt like nothing happened, like you didn’t just rip him open with your nails and take him apart twice over. You head for the kitchen, refill your water glass, and leave him sitting there, ruined and quiet.

When you return, he’s still staring at you, wide-eyed, waiting for scraps. You hand him his shirt from the floor. The collar is ripped, the fabric streaked with sweat and a smear of blood. He clutches it like it’s a gift. You sit back down, cross-legged on the couch, glass of water in one hand, joint in the other. You look at him like he’s nothing. You look at him like he’s everything.

“Go home,” you say finally, voice soft but sharp.

For a moment, you think he won’t move. Then he nods, slow and heavy, tugging his ruined shirt back on. He winces at the sting of fabric against the fresh scratches, but he doesn’t complain. He never does.

At the door, he pauses, fingers tight on the handle. He glances back once, eyes glassy and wrecked. “You know I’d bleed for you,” he says quietly.

You exhale smoke, let it drift toward him like a wave goodbye. “I know,” you murmur, and turn your head away before he can see that some part of you loves it.

The door clicks shut, and the apartment hums again. You sit in the haze of smoke and silence, heart beating steady, skin still buzzing, the taste of him still lingering in your mouth. You don’t let yourself think about what it means. You don’t let yourself admit that you’ll call him again. You already know you will.

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spookysturniolo · 2 days ago

Text

chris sends bug a nut video

female & male masturbation. 800 words

you’d been away for six days. six days is what it took for chris to lose his mind over not having you all to himself. at his disposal, ready for his needs.

it was thanksgiving break and he begged you to stay in boston with him. told you that he would make it worth your while. it was tempting, honestly. but you missed your family, your friends from back home.

and chris made it clear how much he disagreed with your decision from the start. phone calls coming more often than usual, always texting you to see what you were up to. attitude loud—not trying to be hidden in the slightest.

it was cute at first. the sweet teasing words, snapchats of his day to day life back home, texts of wanting break to be over so your routine could go back to normal.

but then you sensed a change. sensed that he was missing you in more ways than one.

he started asking for pictures on the third day. and you happily sent them, the heat in your core also growing with the distance. you weren’t used to going this long without being touched. not anymore, not since chris became so serious about you.

so it became a part of the routine. you’d wake up, send him a slutty picture in the fogged up mirror after a shower. sometimes midday, oftentimes at night when you changed into nothing but one of chris’ oversized t-shirts.

his reaction was always the same. dirty words texted in response, pictures of himself rock hard in his pants. sometimes pictures of his flushed face, blown out pupils when you sent something out of the blue.

but today was different. it was a busy morning turned into a busy afternoon. you hadn’t had much time in between to communicate with chris. and he made it known that it was an issue—words short, messages persistent and bitchy.

you received the snapchat notification when you fell into bed, shopping bags dropping to your floor with a thump.

you smiled softly at the purple square indicating a video. he had been sending those a lot recently, little diaries about his day. he hated when you called them that, threatened to never send another one ever again.

but this one was different. because instead of the front camera, it was the back camera. video capturing his leaking cock perfectly.

your breath gets stuck in your throat as you sit up to better examine the video, legs squeezing together out of instant arousal. his voice mumbles through your speaker, rough and seductive.

see what ya do to me, bug? makin me feel soo fuckin pathetic

it’s groaned close to the camera, your pussy clenching at the sound. it takes one second of thought before your hand is being shoved down your pants, fingers starting a lazy circle around your sensitive bud.

in the video, chris is stroking his cock. the veins in his arm bulging with every up and down motion.

wish you were ‘er. love seein ya pretty little fingers wrapped round me

his grip tightens at his words, groans falling out of his mouth between breaths. you can tell that he’s picturing it’s you. every flick of his wrist, squeeze at the base, thumb brushing over his slit. he’s imagining it’s you.

and you are too. imaging it’s chris circling your clit, sliding down to your opening to gather the slick dripping from there—using that to quicken your movements.

