dawnwritesandscribbles

Hii

[dawnsturn]

✿ = angst ꕤ= fluff 𖦹= smut

Love in all the wrong places

༺♡༻✧ Introduction

⊹₊⟡⋆ part one ꕤ

✿ ⋆ ˚｡⋆ ✿ part two ꕤ

part three ꕤ

part four ꕤ

part five 💋

part six

part seven ✿

part eight

Part nine

Part ten

Part eleven

Part twelve

Part thirteen

Part fourteen

Part fifteen

texts… 𖦹

Dealer!Chris

headcannons

CEO!chris and artist-designer!reader

Introduction

Her Moodboard

His Moodboard

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Pretend, please!

(Buckle up)

Intro

Part one

Part two

Part three

[dawnsturn]

is anyone else bored asf of the sturniolo’s or what

[flouvmai]

daily affirmations!!

• fuck trump

• fuck ice

• fuck maga

• fuck trump

• fuck ice

• fuck maga

• fuck trump

• fuck ice

• fuck maga

• fuck trump

• fuck ice

• fuck maga

😗😗

[slvtf0rchr1s]

i’d rather have 30 likes and 30 sweet comments than 1000 likes and no comments at all.

[vxnitra]

[iamthebestswag]

me when i see that one girl who’s genuinely pretending to be matt’s girlfriend on here

it’s giving oogly boogly hoe

stop yourself immediately. i beg.

[dawnsturn]

Pretend, please!

Part four—Chris’s POV

Go check out my other work!

I’ve walked these halls a thousand times.

I know where the lockers squeak, where the floor dips slightly near the math wing, which corners are loudest and which ones give you a second to breathe. I know how to move through this place like it belongs to me, because in a way, it does.

Today feels different anyway.

I find her locker easily. Not because I’ve memorized it, but because she’s standing there like a still point in a storm that hasn’t started yet. Books clutched to her chest. Braid neat. Glasses in place. She looks like she always does: quiet, contained, existing in her own lane.

Until she sees me.

Her shoulders tense just a little, and I catch the way she inhales, like she’s bracing herself. I stop in front of her, lowering my voice.

“You okay?” I ask.

She nods, but it’s fast. Too fast. “Yeah.”

I don’t waste time. If I hesitate, if I overthink it, I’ll make this harder for her than it already is.

I reach for her hand.

Gently. Slowly. Enough warning that she can pull away if she wants to.

She doesn’t.

Her hand is warm in mine, smaller than I expected, fingers curling hesitantly around my palm like she’s still deciding whether this is real. The second our hands connect, I feel it. The shift. Not in us, but in the hallway.

People notice.

Whispers ripple outward like someone dropped something fragile on tile.

“What the hell…”

“Is that—?”

“No way.”

I start walking, setting the pace, angling my body just enough so she’s slightly shielded by my shoulder. She keeps up, even though I can feel the tension in her grip.

“Who is she?” someone mutters as we pass.

“Chris is holding her hand,” another voice says, louder, disbelieving.

“About damn time,” a guy laughs. “My man finally picked someone.”

I ignore it. All of it. I keep my eyes forward, jaw set, hand firm around hers. It’s not tight, not possessive, just steady. Like this is normal. Like she belongs here with me.

Because right now, she does.

The comments don’t stop.

“Is she new?”

“She’s kinda… plain, isn’t she?”

“Bro really went for that?”

Then the tone shifts.

“Wow, must be nice.”

“I swear, if that was me—”

“Guess he just wanted someone easy.”

I feel her hand twitch in mine at that one. My grip tightens a fraction, grounding.

“Don’t listen,” I murmur without looking at her. “Just keep walking.”

She nods, braid brushing her shoulder.

Girls stare openly now. Some with confusion, some with outright anger. One of them scoffs loudly as we pass.

“You’re kidding me,” she says to her friend. “All this time, and he picks her?”

Another laughs, sharp and mean. “Bet it won’t last a week.”

Someone else mutters, not quietly enough, “She won’t be shy for long.”

That one almost makes me stop walking.

