soph

ᝰ.ᐟ she / her - sturniolo’s girl ⋆˚࿔ 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 ᢉ𐭩

[sophbirlemlover]

FRAT SWEETHEART ⋆˚࿔

╰┈➤ summary: Chris is one of the frats while you’re the ‘shy quiet’ girl , currently you’re at a frat party and you’re kind of nervous…

╰┈➤ authors note: sorry for the long break, im freshly back now!! i hope you enjoy this story and tysm for all the love!! ( Comment 🥳 if you wanna be in the taglist )

Being the frats’ sweetheart had become normal for you, late nights, seeing people almost lap each others faces off, getting high. All that shit. So when you started becoming Chris’ ‘thing’ that was no surprise.

Chris Sturniolo, king of the frat was no strange face. Having new girls at his side as often as he changed his clothes, which was a day to day thing of course. But you? You were almost constantly at his side, earning side-eyes and long stares of jealousy of girls who couldn’t keep to themselves. You happened to be a shy little thing, which confused you a lot. Why did Chris like you around so much? You weren’t at all like the others he’s hooked up with. Maybe he just liked you in be—sleeping with you!! Yeah…totally.

Anyhoo!

It was just a normal night, outfit on fleek. You were just looking stunning, as usual. (whoever is reading this your so pretty and i love you)

you were perched on Chris’ leg, sitting in his lap where people would usually find you. He had a beer in one hand, other on your hip. You were biting on your nails, a bad habit you find yourself doing a lot.

“The fuck you doin?’” Chris would hiss, eyeing you. Chris raised an eyebrow, that lazy smirk playing on his lips as he watched you chew your nails. The party raged around you—bass thumping, someone screaming shotgun, a girl laughing way too loud.

He didn’t like it.

Not when you were doing it.

With one swift move, he plucked your hand from your mouth and brought it to his lips instead—pressing a soft kiss to each fingertip like some stupid romantic shit no frat king should be caught dead doing.

“Quit,” he muttered against your skin.p

And yeah… maybe you were. Chris tilted his head, studying your face like you were a puzzle he really wanted to solve. The music pulsed, the room spun with bodies grinding and drinks sloshing—but right now? It was just you two.

He squeezed your hip again—gentle this time—and leaned in close, his warm breath ghosting over your ear.

“You ain’t scared of me… are ya?” he whispered. Voice low. Almost tender.

Then immediately ruined it by adding: “‘Cause if someone’s tryin’ to scare my girl? They’re dead.”

A beat passed.

Then Matt from across the room yelled something about shots and Chris flipped him off without looking away from you. Chris suddenly grinned—wide, crooked, that dangerous kind of smile that made girls trip over their own feet.

Before you could even react, he kissed you.

Hard.

One hand slid up to cup your jaw while the other stayed firm on your hip like he was claiming territory. His lips were warm from beer and tasted faintly sweet—probably from whatever fruity shit someone dared him to drink earlier.

The room blurred. The noise faded. For a second? It was just his mouth on yours and the stupid flutter in your chest you couldn’t control no matter how hard you tried.

When he finally pulled back an inch—just enough to breathe—he smirked again.

“Better,” he said simply… like kissing away anxiety was totally normal frat behavior (it wasn’t). Chris didn’t give you time to recover—nope.

The second your lips parted from his, he was already leaning back in, capturing them again. This kiss softer though. Slower. Less claiming and more… something else.

Something that made your stomach flip like a damn gymnast.

His thumb brushed your cheekbone as he kissed you—tender in a way that didn’t match the loud frat king vibe at all—and for once? No one was watching or whispering about it.

Maybe because everyone knew better than to mess with Chris when he had you on his lap like this: quiet, blushing, completely under his spell without even trying hard at all…

He broke the kiss only to rest his forehead against yours—breath mingling—and whispered:

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty.” Chris exhaled softly, his nose still brushing yours like he couldn’t bring himself to pull away completely.

The music had gotten quieter—someone must’ve turned the volume down—or maybe it just felt quieter because everything else seemed so loud and chaotic compared to this tiny bubble you two were in.

He studied your eyes. Really looked at them—the way they widened a little when he said that sweet shit, how your lips stayed slightly parted from kissing him.

And damn… if that didn’t make something twist inside his chest. Something warm and weirdly unfamiliar.

Without thinking (because Chris never thought too hard), he pressed another kiss—this time on the tip of your nose—then one on each cheekbone, then finally back to your lips again: soft pecks like rain drops falling slow…

No rush. No audience needed. Just him loving on you right there in front of God and everybody who gave zero fucks anyway.

TIME SKIP.

The party had thinned out.

Beer cans littered the floor, a few couples were passed out on couches or tangled together on the rug. The music was off now—just ambient noise from someone’s forgotten speaker playing lo-fi beats.

Chris was still awake though—of course he was. Dude never slept at parties unless drunk.

But right now? He wasn’t drunk. Just… content.

You both had ended up curled together in his oversized leather armchair by the fireplace—the only source of light left besides dim string lights above you. A blanket draped over your legs (courtesy of Chris after noticing you shivered).

He had one arm wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you into his chest while absently tracing circles on your shoulder with his thumb.

Every so often, he’d kiss the top of your head like it was second nature to him by now—like loving on you wasn't even a choice anymore; it just happened. The quiet hum of the house settled around you both—no laughter, no yelling, just the soft crackle of the fire and that slow beat from the speaker.

Chris hadn’t said much in a while. Not his usual self—normally he’d be cracking jokes or making some stupid comment about someone passed out face-down on carpet.

But right now? He was quiet. Peaceful even.

His chin rested lightly on top of your head as he breathed you in—the scent of your shampoo mixed with faint traces of his cologne (which somehow always ended up transferring to you).

Then… slowly… carefully…

He turned slightly and pressed a kiss right into your hairline—a soft one this time—not teasing or playful like earlier—but something deeper. Something tender and private that only existed when it was just him holding you.

No audience. No show. Just love wrapped in silence under warm light

And that… was more than enough. ᢉ𐭩

SOPH’S TIDBITS : again, sorry for this long break, i had lots of exams and concerts but now im FULLY back and except cute summer stories !!!! hope you enjoyed ᢉ𐭩

TAGLIST — @vaesturn @whore4chris @slutforbonesandall @summerupdup-deactivated20260530 @courta13 @urfaveprettypsycho @valentinasturn @breesturns

[sophbirlemlover]

⋆. 𐙚˚࿔ ENEMY IN THE RAIN 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

.✦ ݁˖ summary: in a storm night, Chris - your enemy got into a fight as he finds his way to your house / that lead to you two kissing.

.✦ ݁˖ authors note: tysm for all the love and sorry that i disappeared for awhile, im back now!!! ( comment 🥳 if you wanna be in the taglist )

˗ˏˋ 𝙞 𝙝𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙞𝙢… 𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙡 𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙨𝙚 𝙢𝙮 𝙙𝙤𝙤𝙧 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙𝙣’𝙩 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙚 ˎˊ˗

—

The storm outside was ridiculous.

Rain slammed sideways against the windows.

Snow flurried in the wind like it was personal.

Thunder cracked every ten minutes — your popcorn bowl jumped every time.

You were curled on the couch in pajama shorts and a hoodie, watching some comfort movie, volume low.

Then—

Ding dong.

You blinked.

Who the hell was ringing your doorbell at 11:47PM during a weather apocalypse?

You paused the movie, shuffled to the door, and opened it—

And froze.

Chris.

Beaten up.

Face bruised, knuckles busted, jacket soaked through, hoodie hood halfway off.

Eyes red — not from the cold. From everything else.

You:

“…what the fuck?”

Chris just stared at you.

You (softer):

“Chris?”

He still didn’t say anything.

You grabbed his arm — hard, urgent — and pulled him in without thinking.

Your living room felt too warm suddenly. Too quiet.

You (panicked):

“Sit down—what happened to you?”

He didn’t answer. He looked like he might pass out.

You dragged the blanket off the couch and shoved it around his shoulders.

You:

“Chris. Say something.”

And then—

He cracked.

Not like yelling. Not like lashing out.

Just breaking.

Chris (quiet, shaky):

“I got in a fight. I—I didn’t know where else to go.”

You blinked. The boy who always had an insult ready, who tripped you in the halls just last week, was crumbling in your living room.

Chris (eyes glassy):

“My family’s been fucked lately. Everyone’s yelling. My dad—whatever, it doesn’t matter. I just… I couldn’t go there. I didn’t want to be alone either.”

You (soft, sitting beside him):

“You’re bleeding.”

Chris:

“I don’t care.” You grabbed the first aid kit from under the bathroom sink—your mom kept it fully stocked like she was prepping for war.

Back on the couch, you knelt in front of him.

Chris flinched when you reached for his face.

He looked so small suddenly. Not cocky Chris from school—the one who smirked and called you “bitch” during classes.

You dabbed antiseptic on a cotton pad with careful fingers, then gently pressed it to his split lip.

He winced—but didn’t pull away. Just watched your hands move, quiet as snowfall outside.