you’re a mess. sweat gathering around your hairline, legs kicking out. you have to bite your lip to stop your own moans, thumb increasing the volume on your phone to hear chris over the few noises that slip between your teeth.

his pace picks up, grip impossibly tight around his flushed cock. he’s cumming in the video now, long white ropes shooting out of his cock and coating his fingers. you wanna lick them clean, greedily take everything that chris has to offer. instead it’s going to waste—your own fingers picking up their pace at the thought.

you can barely register his voice over the sound of your movements but it’s there, low and guttural in front of your face.

fuck—all for you, bug. y’so fuckin pretty, jus wanna cum on ya face instead. would ya let me? he laughs, voice teasing. yeah you’d let me. so easy f’me.

the video ends just as you find your release, stomach tightening and vision going blurry from the force of your orgasm.

your heart is still beating in your chest, pussy still throbbing with the after affects when the incoming call rings.

you answer it without missing a beat, “i fucking hate you.” you’re out of breath, voice shaky, “get your ass over here right now.”

spookysturniolo™

more works here

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nickslicense · 1 day ago

Text

in which: you’ve been disrespectful all day | warnings: smut w some plot (not much) | dividers by: to whomever because i forget | a/n: sorry if any misspells, i AM dyslexic

it started off small. you would give attitude because your were annoyed w chris for dropping your iced coffee on the floor and stained your rug, but for some reason you couldn’t let that go. it was just a fucking coffee for gods sake, but man, you were mad about that and everything else. people die everyday and of course, you didn’t think of that.

so over the days you would come up w quick remarks to anything chris asked you. everytime you were giving attitude, chris just ignored it because it’s not uncommon that you would give a little attitude here and there, but then he just was sick of it by day three. and then four. and then five.

“alright, what’s your problem?” chris asked, clenching his jaw tightly. you were both in your apartment, sitting across from each other because chris ‘wanted to have a fucking chat’. you scoffed, running your tongue over your upper teeth. “yea, you better answer me carefully.”

you shrugged. “‘cause i wanna.” chris scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. he didn’t get what he could’ve done, but then again he wasn’t blaming himself, he solely blamed you. he smiled lightly before standing up, the chair squeaking under him.

“‘m just gonna go home since you wanna act like a fucking brat,” he said, turning around. your heart was racing as you watched him get to the door.

“do something about it.”

chris turned around, looking at you up and down, his face in a serious expression. “yea? you want me to fuck the attitude out of you? you’re that desperate for my dick?” he walked toward you, lips brushing against yours. “because when i start i am not gonna stop, ma. you want that?”

“all talk.” you said, blinking blankly at him. he straightened up and grabbed your hair lightly. he pulled your head back, you staring in those intense blue eyes. he kissed you roughly, teeth and tongue mixing together. you tried to keep up, but he was rough not letting you catch a break until you punched his chest lightly, him pulling away, a saliva trail between your lips.

“‘m want you,” you said, lifting up your arms and he practically torn your shirt off of you. he grabbed you closer, your bodies flush together. he unclipped your bra, throwing it wherever. he grabbed the back of your neck, bending you over the counter.

“gonna be good for chris, yea?” he asked (or more like ordered). you nodded your head, pulling down your pants all together, your wet pussy on display. he dropped his pants, pumping himself twice before sliding into you. he gripped your ass, squeezing it harshly in his hands. your moan was cut off by the air in lungs being taken because he was going in a brutal pace. you tried gripping the granite beneath you, but he grabbed your wrist, pinning them behind your back.

“you wanna act like a fuckin’ bitch, huh?” chris whispered, swearing underneath his breath. “this pussy is so fuckin’ wet just from me talkin’ yea?” you nodded, biting your lip as he went faster if possible. he was hitting the perfect angles, making the knot in your stomach ready for release. and he knew, so he pulled out, and forced you to your knees. “you wanna act like a bitch, be one. suck my dick.”