Instead, I guide her around a group blocking the hall, my hand sliding just enough to rest more securely in hers. I feel her breathing change, shallow but controlled. She’s holding it together, but barely.

When we reach her classroom door, I slow.

“You good?” I ask again, softer this time.

She nods, eyes still down. “I think so.”

“You don’t have to stay if it’s too much,” I tell her. “We can ease into it.”

She finally looks up at me then. Really looks. Her voice is quiet, but steady.

“I said yes,” she says. “I meant it.”

Something warm spreads through my chest at that. Respect. Trust. Responsibility.

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll see you at lunch.”

She squeezes my hand once before letting go, slipping into the classroom like she needs the walls to steady her.

I stand there a second longer than necessary, then turn and head to my own class.

By lunch, the rumors have evolved.

They always do.

She sits beside me like we agreed. Not across. Not at the edge. Beside. Close enough that our shoulders touch. I slide an arm around her waist automatically, the way I’ve seen other couples do it a thousand times, keeping it natural, protective.

The cafeteria loses its mind.

“Oh shit.”

“Chris doesn’t even do that.”

“Look at him—he’s actually smiling.”

Someone laughs loudly from the table behind us. “Guess the virgin finally cracked.”

Another adds, crude and careless, “Hope she knows what she signed up for.”

A girl nearby rolls her eyes dramatically. “Must be nice getting upgraded from nobody to arm candy.”

I feel her tense again, and this time I pull her just a little closer, my arm firm around her waist.

“Hey,” I say quietly near her ear. “You’re doing great.”

She nods, lips pressed together, cheeks warm.

People keep talking. They always will. But they’re not touching her. They’re not saying it to her face. And as long as I’m here, they won’t.

That’s the deal.

That’s the role I chose.

And as the noise swells around us, I realize something unexpected—

I don’t just want this to work.

I want her to be okay.

@sturn-baby05 @angel-sturn1 @riggysworld

@fataemi @urfaveprettypsycho @s7urn10 @privatelyowned-t @mattstromboli

@bigbootylatinasposts @idkwhatthisis2009 | @tigerlille @johnporkblogsblog @mattsslutlucy

@lanamator @blairedeer @alorsxsturn @courta13 @cass-sturn @whore4chris @sturniloxwz

@pepsipoet @lavande3 @sleepinourtears

@savmattsfavmattgirl @sugarontop88 @joanna2857 @nessabarrettlover101 @fadedstvrn

[nessabarrettlover101]

Guys I think im a addict to Chris series’s (sometimes Matt if I’m really deprived of good reading options) All the series’s I’ve been reading lately haven’t posted in ages (im exaggerating) and I literally feel like a addict going through withdrawal. I NEED ANOTHER PART NOW I’m literally dying inside.

Here are some of the ongoing series’s I’ve been enjoying lately if y’all were wondering:

‘Lust’ by @ceyanabbiolo (I’ve read every single thing by her she’s prob my fav writer on here)

‘Instinct’ by @pepsipoet

‘Pretend, Please!’ @dawnsturn

‘Stray!reader x gas station!Matt’ @sturncoast (love line cook!Chris x server!reader too!)

‘Smoke between us’ @angelsturnx

‘Petals’ @honeysturniolo

‘DJ!Chris x Ravegirly!reader’ @eternalsturn

‘RAT’ @mi-co-uk

‘The space between us’ @gigiii1sblog

‘How much is weed?’ @harrystyleslover212

‘Figure!skater!reader x hockey!Chris’ @xmattsrightballx

‘Untouchable’ @chrisbaddie

‘Asylum’ @nerdysturnz

‘Dealer!Chris x confident!reader’ @strxn0

‘Teach me’ @sturniololuvz

‘pessimistic!Matt x optimistic!Reader’ @sturnsfavgirl

‘Interlinked!Chris x Interlinked!reader’ @sturnsfavgirl

I think that’s it….anymore recs for a deprived fanfiction diva?