The only sounds were thunder in the distance… and your breathing… and maybe—just maybe—the soft sniffle he tried to hide by turning his head slightly away from you. You kept cleaning his cuts—knuckles scraped raw, a bruise blooming on his cheekbone.

He didn’t cry. Not really.

But his breath hitched sometimes, uneven and quiet.

And when you wiped the blood from his eyebrow with that warm washcloth, he finally looked at you— really looked—and whispered:

“…why are you doing this?”

Like it made no sense.

Like kindness was foreign to him right now.

Your heart clenched.

Without thinking, you cupped the side of his face—not harshly—but gently. Like testing if he was real or some storm-brought hallucination.

You:

“Because someone has to.”

Then—

before either of you could overthink it,

you leaned in…

and kissed him. The kiss was soft—hesitant.

Not passionate. Not romantic.

Just… human.

A warm press of lips, brief and quiet, like you were trying to hand him something fragile—comfort, safety, care —without words.

Chris froze completely.

Like his entire body short-circuited.

His eyes stayed open for a second—wide with shock—and then slowly fluttered shut as the weight of everything crashed down at once: the fight… his family… being cold and alone…

And now this?

You pulled back gently after just a few seconds—not too fast to scare him—but slow enough that he could feel it lingering in the air between you two like static before lightning strikes again outside your window. Chris didn’t move.

His lips were still slightly parted where yours had left them.

Rain drummed against the windows.

The TV screen glowed faintly with paused movie credits — some forgotten rom-com about second chances and winter roads.

And then—

his breath trembled.

One shaky inhale… then another…

and suddenly, his hands shot up—not to push you away, but to grab your face—cupping your cheeks like he’d been dying to do it for months—and he kissed you back.

Harder this time.

Desperate. Hungry for something real after so much chaos.

It wasn’t pretty.

It was messy—with tears starting in his eyes now that wouldn't fall yet—but they were coming…

He kissed you like a drowning guy finally breaking the surface of water after being underwater too long... The kiss deepened—clumsy, emotional, needy.

Chris didn’t know how to do this right.

He wasn’t gentle. He wasn’t smooth like the guys in your movies.

But it was real —his lips warm despite his cold skin, his fingers trembling against your cheeks as he kissed you with everything he had left: pain, longing… relief.

A tear slipped out—just one—and rolled down before you could catch it.

He didn’t stop kissing you though.

Couldn't stop.

Like if he did, reality would crash back in and drag him under again.

So instead of pulling away…

he leaned into it more,

tilting his head slightly,

pressing closer like maybe—just maybe—you were safe ground after weeks of falling apart everywhere else. The kiss lasted longer than either of you expected—minutes maybe, lost in the soft glow of the TV and the hush between thunder rolls.

Then, slowly… Chris softened.

His lips stopped chasing yours so desperately.

His hands slid from your face down to your shoulders—still holding on, but gentler now. Like he finally remembered how to be careful with something precious.

When you finally broke apart for air…

he didn’t look away immediately like before.

He just… stared at you.

Eyes glassy with unshed tears still clinging at the edges—but not crying yet. Just looking at you like he’d never really seen anyone this way before tonight: warm hoodie sleeves covering his knuckles again as if trying (and failing) to hide that they were shaking slightly too much...

And then,

without a word,

he rested his forehead against yours... The warmth between your foreheads was almost unbearable—like the quietest kind of comfort, something small but huge all at once.

Chris breathed slow and deep.

His eyelashes brushed your skin with every blink.

He didn’t speak… just stayed there, leaning on you like he hadn’t leaned on anyone in years.

Outside, the storm still raged—but inside? It felt hushed now. Safe.

You could feel his heartbeat where his chest lightly pressed against yours—fast but steadying.

And then…

he did something unexpected:

Chris wrapped his arms around you tightly—pulling you into a hug so sudden it made your breath catch—and buried his face in the crook of your neck.

Not crying out loud.

No sobbing.

But silent shaking breaths that said everything: I'm broken... I needed this... Don't let go.

And maybe today — you didn’t hate him that much. ⊹ ࣪ ˖

SOPH’S TIDBITS: i hope this isn’t too short, it took me a while and also im getting quite a hate cus basically im “stealing” someone’s ‘writing’ when they’re literally wrote by me 😭😭

TAGLIST — @whore4chris @vaesturn @valentinasturn @summerupdup-deactivated20260530 @urfaveprettypsycho @slutforbonesandall @courta13 @breesturns

[sophbirlemlover]

— FAKE ‘ENEMY’ DATING ‎ꫂ᭪݁

જ⁀➴ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you and Chris are ‘enemies’ but once he begs you to fake date for one night — it goes deeper.

જ⁀➴ 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: omg tysm FOR ALL THE LOVE on my last post i fricking love you guys. if you wanna be tagged in my next posts comment !!!

˗ˏˋ 𝙞 𝙙𝙞𝙙𝙣’𝙩 𝙖𝙨𝙠 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙧𝙤𝙡𝙚 — 𝙞 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙘𝙖𝙨𝙩 ˎˊ˗

—

You were at your locker, switching out your books, hoodie sleeves half-pulled over your hands, when he came.

Chris.

Leaning against the locker next to yours like he owned the whole row, like he didn’t spend the last two years pretending you were his favorite person to annoy.

Chris (flat, straight to the point):

“I need you to fake-date me.”

You stared at him.

Then blinked.

You:

“…the fuck?”

Chris:

“My whole family thinks I’m bringing my girlfriend to dinner tomorrow night. Except… she cheated. So. I need someone.”

You scoffed, full eye-roll activated.

You:

“Not my problem.”

Chris:

“Already is.”

You slammed your locker shut and turned to leave—

But he was faster.

Fingers through your belt loop. A firm tug.

You:

“Chris, let go—”

Chris (low, a little smug):

“One week. You pretend to be my girlfriend. Family dinner, school, all of it.”

You:

“No. No fucking way.”

Chris (tilting his head):

“Yes fucking way.”

You narrowed your eyes.

You:

“I’m not doing that.”

Chris:

“You are. I don’t give a fuck.”

You were fuming.

Chris:

“I’m picking you up at six. Dress nice.”

And then he turned—

Started to walk.

But not even five steps in—

You:

“Chris. I’m not doing it.”

He stopped.

Paused.

Turned around.

Walked right back.

And this time—he didn’t say anything.

He just leaned in.

Pressed a kiss to your lips.

Soft. Warm. Just a second too long.

Then, still close—mouth brushing yours—he whispered:

Chris (low):

“See you tonight.”

And then he walked off.

For real this time.

Leaving your heart in your throat. Your lips tingled.

The kiss had been soft—too soft for Chris. Too warm. Too… real.

You stood there, frozen in the middle of the crowded hallway, backpack half-slung over one shoulder, face burning like you’d just sprinted through a desert.

Someone bumped into you—“Move!”

But you didn’t move right away.

Because holy shit.

Chris Sturniolo—your mortal enemy since sophomore year—the guy who tripped you in gym class on purpose and called your lunch “sad”—just kissed you?

And walked away like it was nothing?

Like kissing his fake girlfriend-to-be was totally normal?

Students passed by, laughing and chatting—but all sound blurred into white noise as your brain short-circuited:

Did he mean that? Was this part of the act already? Why did it feel... weirdly nice??

You touched your lips with two fingers without thinking—and immediately cursed yourself for doing something so stupidly romantic. Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

One message. From him.

You didn’t even want to look—but you did.

It was just one line:

Chris: Don’t wear jeans.

No emoji. No follow-up. Just… a demand, like he’d already moved on from the kiss and was now dictating your entire outfit for this fake relationship that hadn't even started yet.

You groaned, shoving the phone back into your bag.

Why is he like this?

Then—worse thought:

What am I gonna wear??

The bell rang for next period, but all you could think about was Chris showing up at six tonight with his stupid perfect hair and that smug face… expecting you to play his sweet little girlfriend in front of his whole family?

This wasn't happening.

This couldn't happen…

But deep down?

A tiny part of you—the traitorous part—was kind of... curious what kissing him again would feel like.

6:01 PM.

Your doorbell rang—sharp and impatient, like the guy pressing it had zero chill.

You were still in your room, staring at yourself in the mirror.

The outfit you’d chosen was… nice. Not overly fancy—but not casual either. A fitted cream sweater over a white blouse, high-waisted black pants that hugged your legs just right, knee-high boots with subtle heels. You’d even done light makeup—soft blush, mascara—and pulled half your hair into a loose side braid.

It looked good.

Too good.

Like you actually tried for him—which you didn’t! This wasn’t real!

Another buzz of the doorbell—more aggressive this time. Impatient Chris was officially outside and judging your entire existence from behind his phone screen probably reading “She’s late.”

You took one last breath…

Then walked downstairs. You opened the door.

And there he was.

Chris Sturniolo—tall, unfairly attractive in a fitted navy sweater and dark jeans that made his legs look way too long. His hair was perfectly messy, like he’d spent five minutes styling it to look effortless (he definitely had). He smelled like clean soap and something woodsy—probably cologne you couldn’t afford.

His eyes flicked over you once. Slowly. Carefully.