“‘m sorry,” you whined, “‘m wanna cum.” you wrapped your hand around his shaft, moving your hand at the perfect pace before you replaced your hand w your mouth. you removed your mouth quickly, saying: “‘m wanna cum so bad it hurts, chris.”

chris tapped your face, bringing your mouth to his cock. you opened your mouth, chris shoving his dick back and forth, face fucking you slowly. “you shoulda thought ‘bout that when you wanna act like a fuckin’ brat.” he mimicked your pout before moving faster, your hands on his legs to support you. he gripped your hair tightly, keeping you in place. w/o warning, chris came deep in your mouth and before you knew it, you came w/o his dick or fingers, but by the intensity of how fucking hot it was.

he removed himself and you breathed harshly, landing on your hands. chris grabbed you by your hair, pulling you up to look at him in those eyes. “you wanna cum?” he asked as you nodded dumbly. “next time don’t act like a fuckin’ brat.” and he turned around, picking up his pants.

“wait!” you exclaimed. “where are you going?”

chris chuckled. “gonna clean you up, ma. c’mon.” and you followed him, squealing as he picked you up over his shoulder.

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chrattsgirl · 1 day ago

Text

Chratt NSFW Alphabet.

Synopsis: Chratt NSFW alphabet.

Warnings: The following content contains sexual themes. If you’re not comfortable reading this kind of material, please feel free to scroll on.

A/N: After my recent poll, you guys voted for the alphabet. I hope I didn’t disappoint! If you would like to be added to my Taglist, please comment down below.

A = Aftercare (What they are like after sex)

-The boys are literally the biggest sweethearts afterwards. Matt would pick you out some comfy clothes, whilst Chris ran you a hot bubble bath. They would wash your hair and tell you what a good girl you were for taking them both so well. Once you were done, the three of you would snuggle up in bed together, arms and legs tangled together as they whispered how much they loved you.

B = Body Part (Their favourite body parts of yours)

-I think the answer to this question is pretty obvious, Chris is unashamedly obsessed with your ass, Whilst Matt loves your boobs. Chris wraps his arms around your waist, sliding his hands down over the curve of your ass, kneading softly. Matt then comes up behind you, placing a soft kiss against your neck as his expert fingertips slide underneath your oversized shirt, rolling your hardening nipples between his thumb and finger.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically)

-Matt’s favourite thing to do after filling you up, is watching mesmerised, as his cum slowly drips from you whilst Chris prefers gathering it on his fingers, before pushing it lazily back inside you.

D = Dirty Secret (A dirty secret of theirs)

Matt secretly has a pair of your panties, stashed away in his bedside drawer. Which he uses wraps around his hand to pleasure himself with when you’re not there.

Chris would never admit this to you or Matt, but one night he awoke to the sinful sound of your moans coming from Matts room. His breathing hitched as he imagined himself causing those pretty little noises you were making. Before he could fully comprehend what he was doing, he felt the warm sensation of his release dripping down his hand.

E = Experience (How experienced they are)

-Chris is slightly more experienced than Matt sexually but that does not mean he’s any less talented in the bedroom.

F = Favourite Position (This is pretty self explanatory)

-Chris’s loves having you bent over a counter, table or the side of his bed. Giving him the perfect opportunity to leave handprints on your ass. He’s also a chronic hair puller.

Matt prefers slow, filthy missionary. His eyes rolling back in his head as he watches your boobs bounce with every deep thrust. His hand occasionally grasping your throat.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious or humorous?)

-Both boys are pretty serious during sex but I think Chris would definitely crack some jokes afterwards

‘Screaming my name like it’s the only word you know huh?’

‘You wanna watch a movie? Or are you still too sore from this monster dick?’

H = Hardness (How quickly do they get excited?)

-Matt’s love language is words of affirmation. Compliments and teasing conversations will always stir something inside of him.

-You only have to glance in Chris’s direction to turn him on.

I = Intimacy (What are they like during the deed?)

-Matt prefers slow, sensual love making. Passionate kissing and lingering touches which leave you yearning for more.

-Chris loves rough, desperate, unplanned sex. Usually pushed against a wall or bent over a countertop. He loves the risky feeling of almost getting caught.