Taglist: @idontneedaxanny2feelbetter @dandoonsturns @aurielasturniolo @courta13 @breesturn @bernwentonio @chrisslittleangel @alorsxsturn @chrissfavhoe @savmattsfavmattgirl @lolaslolli @chrismattnick @iknowyouhave20dolllars @pizzapocketpocketpizza @urfaveprettypsycho @sturnlx44ella

[dawnsturn]

Pretend, please!

Chapter three—Chris’s POV

Go check out my other work!

My alarm goes off at 4:00 a.m., sharp and unforgiving, the kind of sound that doesn’t let you pretend you didn’t hear it.

I shut it off before it can ring a second time and lie there staring at the ceiling, already awake, already thinking. I usually am. Practice mornings do that to you. Your body learns before your brain does. But today, there’s something else pulling at my attention, something sitting just behind my ribs, restless.

I reach for my phone.

There’s an email waiting for me.

The timestamp says last night, just before midnight.

For a second, I don’t open it. I just look at the sender. Her name. Simple. Unassuming. The kind of thing you’d miss if you weren’t looking closely.

I open it.

It’s short. Polite. Direct in the way only someone who’s thought something through can be.

She asks if we can meet.

A picnic bench on the far side of campus, the quiet part where no one really goes unless they’re trying to avoid being seen.

7:30 a.m.

Half an hour before school starts.

She doesn’t explain why. She doesn’t need to.

By the time I lock my phone, I’m already sitting up.

Practice blurs together like it always does—drills, laps, the sound of cleats against turf, Coach barking instructions. I move on instinct, muscle memory carrying me through plays I’ve run a thousand times. My body is there, but my mind isn’t fully. It keeps jumping ahead, to a bench in the quiet, to a girl with a braid and glasses and a voice that never rises above what it needs to be.

When practice ends, I shower fast, barely warm water, towel my hair without much thought. I change, grab my bag, check the time.

7:28.

Shit.

I run.

Across campus, cutting through paths I know by heart, breath sharp in my chest, hair still damp and curling at the edges where I didn’t dry it properly. I’m not late by much, but it matters to me anyway. I don’t want to give her another reason to think I’m careless, or worse—entitled.

She’s already there when I reach the picnic bench.

Sitting straight-backed, hands folded in her lap, books stacked neatly beside her. Like she belongs there. Like she’s been waiting patiently, not anxiously. When she looks up and sees me, she doesn’t frown or check the time or say anything about it at all.

“You ran,” she says softly, more observation than accusation.

“Yeah,” I admit, breathing hard. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she says immediately. “I don’t mind.”

I do, though. I mind that I made her wait, even for a minute.

I drop my bag by the bench and sit across from her, elbows on my knees, still catching my breath. Up close like this, in the morning light, she looks even more… herself. Hair braided neatly, lips bare except for the faint shine of chapstick, glasses catching the sun just enough to make her eyes harder to read.

She takes a breath.

“I thought about what you asked,” she says.

My chest tightens, just slightly. I nod, give her space.

“I’ll do it,” she continues. “I’ll be your fake girlfriend.”

There it is.

Simple. Calm. No dramatics.

Something loosens in me that I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

“But,” she adds, and I almost smile, “I have rules.”

Of course she does.

“Good,” I say honestly. “So do I.”

That seems to surprise her a little. Not a lot—just enough for her eyebrows to lift. She nods, though, like she expected it anyway.

“My rules first,” she says, voice steady despite the seriousness of what we’re doing.

I gesture for her to go ahead.

“I want you to respect me,” she says. “My body, my acedamics.”

That’s fair. More than fair.

“If I have a test or any school thing that’s important,” she continues. “Don’t expect me to cancel those plans to go to a party or anything.”

I make a mental note. I won’t forget.

“And,” she hesitates for just a second before finishing, “I don’t want people making fun of me because of this. If this turns into something where I’m the joke… I’m done.”

Something sharp twists in my chest at that. The idea of anyone laughing at her, at the expense of something I asked for, sits wrong with me.

“That won’t happen,” I say immediately.

She studies my face, like she’s checking whether I mean it.