No smirk this time. No sarcastic comment about your outfit or how late you were (which wasn’t even late).

Just… silence for half a second too long before:

Chris:

“…Hey.”

Voice lower than usual. Softer? Or was that just nerves?

Then his gaze dropped to your lips again—the same spot they'd brushed against yesterday—and something unreadable flashed across his face. Chris cleared his throat.

A tiny, almost awkward sound—so unlike him.

Then he stepped forward without warning and wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you into a loose side hug. Not tight enough to crush you—but firm enough that anyone looking would see: Yeah, she’s with me.

Before you could react—he pressed a kiss to your temple. Soft. Chaste.

Like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to do this with you.

“You look… good,” he muttered against your hair before straightening up again like nothing happened.

His ears were slightly pink though—the only hint that maybe Chris Sturniolo wasn’t as cool about this fake-dating situation as he pretended. The car ride was quiet.

Too quiet.

Chris drove his mom’s sleek black sedan—clean, silent, the kind of car that screamed responsible adult. He had one hand on the wheel and the other resting near your seat—not touching you—but close enough that if he leaned over slightly, his fingers would brush your knee.

You stared out the window at passing streetlights turning gold in dusk. The radio wasn’t on. No music. Just soft hums of traffic and Chris breathing beside you like a steady rhythm you weren’t used to hearing so up close.

He glanced at you once or twice—you caught it both times—but neither of them spoke until…

Chris (suddenly):

“You nervous?”

Simple question. Direct as ever. You hesitated.

Am I nervous?

Yes. Obviously.

But admitting that felt like giving him power—like he’d won some unspoken battle just by asking.

So instead of saying yes, you shrugged and stared harder out the window, pretending to be fascinated by a passing billboard for fast food.

Chris didn’t buy it though.

He exhaled through his nose—almost amused—and then reached over slowly… not touching your face, but brushing one finger along your sleeve where it had ridden up slightly on your wrist. A tiny, casual touch. Like testing something.

Then:

Chris (quietly):

“They’re gonna love you.”

Not sarcastic.

Not teasing.

Just… sincere. The house was huge.

Like, mansion-huge. All warm brick and glowing windows, with a perfectly manicured lawn lit by soft outdoor lights. It looked like something out of a magazine—rich family energy in full effect.

Chris parked the car smoothly into the driveway beside two other cars—probably his parents’ and siblings’. He turned off the engine… then finally looked at you again.

No smirk this time.

No cocky remark about how you’d better not embarrass him.

Just quiet intensity as he unbuckled his seatbelt and leaned slightly toward you.

Before getting out, Chris reached over—and gently took your hand.

His palm was warm. A little calloused from guitar strings or maybe sports practice or whatever rich-kid things he did when no one was watching. He didn’t say anything as he laced his fingers through yours.

Just squeezed—once. Softly. Reassuring? Or maybe just… claiming you in front of the house like it was a territory.

Then he opened his door, stepped out, and came around to your side before you could even move.

Chris pulled your door open himself—the gentleman act throwing you off completely. Since when did Chris Sturniolo open doors for people?

He held out his hand again—waiting for you to take it.

The front porch light shone over him, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and those stupidly long lashes girls always whispered about at school. You hesitated for half a second—just long enough that Chris raised an eyebrow at you, like Really? Now?

Then you took his hand.

His fingers immediately curled around yours, firm and warm. He didn’t squeeze again—but he didn’t let go either. Just kept holding on as he led you up the wide stone path to the front door.

Before either of you could knock…

The door swung open.

A tall woman with Chris’s exact smile stood there—elegant in a silk blouse and tailored pants, her hair perfectly styled. She looked exactly like one of those moms from TV: flawless, poised… intimidating as hell.

Her eyes landed on your joined hands. The woman’s face instantly lit up—genuinely, like she’d just seen a miracle.

She clasped her hands together, eyes sparkling with the kind of joy only a mother who really wants grandchildren can have.

Mrs. Sturniolo (softly, warmly):

“Oh my… Chris! You brought her!”

Her voice was rich and melodic—and immediately so much kinder than you expected from someone in such a fancy house.

Chris nodded beside you—still calm as ever—but there was something almost... shy about him now? Like he wasn’t used to introducing girls to his mom.

Then she stepped forward without warning—and pulled you into a hug. The hug was sudden—warm, strong, and mothers-in-law-who-are-too-excited levels of tight.

Mrs. Sturniolo squeezed you like she’d been waiting years for this moment, her perfume—something floral with vanilla—filling your nose as she rocked you slightly.

Then she pulled back… still holding your shoulders… eyes scanning every detail of your face.

Mrs. Sturniolo (beaming):

“Ohhh! You’re adorable. Look at those eyes! Chris never told us how pretty his girlfriend is!”

She turned to glare playfully at Chris—the kind only a mom can pull off: equal parts affection and mild betrayal.

Chris just stood there.

Hand still in yours.

Face neutral.

But the tip of his ear?

Slightly pink. The dining room was set—elegant, with fine china and crystal glasses glowing under the soft chandelier light. The table was long enough to seat six people, already half-filled: Chris’s parents on one end, his older brother Matt across from them… and an empty chair right beside Chris.

Right next to him.

Like they’d expected you.

Mrs. Sturniolo gently guided you toward it—her hand warm on your back—and pulled out the chair for you like royalty had just entered her home.

Matt—the quietest of all three brothers—glanced up at your arrival. Tall like Chris but softer around the edges, less intense in expression. He gave a small nod when he saw you. Dinner had been… surprisingly normal.

No interrogation. No weird questions about how you and Chris met or when he knew you were “the one.” Just casual conversation—his dad talking about golf, his mom asking Matt about work, light laughter over salad and roasted chicken.

Chris sat beside you the entire time—close enough that his arm brushed yours every so often—and once in a while, he’d reach over to squeeze your hand under the table like it was second nature. Like this was real.

The only thing that felt fake?

How easily everyone accepted you as his girlfriend.

No suspicion.

No raised eyebrows at him holding your hand.

Just pure warmth from them all. After dessert—a rich chocolate torte that Mrs. Sturniolo insisted you try—everyone migrated to the living room.

The fireplace was lit, casting a cozy golden glow over plush couches and family photos lining the mantel. Chris’s mom brought out tea and coffee, while his dad settled into an armchair with a newspaper.

Matt sat on one end of the sofa—and without hesitation, Chris tugged you down right beside him on the other side.

Close.

Really close.

His thigh pressed fully against yours now. No space between them anymore.

And without even thinking … he softly leaned in and kissed me. Chris Sturniolo kissed me. The kiss was soft.

Softer than the one in the hallway at school—no urgency, no surprise. Just… gentle.

Chris turned his head slowly, like he’d been thinking about it all through dessert and tea and small talk with his family. His lips met yours—warm, careful—and for a second, you froze because oh my god he’s kissing me again.

But then…

You kissed him back.

Just slightly—a tiny tilt of your mouth against his—but it happened. And when Chris felt it? He deepened the kiss by a fraction: barely pulling away before pressing another light peck to your lips.

No hands on faces.

No dramatic lean-in.

Just quiet affection right there on their couch while everyone else sipped drinks around them.

This felt too 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐤𝐞. And honestly? 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧’𝐭 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐝 —

𝐒𝐎𝐏𝐇’𝐒 𝐓𝐈𝐃𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐒: i feel like this is the longest story ive ever done for now but i still feel it’s a little bit short, but hope you enjoyed !!! ⋆˚꩜｡

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 — @vaesturn @summerupdup @slutforbonesandall @urfaveprettypsycho @courta13 @whore4chris ( Comment 🥳 if you wanna get tagged in my next ones !!!)

[sophbirlemlover]

‎ꫂ᭪݁ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you ghosted Chris a long time ago — but somehow, he still finds his way to you.

‎ꫂ᭪݁ 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: tysm for all the love on my last post i love you guys, comment if you wanna be tagged in my next posts !!!

You were almost positive that you were never going to see Chris again.

You took every precaution possible to avoid him ─ parking your car far from campus, taking the longest routes to your classes, and in the hallways you kept your head down, pretending to be focussed on your phone while your heart raced at the thought of crossing paths.

You deleted pictures on your phone, even blocked his number and his socials, determined to erase him from your life. The idea of him posting pictures with another girl twisted your stomach in uncomfortable knots, leaving you feeling utterly miserable.

During your time alone, you began to realise just how dull your life actually was without Chris.

Sure, frat parties had never been your scene, but you used to enjoy being tucked against his side, watching him in his element ─ dealing, taking drugs, and drinking with his frat brothers before he took you into his bedroom where you spent the night. Then there were the midnight food runs when the munchies hit, him bringing you along to the nearest 24-hour store and buying all your favourite treats and snacks which you shared.

But that was gone now, you were sure of it. You were never going to experience those moments with him again.

Until he opened your bedroom door one night while your were episodes deep into one of your favourite rewatchable series. Your heart raced and your eyes widened in disbelief, nearly dropping your cup of water that you've been sipping. You hastily place it on the bedside table, pausing your show mid-scene, confusion written across your face.