J = Jackoff (How often do they relieve themselves?)

-Matt loves mutual masturbation. Usually on FaceTime after a few days apart from one another. The desperation and pure excitement of the situation is completely unmatched.

-Chris has a folder on his phone, filled with your homemade videos. He tortures himself all day, edging himself with them until you get home.

K = Kink (Their most prominent kink)

-Matt has a collection of satin blindfolds. He loves nothing more than seeing your body react blindly to his tantalising touches.

-Chris has leather handcuffs secured to his headboard. The sheer thought of tightening them around your wrists, leaves him almost breathless.

L = Location (Their favourite place to do the deed)

-Matt loves having you in his bed. Getting to take his sweet time with you over and over again.

-Chris loves fucking you in the backseat of Matts car. Coming home with handprints on the steamy windows and that breathtaking smirk that creeps across his face when Matt Notices.

M = Motivation (What gets them going?)

-As previously mentioned, Matt loves slow teasing conversations and lingering touches whilst Chris becomes turned on in risky situations.

N = No (Something they wouldn’t do/turn offs)

-I think both boys would be against any situation which made you feel unsafe or uncomfortable.

O = Oral (Preference in giving/receiving & skill)

-Matt is an absolute professional at giving head. He eats you out for his own pleasure. Enjoying the moment as much as you do, perhaps more. They don’t call him Matt the munch for nothing.

-Chris loves 69, especially after teasing you with his fingers until you’re dripping. Although he’s not quite as skilled as Matt, he can still have you seeing stars.

P = Pace (Are they fast or slow?)

-Matt prefers slow, sensual sex whilst Chris likes it rough and desperate.

Q = Quickies (Their opinion on them and how often)

-Although quickies are more Chris’s thing, Matt will never miss an opportunity to completely rail you on the sofa.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment and take risks?)

-Chris is more of a risk taker, getting off on the thought of being caught whilst Matt prefers uninterrupted security.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go?)

-Matt takes things slow and paces himself. One round is all that’s needed for you to come completely undone for him.

-Chris likes things more fast paced, multiple positions and rounds until he’s satisfied that you’ve had enough.

T = Toys (Do they have/use them?)

-The boys have a collection of toys they love to use on you. Matt likes to hold a bullet vibrator against you whilst Chris slowly increases the power with the remote.

U = Unfair (How much they like to tease)

-On their own, they love teasing you. Together? It’s almost cruel. They turn into a double act, leaving you pathetically begging for them to do something, anything.

V = Volume (How much noise they make)

-Whimpering. That’s all I have to say.

W = Wildcard (A random head canon)

-Both boys often fantasise about having you all to themselves but they would never admit that to you or to each other.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

-Chris is slightly longer than Matt whilst Matt has more girth (I hate the word girth so much, omg someone kill me)

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

-Both boys sex drives are extremely high but Chris acts upon his desires more frequently than Matt does.

Z = Zzz (How quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

-Aftercare is extremely imperative to both boys. Once they have ensured that you have been showered, dressed in soft comfortable clothes and are perfectly satisfied, they will fall asleep pretty quickly beside you.

Hi my sweethearts! I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it. As always, any suggestions, ideas or constructive criticisms are more than welcome. What would you like to see in the future? Feel free to send me a message, I love hearing your input!

Hugs And Kisses -Flora🖤

Taglist - @sturnl0v3r

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macsangel · 3 days ago

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alone — matt sturniolo

warnings : mentions of alcohol abuse, mentions of previous abuse, cursing, angst.

in which : you swore you would never touch any alcohol - ever - due to your past, but all your carefully built walls come tumbling down as soon as you see them.

you swore you’d never drink. not after him.

not after the way alcohol turned his voice into a weapon , his hands into ice.

not after the nights you spent curled in on yourself, silent, because silence meant survival. because if you cried, it was worse.

it only got worse.

you never drank.

because drinking made you lose control. and you swore — on every aching piece of your life — that no one would ever take that control from you again.

and yet, here you were.