“Okay,” she says at last.

I take my turn.

“If we do this,” I say carefully, “we do it clean. No ‘cheating’. No acting one way around me and then other people. No disappearing when someone asks questions.”

She nods slowly, absorbing it.

“You tell me if you’re uncomfortable,” I add. “Immediately. I don’t want this turning into something that hurts you.”

Her fingers curl slightly in her lap.

“And one more thing,” I say, because this part matters most. “Nobody can ever know this was fake.”

She looks down at her hands, then back up at me. “I don’t really talk to people anyway.”

I don’t know why that makes something ache in me, but it does.

“Good,” I say softly. “Then we’re on the same page.”

We sit there for a moment, the agreement settling into place between us. It feels… solid. Thought out. Controlled. Exactly what I need.

I stand first, slinging my bag over my shoulder.

“Thank you,” I say again, because it doesn’t feel like something I should only say once.

She nods, small smile tugging at her lips, barely there.

As I walk away, I feel calmer than I have in months.

Everything is finally set.

Nothing can go wrong.

And I have no idea yet how wrong I am.

@sturn-baby05 @angel-sturn1 @riggysworld

@fataemi @urfaveprettypsycho @s7urn10 @privatelyowned-t @mattstromboli

@bigbootylatinasposts @idkwhatthisis2009 | @tigerlille @johnporkblogsblog @mattsslutlucy

@lanamator @blairedeer @alorsxsturn @courta13 @cass-sturn @whore4chris @sturniloxwz

@pepsipoet @lavande3 @sleepinourtears s

@savmattsfavmattgirl @sugarontop88 @joanna2857 @nessabarrettlover101 @fadedstvrn

[dawnsturn]

Hey guys sorry for not posting the new parts of pretend, please—it’s because I’m in Canada right now🙂

[dawnsturn]

Pretend, please!

Chapter two—Chris’s pov

Go check out my other work!

The hallway feels different in the morning.

It always does, but I don’t usually notice. I’m normally too focused on practice schedules, playbooks, the way my shoulders ache after drills. This morning, though, the quiet presses in around me in a way that feels deliberate, like the school is holding its breath.

Morning practice runs long. It always does. Coach likes to push us before first bell, likes to see who’s still standing when the sun barely feels real. By the time I’m done, sweat cooling on my skin, hoodie thrown over my head, the campus is still half-asleep. Lockers unopened. Lights humming softly overhead. A few scattered students drifting in like ghosts.

I head toward that hallway without really thinking about it at first. The one near the science wing. The one where I ran into her yesterday.

Except I am thinking about it. I’ve been thinking about it since last night. Since the way she didn’t look at me, didn’t hesitate, didn’t linger. Since the way she disappeared without a second glance like I was no one special at all.

That kind of indifference sticks with you when you’re not used to it.

She’s there.

Of course she is. Standing at her locker, books already stacked in her arms like she’s preparing for a collapse. Same braid. Same glasses. Same quiet focus, eyes down, movements careful and contained. She looks like she belongs to the morning, like this is when she exists best—before the noise, before the attention, before people like me fill the hallways and change the air.

I slow without meaning to.

This is ridiculous, I think. I’ve talked to reporters more confidently than this. I’ve stood in front of stadiums full of people without my pulse doing whatever the hell this is. But she isn’t watching me. She isn’t waiting for me to speak. There’s no expectation in her posture, no anticipation, no practiced smile ready to deploy.

It makes the moment feel real in a way I’m not sure I’m prepared for.

I clear my throat softly as I step closer. “Hey.”

She startles.

Not dramatically, not in some overdone way—just enough to tell me she hadn’t noticed me at all. Her shoulders tense, fingers tightening around her books before she looks up, eyes widening slightly when she recognizes me.

“Oh,” she says. That’s it. Just one small sound.

“I—sorry,” I add, instinctively, even though I don’t need to apologize for existing. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

She shakes her head quickly. “No, it’s okay. I just… wasn’t paying attention.”

Her voice is quiet. Not unsure, exactly, but careful, like she’s learned the world responds better when she takes up as little space as possible. I hate that thought the second it crosses my mind.