"Jus' wanna talk to you, alright?" Chris says as he steps into the room. 'Cos you leavin' like you did... yeah, it doesn't sit well with me ─ got this..."

Chris pauses as he prods his chest with his two fingers, his expression a mix of frustration and slight vulnerability.

"Got me feelin' this weird shit and ─ and I can't take it, alright? Use that fuckin' mouth of yours and talk... 'cos I must've done somethin', right? So jus'... just talk to me." Chris stood there, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, jaw tight like he was fighting to keep it together. His light blue eyes — usually so cold and detached — flickered with something raw. Something scared.

He didn’t close the door behind him.

The silence stretched between you two, thick and heavy like a storm about to break. He wasn’t yelling. Wasn’t being an asshole for once.

He was asking.

And Chris Sturniolo never asked for anything from anyone unless he absolutely had to.

Finally, after what felt like minutes, he exhaled sharply through his nose and took one small step forward — just enough that the dim glow from your desk lamp caught half his face in shadow.

“You blocked me,” he said quietly. Not accusingly… more confused than anything else? “I called you three times last week.” Chris's fingers twitched at his sides, like he wanted to reach out but didn't know how.

He looked around your room — the messy bed, the half-empty water cup on your nightstand, the paused episode glowing faintly on screen. It was all so you. So familiar.

And it pissed him off that seeing it made his chest ache this way.

"Did I do something?" His voice dropped lower now — softer than you'd ever heard it. No sarcasm. No smirk hiding behind those words like usual. Just... realness.

Then suddenly, without warning:

"I miss you."

The admission hit hard — clumsy and rough around the edges because Chris wasn’t built for tenderness or confessions or saying shit like that out loud… but there it was anyway: raw as hell and impossible to take back once said aloud in silence between both of ya’s breathings Chris shifted his weight from one foot to the other, suddenly looking like a nervous kid instead of the cocky frat boy everyone knew him as.

He didn’t wait for you to respond — maybe because he was scared of what you’d say.

So he just kept talking. Fast. Like if he spoke enough, his words would fill up all that painful silence between you two.

"I saw Jessica last weekend," he blurted out — Jessica, some girl from another sorority who'd been flirting with him nonstop since your breakup — "She asked me out. Took her bowling."

His eyes darted up to yours real quick before flickering away again, guilty as hell even though technically... nothing had happened?

"I didn't go." He swallowed hard. "I told her no." Chris scratched the back of his neck, that nervous habit he always had when he was actually feeling something real.

"She kept texting me after," he continued, voice quieter now. "Sent me like... five selfies or whatever with captions like ‘u up?’ and shit."

A bitter half-smile tugged at his lips — not amused, just annoyed.

He ignored every single one.

Even deleted them without replying because honestly? The thought of kissing Jessica made him feel sick to his stomach for some reason. And Chris hated feeling sick over anything related to girls who weren't you.

"So I just... ghosted her." He shrugged like it was no big deal — but it kinda was, coming from him. Chris took another step closer — slow, like he was approaching a scared animal.

He finally looked at you properly. Really looked — taking in your face, the way your eyes were wide with surprise (or maybe suspicion?), how you hadn’t said a single word since he walked in.

And that hurt more than anything else.

Because normally? You’d be yelling by now. Or crying. Or throwing something at him and telling him to get out of your room forever again after what happened between y’all weeks ago…

But instead? Silence.

So Chris did the stupidest thing possible:

He reached out and gently grabbed both sides of your face with his hands — calloused thumbs brushing over your cheeks as his blue eyes searched yours for even just one clue about what was going on inside that pretty head of yours.

Then… without asking… without warning…

He kissed you. The kiss was desperate — messy and clumsy, full of pent-up emotion Chris didn’t know how to put into words.

His lips crashed against yours with a hunger that surprised even him. No finesse, no sweet romance — just raw need and the overwhelming urge to feel you again after weeks of nothing.

One hand slid from your cheek into your hair, fingers tangling tightly as he tilted his head slightly to deepen it. The other stayed pressed firmly against your jaw like he was scared you’d pull away.

And for a second… you didn’t push him off.

You froze — shocked by the sudden contact after everything that had happened between y'all... but then—

Your lips moved under his almost on instinct. Just once—a small reciprocation before reality kicked in hard.

Chris felt it—the tiny shift—and it sent fire straight through his veins. Chris’s breath hitched the second he felt you kiss him back — even if it was just a tiny, almost hesitant press of your lips.

It was enough to make his heart slam violently against his ribs like it wanted out.

He kissed you harder now — more confident, more possessive. His teeth lightly caught your bottom lip for half a second before soothing it with another deep kiss. The hand in your hair tightened slightly, tilting your head exactly how he liked it as he poured everything into this moment: all the anger from when you left him... all the sleepless nights... all those stupid times he told himself she didn’t matter but clearly…

She did.

Because here Chris Sturniolo was—kissing her like she owned every fucking part of him right now—and not giving one single damn about anything else.

And maybe this time… 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤 𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬 𝐒𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐨.

𝐒𝐎𝐏𝐇’𝐒 𝐓𝐈𝐃𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐒: i’m so sorry if this is a little bit too short but tomorrow i have a big exam so i love you all, i hope you enjoyed !!!

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 — @slutforbonesandall @summerupdup @courta13 @whore4chris @urfaveprettypsycho @vaesturn

[sophbirlemlover]

── .✦ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Chris is the typical ‘nerdy good boy’ while you’re the ‘mean girl’ , but that doesn’t stop you two from being inlove.

── .✦ 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: tysm for all the love on my last post, if you wanna get tagged in every post, comment !!!

“you’re bad for me..” chris murmured. his doe eyes set on the visual of you slowly exhaling a puff of smoke you inhaled from the joint you wrapped last night.

chris was a practical angel. you could've sworn he was a literal heaven-sent person, wanting to do good almost all the time, like he never had a negative thought run through his mind.

he was younger than you by a year—you being a junior, and he a sophomore. normally you'd never even hang around guys like chris, finding them boring and overly annoying to talk to—but something about him made you want to put him in a box so the outside world didn't hurt him.

you were polar opposites. you grew up as a known troubled kid. breaking rules, getting suspended almost every other week—people couldn't even count how many times you got caught getting high in one of the stalls in the bathroom at school. meanwhile, chris wasn't like any other kids at your school. he didn't attend parties, he couldn't lie without his hands shaking, he didn't even know what weed even looked like—then you forced yourself into his bubble.

chris's family hated you. you were their nightmare, which was why he was supposed to be avoiding you after the church school he went to got shut down and he had to be transferred to public school.

he knew he was supposed to stay away from you. you knew he was supposed to stay away from you—curiosity killed that cat. maybe it was because he was sheltered his entire life, or the fact he secretly loved the way you'd care for him without trying, but something about you was so enticing, that he was addicted to your attention, feeling withdrawals if you weren't their to give him it. Chris sat beside you on the rusted swing set behind the abandoned gas station—your usual spot. His knees bounced nervously, hands folded in his lap like he was praying even though no hymn played.

He watched the smoke curl from your lips, mesmerized and horrified at once. The smell clung to his hoodie—the one you gave him last week when it started getting cold.

“You’re gonna get me in trouble…” he whispered, more to himself than to you.

But he didn’t move away. Didn’t run home like Mom probably told him to after seeing your name pop up on his phone again that morning.

Instead? He leaned—just slightly—into your shoulder. The cold metal of the swing bit into your arm, but you didn’t shrug him off. Couldn’t, really—Chris was like a magnet to warmth.

He smelled like orange body wash and church laundry—the kind that got ironed every Sunday morning before Mass.

When you took another hit from the joint, Chris flinched. His nose scrunched up at the pungent smell—but he still didn’t pull away. Just nestled closer, almost instinctively seeking comfort in your presence.

A beat passed.

Then two.

Suddenly—he reached out with shaky fingers… not for the joint… but for your hand resting on your knee.

His palm was soft and warm as it slipped over yours—a quiet confession without words. Your hand—rough with calluses from fights and skateboarding—felt huge compared to Chris’s small, gentle one. But he didn’t hesitate.

His fingers laced through yours, pinky curling around your ring finger like a kid holding their parent’s hand crossing the street.

He didn’t look at you. Too scared of what he might see in your eyes—the judgment, the mockery… the realization that this sweet church boy was clinging to the town’s most notorious girl like she was his whole world.

But his thumb moved slowly over your knuckles—a nervous habit. A silent I’m here. I’m staying.

The joint burned low between your fingers, smoke drifting into the gray autumn sky above Somersville High's back lot.

Neither of you spoke.

Just breathing together. The silence between you wasn’t awkward—it was soft, like the hush before snow falls.

Chris finally turned his head, just a little. His cheek brushed against your shoulder—light as a feather—and there it was: that stupidly perfect face of his.

Big blue eyes. Long lashes. A faint dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose from summer sun.

He looked… nervous. But happy? Like he’d done something forbidden and loved it anyway.

Without thinking—maybe because he couldn’t help himself—he pressed a tiny kiss to your jawline.

It lasted half a second at most before he froze, eyes going wide like oh no oh no what did I just do.