curled up in the corner of your room, half-empty bottles surrounded you, the bitter taste of vodka still burning in your throat.

forgetting.

that’s all you wanted, to forget.

because today, today was far too much.

you’d heard his voice.

the words that had once spat venom at you, once told you you were nothing, worthless, useless.

you thought you were over it, thought you were stronger.

but then, you heard him.

not in your memories, not in your nightmare, in real life.

you were in town, just minding your own business, browsing the record section, when the laughter stopped you cold.

that awful soul breaking laugh.

your heart dropped. your vision blurred, and then —

“didn’t think i’d see you again.”

your body had tensed, your throat had closed up.

you didn’t remember leaving, running back into your room, slamming the door shut, as if it was going to keep him out.

you weren’t in danger anymore, but it still felt like you were trapped. like you were back there.

like his hands were still on you, his words still bleeding through your body, his presence still haunted you like a ghost.

and so you drank.

maybe if you numbed yourself enough, you wouldn’t feel that old all too familiar fear taking over you again.

maybe, just for tonight, you wouldn’t have to feel anything.

“what the fuck?”

matts voice smashed through the air like broken glass.

he was here — wait, no. they were here.

matt, nick and chris. your best friends.

all standing in the doorway, staring at you with wide shocked eyes.

nick was the first to move. he was by your side in an instant, crouching down, plucking the half-empty bottle of vodka from your grip.

you whines in protest, but he didn’t care.

his usually calm demeanour was shattered, his brows furrowed, his jaw tight. “what the fuck are you doing?”

you didn’t answer though, you couldn’t. your throat went tight again, not with fear, but with guilt, with disappointment.

for letting yourself get this far. for letting yourself be exactly what he said.

“your drunk.” chris said crouching beside you. it wasn’t a question.

“thats what happens when people drink, duh!” you giggled. giggled.

matt swore under his breath, running a hand through his hair. “you don’t drink.” his voice was lower then usual. it wasn’t more careful.

you knew what they was thinking.

they weren’t stupid.

you were their girl. their bestfriend. the one who always refused to drink at partys, the one who always looked after them when they got drunk.

and now, here you were. wasted. out of your mind.

matt moved fast. forward and controlled, like he was afraid he will break you if he moved too carelessly.

then, he sat beside you on the floor, his eyes met yours. they were so blue, so deep. and so filled with something that made your heart hurt.

you swallowed, looking away.

“y/n.”

his tone nearly destroyed you.

“i just- i just needed to forget.” you whispered. “for a little while.”

then - silence.

matts hands curled into a fist.

chris exhaled sharply, like he was holding back a monster.

nicks grip on the bottle tightened.

matt reached for you. not rough, not demanding. just soft.

gentle.

his hand rested on the back of your neck, guiding your head towards his shoulder.

a shaky exhale left your lips as your hands curled into the sides on his shirts.

“i-i heard him. today in town. he spoke to me too.” you whispered

chris swore loudly.

nick turned away rubbing his face roughly.

matts hold on you tightened. “y/n,” he mumbled pressing a small kiss on her head. “you didn’t have to do this alone.”

your first tear fell, then, you broke.

right there, in matts arms as he held you. you sobbed. hard.

chris and nick joined the big, mumbling something too sweet to hear, but you felt it.

and matt, just held you. like he wasn’t planning on ever leaving.

like he could save you.

and maybe, just maybe, this time,

you would let him.

taglist - @hearts4werka @loser41ifee @sosasturns @scorpio1205 @yourmother29 @neverstopthekashh @pepsipoet

macsangel “ i was inspired by this video i saw on tiktok but now i literally can’t find it sooo. creds to that video though! “

all my love, macsangel🥹

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sabprincess · 2 days ago

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wetter than ever or whatever the fuck billie said

#chris sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #christopher owen sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #nick sturniolo #my man my man my man #i need him #the sturniolo triplets #matthew bernard sturniolo #matthew sturniolo

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devotedlyteenagemusic · 1 day ago

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Thumper!Chris × Miss Bunny!Reader Insta post #2

liked by sunnymissbunny, matthew.sturniolo, madisonbeer, and 287k others

christophersturniolo: these are the PG-13 pics, everything else stays in the camera roll for my eyes only. (look at that back tat on bun though, she's so sexy🥵)

sunnymissbunny: CHRISTOPHER😳

christophersturniolo: god forbid I show off my hot as fuck girlfriend🙄 see more...

nicolassturniolo: fun fact, Matt is in the 7th picture. (bro had to use the portapotty)

matthew.sturniolo: they did not need that information, but okay😐 see more...