“I’m Chris,” I say, holding out a hand before I can overthink it.

She looks at it like it might disappear if she stares too long. After a brief pause, she shifts her books to one arm and takes my hand lightly, her grip barely there.

“I know…” she says. “Y/N.”

Her hand is warm. She pulls away almost immediately, tucking it back against her books like she regrets the contact, like she’s embarrassed by something as simple as a handshake. I notice everything—too much, probably. The way her cheeks color faintly. The way she avoids my eyes without being rude. The way she stands slightly angled away, already halfway prepared to leave.

“So,” I say, because silence stretches fast with her and I don’t want it to feel awkward. “You come in early?”

“Usually,” she answers. “It’s quieter.”

That tracks. Everything about her feels built for quiet. For corners of libraries, for early mornings and empty hallways. For spaces where no one is watching closely enough to judge.

I nod. “Makes sense.”

She shifts her weight, glancing down the hall like she’s checking for an escape route. I should probably let her go. Any normal interaction would end here, polite and brief and forgettable. But I didn’t come here by accident, and she deserves honesty more than a clean exit.

“There’s something I wanted to ask you,” I say, keeping my voice even, calm. I don’t want to scare her off. “If that’s okay.”

She freezes—not visibly, not dramatically—but there’s a pause, a stillness that wasn’t there before. Then she nods once. “Okay.”

I take a breath. Not because I’m nervous—at least, not in the way people expect—but because I want to say this right.

“Listen,” I start, rubbing a hand over the back of my neck. “I need a favour.”

Her brows knit together slightly. Confusion, not fear. She’s listening.

“I know this is going to sound weird,” I continue, because it will, and pretending otherwise would be insulting. “But I’m kind of… tired. Of how things are.”

I don’t say girls. I don’t say rumors or bets or firsts. I don’t say any of the things that feel too sharp to drop into the space between us without warning.

“I get a lot of attention,” I say instead, understatement of the year, “and most of it isn’t… genuine. People expect things from me. Things I don’t want to give.”

Her grip tightens on her books again. She’s nervous now, but not pulling away. That feels important.

“I was wondering,” I say carefully, “if you’d consider pretending to be my girlfriend.”

The words settle between us, heavy but strangely calm. I rush to explain before she can interrupt.

“Just for a while. Nothing real, nothing physical. Just enough to get people to stop. To take the pressure off.” I glance at her, make sure she’s still with me. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think you could say no.”

She doesn’t answer right away.

She just looks at me.

Not like the others do. Not assessing, not calculating, not imagining some version of me she can show off. She looks like she’s actually thinking, like she’s turning the idea over carefully, inspecting it for cracks.

Finally, she speaks. “Why would that benefit me?”

Her voice is quiet, but the question isn’t weak. It’s fair. It’s smart. Of course she’d ask that.

I don’t hesitate. “Because I’d look out for you.”

It comes out simple. Honest. The most truthful thing I’ve said all morning.

“No one would mess with you,” I add. “No one would bother you. And if they did… I’d handle it.”

She considers that too, eyes dropping to the floor, lips pressing together thoughtfully. The hallway is starting to wake up now. Footsteps echo faintly. Voices carry from somewhere far away.

“I’ll think about it,” she says at last.

Relief washes through me—not because she said yes, but because she didn’t shut me down completely. Because she’s giving it space. Because she’s taking herself seriously enough to consider what she deserves.

“Thank you,” I say, meaning it. “For listening.”

She nods once more, already retreating into herself, into her quiet. I step back, giving her room, resisting the urge to say anything else that might tip the balance.

As I walk away, I don’t look back.

I don’t need to.

I already know—I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.

She’s perfect for this.

Taglist (:) @sturn-baby05 @angel-sturn1 1 @riggysworld @fataemi @urfaveprettypsycho @s7urn10

@privatelyowned-t @mattstromboli

@bigbootylatinasposts @idkwhatthisis2009

@tigerlille @johnporkblogsblog @mattsslutlucy

@lanamator @blairedeer @alorsxsturn @courta13

@cass-sturn @whore4chris @sturniloxwz @pepsipoet @lavande3 @sleepinourtears @savmattsfavmattgirl @sugarontop88

[dawnsturn]

Pretend, please!