His breath hitched. The kiss—soft, clumsy, innocent as a first snowfall—lingered in the air like static.

Chris pulled back so fast he nearly toppled off the swing. His whole face exploded into red—the kind of blush that reached his ears and made them burn.

Oh God. Oh God oh God.

He hadn’t meant to do it! Not really! It just… happened. Like breathing or blinking.

Now? Panic mode activated.

His hands flew up instinctively—not to push you away—but to cover his own mouth like he could erase what just occurred by sheer willpower alone.

Those wide blue eyes darted everywhere: your lips, your expression, the ground… anywhere but you. You didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

For a second, the world stopped.

Then—without warning—a slow smirk curled at the corner of your mouth. Not mocking. Not cruel.

Amused.

You looked down at him—the flustered, blushing mess who’d just kissed you like it was his last act on earth—and something in your chest twisted.

Before he could spiral any further… you turned your head slightly…

And kissed him back.

Right on the lips.

It wasn't soft or sweet—not really. It was quick, firm—a claiming kiss more than a romantic one—but still… you kissed Chris Sturniolo. The kiss lasted barely two seconds.

But it short-circuited Chris’s entire brain.

His breath stopped. His heart? Probably flatlined.

When you pulled away, he just… sat there. Frozen. Eyes wide as saucers, lips slightly parted like they were still tasting yours—what just happened what just happened WHAT JUST HAPPENED.

No one had ever kissed him before—not like that anyway. Maybe a peck from his mom or grandma on the cheek at Christmas…

But this?

This was fireworks and sin all in one.

And then—his hands slowly lowered from his face… and without thinking again—he surged forward. Chris kissed you.

Not like before—tentative and accidental.

No, this time it was desperate. Clumsy. Hungry in the way only a virgin kiss could be—full of pent-up emotion, curiosity, and all the feelings he’d been too scared to name.

His lips pressed against yours with zero technique but so much feeling. His hands fumbled up to your cheeks—soft palms cupping your face like you were something sacred.

He didn’t know how to kiss right… but God did he try.

And for someone who’d never even held hands with anyone before today?

He wasn't half bad.

𝐒𝐎𝐏𝐇’𝐒 𝐓𝐈𝐃𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐒: i tried making this one a little bit longer, sorry if it’s a bit boring but i hope you enjoyed!!! ⋆˚࿔

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 — @vaesturn @courta13 @summerupdup @whore4chris @urfaveprettypsycho @slutforbonesandall

[sophbirlemlover]

⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you and Chris are ‘bestfriends’, he’s currently bragging about one hook-up — that lead to you two kissing.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: guys tysm for the love on my last post, and also comment if you wanna join the taglist !!!

Chris doesn't really have a filter around you. He's so relaxed with you and drops his guard around you that he allows himself to let everything he can think of spill out of his mouth. You're used to his rambling and random ass things he comes up with, especially when the two of you are studying.

His grades weren't the best, but a friend of his had suggested a tutor on campus which so happened to be yourself. And he so happened to like you a fucking lot. He was convinced you were the only tutor to put up with his shit of being a dealer, his partying habits and the whole Chris Sturniolo package. Not just his tutor, you're one of his closest friends.. ever.

Which also means he can't shut his fucking mouth. "You should've heard the way she was whining my name," he laughs to himself as he sits on the floor beside your bed. "All 'please, chris,' an' 'oh, feels so good," he mocks the moans of the girl he was with last night, completely unaware of the upset bubbling within you. Upset and jealousy, that is.

"I did not need to know that, but okay—" Chris shrugs, looking back down at the flashcards you'd made for him before he immediately continues talking about his nightly escapades with some chick from some sorority.

"Yeah, she was fuckin' loud as hell," he sounds so proud of himself. "Oh, and—"

Yeah, he was gonna keep talking about his hookups for a while. Chris flops onto his back dramatically, arms splayed out like he’s making a snow angel—except there’s no snow. Just your dorm floor and the soft glow of your desk lamp.

He stares at the ceiling for a second before rolling over suddenly, propping himself up on one elbow to face you. His blue eyes are bright with that dumb, post-party energy—the kind that makes him talk way too much.

“You know,” he starts, voice dropping into this weirdly serious tone—which is rare for Chris—“she kept saying I was her favorite hookup.”

A beat.

Then his lips curl into that stupidly confident smirk—the one where it's obvious how proud he is of himself—and adds: “Like… ever.”

He waits. For what? A reaction? Praise? You to be as impressed as he clearly is?

Nope. Not happening right now. Chris blinks at your silence.

The smirk doesn't drop—of course it doesn’t—but something flickers behind his eyes. Just for a second. A tiny crack in the armor of his endless, cocky confidence.

He shifts again, sitting up fully now and swinging one leg over to straddle the space between you like he's about to share top-secret intel or confess a crime.

"Okay," he says, leaning in slightly—close enough that you can smell Pepsi on his breath—and lowering his voice like this is gonna be juicy: "She said I ruined her for other guys."

His eyebrows wiggle after that line. Like… wowww right?

But then? He tilts his head at you—really looks at your face—and maybe… maybe... starts realizing this isn't landing how he thought it would.

Not even a little impressed smile from you? Nada?

Weird. Chris’s grin falters.

For a guy who always knows how to work the room, how to make people laugh or swoon with one dumb joke—he suddenly feels… off. Like he’s talking into a void.

He scratches the back of his neck, that nervous habit he tries so hard to hide (because Chris Sturniolo doesn’t get nervous, okay?). His eyes dart over your face again—your expression still neutral, maybe even slightly closed off—and something tightens in his chest.

“Uh,” he starts. Then stops.

No follow-up brag about her begging him for round two. No story about how she texted him immediately after leaving his place like some lovesick puppy.

Just… silence from you. And it's killing him because usually? You're reacting—even if it's just rolling your eyes or shoving his shoulder—but right now?

Nothing.

And Chris hates nothing more than being ignored when all he wants is attention—especially yours.

“i just don’t think she’s the right one for you,” i whispered. Chris freezes.

His mouth—always moving—actually snaps shut.

The words hit him like a cold splash of water. Not harsh, not angry… just soft. Quiet. And that makes it worse somehow because when you whisper something, it means you mean it.

He blinks once. Slowly.

“Huh?” is all he manages—like his brain short-circuited and forgot how to form actual sentences for the first time in his life.

Then your face comes into focus again—the way your eyes are kinda downcast, the slight frown—and suddenly? He’s not thinking about her loud moans or her sorority letters or whatever else he was bragging about five minutes ago…

Nope. Now all Chris can think about is:

Why do you sound like that?

And more importantly… why does it make him feel guilty? Chris swallows hard.

The guilt twists in his gut like a knife—because you never sound disappointed in him. Not really. You’re always patient, even when he’s being an obnoxious idiot (which is most of the time). But right now? Your voice had that tiny waver—the kind that says I care more than I should.

And it hits him.

Oh.

His hands drop from where they were resting on his knees, fingers curling into loose fists against the floor. He doesn’t look away from you this time—no more smirking, no deflecting with another stupid story about some random girl who probably meant nothing to him anyway.

Instead…

He scoots closer. Just an inch or two. Then another.

Slowly—so slowly it’s almost hesitant for someone as loud and bold as Chris—Sturniolo lifts one hand… and gently brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. Chris’s fingers linger near your ear—soft, warm, hesitant in a way that feels completely foreign for him.

His blue eyes search yours now. No teasing glint. No cocky smirk playing at the corner of his lips. Just… quiet intensity.

And then—because Chris can’t stay silent for long without exploding or saying something stupidly honest—he whispers:

“Why do you care who I hook up with?”

It comes out gentle though—not accusatory or defensive like it might’ve from someone else. He sounds genuinely curious… maybe even a little hopeful?

Like he wants there to be a reason you’re disappointed.

Like he hopes it means something more than just casual concern between friends.

“i don’t.” i lied - obviously. Chris sees right through it.

Of course he does.

He’s not some genius—but when it comes to you? He pays attention. Always has. Notices the way you tense up, how your voice goes all careful like you’re walking on eggshells, how your eyes dart away from his the second things get real.

And that weak little “I don’t…” lie?

Pathetic.

Not because of you—no—he just knows better than to believe a word outta your mouth when it sounds that fake and guilty at once.

His expression shifts: soft concern melting into something warmer… bolder.

Before either of you can overthink anything—

Chris closes the small space between them…

And kisses you.

Right on the lips.

And for the moment… 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐮𝐩.

𝐒𝐎𝐏𝐇’𝐒 𝐓𝐈𝐃𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐒: i tried making this one longer but it’s currently 9 am and im SO sleepy so, hope you enjoyed!!!

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 — @vaesturn @whore4chris @slutforbonesandall @summerupdup ( Comment 🥳 if you wanna get tagged !!! )

[sophbirlemlover]

╰┈➤ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: after another fight with your drunk father, you finally escape to your safe place - Chris.

╰┈➤ 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: tysm for all the love and comments on my last post. Comment if you wanna get tagged in the next post!!!