_._your.best.friend_._: Chris, you gotta share more. you can't just steal her from me then hold back the sexy pics. I don't get them anymore because of you, I miss when she'd show me her boobs😭😭😭

christophersturniolo: my boobs now, sorry not sorry sunnymissbunny: okay now people are gonna think all 3 of us are weird🙄 see more...

jakewebber9: tag yourself, I'm the cat in slide 1

tarayummy: I'm the bra in slide 8🥵 johnnieguilbert: I'm the cigarette in the cats mouth.... madisonbeer: I'm the shirt in slide 9 covered in bunny's kiss marks😘 see more...

chrissturnspirategirl: oh, bunny's HOT HOT😍

liked by christophersturniolo, nicolassturniolo, _._your.best.friend_._, and 97k others

sunnymissbunny: cutie patooties (me and Chris) as frogs and as cats, also newest tat makes me feel so fairy-like paired with my wings ✨️✨️✨️

christophersturniolo: you drew cat ears and whiskers on me!?!?! sunnymissbunny: yeah, and you look adorable 🤭 christophersturniolo: this is gonna ruin the tour nathandoe8: kid what tour? christophersturniolo: the world tour🙄 fakejustincarey: didn't have Chris quoting Justin Timberlake on my bingo card... see more...

_._your.best.friend_._: ohmygod she's like an angel 🪽

sunnymissbunny: mwah christophersturniolo: hell yeah she is see more...

sofiedossi: oh so dating Sam means I get drop dead gorgeous friends🥰

sunnymissbunny: says the literal goddess of a woman have you seen you? samgolbach: literally could not say it better than what bun said see more...

colbybrock: chris being on the table like that really just makes sense....😬

sunnnymissbunny: RIGHT!?!?

missbunnyfan1281: the difference between Bun and Chris's posts is insane, she's so sweet, and he's so....

A/N: okay so this may be more of what this AU becomes with small blurbs every once in a while (every 3 months ish idk writing is hard)

tags: @whor3ing @exhausted-exho @freak-of-hawkins @heartpengs13 @mi-co-uk @sturnskiss @courta13 @angelicameron @iluvchr1s @izzyrizzyshairisfrizzy

dividers: @whor3ing the coolest awesomest girl, love her with my whole being

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sturnililio · 6 hours ago

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◟𖦁ׅ ࣪ ℱ𝑙𝑢𝑓𝑓𝑡𝑜𝑏𝑒𝑟 ࣪ ׅ 𖦁◝

𝑷𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒚 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒐

⤷ 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝, 𝐬𝐨 𝐈'𝐦 𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒆𝒓 𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐥𝐥 !! 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚 𝐦𝐢𝐱 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧/𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐮𝐬𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟. 𝐈 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐲𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭, 𝐬𝐨 𝐢 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬. 𝐈'𝐦 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐓𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐫, 𝐬𝐨 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 !

𝐈 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲 ꨄ︎

𝐎𝐜𝐭. 1𝐬𝐭 ➜ ℬ𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑐𝑜𝑜𝑘𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 ₊♡ ℳ𝑎𝑡𝑡 𝑆𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑜𝑙𝑜.

𝐎𝐜𝐭. 4𝐭𝐡 ➜ 𝑆𝒉𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 ₊♡ 𝒞𝒉𝑟𝑖𝑠 𝑆𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑜𝑙𝑜.

𝐎𝐜𝐭. 8𝐭𝐡 ➜ ℬ𝑜𝑛𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑒 𝑛𝑖𝑔𝒉𝑡 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 ₊♡ ℳ𝑎𝑡𝑡 𝑆𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑜𝑙𝑜.