Chapter one—Chris’s POV.

I don’t remember when it started feeling like this—like being looked at was a kind of punishment.

Every hallway at Boston High feels the same. Eyes. Whispers. Someone saying my name like it belongs to them. Someone else nudging their friend, laughing too loud, pretending they weren’t just talking about me. I keep my head forward, shoulders back, walk like I’m not aware of any of it. That’s the trick. You don’t let it show. You don’t flinch.

“Yo, Chris!”

I don’t even turn right away. It’s always someone. Guys slap my shoulder like we’re brothers, like proximity to me gives them some kind of status. They want to talk football, parties, girls. They want to be seen talking to me. Quarterback. Captain. The guy everyone knows.

“Game Friday’s gonna be crazy,” someone says.

“Coach said scouts might come,” another adds.

“Man, you’re killing it.”

I nod. Smile when it’s expected. Say the right things. I’m good at that. Respectable. Polite. My parents raised me right—firm handshake, eye contact, don’t be an asshole. Don’t give anyone a reason to say shit about you.

But inside? Inside I’m tired.

I round the corner and there they are. Girls. Always girls. Leaning against lockers, pretending they just happened to stop there. Fixing their hair. Lip gloss clicks open. One of them laughs like I just told the funniest joke in the world, even though I haven’t said anything yet.

“Chris,” she says, dragging my name out.

“Hey,” I answer automatically.

They ask questions they already know the answers to. How practice went. If I’m going to the party this weekend. If I need help studying. If I want to hang out. If I’m single—

I’m always single.

That’s the problem.

They don’t see me like a person. They see a title. A headline. A challenge.

Untouched.

I hear it in the whispers when they think I’m out of range.

He’s never even kissed anyone.

Imagine being his first.

I bet I could change that.

Like it’s a game. Like I’m something you win.

It makes my skin crawl.

I don’t hate girls. That’s not it. I just hate this—being hunted, being speculated about, being turned into a rumor with a face. Every smile feels calculated. Every touch lingers too long. A hand on my arm. A laugh that leans into me.

They don’t want me.

They want the idea of being the one.

And I’m so sick of it.

By the time lunch rolls around, I’ve heard my name more times than I can count. Guys calling me over. Coaches stopping me in the hall. Girls sliding into the seat across from me without asking. My tray’s barely touched when someone sits down like they own the space.

“Why are you always alone?” one of them asks, tilting her head.

I shrug. “Just am.”

She pouts, like I’ve offended her. Like I owe her something.

I don’t.

I’ve done everything right. Stayed respectful. Stayed distant. Kept my hands to myself. Told myself it would calm down eventually… that people would get bored. They haven’t. If anything, it’s worse. The longer it goes on, the more obsessed they get. Like the fact that no one’s gotten close to me makes them want it more.

I don’t want to be anyone’s fantasy.

I want to be left alone.

By the end of the day, my head’s pounding. Practice was brutal, the locker room loud and chaotic, guys joking about girls, about sex, about things they assume I’m part of. I don’t correct them. I don’t explain. Let them think whatever they want.

I shower, change, shove my things into my bag, and head back inside to grab a paper I forgot in my locker. The school’s quieter now. Almost peaceful. My footsteps echo. I breathe easier.

Maybe that’s when it hits me.

This isn’t going to stop.

Not unless something changes.

They want me to be someone’s first so badly? Fine.

Maybe I should just get it over with.

Not with someone like them. Not with someone keeping score in their head. But with someone… safe. Someone who wouldn’t turn it into a story. Someone who wouldn’t tell anyone. Someone who wouldn’t look at me like I’m a prize to be claimed.

I turn the corner too fast, lost in my thoughts—

And run straight into someone.

Books scatter. Papers slide across the floor. Glasses clatter near my feet.