── .✦

the house always felt colder at night. not because of the weather, but because of the yelling—your drunk father's voice echoing down the narrow hallway, slurred threats and shattered bottles crashing like clockwork. it was like a ritual. predictable. violent. exhausting. your mom never stepped in. she barely even looked at you anymore. she just sat there, frozen in place like a piece of furniture no one cared about.

you stopped waiting for someone to save you.

now, you saved yourself. quietly . every night, after the last door slammed and the rage dulled into bitter silence, you slipped out the back window without a sound. the screen was loose from all the the you’d done it before. you didn’t bother fixing it.

chris always left the side gate unlocked.

his place wasn’t much—peeling walls, flickering lights, and the stench of weed clinging to the threadbare couch and cracked floorboards—but it was safe. it was his. And more importantly, it was yours for the night. the only place that didn’t feel like it hated you.

when you pushed open the door, he didn’t say anything. he never did. just flicked his lighter, took a slow drag, and tilted his head toward the couch beside him. that was all you needed. you stepped in, kicked your shoes off without thinking, and sank into the familiar cushions.

he handed you the joint. you didn’t smoke, not usually, but tonight… your hands shook too much to say no. you took it with a quiet thank-you you couldn’t quite voice.

“rough one?” he asked, voice low, raspy, like the smoke had carved its place into him.

you nodded. that was all you could manage.

chris didn’t press. He never did. Dealer or not, there was something different about him. he wasn’t soft—not in the way people liked to imagine comfort. he was sharp edges and cool stares and danger wrapped in lazy confidence. but around you, those edges dulled. he let you fall apart when the weight was too much, never expecting you to explain why.

“you wanna talk,” he asked, blowing out a long, slow breath, “or you wanna forget?”

“forget,” you whispered.

he nodded once. “alright.”

the room settled into a silence that felt like an exhale. a peace offering. You curled up beside him, folding your legs beneath you, and let your head rest against his shoulder. you didn’t ask if it was okay. you never had to. chris didn’t move away. he just let you be there. let you need him without making you feel weak for it.

his heartbeat was steady. warm . strong. a contrast to the chaos you came from.

for a long time, neither of you said anything. You just sat there, surrounded by smoke and low music humming from an old speaker in the corner, wrapped in something that felt like safety—even if it was just borrowed.

chris reached out and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, fingers grazing your jaw like he was grounding you in the moment. he didn’t ask questions. didnt offer empty words or fake promises. he just let you be. let you breathe. let you exist without having to pretend.

here , with chris , the world didn’t feel like it was collapsing.

here , your father didn’t exist.

here , you weren’t just the girl from the broken home.

you were you, and that was enough.

you closed your eyes, letting the haze dull the pain in your chest, and let your hand slip into his. he didnt squeeze back, but he didn’t let go either.

and for tonight, that was everything. The joint burned low between his fingers, the ember pulsing like a second heartbeat. Chris didn’t rush it—he never did anything fast unless he had to.

He shifted slightly, just enough to pull a ratty blanket from the back of the couch and drape it over your shoulders without breaking contact. The fabric smelled like laundry soap and weed smoke—the kind of scent that clung to everything in his world.

The music hummed softly—a lo-fi beat with no lyrics, just ambient synths and distant rain sounds. It wasn’t romantic or poetic; it was background noise for surviving.

His thumb moved absently over your knuckles—once, twice—not quite holding on tighter but not pulling away either. A quiet 𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐤𝐚𝐲. That’s all he gave you: presence without performance.

Outside, wind rattled the loose screen door at their house—the one you’d slipped through hours ago—but here? Inside this dim-lit room with its flickering bulb above them? No storms got in unless they brought fire first.

Chris took another slow drag off what remained of the joint before passing it back toward you—not pushing if you weren't ready—but offering anyway because that's what he always did: gave space when needed… or shared whatever little peace there was when someone reached for him too. The silence between you two wasn't empty—it was full. Full of things unsaid, but understood.

Chris exhaled a slow stream of smoke toward the ceiling, his profile sharp in the low light—the high bridge of his nose, the shadow under his jaw where stubble grew stubbornly. He looked tired. Always did. But not bored—not with you here.

He turned slightly and pressed a kiss to your forehead—quick, soft, no fanfare—and then leaned back into the couch like it never happened.

No grand gestures from him. No sweet words whispered against your skin or promises about better days ahead (because he didn’t make those). Just this: quiet affection that lived in small acts—the blanket shared without comment… space given on instinct… touch offered when needed most…

The joint burned out completely now; Chris stubbed it gently in an ashtray overflowing with others from nights just like this one before tonight ever came to be at all…

Then he reached for something behind him—a half-empty bottle of water—and took a sip before passing that too over quietly so if you wanted hydration after smoke? It’d be right there waiting

“I never wanna go back home”, you whispered. Chris stilled.

Not dramatically—just a tiny pause, like the world had hit mute for half a second. His fingers, which had been absently tracing circles on your hand, stopped cold.

He didn’t say 𝐈 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰. Didn’t offer empty reassurances or tell you it would be okay. He knew better than that—knew how useless platitudes sounded when home was really just hell with a zip code.

Instead, he turned his head slowly and looked at you—really looked. Those slate-gray eyes of his searched yours in the dim light: reading the fear beneath your words… seeing all the nights you’d spent bracing yourself before even hearing raised voices down the hall…

Then quietly—so low it barely rose above the hum of music—he said:

“You don't have to.”

Three simple words. Not an oath sworn on blood or paper; not some grand declaration with fireworks behind it… but firm as concrete underfoot because Chris? When he spoke? He meant every damn syllable coming outta that raspy voice of his

And then—to make sure there wasn't any misunderstanding about what "don't have to" actually meant? —he lifted one shoulder slightly in silent invitation: 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐲 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞. Chris shifted, the couch creaking under his weight as he moved. He didn’t speak—just slid an arm around your shoulders and tugged you gently toward him, until your head rested against his chest.

His heartbeat was steady again. A metronome in a world that usually only played chaos.

With his free hand, he grabbed the remote from the coffee table and turned up the music just a little—not loud enough to fill silence with noise… but loud enough that it drowned out anything outside this room: no yelling through walls… no shattered glass on hardwood floors…

He kissed your temple once—same soft press of lips as before—but lingered longer this time. Like sealing something unspoken between you two without needing words at all

Then quietly? Carefully? He reached for another blanket—the thicker one from behind him—and draped it over both of you like wrapping someone in shelter

No grand promises about tomorrow or fixing everything forever.

But you 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧’𝐭 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧.

𝐒𝐎𝐏𝐇’𝐒 𝐓𝐈𝐃𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐒: i know this isn’t a lot but i was thinking about a story like this in math class so i thought ‘why not’ - hope you enjoyed!! ⋆˚꩜｡

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 — @vaesturn @whore4chris @slutforbonesandall @summerupdup ( Comment 🥳 if you wanna get tagged in the next ones!! )

[sophbirlemlover]

⋮ ⌗ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Chris is your bully, but one day he showed that he can bully you, but he was letting no one else touch you.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: tysm for the love on my last post, i love making these, if you wanna request or be in the taglist lmk!!!

✵✰ 𝐁𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐘’𝐒 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ✰✵

—

Chris was the school’s biggest mystery to me.

He pushed me, teased me, called me names — like I was some game to play.

But then… whenever someone else dared even glance at me the wrong way, he became a completely different person. Cold, fierce, protective.

One day, he slammed me against the lockers harder than usual.

I was startled.

Then a group of kids started laughing and shouting names at me, cruel and loud.

Something in Chris snapped. His eyes darkened — sharp and dangerous.

Chris:

“Say that again. I dare you.”

The crowd fell silent. The tension was thick enough to cut.

I didn’t understand him at all.

Why hurt me — but then protect me like a warrior?

He leaned close, voice low and rough.

“Don’t ever let anyone disrespect you. Not while I’m here.”

And just like that, the bully became the fiercest guard I never asked for. Chris exhaled sharply, still towering over you—his broad frame blocking the hallway lights. The air was quiet now, everyone scattered after his warning.

He reached out suddenly—not to push you this time—but to adjust your hoodie with rough fingers. It was inside out.

A small gesture. Unexpectedly careful.

Then he looked down at you, jaw tight like always… but something in his eyes had softened just a fraction.

Without a word, he grabbed your backpack strap and started walking ahead—expecting you to follow like it was obvious.

No teasing.

No shove.

Just… leading the way. You hesitated for half a second—confused, heart pounding.

Since when did Chris 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝 you anywhere? Since when did he care if your hoodie was on right?

The other students gawked as the two of you walked down the hall together. Whispers followed like shadows.

Chris didn’t glance back. Just kept moving with that steady, confident stride—the one that made teachers sigh and freshmen look away.

Then, at your locker… he stopped. Waited.

And when you finally caught up, fumbled with your combo…

He snatched the bag from your hands and opened it himself—like it was nothing—and started organizing books into neat stacks like some kind of weirdly intense butler. The locker door creaked as Chris shoved your math book in a little too hard—pencil case popping open, pens rolling.

He didn’t curse. Didn’t yell.

Instead, he picked up each pen one by one—twirling the caps between his fingers—like organizing was some kind of sacred ritual only he understood now.