𝐎𝐜𝐭. 12𝐭𝐡 ➜ 𝒜𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 ₊♡ ℳ𝑎𝑡𝑡 𝑆𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑜𝑙𝑜.

𝐎𝐜𝐭. 16𝐭𝐡 ➜ 𝑺𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑦 𝑚𝑜𝑣𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 ₊♡ 𝒞𝒉𝑟𝑖𝑠 𝑆𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑜𝑙𝑜.

𝐎𝐜𝐭. 20𝐭𝐡 ➜ 𝒞𝑎𝑟𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑝𝑢𝑚𝑝𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑠 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 ₊♡ 𝒯𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒔.

𝐎𝐜𝐭. 24𝐭𝐡 ➜ 𝑺𝑙𝑒𝑒𝑝𝑦 𝑜𝑓𝑓𝑖𝑐𝑒 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 ₊♡ ℳ𝑎𝑡𝑡 𝑆𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑜𝑙𝑜.

𝐎𝐜𝐭. 28𝐭𝐡 ➜ ℒ𝑎𝑧𝑦 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 ₊♡ 𝒞𝒉𝑟𝑖𝑠 𝑆𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑜𝑙𝑜.

𝐎𝐜𝐭. 31𝐬𝐭 ➜ ℋ𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑐𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑢𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 ₊♡ 𝒞𝒉𝑟𝑖𝑠 𝑆𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑜𝑙𝑜.

[‼️] 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝒔𝒆𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬, 𝐬𝐨 𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐝.

[💌] 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐝𝐨, 𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐮𝐩𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 !

𝑊𝑖𝑡𝒉 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑦 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒... ℒ𝑖𝑙𝑦, 𝑥𝑜𝑥𝑜

☏︎... @nialler-lover @babysweetheartmelia @wesj11 @mattsgirl23 @silverspringsstare @ilovesturniolozz @eyesonmattyb @aaliyah-sturns @sturniolobananas10 @kenah-sturniolo @emely9274 @lyingonchris @dandoonsturns @courta13 @sturnxluvv @chrattsgirl @conspiracy-ash

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eyesonmattyb · 1 day ago

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ℰ𝑦𝑒𝑠𝑜𝑛𝑚𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑦𝑏 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑜𝑑𝑢𝑐𝑒𝑠…

⋆˚࿔ 𝐒𝐀𝐃, 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐔𝐋, 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐂

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: to say you have found the love of your life in high school was to say you won at life, but was it all as good as it seemed? some loves stay with you forever, but what does it cost to keep them? a story of a first love, distance, and the kind of love that’s only meant for movie scenes. it is a sad, beautiful, tragic, love affair.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: this series contains adult topics such as angst and smut. not all parts will be smut. all characters are 18+ (both 20-21). please read at your own discretion. this part will be the shortest for story building!

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒: part I part II part III part IV part V part VI

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 1.1k

labor day weekend always felt bittersweet to you. the last day of summer, the days of being free of any requirements fleeting. the day before you have to drive back to your college town and get back to regularly scheduled life.

the worst part about this, was the fact you wouldn’t see matt everyday.

you and matt were high school sweethearts, getting together your senior year, and never looking back. that honeymoon period never quite ending, millions of stolen kisses, and so many nights sitting under the moon where you began to know each other on the deepest level.

the moment it came time for college decision day, you were torn. you were academically at the top of your class, with yale and harvard being your top picks.

with matt, who was also academically gifted, wanted a slower paced college experience. he figured that his hard work in high school didn’t ultimately matter by the time he got to his senior year and decided to go to a local community college in boston, giving him time to work and to start saving money for both of your futures.

all he ever wanted was to care for you, and make sure you were nothing less than happy. and he’d do everything in his power to make that happen.

ultimately, you chose yale, which was around 2 hours away from your hometown of boston. the ecstatic day of moving in was later met with devastation when matt and your family left you to fend for yourself.

your hugs with your parents lasted long, small sniffles filled the room as your dad kissed your forehead and reminded you of what you were here for and how far you’ve already come. basically saying, don’t fuck this up.

you rolled your eyes knowingly, wiping your tears as they let you go. the second you turned to matt, who already has tears streaming down his face, you fell apart again.

your body rushing to his as he wrapped his arms around you tightly. his head rested on top of yours as he swayed you back and forth soothingly, his lips pressing soft kissing in their wake.