“Oh—shit, I’m sorry,” I say instantly, crouching down.

She’s already scrambling, movements frantic, like she wants to disappear before I can really see her. Beautiful hair pulled into a neat braid down her back. Big glasses slipping down her nose. Plump lips pressed together like she’s holding her breath.

“It’s— it’s fine,” she mumbles, barely above a whisper.

I hand her a notebook. Our fingers don’t even touch.

She doesn’t look at me. Not really. Just nods once, hugs the books to her chest, and rushes past me like I’m not Chris Sturniolo, like I’m just some guy in the hallway.

And for the first time all day—

No staring.

No smiling.

No trying.

I turn slowly, watching her disappear down the hall, heart doing something unfamiliar in my chest.

She’s quiet. Invisible. Uninterested.

My mouth curves into something that isn’t quite a smile.

Yeah.

I decide then.

Her.

Taglist(:) @sturn-baby05 @angel-sturn1 @riggysworld @fataemi @urfaveprettypsycho @s7urn10

@privatelyowned-t @mattstromboli

@bigbootylatinasposts @idkwhatthisis2009

@tigerlil1e @johnporkblogsblog @mattsslutlucy

@lanamator @blairedeer @alorsxsturn @courta13

@cass-sturn @whore4chris @sturniloxwz @pepsipoet @lavande3 @sleepinourtears @savmattsfavmattgirl

[dawnsturn]

Pretend, please

Fake-dating story Intro!

Take a seat and buckle up because I am back bitches!

Masterlist

Untouchable!chris

Chris Sturniolo doesn’t do girlfriends. Never held hands. Never hugged. Never kissed. Not even once. And somehow, that makes him the most frustratingly desirable person at Boston High.

He’s 17. Quarterback. Popular enough that people treat him like a trophy, like they get points for being the first. And yeah—he’s hot. Too hot. But it’s less “wow” and more “ugh, why is this everyone’s obsession?”

Respectable. Polite. Clean-cut. He shows up on time, knows how to shake hands, how to smile without being fake. And he’s tired of the bets, the dares, the whispered “he’s never been with anyone” in the hallways.

Chris Sturniolo is untouchable. Not because he’s unkind, not because he’s mean, but because no one has ever earned his trust.

Moodboard

Nerd!Reader

She doesn’t care about football games or parties.

She cares about formulas, footnotes, and finishing books before anyone else even notices the shelf. She’s 16, brilliant in every subject, completely untouchable in her own quiet way. Athletic? Not even close. Popular? Hardly.

Her beauty isn’t the kind people notice in passing. It’s the kind that makes you pause, if you ever even look—unique, effortless, rare. Her hair is always in a braid. No makeup, just chapstick and the faint smell of vanilla from whatever lip balm she grabbed that morning.

She blends in. She doesn’t try. And somehow, that’s exactly why she stands out to him. That’s exactly why he chooses her.

Moodboard

@sturn-baby05 @angel-sturn1 @riggysworld @fataemi @urfaveprettypsycho @s7urn10

@privatelyowned-t @mattstromboli

@bigbootylatinasposts @idkwhatthisis2009

@tigerlille @johnporkblogsblog @mattsslutlucy

@lanamator @blairedeer @alorsxsturn @courta13

@cass-sturn @whore4chris @sturniloxwz @pepsipoet @lavande3 @sleepinourtears s

[dawnsturn]

Pretend, please

moodboards

Untouchable!chris

Nerd!reader

[dawnsturn]

So firstly Merry Christmas I hope you’re having an amazing day it’s also the day we reveal who we were secret Santa for so hey I was your secret Santa✌🏻🎄

Hii!!! I just followed you

[dawnsturn]

Do you have any plans for Christmas?

-🤫🎅

Yes I’m so excited!! I’ve got lots of presents to give all my friends and family, so it should be fun. I don’t really think I have many plans other than dinner with the whole family

[dawnsturn]

What’s your favorite thing about where you live?

-🤫🎅

Florence is beautiful. My favourite thing about it is waking up and feeling like I’m in a movie