A stray glitter gel pen fell. He caught it before it hit the floor without even looking down.

You stared. Hard to breathe around him today—too close, too intense… but not scary? Not like before?

Then came the most bizarre part:

He took out a single sticky note from his pocket—a folded square—and stuck it on your binder with messy handwriting:

“𝐃𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐄𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥.”

No explanation.

No eye contact.

Just that... and then he zipped your backpack shut for you. The second period bell rang—echoing through the halls like a warning.

You snapped out of it, heart still thumping weirdly in your chest. That moment with Chris… it felt too real. Too soft for someone who usually shoved you into lockers for fun.

Gripping your backpack, you hurried to class—minding every glance from Jason’s table across the cafeteria: lanky guy, smug smirk, always laughing too loud at jokes that weren’t funny.

Today? He didn’t look at you.

Not even once.

Weird. Usually he’d wink or toss a dumb comment when Chris wasn't around…

But today? Nothing.

Like something scared him silent before homeroom ever started. You slid into your seat just as the teacher walked in, books clutched to your chest.

The air in class felt… different. Tense, but not because of a test or anything.

It was 𝐉𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧’𝐬 silence that did it—no obnoxious jokes during roll call, no passing notes with his crew. Just quiet focus on his desk like he suddenly cared about algebra.

And every few minutes? He’d glance toward the door—nervous little flicks of his eyes—like waiting for someone to walk through and ruin him.

Your stomach twisted.

𝐃𝐢𝐝 𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠?

Before homeroom even ended… you already knew:

That sticky note wasn’t a suggestion.

It was a threat wrapped in protection—and Jason had clearly gotten the message loud and clear.

𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤?

𝐒𝐎𝐏𝐇’𝐒 𝐓𝐈𝐃𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐒: sorry if this is a little too short , hope you enjoyed !!! ⋆˚꩜｡

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 — @vaesturn @courta13 ( comment 🥳 if you wanna get tagged in the next ones !! )

[sophbirlemlover]

˚. ᵎᵎ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Chris is your nerdy boy while you’re the typical ‘mean girl’ of the school, when everybody starts judging you, what happens next ??

˚. ᵎᵎ 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: tysm for all the love, you guys mean so much to me. if you want to make a request or get tagged in the next post lmk!!

✦ 𝐌𝐘 𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐃𝐘 𝐁𝐎𝐘 ✦

⋆｡°✩ opposites attract… sorta ✩°｡⋆

—

Everyone knew me. The mean popular girl. The one people wanted sitting beside them on the bus.

The jock grinned, patting the empty seat next to him.

“Yo, sit here with me.”

I smirked, shook my head, and walked right past him.

Because at the very back, hoodie up, glasses sliding down his nose, sat my nerd—Chris. Snacks piled around him, science book open like this was just another study hall.

The second I sat, he pulled me against his chest without even looking up, already rambling about molecules like it was his love language.

I leaned in for a kiss. He dodged.

Tried again. Dodged.

A third time—he shoved a pretzel at my lips.

By the fourth, I was fuming. Arms crossed, glaring.

“Chris, what the hell is your problem? You’re my boyfriend, not my tutor right now.”

He finally shut his book, voice quiet, nervous.

“You’re… you’re too much. You’re too open with affection.”Chris fidgeted with the corner of his textbook, avoiding my fiery stare. His cheeks were pink— 𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞, but I was 𝐩𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝.

“I just…” he mumbled, pushing his glasses up. “You kissed me in front of the whole football team yesterday.”

I rolled my eyes dramatically. “So?”

“So! They 𝐬𝐚𝐰. Everyone saw.” He gestured wildly at nothing. “Coach Brown winked at me like it was some kind of joke!”

I snorted, leaning closer despite myself.

“Oh nooo,” I said sarcastically, batting my lashes. “The big bad quarterback witnessed us being cute? How tragic.”

He groaned and covered his face—but not before I saw that tiny smile fighting to come out.

My heart melted a little.

...But only a little. Chris peeked through his fingers, that stupidly soft smile finally winning.

I couldn’t stay mad. Not really.

So I grabbed the collar of his hoodie and yanked him forward—𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝.

This time, he didn’t dodge. This time, 𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭.

It was clumsy—awkward even—but sweet in a way that made my stomach flip like I’d just ridden a rollercoaster.

When we pulled apart, he looked dazed. Like someone had short-circuited the brain behind those nerdy glasses.

“…Was that okay?” he whispered.

I burst out laughing—not meanly! Just pure joy—and kissed him again before answering:

“You’re so dumb. Yes.” Chris giggled— actually giggled—and it was the cutest, dorkiest sound I’d ever heard.

He immediately covered his mouth like he hadn’t meant to do that.

“You’re 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐡 a dork,” I said, grinning as I plucked his glasses off and slid them onto my own face.

They were too big for me. They slipped down my nose dramatically.

I batted my eyelashes in exaggerated nerd mode. “Hello? Can you 𝐬𝐞𝐞 me? Or am I just… invisible to your eyes now?”

He snorted—then full-on laughed again, this time throwing an arm around me and pulling me into a sideways hug while still chuckling like an idiot.

And there we were:

Popular girl with stolen nerd glasses…

Nerd boy clinging to her like she was oxygen…

Surrounded by snack wrappers and chemistry notes. The bus lurched around a corner, sending us both stumbling—me nearly face-planting into the aisle.

Chris yelped and grabbed my arm to steady me, his other hand instinctively shooting out to catch the falling stack of science textbooks.

𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫. 𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

Half the class turned around. The jocks were 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 staring now.

One of them—the same guy who’d offered me a seat earlier—raised an eyebrow at us like: "𝐒𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐝𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐮𝐭?"

I flipped him off without thinking.

Chris froze. His eyes widened behind his now-sliding glasses (which I still had on).

“Just…” he whispered, voice low with panic. “Don’t start drama.”

I sighed dramatically and slid back onto his shoulder—but not before sticking my tongue out at Football Dude™ over Chris’s head like a bratty middle finger from behind human cover. Chris exhaled, relieved I hadn’t escalated it further.

He adjusted his glasses— 𝐦𝐲 glasses now, technically—and gently pushed them back onto his face with a quiet 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐤.

Then he did something bold.

For a nerd.

Without warning, Chris turned and kissed me again—right there in front of God and everyone on the bus.

It was quick. Chaste. Just lips meeting for half a second before he pulled away like nothing happened.

But the entire back row went 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭. Even Football Dude’s jaw dropped slightly behind us.

I blinked at him, stunned—not because of the kiss (which was adorable), but because…

𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬 𝐒𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐨 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐥𝐲 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞 ༄.°

[sophbirlemlover]

‎ꫂ᭪݁ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you get into a bad fight at school with a girl that made some dating rumors about your boyfriend, Chris. She beats you worse and once Chris finds out… ⋆˚࿔

‎ꫂ᭪݁ 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: tysm for all the love, im sorry if these are a bit too short but ill make them longer! if you have any requests or want to get tagged lmk!! ⋆˚࿔

𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐒 / 𝐈𝐍𝐉𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You were in the nurses office, due to having injuries on your body. It was a cause of a girl who liked your boyfriend and spread false rumours of them dating. You beat her up badly but she got you worse. You were going back to your boyfriends house, Chris. Once you got there, his mother let you in and you waited in his room as he was having a shower. He didn't go to school because he slept it. Once he came out (Clothed, obviously) he saw you and smiled. He laid his head on your stomach and you wince. He was confused and lifted your shirt only half way to see your stomach and was shocked, "Whos the bruises from." He asked, deeply, "They've always been there." You lie.

“𝐃𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐞 to me. I know where each beauty mark, scar and other small details are on your body." He speaks coldly. Chris sits up slowly, his blue eyes dark with worry and something else—anger. He gently lifts the edge of your shirt again, revealing the ugly bruise blooming across your side. His jaw clenches.

"𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬?” His voice is quiet now—too quiet. The kind of calm that comes right before a storm.

He reaches out, fingertips barely grazing the bruise, and winces like it physically hurts him to see it on you. Without another word, he pulls you into a careful hug—one arm around your shoulders, cradling you like glass about to shatter. Chris kisses the top of your head, his breathing slow but tense. He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, searching for answers he already knows are coming.

“𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲…” He cups your face with one warm hand, thumb brushing over your cheekbone like you’re something precious.

"𝐖𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐉𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚?" he asks quietly—the name dripping with disgust. Everyone knew she had a crush on him and that she’d been spreading lies about them dating. Chris's face twists—rage flashing across his features like lightning. He doesn't even wait for you to confirm it. The second he hears the name, something in him snaps.

"𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡…" he growls, pushing off the bed and grabbing his hoodie from the floor.

He yanks it on over his damp hair, shoving feet into sneakers without tying them. His phone is already in hand as he storms toward the door.

“𝐈’𝐦 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐫.”

No hesitation. No second thoughts. Just pure protective fury—the kind only a guy who loves you this hard could feel. Chris grabs your wrist—not rough, but firm—and pulls you toward the door with him. His grip is warm, his palm slightly sweaty from anger.

“𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐞,” he says through gritted teeth. No room for argument.