“don’t forget me, alright?” he says jokingly, his words choked on as more tears ran down his cheeks. you huffed a laugh, nodding your head as you bury it into his chest. he sighs with a sniffle, his hands curling into your sweatshirt. “i won’t.” you reassure, your hands softly rubbing his back.

you both stay there for what seemed like hours, focusing on his natural scent and making a mental note of it, never wanting to forget it.

he pulls away as his hands cradle your face, his thumb rubbing soothing circles across your cheek as he pulls you in to his lips. a soft kiss. a loving kiss. a knowing we’re gonna okay kiss.

neither of you want to pull away, because if you did, it would mean goodbye. he breathes in, his hands still resting on the sides of your face, your hands enclosing around them.

he’s the first to pull away, his blood-shot eyes opening to yours, his face scanning yours, almost like he’s trying to study every crevice of it. a small smile accompanies his face, making your lip wobble.

“i love you.” you say brokenly, a small sob escaping your lips as you try to breath in. he coos, his finger wiping away your falling tears. “i love you.” he repeats, his hands coming down to interlock with yours as you all begin to walk back down to the car.

when he and your parents left, you went back up to your dorm, the space feeling so much more empty. your whole existence feeling empty. you threw yourself on your bed as you curled into a fetal position, quietly sobbing to yourself.

a few hours had passed, the pounding headache making you want to stay there forever. but, you decided that this wasn’t about you and matt, this was about you and your future. you slowly sat up, wiping your tears, putting on a new outfit and leaving your dorm room to hopefully find a friend group for the next 4 years.

1 year later.

and that you did.

your sophomore year of yale starting back up was a lot less stressful than the first. your goodbye with matt being a little easier to cope with, him leaving with a proud smile instead of tears.

the distance wasn’t as bad as you thought it’d be. the 2 hour drive matt made every single weekend didn’t bother him one bit, a smile plastered across his face the whole way there. the endless facetime’s and calls didn’t go unnoticed, and all of the ‘i love you’s’ said were kept so deeply in your heart.

the slight autumn air hits your face as you walk down to the parking lot of your apartment to meet matt at his car. he parks right next to you, giving you an excited smile through the windshield as you return the gesture with a small wave.

he gets out as he makes his way over to you, your body wrapping into his embrace as he sways you back and forth. “hey pretty girl” he says lovingly, a small giggle escapes you as you look up at him, your cheeks reddening. “hi handsome” you say as you bring your lips to his.

a soft moan leaves your lips when he kisses you back, your hands carding through his hair as you bring him even closer. he hums against you before pulling away.

he grabs his bags out of the trunk as you both make your way up to your apartment. unlocking the door, you step in as he follows behind you, setting his bags down by the door before turning and closing it.

you stare as he turns back around, his eyes immediately on you. “missed you so much sweetheart” he says, his hands on you already as he pulls you into him once more. you crane your head as he brings one of his hands behind your neck, angling it so that your looking straight up at him.

he licks your lips as you open your mouth, his tongue asserting dominance instantly. you pull his hair softly, your panties forming a pool as you press your hips against his.

the very obvious bulge in his pants making you whine, his hands coming down to the back of your thighs as he picks you up, carrying you to the bedroom.

he lays you down gently, while never breaking the kiss. your hips bucking up into him, making him groan. he ruts downwards against you, softly brushing over your clothed clit. “can i show you just how much?”

dal’s notes: hiiii! first part of this series eeeep! i’m so excited to write for this, u have no idea. also i’m not sorry for the cliffhanger, dw you’ll find out in the next part ;).

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

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pepsipoet · 1 day ago

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