He shoves the front door open without saying anything to his mom downstairs—she yells something about "where are you going?!" but Chris ignores it completely. The second he's outside, cold Boston air hits your face as he beelines straight for his car parked in the driveway.

Keys jingle in his hand—the engine roars to life like a warning. Chris peels out of the driveway, tires screeching. The car speeds through quiet neighborhood streets—too fast, reckless—but he doesn’t care. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel.

He shoots you a quick glance—the first since storming out—checking if you’re okay despite his rage. Then he floors it toward Jessica’s house across town.

"𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐚𝐲 𝐚 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮,” he mutters, voice shaking with anger “𝐍𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬.”

The streetlights blur past as Chris drives like hell itself is chasing them. Chris whips the car into Jessica's suburban street, skidding to a stop in front of her perfectly manicured house. He doesn't even turn off the engine—just throws it in park and practically jumps out.

He slams the door hard enough that Mrs. Henderson from next door peeks through her curtains. Chris marches up to Jessica's porch like a soldier going to war.

"𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞,” he orders you, though his tone makes it clear he expects you to follow anyway—because this is your fight too.

Before anyone can react, Chris pounds on Jessica’s front door with his fist—BANG BANG BANG. The door swings open—Jessica’s mom, a sharp-looking woman in a silk robe, freezes at the sight of Chris. Her eyes widen slightly; she knows him from school events and PTA meetings.

"𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐫?" she says, surprised.

But before she can even finish her sentence—

𝐁𝐀𝐌.

Chris shoves past her without asking. Jessica is sitting on the couch in pajamas watching TV, completely unprepared for what's about to happen.

Her face drops when she sees him storming toward her like an avenging angel. Jessica scrambles to her feet, the remote clattering to the floor. Her mom shrieks behind them—

“𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬! 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠?”

But Chris doesn't stop. He grabs Jessica by the shoulders and 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬 her back against the wall with a loud THUD. The TV screen flashes dumb reality show drama—now nothing compared to this real-life scene.

“𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝.” he seethes, his voice low and deadly. “𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐨𝐤𝐚𝐲?”

Jessica's eyes dart toward her mom for help—but Mrs. Henderson is frozen in horror on their doorstep.

And the rest… 𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝘀𝗲𝗲𝗻. ⋆˚࿔

[sophbirlemlover]

ᝰ.ᐟ he’s your boyfriend , unprotected sex , sex for being a brat , breast play/nipple sucking , dom!chris

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: your boyfriend arrived home after you being a brat, a big mistake and he punishes you hardly.

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝙖𝙪𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙧𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚: tysm for all the love on my last post! i tried making a smut!chris for all my horny readers wink ;))) i take requests and lmk if you wanna get tagged when i post!!!

You knew Chris was coming over today, but that doesn't stop the startled and surprised yelp that escapes when you unlock your door, only to be swept—_quite literally—off your feet before you can even blink.

His grip is firm, arms locking around the backs of your thighs to keep you in place as he carries you through the apartment with so much as a word, ignoring your confused rambles until the heavy bang of your bedroom door shutting behind him rattles the walls, making your heart jump to your throat.

You land on the mattress with a bounce, and he follows immediately, looming over you. He tugs at your clothes, mouth grazing over your skin, leaving little stinging nips down your chest while your gaze flicks guiltily to the corner of the room—your lean laundry _still_ piled up in a heap from this morning.

Your stomach churns with embarrassment, _mortified_, stammering as you try to tell him in hopes he'd let you fix your mistake quickly.

"I don't give a shit." his voice is flat—_unbothered_—cutting you off without a care as his mouth never slows along with his hands that continue to roam, intending to do what he had came here to do. Chris doesn’t even glance at the laundry. He’s too busy yanking your shirt off, tossing it somewhere behind him with zero regard for anything except *you*—or more accurately, getting you naked.

His lips crash onto yours—not soft or sweet like some romantic movie kiss—but rough, demanding. A sloppy press of teeth and tongue that makes your head spin because *damn*, he never kisses gentle.

One hand grips the back of your neck to keep you in place while the other slides down to hook a finger into the waistband of your pants. Impatient. Always impatient.

A low hum vibrates from his throat as he finally breaks away just enough to mutter against your mouth:

“Shut up about laundry.”

Then he’s on you again—harder this time—and all thoughts about clean clothes are long gone.

he unhooked your bra with one hand, his mouth closing over your nipple as soon as it was free, sucking and flicking until you were writhing beneath him, soft, needy sounds escaping your throat.

his fingers curled inside you until you saw stars. it was too much and not enough, and you were chanting his name like a prayer, your fingers tangled in your sheets.

he filled you completely, stretching you in the best way, and for a moment you just stayed like that, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air.

“fuck," you whispered, and seeing that as encouragement, he pulled back, snapping his hips forward. you cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders as he set a punishing pace, his mouth finding yours again in a messy, desperate kiss.

"such a good girl," he praised, his hand sliding up to wrap around your throat, not tight, just enough to pin you there, to make you feel every inch of him while his thumb pressed gently against your fluttering pulse. "taking my cock so well."

he rolled off you then, pulling you into his arms, your head resting on his chest. you listened to his heartbeat, steady and strong, and felt a sense of peace settle over you.

The last thing you feel before sleep pulls you under is the press of his lips to the crown of your head, and the steady beat of his heart under your palm. ⋆˚࿔

[sophbirlemlover]

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: you and chris are at a mutual’s friend party, you acting like the good girl (when ur a freak.) , and him watching you - hungrily.

𝙖𝙪𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙧𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚: tysm for all the love on my last post! i love writing these and ill continue writing them. if you have requests or want to be tagged lmk!!

↠ inspired by freak by doja cat ִ ִ ֹ

"you want a good girl that does bad things to you."

You and Chris were no strangers to engaging in 𝙛𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠𝙮 𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙚𝙨

From the moment your relationship began just a few months ago, you both have explored 𝙛𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠𝙮 encounters everywhere in his house and yours. Quite literally everywhere. Including the car.

𝙎𝙝𝙞𝙧𝙩𝙨 𝙤𝙛𝙛 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠𝙨𝙚𝙖𝙩

You constantly try new things—new positions, new toys, new roles. It’s all fun and games; you both love to experiment.

Tying each other down, round after round, teasing each other. To be honest, it was insane—absolutely insane.

Of course, you loved each other too. So much so; it’s just a matter of love between two very adventurous people.

Right now, however, you’re at a mutual friend's birthday party.

One thing about you is that you enjoy embracing the good girl persona. Everyone around you buys into it as well. They expect Chris to know what you're capable of behind closed doors.

You act sweetly, like a good girl—with a big smile on your face and wearing a lovely pink dress.

Chris adores it; it's like watching you play pretend. He has found himself with a good girl who does naughty things to him.

𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙨 𝙞𝙩.

Every time someone complimented you—"You look adorable!" "Such a good girl"—his chest tightened with quiet pride. 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙣𝙤 𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙖.

His eyes trailed down to your bare legs as you laughed at something Matt said. That giggle? Deadly.

One of his friends nudged him. "Dude, she's like… angelic or whatever."

Chris took a slow sip before muttering: "𝙊𝙝 𝙮𝙚𝙖𝙝… 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙡 𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙡.”

Then he winked at you from across the party—and that one little glance held 𝙖𝙡𝙡 kinds of filthy promises for later.

And the rest .. i’ll let 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙜𝙪𝙚𝙨𝙨. ݁ ˖Ი𐑼⋆

[sophbirlemlover]

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝘪 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴 ˊˎ-

You were getting ready for a party at his house. You’re wearing some sparkly, ridiculously short dress that hugs your curves in a way that makes his chest tighten and his palms sweat.

He really didn’t like parties, not at all. Too many people and too much noise, and way too many moments where he feels like he’s just taking up space. He’d tried, once or twice, to stomach them for your sake, but you’d caught on quickly.

But tonight… tonight, he can’t shake the knot in his stomach.

“I don’t know why you’re so nervous,” you say, catching his reflection in the mirror as you were putting on mascara. “It’s not like you’re going. I’ll be fine.”

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his messy hair. “I know you’ll be fine,” he mumbles, his voice soft, almost embarrassed. “I just… you know, those guys are gonna be there. And they’re all…” He gestures vaguely, as if that somehow explains everything.

You pause, turning to look at him, your brows furrowing. “They’re all what?”

He doesn’t say it outright, but it kills him a little that you’re so excited to go. A part of him hates the idea of you being surrounded by guys who’d do anything to get your attention—guys who don’t freeze up like he does every time you touch him or say his name. But he doesn’t want to ruin your fun.

“They’re all into you,” he blurts, his face going red the second the words leave his mouth. “I mean, who wouldn’t be? Look at you, baby.”

You softly make some steps to him “baby, i only want you.” - As he softly pulls away you start to get undressed, dressing back in your pjs as you notice him looking at your ass

“What’re you doing?” he asks softly , a pink flush on his face as he saw you naked, as if you weren’t his.

You led him in bed silently and just cuddle “i only want you”, you repeat. And this night there wasn’t a party, no drinking, no anything. just you and him - cuddling like puppies. and that was just enough. was